After centuries asleep, you resolve yourself to find a victim and regain your power bit by bit. But, between being haunted by your past grandeur, and encountering the worst type of victim— can you really find Mihawk like this? The answer is far too simple.
Biting... Nico Robin.
Warnings... No beta, we die like... well, ourselves I guess. Typical vampiric violence and urges, persistent sexual themes, "flashback" sequences, and... *squints* Mihawk? one bed trope but far more sinister.
Word count... 8.7K
A/N: Following up with the prologue, we meet the beautiful archaeologist!! What's the one bed trope doing here!!?!?!?! fic masterlist is here. :)
“My Lady. I came with your wine.”
Bodies litter the surrounding floor entirely. The tavern reeks of death, flies buzz nearby the pools of blood, the shade of crimson is dark, resembling the color of midnight. A young girl settles to her knees with a trembling body, presenting a golden tray carrying a singular chalice of red wine. Despite the manslaughter surrounding, she dares not run, doesn’t let the tray fall even a little bit, and holds her position. She carries a weak heart, it promises but another year. Something tells you that she doesn’t want even a few more months of her life.
You stare at her. She doesn’t look up at you. When your clawed fingers reach out, her trembling stills, preparing for something yet to come.
As you grasp the chalice, a gurgling sound comes nearby you, and a body crawls closer to you, fingernails bending as their hands claw at the floor, but when they reach your foot, you raise it. Anger surges through you, it pulls your strings and draws a powerful kick out of you, the body flies across the room, breaking the wooden bar stained red. The girl remains still. Nothing is suitable, not an ounce of flesh, nor a single bone, not even the trickling blood. It doesn’t quell the urges within.
“Does the cold air not hurt, My Lady?” she questions. Golden eyes greet you as he stares from below the tray of gold, her appearance reminds you of the angels you’d dreamt of, the divinity that mocked you, the purity you had lost. She begins to look like a person to you as you stand beneath the dim lights, but those words laced in fake kindness mean nothing, not when you can hear the whispering inside of her head. For death, she begs, cries out to the gods. Her frost-bitten fingers make you grimace, they look as if they’re ready to fall off.
“It’s a terrible bite. No matter what, it remains still on my skin. I suppose I have only myself to blame.” You speak, but turn away from her.
“Because of your robes?” her tone questions you. You pause. She does as well.
“... My Lady.” The young girl adds. Nothing in your expression changes, and you keep your back turned to the girl, in all honesty, you do not care if she loses every last limb. You don’t care for any other than yourself, it’s a miracle in itself you had spoken that day, even more disquieting, you’d chosen to walk away from her. The chalice in your hand falls to the ground, spilling the wine on a dismembered head lying about.
Though her eyes look straight at your back, you choose to ignore it. In this world, it’s eat or be eaten, it’s likely that you’ll never hear from her again, she will die soon. But then, a particular feeling tugs at you, urging you to return to the young girl. With people already waiting for you at the crypt you had taken over, you still wasted precious time on a flickering flame of life.
Something about her spoke to you.
Unbeknownst to you, that wasn't necessarily a positive thing. If it had been, maybe you wouldn't be stirring inside bindings, all your limbs pinned to the ground by nails that had long since rusted and secured by ropes. Only the room itself must know how long it had been.
The polished stone floors lack dust, but the high ceilings your head is forced to look up at is littered with thick cobwebs, no living arachnids in sight but yelling a tale of time. Though the nails piercing your arms and legs limit your movement, you wiggle your body weakly against the steady rip of your skin, struggling with both panic and anger. Anger at the fact that you can recall in vivid memory just how you’d ended up bound inside this mysterious room, anger at the fact that humanity had betrayed you once again even after all you gave— and panic, for the air carried a familiar chill.
You still your body, and let it remember the painful memory of your demise. Hundreds of beautiful gowns, a singing angel, focused dances— and a betrayal, by the advisors you kept closest to you. The memory hurts, not because of the betrayal, but because of the embarrassment that you’d let people so weak leech off of your power, and ultimately slaughter you. But you have two things, at least… your life, and a mouth that hungers still.
After sleeping for who knows how long, the very last thing you wanted was to succumb to human emotion. Anger was fine, because it was the driving force that helped your undead armies grip the country by the hair, but the fear was entirely unwelcome. Hunger grips you, like you’d never wanted to know, yet still you struggle to free yourself, unwilling to give in to your newfound weakness. All those years spent feeding, growing your armies and power, dominating the world with both politics and war, and yet those powers you spent your life cultivating were nowhere to be found.
Nails piercing your skin used to be part of your beauty regimen. And now, they are binding you to the floor, where peasants would kneel at your feet, maybe to send a message.
“I am not a peasant.” You gasp, reassuring yourself like an insecure little girl would. Another gasp takes you.
“I am not an insecure little girl!” Even though you could have spoken to yourself, you make a point of saying everything out loud. It's a habit picked up from your reign, you suppose. A chill in the room rushes over your skin. Panic strikes you once more.
The chill in the room materializes in the only way it should, in the form of Mihawk, standing proud as he towers over you, looking almost triumphant— like he’d won the war the two of you fought silently over the years. But his face remains blank in the way you always remembered it was, offering you a drink from his cold wrist and a warm body for you to eat, treating you like a wild animal or a pet. This man, this thing, has a reason for coming to see you now. While you don't remember him showing up at your “de-throning”, you have no doubts in your rotten mind that he had something to do with it.
When you took the throne, his whispers stopped. There were no more questions about your everlasting hunger, no bits and pieces about how people like you and him were special, nothing else forced into your mind against your will. Mihawk must have been plotting your downfall ever since you gained the power to block him out, desperate to harass you!
“Is that so? But you speak to yourself like one.” He furrows his brows in a curious display of emotion.
Your body twitches as it jerks towards him, but is held in place by the nails that seem to be more painful than ever, they feel like they're burning. Mihawk’s eyes look you up and down, then follow the length of the rope at your wrists and ankles, paying particular attention to the bells. There are thousands of things you want to say to him, and yet nothing leaves your mouth.
“What an ill-maintained place. Do people really think it appropriate to keep their queen in here? Or was it empress..? Well, it looks more like a...” Mihawk eyes every corner of the room as he speaks, you do your best to follow. It's got four walls, polished floors and a leaky ceiling, a captive queen, but that's about it. His eyes catch on something behind you that you're yet to see.
He looks back at you, and keeps his mouth shut. But you hear the word “peasant” in your head, clear as day. With a newfound thirst for violence, you thrash against your bindings, the bells ring loudly as you manage to lift your thigh up, taking a few nails with you and leaving the rest. A pained scream nearly escapes you.
Mihawk shows a small forgotten smile at your outburst, but it quickly turns into his normal melancholic look after the fact.
He chastises you with a click of his tongue as if you were a child, walking towards your freed leg, dodging your feeble kicks aimed at him with ease. His eyes catch on your leg and its wounds, you follow once you realize that the holes left inside of you aren't healing as they normally would be. Another furrowed brow from Mihawk. And an internal panic from you as he reaches towards your thigh, gripping it with one cold hand all the while you struggle to think of what he might want with you when you're bound and helpless.
Another fearful thought takes you. Not fearful of Mihawk, instead afraid of your own feelings that spread when he touches your wounded skin. It's something you would rather hide, this flowery feeling is not welcome in your domain.
“Hungry already? It's only been a few years.” Being of the same breed as you, he knows very well the physical symptoms you show and their cause, the delayed healing is caused by hunger. A few years have passed, he says.
“How many years is a few, exactly?” You’re desperate for information, Mihawk is the only one here to accompany you.
“Why? Hoping to get back on your throne, maybe drink from a few lusty maidens? Or handsome lads? Maybe you’ve become the type who thirsts for creatures instead… Perhaps a werewolf? I suggest you stop thinking about it.” Mihawk commands you with an unshakable voice, starting off mockingly and ending with a harsh reprimand that makes you even want to take a step back despite all the tension between you two. And being nailed into the floor.
But that doesn't stop you from feeling angry at the way he speaks to you. Surely by now he knows what makes you angry.
“Listen to me. I—” Before you even get the words out, Mihawk’s finger is pressed to your lips to shush you. Two different types of shivers run through you when faced with his touch.
“I will not. Shut your mouth for a moment, and heed my warning.” As Mihawk speaks, the very same vampiric authority you used to wield grips your skin, and you shut your mouth to obey his command.
“For too long has the world tolerated you. Instead of tolerating, they worshipped— laying their hands upon your body, drinking from your wounds and savoring the vampiric power. The power that we shared. ” Mihawk leans in close, but pulls himself away, walking behind you and out of sight. Lying still, you shake with rage, but are still forced to obey his command and listen to him obediently. He continues, letting the room echo his soft voice.
“It won't do humanity any good to have something like you running amok.” Mihawk ends.
The command he placed onto you lifts, and you're eager to get your words in.
“Oh please! Why should I waste the curse you gave me, and obey your rules? Why should I, the one who you attacked, listen to you?” Your words are raw, full of emotion but lacking the power you like, and you slowly start to feel like they're empty the more the silence washes over your words.
“Curse? Attack? Listen here—” Mihawk’s voice shakes with anger, you can taste the urges buried within that show their ugly head, and you can't resist the fear that they demand you to feel, falling under the spell of his words. A soft noise leaves your lips, and you feel sad? His emotions force you to let them in, and so he begins to tell you his own thoughts. Again, he approaches you. And again, you try to decipher his thoughts, yet can't understand them, nor remember when you last peered into his mind.
“We share something special. Something I so patiently waited for you to understand, lurking just within, and yet… Your body and soul reject it. Every inch of you resists this power, and yet you become it, losing all that you'd ever cared for, and so you are the evil. Do you feel it? How far you’ve fallen.” You hear his voice clear as the night sky, and yet you fail to understand the emotion within the words, the echo is forgotten. Mihawk does not wait for you to respond, instead possessing you with an emotion with no name to scare you into submitting.
“Power is not for you to seek. You were never, ever, meant to rule the world as such— but I still allowed it. ” Mihawk’s words drive you to foolish tears. But you insist in your head that they do not matter to someone like you.
“I don't need your permission for anything, pest!” A sob threatens you as you snap back at Mihawk, shaking in both pain and a whirlwind of emotions as the ceiling watches over you.
“Of course. But I am responsible for you, because it was I who made you into what you are now. Since the beginning, I swore to keep you in check, I gave you so much grace and relied on myself to make sure that you continued to grow. But in the end, all those missing memories must have swam away.” Mihawk speaks even softer than before, like he's telling you a secret.
“What are you saying? Am I a lost cause? Do you think I'm worthless, Mihawk?” This time, you can't help but cry, the tears are colder than you remember, like glaciers melting against the heat of your conversation. Mihawk speaks like he owns you, and yet you feel a slight comfort in his words— just before the pain of his words pierce you over and over again. You just don't understand! What is it that you're missing? What else did he take from you, what other wounds has Mihawk inflicted on you?
Why do you seek his answers so desperately, in spite of all he had caused? Why do you want his approval?The confusion from something deep within teases you, and the anger makes you lash out.
“I'm going to slaughter you! The same way you hurt me, I'll hurt you— and I won't let you live the next time we see each other." Each word you spit makes you feel human again, you swear you can feel a faint beating from within your ribs as you stare at him.
Once again, Mihawk walks into view. He steps between your legs, and drapes himself over you. This, you cannot discern from fact or fiction, but you remember how you felt warm for just a moment. before he’d gripped you and tossed you into the cruel and unforgiving sea. Master of your emotions, Mihawk has once again taken you from the real world and twisted your mind to feel something sick towards him, yet his actions remain a haze to you, that same wound he gave you long ago aches.
It aches. Oh, how the pain grips you! And still…
The air of the mausoleum suddenly fails to meet your expectations. That, or your corpse has left that comforting place for some unknown reason. How absurd. One moment, you were fang to fang with Mihawk, and now all those big emotions are gone, clashing with the confusion of awakening in this new and unfamiliarly sweet smelling forest? You’d hope there weren’t any fairies here playing tricks on your mind, but the sudden harsh ache in your skin forces yet another awakening. Something rather large scurries away as your palms plant themselves on the wet earth beneath you, its beating heart is indiscernible from any other living creature due to your weakened state.
As your eyes open, you notice dirt and moss, but also tall stone walls— ones you are far too familiar with. Here you are, inside of the overgrown ruins of what you once called your home, this time in the small but beloved courtyard. Except, this place, though holding some familiar pieces of structure, has become something almost entirely unrecognizable.
Many large trees have sprouted, allowed to stretch towards the sky without the constant upkeep of the garden you allowed the servants to keep. Slowly rising, it was as if you were learning how to walk again, your thighs shook while your knees wished to give out on you, and your arms were just as shaky while you tried your best to sit upwards. A primal hunger was present in your entire being, and the night smelled only of silence and blooming flowers.
“Ah, these statues must be thousands of years old at the very least! What a wonderful find.”
A voice echoes through the dusty and forgotten walls and hallways which surround you, the clacking of shoes against the stone floors are far too close for your comfort. How could you not have noticed this woman coming so close? The only answer could have been that far too much time has escaped, and the hunger was a tell tale sign of it. You are starving, and need to consume life in its rawest form of flesh and blood, or risk facing another one of your massacres falling upon people again.
…Perhaps she could satisfy your needs?
“Here should be the passage to the main portion of the palace. That long-nosed elf made quite a detailed map.” She continues talking to herself, but remains out of sight, her voice is echoed across the various walls that slowly become less recognizable.
Faced with more hunger pangs, you can only grind your fangs and push yourself up from the floor. When your body rises you struggle to keep yourself stable and standing straight, but it happens somehow. As the woman draws nearer, from what you can discern from the scattered noise of her footsteps, your legs feel alien in their slow pursuit. Just when a head of raven hair pops into your view, your knees buckle— and you fall to the ground once again, thankfully the sound is muffled by the wet earth. It's another struggle to get yourself standing again, now soaking in the wetness of the earth.
Legs pop into view, and you panic, entirely unprepared despite making up your mind to sink your fangs into her moments earlier. Would you be able to pull off spontaneous feeding in a weakened state like so? Again, it’s not like you have a choice. She’s closer, you can hear her exasperated breathing.
“Everything’s almost untouched by the human hand… Nature wins in the end, I suppose.” You hear the woman chuckle. Maybe you should make the first move, and brush up on the acting skills that got you through the first century of vampiric life— or you could play dead like a worthless mammal. You haven't stooped that low yet, and so you decide to hope those years of watching plays from above haven't left you like everything else has.
An extremely brief moment is spent clearing your throat, and trying to look less pathetic and more hopeless. Shockingly, that doesn't take much effort.
Ignoring the mortal plane's insult, you manage a shaky “Who's there?” After centuries alone in silence, you speak again, sounding less like yourself and more like a seasick sailor. The woman steps into view, cautious as ever with a lantern in hand— and a wooden stake in the other. Just seeing the sharpened piece of wood, a morbid curiosity fills you. Can the legends be true? Would a simple weapon like that paralyze you, or perhaps even slaughter you? Your legs now tremble with more than just excitement.
But, then your dull mind manages to put two and two together. If she carries a wooden stake, she is at the very least aware of some vampiric presence. Her earlier words of your beloved statues being “thousands of years old” hints that far too much time has passed, if her observations are correct. The trees about you hint only a few hundred years, but you're no tree expert. If she is aware of your existence, she is at least not aware of your face. If you play your hand right, then you’ll be able to catch her off guard with a bite.
Unfortunately for you, the pain of hunger has other plans for you.
The sounds of walking stills, before continuing, a bit more hesitant. A hum reverberates throughout the room, light approaching at the same pace and there she is. A raven-haired beauty, one with eyes of ocean blue and a long slender nose— her skin is swallowed by the warm lantern light, making her complexion appear beautifully bronze. You take a moment to admire, before hunger rips through your flesh and displays your innards. Figuratively of course, but it makes you fall to your knees the same.
Everything cries out silently in your direction, your fingertips feel as if they've swollen, your lips crack in the irritating cold as you once again acknowledge just how infuriatingly weak and ravenous you are. This time about, something shifts in the air, and even you feel a chill— different from being hand in hand with danger, you can't even ask for a dance. It's terrible, pitiful, you want anything but this feeling to take over you, your body seeks out the closest distraction, with your hands feeling the mossy ground for comfort. This woman watches, curious as to what comes next, it infuriates you— but you understand her curiosity. The pervert in you tells you to savor this feeling, but it's whipped into shape by rationality.
“It aches,” you dig your fingers into the earth, hoping to coax the woman closer. She does come closer, but your vision is quickly obscured by water. Not tears, but some other mysterious liquid that you hope is water. As you blink it away, you feel more small splashes hit your skin and freeze against your lack of warmth. The pain is temporarily quelled by the dripping liquid, for now you have a moment to question what exactly the woman is doing to your body.
“Oh. So you aren't an unholy creature.” The woman blinks at you a few times, tossing a glass bottle to the side. In the distance you hear the glass break, and it's an intense struggle to resist the urge to scream about her littering inside of your home. At the very least you didn't suffer from whatever she must have assumed you would, and she now thinks you are not an unholy thing.
“What?” Your confusion doesn't stop after she stops throwing the unknown liquid on you.
“Holy water. You didn't dissolve, did you? Or maybe the elf lied. Maybe I'm misremembering it all. Well, in that case, will you wear this?” She lowers her lantern onto the ground, and the light stings your eyes, but you blink that discomfort away quickly. You notice a satchel on her hip and a backpack hanging off of one of her shoulders, both look considerably full and well maintained. Inside her satchel, you watch her pull out a cross made of steel, strung about by a small chain. Correction; it's a cross necklace.
Not taking any chances clearly, she tosses the necklace towards you in an odd manner, and the chain somehow finds its way around your neck. Of course nothing happens, but you sit on the floor and wait for the necklace to do whatever it was for the moment. She seems satisfied and inches closer, but decides against actually approaching you. You take notice of her missing stake, and shakily lift yourself up with quickly draining strength that craves her. Instead of managing to lunge at her, you fall backwards again, but the woman wraps her arms around you, catching your fall.
When she's closer, you can practically taste how clean she is. She smells like flowers, and the dusty pages in books. The exposed taste of her arms and legs feels smooth— you can feel on your fingertips the traces of perfumed oils on her forearms and wrists. Her grip is steady and strong despite her initial reluctance to approach you, and you wish it was due to your acting rather than your actual physical state. Seeing someone so well taken care of only makes you wonder just how dirty and messed up you’ve gotten after so long, and just how you may have ended up in the ruined courtyard.
Did Mihawk move you? He had no reason to. Perhaps some of those who still worshipped you wished to free your body, and give you a better resting place. If it was the servants, you have no doubt they would move your body to their favorite place, in the heart of the palace.
Mihawk’s name is unfortunately not mentioned in passing inside of your head. Like an invasive vine, he covers the fences of your ribs and smothers your dried up heart with himself. Just like you said you would, you’d slaughter him no matter the cost. If you need to live as an urchin, lurking and eating in the filthy wastelands, you would. If it meant that Mihawk would die by your hand, and you could get another taste of the ichor in his veins, then you’d eat his bones and all. It's certainly not for pleasure! Of course you’d enjoy it, but you wouldn't enjoy it, right?
It takes a while for you to notice that you're now standing on your own, staring at the ground like a freak of nature.
“Might I ask who you are, Miss?” The woman pokes you with the stake that had suddenly appeared in her hand again, earning a jolt and near tumble from you. She grips your hip and steadies you, but still keeps a distance oddly enough.
“Me? Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first? I was here first.” Suddenly, the pampered woman inside of you wants to have her way, and you scowl at this mysterious woman. You don't like her accusatory tone! Even if it is well founded.
“Were you?” Her brow raises the longer she looks at you.
“Of course I was! I woke up here, and…” Slowly you start to realize that your tone is far too rude for someone so robust and alert to hear. If she was so pleased, you’d be a red splatter on the walls! Well, there's always time for a somber tone.
“I was attacked, I know not by who. I just didn't want to risk being discovered by him again… He’s a terrible thing, ruthless in all the worst ways, and with no shortage of resources to deploy if it means my death.” Partial truths always make the best lies, and your fake sniffling certainly makes quite the spectacle. When you were out on city streets playing the helpless maiden, there was no shortage of men and women alike to buy the act. There's no reason it shouldn't work now.
Your admission leaves the woman speechless. Her eyes don't leave you, but you look over and notice her shoulders have gone a bit slack.
“Why have you not sought refuge with the adventurers guild? If you posted a bounty, our higher ranks would have taken care of him. We also offer free lodging for those fleeing violence.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and leans back against a pillar to watch you.
A guild? You’ve not the slightest clue who these people could be.
“I do not know this guild you speak of. I prefer the countryside, where there are less people and more animals.” With a sigh, you look into the distance as if in thought, struggling to not look over at the woman again.
“Essentially, we’re a group of people who explore and slay beasts, hence the name. If it is a safe haven you seek, then there is a town nearby. Though, you don't seem to have any currency on you…”
You swallow. The hunger is brewing again, and your eyes land on her again. But she's clearly intelligent enough to know that an erratic woman approaching rapidly means doom. You must leave this place, and choose easier prey— if only animals could sate your appetite.
“Oh. Well, I'm sure I'll find my way there. Farewell.” Before you can turn and run away, the woman interrupts you with the utterance of a name.
“Nico Robin, archaeologist of the adventurer’s guild. With the harvest moon so close, the wolves grow restless, as do their appetites. If you must go, I will offer safer passage. Though I can only hope we won't be eaten by creatures.” The woman, who you now know as Robin, speaks with a new smile, something that feels so familiar and comforting. In return, you do the same, introducing yourself as a lonely woman living in the deep countryside— fleeing from an abuser and abandoning your home in the process.
Roleplay. How delightful. Curiously enough, you feel like you've done this before, but never in your nightly trysts.
She clears her throat, and begins to speak.
“You see, I was wary of you at first due to the legends about this place. Long ago, before the light dared to shine upon our country they say, there was a cruel empress who ruled the sea and land alike. No armies could quell her wrath, and with her uprising came the birth of many supernatural creatures. The lycanthropes, her vampire spawn, and other things that were said to be myth. I didn't live in this time, but there were records that survived and came from these very ruins— stating that the vampire mistress, unbelievably lustful for blood and otherworldly in her…” Robin begins to rant, her voice carries far too much interest for a normal person. She must be one of those odd ones.
“When I encountered a beautiful stranger, looking so sickly, I was naturally surprised. They say true vampires carry otherworldly beauty, so they may easily seduce their victims and lure them to their death. Some theorize that the sirens of the sea and the vampires are closely related due to their similar characteristics.” Despite her desire to ramble about many related topics, you focus on the bits and pieces you hear about yourself and other vampires. Despite being an archaeologist, she's knowledgeable on many things.
“But a true vampire living so long isn't plausible. According to stone carvings–” Just before Robin says more than you can handle, a low growl interrupts her. You wouldn't doubt that the local wildlife or other creatures have grown impatient with her talk, as have your cold lips. Hunger comes again, but it remains mostly silent in the face of what your body assumes is an imminent meal.
“I believe we should leave this place.” You click your tongue, and Robin nods.
“Let's go, then.” Robin spoke, prompting you to join her, you can't help but notice the appeal in her smile, the way she struts about with utmost confidence, the dip in her back, the curve of her hips, the curl of her lips— though, you, of course, would never ogle a human woman in such a manner. It's just that it's been a while since you've been awake, and she's easy on the eyes, so your appetite is pleased by her looks. She bends down to pick up the oil lamp she brought with her, and your eyes are still drawn to her.
It's simply your appetite talking, of course. You two head down throughout the dusty and spider infested halls, the clacking of both of your shoes is a tad bothersome.
“Miss. How did you come to know of this place?” Robin begins to question, her tone non-accusatory. She looks back at you with a curious look, in fact.
“I didn't,” you reply, staring down the torn paintings you once cherished the most in your halls. The statues remain, too heavy to drop and too sturdy to shatter, Robin admires them in passing. “I was fleeing that man. I ran into the maze of walls and hallways in hopes that he would not find me… and ended up unconscious inside.”
Robin lets her hum of acknowledgment meet you as you meet an especially large opening in the beloved walls of your home. A frown dares to fall on your face.
“Does the air here seem a tad thick to you, as well? We should hurry. That moon has yet to come, but dangers persist no matter what. The walls could cave in on us, and we would end up being nothing more than splatters of red.”
Robin comments. She’s more odd than you initially thought, but individuality is part of being human. A chill same as before wraps itself over your spine and almost causes you to gasp aloud. You feel anxious, and for a second you swear you feel the same eyes boring into the back of your head.
“Of course.”
Exhaling, you glance behind you, gripping the watch as if it were your lifeline. You're frightened, so you walk side by side with Robin, ignoring any suspicious she might throw your way as a response.
It’s bittersweet, seeing the stains of old blood and splints of bone while simultaneously taking in the palace which gave you comfort. Things are sure to have changed quite a bit, and in order to get your steady food source replenished, you would have to possess any sort of power yet again. Such a thing wouldn't be too easily achievable, not when you’re back to living like a spawn does. Robin leads you down a staircase, into the lower level of your palace.
On the lower level, you’d find the torture chambers, blood baths, and room of many murals. It used to be your favorite floor… and it's also the place all the younger servants would sneak out and back in from, specifically from the crypt beneath the church they’d all established for you.
It's a long walk, but if Robin knows this path, then she's aware of it. Despite the ache in your legs, you prepare to walk for what will feel like days— but it is only an hour or two.
The you which the world knew saw you as a bloodthirsty deity who would give humans a few extra years of health and life for a bath of blood. That does sum you up, actually, but now you feel your existence is more than to just feed and slaughter. New feelings, sensations, and coherent thoughts are filling your stained soul with curiosity, the question is not what is the cause but why is the cause.
“Was there anything you were searching for in particular in these ruins?” Opting for small talk, you try to catch Robin’s attention.
“Not anything specific. It's just interesting, learning about an empire that lasted so long, and only fell with the death of its ruler. Vampires don't die, but according to official records, this one did. Don't you think it's funny?” Robin whips her head around, hair flying in various directions, looking behind you into the long passage. She smiles at you, and then slows her pace, walking by your side.
You confuse yourself a bit. You spent the entire journey back up spacing out, unsure if you even made conversation; you can't really be bothered by anything more than your own internal conflicts and hunger. Immediately you begin to notice the crickets make a cacophony of noise, the crashing of waves and distant howling is all too familiar. One more glance at the familiar surroundings before you leave for an uncertain amount of time, maybe returning eventually, and maybe not. Robin takes one good look at the flowering road ahead, and then continues onward.
“I’m planning to check into a nearby inn, but I’m concerned about you most of all. It’s no good escorting you if I am to hear that you are deceased by the next day. It could just be the goodwill of the senior adventurers spreading through me… It’s out of character for me, but nobody quite takes an interest in me much anymore, so I suppose I just want you to live long enough for us to be acquainted.” Robin’s eyes watch the surrounding woods for a minute, before they momentarily glance over to you, awaiting an answer. You don’t have any choice but to stay with her– how could you survive without her, either way? The thing you need most is her blood, but her comment about the “senior adventurers” piques your curiosity, and you certainly are tempted to ask a question or two.
“This guild you speak of,” you step over a puddle in the ground, unable to catch a glimpse of your reflection.
“It’s well established, no? Were you being compensated for exploring these ruins?” Unsure of what comes next, your eyes flicker between Robin and the surrounding trees.
“Oh no, nothing of that sort. It's more like a vacation to me, another chance to see a lost civilization. Isn't it interesting to you?” She glances at you through the corner of her eye, still smiling as she strides forward. Afraid of making things awkward or killing conversation, you nod your head.
“Somewhat. But I find it tragic all the same.”
Fortunately, after much more idle conversation, Robin seems to have eased up around you— just in time for a worn dirt road to appear, the most traveled path is always the easiest. A distant screeching from some sort of avian sharpens your long dull instincts, for a second everything surrounding you is back to the way you remembered before. Suddenly you can hear Robin’s heartbeat for the first time, it's steady and sure of itself, which is good for you. Just as quickly, it's gone, leaving you wondering what strange changes your body might experience also.
“Did you come from this way?” You ask a simple question, furrowing your brows as birds gather in the walls of trees you leave behind.
“Yes, there’s a village nearby. Not exactly quaint, but it's not the capital either. Plenty of people pass through, and it's got everything you need within.”
“Nearby?” You question. “How close?”
“Can you not see? We’ll be there in less than an hour, not to worry. Just stay close, and we won't encounter any issues.” Robin points in the distance, slowing her speed as she tries to gesture towards some distant blurry patch of land, but you don't see anything special. Back then, you could have seen it from underground if you wished, and now all of your senses are far too dull for your liking.
“Let’s make haste, then. I’m beginning to get a bit jumpy.” You speak as if the trees are actively listening, the two of you begin shuddering just as audibly as it is visible. The air is cooler with each step the two of you take, and you just can’t break out of the silence, because it feels wrong.
You feel those eyes boring into the back of your head every step of the way. Strangely, you can't make out any of the forms he would dare to take. He must still be quite powerful, to find you so quickly and so soon. Mihawk doesn't dare approach you, but you feel his watchful gaze unable to leave you, like it's telling you to hold your tongue. His eyes have you in such a trance, that you barely manage to pull yourself together as a carriage rushes past you, far too many horses follow, rushing towards the city walls that you can finally make out.
Whoever was being pulled by the carriage would reach the city before you, and it's now more than ever you wish someone was here to pamper you like so. The smell of cigarettes gives you whiplash, but you don't pay any more attention to it, not when Robin is so clearly scolding you.
“Pay more attention, I'm begging you. You would have been trampled.” Robin’s eyes betray a hint of worry, and you aren't sure why she cares so much about you. You’ve just met after all, and your charm does not possess the power to bewitch her like so in this state.
After far too much walking, a bustling and noisy town greets you. Though it is deep into the night, occupied minds cannot find the time in their schedules for sleep, and they wander the streets. Some laugh merrily, others wallow in their own negativity, and you and Robin are just looking for somewhere to settle. It would be easier to go after a drunken man and drink him dry, but you aren’t the type of vampire to chase after men simply because they’re easily accessible, you have your eyes set on a beautiful archaeologist this time. Following in her footsteps, you reach a cozy looking Inn. There are orchids displayed in intricately patterned vases nearby the open door. The building itself is made of a sturdy looking wooden structure with a wide arch that has a homemade sign on display.
The noise of this place drowns out everything but your own thoughts. Even so late into the night, it feels like a second sunrise.
“Come in, come in! Are ya ladies looking for lodging? Beauties such as yourself should never be caught out at such a late hour. You too, young man with the dashing golden locks! I have plenty of room for all.”
An older woman comes into view, popping out of the doorway and dancing towards you two, including the blonde man. She’s short and stout with graying hair tied back with a piece of cloth, an apron tied around her waist with a welcoming smile. There’s a keyring hanging from a chain clasped around her neck, which must be keys to the rooms.
“How much would you charge for a single room with two beds? I’m afraid I’ve nearly used all my travel funds. It’s just for tonight, ma’am.” Robin unclasps a leather pouch from around her belt, her lantern is now extinguished. She loosens the drawstrings around it, digging around for a second as she awaits an answer, her cold blue eyes drawn to the contents of her coin pouch. The woman looks back between you and Robin with an accusatory glance, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed all while she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Sorry, lass… All we got is a few single bed rooms. Just for the inconvenience, I'll give you a discount! Maybe they're together…?” The older woman not so quietly mutters the last part under her breath. Robin purses her lips and nods, sparing you a singular apologetic glance— she does not have the proper funds for two rooms.
“And you, young man?” She speaks to the hooded blonde man now, who jolts the very second she tries to draw his attention. You watch him remove his hood after stepping a bit more into the shadow cast nearby, then you notice his odd eyebrows. They’re swirled, but he seems to cover the right side of his face with his bangs quickly when he catches onto your curious look, a shy blush and beating heart greet your ears and eyes, which you consider a rather friendly introduction. There is still a part of you that enjoys this manner of attention, but you want to keep it buried for now.
“One room, one night. Please and thank you, Mademoiselle.” His voice is smooth, but it has an undeniable presence, reminiscent of a certain emperor with an appetite for women you remember tearing limb from limb. A shiver runs through you, pleasure calls to you and asks for time to reminisce on murder. He smells like cigarettes, the same you’d smelt from the carriage earlier— and yet he’s only just arrived at this Inn.
“For the ladies, ten in total, for the young man, it's just fifteen.”
She leads the three of you inside slowly, shutting the front door of the Inn after all has entered. The reception area gives off a comforting vibe, and there's the faint smell of dinner dug into the beige colored walls, the wood planked floors are a bit squeaky and worn, but still not the slightest bit dirtied. Robin hands over ten unfamiliar coins with a symbol etched into each side, it looks like a “B” with two lines cut into it. Some new age currency, no doubt about it.
The blonde man hands over his payment as well, your eyes glance over the rings of silver adorning his fingers, paired with many jewels. Not exactly the best choice if you’ll be out in a slightly more rural area, but maybe he’s just a clueless rich kid who got lost.
“I’ll be right back young man, wait here for a moment while I show these pretty ladies to their room.”
Nodding towards your direction, she guides you down a dimly lit hallway, passing what must have been a dozen doors before she finally reached one that seemed deliberately excluded from the others. She no doubt still thinks you and Robin are lovers, but it's not like she's mocking the two of you, at the very least. Robin is beautiful, but your mind craves her corpse at most, not romance at the moment. No matter how much beauty is in a vessel, all is measured in ash and blood. Except yours, of course! It's common knowledge that you're gorgeous, and that beauty earns you the rights to many things.
The innkeeper removes a heavy metal key off of the large keyring hanging around her neck, and places it into Robin’s open hands.
“You two ladies stay safe, I wouldn’t go out this hour at night, what with all the rowdy men. Your door locks, too.” She smiles at you two, before walking back to the reception area.
Robin sighs, unlocking and pushing the door to your room open. The room is a bit smaller than someone of your caliber is used to, but it is clean and pristine, although the windows only have a sheer curtain to cover them. The two of you stare at the single bed, waiting for each other to say something. Robin seems tired, but also looks curiously at you, perhaps you seem disheveled. She might not be used to sharing a bed casually with another, but you aren't as shy as she is.
Without any words, you remove your shoes, placing them neatly by the door as you approach the bed. Unsure of what comes next, since you do not need to sleep, you sit on the edge, waiting for her to approach.
The way Robin looks at you is not the way acquaintances should glance at each other. She's not disgusted, nor uncomfortable, she looks too excited to lay next to you for the night. Lust is always the first emotion to show in people— but you're not entirely sure this is lust, either. Nonetheless, she removes her own shoes and outer layers of clothing, now wearing her undergarments. Her satchel and backpack come with her all the way to the left side of the bed, and are carefully placed onto a nightstand.
She looks classy in her nightwear, you note. Robin doesn't give you another glance, and settles beneath the blanket with a swiftness, not facing your direction.
Silence, once again, fills the gap between you two. You can't remember the last time it was so quiet, without other worries floating around inside your head. Well, you did have worries, like the ever aching hunger within your bones, but those could wait. There's a warm, breathing body next to you. If you were so patient, you could wait until she slept, and have a bite.
But then comes the moral dilemma. You know it better than anybody else, when you get a taste you just won't stop until everything is gone. Not only that, but she's been so kind, and the human in you aches. Can you really make time for emotional aches when the hunger inside you is swelling into an ugly mass?
You decide to wait, just until you’ve counted a thousand breaths of hers, ignoring a persistent presence outside of one of the windows and the shouting from inside the Inn. Mihawk will wait for you, whether he heard your vow or not, and you are sure that he's watching just as curiously now. From the windows, inside the cracks of the walls, it feels as if his eyes just won't leave your figure.
Every lustful piece of you wishes to swim in warm blood spilled from a beautiful body.
The slowly disappearing rationality in you urges you to stop and think— you are not alone in this sinful den. Were a murder to take place, you’d be caught within minutes, even without your hypersensitivity to beating hearts this much you can tell. Yet, despite telling yourself that you’d ensure that you would be free and strong enough to taste Mihawk again, you cannot ignore the primal need to taste the sleeping body next to you. But, you wait, and you wait. Until you can’t anymore, and until your brain feels as if it would split, you will wait.
Sleep does not dare take you. Even as you count several hundred breaths that silently leave the archaeologist’s body, you can’t force yourself to close your eyes. Each and every waking moment is spent watching her back, to the point you cannot remember anything else you’d wanted to do. Mihawk’s name does not shake you, nor the night that gets darker still.
Something inside of you whispers, teasing you with something so sensual and disgusting.
“Taste her,” it pleads, pressing its warm skin to yours.
“Eat her…”
“Let them mourn her.” With a final breathy gasp clawing at your stomach, despite the panic that rises immediately from not being in control, your mouth opens wide to welcome her tender and moist meat. Saliva you didn’t know you had floods from your lips, and you lunge at her, jamming your fingers into warm skin you wished to steal away.
But instead of a steady red rush, instead of a terrifying awakening, Robin delivers what your hungry mind could not have expected. A wooden stake, jammed into your cold body with such force that you swear you can feel the breath you’d lost long ago fill your lungs again. You freeze, jaw still unhinged and ready to taste, bearing all of your sharpest teeth.
“You’re a vampire.” Robin sounds exasperated, her eyes light up in a way you’ve never seen before, likely the last you’ll ever see. Her smile still enchants, still lures you in, but the hunger has vanished. This hunger has made you lose.
No words leave you. Despite your ability to do so, you cannot speak, and can only stare up at this beautiful face.
She seems so sure that she will slaughter you.
And that’s why her next words are even more shocking.
Robin states your name, your full name, though hearing what you can only assume had been your human surname sends unpleasant chills through you.
“The shadow cast over the world centuries ago. I…” She suddenly wavers, twisting the stake deeper into where she’d pierced you.
You were sure then that she would condemn your actions. Call you a wench, succubus, unholy creature… and yet she did not. She only asked you one simple thing.
“Would you mind telling me about it? Life so long ago… what I would give to witness the rise and fall of so many centuries. And yet here you are, wielding such information, keeping it all secret.” The look in her eye and tone of her voice tells you that she means to scold you. You’re far too shocked to say anything about it.
Sensing an opportunity, however, you try and test your luck.
“I’ll… tell you all you need to know. Just release me, and—” Searing pain shoots through every inch of you as you fail to finish your sentence, Robin stops you as she pushes the piece of wood deeper into you. It would have been thrilling if she wasn’t able to kill you.
“Let’s have some fun with it,” Robin smiles, pushing her body onto yours as she means to immobilize you further. It only arouses you, shamefully. “Then, perhaps you’ll be free..."
super secret a/n: I always wanted to be a vampire when I was little. Now that I'm 600, I think it's just silly! but nonetheless, at the cost of one reblog and perhaps a comment, you can read this vampiress tale and imagine yourself as one!!!
Doing the « give me six characters to make fanart of » challenge right now (nobody gave me anything) (I didn’t ask) (I just chose them) (it’s all One Piece) (let me cook) (I should be studying instead) (I’m cooked)
I’m still alive but man I cannot WAIT to be done with university and finally pick up a pencil after so long (every day I don’t draw is a day I lose my skills and I hate it). I barely have time to read fanfics rn
Only 3 weeks of exams left and then I’m freeee, I have so many ideas for my OCs
Pairing: Jean Kirschtein x Fem!Reader
Summary: A reconnaissance mission in Marley becomes something else entirely when Jean meets a pianist who makes him forget the war
Warnings: NSFW MINORS DNI, alcohol, canon-typical prejudice against Eldians, slow burn, eventual smut, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, bittersweet ending, lmk if I missed anything!
Word Count: ~9k
Author Note: This idea has been living rent free in my head for months, so it was very refreshing to finally write. If you're the type to listen to music while you read, I'd recommend Slow Like Honey by Fiona Apple when you see the **
The lights were damn near blinding.
They caught the facets of the massive chandelier hanging in the center of the ballroom, scattering sharp glints across the polished floors and cream-colored walls. Lively, chaotic chatter weaved through the clink of glasses and the rustle of waiters passing by, all underlined by the soft strains of a piano.
Everything radiated privilege. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the front wall framed a breathtaking view of the sea, and the guests themselves moved with a careful, calculated elegance—backs straight, suits impeccably pressed, every gesture deliberate. The air was heavy with perfume and the unmistakable scent of money, the kind that made Jean’s skin crawl. Seeing so many wealthy men gathered in one space sent a sharp reminder of the military police events he’d once been dragged to on Paradis.
He muttered the memory to Connie and Sasha walking beside him, and they both burst into laughter, chiming in that they were starting to feel homesick too.
“Zip it, brats. You’re drawing attention,” Captain Levi snapped, shooting the group a sharp glare before flicking his eyes toward the guests who had started staring.
“What can I say,” the grey-haired boy said, lifting his hands in mock defense. “I clean up nice.”
“Don’t think that’s why,” Sasha murmured, noticing a few guests rolling their eyes as the scouts passed.
“I’m sure they’re just dumbfounded by the preposterous size of your head, Connie,” Jean quipped, falling into step behind their captain.
The shorter man’s eyes narrowed. “My head is regular-sized.”
Jean was about to snap back when Levi glanced back over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up. I mean it. We’re not here for fun.”
“Yes, Captain,” they muttered, barely listening. Connie’s attention was already captured by a group of young Marleyan women gliding past, Sasha’s mouth watered at the spread of food along the wall, and Jean’s eyes drifted toward the piano at the front of the room.
Or rather, toward who was playing it.
From the moment they’d entered, the soft music had threaded through the chatter and clinking glasses, settling a strange calm in his chest. He’d been searching for the source ever since.
Well, he found it.
You sat poised behind the sleek black grand piano, gloved fingers moving over the keys with a fluidity that made it look effortless. Loose strands of hair had escaped the bun at the nape of your neck, brushing your face as your gaze stayed fixed on the instrument.
He couldn’t get a clear view from where he stood, but even from the side, you exuded elegance—every movement precise and gentle. His eyes caught a white armband wrapped around the sleeve of your dress, but before he could process it, Sasha’s hand clamped over his wrist, yanking him back to the moment.
“Let’s eat,” she mumbled, eyes still locked on the food table as she tugged him and Connie along.
“Sash,” Connie protested, “we just got here.”
“I haven’t eaten all day.”
“That’s a lie,” Jean muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Connie chimed in. “Armin literally gave you half of his breakfast this morning.”
Sasha didn’t respond, but she didn’t slow her pace either.
Jean rolled his eyes, glancing back to make sure the other scouts hadn’t noticed their escape. To his mild surprise, Captain Levi’s piercing gaze was already on them—cold and unreadable. But Levi only exhaled and returned to his conversation with Mikasa.
That single sigh was enough. Jean’s suspicion hardened into certainty. This “reconnaissance mission” had been a flimsy cover from the start.
A month ago, Levi and Hange had pitched the idea as a rare chance to eavesdrop on Marley’s high society, but Hange’s manic gleam during the briefing had betrayed the truth. They’d wanted to attend a gala. Badly.
Jean's shoulders relaxed, a smirk tugging at his lips. Maybe he didn’t have to play soldier tonight after all. Maybe (for a few hours) he could actually breathe in the chandelier light, taste the champagne, and pretend the world beyond these gilded walls wasn’t slowly eating itself alive. Maybe he could just enjoy the party.
Sasha stopped abruptly in front of the appetizers, letting go of her friends’ hands to take a deep, decisive breath. They watched, unimpressed, as she dove headfirst into a tray of assorted meats.
Jean groaned, running a hand over his face as the sounds of chewing and swallowing reached him. Connie’s eyebrows lifted. “Take it easy, Sash. The captain said we should keep a low profile.”
She swallowed a bite, licking her fingers with satisfaction. “The captain’s never had a bacon-wrapped sausage dipped in garlic sauce.”
“Neither had you a minute ago,” Jean countered, eyes drifting through the crowd in search of you again.
“Well,” she whispered, glancing down at the plate like it was a sacred treasure, “it changed my life.”
As his eyes returned to the piano, Sasha’s screechy hiss at Connie over a stolen bite faded away, leaving only the tranquil melodies of your song.
Jean, an artist himself, felt the music’s pull more than others ever could. Marleyan guests swirled around him, not one lingering to catch the soft classical music threading through the air, let alone sparing a glance at the musician who wove them.
He inched closer, and suddenly he felt like he could count your lashes as they brushed your cheek, eyes locked on the keys. He doubted you’d looked up once since you’d begun playing, but he quietly wished you would.
He felt the old, familiar itch in his fingertips: the urge to paint, to trap this exact slant of light, this precise curve of concentration, this impossible stillness amid chaos. Even though he knew it was hopeless. No canvas, no charcoal, no careful layering of color could ever hold your beauty the way the moment itself did.
“Jeanboy,” Connie’s sing-song voice broke through from behind. He turned with a half-annoyed glance at the shorter man. “What the hell are you staring at?”
“Nothing,” he muttered quickly, staring at his black dress shoes, polished specifically for the evening. “And I told you not to call me that,” he added, shooting a glare over his shoulder.
“Nah, it was definitely something,” Connie insisted, eyes sweeping the room. “What? Someone you recognize?”
Jean parted his lips to deny it again, but was distracted by a faint movement—the flick of your eyes lifting from the piano, the song not faltering.
Your gaze met his for less than a heartbeat as you scanned the room before focusing back on the keys.
Connie’s low whistle reminded Jean of his friends’ presence. “The pianist, Jean?”
His eyes widened, his ears flushing.
“I get it. She’s a catch,” Connie continued, nodding toward the grand instrument. “Wait—shit. Is she Eldian?”
Jean’s gaze snapped to the white armband stamped with the Eldian Star. He’d seen it right.
“I didn’t think they’d even let Eldians attend events like this,” he murmured.
“Me neither,” Connie agreed. “But it’s not like she’s a guest. She’s working.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Jean said, tearing his gaze away as he reached for a strawberry.
Sasha straightened, clearing her throat and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You should go talk to her, Jean.”
His eyes shot open, nearly choking on the fruit. “Are you crazy?”
“What?” she shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“It’ll hurt when the Captain sees.”
“We’ll tell him you’re getting intel or something,” Connie said, rolling his eyes with a dismissive shake of his hand. “You’re fine.”
Jean paused for a moment, running a hand through his slicked-back mullet, his palm brushing over his goatee. “You guys think I should?” he asked, glancing at his friends, who both nodded frantically.
“Alright,” he murmured, already stepping away. “Don’t let Sash eat everything.”
Connie shot him a thumbs-up, watching as Jean melted into the crowd.
He slowed as a server approached him. “Champagne, sir?” he asked, holding out a tray of thin glasses.
Jean studied the glasses for a beat before nodding. “Thanks,” he said, taking two and continuing toward you.
The closer he drew, the quieter the world became. All the noises in the room fell away until there was only you and the fluid melody of the piano.
Up close, you were even more striking. He noticed the details first—the soft pink polish catching the light as your fingers danced over the keys, the thin gold bands winding around your fingers, the loose strand of hair brushing your cheek each time you shifted. Every movement was deliberate and graceful, a rhythm that drew his gaze and held it hostage.
You didn’t look up once as he approached.
Jean lingered by the edge of the grand piano, unsure where to put his hands. He set one of the champagne glasses down on the glossy black surface, the faint ring of glass meeting wood barely carrying over your music.
You spared him a glance—quick, sideways, unreadable—and then turned back to the keys.
He couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his mouth. Playing hard to get, huh? Fine. He could play too.
He cleared his throat, voice low. "You have a gift.”
You didn’t answer, but the corner of your mouth twitched as your fingers blurred in a short, spontaneous outro. The final chord lingered before it melted into the noise of the ballroom.
Only then did you turn toward him. Your gaze met his, calm and unbothered, posture steady.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He smiled, pearly whites catching the light. “I’m Jean Kirschtein.” He extended his free hand, and your eyes widened just a touch in surprise. You took it carefully, your soft skin brushing against his rough palm.
His eyes flicked to your face as he leaned down, lips brushing the back of your hand in an unhurried kiss. He lingered just long enough to feel your stillness, the faint shift in your breath, before pulling away.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” he murmured, nodding toward the glass, his gaze never leaving you.
You studied it for a moment before glancing back at him. “I’m working,” you said softly.
“One glass can’t kill you,” he joked, leaning just slightly closer.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully eager to share. Most wouldn’t offer anything to me without a price.”
He tilted his head, smirk widening. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
You glanced around the room; nobody had noticed the lack of music yet. “Can you prove that?” you asked, voice light but sharp.
“What?” he cocked a brow. “Are poisoned drinks something you have to worry about often?”
You scoffed lightly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His brows furrowed. You were quite stubborn.
Your fingers inched toward the keys again, and he quickly muttered, “Fine.” You watched as he lifted the glass meant for you to his lips, tilting it back in a careful sip.
“See?” he huffed after swallowing. “Safe.”
A sly smirk tugged at your lips. “Well, Mr. Kirschtein. Surely you didn’t think I’d drink from the same glass as you?”
Jean stared, lips parted, caught somewhere between shock and amusement as you restarted the song.
“Keep the drink,” you murmured, your fingers dancing across the keys again, “and enjoy the gala.”
“You’re something else,” he chuckled, replacing the glass he’d drunk from with the untouched one, even though he had a feeling you still wouldn’t drink it.
Jean descended back into the crowd with the glass dangling from his fingers, the liquid catching chandelier light like liquid gold. He could feel your eyes on the back of his neck for three full seconds before the melody changed.
Connie was waiting, arms crossed, a grin already splitting his face. “So? You get her name?”
Jean took a long gulp from the glass. “Nope.”
Sasha appeared at his elbow, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. “She shot you down?”
“Not exactly.” He glanced over his shoulder. You were playing again, head tilted just enough that a loose strand of hair curtained your face. “Just.. made me work for it.”
Connie barked a laugh. “That’s code for ‘she chewed you out, and you liked it.’”
Jean didn’t deny it.
The rest of the night blurred—Levi’s clipped orders to “stop acting like goddamn tourists,” Hange dragging half the table into a too-loud discussion about Marleyan technology, Sasha eating everything on the table until only empty plates remained. Jean played along, but every time the music paused, every time a new song began, his attention snapped back to the piano like iron to a magnet.
You didn’t look his way again.
By the time the gala thinned and the scouts prepared to leave, he was restless. The alcohol had settled warm and loose in his veins, loosening the knot of military discipline he usually wore like armor. He told himself he was just going to say goodnight. Polite. Professional. One last look before you disappeared again.
The piano was empty when he reached it.
Your sheet music was still open, bench pushed back just enough to show you’d left in a hurry. A single white glove lay forgotten on the cushion.
Jean picked it up without thinking. He felt the soft velvet, still warm from your hand.
He should’ve left it. But instead, he slipped it into his breast pocket like a fool carrying a lock of hair from a girl he’d barely spoken to. He jogged to catch up when Hange waved him over.
Outside, the sea air hit like freedom after too many hours breathing perfume and cigar smoke. His thoughts stayed on you the entire walk back. Where had you run off to so fast? Would you remember the young man who’d lingered too long by the piano, or had he already blurred into the mass of faceless people you played for every night?
He was almost certain the answer to would he ever see you again? was no.
Almost.
A stubborn scrap of hope clung anyway—stupid and pointless, but it had never hurt him before.
The glove felt hotter than it should have, burning a slow circle into his chest, right over his heart. He didn’t pull it out. Didn’t dare look at it. He just kept walking, pretending the fabric wasn’t scalding him from the inside out.
━━━
Captain Levi had made the rules crystal clear: no wandering after curfew. Ever.
But the safehouse felt like a cage with too many bars, and boredom was a hell of a motivator.
It started with Sasha whining about the rations.
“They call this dinner? It’s under-seasoned cardboard.” She poked at the slab on her plate like it had personally offended her.
Connie, sprawled across the threadbare couch, didn’t even look up from the deck of cards he was shuffling. “You ate three helpings yesterday. You’re just greedy.”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re always growing. Sideways.”
Sasha lobbed a stale bread roll at his head. It bounced off his forehead with a soft thump. Connie retaliated by flicking a pea at her.
Mikasa sighed, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “You’re going to wake Captain Levi.”
Eren, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, smirked. “He’s always awake. He just pretends not to hear us so he doesn’t have to deal with it.”
From the hallway, Levi’s voice drifted in—firm, tired, lethal. “You’re correct. And if one more thing hits the floor, I’m making you scrub the kitchen with your toothbrushes.”
Silence.
Then Connie’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward. “There’s that pub three streets over. They’ve got actual meat. And beer that doesn’t taste like dirt,” he whispered.
Jean glanced up from his sketchbook, shifting it just enough to keep the woman he’d drawn hidden from view. “We’re not supposed to leave the house.”
Eren raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you follow instructions?”
“Since Captain threatened toothbrushes.”
“Captain won’t know,” Mikasa assured.
Connie frowned. “Come on, Jean. Even Mikasa’s up for it.”
He sighed under the weight of everyone’s pleading stares. “Maybe,” he muttered, barely audible.
Sasha clapped her hands once. “That’s a yes. We’re going.”
“Wait—”
“Too late,” she interrupted, already on her feet. “I need real potatoes. And gravy. And meat.”
Eren pushed off the wall, stretching like a cat. “I could use some air that doesn’t smell like damp stone and Levi’s disappointment.”
Mikasa sighed, but there was the faintest curve to her mouth as she watched him.
Reluctantly, Jean stood. “If we get caught, I’m telling him it was your idea.” He pointed at Eren.
“Whatever, horseface,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “We won’t.”
Connie snorted. “Famous last words.”
They made a quick plan to head to their rooms and pretend to “sleep” before slipping out their windows and meeting in the back alley. Sasha nearly tripped over a crate and had to clamp both hands over her mouth to stifle the yelp. Eren pulled her upright by the collar like a kitten. Connie led the way, with Mikasa bringing up the rear, eyes sharp as she scanned every shadow.
Jean walked in the middle, hands in his pockets, one curled protectively around the glove. He still wasn’t sure why he’d brought it. An excuse, maybe, if the impossible happened and he actually saw you again. Hey, you dropped this. Also, I’ve been carrying it around like a lovesick idiot for three days.
Smooth.
He looked up as neon flickered ahead: The Nightingale. A low jazz rhythm pulsed through the cracked door, muffled laughter spilling out with cigar smoke.
Connie pushed inside first. Warm air and noise slammed into them. Sasha inhaled deeply. “Heaven.”
They piled inside—five Paradis devils trying (and failing) to look inconspicuous. Levi’s curfew rule hung over them like smoke, but rules only hold when everyone’s too tired or scared to test them.
Tonight, no one was either.
They claimed a corner table near the back. Sasha ordered enough food for six people. Eren flagged down a round of beers. Mikasa sipped water and watched the door.
The first hour slipped by easily. Greasy plates emptied fast. Connie told increasingly ridiculous cadet stories—half of them lies, all of them funny enough that Sasha was laughing so hard she nearly choked. Jean let himself smile, let the camaraderie loosen the knot in his chest.
Eren’s gaze drifted across the room, and he nodded toward the green felt table in the corner. “Isn’t that the game Hange was obsessed with?”
“It is!” Sasha perked up. “Billy something?”
Connie nodded, brows knitting as he tried to remember. “Billy’s yard, right?”
“It’s billiards,” Jean deadpanned.
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Connie rolled his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter,” Eren cut in as he stood. “Let’s play. Loser buys the next round.”
“Big talk from the worst player here,” Jean chuckled, slapping a hand on his shoulder.
Eren scowled, already fired up. “I’ll show you, Jeanboy.”
They were halfway to the table—Connie already trash-talking everyone’s aim—when the piano shifted into a new song.
**
A slow, lazy chord rolled out from the small stage just as the scouts reached for their cue sticks, lining up a fresh game. A feminine voice slid in underneath—low, smooth, dragging over the notes like fingers down bare skin.
Jean turned before he even meant to, and there you were.
Not at the piano tonight. Rather, standing at the mic in a deep burgundy dress that looked poured on, hair loose and glowing in the stage light. You weren’t looking at the crowd yet, just down at the floorboards, lips parted as the first verse spilled out of you, unhurried, intimate.
Jean forgot how to breathe.
The noise of the pub, the clink of glasses, Connie’s ongoing commentary, all dimmed to a distant hum. All that remained was the lull of your voice settling into his bloodstream, thick and warm, slow as honey.
Connie noticed first. He elbowed Jean hard in the ribs, hard enough to jolt him. “Holy shit. Is that—”
“Yeah,” Jean rasped, the word scraping out rougher than he meant.
Sasha’s eyes went wide. “She’s even prettier up close.”
Mikasa glanced between Jean and the stage, brow furrowing slightly in quiet confusion, then looked to Eren, who just smirked into his beer.
You lifted your gaze then, sweeping the room the way someone who performed every night might scan for familiar faces. Your eyes found his almost immediately. Slowly, the corner of your mouth curved—a soft, playful smirk, small enough that it could have been for anyone, but Jean knew better.
It was for him.
Your voice didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, wrapping tighter around the melody, each lyric lingering longer, like you were singing the rest of the song directly to the space beneath his ribs.
Eren cleared his throat, loud and pointed. “C’mon. Let’s play.”
Jean blinked and dragged his eyes back to the table. The cue stick felt heavy in his hand, foreign. “Right. Yeah.”
They started the game.
Connie broke first—hitting the ball with more force than necessary, balls scattering across the felt in a chaotic burst. Eren lined up next, already muttering trash about his form.
Mikasa lined up with calm precision and sank two solids without blinking. Sasha missed her shot spectacularly, and Connie laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer.
Jean barely heard any of it.
Between turns, his gaze kept drifting back to the stage. You were still there, swaying faintly with the rhythm, one hip cocked, fingers loose around the mic stand. Every time your eyes drifted his way, he felt it like a physical touch, heat crawling up his neck.
As much as he tried to, he couldn’t focus. He scratched twice in a row.
Connie snorted as he lined up. “Dude. You’re playing like shit tonight.”
“Shut up,” Jean muttered. His hands felt unsteady on the cue.
Eren leaned on his stick, smirking. “She’s got you whipped.”
Jean rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it.
He barely registered when Sasha sank a ball by accident and started celebrating like she’d won the lottery. He barely registered Eren’s turn, or Connie’s exaggerated groan when the eight-ball went in too early.
All he registered was you.
You were deeper into the song now—voice huskier, slower, like you were drawing the melody out just to torture him. Your free hand slid down your side, fingers trailing the satin over your hip. Jean’s grip tightened on the stick until his knuckles went white.
He tried to concentrate on the green felt, on the angle of the cue, on Eren’s smug grin when he finally pocketed the eight-ball and declared victory. But his mind was elsewhere. On the velvet glove still tucked in his pocket. On the way your smirk felt like a secret shared across a crowded room. On the stupid hope that you might look at him again when the music stopped.
When the final note drifted away like smoke curling toward the ceiling, the pub erupted in scattered applause and whistles. Without even realizing it, he found himself clapping too.
You didn’t bow. Just a deep exhale, eyes finding his one last time across the haze of cigarette smoke and red light. Then you turned, slipped through the narrow side door behind the stage, and vanished.
The message was unmistakable.
Follow me.
Jean set his cue down on the table without a word.
Connie raised an eyebrow. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah,” Jean said, already moving. “Be right back.”
Eren chuckled. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That’s a short list,” Mikasa muttered dryly.
Jean pushed through the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. He slipped through the side door into the narrow alley, the night air biting at his flushed skin.
You were already there, leaning against the wall with your arms loosely crossed, burgundy dress catching the weak light from a single bulb overhead.
You tilted your head when he appeared. “Took you long enough, Mr. Kirschtein.”
The sound of his name in your voice—soft, teasing, knowing—squeezed something in his chest. He stopped a few feet away. “Didn’t want to look desperate,” he said.
Your lips quirked. “Too late for that.”
“You’re right.” He chuckled lowly, running a hand through his honey-brown hair. “Can I at least get your name this time?”
You held his gaze, then answered, “It’s Y/n.”
“Well, Y/n…” He let the name settle on his tongue like it belonged there. “I believe this belongs to you.”
You watched as he reached into his pocket and drew out a familiar velvet glove. You stared at it. Then at him. Slowly, you stepped closer and took the glove from his fingers, touch lingering just long enough to make his pulse jump.
“You kept it,” you murmured.
“Couldn’t leave it behind.”
“Why?” you asked, blinking up at him.
Jean swallowed. “Because I wanted to see you again.”
You studied him, thumb tracing the embroidered edge of the glove absently. “You’re not from here, are you?”
He tried not to let his panic show. Fuck. He hadn’t expected you to notice.
“I suppose you could say I’m… a tourist,” he offered casually.
You tilted your head, a slow smile curling your lips—not quite believing him, but not calling him out either. “Is that right?”
He hummed, noncommittal. “What gave it away?”
You glanced away for a second, toward the mouth of the alley where the light from the pub bled faintly red. “A Marleyan man would rather be stoned than caught speaking to me like this.”
Jean’s expression hardened—just a flicker, but you caught it. He couldn’t fathom the fact that a woman as talented as you had been shunned by society, condemned for nothing but your ancestry. He now understood why you’d been so guarded at the gala. You were surrounded by enemies every night, playing pretty songs for the people that had branded you with a star.
He reached out, careful enough that you could pull away if you wished. His fingers caught your chin, gently turning your face back to his. “They’re all idiots,” he said, eyes locked on yours. No smirk this time. “Every last one of them.”
He held your gaze until he couldn't anymore—until the look in your eyes felt too intimate, too dangerous. Only then did he let his hand drop back to his side. Your skin felt cold without it.
“Walk with me?” you asked, nodding toward the street beyond the alley.
Jean knew he should decline. His friends were still inside, laughing over spilled beer and billiards. Levi would notice eventually (probably sooner than later), and the curfew wasn’t a suggestion. But the pull of you was stronger than any rule right now.
“Of course,” he said.
You smiled and turned, leading him out of the alley’s shadows into the cooler, wider street. He fell into step beside you, close enough that your arm brushed his every few paces.
“So,” he began after a moment, voice low against the distant hum of the city. “What is it about this place?”
“Hm?” You glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly.
He shrugged one shoulder. “You seem to be in better spirits than at our last meeting.”
You looked ahead again. “Well, it’s Eldian-owned,” you explained. “I’ve been singing here for years. I’m not invisible; the people actually listen.”
Jean hummed low in his throat as he shrugged off his suit jacket, wordlessly draping it over your bare shoulders. You stiffened slightly in surprise before relaxing into it, fingers curling instinctively into the lapels to pull it closer. “Thank you, Jean,” you murmured.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, thick with a peculiar sense of understanding.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” you asked.
“Yes, you have a beautiful voice,” Jean complimented, eyes flicking sideways to catch the way your cheeks bloomed with color. The flush could’ve been from the cold, or from him. He wasn’t sure which he preferred.
“You think so?” you asked, tilting your head to meet his gaze.
He nodded. “I was enthralled. Couldn’t look away.”
You smiled, small but genuine. “I’m glad.” A beat passed. Then you added, quieter, “I was actually hoping you’d come by tonight.”
Jean’s pulse kicked up. “Why’s that?”
You slowed your steps until you both stopped beneath the weak glow of a streetlamp. The light painted soft gold across your face, catching in your lashes. You leaned in—slow, deliberate—rising onto your toes until your lips brushed the shell of his ear.
“I wanted to sing to you,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.
Jean’s breath hitched. Heat coiled low in his stomach, sharp and sudden. You eased back down, but you didn’t step away. You just looked up at him—expectant, like you were waiting for him to decide what happened next.
He glanced around, taking in the narrow street, the row of old brick houses with shuttered windows. “Where are we?” he asked, though he already knew.
“My house,” you answered simply.
The words hung between you, both of your hearts hammering.
You watched his face flood with warm, then lifted a hand to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. Light enough to make his skin burn.
You leaned in again—this time not to whisper.
The kiss was slow at first. Soft lips brushing his until your fingers gripped his shirt, and his hands found your waist beneath the jacket, pulling you flush against him. Your lips tasted like cherry and the promise of everything he’d been chasing since the gala. He shuddered when your teeth grazed his bottom lip, and you answered with a small, pleased sound that went straight to his gut.
When you finally pulled back, your voice came out quieter. “Would you like to come inside?”
Jean laughed breathlessly. “Yes,” he sighed against your lips. “God, yes.”
Your smile turned wicked. You reached behind you without breaking eye contact, fingers finding the door handle. It clicked open, and you tugged him forward by the front of his shirt. The door shut behind him with a decisive thud.
The hallway was dim, lit only by a single lamp on a side table. Your shoes came off first, then his jacket slipped from your shoulders to the floor. Before it even settled, Jean had you pinned gently to the wall, one hand cupping the back of your neck as your mouths crashed together.
Your fingers trembled as you worked the buttons of his shirt open, revealing his skin to you. He shrugged it off, and your arms came up around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.
His other hand was already sliding up your leg, bunching the satin of your dress until he could feel your bare thigh beneath. He lifted it to his hip, pressing himself against you, the friction drawing a gasp from you that he swallowed greedily.
“Fuck,” he panted when he broke for air, nosing along the sensitive skin of your neck, inhaling the faint jasmine and smoke that still clung to you. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
Your laugh was low, breathless. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
He pressed messy, open-mouthed kisses along your neck as his hips began to roll into yours in a slow, insistent rhythm. Each movement pulled another soft sound from you, building until your voice cracked on his name. “Jean,” you sighed, tilting your head back against the wall.
“Bedroom,” you managed, voice trembling with want. “Last door.”
Jean didn’t need to be told twice.
He scooped you up in one smooth motion, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, and carried you down the short hall. You kissed him the whole way, messy and desperate, nails scraping lightly down his back.
The bedroom door was already ajar. He kicked the door wider with the heel of his boot, the wood thudding against the wall as he carried you inside, not setting you down immediately.
He turned, pressing your back to the closed door, letting your weight settle more fully against him. Your thighs flexed around his hips; he could feel every small shift of your body, the heat of you bleeding through thin satin and his trousers. His mouth found yours again; he wanted to taste every second of this.
Your lips parted under Jean’s without hesitation. Tongues slid together, lazy and deep, like you both had all night, even though neither of you truly believed it.
He broke the kiss only to drag his open mouth down the side of your neck again. He could feel your pulse hammering there, something possessive curling tight in his chest. The skin just below your ear was velvet-soft as he sucked gently, then harder when your breath hitched and your nails bit into his scalp.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your throat, voice gravel-rough.
Your laugh was shaky too. “You’re one to talk.”
He smiled against your skin, teeth grazing. “Can you blame me?”
He shifted his grip, fingers digging into the plush flesh just below the curve of your ass, and lifted you a fraction higher so he could grind up into you more precisely. The pressure made your head tip back against the door with a dull thud; your mouth fell open on a sound that wasn’t quite a moan yet, more like a plea.
Jean groaned at the feel of you rocking down to meet him. He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.
Your lips were swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in shallow pants. The dress had ridden up around your hips; one strap had slipped off your shoulder, baring the delicate line of your collarbone and the upper swell of your breast. Moonlight caught on the faint sheen of sweat already gathering at the base of your throat.
He wanted to worship every inch of you.
He lowered you until your feet touched the floor again. Your knees wobbled for a second, but he steadied you with hands on your waist, thumbs stroking over the satin in slow circles.
Then your breath caught as he sank to his knees.
Jean looked up at you from the floor, eyes dark, steady, almost reverent. He slid both hands up the outsides of your thighs, bunching the dress higher until the hem gathered at your waist. He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, and another, working his way up with maddening patience.
“Jean…” Your voice cracked on his name. He hummed against your skin, lips brushing the thin silk of your underwear. You swallowed hard. “Don’t tease.”
A low, dark chuckle rumbled out of him as he hooked two fingers beneath the fabric and tugged it down your legs, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry gaze. You were already glistening, and the sight pulled another rough sound from his chest.
He pulled your thigh up over his shoulder, and his warm breath fanned over your cunt. Your whole body jolted as he leaned in, tongue flicking over your clit. “Fuck—Jean—”
Jean groaned at the taste of you, at the way your thighs trembled on either side of his head. He worked you slowly, tongue dipping into your core, then sucking at your clit. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping hard.
Every time your hips tried to chase more friction, he pinned them to the door with one forearm, holding you exactly where he wanted so he could take his time.
“Look at you,” he mumbled between licks, voice thick. “So perfect. Been dying to taste you.”
Your head thumped back against the wood as a broken whimper slipped out.
He slid one hand between your thighs, fingers tracing your entrance. When you rolled your hips down in a silent plea, he finally pressed one inside, curling just right.
Your knees nearly buckled.
He added a second on the next stroke, stretching you gently while his mouth stayed latched to your clit—sucking in quick pulses, tongue flicking in time with the drag of his fingers.
“Jean—please—”
He pulled off just long enough to rasp against your slick skin, “Please what?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair as you tugged him back. “Don’t stop,” you breathed.
He smiled against you. Then he curled his fingers harder, sucked your clit between his lips, and hummed.
The vibration tipped you over the edge so fast that your vision went white. Your thighs clamped around his head; your back arched off the door; a choked cry of his name tore out of you as you came hard against his tongue.
He worked you through it, lapping softly until the aftershocks faded to trembling little twitches. Only then did he ease his fingers out, pressing one last kiss to your oversensitive clit before rising to his feet.
Jean caught you as your legs threatened to give out completely, one arm banded firm around your waist while the other cupped the back of your neck. You could taste yourself on his tongue when he kissed you—filthy, consuming, possessive. His cock strained painfully against his trousers; you felt every thick inch of him pressed to your stomach.
The evidence of how badly he wanted you made your core clench again, fresh heat pooling low despite the orgasm that had just wrecked you. “Bed,” you whispered, voice raw.
You took a few steps before pushing him onto the edge of the mattress and standing between his spread thighs. He propped himself up his elbows, gaze following your every move.
Your trembling fingers reached for the thin straps of your dress. They hooked under the delicate fabric and slowly slid it down, watching his face the entire time. The satin obeyed without resistance, slipping until it pooled in a dark puddle at your feet.
Jean exhaled roughly through his nose. His gaze dragged over you: the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the faint marks his mouth had left along your inner thigh.
You stepped out of the dress and kicked it aside without looking. Then you placed one knee on the mattress beside his hip, then the other, straddling him properly. The new position pressed your slick heat directly against the thick, straining length of him through his pants.
Jean’s hands immediately slid up your bare back, mapping the long line of your spine. His palms were hot and calloused, but he touched you like you were made of glass. Fingers splayed wide, he laid back on the bed, pulling you closer until your breasts pressed to his chest and your mouths were only a breath apart.
You leaned in and kissed him. He groaned into your mouth, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that dragged the length of him along your folds through the thin barrier of fabric. Your hands found the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his jaw as you kissed him deeper, drawing it out the way he had drawn out your pleasure against the door.
“Take these off,” you whispered, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers and underwear.
Jean lifted his hips without hesitation, letting you tug the fabric down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang up, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. You wrapped your hand around him and gave one long, deliberate stroke from base to tip.
His head tipped back on a ragged groan, throat working. “Y/n—”
You smiled against his jaw and pressed a soft kiss there, then another along the column of his throat. “I want to savor this,” you murmured, stroking him again, letting your thumb circle the sensitive head. “Savor you,” you added, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Fuck—” Jean whimpered as you squeezed his shaft. “Wait.” Jean’s hand caught your wrist gently but firmly, stilling your strokes before he lost what little control he had left. His chest heaved in heavy pulls, eyes dark and glassy as they locked on yours in the dim light.
“Not yet,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come in your hand, and I want—” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I want to feel you around me when I do.”
Your lips parted in shock, cheeks blooming with fresh heat at his honesty. “Then take what you want, Jean,” you whispered.
In one fluid motion, he lifted you and rolled you both onto your sides. His chest molded to your back, one thick arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. The length of his cock nestled hot and heavy along the crease of your ass.
You let out a soft, surprised sound as his hand splayed possessively across your stomach. His lips found the sensitive spot behind your ear.
“Like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough.
His free hand slid over your navel and between your thighs, parting you gently. Two fingers glided through your wetness before circling your clit in slow, lazy strokes. You arched back into him with a quiet moan, hips rocking instinctively.
Jean groaned at the friction, the head of his cock slipping between your folds without entering, just gliding along the slick heat. He rocked against you in the same rhythm as his fingers—long, deliberate drags that teased without giving either of you what you craved yet.
“Jean,” you whined, hand reaching back to grip his thigh, urging him closer.
He kissed the nape of your neck, open-mouthed and reverent. “Tell me when,” he whispered.
But you were already trembling. “Now,” you gasped. “Please—now.” You tilted your hips back, inviting.
He didn’t hesitate. Hooking your leg over his thigh, he opened you wider. Then he lined himself up and finally pressed inside, inch by inch, until your bodies were completely flush. The stretch burned sweetly; you both froze for a second, breathing hard, letting the sensation settle.
Jean’s arm tightened around your waist, hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in time with the shallow grind of his hips. You couldn’t help the low moan that escaped you as he nudged that perfect spot inside.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin. “You feel so good. So perfect.”
You reached back, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him close as you rocked back to meet every thrust. His mouth stayed on your neck, kissing, sucking, whispering broken praise while you muffled your moans into the pillow.
His fingers never left your clit, circling in the same unhurried rhythm he was fucking you with. He shuddered every time you clenched around him, hips stuttering for a second before he reined himself back in.
You turned your head just enough to catch his mouth in a deep, messy kiss. He groaned into it, thrusts quickening unconsciously.
Your breaths grew shorter, fingers tightening in his hair as your hips began to chase his thrusts with more urgency. “Jean,” you gasped against his lips. “I’m close—”
Jean stilled inside you, chest heaving against your back. His arm around your waist flexed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Turn over,” he rasped. “I want to see your face.”
There was no teasing in it, just desperate honesty that made your chest tighten.
You nodded once, wordless.
He eased out of you, making you gasp at the sudden loss, then guided you with careful hands until you were on your back beneath him. Jean settled between your thighs immediately, bracing on one forearm so he could hover close without crushing you. His other hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast before cupping your face.
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize every detail: parted lips, glassy eyes, the way your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls. His own expression was wrecked—brows knit, mouth slack, honey-brown eyes dark and unguarded.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he exhaled, almost like it hurt to say it out loud.
Then he was sliding back inside you, watching your face the whole time. The way your lashes fluttered, the soft hitch in your throat when he bottomed out, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.
He started moving, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot, hips rolling in that same unhurried rhythm. Now he could see everything: the flush spreading down your neck, your lips forming his name without sound, your eyes locked on his and refusing to waver.
You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers knotting in his hair. His lips hovered over yours, sharing your gasps; before he kissed you, swallowing every moan.
His fingers found your clit again, circling with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk up to meet him. “Jean—” Your voice cracked, back arching off the mattress.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Let go for me. please.”
You did.
With one perfectly placed thrust, you shattered. A soft, broken cry spilled from your lips as your walls fluttered and pulsed around him. Your nails raked down his back as you shuddered beneath him.
Jean's hips stuttered as he watched you come: face flushed, eyes rolling, body trembling in his arms. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed, and it undid him completely.
“Y/n—I’m—fuck—where—?” His voice cracked, words fracturing into broken whimpers between each thrust. He was right on the edge, hips jerking unevenly. You slid your hands down the sweat-slick plane of his back and pressed your palms firmly against the small of his spine, urging his hips flush to yours.
“Inside,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
He buried himself as deep as he could and followed you over the edge, spilling hot and thick inside you. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, breathing ragged against your skin, hips grinding slow circles through the aftershocks until he had nothing left.
Jean stayed inside you, softening gradually, arms sliding under your back to hold you close. You reached up, brushing damp strands from his flushed face. He smiled lazily, pupils blown wide as he looked down at you.
You cupped his cheek and pulled him into a slow, lingering kiss. His mouth parted under yours on a quiet exhale, and you tilted your head to deepen it, tongue sliding against his in a languid sweep that pulled a low, contented hum from his throat.
You pulled back, and Jean eased out of you, both of you exhaling at the loss. He rolled onto his back and gathered you against his chest, one arm hooked around your waist. Your legs tangled with his without thought, cheek finding the steady thump of his heartbeat.
Neither of you spoke for a long minute. Just catching your breaths. Skin cooling. Fingers tracing idle patterns—yours along the faint scar on his ribs, his along the curve of your spine.
“I should probably tell you something,” he said, voice soft.
“If it’s bad news, wait until morning,” you murmured against his collarbone.
“It’s not… bad.” He hesitated, thumb brushing the line of your spine. “Just honest.”
“Let me guess.” You thought for a second, then shifted your head back just enough to see him in the dim moonlight leaking through the curtains. “You’re not really a tourist.”
Jean’s hand stilled. He let out a quiet, rueful laugh that rumbled through his chest into yours. “No. I’m not.”
You propped your chin on his chest. “Where are you from?”
He dragged his gaze from the ceiling to your steady, curious one. He knew he was an idiot for even considering telling the truth. But lying felt wrong here. With your legs wrapped around his, his come still warm inside you, your heartbeat synced to his in the dark.
Besides, for some weird, indescribable reason, he knew he could trust you.
“Paradis,” he said simply.
You blinked, processing. Paradis. The island of devils. The place Marley had spent years demonizing in every newspaper, every broadcast, every whispered rumor.
“You’re a soldier,” you said, not a question.
He nodded.
You studied him for a long moment, eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint freckles across his nose that only showed up this close. Then you gave a small, tired smile. “I knew there was something different about you the second you kissed my hand like I was important.”
Jean laughed under his breath, but the sound faded quickly, his smile faltering. “Isn’t this the part where you kick me out?”
Your eyes narrowed, playful but serious. “You think I’d do that?”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s just.. Don’t you care that our nations are at war?”
“Frankly, I don’t,” you answered, resting your cheek back on his chest. “I stopped caring about the Marleyan government years ago. I hope your people tear it to the ground.”
Jean stiffened—just a fraction—but you felt it. He looked down at you, voice low. “They’d have you killed for saying that.”
You sighed, the sound soft and resigned. “I know.”
Silence wrapped around you again. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.
You nestled closer, ear pressed to the steady thump of his heart. “How long are you here?”
“Not sure.” His voice dropped. “Won’t be long.”
You hummed. “So this is borrowed time.”
Jean swallowed hard. The words sat heavy between you, undeniable. “Yeah. Probably.”
Silence settled again, thicker this time. Moonlight continued to leak through the thin curtains, painting faint silver stripes across your bare shoulder, the tangled sheets, the curve of his arm still wrapped around you.
You closed your eyes, lashes brushing your cheeks. “When your war ends, Jean…” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “…come find me.”
He exhaled, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “I will. I promise.” he whispered. And he meant it—even if the odds were laughable.
You smiled against his skin. “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”
You kept talking after that—lazy, half-mumbled things. The songs you liked to sing when no one was listening. The eccentric elderly couple that owned the Nightingale. How Captain Levi was going to make him scrub the entire safehouse with a toothbrush when he got back. He asked if you ever got tired of playing for people who resented you; you said sometimes, but the music was yours, and no one could take that.
Your voice grew slower. Softer. Words trailing into yawns.
Eventually, your breathing evened out, body going limp against his. Jean held you, listening to the quiet rhythm of your inhales, feeling the faint rise and fall of your ribs under his palm.
The itch came back then—the old, familiar one in his fingertips. The need to capture this exact second: the way moonlight silvered the curve of your shoulder, the loose strands of hair clinging to your damp neck, the peaceful slack of your mouth, lips still kiss-swollen.
He glanced around the dim room without moving too much. No sketchbook. No charcoal. But on the nightstand, there was a small pen and a few loose sheets of paper tucked under a half-read novel.
He took what he needed.
━━━
Morning light filtered through the thin curtains in pale, watery streaks.
You woke with a yawn, the sheets cool against your bare skin. No breathing beside you. No heartbeat under your cheek. Your hand reached instinctively across the sheets, only to find it empty. Just the hollow space where Jean had been.
You rolled onto your side, reaching for the pillow he’d used. Your fingers brushed paper instead. The back of an old piece of sheet music, now covered in charcoal lines.
It was you.
You. Sleeping peacefully, hair spilling across the pillow, lips parted, one hand curled near where his chest had been. The shading was soft around your eyes, and tender along the curve of your cheek, like the artist had lingered on every detail he could steal in the dark.
No signature. Just the drawing, simple and devastatingly honest.
You stared at it until your vision blurred and a small, aching smile curved your lips.
Jean had seen you—not the Eldian pianist, not the singer under stage lights—but you. The version that existed only when the world went dark and quiet.
“Thank you, Jean,” you whispered into the paper, eyes closing as you pressed it briefly to your chest.
You exhaled slowly, folded the sketch with careful fingers, and set it on the nightstand beside you. Then you rose, sheets sliding away, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen to make coffee.
GUYS I’m looking for a MHA one shot I read one year, two years (???) ago, please I’m desperate
Pretty sure it was a Dabi x reader, where Dabi went to reader’s room to help him redo his staples and stitches cause his skin was falling off (after a fight?). It was very messy, very bloody, very traumatizing for reader, who asked him never to let them do that again I think? Angst/comfort??
ANYWAY I just suddenly remembered it and I NEED to read it again it was soooo good. I searched everywhere on Tumblr and AO3 but couldn’t find it. No idea if the author deleted it, but if you have any idea what I’m talking about pleaaaaase help me out I’m begging
Hello, for a request, could it please be a law and shanks (separate) x reader where the reader has either abandonment issues or attachment issues? So for example, if they think law/shanks is pulling away, they’ll distance themselves first, and it starts to affect their relationship? Thanks
Stay with me
gn!reader
characters: law, shanks
a/n: I used both abandonment issues and attachment issues so that I could contrast traits between law/shanks and the reader to create tension and emotional depth — hope you’ll like it this way!
main m.list || ao3 || ko-fi || requests list
── .✦ Law:
tags: established relationship, abandonment issues, hurt/comfort, emotional tension
words count: 3.7k
The Polar Tang is quiet tonight. Too quiet.
Law sits at his desk, writing notes about a patient. The lamp makes a small circle of light over his papers. Everything else is dark.
You sit on the bed behind him, hugging your knees. You watch his back. He has been silent for hours.
You bite your lip.
“Law,” you say softly “Are you mad at me?”
His pen stops. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrows pulling together “No. Why would I be mad?”
“You’re… quiet today,” you whisper “More than usual.”
Law sighs and turns back to his work “I’m working. That’s all.”
You nod, but something in your chest hurts. You stand up slowly and walk to him.
“Can I hug you?” you ask.
He pauses again “You always ask that.”
“Because… I don’t want to bother you.”
Law turns in his chair. His gold eyes look tired.
“You don’t bother me,” he says “Not unless I say so.”
You give a small smile “Can I, then?”
He nods once.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders. You lean your cheek against his hair. For a second he stays still… and then he lets out a long breath, relaxing slightly.
But only for a moment.
After a few seconds, he takes your hands and gently moves them off “Sorry. I need to finish this.”
And your heart drops.
“Oh,” you say “Right. Sorry. I’ll… I’ll just sit.”
You go back to the bed. You try to breathe normally, but your mind is loud.
He doesn’t want me close tonight. Maybe he’s tired of me. Maybe… maybe he’s pulling away.
Law keeps writing. The scratch of his pen feels sharp in the quiet room.
After a minute, he speaks “You’re upset.”
You freeze “No. I’m fine.”
“Liar.” he says without looking up.
Your throat tightens “I just… I don’t want to annoy you.”
“You’re not annoying.” his voice is flat, but honest. Law always means what he says.
You swallow “Then why do you push me away?”
He finally looks at you again, really looks.
“I’m not pushing you away,” he says “I’m trying to work.”
You stare at your hands “I know. I know, Law. It’s just… when you go quiet like this, I get scared.”
“Scared of what?”
You take a breath “That you don’t want me anymore.”
He blinks, like he didn’t expect that answer at all.
“Y/N,” he says slowly, “that makes no sense.”
Your voice cracks “It makes sense to me.”
He stands up. He walks to the bed. He sits beside you, not touching, but close enough that you feel his warmth.
“Look at me.” he says.
You do.
“I’m not leaving,” Law says “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not unless you tell me to.”
Your eyes sting “But you always leave the room without saying anything. You stay silent for hours. I never know what you feel. I don’t know if you still want me.”
Law frowns deeply, thinking.
“That’s… not because of you. I just don’t talk much.” His voice is soft, almost awkward “I thought you understood that.”
“I do. But my brain won’t listen.”
He sighs “Then tell me. Don’t sit there hurting alone.”
You nod slowly.
He hesitates, then touches your hand, carefully.
“Come here.” he says, very quietly.
You lean into him, and he lets you. He even wraps an arm around your shoulders.
You had this same conversation many times. Law tells you he’s not leaving. You try to believe him.
But your brain… it never stops.
Every night, the same thoughts come back:
He’s losing interest. He doesn’t love me. I’m too much for him. One day he’ll get tired and walk away.
You know him. You know how he is. He’s not the kind of man who says “I love you” every minute. Not even every day.
He’s not one to hold your hand while walking around the ship. He’s not one to kiss you in front of the crew. He’s not one to hug you unless the room is empty.
He’s not clingy. He doesn’t like clinginess.
And that hurts even more.
Because you are clingy. And your brain keeps whispering that he hates that part of you.
Days pass.
Law gets busier with his captain work, doctor work, planning, training. He’s always moving. Always working. Always tired.
And of course, you start to feel… not wanted.
So you distance yourself.
Just a little at first.
You stop following him around. You stop asking for hugs. You stop waiting outside the infirmary. You stop touching him unless he touches you first.
The crew notices. Some look confused. Some whisper.
Law notices too, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t question it.
He actually thinks you finally understood him.
He thinks you realized he needs his space. He thinks you’re giving him room to focus on his work.
One evening, he enters your, basically shared, room. You’re lying on the bed with your back to him, pretending to read.
He stands at the door for a moment, watching you. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“You’re quiet lately…” he says.
You give a small, careful smile he can’t see “I’m just tired.”
Law nods like he accepts that. He thinks it’s normal.
He doesn’t realize he’s the reason you’re tired.
He sits at his desk and starts working. You stare at the wall, holding your breath so you don’t cry.
Minutes pass.
Then Law speaks again, voice flat but curious “You didn’t wait for me today.”
Your fingers tighten around the book.
“I didn’t want to bother you” you answer.
“You don’t bother me.” he says immediately.
But his tone is too calm. Too normal. No emotion.
It feels like he’s just saying it because he has to.
You turn a page without reading.
“I know,” you whisper “I’m just… giving you space.”
Law hums quietly, as if this makes sense to him.
“Okay… Good.” he says.
Your heart cracks.
You don’t respond. You can’t. Your throat hurts too much.
He goes back to writing, believing everything is fine. Believing you finally understand his position.
He has no idea you’re breaking apart right next to him.
You wake up early the next morning. Law is still asleep beside you, breathing slow and deep. His hair is messy, his eyes closed, his arm loose on the blankets, he looks peaceful.
You stare at him for a moment. Normally, you would kiss his forehead. Normally, you would stay there until he wakes up.
Not today.
You get up quietly, grab your clothes, and slip out of the room without making a sound.
A few of the crew are already eating. You force a small smile.
“Morning” you say.
“Good morning!” Bepo says, cheerful as always.
You sit with them and start eating. You try to focus on your plate, not your feelings.
It doesn’t last long.
Bepo tilts his head “Where’s Captain? You two usually eat together.”
Your stomach tightens.
“He’s sleeping.” you answer quickly, eyes on your food.
Penguin leans forward with a stupid smirk “OOOH, you tired him so much last night??”
Shachi elbows him “Penguin—”
You don’t laugh. You don’t even look at him.
“Yeah… no.” you say quietly.
Your voice is flat. Dead, almost.
The three of them freeze. They exchange a worried, confused and uncomfortable look. They can tell something is wrong.
You push your plate a little.
“So… do we reach the new island today?” you ask, trying to sound normal.
Bepo answers quickly, kind of pretending he doesn’t notice your mood “We already reached it! When Captain wakes up, we can go look around. It’s a big village. Looks nice!”
You nod “Thank you.”
You stand up and grab your finished plate.
“I’ll get off,” you say “I’ll go look around alone today.”
The three of them stop eating.
Penguin and Shachi stare at you with big, confused eyes. Bepo’s ears drop a little.
Shachi speaks first, voice soft “Are you sure? Why don’t you wait for us and go all together?”
You turn and give them a smile, or something that tries to be a smile.
“I just want some alone time” you say “Don’t worry. See you guys later.”
You walk away before they can say anything else.
Behind you, the crew exchange a silent glance.
They all think the same thing: Something is wrong and Law has no idea.
Law wakes up alone.
The bed is cold. Your side is empty. The room is quiet.
He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. You always wake him gently, or sit beside him, or at least move around the room.
He frowns, confused, but shrugs it off at first. Maybe you just woke up early. Maybe you’re with the crew.
He gets dressed and goes to the dining hall.
The moment Law steps in, the room goes stiff.
Bepo stops eating mid-bite. Penguin straightens his back like he’s being judged. Shachi just stares at his plate.
Law blinks “What’s wrong with you three?”
“N-Nothing, Captain!” Penguin squeaks.
Law narrows his eyes. He can always tell when his crew is hiding something.
“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.
Bepo puffs his cheeks nervously “They, uh… already ate.”
Law waits for more.
Penguin slowly adds, “They, um… left.”
“Left?” Law repeats.
Shachi nods quickly “They went to look around the island.”
Law crosses his arms “Alone?”
Penguin gulps “Yes, Captain.”
Law’s face doesn’t move. No anger. No surprise.
Just… stillness.
But his eyes sharpen like knives.
“And none of you stopped them?” he asks.
“We tried!” Bepo says, ears dropping “They said they wanted some alone time.”
Law goes silent for a moment.
Bepo finally asks, “Did… something happen between you two?”
Law looks away, jaw tightening “No.”
But the way he says it isn’t convincing.
Then he asks, quietly but firmly “What did they look like?”
Penguin rubs the back of his neck “…Sad.”
“Really sad…” Shachi adds.
Bepo nods “They didn’t smile at all.”
Law closes his eyes for a second. A very, very small sigh escapes him “…I see.”
He turns to leave.
Bepo quickly stands “Captain—! Do you want us to go look for them?”
“No,” Law answers “I’ll go.”
Penguin hesitates “Captain… are you sure everything is okay?”
Law stops at the door but doesn’t look back “I thought things were okay,” he says softly “But it seems I was wrong.”
And with that, he walks out, coat swaying behind him, heading toward the island.
Not rushing. Not running. But moving with a purpose the crew almost never sees.
A purpose that says: I need to find them. Now.
The village is big, noisy, and full of people moving around, sellers yelling, children running, travelers talking loudly. The smell of food fills the air.
Law walks through the crowd, scanning every corner. His steps are fast, sharp, focused.
He checks the market. The docks. The small side streets.
Nothing.
His jaw tightens.
Where did they go?
He takes another turn, heading toward a quieter part of the village, away from the noise, away from the main road. A place someone would go to be alone.
And finally… he sees you, sitting on a small stone bench under a tree, staring at the ground. Your shoulders are tense, your body small and tired-looking. You’re not crying, but you look like you did earlier… or like you could at any second.
Law stops for a moment… just watching you.
You don’t see him.
He walks closer. His boots make a soft sound on the dirt, and you look up instantly.
Your eyes widen a little “…Law?”
He stands in front of you, hands in his pockets, trying to look calm, but his eyes are sharp and full of questions.
“I was looking for you” he says.
You look away “I just wanted some air.”
“On a new island? Alone?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
You shrug “I’m fine. You didn’t need to come.”
Law stares at you for a long second. Then he says quietly “You’re avoiding me.”
You swallow “No, I’m not.”
“Y/N” his voice is firmer now “Don’t lie to me.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not lying,” you try again “I just needed space. Isn’t that what you also want?”
Law frowns “…What?”
You exhale shakily and stand up, turning away from him.
“You want space, Law. You always want space,” you say softly “So I’m giving it to you.”
He takes a slow breath, then he says “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” Your voice cracks “You don’t like clingy people. You don’t like being touched when you work. You don’t like PDA. You don’t like when I follow you. You don’t—”
“Stop.” Law steps forward.
You swallow again but keep talking, voice trembling “You don’t do any of those things, and that’s fine. That’s who you are. But every day I felt like I was bothering you more and more. And I kept thinking that maybe… maybe you were getting tired of me.”
Law freezes like your words hit him straight in the heart.
You laugh weakly and look away “Today I thought… maybe you’d be happier if I gave you space. Maybe you’d breathe easier without me.”
Law finally moves and grabs your wrist gently, not hard, but enough to make you look at him.
His voice is low and tense “Why would you think I breathe easier without you?”
You blink, surprised by the emotion in his voice.
He steps closer.
“You think I’m losing interest?” he asks “You think I don’t want you? That I’m about to leave?”
You look down “…Yes.”
He stares at you for a long moment.
Then he says something he almost never says, something raw and honest “Y/N, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you.”
Your breath catches.
“And I wouldn’t chase after you,” he adds, “if I planned to leave.”
Your heart stings again, but this time for a different reason.
You whisper, “Then why… why do you act like you don’t care?”
Law exhales, long and tired “…Because I don’t know how to act different.”
You stare at him.
He shakes his head slightly.
“I’m not good with words. I’m not good with affection. I’m not good with people being close.” He pauses “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
You feel your throat tighten.
“I thought you’d get tired of me…” you say softly.
“I’m not tired of you,” he answers “I’m tired of not understanding what you need.”
Your eyes widen.
Law looks down at your hand in his.
“Tell me what I’m missing,” he says quietly “I can’t fix what I don’t see.”
You look down at his hand holding your wrist. His touch is warm. Careful. Real.
You take a shaky breath.
“I fell for you because of who you are… how you are.” you say softly.
Law’s eyes lift to yours.
“I never wanted you to change,” you continue “I don’t want you to be someone else just because I have abandonment issues. That’s my problem. Not yours.”
Law’s brows tighten. He looks like he’s trying to understand every word you say, trying to read every tiny expression on your face.
“You don’t have to say ‘I love you’ every day,” you add “You don’t have to hold my hand in public. You don’t have to be clingy. I don’t want to force you into something you’re not.”
You look away, voice small “I’m scared of losing you. That’s all.”
Silence fills the air. Soft but heavy.
Law lets go of your wrist only to take your hand instead… slower, gentler, like he’s asking for permission.
“Y/N,” he says quietly, “I’m not trying to be someone else.”
You nod “I know.”
He studies your face, eyes sharp and serious.
Then he asks “Then what can I do for you to believe me, Y/N?”
Your heart stops. You stare at him. You’ve had so many conversations like this, but he has never said something like that… never this blunt, never this honest, never this open.
He looks… almost frustrated. But not with you. With himself.
Like he truly wants to understand. Like he truly wants to help.
You freeze, shocked.
“You… you really mean that?” you whisper.
“Yes,” he says immediately “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
You think. And think. But the harder you try to find an answer, the more empty your mind feels.
“I don’t know…” you finally whisper.
Law blinks “…You don’t know?”
You shake your head slowly.
“I don’t know what I need. I just… get scared.” Your voice cracks again “I don’t know what would make me believe you won’t leave. Nothing feels enough when my brain tells me the worst.”
Law exhales, not annoyed, not angry. He seems almost… softer.
He steps closer, close enough that his coat brushes your leg.
“Then we figure it out.” he says.
You look up at him, eyes wide.
He continues, tone steady “I can’t read your mind. And you can’t read mine. So we talk. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s confusing. Even when we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”
Your chest tightens.
He holds your hand a little firmer, not letting go.
“And if you can’t tell me what you need,” he says, “then tell me how you feel. Start there.”
You swallow hard.
“Law…” you whisper.
He tilts his head slightly “Yes?”
You take a shaky breath.
“I feel scared every time you’re quiet,” you admit “I feel unwanted when you’re distant. I feel like I’m annoying you when I’m clingy. I feel like one day you’ll wake up and think you don’t want me anymore.”
Law stares at you, listening.
“…Okay” he says quietly.
You blink “O-Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” He squeezes your hand “You tell me that. Every time it happens.”
Your eyes sting again.
“You won’t get tired of hearing it?” you ask.
“No,” he says “I’ll get tired of you hiding it.”
Your breath catches.
You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to be so… real.
Law takes a slow breath and adds “Just don’t walk away from me without telling me something is wrong. That’s all I ask.”
He looks at you for a long second. Then he looks away, jaw tense, ears turning red.
He lets out a small breath and says, quietly “For the record… I fell for you for who and how you are as well, Y/N.”
You blink, surprised.
He keeps staring at the ground, like the words are too embarrassing to say while looking at you.
“Don’t think that just because I look like I don’t enjoy PDA…” His voice drops even lower “…or you being clingy… that I actually don’t like it.”
Your heart jumps.
“…Law?” you whisper.
He turns even redder, ears burning.
“I said what I said.” he mumbles, refusing to look at you.
For a moment you don’t say anything. You’re too shocked and too touched.
You slowly reach out and place your arms around him, pulling him into a hug.
You expect him to stiffen, to pull back, to freeze like he always does when someone hugs him unexpectedly in public.
But this time… He doesn’t. He lets you.
You feel his body tense a little at first, like he’s surprised.
Then, slowly, you feel him relax under your arms.
His shoulders drop. His breathing evens out. His hand lifts hesitantly and rests on your back, fingers curling into your shirt.
“Y/N…” he says softly, almost whispering into your shoulder.
“Yes?” you ask, voice muffled against his chest.
“Don’t think I hate the way you are.”
You close your eyes, holding him tighter.
“I won’t,” you whisper “Not anymore.”
You feel him exhale against your neck, a long breath he’s been holding for too long.
He leans just a bit closer enough to show you something important, that he trusts you.
And for Law, and for you, that means everything.
You stay in Law’s arms for a while, the world around you quiet.
Then you slowly pull back to look at him.
His face is red.
His eyes are avoiding yours.
But he doesn’t let go of you.
You smile softly “…You okay?”
He clears his throat “I’m fine.”
You’re still holding hands.
He notices.
You notice him noticing.
And you expect him to pull away like he always does in public.
But instead… he tightens his grip.
“Let’s go back to the ship,” he says “Together.”
Your heart feels warm, almost too warm.
“You want to walk like this?” you ask, raising your joined hands.
Law’s ears turn pink again.
He looks away “…Yes. Don’t make me repeat it.”
You giggle and he relaxes even more at the sound.
On the way back, he doesn’t talk much, but he keeps brushing his thumb over your hand.
Slow.
Gentle.
His way of saying: I’m here.
When you reach the ship, Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin are standing outside like they’ve been waiting for hours.
Penguin’s eyes widen “Captain… is holding hands?”
Shachi elbows him hard “Shut up! Don’t scare them!”
Bepo’s face lights up “I’m glad you two are okay!”
Law glares at all of them “Don’t comment on things that are none of your business.”
But he still doesn’t drop your hand.
The crew exchange looks… happy, relieved looks, but say nothing else because they want to live.
You reach Law’s room and he lets you inside first and closes the door behind you.
Then he stands there, awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You tilt your head “What is it?”
He looks like he’s trying to force words out of his mouth.
“I’m not good at… comforting” he admits “I don’t always know what to say.”
You smile gently “You're better than you think.”
He slowly walks closer.
Then he lifts a hand and touches your cheek carefully, almost like he’s scared to get it wrong.
“I’m trying.” he says.
Your heart melts instantly.
“I know,” you whisper, leaning into his touch “I can tell.”
Law looks at your lips for half a second, then immediately looks away like he didn’t.
You grin “You can kiss me, you know.”
His ears turn red again.
“I—I know that” he mutters.
You step closer, closing the distance “Then do it.”
He hesitates… then gently cups your chin and pulls you in for a soft kiss.
Not rushed.
Not messy.
Slow.
Warm.
Real.
When he pulls back, he whispers against your lips “I’m not leaving you. Ever.”
You press your forehead to his.
“…And I’ll try to trust that.” you whisper.
He nods once, firmly, his hand still on your cheek “That’s all I want.”
── .✦ Shanks:
tags: established relationship, avoidant attachment, hurt/comfort, fluff, teasing crew
words count: 2.8k
The deck is loud, between laughter, clinking bottles and someone shouting about food.
Shanks sits on a crate near the table, one arm hanging loose, a bottle in his hand. He looks relaxed, but he’s not.
You sit a few steps away from him, leaning against the railing, arms crossed. Close enough to hear him. Far enough to breathe.
Shanks looks at you and then at the empty space next to him.
He pouts.
“You know,” he says loudly, “there’s a very nice spot right here.”
You don’t move.
“I’m fine here.” you answer calmly.
He leans back, dramatic “Wow. Cold.”
Benn Beckman takes a slow drag from his cigarette “Y/N doesn’t like being glued to you, Captain.”
“I’m not glued,” Shanks argues “I’m just… emotionally attached.”
Yasopp laughs “You sound whiny again.”
“I am not whiny…” Shanks says immediately.
Lucky Roux grins “You are. Especially when they ignore you.”
You keep staring at the sea like none of this matters.
Shanks sighs loudly “You don’t even care, do you?”
You shrug “About what?”
“About me suffering,” he says, hand to his chest “Deeply.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Ouch.”
The crew laughs again.
Shanks gets up and walks closer to you, standing just a bit too near. You shift your weight to creating space.
He notices.
“…You always do that.” he says, quieter now.
“Do what?” you ask.
“Move away.”
You look at him for a second and then back at the sea.
“I like space.”
“Yeah,” he says softly “You really do.”
There’s no anger in his voice, just something sad but playful, and, most importantly, real.
He tries again, lighter this time “Come on. Sit with me. Just for a bit.”
You shake your head “I’m good.”
He groans and drops back onto the crate.
“Cruel…” he tells the crew.
Benn smirks “You chose this.”
“I chose love,” Shanks replies “And now love refuses to hold my hand.”
Lucky Roux points at you “They don’t even look guilty.”
You really don’t.
Shanks looks at you again, eyes soft now, no teasing.
“You know I like being close to you.” he says.
“I know.” you answer.
“And you still don’t want it?”
You hesitate.
“I just don’t need it right now” you say instead.
Shanks watches you carefully, then he smiles gently and patiently.
“Okay,” he says “I’ll wait.”
The crew quiets down a little because they all know that tone.
Shanks never forces, but he also never gives up.
And you keep staring at the sea, pretending your heart isn’t beating too fast just because he wants to be close.
Days pass.
The ship slows down as the sun starts to set.
“Land ho!” someone shouts.
The crew gets busy fast… ropes, orders, laughter. Shanks jumps up, suddenly excited like a kid.
“New island!” he says, grinning “Food, drinks, maybe trouble.”
You move toward the edge of the deck, looking at the island ahead. It’s calm, warm and quiet.
Shanks comes up beside you.
“Hey,” he says softly “Wanna explore together?”
You don’t look at him “I’ll look around later.”
His smile drops just a little.
“Later?” he repeats “Why not when we arrive?”
You shrug “I like seeing things alone first.”
Lucky Roux laughs from behind you “They’re rejecting you again, Captain.”
Shanks groans “Stop announcing it.”
Benn smirks “You notice they always walk ahead of you?”
Shanks looks at you. You’re already moving toward the plank.
“…You do,” he says quietly “You always walk ahead.”
You pause, then answer without turning around “I just walk faster.”
The crew gets off the ship in groups. Laughing. Talking. Touching shoulders.
Shanks walks behind you this time, hands in his pockets.
Yasopp leans down and whispers loudly “He looks like a kicked puppy.”
“I do not.” Shanks snaps.
“You do.” Benn says calmly.
You hear them, but you don’t react.
On the island, Shanks tries again.
He reaches for your hand.
You step aside.
“I don’t like holding hands in public.” you say quickly.
Shanks freezes “…You didn’t mind last week.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
You don’t answer.
He laughs awkwardly, scratching his head “Wow. Okay. Today I’m really not winning, huh?”
The crew watches carefully now. The teasing stops.
Shanks lowers his voice “Did I do something wrong?”
You shake your head “No. You’re fine.”
“But you keep pulling away.”
You finally look at him, and he sees your eyes are calm.
“I just need space,” you say “Please don’t make it a big deal.”
Shanks stares at you for a long second.
Then he smiles again softer, careful.
“Okay,” he says “I won’t.”
But it hurts anyway.
That night, the crew eats together in the village. You sit across from Shanks, not next to him.
He complains quietly the whole time.
“They used to steal my food.” he mutters.
Lucky Roux laughs “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m emotionally neglected.” Shanks says.
You keep eating and don’t look at him. But when you stand up to leave early, Shanks watches you go and this time, he doesn’t joke.
He just follows you with his eyes.
Thinking.
Waiting.
Weeks later.
You say yes this time. Not because you really want to, but because you said no too many times already.
Shanks looks surprised when you agree.
“Really?” he asks, eyes lighting up “Just us?”
You nod “Just us.”
He grins like a kid “Great! I knew today would be my lucky day.”
You force a small smile.
The island is beautiful. Wide streets. Warm wind. Soft light.
Shanks walks next to you, close.
He reaches for your hand. You see it coming and so you move your hand away and pretend to look at a stand.
“Oh— look at that!” you say.
His hand stops in the air.
“…Right…” he mutters, pulling it back.
He laughs it off at first “No hands. Got it…”
You walk side by side but not touching. No brushing fingers. No shoulders. No accidental contact.
Shanks talks less than usual.
You notice. You just don’t know what to do about it.
Later, you leave the village and walk into a quiet valley. Green hills. No people. No noise.
It’s peaceful.
Shanks slows down “So,” he says softly, “this place is nice.”
“It is…” you answer.
Silence falls again.
Then he reaches for you. Slow this time. Careful.
You panic. You step back without thinking.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly “I just…”
Shanks freezes.
His hand stays in the air for a second… then drops.
He looks at it, like it betrayed him.
“…Guess it’s my fault,” he says quietly “always reaching when I shouldn’t.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not— I didn’t mean—” You shake your head, trying to explain “It’s just… you knew how I was when you confessed to me.”
The words come out wrong. Too sharp. Too cold.
Shanks looks up slowly.
“…Yeah,” he says “You didn’t even confess back.”
Your heart skips.
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“This…” he says, pointing between you and him, “…this just happened.”
He lowers his hand “And I don’t even know how.”
Silence crashes between you.
You don’t know what to say. You don’t want to hurt him, but you’re scared.
Scared of being too close. Scared of needing him. Scared of saying the wrong thing.
Scared of saying everything.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” you whisper.
“But you did say it.” he answers gently.
He doesn’t sound angry, and that almost makes it worse.
Shanks takes a step back, giving you space.
“I don’t want to push you,” he says “But I don’t want to pretend this doesn’t hurt either.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
Your fears sit heavy in your chest, locked behind your ribs.
You can’t explain them. You can’t name them.
You just stand there, shaking a little, watching the man you care about look confused and sad because of you. And you hate yourself for it.
Shanks exhales slowly. He rubs the back of his neck, looking at the ground.
“I don’t think you meant to hurt me,” he says “And I know you don’t pull away to be cruel.”
You look at him, surprised.
He gives a small, sad smile “You’re scared. I can see that.”
Your chest tightens.
“But,” he adds gently, “I can’t fix something you won’t tell me.”
You lower your head “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says right away “That’s why I’m not mad.”
He steps back, giving you space again… too much space.
“I’m going back to the ship now,” he says “see you later.”
That’s all.
He turns around and walks away, leaving you alone in the valley.
You stand there for a long time.
Thinking.
About his hand in the air. About his sad smile. About how patient he’s been. About how scared you are.
You hate all this.
When you finally head back to the ship, the sun is already lower. The deck feels… different.
Too quiet.
The crew is there, but they’re not laughing. No jokes. No shouting.
Benn is leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Lucky Roux isn’t eating. Yasopp isn’t smiling.
You don’t think too much about it.
You just ask, softly “Where’s Shanks?”
The crew looks at each other.
Benn answers, calm but serious “He’s been in his room since he came back.”
“…I see…” you say.
No one stops you when you walk past them.
You stop in front of Shanks’ door.
Your heart beats too fast.
You raise your hand and knock.
“Yeah?” his voice answers from inside.
“It’s me…” you say.
There’s a short pause “…Come in.”
You open the door slowly and step inside.
Shanks is sitting on the bed, elbow on his knee, staring at the floor. He looks up when he sees you.
“Oh,” he says quietly “Hey.”
The door closes behind you and suddenly, there’s nowhere left to run.
The room is quiet.
He looks tired. Not drunk-tired. Not lazy-tired.
More like emotionally tired.
You stand near the door, not moving.
“…You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, then shake your head “I don’t know.”
He lets out a small breath “Fair answer.”
Silence again.
You stare at the floor as your hands shake a little.
Shanks notices.
He stands up slowly and then he stops a few steps away.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he says “But I don’t want us to stay like this.”
You swallow hard “I don’t want that either.”
Your voice is already breaking.
Shanks tilts his head, gentle “Then talk to me. Even if it’s messy. Even if it doesn’t sound nice.”
You laugh weakly “It won’t.”
“That’s okay,” he says “I’ve heard worse.”
That almost makes you smile.
You take a deep breath.
“I’m scared…” you finally say.
Shanks nods “I know.”
You look up, surprised “You do?”
“Yeah,” he answers quietly “I just don’t know of what.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m scared of needing you,” you whisper “Scared of wanting you too much. Scared that one day I’ll wake up and realize I can’t function without you.”
Shanks doesn’t interrupt, so you keep going.
“I’ve always been fine on my own. I like being alone. I like space. I like knowing I can leave if I need to.” your hands clench “But with you… it feels different. And that terrifies me.”
Shanks’ expression softens.
“I pull away because if I don’t,” you continue, voice shaking, “I feel like I’ll fall too deep. And if that happens… I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose you.”
Your eyes burn.
“So I keep distance. I pretend I don’t care. I act cold.” You laugh through the pain “Because caring feels dangerous.”
The room stays silent.
Then Shanks speaks, voice low “…You think I’d leave.”
You hesitate “…Yes.”
He exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair.
“Damn,” he mutters “I was afraid of that.”
You look at him.
He looks back at you, serious now.
“You know,” he says, “from my side… it feels like I’m chasing someone who keeps stepping back.”
Your heart sinks.
“I start wondering if I imagined things,” he continues “If I pushed too hard. If you’re just… tolerating me.”
“That’s not true.” you say quickly.
“I know,” he answers “Now. But before? I didn’t.”
He looks away.
“When I confessed,” he says, quieter, “I knew you agreed to it but didn’t confess back. I told myself it was okay. That feelings grow differently. And that we have different ways of showing our feelings.”
He swallows “But sometimes… I feel lost. Like I don’t know where I stand with you.”
That hurts more than you expect.
“I never meant to make you feel that way…” you whisper.
“I know,” he says again “That’s why I stayed and I still stay.”
You look at him, eyes wide “You stay?”
He laughs softly “Yeah. Because even when you push me away, you still look back.”
He steps closer, without touching.
“You care,” he says “You’re just scared of what that means.”
Your tears finally fall.
“I don’t know how to be close without panicking,” you admit “I don’t know how to let someone love me without wanting to run.”
Shanks’ voice softens even more.
“Then don’t run,” he says “Just stand still. I’ll meet you where you are.”
You cover your face with your hands “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
He answers without hesitation “You already did.” then, gently, “And I’m still here.”
You break.
A quiet sob escapes you.
Shanks moves instantly, but carefully “Hey… hey.”
He opens his arms, not forcing.
“I’m not asking you to change overnight,” he says “I’m not asking for constant touching or big confessions.”
You lean into him before your brain can stop you.
He freezes for half a second, then he hugs you. Warm. Solid. Safe.
“I just want honesty,” he murmurs into your hair “When you pull away, tell me why. Don’t leave me guessing.”
You nod against his chest.
“I can try” you whisper.
“That’s enough,” he says “Trying is enough.”
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.
“I’m not here to trap you,” he says softly “I’m here because I choose you. Every day.”
Your chest aches but in a good way.
“And if one day you need space,” he adds, “take it. Just don’t disappear on me.”
You breathe in slowly “…Okay.”
He smiles then. Small. Real.
“See?” he says quietly “We’re figuring it out.”
For the first time, you don’t step away, and Shanks doesn’t rush you.
You look at him for a long second, then, before fear can stop you, you lean forward and kiss him.
It’s soft and careful.
Shanks freezes for half a second, then smiles into the kiss like he just won something precious.
When you pull back, his eyes are bright.
“…Wow,” he murmurs “Okay. Yeah. That was definitely worth the emotional damage.”
You laugh quietly, and realizing he’s truly happy, makes something warm bloom in your chest.
It makes you happy too.
Later you walk toward the dining area together.
Your fingers touch.
You hesitate, but then you let your hand slide into his.
He looks down, surprised, then smiles wide. He squeezes your hand gently, like he’s afraid to scare you.
You’re almost near the crew when Shanks suddenly stops, making you stop as well.
He gently pulls his hand away.
You look at him, confused, but he’s smiling. Soft. Reassuring.
Before you can say anything, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
Your breath catches.
Then he walks past you, heading straight to the crew like nothing happened.
“Alright!” he says loudly “Who’s hungry? Because I am starving.”
The mood changes instantly. Laughter. Teasing. Relief.
It’s like someone turned the light back on.
You stay where you are for a second, watching him joke and laugh, watching the crew relax around him again.
You smile.
Then you join them.
After a few minutes, Shanks disappears and comes back with a plate of food.
He places it in front of you.
“Eat,” he says simply “You didn’t earlier.”
You look at the plate, then at him.
Slowly, you take it…
…and put it aside.
Then you step closer and wrap your arms around his neck.
The deck goes quiet.
No jokes. No teasing. No comments at all.
The crew watches silently.
Shanks freezes.
You feel his whole body stiff, breath caught.
For one second, you worry you went too far, for him and also for yourself.
Then…
His shoulders drop.
His body relaxes.
His one arm comes up and settles around your back, warm and strong, holding you close.
You rest your forehead against his shoulder, heart racing.
Shanks lets out a small laugh, soft and almost shaky.
“…You’re going to kill me one day.” he whispers.
You smile against him.
But for the first time, you don’t pull away, and for the first time, neither does he.
Idk whether to make my mermaid OC white or black, I’ve been wondering about this for days now 😩 even though her skin colour doesn’t have any impact on her lore whatsoever
I originally imagined her white, but now that I figured out her colour scheme, I feel like black skin suits her better. It brings out the rest
I’m drawing her with Beckman rn to see which one fits best, stay tuned lol (it’s gonna take days)
On a more serious note, I can’t imagine how hard it must be for him to lose his father (Roger) and then having to deny and hate everything you’ve ever know in order to infiltrate your biological family
blakekathryn
areudirty
titsay
