hi, i just wanted to say i love your writing! you’re honestly bringing back the hxh community tbh 😭 i haven’t seen new fanfics in ages! i was wondering if you could just do more general chrollo headcanons? maybe like music taste, habits, etc. anything that comes to mind, thanks!
𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬
𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅: 06/18/2026
𝑨/𝑵: Hello anon, thank you so much for the request!! I'm so glad you like my work!! And yes, that is my mission: keeping the HxH fandom alive!! I missed this community being active and reading different fics, so I had the brilliant idea to take matters into my own hands, create my own fics, and share them with you all—just like you guys also help me come up with more ideas in my ask box so this blog won't die anytime soon!! Here are the heads I created for Chrollo based on what you requested. I hope these headcanons please you and anyone else reading this. Happy reading, everyone!! :-)
You can read more Chrollo Lucilfer headcanons on my masterlist and also through these direct links to his headcanons right here:
He maintains a meticulous hygienic routine: Contrary to the trash dump stereotype, Chrollo has always maintained an impeccable appearance since childhood (we can perfectly notice this in his childhood flashbacks, a little boy who was always tidy and with well-groomed hair), and personal hygiene became the line that separates the boy from Meteor City from the leader of the Phantom Troupe. He has a deep aversion to the smell of dust, garbage, or scrap metal on his skin. Whenever the Troupe visits industrial locations, the first thing he does upon arriving at a hotel is take a long, almost scalding bath with unscented soaps, scrubbing himself until he is sure he has washed away every last trace of dust from his pores. In abandoned hideouts where there is no running water, Chrollo refuses to stay dirty. He uses gallons of mineral water that the Troupe stocks up on and, when necessary, uses the kinetic heat of his own Nen to warm the water in buckets, performing surgical sponge baths in the dark. His oral hygiene follows the same rigid standard: he brushes his teeth three times a day using mineral water and neutral menthol toothpastes, always keeping his breath fresh and clean. Chrollo never smells bad; his natural scent is completely neutral, almost imperceptible — the exact smell of the pages of an old book kept in a clean room, which helps him blend into the shadows and leave no olfactory traces for his hunters.
The ritual of cutting his own hair: Chrollo flatly refuses to go to hair salons or let any professional touch his head for tactical security reasons. When he feels his hair is too long for his disguises, he does the haircut himself in the hideout's bathroom — even if there is no bathroom, he will go to some isolated corner to concentrate — using a sharp dagger or surgical scissors. He does this from memory, without even needing to look much in the mirror. The result is that straight, messy fringe he wears when he is without his headband, which he considers "perfectly pragmatic."
The 30 second unpacking routine: Having spent his entire life shifting hideouts to escape the Blacklist and Blacklist Hunters, Chrollo developed a routine of extreme detachment regarding personal items. He travels carrying only a single, old leather briefcase. Upon arriving at a new location, he organizes his few belongings (two books, his pens, and a disguise) in exactly 30 seconds. He has trained himself to be ready to abandon absolutely everything and vanish into thin air at the slightest sign of danger.
Total thermal indifference: Chrollo's body seems to have its internal thermostat completely broken due to years of surviving the extreme weather of Meteor City. In his personal routine, he completely ignores the seasons of the year. He is perfectly capable of wearing that heavy fur coat buttoned up to his neck in the middle of a scorching summer without sweating a single drop, or walking around in a thin dress shirt during a blizzard without shivering. To him, physical discomfort is just mental noise that he learned to switch off a long time ago. (I REPEAT ONCE AGAIN: HE DOES NOT SMELL BAD AND HE DEFINITELY DOES NOT HAVE BAD BREATH!!!!)
He never finishes the last page: (This is just a silly idea I had, you are totally free to think it's stupid, lol). Chrollo has hundreds of physical books stored away, but there is a disturbing pattern in his private library: every single book of fictional literature has its last two or three pages torn out. He refuses to read the ending given by the author. To Chrollo, the conclusion of a story is an artificial choice. By destroying the original ending, he keeps the story alive and infinite in his own mind, allowing himself to eternally imagine outcomes. The only exception to this rule is historical biographies — because death, according to him, is the only ending that man cannot edit. (*cough* *cough* truth be told, this is a quirk that I have, and I decided to project it onto him, especially when I watch movies at the theater).
Musical preferences: Although ancient classical music is his safe haven (and by now quite a cliché), Chrollo has a deep appreciation for modern genres that share the same elegance and melancholy as his readings. He is fascinated by Sophisti-pop and contemporary Jazz, holding an immense admiration for artists like Sade (yes, I repeat it again because this man is completely written by Sade!!), whose sophistication and minimalism calm him down. Surprisingly, he also listens to more introspective MPB (Brazilian Popular Music), experimental alternative rock like Radiohead, and 90s Trip-Hop, such as Massive Attack and Portishead, drawn by the slow beats, deep basslines, and the dark, urban atmosphere of those tracks.
His musical habit is strictly solitary. Chrollo uses studio headphones with total noise cancellation connected to his old MP3 player — he refuses to use modern streaming apps because he detests ads and interruptions in his experience. He builds meticulous playlists according to the rhythm of the book he is reading, the complexity of the plan he is drafting, or when he just wants to relax in his own company. To the Troupe, seeing their leader in headphones, subtly moving his fingers to the rhythm of a sensual Sade bassline while studying an auction map, is one of the most normal and, at the same time, enigmatic scenes of the hideout routine.
The silent midnight pacing: When he is deep in thought or calculating the risks of a mission, Chrollo developed the unconscious habit of walking in perfect circles around the hideout, in absolute darkness. He walks with steps so light and in such total silence (using a subtle Zetsu) that the other members of the Troupe frequently get startled when they turn on a light and find him standing right in the corner of the room, staring at nothing. To him, the repetitive physical movement and the rhythm of his own steps function as a mechanical trigger to clear his thoughts and organize his Nen strategies.
The sacred pudding obsession: Despite his aura of a cold intellectual and calculating leader, Chrollo has an absolute culinary weakness that completely breaks his pose: he is morbidly obsessed with pudding. As revealed by the Troupe members themselves (Hunter x Hunter CD Drama 2), all of his sophistication vanishes the moment he gets his hands on the sweet. Chrollo devours puddings with an almost savage voracity, scraping the packaging to the very last drop of caramel syrup without caring about appearances.
For the Phantom Troupe, this obsession is treated with a respect that is almost sacred and humorous. Stealing or messing with the pudding kept for the boss in the hideout's refrigerator is considered a major crime, worse than violating the rules of the Spider; it is the exact same as eating a sweet that was meant for a woman who is on her period (seriously, never dare do this to Chrollo, even if you are his consort). Shalnak and Shizuku frequently use puddings as a "bargaining chip" or tactical bribe; if they need Chrollo to sign boring expense reports or pay attention to a tedious technological explanation, they simply place a plate with a perfectly chilled pudding on the table. The leader instantly stops what he is doing, pulls out his spoon, and accepts any condition imposed, as long as he can eat his sweet in peace.
The grandiose voice paradox: In the daily routine of their hideouts, Chrollo has the hilarious habit of projecting his voice in official announcements to the group that start with an extremely serious posture but end in pure banality. He assumes that imposing, calm, and deeply philosophical intonation of his to announce everyday things, crossing the abandoned hall while saying: "My dear members of the Spider, destiny calls upon us to cross the threshold of eternal darkness and embrace the void... and also, whoever took my jar of hair gel from the main cabinet please return it immediately, thank you". The Troupe finds it fascinating (and slightly pathetic) how he can maintain the exact same vocal elegance and the same dramatic tone whether he is planning a massacre or complaining about the cleanliness of the bathroom in front of everyone.
The absurd, sarcastic, and playful humor: Contrary to his reputation as an unfeeling goth, Chrollo possesses a unique sense of humor, fascinated by the bizarre, the absurd, and by karmic ironies — a trait that ties directly back to his childhood in Meteor City, when he was an openly expressive, affectionate, silly, and playful boy before giving his soul to the Spider. He is not a literary snob and loves reading nonsense comedy manga like Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo (chapter 201: Reunion in manga) in the hideout, genuinely laughing at chaotic jokes. His mischievous and bratty side manifests in his daily life when teasing his elders (like in his fight against Zeno) or playing pranks on Nobunaga for pure fun, but it also takes on a tone of ironic sadism against his opponents, as seen in his dark amusement with Assassin A, his amused patience with Hisoka’s antics, or the sick level of cruel and sarcastic mockery he used to destabilize Kurapika inside the car. For this pudding-obsessed man, the chaos of the world is the funniest joke there is, and he shows a total disrespect and zero fucks given for formalities when all he wants to do is dump tactical information, laughing even in the face of a bad situation because he values humor and unpredictability over a monotonous seriousness.
𝑨/𝑵: Hello everyone!! And hello to you too, anon, thank you for the request!! My pleasure!! Here is another one from our blog’s most beloved series: NewSpider!Reader!! I was writing this alongside the NenGenius!Reader one that I posted earlier, but I had to finish this one later because I kept bursting into laughter here and there, and I couldn't laugh out loud during work hours, lol!! It's something pretty silly, I know, but nothing beats a bit of good humor to lighten up the Troupe’s gloomy atmosphere, right? I hope you, anon, and everyone reading enjoys it!! Oh, I suggest you click on some of the links I placed in the middle of the headcanons, lol!! Happy reading, everyone!! :-)
You can read more about NewSpider!Reader in my masterlist
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐀𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐨
The hideout was plunged into an atypical silence. In the main shelter, the "TroubleTrio" occupied the space with an almost tangible laziness. Shalnark was sprawled on one of the sofas, his phone close to his face, scrolling through his TikTok feed. With every video that passed, he let out a giggle, addicted to those frantic "farming aura" edits. Phinks, who was trying to rest after performing maintenance on his equipment, frowned in annoyance.
— That’s for retarded kids, Shalnark — Phinks grumbled, without taking his eyes off the ceiling. — Isn't it enough that you spend the whole day addicted to that Roblox game?
Shalnark locked his phone screen with a challenging smile. — Oh, really? Then let's see who has more presence here. I propose a "sigma face" and "aura farm" battle.
Phinks let out a loud laugh, thinking the idea was a complete imbecility, but the competitive spirit he’d had since childhood challenging his friends back in Meteor City spoke louder. He loved a good challenge. Feitan, who was in a corner polishing his dagger, just shrugged. He pulled his skull collar down, revealing his bored face, and nodded. The game began.
Shalnark was the first. He connected his phone to a speaker and played "Aura – Ogryzek." The phonk rhythm filled the room. "Aaaahh..." the woman’s voice from the song echoed in the space where the three of them were.
Shalnark got into character: he shook his hands frantically up and down, making the "six seven" sign, while alternating between a predator’s stare and model poses, making facial expressions that looked like an aesthetic nervous breakdown. Phinks and Feitan watched, rolling with laughter at how seriously the blonde took it.
Next was Phinks' turn. The music changed to "Worth Nothing." The gym rat took a deep breath, focused. He perfectly imitated Patrick Bateman’s expression from American Psycho with chilling precision: he arched his eyebrows with icy arrogance, blew a quick kiss into the air, slid his index finger across his lips in a silent "shh," and dragged his finger across his chin from left to right. The imitation was so perfect that Feitan and Shalnark were genuinely impressed, collapsing into laughter.
Finally, Feitan. The music changed to "Passo Bem Solto (slowed)." He tried to make a "trollface," but the result was a grotesque disaster. Seeing the torturer, who usually lives with a closed and cold expression, trying to force a stretched smile and wide eyes, was so ridiculous that Phinks and Shalnark lost their breath from laughing so hard.
You were walking through the main hallway alongside Machi, Shizuku, Pakunoda, and Franklin. The conversation flowed lightly about daily life, with Franklin telling one of his "wise old man" stories about the days of past missions. The harmony was interrupted when a sound of distorted phonk and blown-out bass pierced through the walls, vibrating against your teeth. The group stopped, exchanging confused looks. Curiosity won out over caution.
Upon opening the door, the scene was one of absolute bizarreness. Phinks, Feitan, and Shalnark were in the middle of the room, mimicking choreographed walks to the sound of "Yara Yara Phonk," trying to replicate, with almost religious seriousness, those memes of figures with trollfaces. Feitan narrowed his eyes with an aggressiveness that did not match the movement of his feet; Shalnark made complex hand gestures to "summon aura"; Phinks clenched his jaw so hard that the vein in his neck seemed about to explode.
The group standing at the door petrified. The shock was instantaneous. Franklin blinked several times, trying to process the sight of the three most dangerous members of the Troupe acting like teenagers in an internet existential crisis. Machi and Pakunoda were wide-eyed, lips pressed together in shock; Shizuku maintained her usual neutral expression, though there was clear doubt in her eyes. For ten seconds, the only sound in the room was the aggressive beat of the music and Phinks' heavy breathing, as he was still in his final pose.
The realization finally hit. The silence that followed was much heavier than the music itself.
Shalnark turned pale, and then his face became a ripe strawberry. He tried to throw himself at his phone to turn off the music, but tripped over his own feet, falling face-first onto the floor. Feitan had the fastest reaction: he pulled his high collar up until it covered his eyes and nose, cowering and literally trying to disappear into his own fabric. Phinks, red as a beet, couldn't hide. Shame turned into defensive rage; he pointed his finger at you and began to shout insults, his voice cracking in an involuntary, high-pitched squeak of pure humiliation.
— WHAT ARE YOU DOING STANDING THERE, YOU IDIOTS?! — he bellowed, his voice oscillating between the bass of his anger and a shrill high pitch of pure shame. — THE DOOR WAS CLOSED FOR A REASON!!! DIDN'T YOU LEARN TO KNOCK?! OR IS LACK OF MANNERS A REQUIREMENT TO ENTER THIS ROOM NOW?! GET OUT OF HERE!!! IF ANYONE OPENS THEIR MOUTH ABOUT THIS TO THE BOSS, I SWEAR I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET BEING BORN!!! DAMMIT, LEAVE!!!
You and the rest of the group looked at each other and, in less than five seconds, the room exploded into loud, uncontrollable laughter, which only made Phinks even more furious.
Shizuku, not laughing and maintaining her usual expression, looked at you with total seriousness: — Is this some kind of new internal Troupe code that I missed, or are we just observing a collective breakdown?
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞
The tension from the previous incident was quickly replaced by an atmosphere of chaotic euphoria. The mission was an absolute success, and the hideout now smelled of strong alcohol and cheap food. The Troupe was scattered throughout the main hall in a state of absurd decompression. You kept yourself strategically in a corner, near Pakunoda, Machi, and Shizuku, maintaining a safe distance from Chrollo, who observed the movement from an isolated spot. Franklin and Uvogin were arguing loudly while knocking back mugs of beer, while the rest of the members were in various states of drunkenness.
Suddenly, Nobunaga, who was staggering in the center of the room, raised his sake mug, managing to silence some of the commotion. —Hey, gang! Pay attention here!— he shouted, with a drunken voice and a wide, idiotic grin on his face. —Forget the damn mission for a second. We deserve some real entertainment after all that hard work, don't you think? Bonolenov, Kortopi, come here! Let’s show these newbies what elite culture is!!!
As they took their positions, Shalnark, still recovering from the previous embarrassment, saw a golden opportunity. He quickly grabbed his phone, adjusting the camera angle with a mischievous glint in his eye, ready to record every second of that disaster.
The three lined up as if possessed by a cartoon spirit. They projected their torsos diagonally forward and downward, at almost a 45-degree angle, keeping their spines strangely straight and their chests open. Then came the main move: an exaggerated thrust, with their hips thrown completely backward and upward, isolating their glutes in a comical fashion. With their hands firmly braced on their knees for support, they kept their legs semi-flexed. Their knees pointed forward while their heels remained slightly suspended, ready to act as a spring for the rhythmic up-and-down motion of their hips. The visual was absurd: S-class criminals, wanted worldwide, executing a hip movement that would be embarrassing even at a child's birthday party.
(The dance scene references the dance that appears in the SpongeBob SquarePants cartoon)
The hall exploded into laughter. You couldn't hold it in; the image of Nobunaga, with his drunken samurai expression, performing that rhythmic pelvic movement, broke every filter of seriousness you still had. You laughed until your stomach hurt, watching Machi wipe away tears from laughing so hard, Uvogin letting out one of his biggest guffaws that you could hear from another planet, and Franklin nearly dropping his own glass from laughing so much.
In the background, the contrast: Chrollo was sitting in an armchair, holding his glass with immutable elegance, but his face was a mask of analytical perplexity. Next to his head, a typical anime sweat drop appeared, slowly sliding down while he observed the scene with narrowed eyes and a slightly arched eyebrow. He looked like a family man trying to understand how everything had gone so wrong and how his life had fallen apart in just a few short minutes.
Chrollo finally sighed, a deep sound of resignation, and set his glass down. He looked at the scene of the three dancing and muttered, loud enough for only those closest to hear:
— Definitely, I need to start being much more rigorous in the selection of new members.
You watched the leader of the Phantom Troupe stare at his subordinates as if they were a band of irredeemable idiots. You felt your sanity hanging by a thread, your mind processing the paradox of being surrounded by the deadliest monsters on the planet, who, moments before, were performing cartoon choreography. You sighed, taking a sip of your drink. Yes, this was your new life. And, as insane as it was, you wouldn't trade it for anything.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐟
The current mission had been dragging on for weeks. The temporary hideout was a crumbling warehouse, isolated in the middle of nowhere. Hunger began to turn the Troupe’s boredom into a chemical disaster. Uvogin and Phinks, driven by the physiological need to eat something and the insufferable competitive spirit of those with nothing better to do, declared a culinary duel.
They walked over to the armchair where Chrollo was reading his book, wearing aprons improvised from grease-stained rags.
— Boss! — Uvogin called out, slamming his hand on the table. — We’ve decided to bring some order to this kitchen. We need someone with a refined palate to judge who the true master here is. You’re going to be our judge!
Chrollo sighed, closing his book with a slowness that betrayed his displeasure. — Don’t you two have anything better to do than waste resources and play MasterChef, Uvo?
— Stop being such a drag, Chrollo! — Phinks retorted, already pushing the leader toward the kitchen. — This is a matter of honor!
The kitchen was invaded as if it were an enemy target. Uvogin scoured the back of the pantry and found a can of sardines that had been expired for years, a jar of dried chili peppers, and a can of corn that possessed a slightly greenish hue. He threw it all into a pot with some murky water. Phinks, not wanting to be left behind, put together a catastrophic mixture of stale cereals, some leftover industrial hot sauce he found at the back of a drawer, and a packet of instant soup powder with an unidentifiable flavor. The smell that began to emanate from the kitchen was, literally, a threat to life.
Chrollo was brought to the improvised table. His expression was one of such deep resignation that it bordered on spiritual transcendence. You were standing back in a corner, alongside Pakunoda, Machi, and Shizuku, watching the scene with your heart in your mouth. Uvogin and Phinks watched their leader with almost childlike anticipation.
— So, Boss? — Uvogin asked, anxious. — Mine has the aroma of victory, doesn't it?
— Forget his, Chrollo, look at the complexity of my sauce! — Phinks insisted. — Just say it, what did you think of the food? It was the best thing you’ve ever tasted in your life, right?
The silence in the room was so heavy you could hear the static electricity in the air. Chrollo tasted Uvogin’s delicacy and, three seconds later, Phinks’s. He remained paralyzed, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall, processing what he had just ingested. He looked at both of them, looked at the plates, and, without uttering a single word, he stood up with calculated slowness, picked up both plates, and with a precise flick of his wrist, hurled them through the warehouse’s broken window.
Before the chaos could ensue—as Phinks and UOvogin decided you should be the next judge to "taste the leftovers"—you stepped forward. With a nervous smile, you declared: — It’s a technical draw! Both dishes are... too memorable to choose just one. I suggest we bury this experience in the back of our memories and pretend it never happened, okay?
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬
The boredom in the hideout had reached critical levels. To pass the time, the Troupe decided to gather for a "casual" game of Uno. The initial atmosphere was one of suspicious peace; everyone sat around a worn wooden table, eyeing their cards with professional seriousness. The problem began when Chrollo, with his eyes narrowed, started muttering statistics out loud, calculating the mathematical probability of the cards in everyone’s hand. The environment, which should have been fun, quickly turned into a high-complexity risk assessment session.
The calm didn't last long. Nobunaga, frustrated by his lack of luck, slammed his fist on the table. — Who pulled an extra card?! I saw the movement! You guys are cheating, you bastards! — he shouted, his hand already moving toward his sword hilt. On the other side of the table, Machi and Shizuku didn't make a sound. Their eyes were fixed on the cards with predatory intensity, as if the deck were the target of an assassination mission. The tension was so thick you could feel everyone's aura vibrating, creating a field of static around the table.
Total chaos erupted when Phinks, with a wicked grin, dropped a "Draw 4" card on top of a "Draw 2" that Uvogin had just played. — THAT’S NOT IN THE RULES! YOU CAN'T STACK CARDS! — Uvogin bellowed, standing up and causing the table to shake violently. Feitan, feeling personally offended by the move, stood up with his dagger in hand, ready to turn the match into an execution. Franklin tried to intervene, calling for calm, but upon seeing Machi preparing nen threads to "tie up the cheaters," he also lost it and started shouting at Phinks. The wooden table groaned, on the verge of being reduced to sawdust by the group's negative energy.
While the Troupe was at the peak of their screaming match, about to break out into a full-blown physical brawl, Shizuku—who until then seemed to be on another astral plane—calmly laid down her last card. With that usual vacant, unsettling stare of hers, she simply asked: — I won, right?
Silence fell over the room like a guillotine. Everyone’s killing aura dissipated instantly, replaced by stunned confusion. Before anyone could process Shizuku’s victory, Chrollo sighed, collected the cards with superhuman speed, stashed the game in a drawer, and stood up. — Uno is officially forbidden in this hideout from now on. The Troupe doesn't need any more reasons to self-destruct.
He walked out of the room without looking back, leaving the group standing there motionless, as if they had just been scolded by a teacher after a playground fight.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
The hideout had reached a critical state of abandonment. What started as a simple matter of hygiene—Chrollo sneezing repeatedly due to layers of dust that had accumulated over the years—turned into a direct order for a deep clean. The Troupe grumbled like a group of children forced to tidy their room. You were trying in vain to sweep a corner of the room, but with every stroke of the broom, a cloud of dust rose, sending you into a sneezing fit as well. Machi was dragging sofas with a sour expression, while Franklin and Uvogin were lifting carpets so heavy they seemed to have a life of their own.
While they were pushing a heavy wardrobe against the back wall, the structure gave way, revealing a hidden compartment full of dusty boxes. The cleaning stopped instantly. Nobunaga pulled out a box and, from inside it, retrieved an absolutely ridiculous feathered hat. Kortopi found a broken clock that hadn’t kept time for the last decade, and Feitan unearthed a bizarre clown mask. You approached, curious, and ended up being "invited" by Pakunoda to try on an extravagant necklace that looked like it had come out of a tacky period film. The cleaning was forgotten in the same second.
What should have been trash became the center of a nostalgia festival. Uvogin started laughing loudly, holding the ridiculous hat: — Remember when we had to rob that bank in Yorknew just to get a gold pen that Chrollo wanted? What was the name of that blessed pen? Pa-par... Pancake 51? Ah, forget it! We used this hat to disguise ourselves! — The bank wasn't even the main goal! — Phinks retorted, already laughing. — We spent more time running from security because of that hat than we did robbing the vault! You laughed along with them, holding the antique necklace, while Shizuku tried to put on the clown mask. Banal and absurd stories began to emerge. They competed to see who could remember the most idiotic detail about crimes committed years ago. The room, which before had been in the process of being cleaned, now looked like a criminal’s thrift store, with junk scattered in every corner.
The door opened. The silence was not immediate, as you were still laughing at a joke Franklin told about a failed mission. Chrollo entered, expecting to find a sanitized and organized environment. What he found was the scene of an archaeological disaster: furniture out of place, clouds of dust still hanging in the air, and the Troupe sitting on the floor, playing with masks and old watches. He looked at the pile of junk, looked at you—who had the ridiculous necklace hanging around your neck—and closed his eyes for a second. A long, deep sigh, laden with an exhaustion that wasn't physical, escaped his lips. He just turned around, walking slowly back to his room. Organization, for Chrollo, was an impossible dream.
Notes: Hello, this is my first post. English is not my first language, so please comment if I make any mistakes
Warnings: none
Summary: The Phantom Troupe noticed Chrollo acting strangely and began investigating – much like a group of friends gossiping about their boss's love life.
Word count: 1.4k
The Phantom Troupe had known Chrollo Lucifer for years. They had seen him as a cold, ruthless, calculating leader who could order a massacre without blinking once. They had seen him calm in the face of death, unshaken by betrayal, unmoved by the chaos that swirled around him like a second skin.
But recently, something had shifted.
It was small things at first. The way he'd pause mid-sentence, a faint smile tugging at his lips for no apparent reason. The way he'd check his phone more often than usual, his eyes softening when he read a mysterious message. The way he'd disappear for a few hours without any explanations, returning with a lightness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"The boss has been acting strange," Nobunaga stated one evening, leaning against the wall of their hideout. "Did anyone else notice?"
Feitan grunted, not looking up from sharpening his blade. "Not my business."
"It's always our business if it's about the boss," Phinks countered, crossing his arms. "If he's distracted, it could affect the Troupe."
"He's not distracted." Machi's voice was flat, but her eyes flickered with something like curiosity. "He's... softer. I've seen it. When he thinks no one's watching, his expression changes."
"Soft?" Nobunaga snorted. "Chrollo? Soft?"
"Don't be dense, Nobu." Shalnark's voice came from behind his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "I've been analyzing his behavior patterns for the past three weeks. He's been spending more time away from the hideout, his communication patterns have shifted, and -” He paused, a grin spreading across his face. "—he's been buying flowers."
Silence.
"Flowers?" Shizuku repeated, her voice flat with disbelief.
"Flowers," Shalnark confirmed. "Specifically, a bouquet of white roses, every three days, from a florist in the commercial district."
"That's..." Nobunaga trailed off, trying to process the information.
"That's insane," Phinks finished for him.
-
The Troupe decided, collectively and without official vote, that they needed to investigate.
"I'll tail him," Pakunoda offered, her voice calm and measured. "I can read his memories if I touch him. But I don't think he'd appreciate that."
"He'd kill you," Feitan said flatly.
"He'd try."
"That's not a risk we should take," Machi interjected. "We just need to watch. See who he's meeting. What he's doing."
"I can monitor his phone," Shalnark said, already tapping away. "Track his movements, his messages, and -”
"Don't." Chrollo's voice came from the doorway, calm and amused. "I know about you."
The Troupe froze. Chrollo stood there, leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on his lips. He looked... happy. Genuinely happy.
"Boss," Phinks said, recovering first. "We were just—"
"Gossiping about me?" Chrollo raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered."
"We're not gossiping," Kortopi said quickly. "We're... concerned."
Chrollo was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed off the doorframe, walking into the room with an unhurried grace. His eyes swept over each of them, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickered in their depths—something they'd never seen before.
"You're not wrong," he said finally. "I have been... different. But not in a way that threatens the Troupe."
"Then what is it?" Phinks demanded.
Chrollo's smile turned secretive. "I'll tell you when I'm ready. For now—" He paused, pulling his phone from his pocket. His expression softened again, that same warmth he'd been wearing for weeks. "—I have somewhere to be."
He left without another word.
-
The moment the door closed behind him, the Troupe exploded.
"He's definitely seeing someone," Nobunaga declared, slamming his fist on the table. "I've never seen him smile like that. Never."
"Could be a trap," Feitan said, but even he sounded unconvinced.
"A trap that makes him buy flowers?" Shalnark snorted. "I don't think so. This is personal."
"Who could be with him?" Phinks wondered aloud. "I mean, the boss is... the boss. He's untouchable. Unreachable. Who could possibly—"
"Someone patient," Machi cut in. "Someone who doesn't try to manipulate him. Someone who sees him as a person, not a weapon."
Pakunoda, who had been silent throughout the conversation, finally spoke. "I touched him earlier. By accident. I didn't mean to, but—" She paused, her expression unreadable. "—I saw something."
"What?" Everyone leaned in.
"He was thinking about her." Pakunoda's voice was soft. "A woman. (H/C) hair, kind eyes. She smiled at him, and he—" She stopped, shaking her head. "I've never seen him feel that way about anyone. It was... overwhelming."
The room fell silent.
"So it's real," Shalnark said quietly. "The boss has a crush."
"A crush?" Nobunaga laughed. "The boss? The cold-blooded leader of the Phantom Troupe? Has a crush?"
"Stranger things have happened," Machi said, almost smiling.
-
They found Chrollo a few days later, sitting in a quiet café with you discussing a book.
The Troupe watched from a distance—disguised, subtle, careful not to draw attention. You and Chrollo were laughing about something, your head tilted back, your face lit up with genuine joy. And Chrollo—the same Chrollo who had ordered the massacre of countless people, who had stolen and killed without hesitation—was looking at you like you were the most precious treasure in the world.
"I can't believe it," Phinks muttered. "He's actually... soft."
"She normal," Feitan observed. "Not a Nen user."
"She doesn't know what he does." Shizuku voice was flat,unbothered but there was something like concern beneath it. "Does she?"
"Probably not," Shalnark said. "And that's why he likes her. She sees him as just a man."
They watched as Chrollo reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. You smiled, and he smiled back—a real smile, unguarded and warm.
"We should go," Pakunoda said quietly. "We've seen enough."
"But—"
"Let him have this." Her eyes were soft. "He deserved it."
-
The Troupe never confronted Chrollo about you directly.
But they made their peace with it in their own way. Nobunaga stopped joking about Chrollo's "softness." Phinks stopped questioning his absences. Machi started leaving flowers on Chrollo's desk—a quiet acknowledgment of what she'd seen.
And Chrollo, in his own way, acknowledged their understanding.
"Thank you," he said one night, when the Troupe was gathered. "For not asking."
"We didn't ask because we know you," Shalnark replied. "You'd tell us if it was important."
"It is important." Chrollo's voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "She is important. But she's also... separate. She doesn't know who I really am. And I'd like to keep it that way."
"We understand," Pakunoda said. "We'll protect her. Even if she doesn't know it."
Chrollo's smile was genuine. "Thank you."
-
The Troupe kept your secret, and Chrollo's.
They never approached you, never made their presence known. But they watched, in their own quiet way. If anyone ever posed a threat to you, they would act before Chrollo even knew there was a problem.
"She's good for him," Nobunaga said one day, watching Chrollo leave to meet you.
"She makes him human," Machi agreed.
"Let's hope she never finds out the truth," Feitan said. "Or we might have to kill her."
The others turned to stare at him.
"What?" he said, his voice flat. "You were all thinking it."
"We were not," Pakunoda said, her voice firm. "We were thinking about how to protect her. Not how to kill her."
Feitan grunted but said nothing.
"What matters," Shalnark said, "is that the boss is happy. And we've never seen him happy before. That's... new."
"It's good," Kortopi added. "He deserves it."
-
Chrollo never told you who he really was.
But sometimes, late at night, when the world was quiet and you were asleep beside him, he would look at your face and feel something he'd never felt before: a fear of losing you.
"One day," he whispered to you, his voice barely audible in the darkness, "you might find out who I am. And when you do, you might leave."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"But until then, I'll cherish every moment I have with you."
He didn't know that the Troupe had already made a pact. If you ever found out and tried to leave, they would stop you—not to hurt you, but to keep Chrollo from shattering ever again.
Because for all his power, all his ruthlessness, Chrollo Lucifer was still a man who could be broken.
hi! i've always thought mark would be a dorky soft boyfriend. ALSO what do we think about mark saying 'chat' ironically? i feel like it suits him but i might've overused it lmk. enjoy!
this is my first attempt at writing any type of fanfiction, i'm open to feedbacks!
A Taste of Home (Trafalgar Law x Reader x Eustass Kid) Chapter I
Synopsis: Hailing from the North Blue and a founding member of Kid’s crew, you’re the resident, overworked cook on the Victoria Punk. Unable to sleep, Trafalgar Law lends you his bed. Your cooking only brings you closer to the Heart Pirate crew and their captain.
Word Count: 7.6k
Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, KidPiratesCook!Reader, Arguments, Sleep-Deprivation, Forbidden Relationship.
Notes: Endgame couple at the end for folks who want to know up front.
Dining on the Victoria Punk was more like a series of snacks than full meals, spread across the day and night. The frequent, small bites were as gastronomic as dining got. While you could try your darndest to coerce any member of the Kid Pirates into eating a vegetable, things appeared to operate better when your kitchen became a glorified food stall.
Kid never paid much attention to it, and that morning was no different. It had been way too long since he last stepped onto the Victoria Punk and inhaled the fresh ocean breeze of the beach. Kid had been inland for too long, but as he boarded his ship, a scowl formed on his face. No, being at Kaido’s mercy for any length of time kept his stubborn heart bitter, and he doubted that anything could change that. That was, until he walked into the kitchen.
The Kid Pirates didn’t allocate much space to an activity as useless as food preparation, but you always seemed to make the space work. Appliances lined the left-hand wall of the room, just to the left of the door, and floor-to-ceiling cabinets for storing dried goods were on the right. A narrow island sat between the two walls, barely enough room for prep work and for five to sit on the stools closer to the right side of the room. Beyond your kitchen was a decently sized, circular table and a matching booth that pressed up against the windows.
Killer was already there, a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup sporting a straw in the other. A few other members of the crew—fresh from sleep despite it being the middle of the afternoon—gathered randomly around the narrow space, talking among themselves and to you.
And speaking of you, you were hard at work. You must’ve had five different dishes going on—everything from pancakes to chicken cordon bleu—and you still had time to laugh at a few terrible jokes and refill coffees.
When he entered, the gathered crew greeted him with enthusiasm. Smiles. Enthusiastically raised eyebrows. And just like the rest of them, just like the morning itself, you were no different.
You had the windows open, the breeze taking the edge off the oven's heat. Natural light cast over you as you turned to glance over your shoulder. Your somewhat shocked expression melted into a gentle smile.
“Good morning, captain,” you greeted, your voice far softer than the flurry of enthusiastic shouts filling your kitchen. You turned your back on him, arming yourself with mitts to pull a dish from the oven. “I had a feeling you’d be stopping by.”
You were uncharacteristically… soft today.
Kid didn’t say a word, ignoring the greetings and sarcastic jokes as he stepped up to your little island. Sure enough, you pulled a hot, steaming dish of cabbage rolls out of the oven, no doubt just for him.
Perhaps you were worried. Maybe you missed him while he was away.
“Your favorite,” you hummed, more to gloat over your good work and even better memory than to offer a reminder. “Let me just—”
You turned to grab a plate and serving spoon, but when you pivoted back around, Kid had already stolen the entire platter in his prosthetic hand. The metal spoon flew from your grasp, and Kid caught it in his right hand. He sat down across from Killer, moving to place the hot dish directly on the wooden table. You plucked a circular trivet from the counter and threw it across the room with a flick of your wrist. It landed beneath the platter just before it hit the table.
“What did I say about ruining my table?” you snapped with a frown.
Yep. There it was.
Kid had already split a cabbage roll in half using the edge of the serving spoon. “Carpentry has never been your strong suit, shrimp,” Kid proclaimed rudely, a massive bite already in his mouth. It was far too hot, causing him to huff out his words incoherently. “Can’t look rougher than she already does.”
You frowned. You’d installed the table yourself, not too long after the Kid Pirates obtained the ship. The surface panels were uneven. The heads of the necessary nails jutted out just slightly, and while wonderful for pooling dipping sauces without a sauce dish, the rough surface wasn’t ideal for a table.
“Sorry we can’t all be master craftsmen,” you scoffed, serving up a few more dishes and sending your crewmates on their way.
You took the lull in business to arrange a neat pile next to the sink before you flipped on the faucet. Killer stood as soon as he heard the running water.
“Let me get that,” he said, moving swiftly to grab the pan from your hand. The movement spilled half a pan’s worth of soapy water onto the floor. “Go sit down for once.”
You frowned, but didn’t acknowledge your now-damp pant leg. “I got it,” you tried to dismiss, making a swipe for the pan.
But Killer didn’t allow for it, swiftly shoulder-checking you out of the way. You stumbled, nearly slipping on the wet floor.
“You’ve been on your feet for hours. Have you even eaten today?” he asked. You could hear a few snickers tease through his mask. “Nothing on a tasting spoon counts.”
You couldn’t help the light smile that threatened to tug at the corners of your mouth as you glanced away. You knew he couldn’t help it, and you were also certain he’d never talk about it. But Killer had never been expressive before, and these new laughs seemed like a window into something you’d barely seen before.
Killer took your pause for an answer, and, well, he was right. Killer didn’t acknowledge you as he sighed. “Go into town and grab something. Or if you’d like, Strawhat’s cook has been making enough to feed an army. I’m sure he’d give you a plate.”
The suggestion caused your eyes to widen in consideration, brows bouncing upward. “Oh?” you hummed. “Is that whose cooking I keep smelling?”
“Oh, like hell,” Kid scoffed, his mouth full. “No crew of mine is going to beg for food from Strawhat of all people. If I catch you crawling over there, I’ll drag you back here myself.”
You drifted to the end of the island closest to him, just a few steps from the table where he sat. You crossed your arms, leaning against the countertop.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked. By this time, Kid had already cleared a majority of his platter, which you thought would’ve lasted at least two days. You glanced at it pointedly as you leaned over the table. “I’ve been slaving away in here all day because my captain is a child who can’t maintain a dining schedule over the crew to save his life! Are you going to cook for me, huh?”
Your flat palm swatted against his goggles, and Kid slapped your hand away.
“You’re a cook,” he grumbled. “I don’t get why you’d need to get food from anyone else, let alone Black Leg… Make yourself useful and cook something for yourself.”
You opened your mouth to retort.
“But don’t you go stinkin’ up my ship with that North Blue slop,” Kid cut in before you could speak.
At that point, you hopped up onto the table, leaning forward over Kid’s nearly empty dish. Your nimble fingers swiftly plucked the oversized serving spoon from him, bringing it down on his head with a speed that made the air whistle. But you were blocked again, and a loud clang echoed through the small kitchen.
Kid magnetized himself, causing the spoon to stick unyieldingly to his arm, but that didn’t discourage your iron grip on the handle. You beat your hand against the back of his metallic palm, a protest to get your weapon back.
“Our ship,” you corrected in between smacks. “Wano’s done a number on you—you thug!”
“Thug?” Kid mused, taking the last cabbage roll into his hand before taking an unceremonious bite. “You really pullin’ out the dirty words, huh, shrimp? You used to be nice.” Kid frowned, but his raised brows were mocking. “What happened?”
“Oh, what do you think?” you huffed, finally snatching his now-empty dish away from him. “Glad to see prison didn’t beat the attitude out of you at least,” you huffed, adding the dish to the sink. Killer had made good work on your pile.
“Aw, shucks. You don’t really mean that, do ya?” Kid turned in the booth, knees splayed.
He grinned. There was nothing quite like testing your patience. Now, Eustass Kid of all people was hardly a connoisseur of cute things. Kid and cute were, after all, hardly associated with the same brand. But you were nothing short of adorable when you were angry.
He’d thought so ever since the crew’s early days. Ever since he saw you telling that dumbass customer of yours off in the middle of shaking a cocktail, it was something in the way you scrunched the space between your brows and curled your nose into a snarl. It contorted your otherwise aesthetically pleasing exterior into a violent, rageful grimace. And it was something about the juxtaposition that delighted Kid more than he’d admit.
“I’m going out,” you decided, turning toward the door. “Try not to starve to death.”
You stormed out of the kitchen without another word.
Kid watched as the door swung open, closed, and then opened again. It wavered a moment in the doorway before finally becoming still. Killer finished the dishes not too long after, wiping his wet hands on a nearby towel. Kid eyed him, a cocky smirk on his lips as he stared into the blue-and-white mask.
“What?” Kid probed, standing from the table. “What do you gotta say, Kil’?”
“Nothing,” Killer muttered.
Kid frowned, the self-satisfied grin on his face wiped away in an instant. He turned, leaving his dish forgotten on the table, to face Killer fully. Kid’s frown morphed into a scowl.
“You’re worried about nothing,” Kid grumbled, “Don’t be a damn priss about a couple of jokes.”
Killer didn’t say anything in reply, adjusting the now-very-damp towel in his hands on the stove's handle.
Kid leaned against a nearby cabinet, his scowl only deepening as he stared into blank space. “We all have our jobs here. You’d think that you’d know that after this many years,” he complained, perhaps to no one but himself. Something complicated flashed across Kid’s expression. “This is how we’ve always been.”
His eyes flickered up toward Killer for acknowledgment of his fractured ramblings, only to find that his first mate had already left.
***
There was something about cooking for yourself that put you in a foul mood—even the thought of it. You guessed it had to do with smelling and tasting your own cooking all day, which tended to dull your senses. And if your crew could stick to a schedule that even resembled three square meals a day, you might have been able to tailor a routine that didn’t leave your taste buds bored.
You found the very idea of acquiring a plate of someone else’s food alluring, though you weren’t entirely sure whether this new, temporary pirate alliance extended to plates. But considering the massive outdoor kitchen the Strawhat cook had set up a short distance from their ship, you didn’t think you’d have to persuade him.
The Straw Hat crew weren’t the only ones looking forward to enjoying an evening meal. Samurai, Minks, and assorted people from Wano mingled with them, already drawn by the aroma wafting from the cook’s workspace.
Identifying the Straw Hat’s cook wasn’t difficult. If the bright pink ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron didn’t make it apparent enough, the fact that he seemed to be the only one doing any of the kitchen work made you immediately forget why you left your ship in the first place.
You wanted to leave your ship’s galley, but something about the makeshift kitchen on the shore made you pause. A familiar scent wafted into the air, growing stronger as you grew closer.
You didn’t think about your approach, already rolling up your sleeves, your eyes darting to the various places where he could use help. And when you crossed the threshold from sandy coast to sacred ground, you didn’t ask for permission. You didn’t even introduce yourself; you immediately moved to wash your hands.
You moved like you’d been there the whole afternoon. The outdoor kitchen was tight by conventional means, but compared to the glorified closet on the Victoria Punk, you almost felt like things were too far apart.
The Strawhat cook set up the works: bowls of prepped vegetables arranged in neat rows, a chopping block that was still wet from rinsed herbs, a generous prep station, and two large pots, one simmering a delicious-smelling broth. He’d done the hard work, but when you had this many mouths to feed, you knew as well as anyone that the labor most certainly didn’t stop at prep.
You slid into his rhythm, immediately too busy to notice the cook’s face light up upon seeing you. He didn’t freeze for a second, moving around you as he made his subtle assessments.
You moved to several large covered bowls, gently lifting the cloth from the top. You inspected the pale, elastic dough. You poked it, watching as the mound sprang back quickly, but didn’t fill all the way back in. You glanced toward the Straw Hat cook.
“A Northern boy, huh?” you mused, already flouring the large cutting board in front of you with a goofy grin.
The Strawhat cook spared a second of attention away from his work to barely meet your eye. “I really grew up in the East,” he answered, his eyes flickering to the rolling pin in your hand. You were already working the dough on the board with perfect technique. “And you?”
“Starport, way up North,” you said. “I’d be surprised if you’ve heard of it.”
“Must’ve missed it,” the Strawhat cook said. “The name’s Sanji.”
You offered him a wide smile and gave your name in return. “Thought you could use the extra set of hands.”
Sanji shrugged. “Yours look capable.”
Sanji winked before you sank back into the rhythm of work.
It’d been a long time since you got to make Northern cuisine. Kid practically put a permanent ban on it on the Victoria Punk.
“That pigswill makes the whole crew gag,” he’d say, and after enough times, you stopped making it altogether.
You rolled the dough out into a long slab and, starting from the bottom, rolled it around the long rolling pin like a spool. You continued with rhythmic motions, gradually flattening the dough until it reached your desired thickness. You wrapped the dough around the pin one last time, then dropped it so it folded over itself.
With a sharp knife, you began to make precise cuts. Every few slices, you grabbed a handful of the forming noodles, shook them out, and arranged them neatly into nests until you’d processed all the dough.
You’d spied the handles of a few pasta baskets sticking out of one of the large pots. You brought your neatly arranged board over to the closest surface.
Sanji already had an army of bowls set up, each with a bit of oil at the bottom. Wano got chilly at night. This was the perfect evening meal. You began the first batch of noodles, putting them in the baskets and shaking them when they were done. You and Sanji worked together like machines, layering noodles, broth, and toppings like the best culinary assembly line the world had ever seen.
There was something meditative about the way service got on days like this. It wasn’t every day that you got to plate anything so uniform. Usually, your rush was twelve different dishes that required ten shades of prep and 350 degrees of patience. It felt like you were working through it all in no time. Between slinging noodles and garnishing, you were handing out trays to anyone who gathered around what had turned into a dinner stall. As quickly as the bowls were made, they were taken.
You couldn’t remember the last time your job was as easy as slicing noodles and enjoying the scent of rich broth. The familiar aroma of the stock began to melt tension off your shoulders as your body eased back into a memory of itself. There had been a time when you had fewer scars, when your back hurt less. In the past, when you were salting rocks glasses in snowy taverns before you ever set your feet on a sandy shore.
You were sure you had a goofy expression on your face as you turned around. Kid always said you looked dumb when you were thinking about the past. You definitely had your mouth open, and your tongue dug into the side of your mouth when you locked eyes with the prettiest charcoal blue eyes you’d ever seen.
The pirate in front of you appeared tall with broad shoulders. His skin had the kind of olive tone that deepened easily in the sun, giving contrast to the dark tattoos scattered along his arms.
He wasn’t pretty. His cheekbones angled sharply, almost making him look sickly. His facial hair grew patchy in some places, in stark contrast to the unruly hair that brushed at his nape. The dark circles around his eyes made him resemble a specter more than a pirate.
And still, you stared.
You attributed the momentary lack of oxygen to the way you short-circuited, to the way the bowl in your hands tipped, just barely. You made the mistake of blinking because in that second, the weight of it vanished.
Your heart dropped as you instinctively glanced down, expecting hot broth, shards, and wasted food.
You didn’t realize what had happened until the pirate muttered a low, rough “Thanks,” finally noticing the bowl in his hands as if it’d teleported.
Then, he walked away without another word.
It took you a moment longer than you’d comfortably admit for you to snap yourself out of your trance. You turned back to your baskets and garnishes, having faltered in the consistent rhythm you’d established with Sanji.
You tried to return to slinging noodles, your thoughts lingering on your brief and unfortunate interaction.
“Was that—?” you started, after a few beats of consideration. Sanji glanced up from his ladle. You stared down at your baskets. “Was that who I think it was? With the big hat.”
Sanji swiveled his head, looking somewhere through the crowd. His brows furrowed slightly. “What? You mean Traffy?”
Traffy. You’d heard rumors about their earlier alliances, though you were somewhat surprised by the degree of familiarity they shared.
“I just… I’ve just never seen him in person before,” you breathed, trying a bit too hard to appear nonchalant. “He doesn’t really look like his bounty poster.”
Sanji laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think he looks like 500 million berries either!”
You finally got to eat a proper meal. You didn’t care so much about plating it yourself as you did about not having to make it alone. After the initial rush, you had enough time to eat, finishing just a handful of minutes before the dishes started coming back.
You dialed back the heat beneath your pots. Throughout the cleanup, you spoke with Sanji about all manner of food: dishes you’ve made, ingredients you picked up at the last islands you were on, and, of course, Northern cuisine.
“Do you make it a lot for your crew?” you asked, hooking a pasta basket on the rim of the pot to drip.
The corner of Sanji’s lip dipped. “Not much. Most of the crew has a taste for Eastern food, and that’s what I was trained on,” he explained, pausing a moment to think. “Not to say I only cook Eastern food. Northern dishes take more time than I think my captain has patience for.”
You snorted, playing with the ladle's handle. “Oh, trust me. I know about a captain with a lack of patience,” you muttered. “Try a whole crew.”
Sanji let out a chuckle. “Sounds familiar. Don’t get it twisted. They’re impatient. Loud. They want their plates yesterday.”
“But?” You raised a brow, eyes on the stack of clean bowls in your hands.
“They know I’ll take care of them,” Sanji said, rinsing a pan under the rinse barrel. His movements were meaningful. He wouldn’t waste a thing, not even water. “We don’t have the most punctual schedule. I’ll do a midday snack; I’ll tailor the menu to what I know they like, but it’s a routine. They trust my hands.” He set the pan aside to drip.
“You mean you don’t get woken up to chop up mango?”
Sanji shook his head. “Even better—I’ve got a lock on my fridge.”
You stopped mid-step and stared at him. “No shit.”
You barely heard the sound of a bowl being set on the makeshift counter behind you.
“Seconds.”
The voice was too close behind you for how little you heard his approach. When you turned, it was him again. Trafalgar Law. He pushed the bowl toward you before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
You eyed him, wordlessly making your approach to pick up the bowl.
“Starport,” Law said.
You blinked, your eyes shooting up to his. “What?”
Law gestured toward the noodle pot. “The cut,” he said. “You snip the ends.”
Perhaps you shouldn’t have fallen into the trap of looking into his eyes again. He wasn’t even looking at you, and you were having a hard time processing what he was saying.
“Usually, noodles are sliced straight, but you trimmed the ends so the tips split like a star,” he continued dryly, finally glancing back at you. “That’s a Starport thing. No one does it by accident.” Law nodded decisively.
You were quiet for a beat too long. Law continued to stare, expecting a reply.
You gulped. “You’ve been there?” You tucked a non-existent strand of hair behind your ear. You immediately touched it again, as if the first motion hadn’t been enough.
If Law noticed, he didn’t bring attention to it.
“A long time ago,” he said.
His reply didn’t leave you enough time to think about what to say next. The very fact that you were tripping over your words left you horrified. You weren’t a stranger to small talk—not in the service industry, you weren’t—and you definitely weren’t intimidated by any pirate, no matter how high his bounty.
Your captain was one of the most—if not the most—infamous pirates among the Supernovas. You lived elbow-deep in rowdy men with tattoos and cold stares, and that never stopped you from trying to beat Kid with a wooden spoon or take Killer by the ear when he was acting particularly foolish.
And yet…
“Then you remember enough to know I can’t let it sit,” you said, hurrying breathlessly, avoiding his gaze as you made him a new bowl. You placed it on the counter as if fearing that handing it to him directly would make your knees collapse. You sought anything to keep your hands busy. “It’s best when it’s hot enough—“
—“To melt the frostbite off—” Law said at the same moment you did.
Your head snapped up despite yourself. A smoldering heat crept up your neck for reasons unrelated to the soup.
“Good,” Law said, taking the bowl in his hand. “You haven’t forgotten. And you’ve still got your accent.”
He turned back the way he came and vanished into the noise and bustle in the evening light.
***
Sanji told you that he’d be set up for three meals a day until the raid on Onigashima. Part of the reason was the ease of feeding the groups gathered to take on Kaido, and the other was the limited food amongst the locals. You weren’t opposed to a mission, and if you could force your crew into a routine for at least a few days, you were taking the opportunity.
“Alright,” Kid started as he burst into your quarters. The door slammed against the adjacent wall. You didn’t even glance up from your book. “You have some explaining to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, flipping the page. A colorful image of a salad dish sat in the top left corner. “Knock next time.”
Kid’s gaze tightened, the skin around his brows scrunching as he gritted his teeth. “Oh, is that right?” he hissed. “So you don’t know anything about the rumor that you’ll be cooking for the Straw Hats? Where were you expecting this crew to get their food, huh?”
He stalked toward you, eclipsing your book with his metal palm and forcing it down onto your lap. He towered over you as you sat in your desk chair, as if he thought you’d be like half the rivals you’d met—intimidated by his size. You looked up at him with a frown, impatience tugging at a vein on your forehead.
“I’m not cooking for the Straw Hats; I’m cooking with them, so it’s easier to feed all of our crews—this one included.” You reached a hand up to Kid’s bare chest, giving him a shove. He didn’t budge.
“All of our crews?” he snarled. “Last time I checked, you only had one—unless you’re considering a change of allegiance. Try it, and I’ll make an example of you.”
“Oh, please.” You rolled your eyes, pushing him harder with two hands this time. Kid let himself concede half a step—enough room for you to shove your book onto your desk and stand. “Get your head out of your own ass and stop being dramatic.”
In your small quarters, Kid continued to invade your space, hulking over you with a scowl. “What did you say?”
“It’s a more efficient way to get people fed.” Your gaze narrowed. “We’re already in an alliance, aren’t we?”
“That’s different,” Kid gritted. “You could just do things like you always have instead of trying to fix something that isn’t broken in the first place.”
“I swear to god, you’re insufferable,” you groaned, turning back toward your desk. You reached over it to tug at the window, cracking it to let in the cool evening air. Things were getting a bit heated. “Things have been very broken, and if you bothered to listen to me, you’d know I could use a load off.”
“Oh, so it’s about what you want, now?” Kid chastised.
You turned, one hand on your desk. Your jaw tightened.
“As your captain, I’m saying no.” He scowled, taking up most of the room with his stature. “If I so much as see you with the Straw Hats—”
“You don’t get to pull the captain card on me—”
Kid’s metal hand hit the wall beside your head, just hard enough to leave a dent in the wall and make the windowpane rattle. His face scrunched into a fearsome grimace. A red flush began to pool under his fair skin.
“Want to test that?” he growled, his low voice rumbling in his chest.
You hardly blinked, letting your grip on the desk slide away. Slowly, you leaned back against the wall with a laxness that might’ve melted you into it. You heaved a deep sigh as if preparing for osmosis.
“Do we have to do this here?” you breathed. “In my cabin?”
“Don’t act tough. You’re the one who’s been sneaking off,” Kid growled.
You rolled your eyes. “I told you where I was going. We had an entire discussion about it.”
“Yeah, one where I told you not to go.” He finally recoiled his arm from the dent in the wall, but he didn’t back off enough. His shadow cast over you, baring his teeth. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? It’s a disgrace—running off with some pretty-boy cook because you can't handle your job.”
“My job used to be cooking.” You crossed your arms over your chest. Your nails dug into your bicep. —“and patching you up, and dragging you out of whatever mess you’d get into. Not playing glorified vending machine.”
Kid groaned, finally stepping back. He seemed to pace for a moment—although your quarters were too tight to allow him—before staring up at the ceiling. He heaved out a deep, steaming breath.
“You didn’t use to be like this,” he drawled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You used to just…” The words on his tongue twisted his lips. “You used to handle it.”
“Handle what?” you barked incredulously. “Handle you?”
Kid shook his head. “Don’t start. You’re acting like we’re chaining you to the stove.”
You shrugged, brows bobbing with incredulous consideration. “If the boot fucking fits.”
“I’ve got bigger things to deal with than who’s hungry,” Kid scoffed. “That’s your job. You get to do that. You’re the only one on this crew who doesn’t have to stand watch.”
Your head shot up, your eyes wide. “That is not the problem here,” you snapped. “The problem is that people are banging on my door at all hours of the day for me to cook. I’m constantly in the kitchen. And let me tell you, no one ever wants the same thing.”
“That’s your fucking job,” Kid repeated, clapping his hands with every word. “You’re lucky you have a door. You should be grateful that I let you have your own quarters—”
“Oh, fuck off, Kid!” you shouted. “I needed my own space after everyone kept waking me up, and you know what? They’re still waking me up! It’s every day and every night. I lock my door and everyone still—”
“So you want to start on some Straw Hat bullshit then,” Kid barked.
“It’s not Straw Hat bullshit,” you shot back, barely repressing a frustrated groan. “It’s normal meal times and time for me to prep a normal amount of things.”
Three loud bangs rumbled through the wall next to you. You and Kid looked over instinctively. You supposed that the crew on the other side wanted you to quiet down so they could sleep.
They understood when it was their sleep.
Kid’s eyes cut to you. “You used to do your own damn part to contribute to this crew.” He shook his head, glancing around the room. He gestured in front of himself as if trying to physically conjure up the words physically. “You were… nicer. You used to be… fun.” He waved his hand vaguely between you, the air, and the ship. “You used to roll with us.”
“And you used to be my friend.”
Kid froze for a second, staring at you like he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he did hear you right. Maybe you didn’t say what he thought you said.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing. “I know I didn’t hear you right.”
The room went still for a moment, the tension simmering with a heat palpable to feel.
You gulped, almost hesitating before breaking the silence. Almost.
“You’re standing in my room telling me I was ‘nicer’ before,” you said in a small voice, almost whispering. “I wasn’t always just your cook, you know.”
“You want to talk about friends?” Kid quietly simmered. “Friends don’t embarrass each other by running off and teaming up with the Straw Hats behind my back—”
“We’re already in an alliance.”
“You’re making it look like I can’t feed my own damn crew.”
“Maybe I could keep up with the spontaneous demand when there were just five of us, but we have thirty-one people, Kid,” you stressed, almost forgetting to take a breath. “Just… let me rest, just… a few hours to let me sleep. Please back me up on this one thing… as captain.”
You moved back to the desk chair. As you slumped, you let your head roll back over the back post, exposing your neck. You finally sounded defeated.
Kid stood over you for a moment as you let your eyes close.
“No,” he said finally. “You’re the cook. You cook.”
You breathed in, letting a beat pass.
“Okay,” you muttered. Your eyelids fluttered open, your gaze boring into the closed cover of your book. “I told you what I need, and you don’t care. I’m done fighting you.”
You forced a breath in. Kid opened his mouth to report.
“Just get out,” you breathed. “I’m done talking.”
Kid stood over you, watching you with narrowed eyes for a moment more than was comfortable. Like maybe if he glared at you hard enough, you’d change your mind.
“If you’re so done running your mouth, then stop acting like you’re the only one who works around here.” He stomped across the short room. Kid slammed the door behind him, and the frame rattled.
***
You didn’t have time to dwell on your fight with Kid. It was one of many, or at least, that’s how it felt nowadays. You didn’t have time to ponder long, not when you knocked out as soon as your head hit the pillow.
At that point, you must’ve been up for well past twenty-four hours. You didn’t know how long you'd been asleep when you woke up, but you knew it was nowhere near as long as you needed.
A sharp thudding erupted from your cabin door. In your exhaustion, you tried to ignore it and go back to sleep. But the knocking only continued. You rolled over, clutching your pillow over your ears, but your muffled name didn’t stop.
You glanced up at your cracked window. The starry night sky hovered quietly on the other side, casting just enough light into the room to illuminate the wood floors.
Another round of pounding rattled the door in its frame.
If you stayed quiet, they would keep knocking. If you answered, they would want food, and if they wanted food, no one would want the same food. You wouldn’t see a wink of sleep, and by the time you were finished, the others would be up for breakfast.
So as the thudding continued, you slowly peeled yourself out of bed. You slipped on a pair of shoes and threw on a random jacket before you climbed your desk and onto the windowsill. The glass felt cold against your hand, but the evening breeze was far warmer.
You took in the smell of salt and that evening’s dinner before you jumped out onto the dock. Your landing made an unmistakable bang on the wood.
You glanced over your shoulder toward the ship. The rapping at your cabin door continued, though the sound resounded lighter on your ears.
The shore at night stood still and quiet. The water below you ebbed gently, as if the sea itself understood what time of the day it was. Your tired eyes had since adjusted to the moonlight as you strode aimlessly down the dock.
Your body had passed away tired hours ago, and if you closed your eyes right now, you might fall asleep and continue walking through the jungle until you woke.
The cool air helped. It kept you moving, but the sound of the sea countered your efforts. The waves lapped against the wood beams, tempting you into sleep.
Only when you reached the shore did you notice the unhurried footsteps behind you. You turned to glance over your shoulder. Then you froze.
Law stopped a few feet away on the dock, his gaze moving over you once before stopping at your exhausted face. Of course, the next time you saw him, you still appeared anything but put together and elegant. Not in your loungewear, half-secured shoes, and the most random jacket in your wardrobe slung across your shoulders.
“You shouldn’t be out here.” He frowned.
You turned fully. You crossed your arms over your chest in a half-hearted attempt to look less haphazard than you were. “What are you doing out here then?”
His expression didn’t change.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he drawled in what sounded awfully like a scold.
You almost laughed. Pirate alliances… always so suspicious of each other, though you couldn’t say it wasn’t a healthy amount of caution. Uniting to take down two emperors at once didn’t eliminate the possibility that anything could go wrong.
You looked away from his piercing stare out into the dark water. “Couldn’t sleep,” you admitted. “That’s all.”
“And wandering around half-dressed seemed like a good solution?”
You scoffed, not even having the energy to shoot off a retort to his prying. You barely had it in you to keep standing, let alone start a fight with a man you’d just met that evening.
“It was better than staying where I was,” you muttered, shifting your heel to depart.
“Better,” Law repeated, dragging the word out slightly.
Your gaze flicked back to him, brow furrowing. The corners of his mouth had pulled up, just barely.
“Where,” he said next.
“What?” you asked. You blinked a few times. If you were having a stroke, at least a doctor was with you to witness it.
Law took a half step forward.
“You pronounce ‘better’ the way the Southerners do,” he said, although the explanation did nothing to smooth the wrinkles around your brow.
“It’s a South Blue Crew,” you retorted.
“But you pronounce ‘where’ like you’re from Starport.” He bobbed his head exactly once.
You thought about it for approximately two seconds before your brain gave up on you. You breathed in. “Where,” you said again.
Law’s smile widened, small but real. Moonlight caught faintly in his eyes. “Where,” he repeated back.
Your bottom lip curled down. “That’s what I said.”
Law shook his head. “No,” he said, a quiet laugh slipping out with the word. “It isn’t.”
You stared at him for a moment, too exhausted to be properly embarrassed or logical enough to let the matter go.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“A little.”
You let out a long, labored breath and dragged a hand over your face. “Good to know I sound funny to you.”
“You don’t sound funny,” Law said. “You sound exhausted.”
“I was working on that.”
Law took a measured blink. “Out here?”
You crossed your arms tighter over yourself, the night breeze turning colder. “I didn’t have much of a plan beyond getting out the window,” you admitted quietly.
He looked at you flatly. “The window.”
“Don’t get me started,” you sighed. “I was just going to—”
“What? Sleep in a tree?” Law glanced toward the treeline, then back at you.
Your gaze drifted toward the beach.
“I’m sure the sand is still warm,” you trailed off with a concerning amount of resignation.
Law stared at you for a second.
“No.” He shook his head curtly. “You’re not planning on sleeping on the beach.”
“It’s like camping.”
His mouth flattened as he stepped down onto the shore beside you. “You’ve clearly never been good at camping.”
Your breath hitched at the proximity, but he only passed by you a second later, tipping his head over his shoulder for you to follow.
“Where?” you asked.
“To get you somewhere to sleep,” he called, never once turning back.
You glanced around the empty beach, then back at the quiet ships lined up along the shore. You hesitated just long enough for Law to get a few steps ahead before forcing your tired legs to follow.
The Polar Tang sat a little apart from the others, with the Thousand Sunny separating it from the Victoria Punk. Aside from the single lookout on the top deck, the ship was quiet and still. Even from the shore, it looked more orderly than most ships in port—no shouting, no drunken laughter, no brawls.
You stopped short once you reached the gangway, your steps having grown heavier.
Law noticed almost immediately. He turned to glance over his shoulder.
You looked past him at the dark ship, then back at the empty stretch of beach behind you. It was late. You barely knew him. He was a man you barely knew, leading you to an unfamiliar place in the middle of the night.
Kid would kill both of you for the implication alone if he knew.
Law shifted just slightly, his weight now on his back leg.
“You can say no,” he said.
You made the mistake of meeting his piercing, charcoal blue stare. You were convinced he could see right through you.
“I’ve got a quiet cabin you can use. It locks from the inside if that’s what you’re worried about,” Law explained, his voice even.
You took a breath in. After the lack of sleep you’ve been getting, nothing sounded better than quiet.
Your lips parted, then closed. A beat of silence passed.
“Why?” you asked.
Law’s expression didn’t change.
“Because I’m not using it.”
He turned and started up the gangway without another word.
You stood there for a beat, trying to wrap your tired brain around it all.
Not using it?
You didn’t even realize you’d hopped up onto the gangway to follow him.
“What do you mean?” you asked from the dock.
Law had already climbed the ladder up onto the deck.
You really should have left. You should have turned around and found another place to spend the night. The sand felt warm, just like you’d assumed. You might even be cut out for a tree, apparently.
But instead, without a second thought, you climbed the ladder. Law was waiting patiently for you. A woman stood at the far end of the deck, half-turned as she studied you with wide eyes out of the corner of her eye.
Law didn’t acknowledge her. He continued to walk, leading you inside the Polar Tang.
You nearly stopped the moment you stepped inside. This ship was definitely not the Victoria Punk.
The Polar Tang smelled clean, though not sterile. You had expected a submarine to have an atmosphere thick with sweat and heat, but instead, soap, metal, and what smelled like a familiar cleaner laced the cool, crisp air. A consistent, cold breeze blew from the vents lining the hall.
And more importantly, it was quiet.
A gentle hum rumbled throughout the ship. A round of muted laughter sounded somewhere in the distance.
No shouting from down the hall. No music, far too late. No boots pounding down the hall. The only aroma resembling alcohol was a vague ethanol scent.
Law led you deeper down the narrow corridor. The lights were low.
You followed a step behind, watching his back before he finally stopped at a door near the end of the corridor and reached for the handle.
He stepped inside just enough to let you pass, but you didn’t follow.
You didn’t have to know Law well to judge the made bed, the books and papers arranged neatly on the desk, and the coat hung by the door, as unmistakably his. The room he revealed was small and neat. Clean and quiet.
You remained frozen where you stood in the hallway, just a step or two from the doorway. Exhaustion and caution swirled together in your chest.
“This is your room,” you said weakly.
“There are two locks on the inside.” Law took the heavy metal door in his hands, closing it just a fraction to demonstrate the thick deadbolts.
You shook your head. “I can’t take your bed.”
Your gaze met Law’s. His expression hadn’t changed from the even look he gave you on the dock.
“If you want to leave, leave,” he said. “If you want to sleep, sleep.”
Your eyes drifted to the bed behind him. It looked painfully comfortable. The blanket overtop even looked like Northern sheep’s wool.
You exhaled slowly before stepping into the room.
Law moved out of the way immediately. His hand lingered in the doorway just long enough to turn the light down before he stepped back into the hallway.
“Use the locks. No one’s going to bother you,” he muttered. “And don’t worry about stripping the sheets tomorrow.”
Then, he left, closing the door behind him.
You stood there for a few moments, listening as his footsteps faded down the hall. Before you could ask yourself what you were doing, you reached for the lock.
The first deadbolt slid into the place, then the second. Your brain glazed over as you stared at the locks.
You blinked, finally snapping yourself out of your hypnosis as you turned to face the room.
Everything about the situation felt strange and wrong. It didn’t feel like you were supposed to be there. No, not in Trafalgar Law’s bedroom. It felt forbidden to kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the back of his desk chair. But as you sat at the edge of his mattress, Kid and the rest of your crew were the furthest things from your mind.
When you slid under the covers, a tired hum rumbled in your throat. The bed dipped just slightly under your weight, and you melted with it. It was warm and soft, just like a bed should be.
And it smelled like him. Clean fabric. Soap. Nitrile gloves.
Maybe you should have felt more self-conscious about how easily you curled up in the bed of a man you barely knew. If you weren’t so damn sleep-deprived, you might have been embarrassed by how quickly his scent coaxed you to sleep.
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
♪ ─── warnings: havent read or watched bnha in centuries = maybe ooc bc i only have concepts of a plan, not a lot of x reader hcs, rather random ones (as a pro-hero, kid and student), sfw, swearing, mentions of ocd, barely suggestive piercing one, americans, brief mention of religion, santa claus, the uk
♪ ─── a/n: i miss u ground zero...
♪ ─── word count: ~800
There are only 4 contacts that bypass his do not disturb settings
His mom (she gets real pissy if he doesn't see it or respond soon)
His dad (he doesn't even text Katsuki that much, most of it is communicated through Mitsuki)
His therapist (that he lowkey doesn’t talk to but his parents insisted having one just in case)
You
The type to not make contact names or profile pictures
Memorizes the area code and the last 4 digits
When he started liking you, your contact info upgraded (first name, first initial)
Once you guys started dating, you unlocked a pfp pic + it turned into just your first name
After a year together, you might get an emoji (most likely related to your quirk)
Your pfp is probably the most atrocious photo ever taken, but he refuses to change it
If he’s busy studying, eating, cleaning, working out, etc, and someone texts, he will absolutely ignore it and reply tomorrow (or never)
Especially if it’s his mom trying to remind him to do something
If it’s you, then he’ll respond within 30 minutes if it’s moderately interesting or important
Only made social media accounts so agencies could scout him and so people could admire his quirk
Rarely looks at his feed
Only follows pro-hero accounts and maybe one cooking blog
Tried to block all his classmates
Posted one video of him playing the drums and then had to turn off his DMs
Likes the concept of edits
Did NOT like when people said he was their hear me out after the Sports Festival
Only likes the nonsexual edits of him
Secretly enjoys the ones of you though
If the class is having dinner together in the dorms, he will choose the farthest seat possible
If he's alone, he will watch something on his phone while eating
Lowkey good at drawing
Doesn't keep a sketchbook, so it never became a serious hobby
Likes to draw you in class (and then singe it off of his paper because nobody can know)
Used to draw demonic entities as a child to scare his friends and classmates
Had a phase where he would only draw dragons
Vacationed to the UK once with his parents, and he absolutely hated every single second of it
Used to be a backpack leash kid, but then he would just burn off the straps
Only drinks water
Thinks sparkling is a disgusting abomination
Thinks people who believe in conspiracy people are insanely stupid
Hates musicals
Especially Cats and Into the Woods
Loves Agust-D
Likes desserts with mung beans
Fucking hates ube and taro
Secretly wishes he was taller (at least 6’)
Didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas one year and figured out Santa Claus wasn’t real
Around ages 6-8
Definitely told his classmates Santa wasn’t real just to laugh and watch them cry
His mom yelled at him after a few phone calls from the teacher
Definitely watched Fight Club when he was 13 and made it his personality for a few months
Hates American tourists
Will bluntly ignore them if they try to ask him for directions or interact in any way (especially if they make anime references)
(As a pro-hero, it took a lot of PR training to make him stop)
If you guys are together, he drags you away before you can offer help to a lost tourist
Doesn’t like any barber, so he cuts his hair in the bathroom himself
When he was younger, he would throw insane tantrums during professional haircuts, so his mom had to wrangle him and do it herself in the garage
She's gotten bitten a lot
Started doing it himself at around 12
His mom tied dental floss around his loose tooth to yank it out
It got the job done, but he felt severely betrayed
His parents didn't bother with the Tooth Fairy charade after the Santa Claus incident
Stupidly fast metabolism but never takes advantage of it, because he "doesn't want to put a lot of junk in his body"
He's very healthy
But he occasionally fiends for Takis or Flaming Hot Cheetos
Hated science with a passion in middle school
His parents tried to make him do Kumon (it did not work out)
Knows a lot of English
Probably learned through rap songs
Katuski is an athiest
His dad is Buddhist
His mom believes in her husband and son
He used to be scared of divine punishment/karma, but he quickly outgrew that when he got his quirk
Thought people who collected shoes, bags, Hello Kitty items, etc. were imbeciles until someone said that collecting All Might merch was basically the same thing
Didn't have any cousins growing up
Has a very intense case of Only Child Syndrome
Snapped at people who asked to share his toys and snacks
His grandparents spoiled the shit out of him
Got a cousin when he was like 12 and absolutely hated them, because all the attention was off of him
Loves gatekeeping artists
Will purposefully listen to niche bands, rappers and singers
Used to hate on K-Pop groups a lot
Hates jazz with a deep passion
Watched Lego Ninjago nonstop as a child
Tried to mix his explosions with spinjitsu
Loved Power Rangers (he wanted to be the red one)
Really enjoyed Avatar: The Last Airbender
But his childhood was ruined when people started comparing Todoroki to Zuko
Personally resonated with Azula and hated Katara
Had a crush on Mai and June
Tans easily
Mildly allergic to shellfish but he eats it anyway
Only eats oysters when they're grilled
If he's awake really late and super hungry, then his midnight snack is a slab of salmon sashimi with nothing on it
Hates poetry
Offers you his leftovers
It's happened so often that you question whether or not he knows how to cook the right portions (he was offended and very defensive)
You then realized that he's straight up just making you food but doesn't want to admit it
Prefers to give you bites of his food rather than you steal them
He's okay with sharing snacks with you without question
You asked him if he'd ever get a piercing
He never thought about it, but he grew suspicious when you suggested a tongue one
(He considered and researched it)
(He might get one to appease you)
Had mild OCD
Very adamant about keeping things clean and organized during middle school
Was obsessed with making his bed perfect every morning (would wake up early so he had time to do it right)
His hair caused him a lot of angry stress during puberty, and he had a very specific routine for it
t. iida, d. kaminari, e. kirishima, s. todoroki, k. bakugo, i. midoriya
tenya iida
realllyyy gentleman-y and polite,, will come home w/ flowers without u asking, does chores without u asking, does the bare minimum without complain + goes above and beyond all because it makes you happy
terrible. and i mean bad. kisser (at first), he doesnt know where to put his teeth, if hes REALLY into u he’ll basically try to eat ur face, its a mess 😔 but he does learn!!
denki kaminari
will go out of his way to include people. he’d rather walk in the road than make someone walk behind the fg on a sidewalk, naturally pulls people into convos and its not performative either,, he just doesnt want people to feel left out
watches porn like hes ADDICTED and not even that much ashamed of it either,, miiight pull back on it if u ask, but i dont think he’d quit unless he js naturally got bored of it
eijiro kirishima
emotionally mature,, this man is YEARS above his age in emotional maturity and skipped that whole phase of emotional immaturity altogether. very good at talking things out
can be quite stubborn,, once hes set his mind on smt he has to have it— no ifs and/or buts. changing his mind technically can be achieved, but its quite difficult
shoto todoroki
very calm and chill and rarely gets mad at you/starts arguments. he rarely gets bothered altogether so unless u run over his cat or smt hes good lmao
ties in with his green flag but,, really bad at talking emotions. esp with the family he had, the thought of saying his feelings out loud makes him physically sick. if u try to talk to him abt urs, its not as bad and he’ll try to adjust but it still makes him nervous
katsuki bakugo
a gentleman at heart. if a guy is cat calling a woman wearing a short skirt,, he’ll berate him. he’ll get into a bar fight if a guy called a woman a slut for not going home with him. mama mitsuki raised him well 🥹
overprotective to the point its a lil toxic,, he doesnt do it on purpose and its not necessarily manipulative but he HATES when u try to leave him for a night out in something even a tad revealing. like i said— he doesnt do it on purpose,, he js ‘wants you for himself’ is prob what he would say
izuku midoriya
will defend u to the day he dies. and he goes hard too,, someone could make a comment and if it even has the tiniest twinge of hate towards you— he’ll go full on: “what do you mean by that…🤨” and he’ll get pretty mad abt it.
sometimes toooo shy,, like you’ve told him a MILLION times that its okay to kiss you, hug you, hold your hand and he doesnt have to ask “is this okay? can i do this?” every. single. time. forget about him confessing either
Can I request shiesty mark hurt/comfort? Him and reader (preferably fem) getting into a heated argument and in the middle of it he points out a flaw or an insecurity the reader has to shut them up but then reader leaves him and he IMMEDIATELY comes running back to apologize
a snarky mouth tends to hurt other people’s feelings when you’re not considerate. mark didn’t mean to insult you, he was just trying to be helpful for once. his ways of being nice don’t have any bad intentions behind them, he just wanted to voice his opinion out loud.
“holy fuck, do you always have to be within atom to atom with me or are you just needy?” mark hissed as he tried to make distance between you two. the distance between you both felt like miles, evening leaving you a bruise as marks harsh words left you feeling mushy. ‘needy?’ that seemed like a strong word for the affection you’d give him, mark never seemed to have an issue with that before, if anything he seemed to enjoy your endless love and praises. maybe you shouldn’t take his words so seriously, he’s always like this whenever patrol was rough that night, but you can’t shake the thought, did mark truly believe you were needy? that’s what kept you distracted as he began to undress from his costume. yet mark didn’t even seem to notice your sudden shift in mood, how you weren’t smiling at him anymore as you made your way back upstairs, ‘silence, finally.’ was all that went on inside marks head, how he was able to relax after his very obnoxiously stressful day. he had no clue about how much he’d hurt you within a few minutes of arriving home.
mark didn’t understand why the room was so cold. usually things weren’t this bad, the room was usually so hot whenever he’d come home. mark even turned off the big fan he bought, that’s when he reviewed the reason as to why he’s freezing. blankets? covering his shivering body, your plushies? all in their usual spots, you? you weren’t next to him, no. mark paused for a long moment, his fingers snapping as he slowly began to realize. the shivers that went up his spine left a feeling of pain, usually you were the one to keep him warm at night, yet he pushed you away.
there was no chance you’d be far away from mark, he knew deep down. yet he wasn’t shocked when he found you laying down on the couch and watching garbage reality shows. he crossed his arms, watching with an angry look on his face, this is what you’d rather be doing instead of spending time with him? mark was offended, but he can’t entirely blame you, he wouldn’t want to be around someone like him either. he flew up in the air, floating right above you with his arms still crossed as you blink slowly, not noticing your boyfriend with his pouty expression. he cleared his throat, watching as you turned over lazily and look up to meet his face—“oh, hi.” was all you said, mark wasn’t having none of that. “oh hi yourself, where the fuck have you been?” he snarled, but there was no real danger in his voice, just mild annoyance. “i’ve been laying here for the past two hours?” you turned your face back to the TV, mark hated how unbothered you appeared, he huffed before an idea shot into his head.
“move, move.” was all mark said, you groaned and stayed in the same position, until a hard landing hit your stomach. “mark!” you yelled, as he snickered and forced his face into your neck, his arms immediately wrapping themselves around your figure, which happened to be trapped under all the blankets you had wrapped yourself in. he smirked and leaned his cold nose against your neck, you yelped and tried pushing him off, yet your efforts meant nothing against marks 200 pound weight of pure muscle and some fat. your protests had fallen deaf to marks ears, he breathed in the same air you let out, his smirk turning into a smile as he continued cuddling against your body. mark doesn’t do apologies, but he tends to make up for them by being his annoying self.
Giving a gold star to Shiesty everytime he does something good but he scoffs everytime he recieves one
The minute you stop he's on his knees begging for the stickers please he'll be a good boy just bring them back
mark isn’t a child, he doesn’t need approval by you giving him a simple sticker. however, he does enjoy the way the sticker glitters on his suit or how happy you are he does something good.
“so, i saved this elderly lady, even if it wasn’t worth it.” the words came out quick, mark stood in front of you while his arms had folded over his chest. he awaited, watching you move from your shared bed to the desk took too long in his opinion. then his frown turned into a small smile, how you held up the sticker sheet that had praises on each circle. you picked out a pink sticker that had the words, “good job!” before placing the circle on his chest. marks hands flew to his sides, his arms grasping his hips as he puffed out his chest with pride—“y’know, i also saved a dog from getting ran over by some drunken dude. could use another praise babe,” his attempt was successful as he earned another sticker with the words, “you rock!” on it as well.
selfish, narcissistic, lazy asshole were the kindest words people would use for mark. lazy was his last straw, as he would prove them and anyone else wrong. he stared at the full sink of dishes, they stared back at him as he saw the flies circling the dirty plates and cups. mark could throw up, a small shiver went up his spine as he grabbed purple gloves that went to his forearms. the gloves had fitted him tighter, due to them being sized for you, but regardless he progressed. mark slowly scrapped off the leftover food on each plate, this made him realize how much food he forgets to throw out. he began a system where he’d scrub every plate with soap, paying extra attention to bowls and plates that had bits of food stuck on the rim. after nearly two hours, mark had finished washing and dry the dishes, sitting on the kitchen counter as he awaited for you to check out his hard labor. mark was soon rewarded with three stickers on his chest one more.
“y’know, you’ve become more of a suck up lately.” you began, watching mark as he washed the dishes after your shared dinner. he tensed up, the plate he held in his grasp nearly shattered as he slowly turned to look at you. “the fuck does that mean?” he scowled, his eyebrows furrowed, “i didn’t mean it as a bad thing,” you replied. “i’ve just noticed that you’ve.. changed recently, that’s a good thing.” you attempted to calm mark down, all he responded with was a scoff as he turned around and began scrubbing the plate with soap. “i don’t know what your own about, and i don’t wanna know either.” he heard your laugh, mark wouldn’t turned around again, because then you’d be able to see the scowl he had earlier softened. he’d rather lose his sticker privileges then let you see he’s losing his bad boy reputation.
…
“can i have the star sticker? also could you call me your good noodle?”
a/n: IM GETTING BACK INTO WRITING FICS !! had to enter flow state for this to happen, i apologize for how late this fic is
Hihi, glad to see you are back! Can't say I know a lot about entrance exams (I'm doing a coursework based course) but I know from my watching my brother that exams are tiresome and grueling. Make sure to do something fun to treat yourself for pulling through, regardless if you get the marks you wanted, you deserve it for putting in the effort.
And well since I'm here anyway...
Could I get viltrumites (Conquest, Thragg, Younger Nolan, viltrumite mark etc) with a GN!reader that is the embodiment of a nerd; pulls all nighters (and days) playing games, gambles in gacha games like money grows on trees, has an ungodly amount of figurines, comics, plushies, collectibles, watches anime, and in general is very introverted.
I think this is an interesting idea because viltrumites don't have these forms of entertainment, let alone are able to dedicating their whole life to it. It would be so funny that the reader is playing like Minecraft and you have like conquest peering over their shoulder.
Or
Or
Thragg standing with his arms crossed to the side, pretending he isn't watching whatever anime the reader put on and ends up binge watching the whole series like that.
A.n: Hehe thanks Jamie! Your words really lifted my spirits—though it's pretty clear I won't be getting a good grade, since it's considered the second hardest exam of all the years for university admissions etc. Still you gave me energy. I hope your sibling also gets rid of this damn exam stress quickly in life.
Characters: Conquest, Thragg, Young Nolan, Viltrumite Mark, Kregg.
Conquest
Trying to kill the Warden you found in a cave with your friend was hard with thorns piercing your shoulder. You tried not to look out of the corner of your eye, because looking would mean hope. And giving hope to the old pile of flesh behind you would mean your end.
But you weren't a heartless person, especially to a man who had lived without love for thousands of years. With a grimace that wrinkled your chin and nose, you turned to Conquest with a low growl.
"How much longer are you going to stand behind me like a lunatic who's come to take my soul?" you asked, pulling your gaming headset away from your ear.
Coming out of his trance, Conquest squared his slumped shoulders. "You looked like you were having fun beating that thing on the screen. It wouldn't be right to interfere with your battle." that dreamy, hesitant tone of voice coming from his lips...
You waved the gamepad in your hand as if trying to strangle something in midair. This man was going to be the death of you.
You got up from the cushion you were sitting on on the floor and settled next to Conquest, who was sitting on the couch. Sprawling out in a slouch, you quit the game without giving your friend much of an explanation. You looked out of the corner of your eye at him, who looked like a wet puppy.Leaning over the side of the couch, you picked up another gamepad on the floor among the video games and held it out to him.
"I'm going to teach you why I'm addicted to these things," you said, lifting the gamepad a little higher. Conquest's gaze slid first to you, then to the controller you held out, before he slowly took it from your hand.
"Now get ready, because I'm going to open one that's considered the absolute legend of games." sliding your tongue over your lips, you let the words out with excitement.
Conquest watch as you pressed the buttons and thenlooked at the screen of the game you had opened. With a completely unimpressed face, "Mortal Kombat? Is this the kind of thing you spend your time on?" he spoke faintly, waving his hand toward the screen.
Suddenly your hand hit his lip and with a pout, "Heyy we're talking about my life's work here, man! Use that thousand year old mouth of yours a little carefully. Unlike you, even the few years we live are precious."
As you pulled your hand away from his face, Conquest shifted his gaze back to the screen but gave you one last side eye. You were sprawled on the couch with a relaxed ease he always saw and was a bit tired of.
"Let's see your ass get kicked regardless of the experience and power you have in real life." These were the last sweet words he heard from you that night. Poor Conquest, that day he met another side of you he never wanted to see again, in a way that would make him never even want to go near games anymore.
Thragg
For Thragg, the opposite of weakness was death. He couldn't even tolerate weak things being around him or standing against his empire. In a place like earth, which harbored nothing but total parasites, he should have crushed the first parasite that came into his hands until he squeezed the very life out of them.
Yet, that parasite's dependency had awakened things in him he never thought he would desire. The need to be needed. Not because he was the strongest in the universe or because of the blood he carried,but sheer necessity of being by your side.
Thragg was certain he was poisoned. For him to serve a body so fragile compared to his own just like that—there could be no other explanation. He met your every need and helped you. He stopped you from being alone in the bathroom to ensure you didn't waste your energy, carried your shopping bags, carried you everywhere when your legs couldn't hold you and offered the relaxation your body needed with his own hands.
You always accepted everything he offered you. Except for one single thing. A screen so small it couldn't even be the cock of his own spaceship was causing you problems he couldn't find a cure for.
Sleep issues he had never experienced in his entire life began to arise at night with the screams you threw at that screen. You didn't need him, and as a mate he couldn't help you. Because according to your words: "Oh no Thragg, you go and try something new with that beautiful mustache of yours. I need to beat this high score, I can't give it to you. You don't even have experience."
He hated those characters that displayed stupid images and sounds on that screen, and to top it off occupied space in your room. Everything about them! They were the most disgusting creatures he had ever seen in his life. And you, drooling over their scenes and pouring out words of love to them.
"Those should have been my words of love...they belonged to me!" he spat the words, hovering in the air while holding Leon Kennedy's face model by the throat. The fury on his face was a guarantee that things would not end well.
Young Nolan
Nolan felt nothing for humans. To him they were just bodies serving his purpose, nothing more than the inhabitants of earth. But if there was one thing he hated about this world, it was how humans became slaves to their own desires.
This was a trait he hated in you, too. And he was furious at himself for not realizing sooner how the roots of this filth had spread right beneath his feet when he entered your life.
With an angry and jealous expression on his face, he came up from behind and wrapped his arms around you. He buried his face in your neck—which was his most precious thing. "Come on, love. Don't watch videos of a game you already play. It's late, you need to sleep."
After pulling your hands away from the snack you were eating and licking them clean, you brought them to Nolan's soft hair and tousled it. Without taking your eyes off the screen, you planted a soft kiss on Nolan's temple. "I want to watch a little more." your calmly spoken words were choked out by the arms tightening around your body.
"No, I learned humans staying up late and sleeping less accelerates their death. I don't want you away from that bed. Now, don't whine and come." As he lifted your body without any effort, only thing you could do was turn off the tv with the remote and toss it onto the couch.
While you let out small, sweet complaints in his arms—Nolan felt as if he had won a victory that swelled his chest even more than the great wars he had fought in his life. In his arms, you were heading to bed together.
His eyes were practically smiling because he had pulled you away from those stupid things.
But his smile vanished the moment you slid under the covers. When you hugged that stupid character plushie on the bed as if it were your everything, instead of tossing it away—Nolan's hand went to his chest. His lips parted as if he had witnessed the betrayal of the century, while his brows radiated sheer hatred.
He suddenly snatched it from your hands and even though you protested and kicked him, he threw it toward the door sending plushie flying into the darkness. "I am sick and tired of seeing that fucking thing everywhere, absolutely everywhere! First your phone, then the dining table and every single second of your free time. But that disgusting thing is not coming into this bed. The warmth of your arms and your body belongs only to me." As he spoke commandingly, he pressed you down hard against the bed with a single hand on your chest.
You wanted to slap him for doing this or maybe kiss him to shut him up. But no matter what you did, that plushie would never even step foot in your room again. With a whining Nolan on your hands, life was not going to let you enjoy certain things.
Viltrumite Mark
"He deserved to die." your neck turned toward the presence beside you with the clicking slowness of a mechanical device. Toward the being who was insulting your beloved character—the one you had been crying over with snot and tears for the past half hour, unable to get over his death.
Mark was a being you could never quite categorize. He loved violence and things related to it but he didn't like you being around it. Just like how despite having an interest in the violent games you played, he would annoy you like a watchdog just to pull you away from them.
But earth could change many things, even your terrifying soldier Mark. Still miracles had made you forget certain truths. Like just how jealous and vengeful Mark could be.
Waving your hand in the air, "Excuse me? He deserved to die? He was a broken person who never received family or friend love, and only felt a sense of responsibility toward the person who kept him alive. How could he have deserved that, Mark!" your voice came out much more defensive and harsh than intended, but he didn't seem to care either.
He faced your swollen eyes with a stoic expression. "His past and who he was doesn't change the fact that he was against the side we stand in the serie. He was just an obstacle.His flawed and painful life is irrelevant. Every living being has pain but that cannot be an excuse for something like treason."
"Treason!" You laughed nervously, almost unable to believe his words. You shouldn't take it this personally and just drop the subject, but you simply couldn't. He was a character you had loved for years and Mark knew this. Of course he knew, he had indulged your so called weirdness and even helped you with your collection.
But there it is—that's a son of a Viltrumite stabs you in the back. "Shame on you. If I knew a day would come where I'd hear these words from you, I would have never introduced you to the sacred paths of this series. You are a heretic."
"I think being a heretic is better than being a traitor." You swung the hugging pillow of your favorite character standing next to you right at his face like a hammer.
Some bastards just shouldn't live too long.
Kregg
Kregg standing there with his single open eye making it crystal clear just how sick of life he was, jumped at the sudden, breathless scream. He nearly dropped the cigarette in his mouth. He whipped his head around and looked across the street from his motorcycle, which had been parked in front of a cafe for quite a while.
He had watched you scurry to the opposite sidewalk with shopping bags filled with your favorite games. Ignoring the crowd of people looking at you strangely after your recent shriek, you pushed through them and dashed toward the sight that had made your heart skip a beat.
Pushing himself off by his hip, he stepped away from his bike and walked toward you. You were leaning down in front of a comic book store hands and face pressed against the glass, most likely forgetting to breathe.
"Oh, please..." Kregg said, looking up to the sky in despair. This situation bore a resemblance that his mind still couldn't shake off.
"KREGG! LOOK AT THESE! THE NEW MOON KNIGHT COMICS! AND A SPECIAL VARIANT, TOO! AND, AND—OHHH GODDAMN THE DAREDEVIL OMNIBUS!!" you paused, your lungs aching from the lack of air. But before Kregg could intervene, you started again. "LOOK AT THEM! I CAN FINALLY UNDERSTAND WHY MY HEART HAS FELT SO EMPTY UNTIL NOW—"
"I thought it was your stomach that was empty" Kregg said, raising an eyebrow as he watched you slide down to your knees with dramatic slowness.
"BECAUSE MY BABIES ARE HERE! THEY WERE WITHOUT ME!" You swatted away his mood as if it were a fly. Suddenly you sprang to your feet and dashed through the door of the comic book store with the bags in your arms.
Even when you bumped into someone coming out of the door, you didn't care about them shouting at you. Before they could yell at you any further as you headed inside,Kregg suddenly got right in their face, his cigarette shifting between his lips right in front of them. "Get out of the way, bloodbag."
As the person ahead vanished as if they had seen a ghost, Kregg walked inside with a sigh. His eye searched the aisles for you. In the back rows you were talking to yourself with excitement, holding what was clearly going to turn into a tower of comic books.
"Ah...they'll be the death of me. And Thragg's biggest obstacle," he muttered with a sigh, coming up behind you. He leaned against a bookshelf as his hands inpockets, watching you live in your own world.
A world he would never understand but one he loved watching you be addicted to. Seeing you happy with just these kinds of things was fascinating.
His eye—which had softened while watching you, suddenly darted to a figure that caught his attention from the side. His brow furrowed instantly. Without breaking his posture, he grabbed the box and tossed it somewhere far away before you could see it.
It would be for the best if some things stayed hidden in unseen corners, far away from you.
Header by me, please do not use without permission, or I block u!!
make doesn’t directly say it, but he’s offended that you don’t seem as excited about his mii. he even added you in his island too! mark spent so long staring at his nintendo just to get your features right. like he said, he’s not offended, just slightly frustrated you haven’t given him any form of praise and you haven’t fallen in love with him in his little game.
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