—all my demons have your smile.

yan⭑.ᐟ | 22 | she/her | 🇵🇭 multifandom 𝒄'𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒆 ᯓ★

[2b4st4r]

hiii i love ur works sm!!! when i first finished 'a recipe for reassurance' i thought about it for weeks its just so my type of angst😭😭

anyways i can request an ace x reader? it could be either of them that got amnesia from(an incident, enemy attacks...anything you think is suitable!!) and they're in a relationships but yk, it took them months or years to get memories back (ur choice!!!)

i actually dk TT but take ur time and take a break if you need and ty!!!!

The Echos of Us ᝰ.ᐟ

╰┈➤ Portage D. Ace x Fem!Reader

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Words: 21k

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Warnings: injury and blood, emotional distress, emotional neglect, angst.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ A/N: 5 more works to to then requests will open! They'll be open for most of the day

You never intended to become a part of the Whitebeard Pirates. You simply stumbled into their orbit, an errant star drawn in by a gravitational pull you couldn't resist. Yet, in the end, it was the easy warmth of their laughter and the surprising weight of their trust that made it impossible to leave. They welcomed you into a family you'd never known, a sprawling, chaotic constellation of found brothers and sisters. And amidst all the bright and boisterous personalities, nothing caught you more off guard than the man with fire in his soul and a grin sharp enough to burn you alive: Portgas D. Ace.

From the very start, you were locked in a cycle neither of you seemed willing to break. Your cutting quip, his cocky retort. Your laugh would echo against the crash of the waves, and his grin would deepen as though daring you to close the distance. But you never did. Neither of you ever took that final step. It became a rhythm, a game so ingrained and natural that the crew saw it as a form of entertainment. Thatch would nudge you whenever Ace sprawled across the deck, his shirt undone, pretending not to notice you looking. Marco would smirk, his voice low and knowing, whenever Ace leaned a little too close, asking if you were blushing. Even Pops, the great Whitebeard himself, would rumble with laughter, declaring the two of you were more exhausting to watch than a full-blown sea battle.

Still, the moments were yours. The night you officially joined the crew, Ace was the first to approach you, his arms crossed, freckles dusted by the golden glow of a ship's lantern. "You sure about this?" he'd asked, his tone still laced with that familiar dare, but his eyes were searching. You met his gaze without flinching, answering with that playful spark in your voice—the one that always made him grin wider than anyone else could. From that moment on, the dance never stopped. It was like fire and wind, endlessly fueling each other, never quite consuming.

Sometimes you wondered why you couldn’t just take that final step. You and Ace were always on the precipice, a horizon perpetually out of reach. But perhaps that's what made it so intoxicating. You had the whole crew watching, waiting, laughing at the sparks you both created. Neither of you seemed ready to give the flame an ending. So you stayed in the cycle—his fire, your storm. Your story unfolded in a series of stolen glances and sharp-tongued exchanges, a love that burned slow and steady, daring the world to try and put it out.

The night it finally happened didn't feel special at all. The crew had feasted to their heart's content, songs had been sung, and most of your brothers had passed out on deck, their snores competing with the rhythmic lapping of the waves. You'd slipped away for a breath of fresh air, only to find Ace already sitting at the railing, a lazy flame flickering from his fingertips. Even his boredom burned.

He looked up when you approached, a familiar tug at his lips. "What, can't stay away from me?"

You rolled your eyes, but you sat down beside him anyway, your shoulder brushing his. The ocean stretched out, a vast, dark expanse ahead, but somehow you found yourself staring at him instead. Of course, he caught you, because he always did.

"Careful," he teased softly, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "Look at me like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me."

For once, you didn't have a witty comeback. Your heart pounded against your ribs, and your mouth felt dry, but your hand still found its way to his. His grin faltered, surprise flashing across his face before it softened into something new and something real. When you leaned in, his flames guttered out completely, as if even fire needed to make room for you.

The kiss was clumsy at first, a long-overdue collision of two bodies and two hearts. But when he pulled you closer, it felt utterly inevitable, as if the two of you had been hurtling toward this moment since the day you met.

Keeping it a secret had sounded so easy in theory. You were clever, and Ace was a master of playing it cool when he wanted to. But the Whitebeard Pirates were nothing if not observant.

Thatch was the first to corner you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he leaned against the galley door. "So… planning on telling the rest of us, or should we just keep pretending you don't sneak off with Ace every night after dinner?"

Marco caught you both napping in the crow's nest one afternoon, your head resting on Ace's chest, his arm curled around you. He only chuckled and shook his head like he'd been expecting this for months. "Yoi… finally."

Even Pops himself made it impossible to pretend. One morning at breakfast, Whitebeard’s booming laugh shook the entire table. “You two think you can keep secrets from me? Bahahaha! My sons and daughters aren’t that sneaky.”

The crew erupted in cheers, whistling, and shouts of congratulations that made your face burn hotter than Ace’s flames. Yet, as Ace laced his fingers through yours under the table, his grin wide and unashamed, you realized you didn't care anymore. The secret was out, but so was your love—burning, undeniable, and stronger than either of you had ever dared to admit.

Life with Ace was a story told in fire and shadow—never simple, always unpredictable. He was a force of nature, equal parts untamed wildfire and gentle, smoldering ember. And yet, it was a life you wouldn't have traded for the calmest, most serene seas in the world.

There were the quiet moments of peace, like mornings when Ace would sprawl across your bunk, still half-asleep, groaning in protest as you tried to nudge him off. His hair was always a chaotic tangle, his freckles catching the dawn light like a scattering of golden dust. You swore you'd never tell him, but in those unguarded moments, he was breathtaking. He’d catch you staring and pull you back down into the sheets, his voice a low rumble. "Five more minutes."

And then there were the clashes—loud and stubborn, you both were sparks on flint. You'd bicker over the most ridiculous things: who was supposed to swab the deck, whose turn it was to polish the weapons, or whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Ace would throw his hands up, miniature flames dancing in his palms, while you stood your ground, a hurricane of sharp words. But the thing about fighting fire with fire was that you always burned yourselves out. The apologies came clumsy, laughter bubbling up through the tension as one of you finally gave in. The make-ups were sometimes shy kisses, sometimes breathless tickle wars on the deck, much to the exasperation of your brothers.

But it was in the small, unspoken things that your love truly lived. The way Ace would subtly slide his plate closer so you could steal bites without asking. How you'd fix his hat after a battle, dusting dirt from his shoulders while he feigned indifference. The way he carried an extra blanket to the crow's nest just for you, knowing how you hated the cold.

Your laughter was a constant melody, echoing off the ship's masts during long nights and carried across the sea when Ace cracked a terrible joke only you found funny. It came softer, too, in the tranquil moments between storms. When you traced constellations together, his head in your lap, he would whisper secrets no one else knew. His deepest insecurities—about his name, about his worth—spilled out in hushed tones. You held them like fragile glass, reminding him over and over that he was Ace, yours, and that was all that mattered.

The crew's teasing was relentless, yet their smiles were genuine whenever they saw you two together. Because beneath the fire and the stubbornness, everyone could see it: Ace had found his home in you, and you in him. On a ship full of found family, there was no truth truer than that. With Ace, love wasn't a grand, loud spectacle. It was something deeper, a quiet hum beneath your skin whenever he was near. It was in the way his hand always found yours without thinking, in the flutter in your stomach when his laugh broke across the deck, bright and unrestrained. It was the absolute knowing that no matter how far he wandered or how stubbornly you argued, your souls would always pull each other back like the tide.

The proposal wasn't planned, which made it perfectly, beautifully him. One night, the crew was celebrating on deck, laughing and drinking under a canopy of stars. You and Ace had slipped away to the railing, the night sky a mirror in the dark water below. He leaned against the wood, his hair tousled by the sea breeze, a lazy grin on his face. But his eyes were soft, a look he saved only for you.

"Y'know," he murmured, fiddling with the brim of his hat, "I was thinking… you're stuck with me."

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. "That's not exactly breaking news, Ace."

"No, I mean…" He paused, visibly flustered, then shoved his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a simple, unpolished metal band, something he'd hammered together himself from a piece of scavenged metal. It shone faintly in the moonlight. "I'm not good with words, you know that. But… I don't want this to just be today, or tomorrow, or until we hit the next island. I want it to be forever. So, uh… marry me?"

You blinked, your heart flipping, breath caught somewhere between laughter and tears. It was so completely Ace—messy, blunt, and unrefined, yet so full of love it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

"Yes," you whispered, the word feeling utterly, perfectly right.

He slipped the ring onto your finger, his grin wider than you'd ever seen it, freckles crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He pulled you into a kiss that tasted of salt and fire.

The crew, of course, noticed the second you returned. Marco raised a brow at the way Ace kept fidgeting with your hand, and Thatch nearly choked on his drink when he spotted the ring. Within seconds, the entire ship erupted in cheers, laughter, and shouts of congratulations. Pops’ booming laugh rolled over everyone else's, his smile wide and full of knowing pride.

But even surrounded by your boisterous family, it still felt like it was just you and Ace. Two souls who had been dancing around each other from the start, finally stepping into the forever you had both been building all along.

The months leading up to the wedding were a season of quiet happiness, a period where your bond with Ace deepened with every passing day. The engagement was not about perfect plans or flawless details; it was about the small, constant reassurances. He would randomly catch your hand, his thumb brushing over the ring he’d made as if he still couldn't believe you had said yes. You would tease him about it, but secretly, every time his eyes lit up at the sight of you, a familiar flutter would start in your chest.

The crew embraced the celebration with their own chaotic flair. Thatch insisted on regular "engagement feasts," cooking until half the ship groaned from their full stomachs. Marco, ever the anchor, watched to ensure you and Ace didn’t accidentally set the kitchen ablaze while “helping.” Even Pops would rumble with laughter, referring to you as his children and declaring your love to be stronger than any sea.

You and Ace spent those months weaving your lives tighter together. Long nights tracing constellations on his freckled shoulders. Morning sparring matches that always ended with you on your back, Ace hovering above you with a triumphant grin until you kissed him into silence. Your whispers about the future were a mix of the ridiculous—like building a house out of pineapples just to make Thatch jealous—and the profound, wondering if this love could last forever in a world as harsh as the sea.

The wedding day arrived on a sunlit shore, the beach decorated with lanterns, flowers, and far too much rum. You had never seen Ace so nervous; his fingers twitched with small sparks as Marco straightened his hat and told him not to faint before the vows. You walked barefoot across the sand, the ocean behind you and the Whitebeard Pirates gathered as your family.

It should have been a perfect, serene moment. But with you and Ace, nothing was ever simple.

Halfway through the ceremony, a sudden storm rolled in. Clouds darkened the sky, and a fierce wind whipped across the beach. Decorations went flying, lanterns toppled into the sand, and the rum barrels burst open, spilling their contents like another tide. The crew scrambled, their curses and laughter mingling, while Whitebeard threw his head back and roared with joy.

You stood there, soaked from head to toe, your hair plastered to your face and your dress clinging to you as rain poured down. Ace’s flames sputtered in the downpour, but his grin never faltered. He grabbed your hands, holding tight as if the sea itself couldn't pull you away. “Guess the world doesn’t want to make this easy for us, huh?” he shouted over the thunder.

“Since when has anything been easy with you?” you yelled back, breathless and grinning through the rain.

And right there, drenched and shivering, with the crew cheering wildly behind you, you said your vows. There were no fancy words or perfect setting—just fire and storm, two souls bound together, laughing in the face of chaos. When Ace kissed you, sparks danced against the rain, and for one beautiful moment, it felt like even the storm bowed to your love.

It wasn’t the wedding you planned. It was better. It was yours.

Married life with Ace was not dramatically different from before—except everything felt heavier and lighter all at once. The ring on your finger was no longer just a promise; it was a constant reminder that he was yours, and you were his, through every storm and every sunrise. The crew joked that you acted like newlyweds every day, and perhaps they weren't wrong.

Ace still stole food off your plate, still sprawled across your bunk like he owned it, and still argued with you over the most trivial things. But now, when you fought, it would always end with one of you muttering, "We're stuck together, remember?" and the tension would melt into laughter. Nights were spent curled together, his warmth seeping into your bones, his whispers softer now, less guarded. He would admit how he used to doubt he deserved this—a family, love, you—and you made it your mission to remind him, over and over, that he did.

It was during one of those quiet nights that the topic of children arose. You were lying in the crow’s nest together, the stars scattered above like freckles in the sky. Ace had his hat tilted over his eyes, but his arm was around you, his thumb drawing lazy circles on your hip.

"Hey," he said suddenly, his voice low and unsure. “You ever think about… you know… little ones?”

You turned to look at him. “Little ones?”

He peeked at you from under his hat, his cheeks slightly pink. “Like… kids. Us having kids. I mean, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at it. Pops says I’d probably set a crib on fire.” He laughed awkwardly, but the question in his eyes was raw and vulnerable.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting the waves fill the space between you. The idea had crossed your mind before—what it would be like to see Ace holding a baby, freckles mirrored on a tiny face, his grin softened into something even gentler. The thought filled you with a deep, quiet joy.

“I think,” you said softly, brushing your fingers against his, “you’d be better than you think. You’d love them enough to make up for every mistake. That’s what would matter.”

His breath hitched, and for once, Ace had no quick reply. He simply pulled you closer, burying his face in your shoulder. “I’d want them to be like you,” he muttered. “Strong. Kind. Stubborn as hell.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his hair. “And I’d want them to have your laugh. Your fire.”

From then on, the idea lingered between you like another secret, but not a heavy one. The crew, of course, picked up on it. Thatch joked about building a playpen on the deck. Marco muttered something about the "gods helping us if they inherit Ace’s appetite." Even Pops laughed, his booming voice shaking the ship: “My family just keeps getting bigger!”

It wasn’t a decision you made right away. The sea was dangerous, your lives chaotic. But the dream was there, tucked into the quiet moments and late-night whispers—a future you both started to believe you deserved. A home, a family, children who would know love from the very start. And maybe, just maybe, a chance for Ace to rewrite the story he thought he’d been given, with you by his side.

The day began not with the boisterous energy of the crew, but with the soft, private warmth of dawn. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, painting golden stripes across the cabin, and you awoke to the steady rise and fall of Ace's chest beneath your cheek. Even in sleep, his skin radiated heat like a banked fire, and the gentle rumble of his breathing was the sweetest sound in the world. You shifted slightly, pressing your nose against the constellation of freckles that dusted his shoulder. He stirred with a low, sleepy groan.

"Morning, firefly," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep as one arm lazily tightened around your waist.

"Morning," you whispered, grinning when his lips brushed against your temple.

What started as a sleepy kiss quickly deepened. Ace rolled onto his side, pulling you flush against his body, his hand slipping to cradle your jaw. His kisses were warm, teasing, punctuated with low chuckles when you tugged at his messy hair or murmured something snarky against his lips.

"You're insufferable," you breathed between kisses, laughing when he nipped at your bottom lip.

"And you're addicted," he shot back, his grin wicked and his eyes full of mischief as he pressed another deep, languid kiss against your mouth. His laugh vibrated through you, a playful, hungry sound, and you were seconds from letting the morning carry you both into something far less innocent—

—when a voice bellowed from the hall, sharp and insistent: "Ace! Island duty today! Get your ass up!"

Ace groaned so loudly it could have been mistaken for a dying animal, flopping back onto the mattress with an arm flung over his face. "You've gotta be kidding me," he moaned.

You laughed, breathless and flushed, watching him pout like a child denied dessert. He peeked at you from under his arm, his grin slowly returning as he leaned over to steal one last kiss. "Don't think this is over," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and full of a promise that made your blood sing. "We're picking up exactly where we left off."

With that promise hanging in the air, he finally dragged himself up, ruffling his hair before pulling on his shorts and reaching for his hat. He tugged on his boots with exaggerated reluctance, groaning dramatically the whole time, and shot you one last wink before stepping out into the hall, a familiar fire in his step.

You lay there for a few moments, the silence stretching out around you, your lips still tingling, your chest warm in a way no sunlight could ever replicate. But the day wouldn't wait for you either. With a soft sigh and a smile on your lips, you rose, pulling on your clothes and preparing to lend a hand with the crew, whether it was mending sails, scrubbing decks, or dealing with Thatch’s latest culinary disaster. The morning had begun with fire and laughter, and even though duty had stolen Ace away, you carried that warmth with you as you stepped out to meet the day.

The sun was already climbing high, a blaze of light across the endless sea as you tied your hair back and joined the bustle of the crew. Marco flagged you down almost immediately, his finger pointing to a tear in one of the sails. You balanced on the rigging beside him, your movements in perfect sync. He handed you pins and patches while you stitched, the comfortable silence between you a language all its own. "Ace'll be fine, yoi," he said at one point, his calm voice cutting through your thoughts as if he'd plucked the worry straight from your mind. You brushed it off with a quick smile, but his sharp eyes lingered, knowing.

On deck, Thatch was barking about "culinary emergencies" again. You helped him carry crates of fruit and barrels of water, both of you laughing as he swatted your hands away when you tried to sneak a taste of the food. He teased you mercilessly about your flushed cheeks, a sly grin on his face as he asked if Ace had kept you up late. You smacked his shoulder, but the thought of Ace—already hours gone—lingered, a faintly unsettling hum in the back of your mind.

The chores shifted to the infirmary, where Marco passed you off to Izo, who was reorganizing supplies. You helped stack bandages, wipe down surfaces, and refill water basins. Izo chatted idly, complimenting your neatness compared to Ace’s absolute disaster of a locker. You laughed along, but the clock in your head ticked louder. They should have at least sent word back by now, shouldn’t they?

Jozu roped you into sparring practice, insisting you keep sharp while the ship was docked. He didn’t go easy, and soon you were catching your breath, sweat trickling down your back as the sun blazed overhead. He offered a grin, fist bumping you when you finally managed to land a clean strike. Still, when you sat on the edge of the deck, gulping water, you found your eyes fixed on the horizon. It was too quiet without Ace’s laugh, without the sound of the scouting team returning.

More chores, this time scrubbing the deck alongside Haruta, who told endless stories of past adventures, his voice bright and animated. You tried to laugh at the right parts, but your gaze kept flicking toward the island. The ship creaked with every wave, the air hot and sticky, and a gnawing unease coiled tighter in your chest.

By now, the easy laughter of the crew had dulled. The sailors began exchanging quick, worried glances when they thought no one was watching. You joined Blamenco in carrying supplies below deck, and even he, usually steady as stone, was quiet. No word. No sign. They should have been back.

As you returned topside, you caught Marco speaking lowly with Vista, their expressions grim and their voices hushed. Your heart sank, your stomach twisting with dread. The hours had slipped by too quickly, and with each one, the silence from the shore grew heavier.

Ace was out there. Too long. Too quiet.

And you could feel it now, a sharp and cold certainty beneath your ribs—something was terribly wrong.

You were kneeling near the ship’s rail, hands moving automatically as you mended a frayed rope in the late afternoon sun. The gnawing worry that had settled in your gut since morning had become a living thing, a dull throb that pulsed with every beat of your heart. Every creak of the ship, every cry of a distant gull made you lift your head, your nerves strung tight as wire.

Then, at last, you saw it—a smaller vessel cutting through the waves, too quiet, too fast. Normally, Ace’s fire would be a beacon, a trail of flames lighting the way back to the Moby Dick. But this ship came in dark, silent, its approach a stark contradiction to the vibrant energy you were used to.

Crew members rushed to the edge, shouting, ropes thrown down to secure the vessel. Marco leaped from the deck, his blue flames flickering as he steadied the smaller ship with a focused intensity you rarely saw. Shouts erupted—urgent, panicked, not the usual rowdy noise of returning brothers. Your stomach plummeted as you pushed through the crowd gathering at the rail.

And then you saw it.

Several men were carrying someone off the smaller ship, their faces pale, their hands slick with red. So much blood. It stained the wood beneath them, dripping in thick, crimson trails that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

“What’s going on?” Your voice cracked as you stumbled forward. “Who—who is it?”

Marco didn’t answer, moving with them, his movements a blur of grim urgency.

You followed, shoving past bodies until you caught a glimpse—just a hand at first, limp, bloodied, but glinting in the late-day sun. A simple metal band, scratched and darkened with what looked like rust.

But it wasn’t rust.

Your hand rose to your own ring instinctively, and the world tilted.

“No,” you whispered, your legs carrying you forward before your mind could even process the movement.

And then you saw his face.

Ace.

His skin was a terrifying, ashen white beneath the grime and blood, his freckles nearly swallowed by the crimson streaks running across his cheek. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin, his lips slack. And above his brow, the wound—a jagged gash stretched across the side of his head. It was torn open, raw and terrible, caked with dirt and blood that continued to pour down, matting his black hair, dripping steadily down his jaw. It looked like he had been struck with brutal force, the skin shredded and the bone beneath frighteningly close to view.

You couldn’t breathe. The sounds of the crew blurred into a dull roar in your ears. All you could see was the ring on his hand, the blood on his face, and the terrifying stillness of the man who was supposed to be your fire, your forever.

“Ace…” Your voice broke, a trembling, ragged whisper as your knees threatened to give out. You were moving, pushing through the desperate crowd, drawn by a force you couldn’t resist. The world narrowed down to the sight of him in their arms, his head lolling, his blood staining everything it touched.

“Let me through!” you screamed, shoving against shoulders, not caring who you pushed aside. Your heart was pounding so violently it hurt, your breath tearing from your lungs.

Marco was there, his hands pressed firm against Ace’s head wound, blue flames trying desperately to cauterize the bleeding. His usual calm was cracked—guilt etched into every line of his face. “Yoi, stay back—”

“No!” you shrieked, the sound raw and breaking, as you grabbed for Ace’s limp hand. The ring was slick with blood, the warmth beneath it fading. “Don’t you tell me to stay back—he’s my husband!”

Marco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t fight you when you pulled Ace closer, your hands trembling as you tried to wipe the blood from his face, your tears streaking down to mix with it. “Ace, wake up—please, you promised me forever!”

The men carrying him faltered under the weight of your desperation. Finally, Marco gave a sharp order: “Take him to medical, now!”

You clung to him all the way, your fingers locked around his. His blood painted your palms, your sleeves, even your face when you pressed against his. It soaked through everything, hot and sticky, the metallic smell of iron choking you.

But when you reached the infirmary, Marco stopped you at the door. He turned, his golden eyes burning with something that was equal parts authority and sorrow. “You can’t come in, yoi. We need space to work. If you’re in there, he won’t stand a chance.”

“No—Marco, don’t—please, I can’t—” Your words tumbled out, broken, desperate, as he held you back.

It was Izo who caught your shoulders, steady but gentle. His own face was tight, his usual poise shattered. “Little dove,” he murmured, his voice soft, “let them do their job. He needs them. He needs you strong when he wakes.”

Your chest caved in, a sob ripping through you as they pulled Ace away, the heavy doors of the infirmary slamming shut behind him. You were left staring at your hands, trembling, slick with his blood. It was everywhere, a cruel reminder of the life that was now hanging by a thread.

Jozu stood nearby, his massive frame bent awkwardly as though he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Thatch, for once, was silent, his face as pale as a ghost. They wanted to say something, but nothing could fill the gaping void.

All you could do was collapse against the wall, your knees pulled to your chest, your hands still stained, shaking so badly you could hardly breathe.

And then, the waiting began. Minutes stretched into hours, every sound from behind that door making you flinch, every muffled shout or hurried step tearing you apart. You didn’t know if Ace was fighting or fading. You didn’t know if you’d ever see his grin again, feel his fire against your skin, or hear his laugh cutting through the storm.

All you knew was that your heart was sitting on that table with him. And all you could do was pray it kept beating.

The hallway outside the infirmary felt like a coffin—tight, suffocating, every breath a shallow, sharp ache. You were on the floor, back pressed to the wall, but you couldn’t feel the cold wood against you. You couldn’t feel anything but the tacky weight of blood on your skin.

Ace's blood.

You stared down at your hands, trembling in your lap. Crimson, dried in streaks and clumps beneath your fingernails, painting the lines of your palms. You flexed your fingers, but they shook uncontrollably, and the thought kept clawing at you: He didn’t hold me back. His hand had been limp in yours. He hadn't squeezed, hadn't stirred. He was there, but he wasn’t.

"Y/N…" Thatch's voice was soft, so unlike his usual boisterous self. He crouched nearby, hands resting loosely on his knees. "He's a tough bastard, you know? He's gonna pull through. He always does."

You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Marco’s orders, the slam of the infirmary doors, the terrifying image of that wound—it all blurred into a deafening roar. Your heartbeat hammered in your ears.

Your eyes burned, not from tears but from the sight that wouldn't leave your head. That gash across Ace’s temple, blood matting his hair. Your hands twitched, and suddenly you were on your feet, stumbling to a water basin nearby.

You plunged your hands in, scrubbing hard, too hard. The clear water went pink, then crimson, swirling with every desperate movement. Still, you scrubbed, your nails digging into your own skin, dragging the cloth against your palms until it burned. "Get it off—get it off—"

Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps as you rubbed harder, harder, your skin reddening, peeling raw beneath the frantic force. The blood clung stubbornly in the cracks of your fingers, mocking you, whispering that it was his life staining you.

Strong, calloused hands closed gently around your wrists. "Stop, Y/N." It was Vista, his usual easy smile replaced with quiet firmness. He pulled the cloth from your grip, holding your raw, stinging hands steady in his. "You'll hurt yourself more than help. That's not what he'd want."

You shook your head, chest heaving, your voice breaking into something jagged. "I can't—Vista, I can still feel it—his blood—it won't come off—it won't—"

He tightened his grip just enough to ground you. His eyes softened, even as his jaw clenched. "Listen to me. It's not your fault. You being here, holding on to him—that's what's keeping him tethered. Don't tear yourself apart."

Behind him, Izo stood with his arms crossed, his face unreadable but his eyes glimmering with pain. Jozu lingered like a silent wall, his massive frame hunched in discomfort, as though he, too, didn't know how to fix what was breaking in front of him.

You stared at Vista, your chest rising and falling too fast, your skin raw and aching. And still, beneath the numbness and the pain, the cruel thought gnawed at you like a tide: He didn't hold my hand back.

And you didn’t know if he ever would again.

The sound of the infirmary doors creaking open snapped everyone’s heads up. Your heart lurched into your throat as Marco stepped out, his white coat spattered, streaked, soaked in red. Ace's red.

You were on your feet before you even realized it, your chest heaving, words tumbling out sharp and panicked. "Tell me—Marco, tell me—"

His face was grim, far more solemn than the calm he usually carried. The weight in his golden eyes made your knees feel weak. For a moment, you thought he was about to say the words that would end you.

Then, softly, he said: "He's alive."

A shaky, unsteady breath tore from your lungs, your body nearly folding from the sheer, staggering relief. But before you could feel the full weight of it, Marco added, "—but he's in a coma."

The world tilted again. Relief and horror crashed into each other, leaving you dizzy. "A… a coma?" you whispered, as if saying the word would make it less real.

Marco only nodded, his expression tightening, guilt painting the edges of his face. "We stopped the bleeding. Stitched what we could. But that wound…" He glanced down, his jaw clenching. "It was too deep. He's breathing, but he may not wake up for a while. We don't know how long."

Something inside you cracked. Without thinking, you shoved past him, ignoring the sharp protest in his voice. The smell of iron and antiseptic hit you like a wave as you burst into the infirmary.

And there he was.

Ace lay on the cot, still as death. His skin was pale, the warmth that always radiated from him dulled to a faint ember you could barely feel. His freckles stood out stark against his bloodless cheeks. A thick bandage wrapped around the side of his head, but beneath it you could see the edge of the wound—the angry, jagged line that cut across his temple, a fresh scar that would never fade. His black hair was matted, trimmed away where the stitches dug into his flesh.

You stumbled forward, your hands trembling as you reached for him. He looked wrong. Too quiet, too still. Ace was never still. He was fire, motion, laughter. And now… now he looked like a shell, the flame tucked so deep you couldn’t reach it.

You dropped into the chair beside him, your hands finding his. It was cold. Not icy, but cold enough to make your stomach twist. You pressed your forehead against his knuckles, tears spilling freely now, tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

"This isn't you," you whispered, your voice breaking. "You're supposed to laugh too loud, eat too much, steal my blankets, argue with me about nothing." Your shoulders shook as the words poured out. "Not this. Not like this."

The scar, the bandages, the pale skin—it all felt like a mockery. As if fate had stolen the man you loved and left you with a shadow in his place.

You clung to his hand, desperate, frantic, begging silently for even the smallest twitch of his fingers. But there was nothing. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest—the only proof your fire was still alive.

You never let go of his hand.

The first night, you sat at his bedside until your eyes burned, your fingers laced so tightly with his that you were sure you could tether him to the world through touch alone. At some point, exhaustion claimed you, and you slumped forward on the cot, your cheek pressed to his arm. When you woke, his hand was still in yours—unmoving, but there. That became your anchor, the single constant in a world that had fallen apart.

Days blurred into weeks. The world outside the infirmary kept turning—missions, laughter, the roar of the sea—but for you, time froze the moment Ace closed his eyes. You refused to leave his side, eating the little food others brought you without tasting it, and washing your hands raw each morning, yet still feeling his blood on your skin.

The crew grew worried. At first, they gave you the quiet, the space you demanded. But soon, they began filtering in.

Marco was there most often, quiet and watchful, sometimes standing at the doorway for hours before finally telling you to rest. You never did.

Thatch brought meals, always with some terrible joke, though the laughter never reached his eyes. “If you’re wasting away, flamebrain’s gonna be pissed when he wakes,” he’d mutter, sliding a plate closer to you.

Izo sometimes sat in the chair across from you, polishing his guns in silence, the metallic click and scrape oddly comforting. Occasionally, his sharp gaze would soften as he told you stories of Ace—little pieces of him that filled the hushed silence.

Even Jozu tried, his massive presence almost comical in the too-small infirmary. He'd drop off blankets or fresh clothes, pretending they weren’t for you when they clearly were.

And at night, when you thought no one was looking, even Pops himself would linger in the doorway. His shadow filled the frame, quiet and heavy, but he never entered. He didn’t need to—you could feel the grief, the love, the worry radiating from him.

But through it all, you never left Ace’s side. You held his hand as though it was the last thread binding you together. Sometimes you talked to him, your voice soft, telling him about your day, about the crew, about the stupid things that kept happening without him. Other times, you simply lay curled beside him, listening to the faint rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm that told you he was still here.

Weeks passed like that, your body weakening, your heart fraying. But your resolve never did.

Because if he was fighting in the dark, you would fight with him.

It happened on a morning that felt no different from the others.

The room was hushed, the ship rocking gently, and the light through the infirmary window painted Ace’s skin a pale gold. You were half-asleep, your head resting near his arm, his hand still tangled in yours. You'd fallen into the rhythm of his shallow breaths, a rhythm you'd learned by heart these past endless weeks.

Then—there was a shift.

His fingers twitched.

At first, you thought it was a dream. You lifted your head, eyes blurry with exhaustion, but then it came again—stronger. His hand flexed weakly against yours. Your heart leapt into your throat.

“Ace?” your voice cracked, trembling with disbelief. You scrambled up, brushing hair out of your face. “Ace, I’m here.”

His eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling against his cheeks before finally, finally, his dark eyes blinked open. You gasped, tears already spilling, a laugh breaking from your chest. “You’re awake—oh my god, you’re awake.”

You leaned over him, pressing a desperate kiss to his forehead, sobbing into his skin, your relief overflowing. “I knew you’d come back to me—I knew it—”

But then you felt it. The way his body stiffened beneath you. The way his breath quickened, unsteady, not with relief but with fear.

You pulled back, searching his face. His wide eyes darted around the room, then back to you. And there it was—the look that shattered you more than any wound ever could.

He didn’t recognize you.

“W-who…” his voice was hoarse, cracked from disuse. He swallowed hard, his brows furrowing. “…who are you?”

The words sliced through you, clean and merciless.

You froze, the tears on your cheeks burning. “Ace… it’s me. It’s—” Your voice broke as you gripped his hand tighter. “It’s Y/N. Your wife.”

But the panic in his eyes only deepened. His free hand went weakly to the bandage at his head, confusion and fear etched across his face. “I don’t… I don’t know you.”

The world tilted, your breath knocked from your chest. You felt the blood drain from your face as your grip loosened, his hand slipping against yours.

For weeks, you had prayed for him to wake. For weeks, you had imagined his smile, his warmth, his teasing voice filling the air again.

And now he was awake.

But your Ace was gone.

Your throat closed, the air in your lungs turning to a sharp, brittle thing. Yet you managed to choke out the words, your voice trembling like glass.

“Marco! Someone! Please!”

The infirmary door burst open. Marco came first, his sharp gaze instantly locking onto Ace. Behind him, Izo and Thatch crowded in, Jozu’s heavy steps not far behind. A wave of relief washed over their faces, a momentary glimpse of hope that fractured as they took in the scene before them. Ace was awake, but not whole.

Marco stepped to his side immediately, his hands gentle but firm as he checked Ace’s pulse, his breathing, his bandages. “Easy, yoi. Don’t push yourself. You’ve been out for weeks.”

Ace’s eyes flicked to him, squinting as though pulling memories from a thick fog. Then, there it was—recognition. “Marco,” he rasped, his lips twitching into a faint, tired grin. “You look… older.”

Marco blinked, a strange relief flickering across his face. “Older, huh? Tch. Brat.”

Thatch laughed wetly, his grin shaky. “Of all the first things you remember, you call him old? That’s Ace, alright.”

But then Ace’s gaze slid past them, his expression clouding. He saw Izo and nodded faintly, muttering, “Still sharp as ever, huh?” He looked at Jozu and smirked, though it was weaker than it should have been.

And then his eyes landed on you.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just confusion—sharp, cutting, unrelenting.

You didn’t move. You couldn't. Your hand still hovered near his, trembling, but when he pulled his away—slow, almost cautious, as if your touch burned—your stomach hollowed out.

The others saw it. They saw the way his body angled toward them, familiar, at ease, even joking through the rasp in his throat. And they saw the way he shrank back from you, as if you were a stranger intruding on something sacred. The shift in the room was suffocating.

Your chest caved in silently as you lowered your hand to your lap, your thumb rubbing circles over your wedding band until your skin was sore. The gold felt heavy now, cruel.

Marco glanced at you quickly, his eyes tightening, but he said nothing. The truth was already there, glaring and merciless. Ace remembered them. He remembered the crew, the years before you ever set foot on Whitebeard’s ship.

But he didn't remember you.

You forced your head down, staring at your ring, because if you looked up, you were sure they would all see how hollow your eyes had become. The crew tried everything they could think of.

Marco sat beside Ace, speaking in that calm, steady voice of his. “Ace, you’re back now. You’ve been out a long time, yoi. Do you remember when we first set sail together? The battles, the storms… the laughs?”

Ace blinked slowly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pull memories from the fog. He smiled faintly at Marco’s words, like pieces of a puzzle were fitting, but it wasn’t all there.

Thatch chimed in, trying to tease him like always. “Remember the time you stole my food for a week straight? Or how you almost got eaten by that sea monster? You laughed so loud it made me think you were crazy.”

Ace chuckled weakly, shaking his head. “I… I remember you guys. Some of it anyway. The… fights, the laughs…” His gaze drifted to the others, recognition flickering in moments, small and jagged.

Izo tried to show him old photographs, old maps of islands they had visited together, pointing out faces and names. “Look here, Ace. You were younger than you are now. You remember this place, don’t you?”

Ace’s eyes followed the pictures carefully, his lips twitching in thought. There were flashes of recognition—moments of his past he could grasp—but you were absent from them. No memory stirred when his eyes lingered on you across the room.

You watched quietly, clutching your wedding band, fingers fidgeting over it as if the weight of it could tether you to something that no longer existed. The laughter, the teasing, the warmth of the crew—it all reached him, but not the connection you had shared. Not the love that had once been his home.

Eventually, after hours of gentle coaxing and prodding, you realized something. He needed space. Time. Healing. And you couldn’t force him to remember you—not yet, maybe not for a long time.

So you offered a soft, fragile smile, letting the pain sit heavy but quiet in your chest. “Get well, Ace,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the hollow ache inside you. “I… hope you have a good recovery.”

He looked at you then, confusion and fear still clouding his eyes, but he nodded faintly, trusting enough to accept your presence without knowing why.

You rose, brushing a hand gently over the edge of the cot as if leaving a whisper of yourself behind. And then you stepped away, leaving the room, leaving him to the crew, leaving the man who had once been your fire to slowly find his way back to himself.

Outside the infirmary, you paused, taking a long, trembling breath. The sun was high, the ship rocking gently beneath your feet. A piece of you had been left behind in that room, but you held onto hope—that one day, he would remember. That one day, your fire and his would burn together again.

You hadn’t cried yet. Not really. Not since that first awful moment when Ace opened his eyes and didn't know you. You thought you could hold it together, to hold back the panic, the heartbreak, the emptiness inside, but it had been weeks of silent agony, waiting, hoping, pretending that smiling at him from the doorway was enough.

And then Marco came to find you.

He found you leaning against the ship’s rail, staring out at the endless blue, your hands nervously fidgeting with your wedding band. His expression was careful, measured, but the weight behind his golden eyes made your chest tighten.

“Y/N…” he said softly. “I… I don’t know if he’ll ever remember. Not fully. Not… the things you two shared.”

The words hit you like a wave, cold and merciless. You froze, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle the first reaction—but what came out wasn’t a gasp or a sob. It was a laugh. A dry, hollow laugh that started quiet, almost like a chuckle, but it shook your chest as it grew, bitter and distant. Your knees buckled, and you gripped the railing tighter, trying to stop it, but it didn’t stop. It spiraled into something rawer, louder, until it finally broke apart and became a sob.

You fell to the deck, hands pressed over your face, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The sound ripped through you, carrying weeks of fear, of grief, of the crushing knowledge that the person you loved might never recognize you again. Marco knelt beside you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt and sorrow. “I wish I could fix this, I wish—”

You didn’t hear him. The sobs were too loud, too deep, wracking your body. You could feel your own blood pounding in your ears, your fingers still clutching the ring as if letting go would mean losing him forever. He was alive, but he wasn’t yours—not yet, maybe not ever. The truth cut sharper than any wound you had ever seen, and you let the tears fall freely at last.

Even after the first raw sobs faded into quiet exhaustion, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Ace was still here, still breathing, still the man you loved—even if he didn’t know it.

You stayed close. Not inside the infirmary—not unless someone called for help—but just outside the door, sitting on the floor, your back against the wall, listening to the soft rhythms of his sleep. Every shallow breath, every flutter of his lashes against pale skin, every faint twitch of his fingers, was a lifeline.

You made his food yourself, carefully and quietly, bringing it to the nurse or leaving it on a tray near the door. You remembered his favorites—the spicy bits, the little indulgences, the exact way he liked the meat cut. Even if he didn’t remember you tasting it first or laughing when he stole half, you made sure it was right.

Sleep had become a stranger. You didn’t go to your bed, didn’t touch the one you had shared. How could you, knowing he was lying pale and fragile, scarred and sleeping, just beyond the door? How could you sleep while the man who had been your home didn’t know you were his? And yet, every night, a dull ache twisted in your chest. You thought of the plans you had made, the whispered dreams of starting a family, of finally having little pieces of him running around the deck, of teaching them to be stubborn, strong, fiery—just like him. Now, those dreams felt fragile, unreal, waiting in the shadows of a life that might never return.

Still, you stayed. You whispered to him when no one else was around, telling him small things, about the crew, the ridiculous things Thatch had done that morning, the jokes Marco made, the way the waves were sparkling like glass over the horizon. Even if he didn’t recognize your voice, you hoped it carried to him somehow. Every night you fell asleep sitting up, your cheek pressed to the wall outside the infirmary, your fingers brushing the wedding band that had once meant forever. Every morning you woke and did it all over again.

Because you couldn’t leave him. Not now, not ever. Even if he didn’t know who you were, you would be there. Always.

The crew’s glares were quiet but sharp, cutting through you in small, constant ways. Thatch would catch your eye sometimes and frown, shaking his head just slightly, muttering something under his breath before looking away. Jozu’s heavy brow would furrow every time he passed the infirmary door, the weight of his concern pressing down in silence. Even Marco—careful, patient, composed Marco—would occasionally glance at you, his expression almost pleading, like he wished he could tell you it wasn’t your fault, or that there was some way to fix it.

You ignored them, mostly. Their worry was justified, but it couldn’t touch the ache inside you, the hollow spot where Ace’s recognition should have been. You moved through the days like a ghost, bringing food, adjusting pillows, reminding the nurses of his habits, always just outside the infirmary door, always watching.

Inside, Ace stirred in the quiet of the afternoon. Something felt… wrong. A restlessness he couldn’t place clawed at the edges of his mind. He sat up slowly, blinking against the light, trying to grasp the world around him. Shadows of memories flitted across his mind, but they were broken, incomplete, like a fire half-burned.

His eyes fell on something shining on the bedside table—a small, familiar glint he didn’t immediately place. He reached out, his weak fingers trembling, and picked up the ring. The metal was warm from where someone had handled it, scratched and dulled, yet impossibly heavy in its significance. He turned it over in his hands, the engravings catching the light, the simple circle reminding him of something he couldn’t name. A pang ran through him, deep and strange, like a pull he didn’t understand. It was his, somehow, and yet not something he remembered putting there.

His chest tightened. There was a tug at his gut, a whisper of a feeling that felt right, familiar—but it came with no face, no name, no sound. Just the echo of a life he couldn’t recall, the shadow of someone who had once been everything.

Outside the infirmary, you fidgeted with your wedding band, unaware that the small, familiar shape of metal was already touching him, drawing a faint spark of recognition, a piece of a memory just beyond his reach. And for the first time since waking, something inside Ace stirred like a tiny flame—small, hesitant, but undeniably there.

The day Ace was released from the infirmary felt unreal.

The doors swung open slowly, and he stepped out, still pale and fragile, but upright. The sunlight hit him differently than he remembered—it was brighter, harsher, somehow, throwing everything into sharp relief. The deck looked the same, but it wasn’t the same. The faces… the crew… so many of them were new. Some looked at him like he was a stranger, while others didn’t look at him at all. A few even made him flinch—the way their eyes lingered on his scars, the way their lips twisted as if they were judging him for something he didn’t understand. Not just for being hurt, but something more he couldn't name.

And there were the whispers. Shadows seemed to float at the edge of his awareness, murmuring in tones too soft to catch. He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or if someone was really speaking. The dissonance set his nerves on edge. He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself in the familiar rhythm of the ship beneath his feet, the sun on his skin—but everything was distorted, foreign.

And then he saw her.

You were there, as you always had been, though you weren’t inside the infirmary this time. You were leaning against the railing, one hand fidgeting with your ring, your eyes soft and careful as they followed him. The crew around you seemed to give you space, but your presence was unmistakable. Ace’s gaze landed on you, and for a moment, his brow furrowed. The girl from the infirmary—the one he’d woken up to holding her hand—was still there. Weird. Quiet. Watching.

He didn’t remember you. Not fully. Not yet. But something inside him recognized the way you moved, the way you lingered, the way your eyes never left him. A small, inexplicable twitch of familiarity tugged at the edges of his mind. He swallowed hard, confusion twisting in his chest. Who is she?

You gave him a small, gentle smile, careful and almost hesitant, as if you were trying not to scare him away. And in that instant, Ace understood two things: She was watching over him, and whatever she was, she wasn’t leaving. The rest of the crew’s strange looks, the whispers, the shadows—all of it faded for a heartbeat. Only she remained. And for the first time since waking, he felt… unsettled, yes, but tethered. Not sure why. Not sure how. But tethered.

Dinner was always the loudest part of the day on Whitebeard’s ship—a glorious chaos of jokes, clattering plates, and overlapping voices. Once, it had been your favorite part of life aboard. Once, you and Ace had carved out your own space in the chaos—bickering over food, stealing bites from each other’s plates, laughing so loud that Thatch would groan and toss bread at you both.

Now, you slipped into the hall quietly, carrying your own bowl, and found a place at the far end of the table. You told yourself you needed the distance. You couldn’t sit beside him, not when he looked at you like you were a stranger. Ace came in a few minutes later. For a heartbeat, your chest lifted, an old instinct urging you to wave him over, to slide your plate closer to make room. But instead, he gravitated toward Marco, dropping heavily onto the bench beside him. It was quiet then—at least, for you.

Marco smirked faintly, shaking his head. “So, you just sit down and expect me to share my food, yoi?”

Ace grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Old habits, I guess.” He leaned over, swiping a piece of meat right off Marco’s plate, and the table erupted in laughter.

Thatch groaned dramatically. “Oh, that’s back? Great. Guess I need to start locking my kitchen again.”

“Don’t even try,” Ace shot back with that mischievous grin that had once belonged to you, making your stomach twist. “I’ll find it.”

The banter rolled on, easy and familiar for them—but not for you. Every laugh he shared, every spark of the boy you knew in his smile, stabbed at you in silence. Because that spark never turned your way. You sat in the corner of the long table, a spoon moving slowly through your food. The noise around you blurred, muffled by the weight in your chest. When Ace laughed hard at something Izo teased him about, you couldn’t help but glance up. His eyes were bright, his face alive in a way you hadn’t seen in weeks.

And then he caught you staring. For a split second, confusion flickered across his face—the kind of look you’d give someone you vaguely remembered seeing once or twice. You quickly dropped your gaze, pretending to focus on your untouched bowl. Your fingers found your wedding band under the table, turning it round and round until your skin was sore. You felt sick—not at him, never at him. But at the way he looked at you now, without knowing. At the past that lived in your bones but not in his. At the memories you carried alone.

When the meal ended, Ace stood with Marco, laughing as they headed toward the deck. The crew followed in their noisy stream. You waited until the room was almost empty before rising, gathering plates quietly. Because once, you had left dinner with him, shoulder brushing shoulder, his hand warm in yours. Now, you left alone.

That night was harder than dinner. You waited until you knew he’d be walked back to his quarters before you slipped inside—your quarters, the ones you had shared. The air was heavy with memories you could barely stand to breathe in. The king bed in the middle of the room looked too big now, too soft, layered with blankets you had chosen together. The shelves were stacked with trinkets you had collected, little souvenirs Ace used to tease you about keeping. Clothes—yours and his—were folded together, some still half-damp from the wash. And the smell. Not just his musk, not just the faint warmth of smoke and salt that clung to him always—but yours. Lavender oil, the faint sweetness of your shampoo. It was the smell of two people, tangled lives woven into one space.

Your chest squeezed tight as you stuffed your belongings into a bag, working quickly, not letting yourself stop to think. You grabbed your brush, your clothes, even the little shells you had lined along the windowsill. Each one felt heavier than it should have, each one a reminder that this had once been your home. Your room. Your life.

By the time Marco was leading Ace down the hallway, you had already slipped out the back, clutching your bag to your chest. You lingered only long enough to hear Marco’s voice—soft but steady—telling him, “This is your room.” Then you forced your legs to carry you away.

Ace stepped inside, his hand brushing the frame. It wasn’t what he remembered. It wasn’t what he knew. The crew’s bunks were rows of simple cots, hammocks strung between beams, blankets tossed carelessly. This… this was different. A single king-sized bed sat at the center, draped in dark linens, pillows arranged with care. Trinkets and keepsakes lined the shelves, books stacked neatly on a small desk. Light curtains framed the window, softening the room with a homely glow.

And the smell. It wasn’t just his. It was there, faint but undeniable—lavender, sweetness, warmth. The kind of scent that seeped into sheets, into clothes, into skin. The kind of scent that said this wasn’t just his room. Two people had been living here.

He froze in the doorway, his fingers tightening on the handle. His chest felt heavy, like he was intruding on someone else’s space. Someone else’s life. And though he couldn’t place it, though his memories refused to fill the gaps, something about the way the air clung to him, something about the faint tug in his chest told him that whoever had lived here with him… had just walked out.

And for the first time that day, the grin slipped from his face.

The next morning came without rest. You hadn’t slept a single second, your body aching from sitting upright on the spare cot tucked away in a quiet corner of the ship. Your eyes burned, your chest felt hollow, but you forced yourself upright anyway. The others didn't need to see you collapse—not again. When you emerged into the daylight, the sea glittered too bright, too cruel for how heavy the world felt. You went about your duties like always, keeping your head down, your hands moving without thought. If you stopped, if you let yourself think, you knew you’d shatter.

And then you heard it—Ace’s laugh. Clear, unbothered, well-rested.

He came walking out from the room you used to share, his shoulders loose, his hair mussed from a good night’s sleep. He stretched as if nothing in the world was wrong. For him, maybe it wasn’t. For him, maybe it was just another morning. But the crew saw it before you did. The empty band of skin around his finger. No ring.

The glances were instant, sharp and darting between one another. Some froze, others’ jaws tightened. Marco’s lips pressed into a thin line, Thatch’s usual cheer dimmed, and Haruta nearly choked on their own breath. You caught none of it, too focused on scrubbing down a rail until your knuckles stung. They didn’t want you to see. They stepped in front of you, shifted their bodies to block the way, and started speaking louder to distract you. Thatch cracked jokes a little too forced, Izo clapped a hand on Ace’s shoulder to turn him aside, and Marco called his name to send him in the opposite direction. Because they all knew—knew that if you looked up, if your eyes landed on Ace’s bare hand—your heart, already fragile, might not withstand it.

And so you kept working, unaware, while their pity pressed in like a storm. You kept yourself busy, scrubbing down the deck, tying off rope, fetching supplies—anything to keep your hands moving, anything to keep the silence in your chest from breaking open. But around you, the crew moved differently. Too carefully. When Ace wandered closer, the others shifted in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Vista suddenly struck up a loud conversation with him, clapping him on the back and steering him away from you with too much enthusiasm. Haruta “tripped” in front of him, crouching low, making sure their body blocked your line of sight. Izo swayed in deliberately, positioning his sleeve so long it almost brushed Ace’s hand, always keeping it hidden. Every time Ace lifted his arm to stretch or to gesture, Marco called his name from across the deck, pulling his attention—pulling his hands—somewhere else. Even Thatch, usually careless with his words, laughed too hard, too loud, bumping Ace so his hands were shoved into his pockets.

You didn’t notice. Not really. You only caught the edges of their strange behavior, too wrapped up in your own haze to question it. The way their eyes darted to you, then back to him. The tension buzzing just under their smiles. All you knew was that the air around you felt heavy, the kind of heavy that came when people were keeping something from you. Their laughter was off, their words too practiced. You didn’t see the empty finger. You didn’t see the pale line of skin where the ring should’ve been. But they did. And every single one of them carried the weight of it in their silence—because they weren’t sure how much more you could take.

It happened on a quiet afternoon. The sun was dipping low, painting the deck in gold, and you were carrying a basket of folded laundry across the ship. You weren’t even looking for him—you were trying to keep your head down, to stay busy like always. Ace came bounding up from below deck, laughing with Thatch about something stupid, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. For once, no one was fast enough.

You looked up just as his hand swung wide, the light catching on bare skin where his ring should have been. Your steps faltered. The basket slipped from your arms, clothes spilling across the deck. There it was. Clear as day. The ring was gone.

The sound of his laugh didn’t reach you anymore. The chatter around you blurred, the waves, the gulls, the crew—it all fell silent. All you could see was his hand, empty, naked, as though the promise had never been there at all. Your stomach dropped, your throat tightened. For a second, you couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just a band of metal. It was everything. Every late-night whisper, every soft vow, every dream of the future you were supposed to build together. Gone.

Your body reacted before your mind caught up—you staggered back, gripping the railing like the ship itself was tilting beneath you. The crew froze, eyes wide, horror flashing across their faces. They’d tried so hard to shield you, but the truth was there, blinding, undeniable. And you couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop the way your hand drifted instinctively to your own ring, twisting it, clutching it, as though if you held on tight enough you could drag him back to you.

But his hand remained bare.

You told yourself you’d be fine. That if you smiled enough, if you stayed busy, if you kept your voice light, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. At first, you clung to that hope like a life raft. You forced yourself to laugh when others laughed, to eat at dinner, to speak when spoken to. You convinced yourself that someday Ace would wake up and be your Ace again. But the days bled into weeks. Then weeks into a month. And with each passing sunrise, the hope wore thinner.

He was everywhere you went—his voice carried on the breeze, his footsteps echoed down the deck, his laugh rang out across the ship—but it wasn’t him. Not the man who whispered promises against your skin, who traced circles over your hand, who had looked at you with so much fire and so much love you swore the world itself was jealous. This Ace smiled differently. Talked differently. Laughed without the memories that had built your life together. His eyes passed over you without recognition. His hand, the one you used to hold so tightly, now twitched away from yours like you were a stranger. And every time it happened, a little more of you faded. You became quieter. Your smile thinned until it was only a shadow of what it had been. The crew noticed—the way your shoulders slumped, the way your eyes stared through the sea instead of at it, the way you twisted your wedding ring over and over until the skin beneath it was raw. No one could blame you. How could they? You had practically lost your husband—but he was still here, breathing, walking, laughing, while the man you loved remained locked away in a place you couldn’t reach. And every night, lying alone in a bed that still smelled of him, you wondered which was worse—losing him forever, or having him so close, yet already gone.

The next time the ship docked, the air was alive with music and laughter. A party broke out, as it always did—booze flowing, tables piled high with food, crew members singing and dancing under the stars. You tried to lose yourself in it, to pretend for a night that you were just another pirate enjoying shore leave, not someone carrying a hollowed-out heart. And then you saw him. Ace sat near the center of it all, his grin wide, his laugh loud, a bottle in his hand. A woman leaned close, her fingers brushing his arm as she whispered something into his ear. He smirked, cheeks tinged with a playful flush, and leaned back into her attention without hesitation. Right there. In front of you.

The sound of the party dulled, muffled, like you were underwater. You stood frozen, eyes fixed on him, on her, on the sight of his smile—the same one he used to give you—now turned on someone else. Your chest burned. You couldn’t breathe. Whitebeard’s shadow fell across you. His presence was vast, comforting in its sheer size. He didn’t say anything at first, just let you stand there, the silence between you loud enough. Finally, in his rumbling voice, he asked, “You holding up, daughter?”

The words cracked something in you. You shook your head, eyes stinging, your voice breaking low. “I… I can’t do it. He’s right there, but he’s not him. Not anymore. And every time I see him, it feels like I’m breaking all over again.”

Whitebeard’s eyes softened, though sorrow weighed heavy in his gaze. “No one will fault you for struggling. No one can carry this kind of pain without stumbling.”

You nodded faintly, but his words barely reached you. That night, when the party quieted and the crew stumbled back to their bunks, you sat alone in the dim glow of your lantern. Your hands trembled as you slid your wedding ring from your finger. The skin beneath it was pale, raw from how tightly you’d held onto it all this time. You threaded the ring onto a thin chain and clasped it around your neck. It rested heavy against your chest, close to your heart—no longer a promise worn for the world to see, but a memory you kept tucked away, just for yourself. And with that, you finally admitted what you’d been running from. The man who had once been your husband was gone, even if his body still walked the deck. And you didn’t know if you’d ever get him back.

You tried. God, you tried. You told yourself every morning when you woke up alone that today would be different. You would smile. You would laugh. You would move on. You wouldn’t let his shadow haunt you anymore. You tried spending more time with the crew—joking with Thatch when he cooked, sitting with Haruta when they told stories, even helping Marco with his endless work just to keep your hands busy. Some nights you drank too much, hoping the burn would numb the ache in your chest. Other nights you sat by the railing, whispering to the sea like it could take your grief with the tide.

But it was never enough. Because every time you saw him, it started all over again. When he passed you on deck, laughing with someone else, your chest clenched. When his voice carried across the ship, careless and warm, it ripped open wounds that hadn’t begun to heal. When he smiled—that smile—at anyone but you, you thought you might break in half.

You couldn’t escape him. Not here. He was in every corridor, every shadow of the room you once shared, every corner of the ship that still held your memories. You couldn’t scrub his touch from the wood, couldn’t silence his laughter echoing in your head, couldn’t stop the way your body remembered him even when his didn’t remember you. It had been months. Months of pretending, of forcing yourself forward, of trying to accept that he was gone. But the truth was merciless: he wasn’t gone. He was here, alive, whole, smiling, breathing the same air as you—and yet, he wasn’t yours. And each time you saw him, it was like losing him all over again. You weren’t just haunted. You were hollow, a ghost walking among the living, carrying a love that had nowhere left to go.

The months bled together until they felt endless. Sunrise after sunrise, ship after ship, laughter after laughter that didn’t belong to you. Almost a year of it—nearly twelve months of watching your husband live a life without you in it, of waking up every day to a man who looked like Ace but wasn’t Ace, who didn’t remember your love, your vows, your future. By then, you were worn thin. You smiled less, spoke less. You still did your duties—helped where you could, cared for your family—but your heart wasn’t on the Moby Dick anymore. It had sunk somewhere deep, somewhere you couldn’t find.

One evening, the air was quiet. The crew’s usual noise had dimmed, stars glittering high above the mast. Whitebeard sat in his great chair, sake jug in hand, his presence filling the night like a calm tide. You approached, your steps heavy, and for a moment you just stood there, unsure if you could even say it. But his eyes opened, steady and knowing, and he rumbled, “Out with it, daughter.” You swallowed hard, twisting the chain around your neck—the one that held your ring. “I… I can’t do this anymore. Not here. Not with him.” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself on. “Every day it feels like I’m breaking. He doesn’t remember our wedding, doesn’t remember our love, doesn’t even remember me. I thought I could be strong enough to wait, to keep hoping, but… I’m not.”

Whitebeard studied you for a long while, his face unreadable. Then he set down his jug with a heavy thud and leaned forward, his massive frame shadowing yours. “No one can fault you for this choice,” he said quietly, his voice like rolling thunder. “You’ve carried more pain than most could endure. If leaving is what will keep you alive, then you have my blessing. You will always be my daughter, no matter where you go.” Your throat tightened, tears burning your eyes, but you nodded. For the first time in months, the weight lifted, if only slightly. You were leaving the crew. Leaving the ship that had been your home. Leaving the man who had once been your everything but now looked at you like a stranger. It wasn’t the life you wanted. But it was the only way you could keep surviving.

The day you left was heavy with grief, though no cannon fired, no battle raged. It was just the sound of the sea, the cries of gulls, and the weight of your crew’s hearts breaking as they gathered on the deck. Your bag was light, just a few belongings. Everything else—the memories, the laughter, the love—you were leaving behind. You stood at the railing of the Moby Dick, the smaller ship that would carry you to the nearest island bobbing gently in the water below.

Thatch was the first to break. He shoved through the crowd, his usual grin gone, his hands shaking as he grabbed your shoulders. “You can’t just go,” he said, his voice cracking. “We’re family! You’re my family!” His eyes shimmered, and he tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strangled. You smiled faintly, placing a hand over his. “I’ll always be your family. That won’t change. But I can’t… I can’t keep breaking here.”

Izo stepped forward next, their composure slipping for once, eyeliner streaked from tears they tried to hide. “You’ll regret it,” they whispered, though their voice wavered. “Not leaving—but losing yourself to grief. Don’t let it swallow you, Y/N.” You bowed your head, touched by their honesty. Haruta clung to your waist like a child, sobbing openly, while Vista squeezed your shoulder so hard it hurt, as though trying to keep you tethered to the deck by sheer strength. Marco, silent as ever, didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you with eyes filled with guilt—guilt that he hadn’t been able to save Ace whole, guilt that he hadn’t been able to save you. Finally, he whispered, “Stay alive. Promise me.”

And Ace… he lingered in the back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t cry, didn’t ask you to stay. When your eyes met his, you saw nothing familiar there. Nothing that belonged to you. He only gave a polite nod, as though you were another crewmate moving on to a different path. That cut deeper than all the tears combined. Whitebeard’s booming voice called out over the deck as you climbed down to the waiting boat: “Wherever the seas carry you, daughter, this will always be your home!” The crew roared agreement through their tears, waving, calling your name, begging you to come back. You forced yourself not to look back as the distance grew, though your heart splintered with each stroke of the oars.

Life after the Moby Dick was quiet. The sea felt lonelier without the thunder of your family’s laughter, without Ace’s warmth at your side. You drifted from island to island, helping where you could—mending nets for fishermen, fighting off bandits in small towns, ferrying supplies to villages overlooked by the World Government. You became known in whispers: the woman with eyes like storms, who carried a ring on a chain around her neck and never spoke of it. A wanderer, a helper, someone who poured her love into strangers because she had nowhere else to put it.

Adventures found you—storms that nearly sank your ship, an island with giant beasts you barely escaped, children who clung to you like their own. You laughed sometimes. You healed slowly. But at night, when the stars stretched endless and the sea rocked your tiny vessel, your fingers always found the ring. And though you had left the Moby Dick, left the Whitebeard Pirates, left the man who had once been your whole heart, you carried them with you. In your scars. In your stories. In the ache that never quite faded.

You carved out a life on the sea, but it was nothing like the one you’d had. No family crowding the deck with laughter, no warmth of a thousand voices calling your name, no Ace reaching for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now, it was just you and the horizon, and the silence in between.

Your adventures took you everywhere. You defended a small village from pirates who thought they could burn it down. You delivered food to an island plagued by famine, staying long enough to teach the children how to mend nets and fish again. You faced storms that cracked the sky wide open, lightning flashing so close you felt the hair on your arms rise. There were nights when you fell asleep on a deck slick with seawater, and mornings when the sunrise painted the ocean so beautiful you almost forgot the ache in your chest. But forgetting Ace—forgetting him—was impossible. Every laugh reminded you of his. Every fire on a distant shore looked like his flames. Every time a man with dark hair passed you in a busy port, your heart leapt into your throat before crashing back down when you realized it wasn’t him.

You tried to stop. God, you tried. You told yourself you wouldn’t trace the ring on your necklace when you were alone at night. You told yourself you wouldn’t whisper his name into the sea breeze. You told yourself you’d stop looking for him in strangers. But grief didn’t listen. Love didn’t listen. Even when you fought, when your blood pumped hot and your body ached with exhaustion, you caught yourself wondering what he’d say if he saw you now. Would he laugh and tease you? Would he scold you for being reckless? Would he be proud? And when you lay beneath the stars after each adventure, the chain always found its way into your hands. The ring pressed cold against your lips as you closed your eyes, trying to let the ocean rock you into sleep. You lived. You fought. You helped. You smiled. But underneath it all, no matter how far you sailed, you carried him. Ace was gone, yet he was everywhere—woven into the sea, the sky, the fire in your chest that refused to burn out. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t let him go. Not really.

Back on the Moby Dick, life went on—but not the same. Ace had recovered in body, his fire burning bright again, his laughter returning to the deck. Yet something lingered in the spaces between the crew. It wasn’t loud, not even spoken outright most of the time, but it was there. A fracture. Because when they looked at him, they couldn’t help but remember. They remembered the way you had wept quietly into your hands when he didn’t recognize you. They remembered you pacing the halls, waiting, praying. They remembered the blood on your skin when you tried to hold him. They remembered how hollow you became, how you wasted away until you finally left.

And Ace—Ace didn’t.

He didn’t remember the nights spent wrapped around you, whispering about futures and children. He didn’t remember the way his ring had glittered in the sunlight when he slipped it onto your finger. He didn’t remember the woman who had given everything to him, who had nearly destroyed herself waiting for him to wake up. It wasn’t his fault. Everyone knew that. But still, resentment simmered, quiet and hidden like embers under ash. Some crew members avoided looking at his bare hand. Some couldn’t stand to hear him laugh too freely. A few even admitted to Marco, late at night, that they couldn’t forgive him—not fully. Because he was alive, healthy, whole. And you weren’t.

Marco, who carried the heaviest guilt of all, reminded them: “It’s not his fault.” But even his voice faltered sometimes.

And yet, one thing was undeniable. Your absence was the infection that spread through the crew—leaving only Ace untouched. He was the only one who didn’t feel the ghost of you in every corner. The only one who didn’t flinch when passing the room you once shared. The only one who didn’t ache with the weight of what had been lost.

Your absence haunted the Whitebeard Pirates. But Ace… Ace lived unbothered in the space where your love used to be. And maybe that was what hurt the most.

It happened on an ordinary night, weeks after you had gone. Dinner was lively, the hall filled with chatter, mugs clinking, and laughter echoing through the beams. For a moment, it almost felt normal again. Until one of the younger crewmates—barely more than a boy—snorted into his drink and muttered under his breath, “Wonder what little Mira would’ve thought of this mess…”

The table went dead quiet. Forks froze mid-air, mugs hovered just before lips. Marco’s head snapped up so sharply it was a wonder he didn’t break his neck. Because Mira was the name. The one you and Ace had whispered late at night, curled together beneath the sheets. The name for the daughter you dreamed of, the one you would both someday hold.

Ace blinked. His brow furrowed. “…Mira?” he repeated, the syllables soft on his tongue. His hand hovered over his chest, as if something tugged at him from the inside. “Why does that… sound familiar?” Every set of eyes darted to him. Some widened in hope. Others darkened with sorrow. Thatch swallowed hard, his usual grin absent. Izo’s fingers curled tight around their chopsticks. Marco’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his heart hammered in his chest.

Ace rubbed at his temple, frustration flashing across his features. “I don’t— I don’t know why I know that name. But… it feels… important.” His voice cracked on the last word, like it carried a weight he couldn’t understand. The crew exchanged glances, each face a storm of emotions. Shock. Hurt. Hope. But beneath it all, silence pressed down heavy. Because for the first time since his injury, Ace had brushed against a piece of the life he no longer remembered. A piece of you. And none of them knew whether to tell him the truth—or let the name fade back into the emptiness that had taken you from him.

That night, the ship was quiet. Only the faint creak of wood and the distant splash of waves against the hull broke the silence. Ace sat upright in the bed that was too soft, too large, too strange to feel like it belonged to him. He stared at the ceiling, restless, that name—Mira—still gnawing at the back of his mind.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet touched the polished floorboards. The air smelled faintly of lavender, of a life that felt like it should be his but wasn’t. Something pushed him—curiosity, unease, guilt—he didn’t know. He dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. That’s when he saw it. A box. Not tucked away with care, not hidden, but placed where it could be reached quickly. As if whoever owned it opened it often.

He dragged it out, his chest tightening. His fingers trembled when he lifted the lid. Inside were photographs. Stacks of them, yellowed with time but full of life. Him, laughing with his arm around you. You, in a dress that shimmered beneath the sun, smiling at him like he was the only person in the world. The two of you together, cheek to cheek, eyes bright and free.

And letters—some signed in his handwriting. I’ll always come back to you. Can’t wait until it’s just us again. Mira’s gonna have your smile, I just know it.

There were trinkets, too: a seashell necklace he dimly remembered buying in some market, though the memory was fractured. A folded napkin with a doodle of a tiny family—him, you, and a baby—drawn in your scrawl. And at the very bottom, tucked carefully beneath it all, a photograph from your wedding. He in his white shirt, messy hair barely tamed, grinning like a fool. You in your gown, radiant, holding his hand so tight.

His breath caught. His hand trembled as he traced your face on the paper. On the bedside table sat his discarded wedding band. The one he had shrugged off weeks ago, thinking it felt heavy and foreign. Now it burned his eyes to look at it. His throat closed up. He pressed his palm against his chest, trying to steady the aching that clawed its way through his ribs.

“Why… why can’t I remember?” he whispered, the words cracking into the empty room. His voice was ragged, almost desperate. “Why can’t I remember you?” And for the first time since waking up, tears burned his eyes. Not from the pain of his injuries, but from the ghost of a love so strong it left scars even in the dark spaces of his mind.

It happened on a lazy afternoon, the kind where the ocean seemed endless and the Whitebeard Pirates lounged about to kill time. Ace sat with a few of the division commanders, playing a half-hearted card game. He had been quieter lately, more thoughtful, but no one pressed him.

The conversation turned casual—Marco said something sarcastic, Izo flicked a card, someone cracked a joke about cooking fish for dinner. Ace wasn’t paying much attention. His fingers absently toyed with the edge of his cup, his eyes distant.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“She always hated fish,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Said the smell clung to her hair…”

The cards stilled. Marco’s gaze snapped up. Thatch froze mid-laugh. The air went heavy, as though every man on deck had just heard a ghost whisper through the breeze.

Ace blinked, realizing too late that he had spoken aloud. His brows furrowed, confusion flickering over his face. “I—” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t even know why I said that.”

“You remember,” Marco said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence.

“No,” Ace shook his head quickly, defensive, though his voice wavered. “I don’t— I don’t remember anything. It just… it just came out.”

Whitebeard, towering in his chair, rumbled low in his chest, his expression unreadable but his eyes… softer than usual. Sad. Proud. Heavy. “Your soul remembers, even if your mind resists.”

Ace’s chest tightened. He gripped the cup until his knuckles whitened, staring down at it like it held the answer. His heart beat fast, painfully fast, and though he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t ignore the way the words had slipped from his mouth so naturally—like breathing.

Around him, the crew exchanged looks. Not mocking, not teasing. Just quiet, aching hope. Somewhere below deck, you didn’t even know what had just happened. But the crew did. They knew a crack had just formed in the wall that separated you from him.

It kept happening. Not all at once, not in some great wave of clarity, but in fragments. Small moments, like embers burning through the dark.

One night, during a storm, the thunder shook the ship. Ace muttered without thinking, “She always hated thunder… used to crawl under the blankets and make me tell her stories until it passed.” His voice cracked, and though he looked bewildered afterward, Marco’s jaw clenched, his wings twitching as he excused himself before anyone could see his eyes.

Another time, during training, Ace burst into laughter at something Thatch did. He doubled over, hands on his knees, then suddenly stilled. “She used to laugh like that. At me. Said I looked like a fool when I tried to dance with her in the kitchen.” His smile faded into confusion, his hand going to his chest.

At meals, when someone reached across him for bread, he pulled back sharply, muttering, “Careful, you’ll spill it on her dress—” Then his voice trailed off as he realized there was no dress, no you, no one beside him. The crew saw it again and again. Each slip was a knife. They never told you. Because you were gone. You weren’t there to see Ace frown at the ring still lying on the bedside table, as though it were mocking him. You weren’t there to see him trace the edge of a photo he had found, his hands trembling, staring at your smile until his vision blurred. And you weren’t there when Whitebeard finally said one night, as the crew watched Ace wrestle with the shadows of memories he couldn’t hold, “Your heart knows what your mind denies. But she is not here to carry the weight for you anymore.” The silence that followed was suffocating. Because they all knew—Ace was starting to remember. Piece by painful piece. But you? You were gone. And that truth cut deeper than any wound Ace had ever taken in battle.

It was late—long after most of the crew had gone to sleep. The sea was calm, the stars scattered thick across the sky, their reflection rippling on the water’s surface. Ace sat alone at the bow, a half-empty bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He wasn’t drunk—he couldn’t get drunk if he tried—but he was heavy, weighed down by thoughts that never stopped gnawing at him. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the railing, trying to silence the noise in his chest. And then—he heard it. Laughter. Not on the deck, not real, but in his head. Clear. Bright. Yours.

The sound made his eyes fly open, his breath catching in his throat. He pressed his palms against his temples, willing it to come back, to stay. And then it did—your face, blurry at first, then sharp, glowing like starlight in the dark. The curve of your smile. The way your hair caught the sun. The softness in your eyes when you looked at him, like he was worth something. “…Y/N,” he whispered. The name spilled out like a prayer. Like it had been waiting on his tongue this whole time. His chest tightened so hard it almost hurt, but his lips trembled into a smile. “Y/N,” he said again, louder this time, tasting the familiarity, the truth of it. He clutched at the railing with one hand, the bottle slipping from his other and rolling forgotten across the deck. His breathing came fast, shallow. Tears stung his eyes—he didn’t even notice until one slipped down his cheek.

The sound of his voice had carried in the quiet night. Marco, on late watch, froze where he stood. He turned slowly, his heart in his throat, as he saw Ace clutching the wood, whispering your name like a drowning man finally breaking the surface. “Y/N…” Ace’s lips curved into the smallest, broken smile. “I remember her face.” His voice cracked, desperate and tender all at once. “God, she was so beautiful…” The crew didn’t move, didn’t speak. Because for the first time since the injury, Ace wasn’t clinging to fragments. He wasn’t fumbling in the dark. He had your name. He had your face. And for him, it felt like finding home and losing it in the same heartbeat.

It was almost a year to the day since he had last said your name. Since that night under the stars when your face had flashed in his mind like a dying flame. A year of aching fragments, half-memories, fleeting feelings that slipped through his fingers before he could hold them. A year of silence when it came to you. And then it happened.

It wasn’t in battle, or in some quiet moment of reflection. It was mundane—Ace was helping Thatch in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, laughing at some stupid joke about overcooked rice. He reached for a pan, humming under his breath, when suddenly—his hand froze. The smell of herbs. The clatter of dishes. Your voice. “You’re supposed to stir it, not burn it, idiot.”

The memory hit him so hard he staggered back, his knuckles white against the counter. His chest heaved. And then more came, like a flood bursting through the dam. Your smile on your wedding day. Your fingers lacing with his under the table at dinners. Your tears on his chest the night you both whispered about children. The ring on your hand. The blood on his. The way you laughed in the mornings, kissed his nose when he was grumpy, scolded him for being reckless. Every moment. Every detail. Every ounce of love.

Ace’s knees buckled, and the pan clattered to the floor. His breath came ragged, desperate, as if the memories themselves were suffocating him. “Y/N—!” he gasped, the name ripped from his throat like a plea.

Thatch’s eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. “Marco!” he shouted, rushing to catch Ace as his brother collapsed, trembling violently.

Marco was there in an instant, wings flaring as he crouched beside Ace, gripping his shoulders. “Ace! Talk to me!”

But Ace couldn’t. He was shaking, clutching his head, rocking back and forth as if to hold the flood inside. “She—she was mine, Marco. She was mine—I loved her—I love her—” His words broke into sobs, raw and guttural, the kind no one had ever heard from him before.

The crew gathered, silent and stricken. Even Whitebeard stood at the doorway, his massive frame casting a shadow across the room, his expression carved from grief and pride all at once.

Marco’s voice was low, steady, even as his own throat burned. “Easy, Ace. Breathe. We’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But Ace couldn’t stop. Couldn’t contain it. A year of emptiness tore open inside him, replaced by everything at once—every kiss, every laugh, every promise, every loss. His body shook with the force of it, like he might break apart under the weight of remembering. And the crew? They didn’t know if this was a blessing—or the cruelest curse of all.

An hour later, Ace sat slumped in the infirmary, sweat cooling on his skin, his breathing finally even. His hands shook where they rested in his lap, his knuckles raw from clenching too hard. Marco hovered nearby, silent but watchful, while the rest of the crew gave space—though their presence lingered just beyond the door, heavy as the tide.

Ace stared at the floor, his dark hair shadowing his face. For the first time in a year, his mind was clear. Too clear. Every memory was sharp, searing, undeniable. He remembered your voice whispering yes when he asked you to marry him. He remembered the warmth of your body against his each morning, your laughter bubbling between kisses, the way your fingers brushed over his scars like they were sacred. He remembered the blood—your scream—your hands stained red as they dragged him away. And then… nothing.

A year.

His hand lifted to his mouth, trembling as realization cut through him like fire. “She’s been without me…” His voice cracked, hoarse from earlier. “She’s been without me for a year.”

Marco opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Ace’s eyes lifted—wet, wild, burning with anguish. “She thought I didn’t love her. She thought I forgot her. She—” His breath hitched, a broken sound. “She left.” The words hung there, brutal and final.

Marco’s gaze dropped. He didn’t need to confirm it—Ace could see it in the way no one met his eyes anymore, the way the crew’s silence thickened whenever your name lingered too close. “You let her leave.” Ace’s voice wasn’t an accusation, but it was hollow, empty in a way that made even Marco flinch. He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard. “No—no, it’s not your fault. It’s mine. God, it’s mine. I drove her away.” He pressed his palms to his eyes, a sob tearing free. “She was my wife, Marco. My wife. And I made her believe I didn’t even know her.” The thought gutted him, worse than any wound he’d ever taken. And for the first time, Ace realized—he hadn’t just lost memories. He’d lost time. A year where you had carried all that pain alone. A year where you’d watched him live without you. A year where no one had been able to stop you from walking away. And he had no idea if he could ever find you again.

That night, Ace sat on the edge of the bed he hadn’t touched in months—the bed that still smelled faintly of you, as though the walls themselves refused to let you go. On the nightstand, the ring waited, cold and lifeless, just as he had left it when he tore it off in ignorance. His hand trembled as he reached for it. The metal was familiar, heavy, a piece of his soul returned to him. He pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes as hot tears slid down his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the silence, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry, Y/N. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve—” His words broke into a shuddering sob, the rest swallowed by the dark. That night, he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. He sat awake with the ring clutched tight against his chest, replaying every memory, every smile, every whisper, terrified that if he closed his eyes, you would fade again.

By morning, exhaustion pulled at his body, but his mind burned with determination. He stormed to Whitebeard’s quarters, his eyes bloodshot but his jaw set, the ring gleaming on his finger once more. “Old man,” Ace said, his voice hoarse but firm. “We need to find her. We need to bring her back. As a crew—we can search every island, every sea. I can’t—” His voice faltered, just for a moment. “I can’t live without her. Not again. Please.”

Whitebeard looked down at him, his massive frame a mountain in the dim light. His gaze was steady, ancient, and unbearably kind. “Ace…” His deep voice rolled like thunder, but there was no malice in it. Only sorrow. “The day she left,” Whitebeard began, “she came to me. She was broken—torn apart by what had been lost. And she asked me for one thing.” His eyes softened, heavy with memory. “She begged me not to send anyone after her. Not even you. She wanted her choice respected.”

Ace’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “She—she asked that?”

Whitebeard gave a slow nod. “She said she loved you too much to see you chase a ghost. That she needed to find herself again, even if it meant walking alone.” The words struck like a blade to Ace’s chest. He staggered back a step, his hand clenching tight around the ring on his finger. His lips trembled, his voice breaking. “So what? I’m just supposed to let her go? Pretend she doesn’t exist? She’s my wife!”

Whitebeard’s massive hand reached out, resting gently—firmly—on Ace’s shoulder. “No. You don’t let her go. You carry her in your heart. And if fate allows, one day, your paths will cross again.” Ace’s shoulders shook, his teeth clenched against the sob rising in his throat. His heart screamed to run, to dive into the sea and tear the world apart until he found you. But Whitebeard’s words held him in place, chains heavier than any iron. That morning, the crew saw Ace for what he truly was: a man who had just remembered the greatest love of his life—only to learn he might never hold it again.

Ace tried. God, he tried. For a week, he wore the ring again. For a week, he forced himself to eat with the crew, to laugh when Thatch cracked jokes, to train until his body ached. But everyone saw it—the hollowness behind his eyes, the way his smile never reached his face, the quiet that clung to him like a second skin. He wasn’t Ace anymore. Not the loud, reckless fireball who set the deck alive with laughter. Not the man who could turn any day into a celebration. He was a ghost wrapped in skin, his soul chasing something the sea had already taken.

Conversations with him grew strained. Marco would sit across from him, searching for the spark, and find nothing but silence. Izo would tease him, only for Ace to glance away, his lips twitching but never truly smiling. Even the younger crewmates avoided his gaze, unsettled by the emptiness in their brother’s captain.

By the seventh night, Ace couldn’t bear it any longer. The moon was high when he stood on deck, the sea stretched endless and silver before him. His bag was slung over his shoulder, his hat pulled low. The ring on his finger glinted faintly in the moonlight. He stared back at the ship—the only home he had known since leaving Dawn Island. His chest tightened. He could hear the distant snores of the crew, the soft creak of the ship rocking. He could almost see your silhouette, waiting at the railing like you used to when he returned from island duty. But you weren’t there. You hadn’t been there for a year. And he couldn’t live with that void any longer.

With steady hands, Ace untied one of the small crafts from the side of the ship. The ropes loosened quietly, and he lowered it to the water. His heart pounded, but he didn’t falter.

“Ace.” The voice froze him. He turned, and Marco stood there, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the pale light. “You really think I wouldn’t notice?” Marco asked softly.

Ace’s jaw clenched. “I can’t stay here, Marco. Not like this. I need to find her. I don’t care what Whitebeard promised. She’s out there, and she’s my wife. I won’t let her believe I forgot her forever.” His voice cracked at the end, thick with desperation.

Marco looked at him for a long time, the weight of his gaze heavy. Then he sighed, shaking his head. “You’ll tear yourself apart.”

“I already am.”

The silence between them stretched, broken only by the waves. Marco’s lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, he stepped aside. “Then go,” he said, his tone both resigned and sorrowful. “But don’t come back empty-handed.”

Ace’s throat tightened, gratitude and guilt warring in his chest. Without another word, he lowered himself into the small boat, gripping the oars. He cast one last glance at the ship—the family he was leaving behind. Then he turned, facing the open sea, the unknown horizon. Because if there was even the faintest chance of finding you again, he would burn the world to ashes to follow it.

The months that followed nearly destroyed him. Every island blurred into the next. He asked questions in every port, scoured every tavern, and searched faces in every market. Some people knew nothing. Others thought they recognized your description, pointing him toward dead ends that ate up weeks at a time. More than once, he ended up in fights—some with drunks who mocked his desperation, others with bounty hunters who thought they could collect on his head. At night, Ace barely slept. He’d sit by the fire, staring at the ring on his finger, whispering your name like it could summon you from the dark. He kept every memory close, afraid that if he let his guard down for even a second, he would lose them again. But no matter how many times he found nothing, he never stopped.

Then—one evening, months later—he did.

It was a quiet island, far from the chaos of trade routes and Marine bases. Small, peaceful, the kind of place Ace would have overlooked if not for the way his gut twisted when he stepped onto its docks. He couldn’t explain it—it was just instinct, fire in his veins telling him not to move on this time. He wandered into the village, the scent of baked bread and seawater mingling in the air. Children ran barefoot through the streets, laughter echoing between the cottages. He almost turned back. It didn’t seem like the kind of place you would hide.

And then he saw you.

You were standing in front of a shop, a basket of fruit balanced on your hip. The late sun caught your hair, painting you in gold. You looked different—thinner, tired, a sadness etched into your face that time hadn’t erased—but you were you. His breath caught. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His hand went to his chest, pressing over the ring like it would keep him from falling apart.

“…Y/N.”

Your head snapped up. The basket wobbled in your arms, an orange tumbling free and rolling across the dirt. And when your eyes met his, the world stopped. Every month of searching, every scar carved into him by grief and guilt, every sleepless night—it all crashed down in that single look. He had found you. But whether you would let him back into your life—Ace didn’t know. Not yet.

The past year had not been kind to you. When you first left the Moby Dick, you’d thought freedom would taste sweet—that distance from the ache of seeing Ace every day and not being seen in return would heal you. But instead, the world felt empty. You wandered from island to island, taking odd jobs when you had to, surviving in silence when you couldn’t bear to speak. Nights were the worst—lying awake in strange beds, clutching the chain around your neck where your wedding ring dangled, whispering his name into the dark.

You had learned to keep moving, to smile politely when people asked too much, to pretend the hollow in your chest wasn’t swallowing you whole. Some days, you almost convinced yourself you were fine. Other days, you broke apart in the privacy of rented rooms, your tears soaking into sheets that would never hold his warmth. The ring never left your neck. Even when you tried to forget him, you couldn’t take it off. And then—on that quiet island—you saw him.

At first, your mind rejected it. Your heart stumbled, certain you were imagining things. He looked thinner, worn down, his eyes carrying a heaviness you hadn’t seen before. But there was no mistaking him. Ace.

Your lips parted, but no words came. The basket of fruit nearly slipped from your arms. You froze, caught between running to him and running from him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand. The ring. The same band that had sat untouched on the nightstand for months, that you had left behind when you fled. It gleamed on his finger, polished by wear, like he’d been holding it close every day. Your throat tightened.

Slowly, his gaze fell to your chest—where your chain glimmered in the sun, the curve of your own ring dangling against your collarbone. For a moment, neither of you breathed. The crowd around you faded into silence. And then—something shifted in his face. His lips parted, his eyes wide, wet, like he was breaking apart right there in front of you. He remembered. The wedding. The laughter. The whispered dreams of children. The scent of your hair, the way your smile lit up the darkest places in him. He remembered every vow, every kiss, every moment he had failed to hold onto.

“…Y/N,” Ace whispered, his voice shaking. His hand rose, almost reaching for you, but stopping midair. “I—God, I remember. I remember everything.”

The world tilted under you, your knees weakening, the weight of a year crashing into your chest. After everything, after all the pain, after the silence—he remembered you. Your hands trembled around the basket until you set it down before you dropped it. You couldn’t breathe—not properly. Your heart thudded in your chest, too fast, too hard.

He took a step closer. You almost stumbled back, but your feet rooted to the ground. His eyes—those same burning eyes you’d fallen for—were wet, desperate, overflowing with something you had thought you’d never see again. Recognition.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking as though the words themselves were jagged knives. “Y/N—I lost you. I didn’t even know what I’d lost, and you—you were here all along, carrying it for both of us.” His hand went to his chest where his ring sat, then to his face, dragging down as he tried to steady himself.

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “Ace…” Your voice broke halfway through his name. “You don’t get to say that. Not after—after a year. After I—” You had to stop before the sob broke free. You shook your head, your eyes blurring. “I watched you forget me every single day. I watched you laugh like none of it mattered. I can’t—”

He flinched, his entire body folding in on itself. “Don’t—please don’t say that. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t choose to forget you. I didn’t choose to hurt you.” His voice wavered, and then he dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the street, in front of strangers who stopped to stare. His head bowed low, his shoulders shaking. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me. I swear it.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, shaking. For months you had prayed for this moment—dreamed of him remembering, of him coming back to you. But in reality, it was messier, heavier, the ache still so raw. You didn’t know if you could just fall back into it, not when you were still carrying the weight of what had been lost.

And yet—your hand went to your necklace, fingers brushing your ring. The part of you that had clung to it through every sleepless night, every aching sunrise, wanted nothing more than to drop down beside him and hold him until the world made sense again. But could you? Could you forgive? Could you let yourself hope? You felt tears break free, sliding hot down your cheeks. You whispered so softly, only he could hear:

“…I never stopped loving you.”

Ace’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. And in that instant, there was no doubt—he would chase that spark of love to the ends of the earth.

Ace didn’t leave your side after that. Not once. The first night, he begged you just to let him stay near—even if you couldn’t forgive him fully yet. He slept on the floor of your little inn room, close enough to reach for your hand if you’d let him, but far enough to give you space. You lay awake most of the night, listening to his breathing, steady, real, alive. It felt unreal.

The next morning, he rose before you, cooking something with whatever food he’d managed to find. When you sat at the small wooden table, staring at the meal, he grinned nervously. “I remembered… you always said food tastes better when someone makes it with love.” His smile faltered, afraid of rejection. “I don’t know if it’ll taste good, but… it’s from me. To you.”

You tried not to cry. Tried not to remember the months of emptiness, of watching him joke with others, of holding your ring against your chest while he walked past you like you were nothing. It wasn’t his fault, you reminded yourself again and again. He hadn’t chosen to forget. He hadn’t chosen to tear your heart out and leave it bleeding. And yet—when you took a bite, when his shoulders slumped with relief, when you saw that old light flicker in his eyes—you almost believed you could forgive.

Days passed. He followed you on errands, insisted on carrying your baskets, your tools, anything to keep his hands busy and prove he was still the man who’d once held your world together. At night, when the quiet stretched too long, he would murmur stories he half-remembered—your laugh echoing in his mind, the way you danced at your wedding, the baby names you had once whispered in the dark.

You tried not to blame him. You truly did. But sometimes you caught yourself staring at the scar that nearly took him, your chest aching with the memory of his blood on your hands, of the way his eyes had looked through you without recognition. You wondered if you’d ever shake the ghost of those months. And yet—he was here. He was Ace. The man who burned like the sun and always found you in the shadows.

One night, he caught your hand before you could retreat, his fingers trembling as he pressed it against his lips. “I can’t erase what happened. I can’t give you back the year I stole from you without even knowing it. But, Y/N…” He kissed your knuckles, holding your hand as though it were the most sacred thing in the world. “I will never forget again. Not you. Not us. Not our love.”

Your chest broke open, all the ache and longing spilling over. And against all the fear and hesitation, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t healed. But it was love—raw, battered, scarred, and still burning.

The months that followed nearly destroyed him. Every island blurred into the next as he asked questions in every port, scoured every tavern, and searched faces in every market. He was a man consumed by a singular, desperate quest. At night, Ace barely slept. He’d sit by the fire, staring at the ring on his finger, whispering your name like it could summon you from the dark. He kept every memory close, a fragile, precious collection he was terrified of losing again.

Then—one evening, months later—he finally stopped. It was a quiet island, far from the chaos of trade routes and Marine bases. Small, peaceful, the kind of place Ace would have overlooked if not for the way his gut twisted when he stepped onto its docks. He couldn’t explain it—it was just instinct, a fire in his veins telling him not to move on this time.

He wandered into the village, the air thick with the scent of baked bread and seawater. Children ran barefoot through the streets, laughter echoing between the cottages. He almost turned back. This wasn’t the kind of place you would hide.

And then he saw you.

You were standing in front of a shop, a basket of fruit balanced on your hip. The late sun caught your hair, painting you in gold. You looked different—thinner, tired, a sadness etched into your face that time hadn’t erased—but you were you. His breath caught. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His hand went to his chest, pressing over the ring like it would keep him from falling apart.

“…Y/N.”

Your head snapped up. The basket wobbled in your arms, an orange tumbling free and rolling across the dirt. And when your eyes met his, the world stopped. Every month of searching, every scar carved into him by grief and guilt, every sleepless night—it all crashed down in that single look. He had found you. But whether you would let him back into your life, Ace didn’t know. Not yet.

The past year had not been kind to you. When you first left the Moby Dick, you’d thought freedom would taste sweet, that the distance from the ache of seeing Ace every day would heal you. But instead, the world felt empty. You wandered from island to island, taking odd jobs when you had to, surviving in silence when you couldn’t bear to speak. The nights were the worst, lying awake in strange beds, clutching the chain where your wedding ring dangled, whispering his name into the dark.

And then—on that quiet island—you saw him.

At first, your mind rejected it. Your heart stumbled, certain you were imagining things. He looked thinner, worn down, his eyes carrying a heaviness you hadn’t seen before. But there was no mistaking him. Ace.

Your lips parted, but no words came. You froze, caught between running to him and running from him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand. The ring. The same band you had left behind. It gleamed on his finger, polished by wear, like he’d been holding it close every day. Your throat tightened. Slowly, his gaze fell to your chest, where your chain glimmered in the sun.

For a moment, neither of you breathed. The crowd around you faded into silence. And then something shifted in his face. His eyes went wide, wet, as if he was breaking apart right there. He remembered. The wedding. The laughter. The whispered dreams of children. He remembered every vow, every kiss, every moment he had failed to hold onto.

“…Y/N,” Ace whispered, his voice shaking. “I… God, I remember. I remember everything.”

The world tilted, your knees weakening, the weight of a year crashing into your chest. After all the pain and silence, he remembered you. Your hands trembled around the basket. You couldn’t breathe. Your heart thudded in your chest, too fast, too hard. He took a step closer, his eyes wet, desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking as if the words were jagged knives. “Y/N, I lost you. I didn’t even know what I’d lost, and you… you were here all along, carrying it for both of us.” His hand went to his face, dragging down as he tried to steady himself.

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “Ace…” Your voice broke. “You don’t get to say that. Not after… a year. After I…” You shook your head, eyes blurring. “I watched you forget me every single day. I watched you laugh like none of it mattered. I can’t…”

He flinched, his entire body folding in on itself. “Don’t… please don’t say that. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t choose to forget you. I didn’t choose to hurt you.” His voice wavered, and then he dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the street, in front of strangers. His head bowed low, his shoulders shaking. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me. I swear it.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, shaking. And yet, your hand went to your necklace, fingers brushing your ring. The part of you that had clung to it wanted nothing more than to drop down beside him and hold him. You felt tears break free. You whispered so softly, only he could hear:

“…I never stopped loving you.”

Ace’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. In that instant, there was no doubt—he would chase that spark of love to the ends of the earth.

Ace didn’t leave your side after that. The first night, he slept on the floor of your small inn room, close enough to reach for your hand if you’d let him, but far enough to give you space. You lay awake listening to his breathing, steady, real, alive.

The next morning, he rose before you, cooking something with whatever food he’d managed to find. When you sat at the small wooden table, he grinned nervously. “I remembered… you always said food tastes better when someone makes it with love.” His smile faltered, afraid of rejection. “I don’t know if it’ll taste good, but… it’s from me. To you.” You tried not to cry. You reminded yourself again and again that it wasn’t his fault. And yet, when you took a bite, when his shoulders slumped with relief, when you saw that old light flicker in his eyes—you almost believed you could forgive.

The next three months were slow and steady. You set up a small place on the island, a room with a kitchen, a bed, and space to breathe. Every day was a small lesson in rebuilding what had been broken. Ace learned to read your silences, to know when to give you space and when to hold you close. You learned to let his hands brush yours without flinching, to accept his laughter even when it reminded you of the year you’d lost.

You both got used to the changes. You weren’t exactly the same—you carried a quiet strength, a caution, and a weight he hadn’t known before. But he adored it, learned to navigate it, to meet your walls with patience instead of recklessness. You laughed again. He laughed again. You argued sometimes, small spats over chores or silly disagreements. But each time, you made up, learned each other again, rebuilt the rhythm of love one heartbeat at a time.

Three months in, the ring on your chain gleamed in the sunlight. He caught your wrist one morning, holding it gently. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he whispered, his voice soft, full of reverence. “I’ll never forget this again. I’ll never let you go, Y/N.”

You pressed your forehead to his, breath hitching, feeling the truth of it, the steady warmth of a love battered but alive. “I know,” you murmured. “We’ll figure it out. Together.” And for the first time in a year, the future seemed possible.

The day you both returned to the Moby Dick, the ship felt smaller than you remembered. The sails flapped lazily in the wind, and the sun painted everything in a warm, golden light. Ace walked beside you, his hand brushing yours now and then, as if to remind you that you were real, that you were here, that you hadn’t vanished again.

As you stepped onto the deck, murmurs rippled through the crew. Eyes widened, whispers passed quickly. Ace’s shoulders squared, his usual confidence returning—but this time, it was tempered with a cautious humility, an understanding that he had been given a second chance.

Marco approached first, his calm expression softening into a mixture of relief and something like awe. “Ace…” His voice was low, thick with emotion. He glanced at you, too, offering a small, respectful nod.

Ace grinned, tight and small, and gave a sheepish shrug. “We’re here. Together.”

You followed slowly, scanning the familiar faces. Some of them froze for a moment, staring at you as if to reconcile the person who left with the one walking back onto the deck now. Old friends, new commanders—everyone watched, hesitant. Whitebeard appeared, his massive form blocking the sun. His eyes were warm, and a small, approving smile tugged at his lips. “So you’ve both come back,” he rumbled, his voice deep and steady. “Good. About time.”

You stayed close to Ace, hands intertwined, as if neither of you would let go again. You answered questions quietly, laughed softly at the teasing, and let the crew see that he was back—and that you were back, too. That night, the Moby Dick felt alive again. The air was thick with the scent of the sea and cooked meals, with the low hum of voices and the creak of timber. Ace leaned against you, forehead resting lightly against yours, and whispered, “We’re home.”

You smiled against him, letting the warmth settle in your chest. “Home,” you echoed. And for the first time since leaving, it didn’t feel like a word full of ghosts. It felt like a promise.

The next morning, the sun broke over the horizon, scattering gold across the deck. Ace stood on the rail for a moment, feeling the wind whip through his hair, and then glanced at you. You were there, smiling softly, your shoulders relaxed, carrying a basket of fresh fruit from the shore. Something about you was different—lighter, freer. The weight that had pressed against your chest for the past year seemed gone, or at least smaller, manageable. Your eyes sparkled with a quiet strength, the kind that came not from being untouched by pain, but from surviving it, facing it, and moving forward anyway.

The crew noticed it, too. Whispers ran quietly among them: She’s back. She’s… stronger than before.

You caught Ace’s gaze and grinned, the kind of grin that made him forget everything else. He could see it—the woman who had been through hell but had returned to them, to life, to him, unbroken. The lightness in your step, the confidence in your movements, the calm determination in your smile—it all told him one thing clearly: you had reclaimed yourself, and nothing could dim that fire now.

Ace stepped forward, catching your hand mid-step, and brought it to his lips. “You’re… amazing,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I never want to forget how strong you are.”

You squeezed his hand gently, leaning into him. “And I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “Not now. Not ever.”

Ace laughed, the sound full and real, and the crew around you felt it—the return of both of you, together, stronger, and finally whole again.

[yawnnzy]

the BEST ace fanfic i've ever read

[zyart-jpg]

"Just a Dream"

Pairing: Vinny Hong x Reader

Summary: You cheated on him....in his dream.

Tags: Fluff, Established relationship, Insecure! Vinny :<

A/N: I just thought it'd be funny lol and I've had too much coffee to sleep rn anyway

He’s mad.

You can feel it—thick in the air between you, sharp like ozone before a storm. Even from the other end of the couch, it’s obvious. The space he’s put between you is deliberate, tense. You’d barely stumbled out of bed, still groggy and expecting him to reach for you like he always does—but he didn’t move, not an inch.

And you don’t even know why—like, you literally just woke up. 

It’s barely 9 AM and he’s already in a mood—a sour one. Oh, did you already mention that he’s ignoring you? Because he is. Loudly.

“…Vin,” you mumbled, curled up on the far end of the couch, wrapped around a cushion like it could substitute for him. “I wanna cuddle,” you said softly, blunt and half-asleep, more interested in passing out again right then and there—with him this time.

He scoffed—barely audible, but sharp. His mismatched eyes flicked your way, but he didn’t move an inch from his slouched position. One arm stretched across the back of the couch like he owned the whole damn thing, the other casually scrolling through his phone like it was more interesting than you—which, obviously, was a lie.

You heard a mutter—something low and annoyed, almost more breath than words.

“Huh?” you blink, already halfway back to sleep. You don’t have the energy for riddles.

He exhales harder this time and finally turns, just enough to shoot you a glare sharp enough to curdle milk.

“I said go ask Wooin,” he snaps. “Since you like laughing with him so much.”

It takes a second to register.

You blink.

Then blink again.

Groggy brain buffering.

“…What?” you said, like you weren’t sure if you’d just been accused of emotional treason before breakfast.

“What?” he mocked under his breath, voice flat and bitter as he repeated your word like it personally offended him. His eyes rolled skyward, head falling back slightly against the couch as if the very sight of you drained the last bit of his patience.

You blinked, momentarily stunned. That tone wasn’t teasing. It was cold—petty. 

Jealous.

You sat up a little straighter, sleep still clinging to your limbs as you shifted to face him. The cushion you’d been hugging now clutched loosely in your lap.

“Vinny…” your voice was gentler now, confused, concerned. “What does that even mean?”

He didn’t look at you. Just clenched his jaw and tapped at his phone screen like the dull thuds of his thumb could distract him from how annoyed he was.

“I haven’t even seen Wooin in weeks,” you added, trying not to sound hurt by how distant he was being. “And you were literally there the last time I did.”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

You tilted your head, now more puzzled than anything. “Wait… did I miss something? Did I do something wrong?”

He finally moved—lowering his phone, mismatched eyes sharp as they finally met yours.

“You were laughing,” he said flatly, like it was a confession. “With him. All close. Like—like it was nothing.”

You blinked. “When?”

He stared. You stared back.

A beat passed.

“…Last night,” he muttered, eyes narrowing, like the memory still stung. “In my dream.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then let out a short, breathy laugh, disbelieving. “Wait—are you serious right now?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just crossed his arms tighter over his chest and angled his body slightly away, jaw set in quiet frustration—his silence said enough.

You stared, a little dumbfounded. “Vin... you’re mad at me over a dream?”

“You cheated,” he said flatly, as if that justified it all.

“In your dream,” you emphasized, mouth quirking into a smile you tried to hide. 

“You laughed with him,” he muttered, looking away. “Like he was your favorite person in the whole world. And then you—you leaned in close and whispered something in his ear and he smiled like—like he knew something I didn’t and—and I just watched.”

You couldn’t help it. A soft laugh escaped you again—half because it was ridiculous, and half because he looked so genuinely troubled about it. 

Like he actually got his heart bruised by your subconscious twin in a dream he made up.

He shot you a glare, but it didn’t quite land with how his lips were already starting to twitch.

“Oh my god,” you breathed through another quiet giggle, crawling toward him slowly. “That’s why you’ve been ignoring me all morning? You’re jealous of dream-Wooin?”

“Don’t call him that,” he scowled.

You try not to laugh again as you ease into his side, slow and gentle. “Baby,” you say, fingers brushing lightly over his arm. “I love you. Not dream-me, and definitely not dream-Wooin.”

He exhales, long and dramatic.

“You don’t understand,” he mumbled as you curled into him. “You looked so happy with him—like I wasn’t even in the room.”

Your smile softened at that. 

That’s what it was, then—more than jealousy, it was fear. Sleep-stupid and surreal, but real enough to make him fold in on himself like this.

So you take his hand and gently guide it around you, until his arm is draped across your back. You curl in close, nose brushing the hollow of his throat, voice muffled against his hoodie.

“You’re in the room,” you whisper. “In my mornings, in my dreams—you’re everywhere. My eyes are always on you. Just you.”

A soft giggle sneaks in at the end, and you lean up to kiss his cheek—slow and light, just the way he likes.

He stills—then sighs, the last of his tension finally draining as he melts around you, arms curling tighter like a lock snapping shut.

He buried his face into your neck with a quiet groan, voice muffled. “You’re so annoying.”

You laughed. “And you’re so dramatic.”

He grumbled something incoherent, nuzzling closer, holding you like he still wasn’t fully convinced you wouldn’t disappear if he let go.

Then, after a moment, he whispered against your skin, “Promise me something.”

You hummed, brushing your fingers through his hair. “What?”

“Don’t laugh like that with Wooin anymore.”

You huffed a soft laugh. 

“Vin—”

“I mean it,” he mumbled, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Dream or not; only laugh like that with me.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately, cupping his face. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

“Good.” He leans into your touch like it’s enough to piece him back together. Then he tucks himself into you again, arms locking around your waist, his nose pressing softly into the curve of your nwck.

“Mine,” he added softly, almost to himself.

“All yours,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

And finally—finally—he smiled.

MASTERLIST

[yawnnzy]

my soft bbg 🥹🥹

[zyart-jpg]

anything for you queen <3 this is so domestic but chaotic lol, i might do Hajun and Hyuk next, but I wrote my babies for now; Wooin and Vinny!

dedicated to: @dzvelinaskebiyars THIS ONE'S FOR YOU!

Pairing/s: Wooin Yoo x Reader & Vinny Hong x Reader (separate)

Summary: Couples who annoys each other, stays forever (based on THIS lololol)

Tags: Fluff, Established RS, Annoying!Wooin, Cutie!Vinny<3

“BAAAAAABE!”

The scream tore through the apartment like a banshee’s cry, sharp and unexpected. It punched through the quiet so violently that your heart didn’t just skip a beat—it full-on evacuated your chest.

You bolted upright, the blanket tangled around your legs as you scrambled off the couch, nearly face-planting as you ran toward the kitchen in a panic. Your brain spun in every direction—was he on fire? Did he cut himself? Did the stove explode? Was there a rat? A ghost?

What you found instead was Wooin.

Disheveled, shirt slightly askew, standing by the stove with the expression of a man who had seen death and decided to wrestle it. His arms were stretched out like a dramatic martyr, both hands gripping the sides of a cooking pot with the lid clenched tightly on top like it was the only thing keeping a portal to hell from opening.

He met your gaze, eyes wide with faux urgency. 

“Hold this!” he barked, voice laced with the kind of intensity reserved for war zones and K-drama finales.

“What the hell is—Wooin!” you cried, rushing over and immediately scanning him from head to toe. “Are you bleeding? Is something on fire? Are you on fire?”

“No time!” he gasped, shoving the pot at you with such force that your hands reflexively latched onto the lid. “Just—hold it! Don't let go!”

He covered your hands with his for emphasis before letting go and backing away dramatically like he’d just handed you a time bomb.

You stood there, clutching a suspiciously normal-looking pot, while Wooin pulled out his phone with the stealth of a man plotting war crimes.

You blinked at him. “What exactly am I holding in?” you asked slowly, the sheer absurdity of the situation starting to leak through the cracks of your concern.

“My scream,” he said, completely straight-faced. “I trapped it.” 

You stared.

“It’s in there.”

He stared back, deadpan.

The silence was deafening. Somewhere, a single brain cell in your mind—shared in sympathy with his last functioning one—shrieked.

“You. Trapped. A scream. In a pot.”

He nodded gravely. “It’s science.”

“Wooin, I swear—”

“If you lift the lid without preparing your heart,” he warned, holding up one finger, “We’re gonna blow up, babe.”

You inhaled slowly through your nose. The kind of inhale people do before committing a crime.

Meanwhile, Wooin—your loving, idiotic boyfriend—had the audacity to start fiddling with his phone, grinning like a child about to prank their teacher.

“Alright, babe,” he said, stepping back and holding the phone like he was a wildlife documentarian. “On my count. One…”

You narrowed your eyes and gripped the pot a little tighter.

“Two…”

You tilted your head. Maybe throw it at him? Maybe straight out the window?

“Three!”

With a heavy, resigned sigh, you lifted the lid.

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down— 

The opening bars of the Rickroll exploded from his phone was the cherry on top.

“YOU SON OF A—”

The pot flew from your hands with the force of the ancestors behind it.

Wooin let out an unholy screech as he dodged, barely managing to twist out of the way, laughter bubbling from his chest like a man who had absolutely no regrets.

He scrambled behind the kitchen island like a man evading sniper fire—phone still recording, laughter hiccupping out of his lungs in wheezy bursts. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, not from fear, but from sheer, unfiltered amusement at the murderous exasperation on your face. 

You didn’t even speak—just launched one of your slippers at him like a heat-seeking missile next, the soft thwap of it hitting the floor inches from his foot only making him cackle louder.

“I hate you!” you shouted, though your mouth twitched with a smile.

“You love me!” he called back. 

You’re always annoying him.

“Did you know,” you began, voice thick with mischief as you crept into the kitchen, “that it’s scientifically possible to trap screams in a pot?”

Vinny didn’t even blink. His back remained to you, sleeves rolled up, shoulders moving steadily as he rinsed a plate with all the focused serenity of a monk doing chores in a mountain temple.

“Vinny,” you tried again, louder this time. “I said—you can trap screams.”

“Mmhm,” he replied flatly, without even turning around. His hands were deep in suds, and his tone was so disinterested you could feel the silence he left trailing behind it like an ellipsis of pure judgment.

You weren’t giving up that easily, though.

You grabbed a pot off the drying rack with the grace of a cartoon villain and tiptoed toward him with a conspiratorial grin, cradling it like it was the Holy Grail of dumb ideas.

“Baaaabe,” you sing-songed, leaning your weight dramatically against the counter next to him, the pot balanced in your palms. “Vinny. Listen. This is important science.”

He exhaled through his nose—barely a breath, but enough to say “Here we go again.”

“I trapped mine earlier today,” you said, trying to keep a straight face. “I locked it in the pot. It’s still in here. Angry. Violent. Waiting.” You wiggled your eyebrows and lifted the pot slightly for dramatic effect.

Vinny turned his head only slightly, just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye. “Was that before or after you failed to toast a waffle and nearly set off the smoke alarm?”

You gasped, clutching the pot to your chest like he’d just insulted your firstborn.

“That was a technical glitch, and we agreed never to speak of it again!"

“We agreed on nothing,” he muttered, turning back to the dishes. “You bribed me with frozen grapes and begged for a do-over.”

You narrowed your eyes, stepping closer.

“Okay, but seriously. I want to show you. Just hold the lid.”

“No.”

“I swear it’s real.”

“No.”

“Just hold it, Vin—”

“I’m not holding your imaginary tantrum in a pot.”

“YOU’RE RUINING THE EXPERIMENT!”

Still unmoved, he reached for a dish towel and tossed it onto the counter without so much as a glance in your direction.

So you went for it anyway.

You shoved the pot toward him and held the lid like it was about to burst. “Okay, I’m opening it—on three.”

Vinny kept drying a mug, calm as a sea during low tide.

“One…”

No reaction.

“Two…”

Still nothing.

You cracked the lid open just enough for your phone, already cued up in the other hand, to blare:

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down— 

The Rickroll echoed proudly through the kitchen.

He didn't even flinch.

Instead, he set the mug down with painstaking care, turned his head, and gave you a long, tired stare—equal parts disbelief and wonder why he’s here willingly, with you.

“...Really?” he said, utterly deadpan. 

You grinned, not even trying to look innocent. 

He flicked water at your face. Not a splash. Just a single, pointed flick.

You gasped like you’d been struck by lightning.

“TRAITOR!”

“I knew it was something stupid.” he said, grabbing another plate. “You always do stupid.”

You stood there for a beat, soaked in defeat (and a few droplets), lips jutting in a curl of betrayal.

“So you didn’t think it was even a little funny?” you asked.

Vinny finally turned to face you, his expression softening just slightly at your dramatic little frown.

He stepped closer, towel slung over his shoulder, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured.

MASTERLIST

[zyart-jpg]

Pairing: Vinny Hong x Reader

Summary: You’re always right there beside him. So the one time you’re not, he’s already looking.

Tags: fluff, sick fic! soft! vinny, HB vinny bcs i miss them, sick!reader

a/n: bcs i was sick

You were always around the team.

Well—mostly around him, for some reason. Practically glued to his side, keeping pace with him during spontaneous sprints like it was your own personal training montage. Breathing the same damn air whenever you could, like a shadow with way too much personality.

And it didn’t help that his first impression of you had been weird—the kind that stuck. You’d jumped him, literally tackled him to the ground, the very first day he joined the Hummingbirds.

To be fair, he kind of deserved it. Kidnapping one of your friends just to pick a fight? Yeah, that earned him a flying tackle and a demand for an apology to Yuna.

So the fact that you ended up always chasing after him? Yeah… weird.

You’d always been bubbly—friendly to a fault, forgiving, and generally just the exact opposite of him.

But Vinny? He was a dick to you from day one. Snapping at everything you said, complaining whenever you tagged along to his place—like Jay and Minu weren’t enough of a headache already. And oh, he never called you by your actual name.

But he got used to it, to you.

Which is why his eyes wouldn’t stop scanning the room now, even after the crew finally settled inside the restaurant. The table was loud—Dom and Minu going at it again over something dumb, Shelly and Jay seated on one side, June on the other. Dom and Minu flanked Yuna and Mia like always.

But you?

You weren’t there—-not beside him.

“Where’s the little shit?”

Turns out idiots catch colds, too.

“Oh, she called in sick today,” was all Vinny got—delivered with a shrug and way too many smug looks. Mostly from Dom, who clearly thought this was the funniest thing in the world. Minu and Shelly weren’t better, poking and prodding, whispering like it was some stupid middle school crush. Even Jay’s stare had weight to it.

And Vinny hated—hated—how they all knew exactly how to piss him off.

So now he’s here. Standing outside your apartment like a moron, windbreaker clinging to his back, sweat in his collar, a plastic bag digging into his fingers. Grabbing whatever they said would help a sick idiot; sports drinks, fever meds, bland crackers you weirdly loved, and—because Minu said it’d help—strawberries.

He buzzes. No answer.

Again. Nothing.

He knocks louder this time, jaw ticking. And finally—finally—the door cracks open.

You peek through the chain lock, and he freezes.

You look awful.

Your hair’s a mess, eyes red, nose raw. Wrapped in a blanket like you’re bracing for war. No teasing. No yelling. 

Just a hoarse, “...Vinny?”

His chest tightens. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I was sleeping…”

“Yeah, well—open up.”

You hesitate. “Why’re you even here?”

He shifts the bag up. “Because Dom said you were dying and wouldn’t shut up about it. I got sick of hearing your name.”

You blink slowly. “You brought me snacks?”

“No,” he grumbles, shoving the bag into your hands. “Medicine. And strawberries. Don’t ask.”

The chain unlatches, and you shuffle back, letting him in without another word.

Your apartment’s warm. Too warm. Smells like menthol and damp laundry. Blankets are piled on the couch. Tissues spill out of the trash bin. Your phone buzzes unanswered on the table.

Vinny looks around like he’s stepped into some kind of tragic fever cave. “You’re disgusting.”

You flop onto the couch with a sniffle. “Didn’t ask you to come,” you mutter, coughing halfway through.

He tosses you a sports drink—and watches as you try drinking it with the cap still on.

“…Seriously?” he says.

“Huh?” you blink down at it.

He walks over, takes it from your hands, opens it, hands it back. “You were about to drink plastic.”

“I’m tired.”

“No—you’re brain-dead.”

You don’t even argue, just sink deeper into the blanket. Your glare’s more pitiful than threatening. Like an angry marshmallow—toasted one.

He crouches down, rummaging through the bag. Meds, crackers, strawberries. You blink at them.

“You actually brought the strawberries,” you whisper, eyeing the container like it’s a miracle.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not,” you grin, weak but smug. “They just… look like you.”

He squints. “The hell does that mean?”

“Red. Angry. Kinda soft if you squish ‘em right.”

“…I’m gonna throttle you.”

“Hmph.”

He looks at you. Really looks. You’re flushed, shivering. Eyelids drooping. Still trying to act fine.

You sit up, wobbly, but he places a hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Just…don’t.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ll sleep it off. I’ve done this before.”

“You tried drinking through a closed bottle five minutes ago.”

You frown. “Why’re you being so bossy…”

“Because you clearly don’t know how to take care of yourself,” he mutters, handing you the thermometer and looking anywhere but you.

Your fingers graze his—cold, weak. He feels the shake in them and swallows hard.

“I mean it,” you say. “Go home, Vin. The race is in three days. You can’t afford to get sick.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sighs and runs a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside the couch.

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Just pass out or something. I’ll keep you alive.”

You try to smile, but it’s lopsided. Tired. Your eyes slip shut, the thermometer beeping before falling into your lap.

Vinny leans forward, checks it. “Fucking hell. You’re burning up.”

And then—your body jerks. Small at first, then violent.

Your limbs spasm under the blanket. Your chest tightens. Breath hitching. Your fingers claw at the air, knocking the drink off the table.

“Hey—hey!” Vinny’s voice cracks. “Breathe—hey—”

He drops to his knees, grabs you before you collapse fully. Holds you as your body curls in. Shaking. Shuddering.

Then still.

“Shit, shit—” he mutters, hands fumbling for your pulse, his face pale as yours.

But you breathe.

Shallow, but steady.

His own shakes as he exhales. He shifts you onto the couch, pulls you into his lap—blanket and all. You melt against him, burning through his clothes like a little furnace.

He buries his face in your hair. “You stupid little—”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He stiffens.

“I didn’t mean to…” you trail off. “Just didn’t want anyone to worry.”

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tighter.

Then your arms come up—weak but clumsy. Wrapping around his waist while your fingers twist into the fabric of his hoodie like you’re afraid he might vanish.

“Don’t go,” you whimper. “Please…”

Vinny flinches.

“I don’t wanna be alone,” you mumble. “You’re warm… and you’re mean, but you showed up, and I don’t want you to leave…”

You sniffle, then sob—soft, hiccupped crying against his chest, like all the strength you had finally ran out. And he just lets you. 

Lets his hand come up, brushing your hair back, thumb dragging across your temple.

“Alright,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You bury your face into his chest, breath stuttering, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

“Promise?”

He rests his chin on your head.

“Promise.”

You sniff again, but your breathing softens. Your body sinks against his.

And eventually, wrapped in your blanket and the smell of strawberries and menthol, you fall asleep—still holding him.

Vinny stays there, heart still racing, arms snug around you like he can anchor you back from whatever hell your fever took you to.

And for once… he doesn’t mind being stuck.

MASTERLIST

[zyart-jpg]

"What Love Can't Fix"

Pairing: Vinny Hong x Reader

Summary: He can't come back yet, or maybe he could never. Who knows.

Tags: Post-breakup, Mutual yearning, Angst

A/N: This is a continuation of Vinny's part in my drabbles of Sabbath x Reader with chronic injury Also tagging my pookies bcs i miss their works and presence so this is a bribe to try and get them back: @owenight @ravenwritten @dzvelinaskebiyars @wthphe1n @sunariiiiiiin @i-nssomniia @sylith @bfwooin pls come back and feed us fics i am in drought :(

You’d peeled away from the rest of the Hummingbirds the second the race ended—shoulder-checking through the crowd like brute force could outrun the sting in your leg and the embarrassment clawing up your throat.

Behind the waiting area, you found a half-shaded corner—blissfully empty—and sank against the wall with a muted hiss.

The pain flared sharp under your skin. You pressed your palm over your knee like pressure alone could shut it up. It was fine. You were fine. Just winded. Just pissed. Mostly at yourself—a little at your teammates and everyone else.

But a lot at him.

“You look pathetic.”

The voice cut in from the right. You didn’t even need to look. That smug tone could only belong to one bastard.

You looked anyway—slow, unimpressed, dry-eyed like you were already over whatever conversation he thought this was going to be. His mismatched eyes met yours as he strolled closer—unhurried, unreadable, irritatingly steady.

“Get lost,” you muttered, voice low and gravelly. “Not in the mood for Sabbath’s stray skulking in my shadow.”

You shifted slightly, trying to draw your leg in like it was no big deal—like you hadn’t just bitten the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from groaning. Like you weren’t one twitch away from curling up like a kicked mutt.

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t.

He knelt in front of you without a word, gloved hand reaching out to tug your leg toward him.

“Stop—” you hissed, jerking back instinctively.

He didn’t stop.

His thumb pressed just above your knee—right into a familiar pressure point that sent pain shooting up your thigh. You cried out before you could catch it.

He clicked his tongue. “If it hurts, genius, you go to the medic’s tent. You don’t limp off like some feral alley cat to die behind the bleachers.”

You kicked at him with your other leg, but it barely made him flinch.

“Leave me alone,” you growled. “Since you’re so good at leaving anyway.”

That made his brow twitch. Just a little. Barely. But you saw it.

“Still bitter?” he said, easy. “Thought Hummingbirds were all about rising above and flapping off into the sunset.”

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped. “You ditched us for a cult with better jerseys and half a moral compass.”

“Sabbath doesn’t do moral compasses,” he said without missing a beat. “They’re complete asses.”

You scoffed, trying again to wrest your leg free. “Traitor.”

He grinned, weakly, like something old and familiar was tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still hurts more that I left, or that your knee’s busted?”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but shut it again, jaw clenched, heat rising in your face—not from the banter, but from the pain spiking again.

Vinny saw it. You caught the flicker in his eyes—his cocky veneer faltering for half a second before he exhaled.

“Hold still,” he said, voice lower now. His grip gentled. “I’m not gonna make it worse. Just checking.”

You grumbled but didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. Not even as your fingers curled into his shoulder—right over the jersey that somehow looked both right on him and entirely wrong. It wasn’t the one you used to share. It wasn’t yours.

“…Come back, Vinny.”

It slipped out quieter than you meant. A cracked whisper, thin as breath.

But the silence that followed was louder than anything else. It echoed between you, thick and unmoving. His hands stilled on your knee, fingers splayed like they could hold the words in place. Like touch could be enough.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.

Just silence. Heavy and deliberate. The same kind he’d always used when he didn’t trust himself to speak.

It hurt more than being ignored. It was the kind of silence that knew what you wanted and didn’t offer it—not because he couldn’t feel it, but because he did. Because this was him choosing not to reach back.

You blinked hard, jaw locked against the ache behind your teeth. The pressure in your chest climbed higher. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not like this.

But it was already spilling out—soft and quiet and too real.

“Please…”

The word came out shaky. Your fingers dug harder into his shoulder, curling over the edge of his collar. You leaned forward—barely—but enough to make it harder for him to pretend you weren’t there. That this wasn’t happening.

“Please just—just come back. If it’s the money, I can help. If it’s your mom, I can figure something out. We all can.”

Your voice cracked under the weight of it—quiet, trembling, but insistent. Like if you just offered enough, bargained hard enough, loved him loudly enough, you could anchor him back to you.

Vinny didn’t flinch. But his jaw tensed, the vein in his neck pulling tight beneath his skin. Still no eye contact. Still kneeling in front of you like the silence wasn’t already dragging him under.

“It’s not the money,” he said finally, voice rough and low. “It stopped being about money a long time ago.”

You stared at him, desperate, bewildered. “Then what?” you asked. “What the hell is it? What’s so broken that you couldn’t stay?”

He looked at you.

And God—it nearly leveled you.

Because it wasn’t anger you saw.

It wasn’t regret either.

It was guilt. Deep, old, marrow-level guilt. The kind that no one ever talks about but lives under the skin. Quiet. Constant.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, barely above a whisper. “None of you did.”

He shifted back a little, like even this small closeness was making it harder to breathe. 

“It’s me. It’s always been me.”

“Then let us help,” you said, voice cracking. “Let me help.”

His hand dragged across his face. He looked so tired. Not in the physical sense, but soul-deep—like someone who’d been carrying something for too long and forgotten what it felt like to put it down.

“I don’t need help,” he muttered. “I need to be someone. On my own. Not because I’m part of something. Not because someone believes in me. I need to build it from scratch. I need it to be mine. Just mine.”

You blinked. “And you can’t do that with me beside you?”

“I think it won’t,” he said, finally meeting your eyes again. “Because with you... I’ll never be able to pretend I’m okay.”

You looked at him like he’d just kicked your chest in.

“You think this is pity?” you whispered.

His gaze dropped, like it hurt to hold yours. “It might not be,” he said slowly. “But let’s not pretend it doesn’t look like that sometimes. Me—limping behind the golden team. Behind you.”

You exhaled shakily, hands curled in your lap.

“Isn’t being loved by someone enough?” you asked. “Isn’t me loving you enough?”

His eyes flicked up again—and this time, the pain was obvious. Raw. Undisguised. Like you’d just pulled out a piece of him he thought he buried long ago.

“It should be,” he said. “God, it should be.”

And then his voice flattened again. Blunt. Controlled. Like he needed to strip the softness out before it swallowed him whole.

“But not everything gets solved by romanticizing it.”

The words landed hard. Like concrete. Like finality.

You swallowed around the tightness building in your throat. You wanted to scream. To sob. To grab him and shake him and ask why he could see so clearly through everything except the part where you loved him.

“…Was it really that bad?” you asked, quieter now. “With us. With me.”

“No.” His answer came quick. Certain. “You were the only part that wasn’t.”

And that broke you more than anything else.

Because if even the good things couldn’t save him—what could?

Vinny stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees, and you could feel the distance between you grow even as he lingered for a beat longer.

His eyes dropped to you one last time—soft, glassy, but already turning away.

“I loved it,” he said. “Being yours. Being one of the Hummingbirds. I loved all of it.”

You reached out, barely thinking, just instinct.

“Then why are you leaving again?”

His hand twitched by his side. Maybe he was going to take yours. Maybe he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

“How can I take care of you when I can’t even take care of myself?”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even cold.

It was honest.

Too honest.

And all you could do was sit there, too stunned to speak, too tired to argue anymore. Your silence begged for you. Your eyes begged. Your body—stiff with pain, held together by something brittle and fraying—begged.

But he still turned away. And this time, you didn’t stop him—couldn’t.

Because you understood.

You couldn't love him into healing. He had to choose it for himself.

Even if it meant walking away from everything he used to need.

Still, the ache stayed. Even as his silhouette disappeared past the edge of the stadium. Even as the buzz of the crowd swallowed him whole.

You sat there, knees drawn in, pain dull and distant. Fingers curled like they’d just let go of something warm. And under your breath, like a quiet prayer to no one in particular, you whispered again:

“Please… just come back.”

To you.

To your friends.

To the team.

To the version of him that was once starting to believe he had a place in the world without having to earn it.

But the only answer was the wind.

And the memory of his hand—steady, once, on your knee.

a/n2: lolol i tried making the post cute but i'm not familiar with getting those cute dividers hahshasha i just wanna have a cute post im sorry

MASTERLIST

[yawnnzy]

i hate the fact that i love angst sm

[zyart-jpg]

Hi! Sorry it took a while, but here you go queen<3

THIS ONE'S FOR YOU CUTIE; @owenight

Pairing/s: Sabbath Crew x Reader (Individual)

Summary: How they react to your chronic injury acting up after a race.

Tag/s: Fluff, Established RS (aside from Vinny's), Hummingbird!Reader for Vinny, Injuries, Psycho! Hyuk cus he annoying

A/N: First time posting them as a whole, kinda nervous.

Wooin

The ache had already started by the time you crossed the finish line—low in your ankle, climbing up your calf like a lit fuse. You shoved past the officials, barely noticing them as you slid off your bike with a hiss, swearing when the cleats caught.

It felt like a cramp. Manageable. But your body knew better. The pain sharpened, breath hitching as panic bloomed—cold, familiar. Your mind spun, dragging up the old injury like a warning siren you couldn’t shut off.

“I-It hurts—”

The words barely made it out, more breath than voice, as the medics rushed in. You collapsed near the railing, legs trembling while they worked on your lower half, checking the tight pull of muscle and bone. But it wasn’t the pain making your eyes sting—it was the quiet, pathetic realization: this is your best now.

Not the races you used to fly through. Not the strength you once carried like second skin. Just this—slumped on the pavement, clutching at old wounds that never really healed.

But before you could spiral into self-pity, arms slid around your shoulders and pulled you gently upright—warm, grounding. 

You didn’t resist—couldn’t. You leaned into the embrace, your head resting against a steady chest, one hand bracing the back of your skull like he knew how close you were to breaking.

“You dumbass,” came the familiar murmur above your head.

Wooin’s voice came in low, rough, and just a little too soft to match the insult. 

“I told you to let me run it, didn’t I?”

You didn’t answer, just turned your face into his shirt, letting the exhaustion catch up to you as the medics poked at your leg. He adjusted his hold, tucking you closer like he didn’t care who saw.

“I just wanted to help,” you mumbled, the words muffled in fabric.

“You’re still an idiot,” he said, but it lacked heat. More fond than frustrated. “What, you think you’re invincible again, hm? Think that metal in your leg is just for decoration now?”

You shifted slightly, enough to glare up at him through damp lashes. “Says the guy with a knee that pops every time he gets off a curb. If you ran it, you’d be worse off than me.”

Wooin gave a short laugh, cocking a brow like he was about to make some obnoxious retort—but didn’t. Instead, he looked down at you, smirk tugging at his lips but eyes unexpectedly sincere.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But I’d take that over seeing you like this. Easier to deal with a busted knee than you crying into my shirt.”

His thumb brushed over your shoulder in a slow circle—absent, soothing.

“Besides,” he added, leaning just enough to drop his voice near your ear, “I still look good even if I'm limping—but you? You look like a kicked puppy, babe.”

You gave a breathy scoff, weakly smacking his chest with the back of your hand. “Jerk.”

“Your jerk,” he said easily, chin resting on top of your head. “Now stop crying. You’re gonna make me look like a decent person.”

But he didn’t let go—not when you leaned in closer, not when you stayed quiet. He just held you tighter, like he had no plans of letting you face it alone.

Joker

He wouldn’t even let you race.

You sat on the curb just off the track, arms crossed over your knees, watching the others cool down from the sprint event. The cheers still echoed faintly, but the race was over—and you hadn’t been in it.

“I could’ve easily snatched first place,” you muttered, more pout than pride, as you handed Hajun his water bottle. Your lips jutted out just enough to make your sulk obvious.

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked down at you, sweat-slicked and breathing heavy from his own run. He took the bottle—but with it, your hand too, fingers slipping into his like it was second nature. His gloves were still on, rough and warm against your palm, and he held on tighter than necessary.

“No,” he said, quiet but firm.

You blinked, waiting for more.

“It’s a sprint,” he added, his voice lower now, eyes still fixed on yours. “Fast, brutal. You would've pushed yourself too hard—and you know it.”

There was a softness to the way he said it, even if his tone stayed rough around the edges, like it always did. He wasn’t angry. Just... sure. And that somehow made it worse.

You looked away, brows drawing together. “I’ve been training. I know my limits.”

“Exactly,” he said gently. “And you only stop when it breaks—I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

The words landed harder than you expected. He wasn’t trying to guilt you. He was just saying what he saw. What he knew.

You stayed quiet, staring down at your intertwined hands. His thumb rubbed a slow circle over your knuckle, a small comfort you didn’t ask for but couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from.

“I hate sitting out,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Makes me feel like I’m already done…like the injury’s all I got now.”

He knelt down in front of you then, placing the bottle aside and lifting your joined hands to rest against his chest. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath his shirt, steady and strong.

“You’re not done,” he said, dipping his head slightly to meet your eyes. “You’re just... smart enough to take care of yourself. Even if I have to be the one to make you do it.”

A breath hitched in your throat, emotions warring behind your eyes. Embarrassment, frustration, something warm and aching in between.

“Besides,” he added with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “If anyone’s gonna steal first place and look good doing it, it’s me.”

You scoffed, lightly smacking his arm. “Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he corrected, still holding your hand close. “And really, really glad you’re not in pain right now.”

And even though part of you still longed for the rush of the race, the burn of adrenaline—you leaned forward and let your forehead rest against his shoulder. Letting him be proud for the both of you, just for today.

Hyuk

He’ll probably be pissed—not the kind of pissed that comes from worry or disappointment, no. Not even because you didn’t listen when he told you not to push yourself.

It’s something else.

“You should’ve raced me instead.”

That’s the first thing he says—jaw clenched, eyes sharp—like the medics fussing over your leg are more of an inconvenience than a relief. He crouches beside you, all casual menace and twitchy fingers, like he’s one breath away from dragging you out of their hands just to prove a point.

Because that’s what really eats at him.

Not your injury. Not your stubbornness.

But the fact that you risked yourself for someone else. For some forgettable competitor who won’t even remember your name tomorrow—who didn’t earn the right to push you that far.

If anyone was going to drag you past your limits, it should’ve been him.

He’s the only one who gets to see you fall apart like that. Not out of cruelty—but because he understands the burn of ambition too intimately to pretend it doesn’t consume people.

He wants to be there when you shatter—not to say I told you so, but to be the one holding the pieces, rearranging them, admiring the cracks like they make you more beautiful, not less.

“You picked them?” he scoffs, leaning in with a tilt of his head, a sharp grin curling at the edges. “All that fire and self-destruction—and it wasn’t even for me? That’s just insulting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s something off in his voice—too low, too bitter. Like it’s not just annoyance laced into the words, but hurt.

Because Hyuk doesn’t mind watching things break. He likes it, if he’s honest—the thrill of it. The beauty in that precise second something gives in and stops pretending it’s fine.

But not you.

You’re not supposed to break without him there to catch it. To witness it. To matter when everything goes sideways.

“If you’re gonna throw yourself into the fire,” he mutters, brushing a few strands of sweat-matted hair from your forehead with the back of his hand—surprisingly gentle, like he doesn’t trust his fingertips not to linger—“at least let me be the one to light the match.”

You groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder, too tired to fake a glare. “You’re a psycho. Shut up.”

He snorts, not even offended. His grin softens just a fraction—less wolf, more warmth. “You know I’d never let you hit the ground, right?”

Then, because he can’t resist twisting the knife a little, he adds with a lazy drawl, “I’d throw the damn race just to hear you curse me out mid-pedal. That’s way more fun.”

Despite the ache pulsing through your leg and the humiliation gnawing at your pride, a small laugh escapes you—helpless and tired and entirely real.

“…If you set the match, Hyuk, we’d both end up on fire.”

He grins wider, smug and sweet all at once, like he’s proud of that idea. “Yeah. But at least we’d burn together.”

And even though you hate that he gets to you so easily—hate how he makes recklessness sound like safety—there’s comfort in his chaos.

Because it’s Hyuk.

Caring in the most backwards, explosive, beautifully twisted way.

And somehow, being in his arms like this—hurting, but held—makes you feel just a little bit more whole.

Vinny

You’d peeled away from the rest of the Hummingbirds the second the race ended—shoulder-checking through the crowd like brute force could outrun the sting in your leg and the embarrassment clawing up your throat.

Behind the waiting area, you found a half-shaded corner—blissfully empty—and sank against the wall with a muted hiss.

The pain flared sharp under your skin. You pressed your palm over your knee like pressure alone could shut it up. It was fine. You were fine. Just winded. Just pissed. Mostly at yourself—a little at your teammates and everyone else.

But a lot at him.

“You look pathetic.”

The voice cut in from the right. You didn’t even need to look. That smug tone could only belong to one bastard.

You looked anyway—slow, unimpressed, dry-eyed like you were already over whatever conversation he thought this was going to be. His mismatched eyes met yours as he strolled closer—unhurried, unreadable, irritatingly steady.

“Get lost,” you muttered, voice low and gravelly. “Not in the mood for Sabbath’s stray skulking in my shadow.”

You shifted slightly, trying to draw your leg in like it was no big deal—like you hadn’t just bitten the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from groaning. Like you weren’t one twitch away from curling up like a kicked mutt.

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t.

He knelt in front of you without a word, gloved hand reaching out to tug your leg toward him.

“Stop—” you hissed, jerking back instinctively.

He didn’t stop.

His thumb pressed just above your knee—right into a familiar pressure point that sent pain shooting up your thigh. You cried out before you could catch it.

He clicked his tongue. “If it hurts, genius, you go to the medic’s tent. You don’t limp off like some feral alley cat to die behind the bleachers.”

You kicked at him with your other leg, but it barely made him flinch.

“Leave me alone,” you growled. “Since you’re so good at leaving anyway.”

That made his brow twitch. Just a little. Barely. But you saw it.

“Still bitter?” he said, easy. “Thought Hummingbirds were all about rising above and flapping off into the sunset.”

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped. “You ditched us for a cult with better jerseys and half a moral compass.”

“Sabbath doesn’t do moral compasses,” he said without missing a beat. “They’re complete asses.”

You scoffed, trying again to wrest your leg free. “Traitor.”

He grinned, weakly, like something old and familiar was tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still hurts more that I left, or that your knee’s busted?”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but shut it again, jaw clenched, heat rising in your face—not from the banter, but from the pain spiking again.

Vinny saw it. You caught the flicker in his eyes—his cocky veneer faltering for half a second before he exhaled.

“Hold still,” he said, voice lower now. His grip gentled. “I’m not gonna make it worse. Just checking.”

You grumbled but didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. Not even as your fingers curled into his shoulder—right over the jersey that somehow looked both right on him and entirely wrong. It wasn’t the one you used to share. It wasn’t yours.

“…Come back, Vinny.”

It slipped out quieter than you meant. A cracked whisper, thin as breath.

But his answer was the same it had always been—just silence. No flinch, no shift, just his hands steady on your knee like that alone could make things better. Like kneeling in front of you still felt natural, even after everything.

God, you hated him.

Maybe.

A little.

But not enough to pull your hand away.

Not enough to tell him to stop.

MASTERLIST

[zyart-jpg]

"Beat It"

Pairing/s: Sabbath x Reader (Individual)

Summary: You walked in on them beating their meat.

Tags: Fluff, Childhood Friends, Suggestive

a/n: it won by a landslide TT_TT hehe it's a little rushed since it was originally a drabble i wrote! but i tweaked it a little! sorry it took so long than i promised @owenight i fell asleep and there was no electricity when i woke up lololol

You’d known Wooin for as long as you could remember.

Back when your parents’ drivers idled in matching black sedans outside your overpriced kindergarten, through the stiff, rule-choked years of elementary school where everything was neat, polished, and suffocating.

Even when he started acting out in middle school—becoming the kind of trouble other parents whispered about—you’d never really drifted.

Now, with all that prim upbringing long behind him, you still found yourself in his apartment more often than you should. You liked to call it a habit. Truth was, it was just… Wooin.

Which is how you ended up in his hallway, frowning at the unnatural quiet. No background music, no clatter from the kitchen, no trash talk through his headset. 

Just… stillness.

“Wooin?” you called, stepping over the inevitable pile of sneakers dumped by the door.

You slid your bag onto the counter like you always did, still listening for any sign of life. Nothing.

The deeper you walked in, the more it felt like stepping into a snapshot mid-chaos—hoodie slung over the couch, shirt abandoned by the coffee table. You bent to grab it, smoothing it on instinct before folding it over your arm.

And that was when you noticed the faint glow coming from his bedroom—door slightly ajar from where you can see it down the hall.

You just rolled your eyes with a soft sigh.

Didn’t think much of it because Wooin was careless with privacy in his own home like that—you’d walked in on him gaming, sleeping, or just lying around more times than you could count. So this time wouldn't be any different.

Or so you thought.

But when you pushed it open, your breath hitched. Freezing up as the nagging you were about to unleash got stuck in your throat.

Eyes on him.

There he was, sprawled in his chair. Head tipped back just enough to bare the line of his throat, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other braced on his thigh. Headphones hung half-off one ear, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded and locked on his monitor—where the porn blared, loud and wet.

Your brain stuttered, froze. The scolding you’d been ready to unleash got lodged somewhere in your throat. You didn’t even breathe for a second, heat shooting up your neck before your mind could catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

“W–Wooin—?” It tumbled out of you small and shaky, a warning, a question, a plea to erase the last three seconds.

His head snapped toward you instantly. 

The look on his face—half startle, half oh-shit—was almost enough to make you back away. His eyes wide, hissing under his breath, and for the tiniest fraction of a second, he looked like he was going to scramble, cover himself, slam the door in your face.

But then his gaze locked on yours—and he didn’t look away.

Something about it—your wide eyes, your stunned expression, the way your mouth had fallen open—seemed to snap whatever restraint he had left. 

His breathing hitched hard, his shoulders tightened, and his jaw flexed like he was biting down on something obscene. His hips gave one slow, shuddering jerk, and his head fell back again with a low, choked curse.

You saw it—saw him—spill over his fist, thick and messy, his chest rising and falling sharply as the obscene sound of it filled the quiet between you.

Your face flamed, your stomach flipping so violently you thought you might be sick. You turned halfway, hand flying up like it could block out the image searing itself into your head.

“Oh my god—!” you squeaked, your voice climbing high, breathless and panicked. Your knees felt weak, like just standing here was wrong.

You heard him inhale sharply, exhale slowly, before the room dipped into a silence so heavy it made your pulse pound louder. 

Then—of course—it was him who broke it.

“…Fuck—fuck I really came.” His voice was rough, still riding the edge of what just happened. 

“Have you ever heard of knocking?!” he groaned.

Your head whipped toward him, eyes wide, scandal coloring every inch of your face. “I didn’t think you’d be—doing that!”

He glanced down at the mess coating his hand, then back at you, smirking like a criminal caught red-handed. “What’d you think I do in here, princess? Knit sweaters?”

“You’re disgusting!”

“Yeah?” His smirk spread slowly and cocky. “Your face says otherwise—you’re blushing like you just saw your first dick.”

“I’m not—!” Your voice cracked and betrayed you instantly, and the grin that pulled across his face made you want to throw something at him. 

You spun toward the hallway. “I’m leaving!”

The scrape of his chair made your pulse spike, bare footsteps padded after you.

“Oh no, you don’t get to just walk away after that,” he drawled, close enough now that his breath ghosted your ear.

You squeaked, stumbling forward. “Wooin—!”

“Relax,” he said, voice dropping to something that was both teasing and absolutely a problem. “Since you interrupted… maybe you should help clean up.”

Your head whipped toward him. “WHA–Stop! If you touch me with that I SWEAR—!”

“Oh?” His grin sharpened. “Little mess too much for you, princess?”

“That’s not a little—!”

He laughed so hard he bent slightly, still standing way too close, his boxers riding low enough to be a crime. “God, you’re fucking cute when you’re scandalized.”

You bolted, shoving past him, nearly tripping over your own feet as you beelined for the door.

“Next time,” he called after you, tone sing-song and wicked, “I won’t waste a drop!”

You grabbed the first thing your hand touched on his counter—a pen, maybe, or a screwdriver—and chucked it at him without turning around. 

“You’re such a jerk!”

It clattered harmlessly against the floor, his laugh chasing you all the way down the hall. You didn’t look back, but you didn’t need to—you could hear the smirk in every single step until the elevator doors closed.

Hyuk's a psycho.

You’d known that for a while now—and hell if you cared. Because truthfully? He’s just a dumbass with an unhealthy passion for cycling, which sometimes feels like the most dangerous combination this earth could cough up.

It wasn’t unusual for you to swing by his place unannounced every few days, just to make sure he hadn’t landed himself in jail yet or finally kidnapped some poor stranger because he decided they “looked fast enough to race.” The odds weren’t exactly in your favor.

“Ugh—how many times have I told him to stop leaving his stupid keys under the doormat?” you muttered, fishing them out and letting yourself in.

The quiet hit you immediately—not the peaceful, cozy kind, but the weird, empty stillness that always clung to his apartment. Not surprising, considering Hyuk was basically a cryptid; if he wasn’t doing his part-time job or loitering around the crew for underground races, he was dead to the world in bed.

“Hyuk!” you called, dumping both the keys and your phone on his coffee table with a clatter. “I told you to stop leaving your keys under the mat! Your dumbass is gonna get robbed one of these days!”

Silence.

Not even a grunt from his bedroom.

You rolled your eyes, already shoving your hoodie halfway off as you made your way down the hall, ready to tear into him about his complete lack of self-preservation. Kicking his door open, you had that very specific frown on—equal parts annoyed friend and overworked babysitter—

Only to completely blank when it actually swung open.

Because—there he is.

By the bed.

Earphones in. Phone in one hand.

Cock in the other.

For a second, your brain didn’t quite register the scene. The hum of moanings from his earbuds was faint, his head tipped back against the wall, the lazy motion of his wrist so unbothered you almost wanted to punch him for it.

And then his eyes flicked open, slow, like you’d just interrupted the most casual Tuesday activity of his life.

“...You gonna stand there gawking, or close the damn door?”

You finally snapped back to life—cheeks heating so fast you almost felt dizzy, which you immediately masked behind your sharpest frown.

“It’s eleven. In the morning. WHAT THE fuck are you doing?!” you hissed, eyes darting away from his still-angry dick like it might burn holes into your corneas.

Hyuk groaned—not the embarrassed kind, not even the caught-red-handed kind. No, it was that lazy, put-out noise he makes when something interrupts his nap.

“What, I can’t get horny in the mornings now?” he muttered flatly, shoving himself back into his boxers with all the care of someone tying garbage bags. 

He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck like you were the problem here.

“I literally come here to make sure you haven’t committed a felony yet and THIS is how you greet me?!” you snapped, pacing at the foot of his bed like a scandalized babysitter. “Do you know how traumatized—how mentally scarred—how tainted my innocent soul is now?!”

He just blinked at you, clearly not sharing your sense of urgency over your corrupted purity.

“I wasn’t even done,” he grumbled under his breath, standing with a stretch like you’d interrupted him mid-TV show.

“Don’t you say that like I’m supposed to feel bad for walking in on—”

“—You literally barged into my house,” he cut in.

You threw your arms up. “I knocked! Your dumbass left your keys under the mat again! Of course I’m gonna check on you! What if you were dead?!”

Instead of replying, Hyuk reached out and—without breaking his flat, bored expression—gave you a single, almost brotherly pat on the shoulder.

“There, there,” he said, voice utterly devoid of sympathy. “You’ll be fine.”

It was only when both your eyes drifted—at the same time—to the exact hand resting on your shoulder that the air between you froze.

You stared at him. He stared back.

“…You didn’t,” you breathed in horror.

His mouth twitched, just barely, like he was considering lying but decided it wasn’t worth the energy.

“Welp,” he said simply, retracting his hand. “My bad.”

You screamed—

Lunging for him before you could think better of it. Your arm hooked around his neck in a messy headlock, dragging him down to your level while he laughed under his breath, the sound annoyingly amused.

“Apologize!” you demanded, tightening your grip.

“That’s not how apologies work,” he said, voice slightly muffled but still aggravatingly steady. 

Then, because he’s Hyuk and his brain is wired for chaos, he tilted his head enough to murmur, low and deliberate, “Y’know… if you wanted to choke me, you could’ve just asked.”

You froze for half a second—long enough for him to smirk—before tightening your hold to the point he actually coughed.

“Not that kind of choke!” you barked.

“Sure,” he rasped, still somehow sounding like he was enjoying this.

By the time you let go, you were out of breath from yelling, he was out of breath from being an ass laughing, and the smug look on his face made you want to put him right back in that headlock again.

It wasn’t anything special, really.

It was just something you do sometimes—when your mother ends up making too many side dishes, or when she wants you to go share some of the fresh lettuce from your grandmother’s over to some of your close neighbours.

And Hajun’s family just happened to be one of them—close enough that you’ve practically grown up together, playing in the same streets and occasionally having dinner over at theirs, or vice-versa. Especially now that he’s in a little tight spot these days, having to take care of his two younger brothers when their parents dipped out.

Their house wasn’t that far, just a house away from yours—and not very secure either, considering they barely close the gate—but it’s not like that matters, considering Hajun’s known for being…protective, and very much capable of defending their home.

So you barged in, a basket full of freshly washed radish in arms, ducking slightly as you stepped through their gate—calling out intrusion and immediately noticing the quiet. His brothers should be out, in their own schools, but Hajun should be home around this time.

“Yo?” you called, standing dumbly in their living room. “Hajun? My mom wants to give some radish, come get it.”

But you were met with nothing—no answer, no rustling, no footsteps that could be his. So you walked further, walking straight to the kitchen to place it by the table and glancing around—the place is clean and neat, there’s a covered dish by the stove. He should be home.

And your conclusion was proven to be true when you heard a deep grunt from one of the bedrooms right by the corner—the one closest to the living room, the room you knew Hajun took over recently.

And maybe that should’ve been the sign for you to walk away, to leave, to get the fuck out—but no, you didn’t. 

Instead, you walked up to the bedroom door, face still the same carefree one you had when you broke inside their house for some radish delivery—hand turning the knob with casualness you’ve grown for them throughout the years.

And the door opened in a careful push, along with your head as you poked inside.

“Hey—you okay in there?”

And God.

God, you should’ve walked away.

Because there he was—sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand gripping his phone, earphones dangling around his neck… and his other hand wrapped around himself. Moving. Slow, then fast, then slow again. Brows furrowed, lips parted, chest tight with every breath, and from the faint tinny moans coming from his phone—you didn’t need a degree to know what you’d just walked into.

The world went silent.

You froze. He froze.

The only thing moving was the ceiling fan.

Then the porn cut off with a sharp tap of his thumb, and Hajun moved—snapping forward to cover himself, his ears going bright red.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” he barked, voice breaking halfway between anger and panic.

“…My bad,” you said faintly, closing the door like you’d just stepped into the wrong changing room at the mall.

You barely made it three steps before you heard him scrambling—pants yanked up, shirt pulled over his head, stomping after you.

“W-wait—hold on!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!” you screamed, whipping around so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “HAJUN! YOU—YOU PERVERT!”

He stopped dead when you dropped like a sack of potatoes onto your knees in the entryway, clutching your head like you’d just seen a murder scene.

“Oh my god—oh my god—” Your voice cracked, your breath coming in shallow bursts. “My eyes—Hajun—I’m tainted forever—I saw your—” Your voice broke entirely, devolving into pathetic hiccups.

“Oh for—” He crouched in front of you, trying to pull your hands away from your face. “It’s not that serious.”

“NOT THAT SERIOUS?!” you wailed, the sound bouncing off the walls. “I watched Doraemon with you! I made you soup when you were sick! I—I saw your baby pictures! And now—now—” Your voice went high and trembling. “Now I’ve seen your thing—”

“That’s what you’re freaking out about?” He sighed, rubbing his face like he was already exhausted. “You act like it’s a cursed object or something—”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” you shrieked when his hand landed on your shoulder.

He blinked. “…Why—”

“THAT’S THE SAME HAND!” you accused, pointing at it like it was a loaded weapon. “THE SAME ONE! I’M GONNA PASS OUT—”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

But you were already swaying forward, face pale, breath shallow like your body decided the only logical escape was unconsciousness.

“Hey—hey, don’t you dare faint in my house,” Hajun said quickly, catching you by the elbows before you could topple sideways.

You groaned, weak and dramatic. “I’m gonna need therapy.”

“You need to chill,” he muttered, but his grip stayed steady. “Seriously, you’re acting like I held a gun to your head—”

“WORSE,” you gasped. “You held—that—”

His mouth twitched, like he was seconds away from laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m pure!” you sobbed.

“You’re delusional,” he corrected, but softer this time, setting you back upright.

And that was when his hand brushed yours again.

The same hand.

You froze. He froze.

Your eyes dropped to it like it was some cursed relic, then slowly climbed back up to meet his.

“…Don’t,” you warned, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m not dirty—” he started, almost defensive.

“SHUT UP!” you exploded, jabbing a finger at him like a priest about to perform an exorcism. “YOU WERE BEATING YOUR JUNK LITERALLY TWO MINUTES AGO!”

The sheer conviction in your voice must’ve carried, because you immediately keeled over onto his floor in dramatic despair, clutching your head like you’d just survived a war crime.

He just stood there, staring down at you, your accusation clearly lodging itself somewhere deep in his brain. His jaw worked once. Twice. And then—

“…Was my dick that ugly?” he asked in quiet defeat, the words falling like a confession at a funeral.

You wailed even louder, curling in on yourself, because—God help you—it wasn’t ugly. It was so stupidly pretty you’d rather stab your own eyes out than admit it out loud.

Vinny’s a jerk.

But he’s a jerk you care about—so even if you know he’s just going to insult your cooking (with that unimpressed, deadpan delivery of his) before inhaling every last bite like a starving animal, you still find yourself showing up at his place with whatever questionable culinary creation you whipped up after spending way too long scrolling through random recipes online.

And it’s not like he actually told you to stop.

Okay—technically, he did. Affectionately. With a light bonk to your head and a muttered, “Quit wasting ingredients on me, idiot.” But that’s basically Vinny-speak for “I’ll keep eating it, thanks.” The man is allergic to gratitude, so you’ve learned to translate.

Which is why you’re here now, skipping your way down the familiar cracked sidewalk to his place with a pot of pasta balanced carefully in both hands. The pot’s still warm through your fingers, steam puffing up to fog your glasses for half a second as you hum some nonsense tune under your breath. You nudge his squeaky gate open with your knee, a small grin tugging at your mouth like you do own the place.

You glance toward the front of the yard, eyes catching on the lone bike leaning against the wall. No cluster of extra tires, no mismatched helmets—none of the other hummingbird crew’s rides. Good. His friends must be out, leaving Vinny to either nap, sulk, or channel his inner assholesery in peace before work.

The air smells faintly of oil and detergent, that mix of clean clothes and bike grease that’s so him. The living room light’s on, curtains half drawn. You can hear something faint deeper inside—either the low drone of a TV or Vinny muttering to himself.

So—you kicked the door open.

“I’ve come bearing gifts!” you announce dramatically—

—and then your brain just bluescreens.

Because apparently, his surprise is a lot more… vivid than yours.

The first thing you register is the messy futon on the floor.

The second is the very obvious state of his lap—cock flushed and angry in his hand, mid-stroke.

The third is the moans blaring from his phone speaker, obnoxiously loud in the dead quiet of the room.

His face is caught between pleasure and pure panic, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight. For a good three seconds, neither of you moves—you frozen in the doorway with your stupid grin still plastered on, him frozen like a criminal caught under a spotlight.

He finally twitches—snaps his phone shut like he’s slamming a vault door, shoves himself back into his pants with too much force, and just sits there. His ears and cheeks are burning red, and he doesn’t even bother opening his eyes.

“I’m gonna count to three,” he grits out, voice low like he’s hanging onto dignity by a thread, “and if you’re not gone from my doorstep, I’m hanging you upside down from my ceiling.”

You blink.

“…Does this mean you’re not hungry?” you blurt before your brain can stop you.

His head snaps toward you so fast you swear you hear his neck crack.

“ONE.”

You squeak, stumbling back—your heel smashing into the shoe rack and sending a sandal flying. The pot wobbles dangerously in your hands, the lid rattling like a warning bell.

“Wait—! I didn’t— I wasn’t—!” you stammer, taking another step back—straight into the edge of the doorway, which jabs into your hip hard enough to make you yelp.

“Two.” His voice drops even lower, the kind of calm that says he’s one second away from combusting.

“I just wanted to feed you!!” you whine, shuffling sideways like that’ll somehow get you out faster. 

In your scramble, your elbow clips the doorframe, the pot nearly tips, and in your desperate attempt to steady it—you trip over your own foot and bonk your forehead right into the post outside.

You ended up on the ground, pot a lot safer than your behind had been.

The pain shot up at once, from your forehead and your hips—making you sniffle an, “Ow!”

That’s when he stops. You can almost hear the sigh deflating out of him. He drags himself up, muttering something under his breath you’re 80% sure is “Fucking dumbass—,” disappears for a second, then reappears with a damp hand—clearly just washed—and a small box of bandaids.

Without a word, he slaps one onto your forehead like he’s sticking a label on a jar.

You blink up at him, still holding the pasta like a peace offering.

“I-I’M LEAVING—”

He takes it from you without looking at your face, shoulders tense.

“Inside. Sit. Eat. Shut up.” His voice is clipped, almost bored, but the tips of his ears are still red.

Then, as he turns toward the kitchen, he tosses over his shoulder, “Say one word about this and I’ll hang you upside down ‘til your brain leaks out your nose.”

-

MASTERLIST

[mixingandmelting]

Urge

Summary: the most random thing you do and suddenly he has an urge to kiss you

A/N: I was needing an excuse to write Hyuk after seeing the recent chapter feat. the pic below 😔

Hyuk:

It’s primal. An instinct that tells him it’s either now or never. You’re only applying lip balm using one of those squeezy-tubes like normal. But for some reason, the way you place it today awakened something inside him. Eyes wide and glowing as they stay trained you, taking in how you smear the balm side-to-side to further make your lips fuller and glossy. Intrusive thoughts enter his mind; what it tastes like, if it’ll tint his lips, and most of all, how you would react. And who is he to stop himself to get what he wants?

“Okay, what do you think of this-”

His hand slides under your chin to gently tilt your head back as he looks at you half-lidded. He observes how your expression morphs from shock to shyness while keeping his lips locked on yours. 

Too bad it doesn’t last a full minute, letting you go so you’d regain the breath that literally got stolen out of you while also not wanting to hear you complain like last time how your neck hurts. 

While you recover, he takes the moment to swipe some of the balm off his lips with his tongue. 

“Oh my- you tasted it, didn’t you?” Your temper leaves, laughing instead at how confused he looks, unsure what to make of the rich fragrance coming from it yet tasting like nothing and making his lips sticky. He’s sure to find out later on that it also tints his lips when he tries to get it off only to receive a strange look and a question if he had recently been into make-up by Wooin (to which he ends up placing it down on his list of never-to-do-again once you send a selfie photo you took after the incident, his lips what you describe as more healthier and plush). 

Wooin:

His pupils dilates, trying to take in the whole sight while covering the lower half of his face with a hand so he could hide the matching, manic grin. He’s seen you multiple times rolling your head to relieve all the tension that builds up from all the “stress” you accumulate when hanging out with him. Yet, he’s suddenly hyperware how exposed your neck is, the two areas in particular being the crook of your neck and nape. 

“You really need to stop teasing the other teams. Like, what if you mess with the wrong team?” Your eyes stay closed, continuing your self-care routine without realizing the expression he’s making. 

He takes this as a chance, humming with half-hearted “yeahs” as he quietly gets up and approaches you from the back. Then, once he’s gotten close enough, he wraps his arms around you which finally gets your attention. But unable to wait, he uses his hand to turn your head towards him.  His eyes narrow in glee at your face flushing, your eyes fluttering close in acceptance after pressing his lips against yours. 

Knowing that he’s already pushing and can’t go any further, he breaks away after a few seconds. He has to admit, it’s a first for him to feel extremely satisfied with this short of a kiss. But after looking down, he’s reminded that it’s worth it as he smirks at the steam coming out of your head, the roles reversed where it’s now you covering your face with both hands.

“Aw babe, did you get shy from a kiss?” 

“Just… shut up.” 

He, in fact, doesn’t and continues to tease you until you end up completely fed up and start ignoring him. Hence his bad mood when he meets the rest of the team, snapping at Hyuk when he guess right that he managed to piss you off again. 

Joker:

It’s just food, specifically a crumb from a corn dog. All it does is simply stay on the corner of your lips while you happily take more bites from your food. Yet he’s having to gulp, throat suddenly becoming parched and dry. He doesn’t blame you for not noticing the change in his gaze, cold-steel morphin into molten metal as he continues to look at you. He wishes that you did though, then it would’ve made things a bit easier for him and not feel as guilty to what he’s about to do next. 

“This is so good! Where did you find this place?”

He’s careful not to scare you as he places both hands on both your cheeks gently,  using a thumb to swipe the crumb off while trying to maintain the bit of self-control he has left. 

“Hajun?”

And that does it. 

Leaning down, he closes the gap between the two of you. It’s not passionate or overwhelming but sweet and heart-warming in a way where he’s telling you that he loves you unconditionally without words. His eyes closed while yours gradually shuts, the kiss brief yet fulfilling for him, where there’s a hint of a smile on his face from you pressing your face against his chest while returning his hug back afterwards. 

He didn’t appreciate getting caught in the act by his siblings of all things when he gets home with a bag full of snacks he promised he’d get them only for the youngest to ask why he was squishing his face against yours. Nor does he know how to feel when it’s the older one of the two that plays damage control only to scold him to be more mindful of showing PDA. 

Vinny:

It’s your smile. He loves how you smile, whether it’s from laughing or simply for no reason. It means that you’re happy.And with how you always happen to do so whenever you’re with him, it gives him emotions he never knew he was capable of feeling and wants to disappear. 

So when you happen to see matching phone straps being sold at those small vendor carts, you smile. 

“Look, Vinny! Aren’t these cute?”

It’s the same smile he’s seen multiple times. Pairing that with the sparkles coming from your eyes, it gives soft vibes. So when did he become the type to want to kiss someone out of cute aggression? 

“Yeah, sure.” There’s strain in his voice which you brush off as his usual shyness when he’s making fists, trying to hold himself back. After all, it’s a first for him and completely out of character for him to feel this way. The last thing he needs is to take you off guard and do something he’ll regret-

“See? Wouldn’t these look great?” You raise the phone straps with their respective couple’s charm up by your face. 

It takes the pressure and embarrassment away having seen the vendor owner leave for a bit when he tilts his head down towards you. One hand on your cheek, his lips are softly on yours,  only to move away as soon as he places them on you. 

The vendor owner mischievously grins when he comes back, looking back and forth between his expression and yours.

“Ah, young love.” 

At least he gives each of you a discount, though Vinny does die on the inside as the old man wouldn’t stop talking about his “good ol` days” when he and other older folks would date.

[inseobts]

When the Sea Gives You Tangerines

shanks x fem!reader

after years spent loving each other you have many stories to tell to the strawhats.

words count: 2.2k

a/n: I got inspired by the kdrama When Life Gives You Tangerines, I just hope it didn't come out too cringy honestly...

tags: childhood friends, storytelling, bickering, comfort, fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The fire’s warm. The moon hangs heavy above the ship.

Luffy leans back, arms behind his head, grinning “So, how’d you two end up together anyway?”

You blink “Us?”

Shanks smirks, sitting beside you on a crate “You wanna tell it, or should I?”

“Like hell I’m letting you tell it.” you mutter.

Nami leans in, curious. Sanji pours wine for Robin. Zoro pretends he’s not listening. Even Usopp’s wide-eyed. They’ve heard of Shanks the Yonko, but they never thought they’d hear him laughing like this.

You sigh “It started when we were kids.”

“She hated me.” Shanks says.

You shoot him a look “I ignored you.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“She’d walk past me every day like I was just a chair.”

“You sat like one. On the dock. All day.”

“I was watching the sea! I was thoughtful.”

“You were stupid.”

Shanks grins at the crew “See? True love.”

They laugh. You roll your eyes.

You look down at your hands “We were kids in the same village. I liked books. He liked trouble.”

“She liked pretending she didn’t care.” he adds.

“I didn’t.”

“You still don’t.” he teases.

Your voice softens “He followed me everywhere.”

Shanks turns to the crew “Everywhere.”

You smack his arm “Stop making it weird.”

He grins “I’m just saying. If she climbed a tree, I climbed it. If she stole an apple, I stole two.”

“And got caught.”

“I let them catch me so that they wouldn't catch you.”

You scoff “You cried.”

“I was seven!”

Everyone laughs again, but this time it fades slower.

You rest your chin on your hand “We grew up. He left first. Said the sea was calling. I said ‘Good. Don’t come back’.”

“But I did.” he says. Quiet now.

“You always did.” you say.

There’s a pause. The kind that only happens when people are listening too hard.

Nami’s voice breaks the silence “But when did you fall in love?”

You look at Shanks. He’s already looking at you.

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe when he stopped being an idiot.”

“So never.” Luffy says.

Shanks chuckles “I knew before she did. I was always waiting.”

You swallow. Your voice is barely a whisper “I was afraid.”

“Why?” Luffy asks.

“Because he was everything I didn’t want to need.”

Shanks leans back, watching the fire “And I was just waiting for her to look at me the way I looked at her.”

Zoro snorts “That’s depressing.”

Robin smiles “It’s real.”

You toss a tangerine at Shanks. He catches it, grinning.

“You’re still annoying.” you say.

“And you still love me.” he says.

You don’t answer but you don’t deny it, either.

You throw another tangerine at Luffy. He dodges it, laughing with his mouth wide open.

“Why are you asking so many questions, huh?” you say, pointing at him “You’ve heard this story a million times.”

Luffy shrugs, still grinning “Because I love it!”

You squint at him “You didn’t even listen the first hundred times.”

“Yeah, but I remember all of it now,” he says “When I was a kid, I used to look up at Shanks like he was the sun. Strong. Loud. Impossible.”

Shanks rubs the back of his neck “Don’t make me sound too cool.”

“But when he was with you,” Luffy continues, softer now, “or talking about you… he changed.”

You blink. The fire crackles again.

“It was like you were his captain.” Luffy says.

Everyone goes quiet. Zoro pauses mid-drink. Nami watches you closely. Robin’s smile grows just a little.

Shanks doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Luffy’s voice drops “And that always made me feel like… maybe the Shanks everyone fears... wasn’t that scary after all.”

Shanks finally glances at you. There’s no teasing in his eyes now.

You don’t know what to say to that.

Because it’s true. All those years he was off sailing, getting stronger, louder, more famous... he’d write to you like nothing had changed. Like he was still that barefoot boy chasing after you in the mud.

You hated those letters. You kept every single one.

“He never stops talking about you.” Luffy adds.

Shanks groans “Luffy—”

“No, really! He’d be telling us about a fight or a treasure, and then... bam ‘That reminds me of her’ or, ‘She would’ve laughed at that’ or—”

“Luffy!” Shanks throws a cork at his head.

You hide a smile behind your hand.

“So,” Sanji says, leaning forward, “who confessed first?”

You and Shanks speak at the same time:

“He did.”

“She did.”

The crew erupts.

“What?!”

“Liar!”

You point at him “You kissed me first. And you were obvious since you were 6.”

“Yeah, but you said it first.” he counters.

“Only because you were dying.”

“I wasn’t dying!”

“You had a spear in your shoulder!”

“A tiny spear.”

“You fainted.”

“I was tired!”

Nami shakes her head “You two are a mess.”

Robin sips her wine “A beautiful mess.”

Luffy lies back on the deck, hands behind his head again “I just knew you two would end up like this.”

“You weren't even there... But yeah,” you say quietly as you look at Shanks, and he’s already watching you “I think deep down… I always knew too.”

“So you didn’t join Shanks on the sea from the start?” Usopp asks, still wide-eyed like he’s listening to a bedtime story.

You snort “No. I didn’t want to.”

“She followed me anyway.” Shanks says, puffing his chest like a proud idiot.

You roll your eyes “I studied. For years. Maps. Languages. History. Ship mechanics. All of it. I worked harder than anyone.”

Robin tilts her head “So you could sail?”

You pause “So I could stand next to him without being a burden.”

Shanks turns to you, slower now, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment “You never told me that.”

You pick at the edge of your sleeve “Yeah, well. You never shut up long enough to hear it.”

The crew laughs, but it’s gentler now.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, turning back to Luffy “The first time I met you, you looked at me like I was your mom and Shanks used to make fun of me.”

“What?” Luffy blinks.“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did,” you say “You followed me around, asked if I had snacks, and called me ‘Miss Cool Pirate Lady’ for three days.”

Shanks throws his head back, laughing “I remember that!”

“You sat in the corner and drew me with a sword,” you add “And then said I was cooler than Shanks. And you called me mom by mistakes multiple times.”

“I WAS FIVE!” Luffy yells, red in the face now.

You smirk “Still true though.”

Shanks puts a hand over his heart “He used to blush like crazy everytime he realised he called you mom.”

There’s a quiet moment as the waves lap softly against the ship.

“Going back to that question... I didn’t plan to go to sea at first,” you admit “I wanted a small, quiet life.”

Shanks smiles, listening.

“But then he left,” you say, eyes on the stars “And I couldn’t stop wondering if he’d die without me.”

“That’s romantic,” Sanji says, dreamily.

“No,” you shake your head “That’s just the truth.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.” Shanks says softly.

“No,” you nod “You didn’t have to.”

You turn back to the Straw Hats “I joined the crew two years after he left. I showed up with a packed bag and told Benn, ‘Don’t make a big deal’.”

“And I immediately made a big deal.” Shanks grins.

“You tripped running down the dock.”

“I was moved, okay?”

“You fell into a crate of bananas.”

“It was an emotional day!”

Everyone’s laughing again. The air is full of warmth now, wine and fire and stories wrapped around the mast like wind.

Luffy lies on the floor of the Sunny, staring up at the sails “You two were the first people I ever saw who felt like family.”

You go still.

He says it so easily, like it’s always been true.

“I didn’t understand it then,” Luffy goes on, “but… when you were together, it felt safe. Not boring. Just… safe. Like home.”

You glance at Shanks. He’s not smiling now, not in the big, cocky way. This one’s smaller. Quieter. Like he can barely hold it.

“I guess I raised two idiots” you mutter, wiping your nose.

“You did,” Shanks says “And somehow, we both turned out okay.”

“Debatable.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours “Speak for yourself. I’m perfect.”

“You’re loud.”

“You love it.”

You don’t answer.

You just lean into him, just enough.

Luffy’s snoring now. Flat on his back, mouth open, arms spread like he owns the whole ship.

You nudge him with your toe. Nothing. Just louder snoring.

“I guess storytime’s over.” you say, standing and brushing off your pants.

Shanks stretches, groaning a little too dramatically “Guess that’s our cue to go.”

“Yeah,” you nod, already turning to leave “Let’s let the kids sleep.”

“Wait—WAIT.” Nami’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You freeze “What?”

“You’re not leaving yet,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips “You haven’t told us the best part.”

You sigh “Oh no.”

“How did he propose?” she grins.

“Oh no...” you repeat.

Usopp leans forward “Did he cry?”

Sanji fans himself “Was it romantic?”

Chopper is bouncing now “Did you say yes right away?!”

Franky still crying over your romantic stories.

Robin smiles “You must share. We’re invested now.”

You turn slowly toward Shanks.

He looks like a man standing in front of a cannon.

“We were supposed to not to tell anyone” you whisper.

He grins sheepishly “I didn’t!… Yet.”

You groan into your hands “You’re a menace.”

“But a charming menace.” he adds, winking.

“Don’t wink at me. I’m still mad.”

You face the crew with a deep sigh.

“Fine,” you say “But it wasn’t romantic.”

“Yes it was!” Shanks says.

“No. It wasn’t.”

“I tried to make it romantic.”

“You proposed during a storm.”

“It was dramatic!”

“We were sinking.”

“That’s memorable!”

Robin’s eyes sparkle “Please continue.”

You sit back down, crossing your arms “Okay. So. We’re in the middle of this horrible storm, waves taller than the ship. I’m tying down barrels, he’s yelling commands, the usual chaos.”

“And she looks amazing.” Shanks adds.

“Drenched.” You glare at him “Hair stuck to my face, one boot missing, and I’m yelling at the crew.”

“Very commanding... and sexy...” he says dreamily.

“And then,” you continue, ignoring him, “this idiot climbs the main mast with a ring in his mouth.”

Gasps around the fire.

“You didn’t...” Nami whispers.

“I did.” Shanks says proudly.

“And he screams... screams ‘WILL YOU MARRY ME?!’ while lightning is literally striking the ocean behind him.”

“You said yes.” he grins.

“I said, ‘GET DOWN BEFORE YOU DIE, YOU LUNATIC!’”

Robin is laughing quietly now. Chopper is wide-eyed. Usopp is trying not to cry while Franky is bawling.

Sanji puts a hand on his heart “That’s the most pirate thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zoro raises a brow “So when did you actually say yes?”

You sigh “Two days later. Calm seas. Clear skies. I was brushing my hair.”

“She just looks at me and goes, ‘I guess I’m stuck with you now’.”

“And then I threw the ring at him.” you say.

“You missed.”

“I aimed for your face.”

Everyone laughs again. The fire’s burning lower now, but no one wants to move.

Shanks wraps an arm around your shoulders, casual. Warm.

“And you still married me.” he says.

You glance up at him.

“You forgot the ring at the wedding.”

“It was in my other coat!”

“You don’t have another coat.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh, shaking your head, but you’re smiling now. Soft. Quiet. Real.

“He’s a disaster.” you say.

“She’s the reason I survive it.”

The fire’s nothing but glowing coals now.

Luffy’s curled up like a kid. Most of the Straw Hats are asleep, heads resting on arms, backs against barrels, dreams thick in the night air.

You and Shanks sit side by side, knees almost touching.

He’s quiet now. Not laughing. Just watching the waves.

You look out too.

Then he says, softly, “You never really wanted this life.”

You don’t look at him “I didn’t.”

“You wanted quiet.”

You nod “I wanted peace. Soft mornings.”

“And you got storms. Blood. Chaos.”

You smile, just a little “And you.”

He swallows “Sorry.”

You shake your head “Don’t be. I said yes.”

Shanks looks at you “Even after everything?”

You finally meet his eyes “Especially after everything.”

The ship rocks gently.

“You know,” you whisper, “when we were young, I thought you were the kind of boy who would burn the world just to see what was under it.”

“I was.” he says.

“And I thought I’d spend my life trying to stop you.”

He smiles faintly “Did you?”

“No,” you say “I ended up helping you light the match.”

You both laugh, soft and low.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a candy.

Shanks raises an eyebrow “You still carry those?”

“I always do, they're my favourite.” you say. You hand it to him.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leans into you, warm and steady.

And in the quiet, in the dark, with the sea all around you and stars blinking like old friends overhead, you think:

No, I didn’t get the life I planned. But I got the one I chose.

And more importantly, I got him.

[yawnnzy]

i needed this sm 🥹 this is the cutest thing i've ever read

[aaabatteriez]

we're not quite lovers, so i tell everyone we're just friends

zoro x afab! reader

hi! this is the revised + part 2 ish of the original. i doubt ill come back to this but idk i love quiet love sm 😕😕 and yearning. and the line between friends nd lovers. ts wounds me. zoro being bad abt feelings.

we're not quite lovers, so i tell everyone we're just friends.

the lights in the kitchen were dim except for one; blanching it's warm, yellow light upon you, the stool you sat upon, the table where your rigid shoulders heaved, and a bottle of soju alongside an emptied glass. 

remnants of your drunken lips were smeared on it's rim, as a single drop of liquor cascaded down one of the beveled edges of the cup. it was a true mirror of the state you were in. 

with tired eyes, you set aside the glass, the clink you heard upon doing so, sounding much too familiar. 

to hear it, hurt your heart, but not more than your pride, knowing if at that moment you heard more than one, how easily you would have bursted into tears.

clink. clink. clink. 

that was the sound one would hear when roronoa zoro entered the room. quiet yet full of presence, it was always three consecutive clinks, one from each of his blades clashing from the tread of his footsteps on deck. before your mind even got the chance to protest, the sound carved itself into your memory with ease.

there were a lot of things about the swordsman you memorized without meaning to.

it was like he hardly slept at all, by how early he would rise at dawn. you knew it well because sometimes in your sleep you stirred, and when you woke you'd hear the clink of his swords on the other side of the door as he walked past.

by afternoon, often you'd find the swordsman in deep sleep, in every possible location on the ship. it made sense to you though, of course he'd need to make up for the time lost to early training than to doze off. though his routine was out of his own willingness, you always made sure to interrupt roronoa zoro's way of life for meal times, when you noticed that he was asleep for longer than usual.

on one of those days, you and everyone had gathered for lunch. It was only mid way through the meal that you noticed the empty chair beside you. everyone was seated, except for the man who's mere absence left you feeling odd. you forgot to wake the swordsman. without hesitation, you set down your chopsticks and got up.

"(y/n), are you going to get zoro again?" asked the navigator. 

the question stopped you in your tracks. you turned to nami, who's casual expression meant nothing at face value, that was until you became well acquainted with the look that glinted in the cat burglar's eyes, curiosity lighting aflame when it came to matters of gold, treasure, and more recently; you and the man who was currently snoring away with an empty stomach.  

you nodded at the question, to which the sharpshooter who sat beside her looked to you, towards nami, then back to you again, the smirk on his face growing wider throughout the whole exchange. 

to this, nami made no attempt to cease ussop's silent amusement, flashing an impish grin to her partner in crime, just as mortifying as his.

"what." you said, a desperate attempt to protect your pride.

"you know, (y/n)," ussop spoke, "i think it would be better if you were our cook instead of sanji."

the blonde chef glanced towards ussop's direction.

"if you were making dinner everyday, zoro would be the first one seated." 

nami burst into laughter, jabbing ussop's shoulder repeatedly with her palms as he snickered. amused glances darted around the room, even luffy joined in with a hearty laugh, however it was not for the same reason that caused your cheeks to light aflame. 

"don't be weird." you groaned. 

"i'm not! i'm just saying," ussop grinned, swirling around the contents of the soup bowl cradled in his hand, "everyone here knows zoro sleeps like crazy, but we don't bother to wake him. there's a reason for that, (y/n)."

ussop paused, lowering his utensils.

"to say the least, it's like... poking a tiger with a stick."

chopper shuddered as if just hearing the sentiment was enough to relive the dreaded, 'who wants to wake zoro? not it!' game. the doctor's 62-day losing streak only came to an end once you had joined the crew.

ussop continued, "the thing with you, is that you get zoro up like he was never sleeping to begin with. not only that, you do it completely unscathed!" 

nami nodded in agreement, the others similarly without a hint of protest.

"so there's no way he doesn't care for you right? atleast a little." nami teased. "wouldn't you agree sanji?"

sanji hummed, "that meathead has more moss in his brain than neurons, but he's an easy book to read."

you grew quiet.

"it's not rocket science. anyone can see that zoro likes (y/n)." 

"zoro likes (y/n)? of course! she's part of our crew!" luffy laughed.

"not like that, luffy." sanji sighed.

you lowered your hands to your sides, stifly. your embarrassment was long replaced with a feeling that burdened you much more than a couple teasing remarks ever could. 

"i know you all mean well, but i think you've got the wrong idea." you said, lips upturned into a smile that was a much of a lie as the next words that came out of your mouth.

"we're just friends, that's all."

———

as you left the dining room, you could feel the sentiment lingering in your throat, your tongue resting on the hard palate of your mouth, matching the final consonant.

that's all.

to roronoa zoro, the words "that's all" was easy for him. you'd gotten used to the way he'd leave long silences and unended conversations, without much explanation or room for interpretation. when you were with others, when you two were alone. when you'd see him in the boys cabin in the daylight, when he'd visit yours in the night. to roronoa zoro, the words "that's all" meant what they meant. there was no reason to question the statement. the words "that's all" would've been something he nodded at and left the room. something he'd turn his attention to for a split second, but ultimately it would never cross his mind again. 

maybe the cook was right, how easily roronoa zoro read after so much time with him. the only thing is, you were just friends, and that's all you were. that's what you claimed, and that's what he'd be okay with. words that meant what they meant.

You walked along the deck, your arm softly meeting the railing, until you stopped at the familiar sound of a light snore.

you smiled softly to yourself, walking closer towards the frontmost part of the deck where zoro was sleeping seated upright, head cocked to one side. his shoulders lying low, chest rising and falling to the slow yet heavy rhythm of his breathing. 

had you remembered the words you said earlier to your friends, you wouldn't have taken these few moments to study the way the swordsman looked. he was handsome, you knew anyone could see that. but it was when you started your routine of waking him did you notice the way his strongest and most chiseled features became his softest at rest. the curve of his cheek, the lack of furrow in his brow. his lips slightly parted. he was lighter in this state. less tired, less bitter. 

his muscular frame however, was still as solid asleep as awake, but never did his sleeping form make you feel as uneasy as the way he looked after slaying a man 40 times the size of himself. instead, he was heavy in a remote state, like a large rock, unmoving, yet soft.

you knelt down to meet him at face level, as you've always done countless times before, resting a palm on his shoulder.

"zoro," you said, lightly patting the fabric.

being met with no response, you called again. 

"zoro."

his breath was interrupted with a low grunt, then it continued again, ignoring you completely. you knew after some time this was not a case of the swordsman in deep sleep, it was one of refusal. seeing how his posture shifted to one more attentive than the way he was sitting moments ago, it only comfirmed your suspicions.

"i know you're awake, you big lug." you rolled your eyes in amusement. your hands lowered to meet the collar of his coat, lightly tugging the fabric.

still, his act continued even after confrontation, even after a couple firmer attempts to nudge him awake, and finally an exasperated sigh from you in defeat. without much else to do, you turned your head to look in the direction you came.

"i'll bring you a plate if you're so tired today." you said.

but before you could stand up to do so, the swordsman stopped you, his palms meeting your arms, heavy eyes opening to look at you. only you.

what one might expect from the likeness of roronoa zoro, is that his touch would be a great distance away from ever being tender.

i mean, he was a swordsman of course. how could a man who's life passion consisting of violence and bloodshed, have hands be anything but cold, unmercifcul, as if it was a physical imprint of how closely he worked with death himself?

maybe it has been too long. too much time. too many moments where you've bumped shoulders, or brushed each others' knuckles without meaning to. too many nights spent training, where his hands lingered to correct your form longer than they should have, or held onto you in battle even when danger was far away from the two of you. 

because if you really thought about it, you couldn't even imagine a moment in time where roronoa zoro was ever rough with you.

yes, his hands were of little to no vanity. they were coarse and blistered, that much was clear from how hard he worked. but his touch, it was the kind of tenderness that was never too excessive or flowery, but simple and soft, tender enough to withold you from leaving him, from moving, from breathing altogether.

at that moment, he brushed a hand along your back, then raised it to where your hair met the collar of your shirt, strands falling loosely over your shoulders. he paused for a moment, hand frozen in place. to look at you. then ever so slowly, he shifted your hair to one side, grazing the crease of his thumb along the nape of your neck. 

his gaze never left you. you couldn't describe it well, because in moments like these you found yourself looking at just about anywhere, anything, as long as it wasn't him, because never would you admit that the way he watched your face with such focus made your heart ache so easily. 

had you looked at the swordsman's face for any longer, you wouldve felt a dangerous lack of restraint to close the distance between you and him, the man who had just moved your hair out of the way for no reason at all. for no real reason, other than it was something he wanted to do, so he did it. 

had you looked at him for any longer, would you have mirrored his actions in return? 

your hands dropped to your sides as you stepped back, letting him move from his rested position.

"you don't get me food." he said, firmly, slowly rising to his feet.

"hm?" you asked, a little taken aback.

"you offered to get me a plate, don't do that." he grunted, shifting his weight to stretch his shoulders.

"why not?" 

"because if i don't get up to eat even after you go trying to wake me up, that's my fault." he turned to you, "you're no maid, so don't act like it."

you smiled.

"hey, if you're trying to say i'm a doormat,  then you're very much mistaken," you scoffed. "if you made me get you food from today onward, i would've started complaining by day three."

"my point exactly." he grinned, flashing a canine.

"oh come on! how?" 

"it takes you three days to start complaining. were you gonna bathe and dress me too?"

the remark left you feeling more embarrassed than you wished it did. you smacked his back with your open palm, flustered, as you walked towards the dining room.

it was an action that encouraged him to joust back, for him to flinch and shake your hand off his body and grunt in annoyance, away from your touch, away from you. but he did none of these things. 

he simply let you, a content expression across his face, looking at you with those same honest eyes that made your walk falter behind him, your hand slowly falling back to your side.

for a moment you both walked in silence, zoro infront of you.

then you walked forward, brushing his forearm with yours, closer to him, closer than you needed to. and he just let you.

and for a moment, the shortest spec of a moment, your heart urged you to ask him why. 

to ask why he let you walk closer. why he didn't move a muscle when you hit him and scolded him. why he would sleep for hours on end so you could wake him, and he could look at you, touch you, do all these things for longer than your heart could handle, and then repeat it all the next day without saying a single word.

you didn't have the courage to, of course, because you were just friends. 

so you didn't say anything, and neither did he.

———

it was after a long fervour of party streamers, violin concertos, cake and booze on the sunny, that you were resting near the bow of the ship.

the sound of light waves rolling and crashing down replaced the hollering shouts of your once drunken, but now sleeping, crewmates. it seemed everyone was knocked out cold. it was so quiet now. what a party, the strawhats could throw.

you contently gazed up at the stars above, ones that seemed to glisten only for the ocean below, and you wondered if they knew how radiant they looked from millions of light years away. and then you wondered how the world would look from up that high, if you could trade places with the stars. 

you figured from such a distance as theirs, it would be quite an eyesore to try to see anything. 

maybe you had been looking up at the stars for too long, thinking about them for too long, that you didn't see when exactly roronoa zoro walked up beside you, built arms resting on the ship's railing. your eyes fluttered closed.

 no, you really didn't see him. 

clink clink clink.

the sound was enough to know. 

without hesitance, his name droned out of your lips in a sigh, "zoro, how many drinks did you have?" you leaned against the railing. 

he grunted. when you opened your eyes, his gaze was already fixated on you. 

"lost count." 

the feather-like waft of the wind caused his earrings to softly chime and glisten, moonlight framing the crystal gold just as lavishly as it did his jawline. god. even the moon was weak to handsome men. 

you hummed, gaze drifting downwards to his chest, absentmindedly, "i guess when you can hold your liquor, it's easy to forget, huh?" 

he nodded, and for a moment you both stilled in each others presence, the cold of the railing, the stillness of wind and sea from above as below.

"why are you awake?" he asked, breaking the soft quiet in the air. 

"hm? oh. don't you remember?" you turned to him, "i'm on night duty for the week." 

"oh." his posture lowered with understanding, "so that's why you weren't there when i..." zoro stopped. his mouth closed almost instantaneously after the sentence, his eyes darting to the ground. 

you tilted your head in confusion, inviting him to continue, "when you...?"

he opened his mouth to speak again, turning to you, but he had no words left to say once you came into his view. your puzzled yet soft expression, the wrinkle in your brow, the way you leaned ever so slightly torwards him, so ardently for him to finish his sentence. 

you were listening to him. really listening. that very fact filled the swordsman with a hesitant kind of dread, and no longer could he find the words he meant to say.

all of a sudden it felt they weighed more, with the way you were looking at him that night.

his jaw tightened, heavy eyes giving your mouth a once over before shaking his head and clearing his throat.

"s' nothing, forget it."

———

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[inseobts]

I Hate Goodbyes

law × fem!reader

you're luffy’s sister, and after the tragedy at marineford, you join the heart pirates to heal and grow stronger during the two-year wait—but what happens when you start to fall for law, and neither of you knows how to say goodbye?

part 2

a/n: btw I have a similar one you might like too if you didn't read it yet 'tides of fate' (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

words count: 7.1k

tags: marineford spoilers, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort, marineford aftermath, protective reader, slow burn, healing

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battlefield smells like blood and burning.

You stumble through the wreckage, heart pounding so loud it drowns everything out. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You saw Ace falling, the hole in his chest, the way Luffy screamed like his soul got torn away.

You try to grab Luffy’s arm, but he’s already out cold. Broken.

“Lu! Luffy, come on, stay with me!” you cry, shaking him. His body is limp. His skin is hot, burning with fever and blood.

You fall to your knees beside him, useless, shaking, trying to wake your baby brother who doesn’t even hear you anymore.

Then, a voice, sharp, calm, cutting through the chaos “I’ll take him.”

You look up, eyes wide and wild. A man with dark hair and tattoos crouches beside Luffy. His gaze flicks to you quick, judging, but not unkind.

“You coming too?” he asks simply.

You don’t even think. You tighten your grip on Luffy and nod, tears blinding you.

“Please… Please don’t let him die” you whisper, voice cracking.

He nods once “Trafalgar Law. Captain. Now move.”

His crew surrounds you. You cling to Luffy as the door of the submarine slams shut, cutting off the nightmare behind you.

Amazon Lily is too bright. Too loud. Even the clean air hurts.

You sit beside Luffy’s bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. You barely notice the Heart Pirates moving around, whispering and working.

Days pass. Maybe weeks.

Sometimes you touch Luffy’s hand, just to make sure he’s alive.

Sometimes you dream of Ace’s last smile, and wake up gasping, your throat raw from silent screams.

One night, you sit in the hallway outside the infirmary, shivering even though the air is warm.

Footsteps approach. Then Law’s voice, low and firm “You can’t stay like this.”

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes on your hands, wishing you were stronger. Faster. Smarter.

He crouches beside you. His presence is steady, not pushing you but not leaving either.

“You fought to get him here,” Law says “You’re not useless.”

You laugh, but it’s a broken sound “Feels like I am.”

He sits down beside you, arms resting on his knees. His voice drops even softer.

“When he’s ready, Straw Hat’s going to train. Two years. Away from everyone.”

Your stomach twists painfully “I can’t leave him.”

“You don’t have to,” Law says. His eyes are sharp, cutting right through you “You’ll train too. Learn medicine. Herbs. Whatever you already know, I’ll teach you more.”

You finally lift your head to look at him. His expression is calm, but his eyes are serious.

“You mean it?” you ask, voice small.

“I don’t offer things I don’t mean” Law says. There’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth “You’re stubborn. You’ll fit right in.”

Later that night, you sit quietly beside Luffy’s bed. He’s awake now, barely, his body weak but his spirit burning stubborn as ever.

Law is sitting a little distance away, pretending not to listen but not going far either.

Luffy’s voice is hoarse when he speaks “You’re gonna train too, right?”

You blink “Luffy, I—”

He grabs your hand weakly, squeezing with what little strength he has. His eyes are serious, more serious than you’ve ever seen them.

“I’m gonna get stronger” he says, voice trembling a little “Strong enough to protect everyone. I’m gonna find my crew again. I’m gonna be Pirate King.”

Your throat tightens.

“But I need you too,” Luffy says. His hand squeezes yours tighter “You gotta get stronger too. So you can protect yourself. So you can sail with me.”

You feel tears welling up again, but you bite them back.

“I will,” you whisper “I’ll train. I’ll learn. I’ll get strong enough… strong enough to protect myself. Strong enough to protect you too, Luffy”

Luffy smiles, even though it hurts “I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

You lean your forehead against his hand, your heart aching with love and hope and fear all at once.

“I promise,” you whisper “I’ll come back stronger.”

A few feet away, Law watches silently. He doesn’t say anything. But for the first time in a long while, you feel something steady beneath your feet, like maybe, somehow, you’ll be okay.

The Heart Pirates welcome you in without questions.

Bepo brings you tea. Shachi and Penguin joke around loudly to make you smile. Even Jean Bart nods at you sometimes when you pass him in the hall.

You try to smile back. You try to act normal. You try so, so hard.

In the daytime, you throw yourself into studying. Law gives you heavy books, scrolls, and old medical charts. He shows you how to grind herbs, how to recognize poisons, how to stitch a wound without shaking.

“Again,” he says calmly when your fingers fumble “Until it’s second nature.”

You nod. You always nod. You’re determined.

You even start making your own little mixes, salves for bruises, sleeping powders (not that you dare take them yourself), small bombs made from herbs and oils.

“You’re like a damn witch” Penguin laughs one afternoon, watching you stir a smoking green liquid in a jar.

You snort “Better than being useless.”

Law watches from the corner of the room, arms crossed, saying nothing.

At night, though, everything falls apart.

You can’t sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see Ace falling. You hear Luffy screaming. You feel the helplessness crushing your chest until you can’t even breathe.

You jerk awake gasping, heart slamming against your ribs, your clothes sticking to you with cold sweat.

You curl up on your bunk, pressing your fists over your face, trying not to cry out.

You think no one notices.

You’re wrong.

One night, after another nightmare rips you out of sleep, you stumble out of your room, trying to catch your breath. You sit on the cold metal floor of the hallway, pressing your back against the wall.

“Nightmare?”

The voice makes you jump.

You look up. Law stands a few feet away, arms folded, leaning against the wall. His face is calm as always, but his eyes… his eyes are softer. Sadder.

You wipe your face quickly “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you for a long moment.

“You’re a terrible liar” he says finally.

You let out a shaky laugh “Thanks.”

Silence stretches between you.

“You’re not weak for hurting” Law says after a while, voice low “Pain doesn’t disappear just because you pretend it’s gone.”

You swallow hard. Something cracks in your chest.

“I lost him,” you whisper “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t save him. I just watched, just like with Sabo.”

Law’s jaw tightens slightly. He walks closer, slow, like he’s giving you time to push him away if you want.

“You did everything you could” he says “Sometimes… that’s just not enough but doesn't mean you did something wrong.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the rough edge in his voice.

“You talk like you’ve lost someone too” you say, almost without thinking.

His mouth tightens into a thin line. For a second, he doesn’t answer.

Then he says quietly, “Yeah.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

You hug your knees to your chest “It hurts. It hurts so much.”

Law kneels down in front of you. Close, but not touching.

“I know” he says simply.

And somehow, that’s the first thing that makes you feel less alone.

From that night on, things change.

Law still trains you hard. Still corrects your mistakes with sharp words and steady hands. But sometimes, when he catches you zoning out, lost in memories, he’ll tap the table sharply to pull you back. Sometimes, when the nightmares get really bad, you’ll find a cup of calming tea left outside your door. No note. No explanation.

You never say thank you and he never asks for it, but you both know.

Slowly, painfully, you start stitching yourself back together.

One day, you swear, you’ll be strong enough to protect what you love. And this time you won’t lose.

Days turn into weeks.

You spend most of your time training, reading, studying, practicing stitches, memorizing herbs. You work until your hands cramp and your head pounds.

One afternoon, you sit on the deck of the Polar Tang, grinding dried leaves into powder. Your hair is a mess, your fingers stained green, but you don’t care. You’re focused.

Law watches you for a while from the stairs, arms crossed.

“You’re learning fast” he says finally.

You look up, smiling a little “Thanks.”

“But,” he says, walking closer, “the Straw Hats already have a doctor. From what I know, he is… good.”

You blink. The words sting a little more than you want to admit.

“I’m not trying to replace him” you mumble.

“I know.” Law sits down across from you, setting his sword beside him “That’s why I’m telling you this now that you know enough.”

He taps a finger against the deck, thinking.

“You’re good with herbs. With potions. You’re creative,” he says. His eyes narrow a little, studying you like he’s fitting a puzzle together “What if we move on now and you focus on something that makes you stronger in battle?”

You frown, confused “Like what?”

Law leans back against the wall, looking almost lazy but you can tell he’s serious.

“Potions. Weapons. Transfiguration, even” he says calmly “You could craft poisons. Healing salves. Smokescreens. Maybe even weapons that change shape. Things nobody expects.”

You stare at him, heart thudding faster.

“You mean… like a battle witch?” you say half-joking.

Law smirks, just a little “If that’s what you want to call it.”

You stare down at your hands. It feels scary. Different. But also… right.

Something you can be. Not just following in Luffy’s shadows. Your own strength.

“I want to try” you say, voice steady.

Law nods once “Good. Then we start tomorrow.”

You blink “That fast?”

“Battlefields don’t wait,” Law says, standing up “Neither should you.”

He pauses for a second. His voice drops softer “You have potential. Don’t waste it.”

Before you can even answer, he’s already walking away, coat swishing behind him.

You sit there, stunned. Excited. Terrified.

And for the first time since Marineford, you feel something else, too... hope.

And then training starts again, and as hard as always.

Law doesn’t go easy on you just because you’re still healing. If anything, he pushes you harder, drilling you on herbs that can paralyze, potions that heal faster, even how to throw small smoke bombs to cover retreats.

“You can’t just make things,” he says one day, hands folded behind his back “You have to use them. In real time. No hesitation.”

You nod, teeth gritted.

The first mission comes faster than you expect.

A small island. A skirmish. A cargo pickup gone wrong.

You cling to the sides of the Polar Tang as it surfaces just offshore. Your stomach twists with nerves, but you press a hand to the little pouch of potions at your belt.

“You ready, Witch?” Penguin teases, grinning.

Law calls you that sometimes too now “Witch”.

At first it annoyed you.

Now… when Law says it, it almost sounds fond.

You push the thought away “Let’s go” you say, voice steady.

In the fight, everything you practiced crashes into reality.

You duck under a sword swing, whip a vial of sleeping powder at the enemy’s face. It explodes in a soft green puff, the man drops like a rock.

You barely have time to breathe before another rushes you.

Your heart races. You fumble for another potion, a heavier one before a blur of blue and steel slices the air.

Law steps between you and the attacker, katana flashing. In one smooth motion, he drops the enemy without even blinking.

“You’re still slow,” he says coolly, glancing at you “Fix that.”

Your face burns “I’m trying!”

But later, when the battle is over and everyone’s tending to scrapes and bruises, Law walks by you, pausing just long enough to murmur “Good instincts.”

You blink.

You don’t answer, but your heart skips anyway.

Weeks pass.

Your skills sharpen. Your hands move quicker, your ideas flow faster. You make small grenades from seaweed oil. Healing sprays that numb pain instantly. Distraction bombs that flash bright colors.

Law watches you more often now, from across rooms, over the tops of books, during training drills.

At first you think you’re imagining it. Until one day, after you bandage a wound on his arm, quick, clean and professional, and Law looks at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re not the same person you were when you got here” he says.

You smile faintly “Neither are you.”

His mouth quirks, just slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t know how.

You notice stupid things now, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired, the rare rasp of laughter when Bepo does something ridiculous, the low, calm hum of his voice when he explains something complicated just to make sure you understand.

You hate it.

You hate that your chest tightens when he stands too close.

You hate that you look forward to hearing him call you “Witch”.

You hate it because caring about people hurts. You already know how that story ends.

One night, you sit alone on the deck, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the stars. The ocean is quiet. The world feels… less heavy.

You hear footsteps behind you, soft and careful.

Law sits down beside you without asking.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, he says, voice low “You’re still not sleeping.”

It’s not a question.

You close your eyes “Neither are you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a real smile this time, small and tired “Touché.”

You breathe in the salty air, heart beating way too fast.

It feels dangerous, but somehow, it feels okay.

Maybe caring doesn’t have to mean losing. Maybe sometimes, it means surviving together.

Months pass.

The Polar Tang feels like home now. The crew jokes with you. Bepo brings you your favorite tea without asking. Jean Bart lets you win at cards sometimes even though he’s terrible at hiding it.

And Law is still Law. Sharp words. Quiet stares. But sometimes, when you pass by each other in the narrow halls, your shoulders brush and neither of you moves away.

One afternoon, you’re hunched over a workbench deep in the ship. Herbs, powders, pieces of metal, tiny vials, all scattered in front of you. Your latest project.

“You’ve been sitting there for hours.”

You jolt, almost dropping your vial. Law stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable look again.

“I’m working on something” you say, defensive.

Law walks closer, glancing over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, a little embarrassed. On the table is a rough design of a kind of weapon. A bracelet lined with tiny hidden capsules you can trigger during battle, potions for healing, poison, smoke bombs, even flash bursts.

“Smart,” Law says, surprising you “Lightweight. Quick access.”

You blink up at him “You really think so?”

He leans in a little closer, studying the rough sketches. His shoulder brushes yours, warm through the thin fabric.

“You could stabilize the capsules with resin,” he murmurs, half to himself “Faster activation. Less chance of them breaking accidentally.”

You nod quickly, grabbing a pen, scribbling notes.

Law watches you work for a second. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and sets it on the table, a small silver clasp, shaped like a skull.

You look at it, confused.

“Found it last mission,” he says. His voice is almost… shy “Figured you could use it. For the bracelet.”

Your throat tightens.

It’s nothing. Just a small piece of scrap metal.

But it’s from him.

You swallow the lump in your throat and pick it up carefully.

“Thank you” you whisper.

Law shrugs like it’s no big deal. But when you glance up, you catch him looking at you, in a way that looks like you’re something rare and breakable and important all at once.

You force yourself to smile “If you keep being this nice, people are gonna think you like me or something.”

It’s a joke. A stupid, nervous joke.

Law’s eyes flash and for a second, just a second, you see something real. But he only smirks, tilting his head “Guess I’ll have to be meaner, then.”

You laugh real, loud, from your gut. And for once, the sound doesn’t feel heavy.

Later that night, you finish the bracelet.

It fits perfectly around your wrist, it's light, strong, deadly.

Yours.

You stand on the deck alone, letting the sea breeze whip through your hair.

Your fingers trace the little silver skull at the clasp. A gift. A promise.

And for the first time, you don’t just feel like someone who survived. You feel like someone who’s becoming.

Eight months.

That’s how long it’s been since Marineford. Since you left Luffy on the beach and promised you’d come back stronger.

You’re not there yet. But you’re close.

Your potions work. Your body is faster. Your mind sharper. You’ve learned how to move through chaos and how to survive it.

Your new mission’s supposed to be simple. Quick trade. Neutral island. In and out. Of course, it goes to hell.

A double-cross. Gunfire. Mercenaries.

You fight your way through smoke, throwing a blinding bomb at the enemy, your bracelet hissing softly as it dispenses the next ready capsule.

It’s working until you hear a gunshot too close.

You whip around just in time to see Law drop to one knee, clutching his shoulder.

Your heart stops.

“Law!”

You run to him, potion already in hand, shoving it into the wound before he can even argue “Don’t move—just let me—dammit, don’t move!”

He grabs your wrist, tight, to steady you “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Your voice cracks “You’re bleeding!”

He watches you, not with pain, but surprise.

You never yell at him like this. Not even during training. But something about seeing him hurt, even a little, rips through you like fire.

You help him to cover. Bepo and the others push the enemy back, and soon it’s over but your hands are still shaking.

Later, back on the ship, the crew patches up the rest of their injuries.

You sit beside Law in the infirmary, cleaning blood from his coat.

Penguin strolls in and drops onto a stool beside you “Not bad back there, Witch. You actually looked kind of cool.”

You raise a brow, smirking “Kind of?”

He grins “Don’t get cocky.”

You snort and keep cleaning. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch Law quietly watching. His jaw a little tight.

He says nothing but you kind of feel the shift in the air.

Two days after the fight, you’re in the engine room mixing new compounds.

Penguin walks in, grinning as usual "Need a taste tester, Witch?"

You don’t even look up "Unless you wanna grow gills or pass out for an hour, I’d wait."

He laughs and leans against the counter "Still impressive, though. The way you protected Law back there."

You pause, hands tightening around the vial you’re holding.

"He’s the captain," you say flatly "I wasn’t gonna let him bleed out in the dirt."

“Still,” Penguin says “You were… intense. I think he even let you yell at him.”

You finally look up, frowning.

Then movement at the door. Law. He’s standing just outside the room, arms crossed. Listening. Watching.

You don’t know how long he’s been there. He doesn’t speak. Just turns on his heel and walks away.

Later that night, you find him alone in the medbay, reviewing some notes.

"You good?" you ask softly.

He doesn’t look up "Fine."

You hesitate "You sure?"

He finally glances at you. His voice is cool, not cruel, just... distant "As long as no one else is talking about how I was bleeding out in the dirt, yeah."

You blink. Okay. So he did hear that.

You try to shrug it off "Penguin’s just messing around. You know how he is."

Law doesn’t answer.

You stay there a few more seconds, then quietly leave.

The next day, on the island, you’re helping organize supplies when you see Law at a vendor’s table, trading herbs with a woman who keeps laughing too loudly at everything he says.

He doesn’t laugh back. But he doesn’t walk away either.

You feel something twist in your chest. You force yourself to smile, to turn back to your work.

Later, when he joins the crew again, you barely meet his eyes.

"You okay?" he asks, voice even.

"Yeah" you lie.

What the hell is happening to you?

That night, you lie awake in your bunk, staring at the ceiling.

You keep replaying the moment Penguin made that comment. The way Law left without a word. The way he stood near that woman. The fact that none of this should matter but it does.

Like why lately you notice things you never noticed before. Like why does it matter to you if a woman flirt with him?

You press your hand to your chest, right where your bracelet rests against your skin.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

You just know you can’t let it grow.

Across the ship, in his own room, Law stares at a half-written report.

He can’t stop thinking about the way you laughed with Penguin. The way you avoided his eyes afterward. The shift in your voice.

He tells himself it’s nothing. He tells himself you’ll be gone in a year anyway.

Still… he closes the report and doesn’t sleep at all.

One year and three months.

You’re stronger now. Faster. Sharper. You know how to fight, how to mix, how to survive.

You’ve lived through storms and gunfire. You’ve taken lives, and you’ve saved them too.

But sometimes, the past doesn’t care how strong you are.

Sometimes it sneaks in when you least expect it.

You’re sitting in the Polar Tang’s storage room, sorting herbs by scent. It’s a quiet job. A repetitive one. Usually it calms you.

Not today.

A smell hits you, one of the dried plants from a southern island. Strong. Burnt. Familiar.

You freeze.

Because it smells like Ace’s coat. The one he used to throw over you when you were cold. The one that always carried smoke and fire and sun.

Your hands stop moving.

Your chest aches like it did that day on the battlefield.

You press your palms over your face. Try to breathe.

You can’t.

You leave the room without thinking. Stumble down the hallway. Find the old supply closet and slip inside, shut the door, slide to the floor. And then you’re crying. Harder than you have in months.

You don’t hear the door open.

But you feel it when someone kneels in front of you.

"Hey" Law says quietly.

You wipe at your face, but your voice still shakes "I’m fine."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sits beside you. Close, but not touching.

"You’re not."

You swallow hard "It’s stupid. Just a smell. Just—"

"Fire?"

Your head jerks up.

He’s not looking at you. He’s staring ahead, eyes distant.

"It reminded you of your brother" he says.

You nod slowly “It’s been so long. And I still—”

"I know."

You look at him.

And that’s when he says "Corazon… used to smell like gunpowder and old cigars. Not in a bad way. Just… constant. Burned into my memory."

Your heart skips. Because Law never talked to you about Corazon so openly.

You barely breathe.

"I forget his face sometimes," Law says softly “But I never forget that smell.”

The silence after is thick. Full of ghosts.

You sit with it.

Then, quietly, you say, “What happened to him?”

You think he won’t answer but then "He died to save me."

You blink fast, chest twisting "I'm sorry."

Law’s voice is dry "You didn’t do it."

"I know. I just..." You reach up, rub your thumb along your wrist "It hurts, doesn’t it? When someone gives up everything for you. And then they're just… gone."

He doesn’t speak but then you feel his hand, brushing yours. He doesn’t hold it. Doesn’t grip. Just enough to let you know he’s there.

You let your fingers brush back.

Both of you sit there, in the dark and the quiet. Neither of you names the weight in your chest. Or the heat that’s slowly grown between you over the months. The way your breath catches when he’s too close. The way you watch him when he’s not looking. The way you burn when someone else does.

You don’t name it but it’s there, unmistakable.

A minute passes. Maybe five.

Then Law stands.

"You should rest."

You nod, eyes red “You too.”

He steps toward the door. Then pauses.

“You don’t have to forget him,” he says “You just have to keep living.”

Your breath catches.

“Same goes for you” you whisper.

Law doesn’t turn around but you see his hand curl at his side. Tight.

Then he walks out, and the door closes behind him.

One year and six months.

That’s how long it’s been since Marineford.

And you are stronger and sharper.

The crew trusts you. Your skills are unmatched. Even Law lets you take the lead on some missions now.

But underneath all that, something else has grown. You and him, you're close.

He watches your back in battle like it's instinct. You can read the tension in his jaw before he even speaks. You can finish each other's plans before they're spoken.

But there’s a weight behind every shared glance because neither of you says what’s circling in your chest.

And now there’s a clock ticking.

“Four months” you say quietly, looking out over the deck at the open sea.

Law is beside you, leaning against the rail, arms folded.

You don’t look at him when you say it. You can’t.

“I go back to him in four months.”

Law doesn’t reply.

The silence stretches, long and heavy.

You force a smile “You’ll be glad to have the quiet again.”

Still, he says nothing.

Then finally, softly “I won’t.”

You freeze.

He looks ahead. Not at you. Not even close but your heart is pounding now.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything.

The silence between you shifts after that.

He stands closer now. His fingers brush yours more often. Sometimes, his eyes stay on you too long when he thinks you won’t notice. But you notice everything.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Your chest aches like it used to, only it’s not grief for the past this time, it’s for the future. For leaving this ship, this crew... him.

You lie on your side, staring at the dark ceiling. And just like before, when you’re about to drown in it there’s a knock.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

You already know who it is.

You don’t say anything. Just open the door.

Law stands there. Still in his coat. Still unreadable.

You don’t ask why he came.

You don’t speak.

You just step back and let him in.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he sits on the bed beside you, closer than he ever used to, and he stays for hours.

The two of you say nothing, but in that silence everything hurts, everything burns, because in four months, you leave and neither of you knows how to say don’t go.

You can feel it in the air.

There’s only a month left before you leave the Polar Tang, before you return to Luffy. To the Straw Hats. To the promise you made.

And everyone knows it.

Bepo watches you with round, quiet eyes whenever you walk into the room.

Shachi and Penguin keep pulling you into games and conversations, laughing a little louder than usual.

Even Ikkaku made you a new satchel for your potion tools with stitched initials and everything.

You feel it in the little things.

The way they hover when you pack.

The way Bepo asks if you’ll remember them.

The way Shachi elbows you and says, "Don’t get too famous without us."

They’re hurting but they’re making room for your goodbye.

All of them... except him.

Law has gone suddently cold.

Gone are the long silences in your room. Gone are the late-night conversations, the tea he used to make when he thought you weren’t sleeping.

Gone is the warmth.

Now it’s curt nods. Dismissed glances. Command-voice only.

He walks past you in the halls like you’re already gone, and you hate it so much it makes your hands shake.

You try to bring it up. Carefully.

Sitting at the dinner table with the crew, twirling your fork through your food.

“Hey,” you say “Is something going on with Law?”

The table stiffens.

Shachi and Penguin suddenly become fascinated with their soup.

Bepo clears his throat.

“What do you mean?” Bepo asks, too lightly.

“I mean he’s acting weird,” you say, eyes scanning them “He won’t even look at me. Did I do something?”

“No! No, of course not” Shachi says quickly.

“Maybe he’s just busy” Penguin adds.

You narrow your eyes “You’re all lying.”

Ikkaku chimes in “You’re imagining it.”

But they can’t even hold your gaze.

You drop your fork and lean back.

Something is wrong.

That night, you find him in the medbay.

Again.

Head bent over papers he doesn’t need to read. Same ones as last week. Maybe the week before.

“Hey...” you say, stepping inside.

He doesn’t look up.

You close the door behind you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to me, Law. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been working.”

“Bullshit.”

His eyes flick up, sharp.

You take a breath and step closer “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re pretending I’m already gone.”

“You are going.”

The words slam into your chest.

“I’m still here now.”

“But you won’t be.”

Your voice rises “That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like I’m nothing!”

“I’m trying to make it easier.”

“For who? You?! Because it sure as hell isn’t easier for me!”

“I can’t—” He stops. Swallows.

And then, low, rough “I can’t do this.”

“Do what, Law?” your voice still high.

He finally looks at you and you wish he hadn’t.

His eyes are full of things you don’t understand.

“You’re going back...” he says “To your brother. To your captain. To your real crew.”

"And? These were the plans."

And for the first time since you met him, Law yells... and he yells someting you would have never expected “I’m gonna lose you!”

You freeze.

For you it just doesn’t make sense.

“...I’m not yours to lose.”

The words hang in the air like a slap.

You regret them the second they leave your mouth. But he’s already moving.

Crossing the space between you in two steps, fast and wild and furious, and then his hands are in your hair, his mouth on yours. And your world stops.

The kiss isn’t sweet.

It’s desperate. Like a dam finally cracking after months under pressure. His hands tremble as they hold your face, lips crashing against yours like he needs this to breathe.

You don’t think.

You kiss him back, full of every ache, every longing, every unanswered question.

You grip his coat, pull him closer. Your chest presses to his. Your heart feels like it’ll break through your ribs.

And when he finally pulls away, he looks at you like he’s ruined everything.

His voice is barely a whisper “I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

You’re stunned. Breathless. Heart raw.

So he turns and leaves and you just let him.

It’s been four days since he kissed you.

Four days since his hands were in your hair.

Four days since his mouth was on yours like it was the only way he could speak. And he’s pretending it never happened.

You tried to wait. To give him time. To breathe. To be patient even though your heart won’t stop pounding every time he walks into a room.

But every time he does, it’s like it never happened.

He’s back to clinical, sharp, captain-mode.

“You missed a measurement in this report.”

“Meet me on deck in fifteen.”

“Test batch needs refinement.”

Not a single glance. Not a crack in his voice. And it’s killing you.

Even the crew notices.

Bepo watches you with big worried eyes.

Shachi looks like he wants to say something every time Law leaves the room, but never does.

Penguin just sighs.

You try to keep it together, you really do... until the fifth day.

You find him alone in the engine room, hunched over blueprints. Your stomach turns, but you step forward anyway.

“Law” you say, soft but steady.

He doesn’t look up “What?”

You stare at the back of his head “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”

Silence.

He slowly rolls up the blueprint “I don’t know what you mean.”

A hot, bitter laugh escapes you “Unbelievable.”

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Your voice rises “You kissed me, didn't you Trafalgar? You kissed me like I was the last person on earth, and now you won’t even look at me!”

He sets the paper down. His back still to you “It was a mistake.”

Your throat tightens.

“A mistake...” you repeat.

He finally turns, face blank. But his eyes are just dead and cold, like he’s trying to kill something inside.

You step forward “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend I imagined it.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Stop lying.”

Your voice cracks “I’m leaving in three weeks, and you’d rather throw all of this away than be honest with me.”

“You’re leaving,” he growls “What’s the point in—”

“So what?! So you’d rather throw away everything we are than admit it hurts?”

He says nothing.

Your hands are shaking. Your chest heaves “I know what that kiss meant. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

You’re close now. Too close. And still he won’t look at you.

So you whisper “…Did it really mean nothing to you?”

He finally looks at you and his mask slips just for a second.

Something flashes in his eyes, something like pain, regret and fear, and you see it, but then it’s gone, and his jaw hardens.

“I’m your captain,” he says, voice low “That’s all.”

You feel like the floor falls out beneath you.

“Right...” you whisper “Of course.”

You turn but stop right in front of the door and without turning to look at him you just say "Honestly? Fuck you."

You open the door and leave.

He doesn’t stop you.

The morning you’re supposed to leave is quiet. Too quiet.

Even the sea feels like it’s holding its breath.

You stand on the dock with your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat hanging heavy on your back. The same coat Bepo helped you patch up. The same bag filled with tonics, vials, and handmade notebooks stuffed with training notes.

You’ve done what you came here to do.

You’ve kept your promise to Luffy.

You’ve survived. You’ve grown.

And still, your heart is aching like it’s being pulled in two.

The crew is gathered to see you off.

Bepo’s ears droop “Write us.”

Shachi holds out a charm he carved, a tiny wooden whale “For luck.”

Penguin hugs you a little too tight and mutters “We’ll miss you.”

Even Ikkaku pulls you in and ruffles your hair with a forced smile.

They all know what this is. What it feels like to say goodbye to someone who became more than just crew.

But still, they try to send you off with warmth.

They all do... except him.

Law isn’t there. Not on the dock. Not by the ramp. Not even watching from the shadows like he usually does.

You glance toward the ship. Empty.

He’s really not coming...

It stings worse than you thought it would.

You pretend it doesn’t. You keep your smile steady. You hug Bepo one last time, gripping him tight like he’s the last safe thing left in the world. And then you step forward toward the small boat waiting for you.

The one that'll take you to Sabaody Archipelago so that the Heart Pirates don't have to change their route.

You’re two steps from the ramp.

And then “Wait.”

Your breath catches.

You turn and there he is.

Law stands at the edge of the dock, coat billowing in the sea breeze, expression unreadable but eyes unmistakably wrecked.

Your heart punches into your ribs.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

So you speak first. Voice soft “You weren’t going to come.”

“I wasn’t” he admits.

Silence.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, half a smile, half a plea.

He doesn't answer that. Just walks closer until he’s a few feet away. Not touching distance but too close to pretend you’re strangers.

He looks at you like he's memorizing every inch.

You want to cry but you don’t, even though your eyes are so full that your vision is all blurry.

“You came to say goodbye?” you ask.

“No.”

His voice is rough. Not angry. Raw.

“I came to say I hate this.”

You blink.

“I hate that you’re leaving. I hate that you’re not staying. I hate that I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

Your heart clenches “I’m not dying, Law.”

“But you’re still leaving.”

“I told you I would.”

“I know.”

More silence but the wind is loud. The gulls are louder. But all you can hear is him.

“I don’t want to lose you” he says, eyes locked on yours.

The same words from weeks ago but this time, there’s no mask.

No cold walls.

Just him.

You swallow “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not—"

“I don’t know how else to say it,” he snaps suddenly, and his voice cracks “As you said you’re not mine, and you never were, but I... I still...”

He cuts himself off.

And you’re shaking.

The words hover between you. Unfinished. Alive.

Your throat is tight “I never said I wanted to leave you behind.”

“You’re going back to him. To your new crew with your brother. That’s where your place is.”

“And where’s my heart supposed to go?”

The question spills out before you can stop it.

And that’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He steps forward. Hands trembling, eyes burning.

He grabs your face, not hard, but desperate, and presses his forehead to yours like he’s praying.

“I don’t know what this is,” he breathes “But it hurts.”

You’re crying now. Quietly.

“I don’t know either,” you whisper “But I think I’ll miss you so much it might kill me.”

He pulls you in, arms wrapping around you, burying his face into your shoulder. And for the first time in two years, Trafalgar Law lets himself hold you.

He holds you like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his bones.

No kiss.

No promises.

Just the truth in the silence between your heartbeats.

And when you finally pull away, when the ship horn calls, when the wind rises again, he lets you go.

Not because he wants to. But because he has to.

You step on the boat.

The ramp is pulled up and you see the crew waving. And you see him still there, still watching.

And you think, I’ll see you again.

No matter what.

You will.

The boat begins to move.

Too slowly.

Too quickly.

Too final.

You're still facing the dock, still watching Law, frozen where you left him. Stoic. Silent.

The others wave. Bepo wipes his nose. Shachi keeps yelling “We love you, stay alive!” while Penguin shushes him with red ears.

But Law doesn’t wave.

He just stands there.

Like if he moves, he’ll lose whatever last piece of you he’s clinging to.

And then you feel it in your chest. That you can't go like this. That he needs more than silence. And so do you.

So you do something impulsive.

Something wildly you.

You cup your hands to your mouth and scream “LAW!”

Heads arount there all turn. The crew jolts. Even Bepo flinches.

But Law lifts his head. Eyes wide.

And you yell again, urgent and fierce and blazing “COME HERE—HURRY!”

He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t think.

He just runs.

For the first time anyone on his crew has ever seen, Trafalgar D. Water Law runs, coat flying, sword swinging on his hip, boots pounding against the dock.

Penguin blurts, “Holy shi—he’s running?!”

Even Bepo looks speechless.

Law reaches the edge just as the boat’s still close enough.

You’re at the railing, knees on the side, hand reaching.

He gets close.

You grab him.

Fist clenched in the collar of his coat, you pull him upward just enough and you kiss him. Fast. Fierce. Final.

You kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll remember. And he doesn’t hesitate. Not this time.

His hands find your arms, just briefly. But you’re already pulling back, already slipping away as the boat starts to rise off the waterline.

His fingers curl at his sides like he’s trying not to reach again.

You’re breathless, flushed, beaming.

You cup your hands again.

“I’ll come back!” you shoutn“Wait for me, I promise!”

His lips part, chest rising. He doesn’t say anything but you see it in his eyes, that he believes you.

You grin wildly, tug your coat tighter, and shout one last thing “Break it!”

You point at his jacket where your hand was.

He looks down slowly.

Fingers brush his collar. Something’s there.

A small orb. Light, palm-sized, sealed with your initials carved faintly into the surface.

He narrows his eyes then snaps it.

A puff of smoke bursts out instantly, curling into the air in a soft spiral. The wind brushes it aside…

And inside, where the smoke clears a charm. Small. Handmade.

It’s a tiny glass bottle. Inside it, dried blue bell petals, the same flowers from that island you said reminded you of Ace.

The same ones you once said helped you sleep.

Around the neck of the bottle is a black thread.

A single word carved on a tin tag looped around it “Love”.

Law stares.

No one says anything.

Bepo swallows loudly “…She gave him a charm?”

Shachi whispers, “He’s gonna wear it under his coat, I bet."

But Law doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move.

He just stands there, charm in hand, watching your boat fade into the distance.

Watching until he can’t see you anymore.

And only then, he allows himself to close his eyes and hold the charm to his heart.

[yawnnzy]

wtf this is so beautiful

[inseobts]

I Hate Goodbyes

law × fem!reader

you're luffy’s sister, and after the tragedy at marineford, you join the heart pirates to heal and grow stronger during the two-year wait—but what happens when you start to fall for law, and neither of you knows how to say goodbye?

part 2

a/n: btw I have a similar one you might like too if you didn't read it yet 'tides of fate' (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

words count: 7.1k

tags: marineford spoilers, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort, marineford aftermath, protective reader, slow burn, healing

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battlefield smells like blood and burning.

You stumble through the wreckage, heart pounding so loud it drowns everything out. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You saw Ace falling, the hole in his chest, the way Luffy screamed like his soul got torn away.

You try to grab Luffy’s arm, but he’s already out cold. Broken.

“Lu! Luffy, come on, stay with me!” you cry, shaking him. His body is limp. His skin is hot, burning with fever and blood.

You fall to your knees beside him, useless, shaking, trying to wake your baby brother who doesn’t even hear you anymore.

Then, a voice, sharp, calm, cutting through the chaos “I’ll take him.”

You look up, eyes wide and wild. A man with dark hair and tattoos crouches beside Luffy. His gaze flicks to you quick, judging, but not unkind.

“You coming too?” he asks simply.

You don’t even think. You tighten your grip on Luffy and nod, tears blinding you.

“Please… Please don’t let him die” you whisper, voice cracking.

He nods once “Trafalgar Law. Captain. Now move.”

His crew surrounds you. You cling to Luffy as the door of the submarine slams shut, cutting off the nightmare behind you.

Amazon Lily is too bright. Too loud. Even the clean air hurts.

You sit beside Luffy’s bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. You barely notice the Heart Pirates moving around, whispering and working.

Days pass. Maybe weeks.

Sometimes you touch Luffy’s hand, just to make sure he’s alive.

Sometimes you dream of Ace’s last smile, and wake up gasping, your throat raw from silent screams.

One night, you sit in the hallway outside the infirmary, shivering even though the air is warm.

Footsteps approach. Then Law’s voice, low and firm “You can’t stay like this.”

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes on your hands, wishing you were stronger. Faster. Smarter.

He crouches beside you. His presence is steady, not pushing you but not leaving either.

“You fought to get him here,” Law says “You’re not useless.”

You laugh, but it’s a broken sound “Feels like I am.”

He sits down beside you, arms resting on his knees. His voice drops even softer.

“When he’s ready, Straw Hat’s going to train. Two years. Away from everyone.”

Your stomach twists painfully “I can’t leave him.”

“You don’t have to,” Law says. His eyes are sharp, cutting right through you “You’ll train too. Learn medicine. Herbs. Whatever you already know, I’ll teach you more.”

You finally lift your head to look at him. His expression is calm, but his eyes are serious.

“You mean it?” you ask, voice small.

“I don’t offer things I don’t mean” Law says. There’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth “You’re stubborn. You’ll fit right in.”

Later that night, you sit quietly beside Luffy’s bed. He’s awake now, barely, his body weak but his spirit burning stubborn as ever.

Law is sitting a little distance away, pretending not to listen but not going far either.

Luffy’s voice is hoarse when he speaks “You’re gonna train too, right?”

You blink “Luffy, I—”

He grabs your hand weakly, squeezing with what little strength he has. His eyes are serious, more serious than you’ve ever seen them.

“I’m gonna get stronger” he says, voice trembling a little “Strong enough to protect everyone. I’m gonna find my crew again. I’m gonna be Pirate King.”

Your throat tightens.

“But I need you too,” Luffy says. His hand squeezes yours tighter “You gotta get stronger too. So you can protect yourself. So you can sail with me.”

You feel tears welling up again, but you bite them back.

“I will,” you whisper “I’ll train. I’ll learn. I’ll get strong enough… strong enough to protect myself. Strong enough to protect you too, Luffy”

Luffy smiles, even though it hurts “I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

You lean your forehead against his hand, your heart aching with love and hope and fear all at once.

“I promise,” you whisper “I’ll come back stronger.”

A few feet away, Law watches silently. He doesn’t say anything. But for the first time in a long while, you feel something steady beneath your feet, like maybe, somehow, you’ll be okay.

The Heart Pirates welcome you in without questions.

Bepo brings you tea. Shachi and Penguin joke around loudly to make you smile. Even Jean Bart nods at you sometimes when you pass him in the hall.

You try to smile back. You try to act normal. You try so, so hard.

In the daytime, you throw yourself into studying. Law gives you heavy books, scrolls, and old medical charts. He shows you how to grind herbs, how to recognize poisons, how to stitch a wound without shaking.

“Again,” he says calmly when your fingers fumble “Until it’s second nature.”

You nod. You always nod. You’re determined.

You even start making your own little mixes, salves for bruises, sleeping powders (not that you dare take them yourself), small bombs made from herbs and oils.

“You’re like a damn witch” Penguin laughs one afternoon, watching you stir a smoking green liquid in a jar.

You snort “Better than being useless.”

Law watches from the corner of the room, arms crossed, saying nothing.

At night, though, everything falls apart.

You can’t sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see Ace falling. You hear Luffy screaming. You feel the helplessness crushing your chest until you can’t even breathe.

You jerk awake gasping, heart slamming against your ribs, your clothes sticking to you with cold sweat.

You curl up on your bunk, pressing your fists over your face, trying not to cry out.

You think no one notices.

You’re wrong.

One night, after another nightmare rips you out of sleep, you stumble out of your room, trying to catch your breath. You sit on the cold metal floor of the hallway, pressing your back against the wall.

“Nightmare?”

The voice makes you jump.

You look up. Law stands a few feet away, arms folded, leaning against the wall. His face is calm as always, but his eyes… his eyes are softer. Sadder.

You wipe your face quickly “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you for a long moment.

“You’re a terrible liar” he says finally.

You let out a shaky laugh “Thanks.”

Silence stretches between you.

“You’re not weak for hurting” Law says after a while, voice low “Pain doesn’t disappear just because you pretend it’s gone.”

You swallow hard. Something cracks in your chest.

“I lost him,” you whisper “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t save him. I just watched, just like with Sabo.”

Law’s jaw tightens slightly. He walks closer, slow, like he’s giving you time to push him away if you want.

“You did everything you could” he says “Sometimes… that’s just not enough but doesn't mean you did something wrong.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the rough edge in his voice.

“You talk like you’ve lost someone too” you say, almost without thinking.

His mouth tightens into a thin line. For a second, he doesn’t answer.

Then he says quietly, “Yeah.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

You hug your knees to your chest “It hurts. It hurts so much.”

Law kneels down in front of you. Close, but not touching.

“I know” he says simply.

And somehow, that’s the first thing that makes you feel less alone.

From that night on, things change.

Law still trains you hard. Still corrects your mistakes with sharp words and steady hands. But sometimes, when he catches you zoning out, lost in memories, he’ll tap the table sharply to pull you back. Sometimes, when the nightmares get really bad, you’ll find a cup of calming tea left outside your door. No note. No explanation.

You never say thank you and he never asks for it, but you both know.

Slowly, painfully, you start stitching yourself back together.

One day, you swear, you’ll be strong enough to protect what you love. And this time you won’t lose.

Days turn into weeks.

You spend most of your time training, reading, studying, practicing stitches, memorizing herbs. You work until your hands cramp and your head pounds.

One afternoon, you sit on the deck of the Polar Tang, grinding dried leaves into powder. Your hair is a mess, your fingers stained green, but you don’t care. You’re focused.

Law watches you for a while from the stairs, arms crossed.

“You’re learning fast” he says finally.

You look up, smiling a little “Thanks.”

“But,” he says, walking closer, “the Straw Hats already have a doctor. From what I know, he is… good.”

You blink. The words sting a little more than you want to admit.

“I’m not trying to replace him” you mumble.

“I know.” Law sits down across from you, setting his sword beside him “That’s why I’m telling you this now that you know enough.”

He taps a finger against the deck, thinking.

“You’re good with herbs. With potions. You’re creative,” he says. His eyes narrow a little, studying you like he’s fitting a puzzle together “What if we move on now and you focus on something that makes you stronger in battle?”

You frown, confused “Like what?”

Law leans back against the wall, looking almost lazy but you can tell he’s serious.

“Potions. Weapons. Transfiguration, even” he says calmly “You could craft poisons. Healing salves. Smokescreens. Maybe even weapons that change shape. Things nobody expects.”

You stare at him, heart thudding faster.

“You mean… like a battle witch?” you say half-joking.

Law smirks, just a little “If that’s what you want to call it.”

You stare down at your hands. It feels scary. Different. But also… right.

Something you can be. Not just following in Luffy’s shadows. Your own strength.

“I want to try” you say, voice steady.

Law nods once “Good. Then we start tomorrow.”

You blink “That fast?”

“Battlefields don’t wait,” Law says, standing up “Neither should you.”

He pauses for a second. His voice drops softer “You have potential. Don’t waste it.”

Before you can even answer, he’s already walking away, coat swishing behind him.

You sit there, stunned. Excited. Terrified.

And for the first time since Marineford, you feel something else, too... hope.

And then training starts again, and as hard as always.

Law doesn’t go easy on you just because you’re still healing. If anything, he pushes you harder, drilling you on herbs that can paralyze, potions that heal faster, even how to throw small smoke bombs to cover retreats.

“You can’t just make things,” he says one day, hands folded behind his back “You have to use them. In real time. No hesitation.”

You nod, teeth gritted.

The first mission comes faster than you expect.

A small island. A skirmish. A cargo pickup gone wrong.

You cling to the sides of the Polar Tang as it surfaces just offshore. Your stomach twists with nerves, but you press a hand to the little pouch of potions at your belt.

“You ready, Witch?” Penguin teases, grinning.

Law calls you that sometimes too now “Witch”.

At first it annoyed you.

Now… when Law says it, it almost sounds fond.

You push the thought away “Let’s go” you say, voice steady.

In the fight, everything you practiced crashes into reality.

You duck under a sword swing, whip a vial of sleeping powder at the enemy’s face. It explodes in a soft green puff, the man drops like a rock.

You barely have time to breathe before another rushes you.

Your heart races. You fumble for another potion, a heavier one before a blur of blue and steel slices the air.

Law steps between you and the attacker, katana flashing. In one smooth motion, he drops the enemy without even blinking.

“You’re still slow,” he says coolly, glancing at you “Fix that.”

Your face burns “I’m trying!”

But later, when the battle is over and everyone’s tending to scrapes and bruises, Law walks by you, pausing just long enough to murmur “Good instincts.”

You blink.

You don’t answer, but your heart skips anyway.

Weeks pass.

Your skills sharpen. Your hands move quicker, your ideas flow faster. You make small grenades from seaweed oil. Healing sprays that numb pain instantly. Distraction bombs that flash bright colors.

Law watches you more often now, from across rooms, over the tops of books, during training drills.

At first you think you’re imagining it. Until one day, after you bandage a wound on his arm, quick, clean and professional, and Law looks at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re not the same person you were when you got here” he says.

You smile faintly “Neither are you.”

His mouth quirks, just slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t know how.

You notice stupid things now, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired, the rare rasp of laughter when Bepo does something ridiculous, the low, calm hum of his voice when he explains something complicated just to make sure you understand.

You hate it.

You hate that your chest tightens when he stands too close.

You hate that you look forward to hearing him call you “Witch”.

You hate it because caring about people hurts. You already know how that story ends.

One night, you sit alone on the deck, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the stars. The ocean is quiet. The world feels… less heavy.

You hear footsteps behind you, soft and careful.

Law sits down beside you without asking.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, he says, voice low “You’re still not sleeping.”

It’s not a question.

You close your eyes “Neither are you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a real smile this time, small and tired “Touché.”

You breathe in the salty air, heart beating way too fast.

It feels dangerous, but somehow, it feels okay.

Maybe caring doesn’t have to mean losing. Maybe sometimes, it means surviving together.

Months pass.

The Polar Tang feels like home now. The crew jokes with you. Bepo brings you your favorite tea without asking. Jean Bart lets you win at cards sometimes even though he’s terrible at hiding it.

And Law is still Law. Sharp words. Quiet stares. But sometimes, when you pass by each other in the narrow halls, your shoulders brush and neither of you moves away.

One afternoon, you’re hunched over a workbench deep in the ship. Herbs, powders, pieces of metal, tiny vials, all scattered in front of you. Your latest project.

“You’ve been sitting there for hours.”

You jolt, almost dropping your vial. Law stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable look again.

“I’m working on something” you say, defensive.

Law walks closer, glancing over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, a little embarrassed. On the table is a rough design of a kind of weapon. A bracelet lined with tiny hidden capsules you can trigger during battle, potions for healing, poison, smoke bombs, even flash bursts.

“Smart,” Law says, surprising you “Lightweight. Quick access.”

You blink up at him “You really think so?”

He leans in a little closer, studying the rough sketches. His shoulder brushes yours, warm through the thin fabric.

“You could stabilize the capsules with resin,” he murmurs, half to himself “Faster activation. Less chance of them breaking accidentally.”

You nod quickly, grabbing a pen, scribbling notes.

Law watches you work for a second. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and sets it on the table, a small silver clasp, shaped like a skull.

You look at it, confused.

“Found it last mission,” he says. His voice is almost… shy “Figured you could use it. For the bracelet.”

Your throat tightens.

It’s nothing. Just a small piece of scrap metal.

But it’s from him.

You swallow the lump in your throat and pick it up carefully.

“Thank you” you whisper.

Law shrugs like it’s no big deal. But when you glance up, you catch him looking at you, in a way that looks like you’re something rare and breakable and important all at once.

You force yourself to smile “If you keep being this nice, people are gonna think you like me or something.”

It’s a joke. A stupid, nervous joke.

Law’s eyes flash and for a second, just a second, you see something real. But he only smirks, tilting his head “Guess I’ll have to be meaner, then.”

You laugh real, loud, from your gut. And for once, the sound doesn’t feel heavy.

Later that night, you finish the bracelet.

It fits perfectly around your wrist, it's light, strong, deadly.

Yours.

You stand on the deck alone, letting the sea breeze whip through your hair.

Your fingers trace the little silver skull at the clasp. A gift. A promise.

And for the first time, you don’t just feel like someone who survived. You feel like someone who’s becoming.

Eight months.

That’s how long it’s been since Marineford. Since you left Luffy on the beach and promised you’d come back stronger.

You’re not there yet. But you’re close.

Your potions work. Your body is faster. Your mind sharper. You’ve learned how to move through chaos and how to survive it.

Your new mission’s supposed to be simple. Quick trade. Neutral island. In and out. Of course, it goes to hell.

A double-cross. Gunfire. Mercenaries.

You fight your way through smoke, throwing a blinding bomb at the enemy, your bracelet hissing softly as it dispenses the next ready capsule.

It’s working until you hear a gunshot too close.

You whip around just in time to see Law drop to one knee, clutching his shoulder.

Your heart stops.

“Law!”

You run to him, potion already in hand, shoving it into the wound before he can even argue “Don’t move—just let me—dammit, don’t move!”

He grabs your wrist, tight, to steady you “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Your voice cracks “You’re bleeding!”

He watches you, not with pain, but surprise.

You never yell at him like this. Not even during training. But something about seeing him hurt, even a little, rips through you like fire.

You help him to cover. Bepo and the others push the enemy back, and soon it’s over but your hands are still shaking.

Later, back on the ship, the crew patches up the rest of their injuries.

You sit beside Law in the infirmary, cleaning blood from his coat.

Penguin strolls in and drops onto a stool beside you “Not bad back there, Witch. You actually looked kind of cool.”

You raise a brow, smirking “Kind of?”

He grins “Don’t get cocky.”

You snort and keep cleaning. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch Law quietly watching. His jaw a little tight.

He says nothing but you kind of feel the shift in the air.

Two days after the fight, you’re in the engine room mixing new compounds.

Penguin walks in, grinning as usual "Need a taste tester, Witch?"

You don’t even look up "Unless you wanna grow gills or pass out for an hour, I’d wait."

He laughs and leans against the counter "Still impressive, though. The way you protected Law back there."

You pause, hands tightening around the vial you’re holding.

"He’s the captain," you say flatly "I wasn’t gonna let him bleed out in the dirt."

“Still,” Penguin says “You were… intense. I think he even let you yell at him.”

You finally look up, frowning.

Then movement at the door. Law. He’s standing just outside the room, arms crossed. Listening. Watching.

You don’t know how long he’s been there. He doesn’t speak. Just turns on his heel and walks away.

Later that night, you find him alone in the medbay, reviewing some notes.

"You good?" you ask softly.

He doesn’t look up "Fine."

You hesitate "You sure?"

He finally glances at you. His voice is cool, not cruel, just... distant "As long as no one else is talking about how I was bleeding out in the dirt, yeah."

You blink. Okay. So he did hear that.

You try to shrug it off "Penguin’s just messing around. You know how he is."

Law doesn’t answer.

You stay there a few more seconds, then quietly leave.

The next day, on the island, you’re helping organize supplies when you see Law at a vendor’s table, trading herbs with a woman who keeps laughing too loudly at everything he says.

He doesn’t laugh back. But he doesn’t walk away either.

You feel something twist in your chest. You force yourself to smile, to turn back to your work.

Later, when he joins the crew again, you barely meet his eyes.

"You okay?" he asks, voice even.

"Yeah" you lie.

What the hell is happening to you?

That night, you lie awake in your bunk, staring at the ceiling.

You keep replaying the moment Penguin made that comment. The way Law left without a word. The way he stood near that woman. The fact that none of this should matter but it does.

Like why lately you notice things you never noticed before. Like why does it matter to you if a woman flirt with him?

You press your hand to your chest, right where your bracelet rests against your skin.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

You just know you can’t let it grow.

Across the ship, in his own room, Law stares at a half-written report.

He can’t stop thinking about the way you laughed with Penguin. The way you avoided his eyes afterward. The shift in your voice.

He tells himself it’s nothing. He tells himself you’ll be gone in a year anyway.

Still… he closes the report and doesn’t sleep at all.

One year and three months.

You’re stronger now. Faster. Sharper. You know how to fight, how to mix, how to survive.

You’ve lived through storms and gunfire. You’ve taken lives, and you’ve saved them too.

But sometimes, the past doesn’t care how strong you are.

Sometimes it sneaks in when you least expect it.

You’re sitting in the Polar Tang’s storage room, sorting herbs by scent. It’s a quiet job. A repetitive one. Usually it calms you.

Not today.

A smell hits you, one of the dried plants from a southern island. Strong. Burnt. Familiar.

You freeze.

Because it smells like Ace’s coat. The one he used to throw over you when you were cold. The one that always carried smoke and fire and sun.

Your hands stop moving.

Your chest aches like it did that day on the battlefield.

You press your palms over your face. Try to breathe.

You can’t.

You leave the room without thinking. Stumble down the hallway. Find the old supply closet and slip inside, shut the door, slide to the floor. And then you’re crying. Harder than you have in months.

You don’t hear the door open.

But you feel it when someone kneels in front of you.

"Hey" Law says quietly.

You wipe at your face, but your voice still shakes "I’m fine."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sits beside you. Close, but not touching.

"You’re not."

You swallow hard "It’s stupid. Just a smell. Just—"

"Fire?"

Your head jerks up.

He’s not looking at you. He’s staring ahead, eyes distant.

"It reminded you of your brother" he says.

You nod slowly “It’s been so long. And I still—”

"I know."

You look at him.

And that’s when he says "Corazon… used to smell like gunpowder and old cigars. Not in a bad way. Just… constant. Burned into my memory."

Your heart skips. Because Law never talked to you about Corazon so openly.

You barely breathe.

"I forget his face sometimes," Law says softly “But I never forget that smell.”

The silence after is thick. Full of ghosts.

You sit with it.

Then, quietly, you say, “What happened to him?”

You think he won’t answer but then "He died to save me."

You blink fast, chest twisting "I'm sorry."

Law’s voice is dry "You didn’t do it."

"I know. I just..." You reach up, rub your thumb along your wrist "It hurts, doesn’t it? When someone gives up everything for you. And then they're just… gone."

He doesn’t speak but then you feel his hand, brushing yours. He doesn’t hold it. Doesn’t grip. Just enough to let you know he’s there.

You let your fingers brush back.

Both of you sit there, in the dark and the quiet. Neither of you names the weight in your chest. Or the heat that’s slowly grown between you over the months. The way your breath catches when he’s too close. The way you watch him when he’s not looking. The way you burn when someone else does.

You don’t name it but it’s there, unmistakable.

A minute passes. Maybe five.

Then Law stands.

"You should rest."

You nod, eyes red “You too.”

He steps toward the door. Then pauses.

“You don’t have to forget him,” he says “You just have to keep living.”

Your breath catches.

“Same goes for you” you whisper.

Law doesn’t turn around but you see his hand curl at his side. Tight.

Then he walks out, and the door closes behind him.

One year and six months.

That’s how long it’s been since Marineford.

And you are stronger and sharper.

The crew trusts you. Your skills are unmatched. Even Law lets you take the lead on some missions now.

But underneath all that, something else has grown. You and him, you're close.

He watches your back in battle like it's instinct. You can read the tension in his jaw before he even speaks. You can finish each other's plans before they're spoken.

But there’s a weight behind every shared glance because neither of you says what’s circling in your chest.

And now there’s a clock ticking.

“Four months” you say quietly, looking out over the deck at the open sea.

Law is beside you, leaning against the rail, arms folded.

You don’t look at him when you say it. You can’t.

“I go back to him in four months.”

Law doesn’t reply.

The silence stretches, long and heavy.

You force a smile “You’ll be glad to have the quiet again.”

Still, he says nothing.

Then finally, softly “I won’t.”

You freeze.

He looks ahead. Not at you. Not even close but your heart is pounding now.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything.

The silence between you shifts after that.

He stands closer now. His fingers brush yours more often. Sometimes, his eyes stay on you too long when he thinks you won’t notice. But you notice everything.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Your chest aches like it used to, only it’s not grief for the past this time, it’s for the future. For leaving this ship, this crew... him.

You lie on your side, staring at the dark ceiling. And just like before, when you’re about to drown in it there’s a knock.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

You already know who it is.

You don’t say anything. Just open the door.

Law stands there. Still in his coat. Still unreadable.

You don’t ask why he came.

You don’t speak.

You just step back and let him in.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he sits on the bed beside you, closer than he ever used to, and he stays for hours.

The two of you say nothing, but in that silence everything hurts, everything burns, because in four months, you leave and neither of you knows how to say don’t go.

You can feel it in the air.

There’s only a month left before you leave the Polar Tang, before you return to Luffy. To the Straw Hats. To the promise you made.

And everyone knows it.

Bepo watches you with round, quiet eyes whenever you walk into the room.

Shachi and Penguin keep pulling you into games and conversations, laughing a little louder than usual.

Even Ikkaku made you a new satchel for your potion tools with stitched initials and everything.

You feel it in the little things.

The way they hover when you pack.

The way Bepo asks if you’ll remember them.

The way Shachi elbows you and says, "Don’t get too famous without us."

They’re hurting but they’re making room for your goodbye.

All of them... except him.

Law has gone suddently cold.

Gone are the long silences in your room. Gone are the late-night conversations, the tea he used to make when he thought you weren’t sleeping.

Gone is the warmth.

Now it’s curt nods. Dismissed glances. Command-voice only.

He walks past you in the halls like you’re already gone, and you hate it so much it makes your hands shake.

You try to bring it up. Carefully.

Sitting at the dinner table with the crew, twirling your fork through your food.

“Hey,” you say “Is something going on with Law?”

The table stiffens.

Shachi and Penguin suddenly become fascinated with their soup.

Bepo clears his throat.

“What do you mean?” Bepo asks, too lightly.

“I mean he’s acting weird,” you say, eyes scanning them “He won’t even look at me. Did I do something?”

“No! No, of course not” Shachi says quickly.

“Maybe he’s just busy” Penguin adds.

You narrow your eyes “You’re all lying.”

Ikkaku chimes in “You’re imagining it.”

But they can’t even hold your gaze.

You drop your fork and lean back.

Something is wrong.

That night, you find him in the medbay.

Again.

Head bent over papers he doesn’t need to read. Same ones as last week. Maybe the week before.

“Hey...” you say, stepping inside.

He doesn’t look up.

You close the door behind you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to me, Law. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been working.”

“Bullshit.”

His eyes flick up, sharp.

You take a breath and step closer “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re pretending I’m already gone.”

“You are going.”

The words slam into your chest.

“I’m still here now.”

“But you won’t be.”

Your voice rises “That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like I’m nothing!”

“I’m trying to make it easier.”

“For who? You?! Because it sure as hell isn’t easier for me!”

“I can’t—” He stops. Swallows.

And then, low, rough “I can’t do this.”

“Do what, Law?” your voice still high.

He finally looks at you and you wish he hadn’t.

His eyes are full of things you don’t understand.

“You’re going back...” he says “To your brother. To your captain. To your real crew.”

"And? These were the plans."

And for the first time since you met him, Law yells... and he yells someting you would have never expected “I’m gonna lose you!”

You freeze.

For you it just doesn’t make sense.

“...I’m not yours to lose.”

The words hang in the air like a slap.

You regret them the second they leave your mouth. But he’s already moving.

Crossing the space between you in two steps, fast and wild and furious, and then his hands are in your hair, his mouth on yours. And your world stops.

The kiss isn’t sweet.

It’s desperate. Like a dam finally cracking after months under pressure. His hands tremble as they hold your face, lips crashing against yours like he needs this to breathe.

You don’t think.

You kiss him back, full of every ache, every longing, every unanswered question.

You grip his coat, pull him closer. Your chest presses to his. Your heart feels like it’ll break through your ribs.

And when he finally pulls away, he looks at you like he’s ruined everything.

His voice is barely a whisper “I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

You’re stunned. Breathless. Heart raw.

So he turns and leaves and you just let him.

It’s been four days since he kissed you.

Four days since his hands were in your hair.

Four days since his mouth was on yours like it was the only way he could speak. And he’s pretending it never happened.

You tried to wait. To give him time. To breathe. To be patient even though your heart won’t stop pounding every time he walks into a room.

But every time he does, it’s like it never happened.

He’s back to clinical, sharp, captain-mode.

“You missed a measurement in this report.”

“Meet me on deck in fifteen.”

“Test batch needs refinement.”

Not a single glance. Not a crack in his voice. And it’s killing you.

Even the crew notices.

Bepo watches you with big worried eyes.

Shachi looks like he wants to say something every time Law leaves the room, but never does.

Penguin just sighs.

You try to keep it together, you really do... until the fifth day.

You find him alone in the engine room, hunched over blueprints. Your stomach turns, but you step forward anyway.

“Law” you say, soft but steady.

He doesn’t look up “What?”

You stare at the back of his head “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”

Silence.

He slowly rolls up the blueprint “I don’t know what you mean.”

A hot, bitter laugh escapes you “Unbelievable.”

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Your voice rises “You kissed me, didn't you Trafalgar? You kissed me like I was the last person on earth, and now you won’t even look at me!”

He sets the paper down. His back still to you “It was a mistake.”

Your throat tightens.

“A mistake...” you repeat.

He finally turns, face blank. But his eyes are just dead and cold, like he’s trying to kill something inside.

You step forward “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend I imagined it.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Stop lying.”

Your voice cracks “I’m leaving in three weeks, and you’d rather throw all of this away than be honest with me.”

“You’re leaving,” he growls “What’s the point in—”

“So what?! So you’d rather throw away everything we are than admit it hurts?”

He says nothing.

Your hands are shaking. Your chest heaves “I know what that kiss meant. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

You’re close now. Too close. And still he won’t look at you.

So you whisper “…Did it really mean nothing to you?”

He finally looks at you and his mask slips just for a second.

Something flashes in his eyes, something like pain, regret and fear, and you see it, but then it’s gone, and his jaw hardens.

“I’m your captain,” he says, voice low “That’s all.”

You feel like the floor falls out beneath you.

“Right...” you whisper “Of course.”

You turn but stop right in front of the door and without turning to look at him you just say "Honestly? Fuck you."

You open the door and leave.

He doesn’t stop you.

The morning you’re supposed to leave is quiet. Too quiet.

Even the sea feels like it’s holding its breath.

You stand on the dock with your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat hanging heavy on your back. The same coat Bepo helped you patch up. The same bag filled with tonics, vials, and handmade notebooks stuffed with training notes.

You’ve done what you came here to do.

You’ve kept your promise to Luffy.

You’ve survived. You’ve grown.

And still, your heart is aching like it’s being pulled in two.

The crew is gathered to see you off.

Bepo’s ears droop “Write us.”

Shachi holds out a charm he carved, a tiny wooden whale “For luck.”

Penguin hugs you a little too tight and mutters “We’ll miss you.”

Even Ikkaku pulls you in and ruffles your hair with a forced smile.

They all know what this is. What it feels like to say goodbye to someone who became more than just crew.

But still, they try to send you off with warmth.

They all do... except him.

Law isn’t there. Not on the dock. Not by the ramp. Not even watching from the shadows like he usually does.

You glance toward the ship. Empty.

He’s really not coming...

It stings worse than you thought it would.

You pretend it doesn’t. You keep your smile steady. You hug Bepo one last time, gripping him tight like he’s the last safe thing left in the world. And then you step forward toward the small boat waiting for you.

The one that'll take you to Sabaody Archipelago so that the Heart Pirates don't have to change their route.

You’re two steps from the ramp.

And then “Wait.”

Your breath catches.

You turn and there he is.

Law stands at the edge of the dock, coat billowing in the sea breeze, expression unreadable but eyes unmistakably wrecked.

Your heart punches into your ribs.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

So you speak first. Voice soft “You weren’t going to come.”

“I wasn’t” he admits.

Silence.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, half a smile, half a plea.

He doesn't answer that. Just walks closer until he’s a few feet away. Not touching distance but too close to pretend you’re strangers.

He looks at you like he's memorizing every inch.

You want to cry but you don’t, even though your eyes are so full that your vision is all blurry.

“You came to say goodbye?” you ask.

“No.”

His voice is rough. Not angry. Raw.

“I came to say I hate this.”

You blink.

“I hate that you’re leaving. I hate that you’re not staying. I hate that I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

Your heart clenches “I’m not dying, Law.”

“But you’re still leaving.”

“I told you I would.”

“I know.”

More silence but the wind is loud. The gulls are louder. But all you can hear is him.

“I don’t want to lose you” he says, eyes locked on yours.

The same words from weeks ago but this time, there’s no mask.

No cold walls.

Just him.

You swallow “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not—"

“I don’t know how else to say it,” he snaps suddenly, and his voice cracks “As you said you’re not mine, and you never were, but I... I still...”

He cuts himself off.

And you’re shaking.

The words hover between you. Unfinished. Alive.

Your throat is tight “I never said I wanted to leave you behind.”

“You’re going back to him. To your new crew with your brother. That’s where your place is.”

“And where’s my heart supposed to go?”

The question spills out before you can stop it.

And that’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He steps forward. Hands trembling, eyes burning.

He grabs your face, not hard, but desperate, and presses his forehead to yours like he’s praying.

“I don’t know what this is,” he breathes “But it hurts.”

You’re crying now. Quietly.

“I don’t know either,” you whisper “But I think I’ll miss you so much it might kill me.”

He pulls you in, arms wrapping around you, burying his face into your shoulder. And for the first time in two years, Trafalgar Law lets himself hold you.

He holds you like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his bones.

No kiss.

No promises.

Just the truth in the silence between your heartbeats.

And when you finally pull away, when the ship horn calls, when the wind rises again, he lets you go.

Not because he wants to. But because he has to.

You step on the boat.

The ramp is pulled up and you see the crew waving. And you see him still there, still watching.

And you think, I’ll see you again.

No matter what.

You will.

The boat begins to move.

Too slowly.

Too quickly.

Too final.

You're still facing the dock, still watching Law, frozen where you left him. Stoic. Silent.

The others wave. Bepo wipes his nose. Shachi keeps yelling “We love you, stay alive!” while Penguin shushes him with red ears.

But Law doesn’t wave.

He just stands there.

Like if he moves, he’ll lose whatever last piece of you he’s clinging to.

And then you feel it in your chest. That you can't go like this. That he needs more than silence. And so do you.

So you do something impulsive.

Something wildly you.

You cup your hands to your mouth and scream “LAW!”

Heads arount there all turn. The crew jolts. Even Bepo flinches.

But Law lifts his head. Eyes wide.

And you yell again, urgent and fierce and blazing “COME HERE—HURRY!”

He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t think.

He just runs.

For the first time anyone on his crew has ever seen, Trafalgar D. Water Law runs, coat flying, sword swinging on his hip, boots pounding against the dock.

Penguin blurts, “Holy shi—he’s running?!”

Even Bepo looks speechless.

Law reaches the edge just as the boat’s still close enough.

You’re at the railing, knees on the side, hand reaching.

He gets close.

You grab him.

Fist clenched in the collar of his coat, you pull him upward just enough and you kiss him. Fast. Fierce. Final.

You kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll remember. And he doesn’t hesitate. Not this time.

His hands find your arms, just briefly. But you’re already pulling back, already slipping away as the boat starts to rise off the waterline.

His fingers curl at his sides like he’s trying not to reach again.

You’re breathless, flushed, beaming.

You cup your hands again.

“I’ll come back!” you shoutn“Wait for me, I promise!”

His lips part, chest rising. He doesn’t say anything but you see it in his eyes, that he believes you.

You grin wildly, tug your coat tighter, and shout one last thing “Break it!”

You point at his jacket where your hand was.

He looks down slowly.

Fingers brush his collar. Something’s there.

A small orb. Light, palm-sized, sealed with your initials carved faintly into the surface.

He narrows his eyes then snaps it.

A puff of smoke bursts out instantly, curling into the air in a soft spiral. The wind brushes it aside…

And inside, where the smoke clears a charm. Small. Handmade.

It’s a tiny glass bottle. Inside it, dried blue bell petals, the same flowers from that island you said reminded you of Ace.

The same ones you once said helped you sleep.

Around the neck of the bottle is a black thread.

A single word carved on a tin tag looped around it “Love”.

Law stares.

No one says anything.

Bepo swallows loudly “…She gave him a charm?”

Shachi whispers, “He’s gonna wear it under his coat, I bet."

But Law doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move.

He just stands there, charm in hand, watching your boat fade into the distance.

Watching until he can’t see you anymore.

And only then, he allows himself to close his eyes and hold the charm to his heart.

[yawnnzy]

law is so hoodie by hey violet coded 🥹

[liyuuing]

Drown the sky in waves.

Tags: Firefighter/Husband!Toji x infertile!reader, mentions of pregnancy, stepson Megs, labour, fire hazard, reader goes through ivf, best friend!Sukuna to the rescue, dr.Shoko. This took too long pls don't let it flop T-T Part one Wc: 5.5k

The house is a home to silence that gets broken by a sobbing Megumi every day, every hour like clockwork.

It's been three months since you've left, and Toji is on his last straw.

The seven-year-old has been seemingly going through a tougher worse patch than his father. Which is normal, the woman who had taken care of him since he was still a baby was now gone overnight.

Vanished without leaving a single trace.

Like you didn't become the tether their family needed after their losses. Like you weren't the only person who accepted becoming the mother Megumi needed.

All of that just for you to leave like you were never even by his side.

But deep down, your husband was having it bad on a level that had his skin go pale, his muscles weak, and his life dull.

Toji never thought he'd be so affected by your absence. And he's been selfishly trying to bury the sorrows underneath fire and ash.

Longer shifts at work when his hours were already long, leaving his child at home with whoever is available at whatever hour of the day.

The worst part?

It's radio silence from your end ever since the day you'd left without sparing him another word.

He remembers how your legs shook after you'd pushed yourself off the couch's armrest. It's vividly tattooed in his mind how the sight of your trembling body and tear-stained face made his chest tighten because he knew he'd done it for real this time.

It's stupid, he used to make you end up shaking and tearing up under different circumstances before, ones that had nothing to do with having your heart ripped out of your chest.

However, while it's physically unable for him to erase how broken you looked that night from his mind, he barely recalls ever hearing you pack anything—maybe he was zoned out when you did—but he found your shared bedroom empty by the time you were gone.

Sukuna called him early in the morning out of the blue. Voice gruff with a heavy underlying layer of irritation.

It was 8 A.M. on a Sunday, but Toji was already slipping his shoes on when his friend practically pleaded him to pick his child up.

Claiming he had more than enough of the Fushiguros because apparently, Megumi had a rough night and he kept crying out for his mom.

Toji didn't know what to tell the little boy when he got to the salmon-headed uncle's house.

The door had opened and his son practically bolted out of the house, straight onto his father's legs where he clawed and clawed until he was picked up.

Yuji was looking at the duo from behind his uncle's legs, looking guilty as if he were the one responsible for his best friend's inner turmoil.

It was quite the contrary.

Megumi had enjoyed himself that night.

The two boys played video games way past the time they were usually allowed to be awake, ate a lot of sweets, as Sukuna didn't care to refuse two pre-teens of the candy they pulled out of nowhere.

But now, as he nuzzled his spiky hair further against his dad's chest, Megumi wished for nothing but to go home and find peace in his mother's arms.

The two older and identical copies of their "sons" bid each other a half-assed goodbye—both still too tired to properly socialize—only saying they'd meet up later before Toji was back in the car.

His son slept through the car ride home, and he woke up noticeably calmer and in a mood that improved the closer they got to home.

What his father failed to warn him about was the sheer emptiness he'd find once he crossed the threshold of their apartment.

The key was barely out of the lock before Megumi pushed the door open, hauling himself inside the foyer, screaming, "Mama!" with his tiny, high-pitched voice, buzzing with anticipation.

A moment passed. He was still standing at the entrance, waiting for you to rustle around and show up at the end of the hall with your arms wide open—and a comforting smile on your face.

Nothing.

Nothing happened after another few silent seconds.

And little Megumi turned to his father, who hadn't moved an inch.

Still in the corridor.

Feeling the strange coldness seep out of the house and into his bones, caused by the lack of your presence in the apartment.

For the first time in his short life, Megumi saw his father hold an expression on his face that wasn't irritation or disinterest.

Despair and pain.

Etched into his dark, sharp features.

Today is quite an eventful day for you, not because you have something coming for you, but because you're quitting your job.

It's a silly, extremely boring office job you've been at for less than four years now, but it pays just enough for you to live on the other side of Tokyo, far from Toji and your sadly, little one.

In a two-bedroom apartment that casually has a balcony that bumps up your rent to be higher than it's supposed to be? Yes, but until you moved into a place with a terrace, you'd never realized just how much you had been needing one.

You close the last tabs after saving your work with a small smile you can't stop from stretching across your face. Makoto, your deskmate, looks over the divider with a movie-style comedy with an exaggerated pout on her face.

She's a sweetheart, younger by three years but the most trustworthy person you've ever met while working. Unfortunately though, this is probably the last you'll see of her, as your private lives don't mesh.

The poor girl takes a two-hour train ride for this mediocre job and you certainly won't take time out of her precious weekends to meet when she's such a busy person.

But you promise to stop by and let her take you around Kyoto sometime. A loud, melancholic huff escapes her as she mourns the loss of her favorite coworker.

You giggle at her deflated posture in her chair.

"Don't be so sad, Mako."

You're entirely too calm and happy for a person who is resigning today.

However, this is a resignation that every person in the office is okay with. Not because you're deeply hated by your now former workplace, but because there is a reason why everyone is willing to let an employee as talented and loyal as you go.

Just in time for you to walk out, your boss, Nanami Kento, appears behind you. He's uptight as ever. Clad in squeaky-clean Oxfords, a mathematically straightened blazer, and his hair gelled back—as organized as the office life at 7:3 Corporate Banking Company is.

Except, you almost feel your eyes jump out of their sockets when you see the bouquet of flowers in his arms.

"Oh! Mr. Nanami, what a nice bouquet you hav—"

He cuts you off before you even finish your awkward comment.

"These are for you."

Again, before you have time to be shocked about it, he places them in your hands, almost sending you to faceplant the floor with their weight.

And you also can't get a single word in because he's continuing.

"Congratulations on your pregnancy, Mrs. Fushiguro. It's been lovely having you here."

Yeah.

Two months ago, you moved into a cheaper, smaller, and clammy apartment across town with a heavy heart and a cloudy mind.

You haven't divorced Toji, and you're not sure if you can do that without properly clearing the air between you and your husband.

Though, the idea of going back and looking into his eyes to hear the word no after everything you've been through is enough for you to keep your distance indefinitely.

Even when at night, you miss the feeling of his arms wrapped around you more than anything, keeping you caged against him—warm and safe on the coldest nights.

Or being awakened by the little rascal in the morning. Kissing his chubby cheeks to death while he complained.

The first month was hard. Really hard. You barely ate, lived off the first thing you saw at the nearby convenience store that sells the most out-of-pocket flavors of literally anything, and avoided going out altogether if it wasn't for work.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss him though.

If you said you didn't wish he'd come and find you at work on one of those days where the clock ticked too slowly, you would be a horrible liar.

But those dreams never happened.

He never came.

Never called.

And you didn't see the light in life.

Until the phone call.

You didn't recognize the number anymore, having gotten another phone and changed your contact.

So when your old phone buzzed on the nightstand, a week after you'd settled in with a new Blackberry, your heart thumped hard against your chest.

It wasn't your husband.

"Hello, Y/N?"

Upon picking up, you'd immediately recognized the voice. Dr. Shoko. It had totally fled your mind that you were supposed to tell her you were giving up.

"Oh, yeah, it's me."

That evening, your voice felt smaller than anything.

You felt smaller than anything once the remains of a life you were in just a month ago were on the other side of the phone.

You'd almost forgotten the bruises you'd wake up to decorating your stomach, all the nights you retched in the bathroom—holding your own hair, alone.

"It's been a while since we've spoken, hasn't it?"

Your doctor was a woman older by a few years but that possessed a honey-like, calm voice that you're sure could calm anyone.

It was almost comforting to hear it.

But when she calls, it's always for the same thing.

To break your heart into pieces again.

So you brace for impact like you have every other time.

You reply to her question with an, "I'm doing great," even though it's the fakest thing you've said in a while.

Then, you hope she doesn't ask about Toji or Megumi.

Thankfully, she doesn't, and you hear the rustle of papers before she takes a pause from saying it's great to know you're doing good.

"Okay, so if you remember, we took out some eggs during your last cycle and you had them implanted the following week."

There's a brief silence as she prepares her next words.

You take it to let the fact run a lap around your head.

By now, it had totally fled your mind that there was yet another successful implant of fertilized embryos inside of you.

And that the last week before you left Toji behind, you had a fair amount of bloodwork and lab tests done.

Specifically, on that gloomy day, you had your most recent blood draw.

Still, you had done this many times with no success by now.

She always says the same thing: successful implant, see you in a week.

Then she calls you in for tests, you do them, and she calls again with the news of no baby.

It's always the same.

First come the injections, the hormones.

Then the painful surgical extraction of your eggs.

Toji had to submit his own sperm too.

The lab fertilization follows.

The embryos are cultured for a few days.

You go back, they're placed inside your uterus.

And then, nothing.

No baby, no life.

Just another scar deep in your heart.

Your doctor had been rambling about something for the last minute, but you were in your head, completely out of it and not hearing a single thing until you heard her call out your name.

"Y/N? Y/N?"

Finally, she had managed to pull you back and you replied.

"Yes? Sorry, I got distracted."

A soft sigh came through the phone.

"Did you hear what I said?"

You hadn't missed a beat before replying no.

"You're pregnant, Y/N."

And you saw the first sliver of light then.

Within you.

So, you're the happiest pregnant woman there is, despite your crumbling marriage, despite the guilt that tugs at your heartstrings from having abandoned another little one behind.

But you've wanted this for longer than you can remember.

There's nothing that has tethered you to Earth as much as the two-month bump you have subtly poking out from under your clothes.

You're so over the moon, in your little bubble, that you're even grateful you wake up nauseous because of the little being inside of you, and not because of a bad reaction to the drugs you took just to have your baby.

And your cabinets are empty save for the prenatal vitamins you take.

There are no empty syringes in your apartment's trash can.

But there are discarded negative pregnancy tests and used-up, once hormone-filled injections in Toji's apartment.

He can't bring himself to throw them away even when the sight revolts him.

The box of remaining treatments for another cycle is still in the bathroom, the cabinets full.

Untouched.

It dawned on him that he had messed up the second you walked out the door.

That he discarded you, perhaps unwillingly, just like you had discarded negative results after successful implants.

He'd discarded all of your sacrifice.

The months of pain you went through just to have something half you and half him.

Because of his fear.

And the thought, that realization, makes bile climb up his throat every time.

Anywhere.

He loses his mind every single time too.

He's at work.

Leg bouncing up and down, eyebrows drawn tightly together, lips pursed—jaw locked like he's fighting the urge to jump at someone.

When really, he's fighting himself.

Sukuna is lazily lounging on an uncomfortable metal chair he pulled out of the janitor's closet and into the open garage, next to the lined-up fire trucks.

It's lunchtime, he's just had whatever slop their coworker made.

And he feels horrible.

With the heat clinging onto his skin and the salty aftermath of whatever thing he had just eaten, the pink-haired man was sure he was on the road to hell and seconds from perishing.

A firefighter uniform is a layered system of protective clothing designed to protect firefighters from heat and fire, to say the least.

But God, was it hot inside that clingy uniform.

And for men like Sukuna and Toji, it was uncomfortable as it was always too tight around the arms.

Having had enough of the clingy material, Sukuna had his coat thrown somewhere and he's been itching to rip his white shirt off his chest.

He can't do that though.

So, he's left in his navy blue, yellow-striped cargo tactical pants with the overalls unhooked from his shoulders and hanging by his sides.

He's taken off practically every layer he's allowed to, and he wishes he could throw his shoes away too, but he can't.

By his side, though, is a visibly distressed Toji.

Fully.

Dressed.

In the 32-degree Celsius Japanese heatwave.

Had his coworker looked normal at the very least, Sukuna would've bet there would be at least three forest fires with the scorching hot sun shining outside.

But he's quiet as a church mouse when he eyes the raven.

He barely lasts a minute before he barks.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Toji groans, sinking further into his own metal chair, subconsciously hiding his face under the high neck of his coat.

His friend continues to talk though, picking at the subject.

"What? The missus giving you shit? Yuji's been saying that Meg is quite upset lately."

Once more, he doesn't get a reply.

That makes him quirk a brow in curiosity and slight irritation.

Even when he knows Toji isn't a man of many words, just like he isn't.

However, it's now that he notices his friend's hands are balled up into painfully tight fists by his sides.

And it's only now that he realizes it's been a while since he's heard about you.

"Toji, where's your wife?"

Sukuna's voice isn't as light anymore. It's deeper when he asks where you are.

Because you've known Sukuna for longer than Toji has.

After all, he's the mutual friend you both met each other through.

So, when it comes to his childhood best friend, it's not funny at all to Sukuna anymore.

Toji knows.

"She's gone."

That he's dancing on a thin line.

Either he gets punched by the short-tempered man, or the next months are going to be spent in psychological warfare.

"Gone? What the fuck do you mean gone?"

The man has already pushed himself off the chair, sending it a few meters back. The sound of its feet scratching against the floor momentarily echoes.

"Gone."

He would never admit it, but the fact that you have been gone for four whole months without him finding out about it irks him on a level that most people never get to.

Anyway, Sukuna is on his last thread too.

He's called your old number a hundred times in the last hour after his shift ended.

Not once have you picked up.

And you haven't heard the phone ring once.

You're at your trusty convenience store, struggling to crouch and reach the snacks on the lowest shelf with your three-month bump between you and glory.

It's hard, satisfying these end-of-trimester cravings.

To add salt to injury, when you can't reach the bottom packets of mochi, you can't reach the chips on the highest shelves.

It's ridiculous.

So you have been staring at the ketchup-flavored bag of chips on the shelf for the past five minutes, debating whether you give it up and go home, or wait for someone to waltz into the deserted convenience store where even the cashier is absent so they can grab it for you.

You choose the latter.

Or you did at first.

But your patience is stretched thin quickly.

You decide to try one last time to reach it yourself, despite the strain in your lower back.

Slowly, you lift yourself onto the tips of your toes and deliberately angle yourself to graze the end of the bag.

Then, you feel the presence of someone taller behind you reach past your body and grab it.

You're about to complain about how rude that was, maybe even accidentally start crying because of your hormones, but the man places the chips in your hands before you turn to look at him.

You quickly manage to catch a glimpse of the man's forearm.

Shit.

You're fucked.

Fuck, who wouldn't recognize those tattooed forearms with ink that make grown men swallow hard and fear him?

Right there, you hope he doesn't pay attention to who he has just helped—

And you're unlucky because for the first time in his life, Sukuna bats an eye to a random person.

He catches a glimpse of your side profile as he lets the item drop into your hand, already turning to leave, but he stops dead in his tracks to take a second look.

Oh, of course he has to run into you after calling about two hundred times in the last two hours.

But Sukuna is shocked for the first time in ages.

His MIA friend, in a convenience store that doesn't even have a name, miles and miles away from your home.

What a coincidence.

"Y/N? What the fuck are you doing here? Why haven't you answered my calls?"

You're stiff as a tree, hoping that the comically large bag of chips will hide the bump you're sporting under your sundress.

Aha.

You're far from slick.

Because one look from Sukuna and you're exposed.

You're sure the clerk comes out of the back after hearing Sukuna's loud barking.

"What the fuck?!"

Can a man curse more than Ryomen? Jesus.

Unfortunately for you, bolting is out of the question with your mildly swollen feet.

So you force him to pay for your random snacks in exchange for an explanation.

And you make it seem like a casualty that you're coincidentally pregnant during a rough patch with your husband.

You don't tell him that divorcing is something you think about some days, or the horrible last year and a half you lived through in order to even lie about your baby.

He doesn't need to know that.

He wouldn't understand if you told him you left your husband because you wanted a baby.

If your own didn't, how could he?

By the time you're done shrugging his concerns off, it's late.

So he insists on taking you home. You make him stop at the foot of your building and swear.

"I don't want Toji to know." You say. He purses his lips because he doesn't believe it.

Again, you shoot him a pointed look. "You owe me the discretion, asshole."

He's retorting like you've shot him.

"What for? I literally just paid for your things. If anything, you should stop lying to my face and tell me the truth."

Accidentally, your lips make an "o" and you expose yourself once more. But you don't care.

Shrugging again, you say, "Nah, I'm good, don't tell him." A pause comes in the middle of the next sentence.

Now more serious, you shift around as you plead. "Please don't tell him. It's complicated right now."

He scoffs, mumbling something incoherent but really similar to "Fucking idiot." under his breath before tossing your purchases back to you, giving you a side hug, and saying he'd catch you later.

That night, you don't sleep out of fear that Sukuna would snitch, even if he's never done that, being a man of his word, and that Toji would show up at your door.

He never does.

And part of you is disappointed.

No, every part of you is disappointed.

Ruined, even.

It's been nine months, you're full term, about to pop out a child, and he hasn't reached out once.

Your husband hasn't looked for you once.

On many nights, you cry about it.

It's no longer the hormones that have you so sensitive, you know your helplessness comes from deep within you.

It hurts more when it's Sukuna taking you to the hospital on the night your water breaks.

It hurts more than the contractions.

You cry,

cry,

and cry.

Because you don't want Sukuna to be driving you.

You don't want him here at all.

Which is incredibly selfish as he's been supporting you all throughout your pregnancy.

Except at ultrasounds, you refused to let him take you there.

Refused to let him inside the appointment.

Toji was supposed to be there finding out the gender of your baby by your side.

He was supposed to be looking at your little girl's face inside your womb.

You weren't supposed to be alone.

Or receive judgmental looks from the women in the waiting room.

Some equally as pregnant as you, some less or more, but all accompanied by their partners. The fathers of their children.

And you wanted to yell that you're married, and not the slut they look at you like.

You have a husband.

You wear your wedding band with "through sickness and in health" promised to you.

So, where is your husband?

On the night your water breaks, you're cooking. Something sweet, a new recipe you've never tried where making caramel—homemade caramel—is crucial for its success.

None of that store-bought stuff.

You blame the baby in you for wanting such complicated things.

Halfway through the process, right as you're mixing sugar, butter, cream, and a pinch of salt that's going to transform into a rich, golden confection, you think you pee yourself.

Safe to say, you didn't.

The water that spilled on the floor was in fact not pee, but your water breaking.

And you panic so hard all you do is dial Sukuna in a hurry—making him call out of work—and haul the hospital bags out of the apartment all on your own.

Not sparing a single glance at anyone who sees you in your flowy nightgown, with a distressed face and two suitcases by your side.

Right, that pan you left on...

Spawned a team of Tokyo firefighters, amongst them a tired, sunken-eyed, wrecked Toji to the rescue.

He was handed the information of the situation while a teammate drove the truck without question to the location, like it always is.

Over the truck's blaring siren, he read out the data to the other firemen.

"Neighbors reported a house fire on—" He reads out the name of the street, region, floor, and everything they know that has been reported about the fire.

He gets to the end of the report and his heart drops.

"The tenant is FUSHIGURO Y/N." His coworkers don't hear what he mumbles at the end, but they know something is wrong with the horrified look he's wearing.

The truck is shaking as it drives through traffic, but Toji's bark at the driver makes it tremble even more.

"Hurry the fuck up, get us there now!"

And they get there.

Toji hauls himself out of the truck first, body moving before his mind does.

Every inhabitant of the building is found outside, scared and worried, but Toji's heart is reaching the sky. He has it in his throat, ready to jump out.

Because how is it that the first time he hears about you, it's because you're engulfed in the one thing he prayed you'd never get close to?

His vision starts to get blurry as he reaches the floor.

You'd think it's inhuman, that a man of his height and stature, wrapped in those clothes, can past more than ten flights of stairs to reach your apartment in record time.

He smells the ash from the hall before he throws your door open, calling out your name through his hoarse throat.

It's closing in on him. Everything, the walls.

But you're not here.

There isn't a single sign of life.

And his heart stops.

He's not even supposed to be there.

He knows because he faintly hears his men scream from the staircase for him to leave, get out, that there is nobody.

Nobody?

What do they mean nobody?

Where is his wife?

His sweetheart.

On ground level, water is already being sprayed. Multiple men are at work. Placing ladders, climbing, watering down.

Doing damage control.

Yet nobody does damage control on him.

Where is his wife?

"Toji!" He hears his senior's voice call out from nearby.

But he stands there in the living room.

Surrounded by flames.

Even though he's not touched by them yet.

"Toji! Get out of there right this second!"

He feels like he's already burned.

"You have a son and a wife! Get out!"

The superior hesitates at the threshold Toji passed to get inside. Except it's now barricaded by fire.

Where is his wife?

"Your wife is at the hospital, she's not here!"

And he moves.

You are at the hospital.

Crying like you're on the verge of death.

Maybe you are. Sukuna definitely knows he's about to die though, you're gripping his forearm like you need him to hold you to Earth while you send him to the sky.

"Fuckfuckfuck, you're killing me, woman—" He doesn't even think about how much his words annoy you, causing him to barely dodge the fist you had heading for him.

The thing is, you're not pushing or anything. Nor are you in pain with the epidural in your spine. But you've been in labor for the last four hours, only 5 centimeters dilated, and sobbing profusely without stopping.

Even the nurses are worried because all you say is "I want my husband!" like you can't do it without him here.

And it's the truth.

You can't.

Sukuna has said many times he can't get Toji because 1: He's on the clock so he probably won't pick up, and 2: You won't let him go.

Though, his arm hurts so much—it's red, and even with his thick skin, he's sure a fat bruise will appear in a few hours, that he decides it would absolutely not hurt to call the raven-headed idiot that is supposed to be in his place.

You hear him promise to call and immediately let go.

Just as Sukuna steps outside of the room though, still hearing your sobs from the hall, heavy and rushed footsteps near before he even has the chance to ring Toji.

Because there he is, running past Sukuna, probably not even registering that he's there, and he goes inside.

But your husband wasn't ready to be met with what he was.

Toji Fushiguro looked like a man who had crawled straight out of hell.

His uniform was soaked.

Ash stained the sleeves.

There was soot smeared across his jaw and neck.

His chest rose and fell violently as he struggled to breathe.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

His wife.

Swollen with—

No, pregnant.

Fully pregnant.

A huge stomach which you have both your hands over.

Tears paint your face in a glossy layer.

That's not what makes his heart stop though.

A pin drops in the silence and you're sure a continent cracked.

He chokes out a sound you can't understand.

It all crashes over him right then.

He can't form a single coherent thought.

But he shakes, he starts shaking.

It's all too much.

His dark eyes find you instantly.

The world seems to stop.

You stare.

He stares.

Nine months.

Nine entire months.

Yet the second you saw him, every memory came rushing back at once.

The first apartment.

Megumi sleeping between you both after a nightmare.

The wedding ring still sitting on your finger.

Everything.

Toji looked like he was about to collapse.

Your name broke coming from his throat.

You've never hated yourself so much.

But the physical pain is slowly creeping back up on you.

And the cry you let out snaps your husband out of his shock.

Even after months apart, his body moves on its own.

His hands find yours.

Nurses swarm in.

You can't get the words "I'm sorry" out, but you try.

Knowing that they won't ever be enough to earn forgiveness.

His head lowers.

And suddenly, you feel something warm hit the back of your hand.

A tear.

Then another.

The room went silent.

It wasn't though.

It was loud with medics preparing you to push.

You had dilated enough.

But you couldn't pull your eyes off him.

Couldn't stop smelling the smoke, fear, and regret he was radiating.

You let out a loud groan amidst the moment, subconsciously squeezing the life out of his hand.

He doesn't care though.

You don't either.

"Mrs. Fushiguro—" For the first time, you hear the midwife.

"We have to get this baby out of you, mama, please help us."

You cry.

Really cry.

Because it hurts everywhere now.

In your heart.

And everywhere else.

"Push!"

You don't, you can't.

You don't find the strength within you.

They yell at you to push again.

You still don't.

Toji lifts his head, red eyes finding yours.

There's nothing but worry and something fragile, something Toji doesn't know how to name, fear, behind his eyes.

A rough, calloused hand finds the apple of your cheek.

He doesn't care about the baby, but he does care about you.

"Y/N, baby, please."

"Push!"

Through your blurry vision, you finally manage to.

He wipes the tears that fall as you cut the circulation off in his bicep.

"Okay, mom, good! Keep pushing!"

Her cries are the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

It hurts a bit to see them hand her over to her father first, but you find it okay.

You find it more than okay when you see him hold her.

A man of so much sorrow and pain, holding the purest thing on Earth.

His daughter.

The world is frozen in time.

Somewhere, the birds stop chirping.

The waves swallow the shore.

His chest loosens.

Something shatters in him.

It feels illegal to hold her.

She's so small.

So beautiful, nothing like him.

No dark eyes, no dark hair.

No scars, no marks.

He can't believe this is his.

Your daughter.

After years.

After injections.

After heartbreak.

After countless negative tests.

She was finally here.

A sob escapes him.

One he couldn't stop.

One he didn't even try to.

His hand gently brushes against her tiny head.

It was silent in the room.

"She's beautiful."

You look down at her.

Then up at him.

And for the first time in nearly a year, your husband looks at you the same way he had on your wedding day.

Like you were the most important thing in the world.

The room fades away.

The hurt isn't gone.

The damage isn't repaired.

There will be conversations.

Arguments.

Apologies.

Months of healing.

Maybe years.

But as your daughter yawns against your chest and Toji carefully wraps one arm around both of you, neither of you lets go.

Not this time.

Tsumiki has two broken parents.

A mother that went through hell for her.

Who would do it again to see her tiny fingers wrap around her mother's.

A woman that needed answers from her husband.

Who isn't aware that he did look for her.

Everywhere.

At her old workplace, asking everyone, spending every day calling, searching, dying inside.

She has a father that's messed up by life.

Past relationships, family trauma, a fear in his heart he can't allow himself to admit exists.

A man who doesn't know how to hold on.

But he's never been so sure that this time, nothing is escaping from him.

And an older brother standing by the door, brought by Sukuna himself.

That has a completely different set of eyes and thoughts.

But a brother that has already deemed her the most precious thing on Earth.

Hmm... as for dessert.. the masterlist maybe? Please lmk how u felt about this little story, i love reading coms!!

⋮ ⌗ Taglist┆@starfire21 @ssolarys @natsumesbookoffriendsisthebest77 @chicharotbebotwow @riameriash @yawnnzy @zoast32

[lapsizedgf]

ex!toji headcanons ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

ex!toji couldn’t look at himself for weeks after the breakup after you sobbed at him to get help for his wellbeing , throwing pillows as the two of you had a screaming match loud enough for neighbours to hear

ex!toji still messaged you once every month to let you know he was still earning sobriety chips , not caring that he was left on seen every time because at least you knew he was trying his hardest for you

ex!toji never changed his relationship status on facebook , claiming you were just on a break with him whenever shiu asked why he hadn’t seen you in a while

ex!toji dropped off an ‘anonymous’ bouquet of your favorite flowers on the birthday he couldn’t be there for, along with a box of chocolates and a stuffed bear which you cuddled every night when you couldn’t sleep

ex!toji’s heart sank when he heard you crying on the phone when you rang him for the first time in months , claiming you do still love him and just became overwhelmed with the addiction and constant fighting

ex!toji sped to your house after hanging up, thumbing your tears and cupping your face in the darkness of your bedroom as he whispered in your ear; “shh, i know baby, deep breaths.”

ex!toji cracked a shitty joke when you finally pecked his scarred lips, chuckling to himself and earning a light smack! to his broad chest

ex!toji swore he’d treat you better this time, promising with sloppy kisses to your temple as he dragged his cock up and down your fluttering hole

ex!toji who fucked you raw & sweet on your birthday <3

a/n initially this was gonna be longer but i felt a little lazy . . . happy halloween my lovelies !! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

[v3is]

PAIRING. gojo satoru, fushiguro toji, sukuna ryomen x fem! reader

WARNINGS. cursing, angst, maybe angst only (who knows?)

NOTE. you notice how nanami kento isn't there? because he would never, i just feel like writing something a bit angsty tonight. a bit stressed out from my thesis and stuff, grrr (need help with thesis, i'm ngl). i seriously forgot that i used to write on lowercase, but i'm starting with capitals this time around, so don't mind the mistakes t___t anwww, enjoyyy.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

It didn't take long for you to find out — maybe it was his fault on leaving his phone on top of the coffee table during a home date. Satoru trusts you more than anything, and he loves you more than anything, but before this, the feelings weren't there, he had dated you for money that suguru promised him as a joke.

Satoru never intended to fall for you, at least not until you suddenly looked much prettier in his eyes, or the way he ached to hear your voice again after a date, or the way his eyes stick to your face, or the way he continues cracking out jokes so that he could see you smile happily. He never intended to fall this deep, all he wanted at first was to date you for four months, get some money from suguru and break it off.

No feelings attached.

But, Christ, he just had to fall for you. And now all he hoped was that Suguru to keep his mouth shut — and his fingers tight so that no messages about the bet would catch your eyes.

Satoru had promised himself that he would come clean when he thinks the time is right, but seeing the situation now, he just hoped that he could just forget about the bet and continue his love life with you. Because, he knew that telling you about the bet might alter your point of view on him and that was the one thing he didn't want right now. losing you.

"Hey, Satoru?"

He calls out from the kitchen, in between his teeth was part of the popcorn wrapper that he had just pulled out of the microwave, "Mm?"

"Suguru is calling! Should I pick it up and tell him to call later?" You asked him, the device vibrating on top of the table.

First mistake. Satoru had forgotten to tell Suguru about the date he had today with you, all because Suguru doesn't need to know about the feelings that had gotten real, but he wouldn't say anything, right? Well, wrong!

"Yeah, pick it up for me, please. Tell him I'm gonna swing by later—"

The moment you picked the phone up, Suguru complained, "Jesus, what took you so long to answer? What are you even doing? Swing by, Shoko's graduation party is coming up soon. What do med students want for a present?"

You wanted to reply, but it seemed that Suguru was in a big rush. You could make out shuffling and people speaking around him, "I'm at the grocery store, do you think she wants a homemade cake? The last time we did that, she got food poisoning."

You part your lips to tell him that it wasn't Satoru. But, again, he had beat you to it, "Also, Shoko's planning to introduce you to one of her friends. She doesn't know about the whole bet thing with (Name), so if you're up for it, maybe you could actually land yourself a chick."

Okay, that succeeded in shutting you up.

"Hello? Hello? Okay, wait. I'm gonna call you back later, the signal here is fucked up—" he hung up the call and you could only stare at it, your mind reeling back to what he said.

The whole bet thing?

When Satoru had came back with a big bowl of butter popcorn, he stuck himself like glue to your side with a big grin. His arm reached out to your back and wrapped around your shoulder, "What should we watch? We watched 'The Notebook' last week, do you think we should watch some horror?"

"Satoru, when were you planning to tell me that I'm just a bet?" You asked him, craning your neck to look at him.

Satoru froze. Like a deer in headlights, he looks down at you and blinks feverishly, "...What?"

"The bet thing? Me? You made it with Suguru?"

Maybe it was the fact that the news came so suddenly that it made you feel numb — all you wanted right now was an answer from him. He sat up straight, looking at you, "Baby, what are you talking about? What be—"

"Suguru said that Shoko doesn't know about the bet thing with me and that she was planning to introduce you to one of her friend during her graduation party," you muttered out, so many things swirling in your mind.

But, the first thing you wanted was an answer. Then second, you leave.

Satoru swallowed the lump in his throat, "I love you, it started as a bet. It was a joke, but I don't care about that anymore, (Name)."

The second he confirmed about the bet, you were already standing up. Getting your jacket from the rest of the couch, putting it on. Satoru was immediately on his feet, holding onto your hand, his face solemn, "I know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I was planning to come clean to you and tell you about it—"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better..?'' You snapped back at him, "Jesus, so everything was just a joke to you, huh? I seriously trusted you, Gojo."

The use of his surname instead of the usual 'Satoru' made his stomach drop. He shakes his head, "No, no, no. I promise you, the kisses, the hugs, I promise you they're all real, bab—"

"Don't call me that."

"Please, I'll do anything. Don't leave me," he whispers, tightening his hold on your hand, "I'll do anything. You name it, please."

You pulled your hand away, "What I want? Is for you to leave me alone. Don't ever talk to me again, seriously. I hate you."

You've always told him that hate is a strong word, but now the fact that you were using it to imply your feelings to him made dread spread throughout his body. His whole world stopped as he looked at you retreating out of his apartment, the trailer of 'Conjuring 2' playing in the background loudly.

Satoru's fingers trembled as he walks to the door, not even bothering with footwear. All he could focus on was you, but you were already out of his reach. No matter how hard he tried to catch up, you were already out of his reach.

Satoru's never one to make mistakes, but this?

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

He's not one for relationships. At least, committed ones. The first time you met him was by the grocery store, he was looking at... Well, bread. You were an employee, and he was looking for some good and cheap ones — so, you gave him a hand.

Shiu was there, and well... For people like them — adulting, practically all they think about is nothing but money. So, of course it tempted Shiu to shoot out a bet to Toji who in that time, was in need of money. The bet was simple: "Date the bakery girl for half a year, I'll give you half of my next salary."

Toji didn't even bother to think about it. He nods his head and asks you out on a date a week later. It was awkward, but you made it work — he wasn't much of a conversation starter, so you took the lead on that. Easy, and it wasn't as bad as you thought it would go. The both of you exchanged words and information about each other.

And before you know it, he'd already asked you out a month later. He said something about clicking instantly and that he wanted to be more than just friends — you said yes, of course. Clueless of the bet, you said yes and dated him.

However, as things were supposedly going as planned. Toji made a grave mistake of oversharing himself during a drunk facade. Hell, he never gets drunk, but it just happened. He never wanted it, he thought you'd judge him for his past. But, no, you didn't. Instead, you held him with arms wide open, something he wasn't exactly used to.

And he lets you in. He's never let anyone in since Megumi's mother.

And all of a sudden, the bet wasn't fun anymore and Toji no longer wanted the money. Maybe all he wanted was this all along, the warmth and affection that comes with it. But, Shiu didn't have to know. Over Toji's dead body.

"So, how's the bet going?" Shiu blows out the smoke, handing him a box of cig. Toji shook his head, "No smoke?"

"Nah."

"What's up with you?"

Toji arched a brow, "What?"

"How is the bet?" Shiu redirected the conversation, wanting to know something at least.

"What about it?" Toji mutters back.

"How is it going?"

"Well."

Shiu is a smart man, he did not need to ask anymore questions to know about what was going on. Although, he answered with a soft hum, but before they parted, he managed to sneak in a little, "She isn't going to like it when she finds out, you know that, right?"

"Won't let her find out."

Oh, you did. You were there, you never expected to be there at the same time as they did — but you were. Your boss had told you to go buy yourself something since you had been working overtime three times this week, and so you decided to go buy some food, right where they were hanging out.

Toji had told you about Shiu before, but you've never really talked to the man. So, when you saw them both talking, you were about to go and say hello.

"She isn't going to like it when she finds out, you know that, right?" Find out about what?

Shiu was the first one who noticed you. He nudged Toji and juts his chin out towards me, "Find out about what, exactly?" You found yourself questioning — Toji hasn't been your boyfriend for too long, so you wouldn't be lying if you had left a room for disappointment. But, you never guessed it would be this soon.

Toji never expected to see you. He parted his lips to say the truth, but nothing came out. He found himself asking why he couldn't speak his mind like he usually would. And Shiu on the other hand, took this as his cue to leave quietly, waving slightly at you.

"Listen. Don't get angry."

"What do you mean?" The statement 'don't get angry' was already riling you up, "find out about what?"

He sighed, "I initially asked you out because I made a bet with Shiu, but that bet is bullshit now, I seriously do have feelings for you and I want to make this work between us."

You furrowed your brows, "Excuse me?"

Toji said nothing. He stayed mute.

"No, if you think I'm going to forgive you for it. Jesus, here I thought that you were serious about me from the start — and you lied about it. If you could lie about that, what else could you lie about?" You countered back at him.

Toji didn't complain, he just accepted it willingly because he knew he was wrong, surprising. "I get it. It was stupid of me, but I promise you I really want to make this work — to hell with the money he promised me, I just want you."

You shook your head. How shameless could he be?

"Toji. No, no more of this. None of this was real anyways."

"No—"

"Bye, Toji."

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍

Sukuna doesn't particularly take on measly bets such as this one — but Uraume had promised him a big gift, and Sukuna could not have let such thing go (or the fact that he would be sacrificing his pride if he said no).

You weren't anyone. In fact, you were just a concubine out of tens who serves Sukuna. Everyone has always said that you were his favorite, but you don't think that he does favoritism. Although, for the sake of the bet, Sukuna did request for you more than usual. The other concubines were surely confused, especially at the fact that their master has been requesting the same concubine — you— over and over again.

"My Lord, you called for me..?" Again. You'd like to say.

Sukuna was seated by the tatami floor, his robe was half-down, pooling by his waist. You walked slowly towards him, bowing your head down politely — Sukuna had told you countless of time to stop doing the gesture to him, but still, it felt a bit odd not to.

His large hand pats the space next to him, "Sit."

It wasn't a question. He was demanding you to sit next to him, and so you did. You don't know what to expect from him, but a statement that you were from now on his was the last thing. He made it clear to the concubines that from then on, your commands were to be heard as much as his were.

Shocking. You still served him, but you were ranked higher than the other concubines.

As months go by, Uraume states that Sukuna could stop whatever he was doing. Sukuna on the other hand, paid no mind to them. Because, it was the fact that he had feelings for you — or maybe the fact that he was still in denial and would like to know his actual feelings.

Love and Sukuna never correlate. If they were magnets, they would be polar opposites. But, you. God, you were different — he doesn't know what it is about you that made the pit of his stomach flutter, and he despises it. He's the king of curses, he shouldn't even be feeling like this in the first place.

"My Lord—"

"You can leave."

You blinked in surprise, "Yes, My Lord," and as much as you wanted to stay, his commands are absolute.

He grunts out, finally putting a stop to his act, "Your rank is to be the same as the others, I no longer need you by my side," he tells you, his voice never wavering. And as much as Sukuna feels the churning in his stomach, he doesn't stop himself from sending you away, "I never needed you by my side. Don't get the past few months over your pretty little head."

Sukuna smugly smirked at the crestfallen look at your face, despite the way his stomach fell at the sight. You, on the other hand, could only bow your head down and accept it, "I understand, My Lord."

The moment your voice wavered, his smirk faltered, "Leave."

He needs you to leave, immediately. His faith was wavering at the sight of your trembling lips — and he feared that he would crumble at the sight of your tears. And, when you did leave, he could only spend his seconds looking out the window. God, knows until when.

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