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i just really really really like the idea of mihawk slowly realising that even though he never asks you anything about yourself because he tells himself he doesn’t care, you don’t take offence to it. worse still is the moment he realises that tou have been doing so many small, tiny little things for him without any sense of expectation of reciprocation. he’s so used to people doing things just so he “owes them” that he overlooked your small acts.
he lets you into his space purely due to the fact that he doesn’t care enough to make you go away. mistake number one.
mistake number two is when he realises that you’ve sort of gotten under his skin and he still chooses not to act. he really believes that you’ll vanish when you realise that he isn’t going to give you anything, but you don’t.
instead, you bring flowers for the empty vases he can’t be bothered to replace. you go out and get lunch for both of you if it rolls around to one in the afternoon and he hasn’t noticed. when the store technically closes and he’s behind on the restoration list, you restock the books, take inventory, and leave him a neat list beside the register for the morning.
he doesn’t even know what you do that you have so much time to spare at his shop with nothing in return, and he still doesn’t ask even when it finally strikes him. it’s through long practice that he tells himself he doesn’t care, reminds himself that he’s had so many people betray him just as he settled that he can’t afford to care about you.
even when you bring what his favorite stress food exactly when he needs it, and even when you bring him a single cupcake for his birthday because you obviously know he doesn’t want attention paid to it but that’s just who you are, caring in your own ways while still minding who he is.
the breaking point is so small it seems stupid to notice after everything else. he has a preferred brand of paint brushes, rather hard to get ahold of on their own but god forbid you need a specialty brush and don’t preorder it.
mihawk is meticulous in keeping his supplies up. he hates having to scramble for anything, especially due to negligence. yet when one of his brushes snaps in the middle of a piece, he’s immediately vexed to find that he’s somehow forgotten to order a replacement. naturally it’s one he can’t just pick up off the shelf, and while he can make do until a new one comes in, it’s the principle of the thing.
when you wander in following a curse, he just tosses the broken pieces on the table before pinching the bridge of his nose. he’s developing a headache now, and doesn’t have time for whatever nonsense you’ve conjured up when your little gasp reaches him.
something is set on the table in front of him before you say, “i have an extra. i always keep one on me when i’m working away from home. you can keep it.”
he just stares at it by his elbow, still in its package with no sign of wear, like you haven’t even had it very long. wary, he asks, “just like that?”
“just like what?” you reply, head cocked. “you need it, don’t you? i love mine. i’d be lost without it, but ill just order another one. unless something catastrophic happens it’ll be fine. if not i’ll steal it back. obviously.”
you flash him a pretty, mischievous smirk before making your way back out to the front; the bell had rang, and he vaguely hears you discussing— something with a customer. how you had taken over that, let alone why he had let you, was just another small act he had overlooked, but the paintbrush—
he picks it up just to look at it, and it takes awhile before he’s finished cataloguing everything you had been doing, such small things that to a normal person would seem like normal kindnesses. to mihawk, they’re traps— though maybe not, not if it’s you. it hasn’t been from you yet, not after the months you’ve been coming around, slipping through a crack he’s fairly certain you made yourself before settling inside without him ever even noticing.
like a parasite, he muses because he can’t help himself. at least you hadn’t made a nuisance of yourself.
the next day when you show up, you stop short at the single flower laying on the counter beside the register. there’s nothing with it, just the snowdrop lying where there would be no mistaking it was meant for you or where it came from.
when mihawk comes out with a book someone is coming to pick up, he finds you’ve given it a place of honor on the counter in its own vase. neither of you comment on it, because you understand mihawk better than anyone else has ever tried, and he’s ready to start trusting what you’ve been showing him all this time.
greek!au— fem!reader + third person references at the beginning
hades!mihawk who gladly keeps to himself down in the underworld, more than content with the souls of the dead for company versus his rowdy brethren up in olympus. he has his wine and his books and his demons to do his bidding. the only one who really bothers him is dionysus; the latter he puts up with if only for the wine.
then one day one of his demons comes up and informs him of a visitor, only they haven’t come to his dark palace. it’s a goddess who stopped at the barrier to the elysian fields and his minions are hardly the brightest, so they have no idea which one it is or why she’s come down. she’s not causing problems and, for a moment, mihawk thinks to leave it be. so long as she avoids the entry to tartarus—
and that right there causes him to get up with a long suffering sigh and follow his demons out into the plains that surround his rocky castle. he knows the way perfectly well to the fields but they insist on accompanying him, and they’ve hardly started out when one of the others comes to him in a panic.
“she found the tree,” it hisses like it’s a blasphemous thing to say. “she ate the seeds.”
mihawk freezes for a moment— how had she found the tree? he had kept it hidden amongst the death and decay so well that none of the souls would ever have a chance. if not for the indestructible quality of the infernal thing he would have destroyed it a millennia ago. the gods— not his, but some far older than him most likely— knew how hard he had tried.
where mihawk had she would gone before he ever made it there, he snapped his fingers now and appeared behind her, still with the fruit in hand.
“what have you done, you fool?”
he’s glad to watch you startle, a quiet shriek your first response. he towers over you, and unlike his demons, he’s cognizant of who stands before him.
mihawk isn’t terribly well liked up above. the olympian gods think him cold and vicious; they fear death the same way the mortals do. some, he suspects, would even give any reason to be rid of him, to replace him with someone more congenial if not easier to control.
so when he realizes that before him stands persephone— pride and joy of demeter, literal spring incarnate and far too bright a spot in the bleakness of the underworld around them— it occurs to him immediately that someone would come looking. someone likely already was; your mother could be a thorn to anyone at the best of times, and she kept you under lock and key.
“what have you done?” he repeats, taking a step forward.
many a god had bowed under the weight of the god of death’s presence, but not many goddesses had ever been able to keep his eye like you did when you replied, “i wanted to see the fields, then i heard the tree.”
“you heard the tree?” mihawk sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as thought it would make this whole situation a dream. “what did it tell you then?”
your answer is a shifty lift of just one shoulder; your eyes avert for the first time, so he takes another step and says, “tell me what it said.”
instead, you tell him, “my mother never lets me leave olympus, hardly our home. i’m not meant to be locked up in a cage because she fears what might become of me. this tree gives me freedom—“
“it traps you here,” he snarls, but quickly collects himself. “how many did you eat?”
“four,” you answer.
“good. it means you have only four months here before you’re allowed to return to olympus. you can tell your mother how this happened—“
he cuts off abruptly when, as though you hadn’t listened to a word, you picked the discard fruit up and slipped two more seeds past your lips. too baffled to be furious, he just asks, “why?”
“i want my freedom,” is your answer, and in it mihawk recognizes something he often saw in himself.
“this is place isn’t freedom,” he says, softer now. “it’s cold and barren, no place for the goddess of rebirth.”
“it’s the one place my mother can’t drag me away from. that’s enough.”
“i hope so because it’s too late to change your mind now. you have to—“
again, mihawk cuts off, but this time it’s due to a tremendous scream from somewhere overhead. the earth beneath his feet begins to shake; he can hear the water of the cocytus washing up over the shore even some distance away, the force is so great.
you’re looking up as though expecting to see anything aside from the vast, empty darkness that makes up a the underworld.
“that’s all you’ll find here,” mihawk says. “you won’t be able to leave, you won’t be able to see the sun or your mother, or any of the others—“
instead of dawning horror, your head drops and cocks; again, you stump him when your response is, “up there, every aspect of my life is controlled. i can only see the sun when my mother deems it. if im trading one cell for another, it may as well be my choice, which one i rot in.”
unlike you, with your hopeful optimism, mihawk knows it won’t be as easy as that. still, you’ve made your bed and now he’s being forced to lie in it with you. somehow he doubts you’ve given much thought to his feelings on the matter, though hardly anyone ever does.
“fine then,” he says, but his eyes are turned towards the entrance to olympus. “it will have to wait, however— unless your mother concedes to coming down.”
“she’ll never suspect i’ve come down here anyway,” you say with far too much relief. even the look he casts you does nothing; you’ve already moved past him towards the path down to the fields. when you turn back, you wear a smile he’s never felt, and it rocks him when you ask, “would you show me your home?”
“it’s your home now too,” he reminds her, softer than he wants the barb to be.
“all the more reason for me to know my way around. where do we start, my lord?”
i’m always torn about what i want to do with modern!beckman because he’s so versatile in my head. like this man could either own a flower shop or run a mechanic shop (or anything in between really). he could also help run mihawk’s bookstore i feel like going the polyamory route (and im always on the polyamory path just so we’re all clear here). we’ll start with flower shop because i read something and it put me in A Mood™️ so:
flower shop owner!beck who used to run in a gang so he’s got some pretty vicious scars and out in public people tend to avoid him. his knuckles bear the brunt of them but my god this man is so gentle when he handles the delicate flowers he brings in. people see the sign over his store and go in expecting soft and pretty and out of the back comes this mountain of a man with a cigarette in his mouth and an easy enough smile. they assume that someone else makes the arrangements and are stumped when they’re informed no one else works in the shop.
he’s pretty well used to the assumptions by now, but sometimes the way parents usher their kids across the street like he’s going to haul off still stings a bit. on the other hand, his rugged good looks do fine work drawing in women, but he tends to keep most of them at arms length after a string of failed attempts at a serious relationship.
then in you walk in your too pretty pastels, while behind you saunters mihawk, looking for all the world like he would rather be anywhere else. it doesn’t take long to see what about you drew the withdrawn man in; he can see the paint on your fingers and the way your smile never falters even when mihawk defaults to sarcasm at your questions about what you should get.
the way your lips press thin before your nose turns up at him makes beck snicker, which draws mihawk’s immediate ire.
“i don’t need either of you getting any ideas,” mihawk drawls, but beck can already see it’s too late.
the way mihawk sighs indicates he’s also realized it, and that’s before you ask how they know one another. you have no idea who shanks is (not that beck is all that surprised), but you cover a laugh at the duality in their explanations— beck all exasperated fondness and mihawk with the vague sense he wants to strangle the man for breathing wrong.
there’s an air of almost— petulance from mihawk when you and beck become absorbed in a conversation about the shop and how it came to be, especially so close to mihawk’s own store. you have a knack, though, for recognizing it. you’re also unafraid because beck has certainly seen people nearly lose a hand for less than the way you take mihawk’s and pull until he’s is close enough that your fingers lace.
it piques beck’s interest because anyone who can draw the reclusive artist in and actually keep him is interesting on its own. even more rare is someone willing to stick around, who’s capable of overlooking mihawk’s natural reluctance to engage with anything even remotely emotional let alone draw it out of him.
it shifts beck’s perspective of his longtime friend as well, and he’s never been the type to shy away when he wants something. it’s directed at mihawk as much as you when he asks about dinner together; you had walked in at closing anyway, and the worst either of you can do is say no.
mihawk might have, based on the look he casts when you agree for both of them with an air of mischief that beck can’t help but tease mihawk about, as though he didn’t know you were like that. he had to know damn near everything about you, if he had let you so close.
beck’s mission that evening, he decided as he watched you tease mihawk like he was an ornery cat, was to find out exactly how you had managed to slip beneath his armor. maybe, he decided as he watched mihawk huff and roll his eyes and snap to hide the fact that you had him wrapped around your finger, he would find a way to use it himself if he could win you over first.
—
i may fill in some gaps since this makes a leap from the other stuff i posted. i have a whole Thing™️ already built for them and these are just blurbs from that basically. do what you want with it and tag me if you do.
modern!au benn beckman wears a flannel and paint splattered boots i don’t make the rules. he’s always worn them, but he’s never been more glad for it than the first time you run up and fit yourself under it, nosing at his side with your arms around him.
it quickly becomes a habit, so much so that he recognizes the specific look you get when you’re about to do it, and has the timing down perfectly to lift his arm and drape it around you. it’s always with a quiet chuckle and a sigh, and he obviously has to tease you about it, but he’d never tell you to stop.
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the ability to say "i dont have a tiktok" in social situations makes me feel so powerful. like the general reaction is "shock, confusion, then this weird 'thats probably a good thing' response" its so fun
mihawk’s pet name for you comes out of nowhere— he’s really not the type to use them, but it slips in a moment of vulnerability. he freezes because that type of comfort has always been out of his reach, if he ever tried to grasp it in the first place.
he expects it to slip through his fingers now and though you’ve done nothing special, somehow you’ve cracked open the armor he wears and slipped inside to make a home for yourself without having to carve and hollow out pieces of him. he’s never had anyone fit to him instead of trying to make him into something that benefitted them.
it’s why it feels so fitting. that single word softens at the edges when it slips out against your skin under the cover of darkness; you smell like him, feel like home in his arms. he rarely sleeps and when he does, it’s poorly. it was an aggravation before he had you to occupy him, and where he used to always get up to paint because it was the only way to purge the ire or whatever dream had woken him up, now he only does sometimes.
only when he’s certain you’re deeply enough asleep that you won’t come looking for a little while. he hates making you get out of bed to search, though there’s always a bit of selfish warmth when you do inevitably knock. sometimes you lure him back to bed, and sometimes you sit in his studio with him. sometimes he has to carry you back to bed even though you insist otherwise.
those moments, where he does for you in such small ways, are how he best expresses himself. it’s why he carries you, why every painting he produces now has your faint traces of influence— why he lets you climb all over him like a godforsaken tree and lets you love on him like he an angry cat. you had said that yourself enough times.
it’s also why angel feels so natural when it finally comes out on one of his especially sleepless nights. your soft sound when he tried to escape had folded him instantly, your gentle pull around his neck coaxing him back down and into your embrace.
the brush of his lips over the shell of your ear elicited a shiver that made him do it again before he murmured, “go back to sleep, angel.”
you had stilled, as had he. it had come out with so little provocation that he almost wanted to take it back— until you lifted her hand to your lips. against his knuckles, like you knew he needed it, you just said, “i can’t sleep without you. you know that.”
as you settled again, he shifted up to kiss your temple and said, “i suppose i’ll stay then, if it means so much to you. now go to sleep.”
you did after what he suspected was a snicker, but he did, in fact, not get up at all that night.
modern!au where dracule mihawk runs a quiet little out of the way used bookstore that hardly seems open half the time but it’s still fairly popular. he does book restorations with hand crafted covers if someone is willing to dole out the money for it.
everyone can tell that the store is just a hobby because how else is this recluse of a man able to afford the high end luxury car he drives? he claims good investments and yes, that’s partially true.
only a select handful of people know that mihawk a renowned artist known for his dark and melancholy pieces, always presented under an alias he keeps under tight, tight wraps to avoid the nuisance of publicity. it’s a good, cathartic way to express himself without having to bare himself to a therapist and he supposes if it brings in enough money to live comfortably then it’s a bonus. it’s not the major reason he does it though.
he’s content with his life and solitude. he has people he can call up and chat if he so desires— it’s laughably rare that he does though— but for the most part he spends his days quietly doing what he loves.
then you wander into the store with paint smudges on your fingers, dressed in soft pastels with a shy smile as you present mihawk with two rare first edition books that you want to gift to people. they’re in awful condition— some dimwit shoved them onto a shelf and left them to rot— and you ask him if they can even be salvaged.
he agrees, but it’s going to take time and care and if you want a new cover it’s going to cost—
— nothing, because you lay two covers you painted yourself beside the other two and ask if he would be willing to use them. it’s only that this friend is very special to you and to give them someone else’s work feels wrong and mihawk finds himself agreeing because you sound so hopeful and when is the last time anyone put that much work into something for him?
it fractures something, and he shakes himself free of the sudden, unwanted thought even as he tells you he’ll call if and when he’s finished. he won’t charge if he can’t complete the work, but you don’t even bat an eye before you tell him you don’t expect perfection, just for him to do his best.
that thought flickers through his mind a second time, and it sinks its hooks in before he can rid himself of it like a pesky fly.
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Hope this is ok to ask, if not feel free to ignore. Do you know what happened to seita? Are they still around?
i totally forgot to answer this but they jumped to writing for cod awhile ago, and aren’t really writing rn. i think their most recent blog was @/rowarn but they haven’t posted in ages. kind of like me lol
↠ ʟᴜꜰꜰʏ/ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ
↠ word count: 4,880
↠ warnings: smut, angst, death mentions
↠ a/n: luffy is very much outside my wheelhouse, so i hope this reads well enough. in spite of the oc, i wasn't paid for this, but the details do help make it easier to make it longer. i will take more requests, even if it doesn't say anywhere.
— /// —
When it was announced the ship had arrived at Sabaody, Anneliese took a moment before going topside to study herself in the mirror. It had been a long trip from Dawn Island, months upon months of rough seas with the occasional, brief reprieve of resupplying. It showed in the paleness of her face and the dullness in her eyes, borne of sleepless nights and seasickness even just days before their arrival at the archipelago. Upon the announcement of Ace’s death, it had been agreed that someone should go to see Luffy, if only to let him know everyone still cared enough to try. Anneliese had both offered and been elected in equal parts, as the only one left from their childhood friend group.
She had been in contact with a woman named Shakky since the decision had been made, and she had in her possession directions to a bar with a rather foreboding name located in Grove Thirteen. The Archipelago, if it had tried, could never have been more different from her home island, with its bubble bikes and the large crowds swarming the dirt streets in search of something to spend their money on. The closest Anneliese had ever seen to it was in the town center, with its cobble streets and brick front shops. The massive trees that made up each section of the archipelago were the most jarring; the entire layout of the island seemed to have been built between the trees, rather than clearing the trees to make room for the buildings.
After a run-in involving a herd of ill-mannered children not paying attention on their bubble bikes, Anneliese made it to Grove Thirteen— relatively unscathed. She had lost the limp from having her foot run over, at least.
The bar, which announced its intentions to rip its patrons off very clearly with a large sign over the door, was empty so early in the day, save an elderly man on one side of the counter and an older woman on the other.
“Well well,” the woman drawled around a curl of cigarette smoke, “a customer so early. Why do you look so scared?”
A glance up at the sign over the woman’s shoulder was answer enough; both the man and the woman laughed before she said, “That’s my special price for troublemakers, but you don’t look much like one. What can we do for you?”
“I’m looking for Shakky,” Anneliese answered, letting the door fall closed behind herself. “Is it safe to assume that’s you?”
“If it’s safe to assume you’re Luffy’s friend. Anneliese, right?”
She nodded and at last took what felt like her first proper breath since she had learned of Ace’s death. “Is he here or—?”
“Well, he’s somewhere,” the man offered, followed by, “I’m Rayleigh, by the way. Ray.”
It clicked then, why his face was so familiar. Both he and Shakky laughed at the way her jaw dropped, but Shakky only said, “He should be back here shortly. We told him someone was supposed to be arriving. You can wait here—
“Or you might be able to follow the sounds of destruction to him,” Rayleigh finished. He raised a brow as a familiar, obnoxious whoop came from outside. “Maybe not. You should know we didn’t tell him—“
Anneliese froze as the door slammed open. She had seen photos of the war, most of them framed through the lens of Marine propaganda. The news articles had spoken of the death and destruction Whitebeard and Luffy had caused in their attempts to rescue Ace, while the pictures showed the smoking remnants of Marineford and marines carrying people off in stretchers. They had also announced the deaths of Whitebeard and Ace, and the photos they used to sensationalize it had been like a knife to the heart of everyone on Dawn Island. Dadan had lost it on Garp when he showed up, voicing all of the anger and pain all of them had felt upon seeing the news.
Dadan’s words still echoed in her ears and, though Garp had taken it without a word of self-defense, it had still felt like too light a sentence for someone who had stood aside in the name of ‘justice’. No one in the village had been able to look him in the eye after that. The last Anneliese had heard from him had been his instructions on how to locate Luffy. How he knew that was a question that had stuck in her throat; she still had no desire to see to him even months later, let alone speak to him.
There had been only rumors about Luffy’s injuries in the whole ordeal, whispers that contradicted the announcements in the papers that he had suffered injuries so catastrophic the Marines were certain he was dead. Until Garp showed up to confirm the rumors were the truth, they had been forced to assume the worst. Hearing about it was nowhere near the same as seeing it— the moment she did, Anneliese came to understand how close she had come to losing him as well.
The seconds that followed Luffy laying eyes on her hung suspended between them— would he recognize her, or had it been too long? Had he cared enough to remember her in the first place?
His head cocked in that familiar way, like he was putting together the pieces of the puzzle. Luffy had always had an odd duality about him; one moment he could be bright and bubbly and a little air headed, and the next he was piercing someone straight through with a glance.
That was how Anneliese felt at the moment, as Luffy studied her. How did she looked to him, with her pallor and dullness, the tears starting to bead on her lashes? A loud ring started in her ears before she realized she had started holding her breath. The door slowly fell closed behind him, with no sign of anyone else.
The final resounding click broke the silence that had fallen, followed by Luffy’s simple, “Liese?”
Relief took all the strength out of her legs; if not for him, she would have hit the floor. As it was, his arms wound around her with a boisterous laugh, at odds with her own quiet sob. She found herself lifted off of her feet as he crowed, “It is you! What are you doing here? When did you get here?” He paused for just a moment, his head cocking again. The ringing and tears remained, though she had to smile when he continued, “How did you get here? How did you know I would be here?”
“Garp,” was her simple reply to most of it, raspy though it was. The last question was also a simple answer of, “Today. I don’t even know how long I’ve been traveling. It took so long I was afraid I would have missed you before you left again.”
“Nope,” he said with a pop. In spite of his chipper attitude, he was still studying her in a way that made her feel vulnerable. “You’re just in time. I only got here earlier too. I’ve been looking for my crew but they must not be here yet. I hope they didn’t forget. Anyway, what are you doing here?”
She rolled her eyes, knocking a few tears loose. “I’m here to see you, obviously. I— We saw the news, and I— wanted to come see you at least once before you left for the New World.”
The cheerfulness snuffed out of his eyes; at his side, his hand curled into a fist. The other arm was still wrapped around her; it tightened enough to make her ribs ache before he said, “I am glad you came, Liese. I kept thinking about you, after it happened. I didn’t think you’d come all the way here for me, though.”
“I think you’re the only person I would,” she said, reaching for his hand. He glanced down; his head cocked again as their fingers laced. “I was a little afraid you would’ve forgotten me.”
“Of course not. It hasn’t been that long.”
“Well you’ve gotten up to so much since you left. We’ve all been keeping up with it. The poor gulls were always mobbed, before you disappeared. Where even—?”
Anneliese was cut off by Shakky, who said, “There’s a room upstairs, if you’d rather talk somewhere private. Ray and I were going to step out anyway, to give you some.”
Luffy and Anneliese were shuffled to the side, and then left standing alone in the middle of the bar. An unsubtle tug at her hand led the way upstairs, as though Luffy already knew where Shakky meant.
“We have to lay low until the rest of the crew gets here,” he explained after the door had closed.
Anneliese raised a brow. ‘Luffy’ and ‘lay low’ had never been in the same sentence together without some form of the word ‘cannot’ between them. The number of times it had gotten not just him, but Anneliese herself and Ace into trouble were untold.
Still, she recognized that there was something different about Luffy, a byproduct of the war, to be sure. There was more there, even beyond that, though. Luffy had always been reckless and impulsive, without restraint or any real thought to how it impacted anyone around him. While others had considered it stupidity, Anneliese could see the truth behind it: he knew what he wanted, and there was nothing that would stop him from getting it. Even to his own detriment, he pursued it and somehow, by some miracle, always came out better for it. Oftentimes, those who seemed to suffer most for it came out better on the other side.
It had been years since Anneliese last saw Luffy, but even she knew this new, odd— something that was about him was borne from Ace’s death and the impact of his own near death. Maybe he had just realized he was, in fact, not infallible. Impervious to plenty, sure, but how much of it had been survived through sheer stubbornness and luck?
Based on the dark, jagged scar on his chest—
“What were you doing these last two years?” she asked after they had settled on the bed. In addition to the scar and the odd— glimmer in his eye, he had toned up. Even his shoulders looked broader; he had always been confident, but he practically glowed with it now.
Luffy was leaned against the headboard, stretched out with his arms behind his head. He flashed a familiar, vibrant grin, answering, “Training with Rayleigh. He taught me how to use haki.”
Anneliese mouthed the unfamiliar word even as Luffy explained all about it with so much zeal she struggled to keep up. It reminded her of the way she used to just sit and nod along with him, taking in what she could when she could because he spoke too fast and there was nothing anyone could do to slow him down.
It startled her when, without warning, he asked, “Did the old man tell you what actually happened to Ace?”
When she looked up, she found Luffy with an unusual frown. Though she had expected the topic to come around, she had hoped for a little more time to work up to it. Her eyes dropped, and she considered the burn in her eyes, whether she was ready to confront any of it yet.
With such a pointed question, though, Anneliese shook her head. “I think he was shouldering the blame, giving everyone something tangible to be angry at. Dadan really let him have it, when he showed up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like that.”
Whatever Luffy thought of that, he kept it to himself. For whatever it mattered, Garp was his grandfather.
“It was Akainu,” he said with his usual tact. He never had seen the point in tiptoeing around anything. He touched the massive scar on his chest, the dark, jagged x-shape. “We got him out of the cuffs and off the platform, but Akainu caught up.” He continued to rub over the scar, his eyes distant. “He was going to kill me first, but Ace came between us. Akainu punched right through him, but it saved my life. That’s part of the reason I went to train.” His hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. “I wasn’t strong enough to save Ace, so how could I have saved anyone else? The New World is full of people much stronger than I was. I couldn’t have led my crew into that before we were ready. Now I am— we are.”
Anneliese studied him, the newfound resolve in the set of his jaw and the utter lack of pride in his statement. Quietly, she said, “I can see you are. Do you know how the Marines even got him?”
Luffy’s frown deepened. “A pirate named Blackbeard. He had killed another member of Whitebeard’s crew before he ran off. Ace was hunting him down. Rayleigh told me it was Blackbeard’s Devil Fruit that let him capture Ace.”
There was a brief pause, where Anneliese stared down not at the bed, but at Luffy’s hands. They— Ace and Luffy— had always been rough, always covered in cuts and scrapes and bruises. Some were stupid: up until the day they left, she teased them about the number of times they would trip over the same jutting root and go rolling down the mountain path. When the frustrated, flustered response had turned into a joke, Anneliese was unsure. One day, it just was.
Others had a true story behind it, like the one beneath Luffy’s eye. Garp might never have accepted that his grandson was intended to be a pirate from the moment he was born, but Anneliese had always known. Shanks may have been a bad influence on Luffy, but at least he was around to create any influence at all. If nothing else, Luffy had a far straighter sense of right and wrong than whatever warped conception had led Garp to join the Marines.
It struck Anneliese all at once that she would never receive a letter from Ace again. He had been the one to send them his first bounty poster (she and Luffy had sworn to him that they would wait for his, and refused to look at the one that came with the news). There had never been hope that Luffy would write— it was a miracle he could even read, she and Ace would often joke— but Ace had always been reliable. He had kept his promise never to forget where he came from, but it had never occurred to Anneliese or any of the others that one day, his light might be snuffed like a blown out candle.
A sob wrenched from her without warning, the tears welling up and spilling over as it all crashed over her. Ace was gone, and she had almost lost Luffy along with it. She had put it in the back of her mind just to make it through the long trip to get to him, but without anything else to anchor her, it came to the forefront again.
As Anneliese doubled over in some bid to ease the agony, she was drawn into Luffy’s arms. He had always been better with action than words; even he had been forced to acknowledge that at some point. His heartbeat was too fast in her ear where he tucked her beneath his chin, his breaths raspier than was normal. Her tears made her skin tacky; it peeled from his chest when she lifted her head to look up at him.
His eyes, usually so wide and bright and carefree, had darkened. The deep frown looked all wrong on a face that always wore a smile. His head turned just enough to be meaningful when she touched his jaw, but he continued to stare at her as she studied.
With a broken, raspy laugh that let loose too many more tears, she said, “You’ve changed so much, Luffy. I knew you had— of course you did, after what you went through, but I didn’t know how much. You’ve gotten so strong too. I guess you must have, if you took on Marineford.”
One hand came up to touch her cheek with a brief hesitation before it cupped properly. “We were warned that the Grand Line was different than the East Blue. They were right, and I didn’t take it seriously until last year. If I had, maybe I could’ve saved Ace.”
“Maybe,” Anneliese agreed. Luffy never had appreciated being coddled. “Then again maybe not. There’s no way to know now, but— I am glad you made it out. I can’t— tell you how scared I was when the news came—“
Each blink felt like sandpaper, knocking loose new tears. Luffy’s hand seemed so much rougher against her skin. Had it always been so much like sandpaper, or had it just been so long she forgot? An edge, just a flicker of curiosity lit up his eyes when she nosed against his palm.
She was surprised when the fingers of his other hand slid further back, until they had tangled in her hair. His head cocked, eyes dipping lower to her lips. Having grown up together, it had never crossed Anneliese’s mind that Luffy could be anything aside from friend. She had never stopped to consider whether he might want more. His single personality trait for their entire childhood had been ‘pirate’: playing pirate, begging Shanks to let him join their pirate crew. Pirate, pirate, pirate.
Point being, Anneliese froze when Luffy leaned in abruptly and kissed her parted lips. It was clumsy and chaste; obviously the first time he had ever tried. Upon pulling back, he wore a puzzled frown and asked, “Is that how it’s supposed to work?”
She was so shocked by the kiss, followed by such an innocent question, that she erupted into laughter. How the hell would she know? Not like she had a whole plethora of experience to draw from. Still, she replied, “No, I don’t think so. I was just— I didn’t think you—“
Blunt as a bull and half as delicate, he asked, “Why not? It’s supposed to be with someone you’re close with, right? Comfortable with? For me, that’s you.”
“I— Well—“
Bemused by the whole turn of events, she let Luffy push her back to lay on the bed. Even with her wrists pinned and his weight over her, she felt little need to fight against him. It was all very— nonthreatening; had she wanted to, he had left her the room to escape.
Luffy took it for the silent consent it was and leaned in again. This time, Anneliese met him in the tentative, testing kiss. Whatever else she expected, it was not the softness of his lips or the tentative flick of his tongue against the seam of her own. Nor did she expect him to release her wrists just to take hold of her hips instead, yet with each inch she gave, he took yet another in slow increments until her shirt threatened to push above her breasts.
“I’m supposed to ask if this is okay, I think,” he said with a little laugh. “So, is it?”
Though Anneliese scoffed, she pulled him down again in answer. His grin was broad against hers, until she asked, “What brought all this on? You never seemed interested in this— or me before.”
“I didn’t think much of it,” he agreed even as his hands dragged up her bare sides. “Until now— until Ace. I got to wondering what all I was missing out on and this seems like a pretty good place to start.”
He said it with a shrug, a boyish grin lighting up his eyes. Still, there was a difference in that familiar smile; one light had been replaced with another. The boy that had left Dawn Island with a massive dream and the will to do it was still there, but Ace’s death had changed caused a fundamental shift in Luffy’s perception of the world around him.
Then he pounced on her with a boisterous laugh, and Anneliese rolled her eyes, and suddenly they were back on the mountain. Luffy had just tackled her into the dirt in that too rough way, and Ace was calling him an idiot while he tried to pull Luffy off. When at last he let go, he and Ace would go tumbling into a ditch or a tree, and both would walk away with a fresh set of bumps, bruises, and scrapes.
They met in another kiss, more enthusiastic than the first. His hair was soft between her fingers, his shoulders broader than she remembered when they slipped down beneath the collar of his shirt and pushed.
Even as he shrugged out of it, he asked, “Have you ever—?”
Anneliese shook her head, her face warm as she took him in. Scars littered his arms, some old, some new— some were still healing into scars. Luffy stilled when she touched the largest of them, a shudder running through him as her fingers traced it, then trailed lower.
“I won’t lose anyone else,” he said, his expression dark. “Not you, not my crew, not anyone. I’m glad you came, Liese. You were what I thought of, when I was healing. It helped when I was training, thinking about what would’ve happened if you had been there, if it had been you instead.”
His nostrils flared before he kissed her again, still clumsy. Their teeth clicked, but her attention was instead on his hands as they traced the hem of her jeans. The button came undone, far more deft than the kiss, like he was afraid to hurt her.
His went next; she could feel him shuffling before a hard length pressed against her. A shock of pleasure zipped up her spine when he cupped one breast; her toes curled at the tentative squeeze, the light brush of his thumb over her peaked nipple. A quiet groan was her reward for the way she arched up into him, his hands sandpaper rough but gentle against her. It was instinct that drove her to lock her legs around his hips, likely the same one that led him to rock against her. The drag of his cock across the sensitive spot at the top of her mound made her gasp; she had worked herself to completion more than once in the night that way. Her hips canted in search of more at the same time Luffy tried to adjust, and suddenly he was threatening to sink into her.
“Luffy, please,” she breathed, clinging tighter to him. Her heels dug into his back, her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck.
A quiet groan against her lips was all the warning she received before his hips jerked up. The sudden fullness made Anneliese cry out. Her nails bit into his shoulders in some effort to ground herself as he pressed deeper, her teeth sinking into her lip to stifle herself.
“Tight,” Luffy grunted when their hips met at last. Anneliese might have laughed at the blunt statement if not for the way he drew back and snapped forward again. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I didn’t realize it would feel so good—“
Before Anneliese was anywhere near her own, Luffy stilled, buried to the hilt inside of her. She could feel the way he throbbed, a thick warmth filling her before his head dropped with a long, slow breath out.
“Dammit,” he muttered, ruffling his hair with one hand. “He could’ve warned me.”
Whatever he meant by that, she never found the opportunity to ask as he continued, “I’ll make it up to you, Liese.”
“Oh, you don’t—“
He chose to silence her with a kiss that stole her breath and any further argument. She leaned on an elbow when he knelt between her legs, before she was inevitably forced to lay back down. Rough fingers dragged through the mess leaking from her; she gave herself away when he found that bundle of nerves again.
Her hips stuttered up, face already warm when he asked, “There?”
She had to look away to nod, her mouth covered with a hand to stifle the cry it earned when he abandoned that to sink two fingers into her instead. There was little to complain about when he found them again with his thumb. The other hand cupped her breast again, plucking her nipple, rolling it between two rough fingers.
It was Anneliese who forced him to move to the other one, aching from neglect. She squeezed his hand as though it would help ground her from the bursts of pleasure zipping up her spine. It had to be an accident when he crooked his fingers up, but Anneliese’s cry broke through the muzzle of her hand in response.
“Ah, there,” Luffy said as her back arched. Was it her imagination, that he sounded smug? Was Luffy even capable of being smug?
That was the least of her problems when, on the cusp of true pleasure, he pulled away. He ignored her inarticulate complaint in favor of shifting back. A push at her hip was accompanied by a rough, “I want to try something. Roll over.”
It was decidedly not a request, but she was also grateful that she was able now to hide her burning face in the pillows. They served a better way to stifle her whimper when he braced over her, nudging at her with his cock again, only to slip out.
“Dammit,” Luffy muttered when it happened a third time.
Patience at an end for his teasing, accidental or not, Anneliese canted her hips up when he tried again. He hissed when it allowed him to sink deep, until his hips met hers.
“A little warning next time,” he snapped, which made her snicker into the pillow. Quieter, he said, “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You’re even tighter.”
His exhale was a little on the shaky side, the warmth blooming across her shoulder where his head rested. One hand planted beside her to balance while the other kept her hips where he wanted. Another curse ghosted across her skin when he drew back and snapped forward again.
“This time,” he muttered; Anneliese was likely not supposed to hear it, but it caused her to smile in the pillows. It was cute, how much he cared, but the thought swept away when he pulled her head to the side just so he could kiss her again.
Each meeting of their hips drove her closer to that edge from earlier, until suddenly she needed more. Luffy’s pause when she tried to spread her knees wider told Anneliese she had been caught, only to be rewarded with a loud groan when he eased that little bit deeper.
Her breath, already uneven, hitched when fingers brushed along her inner thigh, through the mess they had made between them. She gasped when they found their target at the same time Luffy started up a renewed, harder pace. The circles he drew were a sloppy, wholehearted attempt to bring her over the edge before himself.
“Liese,” he rasped, close to her ear. His hair tickled her neck, his chest damp against her back. He had braced on an elbow beside her head, the new angle forcing her into a steeper arch.
Whatever he might have wanted to say was lost in her loud cry. He had brushed against something so deep inside of her that the taut coil snapped, the building heat in sweeping over her in a sudden wave.
“Don’t stop,” she begged when he began to slow.
Luffy never hesitated before following her command. That same harsh pace made her eyes roll back, the pleasure stretching on until she shuddered. Only when she gently pushed his hand away did she realized she had dragged him down with her, the thick mess dripping from her to the sheets.
As he slipped free, she slumped to the bed and rolled over only to find him sat up on his heels, head tipped back towards the ceiling. His shoulders heaved as he ran his fingers through his hair; when he looked at her again, he wore a thoughtful frown.
“What now?” she asked, aware of the fragility in the question.
Before, when Luffy first left, she had been too scared to leave the island with him. Only when she had been on the cusp of truly losing him had she gathered the nerve to venture out. Since then, he had gathered a crew, a proper ship, and far more power than she could ever hope to wield. The logical answer, therefore, was that she returned home and waited for the small crumbs of news that reached them from the New World.
Luffy’s head cocked; she tensed in preparation when his frown deepened, her heart already up in her throat. Then he grinned— broad, toothy, and boyish.
“Not sure,” he said, but his eyes flashed. “What do you think you want to do now?”
i haven’t bothered making a list bc i’m not really swimming w reqs. if there’s a specific reason you want to know, you can just ask.
i also haven’t forgotten yours, i’ve just been working at it as i have time. writer’s block is a bitch, and even harder to work around bc luffy is kind of outside my wheelhouse. i have it like, half written lol.
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hello! i already left a comment on ao3 but i just wanted to say that i really enjoyed "a test of faith" :) your work is amazing, so that you for sharing it
thank you so much ! it still surprises me how much people liked this story tbh lol
character dependent. i hate to be vague but i don’t want to list everything out for no real reason. mostly obnoxious characters like bartolomeo, sanji, and paulie are a no go. doflamingo is a hard pass too.
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