summary: firelord zuko's hair is a mess after a mission with team avatar. his disheveled appearance sparks concern—but his refusal for any help reveals that the only person he allows to take care of his hair... is you.
pairing: firelord! zuko x reader
content: his hair is so beautiful and luscious and i just can't, fluff, zuko yearning
"Zuko, your beautiful—lushious hair!" Sokka gasps. "It's a bird's nest!"
Zuko’s hair is in a haphazardly tied bun, barely hanging on through sheer willpower—and his loosened strands are a tangled mess. He runs his hand through his bangs, and his fingers catch onto the knots.
Shrugging, he tugs his hand away from the mess he’s worsened with a singular touch. “I don’t mind it.”
“You could use Katara’s help.” Sokka offers, desperately staring at Zuko’s hair as if it were his own. “She’s good at untangling hair knots, though I can’t guarantee it’ll be painless—”
“No, it’s fine.” Zuko waves it off. “I prefer—”
His voice shuts down immediately, lips clamping into a thin line. That was close, dancing too near to what would certainly be his demise.
Sokka, half-digging at his ear, cocks a brow. “Huh, prefer what? If there’s a particular hairstyle you want, you’ll have to ask nicely.”
“No, I don’t have a style I prefer.” Zuko answers with a deadpan. His words trail off before eventually settling on a semi-truth. “…My hair will be redone once I return to my nation.”
Sokka’s brows furrow together before his lips part. “Ah! How could I forget? The Fire Lord probably has his own team of personal hair stylists.”
Zuko restrains a sigh. He doesn’t let just anyone touch his hair, much less an entire team of strangers. It doesn’t matter if they’re the best in the entire nation, he would not have them, not when he has… you.
He’s gotten used to your delicate touch, braiding intricate braids into his hair—or even a simple bun. The habit of being pulled by the wrist to rest in front of you, your skilled movements undoing your own work once you’re tired of the previous one—brushing your hair comb through his locks before starting on a new pattern.
He misses that. Misses you.
“Something like that.” He settles on instead.
”Man, you’re lucky.” Sokka sighs in discontent. “All I got when I was younger—was a bunch of pulling and tugging into the tightest bun possible.”
Zuko blinks at the information before casting Sokka a side-eye. “And you wanted me to ask Katara for help?”
Sokka grins sheepishly. “I never said it didn’t come without sacrifice.”
If Zuko had known his brief mention of having a hairstylist would backfire on him when his hair becomes a topic of conversation, he would have just kept his mouth shut and dealt with the teasing.
His hair has become an unbearably, obvious distraction by the end of their mission. Every wash during stay-in nights at inns has led to its own self-assured destruction, with each shower complicating the knots, wounding them tighter and tighter till the point of no return.
“Looking at that makes me grateful I don’t have hair.” Aang winces.
“Why?” Toph whips her head around, eyes widening in curiosity. “What does it look like? Describe it to me.”
“A bird’s nest. A genuine nightmare.” Sokka snorts. “You might have to shave it off and start over.”
“We’ll be matching.” Aang grins.
“It’s barely in-tact. Hanging by a literal loose rubber.” Katara sighs, hand reaching out. “Let me fix it.”
“Don’t.” Zuko’s voice breaks out—defensive and panicked, before he can stop it.
Everyone freezes at his sudden outburst.
Katara pauses—retracting her hand, brows pulling together in confusion. “You prefer not being able to see past your bangs?”
Zuko pushes his bangs back, and his fingers catch once more in the knots. “See? It’s perfectly cooperative.”
Sokka scoffs. “Yeah, at least try getting your hands untangled from your hair before convincing us.”
“We’ve almost reached.” Zuko sighs in exasperation. “It’ll be sorted once we’ve landed. I don’t mind the mess, so just—look away if it bothers you.”
“You keep mentioning that.” Sokka mutters, catching onto Zuko’s slither of frustration. “What’s waiting for you back home? A five-star hair stylist to sort out that monstrosity?”
Zuko doesn’t answer, gaze lingering on the map. Anytime now, he estimates they’ll be landing within the hour. He can only hope his impatience isn’t obvious to the others, not when he’s barely restraining the bouncing of his leg in anticipation. Partly from the mess that was his hair, but mostly because he’s itching for your warmth, your hands unravelling his knots, your nails scratching into his scalp as you part his hair into sections.
He misses you… desperately. Time spent away from you, and the constant reminder that he can barely function without you being a part of his daily routine—till the point where he’s forgotten how to take care of his own hair and yet, still automatically refuses to let anyone assist him? Yeah, he’s done for.
“Hey! Earth to Zuko?” Sokka’s hand waves in front of his eyes.
Zuko barely restrains a groan. “What?”
“I was asking if I could get a free, personal booking with your hairstylist—”
“Absolutely not.” Zuko’s gut flares with an irrational temper, something he’s long retired since his youth. Or at least, he had assumed so that this familiar fury had been left behind in the past. Yet, just the thought of you working on anyone else’s hair except for his… leaves a dreaded, sinking feeling in his gut.
“Yikes, possessive much?”
He shrugs noncommittally. Maybe he was being overly protective. His self-control always slipped when it came to you, or the thought of anything endangering the soft, rare intimacy and vulnerability he only shared with you. Your soft hums, your random ramblings as you did his hair—it was all precious to him. He’ll send a talented hairstylist to Sokka if need be, but in regards to you? Is it truly a selfish wish, if he wanted to keep you all to himself?
A large crowd has gathered for Team Avatar, mostly for Aang, who has grown in popularity—especially among children. The cheering, the excitement all falls flat on Zuko’s ears. His gaze fleets over the numerous unfamiliar faces in search of one in particular.
His breath stops when he spots you, waving your hand enthusiastically so you’ll catch his eye. Not that you needed to, how could he not notice you? You’ve been the singular anchor that his thoughts have been warping around throughout the entire mission.
It doesn’t even occur to him that there’s still people around—or that the sight of the Fire Lord running towards a stranger in a crowd is unbecoming. Who cares if they’re staring—or if they notice the absolute unkempt chaos that was his hair.
When you’re within reach, his hands make contact with your waist and he wastes no time pulling you into his embrace.
“Zuko!” You gasp, fingers coming up to caress the loose strands come loose from his loose bun as you hang onto him. “Your hair—it’s a mess!”
He doesn’t care, still gripping you tight in his arms. It’s been awhile since he’s gone this long without you near—that the very sight of you consumed his rationality.
“I couldn’t.” He mutters, burying his nose into the crook of your neck.
“Couldn’t what?” You whisper, fingers resting softly on the nape of his neck, and he sighs at the touch.
“Let others take care of it.” He admits shamefully, twisting his head so you could hear him more clearly. “…That’s your duty.”
Your lips part and close, processing his admission. After a moment, you let out an amused chuckle. “You missed me taking care of your hair?”
“Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “It was driving me crazy.”
“The hair?” You guess.
“Not being able to see you.” He answers honestly. There was more, there always was when it came to you. Still, he was never good with his words, so he’ll have to settle on that.
”You…” You exhale, sounding content as you relaxed in his hold. “I’ve missed you too, Zuko.”
Your admission is a warm, soothing reminder of just how much he cherishes you. Only you could make him feel seen, or have such a strong desire to allow only you to take care of him. He’s meant to be a symbol, a strong leader—but there’s nothing more than he wishes for than to be whisked away to the privacy of his palace gardens, with you alone.
A loud whistle cuts through the roaring of the crowd.
Almost begrudgingly, Zuko lifts his head from the crook of your neck to meet Sokka’s smug expression.
“Sokka.” He warns, sensing mischief before it has even struck.
“What?” Sokka replies. “Just wondering when you’re gonna introduce us to your personal hairstylist.”
“What’s this about being a hairstylist?” You cock a brow.
“He’s twisting my words.” Zuko groans.
“No, I’m not!” Sokka huffs. “You’re the one bragging about having a whole team of hairstylists, even refusing help to fix that disaster messing up your good looks.”
“Bragging?” You muse, much to Zuko’s chagrin. “I’m honoured, but if you’re thinking of a team, then it’s sadly a one man show.”
Sokka grins. “Even more impressive! Could I book your services sometime—”
“No.” Zuko‘s hand out-stretches, tugging you by the waist back to his side. There isn’t a single gap left between you and him, and his gaze narrows. “Her hands are to only touch my hair.”
You blink rapidly, trying to process this rare side of Zuko that you’ve never truly seen before. A slow smile teeters on your lips, a happy satisfaction lingering in your gut as you lean into Zuko’s touch. “Sorry, Sokka. Fire Lord’s orders.”
“Oh man!” Sokka stomps. “I was so close to getting a free service from the Fire Lord’s personal hairstylist. Great going, Zuko.”
“Who said anything about it being free?” You grin innocently.
“Oh…” Sokka scratches at the nape of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Two birds of a feather do truly flock together. The price only the Fire Lord is willing to pay…. Consider my request retracted, M’lady.”
Zuko’s irritation—his desperation wound up in his chest, finally unravels the moment he’s alone with you.
No, it wasn’t just a simple unraveling. He has never felt so unconditionally happy—than in a mundane, normal manner like this. From the moment you’ve dragged him into his bedchambers, snapping the rubber that’s loosely holding onto his bundle of hair and grabbed for your comb and a new set of rubbers, he’s been needlessly pliant and cooperative.
“I appreciate the loyalty sentiment, but you’ve got to bring a comb with you next time, Zuko.” You mutter, lips bitten in concentration as you untangle his knots with your brush.
Zuko half hums in acknowledgment, too caught up in the feeling of your nails unintentionally scratching against his scalp as you re-do his hair. He’s gone so long without these secluded moments in his room, with your thighs over his shoulders as he sits on the floor, your skilled hands combing through his locks.
In the quiet, he feels the weight of all the expectations of being the Fire Lord roll off his shoulders with every brush of your fingers through his hair, and he just becomes… Zuko again.
It’s a peace he’s only had a taste of in the briefest moments of his childhood. Between the terror, the expectations—there was once where his mother used to comb through his hair in a similar fashion, and he would cherish it deeply in his heart.
You tug playfully when you notice he isn’t listening, caught in a daydream, and he whines.
“You listening, Fire Lord?” You tease. “Don’t you know the saying that if you leave your hair this tangled, you’ll lose it all before you’re fifty? That means you won’t be able to ask for my professional help anymore.”
He stiffens at the thought of never having your aid, your presence in his room over mere excuses of touching up his hair. He barely survived these past few weeks, much less forever. “I’ll bring a comb.” He answers obediently.
Humming a sound of approval, you resume your hand work. ”You know..” You murmur, beginning on your first braid. “Now that it’s been mentioned, I did notice that you don’t have a hairstylist.”
He furrows his brows. “Why would I need one?” Not when I have you.
“It’s just that..” You pause, voice softening. “Well, I’m no expert. Only the simple braids and buns, y’know? Even for your coronation as Fire Lord, and your yearly banquets, you called for me to do your hair.”
“…I don’t want anyone else.” He answers truthfully.
Your hand falters over your braid, and he feels you start over as your fingers thread through the top of his scalp. “Even if I put your hair into pigtails?” You tease, but it’s a silent prodding, a test to see how far he’d let you go.
”You can do whatever you wish.” He shrugs. “I have no complaints as long as you’re not providing your assistance… to others.”
“Still sour from that incident earlier, huh?” You snort. “I don’t know. I could charge a high price if I revealed that I’m your only, personal hairstylist.”
His hand catches your fingers right as they moved to begin the second braid. Caressing your hand gently, he slots his fingers between your own and interlocks them. “I won’t allow it.”
“Banning my business before it even starts?” You’re poking fun, but there’s a delight in your tone that tells him you’re enjoying this. “Don’t tell me you’re switching to a dictatorship.”
“I’ll offer you everything I own if it means being the only one who gets to have this. What’s mine is yours.” His voice is brash—quickened in his decisiveness, his other hand tracing the braid you’ve left that brushes past his shoulder. “My hair, my personal quarters, my trust—it’s all given only to you.”
Your lips part, not expecting him to take your words words so seriously. Swallowing your shock, you smile gently as your hand runs through his locks again. “Is that why you’ve been refusing to cut your hair?”
“You—” His ears redden, and he averts his gaze. “You mentioned before that you liked men with long hair.”
You’re silent. For long enough that he’s beginning to writhe slightly under the long minutes of sitting still on the floor. Zuko feels the heat burning at the back of his neck, and he thinks the long distance away from you for these past few weeks has finally run its course and fried his brain completely.
He’s caught up in his shame, his impudence to admit something so embarrassing that he didn’t have time to think of a proper excuse—when he feels your lips peck against the crown of his head.
He blinks once. Did—you just kiss him? If his brain wasn’t fried before, it definitely is now.
“I only mentioned that—” You reveal slowly, head still lowered so he can hear your hushed voice. “—because I like your long hair. Not anyone else’s. I wouldn’t trade this for anything else, so don’t get it confused.”
His heart stutters, quickening in its pace as he processes your words. A small smile spreads over his mouth as he leans further back, letting you do as you pleased. You’re right. He wouldn’t trade this for anything either.
He’d already quietly kept it as a promise that he’ll never cut his hair if it means you’ll stay here with him like this, tying childish braids into his hair that’s unbefitting a Fire Lord. No matter what comments his chamberlain tries to advise him, he’ll never undo them for as long as it’s to your design and liking. He’ll even go as far as to forget how to tie his hair into a minuscule bun if it meant having the excuse to feel your touch. He’s long past the point of rationality, but here in this moment, he finds having you do his hair is all that he needs to feel contentment.
He’s never felt more thankful to outgrow his old haircuts, than he did in this present moment.
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c/w ᝰ.ᐟ backward hat!rafe + your anklet on his shoulder™️, unprotected p in v, poolside sex, w.a.m., language, pet names (baby, pretty, my girl + no y/n), obsessed husband!rafe, kelce + top catching strays, rafe’s grumpy as hell + rafe is down catastrophically bad per usual ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ
“Hell no.”
Topper pauses halfway through reaching for his ball marker and looks over. “What?”
Rafe points at him fast. “I know what you’re gonna ask. Fuck off.”
Topper stares at him for a second before a laugh escapes. “Jesus Christ, dude.”
Beside him, Kelce just shakes his head, snickering under his breath while he crouches to line up his putt. The ball sits a few feet from the hole and he’s still smiling when he lines up his putter behind it.
“We haven’t even said anything yet.”
“Don’t need you to.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna ask.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You were gonna ask if I wanted to grab a drink after this.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Topper asks, lifting an eyebrow at Rafe like he’s officially lost his mind.
“You don’t want an answer to that, Top.”
He hooks a finger beneath the sleeve of his golf polo and rolls it a little higher on his bicep, adjusting the fabric before dragging the back of his hand across his forehead. The UV index has to be somewhere around ten and he feels every bit of it.
“The only reason I’m out here is because she said it’d be good for me.”
Topper snorts and Kelce’s chip barely makes it out of the sandpit.
“And you’ve been thinkin’ about leaving since hole one,” Topper chuckles, shaking his head.
“Hole one? That’s insulting,” Rafe breathes.
“Sorry, hole four—”
“Parking lot,” Rafe cuts him off. “I was thinkin’ that since the parking lot, Top.”
But even that’s a lie. He was thinking that the moment that he watched you wave to him over your shoulder before you stepped outside—that little string bikini peeking out of the top of your shorts, tormenting him beyond belief.
Ever since then he’s been crossing holes off in his head like an advent calendar from his own personal hell.
“He’s not even listening,” Kelce teases.
Rafe looks over at him, blinking slowly a few times with his lips pursed and his hands resting on his hips.
“‘Course I’m not.”
“Unbelievable,” Topper sighs. “I was just telling Kelce we could do another eighteen holes—”
Rafe can’t even contain his disgust—wincing, brows pinched tight, nostrils flared with a side eye dripping with judgment.
“We’re not inviting you, Cameron. Calm the fuck down,” he blurts.
Ding! Rafe’s hand moves, diving for his pocket like someone challenged him to a goddamn duel.
Kelce drops the head of his putter against the grass, shaking his head judgmentally. Rafe rolls his eyes, unlocking his phone without a shred of shame.
“You’ve got a problem,” Topper says.
“A legitimate fucking problem,” Kelce adds.
“I can’t help that neither of you like your wives,” Rafe mutters and both of their mouths hang open in disgust. “Whatever,” he says, sounding so genuinely unbothered. ‘Cause he is.
Then he looks down at the screen and suddenly nothing else matters.
You’re stretched out across one of the lounge chairs beside the pool with a book propped open. The afternoon sun reflects off your skin. The book covers half your face, but that isn’t helping him concentrate because the rest of you is impossible to miss—the soft swells of your breasts pressed against the pool chair, the curve of your ass, just a taste of your thighs. Your feet are crossed, the little anklet he bought you glittering in the North Carolina sun.
“Look at him,” Topper says, nudging Kelce with his elbow.
“Not a single thought in that head,” Kelce adds as he steps forward and rests his putter behind the ball, taking his time while he studies the break.
The green goes quiet for a second while everybody waits for him to hit it. Before he can even pull the putter back, Rafe steps directly into his line and sinks his putt without hesitation.
Topper starts barking out a laugh and Kelce stares at him in complete disbelief as his ball rolls toward the hole. “You are such a prick,” Kelce says.
“We’re done.”
“We are absolutely not done.”
“This feels done,” Rafe answers, bending down to grab his ball, starting toward the flag before the argument is even over, Kelce’s ball still rolling toward the cup.
“You’re unbelievable, Cameron—”
Rafe cuts off Kelce’s critique, kicking the ball, sending it careening away. “It was gonna hook left anyway,” Rafe says over his shoulder, digging his keys out of his pocket, heading toward the parking lot as the two bitch behind him. “You two suck at golf, by the way,” Rafe calls back.
“Fuck you, Rafe,” Kelce laughs weakly, walking toward his ball.
“Short game’s terrible.”
“Rafe!” Topper calls but he flicks him off in response.
“Don’t even get me started on you, Top. You read greens like an eighty-year-old man with cataracts, fucking useless.”
“Jesus Christ,” Topper gasps.
Rafe doesn’t even bother organizing his clubs when he reaches the parking lot. He yanks them out of the cart, tosses the entire bag into the trunk with absolutely no regard for the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment inside.
He jogs around the side of the car, yanks the driver’s door open, and practically falls into the seat before firing the engine to life.
Gravel spits behind him as he throws the car into reverse, backing out of the spot in one smooth movement before shifting into drive.
The second he hits the main road, he grabs his phone and calls. His thumbs drum against the steering wheel as the summer wind whips through the car, his pulse hammering, still racing from that power walk to his car.
“Hey, baby,” your voice fills his car and he softens in his seat, hands wrapping a little tighter around the wheel as he smiles.
“Hey pretty,” he hums.
His voice is softer now, gravelly from talking all day and sweeter than it has any right to be considering the way he’d been speaking to Topper and Kelce five minutes ago.
If you’d been standing on that green listening to him threaten both of them, you’d absolutely have something to say about it. He already knows exactly what you’d tell him too. Be nice. Stop being grumpy. They’re your friends. The problem is that he doesn’t care about any of that right now.
“Where are you?” You ask curiously, and he can hear in your voice that you know he dipped out of there sooner than he should have.
“Just left.”
“You just left?” You giggle.
“Mhmm...” Your voice comes through the speakers and instantly makes him feel better than the entire golf outing did.
Traffic slows for a red light and the drumming starts again as he waits for it to change.
“You weren’t gonna get a drink or something?” You ask. “Relax?”
“Absolutely not.”
The answer comes so fast that you start laughing again. The corner of his mouth twitches as he shifts in his seat. “They were stayin’ to practice puttin’, baby.”
“Really?” You ask, not convinced in the slightest.
“Yeah. Their—uhhh… Their short games suck.”
“Gotcha.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“They’re fuckin’ terrible, baby. That was a long-ass day,” he grumbles and you giggle. He leans back against the headrest as he lets the moment breathe for a minute. “Kids been easy on you today?”
“Actually, yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Just laying by the pool,” you say.
“Sounds rough.”
“Fuckin’ terrible, baby,” you echo his words back to him and he smiles. “They’re actually at Wheezie’s.”
The car accelerates, completely subconscious on his part, but you hear it loud and clear. Rafe’s eyes flick briefly toward the speedometer while a grin starts pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah?”
“Rafe Cameron, slow down.”
The grin only gets worse, sinking a little lower in the driver’s seat, as one hand falls to the shift stick.
“I’m goin’ slow, baby.”
“You are not,” you answer. “You accelerated the second I said the kids weren’t home.”
“Did I?” You can practically hear the grin in his voice now as he weaves through traffic. “So.”
You start laughing, knowing exactly where he’s going to go with this. “Winnie’s in Charleston with Jackson.”
“Got it. And Max?” He asks eagerly.
“He left like an hour ago.”
“On the boat?” He asks, knowing that’s an all-day affair.
“Mhmm…”
Rafe’s laugh rumbles through the phone. “Interesting,” he says.
“Interesting?” You laugh and sigh sweetly.
“Sounds like I get you to myself all day?”
“Sounds like it.”
By the time he turns into the neighborhood, he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. The gates open and he barely slows down as he pulls through them, already spotting flashes of blue water between the houses.
“You’re almost here, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he hums. “See you outside, baby.”
The second he turns into the driveway, the car barely has time to rest before he’s throwing it into park, killing the engine.
The garage door rumbles overhead and he doesn’t wait, ducking underneath it before it can open all the way. His shirt’s halfway over his head before he even reaches the mudroom. By the time he steps inside, he’s carrying the polo in one hand, snagging his swim trunks from the laundry room with the other.
He stumbles slightly, kicking off his golf shoes without ever breaking stride. Future Rafe can deal with that problem. Present Rafe has more important things to do.
His golf shorts are already undone by the time he reaches the hallway. He steps out of them, steps into the swim trunks, and keeps walking without stopping once to grab his hat, tugging it on before he flicks it to the back.
Now he’s finally home and the only thing he cares about is the backyard door sitting at the end of the room. He reaches it a few seconds later and quickly slows down, dragging the glass door open.
And that last bit of tension breezes out of him, because there you are.
You’re curled up in a chair with a book open in your hands, completely unaware that he’s standing there.
He admires you for a moment—one leg crossed over the other while sunlight dances across the pool behind you. He soaks in the scene he’d spent eighteen holes waiting to get home to.
Then a sharp whistle rips through his lips.
Your head lifts at the sound.
The book lowers into your lap and a smile breaks across your face so fast it makes something in his chest tighten.
You start to uncross your legs, already leaning forward like you’re about to stand, but he points at you.
“Nah, baby,” he says. “Stay right there. I’m comin’.”
You laugh under your breath and fall back against the chair.
The cushions dip beneath his weight as he climbs on top of you. One hand braces against the armrest while the other finds your thigh, his broad palm sliding higher as he guides you closer.
“Miss me?” He asks. Rafe’s smile tugs a little wider when you whisper yes, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your thigh.
He slides a hand along your side, guiding you onto his lap as one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest while the other lifts to cup your cheek.
“Goddamn, I missed you. Don’t make me do that shit again,” he mutters, shaking his head once before leaning back enough to look at you properly. “M’not home enough for that.”
“Okay, baby,” you laugh.
“I mean it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t try to charm me after that, pretty. That was hell.” He leans in first this time, forehead brushing yours for a second before his lips find yours. “I love you,” he murmurs.
Your hand presses against his chest, nails scratching lightly down sun-warmed skin. He pushes the cup of your bikini to the side, wrapping his lips around your skin while his other hand drifts between your thighs.
“Out here?” You ask with a laugh.
“We’re all alone, baby. Why not?” His lips brush yours again before trailing along your jaw. “We can go inside too—”
“Right here,” you whisper.
“That’s what I thought,” he hums. “Who’s my girl, huh?”
You smile, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. “I’m your girl.”
“Mhmm.” His thumb drifts along your collarbones to your shoulders, nudging one strap down before the other. “You’re my fuckin’ girl.” The words come out rough enough to pull a smile from you.
You reach up and untie the small bow holding your swimsuit top together. The fabric slips loose between you.
Rafe’s eyes drop as you toss it away. “Jesus Christ, baby.” A low groan slips out of him as he tips his forehead against yours for a second, hands lifting to squeeze your tits in his big palms as his mouth finds yours again.
You glance down briefly, catching his swim trunks sitting low on his hips from where you’d been tugging at them, bunched slightly against his muscular thighs, the fabric stretched tight across them.
“Take these off,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips before he slides down in his seat, tugging down his shorts with him, his heavy cock smacking against his toned stomach with a snap, his eyes locked on your body.
His hands squeeze your hips, digging in as he drags your clothed pussy on top of him, head pressing back into the chair. The sun beats down on your skin. A thin line of sweat catching his chain before it rolls in a lazy train down his chest.
“They said I got a problem,” he mumbles through a smirk, his jaw tightening as you keep moving against him, the heat of your body bleeding through the fabric of your swimsuit, finally snapping whatever patience he had left.
“Yeah, baby?”
“You see any problems here?” He asks breathlessly as he reaches for the bows at your hip, tugging them free, yanking away the rest of the fabric in a hurry as his hands close around you again.
He blows out a breath like he’s finally gotten rid of the last thing standing between him and what he wants, his hand diving between your thighs.
His fingers press inside and he gasps, working you with his hand as you rest on his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath, his muscles flexing with each push of his hand.
“Just jealous they don’t have a woman like you?” He hums as he pulls his hand away just long enough to drag you in.
Rafe’s lidded eyes connect with yours, lips falling open with his as he pulls you down on him. You grip his shoulders, hands trembling as a deep groan thunders in his chest, feeling your wetness wrap around him tight.
“Fuck, me,” he mutters under his breath, dragging you closer, smiling against your lips before capturing your mouth in a tender kiss.
“Oh my god,” you whine.
“Pussy’s so perfect.”
His eyes lift to yours in a lust-ridden daze, muscles flexing as he works you over on his length. You bounce on his lap, wet slaps of sweat and slick filling with air around you mixing with your soft whimpers and his deep groans.
You grip the arm rests, circling your hips and he throws his head against the back of the chair to get a better look, his eyes drifting between your face and the bounce of your tits, falling to his lap where your pussy swallows him up each time you sink down.
His legs spread a little wider, feet resting on the ground, hips pitching to fuck up into your soaked hole. Your head throws back as you rise on your knees, letting him hit that perfect spot, the knot in your belly tightening, your body impossibly hot.
“Rafe,” you moan.
“Yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Been playin’ this shit over and over in my mind, pretty. Let me have it.”
You cry out as he pounds your pussy with his thick dick. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, as your pussy flutters around him. He looks up at you in a haze, lips parted, brows softening as your release wets his lap and thighs.
“Oh shit, that's my girl… That’s my baby,” he praises, making you gasp when he rolls you onto your back, not giving you a moment to breathe before he’s on you again.
He looks down at you with a smile, adjusting his hat, staring at the wet mess between your thighs. “Why the fuck would I ever wanna leave you, huh?” He asks as he pushes your legs against your chest, hooking your ankles over his broad shoulders.
You whimper out a little breath as he taps his cock against your pussy, muscles jumping with each slap.
He pushes in slow, tilting closer to get as far as he can go, pressing a deep kiss to your trembling lips. “Gonna cum in your pussy,” he whispers, his voice breaking with pleasure. “M’so, so fuckin’ close.”
His face turns slightly, pressing a kiss to your ankle, right against the charm. His ab muscles clench as he rolls his lips, sweat sliding down his temple.
“I’m so deep,” he mumbles. You nod quickly, lip bitten between your teeth, hands gripping the arm rests tight.
“So fucking deep,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” He asks breathlessly. “Fuck me.”
He loses his rhythm, thrusts growing uneven as he snaps against your skin. His muscles quake, shoulders trembling, slamming into you in one heavy thrust.
His eyes pinch shut, head falling forward, cumming deep inside you with your name on his lips.
He lets your legs go but he doesn’t let you get far, snuggling into you again, kissing your forehead—then your nose and your lips.
“Goddamn,” he mumbles, lingering while your breathing slows together.
He sits down next to you, dragging you close, kissing you as he grabs your thigh, tugging it over the top of him—close not close enough.
“This,” he huffs out a deep breath through a smile, relaxing into the lounge chair. “This is what’s good for me.”
“Yeah?” You giggle, tilting your chin up for a kiss that he gladly steals. You rest your head on his shoulder, the warm summer breeze blowing against your skin, the soft music that you had playing while you were reading filling the space in between.
“You sent that picture to me on purpose,” he breathes.
A smile stretches on his lips when you don’t answer right away, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.
“Holy shit, you did? Didn’t you?” He asks, tilting his neck to look you in the eyes and you shrug and smile.
“Thought it would get you home quicker.”
His hand comes down heavy on your thigh as he dips in, brushing his nose against yours, chuckling deeply against your lips before he kisses you.
Summary: There are battles even the strongest swordsman can’t win with a blade. Sometimes, all Zoro can do is stay by your side and hope the people he trusts make it back in time.
Request: Hi! I was wondering if you could make a Zoro x reader, and reader is sick because she was poisoned and the rest of the Strawhats go find the cure but Zoro an Chopper stay wirh reader (they're kind of a found family inside the strawhats, chopper is the son and reader the mom and Zoro the dad) Zoro and reader are dating. Please and thankyou🌸
Word count: about 9k+
Contains: hurt/comfort, established relationship, protective Zoro, devoted Zoro, lovesick Zoro, vulnerable Zoro, caretaker Zoro, Chopper being the sweetest little doctor, Straw Hat Pirates friendship, found family, poison, antidote hunt, emotional comfort, hand holding, gentle touches, sleepless nights, quiet confessions, recovery, happy ending.
Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n a few times, poisoning, serious illness, fever, delirium, blood, injury, medical treatment, emotional distress, temporary discussions of death, no major character death.
On the churning, overcast sea, the Going Merry cut through the waves with difficulty, carrying a crew that had only just come within a hair's breadth of suffering a far crueler fate.
A vicious pirate crew had seized control of an island. That, in itself, was hardly a problem for the Straw Hats, who had once again brought freedom to another helpless town. Still, victory had been anything but easy.
Chopper was still tending to everyone’s injuries, especially Sanji’s, after one of the scoundrels had ambushed him from behind and driven a blade deep into the side of his abdomen.
There hadn’t even been time to celebrate or properly recover before the Marines had inevitably appeared, as they so often did, arriving only after the fighting was over and there was no need for their so-called heroics. Besides, the Log Pose had already settled on its next destination, making it painfully obvious that setting sail immediately was the smartest option.
Compared to the others, you would have said you’d gotten off rather lightly. Your only injury was a shallow slash across your side, left by the enemy swordsman’s massive blade after it barely grazed you.
Of course, that had been more than enough to earn him Zoro’s wrath.
Not only had the coward avoided facing a fellow swordsman in a honorable duel, he’d committed the one offense Zoro considered utterly unforgivable.
He had laid a hand on the woman he loved.
The seas would run dry and mountains would split of their own accord before the green-haired swordsman allowed something like that to happen. Least of all without consequences.
He hadn’t been thrilled when you’d stubbornly insisted there was no need for your sweet little reindeer doctor to examine you afterward, brushing the wound off as nothing.
Still, he knew better than to argue.
After all, he wasn't exactly any better when it came to accepting treatment himself.
And, truth be told, you genuinely looked perfectly fine.
You were still full of energy, and aside from the cut itself, there wasn’t so much as a bruise on your face, arms, or anywhere else anyone could easily see.
Maybe he'd simply grown soft since you'd become part of his life.
Or maybe spending so much time around that infuriating lovestruck cook had started rubbing off on him.
Whatever the reason, the mere thought of you losing so much as a single hair was enough to fill him with a level of unease and fury he’d never experienced before. Somewhere along the way, your safety had quietly become the foremost objective of every battle he fought.
Looking back, perhaps the first warning sign should have been when you sat with Luffy and Usopp, listening to yet another one of the sniper's wildly exaggerated adventure tale.
Normally, stories like those had you doubled over with laughter.
This time, they earned nothing more than a faint, tired smile through half-lidded eyes.
Then again…
Who wouldn’t get tired of those two idiots eventually?
Maybe today was simply one of those days.
The next odd thing came when you turned down Sanji’s chocolate soufflé with vanilla ice cream, which he’d enthusiastically prepared the moment Chopper finally released him from his worried little hooves, a fresh bandages still wrapped around his stomach.
You had an infamous sweet tooth.
It was rare for you to refuse dessert of any kind.
Still, you insisted your stomach was simply unsettled after the excitement of the battle and promised you’d indulge a little later, thanking the blond cook with your usual warmth that even he couldn't bring himself to argue.
Once the Merry finally reached calmer waters, and after you’d finished helping Nami with navigation, it was even stranger that you declined her invitation to lounge on deck with Robin, reading and chatting over drinks while Sanji eagerly fussed over the three of you.
You claimed you were simply exhausted.
You’d taken the night watch before dawn, your eyelids felt unbearably heavy, and if you lay down now, you’d fall asleep instantly.
You didn’t want that.
You wanted to wake yourself up instead.
To accomplish that, you'd decided to train with your boyfriend.
Had anyone been worried before, that alone would've been enough to dismiss every suspicion. It was practically unheard of for you and the green-haired swordsman to go more than a day or two without training together.
Although your fighting styles differed considerably, that was precisely what made your sessions so valuable. Where one lacked experience, the other compensated.
A grin tugged at Zoro's lips as he launched into his usual Oni Giri stance, only for you to slip past him with practiced ease, darting around him as though you'd vanished altogether.
There.
That was more like it.
You stumbled ever so slightly.
Still, you recovered quickly enough to throw a counterpunch, only to arrive a fraction of a second too late.
Your mosshead deflected it effortlessly with a familiar click of his tongue.
“Tch. You’re slow,” he said, studying you carefully as he swung again. “Focus. I won’t go easy on you. And neither will anyone else."
You knocked the attack aside and immediately answered with one of your own, rolling your eyes as you did.
“Wouldn’t dream of asking you to.”
Finding the opening you’d been waiting for, you drove your fist forward and knocked him off balance.
“I won’t go easy on you either.”
He smirked.
For a moment, pride and competitive excitement lit his face.
Then they vanished, replaced by unmistakable concern.
“…Y/N?”
You looked unusually pale.
And were you…
Swaying?
He was on his feet in an instant, closing the distance between you before resting one rough, calloused hand against your forehead.
His eyes widened.
You were freezing.
Not merely cool to the touch, but so cold that it almost burned against his skin, while tiny beads of sweat gathered and stuck hairs plastered to your forehead with a contradiction that made no sense at all.
You caught his wrist and gently pushed his hand away.
“It’s nothing,” you murmured. “Guess the rain from this morning got into my bones.”
Taking a nearby towel, you lowered yourself onto the floor.
The room spun for a fleeting moment.
Something you would never, under any circumstances, admit to your caring overly protective boyfriend disguised as a grumpy brute.
“Tch. How’s that ‘nothing’ when you’re shaking like someone tossed you into the freezing depths around Drum Island?”
He tossed his swords aside and sat beside you.
“Come on. We’re going to Chopper.”
He reached for your hand, intending to pull you to your feet, but you stubbornly refused to budge.
“If I’m not feeling better later, we’ll go. I don’t want to worry him over something so silly. The poor kid’s been through enough today.”
You reached up with icy fingers and gently stroked his cheek.
Typical.
Absolutely typical.
Part of him was annoyed.
The rest of him was, rather inconveniently, softened by that stubborn kindness of yours.
That was just like you.
Whenever things became chaotic—and with the Straw Hats, chaotic days were hardly uncommon—simply because, as you always put it, you didn't want to "be a burden."
He studied you once more, lingering on those impossibly kind eyes, eyes so deep that he'd always been able to glimpse the quiet strength hidden behind them.
Lightly flicking your forehead, he pulled you firmly into his chest instead.
His warm, solid body wrapped around your trembling one, and without thinking, you melted into your grumpy swordsman in a silent attempt to steal as much of his warmth as you possibly could.
It always felt safe in his arms.
Now more than ever.
"If you're not feeling better in twenty minutes," he muttered, burying his face in your hair, "I'm dragging you to Chopper myself, and I don't care how much you beg, argue, or threaten to curse me."
Several quiet minutes passed before he reluctantly decided that a warm cup of tea might do you some good.
The moment he shifted, trying to unwrap his arms from around you, you protested immediately, nestling even closer and pulling them right back around yourself before he could get very far.
"Tch. Easy there, woman," he grumbled, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upward despite himself. "I'll be back in a minute."
Ignoring your sleepy little complaints, he reluctantly pried himself free.
“I’ll be back,” he repeated, casting one last worried glance your way.
He looked over his shoulder one last time.
You’d already curled into yourself, trying to preserve what little warmth remained.
Sighing, fully aware there was no point telling you to go lie down in the girls’ quarters because he’d almost certainly end up carrying you there anyway, he headed for the kitchen.
Fortunately, it was empty.
He immediately began rummaging through the neatly arranged cabinet.
What kind of tea do you even make for someone like this?
Rosehip?
Green tea?
Mint?
Chamomile?
Maybe sage?
Or lady’s mantle?
He was still squinting at the labels when the most irritating voice on the entire ship rang out behind him.
“Get your filthy paws off my perfectly organized cabinet!”
Curly Brows practically hissed the words.
“What do you want?”
Zoro shot him an irritated glance and grabbed the first tea packet he could reach.
“None of your business, cook.”
He waited for the kettle to finish boiling.
That only deepened the blond's disbelief.
"I'm sorry... what?"
He eyed the teabag in Zoro's hand with open suspicion.
“What does a clumsy gorilla like you need tea for? Or is this just a distraction while you raid my sake stash again?”
Zoro slammed a fist onto the counter, splashing boiling water over the rim of the mug.
“Would you shut up? I can drink whatever the hell I want.”
Snatching the mug, he stormed out, leaving Sanji grumbling behind him as he wiped up the spilled water.
When he returned to the Crow's Nest, where the two of you had been training, you immediately tried to stand the moment you heard him come in.
One eyebrow lifted as he took in your face.
Your cheeks had regained a faint flush.
“What're you getting up for?”
He awkwardly held the steaming mug toward you.
“Here.”
You accepted it with shaky hands, smiling despite yourself.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Taking a careful sip of the warm herbal tea, you couldn't help smiling a little wider. The fact that your rough, soft-hearted swordsman had brewed it himself was obvious enough from the tea being completely plain—no honey, no lemon, nothing Sanji ever would've allowed to leave his kitchen—yet somehow that only made it sweeter.
“I’m already feeling much better.”
A faint blush dusted Zoro’s cheeks at the nickname, but he kept watching you closely.
Your lips were still unnaturally pale.
Even holding the mug seemed to take effort.
He stepped toward you, reaching for your hand, only to pause the instant your skin met his.
Moments ago, it had been ice cold.
His brows drew together as he tightened his grip ever so slightly before placing the back of his hand against your forehead, his eyes widening in genuine alarm.
Only minutes ago you'd been cold enough to make his fingertips ache.
Now you were scorching, your skin hot as the steel upon which Wado Ichimonji itself had once been forged.
"Woman..."
His voice came out lower than he'd intended.
“You’re burning hot.”
You laughed weakly.
“Now isn’t really the time for compliments.”
He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes in a way that barely concealed his relief that you still had enough energy left to tease him.
“Come on. We're going.”
He tugged gently at your arm.
"No," you protested with the same stubbornness that always managed to test the limits of his patience. "I don't feel sick at all. I'm just tired."
Enough was enough.
This is for your own good.
He was already preparing to scoop you into his arms and carry you to the infirmary himself.
He never got the chance.
The rapid clatter of tiny hooves echoed across the wooden floor before a small pair of antlers poked through the doorway.
“Y/N!”
Chopper beamed, a book tucked carefully beneath one arm.
“I brought the book we’re reading before bed tonight. I think it’s the one you mentioned—”
The smile vanished from his face almost instantly.
He hurried over.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s not feel—”
“It’s okay, dear Chopper,” you interrupted brightly before Zoro could finish, already pushing yourself to your feet. “I think I just caught a little cold.”
You smiled as though nothing whatsoever was out of the ordinary.
“Zoro’s making a fuss, you know how he is. Hypocrite. As if he’d ever let you examine him over something this small.”
You lifted the mug ever so slightly.
“See? I'm perfectly fi—”
You took one step.
Then another.
Tiny green specks suddenly danced across your vision as darkness began closing in around them, spreading slowly from the edges until it swallowed everything before your eyes.
It felt as though something impossibly heavy had wrapped itself around your body and pulled you downward like a stone, while the mug slipped from your fingers, striking the wooden floor before rolling away, its warm contents spilling across the planks.
For one strange, suspended moment, it felt less like falling and more like flying.
Like drifting through a dream where the ground never came.
In reality, strong arms caught you before you ever hit the floor, pulling you tightly against a broad chest while voices called your name somewhere in the distance, their words swallowed beneath the persistent ringing in your ears.
You couldn't make out anything beyond that dull buzzing and those muffled voices, only the strange sensation that you were moving farther and farther away, as though you were no longer standing on solid ground at all, but floating gently downstream, wherever the current chose to carry you.
The tiny infirmary was filled with a chaotic chorus of voices, some calm and collected, others bordering on outright panic.
“Lay her down like this.”
“I’ll get the thermometer!”
“Robin, cold water!”
“Nami, grab some towels.”
“Everyone, back up a little. She needs air.”
“Sanji-kun, panicking isn’t helping right now! Go prepare the herbal stimulant mixture for me. It’s on the shelf in the left corner, second-to-last bottle.”
Everyone rushed about in a frenzy.
Everyone except Zoro.
He still held you tightly against his chest, barely registering the commotion around him until Chopper called his name several times.
“Zoro… Zoro!”
“I can’t examine Y/N properly unless you let her go.”
Only then did the green-haired swordsman realize how fiercely he’d been holding you, as though loosening his grip would somehow make you slip away.
Unsure of what else to do, he reluctantly did as Chopper asked.
He stepped back, lowered himself onto a stool in the corner of the room, and buried his face in his hands.
He felt useless.
His mind replayed the entire day over and over, tormenting him with every missed warning sign.
He’d noticed every little hint that something wasn’t right.
Every single one.
And yet he’d still let you convince him it was nothing.
She sparred with me… I knew she looked pale…
I should’ve made her come here sooner.
Nami hurried back with everything Chopper had asked for and looked down at you anxiously.
“She probably just pushed herself too hard,” she murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from your pale, sleeping face. “She’s been overworking herself lately.”
Sanji appeared beside the bed almost instantly, handing Chopper the strange herbal concoction he’d prepared.
“Exactly, Nami-san! Our hardworking, wonderful Y/N has completely exhausted her poor little body! She’s been fighting nonstop this past week, insisted on taking night watch, and then this heartless marimo made her train on top of all that!” He glanced toward Zoro. “Is that why you came looking for tea?”
Zoro didn’t answer.
He simply stared at the floor.
“…No.”
Chopper’s voice was quiet as he checked your pulse.
His expression changed instantly.
He counted again and his face paled.
“This isn’t good.”
He gently lifted one of your eyelids and shone a small light into your pupil.
“Her pulse is much slower than it should be… And her breathing’s labored. This isn’t exhaustion.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Even Luffy, how ever unusual it may be, had nothing to say.
Carefully, Chopper lifted the hem of your shirt to examine the cut on your side.
Then he froze.
The wound looked nothing like it had only a few hours ago.
If it had been healing normally, a thin scab should already have started forming.
Instead…
The skin surrounding it had turned an unnatural shade.
So dark it was almost purple.
Tiny blood vessels had burst beneath the surface, spiderwebbing around the wound.
Medical books were scattered across the infirmary floor.
Stacks of them surrounded Chopper, while Robin knelt beside him, helping him flip frantically through page after page.
With tears welling in his eyes, the little doctor desperately searched for any poison whose symptoms matched yours.
Dozens of books later…
Nothing.
He’d ordered everyone else to keep you awake, terrified that if you drifted off to sleep, your pulse might slow even further.
Nami quietly replaced the cold compress on your forehead.
Sanji hovered nearby, fussing over you even more than usual, trying to coax you into taking soup, broth, vitamin tonics… anything that might bring even a little color back to your face.
Usopp enthusiastically launched into one ridiculous story after another, while Luffy, partly out of habit and partly in an earnest attempt to keep you awake, repeatedly patted the mattress or nudged your shoulder.
Each attempt earned him an immediate chorus of horrified protests.
“Easy!”
Sanji barked, promptly introducing the captain’s face to the floor with the sole of his foot.
Throughout it all, Zoro remained silent.
Motionless.
Sitting beside your bed, he held your cold hand in both of his, absentmindedly stroking your wrist every so often, never once taking his eyes off your barely-open ones.
“Damn it!”
Chopper’s small voice cracked.
A heavy book slammed into a shelf.
Then another rustle.
In equal parts fear and frustration, Chopper hurled yet another useless medical text aside. It struck one of the shelves, knocking loose a massive old encyclopedia.
The worn leather cover had been rubbed so smooth that even its title had long since disappeared.
Robin picked it up first.
“…Chopper.”
“...I know this.”
Together they quickly realized it wasn’t a medical encyclopedia at all.
It was a collection of records describing the unique flora, fauna, and natural characteristics of various islands in this region of the Grand Line.
Tucked away within one small section was a passage describing a rare toxin extracted from a plant found only in the forests of the very island they’d just left.
Long ago, the island’s warriors had coated their weapons with it.
The poison was infamous because even the smallest scratch was enough.
The victim would appear perfectly fine at first.
Days later, horrifying symptoms would begin to emerge, ending in certain death if left untreated.
“Quick! I need a sample!”
Chopper bolted toward your bedside, ushering everyone out of the infirmary.
He hesitated only briefly before allowing Zoro to stay.
The little reindeer hurriedly prepared his instruments before carefully moving toward the wound.
“I’m sorry, Y/N…”
His voice trembled.
“This is going to hurt. But we’ll save you.”
“…Do you hear me?”
Tears blurred his vision as he searched your half-lidded eyes for any sign that you could still hear him.
Almost imperceptibly… you smiled.
Then gave the faintest little nod.
Without a word, Zoro tightened his grip around your hand.
By the time the anchor was dropped off the neighboring island and the sails had been lowered, the Straw Hats had already worked out a plan.
Chopper had compiled a list of every herb they would need, complete with careful sketches to help identify them.
“You have to be as fast as possible.” His voice wavered despite his best efforts to steady it. “Robin, Sanji, you’re looking for the Frostveil Bellflower. It looks like an ordinary daffodil, only slightly larger, but we need its root. You’re also searching for the Veinshadow Nightbloom. It resembles a dark violet, except its leaves and petals are shaped like aloe. You’ll find both deeper in the forest.”
He turned to the others.
“Luffy, Nami, Usopp, search the open fields and ask the locals if they’ve seen either the Cryofern Rose or the Venomspire Lily.”
His little hoof tapped anxiously against the floor.
“Don’t lose the drawings. We have to be absolutely certain.”
He looked down at the papers scattered across the desk.
“The best outcome would be finding all of them…”
His voice cracked.
“…but even one of these plants could make all the difference. Every minute matters.”
As he began folding the sketches with trembling hooves, Robin rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
She’d already memorized every single plant.
Not only the ones assigned to her and Sanji, but the others as well.
Just in case.
“We’ll bring back everything we find,” she said gently, her voice calm and unwavering. “As quickly as we can.”
Luffy adjusted his straw hat and gave a thoughtful nod before flashing the bright grin everyone needed.
“She’ll be okay before you know it! …Right?”
He walked over to your bed and cheerfully smacked a hand against your knee.
“Captain!”
A chorus of horrified voices immediately filled the infirmary once again, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of Zoro’s swords shifting ever so slightly in warning.
Your eyelids fluttered open just a fraction, enough for Luffy's grin to widen even further.
“We’re gonna be even faster than ya think! So hang in there, okay? You’d better be there to welcome us back!”
“I will,” you whispered, your voice rough and barely audible.
A tiny smile found its way onto your lips.
Your caring crew hurried to prepare for departure.
Usopp busied himself checking his ammunition, stuffing his arsenal of gadgets and improvised weapons into his satchel.
Nami spread a map across the table, carefully marking routes and possible search areas while assigning responsibilities.
Despite the obvious fear in his eyes, Usopp straightened his back and bravely declared that he'd question every local they came across if he had to.
At one point Sanji slipped out without a word.
When he returned several minutes later, he was carrying two wicker baskets and a backpack slung over one shoulder.
Nami frowned.
“…What’s all that?”
“Our supplies,” he replied, patting the backpack, though that much hardly needed explaining.
“And these…” He carefully placed the baskets on Chopper's reading desk. “…are for these two idiots.”
He nodded toward Zoro and the the reindeer.
“They'd forget to eat altogether if we left them to their own devices. This way they'll have everything within arm's reach.”
Only then did he turn to Chopper.
His voice softened immediately.
“I’ve already made enough soup to last our dear Y/N-swan three days. There are vitamin drinks in the refrigerator.”
It was his quiet way of lifting at least one burden from the shoulders of an overwhelmed doctor and a devastated swordsman.
At least they wouldn’t have to worry about cooking.
Sanji stepped over to your bedside and carefully tucked the blanket more securely around your shoulders, as though a little extra warmth could somehow chase the illness away.
“Don’t you worry, dear Y/N-swan. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it. We’ll make sure of it.”
His eyes drifted to Zoro, who had remained seated beside your bed all this time, rooted to the floor, the conversations around him barely reaching his ears.
Sanji rested a hand on his shoulder and gave it a brief, sympathetic squeeze.
“Come on, mosshead. Snap out of it. She's tough. We'll find everything and be back before you know it.”
The green-haired swordsman gave the faintest grunt.
It was his own peculiar way of acknowledging both the words and the gesture.
He’d memorized every herb himself, despite having no intention of leaving the ship.
Someone had to protect Chopper.
Someone had to protect the Merry.
Most importantly…
Someone had to stay with you.
He hated how utterly useless he felt.
Yet the thought of leaving your side—even for five minutes—not knowing whether he'd ever see you again, was unbearable. Worse than any agony he had endured, worse than every wound that had ever carved itself into his body.
His rough fingertips absentmindedly traced the delicate bones of your hand, gently rubbing his thumb over your fingertips as he silently blamed himself for everything.
Most of all for the fact that this wasn’t something he could simply cut down.
He would’ve carved a path through every forest on the Grand Line.
He would’ve burned the world itself, from the depths of hell to the highest heavens if it meant finding even one cure that could save you.
“I can’t go after it.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
Even saying the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“So I’m doing the only thing I can. I’m keeping you here until they bring it back.”
He swallowed hard against the lump tightening his throat.
“You hear me?”
His fingers closed around yours a little more firmly.
“You don’t leave before they get back.”
One by one, the crew turned toward the exit.
Each of them had spoken to you before leaving, offering encouragement, reassurance, hope.
Whether you could truly hear them or not didn’t matter.
They wanted you to know they’d do everything they could.
“We’ll be back soon!” Luffy called as he reached the door.
Then, for the first time since this nightmare had begun, another voice cut through the room.
“Bring back everything,” Zoro said without taking his worry-clouded eyes off you. “Even if you’re not sure it’s the right plant.”
The crew paused.
Nobody needed him to explain.
If there was even the slightest chance a plant could help…
Chopper would figure it out.
“Aye, aye!”
And with that, they broke into a run, disappearing from the deck into the island’s forests, leaving behind the quiet infirmary and the dear, weathered little ship that—for what felt like the first time ever—had fallen unnaturally silent.
No laughter.
No shouting or bickering.
No clatter from the kitchen.
No footsteps racing across the deck.
The Merry felt impossibly still.
Almost mournful.
As though even its little sheep figurehead had drawn its wooden mouth into a sorrowful frown and quietly wept alongside the crew.
Tiny hooves worked diligently, cleaning your wound as carefully as possible, trying to remove every trace of the poison before replacing the blood-soaked bandages with fresh ones.
The moment the white gauze came away, what little color remained in Chopper’s face vanished.
The strange discoloration had spread farther, while the darkened veins branching from it had only grown more pronounced.
At first glance, someone might have thought the wound was improving. It bled less than before.
But the wound itself told a far different story.
Barely conscious, you watched the little reindeer through heavy eyelids as he apologized every single time he had to touch the injury, knowing full well how much it hurt.
At Zoro’s insistence, Chopper hurriedly showed him exactly how to clean and redress it.
The swordsman was determined to do something.
Anything.
Even through the haze clouding your mind, you somehow found the strength to lift your hand and rest it atop the fluffy doctor’s hat.
That little reindeer…
You remembered the story he'd once told you—the loneliness, the rejection, the years he had spent believing he had no place in the world—and the moment you'd heard it, you'd known that if he ever chose to join your crew, you would do everything in your power to protect him.
Just as you had.
Your fingers weakly patted the top of his reddish-pink hat.
“…You always apologize. You don’t have to.”
Your gaze drifted toward the small window in the infirmary door.
Darkness had swallowed the sky.
Had you really slept through the entire day?
“…Did you two eat?”
A familiar click of the tongue answered you before words ever did.
Zoro carefully lifted a glass of water to your dry lips.
“Do you ever stop, woman?”
His calloused hands tilted the glass with surprising care, though not quite enough to keep a few stray drops from slipping down your chin.
You looked up at him.
Something about him felt…
Wrong.
Lost.
You’d never seen him look like that before.
“So... you didn’t.”
“We did.”
His answer came immediately.
“You wouldn't know. You were asleep.”
Brushing the damp strands of hair away from your face, he let the back of his fingers linger against your forehead long enough to check your temperature while Chopper quietly slid the thermometer into place once more.
“Think about yourself for a change. Tch. Just rest.”
He adjusted your pillow before settling back into the chair beside your bed.
Whether it was the gentle rocking of the Merry or simply the exhaustion weighing down every inch of your body, you couldn’t tell.
Warm, heavy drowsiness slowly settled over you once again, drawing you back into sleep's embrace.
When the thermometer finally chimed and displayed yet another disappointing number, neither of your boys said a word.
They merely let out quiet, weary sighs, and Chopper rested his head beside your legs.
The quiet scrape of wood against the floor broke the silence.
He looked up just in time to see Zoro opening one of the baskets Sanji had prepared before pushing it toward him.
“I’m not hungry,” Chopper murmured, barely audible.
His forehead still rested against the edge of your bed.
“You are.”
No answer.
“Chopper.”
Only the steady rhythm of waves against the hull.
“Eat.”
Zoro pulled out a sandwich and all but shoved it into the little doctor’s hooves.
“Or I’ll feed you myself.”
A pause.
“You know she’d be worried sick if she found out.”
Only after Chopper reluctantly took it did Zoro grab one for himself.
“Tch. Unbelievable. Even now she’s still nagging us about eating.”
His voice faded into little more than a whisper.
I’d sooner let the fires of hell swallow me whole…
Be forgotten by the world…
Lose every battle I’d ever fight…
…than never hear that nagging again.
It was the dead of night.
The hour sailors called the witching hour, when even the sea itself seemed to be asleep.
Zoro jolted awake from a dream he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen into, his heart still racing.
He’d been running as fast as his legs would carry him, chasing that damned pirate just as the bastard lunged toward you with his blade once again. He had been close enough to stop him—close enough that one more step would have done it—but the instant he swung, all three of his swords shattered into countless pieces, scattering across the ground before he could reach you..
He took a slow breath, forcing his pulse to settle, and looked up.
You were still there and breathing.
Reality, mercifully, had turned out kinder than the nightmare.
His hand still rested around yours.
Something else, however, weighed across his lap.
Warm.
Tiny.
Soft.
Blinking the last remnants of sleep away, he looked down.
Chopper had somehow curled up against him, fast asleep, his hat lying forgotten near Zoro’s feet.
…How did this even happen?
He honestly couldn’t remember.
Carefully rolling the stiffness from his neck, Zoro slid one arm beneath the little doctor and gently lifted him.
He froze for a moment when Chopper stirred.
But the reindeer only mumbled something unintelligible before settling again.
Zoro tucked him into the spare bed in the infirmary before quietly returning to your side.
He brought your cold hand to his lips, holding it just tightly enough to remind himself you were still there.
“You still owe me that rematch.”
His fingers slowly combed through your tangled hair.
“You cheated. You counted that punch after I told you it didn’t.”
He enclosed your hand between both of his, warming it with his own breath as though the two of you were stranded somewhere in the snow.
Idiot.
“Don’t you dare think I forgot.”
The bitter, slightly sour taste of another vitamin tonic still lingered on your tongue.
You could barely keep your thoughts together, though the clumsy way your green-haired brute of a boyfriend and your tiny, fluffy son fussed over you almost made you smile.
The moment you weakly gestured that you wanted water, they both jumped to their feet at the exact same time.
Before either of them reached it…
The Den Den Mushi rang.
Zoro picked up the receiver while Chopper hurried to bring you a fresh glass.
“Any luck?” Zoro asked quietly.
Static crackled.
“Not yet.”
“Keep looking.”
He hung up without another word before gently replacing the cold compress on your forehead.
The deep furrow between his brows hadn’t left in days.
Neither had sleep.
Chopper looked just as exhausted, dark circles settling beneath his small eyes.
“…Sorry…”
Both of them leaned toward you instantly.
“What?”
“…Trouble…”
Chopper broke first.
He buried his face against Zoro’s leg as quiet sobs shook his tiny body.
Zoro simply closed his eyes.
Absolutely typical.
Even now, you were apologizing.
The mountains in your chest rose with trembling effort before sinking again, as though each breath was saying its own reluctant farewell.
After setting aside the bowl of soup that had ended up spilled across the blankets far more than it’d ended up inside you, Chopper quietly sat beside your bed and watched your frail figure..
Life had become so much brighter after joining the Straw Hats.
After meeting you.
He had found safety beneath the wings of his new family, but most of all in your embrace, and against Zoro's broad chest—or, more often, behind his legs whenever danger appeared and instinct sent him running toward the strongest place he knew.
You read bedtime stories to him.
Made cookies together after persuading Sanji to let you take over the kitchen.
Prepared hot chocolate.
Patched up the little injuries he brushed off after training.
Comforted him after difficult days.
Wandered flower fields and collected medicinal herbs beside him.
Played with him until sunset.
Made him go to bed when he got lost in his studies.
Now…
He was the one caring for you.
Changing your bandages.
Replacing the cold compresses.
Counting every heartbeat.
He’d even tried reading the very book he’d brought the day you collapsed, hoping some part of you could still hear him.
The words never made it halfway down the first page.
His voice gave out.
His little body shook with tears.
“Oi.”
Zoro was beside him immediately.
“What happened?”
“I-I-if I’d n-noticed the cut sooner… We would’ve had hours... hours more to hel her. I f-f-failed her…”
“Don’t.”
The word came sharp.
Firm.
“No.”
Zoro blamed himself enough already.
There was nothing the kid could have done.
“We’ll make it.”
It sounded less like reassurance…
…and more like a prayer offered to whoever might still be willing to listen.
They hadn’t heard from the others by the time a storm rolled in.
Not that it mattered much. Shut away inside the infirmary, they barely noticed the rain hammering against the ship.
What frightened them far more was that, like the sea outside, you too had become restless.
You tossed restlessly beneath the blankets as beads of sweat rolled endlessly down your temples. Your body burned with fever, yet shivered uncontrollably, but that wasn’t the worst part.
What truly terrified them was when you began talking to people who weren’t there.
Reliving memories no one else could see.
Sometimes your voice turned bright.
Almost joyful.
You smiled with innocent happiness, speaking as though you were once again leading Chopper through a field of spring flowers on some long-forgotten island.
"Come on," you laughed softly, reaching into empty air. "Give me your hoof. Let's race to that tree over there."
Your hand missed him entirely as you tried to sit up, only for your boyfriend's strong arms to ease you gently back against the pillows.
Then, without warning...
...the dream became a nightmare.
“No… Please… Let him go!”
You shook your head frantically as tears streamed down your face.
Zoro and Chopper kept calling your name, trying to pull you back, but nothing reached you.
“I’ll do anything… Just let him go… No…”
Chopper couldn’t bear it anymore.
He broke down crying too.
Meanwhile Zoro stroked your arm, calling your name over and over, trying to gently shake you awake, speaking in a voice so impossibly soft that even he hadn't known he possessed it.
He had no idea how much time had passed while he held you against his chest, rocking you with slow, instinctive motions as Chopper clung silently to his leg.
Only after your breathing finally settled did he notice how violently his own hands were trembling.
Some time later, you drifted back to yourself just long enough to weakly beckon the little doctor closer.
“You’ll take care of everyone for me… right?”
Before Chopper could even react...
Zoro answered. Firmly and immediately.
“You aren’t going anywhere. So stop talking like that.”
He took your hand again, replacing the cold compress on your forehead with the other.
“Save your strength. Especially if you’re just going to keep saying crap like that.”
Afterward, he muttered a quiet apology under his breath before leaving to make yet another cup of tea from the herbs Chopper kept in the infirmary.
Maybe this one will help.
The storm inside his chest only grew fiercer.
Helplessness.
Fear.
Guilt.
Rage so fierce it barely fit inside him.
They had cornered him from every direction.
Before heading toward the galley, he stopped beside the ship's railing and drove his fist into the wood with all the strength he had.
The impact echoed through the empty deck.
It hurt.
But not nearly enough.
The little reindeer’s fluffy head had quite literally fallen into one of the medical books, finally defeated by the relentless pull of exhaustion.
The poor kid had done everything he possibly could. Every medicine had been administered on schedule, every bandage changed, every vitamin tonic and herbal remedy coaxed into you. Your fever had finally, stubbornly, come down a little, and your pulse had stabilized enough for him to breathe.
For what felt like the hundredth time, strong arms carefully lifted him from where he’d fallen asleep and carried him to the spare bed, tucking the blanket around him with all the clumsy care of someone terrified of waking him.
“He wore himself out,” your voice rasped quietly through the silence. “Both of you did.”
Zoro returned to his place beside you, lowering himself to one knee next to the bed as his calloused fingers brushed through your hair before tracing the increasingly pronounced curve of your cheekbone.
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
Gathering what little strength remained, you lifted a trembling hand and cupped his cheek.
“…Are you scared?”
“No.”
The answer came through gritted teeth.
“…Liar.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips.
“As if there’d be anything to fear. Those idiots will come barging back with the cure any minute now.”
“Zoro… if…”
“No.”
He cut you off immediately, refusing to hear whatever was coming next.
“If something…”
You tried again.
Two fingers came to rest lightly over your lips—not harshly, but with quiet resolve.
“Don’t waste your strength on things that aren’t happening.”
He drew in a slow breath, his gaze drifting upward for the briefest moment before returning to yours.
“You made me a promise. No backing out now.”
Across the room, Chopper stirred in his sleep.
His half-asleep ears twitched at the sound of your voices.
He didn’t dare move.
Didn’t dare make a sound.
“…I don’t know how to do this without you,” Zoro admitted quietly.
“You don’t get to…”
His voice faltered.
“We’re supposed to chase our dreams together. You promised all of us... You promised me... and the kid.”
The little reindeer’s ears slowly drooped against the pillow.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to remain asleep so he wouldn’t interrupt.
Silence settled between the two of you.
Long enough that Chopper thought the conversation had ended.
“…Some protector.”
Zoro rested his forehead against the edge of your mattress.
“I always thought…” he murmured at last, lifting his head just enough for his eyes to settle on your intertwined fingers, holding them as though loosening his grip for even a heartbeat might somehow make you disappear, “…I always thought my job was to stand in front of the blade. The bullet. To take the hit instead of you.”
A bitter laugh escaped him.
“And it turns out I never even noticed the thing that was killing you while it was right in front of me.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
Zoro had never been afraid of blood.
He’d spent years drenched in his own.
But yours…
Yours made something inside him seize.
Every bruise blooming beneath your skin, every tremor running through your body, every ragged breath you struggled to draw… he felt each of them as though the poison had chosen the wrong victim.
It should have been him.
It didn’t matter that fever had left your skin slick with sweat, or that you were too weak to lift your own head.
You were no less beautiful to him.
No less precious.
If anything, seeing you stripped of every defense only made the ache to protect you grow sharper.
When he finally looked up, there was nothing left in his eyes but unguarded truth.
“There isn’t a single thing this poison can do to you that would make me turn away.”
His voice remained low.
Steady.
“If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you. If you can’t eat, I’ll feed you. If you’re afraid…” his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles, “then you’ll have someone to be scared with. If the fever makes you yell at me… if it makes you hate me… I’ll wait until it passes. And if you look at me and don’t remember who I am…”
He swallowed.
“…I’ll introduce myself all over again.”
Now he took both of your hands in his own, holding them with the desperation of a man who felt as though he were pleading with fate itself.
“Listen to me. I don’t care how much this hurts. I don’t care if you’re afraid. I don’t care if you’re tired.”
He slowly shook his head.
“Just hold on a little longer... Just a little longer, okay?”
His eyes wandered across your face as though trying to memorize every feature.
The thought angered him the instant it crossed his mind.
No.
He wouldn’t have to remember.
You were going to be here.
“You can’t leave now.”
The words came out softer than he’d intended.
“Not before they get back. Not before Chopper gives you the cure.”
He took another slow breath.
“After that…”
A tiny smile ghosted across the corner of his mouth before disappearing just as quickly.
“After that, you can yell at me for forcing all those disgusting medicines down your throat. You can tell me my tea tasted awful. You can tell me I panicked over nothing. I’ll even admit you were right about that one argument.”
His voice caught.
“And then… We’ll pick up right where we left off.”
He watched you for a long moment.
“I’m not finished with you yet. We’ve still got too much left to do. We still have stupid things to argue about. You still have to convince Chopper to take your side against me again. You still have to get on my nerves.”
His grip around your hand tightened.
“You still have to grow old with me.”
Only then did he realize what he’d said.
Yet there was no room left for embarrassment.
It was simply the truth.
The truth he’d needed you to hear.
His eyes lowered once more.
“So…”
He searched for the words for a long time.
“…don’t take that away from me.”
Dawn had yet to fully break over the bleak sea when the rest of the crew finally returned to the Merry, exhausted and desperate.
Zoro wasn’t sure exactly when the endless darkness of night had given way to the soft lilac hues that came just before sunrise, but the hurried pounding of feet against the wooden deck snapped him from his thoughts. Voices echoed through the ship, calling names, accompanied by a faint whistling sound that grew louder with every passing second.
Then the infirmary doors flew open as your filthy captain practically launched himself through them.
“Chopper!! We did it!”
He landed squarely on top of the little reindeer, knocking him onto the floor before Zoro could even react. A heartbeat later, the swordsman was already hauling Luffy back by the collar, ready to scold him for causing such a commotion and nearly flattening the very doctor you all depended on.
“Have you completely lost your damn mind?!” Sanji shouted as he rushed in right behind him, somehow managing to be just as loud despite yelling at Luffy to be quiet. “You can’t charge into an infirmary like that, you reckless idiot!”
The cook looked as exhausted as everyone else. His blond hair was full of leaves and tangled from pushing through the forest, dirt streaked across his clothes, but the moment he reached your bedside, all of that seemed to disappear.
“How’s our dear Y/N-swan holding up?” he asked quietly.
Zoro simply gave a small nod.
You’d held on.
Long enough for them to make it back.
One by one, the rest of the crew crowded into the room, each in varying states of disarray. Robin’s clothes had been snagged and torn by branches and thorns, Nami stood there breathing hard with windswept hair, while Usopp was practically covered in mud from head to toe.
“No time to waste!” Chopper cried, hurrying over to them, his eyes shining with hope. “What did you find?”
Robin and Nami immediately set two large sacks filled with herbs and flowers onto the table.
“We gathered everything that resembled the illustrations,” Nami explained. “And the locals suggested a few other plants they thought might help, so we brought those too. Everything we could find.”
Chopper didn’t wait another second.
His little hooves dove straight into the bags.
“Where’s the Bellflower? …Good. You brought the roots too? Excellent.” He looked up so suddenly that everyone nearly jumped.
“JUST TELL ME YOU DIDN’T WASH THEM!”
Robin calmly stepped beside him, instantly becoming his second pair of hands.
“These three belong together,” she said, sorting the plants with practiced precision. “The roots for these were separated… and Cook-san wrapped the Veinshadow Nightbloom individually. We barely managed to find this one. Apparently it’s out of season.”
Her steady presence settled the frantic atmosphere threatening to overwhelm the room almost immediately.
Meanwhile, Sanji had already thrown himself into preparing everything else.
After hastily washing the dirt from his hands, he placed a glass of water beside Chopper before rushing into the galley to boil water for sterilizing the knives and instruments. Bowls, mortar and pestle, cloths, every tool that might be needed for preparing the medicine was arranged within easy reach before anyone even thought to ask.
Nami quietly leaned toward Chopper.
“…Is it enough?”
The little doctor ran his hooves across leaves, examined roots, smelled flowers, compared every petal to the illustrations spread across the table.
Nobody dared speak.
Every pair of eyes remained fixed on him.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, his little ears lifted.
His eyes lit up.
A tiny smile spread across his face.
There was hope.
“…This is it.”
Usopp let out a laugh that sounded as though it had used the last of his strength before collapsing flat onto the floor with his arms behind his head.
“See?! I told you I’d find everything! It wasn’t easy, but…”
“YES!” Luffy cheered. “She’s saved! Sanji! Get the meat ready! That’ll cheer her up right away!”
For the first time in days, laughter almost found the room.
Almost.
Through it all, Zoro never left your side.
Your hand remained clasped securely in his as he silently waited for instructions.
At the worktable, Chopper had already begun.
He grated roots with painstaking precision, mixed resins and plant extracts together, heated them to exact temperatures inside tiny glass tubes before cooling them again, measuring every drop, every change in color, every shift in consistency. Robin silently passed him each instrument before he could ask, while Sanji adjusted the flame without ever interrupting the process.
Everyone wanted to help.
No one dared interfere.
Silence settled over the infirmary.
Glass gently clicked against glass.
Only short instructions broke the stillness.
“Mortar.”
“Knife.”
“More water.”
“Not that one.”
As Chopper carefully drew the finished medicine into a syringe, his hooves began to tremble.
The entire crew held its breath.
This was it.
If this didn’t work…
Sensing the little doctor’s fear, Zoro carefully supported you exactly as instructed before placing one steady hand on Chopper’s shoulder.
A silent promise.
I’m here.
Swallowing hard, Chopper uncovered the wound once more—darker now than ever before—and gently drove the needle beneath your skin.
Now…
All they could do was wait.
One minute passed.
Nothing.
Five.
Still nothing.
All the while, Zoro held your lifeless hand inside both of his, offering silent prayers he would never have admitted aloud.
Take anything from me.
Anything but—
Then…
Was that…
A pulse?
Or had he imagined it because he wanted it so desperately?
His head snapped upward, studying your face before his gaze dropped back to your joined hands.
One finger twitched.
Barely.
The slightest pressure against his palm.
His breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
Warmth spread through his chest, melting away days of fear and guilt all at once.
He didn't think he'd ever known happiness that felt quite like this, nor gratitude so profound. Strange as it was, he found himself thankful even for the anguish that had brought him here, because without it, he might never have understood how precious this moment truly was.
Even the ache in his chest felt like something to treasure.
It was a feeling he'd never been good at expressing, yet one he suddenly never wanted to lose.
“…Chopper.”
His quiet voice drew every eye in the room toward him.
“…She's squeezing my hand.”
The sun finally rose over the Merry as she continued rocking gently upon the waves.
From somewhere on deck came a very familiar voice.
“YEAH!! TIME TO CELEBRATE! SANJI! BRING OUT THE MEAT!”
You were still asleep, but your temperature had finally stabilized, and the dark veins surrounding your wound had begun to recede.
That alone was enough for your exhausted crew to celebrate.
The ship gradually came back to life.
Everyone bustled about the deck and through the halls, tidying things, preparing food, talking louder than they had in days.
Only Zoro remained rooted beside your bed.
And Chopper, who constantly hurried between Robin and Sanji before rushing back to check on you again, unable to stop himself from making sure you were still breathing… still sleeping… still there.
Your green-haired swordsman waited for only one thing.
To see your eyes again.
To look into their familiar warmth one more time.
Only then would the weight crushing his chest finally lift.
He understood that the poison had drained every ounce of strength from your body and that you needed sleep more than anything.
Still…
He couldn’t help being impatient.
Just one look.
One smile.
Then maybe he could finally allow himself to sleep too.
His thumb absentmindedly stroked your hand, which was growing warmer by the hour.
He felt your fingers move.
“You’ll complain later that your back’s gone stiff,” you murmured, your voice rough with sleep though unmistakably brighter than before. “You should go lie down.”
A little color had finally returned to your cheeks.
Zoro was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved, still refusing to let go of your hand.
You couldn’t help laughing at how utterly lost he looked.
He finally collected himself before rolling his eyes.
“You scared the hell out of us, idiot.”
He knelt beside the bed again, gently placing your hand against his broad chest.
Only now…
Only now could he breathe again.
“I’m sorry.”
You smiled sheepishly.
“I didn’t even know what was happening.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Don’t apologize,” he muttered.
Your thumb traced absentmindedly over the thickened scar across his chest.
“From now on,” he said firmly, “you’re getting examined after every fight. I don’t care.”
“Deal.”
You smiled and then looked at him with quiet understanding.
“You were really worried, weren’t you?”
“Tch.”
His eyes wandered toward the chair across the room.
“Oh…”
You added almost casually.
“I accept., by the way”
“Huh?”
“The rematch.”
A teasing smile tugged at your lips.
“I still think that punch counted… but if you want another chance that badly, I’ll beat you again as soon as I’m out of bed.”
A quiet snort escaped him.
“Yeah? I'd like to see you try, idiot.”
You were teasing him again.
That alone was enough to convince him everything would be all right.
In that rare moment of privacy, relief washing over him now that everything had finally turned out all right, he lifted your hand to his lips and kissed it, lingering where your pulse beat beneath your skin, simply to feel that wonderful proof of life one more time.
“I missed y…”
Rapid little hooves pattered across the floor before the sentence could leave his mouth.
“Y/N-san!”
Chopper practically launched himself onto the bed, wrapping both little arms around yours and nuzzling against it with a relieved sob.
“I’m so happy you’re okay!”
Tears streamed freely down his cheeks.
“I-I-I was s-so scared…”
You gently wiped his face, smiling as you wrapped your free arm around him.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That only made him cry harder.
“Z-Zoro didn’t sleep for t-three whole days… I thought…”
“Y/N-SWAAAN!! AN ANGEL HAS DESCENDED FROM THE HEAVENS! THE LIGHT OF THE GRAND LINE HAS RETURNED!”
Sanji burst through the door carrying your favorite dessert along with a beautifully arranged platter of fresh fruit, several pieces meticulously carved into little hearts.
With his free hand he shoved Luffy away, who was already reaching for one.
“I knew you’d be fine! I brought meat too!” Luffy beamed, triumphantly holding up an enormous drumstick while chewing on another.
You laughed again as Chopper pushed your captain away with both little hooves.
“She can’t have that yet! It’ll make her sick. She hasn’t eaten properly in days!”
“THAT’S EXACTLY WHY SHE NEEDS IT!”
Nami and Robin squeezed in beside you from Chopper’s side, effortlessly pushing Luffy even farther away.
“DON’T EVER SCARE US LIKE THAT AGAIN!” Nami snapped, eyes suspiciously bright despite the stern expression she was trying to maintain.
Robin simply smiled softly before patting your knee.
“You’re precious to all of us. We’ll have to take even better care of you from now on.”
“Good thing we made it back in time,” Usopp declared proudly, puffing out his chest.
“All thanks to Captain Usopp! Every local we met fell to their knees, offering rare medicinal plants to honor my unmatched bravery!”
“Oh, please. Give me a break.”
“Then I ventured deep into a deadly jungle, defeating every terrifying beast that dared stand in my way…”
“...There were only rabbits in that forest.”
The room gradually filled with louder laughter, overlapping voices, playful arguments, and the warmth of life returning exactly where it belonged.
You smiled wider and wider, overwhelmed with gratitude for the incredible people surrounding you.
Your family.
Turning your head, you gently squeezed the hand your green-haired swordsman still refused to release.
His eyes were already drifting shut.
With his free arm, he carefully lifted Chopper, who had fallen asleep sitting beside the bed, settling the tiny doctor comfortably against his lap.
A tired smile crossed his face.
He pressed one last kiss against the back of your hand before leaning his head back.
Sleep claimed him almost instantly.
Still smiling, you reached for a nearby blanket and quietly draped it over both of your boys.
Then you settled back against your pillow, listening to the colorful chatter filling the room, every now and then glancing toward the two sleeping figures at your right.
MITSUYA TAKASHI had always said he didn’t have a favorite color.
When his classmates argued about which shade was the prettiest–some said sky blue, others cherry red, and a few, emerald green–he barely listened. Someone even mentioned a hex code he couldn’t be bothered to remember. With a pencil between his fingers, he was sketching something no one else could see. “Colors don’t mean anything unless you give them purpose.” he used to believe.
But that was before you.
You showed up at the sewing club one afternoon wearing a lilac cardigan, the kind of soft purple shade that looked like it could melt into spring air. Mitsuya looked up from his work, halfway through hemming Smiley's jacket, and forgot what he was doing for an embarrassing second.
“Hey, 'kashi,” you greeted with that smile that always made his chest feel too small. Not to mention the nickname only you got to use. “Could you help me fix this? The button fell off.”
He nodded, took the cardigan, and set to work with quiet focus. You leaned on the table beside him, watching his hands move–steady, precise, looking angelic as ever. He had to admit it was a little pressuring, especially when someone good-looking was watching—definitely different from those times the principal came by for the yearly observation.
When he finished, he handed it back shyly, without looking at you as he packed up. “There. Good as new.”
You slipped it on again, smoothing the fabric. “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you one.”
He smiled, whispering a soft, ‘you’re welcome. But when you left, the faint scent of lavender lingered.
That night, he sat at his desk under the warm lamplight, flipping through his collection of fabric. Blues, greens, reds–all of them dull and lifeless. Then he found it: a scrap of pastel lilac he’d bought months ago and never thought of using.
It was soft to the touch. Comforting. Familiar. You.
The next day, when Draken asked in passing what color he wanted for a keychain (probably another one of Mikey and Takemichi’s stunts), this time Mitsuya didn’t even hesitate.
He smiled as if remembering a fond memory.
“Lilac.” he answered, as if it had always been his favorite.
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summary ⭐︎ "Look at the Gojo family!! Their kids are so cute!! When will it be your turn to have child with Kento?" Oh. Oh.... why are you incapable of being pregnant? Why is it eating you alive? And why Kento is... distant. . .?
art cred @/neconi_o0 on tw
pairing ⭐︎ Husband!Nanami x Wife!AFABReader
PLAYLIST hehehe
cw ⭐︎ infertility, depression, misunderstanding, lot of crying, miscommunication, angst, feeling useless, envy, doubting nanami, communication, talking things out, man crying, woman crying, angst to comfort to smut to possible fluff, sex, oral sex (f.receiving), fingering, worshipping, dirty talk, POUSSSEYYY TALKING YEAHYEAHYEAH, rough and gentle, needy, fluff and domestic annnnd will it be a happy ending tho??? eheheh SURPRISE ( • ̀ω•́ )✧
wc ⭐︎ 7.1k continuation of this Drabble!
author notes ⭐︎ omg the dear people of my girly land are you ALIVE?! it has been so long my dear sweet girly!!! this fic was supposed to be out for the start of December.. then 31st Decembre.... THEN FOR NEW YEAR. . . . and obviously none of that happened "( – ⌓ – ) but eh! better late than ever right?? so anyway it probably is my favorite fic I've ever wrote and when I tell you I TEARED UP HELP I was extremely sentimental while writing this and I hope some of you will tear up too, hehehe. I also wrote this in 3+ months (·•᷄ࡇ•᷅ ") I took my sweeeeet time with it and since y'all forgot about me I expect 20 notes on this lmaooo BUT AS LONG AS I HAVE FEED BACK YALL KNOW I SUCK BALLS FOR OPINIONS <33333 have fun (or have tears) ((lame attempt at jokes,,,, I'm bad like that,,,,,,,))
Quiet.
It was always so quiet.
And you never minded the quietness your husband carried. Actually, you loved this part of him more than anything. You always find refuge in his quietness.
The way he never rushed you to put words on your complicated feelings. He was always the anchor in the storm that was your heart.
“You don’t have to answer me if you don’t know the answer, yet.” You remember vividly the day he asked you to be his girlfriend. Everything was so different back then, wrapped in the warm, dizzy rush of young love.
He’d been the quiet boy at Jujutsu Tech. The one who kept to the corners, his thoughts tucked neatly behind that calm gaze. You were his opposite: loud, laughing, easy to notice. Everyone thought you and Gojo Satoru would be the inevitable pair. But they were wrong. So wrong.
Because from the very start, it was Nanami Kento who steadied you. His silence wasn’t heavy.
It was a harbor.
When your laughter burned too bright, he was the one who let you rest in the quiet. When the noise of the world became too much, he offered you stillness instead of words.
And you remember thinking : this is what love should feel like. Not wild, not loud, not blinding. But something firm. Certain. An anchor.
But now, oh, how you hated quiet.
You don’t know what to do with the stoic Nanami Kento driving like he hadn’t cry with you in the Gojo’s bathroom. You don’t know what to do with his rigid form, glasses perfectly in place. Not a single piece of clothes, of emotions, out of place.
You wished he’d scream at you. Confront you. Tell you you were pathetic.
Because that wouldn’t be far from the truth, would it?
But instead, he said: ‘There’s nothing you have to prove to me. Not with a child. Not with anything.’
These sentences echo again and again in your mind. The monster that is your mind. You can’t even bring your eyes to look at the man on the driver seat. And it seems like he doesn’t find the strength to do so too.
Or maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe it was another one of his mercies. Not forcing you to give more voice to feelings you weren’t ready to face.
Quiet, quiet. Was it always quiet. And was it the same quietness that ate your soul alive those past months. If he simply… admitted, you were not a good wife. Hell, you even failed to keep up with intimacy.
If Nanami could just snap, just hurt. Anything. Anything that will show you he was as impacted as you were. Or maybe he found release somewhere else…
Just like every time this horrible thought crossed your mind; you break out in a cold sweat. You fidget with your hands even more, starting to bite your thumb as you usually do when anxiety and thoughts gnaw at your mind.
That wasn’t a thing he would do, right? Nanami Kento wasn’t a man like that. He wouldn’t seek out another body just because yours recoiled after losing the baby… right? Because your body couldn’t push itself to be close to him anymore.
For the first time ever, this idea made its way in you. Another thought, yet, to devour you whole and bring you a little bit more in the insanity of it all.
You risk a glance at him. He is still focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other motionless on his thigh. If you hadn’t seen him cry earlier, you would have never believed it.
You glance quickly at the mirror of the car above your seat, and you’re startled with your sight. Where your husband embodied quietness and well-put together composure—as if nothing happened—you were the total opposite. You’d left the warmth of Gojo’s house like a ghost of yourself. Your eyes rimmed red, face stained with dry tears, the under of your eyes black with the mascara that flowed.
Looking at that reflection… you could almost understand if Kento had sought solace elsewhere. It would only be fair—
“Hey, darling.”
You jump at the deep sound of your husband's voice. Your eyes snapped toward him. But the seat was empty. You turned the other way, and the door was already open. The driveway’s white gravel glared under the moonlight.
“We’re… home?” You don’t remember him pulling into the driveway. Didn’t hear the engine die, his seatbelt clicking, the door open.
Was your state already that bad?
“Darling,” he murmured again, bending over to unbuckle your belt, his hand warm and gentle as it wrapped around your forearm.
His touch electrifies you. His tenderness, once the softest comfort, now twisted deep inside your gut. Where it was once liquefying your body, it is now unbearable. Always reminding you your failure to bring a little body he could be gentle with. . .
you could be gentle with.
You step out barefoot, heels dangling from your hand, the sharp gravel biting the sole of your foot. The night was supposed to be warm; one meant for laughter, for friends, for children running under porch lights. But all you felt was the bitter wind cutting through your dress, scraping over the emptiness in your chest.
The only warmth came from Nanami’s large hand on your elbow. His hazel eyes met yours; once alive and golden, now dim, flickering like a dying candle. You don’t know how long you stay there, staring at each other. Waiting, listening. Drowning in all the words neither of you could say.
And maybe, just maybe, you fumble toward the neatly collar of his shirt and fist it to bring your chaos into his perfect neatly world. Maybe you crush your lips against his hard enough to remind you he is still yours. That maybe, just maybe, if you kissed him hard enough, your mind would stop and erase the thought of him with another woman.
Even though, you know, he is not a man of this kind (God, he would most likely kill himself before even thinking about hurting you) the demons in your head screamed otherwise, whispering rot into every corner of your heart.
Maybe then the raw, splitting pain in your chest would ease. The sour, festering grief of losing what should’ve been yours, now buried somewhere deep in the abyss of your own tears.
He lets you bruise his lips, bite until you taste the salt of your own pain. He lets you hurt him as if your despair could be transferred through skin. His hands only rise to your waist. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just rests them there, steady and quiet, a silent promise that he’s still here, even as your storm tries to swallow you whole.
He delicately pulls away from you, resting his forehead against yours. “Let’s get inside, yeah?”
In the moon’s thin glow, you see the small split on his lower lip, a dark smear of red tracking the place your teeth had been.
His voice is so gentle.
With all the patience in the world, Nanami Kento slowly takes the heels from your trembling grip. The way he accepts them—like he’s accepting another piece of your agony—makes your breath hitch. He lowers himself, lifting you into his free arm as though carrying a vow he carved into his bones long before tonight.
He adjusts your weight in his arms as if you’re made of something fragile, not breakable. He will never see you as breakable. . . you will always be his wife he wants to cherish until the day he dies. A wife who’s turned fragile because she endured too much.
The night air brushes against your skin, cold in the exact same way grief is cold: quiet, familiar in a way you wished it wasn’t. Something you’ve learned to live beside. Something you never asked for. . . yet can’t seem to escape.
But his hold is warm, burning and making its way under your skin, reaching your heart as desperately as it can.
And for a heartbeat, right there, right against his solid chest, you remember what it feels like not to drown.
So, when he sets you down on the couch, your hands uncontrollably fumble toward his chest, fisting it in tight balls. Your eyes, still red from how much you cried at the Gojo’s house, are again filled with the glassiest film of tears.
Your breath shakes when you meet his gaze.
His, doesn’t.
“I’m right here,” he softly speaks, palm closing around your wrist, thumb tracing reassuring circles on your soft skin. “I’m going nowhere.”
Nanami kneels in front of you. Not towering, not distant, not brave in the way people expect of him. Simply present. Absolutely, devastatingly present.
His knees touch the carpet. He intertwines your fingers together and waits.
And that, his stillness, makes something inside you shakes. You’re torn between being grateful for him being an anchor to you or going crazy on his lack of emotions. Nanami Kento was always a puzzle. A puzzle driving you insanely crazy. A puzzle you loved—no, loves—to discover and assemble new pieces.
You hiccup.
He moves one hand, giving you every moment to pull away, every chance to reject the comfort he’s not sure he deserves to offer. But you don’t move.
You can’t move.
When he realizes you’re letting him in, if only a silver, his fingers curve around your cheek. His palm is shockingly warm. It’s only then you notice how deadly cold yours is. A cold born not of the chilly night, but of a loss so deep that your body doesn’t know how to hold temperature anymore.
“It hurts so much.” Your lips tremble.
His answer comes soft, almost broken, as though he’s trying not to let the fullness of his own grief bleed into the words. “I know.”
And the simplicity of it—no promises, no empty hope—hits you harder than if he’d collapsed at your feet. He isn’t telling you it will be okay. He isn’t telling you you’ll heal. He isn’t telling you you’re strong.
He’s just here. Here, where your pain can exist without needing to be tidied or softened.
He shifts closer and lowers his forehead to your knee, unable to look you directly in the eyes. Not because he’s ashamed, but because he’s terrified that if he lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back. . . he will break.
The tears come. It’s not the storming ones from earlier. This time they’re slower and nonetheless heavier. He doesn’t flinch when they fall onto the back of his neck. He doesn’t try to shush you or fix what can’t be fixed. He lets your heartbreak mark him.
He lets your heartbreak consumes him, because he needs it. Because he can’t afford his own heartbreak. Because if he cracks even a little, he fears he’ll drown and drag you with him. So, he’s wrapped himself in a quiet, numb steadiness that is killing you both different ways.
“Ken…” your voice is a shadow of the sound he used to cherish. The laugh he memorized, the sweetness he swore to protect. Hearing it like this feels like something inside him tears straight down the middle.
He lifts his head, eyes searching your face. “Just—just…” your throat closes. “Make me forget.”
The request hangs between you, fragile and razor-sharp. His expression shifts, the mask of control trembling at the edge. For a moment, he looks utterly lost.
Unsure, wounded and… human.
The muscle in his jaw ticks, his breath stutters before he can steady it.
“Love…” his voice cracks barely, but enough for you to catch it. “That ain’t a—”
“Kento,” your voice is firmer this time, firmer than it had ever been in months actually. “Please, take me.” you whisper, fingers sliding to the back of his head, gripping the soft blond strands. “It’s been so long,” and you try (keyword : try) soooo hard to pull on a smile, to play the card ‘I’m fine’.
But oh, was it useless in front of the person who knows you like the back of his hand.
You’re not asking out of desire. You’re asking because you’re desperate to feel anything other than grief rotting inside your chest.
You know it. . . and he knows it too. He always read you like a scripture. His lashes lower, his jaw tightens a fraction too long. Pain flickers across his face before it all vanishes to let place to a cool measured façade.
“Alright,” he murmurs, standing on his feet to lean in. His breath is hot, his mouth opens as if he needs more air in his system. Nanami Kento is fighting every fiber of instinct in him to pull back. “If—if that’s what you need.”
You can feel the distance in the way he moves, the fat of his thumb tracing your lips a little too featherlight. His hand settles on your waist and cages you between him and the couch a little too hesitant.
And somehow, that hurts more than the emptiness you were trying to outrun.
But it’s ok… if you shut your eyes really hard and—
And his still swollen lips from the kiss earlier graze yours.
And his hand cup your jaw to guide you slowly through the unpassionate kiss.
And your own fingers move as fast as they can to unbuckle his belt.
And tears are coming faster than expected.
They spill down your face and between your lips, mixing with the tip of his tongue. The salt floods your tongue as he deepens the kiss clumsily, mechanically. As if he’s following the memory of passion rather than feeling any of it now.
Nanami has his brow frowning, forcing himself to give you what you want. God, he’s trying so hard to be what you asked for. Trying to be helpful in a way he wasn’t before. Trying to fill the void.
But when his thumb pushes up your dress and your hips jolt away from him. . .
A sharp inhale cuts through his chest, loud in the painfully quiet living room.
“I’m sorry.” he abruptly says, pulling back like you suddenly burned him.
“Kento,” you reach out, but he’s already retreating.
“I-I can’t—” His voice collapses on itself, cracking open. A part of him you haven’t heard in months. His eyes avoid yours as if looking at you might shatter him. His fingers rake through his hair, dragging hard against his scalp like he’s trying to wake himself from something he shouldn’t have done.
“I can’t do this,” he says again, softer this time, but no less broken.
And you see it. . . finally see it.
He wasn’t numb.
He was drowning too.
Silently. Alone.
Behind his own locked door.
You stand on shaking legs, taking a hesitant step forward. “Kento, talk to me,” and as you get closer to him, he lifts a hand between you. “Please, don’t shut down. I know it’s my fault here. I—” you shake your head, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean to jolt away I swea—”
“I–I shouldn’t have…” his voice splinters. “I thought it could help—” his words collapse, the end swallowed by a breath that fails halfway.
His chest caves inward as though something inside him finally buckled. His thick fingers press against his eyes, but you still see the shine slip between them. His breaths come in uneven bursts, as if he’s trying not to cry but his body refuses to obey.
“Kento…” you whisper again, softer now.
He doesn’t look up. His voice emerges hoarse, strangled. “I don’t know how to touch you anymore.”
The room seems to tilt around you.
“I’m afraid,” he forces out. “Every time I get close… every time I think about holding you the way I used to… I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I’m taking advantage of your pain. Like I’m—” He breaks off, shaking his head hard, trying to steady himself but failing miserably. “Like I’m replacing our baby...”
His hand trembles violently as he gestures between you. His eyes finally meet yours—and they’re wrecked. The beautiful color of his iris drowned in tears.
“I’m terrified,” he admits, voice cracking in the middle. “Terrified of hurting you. Terrified of touching you the wrong way. Terrified that if I want you, it makes me selfish. And if I don’t…” He swallows hard. “It makes me a monster.”
You feel your own breath stutter.
“And I know,” he goes on, voice dropping to a whisper, “I know I’ve shut down. I know I’ve been distant. But I wasn’t trying to punish you. I just…” His mouth trembles. “I didn’t know how to hold you without breaking apart myself. And you needed me to be whole.”
“You lost a piece of your body. I lost…” his voice collapses. “I lost the future I promised you.”
You step closer, but your legs barely hold you. “It wasn’t your fault,” the words wobble, your breath stuttering around each syllable. Because even as you say it, your mind races—blinding, frantic—trying to understand how the two of you had drifted this far into the dark without noticing.
How had you ended up on opposite sides of the same grief?
How had he decided he was the one to blame for your body’s betrayal?
Your voice cracks before you can strengthen it. “You’re not responsible for my incompetence—” the word tastes like poison, “—for my body’s inability to carry your child.”
“Take that back,” the words rip out of him. “Right. Now.”
You flinch, not because you’re scared. . . but because he’s breaking and still carrying that deep authority and intolerance about disrespecting his wife.
“I am, in fact, very much responsible,” he says in the most convincing tone you’ve ever heard. Your heart drops straight through your stomach.
“You had a baby in your tummy,” he swallows so hard it looks painful, eyes dropping to your unrounded belly. “I wasn’t a good husband-hell not even a good father.” His chest heaves. “I should’ve been there more. I should’ve held you differently. Loved you differently. Made you rest even more. Not let you stress about a single thing—”
“But you already did that.” You interrupt him, thinking about how he was so gentle with you, being careful in the way he embraced you. He was always there so you hadn’t had to lift a single finger.
He bites the inside of his cheek. “I should’ve kept both of you safe.”
The anguish in his voice is almost inhuman. The kind that comes from guilt he’s been burying like a live wire beneath his ribs.
“I was careless, and you paid the price. Your body paid the price. And you’re standing here calling yourself incompetent when—” he stops. A tortured sound slipping through his teeth. “…when the only incompetent one here is me.”
He finally looks at you.
And God.
Nanami Kento looks like a man who’s been bleeding internally for months.
He stands there, eyes rimmed red, shoulders collapsing inward, reflecting the guilt that pooled so deep it drowned him from the inside. He looks like…
Like he’s bracing himself.
Bracing himself for you to agree with him. To confirm his worst fear. To say out loud the words; the words he’s been branding onto his heart.
'It’s your fault Kento. You failed me. You failed our child.'
Your chest burns, too tight to let you breathe normally. The tears come fast, blurring everything.
You move in small, uncertain steps. Closer. Closer. Closer. Until the air between you is thick with everything he’s been holding back. His desperation rolls off him in quiet waves: controlled, lethal in its restraint. All you can see through the tears is the weight of his guilt.
Your fingers reach for his clenched hand at his side. It takes a moment before he realizes you’re touching him and even more time before his grip loosens to let you in.
“You’re not taking advantage of my pain,” you murmur, voice trembling. “Not when you want to hold me.” A sob claws its way out of your chest. “You think having you far away from me is easier than losing the baby?”
That’s when his restraint falters.
His free hand lifts without thinking, thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching a tear like it might cut him if he doesn’t.
“I wanted to do good.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
Oh, Nanami Kento.
Oh, Nanami dear Kento. Always putting you first, trying to be the best husband for his wife.
“Every day you shut me out felt like—” Your voice catches. Your eyes drop, unable to hold his gaze as the truth gathers painfully at your throat. His hand stays on your cheek, bringing warm and only encouraging you to take out your thoughts. “Like another funeral.”
His knees dip slightly…
You don’t stop. “I even thought… I thought you would—” Your breath stutters. Shame creeps in.
How self-centered was I to think that.
“I mean… I thought somehow you have started to resent me,” you confess softly. “That you stay with me only by pity. Or maybe,” your voice lowers, “you would start to see someone else for… relief.”
The words land like a blade.
The silence is devasting before he speaks with a truth so absolute it just as vows were whispered into your bones.
“You are the woman I chose. The woman I would have chosen in every lifetime. My wife, the one I want to carry. Not just tonight, not just through this,” his forehead comes to rest against yours, the space between your breaths closing.
“But for as long as my heart knows how to beat.”
The words settle between you. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath mingling with yours in shallow, uneven pulls. His thumbs brush your cheek once more and you can feel the tremor still living him with the motion.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt, fist tightening in the fabric, drawing him closer until there’s no space left to question. Your bodies press together, not out of urgency, but necessity.
“I want to kiss you,” you whisper.
For a heartbeat, he searches your face reverently. And you know exactly why he’s doing that.
“It’s not like prior,” you assure, a small shaky breath escaping you in the shall waiting. “Not tryin’ to forget.”
He hums before leaning in. His lips brush yours in a kiss so gentle it almost breaks you completely. Well, actually his gentleness wraps all over you and you feel so weak, your knees buckle.
But your husband is fast to wrap his arms around your waist and lift you.
Because he would never let you down.
His lips capture your bottom lip, slowly licking the sheer skin before tugging lightly. One hand under your thigh, the other cupping the back of your neck. He continues testing the water and gives you cat-like-kisses.
As you slowly abandoned yourself into his lovely approach, you don’t realize you’ve reached your shared bedroom. Only when your back hit the soft cover that you understand he’s carried you there between the soft presses of his mouth.
Your legs naturally wrap around his narrow waist. Despite the lack of intimacy those past few months, your body was still acting and reacting on its own toward Kento. His thumb strokes your jaw once before applying a slight pressure for you to open wider.
Nanami hums in satisfaction when your tongue delicately strokes his. “I’ve missed you,” he says, voice muffled.
“I’ve missed you too. The air felt a little sharper each time you tried to escape me.” You admit.
“It wasn’t my intention,” he replies, voice ruder with a terrible hint of sadness that breaks your heart.
“Promise not to shut me out again,” Your fingernails graze his scalp before pulling on his soft blond strands, pulling his mouth away from yours so you can look him in the eyes. “I would die from it if it happened again.”
You can see all sort of emotions pass over his tired features: guilt, love, fear.
“I won’t,” he breathes into your mouth. A promise he’s determined to keep.
You can feel it in the way he’s kissing you feverishly. “Just one thing,” he pants out. “Let’s not put pressure on ourselves.”
His mouth travels lower. He nips at the sensitive skin right under your jaw, sharp teeth grazing before soothing the spot with his tongue. “I don’t want our intimacy to be reduced to procreation.”
A moan slips from your spit-swollen lips when Nanami’s fat tongue flattens against your throat, shameless in the way it trails down to your collarbone. He can’t help the proud smirk tugging at his lips.
“I want you to take pleasure just like this,” he murmurs as he settles onto his knees and discharge his clothes except for his boxers. Then he turns his attention back to you, carefully tugging your dress free until you’re left in dark cotton pantie.
He leans over you, calloused palm tracing the soft skin of your upper body, moving up, up, up—until his fingers find the swell of your bare breasts. “To hear those pretty sounds again,” he teases, weighing them in his hands before his thumb and forefinger gently tug at your nipple.
“Ken…” you whimper, your hips bucking toward him.
“Mmmh, ‘s right darling.” His eyes stay fixed on where your hips meet. “Move toward me. Don’t be afraid.”
“I—I wasn’t,” you gasp helplessly when his mouth lowers to your hardened nipple. His plump lips close around the sensible skin and sucks, one hand cupping the breast to present it to his eager tongue.
“You were.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” his tongue swirls around your nipple in the most agonizingly way. “It’s fine. We’re going to relearn together.” He blows a hot breath to tease further, and it works just fine. A multitude of goosebumps rise on your skin.
The room feels hushed again, like it did earlier.
The unique difference now… is that desire is consuming your bodies in the most unrelenting, devastating way. It eats at your grief little by little; with each stroke of your husband’s tongue, you forget the sour sadness and let the fire of desire grow.
The same fire you’d stifled for all those months.
“May I?” Nanami’s voice is heavy with lust but not only. When his beautiful chocolate eyes lift to meet yours, you can only experience the depth of his love for you. there’s no hunger there without love to temper it.
Only devotion, the kind that’s been waiting patiently through silence and discipline. You see all through the way to his soul. All the things he’s been hiding in fear to drown just like you were. The fear of hurting you, the ache of missing you, the quiet awe of finding each other again. It all crush into you with such force it knocks your breath away.
The fat of his thumb plays abstinently with the waistband of your panties. Your gaze drifts down, noticing the line of drool he left on your breasts, your ribcage, and your navel.
He tilts his head, waiting on you the way a heart waits on its own name, his eyes softening and melting into a beautiful chocolate hue.
You give a small nod.
“I need your words, my love. I want to be sure you want this just as much as I do.”
“I want it,” and just to tease back, to lighten up the mood (and mostly to remind both of you that you’re still you) you add with a breathy laugh: “I mean. . . just look at the ridiculous wet spot on my panties. I think it’s speaking pretty clearly.”
“Of course it is,” he replies, suddenly far too pleased with himself. “Seems a pretty girl missed me just as much, didn’t she?” There’s warmth in his smile now. It’s such a sincere smile that even his single dimple makes its shy appearance.
He hooks his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and slides it down your legs. The motion is unhurried, as though savoring every second of the closeness between you. The oh-so-missed closeness between you.
Once it’s gone, he lets his hands trail back up. Thick and calloused palms traveling softly along your calves, up to your knees. His gaze stays on your face, and the intensity of it makes warmth bloom beneath your skin, makes you shy under the way he looks at you like this.
Before you can say anything, he dips down, pressing a kiss just below your knee. Another follows, then another, each one lingering a little longer than the last. Each one quietly confessing how much his heart aches for you.
“I missed you—” an open-mouthed kiss pressed to your hipbone. “So freaking much—” another mwah but slower this time, more reverent, at the gentle curve where your thighs meet your hips. “My dearest love.”
His right hand finds yours, fingers threading together as he needs the anchor. He squeezes softly, making sure this moment is real.
A shaky desperate breath escapes him. He rests his forehead against your stomach for a moment, breathing your scent. His thumb strokes your knuckles as he confesses “I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”
The words sink in and something in him seems to break open after saying them. His mouth drifts back to your skin, kisses warmer now, less careful.
They are… needier.
“It would only be fair for me to show you all the love that has been waiting to come out these past few months.” And as if on cue, his tongue flattens from your navel down to the place where your core starts to throb. Deprived for so long, every nerve in you feels exposed, reacting before you can even process what is happening.
The sound you make goes straight through him, something raw and animal flashing in his eyes. You barely catch a glimpse of it before his gaze rolls right back in his skull as his pink muscle encounters your heated center.
“Oh!”
“Fuck—”
You and your husband find yourself muttering at the exact same moment. Right when your taste bursts across Nanami’s eager tongue. He’s flattening the fatness of his muscle to draaaaag all the way from your cute little nub down to your already spasming hole. Rushing to the single white essence escaping your velvety walls.
“Great heavens—” The blonde man muffles onto your puffy lips, sending a ripple of shiver all over your soft skin and causing you to buck your hips into his handsome face.
And oh, Nanami Kento couldn’t be happier.
Perhaps… closer to heaven than he’s ever been.
Because Nanami may as well have accessed to the most delicious juices of all. The most intoxicating nectar.
Sweetness flooding his senses, overtaking his tastebuds as he laps at your entrance with greedy devotion. He pushes his face deeper into you—on instinct—needing all of you to blur his thoughts. His large hands slide over your plush thighs, drawing them closed around his neck, your heel pressing into the solid muscle of his back.
And it feels like the pressure only sharpened his needs.
And not only his needs were sharpened. His cock swelled further more. The length of it creating an imposing and unmistakable tent in his boxer. The tip leaking more and more pre each time his tongue is blessed with your juices.
He’s easily shaping his tongue onto a thick, cylindrical form to sliiiip it all the way past your little puckering pussy. His nose bumps your clitoris as he pushes pushes and pushes onto your tight entrance with obscene impatience.
Your back arches off the bed, the sensations being too much to bear, fingers flying to tangle in his long locks. Your husband is so lost in the spiral of emotions he barely hears your whimpers, the only sound that reaches his drunk state is the slick of his tongue exploring your nook and cranny—all for his own pleasure.
You’re practically gushing all over his lower face.
Hell must it be all his face by the way he’s completely buried between your thighs. It’s only when you risk a glance down between our legs that you notice how hard he’s breathing. His back heaving with each deep inhale he’s taking.
“K-Ken, you—” but the words die in your throat when he curls his tongue to hit that squishy spot with the tip of his tongue and sends constellations bursting behind your eyes.
“Still know the body of my beautiful darling,” he murmurs against you, voice low and eyes still closed. “So responsive, so mine. Ain’t you, my pretty?”
“Yea—” but the word dies once again in your throat, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whine. He shakes his head slowly, side to side, and the movement sends another wave of goosebumps through you.
“Not you,” his breath is hot and tickles you just right, enough to have your thighs quivering around his head.
Only then do you understand. He isn’t talking to you.
He pats your clit with the rounded tip of his fingers. Nanami tilts his head up and hits your clit with the ridge of his nose, and you’re embarrassed.
Embarrassed by the ridiculous, wet sloshes of your cunt. Gushing another generous spill of arousal straight onto his waiting tongue.
“Always answering me,” he hums idly. “Like a gooooood girl.”
And somehow, that does more to you than anything else. Because it makes your thighs shut tighter around his neck, hips uncontrollably bucking to his lips. And of course, Nanami takes everything his dear wife is willing to give him; tongue swirling round and ‘round between your puffy slit.
“There you are,” a loud mwah. “Know that I missed you just as much.” A vulgar spit onto your cunt. “I will never let you alone for that long again,” a devilish spank landing firmly on your throbbing clit.
Your breath stutters. Your hips furiously grinding against his handsome features. The thought that you might smother him completely lost in the hazy of pleasure. How could your fogged mind even register something like that when his tongue meets you with a wet, sinful flick—circling, teasing, then snapping back to your swollen nub—until another slick tremor spills from you.
“See how honest you get with me?”
And the humiliation might as well have you burning alive. . .
If it wasn’t for the familiar snap of an orgasm tearing straight through you.
Your nails scrape his scalp, clutching like your life depends on it, matching the violence of the release breaking you apart.
“Kento! Mhh, Kento—!” Your vision blows out, nothing but blinding white behind your eyelids, thoughts drowned and reduced to mush.
“’S right give it to me,” your husband grunts and he’s messy. Completely and utterly messy in the way only devotion makes a man. Shamelessly undone by the need to make you cum harder than you every should.
His dexterous tongue is lapping and sucking. He makes damn sure none of your release goes to waste. Making sure to swallow every drop. To stay well-hydrated for the years to come, to make up for every single month he’s been denied your divine orgasm on his tongue.
“Make a mess, shit, make a mess,”
One heavy palm presses down your lower tummy, keeping you from squirming away from him. While the other pushes your left leg wide open for him to insert the fatness of two digits inside your convulsing walls.
And if you thought your dear husband couldn’t go and be more feral, then you couldn’t be more far away from the truth. He’s lost in his own mind, filled with you and his need to feel more, more, more.
He doesn’t let you even one second in your first orgasm that he’s already curling his fingers and his cut-perfect-nails scrap riiight against your spongy G-spot.
“It’s too much. . . too much, Kento! S-slow down ugh—”
The only reaction you got is him pushing the rest of his inches inside your convulsing cunt.
“Look at me, love.” He groans, tongue desperately trying to make its way with his fingers inside your puckering hole.
“Love—”
You hiccup.
“—Look at me.”
Your ears are ringing with pressure, oversensitive with the way you’re being fucked raw by his roughened digits. Not only your cunt is wet, but your whole body is covered with a thin trickle of sweat. Your face drenched in tears but, unlike earlier that evening, your tears are the source of pure devastating pleasure.
“I said,” scissoring fingers. “Look—” twisting his wrist. “At—” tongue leaving your sweet sweet inside. “Me.” Canines nipping at your demanding clit not stopping until he hears you scream his name.
Your eyes follow his order, teary eyes meeting his darkened hazel eye, blown wide with hunger and emotion, completely wrecked.
“It’s just—it’s too munch Ken, too—” Your last word is screamed into the air of your shared room. Your lovely husband has hallowed his cheeks to suck on your puckering clit.
His generous plumpy lips are sexily wrapped around the fat button, sucking with one sole purpose: making you cum so hard you forget everything but him. And, perhaps, forgive him.
Forgive his carelessness these past months. Forgive the silence where reassurance should have been. Forgive the way he let you doubt your own worth.
When all he ever wanted was to—
“Love you.” He whispers desperately. His voice is nothing smooth. It bleeds.
“I love you.”
And who would have known three little words could split your life clean in two: everything before them, and everything after.
Because sometimes the end of something isn’t a goodbye…
༝༚༝༚
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3 years later
“Hey, how many times did I already tell you? Do not run in the kitchen.” Nanami’s voice is a bit firm, but you could decern the lovely tone he tried oh so hard to hide.
Pointless.
“Sowwwwwyy dadaaa!!” the 5 years old monster with pink hair just as tall as four apples put together replied as he ran faster to catch on the other little 5 years old monster girl with brown hair—both completely ignoring their papa warning.
And talking of the little girl she just found refuge right next to your thigh holding on tight to find some sort of refuge against her brother tickling.
“You can’t tuch mwe hiwe, hehehe” she giggles and sticks her tongue out as she sinks further between your thigh and the kitchen furniture where you stand by to fry the vegetables in a pan.
“Ara, you mean!” Yuji shouts out before he finds himself also next to your thighs.
Nanami exhales slowly, setting his pen down on top of the invoices spread across the dining table. He had been trying to finish the month’s factures before dinner, but clearly, peace was no longer an option.
“That’s enough for this evening.” The deep graveled voice of your husband sounds much closer now. You didn’t even hear his chair slide back. You were too preoccupied to smile at your children bickering.
One moment Yuji is wedged between your legs, plotting revenge. The next. . .
Nanami crouches down and swipes your son upside down. Enormous hands wrapping securely around his tiny waist before catapulting him onto his broad shoulder.
“EHHHHHHH—” Yuji’s shriek ricochets off the kitchen walls, quickly dissolving into breathless laughter as he grips fistful of his father’s shirt.
Nobara gasps, eyes sparkling.
“Me too! Me too, papa!” she squeals, tiny hands shooting into the air, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
And you can’t help but glance side way, and just in time to see the barely-there curve of Kento's lips and the soooo adorable tiny dimple making its way on his left cheek.
He shifts Yuji easily with one arm, the strength in his shoulders flexing beneath the fabric of his rolled-up dress shirt. His tie slightly loosened now, sleeves pushes to his forearms from earlier when he was balancing numbers at the table.
He looks unfairly good like that.
And your heart swells.
Swells with love and how far you’ve come through in those past three years.
Because yes, it has already been three years since you and Kento had laid your hearts bare, made grief of the unborn baby. You both learnt just how strong your love for each other was.
And now, it's been two years since you’ve been blessed with Yuji and Nobara. They came crashing into your lives, right when you thought everything was impossible and hard. Two years since paperwork and interviews and nervous waiting rooms. Two years since you’d sat in a quiet office, fingers laced tightly with Nanami’s, grieving the future that would never be yours biologically… and daring to hope for a different one.
You couldn’t carry children.
But you carry those two children now. In every other way that matters.
Nanami turns slightly, and for a fleeting second, his eyes find yours.
And like the first time your eyes ever locked in; the world stop, the time stops.
The hearts beat.
“Up,” he instructs Nobara gently.
She barely has time to squeal before his free arm scoops her up with the same effortless security. For a heartbeat, both children cling to him, one on each side, like he is the safest fortress in the world.
Because he is.
“Papa’s strong!” Nobara declares.
“Dada’s huge!” Yuji corrects upside down.
Nanami huffs.
You wipe your hands on a towel and step closer, your smile showing all the love and happiness you’re capable of feeling for your little family. You walk toward Nanami and stop only when you're able to grab the fabric of his shirt near his waist. You're close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
“Dinner will be ready soon?” he asks.
You nod, eyes gleaming and you add: “Do you plan on keeping ‘em upside down up there all night?”
“Tempting.”
Yuji squirms. “Mamaaaa Papa said tempting!”
“That’s not a bad word, sweetheart.” You smile sweetly and Nanami might as well have received an arrow in his heart.
Your husband’s eyes don’t leave yours. His voice drops half a tone. “No. It’s not.”
And it's your turn now, to receive a lovesick arrow deep into your heart.
Even after two years of parenting. Even after sleepless nights and sticky fingers and stepping on toys in the dark. Even after all the grief you thought might dull things between you. Or even dared the thought that losing a baby destroyed your relation.
It didn’t.
“Time to wash hands, monsters.” He lowers the children carefully back to the floor. And they both scramble off toward the sink, making it a competition to whom will arrive first.
“Your dimple is showing.” You comment, tilting your head as you couldn’t help but bite your lower lip.
“It is… not..?” Nanami’s cheeks flush up. The faint dent in his cheek deepens as his lips press into a thin, stubborn line, like that will somehow undo it. His hazel eyes flick away from yours, suddenly very interested in the spice rack. Or the ceiling. Or literally anything that is not you.
You hum softly, pretending to inspect his face. “But, it’s definitely there.”
“It is not,” he insists, voice lower now, but lacking its usual authority.
You lean in slowly, your lips stopping near his stubble beard before whispering, “If you say so,” and plant a louuud mwah on the said-so irresistible dimple.
And the reaction is instant. The flush spread down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His throat bobs.
“You’re flustered,” you murmur, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from his collar. Your fingers trail just a little too slowly.
“I am not flustered.”
“You’re blinking a lot.”
“I blink a normal amount.”
You smile.
He nearly combusts.
His hands, large and steady enough to toss a five-year-old over his shoulder without effort, hover awkwardly at your waist.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks carefully.
“You’re cute, it's toooo tempting.” You wink at him with mischief.
Cute.
Nanami, who negotiates contracts without mercy.
Nanami, who balances finances with terrifying precision.
Nanami, who carries both children at once like it’s nothing.
Cute.
His hands finally land on your waist, large and thick fingers easily covering half your waist. He pushes you closer against him.
“You’re aware,” he says quietly, voice dropping half an octave. “That I am your husband.”
“Mhmh”
“You married me in front of people,”
“I did.” You grin, your thumb lightly brushing over the dimple again.
“I blame you,” he mutters and if you squint your eyes really hard, you could see the tiniest form of a pout.
“For what?”
“For this,” he gestures vaguely at his face, the bottom of his neck… his entire compromised state.
He can't believe it, he's a grown man now! A responsible adult, who doesn't fold. And yet, after years of marriage with you. . . his pretty lovely wife seems to be the only one able to make the tip of his ears red as tomato.
To make him act like a school boy all over again.
He wants to tease you back and when he leans his face closer to yours—
“MAMAAAAA DADA’S BEIN’ WEIIIIIRD AGAIN!!!”
༝༚༝༚
༝༚༝༚
༝༚༝༚
5 years later
“You did good, so so so good my love.” Nanami is stuttering onto your sweaty neck, tears all over his face and watering your naked shoulder. His forehead presses into the curve of your neck, feeling tears sliding and mixing with sweat and exhaustion and everything you just poured out of yourself.
And your mouth is dry. Actually, your whole body is dry.
It feels as if every drop of water you ever contained has drained out through your eyes instead. Because you’re absolutely crying a river in the hospital room for the miracle that just happened.
“She is so pretty.” You hear the doctor vaguely says. Your brain temporarily shut and apparently only capable of hearing your husband shallow breaths next to your ear. His hand holding on yours tightly, so tight that his knuckles turned white and, in all honesty, if you could feel anything beyond the heavy ache in your lower back, your hips, the deep trembling fatigue of your body—you would probably feel how desperately he’s holding on to you.
“She’s smaller than the norm,” the doctor continues softly. “Her twin brother took up most of the space in the womb. But she’s healthy. That’s what matters most.”
“We have twin children, my wife.”
Twin.
You and Nanami not only had the impossible miracle to have a son. But a girl too.
The doctor laughs gently. “She must have been tucked behind him. Sometimes it’s rare, but it happens.”
The nurse carefully places a tiny, bundled weight near you. Then another.
Your vision swims.
Two.
Two small, wrinkled, impossibly fragile little humans.
“We have twin children,” Nanami breathes once again.
You turn your head slowly toward him. “We do,” you murmur, words slurred slightly from exhaustion and medication and disbelief.
“She was there the whole time,” he whispers, looking down at the tiny girl. “Hiding.”
Your son makes a soft, indignant noise from his blanket, as if protesting the accusation. And another wave of tears rip through you.
“You gave me two.” Nanami whispers against your temple, lips trembling as he presses a kiss there.
“She’s so small.”
Nanami doesn’t listen to the medical statistics anymore as the doctor lunched herself into another row of explanations.
All his attention is turned to you. For you.
At the woman who carried a secret second heartbeat for nine months. At the woman he thought he might only ever have one child with—if that—after everything you’d both endured before becoming parents.
At the woman who just rewrote his entire future in one breath.
He presses his forehead to yours, your children between you, and the world feels too big and too perfect at the same time. He’s impossible to suppress the tears slipping freely down his cheeks, catching in his lashes, falling without restraint.
“Nobara and Yuji,” He whispers softly, as if he only wanted you and your twins to hear. “They’re going to be so happy to meet the new babies. They’ll be formidable in their new older-sibling roles.”
A tired, tearful smile curves on your lips.
“They will.”
It’s certain.
You and Kento had fought for this life like lions guarding their jungle. Through doubt, through fear, through every unexpected turn.
And as he tightens his hold on your hand, as your children breathe softly between you, you know with quiet clarity—
You wouldn’t rewrite a single chapter.
( ꈍ◡ꈍ)
another a/n (bare with me I'm a yapper) I put myself in a emotional roller coster here
I cannot stop thinking about this casting of Sanji. This rendition has been on my mind CONSTANTLY. This is now what I'm thinking about when I'm imagining him and I don't think that's going to change.
Beautiful, gorgeous, my biblically accurate Sanji. I'm quite smitten.
“Don’t you think he’s had enough?” Nami asked as she observed Zoro as he sat on the ground, his swords far from him, with cups of sake surrounding him, not even half empty, just sitting, waiting to be downed in one go, and as she asked the question, Zoro downed three more cups with a burp. “Seriously, he’s acting more pathetic than usual.”
Robin wasn't hiding the fact she was openly watching him. Usually she hides her opinions behind her books, but even she knew the sake was doing more harm than good.
“The only person that can stop him is—” Robin paused her words to look at you, who was sat with Luffy and Chopper, listening to them rant about God knows what.
As if sensing Robin's gaze, you look up, and at the exhaustion on your face, they both wince.
“They need to make up.” Robin says when you turn around.
“Immediately.”
You couldn’t see Zoro and Zoro couldn’t see you. However, Zoro knew you were nearby and that pained him further. He felt an ache in his stomach, a pain in his soul as if someone tore the other half from him, and when he howled in pain, did you look up and see him.
“He can’t poop there. Should I tel him?” Luffy asked as he picked his nose.
“He’s not pooping!” Chopper scolded, about to get up, but you stop him.
“Let me go.”
Luffy blinked.
So did Chopper.
“Aren’t you the reason why he’s like this?”
With a hiss, you glare at him, and Luffy reeled back in shock and continued to pick his nose.
“What? It’s true!”
You ignore his comment and made your way towards Zoro. He knew you were there. He turned his back on you, but you weren’t having it.
“Zoro.”
“Go fuck Law or something,” Zoro grumbled. “Leave me the hell alone.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not leaving you alone, Zoro, I still care about you.”
It was true. Despite the date with Law, you couldn’t move on from Zoro, and you were losing sleep because of it. Still, you couldn’t stand to see him like this, and with Law busy talking to Sanji, you wanted to make a point to sit with Zoro and snap him out of it.
“If you care about me you wouldn’t be with him.”
“I’m not going to stay single forever, you know.”
He pressed his fist to his cheek, his blurry eyes on the horizon. He couldn’t stand the thought of you being with someone else so to see you with a man that wasn’t him, let alone Trafalgar Law, he wanted to unleash hell on everyone and everything on this ship.
You took his soul, it’s yours, but he wants your soul back inside of him.
“Give me a kiss.”
“No way.”
“You went on a date with him, that doesn’t mean you’re fucking him,” Zoro says, opening his eye to glare at you with it. “Right?”
You let out a chuckle.
“Always the possessive one.”
“You fucked him.”
“I didn’t fuck him, Zoro, it was one date.”
Zoro let out a tsk, about to pick up his cup of sake, needing to drown in the drink at the reminder but when your fingers close around his wrist, does he hiss and drop the sake. It spilled everywhere.
“Now look what you did.”
Your eyes soften as you stare at him.
You didn’t want to break up with Zoro, but the lines between what he truly wanted and your relationship didn’t bode well when merged together and for a second you thought he knew that, until he did a 180 on you and now here he was, abandoning his greatest treasures, the very thing he put his life on the line for, all because you broke up with him.
You wanted what’s best for him. What’s best for him was you. You didn’t go on that date to spite him, you went on that date to see if you had a chance with another man. It didn’t feel right with Law sitting opposite you and not Zoro.
In fact, Zoro would make an excuse to sit beside you.
His smile, his laughter, his joy, his pain, it was all yours now that you saw him for what he truly was. It was pathetic, really. Still, your heart softened, and your eyes blur with tears, and when Zoro noticed, he brought his knuckles to your face, and brushed your tears away with his thumb.
“Idiot.” Zoro grumbled. “Thinking that I’ll let you cry and shit.”
“Shut up.”
He let out a huff. Put his head on your lap. And when you bring your fingers to his hair, does he finally relax, and put the cup of sake down for the first time in weeks.
AN: I actually like how this one turned out. For the first time I didn't rewrite it a million times. Hope you enjoy. I may add more to these stories.
Artist: eyeбegzy
Summer m.list I Armin I Eren I Reiner
𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊ 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊ 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊ 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊ 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧
You, Mikasa, and Eren are sprawled out on the loungers by the pool, sun warm on your skin, when you hear some of the girl's gasp. You sit up, squinting from the glare of the sun, trying to see what the commotion was. Then you spot him, a new guy, tall and broad-shouldered, with familiar ash brown hair that immediately tugs at something deep in your memory. Before you even realize it, you're on your feet, leaving Mikasa and Eren exchanging puzzled glances as you move.
He's already smiling, a big, open grin that you'd know anywhere. You barely slow down before you're wrapped up in his arms. "Jean," you breathe, arms around his neck. He squeezes you in a way that hasn't changed at all, then gently sets you back on your feet, holding your hands keeping you close.
"It's been forever," he says.
"I know. I missed you." You're both grinning, but you can feel the eyes on you from every direction. Conversations have stopped.
Reiner's the first to break the silence. "You two know each other?"
You and Jean nod in perfect sync. "We met back in high school," you explain, glancing at Jean. "He moved away right before graduation."
The memory feels startlingly fresh. Jean had shown up halfway through junior year. His mother's job had them bouncing from city to city, country to country. You can't remember the exact moment you became close, but suddenly he was in every part of your life. At some point you began dating, but then, just before graduation, came the news, he and his mother were heading back to France. You knew there was no point begging your parents for a ticket to visit. The two of you drifted apart, the slow, inevitable fading that comes with distance. You got busy with applying to colleges and then moving onto the dorms, classes, you started a new life with new friends. Still, you kept his photos, memories of your first boyfriend never fading no matter how much time passed.
Jean introduces himself with the easy charm you remember, and the girls can't stop staring. It was always like this, someone in school was always crushing on him, at least until they got to know the cocky and combative side he rarely hid. Coming from money and it just being him and his mom, he'd gotten used to getting his way. But it seems he's changed. There's a quiet confidence in the way he carries himself now, less of that arrogant energy, more relaxed, even a bit unpolished. Yes, you dated him during that faze of his life, but you were young and brushed it off most of the time because he was sweet to you. If you met him once you reached your twenties and he acted like that, you would have not given him any of your time.
Mikasa leans in, her voice low. "Anyone here you're interested in?" She's noticed it, the way Jean's gaze flicks to you when he thinks no one's looking.
Everyone is waiting for his answer. The girls try to hide their hopeful smiles, the boys suddenly tense. Jean laughs, nervous, and looks straight at you. "Y/n," he says softly.
You give him a shy smile. Later, when the attention drifts elsewhere, you turn to him. "I can show you around, if you want?"
He nods, and you take his hand. He tugs you up from your spot, leading the way into the house. You show him the layout, pausing at the bedrooms. You push the door open, the familiar scent of laundry and sunscreen drifting out. "This is where we all sleep."
Jean scans the names on the dressers, stopping at yours. "Porco?" he asks, giving the dresser a nudge with his foot.
"That's who I'm coupled with," you explain, settling onto your bed. "But it's not really serious. He's more into Pieck."
Jean flops down beside you, making the mattress bounce. You automatically reach to pull off his shoes, an old habit, while he chuckles, knowing how much you hate shoes on the bed. Even if your feet are dangling off the side. He grabs your ankle and pulls you closer, you're laughing, trying to tug your dress back into place.
"Jean," you protest, but he doesn't let go.
"I missed you," he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your ankle.
Your heart stutters. With Porco, you never felt this, never this sudden, electric tension. You didn't feel like this around Jean when you were seventeen, but then, he didn't look like this back then, either. "I moved back to Trost two months ago," he tells you.
An hour goes by. You catch up, talking about everything and nothing, until Mikasa pokes her head in. "Everyone's heading upstairs," she says, glancing at Jean's hand resting on you before looking back at you.
You give Jean a quick smile. "We'll talk more tomorrow." You slip from his grasp, his hand dropping to the bed as you leave.
After your shower, you slip into the dressing room to put your things away. The quiet is broken by Eren's voice, he's perched at a vanity, Mikasa brushing her hair beside him, both watching you in the mirror.
"Jean's in love with you," Eren announces, deadpan.
You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. "Don't be ridiculous, Eren. We haven't seen each other in few years."
"So?" he shrugs.
Mikasa asks, "Did you guys date before?"
You pause, then nod. "Yeah. Almost a year."
Mikasa just nods, resuming her routine. All three of you go back to the bedroom, where Porco's already sprawled with his hands behind his head. You slip under the covers.
You and Porco have been a couple since day one, he stole you from Floch, who's long gone from the villa. It worked, in a friendly way, but it never really sparked. Once Pieck arrived and Porco's attention shifted, you both knew the next recoupling would probably split you up. And now, with Jean here you're sure you won't couple up again.
The next morning, some are eating breakfast or already at the gym. You're at the table with Mikasa and Pieck, quietly eating while Mikasa keeps sneaking glances at you.
"You should go talk to him," Pieck says gently. She's always been sweet, when she and Porco started talking, she came straight to you, not wanting you to be blindsided. She's one of the few you really trust here. Mikasa nods in agreement, carrying her plate to the sink.
"Go, I'll clean up," she says.
You find Jean on a workout bench, water bottle in hand, pretending to listen to Eren ramble about something you can't quite catch. He's distracted, eyes darting to you every chance he gets. When he sees you heading his way, he mutters a curse under his breath, but he's already smiling.
"Jean, can we talk?" You give him the smile you know he loves, the one that always made him melt.
He excuses himself and follows you to the daybeds under the shade. You settle in, Jean lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you.
"Do you still have feelings for me?" you ask, straightforward as always.
Jean loved that about you. No games, just honesty. If you wanted to know something or felt a certain a way you say it. You were the one who asked him out in high school, telling him he was taking too long. He nods, eyes never leaving yours.
"Good," you reply, voice steady. "Because I do too."
Jean can't stop admiring you. He always thought you were so pretty. Ethereal looking. The light blue bikini compliments you, gold bracelets catching the sun every time you move your hand. He reaches out, holding your hand between his, thumb brushing over the two bracelets, one with your name, one with a thin vine pattern.
"You still wear these," he says quietly, playing with your fingers.
"Of course," you say, the words soft.
He remembers searching everywhere for a bracelet to match the one you wore all the time, finally finding the right one when you pointed it out at the mall. He bought it and gifted it to you on your birthday. At first your mom was telling you that you can't accept the gift because it was way too expensive and she wasn't sure if Jean's mom knew he bought it.
Jean was too caught up in the memory, he barely notices when you reach out, fingers threading through his hair. "Never thought you'd let it grow out. I like it."
His hair's nothing like how he used to have it, longer now, cut into a shaggy mullet. "My friends made fun of my old haircut until I changed it," he admits, grinning when you laugh.
He hooks his fingers behind your knees and pulls you closer, making you gasp. "Stop doing that," you scold, tugging at your bathing suit.
"You were too far away." He lays his head in your lap, grinning up at you. "My mom's going to love this."
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pairings aged-up neteyam x tayrangi!female warrior
notes reader is ikeyni’s daughter, mean neteyam (dw he will grovel for this <3) crybaby neteyam, angst, she fell first and he fell harder, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)
synopsis neteyam has always been the only boy who stirred your heart. as a man, he is everything you’ve ever wanted... and now that circumstances have finally drawn you closer, it feels like the perfect chance to make him see you. but with the looming war, the firstborn son of toruk makto has no room for distractions, and he won’t hesitate to push aside anyone who threatens his focus.
word count 17.7k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You leaned against one of the massive pillars of the war pavilion, idly braiding a strand of fiber for your new knife sheath. Usually, your senses would be filled with the smell of salt and moss that clung to the cliffs of your home in the Eastern Sea, but here, in the rainforest, it was mostly choked out by the heavy stench of fuel and burning forest, and around you, the war council was deep in debate.
Your mother stood tall with the other chieftains, gesturing sharply at a large map laid on a long table. Beside her stood your brother, the future Olo’eyktan of your clan, listening intently.
And then, there was the real view.
Neteyam stood just behind his father, Jake Sully. He was taller than most of the men in your clan, broad-shouldered, and muscled, taking after his father, even though he had the fierce beauty of his mother. He was listening to the strategy with that maddeningly intense, perfectly disciplined look he always wore. Always the dutiful son, the perfect soldier.
You bit your lip, a slow smirk spreading across your face. He was so incredibly handsome it was ridiculous, especially when he looks like he carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. You’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that intensity... To be the subject of his focus and determination.
You shivered at the thought of it, and your brother caught your eyes across the table. He noticed where you were staring, rolled his eyes, and mouthed, “Stop it.”
“Their supply lines are vulnerable here, along the gorge,” Jake Sully was saying, moving a stone on the ridge on the map. “But they’ve got turrets scanning the skies. If we fly in blind, we’re target practice.”
“We need a distraction,” Neteyam muttered, his brow furrowed as he stared at the map. “Someone fast enough to draw the attention away from the ground strike team, but agile enough to avoid getting hit. But it’s high risk.”
“My people are born on the wind,” Ikeyni spoke up. She placed a hand flat on the table, her sharp eyes shifting from Jake to his eldest son. “If you need someone who can deliver what you need, you take my daughter.”
Neteyam’s head snapped up. His golden eyes immediately finding yours from where you leaned against the pillar, as if he knew where exactly you had been standing. A frown instantly marred his handsome face and he turned back to your mother, his posture stiffening.
“Olo’eykte, with respect, the RDA has upgraded those tracking systems,” Neteyam argued, his voice tight with that dutiful edge you loved to mess with. “They aren’t just shooting blindly anymore. It is high risk. A single mistake, and the ikran and its rider are—”
“Are you saying I can’t handle it?”
You purred the words as you finally pushed off the pillar, sauntering closer to the table, tossing your half-braided sheath fiber aside. Every eye in the room tracked your movement, but yours were locked on the Omatikaya’s golden boy. You stopped right beside him, close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. You tilted your head up, letting a slow smirk pull at your lips as you looked at his clenched jaw.
“If I didn’t know any better,” you murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer, “I’d think you were trying to keep me out of the sky to keep me safe. I didn’t realize you care that much?”
A sudden bark of laughter broke out from an elder across the table and the others followed suit. Meanwhile, your brother shook his head at your sheer audacity. Jake Sully’s lips twitched upward, a faint, amused glint in his eyes as he looked between you two, clearly remembering what it was like to be young and stubborn. Even the older, stern warriors around the table began to chuckle, the suffocating tension of the war efforts breaking open to let a little light in. It was a comforting reminder to the elders that despite the demons coming back, the youth were still acting their age.
Neteyam, however, did not laugh.
He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he looked down at you. His ears twitched back in mild annoyance, but he didn't step away from you. He was tolerant, as he always was, enduring your teasing with the patience of a tree weathering a storm. He had always known that you are a lethal asset to the people’s war efforts... But unfortunately, you are also a source of a massive, distracting headache.
“I care about the success of the mission,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a low register meant only for you. His gaze was incredibly intense up close, close to the kind of focus that had made you shiver imagining just moments ago. “We are planning a raid that could cost lives. This isn’t the time for games.”
Partly slighted at his doubt, you frowned. “I am completely serious,” you said, dropping the just enough to show the deadly huntress beneath. You motioned at the map right where the turrets were marked. “These are coastal winds. I’ve navigated treacherous cliff gaps like it’s a playground snce I was a child. My ikran and I will rise to the challenge, you’ll see.”
“Alright, alright, break it up,” Jake intervened, though the grin was obvious in his voice as he tapped the map. “If Ikeyni says she’s the one for the job, then she’s the one. Neteyam, you’ll be leading the ground insertion. That means your timing with the distraction has to be perfect.”
Neteyam tore his eyes away from you, nodding sharply to his father. “Yes, sir.”
But as the council began to break into smaller groups to discuss once more among themselves, Neteyam didn't immediately walk away. He stayed right where he was, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He looked down at you, the exasperation fading into something quieter, something serious and heavy.
“It really is dangerous out there,” he said softly, his golden eyes searching yours. “The winds in the gorge are unpredictable.”
You matched his seriousness for a rare, passing second, to let him see that you are capable underneath all the flirting. “I know, Neteyam. But I’m faster than them. Trust me.”
He nodded, his jaw hardening. “I do trust you. Just... don't make me regret it.”
With a final, lingering look that left your heart hammering against your ribs, he turned to follow his father. You watched him go, your smirk slowly returning as you realized that for at least a few minutes, you had been the absolute center of his universe.
The next day, you were up before the first light, immediately going to where your ikran was roosting, smiling when you saw her already prepared, like always. “Ready, girl?“ you murmured, stroking her sleek, brightly patterned neck.
She screeched in response, a sharp, eager sound and you chuckled, mounting her back and connecting your kuru to hers, the familiar, rushing warmth of the tsaheylu flooding your senses. Your head swiveled to the side when you sensed a presence, seeing Neteyam stopping several paces away, already geared with his warrior cummerbund, longbow, amd chest knife sheath.
Your head tilted, admiring how handsome he looked as you smiled brightly. “Hi! Good morning,” you grinned. “Came to send me with a good luck kiss?”
He remained serious though, his eyes scanning your form on your ikran. “Be careful out there.” he said in a clipped tone, not waiting for a response before he turned away.
You chuckled, shaking your head. So serious, you thought, smirking. So handsome, too, anyway, the other part of your mind retorted and you rolled your eyes. You clicked your tongue and pulled at your ikran’s reins, making her surge up into the sky. You flew higher than usual, hiding in the thick clouds to scan high above the gorge. The sky was still a deep, bruised purple when the signal came through the comms secured to your ear.
“Pathfinder,” Jake Sully’s voice crackled, steady and calm. “Ground teams, position. You are clear to engage. Eye in the sky, you're up.”
A heartbeat later, a lower, tighter voice filtered through. “Be careful up there. Hit your marks.”
Neteyam.
Your smirk returned, invisible to him but it laced your voice enough for him to imagine it. “I heard that twice already, Neteyam. Are you so worried?” your honeyed teasing voice dripping through the comms.
You heard his groan and it was followed by a chuckle that sounded so much like Jake’s but it was cut short. “Just focus on the mission,” Neteyam’s voice snapped back through the earpiece.
You chuckled. “Watch the skies, Sully. Try not to blink, or you’ll miss me.”
Without waiting for a response, you clicked your tongue. Your ikran folded her wings and dove straight off the cliffside into the gaping maw of the gorge. The wind shrieked past your ears, whipping your braids wildly. Below, the metallic structures of the RDA outpost clung to the valley floor like a parasite. Within seconds, the base's automated defense grid woke up. Loud whirs echoed through the canyon as three massive turrets pivoted, their motion-tracking lasers sweeping the dark sky until they locked onto you.
“Now!” you hissed, leaning flat against your ikran's back.
You maneuvered your ikran in the sky as heavy explosive rounds tore through the air. The blasts should have scared you, but it surprised even you that it didn’t. You pulled sharply on the reins, banking hard to the left. A volley of bullet shattered the rocky cliffside right where you had been a millisecond before, reducing it to a powdery debris. You laughed out loud, pushing your mount into a tight, dizzying barrel roll, diving directly between the narrow gaps of the cliffs.
The tracking systems couldn't keep up. The automated turrets jerked violently, scrambling to overcorrect their aim as you flew through the blind spots, From your view high above, you watched Neteyam and his ground strike team. While the turrets were completely distracted by your earlier display, they swarmed out of the dense forest like shadows. Leading the charge, Neteyam moved with terrifying precision, breaching the perimeter fencing, dropping two RDA guards before they could even raise their weapons. Behind him, Lo'ak and the other warriors systematically planted charges on the supply crates and fuel lines.
Even from up above, your eyes found him effortlessly, admiring his swift and unyielding movements, completely commanding. He was a force of nature.
“Charges are live! Pull back, pull back!” You heard Neteyam’s voice bark through the comms. He looked up into the sky, his golden eyes scanning the smoke until he caught the bright, unmistakable red of your ikran’s wings looping through the clouds. “Y/N, disengage! Get out of there!”
Swooping low one last time, you let out a victorious battle cry as a massive explosion ripped through the base behind you. You looked and saw an image of a huge ball of fire consuming the turrets and the supply lines. The explosion gave your ikran the motivation to increase her speed, launching you up and out of the fiery gotge into the safety of the skies. The raid was a flawless success.
By the time you got back to Hometree, the adrenaline was still humming under your skin. You hopped down from your ikran, patting her flank affectionately as the other warriors cheered and celebrated the clean victory. No casualties for the party and a massive blow to the sky people. A smudge of black engine soot marred your cheek, your eyes searching the crowd.
Neteyam was standing near his father, catching his breath, his skin glistening with sweat and ash. He looked exhausted, but the heavy tension that usually held his shoulders tight had momentarily melted away. As if sensing your gaze, his head turned. His golden eyes locked onto yours across the clearing. You stared at him, raising your brow and tilting your chind up with a proud, triumphant grin that said, I told you so.
Neteyam watched you for a long moment. Then, slowly, a genuine, breathless smile broke across his handsome face. It was a rare, stunning sight that made your heart do a violent flip against your ribs. He broke away from his father and walked straight toward you, stopping just a foot away.
“You showboated,” he murmured, his voice low but devoid of the seriousness that usually laced it.
“I just gave them a show,” you corrected smoothly, crossing your arms. “There is a difference. And I did it.”
“You did,” Neteyam conceded, his eyes dropping to the soot on your cheek before rising to meet your gaze with an intensity that made you almost forget how to breathe. “It was an incredible show. You were incredible up there.”
Your breath hitched. For all your constant flirting and loud teasing, having his quiet praise directed entirely at you caught you completely off guard that the witty comeback died on your tongue, your cheeks warming under his stare.
Neteyam noticed your sudden silence, and a small, amused smirk, one that looked a lot like your own, as if he had just copied it, pulled at the corner of his lips.
“What's wrong?” he asked softly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Quiet now? I didn't realize it was that easy to shut you up.”
You stared up at him, your mouth slightly open. The proximity was intoxicating, and for someone who usually spent his time dodging your advances, he was occupying a lot of your personal space now.
Your eyes flicked down to his smirk, then back up to his eyes. “I’m just savoring the moment. You’re more handsome up close,“ you smirked, regaining your composure a little. You leaned in, forcing him to maintain that dizzying eye contact. “And it’s not every day the great Neteyam admits I'm incredible. I might just let it get in my head.”
Neteyam’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Coughing softly, he cleared his throat as he took a strategic step backward, breaking the contact but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “Don't get used to it,” he muttered, though his tone was lacking any real bite. “Go get cleaned up. My father wants a full debrief within the hour.”
He turned on his heel and walked back toward Jake, though you didn't miss the way his tail swished behind him. You let out a quiet, triumphant laugh, wiping the soot from your cheek with the back of your hand. There was still an armor, but you had managed to crack it... That’s a small victory!
In the following days, the high of the victory had settled into the familiar routine of war. The leaders gathered once again in the pavilion. This time, however, the mood was lighter. The success of the gorge raid had given the rebellion more time to breathe. Your mother pointed at the eastern coast on the map, discussing the movement of RDA sea vessels who was last seen going farther east.
“They are retreating toward the deep water,” your brother noted, crossing his arms. “The destruction of the supply lines has damaged their operations in the coastal outposts.”
“We need to take control of the momentum,” Jake said, leaning over the table. “Neteyam, what’s the status of our perimeter watches?”
Neteyam stepped forward, completely back into his professional, disciplined element. “The forest guards are doubling their patrols. But we need to ensure our aerial scouts are maintaining a strict radius. We can't afford to get complacent just because we succeed in one mission.”
You smiled, resting your chin in your palm as you leaned over the map table, deliberately putting yourself right in his line of sight. “Oh, don't worry, Commander. Our scouts are alwasys in the air. We don't get tired easily.” You paused, letting your eyes slowly track down his body before bringing your gaze back to his face. “Though, if you're so worried about our stamina, you're welcome to come up with me next time. I can show you how we stay energized.”
A collective ripple of amused snickers passed through the council. Your brother hid his face in his hands, muttering something about losing his mind, while your mother let out a small, huffing chuckle. “Daughter...” she said pointedly.
Neytiri smiled, shaking her head at Ikeyni. You watched Neteyam close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping. He was so incredibly tolerant of you, enduring the teasing with the quiet patience of a palulukan letting a cub bat at its tail.
“Y/N,” Neteyam said slowly, opening his eyes to look at you with deadpan exasperation. “I have to train the youth at the archery grounds after this. I do not have time to be a part of your games.”
“A shame,” you purred, flashing him a brilliant, unbothered grin. “You don't know what you're missing.”
Hours later, you found yourself wandering down toward the village training grounds, hearing the familiar sound of snapping bowstrings and the light thud of arrows hitting bark targets. You stood there, crossing your arms as you watched the scene. Neteyam was in his element. He was surrounded by a dozen young, aspiring warriors, all holding smaller training bows. He was patient and focused, moving down the line to correct their posture.
“Keep your elbow high,” Neteyam instructed a young boy, gently adjusting the kid's arm. “Do not fight the bow string. Let it become an extension of your arm. Look at the center of the mark, breathe out, and release.”
The boy released the string, and the arrow thudded squarely into the inner ring of the target. The kids cheered, and Neteyam offered a rare, warm smile, patting the boy's shoulder.
“Very good. Again.”
“Nice,” you called out, stepping out from the shadows.
The group of young hunters immediately turned, their eyes widening when they saw you. In your clan, you were a legend among the youth, the daughter who flew like the wind and didn't care about the rules. A few of the older teenagers standing nearby immediately started whispering and nudging each other, grinning widely because everyone knew you loved to push Neteyam’s buttons.
Neteyam stiffened, his shoulders squaring as he turned to face you. He gripped his longbow, his ears twitching back. “I am teaching, Y/N. Go find something else to do.”
“I just want to see if I can help,” you said innocently, sauntering closer until you were standing right in front of him, entirely ignoring the giggles of the children behind him. You reached out, your fingers lightly tracing the curve of his heavy longbow. “You see, kids, the Omatikaya are used to shooting on the ground, on their feet. But if you want real precision while moving, you need a loose hip. Like this.”
You fluidly snatched a training bow from a nearby rack, notched an arrow in the blink of an eye, and without even pausing to aim, you spun on your heel and released. The young warriors erupted into gasps and cheers when they saw the arrow hit the center of the furthest target cleanly, totally thrilled by the display. You tossed the bow back onto the rack, turning around to look at Neteyam with a smug, raised eyebrow.
“See?” you murmured, stepping into his space, tilting your head up. “It’s about flexibility, too. Maybe I should give you a private lesson sometime. I can teach you how to loosen up what’s stiff.” you murmured, biting your lip.
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, his aw practically tightening into stone. His face burned a furious, deep shade of violet, his golden eyes wide as he stared down at you. He knows, with a piercing awareness, how completely trapped he is between his duty and his sheer, chaotic attraction to you, and he shouldn’t like it. But he does, so Eywa help him. He took a deep breath, gripping his bow tightly to keep his hands from shaking.
“Class dismissed,” Neteyam barked out, his voice a strained, tight rumble. “Go practice your stealth skills. Now.”
The kids scrambled away, still laughing and whispering, leaving the two of you completely alone in the training grounds. Neteyam stepped even closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you as he glared down, though the heat radiating from his skin told a completely different story.
“You are impossible,” he whispered fiercely.
You laughed, enjoying the sight of the crack getting bigger each day. You’ve never had this much progress in the past... Perhaps because you don’t really see each other for longer than a few days. Sometimes, your mother gets invited to festivals in the Omatikaya and she brings you and your brother with her, or it’s her who invites the Sullys to come for festivals in your clan.
You’ve always liked Neteyam better than his brother. Lo’ak is a good acquaintance, but it was Neteyam who you’ve always found more interesting. What with his intense focus and unyielding determination on everything he puts his mind to, but you could tell it was also born from his desire to live up to his parents’ legacy.
He is the firstborn, after all. The heir to the Omatikaya leadership. The return of the sky people was the reason why he’s grown even more serious and focused, determined to protect the people, Eywa’eveng, and his family, even more so. You respect that a great deal, but you also think he needs to loosen up a bit before he stresses himself into an early grave.
You wonder if he even has interest in women, or if he only cares about his bows and his arrows. But you don’t like to think of that. It makes you fiercely jealous to think of him directing that intense focus on a woman who’s not you... Or to think of him letting a woman see past the armor you’re working so hard to crack.
But you are too confident. You thought the crack in his armor was getting wider by the day, and you genuinely believed it was only a matter of time before he finally let his guard down.
You should have remembered that in war, the higher you fly, the harder you fall.
More council meetings ensued in the following days, and now, you found yourself back in the sky. The RDA had deployed a small convoy of armored vehicles, and Neteyam’s squad was tasked to do a quiet interception.
“Hold your position above the tree line,” you heard Neteyam’s voice through the comms, crisp and authoritative. “Do not engage until the ground team has disabled their communications. If they see you, they will lock down the area and call for reinforcements. Do you copy?”
You had copied. But as you circled in the grey mist, you saw one of the AMP suits pivoting its heavy cannon directly toward the dense foliage where Neteyam’s ground sweepers were crawling. Your heart leaped into your throat. You waited to hear from him, or for the communication to be cut, but you can’t wait when they could all be gunned down any second.
I am fast enough, you had thought, fueled by that same headstrong confidence that had always served you before. I can take out that suit before it fires.
So, you dove.
But you had underestimated the trees’ density in this sector. Your ikran’s wing clipped a massive branch, throwing off your trajectory by a fraction of a second, and it was all the automated sensors needed. The AMP suit spun, firing a volley of heavy-caliber rounds into the sky. A hot, tearing agony sliced across your thigh, a bullet graze, and the concussive blast sent your ikran screeching into a spiral.
Your sudden, messy descent completely blew the ground team's cover. The convoy opened fire on the forest blindly. Screams of pain echoed through the comms, cutting through your panic. By the time it all ended, the convoy was destroyed, but the cost to the war party was devastating. Blood soaked your leg wraps but you cared little for it, forcing your ikran into the air, flying back to the Hometree with your chest tightening in suffocating fear and shame.
When you landed in the clearing, the celebratory atmosphere of the past weeks was entirely dead. You scrambled off your mount, wincing as your injured leg buckled slightly, and rushed toward the center, catching sight of him immediately. Neteyam was lifting a huntress off the back of his ikran. Her arm was painted in deep, crimson blood from a horrific wound on her shoulder. It was Tarya.
“Get the medical bay ready! Move!” Neteyam roared, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying desperation you had never heard from him before. He was covered in soot and someone else's blood, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
“Neteyam—” you breathed, stepping forward, your hands shaking. “Neteyam, I—I am so sorry. I saw the suit turning toward you, I thought I could—”
Neteyam snapped. He lowered Tarya into the frantic arms of the medical healers, then turned on you so fast his tail whipped the air. He closed the distance between you in two giant, looming strides, towering over you.
“You thought?” he asked, his voice drawing the shocked eyes of every warrior present. “I don’t think so! You are entirely, helplessly obstinate! You almost fell! You almost died, did you even think of that?!”
You flinched, stepping back, but he kept coming, his golden eyes blazing with a dangerous, lethal heat that made you feel incredibly small.
“And because you couldn't follow a single, simple order, these warriors are wounded!” He said in a hard voice, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. “Tarya might not survive the night! Do you understand that? Do you even care?”
“I do care!” you cried out, tears of shame finally burning your eyes. “I was trying to protect—”
“You didn’t listen! Like always!” he cut you off, his chest heaving as he glared down at you with complete contempt. “You treat this war like a game to win my attention! You are a massive, childish distraction, Y/N! Everyone knows it, and I am sick of it! Do you think people bleeding out in the mud is a joke? Do you think this war is just another festival for you to play around in?”
The words felt like physical daggers piercing straight into your chest, ripping away at your pride and your confidence. You stood frozen, completely exposed and deeply ashamed in front of the people present. Your mouth opened to apologize again.
“I'm sorry,” you choked out, your voice breaking.
“Save your apologies,” Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous hiss that hurt far worse than his shouting. “If you cannot take this seriously, you should just withdraw from the war efforts entirely. Frankly, your behavior is putting everyone's life on the line.”
He didn't wait for you to answer. He turned his back on you completely, jogging alongside the stretcher as they wheeled his warriors toward the human facilities.
You stood alone in the dirt. You couldn't even feel the throbbing wound on your thigh. The numbness of absolute embarrassment and guilt swallowed you whole. He was right. You had been stupid and childish. You had been playing a dangerous game with people's lives just to hear him say your name.
You didn't seek out the Tsahik. You didn't think you deserved her medicine. Weakly, you dragged yourself back onto your ikran and flew away from the Hometree, heading toward the borders of your own clan's territory. You spent the evening in isolation, using bitter, stinging ocean herbs to tend to your own thigh, weeping silently in the dark. You resolved that you would return to apologize to the wounded warriors, and thinking of doing that is already making you feel flayed.
You had been too confident in your abilities and now, you have put people’s lives on the line. You should be ashamed. He was right about you leaving the war efforts, too, perhaps that was for the better. Because of what happened, you don’t think you still have enough confidence to go out there and fight.
You went to your clan, simply to change clothes, but was welcomed by the heavy grief that befell the people. An honored elder had passed away from natural causes, and by custom, the clan had to gather for the burial rites. Your mother and brother returned from the war front to attend, their faces grim.
After the body was given back to Eywa, your brother found you sitting on a secluded cliffside, staring blankly out at the crashing waves of the Eastern Sea. He sat down beside you, sighing. “I heard of the northern ridge,” he said quietly.
You clutched your knees to your chest, refusing to look at him. “Is Tarya... is she alive?”
“She is. Jake’s human friends saved her. She will recover. The others are okay, too,” your brother assured you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “The war party didn't lose its momentum, sister, if that’s what you’re worried about. But... the injuries could have been prevented. You know this.”
“I know,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I think I should leave, before I put everyone's lives on the line.” You looked up at your brother, your eyes hollow. “I’ll fly back tomorrow. Just to apologize to those who were wounded because of me. And then... I'm coming home.”
Later that evening, you stood inside your mother's yurt, packing away your combat gear. Ikeyni watched you from the entrance, her arms crossed, as you told her what you told your brother, your voice flat and devoid of its usual spark.
“It would be better anyway if I stay back here, Mother,” you said, tying off a leather pouch. “I can act on your behalf with the local hunters. I'm just a bother to the war council over there.”
Ikeyni stared at you, her sharp eyes assessing your rigid posture, your bandaged leg, and the complete lack of confidence in your eyes.
“Whose words are those?” your mother asked softly. “Are they yours?”
You paused, your hands trembling over your gear. You shook your head slowly. “Mother, he was right,” you said, a lump forming in your throat as Neteyam's furious face flashed in your mind. “I wasn't taking the war seriously. I think it would do the council better if I leave. We have plenty of competent riders to do my job. I don't belong there.”
Ikeyni let out a long, heavy sigh. She walked over, placing a firm, warm hand on the nape of your neck, tilting your forehead up to look into her eyes.
“If that is what you truly want, then so be it,” your mother murmured softly, leaning forward to kiss your temple. “But remember who you are, daughter. You are a child of the wind. Do not let one storm ground you forever.”
The journey back to the Omatikaya clan felt different this time. Usually, you would be racing your brother through the clouds, your laughter wild and loud, but today, you simply flew silently behind your mother. When you landed and entered the pavilion, the change in you was loud. Normally, there was always a sharp, teasing smirk ready for whoever caught your eye, but now, your face was barely moving, your eyes fixed on a permanent point in front of you.
The shame was suffocating and it felt like a huge boulder they tied around you. The council proceeded, discussing territory lines and defensive strategies for what felt like hours, while you stood rigid behind your mother, your eyes watching them move pieces on the map, unknowing of Neteyam’s eyes seeking you despite Ikeyni’s body blocking him from sight.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward into the light of the pavilion when the elders finally paused. Your voice was flat as you addressed the chieftains and the elders, completely stripped of its usual playful edge. “I want to apologize for the failure of my recent mission. I disobeyed orders, and I take full accountability for the consequences. I am even sorrier that it took me days to stand before you and say this; my clan was laying an elder to rest.“
You took a breath, your hands clasped tightly behind your back so no one could see them shaking.
“As you can see, I am unfit for this council. I lack the discipline required for operations of this scale. Moving forward, I am letting my mother decide on my replacement from the Tayrangi riders.”
A heavy silence descended upon the pavilion.
“Y/N,” Jake Sully spoke first, his deep voice carrying a wave of gentleness that surprised you. He leaned over the table, his eyes soft. “The war party didn't lose its momentum. We took out the convoy. You don't need to pin the blame solely on yourself. This is war. Mistakes happen and warriors are always meant to be wounded.”
Neytiri leaned forward next, her sharp, golden eyes searching your hollow face. “Do I understand what you mean, Ikeyni’ite? Are you leaving the council?”
“Yes,” you nodded, your voice firm.
Your mother stepped into the space beside you, her voice steady and protective, supplementing your words before anyone else could question you. “I have asked her to stay back with the Tayrangi. Ruk’e and I are heavily occupied with the war efforts here, and I need someone I trust to oversee the people.”
“Olo'eykte. Tsakarem.”
The voice cut through the pavilion, low and fractured, making your heart seize painfully in your chest. You didn't want him to speak. You didn't want to look at him.
Neteyam stepped forward from behind his father's shoulder. His posture wasn't stiff with the perfect discipline of a soldier anymore, it looked strained, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I wish to speak,” he said, his eyes locked on you, seeking yours, though you kept your gaze fixed somewhere near his collarbone. “I want to apologize to you, Y/N, before the council, for my reaction days ago. I was angry, and I spoke out of turn. You do not need to leave the council because of it.”
You felt a faint ripple of shock go through you, but it didn't revive your heart. Instead, a fresh wave of mortification washed over you. You felt even more ashamed that he felt obligated to apologize in front of the entire leadership just to close the issue gracefully and maintain alliance peace. To you, him telling you not to leave was just something he was saying for the record, a diplomatic necessity.
“You have nothing to apologize for, warrior, and I have nothing to forgive either,” you said, your voice entirely level, devoid of any anger or spite. It was just empty.
One of the Omatikaya elders turned to your mother. “Ikeyni, is this decision final? We would hate to lose such a skilled asset for the war efforts.”
“Yes,” you answered for her, your tone absolute. Nothing could have changed your mind. “If the council pleases, I excuse myself. I wish to apologize to the warriors who were wounded because of me.”
You were already looking at the door, not catching how Neteyam’s head reared back as if something had clawed at him. Without waiting for a formal dismissal, you turned and walked out of the pavilion, the sudden shift to freedom doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.
You walked straight toward the medical areas, knowing you would find the injured split between the Tsahik’s tent and the human facilities. You went to the Tsahik's tent first, stepping into the dim space. When you approached the wounded Omatikaya warriors, your throat tightened, but they easily brushed your apologies off with tired, warm smiles.
“It is no one's fault,” one of them murmured. “We know what we came there for. Being wounded is expected for a warrior.”
When you went to the human facilities, you found Tarya resting in a clean bed, her shoulder heavily bandaged. When you spoke your apologies to her, she reached out to pat your arm. “Do not carry this weight, sister. We are alive. That is what matters.”
The sheer kindness of their forgiveness almost made you cry. A bitter, agonizing thought crossed your mind, wishing Neteyam thinks the same.
But you immediately caught yourself, mentally slapping the thought away. Stop it. You need to stop thinking about what Neteyam thinks or what he doesn't. You knew it would take time. You had liked him for so long, possibly loved him, but that part of your life was over now.
You walked out to the clearing where your ikran was waiting, ready to leave this place behind for good. You were just reaching for her leather harness when heavy, frantic footsteps behind you, hearing your name being called.
You closed your eyes for a brief second before turning around. Neteyam was jogging toward you, breathing heavily. He had asked to leave the council to follow you the exact moment you walked out, but Jake hadn't allowed him to dismiss himself until the meeting officially concluded.
Now, as he stopped a few paces away, you actively turned off your imaginative mind. You completely shut down that part of yourself that used to over-analyze his every breath, forcing yourself not to read into the fact that he looked almost desperate, entirely at a loss for words.
Neteyam's eyes flickered down, and you saw his face almost crumple, a sharp grimace crossing his features at the sight of the cloth bandaging your thigh. You subtly shifted your weight, trying your best to hide the injury behind the wing of your ikran.
His eyes flickeredup to yours, swimming with a quiet, raw desperation you tried your hardest to ignore. “Y/N, please. I am so sorry for what I said in the clearing. I shouldn't have—”
“It’s alright, Neteyam,” you cut him off smoothly, your voice polite and empty. “You were right anyway. Truly, I should be ashamed of my behavior right from the start. I didn't take things as seriously as I should have, and that only proves how unfit I am for the council. So, you see, you were completely right about me leaving—”
“No,” he breathed, the word breaking from him like a gasp. His shoulders fell, and he took a sudden step forward, his hand reaching out.
Unconsciously, your posture tensed, and you took a sharp step backward, pressing yourself closer to the flank of your ikran as if to seek safety.
Neteyam froze. His extended hand trembled in the air before slowly dropping to his side. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice strained with a deep pain that, once again, you forced yourself to ignore.
“I know,” you said quickly, forcing a small chuckle to ease the tension. “Sorry.” You cleared your throat, gesturing vaguely to the sky. “But just as I said, everything has become much clearer to me now. I want to leave before I put more people in danger. Perhaps, I should even thank you for opening my mind about that—”
“No, Y/N, listen to me,” he stepped closer again, his voice rising in an urgent, pleading rush. “I was just... I was so scared for the wounded. I was terrified. And I said things that I shouldn't have said, terrible things—”
“You said things that were true, Neteyam,” you interrupted softly, your face completely calm as you reached up to ruffle the crest of your ikran's head. “And as I said, I am completely cool about them. I accept them, and I understand. You have nothing to apologize for. In truth, it was just a superior delivering valid criticisms that I needed to learn from.”
“I was unnecessarily cruel,” Neteyam burst out, his jaw trembling as he stared at your polite, unbothered expression. “I was unfair of me to pin all the blame on you. Their tracking systems were upgraded, the terrain was bad—I couldn't tell you how much I have regretted my words every second since. Y/N, please... it is I who needs your forgiveness—”
You let out a sigh and Neteyam stopped abruptly, as if your sigh had put a physical gag on him. He watched you, terrified of whatever words were about to leave your mouth.
“Neteyam. It is over and done with,” you said, your voice shifting into a serious, cold finality that left no room for argument. “I have no hard feelings over it whatsoever. Everything you said that day was true. I didn’t listen, and it put people in danger. I was reckless. I was foolish. You were right, so stop insisting you were wrong, because I’ll start thinking this is just your guilt talking. Stand by your words, and let’s leave things be.”
You reached behind you, grabbing your kuru and connecting it swiftly to your ikran's, before fluidly mounting her back, settling into the saddle with a practiced, rigid grace.
Neteyam stood rooted to the dirt. He had stopped breathing. He stared up at you, his chest aching so violently he wished with everything in him that your ikran’s wings wouldn't work. He wished the wind would die. He wished he could reach out, grab the reins, and drag you back down. His heart throbbed with a suffocating mix of guilt, regret, and something far heavier that he couldn't even name.
He had hurt you. He had completely broken your spirit, and it was devastatingly obvious. Sitting on your ikran, you were unrecognizable. The brilliant, chaotic spark was entirely gone. Your playful confidence was buried deep beneath a layer of careful, polite nonchalance.
“Have a good life, Neteyam,” you murmured.
With a sharp click of your tongue, your ikran surged forward, her powerful wings launching you into the open sky.
Neteyam watched you fly away, your form growing smaller and smaller until you were nothing but a speck in the distance. A sharp, physical spasm ripped through his chest, and his golden eyes stung, blurring his vision. His fingers curled into tight, trembling fists, his teeth gritting together so hard he thought they would crack under the pressure.
He had wanted you to take the war seriously. He had wanted you to stop distracting him. But as he stood alone in the empty clearing, looking up at the empty sky, Neteyam realized he had never been more brokenly, horribly distracted in his entire life.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The war efforts did not stop just because Neteyam’s world had lost its friction. If anything, the pace of the rebellion quickened after the destruction of the northern convoy. The Omatikaya and their allies pushed the RDA further toward the coastal margins, reclaiming three separate valleys within a single turn of the moon.
Neteyam did his duty with the same cold precision his father had drilled into him since he was old enough to hold a knife. To the common warriors, he was still the golden heir... Unshakable, vigilant, a pillar of the clan along his parents and Mo’at.
But inside his own skin, he was experiencing a slow, suffocating death.
Every hour of every day, his mind raced backward, tracing the bridge he had violently brought down. He missed you with a ferocity that physically brought ache to his gut. It felt like a boulder was placed in his ribs, overcrowding his lungs. Some days, he could barely breathe.
And the worst part was the quiet.
Before his stupidity, every spot of the Hometree was a minefield of your laughter. He had spent months training himself to ignore the sound of that, even though it was the balm to his soul at the end of every exhausting day, the honeyed delivery of your voice, and the way you would lean your shoulder against his, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from you. He had thought of you as a massive, beautiful distraction. He had braced himself against you like a tree hardening its bark against a persistent storm.
Now, it was just gone. And the silence you left behind was deafening.
Dozens of times during the mid-day meetings, Neteyam would find his head turning instinctively to the left, his eyes scanning the roots or the wooden pillars for a glimpse of your vibrant red paint. At the training grounds, his shoulder would tingle, expecting the sudden touch of your hand.
But there was none.
By the second week, the pressure in Neteyam’s chest grew so immense that he began to lose his grip on his characteristic discipline. He became desperate for any connection to you, any excuse to hear updates from you that he found Ikeyni’s intense focus on war tactics and Ruk’e’s silence very irritating.
Stop talking of war, he thought. Let’s talk about your sister.
So when Ruk’e announced he was flying back to the Tayrangi to retrieve a shipment of leather harnesses and specialized arrows for the coastal hunters, Neteyam didn't even hesitate.
“I will go with you,” he had said, stepping into the ikran roosts before Ruk’e could even clear his mount for takeoff.
Ruk’e had paused, his hand tightening on his reins as he looked at Neteyam. There was no mission along the coast. There was no tactical reason for the commander of the ground forces to waste half a day acting as a pack-beast for supply crates.
“The eastern passes are clear, Sully,” Ruk’e said, his voice carrying that protective, guarded edge that you both possessed. “I do not need an escort.”
“My father wants an updated report on the drafts near the bay,” Neteyam lied, his jaw clenching as he connected his queue to his ikran. His voice was tight, nearly fracturing under the weight of his hidden urgency. “We are moving the division soon. I also need to see the terrain.”
Ruk’e stared at him for a long, heavy moment, reading the dark circles beneath his eyes and the frantic, nervous twitch of his tail. With a slow sigh, Ruk’e nodded silently. The flight to the Eastern Sea was the longest hour of Neteyam’s life. His mind ran through a thousand different scenarios, each one more pathetic than the last. He thought of finding you by the cliff’s edge. He thought of going down on his knees, uncaring of who saw him. He would let you see past his walls. He would let you see that he was nothing but a stupid man who had torn out his own heart stupidly. He was stupid, stupid, stupid.
Your final words had been repeating in his skull like a death chant. Have a good life, Neteyam.
It had sounded like a permanent severance. A final closure. He remembered how, weeks ago, when the realization that you intended to live the rest of your days without ever seeing him again hit him, he nearly doubled over, a physical gasp tearing from his throat as if he had been struck in the gut. Now, as they finally crested the high cliffs of the Tayrangi territory, his hope was crushed into dust. Apparently, you were not around. And he thought he was imagining the smirk that passed Ruk’e’s face.
They were there for close to two hours, gathering everything and securing it on their ikrans. At one point, Neteyam had looked high above and saw the unmistakable, bright red-and-orange span of your ikran’s wings flying down. His heart leaped into his throat, a sudden, violent surge of blood hammering in his ears. He leaned forward, preparing, his mouth already forming your name.
But then, Neteyam watched in absolute horror as your ikran turn back toward the blind side of the cliffs, diving deep into the sea mists until you completely vanished from sight. He looked at his ikran, its recognizable bright blue-green scales... Even from leagues away, you had seen the beast. Even though you didn't really see him, you decided to turn away. Avoiding him. Flying away from him.
Neteyam spent the rest of the supply run standing on the landing platforms, his eyes fixed on the empty horizon, his hands gripping his longbow so tightly his knuckles turned a sickly, pale shade of blue. You never came back up. You stayed hidden in the shadows of the rocks until they had to leave and fly back home to the forest, feeling more like a ghost than a living man.
Many nights later, Neteyam sat on a log near the weapon racks, idly running a whetstone down the edge of his hunting knife when a shadow fell over him. Jake Sully stepped into the light, his large frame blocking out the stars. He watched his eldest son for a quiet minute, taking in the rigid, defensive curve of the his spine.
“You're off your mark, son,” Jake said, his deep voice slicing through the crickets. “During the perimeter check today, you missed three separate trails on the western border. That’s not like you.”
Neteyam didn't look up. He kept his head bowed, the whetstone scraping against the blade. “Just tired, sir. The patrols have been long.”
“It’s not the patrols,” Jake countered gently. He stepped closer, leaning his hip against the weapon rack, his expression softening. “I know what happened after the ridge raid, Neteyam.”
The whetstone stopped.
Neteyam’s hands tried to grip the knife tighter to hide the trembling of his fingers. For the first time in his life, he couldn't hold his mask in place. A small, ragged breath escaped his lips, and when he finally turned his face up to look at his father, Jake blinked sharply from the surprise of seeing Neteyam’s eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I hurt her, Dad,” Neteyam said weakly, his voice breaking. “I was... I was so unnecessarily cruel. I was too stupid, opening my mouth like that. Shouting at her... saying those terrible things.”
He let out a shaky breath, his face crumpling from the sheer, agonizing effort of trying not to cry, but the first tear slipped anyway.
“Have you seen her at the pavillion, Dad?” he asked. “That's not her. That is no longer her because I broke her. I took her spirit and I crushed it with my cruelty. And what’s worse, what is killing me every second, is that she thinks she deserved it. She thinks I was right.” He dropped the knife into the dirt, his hands coming up to cover his face. “I don't know how to turn it all back around. I want her to forgive me. I want her to know... I’d rip my own heart right out of my chest if it means I could take away the pain I gave her.”
Jake let out a long, heavy sigh. His own features crumpled in deep distress for the two of you. He reached down, placing a calloused hand on his son’s trembling shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Have you tried apologizing again? Truly talking to her?”
“No,” Neteyam choked out, pulling his hands away from his face, his eyes red-rimmed from his tears. “I think she doesn't want to see me ever again. I flew to the Tayrangi with Ruk'e last week... and the moment she saw my ikran, she retreated. She dove back into the cliffs... She didn't want to be near me, Dad.”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling through his teeth. “Have you tried hiding your ikran from view?”
Neteyam shot his father a miserable, exhausted look. “Dad,” he said, his you're-not-helping tone incredibly obvious. “I don't want to force her. If she wants to be away from me, I... I have to respect that. Even if it kills me.”
“Well,“ Jake said slowly, shifting his weight as he stared out into the dark canopy. “Perhaps you should just give her time... The perfect time to talk to her would probably be when she’s mated and having children with her husband—”
“Dad,” Neteyam’s voice rose and deepened, his head snapping up in sheer horror. The tears on his cheeks dried instantly as his heart did a terrifying, sickening dive into his stomach.
“What?” Jake asked, completely straight-faced, though there was a tiny, knowing glint in his eye. “You're taking too much time, son. Men could swoop in anytime, you know? Especially now. She’s back home, heartbroken, and trying to move on from a stupid boy who is too terrified to admit that he belongs to her. That’s exactly when other men take their chances.”
Neteyam closed his eyes, his breathing turning shallow and fast. For the first time in his twenty-two years of life, he felt a wild, primitive urge to beat his own father up.
It wasn't funny, but he knew that his father wasn’t joking either, and as he sat there, his mind began to spin into a dark spiral of jealousy and terror. He had always known that you liked him, that you had liked him since you were children, but because he had been so focused on his duty, he had never allowed himself to measure the depth of it. He had taken your presence for granted. He had assumed you would always be there, annoying him, teasing him, waiting for him to finally turn around.
But you were a chieftain's daughter. You were a legendary huntress, beautiful, fierce, and wild. He knew exactly how many Tayrangi young men watched you with fierce attraction when you flew. The only reason they had stayed away before was because you were down here, making a public nuisance of yourself over the Omatikaya heir.
Now, you were back home. Heartbroken and vulnerable.
Neteyam’s fingers curled into tight fists against his knees, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned under the pressure. The thought of another warrior touching your hand, the thought of another man making you laugh, or seeing that brilliant, wicked smirk return to your face, made his blood run thick.
“She is the daughter of the Olo’eykte,” Neteyam muttered, his voice dropping into a low register. “She would not just choose anyone.”
“No, she wouldn't,” Jake agreed softly. “But she will choose eventually, Neteyam. And right now, you're letting her believe she is better off without you.”
Jake turned away, leaving Neteyam to sit with the desperate fire that had lit inside him. He had broken your spirit, yes. But he would be damned if he let another man be the one to fix it.
With this new fire in him, Neteyam returned to the Tayrangi three more times over the following weeks, armed with a bag of increasingly flimsy excuses. The first time, he claimed his father needed a precise audit of the coastal clan's surplus ikran armor. The second time, he practically forced himself onto a tracking detail meant to map the migration patterns of the sturmbeast herds near the Tayrangi territories. By the third time, he was carrying a bundle of forest herbs from Mo’at that Tayrangi healers hadn't even asked for.
Yet, three times, you managed to dodge him completely.
It was maddening. It felt as though someone was deliberately feeding you a schedule of his arrivals and departures. Every time his blue-green ikran broke through the coastal fog, you were already gone, out on a hunt, or patrolling the northern borders. He even began to suspect your brother, Ruk’e, was secretly warning you through some hidden signal, but he knew for a fact that the man had no way of communicating with you.
You were simply anticipating him. You were treating him like an incoming storm, closing your doors and retreating into a safe place before the first drop of rain could touch you.
By the fourth visit, Neteyam had reached his absolute limit. He didn't bring an escort, and he didn't use the main landing platforms. He left his ikran tethered half a league away, hidden in a dense thicket, and trekked up the rocky coastal paths on foot, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was taking his father’s advice now, though he really hated the thought of surprising you.
He caught you by pure accident near the lower tide pools, where the cliffs formed a secluded cove. You were alone, repairing a frayed net, your long legs tucked beneath you on the smooth stone.When his shadow fell over you, you snapped your head up. For a second, your eyes widened in genuine, startled surprise. But the shock vanished, replaced instantly by that smooth mask of careful, polite nonchalance that made Neteyam’s stomach twist into a painful knot.
“Neteyam,” you said, your voice casual, but your fingers tightened so hard around the wooden netting needle. You made no move to stand, looking up at him as if he were nothing more than a passing trader. “What brings you here? Do you need help with anything, or were you sent here?”
You spoke the words with an easy, detached courtesy, even though your entire posture screamed that you wanted to be anywhere else but in front of him.
Neteyam closed the distance between you, his strides long and desperate. He didn't care about his dignity anymore. He didn't care that he was the commander of the ground forces or the son of Toruk Makto. He stopped just two paces away from you, his breath hitching as his eyes immediately swept down to your thigh. The bandage was gone, replaced by a white scar where the bullet had grazed you.
The sight of it made his throat tighten with a fresh wave of suffocating guilt.
“I wasn't sent, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, fractured register. He took a half-step forward, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting so desperately to reach out but forcing himself to stay back. “I came because of you. I came because I want to talk to you. I... I cannot sleep, I cannot breathe, and I—”
You let out a sharp, sudden breath, dropping the netting needle into your lap. The polite facade finally cracked, and you stood up, your tail whipping the air behind you in a sudden flash of genuine irritation.
“Aren’t we over this, Neteyam?” you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you glared up at him. “We discussed this already. I thought we agreed to get past it.”
“Y/N, please—”
“No, listen to me,“ you cut him off, your voice rising, hard and sharp. “If this is about your guilt, you can lay it down. I told you before, I have nothing to forgive. I accepted your words because they were true. But if you are going to keep coming here with more pathetic apologies and diplomatic reassurances, you are actually going to make me angry.” You stepped closer. “I told you to stand by your words. If you cannot back your own words, Neteyam, I would be deeply disappointed. You are going to lead your clan one day, and an Olo'eyktan’s words must be solid as stone. If you are this fickle with your own tongue, how can anyone trust you?“
“That is the problem!” He said pointedly, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing emotion as he grabbed your hand, his fingers locking around your wrist before you could pull away, his grip desperate but fiercely tender. “I regret my words, I regret them every single second of every day—”
You tried to wrench your wrist free, but he held fast, his eyes blazing down into yours with a terrifying, weeping intensity.
“I know I cannot take them back,” he breathed, his chest heaving as he stared into your eyes. “I know I cannot magically wipe away the pain I inflicted on you, and I know I cannot just hand you back the confidence that I shattered, but I will work on my hands and knees to bring you back to who you used to be. I will do whatever it takes, Y/N. I swear it to the Great Mother.”
You stopped pulling against his grip, your frame going completely rigid. A bitter huff escaped you, “I don't like who I used to be,” you whispered, and his head moved as if you’d slapped him. “And you said it yourself that day, you don't like it either. You said you were sick of it. You said I was a massive, childish distraction—”
“I was a fool!” he cried, his voice breaking completely. “I was terrified for the warriors, but most of all, I was terrified for you. When you fell from the sky... I thought I lost you. I let my fear turn into venom, and I threw it at the one person who didn't deserve it.”
You stared at him, your jaw tight, your breathing ragged. For a second, just a fraction of a second, Neteyam thought he saw a flicker of the old warmth that used to belong entirely to him. But then, your expression hardened again.
“It doesn't matter why you said it, Neteyam,” you said, your voice flat. “The fact remains that your assessment was correct. I was reckless, and I put lives at risk. Your cruelty was just the mirror I needed to see myself clearly. Now, let go of me. I have nets to mend."
Neteyam’s fingers slowly uncurled, his arm dropping to his side as if it had been cut. You didn't give him another glance, you simply sat back down on the rock, picked up your wooden needle, and began weaving the fibers with steady, unbothered precision.
That day was completely unproductive for him. He spent the remaining hours sitting on a boulder a few paces away, watching you work in absolute silence. You didn't speak to him again. You didn't look at him. You treated him like a piece of rock, completely ignoring his presence until the sun began to dip and he was forced to hike back to his ikran, his heart heavier than when he had arrived.
Neteyam did not give up. In fact, his failure only made him more relentless.
He began flying between the Omatikaya and the Tayrangi almost every single day, uncaring of the brutal, grueling transit on top of his patrols, trainings, and war meetings. He would wake up before the first light of dawn, complete his mandatory border patrols, and then immediately push his ikran through the treacherous mountain drafts just to spend an hour or two on the cliffs.
He became a desperate fixture in your clan. He didn't care how it looked to your people. He didn't care that they watched with raised eyebrows and murmurs of amusement as the proud Omatikaya heir practically degraded himself for a glimpse of their chieftain's daughter. He didn’t know how to fully show you how sorry he is, and how sorry he will be for the rest of his life, so he started with the absolute surrender of his pride.
If you were out in the lower fields gathering ocean kelp for the healers, Neteyam would appear beside you to help without a word. He would haul the heavy, water-logged crates onto his shoulders, carrying them up the steep cliff paths so you wouldn't have to. You would tell him to leave, your voice sharp with annoyance, but he would simply set his jaw, and go back down for another load.
When you were assigned to clean and grease the riding saddles, he would sit on the floor opposite you, taking the rough scraping stones out of your hands. He would spend hours working the stiff leather until his fingers blistered, quiet despite the clear annoyance and suffocating silence you serve him. Some days, you wouldn't even show yourself, your people telling him you went to patrol or hunted, leaving him sitting alone on the rocky ledges for hours.
But he always came back the next day.
One evening, after a particularly brutal afternoon where you had completely ignored his existence while he helped the elders fix something, he caught you as you walked back toward your family's yurt. The sky was a bruised purple, and the bioluminescence was casting a soft light across your face.
He called out your name, his voice light despite the clear exhaustion on his face. He looked terrible, his shoulders were bruised from hauling timber, but there was still the sharp, military crispness of his posture despite the air of a man who was running on nothing but sheer desperation.
You stopped, but you didn't turn around to face him. “Go home, Neteyam. Take the war seriously instead of spending so much of your time here. Your father needs you.”
“My father has other warriors,” Neteyam said, stepping closer. “I will not stop. I will come here every day. I will carry every basket, I will mend every net, I will bleed on these rocks until I’ve proven myself to you.”
You finally turned your head, looking over your shoulder at him. Your face was half-hidden in the shadows, but your eyes were fixed on him.
“You are wasting your time,” you said, though your voice devoid of its usual malice, carrying only a profound, weary sadness. “The girl who would have been happy with all of these is gone, Neteyam. Even I couldn’t bring her back. You cannot bring back something that no longer exists.”
His breath hitched, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow from his father’s training sessions. His ears pinned flat against his head, but he took a deep breath, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. You silently gasped, watching the proud, golden boy of the Omatikaya, who had been raised to hold his head high, lowering himself in the dirt of the Tayrangi cliffs.
“Then who is she now?“ he asked quietly. “Would you let me meet her?” he pleaded, looking up at you soulfully, his chest heaving. “If she is a stranger, then let me earn her. Let me learn the way she breathes, the way she speaks, what makes her laugh now. I do not care if it takes the rest of my life. I will build a bridge over whatever ocean you put between us.”
You looked down at him, your eyes tracing his bruised shoulders, the raw, blistered skin on his fingers, and the deep shadows under his eyes. He looked so tired, what with his duties back home and the tasks he’s killing himself to do here, only to be ignored by you.
“You are a fool, Neteyam,” you murmured softly.
“I am,” he agreed instantly, his eyes tired but fiercely intense. “I am a fool who took you for granted and hurt you, who took too long to realize that my world has no tilt on its axis if you don’t belong in it.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. For many moons, you had kept your heart behind an impenetrable wall of ice, convincing yourself that what had happened broken something inside you that could never be mended. But looking at him now, no armor to break nor wall to climb, and entirely surrendered at your feet, a terrifyingly familiar warmth threatened to crack the frost.
You stepped around him, your tail flicking with a wave of mixed emotions. “The elders need the nets mended by first light tomorrow,” you said, not looking back as you pulled open the flap of your yurt. “If you are going to bleed on our rocks, you might as well make yourself useful.”
You left him outside and he watched the flap shut close with a twinkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there in moons. He let out a long breath, staying on his knees for a moment longer. A fierce, protective spark reignited in his chest. That wasn’t exactly forgiveness, but you had indirectly told him not to leave and tend to the nets, a complete opposite of how you’d pushed him away every single day in the past moons.
He’s not confident yet, but it was a crack in your armor.
Standing up, he wiped the dust from his knees, his eyes watching the flap with tangible longing, before deciding to walk down toward the docks where the torn nets lay waiting.
Days turned into weeks, and Neteyam’s presence in the cliffs before the first light ever crested the horizon has become a constant view. You were drinking your morning tea on a higher ledge when you saw him trekking up the hill, his ikran stubbornly left in a hidden thicket half a league away even though you’d stop avoiding him or fleeing away at the sight of his ikran. You’d seen where he hids his ikran and knew that he had to trek the rocky, miles-long paths on foot before he could even reach your home.
“You should have just brought your mount here instead of trekking that much distance,” you casually said.
He stared at you, as if surprised that you’d suggest that. “Maybe... Maybe tomorrow,” he replied.
Your eyes narrowed at how he was uncharacteristically wearing his warrior cummerbund. It was a gear he wears during missions, but one he rarely wore for casual labor. On top of that, he also looked too pale for your liking, his skin lacking its usual vibrance and his lips almost as white as sea foam.
“Did you come straight here from a mission?“ you probed and he immediately shook his head.
“Just patrol,” he answered, his voice a little gravelly.
Your eyes narrowed, refusing to press for more answers but you watched him almost the entire time, silently going straight to work, lifting heavy timber, hauling supply crates, and helping grease the stiff riding saddles of your clan’s riders. It was past mid-day when he finished, just in time for him to get back for the council meeting, if their schedule is still the same as you remembered.
You caught him just as he was walking down the mountain path. “Neteyam,” you called out.
He turned around immediately and you saw the slight sway that followed that sudden movement, which he tried to mask by shifting his weight.
“You should eat before you go,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I haven’t eaten yet, too... Only if you’d like,” you added.
A look of pure surprise crossed over his pale face. For a second, he just stared at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The exhaustion weighing him down seemed to lift, replaced by a twinkle in his eyes that made you almost smile. Thank Eywa, you were able to stop yourself!
“I... I would like that,” he murmured, his voice soft.
He walked back with you into the communal yurt, aware of your people’s eyes tracking your movements. After all, this was the first time you actually invited him in for anything, knowing how their imaginative minds have long came up with stories of their own to explain the presence of the Toruk Makto’s heir in the Tayrangi.
He sat across from you and you noted how slow he seemed to be moving, having known how efficient he usually is, so you handed him a bowl of steaming soup and a plate of honeyed roasted fish that you’ve already cut into bite-sized pieces. His eyes were heavy on you that your skin seemed to tingle at your every move, too conscious of yourself knowing that he’s watching you.
Your eyes snapped to his, your brow rising. “Eat. The food will go cold,“ you said.
He nodded, redirecting his attention on his food. Despite the pain on his side, a sense of profound peace seemed to settle over him. He was sitting across from you, eating your food, sharing your space. He was so glad he perservered to go today. Whatever agony pokes at him under his tight cummerbund was a cheap price to pay for this single moment with you.
When the bowl was completely empty, he placed it down with meticulous care, waiting for you to finish without speaking, but halfway your meal, your eyes snapped up to his.
“You can go, if you wished,” you said casually.
“Believe me, I do not wish to be anywhere but here,” he replied. “I knew I would have to wait, you were always a slow-eater.”
Your lips pushed forward. He knows that. You tilted your head to brush it off. “I’ve grown faster since I became a huntress,” you retorted.
“Hm. I wish I can see it,” he said, his voice laced with humor.
You stuffed the rest of your food into your mouth, chewing non-stop as your cheeks filled with food bubbling like a syaksyuk eating utumauti. A snort escaped him as he watches you, one that turned into a genuine laugh, though it was cut short, his ears twitching and his jaw tightening as he suppressed a grimace.
“Why?” you asked, your voice muffled by the food in your mouth. He looked like he was pained.
He shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on the low table. He handed you a bowl of water. “Slow down, syaksyuk, or you’ll choke...”
He chuckled when you rolled your eyes before ccepting the water he offered, continuously chewing. Once you were finished, you finally spoke, “You should get moving,” you said softly, reaching over to stack his empty bowl onto your plate. “If you are late for the council meeting, they might think that Toruk Makto’s heir lacks discipline. We don’t want that.”
Neteyam let out a quiet sigh, the humor fading into a weary but profoundly content expression. He slowly pushed himself up from the ground, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping his teeth before his hand flew to his ribs, but he quickly converted the movement into a stretch. He looked down at you with a lingering fondness.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said softly. “I must head to the council now. I will... I will be back tomorrow. With my ikran, if you meant what you said.”
You went to stand, following him out of the communal space to walk him only until the ledge. “Take care...” you whispered in the wind as you watched him go. Your eyes narrowed, noting how unusually heavy his steps were. He really looked remarkably weak.
You figured you'd ask him tomorrow, but your suspicion was answered much sooner than you expected. In the dead of night, Ruk’e quietly entered your yurt, his expression unusually grave.
“Pack your weapons,” he said, his voice low. “The war council needs you back urgently. The RDA is pushing the western flank, and they need every competent ikran rider back in the air.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Mother agrees it is time.”
He left out the part where Jake Sully himself spoke with him. What you didn't know was that back at the Omatikaya hometree, Neteyam had fallen ill through the night. Yesterday, during a swift ambush on an RDA scout unit, a stray shrapnel had torn into his midriff. It was just a minor injury that required only bed rest, but Neteyam had completely ignored the Tsahik's orders. He had wrapped it tightly, hidden it beneath his cummerbund, and flown straight to the Tayrangi to help haul your clan's imports.
When he returned to the forest, he could barely stand. His wound was bleeding beneath his cummerbund, and his body hot with fever.
Now, he lay on a mat in the Tsahik’s tent, practically delirious. Neytiri sat near him, her tail whipping in a furious frenzy as she scolded him. “You went to the Tayrangi? What did you even do there that you’d managed to have your flesh torn open?! Have you lost your mind, Neteyam?!”
Through the haze of his fever, Neteyam weakly opened his eyes. “Mother... it’s fine. I am fine. Just... do not tell her. She wants me to bring... My ikran tomorrow...” his mouth formed into a lazy smile.
“What?!” Neytiri cried out, her voice breaking in panic. “Neteyam, you could barely open your eyes, and you're flying back there again to do only the Great Mother knows what?!“
“Mother, it’s okay,” he muttered, brushing her hands away.
Jake stepped into the tent, his large hand resting on his wife's shoulder to calm her, though he himself was worried. “You can't do this to yourself, boy. You're going to kill yourself before the RDA even gets a chance to.”
Neteyam let out a long, ragged sigh, his eyes closed. “Have you ever had someone be your entire world, Dad?” he whispered, his voice laced with contentment. “We ate together earlier... And it felt like my entire world was narrowed down on that table... With her sitting across from me. I don't think... I don't think I can miss a single day not seeing her. If I stop showing up... She will think I gave up.”
Neytiri’s fury slowly melted away, her face falling as she watched her son finally drift into a deep, feverish sleep. She turned to Jake and his eyes snapped to her, sharing a look of understanding.
The next morning, you walked with mother and brother to the war pavilion. You had flown back with Ruk’e at dawn, your mind focused on the reports Ruk’e has told you, but some parts of you were thinking about how Neteyam would react seeing you back in the council. Now, he wouldn't have to exhaust himself flying from the forest to the Eastern Coast.
The council welcomed you, asking you about things back home and slowly easing the current climate regarding the sky people into the conversation. You assured them your brother has told you and that you know what you came here for. You turned to the pavilion’s entrance when you heard an entourage enter, freezing at the sight you saw.
Neteyam entered first, his midriff wrapped with a medical woven fabric, and there was an unmistakable fresh smear of blood already blooming through the center of the cloth. He looked very pale. His head casually snapped to your direction, and the absolute shock on his face mirrored your own. Written on his forehead was a huge why are you here?
He instinctively took a half-step backward, his tail twitching as if he wanted to flee the pavilion entirely rather than let you see him like this. But Jake was standing directly behind him. His father placed a firm, unyielding hand on his shoulder, gently prompting him forward into the room. Neteyam swallowed hard, forced his chin up, and continued walking as if everyone in the pavilion didn’t witness his panic at the sight of you.
Well, it’s not like these people are oblivious to his daily trips to the Tayrangi. They had known, it’s only that they didn’t know exactly what for though they had a hunch. And now, he practically confirmed it. He was persistently going there for you.
Meanwhile, the pieces in your mind instantly fell into place. His paleness yesterday, the cummerbund, the obvious weariness... He had been bleeding out while lifting things that normally needed the strength of two men.
“Thank you all for gathering so quickly,” Jake began, clearing his throat as he addressed the elders. “I spoke with Ikeyni and Ruk’e yesterday. We have expanded our flight perimeters, and we drastically need our most skilled ikran riders back in the vanguard. Y/N has agreed to step back into her role.”
As the chieftains murmured their approval, the briefing began. You forced your mind to focus, stepping up to the map table to report on the coastal movements. “The Tayrangi borders are currently stable,” you said, your voice serious and level. “We ran three separate scouts and extended it along the northern reef daily. So far, it's untouched.”
You reached across the wide table for a wooden marker to illustrate the scout lines, but your fingers missed it by a few inched. Before you could lean forward again, a hand moved into your field of vision.
Neteyam picked up the marker for you.
As he extended his arm, a subtle flinch crossed his features. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck strained, the simple effort of reaching across the table obviously hurt him. But when his golden eyes turned to meet yours, the pain vanished behind a cool mask of a hardened warrior. He stared at you with an intense, unblinking focus that made your face feel incredibly hot.
The silence stretched for a beat too long. Jake cleared his throat loudly, and from the corner of the pavilion, Lo'ak let out a highly audible, mocking snicker.
You quickly tore your gaze away, your cheeks burning. “Thanks...” you muttered, looking at the map through your lashes.
“You're welcome,” Neteyam drawled, his voice low and smooth despite the sweat glistening on his brow.
You bit your lip, your cheeks still burning as you forced your voice to level to continue your report. The moment the council was dismissed, Neteyam stayed back, lingering by his father's side to converse with the elders. He was very obviously trying to avoid leaving the pavilion at the same time as you.
But you weren't going to let him escape. You walked out with your arms crossed and waited right outside the entrance, your eyes already narrowed into slits. When Neteyam finally emerged, he stopped dead in his tracks. Seeing you standing there like a warden, he took a breath and adjusted his posture, walking toward you with every ounce of military bravado he could muster, desperately trying to hide the slight limp in his stride. The red stain on his white bandage had grown wider.
“What is that?” you demanded without so much as a greeting, gesturing sharply to his torso.
Neteyam stopped two paces away, his expression carefully neutral as he looked away toward the trees. “Just a minor injury from the recent mission. It is nothing.”
“You got shot?” you pressed, stepping closer, your voice rising in genuine disbelief.
“It's a shrapnel,” he corrected quickly as if that made it all better.
“Great! An iron slug tore through your side, and you still came to the coast yesterday? You still did the heavy lifting? You still hiked miles on foot to your ikran?!”
“It was just small,” he lied smoothly, though his breathing was shallow.
“Then why is it actively bleeding?!“ your voice rose slightly.
“It just got strained yesterday, but it’s nothing serious—”
“Are you insane?!” you huffed, your anger finally boiling over. “My father died from a small wound and left my mother a widow, Neteyam! You are not thinking! You have a responsibility to this war, to your family, to your people! How can you preach to me about discipline and taking things seriously when you are out there compromising your own body for something so small?!”
Neteyam listened to your tirade, his ears pinning back slightly against his head. But he didn't flinch away from your fury, instead, he watched you with that stupidly twinkling eyes. He took a step closer, the hardened soldier completely melting away to reveal the raw, aching man underneath.
“What are you calling small? Your forgiveness? Your attention? The chance I was asking for from you? It’s not small to me, Y/N. It is everything to me... And right now, it is all that is holding me together,” he said softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity.
“Must you really put yourself at risk like that?” you cried, throwing your hands up in exasperation.
He groaned, closing his eyes momenyarily, when you could no longer hold your tears back. You are so scared right now, so worried for him, it’s not even funny.
“Just let me, alright? I said I will do everything to earn the right to at least be near you again, and this is me standing by my words. Like what you told me to do,“ he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his conviction. He stepped into your space, ignoring the sharp twinge in his side. “I told you, I will do whatever it takes. I did not want to miss a single day of trying to show you that I will show up. Even if I am bleeding, even if you do not look at me, I will be there.”
You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. The sheer, stubborn idiocy of his devotion was infuriating, but beneath the anger, that stubborn wall of ice around your heart suffered another massive, catastrophic crack.
“Well, you don't have to do all that anymore,” you said, looking down at his bleeding bandage, your tone softening into something weary. “I am back on the council now. I will be here in the forest. You don't need to fly to the coast for me.”
“It does not change anything,” Neteyam countered instantly. He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm, close enough for you to feel the heat of his fever, though he refrained from touching you. “Just because you are back in the pavilion does not mean I am done. I will still work for your forgiveness, Y/N. I will still do everything in my power until you can look at me and trust me the way you used to. I am not stopping.”
You looked up at him, your mouth slightly open, completely at a loss for words. You mouth opened again to retort, but before you could even speak, a sudden, frantic rustling erupted from the pavilion entrance. Lo’ak came scrambling out, his limbs flailing wildly as he tried to prevent himself from falling into the dirt.
You and Neteyam quickly turned to him, only to get surprised to see not just Lo’ak, but an entire audience: Jake, Neytiri, Ikeyni, and Ruk’e. They were all standing completely still, their expressions a mix of profound interest and varying degrees of amusement. But because Lo’ak had tripped and completely blown their cover, the privacy shattered instantly.
Ikeyni was the first to recover, clearing her throat with a loud, entirely performative cough. “Ah... Ruk'e, we must go and inspect the riders at the vanguard. Immediately.“
Neytiri smoothed down her braids, her sharp eyes twinkling as she looked anywhere but at her eldest son. “Ah, and I must find Tuk. We have... things to gather. Many things.“
Jake offered a highly unconvincing nod, clapping a hand on a thoroughly embarrassed Lo’ak’s shoulder. “Right. And I have an urgent meeting with the elders about... perimeter lines.”
“I am hungry,” Ruk’e announced flatly to the sky, ignoring the fact that he had consumed a massive breakfast less than an hour ago.
Lo’ak let out a low whistle, backing away alongside the adults. Within three seconds, the entire crowd had vanished, leaving you two alone.
You turned back to Neteyam, your ears pinning flat against your head as you glared at him, trying desperately to mask the raging blush creeping up your neck. “You need to go see the Tsahik. Right now. You are bleeding through your bandage.”
Neteyam nodded, but he didn't move. He stayed standing there, towering over you, watching your fiery exasperation with a soft, maddening look of pure adoration. You groaned, a sound of defeat tearing from your throat.
Reaching out, you firmly grabbed his wrist and began dragging him yourself toward the Tsahik’s tent. “Move, you stubborn man,” you muttered. You figured you wanted to see exactly how small this wound actually was.
When you pulled him into the warmth of the Tsahik’s tent, Mo’at didn't look even remotely surprised to see you practically hauling the clan's golden heir by his arm.
“Ah, and he returns,” Mo’at remarked dryly, setting down a bowl of poultice. “Did I not tell you last night, Neteyam, when you came home violently ill and shaking with fever, that your flesh would tear? Look at this!”
With practiced, firm hands, she unclipped the medical wrap. When the bloody fabric fell away, your breath hitched, and you winced sharply.
The wound was not small. It was an angry tear about as long as your pinky finger, stretching deep into the muscle of his side, the edges raw and weeping fresh blood from where he had strained it.
“You are a liar,” you hissed, the fear in your chest turning into a surge of anger. You reached out and forcefully pinched his shoulder. “You said it was small!”
Neteyam’s hand instantly shot up, his fingers gently trapping yours against his shoulder. His twinkling eyes locked onto yours, completely unbothered by the pinch, and he flashed a rare smile that showed his pearly whites. It was so genuine, so disarming, that the hot anger in your chest simmered down into a helpless flutter.
“There is nothing to worry about, Y/N,” he murmured softly. “I’ve had worse before.”
You merely hissed at him in response, pulling your hand back.
Mo’at wiped the blood away and applied a fresh layer of soothing poultice, wrapping the midriff with tight, clean linen. Once finished, she stood up, turning her sharp gaze directly onto you. “Y/N, I am entrusting this hard-headed man to you. He does not listen to me, to his mother, or to his father. He needs strict bed rest. That wound will never close if he keeps moving and straining himself.”
You nodded with absolute solemnity, crossing your arms. “You can trust me, Tsahik. I will personally castrate this man if he even thinks about lifting a finger.”
Mo’at let out a rare, breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she gathered her bowls and exited the tent, leaving the two of you alone.
You turned to him. “Sleep,” you hissed.
“Alright, alright,” he mumbled, a soft chuckle escaping him as he sank into the furs with a weary sigh, his eyes half-closed as he looked up at you through his lashes. “No need for castration... that would make you miss your babies...”
The last words were a barely audible, sleepy whisper, but the tent was so quiet that they rang like a bell in your ears. “What?!” you snapped, your entire face exploding in a violent heat.
Neteyam just smiled lazily, turning his head onto the fur pillow. “Sleeping now...”
True to your word, you made sure he took his rest. For the next week, you refused to let him leave the Tsahik’s tent unless necessary, sitting by his side, forcing him to eat, and threatening him with your dagger whenever he tried to sit up too fast.
But once his fever broke and the wound finally closed into a healthy, silver seam, he went back to waiting at your feet, and he became entirely shameless. He would bring you the sweetest fruits before morning drills, sharpen your arrow tips and hunting dagger, and sit quietly beside you during meals, completely content just to exist in the same space. He was still the same as before. There was no pushing or demanding, only working to seamlessly wove himself into your daily routines.
If you are to be asked when exactly did the remaining ice around your heart melted, you’d say it had turned into a puddle long ago. But now, as the Hometree came alive with the people singing and dancing to celebrate a turn of successful hunts, your chest was singing with a familiar hum. One you never thought you’d feel again. You stood near the outer roots, watching the dancers, when a familiar warmth bloomed at your side.
Neteyam stood beside you, wearing his formal warrior gear. He didn’t speak, but his hand hung loosely between you, his fingers inches from yours. You bit your lip, looking at his profile through your lashes, noting his sharp jawline and his beautiful patterns. It was the same image of the boy you swore to make fall in love with you. You wondered what thirteen-year-old you would have thought if she knew that this man literally bled into the dirt just to prove he wouldn't give up on you.
You let out a soft, long sigh. Slowly, deliberately, you moved your hand to intertwine your fingers with his.
Neteyam froze. His head snapping down to look at your joined hands, and when he lifted his eyes to yours, they were bright, watering. “Y/N...” he breathed, his voice trembling.
“What?” you whispered, a soft, familiar smirk finally returning to your lips. “Some would say this is the perfect time for a kiss... Unless you’re scared,” you mumbled.
He blinked, his forehead creasing for a moment before a ragged, breathless laugh escaped him. It was you who moved and tiptoed to press a soft kiss on his lips, and you felt his arm wrap around you, pulling you closer, kissing you better. You smiled against his lips.
“I forgive you, Neteyam...” you pulled away only to murmur, and he chased your lips.
“I love you...“ he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. The sheer, unadulterated happiness radiating from him was intoxicating, and you cannot help but grin.
But the beautiful moment was violently ripped away when a deafening horn blew, shattering the festival music and the celebration.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” The people announced.
High above, in the eastern branches of the Hometree’s canopy, a terrifying orange glow erupted. Your breath seized at your chest, a cry of panic escaping you as the people frantically ran to and fro in all directions. Neteyam moved, signaling to the nearby hunters.
“All hunters! Gather water from the river! Move!” he roared, crisp and authoritative.
The communal clearing exploded into calculated chaos. You and Neteyam sprinted toward the lower roots, organizing lines of warriors to haul water containers up the massive vines, while flyers are gathering water from the river to splash it to extinguish the fire. At first, everyone thought it was an accident, but as the smoke cleared, a familiar deep thrumming vibrated through the air.
From the clouds, the shapes of sever RDA gunships dropped into view firing blindly into the canopy.
“To the air!” Jake’s booming voice echoed.
You and Neteyam sprinted to the high roosts, connecting to your ikrans in a synchronized flash of movement and flying into the open sky where the warriors on their ikrans were already fighting fiercely. You dove through the smoke to shoot pilots and sent arrows to the exposed underbellies of gunships you happen to get close to. Within an hour, the invading gunships were spiraling into the jungle in balls of fire.
You watched the fire it caused to the forest, your chest aching with fury and grief at the sight of it.
The war party was victorious, but the destruction it brought made all of you grim. The eastern branches of Hometree were charred black, but it didn’t burn the entirety, and fortunately, no one was dead or gravely injured.
The council convened immediately beneath the glowing roots, the air thick with tension.
“It is no longer safe to keep the children and the elders here. Hometree is too big a target,“ Jake said, his face shadowed by the firelight as he leaned over the map.
“We must relocate... for the meantime,” Neytiri agreed, her voice tight with grief.
“The Hallelujah Mountains. It’s filled of magnetic interference, their metal birds wouldn’t like it very much up there,” Neteyam spoke up, placing a stone on a specific grid of the map.
Jake nodded decisively. “We’ll send scouts, then we’ll evacuate those who cannot fight immediately. The warriors will stay on the ground to secure the perimeter and prepare our counter-strike.”
The plan was drawn swiftly. Jake didn’t want to wait longer. As soon as the clan is evacuated, the party will strike back. As you ordered some Tayrangi men to help with the evacuation, Neteyam caught your arm near the edge of the pavilion, his grup firm and his eyes holding a fierce, protective spark in them.
“After... After the battle is over...” he began, his eyes blinking too many times per second as he stammered for the right words to say.
“Hm?“ you prompted.
“Would you like...“ he trailed. “To have me as your mate?” he added, his words stumbling over one another, and even in the dark, you could see how his cheeks were tinted purple.
You blinked, your heart jumping at your throat, causing it to close as your eyes stung with hot tears. “How could I ever say no to that?” you said in a hoarse voice, your hand holding his firmly.
He pulled you close. “Yes?” he asked breathlessly and you nodded. His breath audibly caught in his throat, leaning forward to kiss you and pulling you even closer to deepen his kiss.
Neteyam broke the kiss reluctantly, his forehead resting against yours for one final, desperate second as the chaos of evacuation whirled around you two. He held your face in his hands, pressing another deep kiss. “Great Mother. I love you so much...”
You chuckled, gripping his forearm. “Glad you’ve finally caught up,“ you mumbled, giving him a peck.
“I have always been here, I was just stupid,” he chuckled, his eyes caressing your face.
The tender moment shattered, though, when a loud cough echoed from the shadows. Neteyam stiffened, and you pulled back just enough to see your brother stepping into the dim light. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed at Neteyam that practically shouted an order to let you go this exact second.
Neteyam cleared his throat, his hands slowly lowering, though he kept his fingers loosely holding your hip for just a heartbeat longer before fully stepping back. You bit your lip, stopping yourself from smiling as you took Neteyam’s hand to hold it. Ruk’e looked at you with a look that would normally be accompanied with a snort.
“Mother is looking for you. Right now. She says the Tayrangi scouts need their final instructions for the eastern ridge, and you're the only one who knows the layout of the lower caves.”
You pushed your lips forward. “I'm on my way,” you said, turning to Neteyam and tiptoeing to kiss him again. You bit his lower lip before pulling away, patting his chest. “Later.“
You turned away, your tail moving behind you, its hairy tip brushing his lower abdomen. You heard his gasp and you grinned as you walked away. You brought this small pocket of joy as your ikran perched on a cliff along with the others, waiting for the signal to fight. Neteyam was several ikrans away from you, although Toruk’s big head was almost hiding him from sight. He caught your gaze, giving you a fierce, sharp nod.
The signal came not from a horn, but from the unnatural tremor of distant explosions. War cries from your people and from the warriors from various clans erupted as hundreds of ikran took to the sky.
You plunged off the ledge, diving straight into the smoke. Your ikran, holding a large boulder in its hind legs, flew over a gunship’s rotors and threw the boulder with a force that tilted the gunship before it exploded into a ball of orange flame. You banked hard, narrowly dodging a volley of gunfire directed at you.
You pulled your ikran’s reins up, pulling the string of your bow before releasing an arrow through the glass of the gunship pursuing you. You watched the vehicle spin wildly, clipping another gunship before exploding into the nearest floating mountain. A sharp war cry tore from your throat, raising your bow before flying higher.
Below, you found Neteyam, riding with the reckless bravery of Toruk Makto himself, but with the terrifying precision of Neytiri. He guided his ikran into a dive, sending arrow grenades directly onto the rotors of a Dragon Assault ship, flying upstream before the large aircraft blasted, his war cry echoing over the din of combat.
For what seemed like hours, the sky bled. Whenever you feared you couldn't find Neteyam in the swirling ikrans flying in the air, he’d appear by your side, moving perfectly synchronized with you. Every time a threat closed in on your blind spot, Neteyam’s arrow finds them. Every time gunships threatened to box him in, your own lethal accuracy puts an end to it.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the final RDA gunship was on a slow descent in flames. This should be a victorious moment, but the sight of the burning jungle below you filled you with a grief that seized your breath. The adrenaline of the battle took hours to fade, but after securing the perimeter of the clan’s hideout, and convening with the council to speak of the next steps the party should take to completely batter the RDA, you felt Neteyam’s hand catch your forearm again.
You turned to him, your excitement bubbling in your chest despite your exhaustion. You followed him as he navigated some steep edges and climbed a few vines, wondering where exactly you two are going, but when he pulled you up on what seemed like a hidden hollow, the sight of a secluded, bioluminescent pool surprised you. The water glowed with a soft, blue light, casting shifting, watery patterns across the jagged walls.
Your mouth curled into a huge smile, turning to him. “This is beautiful...”
“Found it when I was sixteen aimlessly flying around here. I thought then that maybe this could be a place for dates with my mate,” he said, smiling at you, his face devoid of tension.
“Dates?” you echoed.
“It’s... a human thing. My parents often go on dates. Just the two of them, spending time with each other...” he explained.
You smiled, “I like that.”
His hand traveled up your forearm to hold your elbow, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I’ve always thought of bringing you in this place,” he mumbled.
You looked up at him, the soft blue light from the pool catching the warmth in his eyes. “Even back then?”
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a reverent tone that made your chest tighten pleasantly. He reached down and gently slid his fingers between yours, leading you to the edge of the water. It was you who pulled him to sink into its chilly waters. “Even when I was trying to convince myself that I had to have laser focus on my duty, to be the most competent warrior I could be for my people, you were always the exception... You were always the tilt in my world.“
He held your jaw in his hand, leaning forward to press a soft kiss on your lips. His arms wrapped around your waist, his forehead pressed against yours.
“I know you forgave me. I know you said I didn't have to keep doing... all of that. But I need to say it, ” he paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I am so sorry. I will always be sorry... For the words I threw at you, for the pain I caused, for making you feel like you had to change who you were. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel that way again.”
You moved your head slightly, you nose brushing his. The raw, unshielded vulnerability in his golden eyes was breathtaking. The proud, stubborn commander of the Omatikaya was completely laid bare before you, entirely surrendered. You have only ever dreamed of that.
“Neteyam,” You said softly, cupping his jaw with both hands. He stared at you, his eyes bright and swimming with an overwhelming wave of emotion. “The girl who used to be reckless might be gone, but the woman standing in front of you loves you more than she ever did,” you whispered, a soft, tearful smile breaking across your face. “I see you, Neteyam. I see everything you've done to make up for what you did. You don't have to carry the guilt anymore. Lay it down.”
A breathless sigh escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes, leaning heavily into the palm of your hand as if a massive weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. When he opened them again, the absolute devotion burning within them made your heart skip a beat. “I love you,” he breathed, his words an unbreakable vow. “Baby, I love you so much.”
He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was entirely different from the stolen moments before the battle. This was slow, deep, yet desperate. You groaned softly, your fingers tangling into his braids, he pulled you even closer until there was no space left between you. His hands moved down to your hips, gently stepping you back until you hit the velvety edge of the pool.
He pulled away to look down at your face, his large form towering over you so much now that you’re nearly lying down on the flat edge. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his kuru forward, the glowing tendrils at the tip unfurling, searching for anything to connect with. “Are you sure you want me as your husband?”
You raised a brow, “Is that a warning?”
He pressed a hard kiss on your lips. “It’s only that there is no turning back... You are mine. Forever.” he whispered conspiratorially.
You took your kuru behind you, “I’ve never been one to turn back in fear...” You met him halfway, bringing your kuru forward until the tendrils entwined in a sudden, breathtaking flash of pure energy that caused borh of you to jerk involuntarily. You watched his pupils dilate, the black almost swallowing the gold.
His world felt as though it expanded, then narrowed down to just you, while you could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat as if it were beating in your own chest. You felt the raw, overwhelming depth of his love for you, the fear he felt he drove you away from him, the desperation that ate at him when you no longer cared for him, the hope that bloomed in him when you were so worried about his small wound, and the pure, weeping joy that had consumed him when you finally held his hand at the festival.
You let out a ragged, trembling breath, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck and pulled him down into a deep, bruising kiss. Neteyam groaned softly against your lips, his arms instantly locking around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the stone as if he couldn't get you close enough. The kiss shifted from soft and tender, to the desperate hardness of a man who wanted to devour you.
His hands were everywhere on your body, unclasping your beaded top and untying your loincloth behind your tail. You chuckled in his ears when his hand on your tail tickled you, and he angled his head to press a hard kiss on your jaw, shedding your loincloth off of you. He hauled you up to the ledge before following you to hover over you, his chest heaving as he looked down at you, naked under him. The cool blue light of the secluded pool danced across his broad shoulders, making you shiver with awareness about how large of a man he actually is. He looked down at you with a hunger born from years of restraining himself.
His large hands slid down from your waist, his thumbs tracing your curves down to you thighs before firmly pressing your thighs apart. You let out a soft gasp as the cool air hit your skin, but the chill was instantly replaced by the intense heat of his body as he settled between your knees. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and searching, demanding you witness exactly how completely he belonged to you.
Slowly, he lowered himself, his calloused hands guiding your knees wider, draping your legs over his broad shoulders. Your breath caught in your throat as his breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the smooth skin of your knee, then another higher up, tracking a slow, agonizing path inward until you were trembling beneath him.
“Neteyam,” you called, panicking as you pushed him back by his shoulder.
His eyes snapped up to you, his eyes dark and dangerous, as if waiting for you to tell him no, but the heat in his eyes flustered you with a heat on your cheeks. He kissed your inner thigh again, and when his lips finally found the center of your heat, a sharp gasp escaped you, your hand squeezing his shoulder.
He pressed a gentle hand on your chest, travelling a bit sideways to cup your breast. “Lay back,“ he mumbled and you did, propping yourself up on your elbows.
His lips found you again and he groaned against your flesh, his hands wrapping securely around the back of your thighs to hold you steady as he parted you with his fingers. His tongue was warm, broad, and too deliberate, drawing upward, tasting you fully. The connection through your entwined kurus sent a jolt of unadulterated pleasure down his spine, and in turn, you could feel his own arousal spiking through the bond, heavy and demanding.
You arched your hips off the ground, your fingers digging into the thick roots beside your head. “Neteyam...” you whimpered, your head rolling back.
He grew even relentless, his pace quickening, his tongue swirling and pressing harder against your sensitive nub. Your hips bucked when his finger slid inside you, feeling uncomfortable with the slight stretch as his mouth sucked at your heat. The sensation was too noverwhelming, and the bond is only amplifying everything. You could feel his deep satisfaction at your undoing, his pride swelling as your body began to tighten around his fingers, and with a firm stroke of his tongue, you felt a powerful tremor in your body, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your thighs clamped around his head.
Neteyam held you through the tremors, swallowing your heat, his purr vibrating heavily against you until your breathing began to slow. As he dragged himself back up to hover over you, his face flushed and his lips glistening, you caught your breath. “That was insane...” you huffed.
His eyes lightened a bit, the darkness yielding to his curiosity. “Really?“
“You know how good it felt for me,” you smiled, tugging at your entwined kurus. A sudden, wicked spark flared in your chest, traveling straight through the bond to hit him. “I want to do it to you, too,” you whispered, your voice husky, your eyes locking onto his.
Neteyam blinked, a sudden wave of heat washing through his expression as his pupils dilated further. “You don’t need—”
“No,” you cut him off, your hands sliding down his muscled abdomen, until it lowered where you felt him. He breathe sharply when you felt him through his loincloth, your hand gripping the massive hardness. “I want it in my mouth, too...”
He closed his eyes for a moment before giving in with a low, defeated groan, shedding his loincloth off before rolling onto his back on the moss. You chuckled, the sound so womanly to him he felt a currently of electricity running exclusively on the margins of his body, causing his ears to pin back against his ears as he watched you rose on your knees, parting your thighs to straddle him.
His hand moved to touch you between your thighs and you jolted with a loud moan, nearly falling over if you didn’t catch yourself by propping a hand on his chest. His fingers caressed your velvety folds, gathering your fresh wetness.
“I need to concentrate, ‘Teyam...” you groaned and he chuckled. You saw him bring his fingers into his mouth.
“Sorry... You just taste so good,” he licked his lips, reaching to kiss you, but you moved your head to kiss his jaw instead.
You pressed soft kisses on his skin, contrasting his hard and heavy kisses. His hands hovered at your waist, his head falling back, letting you slide down his body. He watched you through heavy eyelids, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as you positioned yourself between his muscled thighs. You bit your lip at the sight of his length fully erect, thick, and leaking a bead of thick pre-cum at its tip.
You leaned down, your braids brushing against his thighs as you wrapped your lips around the smooth, hot head of his shaft. Neteyam’s breath hitched violently. He threw his head back against the moss, his jaw clenching so hard the cords in his neck strained as you took him into your mouth, your hands fisting and moving by instinct. Your tongue swirled around the ridge, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him as your mouth moved.
He moaned, his hips bucking as the bond flared with a white hot intensity. Through the connection, you felt the sheer, agonizing pleasure ripping through him, the tight, desperate control he was trying to maintain as the wet warmth of your mouth drove him insane.
“Oh, baby, please, I can't—“ he gasped out, his hips lifting involuntarily off the ground as your mouth sucked him harder. He reached down, his large hands tangling into your braids.
You thought he was going to push you away, but he only held your head there with more pressure for a few more desperate seconds that his largeness almost choked you, but then he gently pulled you up, his breathing completely shattered. You groaned, frowning that he had to pull his cock out of your mouth.
He looked you in the eyes, serious and with finality. “No more. I want to come inside you.”
He hauled you up by your waist, flipping you beneath him in one fluid motion. He was completely done with waiting. His large hand pinned both your wrists above your head, his other hand holding your waist in place as he aligned his hard length against your softness, his mouth coming down to capture yours.
With a slow, heavy thrust, Neteyam began burying himself inside you, until he’d sank in entirely. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders , letting out a breathless cry, feeling your walls stretching to accommodate him. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of the fit sent an exquisite pleasure for the both of you through the bond, and it felt as though your souls were melting into one another, leaving no distinction between where you and him stand.
Neteyam paused for a second, his eyes closing as he absorbed the tight, wet heat of your walls squeezing him. A ragged groan tore from his chest before he began to move in a pace that was immediately hard, deep, and desperate, as if he was pouring into you all the pent-up energy he had left from the battle.
He drove into you with a fiercely possessive rhythm, his hips pounding against yours with a strength that had you crying out his name. Every time he pulled back, he returned deeper, marking you, claiming every inch of your body as his own. His arm wrapped under your body, while the other hand hiked your knee up to your chest, making sure you receive each of his forceful thrust.
The bond left no walls or armors to crack, both of you feeling only the pure, intoxicating love, devotion, and absolute surrender you have for each other. The tension in your lower abdomen coiled tighter and tighter until it was unbearable. Neteyam’s pace became frantic, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity as he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.
“Oh, baby,” he choked out, his grip on your thigh tightening.
You screamed his name as your body convulsed around him, the pleasure shattering your vision into a thousand white sparks. Your grip on him triggered his own release, and a deep, guttural roar escaped him as he thrust brutally deep into you one last time and held himself there, his body stiffening as he spilled himself completely inside you.
“Fuck, I’m seeing stars...” he groaned, collapsing against your chest, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his own chest rising and falling in ragged, exhausted gasps. You broke into a weakened laugh, your hold on him loosening up a little as you pressed soft kisses on his temple.
The weeks that followed were a blur of war council meetings, suffocating maps, and aerial patrols around the High Camp. The ongoing struggle against the RDA had left very little time for you and Neteyam to enjoy your first days together, but it’s when you’re high above the sky that everything seemed to be yours.
You banked hard to the left, your ikran letting out a shrill cry as the wind rushed past your ears. Behind you, Neteyam dipped beneath a floating vine, a wild, unburdened laugh tearing from his throat. For a few glorious hours, the shadow of the RDA did not touch you. There were no battles, no strategies, and no bloodshed. There was only the dizzying feeling of flying, the wind, and the intoxicating freedom of racing the Neteyam through the floating mountains and its hanging vines.
He pulled up right beside you, his ikran's wingtip nearly brushing yours. When he turned his head, his golden eyes were bright, his smile throwing all his typical military crispness to the wind. You flashed him a sharp, challenging smirk, diving straight through a cascading waterfall.
“Keep up!” you taunged, leaving him to chase your laughter through the mist.
By nightfall, the adrenaline gave way to the familiar craving for quiet. You returned to the hidden hollow, slipping into the bioluminescent pool. The chilly waters swirled around your waist as Neteyam hugged you sideways, his chin finding your shoulder, bending his large frame to fit himself at your side.
Every night felt different, but tonight was calmer, filled with your soft mumurs and his low, rumbling chatters as you talked for hours about nothing at all, your fingers tracing the faint, silvery marks of his scars, before the talking faded into the slow and heavy rhythm of your lovemaking.
You are a impatient woman, but you couldn’t deny your love for his deliberate, agonizing slowness sometimes, his hands anchoring your waist as he worshipped you. Every thrust was deep and strong, his lips pressed to your throat, whispering your name like a prayer until the sensations from the bond left you both breathless, tangled together in a sweating, blissful heap.
The sky was just beginning to shift from darkness to the bruised purple of pre-dawn light when you woke up, your body singing with delicious soreness and you snuggled closer to his warmth. You kissed the soft skin of his shoulder, you hand caressing his muscled chest down to his abdomen. You smiled when he stirred, pressing soft kisses on his shoulder and neck, until you reach his jaw.
“Wake up, handsome...“ you mumbled. “It’s your turn today.”
He groaned softly, pulling you closer to him. “I hate leaving you.”
You chuckled. “So dramatic, my handsome man. I will be close behind,” you said, patting his abdomen. “Quick, quick. Before they wake up.”
He grunted, hauling you on top of him effortlessly. His eyes, though sleepy, watched you darkly as his hands moved to knead your breasts. You gasped softly, your hand clutching at his bicep as you peered down at him.
“I’m still sore from last night,” you said with a little drama, pouting at him.
He bit his lip, cooing at you. “I’ll help...” his hands moved down to your waist, ready to roll you over to your back but you were quick to sit up.
“No thanks. I know it’s not really help,” you smirked, grabbing your top. “Get up, warrior. You don’t want to get caught, do you?”
Neteyam groaned, a soft smile on his face before getting up, his hand clamping on your ankle to pull you toward him. You smiled when he bent his head a little to level with you. “Kiss,“ he mumbled and you gave him your lips.
You two kissed and kissed, but when you felt him nudging you to lie on your back, your eyes snapped open, pulling away from the kiss with narrowed eyes. “Neteyam...”
He smiled, his head falling dramatically. You rushed him, watching how the sun is almost peeking through the bruised sky, and Neteyam moved as quickly as he could, stealthily slipping back into the camp, walking with a light, quiet stride, a faint smile still on his lips as he neared his family’s tent.
“Out late?”
Neteyam froze, his ears pinning flat against his head. His father stepped out from the shadow, his arms crossed. From just inside the tent flap, Neytiri stepped forward, her sharp eyes narrowed at her eldest son in a way that made Neteyam’s posture instantly snap into military rigidity.
Jake sighed. “Neteyam... I've been meaning to talk to you, boy. I know you’re sort of courting Y/N. The whole clan knows it, everyone knows it, but you cannot just spend nights after nights with her to only Eywa knows where. You are both unmated. It's a small camp, people talk, and it’s not going to be a good look for her reputation.”
Neytiri stepped fully into the dim light, her tail twitching. “Just last night, when you had to sleep here, you looked like you were being sent to war instead of just holding Tuk because she’s asked to snuggle with you,” she pointed out. “You best ask for her hand from Ikeyni, son. Formally. You can’t dishonor her with this fooling around that you young people tend to engage in these days.“
Neteyam opened his mouth to speak and explain, but the look on his father’s face had him turning his head to follow Jake’s line of vision. He then saw you stepping into the clearing, completely unaware of the tribunal happening right in front of the Sully tent. You had planned to quickly slip into the yurt you shared with your mother to change your clothes and fix your hair, but you had taken the wrong turn.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
To say you looked thoroughly ravaged was an understatement. Your hair was a wild, tangled halo of loose braids, your lips were visibly swollen, and your chest was heaving from the hurried walk. You looked exactly like a woman who had spent the last hours being thoroughly fucked. Jake blinked, looking from you to his son.
Neytiri tilted her head, her gaze shifting slowly from your wild hair down to Neteyam’s deeply flushed face. She looked at her son pointedly, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Neteyam...”
Neteyam looked at you, then at his parents, his chest rising as he took a deep, steadying breath. The boyish embarrassment vanished, replaced by the fierce, unyielding pride of a man who knew exactly where he stood.
He walked over to you, completely ignoring his father’s stunned expression, and firmly wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“I will personally apologize to the Olo’eykte, Mother. Because there is no need to ask for her hand,” Neteyam said, squeezing your waist a bit as he looked at his parents. “We are already mated.”
Your heart jumped into your throat, your cheeks burning.
Jake stared at his son, utterly speechless for three long seconds, before a slow, defeated smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Well... damn. Congratulations, I guess,” he said. “But you need to talk to Ikeyni about this. Immediately.”
“What is the matter at hand?” Your mother’s voice coming from your clan’s side of the camp.
You startled, pursing your lips. Neytiri watched you, the stern face for her son breaking into a soft smile as she shook her head in comical disbelief for your and Neteyam’s stubbornness.
“We have a ceremony to prepare, Ikeyni,“ Neytiri turned to your mother with a triumphant smile. “The two seemed to have finally met halfway.”
I am a firm believer that when Ace has a s/o he won’t spare another person a moment of his time, and in the funniest way too.
In my missing Ace era
Having someone as attractive as Ace on your arm was bound to have its challenges. From freckles that mimicked the constellations glittering the night sky to muscles chiseled by the gods themselves, there’s a certain level of security required to loving Ace.
You have to know the man would never entertain another soul once entering a relationship with you. Fiercely loyal, unwavering in his adoration. His eyes search for in every corner of the world, whether you’re alongside him or not. His heart beats to the syllables of your name and swells ten times its size when you merely utter a word.
Bars were a regular occurrence for the Whitebeard pirates. When they weren’t out conquering the sea, they were engaged in parties—drinks and food and dance until the crack of dawn.
A particularly attractive woman sauntered towards Ace, clearly drunk.
“Hey, handsome, whatcha say we get out of here?”
Ace, physically unable to entertain the thought, replied in a nearly robotic voice. “My partner kills people.”
You coughed up your drink, turning towards Ace with an incredulous expression, his face remaining stoic; the man was serious as a heart attack.
The woman was taken aback. She gazed at Ace with quizzical eyes. Your man, clearly noticing she hadn’t taken the hint, turned in his chair to face you.
“Hi, hun. Gotta borrow you real quick.” He said, smiling a bright smile. But by the time he’d turned around to face the woman once more, this time with you wrapped in his arms, his expression went dark.
“I wouldn’t want to unleash the deadly force of my one true love.” Ace threatened. He held you out as though you were a kitten between his palms, air jailed.
You nodded your head in greeting, tilting your drink in the woman’s direction, “I’ve been known to kill on occasion.”
She scurried away, leaving you there In Ace’s lap. You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck and feathering his face in kisses.
“You’re such a dork.” You teased. He accepted it gratefully, returning your kisses with a flurry of his own.
“Only for you.”
And my, it’s far from the first time something like that had occurred.
“Hey there,” Another woman flirtatiously approached. “Aren’t you a sight.”
She traced a manicured nail along his bicep, planting her palm against his broad chest.
“Unhand me woman, I’m married!” Ace screeched, swiping her hand away as though it burned, flashing a toy ring you’d fake proposed to him with; having won it at a fair on an island a few months back.
But Ace took your faux proposal seriously, cherishing the ring that was a size too small and glittered red in the sunlight. The only time you’d ever seen him take it off was during a fight, worried he’d somehow burn it to ashes. His shorts had a designated compartment to carry it, and once business was handled he’d frantically fumble to find it again.
The woman took the hint, thankfully, and Ace fiddled with the ring, staring at it with a small smile. The sight had reminded him of you, of the love he wore as a badge of honor.
Deciding he’d had enough for the night, Ace took his (unpaid) beverage to go, running back to the ship so he could tell you all about the ring and how it’d saved him.
But your favorite occurrence of Ace curving women was one the entire crew told stories of to this day, your boyfriend’s face flushing red every time someone dared bring it up.
Ace was drunk.
Actually, that’s an understatement, Ace was wrecked. Speech slurring and body rocking back and forth. Marco and Thatch had thought it would be the best decision for Ace to turn in for the night, the imminent hangover that would eventually ensue sure to be a whirlwind.
You agreed, letting Ace know you were gonna grab some food to go then you’d head out—the man was always starving after a night at the bar.
Ace stood in the center of the dance floor, lazily swaying to the music as his mind conjured thoughts of you. He’s an affectionate drunk, all cuddles and sloppy kisses. Marco once scoured an entire island in search of you because an intoxicated Ace was throwing a tantrum regarding your absence, body flickering in and out of flame.
Now, as he dreamt up cuddling with you beneath a mountain of sheets—takeout shared between you—he couldn’t have been happier.
That is, until someone had to go and ruin his fun.
A woman scarcely dressed swayed alongside Ace, mimicking his lazy dance moves and adding her own exaggeration. The man didn’t notice at first, far too caught up in his thoughts of you. So she shimmied closer, body a mere few feet away from Ace.
This, he noticed. Not thinking much of it, Ace scooted away. But she followed, closing the distance even more than before. Again, Ace tried to keep space between them.
But upon her third attempt, Ace panicked, not wanting to be around anyone but you for a moment longer.
Thus, the interaction he can never seem to live down:
In a high-pitched voice, Ace squealed for the entire bar to behold.
“Woman, you’re way too close, fire fist!”
A surge of fire erupted in his hand. He threw the flame down in the small space between their shoes, a plume of fire separating them. Ace was satisfied, a smile on his lips and hands triumphant upon his hips.
The entire bar erupted in boisterous laughter. Meanwhile, takeout in hand, you fought back tears of amusement.
You watched your boyfriend frantically search around, eyes finally locking onto you and scrambling to your side. His arms wrapped protectively around your waist, practically whimpering as he whined for the two of you to leave.
You hummed, shifting the food into one hand and fluffing his hair.
“You alright?”
He huffed like a child, pushing himself further into your side. “She attempted my life.”
You laughed then, a full belly sound that ached your ribs and burned your lungs. Air felt as though it were in short supply, struggling to grasp what wisps you could.
“It’s not funny!” Ace defended, still violently intoxicated, words slurred like a ship on the sea. “I was defending our love!”
That made you stop, looking down at your lover and sighing.
How you loved that man. A burning pillar of everything you could’ve asked for and more. Love was simple with him, honest and passionate. He loved fiercely and was unapologetic in doing so. There’s never been a moment where you’ve questioned Ace’s feelings for you. He wore them proudly, his heart that called your name and cursed the heavens when you were away.
You kissed the top of his head, Ace visibly softening beneath the gesture. He rose then, cupping your cheeks and pressing a burning kiss upon your lips. The scent of alcohol and the flaming sea filled your senses, the two of you mingling, meshing into a single being of desire.
“Let’s go home.” You spoke softly, breaking away from the kiss.
Ace nodded in agreement. “Only if I get cuddles.”
The two of you departed from the bar hand in hand, the night sky and summer breeze guiding you back to the ship.
megumi’s different when he’s sick, really different. but you can’t say you mind.
your usually stoic, collected, unemotional boyfriend is suddenly all over you, clingy as a koala. it’s pathetically adorable.
your hand is flat against megumi’s forehead, checking for a temperature, and he’s blatantly leaning into your touch. a kiss pressed to your knuckles, another to your palm.
you get up to make soup and he pulls you back towards him with surprising strength, for someone who’s sick. a surprised squeak leaves your mouth as you’re tugged into his warm arms, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck.
“don’t go,” megumi mumbles, pouting.
you laugh quietly, hand threading through his hair. “i’ll be back in a minute, baby. just gonna make you something warm so you feel better.”
he huffs, tightening his hold on you. “you can do that later. ‘s cold without you.”
“i’ll give you more blankets?”
“it’s not the same,” he grumbles. then he sniffles, a quiet, sickly sound. it tugs at your heartstrings, and you wonder whether he was faking it just for the attention.
you exhale, amused yet unrelenting. “i’m sorry, gumi. i have to, okay?” somehow, some way, you untangle yourself from his tight embrace and stand up.
megumi whines, reaching for you, and you fight back a smile.
“i’ll be really quick, baby. promise.” you press a peck to his warm forehead, tucking him more properly into the blankets before slipping out of the bedroom.
not even a minute goes by before you feel megumi’s presence in the kitchen. you smile softly as his arms come around your waist, chin resting heavily on your shoulder.
“you should be in bed, baby.”
“i know,” he mumbles almost guiltily, breath warm on your neck. he watches you cut the vegetables, spiky hair tickling your skin. “it was just really cold without you. horrible.”
“horrible indeed,” you humour him, reaching back to scratch his scalp. he exhales, eyes droopy as he melts into you. “i told you i’d be back soon, no?”
“but you were taking forever,” megumi groans earnestly, eyes opening to peek at you.
“i was away for one minute.”
“a minute too long.” he says, sniffling and shutting his eyes again. “i almost died.”
you giggle, pouring the finished soup into a bowl. “i’m really sorry,” you say as you lead him back into the bedroom, pulling him behind you like a sad puppy. “won’t happen again.”
“good,” megumi huffs, satisfied.
his eyes trail over you as you get him settled in, cocooning him in blankets and pressing the bowl into his hands. you know exactly what’s coming next.
megumi locks his gaze on yours. “is it cuddle time now?” he asks hopefully, eyes wide and shiny, lips downturned as though he might burst into tears if you refused.
the sight of him like this is so unexpected, so precious. you almost give in. almost.
“nope,” you say, trying to sound as firm as you can muster. you press the soup bowl further into his hands as his bottom lip quivers. “drink first, then cuddles.”
“and- and you won’t even feed me?” megumi warbles, sniffling sadly. “i’m dying, you know.”
“you’re not dying,” you sigh, sitting down next to him. “but fine, i’ll feed you. only cos’ you’re sick.”
the biggest smile breaks onto his face, eyes clearing up immediately as he hands you the soup bowl. your megumi wouldn’t smile like this in a million years, and you try to savour it.
he’s almost giddy with affection as he presses the soup bowl into your hands, cozying up to you and pressing his face into your chest. “you’re the best,” he mumbles happily.
you can’t wait to tell your boyfriend about this when he’s well again.
Cherish the roots on your fingers - Trafalgar Law x Reader - Part 2
Part 1
Warning: slightly suggestive, slight mention of self-harm (picking at nail)
Notes: okay, I lied. It's not that short. I'm incapable of such. But it is very sweet!
So enjoy your reading! :D
Law arrived his dorm after his final exam.
He was exhausted
And just slightly... drunk.
His colleagues went straight to the bar after the end of the exam
Law ended up going as well because he was almost passing out from hunger and it was the closest place with food
He just didn't count with how unbearable the socializing would be while missing plenty hours of sleep and being absolutely starving for food
So it was logical at this point
After all, the consumption of alcohol acts as a central nervous system depressant, reducing activity in the prefrontal cortex — the area of the brain responsible for judgment, self-control, and inhibition.
It was logical.
He told himself it would be just one drink to loose himself up.
But being a lightweight with an empty stomach didn't help much
So there he was grumpier than usual, eyes so narrowed they were barely open
He tossed his things somewhere and headed towards his room
When he swung the door open, a soft light coming from his room disturbed his sensitive eyes
As they focused again, Law was blessed by the sight of you wearing his hoodie while holding your tablet on your lap
You waited for him to return to congratulate him. And while he didn't come, you finished your own assignments in the comfort of his bed with Bepo laying on your feet
When you saw your tired boyfriend, you placed your tablet aside and turned all your focus on him
"I know that scowl" you said already amused
"You know all my scowls" Law huffed, taking way longer than usual to toe off his shoes
"Yeah, I do" you said softer now, watching him fumble trying to take his shirt off
"Want some help, handsome?" You asked, already pushing yourself up
But before you could move half inch, shirtless Law took your tablet and layed half on top of you, between your legs
"What do you need help with?" He asked gruffly, narrowing his eyes angrily at the screen blinding him
You just laughed at his drunk behavior, taking the device off his hands
"You need help. And sleep. Desperately" you corrected, pushing his hair off his face and planting a kiss on his forehead
He closed his eyes, leaning onto you without hesitation
"I'll help you finish those damn slides. Then we sleep" Law argued stubbornly, still insisting on his honorable quest of staying awake after that medical exam melting his neurons
"Your eyes aren't even open, Trafalgar" you scoffed
"They are open" he argued as he forced his eyes open in that instant, staring at you as if he was hearing your words come out from your eyebrows instead
"Come on, just sleep. You earned it" you poked his forehead softly "I still need to finish this, then I can sleep a little longer in the morning" you argued, pulling the blanket on top of him
Law grumbled something under his breath that sounded close to a weak complaint, his arms wrapping around your waist tightly as he nuzzled your stomach
Spoiled ass kid
"I'll be quiet. Just— stay here" he mumbled, his breath evening out enough for you to think he fell asleep instantly
You placed you tablet against his head, using it as support so you could keep working
Law hummed a soft complaint, but didn't move
Not much time passed until you stopped typing completely
Instead, you stared blankly at the screen, trying to think of something to write or add because you're a perfectionist who doesn't know when enough is enough. Your agitated fingers kept pulling and scratching, your chest feeling heavier each passing moment that you were unable to write anything else
The quiet noise of your nails scrapping the dry skin of your barely healed wounds seemed to disturb Law's sleep
Before you knew, his hand was gently guiding yours to his hair instead.
"Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?" You whispered, running your fingers through his dark strands
Law melted onto your hands, humming softly just so you knew he was half awake
You exhaled softly, playing with his hair absentmindely while your mind kept drifting back to your assignment
It helped a little. The soothing motion grounding you into thinking calmly
Every time your hands dared coming to a stop and got way too close to your mouth, Law's hand pulled them back to his hair
Some long minutes of working, fighting the urge and petting Law's hair passed. By the fourth time Law had felt the absence of your hands, he opened his eyes and grumbled, pulling your hands close to his face instead
You felt his lips gently kiss your fingers, the gesture sleepy and tender. He didn't even open his eyes, just traced your hands with his lips by instinct, as if it was completely natural for him.
Your heart beated just a little faster, although you could clearly feel your cheeks burning with passion
The gesture was so sweet and unpredicted it pushed all thoughts overwhelming your mind aside
"You're supposed to be sleeping, grumpy" you whispered affectionately to him, but Law didn't stop his slow kisses. He lingered long seconds as if making sure each centimeter of your skin had been properly kissed
"...don't hurt yourself..." you heard him mumble, barely awake
The words weren't foreign for you. But the almost tearful tone he said it was.
You knew Law was quite unpredictable when drunk, but that was a whole different thing
He was genuinely disturbed by the thought of being incapable of protecting you. Of stopping you from hurting yourself
"Law, dear— I need to–"
That's when you felt Law hold your hands tightly against his face, as if you were his lifeline. As if you could escape and never return to him and he wouldn't survive it
Whatever fears he battled with between reality and his unconscious mind, you seemed to be the only thing he had to keep himself grounded
So were you failing as his partner? Were you worrying him too much? Hurting him too much? Were you being too selfish to not think about how the ones around you feel when you hurt yourself so badly?
Was your body even your body? Was your heart even your own heart? Or did he steal it and now he was just one more person who's to concern about your health?
Between the mean words you've grown listening to and the quiet care Law always tried to offer you, you found yourself indecisive between guilt and appreciation
You could not make any promises. You could not bring a solution to what seemed to be a problem
But you could turn off your tablet and go to sleep with him
And that's what you did
There was no surprise in the way he spooned you, enveloping you in his arms and embracing you like a gentle yet tight straight jacket
His hands entwined with yours, fingers lacing together as if locking you in place. Law buried his face on the crook of your neck, effectively trapping you with him in a way you never thought he would
If you weren't stupidly exhausted and absurdly comfortable in his embrace and forced yourself to keep awake for just a little longer, you would've heard Law whisper the sweetest nothings
"We're safe"
"You're here"
"We're going to make it fine"
"Trust yourself"
"You're nailing it"
"I love you"
"I love you so much"
"I love all of you"
Well, maybe it would be wrong to call such sincere and reassuring words nothings when they meant everything.
And deep down your consciousness, you heard each sentence. And each one of them guided you towards a rare, peaceful night of sleep you've been missing for weeks
Surprisingly, you woke up first. You heard Law's alarm go off, pulling you away from the land of dreams and back to the conscious plane.
You were still in the same position, Law embracing you from behind with your fingers intertwined.
You could feel Law's soft breath on your neck, still probably in a deep sleep
Very slowly and carefully, you pulled one hand free and turned off the alarm
As you were reaching for your own phone, Law's hand suddenly pulled yours again, trapping your arm beneath his
You turned your head so you could catch a glimpse of him, seeing your supposedly asleep boyfriend pretend he wasn't awake and refusing to let go
"You know my deadline is today, right?" You whispered with a soft smile playing on your lips. Your own voice a little gruff from sleep
Law's only response was a low, grumpy hum, holding you impossibly closer
He did not want to wake up yet
"Really mature" you chuckled softly, turning into his arms and facing him
His arms quickly adjusted to your new position, wrapping around your waist and pulling you until you were half on top of him.
That's when his eyes opened, watching you through barely open slits
"Sober now?" You asked softly, cupping his face gently, stroking your thumb across his cheek
Law's eyes were barely able to keep themselves open with that
And then again, he just hummed, somehow incapable of pronouncing words before breakfast
That right in front of you was one of the rarest moments where Law's brain wasn't functioning properly
In other words, at this current moment he was just existing
Just a sleepy guy processing being awake
But he surely was quick when you decided to give him a good morning kiss
The moment you leaned in, he met you halfway, suddenly very awake
And despite it being a soft, gentle kiss, Law breathed you in as if your scent was the first breath of oxygen he got today
This guy...
Even when you pulled back, he kept staring at you, blinking slowly. No profound thoughts behind his eyes more complex than: "Pretty"
Maybe that's what the last test of the semester does to an exhausted medicine student. No smart remarks left.
"I'll go make breakfast. Take your time, pretty boy" you said amused, taking the opportunity of his moment of distraction to slip out of bed and head towards the kitchen
Law looked at you go with a small pout, not liking the absence of your warmth next to him
He layed on his back, staring at the ceiling while he heard cutlery clinking back in the kitchen
After some more minutes, he fully processed his existence
And blushed. Hard.
Law remembered all he said, all he did last night. And honestly he never thought he would allow himself to be so vulnerable with you. But he did, and he didn't quite regret it
If anything, he could feel his heart swell with the love he felt for you
He tried to push his embarrassment aside and focus on the present
Today is your final presentation
He sat up and took your tablet.
He allowed himself just a fleeting moment of doubt. He probably shouldn't stick his nose into your stuff
But maybe he could help with some simple adjustments so you could feel like there's less left to do
And Law has never been the kind of guy to bother about that kind boundary. He surely acted like a spoiled child most of the time
So he typed your pin — because of course he knows (not that you ever tried to hide it from him) — and then he started to read your presentation
Proposal. Concept. Research. Moodboards...
Everything was great. Your project was well structured and had accurate research data
But as Law kept reading it, something caught his attention when he came across the project's persona, making him freeze completely
A project designed for students who struggle to balance productivity with self-care, Bud is a robotic plant pot that combines study tools — like a Pomodoro timer, relaxing sounds, and a Bluetooth speaker — with a playful interactive personality that nudges users to take breaks and check in with themselves.
And the persona in question was... Law himself
Trafalgar Law, 25 - Medicine student
Loses track of time while studying and skips meals without realizing
Chronic sleep deprivation that compounds over the week
Too rigid about taking breaks, so he avoids them
Feels isolated during long solo study sessions, with no external signal to pause
The fact that those descriptions were so offensively accurate made Law's morning bliss pass completely
But also, the fact that your whole project was structured around him made Law pause completely
He stepped out of his room and headed towards the kitchen with your tablet
He leaned on the counter that divided the dinning room and the small kitchen, placing his forearms against the surface and staring at your back while you prepared your breakfast omelet
Law waited in silence until you turned to grab the pepper and saw him
You didn't even have enough time to yelp before he shoved your slides on your face
"What is this." Law demanded, his first morning words sounding less sexy than you preferred
"And he's awake" you chuckled, returning to the omelet before it burned
It was easier hiding your slight nervousness without having him staring at you
"I thought you were a great fit" you said softly. Law's scowl kept in place and unchanging
"I didn't allow this" he said, pointing at his ID picture — where he was three days with no sleep and looked like trash — you added to the presentation
Law wasn't exactly one to care much about his appearance. He had bigger concerns than just a bad photo
But that one specifically was horrendous. And professors with the most sexy intelligent brains Law has ever seen would see your presentation. That mattered
"Well, I don't want my classmates thirsting over your handsome photos while I'm trying to present my project" you said with a huff.
Sometimes you wanted to be like the witch of the tale Hansel and Gretel and fatten him up with food so other skinny crazed girls would stop eyeing your likely malnourished man
And you would also eat him up so good—
"So you had to choose the worst one?" Law popped the filthy balloon forming above your head, bring you back to your discussion
"It's not the worst. You were kinda cute. Still had that youthful spirit" you said playfully, splitting the omelet in two and platting it for you both
"Fuck you" Law pointed at you accusingly, but it was half-hearted at most. "But thank you" he added as you handed him his plate, his scowl softening just slightly
You looked at him stuff his cheeks with the meal like a angry chipmunk, now thoughtful about the issue
Your slight frustrated sigh caught Law's attention
"Do you want me to change it? I can put Marco instead or whatever" you offered, already grabbing the tablet to change the persona
"Do whatever you want" Law said almost instantly, but then went completely silent. Frown deeper than before
Technically, he was your muse — which could be seen as a great honor if you didn't absolutely demean him with his... maybe not so healthy habits
Your whole project was thought for him
He was your muse. Not Marco
The idea of having another man's name as your inspiration bothered Law in a way he absolutely had no interest in unpacking
And you noticed the pout forming on his lips before he could hide it
Maybe you should just leave it like that...
Unfortunately, Law was scheduled to work his shift at the time you would present your project. Despite that, he promised to pick you up for dinner after
Everything went fine with the presentation. The professors liked your project and pointed out ways to improve the product.
Your colleagues also presented very interesting projects and soon everyone was heading to the bar
Everyone except you, since you still had some conclusion pages to complete
But even as you shut your laptop down some time later, Law still hadn't shown up
You sent him a message, but he didn't reply it
He might have been busy, so you decided to take your things and go home by yourself
"Okay, I don't smell like shit, Bepo is fine, the keys, flowers... fuck I'm so late... My wallet—" Law rummaged through his dorm irritated
On the day he was supposed to be there the most, the universe decided to be against Law completely
A three-car accident happened earlier because stupid students decided that drinking their asses off and driving was a good idea and sent eight people to the E.R. while Law was managing it almost by himself
Not only that, but three persons vomited on Law as a welcoming gift
He couldn't see you like that. He was tired and annoyed and anxious
He had everything planned. Work, flower shop, quick shower, perfume bath and dinner
It was simple.
If everything went as planned, he would have been able to even watch the end of your presentation
He went to the flower shop and still had to deal with a teenager that had too much hope in the world for his liking
"Do you have white flowers?" Law asked in that cold tone of someone who had been berating himself all the way over to the shop
"Yes, of course! What feeling do you want to pass on with these flowers?" The girl asked with a radiant smile that irritated Law even more
All he could do was to blink
"...Excuse me?"
"The message! Flowers have a meaning, you know. Are we talking about longing, devotion, new love, sympathy, respect, apology—"
"White flowers."
"So is it romance then? Is it pure? Passionate? Tender? White flowers can mean many things! Purity innocence, new beginnings — or if you pick the wrong white flower, condolences. We wouldn't want that."
"I would like to avoid that, yes" Law's eye twitched violently, his patience running thin
The teen remained completely and utterly unfazed, as if she had all the time of the world and was rubbing it on Law's face
"So is she a long-term partner? New? Are you celebrating something—"
"I am late" Law interrupted her. Flat. Final. "Very, very late. And she likes white flowers because she likes to color them with pigment like a child in kindergarten. That's all you need to know, so white flowers are all I need"
The expression of the teen quickly changed to a judgmental stare. Because of course he's the kind of boyfriend that doesn't care about the horoscope of flowers
"How late are we talking?" The girl questioned coldly
Law almost vibrated with the loss of hope in her voice.
Yes, thanks. That I can deal with.
He left the shop with a new nemesis and a full white bouquet of different flowers that probably translated to a whole poem of how Law is a emotional constipated sucker
And because God or whatever entity watches over people hates Law on a principle, when he finally arrived his dorm — smelling like shit — Bepo and his sensitive stomach also decided that Law had sins to pay for
"No, no, no. Bepo, don't!" Law placed the bouquet on the couch and rushed to the dog before he vomited on his bed
The bed was a very important part of his plans for later.
After washing himself and the dog, Law was finally ready — and stupidly late — to meet you
But as he rushed out and opened the door, he found himself face to face with no one else but you
"...Law?" You looked at him confused "I thought you were at the hospital"
"I— I was. What are you doing here?" Law asked instead, immediately internally scolding himself
Of course you were here. He took too long and didn't even answered your messages
All his plans went to shit
"You—"
"No, I'm sorry. I should've messaged you. The E.R. was a mess and the florist—"
"Florist?" You asked even more confused
Law stopped everything he was doing and looked at you. Then at his empty hands
Where. The fuck. Are. The flowers.
That's when the true hero of this story showed up. Coming from between Law's legs, Bepo came to see you with a gift
The white furred dog wagged his whole bottom with excitement, handing you the most beautiful bouquet of white flowers
It was a sight of heaven's most pure angel
And that's when you assessed the whole situation
Dog fresh out of a bath. Expensive bouquet. Boyfriend smelling like sinful promises and looking nervous as fuck...
Your stomach dipped
Law doesn't do casual. He doesn't buy you flowers just because. He had a reason. He always had a reason.
How many months had passed? 8? 10? You were sure it wasn't more than a year since you started dating. Wait, was because of this he payed for your spa day earlier this week?? Was the time even appropriate? You didn't even finish college yet—
"Y/n-ya?" Law's voice brought you back to reality. He was on one knee looking up at you. He tried retrieving the bouquet, but Bepo refused to hand it to anyone but you, because it was a gift for you, of course.
You stopped breathing.
That's it. It's happening. This man is yours.
"Yes" you answered without thinking, making Law frown
Well, that was a weird reaction
"Yes... to what?" Law questioned, glancing around confused
Your world collapsed
"...yes?" Your voice got smaller and the blush on your cheeks got even more intense
Law looked at you
Then at Bepo
Then at the flowers
Then at himself
It was embarrassingly cute to see him finally understand the situation he put himself into
His face went pale
"Did you—"
"DON'T TALK TO ME"
Hours later you were still mortified over your silly assumption
Law had to physically stop you from eating the lilies of the valley from you bouquet
He underestimated the florist and should've have asked for non mortally toxic flowers.
Now you two were sat on the couch with approximately one sleeping Bepo of distance between each other, contemplating the misunderstanding
While you tried to process the awkwardness of your assumption, Law tried to make his mind stop spiraling over the fact that if that was a real proposal, you would have said yes
Law glanced at you bravely, gathering all his miserable courage he had left
"If you really want—"
"I will smother you in your sleep"
Law flinched, completely silenced
You exhaled, long and frustrated, hands on your heated face
"Can we just forget that happened?"
"Forget, yes. I can do that" Law replied quickly
Silence stretched again
"...did you... like the flowers?" Law's voice was surprisingly small, uncertain, trying to change the subject and keep that whole situation very well packed for maybe until you both get your degrees
When you looked at his way, you saw him rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing away from you
The bouquet remained pristine, now placed above Law's wardrobe since they're apparently a death threat while you're this flustered
"I loved it. It was really sweet" you glanced away, picking at your nails without even realizing "Thank you"
Law noticed your move instantly, feeling guilty about probably creating a whole new complexity inside your head
So he took a short breath and got up from his seat, stepping in front of you and sitting on the coffee table instead
Creating a clear space for you to pull away or run, he enveloped your hands with his, gently squeezing them for reassurance
He didn't meet your eyes. Not yet. Instead, he dropped his forehead to your hands, clearing his mind and heart and deliberately choosing his words so there was no space for more misunderstandings
"I'm sorry for not giving you more" he said, his voice almost clinical if it wasn't full of underlying emotion
"I should have been more present. Should've loved you more... loudly. If I did, a mere bouquet of flowers wouldn't make you think that's the most I'm capable of doing"
You heard his words attentively. Your heart doing that little backflip it did every time Law was sincere with you
You wanted to correct him and say he is present. Say that you appreciate all small gestures he does, specially the ones he barely acknowledge himself. But you remained silent.
Because his sincerity mattered more than anything now
"Eventually," he continued, but his voice cracked just a bit with nervousness, making him almost laugh at his own awkwardness "If you still— well, if I don't fuck everything up and you still... think I deserve to be by your side, I will make sure there won't be any misunderstandings"
He finally met your gaze, his eyebrows furrowed in that specific shape of certainty he had when his words had to be fully understood, leaving no room for doubt
"...that sounds like a promise" you said softly, trying to quiet down your own hammering heart, afraid if you spoke any louder you would break this fragile moment
"I don't do accidental, Y/n-ya. And I for sure don't waste effort. I might not be the best boyfriend, but don't let yourself have doubts about my feelings for you" He said as his thumb stroked your knuckles, holding your gaze steadily
"If you let me make a promise, then this is the one I will give you." Law bowed his head and planted a light kiss on the back of your hand
The gesture made you want to kick him in the balls with how much you just wanted to skip every step a romantic relationship needs for maturing and go straight to the altar
But being delusional doesn't make good relationships last
You gently pulled your hands away from him and stood, making Law's eyes go wide and his heart drop for a fleeting second
Were you rejecting him?
He watched you walk over to your things, and grab your robotic plant project
You came back — allowing Law's lungs a pull of breath — and sat again in front of him
You turned Bud on, his little friendly face lighting up and his mechanic flowers blooming
And you handed it to Law
"If you don't take care of yourself he dies" you said bluntly, holding the stupidly cute robot on Law's face
He stared at the smiley digital face stare back at him, humming a happy little song
"Are you... gifting me your project?" Law asked, now looking at your flustered face
The tips of his ears have been red for a while now, so he couldn't judge you and your cute blush
"I made it for you. He's your son by right" you scoffed as if it was obvious
"I'm not calling a robot my son" Law replied, but took the plant anyway
He knew how much that meant for you, but it was still a little offensive the assumption that he needed a self-care robot friend to take care of himself
He was a doctor, he knew how to take care of himself.
...he just didn't.
"You will love him one day" you stated, smiling softly as Law huffed softly
Law would love a rock if it was you the one to give it to him
In fact, he had plenty trinkets you gave him safely kept inside a locked drawer on his desk
He placed the robot aside carefully and rose from his seat, placing a kiss to your hair
"Thank you" he whispered. Short, but sincere
"I'll make you some food. You can take a shower and relax"
But because his words ignited that forgotten flame, you decided that greed is a sin that should be committed more often. Before he could pull away, you pulled him for a kiss, your lips meeting with slight urgency
Despite being caught out off guard, Law corresponded it with equal intensity
Your hands tangled on his dark strands, stealing a small groan from his throat
He lowered himself on the couch, his hands coming to your hips and adjusting your position to make room for himself under your thighs
You melted like butter under his care, not allowing his lips to be a breath too far from yours
Law tried to pull away exactly once since someone had to at least make an attempt of responsibility
Losing yourselves to each other, you remembered what it felt to give in to the feeling without that pressure of adulthood constantly pulling you back to it's restless routine that gave no room for unfiltered affection
At some point, Bepo decided that sleeping spot was occupied and left the room with quiet steps
Your tongues kept dancing, falling into a slower and more comfortable pace as the fullness of the kiss sated your longing hearts
"You need to eat" he said slightly breathless, trying to create some distance
"I am eating" You argued and pulled him close again, clinging even tightly this time
Law was having a hard time resisting to your appeal.
His core just wanted to remain tangled and worshipping you and until you both eventually ended up falling asleep on the couch. And maybe even wake up by morning and continue your unfinished business
But a soft grumpy tune brought you both to reality
Bud, the plant robot showing discontent. He was programmed to sense the lighting in the room, and since the light was on and the clock marked 00:00, his current function was reminding the user about bedtime
You both finally came to your senses and stared at the robot in silence
Law then looked at you with a dead serious frown
"He won't do that all times we're awake past midnight, right?"
Your lips sealed themselves on a thin line
"Didn't think about a sex mode" you tsked, regretting not having the insight while building the robot
Law just stared at you with his eyebrows furrowed. Of course you would say something like that after kissing the hell out of him
"You're eating" he released his arms from you and headed towards the kitchen, leaving you disheveled on the couch
You huffed softly, sitting up straighter and fixing your messy hair and shirt before getting up and heading towards the bathroom
"I'll let you know we're cuddling so hard tonight we won't leave bed for full 12 hours" you called out before shutting the door
Law didn't try to hide his smile as he cooked, preparing you food with maybe way too much carefulness
12 hours weren't nearly enough for him to get enough of you.
🧸ྀི one piece men writing letters to the deceased x f!reader.
🐰ྀིೀ doflamingo, eustass, law, ace. op men writing about their love for you to the people they once knew, hated, or loved. warning: mentions of death, might be spoilers, be warned! see pinned post for info on fan arts, and banners!
🐰ྀིೀ doflamingo.
Father,
Why it is you I am writing to, I do not know, but witnessing my wife alone as she cried had done something no husband should feel, and I thought of you. You loved my mother, you loved my brother, and you loved me, but your love was a curse. You cursed us all by leaving us to rot, you cursed my mother by causing her to die surrounded by dirt and stench, you cursed my brother to die by my hand; he reminisced you thus betraying me; you who deserved to die by my hand, the true evil of the Donquixote throne.
Your very existence is a malediction. Yet it is you I write to.
A vein threatened to throb on his forehead, a blotch of ink staining his page. Your body was curled into his chest, your head resting there, and from time to time, he brought his hand to your cheek, grounding you.
When she smiles, the stars bow to her, when she cries, the light of the sun fades and the rain begins to fall. Best believe father, I will torture anyone who takes her away from me, and will kill a man that stares too long. I will do anything and everything to ensure she is comfortable. I blame you for everything! But her tears...
I cannot blame you for her tears.
There's no one to blame but me. She says she's reminiscing her family, I say it's my fault for not helping her enough. Your existence was a curse, good riddance, but what about mine?
He looked at you when you stir. Let out a tsk.
An ignoble, dishonourable man who fell from grace. I could repent tomorrow and both the devil and angel would cover my mouth to avoid forgiveness from the divine. I am to blame when it comes to my wife's pain.
I don't know why I'm revealing the significance my weakness has upon my very soul you jester, but I will end it here. The next time I see my wife cry, I won't think of you, I'll think about doing better for her, and correcting your mistakes when it came to my mother. In the end we're just two devils, chasing after the light of an angel.
I cannot tell you to rest easy, I hope you be ablaze, but I will say this once: I understand your foolish sacrifice.
That doesn't mean I accept it.
- Donquixote Doflamingo.
🐰ྀིೀ eustass.
Tori,
I could lie and say that I'm fucking shitting myself as I pick up this pen instead of a hammer but I really ain't shitting or pissing. My bird, she'd go fucking nuts if she finds out I'm writing you a letter. I always write her letters, gift her things, but she's a possessive, needy gal. Don't worry, I love that about her.
He stopped writing to check up on you. Your back was to the deck, eyes closed. You were resting.
The ship is still named after you, I still think about you, but it's my girl that invades my thoughts. Funny, ain't it? She's here but she's too far, she's near but she's not near enough, she could be sitting on my lap, and it still wouldn't be enough. I need to consume her whole, have her be apart of me. Might bring out the old sewing machine you'd use to stitch up my clothes after a fight and stitch my favourite lady to me.
You who used to bandage me up, you who turned me away from evil to then die because of my evil, you who was lost to never fucking return, are no longer my main reason to live, but my wife, who now bandages me up, who turned me into the man I am today, who almost dies on a basis being on my crew, who will never be lost, who will always return to me, will be my possession, my woman, my heart, my soul, my wife.
Mine, all mine, and not even you can change that. You shaped my past to better my future, and whoever's up there gave me my wife in return. Rise from the dead, stand before me, and I'll take her hand whilst respecting you. I'll always respect you. I'll always care about you, love you, but man my wife. Such a pretty, kind thing that bird is. She embodies the lost parts of me.
Victoria, I love her, and I'm not ashamed to tell her. I'm not ashamed to write it to you, gal. Take it easy up there, will ya? I'm not seeing you anytime soon. I'd rise from the dead if my lady spoke over my grave and cried. I can't stand to see my best lady cry.
He looked up when he heard a shuffle. You had turned, chest rising and falling. Eustass scowled, feeling jealous. He wanted to be with you.
I'll end this here, gal.
Thank you for everything. I'll build a trinket in your honour and place It on your grave. That's a promise.
- Name's husband, Eustass Kidd.
🐰ྀིೀ law.
Cora-san,
It is a cold, winter night. The snow is falling and my wife is curled up to me, face pressed to my tatted chest. All sorts of colours fill my tattoos. She has an obsession with them, always tracing them with the tip of her finger, the plump of her lips, the tip of a felt pen. She's always jittery, and colouring helps. So, I let her. Not even you could have that privilege, Cora-san.
I look over some reports but all I can think about is the woman pressed between my chest, her hands roaming all over my body, seeking warmth, nuzzling me, kissing me, holding me down when things got tough; I have never felt this way before. I thought all human feelings died when you died, Cora-san, but she's here.
She reads poetry and literature and the occasional romance or fantasy book. I find her curled on my chair, or in my bed, or on my couch, and a book is always in hand, but so is her bookmark: a picture of me and you. I don't know where she found it, and when I did see it I'll admit I got upset and yelled at her - she didn't speak to me for days until I gave her the apology she wanted - until I realised that the parts of me I have locked away, she's the only one that's allowed to enter and seek them out.
I want her to seek them out. I want to need her, and I do. I have a vial of her blood around my neck. When she's not near, I hold onto it; if I need a kiss from her, I wipe some of her blood on my lips - I have a vampiric obsession when it comes to my wife, and she's just as bad.
I'll spare you the details, and will write about the ways I worship my woman to myself, and end this letter with this, thus strengthening my argument of my love for her:
I let her talk to you at your grave.
- Trafalgar D. Water Law.
🐰ྀིೀ ace.
Pops,
It's been two years since your death, and I still blame myself. I'm not good with words but my wife, she's really good at it. She's a reader, she reads all types of things, and I'm sure that you'd have loved her! I met her a month after the war, still recovering, still traumatised, and she was there, picking fruits off a tree.
I helped her when she fell and when she saw me, she wasn't scared, she just took my face in her hands and spoke about my freckles looking like constellations.
Ace looked up when you let out a hiss and barked out a laugh. You turn to glare at him, sticking your tongue out immaturely, and went back to cooking the meat.
We're camping right now and my wife almost burnt the meat. I told her to let me handle it but she refused my help and now she's suffering. It's funny, I'm waiting on her to give in and say "fine ace, help me" and do my thing. Obviously if I see she's in any danger, I'm stepping in. I won't let anything, not even fire, hurt her.
I miss you, Pops. I miss sailing the seas with you, sharing laughs and a drink with you, defending you, the Moby Dick, and the rest of the crew. My wife, my greatest treasure, has been a big help but the love I have for her cannot fill the emptiness I feel at the loss of you. Nothing ever can, but having her around...
Ace looked up to find you, eyes softening, then resumed his writing.
I love her, Pops. I really, really do. She makes me so happy, I feel so silly just writing about her, and like I said earlier, I'm not good with words so I can't really describe how I feel but no one is allowed to hurt her, no one is allowed to take her away from me, if anyone tried it, I'll rip their heads from their shoulders and toss it out to sea. She makes me happy, she makes me laugh, she makes me smile, she makes me cry, she makes me angry, she makes me feel whole.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Until later, Pops. I won't be seeing you anytime soon.
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summary: as a medical student, trafalgar d. water law finds himself constantly exhausted and in need of caffeine. somehow, he stumbles across a cafe near his university that just so happens to be open at all hours of the night! and it just so happens that the owner is cute, too.
pairing: med student! law / barista! reader
wc: 5.1k
tags: modern! au, f! reader, fluff, law wants you so bad, both you and law are tired and have bad sleep schedules, awkward law, law is tall but we always forget because one piece characters are the size of mountains
a/n: i love law so much
Law liked to lie to himself and insist that the Keurig Classic coffee maker he owned was enough. Despite the fact that he felt compelled to get his coffee during the day from a cafe, and only used the machine at night when everything was closed, he insisted it was fine.
He would force himself to drink the bitter coffee made from a pod, waving his roommate Bepo off when he offered to brew him coffee from ground beans, saying the Keurig was perfectly fine.
It wasn't like his face twisted every time he took a sip from the piping hot cup, wasn't like he preferred his coffee cold but couldn't put ice in the homemade brew without it tasting like watered-down shit, and it wasn't like it was a big deal.
Until one day, Shachi and Penguin showed up to his apartment, claiming they had a cure for all his problems.
"You're paying my med school bills, or what?" Law asked, bored and hunched over a table. "That would definitely solve a lot."
"Let's not get too crazy." Shachi snorted, before sliding Law his phone. "Look! This cute new cafe's opening a block away from you, and they're open 24/7. You should go try it out!"
"Coffee's probably shit." Law shrugged, barely glancing at the phone. "Anybody who has that much time on their hands to keep themselves open all day and night probably has low quality beans."
"I think you're discounting it too fast." Bepo scolded his roommate, washing dishes from the kitchen. "They could be perfectly fine, and maybe even your new favorite. There's no harm in giving it a try."
Law frowned, glaring at his textbook. Every morning, he got a cold brew from Nico Robin's cafe downstairs. Then, he'd get another one after classes in the afternoon. They closed by five, which was already pretty late for a cafe on the university campus, which meant that at night, his best friend (enemy) was the Keurig.
"Twenty four seven..." Shachi whispered, wiggling his fingers and getting closer to Law. "And they even have pastries. And seating. And wifi, and there's probably nobody there to bother you in the dead of night."
"When do they open?" Law sighed, shutting his eyes and rubbing his temples, doing his best to ignore how Shachi and Penguin high-fived each other behind his back.
"Today! Or actually-" Penguin peered at his watch, checking the time. 1:04 a.m. "I guess yesterday."
"Any reviews so far?" The med student mumbled, closing his textbook gently.
"Five stars!" Shachi said gleefully. "Me and Penguin went after class in the afternoon, and guess what - the owner of the place is super cute!"
"What does that matter?" Law peered at them, annoyed. "Tell me how the coffee was. Or the food."
"Oh." Shachi and Penguin pouted simultaneously, crossing their legs before Penguin spoke. "Well, I thought the coffee was good. Shachi really liked the food - they have some instant ramen options, a lot of pastries, stuff like that. Some quiche, too."
"Quiche." Law repeated, unamused. "You're telling me about their quiche."
"I'm just telling you, in general!" Penguin groaned. "I don't know what you have against quiche - it was really good! Seriously, I think we should go."
"I will go." Law said, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, tucking his laptop into his bag, and standing up. "You will stay here, with Shachi and Bepo. As for the quiche, I've never had a quiche that doesn't taste like slop and vomit."
"That's just because Bepo's cooking is shit." Shachi said, pointing at Law's roommate, who bowed in apology, murmuring "I'm sorry" and "I'll do better."
"Stop bullying Bepo." Law sighed, patting his roommate on the shoulder. "Your cooking is fine. I'll be back soon."
Shachi and Penguin frowned from the couch, shouting objections about how they wanted to go too. It was too late - Law was already out the door, slinging his coat over his shoulders.
Just as Shachi had said, the cafe was only a block away from Law - incredibly close, and not very hard to find considering most stores had all their lights off already. As he approached, he heard soft jazz flowing from the store, and as he breathed, he couldn't help but sniff the air more.
Chocolate chip cookies. And they smelled fresh, too. Pushing open the door to the cafe, he heard a tired "Welcome in!", and he hummed in acknowledgement.
"Hi there." You greeted him kindly, yawning a bit. "Since it's still our first week open, we're punching membership cards twice the normal amount to encourage customers to keep coming back. All you have to do is make a purchase and let me know what you think!"
"Sounds good." Law mumbled, eyes scanning over the menu. "Just a large cold brew and -" his face twisted, already annoyed with himself as he thought about Shachi and Penguin's nagging, "-a quiche, please."
"Well, don't force yourself." You laughed. Law peered at you, just a little bit annoyed. He couldn't help but agree with his friends - if you were the owner, you were pretty. Your laugh was infectious, and despite how tired you seemed, you appeared happy as could be. "What kind of quiche would you like?"
"...The Florentine quiche sounds fine." He sighed. He'd force himself to try the quiche. And if it was shit, Shachi and Penguin would be hearing from him. "I know you have chocolate chip cookies in the display, but I smell some freshly baked. Would you mind if I had the new ones?"
"Not at all." You hummed. "Good to make first impressions for opening week."
"Very blunt of you." Law snorted. "That a good marketing strategy?"
"Honesty is more important than marketing." You shrugged. The register dinged, showing that Law owed fifteen bucks - not a bad price at all for a large drink, a meal, and a sweet treat. You punched a brand new membership card for the man, filling up four out of seven stamps, and handed it to him. "I'll call your name when it's all ready, Mister...?"
"Just call me Law." He replied, nodding. "I'll just go sit down and wait, take your time."
He chose a seat by the corner, two windows on each side of him as his body sank into a plush chair and opened up his laptop on the desk. He blinked, realizing that he didn't know the Wifi password to what he assumed was the cafe's network - 'Sunny Cafe Network :)'.
Just as he was about to get up and ask you for it, he realized there was a small laminated sheet glued to the table, with the Wifi password, separate menus for different times of day, and a little QR code for any feedback.
Law hummed, nestling back into his chair as he typed the WiFi password into his computer. He couldn't help but feel grateful for the effort the owner put into each area - he hated going to new places and asking for things like the Wifi, or god forbid a key to the bathroom.
He tried to do a little bit of work, appreciating the soft music flowing through the cafe. He wondered if your opening day was really busy - and he was a bit shocked that nobody else was here at this hour. After all, this was a university campus filled with sleepless students, though they were probably out drinking and partying anyhow.
"Law?" You called from the counter, pushing a tray out. "Here you go!"
He got up from his seat, meandering to the counter with his hands outstretched to take the tray to his seat. "Wait!" You said, hands in a silly 'X' in front of him. He paused, blinking at you. "You have to let me know how everything is!"
"I will." He said, going to reach for the tray again. You cleared your throat, shifting from foot to foot behind the counter. He sighed. You really were pretty - you looked exhausted and worn out, but nevertheless excited for feedback. He couldn't turn you down. "Fine."
He reached for the cold brew first, turning slightly away from you so he wouldn't have to see your excited face in his periphery. He took a sip. "This... Is really good."
"Really?" You beamed, hands on the counter.
"Yes." He affirmed. "Did you add any syrup? It has notes of like..." He trailed off, taking another sip. "Chocolate? Cherries?"
"No syrup!" You grinned, crossing your arms proudly. "The blend I used for your cold brew was a mix of beans from South America and East Africa! African beans are known for giving off some floral or fruity flavors, while South American beans are known for sort of tasting like chocolate, so I blended the two!"
He hummed, clearly satisfied, before reaching for the quiche and the fork. He grimaced, clearly hesitant to take a bite.
"Do you not like quiche?" You wondered, laughing a bit at his face. "You didn't seem happy to order it either."
"Not really." He frowned, glaring at the pastry like it'd offended him. "But my friends came here earlier, and they said it was really good."
"Shachi and Penguin, right?" You smiled at his shocked face. "Yeah, they came in the afternoon, saying they'd try to get their grumpy friend to come on down. Med student, they said."
He clicked his tongue, taking a piece of quiche onto his fork. "Yeah. That's me."
"Anything you wanna be in particular?" You said, giggling as he kept glaring at the quiche.
"A surgeon." He shoved the quiche in his mouth, as if he felt like it was going to grow legs and run away.
"That'll be hard work." You laughed, watching him chew the pastry like he expected it to be his worst enemy. His face turned into a surprised, pleasant acceptance. "Good?" You asked, chin resting on your hand.
"...Yeah." He stared at the tart. "It's pretty good."
"I'm happy to hear that." You smiled, pushing off the counter to begin wiping down the equipment. "I work the afternoon to morning shift. I hope I'll see you again, Law. Make sure to bring that membership card in for some free stuff!"
"Okay." He blinked, watching you grab a rag and start cleaning. "Do you have LinkedIn?"
You paused, rag dripping with water onto the quartz counter. "Why??"
Law cringed at himself. He was twenty-six and still didn't know how to properly ask for something. "No, I mean like, uh..." He stared at the quiche. That damn quiche. "Somewhere I could find you?"
You grinned, pointing at the poster by the register. "The cafe has an Instagram!"
Law withered. "Right. I'll be sure to follow it, then."
You laughed so hard your side started cramping - it was painfully obvious what he wanted, but it was funny how incredibly bad with words he was. "Hand me your phone, Law."
He stared at you, confused, before realizing you were still waiting. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and bashfully handed it to you. You clicked around on it, and he just watched you the whole time.
Your hair was a little oily. There was a smudge of espresso remnants on your eyebrow. A strand of your hair was in your face, and you kept crinkling your nose every time the hair came in contact with it.
Jesus, you were pretty. He was never going to admit to Shachi and Penguin that they had, for once, made an accurate and compelling point as to why Law should've come.
"Here you go, Law." You handed his phone back with a sly grin. Pretty barista, you'd saved yourself as. Even taken a selfie for the contact picture too. "I hope I'll see you again."
"I'll be back tomorrow." He promised, watching your features - exhausted yet happy as possible - smiling kindly at him. "I'll try your whole menu."
"Will you now?" You chuckled. "Well, I'm looking forward to it. Looks like I got my own personal taste tester." You pulled out a notebook from under the counter, flipping it open and showing him the wrinkled pages. "Well, good. The menu's still pretty small, and I have a lot of ideas to expand it. I'll never turn down an extra palette."
If he was any less restrained with himself, Law could've been jumping for joy. Maybe it was the night speaking, the long hours getting to both of you, but he'd take any opportunity to help you however he could. He found himself undeniably drawn to you, to your tired demeanor and your willingness to work.
"Can I ask why you chose to open your cafe here?" He inquired, flipping through your recipe book. Blueberry muffins, many different flavors of macarons, brown sugar toffee latte. He couldn't wait to watch you make all of them.
"I went here for my bachelors, actually - for Business Administration. Very boring. But I always complained about how early the places closed! I'd get my coffees from Ms. Robin's place, but-"
"She closes at five." Law added. You blinked at him, but nodded, surprised. "Yeah, I know. I get her drinks too."
"That's too funny." You said, taking the cookbook back from him. "Ms. Robin actually helped me open this place. She's really nice."
"Yeah, well." Law shrugged, biting his cookie and humming contently. "So are you."
"Thanks, Law." You replied, watching him. Your eyes crinkled, trying not to laugh aloud at his slightly sad attempt at complimenting you. "Is it good?"
"I know I'm your taste tester now, but I really don't think that should even be a question." Law huffed, shoving the rest of the cookie in his mouth and speaking with it full. "Yesh, itsh good."
"I'm happy to hear that." You grinned. "Well, I'm going to get back to baking cookies for the morning shift. It was nice to meet you, Law." You took his tray.
"No, the pleasure's all mine." He replied, shaking his head.
"The pleasure can be both of ours, you know?"
Unfortunately, his friends caught on awfully quick. Within a week, it was no secret that Trafalgar Law had a massive crush on the owner of the Sunny Cafe. From midnight to three, all his friends knew - if Law wasn't in his apartment, he was going to be at the cafe down the block.
Ms. Nico Robin, too, was also fully aware of this fact, having come to check in on your business after the end of the week. You joked that Law was single-handedly keeping your business open, before clarifying that you were joking and that business was stellar.
Law had only grumbled at this, suddenly very glued to his textbook and the task of memorizing the brain. You always had a new pastry or drink to give him, and he was always willing to try whatever you had to offer. For someone who was evidently fearful of quiche, he didn't seem to mind eating all your different variations at all.
Sometimes you'd see Law in the afternoon too, at the start of your shift, being dragged to your cafe with his two friends you were already familiar with, and another who he later introduced as his roommate. They'd tease him the whole time they were there, throwing out comments like "Isn't the owner looking cute today?" and, "Aw, look, his face is all red! Law and the owner, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
Grown ass men, by the way.
Of course, this would always result in Law leaving abruptly and texting you an apology, to which you would always say you didn't mind and you actually found it rather cute. He always left you on read, but that was mostly because he hadn't a clue how to respond and was honestly embarrassed that you thought someone like him was cute.
Tattooed, dreary, tired Law. Cute?!
When he came alone, he'd always sit in the same seat he'd sat in the first day he came in. Right in the corner of the shop, a small plush seat for one.
Whenever he came in with his friends, he'd be dragged to the closest 4-seater to you - a table nobody else would willingly take because everyone was bustling around the area.
They'd sit there nonetheless, Law tucked into the seat with the least people shoving by him as he glared at Shachi and Penguin, who would wave at you flirtatiously as Bepo stole off his plate.
"I wanted that." He'd say.
"The quiche?!" Bepo gawked at him. Law, quiche?! "I'm sorry."
It became even more normal for him to text you late at night after he came in one particular night and it wasn't you working. Don't get him wrong - the barista named Sanji was perfectly kind and hospitable, but they just weren't you. Plus, he was strangely much kinder to the girl who came in after Law than he was to Law himself.
L: How come you're not in tonight?
Y: I should've known you were going to text me! I had to call out, my cat was still lying on my chest when I wanted to leave.
Law blinked at his screen. Maybe this was the pros of owning your own business, having the ability to call out to love your cat.
L: Can I see?
Y: I just said he was lying on my chest! What're you getting at?
L: Man let me see the cat
He huffed, ears red as he stared at the phone, huddled in the corner of the cafe as Sanji continued to feed free samples to the girl trying to place an order.
Y: [video]
A video of you, taken from around your stomach, with your cat nuzzled into your neck as the rest of him laid on your chest. You were smiling, sticking your tongue out before kissing your cat on the head multiple times, saying "Pretty boy!" over and over.
Law wished he'd been born a cat.
From then on, he'd texted you pretty much every night, checking that you were going to be the one working. Luckily, your cat had only decided to pull that stunt the one time, and Law never had to watch Sanji flirt again.
You never pointed out how casually the two of you would interact from then on, little texts of "craving one of your scones," or "that latte saved my life today, wouldn't have been able to stay awake."
You snagged small, intimate moments with Law here and there, whenever you could, and he gave them to you, as if it was normal to exchange little bits of unseen affection with someone you'd met a week or so ago.
Not that either of you minded.
He'd taste test for free, get free snacks from you late at night if nobody else was in the store, help you behind the counter if you were particularly tired.
You started asking how his exams were going, wondering where he was looking to go for residency, asking about his friends. He found himself sharing every part of his life with you, even the little things. With time, he learned more about your life, your childhood, the friends who dropped in to see you in the cafe.
Months and months passed, and relentless teasing from his friends began to stack. Shachi would poke fun at him, Penguin playfully badgering you for your number as you kept shaking your head, smiling, pointing at the flyer with the cafe's Instagram on it. Bepo would always ask if he'd asked you out yet, to do anything at all, go anywhere.
Law knew he should - but he just didn't know how.
"She likes to read." Nico Robin prompted as you handled other customers, sitting at a table in front of Law with a stack of books herself. "I believe going to a bookshop would be quite a safe option."
"I didn't ask for advice, Miss." Law grumbled halfheartedly. He couldn't ever bring himself to be angry with the other cafe owner, who had treated him so kindly the many years he went to her cafe.
"I know." She hummed, flipping a page and glancing at him. "It seems like you needed it, though. You haven't been to my cafe in months - figures you would be here."
"Sorry for swapping." Law shrugged, glaring at his iPad, internal organs staring back at him. "She's just-"
"Open all day and night." Robin smiled. "No worries. I was just teasing you. Though, if it's been months, one would think you two would've gotten somewhere by now."
Law flushed a gentle shade of pink, tattooed hand running through his hair. He twirled the stylus in his fingers, chewing on his lower lip.
"She doesn't need big actions." Robin said, eyes skimming the page - The Killer Angels, she was reading. "Maybe a craft day - bookmarks?"
Law wished he could say he already had an idea what to do with you - but in truth, he had too many ideas. He didn't know where to start, how to pick just one gesture to win you over. Too many ideas of how to spend time with you, see you, touch you, hold you.
It took a few more days before he decided to just take Nico Robin's advice.
"I remember you mentioning you wanted a new book a while back." Law prompted. It was a Friday - a long day for Law, as he had an eight a.m. class immediately followed by hours of shadowing at the hospital, then working as an EMT until seven p.m. when he finally got time for himself. It was midnight now, and yet he still continued to visit your cafe without flaw. "Would you want to go get it tomorrow? There's a nice bookstore that's also a jazz bar a few blocks from here."
You pulled a fresh batch of cookies out of the oven, sliding one off the hot baking sheet and onto a plate, handing it to Law with a grin. "Are you asking me on a date, Law?"
He flushed again, the only indication of his nervousness. "Yeah. If you'd want to go, I mean." He took the plate from your hands, grazing yours just as they did every day.
"I've wanted to for months." You smiled, leaning over the counter to peck him on the cheek. You smelled like chocolate chip cookies and espresso, hair a little damp from a day's work. "So of course, yes. I'd love to go on a date with you, Law."
When Law went home that night, he found himself unable to sleep. It's not like this was irregular - his sleep schedule was constantly unstable, and he was bordering on becoming nocturnal soon.
But this was different. He couldn't sleep because his heart wouldn't stop pounding in his chest, and he tossed and turned thinking about you. Intertwining your fingers tomorrow, brushing hair out of your face.
He forced himself to take some melatonin, lest he show up to your date groggy and half-alive in the afternoon.
As he started to sleep, he could only hope he'd dream about you.
Reluctantly wearing an outfit Shachi and Penguin had picked out - baggy jeans, a purple sweater that screamed "Casual, but not nonchalant" in Penguin's words, Law tapped his foot nervously as he waited outside the bookstore.
The bustle of the street was drowned out by the thumping of his own heart, and he continued to gnaw on his lip as he waited for you to show up outside the bookstore.
"Hi, Law." You greeted from behind him. He jumped, not expecting you to approach from that direction, and you laughed, looping an arm around his. "You look nice."
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Thanks. So do you. I like what you did with your hair."
You squeezed his arm, and he nearly jumped again. "Wow! This sweater is very soft, Law! Where'd you get it?"
He squinted at the sign of the bookstore, trying to ignore how you were basically just squeezing on his bicep. "I knitted it."
Your jaw dropped. "No way! I didn't know you knew how to knit!" You continued running your fingers over the fabric, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the handiwork. "This is really good, Law. Wow."
"Not a big deal." He managed to squeak out, finger shakily pointing at the bookstore. "Do you want to go inside?"
You removed your arm from his, laughing a bit at how he seemed to curl into himself at the loss. You intertwined your fingers with his, watching as he visibly brightened a bit, letting you tug him towards the door.
The bookstore was warmly lit and dark, the owner greeting you kindly from behind the desk. You immediately wandered to the back, Law following you as you set out in search of your favorite genre.
"What're you looking for again?" Law asked, hand warm against yours and not letting up anytime soon.
You peered at him from the corner of your eye, rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand. "I'm seeing what might catch my eye. I've been meaning to buy a book called Pachinko for a while though - it should be in the historical fiction section."
Law hummed, eyes skimming the bookshelves to help you look. "That one? With the light blue spine?" He pointed at the top of the historical fiction shelf, a gently worn book spine glinting back at you.
"Yeah, I think so." You said, squinting at the book. You walked up to the bookcase, up on your tippy toes to try to reach for it. You grunted a bit, arm fully extended as you fumbled for the book.
Warmth enveloped your back as Law pressed against you, a soft "Excuse me" coming from his mouth. He gently pushed your hand downwards, grabbing the book for you with ease and handing it to you. "Is it the right book?"
"Yeah!" You said, reading the author's name. "Thanks, Law. How tall are you? That book was super high up."
Law cleared his throat, thankful for the store being dark enough that you probably couldn't see his face turning red again. Down bad, Shachi had called him. "I'm six foot three."
You whistled, intertwining your fingers again. "Built like a tree."
"This tree helped you reach a book, you know." Law teased, finger playfully pushing against your forehead. "Could be a good thing."
"Didn't say it was a bad thing." You shrugged, tugging him towards the cashier. "You're just my type."
Law's hand tightened around yours, and you laughed a little. You greeted the cashier, reaching for your wallet when she said it was only ten dollars since it was an already used book.
Law beat you to it, tapping his phone against the card reader. The owner smiled at the two of you, wrapping your book for you and handing it back, both of you waving goodbye as you left the store.
"I could've paid for myself, you know." You frowned, bumping shoulders with Law. "Shouldn't you focus on paying for school?"
"I spend at least ten dollars at your cafe every single day." Law replied, shrugging and reaching his free hand out to carry your book for you. "Spending another ten because I want to do something nice for you isn't a big deal."
A small smile graced your face, leaning your head against Law's shoulder. "Okay. If you're sure, then."
"Couldn't be more sure." Law replied, leaning his chin on your head. The two of you stood there, outside the used bookstore, holding each other and watching the city bustle around you. Law smelled like coffee and pine, warm and comforting.
"I'd like to see you again." He prompted, arms tightening a bit around you, burying his face in your hair. He did his best to ignore how your face was very clearly purposefully pressed into his built chest.
"Law, you have a sleeper build!" You laughed, voice muffled from where you were. His heart raced faster, and he was sure you could hear it, because your shoulders still shook with laughter, even as you looked up at him, forcing him to stop leaning on you. "Yes, of course I'd like to see you more too, I had a really good time. Even though I'm sure I'll see you later tonight when I work anyways."
"You will." Law promised, brushing your hair out of your face. He knew you didn't like it when it brushed against your nose, even accidentally. "And I'm glad you enjoyed yourself today."
"Won't you ask me to be your girlfriend?" You teased, pinching his waist and watching him flush.
"I thought it might be too fast." He replied, hands tightening around your arms. "I didn't know if you liked me enough."
"If I didn't like you," You said, hugging him close, "I wouldn't have given you my number the first night we met. You took a while to work up to it, Law."
"Well." Law huffed, looking away. "I thought maybe it was another clever marketing strategy from you."
"Could be a smart move." You hummed, starting to walk away from the bookstore. "Maybe I should start giving my number to every guy that comes in."
"No, maybe not." Law grumbled, grabbing your wrist and looking at you. He ruffled his hair, golden eyes swimming with apprehension, though it was clear he was mulling things over. "I really like you. I enjoy spending time with you, and I want to have you in my life every day."
He paused, eyes skimming over your face, reading your every expression. Your cheeks were flushed with the spring breeze, smiling at him as you watched him talk. "Please do me the pleasure of letting me be your boyfriend."
Your smile grew ever wider, pulling him in tightly for a bear hug. He choked a bit, surprised at the gesture and your strength. He wheezed, gently and awkwardly patting you on the back. "Can't breathe. Can't."
You released him, gesturing for him to lean down. He blinked, but listened to you anyways, leaning towards you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, lips meeting his, smiling as you kissed him.
Law froze for a second, mind blanking, before cupping your face with his free hand and kissing you back. His ears felt hot as he kissed you with desperate fervor, before pulling back, face red as a tomato.
"I'd love to be your girlfriend, Law." You said happily, stealing your book from his hands and checking your phone. "I have to clock in soon, but I'll see you tonight?"
"Uh, yes." Law replied after a beat, blinking at you, still breathing heavily. "Yes. I'll be there."
"Good." You hummed, walking away. "I'll save you your regular seat."
A/n: A birthday present for myself, for all of you, from myself. The only man who comes close to Beckman.
———————————————
“You have your snack bag?”
“Yes.”
“And the log pose for Sabaody?“
“Yes.”
“What about-“
Zoro grabs your shoulders, pulling you away from the heavy bag he carried. One you’d struggled to even drag and which he slung across his back with one arm, not stumbling the slightest under its weight.
“We’ve got everything. Stop your worrying.“
You sigh, feeling a bit embarrassed even as you subtly try to peak into the bag for one last check.
“Can you blame me? You lost your shoes twice last week.”
“That’s because you move them!” He tries to defend himself, growling as you ruffle his hair. Grabbing his arms, you force him to face you, schooling your face into something as stern as you can.
“I can’t tell you to be safe because I know where you’re going and I know you. But I can tell you to be strong and do your best.” Fixing the collar of the traveling coat, you smooth the fabric with a soft touch. He’d insisted he hadn’t needed it, but with the chilly breeze that brushed past as you stood on the dock made you glad to have wrestled him into the garment. He didn’t need to be getting sick now of all times.
“You’re going to do some amazing things. I just know it.”
Zoro’s scowl softens, a blush creeping up his neck as he ducks his head away. Giving him an affectionate pat on the cheek you turn to the second person boarding.
Persona has a number more bags than Zoro, though her journey is set to continue even further than his. Each one was jam packed, carefully filled to fit the maximum amount in the most efficient way possible. Her wardrobe never seemed to stop increasing, with a good number of the items made by yourself to fit her specifications.
“Promise me you’ll make sure he gets to his friends safe?”
“I never thought I’d see the day where a maid was making demands.” She crosses her arms, though her words lack any true indignance. Just as Zoro, she can’t seem to look you in the eye, seeming just as dejected as last night about your declined invitation to join her.
Pulling her down to your level from her floating perch, you place a kiss on her forehead before smoothing the bangs back into place.
“I know I don’t have to worry about you, but make sure you at least write once in a while.”
She pouts, her cheeks puffing out, but nods regardless. Satisfied, you bring them both into one last hug despite their complaints. They could get out if they really wanted to, and you’re grateful they allow you to hang on to this moment just a little longer.
“Don’t let that old man push you around. Let me know if he gets out of line.” Zoro says, Perona nodding in agreement. You can’t help but laugh.
“I think I shall be fine with him.”
You wave as the boat sails off, watching until it disappears from sight before turning around and making the trek back to the castle. It overcast, as seems to be the permanent weather on Kuraigaina apart from the occasional sunny day. Still, you take your time getting back, knowing you won’t be needed until noon.
Mihawk would be training on the far side of the island, least he accidentally destroy a section of the castle again. Though if he did you could only assume he would move somewhere else. The warlord certainly didn’t lack the funds or connections to get another isolated island if he wanted to.
A part of you wondered if he would leave you behind to fend for yourself or if he deemed you worthy enough to go through the trouble of taking you with him, but shook the thought away. While stern and lacking social tact, Mihawk wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t leave you to fend for yourself. At least you hoped you had built a better relationship in your time with him than that. Maybe it was a pit presumptuous, but you liked to think he considered you a friend, even if a silent part of you wished you could be more.
One of the things you had learned early in your life was to never fall for the people you served, having seen too many scorned and cast aside. Best case you were heartbroken. Worst? Well, the rich and strong had more than one way to get rid of things that annoyed them, and Mihawk was the strongest man you’d ever seen.
You could still remember the first time you met.
——————————————
“A little more to the left.”
“Yes, Lady Perona.” You shifted the parasol, blocking the light drizzle that fell from the grey skies in a con cadence.
Despite the weather, Perona was insistent on taking her afternoon walk, and of course who else to accompany her and make sure she was dry but yourself? Even if you were being drenched by the rain and chilled to the bone. Not when she had graciously taken you in after finding you washed up on the beach, out cold and injured. She’d even taken the liberties of bandaging your wounds, which ache alongside your arms as you hold the parasol. It would be easier if she actually walked instead of hovering above the ground but you didn’t dare voice the thought. Your last charge had been quick to deliver punishment if anything in opposition were spoken, and you were broken of the behavior early on in your career.
You were heading back to the castle, the flowers she had picked- preferring fresh ones every other day to be placed in her room- resting in the basket on your back. The pink petals contrasted the atmosphere and you couldn’t help but think they indeed helped to liven up the equally dreary interior of the castle.
It had only been just over a month since being taken into her service, Perona proudly declaring you her maid and putting you to work as soon as your wounds were healed enough to stand and move about. It certainly hurt, but you’d been injured and expected to work before, though your wounds were a bit more serious than any discipline you’d received.
It was just as you’d reached the front doors that you saw them coming in through the front gate. One with mossy hair, looking a bit worse for wear as he limped beside a rather tall man with a wide-brimmed hat. The feather was weighed down under the weight of the rain, but the hat did its job to keep a majority of the now downpour from reaching him.
The hem of his coat was soaked and spotted with mud but the materials shed water and kept him dry while the man next to him was just as just as drenched as you were.
Mihawk and Zoro you assumed. You weren’t completely unaware of the fact that others lived in the castle, Perona complaining about them often enough to clue in on the fact. Apparently they had gone to some distant island for training without a word of when they would be back, so you had served with the knowledge that there would be others to come, even if you didn’t know when.
Now appeared to be that time.
”Who the hell is this?” Zoro shouted as he got close, meeting you on the steps. He had a number of scrapes and bruises, though none seemed to deter him in the slightest.
”She’s my maid.”
“You kidnapped someone?”
“No you idiot!” Perona shouted, hitting him over the head. “I found her on the beach! Unlike some people, she knows how to thank someone when they save her life.”
Zoro glared, rubbing his head as his attention shifted to you. “So you wash up and decide to just stay here? With her?”
He narrowly dodges another strike, though not the ghost that creeps behind him.
“I was traveling with my previous master when our ship hit a rough storm and we capsized.” You swallow, trying not to think too much about the incident. The fear you’d felt upon realizing the ship was going down. The hopelessness as you were booted from the lifeboat to make room for your master's collection of oddities picked up at the market you were traveling back from. Clinging to an errant board of the busted ship as you watched him and the others row away, only to be swallowed in one gulp by a sea beast. “As far as I know I am the only survivor.”
You open the door, stepping aside and gesturing them in.
”I was unaware of your return today. Dinner will be slightly delayed, but should allow you to get dried and changed.” They walked past, Perona without a second glance, while Zoro recovered just enough to stumble in behind her.
Boots, polished by the rain and with flecks of grass and mud still clinging to the toe, clicked against stone. You kept your head bowed, expecting Mihawk to follow the two younger occupants, only to have them stop in front of you. Not turned in your direction, but paused.
You didn’t speak, only keeping your eyes on the way water ran down the leather in abstract patterns and hoping he wasn’t angered by your presence even as the very air around him seemed to crackle. Perona hadn’t exactly asked permission to keep you, and by all means he was the head of the house even if you had previously only served directly under her so far. One word from him and he could kick you out, left to the ruins of the island without even a ship to go anywhere else.
You sat in the silence with the handle in one hand while the other still held Perona’s parasol, waiting, braced, only for him to continue walking.
Relieved, you continued about business getting dinner prepared and setting the table. There was enough time to change your own clothes and make yourself look presentable, embarrassed at having met the other two members of the household in such a state.
When the clock struck seven the dinning room was occupied by only three of the four residents, Zoro nowhere to be found.
“I wouldn’t bother. He's probably asleep somewhere.” Perona huffed after you made to find him.
You nodded, deciding to make up a plate and deliver it to him later.
Having been spared of the rain, her outfit remained the same, though that couldn’t be said of Mihawk. He’d changed into a casual white shirt tucked into his pants, the cut traveling down to his waist and allowing a generous view of his chest. It somehow seemed even more scandalous than the complete lack of shirt he wore early.
Without the hat you got your first proper look at his face, the neatly trimmed facial hair just as sharp as the rest of him, matching the dark hair slicked back from his face. His eyes were the most notable feature with their concentric rings set like a bullseye, locking on to yours the moment you glanced his way. It took everything in you not to flinch back, years of discipline nearly breaking under the intensity.
Instead you move Perona’s chair out, gritting your teeth at the weight as the wound in your side twinged. Before you could do the same for Mihawk he’s already seated himself, arms crossed as he watches you move, placing trays from the cart on the table.
Dinner was simple. A roasted meat with spiced potatoes, and sauteed vegetables. Perona’s mug was already filled with a steaming hot chocolate, cool enough to drink but warm enough to last through dinner. You didn’t dare look at Mihawk as you poured his wine- picked from the shelves and already opened, telling that it may be a favorite as you noted the type- keeping your head down as you returned the bottle to the cart. Wordlessly, you took your normal position along the wall, nearly hidden by one of pillars and ready to step forward should they need anything.
Needing no further prompting, Perona dug into her meal, complaining to her dining companion about one thing or another that had happened while he was gone. Mihawk didn’t touch his food or give her a response. Instead his gaze once again found you.
“Are you not going to join us?”
The question took you by surprise, head tilting before you could stop it.
“I will have my meal after cleaning up later, sir.”
Only after you had delivered Zoro’s meal and ensured that the residents of the household were taken care of could you have your own dinner. Leftovers from whatever hadn’t been eaten. A bit cold but still more than flavorful, your cooking up to par with any chef.
“Sit.” Mihawk points to Zoro’s empty seat, everything already set up.
“I’m afraid I can’t sir.”
“Either sit eat or leave. I will not have someone lording over me as I eat.”
You hesitate, propriety waring with command. You couldn’t leave in case you were needed, but it was clear that Mihawk wouldn’t allow you to do so in the manner you were used to.
With light, slow steps you make your way to the chair, sliding in and portioning the smallest amount of each item on your plate. It wasn’t until you saw Mihawk start on his own food did you allow yourself to eat, careful to keep on eye on the other two.
Was this some kind of trick? Was he going to jump up at any moment and kick you to the ground, scolding on how you should have known better, that he wasn’t being serious?
Yet you were left alone, the perfectly cooked roast sticking to your throat like glue as you struggled to stomach even the smallest of bites.
It’s a mostly quiet affair, with Perona doing the majority of the talking. Mihawk doesn’t give much response apart from the occasional hum, glancing over to you as you try to make the least noticeable movements possible in an attempt to not attract attention. Each time he does so you freeze, unsure of what to do under his gaze. Like a field mouse hiding from predators.
As soon as Mihawk set his utensils down and folded his hands in his lap you took it as a signal that he was done, excusing yourself and getting everything cleaned up. The familiar burn of near scalding water acted as a balm on your nerves, unable to rid yourself of the queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. It helps in trying to process what had just happened. Never in the fifteen years you’d been presenting dinner had you actually sat to dine with them. It was unnerving to say the least.
After everything was set and taken care of you checked with Perona for the last time of the night, collecting her clothes and adding them to the basket that would need to be washed tomorrow along with Zoro’s. The young man had been confused upon seeing you with a plate outside his door, and even more so when you asked for his clothes. He handed them over eventually, and that left only one person to visit before you could get some rest yourself.
Standing before the ornate wooden doors, your hand hovered, unable to bring yourself to knock. It was late at night and the thought of disturbing him had you shifting from one foot to the other, but there was nothing to be done. His wet clothes could not be allowed to sit and grow worse. That might only make him cross.
You needed to prove your competency. To show you could be here without being a burden and hope that he didn’t send you out the first chance he got.
The knock echoed into the next room, followed by a ringing silence. For a moment you feared he was sleeping, intending to turn around and come back in the morning, only to hear an ‘enter’ come through the wood.
Mihawk was seated at his desk when you walked in, everything on top neat and organized. One hand grips a pen while a number of papers sit before him, of which you recognize the insignia of the world government at the top of. Being gone for so long must have left some matters to be attended to. Perona had told you he liked to be bothered the least he could but it seemed even he couldn’t get away from the occasional dealing with bureaucracy as a Warlord.
He doesn’t say anything or get up from his desk, letting the silence between you grow as he only stares, a cold sweat breaking out along your back.
Would he be angry if you were to speak first? ‘Seen not heard’ as well as ‘speak only when spoken to’ were two golden rules of your previous house.
Thankfully he seems to take mercy on your quickly fraying nerves. The words are sharp and direct.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m here for your clothes, sir.”
He shifts, chair creaking as Mihawk rests his chin on his hand.
“No. Why are you here. On this island. There is a supply ship that comes to deliver things every two weeks. If you wanted, you could easily go with them.”
You’d already met the small charter twice, run by a polite enough group that had offered to take you to the next island. They themselves knew of Mihawk’s aversion to others and seemed a bit concerned for your safety.
The offer had been politely rejected.
“I am here to serve. I owe Perona my life.”
“Is that all?” He asks, the words stabbing through your facade of calm, probing for any hint of a lie.
“I know how to do nothing else, and I will not be accepted back to my previous life.”
Your head tilts down, staring at your feet and waiting for dismissal.
The chair scrapes back, followed by the sound of heavy steps across stone as he rounds the desk. Mihawk’s approach has you begging to back away, to find some reprieve from his overwhelming presence as you hold your ground dutifully. You see him only by the shadow cast by the fire, stretching like a creature of the night looking for its next victim as he slowly circles, observing. The steps finally come to a stop in front of you and this time you can’t hold back the flinch that comes as his hand grabs your wrist.
Golden eyes inspect every inch with a stormy impassivity. Every callous and scar that decorates the skin, still red from the water. Them move to your arms, the muscle toned not with training and battle but years spent scrubbing floors and carrying the endless purchases of your employer. There are few marks across the skin considering some of the others you’ve seen, but enough to let you know you will never have the flawless complexion of the high-borns, who will never lift anything heavier than the weight of their overflowing cups.
Mihawk says nothing, only turning the limb back and forth, gaze flickering to yours before he drops it and turns on heel, settling himself at his desk once again.
“My coat is hung to the left. You may take the clothes beside it as well.” He says, gesturing towards the door to the side of the room.
It seems his bedroom is attached, though you don’t dare to peek around as you retrieve the garment, setting it on top of the half filled basket of others. At least he’s kind enough not to make you gather the clothes from all over the floor yourself. He doesn’t seem the messy type though, and when you’d first started the task of cleaning the massive castle you found that while things were dusty and unused, very few areas could be considered messy. In fact most of the place seemed rather sparse, a contrast to the way nobles normally decorated their houses with abundance to flaunt status and wealth.
Shivering, you note the low fire, adding a few more logs to bring both more heat and light to the room, as well as gathering an empty cup set on a side table. Mihawk remains silent, only the sound of his own scratching paper giving any indication he was still in the room.
“Is there anything else you require before I leave, sir?”
The scribbling stops, and from the way gooseflesh raises you can only assume he’s looking at you once again.
“No.”
You nod once more, taking your collection and heading back out. Only when you were down the hall and around the corner did you allow your knees to give in like they wanted to, holding yourself against the wall as you tried to calm your racing pulse. Not from fear, though that might have been a small part of it, but more so from overwhelming relief that you weren’t going to be dismissed and tossed onto the streets. Not that Mihawk couldn’t change his mind at any moment and deem you more trouble than you’re worth.
It’s with a sense of determination you stand, already forming a plan of everything that needs to be done in the morning. A plan to secure your position and prove your worth.
======================
As the door closed, Mihawk listened to the sound of your footsteps retreating, his hand slowing to a stop. A heavy sigh escapes him, rubbing his eyes.
The last thing he expected upon coming back was another stray to have showed up on his doorstep. Two was plenty enough for him. It would be a pain if people started to think they could show up whenever, and his first instinct was to send you on your way. Perona might be upset with him but he was not one to bend to the whims of a whining teen.
You were a pathetic sight, drenched to the bone like a cat caught in the rain. Despite your evident misery you didn’t complain, face impassive as you held the umbrella for Perona with shaking hands. It was only the fact of his own weariness from the return journey, and the fact you hadn’t shied away at first glance, that kept him from turning you out then and there.
Dinner was a surprise, the food more than palatable. While no chef, he could cook up his own meals just fine, but yours seemed even more flavorful despite being the same ingredients he used. Mihawk wondered if Perona had told you of his taste, or if you had picked up on his preferences already. He assumed the later, what with the way you flittered about, as if predicting the next need of them both.
You were competent in any case, and for that he was given one small mercy. If you’d been as stubborn as Zoro or chatty as Perona he might have truly lost his temper. Instead you seemed content to blend into the shadows. Something remembered only when needed, your presence lingering like an afterthought.
It was annoying. He hated weak people with no spine, finding no more interest in them than one would a bug on the side of the road. They offered nothing to him and would only get in the way.
But your body told a different story than what it first portrayed. It was not weak or pliant, but roughened and hard. A contrast to your demeanor. Marks that are not received from light house work that one would expect of a typical servant, nor would one accept such abuse without leaving under most circumstances. They were gained from years of abuse and use to the fullest extent. Mihawk had his own suspicions that you were either a slave or indentured servant, attributing the dismissal of your past, likely fearing you would be turned in. Many would, looking for some reward, but Mihawk didn’t care for such things.
While he didn’t care for the presence of others he also wasn’t so blind as to not recognize your use. At least you seemed to keep Perona entertained enough, and you weren’t a complete freeloader like the other two.
You could stay for now.
The thought pleased him more than it should have, and he attributed it to the fact there would be someone who would actually listen to him now.
———————————-
Serving at Kuraigaina castle marked a dramatic shift in your life. There were far less occupants for one thing, but that didn’t mean you had any less work to do.
Zoro was the most resistant to your efforts, jumping whenever you appeared and constantly trying to do everything himself.
“I’ve got two working hands don’t I?” He would always grumble, though he was more receptive to your efforts to help in the evenings when he came back bone-tired from training, especially when he didn’t have to do his own laundry. Oftentimes you would have to find him to deliver his food, both his internal clock and compass broken beyond repair.
Perona remained as she always was, one of the more familiar personalities you had learned to deal with from your previous service. She had all the attitude of someone brought up in an environment where they got what they wanted with no issues making demands. As time went on she seemed to soften the slightest bit, and while she still ordered you around like a normal, the occasional please and thank you made their way in.
Maybe it was due to the fact you were the only two women on the island, so some kind of bond was inevitably going to form. It was nice, as never before had you been able to relax and do the more girlish things in life. Meanwhile Perona radiated everything you wished you could have. Confident and assertive, but also indulging in her enjoyments without a care of what others thought. More than once you were roped into a ‘girls night’, as she called it. Staying up late and watching movies on the snail transponder, allowing her to do your nails and dress you up like a doll until she considered you acceptably ‘cute’.
Then there was Mihawk.
As the technical lord of the castle he had the most pull, and had no issue with making demands. He exuded the same aloof nature as many of the nobles and upper class you had met, while the air around him remained much more dangerous. There was no suggested threat of danger, but only the very real fact that being around him simply was. Yet he was never violent. Never was a hand raised to you. Orders were not barked, but given in a calm and collected tone that, while not kind, also held no anger or disgust.
He was simultaneously familiar and unknown.
At first the only times you saw him were meals and the occasional passing in the hall, to which you would step aside with a small bow. Sometimes he would stop for a moment, staring as he did the first time you met, before continuing without a word. That was another thing; Mihawk was not an avid talker. The biggest hurdle to overcome was to properly take care of his needs without them being spoken, and you were an excellent study. Years of perception for the smallest of body cues and behaviors allowed you to eventually fall into step with his silent needs.
Mihawk was both an early riser and late to bed, but preferred for his laundry to be collected and room cleaned in the morning. He didn’t eat breakfast, but took coffee as he sat on the balcony outside his room, keen eyes watching the distant horizon as he read the paper. For someone so intent on his own privacy he seemed adamant in remaining up to date on the events of the world.
You would wake Zoro- which was a challenge of it’s own right, never having met someone who could sleep so soundly- and he Mihawk would be off to train, stopping at noon for lunch.
It was terrifying the first time you saw them fighting, nearly blown off your feet by the force generated as their blades met. A slice through the stone next to you had you jumping, eyes wide at the split as Zoro called out, asking if you were okay whike Perona laughed at your disheveled state, sipping at her own tea not far off. Mihawk said nothing, his glare making you shrink in fear of having interrupted. Still he accepted the food, sitting down with the others to eat.
Once again you were ordered to join.
It was one of the many peculiar things he would insist upon, feeling too casual. It was precisely his lack of standing on ceremony that you blamed on the eventual slip of your etiquette, not helped by the casual manner in which the other two treated you as well.
The first instant you realized was at dinner upon pouring Mihawk’s drink, the man watching the liquid pool in the glass. A crystalline white with a light orange hue.
“This is not what I requested.”
“No sir.” You say as you move the glass closer. He had a preference for reds- so sweet it was almost comical in comparison to his demeanor- and his collection only contained a few of the lighter bottles. “As seafood is being served you’ll find a white will go better.”
The moment the words leave your lips you stiffen, realizing it could be interpreted as lecturing. Acting as if you knew better than him. It certain seems that way, not aided by the sharp laugh Perona lets out.
You’re ready to apologize and grab his requested selection when Mihawk grabs the glass with an almost delicate hold, swirling the liquid for a moment before tipping it back. He seems to consider for a moment, eyes closed as you watch, trembling, before nodding and dismissing you with a wave of his hand. You eagerly retreat, taking your seat beside Perona and using her as a shield between you for the rest of the night.
It was the first block to tumble, but certainly not the last.
It’s late afternoon and you’re taking down the linens from the line- ever cautious of the constant chance of rain- folding them and placing them in a basket to be prepared for bedding changes tomorrow. Dinner was over and Perona had gone to bed early while Zoro and Mihawk headed out for a late training. The sky had shifted from dove to iron grey as the sun sets, hardly able to see as you work. It would have been better to bring a lamp with you to see but feared singing the fabric when carrying it back in.
Instead you set out with the determination to get things done quickly, though the efforts were hampered by the wind pulling the lines just out of reach. It was already a struggle, the beds of the castle both wide and long, all of them seemingly king sized, and the lines in turn had to be put up higher to avoid the sheets dragging on the ground.
With a triumphant grin, you grab hold of the pin, releasing it and allowing the sheet to fall, only for you to have the same fate as a figure is revealed behind it. You're only saved by their quick reflexes, grabbing you by the arm and keeping you upright.
“Sir?” Your question comes out louder than intended, the surprise of seeing Mihawk there more startling than anything.
“You’re out late.” He says, dropping his grip, through he doesn’t step away. “I could see you from my room.”
Ah, so that was the reason. You must have been making quite the noise to draw him out.
“Apologies. I’ll make sure to do the laundry earlier in the day as to avoid bothering you.”
”You should not be out this late on your own. The humandrills are not the only threat on this island.”
Of course you knew. Venomous snakes and wandering mammals you’d only ever seen the gleaming eyes of also liked to wander at night, as well as bats nearly half as tall as you. They never came close to the castle however. Likely Mihawk had already taught them what happened when they did.
”I’ll head in now sir.” You reach for your basket of laundry, already dreading the weight of the heavy fabrics required to keep the chill of the island at night away, only to have it snatched away as Mihawk grabs the basket with one hand.
”Oh, please sir, I can take that.” You attempt to take the basket only for him to hold it above his head out of reach like it was nothing. Your first instinct is to grab it, and you do try, one hand on his arm as you jump to reach. Only as you feel his hand on your own shoulder holding you back do you realize you’ve touched him, drawing back as if burned.
”I do not favor you dumping the whole thing into the dirt.” Is all he says before heading back towards the castle, leaving you to follow.
Two days later, now early afternoon when you head out to grab the laundry, you discover Zoro gathering it from the line already. Orders from Mihawk apparently. If he has so many dirty clothes then he’s not moving swiftly enough to avoid staining them, so he can gather the laundry to remind him of how slow he is. Even as you try to help the man materializes seemingly out of thin air, not having to say a thing as he glares, following the entire way until you’re back in the castle.
His peculiarities only grew from there.
In your spare time you liked to visit the library. Something yo had been a bit surprised at the first time you stummmbled upon it.
While none of the shelves seem to contain anything written in the past five years, it was still enjoyable to read through the old romance novels that were tucked away in the corner. It was particularly useful when you found yourself unable to sleep at night, sneaking through the empty halls to get a few chapters in.
It all went fine and well until you discovered Mihawk in there one night, perched in front of the fireplace with a book balanced on one knee, his head resting in his hand perched on the armrest.
He looks up as you enter, unable to get away without notice. Stalling, you debate your options, clutching your robe tighter to your chest. What a sight you must make, hair messed and clothes wrinkled from tossing and turning. Yet he makes no comment on your appearance even as he scan you from head to toe.
”Do not leave on my account.”
The nicety sounded more akin to an order, drawing you further into the room after a moment of hesitation. Mihawk returns to his book, leaving you free to make your way over to the section you were looking for in the corner. The weight of the pages feels heavier than normal, unsure as to what to do now. Could you just take it back to your room and read? Or would that be impolite? He’d told you not to leave after all.
Taking a seat in your normal spot across from him, you resist the urge to tuck your knees underneath, spine stiff as if fused to the chair back. It’s plush and luxurious, as most thing were in the castle. While there weren’t many furnishings the ones that could be found were nice.
You sit in silence, only the occasional flicking of the page. When the fire gets low you move to add more wood, careful to avoid even the smallest of sparks in the fire hazard of a room.
“You come here often.”
Of course it wouldn’t escape his notice. Nothing did it seemed, those golden eyes catching everything even which they didn’t see. Like he had a sixth sense.
“Yes sir. When I can’t sleep.”
His head tilts forward, pressing for more.
“I’m used to a much heavier work load.” You confess, settling down in the chair once again. “Many of my duties have been reduced, and I find myself restless at night.”
Mihawk’s eyes flicker to the book on your lap, fingers having unconsciously begun running along the edge. He reads the title, brow raising almost microscopically, and if you didn’t know any better you would say his lips twitched.
Of course he would find your choice silly when he held what looked to be something about fighting, elegant swords crossed over the cover.
You go back to reading, desperate to escape the conversation where neither of you were fans of small talk in the first place. The silence was neither comfortable or uncomfortable, but rather charged with an energy that had you on edge. Like anticipation of something.
Once an acceptable time was reached you excused yourself, quickly rushing back to your room where you would spend the rest of the night awake, unable to get the interaction out of your head.
Not long after, a few more novels were added to the collection of the library, and the romance section grew just large enough to start encroaching on the other shelves.
Neither of you said anything about it.
From then on, once or twice a week when you went to the library you would find him waiting there. It soon became routine, the familiarization of his presence only continuing to weaken the rigid, self-imposed constraints that had guided your survival in the world of the upper class.
Now when he walked by in the hall you no longer bowed your head, but instead would offer a polite nod- of which he would return- and ask if there was anything he needed. Most of the time there was nothing, as it seemed he preferred to do most things himself, but once in a while he would command your presence as he did one thing or another. Sometimes it was tending to the small vineyard he kept, while others it was accompanying him as he walked the island. For security reasons, he explained.
There were even times he had you sit in the same room as him just in case he needed something, claiming it was too much trouble to find you for every little thing, yet refusing to use the bell system that had been rigged through the castle and would have you running at the first chime.
Your favorite thing to do by far was watch Zoro and Mihawk train. The strength they wielded was astonishing, and it was no wonder their bounties were so high. Even if it was often more of a thrashing on Zoro’s end, you were glad to be there to bandage any wounds.
“I look like a mummy.” The young swordsman growled one day, arms crossed as you wrapped an ice pack to his head in an effort to combat the rising bump, courtesy of Mihawk. Maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but the mental image of him shuffling around covered in bandages wouldn’t leave, and the laugh escaped before you could stop it.
“You think that’s funny?!”
Yes. And it was only made more so at his indignation and the fact that Perona was now teasing him about how he’d look much better if he covered his face, chasing the girl around the clearing that served as a training ground.
You couldn’t help it, bent over laughing while watching them run about, sides cramping. When was the last time you had laughed, let alone like this? It was like every nerve was alight, filled with a giddiness that wouldn’t go away.
It was only as you were wiping your tears away, trying to catch your breath, did you notice Mihawk standing a dozen feet away. His eyes watched with a keen intensity that had your hair on end, sobering as you schooled your composure once more even as the occasional hiccup shook your shoulders.
As the duo raced by you grabbed Perona, guiding her back to the waiting chairs you’d previously been sitting in to observe.
With a click of his tongue Mihawk called Zoro back, easily sliding into a fighting stance, though his eyes flickered over the younger man’s shoulder to where you sat.
Zoro took the distraction to try and get the upper hand, only to have his weapon batted away without Mihawk ever looking at him.
You watched them fight, eyes tracking them the best you could with the speed at which they moved, though your attention tended to linger more on the teacher.
Oblivious to her observation, Perona looked between you. From the way Mihawk seemed to angle his attacks to give where you both sat a wide berth, to the way you seemed almost dreamy watching. It wasn’t the first time she had caught you doing so either. While she could be self-absorbed, she wasn’t blind.
”You like him, don’t you?”
”What?” You nearly choke on your drink, covering your mouth as you try to clear your lungs, much to your companions amusement.
”I don’t know what you see in him. He’s so old and grumpy.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. It would be very inappropriate to have a-a crush, on him.”
”What, because he’s you boss or something?”
Exactly. Even if he were normal it would be inappropriate, but this was Mihawk; world’s greatest swordsman and a Warlord. You were just somebody who had washed up on his island by chance. In terms of power and importance everyone on the island ranked above you, even the humandrills arguably, If you were going by strength that is.
Perona just waved her hand, leaning back further in her seat as one of her ghost snuck up on Zoro, diving through his back and leaving him to drop to the ground, susceptible to a kick from Mihawk that sent him flying, much to the girl’s amusement.
”Don’t worry, he looks at you too.”
You can only gape at her, unable to press any further upon spotting Mihawk making his way over. Apparently training was done for the day, and you quickly scurried off to retrieve Zoro from where he’d landed and help him back to his room.
Definitely not because you were trying to avoid Mihawk.
It was to your relief that Perona didn’t bring the subject up again, though you did note the grin she would sport whenever she found the two of you together, doing something as innocent as gathering papers from him that needed to be sent out as part of his Warlord duties.
———————————-
Voices had a tendency to carry through the halls, the lack of adornments only allowing them to echoe further. You took special care not to wake anyone in the late hours of the night when you ventured from your room to read or get something form the kitchen. Unfortunately some other occupants didn’t have the same courtesy.
”What are you two king up?” You question, standing in the doorway, hands on your hips. They could have at least have had the sense to have the conversation in one of their own rooms.
They both jumped, moving quickly to hide whatever it was they had behind their back. It was of little use, the object much to long to be covered, and your eyes widened, nearly dropping the light you held upon spotting the gleam of metal, the curve too familiar.
Maybe it was too generous of you to assume they had any common sense. If they did, they certainly wouldn’t be holding Yoru. Or at least what you hoped was an impeccable replica. Judging from their wide eyes it didn’t seem to be the case.
”It’s his fault!” Perona points her finger, putting distance between herself and Zoro.
”My fault? You’re the one who took it!” Zoro barks.
”But you’re the one who said you wondered what it was like to hold it and put the idea in my head! That’s practically asking me to take it!”
”No it’s not!”
They argued back and forth about who is to blame as you rub your eyes, tempted to turn around and pretend you hadn’t seen anything. But when they got caught it was certain you would be roped in somehow to lessen the blame.
How had they even gotten he thing in the first place? Mihawk kept it in his room and he wasn’t a heavy sleeper, though it was questionable if he even slept at all. Any time you got out of bed at night for something even as quick as a glass of water he seemed to find you, making you jump each time he emerged from the shadows.
”You have to put it back!”
”Me? You’re the one who took it! He’ll skin whoever he catches!”
”Yes, which is why it should be you!”
”Enough!” You snap, taking them both by surprise. It was the closest to anger you’d ever spoken to either of them, as well as the loudest. “Give it to me.”
If you were going to be used as a scape goat, you could at least face the problem head on and actually do what you were going to get in trouble for. And in any case, if the arguing continued it would certainly wake Mihawk before an attempt to put the sword back could be made.
The weapon was much heavier than expected. With the way Mihawk swung it around you would have thought it to be lighter. Yet the weight almost pulls you down, clutching the sword to your chest as you fix them both with a stern gaze.
”Both of you are to return to your rooms at once, and I better not hear a peep from either of you until sunrise.”
They nodded, mutely shuffling out the door without argument. Maybe it was the fact it was the first time you’d given them an order, or their own fear of being caught by Mihawk and glad to be rid of the incriminating evidence. Whichever the case, you set out alone back towards the residential wing.
Mihawk’s room, as well as your own, was located on one end while Perona and Zoro were on the other. If you had heard them arguing it was a surprise Mihawk hadn’t, though there seemed to be more troubles than normal burdening him. He would never voice it but you could tell, a skill gained from years of service and learning to read the smallest of changes or risk being caught in a flare of anger, by the way his eyes tightened more than normal as he looked out over the horizon, or how he seemed to swing just a bit harder during training.
”Are you alright sir?” You had finally worked up the courage to ask, gathering the mail that needed to be sent out and delivering what had been brought that morning.
His head tilted, expression remaining flat as keen eyes fixed you in place. The silence of the room stretched further than was comfortable, but then again, when had Mihawk been particularly concerned about he comfort of others? You were ready to apologize, already cursing your presumption that you could ask such a thing, when he spoke.
”Nothing that you can do anything about.” The words are sharp and final.
”Of course sir. I would never presume to be able to do anything about what troubles you, far above my strength. If there is anything I can do to help make the rest of your day easier, please let me know.”
Mihawk seems to hesitate for a moment, just enough that you think he might actually say something, before dismissing you with a wave of his hand. Of which, of course, you listen.
But while he says nothing you make an extra effort in the following weeks; cooking food more suited to his taste than the groups, ensuring he has a change of clothes warmed by the fire when he returns at night, making sure Perona and Zoro are on their best behavior (or as much as you can). It may be your own ego talking but you like to think that he seemed to become a little less tense. In any case Zoro didn’t seem to be suffering so many injuries.
You could only hope that you managed to get in and out without notice to avoid worsening his mood once more, and on likelyhood he did wake up hope that he wasn’t in a foul mood.
The room was empty as you crept in, fire long ago extinguished as only low embers burned, keeping the space just above freezing.
Yoru was normally left just inside his door, ready to be grabbed first thing in the morning on his way out. You didn’t even have to go all the way in. Just crack the door and slip it through onto its stand, though that plan is quickly tossed as you hold the weapon in your arms, barely able to lift it with two hands let alone one, and silently at that.
Taking a deep breath, you slowly turn the handle leading to the bedroom, flinching at the soft click as the tumblr moves. You pause, waiting for the door to be ripped open, listening for the faintest sound of movement. Though the odds of hearing anything are slim, your own pulse pounding so loud it might give you away by itself. When nothing happens you carefully push, making an opening just wide enough to slip through. It’s a blessing that the fire’s out, making one less thing to worry about waking Mihawk.
Yoru is heavy as you creep in, eye’s wide as you take in the dark room, the lack of moon outside making it that much more difficult. But through the darkness you can make out the figure of Mihawk, still as stone and lying flat on his back, little more than a bump in the blankets, had sunk into the soft pillows that litter the mattress. He has refined taste despite his aggressive nature, and you’ve often found yourself envious of the fluffy adornment whenever you were changing the pillowcases.
His position only adds to your anxiety, expecting at any moment to see him jolt upright like some sort of horror move. But Yoru’s stand sits close by, waitng for its weapon.
It’s on tiptoes you move, not daring to breathe as you’re forced to turn your back on the sleeping man in order to put it back. Your hands shake, praying that the stand doesn't tip over as you gently rest the sword in its place, momentarily panicking about which way it should be facing. Handle to the door made the most sense, but who knows. Maybe there was some swordsman use against it that you didn’t know about. In your defense, of all the times you’ve cleaned Mihawk’s room he’s always been out and had the weapon with him, leaving no chance of being able to have any reference.
As soon as the sword is back in place and stable you’re back out the door and in the main area once again, your legs feeling like jelly as you catch yourself on the wall.
But you’d done it. Yoru was back in place, Zoro and Perona were in their rooms, and you could go back to your own and pretend like none of this happened in the morning. Hopefully Mihawk wouldn’t be able to pick up on all the nervous energy, or if he did not say any thing about it.
“What are you doing in here?”
Your heart leaps to your throat as your stomach plummets to your toes, spinning around to see the door to the bedroom now opened, silently, and Mihawk just beyond.
He stands leaned against the frame, hair tousled from sleep and clothes slightly askew, the short sleeves allowing you to see the well defined muscle of his forearms which sat crossed. Golden eyes burned without a hint of sleep, as if he had been awake for hours.
“It’s getting colder out and the fire is low. Would you like me to add more wood sir?” You ask. The first thing that pops into your head. A blatant avoidance that has even you cringing. Mihawk merely lifts a brow, chin titled as his eyes scan you from head to toe.
“You’re no good at lying.”
”I’m not lying!” You say, too loud, clamping your hands over your mouth as the proclamation echoes through the room.
”You’re avoiding giving me a straight answer, and that is because you know I can tell when you lie because you’re a bad liar.”
You stand there, frozen, unsure of what to say as he’d already seen through you.
“So tell me; what business do you have sneaking around with Yoru?” Your pulse spikes at the mention of the sword, all hope lost as you're smacked with the fact he knew why you were there. Preservation tells you to get out of there as quickly as possible but it’s uncertain if your legs could even move, let alone carry you fast enough to get away from Mihawk. The thought of telling him about coming upon the other two squabbling over it crosses your mind but you can’t bring yourself to give them up, but neither can you lie to your master.
To Mihawk.
The thought alone is enough to have your stomach churning, especially as he pushes off the wall.
Each step is silent, bare feet padding across the stone with little fanfare in contrast to the click of boots he normally wore. One second he’s across the room and the next he’s in front of you, breaking the bubble of personal space as he towers above. You can’t bring yourself to meet him in the eye, hands gripping the hem of your shirt as you keep your head tilted down, though it doesn’t remain that way for long.
A strong hand grips your hair by the roots, tugging just enough to force you to look up. It’s not violent, but the simmering anger that swims in his eyes promises that it could quickly change. His gaze flickers between your own as you thickly swallow the begging plea that threatens to escape.
Of course he would be enraged by the fact that his prized sword was touched, you just weren’t expecting it like this. A cool, simmering rage so unlike the explosive episodes you were accustom to in your previous service. There was no yelling, hitting or throwing things. Only a silent promise of retribution.
The heat of Mihawk’s body is nearly overwhelming, sleep shirt unbuttoned and allowing warmth to roll off him in waves. Your knuckles brush the exposed skin from where they remain clenched tightly in front of you, both of you jumping at the contact. The movement has Mihawk’s grip pulling just a bit tighter, a small whimper escaping before you can stop it.
You both freeze at the sound, Mihawk taking a deep breath to compose himself, his jaw flexing while pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep breath in and out. He seems to come to a conclusion, molten gold eyes once again fixing you under his gaze.
“Was it the two brats?”
Your eyes widen before you can stop them. It wasn’t the most outlandish guess but was more so surprising that it had been the first one.
What one could guess to be a smirk curling at the very edges of Mihawk’s lips at your reaction, the ghost of a smile scaring you more than anything else from the man could have. The only answer he needed, and all without you having to say anything.
Then, without another word, he lets you go, giving your head a gentle pat as he smoothes your hair back into place. You can’t find it in yourself to say anything, voice stolen as you watch him calmly head out the door to the hall beyond. He turns left towards the end of the hall housing the only other two occupants of the castle, still silent as a ghost.
All the while you sit on the floor, legs giving out the moment he was out of sight and barely able to believe your luck.
You were alive.
Mihawk caught you and somehow you were still alive.
Pulse racing and feeling as if you were about to faint yes, but a practically ideal ending given the situation. It takes another moment to muster the strength to get to your feet, stumbling back down the hall to your own room while you can just barely make out a surprised shout from Zoro. Hopefully he can forgive you. It’s not like you actually ratted them out, though you still feel guilty.
Just as you shut your door there’s a rumble of what sounds like stone breaking- of which you would discover in the morning was indeed an entire wall being brought down- prompting you to curl up under your blankets and hide from the world.
———————————-
You wouldn’t exactly call what you had a family, but something akin to it. Nothing like the initial relationship you had.
Things were not demanded or ordered but requested-apart from Perona who treated everyone as if they served her, though even her treatment had softened- and you found yourself working not just as it was expected, but because you wanted to, growing shy under their thanks. Not that there was much else to do on the island, but with each thanks for food and hand received to help clean the endless halls of the castle, you felt as if you grew a bit taller, smiling easier, and scolded about making a mess without fearing punishment.
But of course all good things come to an end.
Two years had passed before you knew it, and the time for Zoro to meet up with his friends approached. While you insisted he had a bit more time before he had to leave, a month at least, he was insistent that he knew the correct date. Perona decided to follow him, apparently having had enough of the island and looking for something more exciting, in search of her former companions.
The castle would certainly be a lot quieter, and you found yourself just a bit more attached to them.
Their last night you made an extra special dinner. All of their favorites, feeling the need to indulge them one last time. Who knew when- not if, as you knew both were too stubborn and skilled to be killed or captured before you could see them again- you would see them next.
Of course they were excited. Perona chattering on about all the places she thought of where her former crew could be, her ghost weaving in the air above her, while Zoro wondered about his own. Even through his complaints you could tell he was excited, looking forward to seeing them after so long and showing how much they’d all grown.
Mihawk was silent as always, though a dark cloud seemed to hang over him. His shoulders which normally laid straight and flat against the chair back curled ever so slightly, giving him the slightest look as if he were slouching to your keen eye. To any other he may seem indifferent. Was they’re leaving really that big of a deal? You would have thought he was looking forward to the day to have his peace back, though it may be the fact that he’d no longer have Zoro as a sparing partner. They were still many levels apart but the young man showed great promise even to your limited knowledge of swordsmanship.
“You could at least act like you’re going to miss us.” Perona huffed.
“I’m sure he will. Being alone on this island can’t be fun.” You said, trying to assure her.
At your words Mihawk seemed to go rigid, his eyes darting over only to go back to focusing on his plate.
Had you offended him somehow? Maybe just the lone wolf image he always seemed to be trying to project. It would be presumptuous of you to assume that he kept any of you around for something as silly as being lonely. He wouldn’t have moved here in the first place if he didn’t want to be alone.
It seemed your statement only sparked a feud between the two young adults, arguing over who Mihawk would be more glad to be rid of as you served dessert.
“There’s still a lot of packing to do.” You say, standing and clearing the dishes. “I’ll be by later to make sure everyone has everything they need. It’ll be a long time before you see it again if you leave it.”
Zoro and Perona stack their plates on the cart, still arguing as they head out. You fondly watch them go, laughing as you see Perona slap the man upside the head before running off, Zoro hot on her heels. The sight has you laughing, warmth bubbling in your chest as you gather the last of the plates.
Turning to take them to the kitchen, you run straight into Mihawk who had been standing right behind. You hadn’t even heard him approach, the plates dropping from your hold as you stumble back.
Deft hands grab the glass plates before they can hit the ground.
”I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there sir!”
You panic, the previous contentment replaced by panic He was already in a sour mood, and there was no reason to make it worse! But why had he been there in the first place? The path from his chair to the door shouldn’t have brought him anywhere close, and he normally preferred to retreat to the greenhouse after dinner.
It seemed gardening helped him unwind from the day, at ease among the sprawling vines. The atmosphere was positively cozy in comparison to the rest of the castle, the structure clearly something that had been added on after his arrival.
You often joined him, clearing away any trimmed leaves or branches- not to mention the endless amount of glass that composed the structure needed to be cleaned at least once a week- content in the lack of conversation as a radio snail played gentle music. The station never changed, the music memorized long ago. Often you found yourself humming along as you worked, the tune following you through the rest of your routine.
”Do you like music?” Mihawk had asked one night. Apparently you had been humming a bit too loud, though he didn’t seem angry, just curious. It was difficult to see him as the intimidating man you knew, covered in dirt and hair a bit out of place from the humidity.
”I’ve never had much chance to listen to it sir.” You admit, feeling a bit uncultured. “But I like the music you play.”
The sweeping melodies were lovely, though Perno often complained that it was old people music. It was easy to get caught up in the sway of the notes, your oft moving slightly with the rhythm.
”I was taken to galas at times, though I never got close to the dancing. My mother said it was fun, though I think I’d make a fool of myself if I tried.” You had heard people talking about them. All the opulent decorations and outfits, costing more than you would ever make in a lifetime. It was tempting to ask Mihawk if he had ever been to one. Being a warlord he was likely invited to at least one gathering or another, but you couldn’t imagine him going if he had a choice, and certainly not being around the upper echelon with his intolerance for foolishness.
A branch cracked, nearly scaring you off your ladder as you looked to see Mihawk standing near the bottom rung. His face held an odd look. One you had only seen a few times before when he seemed to be deeply thinking about something.
”Is there something you need sir?”
His eyes, which had been staring almost far off, focused once again. He stood there a moment longer before shaking his head and waving you off, already heading back into the rows of grapevines as you quickly lost sight of him.
But the look stayed stuck in your head, pondering what he could be thinking.
It was the same look he gave you now, equally as confused as to what he could be thinking as he remained still, silently staring down at you.
Hesitantly, you reached out to grab the plates. Your fingers brush his by accident, just the lightest touch, unable to look away from his piercing stare.
At the contact he seemed to snap out of whatever thought had hold of him, giving a small shake of his head as he stepped back. He spun, pace swift as he exited the room and leaving you stunned, wondering what that had been about.
In any case, you needed to get the dishes done and move on to help in the other two pack. You could deal with whatever Mihawk needed tommorow after they had left.
————————————
Arriving back at the castle, you head for your room to change, chilled from the morning mist. Mihawk would likely retreat to the library when he got back, and you made a mental note to make sure there was firewood stocked to keep the place cozy. It was only a shame that Zoro wasn’t here anymore to help you chop the wood, your back already aching in protest.
The room itself was dimly lit, barely able to make out the outlines of the furniture in the dull grey light of the morning as the sun rose behind the clouds. Still an upgrade from the room you’d first been staying in, which would be in the proper servants quarters. While the beds there were small and cramped, the setup familiar, it was closer to the kitchen and laundry room. You’d come back from picking up a new shipment of fabrics for Perona to discover everything had been moved to the residential wing. With so many empty rooms you still had your own space but the walk to the others was much shorter, not to mention this part of the house was much warmer.
‘More convenient.’ Is all Mihawk had said when you gently broached the subject, not even looking up from his paper.
You could have lit a candle but felt you wouldn’t be there long enough, instead opting to walk with your hands just in front of you, toes curled in fear of stubbing them.
Making it to the drawers that held your clothes, it’s only by chance that you glance up, going rigid as you spot a distinctly human figure on your bed through the mirror setting on top. For as much as you’ve gotten used to the eerie island this is an entirely new experience.
For a moment you think someone’s broken in but the thought is quickly banished. Who would be stupid enough to do that? And with Perona and Zoro now gone, the two young adults having no concept of personal space, that only left one person.
You spin, now facing Mihawk who lay reclined casually in your bed, feet kicked off to the side. At least he had the decency to not put his boots on the comforter.
“Sir? Did you need something?” It was the only reason you could think of for him to be here. Maybe the weather deterred him, though that never seemed to be an issue before. The normal coat and hat that accompany him are gone, as well as Yoru. Instead he’s dressed in his sleepwear, as if he had no intention of going out at all even though it was far past the time he was normally up and about.
“I thought you would be going with them.”
You stall, head tilting. Did he mean Perona and Zoro? Where in the world had he gotten that idea from? Sure you had helped a great deal with the packing and hadn’t had much of a chance to see him lately, but that was because Perona would want to take much and if it were up to Zoro he would have gone with nothing but the clothes on his back and the swords on his hip.
“Why would I be going with them? They have their own adventures. My place is here.”
“Here on the island,” Mihawk’s chin tilts, eyes seeming to glow in the dark. “Or here with me?”
Swallowing thickly, you mull over what he could possibly mean. Was there a reason for you to be here without him? Maybe it was his way of telling you that you were no longer needed. With the other two gone, Mihawk himself had seemed to be getting by just fine before your arrival, even if the place was a bit more dusty than one might prefer.
Or maybe, like the others, he was moving on to something else. But there was nowhere else for you to go. You had no connections anywhere else, and you couldn’t return back to your previous employer with the death of the patriarch hanging above your head. You would for sure pay with your life, and had been one of the contributing factors of staying on the island in the first place, the fear of being discovered alive.
It wasn’t so much the fact of being abandoned, but being abandoned by Mihawk that made your eyes burn.
Of course you had developed a crush on the Warlord. He was handsome, yes, even if his personality could be prickly at times, but he had never been unkind to you. In fact he was downright considerate most of the time, actions speaking more for him than he ever did with words. It was impossible to snub out the growing feelings despite your best efforts, combined you had lychee on to the first person to treat you with respect and mistake it for something more.
“With you of course, sir.”
At your answer he stands, crossing the room in long strides. You’re unable to get away in time, too shock to move as he corners you, back pressed to the dresser as you stare up at him.
“Sir?” You hesitate to ask, wondering if it was the wrong answer. Apparently so, as his eyes tighten a fraction more.
“Why do you call me that? I thought by now you would have dropped it as you did with the two brats.”
Perona and Zoro were just that to you. Perona and Zoro. All formalities dropped somewhere along the line as your relationship grew. It made them feel more familiar. Closer. Something you couldn’t do with Mihawk without fear of falling even deeper into your emotions than you already had.
“It’s only proper, sir. You are my boss.”
“And if I wasn’t? If we were equal, would you call me by my name?”
Maybe. Maybe if you had met him traveling in the road, or eating dinner at a resultant. In the cozy isles of a bookstore or a chance encounter on the street. But you hadn’t. He was still a Warlord and you were his maid.
What a pipe dream. As if you could even imagine reaching a station such as his. The oceans would sooner dry up then such a thing to happen.
“I don’t see how that’s possible s-“
“I can offer you another job and stable life on a peaceful island of the East Blue. There is no obligation for you to stay if you do not wish to. But if you do,” For the first time in all that you’ve known him you see Mihawk hesitate. Almost as if he fears to say the words, though you can hardly associate the words with him even as his jaw clenched, brows drawing tight.
“You will always have a place at my side.”
His hand grips your chin, tilting your head up and forcing your eyes to meet his. Eyes that never failed to send a shiver up your spine from the first time you saw them until now, though the reasonings have changed.
“Will you stay with me?”
The question is loaded with more than what it appears to mean, hanging heavy in the air between you. He must be able to feel the way your pulse spikes, his own breath catching.
It’s an out. All you have to do is say no and he’ll leave it be.
You can think of nothing worse.
It is not out of service or duty you speak, but the well of affection that finally overflows the walls that have been built around it with all the grace of a seabeast.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
The word hangs at the end, searching. With how close he is it takes you a moment to realize what he’s asking, clawing past the final line in the sand you swore to never cross.
“Yes, Mihawk.”
Before you even finish speaking, his name little more than a whisper, his lips are on yours.
It’s not aggressive, yet no less commanding than his normal bravado. Mihawk does not hesitate or bother with gentle exploration, nor would you expect it to be. It’s confident and assured, like a sailor stepping onto a ship.
He takes the lead- something you’re grateful for given your inexperience in the matter apart from some of your younger years, before work got in the way of having any meaningful relationship- his hand never leaving your face as he tilts your head for a better angle, the other finding its place instead on your hip and drawing you closer.
When he finally lets up, pulling away just enough so that your lips are barely touching, his nose skimming your cheek, you’re both panting. A first you’ve seen from him despite the many practice fights and feats you’ve seen him perform.
“Say it again.” He whispers.
“Mihawk.”
His name is spoken breathlessly, almost inaudible, yet it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. In fact it only seems to ignite something further in him, spinning and guiding you back towards that bed until your legs hit the edge of the mattress.
You tumble back, Mihawk following as he leans over, knees tucked on either side of yours. One hand remains on your waist while the other braces above you.
The dampness of your clothes sinks into the sheets and you squirm, the feeling uncomfortably jarring in comparison to the rest of the situation but unwilling to break the moment. But, as always, it seems Mihawk knows what you’re thinking without a word spoken.
“Do not worry.” He says against your neck, breaking away for just a moment to allow you both to breathe. Something that was becoming decreasingly important.
“They won’t be a problem for long.”
Sturdy fingers grasp at the fabric, threatening to tear it away with the strength of its grip, but instead skillfully move to undo the first button. He carefully watches for any sign of hesitation, the smallest flinch of sound, but reveals none. In fact you arch even further into his touch, your own hands traveling to his shirt, chest already exposed and inviting you to explore.
How many times had you imagined this? No less than a dozen, tempted each time you wear him sparing or even just relaxing, that cursed shirt of his giving ample view of the muscle that lay beneath.
His jaw tightens a fraction as you pull the fabric, body trembling. Not from fear, but anticipation, carefully held back with a practiced discipline. But as your own shirt falls away and his hand brushes the sensitive skin of your torso his name leaves you in a gasp, and whatever restraint he’d shown was broken as he once again descends upon you.
That voice inside you is who you are⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ @iris2nicholie4k - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
