Kit_kat0037

Masterlist

CW: canon-typical violence, blood, injury, trauma recovery, blood-related intrusive thoughts/temptation

Summary: you finally get the chance to put months of training to the test. Determined to prove you're more than the broken girl everyone keeps trying to protect. Meanwhile Killer watches from the sidelines, forced to decide whether protecting someone means stepping in… or letting them stand on their own. This fight isn't about winning. It's about trust. Trust in training. Trust in restraint. Trust that the person everyone thought was lost might still be there after all.

Reader POV

You walk along the beach, almost to the other side of the island rises into cliffs. Torches mark the entrance to a cave in the cliff side. Dug out by years of harsh high tides. The walls rise towards and open maw of rock at the very top, allowing moonlight to shine down on the makeshift ring set in the center. Sweat dirt and cheap liquor fill the dank sea air, clinging all around you. The cavern is packed with people, mostly locals and the few seedier looking tradesmen from the docks. Every shout echoes. The smooth, carved walls create a loud dome for noise to bounce off of. Torch light throws long shadows across the course packed sand. Rope barriers have been tied to stakes in a shape meant to be the ring. 

Two fighters already throwing punches. It’s brutal. Every thud and crack of skin on skin bouncing off the walls. Blood spraying. You reach for your mask instinctively. Filters fresh– working, dulling the scents of the world. Your world. One you had desperately missed. 

You breathe in, steady as Killer walks beside you, Heat and Wire following closely behind. You catch glimpses of familiar hair cuts and flashes of faces– most of the crew went off on drinking benders or finding anything with a pulse willing to get them off but a few apparently wound up here too. 

With a sickening crunch, the fight’s over. The winner stands, panting over his unconscious opponent. He’s big. Muscles corded beneath his skin. A familiar look in his eye. He’s enjoying this. A tingle runs the length of your spine. The Pitmaster’s voice slices through the noise, sharp—calling for the next challenger. Shedding your coat, you step into the ring before anyone has a chance to move. Killer stands at the edge of the crowd, still as stone. Heat and Wire just behind them– alert but grinning, ready to enjoy the entertainment. 

The crowd turns on you instantly—taunts and jeers echoing through the cavern. A few catcalls cut through and you almost laugh, grateful Kidd stayed on the ship. Your ears catch Heat shifting, ready to break someone’s teeth before Wire reins him in. Killer doesn’t move. Just watches. 

With a deep breath you step into the ring in front of the winner. He cracks his knuckles like this is already decided. He’s at least 2 heads taller than you. He’s smirking, staring at you like a predator stalking a clueless prey waiting to rattle you right out of the ring. But he doesn’t. The shouting grows, trying to swallow you whole. But it doesn’t. Because you aren’t just a broken mouse anymore. 

The bell rings and you’re circling. Scythes shift in your hands—familiar now. Natural. Controlled. Months ago you would’ve been thinking about your footing. Your balance. Your leg. Now your body just… moves.

He charges you, already swinging. You duck. Barely dodging as the force of his fist grazes your hair. 

Oh shit. 

He swings again, punch after punch dominating your space. It takes everything in you to keep your feet beneath you.  He rushes you—low, fast, trying to take you down. The crowd surges, hungry now. Not for a winner—just for blood. He’s close. Too close. Your wings shudder open. With one flap you jump over him, snapping them shut mid air as you land crouched. You swing low trying to catch his ankle with the prosthetic. He dodges. 

Damn. Your jaw ticks.

You stand, scythes ready. Your stance holds through the pivot. You use the scythes to keep the distance between you two. And you watch. Waiting– reading. That low frequency starts in the back of your throat. The world collapses into black and white, the vibrations of everything around you coming into focus. You see his muscles tense before he moves. Echoes letting you anticipate directions before they even start. 

He lunges. You side step reaching out your scythes you catch his arm and twist– forcing him to a knee. Redirecting him into your space now. With a sharp jerk your scythes retract back in as you pivot on the prosthetic connecting your boot to his face. A satisfying CRACK rings out as his head is wrenched sideways. He spits blood into the packed sand and looks back with a murderous glare. You stop the low frequency, shutting off your echolocation, your chest tight from the vibrations. 

Patience. Redirect. 

You watch as he circles, a new determination in his eyes. He realizes you're not prey. He seems to favor his right side, going more for force behind a punch than anything else. You balance your stance, ready to dodge. He charges, arm cocked back. You grip your scythes watching his fist, waiting. 

You don’t see him plant his foot early, stepping in front of you. His whole body pivots. He drops his weight, shoulder barreling into your body. The impact blasts every bit of air from your lungs. It knocks you back. Your prosthetic catches on something landing you on your ass– hitting sand. 

The crowd around you explodes with blood-thirsty excitement. Expecting to collect their bets sooner rather than later. You barely drag in half a breath before his hand clamps around your arm. He rips you off the ground. You swing helplessly from his grip for a heart beat. Long enough for him to line up the next hit. Then he drives his fist beneath your ribs. Sending you back to the ground choking for air, your stomach rolls. Black spots swim in your vision as you taste the coppery tang of blood.

Killer POV

The crowd cheers as you double over. 

“Shit.” Heat swore behind him. Wire shifting, ready to move. It takes everything in Killer to stand still. He clenches his jaw. Waiting. Killer jerks his head to the side, eyes never leaving you in the ring– a silent command. No.

He has to let you stand on your own. Prove to yourself you don’t need them to protect you every step of the way anymore. Prove he will keep his promise to you. It still feels like someone just stabbed him to do nothing. 

Heat and Wire tense, ready to step in if needed– first mate’s orders or not. The bastard stands over you grinning as you roll to your side. The crowd jeers, praising their champion. He turns his back to you reveling in the praise of his crowd. Killer keeps watching you.  

Get up. Get. Up.

Your shoulders lock, wings shuddering as you take a breath. You stand on shaking legs. Killer sees that look in your eyes– one he knows all too well. You’re pissed. But that just sharpens your focus. 

Killer watches as you stalk quietly behind your opponent, still too wrapped up in his own ego to notice you. You hold your scythes loose, not with the death grip you had earlier. There’s more flow in you. Like the scythes are just an extension now. The crowd notices you up too, alerting their champion. But it’s too late. 

You’re moving. With your wings fully out now you use them to dance around the ring, kicking up dust allowing some coverage for yourself as the black leathery membranes weave in and out of view creating confusion.  You strike. A chain rattling as your scythe hooks his elbow you pull him close landing your own punch to his chest. 

He swings. You duck. Moving for another hit he dodges low aiming for your prosthetic. Heat takes a step only stopping when Killer grips his shoulder. He hits your leg. You stumble back but don’t hit the ground. Your balance is finally steady, no longer favoring your real leg anymore. 

You lift your prosthetic and slam it down on the ground but he rolls away just in time. Wire lets out a tense cough. They can all feel the force back on a hit like that through their own legs.  But you’re finally fighting as if your body belongs to you. The scythes– true extensions now instead of borrowed props. Anyone who knows your crew can see their influence on you now. Heat’s force. Wire’s precision. Kidd’s relentless pressure. And something else. Something yours.

Their champ is up again– face red, chest heaving. You’re giving him a run for his money. He charges again but you don’t give him the chance to. You vault yourself up in the air arcing straight over him. He spins– no time to recover, balance gone. Your scythe cuts down in a clean arc. A shallow cut across his forearm. Blood blooming. Red. Dangerous. 

Killer’s hand tightens on Heat’s shoulder. 

“Killer–” Wire warns. 

“Wait.” Killer spits out the word, trying to choke down his own nerves. 

Flashes of that night fight in his mind. Kidd pale and gray. Blood dripping down your chin. You feeding like a feral predator. 

“Give her a chance.” It’s low and the commanders aren’t quite sure if Killer is telling them or himself. 

Wait.

Wait. 

C’mon Y/N. Don’t.

Every second drags like wading through oil. Killer watches as your chest expands, a deep breath. Slow. Controlled. Your grip on the scythes tightening, wings relaxing. Killer lets out a breath as you walk not to the blood but back to the fight. His hand stays on Heat– just in case. 

Your opponent rushes with a scream– all instinct now, not precision. He leaves himself wide open. The chain snaps taut as your scythe hooks his ankle—hard. You drive your shoulder into his chest with everything you have. He hits the ground, air punching from his lungs.

Your blade stops at his throat. Pinned. 

The crowd erupts. Some cheering others shouting in rage– most just trying to collect their winnings. The three commanders rush the ring to you. Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving but you're still here. Still in control. 

Heat barrels into you, lifting you clean off the ground while Wire grins beside him. You laugh, but your eyes find Killer's immediately. Searching. Hoping. Waiting for the one verdict that matters.

He dips his chin once. The relief that washes over you nearly undoes him. 

And something cracks. For months he'd been watching. Quietly wondering whether the woman they'd pulled from that auction house had ever truly made it back. He never said it out loud. Never burdened you with his fears—hell, he'd never really admitted them to himself. Not until now. He'd been so afraid of what you'd become that he'd stopped looking for who you'd always been. 

Your smile breaks. For the first time in a long time, it reaches your eyes. Wide. Unrestrained. Achingly familiar. 

There you are. He smiles beneath the mask, knowing no one can see. 

Pride settles in his chest. Quiet. Unavoidable, as you go back to celebrating with Heat and Wire. Killer lets his attention drift back to the sea beyond the carved rock. For the first time, it settles into place. Soon, you won’t need someone at the edge of every fight. Soon— You’ll be standing beside them.

Tonight wasn’t about the win. It was about you. And the world won’t be ready for what that means.

Masterlist

Overall MDNI, Slight Dead Dove. I own nothing, it is simply my opus magnum "what if" ficlit..... that may or may not be kicking my ass 😅

A/N: Reader POV, Kidd POV, Killer POV; *****= time jump

Warnings: Mentions of violence; Unhealthy coping mechanisms; Wounds/mentions of blood

Summary : The storm has passed—but healing is quieter than either of you expected.

A peaceful morning turns into an unexpected invitation, where the smallest routines begin stitching old wounds back together. But trust is easier aboard the Victoria Punk than it is in the world beyond it. When an underground fighting pit catches your attention, Kidd is forced to answer a question neither of you is really ready for:

Can he finally let you go? Or is some damage harder to leave behind than others?

Reader POV

You wake to morning light filtering into the cabin. Kidd's still in bed with you for once, sprawled across the mattress—one hand draped over you, the other resting on his stomach, blanket hanging off one ankle, snoring like a boiler. The deep lines between his brows aren't quite as pronounced this morning. 

You can’t help but smile. You untangle yourself from your dead to the world captain and head to the bathroom. You make sure to lock the door before taking off your shirt exposing the bandages. You unwrap them. The near-perfectly healed scar turns your stomach. You look away. Swallowing the lump in your throat you make a show as if the bandages really did need changing. 

You're not sure when, but somewhere along the way, your teeth had sharpened too. Pricking your thumb, you smear some blood on the used, clean bandages- just in case. You smooth the bandages back into place. If you don't have to look at the scar, you don't have to think about it. 

You’re pulling your shirt down as you open the door to find Kidd staring at the bathroom. 

"Morning," you say. 

"Mornin'," he huffs. 

“You good?” 

“Woke up without ya.” he folds his arms. 

You bite back a smile. Warmth floods you despite the hypocrisy. It takes everything in you to not roll your eyes. You turn, settling back onto the bed. 

“Just needed the bathroom.” You shrug. 

“Tch.” Kidd wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, his chin fitting on your head.

“Mine.” 

You can’t help but smile now.

“Shut up.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” You smile more

“I can feel it.” He squeezes. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Uh-huh. Sure Mouse.” 

You sit there in silence letting him hold you, letting him be near you. After so long apart, it’s nice. He doesn't ask about the bandages. Doesn’t mention the last two weeks. He just holds you. You let yourself lean into him. 

For a little while, you let yourself believe the scar doesn't matter. You'll never use it again. You've already decided that. There isn't any point worrying him over something that's under control. The bandages will come off when the scar looks normal. By then, there won't be anything left to explain. 

Kidd kisses the crown of your head and grumbles as he gets up, dressing for the day. 

“So,” you hold your knees, “New Island?” 

“Yup”

“How far?” 

“Dunno. Log Pose shows maybe a few days.” 

Kidd grunts leaning back. He pulls on his pants, adjusting his belts.  

"I'm headin' to the workshop.”

"Oh." Your smile slips. "I can see if Mosh needs a hand today." 

Kidd's already halfway across the cabin before he stops and looks back. 

"The hell're you talkin' about?"

You blink.

"You comin’?"

Another blink. "...With you?"

"Tch." Kidd’s in front of you in three strides. 

You squeal as Kidd hauls you over his shoulder. 

"Kidd!" You jolt as he swats your butt. 

"...Seriously?" Your only answer is his smug grunt. 

"Quit yer pouting."

Kidd walks through the ship with you slung over his shoulder. Heat snickers as you pass. You flip him off, which only earns another round of howling laughter. 

The crew isn’t fazed. Then again, by this point in your journey not only as a Kidd pirate but also as Kidd’s woman– not much does. 

Kidd pushes his way into his workshop. Further down in the belly of the ship your ears pick up so much more of the sounds of the Punk. Valves hissing, pipes ticking, pistons clanking. Alive. Most days, you've learned to block out the whispers of those sounds. Down here, closer to the source, they envelop you. 

The workshop is its usual chaos—except for the stretch of table where Kidd deposits you. 

"Here." He drags a stool over with one foot before dropping a handful of nuts, bolts, and a wrench into your lap. 

You look down confused. You couldn’t hammer a nail to save your life, much less actually build anything. 

“Kidd” You draw out his name in warning. 

“Tch. You really think I’d trust you with a wrench?” He points to the bits in your hand then to himself. 

“Just hand me the shit I need.” 

You sit there awkwardly with the tools, as if waiting for them to sprout limbs and run away,  flipping you off.  

"Socket." You hand it over.  

"Not that socket." He hands it back not looking away from his project.

"...You own forty of them." 

"Exactly."

"You're impossible." 

"Tch." He smirks. 

He finally looks over, pointing across you. “Long one.” His brow is furrowed, but not with anger this time—only concentration.  

"Bolt." 

"...Which one?" 

Kidd points with the wrench. "...That one." 

You watch as he works skillfully with the tools. 

"Need the curved pliers." Kidd frowns, never looking away, "The ugly one."

After another few exchanges… you start anticipating what he needs. 

"Socket."  

It's already in your hand. He takes it automatically. No thank you’s, no praise. Just cooperation.

"Little wrench."

You toss it to him before he finishes speaking. He catches it without looking. 

"...Took ya long enough."

Kidd reaches his hand out without saying anything. You already have the socket in it. He keeps working. Neither of you acknowledges it.  

His hands, usually rough and violent, handle the smaller pieces almost delicately. Kidd's mastery over metal never stopped amazing you. The workshop doesn't feel nearly as small as it did the last time you were here.

And that's your morning. Handing Kidd whatever he asks for, talking when the silence feels like it wants filling, and watching him lose himself in his work. Sometimes you’ll talk– fill each other in on what’s been happening. You could have sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a smile when you explained your new echolocation. Course he’d deny it. 

The workshop falls into its familiar rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, Kidd looks like himself. 

There is no talk. No heartfelt speech. The workshop door is left open now—a silent invitation for you and you alone. The days settle into something almost familiar. 

Wire never brings up the night he found you pushing yourself. Killer still trains you until every muscle aches, but Kidd joins in again. He's still insufferable—it still makes you smile despite yourself—but the sharp edge has dulled. These days he usually lets Killer correct you first. Usually. Screw up a second time and he's right back to barking at you himself.

You stop sparring with the rest of the crew, keeping it to the commanders and your captain—the only ones strong enough to shut you down if shit went sideways again.

Your wound has faded to a faint pink scar. You keep it wrapped anyway. Your mask no longer hangs around your neck. If you're awake, it's on. 

Kidd gives you a few odd looks, but "getting used to it" is reason enough for him. It isn't even a lie. You need to know how your body breathes behind it. How your hearing shifts. How hard you can push yourself before the filters become familiar instead of distracting. So it stays on. Even on quiet mornings. Even while eating with the crew. Even when there's nothing to fight. 

Your fingers drift over the engraved metal before you realize you're doing it. It feels strange without it now. 

The bandages stay beneath your shirt. The mask stays over your face. 

Both are easier than answering questions.

****************************************************************

The island you dock at isn’t a tourist haven or a Marine stronghold. It’s quiet in the way places get when they’re trying not to be noticed. Half-rotted piers, low buildings, people who mind their own business a little too deliberately. The kind of island where no one is asking questions or batting an eye at rough strangers. 

The coater lives near the edge of the mangroves, hands calloused, eyes sharp despite his age. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t look too closely at the ship. He just names a price that’s a little too high—despite Kidd’s death glare—and starts his work the next morning.

Which means waiting.

And Kidd hates waiting. But so does the crew- especially when the promise of the New World is on the horizon.

By the second night, the restlessness is already crawling under everyone’s skin. Too much energy, nowhere to put it. The kind of tension that turns into bar fights if it sits too long. Not that any of them had gotten into a back-alley brawl after a few too many rounds–Heat…Killer.

Kidd does his best to house arrest the crew to the ship and surrounding bay. No taverns. No brothels. No betting with the locals. That lasts about as long as anyone could expect. The crew may love their captain, but when the ship’s supply of booze runs low, his word becomes more a…polite suggestion.

Heat being the worst about sneaking out, a gaggle of crew hot on his heels. Wire eventually making his way off the ship as well. The crew does what marauding pirates do best- find some fun. Word spreads quickly about a place beneath the island — a fighting pit carved into the rock, hidden under an old warehouse near the docks. No Marines. No rules. Just fists, blood, and whoever’s strong enough to walk back out. 

Kidd is already in a mood. Half the crew had been disappearing for days. And not subtly. The coating takes time. With each passing day, the space left aboard the Punk shrinks a little more. Mosh was arguing with someone over supplies, and the town below is loud enough to carry up on the wind. 

Kidd was pacing the deck, metal shifting restlessly around his arm like it can feel his irritation.  

Perfect timing. 

“So…” you tried keeping your tone casual. Like it doesn’t matter. “Wire and Heat mentioned there’s a fight ring in town… open pit tonight,” Excitement betrays you as you tiptoe around your captain. “I want to go.”

Kidd stops pacing. Just stops. Slowly, he turns his head toward you.

“No.” Some habits are harder to break than others. 

You cross your arms. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“Don’t need to.” He starts pacing again, faster now. “You want to fight, we’ve got space on deck. You want to train, grab Killer. You don’t need some back-alley pit full of idiots trying to prove they’re tough.”

“Bullshit ‘we got space’. You barely have room to pace like a mother hen.”

That earns you a glare. Bubblegum snorts somewhere behind him. Killer doesn’t look up, but you can feel the attention shift.

“I’m not going to fight,” you chide. “...I just want to watch.”

“Bullshit.” 

"I've been training for months," you say, rolling your eyes. “You keep saying I’m stronger. You keep pushing me to be better. But every time I want to actually step outside the ship, you shut it down.”

Kidd’s jaw tightens.

“This ain’t the same as a supply run.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

You hesitate — not because you don’t have an answer, but because the truth sounds childish when you say it out loud.

“Because I want to see what it feels like,” you admit. “To be somewhere dangerous—and not be the one everyone’s watching to snap.”

Silence drops heavier than before. Kidd looks at you like he’s measuring something. Weighing risk. Memory. Fear he’ll never say out loud.

“I’m going,” he says finally, already reaching for his coat.

You blink. “What?”

Kidd doesn’t look back at you when he answers. “You want to see it, fine.” His jaw tightens. “But I’m going with you.”

And there it is. Not permission, just more supervision. Your shoulders stiffen. “That defeats the point.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Kidd doesn’t even slow. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

“The ship can’t be left unattended,” Killer cuts in before you can argue. Leaning against the rail, arms folded—calm, even, impossible to ignore.

His mask flicks briefly toward Kidd. “Not with half the crew gone.”

Kidd scoffs. “Heat and Wire are here.”

“Heat’s heading into town,” Killer replies. “Wire’s already following.”

“Then you stay,” Kidd snaps.

Killer doesn’t move. “Or I go with her.”

Silence stretches the deck—tight, measured. Kidd’s muscles flex, metal twitching around his wrist. You feel it in your chest—the shift. Kidd doesn’t like that answer. Not because it’s wrong. Because he can see the logic in it. Something fragile flutters in your chest, like a caged bat. 

“She’s not ready to be out there alone,” he mutters.

“You don’t know that.” 

Killer’s voice stays level.  “She won’t be alone.”

Something in your chest loosens at that. Killer isn't saying you'll be fine. He isn't pretending the risk is gone. He's simply choosing to stand beside you anyway. After everything—after the blood, after pulling you off Kidd—you hadn't been sure whether he still trusted you. You hadn't realized how badly you needed that answer until now. 

Kidd looks at you then. Really looks—at the way you hold yourself. The prosthetic. The scythes resting at your hips. The mask fitted tightly against your face.  

“I’m not asking to be reckless,” you don’t look away. “I just want to try.”

The silence holds. Then Kidd exhales hard through his nose, frustration bleeding through in a way that isn’t quite anger.

“Fine.” The word grates out of him.

Kidd may be a brute to the rest of the world—loud, brash, unapologetic. A monster. But here—now—he sees you. Not broken. Not feral. Not something to contain. 

A pirate. 

He jerks his chin toward Killer.

“But you stay with him. You don’t wander. You don’t pick fights. You feel that blood crap acting up, you leave. Immediately.”

“I know.” Your voice is soft, steady. 

His eyes narrow. “Like ya mean it.”

You meet his stare, unflinching.

“I will.”   

You’re not humoring him either. You’d let yourself be beaten unconscious before tapping into that power again. As you move past him, his hand catches your arm—brief, firm. Not stopping you. Just… there. His grip tightens for half a heartbeat—instinct, over decision.

“Don’t hesitate,” he mutters. “That’s when you get hurt again.” His thumb brushes your arm once—quick. Like it shouldn’t have happened. Then he lets go.

“Don’t get yourselves killed,” he adds, already turning back toward the bow.

I- i don't wanna talk about it....

Masterlist

ESTABLISHED relationship

MDNI 18+ and this one REALLY can't be skipped. Not super smutty but definitely there.

CW: LONG; Consensual power exchange; Praise / Possessive Language; Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary: He promised he'd stop you if you ever lost control. Instead, he almost lost you. Two weeks of guilt, anger, and silence finally come to a head. A midnight spar aboard the Victoria Punk forces old fears into the open and a conversation neither of you knows how to have. Kidd discovers that some promises aren't spoken and actions have always spoken louder than words. Kidd can't fix what happened. He can't stop what you're becoming. But he can stop pretending he doesn't need you.

Reader POV 

Spin. Hook. Pull. Reset. Again. Again. Again.

The ship is steady. Most of the crew is asleep. The moon reflects off the water in a long silver line. You’re on the deck with your scythes, practicing the same motion over and over again.

“You’re getting sloppy.” Kidd’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You turn, already breathless, already keyed up from training. He’s leaning against the mast, arms crossed, watching you like that’s where he’s been the last two weeks instead of hiding. Like disappearing for days and pretending nothing happened is normal.

You straighten, lifting your chin. “I’m tired,” you shoot back. “Not sloppy.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. Smirks. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your shoulders, shifting your grip on the scythes. “I’m keeping up.”

His eyebrow lifts, jaw set in that familiar stubbornness. 

“Yeah?” He’s baiting you. And it fucking works.

“I’ve been keeping up.” More than, actually. 

He snorts. “Keeping up isn’t the same as being ready.”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“Oh?” Kidd pushes off the mast—a shift, light glinting off his goggles. “You think you’re so bulletproof, Mouse?”

You don’t back down– squaring your shoulders.

“Try me.” Silence stretches. Then he steps forward.

“Alright,” he says, voice low. “Let’s go.”

You move first. Fast. Faster than you used to be. Wings half-lifted for balance, scythes snapping out clean and sharp. You angle low, aiming for his side — the way Killer taught you. Make him turn. Make him adjust.

Kidd barely moves.That stupid crooked smile—like he’s waiting for you to commit.  Your prosthetic shifts under his control—just enough to throw off your footing.

“Cheater.”

You recover fast, pivoting into a second strike, the other scythe snapping up toward his shoulder. He blocks it with his arm. The impact jolts through you. He steps in, closer somehow crowding what little space you had left. Smirking. Always fucking smirking.

“Pirate.”

Bastard.

Two weeks. Two whole damn weeks of silence. And now he wants to stand close enough acting like nothing changed. Like he didn’t disappear. Like you weren’t left there waiting for him to come back. Like you didn’t notice the space he left behind.

Your wings flare wider on instinct, trying to create space, and for half a second it works. You feel the air move. You feel the shape of him through the low hum still vibrating in your throat—every shift, every movement mapped before you can see it.

You push harder. Faster. Not to win. Not to keep up.  To shut him up. Make him react. Make him break. Like nearly dying doesn’t matter. Disappearing didn’t matter.

Your weight goes forward before you can pull it back. Too far.

Kidd POV

He sees it immediately. That tiny shift. Same fraction he’s memorized without meaning to. You’re favoring your left side again. Not fully trusting the right. He notices it every time. Your footing drags. Weight too far forward.

He moves. Metal snapping, breaking your momentum as your prosthetic jerks still. Not enough to hurt. He doesn’t think. And suddenly he’s there. One hand braced against the mast beside your head. The other hits wood on your far side. Not letting you fall. Not again.

Pinned between steel and timber. Distance reduced to nothing. Kidd’s breath falls sharp and rapid.  Your scythes freeze mid-motion.

Weeks without looking at you- without touching you. Now he’s here with you locked in place. The hum in your throat cuts off. And the spar isn’t what he’s seeing anymore.  It’s everything before. The disappearance, the drop. The silence after. Killer calling his name. Not fast enough.  His jaw tightens. 

“Confidence is good,” he says quietly, voice rough but steady. “Overconfidence gets you killed.” 

He doesn’t move. Not yet. If he does, it all follows. The metal at your ankle releases. But his hand stays.

“...You’re breaking yourself into something I can’t fix.” 

His gaze doesn’t leave you. It’s more honest than he meant it to be. Something in it shifts—recognition that he’s said too much. Then again, rougher:

"You're not dead weight anymore."

You shake your head. “Could've fooled me."

"Tch." 

He knows that look. The one that takes every victory and feeds it to the nearest failure. Months of progress reduced to a single mistake. As if that's all any of it amounted to. 

His jaw ticks. Weeks of shredded metal. Weeks of replaying that room. The moment he failed his promise. He doesn’t step back. Neither of you giving an inch. So close. 

Your grip shifts slightly on your scythes, but you don’t raise them again. And Kidd realizes that you’re waiting.  Not for the spar. Not for space. For him.

His hand shifts. Just slightly. Less force. Less control. Less certainty. He doesn’t have the words you’re searching for.

“Still think you’re not made of glass?” he mutters. No smirk. No challenge. Just Kidd. Your fingers tighten against his grip.

“No.” Then quieter— “But I’m not breaking either.”

Kidd stares at you, jaw clenched. For a second, he almost argues. Almost tells you every way you’re wrong, about how you’re pushing too hard. Every way you’ve scared the hell out of him.

But I’m not breaking either.

The words hang there—stubborn, certain, so damn sure of themselves—and all he can think about is the last time he’d heard you say that. You’d been bleeding. Dying. Still trying to stand. His gaze drops to the scar healing beneath your shirt. For two weeks he’d been trying not to think about what happened in his cabin. About your body knitting itself back together while his own strength drained out under your hands. About how useless he’d felt standing there, watching it happen and not knowing how to stop it. 

Tch. His teeth grind as the thought leaves something bitter in his mouth. Because the truth is, he’s not focused on your wound or almost killing him. He’s looking at you. Not weak. Not helpless. Not the half-dead girl he dragged out of Sabaody.  

His grip tightens before he can stop it. Your eyes flick up to his. Waiting. Always waiting for an answer he doesn’t know how to give. The Victoria Punk shifts beneath your feet. Rigging creaks overhead. Waves slap softly at the hull. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches tight between you, crowded with every conversation you’ve both been avoiding- he’s avoided. Every argument. Every apology. Every fear. Weeks of distance and tension  compressed into a handful of inches. Kidd exhales sharply through his nose and lets his gaze drop. To the scar. To the prosthetic he’d rebuilt more times than he could count. To your hands still wrapped tight around your scythes. Ready. Always looking for the next fight. His chest aches. Because for all the arguments, all the frustration, all the nights spent staring, worrying, pacing his workshop—

You’re still here.

There are things he should say. Warnings. Lectures. Maybe even an apology. Instead, he just looks at you.  Really looks. At the stubborn refusal to stay down. At the part of you that keeps clawing your way back up every time the world tries to break you. A punk. His punk. 

“You never know when to stop.” The words come out rough, clearing out the strange lump in his throat.

Your chin lifts immediately, defiant as ever. “Neither do you.”

For a second, Kidd just stares. Then a short laugh escapes him—tired, humorless.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”

That hangs between you. Your eyes never leave his. Still waiting. Still refusing to back down. Something in his chest finally caves. His hand finds your waist before he’s fully aware of moving, pulling you closer—firm, certain. Close enough that everything he’s spent a week avoiding comes rushing back at once. The fear. The anger. The relief. Close enough to feel your breath catch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead bumping lightly against yours. “I missed you.” His voice jagged at the honesty, too exposed. He doesn’t care. Not right now. Your expression softens instantly, and it nearly does him in.

“I’m right here.” You breathe. Dropping your scythes. 

He lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. For the first time all week, you’re not looking through each other. His thumb brushes once against your side, like he’s proving to himself you’re actually here. Still breathing. Still stubborn. Still his favorite pain in the ass.

“Knew you would be.” The smirk he tries for doesn’t quite hide the relief in his voice. Then he kisses you. No hesitation. No room left for argument. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, and the weeks between you finally break. His hands wander without thought—over your waist, your sides, the familiar lines of your body—relearning, making sure you’re real.

You consume him. Your warmth, your breath, the little noises you make. His mouth trails along your neck, relief flooding him as your hands tangle in his hair. He doesn't stop. He trades between kissing, sucking, biting— greedy for every familiar reaction. Every one feels like another piece of the woman he knows. Every breath that catches. Every impatient tug at his hair. Every instinctive way your body finds his. Each one loosens another knot in his chest he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. 

“Kidd.” Your breath hitches already so affected by just a kiss. He smirks as your fingers catch against his chest—pulling him in just as much as he needs you. “We’re on deck.”

His gaze flicks over your face like he’s deciding whether that’s supposed to matter. The fact that anyone stupid enough could come topside and find the two of you tangled together in the middle of his damn ship. A slow, dangerous smirk tugs at his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says.

You blink at him. “That’s not— anyone could—”

His hand tightens at your waist before you can finish.

“No one’s coming up here.” Calm. Certain. His eyes drag over you again, slowly. The corner of his mouth ticks up seeing the heat crawling beneath your skin. 

“And if they do,” he says, voice dropping, “they’ll learn real quick not to interrupt me.” You open your mouth again, but he doesn’t give you room to argue. He leans in brushing his lips against yours- slow, deliberate. Proving a point. When he pulls back, his forehead nearly rests against yours.

"This is my ship," he murmurs. His thumb drags once over your side.

Then Kidd kisses you again. Not angry this time. Relief and frustration tangle together until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

"...Missed having you here."

The words settle between you, low and heavy. A week's worth of tension finally snapping all at once. His hand slides from your waist to your side, then higher, dragging over skin like he has to remind himself you're really here. Warm beneath his palm. Breathing against his mouth.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough.

His mouth trails to your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing lightly before his lips follow after. He feels you shiver beneath him. Your breathing quickens, familiar now, and something in his chest eases.

"There you are."

His fingers catch at the hem of your shirt, dragging it up just enough to expose warm skin beneath. His mouth follows the line of your throat, then back up again, kissing you like he's making up for every second of the last week. His hands cup you, familiar and certain.

Your hand tightens in the front of his vest. Your other instinctively reaches for your side, catching the edge of the bandage before his roaming shifts it.

"Kidd—"

 He stills just long enough to notice. His gaze flicks down. The contrast of your flesh against the white bandage stark. He finds his way back to your face just as fast.

"...Still sore?"

You hesitate for half a heartbeat before giving the smallest nod. His thumb eases away from the bandage without another question, making sure he hadn't caused you any unnecessary pain.

Tender. Of course it was. A wound like that didn't stop hurting just because it had closed.

He should've been there when they stitched it. He'd spent two weeks trying to convince himself they were fine. Standing here now, he finally understood how little that word had meant.

"Easy," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

A quiet huff escapes him. "Not my strong suit, Mouse." The taunt is there, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He studies your face instead of assuming. Watches for the slightest hesitation. If you wanted him to stop, he would. No argument. No pride. Just stop.

He scowls. He'd always taken the opening when he saw it. Now he was standing here... waiting.

Tch. Since when did he start thinking this damn much?

He braces himself for you to pull away anyway. To tell him no. And that would be fine. He'd stop. He would.

Your fingers find his hair again tightening instead. 

“I told you- I’m not breaking Kidd. I’m right here.”

The last knot in his chest finally gives. Relief crashes into something achingly familiar. A growl rips through him as his thumb drags across your bare waist, careful to avoid the bandage. Then he kisses you again before you can change your mind, making it hard to think straight. His hand catching the hem of your shirt and yanking it off impatiently, like even the fabric is in his way.

Tch.

His mouth drags down your jaw, your throat, reacquainting himself with skin he’s spent too damn long avoiding. His hands follow without thought—over your waist, your sides, the familiar lines of your body—relearning, checking, proving to himself you’re here. Soft noises slip out of you as you sink into him. The worry of being caught—gone.

“You enjoying this, Mouse?” he mutters against your pulse, voice low, rough around the edges. He doesn't need the answer. Not when your breathing's already gone ragged under his hands.

A dark satisfaction settles low in his chest. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a crooked smirk.

He'd missed this too—the way you reacted to him, how even the simplest touch unraveled you. Weeks without touching you. Now he couldn't seem to make himself stop. Idiot.

Your fingers are already working at his vest, shoving it off his shoulders in jerky, impatient motions. Kidd lets you—right up until you reach lower. Then his hand closes around your wrist. Your eyes snap to his as he stops you.

For a second, he just looks. Your flushed skin. Your swollen mouth. The way you're looking at him like you want to climb on top of him and fight him for making you wait this long.

A possessive heat twists low in his gut. His thumb drags once over the inside of your wrist before he lets go. Then he cups your face instead, rough palm against your cheek.

“Down,” he says, voice low and absolute.

Not cruel. Not careless. Just Kidd—used to being obeyed, and knowing damn well you'll do it.

You do. Of course you do.

The sight of you sinking down in front of him steals the air from his lungs.

Fuck.

For one sharp second, all he can think about is how badly he'd wanted this—wanted you close, wanted you safe, wanted something he could understand after seven days of watching you slip farther into a power he couldn't control.

This, at least, he understands. The way your hands settle against him. The way his whole body goes taut the second you touch him.

“That’s my Mouse,” he breathes, the words rough, almost reverent, before he can stop them.

Kidd scowls the second he hears himself. Too fucking soft. Still true.

Kidd’s hand stays in your hair, thumb brushing once near your temple as he steadies himself on the sight of you there. On your knees.  It does something vicious to him. Because even like this, you don’t look broken. You look willing. You look like you chose this. Chose him. Even after everything.

Tch.

His free hand slides to your jaw, thumb catching briefly against your lower lip before he tips your face up another inch.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes catch his with that same stubborn fire still burning beneath the want in your expression. Something in his chest pulls tight. Your mouth is swollen from his kisses, your breathing already ragged, all that fire in you fixed entirely on him.

He'd missed this. Missed having you under his hands where he could read every reaction, every hitch in your breathing, every small tremor that told him what you were feeling before you ever spoke. Missed knowing you.

Out there—in training, in battle, in the mess of whatever the hell this new power was becoming—he'd been off balance for months. But here? Here he knows you.

Knows exactly how long you can hold his gaze before your lashes begin to flutter. Knows the difference between the silence you wear like armor and the sounds that betray you anyway. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, his voice roughened by it. Not soft. Not sweet. Just Kidd, Claiming a truth the only way he knows how.

“Open.” 

The command comes out low and rough. No hesitation. Just trust. For a second he can only watch—the way your lips part for him, the way your eyes stay on his like you’re daring him to lose control first.

Kidd sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Fuck.

His thumb drags once across your cheek, rough enough to make the point, before his hand falls away. Kidd isn't asking you to be careful. He’s just asking for you.

“Good,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Kidd stares back this time, waiting. He watches your eyes flutter in surrender as you take him in your mouth. His own head tips back at the slow pressure you build, and for one fleeting moment, he lets himself get lost in the sensation.

Your fingers tighten around his thighs, as if anchoring him there. Needing him just as much as he needs you. A string of curses slips from him as your tongue moves in that cruel, familiar way that always has him buckling beneath you like some pathetic rookie.

His fingers tighten in your hair, but he doesn't move. Not yet. Then you take the last few inches.

The tight pull of your throat nearly unravels him as you gag. His grip tightens instinctively, drawing you back before you can go any farther, his glare fixed on you as he fights to steady himself.

His Mouse. Flushed. Stubborn. Looking up at him through half-lidded eyes like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice gone rough around the edges. Not praise. Not a snark asshole comment. Something uglier– truer. Needier.

“Mine.”

The word slips out softer before he can stop it. He scowls immediately after. Doesn’t take it back.

Kidd’s hand stays in your hair a moment longer before he finally eases his grip and helps you back to your feet. You come up unsteady, breathless, and he has to fight the dark pulse of satisfaction that hits him at the sight. A mess already.

Good.

His thumb drags across your lips as he leans in, gaze following with an unapologetic hunger. The sight of you like this—flushed, swollen-mouthed, wrecked from him, swells a twisted sense of pride in his chest. 

A whole fucking week. He could have had you in his arms instead of pacing his workshop like an idiot and pretending distance was somehow the same thing as control.

His jaw tightens. Then he hooks a hand around your waist and turns you, firm and unhurried, until your back is to his chest. He faces the mast.

“Bend over.” The order lands low and absolute.

You hesitate, looking back at him. 

"Make me," you taunt. "Captain." 

There it is. Your voice is softer than usual, but it’s there all the same. His stubborn little shit. 

The corner of Kidd's mouth twitches. He catches both your wrists in one hand, his other settling at the back of your neck.

“Brat.” Kidd mutters against your hair. 

His hand comes down sharp against the curve of your ass. Your breathless moan unravels what little restraint he has left.  

“I said,” he growls, voice dropping, “bend over.”

This time you obey.

Good. His eyes drag over the line of your body as you brace yourself in front of him—bent for him, on his deck. 

Kidd’s hand settles over the spot he struck, rubbing slow over the lingering heat he left behind. The contrast feels crueler than the impact ever could. His touch drifts lower from your hip, fingers tracing teasingly along your inner thigh before sliding back up.

Anyone stupid enough to come topside would know exactly what they were interrupting. The thought sends possession curling hot and ugly through his gut. The corner of his mouth pulls into something mean. 

“Where's that smart mouth of yours now? Thought you were worried about getting caught,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, voice rough with amusement.

His teeth graze lightly at your neck before he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Or was that just talk?”

You make a small sound—half protest, half something else—and Kidd huffs a laugh against your skin.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

His palm smooths once more over your ass before gripping your hip hard enough to hold you in place.

“Stay still.”

His palm glides slowly over the curve of your ass again, soothing the sting he left behind before drifting lower. Slowly. Never rushing.

He wants to feel every tiny reaction you're trying so damn hard not to give him. Every shift in your body. Every hitch in your breathing. Your muscles jump beneath his touch. 

Tch. His fingers trace teasingly along the inside of your thigh, then higher. A quiet sound slips free before you can stop it. Kidd's mouth curls as your hips buck against him.

“There you are.” The words come out low, rough, quietly pleased.

He presses you more firmly against the mast, his weight holding you there as his hand continues its deliberate work, drawing each reaction from you as though he'd earned every last one.

“Still not breaking?” The words come out low, a challenge. Like he's asking. Like he's hoping. His teeth graze your ear before he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Good.”

His hand never falters. Slow. Steady. He pushes in knuckles deep as you mewl underneath him. Testing. Re-learning how well you fit beneath his hands. 

His fingers abuse that sweet spot of yours just to the left. Your hips twitch. Kidd catches it immediately. The corner of his mouth curls in satisfaction.

You're close.

His grip tightens on your waist, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Ah-ah.” His voice drops, warning threaded with dark amusement. “I told you to stay still.”

He waits a beat, thumb pressing in just enough to make your breath catch. Then he leans in again, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Or do you need me to hold you down for that too?” 

Desire stirs hotter with the satisfaction of you tensing, going even more rigid beneath him.

Good.

He wants the reaction. Wants the way your body gives you away even when your mouth won’t. Wants to feel exactly how much he’s getting to you, because it’s the only thing that’s felt simple all damn week.

Out there, he can’t stop you from running yourself into the ground. Can’t fight whatever this new power is turning into. Can’t protect you from the parts of yourself you keep trying to master alone. But here—

Here he can make you feel him. Here he can pin you in place and drag every honest sound out of you until there’s no room left for either of you to pretend.

His jaw clenches, breath catching rough in his throat. For one sharp second, all that heat in him collides headfirst with something that makes his stomach drop. 

Two weeks.

He'd stayed away from you for two weeks, and he'd accomplished jack shit. Did he hate you? No. Was he angry? Yeah. But anger was something he could deal with. His workshop was damn near destroyed. But Kidd didn’t know what the hell to do with whatever the fuck happened in his cabin. 

One minute he had everything under control. You were hurt—shaking, bleeding—and he'd fixed it. Or thought he did. Then his own strength started disappearing.

Kidd knew how to fix things. Knew how to build. How to fight. How to break whatever got in his way. But this?

Watching you push yourself past every limit he understood. Becoming something stronger. Something more dangerous. And having no idea how to stop it if it all went wrong.  

Because when everything went to hell in his room, Kidd had realized something he couldn't stand: 

He didn't know how to protect you from yourself. He fucking hated that .

His hand tightens on your hip. Kidd thrusts his hips into yours, his cock disappearing between you. He hisses. And beneath him, you shift restlessly, warm and flushed and breathing hard from his touch—still here, still alive, still trusting him enough to put yourself in his hands like this. Something in his chest twists hard enough to hurt.

Tch. 

Maybe he can’t stop you from tearing yourself apart chasing this new power. Can’t fight whatever the hell it’s turning into. Can’t save you from the parts of yourself you keep trying to master alone.

But this?

This, he knows.

The weight of you under his hands. The sounds you make when he pushes just right. The way your body gives him the truth even when your mouth won't. The way you still put yourself in his hands. It's not enough. But right now, it's all he has. All he can give. All he understands. He drags himself out of you, revelling in each low moan that spills from your lips before pushing back in. Harder– deeper. 

His mouth drops to the back of your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly before he kisses the spot in the same breath. Then, low against your skin—

“I’ve got you.” The words come out rough. Almost angry. Because they're not just words. They're a fucking promise. 

His hand slides down your side, steadying you, grounding both of you, his hips still flush against yours. 

“You hear me?”

A demand, because that’s the only way Kidd knows how to ask for reassurance without sounding like he needs it.

“You’re with me.” That’s all the warning he gives.

Kidd thrusts into you faster, shoving you further into the mast. His grunts swallow your moans as he lets go.

To the heat in his blood. To the weeks of frustration. To the sick, desperate relief of having you here under his hands instead of half-dead in his bed with your blood on his sheets and no idea how to stop what was happening to you.

His grip tightens on your hips as he pulls you back against him, the movement rough enough to knock a broken gasp from your throat.

You take him with a startled sound, body going taut around him, and Kidd’s head drops forward with a curse, forehead pressing briefly between your shoulders as the feeling of you nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

Fuck.

He stays there for half a heartbeat, breathing hard against your skin, fingers digging into your hips like he needs the bruising pressure just to hold himself together.

His hips piston into yours now. No more teasing. No more dragging it out just to watch you squirm. Your hands scrambling for purchase against the wood in front of you. 

Soon, there's no room left for thought. All that’s left is the way your body gives beneath his hands like he'd been built to hold you there. 

His arm hooks around your waist to keep you upright when your knees threaten to buckle.

The other stays locked on your hip, controlling the pace, the angle, all of it. He can feel every reaction. Every shudder. Every sharp inhale. Every sound you fail to swallow down.

Something in him thrills. Because you're here, and he can still reach you. 

“Knew you could take it,” he grits out, voice wrecked.

The words are half taunt, half praise, dragged out of him without thought.

You make a broken sound at that, trying to twist back toward him, and Kidd’s hand slides up from your waist to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, fingers spread warm against your pulse as he hauls you upright against his chest.

“Stay with me,” he mutters against your ear. Rough. Making sure you're still here.

Your head lolls forward with a sound that’s half wrecked laugh, half moan. That’s it. That’s fucking it. 

The last of his restraint snaps. He drives into you harder, chasing the way you tighten around him, the catch of your breath, the way your weight gives to his hold as pleasure strips you apart piece by piece. 

By the time you come, it hits you hard enough that your whole body jerks.

Kidd curses under his breath and follows after not long behind, the force of it tearing a raw sound out of him as he buries his face against your shoulder and holds you there through it, through every shudder and aftershock and ragged breath.

For a few long seconds, neither of you moves. 

The deck creaks softly beneath you. The sea keeps rolling under the ship like nothing happened. Kidd’s breathing comes hard and uneven against the back of your neck. His arms stay locked around you. Not ready to let go yet.

Eventually, he exhales a sharp breath and eases his hold enough to turn you toward him. You look wrecked. Boneless. Flushed from throat to chest, eyes half-lidded, mouth swollen from his kisses. Beautiful. Kidd’s thumb brushes over your lower lip before he can stop himself.

“Tch.” The sound comes out quieter than usual, stripped of most of its bite. 

He reaches down, yanks his cape off where it’s half-fallen around his shoulders, and drapes it over you without ceremony. You make a sleepy noise of protest when he scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other braced across your back.

“Quit bitching,” he mutters automatically, even as he shifts you closer against his chest.

You don't fight him. Just curl in, spent and trusting, burying your face in the familiar red of his cape without a second thought. A fierce ache twists beneath Kidd's ribs. 

Idiot. He’s not sure if he’s saying it to you or himself anymore. He carries you without another word. Back to his cabin. Back to his bed. He lowers you onto the mattress as carefully as a man like him knows how. He'd bite the head off anyone stupid enough to call it gentle. 

By the time he gets you settled, you’re already half asleep. Your eyes barely crack open when the mattress dips beside you. Kidd lies down with a grunt, one arm immediately finding its way around your waist before he can think too hard about it. You make a soft sound and shift closer on instinct, tucking yourself into his side. Like the last two weeks never happened. Like neither of you spent them looking everywhere but at each other. Two stubborn idiots. 

Kidd stares at the ceiling for a long moment. Then at you. Your breathing has already evened out. Your face has gone soft with sleep, hair a mess against his pillow. His hand comes up before he can stop it, brushing a stray strand of hair back from your face. Soft. Too damn gentle for a man like him.  He scowls anyway. Then leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Tch,” he mutters against your skin. His hand lingers at your cheek. “I’m still pissed at you, y’know.” The words are quiet. Worn thin. Too tired to carry their usual bite. 

Not a lie. But not the whole truth either. His thumb brushes once over your cheekbone.

“Can’t do that shit again,” he says, voice roughening. “Don’t care how strong you get. Don’t care if you think you can handle it. Don’t care if it hurts me in the process.”

A pause. His jaw works once.

“Don’t scare me like that.” The admission is so quiet it almost disappears into the dark.

He lets out a sharp breath through his nose and drags you closer, tucking you against him until your head fits beneath his chin and your leg tangles with his. Protective. Possessive. Necessary.

“Still mine, Mouse,” he murmurs, exhausted enough that the words lose some of their usual edge. Then, quieter:

“So stay.”

By the time sleep finally drags him under, Kidd’s face is buried in your hair, one arm locked around your waist like he thinks you might disappear if he loosens it.

Masterlist

CW: guilt, self-blame, lingering trauma from captivity, anxiety, power development, emotional tension, avoidance coping mechanisms.

Summary: Nobody talks about what happened.

Kidd pretends he's fine. Killer pretends he isn't worried. You pretend the guilt isn't eating you alive. Unfortunately, your powers have other plans. The crew falls back into rhythm. And for the first time since Sabaody, you're no longer struggling to keep up. You're becoming something dangerous.

Something that belongs beside the Kidd Pirates.

Reader

Silence wraps the ship like a barnacle-infested anchor chain—heavy, dragging, impossible to ignore. None of you have talked about that night. Not you. Not Killer. Not Kidd. Most mornings you wake alone.

Kidd is gone before sunrise. Killer vanishes whenever you enter a room. The crew pretends not to stare.

They all know something happened. They just don't know what.

You can recognize you fucked up. Not understanding your powers explains it. It doesn't excuse it. Kidd nearly died because of you.

But he promised.

And damn it pisses you off. 

He promised to stop you if you lost control. Promised to be your leash. Promised he'd never let you become a monster.

Then he stood there and let you drain him dry.

It’s a quiet morning as dawn breaks over the sea. Its rays warm the deck, a warm wind blowing a new direction. 

Kidd comes up beside you—close enough that his shoulder brushes yours as he passes. The first contact you’ve had in a week. 

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look at you long enough to make it anything more than coincidence. Like he hasn’t been ignoring your very presence.

“We’re fine,” he says once. 

A sharp breath escapes your nose before you can stop yourself. He’s shoving it down. Locking the memory away. Deciding for everyone that there was no real threat so it doesn’t matter. 

Something sour hooks under your ribs as relief floods you. You know it isn’t right. Just because he decides it didn’t matter doesn’t erase the damage. 

But of course he’d pull this shit. Because he’s Kidd.

The man who survives by refusing to stop moving. Refuses to linger on wounds even if they’re still bleeding.

You force yourself to let it go anyway, dragging salt-heavy air deep into your lungs. Too exhausted to pick this fight with him. 

Kidd says you're fine. 

You know you'll never let it happen again. So you do your best to shake it off, trying to ignore the nauseating hook buried beneath your ribs. Whatever argument might have followed dies before it can leave your mouth.

Kidd has already moved on.

He stands at the bow- metal scraps lazily orbiting around him, jaw set in that familiar stubbornness. His mind already made up. 

And just like that, the ship and everything with it moves forward with him.

The decision comes without ceremony.

“We’re not sitting still anymore,” he says, voice carrying just enough to cut through the morning chatter. “There’s a coater on the next island. Retired. Keeps his head down. We get the ship done there. Then we dive.”

No name. No location. He doesn’t need to explain how he found the man. Or what kind of conversation convinced him to take the job.

A ripple moves through the deck. Not cheering — not yet. Just the sharp shift of bodies snapping into motion. Heat grins. Wire starts checking lines and supplies without a word. Killer gives a small nod, calm and steady as ever.

And just like that, the Victoria Punk feels alive again.

There’s a relief in the air, like a pressure valve released. No suffocation. No fear– hiding and waiting for the next catastrophe to strike. It’s fresh air moving through the ship, through every crew member, driving the Victoria forward.

Movement.

The kind that means whatever you’ve become out here — wings, hunger, power, all of it — is about to be tested somewhere the world stops being forgiving. And you realize you’re not scared. You’re excited. 

******************************************

The sea is calm as the Punk sails. The kind of still that makes the ship feel louder than usual — ropes creaking, hull shifting, boots against wood. The crew fills the quiet with training, repairs, card games, anything to burn the restless energy that builds when everyone knows they’re about to be stuck in one place for a while.

You fill it with practice.

You stand near the bow, Kidd hiding away in his workshop. You lean on the railing, far enough forward that your voice won’t carry straight into the rest of the crew. Mask on. Wings tucked tight beneath your coat. The wind pulls at your hair as you test it again.

A low hum. Soft. Barely there. It vibrates through your chest, through your throat, into the air.

Nothing happens. You try again. Lower this time. Slower. The note drags out of you, long and controlled, more breath than sound. And then—

Something flickers. Not sight. Not sound—something in between. A pulse. Something answering back. 

You stop. The world snaps back into place. You frown—and try again. A soft, steady hum, deeper in your chest. You let it roll out, careful not to let it spike, not to let it become that weapon you know it can be. This time you keep it going. And slowly, the world begins to form around you.

Not in color. Outlines. Echoes.

The curve of the railing in front of you. The sway of rope overhead. Movement behind you — a crewman crossing the deck. You can’t see him, but you know exactly where he is. You feel the space around you– mapped in pulses.

Your breath catches. You stop. It disappears again. A quiet, stunned laugh slips out before you can stop it.

Echolocation. The realization settles—clear, undeniable, the world reshaping itself around you. It becomes part of everything after that. Quiet. Constant.

Kidd has all but locked himself in his workshop. When they had asked what he was doing he snapped —something about a thought he needed out of his head. 

No one’s brave enough to push it. But you and Killer know better than that. He’s hiding. 

Not that he’d admit it. If you called him on it, he'd probably throw a wrench at your head. 

He hasn't slept much. You can see it in the shadows under his eyes the few times he leaves the workshop. Metal screaming behind the door. Nobody comments on it. 

Where his ego is concerned, he only has two modes: stand- fight- bark until the other person backs down; or, when that ego takes a hit, he disappears somewhere his frustration can burn itself out. 

Until then, there’s nothing you can do for him.

So you practice when the deck is quiet.

The first few days its just low, soft sounds, learning how to feel the shape of the ship. How to track movement without looking. How to move without needing your eyes to guide every step.

By the third day you can map most of the deck without opening your eyes. On the fifth, you’re trying to bounce sound vibrations through the walls. 

Your personal goal is to push it far enough that you might be able to see through Kidd’s steel workshop door—just to check on him when he shuts himself away.

Killer stops avoiding you as well. He starts pulling you into regular spars again—not just drills, but real fights that force you to think, react, adapt.

Your scythes feel more natural in your hands now. Your stance is stronger. Your balance is steadier. 

“Control,” he reminds you once, low and even.

You nod.

That’s enough. The tension between you settles into something quieter. Not gone. Just… understood.

Heat joins the sparring sometimes, all raw force and laughter, pushing you harder than you expect.

Wire is quieter. Sharper. He catches mistakes you don’t even realize you’re making.

And you start to feel it. Confidence- not arrogance. But close enough to brush against it. Because for once- since Sabaody, you’re finally keeping pace with the rest of the crew. Not the thing slowing them down.

Masterlist

WOW, this one was a biatch to finish. I decided last minute to add a Killer POV but could NOT for the life of me figure out placement. So much so that I MAY have gotten a little hyper-focused in Minecraft building my very own Victoria Punk 😶😅 When it is fully finished I will post some screenshots because I am VERY impressed with myself and need other people to see the immense horn I have tooted 😂😂

ANYWAYS! fair warning I'm about to go on a month long vacation but will try to update a few more chapters. I am in awe at how much love and support this fic is getting, I posted this just to prove to myself that I could. I NEVER would have imagined the amount of interest and traction this has gained. Thank you to ALL who read and interact with the posts. More to come, Promise!!

Reminder: MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI

Summary: You thought you had control. You thought he would stop you. You almost broke him anyway. Something snapped into place inside you. Ugly and monstrous. Kidd may not have flinched but you did. You're spiraling- believing pain itself is something you can beat back into obedience. But punishing yourself in the middle of the night won't fix what you did- what you almost did.

Reader POV

The cabin feels too small, too hot, heavy with the ghosts of what just happened. 

Your chest rises and falls, but the rhythm is wrong. Uneven. Your hands tremble at the memory of Kidd—gray, faltering, almost gone. The guilt gnaws at you, relentless. You can’t sleep.

You thought you had control. You thought he would stop you. You almost broke him anyway. 

Quietly, you slip out of the bed, bare foot padding against the wooden floor. The ship creaks softly, a low groan like it knows your unrest. 

You glance at Kidd. Once Killer got him to bed, his body gave out. Sunk into that deep, overwhelming exhaustion that leaves him unaware of the world.

He almost looks small in the bed. Ashen-faced, his blood still hadn’t replenished. Too still, stripped of his usual starfish sprawl. He barely snores. 

You force yourself to move.

The deck is cold, the night air sharp against your skin, carrying the faint taste of brine and iron. You wrap your arms tighter, circling the rails, muscles tensing as you try to find the rhythm of control again. The hunger, once hot and electric, has dulled—but not gone. It simmers beneath your skin, a phantom pulse that makes your fingers tingle.

You drop to your knees, fists pressed against the deck, practicing focus. You can almost feel Kidd’s pulse—steady but dulled—and it twists your stomach. 

Every movement, every inhale, every stretch of your body is measured, deliberate. You’re trying to hold on—trying not to lose yourself again.

Then—a pressure. A brush along your shoulder, light but insistent. You whip around, heart hammering, but the upper deck is empty. Just you and the dark, only the large skull staring back at you. And yet… the sensation lingers.

No warmth. Not fear. Not thought.

Shifting space.

Like something around you answered wrong. Not sound. Not sight. Just space briefly folding back on itself like it expected you to exist differently. 

Your chest rises, trembling. Guilt and relief twist in equal measure. You clamp your hands over your face, forcing the tension down. You are still alive. Still breathing. Still learning.

And then, faintly—something deeper. Not hunger. A tremor. A direction.

Not forward or back, but awareness trying to spread outward, like something inside you is attempting to map what’s around you before you can name it. It slips in and out too fast to hold.

Your control isn’t just back; it’s shifting. Reaching for something you don’t yet understand.

The night presses in, cold and unyielding, but you stay there anyway—pushing, trembling, punishing.

Your hands ache, knuckles splitting against rough wood and metal, muscles burning from repeated strikes, but you don’t slow down. Every jab, every pivot, every swing lands harder than the last. Sharper. Meaner.

It stopped being training a while ago.

Now it feels like penance.

The guilt claws at you with every breath—Kidd, Killer, the hunger, the blood. The sound of Kidd’s breathing when Killer pulled you away. The gray in his skin. The way he still tried to protect you after you nearly drained him dry.

You need to make it right. You have to.

A phantom tug hits first—a whisper of Kidd’s pulse, a memory of his weakness—and your stomach twists violently. Your footing slips for half a second, balance staggering as panic surges hot beneath your ribs.

You hit harder. Faster.

Turning too sharply. Driving through the warning tremors in your limbs like pain itself is something you can beat back into obedience.

A firm hand presses against your shoulder.

“Y/N.” Wire’s voice is low—flat, steady—but it cuts through the air. You freeze mid-motion, heart hammering. 

“You keep swinging like pain’s gonna fix it.”  A pause. His grip squeezing tighter. Breaking through your spiral.

“You don’t have to break yourself to prove you’re sorry.” 

Your chest heaves. The phantom pull surges again, thrumming under your skin. Your hands twitch, your fists clenching, but Wire’s grip holds steady. He doesn’t let go.

“You survived. That’s enough for tonight.”

The words anchor you. The wild, reactive fire in your chest flickers and dims. You sink to your knees, finally allowing your limbs to relax, trembling as exhaustion crashes over you. Wire leaves without another glance– having said all he needed to.

Silent tears slip down your cheek. The guilt is still there, raw and heavy—but you don’t have to bear it by yourself.

And for the first time, you really start to believe it. Finally letting yourself breathe. 

Killer’s POV

Killer stands at the base of the mast, shadows swallowing him whole. He watches you the same way he’s always watched Kidd—quietly, constantly, always aware.

He sees the frustration bleeding off you. Movements too sharp, breaths too ragged. Every strike landing harder than it should. A cyclone of torment, and you at its center.

He knows you never meant to hurt Kidd. Knows you’re still learning. Still healing. Still trying to understand what’s happening to you.

Doesn’t stop him from being furious.

The memory still burns behind his eyes—Kidd gray-faced and barely standing, your hands gripping him in a predator’s hold while he gave and gave and gave. Killer had trusted you two not to let it get that far. A misjudgment. 

Part of him is angry at you. Part of him is angry at Kidd for letting it happen at all. But most of it strikes inward.

He should never have allowed the plan to go through. Should have stepped in sooner. Nothing about this is right. You shouldn’t have been taken. Not forced into something you didn’t understand. 

And now you’re out here tearing yourself apart for it.

He can see it in the way you move—the recklessness, the refusal to slow even as your body nears its limit.

Before he can step forward, Wire reaches you first.

So Killer stays where he is, half-swallowed by shadow, watching tension slowly drain from your shoulders as Wire pulls you back into yourself. He can’t hear the words, but he sees the effect of them.

The weight you’ve carried since Sabaody finally starts to crack as you sink to your knees.

Wire leaves with only a brief glance toward him as he passes. No words needed.

The deck creaks softly under his boots as silence settles back in.

Killer’s gaze doesn’t move. 

Something uneasy twists in his chest then—warm, restless. Recognition.

His muscles tighten with the instinct to go to you. To pull you off the deck before exhaustion finishes what guilt started.

But Killer understands solitude better than most.

He understands what it means to need darkness. Silence. Space to fall apart where no one is watching.

So he stays back. Lets you have it. Your sentry in the dark.

He watches the tremors finally catch up once the adrenaline fades. Watches you sit at the rail, motionless, moonlight catching the tear tracks you didn’t bother to wipe away.

Only when your body finally gives in—shoulders slumping under exhaustion—does he move.

The stairs barely creak beneath his boots. Familiar. Countless nights carrying Kidd back after injuries, fights, exhaustion.

Carefully, he scoops you into his arms.

You don’t wake.

By the time he lays you beside Kidd, the captain’s breathing has deepened—steadier now, color slowly returning where that deathly gray had lingered hours earlier.

He doesn’t move right away. Looks at the two of you instead. 

A quiet sigh slips out of him, something like a smile tugging at his mouth. Both just as reckless as the other.

Killer rests a hand on Kidd’s chest. The beat is there—steady. Real.

Relief settles in slowly, easing the tension in his shoulders and dulling the last edges of his anger.

His fingers linger longer than they should, as if letting go might change something.

Eventually, he pulls the blanket higher over both of you.

Kidd was yours just as much as you were Kidd’s. In a way, that made you his as well.

Masterlist

CW: MDNI loss of control/ injury & blood panic / dissociation body horror themes/ guilt & trauma responses/ intense emotional tension/ possessive/protective dynamics/ near-collapse / exhaustion

Summary: A supply run goes wrong. A wound unnoticed. And by the time you make it back to the Victoria Punk, the pull inside you is already becoming something dangerous.

Kidd lets you feed. You don’t stop- don’t want to. And you can’t tell the difference anymore. 

While killer is forced to step between captain and crew for the first time, you realize the truth about your new body: healing has a cost. And if you lose control again, the one who helps will be the one to pay the price.

Control is no longer just a word. It is a vow.

Reader POV

You feel it before you understand it. By the time the ship comes into view, something is wrong. A slow, heavy pull low in your chest. A heat that doesn’t belong to exertion. 

Each step up the dock feels heavier than the last, your balance just slightly off, breath a little too shallow. You keep your shoulders straight, your pace steady, refusing to give Bubblegum any reason to worry. 

The fight hadn’t been big. Just three men. Just one mistake. You had survived worse. You remember the flash of a blade. A sting. Then the adrenaline swallowed it whole.

You hadn’t checked. It was just a scratch… right? Now you can feel a pool of warmth and damp clinging to your side beneath your clothes.

Shit. 

Your stomach drops. You clamp down hard as your stomach rolls, forcing your wings to stay still beneath your coat. The mask feels tighter than usual, breath fogging faintly against the inside. You keep walking. Just get back on the ship. 

Just get inside. Fix it before anyone sees. 

The closer you get, the louder the pull becomes. It isn’t hunger the way you’re used to. It’s sharper. More focused. Like a hook buried deep in your ribs, tugging in one specific direction.

You step onto the deck, nearly stumbling. A hand catches your arm before you can fully lose your balance. Kidd.

You hadn’t even seen him approach. His grip tightens instantly, eyes dropping to your face, then lower, scanning. He doesn’t ask how the supply run went. He doesn’t ask if anything happened. He just knows.

“The hell happened?” His voice is low, rough, already edged with heat.

“Nothing,” you answer too fast.

You try to pull your arm free. His hand doesn’t budge.

Your vision flickers for half a second. The scent of your own blood is thick now, metallic and warm beneath the fabric. The pull in your chest spikes, sharp enough to make your breath hitch. Kidd’s gaze snaps to your side pushing your cloak open.

You see the exact moment he notices the stain. His grip tightens. 

The blood is dark. Blooming slowly through your shirt where the fabric clings to your ribs. His jaw tightens.

“Move,” he mutters sharply. Not waiting for an agreement. 

His hand shifts from your arm to your wrist, firm and unyielding, and he pulls you across the deck. The crew parts without a word. 

Your feet follow automatically, the pull inside you growing stronger with every step closer to his quarters.

You feel lightheaded now. Too aware of the sound of his heartbeat. The warmth coming off him. The rush of blood beneath his skin. The door shuts behind you with a heavy thud.

“Sit,” Kidd orders, already moving.

You barely take two steps before your knees give out. He’s in front of you in seconds. Setting you on a table against the wall, taking space between your legs. 

His hands are rough but careful as he grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts. The fabric sticks slightly. You suck in a breath as it pulls free, exposing the wound. Blood has soaked through the shirt, flowing down to the band of your belt and smeared along your skin.

A long gash along your side, just beneath your ribs. Not deep enough to mean death.  Deep enough that it never should’ve gone ignored this long. 

Kidd goes very still.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” he growls.

“I didn’t feel it,” you admit, voice thin. “I thought it was a scratch. I didn’t realize until we were almost back.”

The room tilts. The pull in your chest twists, sharp and desperate now. Your hands curl onto the wood beneath you. You try to breathe through it, to force it down like you’ve practiced. It doesn’t listen. 

It wants. 

Your head drops forward before you can stop it, forehead pressing against his shoulder as you fight for control. His hand comes up automatically, bracing at your back to steady you.

That’s when it hits full force. The scent. The warmth. The steady rush of blood under skin. Your teeth ache.

“Kidd,” you manage, barely a whisper.

He stills. Your fingers clutch into his coat. “I— I can’t—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to. He exhales slowly, tension coiling through him. For a second you think he might push you away. Might call for someone. Might tell you to hold it together.

Instead, his hand comes up, gripping the back of your head as he unclasps your mask.

“Do it,” he says, voice rough. “Before you pass out.”

You hesitate. But instinct wins. You press in, fangs breaking skin at the side of his neck. Heat floods your mouth instantly, thick and metallic and alive. The effect is immediate. The ache in your side, dulling almost instantly. 

That pull eases–  then shifts.

Power surges through you, sharp and electric. It rushes through your veins, down your spine, into your limbs. 

The dizziness fades. Your breath steadies. His blood flows through you, filling your senses in more ways than one. You need to pull away. You know you do. But hunger is so heavy. 

You clutch Kidd tighter, strength returning as you drink deeper. Your body hums, stronger than it has felt in months.

There’s only heat. Pressure. His pulse under your tongue, under your skin—too loud to think through. 

You don’t stop. You don’t want to. And you can’t tell the difference anymore. 

Kidd POV

It hits him all at once. Heat. Teeth. Blood flowing– No. Pulling. His breath catches. Too fast. Too slow. Not right.

Your weight shifts against him. Then more. You’re closer. Closer than a second ago. The table gone under your legs. 

No—still there. He thinks it is. He can’t feel where anymore. The room around him fading– dull. He can’t tell if he’s gripping you or just remembering that he is. You’re still here. That’s enough. 

His grip tightens on instinct. He’s moving. Too late.

His shoulder hits the wall. Or the wall hits him. He’s not sure.  Sound drops out for a heartbeat. Then comes back wrong—underwater, stretched thin.

He blinks. Your scent is everywhere now. In his throat. Everywhere and nowhere.  Not just blood—something threaded through it, pulling. His knees try to tell him something. He ignores it. 

Don’t let go.

A small shift—his weight sits wrong. Balance spinning.

“Tch…” the sound barely feels like it belongs to him.

Tries moving– too slow. Not enough. His hand is still there—at your waist, your back, somewhere holding you in place. The shape of you is all he knows.

The wall tilts—he follows. His lungs drag. One breath. He can barely finish the next.

“Huh…” He tries for you name. Maybe he already did. 

“Y/N… stop.” Wrong—he doesn’t sound like that.  

His head dips forward slightly before he realizes it’s happening.

And then the only thought— wrong, clear:

Don’t let her go. Not now. Not–

The thought breaks before it finishes. 

Killer POV

Killer knew something was wrong before he even reached the door. Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.

The Victoria Punk was never truly quiet—not with a crew like theirs—but this was different. Heavy. Pressed in. Every instinct in his body screamed. He pushed the door open without knocking. 

He froze.

Kidd was half-pinned against the wall, one arm wrapped around you, the other braced hard against the wall to keep himself upright. Your body was pressed tight to his, face buried at his neck. 

The scent hit Killer first—iron, sharp, thick in the air. Blood. 

Kidd’s head tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded, breath dragging slower than it should. His grip on you was still there, still strong, but tremors ran beneath it, betraying his fading strength. And you—

You weren’t stopping.

Killer crossed the room in two long strides. His eyes lock on the wound at Kidd’s neck, then to the way your shoulders moved with each pull. 

“Kidd.” 

Killer stepped in close, one hand planting hard against Kidd’s shoulder to steady him before he went down. Even now, he could feel the pull of your hunger. It shouldn’t be affecting him. The air feels alive– suffocating his lungs. The air sat sticky in his lungs where breathing should’ve been clean. Wrong in a way he can’t name. 

Up close, he saw the gray under Kidd’s skin flicker faintly. The tension in his jaw threatening to crack as he tried to push you back—and failed. 

“Y/N,” Killer said, voice low but firm, cutting clean through the room. “Enough.”

Kidd’s hand at the back of your head faltered. 

Broken bones. Blood loss. Kidd doesn’t go down like this. He was already running on empty. Too much had already been given. 

Killer’s grip tightened on his captain just a fraction, anchoring him upright. “Y/N.” A command as strong as his punishers.

For a second, nothing changed. Then he saw it. Your jaw went tight. Your body stilled. 

Kidd sagged as the pull broke. Killer crossed without hesitation, catching him under the shoulder as his knees gave out—the wall only just keeping him upright.  

He kept his other hand firm against your shoulder—not rough, but unyielding.

“Pull back,” he said, quieter now, but no less certain. “He’s done.”

A beat. Then you finally tore yourself away. Kidd’s head lolled forward, breath dragging harshly through his chest. Killer steadied him, adjusting his stance so Kidd could lean against him instead of the wall.

“She’s fine,” he snapped, panic threading his tone. “She needed it.”

“Bullshit.” Killer clipped. But he didn’t argue—no words could capture how close this had been.

Killer’s eyes flicked back to you. Your face was pale, chest heaving. Alive. In control. Relief settled in his chest, sharp and complicated.

But Kidd—

Killer tightened his hold on his captain just a fraction more, protective instinct locking in hard and fast. 

That was the line. Not again.

Reader POV

You jerk back. Your hands drop from Kidd. The hunger recoils as your foot hits the floor. The room spins. You feel it now—the difference. His pulse, once strong and pounding under your senses, has dulled. Slower. Thinner.

You hadn’t felt it happening. That was the worst part. 

Kidd’s hands don’t leave your waist. He stiffens, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t argue. His fingers tighten on your hips. 

Killer was right. You had gone too far.

You shake your head, guilt pricking at your skin. “Kidd, I—”

The air crackles. Coiled tension silences you. Killer’s intervention leaves no room for impulse.

You glance up at him, heart hammering—not from fear this time, but from the look in his eyes. Even now, exhausted and shaking, he’s bracing like he means to put himself between you and the world. His labored breathing drowns out your own. 

He exhales sharply, eyes flicking between you and Killer, muscles still taut. 

“You promised.” Your voice is a whisper as reality hits. 

You press your fingers into his chest instinctively, grounding yourself as guilt washes over you. “You swore you would stop me. Wouldn’t let the monster hurt you.”

Killer steps closer, assessing, scanning for any lingering danger. “We agreed, Kidd. Control, not indulgence.”

The words sting. 

You didn’t mean to.

But you hadn’t meant to shatter glass either. Or almost drown. Or fall off the ship.

You never meant to endanger the crew. Never meant to get kidnapped.

Never meant to come between Kidd and Killer. 

Kidd’s gaze softens just enough to glance down at you. His hands remain steady against your sides. “Control,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he turns to Killer. “She’s learning. And I’ve got her.”

Your chest rises and falls, tremors fading slowly as the tension between the three of you hangs in the room. You realize, even in the lingering adrenaline and the raw closeness of Kidd, that you are not alone—not now, not ever.

And yet the pull of the hunger, the power, the connection, still hums faintly beneath your skin. You know it won’t be long before this lesson repeats.

But for this moment, Killer’s presence and Kidd’s grip anchor you in the quiet aftermath—a dangerous, beautiful equilibrium you are only just beginning to understand.

A string of curses fades behind you as Killer tends to Kidd—much to the begrudging resentment of your captain. You slip into the adjoining bathroom to wash the blood from your face. That feeling. That pull. Haunting you.

You had lost control. And the worst part? You never felt like you had.

You lift your shirt to clean the gash. Your stomach drops at the sight. Where a gash of flesh should have been, now only a fresh pink line—healed far too fast.

You replay feeding off Kidd. The pull. The rush. The surge of strength. You didn’t just stop the hunger. You healed.

You think back to Kidd’s state when Killer finally pulled you off. Grey. Shaking. Weak. Your hands curl at your sides, trembling. Relief and guilt claw together in your chest.

The wound is gone. Not because it healed itself. Because you took what you needed. From him.

Nausea twists in your stomach. You grip the counter, knuckles white. It came from him. You can heal—but only if someone else pays the price. And Kidd nearly did.

He promised. He promised to stop you. To protect you from yourself.

You stare at your reflection. Blood still stains your chin. Your eyes burn. If this power demands a life as its cost—one even Kidd can’t stop—then no one will ever pay it again.

Masterlist

cw/tw: blood, injury, trauma spirals, reader refusing medical attention like a dumbass, restraints/muzzle mention, lingering sabaody trauma, body horror themes

Summary: Training scars into instinct should’ve been the hardest part. turns out freedom is harder.

Your first chance to stretch your legs without Kidd watching your every move. one wrong alley, one bad cut. one scream that still doesn’t sound human. You push too far and are quickly reminded power doesn’t make you invincible. 

Reader POV

The first time you leave the ship without a commander, it doesn’t feel real.

You keep expecting Kidd’s voice to cut across the deck, calling you back. Or Killer to fall into step beside you at the last second, silent and watchful. Or Heat, or Wire, hovering just within reach like they have been for months. But none of them move.

It’s just you and two regular crew members, sent to pick up supplies from a small port town tucked into the curve of a quiet island. Nothing dangerous. Nothing strategic. Just food, rope, and whatever else the ship needed.

You have your mask. You have your scythes. And for the first time since Sabaody… you have space. 

The town is small. Wooden docks. Crooked streets. Fishermen hauling nets in slow, practiced motions. No Marines in sight. No tension in the air. Still, the crew gives you distance. Not because they don’t trust you. But because they do. 

It’s a strange kind of freedom.

You walk ahead of them, hood up, mask in place, the leather straps familiar against your skin now. Your wings shift faintly beneath your coat as you move, brushing against the fabric. You liked having them ready. Your powers live beside you– with you, like breathing. Something else you were getting used to.

The street splits ahead—one path wider, crowded with vendors and noise. The other narrower, quieter. Faster. You glance toward it instinctually.

Bubblegum notices.

“Stick close,” he mutters, shifting the bags in his arms. “Captain’s already on edge about you being out without one of the big boys.”

You huff lightly. “It’s a supply run. Not a war zone.”

“That’s not the point,” he says, quieter now. “He said—”

“I know what he said.” Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… certain.

Your gaze drifts back to the narrower street. Less crowded. Fewer variables. Easier to move through.

“I’ll cut through,” you add. “Meet you on the other side.”

Bubblegum hesitates.

“…Y/N—”

“I’ve got it.”

And you mean it. There’s no doubt in your chest. No hesitation in your step. Just confidence. Control.

You turn before he can argue. Disappearing into shadows that now welcome you with open arms. You stroll down the quiet alley, hands trailing the stone walls.  A flicker of motion pulls your attention further down. 

Three figures. Crates being unloaded too quickly. Too carefully. One of them glancing up and down the street. An all too familiar position– a lookout. 

You eye the crates. Not normal for food or provisions. Maybe weapons. High-end supplies. A Devil Fruit, even. Whatever it was, Kidd would probably want it. Something worth bringing back to the Victoria Punk at least. 

You scan the men again, taking in more detail this time. Not pirates. Not Marines. Not worth calling Bubblegum. But enough to handle. Enough to test yourself against. 

You shift your weight, letting the scythes at your belt settle into place. The chains are a comforting pull at your hips. Familiar. Itching for blood.

You slink down the alley now using its shadows as cover. You reach the large building it connects to and climb. Your boots find old grooves in the warehouse siding, fingers catching on warped wood. The roof greets you in a crouch, shingles warm from the late sun. From here, you can see straight down into the tucked-away lane.

A breath in. And you move. Your pulse quickens as you leap. Wings spread just enough to catch the air, gliding you down behind a stack of crates. Silent. Controlled.

One of the men turns. Too slow. 

Your hand snaps to your belt. The scythe releases with a sharp, metallic rattle, chain uncoiling as you swing. The curved blade catches his shoulder and sends him stumbling back with a shout. The other two reach for you. One lunges.

You pivot, prosthetic twisting cleanly, but the second man comes in from the side. Steel flashes. A blade slices along your ribs. A sharp reminder power doesn’t make you invincible. 

Your breath catches hard, body jerking on instinct. You slam your elbow back, wings flaring wide as the chain whips around again. The second scythe snaps free, metal singing through the air. You don’t think, you move. 

Spin. Pull. Slash. 

Just like Killer taught you. The scythes are extensions of you. Of your violence. Chains allowing you reach. Control. 

One man trips, another scrambles back, and when the first one tries to rush you again, something inside your chest tightens. A bubble of pressure builds. 

The scream tears out of you. Sound slams through the alley like a physical force. Crates rattle. Glass shivers. The three men stagger back, hands flying to their ears, faces twisted in pain as they stumble away from you, retreating down the alley and vanishing around the corner.

Silence rushes in behind them. Your wings tremble as they slowly fold back in.

The crate cracks open under your grip. Dim light spills out—glass vials stacked tight, something inside them pulsing faintly. Soft, blue-green. Algae, maybe. Cultivated. Valuable– just not to you.

The next crate is heavier. Metal clinks as you pry it open. Polished weapons stare back at you, all shine and false weight. Decorative. Cheap beneath the surface. Meant to fool an untrained eye. Not worth it.

The last one— You already know before it’s fully open. The scent of leather and metal assaulting you. 

Muzzles. Restraints stacked beneath it, sized, sorted. Your grip tightens for half a second. A sharp breath through the mask. Pain and memories tap harshly in the recesses of your mind. A deep breath, your jaw clenching. Then loosens.

Not your problem. The lid slams down, closed.

Only then does the pain settle—a hot, wet sting across your side. Your shirt hides it, but you can feel the blood sticking to the fabric beneath the coat. Not a pour. Just… steady.

You press your arm against your ribs to try and stop the bleeding as quickly as possible. 

It’s just a scratch. You grit your teeth trying to breathe normally. Don’t draw attention.

This is nothing. You’re fine. You have to be fine. You will not be the helpless little mouse again who can’t even take care of a few low grade scum. 

“Y/N?”

Hip’s voice echoes from the street, closer now. Climbing. You straighten, forcing your posture steady. Your scythes retract with a practiced flick, chains sliding back into place at your belt. By the time Hop’s in view, you’re already standing.

“Holy—” they rush the rest of the way, eyes wide at the broken crates. “What was that? We heard the—are you okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

Your arm stays tight against your side. Casual. Controlled. It will stop soon. Everything is fine. 

Their gaze scans you anyway, sharp and searching. They step closer, but your coat hangs just right, your shirt pulled down enough to hide the darkening patch beneath.

“I scared them off,” you add, voice steady behind the mask. “They ran.”

Hip exhales, a shaky laugh breaking through. “You’re insane, you know that? First time out without a commander and you’re already picking fights.”

You huff softly. “Wasn’t a fight.”

But the effort of talking pulls at your ribs. A sharp throb answers, and for a split second, your vision swims.

You swallow it down. It’s just nerves from your first real fight. Getting back in the groove, that’s all. You weren’t weak enough to break over a scratch. 

Not helpless. Not that little mouse anymore. 

You can feel the warmth of the blood against your skin. Feel it sticking to the fabric. Smell it faintly beneath the salt and tar and ocean air.

Your blood sense flickers. Hungry. A pull.

Not now. 

You force it down, pressing harder against your side as you turn toward the alley’s end.

“I’m good,” you say, quieter this time. “Let’s just finish the supply run.”

Hip and Hop watch you a second longer, uncertain, then nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

As you climb down, every movement tugs at the hidden scratch beneath your shirt. Not enough to slow you. Not enough to stop you. But enough to remind you it’s there, taking its sweet time healing. 

Enough that, by the time you head back toward the ship, your side feels hot and heavy and wrong — and the scent of your own blood is getting harder and harder to ignore.

Masterlist

CW: Mild Violence (training/combat practice); Mild body horror (adjustment to prosthetic and new powers); hurt/comfort; Mild NSFW implication.... ya know- the usual! Happy reading :)

Summary: Morning training becomes something else entirely—control, trust, and the slow reshaping of a body that refuses to stay weak.

Between Killer’s steady hands and Kidd’s unrelenting pressure, you learn how to move with power you still don’t fully trust.

And for the first time, you don’t survive the lesson. You claim your place. Now you learn how to burn in it.

Reader POV

The morning sun burns gold across the deck, but you hardly notice. Killer stands a few feet away, arms folded, watching with that same unreadable calm he always wears beneath his mask. He doesn’t say much, like always. That’s fine. You need his presence without it smothering you. Need this quiet.

Metal shifts somewhere behind you. Heavy. Familiar. You don’t need to see Kidd to know he’s there. The weight of his gaze. The heat of last night still lingering under your skin. You adjust your collar without thinking. It doesn’t quite hide everything.

Red marks pepper your throat, scattered across your skin. Heated memories follow—hands, mouths, his teeth sinking into your flesh…Kidd doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t. He simply lets your red and bruised skin speak for itself.

Killer's eyes flick once—brief, assessing—then away again. It’s not like anyone– especially Killer– was unaware of yours and Kidd’s nights together. Hell, you were pretty sure the whole damn ship heard you screaming last night. The thought of Kidd enjoying that fact had crossed your mind more than once.

The ship creaks softly beneath you. You try to focus on anything other than Kidd's hands on your body last night.  You exhale slowly.  The scythes feel strange in your hands. Thrumming, almost alive after using them in a real battle. Like they demand more violence after having a taste.

Killer leans close, showing you how to grip the handle properly, how the pivot point works to channel momentum. His hands are firm, correcting yours where you overcompensate.

“Relax,” Killer murmurs. “Flow with it. Don’t fight the movement. Let it flow, Y/N.”

“You hesitate, you’re dead,” Kidd cuts in, voice rough behind you. “Weapons like that don’t wait for you to think.”

You roll your eyes as you concentrate.  Flow. Like the wings tucked against your back. You hesitate, feeling the familiar tension of your new overwhelming power prickling. The memory of battle rises like a tide—dust churning, air shattering. 

“I—I don’t want to…” your voice trails, tense as that power pricks along your spine.

“You can,” Killer interrupts softly. “But you don’t have to face it alone. Not yet. Not until you’re ready. Start small.” His voice is low as the words whisper across the nape of your neck. 

“You won’t be ready if you keep pulling back,” Kidd mutters. Not sharp this time. Something quieter. More personal.

You take a deep breath, letting that echo of power settle. The scythe whistles through the air in a practiced arc. You pivot, and your new leg holds steady. Good. Wings twitch in response, testing balance. You leap, catching air, feeling it support your weight.

“Again,” Killer says, calm but firm. “And higher this time.”

“Commit to it,” Kidd adds. “Tch… half-measures will get you killed.”

You comply. The scythe moves with your body, wings folding and unfolding instinctively as if they’ve been trained alongside you all along. Sweat beads on your forehead, heart hammering at the discipline.

And then… instinct, the faint whisper of that torrential air again. You freeze, momentarily caught in its pull. The urge to react, to lash out, to scream—

Metal clangs sharply beside you— Kidd. Mid-stride. Done hovering. 

Killer tilts his head—just slightly. Kidd's step falters.

"You step in now," he says evenly, not looking at him, "and she learns nothing."

Kidd's jaw tightens. Wood groans faintly behind you.

"She hesitated," Kidd snarls, taking another step despite himself. "Out there, that's the kind of shit that gets her killed."

“So does panic,” Killer replies. He places a calm hand on Kidd’s shoulder. 

"Trust her," he says, quieter. 

The tension hangs—sharp, coiled—before Kidd exhales through his teeth. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interfere. He listens to Killer. The only one who could ever truly stop him.

You swallow hard. Focus. Feet on deck, scythe ready. Wings flex. And the tide inside you settles, just enough.

The hours blur. Swings, leaps, spins. Each iteration builds more and more of your confidence. You test combinations—low strikes, aerial sweeps, rapid pivots— your body meeting each challenge. Accepting. Conquering. You spin on the deck with wings, blades—a deadly dance. You push harder. Faster.

Finally, you falter— Kidd’s hand catches your wrist before you fall flat on your face. Like he knew exactly where you’d break.

“Balance,” he says low, eyes locked on yours. “You lose that, you lose everything.” His grip lingers a second too long— then he lets go.

The sun beats down on the deck, the scent of salt clinging to your body. Slowly, painfully, you feel the daggers of the past replaced by these scythes.

By sunset, your arms ache, legs burn, and your wings sag. Killer stands back, watching. “Better,” he says quietly, voice almost proud. “You’re learning, Y/N.”

You breathe hard, chest heaving, but a small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m… not scared,” you whisper.

And this time— when that chaos inside you swells, it bends instead of breaks. For a moment, you wonder what this would feel like off the ship.  Without anyone watching.

Kidd huffs somewhere behind you. “Tch. Took you long enough.”

Your eyes roll again and you wonder how they have yet to roll out of your head. 

"Good." Killer ignores him, voice just above a murmur. "Fear doesn't leave. It never will. But that doesn't mean you can't control it." 

"Still sloppy," Kidd snides—but he still doesn't leave. 

For the first time, you realize: you're not just surviving. You're becoming dangerous.

Masterlist

A/N- Not gonna lie, summaries are like my LEAST favorite thing so hopefully they haven't been to terrible to read lol I had fun twisting the knife on this one. Enjoy!

Summary: Training is supposed to teach control. It doesn’t prepare you for the moment Kidd is in danger—and your scream tears across the battlefield hard enough to shatter the world around you. But power has a way of dragging old wounds into the light.

Reader POV

Training settles into routine. Mornings belong to Killer—footwork, balance, the controlled violence of twin scythes cutting clean arcs through the air. Afternoons are for scouting runs, for relearning rooftops and shadows, trusting your body to carry you where it once went without thought.  And at night, when most of the ship has gone quiet, you return to the one thing that still feels equal parts miracle and threat.

The mask. The pull of blood and violence. It’s not as foreign anymore. 

It used to sit heavy on your face—too tight, too present. Every breath through it felt mechanical, forced, like you were constantly aware of the thing keeping you alive.

Now, it’s just another part of you.

Kidd never says much when he finds you on the deck, wings half-spread beneath the moonlight, the respirator secured over your face. Sometimes he leans against the railing and watches. Sometimes he pretends he's there for the view. Neither of you bothers calling him out on it.

At first, it was just endurance—calling your powers forward, letting your lungs adjust, learning where the edges of your limits sat. Then control. Pushing it away before it consumed you. 

You’d play with your wings. Calling them faster, folding them away until the transition was smooth- second nature. Trusting that they would answer when you needed them.

Now the mask settles into place like part of the routine. Strap. Check the seal. Adjust the vents. Breathe in. Steady. Breathe out.

Below you- scrawny marines in the wrong place at the wrong time. You breathe in the fight.  Steel on steel. Shouting. Gunfire cracking. Bodies hitting the ground with dull thuds. You’re perched high on a rocky outcropping overlooking the shoreline, rifle braced to your shoulder, barrel angled toward the chaos.

You’re not alone– not really. Someone’s still there. A presence at the edge of your awareness, far enough that you can’t hear their breathing, far enough that an errant drop of blood won’t screw them if things go wrong. Allowing you a longer leash of control. It’s not Kidd. It isn’t Killer. Just one of the crew, stationed back as a precaution. Not hovering. Not watching every move. Just… there. A quiet safety net in case something shifts.

There’s less pressure now, more space. Other times fights like this broke out, someone was always close enough to contain you. Now the crew just fights. Like they know you’ll cover them. Like they trust you again.

A gust of wind carries the faint metallic scent of blood up the cliffside. Your chest tightens on instinct. For a second, you wait for it—that pull, that horrible clawing sensation at the back of your mind that makes your hands shake and your thoughts blur. It doesn’t come. The mask hums softly with each breath, filtering, dulling, protecting. You inhale. Exhale. Still steady.

You line up your next shot. Through the scope, the world narrows into clarity.

One of the enemy pirates charges straight for Heat, blade raised. You press your mechanical leg further into the ground. Adjust for wind, for movement, for timing— Fire.

Recoil kicks into your shoulder, familiar and grounding. Damn you’ve missed it.

The man drops. You cycle the bolt smoothly. No tremor. No rush of heat in your veins. Focus. Another target. A second shot. A third. Clean. Routine dulls the rest. 

A shiver runs down your spine. Something’s wrong. Below, the tide of the fight shifts. 

Kidd.

Pinned against a barrel by two recruits, one aiming a blade at his side.  Your heart thunders. The others are too far to intervene quickly. Without thinking, without hesitation, something primal rips from your chest.

It tears through you, shredding your throat—a scream. It doesn’t even sound human. It shatters the air like glass cracking. They stagger back, off balance. A shockwave snaps the barrels around Kidd into splinters. The sound echoes across the dock. The silence is louder than any battle.

Not paused—frozen. Enemy eyes dart frantically. Your crew looks up. They know. Killer remembers. 

You race down the hill, sand giving way beneath you as the fighting resumes, but the marines reel from your show of power. You reach Kidd, slicing through the last of the bastards. The Kidd Pirates seize the opening, pouncing on the last stragglers. The noise of battle bleeds back—the crew shouting, steel clashing, the enemy being driven back—but in this pocket of space, the fight had already ended. 

Your chest heaves. Heart pounding in your ears. You stare at your hands as if they belong to someone else. That scream—it’s always been yours.

Kidd stumbles upright, chest heaving, hair limp over his goggles, eyes wide. He grins, crooked, shaking his head. “Heh… that power,” he mutters, voice rough. “Same kind of damage I saw back at Sabaody. Whole place looked like it got hit by a cannon.”

You go still. 

He saw. He saw me.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost hurts. The world narrows, sound peeling away until all that's left is the thunder of blood in your ears. Your fingers tighten around the scythes until your knuckles ache white. 

Memories and nightmares alike slam into you—chains biting into your wrists, the crowd roaring, hands grabbing, voices bidding. Terror so complete it had hollowed you out from the inside.

And him. Watching. Seeing exactly what you were in that moment: collared, cornered, displayed. 

Shame and horror twist together beneath your ribs, hot enough to burn. Your knees threaten to buckle. The scythes suddenly feel less like weapons and more like anchors, the only things keeping you upright. 

He saw me like that.  Not bloodied after a fight. Not battle-worn. Broken. Stripped of everything, made to feel like nothing at all. Worthless. 

And somehow, that hurts even worse.

“No,” you whisper, voice thin as ice and just as tight. 

Kidd’s grin vanishes. His scowl back in place. “Huh?”

Your head snaps up, fury clawing its way through the shock.

“You—when I was…” Your voice catches, splintering and tears free anyway.  “When they sold me. You saw it. You saw what those bastards did to ME.” Your throat burns. “You were there and did nothing!?” 

Kidd’s head snaps as if you just hit him, hackles rising. “The hell are you talking about!?” His own temper flares, matching yours blow for blow. His chest rising hard, muscles taut, every line of him suddenly dangerous. 

And you don’t care. All you saw was red. Anger stoked by the burn of shame. 

“I wasn’t there when it happened,” he snaps. “I only saw what was left. The glass. The wreckage. I didn’t see the bastards touch you.” His jaw damn near cracking.

But you barely hear him. Your lungs won't fill. Your vision tunnels. Every nerve feels stripped raw, the terror flooding back- fresh as the day they branded you, until anger is the only thing keeping you from drowning in it.

“You expect me to believe that?” you choke. “You were right there! Strong enough to tear the whole place apart. But you wouldn't—”

“Don't.” The word cracks like a whip.

Kidd steps forward hard enough to make the ground groan beneath his boots. Fury blazes in his eyes, but beneath it is something even sharper. 

“Don’t you put that on me,” he growls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump. “I would've ripped that whole DAMN island apart with my bare hands if I'd been there.” 

The force of it steals your breath.Cutting through your anger.  

Because he means it. Every word.

He drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard, trying—and failing—to leash his temper.

“That scream,” he says, voice still rough, still burning around the edges. “That was you.”  

“All you.” His gaze locks onto yours.“You gave ‘em hell.”

Something in his expression shifts—anger giving way to something older. Darker. Helpless in a way Kidd hates more than anything.

Even he seems startled by the rawness in his own voice. Your anger falters, cracking at the edges.

“I… I didn’t mean…” Words come out small now, guilt twisting your stomach. “I didn’t even know I could do that.”

“You don’t have to mean it,” Kidd cuts in, still intense, but the edge shifts—less defensive, more desperate. "You're not broken, and you're not some out-of-control monster unless you decide to be." 

He’s breathing hard, shoulders tight, like he’s still halfway in the fight. 

“And even then,” he adds, voice dropping, rough and fierce, “if you chose to be a monster, I would still be here. But you’re not dealing with it alone. Not while I’m breathing.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trembling. The realization hits like a punch to the chest. Your scream. Your power. Yours alone.

Not something done to you. Something that came from you. Something you survived. Something that saved him.

And Killer, off to the side, lets out the slightest nod—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of what you just accomplished, a quiet respect earned.

But in this moment, it’s just the two of you. Breathing hard. Raw and angry. Hurt. Finally— standing on the same side of it.

The noise of the crew fades further into the background, distant now—like it belongs to another world entirely. Your chest is still heaving. So is his. Too close.

You don’t remember stepping in. Or maybe he did. It doesn’t matter. The space between you is gone, burned away in adrenaline and anger- and maybe something sharper. Kidd doesn’t move back. Neither do you.

Heat still burns in his eyes—only now it’s not on the fight. Your pulse stutters.

The mask is still on. You can hear your own breathing through it, steady but loud in your ears. Feel it bounce back against your skin. Trapped between you and him.

His gaze flicks to it. Lingers.

“You gonna keep that on,” he mutters, voice low, rougher now, “or are you finally gonna breathe?”

His words shouldn’t affect you the way they do. They shouldn’t hit that wall you’ve built so hard. Shouldn’t send a wave of heat through you, shouldn’t have your thighs pressing tight together. Because this isn’t about the mask. Not really.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, still curled from gripping your scythes—still buzzing from the echo of that scream. From him. From everything.

Kidd catches the movement—jaw tightening. For a second, you don’t move. Neither of you were ever talented at backing down. 

Masterlist

CW: None- some language

Summary: Sometimes love sounds like reassurance. Sometimes it sounds like metal scraping across a workbench. He didn’t tell you to adapt. He built you something new.

But weapons don’t fix everything. They just demand you grow fast enough to survive them.

And Kidd? He’s not going to let you fall behind.

Reader POV

The sting of failure hadn’t left your chest, even days after the fight. The daggers. The missteps. The limits your body still held. And somewhere in the quiet, you knew Kidd had been listening.

He had disappeared to his workshop. When an idea gripped his mind, there was no stopping him. You only knew he was alive from the lingering signs—an unmade bed, the faint smell of molten metal and oil. 

The workshop smelled of familiar worked metal. Sparks had been flying for days. The bench held two gleaming weapons. Even before you touched them, your chest tightened. These weren’t just tools. They were yours.  

Kidd stands nearby, chest rising with an unusual mix of pride and anticipation. Killer stood just behind him, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind his mask, but every inch of him radiated approval.

You lifted the twin scythes, testing their balance. Elegant curves, precise weight, perfect leverage. Kidd had forged the bodies, Killer had fine-tuned the mechanics, and every detail felt made for you.

“They’re light,” you breathed. The weight surprised you—it felt right, almost like they’d been waiting for your hands. “They’re… mine?”

Kidd’s lips twitched. “They’re yours,” he says. “But don’t get it twisted, Mouse- They’re dangerous. They’ll test you, push you. Hurt you if you don’t respect them.”

You stare at the gleaming metal in awe. For a second, it felt perfect.

Then weight shifted, throwing off your center. The chain slipped. A sharp metallic hiss as it fell to the floor. Kidd’s hand twitched toward you, Killer’s step forward instinctive—but both froze mid-motion, seeing you react instantly. 

Foot bracing, shoulders correcting, hand tightening—you caught the momentum before it could pull you off balance. The chain stilled with a soft rattle. Silence.

Kidd’s jaw tightened, a flicker of approval passing over his features before his hand drops. Killer exhales softly, arms crossing again. Both relaxing a fraction—you had it.

You exhaled slowly, pulse quick but steady. Not effortless. Not yet. But at least they were still in your hands. 

Killer stepped closer, continuing as if nothing had happened.  “We built them with your body in mind. Chains make them retractable. They’re extensions—not crutches. Learn them. Trust them.” He was calm, precise. 

Your leg shifts instinctively, pressing into the floor. The scythe’s weight finally feels like it belongs—not to you alone, but to you and the body that wields it. The steel hums under your fingers—like a heartbeat. Ready to prove its violence.

Kidd leaned closer, voice dropping, low and close. “We’ll train you. Step by step. I won’t coddle you, Y/N. You’ve earned the right to fight. But I won’t let you get killed either.”

You lifted both scythes now, the weight balanced perfectly in your hands. There was awe in your chest, fear, and… something else. Determination. You could feel the line between control and chaos, between your old helplessness and the edge of power these weapons gave you.

Killer gave a small nod. “First lesson tomorrow. Footwork, grip, swing, pivot. Then we’ll move into mobility drills. You’ll be fast enough to move, even with the leg.”

“And when you’re ready,” Kidd said quietly, almost too quietly, “We’ll show them why you don’t fuck with Punks.”

You looked up at him, at Killer, then back at the blades in your hands. For the first time in a long time, the weight of everything didn’t scare you.

It excited you.

Kidd’s eyes lingered on you, dark and unreadable, but something in them softened just a fraction. “Use them. Respect them. And remember, Mouse… I didn’t make them for anyone else. Only yours.”

Your chest tightened. You understood. These weren’t just weapons—they were yours. Yours, and yours alone—a promise.

------------------------------------------------------

The sun hung low over the island, painting the dock in golds and reds as the Kidd Pirates’ ship swayed gently at anchor. You stood in the open courtyard of the abandoned settlement, scythes in hand, their weight unfamiliar and stubborn against your arms. Killer’s eyes didn’t leave you—sharp and assessing, his stance casual but alert, like a predator teaching its cub.

“Again,” he said, voice clipped, calm, heavy with expectation. “This time, smoother—take it slow if you have to. Your balance, your footing—everything counts.”

You adjusted the prosthetic leg under your thigh, flexing it experimentally. It had come a long way since Sabaody, reliable enough for daily movement and even running short distances, but combat still demanded finesse. 

“I know,” you muttered, gripping the twin scythes tighter. Your heart hammered—not just from exertion, but from the memory of what you’d lost, the helplessness that never truly left.

Killer didn’t flinch at the bitterness in your voice. He simply circled, watching every pivot, every swing. “You still overcompensate with the right,” he noted. “You want to protect it, but it’s slowing you down. Flow with it, don’t fight the weight. Use it.”

You took a deep breath and tried again, spinning the scythe, the other following, rhythmically. The prosthetic shifted beneath you, clicking softly, but holding. Your strike sliced through the air cleanly this time, and you felt it—a small pulse of satisfaction.

From the edge of the deck, Kidd’s shadow loomed. He leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable. He didn’t intervene, didn’t comment. But you felt him, an invisible tether, grounding you in a way that made your chest tighten. You hated it and loved it all at once.

“Not bad,” Killer said finally, stepping back. “You’re learning to fight with the prosthetic, not against it. That’s the hard part.” He let the words hang. You could feel the weight of them.

“Next,” he continued. “We start mobility drills. I’m not asking you to sprint—yet. I’m asking you to move without thinking about the leg, to trust it.”

You groaned, adjusting your grip. Killer smirked faintly, the same as Kidd—like he knew exactly how much you hated slow drills. But there was method in it—precision before chaos, control before instinct.

Hours passed in a blur of practice: footwork, swings, pivots, carefully measured lunges. Sweat dripped down your face, your muscles ached, but with each repetition, the scythes became extensions of your body. You began to anticipate the scythes’ momentum, the prosthetic moving seamlessly beneath you.

A chain rattled briefly on the left scythe—you flinched slightly, and Killer’s eyes snapped to you, hand halfway to intervene, before freezing when he saw your stance steady, your balance perfect. A flicker of respect passed between him and Kidd, who had leaned forward from the post, eyebrow raised. You exhaled, pulse quick but steady. Not effortless. Not yet. But at least they were still in your hands.

Killer stepped closer, silent and deliberate. “Hold still,” he murmured, hands adjusting the scythe’s strap and the prosthetic alignment under your thigh. The sudden closeness made your chest tighten, but every touch was precise, corrective, guiding the scythe as if it were already part of you.

‘‘Hands-on, huh?’’ Kidd rumbled, stepping down from the post. His gaze cut through the courtyard, sharp, assessing— focused, like a predator deciding when to intervene.

You stiffened slightly under Killer’s adjustments, but the weight shifted perfectly, the scythe finally feeling like an extension of your body, not a foreign object.

Killer stepped back, nodding. “Better. You’ll feel the difference in your strikes.”

Kidd’s eyes lingered on you, dark and unreadable. “You’ve improved,” he said, voice low, calm, almost teasing. “But don’t get cocky. I saw the hesitation when the last strike landed—you second-guessed yourself. That hesitation? Could get you killed.”

You bristled. “I’m aware,” you muttered, but a flicker of pride warmed your chest.

Kidd’s lips quirked slightly, and he turned his attention back to the sea, eyes sweeping the horizon. You knew the warning wasn’t just about fighting—it was about everything out there, everything the Grand Line could throw at you. Everything the New World will. And for the first time since Sabaody, you felt ready—not fearless, but capable.

Killer’s quiet, steady gaze followed you as he adjusted the scythes, preparing them for the next drill. “Tomorrow,” he said simply, “we add a second target. And then we’ll add motion.”

Masterlist

Summary: Kidd immediately knows something is wrong. And Kidd, being Kidd, has exactly one response to that problem: He'll build something better.

Kidd POV

You’re late. 

Not enough to worry— but enough to notice. Killer noticed too—quieter these last ten minutes, attention angled toward the dock without turning his head. Kidd looks up from where he’s leaning over a spread of scrap metal, one hand braced against the table, the other absently shaping a bolt between his fingers.

Then he sees them. Bubblegum first — walking steady, a little scuffed, carrying a half-torn bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. 

You’re upright. You’re walking under your own power. You’re not bleeding. All the immediate alarms in his chest ease at once. But the atmosphere shifts. A subtle change in the crew’s posture. Conversations dipping. Heads turning. A tension in the air that wasn’t there a second ago.

And he sees your face. Your mouth is set tight. Eyes distant. Shoulders locked in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with something simmering underneath the surface. Frustration.

Kidd straightens slowly. His gaze drops, sharp and instinctive– scanning for damage. Your coat is dusty. One sleeve slightly torn. No visible blood. No limp worse than usual. Still.

“Supply run,” he calls out, voice flat but carrying. “Or did you pick a fight on the way back?”

Bubblegum snorts, dropping the bag near the table with a thud. “Wasn’t us.”

Kidd’s eyes flick to him, then back to you. You don’t answer. That alone puts a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Trouble?” Killer steps forward first, quiet as always. 

“Couple idiots in town,” Bubblegum says. “Thought we were easy targets.”

That’s when Kidd notices your hands. They’re empty- but your fingers keep flexing like they’re remembering the feel of something that isn’t there. His jaw tightens.

“Did they touch you?” he asks, voice dropping lower, sharper.

Your head snaps up immediately. “No.”

Too fast. Too defensive. 

Bubblegum glances between the two of you, then shrugs. “We handled it.”

Kidd’s gaze drags over you again. Looking for what’s not being said—frustration simmering under the skin, stiffness in your shoulders, the tightness in your jaw. You’re not hurt. But you’re not fine. And that bothers him more.

You step past him without waiting for permission, moving toward the railing like you need air. Like the ship suddenly feels too small. Kidd watches you go.  

“What happened Bubblegum?” 

“Captain,” he hesitates. “She’s okay.” Kidd relaxes a fraction but doesn’t let up his scowling stare. Bubblegum flinches.  “You should talk to her. Some things just can’t go back to what they were before.”  

Kidd's eyes narrow before he turns sharply toward the railing.  A silent dismissal to his crew.

He follows you to the edge of the deck. You’re staring out over the water, arms folded, jaw set hard enough he can see the tension from a few feet away. For a moment, he just stands there. Watching. Waiting. 

You were fine this morning. Steady. Calm. Confident enough to leave without him hovering over your shoulder. Now you look like something’s been taken from you.

“What happened?” he asks finally.

You don’t look at him. “Nothing.”

Kidd huffs once. Not amused.

“Bullshit.”

Silence. The wind pushes your hair back from your face. Your hand twitches again, fingers curling inward like they’re reaching for a handle that isn’t there. And then you say it, quiet. Frustrated. A quiet anger.

“…I couldn’t keep up.”

His brow pulls tight.

“With who?”

“Anyone,” you snap, finally turning to face him. “Not them. Not the ground. Not even myself.”

The words come out sharper than you mean them to, and you exhale hard, dragging a hand down your face.

“I had the daggers. I knew what to do. I just—” Your voice catches for half a second, “—wasn’t fast enough.” 

Kidd doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just listens.

“I used to be able to get in close and end it,” you continue, quieter now. “Before they could even react. Today I couldn’t land a clean hit. My footing kept slipping. My turns were off. I got grabbed. Twice.”

 Kidd’s knuckles turn white- his nails digging into his palm trying to let you finish. His jaw locking hard enough to ache.

“I kept thinking if I just pushed harder I’d adjust, but it didn’t matter. Every move felt… heavy.” You swallow. “Like I was fighting my own body more than them.”

Your hand drifts unconsciously to your leg. And Kidd finally understands. His hands relax, barely. It’s not just frustration. It’s grief. The kind that hits when you realize something you used to rely on isn’t coming back the way it was.

“They figured it out,” you add quietly. “That I wasn’t fast enough. That I couldn’t move the same as them.”

“But you made it back.” Kidd leans back on the railing next to you.

“Because Bubblegum stepped in.” There’s no shame in your tone. But there is anger. At yourself.

You turn back toward the water, shoulders tight. “If I’d had my rifle, it wouldn’t have mattered. If I’d had distance, it would’ve been over in seconds. But up close…” Your fingers curl into fists now. “They’re not enough anymore.”

Kidd’s eyes drop to your hands, like he can still see the phantom shape of the daggers there. He goes still for a long moment. Then he pushes off the railing.

“Good,” he says.

You blink, turning back sharply. “Good?”

“Then we make something that is.”

It’s said like it’s obvious. Like there was never another option. You stare at him. He can see your frustration melting into confusion. He scoffs. 

“You’re not fighting like that anymore,” he continues, voice steady. “So stop trying to.”

That stings. But it’s not cruel. It’s honest. His gaze is sharp watching you- running through all the memories of you training, moving, surviving. His eyes narrow as an idea forms.

“You need reach. Control. Something that lets you keep space without losing control.”

His fingers shift slightly at his side, like he’s already building it in his head.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Not you. We. Kidd was done with you thinking you had to do everything by yourself. You were his, just as he was yours. No more of this alone bullshit.