hii i ♡ your post with firefighter luffy , can you make more firefighter luffy hcs or a story abt it if not thats totally fine !!
The Firefighter Next Door
Firefighter Luffy x fem!reader
content: Firefighter AU, Fluff/Comedy, Light Hurt, Mainly Comfort, Neighbors to Lovers
summary: You moved in for peace and quiet. You got sirens at 3 a.m., chaos through the walls, and a reckless firefighter who thinks your balcony is public property. Unfortunately for you, Monkey D. Luffy is very hard to evict.
a/n: hi anon! i didn’t have any more headcanons, so i decided to write a little fic instead. the grammar might be a bit messy, but i hope you enjoy it pookie 💛
Luffy Masterlist • One Piece Masterlist
The first thing you learned about living next to Firehouse 56 was that sleep was no longer a right.
At 3:07 a.m., the siren didn’t ring so much as rip through your skull. The klaxon blared, heavy boots pounded across concrete, lockers slammed, and someone—always the same someone—whooped like they were heading to a football game instead of a burning building.
You stared at your ceiling in the dark.
“I hate them,” you muttered to absolutely no one.
It wasn’t just emergencies. It was everything.
The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of someone absolutely obliterating a punching bag.
The metallic crash of industrial pans from the kitchen.
The loud, unfiltered laughter that shook the shared brick wall like you were living inside their common room.
You tried earplugs. White noise. Threatening letters you never sent.
By the fifth sleepless night in a row, you were one inconvenience away from committing arson just to spite them.
Which was how you ended up storming toward your balcony in pajama shorts and a tank top, reheated coffee in hand, ready to finally demand silence—
When two red-gloved hands suddenly gripped your railing.
A head of messy black hair appeared, followed by a grin so bright it looked surgically attached.
“Oh! Hey!” he beamed. “You’re the neighbor!”
“…Are you climbing my building?”
“Yeah!” he said easily, hauling himself up like gravity had a personal grudge against him and lost. He swung one leg over the railing and landed lightly on your balcony. “Locked myself out of the roof. Again.”
He dusted off his turnout pants like this was normal behavior. His gray undershirt clung to him, sweat-dark and stretched across broad shoulders. He radiated heat even in the cool evening air.
“I’m Luffy,” he added, holding out a gloved hand like he wasn’t trespassing. “Your balcony has the best sunset angle on the block. Mind if I hang out?”
“You cannot just scale my building!”
He tilted his head, considering that.
“…I didn’t think about that part.”
He laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”
“That doesn’t make it better!”
“It kinda does,” he said confidently. “If I fall, I know how to land.”
The worst part? He looked genuinely harmless.
The brownies were meant to be a tactical move.
Sea-salt. Dark chocolate. Perfectly cut.
You rehearsed your speech the entire walk over.
Thank you for your service, but if you wake me up one more Sunday at 6 a.m., I will personally unplug your siren.
The door swung open before you could knock twice.
A blonde man in a pristine apron gasped dramatically at the sight of your tray.
“An angel,” he breathed. “A divine vision bearing chocolate.”
“Sanji,” he said, taking your tray with reverence. “Please, come inside. It’s a crime to let beauty stand in the hallway.”
You were swept in before you could protest.
A massive wooden table in the center. Boots kicked off under benches. The TV blasting some action movie no one was actually watching.
Zoro—broad-shouldered, arms crossed—was asleep sitting upright despite the volume.
“That’s Lieutenant Zoro,” Sanji explained. “He can sleep through a structural collapse.”
Across the room, a sharp-eyed woman paced with a clipboard and phone pressed to her ear.
“If you cut our hydrant inspection budget again, I swear I will personally mail you the bill when something explodes,” she snapped. “Yes, I’m serious.”
“That’s Nami,” Sanji said fondly. “Fire inspector. She runs this place more than the captain does.”
Two younger guys argued near the couch.
“You can’t just wrap it in duct tape!”
“That was not medical treatment!”
“Chopper’s right!” someone yelled.
“And that,” Sanji sighed, “is Usopp being wrong.”
You barely had time to register the voice before Luffy appeared, somehow already holding a brownie.
“You made these?!” he demanded, eyes wide.
“YOU LIVE NEXT DOOR AND YOU DIDN’T TELL US YOU COULD DO THIS?”
“I didn’t think it was relevant—”
He grabbed your shoulders. “You’re our Official Station Baker now.”
“I did not apply for that position.”
“Too late. Unanimous vote.”
“We didn’t vote!” Usopp protested.
“UNANIMOUS,” Luffy repeated louder.
You complained about siren tests.
Nami promised to reschedule Sunday drills.
Sanji insisted you come back Friday for dinner.
Luffy sat way too close to you on the bench, bumping your shoulder every time he laughed.
You left with lighter hands and a warmer chest.
And that was the beginning of the problem.
The third time Luffy “accidentally” ended up on your balcony, it was 11:45 PM, and he was balancing a half-eaten slice of watermelon like it was a treasure.
“The wind caught the roof door!” he explained, grinning like being stranded four stories up was a perfectly reasonable weekend hobby. He looked absurd in his suspenders and heavy boots, soot streaking his cheek in a way he clearly hadn’t bothered to wash off. His hair stuck up at odd angles, like he’d just fought a minor tornado.
“Luffy,” you sighed, leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom. The warm night breeze drifted in behind you, carrying the faint smell of your baking—cinnamon, butter, sugar. “There is a staircase. In the building. That we both share.”
He blinked at you like the idea had never occurred to him. “Yeah, but the stairs are boring,” he said, vaulting over your railing with the casual grace of a cat. The watermelon slice wobbled precariously in one hand. “Falling would be boring too, so I’m being careful.”
You crossed your arms, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Right. Falling. Very convincing.”
He stepped closer, leaning over the railing to get a better look at your apartment. “Wait… is that cinnamon? Did you bake something?” His nose practically pressed to the door. “The curly-brow guy—Sanji—he was complaining he could smell it all the way through the vents. He sounded tragic.”
You pointed at the plate on the small table. “I was going to eat those for breakfast. But I suppose they’re now a bribe for you to stop scaling my walls.”
“Deal!” Luffy said immediately, biting into his watermelon like your offer had officially sealed a treaty. His laughter rang out, warm and boisterous, bouncing off the brick walls of the neighboring apartments. The sound made something in your chest loosen—a soft, infuriating tug of affection.
“You’re way nicer than the last neighbor,” he added between bites, gesturing vaguely with the fruit. “He used to throw shoes at me.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Shoes?”
“Oh, yeah. One time a sock too. It was traumatic.” He pouted dramatically, though his eyes were sparkling with mischief. “You’re not throwing anything, are you?”
“Considering it,” you muttered, already reaching for the plate. You set it down near him and watched as he eagerly grabbed a brownie with both hands. A stray crumb fell on his boot. He noticed it, paused for half a second, then shrugged like it was part of the experience.
“You always bake at night?” he asked, chewing thoughtfully.
“Not always,” you replied, smoothing your hands over the counter railing. “But sometimes, yes. It’s quiet.”
He looked around, still balancing watermelon, crumbs, and brownies like a chaotic balancing act. Then his eyes softened for a second, the usual spark of chaos replaced with something a little slower, gentler. “I like it here. Quiet.”
You swallowed, caught off guard by the sincerity hidden in his messy grin. “Well… it’s quieter than jumping over balconies, at least.”
He leaned a little closer, tilting his head as if considering your words. “I guess I could… try the stairs,” he said, though you could hear the word try stretched into the shape of a question, a challenge, and a joke all at once.
“You could try,” you said, smirking.
“And maybe,” he added, “I’ll bring brownies next time. As a peace offering.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered fondly, shaking your head. But when he grinned, watermelon slice balanced precariously in one hand, and crumbs scattered across the balcony floor, you found that you didn’t want him to stop.
The siren went off—but it wasn’t loud.
It was sharp. Urgent. No whooping. No joking.
Just boots pounding on concrete. Fast. Focused. Professional.
You stepped onto your balcony in time to see Luffy pulling on his helmet. His expression was different. Not grinning. Not glowing. Sharp.
The trucks tore down the street.
And the silence afterward—it was heavier than any noise had ever been.
When the engines finally rolled back into the bay, the doors lifted slowly, creaking under their weight. You stepped out again, holding your mug of tea like it could somehow anchor you.
Covered in soot, their reflective stripes dulled by ash. Their movements slower, deliberate. No one spoke.
Luffy sat on the edge of the engine, elbows on his knees. His helmet rested beside him. His hands trembled slightly as he peeled off his gloves.
Just slightly. But enough. Your chest tightened.
He stared at the concrete floor like it had personally humiliated him. For the first time since you met him, he didn’t look invincible.
It was nearly midnight when he knocked.
Not climbed. Knocked. Softly.
You opened the door immediately.
His cheekbone was split, a jagged streak of dried blood tracing down toward his jaw. A faint smear of soot clung to his hair. His uniform smelled faintly of smoke and metal. Exhaustion carved lines across his face, making him look younger somehow, fragile in a way he never was in daylight.
“The medic was busy with Zoro,” he said, voice low and uneven. “He took a beam to the shoulder. He’s fine. Just… loud about it.”
You stepped aside without hesitation. “Sit.”
He obeyed, lowering himself onto a kitchen chair like a man weighed down by invisible gravity.
You turned on the light. Its warm glow revealed more: tiny burn marks along his wrist, faint cuts on his knuckles, the tremor of muscles overworked. You wet a cloth and pressed it gently against his cheek.
“You could’ve gone to urgent care,” you murmured.
He shrugged. “Didn’t want to.”
He glanced around your kitchen: the small potted plants by the window, the hum of the refrigerator, the quiet warmth of your home. “It’s quiet here.”
Your hand stilled against his cheek.
You dabbed antiseptic along the cut, carefully smoothing a butterfly bandage over the wound.
He inhaled sharply through his teeth.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“I’m not the one who ran into a burning building,” you whispered.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper:
You met his eyes. Not playful. Not bright. Heavy. Full of the weight of all he’d seen.
“There was a kid,” he continued. “Second floor. Smoke everywhere. I thought—” His jaw tightened. “I thought we were too late.”
Your fingers brushed his jaw as you secured the bandage, careful not to press too hard.
“You weren’t,” you said gently.
He shook his head slightly. “Not this time.”
The words settled between you.
He leaned into your touch unconsciously, eyelids fluttering closed for just a second. For a man who lived at lightning speed, he was utterly still beneath your hands. “Your house smells nice,” he murmured. “Like… soap. And those lemon things you bake.”
“Cookies,” you corrected softly.
“Yeah. Cookies,” he admitted, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.
You let your thumb linger against his cheek. He shifted slightly closer, as if drawn to the warmth of your hand. And then, in a soft, almost instinctive motion, he pressed a quick, gentle kiss to your cheek—just below your eye, brushing against your temple. It was fleeting, delicate, and full of unspoken gratitude.
“You can come here,” you said quietly, your cheeks still warm from the brush of his lips against your skin. “After the loud.”
His eyes opened. Not shining. Not smiling. Just warm. Full of trust, exhaustion, and something that felt like relief.
And when he rested his forehead briefly against your shoulder—just for a breath—you realized something important.
You didn’t mind the sirens.
You didn’t mind the noise.
Because it meant they were going.
And it meant he was coming back.
