alec

Usopp and Luffy are yelling somewhere above deck. Nami is complaining about something being broken. Chopper laughs so hard you can hear it through the walls.

And you stand in the kitchen trying to hold a plate without dropping it.

Your fingers shake… again.

You tighten your grip, jaw clenching “Careful, love.”

A warm hand slides under yours before the plate slips. Sanji takes it easily.

You immediately pull your hand back “I had it.”

“Mhm.” He smiles softly “And I’m the Pirate King.”

You huff quietly.

He places the plate down and turns back to the stove. The kitchen smells warm. Garlic, butter, something sweet baking in the oven.

Usually the smell makes you happy.

Today it only makes your chest hurt.

“I can still help…” you mumble.

“You are helping.”

“I barely cut two carrots.”

“That’s still helping.”

You look down at your hands.

Your fingertips are numb again. That strange heavy feeling like your hands are asleep and aching at the same time.

You flex them and pain shoots through your wrists.

You hide it quickly but Sanji notices everything. His eyes flick toward you for one second.

“You should sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart…”

“I said I’m fine.”

Silence.

Only the sound of oil sizzling in the pan.

You hate that tone in your own voice… sharp and angry, but not at him, never at him, mostly at yourself.

Sanji says nothing after that. He just moves around the kitchen calmly, cigarette hanging from his lips while he cooks for the crew like always.

Perfect movements.

Your eyes stay on his hands… strong hands. Fast hands. Hands that work.

You swallow hard.

“I can wash the dishes at least.” you say.

“You washed them yesterday.”

“And dropped three.”

“You dropped one.”

“It still broke.”

“So?” He shrugs “Franky breaks half the ship every week.”

“That’s not the same…”

He glances at you again and you look away first.

You move toward the sink before he can stop you. The plates are already stacked there.

You can do easy.

You grab the sponge, but the moment you squeeze it, pain burns through your palm so suddenly your breath catches.

The sponge slips right out of your hand.

Splash.

Water everywhere.

“Ah—shit.”

You try to grab it quickly, but your fingers refuse to close properly. The plate beside it tilts dangerously.

Sanji catches it before it falls, of course he does.

And suddenly your eyes burn.

“I’m sorry…” you whisper.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I can’t even do dishes right.” your voice cracks embarrassingly at the end.

You turn away fast.

Stupid.

You hate crying about this.

You hate the pity even more.

But Sanji doesn’t sound pitiful when he speaks… he sounds serious “Look at me.”

You don’t.

A chair scrapes softly against the floor.

Then he’s in front of you, looking at you carefully “Look at me, love.”

Slowly, you do.

His brows are slightly furrowed “You think I care about dishes?”

“No, but—”

“You think I want you here because you can scrub pans?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then tell me what you mean.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because the truth feels ugly.

Sanji waits patiently anyway.

Your throat tightens.

“I just…” you stare at the floor “Everyone does so much.”

“Hmm.”

“Luffy fights sea monsters like it’s nothing. Zoro trains until he bleeds. Nami handles navigation alone during storms. Usopp builds things. Franky fixes everything. Robin knows everything. Chopper is our doctor.”

You laugh weakly.

“And I can barely hold a knife some days.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

You expect him to answer immediately, but he actually doesn’t. He just moves closer and very gently, he takes your hands.

Even though you try to hide how stiff they are, his thumbs rub over your knuckles carefully.

“Does it hurt right now?” he asks softly.

You hesitate “…Yes.”

“Numb too?”

You nod.

“Since this morning?”

“Since yesterday.”

“And you still tried to help me cook breakfast.”

You shrug helplessly “I wanted to do something useful.”

Something flashes across his face, not anger at you, but something sadder “Oh, sweetheart.”

The nickname almost breaks you.

You look away again.

“I know everyone says it’s okay,” you whisper “but it doesn’t feel okay.”

Sanji stays quiet for a second, then he suddenly pulls you gently against his chest.

One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rubs your back slowly.

“You listen to me now.” he says quietly.

His voice is low and firm in that rare way he gets when he means every word.

“You’re part of this crew.”

You grip his shirt weakly.

“You hear me?”

“…Yeah.”

“No. Really hear me.” He leans back enough to look at you “You think being useful is the reason we love you?”

Your eyes widen slightly “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You fall silent.

Sanji sighs softly “When Chopper gets sick, do we throw him overboard because he can’t work?”

“No.”

“When Zoro is half dead after a fight, do we tell him he’s lazy?”

“Of course not.”

“When Luffy can’t move after doing something stupid?”

“That happens every week.”

Sanji snorts quietly “Exactly.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you.

“There it is.” he murmurs.

Your face warms.

He brushes his thumb under your eye.

“You’re hurting,” he says simply “that’s not failure.”

“But I make things harder.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I can’t even help in fights.”

“And?” His brows pull together again “Do you think your only value is fighting?”

You hesitate “A little…”

“Absolutely not.” he says it immediately, strongly “You make this place softer.”

Your breath catches.

Sanji continues before you can answer.

“You stay with Chopper when he studies too late. You listen to Usopp’s stories even when they’re terrible lies.” he smiles faintly “You help Robin find books. You calm Luffy down sometimes, which is honestly a miracle.”

You blink rapidly.

“And me?” he says quietly “You help me too.”

“How?”

He gives you a look like the answer is obvious “You sit with me during late nights in the kitchen.”

Your chest aches.

“You taste every new recipe.”

“You cook those for everyone.”

“I still want your opinion.”

His fingers squeeze yours carefully “You remind me to rest.”

“You never rest.”

“Exactly. Someone has to tell me.”

Another tiny laugh escapes you.

Sanji smiles softly at the sound.

Then he lifts one of your hands carefully to his lips and kisses your knuckles, slowly, like your hands are something precious.

Not broken or useless.

“You do enough.” he whispers.

The words hit harder than you expect, because part of you still doesn’t believe them.

And maybe he sees that, because he suddenly tilts your chin upward gently.

“And even if you did nothing,” he says, “even if all you could do was sit here and breathe beside me, I would still want you here.”

Your eyes sting again immediately “Sanji…”

“I mean it.” his forehead rests against yours now “You don’t have to earn your place every single day.”

The tears finally spill over.

You hide your face against his chest with a frustrated sound.

“Ah, don’t cry…” he murmurs immediately, holding you tighter “Now I’ll cry too and the others will never let me live it down.”

You laugh weakly through tears.

“There you are.”

His hand rubs your back slowly.

After a while, your breathing finally calms.

“…I still hate it.” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate needing help.”

“I know that too.”

“And I hate feeling weak.”

Sanji hums thoughtfully. Then he gently pulls back just enough to look at you “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re strong as hell.”

You immediately shake your head “No.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t even—”

“Love.” His voice softens again “You wake up hurting and still try every day.”

You go still.

“That sounds strong to me.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Maybe because nobody ever says it like that.

Sanji smiles a little.

“Now.” He wipes under your eyes gently “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not the doctor.”

“Temporary doctor’s orders.”

You snort.

“You sit right there.” he says pointing toward the small chair near the kitchen window.

“And what are you doing?”

“Cooking.”

“I should help.”

“You should rest.”

“But—”

He gives you a look… not angry, just stubborn. Very Sanji.

You sigh dramatically and sit down.

“Good.” He smiles again finally, softer now “That’s my sweetheart.”

You watch him move around the kitchen again.

Comfortable.

After a minute, he speaks without turning around “Can you do something for me though?”

Your shoulders tense immediately “What?”

“Tell me if the sauce needs more salt.”

You blink “That’s it?”

“That’s a very important job.”

A small smile pulls at your mouth.

Sanji glances over his shoulder and catches it immediately “There’s the smile I like.”

He brings over the spoon carefully.

You taste the sauce. Warm. Rich. A little spicy.

“It needs more pepper.”

Sanji gasps dramatically “Perfect. I trained you well.”

He bends over and leaves a soft kiss on your lips before moving back to the kitchen.

You laugh again, more real this time.

And somehow, sitting there while he cooks beside you, the guilt feels quieter.

Not gone maybe, but quieter.

Sanji notices that too as he smiles softly to himself before turning back to the stove.

“See?” he says gently, winking at you “Always helping the chef.”

── .✦ Zoro:

tags: established relationship, comfort, chronic pain, emotional support, soft zoro, insecurity, hurt/comfort

The Sunny rocks softly under the afternoon sun.

You grip the broom tighter.

Bad idea.

Pain shoots through your fingers immediately. Your hands feel numb in some places, burning in others. You try to ignore it and keep sweeping.

“You missed a spot.”

You look up and see Nami pointing near the stairs with her pen.

“Oh—yeah. Thank you.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You smile quickly “Just tired.”

She watches you for a second longer before walking away.

The second she leaves, you shake your hands behind your back.

It hurts.

Again…

Later, everyone eats lunch together.

Luffy is stealing meat from everyone’s plates.

Sanji is yelling “LUFFY! STOP TOUCHING THE FOOD!”

“I’m hungry!”

“You already ate three plates!”

“I’m still hungry!”

Basically the usual.

Across the table, Zoro drinks quietly.

You glance at him and he notices immediately.

He watches you with a questioning expression on his face and says “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That face means trouble.”

You laugh softly, making him smirk.

Then his eye move lower to your hands.

You pull them under the table immediately, which makes his expression change a little.

That evening, you find him training on deck. Weights. Swords. Sweat.

Normal Zoro things.

You stand nearby awkwardly “Can I train with you?”

He pauses “You trained yesterday.”

“I know.”

“And the day before.”

“I know.”

“And you could barely hold the practice sword after.”

You force a laugh “I’ll get better.”

He studies you carefully “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Big lie… but you hate saying no. You hate sitting around while everyone works.

Everyone has something.

Nami navigates.

Sanji cooks.

Usopp fixes things.

Chopper heals people.

Robin researches.

Franky builds.

Brook plays music.

Jinbe steers.

Zoro fights.

And you… you struggle to even hold a mop some days.

So you keep trying, even when your hands shake, even when your fingers go numb, and even when you wake up at night because pain crawls up your wrists.

You keep trying because if you stop, what are you useful for?

“Again.” Zoro blocks your attack easily.

Your wrists hurt already.

You tighten your grip at your best and then swing again.

He blocks again “You’re too tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that every five minutes.”

“I am fine.”

Your fingers suddenly lose strength and the sword slips.

You freeze.

Your hand tingles painfully.

Zoro looks down at the fallen sword, then at you.

You quickly bend down to grab it, but pain shoots through your wrist so hard you suck in a breath.

But he already heard that “You’re hurt.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“I said I’m fine!”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean.

The deck goes quiet, even the wind feels still.

Zoro stares at you, then he sighs “Come sit.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sit.”

You hate how weirdly gentle his voice sounds… it makes your chest hurt.

You sit down near the railing while he puts the practice swords away.

For a while, neither of you talks.

Then he sits beside you.

“You’ve been hiding it.”

You stare at the ocean “Hiding what?”

“The pain.”

You shrug “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to you.”

You laugh weakly “Not really.”

“You can barely hold things some days.”

Your throat tightens.

“I can still do stuff.”

“I know.”

“I just…” You swallow hard “I’m slower.”

Zoro says nothing.

“And everyone else does so much…” you continue quietly “I can’t even finish basic chores without messing up.”

“You don’t mess up.”

“I do…”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” you repeat, louder this time “I can’t scrub the deck long enough. I drop things. My hands stop working in fights. Sometimes they go numb for hours.” your voice shakes “I’m supposed to help the crew.”

“You do help.”

“How?”

The question comes out too fast and too honest.

You immediately regret it, but Zoro doesn’t get angry.

He leans back against the railing “You think helping only means fighting and chores?”

“I mean… yeah? In a pirate crew, yeah.”

“That’s stupid.”

You blink “That’s rude.”

“It’s true.”

You glare at him weakly.

He continues anyway “When Chopper patches us up after the smallest cut, is that useless?”

“No.”

“When Brook plays music or makes you all laugh after bad days?”

“No.”

“When Luffy drags us into trouble and somehow makes people free?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

You open your mouth and close it again.

Zoro looks toward the sea “You stay awake with people when they can’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You listen when someone’s upset.”

You stare at him.

“You remember small things.” he says “Like how Chopper likes compliments. Or how Usopp gets nervous before fights and what calms him down.”

Heat rises to your face and say “That’s not important.”

“It is.”

“It’s not enough.”

Zoro goes quiet for a moment, then suddenly snorts “You know? I don’t like using him as an example, but even the weird eyebrows man never uses his hands to fight.”

You stare at him “…Sanji?”

“Unfortunately.”

A small laugh escapes you.

Zoro points at your hands “There are other ways to fight.”

“I can’t exactly kick like him.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But—”

“Even I use my mouth for a sword.”

You blink again “That… sounds weird when you say it out loud.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

You laugh despite yourself.

“There’s more than one way to help people. More than one way to fight.” He looks directly at you now “You keep trying to force yourself into something that hurts you.”

Your eyes sting suddenly “I just don’t want to be dead weight.”

His expression hardens immediately “You are not dead weight.”

The words come fast, strong and certain.

“You hear me?”

You look away quickly.

“You belong here.” he says quietly now “With us. With… me.”

Your chest aches painfully, in that overwhelming kind of way that isn't always bad.

“You noticed all that?” you ask softly.

“Obviously.”

“I thought I hid it well.”

“You hide it terribly.”

You groan “Great.”

“You flex your fingers every ten seconds.”

“…Oh.”

“And you make this face.”

“What face?”

“This one.” he copies your annoyed expression badly.

You stare at him “That looks nothing like me.”

“It does.”

“You look constipated.”

“Tch.”

Now, that makes you finally laugh… a real laugh this time.

Zoro watches you carefully afterward, like he’s checking if the sadness is still there.

And it is, but lighter now.

“You really think there are other ways?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

“What if I still can’t do enough?”

“You don’t decide that alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the crew already wants you here.”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“And I want you here…” he adds.

The softness in his voice nearly kills you but his red ears are so cute.

You stare at him for a long moment, then suddenly lean forward and kiss him.

Zoro makes a surprised sound against your lips.

Then one hand moves carefully to your waist, pulling you closer in a gentle push. Always gentler than people expect from him.

The kiss is warm and slow, feeling close and safe.

When you pull back, your face feels hot.

“That was a thank you.” you mumble.

“Hm.”

“What?”

“You can thank me again if you want.”

You snort loudly “There’s the idiot swordsman again.”

“And there’s the smiley you.”

You lean against his shoulder.

Finally, you don't feel guilty about all this.

── .✦ Buggy:

tags: established relationship, chronic pain, insecurity, comfort, subtle care, emotional hurt/comfort

The ship rocks hard under your feet as someone on deck is screaming again.

“WHO TOOK MY FUCKING CAPE?!”

You close your eyes “…There he is.”

One of the crew points quickly “Captain Buggy, Mohji used it to cover the cannon!”

“WHAT?!”

You hear stomping, loud crashing and then a man screaming in fear.

Then Buggy’s voice again “YOU USED MY CAPE FOR A CANNON?! ARE YOU INSANE?!”

You smile a little despite yourself, because your hands ache badly, today too.

The numbness started this morning before sunrise and it crawled from your fingertips to your wrists until even holding a spoon felt strange… like your hands belonged to someone else.

You flex your fingers slowly, pain shoots up your arm “…Ow.”

You hide the sound quickly.

You still have work.

Everyone on this ship works.

Even if Buggy acts dramatic and lazy sometimes, the crew still moves because people do their jobs.

You want to do yours too.

You grab the rope beside you and start tying down the supply crates before the weather gets worse.

Your fingers slip immediately “Damn it.”

You try again but the knot comes loose.

You try again and again and again.

Your jaw tightens “Come on…”

You can fight through pain, usually… but numbness is worse. It makes your hands stupid.

You try pulling harder.

A sharp sting suddenly burns through your palm and your fingers give out completely. The rope falls.

“Shit—”

“Why are you doing that?”

You jump.

Buggy stands behind you with his arms crossed.

“You’re gonna tie the crates like that?” he asks.

“I can do it.”

“Yeah? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fighting a rope and losing.”

“I said I can do it.”

Buggy narrows his eyes.

You hate that look… that careful one. The one that says he noticed something is off.

“I’m fine.” you add quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

“Sure.”

You glare “Why are you even here?”

“Because this is my ship.”

“You were screaming about your cape two seconds ago.”

“That’s different. That was important.”

You snort softly.

Buggy walks closer and grabs the rope from your hands and says “I’ve got it.”

“No, give it back.”

“Why?”

“Because I should help.”

“You are helping.”

“How?”

“You’re standing there looking pretty and keeping morale up.”

“That’s not real work.”

Buggy starts tying the knot quickly “Well, good thing I, the captain, didn’t ask.”

You cross your arms.

The ache in your hands pulses harder now from trying too much.

Buggy notices you rubbing your fingers, but he says nothing, and for you, that somehow feels worse.

Later, the crew gathers for lunch.

You sit beside Buggy while everyone argues over portions.

Cabaji points across the table “Captain, they’re taking extra meat again!”

“I CAN SEE THAT!”

“It was one piece!” someone shouts.

“THAT’S STILL THEFT!”

You try picking up your cup but your fingers twitch halfway there and the cup slips.

Buggy catches it before it falls, fast.

Nobody else even notices.

“Careful,” he says loudly “you break my cups, you buy new ones.”

You stare at him “…Thanks.”

“Tch. Don’t get emotional.”

He pushes the cup back toward you more carefully this time.

Under the table, his foot bumps yours once, soft, as if he’s checking you’re okay.

You look down quickly before anyone sees your face.

That night, the pain gets worse.

Rain hits the ship hard. Wind screams outside your room.

You sit on the edge of the bed trying to wrap your wrists tighter. Maybe if you press hard enough, your hands will listen again.

You hiss quietly.

The door opens.

Buggy walks in carrying a plate “What are you doing sitting in the dark like some tragic widow?”

You blink “What?”

“I brought food.”

“I can see that.”

“Well don’t sound too grateful.”

He puts the plate beside you.

You stare at it “…I wasn’t hungry.”

“Yeah, because pain does that.” he shrugs “Eat anyway.”

You freeze.

Buggy starts taking off his coat like he said nothing strange.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

Silence fills the room for a moment except for the storm outside.

You look down at your hands again “I hate this.”

Buggy pauses “Hate what?”

“This.” You flex your fingers weakly “I can’t do basic things some days.”

“So?”

“So I’m supposed to help!”

“You do help.”

“How? I can barely hold a cup lately.”

Buggy scoffs loudly “Please. Half my crew can barely hold conversations.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stand suddenly and start pacing “I can’t fight right. I drop things. I mess up knots. I slow people down—”

“You don’t slow me down.”

“You help me constantly!”

“Oh no.” Buggy says flatly “How horrible. Helping my partner. Truly devastating.”

“Buggy.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stop moving.

He looks at you. No jokes. No yelling. Just sharp eyes watching carefully.

“You think I keep you around because you can fight?” he asks.

“I mean… it helped.”

“That’s stupid.”

You blink.

Buggy points at you dramatically “You think I, the great Captain Buggy, only values people for strength? Look at my crew! Half these idiots eat soap if nobody stops them!”

A crash sounds outside.

Someone yells, “IT WASN’T SOAP!”

Buggy shouts toward the door, “YES IT WAS!”

Then he looks back at you again as his voice lowers “You’re with me because I want you here.”

Your chest hurts suddenly, but different from before.

“You don’t get it,” you whisper “I feel useless.”

Buggy groans loudly like the conversation annoys him.

Then he walks over to say “You know what I think is useless?”

“What?”

“You sitting here hurting yourself because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

You look away “I don’t want people treating me differently.”

“Good. Because they won’t.” Buggy crouches in front of you “But I will.”

You blink again “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says slowly, “and please don’t make me repeat it, that I’ll help before you ask. And I’ll make it look natural so nobody bothers you about it.”

You stare “…You already do that.”

Buggy freezes for half a second, then immediately points at you “HAH! So you noticed!”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I’m extremely subtle.”

“You literally steal things from my hands when they hurt.”

“That’s called romance.”

Despite everything, you laugh, small and tired, but real.

Buggy watches your face carefully after the sound leaves you, like he missed hearing it.

“Tch.” he mutters “There it is.”

“What?”

“That annoying laugh.”

“You like my laugh.”

“I never said that.”

“You smile every time.”

“I do NOT.”

“You’re smiling right now.”

“I’m just naturally charming.”

You laugh again.

Buggy’s shoulders loosen slightly, then he grabs your wrists carefully.

“You’re warm.” he says.

“My hands always are when they hurt.”

“…Does it feel bad now?”

“A little.”

He rubs circles into your wrists with his thumbs, awkwardly. Like he refuses to admit he learned how to help properly.

“You don’t have to fix everything alone.” he mutters.

You look at him quietly and admit “For someone who screams all day, you say really nice things sometimes.”

“Don’t spread that around.”

“Your reputation?”

“Exactly.”

You smile softly.

Buggy notices immediately and squints at you suspiciously “What?”

“You’re being cute.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

The storm outside gets louder, but inside the room, it feels strangely calm.

Buggy keeps rubbing your wrists.

You finally whisper, “I’m scared sometimes.”

He goes still “Of what?”

“That one day I won’t be able to do anything useful.”

Buggy clicks his tongue “Then you can sit next to me and insult people professionally.”

“That’s your job.”

“I can share… with you.”

You smile weakly.

“But really,” you say, quieter now, “what if I become a burden?”

Buggy’s expression changes immediately, sharp and obviously offended “Don’t say that.”

You blink at the sudden tone.

“I mean it.” he says “Don’t call yourself that.”

“…Sorry.”

“Tch.”

He stands up fast and pulls you with him.

Before you can react, his arms wrap around you tightly, not graceful and not elegant at all, just very Buggy style.

“You’re an idiot sometimes.” he mutters against your hair.

“You say that lovingly.”

“I say it truthfully.”

You relax slowly against him.

His chin rests on your head.

Outside, thunder cracks loudly.

Buggy squeezes you once more and then he pulls back enough to look at your face “You done being dramatic now?”

“You’re literally hugging me.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You snort softly.

His eyes flick down to your mouth for one quick second, then away immediately.

“…What?” you ask.

“Nothing.,,”

“You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Buggy groans like this is exhausting, then suddenly grabs your jaw dramatically and say “Fine! Since you clearly require attention—”

He kisses you, fast at first, almost clumsy. Then softer when you lean closer. 

His gloves brush your cheeks carefully.

You melt a little against him.

Buggy huffs quietly into the kiss.

When he pulls away, his face is slightly red under the makeup.

“You better not get all emotional about that now.” he says immediately.

“Too late.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You grin.

Buggy rolls his eyes dramatically, but he kisses your forehead anyway before pulling you back against his chest.

── .✦ Mihawk:

tags: established relationship, chronic pain, guilt, comfort, quiet intimacy, soft mihawk, domestic moments, emotional hurt/comfort

The knife slips from your fingers again.

It doesn't fall far, it falls onto the wooden table with a dull clack and your shoulders tense instantly.

You stare at your numb hand… again.

The feeling comes and goes every day. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes your fingers feel heavy like stone. Sometimes you cannot even tell if you're holding something until it drops.

Today is one of the bad days.

You flex your hand slowly “Damn it…”

Across the kitchen, Dracule Mihawk looks up from the book in his hand.

His eyes move from your face to the knife “You are pushing yourself again.”

“I’m fine.”

“You dropped it three times.”

You hate that he notices everything.

You grab the knife again before he can stand up “I said I’m fine.”

Mihawk closes his book with one quiet motion.

The sound alone makes you nervous.

Not because he's angry, Mihawk rarely raises his voice and that almost makes it worse somehow. His silence always sees too much.

He walks toward you slowly “Give me the knife.”

“I can still cut vegetables.”

“You can barely hold the handle.”

Your jaw tightens “I’m trying to help.”

“And I didn’t say otherwise.”

“But you’re doing everything lately.”

“That’s incorrect.”

“You know what I mean.”

Mihawk studies your face for a long moment, in a calm and sharp way “You're in pain today.”

You look away first “…It’s not worse than normal.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The numbness crawls higher into your wrist. You hate it and so you hate your own body. Hate the stupid weakness in your fingers. You used to fight beside him. Not at his level, obviously, nobody is at his level, but enough to stand proudly beside him.

Now even holding a teacup too long hurts.

You laugh quietly, bitterly “Some good partner I am.”

Mihawk’s expression changes slightly but enough that most people would miss it… you don’t.

“You think your worth depends on what you can carry with your hands?”

“It should depend on something.”

“It does.”

“Like what?”

“You're here.”

You blink “That’s not enough.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Mihawk…”

“You speak as though I chose you for labor.”

His voice stays even, deep and calm.

“But I can’t fight properly anymore.”

“You still can.”

“Not like before.”

“No,” he agrees immediately “not like before.”

The honesty hurts more than pity would.

You pull your hand back against your chest “See?”

Mihawk sighs softly through his nose.

“You continue to measure yourself against impossible standards.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

That actually earns the faintest look of amusement.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

You lean against the counter, exhausted already.

“I just…” You swallow hard “I hate needing help.”

“You have needed help since the day we met.”

The memory flashes immediately. You trying to hide shaking hands while wrapping a wound. Mihawk silently taking the bandages from you without a word. The first time he held a cup near your lips because your fingers stopped cooperating halfway through dinner.

He always knew. Always.

And somehow that makes the guilt worse.

“I thought maybe if I worked harder…” you mumble.

“To accomplish what?”

“To stop being a burden.”

Silence.

You shouldn't have said that.

Mihawk steps closer.

His voice lowers “Never say that about yourself again.”

The words are quiet, but firm enough to cut stone.

You stare at him.

“You think caring for you is a burden?”

“I mean—”

“You think I am forced into it?”

“No…”

“Then don't insult my choices.”

You look down quickly “…Sorry.”

Another silence.

Then you feel leather gloves brush lightly against your wrist.

Mihawk lifts your hand carefully, like he already knows exactly where it hurts.

“Where is the numbness?”

“Mostly fingers. Wrist too.”

“And pain?”

“Everywhere.”

“Hm.”

You almost laugh tiredly “Very helpful answer, I know.”

“It's accurate.”

His thumb presses lightly against your palm. Testing.

You flinch and his eyes narrow immediately and he asks “That bad?”

“It’ll pass.”

“You say that often.”

Because it usually does… sometimes.

You watch him remove his gloves one finger at a time before setting them aside.

Then he reaches for the kettle.

“I can still make tea myself.”

“I'm aware.”

“Then why are you—”

“Sit down.”

“…You sound like a doctor.”

“You would ignore one of those as well.”

You mutter something under your breath.

“I heard that.”

“I know.”

You finally sit at the table while Mihawk moves around the kitchen with smooth, easy motions. Precise and controlled like always.

He never rushes.

“You don’t get annoyed?” you ask quietly.

“At what?”

“At me struggling all the time.”

“No.”

“But doesn’t it get tiring?”

Mihawk pours hot water into a cup “Yes.”

Your chest sinks immediately.

Then he continues calmly “Pain is tiring. Watching someone you care for hurt is tiring. That doesn't mean I resent you.”

You stare at the table “I can’t even hold my sword properly some days.”

“You're grieving.”

The words hit harder than expected “What?”

“You speak as though you lost nothing.”

Mihawk sets the cup in front of you carefully.

“But you did.”

You look up slowly.

“You lost ease. Strength. Freedom. Certainty in your own body.” His gaze stays on you “Yet you expect yourself to feel nothing about it.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

Nobody says things like that to you.

Most people tell you to stay positive, to try harder or to be grateful it isn't worse.

Mihawk never lies to make things easier, and somehow that comforts you more.

“I’m tired…” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate feeling useless.”

“You aren't useless.”

“I can’t even help around the castle without messing up.”

“You help me every day.”

“How?”

“You listen.”

You blink.

“You stay.”

Another answer comes before you can speak.

“You make this place feel inhabited instead of empty.”

Your face warms immediately “Mihawk…”

“And,” he says calmly, “your presence discourages idiots from interrupting my evenings.”

You laugh despite yourself “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The romantic talk.”

A faint smirk touches his mouth “Don’t become spoiled now.”

You wrap your hands carefully around the warm cup. Heat helps sometimes.

MMihawk watches your grip for a moment, then he asks“Have you practiced the stretches I showed you?”

“…Sometimes.”

“You forgot.”

“Maybe.”

“Hm.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am.”

You groan softly “I knew you were going to say that.”

“You injure yourself further by ignoring limits.”

“I’m trying not to have limits.”

“That's foolish.”

You glare at him weakly “You’re supposed to encourage me.”

“I am encouraging you… to use your brain.”

You snort into your tea.

The room grows quieter after that, but a comfortable quiet. Rain taps lightly against the castle windows.

Mihawk sits across from you again with his wine.

You watch him for a while.

“How are you so patient with me?”

“I’m not patient.”

“You are with me.”

“That’s different.”

The answer comes too fast to be accidental.

Something soft pulls painfully in your chest.

You look at your hands again “They’re ugly lately.”

Mihawk immediately looks irritated “Your hands.”

“The swelling’s worse.”

“They’re hands.”

“You know what I mean.”

“They’re yours.”

He says it like that settles everything and maybe to him, it does.

You laugh quietly again “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you remain here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“How tragic.”

You smile into your tea.

Then the numbness suddenly spikes sharply through your fingers.

You hiss softly.

Mihawk is beside you immediately and says “Show me.”

“It’s fine.”

“Show me.”

You hold out your hand reluctantly.

He takes it carefully between both of his larger hands.

His thumbs move slowly across your knuckles, with a gentle pressure.

“You should rest.”

“I rested yesterday.”

“You rested poorly yesterday.”

“…You notice too much.”

“Yes.”

His fingers continue massaging your hand slowly and it kinda helps, but not enough to remove the pain completely. Nothing ever does. But at least it’s enough to loosen the tightness in your chest.

“You know,” you mumble, “most people would leave.”

Mihawk looks genuinely unimpressed “I’m not most people.”

“I know.”

“Then stop speaking as though I’m temporary.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

That’s the problem with him. Mihawk doesn’t speak gently often, or at least not so obvious, but when he does, every word lands directly inside your ribs.

You look at him quietly. At the sharp golden eyes, at his calm face… at the man feared across entire seas sitting here massaging your aching hands without complaint.

“You really don’t mind?”

“No.”

“Even when I can’t do things?”

“Yes.”

“Even when I get frustrated?”

“I expect it.”

“Even when I’m difficult?”

One eyebrow lifts slightly “You’re frequently difficult.”

You gasp softly in fake offense.

“But yes.”

You shake your head with a tiny laugh.

“You’re terrible at comfort.”

“And yet you’re calmer now.”

“…Damn it.”

That tiny almost-smile appears again.

Victory.

You stare at him for another quiet moment before speaking softly.

“Thank you.”

Mihawk pauses, then he nods once “You don’t need to thank me for loving you.”

Your breath catches immediately, because he just said it so simply, like it’s a fact. No embarrassment and no hesitation, and that makes it feel even more real.

You stand slowly from the chair.

Mihawk watches you carefully in case your hands fail again.

But instead, you step closer until you are standing between his knees.

His gaze lifts toward you “What are you doing?”

“You said something nice.”

“A rare mistake.”

“So I’m rewarding you.”

“Hm.”

You place your hands lightly against his chest and he just lets you.

Then you lean down and kiss him softly and slowly.

Mihawk goes still for half a second before one hand settles against your waist.

His thumb brushes once against your side while he kisses you back with quiet restraint, controlled like everything else about him… but warm… always warmer than people expect.

When you pull back, he looks at you silently for a moment.

Then he says “You’re smiling.”

“You noticed?”

“I notice everything.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth quickly this time and tell him “That’s annoying.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, eyes softer now, “you continue to stay.”

── .✦ Law:

tags: established relationship, chronic pain, guilt, comfort, soft law, domestic moments, emotional hurt/comfort

Your hands hurt.

Not enough to stop functioning completely and not enough to count as an emergency. 

Just enough to make every small thing irritating and exhausting and humiliating if you think about it too long.

Today, unfortunately, you keep thinking about it.

You stand in the kitchen of the Polar Tang staring at the container in your hands, jaw tight as you try twisting the lid open again.

Nothing.

Your fingers slip as pain sparks through your wrist.

You grit your teeth and try again anyway, but the lid doesn’t move.

God, this is stupid.

Behind you, the crew is loud as usual… Shachi laughing too hard at his own joke, Penguin arguing back, Bepo trying unsuccessfully to calm them down before Law inevitably tells everyone to shut up.

Normal.

Everything feels normal except for you.

You finally force the lid open using the edge of the counter, but the motion sends a sharp ache through your palm that makes you hiss quietly.

And for some reason, the fact that something this easy has to become a whole ordeal every single time, makes your chest feel tight suddenly.

You set the container down harder than intended and stare at your hands.

The numbness comes in waves today. 

Fingertips tingling, grip weakening without warning, joints stiff and sore like your body is punishing you for existing in it.

You hate it and you hate that everyone else can move without thinking about it.

You hate that you have to calculate every little task.

You hate needing help.

Most of all, you hate that you’re used to it now.

“You’re glaring at the counter.”

Law’s voice makes you jump slightly.

You look over your shoulder.

He stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

“…I’m fine.” you say automatically.

“Hm.”

That hum means liar.

He watches you for another second before his eyes drop to your hands.

Your fingers curl instinctively.

Law notices that too, of course “You’re hurting.”

It isn’t a question.

You look away “It’s manageable.”

“That bad, then.”

“I said manageable.”

“And I said that’s bad.”

His voice stays calm, flat, irritatingly perceptive.

You exhale sharply through your nose and lean back against the counter “I’m just tired today.”

Law walks into the kitchen quietly, stopping in front of you “Tired physically or mentally?”

You laugh once without humor “Guess.”

His gaze stays on you long enough that your throat starts tightening.

You hate that he can read you this easily and you hate that part of you is relieved by it too.

“I can’t do anything right today.” you mutter finally.

“That’s not true.”

“I almost lost grip on my weapon yesterday.”

“You still hit your target.”

“Ikkaku had to finish maintenance for me.”

“Because your hands were locking up.”

“I can’t even open containers normally half the time…”

“So?”

The word catches you off guard.

You blink at him.

Law’s expression barely changes, but there’s something firmer in his tone now.

“So,” he repeats, “you adapt. Or someone helps you. That’s not a moral failure.”

“It feels like one.”

Silence settles heavily between you while the submarine hums around you softly.

You stare at your hands again.

“I just feel useless sometimes…” you admit quietly “everyone else contributes so much more than me.”

Law’s eyes narrow slightly “You think your value to this crew depends entirely on physical ability?”

“No, but—”

“No,” he interrupts flatly “you don’t get to ‘but’ your way out of this one.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches weakly.

Law steps closer.

“You help Bepo study navigation routes because he gets overwhelmed reading maps.” he says “You reorganized the medical storage because none of these idiots know how to put things back correctly. You stay up repairing clothes and equipment even when your hands hurt.”

“That’s small stuff.”

“It still matters.”

You swallow hard “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Law goes quiet, then he sighs softly through his nose and reaches for your hands “Give me these.”

You let him take them without protest.

His fingers are warm around yours, steady and careful as he turns your hands over in his grip. He presses gently along your palms and wrists, thumbs working against the sore muscles like he already knows exactly where it hurts most.

Because he does know… he always does.

“You’ve been overusing them.” he mutters.

“I know.”

“You compensate when they start going numb.” His thumbs press into the base of your palm, easing some of the ache immediately “That strains everything else.”

You watch his face while he works, focused and quiet. Slightly annoyed in the way he always gets when he cares too much about something.

“You notice everything.” you mumble.

“I’m a doctor and captain.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Hm.”

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

Your chest aches but not in a bad way.

You suddenly feel exhausted all over again.

“I hate this…” you whisper.

Law’s hands still for half a second “I know.”

The simple honesty in it almost breaks you.

No forced positivity and no pretending it’s easy. Just understanding.

Your eyes sting embarrassingly fast.

Law notices immediately, because of course he does.

“You’re thinking too much again.” he says quietly.

“I can’t help it.”

“You can.” his thumbs resume their slow movements against your hands “You just don’t know how to stop.”

You laugh weakly “Amazing diagnosis, doctor.”

“I’m very talented.”

That actually earns a real laugh from you this time, and there it is that tiny shift in his expression when he hears it, small enough most people would miss it entirely.

You don’t, you know Law too well for that.

Warmth blooms slowly in your chest, soft and aching and without thinking too hard about it, you step closer and reach up to grab his face.

Your fingers fumble slightly against his cheeks from the numbness.

Law lets you reposition your hands without a single complaint.

Then you kiss him right on the mouth, slow and warm.

He exhales softly through his nose, surprised for only a second before one hand slides automatically to your waist.

When you pull back, you kiss his cheek… then under his eye, then the corner of his jaw.

“You’re being weird.” he mutters.

“You’re nice to me.”

“I’m literally treating your symptoms.”

“You’re holding me.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You laugh quietly against his skin before kissing his forehead.

Law sighs like you are personally exhausting him, but his grip on your waist tightens slightly.

“You know,” you murmur between kisses, “you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like affection.”

“I don’t like affection.”

“Mhm, sure.”

You kiss his nose. Then beneath his lip. Then his temple.

Law’s ears start turning faintly pink beneath the brim of his hat.

Victory.

“You’re annoying.” he grumbles.

“But you love me.”

He goes silent for one fatal second too long, making you grin immediately.

“There it is.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

You kiss him again before he can argue further, softer this time, lingering long enough to feel the way he melts despite himself.

Law’s hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin.

When you pull away again, he rests his forehead lightly against yours with a quiet sigh.

“You done?” he asks.

“Not even close.”

He gives you a deeply unimpressed look that loses all effectiveness when you kiss both his cheeks in quick succession.

“You’re clingy now.”

“I’m having a bad day and you’re my cure.”

“Hm.”

That stupid soft hum again.

You smile a little and then you say softly “You know? You’re a good doctor and a good captain… but you’re also a perfect partner. I love you a lot.”

Law rubs his thumb slowly along the side of your neck while looking at you with that quiet, intense focus he gets sometimes, the one that always feels like he’s paying attention to every tiny detail about you at once.

“Then… for that, don’t forget you don’t have to prove you’re useful to deserve being here.” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens.

Even now, hearing that from him feels overwhelming.

You lean forward and kiss him one more time, gentler now.

Law lets you… of course he does.

Then, after a second, he presses a small kiss back against your mouth so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

“…Don’t look so smug.” he mutters immediately.

The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukuna’s jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.

You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.

If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.

He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.

And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.

"You are eating that wrong."

You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.

You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.

"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."

Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.

"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."

"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."

Sukuna’s lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.

He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.

He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.

It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.

"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."

You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."

Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.

"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."

You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.

The shift happened. In Sukuna’s dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.

But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.

The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rot—somehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."

The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.

And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.

During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.

You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukuna’s attempts to make you try a cup of sake.

But Sukuna had heard it.

He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lord’s table, and dismantled the man’s entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.

"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.

Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.

Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.

Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.

"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."

"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.

His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.

"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.

"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."

You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.

He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.

You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.

"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.

A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.

"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.

............................................................................

you hit the floor with a sharp cry, pain lancing through your side and wrist. the scroll clatters beside you. for a moment you lie there, breathlessly. your hand instinctively cradles your belly. the baby moves again. it’s still strong and alive.

relief floods you, but it’s followed quickly by fear.

because your hear them. those heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. too fast and way too purposeful.

the sliding doors slam open with enough force to rattle the entirre frame. sukuna stands there, all four beefy arms tense, crimson eyes blazing with immediate and lethal irritation. the mouth on his abdomen twists into a snarl before the one on his face even opens.

he takes one look at you on the floor, at the displaced cabinet, the way you clutch your wrist and the temperature in the room seems to drop.

“what,” he growls, “is the meaning of this, woman?”

you try to push yourself up. trying to make yourself seem presentable, “it’s nothing, my lord. i only—“

“do not.”

two of his arms move before you can finish. one massive hand catches your shoulder while the other slides beneath your knees. he lifts you as if you weigh nothing before carrying you to the thick futon piled with silks. the third hand hovers over your belly, not quite touching, while the fourth grips your injured wrist with surprising gentleness. though his expression promises murder.

you wince as he probes the swelling. a bruise is seemingly already blooming.

sukuna’s eyes narrow at the bruise on your wrist. something inside him twists, “you fell.”

“well, i reached for a scroll,” you admit quietly as you hold your head down in shame, “didn’t think—“

“yeah. you obviously didn’t think,” his voice is deceptively calm now. the kind of calm that precedes slaughter.

he sets your wrist down and rises to his full imposing height. the black tattoos shift across his skin as his muscles flex, “tsk. y’re crawling about like some reckless servant chasing trinkets, and look where that got ya.”

the air grows thick with that ominous cursed energy you’ve grown used to. outside in the gardens, you hear a distant scream. you swallow thickly. that was an unfortunate soul who was probably been lingering too close at the wrong moment.

sukuna doesn’t even glance toward the sound. his focus remains locked on you.

he kneels again, red eyes boring into yours. one hand cups your chin to tilt your face up, “do you have any idea what i would do to this entire fuckin’ country if you lost that child?”

your heart stutters.

you know he isn’t exaggerating. sukuna’s affection is a double edged blade. it’s obsessive, violent and all-consuming. you have seen villages erased for lesser offenses than inconveniencing his property.

“y-yes, but i’m alright,” you whisper, “the baby kicked just now. it’s still strong and kicking."

as if to prove it, another solid thump presses against your belly. sukuna’s big hand moves immediately, his warm palm spreading over the curve.

for a long moment there’s silence. then he exhales through his nose, a sound closer to a growl.

“you will not leave this chamber without my presence until the birth.” it isn’t a suggestion. “servants will bring you everything. if you desire a scroll, they will fetch it. if you desire the moon itself, they will bleed trying.”

you reach up with your good hand to brush fingers along one of his wrists. you tilt your head as you look up at him, “you’re angry.”

“furious.”

the word drips with venom. yet he lowers himself beside you on the futon, two arms pulling you carefully against his chest while the other two adjust pillows behind your back. the contrast is dizzying. his body radiates power and heat, capable of tearing mountains, but he handles you like a fragile thing.

“i should chain you to this bed,” sukuna mutters, lips brushing your temple, “perhaps then you’d stop testin’ me.”

a small smile tugs at your lips despite the dull ache in your wrist. “you’d miss my stubbornness too much,” you chuckle softly.

the king of curses huffs. the mouth on his stomach licks its lips, tasting the air—probably the lingering trace of your blood from a scraped elbow.

you lean into him and lett the solid bulk of his true form surround you. four arms are useful for this, at least. one idly strokes your hair, another rests over your belly, the third keeps your injured wrist elevated and the fourth simply holds you close.

minutes pass in comfortable silence. his cursed energy fluctuates wildly. you can feel the rage still simmering, but it’s more contained. you can feel it coiling around the room like invisible smoke, ready to lash out at the first person who enters.

a hesitant knock sounds at the door.

“enter,” sukuna barks.

a trembling servant girl slides the door open, carrying a tray of bandages and herbal salve. her eyes widen at the sight of sukuna holding you so intimately. she nearly drops everything.

“give it here,” he snaps while extending one arm without releasing you. the girl approaches on her knees, head bowed low, and places the tray within reach before scrambling back.

sukuna tends to your wrist himself.

his touch is precise, almost clinical, wrapping the linen with surprising care. every so often his gaze flicks to your face to check for discomfort. the fury hasn’t left his eyes, but it has shifted. it’s now directed outward. toward the world that has dared let you fall.

when he finishes, sukuna pulls you closer again. “if this swells worse by morning, i’ll flay the physician who attends you. slowly.”

you chuckle softly as exhaustion creeps in. too much happened in a small amount of time for your heavily pregnant self, “‘kay, noted.”

he stays like that long after your breathing evens out. sukuna rarely sleeps much, but tonight he remains vigilant and his hand never leaves your belly.

. . .

by the next morning, word has spread through the estate like wildfire. no one is to allow you out of the inner chambers without the king of curses’ permission.

extra guards patrol the halls. when a maid brings breakfast, she keeps her eyes on the floor and moves with exaggerated slowness, terrified of triggering his wrath.

you watch sukuna from the futon as he paces, big arms crossed in various combinations. he has already executed one overzealous attendant who suggested you might have ‘overexerted’ yourself earlier in the week. the body has been removed before you woke.

“ryo.. come here,” you call softly, trying carefully to calm that rage by using that nickname you made up for him. instead of the usual politeness.

sukuna pauses. then, with a reluctant grunt, he returns to your side. you take one of his large hands and place it back on your belly.

"feel it. he’s fine. we’re fine.”

sukuna’s expression remains stormy, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally, “if anythin’ changes...”

“‘you’ll destroy the world’. . . i know.”

a rare, sharp-toothed smirk tugs at his lips, “good. you’re learning.”

itoshi rin

rin's isn't embarrassing because something happens to him. it's embarrassing because he becomes the public enemy of an entire fanbase the second it happens. 

it's the championship final. score tied. final minute. literally the dream scenario. 

everyone is exhausted. everyone is stressed. then his teammate and rival isagi gets the perfect pass. emphasis on the PERFECT pass. 

defenders beaten. goalkeeper out of position. the goal is basically gift-wrapped. 

commentators are already halfway through screaming: "ISAGI'S GOING TO WIN IT–" 

except rin sees it. and rin's brain immediately goes: mine. 

he charges in from absolutely nowhere. ignores all common sense. ignores teamwork. ignores physics. ignores isagi's existence. 

both of them swing at the ball simultaneously. their legs connect at nearly the same time. the shot launches forward. and the crowd holds its breath. 

the ball flies. beautiful trajectory. perfect height. perfect speed. then– 

CLANG. straight off the top of the crossbar. the noise echoes through the entire stadium. everyone collectively dies inside. 

the rebound falls to the opposing team counterattack. sprint downfield, goal, whistle, game over. championship lost. 

somewhere in the crowd, cameras catch a fan slowly covering their face with both hands like they're witnessing the collapse of civilization. another fan is already staring into the distance, completely motionless and devoid. 

broadcast cameras immediately cut to rin and isagi. they smell content, of course. and what do they catch? 

rin looking genuinely annoyed and saying: "i can't believe we missed that goal." 

isagi turns so fast you'd think he got flash-banged. he points directly at rin, full arm extension, absolutely no hesitation. "WE?? WE??? BUDDY, THAT WAS ALL YOU 🫵" 

the camera catches the entire exchange. rin looks offended. isagi looks offended. fans are screaming. 

social media immediately pauses the frame of isagi pointing at rin. it becomes a reaction image overnight. people use it for EVERYTHING. 

when your friend eats your leftovers and says "we ran out of food." 

when your group project gets a zero and the slacker says "we failed." 

rin spends the next several months insisting the shot would've gone in if isagi hadn't touched it. 

isagi spends the next several months insisting rin is delusional. 

analysts create diagrams. fans create slideshows. debates rage for years. 

and every single replay always ends with that poor fan in the crowd covering their face in disappointment 😭 

itoshi sae

sae's doesn't even happen during a match. it happens during an open training session. cameras everywhere. fans in attendance. media recording content. 

sae is standing off to the side listening to a coach explain something. arms crossed. looking mildly annoyed as usual. 

meanwhile, a teammate is practicing long passes nearby. and said teammate absolutely launches one. 

beautiful technique, amazing power… terrible aim. 

because the ball comes flying across the field like a missile. and absolutely SMOKES sae in the face. 

full force. no warning. no time to react. just WHAM! 

the ball bounces off his beautiful forehead and comes flying back. 

everyone freezes. coaches freeze. teammates freeze. fans freeze. even the guy who kicked it freezes. 

because the look on sae's face afterward? you might as well just… get on your hands and knees as the bare minimum. 

he slowly lowers his hand from his face. slowly turns his head. and locks eyes with the guilty teammate. 

no shouting. no screaming. only pure concentrated m*rder in his gaze. 

the teammate immediately starts apologizing before sae even says anything. 

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. I SWEAR." 

the clip goes viral because people start zooming in on sae's expression. 

comments are like: "that's the face you see before becoming a cautionary tale." "bro just shortened that man's lifespan by 50 years." 

the teammate spends the rest of practice looking over his shoulder. 

nagi seishiro

nagi's is so bad that people physically leave the livestream from secondhand embarrassment. 

the match is paused and the players are taking a quick water break. cameras are doing close-up shots of different athletes. 

nagi gets handed a sports drink. simple enough. except he isn't paying attention (when is he ever paying attention). 

he unscrews the cap. starts talking to a teammate. gestures with the bottle. accidentally squeezes it. the drink launches directly into his own face. 

not even a little splash. an absolute jet stream. right up his nose. 

he chokes, coughs, sputters, tries recovering, somehow inhales wrong, and now he's coughing harder. 

eyes watering, face bright red. 

millions of people are watching him lose a fight against a blue raspberry sports drink. 

but wait. it gets worse 🥰 because while he's coughing, the drink starts coming back out through his nose. 

not much, but enough to be visible… for the cameras… and for social media. 

the entire stadium witnesses nagi being defeated by blue liquid. 

the clip gets slowed down, zoomed in, and reposted everywhere. people edit boss battle ahh music over it. 

nagi watches the footage later. stares for five seconds. then quietly closes all his social media apps. 

that's the closest anyone has ever seen him get to embarrassment. 

mikage reo

reo's is honestly the most in-character thing ever. like of course the friendly rich boy gets taken out by his own kindness. 

before a match, he's walking along the sidelines greeting fans. waving, smiling, signing things. generally being adored by the public. 

then he spots someone in the crowd waving enthusiastically – huge smile, lots of energy, clearly trying to get his attention. 

so reo lights up immediately. he waves back. points at them. gives them a finger heart. even mouths "thank you!" the whole package. 

the fan looks confused. very confused to say the least. because they were never waving at reo. they were waving at someone standing directly behind him. 

reo realizes in real time. 

the camera catches EVERYTHING. you can literally watch his soul leave his body. 

his smile falters. then slowly collapses. he lowers his hand. glances behind himself. sees the actual target. and suddenly understands. 

meanwhile, the giant stadium screen is displaying this tragedy in 4K. 

commentators notice immediately: "oh no..." "that wasn't for mikage, yikesss." 

the crowd collectively groans in sympathy. because everybody has experienced this before. just not in front of a minimum of 50,000 people. 

clips of it go viral overnight. fans start recreating it constantly. 

every time someone waves at him afterward, he has to spend a full second checking if it's actually meant for him. 

congrats reo, you've unlocked social anxiety 😭 

bachira meguru

bachira's goes viral because it starts as a harmless joke and somehow escalates into one of the most replayed sports clips of all time. 

it's after a match during a team celebration. everybody's in a good mood. players are shoving each other around. cameras are still rolling. fans are still cheering. 

and one teammate decides it would be REALLY funny to tug on bachira's shorts while running past. just a little prank. a teeny tiny little joke. 

unfortunately for everyone involved… bachira's shorts actually come down. not all the way. but enough for the cameras… and for the stadium screen… and social media. 

and MOST IMPORTANTLY, enough to reveal his boxer shorts. 

now, if these had been plain boxers? he'd be fine. mildly embarrassed, but fine. 

unfortunately, bachira owns the most bachira underwear imaginable. bright yellow. covered in cartoon bees. correction: smiling bees. with their little wings. some of them wearing crowns. some of them holding a soccer ball. 

the entire design looks like it was chosen by a seven-year-old with unlimited power. 

the stadium goes silent for exactly one second. then absolutely explodes. 

teammates collapse. one player falls to his knees laughing. another has to physically turn away. 

bachira himself? doesn't even notice at first. he's still celebrating, still running around, waving at the crowd, completely unaware that 40,000 people have just learned about his bee-themed underwear collection. 

eventually someone points at the giant screen. bachira looks up, sees himself, sees the bees, sees a close-up zoom on one specific bee wearing sunglasses. 

and just goes: "... oh." 

then proceeds to proudly stick his ass out so people can get a better view. 

the clip reaches millions of views overnight. fans start bringing plush bees to his games. bee emojis flood every comment section he's ever appeared in. the underwear design gets recreated for actual consumer purchase in common clothing stores. 

years later, no one remembers who won the match. everyone only remembers the bee boxers. 

shidou ryusei

shidou's starts as what should have been the greatest celebration of his career. 

ninety-third minute. game-winning goal. stadium is exploding. teammates are screaming. commentators are losing their minds. 

shidou himself is operating on approximately zero brain cells and pure adrenaline. 

naturally, he decides a normal celebration isn't enough. no. he needs a GRAND ENTRANCE. 

he sprints toward the corner flag at full speed, leaps onto the advertising boards, and points dramatically at the crowd like he's the protagonist of reality itself. 

and for about two seconds? it actually works. he looks cool as hell. 

then he decides to jump down. unfortunately, his cleat gets caught here. for one horrifying moment, he's suspended in midair. then his legs go one way. his body goes the other. and he folds. completely. 

there is genuinely no elegant way to describe what happens next. he just crashes directly onto the edge of the advertising board in the worst possible location imaginable. 

the entire stadium reacts at once. 60,000 people simultaneously making the same pained noise. every man in the audience immediately sits forward. 

commentators stop speaking for a full three seconds. one of them literally mutters: "oh dear. not the family jewels…" 

shidou rolls off the board and lands on the grass clutching his pride. and maybe several other things. 

teammates run over thinking he's injured, only to find him lying there staring at the sky in complete silence. which is somehow MORE concerning because this man never shuts up. 

replay angles start appearing. every single one is worse than the last. one angle catches his soul physically leaving his body. another catches three opposing defenders wincing in sympathy. 

the clip reaches millions overnight. the internet comments: "bro got hit with a factory reset." "the bloodline almost ended right there." "he scored the goal, but lost the war." 

to this day, any time shidou starts celebrating too hard, his teammates start yelling: "WATCH THE BOARD WATCH THE BOARD." 

karasu tabito

karasu's humiliation is especially devastating because it's entirely self-inflicted. 

nobody tackles him. nobody embarrasses him. fate simply watches him make terrible decisions. 

it starts with him talking trash, shocking absolutely nobody. he's been verbally tormenting the defender assigned to him for almost the entire match. 

little comments. little smirks. sarcastic remarks. generally acting like the smartest guy on the field. 

and honestly? he's backing it up. he's playing great. which makes what happens next so much funnier. 

because he steals the ball and turns toward the defender with the most obnoxious grin imaginable. the kind of grin that says: i am about to become a twitter edit. 

then he decides to hit them with a wink. though unfortunately, the human body betrays him. a huge drop of sweat flies directly into his eye the exact moment he winks. 

suddenly, he's blinking hard. then harder. then aggressively. then he's squinting. then rubbing his eye. now both eyes are watering. and because he's still running, he can't stop. 

so from the audience perspective, it genuinely looks like he's sprinting around the field while crying. tears streaming. face scrunched up. blinking every half second. 

meanwhile, the defender he's been bullying all game notices. "are you crying?" 

karasu nearly trips from outrage. "NO." 

"you look emotional." 

"SHUT YER TRAP." 

"did i actually hurt your feelings?" 

cameras zoom in. it’s the worst mistake of his life. the footage clearly shows watery eyes and an angry expression. 

social media absolutely feasts. edits appear with sad music. memes are instantly created. 

people start posting: "karasu after she said she likes someone else." "he got friendzoned mid-match y’all." 

the image becomes one of the most popular reaction memes in sports. 

even as time passes, people still don't know the actual context. they just know there's a picture of karasu looking devastated. 

kaiser michael

kaiser's goes viral because he gets caught being the biggest attention seeker alive. and for once… it backfires spectacularly. 

it’s a huge match. packed stadium. cameras everywhere. one of those games where every movement gets clipped and posted online within 30 seconds. 

kaiser scores an absolutely ridiculous goal. it was a genuinely incredible bicycle kick that made the crowd go insane. commentators are screaming. teammates are running toward him. 

now here's the thing: kaiser has spent DAYS planning this celebration. not consciously, of course. he'd never admit that. but this man absolutely practiced it in the mirror. 

he starts walking toward the corner slowly, looking like he knows he’s about to be in the hardest sports edit of all time. he knows the cameras are on him. he KNOWS. 

so he spreads his arms. tilts his head slightly. gives the crowd that signature smirk. 

and then he waits. he's expecting the crowd to erupt. expecting cheers, chants, and the whole stadium to be focused solely on him. 

except… the giant screen behind him isn't showing him. it's showing a replay. and not of the goal. of a random fan in the audience. specifically an elderly woman demolishing a rotisserie chicken all by herself. 

the crowd LOVES her. absolutely adores her. they're cheering at the screen laughing, pointing, chanting. 

kaiser hears all this noise and assumes: ah yes. naturally. they're celebrating me. 

so he leans into it harder. spreads his arms wider. nods like a king acknowledging his subjects. even gives a little wave. 

he doesn’t know the entire stadium is looking past him. at grandma rotisserie chicken. 

the cameras catch EVERYTHING. especially eventually when kaiser notices. 

he glances over his shoulder. sees the screen. sees the woman. sees her absolutely mauling a costco chicken while the crowd loses their minds. then sees himself standing there like he just won an award nobody gave him. 

there is a brief moment where his face completely checks out. a moment so short most people would miss it. 

but the cameras don't. the cameras NEVER miss. social media zooms in. slows it down. circles it. analyzes it frame by frame. 

comments are brutal: "bro thought they were cheering for him 😭" "main character syndrome final boss.” "grandma won the aura battle.” 

the woman becomes a fan favorite overnight. she gets invited back to future matches. even receives team merchandise. gets nicknamed "rotisserie chicken queen.” 

now every time kaiser touches the ball away from home… someone in the crowd yells: "WE LOVE YOU ROTISSERIE CHICKEN LADY!" 

cameras once catch him hearing it and immediately looking annoyed. which only makes the memes stronger 😭 

his death stares could genuinely rival homelander’s. 

ness alexis

ness somehow manages to create a chain reaction of embarrassment so catastrophic it deserves scientific study. 

it happens during warm-ups. not even during the actual match, which means there's absolutely no excuse. 

cameras are filming behind-the-scenes content. players are casually passing balls around. everything is normal. 

then someone sends a very easy pass toward ness. we're talking kindergarten-level difficulty. the kind of pass professional players receive hundreds of times a day. 

ness opens his body to control it. completely misjudges the bounce. the ball rolls directly between his legs. not close to his legs, THROUGH them. cleanly, beautifully, disrespectfully. 

the entire warm-up group freezes. getting accidentally nutmegged by the ball itself is already embarrassing enough. but the universe isn't finished. 

ness whips around to chase it. his cleat catches the turf. he stumbles. tries recovering. stumbles again. now he's doing that horrible awkward run where your body knows you're falling, but your legs are desperately negotiating. 

one step. two steps. three steps. no recovery. he's going down. 

and while falling, he accidentally kicks the ball. a pure panic, uncontrolled kick. 

the ball launches into the air. everyone watches it. coaches watch it. players watch it. cameramen watch it. nobody knows where it's going. 

then– CLANG! straight into a nearby trash can. 

it was a perfect shot. absolutely perfect. nothing but net. 

there’s silence before the entire training ground erupts. players are screaming. coaches are laughing. somebody starts clapping. somebody else starts bowing dramatically. one teammate falls to their knees. another starts chanting: "MVP! MVP! MVP!" 

ness is still lying face-down on the grass, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. 

cameras catch everything. this is never getting erased. including the moment he slowly lifts his head and realizes everyone is cheering. 

not because he did something impressivem but because he accidentally failed so successfully that it became impressive. so obviously the clip gets millions of views. 

but the worst part? even kaiser can't keep a straight face. there's footage of kaiser turning around and physically walking away because he's laughing too hard. 

and honestly? that's the clip ness never recovers from. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

“Red Hood updates, huh?” you quickly turn your phone off and look to the blonde next to you.

“It’s nothing, just an account I followed a while ago.”

“Hmmm, sure,” she laughs, reaching for the popcorn bucket that was sitting on your coffee table, “I’ll try to believe that.”

She goes back to watching the movie for a bit and then asks, “Hey, are you still coming with me to the gala thing next week? Cass will be there and all her brothers.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, “I still need to find a dress, though.”

Stephanie and Cassandra invited you a couple weeks ago, you were out getting dinner for a girl’s night when the topic of Cass’s brothers came up. You knew a little bit about her background, but not much, and you could tell she didn’t want to give much, which was fine. You’d let her share on her own time. You did know that she was adopted by Bruce Wayne, though, which meant that she had an assortment of brothers that had also in some way or another come into Bruce Wayne’s care. “You should come! You can meet them all, it’ll be so fun!” Stephanie had said excited, “Tim would love it if you were there!” Tim would hang out with you and Cass sometimes, you’d also heard random stories about his brothers from him too.

“Yes, please come,” Cass chimed in.

“You can finally meet Dick, Jason, and Damian,” Stephanie winked at you. You’d heard a lot about the rest of the brothers, but you hadn’t yet met them in person.

The time would finally come when a couple weeks later when it was time to make your Wayne gala debut. You’d gone dress shopping with Steph and Cass and landed on a floor length silk crimson dress, which of course Stephanie poked fun at. “Hoping we run into a certain batboy on the way?”

“Shut up,” you playfully swat at her arm as you get into Tim’s car. Steph, Cass, and Tim had shown up at your apartment to pick you up, Tim agreeing to be your chauffeur for the night.

You’d feel out of place if your friends weren’t there that night. You weren’t used to this world of excess — gowns, champagne, tuxedos, and designer heels everywhere you looked — but everyone else handled it with ease.

The four of you found a table to set up at. At some point, Tim started waving, calling over to what you soon figured out were his other brothers.

Dick was the first to introduce himself, flashing you a killer smile that almost had you swooning. Sparkling blue eyes and a suit that was tailored just right to him, he was quick with a joke and when he talked, you felt like the only other person in the room. He was so charming it was kind of annoying.

Damian carried himself with such grace you were impressed, he was short, but well built, and all sharp features. He was quiet, but you could tell he was taking it all in, observing every movement the others in the group made. He did perk up when you referenced your cat at some point in conversation, he even asked to see a picture.

But the one who really stood out to you was Jason. He demanded your attention in a way, well over six feet tall, the fabric of his tuxedo stretching around well defined muscles, and your eyes kept drifting to the little white curls that peeked out of his black hair. You noticed scars running along his large hands when he moved to grab his flute of champagne, which made your mind wander to where he got them from. He was quiet at first, taking a bit of time to warm up, but when he did, he cracked jokes and teased his siblings.

You don’t remember how it got brought up, maybe when you made a joke about looking for your next boyfriend on the dance floor, when Steph said, “I thought you were saving yourself for Red Hood?”

“Steph!” you gasp, “why would you say that!” Dick laughs and looks away, Tim makes wide eyes at you, and Jason looks, intrigued?

“It’s nothing,” you say, trying to wave it off.

“Please tell,” Dick implores.

“Well,” you start up your story, the same one Steph and Cass heard two months ago after it happened. “I was walking home one night aftera bad date, which was my first mistake. I wasn’t really focused, I was on the verge of tears — I didn’t even notice the creep behind me until he was pretty close. I started to speed up, he did too. I call Steph, thinking that would make him go away, it doesn’t. He’s starting to get really close, I’m honestly thinking about throwing my purse at him and running away. He starts to shout at me, and then boom, Red Hood is there and he’s punched the guy, telling him not to be a — in his words, fucking creep — and then,” you hesitate for a second, “he asked me if I was okay. Said he’d walk me to the nearest subway station. I don’t know, he just showed me kindness in a moment when I needed it. It’s a silly little schoolgirl crush, nothing more.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Dick rushes to your defense, shooting a look at Jason.

“Yeah, Red Hood’s cool,” Jason says, fidgeting with the now empty champagne flute in front of him.

“Steph thinks I’m so crazy for it,” you say, relieved.

“Don’t listen to her, her taste in men is Tim,” Jason says and you laugh, glad that her brothers have your back.

At some point in the night, people drift away, leaving you and Jason at the table alone, which is also when you learn that Jason is a bit of a gossip.

“That’s Barbara, she and Dick used to date,” he points to the woman with long orange hair who Dick left to talk to, “and that” — he says pointing to the boy Damian left to talk to — “is Lois Lane’s son Jon, they’re good friends.”

You’ve really enjoyed your time with Jason, he’s funny and you mesh well. You’ve been telling him stories of your own life, how you ended up in Gotham, what you do for work, how you met Steph and Cass (the answer: your 8am lecture at Gotham University, which Steph would come late to and ask you for lecture notes).

Before you know it, it’s the end of the night, and everyone’s trickling out. Tim is rounding up you, Cass, and Steph to leave when Jason stops you on your way out, asking you for your number.

Over the course of your first year together, Jason find is endearing how much you really do love Red Hood. He thought that Steph was exaggerating, but when he saw you change your lockscreen from a picture of Red Hood to a selfie of you and Jason, he knew you were in deep.

You have little Red Hood figurines around your apartment - on bookshelves and by your bed. You wear a ratty oversized Red Hood T-shirt when you go to bed, and he, like Steph, saw your name came up as following the most popular Red Hood updates account on twitter.

He thinks it's sweet, but it also kills him that you don't know that this whole time you're harboring a secret crush on your own boyfriend. He thinks about telling you multiple different times - when he has to cancel on a lot of dates that include hanging out at nighttime, when he has to explain away random bruises and scrapes, or when he stops himself before he accidentally tells you a story that reveals his secret.

He finally decides, at some point, that he'll tell you as a part of your one year anniversary together. He figured that you stuck around with his weird excuses for long enough and that you deserved to know the truth. He also figured that you weren't going anywhere, he really loved you and he could tell that you carried that same love for him. Now, he wanted you to love every part of him, vigilante activities included.

"You ready, babe?" Jason calls from the kitchen of your apartment, dressed up for the dinner reservation that he made for your anniversary. He was supposed to patrol tonight, but he bribed Dick to take his place.

You come out of the bedroom in a red dress that Jason is obsessed with, it hugs your body in all the right places, looking through your purse to make sure you had everything you need. You looked up and smiled at him, "Yeah, let's go."

He took you to a cute little Italian place that just opened up in Gotham and then out for ice cream after. He was nervous on the way back to your apartment, not knowing what your reaction to his surprise would be. When it came to gifts, he asked you to go first. You gifted him some new penguin classics for his collection and some gear for his motorcycle that Dick helped you pick out.

Then it was Jason's turn - he gave you the standard gifts first: a beautiful necklace with a little J on it, so you could wear his initial around; and some other little trinkets that he saw and thought of you. You move in to hug him and kiss him on the cheek, "Thank you Jay, this is really sweet," he helps you put the necklace on, his large hands warm on the back of your neck. He's a bit nervous when he says, "I actually have one more surprise for you."

"Oh?" you smile at him, "What is it?"

"Just give me a second," he says, disappearing back into your bedroom. When he comes back out a few minutes later, he's dressed in his Red Hood garb, his helmet in his hands. Your jaw drops and you're silent for a couple seconds, which has him nervous, bouncing on his feet.

"What," you're still stunned, "where did you get this costume?"

"It's mine," he laughs, "I'm the Red Hood."

"Oh my god!" You jump up, covering your mouth with your hands, "is this why you're always randomly busy at night? You're out there," you move closer to him, looking at his costume and feeling all the little details, "saving people. And all the bruises, you're fighting all the time."

"Are you mad?" he asks you, eyes searching your face for an answer.

"What?" you look up at him, "Jason, you've basically just made my biggest fantasy come true," you put your hands on his chest, "I can't believe this whole time I've been dating the Red Hood."

"Do you know how hard it's been to keep this secret from Red Hood's biggest fan?"

You laugh, "So that night, when I almost got mugged, that was you that stopped him, you that offered to walk me to the subway station?"

"All me, baby," he wraps his arms around your waist.

"And Steph, she knows?"

"Yeah, she knows."

"I'm so stupid," you hide your face in Jason's chest, "that whole time she was making a big deal out of it, she knew! She was," you gasp, "she was trying to set us up, wasn't she?"

"Knowing her, probably," he laughs.

"She let me make a fool out of myself, talking about my crush on Red Hood while he was right in front of me the whole time."

"For what it's worth, I thought it was cute."

"You know what would be cute?" you raise an eyebrow at him and move your hands down his chest a bit, "if you and I went back to that bedroom and kept talking about this there."

Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.

Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.

Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.

Jason accepted all of it without shame.

And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.

He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.

Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.

But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.

Apparently that made him public enemy number one.

Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.

Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.

Y/N SENT YOU $10.00

Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.

Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.

The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.

Psychotic behavior.

Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.

“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.

Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“That’s accurate.”

Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”

She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”

“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”

Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.

Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.

Because to him, honestly, it did.

Then there were the bills.

God, the bills argument nearly killed him.

It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.

She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.

“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”

Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.

“How much?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“You were gonna offer money.”

“I was gonna offer money.”

She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”

Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”

“No.”

“You’re working doubles.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.

That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.

He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.

“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”

Jason looked at her for a long moment.

Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.

So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Which should’ve worried her.

Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.

The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“You paid my fucking rent?”

Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.

“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.

Jason grinned harder.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah?”

“You are insane.”

“You still love me though.”

“I’m considering arson.”

“That’s my girl.”

The line went dead with an aggressive beep.

Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.

If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.

With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.

“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

The guy had apparently developed a death wish.

“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”

Jason’s smile vanished instantly.

Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.

Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.

“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”

The criminal went pale.

“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”

“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.

©𝓐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒑𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒂. do not copy, translate, or repost my work on any other sites without my permission. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

You might as well have a microphone taped to your neck with how loud that gulp was, but he doesn't say anything as he keeps scanning the menu. Before you can muster up the courage to ask him something – anything – he speaks.

“Could I just get two regular cheeseburgers – one without pickles – and a triple cheeseburger?”

His voice is deeper than expected. You barely process that he has a voicechanger on before your hand quickly runs across the screen punching in his order. 

“Any drinks with that?”

A deep hum comes from him before he adds, “just three cokes please.”

You nod before adding the drinks to his order. Looking up, he’s got a credit card in his hand – his fingers meticulously covering the name – and you barely stutter out, “o-oh, uh, on the house.”

“No, let me pay.”

You can feel your face flush pink but you shake your head no, and he mimics you by nodding yes. You groan before pushing through one burger.

“Fine. $12.50.”

He stops right above the card reader and you realise he’s caught onto you undercharging him.

“Triple that, and then I’ll pay.”

You look at the white where his eyes are, and you can imagine he has a matching unamused expression. Your eyes glance down to his gloved hand where his hand is still hovering above the waiting card machine before a comical lightbulb lights up beside your head.

Please don’t pull your gun on me for this.

Your hand darts out from behind the counter, landing on top of his and pressing it to the reader. His head darts down and a beep reverberates around the silent air around you both before he realises what you’ve done.

With your hand still on top of his, you look back up at his helmet and purse your lips to stifle your laughter. You take your hand off his and slowly back away.

“Thank you. Your food should be ready in 15 minutes.”

And you’re running off to the kitchen to tell Johnny.

Johnny couldn’t help when he peeked out the kitchen door to see the Red Hood, but the sight encouraged the man to have the food ready in 12 minutes instead of the 15. The cool breeze that snuck in from the front door had you taking your hoodie out your locker and shrugging it on.

You placed the takeaway food and coke cans in the plastic bag – adding some extra sauces – before you headed back out of the kitchen and to the front. The front counter was empty, and you headed towards the door, before spotting him leaning against the wall just outside.

Pushing the door open, a shiver crawls up your spine and his head snaps to you before he comes forward.

“Hey, here’s the food.”

You hand the bag over to him, and he takes it from your hands. He stares at you for a second, and you shift awkwardly in your spot. He reaches a hand out to your stomach, and before you can flinch, he’s shoved something in your hoodie pocket and is jogging away.

“Hey!”

You yell out after him instinctively, before your hand goes wandering in your pocket. You feel what seems to be… paper? Your hand pulls out a hundred dollar bill, and the last thing the cold air hears from you before you grumble your way inside is…

Guy Gardner:

"What?" Guy asks in abject, offended disbelief. "Who told you that?"

He doesn't seem to be enjoying the particulars of the statement that you just regaled him with—but that's okay. You didn't expect him to—after all, it's not his fault that he happens to be a ginger. Everything else, however, does happen to be his fault.

This is why you offer him nothing but idle smirk as you stand your ground opposite him on the kitchen island, folding your hands over each other. He leans a determined hip on the marble, scowling—though the manifestation of a smile at the challenge you're lobbying at him seems to be making quick headway.

"No one did." You reply back smartly, staunchly. Defiantly—the way his smile grows in size indicates just how much he likes it. "I just know because of interacting with you."

"Me?" His eyes widen, those thick eyebrows tick up his forehead, a wide hand splays over the span of that chest. "I'm a fuckin' paragon of virtue."

"Oh?" Your laugh comes immediately and unbidden at this blatant lie. "Big words, big guy."

His hackles rise, his shoulders spread, he takes a daring step forwards to you across the space that elapses between you both. He likes 'em with a little bit of fight in 'em. And the fact that you haven't provided verbal or physical retreat means he's happy to keep invading closer and closer.

"You know it—"—Guy rolls his head on his neck, in slow, languid swivel, "I got my education and everything."

You chuff in good cheer as he comes closer and you have to bid crane your neck up to him. "And they couldn't teach you any manners while they were there?"

He makes a scoff that clearly demonstrates his opinion on the subject. "Who needs manners when you're a classy fella like me?"

For good measure, he leans in closer to make sure that you're face-to-face with the broad span of his chest that is barely restrained by the tight green shirt he wears. God, it fits him so well. That smug look on his face as he watches you appraising the goods is also excellent complement as well.

You finally tear your eyes away from the appealing display, cocking up your brow. "What's your definition of class?"

Another step advanced, a smile that makes protracted growth. Oh, how happy he is to answer your question.

"Someone who makes sure to tell you how good you look." To provide example, his eyes take dedicated appraisal of your body, lingering on the parts he finds most visually interesting.

"Depends on how you say it, Guy." You say, your tone dry enough that he can't resist meeting the cant of your eyes.

"Never heard you complain." He offers in sly reply; another step that is made so that you are close enough to grasp. "Mebbe it's someone who's always tryin' to make sure they got your best interests at heart."

"Oh," You snort at this very elegant spin, "Is that what you call it?"

"Yeah," he agrees, his hand already taking familiar place upon the slope of your hips. Pulling you close into an embrace that you know very well.

"Someone who knows how to sweep ya off yer feet." Guy concludes, holding you with a significant stare—before he leans down to kiss you.

And it's wicked, the way that his teeth nip at your bottom lip so that he can summon the noises he likes from you—the way that his hands are already roaming around your body, trying to ensure that you are thoroughly flustered when you pull away.

And when you do, you're heaving for breath that you must take great instance to cycle through your body. He doesn't care—he's the cat who ate the canary, and intends to go back for seconds.

"Mmmm." You hum as you feel him pulling you back to again. "I guess you have a point."

Guy seems to be happy that you agree with the notion.

Wally West:

"Don't trust gingers?" Wally offended voice seems to be threatening octaves he hasn't attempted since prepubescence. You can't smother the smile that's already making tracks across your face as you watch him dart across the perimeter of the room to take closer audience to you.

"What did we do to you as a people?" He asks, stately representative on behalf of Derided Gingers International—and the glare that sparks across his face is clear that he's determined to have this out with you. Which, you already knew was going to happen the second you lobbied this statement at him.

You point an accusatory finger at him that he zeroes in on with disdainful regard.

"Sneaky. Mischievous." You arch a brow at him, daring him to say otherwise—his focus is riveted upon the next point of your argument. "Always have to have the last word."

He opens his mouth, decides that the profanity-laden first response will not suffice, and opts for something more diplomatic.

"That could describe anyone." He returns in rebuttal, holding his hands out to you at this crime that you've committed against him. This willful, hateful prejudice that attacks him to the core.

But you are unmoved. Even if those baby blues seem to be rife with a desperate need for appeasement. You won't succumb to them—yet.

"In my experience," You grin in dry fashion, "It describes you pretty well."

He makes a noise of appalled offense, and crosses his arms in stalwart manner across his chest. "I don't have to have the last word."

You can't resist your laugh as you gesture between you and Exhibit A. "Then what do you call this?"

"Call it—"—Wally searches the foreground of his thought for proper wording and comes away satisfied—"—Having a dedicated debate."

"Where you have to be the final speaker?" You ask with no small amount of amusement running undercurrent in your voice. Wally hems and haws for the span of a second, looking at the ground before giving you what he considers a winning smile. And damn him if it doesn't fit him oh-so-handsomely.

"And if there's a problem with that?" Wally asks with a cheeky smile, taking jaunty stride towards you.

"You're just proving my point." You reply. But the smile isn't chased away at this—he knows that he has a way to worm back into your good graces.

"But I do it so well, don't I?" He asks, and the look that he gives you is dashing, playful—most immoral indeed. But you don't stop him as he inches into the boundary of your space that you allow him to enter. After all, when he regales you with the pleasure of his presence, you know better than to turn him away.

"You do." You finally concede on his behalf as he drapes longing, needful arms around you. "But you didn't convince me."

"Maybe," His eyebrows wiggle in flirtatious manner, "I don't need to speak to do that."

"Oh, brother." You roll your eyes to the ceiling as he presses a slow, loitering kiss on the edge of your jaw.

"Don't you mean," He grins into the shell of your ear, "Oh, Wally?"

Roy Harper:

"You're right." Roy seems otherwise nonplussed at your assertion that you've supplied to him. "We're a superstitious, cowardly lot."

"Exactly." You find yourself relieved that he takes no opposition to what you've told him—so you decide to take further refuge in audacity. "And you don't clean up after yourselves."

"Yeah," Roy also agrees as he lounges in steep recline on the couch, "We indulge in that terrible sin of sloth."

"And wrath." You offer, recalling some rather intense moments of combat in patrols past. He also finds himself unmoved at the continual barrage you are providing to him.

"And greed." Roy says, and it's here that he begins to make significant movement across the couch to you.

Not that you would stop him, when he makes such impressive flex of those biceps across the cushions. When his thighs make such defined flex against those sweatpants—in addition to other…lower assets called into such mouthwatering definition as he shuffles closer to you.

But his statement does draw you up short in confusion.

"Greed?" You ask mildly as he continues to mosey on along your way. "Greed for what?"

"Greed for our partners—"—He drawls as he finishes crossing the meridian of the couch to you—"—And for their kisses."

"Oh?" You inquire as one of those great, muscular arms drapes across the back of the couch—and finds familiar settlement across the span of your shoulders. "Is that so?"

"And lust." He informs you. It's quite interesting how he seems to have energy in reserve for the way that he sidles up with impressive speed.

"Is that so?" You ask, and there's the ghost of restrained smile that is making passage on his face as he looks at you. As he seems to be making rather steadfast regard of the nuances of your mouth.

"Oh, lust." Roy agrees with your statement, letting you see the gleam of those teeth as he continues to admire you.

"Terrible, terrible lust for them." He continues. "And if it isn't sated—"—His hand encourages you to look at him, to see the hunger that is displayed in his eyes—"—Watch out."

You laugh across the terrain of his lips. "Thought you were slothful."

"Not with you. With you—"—He takes deep, circuitous breath to appreciate your scent, your proximity—you—"—Think I can engage in that sin of pride."

"Pride over what?" You tease, already knowing that you'll be most pleased with his answer.

Roy doesn't disappoint. "Pride I got such a babe in my arms."

And with the way that he pulls you to him in passionate kiss, you find that you're more swayed to his argument than you expected to be.

Matt Murdock:

"Frankly, I find the stereotype insulting." Matt says from where he lounges on the span of your bed, in state of delicious undress. Unfortunately, you can't appreciate it as much as you wish, for you've summoned the more litigious side of your naked lover.

And he seems to be on the good-humored warpath to discuss with you, so you prop yourself up on elbow as he begins cross-examination.

"To be judged for something I can't even see." He says, and there's a crooked smile that tells you it's all in good fun—if you play along.

"Unfortunately though," You return in retort to him, "You fit all the aspects."

Matt makes wry noise at the fact that you would commit such prejudiced statement against him—his eyes stare in your general, reproachful direction.

"Aspects that are based on slander and centuries of discriminatory practices?" He demands, and you chuckle at the heated note that bleeds into his voice.

"Aspects that you fit to a tee." You return, finding yourself instinctively moving across the diameter of the mattress to him. Trying to soothe that offended smile on his face into something more reconciliatory.

"Such as?" He asks, awaiting for you to provide proper thesis. But the smile seems to grow as he hears you approach, as he reaches out to find the incline of your arm and rub a calloused thumb into it.

"A need to be incorrigible." You provide to him, and he makes dubious laugh at this.

"Something that could be attributed to my lawyering." He replies without missing a beat. Still his arm continues to coax its way up your shoulder, making a shiver of goosebumps dart up you.

"The desire to find loopholes in any argument made." You incline your head to visually analyze him through the span of your lashes, though he can't see it.

He appears unmoved at this reasoning. "That could be my tenacity."

"The overarching desire to be morally just in any situation." You declare in progression of your argument.

"My personal code I abide by, perhaps?" He asks, his knuckle drifting over the pulse in your neck. How warm and welcome his hand is here.

"The lingering guilt—"—You proceed forward, and then pause in sudden realization—"—Wait."

"What?" Matt asks, his hand taking protracted analysis of your cheek. "Change of heart?"

"Yes—actually." You say—his eyebrows jump up in surprise, waiting to hear your hypothesis.

"It's not that you're ginger—"—You lean forward to him in conspiratorial manner so he can hear the smile in your inflection—"—It's that you're Catholic."

Matt laughs long, loud, and clear—and you can't resist joining him.

"Well," Matt closes in to find your mouth, "We can't all be perfect, can we?"

Perhaps not—though the way his mouth fits against yours certainly is.

dividers made by me :)

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Dick Grayson:

Dick’s sleeping when you text him, the incessant buzzing on his nightstand cutting into the sleep he desperately needs. It had been a long night last night and he didn’t make it home until seven in the morning, going to bed even later than that.

Still, he forces his eyes open and rolls over, grabbing the phone in his hand. He blinks away sleep when he sees the messages are from you, one after the other, each increasingly more panicked. 

He’s on his feet in minutes when he reads them, tugging on the nearest clothes he can find and collecting his keys off his nightstand. Opening his phone to track your location, Dick’s on the road in minutes.

You’re sitting under a tree when he finds you, alone and overheating in the middle of a desolate trail just outside of Bludhaven. He calls your name before he approaches, shuffling carefully towards so as not to scare you.

“Dick?” You blink, exhausted from the heat.

He crouches at your side, pressing a hand to your forehead like you’re sick. He sighs, shaking his head and fighting the urge to hunt down your shitty boyfriend and give him a piece of his mind.

“Fuck, he just left you here like this? Do you even have water?”

You shake your head. “He had the backpack,” you explain. “Said I was too slow…”

Fuck, what an asshole. He never deserved you.

Dick helps you to your feet, keeping an arm around your waist to support you. Your steps are shaky, your breathing uneven—clear signs of dehydration. 

It’s a long trip back to the car, ending with Dick carrying you on his back. You’re relieved when he finally sets you in the passenger seat, cranking the air conditioning for you. 

He passes you a water bottle from his cupholder. “Here, have this.”

You drink half of it in one go, the water helping the dryness that has your throat swelling.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Tired, sad.” You frown, “I feel dizzy.”

Dick puts the car in drive, peeling away from the parking lot and driving back to the city. “You probably will for a while, with how long you were in the heat.” 

It’s silent for a while, the exhaustion setting into your bones and a new sort of tiredness weighing over you. You rest your head against the door of the car, letting your eyes flutter closed.

“Come hang out with me, yeah?” Dick finally breaks the silence. “Need to make sure you’re okay.”

You catch the undertone of it, the part that says: physically and emotionally.

You hum in agreement, letting yourself fall back asleep on the door of his car. Dick waits until he’s sure you’re out cold before leaning over and rubbing a thumb across your cheek.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he mumbles more to himself than anything, “I’ll take good care of you.”

Jason Todd:

Jason’s busy when you call, knee deep in a group of goons in the way of your boss. Still, it’s you calling him, and he doesn’t dare leave you waiting.

“Hello?”

You sniffle into the phone, the distant sounds of gunfire making you raise a brow. “Jay?”

He frowns, fighting his way through the men while talking to you like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Are you crying?”

It’s a jumble of words that comes next, each one bleeding into the next and filled with sniffles. Jason strains to hear you through the comms piece in his helmet, the gunfire and sounds of violence almost enough to drown you out. Still, he gets the gist of it. Fuck, he’s going to lose the target. But he can’t just leave you there.

He sighs, “I’ll be there in five.”

You’re pacing when Jason pulls up, soaking wet with the cold rain hiding the hot tears on your cheeks. If only the rain could hide the redness in your eyes and the way your lips have pulled into a pout.

It’s more than a twenty minute drive from where Jason was to the shitty, dingy bar your boyfriend abandoned you at. Jason made the drive in five, in the rain, on his motorcycle.

“T-thanks for coming,” you sniffle out.

Jason looks around, forcing himself to take deep breaths despite the anger surging in his chest. “You sure that ass—he’s not coming back?”

You shake your head. “He said we’re done.”

Jason shakes his head, showing off the fresh red mark under his chin. You frown, reaching up to run your thumb across the bruised skin beneath his stubble. He’s ditched his Red Hood getup, dressed only in his usual cargo pants and a t-shirt. Raindrops slick over his exposed biceps.

“Let me take you home, alright?”

You nod and then he’s ushering you towards his bike, thrusting his spare helmet into your arms. You buckle it over your head, Jason turning around and tugging the strap to make sure it’s tight.

You look at him through the open visor, blinking away the raindrops that cling to your skin. “Jay?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think you could…stay with me for a bit?”

And he knows he shouldn’t, that he has other things to do tonight, an obligation to himself and this city. “Yeah,” he says, “I can stay a while.”

It’s hours later that you’re asleep on Jason’s lap, head resting on the meat of his thighs. He should’ve left a while ago and yet, he can’t bring himself to go. 

Still, watching you lay like this in his arms, warm and dry from the rain your boyfriend left you in, anger still swirls in his stomach. How dare he leave you like that? You could've gotten mugged or hurt or worse, and the very thought has Jason clenching his jaw.

Yeah, he’ll have to pay him a visit later.

Wally West:

Wally’s smile dies the minute he picks up the phone and hears you sniffling on the other end of the line. “Hey, what’s going on?”

It’s an unintelligible mess of words that follows, filled with choked sobs and occasional moments of silence. Somehow through it all, Wally manages to get the gist of it: you and your shitty boyfriend got into a fight on the way home, and he abandoned you at some gas station.

Alone. In the middle of the night. With nothing but your phone.

Hot rage sweeps through Wally and before he knows it, he’s running.

One minute, you’re staring at the screen of your phone, sobbing hysterically. The next, Wally West is at your side, looking just as outraged as he is concerned. 

“He did what?”

Seeing your teary eyes and the pouty look on your face only makes him angrier. He clenches and unclenches his hands, forcing himself to breathe. 

The anger melts away when you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest, sobbing harder. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Wally is careful to wrap his arms around you, pulling you flush with his body and kissing the top of your head. It’s been so long since he’s gotten to hold you like this, since he’s gotten to care for you, he selfishly drinks it in.

“Let’s get you home, hm?”

You sniffle, peeling your face back just enough to look at him. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“My place, then,” he flashes his best reassuring smile, “don’t worry, doll, I’ll take care of you.”

-

Two hours later and you’re settled on the couch at Wally’s, dressed in his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. After an hour, he’d finally gotten you to stop crying and instead cuddle up with him on the couch.

Your boyfriend is yet to say anything, to even check in and make sure you didn’t get murdered. It leaves a bitter taste in Wally’s mouth but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little hopeful, too.

It’s when you fall asleep that Wally snaps a picture of the two of you, your head nuzzled into the crook of his arm. He grins as he types, trying his best not to laugh while he drafts the message to your boyfriend. He reads it over once before hitting send, nodding in satisfaction.

Don’t worry, I’ll clean up your mess.

Roy Harper:

It’s late and Roy wishes he was asleep, and instead, he’s driving an hour away to some random highway where your boyfriend—hopefully soon to be ex—abandoned you on the side of the road.

His hands are clenched tight on the wheel, thoughts racing a mile a minute. His foot is pressed harshly into the gas, each minute that passes only increases his anxiety. He’d asked you to stay on the phone with him but that was before your phone died and your location stopped updating.

He can only hope you listened to him and stayed put, and that no one else comes across you before he does.

Luck is on his side when he spots you pacing back and forth on the side of the road. His foot is on the brake immediately, slowing the car down to a stop just a few meters ahead of you.

You make a break for the car, settling into his passenger seat like it’s somewhere you belong. And to Roy, it is. 

He frowns when he sees the tears in your eyes and the way you’re shaking from the cold night. “You alright?”

You sniffle, “barely. I’m freezing my ass off.”

He nods, flicking on your heated seat. He moreso meant the whole being abandoned in the middle of the night thing, but given your closed off demeanour, decides not to push it.

“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” you say quietly.

Roy drops a hand from the wheel, gently squeezing your knee. “You did nothing wrong, that asshole just never deserved you.” Not like I do.

You blink. Maybe he has a point.

And now that he’s started, Roy’s not sure he can stop. “What kind of man just abandons you, alone, in the middle of the night? Don’t you think you deserve more than that?”

“Roy…”

“Seriously, babe,” the pet name slips out so easily that neither of you notice it, “don’t you want to be with someone who loves you properly?”

“Roy,” you say again, more warning than anything.

“God, I take much better care of you than he ever has.”

“Roy!”

He breathes heavily, the gravity of what he just said sinking in. The silence in the car is hot and tense, broken only by the crackling of the heat coming through his vents. Roy slows the car, pulling over to the side of the road.

For a moment, you’re worried he might leave you, too. But then he’s grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him, touch equally scorching as it is delicate. He’s not even sure what he’s doing until he’s leaning in and brushing his lips over yours, the taste of your chapstick like an old friend.

“All I’m saying,” he says quietly, “is that you deserve someone who takes care of you. Okay?”

“O-okay.”

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Mihawk

“I was wronged once. I won’t be making the same mistake again.”

She didn’t seem like she wanted anything beyond his love. At least not at first.

But, of course, she did.

And, of course, he was the one subjected to the consequences.

He’s already a chronic recluse — losing someone he legitimately cared about due to blatant betrayal will only reinforce that.

It’s going to make his walls even more difficult to breach.

No matter how intriguing he find you, he absolutely will not trust you.

It would likely take something as dramatic as stepping in front of a sword or a bullet to defend him, for him to reconsider his reservations.

Later, while he’s patching up your injuries, chiding you for being foolish, he dares to ask why the hell you would do something so stupid, considering he could have easily defended himself and you.

Your weak, pained response that you just didn’t want to see him getting hurt is the catalyst that breaks through the steel walls he’s surrounded himself with.

For you to be so concerned with his well-being that you would allow yourself to come to harm….

The thought of falling for anyone again is still a knife to the chest, but for you...it might actually be worth it.

He would still be careful, cautious, but you’d find him opening up far more.

And the next time you’re faced with any enemy that could pose a potential threat, he wholly intends to take the brunt of the damage himself.

Even if it means forfeiting his own life, he won’t ever again allow any harm to come to you.

“Though perhaps...it isn’t a mistake this time.”

Sir Crocodile

“You realize you’re nothing to me, don’t you?”

Oh, that woman.

He had given her everything, doted upon her, bought her every dress or piece of jewelry or expensive perfume she could ever desire.

And she had left him like this. Deceived, betrayed — and yet still, illogically in love.

It’s going to take a lot to recover from that.

He never should have let his guard down to begin with, after all. He should have known better. He’s a magnet for gold diggers — rich, powerful, influential. It’s not a mistake he intends to make again.

But then you show up.

So kind, so innocent, and oh so easily manipulated.

Yet that kindness, that innocence, is more than enough to bend him to your whim, rather than the other way around.

You’re just so...trusting, in spite of his reputation. You’re not afraid, regardless of the potential consequences of associating with him.

And you don’t want anything from him in return.

That’s...unusual.

You bring him little presents, things that make you think of him — exotically flavored cigars, hand-crafted figurines from vendors around Arabasta, a little plush bananawani you crocheted in your spare time.

You’re already precious to him before he even realizes he’s opened himself up to you.

And gods help anyone that dare consider harming his little princess.

“I’ll be the first to admit I was wrong — you’re a treasure to me.”

Buggy

“Yeah, whatever. You’re just here to take advantage, right?”

Except you’re not there to take advantage.

He’s used to betrayal, so used to it that it’s all but second nature to expect it. He’s been betrayed enough times to know better than to trust you.

He has a certain...weakness for accepting anyone that offers him too much kindness, a weakness he’s come to recognize intimately, one that makes it difficult for him to trust anyone at this point.

But you’re just...so kind. So mindlessly sweetly kind, and frankly how dare you.

How dare you be so kind.

You must have some other agenda. One that he’s determined to discover.

Yet no matter how hard he tries to expose your supposed treachery, he only finds...love. Adoration. Kindness and seemingly genuine affection.

WHAT THE HELL IS HE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT??

How can he possibly trust you, after everything he’s been through?

The moment that changes it comes when he finally decides to confront you over your imagined treachery.

And you respond by ever-so-lightly booping his nose, giggling, and offering a response that makes his cheeks flush straight through that stark-white clown make-up —

You tell him you just think he’s cute.

You...what.

How dare you.

But also………….

Really?

But ALSO also—

You are his now, forever, and he will not be sharing.