She’s been there longer than anyone else. No one really knows why she’s there. Her chart is colour-coded and thick, her med list is a novel, and the staff calls her “complex.” Patients whisper theories, but she never confirms, changing the subject to Houdini's water torture cell or the best way to fold a paper crane.

The day you're admitted, she watches you from the common room, pretending to read a copy of Rue Morgue while her eyes flick up every few seconds.

A/n: some Leon smut with fem reader hehe. Requiem Leon in mind!

Contains: 18+, Minors DNI. Explicit sexual content, smut, established relationship, body worship (chubby/plus-size reader), praise kink, slight possessiveness, unprotected sex, mentions of alcohol (whiskey), post-mission intimacy, Requiem Leon Kennedy being a soft dom for his girl.

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The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of whiskey and something uniquely Leon—a mix of gunpowder, leather, and the faint, clean smell of his cologne. He sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his back to her. The broad expanse of his shoulders, tense even in rest, was a testament to the years of survival etched into his very being.

She watched him from the doorway, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Leon now was harder, colder, the years of fighting having carved away the boyish charm she remembered from stories, leaving behind a man forged in fire. But his eyes, when he turned to her, still held that flicker of something vulnerable, something that made her ache.

He finally looked over his shoulder, his piercing blue eyes catching the low light. "You gonna stand there all night?" His voice was a low rumble, a gravelly sound that vibrated through her.

She took a hesitant step into the room. "I was just... thinking."

He turned fully, swinging one leg up onto the bed, his gaze sweeping over her. It wasn't a judgmental look, but an assessing one, as if he were memorizing every curve. He'd seen her naked before, touched every inch of her soft, ample body, yet his intensity never failed to make her feel like the first time. It made her feel seen, truly seen, in a way no one else ever had.

"Come here," he commanded, his tone softening just enough to be an invitation rather than an order.

She moved to him, stopping between his knees. His hands came to rest on her hips, his thumbs tracing circles over the fabric of her simple cotton shirt. The warmth of his touch seeped through the material, sending a shiver up her spine. He leaned forward, pressing his face against the softness of her stomach, his breath hot through the thin shirt.

"You're so soft," he murmured, his voice muffled against her. It was a statement of fact, but it sounded like worship. He nuzzled deeper, his hands sliding around to grip the generous curve of her ass, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard press of his arousal through his jeans, a stark contrast to the yielding softness of her body against his face.

His hands roamed, mapping the landscape of her with a reverence that made her breath catch. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings and tugged them down, his eyes never leaving hers as the fabric pooled around her ankles. He helped her step out of them, his gaze darkening as he took in the sight of her—her thick thighs, the soft swell of her belly, the curve of her hips.

"Perfect," he breathed, the word a raw, honest confession.

He stood then, his movements fluid and predatory, backing her toward the bed until her legs hit the mattress and she fell back with a soft gasp. He followed her down, caging her in with his body, his weight a welcome pressure. He was all hard lines and lean muscle, a beautiful, dangerous contradiction against her softness.

His mouth claimed hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of whiskey and longing. It wasn't gentle; it was a claiming, a reminder that they were both alive, here, in this moment. His hands were everywhere, tugging her shirt over her head, unhooking her bra with practiced ease until she was bare to his appreciative gaze.

He kissed his way down her body, his lips and tongue worshipping every inch of her soft skin. He lingered on her breasts, taking one peaked nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, his teeth scraping just enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to her core. His other hand kneaded her other breast, his thumb flicking over the sensitive bud.

She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He moved lower, his mouth tracing a path over the soft curve of her belly. He didn't shy away from it; he reveled in it, his tongue dipping into her navel, his hands gripping her thick thighs, pushing them apart.

"Leon," she gasped, his name a plea on her lips.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his eyes dark with lust and something deeper, something that looked terrifyingly like love. "I've got you," he promised, his voice a low growl.

And then his mouth was on her, hot and insistent. He licked and sucked with a single-minded focus, his tongue delving into her folds, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it mercilessly. She bucked against his mouth, her hands fisting in the sheets, her breath coming in ragged sobs. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave building deep inside her.

He slid one finger inside her, then another, curling them just right to hit that spot that made her see stars. He worked her with his mouth and fingers, pushing her higher and higher until she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her trembling and breathless.

He didn't give her time to recover. He moved up her body, his own clothes disappearing in a flurry of motion until he was as naked as she was. He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her still-sensitive entrance.

He looked down at her, his blue eyes burning into hers. "You're mine," he said, his voice a raw, possessive rasp.

"Yours," she whispered back, her hands coming up to cup his face.

He pushed into her in one smooth, deep thrust, and they both groaned at the sensation. He filled her completely, stretching her in the most delicious way. He started to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, building a rhythm that was both punishing and pleasurable.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies moving together, their harsh breaths, and the soft, desperate sounds of their pleasure. He bent his head to her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin, marking her as his.

The pressure built again, a coiling heat in her belly that grew tighter and tighter with each powerful thrust of his hips. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight, firm circles.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice strained with his own impending release.

That was all it took. She shattered again, her inner walls clamping down around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. With a guttural groan, he followed her over the edge, his own release pulsing deep inside her.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting, grounding presence. They lay there for a long time, their bodies tangled together, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He rolled off her, pulling her into his arms, her head resting on his chest, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm against her ear.

He kissed the top of her head, his fingers stroking her hair. "Stay with me," he murmured into the darkness.

She tightened her arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Always."

In the quiet aftermath, with the weight of the world outside the door momentarily forgotten, they were just two people finding solace in each other's arms, a soft, chubby woman and a hardened survivor, two halves of a whole, bound by something far stronger than just desire.

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Tag list: @leon-must-die if anyone wants to be added to the tag list lemme know!! For all my future works for resident evil and Leon as well!

Also gonna put the link to me and the bfs server here as well! For anyone who wants to join!! We are all crazy and feral in good ways haha. I also share my writings over there as well!

── ୭ ˚. 4 a.m ₊   ֹ ˖

. . ᡣ𐭩 your older boyfriend is home. which means pancakes at 4 a.m., road stories, and another tour souvenir ˎˊ

a/n: hello again ! another post from lil miss illi, i have free time during weekends so i thought why not write a bit. long ago i saw this twitter post and its been on my mind ever since. i swear i can write outside of frank i just really like him.. | wc: 1322

A/N: here is fluffy friday!! Sinful Saturday is tomorrow est time!!

Contains: fluff, reader taking care of Levi, soft levi moment

The early morning light filtered through the curtains of Levi's small office, casting long shadows across the meticulously organized room. Levi sat at his desk, pen in hand, reviewing reports from the latest expedition beyond the walls. His focus was absolute, as always, until the soft sound of the door opening broke his concentration.

"Levi?" a gentle voice called out.

He didn't look up immediately, but the slight relaxation of his shoulders was enough to show he recognized the visitor. "What do you want,It's barely dawn."

She stepped inside, carrying a steaming mug of black tea. "I brought you something. You haven't left your office since last night."

Levi finally lifted his gaze, his steel gray eyes meeting hers. A flicker of something—perhaps gratitude—crossed his features before being replaced by his usual stoic expression. "I was busy."

"Too busy to remember to eat or drink, apparently," she replied softly, placing the mug on a coaster on his desk. "You need to take care of yourself too, not just everyone else."

He picked up the mug, his fingers brushing against hers briefly. "Tch. Don't tell me how to live my life."

She smiled, knowing this was Levi's way of accepting her concern without admitting it. "I wouldn't dream of it, Captain."

She moved to stand beside his chair, looking over his shoulder at the documents. "Anything interesting?"

"Just the usual. Titan casualties, supply shortages, new recruits needing more training," he listed off, taking a sip of the tea. "It's perfect temperature."

"I know how you like it," she said quietly. "After all this time, I should."

Levi set the mug down, turning slightly in his chair to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something softer than usual. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?" She asked, genuinely confused.

"This," he gestured vaguely between them. "Taking care of me. Bringing me tea. Making sure I eat."

She blinked, surprised by his directness. "Because... I care about you, Levi. Is that so hard to understand?"

He was silent for a long moment, simply studying her face. Finally, he reached out, his hand finding hers. "No one's ever cared like you do."

His touch was gentle despite the calluses from years of handling maneuver gear and blades. She squeezed his hand lightly. "Well, someone has to. You're always taking care of everyone else. Who takes care of Levi Ackerman?"

"I don't need taking care of," he grumbled, though he didn't pull his hand away.

She laughed softly. "You're the worst liar I know."

Levi's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. "Only with you."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the early morning sounds of the headquarters beginning to filter through the walls. Levi broke the quiet first. "Come back later. After dinner."

She nodded, understanding his unspoken invitation. "I will."

As she turned to leave, he spoke again. "Hey."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

She smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made Levi's breath catch. "Anytime, Levi. Anytime."

When she closed the door behind her, Levi allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability, closing his eyes and inhaling the aroma of the tea she'd brought him. In the harsh world they lived in, these small moments of warmth were everything.

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I HAVE A REQUEST- one piece, buggy x fem reader, i want some smut that includes him using his devil fruit power during it, you choose what happens hehe

𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑻𝑶𝑼𝑪𝑯

A/N: here you go wifey!! Enjoy!!

Contains: Explicit sexual content (smut), use of devil fruit powers during sexual activity, detached body parts, fingering, orgasm. Does mention Cross Guild briefly so can be seen as a spoiler?

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The salty air of the Grand Line clung to her skin, a familiar scent that now mingled with the musky, ozone-like aroma that was uniquely Buggy. They were in the captain's quarters of the Cross Guild's flagship, a room draped in crimson and gold, a chaotic mess of maps, treasure, and ego. But tonight, the ego was temporarily set aside.

Buggy stood before her, his trademark blue hair slightly disheveled, a smirk playing on his lips that was equal parts cocky and genuinely excited. His gloved hands, usually gesturing wildly or clutching at his daggers, were now tracing the curve of her hips. "You're sure about this, dollface?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Can't say I've ever tried this particular trick before."

She met his gaze, her own eyes dark with anticipation. "I'm sure, Captain. Show me what you can do."

That was all the encouragement he needed. With a theatrical flourish that was pure Buggy, he detached his hands. The sensation was bizarre and thrilling. His gloves hands remained on her body, one still gripping her hip, the other sliding up to cup her breast, while his main body stood a few feet away, watching with an intense, focused expression. It was like being touched by a ghost, a phantom that possessed all the skill and desire of the man himself.

His thumbs began to circle her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt, the friction sending a jolt straight to her core. She let out a soft gasp, her head falling back. From across the room, Buggy chuckled, a low, predatory sound. "Like that, do ya?"

His hands moved with a mind of their own—or rather, with his mind, just disconnected from his physical form. They deftly unbuttoned her shirt, parting the fabric to expose her chest to the cool air. The cool leather of his gloves was a stark contrast against her heated skin as his palms fully covered her breasts, squeezing and kneading. She could feel his eyes on her, burning with a possessive fire that was far more intense than if he were touching her with his own two hands.

Then, one of his hands began its journey south. It slid down her stomach, tracing the waistband of her shorts before dipping lower. She held her breath, her body trembling. The fingers, still clad in their leather, were expert as they teased her through the fabric, stroking and pressing until she was writhing, desperate for more.

"Please, Buggy," she breathed out.

"Patience," he commanded, though his voice was strained with his own arousal. His other hand continued its work on her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a symphony of sensation conducted by a man who wasn't even touching her.

Finally, with a smirk she could see from across the room, his hand slipped beneath her panties. The leather was slick against her wetness as his fingers found her clit. He circled it slowly, deliberately, drawing out the anticipation until she was panting his name. He watched her every reaction, his detached fingers moving in perfect sync with his desires, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan.

He slid one finger inside her, then another, the leather stretching her, filling her in a way that was both strange and intensely erotic. He began to pump them in and out, his thumb still working her clit. The pressure built, an unstoppable tide. She was completely at his mercy, held captive by disembodied hands while their master watched, his own body now showing clear signs of his arousal.

As she teetered on the edge, he decided to up the ante. "Hold on tight," he grunted.

She felt a strange tingling sensation, a sudden chill. She looked down and saw that his fingers inside her had detached. She gasped as she felt them separate inside her, moving independently, stroking her inner walls from different angles at once. It was an impossible, mind-bending feeling. His thumb remained on her clit, while his other hand continued to torment her breast. She was being stimulated by four separate pieces of him, all while his smug, beautiful face watched her fall apart.

That was it. The sheer, decadent weirdness of it, the skillful touch, the visual of him standing there fully clothed, orchestrating her pleasure with detached body parts—it sent her over the edge. She cried out, her body arching as her orgasm crashed over her, powerful and all-consuming.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, the detached pieces of him slowly reformed, his fingers pulling out of her and reattaching to the hand on her breast, which then flew back to his wrist. He was on her in an instant, his real body pressing against hers, his mouth claiming hers in a hungry, demanding kiss.

"Told you it'd be good," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "And we're just getting started."

A/N: here is day thirteen!!

June Event

Contains: smut, piv, Sanemi is desperate, Sanemi also being emotional towards the end, rough sex

The air in the small, sparsely furnished room was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp, clean smell of antiseptic. Sanemi Shinazugawa stood with his back to her, his shoulders rigid, his white haori stained crimson and torn. He had just returned from a particularly brutal mission, one that had pushed him to his limits and beyond. He hadn't said a word since he'd stumbled through the door, his usual gruff silence replaced by a heavy, oppressive quiet that was far more unnerving.

She watched him from the doorway, her heart aching with a mixture of relief and profound sorrow. He was alive. That was the only thing that mattered. But the cost of his survival was written all over him—in the deep exhaustion that etched lines around his eyes, in the slight tremor in his hands, and in the dark, volatile energy that radiated from him in waves.

He had cleaned his wounds with a methodical, detached precision, his movements economical and efficient. Now, he was just standing there, staring at the wall as if it held the answers to questions he couldn't bring himself to ask. He was a man haunted by the ghosts of his past and the weight of his present, a man who carried the burden of his duty like a physical wound.

"Sanemi," she said softly, her voice a gentle whisper in the quiet room.

He didn't turn around. "Go to bed," he growled, his voice rough, strained. "I'm fine."

"You're not," she countered, taking a cautious step into the room. "Let me help."

"I don't need your help," he snarled, his voice laced with a familiar, defensive anger. "I'm not a child."

"I know you're not," she said, her voice still soft, still gentle. She moved closer, her hand reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinched away from her touch as if he'd been burned, his head whipping around to glare at her. His eyes were wild, a turbulent storm of anger, pain, and a desperate, gnawing hunger. "Don't touch me," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I'm not in the mood."

She didn't back down. She knew him too well. She knew his anger was a shield, a wall he built around himself to keep the world at bay, to keep the pain at bay. But she also knew what lay beneath that wall—a deep, abiding loneliness and a desperate need for connection, for comfort, for something to hold onto.

"You don't have to be strong with me," she said, her eyes meeting his, her gaze unwavering. "You don't have to be the Wind Hashira right now. You can just be Sanemi."

Her words seemed to break something in him. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a raw, agonizing vulnerability that was so much more terrifying. He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw working, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Then, with a guttural, broken sound, he closed the distance between them in two long strides. He didn't kiss her. He didn't speak. He simply grabbed her, his hands roughly gripping her arms, and slammed her back against the wall. His mouth crashed down on hers, a brutal, desperate kiss that was more of a collision than a caress.

It was a kiss born of desperation, a raw, primal act of seeking solace. It tasted of blood and unshed tears, of rage and a profound, soul-deep weariness. His hands were everywhere, tearing at her clothes, his grip bruisingly tight, as if he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

"Sanemi," she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Don't talk," he snarled against her lips, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Just... don't talk."

He yanked her yukata open, his mouth moving from her lips to her neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks that would be a painful, beautiful reminder of this moment. He was rough, almost violent, his touch a desperate, hungry plea for something he couldn't name.

He fumbled with his own pants, yanking them down just enough to free himself. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly and pinning her against the wall. He didn't give her a moment to prepare before he slammed into her, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, unrelenting thrust.

She cried out, a mixture of pain and overwhelming pleasure, her nails digging into his broad shoulders. He didn't apologize. He didn't slow down. He set a punishing pace, his hips pistoning into her with a force that stole her breath. Each thrust was deep and hard, a desperate, frantic rhythm that spoke of a man on the edge, a man clinging to the one good thing in his life.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his harsh, ragged breaths hot against her skin. She could feel the tremor that ran through his body, the barely suppressed tremors of a man pushed to his breaking point. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding on tight, her body a willing vessel for his pain, his anger, his desperation.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice a soft, firm whisper.

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. They were filled with a raw, agonizing pain, a desperate plea for something he couldn't articulate. She saw the broken little boy who had lost everything, the man who had sacrificed his own humanity for the sake of others, the warrior who was so, so tired.

"It's okay," she whispered, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin. "I've got you. Let me have you."

Her words were his undoing. With a choked sob, he shattered, his rhythm faltering as the dam of his emotions finally broke. He wasn't the Wind Hashira anymore. He wasn't a demon slayer. He was just Sanemi. A man who was hurting, a man who was lost, a man who was desperate for a moment of peace.

He found his release a moment later, his hips stuttering as he spilled into her with a final, deep groan. He collapsed against her, his full weight pinning her to the wall, his face buried in her hair. His body shook with the force of his silent sobs, his shoulders heaving with the weight of his unshed tears.

She held him, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her hands stroking his back in a soothing, rhythmic motion. She didn't speak. She didn't offer empty platitudes. She just held him, offering him the one thing he needed most in that moment: her unwavering, unconditional presence.

After a long time, his sobs subsided, replaced by a quiet, exhausted stillness. He lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and raw. He looked at her, a flicker of shame in his gaze, but she just smiled, a soft, gentle smile that was full of love and understanding.

He leaned in and captured her lips in a slow, tender kiss, a stark contrast to the brutal desperation of their earlier encounter. It was a kiss of gratitude, of apology, of a love that was too deep for words.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice a hoarse, broken whisper.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she replied, her hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closing, a deep, weary sigh escaping his lips. In the quiet of the room, with the scent of blood and antiseptic still lingering in the air, he had finally found his peace. He had found his anchor. He had found his home.

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A/N: I am taking one piece requests! For those who are fans of one piece as well me! I will soon be making a one piece Masterlist but knowing me and my love for Trafalgar Law he will have separate Masterlist haha check out my pinned post to see who I write for! It will be updated a lot so be sure to check periodically!

Contains: fluff, soft domestic moments, gentle kissing, Law being soft, mild overworking/exhaustion, comfort, established relationship

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The sea was calm that evening, a rare mercy for the crew of the Polar Tang. The submarine drifted gently beneath the surface, its metal hull humming softly as it cut through the water. Inside, most of the Heart Pirates were either asleep or scattered through the corridors, keeping their usual watch.

In his office, Law sat hunched over a stack of medical charts and maps. The dim overhead light cast shadows across his sharp features, and his spotted hat rested beside him on the desk. He had been working for hours, long after he had told everyone else to get some rest. It was typical of him—shouldering responsibility in silence, convincing himself he functioned better that way.

The door creaked open softly.

He did not look up at first. “If it’s Bepo, I already said I’ll be done soon.”

“It’s not Bepo.”

Her voice was gentle, warm in contrast to the sterile quiet of the room.

Law’s pen paused mid-scratch. He glanced up, and the tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately when he saw her standing there. She wore one of his oversized hoodies, the sleeves falling past her hands, and her hair was slightly messy from sleep. She looked far softer than the cold steel surroundings deserved.

“You should be asleep,” he said, though there was no bite in his tone.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Law exhaled quietly through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t need as much sleep.”

She raised a brow at that. “That’s a lie.”

He almost smirked.

She walked around the desk without asking permission, because she never needed it, and stopped in front of him. For a moment she simply looked at him, studying the faint dark circles beneath his eyes, the crease between his brows that only appeared when he was overworking himself.

Without a word, she reached up and brushed her fingers against his temple.

Law stilled.

Her touch was soft and careful, like she was afraid he might disappear if she pressed too hard. She traced the line of his sideburn gently, then slid her hand down to cup his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her palm.

“You’re tired,” she said quietly.

He did not argue this time.

Instead, his hand came up to wrap around her wrist, not to move her away, but to hold her there. His thumb brushed lightly over her pulse, slow and steady. It grounded him in a way nothing else did.

“I had things to review,” he murmured.

“And they’ll still be there tomorrow.”

Silence settled between them, but it was comfortable. It always was with her.

Law finally pushed his chair back slightly and reached forward, pulling her closer by the waist. She let out a soft sound of surprise before settling easily between his knees. His hands rested at her hips, fingers spreading possessively but gently against the fabric of his hoodie she wore.

He tilted his head up to look at her.

For someone so stoic and intimidating to the outside world, the way he looked at her was something else entirely. His golden eyes softened, the usual calculating sharpness melting into something tender and almost vulnerable.

“You worry too much,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “Someone has to.”

His thumb brushed under the hem of the hoodie at her waist, tracing idle patterns against her skin. He leaned forward slightly until his forehead rested against her stomach. It was an unguarded gesture, one he would never let anyone else see.

She froze for a second, surprised by the intimacy of it, then gently ran her fingers through his dark hair.

Law closed his eyes.

Her nails lightly scratched against his scalp, and a soft sigh escaped him before he could stop it. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer as if anchoring himself to her presence. In this small room beneath the ocean, with miles of water pressing around them, she was the only thing that made him feel light.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice quieter now.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He shifted, guiding her carefully until she was sitting sideways on his lap. His arms wrapped around her fully this time, one hand resting at the small of her back while the other settled over her thigh. She curled into him naturally, one arm looping around his neck.

The room no longer felt cold.

She pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Then another to his cheek. When she reached the corner of his mouth, he turned slightly and caught her lips with his.

The kiss was slow and unhurried. Law was not rough, not demanding. His hand slid up her back, fingers splaying gently between her shoulder blades as if memorizing the shape of her. He kissed her like he had nowhere else to be and no battle waiting for him tomorrow.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together.

“You’re going to bed,” she whispered.

He huffed lightly. “Bossy.”

“And you love me for it.”

A pause.

“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

It was rare for him to say it so plainly, but when he did, it meant everything.

She smiled softly, brushing her nose against his. “Come on, Captain.”

He stood, still holding her, refusing to let go even as he moved. His hand slipped into hers as they left the office, fingers intertwining naturally. The hallway lights were dim, the submarine quiet except for the low mechanical hum.

Inside his cabin, he finally removed his coat and hat, setting them aside. She crawled into his bed first, pulling the blankets back invitingly.

Law hesitated for only a second before sliding in beside her.

The moment he settled, she moved closer, pressing against his chest. He wrapped both arms around her instinctively, pulling her flush against him. His chin rested on the top of her head, and his fingers slowly traced lazy patterns along her back.

The world above the ocean could be chaotic and cruel. There were enemies to defeat, alliances to navigate, storms to survive.

But here, in the quiet hum of the Polar Tang, wrapped around the woman he loved, Trafalgar Law allowed himself to relax.

His breathing evened out first.

She felt it before she heard it—the slow, steady rhythm of sleep finally claiming him.

Her fingers continued to move gently against his chest, and she smiled softly in the dark.

Because no matter how fierce the sea became, she would always be here to bring her captain home to rest.

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── ୭ ˚. dilf!frank / headcanons ₊   ֹ ˖

. . ᡣ𐭩 it's so funny you sent this, a few days ago i was thinking to myself "kinda miss this dude". here are some overall headcanons and some nsfw ones sprinkled in, kisses xx ˎˊ

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧ cw: age gap. the word 'daddy' is used like, once.

Frank is big on expanding your worldview. Sights, music, art, all of it. He believes it’s important for everyone, and because you’re young, he’s eager to share the things that shaped him. He’ll put on movies from his youth with commentary throughout (“Look at the hair on that guy, we all looked like Edward Furlong clones. Fuckin’ awful.”), hands you books with highlighted paragraphs and notes scribbled in the margins, or drag you on impulsive trips when he’s home long enough to breathe.  

Music is his favorite way to connect. He’s always sending links, making playlists, or pulling out a record from his collection. “You don’t gotta like the whole album,” he’ll say, already lowering the needle. “Just listen to track five. Trust me.” He loves introducing you to new interests and watching you grow more well-rounded.  

Speaking of well-rounded, he stays on top of your school life. Insists on paying for the overpriced textbooks. Calls or texts after exams to see how you did. He’ll offer help even when he doesn’t understand what’s in front of him. “I went to school for psychology; this is outside my realm.” Much better at providing support and 2 a.m coffee than at helping you figure out linear algebra.

Unfortunately, Frank is the older guy who uses a lot of emojis when he texts, even when they make no sense. He’ll scroll straight to his contact list to find “favorite grrrl” and send his daily updates:   

“had a sandwich 🧐 did not like that shit 🧘‍♀️”

“saw a dog in a little hat 🎩 thought of u. my back hurts. fuuuuhk. i miss my wife 👎"

(Often sends voice memos that’s just 45 secs of rustling by mistake. Hates tech. Tech hates him. Complains daily)  

There are days when Frank feels his age. He’s healthy, still active, but his body remembers every stage dive and long drive. A knee will act up, a calf will cramp, and he’ll pause to curse under his breath, more frustrated than hurt. Nights like that can go two ways. Sometimes it’s lazy touches under the covers and quiet sighs until sleep takes you both. Other times, you take the lead, soothing his frustration with a whisper, “Let me take care of you, Daddy.” He eats it up. He’ll guide your hips with rough hands, his eyes glued to you, completely smitten. "That's it, baby. Use me. Show me what you need."  

Loves the idea of breeding before leaving for another tour. The night before he goes, sex is slow and deliberate. He keeps your face cradled in his hands, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones like he’s trying to memorize you, his body warm and solid against yours as he peppers your face with soft kisses. “Oh, that’s the spot, huh?” he murmurs against your mouth, lifting your hips just enough to hit the place that makes you sob. “Fuck. I should just knock you up. Keep me here with you.”

Afterwards, he works his cum back inside you with two thick fingers, unhurried pumps, pushing it deeper while his other hand settles heavy over your lower stomach. He presses gentle kisses along your inner thighs, whispering sweet nothings under his breath. “My girl, my girl, my girl.”