#mugiwarie

being a part of luffy’s crew had always been the plan. as kids, it wasn’t hard to believe—not when your childhood friend kept talking your ear off about becoming the future “king of the pirates.”

you never made fun of him. never once. you believed in him—you always did. it was luffy. whatever he said, you knew he’d do anything to make it happen.

the straw hats changed your life drastically—in the best way possible. even if luffy had already changed it back when you were kids, every day out at sea felt like a new adventure. it was never boring. how could it be, with luffy as your captain?

still, tonight was one of those rare, quiet nights. the kind that hardly ever happened. the ocean breeze was cool, the waves calm, the ship gently rocking beneath your feet.

your cabin glowed with warm light as you got ready for bed. it had been a long day—one that left your bones aching and your eyelids heavy. you were more than ready for some well-deserved rest.

that was, until the door opened.

your cabin door.

no knock. no warning. just barged straight in. you didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

“luffy?” you groaned, half-turning toward him. “it’s so late. why are you here?”

just as you were about to sleep, your captain decides to appear in the dead of night.

as if he didn’t hear you at all, luffy flopped face-first onto your bed, rolling around until he settled flat on his back, hands tucked behind his head.

“mm—i wanna try something!”

the familiar enthusiasm was there, bright and unfiltered like always. and yet… something about it felt different. you couldn’t quite explain why.

“try what?” you asked, raising a brow. “at this hour?”

“i saw it in sanji’s book!”

uh oh. that couldn’t be good.

“luffy,” you sighed, “you can’t even read.”

“doesn’t mean i can’t see pictures!” he shot back instantly.

you shook your head, already resigned. “alright… what is this thing you wanna try?”

for once, luffy actually paused.

he stared up at the ceiling, brows furrowing slightly as if he were trying to organize his thoughts—an unusual sight. after a moment, he huffed.

“dunno,” he admitted. “it was like… somethin’. but it made me feel kinda… weird.”

confused, you sat down beside him on the bed.

his gaze shifted to you then.

“and you were the first person i thought of,” he added quietly. “the one i wanna do it with.”

his voice dropped—lower than usual, missing that familiar boyish pitch you’d grown to love.

and suddenly, the room felt a little warmer.

luffy watches you sit beside him, and this time he doesn’t grin right away. his eyes linger. not wandering—focused. like he’s trying to understand something by staring at it long enough.

“…you’re warm,” he says.

it’s simple. not teasing. just an observation.

you blink. “it’s hot in here.”

“mmh.” he shifts, closer without thinking. his knee presses into yours, and he doesn’t move it away. “still.”

there’s a pause. the kind that feels loaded.

luffy swallows. you notice because he almost never does that.

“that thing i said,” he mutters. “about feelin’ weird.”

he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back to you.

“it’s here again.”

he presses two fingers to his chest, slower than before. firmer.

“gets loud when you’re close.”

your breath stutters. he notices that too. his gaze sharpens—not playful, not confused. just… intent.

“…you do that,” he says quietly.

“do what?”

“that.” he nods at your face. your breathing. “when i say stuff.”

he leans in—not fast, not slow. just enough that the space between you feels fragile.

“i don’t like it,” he admits. then, quickly, honest, “but i don’t wanna stop.”

his hand moves before he thinks about it, settling on your thigh. not squeezing. just there. warm. heavy.

he freezes.

doesn’t pull back.

“…i’ve never done this before,” he says under his breath. “sanji’s book was dumb! didn’t explain anything!”

then, softer. almost serious.

“but i know i want you close.”

his thumb shifts—barely. like he’s testing something.

“you okay with that?”

the ship rocks gently beneath you. and for the first time tonight, luffy isn’t smiling. he’s waiting.

you were confused. luffy had never shown any romantic interest in anyone. but here he was, so close. so close your faces were practically touching. and somehow, it felt… right. with him here, you closed the gap—pressing your lips to his. he tasted like meat.

he didn’t pull away, but it was obvious he was struggling to kiss back. it was like he wanted to devour your lips, harsh and rough, untamed—just like him. just like your luffy.

luffy lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, like he can’t believe himself. his hands tighten at your waist—not claiming, not owning—just grounding himself as the feeling swells again.

“hah…” he mutters, breathless. “feels… feels good.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he kisses you again, harder this time, like he’s finally stopped thinking altogether. his lips crash into yours, open and hungry, teeth and heat and impatience all tangled together. sloppy, untrained, but full of want—like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone.

his hands move on their own, sliding up your sides, thumbs pressing just a little as he pulls you closer. too close. not close enough. he shifts, knees knocking against the bed, leaning over you, weight warm and solid.

“mm—hey,” he breathes against your mouth, barely pulling back, eyes dark and unfocused. “feelin’… weird again.”

before you can answer, he kisses you again—faster, deeper, like the feeling is chasing him. his lips trail clumsily along your jaw, your neck—lingering too long, then darting back, restless.

he presses his forehead to yours, chest rising and falling against yours.

“mmm… need more,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amazed. “wanna try what i saw—please.”

he’s close now, close enough that you feel the heat from his chest, the rapid thump of his heartbeat. his hands grip your waist tighter, thumbs pressing into your sides.

your breath catches, and you finally whisper, “okay… let’s try it.”

before you can say anything, he’s already moving, fumbling with the buttons of your shirt.

“—it was… like this,” he mutters, struggling slightly. his hands move down to your pants. “these… off too.”

his voice drops, almost awed. “you’re… even better than the stupid book.”

he lifts you up effortlessly, pressing you down on all fours on your bed. his hands grip your waist, holding you tight, almost like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “stay… stay like that,” he whines, voice trembling, needy, as he slaps your ass.

you yelp, loud and sharp, and he groans, low and frustrated, like he can’t believe how loud it made you—and how it made him feel.

he leans in, close enough to see every detail of your warm pussy, his eyes dark and desperate, fingers tracing the slick. every touch makes him whine, shaky and needy, like he can’t stop himself.

“ahh… i… i wanna hear it again… make me hear you, please…” he pants, voice breaking, shaky and needy, eyes wide and searching yours for permission, for reassurance, for anything to let him keep going.

“l—luff… need you. please.”

those words made luffy’s cock throb even more. he couldn’t handle it. he had never felt like this before. he wanted to feel good. feel good with you.

he unbuttoned his shorts. you looked back to meet his eyes as he touched the tip of his cock—so pretty, pink and flushed.

the tip was wet with pre-cum. he played with the slit, panting like he’d never done this before. his other hand still gripped your ass.

he met your gaze, darkness behind his eyes.

“i’ll… put it in, ‘kay?” he whispered, still touching himself.

he shifts closer, the heat of him pressing against you. his hands don’t stop—one still on your ass, the other teasing himself.

“gonna… gonna feel so good,” he pants, voice breaking. “can’t… can’t wait…”

he lines himself up slowly, hovering just behind you, eyes wide and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize every inch. every sight, every sound.

he lets the tip enter first, not pushing further.

“ah… g-gonna… gonna go slow,” he pants, voice cracking, barely a whisper. “i… i’ll try… but can’t… can’t promise i won’t… ah…”

he pushes in deeper, feeling you clench around his cock—so warm, so tight, it’s almost too much.

“c-can’t… can’t stop thinking… about this… about you…” he whines, shaky breath, letting his hips move, just slightly faster now, needy, impatient.

every small movement makes him whine, almost moaning, like he’s fighting to hold back, to respect the slow pace he promised—but it’s a losing battle.

“i… i’ll be gentle… i swear… but… ah… ah…” his voice breaks, raw and desperate, thrusting harder and faster.

he groans, low and ragged, hips snapping against you almost recklessly now.

“ah… can’t… can’t hold it… feels too good… need more…” he pants, voice breaking, eyes dark with need.

his hands grip your ass tight, anchoring himself, but not restraining—just needing contact. every thrust makes him whine, short little sounds, like he’s trying to tell you how lost he is without words.

“so… so tight… feels… ah… so good…” he moans, voice rising, nearly desperate, shoving just a little harder, chasing the feeling that’s building too fast.

his hand snakes into your hair, gripping it, making you look back at him as he thrusts harder.

“look… at me…” he whispers, voice rough. “want you to see while you take all… all of me.”

he drives deeper, moaning loudly with every movement. as he smacks your ass, he starts to lose control completely, picking up his pace.

“l—luff! slow down…! t—too much!” you cry out as he pulls your hair, drooling now. the feeling of him inside you is too much, he was stretching you open.

“hah… can’t…! feels too good!” he whines, voice cracking, thrusting harder, desperate.

“l-luffy… too… too much…!” you gasp, voice breaking, fingers clawing into the sheets. “ah… can’t… keep up!”

his hands clutch your hips, digging in, trembling, shaking with every thrust. each whine, each groan is higher, rawer, more desperate—like he’s losing himself completely.

“so… so good… ah… too good…!” he moans, thrusting deeper, faster, sloppy and wild, like nothing else exists but this, but you.

“hah… l-luff… i… i can’t… ahhh…! feels so… s-so good…!” you cry out, thighs trembling, body nearly giving up—but luffy tugs your hair, jerks you flush against him, unrelenting.

his voice cracks again, high, whiny, dripping with need. “hah… won’t… won’t stop… i… i need… need this… need you…!”

“p-please… more…!” you whine, letting your body ride his rhythm, letting him feel every shiver, every gasp, every tremor. “luff—! ♡”

he loses all control—patience, rhythm, everything. thrusts become erratic, erratic, messy. gasping, whining between panting, desperate, like he’s trying and failing to hold himself together.

“ahhh…! can’t… can’t think… just… need… want…” he pants, utterly lost, chasing the heat that’s building too fast, too raw, too overwhelming.

his body trembles with it—every push, every groan, every slick, wet friction making him lose another piece of himself.

“g—gonna…cum… inside—want it inside. please…”

you gasp, inside…? your captain wants to fill you up…your thighs clench, body shivering at the thought.

“mmm… inside—! fill me up, cap—! ♡”

that’s it. hearing you say it… calling him captain… it sends him over the edge.

luffy lets out a whiny, filthy groan, loud and unrestrained, shaking as he loses himself completely.

“g—gonna cum… inside… hahhh…! ♡”

every thrust sloppy, frantic, desperate. every whine a little higher, a little rawer. he’s completely lost. and he doesn’t care.

his hips stutter once, twice, and then he’s trembling, shaky, groaning your name like it’s a prayer.

“ahhhh…! can’t… can’t hold… can’t… hahhh…! ♡” he pants, voice cracking, whiny and desperate, eyes rolling as his body shudders violently against yours.

he clutches your hips so tight it leaves marks, every thrust sloppy, erratic, desperate, like he’s begging his own body to keep going even as it betrays him.

“g-gonna… cum inside… hahhh… can’t stop… can’t… mmm…! ♡” he cries, filling up your tight pussy, letting himself spill into you.

“f—feels so good..! so warm…luff—! ♡” luffy was still spilling inside you, making sure that you get every single drop.

you collapse on the bed, face still pressed into the pillow, panting like you’ve run a race. luffy doesn’t pull out. you assume it’s because he’s still trying to fill you up.

you close your eyes for a few seconds, hoping to catch your breath—but suddenly, you feel his cock twitch inside you again.

he’s moving. thrusting slowly, almost lazily at first, like he’s savoring it.

“l—luff..? wha—?”

before you can even finish, he taps your ass gently, just enough to make you flinch.

“mmmm… need more. just lie down,” he mutters, voice low, whiny, desperate, like he’s begging you to give him the green light again.

his hips press into yours, slow at first, then building—harder, faster, each motion sloppy, trembling. every whine that escapes him is raw, needy, like he’s losing his mind but doesn’t care.

you’re flat on the bed, gasping, chest heaving, fingers gripping the sheets. “l-luff… too much… can’t… again… hahhh…!” you cry, voice shaky, half-lost between pleasure and exhaustion.

luffy groans, whining, hips stuttering inside you, completely oblivious to your protests. “hah… i… i don’t… i don’t care… feels too good… can’t stop… take it… ♡”

he grips your hips tighter, pulling you closer, fucking into you slow at first, then faster as his need takes over. every pant, every whine, every shove is desperate and ragged. he’s trembling, shaky, but nothing can stop him now.

“l-luff… too… too much… please… hahhh…!” you gasp again, voice cracking, trying to push back, trying to catch your breath.

“hah… mmm… not… not gonna stop… can’t… want you… so good… ♡” he pants, face buried close to your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder as he thrusts harder, sloppy, erratic, completely lost.

he whines your name over and over, frantic, shaky, like he’s barely holding himself together. you’re crying out, panting, overwhelmed, but it doesn’t slow him—he’s a mess of need, entirely consumed.

“hah… g-gonna… gonna cum… inside…again… and again… hahhh… ♡” he pants, shoving all the way in, reckless and desperate, like he’s giving everything to you and only you.

it doesn’t take him long before he finally releases inside you again.

“g—god… feels so good… you milking me like this,” he pants, voice shaky and desperate.

“yes… yes… yes… luffy—so, so good! ♡” you gasp back, breathless, voice cracking.

just as he knows every single drop is inside your pretty pussy, he plops down beside you, pressing you close. his chest flush against yours, warmth lingering, trembling slightly from the effort.

“wanna do this… all the time… with you.”

the whitebeard pirates are used to unexpected visitors.

but shanks?

that’s a different kind of disturbance.

the second the red force docks nearby, the atmosphere shifts—laughter gets louder, tension sharpens, everyone suddenly pretending this isn’t a political disaster waiting to happen. whitebeard watches from the deck, amused, unimpressed, entirely unconcerned.

shanks hops aboard like he owns the place, a crate slung over one shoulder.

“new world’s cold,” he announces cheerfully, dropping it with a heavy thud. bottles clink inside. “so i brought booze.”

“you never change,” whitebeard snorts.

marco’s already there, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. “what brings you here?”

shanks grins—easy, lazy, dangerous. “visiting an old friend.”

his gaze drifts across the deck.

then again.

then he frowns.

“…where’s the kid?”

marco blinks. “kid?”

“yeah,” shanks says. “the loud one. fire. freckles. trouble.”

realization hits.

“…ace?” marco asks slowly.

shanks’ grin widens. “that’s the one.”

marco hums. “last i saw him, he said he was… busy.”

“busy doing what?”

marco shrugs. “didn’t ask.”

shanks laughs. “fair enough.”

♡

ace’s cabin is quiet.

too quiet.

shanks stops outside the door, head tilting slightly.

there’s movement inside—muffled, rushed. the unmistakable sound of scrambling.

he knocks once.

silence.

he knocks again.

“…ace?”

inside, something thumps.

a very panicked whisper follows.

the door cracks open.

ace peers out.

he’s shirtless—like always—but his hair is completely wrecked. not wind-messed. hands-through-it messed. his skin is flushed, freckles stark against it, and there’s a faint mark along his collarbone that absolutely wasn’t there earlier.

shanks blinks.

slowly.

“…huh.”

ace freezes like a deer in headlights.

“i—this isn’t—this isn’t what it looks like—!”

behind him, the blanket shifts.

someone’s in there.

shanks’ gaze slides past ace, sharp and knowing.

then you speak.

“…you were supposed to tell me you were coming.”

everything stops.

shanks’ expression changes instantly.

surprise.

recognition.

then pure, unfiltered delight.

“…you’re kidding.”

you lean just enough into view for him to see you.

that resemblance—subtle, but undeniable—hits him square in the chest. the same eyes. the same presence. the same habit of disappearing under a different name, a different flag.

“…you little menace,” he laughs. “so this is where you ran off to.”

ace makes a sound somewhere between a squeak and a prayer.

“dad!” you hiss. “you can’t just show up like that!”

“where’s the fun in that?” he replies easily.

ace’s head snaps between you and shanks.

“…dad?”

you groan and immediately duck back under the blanket.

“don’t call him that.”

ace’s face goes nuclear.

he yanks the blanket over both of you and dives backward.

now there’s just a very suspicious ace-shaped lump on the bed.

shanks leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“…so,” he says casually, “you two busy?”

ace screams into the pillow.

“GET OUT.”

shanks laughs, raising his hands. “alright, alright. i’ll spare you.”

he turns to leave, then pauses.

glances back at the bed.

“…good taste,” he adds lightly.

the door shuts.

inside the cabin, ace dies.

♡

on deck, marco looks up as shanks returns alone.

“…found him?”

shanks grabs a bottle from the crate. “yep.”

“and?”

“occupied.”

marco narrows his eyes. “with…?”

shanks takes a drink. “company.”

marco opens his mouth.

closes it.

“…oh.”

around them, the whitebeard pirates are staring.

someone whispers, “was that—”

whitebeard throws his head back, laughing. “GURARARA! SO THAT’S YOURS?”

shanks grins. “always has been.”

on the other ship, his crew is losing their minds.

“CAPTAIN—”

“WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL US?”

“ACE?!”

shanks just lifts his bottle. “kid’s full of surprises.”

♡

deep in the ship, ace has buried his face in the blanket.

“…i’m never leaving this room.”

you pat his shoulder. “you’ll survive.”

“…your dad saw everything.”

you pause.

“…not everything.”

ace groans louder.

outside, laughter echoes through the ship.

and shanks?

shanks has never been more entertained in his life.

ACE

ace is eating it up.

he’s leaning against the fence by the track, towel slung around his neck, shirt dark with sweat, chest still rising and falling as people crowd around him.

“fastest lap today,” someone says.

“by a lot,” another adds.

ace grins, proud and shameless. “told you i had it.”

he runs a hand through his hair, flexes his shoulder just a little like he doesn’t notice he’s doing it. “guess all those morning runs paid off.”

a few laughs. a few impressed whistles.

his ego is thriving.

and then—

“ACE!!!”

that voice.

he barely turns before you’re there.

you crash straight into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, face burying into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. ace stumbles back half a step, caught completely off guard.

“WHOA—”

your chest presses flush against him, soft and warm, and suddenly he can’t think. his arms freeze midair before awkwardly settling around you, hands hovering like they’re afraid to touch.

you squeeze him hard. really hard.

“YOU WERE AMAZING!!!”

his brain shuts off.

he’s drenched in sweat, skin overheated, heartbeat still racing from the run. he should feel gross.

but you don’t react at all.

worse—you smell good. clean. sweet. like you didn’t just sit through p.e. at all.

“how does she still smell like that?” he thinks, spiraling.

after a second, you pull back, hands still gripping his shirt, eyes bright.

“oh my gosh, ace,” you gush. “you were like—zoom! i swear everyone else looked so slow!”

his mouth opens. nothing comes out.

you laugh and—without thinking—press your hand to his arm.

“wow,” you say, impressed. “you’re like…really strong!”

ace’s muscles tense automatically.

bad idea.

you feel it.

“oh!” your fingers squeeze experimentally. “that’s crazy! do that again!”

he absolutely does not mean to flex.

he does anyway.

someone nearby bursts out laughing.

ace’s face goes nuclear. “i—uh—”

you’re completely unbothered, fascinated, both hands now lightly gripping his bicep like it’s a discovery. “no wonder you ran so fast! you’ve been working out a lot, haven’t you?!”

he swallows. hard.

“y-yeah,” he manages, voice cracking. “i—uh—sometimes.”

earlier, he was bragging. soaking in praise. feeling untouchable.

now?

one enthusiastic hug and a few innocent compliments later, and he’s a mess—heart pounding harder than it did on the track, thoughts scrambled, every bit of confidence short-circuiting.

you finally let go, beaming like you didn’t just emotionally obliterate him.

“you’re so cool, ace!” you say happily. “i’m totally gonna tell everyone!”

you walk off, still glowing, leaving ace standing there red-faced, sweaty, and absolutely wrecked—staring after you like you just ran him over harder than any lap ever could.

LAW

his desk lamp hums softly, casting light over neatly stacked textbooks, handwritten flashcards, and a half-empty mug of cold coffee. he’s calm on the outside—because that’s how he always is—but his brain is running on fumes.

then the door opens.

“baby!” your voice sings out. “can you take me to the mall later? i’m gonna go out with my friends!”

law doesn’t even look up. “i can’t,” he says easily. “i have to study. i’ll pay for your uber.”

“okay!” you reply without missing a beat.

he hears the door close again and exhales, already refocusing—

then it opens again.

you forgot something.

law still doesn’t look up. until—

“ohhh my gosh,” you say, wandering closer. “that looks so hard!”

and you bend down to look at his notes.

law’s brain shuts off.

because this skirt—this skirt—is new.

shorter than usual. dangerously so. something he’s never seen before and absolutely was not prepared for.

his eyes betray him.

he sees legs first. then pink fabric. then the very clear realization that you are standing way too close for a man who hasn’t slept and is very much in love with his girlfriend.

his jaw tightens.

“…what did you forget?" he asks, voice steady through sheer willpower.

you straighten up, totally unaware. “my lip gloss!”

you grab it from the desk, then tilt your head, looking at his notes again. “how do you even remember all this stuff?”

you lean in again.

law grips his pen.

“you don’t have to be that close.”

you blink. “oh! sorry!” then immediately smile. “you’re so smart though. it’s really hot.”

that does it.

he pushes his chair back and stands abruptly, towering over you now. his eyes finally meet yours, dark and unreadable—but his ears are absolutely red.

“…i’ll take you,” he says.

your eyes light up. “really?!”

“yes,” he mutters. “i’ll take you.”

you beam, bouncing slightly on your heels. “yay! thank you, baby!”

you turn toward the door, humming happily.

law grabs his keys.

as you walk ahead of him, he watches the sway of your skirt, exhales slowly, and adjusts his coat.

he tells himself he’ll just drive you.

but the way the wind keeps teasing the hem of your skirt—pink lace flashing when it shouldn’t…

yeah.

law already knows this ride isn’t going to be as simple as he promised himself.

CROCODILE

the casino is loud—music, laughter, cards hitting tables—but his office is quiet.

crocodile sits behind his desk, cigarette between his fingers, papers in neat stacks. every line of his body says the same thing: busy. don’t bother me.

heels click across the floor.

you step inside like you own the place—tiny skirt, glittery top, lip gloss shining. hair perfect, nails perfect, smile even more perfect.

“hi!”

he looks up.

slowly.

“…you.”

you grin and walk closer, hips swaying without even trying. “i came to say thank you! for the card thingy you gave me! i won so many chips!”

he stares at you.

the “card thingy” was a high-level VIP pass worth more than half the casino.

“that wasn’t for you to gamble away,” he says calmly. “it was for access.”

“oh!” you brighten. “well, it worked! they let me spin the sparkly wheel.”

you lean forward over his desk to show him —bracelets jingling—and your top reveals the sparkly pink bra you were wearing underneath.

his gaze flickers for half a second.

then immediately looks away.

“…stand up straight,” he mutters.

you straighten, clueless. “did i do something wrong?”

“no,” he says too quickly.

you look around his office, fascinated.

“wow… it’s so big in here. and clean.” you trail your fingers across the polished desk. “smells good, too. like…expensive.”

he exhales smoke slowly.

“what do you want?” he asks, voice low.

you think for a moment.

then beam.

“can you open this for me?”

you hold out a tiny bottle of lip gloss—glitter pink—the cap too tight.

crocodile stares at it.

then at you.

“…you walked in here just to bother me with that?” he asks.

you nod enthusiastically. “my hands are slippery!”

silence.

he reaches out, takes the bottle with his gloved hand, twists the cap off effortlessly, and hands it back.

“thank you!” you chirp.

you apply it right there—leaning a little closer again—lips glossy, pouty, totally unaware of the effect.

“pretty, right?” you ask, smiling.

his eyes linger.

only a second.

“…it’s fine,” he mutters.

you gasp happily. “you think i’m pretty!”

“i didn’t say that.”

but his cigarette burns lower, untouched. his paperwork hasn’t moved in minutes. his expression, always unreadable, is the slightest bit strained.

you step back, heels clicking again.

“okay! i’m gonna go spin the sparkly wheel again. don’t worry—i’ll be careful!”

“don’t.” he says quietly.

you blow him a quick kiss anyway. “bye, mr. crocodile!”

you leave—perfume trailing behind, door closing softly.

the room is silent again.

crocodile finally lets out a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“unbelievable,” he mutters — not annoyed enough to hide the tiny curve tugging at his mouth.

BECKMAN

the bar is loud.

music shaking the floor, lights flashing, people shouting across tables—and you, sitting at the counter, kicking your heels and sipping something pink.

your phone buzzes.

you brighten instantly.

“hi! you’re here? okay! i’m inside!”

you hop off the stool—almost wobbling because the heels are high and the floor is sticky—and weave your way toward the door.

he’s there.

leaning against the wall outside, one hand in his pocket, cigarette between his fingers. tall. calm. unbothered. people walk around him like they instinctively know not to mess with him.

his eyes lift when he sees you.

and stop.

“…you wore that,” he says.

you look down at your tiny skirt, cropped top, sparkly purse.

“mm-hm!” you twirl. “cute, right?”

he takes a slow drag. exhales.

“yeah,” he says. “that’s the problem.”

you blink. “huh?”

he flicks the cigarette away and nods toward his car.

“come on. you texted me you wanted to go home.”

“oh! right.” you follow, heels clicking, practically trotting to keep up with his long strides. “thank you for picking me up! my friends wanted to stay but I was bored.”

he opens the passenger door for you.

“get in.”

you slide in, still talking. “this guy said he’d drive me but he was kinda weird—”

his head turns sharply.

“what guy?”

you shrug. “i dunno. tall. lots of cologne. he kept saying i was ‘too pretty to walk alone’ and then he touched my shoulder—”

the door shuts.

he walks around to the driver’s side with a different face now—still quiet, still controlled, but there’s an edge there.

the car starts.

for a moment, neither of you talk.

then, gently:

“don’t let strangers talk you into rides.”

you pout slightly. “he said he was being nice!”

“he wasn’t,” Beckman says. “trust me.”

you stare out the window, then perk up again. “but you came! you’re like my big rescue guy.”

he huffs, almost a laugh. “that what they call me now?”

you nod cheerfully. “yep! you always come when I call. like a knight. or—like—an uber but hotter.”

he shakes his head.

traffic lights pass. the car is warm. quiet. safe.

you kick your heels off and curl your legs up, reaching across the console to poke his arm lightly.

“you’ve got muscles!” you say, impressed. “no wonder everyone listens to you.”

his grip on the wheel tightens just a little.

“seatbelt,” he says.

you click it obediently. “yes, sir!”

the “sir” lands.

his ear twitches. his jaw works once.

“don’t call me that,” he mutters.

“why?” you ask innocently.

he doesn’t answer.

a few minutes later, he pulls up in front of your place.

he gets out first.

walks around.

opens your door again, like it’s automatic.

you slip your heels back on, wobble—

he catches your elbow. steady. warm.

“careful.”

you smile up at him. “you’re always taking care of me…! so sweet.”

he looks down at you for a long, quiet second.

“…someone has to,” he says.

you beam. kiss his cheek without thinking. “night, ben!”

you head toward your door, humming.

he stands there until you’re inside, the porch light flicking on.

only then does he let out the breath he’d been holding and rub a hand over his face.

“trouble.” he mutters—but there’s a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

you wake up to the sound of careful movement.

not loud enough to startle you, just soft shuffling—bare feet against wood, the quiet click of a door closing too gently. you stay still, eyes closed, listening.

you already know.

the mattress dips behind you.

a familiar weight settles in, warm and solid, arms sliding around your waist like muscle memory. luffy presses close, chest to your back, forehead resting between your shoulders. his breath is uneven, catching every few seconds like he’s trying not to make noise.

then you hear it.

a small, broken sniff.

“…bad dream,” he mutters into your skin.

you reach back without thinking, palm finding his arm, rubbing slow circles into the warmth there. his response is immediate—his grip tightens, fingers curling into your shirt like he needs to anchor himself to you.

“want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

he shakes his head against you.

“mmph, no.”

that’s how it always goes.

luffy never talks about that dream. he doesn’t say the name, doesn’t describe the fire, the scream that rips him awake, the way his chest feels like it’s splitting open when he realizes he can’t change it. words don’t help him.

touch does.

he presses closer, trying to fit all of himself against you, legs tangling with yours. his nose brushes your neck, breath warm and shaky. one of his hands creeps higher, fingers clumsy as they slide into your hair, curling there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

you ease back into him, letting him feel your weight, your warmth.

“okay,” you murmur.

he exhales hard at that, like relief hits him all at once. his shoulders sag, body finally giving in now that he knows you won’t push, won’t ask again.

he nudges his face deeper into the crook of your neck.

“…let me stay,” luffy whispers.

it’s not a question. not really. it’s a quiet need, raw and unguarded.

you don’t say anything—just slide your arm back, wrapping it around his, hand resting over where his heart pounds too fast. he melts into it, grip tightening again like he’s holding onto the only solid thing left in the world.

time stretches.

the ship creaks softly around you, the ocean murmuring beyond the walls. luffy stays awake longer than he lets on. you can feel it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breathing stutters every so often like the dream is still chasing him.

his head shifts, forehead pressing into your shoulder blade.

“…thought you were gone too,” he mumbles, barely audible.

‘too’—your chest tightens at the word.

you reach back and squeeze his arm gently. “i’m here.”

his breath shudders.

he pulls you closer, almost desperate now, arms wrapping tighter around your waist until there’s no space left between you. his face presses into your neck, lips brushing skin, breathing you in like he needs it to survive.

he doesn’t cry.

after that? luffy rarely did.

but you feel the way his body trembles, how his grip never loosens, how he stays half-awake just to make sure you’re still there.

you stay like that for a long time.

your fingers trace slow, grounding patterns along his arm, over his shoulder, up to his hair. each touch pulls him further out of the nightmare, back into the present—into you.

eventually, his breathing starts to even out.

still tight. still close.

but calmer.

his hand in your hair relaxes, fingers going slack. his weight settles fully against you, heavy and warm, head tucked under your chin like it belongs there.

luffy falls asleep like that.

in your arms.

with the warmth that he always thought was gone.

♡ you and luffy met because he followed you. no introduction, no explanation. you were doing something interesting and he decided to join. congrats, you’re friends now.

♡ luffy doesn’t ask “can we be friends?” he just starts talking to you like you already are. by the end of the day, you’re running around together like it’s been years.

♡ he laughs so loud around you. like full-body, falling-over, pointing-at-you laughter. if you do something funny, he WILL remember it forever.

♡ luffy shares food with you. not all of it ofc… (maybe a few crumbs here and there), but that alone already means something.

♡ when ace shows up, luffy immediately drags you over like, “this is my friend!!” ace squints at you like he’s sizing you up.

♡ ace challenges you to a fight. not because he hates you—just because that’s how he communicates.

♡ sabo arrives later and is immediately the “smart one.” he teaches you and luffy dumb words you don’t understand just to feel superior.

♡ the four of you are a menace. stealing food. climbing things you shouldn’t. running from adults. laughing the entire time.

♡ luffy always wants to race you. doesn’t matter where. doesn’t matter why. winning or losing doesn’t matter either—he just likes doing things with you.

♡ ace pretends he’s too cool for games but still joins every single one. if you beat him, he demands a rematch—mumbling a silent “it didn’t count.”

♡ sabo is the strategist. “okay, if we distract them, then—” luffy is already halfway gone. you’re laughing.

♡ luffy is very physically affectionate as a kid. grabs your hand without warning. throws his arm over your shoulders. flops onto you when he’s tired.

♡ if you get hurt, luffy freaks out. like full panic. yelling for ace. yelling for sabo. yelling your name like the world might end.

♡ ace gets scary when someone messes with you. sabo gets clever. luffy just punches first.

♡ luffy drags you into his dreams without realizing it. “when i’m king of the pirates, you’re gonna be there too!”

♡ when sabo “dies,” the sunshine dims. but around you, luffy still smiles—smaller, quieter—but real.

♡ he sticks to you even more after that. sits close. sleeps near. laughs only when you do first.

♡ even years later, luffy talks about you like you’re still just around the corner. like time doesn’t really matter.

♡ because to luffy, friendship isn’t something that fades.

“i think they saw us.”

“they definitely saw us,” you hiss back, clutching the pouch to your chest.

from across the terminal, an adult shouts something angry.

“RUN!” luffy yells—unnecessary, but effective.

you take off immediately.

gray terminal blurs around you: rusted metal, stacked junk, the smell of smoke and oil. luffy’s laughter rings out behind you, loud and bright, like this is the best day of his life. he runs like only luffy can—rubber limbs flailing, grin wide, using his powers like the world is just another playground.

“this way!” you shout, skidding around a heap of broken planks.

luffy follows without question.

you vault over a crate. he trips, rolls, pops back up like nothing happened.

“that didn’t count!” he yells cheerfully.

ace’s voice cuts in from ahead. “you two are idiots—over here!”

he’s already halfway up a pile of junk, pouch slung over his shoulder. sabo’s right behind him, panting but focused.

“okay,” sabo pants, “if we split up, they’ll lose us.”

luffy doesn’t slow down. “no!”

he grabs your hand instead and yanks you forward.

“if we run together, it’s more fun!”

you don’t have time to argue.

you all scatter anyway—ace jumping high, sabo ducking low, you and luffy sprinting side by side until your lungs burn. eventually, you collapse behind an abandoned shack, laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

luffy flops backward, arms spread wide.

“did you see their faces?” he cackles. “we’re gonna have the best ship.”

“if we don’t die first,” you say, breathless.

he turns his head, grinning at you like that’s impossible.

“never! we’ve got each other!”

later, when the shouting fades and the pouch is counted—coins clinking, precious and hard-earned—luffy nudges you.

“when i get my ship,” he says, like it’s already decided, “you’re gonna be there too!”

sabo snorts. ace rolls his eyes.

you don’t answer.

but luffy smiles anyway—because to him, you already said yes.

the storm had already swallowed the port whole by the time you stepped off the dingy tavern deck. the rain clung to your eyelashes, the smell of salt mixing with the metallic tang of fear—the kind you’d been running from for four years.

and then the world went still.

no thunder. no wind. just… still.

“found you.”

his voice didn’t echo. it didn’t have to. it hit you like a blade to the spine.

you turn slowly, your breath catching—because you knew this day would come, even if a tiny part of you prayed it wouldn’t. shamrock stands at the shadows’ edge, cloak soaked but posture impossibly composed. a holy knight’s silhouette. a celestial dragon’s authority. and your former betrothed—the man you betrayed by running.

lightning flashes behind him, revealing the faintest irritation tugging at his mouth… and something darker burning in his eyes.

“you’re still as predictable as ever,” he says, stepping toward you, boots silent on the wet stone. “same route. same hiding patterns. same… stubborn delusion that you could outrun me.”

he stops only a breath’s distance away.

close enough for you to see that he hasn’t slept. close enough to feel the warmth of his anger under his calm facade.

his gaze drips over your face like a hand he isn’t yet allowing himself to use.

“so,” he murmurs, “four years with my brother wasn’t enough? you didn’t tire of playing pirate?” his tone is polite, terrifyingly polite. “or did you finally realize that shanks can’t protect what was mine long before he ever touched you?”

your pulse spikes. you step back.

he steps forward.

“you don’t need to speak.”

his fingers brush your wrist—light, cold, possessive.

you flinch. he smiles lightly.

“i told you before, didn’t i?” he whispers, leaning in. “you can run anywhere in this world… and i will still take you back.”

a gloved hand lifts your chin.

“no tears. no screaming. no excuses.”

his voice lowers to something almost tender.

“if you wanted freedom, little runaway, you should never have been born mine.”

thunder crashes.

he releases your chin only to slide his hand behind your lower back, guiding you—no, claiming you—as if the last four years were nothing more than a childish tantrum.

“let’s go home,” shamrock says softly, dangerously.

“you’ve tested my patience long enough.”

and with that, the storm starts moving again.

because he has you.

and he is never letting go.

the sail back to mariejois is quiet—not peaceful quiet—the one that makes the hairs on your body rise in fear. a rare feeling, something you haven’t felt in a long time… something you haven’t felt, at least, not for the last four years.

it was supposed to be a normal day for the red-haired pirates, just another new island to dock at—the ship needing supplies, repairs, provisions.

shanks was busy inspecting something on deck. you had been assigned to go out with hongo. though you weren’t sure why, but as soon as you set foot on the island, something felt… wrong. familiar, but wrong.

it was a mistake, really, to go alone. murmuring to hongo, “i’ll be right back… just need to check something,” you slipped away without waiting for a response. you didn’t dare glance back at the ship, knowing it would be too dangerous—not just for you, but for the crew you held so dearly.

you didn’t notice the presence, the shadow watching. how could you have? he was stronger now—far stronger than when you left the holy lands four years ago.

just as the heavens were deciding your fate, you see him. standing there. the face that haunts you, the face that you love… and yet, it belonged to someone else too. the same one you tried to run from four years prior.

he didn’t speak during the ride. he didn’t have to. you knew he was furious, but shamrock had always been calm in his exterior, trained to hide everything. yet you could feel it—the silent pressure, the weight of his gaze, the slow, unrelenting pull of him.

the gates of your once “home,” but not home, opened. the holy land.

shamrock’s hand makes its way to your wrist, not bothering to bind it. his confidence is absolute; you could try to escape, but he knows you cannot.

“it’s good to be back home, is it not?” he says, guiding you off the ship.

“i could not even understand why you’d choose such filth of a ship rather than this.”

you say nothing, and a slight twitch forms on his face.

he looks at you—he takes in the scars, the bruises, the dirt—you are not untouchable, not pristine. all the things that once drew him to you, gone. and yet… even like this, you remain undeniably beautiful. just as you were when you belonged to him. well… you always will.

the gates of the holy land open wider, and he guides you toward a palace you longed never to see again—the pangaea castle.

♡

the doors to pangaea castle do not open for you. they part.

silently. effortlessly. as if the world itself has already decided you are allowed inside.

the air changes the moment you step through.

it’s colder here. not because of temperature—but because nothing in this room is meant to be warm. marble stretches endlessly beneath your feet, polished to the point you can see your own reflection distorted below you. chandeliers hang like frozen stars. every sound you make echoes once too many times.

you are not alone.

you don’t need to look to know that.

the elders sit elevated, their presence pressing down like a weight on your spine. they do not speak. they do not shift. they watch. their silence feels deliberate—like a blade held just above your throat.

and then—a step.

measured. unhurried.

garling stands apart from them, closer. always closer. his cloak falls perfectly over his shoulders, immaculate as ever. age has not softened him. it has sharpened him.

his gaze meets yours.

and he smiles.

not warmly. not kindly.

the smile of a man who finds disappointment entertaining.

“four years,” he says, voice calm, almost conversational. “four years of indulgence.”

he circles you slowly, boots echoing against the marble. you keep your chin lifted. you refuse to bow. refuse to shrink.

good.

he would’ve hated you more if you did.

“you were given everything,” garling continues. “a name. protection. purity. a future carved in stone.” he stops in front of you. looks you over—not as a father, not as family, but as property returned with scratches.

his lip curls.

“and you traded it for survival.”

a pause.

“how poetic.”

you meet his eyes. your voice, when you speak, is steady. refined. trained. even now.

“i traded it for freedom.”

something flashes in his expression.

then he laughs.

a single breath of sound. sharp. amused.

“freedom?” he repeats. “you lived caged in gold and ran toward filth.” his eyes flick briefly—deliberately—to the faint scars on your skin. “you call that freedom?”

you don’t look away.

garling steps closer.

“and of all the places you could have disgraced us,” he murmurs, “you chose pirates.”

his tone shifts then—just slightly. sharper. meaner.

“worse,” he adds, “you chose him.”

your jaw tightens.

he notices.

of course he does.

“my son,” garling says smoothly. “the wrong one.”

his smile widens, cruel and knowing.

“did you think that made it better?” he asks. “that bedding an emperor somehow elevated your treason?” a soft scoff. “if it was his face you wanted so badly, you already had it at home.”

the words land like a slap.

“you were betrothed to a holy knight,” garling continues. “a man groomed for obedience. strength. legacy.” his gaze flicks briefly toward the doorway behind you—where shamrock stands, silent, unmoving. “and you threw him aside… for his brother.”

he leans down, close enough that only you can hear him now.

“how small you made him feel.”

he straightens.

the elders still do not speak.

their silence screams.

“you ran to a pirate and learned to bleed,” garling says, voice hardening. “and now you stand before us and expect mercy because you survived?”

his eyes darken.

“celestial dragons do not survive,” he says quietly. “they rule. or they are erased.”

a beat.

“the only reason you still breathe,” he adds, “is because my son wants you to.”

his gaze drifts, just briefly, to shamrock again.

then back to you.

“do not mistake that for forgiveness.”

the room feels smaller now. tighter. like the walls are leaning in.

“you will remain here,” garling concludes. “you will remember what you are. and you will learn—slowly—what it costs to forget.”

he turns away from you as if you are already decided. already dealt with.

behind you, the doors begin to close.

and for the first time since you were dragged back—you understand.

this isn’t punishment.

it’s where you always belonged.

and no one in this room intends to let you escape again.

♡

the doors of the audience chamber close behind you with a sound that feels final.

not loud. not violent.

just heavy—like stone settling into place.

the corridor beyond is long, lit with gold and torchlight, the walls carved with histories you were never meant to escape. your footsteps echo once. twice. then stop.

the guards peel away without a word.

you realize then that you are no longer being escorted.

you are being returned.

shamrock doesn’t look at you right away.

he stands near the tall window at the end of the hall, hands folded behind his back, cloak draped neatly over his shoulders. the light catches the sharp line of his profile—the same face that once made your heart ache with love.

the same face you ran from.

the same face that belongs to two brothers, and to neither of them in the way you wanted.

the silence stretches.

it is worse than anger.

“they spoke longer than i expected,” he says at last.

his voice is calm. measured. untouched by what was said in that room.

you swallow. “they always enjoy the sound of their own voices.”

a faint exhale leaves him—not quite a laugh.

“you were… defiant,” he adds. not a question.

you lift your chin. “i’ve always been that way.”

this time, he turns—really looks at you. and something shifts behind his eyes. not rage. not disgust.

something wounded. something possessive.

“yes,” he says softly. “that’s what made you unbearable.”

he steps closer. not rushing. not stalking. just… closing the distance as if it’s already his.

“do you know what they wanted me to do?” he asks.

you don’t answer.

he stops a breath away from you.

“they wanted reassurance,” he continues. “that you would not be allowed to embarrass this land again.”

his gaze drops—not to your face, but to your hands. your wrists. the marks where fingers once held you too tightly.

“they wanted to know whether you were still… mine.”

your chest tightens.

“and?” you ask.

his eyes lift back to yours.

“i told them you never stopped being mine.”

the words settle between you like a verdict.

you laugh, sharp and brittle. “you shouldn’t have.”

his hand rises—not touching yet. hovering, as if testing whether you’ll flinch.

“you misunderstand,” he murmurs. “that was not a defense. it was a statement of fact.”

finally, he touches you.

not roughly.

two fingers at your wrist, warm, steady—right where your pulse betrays you.

“four years,” he says quietly. “four years, and they still spoke your name like a possession that had wandered off.”

his thumb presses once.

“did you really think i wouldn’t come for you?”

you look away.

that was always the lie you told yourself.

he exhales slowly.

“you learned how to survive out there,” he says. “i can see it.”

his fingers trail along the faint scars at your wrist, his expression unreadable.

“but surviving is not the same as living.”

you bristle. “don’t—”

“don’t what?” he interrupts gently. “don’t speak like someone who watched you be paraded like a curiosity in that room?”

his voice dips lower.

“don’t speak like someone who listened to my father joke about you choosing my brother’s face over mine?”

your jaw tightens.

“say his name,” you snap. “if you’re going to talk about him.”

his grip tightens—just slightly.

“no,” shamrock says. “i won’t give him that.”

he steps closer still, until the corridor feels too small, until the walls press in.

“you didn’t run toward him,” he says. “you ran away from this place.”

his hand lifts to your chin—not forcing it up, just steadying it.

“and now you’re back.”

his thumb brushes beneath your lip, almost reverent.

“do you know what that means?”

you whisper, “i didn’t choose this.”

his expression softens. that’s what makes it terrifying.

“neither did i,” he replies.

he leans in—not to kiss you, not yet—but close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

“but we don’t always get to keep the lives we steal,” he murmurs. “sometimes, we are returned to where we belong.”

his forehead rests briefly against yours.

just a second. just enough.

“you are exhausted,” he says. “they’ll want you presentable by morning.”

he releases you at last, stepping back as if nothing intimate has passed between you at all.

the door behind him opens. his chambers.

familiar. pristine. inescapable.

“rest,” shamrock says, gesturing you inside. “we will speak more… later.”

you hesitate at the threshold.

“and shamrock?” you say.

he pauses.

you meet his eyes.

“if you think this ends with me loving you again,” you say quietly, “you don’t know me at all.”

for the first time—his smile fades. but his voice remains calm.

“no,” he answers. “i know you very well.”

the door closes behind you.

and somewhere beyond it, shamrock remains standing in the corridor—silent, unmoving—already planning a future where love is no longer required.

only permanence.

snow has been falling since early morning.

thick, quiet flakes that soften the world outside, piling up along the sidewalks and clinging to window ledges. the city feels slower because of it—muted, hushed, like everything is holding its breath.

ace didn’t think much of it when he left the dorm.

just grabbed his backpack, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and headed out like usual. sabo had said they’d grab dinner. nothing special. no big deal.

until he knocks… once. twice. then harder, because sabo always sleeps through everything.

the door opens.

and it’s you.

ace’s brain immediately shuts off.

“oh—oh. hi. i—uh—I thought sabo…”

he stops, grimaces, and tries again.

“i mean—he said he’d be here, and—not that i don’t want to see you! i mean, i do want to—i just—”

he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks already burning.

“sorry. that sounded way less normal in my head.”

you blink at him for a second, then smile.

“come in, ace. it’s freezing.”

he swallows hard, trying to keep his voice steady.

“uh—i can wait outside if you want. i don’t mind. i’m not cold. like. at all.”

a lie. a terrible one. it’s freezing.

you laugh softly.

“come in, ace.”

his heart does something stupid at the sound of his name, warm and soft.

he steps inside quickly, shrugging his backpack off and nearly fumbling with his boots. snow melts onto the floor beneath him as he straightens up, trying very hard to look normal.

it does not work.

you head toward the kitchen, already comfortable in your own space, and he follows your lead like it’s instinct.

“sabo texted,” you say casually. “traffic’s bad. he might not make it tonight.”

ace’s stomach flips.

not because sabo’s late.

because now it’s just the two of you.

“oh,” he says, way too fast. “yeah. makes sense. roads are probably—really bad. snow and all.”

he gestures vaguely at the window like it personally wronged him.

you glance back at him, amused.

“you okay? you’re shivering.”

“i’m not!” he says immediately. then, quieter, “i mean, maybe a little.”

you laugh and grab a spare sweater from the back of a chair, handing it to him without ceremony.

“here.”

his hands brush yours for half a second. he short-circuits.

“...thanks.”

he pulls it on like it’s a life-saving device.

there’s a moment of quiet, comfortable and unforced, before you glance at the counter.

“i was thinking of baking,” you say. “cookies. want to help?”

his brain supplies say yes before his mouth catches up.

“yeah. yeah! i mean—sure. i can help. i’m great at helping.”

again, this is a lie.

ten minutes later, the kitchen is warm, the oven preheating, and ace is standing a little too close to you as you measure flour.

he tries not to stare. fails.

his job is supposedly “pouring carefully,” but his attention drifts—just for a second—long enough that the bag tips too far.

flour spills.

right onto you.

ace freezes.

“oh my god—i’m so sorry—i didn’t mean to—i swear i wasn’t—”

you look down at your sleeve. then back up at him. then you dip two fingers into the flour bowl and flick it at his chest.

white dust blooms against his sweater.

he stares.

you smile, entirely too pleased.

“now we’re even.”

there’s a beat.

then ace laughs—real, surprised, and warm—and scoops a bit of flour himself, brushing it onto your arm.

“okay,” he says, grinning. “but just a little.”

it devolves from there. soft laughter, light taps of flour on sleeves, a quiet kind of play that feels intimate without trying to be. at one point, you reach up to brush flour from his cheek.

he goes still. breath caught. “…i had flour there, didn’t i.”

“yeah,” you say gently. “you did.”

his ears burn red.

cookies bake. you clean up together, shoulders bumping, hands passing things back and forth. when the timer dings, ace nearly jumps out of his skin trying to grab the tray first.

later, you hand him a mug of hot chocolate, steam curling up between you.

“careful,” you say. “it’s hot.”

“got it,” he says, immediately burning his tongue anyway. he tries not to react. fails again.

you move to the couch with the cookies, snow still falling outside, the apartment dim and warm. ace sits beside you, careful to keep a respectful distance.

he doesn’t realize he’s getting tired until his eyelids start to droop.

it’s gradual. first his shoulders relax, then his head tips slightly. he freezes for a second, panicked at the proximity, then sighs softly and leans fully into the warmth of your side, laying sideways with his legs stretched along the couch.

you shift slightly, adjusting a pillow under his head, and soon his temple rests gently in your lap.

he sighs, a quiet, content little sound, and closes his eyes.

“ace?” you whisper softly.

nothing. he’s out.

you brush a lock of hair from his forehead, careful not to wake him, and tuck the blanket around him lightly. his cheeks are still pink from the hot chocolate and flour battle.

he twitches once, murmurs something incoherent, then settles deeper into your lap.

for a long while, you just watch him sleep, the quiet snow outside framing the warm little cocoon of the room.

an hour later, the door unlocks.

sabo steps inside, brushing snow off his coat.

he stops.

takes in the scene.

ace asleep in your lap. cookies on the table. hot chocolate mugs half-empty.

he smirks.

“…wow.”

you glance up, amused.

“don’t wake him.”

sabo snorts quietly.

“oh, i wouldn’t dare.”