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2b4st4r · 2 months ago

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Overworked

Platonic Straw-hats x reader

Words: 8069k

Summery: The Straw-hats become aware of your ongoing habit of overworking yourself. Each member notices in their own unique reaction to it.

Warnings: misspellings, uncannon reactions.

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You know how it is, right? We all have those little quirks, the habits we wish we could just snap out of. Maybe it's the nervous gnawing at your nails, that extra glass when no one's looking, a little white lie here and there, nights spent staring at the ceiling, or that looming to-do list you keep pushing further away. The catalog of these tiny titans of trouble seems endless. So, what's the big deal if one of these has taken root? Just a small thing, right?

Except when it's not.

Imagine a habit that's a constant low hum of anxiety, a persistent shadow that keeps you on edge. It's the kind of habit that doesn't just sit there; it actively chips away at you, altering who you are. It's the unseen force that tightens every muscle, leaving you aching without explanation. It's the relentless drain that leaves you utterly depleted, both in body and mind.

This is the relentless grip of overworking.

It's that ingrained urge to leap into action the moment someone needs help. It's the internal alarm that blares weeks before a deadline, compelling you to start now. It's the constant pressure you put on yourself, the endless race to get everything done, immediately. So, is it any wonder that the people closest to you, your crew, your nakama, start to see the toll it's taking?

Surprisingly, it was Chopper, with his keen observations, who first noticed the strain...the physical one.

Actually, thinking about it, it wasn't all that surprising. He is the ship's doctor, after all.

Chopper's sharp eyes had picked up on the subtle signs: the unusual paleness of your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hands – telltale indicators of deep exhaustion. He'd also observed the way you compounded this by relentlessly pushing yourself beyond your limits. From a medical perspective, your overall sluggishness hadn't escaped his notice.

It had been a week since their last island stop, and you had been throwing yourself headfirst into work. The ship's supplies seemed to be your sole focus, meticulously taking inventory, recounting everything until the numbers swam before your eyes, etched into your brain.

Just after lunch, the sun cast that unique, shimmering glow that only the sea and sky together could create. It was one of those rare moments where you could finally feel your body begin to yield, sinking slightly towards the deck, absorbing the familiar salty sea shanty that had become the soundtrack to your life. That's when Chopper approached. His small, fluffy form, barely reaching your height even when you were seated, stood before you.

His usual bright and cheerful demeanor was replaced by one of distinct concern, a worried furrow in his brow. His breathing was a touch quicker than normal, his small chest rising and falling just a little faster – a subtle sign of his unease. One of his hooves tapped lightly against the deck, a barely concealed display of his anxiety. "Y/n! You don't look so good!" His voice, usually endearingly soft but often high-pitched, held a note of genuine worry. "Are you feeling alright? Let me take a look at you!" His concern, though sometimes a bit much, did manage to prick your awareness. But despite his worry and your body's desperate plea for rest, you sprang to your feet, a bright smile plastered on your face, expertly masking your exhaustion. "Fine! I'm fine! Just a little tired." Your words were delivered with forced cheerfulness, a touch too bright and a little too quick.

The rest of the day unfolded exactly as you might have predicted. Chopper became your shadow, his dark eyes constantly fixed on you, mentally cataloging every little thing. He peppered you with concerned questions, the epitome of gentle nagging. "Are you eating enough?" he'd ask, tilting his head. "Any dizziness? Headaches? Feeling nauseous?"

Eventually, your resistance crumbled. And so, you found yourself perched on the edge of a stool in Chopper's infirmary, enduring the familiar routine of a medical check-up. Pulse-taking, eye-peering, ear-listening. A soft groan escaped your lips as the cold metal of the stethoscope pressed against your chest. "I'm fine, Chopper," you mumbled, offering a tired smile. "Honestly, I don't see the need for all this." He shot you a look that, for someone so small and undeniably adorable, managed to convey a surprising amount of sternness. "I don't believe you!" he declared, his ear pressed even more intently to the stethoscope. "...Pulse is weak," he murmured to himself as he pulled away. "Slight dehydration... clear signs of severe fatigue..." He continued his self-assessment, his brow furrowing with concern before he took a rather dramatic step back. "So, what's the verdict, Doc?" A teasing, albeit weary, smile tugged at your lips. Despite his obvious irritation, a faint blush dusted his cheeks. "You need rest," he stated firmly, his voice losing its usual timidity. "Uh-huh! Yes, sir," you replied with exaggerated ease, pushing yourself up. A loud crack echoed from your back as you straightened, causing a flash of worry to cross Chopper's face. "I promise," you reassured him with a weak smile as you headed for the door.

His concern didn't end there. You couldn't even lift your own teacup without a gentle but firm scolding.

"You need to rest! Your body can't keep going like this. This isn't something to joke about!" he exclaimed as you strained to lift a crate, your muscles protesting under the weight. "Chopper, I'm fine, I promise. Everyone gets tired," you countered, earning a soft pout from the little doctor. Unable to convince you to slow down with logic, he resorted to simpler explanations, hoping they would finally sink in.

"If you don't rest, your body will get weaker! You won't be able to fight!"

Then came the random analogies…

"It's like trying to sail the Sunny without any cola! You're just going to stop working!"

Despite your reassurances, Chopper remained unconvinced. He took it upon himself to be your personal nurse, a tiny, furry force of medical insistence. Suddenly, strange but surprisingly palatable concoctions appeared at mealtimes – no doubt his attempt at nutritious remedies, a far cry from Usopp’s questionable experiments. He’d hover nearby as you ate, his large eyes scrutinizing every bite.

Sleep became a heavily monitored activity. He’d practically tuck you into your hammock, his small form a surprisingly effective barrier against any attempt to sneak away. Every few hours, a fluffy head would peek into your quarters, checking your temperature, your breathing, asking a litany of gentle but firm questions. He even parked himself beside your hammock at times, a silent, steadfast guardian against your own workaholic tendencies.

Chopper had been surprisingly persuasive, his earnest pronouncements about your deteriorating health carrying an unexpected weight.

Beneath all the medical fussing and enlisted help, you could see the genuine worry etched on Chopper’s face. His role as the ship’s doctor was something he took with profound seriousness, and seeing you in this state clearly distressed him. His empathy was palpable; he just wanted to make you feel better.

One evening, as Chopper sat beside your hammock, meticulously adjusting a cool cloth on your forehead, you reached out and gently took his small hand. “Chopper,” you said softly, your voice still a little weak. He looked up at you, his eyes wide with concern. “Thank you,” you continued, “for everything. You’re a great doctor.”

A blush bloomed on his furry cheeks. “It’s…it’s my job! And you’re our nakama!” he mumbled, looking away bashfully.

You hesitated for a moment before adding, “But…could you maybe…keep this between us? I don’t want everyone worrying too much.”

Chopper’s ears drooped slightly. “But Y/n…”

“Please, Chopper,” you insisted gently. “Just for a little while. I promise I’ll rest, I really will. But…I don’t want to be a burden.”

He looked at you, his brow furrowed in thought. The genuine worry in his eyes warred with your request. After a long moment, he sighed, his small shoulders slumping slightly. “Okay,” he whispered finally. “But you have to promise me you’ll tell me if you feel any worse. And you’ll stay in bed!”

You smiled weakly. “I promise, Chopper. Thank you.”

He nodded, a flicker of his usual determination returning. “Alright then. But I’m still checking on you!” He puffed out his chest slightly, trying to regain his stern doctor persona. The secret was yours, for now, guarded by the small, fiercely protective doctor of the Straw Hat Pirates.

Well, at least for a little bit.

With Robin , the signs had been subtly unfolding for a while now. Her keen eyes, trained to observe the nuances of history and human behavior, had registered the almost imperceptible shifts in your demeanor. The slight deepening of the shadows beneath your eyes, the momentary pauses in your movements that betrayed a deeper fatigue than you let on, the almost imperceptible tightening of your jaw when faced with another task – these were the silent stories your body was telling.

She considered the possible reasons behind your relentless drive. Was it a sense of overwhelming responsibility? A desire to prove yourself? Perhaps some unspoken pressure only you were aware of. Robin understood the weight of such burdens, the way they could silently accumulate until they threatened to overwhelm.

One of the quieter afternoons, as the ship glided smoothly over a calm stretch of sea, Robin found you leaning against the railing, staring out at the horizon. She approached you with her usual quiet grace, settling beside you. “Y/N,” she began, her voice a soft murmur that blended with the sound of the waves, “you seem to be carrying a heavy burden lately. Is everything alright?” Her gaze was gentle, her expression open, offering a space free of judgment. She listened attentively as you offered your usual dismissive reply, her own observations painting a different picture.

Later that day, she found you meticulously sorting through maps in the library, the lamplight casting long shadows across your tired face. “Perhaps a cup of tea and a moment to rest?” she suggested, her tone calm and inviting. “It’s important to allow yourself time to recover. The ancient scholars understood the importance of balance between study and repose. It allows for clearer thought.” She even shared a brief story about a renowned man from a forgotten civilization who, in his relentless pursuit of knowledge, had neglected his own well-being to his detriment. The lesson was subtle, woven into the fabric of the story.

While Chopper’s approach was one of direct medical intervention, Robin’s was more about offering intellectual respite. She noticed the way you seemed to be mentally juggling a multitude of tasks. Later, she quietly approached the ship’s log, organizing some of the navigational data you had been meticulously compiling, streamlining the information in a way that might ease your mental load. It was her way of offering practical assistance, a silent sharing of the burden.

However, even Robin’s gentle persuasions seemed to have little effect. She watched with a growing concern as Chopper’s more direct attempts also met with cheerful but ultimately dismissive assurances. When Chopper finally managed to get you to his infirmary, Robin lingered near the doorway, her usual serene expression clouded with worry. She heard Chopper’s earnest pronouncements about weak pulses and severe fatigue.

Later, when you emerged from the infirmary, offering a tired smile and a promise to rest that didn’t quite reach your eyes, Robin’s calm demeanor held a new layer of firmness. “Y/n,” she said quietly, her gaze steady, “your dedication is admirable, but you are reaching a point where it will become detrimental, not only to yourself but to the crew as well. We need you at your best.” Her voice remained soft, but the underlying conviction was unmistakable.

She observed your hushed conversation with Chopper later, catching the worried glances Chopper cast in your direction even as you offered him a reassuring smile. When Chopper confided in her later about your request to keep your condition a secret(it’s no shock he couldn’t keep his lips shut), a thoughtful frown creased Robin’s brow. She understood your desire not to worry the crew, a sentiment that resonated with her own quiet strength.

“He is genuinely worried, you know,” Robin said softly to you later, finding you attempting to organize some heavy scrolls. Her tone held a gentle but firm undertone. “And he is right. We all value your contributions, Y/N, but your well-being is just as important. We need you to be healthy and strong.” Her words were a quiet echo of Chopper’s more frantic pleas, but they carried the weight of her calm understanding and deep care for her nakama. She knew that beneath your cheerful facade lay a growing exhaustion, and while she would respect your wishes for now, she would also be watching, her quiet concern a constant presence.

It wasn’t long before Nami’s sharp eyes, ever vigilant for anything that might disrupt the ship’s efficiency or her meticulously planned routes, noticed the subtle shift in your usual energy. At first, it manifested as a slight delay in your responses, a momentary lapse in the quickness she’d come to expect. Then, she observed you leaning heavily on the railing during watch, a far cry from your usual alert stance.

Her initial reaction was a classic Nami blend of annoyance and practicality. “Honestly, Y/N,” she sighed one afternoon, watching you nearly stumble over a coil of rope, “you look like you haven’t slept properly in days. You’re going to start making mistakes, and you know who’ll have to clean up that mess.” She punctuated her statement with a sharp tap of her foot. “Don’t tell me you’re going to slow us down now. We have important things to do!”

Beneath the surface of her exasperation, however, a practical concern was brewing. A tired crewmate was a liability, a potential weak link in their operations. She approached you later, arms crossed, her brow furrowed. “Look, Y/N, you need to rest! If you collapse, who’s going to count all my berries? We have schedules to keep, islands to reach!” She even added, with a pointed look, “And if you get sick, we’ll have to waste valuable beli on medicine! Don’t be irresponsible.”

Having assessed the situation and deemed it detrimental to the ship’s progress, Nami took charge. Her voice, usually laced with a hint of sweetness when dealing with potential clients or allies, took on its familiar bossy edge. “Y/N! That’s enough! You’re swaying on your feet. You’re going to bed. Now.” She then turned to Zoro, who was sharpening his swords nearby, a glint in her eye. “Zoro, make sure Y/N stays put and rests. Don’t let them do any more work. And no sneaking off for ‘fresh air’ either!” Zoro, surprisingly compliant to Nami’s direct orders when it concerned the crew’s well-being (and perhaps avoiding her nagging), grunted in acknowledgement.

A touch of motherly scolding, though directed at you rather than Luffy or Usopp this time, crept into her tone. “Honestly, Y/N, sometimes I swear you have no sense of self-preservation! You’re not some indestructible monster; you need to recharge! Go lie down before you actually fall over and cause a real problem.”

Her concern was also intrinsically linked to their overall goals. A sluggish crew member hampered their journey, delayed their arrival at the next island, and ultimately hindered their chances of reaching the Grand Line’s end. She framed her insistence on rest in these practical terms. “We need everyone at their best if we’re going to survive the Grand Line. Don’t be selfish and neglect yourself. Your exhaustion affects all of us.”

Later, finding you looking particularly pale as you attempted to decipher a complex navigation chart, a softer edge momentarily softened her usual sharp tone. She sighed, placing a hand on your shoulder, a rare gesture of genuine care. “Look,” she said, her voice a little less strident, “I know you’re trying hard, and we appreciate it, but you’re going to run yourself into the ground. Just rest for a bit, okay? Let the others handle things for now.” She even fetched you a cool cloth and a glass of water, her usual demanding demeanor momentarily replaced by a more nurturing one.

Once you had finally succumbed to exhaustion and were resting (under Zoro’s watchful eye, no less), Nami’s practical side reasserted itself. She made a mental note of all the tasks you had been neglecting and the potential delays your slowdown might cause. The moment you showed signs of recovery, she’d likely be back to her usual demanding self. “Alright, you’ve had your rest,” she’d likely say, hands on her hips. “Now get back to it! We’re not going to reach the next island by lazing around. We have lost time to make up for!”

Zoro, true to Nami’s frustrated command, had been keeping a watchful eye. It wasn’t his usual form of observation – scanning the horizon for threats or potential land masses – but a more focused, almost analytical study of your movements. He’d noted the slight drag in your steps, the way you’d grip objects a little tighter than necessary, and the almost imperceptible flinch when a sudden noise startled you. He wouldn't have registered these subtleties on his own so quickly, but Nami’s sharp, pointed instructions had tuned his senses to these specific signs of exhaustion.

His usual gruffness seemed to have an added layer of quiet intensity. He was less prone to his usual grunts and more…present. If you were nearby, his gaze would occasionally flick towards you, a furrow in his brow that spoke of silent assessment.

Finally, after witnessing you nearly drop a barrel of supplies – a feat that would usually be effortless for you – Zoro decided enough was enough. He stepped into your path, his large frame an unyielding obstacle. “Oi, Y/N,” he stated, his voice flat and devoid of its usual edge of impatience. There was a finality in his tone that brooked no argument.

You blinked at him, a tired smile attempting to form on your lips. “Zoro? Just… moving some things.”

He didn’t move, his arms crossing over his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing slightly. He simply stared at you, his one visible eye unwavering. When you reached for the barrel again, he moved with surprising speed for someone often accused of being perpetually lost, his hand clamping down on your wrist. “Enough,” he repeated, his grip firm but not painful. He then effortlessly lifted the barrel himself, his muscles bunching under the strain.

“If you collapse,” he said, his gaze direct, “you’ll just be a burden. Get some rest and be useful later.” The words were blunt, almost harsh, but there was an underlying tone that suggested he was stating a practical truth rather than an insult. He saw your exhaustion as a weakness that could endanger not only you but the crew as a whole.

Later, as you sat slumped against the galley wall, trying to stay awake, Zoro walked past, heading towards his usual training spot on the mast. He paused, glancing at you before continuing his climb. He then proceeded with his rigorous sword training, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal echoing across the deck. It wasn’t a direct command, but there was a subtle message in his dedication to maintaining his own strength – a silent urging for you to prioritize your own recovery.

Without a word, he also started taking on some of the more physically demanding tasks you usually handled, hoisting sails, securing ropes, his movements efficient and silent. It wasn’t offered with any fanfare or even a glance in your direction, but the intent was clear: he was lightening your load, not out of pity, but out of a sense of duty to a crewmate who was clearly running on empty.

There was a moment later, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, when you were attempting to navigate by the stars, your eyes struggling to focus. Zoro, who often used the stars for his own sense of direction ( sometimes with questionable accuracy), stood beside you, his presence a silent anchor. He pointed out a constellation, his finger thick and calloused against the twilight sky. “That one,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “it’ll always point you north.” It was a small gesture, an unexpected offering of guidance, a subtle way of helping without making you feel incapable.

His concern, though gruffly expressed and physically enforced, was undeniably there. He saw your exhaustion as a vulnerability, a chink in the crew’s armor. His forceful intervention, while lacking in comforting words, was his way of ensuring your strength, your reliability, your ability to fight alongside him when the time came. He wouldn’t coddle you, but he would damn well make sure you rested, even if it meant standing in your way like an unmovable mountain. And perhaps, beneath the gruff exterior, there was a flicker of something more, a quiet protectiveness that went beyond mere crewmate loyalty, a silent acknowledgment of a connection that ran deeper than shared battles and stormy seas.

It was no shock who was next to notice, In fact he would have noticed before Zoro if Nami hadn’t directed him.

Jinbe, with his seasoned eyes that had witnessed countless battles and navigated treacherous seas, had also observed the subtle but persistent signs of your overexertion. He hadn't rushed to conclusions, his demeanor one of quiet contemplation as he absorbed the evidence – the almost imperceptible slump in your broad shoulders, the slight tremor in your hands as you performed intricate tasks, the way your responses sometimes lagged, as if your mind was struggling to keep pace with your body.

One quiet evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep indigo and fiery orange, Jinbe found you meticulously cleaning the ship's cannons, a task you usually approached with focused efficiency, now carried out with a weary slowness. He approached you with his characteristic calm presence, his large frame casting a gentle shadow. “My friend Y/N,” he began, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that carried a note of earnest concern, “you seem to be carrying a great weight. Are you faring alright?” His gaze was steady, his dark eyes conveying genuine care.

He didn’t pry, but his respectful inquiry opened a space for you to perhaps share your burden. When you offered a dismissive wave and a tired assurance of being “fine,” Jinbe’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Is there something pressing that requires such tireless effort?” he asked gently. “Perhaps we can find a way to ease your burden.” His tone was devoid of accusation, seeking only to understand and offer support.

Drawing on his vast experience, Jinbe offered his wisdom. “Even the strongest currents must calm and flow,” he stated, his voice calm and measured. “To push oneself beyond their limits is to invite disaster. The body needs time to recover its strength, just as a ship needs calm waters to mend its hull.” He emphasized the long-term consequences of your relentless pace. “A long voyage requires a steady pace. Burning oneself out early will leave you unable to weather the storms ahead. And the Grand Line, as you know, is full of them.”

He then framed his concern in terms of your vital role within the crew. “Your strength and capabilities are vital to our crew, Y/N. We rely on your immense strength. We need you at your best, and that requires taking care of yourself. A weakened anchor cannot hold the ship steady in a tempest.”

Jinbe’s support wasn’t limited to words. He quietly observed you struggling to lift a particularly heavy crate of cannonballs later that night. Without a word or a change in his calm expression, he stepped forward and effortlessly hoisted it himself, his immense strength making the task seem trivial. He placed it gently beside you, his gaze meeting yours briefly before he continued his rounds, a silent offering of assistance that spoke volumes. He also made sure you had a hearty portion of the evening meal, his large hand gesturing towards your plate with a subtle insistence that you eat well.

Despite his gentle nature, Jinbe possessed an inherent authority. When he noticed you attempting to sneak back to your duties after a brief period of forced rest, his calm demeanor took on a new layer of firmness. “My friend,” he said, his voice still measured but carrying a weight of conviction, “I understand your dedication, but you are treading a dangerous path. For the sake of yourself and the crew, you must allow yourself to rest. This is not a request, but a necessity.” His gaze held a quiet resolve that brooked no argument.

For Jinbe, his crewmates were more than just allies; they were his extended family, a bond forged in shared adventures and mutual respect. His concern for your well-being stemmed from a deep sense of responsibility, the same unwavering resolve he displayed in the face of formidable enemies. He understood that self-care wasn't a weakness but a crucial aspect of their collective strength, a vital element in navigating the unpredictable currents of the Grand Line and achieving their shared dreams. His intervention was a calm but firm assertion of that understanding, delivered with the quiet authority and deep care of a seasoned warrior and a steadfast friend.

Next, was our favorite chef—

Sanji’s perception of your overworking habits manifested in a dramatic flurry of concern, particularly amplified by his ever-present chivalry. He’d likely first notice your fatigue during meal preparations, his keen chef’s eyes picking up on your slower movements, the way you’d sometimes lean against the counter for a moment longer than usual.

If you were a lady, his reaction would be nothing short of theatrical. He’d likely rush to your side, a hand dramatically placed over his heart, his face etched with utter distress. “My dear Y/N!” he’d exclaim, his voice a melodramatic whisper. “You look as though you haven’t slept in days! This is an absolute tragedy! Such a beautiful flower withering under such harsh conditions!” He might even drop to one knee, his brow furrowed with worry. “Please, allow this humble cook to offer any assistance! A revitalizing meal? A calming herbal infusion? A comforting presence to ease your delicate spirit?” He’d then likely glare fiercely at any nearby crewmate, muttering darkly about the “cruelty” and “unfeeling nature” of allowing such a state to persist.

If you were one of the male crew, the theatrics might be slightly toned down, but his concern would be no less genuine. He’d observe your diminished appetite at the table, the weariness in your eyes. “Oi, Y/N,” he’d say, his tone more direct but still laced with worry, “you haven’t touched your steak. That’s not like you. Everything alright, buddy?” He might then slide a particularly hearty portion of food your way, emphasizing its restorative properties. “Here, eat this. It’ll put some fire back in your belly. Don’t go collapsing on us mid-voyage.”

Sanji’s concern was never just performative; he was a man of action. He’d subtly begin to alleviate your workload. If you were in charge of maintaining a certain part of the ship, you might find him inexplicably polishing it to a gleaming shine, or perhaps he’d take over some of the heavier lifting during supply runs, his movements fluid and efficient, ensuring you had less to strain yourself with. He’d also become your personal food monitor, making sure you ate proper meals, often preparing extra portions packed with nutrients and insisting you sit down and finish every bite. If you were too engrossed in your tasks to leave your post, you might find him appearing with a carefully balanced tray, a concerned frown on his face until you took a bite.

Once he managed to get you to take a break, the lecture would commence, delivered with a characteristic blend of exasperation and genuine care. “You idiot!” he might scold, flicking a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “What good are you to anyone if you run yourself into the ground? We need you up and running, not looking like a zombie! It’s like trying to cook a decent meal with dull knives – completely inefficient!”

True to form, Sanji would also enlist the support of his beloved Nami and Robin. He’d likely corner them, his expression a mask of pleading desperation. “Nami-san! Robin-chwan! You have to do something! Y/N is working themselves into an early grave! Their beauty/strength is fading before our very eyes! Please, use your wisdom and persuasive charms to make them rest!”

Underneath all the dramatic pronouncements and exasperated lectures was Sanji’s deep-seated desire to protect and care for his nakama. He saw you all as his extended family, and your well-being was paramount to him. His sometimes over-the-top reactions were simply his unique way of expressing this profound care. He wanted you healthy, strong, and able to continue sharing in their adventures, ensuring that no one he considered precious suffered under unnecessary strain. His concern was a passionate, albeit slightly theatrical, force, ensuring you were fed, rested, and reminded, in no uncertain terms, of your value to the crew.

The next one to notice was the great captain Ussop! Obviously…

Usopp’s reaction to your overworking habits would be a spectacle of exaggerated alarm, punctuated by well-intentioned but spectacularly ineffective attempts at assistance. The first time he truly registered your exhaustion, likely when you nearly walked straight past a treasure map he was dramatically unfurling, his eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“Gasp!” he’d bellow, clutching his chest. “Y/N! You look like you’ve wrestled a sea king… and lost! Are you being drained by unseen energy leeches?! We need a protective charm… or maybe a powerful sleeping spell! I saw one in a very reliable… uh… fictional book once!”

He’d then launch into a series of dramatic pronouncements about the dangers of pushing yourself too hard, his voice rising with each outlandish claim.

“They say that if you don’t get enough rest, your shadow will try to escape and live its own tired life! And then you’ll be stuck with a lazy shadow! It happened to my cousin’s friend’s pet chameleon!”

Fueled by a genuine, albeit wildly misdirected, desire to help, Usopp would then embark on a series of clumsy interventions. He might present you with a murky concoction in a chipped mug. “Here, Y/N! Drink this! It’s my special ‘Get-Your-Zoom-Back’ juice! It’s got… uh… some seaweed for strength, a pinch of that shiny rock I found for… energy… and a secret ingredient that makes you sleep like a log!” (It would likely taste vaguely of seawater and disappointment).

He might then offer to take over your duties, his chest puffed out with false bravado. “Don’t worry, my friend! Leave it to Captain Usopp! I shall shoulder your burden with the might of a thousand… well, at least ten… brave warriors!” This would inevitably lead to a comical scene of him struggling to lift something light, tangling himself in ropes, or accidentally misplacing crucial items.

Witnessing your exhaustion would also trigger one of his own well-established illnesses. He’d start clutching his head, his face paling. “Oh no… I think I’m feeling a little… weary too… Maybe it’s catching! We’re all going to become work-zombies! We need to quarantine the tired people!” He’d then start suggesting elaborate and utterly unnecessary health precautions for the entire crew, involving things like wearing special “anti-fatigue headbands” fashioned from old socks or eating only oddly colored fruits.

However, amidst the dramatics and the comical mishaps, a flicker of genuine concern would peek through. In a quieter moment, perhaps while you were slumped against a mast, trying to stay awake, Usopp might approach you hesitantly, his usual bluster momentarily absent. “Hey, Y/N… seriously though… are you okay? You look… really worn out. Maybe you should actually try to get some sleep. For real this time.”

In true Usopp fashion, he might also try to solve the problem with a grand, adventurous distraction. “Hey! I just remembered! There’s this legendary ‘Resting Island’ I heard about! They say the air there is so relaxing, you instantly fall into a deep, rejuvenating slumber! Let’s go! Forget about all this boring work!” (The “Resting Island” would likely be a figment of his vivid imagination).

Ultimately, Usopp’s chaotic reaction would stem from a good place. He genuinely cared about your well-being and wanted everyone on the crew to be safe and happy. His methods might be outlandish and his attempts to help often backfire, but his loyalty and concern, however clumsily expressed, would be undeniably present beneath the layers of his usual bravado and tall tales. He might be more of a hindrance than a help in getting you to rest, but his heart would definitely be in the right place, even if his “energy potions” weren’t.

Franky’s observation of your near-trip was less a subtle noticing and more a full-bodied, mechanical assessment of instability. One moment, you were walking with your usual (if currently sluggish) gait, the next, a slight misstep sent you lurching, arms windmilling precariously. Franky, who happened to be welding a reinforcement onto the ship’s railing nearby, immediately registered the wobble.

“Oi, Y/N!” he boomed, his voice echoing across the deck, the sparks from his welding momentarily forgotten. “Whoa there! You’re listing worse than a ship with a hole in its hull! You look like you’re about to break down, buddy! Your internal mechanisms ain’t lookin’ too ‘SUPER!’ right now!”

His first instinct, as always, was to offer a practical, tangible solution. “Yo!” he’d call out, tossing his welding mask aside. “Leave whatever you’re doin’! I got this! You look like you need a full-body tune-up! Go get some recharge time!” He might stride over and physically steer you away from your task, his large, metallic hand surprisingly gentle on your arm. “Don’t strain those circuits! I’m built for the heavy-duty stuff! That’s what being SUPER is all about!”

Franky would then launch into one of his signature analogies, comparing your exhaustion to a poorly maintained machine. “Listen up, Y/N! You gotta treat yourself like a well-oiled machine! If you keep running on empty, your gears are gonna grind to a halt! Just like a poorly maintained cola engine – sputter, sputter, BANG! No more SUPER power!” He might even gesture towards the Sunny. “Even our amazing ship needs time in dry dock for repairs and upgrades! You’re no different! You’re a vital part of this crew’s SUPER structure!”

His solution was simple and direct: rest. “Y/N! Time for some serious R&R! Rejuvenation and Relaxation! How about a dip in the pool? Or just go lie down and let your internal power core recharge! Think of it as a SUPER pit stop!” He might even try to engineer a solution, his mind already whirring. “I could build you a SUPER sleep pod! It’ll have built-in massage jets and play soothing robot lullabies!” (The lullabies would likely be surprisingly loud and metallic).

While his approach was typically boisterous, a genuine concern underlay his loud pronouncements. If you continued to brush off his concerns and try to push through your exhaustion, a more serious note would enter his voice. He might place a large, metallic hand on your shoulder, a surprisingly grounding gesture. “Hey, seriously, Y/N. You gotta listen to your body. We need you at one hundred percent, SUPER strong! Don’t burn out your circuits for good.”

True to his nature as a shipwright and crewmate, Franky would likely bring your condition to the attention of others. “Oi! Chopper! Sanji! Y/N’s lookin’ like they’re about to fall apart! We need some SUPER medical attention and some SUPER fuel in ‘em, pronto!” He’d be part of the collective effort to ensure you got the rest and care you needed, his loud encouragement echoing through the ship.

At the heart of Franky’s reaction was his deep camaraderie and genuine care for his nakama. You were part of his wacky, wonderful, SUPER family, and seeing you run down went against his understanding of how a well-oiled, SUPER crew should function. His boisterous enthusiasm, usually a source of high spirits, would be channeled into supportive encouragement for rest and recovery, his “SUPER!” spirit aimed at getting you back to your own “SUPER!” self. He might be loud and a little over the top, but his concern was as solid and well-built as the Sunny herself.

Brook, ever the gentleman of the Straw Hats, would likely approach your exhaustion with a characteristic blend of his ghoulish humor and a surprisingly poignant empathy, born from his own long centuries of solitude. The first sign he’d notice might be your unusually quiet demeanor during one of his musical performances, or perhaps the lack of your customary polite chuckle at one of his skull jokes.

“Yohoho!” he’d declare, his skeletal grin wide as ever, though his empty eye sockets might seem to hold a touch of concern. “Y/N-san, you appear to be moving with the speed of a snail crossing the Grand Line! Are you perhaps trying to catch up to my state of timelessness? Though, unlike me, you still have the distinct advantage of… well, being alive! Skull joke!”

He’d then likely draw upon his own unique experiences, the long decades spent adrift, a solitary soul yearning for connection. “You know, for many years, all I had was the creaking of my ship and the endless expanse of the sea for company. And trust me, even a soul, or the memory of one, needs its respite! You are surrounded by the precious gift of your nakama now, Y/N-san. Don’t let the relentless tide of work wash away the moments you could be sharing with them.”

His concern would often weave into his appreciation for life, a theme frequently found in his melancholic melodies. “Life is a fleeting vibrato, Y/N-san,” he might say, his bony fingers gently plucking a somber note on his violin. “Don’t let the persistent fortissimo of your labors drown out the delicate pianissimo of rest and joy. We must savor these precious measures we have together.” He might then suggest a gentle diversion. “Come, let us partake in some tea and perhaps a melancholic ballad! We must cherish these ephemeral moments of camaraderie.”

Being the ship’s musician, Brook would naturally offer his melodies as a form of therapy. “Perhaps a soothing sarabande will help you unwind your weary spirit, Y/N-san? I know a lovely adagio about the tranquility of slumber! Though, as a skeleton, my own sleep schedule is rather… nonexistent! Yohohoho!” He might then play a soft, lilting tune on his violin, the notes weaving a calming atmosphere around you.

In his own unique way, Brook might even touch upon the ephemeral nature of life. “We only have this one composition to play out to its fullest, Y/N-san. Don’t let it be consumed by an endless, exhausting crescendo of work. There will be ample time for the allegro of tasks later, but these andante moments of rest and connection with your fellow musicians are precious and will soon become cherished memories.”

Beneath the layers of his skeletal humor and musical metaphors, a genuine earnestness would surface. He might place his bony hands together in a polite, almost pleading gesture. “Please, Y/N-san, do take excellent care of your living body. Your well-being is a vital note in our crew’s harmonious symphony.”

Ever the polite soul, Brook would likely express his concern and offer his support, but he might be less forceful than some of the more… physically assertive members of the crew. He would trust that his gentle encouragement and his unique perspective on the value of life and companionship would resonate. His hope would be that his words, like a soothing melody, would gently guide you towards the rest you so clearly needed. “Yohohoho! Please prioritize your precious life, won't you?”

(I love writing Brook sm, the cello/violinist in me gets giddy when I write him.)

Luffy, ever the straightforward and fiercely protective captain, wouldn't grasp the intricacies of overworking at first. He’d likely just register the most obvious symptom: your persistent weariness. His brow would furrow, and his head would tilt in that familiar inquisitive way as he observed you day after day. “Hey, Y/N!” he might call out, his voice carrying across the deck. “You look… droopy. Like a flag with no wind! Didn’t Sanji give you enough meat?” He’d completely miss the underlying cause, attributing your exhaustion to a lack of his favorite food.

But as the days wore on, and he witnessed you nearly tripping over your own feet or saw the dark circles under your eyes, his carefree demeanor would slowly erode, replaced by a genuine, childlike worry. He might watch you intently, his usual grin absent. “Oi, Y/N!” he’d exclaim, his voice losing its usual playful lilt. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna fall over and bonk your head!”

Luffy wasn’t one for subtle inquiries. His concern would manifest in a very direct, albeit Luffy-esque, confrontation. He might suddenly grab your arm (gently, but with surprising firmness) mid-task, his rubbery grip surprisingly strong. “Stop it!” he’d declare, his usual cheerful tone replaced with a note of something akin to frustration.

He’d likely state the obvious in his own unique way. “Why are you always doing that?” he’d ask, his black eyes wide with confusion. “You’re gonna break! Like… like that time Usopp tried to fix the mast with sticky tape!” His understanding of “breaking” might be more akin to a physical object snapping, but the underlying concern for your well-being would be unmistakable. He might even try to physically intervene, his solution as direct as his question. If you were stubbornly trying to lift a heavy object, he might simply try to pull you away, his mind already leaping to a completely unrelated and infinitely more fun alternative. “Come on! Let’s go see if there are any weird fish jumping out of the water!” or “Shishishi! Sanji just made a mountain of meat! Let’s go eat it all!”

Luffy valued his crew, his nakama, above all else. Seeing one of his precious friends hurting themselves, even unintentionally, would genuinely upset him. His voice might take on a louder, more insistent tone, tinged with a rare hint of frustration. “You’re being dumb!” he might declare, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “You need to rest! Like when Zoro sleeps all day! But… not that much!”

His way of expressing care might not be eloquent, but it would be undeniably present. He might suddenly plop down beside you, insisting you sit down too. He might try to hand you a piece of meat, even if it was clearly not what you needed. Or he might just stand nearby, his gaze fixed on you, a silent, unwavering expression of concern on his usually cheerful face. He’d also likely bring it up to the others, his straightforward questions seeking a solution. “Nami! Chopper! Y/N’s acting weird and looks all wobbly! What’s wrong with them? How do we fix it?”

Luffy’s solutions, as always, would be unconventional but born from a pure heart. He might decide the best cure for exhaustion was fun and adventure, completely oblivious to the concept of needing actual, quiet rest. He might try to take over your work, his rubbery limbs flailing with good intentions but likely creating more chaos than order. Ultimately, his driving force would be to make you stop hurting yourself, even if his methods were as chaotic and unpredictable as a sudden Gum-Gum Storm.

Despite his simplistic understanding of the situation, Luffy’s reaction would be rooted in a deep and unwavering care. He wouldn’t understand the internal pressures driving your overwork, but he would instinctively recognize that you weren’t okay. His message, however clumsily delivered and ill-conceived his solutions, would be clear: “You’re my nakama. Your health and happiness are important. Stop doing whatever’s making you look so… un-fun. Let’s go do something exciting instead!”

The breaking point came during a fierce skirmish on a seemingly deserted island that turned out to be the territory of surprisingly well-organized bandits. You had been pushing yourself, your movements sluggish but fueled by sheer willpower, trying to keep up with the relentless pace of your crewmates. A bandit lunged, a crude blade glinting in the harsh sunlight. You reacted, but a fraction of a second too late, your footing unsteady. The world tilted, and the last thing you registered was a sharp pain in your side before darkness swallowed you whole.

You awoke to the familiar, sterile scent of Chopper’s infirmary. Your side throbbed with a dull ache, and your eyelids felt heavy. As your vision cleared, a sea of familiar faces swam into focus, their expressions a mixture of worry and… something akin to exasperation. All the Straw Hats were there, crammed into the small space.

Chopper, his tiny form perched on a stool beside your bed, was the first to speak, his voice uncharacteristically stern. “Y/n! You’re awake! Don’t you ever do that again! Collapsing mid-battle! It was reckless!”

Luffy, ever direct, leaned in close, his brow furrowed. “Oi, [Name]! You were all floppy! Like a wet noodle! You gotta eat more meat so you don’t break!”

Sanji, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his gaze softer than usual, chimed in next. “My dear Y/N! Such a beautiful soul shouldn’t be subjected to such… dramatic fainting spells! I’ve prepared a special recovery meal. It’s light but packed with energy. You’ll be back to your radiant self in no time!”

Franky, his large metallic arms crossed, looked down at you with a serious expression. “Yo, Y/N! That wasn’t ‘SUPER’ at all! You gotta maintain your chassis! Can’t go offline like that! We need all the systems to go on this crew!”

Brook, with a tilt of his skull, offered his unique perspective. “Yohohoho! Y/N-san, you gave us quite a scare! For a moment, I thought you’d decided to join me in the land of the… well, you know! But in all seriousness, you must cherish your life! It’s far too precious to waste away with exhaustion!”

Usopp wrung his hands dramatically. “I knew it! I knew overworking led to terrible things! I bet work ghosts were draining your life force! We need to put up anti-work wards! And maybe some lucky charms!”

Nami, her arms crossed, her expression a blend of relief and annoyance, stepped forward. “Honestly, Y/N! You scared us half to death! And you nearly messed up our chances of getting any treasure on this island! You need to take better care of yourself! It’s bad for the crew’s efficiency!”

Robin, her gaze gentle but firm, sat beside Chopper. “Y/N, your dedication is admirable, but as we’ve all observed, it has reached a dangerous point. We value your contributions, but your well-being is paramount. We need you healthy.”

Jinbe, his voice calm and steady, added his wisdom. “My friend, pushing yourself to such extremes is akin to sailing against a relentless storm without rest. It is unsustainable and ultimately harmful. We need you to be strong and capable for the journey ahead.”

Even Zoro, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, offered his gruff concern. “Hn. Weakness is a liability. Get some rest and don’t let it happen again.” It was his way of saying he cared, however blunt.

A wave of guilt washed over you as you took in their worried faces. You had pushed yourself too far, and they had all noticed. It was their own chaotic, caring intervention.

You managed a weak smile. “I… I understand. I’m sorry.”

Luffy grinned, his usual cheer returning. “Shishishi! Good! Now that you’re awake, Sanji’s gonna give you all the good food! And then we can have a party!”

Despite the somewhat chaotic nature of their concern, you felt a warmth spread through you. You were surrounded by your crew, your family, and they were worried about you. Maybe it was finally time to listen.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

My first post!! Hope you enjoyed.

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #straw hat pirates #straw hats #straw hats x reader #x reader #reader insert #overworked #angst with a happy ending #light angst #comfort

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motivatedaily · 2 years ago

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#motivation #motivate daily #you can do it #you can do this #self help #self love #love yourself #positive thoughts #love life #overworked #positivethinking #stay positive #positive change #positive life

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vera-deville · 3 months ago

Note

HIHIHI IM HERE TO REQUEST A TWST ONE SHOT !!

a Leona/masc reader, with reader having been exhausted from running around all day and relaxing with Leona. All the soft fluffies, and lil romances teeheehee

Tysm !!! <3

Home is Where You're Waiting

04/27/2025

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x Reader Word Count: 536 Warnings: N/A Gender: Gender Neutral Tags: @viviennevermillion, @achy-boo, @savanaclaw1996, @atomatoho3, @qaxdea, @katzline Notes: GOD was I craving Leona fluff; anon you came in clutch- Masterlist

You weren't sure how you made it back to your dorm room. Your body felt half-asleep already, legs dragging with every step, mind fogged over from running around all day. Errands, classes, helping Crowley with yet another "small favor" that turned into a three-hour ordeal - it had all stacked up until you were quite literally running on fumes.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you barely managed to toe-off your shoes before slumping forward with a sigh heavy enough to rattle the windows.

"You look like you lost a fight with a tumbleweed," a low voice drawled from across the room.

Leona, sprawled lazily across your bed, cracked open one sharp green eye to look at you. He didn't seem in a hurry to move - no surprise there - but there was something unusually soft about his gaze tonight.

You grunted, managing a weak, "Feels like it, too."

Leona stretched, long and slow like a cat, before patting the empty space next to him. "Come here, herbivore."

You didn't need to be told twice. Peeling off your jacket with fumbling fingers, you all but collapsed onto the bed beside him, letting out a groan that came from somewhere deep in your soul.

Immediately, Leona shifted, tugging you into his side with an ease that made it clear he'd been waiting for you all along. His arm slung comfortably over your shoulders, pulling you against the solid warmth of his body. His scent - sun-kissed grass and something wild - filled your nose, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

For a few blessed minutes, neither of you said anything. You simply lay there, breathing in sync, your tired muscles slowly unclenching one by one.

"You work too hard," Leona muttered against your hair, voice low and lazy. His hand idly traced patterns across your arm, slow enough to make you shiver.

"Somebody's gotta do it," You mumbled into his shirt.

"Not you," He shot back, not unkindly. "You're not the caretaker of this dump."

You huffed a soft laugh at that. "Feels like it sometimes."

Leona clicked his tongue in annoyance but didn't argue further. Instead, he shifted again, pulling you fully onto his chest, one hand coming up to card lazily through your hair.

"You should let me handle it," He said, the words almost a rumble beneath your ear. "I'm good at doing nothing."

You snorted. "You're an expert, you mean?"

"Exactly." He said smugly.

Another long beat of silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it felt right. Safe. You melted further into him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you closer to sleep.

Leona's hand never stopped moving, combing through your hair with slow, unhurried strokes. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your cheek, was like a metronome pulling you down into something warm and heavy and decadent and good.

"You're staying right here tonight," He said, voice already thick with impending sleep.

You couldn't have moved even if you wanted to. "Wasn't planning on going anywhere."

A lazy, satisfied hum vibrated through his chest.

"Good."

And that was the last thing you heard before sleep finally claimed you, wrapped up in Leona's arms, safe and sound.

Author's Note: I'm going through a MASSIVE spring cleaning right now, and one of the things I wanted to get done today was this request. I myself am craving some Leona fluff, so thank you so much anon for requesting this! I'm not sure if you wanted the Reader to be male, or have masc traits, so I just tried to write as gender neutral as possible (I'm so sorry if this isn't what you wanted)!

Masterlist

#twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst wonderland x reader #twst x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #tired #comfort #comfort fic #overworked #masc reader #gender neutral reader #reader #y/n #you #vera deville

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janwon · 4 days ago

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don't sleep...

#DRO #blue archive #sorasaki hina #overworked #dark circle

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lyn31 · 3 months ago

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Making another ask to make a request hehe i hope it's okay with you 🥰 can you pretty please write about mc's early pregnancy stage? (If you're not planing to write it already) Like how would they feel with mc's job as a hunter? I feel like during this time they might have a little argument since zayne probably would want her to take a break from her job the moment they found out y'know since her job is very pyhsical and the risks of harming the baby but mc might be a little bit stubborn about it? imagine her fainting during her mission because of fatigue and how would zayne's reaction to it be? (maybeee just a little tiny bit of angst? but definitely with a happy ending cause i can't handle sad ending, you can add a bit of smut too if you want hohoho) I'm sorry if this is too hard for you to write 😭 anyway thank you for all the amazing stories, i'm looking forward to read more of your writings! 🥰

It ended up being a hurt/comfort 🫶🏻🥹 I never thought I'd write one of these, but then again, that’s what I said the first time I wrote smut 😂

Speaking of smut—I didn’t end up fitting any in. I was thinking maybe it could happen when they get back home. Obviously no sex smut since MC’s still in early pregnancy, but some comfort smut would be nice.

BUT I thought this ending already tied things up with such a great little bow :D

Hopefully you like it! Let me know what you think (good or bad—lay it on me) 💕

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Stubborn

Summary

In the aftermath of a close call, you navigate the haze of recovery surrounded by unwavering love—from your partner’s steady care to your sister’s fierce loyalty—until the weight of fear gives way to healing, one quiet moment at a time.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Hurt/comfort, family feels, early pregnancy.

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Zayne closes his tablet with a soft click, his gaze already on you. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

You shut the door a little harder than necessary when you step back into Zayne’s office, the familiar scent of disinfectant and tea grounding you just enough not to explode. He’s still seated at his desk, calm as ever, reading one of his medical cases.

You just finished a call with the HQ.

“They’re not letting me work in the field anymore,” you huff, dropping into the seat across from him. “But if I really want to work, I can be support from base. You know—report duty, logistics, the fun stuff.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies mildly, folding his hands like he’s a neutral party in a murder trial. “But if I had, I might’ve said this was predictable.”

“I know it’s not possible,” you groan, tipping your head back. “And I don’t want to be in the field anyway. I’m not trying to hurt our baby.”

He reaches for your hand, which you take immediately.

“But they didn’t have to say it like that,” you go on, toying with his fingers. “Like I’m fragile. Like I need to be wrapped in bubble wrap and locked in a temperature-controlled room.”

“They didn’t say that,” Zayne points out, far too calmly.

“That’s what they meant.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did they also say it in a tone you invented for them?”

You shoot him a look. “You’re very smug for someone who’s supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” he says smoothly, standing up and walking over to you. “Which is why I’m supporting your decision to, what was it? Rot behind a desk with a highlighter and a clipboard?”

You groan again, burying your face in his stomach. “Don’t remind me.”

He chuckles, then leans down slightly, his cool fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “They’re not saying you’re useless. You’re not.”

Your hands wrap around him. “I’m not.”

He tilts his head. “Then stop talking like you are.”

You purse your lips, stubborn, but you can’t hold the tension when he leans down, voice dipping just enough to soften the blow:

“You’re still you. Even if you’re not kicking down doors right now.”

That gets a small breath of laughter out of you, even as you lean your head back against the chair again.

“...I’m still going to complain,” you mutter.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Zayne murmurs, brushing a kiss to your temple. “But next time you get assigned report duty, I’ll make tea.”

You glance at him. “...With the good honey?”

He smiles faintly. “Only if you stop acting like being careful is a personal insult.”

You snort.

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

The hum of the squad’s base is a quiet background drone—keyboards tapping, screens flickering, comms static fading in and out. You’re perched at the long center table, elbow-deep in reports you’d rather not be writing, a stylus clutched in your aching fingers.

Tara walks by with a cup of something steaming and suspiciously sweet-smelling. She pauses when she sees you still working.

“You’re aware no one’s asking you to finish all those today, right?” she says, eyeing your growing stack. “Unless you’re aiming for a stress-induced birth.”

“I’m behind,” you mutter, not looking up. “Someone’s gotta get them done.”

“You mean besides the two rookies we literally hired for this?”

“They’re slow.”

“They’re new.”

“They’re too new.”

Tara sips her drink and squints. “You know this is your villain origin story, right? ‘Hunter turns paperwork tyrant after desk job.’”

You give her a withering look. She grins and walks away.

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

Later, Lara leans in behind you without a sound, placing a small snack packet next to your elbow.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“Protein and fiber,” she says with that calm smile of hers. “You skipped lunch just because your husband isn’t here to give it to you.”

“I did not—”

“You took two bites of toast and drank a coffee.”

You frown down at the packet. “I’m not hungry.”

Lara just squeezes your shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat.”

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The next day, you’re rearranging case logs and editing mission summaries—because, of course, no one else formats headers right—and your back is killing you. You stand to stretch when Rose walks in and catches you mid-pose, one hand bracing the small of your spine.

She crosses her arms, already judging you.

“You realize you’re not obligated to be the Association’s unpaid intern, right?”

“I’m just keeping busy.”

“You’re nesting in spreadsheets.”

You glare. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m continuing.”

She tosses a folder onto the desk, tone sharpening just enough to dig in.

“You don’t like this work. You’re not even supposed to be doing it. But you’re acting like if you stop for five minutes, the world’s gonna forget you exist.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she cuts in. “And the worst part is, if I were doing this? You’d be the first to tell me to sit my ass down and breathe.”

You open your mouth, but the only thing that comes out is silence—and a wave of heat rising in your cheeks.

She sighs, more gently now.

“You’re not going to disappear just because you’re slowing down. You’re pregnant, not invisible.”

You drop back into your chair, tense and unwilling to admit she’s right.

Rose lingers a second longer. “You wanna prove something? Prove you can listen for once.”

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You're curled on the couch in the corner of Zayne’s office, tablet propped on your thighs, stylus dancing across the screen as you breeze through another stack of reports.

He’s been pretending to review scans, but he’s mostly been watching you.

“How many reports is that today?” he asks finally, eyes not leaving his tablet.

You don’t look up. “Just a couple.”

“That’s your third ‘couple’ since this morning.”

You sigh, the stylus slowing. “They pile up when no one does them.”

“There are other that can help you as well.”

“They’re busier than me.”

He hums, noncommittal. You recognize that sound—it means he’s noting everything and choosing silence for now.

He stands after a moment, crossing the room without a sound. You expect him to hover, maybe offer tea again. Instead, he crouches in front of you, cool hands gently taking your ankle before you can object.

“Zayne—”

“You’ve been sitting too long,” he says simply, thumb pressing into the soft, swollen flesh near your arch.

You let out a sharp breath—not from pain, but the sudden relief that spreads like warmth through your foot. It’s startling, how much it hurts and soothes at the same time. Like peeling off a pressure bandage you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he replies, entirely unconvinced. He keeps working, fingers precise, careful. “Do you want me to stop?”

The ache in your calves pulses in response—a dull throb reminding you of every hour spent hunched over case files and mission logs. You hadn’t meant to ignore your body. You just... forgot.

He moves to your other foot, and when he finds the sore spot along your heel, you twitch slightly.

The moment his fingers start to knead with practiced care, your shoulders sag. The tension there slips loose without permission—like your body had been waiting for someone else to give it the okay to stop.

“You didn’t even stretch today, did you?” he asks.

“I meant to.”

He glances up, expression unreadable—but the way he shifts, drawing your legs into his lap so he can rub deeper along your calf, says everything. You don't protest. You just let your head fall back against the couch cushion, exhaustion seeping out of you in slow waves.

“You’re not helping your case by spoiling me like this,” you murmur, eyes closed.

“You’re not helping mine by pretending you don’t need it.”

He doesn’t say slow down. Doesn’t tell you you’re overdoing it—you’ve heard that enough from everyone else. Instead, he presses his thumb gently behind your knee, finding the tight muscle you didn’t realize was sore, and stays silent.

It makes you feel safe enough to rest your hand on your stomach.

He notices that too.

After a while, he murmurs, “You’re not a machine.” His voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “Even machines get maintained.”

You sigh. “Don’t start lecturing. I already got one from Rose.”

“I’m not lecturing,” he replies, moving his hands to your leg. “I’m observing.”

You scoff. “That’s worse.”

He keeps his massage pace steady. “Your body’s telling you to rest. You’re just not listening.”

“Because if I stop, I’ll—” You cut yourself off.

Zayne’s hands still for a second, before he continues again. But he still waits. Doesn’t press.

“I just... don’t want to feel useless.”

“You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re growing a whole human. You’re working harder than all of us.”

You drop your gaze. Your hand drifts to your stomach, and for a moment, a flicker of guilt settles in your chest—before you brush it off.

He touches your knee gently. “And before you say that doesn’t count—it does.”

You exhale, stubborn to the bitter end. “I just want to do my part.”

“You are,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re quiet. You’re allowed to take care of yourself and still be part of everything.”

He stands, smooth and graceful as ever, and disappears into the office kitchenette. A moment later, he returns with a steaming mug and a little packet of dried fruit Lara had slipped you days ago.

You blink. “You kept that?”

He shrugs. “I’m observant, remember?”

He hands you the tea, careful not to say more.

But when you settle against the back of the couch again, sipping quietly, his fingers brush yours—just long enough to remind you he’s still there. Still watching. Still ready to catch you if—or when—you finally fall.

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

The mission had gone smoothly—standard sweep, zero surprises. And just when everyone was ready to head back and clock out, the patrol assignment came in.

You straighten without a second thought. “I’ll come.”

Tara, still adjusting her gloves, pauses. “Come where?”

“On patrol.”

A beat of silence.

Rose levels you with a look. “No.”

You raise a brow. “It’s just a regular route. You said yourself it’s the quietest zone.”

“That’s not the point—”

“I’ve been sitting for days, my legs are cramping, and if I stare at another report I’m going to set fire to the desk.”

Tara mutters, “That’s valid.”

Lara looks at the sky. “Please don’t actually set fire to the desk.”

“I’ll stay in the middle,” you add, like it sweetens the deal. “I’m a support unit. Ranged. I’m not going to be diving into anything.”

Rose folds her arms. “You’re still—”

“Pregnant, yes, I know,” you cut in, already tugging on your jacket. “Not made of glass. I’m not even showing yet. And HQ already approved base-side support, didn’t they?”

“They didn’t mean outside the base,” Rose mutters.

“They didn’t not mean it.”

Everyone looks at you.

You lift your chin, undeterred.

Lara speaks next, dry as ever. “Fine. But you’re in the middle.”

“I was planning to—”

Rose cuts in sharply, “You’re. Staying. In. The. Middle.”

You squint at her. “You’re not the squad leader.”

Lara, hand on her forehead. “You’re staying in the middle.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

Tara snorts, clearly enjoying herself. “I’ll take rear side. Can’t have mom-to-be dodging wanderer guts and ruining her pretty boots.”

“I hate those boots,” you mumble.

“Exactly. That’s how we know you’re tired.”

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

You fall into formation—Rose at the front, Tara flanking rear-left, Lara bringing up the back, and you moving steady in the middle. It’s familiar. Easy. Your steps sync with theirs, your gun balanced at your side, Evol humming at your fingertips.

No one says it out loud, but they’re all subtly adjusting around you. Slower pace. Widened spacing. You catch it—but you let it go.

Because for the first time in weeks, your legs don’t ache from stillness. The air smells like rain instead of hospital antiseptic or your base’s office.

The zone is clean—stray wanderers here and there, nothing your squad can’t handle in their sleep.

You’re tired, sure—but this, you can handle it.

Until the air tears.

It doesn’t start as sound—it’s pressure. Your lungs forget how to breathe a moment before the world bends and tears open.

A Deepspace tunnel splits open in the middle of the street.

“Contact—two o’clock!” Rose snaps, a violet slash coming from her hands already singing through the first thing that crawls out.

You shift, instinct kicking in. Your Evol flashes, syncing instantly to Rose’s—sharpening her edges, accelerating her strikes.

Tara surges forward, intercepting another, and you link to her next, boosting her reflexes mid-movement. Lara flanks right behind with a glowing barrier.

It’s a tight formation. Efficient. You keep your distance, keep your focus. Your hands tremble a little, but you bite it back. One more boost—one more sync—

It starts getting hard to see clearly.

Your head pounds. Your knees buckle, unsteady.

You shift focus again, try to keep up with the flow, but your Evol stutters with jagged pulses, like it’s struggling to hold a signal. The edges of your vision blur.

Something disconnects. You think you hear someone yell your name—

And then nothing.

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

It’s the faint beep of a monitor you hear first. A soft rhythm, too steady to be anything from the field.

Then fingers. Wrapped around your hand, cool yet steady. Anchoring you.

Your eyes flutter open.

White ceiling. Hospital lights. The faint scent of antiseptic.

And Zayne.

His face is the first thing you see—tired, eyes ringed with shadow, but locked on you with absolute focus the moment you stir.

“You’re awake,” he says—relief and fear tangled in his voice.

His voice has that low, careful tone he uses with patients—except it’s thinner now. Strained around the edges.

Before you can say anything, he’s checking you, doctor-mode overriding everything. Fingers at your pulse, brushing against your wrist. A touch to your forehead. Gentle pressure along your wrist.

“No fever,” he murmurs to himself. “Vitals are stable... you fainted from exhaustion.”

You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, brushing your hair from your face like he needs to see you fully to believe it.

Then, his hand lifts yours, holding it close. His lips press to your knuckles. Then your temple. Then your cheek.

No anger. No lecture. Just that quiet sorrow in his eyes.

“I was scared,” he admits, barely a whisper. “You weren’t waking up.”

Your chest tightens. You try to blink it away, but his hand squeezes yours, grounding you again.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding it in for hours.

“I should be angry,” he says finally, voice low. “But I’m mostly just... terrified.”

You blink at him, throat tight.

“You could’ve gotten hurt. Worse. You and the baby.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, steady now—but not cold. Just bare.

“I know you want to help. I know sitting still drives you mad. But pushing yourself until you pass out—how is that helping anyone?”

Your lips part, but he shakes his head gently, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying it because I love you.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry and raw. “I didn’t think it would get that bad,” you murmur, voice barely there. “I just… I thought I could still be useful.”

His expression doesn’t shift much, but his thumb stills against your skin. “You are. You always are. But not like this.”

He lowers your joined hands onto the blanket, his other hand trailing along your arm like he’s reminding himself you’re still here. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to me.”

You look away, eyes burning. “It didn’t feel that way.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His touch is cool, his presence a balm—but beneath it, you feel the way he trembles. Just faintly.

“I need you to take care of yourself,” he whispers. “Not just for the baby. For me, too.”

You nod—slow and aching, the fight bleeding out like water through a cracked glass.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says, and his voice shakes just enough to break your heart. He lifts your hand again, presses it to his cheek like he needs the anchor just as much.

“I know you were trying your best. But I need you to stop carrying all of it like it’s only yours to hold.”

His eyes meet yours—clear, but so raw. “You’re not alone in this. You never were. So please… stop acting like you have to be.”

You swallow hard. “I just... I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, jaw tight, like the words cut deeper than you meant them to.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You never have been. Not now. Not before.”

Your throat stings. “Then why does it feel like I am? Like if I stop, if I let go even a little, I’ll just fade into the background while everyone else moves on without me?”

Zayne shifts, leans forward, and rests his forehead against your temple.

“Because you're so used to holding everything up, you don’t know how to not fight for space. Even when no one’s trying to take it from you.”

You breathe in slowly. His scent, the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his presence—everything about him quiets the noise in your head just a little.

“I thought I was helping,” you whisper. “I wanted to help.”

“I know,” he says again. “But pushing yourself until you collapse doesn’t help anyone—not me, not the baby, not your squad. And especially not you.”

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye where a tear slips free.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” he says gently. “I need you to be here.”

Something in you breaks—not with violence, but with mercy. Like something brittle giving way to light.

You nod, a little shaky. “I still want to do better.”

Zayne presses a kiss to your temple. “Then rest. Let yourself breathe. That’s where it starts.”

And this time, when your eyes close again, it’s not from exhaustion—but relief.

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

You wake again to the sound of a quiet page turning.

Zayne sits beside you, long legs folded, a medical file in one hand—yours, probably—but his attention snaps to you the second your breathing shifts.

He sets it down. “You’re awake.”

His voice is softer this time. Less strained. The lines around his eyes are still there, but something in them eases.

You blink at him. “You’re still here?”

“I wasn’t planning to leave.” He brushes his fingers over your wrist, like he’s making sure your pulse is still real beneath his touch. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” Your voice comes out dry and rough.

He nods once. “That’s good.” Then he picks up the glass of water from the side table and offers it to you. His fingers graze yours as you take it—but he don’t pull away immediately.

You pause, then shift your other hand to gently hold his, anchoring it there. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, light but deliberate. He squeezes your hand in return.

“It means you’re listening to your body, not fighting it.” His lips twitch, just a little.

You exhale before taking a slow sip of the water, letting the coolness ease the rasp in your throat. His hand stays in yours.

When you lower the glass, you don’t let go.

And for the first time in hours, you feel more at ease.

Zayne’s thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles—once, twice. Then, gently, he says, “Rose and Caleb are here. With the twins. They’ve been waiting outside—Rose didn’t want to crowd you unless you were ready.”

You go still. “The twins?”

“They were very insistent about seeing their favorite aunt.”

You arch a brow. That’s your line—he usually waits for you to say it, then replies with, “their only aunt.”

But this time, he says it for you.

And something about that—gentle, unexpected—makes a strange, delicate flutter rises in your chest.

Tender. Fragile. But steady.

Hormones, yup, that’s why.

“Can I see them?”

Zayne leans in, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with careful fingers. Then he steps into the hallway. A few quiet murmurs follow. The door opens.

Rose is the first to step in.

She looks... fine. Hair tied up, usual jacket slung over her arm, lips pressed into a flat line. But her eyes linger too long on the monitor beside you. Her fingers twitch at her side like she wants to check the IV, double-check your vitals—anything to do something. Instead, she stops at the foot of your bed.

“You look like shit,” she says, dry as ever.

“Thanks,” you rasp, voice hoarse.

Rose exhales. Shoulders sink. “I mean. You scared the hell out of us.”

You open your mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Let me get through this without crying yet.”

Caleb enters with the twins—both wide-eyed and quiet for once, clinging to his hands. They’re three now, just tall enough to peek over the bed railing. Caleb gives you a small smile, nods once—like we’ll talk later—and steps aside.

“I shouldn’t have let you come on patrol,” Rose says, voice quieter now. “Even if it was routine. Even if nothing was supposed to happen. You’re my twin. My squadmate. I knew you weren’t at full strength. I just...” Her breath stutters. “I just thought if I said no, you’d push harder. And I didn’t want to be the bad guy.”

You swallow. “I wanted to be there.”

“I know.” She folds her arms, eyes wet. “But I should’ve been the one to stop you anyway.”

“You tried,” you say. “You did more than anyone. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

Rose’s expression finally breaks. She moves toward you, voice shaking. “You’re not behind. You’re with us. And you always will be. Just—don’t do that again, okay? Don’t scare me like that.”

You reach for her at the same time she leans in. Arms wrap around each other tight—shaky, unsteady, clinging like you're both trying to fix something that cracked open between you. Her forehead presses to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

“Me too.”

That’s when the twins—silent up to this point—decide they’ve had enough of being observers.

They scramble up the bed, climbing over your legs like determined little puppies, wedging themselves between you and Rose, their small arms trying to hug both of you at once.

And then they’re crying. Loud and messy and confused.

“Mommy’s crying,” your niece says, and your nephew wails, “Why is Auntie sick—stop being sick!”

Rose laughs through a sob, pulling them in tighter. “She’s okay, baby. She’s okay now.”

It’s a mess of limbs and tears and sniffles on the bed, and for a moment, the whole room is soft with the sound of people trying to breathe again.

At the side of the room, Zayne stands with Caleb, arms loosely crossed, watching the scene unfold.

“Should we hug it out too?” Caleb murmurs, glancing sideways.

Zayne gives him a bland look. “No.”

Caleb grins and then sighs, dramatic. “I thought we had something, Zayne. Where’s my love?”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “Buried somewhere beneath your need for theatrics.”

“Ouch,” Caleb mutters, clutching his chest like he’s been personally wounded. “Ruthless. No wonder your patients love you—you leave just enough emotional damage for a lasting impression.”

Zayne exhales through his nose, gaze drifting back to the bed where the tangle of you, Rose, and the twins is still unfolding—small hands clinging, Rose’s face pressed against your shoulder, the kids hiccuping their tears into your sides. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely, almost a smile.

Caleb watches him for a moment longer, then, softer. “...Glad she’s okay.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything to that. Just nods once.

And that’s when Caleb pulls out his phone. He doesn’t even hide it.

“I’m taking a picture.”

Zayne lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop him.

“For the photo wall,” Caleb says, angling it just right. “Or the ‘look at your chaotic emotional legacy’ folder for when they’re teenagers. Whichever comes first.”

He takes the picture with the absolute stealth of a dad used to capturing chaotic moments.

Zayne watches, quiet. But this time, when the screen captures your face mid-laugh, he doesn’t look away.

Your hand in Rose’s hair. Little fingers tangled in yours. Tears drying slow on your cheeks. A smile caught between sobs, still glimmering. The moment is already saved.

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

Notes

This week is just serious week I guess... Are we all just in our period? Is that why? Cuz I am.... 🫠😂 Joking aside, hope y'all enjoy it! 🫶🏻🥹

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sickiehugs · 2 years ago

Text

An overworker who so desperately wants someone to tell them to take a break, because they so badly want one and they know they need one but they can't give themself one.

They work themself sick, yet still, with a blanket wrapped around their shivering form, pale skin as white as the blanks that their foggy mind keeps drawing, and a crimson flush on their warm, tear-stained cheeks, they keep working.

Their partner checks on them.

"Oh...! Oh, honey. Oh, my baby. I didn't know it was this bad..." They rush closer and wrap their arms tight around their sick sweetheart and whisper, "Honey, please stop. You've done enough, you need to rest."

Finally given permission to have a break, they simply melt into their partners arms, practically going limp like a tired little ragdoll. "...okay..." is all they manage to mumble before sleep finally wins the battle that'd been going for weeks.

They're carried from their desk to their bed, covers are layed over them, they're tucked in nice and snug, and when they wake up, they'll probably cry. This is exactly what they needed someone to do.

#sickfic #whump #whumpblr #sickie #fever whump #sickfic prompts #sickfic tropes #sick fanfic #promptiehugs #overworked #hurt/comfort

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sunrotdropbrain · 8 months ago

Text

It's not that he lied he just failed

#dca fandom #sunrot art #sundrop #sun dca #sundrop dca #this was me I just turned it into Sun for content #daycare attendant #overworked #exhausted

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aetherdoesthings · 1 year ago

Note

hello!!! i hope ur having a good day/night! can i request headcanons or fics (whatever you prefer!) of reader falling asleep because of work and the monster trio's reaction to it? thank u!!

hello!!! i hope you're having a good day/night too!

forethoughts: gonna be out of my country next week for vacation, so probably not going to upload as much, but i'll try. i hope you enjoy!! also did tumblr remove yellow from the color choices? odd.

notes: gn!reader

Luffy

“Y/N! Check it-” With a kick, the Captain of the Straw Hat Pirates stepped into your office, holding a slab of meat. His excitement plummeted as his eyes fell on you. Your head was resting on top of stacks of papers, a quill in between your fingers. Your entire body was limp against the wooden desk in the corner of the room, the lamp above your head still burning bright.

“Y/N?” Luffy walked closer to you, his sandals thudding against the planks below. He tapped your head, shaking your shoulder, until he could see the slightest movement coming from you.

You shrugged Luffy’s hand off of you, forcing yourself to sit up. “Luffy?”

“Why’d you fall asleep?” A small frown appeared on Luffy’s face. You knew he didn’t like you overworking yourself and filling up your time with ‘boring stuff’.

“It’s just a nap. Promise.”

“Are you overworking yourself again?”

“N-No.”

“Y/N… I already told you. If there’s too much work for you, just tell me.”

“It’s fine, Luffy.”

“No, it’s not fine. I don’t want you to overwork yourself to the point you fall asleep. Come on.” Luffy shoved the meat into his mouth, his hands wrapped around your arms as he dragged you in the direction of your shared bed. Without much protest, your head was now resting on top of pillows, a soft blanket plastered on top of your body.

“Sleep. Okay? You better be asleep by the time I come back.” Luffy pointed a finger at your face. You let out a chuckle, nodding your head.

“Thank you.” You whispered softly.

The corner of Luffy's mouth stretched up to his eyes. "I asked you to join because I wanted to go on adventures with you, Y/N, I didn't ask you to join my crew because I wanted to see you work until you fall asleep! Please take care of yourself, otherwise we can't go on adventures anymore."

Zoro

“Oi, Y/N, it’s my turn. You can go back inside.” Zoro climbed up the crow’s nest, getting ready for his shift of watching over the ship. When he got up there, he saw you curled up into a ball on the side, fast asleep. He stared at your figure for a moment, before climbing into the circular space next to you. He flicked your forehead, gently slapping your face, to no avail. You were dead asleep, a quill balancing in between your fingers. Zoro placed a hand on your arm, retracting immediately. You were freezing cold.

“Tch. Falling asleep on the job.” Zoro crossed his arms, staring at your unconscious body, putting his swords aside as he surveyed the scene.The inside of the crow’s nest was littered with papers and notes, an empty bottle of ink haphazardly discarded on the side. Anger and annoyance clouded Zoro’s head, the urge to wake you up and scold you for prioritizing your work over the safety of everyone. But in the cold winter night, a drop of warmth entered Zoro’s heart as he stared at your curled up figure, shivering slightly, but still dead asleep. There were heavy eyebags visible on your face, your lips cracked. The veins on your hands were visible, bulging out at Zoro.

“Damn it.” Zoro scoffed, as he reached a hand out towards you, dragging your body closer to his. He propped you up against his chest, letting you use his body heat as a source of warmth in the cold night. “Always overexerting yourself, you idiot. Should’ve brought a jacket instead of your papers. Geez. Now I gotta take care of you.”

You were still knocked out, head resting on Zoro’s shoulder. Zoro let out a scoff, placing a hand around your shoulder, warming you up. “Tch.”

Sanji

Finally done with cleaning up the kitchen and preparing the next day’s meals, Sanji headed back to the bedroom you shared with him. He tried not to make as much noise as possible; at this time, you were most likely asleep already. He stepped into your room, closing the door as quietly as he could.

“Eh?” Sanji looked at the bed. The blankets were still neatly made from this morning, pillows organized with no wrinkles. He turned his attention towards your desk in the corner of the room, a small smile on his face. At least you didn’t go missing. You were dead asleep, head resting on your left arm, your right holding onto a quill. Sanji tiptoed over, examining your sleeping figure.

My dear Y/N… Sanji sighed, plucking the quill out of your fingers. Without waking you up, his hands curled around your neck and the back of your knees. Without breaking a sweat, Sanji scooped you up, letting your head hit the pillow before the rest of your body was on the mattress. He draped the blanket over your body, planting a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Sweet dreams, my love.” Sanji whispered, before heading back over to your desk. He took a seat, rolling up his sleeves as he stared at the sea of papers and ink. As the moon itself was about to go to sleep, and the sun slowly woke up, Sanji stayed there, helping you organize all your work and sort out all your notes, filling out blanks you had left or letters you needed to write. He didn’t care if he lost some hours of sleep; in a few minutes, he’d have to ‘wake up’ to start prepping the next day’s meal anyways. As long as you were well rested and taken care of, Sanji didn’t care if he would have to lose hours of sleep.

#one piece #op #monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #sanji x reader #monster trio #overworked #aetherasks

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mscherub · 6 months ago

Text

Self Care is Important, Spudling (Vil Schoenheit x Reader)

Gender neutral reader, referred to as Y/N, Prefect, Potato, or Spudling (a lot with Vil, lol)

Warnings!:

Stressed Reader

Passing out

Lack of self care; Reader

Small mental breakdown; Reader

Word Count:

Approximately 2.58k

Of course- of course Crowley had to assign you maintenance work on campus...again. I mean was this guy serious? Fixing up some architecture, whether that be painting or patching up small holes, then you had to fix up the flower beds, make them look presentable and pretty! Better points for the college, Crowley says. Sadly, however, you’re not done yet, because you have to go help out with a few clubs and observe them since you haven’t, and well, kind of can’t join one yourself, this again was to earn your keep as a student, Crowley says. Then of course, there’s the never ending supply of homework from Professor Trein and Crewel, which you have still yet to do since you’ve been so choked up with everything else Crowley dumps onto you on a daily basis. All for you to earn your keep in Ramshackle, all for you to earn your keep of you and Grim being considered students. And all for you to earn your keep of just barely even living!

It’s tiring, a cumbersome array of tasks on your list that only seems to get longer and longer each day. You get to bed late, and then you have to get up at 6, get yourself ready, get Grim ready, make breakfast, take the hike up to school, and the cycle repeats. You’re tired. You’re oh so tired…

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

You sit in class, your head bobbing slightly as you try and force your eyes open. You shake your head and rub your eyes, an action that has become the norm for you the past few days. You fight back multiple yawns as Trein finds it to be a disrespectful act in his classroom for some odd reason, though it’s his fault his lessons are so boring. You sigh and you look down at your paper, the words jumbled up to your mind and incomprehensible. Grim scribbles away at his assignment and he does a double take as he looks at you, tapping your forehead with his paw and gets you to look at him.

“Ya look like you’re dying.” He whispers as he crosses his paws, his face graced with an apprehensive look. He lets out a small puff of air and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Feels like it.” You take the time to rub your temples this time and stretch something out, anything to keep you awake at this point.

Luckily for you, the bell tolls and everyone shoots up from their seats, taking their books and papers and getting the hell out of the classroom to escape from the quiet lul of that annoying monotone voice of Trein. You stand up yourself, groggy and a little disheveled as you finally yawn and walk out with Grim.

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

Coach Vargas has you all doing a whole bunch of workouts. First it was sit ups, then push ups, step ups on the bleachers, lunges, and now you have to run figure eights out on the field. Grim cheats and floats as usual (wtf man…) and you run alongside the other students, already out of breath.

Of course your mind wanders off to the assignments, reviewing over the items at hand. Trein’s history essay is due tomorrow in class and you haven’t started it yet, so there’s that. You also have to do a write up on the one lab in alchemy for Crewel— woah…

Your vision goes a bit blurry, you stumble a bit as you slow down, your body suddenly giving up on itself and practically going slack. Then you fall face first into the ground, passing out, and going limp, resembling closely to a sack of potatoes.

Students suddenly stop and look at you as you lay upon the ground. Coach Vargas yells for them to get back to work until he also takes sight of you. Well shit.

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

Your head pounds and throbs as you finally come back to your senses, you flutter your eyes open slowly but the bright cool white color of the fluorescent lights prohibits you from opening your eyes anymore than just a squint. You try to sit up but your body feels it’s being weighed down by tons and tons of lead.

Grim pops up and he seems to be saying something but the words just sound like a cacophony of vowels as you slowly come back to the state of consciousness.

“Henchhuman! Henchhuman! What happened? You like…died! Don’t do that again!” He pouts at you, clearly worried as he gently paws at your arm. A nurse walks in and assesses you, giving you some sort of potion that tastes like strong rosemary and a hint of garlic, then sends you on your way.

“You were out for like an hour and a half, and everyone in class saw ya just fall right over! Ace created a big scene! And, not just that, Vargas princess carried you out! Bridal style or whatever they call it. It’s gonna be the talk of the school soon, no doubt.” Grim huffs and puffs, shaking his head and heavily gesticulating to further prove his point of concern.

“I’m just tired, Grim. Severely tired, stressed, all of the above.” You sigh, shaking your head. You rub your temples and continue to walk forwards.

“Clearly. I gotta tell Crowley off or something! He’s slowly burning you out...only I can do that since you're my henchman…” He murmurs “You need to take a break. A nice break.” He looks at you and smirks.

“Grim, what are you implying?” You narrow your eyes at him and cross your arms, halting.

“You’ll see, Hemchuman!” He chortles.

“Grimmy, I-“

He zooms past you and makes his way to the mirror chamber within the school. Your head still hurts but you can let him go off and cause trouble on his own, which he will do!

By the time you get to the mirror chamber, praying that Grim didn’t head to a dorm where even breathing wrong could be destructive, you can see the mirror to Pomefiore still rippling. You pause and your eye twitches, fucking hell, he did not.

You head through. What happened to him saying you needed a break?

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

When you get through the mirror, Grim is still nowhere in sight, which only means he’s inside of the building. Great! One thing after another it seems.

You head into the castle-like place and walk through the ornate and sparkly hallways, passing by students who pause and go quiet at your appearance, which is tired, hungry, and pissed the fuck off due to the shenanigans Grim is pulling currently at the moment.

As you finally push into the lounge, Grim is yapping to Vil, Grims eyes contorted into a look of worry and his face holding a small amount of smugness to it. Vil does a double take when looking at you, and as soon as you lock eyes with him, he looks you up and down, his eyes going a little wide as if he had just seen his makeup pallet get destroyed. A prominent frown envelopes his features, replacing his once stoic and demure demeanor.

“Spudling…” is all he sighs out. The disappointment in his voice is enough alone to make you hold back any complaints you had to tell to Grim.

You’re irked, and your shoulders tense as you look away bashfully. You look at Grim who floats next to Vil, his chin held high as he smiles like he’s won all the tuna he could ever ask for.

“Eyes on me.” His stern voice reaches your ears and you look back at him, your lips pursed and your hands now behind your back, standing at attention.

“Look at you…” he sighs again as he walks over to you, his eyes narrowed and unwavering as he inspects you carefully, most likely pinpointing everything wrong with you.

“Rook relayed the information to me as to what happened during PE. I would have found you myself if not for Grim leading you here. At least he’s useful for that.” He clicks his tongue, a regular action for him to make while disapproving of something.

“Truly, what makes you think what you’ve been doing is any good?” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one leg as he waits for a response.

“I. Well. You just- I don’t think you’d really understand, Vil, if I can be honest.” You shake your head. “I have to do it. To stay here, you know? So, it’s whatever. I’m fine, I promise. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night and that’s it-“

“Don’t play coy. Anyone can see that you’ve been disregarding your own body’s needs for more than just a night, and sleep is not the only thing you seem to be lacking.”

His words cause you to bristle up, your muscles close to cramping at how tense you’ve become. He looks at you still with a frown and the unamused tone in his voice is…unnerving.

“Ok, well, it’s things I need to get done-“

“I won’t sit here and listen to your feigning utterance.” Vil sighs, yet again, uncrossing his arms and moving to place a hand on your shoulder. In contrast to his demeanor, his touch is soft yet grounding. You visibly relax and you sigh out a soft breath.

“I’ll have Rook see Grim to Heartslabyul, you’re not leaving until I deem you fit to go on your way.” He hums as his hand slides to your upper back, silently and slowly ushering you to follow behind him. His heels click on the ground as you're already halfway down the hall, just now realizing what his words imply for you.

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

It’s true Vil took a liking to you, but he’d never admit that, his ego could be damaged, and he prefers to show that he cares through actions, anyhow, being a strong believer in that they speak louder than words.

As soon as you both reach Vil’s dorm room, he has you sit down at his vanity, gently spinning the seat so you’re face-to-face with yourself in the mirror.

“Your eyebags are so dark, and your eyes are sunken in, as well. Your hair also happens to be dry in appearance and texture. Are you eating? I’d hope so, because there is no way to take care of your body by skipping meals.” He rants on as his hands gently work to slip off your blazer, slipping it off of you and draping it over the chair.

“I forgot to eat.” You lie. A white lie. You weren’t that far off from the truth, skipping meals was necessary in your case, money was low and Grim needed to eat more than you, a sacrifice you were willing to make.

Vil pauses, his hands resting on the back of the chair as he looks at you through the mirror. If he kept frowning at you like that he’d get wrinkles, then blame you.

“Pitiful excuse, potato.” He clicks his tongue. “I hope you realize that you don’t have to lie to me.” He shakes his head.

“Wait, Vil, how the hell did you even…I’m not gonna ask.” You cross your arms.

“You’re easy to read, Prefect. You’re not as imperceptible as you may make yourself out to be” He huffs out.

“Lay it on me. It’s good to vent, Potato. It’s quite beneficial, especially to those who have a lot on their mind. It provides an escape.” His voice dips a little lower, becoming softer. You look at him through the mirror again and you see his facial features severely lacking that contemptuous look he always has, and instead it’s replaced with a soft, almost empathetic look.

“I…” is what you can manage to croak out for a second before you clear your throat and look down at your hands in your lap, leaning back in the chair.

“I guess, well. Crowley, you know him. I just have been busy with the work he’s given me, and also the assignments I have to do. Money is tight as always…I have to be careful with what I or Grim buys, so…” you slowly stammer out, the frustration and tiredness in your voice evident.

“I’m just stressed out. Tired, which I guess that’s clear to anyone, though.” Your voice quivers slightly, and before you even know it tears fall down your face, a sentiment to your situation.

You don’t hear any reprimanding from Vil, no sighs or clicks of tongues as you keep your head down, no, none of that. Vil gently moves off to the side of the chair and turns you to face him, gently dabbing at the tears that cascade down your cheeks with a tissue.

“I’m sorry…” you manage to mutter out weakly.

“Nonsense. It’s normal, sweet potato.” He gently murmurs back, his voice mellifluous and calming, anchoring you back to the moment. You take the tissue from his hand and you turn your head away.

“If it makes you feel better, I too, cry. There’s a science behind it in which it releases chemicals to promote a sense of well being.” He hums. “As well as eases pain.”

“I would have never guessed.” You sigh out, albeit sarcastically, now dabbing at your nose.

“Sarcasm? I see you're slowly reviving.” A small smirk forms on his face as he shakes his head.

“I think we have a self care night set in place for us, what do you say?” He inquires.

You hesitate for a moment but you meet his questions with a small nod, earning a genuine and gentle smile from Vil.

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

You are pampered, of course. It’s only natural. Vil goes to any extent for the people he holds dear, and you were in need of a night of relaxation. You are fed well with a nutrient dense meal to hopefully make up for your lack of care for your eating habits, and now there’s more in store…

After a few strenuous minutes of following his lengthy skincare routine, you both sit clad in silk robes that are probably worth more money than you could ever make in your life, but the moment is still peaceful. And even more to your surprise, you sit with Vil in his raw form. No makeup, no demeanor that yells “I’m the Vil Schoenheit,” no, just Vil.

He hums quietly as he deliberately shapes your nails, not sparing you a glance as he’s too focused at the task at hand. The calmness of the atmosphere is doing no help in keeping you awake and alert and you soon find your eyes start to grow heavy.

Vil quietly excuses himself to head over to grab a bottle of clear coat for your nails, but before you know it, you fall back onto the comfy bed sheets of his bed, perfume and other scents sending you into a deep sleep before you could even stop yourself from doing so.

“Y/N, would you like color or just the clear coat-“ He looks at you, shutting up immediately as his arms fall to his side. His footsteps are light as he shuffles over to the side of his bed, looking down at you. He sighs and shakes his head.

he moves the comforter over your body, bringing it up to your shoulders. He leans down slowly and places a tentative and soft kiss to your temple before leaning back up.

“This is why self care is important, spudling. I’ll let this slide…just once.”

I don’t know what I was on when I wrote this, but yep, that’s it. Thanks for reading lovelies!

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Pictures belong to Disney Twisted Wonderland but are edited by me :)

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