rodentluvrr

[rodentluvrr]

THIS WAS AMAZINGGG 😋

Rat commission by @rodentluvrr

[rodentluvrr]

Hello. I don't know if you write for Hawkins but can I request Hawkins x reader meeting at a bar, flirting and Hawkins telling the reader that it's destiny for them to be together because the cards told him.

The cards never lie

pairing: basil hawkins x reader CW: bar setting, alcohol, tarot card mysticism word count: 1.1k A/N: why hawkins kinda😏 I'm into tarot too so this was amazing

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ PLEASE DON'T HATE ME😩I promise I’m working on the series. My dog is sick and in the hospital right now, and I just don’t have the time or the right mental space to write.✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ��｡°✩

The bar hummed with low chatter, the clink of glasses, and the lazy pull of a jazz tune from an old radio in the corner. Dim lighting reflected over polished wood, catching the amber of your drink as you traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly. You scanned the environment, taking in the people surrounding you. You hadn’t come here looking for anything—just solitude, just a moment away from the noise of the world.

And yet, the moment you saw him, solitude became the last thing on your mind.

A man you could recognize from his bounty poster.

Basil Hawkins.

He sat at the far end of the bar, a striking contrast to the warm, unrefined atmosphere around him. He didn’t belong in a place like this. Too composed. Too refined. Too untouchable. How was he even a pirate? A part of the worst generation? It was too absurd. Yet, here he sat, a vision of pale skin and golden waves that cascaded over his shoulders, striking against the dark fabric of his coat. He carried himself with a quiet, unshaken confidence, draped in his long coat, golden hair spilling over his shoulders in thick, luxurious waves. It caught the dim light, glowed like something otherworldly. He was the kind of man that turned heads without trying, not because he sought attention, but because he was simply different.

Oh, and also because half the bar recognized him from his very expensive bounty poster. Just like you did.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that held your gaze.

It was the way he sat alone with a single glass in front of him. It was the way he moved—slow, deliberate, as though he was never rushed by time the way others were. It was the way his fingers idly danced over a deck of tarot cards, a ritual so practiced it felt sacred. It was the fact that, despite your lingering gaze, he hadn’t looked at you once.

That should have been enough for you to lose interest. But the longer you sat there, the stronger the pull became.

Intriguing.

And a challenge.

Without hesitation, you motioned to the bartender. “Put his drink on my tab.”

A small, barely-there pause followed before the bartender nodded, setting a fresh glass in front of Hawkins. You watched him carefully, waiting for a reaction, but he merely stilled his hands, fingers halting over the cards.

He let the silence stretch, acknowledging the gesture in his own way.  

Then, finally, his golden eyes slid toward you.

You smiled, picking up your own drink as you stood, making your way toward him.

“You don’t seem like the type to accept free drinks.”

He studied you for a long moment, gaze sharp yet unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted the glass—your glass—to his lips. Took a sip.

“I don’t,” he admitted.

Your smirk deepened. “And yet you’re drinking it.”

He set the glass down, tilting his head just slightly, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. “Would you rather I refuse?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I’d be devastated.” You leaned against the counter beside him, watching the way his fingers toyed with the deck of cards. “But now I’m curious—what made you accept?”

He exhaled softly, fingers stilling. “Politeness. Or perhaps amusement.” His golden eyes flicked back to you, something like interest sharpening his gaze. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You chuckled, swirling your drink. “So I’ve caught your attention, but not enough to warrant a real reaction?”

“Attention is not the same as investment,” he countered smoothly.

Your lips curled. “And what would it take for you to be invested?”

His fingers resumed their idle shuffling of the cards. “Something compelling.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “And how do you know I’m not compelling?”

Hawkins exhaled a slow breath, his gaze settling on you in that measured way of his. “I suspect you are.” He glanced at his cards briefly before adding, “I simply enjoy confirmation before assumption.”

You leaned in slightly, your smile teasing. “You don’t strike me as the type to make assumptions about anything.”

He smirked—faint, barely-there, but real. “Perceptive.”

“I’d like to think so,” you mused, sipping your drink. “And here I thought I’d have to work a little harder to impress you.”

He tapped his fingers against the cards. “On the contrary. Most people are either too obvious or too unaware. You are neither.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” he admitted easily.

You let the silence stretch, studying him, the way he carried himself. There was something deeply composed about him—not the kind of quiet that came from shyness, but the kind that came from certainty. The kind of quiet that meant he knew things before others did.

“You observe people a lot, don’t you?” you asked.

“It would be unwise not to,” he said. “People reveal far more than they realize.”

“And what have I revealed?”

He let his fingers glide over the cards, slow and deliberate. “That you’re drawn to things that resist being understood.”

You felt your breath catch slightly—not at the words themselves, but at how effortlessly he unraveled you.

“Not just things,” you admitted, voice lower.

His golden gaze flickered. “No. Not just things.”

Something electric hummed between you, something unspoken but undeniable.

Then, finally, Hawkins glanced down at his cards again, the shift almost imperceptible. “Shall we test a theory?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of theory?”

Without answering, he shuffled the deck once more before drawing a single card. He turned it over between his fingers, studying it for a moment before placing it face-up on the counter.

The Lovers.

A slow smirk touched his lips. “Interesting.”

You glanced at the card, then back at him. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?

“Perhaps,” he mused. “But the cards rarely mislead.”

You studied him, watching the way his expression remained composed, though there was the faintest hint of intrigue dancing in his eyes.

“Are you telling me this was inevitable?” you asked, voice softer now.

Hawkins tilted his head, golden strands catching the light. “I’m telling you that some things are simply fated.”

You didn’t look away. “And what do you make of this fate?”

He took a slow sip of his drink before answering. “That I was always meant to meet you.” A pause. “And you were always meant to find me.”

Your breath caught, something warm curling in your chest.

A beat of silence. Then—

“You’re quite the romantic for someone so composed,” you teased, though your voice lacked its usual playful edge.

He smirked, setting down his drink. “I prefer the term realist.”

You leaned in just slightly, close enough to test the waters, to see how far he’d let you go. “And what does your realism say about this moment?”

Hawkins met your gaze, unwavering.

“That if you kiss me,” he murmured, “I won’t stop you.”

And, well— You weren’t someone to deny fate.

[rodentluvrr]

OH!!! MY!! GOD!!!

The “A helping hand” is absolutely amazing. I want moreee! I NEED MORE!!!

Please tell me there will be more?

ahhh IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKE THE FIC AS MUCH AS I DO. 🥺 It's probably one of my favorite ones I've ever written. I don't know why it has affected me so much, maybe because I lived through it. But☝️I'll definitely make a part 2 (or more) <3

[rodentluvrr]

law x reader that matches his freak. theyre both clawing at the bars of their enclosure to get in eachothers pants. Thank you😊

pairing: law x reader CW: NSFW/sexual content, MDNI(18+ adults only), reader wears a dress, alcohol, freaky mutual thirst, beach setting, slight exhibitionism kink, vaginal sex word count: 2.4k words A/N: THIS WAS SO YUMMY THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS REQUEST. This song is so Law 🤤

The moment you walked into the bar, Law knew he was done for.

It was the dress. That damn dress. You never wore things like that—short, tight, low-cut in a way that made his mouth dry up. It wasn’t like you to show so much skin, and that was what killed him most. Because now he couldn’t stop wondering who you’d worn it for.

His grip tightened around his drink, fingers curling, trying to ground himself. The dim, golden lighting of the bar cast a glow on your skin, catching the curves of your collarbone, the slope of your shoulders, the ridiculous amount of thigh you had on display.

Law exhaled sharply, dragging his gaze away before he really started staring. His shirt—unbuttoned more than usual, thanks to the heat and alcohol—felt suffocating now. His cheeks burned, but he refused to acknowledge why. It was just the whiskey. Just the heat. Just—

Your eyes met his.

For a second, it was nothing. Just a glance, a passing flick of attention. But then you held it. A little too long. A little too knowing. Your lips curled, just barely, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Law swallowed.

This was bad. This was really bad.

He willed himself to look away, but his traitorous brain supplied him with an image—a memory, really—of last night’s dream.

You, straddling him. His hands gripping your waist. The taste of your mouth, sweet and warm. The way his fingers traced fire across your skin, the way you gasped into the kiss—

Law shut his eyes, inhaled through his nose. Fuck.

The dream had been so vivid he could still feel it. Still taste it. It had lingered with him all day, twisting his thoughts, making his usual restraint thinner, weaker. And now, this.

You. In that dress. Looking at him like that.

Like you knew.

His jaw clenched.

He needed to leave.

Or he needed to do something before he lost his goddamn mind.

He had tried. Really, he had tried to keep his distance.

For months, he had pretended this wasn’t a problem. Had convinced himself that the way his pulse jumped when you got too close, the way his gaze always found you first in a crowded room, the way he replayed every small touch in the dead of night—none of it meant anything.

Because the alternative? Admitting that he wanted you. That he ached for you. That the thought of you with someone else made something sharp coil in his gut, something that felt dangerously like possessiveness.

So he had kept his distance. Had trained himself to ignore it, to push it down.

And for a while, it had worked.

But tonight?

Tonight, it was over.

“You’re staring, Captain.”

Your voice was smooth, lilting, amused. You were perched at the bar now, drink in hand, watching him with open interest. Your lips were glossy, parted just enough to make his thoughts deeply inappropriate.

Law exhaled slowly. “You look different.” His voice was steady, but barely.

“Like what?”

His jaw tightened. He had so many words—too many, all at once, none of them appropriate. Like a fucking problem. Like you’re going to ruin me. Like I’ve thought about kissing you for longer than I’d like to admit.

Instead, he settled on: “Like trouble.”

A slow, knowing grin spread across your lips. “Oh? And what are you gonna do about it?”

Law swallowed.

The air between you was charged, electric. Your fingers trailed absently along the rim of your glass, drawing his attention to them—to your hands, to the way they might feel curling into his hair, digging into his shoulders—

Shit.

“You’re drunk,” he muttered, grasping at the excuse like a lifeline.

You laughed softly, tilting your head. “I’ve had one drink, Law.”

He cursed inwardly. You were right here, so close, and all it would take was one step—one slip of restraint—to close the distance.

Your gaze dropped, lingering on his collarbones, his open shirt, the flush creeping up his neck. “You look different, too.”

His breath hitched.

You reached out, fingertips brushing along the exposed skin of his chest—light, teasing, setting every nerve ending ablaze.

And that was it.

That was the moment he snapped.

Law’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, grip tight but not painful. His breath was uneven now, chest rising and falling in a way he couldn’t control.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice lower, rougher.

Your eyes flicked to his, wide with something unreadable. “Why not?”

His fingers flexed. His pulse pounded in his ears. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, you were right there, barely an inch between you, the warmth of your body bleeding into his.

His eyes flickered down to your lips.

Fuck it.

His mouth crashed against yours, all teeth and desperation. The kiss was a collision, months of pent-up frustration bursting all at once. You gasped into it, and that sound undid him completely.

His hands were on you before he could think, gripping your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you into him like he could drown in you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, sending shivers down his spine.

He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t care.

All he could think, all he could feel, was you.

The second you pulled him outside, Law knew he wasn’t making it back to the submarine.

Not without indulging you first.

The night air was cool against his flushed skin, a sharp contrast to the fire raging inside him. You were dragging him by the wrist, weaving through the darkened paths leading to the docks, but his mind wasn’t on the destination.

It was on you.

On the taste of your mouth, still lingering on his lips. On the warmth of your body pressed against him in the bar. On the fact that your fingers were still laced with his, your grip tight, your pace eager.

Law swallowed hard. He needed to breathe. Needed to think. But every time his gaze dropped—to your exposed collarbones, the curve of your thighs, the way your dress shifted with every hurried step—his restraint slipped further.

And then, you stumbled onto the beach.

The docks were too far, the submarine still distant, and the moment you realized it, you turned to him, breathless. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips swollen from the last kiss, and your eyes—fuck, your eyes—held something dangerous.

Something hungry.

“Here,” you murmured.

Law tensed. “We’re—” He glanced around, voice strained. “Someone could—”

But then you were kissing him again, cutting off his hesitation with the softest, sweetest brush of your lips.

And that was all it took.

The moment he kissed you back, it was over.

Your hands were in his hair, fingers fisting into the strands, dragging him closer, deepening the kiss until he was dizzy from it. His own hands found your waist, sliding over your curves, gripping, claiming.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was reckless. But he didn’t care.

Not when you were moaning softly against his lips. Not when your leg hitched around his waist, pressing yourself flush against him. Not when your nails dragged down his neck, leaving him shuddering.

Law groaned, his head tilting back as your mouth moved to his throat.

“Shit—” His breath stuttered, his grip tightening on your hips as your teeth grazed his skin. He could feel the sand beneath his knees as you tugged him down with you, your bodies sinking into the warmth of the beach.

You straddled him, hands moving with purpose, tugging at his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders, pressing urgent kisses against every inch of newly exposed skin.

He hissed when your lips trailed down his collarbone, his fingers digging into your thighs, trying to ground himself. But it was useless.

You were everywhere.

And he was gone.

The night wrapped around you both, the distant crash of waves drowning out everything but the frantic sounds of your breathing. Law was hovering over you, his chest rising and falling erratically, pupils blown wide with desire. The sand beneath you was warm, molded to your shape, but the real heat came from him—from the weight of his body between your thighs, from the way his fingers traced your skin like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

His hesitation was gone.

No second-guessing. Just need.

Now, there was only you and him.

His lips met yours again, slower this time, but no less desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head as he deepened the kiss, tasting you like he never wanted to stop. His free hand slid down, tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your stomach, exploring, memorizing, worshipping.

When you arched into him, seeking more, he let out a low groan—needy, wrecked—and pressed his forehead against yours.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. You cupped his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, feeling the heat radiating from him. “I need you, Law.”

That was all it took.

His lips trailed down your jaw, over your throat, pressing reverent kisses along the column of your neck. He was slow, savoring each moment, but there was an urgency to the way his fingers slid under your dress, gripping at the fabric, pulling it up over your hips.

When his hand brushed against your bare thigh, you shivered.

His mouth hovered just above your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “I’ve wanted this—you—for so long.” His voice cracked with emotion, a confession slipping out between heavy breaths. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You did know. You had seen it in his lingering glances, in the way he avoided looking at you for too long, in the tension that built between you with every passing day. But hearing him say it? Feeling him tremble against you?

It was almost too much.

You tugged at his belt, desperate, and he let out a shaky laugh—low, breathless, filled with something bordering on disbelief. As if he still couldn’t believe this was real. But then you guided his hand to your inner thigh, silently urging him closer, and all his restraint snapped.

His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles against your skin, creeping higher, teasing, until they brushed against the thin fabric between your legs. He sucked in a sharp breath at the damp heat he found there, pressing his forehead to yours as his fingers pushed aside the barrier, gliding through your slick folds.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked, almost disbelieving. He stroked you again, more deliberate this time, spreading your wetness over your aching clit. His jaw clenched, his breath coming out ragged. “You’re—” His lips brushed against yours, the words almost lost between your mouths. “You’re so ready for me.”

You whimpered, rolling your hips into his touch, and his restraint cracked even more. His fingers dipped lower, teasing, pressing just enough to feel how ready—how eager—you were. He groaned at the way you clenched around nothing, already seeking him, already desperate.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his body trembling. “I need you.”

“Then take me,” you whispered, guiding his hand back to your hip, pulling him closer, legs parting to welcome him in.

And when he finally pushed into you, he swore—a quiet, shaky exhale against your lips—before capturing your mouth in another kiss, swallowing the soft gasp that left you.

He pressed in deeper, slow but needy, his fingers gripping your hips like he never wanted to let go.

You clung to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your legs locking around his waist, pulling him impossibly close.

“Fuck,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, shuddering. “You feel—” His words broke off into a desperate moan as you rolled your hips, meeting him perfectly.

He wasn’t just taking—you were giving, moving with him, completely in sync, and it sent a violent shiver down his spine. His kisses turned messier, more frantic, trailing over your shoulder, across your collarbone, up your throat.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was intimate, overwhelming, a slow and desperate claiming of each other, hands gripping, bodies pressed so close that not even air could fit between you. Every thrust, every kiss, every touch was filled with everything you had never said out loud.

And he was unraveling.

“Y/N—”

His voice was strained, like he was trying to hold back, but the way you moved beneath him—the way you tightened around him, nails raking down his back, moaning his name like a prayer—sent him over the edge.

He snapped, his rhythm faltering as he drove into you harder, chasing the heat coiling deep in his gut. You gasped, arching against him, and the sound of your pleasure sent him spiraling.

“Look at me,” he panted. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I need to see you.”

Your eyes met, and the moment your gazes locked, you both shattered.

Your release hit you like a tidal wave, body trembling, back arching as a cry of pleasure escaped you. And Law, he was right behind you, his grip on you tightening as he buried himself deep, groaning your name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

The waves crashed in the distance, the cool night air washing over your sweat-slicked bodies, but neither of you moved. You stayed tangled together, breaths uneven, limbs entwined, Law’s weight pressing you into the sand in a way that felt right.

His lips found your temple, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there, and when he finally pulled back to look at you, his expression was unreadable.

But his hand found yours. Fingers lacing together, squeezing gently.

“We’re not running in circles anymore,” he murmured, voice still hoarse. “Not after this.”

You smiled, exhausted but utterly content. “No,” you agreed, squeezing his hand in return.

Law exhaled, dropping his forehead against yours, his smile small but real.

And in that moment, you both knew—

This wasn’t a fleeting moment.

It was just the beginning.

[rodentluvrr]

A helping hand

Pairing: Law x reader Summary: When you're rushing to submit your university application on the last possible day, an unexpected encounter with a tall, tattooed surgeon at a hotel makes everything a bit less/more complicated. CW: Anxiety, procrastination, swearing, college mentioned Word count: 3k+ words Tags: Modern AU, romance, enemies to lovers lowkey, slow burn, humor, surgeon/medical A/N: YOU FREAKS IM BACK‼️‼️ This fic literally happened to me in real life like it's inspired from personal experience —well, unfortunately without the Law part—but it felt like something straight out of a movie/fanfic and it NEEDED to exist out there. Anyway so if any of you want a continuation perhaps....it could turn into a series????😏 I had so much fun writing the dialogue between law and reader. Hope u enjoyyy. Let me know what u think :)

Returning from a short vacation at your parents’ house should have been easy. But today, it felt unbearable. The heat was suffocating, the city streets felt endless, and none of it compared to the real problem at hand—the fact that today was the deadline for your university application.

You had plenty of time. You knew this was coming. And yet, you spent the past week lounging on your parents’ couch, ignoring the looming deadline in favor of doing absolutely nothing. Now, in a desperate attempt to salvage your future, you were running through the city, searching for any open internet café.

Most were closed. They had small hordes of nerdy teenage boys loitering around, waiting for them to open and idly waste the afternoon on video games. When you asked, they shrugged, saying the cafés wouldn’t open for at least another hour.

You didn’t have an hour.

Panic clawed at your throat as you checked the time. If you didn’t register for your third year, you’d be disqualified—or, at the very least, your life would become infinitely more complicated. Your stomach twisted at the thought. Every step you took through the crowded streets felt heavier, more hopeless. You weren’t going to make it.

Then, you saw it. A hotel. It wasn’t fancy—probably a budget-friendly place for travelers passing through. It was your last hope.

You pushed through the glass doors without thinking, zeroing in on the man behind the reception desk. He had been talking to someone when you entered, but their conversation stopped the moment you rushed forward. You didn’t even spare the other man a glance. You didn’t have time for that.

The receptionist listened to your rushed, panicked explanation and, to your surprise, nodded in understanding.

“Actually, the hotel has a computer room available. You can use it,” he said.

Relief flooded you. “Thank you—seriously, thank you.”

He led you to the room, and the moment you stepped inside, your heart sank. It was small, cluttered, barely more than a glorified storage closet. And the computer—God, the computer looked ancient, a relic from the 90s covered in dust.

But you didn’t care.

You sat down, powered it on, logged in, and started filling out your information. Everything was going fine. Until the screen suddenly froze.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No, no, no. Fuck- You have to be kidding me.” This cannot be happening right now. Someone must’ve cursed you. How could you be so unlucky?

Frantically, you clicked the mouse. Nothing. You pressed a few keys. Still nothing. The whole system had locked up.

Swearing under your breath, you stormed back to the reception. “The computer froze. Can you help?”

The man frowned, following you back into the room. He sat at the desk, clicking a few things, but it was clear he had no idea what he was doing. The more he fumbled, the worse you felt.

Then, sighing in defeat, he stood. “I’ll ask someone.”

You barely paid attention as he left the room and called out into the lobby. “Law?Do you know anything about computers? Come help.”

Heavy footsteps approached. A second later, another man entered the room. It was the man the receptionist had been talking to when you came.

And just like that, your stomach flipped for an entirely different reason.

He was tall. His presence filled the room instantly, suffocating in an entirely new way. He barely glanced at you as he moved toward the desk, but in that fleeting moment, you took in everything. Dark eyes. Tattoos, sprawling up his arms and chest, creeping beneath the open collar of his shirt. And his hands—his fingers were long, marked with the word DEATH, and it was ridiculous, truly ridiculous, how your mind wandered for a second too long about what those hands would feel like around your throat. Something about his presence made it hard to look away.

Your body felt too warm. You blamed the heat.

He sat in front of the computer, working quietly. He moved with precision, like he already knew the problem before even touching the keyboard. The other man had to return to the reception desk, leaving you two alone in the small room.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “What’s your name?”

His voice was deep. Slow. You hated that it sent a small shiver down your spine.

You told him.

He finally glanced at you, shaking your hand. His grip was firm, warm fingers enveloped your hand.

“Trafalgar Law,” he said simply.

You raised a brow. “That’s a mouthful.”

“You can just call me Law.”

Your fingers slipped from his, but he didn’t move away, still focused on the computer.

“So,” he said, “what exactly were you trying to do here, young lady?”

Young lady? You bristled.

“Trying to submit my college application,” you muttered, arms crossing.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Left it for the last minute, didn’t you?”

You scoffed. “Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Perfect.” Your irritation flared. He didn’t know you. He didn’t know anything about you.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head before his eyes flicked back to you. “What are you even doing here, anyway? You don’t look like a tourist.”

You shifted, hesitating for a moment before answering. “I was visiting my parents. But I’m leaving in a couple of hours.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second, so quick you almost missed it.

“I could say the same about you,” you added, tilting your head.

His smirk widened just slightly. “I’m here for a medical convention.”

That caught your attention. You blinked. “Wait—you’re a doctor?”

His gaze met yours, unreadable. “Surgeon.”

You didn’t know why that information made your stomach flip. Maybe it was the way he said it. Or the way he was still looking at you, like he was waiting for something.

The computer’s screen was dark now. The man—Law—tried to turn it back on, but nothing happened. Neither of you spoke.

He held your gaze for a second too long, as if deciding something. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out. You were left with only the hum of the old computer.

You exhaled sharply.

What the hell was that?

Before you could make sense of the moment, he returned—this time carrying a sleek, modern laptop. He set it down on the desk in front of you, flipping it open with one hand.

“Use this,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“The hotel’s computer is ancient. You’re wasting your time.” He leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Use mine.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered.”

His tone was dismissive, like you were wasting his time by questioning him. Rolling your eyes, you sat down and pulled the laptop closer. It was fast, responsive—so much better than the dinosaur of a computer you had been struggling with.

You started typing, fully aware of his presence hovering nearby.

After a minute, you glanced at him. “Are you just gonna stand there?”

“In case you need help.”

You scoffed. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on university applications too?”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “No, but considering you waited until the last second to do this, I’d say you could use some supervision.”

You shot him a glare. “I don’t need supervision.”

“Debatable.”

Your fingers tightened around the mouse, and you forced yourself to focus on filling out the application instead of arguing with him. But it wasn’t easy, not when you could feel his gaze lingering, watching your every move.

After a minute, you glanced up, noticing the tattoos creeping out from under his sleeves.

“Seriously?” you said, cocking an eyebrow. “Trying to look mysterious with all that ink? You think that makes you intimidating?”

His eyes flickered to his tattoos before returning to yours. There was something a little smug about the way he smirked. “Maybe I like it,” he said, a glint of challenge in his voice. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

You laughed, leaning back slightly in the chair, eyeing him. “Oh, I’m sure you think it makes you look all tough. But what’s the deal with all of it? Some kind of ‘bad boy’ aesthetic you’re going for?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, unamused. “It’s not about looking tough. It’s about expression. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Expression, huh?” You smirked, your fingers moving faster over the keyboard, trying to focus. “Looks more like a cry for attention to me.”

His lips curled into a darker smile, the playful tone shifting into something more intense. “Maybe I want people to notice. Maybe I don’t care if you understand.”

“Yeah, I bet. Probably trying to distract everyone from your actual personality,” you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you’ve got some deep, brooding backstory to go along with all this art?”

He gave you a flat look, but the smirk never fully left his lips. “If I did, I wouldn’t be sharing it with someone who can’t even bother to apply to university on time.”

Your head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Oh, you’re gonna bring that up again?”

He shrugged, uncaring. “What can I say? I’m just pointing out the obvious. You seem like the type to talk a big game but can’t back it up when it matters.”

“You’re full of yourself, huh?” You leaned forward, looking directly at him. “Maybe you’re just mad because you’re too busy getting tattoos to actually have any real emotions. Trying to hide behind your ink?”

His eyes narrowed, an edge to his voice now. “You don’t know shit about me.”

You couldn’t help the challenge that rose within you. “Yeah, well, you don’t exactly seem like the type to open up to anyone.”

The tension between you grew, charged and thick, but neither of you looked away. The air was filled with a sharp sort of energy, the kind that made everything feel slightly out of control.

He broke the silence first, his tone still steady but carrying an edge. “What makes you think I want to open up to you?”

You shrugged, lips curling into a taunting smile. “Maybe because you're not as tough as you act. You’re just scared of someone seeing through your bullshit.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze flicking over your face like he was sizing you up. Then, without a word, he turned his attention back to the laptop and leaned against the desk again, his posture rigid, as if you’d pushed him too far.

For a few beats, neither of you said anything.

Silence stretched between you, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, he spoke. “You said you’re leaving in a few hours?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My bus is later today.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, but he didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to settle in, as if this was exactly where he intended to be.

Curiosity got the better of you. “So, what exactly do you do?”

He glanced at you, then exhaled through his nose, almost like he wasn’t planning to answer. But after a beat, he did. “I’m a surgeon. I told you, didn’t I?”

Your hands paused over the keyboard. “…Wait, seriously?”

“No, I’m lying for fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no mistaking the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. So he wasn’t lying? He didn’t seem much older than you—mid-to-late twenties, maybe—and yet, a surgeon? That explained the quiet confidence, the sharp, assessing way he looked at things.

“Huh.” You returned to typing, still processing the thought. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What does?”

You hesitated, then smirked slightly. “That you act like you know everything.”

He chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “I don’t act like I know everything.”

“You kinda do.”

“And yet, I was right about you needing help.”

“Wait,” you said, still reeling from the revelation. “How old are you, anyway?”

He paused, clearly considering whether he should answer. “Twenty-six,” he finally said.

You frowned. “And you’re already a surgeon? That’s… impressive.”

He didn’t seem to care much about the praise. “It’s just a job. You’re the one who’s in university, right? What are you studying?”

You stopped typing for a moment, taken off guard by the question. “Psychology,” you said, not quite sure why you were suddenly sharing so much with him. “I’m thinking about specializing in clinical psychology or maybe counselling. Something to help people.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his expression serious now. “That’s noble. But it’s not an easy path.”

You smirked. “Well, if it’s worth doing, it was never meant to be easy, right?”

He looked at you, his gaze softening for a second before he turned his attention back to the laptop. “True. But it can be frustrating. Surgery is like that too—people think it’s all glory, but it’s hard. It takes more than just knowledge. There are lives on the line every day.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t really thought about it like that, especially not from someone who was actually living it. “Sounds intense.”

“It is. But you learn to manage it. You have to.” His voice was quieter now, almost like he was lost in thought. “That’s why I’m here, actually. A medical convention. I mentioned it earlier.”

You blinked, still processing what he had said. “A medical convention? Here?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s in the city for a couple of days. Most of it is boring, but it’s part of the job.”

You couldn't help but laugh a little. “It sounds like the kind of thing you’d be more interested in than, I don’t know, enjoying the city.”

He gave a rare, genuine smile. “Maybe. But I’m not really here to sightsee.” He looked at you again, his expression softening for just a second. “I don’t usually get time to myself, honestly. The job’s demanding.”

There was an unexpected vulnerability in his words, and for a moment, you saw a side of him you hadn’t expected.

Before you could respond, your screen flashed—confirmation. Your application had been successfully submitted.

Relief crashed over you. “Oh my God. I did it.”

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It was done. You wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of your own procrastination after all.

Law glanced at the screen, then back at you. He seemed disappointed. Time passed too quickly. “Guess you got lucky.”

You groaned. “Can’t you just let me have this win?”

“If you wanted a win, you shouldn’t have cut it this close.”

You gave him an unimpressed look, but before you could fire back, he pulled out his phone and handed it to you.

You blinked at it. “…What?”

“Your number.”

Your breath caught for a second.

He wasn’t asking. He wasn’t even looking at you, as if this was just an afterthought to him. But the way his fingers gripped the phone—just tight enough to betray the fact that maybe it wasn’t as casual as he made it seem—told you otherwise.

You raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’ll give it to you?”

He finally met your gaze again, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Call it a gut feeling.”

Damn him.

With a small huff, you took the phone from his hand and started typing.

Law watched as you typed in your number, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. When you handed the phone back, you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips.

“You’re planning to call me? See me again?”

He scoffed, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Oh? Then why’d you ask?”

His jaw tightened for half a second—so quick you almost missed it. Then, with a slow shrug, he muttered, “Maybe I like to keep an eye on people who make dumb decisions.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Right. Because procrastinating an application is a crime now?”

Law tilted his head slightly, studying you. “It’s reckless. But I guess you enjoy living on the edge.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you glanced at the time and felt the reality of your departure settle in. Your bus would be leaving soon.

Pushing your chair back, you stood up, adjusting your bag. “Well, guess I should get going.”

He cleared his throat, as if dismissing the moment, and straightened up. “Anyway, I guess it’s good you’ve got this sorted. You’ve got your bus to catch and all.”

You stared at him, unsure of why you suddenly didn’t want to leave. Something about the conversation—about him—was making you rethink everything.

You hesitated, before speaking. “Yeah. I’ve got to go. But… thanks for the laptop. I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without it.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though his eyes followed you closely. “No problem. Just don’t make a habit of waiting until the last minute next time.”

You shot him a look, but he was already watching you with that unreadable expression again, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move, either.

For a man who had spent the last 45 minutes teasing and judging you, he looked… hesitant.

His fingers tapped against his phone in an irregular rhythm, like his body was betraying the indifference he was trying to project.

You tilted your head. “What? No sarcastic comment? No parting words of wisdom?”

He exhaled through his nose. “…Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

There was a pause, a hesitation so thick you could almost touch it. Then, just as you turned toward the door, you caught the slightest movement—his fingers twitching, like he was about to reach out. But he didn’t.

You bit your lip.

Something about the way he held himself, rigid and unreadable, sent a strange, conflicting feeling through you.

You took a step forward, then stopped. Looking back at him, you said goodbye.

You turned back toward the exit, feeling his gaze still burning into you as you walked away.

You left, but that feeling didn’t. Something about the way he’d been so close, his gaze lingering, made you hesitate for just a second.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if you’d ever see him again.

[rodentluvrr]

you freaks I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again. Midterms got me 💔🗣️

[rodentluvrr]

Yearning

Pairing: Law x reader Summary: Law is desperate for you. He craves you, and his usual calmness fades as he becomes more intense. CW: NSFW sexual content, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, no plot, fluff, mdni 18+ only Word count: 1.6k+ A/N: I NEEDED pathetic Law, I'm ovulating 😶 + the song I was listening to while writing this

The night was heavy, the sea’s rhythm lulling the ship into a slow, steady sway. The world had gone quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the hush of waves outside. Everyone had turned in for the night. Another day was over.

Sleep was pulling you under, your body sinking into the mattress, breaths soft and even. You barely registered the sound of the door opening, the quiet shuffle of boots across the floor. Then, the bed dipped, and warmth followed—a hand, trailing slow and deliberate along your legs.

A familiar voice murmured your name.

“Law?” Your voice was thick with sleep. “Took you long enough.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. His touch said enough. Fingers tracing the curve of your calf, his lips pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your ankle. Then another. Higher. A hum left your lips as his mouth mapped a path up your legs, heat blooming in their wake.

When his lips hovered dangerously close to where you ached for him, you tangled your fingers in his hair, a soft tug to halt him. But Law only hummed, his hands tightening against your thighs as if to keep them open.

“I missed you today,” he said against your skin, voice hushed, edged with something raw.

You let out a quiet laugh. “You literally keep me by your side all day, Captain.”

He huffed, burying his face between your thighs to hide the flush creeping up his cheeks. You felt the heat of it, the warmth of him, the way his grip on you tightened like he needed you closer.

And then he kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Soft lips pressing reverent, lingering touches to the inside of your thighs, easing them apart as his breath ghosted over your soaked underwear. A sound caught in your throat when he pressed a kiss there, right over the fabric, his tongue teasing through the damp material.

“Law,” you gasped.

That was all it took. His fingers hooked into your underwear, dragging them down your legs, eyes fixed on you—drinking you in. You felt his gaze roam your bare skin, his lips parting as if to say something. But he didn’t. He only stared, hunger darkening his golden eyes.

Heat prickled across your skin, self-conscious under the weight of his attention. Your thighs started to press together on instinct, but his hands stopped you.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”

You swallowed, heart hammering as you slowly let him spread you open again. He exhaled sharply, and for a moment, you wondered if he was restraining himself, holding back the need in his eyes. But then he wasn’t.

Law groaned as he dragged his tongue along your slit, savoring the way you trembled at the first touch. He moved slowly at first—testing, teasing—before pressing deeper, his lips sealing around your clit as his tongue flicked against it just right.

Your fingers fisted in his dark hair, thighs trembling around his head as pleasure washed through you. He groaned at the feeling, gripping your hips tighter as he pulled you closer. Law had never been the kind to indulge easily, always too controlled, too careful—but with you, like this, restraint was the last thing on his mind.

He was lost in you. Obsessed. Worshipping you like you were the only thing that mattered. And actually, you were.

His movements grew more desperate, more eager, like he needed to hear every sound you made, to feel every shudder of your body against his tongue. And when your moans broke into something sweeter, breathless and needy, Law knew—he’d worship you like his goddess for as long as you let him.

Law’s tongue moved with purpose, teasing your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that made your breath hitch. His grip on your hips tightened, his nails pressing into your skin as he devoured you like a man starved. His desperation was palpable, and you could feel the urgency in every movement of his tongue as he sought to bring you to the edge.

You moaned his name, fingers tugging at his hair as his mouth worked you, drawing out waves of pleasure that had your body trembling in anticipation. He was so fucking determined to make you fall apart for him—your pleasure was all that mattered in this moment.

“Law, please…” you gasped, voice breaking as your hips bucked up against his face.

“Shh, just let go for me,” Law muttered between breaths, his mouth now fervently sucking at your clit, dragging a long, languorous lick before flicking at the sensitive nub again.

The pressure was building quickly, your body moving instinctively with each touch, and you could feel it—the wave that was about to crash over you. You cried out his name, your thighs trembling as you reached your peak, the pleasure washing over you like a tidal wave.

He groaned into you, his hands moving to pull you closer, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he didn’t let up, eager to drag out every drop of pleasure from your body. He wanted you to be his, all of you, and his movements were frantic, desperate.

Finally, when you were left panting and trembling, Law pulled away from you, eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't yet been sated. His face was flushed, his lips wet and swollen from his ministrations as he stared at you, his chest heaving.

You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched by his sides. His pants were tight, and you could tell he was barely holding himself back.

“Law,” you whispered, your voice still shaky.

He groaned in response, his hands coming to grip the edges of the bed as his body shifted restlessly. You could feel the desperation radiating off of him, the subtle thrusting of his hips against the bed. He was trying so hard to hold off, but it was clear he needed more.

“I… I need you,” he breathed out, voice tight with restraint. His movements were jerky now, the way his hips ground against the mattress, desperate for release.

You watched him, a mix of lust and affection in your gaze as you moved to touch him, your fingers skimming over his chest. But before you could do anything, Law’s hand shot out, grabbing yours, and pulling it up to his lips. He kissed your fingers softly, but the desperation in his eyes spoke louder than any words.

“Did… did I make you feel good?” he asked, his voice almost shy, a rare vulnerability creeping in. The question was almost a plea, his eyes wide, searching for affirmation. The confidence that usually filled him was gone in this moment, replaced by a deep, raw uncertainty.

You couldn’t help but smile, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. "Of course, you did," you said softly, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "You always do."

The words seemed to melt some of his tension. He exhaled deeply, his face flushing with a mix of relief and embarrassment, and he gave you a shy smile that was far removed from his usual cool demeanor.

But he didn’t pull away, his hands gently pulling you closer as he moved to lay down beside you, drawing you into his arms. He placed a kiss on the top of your head, his lips soft against your skin. He was still hard, his body rigid with the need to finish, but there was something else now—something that went beyond the physical desire.

“I need to be inside you,” he murmured, voice rough and strained.

You nodded, already knowing what he needed. Slowly, you shifted, your body moving to position yourself above him. Law’s eyes darkened, his chest rising and falling with anticipation.

“I can’t hold on much longer,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper as he squeezed your hand, a small trace of vulnerability returning to him. “You feel too good.”

Without another word, you sank down onto him, and the feeling of him inside you made both of you gasp. Law’s hands moved to your waist, holding you tightly as you began to move, your rhythm slow but deliberate, each motion bringing him deeper into you. His eyes locked onto yours, his face flushed with desperation, the tension in his body now palpable.

You smiled at him, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss. “Then let go, Law,” you whispered against his lips, guiding your movements with steady hands.

With a strangled groan, Law’s grip on your hips tightened, and he thrust up into you, desperately chasing his release. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, each thrust more frantic than the last. He was close, so close, his chest slick with sweat as his desperation reached its peak.

And then, with a broken cry, he came, his body shaking beneath you as he spilled inside of you. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you down against him as he struggled to catch his breath. You felt the warmth of him, and his grip was possessive, like he never wanted to let go.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you trembling from the intensity of the release.

Eventually, Law's hands gently stroked your back as he sighed, his voice still raspy. "God, I… I don't think I’ve ever needed someone as much as I need you."

You smiled, kissing him softly. “I know, Law. I know.”

He held you close, pulling you into his chest as he ran his fingers through your hair, the exhaustion from earlier slipping in. "Stay with me," he whispered, voice tender as he pulled the blankets over the both of you, drawing you into his arms like you were his lifeline.

You nodded, settling against him. "I’m here. I’m not going anywhere."

His grip tightened for a moment, as if to reassure himself, before his breathing slowed, and he fell into a peaceful sleep with you nestled safely in his arms.

[rodentluvrr]

Fanboy

Pairing: Law x Reader

NSFW

Summary: You get a little more than you bargained for when you decide to clean your Captain's office for him and stumble upon his smutty fanfiction. Warnings: Very Mild Angst, Smut, Fem!Reader, Roleplay, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Edging, Minor Dacryphilia, Petnames (use of sweetheart and good girl) Word Count: 7.6k Notes: This was originally supposed to be a sub 2000 word silly one shot about Law writing Sora smut. As you can see, it very quickly got out of hand. I hope you all enjoy it!

You have come to terms with the fact your Captain does not and will never want you how you want him.

It was hard, at first, to hear his silky voice and see his strong hands and not imagine him saying what you want to hear as he holds you against the wall, fingers slipping slowly up your thighs to where you need him most. It got even harder a few years in, after he started wearing perpetually open shirts and coats, showing off the tattoos you so desperately want to trace your tongue across. But you’re finally starting to accept that he simply doesn’t feel the same. His eyes don’t linger on you when you’re around. He doesn’t show you any leniency (not that you would expect any, of course, but it’s hard not to notice his favoritism for Bepo when he forgives him in an instant for a transgression he had you swab the deck for). He doesn’t accept your help when you offer it, no matter how badly he needs it.

He just doesn’t really want anything to do with you, or at least no more to do with you than anyone else on the ship. Penguin and Shachi, who unfortunately clocked your affection for your Captain years ago, have come up with a long list of excuses as to why he hasn’t shown any signs of affection.

“He’s shy.”

“He gets embarrassed easily.”

“He’s worried about the power gap.”

“He only looks at you when you aren’t looking.”

“Yelling is how he shows his affection.”

And of course, your personal favorite.

“He’s just a nerd. He doesn’t know how to act around women.”

Shachi has repeated this one a lot, and as always you immediately dispute it. “That cannot possibly be true, Shachi.”

“Why not?”

“Look at him!”

“I know what he looks like. Doesn’t change the fact he gets nervous.”

“Captain has never, for even a single moment, shown any sort of hesitation or shyness in front of me. And he’s a grown man, a handsome one, not to mention a wanted pirate. You honestly expect me to believe he’s some shy little nerd who can’t bring himself to talk to me? He just doesn’t like me, Shachi. And that’s fine. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

“Handle what?” Penguin’s voice echoes in the small room he and Shachi share, which you’ve decided to invade for the day. 

“Her pining for Captain.”

“Ah.”

You huff. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s like…a fact of life. Something so easy to brush past.”

Shachi narrows his eyes in confusion. “I thought you said that’s what you wanted to do. Be casual about it, and all.”

“Yeah, I want to. It feels different when you do it.” You’re pouting. You hate that you’re pouting.

Penguin gives you a pitying smile, dripping with good natured sympathy that makes you clench your jaw. “It’s tough, isn’t it?” He sits on the edge of his bed, careful not to shift you too much. He pats your shoulder, tutting quietly. “It’s hard to get over somebody you don’t really want to get over.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. You finally lift your head, and once you make eye contact, his smile turns a little more teasing.

“I know a great guy you could use as a rebound.”

You sigh. “Is it you?”

He laughs. “Who’s to say? You don’t need him yet.” His smile softens again, something more genuine. “But know that if you really do give up, there will be other guys. Other chances. Give this one a good shot, a real one, and if it doesn’t work out? Come talk to us, and it’ll all be alright.”

Shachi pipes up as well. “It will work out, really. But if it doesn’t…” he wiggles his eyebrows, and you can’t help but finally give them the laugh they were clearly aiming for. Which becomes a full on giggle fit once they light up and give each other a massive high five at their victory. The room is warm, and you finally forget your worries for a moment.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Law’s voice cuts through you like ice, and your laughter stops in an instant. Shachi and Penguin are unphased, of course, still smiling freely.

“I just got off of my shift, Captain. I was going to take a nap, but…” Penguin pokes your side, and you let out a soft squeak as you curl in on yourself. You don’t miss the way Law’s eyes narrow slightly at the contact, the way he seems to focus in on the noise. He must be annoyed with you, with how you’re taking up space somewhere you don’t belong.

“I’m also off shift.” Your voice is small, embarrassingly so. 

“I wasn’t talking to you two.” Law’s voice is just as flat and authoritative as always. He’s nothing if not born to command. You’d love to hear what commands he might give you, if–

No. Bad. Evil. Your mind betrays you, as it always does. You sit up so you can hide yourself behind Penguin, make yourself small and inconspicuous and hope that Law will stop looking at you with those beautiful piercing eyes. You don’t know how long you can be normal under such an intense gaze. 

“I’m on break,” Shachi defends, causing Law’s eyes to shift over to him. You can’t help but let out a sigh of relief as you feel the pressure of his gaze leave you, and you wrap your arms lightly around Penguin, allowing your forehead to fall forward and press into his back. You can feel the rumble of a laugh working its way through his chest, though you can’t figure out why.

Law’s voice is significantly harsher than before. “Well, end it.” You flinch, unused to him snapping quite so cruelly. Law may have a shorter temper than he would admit, but he never sounds quite so furious, especially not with Shachi and Penguin. He seems to realize this as well, because the next time he speaks is much gentler. “I–Just get back to work. I need everyone at their best right now.”

��Aye aye, Captain!” There’s a hint of chuckle in Shachi’s voice, for some reason. He stands, bed creaking as he does. “You can use my bed if you want to nap in here. Let Peng have his.”

You let out a soft whine, but peel yourself off of Penguin anyway. “No, it’s fine, I should get back to my room anyway. I need a nap before I do anything else.” You think you see Law nodding in approval out of the corner of your eye, but when you turn to look at him, his eyes are firmly on Shachi, glaring at his back as he leaves. Just wishful thinking on your part, as always. 

Penguin softly pats your back as you walk past. “Chin up. It’ll all work out.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What’ll work out?” Law is staring at Penguin’s hand on your back.

“Nothing!” You try not to sound panicked. You fail, of course.

His eyes narrow.

“Sorry, Captain. This is a secret just for us lowly crew members. No captains allowed!” Penguin’s smile is relaxed and easy, and it almost manages to calm you down. You would love to play along, make a little joke out of it, but the idea of him finding out petrifies you. What if he’s disgusted by the idea? Horrified enough to kick you out of the crew, your home, your family? He wouldn’t, you know that, but the image in your head is so clear. Your chest feels tight, your head fuzzy, and you think at some point you started holding your breath.

Law makes a noncommittal grunt, scowl still clear on his face, but he leaves. A small mercy.

“Hey, take a breath, please. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”

“Are you gonna be alright to get back to your room? Do you need me to walk you?” Penguin’s hand rests gently on your elbow, and he looks ready to jump to your aid at any moment.

You give him a shaky smile. “I’ll be alright. Anxiety’s never killed anyone. Probably.” You take care to walk as steadily as you can out of the room, avoiding eye contact with your Captain, who’s waiting directly outside.

“You okay?” His voice stops you in your tracks.

“Yeah, I’m–” You see the disbelief on his face. “I’ve been better. But it’s okay. I’ll get there.”

“Are Penguin and Shachi giving you trouble? They mean well, but sometimes their jokes can go a little far. I–” He clears his throat, eyes glancing away for a moment. “I could talk to them. If you need me to.”

You chuckle. This means he really has no idea he’s the source of your anguish. Good. “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. They’re actually helping me through something.”

He purses his lips. You imagine how soft they’d feel on yours. “Helping you through something?”

“Yeah. I’ve been struggling with it lately, and talking to them has really helped.” You stare intensely at the wall behind him, worrying that you’ll come undone and say something you can’t take back if you stare into his eyes for too long. Something about him just makes you want to melt under his gaze, and you can’t afford to give in to the impulse.

He hums, eyes briefly fluttering closed. “I see. Well, I’m glad you have their support.” Is it just you, or is his voice a bit colder than it was before? “I’ll leave you be. Have a nice nap.”

“Thanks, Captain.” You try not to run back to your room until you’re sure he can’t hear your footsteps anymore. You change out of your boiler suit, desperate to be in something more comfortable than this, and throw yourself into your bed face first. You press your face into your pillow, trying to ground yourself. You aren’t allowed to imagine what it would feel like to lay on Law’s chest instead, his hands on your back, tracing meaningless patterns into your skin. You aren’t allowed to imagine the warmth of the blankets as his, or the comfort of your weighted blanket as his arm around your back. You certainly aren’t allowed to cry about the fact that it isn’t him, and that it never will be. Because that would mean you weren’t getting over him, instead getting lost in a fantasy of what can never and will never be. And you have no time for fantasy, despite what your heart keeps trying to tell you. 

You dream of him, as you always seem to.

You could cope with it, if it were simply sex. If it were about nothing more than his cock and his hands and the way his voice penetrates deep into your bones whenever you hear it, turning you pliable and needy. But today’s dream is one you’ve had before, and one you always dread.

I love you. His hands are gentle as they wrap around your waist, pulling you close. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. His nose nuzzles against your neck, tickling you and making you giggle.

I love you too, Law. I think I always have. Your hands rest on his chest, and you can feel his heart beating below your fingers, quick and thundering. You smile. Nervous?

Of course I am. Look at you. His eyes bore into yours, and you can see the affection flooding them. His nose brushes against yours, his lips growing closer, and his eyes flutter shut.

Yours shoot open.

No matter how many dreams you have about Law, you can never kiss him. How sad, that your brain can imagine a hundred ways he can fuck you and not one in which gives you the one thing you’ve been craving most.

You throw off your covers and throw on a bra, not bothering to get fully dressed. You need some air, which is unfortunate, considering the Tang won’t surface for at least another day or two. You can at least go downstairs and find a window, press yourself against the glass and pretend you’re out in the cold of the ocean, at peace with the world around you. You can avoid passing Law’s office, and hopefully that means you’ll avoid the man himself. You don’t want to burst into tears the moment you see him, and you feel too soft and fragile right now, like your edges are crumbling. Half of you is still in the dream, melting into fantasy, and being snapped into reality with a single look might shatter you.

You pad quietly out into the hallway, unsure of what time it is, not wanting to wake anyone. It’s impossible to tell what time of day it is on the Tang when you’re underwater, lit only by harsh fluorescents that constantly buzz. It’s peaceful, feeling the cold metal of the floors seep through your socks and hearing the quiet thunk of your footsteps muffled by the fabric. 

“Are you heading downstairs?”

You turn to see Bepo, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, papers in hand. “Yeah, I am. Why? Do you need something?”

“Can you run these to Captain for me? I would, but–” 

You see him wince as he speaks, and you immediately know what the problem is. Before you can even think about it, you’re swiping the papers from his hands easily. “Yeah, of course, big guy. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you so much!” He’s off in an instant.

You stare at the papers, willing yourself into reality. You’re going to bring something to your captain. The man you have no other relationship with. Just doing your job. And afterwards you can go back to your room and cry all you want, if you really feel like you need to.

Law should be in his office right now, buried up to his neck in paperwork. It doesn’t feel great to add to that pile, or to let him see you so underdressed, but Bepo needed help. You can’t let him suffer just to avoid some embarrassment. You make your way down, knocking lightly against his office door.

No voice calls you inside.

Strange. He should be here. Maybe he fell asleep at his desk again. You’ve heard the others scold him for that dozens of times, and you’ve caught him yourself once or twice. He’s going to ruin his back if he keeps doing that. You crack open the door, ready to shift him into a more comfortable position, but you find your Captain isn’t actually there at all. His desk is a mess, papers everywhere, a sharp contrast from the neatly organized shelves and minimalist look of the rest of the room.

“Maybe I should tidy up for him,” you mutter to yourself. Law hates asking for help with things he believes he should be able to handle on his own, but clearly this is getting away from him. And even if he wasn’t grateful for the intrusion, at least it might lighten his load a little. You’d do nearly anything to ease your Captain’s burdens, if he’d just let you.

Before you realize it, your hands are on the papers, your former fragility forgotten as you get lost in the calm that such a mundane task brings you. You start by simply organizing the papers into stacks based on their titles and a quick skim of their opening paragraphs. You don’t read any further, not wanting to read anything not meant for your eyes, and you quickly find you’re able to organize everything into three neat stacks: medical papers, ship logs, and a third stack of anything that doesn’t fit into the previous two. You’re nearly finished when you find a title that makes you pause.

You can’t figure out what What You Can’t Have could mean, or what this bundle of papers is doing in Law’s office. Skimming the first few paragraphs doesn’t give you any explanation, until you start reading more closely and see a name: Sora.

Everyone in the North Blue knows about Sora, Warrior of the Sea, and everyone on this ship knows it more intimately than most. Your Captain’s fondness for the series and your fondness for him means you know it very well, well enough to know this is not one of the noncanonical (but still official) spinoff novels, or a novel adaptation of one of the comics. There’s a character you’ve never heard of before in this, one that, if you were a more paranoid person, you would suspect is based on you. She can’t be, of course. That would be ridiculous. But as you read her introductory paragraph, you can’t help but notice she bears a striking physical resemblance to you. Same hair and eye color, same height, same build. But she can’t be you. She’s described as seductive, enchanting, and many other things you know nobody would ever say about you.

You should put this down. But the writing style is so familiar, and so are the handwritten edits in the margins. Your captain wrote this. You had no idea this was what he did in what little spare time he has. You keep telling yourself to stop reading, to tuck it away and pretend you didn’t see it, because really, you know he wouldn’t want you to have seen it, easily embarrassed as he is. But there’s so much passion in the words, so much care, and frankly? It’s good. Really good. You think he has some real talent, in something you would have never expected him to even try. His care for the series oozes from every word, and he’s really good at building tension, and–

Oh.

Your captain hasn’t just been writing fanfiction about his favorite hero.

He’s been writing smut.

Really good smut, honestly.

You lean against the desk, completely enraptured by his work. The tension between Sora and this unnamed woman is astonishing, every single word winding you up tighter as you wait for the dam to break. Before you know it, you’re fully bent over the desk, clutching the page in your hands, trying not to rub your thighs together at the very graphic descriptions of what Sora is doing with his hands. You imagine Law’s hands, lithe and long, sliding under your shirt like Sora’s do under this mystery woman’s. You imagine his breath puffing against your ear as he instructs, be good for me, now, and maybe you can finally get what you want, just like Sora does. You imagine him moving impossibly closer, feeling his hardness press into your thigh as– 

“What are you doing in here?”

You freeze. Your captain is standing in the door, papers in hand and scowl severe. If you didn’t know better, you would think for a moment his eyes lingered on the cleavage you’re showing by leaning over this far. But you do know better, so you tell yourself he’s simply observing the papers in your hands, even if his gaze seems aimed too high for that. You shoot up, papers still in hand, shirt riding up in the process, and god does it look like his eyes dip down to your exposed midriff in the process. But they don’t. You have more pressing matters than your delusions, anyway.

“Hi Captain!”

“...Hi.”

“I–Um. I was organizing your desk for you.”

His eyes linger on the three stacks of papers, humming quietly. “I see that. …Why?”

“Bepo had me run papers down to you, but you weren’t here, and–and your desk was so messy, so much messier than usual, and I was worried maybe you were overwhelmed and I thought it might help.” You’re speaking a mile a minute, clutching the papers close to your chest in some desperate attempt to ground yourself, but the sound of the papers wrinkling causes him to glance down and now you’re sure that just for a moment he was looking at your boobs and you’re far more flustered than you were when you began.

And even worse, he smiles. It’s a soft, gentle thing, which sneaks so slowly onto his face you don’t even know if he realizes it’s there. But it is. And it’s beautiful. “Thank you, then. I appreciate the thought.”

Your grip eases on the papers for a second, and the crinkling brings his attention back to them. You don’t know what gives it away, but with the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his lips part, you know that he knows what you have in your hands. The way he whispers your name, the fear in it, makes your heart clench.

“Captain–”

“Did you–I–” He takes a breath, gathers himself. “Did you read anything you weren’t supposed to?”

God, you did. You’re halfway through a sex scene, flushed and flustered and thinking about your captain in ways that are wholly and completely inappropriate. You’re panicking. You can’t let Law see how flustered you are, can’t let him realize that you were fantasizing about him, lusting after him in his office while he’s out like some kind of pervert. So, trying to turn this around on him, throw him off his rhythm, you decide to make a deeply out of character choice.

You open your mouth, taking a dramatic breath as though you're going to start reading aloud, and you can see the panic in Law's eyes. Before you can decide between reading and handing it over to spare him the embarrassment, you hear “Shambles!” as the papers in your hand are swapped with the ones he walked in with. You're momentarily disappointed, before you look down and are struck with intense and all consuming delight.

In trying to get the fanfiction out of your hands, Law has, in fact, given you more of his fanfiction to read.

You gasp quietly, cheshire cat grin widening. Law looks at you with confusion, clearly still so thrown he hasn't realized what's just transpired. In your current state, you can only think of one way to inform him.

"Her hands were soft and gentle, so small compared to his-"

"STOP." He lunges forward around the desk, powers forgotten as he decides to bullrush you to get the papers out of your hands. His hands wrap around your wrists, and before you know it you’re pinned against the desk, chests pressed together, his leg pressed between your thighs. You flush, overwhelmed by the sensation of his hard body against yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Do you think this is funny?”

You open your mouth to respond, but his lips are so close, and you feel something else pressing into your midriff. You make a small choked noise, and his glare doesn’t dampen.

“Are you trying to embarrass your captain?”

“I–uh–Captain–” You can barely squeak out anything, and he presses closer.

“Answer me.”

“You’re so close.”

He pauses.

He blinks.

And suddenly your captain is across the room, face bright red, holding his papers in front of his chest like a shield. “I–um.” He stares at you a moment, his eyes moving from your face to your chest to your hips and back up, and suddenly the papers shifts down in front of his crotch.

He couldn’t…

Could he?

Before you can process this, he’s speaking again, his tone far less authoritative than it was before. “How far did you read?”

“Uh–pretty far.”

You could swear his voice cracks a little as he whispers, “Oh god. This is–you were never supposed to see that.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep reading, it was just–it was really good.”

He stares at you a moment, mouth agape. “What?”

“It was–I liked it a lot. I didn’t even mean to start it, I just couldn’t figure out what pile to put it in, and then I got really invested, and–I’m really, really sorry, Captain.”

“You liked it?” His eyes are narrowed, looking at you like something dangerous, like if he shows a moment of weakness you’ll pounce. He approaches you slowly, inching closer and closer.

“...Yeah. I did. I was really impressed, actually. I didn’t know you were a writer.”

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t call myself that.”

“Why?”

“I just…don’t know if I’m good at it.” He sounds small in a way you’ve never heard him. You’ve never seen Law less than confident before. He absolutely radiates it, a constant smug grin and twinkle in his eyes. It suits him far better than slumped shoulders and wringing hands.

“Are you kidding? It was amazing. What I was able to read, anyway. I couldn’t bear to put it down.” You reach for him for just a moment, your hand ready to touch his shoulder, but something in you pulls it back. You can’t bring yourself to touch him, not as you are. 

He won’t look at you. You can feel his regret in sharing, in allowing his mask to crack slightly. There’s a bitterness to his tone as he snaps at you like a wounded animal. “You expect me to believe that? That you didn’t just read it to laugh at me?”

You can’t keep the pity off of your face. His first instinct is always to believe he’ll be hurt, that an open hand is a sign of a slap, and not a kind touch. “Why on earth would I do that, Captain?”

His shoulders unknot a bit as he thinks it over. You have never done anything to hurt him, and to tease in such a cruel way is not in your nature. He’s not relaxed, not quite, but he isn’t ready to run anymore. He leans against a nearby table, parking himself at a distance but assuring you he won’t go further. “I suppose you wouldn’t. …So you really liked it?”

The way he’s looking at you is so fragile, so soft. You feel your heart clench at the sight of such a guarded man looking so adorable, though you know he would hate to be called such a thing. You can’t help the affection that leaks into your gentle smile as you look at him. “I really did.”

He huffs, trying to bring back up his walls, but he can’t hide his relief, and his continued interest. “What did you like about it?”

“I thought the descriptions were very vivid. It was…” It feels like crossing a line you can’t uncross to call it hot, but he’s looking at you so expectantly. “Very stimulating.”

Something akin to a smirk grows on his face, offset by the dust of a blush on his cheeks. His voice is an octave deeper when he speaks. “Simulating?”

You shiver. “I–uh–yes. The leads had really good chemistry. I never imagined Sora would be so…charming. And I liked the woman too, though I have to admit I didn’t recognize her name.”

He nods. “You wouldn’t. She’s an original character.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I wanted to try my hand at something new, and I didn’t like pairing him with any of the canon characters so I just…made one up.”

You shift nervously on your feet, thinking about how remarkably familiar her description was. “So you made her just for this? Didn’t even give her a name?”

“I haven’t decided her name yet, but I’m working on it. And yeah, she’s just for this. Why?”

You want to be subtle, ease your way in, but your mind is running a mile a minute and frankly subtlety has never been your strong suit anyway. “So…is she supposed to be me?”

He shoots up so quickly he nearly falls over. “What? No! No, why would you think that?” He looks absolutely mortified, like he’s praying the floor swallows him whole. He looks about two seconds away from shambling himself out of the sub and letting the ocean take him away.

“Well in her intro, when you describe her…she looks a lot like me.”

“...She does?” He seems genuinely surprised, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Why are you asking? You’re the writer! You didn’t realize?”

“No, I…” He’s blushing to the tips of his ears. “She was just supposed to be a beautiful woman. I didn’t think that hard about what she looked like beyond that.”

“She has the same hair color and eye color as me, you describe her as around my height, and the dress she’s wearing in her intro is my favorite color.”

His shoulders are so tense they’re practically up over his ears. If his voice cracks when he yells, you’re kind enough not to acknowledge it. “I didn’t think that much about it! I just thought of a beautiful woman and I described her.”

“So when you think of a beautiful woman in your head, you see me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You try to hide your giddy smile. “That’s sweet, Captain.”

He avoids eye contact so aggressively you swear it must be hurting him at this point. “It wasn’t–I–I didn’t notice. You don’t think it’s…creepy?”

“That you think I’m beautiful?”

“That I wrote porn about a woman who looks exactly like you.”

“Oh. When you put it like that I guess it doesn’t sound great.” He tenses again, so you rush to reassure him. “But no, I don’t think it’s creepy. It’s not like you meant to, or anything. Or that you wrote about me and like, another member of the crew or something. Why would I be mad that I just happen to be exactly your type?” Your heart is beating out of your chest as you try to portray a confidence you certainly don’t feel. 

“Right. Yeah. I–There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And it’s…great porn, honestly.”

Your delivery is so awkward the tension finally breaks as he laughs at you. “I appreciate that. I worked hard on it. But I’m not sure on some of the descriptions.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure it reads as true to life.”

“Does it need to?”

“No, not really, fantasies don’t have to be realistic. But…I can’t help but think about it anyway. What if part of it is so unrealistic it takes you out of it entirely, and I just didn’t notice? Or didn’t know because I’ve never tried that specific thing? Do you know what I mean?”

You do. You know insecurity in your work, the way it whispers in your ear. You know that words are not enough reassurance to silence those whispers. You want to help him, even if you don’t know how you could.

“What if we…tested it? To see if it’s realistic?” You can’t believe the words that just left your mouth. From the look on his face, Law can’t either.

“What?” A beautiful crimson streaks across his face and up to his ears, heat radiating off of him.

“Oh my god. Forget I said that, that was so inappropriate, I’ll just go–”

“No!” He’s so loud you both flinch, and he seems surprised by his own objection. His long fingers are wrapped around your wrist, and you can feel his calluses brush against your skin. God, what you wouldn’t give for those fingers to be somewhere else. “No, don’t–don’t leave. I think–I would–um. I’d like that.”

You blink. “You would?”

“Just to…test it. To make sure my writing is accurate. I’m a perfectionist.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flicker down to where he’s holding you, and to your surprise, he doesn’t release his grip. He tugs you closer, pressing your chests together, and you can feel his warm breath in his ear. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Law.”

“What?”

The deep rumble of his voice is commanding in a way that has you rubbing your thighs together. “I want to hear you say my name. Call me Law.”

“Yes, Law.”

You can feel his smirk as he whispers the next words in your ear. “Good girl.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you bite your lip to keep from making any deeply embarrassing noises. He chuckles as he pulls away, and you see no trace of his earlier apprehension or nerves. You suppose Law has always been a good liar, always putting up the front of the proud, confident, and unshakable Surgeon of Death. What is this but another part for him to play?

“How did it start again?” He places his hands on your hips, leading you away from the desk and toward the wall. “She and Sora meet up in the club, strike up a conversation–”

“Can we skip to the good part?” You hate how needy and breathless you sound. You’re already worked up from reading, from hearing him speak, from being so close, that you think if you spend another minute without some kind of release you might explode.

He chuckles. “I guess we can skip forward a bit.” He presses you against the wall, hand sliding to your thigh. You shiver, but he stops right before his fingers slide under your shorts. “But have you been good enough to earn it?”

You whine, a pathetic, wounded sound that comes from deep within you. For a moment, you see his facade slip as he swallows, trying not to give away how much the sound turned him on. But after a moment his mask settles back firmly in place, and you’re both ready to continue the game. “Please, Law. I’ve been good. I’ll be good.”

His smile is all teeth as his fingers find their place inside of you. First one, pumping slowly and deliberately, curling to hit your sweet spot just right. He moans quietly in your ear at the feeling of it. You know his line before he says it. “Do you feel that? The way you’re pulling me in? You need me bad, sweetheart, don’t you?”

He inserts a second finger right as you open your mouth to answer. “Ahh–Yes! I need you!”

He pumps harder, faster, and his other hand starts to wander towards your chest. His lips find your neck, nipping at the point where it meets your jaw, making you gasp again. His hand gently squeezes your breast through your shirt, and he can feel your hardened nipples through the fabric. He chuckles. “Yes, you do. Nobody else can make you feel as good as I can. You know it. That’s why you’re here, that’s why you’re so drawn to me. On some level you know: it’s just you and me. We’re all there is, all that matters. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Law! Yes!”

His free hand effortlessly removes your shirt, and you gasp as you’re exposed to the air, your back pressing into the cold wall. He removes your bra next, letting out a soft hiss of appreciation when he finally sees them fully exposed. “As beautiful as I imagined,” he whispers, seemingly to himself. You don’t remember that line.

His mouth finds your nipple easily, sucking and nipping as you threaten to come undone under his attention. His fingers are still moving, his thumb on your clit, building the tension in your body until you feel like you’re going to explode. You’re so very close to the edge, close enough that in your pleasure you forget the next part of the story for a moment.

Until his fingers leave you.

“No!” Your head slams back into the wall as you wail, tears welling up in your eyes. Law seems unaffected, pulling back from you as he slowly inserts his fingers into his mouth, savoring your taste. The only sign that you’ve shaken him is the clear strain of his cock under his jeans, desperate to be free.

His fingers leave his mouth with a pop, and he smiles at you, eyes half-lidded. “Did you think it was going to be that easy? That you would just get what you want, no questions asked?”

You whine, the sound filled with genuine despair. The room is silent for a moment as he stares at you, waiting for your next line, and you try to remember the part you’re supposed to play here. You just barely manage to grasp it, breathlessly saying, “I thought you were a better man than to leave a lady wanting.”

He slides off his tank top, revealing his beautiful tattoos to you. “Oh, honey, this isn’t about what you want. It’s about what you need. And how wonderful it’ll be, once you’re so on edge you can barely stand it, and I finally give in to you. Can you imagine it?” He pops the button of his pants next, sensually sliding them and his boxers down to expose his bare hips. “What it’ll feel like, when I’m finally inside of you?”

His cock is finally free, bobbing in the air as it leaks with precum. He looks painfully hard, and you swallow as you briefly imagine it in your mouth. You’d give almost anything to taste him right now, but that isn’t a part of the scene.

“You’ll feel so full, honey. Imagine how good it’ll feel to cum on my cock. Isn’t that worth the wait?”

“God, yes.”

“Good girl. So agreeable.” One hand finds your hips as he uses the other to line himself up. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, god, please.”

He slowly slides in, feeling the drag of every inch of his dick against your walls. He makes a strangled noise at the feeling, burying his face into your neck as he desperately tries to catch his breath. He stops once he’s fully sheathed in you, giving you both a moment to adjust.

And then another.

And another.

“Law?”

You can hear him chuckle against you. “What, darling?”

“Please, Law.”

He pretends to ponder whether or not to give in for a moment, keeping you in suspense, before he relents. He pulls away from your neck, revealing his extremely red face. His voice may be calm, but the rest of him cannot hide the effects you’re having. “What do you want, sweetheart? Use your words.”

You know the line you’re supposed to say next. She tells Sora she wants relief, wants him to move, wants anything that she can have. But you’re soft, and weak, filled with want. You cannot help but think of your dream this morning, what you were denied and what you’ve always wanted. So you speak the honest truth. “I want you to kiss me.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes searching yours. You see your own want reflected in him, an affection that makes your chest ache. Then a smile blooms across his face, one gentler than you deserve. The line he says next is Sora’s, but what comes after is all Law. “Whatever the lady wants,” he murmurs, before his lips meet yours.

The kiss isn’t fireworks, or an all consuming flame, or any other way you’d ever heard such a thing described. It was tender, it was kind, and most importantly, it was Law. You’d never wanted anything else. It finally confirms to you that this isn’t a dream, that he’s really here, pressing you against this wall, a desire burning in him that only you can satiate. The lust is still here, the heat of your bodies intertwined, but there’s something tender and real beneath it. 

Once you both pull back, panting, you look into his eyes and know the scene is well and truly over. Now it’s just you and Law, breaths mingling and hearts pounding. He smiles at you, a nervous, delicate thing, his confidence left behind with the script. He’s breathless as he whispers, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

You let out a soft, unsure laugh. “Is that Law talking, or Sora?”

He brushes his nose against yours. “It’s all me. It always has been.”

You can’t help your lovesick smile, dripping with a saccharine fondness you couldn’t hide if you tried. You meet his lips again, a kiss with a little more fire, a little more desperation. You try to convey everything you can’t say aloud: the years of yearning, the pain of thinking this moment would never come, the euphoria of learning you were wrong. Your hands press against his chest, his pulse fluttering under your fingers in unison with your own. You wrap your legs around his waist, desperate to pull him ever closer. He lets out a soft sound, almost a whimper, at the feeling of your lips against his as you clench around him. His tongue slips into your mouth, and once again the air around you grows ever hotter.

“Can I move?” There’s a whine to his voice. “Please.”

“Please do,” you moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your chests together. 

He needs no further instruction, thrusting harshly, hips rutting against yours. You can feel him struggle to hold himself back from pounding into you at a bruising pace. His hands grip your hips, his nails digging in as he clenches his teeth.

“You don’t have to hold back, Law. I’ll take anything you want to give me.”

He struggles to speak through his self control. “I want to enjoy this. I want to take my time.” Another deliberate thrust has you dragging your nails down his back, making him moan in your ear. “I want this to be as good as it can be for you.”

“This is–ahh!–already better than I’d ever dreamed, Law.”

One of his hands moves to your clit, his fingers starting a steady motion. “Not good enough,” he mutters. His lips find your neck, placing open mouthed kisses along its length, his teeth grazing your skin. You feel yourself coming close to cumming again, your voice growing louder, echoing through the room as you babble. You don’t even know what you’re begging for, the words please and more and Law are all you can say, all you can think. There is nothing in the world beyond the feeling of him against you, inside of you, his soft lips and callused hands. 

You expect him to rip away your pleasure again, but when he briefly stills, your babbles turn to sobs anyway. He pulls back to look you in the eye, take in the sight of the tears running down your face, and you can see him soften once again. His hands and hips start moving again immediately as he presses soft kisses against your cheeks, clearing away your tears.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s alright. You’re doing great. I won’t take it from you again, I promise.” His voice is filled with pity. “You’ve been so good, you can take what you want now.” He builds you back up quickly, his hips pressing into yours even faster than before. You can feel yourself about to burst, and you slam your lips into his, moaning into his mouth. The dam finally bursts, and the pleasure nearly blinds you as you clench around him, his hips struggling to keep moving with how tightly your legs are wrapped around his waist. Your orgasm is what finally makes him break, filling you to the brim as his movements stutter.

You bask in the feeling for a moment, both panting and dripping with sweat, his cock rapidly softening inside of you. Your head lolls forward, pressing into his shoulder, and you press a kiss against his sticky skin.

“Was it worth the wait?” He tries to ask the question in a teasing tone, but you can hear the insecurity underneath it.

“It was worth everything and more.” You shift to wrap your arms tighter around him and nuzzle your face into his neck. 

You can feel the rumble of his chest as he chuckles, gathering you up as he slips out of you. “Agreed.” He kisses the side of your head, an action so filled with care it nearly makes you burst into tears again. He tries to lower you onto something, making you pull him closer and whine. “I just need to set you down for a second, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”

“No.” You sound like a pouting child, making you cringe, but he laughs fondly anyway.

“Alright. A few more minutes. But I have to clean you up eventually, and then we need to find a place a bit more private to settle in, don’t you think? Or at least somewhere more comfortable.”

You hum quietly, pressing your nose further into him. You can worry about logistics in a few minutes. Right now you just want to bask in his warmth, in this dream turned reality, in the absolute joy of your feelings being reciprocated. “I really didn’t think you liked me,” you mutter sleepily. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

“I could say the same,” he murmurs into your hair.

You laugh. “Shachi and Peng are going to be so smug about this.”

“They are?”

“They’ve been trying to tell me for years, and they don’t get to tell me I told you so very often.”

“They were telling you too?” He laughs. “We could have done this months ago if we’d just believed them.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, your eyes starting to slip shut. “You’re worth the wait, though.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as his hand rubs soothing circles on your lower back, luring you further into sleep. “Yeah. So are you.”

Tag List:  @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @saturogojosgirl @dreamcastgirl99 @tochillwithamockingjay 

[rodentluvrr]

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

[rodentluvrr]

Threads of love

Pairing: Law x reader Summary: Law watches as you go through your nighttime routine, unable to resist being close to you. CW: it's a little 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 touchy-feely but no smut (kissing, touching) Word count: 1523 A/N: I was brushing my hair after going to the gym and thought of this. I need to get locked up🧎‍♀️

The soft hum of the bathroom light filled the quiet space, blending seamlessly with the gentle swish of your toothbrush as you moved it in steady, practiced strokes, the repetitive motion so ingrained in your nightly routine that your mind wandered elsewhere. The air smelled of mint and soap, a familiar scent that wrapped around you in the stillness of the night. Everything about this moment was routine—brushing your teeth, staring into the mirror, following the same monotonous rhythm you had every evening before bed.

Your reflection in the mirror stared back at you, as you stared at yourself, lost in thought. The fluorescent glow of the light overhead casting an ethereal halo around your silhouette. You looked beautiful in the way only true relaxation could bring—the soft glow of contentment settling over your features, the tension of the day melting from your expression. There was something effortlessly radiant about you in this quiet moment, a kind of beauty that came not from perfection, but from simply being—unburdened, at ease, and entirely yourself.

The door to the bedroom stood ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling in from the bedside lamp. Beyond the open door, Law sat in the dimly lit bedroom. His golden eyes, sharp yet lazy with the heaviness of approaching sleep, following your every movement with quiet intensity. His presence wasn’t loud or demanding. He wasn’t making any noise, nor did he call out to you. He simply watched, content to do nothing but observe you.  The faint creak of his chair was the only indication of his presence as he rested his chin in his hand, observing you with an intensity that sent a subtle warmth crawling up your spine. He wasn’t in a rush; he never was. Law’s gaze was unwavering, a silent promise that he was waiting for you.

You could feel the warmth of his gaze on you, a quiet, steady presence even without looking directly at him. There was something about the way he watched you—patient and intent—that made even the simplest movements feel effortless, natural. The way you lifted your arm to rinse your mouth or how your fingers combed absently through your hair as you pulled the elastic free felt unhurried, almost graceful, as if, in his eyes, everything you did was something worth noticing.

The strands spilled over your shoulders, cascading in soft waves down your back. You ran your fingers through them, shaking them out as you absentmindedly searched for your brush. But before your hand could reach for it, a presence—familiar and steady—slipped in behind you.  

The heat of him pressed against your back, solid and reassuring. Strong, steady hands slid over your stomach, pulling you against his chest in an embrace that was both possessive and reverent.

 Law pressed himself close, his body fitting perfectly against yours. The touch was firm but not urgent, slow, and deliberate in a way that made your breath catch slightly.

Law’s scent enveloped you, something distinctly him—clean linen, ink, and a faint trace of salt from the ocean air that always seemed to linger on him. It was a scent you had come to associate with comfort, with home.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

His lips ghosted over the nape of your neck, brushing against your skin in the softest, most deliberate of touches. A soft kiss, more breath than contact, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. Then another, this time firmer, lingering just a second longer. The way his breath fanned across your skin sent a shiver rolling through you, the sensation both soothing and electrifying. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was savoring you, indulging in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His movements weren’t rushed—no, Law was never rushed. He took his time, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along the right side of your neck.

You exhaled, your body instinctively leaning back into him.

"Law," you murmured, the corners of your lips tugging into a small, knowing smile. "What are you doing?"

"Just holding you," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and velvety, laced with something lazy and indulgent.

"Liar," you teased, tilting your head instinctively, unwittingly giving him better access to your neck as your heart fluttered at the way he held you—so sure, so steady.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration pressing against your back. He tightened his arms around you slightly, fingers splayed against your stomach, his touch possessive but gentle. "Fine," he admitted, lips brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw between words. "You know I love your hair."

You rolled your eyes, "You're insane, you creep." you muttered playfully, though the way your heart fluttered at his words told another story.

Law hummed in response, a sound of amusement, before nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "Maybe," he murmured, the faintest smile in his voice. "But you already knew that."

You sighed, though it wasn’t one of exasperation—it was one of surrender, of contentment. Your hands lifted, resting lightly over his where they held you, fingers grazing over his knuckles.

"I just think your hair is gorgeous," he murmured, his breath a whisper against your skin. "And you look beautiful when you let it down." His voice dipped lower; the hesitation laced within it making your chest tighten. "You have me under your spell. I can't resist you."

His words sent warmth flooding through you, not just over your skin but deep into your core, spreading like a slow-burning fire that curled in your stomach and pooled low within you. It wasn’t just the heat of his touch or the press of his body against yours—it was the way he spoke, the weight of his voice, the quiet reverence in his tone that made something inside you melt, dissolve, and reform entirely in his grasp.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," you whispered, turning your head slightly, enough to catch the corner of his jaw with your lips.

He let out a small exhale, something close to a sigh, though not of frustration—more like quiet resignation. His arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

"It is," he murmured against your ear, his voice dropping an octave. "Because it means I can't help myself."

You turned fully then, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath your palms, a slow and reassuring rhythm. His golden eyes met yours, no longer filled with amusement but with something deeper, something heavier.

"You make it sound like I mind," you said softly, searching his gaze.

Law studied you for a long moment before his fingers lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. He tucked it behind your ear with a gentleness that made your breath catch. "Do you?"

You smiled, shaking your head. "Not even a little."

His expression softened—just barely, but you caught it. Law wasn’t someone who openly expressed emotion the way others did. His love wasn’t loud or obvious. It was in the way he watched you from across the room, in the way his fingers lingered on yours when he handed you something, in the way he pulled you close without words.

And right now, it was in the way he looked at you like you were something rare, something precious.

"You really are something else," you whispered.

"Mm." His hum vibrated against you, a sound of agreement, of satisfaction. His lips brushed against your temple, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

A shiver ran down your spine, though not from the cool air or the dimly lit bathroom. It was from the way he stayed close, from the warmth of him, from the quiet certainty in his presence.

And you found that you did not mind one bit.

Not when it was Law. Not when it was him.

Not when you fit together like this—like something inevitable, like something true.

His hand, warm and steady, traced up your spine, stopping just beneath your jaw. His thumb brushed over your pulse, feeling the way it raced beneath his touch. He smirked, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable, something only you were ever meant to see.

"You're thinking too much," he murmured, his voice low, a quiet command wrapped in affection.

Before you could answer, his lips found yours—slow at first, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of your lips. Then deeper, more certain, as if sealing the moment between you.

You sighed against him, melting into the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His other hand slipped to your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer until there was nothing left between you but the space where his breath ended and yours began.

When he finally pulled away, just enough to look at you, his smirk softened. "See? Much better."

And with another kiss—just as deep, just as consuming—you had to agree.

[rodentluvrr]

A dose of care

Pairing: Law x reader

Summary: You have a habit of forgetting to take your thyroid pill in the mornings, much to Law’s frustration. As a doctor, he knows how important it is, and he makes it his personal mission to ensure you never miss a dose—whether you like it or not.

CW: none, I think

Word count: 400 words

A/N: inspired from my own experiences 💀I always forget to take my thyroid pill

The moment you stir awake in the dim light of the submarine’s cabin, you feel Law’s steady warmth beside you. His arms are wrapped around you, holding you close beneath the blankets. You sigh contentedly, nuzzling into his chest as his fingers gently trace circles on your back.

For a while, there is only the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the soft hum of the ship around you. He presses a sleepy kiss against your forehead, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Mmm… stay like this a little longer," he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.

You smile, letting the warmth of his presence lull you into a peaceful haze. Minutes pass in comfortable silence before Law shifts slightly, his fingers idly skimming over your arm. Then, his movements still. His brows furrow as his eyes slowly open, and you can almost see the gears turning in his mind. He stiffens just slightly.

Then, in a low but firm voice, he asks, "Did you take it yet?"

You roll your eyes and snuggle deeper into his chest. "It’s too early for this," you mumble, attempting to evade the question.

His grip tightens. "That’s not an answer."

"I’ll take it later," you huff, trying to shift away, but he doesn’t let you go.

"That’s what you said last time." His tone is strict, his patience thinning. "And the time before that."

You groan, covering your face with your hands. "It’s just one pill. Missing one day won’t kill me."

"That’s not the point." His voice sharpens, and he pulls the blanket down slightly, forcing you to look at him. "I’ve told you before how important it is. You can’t just forget. Your body relies on it."

"I’m not a kid, Law!" you snap, irritation flaring in your chest. "I can handle myself."

His golden eyes darken with frustration, but there’s something else in them, something softer. Concern. "Then prove it," he challenges. "Take it now."

You cross your arms, stubbornly refusing to move. "I’ll do it in a bit."

"No, you’ll do it now." His voice leaves no room for argument. "Or I swear, I’ll get up and shove it in your mouth myself."

You glare at him, but he doesn’t waver. The stare-down lasts a few tense seconds before you groan dramatically. "Fine!" You grab the pill bottle from the bedside table with exaggerated annoyance and pop the pill into your mouth, swallowing it without water just to prove a point.

Law watches you the entire time, only relaxing when he’s sure you’ve taken it. "Good," he murmurs, pulling you back into his arms. "Now you can go back to being a brat under the covers."

You grumble but let yourself be held, secretly enjoying the warmth of his embrace. Even when he’s strict, even when he’s scolding you—he cares. And that makes all the difference.

[rodentluvrr]

rat john pork

[rodentluvrr]

rat cheese big sneeze

[rodentluvrr]

I be feeling very goblin like 👺

[rodentluvrr]

I be feeling kinda sus