A Doctor's Cure

❤︎ trafalgar law x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw: established relationship, doctor-patient dynamics, breast play, oral (f receiving), dom!law, sub!reader, law is a tease, lots of teasing, edging, begging, praise, reassurance, piv sex, exam-room-sex (hehe), use of “doctor”, "good girl", "sweetheart", "tell me what you want", etc.

summary: law and reader have a double-sided relationship: patient and doctor, & lovers. They aim to keep the two partnerships separate, but Law's work has him neglecting reader's needs, making her resort to rather drastic measures to get her partner/doctor's undivided attention. ;)

word count: ~4,000

tagging: @bby-deerling @risenwrites @strawheart-pirate @uchihabbynic @nina-ya @mandiemegatron@shamblespirate@eelnoise@maddddstuff @throwmethroughawindow @mariihzoka @basedbogwizard

A Doctor's Cure

You and Law shared an understanding.

Work is professional; must always be kept that way, and private life is exactly that:

private.

The two must never intertwine.

------

The office is cold, frigid, uninviting.

The room exudes an aura of sterile austerity, its walls painted in a clinical shade of white that seemed to swallow any hint of warmth or comfort. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow that accentuated the starkness of the room. The air is heavy with the scent of antiseptic, mingling with the faint tang of ink from the doctor's neatly stacked files.

Against one wall stands a row of cabinets, their metal surfaces gleaming dully in the artificial light. Each drawer is meticulously labeled, a testament to its owner’s penchant for order and precision. A single window, obscured by heavy blinds, offers a glimpse of the outside depths of the sea, but the view is obscured by the grime of neglect.

In the center of the room sits the doctor's desk, a polished slab of dark wood that seems out of place amidst the clinical surroundings. Behind it, a high-backed chair looms, its leather upholstery cracked and worn from years of use. On the desk itself lies an array of instruments - a stethoscope coiled neatly beside a stack of paperwork, a computer monitor flickering silently in the corner.

-----

The doctor is the same; silent, calculated, meticulous.

He commands the room with a towering presence; his tall, lean frame exuding an aura of quiet strength. Despite his slim build, there’s an unmistakable muscularity to his physique, hinted at by the subtle contours visible beneath his crisp, white coat.

Dark hair, swept beneath his speckled hat, frames a face weathered by years of dedication. His features are chiseled, a strong jawline, softened only by the hint of a tired smile that plays at the corners of his lips. It’s his eyes that hold the most intrigue – tired grey orbs, rimmed with heavy bags that speak volumes of sleepless nights.

Despite the weariness that etches lines upon his face, there’s an undeniable intensity to his gaze.

-----

As you pad into the room, the frigid air tickles your spine, climbs up your back, sinks its claws in. It’s not just from the temperature, there’s a palpable aura of detachment that fills the room, too, leaving you uneasy.

Law sits behind the desk, framed by sterile white walls, his expression inscrutable. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, eyes you up and down, seeming to dissect you even before words left your lips.

You clear your throat, the nervous noise echohing in the stillness of the room as you take a seat on the exam table.

You didn’t need to be here. You weren’t sick. Law had simply grown neglectful, consumed by his work. And so, driven by desperation for his attention, you resort to a lie.

"La-,” you begin, but swiftly correct yourself, “Doctor, I've been experiencing these persistent headaches..."

Maintaining a romantic relationship with your doctor requires a delicate balancing-act. In the privacy of your shared moments, away from the sterile confines of the doctor's office, your relationship is beautiful, intense, passionate. But here, you are nothing more than a patient, and for professional reasons, behind these doors, it must be kept that way.

His response is measured, delivered with the precision of a well-practiced routine.

"Describe the nature of your headaches," he says, voice devoid of any warmth.

Your interactions take on a dual nature; each appointment serving as both a professional consultation and an opportunity to revel in the comfort of each other's presence. However, away from this room, the professional barriers dissolve, replaced by an intimacy that transcends the confines of your roles.

“Well, they've been getting worse," you speak softly, glancing at the floor as you anxiously play with your fingers, "It's like a constant pressure behind my eyes, and sometimes it feels like my vision is blurry."

As you recount your symptoms, his eyes never waver from yours, his silence almost suffocating. Each word you utter seem to be met with a calculated pause, as if he were processing every detail, every nuance.

As Law listens to your fabricated symptoms, his brow furrows in concern, his demeanor shifting subtly as he leans forward, attentive to your every word. Despite the guilt gnawing at your conscience, you press on with your deceit,

“It just hurts so badly,” you rasp, “I’m desperate for something, anything, to help me.”

You weren’t talking about your head. Your skull didn’t hurt. His neglect did.

He reaches forwards, tattooed fingers rubbing reassuring circles into your kneecap. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, a silent reassurance that spoke volumes of the things you shared. Despite its cold, calculating exterior, his gaze offers a of something that transcends the confines of your doctor-patient relationship, understanding, love, devotion.

The familiar warmth of his fingers seems to seep into your skin, dismissing the chill that had clung to your flesh the moment you entered the office.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the floor as he speaks. "I'm so sorry."

“Baby?” your throat feels dry, making the word catch in your mouth. “Doctor…” you regift his title, but instead of accepting it, he places a reassuring palm on your thigh.

"I know I've been busy lately, I've overlooked you," he admits, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm so sorry."

"B-But, we had an agreement," you finally manage to whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “In here,” you glance around the room as you speak, “I’m just your patient.”

His gaze softens, a flicker of understanding crossing his features.

"I know," he says gently, his voice tinged with regret. "But sometimes lines blur,” he gulps, “And it's impossible to ignore what's truly important."

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. For so long, you had clung to the illusion of professionalism, hiding behind the guise of patient and doctor to shield yourself from this very moment of vulnerability.

But now, faced with his unwavering sincerity, you realize that the walls you had built around your heart were no match for the depth of your love for Trafalgar Law.

“Law,” you say softly, abandoning his professional title, “Just kiss me.”

And he listens, immediately closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss.

It's a kiss filled with pent-up longing, a culmination of the emotions that have simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

His free hand rests gently on your face as his lips meld with yours, rubbing gentle circles into the apple of your cheek.

You let out a shaky breath into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between your open lips.

A wave of conflicting emotions washes over you. Relief mingles with lingering hurt, and the weight of his apology hangs heavy in the air.

But as his tongue dances with yours, the clinical walls of the exam room dissolve into nothingness, and in that moment, you transcend the roles of patient and doctor. The world around you fades into insignificance as you lose yourself in the sensation of his lips against yours. You are no longer merely his patient; you are his lover once more, entwined in an embrace that knows no bounds.

He wastes no time in moving atop you, shrugging his labcoat off his toned, tattooed shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the tile.

As he advances, you recline against the crisp, white paper that lines the examination table, yielding to his presence. He leans over you, his weight enveloping you, strong arms framing your head as he cages you in.

His inked hands travel up and down your needy body, making you shiver beneath his touch.

“Law,” you whine weakly, taking his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging gently on the tender flesh, “Doctor,”

The doctor simply groans in response to your desperate plea, a deep blush rushing to his cheeks at your intimate use of his professional title.

A smirk tugs at his lips,

“Tell me where it hurts,” the doctor rasps, “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

To your surprise, he's fully engaged, playing along with a fervor that electrifies you to your core.

He slides a hand down, carefully spreading your thighs to allow his torso to slot between your legs. You allow you head to fall back, moaning softly at the sensation of his crotch meeting yours.

His hips immediately get to work, skillfully grinding his throbbing erection against your aching cunt as his hands tangle themselves in your hair.

Although you’ve only just begun, your face is already flushed and your chest is heaving. Desire pricks at your skin and leaves you trembling for more.

“Doctor,” you whine.

Your needy state ignites something within your doctor, and he picks up the pace, making you whine and tilt your head upwards to nip at his ear.

“Please, help me.”

“How do you want me to help you, love?” he teases, tilting back to allow his slender fingers to snake in between your crotches, slowing rubbing tight circles into your clothed clit.

“F-Fuck,” you softly curse, twitching instinctively at the long-awaited sensation of his hands finally meeting the place you needed them most.

But to your dismay, he stops, bringing the hand up again to hold your chin, tilting your face to look at him.

“That doesn’t tell me anything, dear. I can’t cure you if you don’t tell me what’s got you so bothered.”

You’re losing your composure now, head growing fuzzy frim his relentless teasing.

“Mm, Lawww,” you whine weakly at the loss, instantly reaching down to grasp his wrist and bring it back to your aching sex, “Please-”

“Please?” he questions, a smug look decorating his usually-stoic face, “Please what?” he begins kissing down your neck, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. “Oh, and I don’t believe we’re on a first name basis just quite yet, so that’s doctor to you.”

He nips at your delicate skin as he continues to kiss down the column of your neck, “Let's try that again.”

“P-Please, doctor,” you correct yourself, “Fuck me.”

“Mmm,” the tall man hums, “That’s not a very professional request, but since you asked so nicely, I guess I’ll let it slide.”

With one arm supporting his weight above you, he begins working on his belt with the other, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. The predatory gleam in his eyes makes you feel small, vulnerable, yet oddly exhilarated by the primal desire that courses between you.

Before long, his belt hits the tile floor with a resounding clang, causing you to startle slightly as he looms over you.

He chuckles softly, amused by your vulnerability.

“Why don’t you do us both a favor and strip?” he mumbles softly, voice tinted with lust, “It’ll allow me to properly cure you.”

His dedication to this roleplay elicits a soft, playful giggle from you, yet beneath the surface of amusement, there lies a greater sensation; a tingling arousal that spreads through your limbs and makes your head spin.

“Of course, doctor,” you play along, promptly obeying his orders and peeling your clothes from your needy body.

As you gradually raise your blouse over your head, Law's unwavering gaze remains fixed on you, stripping away any pretense or barrier. Even before your clothes are fully removed, his intense stare leaves you feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable, and entirely at his mercy.

As his eyes travel up and down your naked form, something new dances beneath his steel irises, admiration, completely enthralled by the sight before him.

His lingering gaze sends a flush of warmth rushing to your cheeks, and you find yourself instinctively turning your head to the side, a shy smile playing at the corners of your lips as a bit of embarrassment washes over you.

He gently tilts your face back towards him, his touch tender yet confident,

“Beautiful,” he says simply.

He opts to help you unclasp your bra, making you lean forwards slightly so he can snake his arm around you.

You let out a shaky breath against his chest, allowing him to strip you.

The cool air hitting your breasts causes your nipples to harden instantly, earning a pleased groan from Law’s mouth.

“I suppose I should join you,” he smirks, referring to your nakedness.

And so he does, inked fingers curling around the hem of his undershirt as he leisurely peels it over his head. Your eyes widen at the sight of his exposed torso; while you've seen it before, of course, the unexpected setting amplifies its allure. Beneath these foreign fluorescent lights, in this room where you never imagined seeing him this way, the contours of his muscles glimmered like something new, forbidden, enticing.

Once shirtless, he moves atop you again, lips swiftly attaching to the soft flesh of your chest. You let out a moan as his mouth slowly makes its way towards your breast.

You lean yoiur head back, letting a few gaspy moans escape your throat as his hot tongue swirls around your erect nipple.

“L-La-” you whine, “Doctor-”

He groans against your breast before gently nipping at it, his tongue continuing its efforts as it lazily swirls around the needy bud.

“Yeah?” he rasps, his other hand coming up to grasp onto your neglected breast, “Tell me, how does that feel? Does it feel good, sweetheart?”

“M-Mhmm,” you mewl in agreement, reaching down to tug at his strands of dark hair, “B-But I need more-”

“Oh?” the doctor groans, tilting his head to glance up at you, dark grey irises seeming to dissect you as they bore into your face, “What more do you need?”

You pause for a moment, meeting his gaze with a hint of hesitation, torn between yielding to his request and remaining illusive.

Noticing your hesitation, Law’s gaze darkens, and pinches your nipple between his slender fingers, gently tugging at it, determined to pry the answer from you.

“If you can’t tell me what you need,” he smirks, “Then I can’t help you feel better.”

Sensing the threat in his tone, you let out a shaky sigh, abandoning all dignity as you open your mouth to speak,

“You,” you whine, reaching down to place a delicate palm on the growing bulge beneath his pants, “I need you inside me, doctor.”

And with that, Law’s lips are on yours again, pressing his flesh against yours with a newfound passion, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it was oxygen and he was suffocating; his lifeline.

“Mm-mm!” you whine, instinctively bucking your hips up to reward yourself the euphoric sensation of his crotch rubbing against yours.

He wastes no time in pulling his pants down, tossing the garmet to the side as he works on peeling his boxers off, too.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he steadies himself above you, one arm holding himself up, caging you in as he reaches his free hand down to grip his cock.

The white paper crinkles beneath you as Law begins rubbing is weeping tip along your folds, earning a pleased sigh from your mouth.

“Are you ready for me?” he leans down to whisper in your ear.

You take a deep inhale, reaching upwards to grip onto his muscular, tattooed back, grounding yourself.

“I’m ready, doctor.”

He begins to push inside you, a low groan rumbling out of his chest as he stretches out your entrance with each forward movement.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he rasps, “Need to stretch you out.”

You whine weakly as Law continues to push his cock inside you, his impressive length forcing your insides to open up, accepting him greedily.

“M-mm, sh-shit,” you curse, throwing your head back as Law finally bottoms out, the tip of his cock granting your cervix with a gentle kiss as he’s now fully engulfed within you.

He gives you time to adjust, peppering reassuring kisses onto your face until you give him the “Okay” to start moving.

"I've got you," he reassures you, his voice a soothing balm against the pain between your legs. It's a stark contrast to the cold, professional tone he had maintained before, his words now infused with warmth and genuine concern.

Before long, your body relaxes beneath him, around him, and you glance upwards to meet his gaze with a gentle nod,

“Doctor, you can start,” you whine softly.

And with your permission, Law begins, bringing his hips back to thrust into you slowly, carefully, testing the waters to see how much you can take.

“Fuck,” you moan, the noise exciting the man above you, causing him to smirk as he glances down at your trembling form.

“You’re doing so good, y/n,” he praises, groaning as he picks up the pace a bit, “You take me so good-”

“O-Oh, d-doctor,” you whimper, stumbling over your words, glancing downwards to watch his cock disappear in and out of you over and over again.

“Yeah?” he groans, “Like what you see, baby?” he grins wolfishly, bringing both hands down to grip your waist so he can pummel his length into your needy cunt.

“Y-Yes-!” you whine sheepishly, your face flushed red and beading with sweat.

His newfound roughness ignites something within you; singes your blood with a desperate, euphoric type thing. You rake your nails down the doctor’s back, whimpering and writhing beneath him as the pace of his thrusts never falters.

His skilled cock is meeting all the right places; battering your sweet spot, making you see stars. But just as you’re approaching your orgasm, he pulls out, raising himself up and stepping off the exam table.

Your breath catches in your lungs and you’re trembling, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at the man who so devilishly deprived you of reaching your peak.

“L-La-” you begin to whine, but before you can finish, he’s on his knees in front of the exam table, slotting his head between your legs to grant your aching slit with hot, skillful licks.

He groans into your cunt, sending vibrations through your body as his steel irises glare up at you from between your trembling thighs.

You shake beneath him, letting out a trembling vibrato of a moan as you collapse back onto the crisp paper of the exam table, allowing your doctor’s gifted tongue to have its way with you.

“Mm, fuck,” he groans in between licks, “You taste so fucking good.”

“A-Ah!” you cry out, back arching off the table as your hand shoots down to tangle itself in Law’s thick scalp of dark hair.

Law places a palm on your stomach, gently pressing your back down into the table,

“Stay still, baby,” he rasps, “This will help, I promise.”

With a few more stripes of his tongue, he latches onto your clit, forcing a loud moan to escape your lips.

“O-Oh, doctor!” you cry out, eyes screwing shut from pleasure as he sucks greedily on your aching nub.

“Mmm,” he moans, lazily shaking his head back and forth, his hot tongue dancing skillfully over your needy clit.

You lace your fingers in his hair, desperately tugging on the strands, eager for release.

Before you can even comprehend it, he’s up again, towering over you as you shake and whimper on the exam table.

He smirks at he gazes down at you, offering you no remorse, just a simple command,

“Flip over for me.”

Knowing better than to disobey your doctor, you do just as you’re told, turning over so your stomach is pressed against the table and your ass is in the air.

You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking as he chuckles darkly, “Good girl,” he praises, completely enthralled by your unwavering obedience.

In an instant, he’s behind you, palm resting on the small of your back as he lines his cock up with your entrance, teasing you by merely rubbing his tip along your folds.

“Doctorrr-” you whimper, bucking your hips to earn more stimulation from his throbbing cock.

Although he wants to tease you more, you’re deserate, and he’s no better, so he relinquishes control, immediately grasping your hips and thrusting himself into you fully.

The intrusion is sudden, but welcomed, making you throw your head back and cry out in both pleasure and a hint of pain.

Sensing your discomfort, Law uses his fingertips to rub comforting circles into your flesh as he grips your hips,

“Don’t you worry, I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart,” he reassures you, his hips meeting the flesh of your ass with lewd smacking sounds as he thrusts in and out of you.

“Fuck-!” you moan loudly, your cunt greedily accepting his length with tight, hot squeezes as he moves in and out.

He reaches forwards, inked fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he tugs on the strands, forcing your head back to give himself access to your neck. He leans forwards, forcing himself deeper inside you and making you let out a weak whine as he places passionate kisses along your newly-exposed neck.

“Sh-Shit,” he curses in your ear as he groans, “That pussy’s so fucking good to me.”

Your face flushes at the lewness of his words, letting more moans escape your lips as his twitching cock greets your sweetspot with a euphoric nudge.

Your head starts to spin as Law’s thrusts begin to grow sloppy; he’s close and you’re not far behind.

He’s gaining momentum but losing his rhythm as he thrusts in and out of you, desperately chasing his orgasm, groaning through gritted teeth.

“Y/n,” the doctor groans, throwing his head back, “S-So close," he stumbles on his words, thrusting more feverishly now, making you cry out beneath him.

“Law-!” you whimper shakily, abandoning his professional title as euphoria washes over you, your white-hot orgasm clouding your vision as it courses through your veins.

He finishes in time with you, unapologetically painting your insides white as he moans heartily, granting you with a few more weak thrusts before he leans forwards to collapse on your back.

You're both panting, the echo of your shared climax still lingering in the air, sweat glistening on your skin as you simultaneously come down from your highs.

As the clouds of pleasure that had circled your brain finally begin to dissipate, you’re met with reality again; Law planting gentle kisses to your face as he whispers sweet praises into your ear.

But even as you lay here together, only one thing consumes your mind.

"Law," you begin weakly, stealing a glance at the man behind you.

"Hm?" he responds, his tone curious and attentive. "What is it, love?"

"How did you know I was lying?" you ask, your voice tinged with laughter, still catching your breath. "About being sick?"

He chuckles gently, his lips grazing your nape with a soft kiss before he answers, his voice laced with both amusement and affection.

"I've spent enough time with you to know when something's off," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "And besides," he adds, his tone playful, "I could never resist the opportunity to give you a little extra treatment.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

Mission Impossible

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Word count: 33k

Fluff | Smut

Rosita embarks on mission impossible, and it results in Daryl almost getting into a fistfight at a bonfire.

Jealous Daryl. Protective Daryl. Lowkey possessive Daryl (my toxic trait is that I love this trope). What more could you want?

He wonders, for a second, if you forgot about him.

Though, Daryl hasn’t put himself in a position to be noticed by you quite yet. He’s standing by the doorway as he watches you take care of your day-to-day monotonies; admiring you, that’s what Rick would call it - makin’ eyes if Merle was here - and maybe they’re right, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

Pen between fingers, your tongue flicks out to wet your lips, eyebrows attempting to meet as you scrunch them confused. You’re not writing anything, he notices, and your non-dominant hand rises from the edge of the textbook to trace along the sentence you’re seemingly trying to comprehend. It’s simple, the movements are nothing groundbreaking - nothing particularly eye-catching - but it’s moments like these when Daryl feels a particular dull gnaw of longing.

He can’t call it a longing of his old life - not when all he remembers is drifting, an asshole redneck with an even bigger asshole for a brother - but of the old world, he guesses. One of them, at least. A kinder one to both you and him.

One where he met you and wooed you through Black Sabbath concerts. Or one where you’re both younger - where he’d try and help you through your exams even though he’s about as dumb as a bag of rocks if you’d showed him just a page of whatever you were studying. Just… one where Daryl didn’t have to visit you every few days about some stitches threatening to pop off his skin or about how a fractured rib is healing up.

Shaking the thoughts away, he runs a hand through his hair and takes a step forward. Then another and another, clunky boots not making a single noise as he closes the gap between your doorway and your desk. He raises an eyebrow when you don’t seem to acknowledge him though he’s standing just a few inches from you, and he bites the inside of his bottom lip when he hears you sigh.

“Everythin’ okay?”

His voice breaks your concentration and your head lifts rather abruptly to him, the usual blankness of his expression morphing into an upwards tug of his lips when yours breaks out into a smile. Ever since Carol told him that you only smile like that when you see him, Daryl can’t stop wondering if she’s right. It makes his heart scramble for balance, but he never finds it - can never find it when he’s around you - and he doesn’t even really know if he wants to.

“Every word in here’s like fifteen letters long.”

Putting down your pen, you lean back and rub at your eyes, the action much too cute for his poor heart to take, and he thinks he may crumble into the ground if he keeps looking. Though, his eyes stick onto you, months of stolen glances forming a habit he can’t quite break yet. When he knows you can’t see him - when he knows you’re not going to catch him staring - he can’t help but to.

Keep reading

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vilostconnection

7 months ago

being a sanji fan is an intense experience because it takes you like 200 episodes to finally understand why sanji's eyes turned lifeless for a flickering moment at those words

4K notes View Post

vilostconnection

1 year ago

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vilostconnection

3 years ago

so are we just gonna act like milo and morbius didn’t almost make out like 10 times

Sony doesn't realize that the gay romance main plot of venom was what made it successful. Morbius doesn't have that.

It's not enough to just be a villain of Spiderman's.

You must have the pure, sizzling, compelling homoeroticism of being in love with what makes you evil.

What makes you go feral.

Without it, no dice.

Baby Blue - Satoru Gojo x Reader x Suguru Geto

Warnings: Explicit smut, noncon/rape, threesome/double penetration, unhealthy relationships/manipulation

Word Count: 16,216

Ah, there’s nothing like traveling and family to kill inspiration. Regardless, here it is, as promised

Sweat trickled down the middle of your spine, curving with the arch of your perfectly upright posture. Your hands, neatly folded in your lap, weren’t shaking, but the stark white of your knuckles was telling enough of the anxiety keeping your body almost exhaustingly stiff.

This was why you didn’t put yourself out there. This was why you were careful, measuring the risk and reward of your actions before acting impulsively. This was the consequence and nothing you felt—fear, discomfort, uncertainty, betrayal—was as potent as the regret. You had a feeling when you showed up at Satoru Gojo’s door with lingerie under your dress and butterflies going wild in your stomach that something was wrong but you told yourself it was just nerves. After all, firsts were important and you’d been putting off your first with your boyfriend for longer than you thought he’d have the patience for. You weren’t trying to be rude, or to intrude. You were trying to surprise him because you knew Satoru liked surprises. But the door was open, that wasn’t your fault. The intentions you had going in weren’t morally good, but they certainly weren’t insidious, you weren’t trying to spy on Satoru or anything. It was by complete accident and horrible happenstance that you caught a glimpse of the guest he had over.

And after that, intentions didn’t matter. You had officially seen too much.

In a way, you might have rathered he was just cheating on you. That would hurt, but it wouldn’t be entirely out of character. You would cry and burn the various stupid souvenir trinkets he brought back for you and complain to your friends over a bottle of wine or five, but that would be it. Instead, Satoru greeted your intrusion with only a second of displeasure before it melted into knowing delight, enthusing about the wonderful surprise and ushering you to come in with his normal energy. Now you were stuck between two of the strongest sorcerers in the world. Well, Suguru Geto was no longer a jujutsu sorcerer, even if that was how you remembered him. Now he was a criminal, a curse user, a genuine villain, and, most importantly, Satoru Gojo’s arch enemy.

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vilostconnection

10 months ago

Post-Injury Hurt/Comfort Series - Monster Trio

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji

Reader: GN

Word Count: 3.3k

CW: blood, gore, graphic depictions of injury, stitches

Ao3 Link

After writing The Break, I've always wanted to do drabbles of the same scenario for other characters, so here we are. ( 0v0)/

Luffy

It happens in an instant. One moment, you’ve brought your mace down on the head of the lion Zoan, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. You collapse next to his body, exhausted from the fight.

The next moment, the lion Zoan lunges at you from the floor, one massive paw smashing into your face with all the strength of their devil fruit, sickle claws tearing your flesh open.

You go flying. You hit the ground hard, leaving a smear of blood from your body skidding. Dazed, you try and get your bearings, berating yourself for letting your guard down early, praying it didn’t cost you the fight. The lion Zoan snarls and charges you.

“Gum-Gum Whip!”

The sight of your captain intercepting your opponent brings a heavy relief–if Luffy’s finished with his own opponent, that means your part is done, too. You can finally catch your breath.

With the rest comes the dull, burning pain across your face. The enemy mostly got you in the nose and mouth, miraculously missing your eyes. Blood runs from your nose and mouth and drips from your chin, bleeding as heavily as a head wound. Still, you’re not too concerned. It’s only when the rest of the crew catches up to you and you try to talk that you realize how much damage the lion did, because not only does speaking hurt, but Nami makes a face at the sight of you.

The local anesthetic that Chopper gives you helps a little bit, but it still hurts when he realigns your nose and stitches up the gashes. Luffy holds your hand the entire time, knowing you hate needles.

“Good job, Y/n!” Luffy says after Chopper’s done. “You’re real tough!”

“Thanks, Captain.” You sigh. “I would have been fine if I hit him again, but I thought he was down. I forgot how resilient Zoans can be.”

“You didn’t want to kill him.”

“I know, I shouldn’t take these fights so lightly–”

“Y/n, that’s a good thing.” Luffy stretches an arm around your shoulder. “You’re a good person. Besides, I was able to take him out easily because of the damage you did.”

“Nami looked horrified when she saw my face,” you say. “I must look like a mess.”

“You do,” Luffy says honestly, making you smile–which pulls on your stitches.

“Owww, oh…smiling hurts.”

“Then don’t smile!”

“I can’t help it. You make me smile. You know this.”

Luffy rubs his chin, eyes rolling up as he thinks. “Then I should stay away from you.”

“Nooo, don’t do that! I need you around to cheer me up! Especially now.” You take his hand that’s hanging around your shoulder, feeling your chest lighten when he squeezes back.

“Well, in that case, I’ll just not make you smile!” he says.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” You chuckle, then look at the mirror hanging on the wall. If you need to lower your mood, there’s an easy shortcut–the combination of your inflamed, swollen skin, plus the stitches make you look nothing short of monstrous.

Luffy notices your face falling. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s going to scar. And not even in a cool way.” Living with severe facial scarring probably won’t be that bad–you are a pirate, after all–but it’ll still be new. And, to be honest, you’re not ready for your appearance to change so dramatically.

“What are you talking about? It’ll be super cool!” Luffy says earnestly. “Everyone will know what a strong pirate you are!”

He’s trying to cheer you up. You don’t want to bring him down in the dumps with you, but you can’t help but be bummed out.

“But what if I don’t want to look cool?” you say. “What if I just want to look like me? I mean, who could possibly find a face like this appealing?” You ghost your fingers over the stitches on your lips. “Who would kiss lips like mine?”

You think you’re holding it in okay, but the admission has you tearing up. You’re being ridiculous–you should be happy to be alive. But why did it have to be your face? Why…

Luffy stares at you in that way he does when he’s thinking. You can’t tell what’s going through his mind.

It happens in an instant.

One moment you’re sitting next to each other in silence. The next moment, he wraps his other arm around you, pulls you in close, and lightly presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss.

It hurts a little, but it also feels so good that your tears break free and sting where they roll over your cuts.

“Did that hurt? I’m sorry, Y/n,” Luffy says when he pulls away.

“No, no! It was nice! It was really nice.” You have to fight not to smile.

“Oh, good! I liked it too!” he giggles, looking overjoyed.

“When I heal up, will you do that again?”

“I can do it right now!” Luffy says eagerly, but you clear your throat and tilt your head toward the doorway.

Chopper is standing there, little hooves on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed with the both of you and your method of boosting morale.

Zoro

Zoro was always one to downplay his injuries. Next to Chopper, you gave him the most trouble for it out of anyone in the crew. He figured that so long as he got medical attention, the extent of the injuries was no big deal.

He never expected to be on the receiving end.

In the heat of battle, he’s entirely focused on his opponent. This enemy crew is tough, but not the strongest they’ve faced. Strong enough to demand his full concentration.

However, Zoro knows the unique sound of a sword cutting through flesh. When he hears the shhk! noise behind him and remembers you’re also fighting a sword user, he’s so badly distracted he almost gets hit. He has just enough presence of mind to finish off his enemy before turning around.

That’s when he sees you fire a bullet into your opponent’s leg, your free arm wrapped around your stomach. There’s blood seeping between your fingers. In the time it takes him to rush to your side, you shoot your opponent again in the other leg, making him crumple, then once in each arm, rendering him completely unable to fight back from where he lays.

“Yo,” you say casually, but you’re trembling all over. Your torn shirt is staining quickly.

“You got cut,” Zoro states. He tries to pull your arm away so he can see your wound better, but you step back.

“I’m okay,” you say. You and Zoro both look down at your abdomen as you pull your arm away just slightly, and Zoro sees the unmistakable grayish-pink of your large intestine before you quickly plug up the gash with your arm again. You look back up at him. “It’s just a scratch.”

Zoro’s about ready to stab you himself, his eyes going wide with horror and rage.

“Are you insane?!” he shouts. “A scratch?! Shit, where’s Chopper–?!”

“Ha ha–ow ow ow, hurts to laugh.” You grin, but Zoro notices you tearing up from the pain.

“Okay, just, stay still,” his hands are held up hesitantly, unsure of what to do, and he calls over his shoulder. “CHOPPER! Get over here right now!”

Once Chopper arrives, he applies an emergency field dressing and instructs Zoro on how to safely carry you back to the ship’s infirmary. You act like you’re in high spirits the entire way there, smiling up at Zoro like everything’s fucking dandy.

“This is kinda nice,” you say. “I haven’t been carried since I was little.”

“After you heal,” Zoro says, “I’ll carry you around as much as you want, okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he says gently. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course not,” you say, and Zoro curses himself for having asked–he can see you wince with every harsh step he tries to avoid.

“We’re almost there. Almost there.”

“Relax, big guy. I’ve been through worse.”

You haven’t. He’s been in every major fight you’ve been through, and it’s never been this bad. Your blood is still warm on his skin, and your color’s getting paler, and it’s all because he couldn’t protect you.

The surgery takes longer than he thought. He’s pacing the hallway outside the infirmary so much that even Sanji starts to make a comment, which would have started a fight had Robin not intervened and sternly told them both that everyone was worried.

When you come to, it’s to the sight of Zoro standing over your bed. You don’t manage so much as a ‘yo’ before Zoro gets onto his hands and knees, bowing so low his head touches the floor.

“I’ll never let it happen again!” he says, minding his volume–Chopper is only allowing him to visit because Zoro promised he wouldn’t stress you out. “It’s my fault! I’m sorry–”

“Get up.”

He peers up at you. Your face is twisted up like you’re holding something back, but you force it into a sneer.

“Get up right now, or I’m going to make fun of you,” you say. He hesitates long enough for you to roll your eyes. “Don’t be a pussy.”

That brings him right back to his feet. “What’d you call me?!”

“You heard me,” you say. “I’m alive, aren’t I? So relax.”

“I can’t relax!” Zoro snaps. “You got hurt because of me! I was too weak! I couldn’t–couldn’t stop this from happening!”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever?!” He no longer minds his volume. “How can you be so–so calm about this?!”

“How can you be making this about yourself?”

That shuts him up real quick. Realizing his mistake, Zoro starts to get a sour feeling in his stomach, but you only smile.

“Now you know what it feels like,” you chuckle and wince, “ow–what it feels like to have someone be dismissive of your injuries. So the next time you get hurt, you big dumb idiot, how about you have some self awareness and let me worry?”

Zoro deflates a little. “I still can’t just forgive myself like that.”

“I’ll do it for you.” You hold out your hand until he takes it. “Roronoa Zoro, I forgive you–so long as you do one thing for me.”

He leans in. “Anything. What is it?”

“Even with the pain meds, I’m still sore. Kiss it better?” You smile the way you do when you’re joking, but it soon turns to a look of surprise when Zoro leans in even closer. He hesitates for a moment, face hovering above yours, before his free hand comes to cradle the back of your head and he presses a firm, intent kiss to your lips.

You stare at him when he pulls away, your expression slowly morphing into a smile–not a playful one, not a masking one, but a real smile.

“W-What’s with that look?” Zoro says, flustered now. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

“I meant kiss my stomach, dummy.”

Zoro’s eyes widen, but before he can remedy his mistake, you weakly pull him back in for another kiss. This time, he obliges without question.

Sanji

Sanji barely dodges a brutal strike from his opponent, then finishes them off with a flaming kick to the skull. You grin at him as you down your own opponent with a heavy strike from one of your tonfa.

“Careful there, Hotfoot! He almost got you!” you yell gleefully, only to narrowly avoid getting hit yourself.

“Worry about yourself, Sticks!” Sanji calls back, mirroring your grin.

“They’re not sticks!” you say yet again, smashing one of the tonfa into a pirate’s head and knocking them out cold. “You’re just jealous I can fight with my hands!”

“I choose not to fight with my hands!”

“Sure you do!”

You were well aware of Sanji’s commitment to only use his hands to cook, but it was still fun to pretend it was a skill issue. Sanji knew it was all teasing anyway. The two of you greatly enjoyed your banter, whether in or outside of battle. As physical fighters, your rivalry was a friendly one. After all, out of everyone in the crew, you spent the most time talking to each other.

The next wave of pirates comes, this time stronger than before–the enemy’s commanding officers. The battle becomes too serious for you to go on making comments, and your focus gets pulled toward your opponents.

It’s a hard, bloody fight. As soon as he defeats his opponent, he worries about how the others are faring. The rest of the crew is almost done with their own one-on-ones, and he finds himself rushing to find you first, his pace hurrying when he finds one of your tonfa lying off to the side.

You’re straddling your opponent on the ground. Your non-dominant hand is broken, held crookedly against your chest, and you’re bleeding from your hairline and mouth. With your good hand, you beat your tonfa into your opponent’s skull, over and over, a broken cry tumbling from your bloody lips with every strike. Your opponent is no longer moving, but you don’t stop, tears streaming from your eyes as you mash his face to a visceral pulp.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Sanji skids to a stop next to you, grabbing your wrist before you can strike again. “He’s dead! It’s over. It’s over. You won.”

You look at him with wide eyes. Your mouth is held open, and at first, Sanji doesn’t realize what’s wrong, but he can tell you only won by a hair from the way you’re trembling. He gets down and pulls you into a gentle hug. “I got you,” he says. “I got you. You’re okay now.”

He holds you at arm’s length and checks over your body for any injuries, finding none. Mouth still open, you pull away from him and start patting the grass with your good hand, searching for something.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” he says. “Please, say something.”

Sanji expects something tired and sarcastic, like ‘you don’t look much better.’ Instead, you make a strange, groaning noise as your response, and he feels a chill run through his body. You always had a quick retort for him, even when things were dire.

You seem to find what you were looking for, your hand closing around something. Sanji helps you stand up, and when you open your hand, he sees a few teeth in your palm that must have gotten knocked out.

“Your jaw’s broken,” Sanji realizes aloud, and you nod, and suddenly the way you hold your mouth open is deeply unsettling.

The silence that follows your surgery, however, puts Sanji at an even greater unease. Your jaw is wired shut to let the bone heal, and Chopper says that for the next six weeks, you won’t be able to speak at all.

You carry around a notepad with you, but for a while after you wake from the anesthesia, you don’t write anything down except to answer Chopper’s questions, opting instead to sulk.

“Come on, Sticks,” Sanji says lightly as he signs the cast on your hand. “I know you have something to say.”

You flick him off with your good hand, then seem to regret it, your face fallin along with your hand. Sighing through your nose, you grab your notepad and scribble something down, then hold it up for him to see.

‘I look like a chipmunk.’

The lower half of your face has, naturally, swollen up. Sanji shakes his head. “No, no, you look fine! You…” A pointed look from you makes him concede. “Okay, yeah. It’s swollen. What did you expect?” You look away, and he pats your shoulder. “Ah, come on, it’s not so bad. Most people find chipmunks cute, you know.”

Your eyes widen slightly and you give him a look of surprise. Sanji stiffens.

“Um, well, I mean…” he stammers. Though he doesn’t leave, for the rest of that day, you both avoid looking at each other.

From the beginning to the end of your healing process, Sanji stays by your side, always finding a way to make you feel better. He’ll hype you up by doing a drumroll while he’s waiting for you to finish writing out a thought, something which the rest of the crew picks up as well. When you’re hanging out with him in the galley, he’ll do hibachi tricks with the food he prepares to cheer you up.

The food he makes for you especially helps you get through the long weeks. You were severely bummed out at having to miss his cooking for weeks–until the first sip of the soup he cooked. You never knew a liquid diet could be so delicious. Sanji takes the time to roast and blend anything you’d wanted. Thanks to him, being unable to chew food doesn’t affect your nutrient intake at all.

He also indulges you in your favorite drink without you having asked, which is surprising. It’s not the first time he’s gone out of his way like this, but it does feel more special when you’ve been in such a vulnerable state.

‘Maybe there’s an upside to this after all.’

Sitting in the galley while Sanji cooks, you hold up your notepad for him to read.

“And what is that?” he says, walking around the prep table with a mixing bowl in his arms, looking down at what you’re writing.

‘I love y’

You pause, staring at your notepad with a weird, dumbstruck look. Sanji’s eyes widen, slowing down his mixing for a second, but you quickly recover and finish scribbling.

‘I love you treating me extra special.’ You hold up the notepad hesitantly, avoiding his eye.

Though feeling warmth rise in his chest, Sanji plays it cool. “Well, I’m glad you’re finding the positive in this,” he says. “I personally miss the sound of your voice.”

You drop your notepad and fumble to catch it with only one good hand, accidentally smacking it to the floor. Both you and Sanji crouch down to pick it up, and freeze when your hands touch.

The urge to say ‘sorry’ is strong, though you can’t speak. Face burning, all you can do is look at him apologetically and hope he understands. But when you do, he’s looking back at you with the same expression he has when he reads a brand new recipe. Like he’s figuring something out.

You go to pull your hand away, but his fingers close around yours. “I, uh… I really mean that, you know.”

Swallowing, you glance down at his hand holding yours, then back up at him, and nod.

“Y/n,” he says, letting go of your hand to instead cup your cheek tenderly. “Would you… I mean. Can I…?”

With your heart pounding, you nod again, and Sanji leans in. You close your eyes, and a moment later, his lips brush yours, feather-light. Just that barest contact makes your head spin almost as bad as it did when you got your injury in the first place.

Sanji breaks free, and you stare at each other. A slow smile spreads across your lips at the sight of his nose starting to bleed. You both stand up, and you write something down quickly.

‘I’m sorry I can’t kiss you back.’

“That’s okay,” he says, reading the note over your shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, grinning. “I’ll gladly do all the work.”

And Sanji does, in the quiet, private moments where it’s just the two of you. And yet, when the day finally comes for Chopper to remove the wires, and the first thing you do upon leaving the exam room is call out Sanji’s name, he’s so elated that he picks you up with a spin, kissing you in front of everyone before he can help himself.

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