I HAVE A SANJI ENEMIES TOO LOVERS IN MY DRAFTS, ALMOST DONE W IT TOO. I AM SO SCARED BC I FEEL LIKE ITS

all I want is you...

"ᴮᵃᵇʸ, ʷⁱˡˡ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵐᵉ? ᴮᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᴵ'ᵐ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ʰᵉˡᵖ ʸᵒᵘ ᴬˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘ ⁿᵒʷ, ᵃˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒʷ ᴵˢ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵃˡˡ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵃᵇʸ, ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ" ~ᴿᵉᵇᶻʸʸˣ

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⚓️ Monkey D. Luffy — "I just want you to be okay... okay, baby, alright."

You were the only one who didn't laugh when he shouted he was going to be King of the Pirates.

You looked at him with wide, glassy eyes, and nodded like it meant something more. Like he meant something more. You were the only one who ever looked at him like that.

The others never noticed how quiet you got after the battles. They did not see how you curled up on the deck, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the sea like it might give you answers. But he did. Luffy saw everything — even if he could not always understand it.

“Are you okay?” he had asked once, lips tugging down, unsure.

You blinked like you were surprised he noticed. “Yeah, Captain. I’m just... tired.”

You smiled after that.

But it never quite reached your eyes again.

He did not have words for how that made him feel — how your sadness curled around his ribs like a sea monster, heavy and tight. So, he tried harder. Pulled you into dancing when Brook played, dragged you into snowball fights on winter islands, left oranges by your bed when you forgot to eat.

He even gave you his last piece of meat once.

You laughed. Genuinely. Just for a second.

And he thought, Maybe I can fix this. Maybe if I stay close enough, long enough, loud enough... you’ll be okay again.

But one day, you were gone.

No note. No footprints. Just a jacket left on the rail, your scent already fading into salt.

Now Luffy stands at the edge of the Sunny most nights, straw hat clutched in his hand, whispering under his breath like a prayer he cannot quite name.

“I know what you want… Let me be the one to hold your hand forever...”

And the sea says nothing back...

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🗡️ Roronoa Zoro — "Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really you mean nothing."

Zoro has always been good at two things: fighting and silence.

Feelings? Not so much.

You came into his life like a flashfire — sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, loud and full of life in all the ways he never was. At first, you got on his nerves. Too many questions. Too many looks. Too many feelings.

But you stayed. Through storms, through bloodshed, through his worst moods and longest naps. You were there every time he opened his eyes, and eventually… he started looking for you.

He never told you that.

But he didn’t need to, right?

Except... you started asking. And that was the beginning of the end.

“Do you even care about me?” you asked once, after another close call — blood on your shoulder, adrenaline in your veins, and his voice still sharp from yelling your name in panic.

Zoro had stared at you too long, jaw locked, like the words were stuck somewhere deep in his throat.

“…Of course I do,” he muttered eventually, but his voice was distant. Like he was talking to a ghost instead of the person who had almost died in front of him.

You laughed. Bitter, quiet.

“That’s not enough anymore, Zo.”

You left that night.

You did not slam the door or pack a dramatic bag. You just… disappeared. No note. No goodbye. Just a silence that felt like a sword pressed to his throat.

Now he trains harder. Sleeps less. Bleeds more.

Because the ache in his chest? It is louder than any wound he has ever taken.

He swears he hears you sometimes, late at night — that little scoff you always gave when he got lost, the gentle click of your tongue when he drank too much. Maybe it is memory. Maybe it is madness.

But he talks to you anyway.

“You wanted a real answer?” he mutters into the cold air, voice rough. “Here it is — yeah, I care. More than I should. More than I know how to say.”

His fists curl. His swords stay sheathed.

“Tell me I messed it up. Tell me I pushed you too far. Just… tell me something.”

No reply.

Only the sound of wind and waves.

Zoro turns back to the dojo, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something he’ll never say again.

And in the dark, where no one can see him — not Luffy, not Sanji, not even himself — he finally let out a gentle sob.

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🍳 Vinsmoke Sanji — "You make me feel dirty. Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really, you mean nothing."

Sanji had always known how to play the part.

The flirt. The charmer. The perfect gentleman with a rose between his teeth and a cigarette between his fingers. But with you... that mask never fit quite right.

You saw straight through it.

And he hated how much he liked that.

You never swooned. You never batted your lashes when he called you "mademoiselle" or offered your favorite dessert on a silver tray. You always looked at him with something sharper — like you were searching for the man behind the suit, behind the smoke, behind the smile that trembled more than it should have.

“You’re not as good as you pretend to be, Sanji,” you said once, not out of cruelty — but truth.

He never forgot it.

He told himself he could change. That he wanted to. That maybe if he loved you right, if he made you feel safe and seen and special, you would never have to see the broken parts of him — the blood on his hands, the rage in his chest, the cruel voice of his father echoing in his skull every night.

But you saw it anyway.

You saw all of it.

And worst of all — you stayed.

Even when he pushed you away with a sharp tongue and clenched fists and long nights drinking too much and saying too little. Even when he called himself a monster, and you cupped his face and whispered:

“Then be a monster who loves me.”

He kissed you like you were salvation. Touched you like you were fire. Needed you like he was drowning.

And still, somehow, he ruined it.

He said something wrong — something cruel in a moment of weakness. You flinched. You left. And this time, you did not come back.

Now, his cigarettes burn down faster. His fingers shake over the cutting board. He makes dishes for you every night and throws them out uneaten.

The others stopped asking questions.

But he still talks to the kitchen walls like you are hiding in the corners.

“You make me feel filthy, you know that?” he whispers into the steam of your favorite soup, eyes red from smoke or something worse. “You make me feel everything I try to bury.”

The spoon clatters. His hands fall to the counter, shoulders shaking.

"Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me you hate me. Tell me anything... just—"

His voice breaks.

No one answers.

Just the soft simmer of something he will never serve.

“Just tell me you love me,” he breathes, softer this time, like it physically hurts to say.

And in the quiet of the galley, he stays alone — waiting for the door to open again, even though he knows it never will.

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🎯 Usopp — “I remember crying. I just want you to be alright.”

Usopp always told stories.

Wild, beautiful lies — the kind that made people laugh or roll their eyes or shake their heads in disbelief.

But you? You never laughed. You leaned in.

Every time he said something outrageous — “I fought a sea king with one hand tied behind my back,” or “My aim’s so good I could hit a fly on a cannonball” — you smiled with that soft, knowing look in your eyes.

“Tell me another,” you whispered once, voice small as you lay next to him on the deck, eyes on the stars. “Tell me the one where you save me, Uso...”

He did.

He told it a hundred times. A thousand.

Until one day, you needed saving — and he failed.

It was not some grand battle or dramatic fall. You had been slipping for a while — smiles growing quieter, footsteps growing softer, hands fidgeting with sleeves when you thought no one was watching.

But Usopp was. And he was terrified.

Because he knew all the stories in the world could not fix the shadows in your eyes. Could not fill the silences that stretched too long between your words. Could not reach the places inside you that even you seemed afraid to touch.

Still, he tried.

He made you gadgets. Left tiny presents in your hammock. Carved your name into a seashell and whispered into it, saying, “You’re not alone. You never were.”

He told himself you would be okay. Because the hero always wins in the end.

But then… you stopped coming to breakfast. You stopped meeting him on the deck. One day, he knocked on your door and found it open, the room empty.

Gone. No goodbye.

No final story.

Now, Usopp sits in the crow’s nest with his slingshot across his lap and swollen eyes that have not seen sleep in days.

He looks out over the sea, voice hoarse.

“I know I’m not the strongest. Or the bravest. Or the smartest,” he mumbles to no one, “but I would’ve tried. I was trying.”

He presses the seashell with your name to his chest like a talisman, fingers shaking.

“I remember crying,” he says. “I just want you to be alright. I don’t care if you ever come back. Just—just be okay. Please.”

But the sea doesn’t answer. It never does.

“All I need is you now,” he breathes, forehead against the window, as the tears come again. “All I want to do now… is wait for you to call for me.”

And he does...

Every night...

Even though he knows you never will...

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⚕️ Trafalgar D. Water Law — “Fix the holes in your heart, it’s what I wanted from the start.”

Law didn’t mean to fall for you.

You weren’t part of the plan. You weren’t like Cora — loud and chaotic and selfless — and you weren’t like Bepo or his crew, either. You were… soft. Not weak, but gentle in ways he didn’t know how to process. You didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t demand answers.

But you looked at him like you saw him — and that was so much worse.

You never flinched from the cold edge of his voice or the scalpel-sharp way he kept people at a distance. You stood beside him in silence, in storms, in sickbays soaked with blood that wasn’t always someone else’s.

And one night, after a mission that nearly killed you both, you found him on the floor of the infirmary — gloves off, coat stained, hands shaking.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You just knelt beside him and whispered, “Let me help.”

He told himself it was a one-time thing. That letting you touch the cracked, hollow places in his chest wouldn’t mean anything. That he wouldn’t get attached.

But then you smiled.

You made tea for him in the mornings.

You remembered his favorite food without him telling you.

You asked how he was when he was trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t anything at all.

He couldn’t stop it.

He didn’t want to.

So he gave you pieces of himself in silence. Little things. A book from Flevance. A quiet "goodnight." A rare smile when he thought you weren’t looking.

But love, for Law, was never soft.

It was surgical — precise, dangerous, bloody.

And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he began to treat you like a patient. Like something broken he could fix.

He didn’t realize it until the night you finally said it.

“I’m not something you can save, Law.”

You weren’t angry. You just looked… tired.

And he didn’t have the words. Not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that would make you stay.

So you left.

Not with malice. Not with drama. Just with silence. Just like everyone else.

Now, the sickbay is too quiet. The ship too clean. There’s no laughter echoing down the hall, no gentle knocks at midnight asking if he’d eaten.

Just Law, alone with his ghosts, staring at the hole you left in him — too deep to close, too old to ignore.

He’s operating in silence again. Gloves on. Scalpel steady.

But his hands tremble.

“To fix the holes in your heart, it’s all I wanted from the start... That’s all I wanted...” he mutters like a curse, eyes blurring.

He drops the scalpel. Covers his face with blood-streaked hands.

“Come back...” he whispers, so quiet it gets swallowed by the hum of the ship.

And no one hears it but the walls — and the sea.

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🔥 Portgas D. Ace — “I got mental issues, always fucking miss you.”

Ace doesn’t sleep well when you’re not around.

He tosses and turns on sheets soaked with sweat, waking up breathless and angry at himself for dreaming about you — again. It’s not even the good dreams anymore. Not the ones where you’re laughing, curled against his chest, warm like sunlight, kissing him.

Now it’s nightmares.

You leaving.

You crying.

You dying.

And he always wakes up too late.

The room smells like old smoke and iron. There’s a cracked glass on the floor by his bed. A shirt that still smells like you shoved under his pillow. And his fists ache — from punching walls, from holding back.

“I got mental issues,” he mutters to himself, leaning against the frame of the bed, shirtless and shaking. “I’m really fucked up, huh...?”

There’s blood on his knuckles. Again. He doesn’t remember how it got there.

There are tissues everywhere. Piled in corners, scattered across the floor. He doesn’t throw them away — like maybe if he keeps enough of them, your scent will linger just a little longer.

He misses you so bad it makes him angry.

Like it’s your fault for being so gentle. For loving him when he didn’t think he deserved it. For touching his skin like it wasn’t a curse, and telling him he was good like you believed it more than he ever could.

He told you once, in a rare moment of stillness:

“You’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel real...”

You kissed his temple and said, “Then be real with me.” smiling.

But he couldn’t. Not fully.

Because what if you saw it? The dark, cracked part of him that asks every night, Was I even supposed to be born? What if you walked into that storm and didn’t come back out?

So instead, he pushed you away.

Not all at once — no, Ace is too cowardly for that. He did it in pieces. A missed dinner here. A half-hearted kiss there. Another mission he took without telling you.

You stopped chasing him eventually.

And when you were gone… when the ship felt too empty and the fire in his chest flickered low — that’s when he realized.

"l'lI always fucking miss them..."

And now he’s sitting on the floor of some cheap inn, holding your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He wants to call you. Wants to say I’m sorry, I was scared, I didn’t know how to love you right, but please, please come back—

But the Den Den Mushi stays quiet.

And Ace stays ruined.

He’s not a storm anymore. Just smoke. Just echoes. Just... want....

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🕊️ Sabo — “Please don’t desert me, please don’t desert me.”

Sabo isn’t used to begging.

Not as a revolutionary. Not as a brother. Not as the man who smiled through bloodied battles and watched the world crumble under kings and fire.

But with you?

He begs in silence.

He does not know how to say, “Please stay.” So instead, he leaves cups of tea where you’ll find them. Wraps a blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep at your desk. Brushes your fingers when he passes by, like touch is the only language he still remembers how to speak.

You love him with an ease that makes him ache.

You never demand pieces of his past he cannot give. You don’t pry into the darkness that swims behind his eyes on bad nights — you just sit beside him, wordless, warm. Present.

And Sabo… Sabo falls.

Hard. Deep. Quiet.

He starts to write you letters he never sends. Pages stained with ink and doubt.

—"You make me feel like I deserve to live again.

I can’t lose you too.

Please don’t leave me like he did."

But you never left.

Until you did.

It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t betrayal. Just a slow, quiet unraveling — because Sabo kept part of himself hidden too long. Kept telling you, “I’m fine,” when he wasn’t. Kept pushing you out when all he wanted was to pull you in.

One day, you stopped knocking on his door.

The warmth faded.

Your coat was gone from the hook by his bed.

He found your necklace left behind — on purpose, probably. Something final.

And that night, he drank alone, firelight flickering against the scars on his hands. He could feel himself unraveling.

“Please don’t desert me…”

He whispered it into the dark, broken and too late.

He pressed his forehead to your necklace, eyes stinging with everything he couldn’t say in time.

“Please don’t desert me. Not like he did. Not like—”

But no one answered.

Only the crackle of flame and the silence of a room too big for one person.

He still wears that necklace.

Hidden under his scarf, against his chest.

He tells himself that if he ever sees you again, he’ll say it right this time. No riddles. No brave smiles.

Just—

“I’m scared of being left. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

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🎪 Buggy the Clown — “I’ll make you feel special, help you feel less stressful.”

Loud? Yes. Flashy? Obviously. A little bit unhinged? Well, that's Buggy's whole thing. He was the kind of guy who could stand on top of his ship with his arms thrown wide, demanding the world recognize his greatness. And for most people, that was all they saw — the captain, the performer, the clown. His bravado, his flair. The show.

But there was so much more beneath that.

He never let anyone see it, of course. Because if they did, if they saw what was lurking beneath his perfectly painted smile, then they’d know. They’d see that the self-inflated ego was just a shield. A shield to protect a heart that had never truly felt like it was worth anything.

Buggy had always believed that no one could really love him. Not for who he truly was.

He was a pirate, sure, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who got the kind of love he saw in movies or heard in songs. He wasn’t the romantic hero. He wasn’t the charming, smooth-talking swashbuckler. No, he was the laughing stock of every crew, the one everyone used for comic relief. A joke.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the attention — no, he craved it, needed it. But deep down, behind all the clamor and the glitz, Buggy was terrified that if anyone ever got too close, they'd leave. And that thought? It was crippling.

But then… you came along.

You, who didn’t laugh at his jokes just to make him feel good — you genuinely laughed with him. You, who never flinched at his disassembled limbs, never turned away when he got a little too dramatic, when he overreacted or shouted just to make sure everyone was paying attention.

You stood beside him, even when the rest of the world told you to run in the opposite direction.

And Buggy? Oh, Buggy fell hard.

He didn’t know when it happened, honestly. He didn’t know when he’d started thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was someone who could look at him and see more than just the crazy pirate captain with a flair for the theatrical. He didn’t know when he’d started feeling like he could actually be loved. Like he could be enough.

But you… you were there. You made him feel like he didn’t have to hide behind the act. You made him feel special in ways that no one ever had before.

The day he left — the day he walked away, pretending like he was doing you a favor — it wasn’t because he didn’t care. No, it was because he cared too much.

The sight of you laughing with him, your warm smile, the way you didn’t treat him like he was a walking joke, it scared him. It terrified him more than anything in his life.

You were the first person who made him feel like he was worthy. Like maybe there was more to him than just the chaos and the bluster. But he wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to let someone in that close. Because what if you saw the truth? What if you saw all his flaws, all his broken pieces, and realized that even though he had everything to offer, he wasn’t enough?

You were too good for him. He was just a clown.

Buggy stood at the helm, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly as he looked at the ocean ahead of him. The ship was drifting farther and farther from the shore, from you. From everything he’d let himself feel.

He hated this. He hated it more than anything he’d ever hated in his life.

But what else could he do?

He tried to convince himself that this was what was best for you. That he was just some mess of a man, a guy who would only bring more destruction into your life. That you deserved someone who could love you properly, without the chaos. Without the theatrics. Someone who wasn’t going to break your heart.

And yet, every time he looked at the ocean, he could still see your smile in his mind. The way you’d looked at him, like he wasn’t just some eccentric fool. Like he mattered to you.

His chest ached. Damn it.

“I’ll make you feel special, I'll help you feel less stressful…” he muttered to himself, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it true. But even as the words left his lips, he knew they weren’t enough. Not anymore.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered, almost like a plea to the wind. “Not ready for you. You deserve better.”

When the Den Den Mushi call came through, he knew it was you. It was always you who’d pick up the phone when the others just let it ring.

He hesitated for a long time before answering. When his face finally appeared on the screen, he smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes. His usual flair, the confidence, it was all gone. And for once, he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… maybe if I just walked away, you’d be better off.”

“You’re not the problem,” you said, your voice tight, like you were holding back tears. “You’re the one I want, Buggy.”

He wanted to reach through the screen, to take you in his arms and never let go. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“But I’m too much for you,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll just bring chaos into your life. You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve. Not a mess like me.”

You stared at him, your eyes filled with unshed tears. And for a moment, just a moment, Buggy saw something he hadn’t seen in years — something real. Something pure.

“I’ll make you feel special,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Well, I wanted to. But I can’t. Not like this.”

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Buggy felt completely seen.

The call ended. The ship drifted away.

And Buggy stood there, staring at the horizon, wondering if he’d made the right choice. Maybe someday, he’d get the courage to come back. But until then, all he had were the memories — of you, of your laughter, of how you’d made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was worthy of love after all.

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🍷 Shanks — “I remember nights we were dancing in the moonlight.”

He never told you he loved you.

Not with those exact words, anyway.

He said it in other ways — in the way he laughed at your jokes even when they were terrible, in how his arm would always find your waist when you leaned too close to the sea rail, in how his eyes lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking.

And sometimes, he’d let the mask slip.

Like that night, on some quiet island no one would remember. The tavern was half-empty, his crew rowdy and drunk. And you, you were warm beside him, fingers stained with fruit juice and salt air, eyes glowing like you had swallowed the moon itself.

There was music playing. Something simple. Soft.

You nudged him and said, “Dance with me.”

He scoffed, sipped his drink, and said, “Nah, I’ve got two left feet.”

But your hand stayed outstretched.

And so he took it.

The floor was uneven. He stepped on your toes twice. His laugh was louder than the music, and your cheeks hurt from smiling. And when the others weren’t looking, he spun you into him, held you close, and whispered—

“If I could bottle this moment, I’d carry it everywhere.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your smile told him you felt the same.

That night, you danced under the moonlight until the candles burned out and the stars were your only audience.

But things change.

Shanks always leaves eventually. You knew that from the beginning.

He told you once, long ago, “The sea is a jealous thing. She always calls me back.”

And still, it hurt when he went.

You stayed behind on some island — a “safe place,” he called it — with a kiss to your forehead and a promise you never asked for.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

You knew better.

Weeks passed. Then months.

No letters. No sign.

And Shanks? He was far away, sitting by a fire on a different shore, holding your necklace in his palm like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to anything human.

His crew thought he was fine.

But sometimes at night, when everyone was asleep, he'd take out the old Den Den Mushi and stare at it. Thumb hovering over the dial.

And he’d whisper—

“I remember hiding, I remember crying... God, I just want you to be alright.”

He never dialed. Never called.

Because he thought maybe you were better off without him.

But if you walked back into his life — wind in your hair, sea in your eyes — he’d say it.

Not with flowers. Not with grand speeches.

Just a quiet, choked—

“I never stopped dancing with you. Even when you weren’t there.”

______________________________________________________________

⚡ Kid — “You control my life. I feel like a fucking puppet.”

Kid had never been the type to lean on anyone. To trust anyone. The idea of someone else controlling his life, controlling his choices — that was something he never allowed. He was a man of steel, a pirate who carved his own path, never bowing to anyone.

But then you came along.

And from the moment you stepped into his life, everything started shifting in ways he couldn’t control. He hated it. Hated the way you made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Hated how his heart raced when you laughed. Hated how his thoughts would drift to you when he was supposed to be focused on his next big heist.

He hated how you made him feel like he wasn’t in control.

At first, it was a joke. A distraction. He’d tell himself that he didn’t care about you, that he could walk away anytime. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed anyone. Certainly not someone like you, someone who had the power to make him question everything he knew about himself.

But then... then the feelings crept in. Slowly at first, like a seed being planted deep in his chest. And then, before he knew it, it had taken root. He couldn’t get rid of it. He couldn’t escape the way you made him feel.

You made him feel alive in a way he didn’t know was possible. And that scared him more than anything.

One night, after yet another pointless argument, Kid found himself alone on the deck of his ship. The moonlight reflected off the ocean, and the cold breeze brushed against his face, but none of it could clear the heat building inside him.

He had tried to push you away. Tried to act like he didn’t care. But all it did was make him feel more desperate, more broken.

And now, here he was again. Standing in the same spot, staring at the empty horizon, trying to ignore the voice inside his head that kept calling your name.

The ship creaked behind him, and then he heard it. The soft sound of footsteps.

You. Of course, it was you.

He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t face the person who had so completely taken over his life. Who had him tangled up in knots, unable to let go.

“You’re still pissed?” he asked, his voice rough, trying to mask the vulnerability bubbling under the surface.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you walked up beside him, standing in silence. He could feel your presence, feel the weight of it pressing against him. You were close enough to make his breath hitch, but he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. Not yet.

“Kid,” you said softly, and the way you said his name made his insides twist. “You know I don’t want to fight with you.”

He scoffed, turning away to hide his face, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders. He clenched his fists at his sides, as if the action might stop the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

“Don’t even try to act like you understand. This isn’t some game. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, alright?” he spat, his anger rising in a desperate attempt to cover up how raw he felt inside.

But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“I don’t need you to explain it to me,” you said, your voice calm, like you weren’t afraid of his anger. “But you don’t have to push me away, either.”

Kid felt his heart skip a beat, but he refused to look at you. He couldn’t.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, the edge of his anger beginning to fade. “You don’t get it. I don’t want to feel like this. You can’t just come in and change everything. You can’t just control me like I’m some damn puppet.”

His words hit harder than he intended. There. He’d said it.

You stood there for a moment, not saying anything. He could feel you staring at him, waiting for him to break the silence.

“Kid,” you finally said, taking a step closer, “I never wanted to control you.”

He shook his head, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

“Then what the hell is this?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Every time I try to pull away, you’re still there. Every time I think I’ve got my shit together, I— I start thinking about you. About how you make me feel—”

He stopped, his throat tightening, but he couldn’t stop himself. His frustration, his confusion, his desperation all came out in one breathless sentence.

“I’m losing control. And I hate it.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t need to explain yourself, because you understood. You’d always understood.

You reached out, gently resting your hand on his arm, and for the first time that night, Kid looked at you. His eyes were stormy, conflicted, but beneath it all, there was something more — something softer. Something that made his heart feel like it was going to burst.

“I’m not trying to control you, Kid,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I just... I just want you to be you. No masks, no act. Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He swallowed hard, his chest tight. You weren’t asking for anything more than that. And somehow, that terrified him even more.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, barely audible. “You make me feel like I’m not enough. Like I can’t even control my own damn life anymore.”

You smiled softly, and for once, Kid didn’t see pity in your eyes. You weren’t looking at him like he was a broken thing.

“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all together,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m not here to control you, Kid. I’m here because I care about you. And that’s all.”

He stood frozen for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. And just like that, all his walls came crashing down.

“God, I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. Instead, there was just that undercurrent of raw emotion he had never wanted to show. “You make this so damn hard.”

And maybe that was okay. Maybe being vulnerable for once, letting someone else in, didn’t make him weak. Maybe it made him stronger.

“All I want is you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, but you heard it anyway.

You smiled again, this time with a tenderness that took Kid by surprise. You didn’t say anything, just stood beside him, silently offering the support he never knew he needed.

For once, Kid didn’t feel like he had to fight it.

______________________________________________________________

ART OF TODAY:

(Thing in the corner coming soon)

How do yall become online friends w ppl? I saw someone I wanna be friends w and I'm a fucking pussy

I love Storm ✊️✊️

Oh my queen. I admire you.

Okay, so, idk who cares but,

I don't just write fanfics! This is a story I've been working on for only about a week called "All in Human Nature" and it is a Thriller Book about a group of friends who go to a cabin but something goes very, very dark in the middle of their mid-summer trip.

Jealousy is in the Air

Synopsis: When a charming newcomer to the team takes a little too much interest in you, Kurt Wagner finds himself battling an unfamiliar feeling—jealousy. His usual calm demeanor wavers as he awkwardly tries to mask his growing frustration. Despite his best efforts to stay composed, his swishing tail and brooding glances give him away. It doesn’t take long for you to notice, and when you confront him about it, he shyly admits his feelings, afraid he might have overstepped. Reassuring him that your heart belongs to him, you manage to turn his jealousy into a moment of tenderness, leaving Kurt flustered but undeniably happy.

The laughter in the rec room was lively, everyone enjoying a rare moment of peace. You had found yourself in conversation with a charming newcomer—someone fresh to the team and eager to make connections. They were easy to talk to, asking questions about your work and hobbies, their attention focused solely on you.

Across the room, Kurt tried to stay engaged with the small group he was sitting with, but his golden eyes kept darting to you. It wasn’t hard to miss how the newcomer leaned a little closer to hear you better, their smile a little too wide for Kurt’s liking. His tail swished sharply behind him, nearly knocking over a nearby chair.

“Easy there, Kurt,” Jubilee teased, nudging him with her elbow. “What’d that chair ever do to you?”

He cleared his throat, attempting to mask his irritation. “It is...nothing. Just stretching.”

His attempt at nonchalance failed miserably as his gaze returned to you, watching as the newcomer made you laugh—a laugh Kurt adored hearing. He tried to busy himself by sipping his soda, only to realize he’d drained the can in one go.

“Are you okay, Wagner? You look like you’re gonna pop a vein,” Logan grumbled, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“I am fine,” Kurt insisted, though his tail betrayed him by thumping against the floor.

Finally, you noticed Kurt’s unusual behavior. Excusing yourself from the conversation, you crossed the room and plopped into the empty seat beside him. “What’s with all the glaring?” you teased, leaning a little closer.

“I was not glaring,” he protested, though his ears flushed a deeper blue.

“Oh, really? Then what do you call this?” You mimicked his brooding expression, furrowing your brows and squinting your eyes.

He sighed, his tail curling around one of the chair legs. “I suppose... I may have been a little jealous,” he admitted, avoiding your gaze. “You are...very special to me, and I did not like the way they were looking at you.”

A warm smile spread across your face. “Kurt, you don’t have to worry about that. I was just being polite. Besides...” You placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re the only one who gets my attention like that.”

His golden eyes lit up at your words, the tension in his shoulders melting away. “Really?”

“Really.”

Kurt’s tail unwound from the chair and hesitantly wrapped around your wrist, a shy but affectionate gesture that made your heart flutter. His smile, wide and full of relief, was worth every moment of teasing him earlier.

Unable to resist the adorable way his ears flushed and his golden eyes lit up, you leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Kurt froze, his tail snapping upright before swinging sharply to the side—and knocking over the chair he had been sitting on moments ago.

The loud clatter turned every head in the room, but Kurt’s wide, sheepish grin as he looked back at you made it impossible for you to feel embarrassed.

“Was that your tail or the chair’s fault this time?” you teased, biting back a laugh.

“It is both,” he stammered, ears darkening to an even deeper blue. “But mostly the tail.”

His flustered reaction only made you laugh harder, leaning into him as he rubbed the back of his neck. Even with the eyes of the room on you both, Kurt’s gaze never left yours, his smile growing softer by the second.

Crash Course

Synopsis; A quick ride on Jason Todd’s motorcycle turns into a dumpster disaster. As he grumbles and patches you up, you catch glimpses of the care he hides behind his tough exterior—and learn just how much you mean to him.

Warnings; None! Hope you enjoy, kits!

Jason stood beside his motorcycle, arms crossed, the faint glow of a streetlamp reflecting off the red of his helmet tucked under his arm. "Let me make one thing clear," he said, voice firm and low. "You’re not touching my bike."

You raised an eyebrow, arms folded as you met his glare. "It’s just a ride around the block, Todd. Not like I’m planning to join a street race."

He scoffed, his lips pulling into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "This isn’t one of your little toys. It’s a Ducati. Custom-built. Worth more than your apartment. You crash it, and you’ll be working for me until you’re sixty."

"Afraid I’ll ride it better than you?" you teased, your grin wide and shameless.

Jason’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening into something unreadable. After a beat, he shoved the helmet into your hands with a sharp glare. "Fine," he said curtly. "But if you lay it down, you’re paying for every scratch, dent, and bolt out of your own damn pocket."

"Deal," you said, practically bouncing as you straddled the sleek machine.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Throttle’s touchy. Lean into the turns. And for the love of God, don’t gun it."

You nodded, but you were already revving the engine, adrenaline buzzing in your veins. Before Jason could say another word, you were off, the roar of the bike echoing through the narrow alleyway.

The wind whipped against your face as the bike surged forward, the power of it sending a thrill down your spine. You couldn’t help but let out a victorious laugh. But as the first sharp turn approached, you realized—too late—that you’d underestimated just how sensitive the bike was.

The back wheel skidded. The world tilted. And before you knew it, you and the Ducati went crashing into a dumpster with an echoing clang.

"Shit," you groaned, sprawled on the ground as the bike settled on its side.

Jason’s footsteps were heavy, fast, and loud as he stormed over. He didn’t say anything at first, his jaw tight as he hauled the bike upright and inspected it for damage.

Then he turned to you, his eyes dark and his voice low. "What the hell were you thinking?"

You winced as you tried to sit up, your shoulder protesting with a sharp ache. "I think the bike hates me."

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh as he crouched beside you. "The bike doesn’t hate you. The bike doesn’t have a death wish. That’s all you." He grabbed your arm, his grip firm but careful, and helped you to your feet.

You winced again, and Jason’s frown deepened. He guided you to a nearby crate, practically shoving you onto it before crouching down in front of you. His hands were already pulling a small med kit from his jacket pocket.

"Sit still," he muttered, not looking at you as he snapped on a pair of gloves.

"I’m fine," you protested weakly.

"You’re bleeding," he shot back, grabbing an antiseptic wipe and dabbing at the scrape on your arm. "And you’re lucky it’s just scrapes. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You’re reckless. Stupidly reckless."

You tilted your head, watching him work. His hands were steady, but his jaw was tight, his brows furrowed in that way they always did when he was more upset than he let on.

"You’re really worried about me," you said softly, trying for a teasing tone, but it came out quieter than you intended.

Jason froze for a moment, his hand hovering just above your arm. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he didn’t meet your eyes. "I’m worried about my bike," he said gruffly, resuming his work.

"Sure," you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He ignored you, focusing instead on wrapping your arm in clean gauze. His movements were precise, his touch gentle despite the grumbling under his breath. When he was done, he leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, finally looking at you.

"You’re banned," he said flatly.

"Jason—"

"Forever," he added, cutting you off.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping. "I said I was sorry."

He shook his head, standing and reaching out a hand to help you up. "Sorry doesn’t fix a totaled bike or a broken neck. Next time," he said, his tone firm, "you ride with me."

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stared at him. There was something unspoken in his gaze—something protective, almost desperate, that he tried to hide behind his usual gruff exterior.

"Got it," you said softly, taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

Jason grunted, picking up the helmet and tossing it onto the bike. As you both turned toward the alleyway, you couldn’t help but notice the faint tremor in his hand as he ran it through his hair.

"Come on," he said over his shoulder. "Let’s get you cleaned up properly before you start smelling worse than that dumpster."

And as he walked ahead of you, muttering about reckless idiots and ruined leather, you couldn’t help but smile. Beneath all the grumbling, Jason cared more than he’d ever admit.

GUYS IM GONNA CRY

C.ai keeps asking for my b-day everytime I try to open the app and when I ignored it my chats weren't there. The ones I made myself also. I'm boutta cry.

Unseen Beauty

Synopsis; After hearing cruel comments about his appearance, Kurt begins to doubt himself, feeling like he’s something less than human. But with your gentle words and unwavering belief in his beauty and kindness, he begins to see himself through new eyes—eyes that reflect the warmth and worth he truly holds. Warnings; None! Love you and enjoy kits! Requested by @hulkingharbor

You find Kurt sitting alone on the mansion’s steps, his tail curled tightly around him, head lowered as he absently traces patterns in the stone. His usual cheerful demeanor seems to have vanished, replaced with a quiet sadness that tugs at your heart.

“Kurt?” you say softly, sitting beside him. He looks up, and there’s a flicker of surprise in his yellow eyes before he quickly glances away.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he mutters, trying to muster a smile. “I did not mean to be such… gloomy company.”

You shake your head. “You’re never gloomy company. But something’s obviously on your mind.”

For a moment, he hesitates, and then, as if he can no longer hold it in, he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “It’s just… some things people said,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with lingering hurt. “That I look… frightening. A ‘monster’.” He swallows, the words barely audible. “Sometimes it is hard not to see myself that way, too.”

Your heart aches at the pain in his voice. Without thinking, you reach over, gently touching his hand, offering silent reassurance until he finally meets your gaze.

“Kurt, that’s not true. You’re not frightening; you’re beautiful.”

He blinks, caught off guard, and a faint blush colors his cheeks. “You don’t have to say that, you know,” he says, half-smiling, though there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes.

You smile, holding his hand a little tighter. “I want to say it. The way you smile, the kindness in your eyes, the way you care about everyone around you… that’s what makes you so beautiful. And anyone who doesn’t see that? They’re the ones who are missing something.”

His eyes soften, and he looks down, a small, genuine smile breaking through the sadness. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” you say, your voice firm. “Every part of you—your laugh, your heart, even your tail—makes you who you are. And who you are is beautiful, Kurt.”

Slowly, his hand relaxes in yours, and his smile grows, warmer now, with a hint of his usual brightness. He lets out a deep breath, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he whispers. “You do not know how much it means to me.”

You squeeze his hand. “Anytime, Kurt. You’re precious to me. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

As he smiles back at you, the sadness fades, replaced by a quiet gratitude and a spark of confidence you hope will stay with him long after tonight.