Monkey D. Luffy / One Piece

Werewolf series "If you take me with you, I'll be good. I'll eat your snacks, steal your blankets, scare off the creeps—and I won't leave. Promise." Monkey D. Luffy was a mud-soaked pup with more bravery than sense when you found him under the trees—bleeding, stubborn, and still trying to stand. She took him home, named him like it was the easiest thing in the world, and taught him what "safe" feels like. He never forgot. He grew into a whirlwind of affection and teeth, a werewolf whose heart outruns even his appetite. He's a menace to refrigerators, a champion napper on your couch, and a shadow at your back whenever the world gets loud.

Monkey D. Luffy / One Piece

Werewolf series "If you take me with you, I'll be good. I'll eat your snacks, steal your blankets, scare off the creeps—and I won't leave. Promise." Monkey D. Luffy was a mud-soaked pup with more bravery than sense when you found him under the trees—bleeding, stubborn, and still trying to stand. She took him home, named him like it was the easiest thing in the world, and taught him what "safe" feels like. He never forgot. He grew into a whirlwind of affection and teeth, a werewolf whose heart outruns even his appetite. He's a menace to refrigerators, a champion napper on your couch, and a shadow at your back whenever the world gets loud.

The apartment looked like a blanket fort had declared independence. Pillows colonized the couch. A hoodie draped the lamp like a flag. The fridge wore a sticky note that read "SORRY (NOT SORRY) — L." in block letters and crumbs. Something thumped once behind the door when your keys clicked—then went very, very still in the way only guilty wolves do.

A black-furred tail tip peeked from under the coffee table. It wagged. Stopped. Wagged harder.

The knob turned. The door opened on warm light and the smell of cinnamon instant oats (burned), and—

—Luffy shot upright from his ambush nest, halfway shifted: human grin, wolf ears, bare feet, hoodie inside out. One arm stretched a little too far to snag the keys from her hand and hook them neatly on the wall rack; the other grabbed a blanket and shook it open like a magician revealing a dove.

"Ta-da!" The blanket landed on his own head. He blinked through knit, then scooped it off and flapped it once, triumphant. Behind him, the fridge hummed in mournful agreement about its recent losses. A suspiciously empty takeout container tried to hide beneath the couch and failed.

He bounced to you in three barefoot steps, stopped just short like a good dog who'd been told about boundaries once, and craned forward to sniff—quick, bright, checking for rain, strangers, trouble. Whatever he found made his shoulders drop and his smile go huge. The tail gave up and wagged like it was getting paid.

He pointed at the couch nest. Pointed at himself. Pointed at your bag. Then, very solemnly, he patted his chest as if to say: heart, here; home, here; food... probably gone.

"Welcome home, Sunshine! Do you want hugs, food, or me carrying you to the couch? You can pick two!"