here lies the

Marco the Phoenix | Polo Marco

Disgusting handwriting. Did you expect anything else? He's a doctor.

Absolutely unreadable, it looks like chicken scratching—his capitalizations are completely random, and half the time grammar is a suggestion and not mandatory.

Haruta's ability to read and understand is a skill that's rare among pirates. Also apparently other doctors and pharmacists can read it just fine.

Absolutely unparalleled at being shit at writing. You're unsure if he's actually illiterate and just pretending he can read and write. You're also 90% sure he's just fucking with you because he likes staring at your irritated face.

You get used to it. Or you don't and he has mercy on you and actually makes his handwriting eligible. The grammar needs work though. Maybe it's an island thing?

Surgeon of Death | Trafalgar D. Water Law

Eligible, neater than most doctors.

He prefers a smaller font style, its a bit wobbly and it gets wobblier the faster he has to write.

He usually uses cursive, so if you can't read that, just pray. Or ask Penguin, he'll figure it out.

If you piss him off, he'll make sure its too tiny for you to read and make sure it pisses you off.

He'll make you write things if he likes your handwriting more than his own. Good luck!

Izou

Very neat. Has a disgustingly elegant handwriting.

He usually writes in cursive, especially for reports, but if he has time, he'll write in more serif-like writing.

His kanji is absolutely insane though. It's either extremely elegant or he just slammed his brush onto the paper, depends on his mood.

He'll have the audacity to act like you're insane for not being able to read it too, so just ask Haruta or something. They'll figure it out, or prank Izou as revenge.

He also does incredibly ornate writing, so he's often dragged into writing for birthday banners. Free him. They aren't even paying him for this.

Thatch

Surprisingly neat.

Ignore the mystery stains on his reports, its better if you don't ask.

Usually has the most normal handwriting, its not pretty per se, but it is eligible and better than whatever Marco is doing.

He also draws on your hands if you'll let him. He likes writing little reminders that he loves you on your hands and arms.

He also loves writing on sticky notes and sticking them where you'll find them and they're just reminders to drink water and stay safe and that he loves you and such. It's very sweet. They're also stained with mystery juice. Don't touch them.

His mouth travelled from there to your cheek, then the corner of your lips, offering each touch with such lingering sweetness that you suspected he had devised an entire sequence before you woke. You interrupted it by curling a hand around the back of his neck and drawing him into the kiss he had been carefully avoiding, warm mouth parting beneath yours in a quiet sound of surprise before he softened completely. Sanji always kissed as though it were something between reverence and hunger, but there was no desperation in him now, only the easy familiarity of his thumb brushing beneath your jaw and your fingers finding the soft hair at his nape.

“Breakfast is getting cold,” he warned against your mouth, although the arm slipping around your waist made no sincere attempt to release you.

“You’re the one distracting me.”

“A vicious slander on your birthday.” His smile touched your lips before he kissed you once more, too pleased with the accusation to defend himself properly. “I have been the soul of restraint.”

“You’ve kissed me four times.”

“It was meant to be five, but somebody got impatient.”

You allowed him the fifth on principle, followed by a sixth because Sanji had never understood restraint where affection was concerned and you had no particular desire to teach him. When he finally drew back, his eyes were softer than the morning light, the fondness in them so open that it made something behind your ribs ache pleasantly. Only then did he settle the tray across your lap and present his work with a flourish that would have suited a royal banquet rather than breakfast in bed: eggs folded into silken layers, crisp toast spread with a savoury butter fragrant with herbs, fruit arranged in jewelled crescents around a small pastry with a glazed berry flower at its centre.

“Is that a strawberry?” you asked, examining the tiny red petals.

“It was a strawberry,” Sanji said gravely. “It had greater ambitions.”

Your laughter rewarded him more generously than any compliment could have done. He watched you take the first bite with the attentive stillness of a man awaiting a verdict upon his soul, and although the quiet hum of pleasure you made eased the faint tension around his mouth, he disguised his relief by reaching to brush an imaginary crumb from your lower lip.

“It’s perfect,” you told him, catching his hand before he could retreat and kissing the pads of his fingers. “How long have you been awake?”

“That’s not a birthday question.”

“Sanji.”

“It’s not important,” he corrected, which meant long enough to make the pastry, arrange the fruit and somehow clean the galley before anybody else stirred. “Today is for you. Your sole responsibility is to be adored with good grace and an excellent appetite.”

You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your cup. “And what are you going to do?”

His answering smile was dazzling, guileless and therefore deeply suspicious. “Whatever is necessary.”

That promise revealed its true scale slowly. By the time you emerged onto the deck, the rest of the crew had already been recruited into what appeared to be a highly organised campaign against the possibility of your lifting a finger. Nami intercepted you before you could so much as glance towards the rigging and informed you that your chores had been redistributed; Usopp presented you with an official birthday medal constructed from painted wood, ribbon and at least one bottle cap; Chopper had made a card whose glitter migrated immediately onto your clothes and remained there for the rest of the day. Even Zoro, sprawled in a patch of sun with his arms folded behind his head, opened one eye long enough to tell you that the cook had threatened bodily harm against anyone who allowed you to work.

“He held a meeting,” Nami confided, amusement curving her mouth as she passed you a chilled glass already garnished with a slice of fruit. “There was a timetable.”

“It wasn’t a timetable,” Sanji called from the galley door without needing to have heard the beginning of the conversation. “It was a carefully constructed schedule of contingencies.”

“For a birthday?”

“For Luffy.”

From somewhere inside came an indignant shout, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a cupboard being opened and Sanji disappearing through the doorway with murder in his eyes. Whatever battle followed was brief. He returned a minute later with his tie slightly crooked, a dusting of flour along one cheek and an empty plate in hand, while Luffy could be heard complaining that three decoy sandwiches constituted deliberate emotional cruelty.

“You planned decoy sandwiches?” you asked.

“A chef always anticipates disaster.” Sanji set the plate aside and slipped his clean hand around your waist, drawing you near enough to kiss your forehead. The gesture was so casual that he had begun turning back towards the kitchen before you caught him by the lapel and pressed your mouth to his flour-dusted cheek. His expression melted at once, annoyance with his captain vanishing beneath a blush he attempted to hide by straightening his tie. “Darling, if you keep doing that, lunch will be late.”

“I was under the impression the timetable accounted for distractions.”

“Contingencies,” he insisted, though he kissed your knuckles before returning to the galley. “And you are not a distraction. You’re the entire purpose.”

That was how Sanji moved through the day—always briefly at your side and always on his way to do something else for you. A favourite snack appeared when breakfast had faded into a pleasant memory, a cup was pressed into your hand before you noticed the heat, a cushion materialised behind your back while you sat listening to one of Brook’s songs. Whenever Sanji passed, affection came with him; a kiss laid against your hair, fingers brushing yours, his palm resting at the small of your back as he leaned down to ask whether you needed anything. Each touch was warm and instinctive, a language the two of you had long ago ceased needing to translate, but he never remained within reach for long. There was always another pan to check, another secret to protect, another part of the evening requiring his attention.

You found him in the galley during the late afternoon, standing amid an ordered chaos of bowls, knives and simmering pots. Golden light streamed across the counters while steam clouded the windows, catching around him until Sanji appeared to have been conjured from warmth itself. His hands moved with their familiar certainty, one steadying a bowl while the other folded something pale and glossy together with such care that the kitchen seemed to breathe according to his rhythm.

The moment he saw you, however, his body shifted to obscure the counter. “You can’t be in here.”

“I haven’t seen anything.”

“Your eyes are open.”

“I came to find you, not the food.”

The answer stopped him more effectively than any command could have done. For an instant, Sanji merely looked at you while the old question crossed his face—what had he done, what remained unfinished, what more could you possibly require?—but you stepped into the fragrant heat before he could ask it and slipped your arms around his waist and the tension eased from him gradually. He rested his cheek against your hair, flour clinging to his clothes and his hands held carefully away from you so that whatever he had been preparing would not stain yours.

“You found me,” he said at last, the words softened by a smile you could hear.

“I did.” You leaned back far enough to examine his face and wiped the flour from his cheek with your thumb, only to kiss the same place once it was clean. “Am I allowed five minutes?”

Sanji glanced towards the stove as though consulting it. “Three.”

“Four.”

“Three and a half, and I reserve the right to stir something.”

He managed almost four. You remained wrapped around him while he checked a sauce one-handed, and when the timer sounded he turned in your embrace, cupped your face and kissed you with a tenderness that made the whole warm room seem to narrow around his mouth. Even then he was the one who drew away first, apology and promise mingling in his expression as he pressed one final kiss to your brow.

“Tonight,” he told you. “I’m all yours tonight.”

“You’re all mine now.”

Something fragile and astonished flickered through his smile before he covered it with another kiss. “Then consider this a temporary loan to the kitchen.”

Evening descended softly over the Sunny. The sea darkened from blue to violet and then to something almost black, its surface holding the last light in long, coppery fractures, while the first stars appeared above the mast. Sanji came for you once the rest of the crew had settled into the comfortable sprawl that followed supper, freshly washed and dressed in a dark suit, his hair still faintly damp and his tie selected with the same consideration he had given every other detail of the day.

He offered you his hand with formal elegance, but the kiss he placed against your palm was intimate enough to undo the performance. “May I steal you away?”

“You’ve had the crew guarding me all day. I think that legally counts as possession already.”

“Protection,” Sanji corrected as he laced his fingers through yours. “There are dangerous men aboard this ship.”

Luffy protested through a mouthful of food. Zoro suggested that you take the cook and keep him, and the argument that began behind you followed the two of you only as far as the stairs before the night folded over it.

Sanji led you towards the stern, where lantern light gleamed among the leaves of Nami’s tangerine trees. A table had been laid beneath their boughs, dressed in white linen and warmed by small golden lamps whose flames stirred whenever the sea wind passed through. There were no extravagant bouquets, only a narrow glass holding a few sprigs of kitchen herbs and several blossoms gathered after they had fallen, their fragrance mingling with salt, citrus and the faint trace of Sanji’s cologne. Beyond the rail, the ocean surrounded everything, vast and dark and endless, so that the little table seemed to exist in a world created for two.

Sanji watched you take it in with carefully disguised nervousness. He had faced assassins, monsters and impossible odds with less apprehension than he displayed while waiting for you to decide whether his lanterns were beautiful enough.

“Sanji…” you breathed, turning back towards him.

“If the wind is too strong, I can move everything inside. I also considered the aquarium bar, but the light at this hour—”

You silenced him with a kiss. It began as a simple press of your mouth to his, intended to quiet the worried explanation, but Sanji’s hands found your waist and held you with such immediate tenderness that you lingered there, smiling against him when he exhaled softly through his nose.

“I love it,” you murmured. “It’s beautiful.”

His shoulders loosened beneath your hands. “Not half as beautiful as the person it was made for.”

“Finally. There he is.”

“Who?”

“The man who has been suspiciously restrained all day.”

Sanji drew out your chair with a smile. “My love, you have yet to witness the full force of my devotion.”

The meal made good on the threat. Its first course arrived in delicate pastry shells, crisp enough to shatter beneath your fork, filled with slow-roasted sweetness and soft cheese sharpened by an herb oil you recognised after the first taste. You had paused over the same fragrant leaves at an island market weeks ago, crushing one between your fingers and holding it beneath Sanji’s nose while he tried to negotiate with a merchant. You had forgotten the moment before the Sunny ever left the harbour; he had not.

The clear amber broth that followed carried another memory. A cold night watch, your hands wrapped around a bowl he had brought up without being asked, and the particular spice you had praised before stealing the last dumpling from his own portion. The main course was arranged around crisp-skinned fish glazed with tangerine, bright with citrus before yielding to butter, pepper and a low sweetness that gathered all the other flavours together. Every plate was beautiful, but none had been designed merely to impress. They were built from fragments of you—a passing comment, a preference expressed once, the things you reached for first and those you saved until last. Sanji had turned his memory into a menu and laid the proof of his attention before you course by course.

“You remembered all of this?” you asked when he set the next plate down.

“Of course.” He spoke as though there were nothing remarkable in it, adjusting the angle of the dish before pouring more wine into your glass. “You liked the sauce, but you said the original needed something acidic. You were right.”

“That was months ago.”

Sanji looked almost offended. “I’m hardly going to forget an observation from the most discerning palate aboard the Sunny.”

“Robin is the most discerning palate aboard the Sunny.”

“Yeah, but I’m not in love with Robin.”

He bent to kiss your cheek before removing the previous plate, avoiding your attempt to catch him by moving just beyond reach. The empty chair opposite you remained untouched. It had been laid like the rest of the table, complete with a plate, a glass and a folded napkin, but Sanji continued to orbit the meal rather than join it, serving each course and attending to every need before you could voice it.

When he reached for your glass again, you closed your hand around his wrist.

“Sit with me.”

His fingers stilled around the bottle. “There’s only one more savoury course, and then dessert. I’ll sit with you afterwards.”

“You said that you were mine tonight.”

“I am.” Sanji smiled and turned his hand within your grasp so that his thumb could stroke the inside of your wrist. “That’s why I’m ensuring everything is perfect.”

“You’ve spent the entire day giving me everything I could possibly want.” Your fingers slipped down until they threaded through his, keeping him beside you when habit urged him towards the kitchen. “Now I want you.”

The words quieted him. Sanji’s eyes widened slightly, and beneath the warm light a faint flush spread across his cheekbones, not the theatrical swoon he sometimes performed but something smaller and far more vulnerable.

“My love,” he said softly, “you have me.”

“Then let me have you here.” You nodded towards the waiting place opposite. “Not standing beside the table and disappearing between every course. I want you to eat with me. I want to talk to you without having to negotiate with a saucepan for your attention.”

“That saucepan drives a hard bargain.”

“Sanji.”

He looked from you to the empty chair as though he had only just understood why he had placed it there. Some hopeful part of him must have imagined sitting when he set the table for two, but wanting and permitting himself were different arts, and Sanji had always been more practised at sacrifice than receiving. He knew how to put himself between hunger and everyone he loved; hunger had rules he understood, demanding only heat, patience and a full plate. Love asked him to sit down with empty hands and trust that his place would remain.

Totto Land had left old arithmetic scratched raw beneath his skin, all those cruel calculations of blood and worth and usefulness. You had no intention of inviting them to your birthday table. Your hand was not tallying what Sanji had given or measuring him against the perfection of his meal. It simply held his.

“Please,” you said, gentling the word with a kiss to his knuckles. “Celebrate with me.”

The resistance left him in a long breath. “It’s impossible to refuse you anything today.”

“You say that as though I haven’t been refused entry to the galley twice.”

“For your own good.” Sanji finally lowered himself into the chair opposite you, but before he could settle into formality, you drew it around the small table until his knee rested against yours. “Darling, this completely destroys the symmetry.”

“It’s my birthday. I’m allowed to destroy things.”

“I’ll be sure to inform Luffy that you’ve adopted his philosophy.”

You served a portion onto Sanji’s plate before he could stop you. The mild horror on his face made you laugh, and when he protested that the presentation had been designed for one direction, you lifted a forkful towards his mouth.

“Open.”

“You cannot serve the chef his own food.”

“I believe you just said you couldn’t refuse me.”

Sanji regarded you with the pained dignity of a man defeated by his own romantic declarations, but he accepted the bite. His eyes remained on yours as he tasted it, amusement easing into something tender when you asked, with exaggerated seriousness, whether it met his standards.

“It’s excellent,” he decided. “Whoever prepared this is clearly a genius.”

“And very handsome.”

“Beautiful, generous and blessed with flawless judgement. I knew there was a reason I adored you.”

The meal changed once he became part of it. Perfection loosened into pleasure, your carefully folded napkins shifted askew, the food was passed between you, and Sanji stopped watching for what might be missing long enough to enjoy what was already there. His hand frequently found yours upon the table, fingertips tracing idle circles over your knuckles while he told you about the afternoon’s disasters. Apparently Luffy discovered the second set of decoy sandwiches, Usopp nearly set fire to a ribbon, Zoro had been entrusted with one simple task and performed it in the most obstructive way possible. You laughed until your face hurt, and Sanji’s own laughter warmed the spaces between the lanterns, lighter than any sound he had made while serving you.

There were moments when that old disbelief returned, quiet enough that someone less familiar with him might have missed it. It surfaced when you placed the best piece of fish onto his plate, when you refilled his glass before your own, when your thumb brushed a crumb from his mouth with the same instinctive care he had shown you all day. Each time, you answered without making a lesson of it. You squeezed his hand, you leaned into the arm he draped around your chair, you kissed his cheek while he was still smiling and let him discover, again and again, that affection did not vanish when he had nothing left to serve.

Dessert arrived beneath a silver cover, which Sanji lifted with enough ceremony to reveal a small cake finished with smooth icing and delicate decoration. Its flavour had been chosen with the same intimate certainty as the rest of the meal, but at its centre stood only one slender candle, the flame leaning towards you in the breeze.

“One candle?” you asked. “Have I somehow become younger?”

“One is enough to carry a wish.” Sanji shielded the flame with his hand as it trembled, his fingers glowing red and gold around it. “To mark every year the world has been fortunate enough to contain you, I would need a much bigger table, and Nami would charge me for the additional deck space.”

“Did she charge you for this deck space?”

“The finances behind an evening of romance should remain mysterious.”

You laughed, but the wish came to you before you closed your eyes. It was not for the day to last forever; Sanji had already taught you too well that sweetness mattered because it could be consumed, leaving warmth and memory where hunger had been. You wished instead for more mornings, more meals allowed to go cold beneath unnecessary kisses, more evenings in which he sat beside you rather than hovering at the edge of his own happiness. You wished for enough ordinary days that Sanji might one day stop being surprised to find himself at the centre of the things you cherished.

The flame disappeared beneath your breath. Sanji applauded softly and leaned over to kiss your forehead, lingering there as the faint ribbon of smoke curled between you.

“What did you wish for?” he asked.

“You know I can’t tell you.”

“Surely the chef responsible for the cake is entitled to privileged information.”

“No. But I’ll give you some.”

Sanji divided the first slice between you, though sharing from one plate soon became easier than pretending you wanted separate portions. A smear of icing found its way to the corner of his mouth; when you collected it with your thumb, he caught your hand and kissed the sweetness from your skin, transforming mischief into courtship with the effortless grace he brought to everything. You kissed him again simply because you could, quick and fond, and his smile followed you when you drew away.

“What information?” he reminded you.

“I’ll answer a different question.”

Sanji considered this while settling more comfortably beside you, one arm stretched behind your chair. “Alright. What was your favourite part?”

He glanced towards the cake as he asked it, clearly expecting you to choose between dessert and dinner, perhaps already rehearsing some objection to your answer based upon technical execution. You rested your hand against his chest, feeling the calm beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“You.”

For once, Sanji had no immediate reply. His eyes searched yours as though the word concealed some trick of phrasing he had not yet unravelled.

“My love, I’m not one of the courses.”

“I know. You were my favourite part of my day.”

“But the breakfast—”

“Was wonderful.” You slid your hand from his chest to the nape of his neck, keeping him close when embarrassment encouraged him to look away. “The meal was perfect. The lanterns are beautiful, the cake is my favourite, and I loved everything the crew did. But every part of today that mattered had you in it. You smiled at me first thing this morning. You kissed me every time you saw me. You had flour on your face when I came looking for you, and you sat down when I asked because I wanted to share this with you, not just receive it from you.”

Sanji’s mouth softened, though uncertainty still lingered at its edges. “I wanted to give you a perfect day.”

“You did.” Your fingers moved gently through the hair at his nape. “Not because everything was perfect. Because you were here.”

“I would have been here regardless.”

“I know. That’s why you’re my favourite.”

The lantern flames moved in the breeze, scattering gold across his face. Sanji had been called many things in his life, some spoken with love and others intended to carve kindness out of him, but favourite seemed to reach a place less guarded than praise. It asked for none of the names he had inherited or rejected. It required no proof of strength, no usefulness, no beautiful plate presented at the proper temperature. It meant only Sanji, the cook, the dreamer, the infuriatingly selfless man with smoke in his clothes and gentleness in his hands, wanted in his entirety.

He lifted one of those hands to your face. All day, his kisses had been little gifts scattered through the hours—a touch against your temple, your cheek, your knuckles, each one sweet and fleeting because another task waited for him. This time there was nowhere else he intended to be, so his thumb swept beneath your jaw as he drew you closer, pausing with his breath warm across your lips.

“May I kiss my favourite person properly?” he asked.

“Please.”

Sanji’s mouth met yours with exquisite tenderness. The first touch was slow, almost unbearably soft, before your arms circled his neck and the kiss deepened into something warmer, fuller, carrying the faint sweetness of cake and citrus between you. His hand remained cradled against your cheek while the other settled at your waist, holding you close without haste or demand, and when you kissed him again he answered with a quiet sound that seemed to gather every word he could not fit into the space between your mouths.

The sea rolled darkly beyond the ship’s rail. Somewhere above, the sails shifted, carrying the Sunny onwards beneath a sky crowded with stars, but Sanji no longer looked towards the table for something else to offer. He rested his forehead against yours when the kiss finally softened, eyes closed and smile unguarded as you held him in the warmth he had spent the entire day creating.

“Happy birthday, my love,” he whispered once more.

“You’ve said that already.”

“I intend to keep saying it until midnight.”

You kissed the curve of his smile. “Then stay here. I don’t want to miss any of them.”

Sanji’s arms tightened around you, and for once he allowed himself to be held without reaching for anything else to give. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be.”

The familiar sparkle in your eyes had dulled.

He noticed that almost immediately.

Your beautiful smile looked as though someone had carefully pulled it into place by invisible strings rather than genuine joy. You joined every conversation, laughed at the appropriate moments, nodded when spoken to, but never truly immersed yourself in them the way you usually did.

During meals, you merely pushed your food around your plate. Every dessert he lovingly prepared somehow found its way onto Luffy’s plate instead, while you claimed you simply weren’t hungry, though he could plainly see the knot in your throat made swallowing nearly impossible.

Then there was the habit that had quietly settled over you throughout the day.

Your hand.

It drifted to your chest again and again, resting there almost unconsciously, as though you were trying to soothe something hidden beneath your ribs.

The first time he’d gently asked whether everything was alright, you’d withdrawn your hand so quickly it was as though it had never been there at all.

You smiled.

Told him it was nothing.

Only exhaustion from your latest adventure. Everyone felt it, didn’t they?

He wanted desperately to believe you.

By evening, Sanji poured every last ounce of his skill into making it the finest meal he possibly could.

If there was one thing he could always offer the people he loved, it was comfort on a plate.

Tonight, he chose your favorite meal, prepared your favorite drink.

Your favorite dessert.

Later, once everyone had gone to bed, he’d been hoping the two of you might steal away to the deck together, watching the stars while the sea gently rocked the Sunny beneath your feet. You wouldn’t need to speak about anything important if you didn’t want to. Simply sharing the silence with you would’ve been enough.

He worked with practiced urgency, a tireless devotion, polishing every detail until it bordered on perfection, because somewhere deep inside him lingered a truth he rarely put into words.

His own happiness had become inseparable from yours.

You could have said you felt profoundly alone despite being surrounded by friends.

It was a peculiar kind of loneliness, one untouched by numbers.

Your heart ached to confide in someone—to find someone who would truly understand—yet some dark, crushing weight rested against your chest, squeezing tighter with every passing hour while leaving you utterly incapable of sharing whatever it was that had settled so heavily inside you.

You knew, rationally, that any member of the crew would have listened without judgment. Above all, Sanji would have dropped everything the moment you whispered his name.

And still…

Something dark and impossibly heavy refused to loosen its grip around your heart.

It pressed against your ribs with slow, relentless force, leaving you desperate to speak while robbing you of the ability to do so.

You truly tried to behave as though everything were perfectly normal.

God, how you tried.

Whenever Usopp launched into another wildly exaggerated tale about defeating a Sea King in the Calm Belt with a single shot from his slingshot, you laughed alongside everyone else, your eyes narrowing into crescents exactly as they always did. Yet every smile felt like another sharp needle sinking a little deeper into your heart.

You read stories aloud to Chopper from the fascinating books you’d collected across countless islands, but the words blurred together before your eyes. Your voice continued reading almost automatically while you blinked again and again, desperately trying to chase away the hot sting gathering behind your eyelids before it became tears.

You listened as Nami and Robin chatted, occasionally offering a thought or adding a story of your own, but your words never ventured very far. They trailed off halfway through your sentences, as though even finishing a thought demanded more strength than you possessed.

If either of the women noticed the subtle signs that you were slowly retreating into yourself, they chose not to mention it. After all, everyone had difficult days. There was no reason to worry when you still smiled, still laughed, still asked questions with genuine interest.

At least…

That’s what it looked like.

You really were trying. With every piece of yourself.

Dinner only made it harder.

The moment Sanji placed your favorite meal before you, beautifully arranged with the quiet perfection only he could achieve, your throat tightened painfully.

Cooking had always been his own language of love—a craft he had spent years refining carefully chosen ingredient, every tiny adjustment made because he knew your tastes by heart, every thoughtfully plated dish became another way of saying I love you without ever speaking the words aloud or expecting to hear them in return.

The realization made the lump in your throat impossible to ignore.

You weren’t just overwhelmed by your own emotions anymore, but by his tenderness as well.

You felt guilty for failing to openly appreciate the love standing right in front of you.

Your beloved cook watched you expectantly before gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t like it, my love?” he asked softly, concern already creeping into his voice. “I cut the vegetables exactly the way you like them, and while everything was roasting, I thought maybe I could tr…”

You stopped him with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

The invisible barbed wire tightening around your throat seemed to pull even tighter.

“It’s wonderful, Sanji-kun,” you smiled, though the expression trembled ever so slightly. “Thank you. Really.”

You forced yourself to take another bite before meeting his eyes again, hoping the warmth in your gaze might reassure him more than your words ever could.

It didn’t.

He continued watching you quietly, unconvinced but unwilling to press you while everyone else remained at the table. Instead, he simply took the seat beside you, letting one comforting hand rest lightly upon your knee.

Without a word, he encouraged you to eat a little more.

His heart clenched as he watched you struggle to swallow flavors that usually filled you with delight. He noticed how your gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, never settling on anything for long, as though your thoughts were trapped in some invisible space only you could see. Every now and then you blinked a little harder than necessary, fighting tears you refused to let escape.

It took every lesson the Grand Line had carved into him not to react the way his heart begged him to.

Every instinct screamed at him to fall to his knees, take your hands in his, and plead through tears for you to tell him what cruel thing had dared hurt you so deeply. Whatever burden you carried, he would’ve taken it upon himself a hundredfold without hesitation if it meant seeing you smile with your whole heart again.

Instead…

He quietly sliced a piece of your favorite dessert, perfected over countless attempts until it had become everything he’d always wanted it to be.

Perhaps, if only for a moment, that familiar sweetness might awaken even the smallest fragment of the happiness that used to bloom across your face every time he cooked just for you.

“OI, Y/N! Are you gonna eat that?!” Luffy asked, already licking his lips despite having devoured four servings of the dessert in roughly the amount of time it would’ve taken a Sea King to swallow an entire ship.

Lost in thought, you absentmindedly traced the edge of your spoon through the dessert, hardly aware of anything around you.

“Oi!” the oblivious captain repeated, giving your back a firm pat to snap you out of your daze.

“Hm?” You startled, blinking at him. “Yes, Luffy-kun?”

“If you’re not gonna eat it, then gimme…”

Before he could finish, a long, elegant black leg swept him clean off his feet.

“How dare you, you inconsiderate barbarian!” Sanji snapped. “That’s hers!”

The pouting captain scrambled back up immediately, crossing his arms in protest.

“That’s not fair! You gave her a bigger slice!”

Luffy’s complaint was met with a chorus of laughter, accompanied by the exasperated clicks of the tongue from the crew members who had grown accustomed to such daily absurdities. Usopp was the first to jump to his captain’s defense, pointing an accusing finger across the table.

“He’s got a point! Sanji definitely made yours bigger!”

The blond cook merely lit a cigarette with an exaggerated scoff.

“Of course I did.”

Brook chuckled.

“Yohoho! Such blatant favoritism!”

The table dissolved into its usual chaos, from Luffy and Usopp loudly negotiating compensation in the form of another slice or perhaps tomorrow’s menu entirely of their choosing, to Zoro’s dismissive snort as he muttered something about Sanji being hopelessly whipped.

Under normal circumstances, you would’ve laughed along with them, perhaps even teased your boyfriend a little before offering Luffy half your dessert just to watch Sanji’s soul nearly leave his body.

Instead, only the faintest smile touched your lips.

So slight that anyone else might have missed it.

Sanji didn’t.

When the commotion finally settled and you decided enough time had passed for your departure not to seem suspicious, you quietly set your spoon down.

“Sorry…”

The single word came out softer than you’d intended.

“I think I’m more tired than I realized.”

Before anyone could insist you stay, you offered Sanji one more small smile.

“Everything was delicious, Sanji-kun. Thank you.”

You rose from your chair, gave everyone a gentle farewell smile, and slipped out of the kitchen, the door closing softly behind you.

The empty seat you left behind seemed to ache with your absence.

Sanji had no intention of ignoring it.

While the rest of the crew continued arguing at full volume over who deserved the last slice of dessert, Sanji’s gaze never once drifted from the door that had quietly closed behind you.

He waited.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

Another.

Long enough to convince himself he wasn’t simply overreacting.

“Go.”

Robin’s quiet voice reached him at last. As always, she’d noticed everything, even the smallest shift in someone’s heart.

“I don’t want her to think I’m hovering,” Sanji admitted, his fingers fidgeting restlessly against one another in a futile attempt to calm the unease growing inside him.

Robin smiled before resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“She won’t.”

He looked at her for a brief moment before nodding gratefully.

Without another word, he picked up your untouched dessert, carefully prepared your coffee exactly the way you liked it, then turned toward the table.

“I’ll be back. Behave yourselves, you uncultured heathens.”

His pointed glare landed squarely on Luffy, Usopp and Zoro.

The sea stretched endlessly before you, an uninterrupted expanse of sapphire fading into the horizon.

You drew one slow breath after another, desperately willing your frantic heart to settle, wishing you could somehow disappear beyond those distant waves, far enough away to escape yourself.

You couldn’t say when this restlessness had first found its way inside you.

Nor how it had quietly seeped into every corner of your being until it weighed upon your soul like molten lead, as though something unseen had latched onto it and was dragging it relentlessly downward.

It felt impossible that only a short while ago everything had seemed perfectly normal.

You’d helped the crew the way you always did, assisting Chopper as he bandaged injuries and organized bottles of medicine, cleaning around the ship, making yourself useful in every way you could while secretly hoping that, if everyone else was comfortable, perhaps you might feel a little lighter too.

“You don’t have to be such a people-pleaser.”

Nami had caught your wrist one afternoon, trying to pull you back onto the sunbed after finally losing her patience with Luffy’s hopeless attempts to mop the deck.

“Look after yourself for once. Who cares if he has to do one job on his own? It’s not like we ask him to do much in the first place.”

“It isn’t that, Nami,” you’d replied with a small smile when she gave you a knowing look. “I just know something’s going to go wrong if I don’t. It’s easier to stop it before…”

At that exact moment, your brilliant captain had an idea.

“Ah-ha! I’ve got it!”

As though struck by divine inspiration, Luffy triumphantly dumped the entire bucket of filthy black water he’d just used to scrub the deck straight back across the spotless planks, where it happily spread toward the rest of the ship.

“…Never mind,” Nami sighed, pressing her palm against her forehead.

Sanji, however, disliked your habit of exhausting yourself for unnecessary things and, if you’d asked him, unnecessary people just as much.

Whenever Luffy inevitably managed to throw himself overboard, you barely had time to stand before Sanji was already slipping his suit jacket over your shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Leave that to me, my love.”

Or the time Luffy somehow managed to tie several impossible knots around the helm using his own stretching arm.

You’d only just sat down after an exhausting day spent fleeing Marines and saving yet another kingdom when you let out a quiet sigh and began getting back to your feet.

“I’ll deal with him.”

Sanji gently took the pliers from your hands before fluffing the cushions behind you with his free hand, encouraging you to lean back instead.

“You dealt with him yesterday.”

“Yes, but…”

“And the day before that.”

“Sanji…”

“Let your beloved cook have his turn,” he said with a wink, bringing your hand to his lips before hurrying off to rescue his hopeless captain from yet another self-inflicted disaster.

You were left sitting there, blinking after him in mild bewilderment.

Nor did it escape him whenever he found you somehow balancing an absurd tower of things that had nothing to do with you: Chopper’s medical supplies, Usopp’s tools, fresh charts and compasses for Nami, Luffy’s food…

…and, to Sanji’s utter disbelief…

Someone else’s laundry.

He crossed the distance between you in seconds, carefully relieving you of the impossible pile before anything could tumble from your arms.

“Darling.”

“Hm?”

“Put it down.”

“I can’t. I promised Chopper…”

“Chopper can wait three minutes.”

“But Usopp…”

“That bastard has perfectly functional legs.”

“Nami asked me to…”

“Nami-swan, much as I adore her, also has perfectly functional legs.”

“Luffy…”

“Pfft. Luffy has legs too. Quite a few of them, apparently, whenever food is involved.”

Before you could protest again, the entire burden had vanished from your arms.

“You are not this ship’s personal servant.”

He noticed the subtleties hidden inside your words, how ‘Sure, I’ll do it.’ so often meant, ‘I don’t want to… but I’m afraid you’ll be upset if I say no.’

Sanji refused to let those quiet confessions go unheard.

He knew that relentless need to please everyone else was an acid that slowly ate away at you from the inside, and as long as he stood beside you, he would never willingly allow you to shoulder that invisible pain alone.

He found you standing at the ship’s railing, your fingers wrapped so tightly around the polished wood that your knuckles had turned white, while your other hand rested unmoving over your chest.

Sanji didn’t speak.

For a long moment, he simply watched you in silence, deciding not to interrupt whatever storm was raging inside your mind.

The ocean stretched endlessly into the night before the two of you, an endless expanse of dark sapphire disappearing into the horizon, while you kept drawing deeper and deeper breaths that only seemed to make everything worse.

Your thoughts spun faster and faster, caught in a relentless whirlpool, and somewhere inside you grew the terrible certainty that it was already too late, that whatever nameless force had taken hold of you would drag you away before you could ever stop it.

You didn’t understand what was happening.

Why can’t I breathe?

You tried to steady yourself.

Again.

And again.

To no avail.

The heavy pressure that had been pressing against your chest all day seemed to sink lower into your stomach, where a swarm of butterflies, or rather hornets, burst violently to life beneath your ribs, sending another wave of panic through your body.

Why can’t I calm down?

Sanji remained quietly where he was, noticing that your gaze wasn’t fixed on the waters of the Grand Line at all.

You were looking straight through them, as though you weren’t even aware the ocean existed.

Slowly, carefully, he stepped closer before setting the coffee and dessert he’d prepared with such painstaking care upon the flat edge of the railing beside you.

“I brought your coffee, my love.”

You didn’t respond.

Your eyes remained fixed on the endless sea ahead.

“…And dessert.”

The only answer was the sound of your slow, uneven breaths as you struggled hopelessly to wrestle them back under your control.

Your thoughts buzzed louder than ever, like a hive filled with furious bees.

Don’t let him see you like this.

Don’t let Sanji see.

Don’t let him worry.

Don’t make him take care of you.

You can handle this.

You always do.

“I… just needed a little fresh air,” you managed, forcing a smile that hurt more than it comforted, your gaze never leaving the horizon as you fought to keep your breathing steady.

The merciless stars overhead, rather than soothing your restless thoughts, only deepened the crushing awareness of how impossibly small you were beneath their indifferent brilliance.

Sanji moved a little closer, careful not to crowd you or trap you, stopping only when he stood quietly beside you, shoulder to shoulder, leaving enough space for you to breathe while making sure you didn’t have to stand alone.

“It’s beautiful tonight.”

Silence settled gently between you.

“…You don’t have to smile anymore.”

His voice softened.

“I understand.”

The words struck you with such force that, for a moment, your lungs forgot how to work.

“I was just…”

“Taking a break?”

You nodded.

Too many times and far too quickly.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“That’s all.”

He watched you for another quiet moment before speaking again.

“You don’t look like you’re taking a break.”

“I’m fine.”

Your voice cracked ever so slightly, but you refused to give yourself away any further.

The sound carved through him like a blade.

He had always hoped that, if there was one person in the world with whom you could entrust your heart, it would be him.

Even so, he refused to corner you.

Instead, he simply remained where he was, solid and unwavering beside you, resisting the overwhelming urge to reach for your hand, to brush his fingers against yours, to reassure himself that you were really there.

After another long silence, you spoke again.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

“Sanji.”

“Yes, darling?”

“I’m serious.”

You swallowed.

“You should go.”

You had to send him away somehow.

You didn’t know how much longer you could keep yourself from shattering into pieces right there on the Sunny’s deck. Your chest rose and fell in increasingly uneven breaths, each one more difficult than the last.

“And I’m serious,” he answered gently, “when I say I don’t particularly feel like going anywhere.”

Your trembling fingers tightened painfully around the railing.

Desperate for something, anything, to distract yourself, you took a hesitant step away.

“I should help Nami with…”

“Nami has Robin.”

“Then I’ll…”

You searched desperately for another excuse.

“…You have work in the kitchen.”

“On the contrary.” His smile was impossibly gentle. “There’ll never be enough work in the world to keep me from your side.”

He stepped just a little closer, his eyes impossibly soft.

“Especially when I can see you need me.”

Your lower lip trembled beneath your teeth.

“I-I said I’m f-fine.”

The sadness in Sanji’s eyes deepened, though he merely nodded.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because I don’t believe you, sweetheart.”

That was the cruelest part.

You couldn’t explain what was happening because you didn’t know yourself.

How could you ask someone to help when you had no idea what kind of help you needed?

There was no single wound to point to, no enemy to fight, no tragedy to name.

Only this.

This unbearable, senseless fear that had somehow spread into every corner of your being.

Feeling cornered, not by Sanji, never by Sanji, but by life itself, by your own helplessness and the impossibility of explaining any of it, the words escaped far sharper than you intended.

“W-Well… you don’t have to b-believe me. You don’t have to do anything. I-I’m not asking you to.”

By then, tears were already spilling freely down your cheeks.

The moment the words left your mouth, guilt crashed over you.

You had never wanted to hurt him.

Not him.

The man who had shown you nothing but unwavering kindness, who treated you with such reverence it sometimes frightened you, as though your heart were the most precious thing he’d ever been entrusted with.

“I-I’m s-s-so sorry,” you whispered between uneven breaths. “I-I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t, my love.”

“I’m sorry, I just…”

“Don’t apologize.”

Unable to resist any longer, Sanji gently cupped your cheek, brushing away your tears with the pad of his thumb while fighting desperately to keep his own from following.

For reasons you couldn’t understand, you let out a shaky, humorless laugh.

“I’m being ridiculous.”

“No.”

“I am,” you murmured weakly.

“You’re not.”

“I’m standing here having some sort of… whatever this is…” Your voice broke again. “…like some i-idiot while everyone else is enjoying themselves, and you’re w-wasting your time…”

“My time?”

For perhaps the first time that evening, there was the faintest edge to Sanji’s voice, though it never lost its warmth.

“My time is mine to spend however I choose, sweetheart.”

He offered you a small, aching smile.

“And every moment I spend with you is precious to me.”

Something inside you finally cracked.

Not because he’d solved anything.

Not because the fear had vanished.

But because his willingness to stay beside you was so absolute, so unquestioning, that it left no room for doubt.

“I-I don’t know what’s happening.”

He nodded, his thumb still wiping away tears that refused to stop falling.

“That’s alright.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’m right here.”

“No…” Your hand pressed harder against your chest. “I mean… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I’m like this. It’s not as if s-something happened. It’s just…”

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

“I… I c-can’t…”

Some distant corner of your mind insisted you should feel embarrassed, that Sanji must think you looked pathetic like this.

The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

The pain left no room for embarrassment.

“My darling,” he said softly, looking at you as though you were the most precious thing in the world, “you don’t have to explain anything.”

Another broken laugh escaped you through your tears, each fractured sound driving itself deeper into the Straw Hat cook’s heart.

“I f-feel so s-stupid.”

His expression softened even further.

“You have nothing to feel stupid about, my love.”

Your breathing grew increasingly uneven.

Unable to bear his gaze any longer, you turned away from him and retreated to the corner of the deck, sinking to the floor with your knees drawn tightly to your chest, your forehead resting against them.

“I h-hate this.”

“I know.”

Sanji began moving toward you, slowly, carefully, never coming closer than he felt you could bear, respecting your need for distance for as long as he possibly could.

“I h-hate that you have to see me like this.”

His expression softened even further.

“See you like what, my one and only?”

“L-Like… this.” Your voice was barely audible. “Weak.”

The word struck him harder than he’d expected.

Without hesitation, he lowered himself onto one knee beside you.

“Hey.”

His voice was impossibly gentle.

“Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

“No.”

He shook his head.

“Not even a little.”

“S-S-Sanji…”

“No,” he repeated, quieter this time, but no less certain. “I won’t let you call yourself that.”

Drawing a slow breath, he lifted a hand, letting it hover uncertainly above your knee before deciding not to touch you just yet.

“I know what it’s like to smile when you don’t feel like smiling. To tell everyone you’re alright because it’s easier than explaining why you aren’t.”

Your head lifted ever so slightly.

Taking it as permission, he rested his hand lightly against your knee, his thumb moving in slow, reassuring circles.

“I know what it’s like to make yourself useful so nobody notices you’re hurting.”

His voice grew softer still.

“And as long as I’m here, as long as I’m breathing…”

He smiled sadly.

“…you’ll never have to carry that alone.”

Your breath caught.

“So you don’t have to pretend with me.”

The whisper that answered him would have been swallowed by the night had the world around you not fallen so still.

“I d-don’t know how not to.”

His touch remained impossibly gentle, each slow stroke across your skin grounding you a little more.

“Then we’ll learn,” said the kindest man you had ever known.

His smile, though tinged with heartache, never faltered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I d-don’t want you to feel like you h-have to take care of me,” you murmured, finally lifting your tear-stained eyes to meet his.

“That’s unfortunate, sweetheart.”

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

“Because I love you.”

A broken sob caught painfully in your throat, nearly stealing what little breath you had managed to regain.

“Look at me, love.”

“I c-can’t.”

“Hey.”

Very gently, he reached for your trembling hand instead.

“Is this alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded.

Truthfully, Sanji had no idea whether he was doing any of this correctly.

He wasn’t a doctor.

He wasn’t Chopper.

But he knew what it felt like to ache for something you couldn’t name, to desperately need help while feeling utterly incapable of asking for it—or even believing you deserved it..

Somewhere through the haze, he tried to remember fragments of things Chopper had once explained to the crew, should anyone ever find themselves in a moment like this.

“Just listen to my voice, darling.”

Not entirely certain what else to do, he began talking about the most wonderfully ordinary things he could think of.

“You know…”

He draped his jacket over your trembling shoulders.

“I have a feeling Luffy is stealing the last dessert this very second.”

A faint sigh escaped him.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice.”

Carefully, he rested his chin atop your head, offering the quiet shelter of his embrace without asking anything in return, hoping the steady rhythm of his heartbeat might eventually coax yours into matching it.

“That menace of a captain managed to knock me over the other day.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

“I’d locked the refrigerator. Properly this time. I was feeling rather proud of myself.”

He sighed dramatically.

“I underestimated exactly how determined that bottomless pit can be.”

You looked up at him in confusion.

“What happened?”

Sanji’s practiced eye caught it immediately.

The tiniest lift at the corner of your lips.

The faintest warmth returning to your voice.

“Well, the thing is…”

He looked thoroughly offended.

“I hadn’t accounted for the possibility that he could stretch only one finger while I was holding him.”

Your brows furrowed.

“The bastard tripped me. Wrapped that stupid little finger around my ankle while I was guarding the fridge. Imagine that, my love.”

The knot in your throat loosened just a little.

“D-Did he… get it open?”

Sanji brightened almost imperceptibly.

“Ah, now we arrive at the tragic part.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“I was trying to spare you the horror.”

Despite everything, the smallest breath of laughter escaped you.

To Sanji, it sounded like the most beautiful melody in the world.

“The next thing I knew, we were both on the floor, and that uncultured barbarian actually had the audacity to lick the cream from my beautiful éclair… off my face.”

His eyes widened dramatically.

“I was utterly appalled, darling.”

A quiet, genuine smile finally reached your lips.

“You’re both idiots.”

Your smile was still fragile, nowhere near as bright as it usually was, but the iron band that had been tightening around your heart had eased, leaving behind a strange, almost comforting numbness—and a gratitude so profound it nearly brought fresh tears to your eyes.

“There she is.”

His eyes lit with unmistakable relief.

As though he’d just watched the sun rise after the longest night imaginable.

He pressed a warm kiss to the crown of your head before gently drawing you closer, saying nothing as he listened to the gradual rhythm of your breathing steady itself against his chest.

“I should go back to our room,” you murmured after a while, making an awkward attempt to stand. “Before anyon—”

Strong yet impossibly gentle arms kept you where you were.

“Easy, sweetheart.”

He smiled into your hair.

“They don't matter. Least of all right now.”

His hand stroked your back in slow, absent circles as he held you for several quiet minutes longer, listening carefully to the beat of your heart as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

In the silence that followed, you could finally feel the weight of your own body again: the steady warmth of your favorite person beside you, the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the reassuring solidity of the deck beneath your feet.

The unbearable feeling, whether it had been fear, despair, or something too nameless to define, hadn’t disappeared entirely.

It had merely loosened its grip enough for you to remember that you were safe.

Loved.

Held in arms that would never allow harm to come to you.

Seen completely.

Accepted without question.

Wanted.

After a while, strength slowly returned to your limbs, and with Sanji's unwavering support—his steady hands never leaving your side—you managed to stand. Leaning into him as though you were floating more than walking, you let him guide you toward the small cabin the two of you shared, a place made modest by its size yet immeasurably warm simply because it was yours together.

Sanji, who had always been the very definition of attentiveness, devotion, and quiet acts of service, somehow managed to surpass even himself that night.

It seemed almost impossible, and yet there was something profoundly sincere in the way he cared for you, something so deeply moving in the almost reverent tenderness with which he treated you, as though you were the most delicate treasure in the world.

Not because he believed you weak or incapable of weathering whatever storms life chose to send your way, but because he believed you deserved such gentleness. Because there wasn’t a hardship he wouldn’t willingly shoulder if it meant sparing you even a fraction of it. Because every beautiful thing he might ever experience would feel just a little incomplete if he couldn’t share it with you.

He had long since decided that no matter what darkness might one day find the two of you, he would always do everything within his power to stand between it and you. Even if the world shifted beneath your feet, even if everything familiar slipped away or disappeared entirely, your peace beside him would remain enough to keep his own world from losing its balance.

Once the two of you reached your cabin, Sanji immediately busied himself making it as comfortable as humanly possible.

He replaced the sheets with the softest fresh linen he could find, gathered your fluffiest blankets, and fussed over every tiny detail with the utmost care. Though visibly reluctant, he even offered to leave you alone for a few minutes if that was what you wanted, before disappearing once more in search of scented candles, fragrant oils, and your favorite bathrobe.

Only when everything met his impossibly high standards did he quietly slip into the bathroom.

When he gently led you inside, one careful hand supporting yours, you found the bathtub already filled with water at precisely the temperature you loved most. Relaxing oils, fragrant bath salts, and delicate floral essences had transformed the water into a warm sanctuary beneath a cloud of soft white foam. Lavender candles flickered along the rim of the bath and atop the small cabinet nearby, while, somehow, he’d even managed to carry his little radio in from the kitchen, where it now filled the room with gentle, soothing melodies.

“Sanji…”

Your heart tightened.

“You really didn’t have to.”

Before you could say another word, soft lips brushed the inside of your wrist.

“It was the very least I could do for the queen of my All Blue.”

He smiled with such disarming earnestness that warmth spread through your chest despite yourself.

“May I, my love?”

Standing behind you, he carefully loosened the sash of your bathrobe. Before the fabric could slip to the floor, he caught it effortlessly, hung it neatly upon the hook, then took your hand with the same quiet care he seemed to pour into everything he did and helped you step into the warm water.

A contented breath escaped you before you even realized you’d been holding it.

The warmth embraced every aching muscle in your body, and for the first time that evening, your shoulders relaxed.

Stretching your hands through the sea of bubbles, you smiled faintly as they clung to your fingertips like little clouds spun from cotton candy.

Sanji pulled a chair behind the bathtub and settled beside you before resting his capable hands upon your shoulders.

Slowly, patiently, he began working the knots from your tense muscles, humming absentmindedly along with the melody drifting from the radio.

“Let me take care of you, my love.”

There was no resisting a voice that gentle.

Not over something as small as this.

Especially not when he offered himself so completely, asking for nothing in return except the chance to lighten your burden.

Besides…

You were simply too exhausted to protest anymore.

“Mmm…”

You closed your eyes as he scooped warm water over your hair before gently massaging your favorite shampoo into it with slow, practiced fingers.

“So good to me, Sanji…”

There was something infinitely more intimate about that quiet moment than any display of physical passion could ever hope to be.

His heart stumbled inside his chest.

Even though you praised him often, he never quite grew accustomed to hearing those words.

He suspected he never would.

Joy quietly bloomed across his face, content simply to bring you even a fraction of the happiness you so effortlessly gave him every day.

Nothing else seemed to matter.

Not unanswered questions.

Not the dangerous seas and impossible adventures still waiting beyond tomorrow.

Not tomorrow itself.

Not even the helplessness that had nearly consumed him only an hour before.

You were here.

Beside him.

Breathing more easily.

Peaceful.

The quiet miracle of your existence alone was enough to make the world feel immeasurably kinder, and Sanji couldn’t have been happier simply to belong to that world alongside you.

“You deserve far more than this, sweetheart.”

He gently kissed your shoulder before wrapping a towel around your damp hair.

“And I’d gladly spend the rest of my life reminding you of that… if you’ll let me.”

The two of you lingered there for a long while afterward, talking about everything and nothing at all.

Dreams still waiting to come true.

Plans for the future.

Childhood memories.

Moments you’d shared together.

Stories about the crew.

Ridiculous hypothetical situations that slowly became sillier the more you laughed.

By the time you finally wandered back toward your room, supported by his patient hand, you felt lighter than you had in days, wrapped in a quiet peace that seemed almost impossible only a short while before.

That had always been Sanji’s gift.

He never tried to show you a different world.

Instead, he somehow made you realize that this one had always been larger, kinder, and infinitely more beautiful than you’d believed.

Curled together in the warmth of your little sanctuary, your legs tangled beneath the blankets while his arms rested securely around your waist, you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing beneath your ear until it slowly lulled you toward sleep.

The last things you felt were the gentle kisses he pressed to your temple and cheek, followed by the quiet certainty of his voice.

“You never have to hide your pain from me, my precious girl.”

His embrace tightened ever so slightly.

“It won’t ever drive me away.”

Another kiss.

“Nothing ever could.”

His lips lingered against your hair.

“If anything… it’ll only make me hold you closer... and remind you that I'll never let you face it alone”

Wrapped in one another’s arms and bathed in the pale moonlight filtering through the half-open porthole, sleep finally came for you, covering you both like the softest blanket.

And just before your eyes finally closed, one quiet truth settled peacefully inside your heart, certain enough to outlast every storm still waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

Sanji was your safe harbor, the place where every storm within you came to rest, where no wound had to be hidden, and where every return home was met with immeasurable joy.

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none — pure fluff, established relationship, domestic moments, soft Law, excessive sweetness ♡

Word count: ~1.2k

Summary:-

Law never expects something as simple as your habit of humming while doing chores to become his favorite sound. As he quietly falls into the rhythm of your melodies, the two of you create a small, unspoken tradition of shared hums and quiet mornings aboard the Polar Tang—proof that love is often found in the softest moments.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first time he hears it, he almost drops the stack of medical reports in his hands.

It's early morning on the submarine, that quiet hour before the crew stumbles out of their bunks, when the only sounds are usually the hum of the engine and Law's own pen scratching against paper. But today there's something else threaded through it — soft, unhurried, a little off-key in the most endearing way. You're in the galley, sleeves pushed up, humming some tune he doesn't recognize while you stack clean mugs back onto their shelf.

He stands in the doorway longer than he means to.

It isn't even a song, not really — just a melody you're clearly making up as you go, drifting from one note to the next like you're not thinking about it at all. Which, he realizes, you probably aren't. You're just happy. Doing something as mundane as putting away mugs, and happy, and letting it spill out of you in sound because you don't know anyone's listening.

He should say something. Announce himself. Instead he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed and lets himself have this a moment longer.

"You're staring," you say without turning around, and he startles — actually startles, Trafalgar Law, feared surgeon of death, caught flat-footed by a girl with dish soap on her hands.

"I was passing by."

"For four minutes?"

"I have excellent hearing. I was assessing structural integrity of the shelving." He nods at the mugs. "It looked unstable."

You laugh — that easy, unbothered laugh of yours — and go back to humming like he isn't even there, and something in his chest does an entirely unprofessional thing.

After that, he starts noticing it everywhere.

You hum while you braid your hair in front of the small mirror bolted to the wall, hair tie between your teeth so the tune comes out muffled and ridiculous. You hum while you sort bandages in the infirmary, alphabetizing supplies that don't need alphabetizing just to have something to do with your hands. You hum while you're halfway into your boots, one shoe on and one shoe forgotten, like getting ready is a background task to whatever song is playing in your head.

Sometimes it's a real song. Sometimes it's nothing at all, just melody for its own sake. He starts to be able to tell your moods by it — a slow, low hum when you're concentrating, something brighter and quicker when you're in a good mood, an absent little trailing-off when you're tired and don't quite realize you're still doing it.

He would never admit — not to Bepo, not to Shachi, certainly not to you — that he's started listening for it. That the sound of you humming down the corridor is how he knows you're close before he even hears your footsteps.

It happens by accident, the first time he joins in.

You're in the middle of getting ready, humming something soft while you fix your collar in the mirror, and he's sitting behind you at the small desk, ostensibly reading a chart. The melody loops back around on itself, familiar now after weeks of hearing it, and before he's really decided to do it, a low answering hum slips out of him — just a few notes, pitched to match yours, barely audible under his breath.

You go still.

He realizes what he's done half a second after you do, and for a moment neither of you says anything, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

"That's the first time I've heard you sing."

"I wasn't singing."

"You were humming."

"There's a difference."

"Uh huh." But you're smiling, that soft private smile you don't wear for anyone else, and you turn back to the mirror and pick the melody back up right where you left off — leaving space in it, this time, like you're waiting to see if he'll fill it in again.

He does. Quietly. Just a thread of sound woven under yours, following where you lead because he doesn't know the tune well enough to lead it himself. It's clumsy and a little flat and it is, without question, the most content he's felt in longer than he can remember.

It becomes a thing, after that. Not every day — he's not going to serenade you over breakfast in front of the whole crew, and you seem to understand that without being told — but in the quiet in-between moments. Late at night when you're brushing out your hair before bed and he's pretending to read in the same room. Early mornings in the galley before anyone else is awake. The two of you, half a melody each, filling in what the other one starts.

Bepo catches them once — walks into the infirmary to find Law stitching a sleeve and humming so quietly it's almost subvocal, matching a tune you're singing properly this time, actual words and everything, some old lullaby you must have learned as a kid. Bepo backs out of the doorway without either of you noticing and doesn't say a word to anyone, mostly because he doesn't trust himself not to smile about it all day.

"You know," you say one evening, weeks later, your head on his shoulder while he reads and you hum something slow and drowsy into the quiet, "you have a nice voice. For someone who insists he doesn't sing."

"I don't sing."

"You've been humming the same four bars for ten minutes."

"It's stuck in my head. That's involuntary."

"Sure it is." You tip your face up, smiling at him, and he can't help the small, helpless curl of his own mouth in answer. "Involuntary Trafalgar Law, hopeless romantic."

"I'll have you removed from this submarine."

𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔧𝔦

໒꒱ he was already searching before the fighting ended.

໒꒱ something felt wrong.

໒꒱ he finds you barely conscious.

໒꒱ the moment he realizes your wings are gone...

໒꒱ he drops to his knees beside you.

໒꒱ "...my love..."

໒꒱ his hands shake so badly he struggles to wrap his jacket around you.

໒꒱ he keeps apologizing.

໒꒱ even though none of this was his fault.

໒꒱ he refuses to leave your bedside afterward.

໒꒱ every meal.

໒꒱ every medicine.

໒꒱ every nightmare.

໒꒱ he's there.

𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔤𝔞𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔴

໒꒱ he notices the blood before he notices you.

໒꒱ then he sees the feathers.

໒꒱ his heartbeat stutters.

໒꒱ he reaches you within seconds.

໒꒱ doctor first.

໒꒱ boyfriend second.

໒꒱ his hands remain perfectly steady while treating you.

໒꒱ only after you're stable does he let himself look at your back.

໒꒱ he closes his eyes.

໒꒱ just once.

໒꒱ "...i'm sorry."

໒꒱ afterward he never leaves you alone during recovery.

𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔨𝔢𝔶 𝔡. 𝔩𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔶

໒꒱ the battle is over.

໒꒱ everyone is celebrating.

໒꒱ but...

໒꒱ you're nowhere to be found.

໒꒱ he laughs at first.

໒꒱ "...she probably wandered off!"

໒꒱ then ten minutes pass.

໒꒱ then twenty.

໒꒱ suddenly he's calling your name loud enough for the entire island to hear.

໒꒱ he finds you in the ruins of a collapsed building.

໒꒱ your halo flickers weakly.

໒꒱ your back is covered by your torn cloak.

໒꒱ "...hey?"

໒꒱ you don't answer.

໒꒱ he kneels beside you and carefully lifts the fabric.

໒꒱ where your wings should be...

໒꒱ there's only empty space.

໒꒱ his smile disappears instantly.

໒꒱ "...who did this?"

໒꒱ it's the quietest anyone has ever heard him.

໒꒱ he doesn't ask if they'll grow back.

໒꒱ he doesn't care.

໒꒱ he simply picks you up.

໒꒱ "we're going home."

໒꒱ he cries only after you're finally safe aboard the sunny.

𝔯𝔬𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔬𝔞 𝔷𝔬𝔯𝔬

໒꒱ he notices your missing presence before anyone else does.

໒꒱ his instincts tell him something is wrong.

໒꒱ he follows broken stone and scattered white feathers.

໒꒱ then he finds you.

໒꒱ unconscious.

໒꒱ he freezes for half a heartbeat.

໒꒱ then his jaw clenches.

໒꒱ he removes his coat and covers your back before you wake.

໒꒱ he doesn't want the first thing you see to be everyone's horrified expressions.

໒꒱ he carries you back without saying a word.

໒꒱ afterwards...

໒꒱ nobody hears him speak for hours.

໒꒱ but everyone knows exactly why he's sharpening his swords.

𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔨𝔬𝔟𝔶

໒꒱ he keeps calling your name until his voice breaks.

໒꒱ when he finds you...

໒꒱ he immediately kneels beside you.

໒꒱ "...stay with me."

໒꒱ tears blur his vision.

໒꒱ he carefully covers your back.

໒꒱ afraid you'll wake up cold.

໒꒱ afraid you'll wake up scared.

໒꒱ afterward he blames himself for not reaching you sooner.

໒꒱ no amount of reassurance makes that guilt disappear overnight.

𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔥𝔞𝔴𝔨

໒꒱ the battlefield has already fallen silent.

໒꒱ yet you haven't returned.

໒꒱ he searches without panic.

໒꒱ until he finds you.

໒꒱ then, for the briefest moment...

໒꒱ his composure cracks.

໒꒱ he removes his cloak and carefully shields your back from view.

໒꒱ "don't look."

໒꒱ it's directed at anyone following behind him.

໒꒱ he carries you home himself.

໒꒱ during your recovery...

໒꒱ he never once comments on what you've lost.

໒꒱ only on what you've survived.

𝔢𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔰 𝔨𝔦𝔡

໒꒱ he hears someone mention feathers.

໒꒱ before they finish the sentence...

໒꒱ he's already running.

໒꒱ he finds you collapsed against broken stone.

໒꒱ his breathing stops.

໒꒱ "...hey."

໒꒱ no response.

໒꒱ his anger arrives before the grief.

໒꒱ metal around him begins shaking violently.

໒꒱ nobody dares approach.

໒꒱ he wraps his coat around you with surprising care.

໒꒱ then carries you himself.

໒꒱ the people responsible quickly learn there are some things even kid won't forgive.

𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯

໒꒱ he follows the trail in complete silence.

໒꒱ every feather he finds makes his stomach sink further.

໒꒱ when he reaches you...

໒꒱ he immediately kneels.

໒꒱ gently lifting your head into his lap.

໒꒱ "...i've got you."

໒꒱ his voice never wavers.

໒꒱ but his hands do.

໒꒱ he stays calm for your sake.

໒꒱ later...

໒꒱ when nobody is watching...

໒꒱ he quietly breaks down.

𝔰𝔞𝔟𝔬

໒꒱ he tears through the battlefield calling your name.

໒꒱ every unanswered shout fuels his panic.

໒꒱ when he finds you...

໒꒱ he nearly drops to the ground beside you.

໒꒱ "...no..."

໒꒱ he carefully gathers you into his arms.

໒꒱ apologizing over and over.

໒꒱ afterward he refuses to let anyone speak of your wings like they were the most important thing about you.

໒꒱ "she's still herself."

໒꒱ "that's what matters."

——————————————————

𐔌 ᛝ taglist .ᐟ : @chocolateshortcakesblog @livelaughhattori @dagoate

Rob Lucci 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

It was late, evening you believe, as you hear Hattori coo by your left.

Rob got home this morning, and even if he still has to monitor upcoming reports, documents and classified files regarding whatever shady business the World Government task him with; you spent the entire day lousing in his office.

Not wanting to miss out on his presence for as much as you can.

And you’ve doused off on his office desk whilst listening to the rustling of paper, pigeon cooing, and the quiet hums of today’s rain.

But awake, you raise your cheek off the table, body stiff and sluggish after your little nap.

Rubbing your eyes, feel your hair gone a mess.

“mmhh…” You groan and the flicking of papers stops.

“You slept a good while.” The sound of his voice guides you where to turn your head.

“How long?”

“Six hours, twenty-one minutes.” Files being set down by the table patters, and his chair screeches. Heel clicking. “We’ll miss going to that restaurant you so like if we don’t leave now—”

“Now?” Your posture straighten, “But, I haven’t gotten ready yet.”

You feel his figure drawing near, one big hand riddled with callouses and rough markings of days spent stalking, maiming and killing lands behind your back, the other grasping your hand. Guiding you up.

“Should have thought of that before napping.” He steers you forward, hand cushioned on the small of your back. Giving you the faintest of pushes.

“Besides, you look just fine—”

You frown, pushing his hands away gently, before grabbing hold on them.

Clasping them with yours, bring them together to your chest.

His are hard and firm—tales of strife written across his palms.

You lift your chin up. Giving him a pleading look.

“Will you adorn me?”

Silence.

Dreary silence.

You pinch your brows, clutching his hands together even harder.

“Please? I can’t leave looking like a mess.”

Something wavers in the air — something that feels like narrowed eyes, scowls, and… hesitation. Not out of annoyance, not because it’s vexing, but out of inexperience, for a man like him; there’d be a slim chance he’d ever agree to something so tedious.

“You don’t.”

You scowl. A sign of rebellion.

Tiptoeing as if to beg, you say, “Make me prettier, then, please, Rob, am I not worth that?”

Silence.

Stone cold silence.

You tilt your head, a cheeky smile blooming across your face.

“Is anyone theeeere?” You tease and you hear Hattori coo, sounding a lot like ‘you can’t say no to her!’

And Lucci places a hand over your shoulder. “Such demands, and noise.” That’s all he says, as he guides you back to your room, steering you to your vanity chair, plush and velvet satin, before rummaging through your drawers.

You hear a stool being placed next to yours.

And you sit there, prim and ready as you feel his knee grazing yours.

Slowly, carefully, with the most focused touch of precision, he trails your hair out of your face.

His fingers are cold, so cold you could almost burn.

“Do you even know how to do this?” You say, voice teasing.

“No.”

You stifle a giggle, considering how Kalifa describes a certain cretin, you say, “Promise you won’t turn me into Spandam.”

“Never.” The reply leaves his mouth a little too fast, before applying cold, cold, cream against your cheeks. Leaving small pokes of it on your temples.

Before slowly rubbing it into your skin—sturdy but soft. So soft you almost believe yourself to be fragile.

As he gets to work, you feel his knee grazing the side of your thigh, and the longer this goes on, the more he leans in.

When he fixes your eyeshadow, his breath is on your face—warm, and entirely too close.

Lucci’s touch is steel—hard and working but there is a hint of restraint in his padding of brush strokes—as if to not push too hard, too fast, too rough.

For someone who often uses his hands to hurt, it feels oddly… sweet.

“What are you smiling about?” He applies your blush, and you smile harder. Cheeks hurting.

“Nooothing. Just how sweet my boyfriend is.”

“Sweet,” he says that word as if it’s venom, “Don’t think this will be the usual. Pout.” The last word is a command, and you obey. Lipstick meets the plush of your mouth, and Rob rubs the rest of it in with his thumb.

Thick, rough, calloused; smudging against your lower lip, swiping over your upper one.

You decide to tease him, just this once, and give his thumb a lick.

And Lucci halts.

Not moving, not pulling away as you give it one quick suck. Lips pop when you pull away, smile all cheeky—"What? Did you die?”

He does not answer, but for some reason—you can imagine a corner of his lip curving up.

Chair screeches, and his warmth looms over you; one of his arms goes to the vanity behind you. Caging you in.

“Rob?” You pinch your brows as you feel him lean in. “What’s the matter—?”

Your breath hitches, his nose grazing yours and you lean back, spine pushed against the wooden edge as he comes closer. Makeup rattling, the table creaking.

His leg ushers between your thighs.

His warmth gathering close to your core.

“H-hey…”

Lucci’s hair trails over you, tickling your nose, your temples. And your face burns as he comes near, all too near. Enough to sense the restrained coil in his frame, enough to feel heat sparking between, enough to feel yourself tense and arch into his shape.

his fingers pulls on your earlobe, heart drumming out your chest. He comes so close you have no choice but to spread and lift your legs to make space for his knee landing on the soft, velvet cushion of your chair. Your skirt bundling up.

“What are you…” you trail off when you feel his tongue on your earlobe—heat flaring into a fever—breath hitching as your back arches off the vanity—and he stops.

Hand going to the side of your face.

Thumb on your cheek.

And silence is all that follows.

The air in the room shifted from playful to heavy, far too heavy; as if one wrong breath will shatter control of his inhibited strength. And for some reason, that makes you keen.

The next word that comes out of his mouth is indefinitely a command.

“Behave.”

And you cannot help but to obey, with your legs clenching harder against his thigh, head turning fuzzy from the proximity of his warmth.

Your hands finds his chest, his muscles hard, sturdy; your palms placing above them to steady yourself, but you start burning. Face, ears and neck when beneath your fingers, you feel it.

his heart is beating too.

Not like yours, never like yours; fast and pacing but heavy. Firm. Just like everything about him.

It thuds with such intensity it cannot be mistaken as anything but desire.

And at last, when he’s satisfied with your servile state does he break the weight of silence—feel his arm reaching for something behind, his cologne tickles your nose, and the ache from between your legs intensifies as the fabric of his slacks causes friction against your thighs, your core.

Your mind turning hot.

You move your head to the side, the sound of clitter and clatter, chains and glass—is he reaching for your jewellery box?

Rob’s knee pulls away and the warmth between your legs leaves you cold. His hand guides you to meet his face once more.

Fingers reaching for your ear—clipping something heavy onto them.

Your brows eases.

Earrings.

He fixed you earrings.

You feel the shape of them with your fingers—pointy, heavy, adorned with smaller jewels and cut into pentagon. You fiddle, before smiling.

And he takes your hands, bringing you to your feet.

“Well?” You straighten yourself, your hands framing your face. “Did you make me cute?”

For a moment, you swear he’s just staring at you. the presence of his gaze has always been cold, oppressive—like a silver dagger caressing your limbs with one pressing motion.

Dissecting you — measuring you.

Taking in your face, your figure.

You’re used to that feeling, enough to slide your hands behind your back as you slowly step towards him. A bit playful.

“Weeeell?” You say, inching near him, stopping once you feel his slacks grazing your bear thigh—tiptoeing onto his shoes. Hands going over his shoulders, your chest pressing into his. “Or did you even try making me pretty?” You give him a light frown and you hear his hands slide out of his pockets, and place them on the small of your hip.

Pressing you against him.

His touch is sure and unmoving, pushing you against his warmth as if to keep you there.

“You look stunning.”

He says it as a fact, something that cannot be questioned. And that’s all he says, before hosting you over his shoulder—and taking you to that damn diner before his self control shatters and fails.

Summary: The time at the restaurant is as pleasantly spent as it could be—but you make a note of nudging his shoe with your heel beneath the table, smile sweetly at any cruel comment he makes—his larger hand on yours. Thumb skimming, fingers playfully interlacing and undoing—but once home, the teases and giggles and sultry comments has come to a close, stripping you bare; skin, shame and all.

Sir Crocodile 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

A promenade, then dinner, and then promenade once more.

That was the plan for today—but you might have overslept, an accident really—maybe, perhaps—but whatever the case, your large, meanie of a husband won’t be pleased seeing you with your hair still a mess, face completely bare and still in his shirt you borrowed—knowing he’ll have to wait another four hours before you two were supposed to leave.

And that’s if he’s lucky.

Your door creaks open, and you try to hide the smile as he trudges in.

“… You said you’d be ready in three.” His voice is not mean but rough, gravelly—and you only tilt your head.

“I may have overslept,” you turn to where his voice came from, smiling a little sly, “but you’ll forgive me, right?”

You can practically taste the aura of dismay he’s emitting but you pretend otherwise, straightening your posture.

“You said that a few hours ago.” He says.

You fake a sad pout, “Are you scolding me?”

He does not answer, instead you hear him move closer.

“Come, I'll fix your dress and then we leave—”

“Are you proposing I leave looking… tardy?”

“Either you come now or we stay home.” Sir Crocodile sounds awfully serious about that, making you want to scowl, huff and pout but instead, you come up with a better idea.

You sit up, prim and sweet as you wave for him to come closer. And he does.

Floor boards creaking and you manage to find his torso. Palms pressing against his abdomen. What a tall man he is.

“Will you help me?”

Silence.

You tilt your head up, “Why don’t you make me pretty?” Still with your knees on the bed, you straighten yourself. Clinging onto him. “Please sir?”

The silence turns into contemplation.

Until you feel cold metal trace your jaw, its edge dragging against your chin makes you shudder, tensing your muscles.

“Don’t cry if I make a mess out of you, I won’t soothe you.”

You stifle a giggle as he rummages through your closet.

“This should suit you,” something thuds down the floor— heels? Hats? A matching bag for the wear?

“May I request chiffon?” You lean forward and you hear him hum.

His steps coming close and he takes your hands in his, guiding you up from bed.

He unbuttons the shirt you borrowed, a bit slow, a bit clumsy but he manages to slide it off of you.

“Your only chiffon has a corset… I’ll take you out shopping.” He says it as if it’s an insult but then his tone turns soft once more, “Turn around for me, darling.”

And you do.

You make it out of bed and slide your hair out of the way as he helps you slip on the dress—and it isn’t efficient or all that skilful, being one handed and all, but the way his hook is softly padded against your hip so to steady himself, how he thoroughly, softly, interlace the ribbons with one another—the focus, the stagnant feature in it all—it makes a smile play on your lips.

For a man so coherent with violence and pride, it’s almost a bit cute.

But you’d never voice that out loud… or maybe you should.

“I can sense you scheming.” He comments, pulling roughly on the lace.

“What? Cause I giggled?” You feel him yank the last piece in so you turn, arms spread out. “Ta-da! Do I look like a princess now?”

Once again, silence.

Heavy, and drawn out, as if he’s sensed something forbidden and completely out of his reach. A silence that makes one of your brows go up.

“Hello? Earth to Crocodile? Did you vanish?” You say and he still doesn't answer you.

You sense him come close—the hook that he adorns—places softly by your waist, not pulling, not yanking but guiding you towards him. The metal is cold, hard, and when your chest presses against his—you can't help but arch.

Posture turning rigid. Your lips pressing wry.

You feel his frame lean down, ringed knuckles, firm and hard, caresses your cheek; down to the slope of your neck, to the shape of your collarbones.

His voice a hush.

Smoke grazing your nose.

“Since you insist. I'll fix your makeup and jewels.”

And your chin lowers, your sudden teasing nature gone into hiding.

Heart beating a little too fast.

Sir Crocodile steers you to sit down a plush stool, velvet you note by feeling the weave of the textile.“Where do you keep the makeup?” Something thuds and raps and you snap your head to where it came from, brows pinching. “Er… by the upper drawer, two by left side.”

He seems to be rummaging about.

“Tch, your vanity is practically a box designed for dwarves, another thing to add to the list of fixing.”

You bite down a smile as you hear him approach, “you sure you aren't just a brute?”

He huffs. “Sit down.”

And you do. Still and ready as you hear him approach with the makeup box. Sitting down next to you. His weight dipping the mattress.

For a moment, there is a silence, a pause.

He doesn’t voice it, but you can taste the uncertainty.

You tilt your head, “Primer.” you begin, “It’s the smallest tube that sits by the right edge. It has a dent carved of a lotus flower on the cap; do you see?”

He does.

And you feel cold moist peck on your temples; cheek, chin and forehead. His thick fingers smudging it in, and you sense it. The hesitation, the restrain — the care to not push too hard. “Tell me if it hurts,” He says and you glee.

You guide him through it, step by little step, and for every tint, blush and dab, you hold back a giggle for he listens to your instructions with no to little fuss; a grumble here and there, and maybe you can imagine his brows furrowing and creasing but never does he object, or treat your face harshly. There is a subtle doubt in his movements, his touch clumsy, thick fingers almost a bit boorish but never rough. Never mean. It forces something warm in your stomach, something that feels a lot like hot, pooling, honey.

You hear him set down the brushes and the chair screeches.

His hand helps you up— “There you go.” He hums and you taste the dark tobacco from the smoke of his cigar.

“Well? Am I the cutest girl you’ve yet laid eyes on, or did you make a mess of me?”

A pause.

You tilt your head, and he lands a rough hand on your cheek; large, rough and heavy, just like everything about him, as he cradles the side of your face. You take his wrist and lean into his touch.

It’s warm, it’s his.

And for some reason, his palm is hotter than it usually is.

“You don’t look foolish,” he says at last, withdrawing. “if that’s what you’re asking.”

Crocodile goes behind you, hook on the side of your hip as he slides your hair out the way, before gently taking your hand, offering you a necklace. “Hold the other end,” he hums, and you do, lifting it up so it’s easier for him to see — a long, heavy chain loops around your neck, and it clicks.

You turn your head over your shoulder, fingering with the pendant; a stone, you think, for the weight is heavy and the nine edges dull.

“Which one did you choose?”

“The gold one.”

You smile, “They’re all gold; I’m not blind!”

And for some reason, with the tone he carries, you can imagine him smiling even if it’s small. “You’re right, how vulgar of me,” he fixes your hair back in place, “It’s the one with the sapphire, the one you picked in Alabasta, if that rings any bells. Now that you aren’t tardy, as you put it, shall we go? The restaurant is sure to be crowded at this hour, you will stay close to me.” He says the last part as if it’s already decided, no brook for argument, all whilst stroking your cheek with his ringed fingers. Cold, thick metal making you keen, and you wonder why he says something so obvious, afterall — when aren’t you close to him?

You take his hand. “Well, since you insist, sir.”

Summary: Your hands were wrapped around his arm, the one adorned with the hook when you two were walking across the plaza. You lift your chin up, assuming that’s where his face is, and gave him the lightest of frowns. “You never answered me.” “Hm?” he responded and you frown even harder. “Did you make me cute? Or was it all a lie and I look dumb?… You cannot go quiet on me — What’s your answer? Am I the prettiest?” You feel his bicep tense, a bigger hand landing above yours. “Yes. You’re the most darling of them all.” And maybe, just maybe, you satisfy yourself with his answer, and lean against his arm.

Trafalgar D. Water Law 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

“Really. You’re…”

You flail your arms out in the air, “Yes. Say it.”

Law does not answer you.

And you tilt your head, your lips purse down. “You don’t want to make me pretty?”

You hear the rustle of his slacks; he’s shifting the weight between his legs maybe?

“You look pretty as you are.”

You slouch down from your kneeling position, soft mattress dipping down your weight. “So? I want you to make me prettier.” you tilt your head, deciding to tease him into submission, “Don’t tell me… that you can’t do it?”

Oh he doesn’t like that no no, for you hear him let out a ‘tch’.

Law stomps over.

His hands landing on yours, trying to urge you up.

“That won’t work on me, and why does it even matter, you look fine. Now, I’ll help you put your coat on and we go—”

“No.” You say, quite bluntly. “I’m not leaving this house looking like a hot mess. Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I should no longer wish to be pretty. You’re being mean.”

“But you are pretty.”

That praise makes you grumble in submission, and you find his chest with your hands, travelling over his shoulders, arms hooking around neck. Tugging him. Just a little. And you lean forward, close enough to catch his scent of cologne and sandalwood.

“Please Law? I want you to do it, I’ll help you; just don’t make me leave this room naked and bare and ugly.”

His neck is growing hot. Burning in contact with yours.

And as a final kill? You give him a pleading look; knitting your brows, tipping your head to the side, face so close to his you graze his stubble with your nose.

“Please, I’ll be well behaved.” Your voice is soft, too soft.

You hear him hitch his breath.

“… Fine.” He clicks his tongue, “Just… just don’t expect things to go your way all the time.” He says, pushing your hands off of him, stepping away to do what you begged for.

You hear him rummage by your closet and you snap your head there — “What are you feeling for tonight?” He says and you hum. “I want you to adorn me, so you choose.”

You hear him grumble something. “This one… this one should do.”

“It’s not something ugly, right?”

You hear him step close, “It’s from your wardrobe.”

You pull your brows, “So? Taste can change.”

Law takes your hands, “Want help or not?”

And you smile, he says that with a bit of sass and yet he guides you up anyways.

Only now do you realise it’s a shorter dress, fabric light, the collar simple and you turn your head to where Law who goes behind you. You feel his hand caressing your neck as he slides your hair out the way. Zipping the back of the dress.

“Law, you’ll do my makeup, okay?”

He sighs, “Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“Good boy,” you tease him and Law does not answer you. No. He zips up the last part, and steps towards your vanity, where you hear him click and clatter with the drawers.

“Law?”

“I got it.”

Something thuds down the floor.

A smile plays on your lips, “You sure?”

“I got it.” He repeats almost immediately and you hear him come close. Law urges you up, guide you to the bathroom and helps you wash your face and steer you right back to bed, and you feel his legs brush your knees as he sits down next to you.

“After cleaning your face, we apply… you begin with foundation, right?” He says, your box of makeup clatters and your brows knit. “You need to prep my skin first, or else the makeup misbehaves. Do you see the tube next to my mascara? It should be where my primer sits, and you begin by smearing a layer on my face.”

“Ah. So like this?” His fingers leaves cold pokes on your cheeks, chin and temple; you nod, and he gently rubs the cream into your face.

“Then, it’s the foundation, do you see? Next to my concealer.”

Law is quiet for a minute — hesitation.

“The concealer is a lighter shade.”

“I know that.” He says and you hold in a giggle. The makeup clatters with one another and Law gets to work, applying it to your face with the brush you instruct him to take.

But despite him being a surgeon, his technique is inexperienced—dabbing and uncertain.

“Law baby… “ you find his arm, and he halts when your fingers travels from his forearm to his knuckles, grabbing hold on his hand, and you sense his muscle tensing. “Circling dabs in one place, and gently even out the product, like this,” you steer his hand, slower, softer dabs across your cheek and Law hums.

And like that, step by step you show him how it’s done; and Law follows every instruction like he’s taking notes, dissecting a lesson and peering into discovery — he’s a more well behaved student than you thought; you were always the one learning things from him; health, history… autonomy.

“There you go, all done.” Law sets down the brush.

You’re quiet for a spell.

“What’s the matter? You’re quiet.” He says and you tilt your head.

Your fingers finds his jaw and he halts.

You trail the edge of his jaw, going over his stubble—coarse, sharp—feel the plush of his lips, the pads of your fingers softly pressing over his mouth; skimming to the bridge of his nose — and for some reason, Law is frozen in place.

He does not breathe, does not say anything as you trace the outline of his nose.

“Yours is so much different from mine,” you say, your other hand making it to the side of his face. Palm on his cheek. You unconsciously lean in, tracing him, feeling him, and Law — for some reason — is hot under your fingers.

Unlike you, Law has such a sturdy face, from his nose, to his cheeks, the only thing soft about him is his lips, his eye bags. It makes you smile, even his face fits with his character. Controlled and cynical.

Both of your hands find themselves on both sides of his face. “Well. You’re definitely a man with these chiselled cheekbones,”

“Chiselled—” Law’s breath shakes when you come even closer, “What about me, Law? Did you make me cute?” Your voice is soft, unbearably soft and Law can’t think.

All he can feel is your chest grazing his, your warmth seeping into his clothes and your lips are just an inch away.

He swallows, his hands that was so focused on doing your makeup just a moment ago lands over your shoulders, pressing you, holding you away from him; as if you come any closer, he’s going to die.

“Hello? Will you answer me?”

Law tries to breathe as slowly as he can. “Yeah. You’re, uh…” He wants to say something witty, something impressive but it’s like he’s become dumb and stupid, and maybe, maybe in regards to you; he is the biggest idiot.

“… ‘uh’?” You echo, “Wow. Okay. I see.” You push yourself off of him, and Law short circuits; “did you even try making me pretty? You’ve probably turned me into an ugly mess, haven’t you?” You accuse him and you hear him collect his breath, as if he needed one moment, one second to gather his thoughts before taking your hands and guiding you up.

“You’re the one who begged me to do your makeup, so you don’t get to sulk.”

You fake an offended gasp as Law leads you out the room.

You turn your face away to the side. An act of defiance.

“There’s no need to pout, you’re fine.” Is all he says, helping you into your coat, and just as you were gonna retort — Law pulls you by the collar, your feet staggering close to him and you catch your breath.

There is no gap between you two.

No air, no breath, not even a space between your lips as he kisses you.

You feel the rustle of his shirt, the friction of his slacks grazing your bare thighs and on instinct, you tiptoe.

Pushing into the kiss.

It’s hard, firm — certain.

Law parts but only enough to breathe, you still feel his mouth; how it curves into a pleasing, pleasing smile.

“Yeah. You look good.”

You smile, “You’re so romantic,” and you hear the tiniest of scoffs escape him as he pecks you on the cheek before guiding you out the door.

Summary: He never did call you cute or pretty that night, but the way his hand was on the small of your back, his shoe always touching yours, how his hand ghosted down your thigh — was an answer for all else.

Donquixote Doflamingo 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

Perhaps it’s grace that you cannot see him.

You often wondered what kind of face a man as vile as him could possibly carry.

Someone with his taste of humour must be blonde — considering how often you heard blondes are the evil upon this earth — not that you could protest; the man you called lover is, apparently, one of these blondes.

So.

Why is it—if he’s so evil—that he allows you to snuggle into his chest, feathered coat tickling your nose and his arms wrapped close around your shoulders?

You suppose you’re the exception. 

“Oi.”

You shift your head deeper into his shirt, his cologne—it carries the edge of corruption and just a tiny hint of something tropical, beachy.

You want more of it. “Five more minutes.”

Doffy’s hand lands on top of your hair, stroking. So soft, so gentle. He’s only like this when it’s just you two, and how often is that?

“You said that one hour ago.” His voice is flat, and you mumble something incoherent as a reply. The rustle of paper is being set down, and Doflamingo shifts to move.

“Hey. Sleepin’ beauty; wakey, wakey. Time’s up. We’re leaving.”

At that, you lift your chin up — “Leave? Like this? You can’t suggest I leave looking like a mess!”

The feathered coat around your shoulders is slipped off of your grasp, as he ruffles up your hair—”You’re right, your hair do look like a bird nest.”

and you hold in your offence.

Doflamingo is still close, close enough for you to hear him bend down, fondle your cheeks in his hands. “but it won’t matter, anyone who says something dumb to you won’t live to tell the tale.” He says, and you can practically hear the smile he carries—all jokes, all stunt and vile, devilish honesty.

“That’s not funny, Doffy.” You say, your voice a little soft, a little scared, and he chuckles.

He tugs on your hands, ready to steer you out of your seat—”Come. We go.”

But you refuse. “I’m not ready, you can’t ask me to look tardy.”

“Fine, I’ll call Baby 5 then—” He turns to leave and you panic, clinging onto his elbow, shaking your head. “Nonono—I want you to do it!”

He’s silent for a moment.

But only a moment.

“I’ve spoiled you haven’t I?” For some reason, you can imagine his eye twitching, “So spoiled you actually think I’ll say yes—now that’s funny darling, but as cute this entire act of yours is, that’s not happening—”

“Please?” You breathe out, “I want you to adorn me, is that so wrong?” You turn your chin up to where his voice comes from, “I don’t want anyone else; I want you.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Dreary, horrible, terrifying silence that you are keen to poke at. “Did you die? Hello?”

Doflamingo let’s out the tiniest of scoffs, his hands goes back to fondle your cheeks. Stroking locks of hair out your face as if they obscured something he couldn’t resist.

“What do I get in return?”

You tilt your head, brows furrowing, “… a kiss?”

“Hah. You’re one spoiled little shit aren’t you? Fine.” He gives your cheek one small pinch before steering you up to your feet.

“Whatchu’ wanna wear?” Immediately he stomps over to your wardrobe, the sound of fabric being tossed and thrown makes you lift a brow. “I want you to dress me up.”

“Yeah?” The tossing is stopped, and Doffy approaches, “Be a sweetheart and lift your arms up.” He says that and yet before you can even obey, you feel strings tightening around your wrists—forcibly hoisting your hands into the air—”Doffy!?”

He does not say anything, but you can pretty much hear the self-indulgent grin forming on his face.

He slides the shirt you’re wearing off of you, but the strings doesn’t loosen, no, he keeps you in place—strung and made—as he pulls the dress over you.

You grit your teeth, the sinews of your arms starting to strain. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Hmm? You’re the one who begged for this.” He says, going behind you, zipping the back of your dress like it’s early Christmas.

“Not like this!” You protest and you feel him lean down, breath close to your neck; warm, close, and your throat starts to flush hot.

“I made us match, now we can be horrible in pink together.”

You pull your brow, was that supposed to be romantic?

He undoes the strings and you immediately massage your wrists. Trying to ease the strain only to feel him cup your chest, not crudely, but to pull your spine to meet his torso—and he’s sturdy, frame built with lean strength and you lower your chin. He’s practically caging you into his embrace.

“Where’s my kiss—?” he catches his tongue when you slam your palm over his face, you were attempting for his mouth but the effect is there. “After my makeup!”

He clicks his tongue, letting you go.

“Greedy.” He mumbles like the hypocrite he is, walking to the direction your vanity sits.

And you huff, the sofa… the sofa should be behind you; you turn and take one careful step forward, hand stretched out since you don’t have your white cane on hand.

You successfully didn’t crash into something.

You take another careful step, and this time, you bump into the soft edge of the furniture, soft fabric pressing into your abdomen—Doffy ensured all corners and edges would be either rounded or plush with velvet since you moved in—and you sit. Prim and ready for him.

And he comes back, makeup rattling against one another and the cushions of the couch bounces as he plops down next to you.

You turn your chin where you hear him sit. “You won’t make me ugly?”

“You’re asking a lot for just a kiss in return.”

“Promise me!” You retort and he hums.

“I pinky promise—now, be a good pet and sit still, lest I make a mess of you and it won’t be from kissing.”

You hold back a smile, letting him get to work without further tease.

You feel him dab in the base, and for each push and stroke, there is a restrain in his movements. As if to keep himself from moving too hard, too rough and mean, and for a man so prone to hurt, taunt and murder, it feels oddly… sweet.

“You better be thinking about me, smiling like that.” He says, adding your blush.

You ignore his possessive comment, “You’re good at this, almost a bit too good—do you wear makeup too?” Without thinking your hands reaches out to his face and Doflamingo stops in his working.

Silence.

You fondle his cheeks, trace the outline of his jaw. His is acute in it’s shape, cut and defined. Your fingers skims to his nose, long, slender, his bridge prominent—and you unconsciously lean in.

“You have such an angular face, sharp, chiselled but for a man so keen to being a meanie,” Your fingers makes to the edges of his mouth—he’s not smiling. That’s odd. With the way he speaks, you always assumed a smile was etched onto his face, but now, his lips are closed, almost pressed together, as if he’s… contemplating?

And you pull your brows.

You wonder — what kind of expressions does Doffy wear around you? You cannot see him, cannot judge him; that smile others describe you of, the sunglasses you hear him mention here and there—does he drop all of it around you? And wear his most truest self in your sole presence?

… that cannot be, so you tilt your head, and pull the edges of his lips into a smile.

“There! That fits you better!” you say and you feel his lips twitch.

“You’re lucky you’re a favourite, now let go.”

And you do, almost immediately, not wanting to piss him off, he’s been so sweet lately afterall.

He slides locks of hair behind your ear, and he comes close—close to taste his scent on your tongue, close to feel his heat radiate into your clothes, and you stay in place as his fingers trace your ears.

Longer, bigger fingers clicking earrings into place, never once unkind or clumsy—done in one swift go. And you feel the shape of the jewellery with your fingers; hoops.

Round, semi-small, and you smile. Finding his face once again and travelling your hands to his ears, and it is as you suspected.

“We’re matching,” You incline your head, “you like dressing me up, don’t you?”

Doffy takes hold on one of your wrists, fixing you a bracelet. It’s simple, miniature and beaded. Pearls, perhaps?

“And what if I did? I get to do as I please.” he says as he takes your hands and guides you up, only for him to lean down close to your face once more. “You owe me something.” His tone is playful but there is a hint of impatience beneath it; his finger tapping against the plush of your lips.

So demanding. So greedy. And still, you hold his face, tiptoe and meet his lips with yours.

The kiss is short. Sweet.

You part with a smile. “Did you make me pretty?”

For some reason, he chuckles, “What kind of stupid question is that. What’s next, are the summers warm?” He says and before you can retort, he steals another kiss, and another, and another.

Kissing you until he’s satisfied.

That’s just the kind of spoiled evil these blondes carry.

Summary: The kiss left you with lipstick smeared all over your mouth and you had grumbled. He would only redo the makeup, if you offered another kiss. Another touch. Another sentence where you begged for him and him only. Truly. What a greedy, greedy man.

Roronoa Zoro 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

“Oi.” Zoro grumbles, and you lift your head up from the pillow.

He left you so you could take only the tiniest of naps, only to find you tangled in your bed sheets, still wearing his shirt and your hair a mess.

“Hi.”

“Don’t ‘hi’-me, you were supposed to be ready three hours ago.” Zoro stomps over, taking your elbows to guide you up but you refuse. “I was, I am! Beauty sleep is part of the process, you know.”

Silence.

You know for a fact he’s staring at you and you tip your head to the side, “Did the beauty nap work? What do you rate its effects? Five out of five?”

“Hah….” He sighs out, letting go of your elbows. “I’ll find you something to wear, then we go.”

Your brows pinches, that ought not do… so… you decide to press your luck.

“Zoro,” you say his name in the softest, most sweetest tone you can replicate and he rummages by your closet. “Whatever you’re scheming, it’s a ‘no’.” He says.

“Just listen,” you drag out, folding your hands together.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Very well. I stay here, aboard the Sunny then.” Your posture slump and you hear him click his tongue. “Dammit lady, fine. What is it?” He grits out and you try not to let out a pleasing giggle.

“Why don’t you adorn me, make me pretty.”

…

Silence.

Heavy, imperious silence.

“Hello? Did you vanish—”

“Hey. You do know who you’re asking to dress you up, right?” He says, going back to vault over your closet.

“So? I want you to do it.”

“You’ve been hanging around Nami too much—but fine. Since you’re nagging.” Zoro says and even with that reluctant tone he carries; you knew from the beginning, he would always say yes. That’s just the kind of cute dishonesty your boyfriend always carried with him.

“… this one should do, yeah, put this one on.” The assault on your closet abruptly ends as he comes closer and fabric is being tossed over your head, “Hey! Are you even trying to make me pretty!?”

“Of course I am, where do you keep the makeup? Here?”

You frown, “Where’s here? I can’t see, remember?”

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Zoro steps away from you, and the corner were you keep your vanity becomes his next victim to tousle with. Drawers being rattled, boxes being scrambled and the clitter and clatter of what you assume to be your stash of perfume bottles.

You pull your brows, he can be such a brute.

You fondle with the fabric. The embroidery bumps under the pads of your fingers and you realise the pattern is that of tiny, miniature flowers; and you instantly recognise the clothing. A dress he chose for you in Wano. Your lips wry into a smile at the memory of that date.

Did he choose it… for the same reason?

You slip into the dress, only to move your head where you hear him approach.

“Did you find it, Zoro?”

“Yeah.” He seems to have brought a chair with him as it creaks when he sits down in front of your bed. His larger hand places over yours, lightly tugging you forward as if to usher you to come close.

And you do.

“I found you a necklace,” His hand slides locks of hair out of your neck, his thick calloused fingers carefully slips the necklace around you—it’s beaded, you realise, miniature and simple.

He’s quiet, focused—clipping it onto you with little to no fuss.

And for some reason, he does not say anything for a while.

“Zoro?” You hum when you feel his fingers trace the nape of your neck, and you hitch your breath, brace your core. His touch is a tickle, a caress and he leans down, placing a faint kiss there and you flinch. “H-hey, what was that for!?”

“It’s my reward. Now… sit still, okay? If I make a mess out of you, don’t you dare whine. You’re the one who asked for this.” He says and you huff.

The box of makeup clatters.

A pause follows.

And you can taste it waver in the air — Hesitation.

“Do you see my lipstick? Next to it is a tinier tube, you begin smearing that over my face.”

“… Right.”

You feel three fingers push into your cheek, cold, wet cream smears across your face and you fret, “Zoro!!! Not that much!”

“Hah—?”

“You can’t use three fingers worth of primer for one makeup look—wipe some of it off!”

“How was I supposed to know!?”

That’s how it begins between you two—Zoro is clueless, completely and utterly clueless and you have to ensure each step is done with the right tool, product and care. And despite his rashness and clumsy hesitation, you note the subtle restrain in his movements. Never rough, hard and callous, no, he touches you as if you were something dear, something that he isn’t allowed to mark with dents, and maybe that’s just what you are to him.

When your teases of his unpractised touches and poking at his indefinite caresses comes to its eventual stop, a silence falls between you two. Not awkward and unbearable, but a settling one. He does his work, grumbles here and there, but for each brush stroke, you two unconsciously lean towards one another.

He’s warm, you note.

So warm.

And his touch is soft, his fingers riddled with blisters and callouses from sword training but never cruel, and for some reason that makes your cheeks tinge.

He grabs hold of your jaw, “Pout.” He says, and you do—feeling his breath shake under his words. As if he’s mustering all concentration he could possibly gather to add this last step to your look.

And he applies it slowly, rubbing the rest of it in with his finger and you decide to tease him.

Giving his thick finger a tiny, quick suck and Zoro freezes.

You hear his breath drawn and you give it one last lick before parting.

“What? Did you die?” You smile, taking his palm to place it on your cheek, and you lean against it. For a moment, he does not answer.

His hand grows warm, so warm you think if you kiss it, he’ll burst.

“I don’t think you did, you’re so warm after all.” You smile and Zoro lets out a long, long breath as if trying to hold his composure. “You’re lucky we have to leave. Here, let’s go,” He takes hold on your arms, guiding you up and you tilt your head.

You can sense his gaze on you; you know it, feel it—his gaze is like a dull blade, lean and piercing, caressing your figure as if to measure you. Take in each shape of your being as if to burn it into his mind, and you’re used to that feeling enough to gently step towards him, your hands finding his chest, sliding your arms over his shoulders as you tiptoe.

Your bare thighs graze against his trousers, his warmth seeping into yours.

“So, what do you say Zoro? Did you make me cute?”

A pause.

Until he lands his bigger hands on your hips. Pushing you into him.

His frame is sturdy, lean.

You press yourself harder against him and Zoro lets out the softest of sighs.

As if to restrain himself.

“Yeah. I did.” His voice is a breath, a husky whisper and you had smiled, just before he hoists you up, carrying you in his arms before he makes both of you late.

Summary: Zoro’s arms are strong, packed with muscle and you lean against his chest. Even though you could walk on your own, this is not half-bad either or so you think until you’ hear Nami and Robin gasp. And your brows would pull. Those are not exactly approving gasps. And you wry your lips in shame, Zoro… he made you into a mess didn’t he? You’ll hear Nami reprimand him as Robin redo your makeup. Truly… what were you thinking asking him to help you out of everyone?

You laughed softly, humoured by the idea. They’d already established you weren’t kidnapped by telling you enough things about your early life that you had to believe, somewhat, that the haze in your brain was blanketing out countless memories from the past years. Unless the infamous Heart Pirates were also the world’s best stalkers.

You rubbed your eyes and looked over his shoulder at the crew. They were familiar. Like people you’d met once and your brain could faintly make out their shapes.

The bear, though, was by far the current biggest redeeming factor of this ship. Submarine. Whatever it was. You remembered his name vaguely… Bepo, right. Him and his eternally bad habit of walking up from behind and looming above you like a predator about to drop his jaw to your head.

“Are you okay?” he asked, whispering though there was really no point in doing so. Voices bounced easily off the metal walls.

“Bepo,” you said. “I was remembering your name.”

His eyes sparkled immediately and he nodded fast enough that you worried his head might pop off his shoulders. “Yes! You remember that?”

“It’s coming back to me,” you said.

That was some of the best proof you’d had that this wasn’t a kidnapping disguised as a medical emergency. You knew some of their names though you didn’t remember how you’d learned them. Law was different though. You remembered him through wanted posters and rumours more than you did in this space.

Yet when you looked at him here, you found it hard to place him anywhere else.

He cleared his throat and you realised you’d been staring.

“You already know my name,” he said. “You knew it long before you joined us.”

“You’re quite infamous,” you agreed and you did remember how you’d thought of him and his terrifying power. But it wasn’t so scary anymore. “Now you’re telling me we know each other well?”

“We do.”

You waited for a more detailed answer but he gave you nothing so you looked toward the rest of the crew. They immediately dipped their heads, looking toward the ground or the ceiling in the most suspicious way imaginable.

Alright. You’d have to figure out what they were keeping to themselves at a different time.

“We know each other well and I’m apparently not kidnapped,” you reasoned. “And the last memory I can firmly grab at, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t inside a metal tube. So that means you’ve somehow convinced me to join a pirate crew?”

“I didn’t convince you of anything. You walked in and wouldn’t leave.”

Somebody in the crew snorted with laughter and you glanced over, smiling at the idea. It sounded right.

“But I don’t have a jumpsuit,” you reasoned, noting the dress code that was apparently enforced.

“Oh, that’s because it’s in the wash,” Bepo hurried to assure you. “It had a bunch of blood on it so we had to clean it.”

“Right,” you said slowly. “Because I got a head injury.”

Law’s attention flicked to your brow briefly. “You did. At least it occurred close enough that I could treat it. There could be worse places.”

You hummed. “I’m not doubting your skills but wouldn’t most doctors tell their patients important information?”

He didn’t flinch even as the rest of his crew began to quietly avert their eyes. You stared at him patiently, waiting for a response. The bare basics weren’t enough to explain the massive hole in your memories. You wanted to know in far greater detail.

The silence stretched before he shook his head.

“There’s a risk with information,” he said. “Your amnesia means your mind knows there are missing memories. If we fill in the gaps for you, you may start repeating what we tell you instead of recovering the memories yourself. I’m not risking that. A week, maybe more.”

You weren’t sure you appreciated that. “So, if you tell me about my memories, you think I’ll just accept them as fact.”

“I worry it could happen,” he acknowledged. “So, for now, it is best if you rest and regain them in your own time.”

You wanted to push for more. This wasn’t right. You knew the memories were floating just beyond your grasp but you had no way to reach for them unless somebody helped.

Then again, it wasn’t an ideal time. Your headache from earlier was beginning to return as whatever pain medication he’d given you began to wear off. It radiated through your brain in a steady throb and you lightly rubbed your temples.

“If you won’t give me memories, what about facts?” you asked. “Like how long I’ve been here for? How much time is even missing?”

Law didn’t seem willing to budge. “You’ll remember with time. For now, you’re struggling and walking around the ship was already against my recommendations. I think you should rest before we discuss it.”

You looked over his shoulder to the others. “Can I have a second opinion?”

“No.”

His stubbornness was stirring up faint feelings that curled around your chest. Something that complemented his manic reputation although, you could hardly find it in yourself to be nervous around a man whose hat resembled a seal’s pelt.

A brief memory surfaced of finding a vaguely similar mushroom while browsing a market. You remembered holding it up, voice distorted through time, and you saw his unamused expression faintly.

Even then, he seemed far less guarded than he was now.

“Alright,” you relented, satisfied to have retrieved one memory, useless though it may be. “I do want the headache to fade. I don’t think I remember where my bunk is.”

You looked toward the only other woman on the crew, hoping she might help but Law answered before you could think of it for too long.

“You’ll be remaining in the recovery bay for observation,” he said. “They’ll move what you need there.”

“Captain?” Bepo asked, his voice soft. “Wouldn’t she be more comfortable somewhere familiar?”

“Nowhere is familiar right now,” Law clarified. “That’s the problem.”

But he was wrong. Everything was familiar. Even the way he tilted his chin faintly when he spoke to somebody behind him was familiar. You just couldn’t place why it had become familiar in the first place.

What you did know was that you woke up the next day to a lot of stuff that didn’t really need to be in the recovery bay.

It wasn’t a complaint exactly because, if you needed anything, it was incredibly easy to find, but also, this felt like an excessive number of things to be brought through for a temporary stay. Far, far too many actually.

Every item you owned had been brought through and laid out on the surrounding berths so you didn’t have to look for it. If you did have a storage chest, it must have been emptied for everything to be dragged up here.

And yet…

Shachi and Penguin stepped in with another armful of clothes and you looked toward them. They both smiled as they laid it all out.

“Where are you getting all of this from?” you asked.

They froze, looking to each other for a second.

“Storage,” Shachi said.

At the same time, Penguin said, “Your room.”

You raised an eyebrow at them. “So, I have a room? I don’t stay with the rest of the crew?”

“Technically?” Shachi said slowly, already taking a few steps back.

They hurried out and you listened to their footsteps disappear down the corridor before you shook your head. They had always been such awful liars. You remembered briefly telling them as much in the past when you were walking around an island, trailing them slowly.

Another small memory of the crew and yet it answered nothing about why all your things were piled here.

You looked at the surrounding items before your gaze lingered suspiciously on a mug. For a second, you didn’t know what was wrong with it being there (nor why it annoyed you so much that it was) but then you remembered buying it. It had a twin.

A twin that was decidedly nowhere in this collection of things.

You considered it for a while before you swung your legs from the medical berth and rolled your shoulders. If they were running your stuff from somewhere, there would be a space missing your things.

And though you couldn’t remember it when thinking of it directly, your legs carried you through the Polar Tang with little thought.

Your steps echoed through the metal halls with a marked rhythm as you took your time looking through the rooms. You knew this submarine well. You loved walking through the submarine and knowing what room would come next.

Your fingers brushed along the cold walls, tracing the bolts in the metal as you glanced out the windows and into the churning ocean below.

You’d seen all kinds of things through this glass. All manner of aquatic life had swum by you before and you remembered how charmed you had been to watch them in the past; once you’d even seen a massive sea king disappear into the depths.

Your reflection caught your eye against the window.

You reached up to touch the bump and the stitches, trailing your fingers over the lines slowly. They ached, even now, but they annoyed you more than hurt.

Apparently, all your memories had leaked from your head through this one smack and that got under your skin far worse than any pain could have. Not to mention, you were partially sure it had been your fault to begin with.

If you remembered, and that was a stretch, you remembered a faint self-complaint of stupidity before the pain arrived.

You continued to walk, looking for something you couldn’t describe before you came across a door. It didn’t have a key and a lock but rather, a keypad, waiting for a code that you couldn’t remember the numbers of. And yet when you raised your hand, you pressed the numbers without thinking and the door slid open.

Law wasn’t in his office, but the space felt warmer than any of the rooms you’d passed before. The air held the faint smell of coffee, ink and antiseptic, and the chill that had followed you through the corridors seemed to stop at the door.

It was plain and sparsely decorated and yet you recognised it. Knew where you wanted to go and where you wanted to stand. You walked in slowly, carefully examining the room.

Sitting on his desk, filled with untouched coffee, was your mug’s twin.

The coffee looked cold, abandoned there some time ago. There was no steam left, and the bitter smell had gone flat. Next to it, there was a stain on the wood, spreading around a second coaster that held nothing.

You remembered the look he gave you after he realised the coffee mug had spilled but you couldn’t quite grasp what had happened before it.

You didn’t linger for long, stepping out of the office with the memories hanging over you as you made your way to the dining hall instead. This, at least, you could place concretely as the room where you’d first met the crew, with its large tables and metal furnishings. Although now, it seemed Law was sitting there instead.

He sat at one of the benches with papers and books around him as he paged through an unrecognisable medical journal.

This wasn’t where he’d normally do this but it was where he usually sat. You strolled closer, shoes clicking against the floor. And yet, instead of looking up, he just moved some papers away to clear a spot next to him.

You were already seated there before either of you realised the habit.

You looked over his shoulder at the study he was going through, saw a flash of your name written on a folder and tilted your head.

“I have a file?” you asked.

“Everybody has one,” he said, back straightening as he looked to you. “I thought your instructions were to rest.”

“I’m rested enough. Does the amnesia really need to be noted?”

“Yes.”

You were sitting very close when you thought about it but it didn’t feel natural to sit elsewhere. Though you wanted to complain about the time and how he was still working… you caught the grumble on your tongue for a second.

It wasn’t dinner yet. He could work here, if he wanted to.

He watched you for a moment more before he went back to the books, flipping through the pages, and you watched from his side, reading the paragraphs that caught your eye and wondering why your memories seemed to struggle so much with this.

“I think it should be put in as temporary amnesia,” you said.

Law flicked the page harder than needed. “Once you’ve regained your memories, I can change it,” he said. “Until then, it will remain as I’ve diagnosed.”

“I’m certain it’ll come back,” you said. “I made my way around the submarine with no problem and found my way here. I know what in my stuff is missing and where it probably is.”

“Do you remember the name of the submarine?”

You paused, thinking on it although it hung just beyond your reach. He nodded after an awkward length of time passed.

“There are still things missing.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be fully moved into the recovery bay?” you suggested. “My own bed might be enough to trigger memories.”

“No. It’s safer to have you somewhere you can be observed.”

“Why can’t you observe me where I usually sleep?”

He didn’t actually answer your question, seemingly invested in ignoring whatever truth was being held around your regular quarters. You were becoming increasingly suspicious that there was something else there.

Footsteps caused you to raise your head. Shachi and Penguin both smiled warmly when they saw your seat and you smiled in return, even knowing you were about to corner them.

“I was looking for you two,” you said. “Earlier, you brought me a mug and some part of my brain is itching to tell me it has a twin somewhere. What happened to it? Or have I forgotten breaking it.”

They both immediately froze.

“No,” Shachi said. “You didn’t break it. It’s just being washed.”

“Because it was in the storeroom,” Penguin said. “It’s dusty in there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But you said you got those things from my room.”

“It’s dusty in there too?” Shachi offered but his voice was far too meek to be believable.

Law didn’t raise his head but you heard the faintest sigh of disappointment under his breath. You almost laughed at it.

“You’re both awful liars,” you told them. “I’m glad to see that memory was right.”

“It’s because when they start talking, they don’t stop,” Law said. “And because they feel the need to tell you far too much.”

They both nodded, hurrying to their own table as they took their captain’s non-subtle hint to continue moving. You watched them go before looking down at where you were sitting. Your memories might be hazy but you could notice that you hadn’t been hurried along at all.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I just keep remembering little things about you,” you said. “Like I think I got you that pen.”

“Mm.”

“And I’m also wondering why you won’t just tell me everything. You’re my captain, right?”

“Right now, I’m your doctor. That means you follow my orders until your head heals. I want to be sure that your recovery occurs smoothly and without outside interference.”

“Why aren’t you in your office?” you asked. “All of this seems to belong there, right? You must have brought it all out.”

For a second, Law stopped turning the page and he breathed out slightly. There was a strange tremble to the sound; one that had you tilting your head to him.

Your body moved before you thought it through and you shifted your hand closer, resting it over his for a second. He didn’t move, hand adjusting under your own for a second as though he wanted to leave it there, before he stood. He picked up his work and headed for the door, gone before you could register how natural it felt to hold his hand.

The memories crept closer, flitting away when you grabbed for them but you had a feeling that if he’d stayed for a second longer…

He avoided you as the days passed, harder than ever, but you somehow kept finding him.

If you explored the ship, you’d figure out the best path to guess where he’d be and more and more fell into place as you did. Names and places. You called the ship the Polar Tang while you were chatting with Uni and you recalled the exact path to get from the medical bay to anywhere else.

You remembered Bepo’s favourite food after you remembered where the snacks were kept. The week ‘deadline’ crept closer and more of your memories returned, but you still felt you were missing something very important.

The problem was that the very important thing seemed to be what everybody had been banned from talking about at all. So, you had nothing to trigger it.

Law’s checkups were far too quick for a conversation. He didn’t even ask about what you’d managed to recall, fixating on the head wound, and then immediately leaving you to go and hide somewhere in the ship. And you felt pretty comfortable in calling it hiding because that was what it clearly was.

And whenever his fingers brushed your hairline, or gently pressed against your skin, you knew that you wanted to touch him.

The urge should have been ridiculous because your memories of his reputation to the public and what you knew of his more reserved nature contradicted it entirely. And yet whenever you reached for him, he never glared. He always simply created the distance himself.

And your memories desperately refused to let you just leave it that way. They screamed that there was a reason even if your brain struggled to grab why.

Six days in and you were done with it.

You grabbed Bepo first; snatched his enormous paw that was easily the size of your whole head and tugged him along with a telling fearlessness. Penguin and Ikkaku you dragged from the galley. You found Shachi near the boiler room, until you had every Heart Pirate you could find gathered in the dining hall and completely ignoring their duties.

Law might not allow you to force him into sharing information. But you knew that they were all already at the bursting point.

You planted your hands onto your hips. “I’ve remembered a lot over the past few days,” you said to them. “But seeing as our Captain has decided to be stubborn, I’m going to ask you to fill in the blanks.”

Their smiles faded immediately.

“Captain did say we’re not meant to tell you anything,” Bepo said softly.

“Right,” you agreed. “But I’m done hanging around waiting for things to click into place so he’s going to have to suck it up. Now, where was all my stuff before it was brought to the recovery bay?”

Penguin glanced toward Shachi and they both lowered their eyes quickly. You stared at them both, waiting for the weight of your glare to wear them down.

“Different places?” Penguin offered.

“No.”

“Captain’s quarters,” Shachi said. “Mostly. Some of the stuff really was in storage though! Uh, we just left that stuff there because you probably wouldn’t need it.”

You nodded and things began to click slightly into place. A system that you kept messing up whenever you reached for something. Because he was organised in a way you couldn’t easily predict so you’d given up trying.

A memory pushed through as you looked over where everything hung and felt a hand reaching past you for a shirt. The sound of his voice close to your ear as he told you that if you reorganised his wardrobe again, he would throw everything you owned into the ocean.

You’d laughed at him and purposefully moved his coat to your side.

“So, I stay in his room then,” you said. “Which is why he chose to keep me in the recovery bay?”

“Well yes…” Penguin said. “He is right though. It would be really weird to explain that to you if you had no memories! And then he wouldn’t sleep in there.”

“It’s also why he told us to bring out literally everything,” Uni explained. “Because he didn’t want you to ask and then have to tell you where something was.”

“Then why did you only bring me one of the mugs?”

“The other one’s Captain’s,” Penguin said.

Shachi nodded. “He’d already made coffee in it anyway. Just left it sitting on his desk.”

“Fine. Then why isn’t he in his office half the time?”

Ikkaku sighed and you looked to her to find her expression soft. “He is today. I think he’s been moving around because he’s avoiding it. There’s a lot of you in there.”

“A lot of me?”

Bepo nodded slightly. “You’re in there a lot,” he said. “And we took out most of what we could find but like, we can’t remove everything. That’s probably why he was working in laundry yesterday.”

You frowned. “That’s ridiculous. Not the memory part but like… he hates the sound of those machines.”

“Yeah but he’s also avoiding you so…”

“I know that. He could have just changed the code.”

Bepo’s eyes watered, his ears twitching slightly. “He could have but you love being in there. So, why would he want to stop you?”

The word triggered something in your chest before you could stop it. Like a small puzzle finally clicking into place. Because that had been the word you were missing.

The one that made you lean over Law’s desk and steal books from his hands when he hadn’t looked at you. The one that had him throw a coat over your shoulders while he worked, one hand resting against your back as you slipped toward sleep. The memories seeped back in slowly.

“Alright,” you said, as they still returned. “And this whole not telling me anything was because he was scared he was going to force me to remember it?”

“He didn’t say it exactly, but I think he was worried you’d feel obligated,” Ikkaku said. “That you would love him only because we said you should.”

Obligated into what? Into waking in a warm bed, your face pressed between his shoulder blades because he often turned away from you in the night?

You nodded and stepped away. “I love you all. You are all idiots.”

“Where are you going?” Shachi asked.

“To find him.”

You found him in his office this time, opened the door and stared for just a second until he looked up from his desk. Then you closed the door behind you and locked it.

“Okay,” you said and you walked without thinking around his desk. “I spoke to everybody.”

He leaned back in his chair, expression impassive. “Have you now?”

“They’ve done a very good job,” you acknowledged. “But I decided I was done waiting and demanded that they actually tell me where my clothing came from. And why it is that you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Old habits returning, I can see,” he said. “You’ve always bullied them.”

You smiled faintly and stepped around the desk, leaning against its side. “I know.”

You reached out slowly and took the hat from his head. He didn’t move away, allowing you to run your fingers over it as you looked down at him, warmth curling deeply in your chest as you did so.

“We share a room,” you said. “But you won’t tell me that.”

“I don’t want to implant things into your mind without them coming naturally. Otherwise, you might remain reliant on me for everything related to it.”

You moved against the desk and your leg brushed against his own. He didn’t move away. You’d done this countless times. The first time, he’d complained only briefly about it but then he came to accept it as somewhere you stood.

“See, the thing is, the actions are waking things up in my mind,” you said. “I remember them clearer when I do it. I know I want to touch you. I know I’ve done it before.”

“I’m not going to question every one of your actions and wonder whether it’s something you genuinely remember or something you think you should be doing.”

You bumped him with your knee. “Valiant, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. But this is important.”

You ran your fingers once more over the top of the hat before you moved it to the side, dropping it over a medical journal about amnesia. “Yet you’re leaning back in your seat because you already know where I’m moving.”

“I know where you would normally. Do you?”

You didn’t waste any time. You stepped closer, settling into his lap like you had a hundred times before. He didn’t stiffen but you felt him adjust, hands moving for a second as though to catch your waist.

“I do. I also know that you let me do this only when you aren’t busy. If you had something else to do, you wouldn’t have moved your chair back.”

“You sit where you want to. I’ve tried bringing other chairs in here but you care little about them.”

“Because I like to be here even if it gets in your way.”

He sighed softly and for a moment, there was silence as he looked up at you, expression lingering over your features. Then he raised a hand gently, brushed his fingers across the injury where it sat with an unreadable expression.

“It’s not very pretty,” you commented. “It’s going yellow.”

He scoffed. “Do you really think I care if a head injury looks pretty?”

“Does it look like it’s healing, at least?”

“Physically, it is,” he said. His fingers lingered there, thumb brushing gently over your eyebrow. “Do you remember the fight that caused it?”

“Not fully,” you admitted. “But I remember seeing your coat and I know there was the smell of something sweet in the air. Other than that, the fight itself is a bit of a blur.”

His jaw tightened, hand lowering until it hovered over your hip, suspended for a second too long before he gave in and just placed it there. It felt far more right than having him holding the chair, his palm warm against you.

“That’s unfortunate. I’d hoped you could tell me how it happened. I wasn’t watching you.”

You didn’t even remember the opponent but really, you didn’t care to. All you cared about was the fact that Law had spent a week silently carrying the knowledge that you liked to sit in his lap like this.

And that you didn’t remember that you enjoyed it. Something that was pulling tightly at your heart.

“I can guess,” you relented. “I probably just got too close and stopped watching. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

“No,” he said. “Sometimes I think you believe I’m capable of miracles for how often you get hurt.”

“But this is the worst it’s been?”

“Not physically. Your body recovered well from the other injuries.”

“I think it’s the worst,” you clarified. “Though the broken ribs were bad. Especially when we landed on that stupid island while I was still recovering and I sneezed for days on end. And you laughed at me for it.”

You caught the faintest curve of his lips before he got it back under control.

“I suppose there was also that time I almost drowned while ice fishing with Bepo,” you hummed. “But that was also more his fault. Do you have any idea how much he weighs?”

“He’s a mink,” Law said and the hand on your hip squeezed faintly. “It’s not like he’s heavy for his species. Although he took considerable offence to your expression when he said the number. Do you know he almost cried?”

“He did cry when he got me out of the water.”

“I know.”

“He thought you were going to kill him for letting me fall.”

Law inclined his head. “I considered it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. Just briefly.”

You laughed softly and raised your hand to rest it against his cheek. He leaned faintly into the touch and you couldn’t help but smile. Those memories were returning faster than ever now. They clicked into place as you considered the man in front of you, who had spent an entire week carrying the memory of your relationship alone.

Your eyes watered and you raised a hand to wipe away the tears before they could fall. He beat you to it, fingers delicately sweeping them from your lashes.

Your breath hiccupped.

His touch lingered against your cheek as more tears began to fall and you tilted your head back slightly to breathe through them.

“This one is absolutely the worst,” you finally managed to say. “By far. And not even because it’s going to take me ages to get all my stuff back into our room. But because this past week has just been so stupidly lonely.”

“If I had been paying enough attention – ”

“Stop it,” you muttered before he could continue. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have been watching you.”

“Since when do you nanny me on a battlefield?”

You couldn’t stop crying. You fought to get rid of the tears to no avail, finally dropping your head onto his shoulder as you gave up controlling them. His arms immediately moved around you, drawing you closer.

“Fuck’s sake,” you muttered. “I planned to come in here and be all ‘oh, I love you so much’ and now I’m just crying.”

“You’re making a convincing case, if that helps.”

He sounded faintly amused but underneath, you could feel something raw in his voice. A relief you rarely got to hear from him. You stifled a small, overwhelmed hiccup against him and tried to figure out what emotion was even causing it.

It didn’t matter. You couldn’t stop them either way.

Minutes dragged by as he rubbed soothing circles against your back, your shoulders trembling hard beneath his touch. Then you sat up slowly, scrubbing away the tears as best you could and taking a deep breath. His eyes were warmer when he looked at you now, cautious but no longer completely guarded. For a second, something bright caught in them. Then Law blinked, and it was gone.

“I love you,” you said. “And I really need you to know that I love you.”

“I can see that,” he said.

You leaned in and kissed him. And for just a second, he went still. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck and he kissed you back, caution disappearing entirely.

He drew you closer until there was no space left between you, fingers curling into your hair as though he needed the proof of you there. The kiss was warm and firm and painfully familiar, unlocking fragments faster than you could follow them: his mouth against yours in dark corridors and in spare moments before duties.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath unsteady against your lips.

“At least I can officially update your records to say temporary amnesia now.”

You rolled your eyes. “I think you should remove it entirely. It isn’t going to happen again.”

“No. It’s not,” he agreed. “I’m getting you a helmet.”

“Absolutely not.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t look like he was joking.

Tags: @miwn8 ; @aceincase ; @chaeisrichnow

You slowed near him, suddenly uncertain. “I bought it on the island? It reminded me of you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at that and before you could stop him, he reached out to touch the feather. His fingers dragged over it once, slow and careful, before his expression tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Huh,” he said quietly.

You waited for him to elaborate but after another second he just pulled his hand back and shrugged one shoulder. “Looks expensive yoi.”

Confused, you laughed softly. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there?”

He turned back toward his work but the movement was sharper than usual and you found yourself reaching up to touch the feather once he looked away. You’d thought he’d be flattered but clearly that had been a vain idea.

You didn’t take it out that day, if only because you’d spent far too much time putting it in to remove it so quickly. But that only made things weirder.

Because Marco clearly didn’t like it.

Yet he kept touching it.

When you leaned close to him and he threw an arm over your shoulder, he’d play with the feather, tugging on it just enough to move the pin in your hair. That night when you put it down, he immediately picked it up again, twisted it in his fingers and then put it down.

“Does it not suit me?” you asked, watching him drop it onto the table.

“If you like it, it doesn’t matter,” he said but that wasn’t an answer.

You wore it from time to time to see his reactions. It created a stupidly obvious pattern where he was more annoyed than ever on the days you wore it – snapping at just about everybody who asked him something obvious.

One of those experimental days, the wind picked up strong enough to almost knock it from your hair entirely. You pulled it out and left the pin atop a crate while you got to work with the rigging when an unexpected tip from the ship sent it tumbling over the deck.

You watched helplessly as the brilliant blue skated over the damp planks toward the edge of the ship, catching briefly against uneven wood before the next tilt sent it moving again. Salt wind whipped across the deck hard enough to sting your eyes as you lunged too late toward it. Then Marco’s hand closed around the pin just before it disappeared over the side.

His eyes flicked to the ocean for a second and his grip tightened. Then he walked it inside and left it on a safer table before getting back to work.

Nothing had changed and yet it had.

He still laughed, still pressed kisses across your jaw and down your neck. He still teased you about worrying but something was wrong. Not in a way you could explain… just something slightly off.

Something nobody else you spoke to seemed to notice. Ace guessed he was busy. Izou thought he was being stubborn and not sleeping. Haruta said there had always been something wrong with Marco so trying to figure out what specifically was odd was redundant.

Which all left you desperate enough to ask the only source of reliable information on the ship.

Pops held out his hand and you dropped the pin into his palm. He lifted it close to his face, massive fingers careful around the delicate wood.

“It’s the wrong colour,” he said eventually. “Marco’s feathers are brighter.”

You sighed. “I know it’s not exact. It was just meant to remind me of him.”

Pops hummed and tilted the pin slightly so the blue feather caught the sunlight. “Mm.”

“Is he getting offended over inaccurate shades of blue?” you asked. “Because if that’s what this is then he’s being ridiculous.”

A laugh rumbled out of him. “It wouldn’t be anything new.”

You crossed your arms. “He keeps touching it and staring at it and acting annoyed every time I wear it. I can’t even tell if he likes it or hates it.”

“Oh, he knows he hates it,” Pops said easily. “He just hasn’t figured out why yet. I have been entertained by the daily theories though.”

You tilted your head back, squinting against the sun to stare up at him. “Every day?”

“It is getting a little boring at this point though,” he admitted. “If you two are going to give me relationship drama, I’d prefer it more interesting than a hair accessory.”

You left the conversation with Pops less confused about Marco’s opinion but still equally lost on what was causing it. The colour? It was far duller than his own but that couldn’t be it… it had been a while since you’d last seen his feathers though.

Maybe you had accidentally chosen a shade so far off that he found it offensive. Though he wouldn’t admit to that if you asked.

You paced a hole into the deck while you considered it until finally giving up and making your way into Marco’s quarters that evening.

He was leaning over his desk as usual, illuminated only by a flickering oil lamp beside him. You pulled the pin from your hair as you entered and dropped it on the desk next to him.

His gaze lingered on it for far too long before he nudged it away.

“Didn’t expect you so soon yoi,” he said. “Are you planning on sleeping already?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Though I did have a favour to ask.”

“I’ll try my best to fulfil it.”

You breathed out softly before you asked, nervous that this would prove you right and his feathers had randomly turned purple or something. That would be the most embarrassing thing ever…

“Could you transform for me?” you asked.

Marco’s pen paused and he tilted his head to you slightly. “What do you mean? Did you get hurt?”

“No,” you hummed, hoping it would come out coy rather than uncertain. “I was thinking I hadn’t seen your phoenix form in a while. I’m missing it.”

“That’s a pretty strange thing to miss yoi.”

You sighed, running your hands over his shoulders and down to his chest. “Please. You know I like looking at you.”

He huffed and took his glasses off, placing them on the deck. He leaned back into you. “This is sudden. Your feather not enough anymore?”

It could have been a tease. You may have even been fooled by it if you hadn’t had your earlier conversation with Pops. And if you didn’t see the way his gaze immediately shot toward the hairpin where it lay on the table.

You brought your lips to his ears to whisper, “Marco, please.”

For a second, he stayed still. His gaze flicked toward the feather where it lay abandoned on the desk before settling back on you again. Then he stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape against the floorboards and reaching up to cup your jaw.

He kissed you slowly at first, like he was trying to figure something out through the press of your lips. His thumb brushed beneath your ear and you hummed, leaning into him when his hand slid around the back of your neck instead.

“You’re spoiled,” he muttered against your mouth though there was no heat in it.

His grip tightened briefly at the nape of your neck before he kissed you again, deeper this time, until you almost forgot what you had asked for in the first place. Then he guided you backwards through the room, attention fixed entirely on you now in a way that made warmth creep beneath your skin. Your knees hit the edge of the bed and he finally pulled away.

Marco’s eyes were devilishly bright as he smirked at you. Then he erupted into blue flames. The phoenix unfurled before you like a rose blooming in a garden, its bright light illuminating every corner of the room.

His wings unfurled wide enough to brush the edges of the room before folding partially back against his sides, feathers crackling softly with blue flame; every feather a glittering mix of blues and golds. Fire danced harmlessly around his talons as he stepped forward, his phoenix form almost as tall as you were sitting.

You watched in mild awe. It never got any less brilliant to see him like this.

Then you reached out and gently ran your nails over the side of his head. He tilted his head sharply to the side but you didn’t let the movement deter you, smoothing your way over the soft and warm feathers.

He stepped closer and you brought your other hand up too, running both over the sides of his neck where the feathers were short and fluffy.

He extended his neck fully when you began to scratch, eyes closing. A deep trilling sound began deep in his chest that you would never mention in case he then stopped doing it. The noise only got louder once you got to the base of his wings, dragging your nails through the flickering flames and the fluff of his chest.

“So beautiful,” you said and he shuffled closer to your touch. “My handsome bird.”

He opened one eye to give you a reprimanding look but clearly decided the scratches were worth far more than his pride.

With an unexpected hop, he jumped onto your lap and you almost laughed, now able to rub at the base of his wings as well. He was actually making it harder as he shuffled further into your lap, growing heavier as he settled there. You twisted your torso to continue dragging your nails over his body, scratching under the heavier wing feathers.

“Pretty,” you hummed as you watched the flames flicker over them.

He extended his wings slightly, pushing them out until they were touching the edges of the room and straightened taller. He settled fully onto your lap and the sudden weight tipped you backward against the mattress with a laugh caught in your throat. Warmth pressed over your chest immediately; heavy and soft all at once as blue flames flickered harmlessly across the sheets.

His body sprawled over your torso while he shuffled closer, feathers brushing beneath your hands until you could finally scratch properly along his ribs.

Then the flames retreated all at once and the human Marco reappeared, weight held mostly on his forearms so he didn’t crush you.

“You’re going to give me a complex yoi,” he said with his voice low. “If you’re not careful, I’ll become insufferable because of you.”

You continued to tickle his sides, movements far softer and lazier now as you traced over skin rather than feather. “Who says you’re not already?” you asked.

He smiled faintly at you. “Hey.”

“You hate my hairpin,” you said. “But you won’t just tell me. I’m not that attached to it, you know, but I wanted to wear something that reminds me of you. And I can’t use one of your actual feathers because they turn to ash the second they’re not on you anymore.”

“Then don’t wear feathers,” he said as though it was an obvious answer. “You won’t ever find one that looks like mine anyway.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s true. They all pale in comparison to you.”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the desk. “Then why bother with that yoi?”

“I thought you might like the symbolism of it,” you explained. “It was meant to represent you.”

“It doesn’t,” he said simply.

“I guess…”

Marco sighed and ran his hand through his hair, leaning back so he was straddling your waist rather than hovering over you. “I appreciate the idea yoi,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel right. To have you walking around with a random bird’s feather in your hair.”

The realisation arrived slower than it should have. His words and the weight they carried caught up to you and you smiled up at him. It was such a trivial thing and yet…

“What?” he asked.

“I didn’t realise you were the jealous type,” you said.

“Jealous,” he repeated as though the word was foreign. “I don’t have anything to be jealous over.”

“That’s why you nearly threw it in the ocean.”

“I didn’t?”

“You were considering it. When you caught it that day.”

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I was trying to understand why you liked it so much yoi. It’s ugly.”

You laughed softly and he crossed his arms, clearly annoyed that you’d managed to pin down the feeling before he had.

“It’s a feather,” you said. “I wasn’t meaning to replace you or anything.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“Then what was the problem?”

“You can keep it yoi,” he said. “I don’t mind you having it if you want but it annoys me when you’re wearing it on the deck. Because you’re not… it’s clearly not mine. Even if you want it to symbolise that it is.”

You sighed and shuffled backward until you were free to sit up and loop your arms around his neck. “You know, you could have just told me you hated it.”

“You had good intentions and you spent your money on it.”

“I really don’t care about a hairpin,” you told him. “Though I do find it cute that you’re getting all territorial about a feather.”

“Cute?” he repeated in a dry tone.

“Yes,” you reiterated with complete sincerity because you could see the faint pout in his expression and that was decidedly cute. You leaned in to press your lips briefly against his. “You are cute.”

He stared at you for a second and then he flicked his fingers and a bolt of blue flame shot toward the desk.

It hit the feather directly. The plume blackened instantly, curling inward before collapsing into soft ash that scattered across the wood.

“Marco!”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself for a whole second before your expression properly registered to him. The smugness faltered slightly.

“You said you didn’t like it,” he defended.

“So you burned it?”

“I’ll get you another one,” he said. “Something pretty. I’ll have Izou help me find something without any awful feathers on it.”

You huffed though you couldn’t find it in your heart to be actually annoyed. He stared at you with shamelessness for a few seconds before he leaned down and pressed his face into the crook of your neck.

“You can wear my stuff instead yoi,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Insufferable,” you reiterated as his arms wound around your waist, pulling you in against him.

You dragged your fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe you set my hairpin on fire because you were jealous.”

“That wasn’t… It bothered me. It didn’t suit you.”

You smiled to yourself. Marco lifted his head to look at you, expression softer now and tinged with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re lucky I didn’t like it that much,” you told him.

“I’ll find you something to replace it yoi,” he said and you smiled.

“No feathers?”

“No,” he said with certainty.

Then without warning, blue flame bloomed around him again. You almost jumped at the phoenix’s sudden reappearance on the bed, his tail and legs spanning out over the sheets as he emerged from where Marco had been.

He puffed himself up for a second and then immediately shoved his head beneath your chin with a low trill.

You laughed to yourself, hand coming up to rest against the side of his neck, all warm feathers and flame.

“Oh, now you want scratches again? Have I started something I’m going to regret?”

Marco made a rough, chirring sound and his wings shifted impatiently against the mattress. He bumped your hand twice until you gave in, fingers sinking into the feathers along his neck to scratch beneath them.

He melted against you immediately, flames flickering warm across your skin as he spread his wings wide over the mattress. The movement crowded the bed entirely, soft feathers brushing your arms and throat while he shifted impatiently beneath your hands to guide your scratching exactly where he wanted it.

You laughed to yourself as he crawled closer until he sprawled over you; possessive, heavy, and unapologetic about it.