fic recs!!!

"Hey kid, I got you some chocolates from a guy I know." With the way he's whispering, you'd think this is some sort of contraband. "Take 'em to your room before someone notices."

You let out a huff of laughter and nudge Enjin with your elbow.

Rudo stands up from the bed, pupils dilated, and gently places the present in his palms. He's gonna get another sugar rush at this rate.

The boy lunges forward and Enjin offers a hand, likely expecting a handshake, but he's met instead by two slender arms wrapping around his torso.

Rudo pulls back, embarrassed, realizing he'd misunderstood the gesture as a hug.

"Um, nice. Thanks." His cheeks are practically as red as his irises now, and he seems almost angry at the fact that he can't hide his giddiness.

It's been a long time since you've witnessed an interaction this awkward.

Enjin is paralyzed with his arm in the air. Then he extends his fist and shouts "Up top!" like it would cleverly salvage the whole situation. They both fist bump and Rudo runs out in record time, scowling and flustered. You saw the way he nearly slipped.

Really? A fist bump.

"Do you always do that?"

Enjin turns to you, proud smirk still on his face. "Do what?"

You sigh. "Choose the worst possible thing to say to your emotional teenager."

He opens his mouth to blurt out some witty reply, but the words get stuck in his throat and he turns away from where you're standing, scratching his head.

Seconds pass. He still refuses to look at you, acting all coy. "You still up for a quick health check?"

At least he manages to cast you a hesitant glance. You want to yell at him in frustration, but he's trying to reach you.

Enjin always found a way around asking to talk instead of just being straightforward.

You breathe in and let silence fill the room, giving him one last chance to back out from a long-overdue conversation, but he stays put.

"...Yeah. Sit down."

You remember the journal Semiu gifted you eight months ago, when you first started out as a nurse for the Cleaners. It was for scheduling and checklists, but you sometimes used it to scribble down notes about everyone at HQ.

You wrote about Eishia and how you wanted to learn everything she knew about healing... once you got over the conversation barrier.

There was a page about that ridiculous day when you met Team Child. Guita had burned herself taking a cake out of the oven—apparently it was "speaking to her" so she put her ear too close to the pan.

Then there were the dozens of entries you'd written for Team Akuta. Most of them were about Rudo, who was a frequent visitor since he kept bypassing his standard healing time.

But you also took note of their leader, Enjin. You introduced yourself to him on your very first day at HQ, but for a while neither of you interacted outside of medical exams, and you were fine with that.

He seemed like the suave player type, but he'd never actually tried speaking to you.

You dedicated a few pages in the journal to him, just... wondering. Intrigued. There was something that bothered you about that guy.

He drove around No Man's Land recklessly and entered combat without a care in the world, like the battlefield was all a predictable game of checkers to him.

You wish you could say he was cocky and full of himself, or too much of a goof, but other Cleaners trusted him and he always knew what he was doing.

He was also one of the few people you'd never had to patch up.

Things started shifting after your fifth month as part of the crew. Enjin and you had built a routine—it was a complete accident.

You noticed weeks before that he smoked in the common room while everyone else was asleep, around the same time you packed up to go to bed.

You'd catch him looking into the distance with his eyebrows drawn together.

Whenever you crossed paths during late night hours, you just stared at one another for a minute, gauging the tiredness in each other's eyes. No words spoken.

Time seemed to finally slow down and you were both allowed to breathe.

It felt like you caught a glimpse of Enjin, the real Enjin. Vulnerable. There was no ego, no loudness, and you could tell he was afraid, afraid of not knowing what could happen tomorrow—of losing people that relied on him.

He started warming up to you, and you let him. Greetings, shoulder pats, small gestures of acknowledgement if you were nearby.

Then came the night when you two actually spoke.

It was that same hour, but no one was in the common room.

He was waiting in the infirmary with his chest slashed after a mission.

You could easily handle the wound. But having him so close for the first time while you treated his bleeding... you weren't too sure about that.

Your nerves wouldn't calm down, not when he clutched your arm whenever the pain got bad. Not when you asked if he felt better and he looked at you like you were his lifeline.

You woke up the next day and wrote in your journal.

And from then on out his name found its way into every paragraph.

Your encounters stopped being silent. He talked to you for hours—about Rudo and Riyo and Zanka, about all the weird things he encountered with the rest of the crew—and you listened, knowing that he cared for others, so much, even if he didn't always show it.

He'd heard all your stories about your younger self, how you dreamt of a future where flowers grew from every corner and debris wasn't flung around in the morning wind.

How you used to wander around, never staying anywhere for much time.

You met hundreds of people throughout the years, sharing meals with strangers and tending to their injuries only to never see them again. That's how things work in the Pit.

There were places to go, but nowhere to stay.

When you joined the Cleaners, you told yourself to not get attached, to not have expectations.

But for these past eight months, for once in your life, you've had routine.

The same people come back everyday and the same voices roam the halls in the evenings. You can't help but feel that, out of all the crazy places in the world, this is the one where you're truly home.

Sometimes you wonder if he feels the same way as you.

There's silence in the room for a while; only the buzzing of the overhead lights can be heard.

Enjin's sitting on the bed with his legs parted, giving you space to stand between them and fasten the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around his arm.

You should be going to sleep by now, but it's long past midnight, there's still equipment lying around and it looks like just the two of you are awake.

Seems like old habits die hard.

Even if you stare at the device in your hand and act like the numbers actually register in your brain, you feel him looking at you.

You lift your gaze and finally meet his eyes. For a few seconds neither of you say anything.

"...There she is."

His mouth raises ever so slightly at the corners, as if smiling at you is completely involuntary.

The monitor beeps twice and you shake your head, forcing yourself to stay focused.

"Blood pressure's fine," you whisper, starting to unwrap the cuff. "Shirt off."

"Damn girl, at least take me to dinner first."

"You idiot, I can't listen to your heartbeat with fabric in the way."

He lets out a rumbling laugh at your annoyance. You know all this taunting is how he manages to fight off nerves.

It's funny how the same man who destroys giant trash beasts for a living is also scared of the tiniest things.

Once the cold steel of the stethoscope reaches his bare chest, you immediately hear how quickly his heart is throbbing.

"Calm down. It's just me."

You stroke his shoulder with your empty hand and give him that tender, eye-crinkling smile that always soothes anxious patients.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His fingers find your arm, feeling the familiar softness of your skin to make his heartbeat settle down.

"You need to stop, y'know."

Despite the shiver creeping up your back, your voice comes out unwavering.

His eyes are wide open now.

"I mean—" you pause, slowly moving the metal along his chest. "Stop pretending like you don't care about people. Like everything you do here is only for yourself."

"I do care."

"Yeah, I'm aware." The words are softer, more worried than you intended. "But you don't have to be so... strong all the time. Be a little vulnerable with your team. It won't hurt to let your guard down around them."

He huffs in disbelief, but his hand tenses around your forearm.

"I don't think they'd need to hear that coming from me."

"Enjin, they're your kids—"

"They're my teammates."

"Don't lie to yourself."

You swear you felt his heart skip a beat.

He sighs and faces the ceiling. You push your arm away and Enjin's jaw tightens. He starts adjusting his choker, looking for anything to occupy his fingers with.

"Do they know that? That you're just teammates?"

A resigned huff escapes your lungs. You start picking up the clutter of medical tools and he watches you move around the infirmary to put everything in place.

When you walk back again, instead of standing there, you plop down right next to him and let your legs hang off the edge of the bed.

"I'm just saying, you won't always have them."

"What, you think I can't take care of 'em?"

He was challenging you. Progress, he's actually starting to open up.

"No, you know that's not what I meant."

He turns his head to look at you. There's something unreadable in his expression, like hundreds of feelings are pacing through his mind right now.

You put your palm over his knuckles, squeezing slightly.

"They're only teenagers, En. They've got a whole world ahead to explore." You chuckle, despite how bittersweet it feels to talk about it. "I just think... If you ever have to let them go, you're gonna regret not saying all the things you wanted to say."

He averts his eyes to the ground, feeling too exposed under your gaze.

But in the corner of his vision, he catches the way your legs swing back and forth. How your thumb is still mindlessly tracing circles over his knuckles.

You've always had those small, gentle habits.

Enjin grabs your wrist, guiding your hand off of his own.

He plants both feet on the floor with his back away from where you're seated. This is it, you totally said the wrong thing.

But he turns around to face you. His chest is just inches away from your body and you try to look elsewhere, anywhere that isn't Enjin, to stop your cheeks from burning up.

He tilts his head down with that wide, smug grin of his. "Do you always do that?"

You roll your eyes. He's so damn silly.

"Do what?"

"Give stubborn men a reality check when they act like dumbasses."

That gets a shy laugh out of you. You tap your chin and scrunch your eyebrows, playfully faking deep thought.

"Only when it's worth it."

"Yeah?"

He takes a step forward. It feels oddly abrupt, like his body reacted before his brain could.

Enjin's close now, too close.

You bring your legs together, tightly, scared of letting the gap between you and him disappear completely.

Scared of what might happen when there's no distance left.

He slowly lifts his palm and places it on the crook of your neck, stroking the edge of your jaw with his thumb. It feels like his skin's warmth is engulfing you.

You're being held like you're something precious, like this is all just a dream that could shatter at any moment.

"You think I'm worth it?"

His fingers tighten, faintly, just for a second. There's no clever remark or comeback to respond with. The words well up and you can't hold them back.

"You're a good man. Your heart is good, Enjin."

Gosh, you're burning.

His hand wanders higher and wraps around your nape, squeezing just a bit, still trying to prove to himself that this is real.

"Just good, huh?"

"You're decent."

He lets out an amused scoff. "Why's that?"

It's maddening how calm he is while riling you up. You fire back with every irritated, unspoken thought you've kept inside for weeks.

"You're so annoying."

He moves his other hand, placing his index finger under your chin and urging you to look him in the eyes.

"And?"

"You never ask for help with anything, you just pretend like you don't need it. And I hate how fast you drive. You keep smoking all the time, even indoors. And you don't take anything seriously. And you're a sore loser, I know you keep cheating when we play card games."

"You done?"

You don't have time to answer.

He can't take it anymore. He leans in and closes the distance, finally, and guides your lips towards his.

It's so unlike him. A slow, tentative, patient kiss. He wants to take all the time in the world with you.

His hands envelop your face now, gently cupping your cheeks. You lock your wrists around his neck, giving into him completely and dragging him closer. It feels like your body was sculpted to fit against his perfectly.

Both of his palms travel just a little lower. One settles over your throat—not pressing, barely touching you with the pads of his fingers. The other explores your abdomen under your shirt, letting him grip your waist without anything in the way.

He can't remember the last time he hadn't daydreamed about this exact scenario.

He guides you against the bed, slowly lowering your torso until your back lands softly against the mattress. One of his arms is positioned right beside your head, letting him support his own weight.

He's trying to hold himself back, he really is, but his pace becomes feverish and clumsy.

Your noses bump together as he deepens the kiss, and he moves away less than an inch, laughing at how unrestrained he's become. You only have a few seconds to catch your breath before he's chasing your lips again.

So many emotions are flowing through this very moment. Love, reverence, frustration.

But there's also anger—at himself, for being a coward. And for not realizing you were there for him, that you had always been there for him since the start. That he could lean on you.

Enjin pauses and holds himself up just to take in each tiny detail. How your breathing stutters, the dizziness in your eyes, the way your eyelashes flutter against his. He wants to embed everything in his memory.

He wants to make up for lost time.

"You good?"

"I wasn't done being mad at you."

A genuine belly laugh escapes him, the dimples on his cheeks more visible than you've ever seen them, and he rests his forehead against yours.

"Had to shut you up, girl."

He starts trailing kisses down your face, giving you a peck on your forehead, then another on your temple, until he reaches your mouth and plants a final, lingering kiss to your cupid's bow.

One of his hands is splayed over your waist, the other is brushing your hair, and your arms are still intertwined around his neck. Neither of you dare to move.

You give each other a chance to unwind, to make the world around you stop spinning for a second.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder. "Should've said something sooner."

You unlace your fingers from his nape and lay them over his cheeks, bringing his hairline down to your lips.

"This is a good start."

You'd both like to bask in the moment for a little longer, even though you've spent hours together in the infirmary, but someone's steps can be heard from afar.

No one should be awake at this point.

You go up to the entrance, looking around the hallway, and you spot a certain boy with navy blue eyes walking by. He notices you before you call out to him.

Is he carrying a sleeping Rudo on his back?

"Zanka?"

"Oh, hey. This... don't ask. Found him sleeping on the floor. I'm just taking him back to his room."

"What happened?"

"Dude, he ate like a pound of sweets and kept running around until he got tired. It's like the third time it's happened this week. Who the hell keeps giving him sugar?"

- the baratie was packed– fuller than even the average hectic friday night. you were practically tripping over the other waiters as you rushed to fulfill orders and refill drinks. there was an agitated curse as you fully collided with one of the sous chefs. his infuriation turned to mild panic as he stumbled over frantic apologies.

“apologies, miss! i didn’t see you there.”

you knew if it had been anyone else, he would have fired them or cursed the out until he was blue in the face. it was always different with you. it had to be different with you— you were the owner’s daughter and the baratie princess aspired to be more than just what you were and desperately wanted to be anywhere else…

“i wish i didn’t see you at all…” you brushed past him and scooped up the upcoming orders, eyeing them skeptically, “these look drier than your wife, chef… why you were elected sous chef i will never understand. you’ve done crimes to my beautiful tomatoes with this sauce—“

perhaps you were biased— it was a five star restaurant after all, and zeff only hired the best— though there was one– one who’s cooking outdid even your father and even he knew it.

“there was no one better qualified, love. your father’s decision– take it up with him.”

you huffed in exasperation as you tilted your hip against the door to open it just as someone else swung it towards you. the trays flew into the air as your feet slid out from under you. multiple dishes splattered onto your head as a pair of arms lunged forward to catch you. you gasped as scalding liquid soaked down the back of you, shrieking as the door slammed into you once again and sending you tumbling to the floor.

“shit!” the body that had attempted to catch you went tumbling down on top of you, bringing plates shattering and even more miscellaneous liquids and solids down on your head. the familiar head of blond hair looked down at you with a guilty expression, reminding you greatly of a scolded puppy.

“you two!” you cursed and attempted to scramble to your feet at your father’s sharp tone, “out! both of you out! tonight is not the night for your bullshit!”

“but i–“

“it was my fault, sir—“

“both of you out! now! go back to your garden and you can clean this entire place later!”

you cursed as you threw your apron on the floor, stomping out of the kitchen and drawing the attention of many guests.

“i’m sorry—“ sanji was stumbling over apologies too, though his were sincere and an attempt to placate your mood only slightly. you grabbed his hand and dragged him along behind you, not slowing until you were on the roof.

“i am sorry. i didn’t see you behind the door and—“

you pulled him against you with a sigh as your lips met his. he shut up instantly; arms snaking around you and pulling you in with all the more enthusiasm and desperation.

“you didn’t do that on purpose, did you?” sanji pulled away breathless, eyeing you with that damn smirk that always got him in trouble.

“of course not. the door swinging back and hitting me in the ass was just a happy accident.”

sanji snorted and shook his head, looking you over with an incredulous smile, “now you’ve landed us with clean up.”

“as i recall you quite like making use of the empty kitchen… and the stainless steel counters-“

sanji just kissed you again— all passion and hands and intensity as if every time he kissed you would be the last. your knees nearly gave out as you get lost in the feeling of him. the constant giggles and goofing off of childhood had shifted to quick kisses and stolen glances and were now something deeper and heavier and all consuming.

“i think he’s a damn fool and has no right to handle your produce…” sanji’s mouth dropped to your neck, lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, before placing slow and agonizing kisses along your throat. you hummed, tilting your head back and closing your eyes.

always knowing just what to say, while always making it sound suggestive, sanji responded with a hum. the stress and frustration of the day washed away as sanji pulled you closer and the kisses deepened, slowed and turned more sensual.

“sanji—“ you gasped as your calves fell against the edge of a planter, “the plants—“

sanji didn’t move his mouth from yours as he shifted once more, “i would never ravage your beautiful plants, darling…” he eyed you with a soft, devilish smirk, “only you.”

you pulled him closer, head falling back as he returned to his trail along your throat and collarbone. “if my father comes up here—“

“i will talk to you father…”

“sanji—“

“we’re going to do things right, love. the moment we tell him, you’re getting a ring… i’m still going to ask for your hand. call me old fashioned—“

“i think i’ll call you a hopeless romantic…”

“hopeless for you. that’s for sure…”

you rolled your eyes and breathed out a laugh, “sanji, it’s been four years… sneaking around and taking the early shifts and closing shifts… i just think… what if he says no—“

sanji’s head burrowed into your neck again as he shushed you softly. you just sighed contently, hands reaching for his hair to steady yourself. -

the morning had started quite like every other morning for the last ten years since your father had emerged from sea with a strange boy— finally claiming you after your mother’s death. growing up in the baratie had taught you anything culinary and customer service you would ever need, while your mother had taught you to cook, clean, tend to flowers and plant a garden bountiful enough to provide for an entire village. you had never experienced anything of the real world, living your life as the quiet cook’s daughter, growing the produce for the restaurant and wishing desperately to one day leave.

sanji cursed beside you as zeff’s voice rang out orders throughout the kitchen. he was slicing your precious herbs with a careless urgency that would have anyone else in this damn kitchen chopping off a finger or leaving horribly uneven cuts.

“you seem tense this morning…” you shifted just slightly so your shoulder brushed against sanji’s, head ducked so only he heard you.

“i’m not tense, love.” sanji’s tone held its usual soft fondness towards you, though his posture and aggressive chopping proved otherwise.

“he’s just been— really really—“ sanji tilted the chopped dill into a bowl and reached for the cilantro– you placed your hand over his and lifted your eyebrows. sanji tensed and froze, eyes on you softly, “i’m sorry. the talk didn’t go well. ever since—“

“the talk? you asked him?” you nearly dropped the knife you were holding, “you talked to him? what did he say?” you abandoned your cutting entirely and grabbed sanji’s elbow, pushing him into the walk in freezer and shutting the door behind you.

sanji didn’t meet your eyes, jaw tight, glancing around the freezer as if looking for a way out. “he said i wasn’t good enough for you. and that if he was in his right mind, he should have me arrested and shipped off to-“

“sanji.” you leaned back against the door to block him from trying to end the conversation by leaving, “i told you not to talk to him. i told you there was no point— he doesn’t care that you tried to do the right thing…”

“i wanted to do it right! i want to show him that i’m… i’m… more than he just lets me be.”

“sanji. i have loved you since we were running around here in training aprons and i couldn’t see the top shelves of the freezer. i have known you as long as i’ve known my father. i don’t care what that bastard says… he has no right to say anything about me… where was he for the first nine years of my life? i don’t care what he says and you shouldn’t either.”

“i think you underestimate the shipping me off in handcuffs for going near his daughter.”

you eyed him sharply, lifting an eyebrow, “is that why you never came back last night?”

sanji looked away and you exhaled slowly, not needing any answer other than that.

“he raised me… like his own son. i just thought—“

“who gives a fuck?”

sanji looked at you incredulously, startled by your bluntness. “he said no… fine. i’ve always found the sneaking around rather…” your fingers closed around sanji’s wrist, thumb sliding up his arm and grip closing tightly around his bicep, “invigorating…”

sanji’s foot slid slightly and you fought back a snort as he cursed under his breath.

“i just… i tried to do things right. i want you— i want to be enough for you.”

“sanji.” you shook your head, jaw tight, “you are all i want. this stupid restaurant, this stupid staff— my damn father— this stupid ship…..”

sanji closed his eyes, nose resting against your forehead. he shifted slowly until his lips were against your skin, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead, “i love you. i’ll keep proving myself… i’ll keep doing what the damn old man says until i’m deemed good enough for you.”

“sanji…” you stood on your toes and tucked his blond bangs behind his ear, “do what you think you need to. but don’t you dare ever let my father stop you from meeting me in my room again…”

sanji grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously. he gave you his usual devilish smirk, tilting his head to eye you softly, “whatever you say, my love…” he kissed you once more as your hands slid around his neck, “i get off at eight tonight. so long as the old man doesn’t have me cleaning up the entire place again, i’ll be there by eight o’ one.”

the plants in your windowsill seemed to visibly perk up as you hummed. managing to grow flora that wasn’t found anywhere in the east blue in your tiny ship bedroom was enough of an accomplishment, let alone having blossoming bushes and vines that slowly climbed up the walls. you took a deep inhale at the orange blossoms, eagerly waiting for their fruit to be ready. there was a knock on the door and you nearly dropped the watering can and hit your hip against the corner of your table. cursing, you limped towards the door enthusiastically, opening the door to an exhausted, yet still smirking sanji.

“eight o’ five.” you smiled in amusement, “you’re late.”

sanji ducked his head with a playful smile, “apologies, my love. but i found these and couldn’t resist.” he held out a bouquet of colorful blooms of numerous shapes and sizes. you grinned, scooping them into your arms as you inhaled their scents.

“beautiful… where did you find them?”

“some sorry bastard double booked a date. i scooped up the ones that weren’t smashed. i figured you would be able to tell me what they all were…”

you eyed him adoringly, smiling up at him like he had hung the moon and stars. sanji loved hearing you talk about plants– your garden, your house plants. it was the same passion and excitement that he shared about cooking. you shifted the bouquet into a vase and readjusted the flowers, talking softly as you plucked and flattened. sanji watched with an expression that would have had you folding had you seen it. you grabbed his hand and pulled him over, listing every individual flower and their origin. he slid his arms around you, settling against your back, nose brushing against your jaw, breathing deeply as he just listened to you.

when you were satisfied with the flowers’ new home, you turned to sanji, who was still giving you those dangerous eyes. he looked tired— eyelids heavy and hair slightly undone. his apron was still on— hanging crooked, streaked with tomatoes, green sauce and miscellaneous meat juices. you slid your hands around his back, kissing his jaw as you pulled him closer to untie his apron. sanji sighed contently, head falling forward onto your shoulder.

“is he working you terribly hard, chef?”

your tone was light, soothing him as if he were in need of being babied. sanji’s mouth quirked up, breathing deeply as he settled against you, “nothing i can’t handle… still needing to take orders from the sous chef and not getting caught fixing up his sorry excuse for meals…”

sanji ducked his head gently so you could lift the apron over his head. you tossed it onto the back of the chair and brushed off his suit, pausing to glance up and admire him. his hair had fallen over his eyes and you swore he had never looked more gorgeous. he still wore his suit, wrinkle free and pristine, always showing up and looking his best for a job that didn’t appreciate or deserve him. you pulled his jacket off and his breath shook just slightly.

“i’m supposed to take care of you, love.”

“quiet, you. i recall— as only a humble waitress and occasional host— my job is to serve the sous chef…”

sanji smirked at this, raising a suggestive eyebrow. “i don’t recall that rule… especially since your official title is supplier of our produce and daughter of the owner...”

you clicked your tongue, “see, that’s where you’re confused, then… her job requires her to work directly under the sous chef…”

sanji’s tongue pressed against the back of his top front teeth, smirking, eyeing you with a look that promised you would both be running late tomorrow.

you shifted into the warm sunlight on your face, smiling to yourself at the comfortable heaviness that still clung to you. your limbs felt tired, the mattress seemingly pulling you down further into it. a heavy arm draped over your middle and pulled you against a solid chest that radiated heat. the ship rocked slightly, doing nothing to shake the absolute contentment and satisfaction you felt.

the bed shifted as you were pulled into an all encompassing hug— warm breath on the tip of your spine, sanji’s nose brushing against the back of your neck as his bangs fell forward onto your jawline. you hummed softly, “g‘mornin…” your voice was thick with sleep and the satisfied wear from last night.

“good morning, gorgeous.”

sanji’s accent was thick, tone rasping slightly with sleep. he shifted to his elbow, placing a light kiss on your jaw, leaning in until his lips created pressure against your face. you grinned, humming once again as you shifted closer, turning to face him.

sanji’s hair stuck up in numerous places, disheveled, clear grooves where your fingers had run through it the night before. “like what you see, love? this certainly isn’t your first time waking up next to me…” you smiled to yourself and answered him with a kiss. you shifted as his palm tucked between your shoulder blades, rolling you slightly with the full intent of carrying on what had been finished last night.

an abrupt pounding on your door sucked the sensual domestic bliss from the air and you sat up so quickly your forehead nearly knocked into sanji’s.

“are you awake yet?”

the tone would not be expected from a father, but it was much softer than the usual tone of zeff— you gave sanji a grave look before standing to your feet, untangling yourself from the blankets and second set of limbs. “how fast can you climb out that window?” sanji almost laughed, but he glanced at the table full of plants sympathetically, as if weighing how to best avoid tipping any of them on the way out.

you tripped awkwardly on the way to the door, struggling greatly at pulling on a shirt in record breaking speed and also trying to walk on jelly like legs.

“is there a problem? you could have paged me.”

“i— no, no problem… i wondered if there was anything you needed?”

you blinked skeptically.

zeff eyed you up and down and you stepped closer to the wall, pulling the door closed with you, stupidly.

“we are docking soon… picking up more supplies and taking a little day break. if you…want to buy some clothes… or new seeds…” you stared at him incredulously as he dropped a sack of berry into your hand.

“take sanji with you. you could use… i mean— some places can be unsafe. i wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

you almost smiled, though you were so stricken at his uncharacteristic gesture. sanji had always been directed to go everywhere with you— likely another factor that inevitably pushed the two of you together. zeff knew sanji would die before letting anything happen to you— you had grown up together and were raised together so the two of you going off together or getting into trouble on a day off was nothing new. and zeff was assured that sanji knew the lines that couldn’t be crossed and what should happen should anything ever escalate between you…

sanji had argued— he really hadn’t wanted to disrespect or go against zeff’s wishes. he had taken him and saved his life and raised him with everything he had given you– but when you gave him that look and inevitably pulled him into bed the following night, once again– despite your father’s threats and warnings— he really couldn’t say no. after all, you had been sneaking around and stealing kisses since you were sixteen. the fact that sanji had tried to go about things properly and been blatantly told no and to stay away from you wasn’t stopping you– and he certainly wasn’t going to argue with you. he had promised that you would get a ring. you had promised that one day you would both get the hell out of here. the glass jar filled with tips gave you a trickle of hope, though you swore you were happy as long as you were with him– secret or not, sneaking around or not— ring or not. you would have that future, even if it consisted of staying in the baratie, keeping sanji hidden behind your door and pretending like his bedroom had not been vacated for the better part of a year.

the small curl of cigarette smoke hit your nostrils as you turned to reach for another fish. you coughed, hands on your hips as you eyed the culprit. sanji had his eyes half closed, taking another slow drag as his hands settled on the table.

“sanji…” you scolded and his eyes snapped open and his attention turned to you. he took you in with a guilty expression, smiling shyly.

“that could kill you.”

“so could this work environment, love.”

you raised your eyebrows in a silent scold and sanji grinned. he stuck his lip out slightly, shifting to lean into you with a knowing smirk.

you snatched the cigarette from his lips and placed it between your own, inhaling slowly with a small smirk. sanji tipped forward, catching himself on the counter with an exhale as his head fall back, “what are you doing to me, gorgeous?” he eyed you like you were in trouble and you just smiled innocently before dropping the lit cigarette into the dirty sink water in front of you, “you’re too easy, ji. and smoking is a dirty habit that will kill you.”

“i could say the same about you, love.” he smirked and met your eyes, leaning in all the more. you narrowed your eyes and gave him an amused smirk, lifting your eyebrows in a dare for him to say more. the kitchen door swung up and sanji straightened his back, standing upright and shifting away from you. you cast him a final smirk before dropping the dead fish down in front of him. sanji eyed you incredulously with a sigh, shaking his head as he began his delicate process of chopping up the fish.

“we’ll be docking tonight!” you perked up slightly, turning your attention to zeff, now standing in the middle of the room, holding everyone’s attention, “sanji, make a list of any and all ingredients you may need. you all will have the evening to do as you wish… we will be leaving before first light. anyone not on the ship gets left behind and out a job.”

sanji ducked his head slightly, voice lowered so only you heard him, “do you think that’s a promise?”

you bit back a snort, covering your mouth with an exaggerated clearing of your throat. zeff barked orders at the staff before stopping in front of the two of you. he lifted his eyebrows at you, expectant. you blinked slowly, sensing sanji tense slightly. you fought the urge to reach a hand out to stop sanji from starting something or getting himself stuck with working the entire night off.

“you two don’t get into trouble tonight. and don’t piss me off today or you’ll be on overnight shift.”

sanji’s mouth twitched and you swore you could read his thoughts for a moment— your hand behind your back closed securely around his wrist– a silent warning and plea.

sanji exhaled slowly, almost reaching for the cigarette that was no longer there. “yes, sir. thank you. i’ll get right on that list…”

“nothing weird or fancy! stick to the usual!”

sanji’s mouth twitched again and he ducked his head in agreement. zeff crossed the kitchen once again, leaving the staff breathing once again and you releasing sanji’s wrist.

he eyed you with a glare that wasn’t at all sincere, “you took my damn cigarette…” he exhaled and rubbed his face and you fought back a laugh.

“you can get all the weird and fancy stuff you want, you know... i’ll sample anything my favorite chef makes…”

sanji lit up at this, practically coming to life with an animated gesture, “i’ve had a lot of ideas. some of them incorporate fruit too. i was thinking of making some kind of jelly— then i’d pair it with—“

you leaned back against the counter and watched sanji with a smile. he sliced and stirred and boiled without even looking up– all while talking enthusiastically about his plans for the dinners he would cook you.

“sounds wonderful, my love. i’ll try all of it and then more… god, you’re brilliant–“ you grabbed his face and kissed his forehead once, quickly, before releasing him and shuffling off towards the back exit. sanji was left speechless, smiling like a damn fool as he watched you go, too flustered to bother checking if anyone had seen that. at the last moment he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back against him, realizing you would do much more effectively than a cigarette— he kissed you once, fully on the lips– quick enough to look like he had merely reached past you for something. “dinner tonight… we’re going out.”

you opened the door with a sharp yelp as zeff stood on the other side. you closed your coat around the front of you in a desperate attempt to cover the dress you were wearing— any idiot could see you were dressed up for more than just picking up seeds. black and entirely too low cut for anything other than a rare and inconsistent date night, slightly slitted up the leg and sequined enough that the light caught your every move.

“what are you wearing?”

as if you were sixteen, and not twenty two.

you shrugged, glancing down at yourself with an innocent smile. “i’m going out. i haven’t had a proper night off in months. so i put on something nice and i intend to have a nice time.”

zeff blinked slowly, lifting his eyebrows, “is that so? you look like a show girl. that could be free advertising to some, you know.”

you eyed him sharply, debating telling him the true reason you had gotten so dressed up— that you wouldn’t be going to clubs and bar hopping alone and considered this a highly important date night.

zeff was still just staring and you fought the urge to wave your hand in front of his face, “you— perhaps i’ll go with you… or— no…” he rubbed his face and for the first time you realized he truly did care about you— he was just shit at expressing it.

“why don’t….” he grunted, clearly debating his own thoughts, “take sanji with you.”

“sanji?” you fought back a smirk, “you want sanji to see me in such a low cut, thigh slit dress?”

“well i— no! but it’s better than… i think he— you two always get along.”

you scoffed slightly, finding all of this more amusing than he would ever know.

“are you giving him permission to take me on a date?”

“well— no! don’t you get any ideas too! for tonight… just have a nice time. i want you back before sunrise. i was serious what i said! i’ll leave you both behind.”

tempting…

zeff dropped a handful of berry in your hand, face slightly red like he was still trying to figure out how to function around you. “make the boy buy you dinner… it would be a shame to waste a lovely dress…”

sanji had taken your arm, other hand tucked over the top of yours as if escorting a queen. he had required a full ten minutes and splashing cold water on his face to recover from first seeing you in the dress. it had taken an additional five minutes to convince him that he didn’t need to take it off just then and that getting ready all over again would further delay your night out, to which he countered that you getting ready again would definitely take longer than he would.

“so he told you to take me with you? like actually verbatim told you to bring me?”

“he also instructed me to make you buy me dinner and that a dress like this shouldn’t go to waste.”

sanji clicked his tongue and eyed you up and down again, “certainly not. the old geezer does have some wisdom sometimes…” you let sanji continue to guide you through the streets, talking about absolutely everything and sometimes nothing at all.

“do you think we’ll ever get out of here?”

“one day. i still think i’ll see the all blue.”

“i sincerely hope you do… before you’re old and bitter like zeff. if he ever lets you go…”

“oh, you would come with me. a man needs his guiding light. someone to keep him out of trouble…”

you inclined your head, eyes softening.

“please, darling. do i look like someone who could handle long distance? now really, love, sometimes not seeing you for an entire shift about does me in…”

you smiled to yourself, shifting to lean up against the banister to look up at him, “i suppose i would have to come with you… it would be horribly boring without you. i don’t think i could bear not having you here…”

sanji leaned in, voice softening, “you’ll always have me. i’m all yours…”

you kissed him softly as the waves met the shore, the sunset showing off her full colors as if trying to make the moment even more perfect.

“i’ll hold you to that, ji.”

“always…” he took both your hands and kissed you again, “i’ll prove it to you every day. if i have to work here forever just to be with you, so be it…“

“sanji…”

“i love you. i’ve always loved you. you’re the only thing that’s kept me sane in this damn place. you’re it for me, love. no matter what the baratie or all blue holds… nothing will ever compare to you.”

you felt tears in the corner of your eyes and were willing to bet he had just streaked your makeup, “shit, sanji.” you pushed him away playfully as you reached to wipe at your makeup.

“i promise… there’s nowhere in this world i’m going without you.” he held both of your hands, looking at you as if falling in love all over again.

“that’s quite a promise… almost sounds like a proposal.”

sanji’s mouth curved into a smile as he lowered his head to you, “if i had a ring for you i would put an eternal vow around your finger right now…”

you just stared at him— cursing yourself for wiping at your eyes too early. he still held both of your hands, glancing down at your intertwined fingers. you watched his eyes light up, expression turning to a fierce determination that you had only seen when being given compliments by customers— the look that he was sure of himself—

sanji dropped to one knee and pulled the ring off his own finger. his ring. the ring that had been on his finger since the day you met him. the ring that always clinked gently as he washed dishes, was sometimes cool to the touch when he looped a lazy arm around you and caught that small area of skin between your shirt and pants. the ring that he had told you the story of many times when you couldn’t sleep— of his life before zeff…

“i promise… with this ring… one day we will get out of here. or grow old together on the same damn ship… either way– i only want you.”

your knees nearly buckled as you collapsed into his chest, kissing him like you were deprived. sanji arms flew around you, grinning into the kiss as he stood to his feet, bringing you with him. your feet didn’t touch the ground as he held you in that kiss, arms locking you against him as if you hadn’t seen him in a very long time.

“i love you…” you muttered it against his lips, tilting your head to deepen the kiss once more.

“is that a yes?”

“of course, you idiot… you made me cry and everything.”

“apologies, love. i know you spent time on getting ready…”

you merely kissed him again to placate his concern.

“shall we get some of this to go?” sanji was eyeing the glass of wine in his hand, “we’ll have to thank the old geezer for dinner…”

“was it to the greatest chef in the world’s satisfaction?” you glanced at the empty plates between you, hand on your stomach.

“it was divine. i think they could do with a little less salt in their sauces, and i think i would have cooked the meat for a fraction second more so it truly fell off the bone…”

you eyed him with a small smile, eyes lighting up. you had your hand on your chin, watching him go into detail about the dishes he would add to the menu. “i think if this place got ahold of some of your berries or fruit trees, they could have the best deserts in the east blue.”

you shook your head with a small smile, “i believe that title goes to you.”

“not much of a baker, love…”

“nonsense. your birthday cakes and the pies you’ve made me have been better than anything the baratie serves…”

“i think you’ve had too much to drink.” he tipped his glass against yours, grinning like usual.

you eyed him with a playful smile, “i think we need dessert.”

“excellent idea. shall we get a menu?”

you hummed and stood up, “i have a better idea…”

you tipped a handful of coins onto the table and grabbed sanji’s hand. he trailed behind you without a single question, leaning into you slightly as you lead him along. sanji draped and arm over you as you crossed into the street again. the street lights were lit, vines crawling up them with flowers and a few fruits. you inhaled sharply, cutting sharply to admire the greenery.

“we should have flowering fruit vines on our ship… wouldn’t they be beautiful along the entrance? and people could pick the fruit while waiting to be seated…”

sanji was admittedly looking at you more than the plants. but your excitement and awe made his stomach and flip as he smiled down at you, “absolutely, love…” sanji picked one of the fruits and dropped it in his pocket, “think you can grow this from the seeds?”

your smile grew and you kissed his jaw, grinning, “of course i can.”

you tucked yourself under his arm once again, leaning into him as he pulled you closer. “i know this will be appalling to you…” sanji lifted his eyebrows in interest.

“but i saw a few food carts… a bakery, some gelato…”

sanji leaned in, “food made in a mobile kitchen that you then eat standing up?” his tone was playful.

“come on, sanji… not all the best parts of life can be lived sitting down.”

sanji sighed and trailed behind you, fighting back a comment that there was a great many things he enjoyed that were not done sitting down- or sometimes even laying down…

“why is this the greatest thing i’ve ever tasted?”

you grinned at him as you held out the mostly eaten pastry once again. he pushed it back towards you and leaned in for a kiss instead.

you hummed against him, melting into him slightly as you closed your eyes, “i have an idea…”

“i’m not sure i can eat another thing, love.”

“i was thinking maybe we see if there’s any rooms available in that little oceanside inn…”

sanji’s eyebrows shot up, grinning like a fiend.

“when’s the last time we’ve slept somewhere besides the damn ship? in a real bed… away from everyone else… with a room that doesn’t rock with the waves.”

sanji’s eyes nearly glazed over just thinking about it. “i should have thought of that… i shouldn’t call myself a hopeless romantic having not thought of that.”

you sprawled out on the too big mattress in the too fancy hotel room. sanji had his arms wrapped around you as you just closed your eyes, savoring the quiet, the normalcy— the lack of voices and yelling and pounding in the door.

“we could just stay here…” he traced small circles on your stomach, placing lazy tired kisses on your temple.

you hummed contently, glancing over at him between heavy eyelids.

“i’d bring you pastries from that bakery every day… spoon feed you gelato… give you more reasons to wear your fancy dresses… find a house with a garden…”

“that does sound nice…” you kissed him once, sitting up, “but you need to see the all blue. we haven’t seen enough of the world yet to settle down…”

sanji tucked his fingers between yours and closed his hand around your own. his thumb traced the ring of his you now wore before bringing your knuckles to his lips gently, “i’m happy wherever you are, my love.”

you had left sanji in bed, after what you deemed a very well deserved birthday morning wake up. you knelt in your garden, overlooking the waves and the restaurant that was not yet open to customers. you hummed at the sight of your berries, picking a few of each and popping them in your mouth. they were perfect. juicy and nearly exploding in your mouth before you could fully chew. you scooted your vegetable baskets to the side and procured a single, smaller basket. you dropped berries that you had handpicked in the small basket and closed the lid. you then moved to the final wheeled bin reserved for today’s apple and orange collection.

once nearly overflowing, you stood up with a content sigh. “there you are!” you glanced over your shoulder at the arrival of zeff. “good morning… do you need anything extra?”

zeff normally didn’t venture up to your rooftop garden— no one actually, was allowed in your little area of sanctuary. sanji and very rarely, zeff, were the only two that had not been threatened off or thrown over-ripe produce at.

“no, no… i just..haven’t been up here for a while. it looks wonderful. really, really amazing what you’ve done up here…”

your arms fell uselessly to your sides, wondering what the hell was coming– “thank you…”

“i know i don’t spend much time with you.”

you stiffened slightly, finding your thumb brushing against a mint leaf suddenly very interesting. “i do apologize. i just… it’s hard. i’ve never been- i’m not really… a people person.”

you smiled slightly to yourself, “at least you know that…” zeff actually laughed at this and the normalcy panicked you.

“i don’t know if i ever… you remind me of her. so much… your mother. i promised to look after you and i’ve done a pretty pathetic job.”

your eyes stayed fixed on the plants in front of you, heart hammering in your chest, “you’ve done satisfactory. i’m clothed and fed and have a place to live…”

“but do you truly live? do you experience life? outside of this restaurant? laughter, culture… love.”

your breath caught, head spinning slightly at his words. “i–”

“are you happy, little bug? is this garden truly a big enough world for you?”

you inhaled deeply, hands shaking slightly.

“you’re an adult… you can talk to me. you have never once asked me to leave. you have never once brought up getting away from this place…”

you fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, closing your eyes against your racing mind. you collected a handful of cherry tomatoes in your hand and shifted them back and forth. you could tell him..

you could tell him everything—

if he knew sanji was the only thing keeping you there—

“i should have talked to you sooner... do you think there’s anything that happens on my ship without me knowing? do you think i don’t see the way he looks at you? the way you are with him…”

you closed your eyes, feeling like a weight was lifted from your chest.

“i forbid him from it, you know… i told him i would have him arrested or enlisted.”

your mouth quirked up, finally looking up at zeff with a small, guilty smile, “i know. he was willing to listen… he didn’t want to disrespect you. sanji, he’s…”

“he’s good. last night he nearly knocked out the cook to feed a customer that couldn’t pay… he stayed long after his ship, even though– i assume… he was going to meet you.”

you stood up, arms crossed, allowing yourself to smile. he hadn’t even told you that– he had merely apologized for being late and started on dinner despite you arguing that he did not need to cook for you every night.

“he’s the reason you stay…”

you nodded once, “i’m not going anywhere without him.”

there was a vow. a promise between the two of you… you could never imagine life without him. goddamn him, you would die in this ship if it meant growing old with vinsmoke sanji.

“can i ask you something?”

you shrugged stupidly in response, eyeing zeff softly.

“how long? how long have you been sneaking around as more than friends…”

your mouth twitched up, eyes falling on your finger that would have had the ring.

“since we were fifteen.”

“seven years…” zeff shook his head, looking torn between being impressed and disbelieving, “do you love him?”

“yes.” you didn’t even have to think about it. you didn’t hesitate or feel embarrassed to answer.

“and you’re sure?” zeff sighed in mild iritation, “you’re absolutely sure about him? ….him?”

you smiled to yourself and sighed, standing up to collect all your baskets. “sanji is the only thing i’ve ever been sure about…”

zeff cursed under his breath, rubbing his face as he paced, “goddamn it, kid.”

you just grinned, “if you try to forbid it, i will go out of my way to make the entire staff uncomfortable around us…”

zeff made a choking sound and waved his hands over his head, “i’m not that stupid, kid. i tried that already. and it turns out you’re worse than he is…”

you smirked slightly, “does this mean you approve?”

“hell, no. the two of you could take down the entire world if you tried… but he’s always loved you. and i clearly can’t stop it…” zeff rubbed his face again and shook his head. he exhaled again and looked up, face set in stone, “if i ever catch the two of you swapping spit, i’m chopping something off him.”

you had landed front of house shift and while listening to zeff cuss out half of the wait staff, you tied a black apron around your waist, anticipating yet another job assignment thanks to useless staff. sanji stuck his head out of the kitchen, looking tired but not the receiver of the cursing, “geezer says he wants you—“ his eyes landed on you tying the apron around your waist, “ah, you heard.” your mouth twitched up, eyeing him in amusement. you turned you back to him and sanji reached for your ties without being asked, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder as he secured your apron. you tilted your head just slightly to meet his lips, “you’re going to get me in trouble…” sanji didn’t protest, though, as he leaned in to deepen the kiss, hands still on either side of your waist.

“oi! you two!” sanji jumped back, at zeff’s voice, though you followed him, fully intending to finish the kiss. “no time for that! customers are coming!”

you sighed, looking up at sanji with a slight pout at being interrupted.

“no distracting my chef! tonight is a big night.”

zeff was scolding you with a wisk and a steak knife and you only smirked, “he doesn’t get distracted. i don’t think there’s a single thing i could say that would distract him from food…” this was a blatant lie and likely even zeff knew it. sanji was always thinking about you, though he had become a professional at not letting it effect his cooking– he also tried very much not to think about you during work, but was thankful for an apron that covered the evidence of when that failed.

you squeezed sanji’s arm as he moved to follow zeff back into the kitchen. he turned to look at you once more, stealing one last quick kiss. you kissed him twice more, smiling into him, “be good. don’t get distracted…” your tone was playful, and sanji smirked, “and definitely don’t think about that time i wore nothing but your chef hat.”

sanji cursed as his knees buckled and he nearly collapsed. his hand grabbed onto the counter to catch himself, wide eyed, “why the hell would you say that?” his voice shook slightly, reaching desperately to adjust his suit and fix his hair.

you smirked to yourself, eyeing him innocently. he really did look wrecked. just one little comment and he was tripping over his own feet, breathing heavily. you grinned once more, kissing his cheek before sending him back towards the kitchen. sanji glanced behind him, looking very much like a scolded puppy you were sending away.

it was within the second hour of being open that you realized this night would be remembered as one from hell. waitressing was not your favorite thing on a good day, but now with a full house and only one competent waitress — you — you would be sure to tell zeff exactly what you thought about his staffing. you returned to the kitchen, sure you looked as run thin as you felt.

“table four sent the wine back again—“

there was a slam and a curse and you winced, “the hell for now!?” sanji had kept an eye on you all evening, watching you slowly run out of energy and a pleasant expressions.

“they say it’s not the ‘46.”

this time, even zeff peered over the corner, “not the 46? does he think we’re upselling him and bringing him cheap garbage?”

you sighed and opened your mouth to answer as a line cook pressed two fresh trays into your chest. you blinked slowly, eyeing them with a blank expression.

“come on, they’re hot!”

he pushed them further into your ribs and you nearly winced, “excuse me?”

sanji had looked up from his seering dish and it was a look you knew you would never be on the receiving end of. the cook had all but dropped the trays, wheeling around to get back to his station, not bothering to see if you had ahold of them. you scoffed as you adjusted to hold the trays, glaring daggers into the chef as he retreated without a second thought.

“excuse me…” sanji’s tone was calm, despite the tense expression on his face and the way he was forcing himself to breathe slowly, “apron off. you’ve got dishes now.”

“what?! sous chef, i— at least let me wait tables! she was just standing there! i’m sorry- we’re in a rush.”

“apron off. you’ve got dishes. you do not speak to or treat her like that and if you do it again, you’ll find yourself much worse off than dishes. and your sorry ass does not need to be the first thing the customers see.”

you fought back a smile as you shifted back into the dining area, suddenly looking much more pleasant and energized.

“pardon me, miss!”

you winced slightly, nearly toppling over as you turned to address the voice, “just give me one moment, i’m sorry!” you served the first table with all smiles and agreement, shifted completely around to slide the plates onto the next table before finally addressing the man that now had his hand up and was waving you over. you breathed deeply, summoning that charming customer service smile you had learned and perfected all those years ago.

“is there a problem?” your cheeks hurt from smiling and your tone was several pitches higher than natural.

“this is excellent. truly spectacular… i mean i’ve been here numerous times, but this…” you glanced down at his nearly empty plate and immediately recognized the fancy layout as sanji’s handiwork.

“thank you, sir.” this time your smile was genuine, “tonight’s chef puts a lot of care into his cooking… he will be thrilled to hear that.”

“is he— if it’s not too much trouble, could i compliment him?”

“oh, of course! he’s—“

before you could finish, there was a bottle slamming and raised voices, “sir! i assure you this is the wine you ordered. i have even brought the bottle out to prove it… perhaps you were mistaken and you might have wanted the 48 or even the 45.”

“with all due respect, kid— i know my wine! maybe you’d better stay in the kitchen with the things that don’t require acquired taste or special aging!”

you cursed under your breath and hoped you hadn’t just imagined the apology you uttered to the table you now rushed away from.

“with all due respect to you, sir. the ‘46 is a fine wine. even better than whatever you thought you were ordering. had you any sense of taste or sophistication, you would quickly realize that the food here is significantly better than even the wine and perhaps next time you’d better bring your date to a burger joint if your palate is so dullingly boring that you can’t see—“

you stepped in front of sanji quickly, seeing the man’s knuckles tighten in warning. “is everything good over here?” you pulled your best smile, hoping your voice shaking wasn’t noticeable.

“chef, table twelve would like to complement your—“

sanji’s hand tightened around the table as he leaned in, “at least someone appreciates art! all that money and not a lick of taste—“

you stepped further between the now nearly steaming marine and sanji, who had never once backed down from anything in his entire life.

“aw, the waitress is protecting the sous chef from getting hurt… how quaint. i’ll give you a bigger tip girl, if you step aside and let me land one right in his smart mouth.”

“sir, there’s really no need—“

“step aside please, love. someone needs to be taken down a peg— if he wants to take a swing at me, that is his right as the customer.”

you eyed sanji sharply, silently pleading with him not to cause a scene. he gave you a reassuring glance, using his palm to straighten his hair and taking a deep breath to regain composure, before glancing at you once more.

“i should think your services would be better suited elsewhere. wrangling an unruly chef and serving mediocre wine… i could pay you more just for your tit—“

the table went flying before you had taken a breathe. before you could throw your arm up to stop sanji from inevitably reacting. people were staring now. wide eyed in horror at the sous chef that had just punched a marine captain so hard that the table flipped. you scrambled to think of a way to keep sanji from being blamed and inevitably punished for this asshole’s behavior. the bastard’s date looked pissed that he had hit on you— storming out with a furious expression. sanji moved forward again and grabbed the man by the collar and you moved. your hand flew over your face, gasping with a hiccup as if you had been struck. sanji looked at you wide eyed, realizing what you were doing. the door to the kitchen opened and zeff stormed in, looking more red than the marine.

“what is this!?”

“your waiter attacked me!”

“sanji—“

“i’m the sous chef, you boarish—“

“he hit me.” you stared at your father with tearful eyes, hand still on your cheek.

“what!?” zeff roared— and if the entire restaurant hadn’t already been watching the scene, they were now. sanji moved towards you, hands around your shoulders protectively as zeff grabbed the man and dragged him towards the door.

“i didn’t hit her! i would never lay a hand on the lady! i merely complimented her figure and—“

there was cheers as zeff sent the man swiftly into the water with a swift press of his foot against the man’s tailbone. “i don’t serve creeps who hit on my daughter either!”

you cleared your throat and straightened your shoulders, wiping off your apron as if nothing had happened. sanji was eyeing you with a slight smirk, shaking his head slightly.

“you’re welcome.”

“it would have been worth getting in trouble for that bastard.”

“sanji.” zeff snapped his fingers as he returned to the kitchen, “try to make that your only time attacking a customer tonight…” you glanced at sanji with an amused smirk— he would have been verbally slaughtered if he had acted for any other reason but you…

“apologies, everyone…” sanji adjusted his suit jacket and cleared his throat, “i simply will not stand for anyone laying a hand on our gorgeous waitress, here…” you eyed him with all the adoration that was anything but subtle as the restaurant applauded. “now, who was wanting to compliment me?” you rolled your eyes slightly as you returned to refilling drinks, smiling to yourself that he was at least getting the attention he deserved.

sanji, having had it with the kitchen staff, had elected himself to be host at the front of the house and keep an eye on you and occasionally step in to serve tables. zeff had taken over for sanji and the yelling could occasionally be heard from the dining room. you met sanji’s gaze from across the room, to which he gave you a coy smile, silently taking bets on which one of you would have to inform zeff that he could be heard from the front door.

“right this way, madam, this absolute stunner will be your waitress and she’ll take wonderful care of you.” sanji shot you a wink and you nodded to him with a smile and the flush of your cheeks. zeff would have his head for flirting so publicly with you. he had no shame, however and his charm and your dynamic always got you both bonus tips. sanji shot you one more wink before returning to the next waiting couple, in which he would repeat his introduction to you, embellishing and getting more and more flirty each time.

you carried the final stack of plates into the kitchen, sanji on your heels with empty wine bottles cradled in his arms. his feet were dragging, apron dangling uselessly at his sides, the ties nearly tripping him as they dragged by his feet. you dropped the dishes unceremoniously into the sink, ignoring the glare of the exhausted dishwashers.

you side stepped the staff, ducking the cleaners and cooks that were closing for the night and leaned into sanji, exhaling in exhaustion. sanji draped his arms around you, kissing your temple.

“i have something for you. i’m too tired to put in the effort of surprising you…”

sanji eyed you, “you don’t get me gifts, love… i get you gifts and you just look pretty for me.”

you eyed him sharply, fighting the smile creeping onto your face. zeff stormed through the kitchen, chef had dangling from his hand, apron draped over his arm, “night from hell—“ he was muttering, scrubbing the stainless steel counter aimlessly.

“what are you two doing?”

you tensed slightly, glancing away from sanji with a blank look.

“go to bed! your shift is over! stop standing in my kitchen uselessly and making eyes at each other!”

sanji opened his mouth to counter, but you grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind you without another word.

sanji collapsed onto the bed with a sigh and a groan, stretching out full length, sprawled on his stomach. “i’m spent, love…”

sanji hadn’t gotten past stripping to his boxers and you paused to take him in, shamelessly. you pulled the box out of your drawer and shuffled over beside him before collapsing across his back, causing sanji to groan with a laugh. you dropped the box by sanji’s head and opened one eye.

“what is that?” he lifted his head with interest, eyes shifting to you questioningly.

“your surprise.”

“that looks like an extravagant surprise…”

“only the best for the world’s best chef.”

at this, sanji sat up and you rolled off him just enough to see his expression over his shoulder, “what have you schemed…”

you flipped open the box’s latch and sanji took his eyes off you to take in his surprise. he opened the wooden box to a small piece of paper, hand scribed with a small heart.

to the world’s greatest cook (and lover)

sanji eyed you with a soft expression, clearly already losing it at the card. you took the liberty of removing the card and uncovering the shiny blades underneath.

sanji inhaled sharply, sitting up further, so quickly you nearly fell off the bed.

“what are these?”

“kitchen knives… i assumed you would know that.”

sanji eyed you sharply, clearly not joking, “what— where did— why… why would you? i— when?”

you eyed him, running a thumb over his, “if you don’t like them i can give them to my father… but they are engraved with your initials so—“

sanji shut you up with a kiss, wheeling around so quickly, hand on the back of your neck to pull you in.

“you can’t have bought these— they’re… my love, what are these for?”

you kissed him once more, fingers stroking through his hair, “i did, thank you very much. specifically for you. consider it a ring…”

sanji lead you through the crowded street, hand around your waist, looking at you, rather than where he was going. “i’m telling you! i did not like how that man spoke to you.”

“i didn’t notice any sort of tone, ji.”

“it wasn’t just his tone! he was looking you up and down like he was trying to decide which part of you to eat first.”

“he was perfectly fine, i thought… i just wanted to try his mangoes. i haven’t quite gotten them to grow right…”

“and i think he wanted to try you.”

you shoved him playfully, eyeing him with a disbelieving smirk, “am i to cause a scene then, every time women look at you like you’re a meal?”

sanji’s brows furrowed, a smirk forming on his lips, “you do, love. that bartender batted her eyelashes at me and you nearly crawled inside me, until she moved away from me…”

you narrowed your eyes slightly, “she could see that i was right there! glaring at her clearly wasn’t enough.”

sanji snorted, “i think it’s quite endearing, love. you being jealous, as if i even see anyone else in the world.”

“you have a rather flirty personality…”

“get better tips that way. as i recall i have never once directly complemented a woman’s looks or called her anything that you get called daily.”

“it’s the tone, sanji.”

“do you want me to loudly pronounce my love for you to every table? i apologize, madam, i will not be friendly with you because my fiance exists and i shall only ever lay eyes on her!”

you were laughing now and that only made sanji carry on all the more, “i’ll do it, you know! don’t think i won’t. if you want me to never speak to another woman, i wouldn’t. if you want me to walk around blindfolded on a leash, i’ll do it.”

this time you snorted, looking up at him with a loving expression and shaking your head, practically grinning from ear to ear, “you’re insane…”

“you know i’m committed.”

“i have never once doubted…”

sanji crashed through your door with a curse and his hand running through his hair. you paused, eyeing him with raised eyebrows. even though clearly irritated and possibly enraged, he still held himself calm and collected. you nodded to the bed, silently urging him to sit. sanji began pacing instead, to which you eyed him sharply.

“sanji, you’ll stress my plants out.”

“i’m sorry, love…”

sanji finally sat, only once you did– on the floor rather than the bed– leaning back between your legs. you ran loose fingers through his hair, sighing to yourself at how much it actually relaxed you to play with his hair. he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and kitchen grease and you breathed him in fully. “what happened now?”

“nothing… just a fight.”

“a fight?” you pulled his hair sharply so he was glancing awkwardly back at you. he winced, inhaling sharply, though there was a slight smirk on his face at the gesture— he had never been one with an aversion to hair pulling…

“sanji–“ your tone was scolding, which made him smirk all the more, “you can’t just—“

“it was self defense. the bastard tried to punch me… all i did was correct him in front of his date.”

you eyed him, sighing.

“then he snapped at his date and the table just… ended up broken. all the food gone to waste, glasses of wine all over the floor. quite the mess…”

your mouth twitched up slightly, “did she at least tip you?”

sanji smirked to himself, letting his head fall back fully so it rested on his thigh and he looked up at you. “she did. though i expect she was after something a bit more, after a failed date…”

you smacked him and he grunted with a laugh, “don’t worry love, i work even harder to get tips from you–“

you smacked him again but this time you held a devious smirk, “aren’t i usually the one working to get your tips?”

sanji made a violent choking sound, snapping into an upright position. his face had gone red– something he should have been used to after all the years of comments and flirting back and forth– and he coughed once, hand over his chest as if he was having a heart attack. you watched him in amusement, eyebrow lifted with that same smirk. he recovered— somewhat— and adjusted his jacket and cleared his throat, “i assure you, darling. those you don’t have to work for at all.”

you smirked again, looking down at him in amusement, “take a break… smoke if you open the window.”

sanji kissed your jaw, smiling, “old geezer says i’m grounded from customers for the rest of the night.”

you lifted an eyebrow, grinning to yourself, “probably not a bad idea… i’ll come down and entertain you when the rush is over.”

“as i recall, you entertaining me isn’t allowed in the kitchen.”

you just eyed him again as he lit his cigarette and continued to smirk.

the kitchen was packed and the dining room had not emptied of customers at all. there was a loud group at table four, and you couldn’t help but stare at them. they were so out of place. sticking out like sore thumbs— not dressed up in the least, not at all acting as though they were in a five star restaurant. they laughed too loud and their clothes were too bright. they stuck out so strikingly in the baratie— they didn’t belong there at all. yet your feet started moving towards them.

“you just told me—“

“table four, sanji!”

the loud table. obnoxious and amused. laughing over a table of waters— clearly not having been served yet. sanji was already glaring when he strode in, though his eyes lit up when he saw you.

you had approached the table yourself— curious about this group and feeling a strange pull towards them.

“you lot seem hungry…”

the table fell silent three pairs of eyes met you— intrigued, interested, interested in more ordering

“it’s been a long time since we’ve eaten!”

“shut up, luffy.”

“well then you’ve come to the right place! our sous chef is the best cook in the east blue. possibly even the world.”

the man with green hair observed you, lowering his beer bottle and tilting his head, “you seem biased.”

“i might be. but i could get you to sample some things not on the menu. you could let me know with an unbiased opinion based only on experience.”

green hair lifted an eyebrow, now eyeing you fully. the girl between them looked between them before keeping her attention on the guy in the straw hat— who looked overjoyed.

“that sounds amazing! i will eat anything!”

“luffy, i think she meant— i think she’s just…”

“we don’t have any money.”

you glanced between straw hat and his friends, waiting for one of them to laugh. green hair exhaled slowly, closing his eyes in an expression you had seen sanji make when trying very hard not to start a fight. and his female friend, who just stared at him in disbelief.

you glanced between the three, knowing if you had learned a single thing from zeff you should throw them all out and never give them a second thought.

“give me a moment…”

you turned slowly, hand on sanji’s chest as he approached you and the table. his mouth was open, preparing to greet the colorful table, when you pushed him back gently, guiding him away from the tables.

“everything okay, love?”

you winced, tilting your head slightly, “they don’t…have money.”

sanji glanced over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. you exchanged a glance, noting the trio’s uneasy— or in straw hat’s case, enthusiastic— eyes.

“you know what zeff or chef would do.”

you nodded, crossing an arm over yourself while keeping your other on sanji’s chest, “they said they’re hungry… they haven’t eaten in a while.”

sanji’s posture straightened, eyes shifting to you softly before glancing back at the table. “understood.” he brushed past you without another word and you trailed behind him enthusiastically.

“any preferences? what are we in the mood for?”

“booze.”

sanji eyed green hair, unimpressed– before looking to the other two. “i’ll eat anything. i like meat. i really like meat…” sanji blinked slowly, glancing to you in silent question. your mouth twitched up slightly. “but i was telling your friend, we don’t have any money—“

“she’s too pretty to be my friend, mate.”

“sanji—“

sanji glanced over to you with a wink before turning back to the table, “not a problem.”

this time the other two perked up, “what?”

“no one leaves here hungry…”

you ducked and shifted around sanji as he cooked and you brought him ingredients. you ignored the glares and questions from the rest of the staff and kept your attention fully on sanji. you had a small smile on your face as you watched sanji plate up a more than full serving, only glancing at you occasionally when he noticed you staring.

“i won’t let you get in trouble for this…” you shifted a tray onto your shoulder, following sanji back out into the dining room.

“let the old geezer try…”

“you gave the entire table free food!? what is possibly in your head, sanji!?”

“i don’t let people go hungry…”

you kept your back straight, glancing between the chef and your father in silence.

“you idiot! this is a restaurant not a charity!”

sanji said nothing, calmly placing a mint leaf on a slice of chocolate cake.

“that better not be for them!”

sanji passed three plates of cake to you, eyeing you knowingly. you turned slowly, carrying the plates back out to the dining room.

“stop! i will not let you serve more customers free food!” the chef positioned himself in front of you, arms on your shoulders.

you stared at him, daring, glancing slowly down at his hands on you. “let go of me.”

“you are not giving away my food! owner’s daughter or not! you’re acting like a spoiled brat and you two are nothing but a thorn in this place’s side!”

sanji had shoved the chef roughly, shelves clattering as his back slammed into them. you ducked as a fight broke out, adjusting the desserts on your arm as you returned to the same table. the fight carried through the kitchen doors and through the dining area and nearly to the front door.

you sighed as you placed the plates down, not missing the way the table’s eyes were on sanji with wide eyes. sanji took a hit to the jaw and you cursed under your breath.

“who is he?”

“clearly he’s more than a cook…”

you didn’t glance back to respond, “he’s sanji. my fiance…”

zeff had appeared and tore the pair apart, throwing the chef back into the kitchen and dragging sanji back to his feet.

“you!” zeff pointed to straw hat, who looked up, chocolate frosting on his nose, wide eyed, “you’re working that off.”

straw hat stood up, grinning, “sure! just call me your chore boy.”

zeff grunted, clearly expecting an argument or protest. he grunted once more, gesturing for him to follow.

you pulled sanji along by the tie, earning a slight groan as he wiped at his bleeding nose.

you pushed sanji down into a chair in the kitchen and knelt between his legs, “did you have to hit him?”

“he put his hands on you.”

you scoffed softly, nudging him slightly as you shifted the bandages into his hand. you tilted his chin up slightly, eyeing him disapprovingly, “you need stitches. he got you good…”

“but i didn’t lose.”

you sighed, glaring at him softly.

behind you, there was a clatter of dishes and a quiet apology. you glanced up at straw hat in amusement, “what do you think his deal is?”

“clinically insane, perhaps.”

“say, you’re pretty good at that!” you lifted an eyebrow as straw hat’s eyes were now on you.

“and you’re a good fighter. we could definitely use someone like you… and it would be awesome to have a cook on the ship.”

you both just stared at him, clearly sharing expressions.

“i’m monkey d. luffy. i am sailing to the grand line with my crew, and one day i will find the one piece be king of the pirates.”

“that’s very ambitious…” you swatted sanji’s hand away as he reached up to fight your fingers off his face.

“what about you? do you have any dreams?”

“everyone has dreams, luffy.”

“you should come with us.”

you didn’t look up, though your mouth twitched slightly, “become pirates with you?”

“that’s right!”

“you’ve just met us. quit—“ you pushed sanji’s head back again and he smirked up at you slightly.

“you served us anyway…. i told you we couldn’t pay and you didn’t hesitate. that doesn’t seem like a fun star chef to me. and your food is amazing. better than anything else here.”

you glanced over, now realizing he was eating all the leftovers from every plate before cleaning them. he wiped his face with his arm, dripping soap suds on you as he did. you blinked once again, turning fully to now look at him.

“we could use you too. we’re always getting injured… and it seems like a bad idea to separate the two of you.”

sanji had stood up and now looked luffy over with amused interest, “and why is that?”

“i can see it. the entire time i’ve been talking you only looked at each other. even when i mentioned getting you out of this place.”

“it’s a nice offer.” you returned the first aid kit under the sink before taking the stack of dishes from luffy.

“you mean you’re happy here?”

you kept your eyes on the stack of plates, though you knew both eyes were on you.

“i could never leave the old man. after everything…”

“you should go with him.”

you nearly hit your head on the counter, with how fast you stood up. there was a palm thrown out between your head and the metal shelf and you glanced over to see luffy, still standing the same spot, arm outstretched to cushion your head.

he was— rubber?

you looked at sanji for answers, but he was only looking at zeff. zeff stood with his arms crossed, taking the two of you in like you were being scolded once again as children.

“what?”

clearly you had misheard him.

this place wouldn’t last without sanji— you wouldn’t—

“go with him, kid.”

what?

“what?”

“i have no use for you anymore. you’re making trouble, you’re always getting into fights! you’re making too many fancy dishes i have no need for!”

sanji stood, dumbstruck. he looked like a scolded puppy and you just watched, frozen.

“you’re crazy, old man! what would you do without me? i can’t just leave! you know i can’t!”

“i would be just fine without you! you get out of here! go see the world! find the all blue! start your restaurant…”

sanji was numb. he hadn’t moved an inch, wide eyed and statuesque.

you would go with him—

you couldn’t—

not without—

“sanji.”

luffy eyed him, still grinning, “what do you say?”

he had his way out… the first time it had ever been dangled in front of him. the first time it had ever seemed like a possibility—

“i can’t. i’m sorry. i can’t be your cook. i can’t leave…”

you felt like you were falling. relief washed through you, but a guilt twisted inside you.

“you stupid boy… you idiot girl.”

your attentions snapped back to zeff, furious and speechless.

zeff lifted his hand, flicking a single object to sanji in a clean shot. sanji caught it, wide eyed, brows furrowed.

“i wasn’t stupid enough to suggest you leave without her. i thought it was a given…”

you felt tears stinging in your eyes at the weighty realization of his words. your father’s tearful eyes met yours and it felt like a slap.

“you wouldn’t stay here even if i forbid you from going with him.”

sanji opened his palm and stared down at the object in it. his knees nearly gave out from the sheer shock of it. he looked to you, eyes lighting up, face set in determination.

“it was her mother’s. the only thing i ever got right…”

you were trembling slightly, heart hammering in your chest like a drum. surely—

there was a catch—

“sanji.”

he had turned to you, mouth curved up in that smirk that meant he knew something you didn’t. he glanced at zeff, who gave a single, approving nod.

“is it still yes?”

sanji opened his palm to reveal a small blue stoned ring. your mother’s. you nodded— because what else could you do—

you were leaving.

you were traveling the world.

your father—

you were rushing forward before you realized it, hugging zeff for the first time ever.

“i’m sorry i was a lousy father.”

you just shook your head, clinging to him like you never had.

“thank you. for everything…”

“i don’t do tearful goodbyes, kid… go on. get out of here before i change my mind. get that punk out of my sight…”

you laughed and wiped your eyes.

“take care of him. he needs you more than you need him… i expect you to come back for a wedding. captains are ordained, after all.”

you grinned, stepping away from him and taking sanji’s hand. zeff blinked away a tear and cursed to himself. he cleared his throat and waved his arm, “get out of here, i mean it. you’re both more trouble than you’re worth and now you’re someone else’s problem.”

Here is the argument, plainly.

Pop has spent the last two decades absorbing everything rock and roll used to own. The mythology, the aesthetic danger, the cultivated impression of someone who might not show up, or who might show up and set the room on fire. All of it got filed down to a framework that made rebellion safe and scheduled chaos into a content calendar. Pop kept the iconography and discarded the thing that made it mean something, which was always the possibility that it wasn't an act.

Rock's distinguishing feature was the genuine sense that the artist might destroy themselves before their set was over. That art and damage were the same material. That what you were watching was not a performance of risk but risk itself, metabolized into sound in real time.

No one is doing this anymore. The genre has been living off legacy for years. But electronic music—club music, dance music, whatever insufficient title the industry reaches for—has always had its own relationship to danger. To physicality, to the body as both the instrument and the thing at risk. It, like rock, has never needed permission to be volatile. It simply hasn't had artists who weaponized that volatility the way rock's biggest names once did.

YN and Suguru Geto are those artists. What they make is club music, and they have used it to do something no one else has managed. They broke through the ceiling of the dance music world, where mainstream competition is sparse and male-saturated enough that dominance was possible, and then kept going straight into the center of pop, where the infrastructure was built for a completely different kind of artist and has been scrambling to accommodate them ever since. They occupy a position the industry has no language for.

They are, by every indication, actually difficult people. They show up late and cancel things. They make decisions that would end other careers and then watch the results chart. They have made the industry that profits from them look, at every possible turn, parsing and slow and deeply, almost comically, out of its depth. The willingness to do that is not a pop instinct, and never has been.

And none of it would matter if the music weren't undeniable.

360 opened the era earlier this year, and the era hasn't stopped moving since. Talk talk, featuring YN and Geto's longtime friend Satoru Gojo, was an instant chart-topper. Club classics debuted in front of sixty thousand people on a night that industry insiders now reference by date alone. That was where most artists would have consolidated: tour announcement, brand partnership, victory lap dressed as a new album.

Instead, within weeks, everything came apart.

Sympathy is a knife was recorded and released in wreckage. More unsettling than a response track, it seems to be YN's excruciating experience itself, shoved through a compressor and put on streaming platforms before the wound could close.

Then Angel of my dreams, originally co-written with Geto, finished alone and shot with Sukuna Ryomen in a video that seemed specifically engineered to make one person lose sleep. Mean girls, produced with Gojo, seems to be the sound of someone who has been told she is problematic deciding, with full clarity, to be worse.

Von dutch arrived at the close of New York Fashion Week like a closing argument. It was evisceration as a club track, co-written by the two of them after weeks of speculation and performed only once before leaking across every existing platform.

All of it in a span of months, recklessly personal, released without a single moment where either of them stopped to make sure you were comfortable with what you were seeing.

This has not been a rollout, because a rollout involves an executed plan. Every song was born from a real event, recorded in proximity to the event itself, and released before either had the time to gain perspective on it. The music is the experience. The gap between life and art that most pop careers depend on—the distance that allows for curation, for spin, for the version of the story that looks best from outside—does not exist here.

This velocity at which they eliminated that gap is what makes them dangerous.

Geto's role in all of this is worth isolating, because it is what most coverage gets wrong.

The popular reading casts him as architect to her chaos. He builds the structure for her to detonate inside of. This is flattering to both of them in ways that are too neat to be accurate, and it lets him off the hook for what he actually does.

What Geto does is refuse to protect either of them from the music. Everything he makes is a barely-restrained provocation. Every mix is calibrated to make her voice go where it's least controlled. He does not manage her, soften her, or steer her toward the version of these songs that would be easier to defend to interviewers or label personnel. He matches her, and the result is a body of work that increasingly sounds like they are daring each other to go further than either of them should.

Left to her own instincts, YN writes with a kind of salt-the-earth-behind-her transparency—every feeling at full volume, no exit. What Geto adds is architecture that gives the chaos somewhere to land. For example, Sympathy is a knife would be devastating as a voice memo. His production choices are exactly what made it one of the year's best releases. He frames the rawness so that it is undeniable to those who would otherwise look away.

That he produced a track for the artist at the center of YN's most public conflict is part of the public record. So is the fact that said track contained lyrics that were not difficult to decode. It tells you something about how he operates. He has an indifference to consequence that only an artist who has never once doubted his own ability can sustain. He is, in his own quiet way, as reckless as we know YN to be, if not more. The difference is that he makes his messes in private, and the industry—which has always been more forgiving of audacious men than audacious women—lets him.

An interview for this very feature was scheduled for earlier this month, not long after the shoot that produced the image on the front of this issue. It was canceled days prior without so much as an apology. I can't say I minded.

What would they have said? I've read every full-length interview they've given. There are four. YN is funny and evasive in equal measure. Geto says less than she does and means more by it. They are better at not answering questions than most artists are at answering them. I could sit across from them for an hour and leave with nothing I couldn't have gotten from their Genius profile.

Their work speaks for itself more articulately than either of them has ever spoken in public, and there is a good argument that the silence is holding the mythology together. The moment the gap between the person and the performance is closed by explanation, the thing that makes them extraordinary is at risk of becoming ordinary. They seem to understand this instinctively, or have learned it the hard way, or both.

At their warehouse show in September, before any of this had been nominated for anything, a moment.

The set had already done its damage. Sympathy brought her to her knees in the kind of performance that makes you forget you're watching someone famous and remember you're watching someone human. Mean girls rebuilt the vibe louder and meaner. Three thousand people had given themselves over.

Then a song no one has heard. She steps off the stage. Security scrambles as she walks right through the crowd, singing at and past every person she passes, letting hands graze her hair, her face, and her body.

Mid-song, she turns around and walks back toward the stage, to the booth where he stands.

The room understands before she gets there. He's caught by dozens of iPhone cameras mouthing I'm your number one back to her, and for a second that manages to be both completely public and completely private, neither of them is performing.

Or both of them are. It doesn't matter. That's the point.

Five years ago, on a side stage in the early afternoon, she said something only he could hear and turned back to the audience grinning. The mechanism is the same. The stakes are higher. Whatever was private then is now the entire show, and whatever was easy about it has been replaced by something that costs them both visibly, in ways neither seems willing to stop paying.

They've taken the one thing rock always had that pop could never quite replicate—the genuine sense that the artists might destroy themselves or each other before the set is over—and they've built a pop career on top of it. They skipped the guitars and borrowed aesthetics for strobe lights and dance floors that shake like they might not survive the night.

It is spectacular and unsustainable. It may be the most important thing happening in music right now.

Every muscle in your body aches and with each step closer, you pray you'll have a moment of quiet peace to yourself. After all, Shinobu insisted (read as threatened) that you soak in the hot spring after administering simple medical aid post-mission. 

Something, something, hot spring stimulates blood flow, blah, blah, strong healing properties.

All you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. Here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside through the willows of wisteria on a lantern-lit path to the hot spring.

Your geta catches on a root and you trip up, scoffing tiredly as you catch yourself and grumble a curse. Ow. Irritation simmers under your skin, and you wonder absently what's gotten into you. 

It normally takes more for you to be so... cranky. And openly so.

When you reach the gate of the onsen, your eye twitches.

Son of a —

There's Hashira abound tonight. 

"Look who's back from her little foray out East!"

Did Tengen need to be so loud? 

All the damn time?

The small, dimly lit spot is surrounded by wisteria and maple. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you sigh and shut the red gate behind you, paying careful mind not to catch your fingers in the latch. Lanterns are perched on rocks, candles only beginning to run with wax in the evening air. The open-air bath overlooks the sprawling estate down the mountain. 

You sigh deeply from your chest, your eyes practically at half-mast when you turn around to snipe Tengen with an unamused look.

"Our dear Dream Hashira... you look like shit," comes the rogue commentary, "No offense, beautiful."

Tengen is at the far edge of the steaming bath with both arms outstretched along the edge. As always, he's taking up as much space as humanly possible. His silver hair hangs about his shoulders — and he even goes so far as to pin you with a rogueish smile. You stare flatly at him in response.

Then: the middle finger. 

"Woof. Tough crowd tonight," he rumbles as he slides a look towards a decidedly uninterested Sanemi. The Wind Hashira has his head hung back against the edge with a towel over his forehead — his eyes are closed. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was asleep. 

"Tengen, do me a favor," comes the gritted reply from the scarred man, "and shut the hell up." 

You motion plainly to Sanemi — the gesture says thank you — with your brows raising in silent agreeance. Even the act of speaking right now is all too much. 

"I must agree with Tengen," comes the wistful and soft voice of Muichiro Tokito as he lifts his chin from its submerged position; his hair is swimming about him. The Mist Hashira looks... almost peaceful; but his words are damning, "You do look like shit."

Somehow it's worse when Tokito says it.

That makes Sanemi lift his head and pry one eye open. 

You serve him an unenthused look from your spot by the benches. You hope for a bit of sympathy, but instead:

"...What the fuck happened to you?" comes his dry response to your current state of being. 

Which — fine, maybe it's fair. The others rarely ever see you in any state aside from perfect. You're meticulous about your appearance; from your uniform to your posture, you value perfection over all else. The devil that has always haunted you is the details. Perhaps it was your rigid upbringing, but regardless—

"Ah!" suddenly, there's a resoundingly warm voice booming across the small courtyard from the onsen's koshitsu, "I see you've returned, Lady— Oh... my, are you quite alright...?"

You've got to be kidding me.

Kyojuro Rengoku's face is twisted into genuine worry. He's standing in the middle of the path, his focus entirely on you. His hair is undone and the sunburst strands are spilling along his chest and back. There's a small cotton towel slung around his narrow waist. You purposefully level your eyes with his, not daring to let your gaze waver — and then you curse Kocho Shinobu a thousand times over for sending you here.  

(Tengen is smirking. You want to throw your sandal at his head.)

Finally, you speak. 

"I'm fine." 

You don't sound fine. You sound like a woman who'd endured being unceremoniously whipped about by a snake Demon in a swamp for three hours before she could finally land a killing blow. 

Kyojuro frowns. His eyes — like two gems of carnelian — are nearly glowing with concern. Those dark brows of his knit and you try to grit out a tight smile. It fails. It looks more like a wince than anything.

It's... pathetic.

"Perhaps a soak will help," the Flame Hashira offers gently. His tone is soft with pity.

Shit. Fuck. Damn it. Fucking Shinobu, fucking hot spring, fucking swamp demon, fucking—

Right. Right, a soak. It's the thing that Tengen Uzui is somehow singlehandedly making more unbearable — he's dragging Sanemi and Muichiro by the necks from the onsen — by leaving you alone with Rengoku. 

"Go on you two! We're just leaving anyways, right fellas?"

"Die," you spit hoarsly in his direction; your expression is flat.

Tengen throws you a wink. "Relax a little, pretty. You deserve it!"

You could still hit him with your geta. Maybe if you put enough force behind it, it could kill him. 

After all, he's been doing this ever since you let it slip about your little crush. 

And just when a girl thinks she can trust an ex-shinobi... never again. You don't care if Tengen is the one offering to buy the sake, you're never drinking with that man again. He's a gossip and a whore. A gossiping whore. A devoted husband-whore who gossips like no-fucking-other. 

Admitting to Tengen Uzui's stupid face that you've been avoiding Kyojuro Rengoku because of your feelings was the second worst mistake you ever made.

Your first worst mistake was not dragging your sorry ass back down the mountain after you and Kyojuro were left alone in the onsen. 

At least — at the very least — it's quieter now, even if the silence feels oddly intimate. 

You're thankful Kyojuro has retreated into the water of the bath; the distance allows you to ignore the burning pit in your gut at the thought of him and you together. In the onsen. Alone.

You've bathed alongside the other Hashira before. The whole lot of you are warriors. There's no shame in the body — and admittedly, you grew up around konyoku onsen in Tokyo. 

It wasn't the nakedness that was the problem. 

...Maybe it was a little bit of the nakedness. 

But, mostly the fact it's Kyojuro Rengoku: the kindest man you've ever met, a man whose smile is nearly as bright as the morning sun, a man whose laugh feels like a summer thunderstorm. A man who is tall, strong, and handsome. It's no small secret he's well-loved among the ranks; respected, admired, sought after... Who wouldn't make an attempt atcatching his eye? After all, he's capable, swift, courageous, honorable—

Having a heart attack.

He's having a heart attack.

I mean — it's you. And him. Alone. 

...Naked. And alone.

He himself could have strangled Tengen when the ex-shinobi scurried off, leaving him here — though he'd never admit it. That sneaky bastard is fully aware of Kyojuro's feelings towards you, and Kyojuro swears the Sound Hashira gets off on forcing him to confront the very thing he forbids himself to even dwell upon. 

Your voice pulls him from his enraptured internal monologue.

"I am fine," you break the silence as your fingers work at the obi around your waist in nervousness. Your back is to him, and as the grey kimono slips down your shoulders, he panics, "I swear."

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you in such a state as this," he tries to sound level, confident, as he turns in the water; suddenly the mountainside is very beautiful. Yes, very nice. Very... mountain-y. 

Kyojuro's eyes flick over his shoulder briefly, back at you.

He sees skin. More of your skin than he's ever seen. There are dimples at the base of your spine. Good god. He swallows tightly and turns his gaze forward once more. 

Even the act of shrugging your kimono off is enough to make you rasp. The ribs Shinobu had been so concerned about are protesting now. It's fine. Everything is fine. You peek over your shoulder. Relief floods you as you realize Rengoku's back is turned. 

Quickly, you slip into the onsen. It's the quickest you've moved all night. 

You plunge in deep, ignoring the burn of the water along of the more raw marks and bruises bitten into your skin. Your ribs wail in protest as you inhale sharply at the heat, and you try your best to coach your expression into unwavering when Kyojuro turns back around. 

"Better?"

All you can do is grunt from your submerged position.

That makes him laugh.

You try to memorize the warm sound and tuck it neatly into your heart. It's cute, the way his eyes scrunch when he laughs. You find yourself staring for a second before swallowing down your affections.

"Shinobu demanded I come," you explain slowly, lifting your hands and playing with the surface of the water, "If I had it my way, I'd be in bed."

Or murdering Tengen in his sleep.

"The hot springs are good for healing," Kyojuro chirps brightly, canting his head as he speaks almost as if he's going to reprimand you. His voice drops an octave, "You know that, Lady Hashira."

He's teasing you.

He's — he's seriously teasing you.

You're naked and he's teasing you.

You sink a little lower into the water and narrow your eyes at him — the act makes you look a bit like an angry, wet cat. Kyojuro can only grin. Truly this is rare form for you. Your disposition is usually sunny, if not well-manicured and mindfully well-mannered. You are every bit a Lady Hashira. Moreso than Shinobu or Mitsuri in a way. 

You are the Dream Pillar, after all, and a woman composed purely of romanticism in his eyes. It's the way he could see you, in another life, in a fine silk kimono and delicate make-up; he could see you in gold and pearls, pouring tea worth more than his monthly salary into fine ceramic cups. Suitors abound.

Though, perhaps that's not so different than now.

Not with the way you're delicately pouring yourself a helping of Tengen's abandoned sake at the edge of the onsen. You'd think it was the most expensive liquor in the land with the care you take to not spill a drop. 

You slide him a hesitant look over your shoulder, the water lapping at your bruised back. Kyojuro lifts a brow.

"What?" you ask, feigning innocence as you turn back to the task at hand, "It'd be a shame if it went to waste."

"I didn't know sake had healing properties," Kyojuro offers slowly, his lips twitching upwards as he watches you take a long sip from the cup.

"Something, something, blood flow," you murmur mostly to yourself, tossing back the rest with a scowl and a wince, "I'm sure Shinobu would agree."

Kyojuro leans back against the wall, sinking a little deeper as he settles onto the seat beneath the water. The ends of his hair are soaked, turning an even darker shade of crimson. His shoulders flex as he relaxes his arms against the stones. 

His own body is tired. Beneath the water, he absently stretches his legs and pays careful mind to the twinge of pain in his left knee.

"Whether she agrees or disagrees is none of my business," he supplies diplomatically.

You reach for the jug, giving it a light shake. It's nearly empty anyway. 

You extend it, offering it to Kyojuro.

The Flame Hashira shakes his head. "No thank you. I reserve drink for special occasions only."

You quirk a brow. Your tone is light. Airy, almost. "I didn't know that about you."

He hums. You place the sake down, sink lower into the water, and try to focus on his face — not the strength in his forearms, nor the water running in rivets down his chest. 

"My father has quite a love for the stuff," he admits with a controlled frown, "I avoid it when I can."

Ah. 

Right. 

Your own father, also a retired Hashira, voiced many a feeling about Shinjuro Rengoku when he was given the chance. You'd visited home months ago and when you mentioned serving alongside Kyojuro, his eyes narrowed dangerously and impeccably sharp. His tongue lashed out at you — as if you were the retired Flame Pillar himself. 

There's a history there, it seems.

"I apologize."

"Don't," he says; firm yet soft.

"It is better that way, really," you mumble in an attempt to soothe the ache you can see across his face, "Liquor leads to making many a fool."

Kyojuro's brow quirks. "You sound as though you're speaking from experience."

"Perhaps," you say slyly, wandering to the far end of the pool. You're nearly submerged to your nose, "A lady shall never tell."

"And if I asked Tengen?"

"You wouldn't dare." The water splashes as you whip around and glare — though Kyojuro senses no real malice. 

It was no small secret you'd been dragged through the mud after you and Tengen's night on the town. Why the Master called a meeting that morning was beyond you, but there's a part of you that wonders if he was slightly amused at your less-than-pleasant state. You swore you were going to puke all over the engawa when you bowed — never mind the fact the morning sun's brightness was enough to nearly drill your brain into a pulp. 

Kyojuro had never seen you so... disheveled. 

Second to tonight, that is.

The Flame Hashira smirks. "If the lady forbades it, then who am I to ignore her wishes?"

Fucking Tengen, fucking Shinobu, fucking Kyojuro—

Fucking honorable, respectable, polite Kyojuro.

"Well, this lady does forbade it," you say with narrowed eyes, "So there."

"You really are in rare form this evening."

He's smirking. That's new.

"Yes, well," you mumble as you lull your head back and wet the rest of your hair; the warmth seeps through the strands and feels soothing on your scalp. You already feel better. Less like a swamp demon's plaything, more like a girl trying her best not to let her petal-mouthed feelings slip out, "We can blame Muzan Kibutsuji for that."

"I surmise it has been a difficult day?" he rumbles quietly from his spot in the onsen.

"You haven't the slightest idea."

"Care to enlighten me?" 

"And embarrass myself?" she mutters, splashing absently, "I'd prefer to remain capable in your eyes, Rengoku. I'll spare you the details. And anyone else who asks."

He's grinning. That sort that appears in an optimist's dream. Bright, sunny and so enrapturing it feels like your heart is being scorched by its warmth. 

"Your capability will never waver in my eyes," Kyojuro supplies as he flicks the water absently; his gaze has fallen to the sway of the wisteria in the evening air, "You are amazing. One particularly bad day does not diminish that fact."

Maybe it's the sake. Maybe it's the compliment. Either way, the tips of your ears feel warm. 

That little, nibbling feeling is back in his chest. The very one he's been trying his best to ignore for months. 

"You are only being kind," you mutter, "Because, as the other's made very clear, I look like shit." 

Kyojuro finds himself smiling a bit at the jest — his fingers glide along the top of the water, tracing idly patterns into it as he watches you sink deeper and deeper into the hot spring. Finally, for a moment, you descend below the surface.

Then, you break the surface slowly. Your hair is swimming around you, clinging to your bare shoulders. You exhale, brush water from your lashes, and inhale. You look... beautiful. A different sort of beautiful than he's used to. This sort of beauty is relaxed. Tired. You seem a bit freer than usual — unrestrained by the image you aim to keep well protected amongst the others. 

Kyojuro sinks a little deeper himself.

He's still watching you.

Your eyes find his. 

There's a moment where all you two can do is blink — Flame and Dream mingling for a breath beneath the stars. Wide eyes bound by a moment of silence, a moment of hesitation. He feels like all the breath has been swept from his lungs. All Kyojuro can do is stare into your eyes.

Then, he speaks.

Blurts, more aptly.

"You are beautiful."

...Did he just say that? 

Your lips part in quiet shock.

Suddenly, his posture is more rigid, and his expression a bit panicked — perhaps because your own eyes widen a mile at the words that spill from his mouth. Kyojuro raises his hands as he inhales sharply, the heat of the bath inching a degree hotter. Whether it's from the sudden admission or a misfire of his breathing technique, you're unsure. 

His cheeks are hot. He leans forward, shaking his head.

Damn you, Tengen. Damn you, damn you—

"I-I simply mean — you... You do not look like shit—" He attempts to explain.

"Oh—"

"Yes, yes, I—"

"Thank you," you say quickly, trying to calm your own racing heart as he swallows down a bought of embarrassment and offers a pained smile your way. It's enough to quell his panic.

"Of course," he breathes out, sagging a bit deeper into the water as he fiddles with his hands. He has a habit of rubbing at his callouses. Kyojuro swallows, then hoarsly admits: "One might think that I was drinking the sake with the way I'm making a fool of myself."

Your laugh is like a balm. 

"Hardly," you offer as you sink into the water with a smile; your eyes are glimmering with something a bit mischievous as you swim towards the water's edge. You pause, then slip a look his way over your bare shoulder, "...Do you mean it?"

"That I'm a fool? Of course."

You scoff quietly. Kyojuro's smile is tight — knowing. 

Then, he speaks warmly and kindly. He confirms your question with ease. His arms are wound across his chest. "You are truly beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever had the grace to lay eyes upon, my Lady." 

Maybe you could drown yourself here. 

You're not entirely sure how you'll ever recover from this — not from how tender he says it, not from how honest his words sound. So suddenly you feel as though he's hung every star in the sky for your eyes only, having wished upon them, time and time again, for nothing more than a moment of your time. It's reverent is what it is.

You're about to open your mouth and say something when a bright, girlish giggle cuts through the tension—

Kyojuro Rengoku has never been more thankful for Mitsuri Kanroji's ill timing. Behind her is Lady Shinobu. 

The pink and green-haired Hashira is ecstatic to find both yourself and Rengoku in the hot spring — her delight is palpable as she waves her arms and cheers brightly into the air. Her crow caws overhead. Her darker-haired counterpart levels them both with polite smiles.

"Oh, this is just lovely! My friends!" she's chirping as she closes the gate, "I am so glad to see you both back safe and sound—"

"Heading my advice, it seems," Shinobu says slowly — almost like she knows something you don't. Her pale, lilac eyes flick between you and Rengoku. For a moment, you almost suspect she's about to ask something.

"How are you feeling?" Mitsuri cries in your direction, shrugging her kimono off with ease — unbothered entirely by Rengoku's presence. The two are like brother and sister, and Mitsuri has never batted an eye about nudity, "How are your ribs?"

Kyojuro levels you with a look. 

You offer a sheepish grin. 

"Yes," Shinobu mutters as she slips out of her geta, "Four broken ribs."

Kyojuro's nostrils flare. "You said nothing about the sort."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I told you I was sparing you the details."

Mitsuri's bright eyes dart between the two of you — a little bit of giddiness blooming at the sight of Kyojuro looking so worried about their fellow Dream Hashira. 

He slides a look towards Kocho. Then rolls his shoulders. With a sigh, he moves to stand, the water lapping at his waist. You decidedly find the edge of the onsen very interesting as you try to coach yourself through the overwhelming urge to stare. 

"I trust you'll monitor her condition, Kocho," he murmurs as he moves through the water; the words sit nicely in your heart and you feel a little pride swell at his indication that he cares if you're alright, "I'll let you ladies have some time amongst yourselves."

You catch his eyes for a second. A moment. A lingering little breath that mingles between you — like Kocho and Mitsuri aren't there. Then, he stepped from the bath and gathered his robe.

For now, the two of you will pretend earlier never happened.

For now.

Just a little thing between the two of you — and suddenly, you're not so cranky. Once the muse for exhaustion, you're now the muse of lovesickness. 

When the gate closes behind Kyojuro, Kocho speaks.

"...What was all that?"

Nevermind. The crankiness is back.

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

you didn’t try to look cool. you just were. that was the worst part of it.

you walked into a room with effortless confidence. black coat draped perfectly over your shoulders. boots heavy against the floor, and your expression calm enough that people instinctively lowered their voices when you passed.

your aura alone made people nervous.

even rudo once whispered, “why does it feel like the temperature drops when she walks in?”

but don’t get them wrong. you’re a lovely person. once people got to know you they liked you. it was just the first impression.

however — enjin was completely gone. yearning wouldn’t even scratch the surface of how badly he needed you.

in a room with thousands girls his eyes would always find yours. always. it was almost embarrassing how obvious it was.

“stop staring,” follo muttered once embarrassed.

“‘m not.”

“you haven’t blinked in like ten seconds,” rudo pointed out.

so, enjin blinked once and then continued staring.

across the room you leaned casually against the wall, arms folded while you talked to semiu. a casual conversation between two friends.

no big deal for enjin.

then gris joined them. he asked something, said something. whatever. you smiled.

big fucking deal for enjin.

immediately he straightened to, yeah, getting involved. gris was good looking, and good looking men should stay away from you.

“relax,” follo sighed. “he’s just asking about the mission tomorrow.”

“i am relaxed.”

“you’re gripping your umbrella like you consider stabbing him with it.”

enjin loosened his grip… a tiny bit. and because the universe worked that way you glanced over to him, and your eyes met instantly.

the fainted curve of amusement graced your features, like you had caught him doing something mildly embarrassing. which, to be fair, you had.

rudo groaned softly, “great, she knows.”

of course you did. you always knew.

you pushed yourself off the wall and walked over, coat shifting around your legs as the room subtly parted for you. conversations quieted, and people stepped aside without being asked.

you stopped right in front of him. up close the coolness of your presence was even worse.

okay, that was a fucking lie.

enjin could see the kindness behind your eyes, and the soft flush on your cheeks because of the alcohol you had.

still your gaze flicked over him slowly, then you tilted your head. “why are you staring.”

it wasn’t even a question.

enjin cleared his throat slightly. “I wasn’t.”

you looked at rudo and then at follo who raised both hands immediately. “we’re not involved.”

your eyes returned to enjin. “you were.”

“was not.”

you leaned closer and enjin stopped breathing for a second.

“your pupils get bigger,” you said calmly. “when you stare.”

behind you someone choked on a laugh. but enjin didn’t laugh as his ears turned faintly red.

“you’re imagining things.”

“am i?”

you reached out suddenly, fingers catching the front of his shirt collar and tugged him down slightly until he was forced to lean closer to you.

the entire room froze. rudo mumbled something about sweets. follo covered his face.

“you’re embarrassing yourself again,” you murmured quietly to enjin.

his brain stopped working. you smelled like something subtle and expensive. maybe a perfume. your expression remained perfectly composed while his pulse jumped like he had just been thrown into a fight.

“you could at least pretend to be subtle.”

“i am subtle,” he muttered.

“you were staring like a kicked puppy.”

“was not.”

your lips twitched, and it was the biggest win for enjin. he might was down bad, but he was affecting you too.

you released his collar, and for a brief moment he thought it was over. (un)fortunately for him - you were not finished.

your hand slid up instead, fingers lightly brushing his jaw before flicking his forehead. a tiny tap.

“focus,” you hummed.

enjin stood there, completely stunned. you had already turned away again, completely unbothered.

halfway across the room you glanced over your shoulder, and your eyes met his again. this time your smile was a little bit more obvious - teasing, a tiny but soft.

he was so obvious, and you were very aware of the effect you had on him.

“you’re so down bad it hurts to watch,” follo clapped enjin on the shoulder.

enjin didn’t respond, because this time you were across the room, watching him. despite the humiliation, despite the secondhand embarrassment radiating from everyone nearby his chest felt suspiciously warm.

for him you were terrifying, untouchable and too fucking cool for him. and apparently very entertained by the fact that he could barely function when you were around.

enjin exhaled slowly as he chuckled to himself.

Even at the beginning, after ending up lying on the floor from hitting his back against some surface —because killing Whitebeard was his only reason for being there—, Ace was captivated when he saw you walk by.

Was anyone else watching that woman? Or was he the only one who saw that beauty receiving the newspaper every morning?

Perhaps his biggest mistake was, of all things, deciding to be your friend, when he clearly found you beautiful from the very first day. Only when he joined Whitebeard's forces he could confirm that you weren't some kind of illusion he only saw during the morning. You were in the second division with him and you were one of the strongest women he had ever seen in combat.

"I'm division and I'm in your Ace."

You still teased him when the memory came back to your mind. The black-haired man had stuttered, running away without letting you tell him your name, consumed by embarrassment.

From that day on, you had to chase him to get him to talk to you. Ace was afraid of saying something inappropriate or making a mistake when he had you in front of him. He was lost in your gaze, in the delicacy of your features and how they all created perfect harmony. He was lost in your hair being caressed by the wind on the deck at all hours, whether you were looking for the newspaper or just having tea. He was lost in your kindness, always willing to help those in need.

You were everywhere. Wherever he looked, everything was filled with you. Did he want to steal a sandwich from the kitchen? Magically, you were helping Thatch. Did he want to ask Marco to train with him? You were spinning in the office chair with a pen in your hands. Did he decide after weeks to wash his clothes, not because he liked to do it, but because the others forced him to? You were washing yours.

If he fell asleep due to narcolepsy, he would wake up with you a few steps away from him, looking at him with concern. If he closed his eyes to enjoy the sea, his ears would burn when he heard someone calling your name in the distance. Just hearing your name threw him off balance.

He didn't want to admit that this new feeling could be what everyone called a crush. He was fine on his own. He didn't need anyone to know his deepest wounds, but he longed for your glances.

He had to give up after a month of ignoring you.

The more he ran away from the woman who made him nervous, the more she appeared.

And the more he ran away from his feelings, the stronger they became.

He thought that forcing himself to be your friend would make his mind get used to the idea, forgetting his failed heart. He cursed under his breath when he didn't succeed.

He did his best to keep that first crush from becoming his first love, but he failed. He failed again and again.

Without noticing, he began to save a place for you next to him at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You no longer belonged with Izou. Now you could only sit next to him, or he would give you a huge pout if you tried anything else. He washed his clothes more often because you taught him how to do it properly, not because you gave him the sweetest smiles anyone had ever given him while scrubbing your sheets. He trained his fire powers without wearing a shirt because he was hot, not because he knew the exact time you would walk across the deck to have tea with Izou. His fingers suddenly caught fire because he still couldn't control his fruit, not because you leaned in close to his face to sniff him and tell him he should take a bath.

You got used to each other's presence.

You told each other everything. How your day went, the silly dreams you had, Ace's nightmares, your dreams and goals for the future, your pasts, your pains, gossip about the crew. There was nothing you didn't know about each other.

You never judged him for the blood that ran through his veins. You admired his mother for enduring so much in order to protect him. You listened excitedly to his childhood adventures, telling him he was a walking disaster. You were captivated by his smile when he talked about his little brother, Luffy, who would set sail in a few years. You even supported the younger boy's dream, wanting to see him when he fulfilled it.

More than anything, to see more of that smile. Hadn't anyone told him that it shone brighter under the moon? Happiness suited him well.

And yet, you both swore you didn't love each other.

Everyone could see it, but you wouldn't admit it. Afraid of ruining your friendship. Afraid of rejection. Because what if Ace confessed his feelings and you only saw him as a friend? Or what if you didn't want to cross any lines because he was your commander? And what if you confessed and Ace saw you as nothing more than a girl he felt comfortable being vulnerable with, but not pretty enough to be his girlfriend?

Those insecurities came true after a year of being friends.

Ace no longer looked at you the way he used to. That fire in his eyes every time you spoke to him seemed to have gone out, only to be rekindled when he stopped at islands and went to bars. With beautiful women around him. Women wearing stunning outfits. Tight dresses, high heels, even bikini tops. Women who took the time to put on make-up, something you hadn't done in months. Going from battle to battle and only leaving the Moby Dick to buy what you needed after running out was consuming you.

Consuming your image. The woman you used to be.

As evening fell, most of the crew abandoned ship. Once again, they had stopped at this tropical island. At first, you thought it was incredible, the weather was ideal for wearing your new denim overalls. You weren't hot in them, and you were relaxed. It was good for you to be able to rest for a few hours without having to worry about any pirates who might have the courage to attack a yonko.

You hadn't realised how out of place you were until you walked into the bar and saw him. Ace with a woman sitting on his lap, talking to him so closely. Shaking her head when he said something, getting a pout from him. Those pouts he only gave you.

You thought it was fine. He had every right to date whoever he wanted. You were just his friend, his crewmate, and worse, he was your commander.

But seeing him with the same woman not once, but three different times in the last two months was forcing you to steel yourself so your confidence wouldn't waver. Suzu? Suzy? It was always the same woman. And always the same scene. A whisper here and there, a touch on his shoulder, a pout from him, a giggle from her. You had to tolerate it all, sitting at a table with Marco and Izou, drinking with a frown on your face.

"Why don't you do something if it bothers you so much-yoi? You'll burn a hole in each of their foreheads if you keep staring at them like that."

The jealousy that consumed you prevented you from denying your feelings. Your silence was enough to confirm to Marco and Izou what they already knew. You were in love with the new boy.

"Tomorrow is Vista's birthday. He'll want to go back to the bar." Izou commented, drinking his liquor.

"Oh? Then tomorrow you'll confess-yoi." Marco patted your back, making you blush.

"I won't do anything like that." You quickly denied. "Can't you see? He likes that girl, Suzo."

"It's Suzy, and he doesn't like her." Izou put his glass down on the table and looked at you. "I'll help you."

"Help me with what?"

"To get him to confess."

Marco chuckled, crossing his arms.

"Do you really think Ace, of all people, is going to be the first to confess?"

You looked at both men doubtfully. The first commander would keep the plan a secret. He enjoyed a good, slow-developing love story. Or so said everyone who had known him for years. As for the handsome man from Wano in front of you... You didn't understand what he might want to do.

"Just go with the flow tomorrow." He said with a smile.

If you woke up the next day with an unbearable migraine, the commander of the sixteenth division didn't care.

He opened the door to your cabin after knocking, entering with a glass of water, an ibuprofen, and a breakfast full of fruit. Your mouth watered as you grabbed the tray with a grateful smile. You were biting into a piece of banana when you felt his gaze on you.

"What's wrong?" You asked after drinking some water.

"Do you still have them?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

Izou sat down in front of you on your bed. He ignored your just woken-up appearance. Your hair was a mess and your T-shirt was slightly drooled on.

"The miniskirts you always bought. I know you didn’t throw them away. You just stopped wearing them."

A soft "oh" escaped your lips. You had stopped wearing them because they weren't the most comfortable if you wanted to kick someone. Izou smiled.

"Where are they?"

"In the wardrobe, bottom drawer."

You continued eating breakfast while watching the man rummage through your clothes. You had a few nice items that you had bought on different islands and that crew members had given you for your birthdays. Some were hideous to look at, but you couldn't blame Jozu or Vista for not knowing your taste.

Mini skirt after mini skirt fell in front of you on the bed. Izou was impressed. He remembered seeing you wearing some, like the black one or the denim ones. Before Ace arrived (or a month before him, he couldn't quite remember), it was normal for you to wear them without shame. He assumed that every woman reached a point where she wanted to be comfortable and not have perverts looking up her skirt. Everyone in the crew respected you and looked after you like a younger sister, but the number of times it happened to you on different islands was countless.

Some men didn't know how to be men.

"You have so many unworn ones." He said, pulling out the last five.

"I bought that fur one two months ago."

"Are you still buying miniskirts and not wearing them?" Izou looked at you with a frown.

"I bought the red pleated one a week ago."

The commander looked at one on the bed. It had an asymmetrical cut. On one side it was extremely short, but on the other it was a little longer.

"It would barely cover anything..."

"It's cute, isn't it?"

The man from Wano took care of everything.

He analysed every part of you as if he knew something you didn't. As if everything had exasperated him and this was his last attempt.

Ace and you had been affectionate with each other for a whole year, getting too close to the point of invading each other's personal space, getting nervous when your eyes drifted down to each other's lips, blushing and walking away, silently longing for each other. A silence that no one in the crew could bear any longer. Someone had to take a pair of scissors and cut it off if none of you did. And that someone would be Izou.

You could hear the running in the hallway, the excited shouts, the birthday wishes and the fun. Night had fallen and anxiety played with your heart, squeezing it and making it race. Your hands sweated as you clenched your knees. You felt the brushes running over your skin, being used by Izou's magical hands. No one could do makeup better than him. He had given you lessons when you were fourteen and had just joined the crew.

He looked at you one last time, admiring you.

"You're beautiful, kiddo." The tenderness in his smile made your cheeks flush.

You stood up and took a deep breath. Summoning your courage, you left your cabin arm in arm with Izou.

Ace took a sip of his beer. His gaze darted back and forth to the bar door. When would you arrive? Although it would be better if you didn't. He looked at Suzy sitting next to him, distracted, staring at her girlfriend behind the bar. She looked so entranced, as if the woman making drinks meant the whole world to her. He wondered if that's how he looked when he looked at you. He hoped not. You would find out sooner that he loved you, and he couldn't bear it...

"Stop doubting so much." Suzy kicked him. His girlfriend looked at them mockingly. "You promised to do it today."

"I can't." He whispered, turning in his chair to look at the couple.

"Yes, you can. Do it like you practised." Suzy scolded.

"The way you did it yesterday was perfect." Her girlfriend said, taking his beer glass away to refill it.

Ace banged his head against the bar, growling. He looked at his friend with a pout.

"Do you really think she got jealous?" He whispered.

"If her giving me those looks doesn’t mean she’s jealous and has feelings for you, then I don’t know what does."

"You’re pathetic when it comes to her." Said the woman behind the bar.

"So are you!" Replied Ace.

The three of them continued arguing for a few more minutes, laughing and shouting as Suzy pulled Ace's hair. Becoming friends with those two had been what opened his eyes. Before he knew Suzy had a girlfriend, he debated his feelings. Was his heart beating fast because you were the only woman his age in his division? Could it be that he was confusing everything and if he had another female friend he would fall in love with her too? No matter how many excuses he tried to make for himself so as not to face his longing, he could no longer deny it.

He was hopelessly in love with you.

He reached out his hand to take the beer Suzy was passing him just as he turned his head towards the door.

His powers activated unintentionally and flames shot out of his fingers, burning his friend's hand. The girl let out a scream and the beer fell to the floor. He apologised quickly while the woman behind the bar checked for any serious injuries. Luckily, she was fine.

"Idiot! What the hell is wrong with you now?" The girl growled, hitting his shoulder.

His body froze.

The same feeling that overwhelmed his senses the first time he saw you receiving the newspaper on the deck, while he pretended not to want to be on that ship, flooded him. The same feeling of seeing an illusion in front of him. So ethereal that you couldn't exist on the same plane as him. So incomparable that he couldn't have the privilege of having your heart, if he ever had it.

He only felt capable of admiring you, unable to speak to you without ruining it. A compliment would not come out of his mouth. A stutter would. You looked beautiful in your cute denim overalls, or in your long white skirts that distracted him as they responded to the wind with a gentle movement. With your natural face and your hair combed or tousled. But this. This woman in front of him could not be his friend. Yes, you could. But at the same time, no.

You couldn't come in wearing a red corset that emphasised your assets, or black boots with heels that high, or that black miniskirt...

A miniskirt.

He felt his face burn. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. From the most innocent to the craziest and most daring. Would it be weird if he asked you for a kick with those boots? And what would he do if you approached him with that pronounced cleavage? Could he keep his eyes up? And worse, what would he do to avoid looking at your thighs? Where had you been hiding them all this time? Ace loved thighs. Depriving him of such a view wasn't fair.

He wanted to admire you. And he didn't want to look like a weirdo.

You couldn't play with his heart like that.

He turned in his chair when the whistles started. He would do what he did best when you made him nervous. Ignore you.

Suzy smirked as she took a sip of her drink. She leaned against the bar, her elbows resting on the surface as she played with her long hair.

"She's hot." She said. Ace bit his lip. "If you don't do something tonight, then my girlfriend and I will make a move."

"Do you think she's into women too?" Her girlfriend asked, drying a glass.

The freckled man glared at them both. They loved to tease him with jokes like that. But he didn't know how much of a joke it would be if someone else did it. Any man in this bar who wasn't part of the crew would be willing to talk to you. To flirt with you. He couldn't bear to see that.

"Is this my birthday present!?" Vista shouted, hugging you when he saw you.

You smiled shyly, holding up a bag.

"This one is."

The man sighed in defeat as he took the bag from your hand.

"I preferred you."

"You look beautiful-yoi." Said Marco, smiling broadly when he saw you like that.

"I did a good job, but all the credit goes to her and her beauty." Izou told the doctor, sitting down next to him.

"Ten thousand berries for a date with you." Haruta proposed, approaching you. "And I'll take care of all your work for the month."

"I don't accept."

"I'll do it for you." He insisted.

"I don't accept."

"I'll clean the deck and wash the sheets."

"I don't accept."

The commanders laughed and the man surrendered, sitting down with the others. You were comfortable sitting among them. Your family. The home you belonged to. You couldn't change the affection and love with which they had welcomed you, opening their doors without caring about your past or who you were. In Whitebeard's crew, everyone was treated with respect. They were all brothers. They would not judge you without reason, and that reason was only betrayal.

You spent an hour with them, celebrating Vista's birthday, listening to his bad jokes and keeping score in his drinking contest with Jozu. Thatch had prepared the food even though the bar could have done so, but he said something about it being too much work for these poor people to feed everyone. No one could do it better than him, who knew everyone's appetite. Marco and Izou were talking to each other, Haruta was talking to some women at a table who welcomed him kindly, and the one who was usually the life of the party was nowhere to be seen.

You looked for him with your eyes.

You had prepared yourself to get a reaction from him.

Everyone had seen you come in. Everyone had complimented you.

And you knew you looked beautiful. You had chosen pretty clothes from your wardrobe. Normal enough that others wouldn't think you did this to impress someone, but eye-catching enough to get at least a "you look pretty tonight" from him.

Which you weren't achieving.

Through that sea of people, you managed to find him sitting at the bar.

Ignoring you.

You wore a miniskirt. Why was he the only one who didn't notice? Why wasn't he impressed? You weren't wearing the same old thing, you had gone back to your old clothes, the ones that had caused you so many problems.

You had done it for him, and he didn't even dare to look at you. But he did look at the woman next to him. Suzy again. You were tired. What should you do? Approach him? Sit next to him? Introduce yourself as his best friend, like a woman in love to make her feel insecure? You weren't like that.

Frustration tried to take over your face, forcing you to smooth out the frown between your eyebrows and smile. You mustn't show that something was bothering you, Izou had advised. "Go with the flow, don't force anything." It was stupid advice. You didn't know how to behave normally around him since you admitted your feelings for yourself. But still, still, you had to try.

Suzy watched your every move out of the corner of her eye. You didn't seem upset. You didn't seem to be seeking his attention while smiling at others, but she saw through your indifference. Maybe it was her lesbian superpower. If she told her girlfriend, she'd get a smack on the head, but she really did catch every glance you made. Even if you did it surreptitiously, while eating something, she noticed your glances at Ace.

She smiled and nudged him.

"Your princess is coming."

The dark-haired man choked on his beer.

Your warm presence taking the stool next to him made his blood run cold. He kept his head down, staring at his beer. Big mistake.

His gaze went straight to your thighs. That position gave him the perfect view to let his mind wander, to let his thoughts have free rein. Your skin looked soft, smooth, almost delicate. The way you moved and pressed them together begged him to please put his hand on them. To give them a gentle squeeze. To force you to stay still.

He bit his lip. Your miniskirt rode up, letting him appreciate you more. How would they look wrapped around his hips while you were in his bed? How would they look if you were on top of him? What facial expression would you make if he squeezed them until they hurt? Would you like it, or would you tell him you hated it?

You said something he didn't catch at the time. Maybe you were asking for a beer? How would you react if you were sleeping together and suddenly felt his chest pressed against your back, his hands on your thighs, and how, slowly, without alarming you, he guided his member between them? Would you prefer the friction to be gentle, or would you let him do everything at his own pace? Hard, as you squeeze him tighter...

"Ace? I'm talking to you."

He shook his head and looked up. You were looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and that made him shift. He hoped he hadn't gotten hard. He couldn't get hard just from that sight, but then again, did no one see the woman next to him?

"Y/N! I'm sorry." His gaze drifted slightly down to your cleavage and he blushed, looking away.

He couldn't do it today.

You touched his cheek with your index finger, drawing his full attention back to you. You liked having it.

"A berrie for your thoughts?"

Suzy glanced at her girlfriend, and they both moved to the other end of the bar, giving them some space. The girlfriends smiled.

"They make a cute couple."

"I still wanted to invite her for a threesome." Suzy murmured, pretending to be disappointed. Her girlfriend rolled her eyes.

"Not in a million years would I share you."

Ace took a sip of his beer. It was almost empty. He could have sipped the rest more slowly, then he wouldn't have had to talk to you, but your question had been so direct. And you were looking at him with those sweet eyes. He couldn't ignore you.

He put his glass down on the table and turned on his stool to face you.

It was now or never.

He had practised it.

He had planned it.

He opened and closed his lips several times, until in a trembling voice he let out what was troubling him.

"Y/N, I need to tell you something."

Your heart skipped a beat. His knee brushed against your bare thigh. Neither of you paid any attention to it, not when Ace was struggling between wanting to look at your thighs, rejecting his dirty thoughts about you, and ignoring the other thoughts that were screaming at him between laughs that you would reject him.

Why did you have to come like this today of all days?

"Here? It's too noisy, I can't hear you, Ace." You said, moving a little closer to him.

He had the reflex to choke on his saliva. The gentle movement gave him the pleasure of seeing how well that corset suited you.

"Eh... Outside. Yes. Outside." He muttered, blushing.

He waited for you to get off the stool, following you from behind like a guard dog. It was a habit he'd had for a long time. It was done on all the islands. You in front, him behind, glaring at anyone who looked at you. Without you noticing. He would have died of embarrassment if you found out how protective he was of you.

His steps were suddenly clumsy as he stared at your legs. He could swear he heard the sound of your heels with every step you took above the music. Or maybe he was always so immersed in your existence that he began to imagine things. Like the gentle sway of your hips. Or was it the miniskirt? Why was it so short? His face grew hotter. He was a pervert. Would you consider him a weirdo if he complimented you?

The commanders watched the two of you pass in front of them and remained silent, their eyes wide.

"I'll start the bet, ten thousand berries that Y/N will confess first." Said Vista, placing the berries on the table in front of them.

Marco heard Izou laugh and raised an eyebrow.

"Should I bet the same as you-yoi?"

"We'll win." Whispered the man with long hair.

"How can you be so sure?" He whispered back.

Izou smiled as he watched his friends getting excited. Today, the suffering would finally be over. And a new one would begin: having to watch the younger crew members kissing in every corner and being affectionate in front of everyone. Even more annoying, but less exasperating.

"The girl Suzy that Y/N was jealous of? She's a lesbian. Her girlfriend is the girl who works at the bar. I found out about Ace a month ago." He murmured, drinking his sake. "He's been practising all this time with Suzy to confess his feelings. If you could have seen the look of defeat on his face every time those two told him he was disgusting when he expressed himself."

"Are you kidding?"

When he denied it, Marco burst out laughing.

"Only an idiot like Ace would practise a confession." Izou concluded.

Both commanders bet on the freckled boy, keeping a secret between them.

The blizzard that hit your body when you left the bar took you by surprise. In the two months you had been on this tropical island, you had rarely felt the wind. The heat in the morning was dry and unbearable, so you avoided leaving the Moby Dick. But at night you loved walking through its dirt streets. The villagers watered them and it was relaxing for the body.

Ace adjusted his hat as he heard the relieved sigh you let out. He smiled amusedly.

"You really hate crowded places, huh?"

"It was Vista's birthday, I couldn't miss it." You said, walking beside him.

The streetlights were made of paper lanterns. Every night, someone was in charge of lighting them one by one. It wasn't something you would see in a kingdom, among nobles with so much fortune. But even so, this was a thousand times better. It was cosy. The warm light they gave off did not compete with the power and beauty of the full moon, which illuminated everything, without discriminating against a single corner.

Seeing you distracted, Ace ran towards the field of flowers, picking some. He did not know their names. He only knew they were not roses, and that was better for him. He could cut you if he gave them to you with their thorns.

He returned to your side when you looked at him, hiding something behind his back.

The bar was far behind you now, the shouting of the celebration and the music long lost.

You tilted your head to one side curiously.

"What are you doing? What are you hiding?"

Ace licked his lips before smiling broadly at you. Standing under a paper lantern, the warm light highlighting his delicate freckles and closed eyes, the boy stretched out his hands towards you, holding ten red tulips between them. You noticed how they trembled slightly.

"These are I'm in love with you and I want to confess that those are for you."

You looked at him, perplexed, for a few seconds. His cheeks began to flush again, making his freckles stand out even more. Why didn't you say anything to him? Were you going to reject him? He couldn't bear rejection. He would rather die now than hear the woman who understood and appreciated him most in the world say she didn't love him.

"Did you mean that those are for me and that you're in love with me?"

Ace nodded.

"That's what I said."

"No. You said it backwards."

The black-haired boy blushed, losing the desire to speak. There was no coming back from a mistake like that. You were going to reject him. You were definitely going to reject him. Who would want to date someone like him who couldn't string two sentences together or make his first confession without stuttering or mixing up his words? How could a woman like you, whom he had always seen as an illusion and who had given him the privilege of being her friend, want his rotten heart?

You ran your finger over the crease between his eyebrows, bringing him back to reality, away from his destructive thoughts. You let out a little giggle, looking at him tenderly.

"That brought back memories."

"Huh?"

When he tilted his head to one side, you stroked his hair.

"That's how you introduced yourself. Hi, I'm division and I'm in your Ace?"

Ace nodded slowly as he remembered. Would you tease him again? You wouldn't accept, right? His eyes never left yours, silently yearning. He was altered when he saw you smile.

He watched you every second. When you stole one of the flowers from him, when you took a step away from him, when you stretched out your hands offering him the flower.

His heart leapt with joy, unable to contain itself.

"Hi, I'm in love with you and I'm in your Y/N."

The black-haired boy shook his head, smiling broadly again. He grabbed the flower and put it with the others, pulling your arm to catch you in a strong hug.

"You're an idiot."

"I just imitated what you did. You're the idiot, if anything."

"Is this how we're going to be from now on? Verbally abusing your boyfriend?"

"How is it abuse if I'm just imitating you?" You complained.

"You're not allowed to imitate me."

"Are you afraid I'll do it better than you?" You asked, looking him in the eyes.

"You can't be better than the original."

"Okay, then let me put it another way." You caressed his cheek softly. "Portgas D. Ace, I'm in love with you. I have been for a long time."

The man let out a nervous laugh, unsure of how to act. Your eyes were full of sincerity. Your tone was full of love. He knew he had to believe you, and he knew that little by little, you would both be able to talk more about your feelings. Like you always did. You told each other everything, so sooner or later you would end up confessing your innermost secrets. When the two of you fell in love with each other. What you liked most about each other. What you wanted for your relationship. There was so much to do now that you had finally crossed the line of friendship.

Ace broke the hug, squeezing your cheek.

"Shall we go back to the ship? I really want to talk."

"Aren't you drunk?" You asked as he put his arm around your shoulders.

He gave you the flowers and you held them close to your chest, walking beside him.

"I couldn't confess to you if I was drunk. If I got confused about the order of words when I was sober, imagine if I was drunk." He said, shaking his head.

The moonlight illuminated the path as you both took short steps towards the Moby Dick, wanting to prolong the moment.

"It went pretty well." You admitted.

"I was scared. I won't tell Suzy, she won't leave me alone."

"Suzy?" You mumbled, biting your lip. What did she have to do with all this?

"The lesbian from the bar. I practised with her for two months how to confess. I had everything prepared and it didn't work out. I was going to give a monologue about how much I love you."

You blinked twice. Was the girl sitting on his lap a lesbian all along? You thought for a few seconds. You had noticed the looks she was giving a certain girl behind the bar, but you thought they were just friends. You were an idiot for not realising sooner, succumbing to jealousy.

"She has a girlfriend, right?"

Ace looked at you.

"If we ever come back and they suggest a threesome, your answer has to be no. I'm your boyfriend now."

You smiled amusedly.

"You didn't ask me to be your girlfriend."

"Who needs that? We love each other. Unless you like formalities, and I know you don't. But I'll ask anyway." Ace squeezed your cheek. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

"You can." You said.

The freckled man kissed your cheek, walking with a full heart. Every now and then you pushed each other with your hips, laughing as you talked nonsense. You were surprised at how natural it felt. You were still the same as always, but with other actions allowed. With other feelings on display. But it was still Ace and you, inseparable, unbreakable, fitting together like two perfect pieces of a puzzle.

You leaned against him, sighing contentedly.

"Can we sleep together tonight? I want to touch your thighs under the sheets."

"Ace, what the hell?"

"It's that miniskirt's fault!"

Huffing, you pull out your phone. If Sukuna is going to ignore you, you'd find entertainment elsewhere.

You started texting Aiko a few weeks ago—a guy from your psych class who had been flirting with you for months. The conversation escalates quickly, fueled by your irritation and a need to feel seen.

Within twenty minutes, the texts turn scandalous.

Aiko wants pictures. Specifically, he wants you in your shirt and your underwear. You couldn't refuse when he promised to send you a voice note of him jerking off to it after.

The guy has a sexy voice, okay?

So you shimmy out of your jeans, tossing them onto Sukuna's coffee table just to be annoying, but he doesn't even spare it a glance.

You try posing against the wall, but the lighting is crap. Then you try a mirror selfie, but your arms aren't long enough to get the angle you wanted. A low angle doesn't work either because there's nowhere to prop your phone up.

Now you need assistance.

“Ryomen, seriously, get off the game and help me with something,” you demand.

“Unless you're on fire, suffer in silence.”

That is it. You lunge but you don't go for him—you know better—you went for the controller. With a practiced swipe, you snatch it from his big, unsuspecting hands.

“You little brat,” he hisses. The headset flies off as he reaches for you.

He tackles you right off the couch. A shriek of laughter rips from you as you land on the carpet with a heavy thud.

Sukuna is a brute, all heavy muscle and rough edges, but you're fast. You squirmed, tucking the controller against your chest and rolling away.

“Give it back before I throw you out the window!” he snarls, crawling over you, his big hands grappling for your wrists.

“Make me, you oversized gremlin!” you cackle, kicking at his legs and wriggling through the gap between his arms.

Every time you weasel your way out of his grasp like a wet bar of soap, Sukuna grows more and more frustrated. It's thrilling each time he slaps his hands down on your thighs and pulls you back or grabs you by the ankles and drags you down like a monster under the bed.

You wrestle across the floor, a chaotic mess of limbs and insults. Sukuna is genuinely pissed, his face flushed, but you just keep laughing, fueled by the adrenaline of the scrap.

Finally, he manages to trap your legs with his own and plant his heavy chest over yours, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

He's heaving, ready to unleash a fresh string of profanities, when he actually looks down. His eyes travel from your flushed, laughing face to the thin fabric of your camisole, and then down to the tiny scrap of cotton that is all you have on below the waist.

“What the fuck, woman?” his voice drops an octave, turning gravelly as his lip curls and his carmine eyes squint. “Where are your pants? Why the hell are you running around my place half-naked?”

“None of your business, you giant meathead,” you pant, still trying to buck him off. “I'm trying to take pictures for Aiko, you idiot! Now get off, you're crushing my ribs!” You thrash under him, your dewy thighs sliding against his sweatpants.

Sukuna doesn't move to get up and return to his game that his friends, Gojo, Toji and Geto are definitely fighting for their lives in without him.

In fact, he presses down harder, his entire body weight and line of muscle crushing you. His crimson gaze darkens as he feels you squirming beneath him, and you feel a sudden, heavy pressure against your hip.

Sukuna is hard—rock hard.

Glancing down, his gaze catching the dark spot on your gusset. “You’re fucking kidding me. You’re wet for this guy?” he sneers, his voice sounding like grinding stones.

His hand moves from your wrists, sliding down to your clothed mound, the pads of his fingers pressing into the soaked fabric of your panties.

“It's from the texts,” you explain flatly even as your heartbeat drops between your thighs, beating in your clit, your breath hitching. “I was sexting Aiko.”

Arching a rosy brow, the pink-haired man regards you with that disarming stare he uses to get you to admit to a lie.

“Is that right?” He gives a low, predatory chuckle that brushes over your skin as he retracts his hand. “Texting didn't do this. I did.”

He still doesn't let you up. Instead, he shifts, giving a few slow, deliberate humps between your thighs. The insults die in your throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

The atmosphere shatters. Your ‘friendship' is still there, but it is being crushed under the weight of four years of suppressed tension.

“What are you doing?” you ask, eyes flitting over the ink lining his face, dragging up to his hooded gaze that's unfazed as if his hips are not rolling against yours in a lazy rhythm.

Lifting a shoulder, he shrugs. “You were grinding on me, figured I'd return the favor.”

Gaping, you sputter. “I was trying to buck you off.”

“Same difference.”

In an attempt to not seem so easy, you shove at his chest that has little to no give which only makes heat pool in your gut and the front of his sweatpants damper.

“Aww, playing hard to get?”

“Shut up, Ryomen,” you fire back but it ends on a needy whine when his clothed cock nudges your puffy clit, slipping between your folds that are actually way more slippery than you thought.

The noise has his scarlet irises gleaming. “Oh? What was that?”

The playfulness is gone, replaced by a suffocating, cloying heat. Dazed, the corners of your vision blur as you buck your hips up against his, rubbing yourself up and down the line of his cock that's getting harder and harder, throbbing and hot.

Reaching up, you cup his pecs and squeeze, wrapping your legs around his waist and grinding more intentionally, blood rushing in your ears as your heart thuds against your ribs. The friction is delicious but not enough.

As if reading your thoughts, Sukuna slips a hand down and frees himself from the confines of his sweats, the sight of his angry red, pierced cock beading with pearly precum making your eyes widen.

He doesn't put it in; he just starts rubbing the bejeweled head of his cock over the thin fabric of your panties that are now translucent, right where you're aching for it. Your pussy practically eats up your underwear as the barbells of his piercings run back and forth over your slit.

“You want to send him pictures?” Sukuna growls. He roughly shoves your top towards your chin to expose your jiggling tits.

Palming them greedily with his heavy, calloused hands, he pinches your knobby nipples until you let out a whimpering cry. “You want to show him what you look like?”

“Ah-hh, yeah,” you breathe shakily, brows knotting in a pained expression as he tugs and twists at your buds, not liking your answer.

Something deep and dark rumbles from his chest in disapproval as his pace picks up, your body bouncing with it as his cock abuses your flickering clit over your sopping underwear, drawing mewls and gasps from your throat.

Your cunt clenches around nothing and you know he'd be punching your cervix if he was inside you right now. The thought sends another rush of slick sleeping between your thighs.

With a soft thud, your head hits the floorboards, cushioned by the halo of your hair, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. You aren't supposed to do this—you are supposed to be watching a series, being platonic.

“Does he know how much of a brat you are? Does he know you're dripping for your best friend on a Friday night?”

You couldn't even form a witty comeback this time. Back arching, you grind your hips against him as he continues to toy with you, his movements aggressive and demanding. The friction is unbearable as the pressure touches every nerve ending you'd been trying to ignore.

Breathless moans and airy pants pour out of you both as you move together on the floor, the controller forgotten nearby, until the friction pushes you both over the edge.

Sukuna groans as stars burst behind your eyelids, his pace quickening until he shudders, warm ropes of pearlescent cum splattering across your stomach and heaving breasts.

He stays there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck. Then he grabs your phone from the floor and snaps a photo of you—face flushed, glazed eyes half-lidded, hair a mess, skin glistening and marked by his touch.

Tossing it onto your stomach with a light smack, he scoffs.

“There,” Sukuna drawls, standing up, pulling up his pants and stretching before swiping his controller like nothing had happened. “Send him that. Tell What's-His-Face I said you're busy.”

Your boyfriend was unbearably attractive.

Physically, he was sin on two legs. Tall—one of the tallest people you’d ever met—but not in the lanky way. His shoulders were broader than most doorways he passed through, often forcing him to angle himself just to be able to enter a room.

And whenever you touched him, you couldn’t believe it was actually allowed—that this was your normal now. Feeling the fit, hard lines of his physique under his clothes whenever he pulled you close never failed to steal your breath.

Piercing, golden eyes. Sharp undercut—you could go on and on. But seeing him like this… in action, a thin sheen of sweat glowing on his naked skin—it was downright unfair.

His shirt was tossed on some random bench, muscles flexing and pulsing with heat as he powered through his final set on the bench press.

The weight lowered toward his heaving chest, calloused hands gripping the bar with effortless control. You’d seen him dominate on the field more times than you could count—but this display of raw, physical strength was something else entirely.

As a spotter, it would’ve been quite important for you to pay attention—and you were technically paying attention. If there was anything you certainly were doing it was paying very close attention. 

To the wrong things, maybe—but at least you were paying attention.

An inch from his chest, the bar shot upward again, biceps bulging and pecs contracting under the strain, tattoos stretching and warping across his skin with every flex of his body.

You remembered the first time you’d ever seen his tattoos—after he’d made your legs shake so badly he’d had to carry you to the bathroom so you could shower together.

It was more than you’d ever dared to imagine. 

Abstract shapes of black and red spread over the entirety of his broad back, blooming down the lengths of his arms into beautiful, cloud-like patterns. 

You might or might not have had an idea of where his ink adorned his body, but one detail still caught you off guard—an intricate, circular motif right in the center of his chiseled abdomen.

The soap left for a rinse on your own skin was long forgotten.

Water ran down his alluring physique, moving along the curves of his muscular body and it did absolutely nothing to soothe your own from coming down its rather recent high—the high he was responsible for. He was to blame for.

A singular droplet cascaded down the sharp bone of his cheek. Past his jawline, his pretty neck, before continuing along the apex of his broad chest and the ripples of his toned stomach—

“See something you like?” 

Your gaze shot back up to his devilishly handsome face, smugly smiling down at you as he rinsed off his body wash, bits of soap and bubbles glistening on his wet skin and individual beads of water accumulating at the tips of his dirty blond hair and falling before him. 

He was living, breathing sex. 

And he’d proven it again. 

Of course, that wasn’t all you appreciated about him. 

He always found a way to be affectionate, no matter the occasion. Whether you were out on a date, curled up in bed, or just hanging out with the other cleaners, his arm would be draped over your frame, or his hand would rest lightly on your thigh.

You adored how he’d grown into more of a show-off in polluted zones whenever you were out on missions together, pulling out all stops against trash beasts just to impress you—you’d pretend not to notice just to annoy him, but you definitely did. 

And you loved how he wasn’t afraid to call you his girlfriend.

Instead of calling you by name, he’d refer to you simply as his girlfriend. It wasn’t, “[Y/n] handled that trash beast really well.” From him, it usually sounded a lot more like, “My girlfriend made that thing her bitch.”

But the truth was he hadn’t laid those hands on you since that time he had you breathless and chanting his name—and it was getting harder and harder to watch him be all hot and sweaty without feeling your thighs tense with restless want and not also notice how fit he was.

Winding down in your room had been so nice and relaxing—until he decided to shatter your day with his unchecked sex appeal. 

You wanted him. Bad.

He was treating you like a precious wallflower when what you really wanted was for him to pin you down, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and make every nerve in your body ache with a mix of pain and pleasure.

He’d long proven to you that he was capable of that—you’d never expected him to keep his hands off you now. 

Quite the opposite.

Toeing the line between not forcing him into bed and still getting the point across that you wanted him to drill you into the mattress was proving to be more difficult than expected. 

Your hands were more than full just trying to keep your clothes on while watching him lift heavy weights.

“Fuck,” he groaned, lowering the bar back onto the rack with careful precision, before sitting up on the bench, wrapping up his final set.

As if that hadn’t cut straight through you, your feet moved on their own, carrying the towel you’d been holding onto around the construct to hand it to him. “Why’d you even call me here? You didn’t need my help at all.”

Also, being this damn sexy in front of your twitching, frustrated girlfriend was currently illegal. 

The corner of his lips quirked up as he dragged the towel over his chest—and you couldn’t even pretend to focus, because fuck… he looked like he’d been ripped straight out of a magazine. 

“Are you mad I didn’t get hurt?” he mused.

“M’not mad,” you admitted, pulse ringing in your ears. “I don’t think I could’ve helped you even if I wanted. You lift more than I weigh, I think.”

An eyebrow quirked, clearly curious. “What do you weigh?”

Turning your attention back to the bar, you ran your hands over the plates, trying to calculate how much you’d have to take off.

Carefully, you slid a few plates off, one by one, the metal discs clinking against one another as they came free—first on one side, then the other. You stepped back, giving the bar a measured glance. “About this much?”

He glanced at the numbers for a moment, then back at you—and then at the weighted plates again, like he needed to make sure they really added up to what he thought they did. 

“You’re joking.” 

Whatever that meant. 

“I’m… really not?” 

With narrowed eyes, he laid back down onto the bench, his gaze lingering on you as he settled into position to press the weight you’d just adjusted—or rather, the weight you’d taken off—his focus sharp, tinged with a hint of disbelief.

His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the bar as he braced himself, muscles tensing like he was about to lift a mountain… and then, somehow, the bar practically floated up and down, barely offering any resistance at all.

One rep became two. Two became four. In the blink of an eye, he‘d done well over ten—and you’d completely lost track of how many times the bar had gone up and down already. 

“Damn. This is easy.”

Your focus shifted to his arms, the way the muscles contracted and relaxed with each controlled movement, cords of strength rippling beneath the skin as if every fiber of him was sculpted to perfection.

You felt your stomach twist, a bullet of pure heat shooting right through you. He was literally lifting your entire body like it was nothing. The bar floated almost on its own, his muscles flexing and rippling without really breaking a sweat at all.

His brows furrowed in amusement and a laugh escaped his lips. “I could lift this with both arms broken.” 

“Wanna bet?” You threatened. 

Without a response, he shifted his grip on the bar. It barely budged as he pressed the weight—your weight—up and down with effortless control. 

His gaze found yours again, that smug, infuriating grin still in place. 

“Wanna hop on?” he teased, just enough to make your blood boil for more than just one reason.

“You wish.”

“Mm,” he hummed, lowering the weight back onto the rack without so much as a struggle, then sitting up and swinging one leg over to the other side of the bench in one swift motion. “I should start lifting you as a warm-up.” 

His hand found yours, guiding you to stand directly in front of him, thumb softly grazing the skin of your hand as he gently looked up into your eyes. 

He had this talent—something about him—where his soft smile never really left his face, but he knew exactly how to tilt it to get under your skin. He knew how to provoke you with it, or how to annoy you with it.

And somehow, he also knew exactly how to make your heart flutter—how to make you melt.

“You’re so wound up today, baby,” he said, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the back of your hand. That faint, smug glint in his eyes stayed as he pulled you closer to stand between his legs. “What’s bothering you?”

His genuine tone and his soft puppy eyes almost made you fall to your knees. He had no idea—wasn’t even the slightest bit aware of the effect he was having on you.

You sighed. “Nothing.”

He chuckled, gently letting go of your hands as he pushed himself up and off the bench, staring you down from his usual towering height. “You sure you’re not mad at me, pretty girl?”

And even standing over you like this, chin tilted downwards to be able to get a look at you, there was nothing sharp about him. His expression stayed soft, almost concerned, like all he really wanted was to figure out how to make things right—like your comfort mattered more to him than anything else at the moment.

And that just made it so much worse.

Because while he was being patient and sweet and perfect, you could barely keep a straight line of thought together. He was out here just trying to be a good boyfriend, and meanwhile you were so hopelessly distracted by him that even forming full sentences at all came close to a miracle.

“I told you—I’m not… mad,” your voice trailed off, not entirely convinced by your own words. Although you weren’t mad—he wasn’t exactly wrong about you being worked up, either. 

“That’s good,” he murmured, slinging the towel around his neck and reaching for his shirt—whose existence you’d honestly completely forgotten about. “Can I do anything to cheer you up?”

Yeah.

But how were you supposed to tell him that for the past thirty minutes your mind had been stuck in one place—on what it felt like when his hands were on you, when he‘d pulled you into him like the hungriest man alive? On how you wanted him to take your breath away in more ways than one? 

How were you supposed to explain that just being around him lately was enough to throw you off completely—that his mere presence had your thoughts spiraling and your legs feeling unsteady in a way you couldn’t quite hide?

Like your body had already decided something long before you had the chance to?

You sighed again, shoulders dipping just a little. “Kiss me?”

“Oh?” The corner of his mouth lifted, that familiar teasing glint slipping into his eyes. “S‘that what the attitude was about? You want my attention?”

Your face warmed immediately. “Never mind, you’re insuffera—”

You didn’t get to finish.

His hand caught lightly at your side as he leaned down, closing the distance in one easy motion, lips meeting yours before you could take it back. Warm and unhurried, like he’d had all the time in the world to do exactly this.

His other hand lifted to your chin, fingers brushing softly as he tilted it just enough to guide you closer, adjusting the angle with effortless, subtle command.

Short circuit.

You could feel the heat of him through every point of contact, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you. His soft lips lingered against yours a few moments longer, each brush and press melting you into pure putty under his touch.

When he pulled back, that same smug softness lingered on his face, his fingers still resting lightly on your chin, gently tilting it so you couldn’t look away, making sure your eyes stayed locked with his.

“Should’ve just asked sooner,” he murmured.

He didn’t even know half of it.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

Enjin might’ve wanted a moment to himself with you, but that tiny skirt hugging your hips was enough to cheer him up for the time being.

You hadn’t really been able to talk to him all day—running up and down the halls, tackling one task after another, just back from a quick mission—and all that in that glorious uniform that had set this whole thing in motion in the first place.

Aside from actually being with you, nothing beat sitting in the common area, getting high, and watching you strut around in his favorite outfit like you owned the damn building. 

The type of entertainment he didn’t know he needed. 

He wasn’t even sure if you’d noticed him yet. You moved through the halls like you were in your own little world—maybe looking for something, maybe delivering something—but honestly, he didn’t know. 

And right now… he didn’t care.

His mind currently only had the capacity to imagine what would happen if he got up and dragged you to his room right now. The things he’d want to try with you. The things he’d want to do to you.

How you’d whine his name and say please so often that for the rest of the day, those two words would be all you could remember.

He could only dream. At least for now.

He leaned back into the couch, letting the haze settle in the back of his mind. The restraint only made it worse. He’d started going through more cigarettes than usual—and he already went through a lot.

The temptation was killing him, but he wanted his approach with you to be different from how he usually handled things like this. Maybe it was to prove something to himself, or maybe a part of him was afraid he might scare you off—he wasn’t even sure—but he wanted this.

He wanted to wait. For you. 

And he wasn’t really used to feeling that way about women.

And while every nerve in his body was screaming to bridge the space between you and claim you any and every second of the day, he held back. Not out of disinterest—far from it—but because this wasn’t about his satisfaction. It was about yours.

For once, he was willing to let desire simmer until you called the shots.

But the moment you’d cross that line, there’d be no guarantee for you to come out unscathed. He might just end up breaking your back—accidentally, of course. 

He’d gotten a taste of it the day he’d barged into your room like a maniac—part of him regretted it, part of him was just grateful it had happened at all. Grateful to have seen you like that. Heard you. Felt you. Tasted you.

Because—while having your thighs tighten around his head in bliss would always be worth it—maybe waiting would’ve been easier if he didn’t already know what you were like when the lights went off. 

How quickly you unraveled for him, how effortlessly you melted into his hands—like that was exactly where you were meant to be. You trusted him with all of yourself, and he hadn’t even done anything to earn it yet. At least he didn’t think so.

He’d expected you to be the type with more edge—that was how you carried yourself in every other part of your life—but he definitely wasn’t complaining.

He could handle you with edge, no doubt—maybe one day you’d feel more of a bite, and he’d bask in the pleasure of putting you in your place with nothing but commanding affection. But he just adored how completely honest and polite you could be when you begged for his attention.

If you begged him right now he wouldn’t even waste his time taking you to his room. He’d probably take you against Semiu’s desk. Or a wall. Or this couch.

Could you keep it together in your uniform? You fought in it, after all—faced down the nastiest trash storms and survived. That thing was built for chaos.

He wasn’t a trash storm, not exactly—but right now, watching you sway like that, he was pretty sure he could summon the force of one.

His need for you was borderline alarming—for him as well as for you. The longer you waited, the more wound up he’d get, and he’d already made it his personal mission to see your legs trembling by the next day.

But more than anything—he just wanted you. In every way. 

You could take a month—or even two—before finally asking, and he’d wait it out. Because even just being able to look at you like this, watch you work, and be your candid and pretty self—he was grateful to have anything of you, really.

He watched your shoulders lift and fall in a quiet sigh as your hands settled on your hips. Whatever it was you’d been working on, it looked like you’d finally finished. Or maybe you were taking a break.

As if you’d felt his gaze, you finally tilted your head toward him, eyes glinting just a little.

Your hand lifted from your side to give him a small wave, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest. It was almost laughable how easily you had this effect him. You could ask for almost anything—he’d be incapable of saying no to you. 

What got him the most, though, was knowing you felt the same way.

“Don’t you have anything to do?”

Oh. You’d walked over. Stood right in front of him, arms crossed loosely, head tilted—curious.

“Nope,” he said, leaning back into the comfort of the couch, arms draped casually over the headrests behind him, one leg lazily bent at the knee. “It’s my day off.”

“I wish,” you sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear and scratching the side of your neck. “I’m exhausted. My back is killing me.”

“How was your mission?” he asked, tilting his head, eyes tracking your every movement,

“Hm? Oh, it was good. For the most part,” you rubbed the back of your neck with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Well… Guita went kaiju without permission and getting her back was… kind of a struggle. Rudo and Zanka also started fighting over… something—I don’t even know—”

He watched you with half-lidded eyes as you recounted the events of your day. His focus wasn’t really on the details—gaze flicking to the way your features caught the light, the curve of your neck, the small gestures you made while talking.

He traced the length of your torso—over your prominent collarbones, past the swell of your chest, and down to the dip of your waist. The lines of your body, the subtle stretch of your arms… his head tilted instinctively, eyes following the curve of your hip. 

Committing your silhouette to his memory with closest attention to detail.

The haze from the blunt clouded his senses—and his judgment—for better or worse, stripping away nearly every filter and leaving him dangerously close to acting on every thought he’d been holding back.

“…Yeah, yeah, sounds intense,” he cut in, his fingers curling around yours as he gently guided you closer—before abruptly pulling you onto his lap in one smooth, fluid motion.

You froze for a heartbeat, caught between the surprise he read on your face and the warmth of him suddenly beneath you. 

His hands rested lightly on your hips—careful to keep the blunt caught between his fingers angled away from your soft skin—steadying you. There was nothing rough or forceful about it, only the small measure of proximity he allowed himself.

“Enjin…?” your voice wavered, caught somewhere between disbelief and the pull of something a little worse.

He leaned back a fraction, letting you settle fully on his lap, thumb lazily tracing circles along your hip. “Continue,” he murmured, voice low, almost amused, eyes locked on yours. “I’m listening.”

“…Like this?” 

“Yeah,” he said, lifting the blunt to his lips and taking a slow drag, eyes fixed on yours—as if the inhale carried you with it, like he was breathing you in, drawing you deep into his lungs before letting the smoke slip back out. “Why not?”

With a slight hesitation, you eased into his touch, hands rested on his chest as you continued on with your little rant—something about files that needed sorting, how Semiu needed help with something.

He liked that you felt comfortable enough to ramble on around him without a second thought, that he could give you a space to be yourself and let anything off your chest—good or bad, it didn’t matter.

He just liked hearing your voice.

Every subtle movement you made, every slight shift, made his mind race. He imagined how it would feel if you leaned closer, if you let him take the lead—if you let him cross that line he’d been dying to cross.

When would you finally ask him? 

“…pretty much done for today, so that’s nice at least. I really need to tackle my laundry, though.” Your sigh swallowed the last few words.

He hummed, dragging his attention away from just how down bad he was and back to you—to the conversation at hand. “Could I sneak some of mine in with yours?”

“Depends,” you said after a moment’s thought. “What do I get in return?”

“Mm, great question.” He leaned back slightly, his hands running along the warmth of your bare thighs, fingertips teasing beneath the hem of your skirt before pulling away again. “What would you like, pretty girl?”

He could read it in the subtle shifts of your body, the way his hands on you made you grow restless. He wasn’t going to initiate anything—but you were tempting as hell, and he couldn’t be blamed for wanting to touch you, even if only in quiet affection. Not his fault it affected you the way it did.

Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy seeing you squirm in his lap like this.

“Can I… be honest?” Your eyes dropped, watching your fingers toy nervously with the loose fabric of his sweater. It looked like you’d already thought of something—just searching for the right way to say it.

“Of course, babygirl.” His hands slid up to rest fully on your hips, measured and controlled, like a quiet reminder that he could move you himself if he wanted to. “Anything you want.”

He felt you shift in his lap and tried—unbelievably hard—not to notice the friction.

He was dying to know what it would feel like to have you like that—pressed against him, wrapped around him. Watching you come undone was a sight in itself, and more than once had he caught himself thinking back to that time he’d focused on nothing but you, because it had been the only thing he’d wanted to do.

But he couldn’t help but wonder what you’d look like once you chose to take him there, too.

Probably real fucking pretty.

Your back arched naturally into the shape of his hands as your gaze found his again. He couldn’t help the flicker of expectation that stirred in his chest. Whatever thoughts drifted behind your slightly dazed eyes, you seemed more than content right where you were. 

The subtle tension you both agreed not to mention—hanging there, unspoken. The way his hands held you, the grip growing just a little firmer with each passing second. Your small, restless movements in his lap, nervous and barely contained.

Then you sighed.

“Maybe some company while I do the laundry?”

He blinked. Once. Twice. 

“Damn,” he said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips, loosening his grip slightly as one hand reached up to the back of his neck. “Kinda thought you’d ask me to kiss you again.”

Or a little beyond that.

He felt your back straighten in a quick, almost imperceptible twitch. Your subtle nervous energy flared for a moment, then faded just as fast—but not before he caught it.

“I think you’re the one who wants to kiss me, Enjin.”

He took another drag from the blunt, a soft hum escaping instinctively. Then, letting the smoke drift out, he stretched both arms back along the headrest, tilting his head and releasing a low sigh that mingled with the curling smoke.

“M’not denying that.” He wanted a lot more than just kiss you—but you didn’t need to know. Not yet. 

“If you want one why don’t you ask?”

His head tilted back up, taking in the sight of you once more. The skirt rode up just slightly with the way your legs rested over his, your back still arched as if his hands were holding you, as if he’d molded you into place.

“Alright, then, pretty girl.” A faint grin tugged at his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

“Mm,” you murmured, as if in thought, adjusting yourself slightly on his lap. “No.”

He blinked again. Once. Twice.

A smug smile tugged at your lips as you continued moving in his lap, and the sensation ran straight through him. He couldn’t tell if you even realized what you were doing—or if you were just naïve.

A sharp pulse ran through his body, but his face remained unreadable, almost bored, jaw set. He’d rather die before giving you a reaction.

“Wow,” he half-laughed, brow quirking in amused confusion, entirely caught off-guard. “That’s cold.”

“Yeah, well…” Your hands slid down to rest on his stomach. “…just don’t feel like it.”

And he would’ve believed you—really, he would—if you hadn’t then scooted upward just enough to position yourself in a way that was extremely unfavorable for him.

The knowing look on your face, the teasing hint of fake pity. This entire time, you hadn’t just been trying to get comfortable. You knew exactly what you were doing. 

Every little shift, every subtle movement was deliberate. The friction, the way you pressed into him—it was all to rile him up. And you had yet to stop doing it.

Now that you were sitting directly on it, he felt everything: the subtle flex of your thighs, the roll of your hips with every tilt, the way you pressed just enough to make him ache. It was intentional—he could tell—and damn if it wasn’t working. You were trying to make him cave, and every inch of him wanted to.

“Uh-huh.”

Two could play that game.

He lifted his hips effortlessly, carrying you with him, and shifted slightly in his seat. On the surface, it looked like he was just getting comfortable—but really, he wanted to send a little shock through your system. 

A soft gasp escaped you, and just like that, everything he was about to do felt entirely worth it.

“Shame,” he sighed, flicking the blunt aside, his hands finding your hips once more, settling into that firm, possessive grip. “You sure you don’t want to?”

His gaze never left yours as he began subtly guiding your movements, easing you back and forth over him. There was nowhere to go, no way to stop—you were moving exactly how he wanted, completely at his mercy.

Just the way he knew you’d crumble for him. 

A faint look of surprise crossed your face, as if you’d just realized he’d caught you in the act. It didn’t last long—soon it melted into that hazy, unfocused expression that he’d been hoping to see on your face again.

“Yeah…” you murmured, uncertain.

Yet, he picked up on you moving with him under the guidance of his hands.

Your palms pressed flat to the firm curve of his flexing stomach, grounding yourself while your head dipped as you chased the sparks of pleasure he teased from you. Every subtle press and sway had him biting back a groan, utterly captivated by the way you responded.

“Yeah? I don’t know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hands on you gripping a little firmer, a quiet warning—and a promise—of how badly he wanted more. “Looks like you’re enjoying yourself a lil’ too much for that.”

He was certain that if he let go of you right now, you’d keep moving without hesitation. He could lean back, tuck his hands behind his head, and just watch you—watch you use his body to chase your own pleasure.

So many things he could be doing to you—and all you had to do was ask.

Your heat pressed against him, and it did little to calm his own rising tension. His body responded despite his restraint, pants tightening, every nerve on edge.

“C’mere, pretty girl,” he purred, voice low and teasing, letting the warmth of his body brush against yours. “Kiss me.”

The words hung between you, loaded and intentional, and he watched, half-expecting, half-daring, as you considered whether you’d take him up on it. 

Every subtle movement you made, every flicker in your eyes, only wound the tension tighter—and he couldn’t help but revel in it.

Finding a moment of resolve, you leaned in.

And he turned his cheek.

His hands stopped you, iron-strong, holding you in place so you couldn’t move either way. You pulled back, brow furrowed in confusion, but before you could speak, he carefully nudged you to the side, letting you land on the couch with a small yelp.

“Actually,” he said, rising from the couch and stretching theatrically, “nah.”

“What?” you blinked as realization hit you square in the face. “What the fuck? That’s so rude!”

“Yeah, well,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips as he threw your own words back at you. “Just don’t feel like it, y’know?”

A blatant fucking lie—but totally worth the offended look on your face.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

“Enjin—think you can grab that box up there?” Semiu gestured toward the top layer of the tall file shelf. “Don’t think we can reach it comfortably.”

He glanced up from the papers he’d been sorting, eyes flicking to the shelf as he processed the request. “‘Course. Give me a sec.”

You watched him take a last hit of the cigarette, then press the remaining bud into the ashtray set neatly on the table. A thin plume of smoke curled from his lips as he stood, stretching his back with a slow arch after what felt like hours hunched over sorting papers.

Most of the other cleaners were tied up—training or out on missions—leaving just Semiu, Enjin, and you to tackle the mountain of overflowing files and forgotten clutter.

Usually, you didn’t mind menial tasks like this—shutting your brain off, sorting things by category, maybe letting some music run softly in the background. It was a welcome change of pace from your otherwise demanding job.

Still, even with the low bass humming through the room, your focus kept slipping from the matter at hand. You found yourself watching the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the subtle flex of his arms as he lifted the box, the smoke drifting around him like bitter fog. 

The memory of his hands on your hips lingered, impossible to shake even after days had passed—him guiding you through what was essentially dry-humping him right there in the middle of the common area.

You really couldn’t have made it clearer without drafting him a written invitation. And still—he’d pushed you off him.

To be fair—you’d started it. You couldn’t even be mad at his petty comeback; in all honesty, you’d probably have done the same if the roles had been reversed.

But that didn’t stop your pride from taking a little hit.

He’d just thrown your own game right back at you when he pushed you into the figurative cold water, and you knew you weren’t exactly in a position to fight back. You really shouldn’t have been throwing stones from the big fat glass house you were sitting in in the first place. 

Oh, well. Consequences of your own actions.

Those split seconds where everything finally clicked—the heat, the pressure, the way he felt under you—were everything. All you’d been yearning for this whole time; feeling wanted in every way—not everything but. 

And then it was gone. Replaced by a smug curve of his mouth and the maddening view of his back as he walked off like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

A ridiculous thought dawned on you—so absurd it made you wince just for entertaining it.

But the quieter, more fragile part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he even wanted to touch you at all.

He’d never been shy about who he had spent his off nights with. Not like he’d bragged about women in the past, but he certainly didn’t bother to hide the haze of his high whenever he’d returned from a rather pleasant hookup the next day. 

So why had it been so easy for him to get into bed with someone random, yet with you, he acted like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind?

Sure, he’d kiss you, hold you, let you curl up against him. But that was about as far as the physical intimacy ever went.

You didn’t even think you were being subtle about what you wanted. But still… you couldn’t exactly stroll up and say, “Hey, please fuck me!”

That just wasn’t how it worked.

One person initiated, the other caught on. It was about reading each other, noticing the signals, not spelling everything out in words.

Right?

Either way, you knew you needed space—some time to steady your nerves around him, and the closest thing to a guarantee for him to not get ambushed by you every time he did as much as roll his sleeves up.

A soft exhale left your lips as you tried—unsuccessfully—to drag your attention back to the files. Tried, that is.

You watched him straighten again, stacking the box carefully on the table, then leaning back, rubbing the back of his neck with a slow, almost distracted motion—unconscious movements that made your chest tighten and your pulse spike a little.

The smallest habits of his you’d never really noticed before made themselves apparent—the way his hand reached up to fidget with his piercings as he scanned a line of text, or the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek while he was concentrating. 

Yeah. You couldn’t be around him and then also be expected to function. At least not right now.

“Are you done with this stack?” 

Semiu appeared in your peripheral vision, leaning casually on the table as she glanced at your progress.

“Huh?—Oh, yeah,” you mumbled, blinking yourself back into focus.

“Neat, good job. Think you could carry them over to the other finished ones?” She nudged the nearest pile lightly with her fingertips. “Just to free up some space.”

“Sure,” you said, sliding the stacks toward the edge of the table, fingers squaring the corners before you moved to pick them up. “I’ll get right to—“

“Hold on,” Enjin cut in, focus half-fixed on the papers laid out in front of him.

He finished sorting the last few sheets in his hands first, tapping them into place before setting them down on their respective piles. Only then did his attention fully shift to you—to the stacks you were about to lift.

“Let me.”

He swiftly moved around the table, so much so you noticed yourself leaning back to make room. His hand brushed past yours as he took hold of the stack, steady and matter-of-fact, before dragging the stack toward himself along the tabletop.

For once, there actually was no particular intention behind it. He wasn’t trying to get a rise out of you or pull you into anything.

He was just being… attentive. Doing his job. Or rather—doing your job for you.

And it sucked, because things like this just made it so clear to you that—of course—he did care. He cared enough to always keep you at the back of his mind, to watch your movements in the corner of his eye and just be there for you in any way he could. 

It dawned on you that, oddly enough, people more often than not found themselves in the exact opposite predicament that you found yourself in—that they couldn’t be sure whether their partner actually cared for them or if they’d just sought out pretty-looking bed warmer. 

Unless you were the most gullible person on the planet, he never made you feel like he didn’t care for you. The fact that he wasn’t initiating anything, however, just made you feel… unattractive, maybe? 

Like, just maybe, the women he had slept with on his nights out had something you didn’t? 

And another part of you was embarrassed for feeling this way at all. It was just a big mess piling up under the rug you desperately tried to sweep it under. 

But there you stood, feeling oddly empty-handed, as if your fingers still expected to be holding something.

He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing to you right now—and you couldn’t help wondering if he’d always been this attentive, or if it was something that had started with your newly blossomed relationship.

Your eyes lingered on him a second too long as he carried the stack across the room, setting it down with the others before turning back without a word.

He didn’t sit down again.

Instead, he walked straight back toward you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he’d handle it all for you.

“Still some here,” he said almost absently. His golden eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment before returning to the remaining piles—probably nothing more than a passing glance to him, but it landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere warm and unsteady in your chest.

“Thanks...”

This was why you needed a break. Just a couple days to keep yourself in check. 

You stepped aside before he even had to ask, watching as he gathered the last couple stacks, balancing them with practiced motions. His sleeve rode up slightly as he lifted them, revealing the familiar clouds of ink along his forearm. 

Nothing dramatic or showy to impress anyone. 

Just unhurried efficiency. Flow-state.

He carried those over too, disappearing again between the shelves and the finished piles, leaving you standing there with nothing left to organize but your own thoughts.

Youreyes lingered on where you last watched his frame a second too long as he turned away, stacking the papers neatly with the others before returning to his seat like nothing had happened.

Which, to him, it probably hadn’t.

But it stuck with you anyway.

“[Y/n], you’ve been here for hours. I think Enjin and I can handle the rest,” Semiu said, clapping her hands lightly as if signaling the end of your shift. “Thanks for your help—you did great.”

Perhaps she’d caught wind of your odd demeanor, but you didn’t have it in you to entertain the idea. Because you had really been here for a couple hours longer than the two of them and you were starting to feel a little tired. 

“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “In that case… my pillow is calling my name. Thanks, Semiu.”

You took a moment to straighten the scattered papers on your desk before taking hold your jacket on the chair and draping it over your shoulders.

“See you later?” you murmured, brushing past him and planting a soft, unhurried peck on his cheek, fully aware it would probably be the last time for a little while that you could interact with him so naturally.

Not for long. Just a day or two—until you finally calmed down a little. 

He barely turned—just a second or two—flashing a tired smile and that look in his eyes that made you melt. “‘Course, baby.”

You don’t think you’d ever get used to him calling you that. 

And the moment the archive door shut behind you, your thoughts began spiraling all over again. 

About why he’d even asked you out in the first place.

What, exactly, had drawn his attention to you after months of working side by side, rifling through smelly trash? It wasn’t as if you’d suddenly changed—you were pretty much the same you had always been. Same habits, same routines.

So what had possessed him, all of a sudden?

Had there been some moment you’d missed?

And if it had appeared that suddenly… could it disappear just as quickly?

The thought made your stomach twist.

Maybe that was the question that had actually been quietly eating at you all along—not why he’d asked you out.

But whether he’d already started to change his mind.

Somehow, that possibility lingered louder in your head than anything else.

And it hurt more than you would’ve liked to admit. 

You weren’t even sure when you’d made it to your bed, how many hours had slipped by while you mulled it over—but it sure did a number on your self-esteem.

You could already hear exactly what he’d say if you brought this up. “Stop being silly, baby—of course you’re important to me.”

And then… you’d have to ask why he wasn’t the one initiating anything. And you just didn’t it want to go there.

It would have to happen eventually. You knew that.

But not yet. First, you needed a second to brace yourself for the awkward conversation… and to wrestle your hormones back under control.

Just a little space. Just a little time.

He wouldn’t even notice.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

Enjin had been trying to get a hold of you for a couple days now. 

But—somehow, almost every time—there was some chore to do, an errand to run, or work that demanded your attention. Being a cleaner kept you busy, sure, but not like this.

Missing one or two chances was understandable. But it had been so long since he’d spent time with you that he was starting to worry he might forget the cute roll of your eyes whenever he’d say something that pissed you off.

On top of that, he couldn’t shake the worry that he’d somehow upset you. And, honestly, more than a little frustrated that you weren’t telling him anything.

Yesterday morning, he’d caught you having breakfast with Eisha. When he asked about when he should be there to keep you company for the laundry, you said you were busy.

Not busy with what, not a single detail—just “busy.” And then you were gone, leaving him with nothing but the empty space where your answer should have been.

He checked with Semiu. Riyo. Zanka. Eisha. Corvus. Rudo. You’d been nowhere in sight all day. After an hour of looking, late evening was already creeping in, and his worry was starting to thrum.

He wasn’t stupid. You were avoiding him. He just didn’t know why—what he might have done to upset you like this, or how terrible it could be for you not to tell him right away.

He trusted that you knew him well enough—if he’d messed up, he would apologize. And that was that. 

So—where were you? 

He’d knocked on your door. No answer. Checked the common area, the mess hall. Still nothing. He even tried your choker—silent.

You definitely hadn’t left the building; going out at this hour wasn’t your style. He knew that much. 

With all that pent-up energy inside him, thinking clearly was nearly impossible.  All he wanted to do was cuddle up with you, watch a dumb movie, and try the new Viander sweets that came in today. 

He hadn’t realized how much he relied on seeing you every day until now. The silence was unbearable, the not knowing was worse.

You’d usually spend your time together like this—nothing special, just keeping each other company. Well… “usually.” It had been nearly a week since you’d done anything together.

For two people who lived in the same building he sure felt like he hardly even saw you around anymore.

It hadn’t started like this. About two weeks ago, he’d already noticed you acting a little off. Every time he put an arm around you, you’d stiffen or shift away. He’d assumed it was just mission fatigue and didn’t think much of it.

But then, suggesting hanging out later made you restless, fidgety.

He felt like a frog only now realizing the water was boiling—wandering the halls without a single clue where his girlfriend had disappeared to.

Until a flicker of pink caught in his peripheral vision.

Something small. Carelessly forgotten in the middle of the hallway.

A cute, frilly pair of panties.

A pair he knew a little too well. The same ones he’d shoved aside a few weeks ago, too busy getting high off the taste of you to care where they ended up.

He stilled, eyes sweeping the corridor to make sure no one was watching—no one ready to mistake him for some perv stealing his coworkers’ underwear. Although, he technically was right now—but not like that.

Swiftly, he bent down and scooped them up in one smooth motion, curling the fabric into the center of his palm before closing his fist around it.

Then he kept walking, stride steady, the soft bundle hidden in his hand as his feet carried him toward the room he was almost certain you’d be in.

And if he was right about where that was, you were going to have a lot of explaining to do.

His steps came to a halt in front of an unassuming door, identical to all the others, the low hum of washing machines vibrating faintly through the walls.

He stood there for a second.

Then his free hand lifted to his choker—only for the sharp chirp of an incoming call to sound from the other side of the door.

He blinked.

“Huh—oh, shit—”

“[Y/n]?” he called, brows pulling together.

A beat of silence.

“…No?” came your less-than-convincing reply from inside.

With a defeated sigh that barely carried through the wall between you, you cracked the door open for him.

Seeing you like this made it nearly impossible to stay mad—just a little sundress hugging the curves he adored, your hair slightly tousled from hours in the laundry room, a faint sheen of sweat catching the light on your skin.

“Are we playing some kind of naughty scavenger hunt, or why’ve you been hiding from me all day?” he asked, holding your cute underwear between his fingers. You gasped at the sight, snatching it from him and clutching it to your chest in embarrassment.

The door stayed open as you walked back to lean over the dryer, hands braced on its edge, arms stretched, body curved and the hem of your dress hitching along your curves, teasing him just enough to make his mind race—but never enough to give it all away. 

Your eyes were fixed on the spinning drum like it was the most interesting thing in the world right now—and you were genuinely so fucking lucky to be as cute as you were, because it did wonders to soothe Enjin‘s rather agitated nerves. 

“I haven’t been hiding,” you mumbled. “Just… busy.”

Busy. Again. The word stuck in his mind like a parasite.

He moved without a second thought, shutting the door behind him before settling onto the washing machine at the far end of the cramped laundry room. As he brushed past you, his fingers dragged lightly along the frilly hem of your dress, just enough to make his presence known.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to help with the laundry?” he pressed.

“Yeah… but I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, as though you were unsure of whether that was even the reason—like you were asking him if that was your true intention.

“You’d never bother me, baby,” he said, leaning his weight back on his arms, hands flat against the surface of the machine beneath him. 

“At least not with stuff like that. What does bother me,” he continued, eyes locked on your backside, as you refused to turn towards him, “is when my girlfriend avoids me for days on end and doesn’t give me a single fucking clue about what I did wrong.”

The air between you thickened, and he knew you could feel the weight of his words by the way your shoulders tensed ever so slightly. 

“It’s not like that.” You shifted, pulling your weight back onto your feet, fingers fiddling with the frilly underwear in your hands as if you’d forgotten what they were. Still, you didn’t turn to him, and his patience was starting to fray.

“So,” he said, leaning slightly forward, arms crossed, “you haven’t been hiding from me?”

“No,” you replied, tossing the pink fabric into the basket beside you, a little frustrated. “Well… kinda—but it’s still not like that. I promise.”

“Then what is it like?” His brow furrowed, arms tightening across his chest as he edged closer, agitation creeping into his voice.

You sighed, unsure what to do with your arms, finally settling on clutching one to your side for comfort. “I’m not mad at you or anything.”

“Okay,” he tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of your face you stubbornly refused to show. “Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

─────────୨ৎ─────────

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

There was an edge to his voice—frustration, maybe—but beneath it sat something softer. Concern. And it pulled at your heartstrings so bad, because you had never meant for any of this to spiral like it had.

You hadn’t meant to make him worry. Of all the reasons to upset him, this had to be the stupidest one imaginable.

You just needed time. But it turned out you needed a lot more than you first anticipated, because every interaction just felt more awkward with each time you talked and it was all your fault. 

Unlike him, you didn’t have the patience of an angel. You weren’t able to keep it in your stupid pants. How were you supposed to learn how to control yourself if your boyfriend looked like that?

You stared down into the working dryer like it held the secrets of the universe. Like the answers might be hiding somewhere between the spinning metal and the faint scent of detergent.

You knew you had to tell him.

It was just so fucking embarrassing.

“Could you…” Your voice faltered. You forced yourself to turn, finally looking at him properly for the first time in days—

—and immediately regretted it.

Your brain hadn’t been exaggerating. It hadn’t romanticized him. He really was just unfairly good-looking.

And kind. And caring. And unbearably generous. 

His arms were crossed loosely over his chest. Leaning back against the washing machine and intently focused on you. Brows slightly drawn, but his expression soft—achingly fond, even now.

He just wanted to help.

Get a fucking grip, woman.

“Could you… turn around?” you asked quietly.

He blinked. “Is there something on my back?” His head tilted, genuinely confused.

“No, not at all,” you said quickly, heat creeping up your neck. “I just… don’t want you looking at me while I say this.”

There was a small pause.

“…Okay. Sure.”

No teasing. No pushing. He simply pushed off the machine and turned around, resting his hands on the edge of it in front of him. Giving you his back without hesitation.

It barely helped to calm your racing heart. 

You inhaled slowly.

“This is stupid,” you muttered.

“Probably,” he replied calmly. “Still want to hear it.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not avoiding you because I’m mad,” you began. “Or bored. Or… whatever you think.”

Silent. Attentive. Waiting.

“I just—” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can’t… function around you lately?”

No reaction. He stood still, anchored to the ground, molded into place. 

“…What does that mean?” he asked, slower now.

“It means,” you rushed out before you could lose your nerve, “that you’re just standing there doing normal things and I feel like I’m losing my mind. And it’s embarrassing.”

You swallowed.

“And you’re so… restrained. All the time. You don’t touch me unless I initiate it. You don’t— you don’t start anything.” Your voice dipped quieter, your words beginning to sound more like questions than statements. “It makes me feel like I’m the only one that… wants it.”

The confession hung heavy in the small laundry room.

For a moment, he didn’t speak—and you could merely watch the rise and fall of his back with every breath as he processed the information. 

“…That’s what this is?” he asked softly.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I just— I don’t know if you’re holding back because you don’t want me like that or because you’re just being polite or—”

“You think I don’t want you?”

If you didn’t know him, you might’ve called it anger—the edge in his voice. But it wasn’t that. It was something else—something tight, something sharp, something that didn’t quite have a name. And you knew, without being able to explain how, that it wasn’t anger at all.

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

A beat of silence.

Then you heard him exhale slowly through his nose.

“…Can I turn around now?” he asked, voice lower.

You hesitated. “…Okay.”

He turned.

Time seemed to stretch, every second drawn out as he studied you. His expression gave nothing away, and you couldn’t tell if that was because he was unreadable—or because your own nerves were blurring everything.

He just watched. Quietly. Intently. 

It felt like he was silently putting you in your place, and you couldn’t help but feel like the dumbest person on the planet.

Like it was some sort of punishment. 

You dropped your gaze, letting it settle on the floor, chest tight, cheeks warm. Embarrassed, sure—but also strangely relieved.

Mostly humiliated, though. 

Then you heard him shift, pushing off the washing machine. He took a single, measured step toward you.

Your heart jumped.

Another step, and the space between you seemed to shrink faster than it should.

You hoped he wasn’t upset, or that he wouldn’t laugh at you. Maybe he’d just acknowledge it and let things stay… normal.

What did you even want him to say? 

One more step.

And suddenly, his presence was undeniable—his feet planted firmly on the ground you’d just been fixated on.

Then, the warmth of a few gentle fingers slid beneath your chin, lifting your gaze to the face of the man they belonged to.

He wasn’t upset. And he wasn’t laughing, either. 

Another step brought him closer, and you had no choice but to step back with him—until the backs of your legs pressed against the cold surface of the dryer behind you.

Then his lips were on yours.

Not careful. Not restrained.

Hungry.

You were pushed back against the dryer, the cold metal biting through your clothes while he held you like he’d finally allowed himself to. Your hands fisted into his shirt, grounding yourself against how solid he felt—how real. 

Weeks without this, without him touching you like this, had left you unbearably desperate.

“I’m still just a fucking guy, [Y/n],” he muttered against your mouth, barely pulling back before diving in again.

His kisses were relentless, overwhelming in the best way. “You think I don’t look at you and think about what surface to bend you over?” he breathed, voice rough. “M’not really subtle about it.”

The filth he shamelessly spewed made your stomach flutter and the desire for him progressed into more of an undeniable, carnal need. 

You could hardly keep up. He was consuming you, and yet your own hunger surged right back at him. You needed this. Needed him.

He pulled back just enough for air, both of you breathing hard. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m so fucking into you,” he said, quieter now—but no less intense.

You stared at him, dazed. The part of you that had been spiraling for weeks couldn’t quite compute that this man—this unfairly attractive, infuriatingly self-controlled man—wanted you just as badly.

But the girlfriend in you was still stuck on one thing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you managed, words brushing against his lips.

His jaw tightened slightly, but not in anger. Something steadier.

“Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready,” he said. “I didn’t want you thinking you had to rush into anything just ‘cause we’re dating.”

You blinked at him. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move and have your fucking way with me, you idiot.”

His brows lifted slightly, something dark flickering in his eyes, before quietly speaking his next couple words. “Is that what you want?”

Your confidence faltered for half a second.

“…Yes.”

His grip on your waist tightened—not rough, just certain. Like he couldn’t wait to finally get his hands on you.

“Let’s have it my way, then” he murmured, gaze locked on yours. 

With that, he kissed you—slow, sweet, and intoxicating enough to make your head spin.

And then he moved.

In one smooth motion, he turned you around, the front of your thighs hitting the dryer with a muted thud as he stepped in close. No rush. No wasted movement. Just the solid heat of him at your spine, boxing you in without effort.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hand slid up, fingers hooking beneath your chin again—this time with unmistakable authority. He tipped your face to the side, angling you exactly where he wanted you.

And then he kissed you again.

Deeper. Slower. Possessive without being reckless. Like he wasn’t trying to overwhelm you—just remind you.

You weren’t going anywhere.

He didn’t waste any time as his other hand started roaming your body.This wasn’t about coaxing you or checking in every second. He decided what you got—and you’d just have to look pretty, take it and be grateful for the attention. 

Something hard pressed against the small of your back, and under any other circumstances, you’d have felt a mix of respect and awe at its sheer size—but this wasn’t anything close to normal. 

You were frustrated, hungry, greedy, so astronomically down bad for him that seconds seemed to pass like hours—hours he wasn’t sheathed deep inside you, kissing your cervix and making you preach his name over and over again. 

You wanted it. Any way he’d give it to you. It really didn’t matter anymore.

His hand tightened on your jaw, tilting your face as his lips met yours with a relentless intensity—just to make you choke on it.

Without warning, his hand reached around and made itself home between your legs—no layer of fabric or lace separating his warm fingers from your needy fantasies. 

“Nothing under?” 

“Why do youthink I’ve been—fuck—been stuck doing laundry all day?” You tried to reply through unsteady breaths and all sorts of moans and whines.

If all your life boiled down to watching him haul boxes, muscles flexing, tossing casual touches that wrecked you in ways no one else would understand—then yeah, there was no hope left for a single clean pair of underwear.

“Fuck,”the bulge against your back seemed to swell at the feeling of your own desire against the pads of his fingers and your brain fully shut off—your conscious merely running on lust and basic instincts. “You’re so fucking cute like this.”

“Enjin—” you gasped into the kiss, your voice lost between breaths and the weight of him.

He just ignored you, forcing your face against his as he smoothly ran his warm fingers through your folds with no regard for your ability to balance yourself, before immediately dipping into your dripping wet, needy walls. 

His fingers curled into you, winding desire and tension into something almost unbearable, repeatedly torturing that spot inside you that made your legs tremble and your heart race miles an hour. No regard for getting you used to anything—solely focused on using you. 

“Enjin, it’s s’much, please—“

“I don’t care,” he said against your lips, eyes boring into yours, raw and unrestrained.“you don’t get to ignore me for a week and then expect me to play nice.”

He held your jaw with an iron grip, tilting your face forward and then to the side, exposing your neck. His lips traced the skin, biting and pressing with a heat that promised marks you’d remember.

His assault on your poor body didn’t falter whatsoever, digits pumping in and out of you as if it was their sole goal to make you lose your composure—or your sanity. 

“Really want me to fuck you, baby?” he breathed against a fresh mark he sucked into your skin, the pain of it pulsing through your nerves.

You nodded.

His wet fingers slowly drew out of you, only to find their way back to your wanting clit, teasing it with a slow, agonizing pressure that made it oh-so unbearable.

“Words, [Y/n],” he murmured, sinking his teeth into your skin just enough to draw a pathetic whine from you. 

The slow, careful tempo of his fingers shattered, replaced by a rapid, unyielding rhythm. Each movement was exact, intentional, and edged with a cold insistence that left your nerves stretched taut.

“Yes,” you breathed, mind hazy, caught in the relentless push and pull of the sharp, consuming sensations he was pressing into you. “I want you… so bad, Enjin. Please.” 

“Then be a good fucking girl—” he withdrew his fingers slowly, before pressing them to your lips with a weight that was no invitation, but rather a quiet, undeniable command, “—and get on your knees, yeah?” 

You opened your mouth, getting a taste of yourself on his fingers as you sucked them clean of you.

Then, with a swift, controlled motion, he shifted you both, leaning his weight against the dryer as you came to face his already commanding height—a presence that only seemed to grow as you sank to your knees.

He eyed you every inch of the way down, expectantly. And you swore not to let him down today, no matter the cost. 

You barely even took the time to process the impressive bulge that you’d felt pressing against your lower back not too long ago, as you loosened the baggy fabric and slid it down by its waistband.

You wanted him—his attention, his touch, and every single inch of him.

And as he finally sprung free from the restraints of his pants, you really couldn’t help but take it in for a moment. At his height, being well-equipped was almost a given… but actually seeing it was a whole different story.

The slight curve of it. The subtle veins that ran along his length. 

How fucking hard he was. 

There wasn’t a single thought you could summon other than the image of it claiming you in every way imaginable and finally—finally—being allowed to touch him. 

With all the care you could summon within you, you reached for it, wrapping a tender hand around his girth and giving him a couple tentative strokes as the most beautiful hiss trickled from his lips. 

Then, without further thought, you left an experimental lick on the tip of it, before fully encasing it within the warmth of your mouth. 

“There you go,” his fingers threaded through your hair as they found the back of your head, guiding you along the length of him while gently reminding you of the position you were in. 

With every stroke, he urged you to take an inch more down your warm and waiting throat—slow and steady, getting both of you used to the feeling of him using your mouth. 

Your tongue moved along his soft tip as if it were second nature,taking it deeper as your hands folded neatly in your lap—like the good girl you wanted to be for him.

“Mm, just like that,” his voice dropped, rougher and deeper than you’d ever heard it, as a sinful groan tore from his throat, his grip tightening just slightly in your hair. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re pretty—being way too nice to you right now.” 

The salty taste, tinged with something unmistakably Enjin, made you moan around his girth. He fucked your mouth with practiced ease, guiding you up and down his length, your thighs squirming beneath you with every movement.

“Should wear that dress more often,” he said, that slow, teasing smile tugging at his lips. “The view up here is great.”

You felt it—the heat stirring low inside you, crawling up your skin in a slow, insistent way, leaving your mind dizzy and sharp all at once.

Sundresses weren’t your usual HQ attire, but laundry had been put off for so long that this was the only thing left that wasn’t a stained pair of pajamas.

But now, under his gaze, every glance felt like it was marking you, making you intensely aware of yourself in ways that were both intoxicating and terrifying.

It was possibly the skimpiest—bordering on unwearable—piece of clothing you owned.

And yet, all you could think was… if this was enough to make him look at you like that, maybe you’d start wearing dresses a size too small around him more often.

“Wanna impress me, baby?” 

You looked up at him all doe eyed, mouth stuffed as you nodded at him through fluttering lashes.

“Mm, so good f’me,” he murmured, his hand brushing your cheek as you leaned into his warmth, before sliding back to the nape of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair. “Relax your throat, sweetheart.”

And with that, he gently eased you down his inches, getting the length of him a little wetter with each passing second, your tongue flat against the bottom.

You could feel the restraint in his hand on the back of your head, the patience it took for him not to slam you down and fuck your face in. How he’d again chosen to be merciful—to take care of you the best way he could. 

You were starting to feel him at the back of your throat, tip naturally curving along the roof of your mouth as a soft hum escaped you in an attempt to relax your gag reflex. 

“Fuck—that’s it,” his hand tightened in your hair as the sensation dragged him deeper into it, keeping you close while the tight warmth around him flexed and pulsed, making him lose himself in the moment. 

“Taking me so good, baby—doing such a good job, just f’me.” 

At this point, you lost all control over your movements, no longer yours to guide. 

You glanced up to see Enjin’s head tipped back, lost in the feeling and revealing a sinfully attractive sight to you that got you all the more worked up—like his strong, inked neck, or his broad, heaving chest—before his gaze dropped back down to catch your own. 

“So prettylike this.” 

Your legs trembled at his praise, moaning around his dick as your fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs. 

All your worries suddenly felt trivial. Every part of you that had felt unwanted now burned under his commanding attention, your pulse stuttering with the weight of his focus on you.

“You restless, baby?” he spoke, readjusting his grip on your hair to better control your movements—like he knew he needed to with what was about to come. “Go ahead—touch yourself.”

Entirely drunk on him, there was barely a moment to feel flustered or embarrassed before your hand obeyed his command, moving as if it had a mind of its own, and disappearing under the frilly hem of your dress.

The warm pads of your fingers came in contact with your now soaked folds, collecting some of the abundance of slick that had accumulated between your legs, before tending to your needy clit and imagining it was his calloused fingers instead.

His hand on you left to hold onto the edge of the dryer instead, as you balanced your own pleasure alongside bobbing your head to please him.

“Patiently waited for dick for so long,” he huffed, watching the length of him disappear in the warm cave of your wanting mouth. “Would never deny my baby anything.”

His hazed expression—knowing that you were the cause of it—pulled at something deep inside you, a thrilling reminder of how utterly yours he was in that moment.

“You really missed me, huh?” 

With your neck straining through the motions, you halted to simply focus on his pink tip, sucking on it with your tongue running flatly across, before releasing it from the vacuum of your mouth with a subtle pop and licking him clean of the leaky white streaks you pulled from him. 

“Eager girl,”he let out a quiet laugh before his hand gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Come back up here, sweetheart.”

With a final, longing kiss to his tip, you rose to your feet—and before you even fully stood, he’d yanked you to stand in front of the dryer, hands flat on the surface of it as you found your balance. 

You felt him shift behind you, inching closer as his aura of pure heat hit the skin of the back of your legs. “How about I grant you your wish now, pretty girl?”

“But, Enjin—we can’t, I don’t have a—“

The rustle of plastic filled the room as your boyfriend effortlessly tore open a small square package between his teeth.

“What is it?”

“You just… have condoms on you all the time?” 

“No,” a hand ran down your back, gently pushing you forward for you to properly lean on the dryer and support your weight on your forearms instead. “I had it on me, because I figured if you’d ever get around to asking me and I didn’t have one on me I wouldn’t trust myself not to just do you raw.”

“Fuck, that’s kinda hot,”you couldn’t help your remark, back naturally arched in this new position, as the grip of a strong hand on your hip guided you closer to him, before you felt something nudge at the entrance of your fluttering walls. 

“Let’s not waste any time then, baby,” his hand reached further into your hip, hooking itself around it for the best grip to pull you into him. “Let’s fuck some sense into you, yeah?”

He said it like it was nothing, but the words sent a shiver crawling all the way down your spine, instinctively backing into him in order for him to finally fill you, though his iron grip on you prevented any sort of control. 

“Shit—thinking I don’t want you is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” 

And with that, he’d crossed into annoying-you territory—because you hadn’t endured days of frustration and neglect just for him to poke fun at you now.

“Well, what am I supposed to do if—“

He started inserting himself into you and the world suddenly started spinning, words getting stuck in your throat and sealed with a quiet gasp. 

“Much better,” his other hand joined your free hip, effortlessly pulling you down his length with the most sinful groan you’d heard in your life. “Don’t need you to do anything, baby—just need you to look pretty for me right now.” 

The feeling was indescribable.

The guy you’d spent weeks waiting for, night after night, imagining, wondering what he’d feel like, was finally there—finally turning your fantasies into something real, right here in this tiny laundry room—and it felt overwhelming in the best way.

It wasn’t something for you to imagine. It was something you could remember.

All the dreams you’ve had absolutely paled in comparison. His strong arms, broad frame, his provocative charm—everything.

It’d turned you on so bad, he slid into you without any effort—inch upon inch exploring the warmth of your clenching walls around him.

“Shit—Enjin—“ 

“I know, I know,” he cooed, rubbing reassuring patterns on the side of your thigh before moving his hands up to the hem of the dress, lifting it ever so slightly. “You look so good, baby—made to get fucked like this.” 

With that, his grip to your hips returned as he bottomed out experimentally, earning him the smallest noise from you, only egging him on further. 

He did it again. And again. And again. 

You didn’t even know you could make sounds like that—soft, squeaky little hiccups that slipped out of you again and again before you had any chance to swallow them back with each of his thrusts. 

“So cute,” he teased. “You’re like a little squish toy.”

“Shut—” hic “—up.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter that dissolved into a groan, his hands tightening on your hips as he arched your back further into the dryer you clung onto like a lifeline.

It happened so quickly. 

A second ago, you were both adjusting to the sensation of him inside you, him just testing the waters and finding a rhythm with you.

The next second, his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as his pace picks up, fucking into you with a newly summoned force. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered—nothing other than the marks he’d leave on your skin, the low grunts that drowned out every other sound in this tiny, tiny laundry room, and the overwhelming feeling of the dam that had been building inside both of you finally breaking.

“Fuck—she’s tight,“ he groaned, keeping you pressed against the cheap dryer that never fully dried your clothes—though in that moment, you’d never been more grateful for the damn thing. “This what you wanted, baby?” 

“Yes—fuck—please, Enjin—“

He thrust in. And in. And again. And while you were certain you could die from this, you also knew you’d never felt more alive than right now. 

And no matter how desperate sex over an old, half-broken dryer might seem, you felt how much affection was in the way his hands caressed your skin, how honeyed his voice resonated with his sweet words towards you, with every time he called you pretty and praised your efforts.

“Taking me so well, baby,” he said through hoarse grunts and hot breaths. “Y’feel so good.”

Any reply from you was caught between hitched noises, in sync with every time your body was pressed further into the machine beneath you.

You were burning like you’d never burned before, the heat especially concentrated in that tight knot in your stomach, coiling tighter with every passing second.

And every second felt as long as a lifetime.

It was a sweet kind of torture—chasing a release you didn’t really want to reach. Pleasure you’d waited far too long for, your desire not nearly sated enough to let it end so soon. Yet any attempt to slow it down would only dilute the bliss he was giving you.

“Tell me whose you are, baby.”

“M’yours—fuck—only yours.” 

“Damn right.”

You tried to ignore the feeling of him, to think of anything else—anything to distract yourself. But it wouldn’t be fair. Not to him, and certainly not to you.

“You’re mine and I’m yours, angel.”

The way he found those places within you far exceeded any daydream you’d ever struggled to shake. The way he held your hips, the way he made you give in—but not surrender entirely—guiding you with that quiet, commanding presence of his.

“Please—please, Enjin.”

“Such a good fucking girl.”

It dawned on you then that this was how he’d always been—or at least for as long as you’d known him as the leader of his team. Not the kind of man who demanded respect or fed his ego, but someone who simply drew it in. Someone you trusted enough to follow.

“I—“ you stammered. “I’m getting—“

“I know, baby,” he cooed, big hands readjusting their grip on your sweat-sticky hips. “Me too.” 

“I don’t wanna stop.” 

He huffed a small laugh through an exhaled breath. 

“Me neither, baby,” his pace grew more relentless, every syllable stuttering to the rhythm of his thrusts, room filled with the sounds of your bodies moving against one another, “but it won’t be the last time.” 

The knot strung tighter and tighter as stars began decorating your blurry vision and all you could think was Enjin Enjin Enjin.

“Can fuck you whenever you want, yeah?” 

“Yes—please.” 

“Just gotta ask, pretty girl.” 

“Fuck me tomorrow?” 

Another short-breathed laugh. 

“Anything you want, angel.” 

And with that, the coil snapped and the weight of all breaths you didn’t take came crushing down on you—body, spirit and soul. 

You felt yourself clench and tighten around him as he chased his own release along that same edge of pleasure, low grunts slipping from him in that voice you’d come to find so irresistibly charming, carrying you through your high.

“Fuck—[Y/n],” he moaned, thrusting into you with one final push and holding you right there.

“So fucking perfect.”

And with that, he pressed you close, relishing in his own pleasure with a low exhale that sent a hot shiver down your spine. He moved lazily a couple more times to ride out his release, drawing soft whimpers from you with each motion.

And—finally—pulling out.

You took your time coming back to your senses as he traced a few affectionate strokes along the bare skin of your thighs. Then you heard him shifting behind you—the quiet sounds of him putting himself back together, fabric rustling, zippers pulling, a buckle fastening into place.

All the while, you remained half-splayed over the dryer, slowly grounding yourself again, catching your breath as your heart rate began to settle.

And then, as if you’d never been bent over that dryer in the first place, he took your arm and turned you toward him, swiftly lifting your weight and gently setting you atop the surface he’d just had you over. He stood between your legs, holding you by the waist like he knew you couldn’t quite keep yourself steady yet.

And he kissed you.

So heartbreakingly gentle and sweet that it almost didn’t match what had just passed between you—before he slowly pulled away.

“You’re the most beautiful, irresistible, smartest girl I’ve met in my entire life—and I’ll be damned if I ever make you feel like anything less, okay?”

His golden eyes bore into you, and it was one of those rare moments with him that you cherished—when he didn’t hide behind cheshire grins or flirty humor. It was just him, speaking his mind, being genuine.

Reassuring you that he felt that thing between you—whatever word you hadn’t put on it yet. And you knew you felt it too.

“Okay…” Your hands snaked around his neck for extra support as you held his gaze, getting lost in the lines of his face and how they’d been touched by what you’d just done. His skin flushed pink. His eyes hazed with lingering heat. 

The warmth radiating off him pulled you in before you even realized it, your limbs wrapping around him to cage him in a lazy embrace. Your head rested atop his strong shoulder as his arms circled your frame, his nose nuzzling into the nape of your neck.

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know?” You muffled into the red fabric of his shirt. 

“Don’t be too nice to me right now,” he chuckled against your skin, “my ego is high off of all the please, Enjin, please—“

Your flat palm hit the back of his head.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

“Hey, Enjin?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Shoot, baby.” 

“Why did you ask me out?” 

A beat passed, as he stared off into nothingness, barely grasping his resolve to continue on.

“Well,” he began. “How do I put this without sounding weird?” 

“Huh?” 

He sighed, before turning to you with honest eyes. 

“So, when August made you that… uniform…”

─────────୨ৎ─────────

CREDIT TIME☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

Beautiful, talented, intelligent, amazing BETA READERS: @zukunyy , @imjusttrashignoreme and my boyfriend <3

Dividers: @pixopix

A/N: ITS HERE !!!! I TOOK SO LONG BECAUSE IDK WHY—BUT THANK U SOOOOO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE ON TOBACCO&MINT!!! <3

This won’t be my last Enjin fic—bro attached himself to my spirit so bad i literally got a whole ass back tattoo two weeks ago…

I have a couple more idea for Enjin and it dawned on me that I could make all my established relationship ideas just be part of this series, so that’s probably gonna happen eventually as well :3

I’ll probably also explore some other fandoms :3

ENJIN 4EVER THO<3

I was rlly happy that a couple of you liked it so much u asked me to be on the taglist :3 extra thank u to u guys who asked to be tagged 🩷 made my heart go jumpy mode 

It starts because you’re ignoring him.

Not intentionally.

You’re sitting at the small table in his room, flipping through mission notes with your brow slightly furrowed. One leg is hooked over the side of the chair, sleeve slipping down your wrist as you scribble something into the margin.

You’re focused. Completely absorbed. Enjin is on the bed. Watching you. He already tried talking. You responded with a distracted “mhm.” He tossed a crumpled paper ball at you. You caught it without looking and kept reading. He even sighed dramatically.

Nothing. Unacceptable. He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “…You’re boring,” he announces. “No I’m not.” “You are right now.” “I’m working.” “You’ve been ‘working’ for twenty minutes.” “Because I care about surviving.” “So do I,” he says flatly. “And yet I’m prioritizing you.”

You snort softly but don’t look up. That’s it. He sits up. Walks over. Stops behind your chair. You can feel him there. His presence is obvious—warm, solid, looming. “…What,” you say without turning.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans down—And drops his weight forward. Not enough to crush you. Just enough to drape himself over your back. His arms slide loosely around your shoulders, and before you can react—He buries his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder.

Warm. Unapologetic. “Enjin—” “I’m bored,” he mumbles against your skin. “You just said I was boring.”“You are. Fix it.” You huff a laugh despite yourself. “You’re heavy.” “No I’m not.” “You’re built like a tank.” “And yet,” he murmurs, nose brushing lightly against your collar, “you’re still sitting there.”

You try to stay composed. You fail a little. “…You’re being clingy.” “Correct.” His voice softens. Less teasing. His arms tighten slightly — not restrictive. Just present. “You done yet?” he asks quietly. “With what.” “Ignoring me.” You finally set the pen down. Slowly. “You’re ridiculous.” “I know.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift his head..Just stays there like he belongs.Your hand hesitates before resting lightly on his forearm. “…What do you want,” you ask. “You.” You go still. He says it simply. Not dramatic. Not flirty. Just honest.

You turn your head slightly. His hair has fallen loose again, brushing against your cheek. You can feel the faint curve of his smile against your skin. “You have me,” you mutter. “Mm.” He shifts slightly, settling more comfortably against you.

Then, softer. Almost absentminded. “I think I’m in love with you.”

The room goes quiet. No theatrics. No dramatic inhale. Just silence. Your heart stutters. “…You’re saying that very casually,” you manage. “Yeah.” He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. Just stays there. “Feels casual.” Your fingers curl slightly against his arm. “You’re not joking.” “No.”

No smugness. No playfulness. Just steady. Your throat tightens in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You chose now?” you whisper. “You were ignoring me.” “That’s your confession strategy?” “It worked.”

You let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “You’re unbelievable.” “You like that about me.” “…Yeah.” He finally lifts his head slightly, just enough to look at you from the side.

His yellow eyes are warm. Open. “You don’t have to say it back,” he adds quietly. That makes something in your chest ache. You turn in the chair just enough to face him properly. Now you’re close. Very close. “You’re unfair,” you murmur. “How.” “You drop something like that like it’s nothing.” “It’s not nothing.”

He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “It’s just not scary.” You study him. The scar. The piercings. The faint dimples forming when he almost-smiles. “You’re really calm about this,” you say. “Yeah.” “Why.” “Because if I’m in love with you,” he says gently, “that’s not your responsibility. It’s just… mine to carry well.”

Your expression softens instantly. Idiot. Good idiot. You reach up and lightly grab the front of his shirt. “You’re not carrying that alone.” His eyes flicker. “…Oh?” You lean a little closer. “I think,” you say carefully, “I might be getting there too.” This time, his smile is slow. Real. He leans forward again and buries his face back into your shoulder with exaggerated relief.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I already said it. No take-backs.” You laugh softly, wrapping an arm around him properly now. “You’re such an attention seeker.” “Only with you.” And this time, you’re not overwhelmed. Not overstimulated. Just steady. Held.

And he stays exactly where he wants to be.

With you.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

the ember fades. the smoke thins. tobacco dies out…

aise's aftertaste! tysm for reading !! should i write a part two hehe??

“What are your ambitions in life?”

The question caught you off guard. It’s not like you and the man besides you had heartfelt conversations constantly. No, it was much more relentless teasing and a whole lot of work. 

Looking straight ahead, you felt the presence of the seemingly infinite ocean in front of you, the smell of salt water, and the slight sway of the ship as the waves moved around and beneath — the combination had you at ease. The sea was your home.

The people asleep on the ship were the closest thing to a family you had nowadays. And a massive thank you to every deity for that. 

Ever since you joined them, the benefits were mutual and the connection was instant. It was easy to love them, and you made yourself valuable. One of them, playing with his own name, called you their “lucky charm”. All of that due to your navigation skills that got them out of trouble and into profit more times than one. 

However, you kept to yourself. The pain, the heartache, the loss… They haunted you, even if they belonged in the past. And here, you were moving towards your future. 

“Y’know, your dreams, your ambitions…”, the man by your side continued, given your silence. You remained quiet, teasingly, which only enticed him more. “Surely you’ve heard of those”, his smile was unfaltering and his one arm was on the bulwark, bottle of rum in hand. 

You took a sip of your drink. The two of you were the last ones still awake, drinking and staring into the endless water and dark sky, trying to see where they met — at least, that’s what you were doing. He was just yapping. You’d grown used to your Captain’s tendencies of lightheartedness and mischief, and it was safe to say you were friends. Good ones, even if you weren’t eager to share your deepest secrets. You were certain he didn’t want to share his as well. You liked each other regardless because of it. Perhaps more because of it.  

“C’mon”, he drank a generous gulp, smiling still. “Gimme a drag”, as he only had one arm, he didn’t have the capacity of holding the bottle in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. So, you held it for him between your fingers, sometimes moving it towards his mouth so he could inhale. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt so intimate. 

You liked your Captain. Very much so. And, as one of the few women on the Red Force, of course you noticed that he checked you out every now and then — all men did. You didn’t mind, in fact, you rather enjoyed checking them out right back.

It was extremely rare for the two of you to have a moment alone like this, and you cherished it immensely. The man was an Emperor, after all, and you still found yourself yearning for one on one time as if he was a school mate. 

Even now, in this whole new world, he still made sure his crew had a moment to party every now and then, when things were calm. Hence, why everyone was passed out drunk and you were still standing, at guard. Or as much guard you could be in this half drunken state.

“You know, it’s bad manners not to answer your Captain, not to mention a clear act of rebellion…”

You took a deep breath, laughing quietly. “I know”, you spoke only to shut him up. You knew he wouldn’t push you too far, and that’s why you felt comfortable enough to talk. “I remember having dreams and ambitions as a little girl. I just… Don’t know where it all went”.

“I reckon it’s still in there”, he pointed at your chest, your heart — skillfully balancing his bottle of rum without the pointed finger. 

“I once said I wanted to be an assassin”, you smiled remembering the child you once were. Your Captain smiled too. “I didn’t know what an assassin was, of course”.

“Of course”, that smile was still there, perfect. As perfect as an imperfect pirate Captain can be, at least. His gaze inspired you to continue. 

“I loved reading and history. I remember my father”, your voice altered slightly, mentioning the flawed man who raised you, more emotional than before, “finding new books for me every now and then. He abdicated everything for our little family… And for knowledge. I think at some point I wished to carry on his legacy”.

The question of ambitions and dreams was a hard one. At this particular place in your life, all you wanted was to be safe, to be comfortable, to be around your found family… Around Shanks. 

“What happened?”, he persisted, interested. 

You took a deep sigh. “People. Expectations. Life got in the way, I guess”.

“But what would you want if there were no expectations, no people?”, he asked, and, although he directed the question to you, it seemed like he was looking for guidance for himself as well.

You shrugged your shoulders and smiled. “I think I would be a librarian in a small village… Have a lot of cats, and maybe horses, too. Be free, with the open skies above me and the infinite sea near, too, but with a place of my own. In another life, maybe”, you looked over at him, “All that after I travelled the world and found the One Piece with you, boss, of course”.

“Naturally”, his smile lit up the night, and he took a sip of his drink, a little lost in thought.

“What about you?”, you inquired. You didn’t shy away from returning the question to him. After all, if you answered, so should he. Although he was the boss, he still maintained quite a balanced environment. You could just talk to each other about anything, and if one wanted out of the conversation, there would be no questions asked from the other. 

His body was turned towards you, eyes on you and not on the sea. It was clear his focus had shifted from inside his mind to outside, to the night, to this moment. His attention was almost too much. You returned your gaze to that water below, the sound of the waves a good substitute for silence. 

“Honestly?”, you nodded as he spoke, “As a kid… I just wanted to be a carefree pirate with…”, he stopped himself, shaking his head lightly. It was his turn to look away into the distance. “My friends.The freedom of it all called to me”, he finished, after taking another long sip of his drink. 

Silence ensued. Yet, the quiet with your Captain was comfortable. Even though he was propense to partying and laughing, he seemed in his element in the silence too. A man of his stature with an ability to feel deeply was a rare thing. You felt immensely proud to be by his side, to be a part of his crew. It was no lie that you wanted to see the world, but you weren’t sure you would have allowed yourself to want it this badly had you not joined his crew. They made this possible, and, even though there was violence and discomfort sometimes, it was good. 

Even though you tried not to, your glare kept returning to him. Perhaps your thinking was too loud, because the man turned to you again. He had a mischievous glint in his eyes, as he did so often. 

“Did you lose something similar to my face or am I just too handsome?”, the amusement in his voice was tangible. 

“Oh, shut up”, you tried to cover your smirk by drinking some more, but he caught on, clearly having fun.

“No, seriously”, he took one step closer, “am I really so beautiful that your gaze just falls on me naturally?”

You laughed, but you felt your face redden nonetheless. You could try to play it cool, but this interaction had begun to make you nervous in the best way possible, and the part of you fueled by rum wanted to see where it would lead.

“Yes, Shanks”, you playfully responded. Calling him by his name was a dangerous move, especially in the mocking tone you had on. You brought the cigar to your mouth, lighting it again and taking one long inhale. You breathed out the air, still smiling slightly, your Captain’s eyes now predatorial. “I do think you’re that beautiful”.

Another step, this time you took it. The two of you were so close you could feel his warmth. His body towered over you, all six foot seven of him. It almost made your neck hurt looking up to him, but the thrill of this situation made anything bearable. 

“Care to share?”, he motioned to the smoke between your fingers with a raise of eyebrows. 

You just lift your hand close to his mouth so he could breathe it in. When he exhaled and you began to lower your hand, he stopped you, holding your wrist and the bottle at the same time. Then, he did the unthinkable. He kissed it. 

His lips were rough, but they felt amazing on your skin. Perfect. As if they belonged there. 

Even this small gesture, this little kiss on the inside of your wrist, the smoke still coming from the cigar, caused an inexplicable rush. Body on fire, burning as red as his head of hair.

His gaze never left your face, not even when your glare flew from his eyes to his lips, still lingering on your skin. 

Your poor heart, beating so quickly for a man so unattainable. Yet, a voice inside you, most likely drunk as well, whispered softly, if he could be attained, it would be by you.

A loud noise came from inside the crew’s quarters. You jumped, but Shanks simply moved away softly. 

As quickly as the moment came, it was gone. 

The cigarette in your hand went out. 

***

It had been a few months since the hand incident, if it could even be called that. The Captain acted pretty much the same most of the time, composed and natural, but you felt changed in your very core. 

Sometimes, you’d look for him and find him already staring at you. Every now and then, during a party or celebration, some drinks in, you’d flirt with him and he would flirt back, all charm and charisma. 

You brushed the incident off as a drunken reaction, but there was a part of you that couldn’t get rid of the sensation that something between the two of you shifted, and that you might want more. 

The slight shift in his demeanour came not only from his gaze, or the flirting. There was a new found protectiveness, as if his shadow was towering over you as more than a Captain. One time, when the ship was docked on a random island, you felt him come behind you during an argument with a shopkeeper. You hadn’t realized he went in after you, and yet, there he was, by your side. You didn’t even have to ask.

The conversations you had around others were different now too. The Captain valued everyone’s opinion, but you could tell by the way he wouldn’t take his eyes off of you that he wanted to know yours, not the filtered version you carefully crafted for others, but your true, honest opinion.

Either that, or you were hallucinating from scurvy.

The night fell swiftly, and the crew was scattered in this small fishermen’s island. You were probably the only one on the ship still, and your intention was to enjoy the quiet night alone on the ship with a book you picked up at the shop the day you had anchored. 

A ruffled noise came from behind you as you made your way to the common room. You reacted instantly. Book in one hand, dagger on the other, you were ready to defend yourself and the Red Force. 

“Jeez, at rest, soldier”. The voice came from behind you, all fun and giggles. You could recognize that sound anywhere. “At least I can sleep soundly knowing you are guarding us all”.

“Heavens, boss!”, you put the dagger back in your belt and held your book close to your chest. Turning around to face him was a natural reflex, but a part of you wished you hadn’t done it. He was quite the sight — deep red hair, built like a god, even his scars were attractive. “You scared me”.

“You look adorable grasping your book like that”, he said, letting his body fall on the wall. Back against it, one leg up to balance himself. There he was with the flirting once more. That smile could stop a war, you were certain.

Your head fell to the side, in a way you hoped was sweet and charming, and you had to hold yourself not to smile. Part of you wanted to maintain a strong facade for him, tease him, make him work for it a little. 

He was your Captain, but he was also a man. 

There was a flame behind his eyes and an energy in the way he tilted his head, matching your movement, which had your chest moving up and down more strongly. Air felt rarefied, and suddenly you were aware of every part of your body — the red in your cheeks, the white of your outfit, the shaking of your legs, the sweating of your hands.

This should have been simple. It was just a Captain chatting with his mate. 

It could be just that.

However, you realized this was the first time you and Shanks were alone together since the incident. 

“Cat got your tongue?”

“No, I simply have no adequate response”. Your mouth was faster than your brain. Maybe, in another life, you were more eloquent, like your father, or maybe elegant, like your mother. But no. You just stared at the man who was your Captain and the object of all your desires, and said incoherent nonsense.

“You haven’t quite figured out what I want you to respond, huh?”, he read you like an open book. “You can just speak your mind, you know”.

The cover of the book was endlessly interesting. The night smelled like salt, and the lighting in the corridor leading to the common room was dim. 

You felt him take a step closer before you saw it. Once more, you were in a compromising position — with your Captain towering over you, dark cloak almost shielding the both of you. You remembered this feeling, this that came as easily as breathing. 

His one hand moved up towards your chin, lifting your head so your eyes would meet. You knew you could be seductive and blink innocently and just lure him in if you wanted, but this was Shanks. 

He was more experienced than that, and he would be able to tell if you were doing something only to please him or because you thought he would want it. 

In your mind, you constantly found yourself thinking about what your Captain would do to you. Of course you had heard many stories about his conquests, his one night stands, his lovers — all of whom seemed more than willing to go back for more. All made it seem like sharing Shanks’ bed was a dream.

You were far from virginal, but any involvement with your Captain had the potential to be complicated, so you were a little hesitant — even though the tension was palpable, even though his hand remained on your chin. The hesitant part was bigger than the people pleaser part. 

And the attraction was stronger than any hesitation.  

So, you did the one thing you could think to do. 

One hand moved to hold his wrist, and you moved it slightly closer to your lips. With a suaveness that was strange even to you, you kissed it. 

It was the very first time your lips touched Shanks, and it was magical. 

If this was an answer to the questions you had, it was a good one. 

His shock was evident in his face and in his body. He tensed up immediately, not used to having someone treat him with such fondness, hold him with such care. Even though he was the furthest thing possible from chaste and coy, his endeavours were, more often than not, much too raw. 

The Captain usually didn’t have a problem with his dominating, charismatic personality — he constantly used it to his advantage, and it worked. Although he would much prefer being carefree, life happened and he had to play the hand he was given. But there was not a single part of him that expected this. 

He wasn’t in control, for once. After all, this wasn’t a one night stand or a hookup with no strings attached. The two of you were connected by something greater than life, and your entire livelihood would be affected if it ended poorly. 

It wasn’t in Shanks’ nature to worry this much, and it wasn’t in your nature to do something this recklessly. 

And, somehow, your lips still didn’t leave his skin. 

You blinked once, twice, hoping for a reaction. The seconds dragged on for days, it seemed. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes never left yours. 

His big right hand moved, cupping your cheek, and your eyes instantly closed, relishing in his touch. Was it you who let out a moan? You couldn’t tell, so lost in the moment. He murmured your name, a warning, and you opened your eyes to find an expression you’d never seen before in his face.

“Tell me to stop”, he said. 

“No”, was your murmured answer. 

He used his strength to push you against the wall behind you, now in control again, where he belonged. The hand that was soft on your cheek moved harshly to your neck. He pulled your hair back, just a little, not excessively. Your neck was exposed, and he would have to lower his body a lot to touch it with his lips, and damn, you hoped he would.

You dropped your book, which fell to the wooden floor with a loud thud.  

His signature red hair was covering his eyes, but you could feel the predatory gaze on you. 

You half expected him to kiss you, take you to his chambers and claim you in the most animalistic way possible. But that wasn’t him. The man standing in front of you was calm, lighthearted and fun, albeit domineering. Easily taking charge of the situation and making it what he needed. So, it was no surprise that he lowered his head to press his forehead against yours, and said “You smell so good”.

You just chuckled, now holding his waist. He sniffed your hair like a puppy would. 

“Seriously, is that driftwood?”, you could hear his smile when he spoke. Perhaps it was insanity. But having Shanks close to you like this, his body attached to yours and his attention solely on you was insane, so you didn’t see any harm in playing along. 

“Shut up”, you giggled. You looked up to him, trying to memorize his features. 

The moment suddenly became serious. Your giggles stopped, and his smile vanished. The rest of the world vanished, too. No sounds, no light, nothing. 

There was only you and him. 

The built-up tension was a solid block above the two of you. You wanted nothing more than to break it, but, at the same time, the agony was delicious. Waiting, anticipating and yearning somehow made this moment all the more precious. 

Closer, your mind screamed. You shared his air, coming from his parted lips. There was an unspoken need for more closeness, for less space to be between you two.

Closer, closer, closer. 

Just like clockwork, a noise came from the door, interrupting. You didn’t want to be parted from Shanks, not in the slightest. Yet, to preserve this moment and others that might come, he let you go, kneeling to pick up your book. 

A drunken Yasopp made his way down the corridor right after, barely speaking to you or the Captain. You heard him murmur something about showing them who’s aimless when he went inside. 

Your Captain, still looking at you, but further than you wished, nodded once in a silent “I’ll see you later” movement. The legend, the myth, standing in front of you. All those stories about his doings, all the fuss and glory and bounty. It constantly amazed you that, even though he was indeed legendary, he was still a man. 

A man who, despite having a complicated past and an even more complicated present, remained kind. 

His kindness was shown once more when, before leaving, he approached you and gently kissed your forehead. You could feel his agony, his yearning — a twin to your own.

There was a part of you that wanted to follow Shanks as he left, long steps towards his chambers. In fact, you wanted nothing more than to follow that man and continue your interaction, to finally feel more of him. But there was a force stronger than nature, an intuition, a voice that whispered you should let him go and come back to you when he’s ready. 

So, you did.

***

As the days went by since your last encounter with Shanks, you felt more and more afflicted by his absence. Nonetheless, you felt certain you did the right thing. 

Your body was on fire just remembering the way he held your hair, the way his eyes looked at you with delicious anticipation and warmth. 

It had been a long time since you felt this way, if you ever did. Sure, every now and then you craved sex and you didn’t mind finding someone in whatever port you were anchored to satisfy your needs. It was carnal, and it was good, mostly. 

However, this longing was different. It was a kind of interest you had rarely felt. The more Shanks you got, the more you wanted. 

And it wasn’t enough. Stolen glares, a touch of hands, laughing at the dinner table surrounded by the crew. It just wasn’t enough. You needed to smack that smirk right out of his face and then kiss it better. 

A couple weeks after that night, you could still feel Shanks’ hand on your cheek, you could sense his arm around you… The attraction was mutual, of that you were sure. 

You wondered if the agony of these days apart was mutual as well. 

Will it be long before he comes once more?, you were tossing and turning in your hammock, thoughts of Shanks flooding through your head.

The night had fallen quietly, and most of the crew was asleep. You only heard the slight snores and the waves crashing against the Red Force. The ship had not anchored since you last set sail, moving through the sea at a comfortable pace. 

You stood up quietly to not wake up anyone, and moved up quickly. Going out on the upper deck, getting some air and smelling the ocean beneath you. That was what you needed before trying (and most likely failing) to fall asleep once more — it would be good to have the air cool you down when you felt like you were burning up with need, with yearning. 

After passing through the corridor where you last spoke with Shanks, memories surrounding and consuming you like embers, you made your way out into the night. 

The relief of seeing the endless sky and the infinite waters surrounding you was immensurable. 

That thrill only lasted for a moment, however, because your eyes landed instantly on the figure covered by shadows, but whose silhouette you’d recognize anywhere. 

You began to turn around, intending to leave him be, when he said, “I can hear you”, nonchalantly. 

Your face contracted as you turned around, smiling and embarrassed. “Sorry, boss, I was just going to enjoy the silence for a while. Didn’t see you there”.

“Please”, he motioned to his side. An invitation and a promise of peace.

You walked towards him with as much caution as you could, your mind still hazy. His body was supported by the bulwark, and there was a cigarette half smoked in hand. 

He didn’t look over, respecting your need for stillness. 

You had no idea how long you stood there. It could have been hours, days or years. 

When you finally turned to him, he was turning to you too.

“This is weird”, you said.

“The sky is beautiful”, he said at the exact same time. He took a second to process your words, then smiled. “What’s weird?”.

You pointed to yourself and then to him. In his usual fashion, he just shrugged jovially, corners of his lips upward. “It’s good weird, you know, but still a little weird”.

“But seriously, what’s weird?”, he turned around, back facing the sea. “The fact that I wanted to hump your leg like a puppy?”

You laughed, happy to be met with the same humour as always. At least, you had a friend in him, regardless of the rest. 

“I would’ve let you”, you lifted your eyebrows in a knowing manner, teasing him. He was smiling, too. “The sky really is beautiful tonight”.

Obviously, you still wanted him. Damn, you would really let this man hump your leg if he was into it for real. You were a little kinky yourself and, truth be told, you were willing to try anything once. And to try with Shanks, of all people? What a privilege that would be.

Out of all the dirty, unholy things you wanted to try out in your life, you were lucky enough to have done most of it. There were a few times it just happened, and others you planned out with some partner. 

This whole situation made you think of the Captain’s kinks. What does he secretly wish for in the middle of night like this? Did he come up to the deck for air from the hotness of imagining a tad too much?

“You look like an ass guy”, you blurted out before even understanding what you were saying. Oh, the things insomnia and horniness can do to a girl. 

Shanks almost choked on smoke. “What makes you say that?”

You tilted your head like an interested dog would, trying to see any sort of disinterest or repulse in his features. Instead, all you found was genuine surprise and curiosity. “It’s a little controversial, right?”, he nodded, smile growing. “And it seems like you’re the kind of guy who likes it a little dirty”, he chuckled as you spoke, “and who would love to have it tight and a little painful”. His silence was deafening, even if his smile was still there, so you hit him playfully with your elbow. “Am I wrong?”.

“Oh”, only that sound came from him. You were still smiling. A pirate Captain, an Emperor of the New World, the legend, the myth. Right now, he was simply the man before you. Red hair, red cheeks. “Woman, are you trying to kill me?”

You didn’t answer, containing your laughter, amused by the situation. Hell, if it was weird, you didn’t mind making it weirder. At least, you both were having fun.

“Just wanted to check how blue your balls can get”, you turned around, elbows on the bulwark. 

“The answer is very”, he copied your motion, turning around as well. With you crunched over and him standing at full height, you felt like a devotee worshiping a god. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t mind worshiping this man. 

The sea wasn’t as agitated as usual on this night. A good counterpoint to your heart, that was almost beating out of your chest.

“I would love to see it”, you joked. It wasn’t that much of a joke, actually, but the situation demanded some humour. 

“Come get it, then”, was his response. He looked so calm in this whole situation.

You opened your mouth to speak, but words would not suffice. You were never that great at conversation anyway.

There was nothing left to say. Only to do. 

That’s why you stood up, adjusting your posture. Shanks immediately turned his body to yours, giving you his full attention, almost as if good posture was alarming — you could tell, by the twinkle in his eyes, that he was having as much fun as you. You got on your toes and threw your arms around his neck, in a dramatic fashion he certainly admired, and, at long last, brought your lips to meet his. 

Although Shanks was a little surprised you actually followed his instructions and went and got it, he reacted quickly. He kissed you back passionately, using his one arm to pull you closer. 

He kissed just like you thought he would — full of feeling, dominating but not aggressive. Intense. The kind of kiss so unbelievable that it would haunt you forever. His experience was clear in the way he kissed, not messy, not too much, just fully him.

He was much taller, and even though you were on your tip toes, he still had to lean down. That didn’t stop either of you. One hand moved through his hair — you had always dreamed of doing this — and the other held his neck as if he was getting away. By the way he held you, however, you could tell he wasn’t going anywhere soon. 

Warmth flooded you. Him, him, him. 

Heavens. For a man with only one arm, you could surely feel him everywhere. 

Your belly was turning with excitement and a feeling you didn’t really want to admit you felt. Right now, all that mattered was this proximity, this intimacy. 

The Captain, always aware of his surroundings, turned you so your bum hit the bulwark, and he lifted you with ease. When your eyes met his, you could tell he was looking for an answer, that he needed one.

He mirrored you this time. He would take anything you could give. He was choosing you, for whatever reason, and he wanted to give you all the time to choose him back. Never pushing you, never pressuring. 

There was no need for time. You had him right now. 

Your hand moved on his shirt, half-open in classical Shanks fashion. You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your hands. Taking advantage of the position, you pulled his white shirt towards you, bringing your lips together once more. 

How easy it was to kiss him, how very natural. It amazed you how instinctively you knew to wrap your legs around his waist, even if you were out on the deck. It was remarkable how his body moved with yours, matching every movement before you moved at all. His lips never left yours, his tongue rhythmically asking for passage to your mouth. It wasn’t as messy and guttural as one might think, but calculated to the point of making you wonder if this man was carefully made for you.

You moaned against his mouth, not able to control yourself. That made him bolder, hand moving to your leg and squeezing. You opened your legs more, allowing his body to come closer to you between them. 

“Fuck”, he muttered when your lips separated. You already missed him, already craved him, more so than before. You bit your lower lip, holding in a smile. His forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged much like your own. “Let me fuck you”.

Yes. 

“Wow”, you said, trying to remain serious instead of taking all your clothes off and bending over in a common area of the ship, “Won’t even buy me dinner first, huh?”

He laughed loudly, even though you were acting all serious.

Although Shanks’ laugh was no cause for concern at the Red Force, it was the dead of night in the middle of nowhere. You shushed him and put a finger to his lip, the universal “shut up” sign. 

“Are you crazy? People will come here!”.

“Who cares?”, his voice sounded like a smile. Was that even possible? He kissed you gently as his hand caressed your thigh, making your sleeping gown raise and show more and more skin, which seemed to enchant him greatly. “I own everything around here, in case you haven’t heard”.

You let out a surprised sound. “You don’t own shit, boss”.

“Yeah, baby, talk dirty to me”, he gripped your thigh and kissed your neck playfully. You were giggling, happier than ever. The air was cold and the fantasy of moaning “boss” as Shanks was inside you had you hotter and even more bothered. 

You two were giggling and kissing, enjoying this moment, not wanting it to end. 

“Come to my chambers”, he said between kisses. His hand held you tightly, moving down towards your bum and squeezing every now and then. You always had a hunch the Captain was an ass man. 

“People will know something’s up when they wake to see I’m gone and then see me coming out of your room”. 

Your response only brought indifference. “And?”.

“Well, boss, I think having forty grown men prying won’t help us in any affair”, you separated from the kiss, holding his chin so his eyes could face yours. He was beyond beautiful, and a part of you, a possessive, unreasonable and irrational part of you, could only think mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. “And I’m pretty sure I’ll come back for more once I have a taste of you”.

“Don’t worry about them”, he replied. At this rate, with the hotness of your body, it would take very little talking to get you in his bed, despite your concerns. “We’re all that matters”, he kissed you lovingly, “Come with me”.

He took a step back and stretched out his hand.

You took it. 

***

You had been in Shanks’ quarters more than once, but never in a situation like this. One time, he was so drunk he threw up and you found yourself cleaning up as he fell asleep on the floor. There was this other time, when you were so nervous after losing a stupid game, that he just locked you in the room as punishment. He said you were grounded or something, and you had to stay until you were no longer in homicidal mode. Everyone laughed, and you broke a couple things out of vengeance. 

Now, however… This was different.

Shanks sat on his bed, not a care in the world. His cigarette went out, and he motioned to get another in his pocket, but thought twice. He looked at you, who were observing the maps on the walls, seemingly trying to play it cool, and chuckled. 

You turned around and met his gaze.

One step and you were standing in front of him, between his legs he so gloriously man-spread. 

He didn’t have to tell you to make yourself at home. You were home.

His hand touched you behind the knee, and you almost jumped in anticipation. He travelled upwards slowly, almost touching your butt and then not, just to go down your thighs again and repeat it all over again. It was torture. It was delicious.

You let your hands rest on his shoulders. His big, hard, muscular, manly shoulders. Damn, had he been working out? 

He finally stopped playing around and pulled you closer. You straddled his lap, letting your core dangerously close to his, as his hand stayed on your butt.

“I’m definitely an ass guy”, the way he laughed was surprisingly wholesome. You couldn’t help but to laugh back. 

“I knew it!”, you celebrated, raising your arms above your head.

Shanks took advantage of the movement, eye level with your tits, to kiss your chest gently. “But I have to admit, these make me wonder if I’m not a boob guy too”.

Your breath got caught in your throat.   

You wanted him to do something, to just tear your clothes and take you. Your eyes were closed, savoring the moment, and your hand moved down to his signature red hair then to his shoulders and then back. 

There was a beat of silence, of complete stillness. You were not even breathing as Shanks approached your chest and open mouthedly kissed your collarbone. 

You looked down and met his gaze, a serious expression on his face. His eyes searched for any hesitation, any doubt in yours, but he didn’t find any. He wouldn’t find any. This was irrevocably what you craved, intensely and deeply. 

You moaned when he resumed his ministrations on your skin. A gentle kiss near your chest, a peck on your neck. He explored with the expertise only a pirate could have.

Finally, he moved his hand to the front of your clothing and began to pull down. Once more his eyes searched you for a sign to stop. 

You mouthed more without making a sound.

Ever so sweetly, he pulled your night gown down and freed your breasts. You let out a whimper as he let out an animalistic sound. His hand gripped your thigh as a lifeline as he drove right in, kissing the skin and then licking where his lips just were. 

He nibbled at the soft skin of your chest, in a way you were sure would leave bruises, even if there was no force. The ghost of his lips would haunt you forever.

Without any warning, his hand pulled your clothes down to expose more skin. You moaned as he sucked one nipple, your pussy already clenching. At the same time you desperately wanted him to move south, you wanted this moment to last. 

His hand was on your waist, holding you for dear life as you rocked your hips lightly, experimenting. The motion caused a positive reaction, you realized as the man let out a sigh. 

“I have wanted this since I first laid eyes on you”, he confessed, moving to the other breast, licking and kissing and involving your nipple in his mouth. You moved your hips against him again, hoping to gain some relief, and he let out the prettiest moan you’d ever heard. 

“You had me since you first laid eyes on me, boss”, you replied. 

Your confession in between a shortened breath seemed to entice the man, for he lifted you off him with ease and threw you on the bed like a ragdoll. Then, almost as if he had read your mind, he ripped your night gown in half, exposing you to his fully clothed self. You gasped and his eyes darkened. 

There was something about the power dynamic… Something about being on display for him whilst he was clothed. The need you felt was brutal. He was up on his knees, opening your legs to make space for him, with excellent balance for a man with only one arm. 

Just like a damned clockwork, came a knock on the door. 

Shanks growled in frustration. “I’m busy”, was his harsh response as he resumed his ministrations on your body. He lifted one foot and kissed it with such care and adoration it made your heart flutter and your pussy to clench around nothing. 

“Just making sure everything’s alright, boss”, Benn’s voice came from the other side of the door, “You were nowhere to be found”.

“I’m in my room during the night! What’s wrong with that?”, he replied, still holding your leg up. You giggled at the situation, trying to remain quiet and failing. 

Beckman’s scuff was followed by his footsteps, moving away from the room. 

Truth be told, you had a hunch Shanks suffered from insomnia since long before you two had met. Meeting him in the dead of night, him offering to stay guard, all the parties that went well into the morning… The signs were clear.

It took one to know one, right?

Your heart was beating fast, but not only for the horniness. No. This had become something else the moment all the pieces of a puzzle connected in your head and you saw your Captain as not a myth, not a legend, not an Emperor or a pirate, but as a man. A flawed man, who had suffered so much in such a short life span. A man who looked at you and saw a version of yourself you’d grown to love. 

“Where were we?”, he smiled down at you, still teasing and charming, but you just rested your leg down and pulled him in. He looked surprised, almost confused, for a moment, before you joined his lips and yours once more.

You hoped the kiss would convey the desire and all the feelings you couldn’t quite name. 

The man murmured a ‘what’ as you pushed him down on the pillows and straddled him. 

It was different, to say the least, to be on top fully naked as the man beneath you was fully clothed, but you didn’t really care, not when Shanks opened that smile. The one that had the entire world stopping just to see it for a second.

You rocked your hips and made a sound you couldn’t recognize as you began to kiss his chest, opening his shirt to see more of him. More, more, more. 

You moved your body south, to the waistband of his pants. “These are ugly ass trousers, boss”, you commented, earning a laugh from him. “Maybe we should take it off… And then throw it into the ocean?”. 

It was true, you really did hate those pants. But that was not the reason why you wanted them off. 

Shanks scuffed jokingly. “You can do anything as long as you take ‘em off right now, love”.

The pet name caused your brain to short circuit for a beat. Love was a really strong word in your books. Yet, somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

You put a pin in those thoughts because there was something hard and hot calling you. 

The pants were quickly discarded into the floor, along with his white shirt. The laziness in Shanks took over and he let you do most of the work, but you didn’t mind. Not when there was something so interesting hiding in those ridiculous pants. Not when every word he said was a holy command to you. 

Your mouth went dry at the sight of Shanks, naked, laying in front of you like a five course meal. Not only that, but oh, his cock. You had no idea a dick could be that pretty. Long, thick, with a cute pink tip and veins that seemed put there by a skilled artist and not some randomness of nature. 

All of him seemed straight off a painting, to be honest. Even his missing limb, the place where your gaze stayed for more than a second. Enough to make him touch it, trying to remain lighthearted but a little tense nonetheless. 

“It’s an adjustment, really. The whole missing arm thing”, he said, tone playful, but you saw underneath it. There was pain lingering in his eyes. Physical pain, yes, but emotional pain too. There was a story there, one you hoped he would share whenever he was ready. 

You just kissed his entire body, from his legs to neck. You purposely skipped his cock, hard and glistening with pre-cum. Your hands followed your mouth, until you felt you had touched him everywhere. 

The last place you were going to caress was his left shoulder, the place where his arm used to be. As your mouth moved to it, he held your hair gently, stopping you. 

“You don’t have to”, his voice was a whisper. There was a lot of emotion in his eyes, and you hoped he could see it in yours too. 

“I want to”, you replied, confident he would stop you if he was uncomfortable. As long as you were concerned, though, all of him was made for your kisses, for your touches, for love. 

He let go of your hair, hand still on your head when you pressed your lips there for the first time. 

You looked at him to make sure everything was fine, and you were met with adoration. You proceeded, cocky smile growing in your face as you moved down his body again.

“Tease”, he messed with your hair, biting his lower lip. 

If he hoped for an answer, he would be waiting for a long time. After all, you were face to face with his dick once more, mouth watering and the unholiest of thoughts going through your mind.

Surely, he had made another snarky comment by now, but you were too far gone to listen. You licked a stripe from his base to the tip, and he gifted you with a delicious moan, one that went straight between your thighs, adding to the wetness. 

The licking and kissing part was easy. His dick was just too good and he even tasted good, too. But the sucking part could be a challenge, considering he was big and thick. You wouldn’t back down from a challenge, though. Oh, no. 

You remained relaxed as you wrapped your lips around the tip, using your tongue to stimulate him even more. You used your hand as well, softly rocking the part of him you couldn’t fit in your mouth yet. 

Even though you were relaxed, this was hard. Pun intended. 

Words of affirmation showered from his mouth, ‘so good’, ‘that’s it’, ‘you’re so pretty’. But you were far too focused on making him lose his mind. You looked at him best you could in this position, and fit more of him in your mouth.

More, more, more.

His hand was caressing your hair before tugging on it, mindlessly trying to make you take more. 

Captain’s orders, huh?

From the sheer size of him, you didn’t know if it would be possible, but you just relaxed your throat as you took more of him. Almost deepthroathing, almost all of him. 

There was saliva everywhere, but neither you nor Shanks seemed to care. He was far gone, muscles contracting as you moved your head up and down a little, turning to the right and to the left simultaneously. 

Finally, his eyes met yours again. 

The sight was too much for him. He pulled your hair away from his cock and pulled you to him, kissing you with so much intensity your teeth hit his in one moment.

Your body was above his, and his one hand was everywhere. When he finally touched you between your legs, you separated the kiss to breathe. Just one touch and you were already melting in his hand. 

“Not gonna last?”, he murmured in your ear, continuing to move his fingers through your folds, teasing your clit and then moving away, not letting any part of him go inside of you just yet. Your moan was a mix of a cry and a prayer. Him, him, him, it was all you could think.

You rocked your hips against his hand, trying to get more. More of something, more of anything, you just needed him. 

Thankfully, Shanks was an experienced man and knew how to read a body. He lift himself, sitting against the headboard with you on top of him, both your hands holding his shoulders and legs on either side of his thighs. Your entrance was dangerously close to his cock, and you felt your pussy pulsing and your heart beating with anticipation, with want. 

“You’re sure?”, Shanks whispered, searching for your eyes. No hesitation would be found there.

“What would you do if I said no?”, you joked, taking his cock in one hand to pump it once, twice, three times. He was half laughing from your comment, half moaning from the pleasure. 

“Probably cry”, his words were playful, but his eyes were lustful, “and then jerk off”. 

It was your turn to laugh, but the amusement was short lived, because he took advantage of your distraction to line himself and thrust his hips upwards, finally entering you. 

A gasp from you. A grunt from him. You threw your head back as you lowered your hips slowly. It was a good thing you two had been flirting forever and the anticipation got you wetter than the entire freaking ocean, because your Captain had a big dick, and it was hard to take him.

Your cunt was pulsing, craving more of him. His hand rested on your hips, and he began moving and instructing you to move too. You tried rocking your hips, but it was too much. Your clit was right on his pelvis, and it was just too good. 

Noticing you were a goner, Shanks took matters into his own hands. He pulled your body down, chest flushed with his, and began thrusting upwards in a delicious speed, starting out slow and the building. You let out little whimpers close to his ears, and each time you did he seemed to go even deeper. 

You wanted nothing more than for this man to bury himself in you. 

It would have been amazing to just lay on top of him as he fucked you with the precision of a professional. But you wanted more. 

You lifted your torso, sitting on him. In doing so, both of you moaned loudly. For a second, you worried someone might hear. To Hell with them. There was only this moment, only this feeling. 

You began riding him as if your life depended on it. Back and forth, hips dancing on top of your lover. The sounds were a perfect soundtrack to the moment. 

You reached your hands from his chest, where they had been for support, to your own breasts, twitching your nipples and grabbing them to maximize the feeling. 

The man looked starstruck to see you chasing your high, pleasuring himself, on his body. His mouth fell open the more you moved. He pressed his feet on the bed, grating you more stability as his thighs were behind you. 

You let your hands fall behind you, to where his thighs were. The new angle was explosive. 

The release you both craved so much was magnified by how long you both waited for this, to finally touch and feel each other. Once more, you found yourself desperate to get more but wanting the moment to last. 

How does a moment last forever? You weren’t really sure, but when Shanks took advantage of the position to draw lazy circles on your clit, you were sure time stopped. 

There would be a before and an after this. 

No sound came out of your mouth as you surfed the waves of your orgasm. You didn’t even have time to let him know you were cumming, you just did. And it was a coreshaking, unbelievable feeling.

As your body trembled from the stimulation, Shanks lifted himself up, sitting more than laying down now. He hugged you, bringing your chest close to his face and seizing movement as you came down from your high. 

Both your hands held his hair, and you opened your eyes to meet his. 

You thought there’d be a before and an after because of the crazy orgasm, but you were wrong. The before and after would be from the look in his eyes. 

You had seen adoration there before. Mischief, anger, annoyance, amusement. What you now saw, as he slowly began to thrust his hips upwards, were the four little letters that made a word you rarely said. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him, not when he made you feel like the most beautiful woman alive. Not when he made you feel this good. 

“Stand up and bend over”, his tone left no room for discussion. 

“Ay ay, Captain”, you joked, sad to break contact but eager to see what was coming next. He scuffed and stood up too, going behind you and jokingly slapping your ass. 

You caught a glimpse of his dick when he stood, all pink and glistening with arousal. Your mouth watered. Perhaps you should’ve thought about protection, but, eh. Once again, who cares? Your mind was far too hazy for worry. 

His one hand touched your hips, forcing your face into the mattress and making your back arch even more. You turned your face, pressing your cheek on the soft blanket and putting both your knees on the bed, opening yourself up even more for him.

He stopped touching, and for a second, everything was quiet. Not even the ocean outside dared to make a sound.

When Shanks’ index finger moved gently through your entrance, collecting arousal, all the noise came back at once — the crashing of waves against the Red Force, his ragged breathing, something outside the room, your moans and whimpers. 

He seemed pleased with your reaction, collecting your juices and his on his fingers before pushing two of them in. This man’s goal might just be to kill you. You tried looking back further, to catch a glimpse of his face. 

He was so gorgeous it actually hurt. Sweat on his forehead, red hair falling on his forehead and eyes. Pecs so delicious it reminded you of a five course meal. His scars, his missing limp, all of it just made him more precious. 

Your eyes met when his fingers left your pussy, and, without a word, he lined himself and pushed. Even a few moments without his dick made it harder for him to enter you again. He murmured something along the lines of ‘so tight’ before he began thrusting again. 

Hips colliding against yours, time and time again. The force was almost brute, but you loved it. Was it possible to feel so passionate for a cock? Maybe, and if not, you were surely making the groundbreaking discovery that it was.

The position allowed him to go deeper, harder, and you both loved it. You were moaning, he was saying mumbled words affirming just how good you were for him.

“This cunt was made for me, love”, he said. “All mine”.

You shivered at the statement. Dear God, you felt the knot in your lower belly tightening again. 

Shanks’ thrusts were sloppier, uncoordinated and impossibly harder. You loved the intrusion, the aggression. For all you cared at that moment, he could just tie you to the bed and fuck you until you melted into a puddle.

You clenched around him, purposefully. At that, he reacted with the prettiest moan you’d ever heard. 

“Where do you want it?”, he asked and you loved that he did. 

“Inside”, your voice was shakier than you expected. “Please, inside”, you just didn’t want him to leave you. You wanted all of him in you.

He squeezed your hips, pushing you flush on the bed and laying on top of you. Having a two meters man with his full weight above you was hard, but even more so, it was fun and warm and dirty. His hips kept pistoling into you.

His mouth was pampering kisses on your ear, and you could feel and hear his breathing. 

He didn’t announce he was coming. Instead, he just thrusted so hard and so deep it made you let out a little scream. Ropes of white shot in you, and he kept moaning as his long release marked you as own. 

It was the perfect moment for a declaration, but you needed to stay in this bubble where nothing else other than you two existed. You needed to just feel his chest against your back and his softening dick inside. 

When he began moving to lay by your side, your hands flew behind you to keep him in place a little longer. “Stay”, you managed to say. “A little more, please”. 

He didn’t answer, instead, he just complied. He just kissed the side of your face, gentle and loving. 

A moment passed. Maybe two. It could have been years or seconds you stayed put beneath him, just feeling his body and his kisses. 

When he finally left your body, you whimpered. He laid by your side, stomach up whilst your chest was down. 

You were face to face, feeling each other's breath.

“Hi”, nonchalantly he said, a smile already growing. 

“Hey”, you were able to let out. You felt absolutely destroyed and ready for more. 

“Sleep here”, he begged, reaching for your hand. He pulled it to his lips and kissed it. Romantic. 

You nodded, moving towards him, curling up on his chest. His cum was dripping, probably making a mess on his sheets. At least they weren’t your sheets.

The air felt lighter, somehow. His chest was moving up and down beneath your head when you cuddled even more in him. 

The moonlight cast a pale light in the room. 

***

“My thighs hurt”, was the first thing you said when he woke up and opened those beautiful eyes. You were already awake for a few minutes, and you had more than enough time to go to his mirror and check out the red bite and hand marks on your bottom. 

Promptly, he guffewed. You took one of the many pillows on his bed to hit him with it. 

“Shut up! Everyone will hear!”

“I think that ship has sailed, darling”, with only one hand and laying on his back, he still managed to be dexterous. After taking it from your hands, he threw the pillow away, smiling. “I wasn’t the one screaming last night”.

“Oh, that could be anyone of your floozys”, you brushed him off, crossing your arms and pouting like a child. 

He played the offended part, gasping. If only there were pearls around his neck for him to clutch! You rolled your eyes, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a smile and failing miserably. 

He pulled you closer, bringing your chest to his back, cuddling. An Emperor, cuddling. You never thought you’d see the day, and yet, it felt so natural. You let him adjust himself behind you, and you felt his morning hard on deliciously on your back. 

His lips first met your shoulders, then your neck, and finally your ear. “You can be my floozy any time you want”, he whispered. The words themselves weren’t all that seductive, but the way he said it, morning voice raspy and the ghost of last night all over you… That was something else. 

A part of you wished you could be more mysterious and hold in your laugh. With Shanks, you just couldn’t. Your smile, your laughter, it all came naturally. He had that effect on you, apparently.

You weren’t one to share your dreams and ambitions that easily, but, with your Captain, it felt as simple as breathing.

You rolled your hips against his morning wood, teasing him. 

“Time for round two?”, he asked. His voice was all the stimulation you needed. 

You turned to meet his face and join your lips. 

“Out of how many?”, after a few pecs, you inquired. After all, a girl had a right to know if it was a one night and morning after thing, or more. 

“How many numbers are there?”

“Infinite, as far as I know”

“There’s your answer”, he barely finished saying the words before kissing you deeply. He moved over you, towering over you the best he could with only one arm.

It wasn’t long before you were a mess of moans and orgasms again. 

***

The morning came with an unbearable heat. You managed to sneak out of the Captain’s room and go to your chambers quietly, avoiding any prying gazes. Since he destroyed your clothing, you borrowed something of his. Now, out on the deck covered in sunlight going to the kitchen for a late breakfast, your tank top and shorts were soaked in sweat, and the entire crew was complaining when you joined them. 

“Somebody opened the gates of hell”.

“I haven’t felt this hot since I snuck into an oven as a kid”. 

You laughed as you reached for a muffin at the breakfast table. 

In more ways than one, you were immensely grateful this was your life. Grown men bitching about the weather and all. 

The door to the kitchen opened with little noise. If you weren't so deeply aware of Shanks’ presence at any given minute, you might have missed his quiet entrance. There were no good mornings, only a calm smile as he walked to the head of the table, passing through his trusted mates and yourself. 

What you didn’t expect — and probably no one did — was that the Captain would stop behind your chair, hand on your shoulder, and lean down to give you a kiss on the cheek. 

Intimate. Lovable. 

Public. 

Lucky Roux’s food fell from his fork. For a couple seconds, one could hear a pin drop. Perhaps they heard your heart too, almost beating out of your chest.

But then, as quickly as the silence came, it was gone. 

The clinking of silverware, chairs moving and footsteps around the room, the laughter from Yasopp as Benn pointed to Roux and said “you owe me one hundred berries”. Shanks simply moved with ease through the room.

Oh, you were going to find out what were the terms of this bet later. 

You looked over to where he sat at your side, at his usual place at the head of the table, and the look you were met with made your heart melt. You were sure by now your face was redder than his hair, but, to paraphrase your Captain, who the hell cares? 

Amidst the common chaos, he mouthed in silence three little words to you, reaching out to hold your hand. Eight letters, so simple, yet it was everything. Your heart stopped for a second and, time again, the entire world faded. There were only you two. In all the years you’d known him, there were only ever you two. You held him back, smiling and blushing upon his gaze.