Small stories out of nowhere

Zoro

SFW

His touch was honest and devoid of pretense, reflecting the straightforward nature of his personality. He would simply rest a heavy, calloused hand on your shoulder or the small of your back. It was a grounding presence, a silent way of stating that he was there and that you were safe, providing a sense of security that didn’t require a single word to be spoken.

Because he spent the majority of his time training, his hands were rough and scarred, a texture that became a comfort to you over time. He had a habit of letting you lean against him while he rested, and he would unconsciously wrap a thick arm around your waist, pulling you tight against his side. He didn’t realize he was doing it half the time, but the way he tightened his grip whenever you tried to shift away spoke volumes about his quiet need for your proximity.

He was a heavy sleeper, and this manifested in a surprisingly clingy side that he would vehemently deny while awake. If you fell asleep beside him, he would often migrate toward you in his sleep, his large hand curling around your wrist or hooking into the fabric of your shirt. He held onto you as if you were an anchor in a storm, his grip firm and ensuring that even in his deepest slumber, he knew exactly where you were.

There was a blunt, unpolished quality to how he showed affection. If you were upset, he wouldn’t offer a complex emotional analysis; he would simply reach out and squeeze your hand, his fingers interlocking with yours in a tight, crushing grip. With that display of his sheer physical strength, he was offering you his stability, letting you lean on his unwavering resolve until you felt strong enough to stand on your own again.

He loved the quiet intimacy of sharing a drink with you. While the two of you sat in silence, he would occasionally reach over and brush his thumb across your knuckles, a motion so slow that it was almost meditative. It was a rare glimpse into his softer side, a gesture that felt profoundly intimate because it was reserved solely for the moments when the rest of the world - and the noise of the crew - finally faded away.

NSFW

He had a way of using his hands to heighten your other senses, often sliding a large palm over your eyes to shield your vision. By plunging you into darkness, he forced you to focus entirely on the feel of his rough skin and the sound of his low, guttural breathing. He loved the way you would shiver and reach out blindly for him, your hands searching for any point of contact while he took his time exploring your body with a slow, agonizing deliberation.

Instead of simply holding you, he used his strength to manipulate the physics of your encounter, placing a firm hand on the small of your back to pivot and tilt your pelvis. He didn’t just pull you toward him; he adjusted your angle with a precise, physical intuition, ensuring that every movement created the maximum amount of friction. He watched with a focused intensity as you reacted to the shift, his hand remaining a steady and guiding force that dictated the rhythm of your pleasure.

There were moments when his composure slipped, and it manifested in the way he clung to his surroundings. He would bury his fingers deep into the mattress or grip the headboard with such force that his knuckles turned white, the muscles in his forearms straining under the effort of maintaining his control. He used that physical tension to anchor himself, his hands acting as the only thing keeping him from completely losing himself in the heat of the moment.

He took a particular interest in the areas of your body that were most sensitive to a firm touch, like the dip of your waist or the soft skin behind your knees. He would use his long fingers to apply a heavy pressure, kneading the muscles of your thighs or the curve of your calves to keep you grounded. It wasn’t about dominance, not really, but about the simple raw connection, using his hands to ensure you were fully present and feeling every single sensation he provided.

Once the heat of the moment had passed, his touch became a blunt but honest form of aftercare. He would use his calloused thumbs to wipe the sweat from your brow or the stray tears from your cheeks, his movements devoid of grace but filled with a quiet, unwavering sincerity. He didn’t need words to tell you he was there; he simply let his heavy hand rest on your stomach, the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing beneath his palm acting as the only conversation he needed.

Sanji

SFW

His hands were a testament to his craft, possessing a grace that translated seamlessly into how he treated you. He loved to use his fingers to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch so light it was almost a whisper. He would linger there for a moment, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your temple in a way that felt like a silent, devoted prayer to your beauty.

Because he spent his life providing for others, he found immense joy in using his hands to pamper you. After a long day, he would insist on massaging your feet, his thumbs working through the tension in your arches with an almost professional precision. He didn’t just do it to be helpful or to get anything back from you; he did it with a look of pure adoration, treating the act as if he were tending to a goddess.

There was a playful, flirtatious energy to his touch that always left you flushed. He had a habit of catching your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips for a lingering kiss. He would let his lips press firmly against your hand while his eyes locked onto yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a way that promised far more he had in storage for you later.

While cooking for you, he would occasionally reach back without looking, his hand finding your waist to pull you momentarily against him. It was a brief, sweeping motion - a quick squeeze of your hip and a soft press of his back against yours - before he returned to his culinary task, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

He loved to frame your face in his palms, but he did so with a reverence that felt almost holy. He would cup your cheeks gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasted with his usual high-energy antics. In those moments, the world around you vanished, and the only thing that existed was the warmth of his hands and the devotion in his gaze solely held for you.

NSFW

Sanji approached intimacy as if he were creating a masterpiece in the kitchen, focusing on the sensory experience of your body. He would begin with a slow, worshipful exploration, using his lips and hands in tandem to kiss every single one of your fingertips and then the center of your palms. He loved the way you shivered under his touch, his hands roaming with a reverence that made you feel like the most precious thing in existence.

He utilized the nimble precision of a chef’s fingers to drive you to the brink of insanity in record time. He didn’t rely on heavy pressure like other men; instead, he used light, fluttering touches and expert flickers of his fingertips to tease your most sensitive nerves. He would watch your expression with a hungry intensity, adjusting his technique with devastating accuracy, knowing exactly how to build the tension until you were begging him to finally stop teasing.

There was a passionate, even almost yearning quality to the way he held you. He loved to pull you into his lap, his hands sliding up your thighs to hold you firmly against him. He guided you with his palms flat against your lower back to arch you toward him, ensuring that every movement was a collaborative dance of pleasure. He whispered praises into your ear, his voice a low hum that vibrated through your entire body.

He loved simply tracing the lines of your body. He would use his fingers to slowly circle your breasts or trail down the dip of your spine, barely touching the surface of your skin to create a searing, electric anticipation. He loved the way your breath hitched and your skin flushed beneath his touch, using that physiological response to fuel his own mounting desire.

Afterward, his aftercare was as meticulous as his cooking. He wouldn’t immediately cuddle you; he would use a warm, damp cloth to gently clean your skin, his touch returning to that of the devoted caretaker. He would massage the lingering tension out of your muscles with slow, lazy strokes, eventually pulling you into a tight, protective embrace and kissing your forehead until you both drifted off to sleep in a haze of contentment.

Luffy

SFW

He didn’t have a concept of “personal space”, and his hands were the primary culprits. He loved to throw his arms around you in a sudden embrace, often wrapping his rubbery limbs around you multiple times until you’re literally cocooned in his warmth. It’s his way of claiming you and showing you that you were his favorite person in the world.

He was endlessly curious about the way you work, often using his hands to poke and prod at things he found interesting about you. He might spend an entire afternoon tracing the shape of your ears or trying to see how many fingers he can wrap his own around, his expression one of wide-eyed wonder as if you were the most fascinating treasure he’s ever discovered.

Luffy’s touch was always a tad chaotic but always sincere. He had a habit of grabbing your hand and yanking you along toward some new adventure, his grip strong and steady. He pulled you along because he simply cannot imagine experiencing something exciting without you right there beside him, and through his grip you could always feel the pulse of his excitement through his palm.

Whenever he was tired or feeling particularly clingy, he used his hands to anchor himself to your very core. He would flop his head onto your lap and let his calloused hands sprawl across your thighs or stomach, his fingers occasionally squeezing you. The sheer weight of him was grounding, and the way he instinctively curled his fingers into your clothes told you that you were his safe harbor.

He expressed his affection in a sort of rough-and-tumble way. He loved to ruffle your hair until it's a complete mess, laughing brightly when you tried to swat him away. But if he saw you were actually sad, his touch would shift and he would place a heavy, warm hand on top of your head and pat you with a clumsy but deeply comforting rhythm, promising everything would be okay.

NSFW

Luffy approached intimacy with the same unfiltered enthusiasm he brought to everything else in his life. He didn’t understand the concept of “slow and steady”. If he wanted all of you, he’d want it right now. His hands would be everywhere at once, gripping your waist and hips with a strength that was staggering, pulling you flush against him as if he was trying to merge your two bodies into one.

He used his rubber nature to create sensations that no other man could. He might wrap an arm around your waist to keep you pinned while using his other hand to reach angles that should be impossible, his fingers finding exactly where you needed him most. The flexibility of his touch allowed him to hold you in ways that left you feeling completely surrounded and consumed by him.

At the start of your intimacy journey, Luffy had - quite frankly - no idea what he was doing, but he always relied on his instincts. And even today, he still explored by instinct more than his brain, his grip tightening whenever you made a sound he liked, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that marked you as his. He loved the feeling of your skin gliding against his, and his hands were everywhere all at once, not once letting you go.

He was truly fascinated by your reactions, and when you would shy away to hide, he would gently grip your hands and hold them in place. He wanted to see every flicker of pleasure on your face. He also loved the sight of your chest heaving and your eyes clouded with desire, and he would use his thumbs to brush over your lips, urging you to tell him exactly how good he felt.

And when the peak would hit you both, he clinged to you with a desperation that was almost overwhelming. He would wrap his arms around you in a tight, crushing squeeze, his hands clutching your back as he let out a guttural sound of satisfaction. Afterward, he would simply keep you locked in his embrace while his hands rubbed slow, lazy circles into your skin until you both collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs and heavy breathing.

Robin

SFW

Her touch was, much like her personality, a study in poise and elegance, always deliberate and filled with a quiet, simmering affection. She loved to let her fingers graze the back of your neck or the curve of your shoulders as she passed by, a fleeting contact that felt like a secret shared between the two of you in a crowded room.

Robin used her devil fruit to show affection often. You could be reading a book or working, and suddenly, a hand will sprout from the back of your chair to gently massage your shoulders, or another would appear to brush a stray hair out of your eyes. It was her way of tending to you even when she’s across the room, ensuring you always felt her presence and care.

She had a fondness for the simple intimacy of joined hands. She would lace her fingers with yours with deliberate precision, her thumb tracing the lines of your palm as if she were reading your future. To her, your hand was a sanctuary, and she held onto it with a gentle firmness that spoke of a deep-seated need for connection she didn’t openly show.

There was a sort of maternal, nurturing quality to her hands. Whether she was cupping your face to look into your eyes or running her fingers through your hair to soothe you after a nightmare. She had a way of making you feel like the most precious thing in existence, her touch always soft and calming.

But she also enjoyed playful, subtle teasing. She might sprout a hand on your hip just to give it a tiny, unexpected squeeze, or let a few fingers dance across your collarbone while she speaks in that melodic voice of hers. It was a sophisticated game of touch that kept you perpetually on edge and longing for more of her attention.

NSFW

In the bedroom, Robin’s devil fruit transformed intimacy into a sensory symphony. She didn’t limit herself to just two hands, no, she would create a whole forest of them, blooming across your skin to touch you in ways that were physically Impossible for anyone else. You were completely enveloped by her, hands massaging your thighs, teasing your breasts, and holding your hips all at once.

She was a master of anticipation and psychological torture. She’d use her multiple hands to graze the most sensitive parts of your body - be it your inner thighs, the dip of your waist or the nape of your neck - without ever giving you the full contact you craved. She watched your expression with a dark, knowing smile, enjoying the way you squirmed and begged under the onslaught of her never-ending touch. 

There was a surprising possessiveness to her movements. While she was generally gentle, when she decided she’s had enough of the teasing, her grip would become firm and demanding. She would use several hands to pin your limbs to the bed, boxing you in and leaving you completely vulnerable to her. The feeling of being held down by so many hands of her was intoxicating.

She used her abilities to maximize every single sensation. As she moved within you, she might sprout hands to arch your back or tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every flick of her fingers or tongue was perfectly aligned for maximum pleasure. She treated your body like a complex Instrument, and she knew exactly which “strings” to pull to make you scream her name in a breathless crescendo. 

You only began questioning the state of your own emotions when you noticed that one of your sketchbooks was nearly full, yet didn’t contain a single drawing of anyone else from the crew.

There were still the usual everyday sketches of Law scattered throughout its pages, of course, but now they were joined by an ever-growing collection dedicated almost entirely to his tattoos.

Heat spread across your cheeks at the mere thought of wanting a better look at them. Up close. Close enough to faithfully capture every intricate line, even the ones hidden beneath his clothes.

Somewhere along the way, you’d forgotten that those pages had originally begun as anatomy studies.

Now they were filled with careful observations of the muscles in his arms and chest, how each tattoo stretched and shifted ever so slightly as he moved.

You had even asked him not to move once while trying to capture a particular angle.

“Hold still.”

Law didn’t so much as glance up from the medical journal in his hands.

“…Why?”

“Your forearm tattoo curves weirdly when you rotate your wrist.”

Too absorbed in his reading to question it, he simply extended his arm toward you without another word, letting you do… whatever it was you were doing.

It wasn’t until nearly ten minutes later that he realized you’d been staring at him the entire time.

Your mind drifted back to all the afternoons spent watching him from the opposite side of the office, your heart racing as you quietly melted at the sight of him getting irritated over paperwork that refused to add up.

Without realizing it, you had filled pages with sketches of his furrowed brows, his slightly pursed lips, the faint puff of his cheeks whenever he grew annoyed, somehow ending up with eleven different versions of that expression alone.

Then there were the shadows his eyelashes cast across his cheeks.

The subtle curve of his lips whenever a smile escaped him.

His eyes.

His eyes in every imaginable expression: irritation, concentration, curiosity, happiness.

Oh God.

I’m in love with our grumpy captain.

The doctor of the Heart Pirates found himself increasingly confused by your recent behavior.

He would never admit it aloud, but he was worried.

For the past several days, although you still spent your usual hours working beside him in the office, you had begun avoiding him whenever you could.

You still sorted mountains of paperwork as diligently as ever, only now you always wore your headphones, leaving little room for conversation. Whenever he asked you something, you’d slip one earbud out just long enough to answer before immediately putting it back in. Sometimes you didn’t even hear him the first time.

He never commented on it.

Everyone had days when silence was preferable to the noise of other people.

God knew he had more of those than anyone.

Still, your company had always been one of the few he genuinely enjoyed, and he couldn’t shake the quiet hope that perhaps tomorrow you’d be a little more willing to talk to him again.

It felt strange in other ways too.

Whenever he found enough free time to join the crew for an evening card game, you were no longer sitting beside him as his partner.

Instead of exchanging knowing smiles and whispering advice over your next move, you now found yourself across the table beside Shachi, laughing every time he stubbornly ignored your suggestions and confidently played exactly the wrong card.

A faint pang of jealousy, one he would sooner die than acknowledge, settled somewhere deep inside his chest as he caught himself glancing in your direction throughout the evening.

Across the table, Bepo seemed equally distracted, nervously darting his gaze between the two of you while absentmindedly throwing random cards onto the pile.

Law had always claimed he enjoyed card games.

The truth was, his favorite part had never been the cards.

It had simply been sitting beside you.

Faced with the alternative, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that he would’ve rather skipped the game altogether.

The following afternoon, after excusing yourself from the office for half an hour to go listen to Penguin’s newest collection of music he’d picked up on the last island, the submarine’s brooding captain remained behind to finish his paperwork.

Or rather…

He sat with his pen hovering uselessly above the page, wondering whether he’d done something over the past few days to upset you.

Perhaps he’d been too cold.

Perhaps you’d finally grown tired of trying to get through to him and decided the more entertaining members of the crew were simply better company.

Regret quietly settled over him. He should’ve asked you to go somewhere together on the next island. Just the two of you.

Now charismatic Penguin had probably charmed you with his music collection…

…and who knew when you’d come back to him…

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by an unusually cheerful polar bear entering the office with a steaming cup of green tea.

“Captain, where’s Y/N?”

“What does that have to do with me?” Law answered with mild irritation. “She can spend her time however she wants.”

After a brief pause, he muttered,

“As long as she gets back soon enough to finish this documentation, she can spend time with whoever she wants for as long as she wants.”

Bepo pretended not to hear the second half.

Still smiling to himself, he set the cup beside Law, who acknowledged it with a quiet nod of thanks.

“Hmm… Y/N really is a wonderful artist, isn’t she?”

Silence.

“As you know… she draws everyone on the crew.”

“Hm.”

“You have the most pages, though.”

“…What?”

“Not fair,” Bepo chuckled as he walked out of the office. “You’re one lucky guy.”

He left behind one thoroughly bewildered captain.

Later that day, the two of you were updating the submarine’s library. Law stood atop a ladder placing the newly acquired books onto the shelves while you handed them up one by one, carefully recording each addition.

Every so often your fingers brushed against his.

Each fleeting touch sent an unwelcome current racing through both of you, one you silently agreed to ignore. You’d pretend to examine the bookshelves with great interest while embarrassment painted your cheeks, and the tips of his ears.

This angle is really not helping my increasingly ridiculous crush, you thought, looking up at your captain from almost directly below.

From there, the sharp line of his nose seemed even more striking, and you found yourself watching the slow rise and fall of his long eyelashes.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous.

The word echoed through your mind later as well while the two of you worked in companionable silence, cataloguing documents together.

It echoed again as your pencil unconsciously recreated those same thick eyelashes arching above serious golden eyes.

Then the tattooed heart with the smiling Jolly Roger emblazoned across his chest.

You jolted when you heard your captain calling your name, snapping your sketchbook shut almost instantly.

“Could you take these books back to the office?” he asked. “We’ll go through them properly tomorrow. Keep two or three with you and leave the rest on my desk. Then head to dinner. I’ll join you once I’m finished here.”

Still distracted, you nodded, gathering the towering stack of books into your arms.

The pile was so high you had to steady it with your chin to stop it from collapsing like a house of cards, a sight that made an unexpected wave of fondness wash over Law.

In your haste, however, you failed to notice that your sketchbook, buried beneath the stack, had slipped free and remained behind on the table as you left the library.

Once he’d finished highlighting the necessary information and sorting tomorrow’s paperwork into neat piles, Law finally prepared to head for the dining hall.

That’s when he noticed something lying on the table where you’d been sitting.

Of course.

You’d forgotten something.

He walked over and picked up the light-colored sketchbook, intending to return it the next time he saw you.

Still…

Curiosity quietly tugged at him.

Just one look.

He opened it.

A drawing of himself.

He turned the page.

Another one.

He flipped to the middle at random.

Him again.

Another page.

A detailed anatomical study of muscles.

He flipped toward the back.

A meticulous rendering of his hands.

…What the hell?

He stood there staring at the sketchbook in complete silence, so stunned that his thoughts seemed to short-circuit altogether.

More than embarrassed, he was simply… astonished.

Not because someone had documented him in such painstaking detail.

But because you had.

And not because he was the captain.

Simply because he was him.

After everyone had finished dinner, full and ready to retreat for the night before another day awaited them, Law quietly asked you to stay behind.

“I think you forgot this,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

If the earth had opened beneath your feet and swallowed you into its deepest depths, straight to the bottom of the Grand Line, you wouldn’t have protested.

You felt like you were dying.

Before you could snatch the sketchbook from his hands, he deliberately opened it to one of the more detailed portraits, the kind that made it painfully obvious you’d spent hours bringing it to life.

“You spent that much time on this?”

“…Maybe.”

Silence settled between you, and for the life of you, you couldn’t decipher what was passing behind those amber eyes.

“You got the eyes wrong.”

That…

That was not what you’d expected him to say.

“What?”

“They aren’t always that harsh. Or that distant.” His gaze lingered on the drawing for another moment. “They’re softer. Especially depending on who’s standing in front of me.”

He tried to sound casual, though the warmth creeping into his cheeks betrayed him far more effectively than his voice ever could. It was, whether he intended it or not, a confession.

“You’ll have to take another look from up close,” he continued, gently placing the sketchbook back into your hands. “You can fix it tomorrow, when we visit the next island.”

With that, he turned toward the door, wished you goodnight with the smallest of smiles, and left.

Your heart threatened to leap straight out of your chest and join the rest of his collection.

Not that you would’ve minded.

And that…

That was how it all began.

By the time the two of you were together, the quiet blooming of your relationship could be traced through your sketches alone.

Little by little, they transformed into increasingly intimate moments, the sort only someone who shared another person’s quietest hours would ever have the chance to witness.

Law lying in bed, still wearing his glasses as he read.

Law fast asleep with his head thrown back, mouth slightly open, snoring without the slightest hint of dignity.

Law first thing in the morning, hair hopelessly disheveled, not quite awake yet.

A cup of coffee slowly growing cold beside him.

Law laughing so hard he doubled over.

His head resting in your lap while insisting he was only “resting his eyes.”

Whenever his gaze happened to fall upon one of those sketches, an unfamiliar feeling quietly settled inside him.

He had expected studies.

Those had never embarrassed him. To your pencil, he’d simply been another subject worthy of observation. A body was a body, and as a doctor, he understood the fascination that came with studying the way muscles shifted beneath skin or bones dictated movement. Those were the kinds of drawings an artist made when captivated by form.

But these…

These were something else.

They reached far beyond anatomy, and that singular way you saw him unsettled him in a manner he couldn’t begin to explain.

This wasn’t merely what he looked like.

It was what you had chosen to see.

Not the captain.

Not the Surgeon of Death.

Not the man whose name people spoke in hushed voices.

Your gifted hands had filled page after page with the version of him that existed only in the quiet spaces between responsibilities, in fleeting moments rarely witnessed by anyone else.

As though those ordinary, forgettable fragments of his life possessed a beauty he had never once thought to assign them. As though simply existing beside him had been enough to make them worth remembering.

Much like every moment he spent beside you had become filled with countless little memories he knew he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

He hadn’t even realized you had been watching during those moments of quiet contentment. He’d always assumed those tiny glimpses, the rare instances when he allowed himself to truly relax, belonged to him alone. They were the sort of moments no one else would notice, let alone consider meaningful.

And yet…

There they were.

Preserved with the same tenderness another person might reserve for sunsets or constellations.

His breath caught.

The feeling blooming inside his chest was unlike anything he had ever known, something impossibly gentle brushing against his heart, as though wings had suddenly begun to unfurl from it, eager to lift it free and carry it out into the open air.

As your relationship settled into something comfortably familiar, Law gradually became the most frequent subject of your artwork, much to the dismay of certain rather jealous members of the crew, who weren’t above voicing their complaints every now and then.

“There has to be something of me in here somewhere,” Penguin muttered as he flipped through your sketchbook. “Captain… no, Law… Captain again… Captain… Ca… AAAH!”

He yelped, dropping the sketchbook in sheer panic.

It never reached the floor.

An already irritated Law caught it with one hand before it could even come close.

“Be careful.”

“I CAN’T BE CALM WHEN I JUST ACCIDENTALLY SAW TWELVE DRAWINGS OF YOUR ABS, CAPTAIN!” Penguin cried, his face turning scarlet.

He immediately yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes as though it might erase the memory.

“I can’t believe you never drew the time I absolutely demolished that guy!” he continued dramatically. “It was legendary! A once-in-a-lifetime moment! But no! Apparently all you ever feel like immortalizing are this Surgeon of Death’s hands and ridiculously thick eyelashes.”

He stared at Law in theatrical disbelief.

“…Who knows what else I would’ve found if I’d kept turning the pages.”

Now it was your turn to blush.

“Penguin, no… I’ll draw you soon, it’s not like there’s any—”

“That’s none of your concern,” Law interrupted flatly, still holding the sketchbook securely against his chest.

“She can sketch whatever she wants.”

His golden eyes shifted toward Penguin.

“And if you’re ever that careless with her artwork again…”

A brief pause.

“…we’ll have a conversation in my office.”

Penguin visibly paled.

“…You know what? I suddenly feel very well represented already.”

Even your anatomy studies had grown more detailed.

More intimate.

By then, you could shamelessly ask him to stay perfectly still for ten minutes so you could capture the angle of the tattoo stretching across his chest. The easiest position usually involved you reclining halfway against his lap so that his torso angled ever so slightly toward you, allowing every contour of his chest, abdomen, and arms to reveal itself beneath shifting light. Every muscle found its place upon the page, every subtle ridge and hollow observed with painstaking care.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving.”

“…Your breathing counts.”

He sighed.

“That also counts.”

You frowned at the page, erasing another line.

“Something’s wrong…”

Law leaned forward just enough to glance at your sketch.

“You’ve pulled the pectoralis major too far toward the sternum.”

You looked up at him.

“…Do you enjoy ruining my confidence?”

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I enjoy preventing anatomical inaccuracies.”

“…That’s somehow worse.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Your tattoo work is flawless,” he said, his eyes returning to the page. “It’s just the muscle beneath it.”

“…You couldn’t have started with that?”

“You would’ve stopped listening.”

Sometimes you drew him while he was occupied with something else, and other times, simply because those quiet moments together filled you with such contentment, you found yourself sketching those beloved muscles and bones entirely from memory.

One evening, the two of you sat close together as Law leafed through a medical textbook while you frowned at a sketch of his back, trying to make sense of the broad planes shifting beneath his skin.

So absorbed were you in your work that you never noticed him leaning over your shoulder.

“The trapezius overlaps the latissimus dorsi more than that.”

You looked at him blankly.

“…Do you ever say upper back like a normal person?”

“No.”

Having long since accepted that you would never possess his encyclopedic knowledge of osteology and myology, you had resigned yourself to spending the rest of your life with one impossibly adorable, hopelessly pedantic doctor who insisted on correcting you every chance he got.

“You’re looking at the tendon, not the muscle.”

“Law.”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to need you to use words normal people actually know.”

He sighed, as though you had just asked the impossible.

“…The stringy bit.”

Laughter burst from you before you could stop it.

“See? You can do it.”

“That’s the flexor digitorum profundus,” he informed you knowingly.

“…Mhm.”

“You have no idea what I just said.”

“Not a clue.”

“You’re pretending to understand,” he accused, already preparing an impromptu lecture.

“I love listening to you talk.”

He froze and blinked twice.

The tips of his ears bloomed a brilliant shade of pink as something entirely incoherent escaped beneath his breath, quiet enough that you couldn’t make out the words, though they still managed to tickle something warm inside your chest.

“You sound cute when you get all professor-like.”

Watching your normally composed, reserved boyfriend become so hopelessly flustered filled you with entirely unreasonable satisfaction.

I could get used to endless medical lectures if teasing him always earns me this reaction.

After months of constant reminders about proper anatomical terminology and what felt like several medical lectures every month, though you would never admit just how much you’d secretly enjoyed them, you gradually found yourself using words that had once sounded like an entirely foreign language.

There was something undeniably attractive about having such an absurdly brilliant and beautiful boyfriend all to yourself.

The first time Law had enthusiastically begun explaining the intricacies of the human neck and casually mentioned the sternocleidomastoid, your instinctive response had been to blink at him and mutter, “Bless you.”

Now, whenever he gently corrected your drawings with the same term, you simply nodded.

“I know, I know.”

Without even looking up, you adjusted the line.

“It attaches to the mastoid process, and mine’s too straight.”

Law slowly looked up from his book.

“…I’m proud of you.”

You stared.

“…Was that a compliment?”

“I’ve given you several.”

“You’ve given me homework.”

You teased him, fully aware that countless more assignments would follow, each one secretly becoming your favorite. Every now and then he’d even reinforce those lessons in practice, tracing surprisingly gentle kisses along your neck as he pointed out precisely where each muscle and delicate bone lay beneath your skin.

You had barely blocked in the basic shapes before a familiar voice drifted over your shoulder.

“You’ve exaggerated the deltoid.”

Law had been quietly watching you work for quite some time, long enough that, for once, you had begun to believe he’d found nothing to correct.

Alas…

It had simply been too good to be true.

Without even turning around, you let out an exaggerated sigh.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“My insufferable anatomist. I was wondering how long you’d last before correcting me.”

“I lasted twelve minutes.”

“That’s a personal record.”

A quiet hum escaped him.

Almost a laugh.

“I was trying to let you finish.”

“You failed.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering beneath his breath.

“I’m only trying to help.”

You smiled despite his incurable inability to leave your drawings alone.

“I know.”

Your voice softened.

“You always do.”

Something shifted behind his eyes.

“I know how seriously you take your work.”

His voice had grown quieter now.

“I want your references to be as accurate as they deserve.”

He hesitated before adding,

“…I’ll survive even if that means you’ll keep calling me insufferable.”

He leaned forward just enough to study the page more closely, one finger hovering above the paper without touching it. He knew better than to smudge charcoal.

“The contour’s right,” he said after a moment. “It’s just the insertion that’s slightly off.”

A brief silence followed.

“…The shading’s beautiful, though.”

You blinked.

“You noticed the shading?”

“I notice everything.”

There was an almost bashful quality to his voice now.

“I’ve known you long enough to learn a thing or two myself.”

He cleared his throat.

“…Though you should still fix the deltoid. It’s exaggerated.”

“No. I made you look stronger.”

“I don’t need artistic charity.”

“No?”

“No.”

You erased the line with theatrical reluctance, grumbling under your breath.

“It looked good.”

“It looked inaccurate.”

“It looked handsome.”

The faintest blush dusted the tips of his ears.

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

More often than not, Law would catch himself watching your hand move across the page, your pencil gliding with practiced confidence as it gathered fragments of him into graceful lines.

The feeling it stirred inside him remained wonderfully unfamiliar, equal parts strange and intimately warm. Somehow, in your drawings, he always appeared calmer than he’d imagined himself to be, softer around the edges, and with time he came to realize that the version of himself reflected through your eyes was the one he preferred above all others. It was the man he wished to be when you looked at him.

And perhaps that was why he found himself hoping you would never stop observing him with those endlessly hopeful eyes that seemed to hold love in every blink.

With all of that in mind, it wasn’t long before Law noticed something else.

In every drawing of the crew, whether they were gathered around the dinner table, celebrating at a festival, pelting one another with snowballs, or simply spending a quiet evening together in the lounge, one person was always missing.

You.

Not just from that sketchbook, but from every sketchbook he’d ever seen.

At most, a hand would occasionally appear, or perhaps a glimpse of your legs stretched across his lap in one of the quieter sketches of the two of you together, but you were never there as part of the crew.

He didn’t ask you about it immediately.

Instead, he continued to watch in silence, patiently waiting until the right moment presented itself.

It came while you were sketching Shachi’s birthday celebration.

Everyone was there.

Penguin and the birthday boy laughing as they clapped each other on the back.

Ikkaku and Jean Bart raising their glasses in a toast.

Bepo sprawled comfortably across the couch beside what had to be his fourth slice of cake, absentmindedly rubbing his contentedly full stomach.

The captain of the Heart Pirates sat at the far end of the sofa, wearing the faintest smile as he spoke with someone outside the frame.

The only indication of that unseen person was a pair of legs draped lazily across his lap.

“Why aren’t you ever in these?”

The question escaped him before he could stop himself.

You blinked, lowering your eyes to the drawing once again.

“What?”

“You draw every member of the crew.”

“…Yeah?”

“Except yourself.”

Your expression turned genuinely puzzled, tinged with a hint of embarrassment.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never wondered why?”

“I guess… it just feels… strange.”

You hesitated, searching for the words.

“I can see all of you. I know your faces, the way you move, the energy each of you carries. But I don’t know how I’d even draw myself. It feels awkward.”

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips.

“And I’d probably ruin the whole picture.”

“Hm.”

Law understood that feeling better than most.

The quiet estrangement of looking at yourself and finding a stranger where you ought to have felt at home. He had spent years treating his own body as little more than a vessel for a mind that never quite seemed to belong inside it, as though the two merely happened to coexist rather than truly belong to one another.

So he carried your confession with him long after the conversation had ended, already wondering how he might one day convince you to see yourself with the same tenderness you so effortlessly gave everyone else.

It had been the end of one of those wonderfully uneventful days, the kind that settled over the submarine just before setting sail from another island the following morning.

The two of you had spent the evening tucked away in your room, reading, dozing, and quietly enjoying one another’s company.

Your head rested comfortably in his lap, your eyes closed in contentment as the long, deft fingers of one hand lazily combed through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. With the other, he absentmindedly flipped through the latest pages of your sketchbook.

More than once, his eyes lingered over the confident strokes of your pencil, quietly admiring the remarkable skill behind them. It filled him with a strange sense of pride to know that the same hands capable of holding their own in brutal pirate battles could also create something so delicate, so patient, so impossibly beautiful.

Then his breathing caught.

He had reached another sketch of himself.

He was lying curled against you, his head resting on your shoulder, lips slightly parted in deep, peaceful sleep while the brim of his hat had slipped low enough to shade his eyes.

Of you, only fragments remained.

The curve of a shoulder.

A curtain of hair cascading over it.

The soft folds of your sweater.

He noticed immediately that the drawing hadn’t been finished. The shading remained incomplete, certain details lacked the refinement so characteristic of your work.

Had you been fully awake, you probably never would’ve let him see something unfinished.

But that wasn’t what held his attention.

Near the bottom of the page, written in your careful handwriting so small it might easily have gone unnoticed, were three simple words.

My favorite view.

It was almost unbelievable that three ordinary words could settle so deeply beneath his ribs, finding a place he had long believed incapable of holding this kind of warmth.

As though, without ever searching for it, he had stumbled upon the final dream his soul had been quietly waiting for all along.

It wasn’t the sketch itself that moved him.

It was the realization that someone had looked upon one of his most unguarded, most ordinary moments and found it worthy of preserving.

Worthy of calling beautiful.

Worthy of returning to again and again.

For as long as he could remember, Law had believed love always demanded something in return. That it had to be earned, repaid, or would inevitably be lost.

And yet, within every careful line you had drawn and every shadow you had patiently built, there had been nothing except a quiet admiration for the man he was when he wasn’t trying to be anything more than himself.

For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that perhaps it truly was possible to be loved not for what you chose to show the world, nor in spite of everything you carried within you…

…but simply for who you were.

Perhaps…

Perhaps this was happiness.

Not the loud, fleeting kind he’d always assumed belonged to somebody else, but the quiet sort that slipped beneath your skin unnoticed until, before you realized it, all you wanted was for the moment to linger a little longer.

He didn’t know how to put any of it into words.

Instead, his fingertips drifted slowly across the paper, careful enough that one might have thought he feared smudging the graphite with a single careless touch. He traced those lines for longer than he needed to before gently closing the sketchbook.

Then he drew you closer.

Burying his face in your hair as though it were the safest place in the world, he pressed countless quiet kisses against your forehead and the crown of your head, holding you with a tenderness that said everything he could not.

Basking beneath the golden light of the setting sun in a meadow on the newest island you’d docked at, you and Law had quietly slipped away from the rest of the crew, content to spend the afternoon wrapped up in one another.

Reclining in the grass, you watched clouds drift lazily overhead, you pointing out the shapes they formed while your ever-skeptical boyfriend dismissed each one with an amused scoff, the two of you talking about nothing in particular.

After a while, Law reached into the backpack he’d thoughtfully brought along for your little excursion away from the submarine and pulled something out.

It was the sketchbook you’d been searching for days, the one you’d eventually given up on finding and replaced with a new one before you had the chance to finish it.

“Where did you find it?” you asked, eyes widening as you instinctively reached for it.

Instead of handing it over, Law shifted a little closer, gently guiding you back until you were sitting comfortably between his legs. Then he opened the sketchbook to its final pages.

There, spread across a single sheet, was someone who looked remarkably like you.

You were lying on your stomach atop the bed, surrounded by towering piles of books. The books themselves had been drawn with stiff, ruler-straight lines, yet each one had been filled with painstaking, almost childlike details, right down to your favorite titles and editions. You rested against the fluffy white blanket he’d done his earnest best to capture, your hair spilling loosely around you in delightfully unruly strands, your smile warm and just a little crooked, every tooth nearly the same size. He had even attempted shading, and truthfully, it wasn’t bad at all.

Ever the meticulous man, the Captain of the Heart Pirates had even placed his familiar spotted hat beside you at the corner of the bed.

You stared at the page, speechless, as warmth stung unexpectedly behind your eyes.

“…There was one person missing,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “I may not be very good at this, but…”

He never got to finish.

You threw your arms around him so suddenly that you nearly knocked him onto his back.

He let out a quiet, startled, “Mm…”

“It’s beautiful! Thank you so much,” you said, your voice thick with emotion as you peppered his cheeks and the corner of his lips with grateful kisses, leaving him blushing a deep shade of red. “You’re actually not bad at this. We might have to become colleagues.”

A quiet laugh escaped through his nose.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed.

“It’s perfect.”

“It objectively isn’t.”

“It is.”

“The perspective’s wrong.”

“I don’t care.”

“My line weight is inconsistent.”

“I don’t care.”

“The left eye…”

You kissed him again, effectively silencing yet another critique before it had the chance to escape.

You couldn’t help imagining him, a man who had never been blessed with an artist’s hand, sitting down with nothing more than a pencil anyway, enduring every crooked line and every failed attempt simply because, somewhere along the way, he’d decided you deserved to be seen. To be remembered. To see yourself through his eyes.

No one had ever loved you so deliberately.

And in that moment, you silently promised yourself that you would never let that happiness slip away from your heart.

It was well past midnight by the time you began teaching him how to draw hands.

You gently turned his wrist.

“Loosen your grip on the pencil.”

“Like this?”

“A little.”

You nudged his fingers into place.

“You’re holding it like you’re about to perform surgery.”

“…Old habits.”

As everyone aboard the Polar Tang already knew, drawing hands had long since become second nature to you. While you carefully sketched Law’s hand, he concentrated on drawing yours.

On the same sheet of paper rested two intertwined hands.

One was long and slender, tattooed from wrist to fingers, its elegant bones subtly visible beneath the skin as the thumb traced a gentle caress across the other.

The second was smaller, the fingers a little stiff, the nail beds broader than he had initially managed to capture. Fortunately, under your patient guidance, it changed shape minute by minute until it became something that felt perfect to the two of you, even if any self-proclaimed art critic, whose opinion neither of you had asked for in the first place, would’ve called it an awkward collision of two entirely different styles.

The finished page found its place in a frame on your bedside table before the two of you drifted off to sleep, laughter still lingering softly between you in the darkness.

TW: Masturbation

Parry.

Slash.

Block.

Slash.

Parry.

Counterattack.

“Fuck!”

You held back your smirk. Twirling your shortsword, you shifted your feet to prepare for your opponent—who was quickly losing his temper and charging in without thought.

‘Typical.’ Men and their pride never failed to disappoint. All brawl and no brains. No calculation. No intelligence.

‘Same old, same old.’

You sighed, bored as you dodged an attack that was all too clear and all too clumsy. 

It wasn’t like you could blame him. You were a woman after all. They never seemed to care that you had been training for years under the swordmaster. A fatal mistake on their part.

All they saw was someone with tits and a softer face. 

Easy to defeat.

The dirt of the dancing circle kicked up in your eyes, but you remained unbothered. This was where you felt most at peace. Most in control. 

You hardly paid attention to those who had gathered to watch what you could barely even call a fight. A dance. 

Your nameless opponent spun back around, his own sword coming up to cleave.

Parry.

Disarm.

Eyes widened in panic then shifted to anger. You pushed forward, taking his panic and anger as an opening, running to his side while your leg swept under him. He fell to the ground face first, spitting out the sand he was covered in—more than you were now.

Was it necessary?

Absolutely not.

Did you regret it?

Not one fucking bit.

“Yield.” Your voice was as sharp and deadly as the blade at his throat. 

His lip furled in fury. Regardless of his current emotion, he understood his position and swallowed his pride. “I yield.”

‘Oh how fun it is to put men in their rightful place.’

“Your Highness.”

You gave the man one more glance on the ground before you sheathed and turned to face the servant who had enough intelligence not to interrupt the match before it was over.

They bowed to you before straightening. “You’ve been requested in the throne room.”

‘Naturally.’

You looked down to your dust covered breeches and tunic. Not exactly throne room appropriate. 

Father likely wouldn’t care. Unless there were guests you needed to greet.

“Immediately—if you can, Your Highness.”

Well, that solved your dilemma.

The training grounds you were currently at were part of the palace, but further away from where you needed to be. You jogged, light and quick, causing the sweat from your fight to pour heavier and mix with the dirt on your face. 

A shower would be absolutely necessary. As always.

Almost ten minutes later—after dodging servants and nobles (some giving disapproving looks and others used to your antics)—you burst into the throne room trying your best to calm your breath. 

Your eyes scanned the expansive room—only your father and godfather. Luck was on your side. You walked down the long, red carpet with embroidered golden lines that split the room perfectly in two large halves.

Once you made it to the end of the three stairs, where your father sat elevated at the top of them—on the throne chair—you curtsied despite the fact that you were wearing pants. “Your Majesty.”

“Stand, daughter. You know we don’t need such honorifics when there are no eyes to watch.”

Habits died hard and slip-ups were not to be tolerated. Safety was always best.

You addressed your godfather—who sat to the king’s left—after standing. “Padrino, I didn’t know you were here,” you grinned. 

“Bella, just got in this morning. Up to your usual stunts in the dirt I see.”

You scoffed, “Stunts? If it weren’t for these stunts, I’d be a weak little nobody, unable to defend her kingdom on her own.”

Your father’s eyes sparkled with pride. “Exactly. I can’t have my only heir defenseless. What kind of father—king—would I be to leave her unable to fight or stand for her own people?”

Pink feathers shifted in the air as your godfather let out a heavy sigh. “I guess… It’s just so…untraditional.”

You held back your tongue—aiming not to point out that he had female fighters of his own. “What did you call me in here for?” You asked instead.

“You’re becoming a spinster—”

“A spinster?!”

The king’s eyes slanted, face tightening ever so slightly. 

He was always soft on you—maybe too soft according to some in the court—but you knew which looks to avoid receiving. 

“I have entertained your…lack of suitors for far too long. It’s time to become serious about marriage. It is the duty of the crown to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved him off, hearing this before. “To provide future heirs for the betterment of the kingdom,” you grumbled, crossing your arms. 

By some miracle, you held back a shudder.

Your father sighed. “We have to start getting serious about this. No one is going to want to marry you once you reach a certain age. Some are already turning prospects down because of it.”

Utterly revolting. Men were desirable at whatever age they decided to get married, but because you were almost four to five years away from thirty, they saw you as too old. 

Pedophiles. The lot of them. 

In the end, your duty was to your role. Your kingdom. The crown. 

‘Above anything else.’

You struggled to keep your voice even. “What do you propose?”

“We bring in suitors. No law states that they have to be of royal blood and considering our current options…that works out in our favor.”

“A stupid law.” Your godfather’s face twisted in disgust. “Can’t believe mi bella is going to have to marry some low-life commoner.”

“May I remind you that her mother, my beloved queen, was a commoner herself? We fought for that right. I will not have you slander our country’s rulings,” your father chastised.

He sighed, but dropped it. “You’re right. Not my kingdom, or I’d fix that problem immediately. Tainted blood,” he murmured the last sentence so quietly, you were unsure if your father heard it.

You shook off his words, rubbing it off as part of his traditional and protective nature.

“Okay.” Your head was held high. You could accept this. Any heir—regardless of their gender—would be in your shoes. Forced to marry someone they barely knew. Forced to birth a child. You swallowed down bile that threatened to rise at the word ‘forced’. “What’s the plan for this then? To bring in these suitors you speak of?”

“We send out invitations to nearby islands in the New World. I will leave the age range of suitors to you.” Your father’s eyes softened a bit at that while his words eased the tension in your shoulders. “I thought it might be fun to have some…mystery to it. If they were wearing masks, you could focus on them as a person rather than them trying to dazzle you with faux charm. Force them to bring their inner traits to the table rather than their physical ones.” He gave you a pointed look. “I know how important it is for you to be seen as…you—rather than some prize to be won.”

“Stupid. Of course mi bella is a prize.” 

Padrino was not holding back—although he never really did if you were honest.

You didn’t…loathe the idea. 

The use of masks was…intriguing. You begged to differ about it though; it would only allow the person to hide themselves more, but if they weren’t able to rely on such physical traits, they would actually have to try and woo. Show strength that you’d need in a partner.

Every day was the same. Mind numbing, sparring in matches you’d never lose. It was time to shake things up. Do something different.

“I agree to these terms. When is this…event?”

“We will set it for a week from today,” your father announced. “And in two weeks from now, you shall be betrothed to the one you pick from this ball.”

“Two weeks? Just one week after meeting them?”

“Time is of the essence, my daughter. We mustn’t wait any longer.” His face turned into a light scowl.

“Fine, but this is for the kingdom. Not for anything else. And my future husband must realize that I will be the one ruling. Not him. Nor shall he try to…control my hobbies.” Your voice hardened. 

“I’m sure you’ll pick well enough, dear. If you have no more words for me on this matter, you may see yourself out. And by Nika, please wash up before your lessons today.”

With one last bow to your father and padrino, you turned on your heel towards your chambers, ready to get clean.

“Do you need any assistance?” Analise asked when you walked into the bathhouse.

“Just if you can get me some clothes. What’s on the agenda for today, by the way?” You stripped and walked to the showers.

“You mean you didn’t check this morning?” 

“I was busy,” you excused. “I have more important things to attend to.”

“Like winning bets, you mean?”

“Look, if they want to bet against me—that’s fine,” you smirked. “For real though, what am I doing today?” You inquired again, scrubbing your head full of suds.

Analise sighed. “Your least favorite.”

You groaned. “I’ve had enough princess lessons for a lifetime. When will they finally see that enough is enough?”

“Maybe when you trade breeches for dresses.”

“Ha—when the Calm Belt makes waves.”

She shook her head with a smile on her face. “I’ll be sure to bring the least…hated one I can find.”

“I love you so much,” you beamed at her.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll be back.” She walked out of the bathroom.

You spent as much time as you could under the water, entranced by the filth that flowed from your skin down to the drain. Sweet fragrance enveloped your nose as you scrubbed your skin raw—determined to cover every inch with soap. 

You loved the grim and the soil of the dance circle, but it was so satisfying to watch your hard work be finished for the day and feel refreshed afterwards. Tense muscles that had put in their morning workout relaxed under the steam.

“Ready?” Analise came back with…well fuck.

“That was Lady Finch’s choice wasn’t it?” You whined, seeing the extravagant gown in her arms.

“Sorry,” she sucked in her teeth. “It was already laid out on your bed. She seems insistent to ensure that you’re ready for next week.”

You clawed at your face. “And what the fuck am I supposed to do with my sword?”

“Leave it in your room..?”

“Would a prince be expected to leave his sword in his room?”

 Her expression was sheepish despite herself, “I know, I know. It’s fucked.”

It wasn’t her fault. You grabbed the towel that hung near you, taking a deep breath in, just to exhale out. “Let’s get this over with.”

They would’ve been your last words if you could help it.

Undergarments were put on, then that fucking cage. By the time it came to the corset, you were wincing with each hellish tug.

“I think it’s tight enough,” you growled.

“She’ll punish me if even a millimeter is off.”

So instead you were punished. Still, you shut up—even if you would prefer to be sliced by a blade. At least your lungs wouldn’t be crushed. At least you’d be able to fucking breathe despite bleeding out.

After three minutes of stealing whatever fucking air she could, Analise led you to the chair in front of the vanity, reaching for your brush. “Go ahead, sit.”

You bent your body at an awkward angle, attempting with everything you had to keep the fabric from bursting apart. Finally, you sat with a huff. Your trusted lady in waiting—and best friend—began tending to the rat's nest that was your hair. The boning dug sharp into your skin—material that threatened your entire livelihood.

Not made for sword fighting. You wondered if that was Lady Finch’s diabolical plan all along.

Didn’t mean that you wouldn't try if your hand was forced. If anything, it was a challenge you wanted to try your hand at.

Father may be lenient—but when you were wearing dresses, no sword-fighting (unless of emergency) because…well…when you thought back to today and how grubby you got, it made sense. You couldn’t argue. It was one of his few rules when it came to your swordsmanship and gowns were expensive.

A fact that you sought to use in your favor—for financial reasons of course. Breeches and tunics were practical. Cheaper. No ulterior motive in it for you.

They didn’t take the bait. 

You waited, twiddled your thumbs—doing your best (but failing miserably) to ignore the pains you felt with each breath—reminding yourself that you were too old to be putting frogs in Lady Finch’s bed.

Internally, you sighed in bliss, ‘Those were the days.’

Less responsibility on your shoulders—despite being royalty—living most days out as a child. Lessons still—sure, but treated more human than some…higher being. 

Mother, still alive. 

Was it bad you could hardly remember her smile? Hear her laugh? That you had to look at pictures and portraits to jog your memory?

Oh well…the grief had lessened over the years.

What would she think about all of this? About this…suitor situation?

‘It doesn’t matter. She’s dead.’

A blinding truth. You could only mourn the dead for so long before you lost your mind.

“Ready?”

“Sure.” Sarcastic. Over it before it had even started.

Your best friend sent you a smile—empathetic and gentle. 

Analise trailed behind you as you walked together down palace halls turning familiar corners of dark—almost black—brickstone. 

You opened the doors to the classroom with an already scowling Lady Finch.

“You’re late.”

“If you hadn’t made me wear this—”

“Don’t start with me, child. Come take a seat—and do so gracefully like we’ve been practicing.”

Your teeth gritted so loud, you were sure people on the next island could hear it. Irritation rolled off of you in such violent waves, you were confident it controlled the tides themselves.

Child. Spinster. Your elders needed to make up their fucking mind and get on the same page of what you were.

Somehow. Somehow you managed to sit more princess-like than when you did for your hair.

Still not perfect enough for her.

“Again,” she barked out.

You weren’t sure how much time passed or what you did differently the last ten fucking times you tried, but at some point she was satisfied.

Your hell on earth. Your own Floridian Triangle.

Bullshit.

“Posture.” She used the long pointer in her hand to show you where to fix your body as you sat in the simulated throne chair. “Ankles.” 

One-worded commands that you were supposed to comprehend at what she wanted. Nika, you hated this woman.

Okay, hate was a strong word, but…it was damn near close to it. 

“Left. Tilt.” Hour upon hour of fixing small details that no one would notice. Let alone commoners. Perfection and nothing less was tolerated. 

“Read.” Lady Finch thrust a book in your hands. “Not like that,” she snapped when you pronounced one syllable wrong.

Some dead language that no one utilized anymore. 

She made you stand and make your way over to the harp. “Play.”

A useless instrument. Beautiful—but useless.

“Solve.”

Equations that you’d never have to actually know—you were sure. Dumb and pointless.

All of it. The rest of the day if you really thought about it.

By the time it was over, your head was pounding in time with your ribs.

‘That damned boning.’

“Stand.”

You stood, shoving down the desire—no, the need at this point—to glare at her. A glare that you were sure was more lethal than your sword itself.

She circled you like a predator, waiting to pounce on whatever she saw was out of place. With all of your strength, you kept your face neutral and stared ahead at the wall.

“Hmm.” Her lips turned upwards into a pressed smile. “Satisfactory. You are dismissed for today. Expect to see me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Lady Finch’s eyes turned into slits at your tone. 

“Every day for the next five days.”

Fuck. ‘Nika, if you’re real, please smite me this instant.’

Your prayer went unanswered. Unfortunately, you were still standing and very much alive with unscorched skin. 

You were convinced she enjoyed torture. It was the only thing that made sense to you. 

Swallowing back curses, you kept yourself from running out of the room before she changed her mind about today and decided to continue indulging in her favorite pastime.

“How was it?” Analise inquired softly when you stepped out.

Your flat look said it all.

“That bad?” Her face turned pensive.

You sucked in your teeth. “You tell me. The next five fucking days—until the event happens. They want me in tip-top-princess shape I fucking guess.”

“Nika, that’s…”

“Awful? Depressing? Soul-crushing? Yeah,” you exhaled. “I’m well aware.” You started making your way to your chambers, ready to undress.

“Actually…”

You stopped, groaning. “No, don’t tell me…”

“It’s time for dinner.”

“I can wear something else for dinner,” you growled.

Analise shook her head. “They want you now.”

“Of course they do,” you grumbled, turning back around to head to the dining room. “What else do they want from me?”

“Not sure, but I’m assuming this will be expected for…a while. Probably even after you’re married,” her voice turned quiet. “Until your betrothed gets used to the idea of you wearing pants.”

You scoffed. “It’s modern times. Last I checked, it wasn’t a fucking crime to wear pants. Besides, I get to pick my betrothed, and on top of someone strong, I’m picking someone who doesn’t give a shit on what I wear or do.”

It was your new priority in a partner. Or your lungs and ribs would surely be paying a price that couldn’t be refunded.

Knowing there wasn’t a point in arguing with you, your friend only replied with, “Understood, Your Highness.”

XXX

You thought that day was torture along with the few others that followed. Two days before the event, however, you were proven wrong. 

“We're ending early today,” Lady Finch’s lips curled into a displeased frown. 

You stood to take your leave.

“I did not say you were dismissed, Your Highness.” The glare that usually graced her face, became reality. “Only that your lessons with me have ended. Sit back down.”

Of course it was too good to be true. You sat back in the chair, watching Lady Finch turn and walk out the door. Another woman took her place instead.

One of the most gorgeous women you had ever seen with a face you could almost name…familiar. 

Her large breasts bounced with each step she took with long, soft as silk, black hair that shone and sat perfectly on top of them. She had two books tucked between her arms. The dress she wore wasn't regal—but it accentuated every curve she had as if it were purposely made to put her body on display.

That detail made you realize who she was and why she was familiar. 

She worked at the top brothel in town—one of the best courtesans that money could buy. 

But what was she doing here? In your classroom? And what the fuck were in those books she was holding?

“Your Highness.” Her curtsey was practiced and perfect—surprising you at how polished it was. “You may call me Selene, if you so please.”

You couldn't help but eye her with suspicion, squinting in apprehension. 

“I know it's not normal to have someone of my profession to be here, but I was called in for my talents.” She took slow, careful steps towards you and placed one of the books onto the table.

“Talents?” Your hand inched towards the book.

She nodded. “On how to please your husband,” she said it so…normal—like she was commenting on the weather.

The hand that had reached towards the book recoiled as if you were burned by it. “Please my husband?!” You shouted, face searing and hot. 

Selene remained unbothered by your reaction. “I understand that you're pure and inexperienced. Many women-presenting royals go through this training to ensure that an heir is made as quick as possible because of this reason.”

This was protocol? 

‘What the actual fuck?’

You weren't sure who was worse. Lady Finch or Selene. 

She opened up her copy with…compromising positions, explaining which were best for…child making and which were best for a man's pleasure. 

There was even a lesson on putting his…sword in your mouth—something you vowed never to do as she explained the technique. The concept that anyone would want to put that in their mouth was beyond you. 

“You can even put it between your breasts like so.” She pushed her flawless chest together between a pencil to demonstrate. 

You couldn't watch, wanting more than anything to turn into a puddle and slide under the door to escape. 

“I'm sorry, Your Highness, but you need to watch. I understand this is uncomfortable for you,” her voice was empathetic. 

Your body was tense. Coiled—waiting for her to tell you when you could leave. 

Two hours. A…sex lesson took two whole hours. 

When you were finally relieved, you scrambled out—cheeks filled with so much blood, you were convinced they’d burst. 

“Your Highness,” Analise greeted with a courtesy once you threw open the door. Her eyes flickered from your face to the door. “What happened in there?” She whispered. 

“They brought in…” you glanced around, trying to be discreet. You leaned forward and whispered, “The Twilight Princess.” 

Your friend's eyes widened, understanding who was in that room with you. “Her?”

You nodded solemnly. “To learn how to…please my future betrothed,” you gagged. 

“Ohhh, I see…” She looked around. “What about you?”

“What do you mean? What about me?” Your head jerked back, confused by her question.

Analise looped her elbow into yours and tugged you along. “We're going to your chambers.”

“What? Why?” Your head turned back the opposite way. “What about dinner?” 

“You got out early—for once. We have…important matters to discuss.” She didn't stop, set on a mission 

“Important matters? I don't want to hear anything else about…making an heir.” You hissed. “The entire act sounded disgusting.”

“It's not just about making an heir. It's about how to make sure you enjoy yourself in the process.”

You scoffed. As if that were possible. All of it was…barbaric. Animalistic. And looked like it’d hurt. 

“And, remind me—how do you know this?” 

“Because I've done it. Now, shut-up until we get to your room.” Analise pulled you through the halls to the confines of your bedroom. Once she closed the door and ensured it was secure, she turned to you, quick on her heel. 

“It is possible to enjoy it. In fact, if you have a partner who cares enough about you, you will enjoy it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Care to elaborate?”

“Have you ever…you know?” 

“Know what?”

“Don't make me say it,” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “...Explored down there?”

“Explored? Really, Analise?”

“Ugh. I'm trying to help you.” Her hands landed on her hips. “You know…explored down there with your…fingers. Touched yourself?”

Your brows furrowed together. “Uhh no. Why in the world would I do that?”

“I swear, all you think about is sword fighting.”

“That's not a bad thing.”

She shook her head, holding it with her hand before lifting it back up to face you. “There are parts of our bodies that make us feel…good. Our…breasts and well,” she gestured vaguely to her nether region. “It doesn't have to feel good for just the man. It can feel good for you too,” she reiterated. “In fact, it should. The first time is…uncomfortable—but as long as you have a partner that listens and takes it slow, it'll feel better. Much better.” Analise paused. “You haven't…seen someone that made you…feel things down there? Tingly or have your…undergarments become wet?”

Your nose squinched. “That sounds awful.”

She sighed. “You're a lost cause.” Her eyes flickered, nervous before finding her resolve. “Look—next time when you're alone and comfortable in bed…explore and…try things out. Move your hands—slow and gentle. There's a specific spot down there towards the top that—well…you'll feel like you're exploding if you do it right.”

“Explode? Why would I want to explode?”

“Not actually explode,” she retorted, face red, huffing. “Just…trust me okay? You deserve to feel good too, and…this is a start. Have I ever stirred you wrong?” 

Your friend's face was kind while your mind tried to comprehend her words. 

“No. But you should've seen some of the pictures and heard what she was describing to me. I'm going to have nightmares. People put their lips on men’s…” You trailed off—couldn't bring yourself to say it.

“If you choose the right husband, he'll do it to you too.”

“Wh-what?! Why would I want someone's…mouth down there?!” You protested.

“Don't knock it ’til you try it. I bet you'll even be begging for more when you do.” Her serious look made you laugh in her face.

“Hilarious,” you breathed out through laughter.

“I'm serious. Besides, I wish I was in that room with you. Getting tips and tricks from the Twilight Princess herself. She knows what she's doing. I'm sure with whatever it was she taught you, you could make whatever man do what you wanted him to—especially stubborn husbands.”

“I'll just duel him instead.” You crossed your arms.

Brown eyes rolled, her arms mirroring yours. “Not everything can be settled by sparring. You'll make him putty in your hands if you follow what she said to a T. I guarantee it.” She thought about it. “In fact, you should share with me what you know.” 

“Take the damned book. Everything she talked about was in it.” You shivered, shoving it into her hands. 

Analise opened and skimmed a few pages, nodding. “I'll bring it back tomorrow. Gotta take notes.”

“Fine with me. Take it. Keep it if you want.” You never wanted to see that book again. 

“No, I have a feeling you're gonna need it.” She smirked, although you weren't sure why. Regardless, it annoyed you—as if you were lesser.

Pride—ugly and fierce—swelled in your chest. Rooted itself there. Festered. Blood rose to your cheeks. 

“I'll be the best. Better than the Twilight Princess herself!” You snapped. 

Analise pursed her lips, fighting back another sly smile.

“I wouldn't put it past you—the swordmaster—Your Highness.”

You threw a pillow at her. She laughed as it fell to the floor after hitting her body. 

Still, you stood your ground despite the brief bout of violence and innuendo—stubborn and unwavering. “And don't you forget it.”

Later that night in bed, you stared at the extravagant upholstery above you—curiosity peaking about this…explosion your best friend mentioned.

Your hands slid down your body, slow and unhurried. 

Once you got to your inner thighs, you paused—feeling idiotic.

“Just do it,” you whispered. 

Muscles tense and eyes shut, you slipped your fingers through the band of your underwear.

The whole experience was unpleasant. You tried finding this…spot she spoke of near the top, pressing it down and rubbing it—thinking that if you applied force it would do something. 

Zilch. Zero. Nada. 

Uncomfortable friction was the sole result as your hand moved some dry nub side to side.

You gave up with an unsatisfied, frustrated huff, hands landing at your sides.

‘Pleasure? During sex? Yeah right.’ You scoffed and turned over to sleep—determined to forget the failed attempt in the morning.

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

That sounded closer to the truth. The coat had once been beautiful and, beneath the abuse, still was—scarlet leather cut to accommodate broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with enough weight in the sweeping tails to turn every movement into theatre. Whoever had made it knew exactly what he wanted from it: to be seen coming. The red entered a room before his sword did and made certain everyone was looking when he followed. Unfortunately, its owner appeared to regard being mauled as a routine laundering method.

You lifted the severed sleeve and turned back the lining. “This needs to be partially dismantled. The back panel has stretched out of shape, the lining will have to come away, and I may be able to save the sleeve if you haven’t lost any pieces.”

He bent to inspect it beside you, bringing with him the faint scents of gunpowder, old leather and something recently singed. “You’re the expert.”

“I am, which is why I’m telling you it will take at least four days.”

He tried two days, then three, and when neither moved you, deployed a charming please with all the confidence of a man unaccustomed to finding doors closed after he smiled at them. You assured him that such a polite customer could collect his coat in four days.

The grin came easily then, quick and bright and entirely too pleased by your refusal. “I like you.”

“I charge extra for flirting.”

“Put it on my bill.”

You reached for the order book and asked for his name. Dante offered no surname—“Just Dante,” he said, as though one should have been enough for you and generally was for everyone else—then watched your pen move down the page until you paused over the blood saturating the torn lining. Curiosity had its limits, yes, but professional safety required several answers.

“Is there anything on this coat likely to dissolve my hands?”

“Not anymore.”

“Venom?”

“Nope.”

“Curses?”

“Not in the traditional sense.”

Your pen stopped. “In the traditional sense.”

Dante leant closer, lowering his voice as though confiding an ancient superstition. “You know how people say red attracts trouble?”

“No.”

“Well, they should. You’d be amazed.”

You wrote the estimated cost on a separate slip. Dante whistled at the alleged abundance of zeroes, all two of them, and excavated his pockets in the desperate belief that money might have bred in one of them. Across your counter appeared two loose cartridges, a pizza voucher, several keys, a silver lighter, four coins, a demon tooth and a handful of crystallised organs.

You picked up the tooth between two fingers. “Should I ask?”

“Souvenir.”

“Take it away.”

“You don’t think it adds character?”

“I think it has saliva on it.”

He returned it to his pocket and contemplated his four coins. His attempts to negotiate instalments and barter met with escalating hostility, but the offer to handle any demons troubling you deserved an answer. “The only demon giving me trouble,” you told him, “is standing in my shop without enough money to pay the deposit.”

Dante pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“I think you’ll recover.”

His attention sharpened, amusement gaining a flicker of curiosity. You had the peculiar impression of answering a question he had not asked, then levity swept back over it and he reached for the enormous sword strapped across his body, apparently intending to leave it as collateral.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s worth more than the coat.”

“I’m not keeping a sword in my workroom.”

“Rebellion’s perfectly behaved.”

“It has a name?”

“Don’t be rude.”

“You came here carrying a named weapon, several unidentified organs and no money.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I sound interesting.”

“When I put it like that, you sound like a police report.”

He eventually discovered several crumpled notes in an inside pocket, enough to cover most of the deposit. You accepted the shortfall on the condition that the coat remained with you until he paid the balance, and Dante offered his hand across the counter as though you had concluded some vital piece of diplomacy rather than negotiated with a delinquent peacock. His palm was warm, rough with old calluses and large enough to swallow yours.

“Four days,” you reminded him.

“I’ll miss you.”

“You’ve known me for twelve minutes.”

“Longest twelve minutes of my life.”

The bell chimed as you escorted him outside. Stripped of that red flare, he seemed oddly diminished, although the dark clothes beneath revealed how much of his apparent size belonged not to the garment but to the man himself. He caught you looking, flexed one shoulder with shameless deliberation, and laughed when you shut the door in his face.

The sound followed you back to the counter, where the coat lay waiting like the first bad decision in a story you had not yet agreed to tell.

The coat proved more complicated than you had initially expected. The claws had dragged the leather out of shape, stretching the edges until the panels could no longer meet, and the damage spread each time you opened another seam. You removed the lining and built a fine support beneath the worst of it, strengthening without making the leather rigid; then you placed each stitch so the repaired sections would flex with Dante’s body rather than split during his next quarrel with something possessing talons.

The deeper you went, the more old repairs emerged. Some were competent, others appalling. One sleeve had been reattached with what looked suspiciously like fishing line, and the left side had been scorched, conditioned and scorched again. Beneath the lapel, your fingertips found the mouths of bullet holes, a dark stain near the ribs and a narrow cut through the collar which had missed the wearer’s throat by perhaps an inch if you were being generous. The garment had become an accidental biography, each scar evidence of some disaster its owner had survived and reduced to a joke. You suspected Dante would be much the same beneath it.

He returned on the fourth day carrying the remainder of your money and a pizza he introduced as a peace offering. When you pointed out that he owed you fifteen and the restaurant offered free delivery, Dante maintained that a large pizza held at least twenty in emotional value, then surrendered the money when it became clear charm would not alter arithmetic. You accepted a slice while he stepped onto the fitting platform and slipped into the restored coat.

It settled across his shoulders as though relieved to have found him again. The reconstructed leather bent cleanly when he rolled his arms, the long tails sweeping around his legs as he turned before the mirror. Yet for all his earlier noise, Dante fell quiet when his fingers reached the seam crossing his back.

“You saved it.”

For once, Dante let the sincerity survive without smothering it beneath a wink. You busied yourself with the collar and told him that was generally what people paid you to do, but his thumb continued slowly over the repair. “Most would’ve replaced the whole panel.”

“Most would have told you to buy another coat. The original leather was still workable, it just needed a little patience.”

In the mirror, mischief had fallen away from a face seemingly built to contain it. Without the grin, older things became visible. The weariness feathered around his eyes, a habitual distance in the set of his mouth, sorrow worn for so long it no longer troubled to announce itself. You looked away before observation became intrusion and smoothed the scarlet leather over his shoulders.

“Lucky me,” Dante said.

You pretended not to hear the answer beneath the answer.

The second catastrophe arrived several weeks later as a neat, smouldering hole through the coat. Dante invited you to see the other guy, who turned out to have been a flaming skull mounted on a demonic centipede. Because it fired projectiles, he insisted, it was cannon-adjacent. You asserted it made him an idiot.

This time he had remembered money, or at least enough that you accepted the garment without conducting another financial inquest. He had also brought coffee prepared exactly as you liked it, a coincidence requiring him to pass over several nearer cafés in order to visit the one you frequented each morning. You did not mention that just as he did not mention how carefully he watched you take the first sip.

The damaged panel required new measurements, so Dante climbed onto the fitting platform and spread his arms while you circled him with the tape. He asked you to buy him dinner before wrapping it around his chest, expanded his ribcage by three blatant inches and claimed nervousness when confronted. You pulled the tape snug enough to expel the breath in a betrayed rush.

“Cruel,” he accused.

“Occupational necessity.”

He remained unrepentant while you measured the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his back and the fall from waist to hem, offering opinions throughout, most of which concerned additional pockets. He wanted one large enough for a slice of pizza that was insulated, removable, and perhaps came with a waterproof flap. You were threatening to pin the measurements directly to him when his reflection asked whether that was a promise.

The tape slipped between your fingers.

His delight was immediate, warm and intolerable. You recovered by tightening it around his waist, but Dante merely laughed until you stepped nearer to check the fit beneath his collar. Then, with the abruptness of a curtain falling at the end of an act, he became quiet beneath your hands.

You would come to recognise that stillness. Dante filled any silence left near him, whether with a joke or the extravagant sprawl of his body. Under your hands, he let the quiet remain. His eyes followed you in the mirror while you adjusted the line of the coat and marked the damaged panel with chalk, but he made no attempt to disturb your concentration.

Few customers recognised how intimate a fitting could become. You learnt the angle of their shoulders, where tension gathered through the spine, which parts of themselves they concealed and which they exaggerated. Dante wore confidence with the same dramatic ease as scarlet leather, but his body held truths the costume could not completely disguise. There was an old stiffness beneath one shoulder blade, a faint flinch when your fingers passed his left side, pale scars rising wherever the shirt pulled taut; there were too many to count, and more beneath the surface than any mirror could offer you.

“You always stare this intensely at your customers?” he asked.

“Only the ones assembled incorrectly.”

“That hurts, sweetheart.”

“Hold still.”

He did.

After that, one repair threaded itself into the next. Dante returned with a singed hem, a missing cuff and, on one memorable occasion, a sleeve stiff with something he insisted was not technically blood. You banished him until it had been cleaned and he reappeared the following morning with the coat dripping wet and the righteous expression of a schoolboy who believed literal compliance should exempt him from consequences.

Soon the damage barely justified professional attention. A loose button required an hour on your fitting platform and most of the sweets beside the till. A pulled thread became an excuse to occupy the little sofa while you worked on commissions, his long legs hanging over one arm as he supplied increasingly improbable accounts of his latest hunt. You learnt that he ran a business called Devil May Cry, although ‘ran’ seemed generous. Most days, he appeared to survive through bad planning and a body too stubborn to die. Whatever god protected fools had clearly made Dante a personal project. In return, Dante learnt which afternoons were quietest, where you hid the good coffee and how to distinguish the expression that meant you were listening from the one that meant you were considering stabbing him with your shears.

His pockets developed their own ecosystem. Shell casings bred beside lollipops and overdue bills while the demon teeth multiplied until you suspected the first had begun a dental archive. You made him empty everything before surrendering the coat, and during one such excavation found a scrap of scarlet thread looped carefully around a card.

It was the thread you used for his repairs.

“You’ve been carrying this?”

Dante glanced over from the mirror. “Emergency.”

“You can’t perform emergency leather restoration with six inches of thread and no needle.”

“Good luck charm, then.”

Lightly said, but he took the card from you with surprising care and returned it to the safest inside pocket. After that, you began signing your work with a tiny line of embroidery concealed beneath the lining, where nobody would find it unless they went searching. Dante said nothing when he discovered the first, but he arrived the following week with pizza from the expensive restaurant across town and the entire cost of his repair in cash.

You might have carried on pretending his visits meant nothing if you had not caught him manufacturing one. Late on a rain-swept afternoon, Dante placed the coat across your counter and pointed gravely to a separation in the lining. The stitches had been snipped one by one. The leather was neither strained nor frayed; even the loose thread remained caught beneath the lining, damning him.

“Must’ve been a very small demon,” he said.

“A demon carrying a seam ripper?”

“They’re evolving.”

“You picked this open.”

He received the accusation with magnificent offence. You informed him that your trust had died the moment he disembowelled his own lining. Dante called that dramatic, and you reminded him he had come to the right shop.

Rain threaded silver down the windows behind him. Without the usual catastrophe demanding your attention, the absurdity of the arrangement stood plainly between you—he had sabotaged a perfectly sound repair because he wanted an excuse to visit. Apparently, a man who could face a flaming centipede without hesitation could not ask whether you wanted to see him outside the shop.

You pushed the coat back across the counter. “This doesn’t need a tailor. It needs ten minutes and someone capable of threading a needle.”

“Know anyone?”

“I’m busy.”

His grin faltered—not enough to disappear, but enough to reveal the uncertainty underneath it—and he reached for the coat. You let his fingers find the leather before adding that you finished at seven and intended to eat at the restaurant around the corner. They served pizza, since that appeared to constitute the entirety of his diet.

Dante’s hand remained where it was. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

“I’m telling you where I’m eating tonight. Your interpretation is your own problem.”

“At seven?”

“If you’re late, I’m leaving without you.”

He arrived at half past six.

Dinner became another kind of routine. Dante remained an inconsistent correspondent and a terrible planner, but he appeared at odd hours with coffee, takeaway or news of some minor disaster he insisted you would find entertaining. Sometimes he vanished for several days, never warning you before he went; you refused to ask when he would return, as though silence could make the waiting less revealing.

The coat always came back eventually, until the night Dante arrived wearing it over an injury he thought you would not notice.

The damage he presented was almost insulting. There was a narrow tear beside the lower seam, simple enough to mend within the hour. He launched into a story about an overgrown lizard with attachment issues while you examined it, but the familiar animation had thinned into effort. He kept his left side angled away, one hand braced upon the counter and carrying far  more weight than his careless posture would admit. When your fingertips touched the torn leather, it was wet with blood.

“How long ago?”

“Couple of hours.”

You told him to take off the coat. Dante attempted a remark about finally winning you over, but whatever he found in your expression discouraged the rest. He drew the garment gingerly from his shoulders, and beneath it his shirt clung dark and wet to his side.

The tear was forgotten. You caught his wrist when he tried to wave you away and found a steady pulse beneath skin colder than it should have been. “Sit down.”

“I heal fast.”

“You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“I’ll pay for cleaning.”

“With what money?”

“Good point.”

The joke had no shine left in it by the time Dante lowered himself onto the fitting platform, the same narrow stage from which he had posed, preened and stolen enough pins to establish a private armoury. Now he folded instinctively around an injury he insisted did not deserve attention, and the sight of him there felt wrong enough to hollow out the room. You fetched the medical box from beneath the counter, cut through the darkened side of his shirt, and listened as he pointed out, with dwindling conviction, that the shop was already closing.

“Then you can stop bleeding whenever it becomes convenient.”

“You should see the other guy.”

You looked up. “If you say that again, I will make this hurt.”

“There’s my favourite bedside manner.”

The wound curved across his ribs, vicious but already surrendering to his unnatural healing. Once the blood was cleaned away, new skin showed beneath the torn edges; it would not kill him, but relief did not arrive softly. It entered your hands as anger, sharpened by the sudden knowledge of how much the coat had hidden. How many times had it reached your worktable like this while Dante laughed until you attended to the leather and overlooked the body that had bled into it?

You pressed clean gauze against his side, drawing a hiss through his teeth. Dante assured you the wound would be gone by morning, but you secured the dressing anyway. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt tonight.”

The answer seemed to hit harder than you intended. Without the sword, the coat or the swagger broadening his shoulders, Dante seemed less like the impossible figure who had once occupied your doorway than a man who had never learnt what to do when someone noticed his pain and refused to be distracted by his survival.

“The jacket can wait,” you said.

“I knew it. You only love me for my wardrobe.”

“I’d prefer if the man inside it stayed in one piece as well.”

Outside, the rain had thinned to a whisper beneath the awning. Your hands remained at his waist, one resting over the bandage and the other warm against his back. In the hush following your admission, the intimacy of your position asserted itself all at once. You stood between Dante’s knees, close enough to feel heat returning gradually to his skin and each careful expansion of his ribs beneath your palm.

His hand closed loosely around your wrist. “You worried about me, Stitches?”

Usually the nickname earned an eye-roll. Tonight it had lost its teasing edge. You accused him of arriving half-disembowelled; he accused you of melodrama, reminding you that his rapid healing had already begun. The coat, he pointed out, had once survived being set on fire beneath your care.

“The coat, yes. You are considerably more difficult.”

His thumb moved once across your pulse. “You keep trying anyway.”

The glib answer waiting behind your teeth refused to come. You knew what to do with Dante when he was flirting. You knew considerably less about what to do when he meant something, and now he watched you without offering either of you a place to hide.

“I come here ‘cause you don’t ask,” he said at last, his gaze drifting towards the scarlet leather darkened by his blood. “Most people see the sword and the whole half-demon thing, and decide what I’m supposed to be. Monster, hero, tragedy—depends who’s asking.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You just think I’m bad for leather.”

“You are calamitous for leather.”

“Exactly.”

There was no self-pity in him, only an old fatigue spoken plainly for once. You smoothed the edge of the bandage and told him that catastrophic nuisances still deserved medical attention, a sentiment he warned might give a man ideas. Yet when he lifted his chin and drew you a fraction closer, the confidence with which Dante faced every violence deserted him before compassion. His gaze fell to your mouth; your breath caught, the shop contracting around the narrow distance between you.

Then his stomach growled loudly enough to qualify as a demonic incident in its own right.

Dante closed his eyes. “You didn’t hear that.”

You had undressed him, lost a considerable quantity of his blood upon your floor and were now ordering him dinner, he observed once you insisted upon food. As far as he was concerned, the evening was going exceptionally well. Your laughter loosened the moment without quite breaking it, warmth returning to his face at the sound.

He fell asleep on the shop sofa before the pizza arrived, one arm folded beneath his head and his long legs trailing over the edge. When the leather was clean enough to move, you laid the coat across him and watched scarlet rise and fall with the deep rhythm of his breathing.

By the time you woke at your worktable, Dante was gone. He had taken the remaining pizza and left enough money to pay for it beneath your empty coffee cup.

For nearly two weeks afterwards, you saw nothing of him. His work took him beyond the city without warning, and Dante treated plans as polite suggestions rather than obligations, so the silence should not have troubled you. You told yourself it felt different only because you had seen him injured before he left. Even so, every ring of the bell lifted your attention from the needle in your hand, and every customer who entered left a little more disappointment hanging in the doorway behind them.

On the twelfth evening, the door struck the wall hard enough to rattle the glass. A young man with short white hair stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, one mechanical hand clutching a bundle of ruined scarlet leather.

Your body understood before your mind did. “Where is he?”

The stranger assured you Dante was alive, which was not an answer and did nothing to slow the cold travelling through your veins. He laid down what remained of the coat. For one dislocated instant, you could not recognise it. The back had split almost from collar to hem, one side eaten brittle by acid, the lining in ribbons and blood drying to rust across the surviving panels.

You braced your fingers against the counter because touching it felt impossible. “How alive?”

“He was standing when I left. Complaining, showing off, being a pain in the ass. Normal Dante.”

“Then why isn’t he wearing this?”

“Demon grabbed it. He slipped out before it dragged him into a mouth the size of a van.” The stranger paused, sympathy tempering his impatience. “Would’ve left the coat, but he went back for it.”

Of course he had. Dante had told him to rescue the leather before the acid dissolved it and predicted, with satisfaction, that you would kill him. You informed Nero, once he finally introduced himself, that this stayed under consideration. He received your promise to save the coat with offensive scepticism, then left after swearing he would contact you when the hunt ended.

You worked through the night.

There would be no hiding what had happened to the coat. You could replace every ruined panel, but Dante would return to something cut from the same pattern and stripped of all the same history. Instead, you cut away only what could not be restored, treated the acid damage and built support beneath the torn back. New leather bridged the missing sections, dyed to belong beside the old scarlet without pretending to share its age, while the lining was pieced together from whatever had survived. Each pass of the needle drew the longest rupture closer, not erasing the wound but teaching its edges how to hold.

The coat had always narrated Dante’s survival. Beneath the work lamp, it became an omen.

Every old repair passed through your hands; the claw marks from the first night, the scorched panel, the cuff once torn away during an alleged fall through a church roof. Your hidden embroidery remained safe among the wreckage. He had not replaced a single piece bearing your mark unless the damage made it unavoidable, and when the creature tried to take all of it, he had gone back.

The tenderness of it hurt, though the idiocy, at least, kept your hands steady. You drove the needle through the backing, pulled the thread taut and tried not to wonder whether anyone would remain to wear what you were saving.

Morning slowly unpicked the darkness from the windows. Beyond the glass, the city stirred, oblivious to the terror gathered in your shop. Coffee cooled beside your elbow and cramps stiffened your fingers, but stopping would mean waiting, and waiting offered nothing you could mend.

The bell rang shortly after nine.

Dante stood in the doorway, bruised, filthy and missing part of one boot. Blood had dried through his hair and a fresh cut crossed his forehead, yet he remained upright, breathing and leaning against the frame with exaggerated ease, as though returning from the dead was simply another late arrival.

“Morning, Stitches.”

You crossed the shop before deciding whether you planned to strike or embrace him and managed both in swift succession. Your palm met his chest with enough force to wipe the grin from his face, and when Dante confirmed that he had gone back into a demon’s mouth for the coat—“Would’ve ruined the leather,” he attempted—you caught the front of his shirt and dragged him against you.

For one heartbeat, he was motionless. Then his arms folded around you, one hand spreading over your back while the other cradled your head with a care so immediate it hurt. Beneath your ear, his heart beat hard and steady.

“There,” he murmured into your hair. “Still ticking.”

You called him an idiot, told him you hated him and tightened your arms until his answering laugh dissolved into something without humour. Dante rested his cheek against your temple and, for once, made no attempt to rescue either of you with a joke. He simply held you while the fear drained slowly from your body.

When you stepped back, his hands lingered at your waist and his attention travelled to the worktable where morning light found every alteration. The new leather among old, fine stitches crossing the back, the pale scar left where the acid had bitten too deeply to erase.

“I couldn’t make it look untouched,” you said. “Not without replacing almost everything.”

Dante ran his fingers along the reconstructed seam. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“The marks will still be there.”

“So will I.”

The answer was quiet. He turned while you lifted the coat and settled it over his shoulders, easing the repaired side around his arm and drawing the collar into place. Despite all your measurements, it fitted differently now, a garment assembled from several versions of itself, altered by every survival and strengthened where it had once given way. Dante rolled his shoulders once and the seams held.

You reached around him to fasten an interior closure, your arms almost encircling his waist, and he covered your hand before you could retreat. When Dante turned within the loose circle of your embrace, the tails swept around your legs and enclosed you both in scarlet.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’ve been awake all night.”

“Because of the coat?”

“Don’t insult me.”

He lifted your hand to his chest, pressing your palm over the heartbeat waiting beneath the leather. “Still here.”

You warned him that he had better remain there, because you refused to perform another restoration before next month. Dante considered that a vote of confidence, and when you threatened to sew him into the coat, his smile tilted and he accused you of promising him a good time again.

“For the record,” he said, thumb following the pulse inside your wrist, “I didn’t go back because it’s a nice coat.”

“No?”

“Lots of nice coats in the world.”

“None you can afford.”

“Low blow.” His forehead lowered towards yours, mischief softening into something unguarded as the distance disappeared. “I went back ‘cause you made this one mine.”

The words drew tight every thread stretched between you—the two sleepless weeks, one unbearable night, months of small returns and the hidden marks of your hands carried faithfully against his body. Rather than trust yourself to answer, you closed the remaining distance and kissed him.

After months of shameless provocation, Dante kissed you with startling care. One hand slid into your hair while the other settled at your waist, close without presuming; it was only when you caught his lapels and pulled him nearer that the familiar confidence came rushing back. Even then, beneath all that instinct and flair, he listened to every change in your breath.

When you parted, his smile was softer and slightly dazed. “So, does kissing the tailor get me a discount?”

“Actually, romantic partners incur a nuisance fee.”

His laughter filled the shop, bright enough to scatter the shadows the night had left behind. There were conditions, of course. Dante would pay his invoices, stop opening perfectly sound seams and attempt to avoid being swallowed by anything larger than a delivery van. He considered the last restriction unreasonable, but stole another kiss and promised to try.

It was a worthless promise. You both knew it.

Later, while Dante sat on the fitting platform eating the breakfast he had persuaded you to order, you discovered one final weakness beneath his right arm. He lifted it obediently while you threaded the needle and leant close, your arm curved partially around his waist as his free hand settled at the small of your back with the ease of something finding its intended place.

“Could add that pizza pocket while you’re in there.”

“I have a needle beside your ribs.”

“Just brainstorming.”

“You’re already storing food in my shop. Your coat doesn't need provisions.”

“Our shop.”

Your needle paused, but Dante continued eating with an expression of calculated innocence while the hand at your back drew you slightly closer. You should have corrected him. The shop was yours, as were the bills, the workrooms and the demon teeth hidden in an empty button tin. He had just wandered through the door one evening carrying trouble, blood and four coins. Instead, you tied off the final stitch.

It sat hidden beneath his arm; a small scarlet promise holding old leather to new. Dante could not see it, but he tested the seam with a roll of his shoulder and smiled when it held.

He would tear it again. He would return scorched, bloodied and carrying some outrageous explanation, and you would curse him, mend what you could and remind him that survival did not render pain inconsequential. The coat would never be pristine again. Neither would Dante, but you had never asked them to be. The difference was that now, when Dante came home carrying the damage, he would find someone waiting to let him in.

if you would like to be tagged in any future dante works, please let me know! 🖤

All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.

* * * *

“ You’re a lot a bit older, I'm a lot more green..

I'm sure you know that, baby, you just got the

thing about ya

Well, I swear that I can really learn my way

around ya

It's not my fault that you, you turn it on and I

Can't turn it off and I don't really want to.. ”

* * * *

“What’s this?” Y/N chuckles a bit as she sees a yellow envelope waiting for her at her desk.

It’d been an iffy start to her birthday.. With the rain and chilly wind carrying throughout Pittsburgh and the ‘all hands on deck’ text she’d received from Robby, she thought for sure, this birthday would be a let down.

But!

All the text messages from friends, coworkers, and family alike had brightened her day. And.. The little café breakfast and birthday flowers Uber-ed to her place by Jack had also put a smile on her face..

“Just a lil somethin dropped there by a bird..” Dana teases from her post behind the nurse’s station. Y/N doesn’t even have to see the name on the envelope. She knew only one person in this ED was old enough to find cards more sentimental than a text message.

“So that’s why he didn’t message me..” She smirks as she opens the card and reads the cute little note left inside along with a gift card to Ulta. She didn’t even wanna check the balance on it. She knew she’d freak if she saw.

In the five months of her working here, she’d become a real favorite for Jack Abbot. It was very clear for everyone to see, and Dana and Robby had taken to referring to them as the Bonnie and Clyde of the ED. Just always up to no good while working cases together.

Even if Y/N was ‘just an RN’, Jack entrusted her with things that were way out of her job expectations. This wasn’t a mentor/mentee relationship, though. Don’t get that twisted.

No. Y/N wanted that old man. Badly.

“Got the breakfast, B?” She hears from behind her just as she sets the card down neatly on her desk for a keepsake. Turning to face him, a smirk is already playing on her lips.

“Yes. I did. Would’ve been tastier if you were feeding it to me, though.” She says casually.

This is their norm.

Flirtatious banter here, a wink or two there. Y/N had made it clear from the first day they met, she found Jack extremely attractive. And she didn’t hide it for anyone. Jack enjoyed the attention. As a widower, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had so openly checked him out.

Sure, he’d have the occasional glances, maybe the common and casual one liner by a woman he’d held the door open for at a local coffee shop, but Y/N looked at him like she wanted to eat him half the time.

And it did something to his ego.

He hadn’t been so openly yearned for in.. So long. It felt nice to have this younger woman humor him. But that’s all it was.

Right?

“I’ll keep a note for next time. But.. Something tells me if I was there, the food wouldn’t have gotten eaten..” Jack jokes back as Y/N takes off her jacket to hang on the back of her chair. She laughs softly and walks to the break room, knowing he’ll follow.

Clyde always follows Bonnie..

“It would’ve gotten eaten. Eventually.” Y/N defends playfully.

“Yeah, I’m sure you would’ve had a plan for it..” Jack snorts, never missing a beat when it comes to her.

“Oh, Jackie boy..” Y/N shakes her head as she stops at the break room doorway to fully turn and look up at him, both hands on the doorway to lean in a bit more. “If you could just see the things we do in my head..” She shakes her head a bit, making Jack’s ears turn pink.

She takes note..

“That a threat?” Jack raises an eyebrow as he crosses his arms, leaning in closer to show he’s not afraid.

Y/N giggles at that, playfully pushing at his chest to back him away. “I have to behave while on the clock. Robby’s warned me too many times already...” She smirks before turning to walk into the break room and set her lunch bag in the fridge.

“What about.. Off the clock?” Jack asks, making her movements slow.

“Excuse me?” She asks with an amused raised eyebrow. Jack walks over, hands slipping into his cargo pants.

“You heard me?” He shrugs. “My apartment. 9pm. I took the night partially off.” He explains as Y/N eyes him closer.

Was this finally happening?!

“I’ll be there. Gives me time to get out of these scrubs..” She says. This storm had dampened any dinner plans with friends, so this was honestly more of a blessing.

Thank you, Mother Nature..

Jack smiles warmly, giving a little nod. “Great..” He says softly, walking out of the break room. Y/N soon follows suite, walking back to the nurse’s station as her head spins.

Five months. Five months of constant flirting and blunt sexual tension, would all be leading to tonight. Y/N figured it would only be a matter of time when she noticed at the same time they began getting referred to as the ‘Bonnie and Clyde of the ED’, Jack began wearing his wedding ring on a chain around his neck instead of on his finger..

“Happy birthday, pretty girl..” She hears beside her and turns to see Emma walking over with a small takeout box from the bakery across the street. She gasps happily.

“Ugh, you shouldn’t have..” She says as the two nurses hug. Given their ages and the fact that they’d started on the same day, the two grew a bond that Y/N had joked came from trauma. But she was a nurse, not a psychologist…

“What do you have planned after shift?” Emma asks curiously as Y/N smiles brightly, remembering.

“Hot date..” She smirks as she nods to Jack who’s now helping staff move the giant bins of medical supplies that would be needed for the definite wave of patients they’d be getting today.

“No… Really?!” Emma asks in shock, making Y/N nod certainly while still checking him out.

“Best. Birthday. Ever.” Y/N confirms. “I mean.. Do you see that man? God..” She continues, as if at a loss for words. Emma giggles at her friend’s obvious longing stare.

“Be careful before you drool..” She teases her with a soft nudge.

“Hey.” She begins simply. “All I’m saying is.. I have a dad, so.. I don’t know what the hell my problem is..” She mutters with a shake of her head.

“You’re insane..” Emma states in amusement before straightening up more at the sight behind Y/N.

“It’s not my fault he walks like it’s big!” Y/N shrugs shamelessly.

“Ms. Y/N…” Robby says in false pleasantries to get her attention. Y/N stiffens fast, quieting a groan before glaring at a sheepish looking Emma.

“You couldn’t warn me?” She hisses quietly to her fellow nurse who’s now covering her mouth as to not laugh out right. She shakes her head slightly and straightens up.

“Dr. Robby.” Y/N turns fully to face him, a bright and innocent smile on her face. Robby falsely returns a polite grin.

“I understand it’s your birthday, but Dr. Abbot is not your cake..” He says simply.

“Sadly.” Y/N clarifies, dropping the innocent act for now.

Robby narrows his eyes at that, muttering for her to get back to work before leaving. Emma bursts out laughing and Y/N swats at her while fussing..

*

*

*

“Thank you! Thank you for coming..” Y/N calls down the hallway of Jack’s apartment building, smiling as she sees a few mutual friends wave goodbye before getting on the elevator.

When Jack had invited her over, he hadn’t told her it’d been for a surprise birthday party that he had organized. Thank god Emma had talked her out of doing the cliché ‘nothing on under the trench coat’ routine..

Instead, she’d shown up in a dress that was fiery red. The material was silky smooth. It had a sweetheart neckline with lace detailing that extended up to a sweetheart-shaped bustier. The sleeves, long and sheer, were made up of lace. The skirt, short and flared out.

Shutting the front door, Y/N glances at the clock on the living room wall. 1am. Jack would be clocking in for his shift in the next hour, and Y/N was already assured she could spend the night here.

Her heels click against the floor as she walks into the kitchen, watching Jack as he cleans up the dishes from the dinner party. “You’re the sweetest man alive.” Y/N notes finally.

“Hey, what kind of person would I be if I let you do dishes on your birthday..?” Jack shrugs it off.

“No. Everything. The breakfast, the flowers, the cheesy card..” She says as she walks closer now.

“Yeah, well.. Birthdays, holidays, special events.. Kind of my time to shine.” He chuckles a bit. Jack loved putting thought into stuff like that. It was the best part about being married. After his wife passed, he kind of lost that whimsy. But.. When Y/N playfully started counting down to her birthday last month, it.. Reminded him how much fun it felt to spoil someone.

From the look she gave him when he surprised her with the party, it was nice to know he hadn’t lost his touch…

“You know. When you first texted me to come over, I thought you were finally gonna give me what I’ve been wanting..” Y/N points out, completely honest as she hops up on to the counter top right next to the sink so she could watch him clean up and appreciate the way his arms flex while he scrubs those dishes..

Jack chuckles at that and shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m sure you were..” He teases back.

This time though, Y/N doesn’t smile or even laugh back.

No. She’s grown tired of the banter. It was getting her nowhere, and she was beginning to feel like some silly school girl that was more of a nuisance than a potential love interest.

So instead, she obviously checks him out before nodding.

“Yeah. I was.” She says simply. Jack stops his chuckling when he hears that. He turn away from the dishes now to look at her. Maybe to check if she was messing with him.

By the look on her face? She clearly wasn’t.

“Oh come on..” Jack finally says, putting the smile back on. But it’s more of a mask now..

“What?” She asks.

“You’re.. Messing around.” He states.

“When have I ever?” She asks now, arms loosely crossing as he shifts a bit on his feet.

“I mean, just like when we’re at work. When you… Make those jokes..” He tries to remind her.

“I’m never joking.” Y/N finally says bluntly, eyeing him closer as if he should know that.

“What?” Jack asks after a moment of silence.

There’s no way he heard that right..

“Is that what you’ve thought this was? Me just messing around?” Y/N asks in amusement as she leans closer, both hands gripping the edge of the counter top on either side of her.

“I…” Jack pauses and blinks as if still trying to get his footing. “Listen.. B..” He finally tries to begin as she only smirks at him.

“You don’t.. You don’t want me..” He continues, sheepishly motioning to himself. Y/N has half a mind to pause this conversation and check around this man’s apartment for mirrors, because he clearly doesn’t have any!

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t?” She challenges.

“No.” Jack says quickly before chuckling at how silly this all is. He shakes his head, trying to focus back on the dishes. “No, you.. You don’t..” He mutters.

Y/N hums before gently grabbing Jack’s hand and pulling him closer. His breath is caught in his throat the second she puts his hand on her bare thigh. Fuck, her skin is soft. And fuck, it’s been so long since he’s touched a woman like this.

Y/N doesn’t break eye contact as she slowly slides his hand between her legs. She watches the way his eyes darken the minute his fingers are pressed up against lace and silk. Y/N slowly rolls her hips so she’s basically sitting on his hand, his palm pressed against her covered clit. She gasps softly, free arm going around his neck to keep him close.

“You feel that?” She breathes out, thumb pressing against the pulse point on his wrist. It’s racing..

Jack can barely speak. He’s already hard against his pants. “Still think I don’t want you?” She taunts quietly between shallow breaths as she grinds slowly against his hand.

“Fuck…” Jack grunts, voice rough. “B. You can… You can do so much better..” He tries reasoning, but he’s at the end of his rope and Y/N can definitely feel it..

"Better than you? Impossible..” Y/N breathes out. She doesn't stop the slow, torturous roll of her hips, feeling exactly how his control is snapping. She knows he’s trying to be rational, trying to push her away because of that damn insecurity regarding their age difference. But his hand betrays him.. His fingers press deeper against the lace of her underwear, making her moan out.

“God, Jack…” She breathes out as he feels a wet spot beginning to grow on her underwear.

He groans quietly, head rolling back slightly as he feels the warmth seep through her underwear and against his palm. His free hand grips the counter top as he can’t stop himself from looking down at his hand between her legs. It’s been so long since he’s felt a woman’s arousal, and he’s starved for it.

“Lean back..” He growls a bit, making Y/N shudder. He doesn’t need to tell her twice. She’s intently leaning back against his kitchen counter, hands set behind her to prop her up as Jack yanks up her dress.

Fuck being rational right now.

He stares down at her underwear after yanking her legs wide and up. “Look at what you did to yourself..” He whispers. Y/N can feel herself getting wetter at just his eyes being on her.

“Please..” She breathes out.

“You’re lucky it’s your birthday. I would’ve loved to tease you till you cry..” He taunts quietly as he leans down, putting her legs over his shoulders so he can really get his face deep. He pulls her underwear to the side, eyeing her most intimate area like a prize.

“You’ve done five months of teasing..” Y/N whispers in anticipation. No more teasing. No more imagining.

Just finally some relief..

*

*

*

Neither have moved from the bed.

Jack knows Shen is gonna kill him. It’s almost 4am and he could only manage a quick ‘sorry, can’t make it in’ text about an hour ago while Y/N was… Occupied with his manhood.

Both individuals had lost count of how many times they’d ripped open a new condom, but Jack is sure he’ll find the wrappers later to confirm. Right now, his money is on six. Six rounds, six different positions, six different surfaces..

The bed was their final resting place.

“Are you okay? Your leg?” Y/N finally breaks the peaceful silence. She looks exhausted, hair and makeup a mess, but Jack watches in awe as she makes herself sit up so she can start take off his prosthetic for him.

“I can do it, I..” His voice falls flat as she effortlessly removes the leg, putting it off to the side, no reaction on her tired face.

“Let me be sweet to you..” She teases quietly as she moves over him to lay limp on his chest, practically using his toned body for her bed.

Looking down at her, he watches as she gently plays with his chain the holds his wedding ring on it. “I don’t want you to regret this..” She finally whispers. All joking and teasing is off to the side as he realizes she’s terrified of the morning sun coming out. With it will come the end of this fantastic night.

“I used every candle on my cake for this. And I don’t want… I don’t want it to just be a moment..” Y/N admits, not looking up at him. Instead, her face stays turned to stare at the bedroom wall.

Jack’s room is exactly how she’d imagined it to be. Jack’s body pressed against hers is exactly how she’d imagined it to be. She wanted to bask in this for as long as possible, which meant fighting her sleep.

Jack’s mouth goes dry. “You wasted your candles on a one legged, widowed, veteran with PTSD?” He whispers, using humor as his shield. A swift swat to the chest brings him back to the reality of this situation. He was in bed with a woman for the first time in 12 years. And he felt seen… He felt.. Cared for.

“Not a waste if you agree to breakfast in bed tomorrow morning..” Y/N whispers, stretching a bit to nuzzle into his neck.

He turns his face, getting lost in her hair that always smelled so good from his brief brushes with her in the ED. From this close proximity though, he could now smell it as cinnamon vanilla. Interesting to note..

“If you’re still here when I wake up..” He mumbles, voice light, but his heart is heavy. He sure hopes that she is.

“Mm.. Jackie, Jackie..” Y/N playfully shakes her head before looking up at him. “With the way you were tossing me around? This is my bed now..” She declares quietly before sweetly kissing his blushing form…

“That boldness must come from your age..” He jokes quietly against her lips, making her giggle.

“Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep, old man..” She taunts back as she playfully covers his eyes.

“Old man? Old man?! Do I have to remind you so soon?” Jack jokingly threatens as he flips them so he’s back on top, making Y/N playfully scream.

“Mercy!” She mocks..

Roronoa Zoro

As the dust settled, Zoro sheathed his swords and immediately swept his gaze over the battlefield searching for you. As he checked his surroundings, however, his stomach sank. He couldn’t find you anywhere.

He had been sure to check on you during the battle. He knew you could hold your own, but if you ever needed help he didn’t want to be the last to know. So, as the battle came to a close he had expected you to be with Nami and Usopp, where you had been the last time he had seen you out of the corner of his eye. As he watched you use your Devil Fruit powers to protect your friends he found himself brimming with love. Seeing you in battle had made him proud.

Not seeing you after the battle was making him sick.

He immediately called out for you as he began to search the area. When no answer came, he called out again, louder. This time, he gained the attention of the others.

“Wait, they’re not with you?” Usopp spoke, concern, lacing his words.

“They were heading your way last time we saw them,” Nami confirmed, already joining the search.

Zoro’s heart was going to beat out of his chest. He began lifting debris and throwing it without hesitation or concern for its landing, searching desperately for you. The others followed suit, though with more strategy than just tossing pieces of building around. Zoro didn’t care to take his time. He would tear this island apart if it meant bringing you back into his arms.

“Zoro, wait!” Nami yelled after a minute of the search. “Listen.”

Zoro stood still, listening for any sign of you. After a few seconds, he was growing impatient and was about to return to his rampage before he heard it. A small cough coming from the edge of the woods.

He ran. The crew could barely keep up. Making it to the edge of the woods, Zoro slowed and called out once more.

In reply, he heard a small, nearly broken voice say, “Here. Zoro, I’m here.”

Following the voice, he found you leaning against a tree, barely conscious and seemingly struggling to breathe. He collapsed to his knees at your side. Scared to cause you any more pain, his hands hovered around your face and body, searching for signs of injury. “What happened?”

Another cough racked your body. “Caught off guard. They got a few,” coughs interrupted you, “good kicks in. Ribs broken for sure…” Seeing his worry, you continued with a smirk, “But you should have seen the other guy.”

He let out an annoyed sigh, but could not deny the pride he felt. “I’d expect nothing less.” He placed a delicate kiss on your forehead, treating you like the most fragile object he’d ever seen. “Never do that again.”

“No promises,” your smirk stayed.

“Tsk. Now, stop talking so we can find Chopper and  get you fixed up.” He picked you up as carefully as he could.

“Aye, aye, sir,” you replied feeling secure in his arms.

Trafalgar Law

As his Room collapsed at the end of the fight, he surveyed the area. One by one, his crew came into view, bruised up a bit but safe. As the scene settled around him and people started to check on the status of one another, however, you still hadn’t come into view. After another minute, he called out your name. After two, he went into a state of minor panic.

Calming his mind as best he could, he immediately began giving orders. “Shachi, Hak, take the West side. Uni, Jean Bart, you’ve got the East. Bepo, Cl—”

“Captain, I found them!” Ikkaku called out from the edge of the battlefield. You had your hand over her shoulders, leaning your weight onto her as you both stumbled your way towards the rest of the crew.

Law rushed to your side, grabbing your face in his hands as he checked you over for injuries.

“Law, Law! Hey, I’m okay, just a couple bruises, a sprained ankle, and probably a concussion.” You tried to speak with a light tone. As you saw his concern, you continued more softly, grabbing one of his sleeves. “I’m sorry I scared you.”  

He let out a heavy sigh as he pulled you into him, embracing you in the tightest hug he felt he could give without causing you discomfort. “Never do that again.” He pulled back, taking your face in his hands once more, ensuring you were listening. “Never. I— I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t lose me, Law,” you brought your hands up to cover his own, giving them a small squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, you really think you could get rid of me.” You sent him a playful smile.

With a soft sigh and a slight smirk, he replied, “Says the one who got lost at the market literally yesterday.”

“HEY!”

Black Leg Sanji

Lowering his leg, he watched the final enemy shoot off to the other side of the battlefield. As the man landed with no sign of getting back up, Sanji immediately turned to head where he had last seen you.

“Love,” he called out as he made it to the spot where you had stood your ground. Confusion flooded his body with worry following quickly after. Around him lay the broken bodies of enemies you had single-handedly taken down, but you were nowhere to be seen. His heart nearly stopped in his chest as he called out your name, panic stirring in his chest.

“Sanji?” A soft voice spoke out from a few feet away.

Turning a small corner, Sanji found you sitting on the ground, leaning against the side of a crumbling building.

“Mon amour! Are you hurt?” He practically teleported to your side. “My angel, what’s wrong? Where does it hurt?” He looked over your body, scanning for any signs of serious injury. He gently held your face in his hands, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to protect you.” Guilt instantly ate away as he imagined you in pain, alone.

“Sanji, I’m fine! Not even a scratch, see.” You held out your arms, turning them over to show your injury-free skin.

“You— You’re not hurt? Then why are you hiding behind this wall?” He asked, puzzled by the circumstances, but elated to see you unharmed.

“You protected me, silly.” You grabbed his cheeks in a playful manner. “You kept taking out everyone heading my way, and I, after I took care of the few that did make it, just kinda got bored and came to take a nap.” You let out a small laugh at the confused look he gave. “Figured my hero had it all under control.”

He let out a shaky laugh at your compliment, but the fear he felt only moments ago still lingered. “I didn’t see you, and I thought something happened…”

“Oh,” your face fell slightly as you reached out to hold his gently, “Oh, Sanji no. I’m okay. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Looking into your eyes, he said, “Of course, you are love. You’re the strongest person I know after all.”

Wiping away a smudge of dirt from his face, you placed a kiss on his cheek, instantly turning him red. “Ready to head back my prince charming.”

He lifted you up into his arms, “Only if you are my dear.”

But taking the Jackdaw is not your goal today; it’s about sending a message—you’re not the only one hunting riches in these waters, Kenway. You stop a few paces away from Edward and have the nerve to smile—all teeth and no apology. "Captain Kenway,” you greet. 

"Captain,” he echoes, eyes narrowing, despite the reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s begrudging respect in the way he speaks your title too. Names and ranks have power, even amongst scoundrels, and many in the West Indies know yours, just as they do his. Quite the pair the two of you could make if you ever stopped vain attempts to kill each other. 

The newer recruits glance between you, confused. You know one another? Only Adéwalé and your quartermaster answer with matching, long-suffering sighs from opposite sides of the fray. Nothing good will come of this meeting beyond wasted shot, fresh cuts, and bruises.

"You've sunk three of my prizes this year," Edward says, his hard stare nigh enough to set you ablaze. Your smile only widens, even as he holds his sword level with your neck. First time, he called it rotten luck; the second, a coincidence. By the third, coincidence no longer serves as an excuse. You were turning up far too often for that.

“You stole three of mine,” you remind him. Should be that you called it even and moved on, but the treasure ship you’ve tracked halfway across the Caribbean has another set of eyes watching too. You’ll not let Edward make off with another of your prizes—a fat haul that’d set you and your crew right for a good long while. 

“I earned those prizes,” he counters with a shrug and knavish smirk. You scoff—arrogant prick. Bribing the harbormaster to blockade your frigate with fishing sloops does not count as an earned prize, nor does swapping his bottle of rum for water and only playing at being drunk the night before you intended to go after a French merchant schooner. “Unlike you,” Edward continues, “firing on a man before he’s even broken his fast.”

"You deserved that,” you grit out, glaring at him. 

"Did I?" He questions, but aye, maybe he did deserve it for leaving you on that beach three moons ago without a word—but you looked so lovely lying there in the sand, with the tide at your toes, wearing nothing save the sun’s golden morning light and the small bruises left in the wake of his affections.

It seemed fitting revenge at the time after you left him trussed to the bedposts of a Nassau boarding house, absconding in the dark of night with his charts—not his proudest moment when Adé found him the next morning.

"So, uh,” one of your lads poses from behind, scratching the back of his neck, “we killin’ them then, cap’n?"

Edward points his sword toward you—the tip level with your breastbone. “A fair question,” he replies. 

“That eager to send me to the Locker?” You ask, cocking your head. “I thought we enjoyed these moments, Edward.” It’s teasing, and by God, it drives Edward Kenway mad. You chase him across the seas, and he turns around and does the same; always finding an excuse to dock in the same port as your Sea Holly. 

Adéwalé shakes his head, and Edward lets out a short laugh, and the tension ebbs as he lowers his blades, resigned to whatever torment you have in store for him. “What do you want, Dove?" He asks. 

You look over his shoulder toward the merchant vessel on the horizon, and he follows your gaze and intent. "The Portuguese Galleon." You nod toward the lone vessel. “Princesa do Céu.” You’ve seen the manifest: gold and silver, wine, tobacco, spices, textiles. Everything a pirate could ever hope to plunder and unaccompanied by royal line ships. 

He turns back. "No,” Edward says. “Been chasing her since Nassau.” His crew spotted her to the north of New Providence three days ago and set out with full sails.

You step closer to him, holding his clear blue gaze with iron resolve. If he refuses, the sea can still drink its fill. “We've been chasing her since Havana," you counter, unwilling to give up such a prize. 

“Split it, then,” Edward offers—fair wages; fair work. The Jackdaw could come alongside to starboard while the Sea Holly took larboard. Between the two crews and over fifty guns, the galleon wouldn't hold out long. You each can walk away with some booty—and better than none at all.  

“Sixty-forty,” you amend. 

Edward looks to Adéwalé, an exasperated appeal for divine intervention—Adé only folds his arms across his chest. This is where my day begins, he thinks, debating percentages. "You'd haggle over your own ransom,” he laments. The latest broadsides nailed to tavern walls in Kingston and Hamilton with your likeness had offered five hundred pounds for your capture—two hundred shy of the King's seven hundred on Edward's own head. 

"A pirate's obliged to bargain,” you tell him—a silvertongue’s gotten you out of trouble more times than you dare admit, but it doesn’t stop you from digging yourself farther into a hole either. "And I'd rather like my bounty to be bigger than yours." Taking Princesa do Céu may just do the trick and raise the price to eight hundred pounds. 

"Aye, and you've made a damned habit of barging into my affairs when you're meant to be competition." Would make things simpler if he could say that’s all you were. You grin, moving closer, and Jaysus, you want nothing more than to haul him down for a kiss and a slap. "A thorn in my side,” Edward continues, but the fondness bleeding into his voice and the way his blue eyes soften betrays him.

"You've named me far worse than that before, Kenway,” you remind him. Harpy. Sea-witch. Thieving jade. Devil's brat. Hellion. And even a brazen hussy after you refused to put your shift back on and reclined on his bed while he'd been trying—and failing—to study a map. 

"My..." He falters, the words dying on his tongue. Edward drags a hand through his straw-blond hair instead, letting out a defeated laugh. "...Devil take me,” he mutters, shaking his head, “I can't make sense of you anymore."

Edward looks at you for a long moment before speaking. "Split the spoils?" He offers again.  

"Nothing less than fifty-eight for my share,” you tell him. Two percent—maybe you do love him after all. "Parley?" you say, offering your hand. 

"Parley," he agrees, clasping your forearm. "We'll take the galleon together," Edward announces, loud enough for his crew and yours to hear. They lower swords and holster pistols, accepting yet another temporary agreement. 

Then Edward drags you closer by the arm until there’s scarcely a breath between you, his voice dropping to a rough murmur meant only for you. “After we’ve settled the finer details.” The Jackdaw and Sea Holly are both swift; the galleon can be granted a day or two’s head start in this fair weather without risk.

You arch a brow, looking up at him. "Your quarters or mine, Captain?"

His answering grin is unrepentant—charming bastard. "Mine,” he tells you, fingers hooking in the wide belt around your waist, “saves us the steps.” 

Without another word, you turn toward his cabin, leaving him to catch up. Adéwalé only shakes his head as you pass him; your own quartermaster huffs before turning away, motioning your crew back to the Sea Holly. “Ready the guns, you dogs,” he shouts, “we’ll be hunting Portuguese...eventually.” A guffaw of laughter takes the men as you round the corner, reaching for the door of the captain’s quarters. 

The latch of the heavy oak door barely catches before Edward has you pinned against it. 

One hand braces beside your head while the other cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He doesn't bother with a clever remark, letting his mouth find yours in a kiss—all stolen breath and suppressed laughter. “This is temporary, Edward,” you remind him, gasping against his mouth, even as you pull and loosen the buckles of his holsters and sword belt, letting them fall carelessly to the deck planks underfoot.

“Then we’d best make it count, Dove,” Edward grunts, teeth grazing your throat, careworn hands slipping into the waist of your breeches, palms hot against your hips. “Before we’re back at each other’s necks.”

The Polar Tang had survived sea kings, Marine battles and storms that could have split lesser ships clean in two. What it hadn't survived, at least according to you. was the sudden outbreak of a mysterious, highly inconvenient illness.

You were on your way to the infirmary because that illness was simply getting worse and worse and you needed Law to check on you. Three slow knocks echoed through the infirmary.

"...Come in," came the deep and calm voice of Law from inside. He sounded as calm and level as ever.

You pushed the door open just enough to peek your head inside. Law sat behind his desk, one hand lazily flipping through a thick medical journal while the other scribbled notes into a folder, probably one of the crew's medical chart. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, old books and fresh tea. It was quiet enough that the hum of the submarine's engines seemed almost soothing.

He didn't look up immediately. "What is it?" he asked sternly, gaze still fixed on the papers before him.

You dramatically grabbed the doorframe. "...Doctor," you huffed, trying to match your voice to your ‘pained’ expression.

Law paused and very slowly, he looked up from the files and to you. "...Yes?"

"I don't think..." You staggered one exaggerated step into the room. "...I'm going to make it."

He stared and raised an eyebrow in a mix of annoyance, confusion and a look that was clearly already questioning your sanity. "...You're walking," he countered flatly.

"Barely," you breathed over the top.

"You walked here."

"I crawled, emotionally," you groaned and a long silence settled between you before Law closed his notebook with a soft thump.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "...Explain."

You shuffled farther into the infirmary, pressing a hand to your chest with theatrical despair. "It started this morning," you recounted.

"What started?" he asked still not buying anything you were saying.

"The symptoms," you said waving your hands theatrically.

"What symptoms?"

"I fear..." You inhaled sharply. "...I'm dying."

Law leaned back in his chair. "I've heard more convincing performances from Penguin."

You gasped, your mouth agap as you looked at him. "I came here seeking medical attention, and you're insulting your patient?"

He groaned and decided to entertain your.....whatever it was you were up to. "You aren't my patient."

"I am now."

"...Unfortunately," he said and you feigned offense. Despite his dry tone, you caught the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

That was progress and it made you want to go on. "You should really take this more seriously, Doctor."

Law folded his arms. "Fine." He gestured toward the examination table. "Sit down and let me check you then.”

"I knew you'd save me," you purred as you stepped closer to the table.

"I said sit. I didn't say I believed you," he countered as he grabbed his gloves to put them on.

The examination table crinkled beneath you as you hopped onto it. Law wheeled his stool over with practiced ease. "So," he started.

"So,” you repeated, trying not to grin too widely.

"...Symptoms," he ordered, a bit firmer like he would usual do with ‘real’ patients.

"My heart's beating funny," you explained clutching it dramatically to emphasize it.

"When?"

"When I see someone," you mumbled, trying hard not to chuckle.

"Who?"

"...Confidential," you answered after a moment of thinking.

Law gave you an unimpressed look. "Patient confidentiality works the other way around."

"Oh," you huffed "...well, then you."

He blinked once, there was a tiny reaction barely there and those who didn't know him would most likely have missed it but you saw it "Keep going."

"Gladly” you said and did as told. "My face gets hot."

He tapped his pen against his chin. "Hm"

"My stomach feels weird, like there's somehting inside it making it flutter"

He didn't comment on it just listened.

"I smile for no reason," you explained and locked eyes with him so he could see the smile that was currently on your face.

"Hm."

God how that ‘hm' was gnawing at you right now. But you didn't let it stop you, especially since you really liked it when he was being the doctor. "I also become incapable of acting normal."

"I noticed," he said and there was a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You're writing all this down?" you asked.

"I like documenting unusual cases," he told you but somehting in his voice made you question if he was being serious or just messing with you.

You leaned over, trying to peek at his clipboard. The paper contained exactly three words.

‘Patient is dramatic.’

You opened your mouth staring at him and wanting to reach up and nudge his arm but decided against it. "...Rude," you complained with a mock-hurt face

"Accurate," he countered flatly before he reached for his stethoscope. "Lie back."

You obeyed with exaggerated caution. "If I don't survive—"

He cut you off before you could even finish it. "You will."

You ignored him and didn't let him ruin your dramatic moment. "...if I don't survive tell Bepo I loved him."

He sighed and rubbed his temples. "I won't."

"And Ikakku," you continued nonetheless.

"No."

"And Shachi and Penguin."

"Definitely not."

You sighed dramatically, your arm on your forehead like you were going to wither away any second from how he ignored your wishes. "So cold."

"I'm a doctor, not a poet," he grumbled reaching up to remove your arm carefully.  

"You could be both."

"I'd rather not," he said and moved.

The moment the cold metal of the stethoscope touched your chest you jumped because in all your antics you weren't really prepared for this. "It's freezing!" you complained.

"It usually is," he said dryly.

"You could've warned me."

"I assumed you were familiar with basic medicine."

"I thought doctors warmed them up first," you said purposely exaggerating.

"Only in children's storybooks," he sighed and ignored your pouting, listening quietly.

The room settled into an unexpected silence. The joking faded as you watched his focused expression. The way his brows furrowed ever so slightly. The concentration in his beautiful eyes. The careful precision with which he worked, even though both of you knew this "checkup" was entirely fabricated.

He moved the cold stethoscope again and then with a thoughtful look paused. "...Your heartbeat is elevated."

"I knew it."

"You also ran down three flights of stairs before coming here," he assumed because your heart was still trying to come down from you moving so hastily.

"...That probably contributed."

"Probably." He removed the stethoscope. "But not entirely."

You blinked confused. "...What?" You were already fearing you were seriously having a problem.

"It increases every time I look at you," he said flatly and you felt heat climb onto your face. Sure you had said that before but hearing him say it was feeling differently.

You tried to stay cool and play it down a tiny bit. "...You're making that up."

"I'm a doctor I don't make things up, besides I didn't say why that is," he explained, making you pause for a moment, your brain needing a few seconds to process everything.

"...Doctor," you finally continued with a cheeky glint in your eyes.

"Hm?"

"You're flirting," you grinned at him.

"No," he protested but you weren’t having any of it.

"You absolutely are."

"I'm making observations."

"Observations that happen to make me blush."

"Interesting." He reached for his clipboard again, steering the conversation away from your teasing.

"What are you writing now?" you asked trying to get a glimpse.

"'Patient blushes easily.'"

You groaned, shaking your head slightly. "Seriously? That’s not even a real diagnosis," you huffed trying to force the smile that threatened to spread on your lips down.

"Yes it is, I’m the doctor whatever I write as a diagnosis is a diagnosis. Now stop whining at let’s move on," he said and held out his hand, making you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "Your wrist," he added.

"Oh" you breathed and offered it without protest. His fingers wrapped gently around it, checking your pulse. Unlike your ridiculous performance, his touch was steady and careful. Professional, mostly at least.

"...Still fast," he observed.

"I told you."

"You also seem incapable of sitting still."

"I'm nervous."

"Why?"

"Because of you."

His thumb paused ever so slightly against your pulse. "...That's inconvenient."

"For who?"

"...Both of us."

A knock interrupted the moment. Before either of you could answer, the infirmary door slid open. Bepo poked his head inside. "Captain? We were wondering if—" He froze. You were sitting on the examination table. Law was holding your wrist while a clipboard rested on his lap. "...Oh."

Law didn't even look toward the door. "I'm with a patient."

Bepo glanced between the two of you before his eyes stayed on you, looking worried. "Are you okay?” he asked you.

You, obviously, let out the weakest, most pitiful sound imaginable. "I don't have much time..."

Bepo's eyes widened, there was fear in his eyes now. "What happened?!"

You opened your mouth to tell him how horrible you felt but Law didn’t let you answer and instead took over for you. "Nothing, no one’s dying, it’s just a case of severe theatrics," Law grumbled and you sighed.

"Oh," Bepo let out a deep exhale and relaxed immediately.

You pouted and ‘glared’ at your doctor. "I feel really offended. It seems my doctor lacks bedside manners."

"He still has better manners than you." Law countered.

Bepo meanwhile tried very hard not to laugh. "I'll...come back later," he said slipping back out.

"You don't have to—" But Bepo was already gone and the door had closed again.

You smirked sheepishly "...He believed me for a second."

"He's too trusting," Law said before he got up and decided to continue the ‘chek up’. "I should probably perform a neurological assessment." He raised one gloved finger. "Follow my finger."

You obediently tracked it as he moved it from side to side.

"Good." Then, very suddenly, he stopped moving and you continued staring directly at him. "You're supposed to follow the finger's movements."

"I am. I’m staring at it."

"My finger isn't moving."

"I know, that’s why I’m just staring," you deadpanned. "You forgot to tell me to stop looking," you added with a smile that was almost unfair and made Law sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

"...Neurological function appears intact," he wrote down.

"I passed?" you asked, almost beaming up at him with a pride.

"Barely," he replied and you pouted but he ignored it. "Now answer honestly."

"I always do…...mostly."

He gave you a look that was close to questioning all his life choices that led to this moment. "Then answer ‘mostly’ honestly."

"Fine."

"When did these symptoms begin? And no, I’m not talking about today."

You considered the question, thinking thoughtfully. "...Probably a while ago."

"Define 'a while.'"

You huffed. "I don't know." Which was to be honest a bit of a lie.

"Weeks?"

"...Maybe," you drawled.

"Months?"

"...Maybe."

He looked at you carefully. "You waited months before seeing the doctor?"

"I was hoping it'd go away," you said quietly, though you knew it wasn’t going away.

"And did it?" he asked already knowing the answer.

"...No."

"It got worse?"

"...Much," you agreed.

Law nodded thoughtfully as though considering an actual diagnosis. "I see."

"You do?" you asked surprised.

"I think I've narrowed it down."

Your eyes widened. "You know what I have?"

"I have a theory."

You leaned closer to him, eyes wide. "Tell me," you urged, your voice almost a whisper.

He set the clipboard down. "It's chronic."

Your stomach flipped. "...Chronic? Is it curable?"

"...Possibly."

"What's the treatment?"

"You'll have to follow instructions carefully."

"I'll do anything, though I have to warn you I’m not good at following instructions," you said.

"I know." The certainty in his voice made your heart skip, though you didn’t know if you should have be offended or feel....something else. He walked toward one of the medicinal cabinets. Instead of grabbing bottles or bandages, he returned carrying a folded blanket.

You blinked, now you were truly confused. "...Blanket?"

"Patients should stay warm," he explained simply.

Your brows furrowed, still a bit surprised. "I'm not cold."

"You will be."

"What does that mean? You made that up right?"

"I already told you, I don't make things up."

"You’re also a pirate," you countered and he gave you a small tug at his lips.

"Still counts."

Before you could protest, he draped the blanket around your shoulders. It smelled faintly like clean linen and lavender detergent. And it was so damn comforting.

"...You're humoring me."

"I'm preventing unnecessary complaints."

You stared at him, not believing him a word. "You care."

"I care about maintaining peace and quiet in my infirmary."

"Liar."

"I prefer selective honesty," he said making you let out a soft chuckle as your cheeks heated up.

A few minutes later, a steaming mug appeared in your hands.

"...Tea?"

"Hydration and it also works on dramatic patients."

You smiled into the cup, ignoring that he thought of you as being dramatic, which was definitely…..true if you were being honest. "You really are taking care of me."

Law busied himself reorganizing supplies, pretending not to hear you. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. You watched him move around the room with practiced efficiency, every motion meticulous, every instrument returned to exactly the right place.

"You know," you said softly, "you can be really nice when you’re not scolding me or looking all grumpy."

He paused what he was doing for a moment. "I’m always grumpy."

You laughed at this while your eyes remained fixed on him. "You made me tea."

"...You're occupying my infirmary."

"You tucked me into a blanket."

"I threw a blanket at you."

"But it landed perfectly."

"That was coincidence."

You smiled knowingly. "I don't think it was."

For just a moment, Law met your eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted into the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. "Don't get used to special treatment."

"I was hoping you'd prescribe more."

"We'll see," he grumbled.

You took another sip of tea. "So..."

"So?"

"When's the next part of my examination?"

Law adjusted his heat, looking every bit the composed surgeon, you knew. "I haven't ruled out your diagnosis yet."

"And what's the leading possibility?"

He looked at you for a long moment before answering. "...I'm beginning to suspect this isn't a physical illness at all."

Your gaze softened. "No?"

"...No." He picked up the clipboard one last time and wrote something new.

You leaned over, trying to read it and this time, he didn't stop you. ‘Patient appears healthy. Cause of elevated heart rate remains... under investigation.’

You looked up from the clipboard, a smile tugging at your lips. "So, you're admitting you don't know what's wrong with me?"

Law slipped the clipboard from your hands before you could read anything else. "I said it was under investigation."

"You doctors always say that when you're stumped."

"I'm not stumped. I'm being thorough."

You hummed skeptically, taking another sip of the tea. "I've heard second opinions are important."

"You don't need one."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I'm the best doctor on this submarine."

"The only doctor on this submarine. You've got quite the monopoly."

Law's lips twitched upward. "Occupational hazard."

The room settled into another comfortable silence. The submarine's engines rumbled softly beneath your feet, and somewhere in the distance you could hear the muffled laughter from Penguin and Shachi.

"You know," you said eventually, "It’s kinda nice and peaceful in here."

"It usually is."

You tilted your head. "Usually?"

"Until someone fakes a terminal illness."

"I resent that accusation."

"You admitted to it."

"I admitted to possible exaggeration."

"You announced your emotional death at the door."

"It was dramatic."

"It was exhausting."

"You still let me in," you said sticking your tongue out.

Law smirked, for real this time, still only a bit but you saw it. "Unfortunately I did."

Another knock echoed through the room. Before either of you could answer, Penguin cracked the door open just enough to poke his head inside.

"Captain?"

Law didn't even glance up. "Yes?"

"We were wondering if your patient is... recovering." His voice sounded suspiciously strained, as though he was trying very hard not to laugh.

You immediately wilted against the pillows. "...Tell my family I fought bravely."

Penguin bit the inside of his cheek. "I... don't think you're dying."

"You can't know that."

"I can literally hear you talking."

"Ghosts can talk too."

"They usually don't ask for tea."

"I needed one last cup."

Law sighed. "Penguin."

"Right. Sorry." He looked between the two of you. "...So... should we postpone card night?"

"Card night?" you asked.

"We thought the captain might be busy."

Law folded his arms. "I am."

Penguin raised an eyebrow. "...Busy treating a menace?"

"...Yes."

"Very serious case?"

"...Extremely."

"What've they got?"

Without missing a beat, Law replied, "Attention deficiency."

You gasped, shocked. "I've never been so insulted in my life."

Penguin burst into laughter. "I knew it!"

"Get out," Law deadpanned at Penguin.

"I'm going!" Penguin said hands raised in mock surrender, still laughing, as he disappeared down the hallway and called for Shachi.

You crossed your arms. "Your crew is mean."

"They learned from experience."

Once the laughter faded, you glanced toward Law. "You didn't have to play along."

"I know."

"But you did."

"I did."

"Why?"

Law busied himself cleaning the stethoscope. The silence stretched just long enough for you to think he wouldn't answer. "Because..."

"Because?"

"You looked like you wanted me to."

Your expression softened. "That's all?"

He paused and exhaled faintly. "Mostly."

A comfortable quiet settled over the infirmary. You swung your legs idly over the edge of the examination table while Law reorganized medicine bottles that were already perfectly organized.

"You know, I've never seen you take a break."

"I take breaks."

"Bepo says your idea of a break is reading different medical books."

"...That's still a break."

"You work too much."

"So I've been told."

You huffed and tilted your head at him. "When was the last time you did something just because it was fun?"

Law thought for a moment. "...I don't remember."

"That's sad."

"I don't need constant entertainment."

"I'm not talking about entertainment." You said and he looked at you curiously. "I'm talking about letting yourself smile. You don't do it enough."

He was quiet again. "You make it sound easy."

"It kind of is."

"For you."

You shrugged. "Maybe." Without warning, you reached over and gently poked his cheek. "There."

Law blinked a tiny bit shocked. "What was that?"

"A smile inspection," you grinned cheekily.

"I wasn't smiling."

"You almost were."

"I almost moved you into the hallway."

"But you didn't," you said triumphantly, feeling almost proud he didn't 'Room' you.

"No."

You liked the way he looked right now and the fact that you felt like you had him right there. "Because you like me," you purred boldly.

"I refuse to answer that."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"You'd take anything as a yes."

"Probably."

Law shook his head before reaching for the stethoscope again. "One final examination."

"Ooh."

"Don't sound so excited."

"I can't help it."

"You absolutely can." He placed the stethoscope against your chest once more. This time neither of you joked. The quiet was almost startling. You watched his expression instead. Focused but gently, almost fond. He listened for several moments before removing it.

"Well?"

"Your heartbeat's still fast."

"Oh no, and here I was thinking it would’ve slowed down after being treated so good by you," you breathed dramatically.

Law rubbed his temples and definitely tried to hide a grin tugging at his lips. "It increases every time you look at me," he observed.

You smiled sheepishly. "I can't control that....It's not bad though is it?"

"No." His answer came softer than before.

"It's actually pretty normal." He explained, making you blink up at him. "For someone who's..." He stopped himself.

"Who's what?" you asked because now you were curious.

"Never mind," he said brushing it off, but you weren’t having it.

"No, finish that sentence," you urged.

Law looked away, adjusting the tubing of the stethoscope with unnecessary precision. "For someone who's in love."

The room became impossibly quiet. The engines seemed farther away. Even the soft clinking of cups in the galley disappeared. You stared at him, your heart now definitely beating a lot faster. "...Doctor, I think you've accidentally diagnosed me."

"I know, it wasn’t an accident."

You laughed quietly, though your face felt impossibly warm. "I wasn't expecting you to actually say it."

"I wasn't planning to."

You slid off the examination table until you were standing in front of him. "So...does this mean I'm incurable?" you asked raising an eyebrow and looking a bit sheepishly at him.

"I didn't say that."

"No?"

"No.” He said as he met your eyes. "It just means the treatment is... unconventional."

"Like?"

"You'll need regular meals."

"I already do."

"Enough sleep."

"I try but I can hear Bepo snoring throughout the walls."

"Less unnecessary worrying."

"I'll work on it, though that one’s tough when you're surrounded by a very chaotic crew and a grumpy doctor," you chirped with an innocent smile.

"And..." He hesitated. "...someone who reminds you to take care of yourself."

You felt something tug in your chest. "That sounds suspiciously specific."

"It's medically recommended."

"By who?"

"Me."

"So your prescription is..."

Law folded his arms, looking so much like a stern and professional doctor. "Care."

Your heart did another flip, and your breath hitched for a moment before you tried to recover. "That's surprisingly sweet."

"It's practical and effective."

"I believe you." You said, your own warm eyes meeting his for a moment before you looked down at the mug still warming your hands. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

You rolled your eyes and deadpanned at him. "You know what I mean."

He nodded once with a tiny smug smirk.

"Since when did you know?"

He leaned back against the desk, considering the question. "Probably before you did."

"What?"

"You've always found excuses to visit the infirmary."

You stared wide eyed at him. "I have not."

"You came in once because you got a paper cut."

"It was deep," you said voice dropping to a dramatic tone.

"It wasn't."

"I needed emotional support."

"You needed a tiny bandage."

"And emotional support."

"You claimed your shoulder hurt after carrying one box," he continued.

"It did hurt."

"You carried it for ten seconds."

You pouted at him and then let out a long deep exhale before you laughed softly. "I can't believe you noticed all of that."

"I notice more than people think." He said, his voice no longer teasing. "I notice when you're tired." You looked at him and your smile faded into something softer. "When you skip meals. When you're quieter than usual. When you pretend you're fine because you don't want anyone worrying."

You hadn't realized he paid that much attention. "Law, if anyone else would have said that I’d call that creepy."

"You take care of everyone else." His gaze finally met yours ignoring your habit of trying to brush it off. "Someone should take care of you too."

For a moment, you couldn't think of anything clever to say. The joking, playing the exaggerating patient, the fake illness, it had all quietly slipped away. A timid knock interrupted the moment.

"...Captain?" Bepo's voice asked quietly. "Can I come in?"

"You may."

The white bear peeked inside. "Is everything okay now? Is the examination completed?"

You looked at Law and then at Bepo. "I think the doctor figured out what was wrong."

Bepo brightened immediately. "Really? What was it?"

Your eyes remained on Law as you couldn't help but smile. "...Turns out my heart was just confused."

Bepo tilted his head. "Oh…..ooooh," Bepo said as he realized what you had meant. "I guess I'll... leave you two alone." He continued now feeling like a third wheel but before shutting the door, he paused. "...Captain?"

"Hm?" Law hummed.

"You're smiling." Bepo declared with a grin and a soft look.

Law instinctively touched his face. "No I'm not."

"You kinda are." The door slid shut before Law could respond and you couldn't help but laugh. "He caught you."

"He didn't catch anything" Law protested crossing his arms over his chest.

You placed a hand over your heart. "I'll treasure this moment forever," you said.

"I was never smiling."

"You absolutely were."

"There is no medical evidence."

"There was a witness."

Law huffed and tried to glare at you but it didn't work, not the slightest bit. "Witness testimony is unreliable."

You rolled your eyes and then stepped closer until only a small space remained between you. "So...am I officially discharged?"

Law pretended to think. "Not yet."

"No?"

"I'd like to keep the patient under observation."

"For how long?"

"As long as necessary."

"And how long is necessary?"

He looked at you with that small, rare smile that hardly anyone else ever got to see. "...I'm still figuring that out."

You reached for his hand, your fingers slipping between his tattooed ones. To your suprise he didn't pull away. Instead, he gave your hand the gentlest squeeze. Your heart immediately betrayed you again. "You know," you murmured, "I think my pulse just sped up."

"I noticed." His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles. "And I think I've finally found the cause."

"And?"

His smile widened just enough to be unmistakable. "...I'd rather not cure this one," he diagnosed and you couldn't help yourself and leaned into him letting your forehead rest against his chest only to realize that his own heart was beating faster than usually.

For the first time all afternoon, neither of you were pretending. The diagnosis had never been mysterious. It had simply taken a very dramatic patient and a grumpy doctor to finally say out loud what had been blooming for some time now.

Lucci glanced out of the corner of his eye, watching you carefully as you kept your back to him to close and lock the gate with a firm click. Your reaction to him hadn’t gone unnoticed to his sharp awareness. When you turned to face him again you smiled. It would have been convincing to anyone else but Lucci knew the truth in your expression. A smile to reassure him, to make him drop his guard but he could sense your distrust and that was going to be an issue. If he was to keep close to prevent any possible attempts on your life things would be so much easier if you were amicable with him. If you grew even more guarded and untrusting of him, you could easily change your mind about allowing him on the grounds during the day. 

For now though you were keeping your distance, staying out of arm’s reach of him as you walked over the grounds. You climbed the steps leading to your front door and stepped inside, pausing in the doorway when Lucci remained on the pathway. “Something wrong?”

“I’m a complete stranger. You sure you want me inside your home?” Your polite smile froze in place at the question, spoken through the bird on his shoulder. That same guarded flicker in your eyes appeared when Lucci met your gaze. On the surface he kept his usual blank stare but underneath his own quiet assessment began to stir. Were you trying to decipher if he had an ulterior motive in appearing respectful to your boundaries or were you trying to hide the fact you weren’t as naive and laidback as you liked to appear?

“Well if you’re here to work for me you’ll have to come in otherwise this is just pointless. So is this were we part ways already?” You asked simply, keeping your voice casual but with a challenge hidden in the silence that Lucci heard all too clearly. Giving up so soon? 

Lucci stared at you hard and shook his head, deciding to offer you a look that conveyed he was desperate for the work. After all he was a newcomer to this island, odd jobs from random townsfolk wouldn’t pay him enough or offer proper security compared to what someone of your standing could give him. Finally he climbed the steps and followed you inside, looking around the home with open appreciation as though he was seeing such a grand mansion for the first time. Truthfully it was impressive, the decor was classy and tasteful and not garish or blindingly hideous like some he’d seen over the years. He stepped into your study and stopped on one side of the desk while you walked around to open a drawer and pulled out a roll of paper.

Untying it you let it unfurl on the desk and turned it for Lucci to see. “These are initial plans for the grounds. I’m sure you noticed for yourself they’re bare looking. This’ll be a complete renovation; flowerbeds, pond, gazebo, the works.” You explained while Lucci’s eyes scanned the different concepts drawn out. As he looked over things you’d kept your eyes firmly on him, assessing, waiting. “Think you’re up to it?”

“It’s all easy enough, it’ll just take a while to do if it’s just one guy working on it.” Your lips twitched at Hattori’s input and lightly scoffed when Lucci gave a slight shrug and nod, the continued image of the impassive stranger. He lifted the designs and began to roll up the paper carefully and secure it as it had been.

“There’s one thing I need though before you start.” You spoke up carefully, catching Lucci’s attention immediately. “I need you to speak.”

You spotted Lucci’s jaw clench slightly and his intent stare already fixed on your face seemed to become sharper. It was just for a fleeting second but it seemed dangerous and it took everything in you not to instinctively reach for the gun hidden on the underside of the desk. “The ventriloquism thing is cute and if you want to keep that up around the rest of the town, fine. But when it’s just us I want to hear your voice. You said so yourself, you’re a complete stranger so consider this a sign of goodwill. Prove I can trust you.”

Lucci had hoped you would have been someone like Iceberg, who didn’t ask questions and passed off his silence as a quirk but no, you were sharper than that. Still, he wanted to test the waters and see if he could get something out of this too. Hattori ruffled his feathers and spoke the request on his behalf, still not giving in just yet. “Will you answer a question as a sign of goodwill too?”

“Of course.” You promised so easily and quickly that Lucci readied himself to speak through Hattori, believing he’d get his end of the bargain first but then you smirked and held up a finger. “But I need to hear the question from you, not the bird.” 

Lucci clicked his tongue and his momentary annoyance only seemed to amuse you further. “Why was it so important to see my hands yesterday?”

By contrast to what he’d been using as Hattori’s voice to his actual voice was a surprise but not an unpleasant one. It was deep, steady, and strong. Even his question was direct, which was refreshing. The people of the town always hid what they wanted to ask in amongst unnecessary compliments and apologies for being an imposition to you. At his question you looked at his hands, still remembering how they felt the day before. “I wanted to know if I was wasting my time or not.” You explained with a tired smile. “I’ve had countless people coming with the pretence of looking for work for me and not be suited for the job just in the hopes I’m stupid and not ask questions.They’ll lie and forge their eligibility on paper but their hands? Those can’t lie.”

“And what did my hands tell you?” Lucci asked, a small smirk of his own pulling at his lips.

“You’re strong, no stranger to hard work, and have definitely worked with your hands.” You explained while setting the key for the gate on the desk. “That’s yours. If you want to get started, head down to the docks and tell the foreman to let you into the warehouse. You’ll find the necessary supplies there to begin work on the garden. There’ll be workers about to help you bring the heavier materials here.”

———

It had been a long time since Lucci had gotten to do physical labour. As much as he tried to disregard it but the memories of his time on Water 7 did bubble to the surface as he measured the lengths of wood and marked where to make certain cuts to match your proposed designs. As much as this was simply a cover, he was still putting his all into the work. You’d correctly observed that he was hardworking, that much was true and if he was to be here for nearly a year, he may as well make the most of it. 

Outwardly he appeared solely focussed on his task but all of his senses were keenly set on you. Where you were at any moment, he was aware of it completely. With his sharpened skills he could hear any soft shifting of the fabric of your clothes when you pushed open the window in your study before sitting down at your desk with a resigned sigh. When he’d investigated during the night and entered the study that morning he’d noted the small bundle of letters sitting waiting to be read. He’d assessed that they’d gathered during your time away for the most recent funerals of your family members. As much as he would have preferred to have read them during the night he knew not to touch them just yet. Now that you were opening them he would get his chance to peruse them tonight when you’d gone to sleep.

From the way he could hear you sigh sharply with an even balance of boredom and annoyance, Lucci didn’t expect to find anything of great importance in the documents but it was better to confirm it completely for himself with no room for mere speculation. 

“Thirsty? Hungry?” Lucci glanced over his shoulder when you approached him. He shook his head and returned to his work of planing the cuts of wood. Behind him he heard you sigh, similar to when you’d been in the study. Annoyance. “Not only is this your first day but it’s warm and you haven’t stopped since you started. Take a break Lucci.”

“I’m fine.”

“You ‘being fine’ or not wasn’t part of the conversation.” You remarked with narrowing eyes. “You’re entitled to breaks. Either take one now or go back to your lodgings for the day. Your choice.” 

With his back to you, Lucci’s eyes narrowed fiercely and his jaw clenched hard. This was the part he hated about the undercover aspect of these missions. He was an elite agent, his body, stamina, and mental fortitude was honed expertly to allow him to work as long as he needed on very little sleep and food. This version of him had to be fragile, by comparison. Weak. He loathed to be seen as that. If you truly knew what he was capable of you wouldn’t be concerned for his state after a few measly hours of work in the sun. Still he had to bear it. For the mission. Didn’t mean he had to pretend he liked it, especially when you were threatening to send him home like a child. With a click of his tongue he slammed his hand against the wood, turning to frown at you. “Fine. How long do I get?”

“Thirty minutes.” You instructed before grabbing his arm and turning to go back inside. Instinct at being grabbed had made Lucci tense but he relaxed quickly, killing his initial instinct and training to disengage your loose hold and instead followed you into the kitchen. “Sit.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to insist on feeding me next.” He muttered, looking over at you when you laughed dryly. 

“Yeah because the rich person cooking would be just torture, right?” You asked sarcastically as you grabbed a small box from the cabinet. “What disastrous concoctions would I make you choke down? Let’s hope I don’t poison you.”

Sitting opposite him at the table you set the box down hard and opened it, pulling out a set of tweezers and grabbed Lucci’s wrist, turning his hand around to see his palm. Lucci only now noticed the fairly substantial splinter imbedded in his skin. “Somehow I think you’d only poison me if it was intentional, not because of your cooking skills.” He noted, remaining still and watching you intently as you began to remove the splinter. Again if it weren’t for this role he was playing, he would have just told you to just rip it out as there was no need to be gentle. He’d suffered worse injuries than a tiny shard of wood.

“Skills might be too kind of a word.” You noted as you managed to get a good enough grip on the splinter. Quickly you glanced up from his hand to meet his gaze, surprised at how focussed he was on you. Not exactly judging or untrusting, just calmly observing and waiting. Clearing your throat you looked back down. With one firm, clean pull the splinter lifted from his hand and reached into the box to grab the disinfectant and gauze. “Almost done.”

“It’s fine.” Lucci reassured, the strong clinical smell making his nose wrinkle slightly. His Devil Fruit may have granted him an abundance of skills and heightened instincts and senses but in times like this it had a definite draw back. You fixed the gauze securely over the puncture the splinter made to prevent any infection setting in and lightly tapped his hand before rising from your seat. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, although that should teach you a valuable lesson.” You grinned, watching him stand and flex his hand to adjust to the gauze before giving you a questioning look. “Next time I tell you to do something, don’t throw a tantrum.”

“I didn’t throw a tantrum.” Lucci scowled at you only making your grin spread at his firm denial.

“Oh, you most definitely threw a tantrum.” You laughed before heading for the door. “Enjoy your break, help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”  

———

When night came, Lucci repeated his same actions as the previous night, sneaking into your home after you’d gone to bed and made his way through the darkened rooms he’d just been in hours previous. For his enforced breaks during the day you were surprisingly laidback about him being in your home. Obviously to maintain the image of respect and being aware of his ‘station’ he kept mainly to the kitchen and living room. Now though, he could go where he pleased. 

After doing his rounds and listening for any intruders, Lucci made his way to your study and looked for the letters you’d read that morning. Many were mere from vaguely familiar names, their letters filled with platitudes expressing their ‘most heartfelt condolences’ over the deaths of your relatives before swiftly making a not so subtle comment about hoping to see you and the next big party or hope to be able to do business with your esteemed family in some capacity. Lucci memorised their names for future reference, carefully returning their letters to their previous resting place before moving on to the others. 

These ones were from different family members but held very little intel for him, nothing veiled as a sinister threat or hint they knew more about the deaths than they let on. Some were general updates about their lives, clear repeats that were being sent out to the entire family like a family made newspaper. Any excuse to brag or boast about their accomplishments but ultimately boring.  Some were from members not on the inheritance list and a lot more carefree and confident they won’t be targets while also expressing hopes you manage to survive the whole messy ordeal. Included in the family correspondences were a couple birthday party and wedding invitations. Lucci spotted one wedding was for one of your cousins he knew for certain was on the inheritance list. Were they bringing the wedding forward to prevent their death or were they just one of the small percentage unbothered by obtaining an inheritance that ultimately wouldn’t change their life? 

Before he could open another letter his head snapped up when he sensed movement from upstairs. Setting the letters down, he moved to swiftly and silently into the hallway and hid himself in the dark shadow as you sleepily and slowly descended the staircase. His eyes followed your slow movements as you yawned loudly, the back of your hand hovered over your mouth as the fingertips of your free hand gently skimmed the bannister. Even with your eyes slightly closed you navigated your home with practiced movements, relying on muscle memory see you safely down the staircase and into the kitchen. 

Staying in the dark Lucci repositioned himself and waited for you to finish getting your drink of water, planning to go back into your study as soon as you were tucked back into bed. However just as you set your glass in the sink, the deaden mushi on your desk began to ring and he bit his tongue harshly to stop himself from muttering a curse. Who would be calling at this hour? The sentiment was shared with you as you sleepily muttered under your breath and moved into the study. With a huff you flopped down into your seat and lifted the receiver. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Woah, my bad!” A cheerful and completely unapologetic voice sounded from the snail, “I thought I was calling my favourite cousin. Clearly I mixed up a couple numbers, huh?”

“Yeah, must have. G’night.” You yawned, leaning forward to hang up only for your cousin to chime in again.

“Now, now, don’t give up that easy. C’mon just a quick chat and I’ll let you go back to your oh so exciting night of sleeping.”

“You could do with having a quiet night for once, might actually enjoy getting more than an hour of sleep and no hangover in the morning.”

“And you could do with having a fun night out and live for once.” Your cousin retorted with a laugh. “Y’know before the next funeral happens and brings the mood down.”

“You could take this a little seriously.” You chastised with a building yawn. “Some of us could be next.”

“Ohhh yeah, my bad cuz.” Your cousin laughed softly while you rolled your eyes. “Y’know I was a little hurt I wasn’t in great-uncle’s will in the beginning…”

“You’ve been married three times.”

“Yeah! But I was divorced by the time the old man wrote the will.” They protested and you could already envision their playful pout. “But then when the others started dropping at a rate that definitely wasn’t pure coincidence or bad luck it really put things into perspective, y’know? Literally dodged a bullet on that one.”

“Was there an actual reason you called?” You asked, shifting in your seat to get more comfortable. Lucci stole a glance into the room to see you throw your legs over one of the armrests and close your eyes softly. 

“Huh? Oh yeah! Listen…” You knew that tone and your eyes snapped open and your frown fixed firmly onto the snail on your desk. “I have a massive favour to ask.”

“I’m not liking this already…”

“No, please it’s nothing too big, not really.” Your cousin insisted. “So I’m going to be going on a romantic little cruise of the four Blues next month and I was hoping you’d let us stay at yours as a little stopping point for a couple days to resupply and rest up before setting sail again.”

“When you say ‘us’ you mean?”

“Well me, my latest flame, and a few personal staff. The captain and his crew can slum it in the tavern. So what do you say? Having someone else in your home won’t kill you, you could do with the company. Aren’t you bored being on your own all the time.”

“I’m fine. You don’t have to feign concern just to stay at mine.”

“I’m not feigning anything. Seriously, you doing okay?”

“I promise I’m fine, you’ll see for yourself next month. Happy?”

“Always.” Your cousin grinned and you fought a small smile as you now thought of having to prepare for the extra people coming. “Hey, do me a favour?”

“I’m already doing you a favour.”

“Apart from that. Maybe think about investing in a pet?” You pulled a face at that remark. Seriously did your cousin think you were a lonely old shut-in? “Nothing boring like a goldfish or hamster though. I think a dog would be too energetic for you.”

“So what like a cat or something then?” You asked with a small laugh. As you turned in your seat a sound from upstairs caused both you and Lucci to react. Sharply your gaze snapped to the open doorway of your study, your body on alert. Quickly you forced yourself to make a convincing yawn. “Tell you what. I’ll sleep on the pet thing. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Hanging up you got to your feet and grabbed the letter opener from your desk. Gripping it tightly, you slowly padded your way to the partially open doorway and glanced out seeing nothing skulking in the dark. Taking a steadying breath you tightened your grip on the improvised weapon and carefully crept out, eyes never staying in one place. You searched around you multiple times as you, always scanning and always on alert, prepared to strike if needed. Swallowing hard you moved upstairs, licking your dry lips and trying to keep your breaths as silent as possible. You flinched when one of the floorboards under your feet creaked softly and your heart leapt into your throat at the sudden noise. 

Muttering under your breath and shaking your head at your own foolish reaction you steadied yourself and continued. You shuddered lightly as a soft breeze fell over your skin. Normally on a warm night it would be a soothing comfort but now in this moment, it was prickling and unpleasant. You tensed when a noise came overhead and you ducked in time as a bat missed hitting your head. Immediately you let out a heavy sigh, with the windows that you’d let open enough to keep you cool during the night, the poor thing got in and scared itself. It wasn’t the first thing you’d had to deal with this kind of intruder and you were able to herd it to the closest open window and back outside. 

Firmly you shut the window and began to calm yourself. You knew you were valid in your paranoia to immediately assume someone could have broken in to kill you as they had with your other relative but still you felt silly for thinking you could have done any damage with a letter opener of all things. Maybe you would have caught them by surprise and managed a couple pokes but it would have probably been nothing, it would have been like the splinter Lucci had this morning; an annoyance but hardly a threat. Rubbing your head you went around the house, closing and locking your windows with firm clicks. 

When the last ones in your bedroom were secured you dragged yourself into bed and settled yourself against the pillows. All tiredness had left you long ago but still you had to try. Even though you knew there was no danger in your home tonight you still lay on your side, eyes trained on the door and your hand tightly gripping the letter opener under your pillow. 

From outside your room Lucci remained in the shadows, close and ready to strike. It had been a tiny little bat tonight but it was a close call. It could have been an attack just as easily. Even long after he heard your breathing finally even out as the adrenaline in your system left and the exhaustion took its place, Lucci stayed near. Protecting. 

———————