#qoh

You awoke with a start.

Heart pounding, sheets clinging to your skin—damp and uncomfortable. 

You couldn't remember what you dreamt about. Only that you were running; trying to get away from something.

A few knocks, hurried and insistent.

“Your highness, we have to start getting you ready for tonight's event.”

Ah. That's what you were running from. Marriage.

You groaned, dramatic and loud. Tonight was going to be hell. Attention placed all on you. Airheaded men fighting for your hand. Egos clashing. The throne room becoming one sick, twisted competition over who could win the princess. Impress you the most. All for a grab at power. A new title to make them king.

Absolutely disgusting.

“You may enter.” You forced the words from your throat. The double doors opened, revealing a whole fucking team of servants prepared to get you primed and ready. Scrubbed and squeaky fucking clean for men.

Completely fucking revolting.

At least Analise was part of the five-person group. Although she wouldn’t be able to act normal around you with all the eyes—but her presence was appreciated regardless, despite being forced to be in servant mode.

Your skin was rubbed raw, then doused in oils that you couldn’t even name. Suds were deeply massaged into your scalp in a way where you could still feel their hands on your head twenty minutes after. Every knot and tangle in your hair was thoroughly brushed out. More product was worked into each strand—nothing could be out of place—before they pinned it into some intricate half-updo that seemed to take forever and had you wincing with each tug and pin they placed to keep it up.

Utter hell.

Well, you were convinced it was—until they brought out the make-up.

“What are you doing with that?” You hissed, seeing a servant press foundation onto a sponge.

The servant’s face morphed into terror. You almost felt…bad.

“Lady Finch insisted—” the servant panicked. 

“Lady Finch isn’t here,” you pressed.

“Your highness…” Analise’s voice was soft, careful from the other side. She leaned into your ear. “We must…”

You knew what that meant, and you hated people getting into trouble—especially servants—because of you.

Your face hardened, but you only provided a slight, acknowledging nod to the other servant and closed your eyes. 

You heard them exhale in relief before applying the foundation to your face, covering any and all blemishes to ensure you were perfect. Then came the rest.

Entirely the bane of your existence.

Next was the gown.

Not one, but two skirts you had to step into after the hoop to give it that poof you despised. Some elaborate, red silk with gold lace on top. A matching corset that dug into your skin from the steel boning interlaced inside and stole your breath with each pull with deep red, swooping velvet that outlined your breasts and fell on your shoulders. 

Absolute, complete, utter, entire, and outright fucking torture. 

They pinned your skirt with large, red flowers made out of fabric around the dress, intricate, deliberate in placement, keeping the hem off the floor—still covering your feet.

When you looked in the mirror, you couldn’t recognize yourself.

It bothered you more than it should have.

Jewelry was placed upon you as you scrutinized your reflection. A dazzling gold teardrop necklace. Gold earrings, sparkling diamonds. A pair of gold gloves.

And one of your most detailed tiaras adorned with rubies carefully placed on top of your head.

All of it together reminded you of what role you were thrust upon in this world—without choice or a say. Born into a position you never asked for, never wished for.

A ruler.

You wanted to scream. Rip off the dress, throw down the jewelry, wipe off the make-up—put on breeches, take-up your sword, and run away from it all.

You didn’t. 

Instead, you held your head up high and swallowed it all down. The nerves. The bile. The tremor in your hands—rage or anxiety, you couldn’t tell which.

A perfect princess.

The rest of the day went through like a blur despite your yearning for tonight to come as slow as possible. Practiced dances to ensure your skill was up to par while in your gown. Lady Finch watched every step, every move, every breath you took with her not-so-constructive criticism when you took your seat or curtsied. 

At 7:30, you made your way to the throne room from the bathroom. Hushed voices filled the hallway.

“...disappeared, your majesty. It’s the third time this month one of our soldiers has gone missing.” The lower general paused, hearing your heels echo, looking towards the sound, and bowed. “Your highness.”

You acknowledged him with a nod then turned to your father with a curtsy. “Is everything alright, Father?”

He placed his hand on your shoulder. “Nothing to concern yourself with, daughter. I will handle it.” He squeezed your shoulder. “Please—go wait to be announced into the throne room and do not worry yourself. I only want you to concern yourself with finding a proper suitor tonight.” Your father cupped your face in comfort. “I’ll see you soon.”

With one last fleeing glance between your father and the general, you bowed once more and made your way to the throne room—unsettled and apprehensive.

‘Father will handle it. He always does.’

You took a deep breath and waited in the hall, pacing out the jitters that threatened to consume your body, thoughts.

At 8:00, your father was announced, then your godfather. 

‘Padrino is here?’

They must have entered through the back. Unfortunately, the front was being saved for your grand entrance.

Your fists clenched, mouth set in a hard line.

How touching. 

“And finally—the guest of honor—S/N, Y/N, Princess of Mystoria Island.” You heard the announcer proclaim, muffled through the thick wooden doors.

On instinct, your back straightened. A regal posture to command the room itself. It was quiet as you strolled your way to the last empty seat, keeping your eyes in front of you—ignoring the many that were watching. Your pace was steady, unwavering. You were sure Lady Finch would be proud if she were here—if she was capable of feeling such an emotion for you.

When you arrived at the bottom of the steps, you curtsied all the way to the floor, bowing your head in front of your father—the king—and waited. He stood and met you at the bottom step.

“Arise.” He held out his hand for you to grab. You took it, head still bowed, as he led you to your seat to the right of his—Padrino on the left. Once you sat—flawless and without fault—he turned and stopped in front of his throne, facing the guests. You scanned the room, feeling queasy. You forced your hands to remain still despite the urge to twist your hands.

‘There’s so many…’ If you had to guess, fifty—maybe more—came to offer their hand in marriage.

“It is an honor to have each and every one of you tonight. Please, relax and enjoy yourselves regardless of what choice is made, and welcome to Mystoria.”

Short, sweet, and to the point. That was the king.

Your father took his seat. The orchestra began playing while people mingled with one another.

“You will go down there and open the dance floor in fifteen. I felt it was best to build anticipation,” your father murmured to you. 

You exhaled—relieved to have a chance to breathe before it all.

“Padrino, I didn’t know you were coming,” you admitted.

“I would never miss mi bella’s ball where she is to choose her betrothed. I have to make sure él es perfecto para ti, princesa.” 

You smiled at that, grateful that he was always looking out for you.

“Gracias, padrino.” 

“You look beautiful, mi amor. We will have to find the perfect man for the perfect princess,” Padrino stated, firm.

You only responded with a nod and looked back to the crowd. A mixture of noble and commoners were present and all wearing masks. Some wore suits that were tailored perfectly—others wore the best clothes they could find. Not that you cared. Your list of requirements was short:

Treats you like a person—regardless of gender or status.

Doesn’t give a shit on what you wear or do.

That was it. You could care less about anything else. If anything, the bar was in hell and shouldn’t be impossible to meet.

It was.

When your fifteen minutes of quiet time was up, Padrino was the one who escorted you to the dance floor. He bowed before planting a kiss on your hand.

“If anyone gives you trouble, you come find me.” You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt his gaze harden as his sunglasses shifted on his face.

“Understood, padrino,” you agreed. There were guards, your father, and godfather on your side in case anyone tried something untoward. 

Considering your sword was in your room.

The fact that you had to rely on mostly men to save you if anyone acted inappropriately was not lost on you.

With what you hoped was a neutral expression, you faced your guests fully. A servant came by with a dance card filled with an egregious amount of names, tying it to your wrist.

‘Just fucking kill me.’

Instead, you smiled—bright and breath-taking—pretending as if you were delighted to be here.

“Your royal highness,” a man with blonde hair slicked back greeted, bowing. “I am Samwell—the Duke of Applenine Island. I am truly honored to have this first dance.”

‘Gag.’

“No—please, your grace. The pleasure is all mine.” You forced your smile to stay plastered on your face.

You allowed him to lead, but his movements were stiff and uncoordinated—even for a duke.

“You are absolutely gorgeous, your highness. I am surprised that you have not found a betrothed—however, I am appreciative of the opportunity to present myself as a suitor,” he smiled.

“Mhmm,” you hummed—unimpressed. “And what is it that you are looking for in a wife?”

Samwell jerked his head back. “Oh. Well—” He cleared his throat. “Someone as elegant and beautiful as you, your highness.”

By some grace of Nika himself, you were able to stop the eyeroll that threatened the whole dance.

The song ended. You both bowed to one another. Then came the next suitor—a commoner who stepped on your feet the whole time.

“It’s fine,” you grinned through the pain. And when you asked him your question, he gave a similar—if not the same—answer.

And on the night went. Each suitor no different than the last. Beauty was all that mattered to them. Nothing about strength to carry a country. Nothing about the courage of leading an army. Only compliments on your physical appearance that blurred together, falling on deaf ears.

The only one who managed…something…was a commander named Rolling Logan from Majiatsuka Kingdom with puffy hair and even puffier arms. Dancing with him was…rough due to his staggering height and bulging biceps. 

“And what is it that you’re looking for in a wife?”

“Strong.”

‘Okay…now we’re getting somewhere…’

“A woman who can give me sons that will topple the world itself and can live through the pain of birthing as many sons as possible. All as big as me.”

Yeah—fuck that.

Your lips twitched—smile about to falter.

‘Who the fuck am I? Big Mom?!’

“Sounds ambitious,” was all you could offer.

He grinned.

An hour after the first dance, you had gone through a little over half of your list of dancing partners, feet aching from standing and being stepped on. Your father waved over the announcer.

“The princess shall refresh herself. Please, feel free to mingle and we will continue the night on in twenty,” the announcer called.

You met your father’s eyes and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

His nod was barely noticeable. 

Every part of you screamed to slouch in your chair when you took your seat next to him, but you crossed your ankles and kept your posture straight.

“Find anyone suitable yet?” Your father inquired lightly.

You sighed. “No. All disappointing so far. I am thankful to rest my feet and mind for a bit.” A server came by with a pristine glass of water. You gladly took it.

“Figures,” Padrino scoffed. “I knew they would all be disappointing. No one is good enough for mi bella.”

“Bring the person you choose to us. We need to pick someone tonight or we will be throwing another next week. No one can be perfect,” your father affirmed, face stern.

“Yes, Father.” 

The last thing you wanted was to repeat this ordeal for a second time. 

With a silent prayer to Nika, you hoped you’d find your betrothed tonight—even if you dreaded the idea of marriage.

Your twenty minutes was up too soon, feeling as if you just only sat down, snacked on a few finger foods that were brought on trays, and gulped down water—all in a graceful way for a princess of course.

The next suitor to meet your hand had palms calloused against yours. His moves were timely, following the tempo of the music, much like a soldier would to their march. As them all, you asked questions, hoping to spark and ignite a conversation—learning more about the masked men in front of you and their intentions. 

But his answers were as vague and boring as the rest of them.

The next was a local merchant whose name you lost after the moment he said it. He smelled strongly of whatever he’d been drinking before arriving and spent the entirety of the dance staring somewhere below your chin. You started asking your questions out of obligation and curiosity. 

“And what is it that you’re looking for in a wife?” you asked.

“Beautiful,” he replied.

“Mhm.”

“Obedient.”

Your hand flickered, reaching for a ghosted weight that was usually always at your hip while you resisted the urge to step on his foot. 

After him came a farmer’s son who appeared handsome beneath the mask, and nervous enough that you almost felt bad for him—almost. He stumbled through an apology every time he mis-stepped (which was often), and when you asked any question he turned an impressive shade and replied ‘kind’, which meant nothing, and you smiled and told him that was lovely.

Padrino caught your eye from across the room as the farmer’s son retreated. Even behind the sunglasses, you could read the slight tilt of his head clear as a spoken word.

‘Nothing yet?’

You gave the smallest shake of your head and a sheepish smile. 

Six suitors.

Six abhorrent answers.

Six attempts at a waltz that ended in mis-steps.

Your feet ached. Your face ached. Your throat was parched from speaking.

Before the announcer could introduce the next man, you turned away.

“I need a refreshment.” 

“O-of course, your highness.” He gave you a brief bow, hiding the brief surprise on his face. “We can bring—”

“Not necessary.” You were already walking to the banquet table to the right wall of the throne room. Eyes followed your every movement before the crowd followed.

“Out of the way!”

“I was here first!”

“I would like to speak to the princess!”

You ignored it all as you reached for a glass and served yourself from the punch bowl.

As the men behind you pushed each other at a chance to speak to the princess, your eyes scanned the room while you took a sip of your drink. All masked, all the same.

Except…

At the far end of the many lined up tables you were at, there was a man—scanning the room as you were. Drinking punch. Masked as well. But not vying for attention. Not even looking at the commotion of suitors gathered around you. Excluding his height, there was one thing that stood out. Something different he was wearing that no one else was besides you—

He was wearing black gloves.

Maybe it was the way he was blatantly ignoring you. Maybe it was the way he appeared to have no interest in the night—appearing bored despite the circumstances and eyes wandering around the room as if he were calculating everyone in it with deliberate intention. 

Or maybe…just maybe…it was because for the first time ever in your life, you couldn’t place the feeling you felt when staring at the masked stranger. A rise in your heart, face feeling flushed. A…tingling sensation in your…nether regions.

Which was insane. You didn’t even know what the man looked like. Or even fucking sounded like.

Without thought, you placed down the now empty glass onto the table. The crowd that had surrounded you parted with each step you made as you strolled to the end of the table.

It took thirty steps to reach him.

His suit was simple. Black. Wool. But tailored perfectly to his lean frame. Not made to stand out unlike many of the men who had made some…questionable fashion choices with feathers and strange collars. 

You liked simple. You liked that he wasn’t trying so hard. That his aura appeared to be at ease. Confident. That same calculation you noted from before was apparent. He didn’t even seem to notice you had stopped at his left side.

“Your highness, the next suitor is rea—”

“I would like to dance with him next,” you interrupted the announcer. 

The only raven brow you could see from his side profile raised ever so slightly before the mysterious man turned to face you fully—as if he finally noticed your presence.

A gold mask to match gold eyes. 

Your breathing hitched. 

“Your highness.” The man bowed. His voice was low and only slightly rough. Midnight hair that didn’t seem to know what to do with itself bounced a little at the action.

You liked it all too much.

“Your highness, there is a list,” the announcer tried again once more.

“It can wait.” You didn’t even bother looking at them. 

“Of course, your highness.”

“May I get your name, Sir…?”

“No sir.” The man’s mouth pressed together in a line.

‘A commoner.’ That was fine. You couldn’t care less.

“My apologies, Mr…?” You trailed off.

“Castillo, Chance.” He offered.

A common last name. To be expected in this area of the New World.

You extended your hand out to Chance. He took it, cotton met silk before he slightly bent to brush his lips against the smooth fabric of your glove.

Your heart fluttered. You cursed the fabric that separated the touch.

‘Get a grip on yourself.’ 

It was difficult, considering these feelings were completely and utterly foreign to you.

Made you feel like a fucking idiot. A lovesick fool.

The moment was over as quick as it came. He escorted you to the dance floor with a type of grace you had hardly seen tonight.

You prepared yourself for mis-steps or for your toes to get squashed.

It never came.

The waltz was perfect. Each step was in time with the music. Each box-step was precise and poise. Perfect posture. Perfect movement. 

You were pleasantly surprised.

“Tell me, Mr. Castillo—what are you looking for in a wife?” You started with the question you had been using all night.

Black brows creased before he spoke.

“I’m not looking—if I were to be honest, your highness.”

Your head jerked back. “You’re not looking? Then why are you here?”

The only reason the guests were here were for you. For your hand in marriage. 

Chance shrugged as he completed a right turning box-step. “Never been to a ball before. I wanted to see what all the rage was.”

Interesting. 

“And?”

His lips twitched as if he was holding back a smile. “As much as I appreciate the experience, it’s not my scene.”

That much seemed apparent with how much he was hugging the end of the banquet table, away from the chaos of it all.

A perfect trait in your eyes. Someone who would stay back, let you do what you needed for your kingdom.

He wasn’t treating you like some prize to win, some woman to be conquered. He was treating you like a person. Real—in just the short interaction and questions he answered. Honest in his answer on not necessarily enjoying the ball—regardless of you being the host, the main event of the night.

Brave when others would fib for the sake of saving face because of the royal in front of them.

The coordinated dance ended all too soon as the last notes played through the room while you slowed down naturally. Your arms dropped to your sides.

The question blurted out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“DoyoucareifIwearpants?”

Law’s head jerked backwards in surprise. A huff of amusement left his lips, unsure if he heard what he thought he did. “What?”

“Do you care if I wear pants?” You repeated it, slower. 

‘She’s actually serious?’

He tilted his head in confusion. The question left him stupefied. He couldn’t think of a reason as to what made you ask such a random, nonsensical question. For the first time in a long time, he had to stop himself from laughing. 

“Why would I care if you wore pants?” He questioned, slow and bewildered.

You didn’t provide a verbal answer. Instead, you grabbed his hand in a hold that was nothing short of a python grip and dragged him behind you.

‘What the fuck is happening?’

“Your highness, there are more suit—”

Law watched as you ignored the announcer and continued pulling him along against his will.

“Your highness,” Law started. “May I ask where we are going?”

“To my father.” You didn’t even glance back at him, eyes set on the throne at the front of the room.

Where he was.

‘Shit.’

Law tried digging his heels into the floorboard—attempting to slow down. He had to leave. Now.

Shambles would be too noticeable. Doflamingo would recognize his room immediately.

You paid his fight no mind. Law couldn’t fathom how strong you were—towing him behind you with ease while he tried to pry himself away without causing a scene.

‘Just what kind of training do princesses go through?’

Did he need to warn Shachi about it for the plan later tonight?

He couldn’t worry about that right now. All he could do was trust that he’d get the job done or contact Law if something went astray.

With each step you took closer to the throne, the more his heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest.

You stopped right at the bottom of the steps. The king in front of the two of you, sitting. Eyes sparkling with amusement and…intrigue..?

To the right of Law—left of the king in his own chair—was him.

The man that had haunted his nightmares for more than a decade. The man who had consumed each waking thought and plan and reason for training.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

His free hand shook. Then turned into a fist.

He had to stop himself from spitting at the demon’s feet.

‘It’s too soon. Remember the plan.’

Law attempted to take in a deep, shaky breath.

It barely calmed his nerves, but it was enough.

For now.

“Father, I have found him. This is the man I have chosen. Mr. Castillo, Chance,” you declared.

‘Spoiled princess brat. Did she not hear that I wasn’t looking for a wife?’

Law gritted his teeth and took a knee.

“It’s an honor, your majesty.” He forced the words out of his mouth, attempting to push his nerves down despite the bile that threatened to rise from his throat.

Pathetic.

“You may rise, Mr. Castillo,” the king acknowledged. “Now, tell me—how were you able to woo my stubborn daughter? I was afraid she wouldn’t find a suitor tonight.”

“I’m not sure, your majesty,” Law admitted. 

It seemed that luck wasn’t on his side tonight. He had to somehow gain the sights of the princess out of the fifty other men that were here.

He was lost at what drew you to him as he ensured to stay out of the way and from your line of sight.

Unfortunately for him, you found him anyway.

“He met my list of requirements,” you provided.

‘List of requirements? Was being able to wear pants one of them?’

If so, then your bar was pretty fucking low and Law had just barely crossed it. There had to be at least another man in the room that could meet them.

Luck really wasn’t on his side tonight.

“Tell me, Mr. Castillo,” Doflamingo began. Law swallowed and attempted some sort of semblance of resolve. “What is it that you do for a living? You’re a commoner, yes?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a shipwright.”

Doflamingo’s lips lightly pursed together—seemingly displeased by his answer. “Dirty hands. At least you had some logic to wear gloves unlike the many here placing their working hands on mi bella.”

“Padrino!” You shouted. Law’s eyes snapped to you—surprised at your outburst. “I have chosen. You must come to terms with that.”

Law could only assume Doflamingo rolled his eyes with the way his shoulders lifted and scoffed in disgust.

“Fine, if you have chosen, bella—then I will trust that.” The warlord’s nose turned upwards in disgust.

“She is of sound mind and is able to choose whomever she pleases,” the king interjected, calm—too gentle for the demon next to him. “Please, Mr. Castillo, tell us where you reside so we may find you to call upon tomorrow.”

“Oh...uhm,” Law stammered. “Prodence Kingdom.”

“Ah, King Elizabello II’s kingdom. I hear that it’s been a rough several years.” The king’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “But I’m sure it’s been keeping you in business.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Law breathed a sigh of relief, grateful he had been staying up with the news. “The conflicts have been rough, but business has been keeping me busy.”

“Looks like you found yourself a working man, daughter. Able to stick through it despite the hardships that may come. Good pick.” The king nodded towards you. “Even though you have chosen, you still need to dance with the other suitors as a courtesy.” 

Law heard you grumble something incoherent after you made a face.

“As for you, Mr. Castillo,” his head turned back towards Law, ignoring his daughter’s antics, “I ask that you stay nearby. Please, enjoy the rest of the night and remain honored that you are the only man my daughter has brought up here out of the thirty or so she has already mingled with.”

“Of course, your majesty. It has been the honor of a lifetime.” He bowed deeply before taking his leave.

And by leave, Law meant leave before anything fucking else could happen.

Men crowded him, asking how he was able to get in with the princess. He ignored the commotion—sight set on one thing only. 

The exit. 

XXX

TW: Masturbation

A few hours later, you were back in your bedroom, staring up at the upholstery, exhausted from dancing and feet aching from the blows they took from men who didn’t know where toes were.

He was an exception.

Your body felt light and strange as you smiled, recalling the stranger you danced with. The one who made you feel like you were something more. Someone who appeared to have no issue with the freedom you desperately craved. Needed.

You fought to remember his low voice. His amber eyes. His fleeting touch. The way he moved on the ballroom floor.

There it was…that…sensation again. The one Analise described. The one that you had never felt before. 

Eyes closed, your hand started wandering. Leisurely. Deliberate. Sliding from your torso to between your thighs. Slipping under your blankets.

Each breath you took was with intention as your fingers slipped under the cloth that separated you and your…sex.

It was wet like your best friend had described. Different than when you tried those few days ago. Slick. You felt a pulse where your hole was. Where a man would place his…sword.

For now, you ignored it and focused on the nub towards the top that Analise had mentioned. The one you had tried to…do something with before.

You imagined him—Mr. Castillo, Chance—turning you around, back flush to his chest. Cautious, gloved hands moving your hair to the side to expose the crook of your neck. His lips brushed the area up and down. Unhurried. Taking his time. 

Your fingers moved on their own accord—needing something. Searching for a relief you hadn’t experienced before. One you didn’t have knowledge on. 

They circled and prodded and moved that part side to side while your brain ran with the fantasy of him putting his lips against your neck. Pulling you closer into his body.

Pleasure flowed through your fingers to toes. A completely new sensation indeed. Your lips parted and made an involuntary sound.

You clasped your free hand over your mouth as your hips moved to a new rhythm. Chasing something. Building higher with each quickened beat of your heart. You didn’t know what the fall would feel like. Just that you wanted it to tumble. Leave you in nothing but shambles like the tower that would crash down once you got to it.

Your breath quickened. Your heart beat wildly in your chest. Your hips bucked upwards. You were right there—wherever there was.

The unmistakable sound of your door lock was clicking. As if someone was fiddling with it. Trying to find the right spot to pick it.

You sat up in your bed in an instant. Irritation coursed through your veins. Your body was hot as your heart pounded in your ears. Anger flowed through you.

Sexual frustration.

Another new emotion to take in.

Quietly—and with haste—you grabbed your sword from beside your bed, figuring that whoever was picking your lock was not a servant or someone important—but an intruder.

This was what happened when you invited a plethora of strangers into your home. You wondered which man it was that was peeved that you didn’t pick him. That he was coming to your room out of rage.

He must’ve been able to find your room during the commotion of it all. Guards could be so incompetent sometimes.

‘Oh well. He’s about to learn that I’m more than he thought I was and he will regret interrupting my night.’

You didn’t hold back your smirk as you waited in the dark behind the door, sword drawn and ready. Adrenaline flowed through your blood—excitment at having a real fight happen. Not just some sparring match. This was the chance to prove yourself. Put your skills to the test.

The lock finally turned to the unlocked position. The person behind the door seemed to pause before turning the handle.

You held your breath.

Hinges creaked from the slow pace the intruder took, but it was quiet. You were grateful you were awake or you may not have woken up in time.

Finally, the person stepped forward. 

A man with an orca hat entered the space. He closed your door, not bothering to check if there was anyone waiting for him behind it.

A fatal mistake on his part.

Your sword was at his throat in an instant.

“On your knees, intruder,” you spat.

“Kinky—for a princess.”

‘Is this man asking to get cut?’

What an idiot.

Still, he dropped to his knees.

“What? You gonna tie me up too? At least buy me dinner first.” The man teased.

“Shut up,” you growled, face growing hot. The two pieces of cloth you had grabbed now felt like ten pounds each. “Are you here on your own accord? Hoping to get back at the princess who turned you down?”

“Oh, you’d never turn me down, princess. And I’m not telling you anything.”

You scoffed and pushed his back down with your foot.

“Bending me over? You are kinky.”

You gritted your teeth, stopping yourself from cutting him to pieces. You needed more information. You wanted to know why he was here. If he had any accomplices. Then bring all the information to father on a silver platter—showing him you were more than capable of handling threats like this on your own.

If you could even call this man a threat. 

With your foot still on his back, you put down your sword and tied a cloth around his hands. Once you ensured it was tight enough (with an “Ow, hey! Watch it, princess. I’m not trying to lose a hand.”), you grabbed your sword.

“Who sent you here?” Your voice was low and deadly. Your blade was pointed at his throat.

“Who says someone sent me here? I could be working on my own.”

Your eyes slanted.

“Something tells me you’re too dumb for that.”

The intruder scoffed. “Sassy. Mean. Cap’s gonna have his hands full.”

“Cap’? So there is someone else,” you pushed.

“Uhh…I mean…no…just me,” he stumbled.

‘Idiot.’

“Tell me the name of your employer.”

“Ha! What are you—a hitman? You’re gonna have to do better than that, princess.”

“Stop calling me that!” You glowered. “Is this Cap’ your employer? Who are you working for? What are your intentions with me?” 

“I told you—I ain’t sayin’ jack shit.”

“Hm.” 

This was getting nowhere. 

You thought for a second, trying to piece together what you knew.

He wasn’t working alone.

He was working either with or for this Cap’.

And the man was fucking stupid.

If this was some type of coup, he had to have some sort of communication device on him…right?

“Where’s your transponder snail?”

The man’s brows shot up. “What? I don’t have one.”

He answered too quickly.

With a smirk, you placed back down your sword, pulled him into a sitting position, and started patting him down.

“Ooo a handsy princess. I like thi—oof—” He doubled over from the punch in the gut you sent him.

“Don’t forget who’s captive here, dumbass.”

In his left pocket of a black boiler suit he was wearing (with a strange symbol on the chest) was a baby transponder snail.

You smiled with delight.

‘Victory.’

The baby meant that this Cap’—or whoever your intruder was with—was close by or it wouldn’t reach them otherwise. You pressed *1 on the transponder snail, hoping it would redial its most recent contact and held your breath.

Purururu. Purururu. Purururu.

“Shachi. Are you ready—”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but slightly distorted through the line. Not quite clear. What you couldn’t comprehend was why it made your heart beat faster. You chalked it up to the adrenaline.

“Uh, yeah—hey. Listen, Cap’...I’m in a situation…gonna need you to…” your intruder—Shachi—cut in. 

You only heard an exasperated sigh before the snail went—

Gacha.

Quickly, you put the snail back in Shachi’s pocket, grabbed your sword, and stuffed the other cloth into his mouth.

Then, you took your position in the dark corner of your room—behind Shachi, waiting for the door to open once more. 

Except it didn’t.

You couldn’t register how it happened. How the new intruder just appeared out of thin air by your window with nothing but a soft creak in the floorboards that signified he was there along with his silhouette. 

A large silhouette.

A large silhouette with an equally large sword to match it.

Call it courage. Call it cockiness—but you were confident. Excited, even. This was what you had been training for.

The silhouette took a step forward. Long fabric encompassed the frame with some sort of textured collar. You could make out a large, white hat on your intruder’s head.

This had to be Cap’.

Shachi’s warning was muffled behind fabric.

‘Fucker.’ You should’ve knocked him out. 

Instead, you leapt from the corner, planning to catch the new intruder off guard.

Your swords met with a loud clang.

He was quick. Efficient. Strong.

You took a step back, prepared to go in again with a fast slash.

Blocked.

His sword was long. Had a better reach than yours.

That was okay. Longer meant heavier. Your shortsword gave you an advantage. Made you lighter on your feet.

This time, you went for a jab at his side—not even what you could call an opening. It was difficult to see in the dark, but since it was your room—you had the upper hand. Knew the layout.

Another block. One that made your sword shake and arms vibrate from the pure strength in it.

You tightened your grip.

The man never made any attacks of his own. Not any real ones at least that would cause serious harm. 

You blocked them all anyways and attempted a counter attack. A parry.

It went on like that. One of you going in—you with the intention to harm. You were still unsure what his intentions were, but since he didn’t seem to want to kill you, it made him work harder.

Each time your swords met with a clashing sound that signified skill. Talent.

What left you confounded was how it felt so familiar. Like you had moved with this person before. Exchanged energy. Like a true dance. A distinct rhythm of blocked blows and slashes. The one you had been searching for in each dancing circle you had fought and dueled with since almost the beginning of your training.

Calculation. Intelligence.

Despite the current circumstances, you felt a grin begin to form on your face. 

Your sword swiped the air to his left. He dodged in a side-step to the right. 

You tried every move. Every technique that you had been taught.

He dodged and blocked each one.

You ragged breaths filled the room. Both of your chests were moving erratically.

There was a point where your swords met and your torsos were dangerously close together from the counter-maneuver you attempted. That was when you saw the tattoos on his fingers 

DEATH.

You refused to be intimated by it. When you looked up to his face—finally able to scrutinize it up close, hidden by his hat and the dark—you gasped.

Gold eyes.

“Room.”

That voice.

“Shambles.”

The long sword at your throat. The man suddenly at your side, replacing a sock that you had left on the floor.

‘A devil fruit user.’

“You.”

It came out as a sneer. Your lip furled in disgust. Betrayal. 

‘How could he?’

“Cheater.” You aimed your spit at his feet. It landed too short.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him smirk.

You wanted to slice it off of his face.