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Cyrano de Birderac: 4

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Chapter Title: Director Next Door Rob Lucci x reader Length: 4.5 K+ Rating: 16+ (Language)

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The day you once again meet Rob Lucci, you don’t know it.

You’re just at the bakery. That’s all. A simple detour before work. You’ve been traveling non-stop for weeks, inspecting shipyards, filing structural assessments, and quietly unraveling from the inside out.

You deserve a pastry. Something jam-filled and spiritually stabilizing.

You are tired. You are stressed. You have been ghosted across half the ocean by a silent, well-dressed enigma who may or may not be the reason your left eye twitches every time you see a black coat.

So when you step into the café near the port, all you want is caffeine and something flaky.

What do you unquestionably not want?

To walk in and immediately lock eyes with him.

Rob Lucci.

He is seated by the window like a knife someone forgot to put away. A white coat is draped neatly over the back of the chair. A black folder sits unopened on the table. Coffee untouched. His hair is slicked back, longer than you remember. The light hits his profile just right, and your brain takes immediate, irreversible damage.

He is so handsome, so polished, that it hurts your prefrontal cortex.

You freeze.

He lifts his eyes and meets yours. His expression is calm. His gaze was unreadable.

“Sit,” he says.

You do. Not because you want to. Not because you are weak. But because your legs stop accepting input, and your spine goes completely offline.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Silence fills the space between you for exactly five seconds.

Then you lean back in your chair and mutter, “Nope. Absolutely not. I am not getting emotionally kidnapped by a secret agent in a nice coat.”

Lucci tilts his head slightly. “I have accounted for your full schedule, and there will be no kidnapping. Today.”

His tone is clinical. His posture could pass inspection. His expression remains entirely composed.

Which only makes it worse.

Because what he just revealed, so casually, is unhinged.

Then you see it.

Clipped neatly to his lapel is a Cipher Pol Director-level clearance badge.

And just beneath it, a second tag.

Assigned to: …

It’s your name.

Your eye twitches.

You stop breathing.

He does not react. Just nods as if this is all routine. As if he did not vanish for months, silently haunt every port you visited, and then reappear with official credentials that read like a claim.

You stare at him.

Then you try talking.

“Why are you stalking me?”

You were going to yell. You had a plan. You had a speech. Bullet points.

He answers first.

“You are my priority.”

Three simple words. Low. Steady. Delivered without hesitation.

And just like that, your entire nervous system goes offline.

He used to speak only when necessary. Now, every syllable sounds precise. Intentional. Like he knows exactly what his voice does to you and chooses every word accordingly.

“Your next inspection route passes through two flagged zones,” he continues. “I have adjusted your schedule and notified the local enforcement. I will brief the shipwright in charge before 0800. Will you be ready?”

You hear him. You process the logistics.

But your brain, already compromised by proximity and tone, detours into dangerous territory.

I have memorized the cadence of your sighs.

He did not say that.

But he could have had he not been a sleeper agent tasked to kill lesser creatures. Had he been a normal person. In a fantasy universe. One, your brain conjures as he talks in that deep voice.

You make a noise. Maybe “ah.” Perhaps the sound your dignity makes as it collapses in on itself. You nod. Or salute. Or wave. You are not sure.

Then you leave.

Quickly. Quietly. Like you are being pursued by memory, arousal, and every bad decision you ever made involving men in fitted coats.

He watches you go.

No smile. No comment. Just a quiet inhale.

And something unreadable in his eyes that lingers long after you are gone.

You make it back to your apartment in record time.

You lock the door.

You breathe.

And then you hear it.

A faint, wet-sounding coo.

No.

You turn.

Perched smugly on the back of your reading chair, beady eyes glittering with smug vindication, is Hattori.

You stare. “How?”

He coos. Lifts a wing.

You point. “This is not a state-sanctioned reentry.”

Hattori fluffs his feathers, turns for a moment.

There’s a spare key in his beak.

You gasp. “You broke into my apartment?!”

He shrugs as much as a bird can, which is somehow deeply offensive.

There’s a piece of paper tucked under his foot.

You unfold it.

“I told him he’d need to speak. He’s terrified. You’re winning. I missed your leftovers. Also, I’m retired from speaking.”

You sit down.

Put your head in your hands.

And whisper, “I’m going to marry him or kill him. There’s no in-between.”

Hattori coos again, softly.

Like he approves of either option.

At precisely 0800, there’s a knock at your door.

Not early. Not late. Not impatient. Just precise, like everything else about him.

You’ve had two hours to prepare. Two hours to pace the room, drink lukewarm tea, and reason yourself out of whatever hormonal freefall you almost had in that café. Two hours to move past the white coat, the sharp jawline, and that voice that made your spine forget how to function.

Two hours to remember the vital part.

He hurt your heart.

So when you open the door and see Rob Lucci standing there, perfectly composed, gloves on, collar straight, eyes fixed on you without a flicker of doubt.

You do the only respectable thing.

You slam the door in his face.

Not dramatically.

Not in rage.

Just with the quiet, measured finality of a woman who has been stalked through six ports, emotionally blindsided by government paperwork, bamboozled by an unusually expressive bird, and flirted with via disapproval and occasional eye contact.

You have entered the “I’m done” stage of emotional maturity.

“Goodnight, Director Lucci,” you say calmly through the door. Your tone is polite. Chill. Professional. The kind of courtesy that cuts.

“But I’ve extended my stay.”

The door locks shut.

Clean. Decisive.

Click.

Behind it, you lean your forehead against the frame and breathe.

You are proud of yourself.

He is good-looking. He smells like warm leather and moral compromise. His voice makes vowels feel illegal.

But he does not get to come in.

Not here. Not now.

Across the hall, Rob Lucci stares at your door for exactly six seconds.

Then he turns and calls a real estate agent.

Within twenty-four hours, the apartment next to yours is purchased under a fake name tied to a Cipher Pol-adjacent shell company.

The agent barely asks questions.

He does not furnish the space. Not with anything useful.

Just a desk. A chair. Six high-grade surveillance nodes aimed directly at your hallway.

He installs a coffee machine.

He installs Hattori.

He installs a listening device calibrated to your sighs.

When Kaku hears about it, he mutters, “This is how war crimes happen, emotionally speaking.”

Lucci does not respond.

He is too busy analyzing the way you walk when you are annoyed versus when you are lonely.

You do not find out immediately.

But you notice the shift.

The way the hallway feels different. The way your locks click a little too crisply, like they are being observed. The faint scent of coffee and government regret seeping under your door.

So you start whispering to the room, just to mess with him.

“I am going to adopt a third bird.”

“I have started dating a mime. We communicate through longing and interpretive dance.”

“If he wears another turtleneck, I am going to snap.”

Across the wall, Lucci listens. Still as glass. Quiet.

He does not smile.

But he starts wearing crewnecks.

You see him every day now.

Not inside your apartment. Not at work. Only in the hallway.

Like clockwork. Between 7:32 and 7:35 in the morning. And again between 6:14 and 6:20 in the evening.

Every single day.

He does it so badly.

So obviously.

Like a cat crouched behind a couch with its tail sticking out, absolutely convinced it cannot be seen.

Lucci rounds the corner with all the grace of a horror movie extra pretending to be local wildlife.

“Ah,” he says, that rich, sin-soaked voice casually pretending this is a surprise.

You stare him down. “Are you lost, Director?”

“No,” he replies. Hands clasped behind his back like this is a military drill and not the world’s least romantic slow-burn stalking comedy.

“I live here.”

You squint. “Next door?”

He nods once. Like a man confessing to tax fraud.

You nod back. “Of course you do.”

The first three times, you brushed it off. Government weirdos have no sense of boundaries.

The sixth time, you left a sticky note on his door that read, “Stalking is still stalking, even with a clearance badge.”

The next morning, you found a reply slid under yours. Simple. To the point.

“You locked me out. I adapted.”

You sit in your apartment one night, sipping wine and staring out the window while Hattori softly coos from his new perch on your curtain rod.

And you say aloud, just to make it real.

“I have a stalker.” There is a pause. You nod once, solemn. “But at least I know his name.”

You are not even mad anymore.

Just tired.

Tired of the emotional whiplash. Tired of being watched through vents. Tired of men who do not know how to use their words unless they are designed to wound or seduce.

But most of all?

You are tired of caring.

Because, despite everything he has done (the bird, the mask, the hallway ambushes, the unholy level of government surveillance), you still want to open the door.

You try to move on.

You even sneak out your window to make a last-minute boat ride.

New port. New assignment. New coworkers who didn’t know about the masked lunch incident, the hallway surveillance, or your emotionally unprocessed almost ex-lover with murder certifications.

Things were looking up.

Until he walked in.

He doesn’t even knock.

Just strolls into your new office; uniform, crisp coat swinging, hair obnoxiously perfect, like he was carved out of a security brochure titled “Lethal and Available.”

The room goes silent.

One of your new coworkers, a brilliant systems engineer with a PhD and zero resistance to tall men in gloves, whispers: “Oh my god.”

You sigh.

She adds, “Who is that and why haven’t we made him illegal?”

You sip your coffee and mutter, “Rob Lucci. And he already is.”

Lucci steps up to your desk and says, voice smooth and saturated with unearned composure:

“Director Rob Lucci, newly appointed regional oversight liaison. I’ll be observing your department for the next six weeks.”

You stare at him.

Then glance at your calendar. Then sigh, deep and tired. “Of course you are.”

The women in your department are feral.

You can’t blame them.

He’s infuriatingly graceful. Speaks like war crimes, reads poetry on the weekends. Walks like he knows exactly where every vulnerable spot in the human body is, but chooses not to exploit it yet.

He bends over the filing cabinet once, and someone drops a stapler.

You do not judge them.

You mourn.

Because you know better.

You know that beneath the perfection is a man who can kill you with a teacup.

(You once asked him directly if he had feelings for you. He blinked. Stared. Said nothing. The bird whispered: “Yes.”)

Now he’s here. In your office. Looking like every wrong decision you ever almost made, and somehow worse now that he talks, because his voice is stupidly good.

You make it two days before you corner him in the file room.

"Why are you here?”

“I’m assigned.”

“Did you assign yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

You groan. “You know they’re all in love with you, right?”

He frowns faintly. “That seems inefficient.”

You throw a pen at his chest.

He catches it.

Of course he does.

Later, one of the newer women sighs dreamily and asks, “Do you think he’s single?”

You sip your coffee, eyes dead. “He’s emotionally spoken for by a bird.”

She blinks.

You nod slowly. “You’ll see.”

You’re trying to focus. Trying. Genuinely.

You’ve accepted your fate: Lucci works in the building now as a cover to stalk you. He’s hotter than sin and twice as silent, but you’re a professional. You can handle it.

You can ignore how his coat fits, how his voice sounds, how every other woman in the building has a “Director Lucci Watch” group chat.

You can even ignore the occasional hallway glance that feels like he’s counting your vertebrae in soft regret.

You. Are. Fine.

Until the bird shows up.

Hattori lands on your desk at 10:03 a.m. with the smugness of a creature who once ran emotional circles around you and is ready to do it again.

You freeze mid-keystroke.

Across the room, heads turn.

Someone gasps.

One of your coworkers (bright, sweet, and entirely unprepared for your complicated history) whispers, “Oh my god. It’s the bird. That’s his bird. Why is it with you?”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because Hattori hops onto your keyboard, preens, and deposits a tiny, folded letter between your hands like a cursed love note forged in espionage and broken boundaries.

You open it.

It reads: You’ve stopped speaking to me. Hattori says I’m handling it poorly. This letter is an act of cowardice. I apologize. I’ll remain... nearby. —R

You stare at it.

Then at the bird.

Then, at your coffee, which is nowhere near strong enough to combat this level of government-funded emotional sabotage.

Your coworkers are spiraling.

“Wait. That’s a letter.”

“Did you guys date???”

“Did he follow you? Oh my god, girl, you pulled him?”

“Oh, course she did. She’s a sharp woman who has clearly survived betrayal and still has good hair.”

“Oh god, I’m in love with you too.”

You stand up.

You look at Hattori.

And very, very quietly, you say, “Tell him I intercepted the delivery. No comment.”

Hattori fluffs his feathers.

Then coos once and flies away like a messenger of psychological war.

You spend the next three days engaging in a strategic counteroffensive.

You leave subtle notes on memos Lucci reads: “You used to be better at hiding surveillance equipment.”

You adjust the thermostat every time he enters a room. Cold. Warm. Cold. Warm. Confusing. You change your office ringtone to a bird call. Every time it rings, you glance meaningfully at the ceiling.

And when he passes by your desk?

You smile.

Sweet.

Controlled.

Terrifying.

Lucci starts unraveling in slow, observable increments.

He knocks over a pen. Once. He stares too long at a hallway plant. He compliments someone else’s handwriting, then immediately walks into a doorframe.

The man is fraying.

It’s the fourth day of the emotional stalemate.

Hattori’s been banned from the break room after trying to steal someone’s blueberry muffin.

Lucci hasn’t made direct eye contact in thirty-six hours.

You’ve maintained perfect posture and exactly 1.5 micro-expressions of disapproval per interaction.

Your coworkers? They’re thriving.

They’ve taken sides. Bets. One of them, Yvette, has started a spreadsheet titled: “Will They Bone or Kill Each Other First.”

The tension is delicious. Office productivity has never been lower.

So when you drop the letter on Lucci’s desk, the entire department stops breathing.

No envelope.

Just a plain white fold. His name on the outside, handwritten in your sharp, looping script. No Den Den delivery. No bird. Just you. He reads it alone. The note is short.

What do you want, Rob?

He disappears for two days.

Not a word. No explanation. The office goes feral.

“I think she killed him.”

“No, he’s emotionally combusting somewhere in a trench coat.”

“Do you think they’ll make out in the file room?”

“I’d pay to see it.”

“You will pay. We’re charging admission.”

You come in the third morning, eyes tired, patience threadbare, ready to move on. He awaits you, prepared to prevent you from moving on.

You’re expecting something complicated.

A slow confession. Maybe a tear-stained apology. Possibly some awkward hand-holding or a vague reference to feelings with a chart.

Instead?

He raises your note. Raises his eyes.

And says, flatly, “I find you physically compelling.”

You wince. “...That’s it?”

He nods. “Among other things.”

You stare. “You stalked me through six ports, rerouted military operations, bought property next to my apartment, sent a pigeon-letter through inter-office mail, and emotionally torpedoed two of my relationships—because you find me physically compelling?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“And I believe we would be genetically compatible.”

You nearly choke. “I’m sorry??”

He steps forward, calm as a church fire.

“I’m trained to eliminate threats, not explore casual courtship. I am… inefficient with uncertainty. If I am drawn to something, I remove the variables.”

You narrow your eyes. “...Are you saying I’m a… project or a variable?”

His gaze is steady. Heavy. Devastating.

“You are the only one I haven’t neutralized. That is... telling.”

Your coworkers are once again watching through a glass panel, mouths open, absolutely spellbound.

Somebody mutters, “Are we witnessing a marriage proposal or a targeted abduction?”

Another sighs, dreamy. “God, I wish a man with an elite body count would find me genetically compatible.”

You rub your temples. “Rob. Let me just… clarify something.”

He tilts his head, like a hawk analyzing a smaller bird that just got interesting.

“You don’t want to date me?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to flirt with me?”

“I don’t possess the training.”

“But you want to… marry me and have children?”

He nods without hesitation.

Like you just asked him if he’d like water with dinner.

You sit down slowly.

Across from you, Lucci remains standing like a tall, terrifyingly attractive monument to emotional bypassing and state-sanctioned pining.

You exhale. “I genuinely don’t know if I’m terrified or flattered.”

He considers. “Is it both?”

“Correct.”

You stare up at him.

Tall. Dangerous. Completely sincere.

He just proposed. Or… something like it. In a tone better suited to outlining a kill order.

And you are tired, wrecked, fed up with emotional hostage negotiations as well as the unprocessed attraction, so you do what any rational, overwhelmed woman would do.

You snap.

You smile sweetly, lean back in your chair, and say:

“Sure, Rob. Let’s get married. You buying the cake or killing the baker?”

He pauses.

Not in shock.

In deep, silent logistics calculation.

Finally, he nods once, slow and deliberate.

“Buying is acceptable. But only if they meet structural integrity standards.”

You blink. “That was sarcasm.”

He blinks back. “The commitment was not. I will allow the verbal distraction, but I will not allow withdrawal of your acceptance, regardless of tone. It is cowardice to disguise your willingness to copulate.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Behind the glass, your coworkers completely lose it. One drops a protein bar in pure awe. Another gasps, “Is this what courtship feels like on his level?” A third yells, “KISS HIM FOR SCIENCE.”

You raise a hand to them without breaking eye contact.

“Quiet. I’m trying to figure out if I just got married.”

Then you look at him.

Really look at him.

And, damn it all, he’s beautiful. In that ‘sharpened blade that wants to make you soup’ kind of way. You know he’s serious.

You know if you don’t stop him, this man will file marriage paperwork through three encrypted channels, relocate your entire apartment by force, and begin security protocols for offspring you haven’t agreed to create.

You inhale sharply and say, “Rob. If you want to make me your wife, you have to date me first. Like a human man. Not a sniper.”

A beat.

Lucci lowers his head slightly. Blinks once.

Then says, like it’s a vow:

“I will research.”

Part One: The Mission Known as 'Dating'

Lucci takes your words seriously.

Possibly too seriously.

Within 24 hours of your sarcastic-engagement-turned-conditional-dating declaration, he submits the following to Cipher Pol’s internal scheduling system:

MISSION CODE: D-01 “THE DATE”

OBJECTIVE: Secure emotional foundation for long-term mate-bonding.

SECONDARY GOAL: Confirm mutual willingness for romantic engagement.

TERTIARY GOAL: Do not fail.

STATUS: CRITICAL.

He prepares like he’s storming a fortress.

There is route optimization. Three escape plans. Seven backup venues.

A surveillance sweep. He has Kaku inspect the restaurant for “civilian threats” (Kaku finds a violinist and a crêpe cart, reports “minimal danger but high fluff content”).

Interestingly enough, and very on brand, an outfit selection. He nearly wears a suit designed for state funerals. Hattori intercepts it and brings him a navy button-up instead, and then gets a matching vest.

He has conversation flashcards.

They include:

“How was your day?”

“I like your laugh.”

“I apologize for past surveillance.”

“Your genetic structure continues to impress me.” (Hattori eats that last one.)

When you show up at the restaurant, you’re wearing a lovely dress and a healthy dose of skepticism.

When you see Lucci already standing beside your chair, hands clasped, back ramrod straight, and eyes laser-focused, you mutter, “Oh god, he actually did research.”

Hattori does not come, for his own blood pressure.

The date goes... surprisingly well.

He's awkward. Formal. But he listens.

He tries.

He frowns when the waiter brings your food first. You joke that chivalry is dead. He replies, “Not if I’m alive.”

You laugh so hard you nearly choke.

By dessert, he says, with quiet gravity, “You are the most dangerous variable I’ve ever failed to eliminate. And I… choose not to.”

You sip your wine slowly.

“...You really don’t know how to flirt, huh?”

“No.”

Part Two: The Office Degenerates

Back at HQ, the entire department is completely feral.

They’ve created a betting pool that’s unhinged.

Categories include: Time until he moves in (in days, weeks, or hours). First public kiss (will it occur in front of a printer?). Number of dates before Lucci proposes again, and whether Hattori will serve as best man.

Someone prints fake wedding invitations and tacks them to the break room.

Someone else writes a ballad.

HR sends a memo titled “Please Stop Referring to Director Lucci’s Romantic Activities as 'Operation: Breed and Wed.’”

It is ignored.

The next day, you arrive at work and find a small box on your desk. You fear it’s a ring.

But no, he's learning.

Inside?

A folded note.

I am available for a second trial- Rob

You smile. Then flip it over.

Hattori has scribbled in tiny, angry bird-scratch:

PLEASE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. MATE HIM AND LET ME MOVE OUT.

Back at local Cipher Pol headquarters, something… strange is happening.

It starts with a flag in the internal system—a mission logged under Lucci’s new clearance code.

Priority Level: Ultra-Black Tier Access: Restricted Operation Name: D-02—Progression Protocol: Domestic Stabilization

The junior analysts panic.

“I think it’s a sleeper op.”

“No, it has to be an assassination. Domestic always means infiltration.”

“Who’s the target?”

“It just says ‘Target: Unconfirmed Life Partner.’”

“…That’s the coldest kill phrase I’ve ever heard.”

They pull in the senior agents.

Then the special agents.

Eventually, Kaku is dragged in against his will with a half-eaten sandwich and a deep sense of regret.

He skims the file.

Stops.

Squints.

"...This isn’t a kill list.”

A junior member pushes up her glasses. “Then what is it?”

He scrolls further.

Reads:

PHASE 1: Reintegration and Visibility (Status: Complete—subject now aware of presence.)

PHASE 2: Vocal Initiation (Status: Stumbled—improved results with increased proximity.)

PHASE 3: Emotional Recapture(Status: In Progress—includes gifting, bird-mediated notes, corridor encounters.)

PHASE 4: Ritualized Courtship Attempts(Status: Ongoing. Mission feedback indicates positive reception.)

PHASE 5: Long-Term Stabilization (Marriage/Breeding Rights)(Status: Pending verbal consent. Bird approval: Achieved.)

Silence.

Absolute.

Then Kaku deadpans:

“…He’s trying to get married.”

The room implodes.

“No. No, not Lucci.”

“He doesn’t even know what a birthday cake is, how is he planning a domestic union?”

“What kind of monster labels romantic progression as a mission tree?”

“…I’m sorry, did that say breeding rights?”

Blueno, calm and wise, sips tea. “I always said he’d fall hard once he fell.”

Someone in the corner just whispers, “He’s preparing a den.”

They start analyzing the data.

This includes the number of unexplained reroutes, the Frequency of bird-delivered communiqués, and Surveillance notes titled ‘Observation of Mating Cues: Blushing, Eyebrow Raise, Verbal Teasing.’ As well as A budget expense for what appears to be a ring.

Kalifa finally mutters: “None of this is sanctioned.”

Kaku sighs.

“No. It is..”

Blueno adds, “And unfortunately… completely unstoppable.”

You’re just trying to be responsible.

You have a folder. A report. You’re wearing a blouse that says “I’m emotionally stable,” and you mean it this time.

You walk into Lucci’s office. Three agents are seated inside—serious types. Numbers people. One glances at your heels. Another glances at Lucci, who stands as soon as he sees you.

Unnecessary.

Intentional.

You offer the report with a tight smile. “Here’s the shipment dossier. Signed and reviewed.”

Lucci takes it with both hands like it’s a sacred scroll. Doesn’t sit back down. Doesn’t blink.

Instead, very calmly, he says, “You’d look good in white.”

The room freezes.

You do too.

A secretary slowly lifts a pen to her lips like she’s hiding a smirk.

The rookie analyst next to her goes pale. The third agent opens his briefcase and physically hides inside it.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Lucci stares directly at you. Calm. Stern. Intentional.

“White. The color of commitment. It suits you.”

You, professional woman of focus and principle, do what any rational person would do.

You turn around.

And walk straight into the doorframe.

The moment you leave, a coworker bursts into the office.

“Tell me you didn’t just soft-propose in front of the entire economic review team.”

Lucci is silent.

“It was not soft.”

After a full day of emotional damage, you agree to another date.

Because you’re too far in.

Because you need to see it through.

Because, let’s be honest now, you are desperately, tragically, in love with this disaster of a man who uses his bird as a human resources department.

Lucci chooses a quiet place. Simple. Elegant.

Too elegant.

The waiter bows and brings the wine list. Lucci smiles.

Smiles.

And the waiter stumbles backward.

“Apologies,” the poor man gasps. “I—I didn’t realize he had emotions. I mean—teeth. I mean—water?”

You hide behind your menu.

Lucci frowns. “Was that incorrect?”

You peek over the top. “That wasn’t a smile, Rob. That was an interrogation with molars.”

The rest of the evening goes surprisingly well.

You tease him. He listens.

He orders you dessert without asking, and correctly.

He even walks you home like a gentleman who’s read at least one romantic protocol manual.

At your door, he hesitates.

Then says softly, “I am still learning. But if I am capable of devotion, if only for you.”

You kiss him.

You kiss him like it’s overdue. Like you’ve spent months circling this slow-burning, pigeon-mediated, bureaucratic whirlwind, and you’re finally allowed to exhale.

He’s still for half a second.

Then his hands find your waist. Firm. Restrained. Like he’s holding back a weapon instead of touching a person. Like if he lets go, the floor will vanish beneath him.

You part only when breath insists on it, and even then, his eyes don’t move from yours.

“I didn’t authorize this,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “Want me to file a formal withdrawal?”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“No,” he says, voice low. “I want you to do that again.”

And this time, when you pull him down to you, he doesn’t hesitate.

This could be the end. If I liked myself more, and Lucci less.

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averyjadedemerald · 21 hours ago

Text

The Way He Waits for You

Clark Kent x shy!female reader

Synopsis: You’ve always been shy. Quiet. Invisible, even. But working at the Daily Planet gave you a badge, a desk… and a seat across from Clark Kent. What starts as silent glances and white chocolate donuts turns into a walk, a bar, a moment —where maybe, just maybe, your heart begins to hope he sees you too.

Warnings: fluff, nervous!Clark, shy!reader, slow burn, social anxiety, comfort, soft moments, no use of y/n, modern AU

WC: 3,650 aprox

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Ever since your family found out you had decided to pursue journalism, there were doubts. Not because you weren’t capable, but because you had always been so shy. In high school, making friends was hard. Words felt heavy, glances were awkward. But even so, you followed your dream. You held onto it so tightly that now, when you sat at your Daily Planet desk, you could look down and smile just by seeing your badge hanging with your name on it.

Reporter.

Specialized in politics, sometimes in cooking. Nothing big, but enough to feel useful. Interviews left you breathless, but the articles Perry published, even if buried inside, made you feel —for a moment— fabulous.

But there was one thing. One that not even your best coffees could sweeten: loneliness.

Your mother used to ask about your love life, though there was never any news. Or so you said. You’d barely mention a guy, and she already wanted details: if he looked at you, if he greeted you, if he breathed near you. In those conversations, you ended up believing something might actually be there, just because she imagined it so beautifully. So you learned to stay quiet.

And you also learned to keep your secret. One more hidden than Superman’s real name:

You were in love with Clark Kent.

Your coworker. That sweet, clumsy man with glasses that slipped down his nose. You fell in love the moment you started working and they placed him right across from you. No one knew. Not even you fully admitted it. No one spoke to you beyond courtesy, and you didn’t make much effort either. Not because you were mean, but because you didn’t know how. Or maybe because you were afraid that if someone got too close, one day they’d just leave —like everyone else.

Clark Kent wasn’t your friend. He was your ritual.

The man who greeted you with a soft voice. The one who sometimes tripped over his backpack. The one who looked at you —and you could only hold his gaze for two seconds before looking down so he wouldn’t notice your hands trembling.

“Late again, Clark?” Jimmy teased with a smile you didn’t see, but knew was there.

“Yeah…”

His footsteps paused for a few seconds. Then, a “thank you” from Jimmy and Lois directed at Clark, followed by the familiar sound of him walking to his desk.

“Good morning,” he said as he passed by you. His voice was close. Very close.

You looked at him for two seconds.

“Good morning, Clark.”

Your smile was for him, but it ended up directed at your screen. A coward. Always the same.

“Ah… here.”

He left a little box on your desk.

“It’s a donut dipped in white chocolate. They say they’re good. I bought a few.”

You looked at the box. Then at him, already sitting at his desk. His height allowed him to see you perfectly, though you barely dared to glance up.

“Thanks,” you whispered. A warm blush settled on your cheeks. You looked back at your computer. You didn’t see that he smiled too, blushing, just as nervous as you.

“Pretty little flower,” said a louder voice.

Cat appeared, leaning on your desk.

“It’s Katie’s birthday. We’re going to the bar near the Hoper Bridge. You coming?”

You hesitated. You weren’t good at saying no. And Cat tried so hard to include you.

“Yes,” you said, with a polite smile.

She clicked her tongue, satisfied.

“That’s it. Here’s to more social life.”

You just nodded.

But what you didn’t know was that Clark —from his desk— had also heard everything.

And his heart, like yours, beat just a little faster at the thought of seeing you in that bar.

✄ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Time passed between final edits to your article and stolen glances at Clark, who seemed absorbed in writing what was surely another exclusive interview with Superman.

You could tell he was doing well when he stopped bouncing his leg, that he was excited when he adjusted his glasses with a light push of his index finger, and that he felt inspired when he mumbled the words as he typed them, as if testing them before letting them live on the page.

Needless to say, his name would be on the Daily Planet’s front page the next day.

You were content with a few lines in the politics or cooking section. But even so, you felt proud. Of him. Of you. Of being there.

And though you’d wanted to congratulate him a thousand times, the moment always slipped through your fingers.

By the time you finished your text, the place was almost empty. The desk lights had turned off one by one, like spotlights at the end of a play.

Only the hum of your monitor remained as witness. You turned off your computer, massaged your temples, and stood up. You didn’t expect to see anyone else.

But when you looked up, you almost tripped in surprise: Clark was still there, right in front of you.

He stood up at the same time, as if waiting for you to do it first. His tall figure stood out under the dim glow of the building’s night lamps.

“Didn’t you leave with the others?” you asked, more surprised than anything.

Clark smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Did I scare you? I should’ve… coughed or made a noise.”

Then he looked away, mumbling,

“Jimmy said you weren’t sure where the bar was… and… well, sometimes Maps isn’t much help, you know? I thought maybe… we could go together.”

You looked at him. This time for more than two seconds.

“You know where it is?” you asked cautiously.

“No.”

The honesty drew a nervous smile from you.

Clark shifted, uncomfortable, but with a soft gleam in his eyes.

“But it’s better to get lost with someone… than to get lost alone, right?”

You let out a small laugh. One of those that escapes without permission, but you don’t want to take back.

“I guess so.”

You put on your coat while he adjusted his briefcase. Then he walked with you to the elevator. With that very Clark-like gesture, he slightly raised his glasses and let you in first. You followed him with your heart beating a little faster than it should’ve been allowed.

“Did you try the donut?” he asked as you descended. His voice was almost a respectful whisper.

You nodded. “Yes. I had them months ago. Just yesterday I was craving one. I told Lois to come with me, but with Perry’s meeting… I couldn’t leave. They’re my favorite.”

Clark feigned surprise, though inside, a small pride bloomed. What you didn’t know was that he had heard that quiet request to Lois. He had also noticed your sad glance toward the elevator before entering that meeting you knew would run late.

That very night, he had checked if the shop was open. And when it wasn’t… he promised himself he’d buy you one the next morning. And he did.

“Really?” he murmured. “What a coincidence…”

Outside the building, the night embraced you with its cool air and the distant murmur of the awake city. Metropolis lights flickered among tall buildings, fast taxis, and still-open shop windows. You walked side by side. Not too close. Not too far.

Clark took out his phone and opened the Maps app. Pretending to search for the way, though in truth, his super hearing had already picked up Jimmy and Lois’s laughter a few blocks ahead.

In fact, he could hear the ice clinking in their glasses as they toasted. But he needed this walk with you. He needed those minutes stolen from the night.

“I heard you interviewed Superman again,” you finally said. “How’s that piece going?”

Clark nodded.

“Good. He was more reserved this time. He told me… that lately he feels like people are losing faith in the good. But that it’s enough for just one person to believe… for all his effort to be worth it.”

You paused for a few seconds.

“That’s… beautiful.”

Clark dared to look at you. Your cheeks were slightly lit by the nearest streetlamp.

Your eyes lowered, as if the compliment had been too big to hold.

“Yeah… it is,” he answered softly.

“Do you… believe in him?” you asked.

Clark smiled to himself, looking ahead.

“More than you think.”

In the distance, Hoper Bridge glowed with yellow lights. The bar was just across the street, full of life, low music.

It was filled with laughter, dim lights, and clinking glasses. In the back, the Daily Planet table was nearly complete. You spotted Lois laughing with Jimmy and Cat, standing, waving at you when she saw you enter with Clark.

“She came!” said Cat with a big smile, as if announcing it was a personal victory. “Guys! Our shy flower is with us tonight!”

The words were sweet, not mocking. But the nickname made you blush. Clark, by your side, simply gave a small half-smile and nodded slightly for you to walk ahead.

Cat came closer as soon as you sat down.

“I’m so glad you came. And you came with Clark, huh…”

She smiled playfully, but before you could answer —or turn even redder— she had already turned toward Lois.

“Didn’t see that coming. This bunch of antisocials is becoming human.”

The jokes and laughter rose with the music. Cat disappeared into a toast with Jimmy, and someone slipped a cocktail into your hand, pink with sparkling ice.

Clark sat next to you.

Because Clark Kent didn’t just look at you. He felt you.

From the outside, no one noticed anything. You were sitting calmly, back straight, lips closed. But he heard everything.

Every time your throat swallowed hard.

Every time your nails scratched slowly at your other hand.

Every time you looked toward the exit, like a bird eyeing the only open window.

“So Clark,” asked Jimmy from across the table, “when’s your Superman interview coming out? Tomorrow?”

“Probably Monday,” he replied, never taking his eyes off you. “I want it clean. He was more personal this time.”

“Personal? Superman? What, did he cry?” joked Cat.

Clark chuckled politely, but his eyes still checked in on you every now and then.

“Hey!” A voice snapped him out of it. Andrew, one of the new editors, had stood up with a beer in hand and was heading straight to you.

“You! The one who writes about cooking… and politics, right? I never remember the name. But your jasmine tea piece was nice. What’s it like working here at the Daily Planet?”

Your stomach flipped. Eyes turned to you. Your usually quiet voice now seemed to have vanished entirely.

“I… really like it…” you murmured.

But you said it so low, so soft, you weren’t even sure you had said anything at all.

Andrew frowned, not with bad intentions, but with zero tact.

“What’d you say? You like what?” The smile he wore was that of someone joking, unaware they were breaking something fragile. “Can’t you speak louder?”

And it was like being fourteen again. Standing in front of classmates laughing because you didn’t speak up. Feeling your throat tighten, blood hot in your cheeks. Panic growing like a knot in your chest.

Clark felt it all. Literally.

Your racing heart. Your uneven breathing. Your fingers scratching your skin with such force.

“Andrew,” Lois cut in like an arrow. “Why don’t you check if Katie started her karaoke ritual before she hits the stage with tequila in hand?”

Andrew laughed, distracted by the mood. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The laughter swept him away. The moment passed.

For everyone… except you.

Then, when some started moving toward the dance floor, you stood too. But not to dance. Not to laugh. Just to disappear.

You left. Walked aimlessly. The night air hit your face like a cold whisper. You walked faster, not looking back, until you were far enough.

Only then did you stop.

Your cheeks were wet. Your hands red from pressure. You closed your eyes, wishing the world would stop looking at you. That your heart would stop pounding so hard.

“Wanna go get ramen?”

The voice was soft. Kind. With a touch of shy hope.

You turned. Clark was there. Breathing like he had walked the whole way behind you —and he had.

The bar was far now, but he hadn’t hesitated. He followed you. Without permission. Without words.

“What…?” you murmured.

“There’s a place I like. It’s open all night. They serve ramen. Good ramen. It’s… peaceful.”

You hesitated.

Looked at your feet. Then at him.

At his slightly crooked glasses.

At his poorly wrapped scarf.

At his face that demanded nothing, just waited.

“Okay,” you whispered, starting to walk.

And Clark followed you.

Like all those times he followed you with his eyes from his desk.

Like when he closed his eyes just to hear your voice —that sweet, small, trembling voice— talking to Lois or murmuring to yourself.

Like when he listened to your heartbeat from afar, just to make sure you were okay.

Like when he saw you smile, those few times you did, and wished one of those smiles was because of him.

Clark followed you.

And he was ready to keep following you from now on.

To follow you with real steps. With small gestures. With words that asked for nothing.

To follow you until you could see him.

See that he wanted to take care of you.

See that he had already chosen you.

See that his way of loving was that: looking through you, slowly, tenderly, until you could love with the same calm with which he always waited for you.

💌 I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea, feel free to send it my way. I’d love to bring it to life 🤍

By the way, I'm new to this.

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averyjadedemerald · 22 hours ago

Text

Only You Look Good in Glasses

Clark Kent x female reader

Synopsis: Clark never cared much about his appearance—until you arrived. When you say you don’t like men with glasses, he realizes it might not be the disguise that hides him anymore… but the one thing standing in his way. A cappuccino, a misunderstood comment, and one quiet confession later, he realizes maybe glasses aren’t the problem after all.

WC: 2,637

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Clark never thought glasses would be his worst idea for staying unnoticed. He never really worried about his looks. Sure, secretly, he sometimes smiled when reading the cheesy comments people left on social media about Superman: that he was handsome, that he looked like a god, that they wanted to marry him. Clark would just laugh, blush as if they weren’t talking about him, and turn off his phone screen—but not before deleting the Twitter app. Even though he knew he’d reinstall it sooner or later. He liked to keep up the façade of “Superman doesn’t use social media.”

But that didn’t matter. Not until you showed up.

You arrived as the new star reporter, and everyone knew who you were. You came from the Gotham Gazette, a major competitor of the Daily Planet, and your name already carried weight. Despite your reputation, you were kind, smiled when greeting people, and always remained polite, even with the interns. Clark noticed you from the very first moment you crossed the room and Perry assigned you a desk not too far from his. Close enough to watch you work, typing decisively, reading with a furrowed brow, or sighing in frustration when the server crashed. Occasionally, your eyes would meet. You’d smile softly and go back to work. He could only wish he had the courage to approach you.

As Superman, that was easy. He was charismatic, brave, direct. But as Clark… he was a mess. A bundle of nerves in a wrinkled suit, stammering when ordering coffee and tripping over his own shoes. Always late. Always disheveled.

But nothing prepared him for the real blow.

That day, he arrived with crooked glasses, two coffees in hand—one for you, of course. He’d spent days observing what you drank: a hot cappuccino with chocolate. A curious combination, but you liked it. It was his perfect excuse to talk to you. But just as he was about to step out of the elevator, he heard your voice.

“I already told you, Andrew. Men with glasses aren’t my type. So no, I don’t find you attractive.”

The words froze him.

He stayed inside the elevator, frozen, heart clenched in his chest. Your tone was clear, firm. You didn’t sound angry, just certain. And that hurt more. Because you were always kind to him. To Jimmy, to Lois. Never so blunt.

“What? Well, it doesn’t seem that way,” Andrew said, laughing. “Anyway, are you coming tonight? The others are going out for dinner.”

“No,” you replied, more curtly this time.

When the elevator doors opened, you were standing right in front of him. You looked at him with the same kindness as always.

“Clark,” you greeted with a smile. “Going down or up?”

When the elevator doors opened, you were standing right in front of him. Clark looked up at the sound of the ding, and his eyes met yours. You smiled kindly, as if you had no idea of the little earthquake you had caused in his chest. He blinked, unsure.

“I… I’m going… down,” he murmured without moving, lowering his gaze.

You just nodded and stepped in gently, the doors starting to close.

“Me too. By the way, Lois said you should write another article about Superman. Will you?”

Clark looked at you. He wasn’t upset, but something lit up in his mind. Superman? Superman didn’t wear glasses. Maybe that’s why you always asked about him. If there was a new article. If he was okay after the fight a few days ago. You had a Superman logo sticker on your desk. And Clark couldn’t help but think: you didn’t like men with glasses.

“Yes… sure,” he replied. And then, without thinking too much, he let a question slip out.

“You like him, don’t you?”

He looked at you, blushing, as if that was the boldest thing he’d ever said in his life.

“Superman?” you asked, surprised, before letting out a soft laugh. “No, not at all. He’s a hero, like many others… like Batman. But he’s in this city, and now Metropolis is also my city.”

You spoke sincerely, without hesitation. When the doors opened, you stepped out, and he followed, even if it felt ridiculous—he needed to go back up.

“Well,” you said with a small laugh. “I have to go, I’ve got some things to do. It was nice seeing you, Clark.”

You turned to leave, but he took a step forward, almost without thinking.

“Wait,” he said.

You stopped, turning again with that smile that seemed to brighten his gray days.

“Here.” He handed you a coffee shyly. You looked at him, surprised. “I heard you… told Jimmy it was your favorite.”

Your cheeks lit up as if his words had opened a window to your softest secret. Still, you nodded.

“Thanks, Clark,” you said, and just as he was turning to head back to the elevator, you added, almost without thinking, “Are you busy tonight?”

He blinked, nervous. “No…”

“Perfect. Andrew said the others are going to that French restaurant, the one near the park. Would you like to go with me?”

“Sure,” he replied right away, lowering his gaze with a flushed face.

“Oh, one more thing,” you added, this time with a wider smile. “Andrew got glasses.”

Clark looked at you, still with shyness painted on his face.

“He wants to look like you,” you said, then lowered your voice with a mischievous tone. “But you’re the only man who actually looks good in them. Do us all a favor and tell him to stop making a fool of himself.”

Clark was speechless. Was he dreaming? Had you really said that?

You gave him one last smile, the kind that seemed to hold up his soul, and walked away without looking back.

As soon as the day seemed ruined, you had arrived and saved it. How foolish he felt for thinking he didn’t stand a chance. But there he was, watching you, following you with his eyes as if you were the only clear thing in the world.

That night, during dinner, Andrew was still wearing those glasses that clearly weren’t his. They were far too big for his face, oval-shaped with thick frames that looked like they came from a costume store. To make things worse, he had tilted them slightly, as if he believed wearing them crooked made them look more intellectual… or as if he had seen Clark wear them like that and thought it was part of the charm.

You looked at him, holding back a smile, and when he asked if you liked men with glasses, you simply shook your head.

“And Clark? Doesn’t count because he’s your friend?” Andrew asked mockingly.

“Clark is very handsome, much more than other men. I don’t like glasses… at least not yours, which are round. I prefer his,” you said calmly, discreetly pointing to Clark’s face, who looked down with a shy smile. “Besides, he’s intelligent.”

“What she means,” Lois chimed in teasingly, crossing her arms and smiling sideways, “is that she doesn’t like men with glasses. She only likes Clark with glasses.”

Silence fell suddenly. You and Clark froze, both completely flushed. Lois let out a small triumphant laugh.

“Lois, one. Jimmy, zero,” she said, looking at Jimmy, who sighed in defeat.

You avoided looking at them. You chose to pretend you hadn’t heard anything. You focused on your plate, talked about trivial things, and laughed at the right moments, all in the hope that the blush on your cheeks would go away on its own.

When you left the restaurant, the cool night air brought some relief… though your heart was still pounding. Clark offered to walk you home, walking beside you, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground. The silence between you was gentle but full of tiny invisible butterflies.

You glanced at him nervously, biting your lip before speaking.

“About what Lois said…”

“I like you too,” he interrupted quickly, as if afraid you’d lose the courage to go on.

You stopped in your tracks, and so did he. You looked at him, surprised, eyes wide and words caught in your throat. You felt your heart pounding so hard you wondered if he could hear it too.

Clark noticed. He felt it. He knew.

You stepped closer, almost without realizing, guided by that sweet expression on his face, by that mix of tenderness and fear in his blue eyes. You hesitated for a second, as if your body needed permission… but it wasn’t necessary.

Clark leaned in slowly, gently holding your waist, without rush, without invading. And he kissed you. A warm, soft, restrained kiss. As if he were afraid to break something sacred.

There would be time to tell him that you had been watching him too. That you knew his secret. That in those silences where he thought no one noticed him, you saw him too. Because you had been loving him, in secret, for far longer than you dared to admit.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

💌 I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea, feel free to send it my way. I’d love to bring it to life 🤍

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averyjadedemerald · 22 hours ago

Text

best to you — clark kent

⟢ synopsis. clark loves being superman, though he can be away for hours and sometimes days on end. you tend to miss him more than you admit, and you find comfort in wearing his clothes and... his spare superman suits.

⟢ contains. fluff!! established relationship, a tiny bit of angst if you squint, but it's all cute i promise! kissing, flirting, clark being... well, clark!

⟢ wc: 3k+

⟢ author’s note. thank u anon for requesting this ur a life saverr!! also it's canon clark loves hot cocoa after a stressful day and i love that.

It’s not that Clark doesn’t love what he does. He does—loves it deeply, in that soul-rooted kind of way that keeps him steady even when the world tilts sideways. He loves being Superman. He loves the responsibility, the purpose, the grit, and how it isn’t easy. Loves that he has to make an effort, that he can make people smile and feel safe. He loves that he gets to help when others can’t, that sometimes just showing up is enough to give people hope.

He loves being able to inspire—not just in the cape-and-boots kind of way, but in the quiet ways too. A steady hand, a reassuring nod, a smile offered in the chaos.

But still… It’s a lot, you know?

It’s the kind of weight that settles in his bones, even if they’re not supposed to get tired when the sun is up. Fighting off alien threats, trying to keep everyone alive—everyone, not just the people on his side. And everything, trying to make sure there’s as little damage as possible in the aftermath. Then there are the arguments that follow, always sharp-edged and exhausting: Guy and Mr. Terrific, voices raised in another ethics debate about why it was fine to obliterate some poor creature without so much as trying another way. Without even asking if it had a name.

Then the smaller things, the ones that don’t necessarily make headlines unless he interferes. Like the afternoons he spends in the library helping a kid he’d met at the park with homework, long division turning into a full-on math circle when six more children joined in, pencils clutched in tiny hands and hopeful eyes blinking up at him like he might actually know what he was doing.

He didn’t.

Clark barely remembered the formulas himself, stumbling through each problem with a sheepish grin and a prayer to whatever cosmic force governed decimals. Because let’s face it—he’s a writer. A reporter. He hadn’t taken a math class since high school, and even then, he’d spent most of it dreaming up headlines and sketching out columns in the margins of his notebook.

So, yes—being Superman is good work. Important work. But it’s still a lot.

And the only reason it doesn’t crush him—doesn’t swallow him whole some days—is you.

The knowledge that, no matter how long the day stretches, how heavy the cape feels on his shoulders… he gets to come home to you.

He doesn’t bother with the door anymore.

There used to be a wall of sleek ceiling-to-floor windows in his living room of the apartment—an architectural choice meant to make the space feel expensive, expansive, with a view of the Metropolis skyline. It shattered months ago during a late return from Tokyo, when he couldn’t be bothered with the doorman, the lobby cameras, or changing out of his suit at all.

He never replaced the glass. Just cleaned up the broken pieces and left the sky wide open. Maybe he should buy some curtains.

Tonight, like most nights, he drifts in through the gap on his wall, boot soles brushing the hardwood with the softest of thuds, cape fluttering behind him before settling in a heavy line down his spine. He lands like he’s done it a thousand times. Because he has.

The apartment is quiet. Dim. Only the soft blue glow from the TV and the familiar orange halo of the corner lamp light the room. The air smells faintly like something yours. Your cooking and some cocoa (because Clark doesn’t really like the taste of coffee, and sure, he’ll have a cup of joe every once in a while, but he’d much rather have a hot cocoa or juice). Clark can’t help but blush at the thought of you in his kitchen, making food on his stove, and he vaguely wishes he’d been home to help you. Stupid, little things like this always make him flustered, no matter how long he’d been dating you.

His stomach grumbles at the thought of food.

Then, he exhales.

The suit clings to him more than usual tonight—soot crusted in the fibres, ash smudged across his chest like fingerprints he couldn’t shake. The aftermath of a city-sized wildfire up in the woodlands of Canada, or maybe it was from the quake in the Caribbean (or was it eastern Asia?)—he doesn’t know anymore. The day bled into night somewhere over the Pacific, and his brain never got the memo by the time he got back to Delaware.

His fingers flex at his sides as he steps further in, the dirt crumbling a little with each movement. He winces, knowing he’d have to sweep it up come morning. Not now, not when his shoulders ache. When his ribs feel bruised, even though they’re not. The Superman Robots and Gary made sure to take good care of him.

The only part of him that isn’t exhausted is the part that knows he’s home.

Then he sees you.

Tucked into the couch, knees pulled up, curled under a familiar shade of red.

He nearly steps past it, assuming it’s another throw blanket at first glance, but then his whole body halts mid-stride, heart giving a strange, unsteady lurch. It flutters somewhere between his ribs, then sinks low into his gut, warmth unfurling from the centre of his chest and crawling up into his throat, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

Because there you are—wrapped in his suit.

Not the one he’s wearing, obviously. This is a different one. Another spare. He keeps a few stashed away; in the Fortress, one folded neatly in a drawer back home with Ma and Pa. And then there’s this one.

It’s the one from earlier this week, the one he’d left draped over the back of his desk chair in his bedroom after peeling it off post-meteor rescue. He meant to wash it. You must’ve beaten him to it. It looks freshly laundered, no question—cleaner than he’s felt in days. And now it’s wrapped around you.

The cape drapes over you like a weighted blanket, swallowing your frame in waves of bright crimson. The fabric dwarfs you, stretched wide in the shoulders, long in the sleeves—the suit is too big in all the ways he is. The crest is wrinkled slightly where your arms are wrapped around it, like you’d been holding it and yourself.

You’re fast asleep, breathing gently, mouth slightly open. Even drooling a little. You must’ve tried to wait up. The TV is still on, volume low, flickering gentle colour across the walls and casting soft shadows over your sleeping face. A familiar comedy movie he can’t recall the name of slowly comes to an end, and he fights back a smile at the sight of two mugs on his coffee table.

Yours is nearly empty, and the other is still full of cocoa, long gone cold.

A deep, familiar pang settles in his chest—the kind that doesn’t come from wounds or exhaustion, but from disappointment in himself. He can’t remember how many times it’s happened now: you, waiting up; him, caught somewhere between firestorms, alien debris fields, and time zones. The world always needs something from him, and you’re left holding the space between.

The guilt and disappointment that hurt his chest have something gentler beneath them. Hope, maybe. Or fear. He wonders, not for the first time, if there’s a part of you that resents him. If there’s some hidden corner of your heart that’s gone untouched for too long. If your silence ever folds in on itself, turns bitter without him noticing.

Even with all his abilities, he knows better than to assume he can see and know everything.

But you’re here. You stayed. Wrapped in the folds of his old suit as if it means something to you beyond fabric and stitching. And he knows that kind of comfort—the reaching for something just to feel close to the one you miss. He knows it because he feels it too (and he takes a few things of your own for himself). He knows you miss him as much as he misses you, so much so that you try to find some comfort wearing his clothes.

He sighs, quiet and rueful, reaching over to gently flick off the TV. The apartment falls into stillness, warm and dim.

Then he moves toward the couch.

You don’t stir as he crouches beside you, one arm sliding beneath your knees, the other behind your back. You’re so warm, soft against the roughness of his suit, and you sigh in your sleep as he lifts you into his arms, like your body already knows it’s him, and in response, he can hear your heart kick up a few beats.

The moment he straightens, you stir in your sleep. The edges of it slip from you as you start to wake, and Clark immediately goes still.

“Hey, Superman,” you mumble, eyes still mostly closed, a lopsided little grin tugging at your lips.

He looks down at you, your face still nestled against his shoulder, and feels his own lips twitch into a smile he couldn’t stop if he tried.

“Hey, you...” he whispers, voice softer than a breeze. And then, because Clark can’t bite back a bad joke even if it kills him. “Guess there’s two of us now. You fell asleep on the job, though.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, breath warm against his collarbone. Thank God. No one laughs at his jokes like you do—genuinely, softly, like you think they’re clever instead of corny. But he knows you think they’re corny and find them funny anyway. “It’s part of your charm,” you told him once.

Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer with the easy kind of trust that knocks the breath right out of him.

“Well,” you say, voice still heavy with sleep, “your suit was warm. And it smells like you. Couldn’t resist.”

As you speak, Clark’s heading toward the bedroom in long, steady strides. The door swings shut behind him with a soft thud as he nudges it closed with the toe of his boot. He sets you down gently on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes cast downward and dropping to his hands as they trail away from your sides. “About being late.”

You barely sink into the mattress before you’re pushing yourself back up again, arms tense beneath you, spine straightening like the words alone jolted you fully awake. Your brows furrow, a wrinkle forming between them, eyes wide with soft disbelief.

“What?”

Clark opens his mouth, hesitates. He feels… embarrassed now. A little silly. Ridiculous, even. But it’s there, stuck in his chest like something splintered and raw. Still, he tries.

“I just…” He shifts, the words clumsy on his tongue. “I feel like I’m keeping you.”

Your head tilts, confusion still drawing shadows across your expression. “From what?”

He lets out a breath, glancing away. “From sleep. Mostly.” His lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t land. Now he definitely feels silly. “But you know... other stuff. Normal stuff.”

“Normal stuff?”

“Yeah.” His voice, unfortunately, cracks.

There’s a flicker in your gaze then—concern, maybe even a bit of heartbreak. You move on the bed, inching toward him as he stays standing at your side, still in full uniform like he’s half-holding himself apart from this space. From you.

You reach for his cape with gentle fingers, giving it a tug. “Clark, come on,” you sigh softly, coaxing. “Sit down.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Not with words, anyway. He watches you with that faraway look he sometimes gets when he’s trying too hard to stay grounded, to not float off with the weight of it all. But after a moment, he sits beside you. The mattress shifts under his presence.

“It’s just…” he starts again, quieter now. “It’s something that’s been on my mind a lot.”

“It’s on your mind?” you echo.

“It’s how I feel,” he says finally. Clark lifts his gaze just enough to meet yours, then drops it again, watching his fingers loosely thread together in his lap. His shoulders lift in a slow, awkward shrug. “I just... I can’t help it.”

You notice the way his jaw tightens, how his brows pull together in that way they always do when he’s caught in his own head. And then, gently, you shift closer.

It takes a second—you’re still wrapped in the bulk of his suit, swimming in it. You fumble with the cape first, shoving the heavy red fabric behind you with a soft huff so you won’t sit on it. He watches as you move, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, despite himself.

It makes you smile, too, a breathless laugh escaping you at the ridiculousness of it.

Finally settled, you press a hand to his shoulder, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his suit. You tilt your head slightly, that familiar teasing glint in your eye softening the line of your mouth. “Well, I’m honoured I’m constantly on your mind,” you murmur, your voice just as warm as your touch. “I just wish you weren’t beating yourself up about it.”

He exhales, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it. “It’s hard not to.”

“Clark...” you breathe, thumb brushing over the muscle of his shoulder, then you reach a little higher, nails raking the base of his skull. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know.”

“If anything, I’m sorry I make you feel like this.”

His eyes flick up sharply. “It’s not your fault.”

“And it’s not yours either.” You inch in even closer, your knees touching his now. “I knew what I signed up for when you told me. I know you’re going to be late sometimes, and yeah... I worry. But I also know you’re out there helping people. That you’re doing something good. That you’re doing what only you can do.”

He’s quiet, just listening, his eyes drinking you in like you’re the first calm he’s had all week.

“And that’s what’s more important,” you finish, gently. “Besides, you always find time for me.”

He shakes his head, barely, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment, even as guilt stirs low in his chest .“Not enough.”

But you’re already leaning forward, your forehead nudging his, your nose brushing his with a quiet, tender smile. “Yes, it is. It’s enough,” you whisper, your words skimming against his mouth. “And you’re not keeping me from anything, Clark. You’re what I come home to.”

That makes him smile, teeth and all; he can’t stop himself if he tried. He can feel it blooming over his face, stretching his cheeks until they ache. And when he sees your grin mirror his—just as wide, just as real—it knocks the breath from his lungs all over again.

Warmth floods his chest. It’s dizzying—heady. The way you look at him like that, like he’s something precious and whole, like he’s never once faltered under the weight of his mistakes. He doesn’t know how you do it: you can hold all of him like it’s so easy. Like it’s always been meant for you.

You’re effortlessly radiant, and he can’t help but think that maybe the earth made sense the day it brought you into it. That it would only ever make sense if you were part of it.

His thoughts scatter as you inch closer again, shifting in the oversized suit still wrapped around you. It pools at your arms, slides against your skin with every small motion. You huff softly, shoving the bulk of the cape behind you again, pushing it like it’s an old blanket you’ve worn a hundred times.

There’s a glint in your eye, a spark of something playful under all the softness. Clark can’t stop smiling at you, and it’s all he can do not to melt into the floor.

Butterflies threaten to consume him fully, fluttering hard against his ribs. All thoughts are no longer tinged with guilt or second-guessing.

He’s not prepared for you to lean closer and kiss him. It’s gentle, warm, and slow, like you’re feeling the shape of him all over again. You drink in the pleased sound he makes in the back of his throat like it’s sustenance. Your lips move slowly against his, but he can’t quell his sudden eagerness now that you’re this close.

He doesn't even think before leaning in harder, lips moving more eagerly against yours.

His hands find your waist, sliding around you to pull you flush to him, holding you close like he’s afraid you might slip away. You shift easily in his grasp, fitting against him like second nature. Your fingers find the nape of his neck, brushing through the hair that lies short there, nails raking lightly—a touch that sparks a shiver right down his spine.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, tugging him even closer, and the contact floods his system with sensation. He’s glowing from the inside out. His lips keep seeking yours between smiles and breathless laughs without real meaning. And when you shift into his lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs, he leans back a little without protest, lips chasing yours all the while.

He keeps pressing kiss after kiss to your mouth when you move, some missing—a soft brush to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, even your chin. You laugh at the clumsiness of it, at the stupidly happy grin spreading across his face, and it only makes him kiss you again.

When you lean back slightly, just enough to look at him, Clark is sure he must be blushing a ridiculous shade of red. Like a teenager. His breath catches, heart stammering a beat too hard against his ribs.

You’re glowing—or maybe that’s just how he sees you. Lit by the soft lamp-light, eyes gleaming, hair tousled, smile curling at the edges like a secret meant only for him. He stares up at you like you’re responsible for the stars in the sky. “Aw, shucks. You really are somethin’ special, y’know?”

You smile wider, “I can’t believe you say that stuff unironically.”

“What stuff?”

“Shucks.”

“People say ‘shucks.’”

“You’re literally the only person who’s ever said ‘shucks’ in my entire life.”

He shrugs like he’s shy, “Guess that makes me special too, huh?”

“Golly gee, good for me, then.” You roll your eyes fondly.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Just a little.”

His hands settle at your waist again, thumbs stroking small, unconscious circles. And he feels the little flutter of your heartbeat stuttering at the attention. His grin turns a little crooked, a little helpless. If he could bottle this moment, he would. He’d carry it with him always, like a talisman.

But then your expression shifts a little. You bite your lip, brows twitching in the faintest hint of frustration as your arms reach behind you.

Clark blinks, watching you carefully. “What is it?”

“I’m just…” You fumble a bit beneath the cape still draped around you, puffing your cheeks in mild annoyance. “Trying to find the zipper.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Hm?”

“Of the suit,” you huff, dropping your arms and resting your hands on his shoulders with a sigh. “It’s heavy, you know?”

That makes him laugh—a quick, unguarded sound, half-snort, half-sigh. He thinks it’s wildly unattractive. But your smile only grows at the sound of it, and that alone makes his cheeks flush hotter.

“Here,” he says, voice gentler now, full of quiet affection.

He helps you peel the suit off with a kind of practiced care, fingers moving patiently as he guides the fabric down your arms and off your shoulders. You shift, stepping out of his lap and out of the suit in one smooth movement, the blue and red pooling like silk at your feet.

You’re left in a delicate and pretty, soft white tank top, with tiny ruffled edges along the neckline and hem. There’s something impossibly endearing about it, especially paired with the fact that you’re not wearing any pants, legs bare and beautiful under the low light.

Clark doesn’t even try to hide how he’s admiring you. You saunter back to him, hips swaying slightly, and his heart skips again. Gosh.

“Thanks,” you sigh, climbing back into his lap with familiar ease. Your fingers cradle his face gently, and then your lips brush his. “I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Love you more,” he says, already breathless.

You giggle between his lips, soft and amused. “Literally not possible.”

“I think it is,” Clark murmurs, barely a breath. He sighs into the kiss like it’s the only oxygen that matters. One of his hands slides lower, daring past your hips, tracing the edge where the soft fabric of your underwear ends and warm skin begins.

And just when his mind begins to slip into that space where everything blurs but the feel of you, you pull away. Not far, just enough to press soft, teasing kisses along the edge of his jaw, then down the strong line of his throat. His fingers twitch on your hips and waist, aching to pull you closer, to hold you like a lifeline.

“Mmm, wait,” you breathe, palm pressing gently to his chest as you lean back to really look at him. Your expression twists, “No dirty clothes on the bed.”

Clark blinks. “Wha—?”

“Go,” you laugh, nudging him off with a light kick on his side that barely lands. You settle deeper into the pillows and clean sheets, “Go change. And shower. You smell.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” you say sweetly, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got dirt and sweat all over you. Go. I’ll still be here when you’re back.”

He drags a hand down his face with a dramatic groan. “Fine. Sure, okay. Don’t fall asleep. I’ll be quick.”

“Whatever you say, Big Blue.”

You can’t see his smile widen when he walks into the bathroom, but you know it does.

762 notes · View notes

averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

Text

More Human Than You Think

Clark Kent x female reader

Synopsis: She was just supposed to do the interview Clark couldn’t attend. That was all. Just questions, answers, and a photo with Superman. But something about the way he looked at her… the way he spoke about Clark… made everything shift. And maybe, without knowing it, she gave away more than she meant to.

Warnings: No explicit content. Lots of fluff, shyness, accidental confession, secret identity, romantic tension.

WC: 3,686 words

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You looked at your reflection in the elevator glass one last time before reaching the rooftop. You had chosen the most professional outfit your closet allowed: light beige dress pants, straight-cut, paired with a matching blazer and a short-sleeved white blouse with a high collar, perfectly ironed and fitted to your body without losing formality. Your heels, also beige, made barely any sound with each step. Your hair was tied in a low bun, with a few loose strands framing your face. And your handbag was elegant, small, cream-colored.

You sighed.

It was the most formal thing you had. The most professional. And even though your stomach twisted with nerves, you couldn’t wipe away that faint smile that kept appearing. You were about to interview Superman. No less than Superman. And you knew that if the interview went well, your name could end up on the front page… right where you’d seen your coworker Clark Kent’s name before.

Clark… Of course you owed this to him.

He was the one who always got direct interviews with Superman. No one knew how he did it. But this time, Perry White had requested that the Daily Planet at least be visible in the background. And Clark had managed it… until the night before, when he texted you saying he was very sick and wouldn’t be able to make it. He ended the message with a sentence that still made your heart flutter:

“I trust only you with this.”

You accepted, of course. Though your first reaction was to worry about him. More than anyone, you had watched him since you both started working there. Silently, you had fallen in love with Clark with almost absurd devotion. Lois had noticed, she even encouraged you to talk to him, but you always refused with a nervous smile. Because, come on… it was Clark. The kind guy, always smiling, bringing coffee for everyone and helping even when he didn’t have to. You were probably just confusing his kindness for something more.

So you settled for having him close. Even if it was just as a coworker.

But that night, standing in front of you, would also be Superman. And although you looked like a background fangirl at a K-pop concert, the truth was you admired him beyond the superficial. Yes, he was handsome. Impossibly handsome. But what captivated you was the other stuff: his way of saving humans and animals alike, his calmness, his humanity… More human than many humans. Though they called him a metahuman, some even considered him a threat. You didn’t.

You took a deep breath as you opened the rooftop door. Luckily, it wasn’t windy. The air was warm, steady. You closed the door gently. No one knew he would be there. That’s why, after your shift, you had snuck back to your apartment and returned just for this moment. The buildings at that hour were already empty. Just you… and him.

You checked your phone. Still no response to the message you had sent Clark during lunch: “The interview will be soon. How are you feeling? If you need anything, let me know.”

“Good evening.”

The voice behind you was soft, deep, with a warm tone you recognized instantly. You turned slowly… and there he was. Floating. Hovering effortlessly in front of you, his cape gently billowing behind him, lit by the golden lights of the city.

Superman.

“Good evening,” you managed to say with difficulty, trying to sound professional. You never imagined being so close to a man who literally defied gravity. “You must be waiting for Clark. He said that…”

“Yes,” he interrupted gently, landing, his boots touching the ground with a soft sound. “I got an email.”

“You have an email?” you asked, surprised, before you could stop yourself. He smiled, with that almost unreal warmth that made your chest tighten.

“Sorry. Please, have a seat,” you said quickly, pointing to the chairs you had set up earlier that morning. Two simple chairs, facing each other, with the golden globe of the Daily Planet in the background.

“Clark said he could trust you,” he said as he sat down. “He… really appreciates you.”

Your heart gave a little jolt.

Clark talked about you to Superman?

“Clark has always been kind to me. We're just coworkers,” you murmured, not knowing why you felt so exposed. “But I’m not here to be interviewed by you,” you added, which caused a soft, genuine laugh from him.

“You're right. Go ahead, please,” he replied.

You nodded, turned on your pocket recorder, and opened your notebook.

“Let’s begin,” you said, forcing yourself to keep a formal tone, though your fingers trembled slightly. “Thank you again for doing this,” you began. “I know you’re usually very private, so… I really appreciate it.”

“Clark insisted,” he said with a smile. “But I’m doing it because I believe in the importance of what is said… and how it’s said.”

“Then I’ll start there. How do you decide when to speak and when to stay silent in the face of international crises?”

“Every word can carry political, military, or emotional weight. Sometimes, silence is also a message. But when I speak, I try to do so with hope… not fear.”

“What has been the most difficult moment you’ve faced during a mission?” you asked.

Superman hesitated.

“Saving someone who doesn’t want to be saved,” he finally answered. “People who are so hurt by life that they believe they don’t deserve help. That… hurts more than any blow.”

You fell silent for a moment, touched by his honesty.

“How do you deal with loss? With… what you can’t save?”

The sadness that appeared in his eyes was so human that you almost forgot you were standing in front of a symbol.

“With memory. I remember their names, their faces. I pray for them. And I keep going… because stopping would mean failing them again.”

Your fingers stopped writing for a second.

“Lastly,” you said, looking up, “this is a slightly more personal question. Clark mentioned that you save lives equally, without distinctions, and that moved me. You give each life a deep value. Why do you do that?”

Superman remained silent, but not out of discomfort. It seemed he truly wanted to find the right words.

“You said it yourself. They’re lives. Each one has a universe inside, dreams, fears, laughter, people waiting for them at home. It doesn’t matter who they are or where they come from… everyone deserves to be saved. Because the simple fact of existing is reason enough.”

You put away the recorder and looked at him with a calm smile.

“And that makes you more human,” you said softly, but firmly.

The surprise on his face was clear. But also something deeper. Gratitude. As if no one had ever told him that before. As if, for a moment, you had touched something no one else could reach.

“Thank you for your time. Really. I hope I didn’t take too much of it. Maybe I’m not Clark but…”

“You did a good job.” His response was quick, and when you looked at him, he smiled at you. For a moment, the way he said it reminded you so much of Clark that you let yourself be carried away. “Clark mentioned you were a big admirer of mine,” he added, lowering his voice slightly.

“Oh, of course… but don’t think I’m going to throw myself at you right now,” you replied with an amused smile.

He let out a genuine laugh. Deep. Warm.

“Is that… what you want?” he teased, without losing that charming expression.

“No… no, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” you stammered nervously, searching your bag for your camera to distract yourself. “You’re Superman. But I… I’m in love with someone else.”

He didn’t answer. But if you had looked at him in that moment, you would’ve seen how his face changed subtly. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his lips parted. Surprised. Almost disappointed. As if he wasn’t expecting that answer.

When you finally looked up, he had already recomposed himself, as if nothing had happened. His expression was neutral again. Almost too much.

“May I?” you asked, raising the camera. “I need the Daily Planet world to be visible in the background of the photo. It’s to visually justify the interview.”

He nodded with a slight tilt of his head.

“And… that someone you’re in love with… do they work here?” he asked suddenly, taking a few steps but without taking his eyes off you.

You didn’t notice. You were focused on adjusting the lens, searching for the ideal light.

“They do,” you replied, without thinking too much. “But I can’t say who.”

“No?” he repeated, pretending to be offended. “Do you think Superman is a gossip?”

You laughed at the joke, not noticing that, even though he was still smiling, it hurt him a little more than he wanted to admit.

“Not at all,” you said playfully, still looking through the viewfinder. “There it is… give me a second.”

A few seconds passed in silence. Just the click of the settings.

And then, without thinking too much, you said:

“Just imagine if you went and told Clark that I’m in love with him…”

You took the photo.

The flash lit up his face just as his eyes opened wide. Disconcerted. Vulnerable. As if a ray of truth had been fired into his chest.

You lowered the camera and checked the image, unaware of everything.

“I need you to smile, for the photo,” you said, not noticing the storm of emotions you had just unleashed.

But you didn’t know what that phrase had caused.

Superman… no, Clark, smiled. He truly smiled. Not forced. Not out of protocol. He smiled as if his soul had lit up. As if his whole body was vibrating from within.

An absurd, warm, and sweet happiness flooded him completely. You. You were in love with him. With Clark. And you had just told him… without knowing it.

And you took four more photos of him, one after the other, not realizing you were capturing a moment he would treasure forever.

“All done,” you said when you finished, carefully lowering the camera. “Thank you very much. It was a pleasure meeting you… but I have to go.”

“Of course…” he said, taking a step back, still smiling. “It was also a pleasure meeting you… but, if you’d like… I can walk you home.”

You looked at him, surprised by the offer, but gently shook your head.

“Don’t worry. It’s still early, it hasn’t gotten dark. Besides… you have to protect the city, right?” you smiled, lowering your gaze with shyness. “And I’m not going to my apartment. I’m taking some dinner to… Clark.”

Your voice softened at the end, almost like a whisper, as if saying his name that way revealed more than you wanted to admit. Because no one —except Lois— knew you were in love with him.

“Oh…” he murmured, almost breathless. “You’re going to see him?”

You nodded, adjusting your bag.

“Well… say hi to Clark for me. I hope he gets better soon.”

“Well… send my regards to Clark. Hope he recovers soon,” he said with a voice that tried to sound casual.

You said goodbye with a smile and began to walk away. You didn’t see him stay there, motionless, watching you leave as if the world became more beautiful with every step you took.

As you walked through the city, you carefully put away your camera and the photos, making sure nothing got lost. You decided to stop by a pharmacy first: you bought cough medicine, a box of lemon tea, and a jar of honey. Then you went to a homemade food restaurant called Ma’s Kitchen, where you knew they made one of Clark’s favorite dishes: meatloaf with mashed potatoes and garlic bread. For yourself, you ordered a club sandwich you had been craving since the morning. Everything to go.

You were hungry, but the idea of not having dinner alone excited you more. It was the perfect excuse to see him. You had never been to his apartment before, but this time you couldn’t resist. You had missed him at work. You were afraid his cold might get worse. And you wanted to be close.

When you arrived, you stood in front of the door, hesitating to knock. You finally did. Once. Twice. You heard strange noises on the other side. What if he was so sick he didn’t want visitors?

And just when you were about to leave so you wouldn’t bother him, the door opened.

Clark appeared on the other side. His hair was messy, he was wearing an open robe that showed a simple white T-shirt and dark green plaid pajama pants. His glasses were slightly crooked, and a loosely wrapped scarf hung from his neck. He was smiling… but he immediately looked away, and his face fell as if he had forgotten something important.

“Hi. Cof,” he coughed strangely, very unconvincingly. You had no idea that Clark had flown at full speed to make sure he got there before you, changed clothes, and put on a sick expression… which he had clearly forgotten to rehearse.

“Hi, Clark,” you greeted with a soft smile, not noticing anything odd, just worried about him. You watched him closely, his cheeks were slightly flushed—was it from the effort? The heat? Or because of you?

“Sorry to interrupt. You must be really sick… but I brought some medicine and, well, I didn’t know if you had dinner yet. But if you’re tired, don’t worry. I can leave everything and let you rest. Maybe I should’ve warned you first…”

“No, no, come in,” he said quickly, stepping aside. “I’m feeling a bit better. Cof.”

He repeated the cough, as if he believed saying it at the end of the sentence made it more believable. You gave him a compassionate look, not questioning anything. He just watched you walk in with your bags, unable to stop smiling… because you were there. Because you hadn’t gone home. Because you had come to see him.

He let you in, pointing the way to the kitchen. The place was clean, too tidy for someone who was sick, but that didn’t surprise you. Clark had always been meticulous.

“I left everything here,” you said, placing the bags on the table. “These meds help me when I’m sick, and the ginger tea is awful, I know, but if you add honey, it’s tolerable. If you want, I can make it for you…”

Clark looked at you with a sincere smile, nodding gratefully.

“How did the Superman interview go?” he asked suddenly, with a natural tone that sounded almost rehearsed as he sat down.

“Good,” you replied while unpacking the dishes and serving the food. “He was kind. He answered everything I asked. You could tell that… it’s not just strength. He’s very human in some of his answers.”

Clark looked down, as if the compliment affected him, though a smile escaped him.

“Yeah… let’s say he likes to know things. Even if they’re not always his business.” He scratched his neck, pretending to be uncomfortable. “Did he say anything… about me?”

You simply shook your head, though your cheeks lit up. You couldn’t help but think about the moment when, in front of Superman, you confessed that you liked Clark Kent. It still embarrassed you.

“No, he didn’t say anything,” you lied quickly, looking away and pretending to check the bags. “I just talked to him… took some pictures. Nothing important.”

“Thanks for this… really.”

“Eat. It’ll make you feel better,” you said, changing the subject. “Perry said it’s okay if you don’t go in tomorrow. You should rest all weekend,” you added as you sat in front of him.

Clark silently cursed himself. That lie —being sick— now kept him away from you all Friday… and maybe the weekend. And that meant not being able to ask you out like he had been planning. But amid the guilt, a spark of happiness appeared when you looked at him, a little shy, a little hesitant.

“If you want, I can bring you dinner again tomorrow,” you said as you gathered the wrappers. “And I can tell you how my article turned out and what Perry said.”

Clark looked up immediately, with eyes so wide and bright they almost lit up.

He nodded softly. “I’d love that.”

There was a warm brief silence as you finished your meal.

“You know?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “My grandma used to swear that the best remedy for a cough was wrapping your feet in hot mustard and putting on thick socks.”

Clark looked at you, confused. “Mustard… on your feet?”

“I swear. And then she said you had to sleep with a slice of onion on your neck.” You laughed, remembering the scene.

Clark laughed too, though the image caused him a mix of horror and affection. “Please tell me you’re not bringing me onions tomorrow.”

“Jokes aside, Clark…” you murmured, lowering your voice a little. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He swallowed hard. He knew he wasn’t acting sick very well, but your sincere gaze disarmed him.

“I’m okay. Just… tired, I guess. But thank you for worrying.”

When you got up to say goodbye, you gave him a playful little punch on the shoulder. He blushed like a teenager, looking down, both delighted and nervous.

“Get some rest, okay?” you said, this time with a sweetness in your voice as if you’d cared for him your whole life. “And if you feel worse during the night, don’t hesitate to call me. Really, Clark. Anytime.”

He looked up slowly and nodded, grateful, with that tenderness in his eyes that almost made you stay a minute longer.

“See you tomorrow,” he replied.

You left the building not knowing that, from his window, Superman was still watching you. He flew at a safe distance, quietly keeping watch until he saw you enter your building. He was fascinated by how beautiful you looked in that coat.

And then he understood.

You had friend-zoned Superman. His most iconic version. Because to you, only Clark Kent existed. Only he lived in your mind. Only he was the one you liked.

The man who blushed when you smiled at him. The one who walked with you through the newsroom and offered you his coat if you felt cold. You had chosen him. His most real part. His clumsiest, most human, most vulnerable version.

Because while the whole world dreamed of flying among the clouds, you had stayed on the ground… to walk by his side.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. A thousand catastrophes could come, a thousand responsibilities, a thousand exhausting days. But if you kept looking at him the way you did today, if you kept bringing him tea and offering to have dinner together, if you kept wanting to take care of Clark Kent…

Then he was the luckiest man on the planet.

He couldn’t wait to ask you out. To tell you that he had chosen you too. Long before you even knew it.

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💌 I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea, feel free to send it my way. I’d love to bring it to life 🤍

632 notes · View notes

averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

Text

deja brew

pairing – clark kent x reader

summary – reader is too nice for their own good and can’t help but pretend to enjoy swigging down coffee, all for the sake of keeping a smile on Clark’s face.

word count – 1.0k

content – fluff, fem!reader (can be read as gn!reader), empath!reader, clueless!clark, happy ending

author’s note – aaa second blurb! i’m so obsessed with clark it’s almost concerning :,) this is for all my tea drinkers out there (superior btw) please leave comments on whether you prefer more fluffy or smutty fics !

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Thinking about how Clark comes into the office every morning, to-go cups of coffee always in hand, opposite the stack of papers cradled in his forearm. He sets his files down on his desk before sharing out everyone’s respective drink: Jimmy’s, Lois’, Steve’s, and yours. And one trait about him, he was consistent.

Without fail, the sound of paper cylinders making contact with the counters would fill the air each morning, in addition to a box filled with baked goods on Fridays. (He liked to look forward to the weekends, sue him!) You were grateful each time he handed you the Sharpie-marked cup – all smiles and ‘thank you’s, once his chair swiveled around and you began to face his back, you huffed a substantial sigh to yourself and mentally prepared to chug down the bittersweet liquid.

Although you had requested hellish amount of cream and sugar to mask its unsavory flavor, you just couldn’t acquire a taste for it. And sure, it may have been easier to let Clark know that you didn’t want anything to drink in the mornings – hell, you could’ve fabricated a spiel about having to fast for a physical or an upset stomach from dinner the night before. You saw how he did it out of the kindness of his heart, and the money from his very own pocket. So, it seemed preferable to force yourself through odd sessions of exposure therapy rather than watching the smile disappear from his face so early in the morning at your seemingly sudden declination.

Then Thursday rolls around. Not far from your two days off, but not necessarily thrilling either. You don’t know what was in the air that morning, however it may have been fairly sinister with the way it all turned to shit. Initially, you awoke later than usual. Your charger decided it lived a fulfilling life and conked out, leaving your phone dead. Shortly after rushing out of bed, you hit your shin on the bed frame. Belting expletives while holding your leg, you hopped over to your wardrobe, sifting through to find a quick get up. No thanks to yourself from the night before as you recalled that you hadn’t washed laundry yet. You opted for a black graphic tee, turning it inside out before donning a half soiled cardigan, tugging it closer to your body.

Just as you thought things couldn’t get any worse, your bus ran 17 minutes late. You trudged over to your seat, trying not to lose it before the clock had the chance hit double digits. You spot the paper cup already sitting there, almost taunting you. Clark circles around in his chair, granting you a nod and a two finger wave; all you can do is return a tight lipped smile.

He noticed the shift in your demeanor immediately, wondering what caused the sudden change of heart. Throughout the rest of the morning, he snuck peeks at you – you hadn’t even reached for the cup once. It sat untouched and frigid until lunch hour when he finally made his way to you.

“Hey, so uh, no coffee today?” His jammed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t mean to pry, or maybe he did considering that you seemed to enjoy guzzling them down day-to-day.

You sipped in a breath, scratching the back of your neck before letting the cat out of the bag. “I gotta come clean to you, Clark. I’m not a coffee person.” At first, he thinks you’re joking. But the grimace on your face says otherwise. “W-why didn’t you tell me?”

“‘Cause…you’re so sweet and… you go through the trouble of getting everyone a drink in the mornings, and I didn’t want to be the person to break the chain!” your hands gesture emphatically. “I actually prefer tea, it’s much more soothing. I- I don’t know why I lied to you for so long, I’m sorry.”

His manner seemed taken aback, but not offended. “Okay, well, I’ll keep that in mind.” Making his way back over to his desk, he ruminated on how you put yourself through near torture all to keep him happy. It was selfless, and while it may not been the most apt thing to do in that situation, his heart swelled at how you were so willing to sacrifice your tastebuds for his delight. He all but concealed his grin as his hands made their way back to his keyboard.

Friday morning. Another week knocked off the calendar, and another paycheck soon to come in the mail. You were feeling slightly finer than the day previous, yet still guilty for coming clean to Clark which was well overdue. Returning to your normal routine, you watch as Clark comes waltzing in with… four cups? You tell yourself it’s another cup of coffee, as punishment for stringing him along – of course. He sets the cups down in order: Jimmy, Lois, and Steve yet again. And as he makes his way over to you, you notice the tiny paper tag attached to a thread fluttering in the wake of his gust.

“Special for you, of course.” he releases his hold on the cup as you peer at the tag: peppermint. “I also brought this for you, in case you wind up telling me you don’t like donuts either.” The brown paper bag rustles as he pulls out a muffin. “Apple cinnamon. I read online that some people like the combination.”

Your smile spans from ear to ear, genuine satisfaction overcoming you on a weekday morning. “Thank you, Clark. It’s perfect, it really is.” you nod your head accordingly. His cheeks dimple and lightly scrunches his nose.

“Nothing a few modifications can’t fix.” he shrugs it off, playing it cool as if he didn’t spend the night before researching the best tea options for you. He returns to his desk, stomach still doing backflips from watching that sparkle in your eye.

You turn the cup around, expecting to see your name written alongside of it, instead revealing a sticky note with his penmanship:

would you like honey with that? :)

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averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

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The First Time I Was Chosen

Clark Kent x female reader

Synopsis: She grew up believing love wasn't meant for her. Until Clark Kent —sweet, clumsy, kind Clark— entered her life with coffee, cake, and a kiss that taught her everything she thought she'd never learn.

Warnings: Fluff, soft!Clark, shy!reader, first kiss, emotional comfort, mentions of insecurity

WC: 1.466

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Since you were little, your mother used to tell you that love would come when the time was right. She said you were still young, that there was no rush. But when you turned fourteen and saw your friends holding hands with their first boyfriends, she insisted it was still too early to think about those things, that they didn’t know what they were doing and it was best to wait. Of course… you nodded silently, even though deep down you longed for something like that to happen to you too. You never said it out loud, of course.

As the years went by, her phrases changed. In college, your mother stopped repeating them. Maybe because you were no longer so easy to convince. Maybe because you started to understand —with that silent knot in your chest— that maybe you weren’t born to be loved, but to love. And you accepted it. Not with sadness, but as an ancient and deep truth, one that hurt without truly wounding you.

You always liked writing love stories. But not just any love. You loved writing about men who looked at the girl as if she were the center of the universe. Who cared for her, admired her, desired her with tenderness. You always wrote about that: how they loved her. You had to stop when you entered college and decided to become a professional journalist, but in your mind, those stories remained alive. Even if the keyboard changed its purpose, the fantasy never disappeared.

At twenty-six, no one had loved you yet. Or at least that’s what you believed. And you had started to convince yourself that this would be your destiny. Until Clark came into your life.

Clark Kent, the man who bumped into you on the first day of your new job. The one who apologized with an awkward smile while picking up the papers from the floor. The same one you thought, for a moment, was following you down the halls… until you discovered you shared the same floor and your desks were just two spaces apart.

It all started with an accident. He was making copies, taking advantage of the fact that no one was watching to take off his glasses and rub his tired eyes. He didn’t hear you coming. You surprised him and, unintentionally, bumped into him. His glasses fell to the floor. You apologized right away while he picked them up and calmly put them back on.

You felt guilty, so later you bought him a slice of cake. Luckily, his glasses hadn’t broken. He declined the gesture with a shy smile… but the next day, he showed up at your desk with a coffee. Then another. And another. Until it became a habit. Until you started leaving work together. Until he began driving you home. Until, without you fully noticing, there was a first date.

And you started to wonder if it was real or if you had simply fallen into one of your own stories.

A tall man, with blue eyes that looked at you as if you were the only thing that existed in that moment. Blushing every time he said something kind. Always attentive, always present. So much like what you had once written… until it happened.

Until he kissed you.

Until he taught you how to kiss.

Or maybe, you simply learned together. Then you returned to the present. Clark was on your couch, his brow slightly furrowed as he stared at his computer. He spent too much time in your apartment… maybe because it already felt like his own. He had a copy of your keys and came in whenever he wanted, as if home were more about where you were than a specific address. You, from the kitchen, watched him in silence with a small smile before lowering your gaze, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest.

He closed the laptop with a long sigh, stretched, and then looked at you. From across the room, he raised a hand and signaled you to come over. And you did.

"Are you done?" you asked as you sat next to him. Clark casually put his arm around your back and nodded.

"Finally," he replied with a tired smile. "You’ve been very quiet since I got here. Does it bother you that I’m here?" he asked softly, gently touching your knee.

You shook your head immediately. "No, it’s just… I didn’t want to distract you," you said, blushing slightly.

Clark looked at you tenderly.

"Mm… our six-month anniversary is coming up," he murmured, almost as if thinking out loud.

You nodded with a shy smile.

"I want you to meet my parents," he added then, watching you closely.

"Your parents?" you repeated, surprised. He nodded.

"Yeah. Why? Do you think it’s too soon?"

"No, it’s just that…" you lowered your gaze and took a deep breath. "I’ve never met anyone’s parents before. You’re my first boyfriend, Clark. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act."

Clark let out a small laugh.

"Hey, you’re also my first girlfriend, remember?"

You smiled, your heart calmer.

"Yeah… it’s just that you seem more confident about everything."

"Honey," he said, leaning a little closer, "you don’t have to act any certain way. Just be yourself."

You looked at him, and in his face you found the calm you needed so much. Then, in a soft tone, he asked:

"So… one day, will we tell our kids we married our first love?"

You let out a sincere laugh, covering your lips reflexively.

"Clark! It’s way too soon to think about that…"

But then you looked at him, and lowering your voice, you confessed:

"…though I wouldn’t mind imagining myself as Mrs. Kent."

His cheeks lit up immediately. He nodded, with that smile you liked so much.

"I wouldn’t mind showing you off as my wife," he said, caressing your arm with his thumb. "But for that… you have to meet my parents."

"Alright," you whispered.

He leaned in and softly kissed the tip of your nose. You smiled, and then kissed his cheek, right where that dimple always appeared when he laughed. Clark let out a low chuckle and then kissed you — different from the first kisses — deeper, more fluid, as if his lips already knew exactly how to find you.

And you enjoyed it.

You were living something you always thought happened to other people. Never to you. But now you had it right there, in your living room, holding you with tenderness, kissing you with love, looking at you as if the future wasn’t so uncertain after all.

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averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

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flesh arm? no thank you, give me the metal one

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Fluff - Angst - Reader hurt - Lies Word count: 1888 Summary: Bucky spent years feeling guilty for what he was and what he did. Y/N, his girlfriend was the only thing that reminded him how good life can be. Having a metal arm was difficult and when he accidentally hit her, his world collapsed. Y/N found a easy way to make him change his mind

The common room echoed with laughter. You were curled up at one end of the couch, half-covered by a thrown blanket, giggling at something Sam had said while Bucky sat beside you, a rare grin stretched across his usually guarded face. His vibranium arm was slung lazily across the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed in a way you didn’t see often.

Now alone, you were teasing him. Something about his outdated music taste when he chuckled, leaning back and waving that metal arm in mock offense. And then it happened. A sharp but light tap on your upper arm. You didn’t even register it at first. It wasn’t painful. Just surprising, like bumping into a doorknob you hadn’t noticed. Your laughter barely faltered. But he did. Bucky went still. Utterly, terrifyingly still. His smile faded instantly. His eyes locked onto your arm, wide and full of alarm. He pulled back like he’d touched fire.

“Bucky?” you asked, tone gentle, brows furrowing when you saw his expression.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t see where you were-God, I didn’t mean-did I hurt you?”

You blinked, confused at first. “What? No-wait, is that what you’re-?”

But he was already retreating, both physically and emotionally. That wall he worked so hard to keep down around you started building itself back up brick by brick. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face and muttered, more to himself than to you, “Damn it. I wasn’t paying attention.” You reached for him.

“Bucky. Hey. Look at me.” He didn’t. So you scooted closer, placing your hand carefully over the one he kept clenched in his lap. “It didn’t hurt. I swear. It was barely anything.”

He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have—Y/N, I hit you. Even if it was by accident. Even if it didn’t hurt.” His voice cracked on the last word. You could feel his guilt radiating off him in waves. It made your heart ache. “Bucky,” you whispered. “You didn’t hurt me. You startled me. That’s all. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t scary. You’d never hurt me.” He finally looked at you then, and God, the look in his eyes broke something in you—because he wasn’t looking at you, not really. He was seeing a past he couldn’t escape, one you knew he carried like chains around his wrists. So you brought his metal hand to your lap, cradling it gently. A soft breath of laughter escaped him, almost involuntarily.

You smiled. “Come on, Barnes. You really think I’d let you off the hook if you’d actually hurt me? You think you’d still be sitting upright?” That made him huff, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “There he is,” you said, leaning into him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to have fun, Bucky. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to be human.” He swallowed hard, then whispered, “I’m always scared I’ll slip. That I’ll forget how strong this thing is.” You squeezed his hand. “Then we figure it out together. Okay?” He didn’t answer with words but when his fingers curled around yours, warm and steady, you knew he believed you.

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The incident in the common room was small. Barely a blip in the timeline of your lives at the Tower. But something shifted after that. Not between you two at least, not in a bad way. If anything, you were closer. But Bucky noticed how you started asking him for things. Little things. Specific things. It was always something simple. Something harmless. And always something that meant he had to use his metal arm.

It started with the jar. “Hey, could you open this for me?” you asked one lazy afternoon, handing him the stubborn pesto jar from the fridge. He took it without a word and popped it open with a smooth twist of his metal hand. “Wow,” you said, eyes wide with mock awe. “My hero.” He snorted, handing it back. “You loosened it.” You shrugged, grinning. “Still counts.”

Next came the bookshelf. You stood in your room, frowning at the towering wooden shelves like they’d insulted your ancestors. “Hey, Buck?” you called, and he was there in a second. “Can you help me move this? It’s too heavy.” He gripped the side of the shelf with his metal arm and lifted it like it weighed nothing. “Where do you want it?” he said, holding in the air the bookshelf. You blinked. “Seriously? You didn’t even grunt.” He smirked. “That was me being polite.”

Then there was the couch incident. You apparently choose the heaviest couch in the shop, but when you first bought it that wasn’t a problem. So now you were going to use it for your purposes; movie night in your room while all the avengers were out. You were stretched out across half the couch with your legs draped over his lap, blanket tucked under your chin. The remote slipped behind the cushions with a dull noise. “Ugh. It fell under the couch,” you mumbled. “Mind grabbing it?” Without missing a beat Bucky slid your legs off his lap, stood up and reached the floor with his arm founding the remote, then casually lifted the entire couch just enough to retrieve it. You gawked. “Did you just… lift the couch?” He handed you the remote like nothing happened. “You wanted it, didn’t you?” You narrowed your eyes. “I could have reached for it myself, you know.”

“Then why didn’t you?” You didn’t answer. He raised an eyebrow. And then it clicked.

That night, while you brushed your teeth, Bucky leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror. “You’ve been doing it on purpose,” he said. You spat out your toothpaste. “Doing what?”

“The metal arm thing.” You shrugged innocently. “Have I?” He stepped closer, his voice softer now. “You’re trying to make me use it more.” You glanced up at him. “Trying to help you stop flinching when you look at it.” There was a pause, just the faint buzz of the bathroom light between you. Then he slipped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you gently toward him, the cold plates warming slowly against your skin. “Did it work?” you whispered. His voice was low, steady, full of something quiet and sacred. “Yeah. It worked.”

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You continued the following days, lifting your suitcase or handing him your favorite mug, trusting him not to crush it when your hands were full. One night, during movie night, you shifted the bowl of popcorn into his left hand without even looking up from the screen. Every time, you smiled like it was nothing. Every time, his chest tightened a little.

You were tucked into his side on the couch, his vibranium arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders like it belonged there (because it did). His flesh hand rested lightly on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth as the movie flickered on in the background. He’d been quiet tonight, but not the tense kind of quiet you used to worry about. Just… settled. At peace. That peace, of course, was exactly why you decided to stir the pot. You turned to him, completely straight-faced. “You know, your real arm is starting to give me the ick.” His head snapped toward you. “Excuse me?” You gave an exaggerated shiver. “Yeah. I dunno. It’s just so… skin-like.” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You mean human?” “Exactly!” you gasped, as if it was the most horrifying concept in the world. “It doesn’t even glow. No shiny parts. No dramatic sound when you move it. Honestly? It’s a little boring. Kinda scary even.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky groaned, throwing his head back against the couch. “You’re impossible.” You leaned into his side, tapping his metal bicep. “This one, though? Top tier. Looks cool, feels cool, opens jars, moves furniture…what doesn’t it do?” you said smirking.

“It doesn’t feel,” he said quietly, without bitterness. Just stating fact. You looked up at him, your teasing fading into something softer. “That’s not true.” He met your gaze, puzzled. “It holds me,” you whispered. “That’s all I need it to feel.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at you like you hung the moon then, “You’re the worst. You know that?” You grinned. “And yet, here you are. Letting the ick arm touch me.”

“Okay, first of all-” He tackled you gently onto the cushions, rolling you beneath him with a laugh. “If anyone’s getting the ick, it’s me. You’re obsessed with this arm.” You giggled, running your fingers down the smooth, dark plating. “Maybe. But can you blame me?”

“No,” he muttered, dipping his head to press a kiss to your neck. “Not one damn bit.”

You were perched at the kitchen island in one of Bucky’s Henleys and a pair of sleep shorts, nursing your second cup of coffee while half-listening to Tony rant about someone leaving the toaster dial set to 7. Nat was calmly buttering toast. Steve was flipping through a newspaper like it was still 1943. Sam was already on his third protein shake.

Bucky entered quietly, looking almost shy, until he spotted you and immediately softened. He padded over and, without a word, slid his vibranium arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You leaned into it like it was second nature, pressing your cheek to the cold metal with a content little sigh. None of this was unusual anymore. What was unusual was that Steve had apparently just noticed the pattern.

He tilted his head and frowned a little. “Hey, Buck… I’ve been meaning to ask.” You glanced up lazily from your mug. Steve pointed between the two of you with his spoon. “Why do you always now touch her with your metal arm?” Bucky didn’t miss a beat. With the most deadpan expression, he said, “Oh. She’s afraid of my real arm.” There was a pause. Tony blinked. “I’m sorry-what?” You sipped your coffee. “Yeah. It gave me the ick.” Bucky nodded solemnly. “She said it’s boring.”

“I never said boring…” you added casually. “Yes you did” he replied. Nat choked on her tea. Sam nearly spit his shake across the counter. Steve looked between the two of you like his brain had blue-screened. “You… you’re kidding. Right?” You finally grinned, nudging Bucky’s stomach with your elbow. “Obviously.” Bucky chuckled, eyes bright. “She’s not afraid of me, punk. Not even a little. She’s the reason I don’t flinch when people look at this thing anymore.” He flexed the vibranium fingers gently, still resting them over your shoulder. Steve softened. “Well… good. I just noticed it and thought…well it’s nice.” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Nice? Steve, he literally wraps her in an arm made of Stark tech every morning like a human weighted blanket.”

“Jealous?” Bucky asked with a smirk. Tony sniffed. “Please. If anyone touched me before noon, they’d be dead.” You laughed softly, leaning further into Bucky’s embrace. His metal thumb rubbed slow circles into your upper arm. And as the kitchen filled with laughter and snark, Bucky just looked down at you safe, warm, alive in his arms and thought, Yeah. I trust myself now. Because she did first.

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averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

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"Nyingduk, good to see you again."

Bruce tensed as he heard your familiar voice from behind him. What were you doing here? Weren't you in Tibet with the rest of the monks? If they sent you out, something must be seriously wrong. The monks never leave their temple. Was the world ending without his knowledge? Why would the monks send their best fighter?

You were the one who taught him everything he knew and he fell in love. Hard. A love he never truly got over even twenty years later. He always considered you unobtainable. You were always a distraction when he was trying to meditate. He knows that was the point of your training. You were supposed to throw every distraction possible at him for him to make what he was looking to become achievable. Every fight felt impossible, and every meditation session was filled with horns or traditional dancing around him. Every time he was distracted or beaten in a fight? He had to do it all over again. He had to learn brutally and swiftly.

He tried to charm you to lessen the brutality. He flirted with you at every chance he got to make the training even slightly easier, but you were a boulder. You didn't budge. The funny part? He thought that you would be the easiest trainer. He was wrong. Oh, he was so wrong. He had to rewire his entire brain to keep up with the training.

His stubbornness only increased as his frustration worsened. He considered giving up several times. You are borderline vicious and the last person he wants to ever see in Gotham. His eyes began to water thinking about all the downtime flirting that felt so real it remoulded him, and the tender kisses he trailed along your arm or bashful smiles mirrored when you ate with him. You loved him when he needed it most. You guided him out of the hole his parents left, only for him to slide back in after he left the temple. You were everything he ever wanted and needed, but he left heartbroken. It was the first and only time he saw you genuinely cry.

He was the one crying now. His gaggle of children looked at him in confusion. Who is this? And why were you dressed like you were confused about what normal clothes are? What did Bruce hide?

Bruce turned to face you after a long pause.He needed to psyche himself up to face you again. It's been years, but he was not prepared to ever see you again. You were as beautiful as the day he left you, and probably just as, if not more, lethal.

"What are you doing here, darling?"

He tried to give you a confident smile, but he knew your sharp eyes saw everything he tried to bury and hide. Your smile softened as you noticed his tear-streaked face. His eyes seemed to beg for you to not pay close enough attention to notice or at least not make it a big deal. You approached him and subtly kissed away his tears with a fond expression. You always knew how to bring him peace. He felt instantly calm again as he wrapped his arms smoothly around your waist.

You never forgot him. How could you when he was your first and last love? There have been many travellers who came to the temples, but nobody came even close to how Bruce made you feel. He was the easiest person to love in the world. The familiar weight of his arms brought you twenty years into the past.

"Uh, who are you?"

Jason voiced what everybody else was thinking. You turned in Bruce's arms to face the children surrounding him, and you joked,

"You've been busy, Nyingduk."

Bruce laughed, but he didn't let you out of his arms. He only pulled you closer to himself. He seemed to not want to let you ever leave. Something the children noticed at the same time. They all shared their confusion while you gave Bruce a teasing look.

"They're all my adopted children."

Bruce said with a softened expression as he looked at them all. They are his everything, and he wouldn't hesitate to do anything for them. You must have seen that on his face as you gave all of them a warm smile.

"It's nice to meet you all. I hope you all have experienced my training."

That confused them even more. Your training? Were you the one who trained Bruce and indirectly trained them? If so, why were you so harsh on them? They felt like collapsing after every training session. How do you keep this up? You turned back to Bruce and asked curiously,

"Why am I here, Nyingduk? Your letter was vague."

Bruce looked as if he had no idea about the letter. It only clicked into place when Alfred stepped out of the shadow he was hidden in. Alfred said,

"Master Bruce didn't send that letter, my dear. I did."

You blinked at the butler, but he didn't seem ready to elaborate unless Bruce wanted him to. Bruce seemed to know exactly where the letter was acquired and blushed. The stoic Batman drafted letters to you in his spare time during his training and even after. He forgot entirely about them, but Alfred found them while cleaning. Bruce remembers the love he poured into every note like they were a diary entry without a journal.

He, the big bad Batman, wrote you little love notes as he travelled as well. The beginning of his Batman days were fuelled by your training and the tender love you both shared during his time there.

"Alfred, please."

Alfred gave him a smile that told him exactly what he had begged him to never do. Why would Alfred betray him? Before Bruce could feel too hurt, Alfred said,

"You are much too old to be avoiding a love life, sir."

Chaos immediately erupted. Bruce was mortified, and the children had thousands of questions that spewed out at the same time. Why did they never know about you if you are a lost love? Why were they never told about you if that's the case? What happened to break you up?

You laughed as Bruce quickly became overwhelmed by the sheer number of questions. You were suddenly surrounded by his kids until Alfred saved you both by commanding them all away. Most of them may be adults now as well as fully experienced and established heroes, but that doesn't matter when you have a grandfather and a terrifying monk who can probably beat them in a fight.

You looked at Bruce with a look that asked him what he wanted to do now. Bruce paused for only half a second before kissing you. He didn't want to think about it anymore. He wanted to pour his heart and soul in it. He didn't know if you would go back to being a monk and leave him heartbroken again or if you would stay for him and maybe even join them in fights, but he needed this kiss more than anything.

You got over your surprise quicker than expected. You haven't kissed anybody since becoming a monk. He held on you tightened slightly when you kissed back. In that moment, you weren't the forbidden fruit he's wanted for over twenty years. You were pure love that he was willingly drowning himself in.

You lightly ran your hands along his spine, a technique you always used to immediately soothe him. He hadn't realised how tense his body had been for so many years. You knew his body like you never left his side. His hands were clumsy like he was twenty again and inexperienced while yours were smooth and certain. You knew exactly what he needed through this devastating kiss. Alfred cut in,

"Ahem. Perhaps Master Wayne needs to be reminded of your children peaking around the corner."

Bruce reluctantly pulled away from your lips and took a shuddering breath. He didn't need to brood any further as you whispered in his ear,

"Yes, I'll stay. We'll talk about us later."

Bruce nodded and clung to you like you held the world for him. He had pushed down how much he needed you in his life.

Dick grinned like he was a kid again, Jason rolled his eyes and fake gagged, Tim seemed to be lost in his head with this new development in his life, Cass smiled as if she adored you the second you walked in, and Damian gave a resentful sigh. He'll indulge this delusional pathway. Bruce doesn't stay with anyone. Why would he change for you? It will slip away like water.

It did not, in fact, slip away like water, and none of them could be happier about that being the case. Bruce had never been happier and more relaxed. The League thought you were a godsend for both Batman and the League. Everybody who crossed your path faced a fight unlike any other. You made Batman look like a noob when sparring and kept up with Wonder Woman for far longer than expected for any mortal.

"Are you sure they aren't a god?"

Superman asked Batman, only half-joking. Bruce nodded with as much stoicism as he could have around you. You were the true keeper of his heart and always have been. He just needed a certain nosy butler shoving you at him for him to realise it.

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averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

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WORK IN PROGRESS! Lawyer!Sevika (aka: Public Defender!Sevika) from an AU I’m making with a mutual of mine rn!

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averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

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Lead Me On (Dracule Mihawk x F! Reader)

Inspired by the OPLA Iteration of Dracule Mihawk

Pairing:Chaser/ Brat Tamer Mihawk x Female Reader

Co-written with the amazing @manyimaginativemuses .Without them, this story would never be possible so be sure to give them lots of love as well :)

Rated 18+ for Smut

Word Count:Over 13,000

Contains: Smut, P in V, Oral (Giving and Receiving), Brat Taming, Chasing, Creampie, Use of Honorifics, Mild Bondage, Wall Sex, Mirror Sex. A Bit of Knife Play. Hand necklace, Aftercare. Basically, there is a lot in this fic.

Summary: A New Pirate has gotten the attention of an infamous Warlord of the Sea. Known as The Dagger Queen due to her skills with throwing knives, Mihawk seeks her out to learn more about her. She's about to give him a run for his money.

Note from Sassy: This whole story started with one amazing idea submitted by @manyimaginativemuses and through a lot of teamwork, has grown into this. I hope all who read it enjoy it as much as we enjoyed creating it!

Tagging@88dragon06, @writingmysanity

Dracule “Hawk-Eye” Mihawk wasn't known for being easily impressed.

Yet, someone had managed to do so. Someone who had stepped onto the scene roughly a year ago, a woman who had quickly gained a reputation for her ability with a unique weapon. While most pirates stuck with firearms, some stuck with swords or another weapon of choice. This new pirate on the other hand used an unorthodox weapon: throwing knives. What's more, they only occasionally worked with other crews, not wanting to sign on with any of them.

Even pirates are prone to gossip and it was through overhearing a bit of it in a tavern that Mihawk came to hear about this new pirate. He knew that pirates also had a tendency to exaggerate greatly, so at first he didn't want to give any credence to the rumors. But one day, while making a stop in the East Blue, he overheard that this new pirate, nicknamed by others as the Dagger Queen, was in the area, working with a crew to help raid a few naval ships. This was the perfect chance to find out what the truth was.

Mihawk kept a distance as he watched this Dagger Queen and the crew she was with raid a ship that had docked for repairs. He watched as they, before they had barely started to move in, had thrown several knives at several unsuspecting targets, causing them to drop dead before they even knew what was happening. He watched as she, with a hood covering her head, snuck up on several more, whisted to get their attention from behind a box, grabbed them and stabbed them.

As efficient as she was with her knives from a distance, she was just as efficient with them in close quarters. After all the lookouts were disposed of, she and the group stormed the ship proper. Within minutes it was over.

No one had noticed Mihawk watching from a distance. Mihawk might not have looked impressed by what he saw, but he certainly was. This “Dagger Queen" was certainly living up to her reputation. The fact that she was also quite easy on the eyes made her more interesting. So easy on the eyes that she often invaded his thoughts late at night, enough so that he often had to pleasure himself just to sleep that night.

"Beautiful and Deadly. The best combination " Mihawk mused to himself one day after watching her go hand to hand with two pirates twice her size and trouncing them soundly. So soundly that Mihawk found himself smiling at the sight of her being so vicious to her opponents.

Looking at the Dagger Queen, Mihawk clocked that like him, she had a taste for the dramatic in more ways than one. Along with her hooded cowl and her knives, she was usually garbed in black and red: that was a red or black corset top with lace shoulders, black trousers and black knee high boots that had roses stitched in them. She looked amazing and she knew it.

__________________________________________________

Business was good at The Captains’ Bell tavern. Multiple ships crews had come in, pockets full of berries to spend after months at sea. Ale flowed freely, food was devoured in droves. Some just wanted to sit and chat. Others wanted a bit of fun and a chance to maybe make even more berries.

On the patio of the tavern were several long tables, benches along the wall and several targets set up, the result of the owner getting tired of the inner walls being used for practice. Almost every night, someone got drunk enough to think that throwing their knives was a good idea, so now, they had a place to do so.

Tonight was such a night and so a large crowd had gathered on the patio. On one table was a pile of berries up for grabs, a pile that at the start, a couple dozen people were trying to win, a couple dozen people that included you.

The contest was simple. Three knives, three shots at the bulls-eye.You decided to let the others go first so that they would be surprised when you took the first round easily, which you did.

Your opponents, stunned at first, just assumed it was beginner's luck and decided to try again. Only for you to trounce them, yet again. The rounds continued, after the third, people started dropping out when they realized that they didn't stand a chance of beating you. It lasted twelve rounds before the last contestant finally conceded defeat.

As the crowd walked back inside, you counted up the berries, sticking them down into your corset when you were done.The take was rather decent, add to the money you had just earned from your last contract, would be more than enough to tide you over until the next one.

While the contestants had enough of throwing knives for one night, you didn't. Alone on the patio, you decided to throw some more for fun. Throwing them like this was not only good practice, but you found it relaxing as well, almost meditative. You could still hear bits and pieces of conversations from the inside of the tavern, Many spoke of their families back home, of how much money they made and how much they planned to send home to help.

Hearing the other patrons talk of their families made you think of your own. You were certain that they would not have approved of you earning a bit of extra money like this. They also certainly wouldn't have approved of you becoming a pirate. Truth was, becoming a pirate was the last thing you ever planned on being.But after being on your own since you were sixteen,doing a multitude of jobs over the last decade or so, some of which you didn't like to think about, piracy was just the latest one and the one that paid the best.Anything was better than nothing.

Retrieving the knives from the target, you looked them over. A few would need a bit of extra care later, but that would be easy enough. You recalled the words of your grandfather, who had given you your first knife when you were young. “Take care of your blades and they will take care of you.” He had not only gifted you your first blades, he taught you how to care for them and how to use them, including throwing them.

You were ready to go in for more wine, so you decided to throw a couple more knives and call it good. Since you had not practiced what you called “blind throwing”, that was throwing with your eyes closed, you decided now was a good time.

You pulled out three. Closing your eyes, you steadied yourself, took one of the knives, and threw it, listening for that familiar sound of metal hitting wood.

Thwack.

You took the second knife and let loose.

Thwack.

You took the third blade and let loose.

Silence.

Instantly worried, you opened your eyes. You saw that the first two blades were dead center on the target. The third was not. In fact, the third was being held by someone, someone with a dark expression on his face.

Holding your knife was someone whom you knew of. Having been raised in a family of marine officers, you had heard his name many times over the years. Unlike the other Warlords of the Sea, his name was spoken of by your relatives with great dread, as if he was a demon from Hell. This man, with one swing of his legendary sword Yoru, could slice a ship clean in half and decimate whole crews on his own. It was the legendary Dracule “Hawk-Eye” Mihawk.

You had only ever seen him on his old wanted poster, which only showed his face. To you, that was a crime in and of itself because the man was walking sex. He was garbed in a wide brimmed black hat decorated with a white plume feather, a long black elaborately designed overcoat, trousers and boots. He had no shirt underneath. Around his neck was a large gold cross,a cross that was alleged to be a knife. On his back was his famous sword Yoru, of which you were certain was just as tall if not taller than you.

Getting a good look at his sculpted face, with his yellow eyes and his elaborately trimmed facial hair, all you could think of for a moment was how fun it would be to sit on it or to just simply bury it between your legs. You had to wonder if he was just as skilled with his mouth as he was with a sword. But as handsome as he was, you knew that if he was here, someone was probably leaving in chains. Was it your turn? There was only one way to find out.

Putting on a pouty look, you spoke to him in a teasing tone.

“They sent a big, mean Warlord of the Sea after me? I must have been a very naughty girl indeed. Just know that you might wanna use metal cuffs since I can get out of rope easily. Oh and my safe word is cucumber.” As you finished speaking, you turned away from him, put your arms behind your back and waited to see what he would do next.

Mihawk’s expression did not change. You were far from the first one to try that tactic on him.

"I'm not here for that, Y/R/N" He intoned, in a deep, rumbling voice that felt like a caress down your spine. That voice was the last one you expected to come out of that mouth.

"Then why are you here?" You asked, changing your tone as you turned back to face him. You felt a swirling mixture of nervousness and arousal, wondering what he could possibly want with you.

"Professional curiosity.”

“Really? And just what have I done to warrant your curiosity, Oh Mighty Warlord? Please tell me it's in regard to what I did to those two Marine Captains last week.” You said, a devious smirk on your faces as you recalled what you did to them.

“It's more in regards to a particular skill set you have.” He said, ignoring that last part. He guessed that whatever that incident was, he probably didn't want to know.

“I’ve many skills to speak of. Can you be more specific?” You teased, biting your lip.

“The one involving these.” He said, holding the knife up and twirling it expertly between his fingers.

You felt a flash of irritation. You had worked hard to build up your skills over the years. You hoped you were not about to get another lecture from someone who had no idea what they were talking about.

“Here to tell me I’m doing something wrong?” You said tartly, putting your hands on your hips.

Mihawk walked towards you, still twirling the knife with expert fluidity.

“No. From what I've observed over the last few months, you actually know what you are doing. Unlike most."

That was shocking news. Most pirates spent years working to build up a reputation large enough to warrant the attention of the World Government. If you had managed to get the attention of a Warlord this quickly, that meant you would soon have a bounty.

“You've been observing me? Why?” You asked, not believing what you were hearing.

“I keep track of others that have great potential. Ones like you.” He said as he handed the knife back to you. His fingertips glided along yours, making you feel warm all over.

You found yourself wondering if you were imagining things. Surely someone put something in your wine because there was no bloody way you just heard Dracule Mihawk, the Greatest Swordsman in the World, say that you had great potential.

“And here, most men just come up to me and say “Hey Pretty Lady, How about I show you something neat?” And then they make a fool of themselves.” You said, taking a seat on top of a nearby table.

“I’m not most men.” Mihawk said, in a tone that indicated he was fully aware of how true it was.

“No you certainly are not.” You said, biting your lip a bit.

"I've just met this man and already I want to call him 'Sir'. I have never wanted to call a man ‘Sir’ before. This shouldn't be happening. How is he doing this?" You thought to yourself, trying not to panic.

You waited for Mihawk to sit down. He didn't.

“Indulge me, why do you use throwing knives?”

“Why should I indulge you, Warlord?" You said, adopting a more firm tone.

"Because if you do, I'll return the favor."

"A favor for a favor? Okay. I'll bite. And just so you know, I actually do." You said, making a biting motion for good measure.

"I know that you do, and you're not the only one." Mihawk retorted, recalling how during one fight he saw you bite someone hard enough to draw more than a little blood.

"I use throwing knives because they are lightweight, easy to carry, easy to care for and on occasion, a great way to separate chumps from their hard earned berries." You said, smirking.

"I noticed.”

“You saw that earlier?” You asked, referring to the competition.

“I saw it all. It was almost unfair how badly you beat them. Almost.”

You snorted. “If they saw what I did early on and they were foolish enough to think they could beat me, that's on them.”

“She is impudent. And I like it.”

"My turn. That cross around your neck is actually a knife isn't it."

Mihawk responded by removing it from around his neck and handing it to you. Carefully you placed your glass down on the table and took the cross from him. You pulled it apart and brought the blade up for inspection.

“Kogatana. Well maintained too.” You said, a hint of appreciation in your voice.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Mihawk asked, raising an eyebrow.

“If you had seen how some of these idiots I've worked with take care of their own blades, you’d understand.”

Twirling it around a bit your eyes wandered down Mihawk’s broad chest and to his waist, making you curious about the one between his legs.

“I'm assuming the one in your trousers is well cared for too? And please tell me it's bigger than this?” You asked, holding the knife up.

“It is.”

“Well cared for or bigger?”

“Both.”

“Can I judge for myself?” You asked with a leering smile.

“Perhaps later. If you behave yourself.”

Behaving is the last thing I want to do right now, Warlord.

“My turn again: Why won't you sign with any of the crews?” Mihawk asked.

You laughed lightly “Have you met some of the crews out there? I wouldn't let half those chuckleheads lead me on a pub crawl let alone on a raid. Freelancing means I'm responsible for only me and I answer to only me. Besides, if I wanted to take orders from someone who hasn't earned their rank: I'd have joined the marines like the rest of my family.”.

"You have an authority problem, don't you?"

“According to most, yes. But there is a difference between having an issue with authority in general and having an issue with authoritarians.”

“I'm guessing it's the latter.”

“This may come as a surprise to you Mighty Warlord, But I feel authority should be earned. I’m not calling someone ‘Sir.’ unless I feel they've earned it.”

“And you've never met one who’s earned it yet?” Mihawk asked, genuinely curious.

“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. Why?”

“I’m certain I know who it is.”

“Oh do you,Warlord. Who is it? Won't you tell me?”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.”

Tease.

With one last gulp you finished your wine. But just because you were finished with it, didn't mean that you were finished playing with Mihawk.

“My turn: do you wager?” You asked.

“Normally, no. What do you have in mind?”

“No one has ever made me miss the bullseye. And I’d wager that you couldn't make me miss either.” You said, fully confident that you could get to him and maybe get dinner out of the deal.

“I’d wager I can. What are the stakes?” Mihawk asked, crossing his arms.

"If I win, you have to buy me dinner and a round of this." You said, holding up your empty wine glass

"And if I win?"

"Then I will buy you dinner." You said, certain this would be easy. Surely he wouldn't take the bet. He knew you were good and said as much.

"Deal." He said instantly. The way he saw it, no matter if he won or lost, he would be having dinner with an exceptional woman.

"Your loss, Warlord." You said in a cocky tone, as you hopped off the table, pulled out a knife and got into position. Just as you pulled your arm back and prepared to let loose, Mihawk walked up behind you, brought his mouth less than an inch to your ear, and growled, deeply.

Instantly, shivers went all through you. Your knees felt weak, your grip loosened. Before you could stop yourself, you sent the blade flying. The knife landed on the target, on the very edge of it. Another half an inch and it would have been in the wall.

The look on your face when you realized that you not only missed the center, but damn near missed the target as a whole was priceless. You turned to look at Mihawk, who had a very triumphant smirk on his face.

“Shall we?” He said, gesturing towards the bar.

“I suppose.” You muttered. You walked over to the target to retrieve the knife. As you pulled it out and put it back, you had one thought only. “I’m going to get him for that.”

As you and Mihawk walked back inside, you headed up to the bar while Mihawk found a private table. After placing the order and inquiring about another matter, you took the two goblets of wine and headed over to join him.

As you sat down at the table, those around you clocked that you were having a drink with a famous Warlord. Tongues quickly began wagging. Some thought he was there to arrest you. Some thought he was looking to recruit you.

After handing Mihawk his wine, you sat down across from him, wondering how long the two of you would be sitting together.

“My turn again. How did someone like you end up a pirate?” He asked, taking a drink.

“It's a long story.” You said dryly, as you took one yourself.

“We both have time.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I wouldn't have asked if I didn't.”

Thinking there was nothing to do but wait for dinner to arrive, which arrived shortly after, you decided to go ahead and tell Mihawk your story. You told him a shortened version. You told him how were thrown out at 16 for refusing to enlist. You told him about the myriad of jobs you had worked since then, one of which was a circus, during which you learned to perfect your throwing techniques. You even told him about the events leading up to you becoming a pirate.

Mihawk for his part listened intently. During his months of following you, he had tried to piece together some of your background, not finding vert much.The bits he picked up turned out to be mostly false. You had gone to a fair amount of trouble to keep some things under wraps. And after hearing your story, he understood why.

“So, Warlord, that's my story.” You said, finishing your first glass and calling for a bottle, “I do hope it was enlightening.”

“Oh it was.” He said honestly, finishing his own glass.

Quickly a barmaid brought you another bottle. As you went to pull out some berries to pay her, Mihawk was quicker than you and paid for it himself, leaving you very surprised.

So, a Warlord can be a gentleman too. Who knew?

“So, Warlord. My turn: How did you hear about me?” You asked as Mihawk poured more wine for the both of you.

“The usual manner: gossip.”

“From other pirates or my family?” You asked, wondering if he had met with any of them recently.

“Other pirates. I’ll admit, when I first heard of you,I thought you were a tall tale. But seeing you on a raid changed that quickly.”

You smiled, feeling very flattered. “I must have done quite well then.”

“That you did. You disposing of all three lookouts in under ten seconds was impressive.”

“What can I say? I'm good at what I do.” You said with a smirk, downing a bit more wine, and further taking in the sight of him. Despite him getting under your skin earlier for making you miss, you couldn't help but find his presence more than a little intoxicating. This man was an absolute master of his craft and he knew it.

What's more,he knew and appreciated true talent when he saw it. You never expected him to seek you out over it, but there was no doubt that the fact that Dracule Mihawk of all people sought you out, just to meet you,was a massive ego boost.

If my family knew I was having dinner with the man they fear most..

“My turn:how does it feel having dinner with someone like me?” Mihawk asked, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.

It's something I never knew I wanted. You thought to yourself. Despite what you did earlier.

“What do you mean?”

“Considering what I used to be called?”

“Marine Hunter? Yeah I know. I got to hear about you from my family.”You smirked as you drank some more wine.

“What all have you heard?”

“Not much really. Other than the fact that you scare the shit out of my relatives.I'm pretty sure the day you were named a Warlord was the worst day of their lives.”You said, smirking as you remembered their reactions to the news.

“And do I scare you?” Mihawk asked, greatly curious.

Scare? No. Turn on..

“I wouldn't be sitting here with you if you did.” You answered honestly, still not quite believing all this was happening. All because he was curious about your skills.But was that the only reason?

"So,Warlord, be honest. Are my skills the only thing that caught your interest?"

"Perhaps they are, perhaps they are not." Mihawk said, not willing to show his full hand just yet. It didn't go unnoticed by you that he didn't give you a straight answer.

“Oh come on,Warlord. We are adults here. I wont judge.If I'm not your type, you can say that.”

“Who says you are not? Besides, I know what your type is.” He said, taking a long drink while keeping his eyes on you.

“Really, what do you think my type is?” You said, leaning over the table a bit.

“Someone older than you, who respects your skills, is the sort will fuck you senseless and will have no problem letting you take the lead when you feel so inclined.” Mihawk said, smirking a bit.

I have never felt so damn stripped down in my life.

Mihawk noted by your stunned silence that he was more than likely right.

“So take your chance, what's mine?” Mihawk asked, prepared for anything.

You asked for it.

Drinking the rest of your wine, you set the glass down and let loose.

“I’m guessing that your type is someone who isn't easily awed by your status. Someone who will have no problem letting you use them like a sex doll occasionally, while other times being a bit more on the gentle side. I’d also guess you are the sort that if you have someone, you consider them yours and yours alone to play with. Because let's face it, you don't come across as the sort to share your toys.”

“And why should I share?”

“Because it's fun sometimes?” You smirked, thinking of a few nights of fun you had with more than one partner at a time.

“Is it really fun or is it just good to have options in case one is lacking?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you think my previous partners were lacking?” You pouted.

“More like your previous partners are so lacking that you would have a better experience with a toy than you would have of these chuckleheads as you call them.”

“And what makes you think you would be better?” You asked, riled up in more ways than one.

“I don't think so. I know. Just like I know that I can unnerve you in a way no one else has.” He said,his smirk becoming more devious.

That's it, Warlord.

“If you want to fuck me Warlord, you can just say it.” You said, dropping your voice.

“I dont have to.You already know the answer to that.”

“Really?” You said, your plan coming together. Standing up, keeping your gaze on him, your voice low and filled with lust, you said.“Meet me in Room 16 in 20 minutes and you will find out if you are right.”

You left the table and headed up the stairs. Mihawk patiently waited and followed suit at the allotted time. As he walked up the stairs, he wondered what would or who would be waiting for him. Grabbing a hold of the door handle, he opened the door slowly. The room was well lit, well appointed..and empty.

Along the wall facing him was an open window and a note pinned to it. Mihawk walked over and took the note down.Opening it, in flowing cursive were the words.“Better luck next time..Warlord.”

Mihawk took the note, folded it and put it in his coat. Though he was disappointed to not find you there, he wasn't disappointed to find that you were far more intriguing than he expected to be. And, he found himself wanting more of you.

“Oh, there will be a next time.” He muttered, already planning his next move.

Down the street from the tavern, you were making your way to a ship that would sail off a first light. Having already arranged a cabin, you boarded the ship and settled in for the night.

As you got into your bunk, your thoughts turned to Mihawk. As fun as it was to play with him,you found yourself wondering if you had overplayed your hand. Perhaps you had let him get to you too much and now, after tricking him, maybe you would never see him again.

You knew there was a good chance if you did go back, he would already be gone. But you had made a move, either you would see him again or you wouldn't. You found yourself hoping despite it all that you would see him again.

After all, he wasn't like most men.

__________________________________________________________

A couple of weeks later, you arrived at another stop.Upon disembarking you inquired about some possible commissions with a few ship captains and made plans to follow up with one or two. Though you focused on your work, a certain Warlord remained in the back of your mind.

Those yellow eyes, that seductive voice, that commanding presence haunted your thoughts and at night, your dreams. So much so that several times you woke up hoping he would be there and that you would see him. But you hadnt.It was very unnerving to know that he had gotten to you like this. How could one man enthrall you like this, you wondered time and time again.

But you knew that there was still that chance that you blew it. Logically, you knew it would be for the best to just assume you would never see him again and to assume that the next time he came looking for you, it would be to bring you in to the authorities. He was a Warlord of the Sea with all that entailed.

One evening, you decided to stop into The Swordfish for a meal. It was one of your favorite places, enough so that you usually got the same corner booth. Upon getting there,you asked the waiter for your usual table, only to find out that someone had used your nickname to get the table.

Stomping past the waiter,you were ready to have words with whomever was using your name like this. No sooner had you got to the booth than you saw a long familiar sword and sitting in the booth was him.

“Hello again, Dagger Queen.” Mihawk purred. “Do join me.”

“Warlord, what a surprise..”You said, smiling to hide your nerves and your excitement as you sat down. “And here, I thought, after last time, you would be tired of me.”

“Oh, I don't tire easily.” Mihawk said, in a way that told you he meant more than one thing behind those words. “By the way, that wasn't very nice what you did.”

“Oh did I leave a Warlord wanting more?” You smiled deviously as you leaned over the table, your curiosity piqued.

“I think you know that answer.”He said, his eyes staring deeply into yours.

“So, are you here to take me in this time or for something else?”

“Something else.”

“Which is?”

At that moment, food and wine was brought to the table. You looked at Mihawk, eyes askance as everything was placed in front of you.

“You bought me dinner last time. It's my turn.”

“Your sense of timing is almost eerie, Warlord.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“He found me. He really found me.” You thought,still not believing your luck that you had run into him again and that he wanted to see you again. And you would get to enjoy another meal with him.

“So, who’s turn is it? Mine?” You asked, as you opened a bottle of wine.

“I believe so, yes.

“Why did you come looking for me?” You asked, pouring wine for each of you.

“I felt like it.” Mihawk answered simply as he took his glass.

“You spent time tracking me down because you felt like it?”

“Tracking down a skilled pirate is a good way to pass the time.”

“Is that what you want to call it?Tell me,do you track down all the women who leave you hanging?”

“Only the ones I find worthy of my time.”

“And how many of those have there been over the years?” You asked, wondering if this was a habit of his.

“You would love to know that wouldn't you?” Mihawk said. If he was honest, there was just the one: you. But he saw no harm in keeping that to himself for now.

“Fine, keep your secrets, Warlord. Gods knows I've plenty.” You admitted, as you started in on your meal.

“You wouldn't be a true pirate if you didnt.”

“Really, I thought one wasn't a real pirate until they had a bounty?” You snarked.

“That too. And speaking of…”

Mihawk reached into his coat and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment and handed it to you.

You took it from him eagerly and unrolled it, beyond excited to see what the Marines deemed an appropriate bounty: 10,000,000 Berries. Seeing that number, your face fell just a bit, which Mihawk quickly noted.

“Don't like the picture they used?”

“No..it's just ..I'd expected my bounty to be larger, that's all. After all, I'm the best at what I do.” You said, your pride feeling a bit wounded.

“There’s no question about that.” Mihawk said, firmly, with no trace of sarcasm. “But it is rare for a new pirate to get one that high.”

You nodded, knowing that despite your disappointment, Mihawk was right.

“Well, I've hit the big time it seems,let's celebrate.” You said,raising your glass.Mihawk raised his glass as well, the both of you drinking deeply, the both of you focused intently on the other.

“So, your turn, Warlord.” You said,giving Mihawk your most charming smile. “What do you want to know?”

Though you had been disappointed by your bounty amount, having dinner again with Mihawk did much to lift your mood.The two of you spent hours going back and forth,almost like a game of chess. Mihawk dug deeper into you this time, questioning you more about your knives, how you cared for them and the like. It didn't go unnoticed by him how knowledgeable you were about blades, just as it didn't go unnoticed by him just how much your face lit up discussing them.

It was refreshing for once to talk with someone who actually knew about blades, just like it was refreshing to have someone not question your skills.In turn, Mihawk answered all questions you had about Yoru, questions that if any one else had asked him, he wouldn't have answered. You felt very flattered that he was willing to tell you.

Others in the tavern watched you closely. It was entertaining to see The Dagger Queen being very flirty with the likes of Hawk-Eye Mihawk. Some of them wondered if you planned on mounting him there. Unknown to them, it was something you seriously considered. Mihawk for his part wished there was a curtain he could draw so the two of you could have more privacy. Even if he didn't say it, his thoughts towards you as the night went on were anything but professional.

As it got closer to midnight, after splitting several bottles of wine, you were feeling a bit loose. You were also hoping that Mihawk was feeling so as well so you could get the truth out of him.

“So Warlord, I'm curious to know?” You said, lowering your voice.

“Yes..”

“After I left you hanging last time,did you have to have someone else handle the problem or did you handle it yourself?”

“Does it matter which one?” Mihawk asked.

“Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn't. But I am curious…”

“Would it bother you if someone else did?” He asked,challenging you.

To your surprise, that stung a bit. And it showed just a bit in your expression. You wished you could take it back. No point now.

“Why would it bother me?” You said, putting a smile back on.

“Because you asked. But I'll tell you which one it was,if you answer the question yourself.”

“You want to know if you made me wanna finger myself?” You said, dropping your voice even further. “Fine. Yes.”

“I handled things myself. Though I would have preferred not to.” Mihawk admitted, keeping his own voice low.Relief flooded through you, to your surprise, upon hearing those words.

Before you could stop yourself, you asked “Do you want me to make it up to you?”

“Depends. Do you actually plan to do so, or do you plan to have me handle things on my own again?” Mihawk asked, a wry smirk on his face. He knew full well there was a chance you would dip out on him again, but taking that chance was half the fun.

“Come up to my room and you will find out.” You said, standing up.

“Which room?”

“Oh, it's not here. I've a room somewhere here in town. If you find it, I’ll make it up to you.” You said, with a playful grin as you walked towards the door, handing some berry to the barman as you did.

Mihawk got up, paid for his tab and began his search. With there being quite a few taverns, he decided to start searching immediately. He hit up every one, asking if you were there. No one reported you booking a room with them. After several hours of searching, he headed straight for the docks, wondering if you had boarded a ship already. You hadn't. Others would have conceded defeat. But others were not Mihawk.

Unknown to Mihawk, you had a room, but not at an inn. Unknown to him, you decided to stay with an old friend who lived by the docks. Before you retired for the night, you looked out the window and saw Mihawk making his way along the dock itself. You found yourself tempted to call out to him and have him join you in your room. But you didn't.

You recalled your conversation with him. The man had gone to the trouble to track you down, even after you left him hanging. You suspected that he was not one to give up on a quarry easily. You wanted to see if that was true. How far would he track you to have you?

There was only one way to know.

________________________________________________________

*3 Months Later*

On a pier on Loguestown, a ship called the Thistle docked and prepared to unload its cargo. Along with many barrels of rum and whiskey, there were several passengers making this their stopping point for a few days.

As they all walked down the gangplank, someone off in the distance was watching them. Having heard that a particular passenger they were looking for would be on this ship, they waited patiently or as patiently as they could. Someone was watching them closely with hawk-like eyes.

Mihawk had arrived there the day before. Having managed to beat you there, he confirmed with his sources that you were due to arrive that day. As far as he was concerned, you couldn't arrive quickly enough.

Over the last few months, he had tailed you all over the east blue. Everytime the two of you stopped in the same place, the two of you would always have dinner. The two of you would spend the dinner flirting. And the two of you would spend the evenings yearning for each other, neither side wanting to be the one that caved completely. The game was such fun, why not keep it going?

“There you are.”

Upon spotting you, Mihawk smiled internally, thrilled to once again lay eyes on you. This time, he wanted to play things differently. He watched from afar while you walked into the Red Dragon. He had learned from his sources that anytime you stayed in Loguestown, you usually stayed there. After about ten minutes, he saw you walk back out, without your bags.

Mihawk carefully tailed you through the busy streets. Anytime you stopped somewhere to look around, he would quickly hide.The citizens took notice of him moving quickly, just assuming he was there to take someone in and it was just best that they stay out of his way. And with the determined look in his face, they knew that whomever he was after was in for it.

Though Mihawk kept himself out of sight, you knew full well he was following you and you loved it. You had planned to quickly lead him through town for a little surprise, but you decided that having him tail you longer was more fun. After all, you knew he enjoyed a good chase, why not make things more pleasurable for all involved?

Along the way, you walked into several shops. Everytime you did so, you wondered if he would follow you in. He didn't. You decided to use that time to pick up a few things for later, things you planned to show only to him. At least one item had lace on it.

After a few hours, you got close to the location. You considered back tracking a bit and letting him follow you in circles, but that would mean risking him getting his prize sooner than planned.

Mihawk followed you along the way and soon he saw you walk into a warehouse not far from the docks. He didn't know what you could be doing there, as far as he knew, those warehouses hadn't been used for some time. What did you really have in mind?

Wisdom would have been to just wait outside the warehouse. But it was possible you would be in there for sometime. Not to mention after tailing you these last few hours, on top of chasing you through the East Blue, Mihawk found himself on edge. You were so close he could almost taste you.

Seeing the bay doors ajar, Mihawk carefully approached them, listening for any movement, hoping you hadn't slipped out of a secret exit.

“Oh Mighty Warlord…” Came a voice, speaking in a sing-song tone. “Won't you come in and find me?”

Mihawk knew in the back of his mind this was not wise. But damn it all if your voice hadn't turned into a Siren’s call for him.

Mihawk walked up to the doors and shoved them open. Inside the warehouse was dark. As he made his way in, he examined his surroundings. Along the walls were crates long since abandoned. The floors seemed to be covered with tattered sails and ropes. Even more sails and ropes were hanging from the ceiling.

“Where are you, Dagger Queen?”

As Mihawk took a step forward,he felt the ground give way under. He heard several pulleys activate. Then he felt himself quickly lifted into the air. A few seconds later, it jerked to a stop. He quickly realized what had happened, you had caught him in a trap and from the looks of it, you had trapped him with a very thick rope net.

Below him, he heard laughing. Looking down, he saw you step out of the shadows. Walking up to the center of the room, you stood just below him, your hands on your hips, looking very pleased with yourself.

“Well well well, it's not everyday I trap a Warlord.” You said, grinning triumphantly.

“Let me down!”

“Oh Mighty Warlord, that's not how this works. If you want down from there, you will have to find a way out.”

Mihawk watched as you quickly headed towards the doors. Before you walked out, you turned back to him and said “If you manage to get out soon, you just might catch me at the Red Dragon, room number 16. Good luck, Mighty Warlord!”

Mihawk gritted his teeth as he watched you strut out the doors, grabbing a bag on the way out. If he hadn't been so caught up, he could have avoided this. But here he was. Caught like a damn amateur. All he could do now was work his way out. Examining the rope, Mihawk swiftly deduced that using Yoru was out of the question. But that didn't mean that he didn't have other options.

“Dagger Queen, when I get a hold of you..”

Thinking it would take a bit for Mihawk to get out, you took your time heading to the Red Dragon, stopping at one or two more places to look around. You walked around with a smug expression, pleased as punch that your trap had worked.

After you were done looking around, you went back to the Red Dragon. Wanting to be ready, you decided to head up to the room to change. Since this promised to be a special occasion, you decided to spring for something a bit nicer.The room you had rented was rather spacious,with a large table in the far left corner for entertaining, a bed, vanity and bath on the right. Perfect for entertaining.

Opening the door, within seconds you saw that you were not alone.Sitting at the table was Mihawk, drinking a glass of wine,with Yoru carefully propped along the wall. He was looking at you like he had something devious planned for you.

“Mihawk. I didn't expect you so soon.” You said, trying to sound casual, as you set your bags down.

"Foolish girl.Did you seriously think that would hold the likes of me for long?" He said, his tone and words clipped.

"Can't blame a girl for trying." You pouted, both impressed and slightly disappointed that Mihawk had escaped so quickly for it meant you wouldn't have time to change.

Mihawk sat down the glass of wine and stood up. He walked over to you, much like a predator stalking its prey, made more potent by his yellow eyes, which you could swear were glowing. You swallowed hard, feeling very, very warm all of a sudden. He looked as if he might pounce on you and devour you in one bite.

"Just what did you hope to accomplish by trapping me?"

"Seeing what it would be like to have a warlord in my grasp. I must say, it was very hot." You said, keeping a playful tone. As he got closer to you, you found yourself walking backwards, keeping your eyes firmly on his.

"You've no idea what you have done to me, have you, you impudent little brat." He growled, his voice dropping even deeper as he enunciated those last few words. "Leading me on a chase for months, leaving me hard as stone every time we've met, leaving me wanting more?!"

The energy radiating off of him filled the room and enveloped you, making you feel more turned on than you ever thought possible. Hearing him confirm that he wanted you enough to chase you anywhere in the world was the greatest aphrodisiac.

"Do you know what I do to bratty little teases like you?” He snarled just as you were nearly to the door.

"Oh please tell me, Mighty Warlord of the Sea, tell me that it's a spanking?" You said, smiling devilishly,biting your lip,hoping more than anything he would bend you over his knees and give you a much wanted skelped arse. Or just to bend you over anything he wished.

Mihawk brought up a hand and lightly gripped your neck, pushing you against the door, making you gasp loudly. He brought whole body closer to yours, his rumbling voice sending shivers all through you. He ran this thumb over your lips, sorely tempted to shove his long fingers in your mouth, just to see how many your smart mouth could take.

“I don't reward naughty little girls.”

Knowing you were within reach, keeping your eyes on his, you smirked and went to reach for his cock, curious to know if it truly was bigger than the kogatana.

“Really now? Because you holding me like this sure feels like a reward..”

Your fingers had barely touched the fabric of his trousers when, with lightning fast speed, he reached down, grabbed your wrists and pinned your hands above your head.

With you trapped, Mihawk let go of your neck and ran his fingers down your chest, causing your breath to shorten. He then reached down your top, between your breasts and pulled out the knife you kept hidden. He then twirled it between his fingers and then stuck it into his coat.

"You want to do this the hard way then. So be it. Kneel.”

“No.”

“Was I not clear? Kneel.”

“Dracule Mihawk…Make Me.” You said, with a lascivious grin, bringing your face to his, finally saying the four words you had dreamt of saying to him.

Mihawk reached over with one hand and locked the door. He brought you hands down, spun you around and pushed you against the wall again. Before you knew it, you felt cold steel around your wrists.

“Figured you were the type to carry cuffs.” You snarked as you heard them click.

That wasn't the only thing that Mihawk carried. No sooner had he cuffed you, than he quickly brought out a long red piece of cloth, which he quickly tied tightly around your mouth.

“I don't recall saying that you could keep talking.” He growled as he tied a firm knot. Once he was done, he turned you back around to face him. Seeing you bound and gagged, you looking at him with those eyes of yours made him even harder.This was going to be such fun.

Mihawk pulled you away from the wall and towards the center of the room. He wanted plenty of space to play with you. He circled you slowly, looking you up and down, looking forward to having you stripped down. You couldn't resist following him with your eyes, watching to see what he might do next.

“Are you going to listen this time and kneel?” He said firmly as he stood in front of you again, his golden eyes staring deeply into yours, it was deeply intoxicating.

You lowered your gaze, knowing that if you didn't, you would give in right there and then. So you shook your head “No.”

“You don't know when to quit, do you?”

Mihawk then brought your knife back out and ran the tip of the blade under your jawline.You closed your eyes, shivering with pleasure, your knees shaking so much it was a miracle you were still standing.

“One more time: Kneel.”

You swallowed hard, and carefully you dropped to one knee first, then the other. You looked back up, seeing Mihawk towering over you. There you could see the large bulge in his trousers.

“So, you will obey orders.” Mihawk said, giving you a smile that looked almost demonic. “Good.”

Mihawk walked over to the table, put your knife down and grabbed one of the chairs, putting it in front of you. He sat down, crossed his arms and his legs, keeping his gaze on you,

"Such a delectable sight we have here: a brat on their knees who can't run their mouth. I think I'll keep you like this for a bit." Mihawk purred, feeling himself throb at the sight of you kneeling before him.

Wanting badly to make you as horny as you had made him, Mihawk uncrossed his legs, letting you see the imprint of his cock against his trousers. To make it better or worse, Mihawk ran his left hand over the bulge, keeping his eyes on yours. He saw your eyes go very wide and saw your lips tremble.

"Is this what you want?"

You quickly nodded " Yes”, feeling your knickers get even damper.

"Have you been wanting this the whole time? Have you played with your cunt thinking about my cock?"

You quickly nodded " Yes."

"I bet you’ve played with it a lot. Tell me, did thinking about me make you come hard all over your fingers?"

You quickly nodded " Yes." again.

Mihawk couldn't resist teasing you a bit more. He stood up, and went to make it as if he was going to leave you there.

"It's a shame though. If you had behaved, you could have had me sooner. I'd have filled that mouth and that cunt of yours so many times."

He quickly noticed the panicked look in your eyes. He saw you start to struggle with the cuffs. Mihawk walked back towards you and started circling around you again.

"Oh, so you don't like the idea of being left in the lurch, do you? After you have done so to me time and time again, it's what you would deserve.But I suppose I'll stay a bit longer. I don't want anyone else playing with what's mine.”

Mihawk took his hat off, hung it on a hook near the door and walked back over to the chair. He first removed his long coat and vest harness, setting it on the back of the chair. Seeing those thick, muscular arms and those shoulders of his, hard won by his years of sword fighting and wielding a sword like Yoru, was utterly delightful. You could even see a few scars that were normally kept hidden by the coat.

He then slid off his boots and set them aside. With just his trousers left, Mihawk brought his hands up to his belt and took his time undoing it. With your eyes firmly at his waist, he watched your eyes go wide as you saw him slide his trousers down, finally letting you get a good view of his cock.

He wasn't lying when he said it was bigger than the kogatana. It's way bigger.

“Does this please you?”

You looked back up at him and nodded yes vigorously.

Mihawk sat back down. The only things left on him were his kogatana and a very devious smile on his face. Mihawk took a hold of his cock again and started running his hand up and down it.

“I think it's time we put that mouth of yours to good use.”He said, crooking two of his fingers.” Crawl to me”

Carefully, you shuffled along the floor, not wanting to fall on your face before you reached Mihawk. As you reached him, he brought up his right hand to the gag still wrapped firmly around your mouth.

“Listen carefully, for I’m only going to tell you this once: I’m going to take this gag off now. But if you mouth off again, it goes back on and it will stay on.Understood?”

You nodded yes.

“Good. Now when I do take this off, you don't speak unless I address you. And you will address me as ‘Sir.’Understood?”

You nodded yes again, eager for the gag to come off.

Mihawk slid his fingers under the gag and pulled it down, it coming to rest around your neck. You gasped for breath, glad to finally have it off. Mihawk then ran his thumb over your mouth again, this time pushing it inside, where to his delight you sucked on it, moaning lightly as you did so.Feeling your soft lips around it made him pulse and made him close his eyes a moment, nearly forgetting himself.

“You want your mouth filled, don't you?” Mihawk said as he removed his hand.

“Yes, Sir” You said, the words quickly escaping you, your voice filled with lust. Finally, openly calling him that felt amazing.

“Much better.” Mihawk purred, utterly delighted. It was time to finally get started.

Seeing you between his legs, on your knees and eager for him was very intoxicating. Mihawk put a hand on your head and pushed you down towards the tip of his cock. You licked your lips just before you reached it. With how long and thick he was, you knew he was going to fill you up quickly. Mihawk closed his eyes and sighed loudly at feeling you swallow him inch by inch.

Your mouth was so warm, your lips soft as silk, so perfect around him, like your mouth was made just for him.He ran his fingers through your hair as your head moved up and down the length of him, moaning and whimpering the whole time. He was so long he easily reached past the back of your throat.

When your mouth reached the base of him, you looked up at him to see if he was watching. Mihawk’s head was tilted back, he was breathing deeply, doing everything he could to keep himself from finishing too quickly. Wanting him to watch you, you brought yourself up off of his cock, making him gasp and look down at you. Before he could say anything, you brought your tongue to the base of his cock and licked him all the way up to the tip, keeping your eyes on his.

With a smirk, you started swallowing him whole again, this time faster than before. For a second you closed your eyes, delighting in the salty taste of his skin.

“Look at me”

You opened your eyes and peered up at Mihawk.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

You obeyed as you finished taking in his length all over again, moaning loudly as you felt the tip go past your throat. Mihawk bit his lip, barely maintaining his composure, as you moved up and down him over and over, faster this time. Now used to his length, you found a rhythm that was very pleasurable for you both. You only wished you could finger yourself while you sucked on him.

Mihawk thoroughly enjoyed watching you take him over and over again. Even more so, he enjoyed watching you keep your eyes on him like the obedient girl he knew you could be just for him. He saw you flex your hands behind your back,still bound by the shackles. He could smell just how wet you were, imagine just how badly you wanted your cunt played with. It would be played with, when the time was right.

“You look so good with your mouth full of me.” He sighed, caressing your cheeks. All the times he imagined you sucking him off under a tavern table or alone elsewhere were nothing compared to the sight of your arms bound behind your back.

You didn't let up either. Forcing yourself to focus, you increased your rhythm, delighting in hearing Mihawk’s breath get shorter and shorter. Looking up at him, seeing his eyes closed, his jaw tightly clenched, doing all he could to keep his composure was intensely hot. Had your hands not been bound, you might have used them to massage him as well.

Mihawk swore through gritted teeth as you made him come hard. He put his hands on your head,running his fingers through your hair as several mouthfuls of him went down your throat. Once he was done, he loosened his hold on you, allowing you to come up off of his cock and catch your breath.Mihawk reached down and caressed your cheek. You had done so well for him. It was your turn.

“On your feet.”

It took a moment, but you managed it.

“See that table?” Mihawk said.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Go to it. Lay flat on your face. Spread your legs”

“Yes, Sir.”

You walked over to the table and carefully laid down on it. Once you were in position, Mihawk got up from the chair and picked up his coat, from which he retrieved the keys to the cuffs. As he walked over to you, seeing you bent over, seeing that amazing arse of yours, he seriously considered giving you that spanking you wanted earlier. If you continued to be good, he would perhaps later on.

After removing your knife holsters and carefully placing them to the side,Mihawk placed himself right behind you and reached between your thighs, quickly discovering just how wet you were. He slid his hand up even further, feeling that you were even wetter, and making your legs tremble.

“So you have ruined your knickers,have you? We should do something about that, shouldn't we? But first things first.”

Mihawk took the keys and unlocked the cuffs, removing them and letting them fall to the floor. Relieved to have them off, you quickly moved your arms to your front, rubbing your wrists a bit.

“Take your clothes off.” Mihawk ordered. You stood up and quickly obliged, glad to finally have them and your boots off of you. When they were off, you stood still, waiting for your next command.

Mihawk smiled. “You’re full of surprises. I'd have thought you’d take the chance to finally finger yourself.”

“Sir didn't tell me to.” You said, wondering if you were about to be ordered to do so.

You breathed deep, shuddering breaths as you felt Mihawk’s fingers work their magic.You were so horny you knew it wouldn't be very long before you came.And Mihawk knew it.

“True, I did not.” Mihawk said, as he began running a hand over your arse. “But while I have you here..”

Mihawk pushed you back down onto the table and slipped his hand between your legs. Running his fingers through your wet lips, he quickly found your clit and started rubbing it, which was so pleasurable, your legs buckled under you.

"Do you come when you are told to do so?”

"Does…Sir..want me..to now?" You asked between big gasps of breath.

"Not just yet." Mihawk said, as he removed his hand from between your legs. You whimpered, wondering why he saw fit to stop.

"Turn over."

With what little strength you could muster, you pushed yourself up,turned over and sat down at the edge of the table. Mihawk retrieved the chair from the center of the room and brought it over to the table. Placing it in front of you,he sat down in it and moved closer to you.

“My turn to eat.”

Mihawk took your legs and threw them over his shoulders. He went back and forth leaving kisses along your inner thighs, his neatly trimmed beard brushing against your skin, tickling a bit, but still very pleasurable. As he got closer to your dripping wet cunt, you heard him growl deeply, so deep it reminded you of a wild, ravenous beast.

Just as he got to your opening, he bit into your right thigh, enough to get your attention, not enough to draw blood. You moaned loudly, gripped the edge of the table firmly as his teeth dragged along your tender flesh, making you quiver.

“Do that again Sir..” You whimpered.

“I thought I gave the orders here.” Mihawk teased. “Very well.” Mihawk quickly bit into your other thigh. Just as before, it was sharp but pleasurably so.

“Thank you, Sir.” You murmured between deep breaths as you felt his mouth let go of you.

Mihawk quickly moved on to your opening. As soon as he reached it, he dragged his tongue up and down slowly, rolling it over and around your clit, stopping only to suck on it hard.You screamed so loud those downstairs heard it.

Mihawk tightened his arms around your legs and kept moving his tongue every which way he could. His tongue even ended up inside you. The sensation of him rolling his tongue in circles inside you was absolutely divine. As was hearing him growl as he pleasured you.

You tried to remain sitting up as he ate you. But soon you gave up and so you laid down across the table, feeling very much like a feast. Mihawk’s grip on you remained firm and as he felt you lay down, he opened his golden eyes to watch you writhe and arch your back as each flick of his tongue sent wave after wave of pleasure through you, each one stronger than before.

He thought to stop so that he might order you to come, but he didn't. He didn't want to let up from feasting on something so delightful. He wanted to keep watching you thrash about as you struggled not to come too quickly. And he certainly didn't want to stop hearing your breath get shorter and shorter, hearing you moan and whimper, watching you grip the edges of the table for dear life. But he brought his mouth up to your clit again, you screamed louder this time and came all over his mouth. Mihawk kept going as you rode each wave of pleasure.

As the last wave subsided, you slowly propped yourself up. Looking down at your lover as he sat there licking his lips clean of your juices, you only had one thought, how much you wanted to ride him.

You turned over a bit, brought your right foot to Mihawk’s chest, and kicked him hard enough to knock him to the floor, stunning him for a moment. While he was distracted, you got off the table, straddled him, grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.Mihawk saw the triumphant smirk on your face as you brought your face to his, kissing him hard and biting on his lower lip, pulling on it. To your delight, Mihawk responded in kind.

Upon breaking the kiss, you kept your face to his, grinning, absolutely certain you had the upper hand.

“What makes you think you can hold me?” Mihawk growled lightly.

“The fact that I am on top of you for once, Sir.” You snarked.

“Think again.”

Mihawk quickly broke free of your grasp, wrapped his arms around your and flipped you over onto your back. He then picked you up and very quickly had you cornered against the wall, with you facing it.

“You disappoint me.You were being so good” He snarled in your ear as he spread your legs apart.“If you had behaved, I might have rewarded you.”

“I only promised not to mouth off, Sir.” You said turning your head to face him, your voice beginning to quiver as you felt him take his cock and run the tip of it along your opening.

Mihawk then took your arms and pulled them behind your back, holding your wrists together with his left hand. He then lifted your right leg and pushed you further into the wall, letting you enjoy him filling you over and over again for a time.

“I should have left you bound and gagged. That was my mistake. And now..” Mihawk warned just as he started guiding himself inside you. “I'm going to fix that.”

Any smart remark you had on the tip of your tongue was quickly dissolved as you felt his cock enter you. You moaned loudly as he quickly filled you up.You could swear that he was even harder than before.Mihawk started thrusting slowly at first, shuddering with pleasure at how firmly you gripped him.

Mihawk started to go a bit faster, pinning you firmly in place. He then buried his face in your neck as he went at you, his deep moans filling your ears,his warm breath against your skin sent shivers down your spine. He fucked you so hard and fast that the art along the wall began to move. With how he growled, it sounded as if he couldn't have you close enough to him to satiate his hunger for you.

With you pinned the way you were, you could hardly move. You found yourself digging your nails into your hands. You would have much preferred to dig them into Mihawk’s skin or run them through his hair. You tried to wrest your arms free from his grip, but his grip on your wrists remained firm.

“Even now, you can't resist misbehaving, can you?.” He purred as he pushed himself into you even harder.

“No, sir. “ You murmured, “Not when it's so much fun.”

Mihawk loosened his grip on you just a bit, just to see if you would try him again. As much as he enjoyed making you behave, he loved it when you challenged him.Sure enough you did. The second you felt him give way, you tried harder to break free and nearly succeeded.

“Oh so close..” He teased as he regained full control. As he came up for air, his piercing eyes fell upon the vanity near the bed. Mihawk loved having you against the wall, but there was another option that he loved even more.

You felt Mihawk let go of your leg and ease himself off of and out of you, though he still kept control of your wrists. He pulled you away from the wall and towards the bed. As you got to it, he let go of your wrists.

“On your hands and knees.” He ordered. You quickly obeyed, eager for him to be back inside you. As much as he wanted to fuck you on the vanity proper, the bed would be much more comfortable.

It was then that you noticed the vanity,with its large circular mirror just in time to watch Mihawk guide himself back inside you,pulling you tightly to him. Having never been fucked in front of a mirror before, you wanted to be sure and watch Mihawk. Seeing the look on his face as he entered you again, watching him close his eyes, bite his lip and moan loudly as he felt your dripping wet cunt grip him again was amazing.

Mihawk looked to see if you were watching and was delighted to know that you were, just as delighted as he was to see you grip the bedding tighter and tighter with each thrust of his hips. He ran his hands along your back and over your hips, sorely tempted to give you the spanking you asked for there and then.

“See how good you look?”

“Yes,Sir.” You gasped, trying to keep your eyes focused on the mirror. As delightful as it was to watch, with each thrust from Mihawk pushing you closer to coming again, you didn't know how much longer you would last.

Neither did Mihawk. He gripped your hips firmly again,looking down to watch himself enter you over and over again. Having you bent over like this for him, hearing you whimper and moan louder and louder with each thrust was pushing him to the edge sooner than he wanted. Mihawk started to slow down a bit, which you quickly noted, wondering if he was going to move you again.

You were right. Mihawk slowed down just enough to allow himself to flip you onto your back. He wrapped your legs around him and brought his face closer to yours.Sliding his arms under you, he resumed thrusting hard and deep, letting himself get lost in you moaning in his face and soon you found yourself on the edge of sweet, sweet oblivion.

“Open your eyes.”

You obeyed.

“Keep them on me.” He murmured as he brought his face to rest on yours. Having his eyes bore deeply into yours was rather hypnotic.

“Be a good girl and come for me.”

The last word barely escaped your lips as your lips as you came. You dragged your nails along Mihawk’s arms as you made quite the mess on him, Mihawk growled with pleasure as he felt your nails scrape his flesh. Mihawk kept going hard and fast.

Barely a moment after you finished, Mihawk did as well, grabbing the bedding under you so tightly he nearly ripped it.As hard as he came in your mouth earlier, it was even stronger this time.After he finished, he rested his head on yours, the both of you for a moment lost in a haze.

Mihawk lifted himself up a bit and caressed your cheek gently, basking in how beautiful you looked. Though it was gentle,it was enough to get your attention.

“Still want that spanking?”

You nodded yes and moved your hips to where Mihawk could oblige you. Mihawk finally pulled out of you and got into a better position.He ran a hand over your cheeks, massaging them for a moment, before he raised his hand and gave them several, pleasurable smacks.After he was done you moved your hips again, enjoying the remaining sting on your lovely arse. You felt as limp as a ragdoll.

You remained still on the bed,eyes closed, comfortable, no desire to move at all. All you wanted to do was just bask in what had happened. Time seemed to move slowly. You felt amazing.

As you lay there, you wondered what Mihawk would do next.With him having taken his pleasure finally after a few months of you playing games, perhaps he was just going to be on his way. The game was over after all.Perhaps it was best to just enjoy it until sleep came.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

“One moment.” Mihawk called out. You felt him get off of the bed.Suddenly you felt him pick you up and move you. The next thing you knew, you felt yourself being laid back down and covered up.

“Rest here a moment.” He said. You nodded and closed your eyes again.

You heard a door open and close. You heard footsteps. You heard what sounded like things being moved around. You quickly opened your eyes and to your surprise, it was Mihawk, dressed in just his trousers. On the table was a large platter of food, a few bottles of wine and another glass. Mihawk opened a bottle, poured some wine into the glasses and brought them over to you, along with some food.

" Here.You need to replenish." He said gently as he brought it over. He handed you a glass and sat the food down next to you.

You started to prop yourself up.As you did, you felt a great deal of soreness in your lower abdomen, making you wince a bit. Upon taking the glass from him, you drank deeply of the red liquid, closing your eyes, enjoying the warmth of it as it spread through your body. It was exquisite, just like your lover.

Mihawk sat down beside you and removed the blanket. Mihawk looked over your hips, even running his hands over your stomach. Once he was finished there, he set about examining the rest of you.

"Mihawk, what are you doing?”

“Making sure you are not injured.What we just did wasn't exactly gentle.”

“Right. Good point.” You muttered, wondering where such care was coming from.

As Mihawk examined you from top to bottom, you found yourself becoming more confused by the moment.It was startling to see him pay such attention to you like this. Why did Mihawk care at all if you had been injured during sex? Was this something he did for all of his lovers?

Mihawk glanced back up at you and noted your bewildered expression.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly, wondering if perhaps he had taken things way too far, and if he had, he was more than prepared to make things right.

Still processing it all, you told him.”Yeah, a bit sore. But I am alright.”

Mihawk instantly sensed there was more to it. He was right.You had been mentally prepared for Mihawk to just walk out the door after he was finished. It never occurred to you that not only would he stay, but that he would stay and take care of you. You were very pleased he had, but this was a side of him you never expected.

“How about we fix that?” He said, getting up, walking over to the bathtub and turned the water on.

“A bath?” You said, setting down your wine glass.

“Best thing for soreness.” Mihawk said as he walked back over to you.

“What about this?” You said, gesturing to the food and wine.

“I doubt it will go anywhere.” He smirked as he got back to the bed. Before you could say anything further, Mihawk picked you up and carried you over to the tub, which had a small table next to it. As he sat you down on the edge of it, you reached over to test the water. It was the perfect temperature.

Mihawk helped you climb. While you were getting situated, Mihawk retrieved both his and yours wine glasses and brought them over, handing you yours.You looked up at him and asked. “You getting in or what?”

With a playful smile, Mihawk sat his glass down, climbed in and situated himself across from you, turning the water off as he did so. He ended up putting your legs on top of his and he quickly began rubbing them.

“Much better.” You murmured,picking up your glass and taking another drink, feeling more relaxed than you had in awhile. “I could get used to this.”

Mihawk looked at you, a bit surprised.“Used to what?”

“Being cared for after sex.” You said, a bit ashamed to admit it.

“You’ve never had someone take care of you after sex before?” He asked, a bit incredulous.

You shook your head “No.”

“Then apparently, you’ve never met anyone worth a damn have you?” Mihawk said,more than a bit pleased that he was the first to pamper you like this.

“Apparently not. You thought to yourself.“ Why are you doing this though? I mean, why would you want to do this?”

“Why shouldn't I?”

You explained, ticking off on your fingers,“Well, I bratted to you. I led you on a chase for months. I trapped you in a warehouse for fucks sake.And after we finally have sex, you decide to pamper me?”

“I greatly enjoyed our little chase.I greatly enjoyed you.It's only right that I see to your needs afterwards.” He explained as he grabbed his own glass and took a drink.

You thought back to previous lovers, all of whom left before you could barely say anything, a few of whom even tried swiping things from you. A few were fun, but not nearly as much as Mihawk was.

"You are something else, Warlord.” You said with a playful smile. “ That reminds me though, when did we get food and wine?”

"I ordered it when I got here, and told them to bring it by a certain time." Mihawk explained.

“Probably a good idea, especially considering…"

"Considering what?"

"With how loud we were, I'm not sure I'd have the nerve to face the crowd downstairs right now." You said, a tad mortified about how loud you were.

“I'm certain they have heard worse." Mihawk said as he drank deeply. “Only thing that matters is did you enjoy yourself?”

“To put it politely, tonights going to be very hard to top.”

“I should hope so.” Mihawk smirked.

As much as you were enjoying just being there with Mihawk, you wondered just how much longer it would be before he got dressed, walked out of the door and possibly out of your life.The last few months had been some of the best in your life.You didn't want to spoil the moment, but curiosity got the better of you.

“So,is this where our little game ends?” You asked, thinking if it was, it was best to know now.

“Do you want it to end here?”

“No.” You answered quickly.

“Then it won't. “ Mihawk said, beyond thrilled to know that you wanted to keep things going. “It only ends when we,together, decide to end it.”

“Good to know. But..”

“Yes?”

“What are we going to do for the rest of the night though?”

Mihawk reached down and quickly pulled you over to him. Your hands quickly found his cock, which to your surprise,was very hard again.

You bit your lip in anticipation. Something told you that whatever Mihawk had in mind for you next, would be even more intense than the first round.

“I told you once before: I don't tire easily. Are you ready for more?”

“Yes,Sir.”

396 notes · View notes

averyjadedemerald · 1 day ago

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A Vintage Bouquet: 10

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Chapter Title: (Extra 1) Zoro & Persona Length: 10.5 K+

Previous/Next

Mihawk had been gone exactly three days when chaos arrived.

Not in the form of pirates. Not in the form of a mandrill rebellion. Not even in the form of Shanks, who you assumed was somewhere narrowly dodging Mihawk’s wrath and possibly hiding behind a wine barrel.

No. This chaos wore platform shoes, smeared eyeliner, and screamed like a banshee falling out of hell.

Perona arrived.

You were checking fermentation barrels in the lower cellar, carefully ladling wine to test for acidity, when the sky cracked like an omen. A sound like thunder rolled across the vineyard. There was a sudden flash of light, followed by a deafening shriek:

“WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

You dropped the ladle. Rude Bastard launched himself onto the roof with his sword in his mouth like he expected war. You rushed out to the courtyard, wiping your hands on your apron, just in time to see it.

Through the mist and vines, you spotted a figure tumbling through the air. She was draped in tulle, lace, and gothic rage. And she had been flung like a decorative cannonball.

She landed in the center courtyard with a glittery thud, parasols splayed like petals around her, one boot kicking the air in slow protest.

You approached carefully, mandrills flanking you like a security detail you hadn’t actually asked for.

Perona sat up groggily, blinked twice, and screeched, “THIS IS NOT THRILLER BARK!”

You stared at her.

“You’re on Kuraigana,” you said. “I don’t know how. And I’m not sure I want to.”

Perona squinted at you. “Kuraigana? Like… Dracule Mihawk’s Kuraigana?”

You nodded.

She blinked. “Wait. You’re not Mihawk.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Neither are you. And you don’t seem entirely conscious.”

She flopped onto her back, wailing again. “I was in the middle of a mood swing and then—KUMA!” She kicked her heels and sobbed for a full three seconds before abruptly sitting up, adjusting her crown, and announcing, “Fine. I’ll just live here until he returns.”

You opened your mouth to object.

Stopped.

Shut it again.

Looked up at the sky as if it might provide context.

It did not.

By nightfall, she had claimed the East tower, declared the décor “tragically hopeless,” borrowed one of your shawls without asking, and demanded an explanation about Mihawk’s “mysterious farmer-tenant situation.”

You poured yourself a tall glass of wine and sat down at the table.

“I’m his wife,” you said simply.

Perona choked on thin air. “He is married?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

You took a long sip. “I’m told it was a trap. With excellent wine pairings.”

Despite the melodramatic entrance and exhausting volume, Perona settled in better than expected. She painted little ghost faces on the fermentation barrels. She terrorized the mandrills until they decided they liked her. She rifled through your ribbon stash and left a trail of glitter in every room she visited.

And at night, when she thought no one noticed, she sat out on the ramparts. Quiet. Still. Watching the moon with a look so sad and faraway that it made something in your chest ache.

So you made her tea.

And she drank it without complaint. And you decided, okay, she can stay.

Mihawk would return to exactly what he left. Almost.

Order. Wine. A wife who did not tolerate disarray in her vineyard.

With the added addition of a small gothic squatter nesting in the east tower, crying over smudged nail polish and teaching mandrills how to waltz.

You sipped your wine one evening from the porch, watching Perona’s ghost lights drift lazily in the upper window like confused fireflies.

“I should warn him,” you muttered.

You didn’t. Let him be surprised. You could use the entertainment.

He arrived at dusk a day later.

The sky was thick and purple, the color of spilled ink soaking into the horizon. The wind slipped through the vineyard in slow waves, making the vines rustle like something half asleep. The mandrills spotted him first and responded as trained thespians might; running full tilt to the ridge, hooting like opera singers in the third act of a tragic love story.

Rude Bastard launched into a somersault. Two other mandrills, seemingly from nowhere, produced horns and blew them with questionable talent and excessive enthusiasm.

Boots crunching the gravel path. Cloak dusted in sea salt and dignified exhaustion. Yoru slung over his back like a warning.

You didn’t run to him. You stayed where you were, arms folded, trying not to smile.

“You left me for five days,” you called out.

“Four and a half,” he said without missing a step.

“Five. And I had the added pleasure of having to explain to a goth ghost princess that yes, I’m your wife, and no, it wasn’t part of a cursed sword pact.”

He paused. A brow lifted.

“Pardon?”

“Her name is Perona. She lives in the tower now. Says she’s waiting for someone named Gecko Moria. I told her we don’t have any geckos. She cried.”

A long silence.

“I like her.” You added.

Then a resigned nod.

“Fine.”

Before he could ask anything else, a shriek echoed across the courtyard.

“YOU!”

Perona stormed out like a furious cake topper, hair enormous, dress glittering, eyes wild. She clutched a wine glass she had very much not asked permission for. Her heels clacked across the stones with the intensity of someone about to lay down a curse.

She marched right up to Mihawk, stopped short, then began to circle. Once around him. Once around you. Then again.

“You are Dracule Mihawk,” she said slowly, pointing like a very dramatic prosecuting attorney. “Fellow Warlord of the Sea of Gecko Moria. The world’s strongest swordsman. You sliced a mountain because someone annoyed you.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“And you’re married to a woman who wears aprons. Who talks to mandrills. About compost.”

You opened your mouth to reply.

Mihawk didn’t even blink. “She’s mine,” he said calmly. “The mandrills answer to her. So do I.”

You blinked.

Perona looked offended by the tenderness. “You’re in love.”

“Yes.”

“Like, actually in love.”

Mihawk tilted his head, as if he hadn’t really stopped to define it before now.

Perona turned to you, eyes wide and full of chaos.

“Are you magic?”

You took a long sip of wine.

“No. I just let him pretend he’s still intimidating while making sure he doesn’t poison the tomato plants.”

Perona blinked like she’d been seismically cursed and floated off in a swirl of ghostly indignation, trailing glitter and muttered complaints about domestic delusions and soil pH. You watched her disappear around the corner of the east tower with a fond shake of your head.

Later, as the sky slipped from rose to ink and the ghosts stopped glowing in the windows, Mihawk joined you on the porch.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just lowered himself onto the bench beside you, movements quiet and fluid, like a man who no longer needed to announce his presence to be known.

“You didn’t kill Shanks,” you said after a moment. “He called me to brag.”

“He’s difficult to kill.” Mihawk leaned back, resting an arm on the railing, to encircle you. “And I lost interest.”

You hummed, swirling your wine in its glass, watching the way the deep red clung to the crystal before falling in slow, lazy ribbons. “So I assume you came back because last year’s vintage is almost ready.”

Mihawk sat still beside you, his posture carved from stillness, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the candlelit terrace and the dark sprawl of the vineyard below. His silence stretched, not tense but deliberate, as if he were weighing the shape of his thoughts before allowing them to leave his mouth.

Then, at last, he spoke. “The World Government has taken a keen interest in a pirate crew called the Straw Hats.”

That surprised you. He rarely brought up politics unless it directly interfered with his peace. The nonsense the World Government sent his way was typically met with nothing more than disinterest and a long sigh.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Straw Hats? Did you not mention them several months ago, after you went to the East Blue?”

He gave a brief nod. “They are the reason Perona was swept here. That crew crossed Moria in Thriller Bark and bested him. Bartholomew Kuma was sent to clean up the mess, and used his devil fruit to send them skywards. Hence, our newest tenant.”

You blinked, the name catching on your tongue.

“Well that does explain a few things.”

Mihawk paused. And you turned towards him, knowing he was going to say something he wouldn’t enjoy.

His eyes were unreadable, but there was a faint tension in the lines around his mouth. “It means I may need to leave again soon.”

Then, softly, you asked the only thing that really mattered. You leaned into him, burying your face in his throat.

“Will you come back as soon as you can?”

His breath shifted, barely audible, and his eyes finally turned toward you. For a moment, the storm in him calmed.

“I always will.”

And that was it.

He sat beside you, close enough that your arm brushed his every time you raised your cup. Close enough to hear the small, relieved breath you let out without realizing.

Neither of you said anything more.

The moon climbed above the hills, casting silver light across the vineyard. The breeze pulled gently at the vines. Somewhere above, a ghost sighed theatrically and slammed a tower window shut.

You sat like that until the stars scattered overhead.

The second unexpected visitor arrived during bottling week; a time so sacred that even chaos had to wear an apron, carry a ladle, and contribute at least one barrel of sweat equity to be allowed within a hundred feet of the cellar.

As expected, Mihawk was absent. The World Government had dragged him out to sea again over what he casually described as “a hissy fit.”

You were elbow-deep in grape pulp when it happened. Hair pinned up. Sleeves rolled. Hands stained purple to the wrist. The sun was hot, the air thick with crushed fruit and discipline.

The mandrills shrieked.

Not the usual “Rude Bastard stole the good rock” sort of squabble. No, this was the kind of shrieking that meant someone had crossed the islands less friendly denizens. And they were about to regret it.

You barely had time to wipe your hands when the front gate crashed open.

A very roughed-up young man stumbled through like the opening act of a cautionary tale. Green-haired. Tall. Broad across the shoulders. Bleeding from three very specific places and growling like a wild animal forced to attend a poetry recital.

You stared at him for a long moment.

“…You’re not Perona.”

He squinted at you, eyes sharp beneath the furrow of his brow.

“Where am I?”

“Kuraigana. Apparently the newest stop on the Bartholomew Kuma time-out tour.”

He looked at you like you’d just pulled a rabbit out of your sleeve.

Your gaze dropped to the three swords at his waist, then back up to the scowl carved into his face. The man radiated the kind of confusion that came with waking up in a place you definitely hadn’t meant to be.

“Pirate?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“Straw Hat,” he grunted. Nothing more.

Of course he was.

A rock whistled past his head, narrowly missing his temple.

Then came the real mandrills.

Not the semi-domesticated ones who lounged in the courtyard sipping tea and occasionally critiqued table manners. No, these were the forest dwellers. The untamed. The ancient. They wore moss like armor and ruled themselves with snarls and a social structure based entirely on who had the biggest stick. Even Mihawk watched them with a wary eye (for your sake), and occasionally sparred with them to assert dominance.

They took one look at Zoro and hated him on sight.

“What the hell?!”

“They think you’re a threat,” you said, arms crossed.

“I’m not here for them. I’ve got to get back to Sabaody.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, watching as one of the mandrills began dragging an enormous bone club toward him. “Didn’t bring tribute. Didn’t announce yourself. Didn’t take your boots off. Mihawk will be displeased.”

“This is his place?” Zoro scowled. “You his housekeeper or something?”

The entire courtyard froze.

The tea-drinking mandrills gasped in unison. One dropped a biscotti. Another slowly tilted his porcelain cup until the tea spilled out in protest.

You smiled. Slowly. Patiently. Like a cat deciding whether to pounce or go back to sleep.

“No,” you said. “I’m his wife.”

Zoro went still. “…Wait. What.”

The mandrills on the garden wall stood at attention. Judgment was swift. And dramatic.

One held up a chalkboard that had not existed ten seconds earlier: Guest did not even bow.

Another flashed a hand-painted scorecard. Etiquette: 0/10. Fashion: Bandana? Really? Service to Mistress: Offensive.

Zoro’s hand went to his sword. “I’m not afraid of overgrown baboons.”

From the rooftop came a sharp clack.

Rude Bastard sat perched like a god of refined vengeance, paws slapping together in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The countdown had begun.

You gestured lazily. “You could fight them. But the cultured ones? They won’t lift a finger. They’ll just shame you into the dirt.”

Zoro hesitated. The mandrills inched closer.

One held up a vintage wine corkscrew like a judge about to deliver a sentence. Another sniffed the air, gagged dramatically, and scribbled on a second chalkboard. No scent of rosewood or remorse.

“This place is cursed,” Zoro muttered.

“No,” you said, already turning toward the cellar. “It’s curated.”

Eventually, with your intervention (and the offer of three dried apricots, one smoked sausage, and half a baguette), the forest mandrills retreated. The cultured ones gave him a single begrudging nod of tolerance, mostly out of respect for you.

Zoro, now bruised, insulted, and visibly unsure if he had wandered into a dojo or a vineyard-themed fever dream, sat on the porch beside you.

He nursed a scraped knuckle and muttered, “So… he really married someone.”

“He did,” you said, sipping your wine. “And you owe her an explanation, a bow, and a fruit basket for the Mandrills.”

He made a noise of protest.

Then glanced at the mandrills, who were watching him with the air of disappointed librarians.

“…Do they like swordplay?”

“They prefer aged cheeses and classical music,” you said without missing a beat, “but it’s a start.”

Zoro groaned and slouched against the wall.

Mihawk returned to his castle a couple of days later.

The wind was at his back, the scent of salt and storm still clinging to his cloak. His boots whispered through the gravel path, past the sleeping vines and the wine-heavy air of late season. The torches had been doused hours ago, but the windows flickered gold.

That was the first sign that something was wrong.

The second was the laughter.

He stopped mid-step.

Laughter. Inside his house.

His eye narrowed.

Not your laugh alone. No, this was multiple voices. Loud. Happy. Comfortable.

Far too comfortable.

He stepped into the castle foyer without a sound, passing the familiar stone walls and polished tile with the silent grace of a man who had once decapitated a vice-admiral mid-sentence. He paused only once, when the noise grew clearer.

Someone was telling a story. Someone else was laughing like they belonged there.

In the sitting room, firelight spilled out across the floor.

You, seated cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by mandrills and guests like some benevolent queen of absurdity. The fire crackled warmly. A half-demolished tray of figs, cheese, and bread lay on the table. Tea steamed in mismatched porcelain.

His heart warmed without recall, flooding him with heat and longing. Unfortunately, you were not alone.

Roronoa Zoro lounged beside you like a stray beast who’d mistaken Mihawk’s home for a dojo. He had a bandage over one ear, a teacup in one hand, and an expression that hovered somewhere between drunk and offended.

Perona had claimed the fainting couch, curled like a gothic cat draped in lace. She flipped through an issue of Maul Couture she had definitely stolen, sipping your wine and sighing at articles as if they personally failed her.

The cultured mandrills had set up folding screens. Napkin placements. They were sipping tea and holding up tiny handmade scorecards.

Rude Bastard raised a sign that read: 1.5/10 — Husband’s replacement?

Mihawk stared.

You looked up, cheeks pink with firelight, eyes bright. You smiled at the sight of him like he was not a warlord returning from a government summit, but someone who always had a seat waiting beside you.

“You’re home.”

He didn’t answer at first.

Just stepped forward, gaze sweeping across Zoro. Then Perona. Then the mandrills, who, in their defense, all looked like they had very strong opinions on etiquette.

Finally, his eyes found you again. Still smiling. Still radiant. Still entirely unbothered by the circus in your parlor.

He exhaled through his nose. Set Yoru beside the door with a loud click.

“…Apparently.”

And as he pressed his forehead to yours, skin to skin, he thought, not for the first time ‘Maybe I don’t mind’.

He didn’t. Until he did.

Not until Zoro dropped to his knees in the middle of the sitting room, bloodied but upright, swords planted before him like a knight making a vow.

“I want you to train me.”

Mihawk didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for Yoru.

Didn’t even uncross his arms.

He sat beside you on the low couch, the firelight gilding his profile, one hand resting lightly on your knee like he was prepared to defend your laughter from all interruptions, especially the loud, sword-wielding kind.

Zoro was breathing hard. Not from the climb or the bruises, but from sheer force of will holding his ribs together.

You sat still, one hand braced on the chair’s arm. You didn’t smile.

Not this time.

Because for the first time in a long while, you remembered—really remembered—what Mihawk was beneath the quiet. Beneath the warm hands and wine pours and longsuffering sighs when he found mandrills in your shared bed again.

He was a warlord. A pirate. A legend. A blade with a heartbeat.

This wasn’t your domain, and you weren’t about to insult your husband by interfering, as he did not yours.

And the boy kneeling on the ground below was asking to be forged.

Mihawk’s gaze shifted. Cool. Calculating. Winter sharp.

“You’d ask that of your enemy?” he asked, voice low.

Zoro didn’t hesitate. “You’re not my enemy right now. You’re the man I need to surpass.”

There was silence.

Then, without looking at you, Mihawk said dryly, “You’ve let in a stray.”

You blinked. “He’s not a—”

“He is. You have a soft spot for them.” he muttered, perhaps referring to himself as well.

The night continued, but Mihawk didn’t give Zoro the pleasure of a quick response. No, instead he indicated for dinner, and you were quick to divert attention, so your husband could mull things over.

Across the table, a mandrill was methodically peeling an orange while glaring at him. Beside it, another sat straight-backed with a tea napkin folded perfectly across its lap. Neither had warmed to Zoro. Not yet. Not while he kept bleeding on things and throwing off the dinner rotation.

Perona lounged nearby in a velvet chair, curled like a ghostly cat with attitude and accessories. She was painting a mandrill’s nails bright pink, humming under her breath like an aristocrat waiting for her wine. No one had invited her to dinner; she had simply arrived, announced her imminent death by starvation, and demanded food like the haunting of an abandoned ballroom.

And Mihawk?

Mihawk sat at the head of the table like a king of silence. One leg crossed. Wine in hand. Expression unreadable. His cloak was folded neatly over the back of his chair, Yoru resting within arm’s reach. He drank the wine you had harvested, bottled and spiced yourself.

He did not enjoy the taste tonight.

“This is absurd,” he murmured, not really to anyone.

The mandrill seated beside him (a particularly wise one, wearing a scarf tied like a sash) reached over and gently patted his arm in solemn agreement. The motion was graceful. Grave. Supportive.

Mihawk gave it a glare that could fell armies.

The mandrill patted again, unbothered.

You placed a fresh loaf of bread on the table, then passed Mihawk on your way back to the hearth. Your hand brushed his shoulder without thinking. A small, instinctive touch.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The way you moved. The way you hummed old tunes from your childhood. The kerchief tied neatly over your hair. The firelight in your eyes when you told someone (anyone, even him) to take their boots off or be exiled to the cellar.

He remembered when you wouldn’t even look at him.

Now you scolded him about tracked-in mud and uneven wine pours.

“Do you plan on feeding everyone who trespasses?” he asked, voice low, as you sat beside him and wiped your hands on a cloth.

“Only the ones who don’t bleed on my garden,” you said, calm as a priestess.

“I didn’t bleed on the—” Zoro started.

You didn’t even look at him. “I checked. You’re lucky the cabbages survived.”

Zoro slumped. The mandrill beside him offered a sympathy raisin and was rebuffed.

Mihawk stared into the fire, swirling the wine again.

“This castle used to be quiet.”

“This castle used to be empty,” you replied softly.

That shut him up.

He took a sip. Still too sweet. Probably from the apricots you’d insisted on trying this year. Not bad. Just… unfamiliar. Maybe he just needed time to acclimate. It seems most of the better things in his life did.

The mandrill sniffed the cup, unimpressed.

“Children,” Mihawk muttered into the rim, “...are a curse.”

The mandrill gave another slow, understanding nod, but dinner continued.

The air buzzed, not with tension, but with life.

Zoro passed out at the dinner table with a stew roll still clenched in his hand. Perona dusted glitter into the mandrills’ fur and taught them to braid ribbons like a deranged governess. You laughed too hard over wine, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with flour and purpose.

Mihawk sat at the head of the table, wine untouched, watching it unfold.

The swordsman, the ghost, the animals, the kitchen-turned-orphanage and most importantly, you.

You glowed with the attention.

Later, you brushed past him on your way to clear the plates, humming a song he didn’t recognize, something from the South Blue, something old and soft, and he stared into his cup like it had betrayed him.

“This is dangerous territory,” he muttered under his breath again.

Zoro groaned, staggered, and kept his eyes on you with something disturbingly close to admiration, after getting a taste of your wine.

Mihawk grunted, much like a territorial mandrill.

Then louder, with the slow, exasperated clarity of a man too old to be collecting dramatic teenagers: “Mandrills. Escort the newest guest to the training wing before he bleeds on my grapevines.”

Two mandrills emerged from the shadows like polite bodyguards, hauling Zoro to his feet with the tenderness of someone moving sacks of potatoes during a thunderstorm.

He groaned, staggered, and kept his eyes on Mihawk with something disturbingly close to admiration.

You rushed after him, already reaching for bandages, muttering, “I swear, if he stains the good floor I will soak his bandana in vinegar—”

Mihawk watched it all with arms folded, the picture of regal inconvenience.

Later, after dinner was cleared and the kitchen scrubbed, Zoro was dragged off by two mandrills to the old garden shed-turned-guest room. He screamed faintly into the night about being banished to a cabbage dungeon. Perona drifted away with her wine, glittering faintly under the hallway sconces. The mandrills had retired to their separate wings, snuggled under blankets they definitely stole from the linen closet.

Mihawk remained at the table.

You reentered the room with your apron tied back and sleeves rolled up, blinking when you saw him still seated.

“You’re still here?”

“I live here,” he replied flatly.

You smiled as you began gathering the empty cups. “I thought you’d walk in, see them, and vanish.”

His frown deepened, just slightly.

“Not even a pack of teenagers could part me from you,” he said evenly.

You blushed. That did something strange to your stomach.

“Well,” you muttered, suddenly aware of how warm your neck and chest felt, “you used to be scarier.”

He raised a brow. “I’m still the world’s greatest swordsman.”

You didn’t flinch. “And I’m the woman who taught a troop of mandrills to sort grapes by sugar content. Don’t test me.”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. But something in his gaze softened. He studied you longer than necessary. The fall of your hair. The curl of steam from your teacup. The faint blush from heat and laughter still on your cheeks.

In the distance, Zoro howled.

“WHERE THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP—THIS ISN’T EVEN A BED—”

Mihawk closed his eyes. “I should’ve killed him.”

You chuckled, brushing past him again. Your shoulder grazed his in passing, just enough to ground him in that moment.

Just enough to remind him that the woman now haunting his castle had quietly become the center of it.

Later, after helping you cleanup dinner, Mihawk sat on the edge of your bed, cloak half-fallen from his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous. The moonlight cut across his profile as he stared forward, equal parts brooding and baffled.

You moved beside him, towel in hand, drying your hair from the bath.

“I know they’re a handful.”

“They’re squatters,” he muttered.

“They’re friends.”

“Uninvited.”

“Fun.”

You placed a kiss on his bare neck.

He looked at you then.

Your hair still damp, the towel slipping from one shoulder. Your skin warm from the bath. Calm. Content. Unshaken.

You looked like trouble.

Like home.

He leaned back against the headboard, arms folded. Voice low and dry.

“You’re making me soft.”

You smirked. Kissed the underside of his jaw with a slow, unhurried affection.

“No,” you whispered, “I’m reminding you you’ve married a human wife.”

He didn’t respond with words. Just exhaled, slow and deep, and pulled you into his lap, hands resting on your hips like they belonged there.

And that’s, more or less, how you took in two teenagers.

This was not what Zoro signed up for.

He just wanted to become the world’s greatest swordsman. Get back to Saboady.

Mihawk just wanted his damn house back.

It was an unfortunate conflict of interest.

The training itself? Brutal. As expected. Mihawk didn’t pull punches, didn’t tolerate excuses, and didn’t believe in words like “rest” or “hydration.” Zoro had bled on four types of stone flooring before the first week was out.

He could handle that.

What he couldn’t handle was you.

You, the wife Mihawk apparently kidnapped. You, who somehow lived in a haunted, crumbling castle filled with mandrills and still managed to keep the books balanced and the wine flowing. You, who had once stormed out during an argument about barrel placement, thrown a grape cluster at a ghost, and become the unintentional heart of the castle.

Zoro began to notice the signs within a week.

Mihawk didn’t follow you exactly. It was subtler than that. But wherever you went, he was somehow already there. Lurking near a tool rack you hadn’t touched. Offering you water before you asked. Handing you a pair of gloves like a gothic butler possessed by romance.

Zoro thought it was coincidence.

Until one day, you rubbed your lower back with a tired sigh, and Mihawk appeared out of thin air holding a cushion.

“Sit,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You must take care of your core.”

Your core.

Zoro froze, sword mid-air, a slow sense of dread spreading through his body like mold.

Mihawk wasn’t just lurking.

He was a hopeless romantic.

Not obviously, of course. There were no announcements. No kisses in front of guests. Not even accidental hand-holding.

But Zoro had eyes.

Mihawk had entered the Territorial Arc.

It was like watching a murder of crows attempt courtship through tool assistance and stern glances.

Perona, ever the voice of chaotic reason, floated into the kitchen one morning with a ghost plush in her arms and said, “He’s nesting. Like a vampire chicken with boundary issues.”

You nearly dropped the flour sack. Zoro dropped a spoon. Mihawk didn’t even flinch.

But you didn’t grumble much about your new children. They were mostly self-sufficient and you were positive that one upset word from you would lead both of them being punted to the nearest sea. And you were busy.

You had mandrills to discipline. Bottles to cork. Mice in the flour bin. Guests in the wine cellar. And a husband who kept appearing behind you to say things like, “Careful. The stones are uneven. You could fall.”

Once, Zoro passed you in the vineyard and overheard you mutter, “He was less intense when we tried to kill each other.”

Zoro’s irritation with Mihawk didn’t end with the whole romance situation.

“You’re not even training me!” Zoro shouted from the courtyard, sweat clinging to his arms as he dodged a spear swing. One of the elder mandrills snarled and mirrored his footwork with infuriating precision.

“If they can’t kill you, you’re improving.” Mihawk said, from the shaded veranda, reclined with a chilled glass of wine and the dead-eyed stare of a man who had once sailed through a hurricane just to avoid a dinner party.

Zoro stumbled as a second mandrill tackled him. He kicked it off with a growl. “You’re lazy!”

“I’m busy,” Mihawk said smoothly, though his attention had long drifted.

You stood barefoot in the garden. Hair pinned up. Neck exposed. Humming as you tied up blooming vines with careful fingers. There was dirt on your knees. A smudge on your cheek. You were glowing like some ancient fertility goddess and looking, in Mihawk’s very objective opinion, like the exact opposite of self-restraint.

Zoro followed his gaze.

Then made the fatal mistake of opening his mouth.

“Oh. Ew.”

Mihawk’s head snapped toward him like a weapon cocked.

Zoro raised his hands, already backpedaling. “I didn’t mean—! I mean, she’s pretty, but you’re, like... old. It’s weird.”

“You’re still bleeding from the last time you spoke out of turn,” Mihawk said calmly. “Shall I aim more precisely?”

“I should’ve known!” Zoro paced, gesturing wildly. “You only get this mad when someone spills your wine or touches your sword—and she’s both! Metaphorically. Or maybe not. Honestly, I don’t want to know.”

“I will murder you.”

“Yeah, yeah. After you finish composting the basil and pining like a Victorian widow.”

Mihawk stood, deadly calm. “Mandrills. Kill him.”

From the nearby tree four mandrills, each wearing a different sash and far too invested in the drama, nodded solemnly and began chucking lemons.

“Wait—*OW—*these aren’t fresh! I’m telling—” Zoro yelped, dodging citrus.

From the vineyard, you peeked in, eyes wide, apron still tied, a basket of grapes in your arms.

“…What’s happening?”

Zoro, ducking under a flying leek, shouted, “Your husband’s gone mad—!”

You blinked. Mihawk looked like he might combust.

“Zoro,” Mihawk said tightly, brushing a leaf off his shoulder, “I swear on every grape in this godforsaken garden—”

“You’re not mad because I’m wrong,” Zoro cackled, “you’re mad because I’m right!”

A mandrill nailed him in the ribs with a turnip.

You stared at Mihawk, cheeks warm. “Are you… actually mad?”

Mihawk scowled, straightened his coat, and muttered, “Only that I have to share your attention, my love.”

You blinked. The basket nearly slipped from your fingers.

Zoro, face down in the dirt beneath a dogpile of enthusiastic mandrills, gave a weak thumbs-up.

Later, in the parlor-turned-cursed-Bed Bath & Beyond, Perona floated midair with a lace swatch in her teeth.

“She’s going to be pregnant by spring,” she muttered around it, pinning up new curtains. Again.

Zoro, dragging a limping mandrill back from battle, groaned. “Not if we don’t leave.”

Perona gaped like a ghostly sack of realization. Her eyes were wide, her expression blank with horror.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “That’s why he wants us gone.”

She flopped onto a rug with the grace of a falling curtain. “He wants to impregnate his wife.”

Zoro wrinkled his nose. “They’re married and still haven’t done it?”

“Of course they do,” she huffed, flicking a ghost at him without looking. “Just… not as much since he got back. The ghost told me. That’s his only fear. That he’ll never get more alone time with her.”

A long, uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“Are all adults this broken?” Perona finally asked.

“Yes,” Zoro groaned, rubbing his face. “Especially swordsmen.”

That night, Mihawk poured wine into two glasses with slow, deliberate calm. The kind of calm a man achieves only by suppressing the desire to set someone’s sword on fire.

Behind them, the mandrills were quietly constructing a bassinet in the hallway using a barrel and stolen scarves.

“They’re making bets,” you said, sipping your wine. “On when I’ll be fat with your heir.”

“I’ll kill them,” Mihawk muttered. Then paused as you gave him a grin. “...After the harvest.”

Zoro had been here all of two months and had already eaten three years worth of smoked meat, claimed a corner of the training grounds, and, worst of all, started calling you ‘Lady Mihawk’ in a vaguely deferential, wildly irritating tone.

Perona had moved on and conquered the south wing. She was making lace doilies now.

From the window, Mihawk watched as you laughed at something Zoro said out in the vineyard. Your sleeves were rolled to the elbows, your hands stained purple from crushed grapes, your kerchief swinging as you turned to flick water at him. Zoro ducked, too slow. It hit him square in the face. He laughed. You grinned.

Something in Mihawk’s chest shifted. No. Snapped.

It was absurd. Unreasonable. Infuriating.

He was the one who had kidnapped you. Married you. Watched you bleed into his soil and talk to vines like they could hear you. He had brought you steel and seed and silence. You were the one who made it into something else, something living.

You made his food edible. You made his home bearable. You tucked yourself into his bed like you had always belonged there.

And now some green-haired brat was in his vineyard?

Training with his mandrills?

Laughing with his wife?

Later that day, he stood at the edge of the garden, arms crossed, glowering like a storm with legs. You emerged from the shed, humming, a basket resting on your hip. You didn’t even notice the tension radiating off him.

“Why are you standing there like a gargoyle?” you asked, brushing past him.

His voice was quiet, lethal. “You’re spending a great deal of time with the boy.”

You blinked. “Zoro? He’s hardly a boy—”

“He’s half-feral and doesn’t wash his hands.”

You paused. “…True.”

You went back to picking herbs.

“He bleeds on everything.”

“Also true.”

“And he speaks to you too much.”

You stopped again. Slower this time.

“…Are you jealous?”

Mihawk’s eyes sharpened, like the question itself was a blade being drawn in the wrong room.

“I do not share what is mine.”

Your head tilted, brow lifting as you turned to him fully. “Am I… an object?”

“No.” He stepped closer. Deliberate. Measured. “You are my wife.”

“Oh,” you said, voice dry. “Didn’t realize it meant I couldn’t talk to children.”

His gaze dropped to your hands, then to your mouth. You weren’t smiling. Not quite. But your eyes sparkled with challenge, and your fingers trembled just enough to betray you.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And he liked it.

Far too much.

He reached out, took the basket gently from your hands, and set it aside. Then he stepped in close, far closer than he ever did when company was around. His voice dropped, warm and dangerous.

“I do not share my wine. I do not share my swords. And I do not share my wife.”

Your breath caught.

“You don't," you whispered. “I am yours alone. So stop acting like you want to throw swords every time I am kind to others.”

He stared at you. Then he kissed you. Not soft. Not sweet. A claim. A reminder. A surrender.

That night, Zoro returned to the castle limping, sporting a black eye and followed by three mandrills who looked equally wrecked.

Perona met him at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, expression gleaming.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Zoro groaned. “Training.”

Perona snorted and gestured toward the hallway. “You’re being too friendly with his wife, you idiot.”

Zoro paused. “The wine woman?”

She gave him a long look.

And high above, in the glow of an open window, Mihawk sat beside you; your legs tucked beneath you, a blanket over both your shoulders, a glass of wine warming in your hand.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He reached for your hand. Twined your fingers with his.

“Take him seriously, and he’ll leave sooner.” You suggested, with a kiss.

“Humph.” He snorted. “You wish me to train my own replacement?”

You chuckled.

“No man or swordsman could ever replace you, my love.” As if to punctuate this point, you leaned in and kissed his chin, long and slow.

The next morning, Zoro discovered what actual training looked like. Mihawk was standing over him, correcting his grip instead of lounging with a glass of wine while a mandrill tried to pick his pocket.

He was also banned from the garden, the cellar, and the west wing—under strict threat of death.

He opened his mouth to protest.

Mihawk unsheathed his sword by a fraction.

Zoro immediately closed his mouth.

“You may be here to become a competent swordsman,” Mihawk said coolly, “but I am here solely to be rid of you and to protect my wife from her own gentle nature. And to eliminate the nuisances plaguing my bedroom.”

Zoro blinked. “That is… too much information.”

From the vineyard, your voice rang out sweetly. “Zoro! Want to help me trellis the grapes?”

Mihawk’s eye twitched. Barely.

Zoro hesitated. Looked at Mihawk. Looked at you.

“…No, I’m good.”

Smart boy.

Every morning began with Zoro training at a brutal pace while Mihawk observed like a statue carved from menace and judgment. Occasionally, he offered corrections. Mostly, he just stood there, arms crossed, wondering how long it had been since you had smiled at him instead of the sweaty green-haired nuisance who kept complimenting your miso stew like it was divine revelation.

It didn’t help that you laughed. Not the polite kind either; the real, unguarded kind. The kind Mihawk privately hoarded like treasure.

Perona, never helpful, leaned toward you one afternoon during tea and whispered with grim sincerity, “Your dragon-husband grumpier than usual.”

You, covered in flour and chasing a mandrill away from the butter, blinked. “Is he? I thought this was... standard behavior.”

“He’s nice to you. But to Zoro—,” she said solemnly. “This is— ‘I’m spending time with a sweaty swordsman instead of my hot wine-making wife’—Mihawk.”

Your spoon clattered to the floor. “Perona!”

“Which is why—” Perona smirked. “I’ve brought suggestions.”

Zoro, half-asleep by the hearth, cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it.

“I—what?” you sputtered.

“Because,” she went on, as if discussing the weather, “I offered you herbs. Good ones. Ancient, time-tested, vaguely cursed. And you said they smelled like dead lilacs.”

“They did!” you hissed. “They smelled like a funeral inside a grandmother’s drawer!”

Zoro made a low noise like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Perona only sipped her tea. “Suit yourself. Just don’t start crying when your period ghosts come for revenge.”

“My what—”

Zoro coughed. “She’s joking.”

“I’m not.”

You stared at both of them. Perona floated. Zoro closed his eyes like this wasn’t his problem. Somewhere in the rafters, a mandrill dropped a bone with perfect comedic timing.

You pressed your hands to your face. You had survived fire, fury, exile, and Mihawk. Just not well-meaning teenagers.

Things escalated.

Suddenly there were rules.

Unspoken rules.

A designated “quiet hour” enforced by one of the mandrills wearing a little bell. No interruptions after dinner unless the house was on fire or a sword impaled someone important.

Perona started hosting support groups for ghosts in the herb garden. Zoro joined twice.

Mihawk had also started calling you ‘my wife’. Not sweetly. Not casually.

With purpose.

With intensity.

Dinner had ended late, long after the candles had burned down to little wax stumps and the wine had gone from celebratory to sleepy. The great hall was quiet now, dimly lit and heavy with the scent of garlic, smoke, and salted air drifting in through the open windows. Crickets chirped from somewhere beyond the grape vines, and the fireplace crackled like it was politely trying to stay awake.

Mihawk, seated across from you, moved with the energy of a man who had plans.

Not vague intentions. Not wishful thinking. Plans.

You, in contrast, only used the words “my husband” when he carried something heavy, dispatched a rat in the pantry, or did something absurdly hot while pretending it was a chore. You said it like a curse. He received it like a benediction.

And occasionally, in moments like this, he declared such plans aloud. Boldly. Calmly. While a half-dead Zoro sat nearby, trying to become one with the chair and will his ears to stop existing.

“When they are gone, I’m going to make love to you hourly,” Mihawk said, pouring himself more wine. “And without interruption.”

You blinked at him. “You’re serious?”

He looked at you over the rim of his glass, as calm and composed as ever. His gaze was sharp. Cool. Focused.

“I find I’m tired of patience.”

Your breath caught. Just slightly. You stared at him. Then at your half-full glass. Then back at him again.

“Oh.”

He set his cup down and reached for your hand across the table. He held it carefully. Like it was something sacred. Like you might break if he pressed too hard.

“And your idiot guests,” he added, voice dropping lower, “are in my way.”

“They’re my only friends.”

“They’re delays.”

“They’re kids, and I like them,” you laughed, trying to wave the heat off your cheeks. “So what—you want them gone? Just like that? I’ll be sad.”

Mihawk smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a dry quirk of the lips. A real smile.

Across behind the door, Zoro moved like a ghost. He stood silently, face unreadable, then turned and walked out of the hall without a word.

He found Perona slumped in the corridor with a plate of sugared plums and dropped beside her like he had aged fifty years in five minutes.

“I hate it here,” he muttered.

Perona chewed slowly. “What happened?”

He stared ahead, unblinking. “I saw him smile.”

She nearly dropped her plum.

“Oh god. You heard them flirt, didn’t you?”

“I heard everything.”

Perona slowly pushed the plate toward him in solidarity. He accepted it with the look of a man who had survived war.

You tried to explain later, bless you, as if any amount of words could soften the situation.

“He’s… intense,” you said carefully, adjusting the grape baskets for the third time. “The warlord part doesn’t shut off. I think he’s trying to build a legacy.”

Zoro stared at you, utterly deadpan. “He wants a baby.”

“He wants peace,” you muttered, brushing off a leaf. “Maybe a vineyard army.”

From across the hall, Mihawk’s voice echoed, smooth and certain. “Seven children would be ideal.”

You froze. Zoro blinked twice.

Perona floated past holding a dead flower crown. Without missing a beat, she pointed at Mihawk and said, “I will hex your loins,” then disappeared into the pantry like that counted as a formal curse.

And somehow, impossibly, it all functioned.

Zoro trained. The mandrills judged. The ghosts held weekly tea parties with invisible guests and no chairs. You survived. Mihawk schemed.

Sometimes he would vanish for hours, only to return covered in dirt with gardening tools or blueprints he claimed were for “better vine symmetry.”

No one believed him.

Not even the ghosts.

And so the strange little kingdom of Castle Dracule rolled on; chaotic, haunted, wildly inappropriate, and somehow home.

Zoro never said it aloud.

But as he blocked another swing from Mihawk’s blade and caught the glint in the man’s eye as you walked past in your vineyard apron, Zoro understood one thing deep in his bones.

Dracule Mihawk was not just the world’s greatest swordsman.

He was a very determined husband.

Half a very frustrating month later, Mihawk and Zoro were still sparring.

Mihawk sneezed mid-parry. Zoro lunged immediately, misreading the moment as an opportunity. He was rewarded with a swift, contemptuous disarm that sent him flat to the ground.

“I don’t recall saying attack,” Mihawk said coldly.

Zoro sat up, spitting grass. “What the hell’s wrong with you today? You’re distracted.”

“I’m training you,” Mihawk replied, blade already sheathed, “not babysitting your delusions.”

Zoro squinted at him—too perceptive for Mihawk’s liking. “...You want us to leave, don’t you?”

Mihawk didn’t blink. “You’ve overstayed the concept of welcome.”

Zoro raised a brow. “Is this about your wife?”

The pause was long. Dangerous.

“It’s about peace,” Mihawk said at last, voice perfectly even. “And not tripping over ghosts and ambition every time I go to the cellar.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m married,” Mihawk snapped. “And I’d like to stay that way.”

Perona floated by like a death omen wrapped in pink and lace. “Just say you want alone time.”

Mihawk said nothing.

But the next morning, Zoro’s training ended abruptly.

One moment, he was mid-swing, drenched in sweat, focused on the distant target tree. The next, Mihawk appeared behind him in absolute silence and handed him a parcel wrapped in oilcloth.

He pointed toward the forest path without a word, the morning mist curling around his boots like smoke around a blade. His voice, when it came, was calm and final.

“Your next challenge is survival. If you reach the coast alive, you may return.”

Zoro stared at him. “What?”

Mihawk met his gaze with all the mercy of a marble statue.

“You have ten seconds before I release the mandrills.”

Zoro opened the parcel. Inside was dried meat, a flask, and what looked like a very judgmental compass.

“Is this because of last night?”

“I require privacy,” Mihawk replied. “And time.”

Zoro’s eye twitched. “What if I get lost?”

“Then the mandrills will raise you.”

“This is unfair—“

Mihawk did not answer. He turned away and began adjusting his gloves with the air of a man preparing for a duel, not a domestic morning.

Zoro glanced toward the tree line. Something moved. It was large. It was fast.

He sprinted.

Behind him, faintly, the mandrills gave chase.

Perona followed, waving a ghost plush in farewell. “Good luck with your sulking husband!”

From the porch, you sipped your tea and winced. “You didn’t have to actually exile him.”

Mihawk nodded, satisfied. “He will return stronger. And quieter.”

You looked up from your tea, smiling faintly. “Good. I can finally start cleaning the guest wing.”

He stared at you.

You stared back, confused but holding your ground.

Then, very slowly, he raised one brow.

You didn’t even make it to the door.

You turned to fetch the mop, your mind already shifting to chores, but a hand caught your wrist with gentle precision.

“Mihawk?” you asked, startled. “I just need to clean the—”

“No,” he said.

There was no force behind it. No irritation. Just a quiet, final word from a man who had waited long enough and had no intention of waiting another moment.

“But the sheets,” you tried, flustered. “And the hallway. And—”

“You’ve scrubbed for weeks,” he said softly. “You’ve cooked. You’ve hosted. You’ve smiled for a swordsman who wasn’t me.”

Your lips parted, breath caught somewhere in your throat, but before you could answer, the world shifted.

He pulled you gently toward the steps, one hand at your back, the other still wrapped around your wrist. The stone floor faded beneath your feet, the open windows and the scent of crushed grapes and salt air slipping into the background. Sunlight flickered through the vines as you moved, half-stumbling, half-guided.

“Dracule—wait. Let me change—”

“You look resplendent.”

“I’m covered in juice.”

“I’ve missed the smell.”

Your heart thundered, stumbling along with your feet as you tried to process the shift. One moment you were thinking about hallway dust, the next you were being led into something far more dangerous than spilled wine.

He opened the bedroom door with one hand. Closed it behind you with the other. Before you could even finish a sentence, your back hit the wood and he met you there, eyes locked, breath steady, intent unmistakable.

“You’re not cleaning,” he said, voice low and smooth, like velvet pulled tight over a blade. “You’re not hiding behind chores. You’re mine. And we have wasted enough time.”

Your breath caught, words stalling in your throat. “W-what about—”

“Zoro’s gone on a training exercise."

“Perona?”

“Banished with him.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. He stared back, utterly unshaken.

“And the ghosts?”

“They know better.”

Then he kissed you.

No hesitation. No slow build. No interruptions. No distractions. Just the taste of wine, the smell of crushed grapes, and the quiet certainty that the world’s most dangerous man had waited long enough.

When Zoro and Perona returned, dripping with sea spray and locked in a heated debate over whether crab traps needed to face north or west during high tide, Mihawk was already in the garden.

Whistling.

Zoro stopped mid-step, one foot squishing into the mud.

"Is he making happy sounds?" he asked, frowning like he’d just spotted a cursed sword in a toy shop.

Perona lowered her parasol slowly, eyes narrowing. "Oh no. He’s in a good mood. Something’s wrong."

The mandrills didn’t even blink at their arrival. One elder, perched like judgment itself on a fencepost, lobbed a rotting mango at Zoro’s foot in protest. It wasn’t aimed to hit. Just close enough to send a message.

Zoro stepped around it with care, watching Mihawk from the corner of his eye. The swordsman stood at the far edge of the vineyard, clipping grapevines with methodical precision. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his hat pushed back just enough to let the sun warm his brow. He nodded at Zoro.

Zoro stared. "...Hi?"

"Welcome back," Mihawk said, still focused on his work. "Don’t touch my wine."

Zoro blinked. "Okay…"

Then he looked toward the house and spotted a familiar figure at the window. You appeared, humming quietly, cheeks flushed and hair tousled like you had been busy with something far from respectable. You waved. Mihawk glanced back at you for the briefest second, and you immediately vanished behind the curtains.

Zoro’s eyes returned to Mihawk. Then to the vines. Then back again.

"You two… finally—"

"Stay out of my business," Mihawk said without missing a beat.

Zoro took that as confirmation and retreated.

Perona, however, floated straight into the house, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a clipboard.

"Alright," she said, ticking a box that did not exist. "Every Friday afternoon from now on, we disappear. No chores. No swords. No screaming ghosts. It's official."

Mihawk lifted a brow. "And you’re doing this because?"

"Because watching you orbit each other like confused sea kings during mating season was exhausting. And because she makes cinnamon bread when she’s happy."

Zoro nodded. "Objectivly fair."

Mihawk did not object. He returned to tending his vines like a man who had successfully conquered both war and wedlock and now only feared surprise visitors.

Every weekend afterward, you disappeared from the cleaning schedule, and the mandrills turned into a defensive perimeter around the east wing. They took their new job seriously. One ghost attempted to float through the bedroom wall and emerged dazed, with half of its ectoplasm flattened.

The castle schedule was updated that evening with grim finality, carved in dark ink and perfect calligraphy, then nailed to the main hall’s stone wall with a dagger that had once belonged to a pirate emperor.

CASTLE MIHAWK – NOTICE OF PRIVATE HOURS

Fridays: From Sunset Until Sunrise

The West Wing is closed to all residents, guests, animals, spirits, and idiots. Anyone found loitering will be reassigned to vinegar duty in the vineyard.

Do not ask what is happening. Do not make jokes about what is happening. Assume death awaits you beyond the threshold.

By Order of: Dracule Mihawk, Head of House and Swordmaster

Endorsed (begrudgingly): Lady Mihawk, Vintner and Wine Tyrant, Beloved and Heart of the Home.

Zoro, reading it aloud with one brow raised, muttered, "You really made a law so you could get laid."

"I am preserving the structure and sanctity of my household," Mihawk replied, calm and dignified as he poured himself tea with the focus of a man who had survived decades of war only to be undone by noise, ghosts, and dinner interruptions.

You entered with a stack of clean linens, paused at the doorway, and caught just enough to turn pink.

Perona tilted her head, ghost plush under one arm. "He’s getting testy. We should mess with him."

"Do not," Mihawk said without even glancing up.

And that was that.

Mihawk was obeyed with unsettling discipline. The ghosts retreated. The mandrills assembled in shifts, forming a rotating guard that posted up outside the west wing like small, furry sentinels. One particularly overzealous mandrill rolled out a faded red carpet from an unknown source. Another set out dried fruit as offerings. No one had the courage to question it.

You, mortified but secretly flattered, spent the week pretending the whole ordeal was strictly about wine cask testing. You evaluated barrels. You inventoried herbs. You made very strong tea and avoided eye contact.

But when Friday came, and the castle walls glowed with warm candlelight behind a firmly closed door, no one dared speak.

Mihawk had made himself very clear. This was his time with his wife. And for once, nothing—not swordsmen, not ghosts, not pirate captains with bad timing—would interrupt it.

Den Den Mushi Call Log: “Redhead Hour”, Featuring: One very flustered wife and one nosy Yonko with too much free time.

The Den Den Mushi on the counter blinked awake with theatrical flair, tiny snail lashes fluttering like it had just applied rouge. A moment later, Shanks’ voice came through loud and shameless.

“Darling! You're late for our scheduled slander session!”

You didn’t even look up. Ledger tucked under one arm, quill in your teeth, and a parchment full of vineyard supply estimates in your hand, you muttered around your pen, “I have a harvest to manage, your majesty of commitment issues and bad saloons. This is a supply run, not happy hour.”

“Harvest, she says.” He sounded deeply offended in that fake way only Shanks could pull off. “Mihawk didn’t tell me you were thriving—how irresponsible. How’s my favorite warlord-wife combo doing? Still pretending not to be married?”

You sighed and flipped the page. “He still hasn’t mentioned it aloud. It’s like he thinks the marriage certificate will bite him if he acknowledges it.”

“You poor, emotionally neglected thing.” Shanks’ tone shifted to the kind of mock sympathy reserved for soap operas and terminally dramatic pirates. “Would you like me to send another pretty dress and a bottle of champagne? This time I’ll include a Mihawk-shaped piñata.”

You scribbled a note about barrel wax. “Only if it growls when you hit it.”

“I’ll commission it personally. Now, more importantly—any steamy details you’d like to share? Secret rendezvous in the tool shed? A love confession disguised as a fencing critique? Did he finally kiss you like a husband and not a bounty hunter evaluating your threat level?”

You froze, very aware of the faint warmth crawling up your neck. Then you held the Den Den Mushi at arm’s length like it was contagious.

“Shanks,” you said slowly, voice dangerously calm, “I swear on every vine in the South Blue—”

“That you love talking to me?” he interrupted cheerfully. “I know. I’m the only one willing to discuss your tragic romance arc.”

A grape sailed across the room and hit the far wall with a dull splut.

“I’m ordering irrigation pipes. Not seducing Mihawk in the rose garden.”

“But have you tried seducing him in the rose garden?”

You paused. Your eyes flicked toward the margin of your parchment. With deliberate care, you scribbled: clear rose beds.

“No comment,” you muttered.

“That’s my girl.”

A faint voice echoed from his end. Benn Beckman, clearly done with this nonsense.

“Shanks, don’t encourage her. Mihawk will kill you. And then shred the Red Force. We just repainted.”

“Let him try. It’s made of joy and secrets,” Shanks replied smugly.

You sighed, leaning into the table, cheeks warm. “You’re a menace.”

“And you, Madam Mihawk, are glowing. Even your voice sounds smug. Love looks good on you.”

You tried not to smile. You really did. But your mouth had other plans.

“Shut up and send me steel trellis wire, new socks, and if you ever send me lingerie again, I’m mailing you a crate of fermented mandrill droppings.”

“Only if it comes with a handwritten love letter.”

The line clicked off before you could answer. Probably for the best.

You returned to your inventory list with your face still burning and a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The mandrills scurried by with baskets. Somewhere upstairs, Mihawk was sharpening something. Probably a sword. Possibly a mental list of people to murder if you ever repeated that piñata idea.

But your heart was light.

And Shanks, infuriatingly, was right.

You were glowing.

The day Zoro left, the island sighed.

The mandrills ceased their theatrical death matches. No more leaping from treetops with sticks for swords, no more posturing like tiny, furious samurai. Instead, they resumed their true calling; judging things silently and stealing grapes.

The vineyard glistened in the morning dew. The ghosts were eerily quiet. The castle, long tense with the rhythm of clashing steel and half-suppressed chaos, finally… breathed.

You tied your apron with a sigh of your own, one that nearly matched the wind in the trees. There was no shouting. No sword polishing at midnight. No haunted lullabies in the herb garden. For the first time in months, the silence wasn’t punctuated by a training grunt or the dull thud of someone being hit with a mandrill-carved staff.

Peace.

And Mihawk, Dracule Mihawk; Warlord of the Sea, bane of navies, scourge of weaker men, was smiling.

Not the sharp smirk he wore when slicing someone’s pride apart. Not the wry curl of amusement he reserved for Shanks’ stupidity. No, this one was different.

This one was dangerous.

Because this one was contentment.

And worse—anticipation.

Perona had lasted another day beyond Zoro’s departure, mostly out of sheer commitment to stirring the pot. She floated through the halls offering unsolicited interior design opinions, daring Mihawk to twitch when you laughed at her, and muttering about “the spiritual audacity of this chandelier.”

Eventually, even she drifted off with a swish of her parasol and a final ominous promise to “track down Zoro before he accidentally landed in the North Pole.”

Mihawk watched her go, face unreadable.

Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and moved through the garden like something coiled finally unspooling.

He found you under the arbor, sleeves rolled, coaxing fresh grape cuttings into place. Your fingers were stained purple, hair tied up, entirely unaware of the shift in the wind.

“You’re alone now,” he said.

You didn’t look up. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a fact,” he replied.

You brushed your palms against your apron. “So you’ve successfully scared off the teenagers. Congratulations. Would you like a medal or just an awkward silence to commemorate the occasion?”

Mihawk said nothing. Instead, he crouched beside you, picked a single leaf from a young vine, and inspected it like it had insulted him.

Then he murmured, with all the gravity of a man delivering a military declaration, “Tonight, I will cook.”

You blinked. “Should I be frightened?”

He looked up. “You should be hungry.”

That evening was unnervingly calm.

There were no hauntings. No duels. No snarky pirate captains peeking in through a Den Den Mushi.

Just you, barefoot in the kitchen, watching as Mihawk rolled up his sleeves with surgical precision and prepared a dish so alarmingly competent it made you question if he was seducing you with his homemade mushroom risotto.

He cooked without a word. Only the occasional sip of wine, the click of cutlery, the rhythm of something quiet and precise. And when you finally sat to eat, he didn’t touch his food at first.

He watched you.

Devoured you with his eyes, in the most unholy, starved, unapologetic way a man could while casually sipping soup.

It was the kind of attention that made your skin warm and your fork falter.

You cleared your throat, trying to break the spell.

“So. Now that we’re back to… us. Does the Friday curfew still apply?”

Mihawk reached across the table, his movements unhurried, deliberate. He took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if it had always belonged in his. His grip was warm, confident, with just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

Then he spoke.

His voice was low, velvet over steel, richer than wine and twice as dangerous.

“You’re my wife.”

His thumb brushed across your knuckles, slow and reverent. His eyes held yours without a flicker, dark and unwavering, like he was reading not just your face, but your soul. There was something ancient in the way he looked at you. Certain. As if the entire world had already been decided the moment you said yes to him.

“The house is ours again,” he continued, his tone softer now, almost thoughtful. “The island is quiet. The guests are gone.”

He paused, just long enough for the air to shift.

“I need to beget and train at least two children to properly protect you,” he said, like it was a perfectly logical declaration. “So they will ensure you never welcome strays in again.”

You blinked. “Two?”

“Perhaps three. I see no reason to waste a single moment.”

The statement wasn’t a suggestion. It was a vow.

You didn’t finish dinner.

He didn’t let you.

The rest of the evening blurred. Your apron was gone, your hair undone. Somewhere behind you, the cellar door creaked gently in the sea breeze, but the world had narrowed to his voice, his hands, and the hard edge of his resolve.

The curfew was enforced.

Strictly.

Because someday soon, gods help them all, Dracule Mihawk was going to be the father of your children.

And he intended to start immediately.

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