In the Arms of a Stranger Charlotte Katakuri x Bride! Reader (Part 1)
He's been popping up on my timeline for a while so I think that means he's getting a series. Pretend he's younger, or don't.
This is gonna be a long one folks.
Spolier: Reader ate the "Kage Kage no Mi" fruit.
Summary:
Kidnapped from the safety of your Straw Hat family and drugged into a forced marriage as a cruel act of revenge by Big Mom, you find yourself in a luxurious yet suffocating room with Charlotte Katakuri, the formidable son of your captor. Fear and desperation grip your heart, but amidst the terror, an unexpected truce begins to form.
As Katakuri reveals his own discomfort with the marriage and vows to protect you, a fragile bond develops. Together, you navigate the tension and uncertainty, finding solace in each other's presence.
In the midst of vulnerability and shared fears, even in the darkest times, unexpected comfort and trust can emerge.
Now, on with the show!!~
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The opulent grand hall reverberated with the lively chatter of guests and the melodious clinking of glasses, creating an atmosphere of celebration and merriment. However, amidst the splendor, [Name] couldn't shake off the overwhelming sense of displacement.
Her thoughts continuously gravitated back to her beloved Straw Hat family, from whom she had been abruptly separated due to this arranged marriage. All you could remember was being stolen in the night and being presented before a large pink woman.
The entire ceremony had unfolded like a hazy dream, and now, as the night descended, it marked the beginning of their wedding night.
Your knowledge of Charlotte Katakuri, your enigmatic new husband, was shrouded in intimidating rumors, leaving you feeling apprehensive.
'Fucking shit.'
The heavy oak door to their lavishly adorned chamber clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing ominously in the vast space. Silence descended like a suffocating blanket, pressing down on you with palpable weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stood in the center of opulence, surrounded by the extravagant display of wealth.
The room exuded grandeur at every turn—the king-sized bed, adorned with layers of sumptuous silk, beckoned invitingly, yet it felt more like a throne of isolation than a place of rest. Ornate furniture, carved with intricate designs, adorned the spacious chamber, each piece a testament to extravagance. The soft glow of the dimly lit chandeliers cast ethereal shadows across the room, adding to the surreal atmosphere.
But amidst the splendor, there was a profound sense of unease, a feeling of being ensnared in a gilded cage. Despite the luxurious trappings, the room felt suffocating, each embellishment serving as a reminder of the confinement you found yourself in. The air seemed heavy with unspoken tension, and the silence seemed to magnify your solitude.
Your gaze flitted around the room, seeking solace in its lavish décor, but finding none. Every corner seemed to echo with a sense of captivity, each ornamental detail serving as a stark contrast to the freedom you longed for. Your heart ached with longing, yearning for the warmth and familiarity of your Straw Hat family, where safety and love awaited.
In this ostentatious chamber, you felt like a trapped bird, yearning to spread your wings and soar back to where you belonged. The opulence that surrounded you only served to emphasize the stark reality of your confinement, amplifying your desire to break free from this golden prison and return to the embrace of those who cherished you most.
In a moment of sheer panic, you found yourself drawn to the large bed dominating the center of the room. Instinct took over as you dropped to your knees, your movements frantic and unthinking. With trembling hands, you crawled beneath the bed, seeking refuge in the shadowy space beneath its expanse. The rapid thudding of your heart reverberated in your ears, a deafening drumbeat of fear that seemed to echo through the room.
As you huddled beneath the bed, your breaths came in shallow gasps, each inhale feeling like a struggle against the weight of impending doom. The confined space offered little solace, but you clung to it desperately, your body curling into a tight ball as if seeking protection from the encroaching darkness.
In the dimness beneath the bed, the world outside seemed distant and unreal, as if you had retreated into a realm of your own making. The shadows enveloped you like a comforting cloak, shielding you from the harsh reality that lurked beyond the confines of your hiding place.
Your mind raced with thoughts of escape, the urgency of the situation pressing down on you like a heavyweight. You couldn't stay here, couldn't bear the thought of what awaited you on this dreaded night. Your only thought was to find your friends, to seek refuge in the familiar embrace of the Straw Hat crew.
But for now, beneath the bed, you allowed yourself a moment of respite, a brief reprieve from the chaos that surrounded you. The stale air hung heavy in your lungs, but you welcomed it, using the precious moments of solitude to gather your thoughts and steel yourself for the challenges that lay ahead.
In the suffocating stillness of the room, time seemed to lose all meaning, stretching out into an endless expanse of silence. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside, seemed magnified, as if the very air itself held its breath in anticipation. The weight of the mansion pressed down on you like a suffocating blanket, its oppressive atmosphere adding to the unbearable tension that hung in the air.
And then, like a harbinger of impending doom, you heard the door creak open, the sound slicing through the silence like a knife. Your entire body tensed, muscles coiling with apprehension as your breath caught in your throat, the air thick with trepidation.
With each heavy footstep, Katakuri drew closer, his presence a looming specter in the darkness. The sound of his boots on the plush carpet sent vibrations rippling through the floor, each thud reverberating through your bones and echoing the pounding of your heart. Every nerve in your body screamed for you to flee, to escape the approaching danger, but you remained frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.
Closing your eyes tightly, you prayed fervently that he wouldn't notice you, that you could remain hidden in the shadows beneath the bed. The darkness offered scant protection, but it was all you had, a thin veil of concealment against the looming threat that lurked just beyond your hiding place. As Katakuri's footsteps drew nearer, you clung to the desperate hope that somehow, against all odds, you would remain undetected.
'Please, just go away. Don’t look under the bed. Please.'
As Katakuri's heavy footsteps halted mere inches from the edge of the bed, a tangible sense of dread settled over you like a suffocating shroud. His presence loomed over you, a looming shadow of menace that seemed to envelop the room in a cloak of darkness. The air grew thick with tension, each breath you took feeling like a struggle against the oppressive weight of fear that pressed down upon you.
Time seemed to stretch on endlessly as you held your breath, every second feeling like an eternity as you waited in agonizing anticipation. And then, mercifully, the footsteps receded, their retreat a faint echo in the silence that followed. The sound of water running in the adjacent bathroom filled the room, a stark contrast to the stillness that had preceded it. Relief washed over you in a shaky exhale, but beneath the surface, the gnawing fear persisted, a constant reminder of the danger that lurked just beyond your reach.
'This is my chance,' you thought, determination flickering in the depths of your eyes as you seized upon the opportunity before you. With a surge of adrenaline, you scrambled out from under the bed, your movements swift and urgent as you surveyed your surroundings for any sign of escape. Your heart sank as you realized the door was securely locked, a barrier that stood between you and freedom.
'No, no, no!' The panic threatened to overwhelm you, but amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a glimmer of hope emerged. You remembered your Devil Fruit powers, a latent ability that held the key to your salvation. With a fierce focus, you channeled your energy, merging with the shadows that danced along the edges of the room. The sensation was eerie, like slipping into a cold, dark void, but you clung to it desperately, knowing it was your only chance at escape.
Invisible to the naked eye, you slipped through the crack beneath the bedroom door, your movements silent and swift as you navigated the dimly lit hallway beyond. Your heart pounded in your chest as you caught sight of Charlotte Opera, his figure looming ominously in the distance, a dagger glinting menacingly under the harsh glow of the overhead lights.
'Perfect,' you thought grimly, steeling yourself for the perilous journey that lay ahead. With determination coursing through your veins, you set off into the unknown, every step a testament to your unwavering resolve to reclaim your freedom at any cost.
As you moved stealthily through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion, every step careful and calculated, your heart pounded in your ears like a thunderous drumbeat. The oppressive silence of the night was broken only by the faint sound of your own breathing, each inhale and exhale amplified by the tension that hung thick in the air. Every corner you turned seemed to hold the promise of danger, every shadow concealing a potential threat.
With practiced ease, you closed the distance between yourself and Opera, your movements fluid and silent as you closed in on your target. In a swift, decisive motion, you snatched the dagger from his grasp, the cold metal of the blade sending a shiver of anticipation coursing through your veins. It was a small victory, but in the face of the looming danger that surrounded you, it felt like a lifeline—a tangible symbol of your determination to fight back against the forces that sought to hold you captive.
Retreating back into the safety of the shadows, you clung to the dagger tightly, the weight of it comforting in your hand. It was a small but significant tool of defense, a reminder that you were not powerless in the face of adversity. With renewed resolve, you prepared yourself for the ordeal that lay ahead, steeling yourself for whatever challenges awaited you.
As the sound of the shower ceased and the lights in the bedroom dimmed, plunging the room into an even deeper darkness, your heart rate spiked once more. The tension in the air was palpable, each moment stretching out into an agonizing eternity as you resumed your hiding spot beneath the bed. Holding your breath, you braced yourself for whatever might come next, your mind racing with frantic thoughts as you prepared to confront the dangers that lurked in the shadows.
'Now I have the advantage but how do I get out of this?'
As you lay hidden beneath the bed, your mind raced with frantic thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last. The weight of the dagger in your hand offered little solace as you grappled with the overwhelming fear of the unknown. How would you escape this predicament? What awaited you beyond the confines of this ominous mansion? The uncertainty gnawed at your insides, leaving you feeling small and powerless in the face of the looming threat.
Before you could formulate a plan of action, the bathroom door swung open with a sinister creak, unleashing a wave of hot steam into the room. Through the swirling mist, you caught a glimpse of Katakuri's towering figure, his presence like a malevolent shadow in the darkness. The air seemed to thicken with dread as his cold, unyielding gaze pierced through the haze, fixating on you with chilling intensity.
And then, in an instant, the shadows were banished by a blinding light that seared through the fog, illuminating you in its merciless glare. The stark contrast between light and darkness rendered you vulnerable, exposed to the full force of Katakuri's unwavering scrutiny. Panic surged through you like a primal instinct as his eyes bore into yours, stripping away any semblance of safety or sanctuary.
Before you could react, his hand closed around your wrist with a bone-crushing grip, dragging you unceremoniously out from your hiding place beneath the bed. The sensation was like being ensnared by a predator, helpless against the inexorable force of his advance. With each heartbeat, the reality of your predicament sank in, filling you with a visceral terror so profound it threatened to consume you whole.
"No, no, no!" The words escaped your lips in a frantic whisper, a desperate plea for escape that fell on deaf ears. In the face of Katakuri's relentless advance, you were overwhelmed by a sense of dread so potent it bordered on madness. As he loomed over you, a silent harbinger of doom, you were plunged into the depths of a nightmare from which there seemed to be no waking.
As you struggled against Katakuri's iron grip, fear surged through your veins like a torrential wave, threatening to drown you in its icy embrace. With a surge of desperation, you plunged the dagger into his wrist, a desperate bid for freedom born of sheer instinct. He grunted in pain, his reaction more annoyance than true agony, but it was enough to momentarily loosen his hold on you.
With a gasp of relief, you tumbled onto the bed, your heart pounding in your chest like a frantic drumbeat. Scrambling away, you fought to put as much distance between yourself and your assailant as possible, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. But your escape was short-lived, and you soon found yourself falling off the other side of the bed, landing with a jarring thud on the cold, unforgiving floor below.
As you lay there, your mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion, a thousand thoughts raced through your head in rapid succession. "I hurt him. What now? Will he kill me?" The questions echoed in your mind like a relentless refrain, each one more terrifying than the last. The cold floor pressed against your back, grounding you in the harsh reality of your situation as you struggled to catch your breath, your chest heaving with the effort.
Amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a fierce determination took hold, driving you forward in spite of the overwhelming fear that threatened to consume you. "I can't let him catch me. I have to survive this. I have to get back to my family." The words rang out in your mind with a clarity that cut through the suffocating haze of terror, fueling your resolve with a newfound strength.
Though the fear was almost paralyzing, the thought of your Straw Hat family served as a beacon of hope in the darkness, a reminder of the bonds that tethered you to the world beyond this nightmare. With each breath, you drew upon that strength, channeling it into a desperate bid for survival as you faced the terrifying unknown that lay ahead.
As you lay on the floor, your body trembling with adrenaline, the sound of Katakuri's approach sent shivers down your spine, his silent footsteps amplifying your terror. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, your senses heightened to a fever pitch as you struggled to control your racing heart.
'He's coming. What do I do? Think, [Name], think!'
The suspense was suffocating, the air thick with tension, as you fought to steady your breathing against the overwhelming fear that threatened to consume you.
With each step he took, the weight of his presence bore down on you like a suffocating blanket, leaving you gasping for air as if the very atmosphere had turned against you.
'I can't stay here. I can't let him catch me again.'
The thought echoed in your mind with a sense of urgency, driving you to action even as panic threatened to overwhelm your senses.
As Katakuri's shadow fell over you, his form looming ominously in the dim light of the chandelier, you felt a primal instinct kick in, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. His eyes, cold and unreadable, seemed to pierce through the darkness, fixing you in place with their unyielding gaze. Your heart hammered in your chest, thoughts whirling in a frantic blur as you braced yourself for whatever came next.
'This is it. This is my only chance.'
With fear coursing through your veins, you struggled against Katakuri, desperation lending strength to your movements. In a desperate move, you slashed at him again with the dagger, hoping to fend off the looming threat that hung over you like a shadow. But Katakuri's response was swift and merciless; with a single, precise motion, he knocked the dagger out of your hands, sending it clattering to the floor, far out of reach.
Desperation filled your eyes as you whispered into the cold night air,
"Please, don't touch me!"
The world seemed to stop at this notion. Your words hung in the air, fragile and trembling, a desperate request for mercy in the face of overwhelming fear. The room fell silent, the weight of your plea echoing in the stillness as you awaited his response.
For a fleeting moment, Katakuri's intense gaze softened, his resolve faltering in the face of your vulnerability. Slowly, he pulled himself back, giving you the space you so desperately craved. You lay there, still clad in your wedding dress, a poignant reminder of the night's cruel irony. Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over as you squeezed them shut, your body wracked with silent sobs.
In that moment of vulnerability, you were acutely aware of the fragility of your existence, a pawn in a game far beyond your control. The weight of the night's events bore down on you like a crushing weight, threatening to engulf you in darkness. Amidst the despair, a flicker of hope remained, a small ember of resilience burning brightly within you. You would endure this trial, you would survive, and you would emerge stronger on the other side.
But right now you really just needed to have a healthy cry.
Katakuri's massive form crouched down before you with surprising gentleness, his imposing stature momentarily softened by the tenderness in his movements. Despite the weight of his presence, there was a certain grace in the way he watched you, as if he were keenly attuned to the fragile state of your emotions. His usually stern expression bore a subtle shift, hints of compassion and understanding flickering across his features like shadows dancing in the dim light of the room.
As he spoke, his voice was a soothing murmur, low and gentle, cutting through the tense silence like a soft breeze on a stormy night. "I promise I won’t hurt you. I have no intention of consummating this marriage given the situation." His words hung in the air, a lifeline extended to you in the depths of your despair. For a moment, the weight of your fear seemed to lift ever so slightly, replaced by a cautious glimmer of hope.
Slowly, you opened your tear-blurred eyes, your gaze meeting his with a mixture of apprehension and longing. You searched the depths of his gaze, seeking any sign of deception or malice, but all you found was sincerity shining back at you like a beacon in the darkness. At that moment, with a trembling breath, you allowed yourself to believe, if only for a fleeting second, that perhaps there was still goodness to be found in this world, even in the most unexpected of places.
As you looked up at Katakuri, his presence no longer looming over you like a specter of fear, you found yourself daring to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for him to be a decent man despite the circumstances.
In the tranquil hush of the room, every breath seemed to echo, a delicate symphony of tension and resignation. Katakuri's presence, once a looming specter of dread, now exuded a sense of quiet patience, a silent invitation for you to find solace amidst the chaos of your emotions. The opulence that had once felt stifling now appeared almost ethereal, the soft glow of the chandeliers casting gentle pools of light that danced upon the walls like fleeting whispers.
"I promise,"
His voice resonated like a soothing melody, a gentle reassurance that hung in the air like a fragile thread.
"You are safe here. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to."
The sincerity in his words was a beacon in the darkness, a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows of fear that lingered in your heart. Tentatively, hesitantly, you allowed yourself to believe him, to entertain the possibility of a sanctuary within the confines of this ornate prison.
Your trembling began to ebb, a gradual release of tension that mirrored the softening of your surroundings. With each passing moment, the weight of your fear lessened, replaced by a cautious sense of calm that settled over you like a comforting embrace.
Though the scars of your ordeal remained, there was a flicker of resilience in your gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the strength that lay dormant within you.
In the stillness of the room, you took a trembling breath, your pulse slowing as you dared to let go of the grip of fear that had held you captive for so long. And as you met Katakuri's unwavering gaze, you found yourself taking the first tentative steps towards reclaiming your sense of agency, your spirit unbroken.
Tears of anguish continued to stream down your cheeks, silent witnesses to the pain that still weighed heavy on your heart. But intertwined with the sorrow was a sense of gratitude, a profound acknowledgment of the small mercy that had been extended to you in this moment of vulnerability. And as you met Katakuri's gaze, you found solace in the silent understanding that passed between you forged by the circumstance you found each other in.
As Katakuri stood before you, his imposing frame now softened by the absence of his wedding attire, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in his demeanor.
His broad shoulders, previously concealed beneath layers of formal clothing, now stood bare and unadorned, accentuating the raw strength that lay beneath his stoic exterior. Black sweatpants hugged his frame, emphasizing the powerful muscles that rippled beneath his skin with each movement.
And then, there was his face. Without the intimidating mask that had become synonymous with his identity, Katakuri seemed almost vulnerable, his features exposed to the harsh light of the room. His expression was unreadable, a mask of neutrality that belied the turmoil that lay beneath the surface.
But it was the intricate tattoo that adorned his left shoulder that drew your attention. A complex design of swirling patterns and symbols, it seemed to tell a story of its own, each line and curve a testament to Katakuri's strength and resilience. The tattoo, a mark of his heritage and lineage, spoke of a past shrouded in mystery and tradition.
As your gaze lingered on him, you realized that he had caught you staring. A flicker of self-consciousness crossed his features before he rose gracefully to his feet, moving with a fluidity that belied his size. Without a word, he retrieved a box of tissues from a nearby dresser, placing them gently in front of you with a silent understanding.
"I... I'm nervous too,"
He admitted, his voice a low rumble that filled the room.
"This marriage... it wasn't fair of my mother to impose it upon us like this."
There was a hint of frustration in his tone, a rare display of vulnerability that caught you off guard.
"But for now, we must act as a normal couple. It's the only way to avoid suspicion."
You nodded, taking the tissues with trembling hands as you tried to wipe away the tears that stained your cheeks. The gesture was small but significant, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile truce that existed between you. As you dabbed at your cheeks, you couldn't help but notice the smudged makeup that marred your reflection in the tissue.
Seeing your distress, Katakuri's expression softened, a rare display of empathy in the midst of chaos. "You should shower and change out of your wedding dress," he suggested gently, his voice a soothing balm against the turmoil of your emotions. "I'll... I'll wait outside."
"I thought we couldn't leave until... you know," you murmur, glancing towards the bed where memories of the night's events lingered like ghosts.
Katakuri groans, his frustration evident as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I forgot," he admits, before letting out a resigned sigh. His gaze returns to you, softer now, tinged with a hint of apology.
"I will wait inside the closet then. Knock three times when you are finished."
But as he starts to rise, you find yourself unable to let him leave just yet. "Wait!" you call out, your voice trembling slightly.
He pauses, turning back to you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. As you rise to your feet, legs shaking with the weight of the evening's events, you move closer to him, heart pounding in your chest.
"P-please help me with the buttons in the back," you request, your voice barely above a whisper. His gaze meets yours, and for a moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken tension.
He holds your gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. With a nod, he steps forward, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your wedding dress. The fabric falls away with a soft rustle, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in its wake.
You shiver at the sudden rush of cool air against your skin, his strength evident in the ease with which he undoes each button. When he's finished, you look up at him, meeting his gaze once more.
"I promise I will not touch you," he reassures you, his voice gentle yet firm. With that, he steps back, putting distance between you once more, before retreating into the walk-in closet.
Alone once more, you take a deep breath, the weight of the evening pressing down on you like a heavy cloak. But in the quiet of the room, you find a moment of solace, a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos.
With the now slumping dress held against your form, you rush into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a shaky hand. Locking the door provides a momentary sense of security, and you slide down onto the cool tiles, back pressed against the door.
As you sit there, the events of the evening replay in your mind like a broken record. The way Katakuri had grabbed your wrist, the fear that had gripped you, and the unexpected restraint he had shown when you stabbed him... it all whirls around in your head, leaving you feeling dizzy and confused.
You consider asking him about it, about why he didn't retaliate or even mention the wound. But the thought dies on your lips as you glance down at your now discarded dress, realizing that it's probably not the best time to bring it up.
Instead, you focus on the task at hand, turning on the shower and letting the warm water cascade over your body. It's a welcome respite from the chaos of the evening, and you take your time, letting the steam wash away the physical and emotional residue of the night.
As the water cascades down, you can't help but think about how to contact Luffy or the rest of the crew. Pudding seems like the safest option, given her past interactions with your friends. But the logistics of reaching out to her are daunting, especially with Katakuri lurking just outside the door.
Eventually, you finish your shower, wrapping yourself in a large fluffy towel. Glancing at your reflection in the fogged-up mirror, you're struck by how tired and sad you look. With a sigh, you reach for a face towel, intending to run it under cold water to reduce the puffiness around your eyes.
But as you do, you realize just how large the towel is, a stark reminder of the size and strength of your new husband. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but you push it aside, focusing instead on getting dry and applying lotion to your body.
Once you're sufficiently covered, you peek out from under the bathroom door, listening for any signs of life in the room beyond. When you hear nothing, you slip back into the room's shadows, quietly making your way to the dresser drawers in search of clothing.
You avoid the underwear set Big Mom had insisted you wear beneath the wedding dress, opting instead to dig through the drawers until you found something. Among the array of garments, you manage to find a black bra and underwear set that fits you perfectly.
A note from Pudding accompanies the lingerie, explaining that it's the best she could do under the circumstances. You hug the note to your chest, grateful for Pudding's help, before slipping into the undergarments.
Next, you find a slip that Pudding had also left for you. Pulling it over your head, you revel in the softness of the fabric against your skin. It's a simple yet elegant piece, with delicate lace adorning the edges. As you adjust the straps, you notice how the slip drapes over your figure, accentuating your curves in a flattering way.
'Would he even like something like this? Oh my God no, I can't believe I just thought of that!'
You feel your ears begin to heat up again until you turn away from the mirror. Looking down, you're struck by the contrast between the darkness of the lingerie and the sexiness of the red slip. It's a visual representation of the conflicting emotions swirling inside you.
'This won't do.'
Still feeling vulnerable, you return to the dresser drawers, your fingers trailing over the various fabrics as you search for something to provide additional comfort. Finally, you come across a large white shirt tucked away in the back of the drawer. Pulling it on over the slip, you're enveloped in its soft embrace, the oversized fit offering a sense of security you desperately need. With each button fastened, you feel a little more grounded, a little more ready to get through the night.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as you catch a small whiff of something. The scent of donuts and fire lingers on the fabric, a faint reminder of Katakuri's presence in the room. You pause, the shirt draped over your shoulders, and bring the collar up to your nose, inhaling deeply. The familiar aroma envelops you, warm and comforting, like a gentle embrace in the midst of chaos. It's a reminder that despite the circumstances, you're not entirely alone.
Closing your eyes, you allow yourself a moment of quiet reflection, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathe in the calming scent. For a fleeting instant, the weight of the world lifts from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of peace and tranquility. It's a small respite from the turmoil of the night, but one you cling to nonetheless.
With a steadying breath, you lower the collar of the shirt and let your hand fall to your side. The fabric drapes loosely around your frame, offering both physical comfort and a semblance of emotional refuge. You're still trembling, still uncertain of what lies ahead, but at this moment, wrapped in the scent of cologne and the soft embrace of the oversized shirt, you find yourself before the closet door.
"Hey, you can come out now."
There's no movement from the door. You feel confused before remembering what he had said and raising your hand to gently knock three times. Your knuckles rap lightly against the closet door, the sound echoing in the silent room. For a moment, there's no response, only the hushed murmur of your own breathing. Then, from within the closet, you hear a soft shuffle of movement, followed by the creak of hinges as the door swings open.
Katakuri steps out, his presence filling the room once more. His shirtless form is a stark contrast to the imposing figure you've come to know, his black sweatpants hanging loosely on his frame. Without his mask, his face is revealed, and you can't help but notice deep scares that adorn his face, the sharp fangs that poke out of his lips.
He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable, before his eyes flicker down to the floor, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "Sorry," he murmurs, his voice low and hesitant. "I didn't mean to make you wait."
You shake your head, a small frown tugging at the corners of your lips. "It's okay," you reassure him, your voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm ready now."
With a nod, Katakuri steps aside, allowing you to pass him and make your way back into the bedroom. The scent of mochi lingers in the air, a comforting reminder of his presence beside you. As you settle back onto the bed, the oversized shirt enveloping you in its warmth, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unexpected kindness of your new husband.
"Thank you," you murmur softly, offering a grateful nod as you settle back onto the dresser, the oversized shirt providing a comforting shield against the lingering tension in the room. But as you find yourself propped on the wood surface, a lingering ache in your wrist prompts a question you can't ignore.
"Katakuri," you begin tentatively, your gaze meeting his with a mixture of curiosity and concern, "about your wrist... I'm sorry if I hurt you earlier."
His brows furrow slightly at your words, a hint of surprise crossing his features before he sighs, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's alright," he assures you gently, his tone carrying a sense of understanding. "I knew you'd be asking about that next. And I'm sorry for tugging you so harshly and for any other discomfort, I may have caused you. When I entered and didn't see you, I assumed they were going to send you in after me shortly."
You take in his apology, feeling a sense of relief wash over you at his understanding. It's a response you hadn't expected, one that speaks volumes about his character. In the dim light of the room, you can see the sincerity in his eyes, a quiet reassurance in his presence.
"Thank you," you reply softly, offering him a small nod. "I appreciate your understanding."
He meets your gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you before he nods, a small gesture of reassurance. But before the silence settles between you, another question tugs at your thoughts, one that you can't ignore any longer.
"Katakuri," you begin, your voice hesitant as you broach the topic, "about your stab wound... How did you...?"
His expression softens as he meets your gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. "I figured you'd asking about that next," he admits with a faint chuckle, his tone laced with amusement. "My Devil Fruit powers allow me to manipulate mochi, shaping it into various forms and even extending my limbs. When you stabbed my wrist, it was made of mochi, so it didn't hurt as much as you might think."
You listen intently as he explains, feeling a sense of awe at the revelation of his abilities. It's a reminder of the world you've been thrust into, one filled with wonders and dangers alike. But in that moment, as you sit together in the quiet of the room, you find a sense of comfort in the genuine conversation between you.
As the conversation unfolds, your curiosity drifts to the scars that adorn Katakuri's mouth, the faint lines drawing your attention.
"Katakuri," you inquire softly, your voice filled with genuine interest, "what happened to your mouth? Those scars... they look like they've seen their fair share of battles."
His expression shifts slightly at your question, a hint of hesitation crossing his features before he offers a faint smile. "Ah, these scars," he begins, his voice tinged with a mixture of nostalgia and vulnerability. "They're... a remainder of a childhood mishap, you could say."
You sense his reluctance to delve deeper into the topic, a subtle tension underlying his words. "I got them when I was young," he continues, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
"An accident involving... donuts."
Your eyebrows raise in surprise, a hint of amusement creeping into your expression despite the seriousness of the moment. "Donuts?" you repeat, unable to suppress a small chuckle.
Katakuri nods, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he looks . "Yes, donuts," he confirms, his tone slightly sheepish. "I... stretched my mouth open too wide while eating them, and... well, the rest is history."
You can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, realizing the vulnerability he must feel about the scars. "I'm sorry," you offer softly, your voice filled with genuine empathy. "It must have been difficult for you."
He meets your gaze with a grateful nod, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. "Thank you," he murmurs, his tone sincere.
"It's... not something I talk about often."
You nod in understanding, sensing the weight of his words as you sit together in the quiet of the room. At that moment, you find yourself grateful for the opportunity to learn more about the man behind the mask, scars, and all.
As the conversation winds down, Katakuri glances at the clock on the wall, noting the lateness of the hour. "It's getting late," he remarks, his voice gentle but firm. "You should get some sleep."
At his words, a wave of panic washes over you, the prospect of sleeping in the same bed with him filling you with dread. Katakuri notices the sudden change in your demeanor, his brows furrowing in concern. "Is something wrong?" he asks softly, his eyes searching yours.
You hesitate, unsure of how to voice your fear. But before you can respond, he speaks again, his tone reassuring. "I could sleep in the closet," he offers, his voice calm but resolute. "You can have the bed to yourself."
Relief floods through you at his words, gratitude mingling with the lingering fear in your heart. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
With a nod, Katakuri moves to the bed, but you find yourself unable to follow. The fear still grips you, holding you back from taking that step. Sensing your hesitation, Katakuri pauses, his gaze softening as he turns back to you.
"What's wrong?" he inquires gently, his eyes filled with understanding.
You take a deep breath, summoning the courage to voice your feelings. "I'm... afraid," you admit, your voice trembling with emotion.
"I don't think I can..."
Katakuri considers your words for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then, with a decisive nod, he moves to the bed, swiftly stripping it of all its coverings. "We'll make a makeshift bed on the floor," he decides, his voice calm but determined.
You watch in silence as he gathers extra pillows and blankets from the closet, his movements efficient yet gentle. When he returns, he offers you a choice of designs for the blanket, a small gesture of kindness that touches your heart.
With a grateful nod, you select a donut design, your fingers trembling slightly as you take the blanket from him. Together, you create a makeshift bed on the floor, arranging the pillows and blankets until they form a comfortable nest.
Katakuri finishes arranging the makeshift bed with a satisfied smile, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. "Alright, this should do it. I used to do the same for my siblings when they were younger," he remarks, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Turning to you, he waits for your response.
As he mentions returning to the closet, you remember his earlier promise not to touch you, a gesture of respect and consideration that doesn't go unnoticed. You meet his gaze, silently contemplating his offer.
After a moment of thought, you shake your head slightly. "I wouldn't mind if you slept on the opposite end of the pillow fort," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
A small smile graces Katakuri's lips at your suggestion. "Alright," he replies, his tone warm and accepting. With a nod, he settles down on the opposite end of the makeshift bed, giving you a comfortable distance.
The room falls into a hushed darkness as Katakuri dims the lights, casting soft shadows across the walls. You watch him settle onto his side of the makeshift bed, his movements deliberate and controlled. With a quiet sigh, you follow suit, curling up on your side, facing away from him.
As you lie there in the stillness of the room, you try to quiet your mind, to let the events of the day fade into the background. But try as you might, sleep eludes you. Your thoughts drift back to the chaotic events that led you here, to this unfamiliar room in a mansion far from home.
You remember the fear and desperation, the overwhelming sense of helplessness as you found yourself trapped in a nightmare not of your making. The tears come unbidden, silently slipping down your cheeks as you relive the terror of facing a future filled with uncertainty.
Each sob threatens to unravel the fragile calm you've managed to hold onto, leaving you feeling raw and exposed. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, but they keep coming, a relentless torrent of emotion that refuses to be contained.
The weight of the day's events bears down on you, pressing against your chest like a heavy burden. Your breath becomes shallow and uneven, your heart pounding in your ears as you struggle to find a moment's respite from the turmoil raging within.
You turn onto your back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling utterly alone in the darkness. The quiet of the room is suffocating, the absence of noise amplifying the cacophony of thoughts swirling in your mind.
You try to focus on your breathing, to find some semblance of calm amidst the storm raging within you. But each inhale feels strained, each exhale a release of pent-up tension that only seems to fuel your restlessness.
You toss and turn, shifting from one position to another, but no matter how hard you try, sleep remains elusive. The hours drag on, stretching into eternity, and still, you lie there, trapped in the prison of your own thoughts.
And as the first light of dawn filters through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the room, you realize with a sinking heart that sleep will not come this night.
You feel a presence, and you turn over to find Katakuri looking at you with concern etched across his features. His eyes are soft, a stark contrast to the imposing figure you've come to know. In that moment, you realize he's not just a fearsome pirate, but also a man burdened with his own worries and doubts.
He sees the tears glistening on your cheeks and without a word, he rises from the makeshift bed and retrieves more tissues, sliding them over to you with a quiet understanding. You meet his gaze, studying the lines of tension in his brow, the slight furrow of his brow that speaks volumes of his concern.
It occurs to you then, that he's not unaffected by the events of the night. Beneath his stoic exterior lies a vulnerability you hadn't noticed before, a vulnerability mirrored in your own trembling hands and tear-streaked face.
"Katakuri," you whisper, his name a lifeline in the darkness. He stands at attention, his posture rigid with anticipation. You pause, unsure of what to say, but knowing that you need to say something, anything to bridge the gap between you.
You feel your heart reach out to him, a silent acknowledgment of the shared struggle you both face. He meets your gaze, his eyes searching yours for reassurance, for solace. And in that moment, you see him not as an enemy, but as someone who, like you, is grappling with the weight of their own emotions.
"I... I just want to thank you," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "For... for being here. For... for helping me."
His expression softens, a flicker of understanding passing between you.
"You are most welcome."
You glance once more at the bed, then decisively grab the donut blanket and climb on top of it. Katakuri watches you, a mixture of confusion and concern evident in his expression as you make your move.
Scooting back into the bed, you pat the space where you were just sitting, silently inviting him to join you. He stares at the spot for a long moment, his brow furrowed with contemplation, before finally taking a seat beside you.
Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you turn to him, your voice soft but determined. "If you would accept," you begin, meeting his gaze head-on, "I will give you permission to sleep next to me and touch me, but only for comfort and if you consent to do so. I do not wish to consummate our marriage."
There's a vulnerability in your words, a raw honesty that lays bare your fears and desires. Katakuri's expression softens as he processes your words, his eyes searching yours for a moment before a myriad of emotions flickers across his face.
Finally, he nods, a solemn acceptance of your terms. "I understand," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I accept your conditions."
Relief floods through you, mingling with the lingering apprehension. Tentatively, you reach out to him, your voice trembling slightly as you continue, "But I do need a hug and would like one from you."
His gaze softens further, and without a word, he pulls you into his arms, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. In that moment, as you rest against his chest, you feel a sense of connection and understanding.
As Katakuri's arms wrap around you, you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart beneath his chest. His warmth seeps into you, a soothing balm against the cold dread that's settled in your bones. His muscles are tense at first, a reflection of his own uncertainty, but as you gently pat his shoulder, he begins to relax, the rigidity in his frame easing with each tender touch.
"May I pet your hair?" he asks softly, his voice a gentle murmur in the quiet room.
You nod against his chest, your consent a whisper in the stillness. His fingers thread through your hair with a careful touch, the sensation both comforting and intimate.
The knots in your chest and the tangled web of thoughts in your mind start to melt away as his gentle ministrations continue. His scent—a unique blend of mochi, donuts, and a hint of campfire smoke—envelops you, grounding you in the present moment and gradually clearing the fog of your anxieties.
You nuzzle into him softly, feeling a newfound sense of safety in his embrace. An idea forms in your mind, a way to comfort him in return.
"May I touch your cheek?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
There's a moment of silence, a pause that stretches on until he finally answers quietly, "Yes."
Slowly, you raise your hand to his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly. As you let your fingers trace over his scar, you can feel the texture of the healed skin, and the vulnerability he rarely shows. His eyes close briefly, and you sense the tension in him easing further, your touch a silent offering of understanding and acceptance.
Katakuri leans into your touch, the warmth of your palm against his scarred cheek seeming to provide him with a sense of comfort and solace. His eyes flutter closed, and you can feel the last remnants of tension drain from his body. The rhythmic motion of his fingers in your hair slows, his breath becoming deeper and more even.
Before you know it, he's fallen asleep, his head resting gently against your hand. The sight of him, so vulnerable and at peace, tugs at your heartstrings. The steady rise and fall of his chest, and the softness of his expression, make you realize how exhausting this day has been for both of you.
You let your hand linger on his cheek for a moment longer, taking in the tranquility of the scene. His steady heartbeat beneath your touch, the warmth of his body, and the faint scent of mochi and campfire smoke create a cocoon of calm around you. For the first time since this ordeal began, you feel a glimmer of hope.
As you nuzzle into him, you close your eyes, letting the security of his presence lull you into a gentle sleep. Wrapped in the warmth of each other's embrace, the world outside fades away, leaving only the quiet promise of a new beginning in its wake.
You're both in this together, navigating the uncertainties of your situation as a team.
_____________________________________________________________
That was part 1 folks, lemme know how you liked it!
Make sure you check out the a03 account by the same name. Everything I have posted here is there in chronological order. I also have other hot One piece characters posted in the masterlist! Give them a read if you please!
Be sure to check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. Drop a follow as well if you please. Don’t be shy to leave me a little reblog if you want. I am also currently taking requests.
I promise I bite~
Seen you soon my loves!!~ <<33
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teenage sammy grappling with his intolerable attachment to his big brother one shot<3
1998, South Carolina
Summer hits full on like a hammer, shrivelling the last spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. John has them situated this time in South Carolina in the middle of a buttfuck nowhere trailer park. Sam huffs out a whoosh wafting a strand of his shaggy, greasy hair and scuffs his knock-off beat up converse into the dry dirt, the path leading up into their new home for the next week or two.
John recites his customary speech, Dean nods, ‘Yes sir’ as Dean always does. He’s John more often than dad these days. John gave Sam a name when he was born then left, like a background actor in a movie, cut from the film roll. The rumble of the impala and he’s gone.
Spider plants hang from pots on the wide trailer porch. Chipped ceramic ornaments of butterflies and lizards were placed outside. Inside, the shabby floral wallpaper and checkered armchair. The tattered cotton curtains blowing gently, and the cross hung on the wall, wonky. It was like a polaroid from the 70s, all orange hues and clashing patterns.
“What a dump,” he said gritting his teeth.
“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs “Kinda cozy,”
Dean’s eyes like hawks observing their new home, finding quick exits, salting the windows and doors. Safety first, look out for Sammy, like the good toy solider that he is.
Sam knows Dean can’t help it, the urgency, the attentiveness, to keep safe, guard his little brother. Sam would be lying if he said he wouldn’t want it any other way, he hopes it’s a two-way street.
Truth is, being in each other's pocket is all they’ve ever known. Dean is Sam’s brother as much as he is his only friend, his father, his mother, all rolled into one. Dean's hands being a caress and a fumbling worry of a mother’s. Dean who changed Sam’s diapers, who soothed teething pains with nimble fingers, tender rocking's and forgiving scoldings. It was all him, not a woman with satin blonde hair and porcelain skin nor the man with the grief-stricken furrowed brows and whiskey sighs. No, it was the kid with the goofy grin and the shoulders weighed down heavy with more liability than a kid should ever know, now turned leather jackets and calloused hands, felon fingers, summers caress dotted upon the bridge of a nose. Summer has always been extra generous to him, he thought, kind of face that weighs heavy on a teenage boys heart.
Looking at Dean is like hallucinating like looking through the lenses of kaleidoscope, soft orange and pink hues from the sun dipping into the horizon of the late summer dusk framing his head like an angel but an angel in the flames. An angel that could be Gabriel but an angel that could be Lucifer too, like he would readily delve into the deep, dark hell as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places. And Dean would for Sam.
Dean was Sam’s first everything, and it’s no surprise Sam would want that forevermore.
Sam can’t help it, this craving, it’s insatiable, like an itch irritating him under new stretched teenage skin. If he itches and itches, scratches with blunt anxious bitten nails until he draws blood. But the blood he revels in, the curving, cutting and slaughtering himself to fit into the groove of Dean’s heart, he would do anything, and he knows Dean would do the same but not in the ways Sam yearns for. Sam knows, he knows it’s twisted, he knew as soon as he was enrolled in school and how not everyone else feels that way about brothers. But he doesn’t care, not when Dean is the only grace he was given in his world of destruction and ruin, his pure drop in an ocean of chaos. Damn it if the lord doesn’t forgive him, heaven and hell are just words to a hopeless boy like Sam. When his brother looks at him, he decides to wage holy war.
But Dean doesn’t know, not really, he knows Sam loves him but no more, no less, too frightful Sam would scare him fiercely, that he would leave Sam here, loose his grace, and what is Sam without his grace? Just an empty vessel, an angel damned from heaven, forever. Think he’s sick, corrupt, disgusting. Only Sam can be the one to know this about himself, swallow the key if he must. He tries his best to shelter away these parts from Dean, distancing ever so slightly, it just makes the craving worst, he thinks, withdrawal.
So, he lives with Dean, in his shadow. Watches him, envies him, wants to be him, wants to be with him, under him. Watches him waltzing around the kitchen with sultry hips after this week's easy fuck. Probably some white trash bimbo Sam thinks harshly, doesn’t know what it truly means to have him, a boy, a man, like Dean. He goes for anything with legs and a mouth in a 1-mile radius, puts it out to anything, anyone but Sam.
“You stink Dean,” Sam mumbles under his breath
“That’s the smell of champions Sammy” Dean grins, easy and careless, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Sam shoots daggers into his back.
This is their dance, Dad goes on a hunt for a couple of weeks, Dean and Sam are holed up in a shack and they pretend that this is their normal, habit, but it’s not, they we’re and forever born in motion. Dean enrols Sam into the local (another) high school, Dean gets a short-term job working with his hands to hold them over until Dad gets back, this time at the garage. They make small talk with strangers when necessarily and act according to their roles, relocates the suspicious eyes on Sam’s stitched up hand me down t-shirts and Deans violet blooming bruises from training and hunts, keeps social services off their back. But they fit in OK around this truckers town so Sam holds it rigid, this vexation, lewdness, this jealousy brimming. Puberty is fucked, Sam likes to blame it on that.
~
It’s Friday, the shutters of the trailer are open and wide. Sam’s in makeshift shorts that were once jeans that he cut at the knees one town ago. The radio is static, and The Mama’s & The Papa’s is being carried through the thick-cut air, ‘you've got everything I need, and nobody can please like you, you baby and who believes that my wildest dreams and my craziest schemes will come true?’
Sam’s growth spurt mixed with food stamp fed spindly legs are propped up on the coffee table barefoot, toes wiggling, as he shovels spoonfuls of store brand cornflake knock offs in his mouth. Dean comes in wafting of oil and summer sweat after being outside tinkering with the ford pick-up truck Dad sorted out with a local hunter before he briskly left. He slaps the bottom of Sam’s foot with his greasy rag. Sam grunts.
"Up and at 'em or you're gonna be late" Dean lectures, parenting.
Sam rucks on an old 1975 Black Sabbath tour shirt that used to be Dean's that used to be Dads, now faded grey and bobbling. Pokes his feet into socks with his right toe sticking out of the hole, laces up his shoes and climbs into the passenger seat of the pick-up. Dean drops Sam off at the Pine Springs High and told him he'd pick him up, told him to ‘give ‘em hell’.
Pine Springs High was full of scraggy kids, Beavis and Butt-head boys, girls busty and leggy. Sam befriends one friend, a skinny freckled boy with thick rimmed glasses. His name is Davey. They were sat next to each other in science, dissecting a frog. Sam figures cutting open this frog is harder than the ghouls they slaughter. What did this frog ever do to anyone? Davey was informing Sam on the anatomy, pointed out the chambers of the heart, the ventricle. He seemed interested in trying to impress Sam with how smart he was. "You know a lot," stated Sam.
He smiled. He was a boy who wanted to be seen. Sam suspects with certainty he’s not in these careless halls of teenagers reeking of hormones and wariness of social status.
High school is not as gentle with kids like Sam and Davey. But Sam can tackle it, give as good as he gets. That’s what he’s been trained to do, what their dad trained him to do, those sparring sessions with Dean every other day doesn’t go to waste, as much as Sam likes to grumble and whine. The decomposition ghost of a girl in a tatty white dress with fine needlepoint lace trimmings from the 1820’s has more oomph in her thump than any of these teenagers.
Even in a Gas-mart town like this one full of greasy kids with dirty fingernails Sam still is stared at by clusters of kids. Maybe it’s the adequate collection of bruising on his body from said sparring and Victorian decomposition, or maybe it’s the fact he’s an outsider (he’s always the outsider) but Sam doesn’t mind. Cleanliness and godliness are deceptive, he’d rather wear his wounds, his ugliness. No fooling, he was torn and stitched.
~
Dean picks Sam up, sees the mop of brown hair and downcast face amongst the sea of chattering high-spirited kids. It reminds Dean of when he encouraged him to go to a classmate's birthday party in kindergarten, timid little Sammy protested but Dean encouraged his little brother to go, nervy on all he was missing out growing up. When Dean went to pick him up at McDonald's he spotted him, dejected, eyes glazed over. Other children around him screaming and sliding into pits filled with coloured balls. It splintered Dean to his core.
When Sam is in arm reach Dean tousles Sam's hair, and he gets a whack of the hand and a gruff in response.
“How’d it go Sammy?” Dean asks, hefting himself up into the driver's seat.
“Fine.” Sam replies, quick, sharp. “And it’s Sam,” he stresses.
Dean doesn’t know what it is these days but there’s a slight ache, a gnawing. Sam used to look at Dean like he hung the stars just for him. That Dean was God’s own reflection but now there’s a distance, an interspace and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. At first, he thought maybe it’s teenage hormones or pheromones or whatever the fuck, but Dean never remembers being that sulky as a teenager. Maybe he never got the chance. When he tries to touch Sam, he flinches, scurries away like he just spooked a rodent. Used to revel in it, they practically grew up in each other's arms. Was still sharing a bed in the motels until two years ago.
Dean would never admit it out loud to him, but he misses Sam. Misses that constant comfort of touch and affection.
They stop off at a local diner on their way back to the trailer park, Sam questions if they have enough money for the month to eat out, Dean tells him not to worry. All wooden panels, red and white checkered table clothes, a sign that reads, ‘lumber jack pancake special for $5.95!’ Dean eyes it up, breakfast at dinnertime, their lives never have rhythm or reason anyways. They slide into a booth of worn leather, Sam on one side, Dean on the other.
Sam orders a panini with ham and cheese and fries, Dean the lumber jack pancakes. When they arrive by a shy petite waitress with inky dark eyes and blushing blotted cheeks, Dean swipes a fry off Sam’s plate just to receive another swat. Any touch is better than no touch, bad attention better than none.
Sam doesn’t miss the way the waitresses' eyes linger on Dean’s profile. If he shoots a frosty glare her way Dean doesn’t have to know.
~
The sun with no forgiveness, a parched sky, the hillsides with purple wilting drifts of milkweed, dotting the cracks of the gas-station and garage. It was Saturday, Sam was at the garage while Dean worked. Tucked in a corner sheltered from the suns ruthless beat with his library copy of Catcher In The Rye he couldn’t return when John dragged them out of the motel inn at dawn a town back. Sam said he felt guilty, Dean told him to stop being such a law-abiding citizen.
He gazed at Dean, could smell his sweat, sharp and strong, a man, Sam’s brain applied helpfully. He was wearing overalls, wiping workman sweat from his forehead. Sam wanted to lick him, taste the salt and summer kissed skin. He knows he’s disgusting. At this rate Sam thinks he should stab his eyes out, so he can’t look. Burn his skin off, so he can’t touch.
~
The next Sunday, Sam sleeps in late. He finds Dean slouched on the floral couch, stretched out like a housecat watching TV. It’s always a rarity to see him in a relaxed stance, undisturbed, a recess to the constant chaos of their lives. It settles something steady and peaceful within Sam with just a hint of sadness. He mumbles a drowsy good morning and trudges to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
He pisses in the toilet, sluggish, holds himself up steady with a hand against the tiles. The splash of his piss hitting the water too loud in the quiet murmur of their trailer.
Washing his hands, he moseys around in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, aimless trinkets left behind by previous owners. Tweezers with a single gemstone on them, antibiotic ointment, outdated eyedrops.
Sam finds a small capsule behind an empty bottle of aspirin. He reaches for it, revealing a lipstick, the cheap kind you pick-up at Walmart for $5.
He holds it in his hand, stares. Turns it in his palm, opens the lid with a subtle click and rotates the base.
The lipstick itself is a cherry red, obscene kind of red. The type he sees on hookers lingering around the corners at motels when he slips out at dusk to buy Dr Peppers from the vending machine with the quarters Dean made him pocket.
The garish fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, whirring like insects as he watches them showcasing their chests and unveiled legs. They always look cold, Sam thinks.
Sam looks up and scans his face in the mirror, holds the lipstick close to his nose, sniffs it. It smells like wax and chemicals, half suspected it to smell like strawberries and an angel's kiss or something, screws his nose up.
Without much reflection he smears the cherry red lipstick onto his lips, it's messy and askew not as neat as he sees on the girls in Dean's skin mags. He sets down the lipstick onto the sink and looks at himself, really looks.
The glaring red on such a boyish face like Sam's feels lewd and indecent. He feels slightly silly, embarrassed, his cheeks stain a weak scarlet. He wonders what others would think of him like this, Dean, his dad.
God, dad would probably be appalled, call him a sissy, punish him by making him do triple the training. Make him run for miles under the blazing sun.
But Dean, what would Dean think of his little brother like this? If Sam just waltzed right out of the bathroom now and stood dead in the line of Dean's vision. Would he stammer? Get all flustered and struck-dumb? Would he look at Sam and think of him as those girls he promenades to the impala, the motel room when he thinks Sam's asleep and not hanging onto every grunt and sigh coming from Dean's throat. Stores them in the hollow of his heart, imprinted on it just as sacred as the Holy Bible is to a priest.
Would he want to tenderly caress the shape of his mouth, smear the lipstick, make Sam looked wrecked? He inspects the long plains of his body, like scorched landscape, bronzed from June’s boldness.
Sam’s been trying to get used to it, his recasting body. Finally losing his baby fat, almost catching up to Dean in height much to Dean’s dismay. Just he doesn’t carry the newly stretched limbs well, feels like a puppet and someone else is yanking the strings. He hasn’t thought about it much, how others perceive him, how Dean perceives him.
Sure, Sam’s had his first kiss and fumbled under a girl's shirt in Indiana last year, let him touch her boobs. She wore lots of eyeliner, wore black bulky boots and liked Alice In Chains. Sam creamed his pants as soon as he got a soft plump handful, she didn’t seem to mind so he tried not to feel too embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean (lied to a reasonable measure) for him to be proud of him. Dean let Sam have his first beer after he told him, “Since you’re a man now,” Dean announced, “Don’t tell Dad,” He winked. Sam never tells John their secrets.
But other than that, he’s a bit clueless, still bashful when girls look his way. Isn’t fabricated like Dean, heavied bottom lip into effortless grin that make’s girls drop and fractures their porcelain hearts, little unconsciously brutal but never intentional to be so. Sam would let Dean smash him into smithereens, shards of broken ceramic all over the tiles, if he’d wanted.
He thinks about the woman who supposedly left the lipstick here, he decides it’s an older woman, barefoot in a simple dress in the tail end of summer, her feet and the palms of her hands showed pale pink against her sunburnt skin, looked ornamental. He decided she had many lovers, wore it for them, wonders if Dean would be one. Wonders what she would think finding out a gawky teenage boy was trying on her bygone lipstick.
Wonders what it would be like to wear this for Dean, his lover.
Dean compulsive, gluttonous with the want of Sam, gushing his hands over the sides of his body, the pull of his rutting teenage hips. The neediness he sometimes gets in that platonic brotherly way bordering on hysteria whenever Sam’s hurt. All his senses submerged entirely by Dean Dean Dean, his touch, his smell, his hot breath.
Sam shoves a frantic hand down his pyjama pants and briefs, wrenches his dick with crazed tugs. Comes that exact same time there’s rough banging on the door, Dean shouting, “Come on Sam, you’ve been in there forever!” rattling the door with his presence.
Sam leaps, grimacing at the mess he made in his pants, swiping a towel and cleaning himself up in rapid motions. Rubs off the lipstick with the back of his hand, scouring his mouth.
“You jerking off in their little brother?” Dean calls out, muffled slightly through the thick wood of the bathroom door, amusement laced in his tone.
When Sam is sure he’s cleansed himself of any misdemeanours and removed all crucial evidence he swings the door open and shoulders past Dean muttering, “No Dean, I wasn’t jerking off.” How much of that Dean believes is out of his control. He pockets the lipstick.
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