Seat Number Four

Decided to draw Marko Last night, lowkey like this drawing style.

(Please ignore that his jacket is just squiggly lines)

Tell me a story

Summary: Dean has trouble sleeping at night

Word count: 0.5k

A/n: I don’t use Y/n at all in this fic, and I am just trying to practice writing. So leave criticism if you want :)

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He felt restless. 

He was always moving, always hunting, always fixing something in this messed up world that he lived in. And boy did it tire him out. 

Dean was currently sitting in the ‘Dean cave’, an old Adam Sandler movie playing in the background as he tried to doze off. But sleep seemed to drift away from him every time he came close to the internal peace. 

He didn’t know what it was that kept him from this nights sleep. He tried all the tricks in the book to help him; warm milk, reading for five minutes an hour, and even shutting off all electronics so that his eyes wouldn’t burn from the blue light. But none of it seemed to work. 

Glancing at his watch, he read the time. 2:47am. “God.” Dean muttered to himself, he’d been trying to sleep since 10, and now four hours later he had yet to even come close to sleeping. 

A small knock came from the entrance to the cave, facing the noise he saw you standing beside the door frame. An old band T-shirt of Deans and a pair of your shorts were used for your PJs tonight, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you slowly walked into the room. 

“Dean?” You questioned, coming to stand in front of him as he never once moved from his spot on the couch. 

“Yes, princess?” He asked, sitting up. The blanket he had been using sliding down to the floor, chills slowly creeping up the back of his neck. 

“Why are you still up?”

Dean didn’t know if he should sugarcoat his answer or just tell you flat out, because either way he’d know that you’d ask questions either way. He let out a tired sigh, his hand rubbing his face before he answered you. “I couldn’t sleep, haven’t been able to for a couple of hours.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, you’d seen him go to bed hours ago. You’d honestly thought he was well into sleep by the time you had retired to your own room. You’d only been up because you were thirsty, and when you walked past the ‘Dean cave’ you were confused why the TV was on. 

Looking over your shoulder at the TV, you saw Happy Gilmore playing. The volume down low enough to not bother the only other sleeping resident in the bunker. You then faced Dean again a tired pout gracing your lips as you stepped in between Deans legs. Both your hands coming to rest in his hair. 

“Can I watch the movie with you?” You asked, giving him the best puppy eyes that you could muster. 

Dean let out a breathy laugh, his own hands coming to rest on your waist as he pulled you closer to him.  “Course, princess.”

Laying back down on the couch, Dean pulled you on top of him, your head resting on his chest as you listened to his steady heart breathing. A deep sigh fell from Deans lips as he pulled you closer to his body, if possible. 

With the warm body now on top of him, and light chatter from the TV, Dean slowly felt sleep seeping into his body. That’s all he needed, Dean thought to himself as he listened to your slow breathing. He didn’t need warm milk, or a book to help him fall asleep.

Instead all he needed was his favorite movie and his favorite girl to do the trick. 

literally anyone: what is this place

Dean: welcome to my mojo dojo casa house

the lost boys but it’s just david bullying star exactly how peter bullies meg in family guy

Join them Micheal, you won’t regret it

Initiation's over, Michael. Time to join the club!

Original version

ok but imagine

Peter Parker is hanging out with Ned and their like building a Lego starship or something and Peter jokingly does a British accent for jokes

like

Peter in a British accent: may the force be with you, Ned.

and Ned just looks at him and goes: that’s not how you do a British accent

and goes back to the Lego starship.

and Peter just kinda looks off into the distance (or at one of the cameras) with a bitch face on and everything.

(Preferably like in the office)

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; II

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: another day in santa carla, and it's already stranger than the first. conflicting feelings surface when you encounter the punks from the boardwalk again, and a challenge ends with you seeking help from the kind man running the video store.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, sexual harassment, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), non-consensual touching, teasing

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: original word count was 4861, new word count is 6050

[1] … [3] … [8] [9]

You tuck a well-loved novel into your makeshift bookshelf, muttering a quiet, "Don't look at me like that, Bowie," to the stuffed snowy owl Grandpa deposited last night. 

Bowie didn't reply, but you swear his blue-and-green eyes gleam with judgment. 

"If you don't like it, then don't read," you remind him, pushing another racy novel behind his perch. 

Is it pathetic to talk to a piece of taxidermy? The jury's out. As of right now, he's your only friend. Somehow, both Sammy and Michael have made connections. Even Mom made one in the two seconds you weren't with her. 

Maybe you're doomed to be like Grandpa? A curmudgeonly hermit who loafed around the house in a bathrobe and soggy slippers. 

Talking Bowie means you were halfway there. 

You turn the owl around with a shudder.

You continue your chores softly humming with the Mamas and the Papas when someone knocks on your door.

Mom ducks her head in, wearing an apologetic look for disturbing the peace.

"—Well, I got down on my knees, (got down on my knees) and I pretended to pray!—"

You turn the sound down on your radio, "Yeah?"

"I wanted to check in with you. I'm heading to the video store—you can join me, if you like?" She shrugs. "You don't have to stay the whole time. Michael and Sam are heading to the beach if you'd rather join them."

You note the lack of choice: it's either/or, not neither. 

You could hem haw around—Gee, Mom, that sounds great, but I'm having so much fun unpacking!

Yeah. Not happening. She wants you to go out 'like old times,' but you don't have the heart to explain that 'old times' are meant to stay in the past.

And as much as you would love to cling to your mother's arm, you're not a child, and you want to give her a chance to explore this newfound something she formed with the Video Store Man.

"I'll go to the beach with Mike and Sammy."

Mom smiles, relieved. "That's great, honey. We can meet up at the boardwalk after my shift is over and get something to eat."

"Sure."

She blows a kiss and leaves. You hear her melodic voice float up the stairs as she tells Mike the news. He groans—probably complaining about how his bike can't fit three people—but Mom shuts him down by saying he can drive Grandpa's pickup. 

Michael barges into your room minutes later.

"Knock first!"

"Shouldda been born first," he fires back. Mike braces his arm on the door frame with a huff. "Listen—we're leaving in ten. Be ready by then."

"Fine—shut the door!"

He doesn't.

Asshole.

You change clothes, having spent all day in your PJs. You throw on a thin waffle knit sweater that used to belong to Mom and a gauzy skirt. You don't intend to get in the ocean, but pack a few books to pass the time. 

When you get downstairs, Sam and Michael are packed and ready, wearing wetsuits and sunglasses. 

Sam scrunches his nose when he sees you. "Where's your swimsuit?"

"Not wearing one."

"What? Is it shark week or somethin'?"

You flick him in the middle of his forehead. "No, you dweeb. You'd know if it were."

Sammy shudders. 

The drive to the beach is pleasant; plus, Grandpa's radio works. Michael tries to get in on the fight for control, but after getting slapped one too many times, he gives up. 

Berlin's Take My Breath Away crackled over the speakers, and Michael groans. "Turn this shit off."

"It doesn't make you think of a certain someone?" Sammy teases.

"Oh, that's right," you say. "You were stalker boy last night, weren't you?"

"Shut up."

Sammy piles on, "It's never gonna happen."

"No, never," I add, "your ugly mug's probably what scared her off."

Michael turns the channel.

When you reach the beach, the sky is a murky orange. The sun'll be setting soon, but according to Mike, this is one of the better times to surf. 

The boys do all the heavy lifting, and you lay out a towel; you situate yourself far enough from the water so you won't get wet, but not so far that you're on the hot, loose sand. 

You watch idly as your brothers paddle out but quickly lose interest. You crack open a book—one of your favorites—and immerse yourself in the story.

When you look up from your book and notice that the sun is halfway down the horizon and the beach is almost empty; Sam trudges up the sand and throws his board to the ground.

You raise an eyebrow. "Had enough?"

"I'm sick of falling off," he grumbles. He spreads his legs, hogging the towel. "Plus, those terrorists wouldn't leave me and Mikey alone."

Sammy juts his chin toward the ocean, and you follow his gaze. Michael is easy to spot—he's the one surrounded by surfers. One of them comes a little too close to Mike, and he, in an attempt to swerve, falls off his board. 

Sam sneers, digging through your beach bag for a snack. "What a waste of space."

You peer over the edge of your book. "He's not gonna give up, is he?"

Sam deadpans. "What do you think?"

Michael clamors onto his board. The 'terrorists,' as Sam so eloquently named them, paddle toward him for another go. You roll your eyes and snatch a handful of Bugles from Sammy's bag. You're in for a long night.

Forty minutes later, the sun is completely gone, and dusk overtakes the sky. You give up reading and instead toss M&Ms into Sam's mouth (which is actually harder to do in the dark than read). Michael jogs out of the ocean, frustrated. A little ways behind him, the surfer group terrorizing him laugh. Your stomach churns and you would've thrown a seashell at them if the wind wasn't whipped into a frenzy.

Instead, you toss Michael a towel, and he dries off. His cheeks are pinkish-red, though you don't know if that's a sunburn or embarrassment.

"Let's get outta here. Mom's probably wondering where we are." He jerks his head to Sam. "Help me pack the boards, will you?"

Sammy whines, "I just wanna go home—can you drop me off, Mike? I promise I won't take too long…"

Mikey grabs the scruff of his neck and drags him to the parking lot.

You take your time packing up and sigh. Hopefully, Mom will be happy. You've done your due diligence and made sure Michael and Sam kept their nose clean. You even got some sun. If that doesn't count as socialization, you don't know what would.

It's only when the group of surfers approach that you wish you'd followed your brothers.

Before you can take a step, a wet, slimy hand smacks your ass. You jerk, stumbling over a mound of sand as you try to distance yourself from the offender.

"Hey!"

"How ya doin', beautiful?"

He's an ugly son of a bitch. You don't need sun light to tell you that. His hair is black with a white stripe, like a skunk's. The surfers close rank around you. They're still soaked from the sea, reeking of saltwater and cigarettes.

You think about running, but you won't make it; the six of them will catch you before you clear the dunes. Your stomach flips.

Ass-grabber snickers at your distress. "Why's a nice girl like you hangin' 'round chumps like that?"

The stench of beer and sweat leaks from his pores.

You level a glare, "They're my brothers."

Ass-grabber shares a look with his lackeys. "Your brothers can't surf for shit. All they know how to do is wipe out."

"Yeah," you say, "you tend to fall when you're crowded like that."

They ooo, and your false bravado takes a hit. A few hushed, nasty comments are thrown your way and you out manuver a pair of wandering hands. They're drunk. Drunk and fixated on you. Might as well, right? You're the only Emerson they haven't antagonized.

"You got a mouth on you," says ass-grabber. He closes the distance between you in one stride, snatching your wrist. He pulls you close; his wetsuit soaks your sweater; his disgusting lips brush the shell of your ear. "I'd like to see what else it can do."

"Get off," you plea.

"'M gonna."

"No, get off!" You shove his chest, and he staggers.

"She's not interested, Greg."

The new voice startles you. You free your wrist and come face to face with a black leather jacket. Then, familiar blue eyes. Your lips part (to say—what? One look and he stole all the words from your mouth.) and you search his face.

It takes you a second to place him—and it comes from a shadow of a memory from the night before. The punks from the boardwalk.

You should be scared, but you're not. You see it in those captivating blue eyes of his, he doesn't want to mess with you. He's here to help. For now, at least, you let your guard down.

Greg glowers at the interruption. "Get off my beach."

The punk rips his gaze from yours with a shit-eating smirk. "Last I heard, the beach was public property, ay boys?"

He exchanges a glance with the rest of the boardwalk punks—one full of mirth and … something else. Something that you can't place, but it makes you uneasy. You take a step back lest you involve yourself in an Outsiders-esque rumble.

Greg gets in the leader's face. "I'll fuckin' kill you, man. Don't test me." You step back again, using the punks as a shield. You've never gotten in a fight before and you won't start now.

Greg's eyes flit between you and the group. And then—the strangest thing happens. He takes one look at the boys, and his eyes widen. The wind howls, but you swear you hear a growl. It's probably a passing car, but it chills you to the bone.

Greg's fear vanishes in a flash, and he scoffs. "You don't deserve my time."

The surfers trickle away one by one until they're just pinpricks on the sand, but the punks stay.

Finally, they face you, and you cradle your bulging tote bag like an iron shield. You're disgusted, you feel violated, and you're tempted to lose your cool on the punks, but their arrival prevented a worse outcome. For that, you're grateful.

Reluctantly, you admit that.

"Thank you." You push your hair back, holding it in place as the wind picks up. "I appreciate your help."

"No problem, baby." The taller blond smiles, capturing his tongue between his teeth.

There it is again. That long, drawn-out bay-bee. You clench your jaw. Maybe you should've run off.

These guys make you uncomfortable, but not like the surfers. No, it's a different sort. A discomfort that you've never felt before. It's all warm and awkward, like fluttering in your stomach.

As if he could sense your apprehension, the leader speaks. "Believe it or not, those guys are bigger assholes than us."

You scoff a laugh and his lips twitch.

He continues, "What are you doing out at this hour? Don't you know there are weirdos around?"

"I'm here with my family." They deign to look around the beach, but it's empty. You blush. "They're packing the car."

"Wasn't smart of them to leave you alone. This isn't exactly a safe place, you know?"

"Yeah," says Curly. "Just last week a bunch of body parts washed up on the shore. They dunno if it was a murder or a shark."

You frown. "You're kidding, right?"

Curly's grin is sharp enough to bite. "Why would we lie about something like that? Do you think we like scaring innocent girls like you for fun?"

"Uh, yeah."

The leader cocks his head, sizing you up. You swear his gaze burns you from the inside out, like hellfire. You resist the urge to shudder. 

"You left before we could introduce ourselves," he says, referencing last night. "I'm David. That's Paul—" bay-bee boy "—Marko—" Curly "—and Dwayne." The pretty brunette.

You try not to look interested (because you're not) and nod. "Well, have a nice night."

"You're not gonna tell us yours?" Marko asks.

You start to tell him 'no,' but you get the feeling he won't quit until you admit it, so tell them your first name. "I have to go."

"What? Can't hang, baby?" Paul snickers, ruffling your hair. You smack his hand away.

"It's not that—I have people waiting for me." You glance over the ridge again, praying your idiot brothers haven't left you. "Plus, I doubt I'd be much fun."

Your words elicit a new wave of laughter. Paul slings his arm over Marko's shoulder, "I think we'll be the judge of that."

Your face burns, and you stammer, "That's not what I meant."

God, they're disgusting. You hug yourself, willing your stomach to stop flipping. 

"I dunno, Paul, that seems like the only way to take that," says Marko. He pinches your nose. "You're cute when you're flustered." 

"I'm not—"

A hand reaches out—too fast for you to identify which boy, but you assume it's one of the terror twins—and snatches your glasses from your face. 

You react a second too late. "Hey!"

"Wow—" Paul, you think, "—You're pretty blind. How can you see?"

"I can't, you jerk! That's why I wear glasses!"

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Marko thrusts his hand in your face. 

"Give them back!" You lunge at where you thought he was, but he vanishes into thin air. 

You stumble into a chest. A pair of hands curl around your biceps. "What's the magic word, baby?"

Paul.

You bite your cheek. You refuse to cry in front of them. "Please?"

"Actually, it's da—oof!" Someone punches him before he can finish.

Paul vanishes from behind you, and you sniffle; you're pissed, you're embarrassed, and you wish that you were standing in quicksand. (Better yet, you wish they were standing in quicksand.)

"Here."

Someone presses your glasses into your hands. You put them on quickly, ignoring the fingerprint smudges on the lenses. 

You blink up at your savior—the gorgeous brunette. The one who, until now, hadn't said a single word. Dwayne, maybe?

"Thank you," you whisper, wishing your voice was stronger.

There may be a decent one among them, after all.

He smiles, and your heart stutters. This man could be on the cover of a romance novel, Jesus. You quickly look down, but that was the worst choice because he's shirtless under that leather jacket. You pinch your lips together and look literally anywhere else—there's a seagull, an abandoned kite, some trash...

"Don't tell me Dwayne makes you nervous," says Marko. "He doesn't bite, do you big guy?"

Dwayne shrugs, "Not hard."

Killing you would have been kinder. You’re a pile of goo, your face burns (but you tell yourself it’s from the sun), and if they keep this up you don’t know what will become of you.

"Do you want a ride?" David asks. "Seems like yours ditched you."

Michael. Sam. 

Fuck, that's right.

"No, they're just waiting for me," you say again.

On cue, Michael peers over the dunes, shouting your name. "C'mon! What's taking you so long?! Sammy's about to have an aneurysm."

A squeaky "Am not, Mike!" follows.

"Coming!" You burst through the boys but stop halfway up the dunes. "Um, thanks again, I guess."

David tilts his head, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "The offer still stands."

But you pretend you don't hear him and jog to the waiting truck.

Michael waits for you with a frown, eyeing the boys. "Are you okay?" 

You don't want to get into it, so you say, "Let's go."

Mom is anxiously waiting when Michael pulls into the lot. She greets you with a hug and a kiss. "Where's Sam?"

"Home," says Michael. "He's beat."

"Okay." She eyes his bike and squeezes your hand. "How was the ride over?"

You scoff, "At least he didn't crash this time."

Mike takes offense. "That was one time."

You stick your tongue out. One time and one ER visit too many in your book.

"Well, I'm starved." Mom rubs her hands together, smiling. "What do you say we go out to eat? I saw a great little place over there…"

Michael shrugs. "I think I wanna look around for a bit."

"Oh. Well, that's okay."

"I'll meet up with you later," he says, disappearing into the crowd.

"I guess it's just you and me, kiddo. What do you say? You wanna go home and make some pasta?"

"Yeah," you say, but your voice is an octave too high.

Mom sighs, but she's not disappointed. "What do you really want to do?"

Damnit. She's good.

Sheepishly, you tell the truth, "There's a bookshop around the corner, and I'd really like to check it out."

"Aw, sweetie." Mom squeezes your arm, pulling you into another hug. "I want you to have fun. You're not going to hurt my feelings by saying no, I promise."

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts. Go look at books. I think I'll head home. Are you okay riding with Michael again? I know how you feel about…"

She gestures to the bike.

You cringe at the offending metal. "We made it here in one piece. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Okay, honey. Enjoy yourself, alright? And you have Grandpa's number if you need it?"

"Yeah."

"I won't tell you not to stay out too late because you're a big girl, but be safe."

You smile, "I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

She relaxes ever so slightly, and it warms your heart. It almost makes you change your mind.

She waves goodbye, heading for the Land Rover. You square your shoulders and head back into the masses.

The bookstore is overcrowded tonight. 

Well, it's not, but you spot a few unsavory characters (namely Greg and his surfer douches), which makes you rush back to the parking lot. You're not ready for round two. 

Luckily, Michael's bike was still there, otherwise you would've been screwed.

You sit on the Death Trap (the name you gave Mike's stupid motorcycle a few years back) until you see Michael heading your way. You almost call out ...

... until you see he's with a girl.

"Shit," you whisper. 

Michael's puppy dog grin diminishes when he spots you. 

He looks ... different. He's wearing a leather jacket with the tag sticking out of the shirt sleeve. He's even combed his hair back. He looked like an off-brand version of David and his gang.

The girl eyes you warily. Michael rubs the back of his neck, glancing between you and her. 

"Um. Star, this is my sister."

You wave. If you were in a better mood, you would have teased him, but after the day you've had, ribbing Michael is the last thing on your mind.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd have company and Mom ... took off, and I'm... I'm sorry."

You've never felt more shitty in your life. For all the crap you give him, Michael's a decent guy. There's no way he'd choose a random girl over his sister.

But at the same time, you don't want him to make that choice. It's not fair.

"It's fine," he says. "We'll work this out."

Star readjusts her purse, "Maybe we should do this another time."

"Star," Michael starts to say something, but it fizzles out. 

Before he can try to salvage the evening, the roar of engines rips through the air. You jerk out of your seat as four stripped-down bikes corner you. Driving the beasts are four familiar faces, so familiar that you almost say, What? Are you guys stalking me?

But you don't because David beats you to the punch.

David raises his eyebrows. A dangerous aura overcame him—an aura that made you feel small and insignificant. "Where ya going, Star?"

Oh.

Apparently, they're not here for you. It ... stings, if you're honest.

She set her jaw. "For a ride. This is Michael."

David's gaze jumps to your brother. He sizes him up and smirks. It's like you're not even there.

He turns back to Star and says, "Let's go."

Star hesitates, and you wonder—why? Clearly, there's something there. Their history is palpable; regardless of whether it's romantic or platonic, you don't care. But the look on Michael's face crushes you.

Subtly, you insert yourself in between her and Michael. The last thing you need is for some girl to string him along. 

"Star," David says again, impatience seeping into his lazy drawl. 

She makes a face, but David doesn't budge. He stares her down as if daring her to challenge him. Reluctantly, she chooses David, draping her arm languidly over his chest as she climbs on. 

You expect David to burn rubber. He's got his girl; he's made his point. Now's the time to peel out and leave the Emersons in the dust. 

But he doesn't. 

Finally, David looks at you, and that weird feeling returns. You cross your arms, but you can't look away.

David doesn't want you to, though. And even though he speaks to Michael, he doesn't stop staring at you. "Do you know where Hudson's Bluff is, overlooking the point?"

Michael's confidence falters. "I can't beat your bike."

David revs his engine. "You don't have to beat me, Michael. You just have to keep up."

There's a pause, and it breaks the spell David held over you. Michael shifts his attention to you, Star, and the gang. You know your brother—your idiotic, competitive brother. He's considering it. There's one surefire way to get under his skin: challenge him. David, whether he knows this weakness or not, is exploiting it. 

But Michael holds back. He nods toward you. "I've got my little sister with me..."

"You can bring her," says Marko. "We don't mind, do we, baby?"

He winks, snickering as Paul whispers in his ear.

"Don't talk about her," Michael snaps.

You hold your hand out, "Mike, don't."

"Yeah, Mikey." Paul grins; you don't like what it does to you.

David says your name, and you instantly react. He gives you the same look he gave Star, goading you, commanding you. It's an invitation as much as it's a demand. 

Again, he says, "The offer still stands."

You swallow hard and say, "I shouldn't." 

David frowns. 

You turn to Michael, keeping your voice soft. "I know you want to go."

Michael grits his teeth. "I'm not going to leave you here."

"I'll be fine."

A beat of silence. He purses his lips. "Are you sure?"

You're not. You're scared shitless at the thought of being left alone on the boardwalk, but you can't tell him that. You won't. You see the way he grips his handlebars. He wants to impress these guys—impress that girl.

Michael is annoying, but he's your brother, and you refuse to hold him back even if he will make stupid choices.

You can't be his voice of reason when he'll tune you out.

So, you say, "I'll figure something out. Maybe that guy from the video store will know something?"

Mike relaxes. "... Fine."

You go to leave, but David catches you. His grip is gentle—barely there. He slips his hand from your wrist to your cheek, forcing you to look at him. 

He's touching you.

Your skin tingles. 

"Last chance," he says.

No sits on the tip of your tongue. It's the comfortable answer—the only answer—but saying yes is tempting. It dangles from your lips like a snake's hiss, your yes, your acceptance of David and everything he offers. 

You can picture it perfectly: climbing onto their bikes, feeling their leather jackets against your skin.

Skin on skin, chests crushed against each other. Hot, deep kisses that leave you breathless.

Hands trailing over your body—up your sweater, down your skirt, around your waist, over your breasts.

Tongues exploring every inch of your skin. 

It would be easy to say yes. You ... You want to say yes. 

Michael says your name, and you snap back to the present. You blink, rapidly clearing that perverted vision from your mind, your thoughts evaporating like smoke. 

You step away from David, letting his hand drop.

"Like I said," you murmur, "I wouldn't be much fun." You turn to Michael, plastering a wholesome grin on your face. "Be safe, Mikey."

"Tell your little sister bye-bye, Mikey," Paul jeers. 

Knowing you'll change your mind, you can't make yourself look back. So, you thrust yourself into the crowd and embrace the chaos.

By some miracle, you don't spot Greg or the surfers again when you reach the video store. A rush of cold air kisses your sweat-slick skin when you cross the threshold. Soft music plays overhead, and a handful of customers browse the offerings hung on the wall. It's a brightly colored dreamland, everything neon and glittery, designed to catch your attention.

In the center of the room is a counter, and behind it stands a tall, broad-shouldered man. He passes change to his customer and greets you with a smile.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"Are you Max?" His eyebrows twitch inward, but he nods, still smiling. You give him your name. "I'm Lucy's daughter."

"Lucy's—of course you are! What can I do for you on this lovely evening? Did she forget something?"

"Yes and no." You readjust your glasses. "My ride bailed and I was looking for a phone to call her. You don't happen to have one, do you?"

"By all means!" He pulls a sleek, rotary phone from beneath the counter. "Have at it."

"Thank you."

You dig through your purse and withdraw a neatly-folded piece of paper with Grandpa's number. Everything's going to be fine, you reassure yourself. You tuck the receiver under your ear and dial. The line rings ... and rings ... and rings.

Nothing.

You try again, consciously aware of Max watching you from the corner of his eye.

The phone rings again. No one picks up.

Shit.

Did you write the number wrong? You don't have a phone book or you'd triple check, but you swear you did that before leaving the house.

"Is everything okay?" Max leans against the counter, concern coloring his face.

Defeated, you hang up and push the phone toward him. "I'm sure it is."

"Did someone pick up?"

"No." You bite your cheek to keep the panic at bay. "No, uh, they didn't. Thank you, anyway. I'll figure something out. Maybe hitch a ride, or ..."

"Have you hitched before?"

You strain to smile. "There's a first time for everything, right?"

Max doesn't smile. "No, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Santa Carla isn't the wholesome place it used to be and I cannot, in good conscience, have you go out alone. I'll drive you."

Eyes wide, you backpedal, "Oh, no! You can't, you're in the middle of work and I just, I can't."

"Nonsense. Maria!" He motions for the pretty cashier to come closer. "Can you handle the store for a little bit? I have an errand to run. It shouldn't take more than an hour."

"Not a problem."

Max slides out from behind the counter and parrots Maria's words. "See? Not a problem."

"I don't want to get you in any trouble..."

Max chortles. He lays a hand on the small of your back and guides you out of the store. "My dear, I own the place. Although, if it makes you feel better, I'll reprimand myself when I get back."

Max has a nice car. Like, a really nice car. It has air conditioning that actually works and a stereo system that's out of this world. Plus—you can crank the windows up and down without them getting stuck! It's nothing like Mom's car, and everything like your father's back in Phoenix.

But Max isn't anything like your dad, which is probably why Mom loves him.

He makes light conversation in between you giving directions.

"Your necklace is pretty."

"Oh, thank you." You wear it so much that you barely think about it anymore. It's simply a chunk of quartz on a cord. You touch it, feeling its weight in your palm. "It used to be my mom's, but I took it so often she eventually gave it to me."

When you were younger, you used to think it was a magic rock that could grant you wishes. Now, you feel naked if you don’t wear it.

"Do you like crystals?"

"I guess so, yeah. They're pretty."

Max hums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "What's your favorite?"

"Um, well, I like quartz, but I think my favorite is obsidian."

He nods, "Remind me, which one is that again?"

"It's black. I don't know why, but it's always been my favorite."

"There's a shop on the boardwalk, somewhere around the theater, I think. I never go that way, myself, but I have met the owner during the occasional meeting. She's a nice woman. Has a big selection of crystals, if I'm right. You might like it."

His thoughtfulness strikes a cord with you. You can see why Mom likes him, he's charming.

"I'll have to check it out," you say. "Maybe I'll find my mom something to replace this old thing."

Max chuckles. "That's very generous of you. Most people think of themselves first. You have a giving heart—just like your mother."

"Oh, I don't know about that. She makes it easy."

Max turns the corner, and picks a new thread of conversation. "How do you like Santa Carla so far?"

"It's okay. We used to come out here a lot during the summer, but we haven't in ... almost a decade, I think?"

"It's a wonder we never met until now."

You shrug. "There's a lot of people in Santa Carla."

"That's true." Max turns the dial. A new radio station sifts through his speakers, and though it's not a genre you like, you don't mind. It's not like you're listening anyway.

To fill the void, you keep talking. "My dad never liked it here. He always cut our visits short. I can't remember even coming to the boardwalk back then."

"And your father, he's ...?"

"Back in Phoenix," you say. "They're divorced."

"I see." He keeps his tone light, but you can tell he's secretly glad to hear that. "It must be tough for you. You've uprooted your entire life."

"I’d do it again if it helped Mom, but if I’m honest? I feel like an outcast here. Everything is so different."

"Do you not like different?"

"It's not that I don't like it, I'm just not used to it." You laugh at yourself, adding, "I'm not the adventurous type. Mike and Sammy, they're outgoing, but I'm ... not. I tried, but it's not for me. I'm a homebody."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"You'd be the first to think it."

Maybe that's not fair to Mom, but it's true. She doesn't get it. You know she means well when she sends you out with your brothers, and you'll suffer through if it makes her happy, but you'd rather be at home. Even now, you're kicking yourself for not going with her.

Max glances at you. "Home is where the heart is, as they say."

"The heart is Mom," you say, not-so-subtly implying that Santa Carla isn't home. "I'm just ... there."

"A home needs a heart, a mother; that much is true. But a home also needs a solid foundation, something to hold it steady, something that makes sure it doesn't sink or shift. Now, some people might say that's the father's role, but not always. You strike me as that kind of person."

You're thankful it's dark because you fluster when he speaks. "That's kind of you to say."

"It's just an observation from an old man."

You snort. Max isn't old. "I guess I'm an exception to the middle kid stereotype—you know, how they're supposed to be wild and all that." You tried to be that a long time ago. You were that way, but ... "Mom's always needed a friend, especially this last year with everything. She does her best, but sometimes she needs help. I don't mind doing that."

Max softens, fondly glancing your way. "I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them."

"You have sons?"

"Oh, yes. They are," Max whistles, "they're a handful, that bunch. I try. I've given them everything, but they're reckless. As untamed as wild horses."

"I'm sure you do fine."

"They would disagree with you," he laughs. "What they need is something they've never had: a mother. Now, I can give them discipline, but they need that-that heart. Or, a foundation, for that matter." He winks at you conspiratorially. "I hope they get that one day before it's too late."

You smile awkwardly, but words evade you. The conversation took a strange turn.

Max pulls up to your house. The totem poles tower over his sleek car like grim sentinels welcoming you back to the pit. But, Max doesn't unlock the car.

"Look, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I have to ask," Max says. "I like your mother very much. She's ... She's unlike any woman I've ever met. I know I haven't known her long, and I understand you all are going through a difficult transition ..."

You gently cut his ramblings short. "She likes you, too, Max."

"Really?" You nod. Max exhales, running his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair. "Then ... you wouldn't mind if I ask her on a date?"

"You seem like a great guy. I think she would love that. But it's up to her to say yes," you remind him.

"Of course! Thank you—your consent means more to me than you know."

He unlocks the car and you hop out. "Thanks again for this."

"Any time. Have a good night, my dear!"

You wave goodbye and head inside.

Everyone's asleep by now. The house is dark, save for a lone lamp Mom must have left on for your arrival. You wander into the living room and snatch the phone off the wall. But, instead of the dial tone, you're met with silence.

Damnit, Grandpa. What's the point of having a phone if it doesn't work? If you hadn't found Max, you would have been in serious shit tonight.

You don't remember until later that you stopped giving Max directions at some point.

That night, you dream of David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko. They flight through your window one by one wearing jackets made of animal fur and leaves and dance on the ceiling.

"Can I come with you?" You watch them with awe, wishing you could fly, too. "Please?"

David extended his hand. "All you had to do was ask."

They lift you out of bed and you soar through the sky. You're not afraid, not as you touch the stars or do loops around the boardwalk rollercoaster. You find comfort in their company. They give you freedom when you hold their hands.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning," Marko jokes.

They take you to their hideout in the trees and lay you on a bed of moss. They stroke your nude body. You can't remember losing your clothes, but it's okay. You like it when they touch you. It feels different. It feels good.

Hands turn into mouths; tongues lick your flesh, mouths suck your nipples, your neck, and lower. Much, much lower.

"Join us, wendy-bird." Their voices warp, whispering, overlapping over one another. "Be our lost girl."

Be ours.

The pleasure intensifies. Your surrounding blur, but you see their faces with perfect clarity. They're beautiful. You want to tell them this. Why haven't you?

Be ours.

They laugh. They moan. They take turns lavishing you with their attention until you're drunk on them.

The dream ends the moment one of them tries to penetrate you. It was so vivid, so real, that when you wake the next morning you're ... disappointed?

Yeah, disappointed. Not that you'll admit it outside of this drowsy state, warm, yet, alone in your bed. You're disappointed in yourself, and disappointed in your imagination, but most of all, you're disappointed that you didn't tell David yes.

Obvious to All but Two

Description: You and Sanji are the only ones who can't tell that you're into each other, and it's driving the others a little crazy.

Connected to this one, which is just Luffy's POV, since I saw in the reblogs someone thought it would be cute to see everyone else's POVs and I just loved that idea!!!!!

Nami notices it first, the way Sanji’s affections and compliments shift to you. Of course, he still flatters her endlessly, but it’s more lighthearted and friendly, all romantic overtures focused solely on you.

It’s a nice change of pace, though she does find it a bit ridiculous, but you don’t seem to mind, or even notice, so she doesn’t say anything. Not until she finds you in the storage room, hunched over in the dark, a lantern on the table the singular light source, Sanji’s suit jacket halfway in your lap, halfway in the table. Your pin cushion is on the table as well, and you nearly jump out of your skin when she raps her knuckles on the round wooden tabletop to catch your attention.

“Nami! You scared me.” You tell her, one hand on your hip reaching for your pistols that you left in your shared bedroom, the other frantically trying to hide Sanji’s jacket.

“What are you doing up so late? I thought you went to bed hours ago?”

You laugh nervously, glancing around to make sure no one else was around. “Would you believe me if I told you I was sleepwalking?”

“Absolutely not.” Your shoulders slump, and she takes a seat, picking up the limp sleeve of Sanji’s jacket. “So, is there a reason you have this or..?”

“It got torn, during our last fight, and he keeps saying he’ll buy a new one at the next island, but I know this is his favorite one, and I hate to see him looking so unkempt.”

She hums in response, taking in your lantern lit form. You’re so clearly enamored with Sanji. You’re treating his jacket like it’s the One Piece itself.

You duck your head, embarrassment creeping across your face. “It’s dumb, isn’t it? I don’t even know how I’ll explain why I did it; it’s not like he asked me to sew it back up for him.”

“I’m pretty sure if you tore it more and gave it back to him, he’d thank you.” She snorts softly.

You look at her confusion knitting your brows. “Why would he do that?”

She leans her head into her hand, giving you a look. “Because he’s into you?”

“No, no way, he’s just a flirt, he’s flirts with everyone, he doesn’t like me like that…” You fidget with the cuffs of his jacket. “Does he?”

Nami’s heart twists in her chest, you’re a little bit younger than her, and she can’t help but feel protective. “I mean I think it’s pretty obvious but if he doesn’t then he’s an idiot.”

You smile bashfully, smoothing out his jacket. “Thank you.”

“But it is a little creepy, you sitting here in the dark hunched over his jacket like a bellringer. Why don’t you come finish that in our room?”

“Really? I don’t want to disturb your sleep.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got a few new things I want to add to the map anyways, just be quick about it.” She says, standing and taking the lantern.

“I’ll be super quick; I’m basically almost done anyways.” You tell her, bundling up your sewing supplies and following her through the hatch back to your shared room.

She watches you hover in the doorway to the kitchen, foot propped up on the bar stool next to her, resting her folded arms on her knee, her back to Sanji who’s finishing up plating breakfast. She raises a brow at you, and you give her a nervous smile. She rolls her eyes fondly in response. You’re not usually this shy, she’s seen you reduce Sanji to a blushing mess at least twice in the last week, but she gets it. Crushes are hard, gift giving can be a vulnerable act, and while she doubts it highly, there’s a chance Sanji doesn’t like the fact that you stole and repaired his jacket in the dead of night. Men are weird sometimes; they get sensitive about certain things. Swords, ships, gold chains, a portrait of some girl they swore they were in love with ten years ago, the list goes on and on.

“Breakfast should be ready in a few minutes.” Sanji announces, his back still to the door.

You take a step in then step back out with a silent squeak when it looks like Sanji is about to turn, nearly crashing into Zoro.

Zoro glances over at her, a do I even want to know expression on his face.

She tilts her head towards Sanji and his deadpan expression of disgust is so quick that she can’t stop herself from laughing.

“What’s so funny? Did Zoro tell a joke?” Luffy asks, his silverware already in hand waiting for Sanji to set his plate down.

“Mosshead? Tell a joke? Now that’s funny Cap.” Sanji says.

“Alright Waiter, why don’t you hurry up, the eggs are gonna be cold by the time you’re done garnishing.”

Sanji clicks his tongue. “True artistry cannot be rushed.”

You’ve finally made your way into the kitchen, coming to stand next to Nami who slides her foot off the stool so you can sit. Sanji’s jacket is folded neatly in your lap, hidden by the countertop overhang.

“So?” Nami asks quietly, bumping her shoulder into yours.

“So?”

“Are you going to give it to him now or?”

“He’s cooking, I don’t want to get in his way.” You explain, looking as if you’re going to bolt.

Okay, tough love time. “Hey Sanji?”

“Yes, madam?” He calls, looking over his shoulder with a grin that only grows when he sees you sitting beside her.

“Y/N has something for you when you’re done.”

“Nami!” You whisper-scream, putting on a smile when Sanji turns, wiping his hands on his apron.

“A present? Now, what did I do to deserve that?” He asks, picking up the plates and dishing them out.

“I’m wondering that too.” Zoro says, coming to sit beside Luffy, Usopp still in the corner writing his latest letter to Kaya.

Sanji glares at him, then turns back to you, setting you and Nami’s plates down with a gentleness she’s come to attribute with Sanji.

“Oh, it’s not really a present, it’s just…” You hand him his jacket, grabbing your napkin to give your hands something to do. “I noticed it had a tear in it from that pirate’s cutlass, and I sewed it up, I’m not a professional seamstress by any means, but I’m not horrible with a needle, I just hope it looks alright.”

It looks perfect, Nami’s already seen it a million times over since she found you in the storage room. It looks like it was never damaged in the first place.

“You can’t even tell it was ever torn, this stitching y/n, it’s masterful.” Sanji says, beaming at you with the full radiance of the sun. “Thank you, sweetheart, really, your kindness knows no bounds, we truly are in the presence of a goddess.”

You giggle and wave his praise off. “It was nothing, I just didn’t want you to look unkempt, I know order and appearance means a lot to you.”

Nothing my ass, Nami snorts, stealing a piece of bacon from your plate, and popping it in her mouth, before Luffy can.

Usopp is second or at least he thinks he's second, you're the gunslinging duo he likes to think he knows you pretty well.

“So, how’s Kaya’s doctor stuff going? I saw you got a new letter from her.” You say, voice a little strained from the way you both hang upside down from the rigging, preferred weapons in hand.

It’s a normal sailing day, a lot of downtime, so you and Usopp pulled down the netting he and Nami rigged up, securing it to the mast and rigging, creating a pseudo-obstacle course to help you both keep your skills sharp while at sea. Plus, Luffy likes swinging from it and seeing how far out over the ocean he can stretch.

“She’s been studying like crazy, but she said she’s been making really good progress.” Usopp says, loading a ball bearing into his slingshot.

“It’s Kaya, of course she’s making good progress. I know I only met her like once, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be an amazing doctor.” You aim for one of the targets and shoot, hitting dead on. “Hey, maybe when she’s done studying, she can be our ship doctor, that would be cool.”

Usopp goes next, hitting slightly to the left of the bullseye when the wind pushes the target back suddenly. “That would be awesome, but I don’t know.”

“What’s there not to know?” You ask, aiming with your left hand, swearing under your breath when the ship rocks and your shot hits too high. “She’s smart, kind, strong, you’re like childhood best friends, you guys like each other, and she’s a blonde which is always a plus.”

Usopp's ears perk up, he’s had a slight sense that there was something between you and Sanji, but he wasn’t sure if either of you were aware of it. “Let’s take a break.”

You holster your pistols. “Okay.”

He pushes himself off the mast, swinging back and forth watching as you do the same, laughing as you spin in the air. He waits until you’ve stopped spinning, swinging past you as he asks, “blond is a plus?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m a sucker for a blond.” You tell him, pushing off the mast one more time before grabbing at the net above you to slow your swinging.

He does the same, pulling himself up to look at you. “You know Sanji is blond.”

Your brows furrow. “Yeah so?”

He wriggles his eyebrows. “Soooo.”

“Soooo?” You echo, searching his face for any hints as to where he’s going with this.

He loops his arms through the netting, resting his chin on them to stare at you expectantly. “Y/N, come on.”

“Come on what?”

He sighs dramatically, tilting his head to emphasize his words. “You’re a sucker for blonds, and Sanji is blond.”

“That’s just a coincidence.” You protest, untangling yourself from the netting and hanging from your knees once more, taking your pistols back out.

He flips down as well. “So, you don’t like Sanji then?”

You huff and refuse to face him, tripping over your words unlike he’s ever seen before. Except for that one time you accidentally walked in on Sanji getting out of the shower, towel around his hips, and Usopp had to convince you not to hide in the crow’s nest for the rest of the week. “I like Sanji, just—ugh not like—I don’t know, and he doesn’t even—shut up is this because I got a bounty before you? Are just messing with me?”

“Actually, I got a bounty before you, but I know it’s nice to dream.”

You whip your head around, wincing slightly as the blood rushes in your head. “That was Luffy’s bounty, that doesn’t count!”

“You sound just like Sanji, that doesn’t count, this is stupid, blah blah blah. I get it you guys are jealous of me, just date already and be jealous together.”

“I’m going to shoot you.” You deadpan, reaching for him, the force of your movement swinging you past him.

Usopp scrambles up the rigging, unhooking his feet and dropping to the deck below, a shit eating grin on his face as he turns to run. Yeah, you totally like Sanji. “You can deny all you want, y/n, but I know the truth.”

“I’m not jealous of you. Get back here!” You call, hurrying to unhook your feet so you can give chase. You hit the deck, one gun drawn, a bolt of energy whizzing past his ear, scattering like the sun shimmering on the waves when it hits the fireproof brick wall that the main deck shares with the kitchen.

He turns and thumbs his nose at you. If you wanted to hit him, you would’ve, he’s not worried. Another bolt flies past, and he grabs his slingshot, sending a harmless smoke and color powder pellet back in response. Bright pink smoke envelops you as he ducks below deck, your laughter, and fading curses following him down.

Sanji’s at the bottom of the short set of stairs clearly listening in, and he startles when he notices Usopp, quickly recovering, a carefree smile on his face. “You two having fun?”

“Yeah, but y/n might need some help getting all that color powder out of her hair.” Usopp says, folding his arms behind his head, giving Sanji a knowing smile as he saunters past. You two can thank him later. He has to tell Kaya about this. Another success for Captain Ussop, the matchmaking of y/n and Sanji, the Lady of the Golden Guns, and the Best Chef on the High Seas.

Zoro is actually second, but he acts like he's third simply because he was trying to ignore you and Saji's antics.

He's not stupid, he may be more of a strong silent type as you might call him, waiting and observing before acting, speaking little unless needed, but he’s not stupid. Zoro can see clear as day that Sanji is almost annoyingly head over heels for you. Which in itself is really not any of his business, though it does give him plenty of material to goad Sanji with. What he finds surprising though is that for a man who flirts with everything that moves, Sanji gets pretty jealous when someone flirts with you.

It starts off subtle. Sanji’s smile stiffening slightly when a bartender gives you a free drink with a wink. His body shifting closer to you as a fruit seller compliments your outfit. Then he turns it up a notch, refusing to let you get your own drinks from the bar, telling you some crap like a fair lady such as yourself should not be forced to order her own drink, allow me to fetch it for you. And when someone compliments you, Zoro has to fight back the urge to gag at how flowery and long-winded Sanji becomes. If someone says they like your dress Sanji is spending the next ten minutes telling you everything he likes about it. Praising the way the color compliments your skin, your hair, your eyes, marveling over the way the fabric either clings to or flows about your form, the way the cut of the neckline looks, the detailing, the fact that it has pockets or doesn’t have pockets, it’s never-ending.

He will admit, though, he does enjoy watching Sanji get all worked up when he can’t swoop in and distract you. Like today, you’re scanning through the racks of clothing in some shop he thinks is way too expensive, Nami at your side, the salesman hovering, dousing you both in compliments. Sanji just shoves his hands deeper and deeper in his pockets. His jaw set, his eyes never leaving you.

You head towards the curtained off section designated as a dressing room, a pile of clothes in your arms, and disappear behind one of the curtains.

Zoro meanders over, sinking into one of the weirdly shaped chairs set up outside the curtains, Sanji doing the same. “Tell me again why we had to come with you guys?” Zoro asks, tapping his fingers on the hilt of his swords.

“Because it’s the polite thing to do, we’re both ladies on a new island, and we need protection.” Nami says from behind her own curtain.

He rolls his eyes, he should’ve known this was part of her matchmaking scheme. “Didn’t I see you two beat the shit out of a guy just last week?”

Nami sticks her head out, her eyes narrowed. “Shut up, Zoro.”

He holds his hands up in surrender and lets it be. “Fine, fine, we’ll be here, waiting to protect you guys.”

He’ll admit it, the clothing all blurred together at some point, and he’s far more interested in the champagne offered by the salesman than the various shirts, skirts, and dresses you and Nami are trying on. But when you finally, finally reach the end of the pile, and are hesitant to come out, he pays attention.

“Come on, y/n, I’m sure you look great.” Nami says, her own last item, a sparkling dark blue gown that wraps around her form, a slit up the leg, catching the light as she moves to peek past your curtain.

“Okay, okay, just, give me a second.”

“You’ve had plenty of seconds.” Nami reminds you, tapping her foot.

You shyly pull open the curtain and step out towards the full length mirrors set against the wall, turning and twisting, keeping your eyes on the gown and off anyone else so you don’t see their reactions. It’s similar to Nami’s, but a deep red almost crimson, and where hers is cut straight across at the neckline, yours is more halter style.

Zoro let’s out a low whistle. “Damn y/n.”

“I knew you’d look great.” Nami says, smiling as she motions for you to give her a twirl.

You do so, face flushing, your eyes pointedly looking anywhere but Sanji. “I like it, but where would I wear it? It’s too nice for just being on the ship.”

“B-Baratie.” Sanji says, a blush crawling up his neck. “You could wear it at Baratie love, Luffy wants to go back and visit soon, it’s perfectly in dress code.”

You smooth your hands down the skirt of your dress. “That could work, but I don’t know. What do you think, Zoro?”

He glances at Sanji who looks torn between staring unabashedly at you and glaring at him, then glances back at you, shrugging. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I trust you to be straight with me.” You shrug, and he doesn’t let the way that simple sentence taps at the ice around his heart show on his face.

He takes a long look, dragging his eyes up and down your figure, biting back a smirk when Sanji mutters something about indecent looks, and stands crossing the space between you and him. Might as well mess with him a little bit, maybe it’ll spur him to action. “I mean, it’s pretty.”

“Well, yeah, but is it worth getting?”

He runs a finger down the halter strap, starting at the back of your neck and ending at your clavicle, hooking one finger beneath it to feel the inside. The material isn’t scratchy like he thought it might be given the sparkling, so that’s good. He doesn’t want you or Nami to spend money on something uncomfortable that wouldn’t make any sense.

“I think it’s worth get—”

“She didn’t ask you, Waiter.” He deadpans, removing his hand and resting it on your hip, spreading his fingers to see if the slit goes as high as it looks.

You don’t react, just look at him curiously, but Sanji can’t see that.

“This slit is pretty high, I don’t know how comfortable you’d be with that once you’re walking around.”

Your lips crook to the side in thought and you step back, fiddling with it. “I guess I could sew it closed a bit here at the top.”

“Yeah, that could work, but let me just test something.” He says, grabbing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder, turning so the side of your dress with the slit is facing Sanji.

You yelp and grab onto his shirt for balance. “Zoro, what the hell?”

“Need to make sure it’s not showing too much, what if you get injured, and we have to carry you?”

Sanji’s gritting his teeth, his hands balled in his pockets. “There are other ways to carry a lady.”

“Yeah, yeah, how much of her skin is showing, think it’s too much?”

Sanji swallows hard, eyes tracing up your leg. “I have no right to decide what’s too much skin, it’s y/n’s body, whatever she’s comfortable with is all that matters.”

Zoro can feel you stifling a dreamy sigh and readjusts his arm to better secure you.

You tuck your hair behind your ear to get it out of your face. “I’d actually like your opinion, Sanji, if you don’t mind? I wouldn’t want to be too exposed.”

Sanji’s on his feet in an instant, arms held out. “I think it’s too high for this position, but if our dear Mosshead will indulge me?”

Zoro hands you over and takes a step back. Sanji’s carrying you princess style, which is just as well since he calls you that constantly.

“See here, when you’re being carried properly, we can see that while the slit is still high, it’s less revealing. Though I think for comfort it’s best to sew it up some, which shouldn’t be a problem for you seeing as you so masterfully repaired my suit jacket.”

Your arms are around Sanji’s neck, and you’re looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. “You’re so sweet.”

“And you are absolutely stunning in this gown. You’ll be the envy of every man, woman, fishman, fishwoman, in Baratie.”

“As long as I make you look good on your triumph return, then I’m happy.” You say, smiling prettily, looking up at Sanji through your lashes.

Zoro watches as Sanji’s ears turn red, and he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat. “You’d do that anyways, gown or no gown. Haven’t I told you there’s nothing prettier than you?”

“I think you said beautiful, actually.”

“My apologies, princess, there’s nothing and no one more beautiful than you.”

You giggle in response, girlish and flustered, trying and failing to hide your smile. So, this is what Luffy was talking about when he said he saw you get all embarrassed around Sanji.

Zoro feels Nami’s elbow knock against his arm. “Nice work.”

“Just tired of them mooning over each other all the time.”

Zeff is understandable among the last to know, but still caught on before you and Sanji.

He’s glad to have Sanji visiting Baratie, though he wishes the brat hadn’t brought that bottomless stomach of a captain with him. No matter, it’s nice to have Sanji in the kitchen with him once more, barking orders and receiving that familiar defiance from his little eggplant all grown up. And grown up he definitely is, seeing as he brought a little cabbage with him. You’re a sweet girl; with weaponry he hasn’t seen since the high tide of his pirate days strapped to your hips that you stubbornly refused to be parted with until Sanji assured you that they’d be kept safe. It had taken a lot of wheedling and promises of making sure dessert had strawberries somewhere on it to get you to reluctantly hand over the gleaming golden pistols, to the host who looked just as reluctant to take them.

Now he’s here, dicing tomatoes alongside Sanji waiting to see if he’ll bring you up. When he doesn’t after a few minutes, Zeff speaks. “So, the lass you’re with?”

“Y/N, Lady of the Golden Guns, a beauty ain’t she?” Sanji says, finely dicing the tomatoes with perfect precision. “And that gown, stunning, you know she asked for my opinion about it?”

“Smart girl. You know, I always knew you’d go for more than just a pretty face. You need someone with fire to keep your head outta the clouds all the time. Seems like she’s up to the task.”

Sanji’s knife stilled. “We’re not—she doesn’t see me like that.”

Zeff scoffs. “And a mermaid stole my leg.”

Sanji shoots him a scathing look.

He chuckles. “It’s plain as day, she likes you. Even her captain couldn’t get her to give those guns up, but you offered her strawberries on a dessert and a reassuring word, and she’s handing them over.”

“It took far more than that, and she was still reluctant to hand them over, she’s very…protective of them, she’s had a hard go of it getting and keeping those guns.” Sanji says, his tone prickly.

Defensive of you and your shared captain, Zeff’s glad to see it. “Still, wasn’t her captain that convinced her, but you.”

“We’re friends.” Sanji says curtly, calling for another set of tomatoes to be brought to him.

“Again mermaid, leg.”

A muscle in Sanji’s jaw twitches. “Yeah, yeah, old man I get it, you don’t believe me.”

Zeff shrugs. “Can’t an old man hope for the best?”

“You can, doesn’t mean you’ll get it.” Sanji says his shoulders slumping.

Zeff pauses in his prepping, wipes his hand on his apron and squeezes Sanji’s shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. If she rejects you, and you’re too embarrassed to face her you can always come back home, I’ll put you right back on the line.”

Sanji shoulders his hand off but smiles gratefully. “As if I’d ever work for you again.”

Zeff jerks his head towards Sanji’s prepping. “What do you call what you’re doing right now?”

“Making a meal for my crew.” He says pointedly, that old defiance slipping right back in.

“Which includes your girlfriend.” Zeff adds, unable to resist ribbing him.

Sanji’s lips curl up into a half smile. “We’ll see, old man, we’ll see.”

Zeff notes the way Sanji grabs the oregano, and dashes some of it on a particular plate, even though his nose crinkles at what he knows the little eggplant considers sacrilege. “Who likes oregano in your crew?”

“Y/N. I’m trying to wean her off it, but she says it was one of the few spices her mom knew how to cook with… It reminds her of home.”

He nods, feeling his old stone heart crack a little and resists the urge to tease Sanji, instead letting him be, and helping him carry the plates out once they’re ready.

Zeff retreats to the kitchen and watches the way you lean into Sanji’s space, listening intently as he explains each dish, fawning over them and his knowledge, while the others or your crew share looks. It seems that everybody but you two knows about your shared affections. He chuckles quietly and shakes his head before going back into the kitchen, young love.

Just friends, that’s what Sanji said, but Zeff doesn’t know any friends he’d have pressed against a wall the way Sanji has you. His hands cupping your face, yours gripping his jacket, lips melding together, whispered words exchanged between fervent kisses, foreheads resting against each other when you both come up for air. He doesn’t say anything, just backs away slowly and tells everybody to avoid going out back. He’ll give you and Sanji some privacy, he just hopes he won’t see you two back in nine months, he’s not ready to be a grandfather quite yet.

Sanji TL: @elrondswifey

Sylus singing to MC's belly when MC is pregnant

Sylus, singing: Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mocking bird, and if that mocking bird won't sing, papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring~

[The Interview]

MC: Mama'd buy ten diamond rings to get that mocking bird to shut the hell up.