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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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anubislover · 5 years ago

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Welcome to the Heart Pirates, Nami-ya Chapter 2: Check-Up

“I never agreed to this,” Nami insisted, hands on her hips as she stood her ground.

“You agreed the moment you signed onto my crew.”

“I agreed to work with you, not take off my clothes so you could ogle me like a pervert!”

It hadn’t even been a day, and the fiery thief was already regretting her decision. After finalizing plans with Haredas, ensuring the old man knew where and when to retrieve her in a year, Law briefly showed her around the Polar Tang before ushering her into the infirmary. It was nothing like Chopper’s sickbay; steel, sterile equipment gleamed ominously under the bright lights. The aroma of antiseptic and other cleaning materials hung heavily in the air, stinging her nose. Nothing looked warm or comfortable or pleasant, and she suddenly missed her reindeer friend. It was hard to feel nervous when a cute little guy like him was your doctor.

Unfortunately, instead of sweet, caring Chopper, she was under the penetrating scrutiny of the Surgeon of Death.

Slipping on a crisp, white lab coat and placing his hat on the counter, Law looked unimpressed at her defiance. “I’m both your doctor and captain now, Nami-ya; I have to ensure my newest subordinate is healthy, especially since we spend so much time underwater. For that, I need to give you a full examination, and for that, I need you to strip.”

Nami sniffed in disdain, then wrinkled her nose at the overpowering scent of latex and chemicals. Briefly, she wondered if Luffy had been just as disgusted by the smell. “A likely excuse. You just want to see me naked!”

Annoyance crept into his voice at the accusation. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping things professional. Surely this wasn’t a problem with your old doctor?”

“My old doctor was a talking reindeer!”

“…Maybe I should give you a psychological examination instead.”

Pink dusted her cheeks at his comment. It had been a long time since she’d considered just how unusual her crewmates were, but Law’s tone certainly made her feel like an idiot. “Oh, shut up. I’m still not stripping; you can easily check me over fully-dressed.”

Blue, latex surgical gloves encased his tattooed hands with a resounding snap. “I can also easily use my powers to remove your clothes without your consent.”

She blanched at the threat. Maybe he was bluffing, but she didn’t trust Law enough to believe he couldn’t and wouldn’t do it. Most of what she knew about him was through rumors and news articles, and none of them painted a pretty picture. Pirates—with the notable exception of her crew—were unscrupulous bastards, and the ones with Devil Fruits especially so. Besides that, men always seemed to find a way to use those weird powers for perverted purposes, so with how little she knew of Law’s particular abilities, it was better to err on the side of caution.

Teeth sinking into her lip, she hesitantly peeled off her shorts and top before kicking off her sandals, leaving her in nothing but her lacy white bra and panties. The infirmary’s cold air made goosebumps raise across her exposed flesh, or maybe it was the way the Dark Doctor studied her. It was at least comforting that his expression was serious and clinical; had there been even a hint of lust in his gold eyes, she would have slapped him, Supernova or not. “Try to cop a feel and I’ll not only bash your head in, but charge you 1 million belli,” she warned.

“Violent tendencies and delusions. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake recruiting you,” he said blandly, picking up a clipboard and beginning to fill in a chart.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she replied, “Then how about we consider the debt squared and you let me go?”

Lips curling upwards, he stalked forward, long legs invading her personal space in only a few strides. Brown eyes widening, Nami instinctively backed away, but soon found herself trapped against the wall with no choice but to look up at the imposing man before her. This close, there was no escaping his scrutiny, and she held her breath, waiting for him to attack.

“Unlucky for you, your pros far outweigh your cons. Now stand up straight; I’m trying to check your height.”

She blinked, then glanced to her left to find she was indeed next to a height chart. “Oh.”

With an amused chuckle, he backed off, jotting her measurements in his notebook. “You have nothing to fear in my infirmary, Nami-ya; in here, you’re my patient first and foremost. The Pirate Empress herself could be standing naked in front of me and I’d see her as nothing more than a body to examine.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she challenged, even as she released the air from her strained lungs.

Bruskly and efficiently, the tattooed doctor proceeded to check her vitals, peering into her ears and mouth, observing the dilation of her eyes, and pressing along her throat in search of any irregularities or swelling. Though she tensed every time his hands touched her, they never lingered or strayed anywhere they shouldn’t. It helped that, while she could feel body heat through the material, the latex gloves provided a thin barrier between his fingers and her skin, making everything more impersonal. His expression, too, never changed, remaining stoic and professional. There was no evidence of his hungry stare from earlier, and though trust was still a long way off, Nami slowly started to give him the benefit of the doubt. That didn’t mean she wasn’t on her guard, though; the first inappropriate touch or innuendo, and she’d teach the man why even the Straw Hats’ Monster Trio feared her.

Wrapping the strap of a blood pressure gauge around her bicep, Law asked, “What’s your blood type?”

“X.”

“Good. Mugiwara-ya and Jinbei used up most of my type-F reserves, so if you got injured and needed a transfusion, you’d be shit out of luck until I can restock. Type-X is far more common, but I’ll still ask you to donate a pint of blood as a precaution.”

Orange eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. “You’re not going to do anything weird with it, right?”

“Damn, you’ve caught on to my plan to use your blood to ritualistically summon a hell-beast to help me take over the Grand Line,” he replied sarcastically, not looking up from the little pressure gauge as he steadily pumped.

Her cheeks puffed in indignation. “Hey, I travel with a talking skeleton, room with a woman who can sprout body parts anywhere, and regularly watch my captain’s body defy the laws of physics thanks to Devil Fruit. I may not believe in any of that superstitious crap, but that doesn’t mean your abilities couldn’t somehow use my blood against me.”

Removing the gauge and writing on her chart, he snorted. “I assure you, the Ope-Ope Fruit can’t use your blood like that. At least, not in any way I’ve tried, and I’ve experimented extensively.” Taking out a thermometer, he motioned for her to open her mouth. “Its powers revolve around space manipulation. Once I activate my Room, everything inside it is in my control. For example, say you were pointing a gun at me; I could switch the gun with whatever I had in my hand and shoot you instead. That’s not really my style, though; so anti-climactic. I’d rather remove your organs and replace them with bombs. Or perhaps rearrange your limbs so your legs are on your shoulders and your arms backwards on your hips. And of course, there’s always the old standby; ripping out your still-beating heart.”

She let out a squeak of fear around the thermometer, which coaxed a chuckle from the doctor. A glint of his old sadism had returned to his eyes, though it quickly vanished as he resumed his work. “Lucky for you, I save such things for my enemies, not my crew or patients.” His brow furrowed as her studied her temperature. “You run a little hot, Nami-ya, but you don’t seem to have a fever, so I’ll assume this is your norm.”

Jerking her head back, she mumbled, “You do that.”

Moving the stethoscope to her chest, he sighed. “Your heart’s pounding. I’d hoped you would have calmed down by this point so I could check it properly.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have told me about all the horrible ways you could kill me with your powers!” she snapped. She was seriously second-guessing the doctor’s sanity; of course her heart was racing like a cornered rabbit’s, especially considering she now had terrifying confirmation that those horror stories about gruesome deaths weren’t just hearsay. The images he’d conjured sent a shiver down her spine. She’d always rivaled Usopp in terms of coming up with horrible scenarios, but Law’s sick creativity put even her worst nightmares to shame. She really hoped he was serious about not seeing her as an enemy.

“Please, that’s not even the worst of what I can do. But I suppose you have a point; I’ll endeavor to avoid such topics next time I give you a check-up.” Backing off a few paces, he made another note on his chart. “And now for the personal questions; any hereditary diseases or illness-related deaths in your family history?”

Nami grimaced, rubbing her arms. She really didn’t want to discuss her past with the likes of Trafalgar Law, but she understood the necessity of the question. “I wouldn’t know; I was found as a baby by a Marine in a ruined village. I have no clue who my birth parents are, and I’ve never really cared to find out. My adopted mother and sister were enough.”

That seemed to catch his interest, as amber eyes studied her closely. “Do you at least know what island you were found on?” When she shook her head, he made another note. “I’ll have to take a blood sample to run some tests on, then. It’s possible everyone was wiped out in a war or some natural disaster, I’ve also known of a city or two that the World Government that razed to the ground under the claim that the people carried infectious diseases,” he said, surprising her with the bitterness in his voice.

“You think I might be carrying something?”

“No, I’m just curious if you’re from one of them. If your village had succumbed to plague, I doubt any Marine would have risked relocating you and spreading it, baby or not.”

The scratch of his pen was the only sound between them for a few moments, the air tense—Nami could tell she’d stumbled onto a sensitive topic, and though she was curious, she knew better than to pry. Finally, the deep furrow on his brow smoothed out, professionalism resuming. “Your weather attacks—are those the result of eating a Devil Fruit?”

“No, I’m a normal human. If you don’t believe me, I’m happy to swim a few laps outside.”

“That won’t be necessary. Any notable past illnesses?”

“Nearly died from a Kestia bite.”

He actually paused, looking up from his clipboard. “Those went extinct over a hundred years ago.”

“Not on Little Garden they didn’t. Luckily Dr. Kureha still had some antibiotics for it.”

“Dr. Kureha? From Drum Island?” He sounded genuinely impressed, and Nami had to chuckle at how pleased Chopper would be to know that even the Surgeon of Death admired his old mentor.

“Yeah, she treated me and was the one who trained our ship’s doctor.”

“Well, you’re just getting more intriguing by the minute, Nami-ya,” he said with a small, sly grin, posture relaxing as he crossed his long legs. “A mysterious past, the ability to manipulate the weather in battle without a Devil Fruit, surviving prehistoric diseases, treatment from one of the most acclaimed and infamous doctors on the Grand Line—you’re definitely more than a pretty face.”

Unbidden, a proud smirk lifted the corner of her pink lips. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Oh, trust me, I won’t.” The amusement on his face vanished as he looked at the next page of his chart, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “In the interest of you not slapping me, you should know I’m about to ask some rather…delicate questions.”

“Taking the warnings of asking a lady’s weight seriously?” she joked weakly, rubbing her arms. For the most part, she’d gotten used to the infirmary’s chill, but Law’s gaze somehow continued to raise goosebumps along her arms.

“More like a rundown of your sexual history.” At her aghast expression, he held up his hands placatingly. “I need to know if I should check you for sexually transmitted diseases and what kind of birth control you take. Believe me, I’ve had to have this conversation with everyone on my crew, male and female. Now—and I’m going to need you to be honest—how sexually active are you?”

“I’m not.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at that, making her blush. “I know I flirt and tease, but I’ve never let a guy get past third base!” Somehow, she found herself embarrassed and feeling defensive; there was nothing wrong with being a virgin, and she had plenty of reasons for it, and what right did Law have to judge her? Before she could stop herself, nerves took over, and she continued, “When you’re as good as I am, you don’t need to do more than bat your eyelashes to con a guy, so sex has never been necessary. It’s not exactly easy to have a relationship while travelling the Grand Line, either, and I’m not the kind of girl who likes one-night stands. Most of the guys that come onto me are gross, anyway. You ever have a creep with a lion’s muzzle sewed on his face try to force you to marry him? Stuff like that makes abstinence real appealing.”

“I’m not judging, Nami-ya; just surprised,” he said, interrupting her tirade. A severe frown darkened his face. “Though I now have to ask—”

Her fury cooled at his implication. “Sanji-kun saved me before anything could happen. I even had Chopper do an examination to make sure I wasn’t assaulted while unconscious.” She shuddered at the memory. Absalom might have been soundly trounced by the amorous cook, but that near-miss had been a stark reminder of how dangerous it was being a beautiful woman on the high seas. Not all her admirers were going to be good-natured, relatively harmless perverts like Sanji and Brook. Nor would she always find herself at the mercy of creatures who would never be physically attracted to her, like the Fishman Pirates.

So as proud as she was of her body, and as much as she loved using her looks to her advantage, the danger of attracting the wrong kind of attention was never far from her mind.

Nodding in confirmation, Law scribbled another note on her chart. “Are you on any form of birth control?”

“Chopper always made me some, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what he gave me. I haven’t been able to take it since Sabaody, anyway.”

“I’ve got a few options we can work with but notify me if you find yourself having any side effects or unusual symptoms. Once we know exactly what your body can handle, I can give you an injection that’ll last you at least a year; that way, you won’t have to worry about taking a pill every day or missing doses. You might not be sexually active, but a woman can never be too careful.”

Pleasantly surprised at how professional and forward-thinking he was being, Nami allowed herself to relax just the slightest bit. With his thinly veiled request for sexual favors up on the deck, she’d written him off as another creep, but maybe he’d just been testing her resolve? The Law she was dealing with now was far less intimidating, and while he was certainly cold and sarcastic, if he kept treating her like this, perhaps working for him for the next year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The Surgeon of Death was dangerous, not just because of his abilities and status as a Supernova, but because he was, in his own way, quite attractive. Questionable fashion choices aside, he was the epitome of tall, dark, and sexy. His irises glittered like treasure, his voice was smooth and deep, and his perfectly groomed sideburns and goatee showed he took pride in his appearance. He was long and lean and walked with a sure, predatory grace. It was his confidence that pulled her in like a magnet, though; it was quiet assurance of his own ability, that easy smirk proclaiming he knew he was far above everyone else’s level as loudly as Luffy would scream about becoming the Pirate King.

Despite his appeal, Nami refused to let herself give in to physical desire. For her, rule number one was not to mix business with pleasure. Thus, she hoped his earlier flirting had just been a test, because spending a year under his command could end up being a test to her iron-clad control. If he managed to get under her skin, earn even a fraction of her trust, it would be so much harder to resist.

Another note was made on her chart before Law ushered her towards the center of the room. “Now that we’ve got that unpleasantness out of the way, turn around and touch your toes; I want to check your back for scoliosis and spinal irregularities.”

Instinct told her he just wanted to check out her ass, but she found it was easier for her rational mind to calm her nerves. Not that she wasn’t immediately put on edge when she felt his gloved fingers run down her spine, though it felt different from her usual fight-or-flight reaction. The shiver that rocked through her she desperately wanted to say was due to the cold, but the heat that lingered on her skin said otherwise.

“Spine looks good, Nami-ya, and I’m impressed at how flexible you are. I’m sure it’s advantageous in a fight or sneaking around.” The muscles of her back jumped as the icy head of the stethoscope pressed against them. “Take a deep breath.”

She did so, forcing her heart to remain steady. If she panicked again they’d be at this all day, and even if she no longer believed Law was looking to jump her the second she gave him an opening, she still had better things to do than stand around in her underwear.

“Glad to hear your heart isn’t about to beat out of your chest anymore. Good lung capacity, too.” Coaxing her to straighten up, she could feel his calculating gaze on her arm. “Who did your tattoo?”

“Dr. Nako of Cocoyashi Village, about a year ago.”

“Was he also the one who sewed up these cuts?” he asked, thumb trailing over one of the pale scars on her shoulder. The heat of his touch was instantly snuffed out as his fingers inadvertently traced the invisible pattern of Arlong’s Jolly Roger, and the Fishman’s cruel laugh echoed in her mind.

Flinching away, Nami grabbed her arm instinctively. “H-he did.”

Sensing they were straying from the comfortable bubble they’d built, Law simply nodded, again going back to his chart. She suspected he wanted to ask how she got such an injury; any decent doctor could tell it was self-inflicted just from the angle, but instead he stated, “I’ll assume the tattoo was done with sterile equipment, then, and I won’t have to check you for tetanus and the like. I’ve seen more than a few back-alley tattoos turn septic. I commend his work; very neat, and you could almost miss the scars if you’re not looking for them.”

“Who does yours?” she asked, eager to change the subject. Thoughts of her past were floating far too close to the surface for her taste. Hoping to banish her former captain’s ghost, cocoa eyes focused on Law’s fingers, easily imagining the bold, black letters beneath the blue latex. “Considering how a surgeon’s hands are his most valuable tool, I’m surprised you even took the risk. Was looking edgy really worth it?”

Leading her over to the table, he helped her hop up, smirking at the verbal jab. “Oh, it was absolutely worth it; the look on people’s faces when they see a doctor with DEATH on his hands is priceless. Ikkaku does all my tattoos. You’ll meet her soon; she’ll be your roommate during your stay. I think she’ll be happy to have another woman aboard.”

Nami sighed in relief. She hadn’t sailed with an all-male crew since entering the Grand Line, and she hadn’t been really looking forward to doing it again. Perhaps this Ikkaku woman would make her miss Robin a little less. “I certainly will be.”

“And here I assumed you’d want a ship full of men you could easily manipulate,” he said, grin widening.

Winking, she replied, “Oh, I do, but that gets boring after a while. I need someone who can talk to me without staring at my breasts.”

“What makes you think she won’t?”

That actually coaxed a small laugh out of her. “Then at least it’s someone I can hopefully borrow clothes from. I’m not looking forward to wearing the same outfit every day, and before you say it—no, I’m not wearing your crew’s uniform. They’re not cute, and bulky jumpsuits like that are terrible for sneaking around.” Secretly, it wasn’t even the ugliness of the suits that repelled her—it was the Heart Pirate’s Jolly Roger she’d seen emblazoned across the front and back. She may have agreed to a partnership, but she refused to wear another crew’s insignia. It made her think too much of Arlong, and how he’d forced her to walk around with that horrible tattoo. He might as well have branded her like cattle, showing how little he thought of humans.

It was one of the reasons she respected Luffy as her captain—he’d never even considered placing such a mark of ownership on his crew.

Nami had expected a fight, but the doctor merely thought it over before nodding. “I suppose I can give you that freedom; with your high internal body temp, I’d be concerned about you overheating. The sub gets pretty hot when we’ve been underwater too long, and Bepo certainly suffers for it. I’ll supply you a uniform for when we’re on islands with colder climates, but otherwise, I won’t hold you to the normal dress code.”

Pleasantly surprised at his leniency, she allowed him to gently push her back so she lay on the table, arms positioned above her head. Again, she blanched at how provocative the position was, but Law completely ignored the way her chest was thrust out, his hands instead poking and prodding at her stomach, carefully checking for any unusual lumps or organ placement. The muscles twitched slightly at his ministrations, and Law gave her a considering look. “Sensitive, Nami-ya?”

“Maybe a little ticklish,” she said, eyebrow raised, daring him to make an off-color comment.

A non-committal hum was her only response. Part of the fiery cartographer wanted to be insulted at how unaffected he seemed to be at having a beautiful woman like herself sprawled out before him clad only in her underwear. He hadn’t even given her a breast exam! She swiftly shoved that feeling down, though. How irrational could she get? Just ten minutes ago she saw him as a threat, and now she actually wanted him to lust after her? Clearly, the stress of the day was getting to her.

Upon finishing his inspection, Law held out a hand, helping her off the table. “Seems I can give you a clean bill of health,” he said, scratching a few more notes on her chart before handing over her clothes.

As she quickly dressed, the Supernova busied himself with filing her information away, giving her a small semblance of privacy.

“Just so you know, the majority of the crew knows basic first aid, but I’ll still expect you to report any injuries or illness to me. We’re in close quarters and sickness spreads quickly, so if you get so much as a cold, you’re quarantined until I give the all-clear. I take my crew’s well-being very seriously, so this is non-negotiable. In fact, most of my rules are. Uniform aside, I’m not in the habit of giving out special privileges without good reason. I want you to be aware that I won’t tolerate reckless defiance or ignoring my orders. As your doctor and captain, it’s in your best interest to do as I say without question. Do you understand?” he asked, turning to frown at her sternly.

“Absolutely,” she agreed, holding up her hands in surrender. She couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t argue if she found a rule stupid, or try to get around them, but she understood there were limits, and it was best to pick her battles. Once she had a better understanding of the captain and crew, she’d have more wiggle-room and loopholes to work with.

She was momentarily distracted by the sight of the Dark Doctor’s white teeth gripping the edge of one of his surgical gloves, carefully pulling the tight latex off his hand. It was surprisingly arousing, seeing the tattooed, olive skin slowly emerge back into the light, his lips lightly brushing the newly-exposed flesh.

An image of him taking her clothes off like that popped into her mind, and she nearly slapped herself. Keep it together, girl! Nami scolded herself. Remember rule number one!

Not noticing her staring, or possibly just ignoring it, he tossed the gloves into the trash. “Good. I watched Mugiwara-ya nearly undo all my hard work, running around like a madman after I’d spent hours saving his life. I’d like to think you’re a bit more sensible.”

“A rock is more sensible than Luffy,” she said dryly, which earned her a slight smirk. Shrugging off his lab coat, he led her out of the infirmary, chuckling when she took a deep breath of the antiseptic-free air in the hallway.

A large, warm hand rested on the small of her back, and Nami jumped at the contact, turning to look up at the Heart Captain. His grin was lazy but confident, gold eyes once more regarding her with interest. No longer contained by the latex gloves, the heat of his palm radiated through the thin cotton of her shirt, seeping into her flesh.

“Shall I introduce you to the rest of the crew, Nami-ya?” he asked, long fingers curling around her waist when she instinctively attempted to step away. As if she were no more than a misbehaving kitten, he pulled her close, leaving little more than an inch of space between them. “They’d be heartbroken if they thought I was keeping you all to myself.”

Nami swallowed, pulse quickening as she realized something; Law had promised she had nothing to fear while in his infirmary.

He’d never said anything about outside it.

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