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bardic-inspo · 8 months ago

Text

Dhampir Dreams

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Tav (Generic/Unnamed)

Part 1 of 2

Rating: Explicit (Smut)

Key Tags: breeding kink, pregnancy kink, body worship, light dom/sub, light bondage, light praise kink, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it dacryphilia, cunnilingus, PIV, Astarion’s past trauma, smut with so many feelings but nearly no plot, character introspection

Summary:

Tav saw beauty in Astarion he couldn’t have seen himself, even if he had a reflection to gawk at. She made love with a man who never thought he could have anything near it. Made all his red dreams come true, and then said: go on, make new ones, in whatever color you like. Astarion never thought about being a father. Not before her. Or: an angsty-turned-horny character study about the pale elf and his thoughts on creating new (un)life.

A/N: This is my first stab at writing a more generic Tav. Tav in this piece is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns. Most other identifying features are left out.

Click here to read on AO3 instead

Astarion’s never thought much about making another vampire.

In the rare moments the notion occurred to him, he shoved it to the far back shelf of his mind so as not to waste himself on an exercise in futility. What did it matter, after all, while Cazador still lorded over him?

More than anything, Astarion yearned to see Cazador’s blood spill. In his mind’s eye, he’d watch it pool across the floor, not unlike the way he'd seen so much clothing puddled at so many heels. The lake he’d make of his master would be wide enough to swallow the garments of all who’d stripped bare before Astarion. Every sweat-soaked night he found himself bound to another moldering mattress beneath someone else’s weight, rocking through the motions that left his stomach sour, he’d fill his mind with such sweet dreams as Cazador’s death.

Whether Cazador would allow Astarion to drink his blood before being relieved of it varied with the fantasy. The dream changed as often as the hands on Astarion’s hips. It mattered little to him whether Cazador’s end came with true vampirism or not. As long as he ended.

As long as the vile river of shit that comprised Astarion’s life ended, one way or another. For better. Or for good.

Of course, he flirted with the fantasy of his own spawn, sent out like skittering spiders to dispense his will. Foul little monsters they would be. Fine tools to have in his arsenal; Astarion would only want such wretches of his own the way one might want a hammer to pound a nail. And what he wanted didn’t hold any weight while bound in Cazador’s chains.

So the idea recoiled into the dusty recesses of his mind, collecting cobwebs kitty-corner to such out of reach trophies as freedom from his servitude to Cazador and the sun itself. Both still gleamed, despite the tarnish of time and hope rusted over. Despite Astarion’s prayers, no heroes came to save him. No gods or slayers or saviors spared him from his servitude.

Until the illithids did.

Despite everything -- the centuries of torment, the hollow where his heart should be, its silence in his ribcage, the scars on his back, the thousands of other lashes that Cazador let fade from his porcelain skin -- Astarion did the one thing Cazador could never.

He stood in the sun. And on the sands of that same beach, another miracle washed ashore. A contradiction. His counterweight to everything else he’d ever known.

Tav.

Astarion’s hands roam the supple shape of her nestled against his bare chest. Her breath crests and falls soft and rhythmic, like the gentle slap of waves against the cliffs where they first found each other. His darling is always so serene in her sleep. Astarion dips his head down, nosing her splayed hair on the pillow, drinking in the lovely scent of lavender that always lingers with his lover.

Often, he wakes before her, as he does now in the dim blue light of dusk. Not yet dark enough for him to step outside, but for the moment, there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be. Not even in the raw, rippling light of day.

The smell of her has his eyelids heavy again, the steady patter of her heartbeat hypnotic in his head. His hands curve over the flare of her hips before slipping beneath the hem of her tunic. He stifles the satisfied hum that bubbles in the back of his throat as his palm smooths down the lithe stretch of her stomach. He resettles with his nose in the crook of her neck, eyelashes grazing the twin puncture scars that mark her as his.

He’d thought, once, that he’d ascend and have her at his side for an eternity. He was scared. Frantic. Grasping. He thought he had to grasp at something, fashion some sort of tether, to have her. Thought he had to have power, and enough of it, to keep her. Now he holds her every morning in the bed they share, until day becomes night again. It’s as effortless as blinking.

Now, the thought of turning Tav into a vampire turns his stomach.

His lips brush, tender, to the flutter of her pulse in her neck. He loves those marks he gave her. He loves the way her fingertips tap against them when she’s lost in thought. He loves the way she arches into his arms as he feeds, the way her body gives and gives to him alone. That sleepy, slap-happy smile she has when he’s lapped his last for the evening. The way her eyes roll back, and she gasps, breathless, as he kisses a trail from her neck to a nipple and sucks fervently.

He loves that he’s marked her, but that it didn’t change her. He can still curl into the heat of her skin at night. Still watch her preen in a mirror. Still stare at those gorgeous eyes and know the shade of them is hers. Her cheeks still turn the shade of sunrise when he leans in with a lustful whisper, or grazes her waist with a feather-light touch.

Absently, his fingers follow the path of an old scar on her stomach. At its end, he finds the start of softness. Astarion loves that, too. She didn’t used to be soft there, when they were just surviving. They’re not just surviving anymore.

Perhaps he’s changed her after all. It’s not so scary anymore to admit she’s turned him, too. Not to the light, or anything so nauseatingly righteous. But rather, so Astarion could see himself in it. Even if his days of standing in the sun are done.

I’ll be your mirror, she vowed, what feels like another lifetime ago. She smiled in that fond way of hers that, at the time, hurt to look at too long. He scoffed at her poetic ruminations on his hair curling near his ears. The creases when he laughs.

Tav saw beauty in him he couldn’t have seen himself, even if he had a reflection to gawk at. She made love with a man who never thought he could have anything near it. Made all his red dreams come true, and then said: go on, make new ones, in whatever color you like.

Astarion never thought about being a father. Not before her.

He’s thought of Tav as a mother before. It flitted through his mind when Astarion watched her ease Arabella’s pounding heart with the gentleness of her own. That feeling lingered when Yenna joined their camp, and Astarion caught Tav teaching her cards. Combing the snarls from the girl’s hair. Coaching her in the basics of swordplay.

She’d be a wonderful mother. Astarion has no doubts in that regard. And he, well…

He doesn’t have an example to look back on, or one to look up to. But he has his compass. Tav’s heart beats, sure and steady, in his ear. That sound’s guided him through so much else. How could he lose his way for long, if there were two pitter-patters to listen to?

His palm paints cool over that blooming softness in her stomach. An ache burns in his own. The sort of hunger her blood won’t sate. Would she taste even sweeter, he wonders, with her body rounded and swollen?

Of course she would. So hard to improve something so perfect already. But she’d be radiant, if she were ripe with their child.

And after, when their babe is born, and her body is new all over again, he'd love every line, every fold, every mark that came from their coupling. He’d worship every part of her that was remade by the two of them to make the three of them. Marvel at the way the same body that first truly fed him would feed their child, too.

He’d help her find her way back to pleasure in her own way, in her own time. Just as she did for him. His Tav gives, and gives, and he’d give her anything, everything, for the rest of his days, if a wretch like him would be so stupidly blessed to be the father of her child.

Astarion pulls a breath between his teeth, his nose flooding with her floral scent again. That would change, too. She’d carry new notes in her sweat, in her slick, in her blood, while carrying their babe. Astarion wants to taste them all, to learn what songs she can sing while he does.

Instinctually, he presses to the plump of her ass to soothe the building stiffness in his cock. He plants a muted hum in the fabric of the pillow. His groin throbs to the thump-thump of his compass, beating oblivious beneath her ribs.

He pictures pouring into her, night after night, his spend spilling in little translucent rivers down her slicked thighs, overflowing from her cunt. Too much for her to hold in, but she’d take him as long as it takes until life sparks inside of her. Tav’s determined in all her undertakings. Resilient.

And in his dreams, she’s pliant. Pleading.

“Star, please.”

She’s trembling in that slinky, translucent nightgown she wears to bed sometimes. The one that hardly hides her skin, but cloaks it in a delectable, silvery sheen. He likes it too much to ruin it. Or at least, he has every other night.

Oh, he’d like to ruin it, now.

Tav’s pupils are blown black with want. Sweat shimmers on her skin, spurring his tongue to swipe his own lips. Her shoulder peeks bare from her nightgown, and Astarion can see her pebbled nipples, dark beneath the sheer silk that separates them. Hardened with hardly a touch. A feeling he’s intimately familiar with. His cock twitches as he strokes the back of his hand over the soft swell of her breast.

“Aren’t you sore, sweet thing?” He tries for tender, but it comes out coarse. Rough like the way he wants to grip her hips.

“So be gentle,” she says with a sultry smile, lips peeled apart and glistening just enough that Astarion can’t peel his eyes away. “I know you’ll take good care of me.”

Astarion slinks forward, crowding her against the edge of the bed. Careful, like cradling glass, his palm reaches out to cup the side of her cheek. She sighs into the touch, the curve of her smile reaching the heel of his hand.

“Always,” he says reverently, before his voice sinks to a growl. “You’re always so, so eager…for me.”

Her lashes flutter low over hungry eyes. All it takes is one little wordless bob of her head for Astarion’s own hunger to have the best of him. With a lazy roll of his wrists, he shoves her back with kind but firm force. The mattress bends with her impact, her breathless laughter nearly lost beneath the whine of the wooden frame. Astarion crawls after her, hands fisting in her nightgown, and pulling her free of it.

And then, she’s bare beneath him. Writhing from his tongue and teeth. Gasping out the best words he’s ever heard. Astarion downs them like a man starved, kissing her with the kind of fervor he thought reserved for bloodlust. But her lips, the promises they pour, are sustenance all on their own.

“I’m yours,” she whispers, “all yours. Always. All of me.”

Astarion can’t stifle the whine that drags from some hollow in his chest he never knew about before.

The bed creaks as he hitches one of Tav’s limber legs up over his shoulder and nips a path of sharp kisses from her ankle to the crux of her thigh. He pauses, sweeping a feverish gaze over the spread of her: legs parted in his grip, that perfect slit, already wet with want, the rest of her sprawled naked across the bed, at his mercy, at his desire, at her own.

He leans down, tongue dipping leisurely through her cunt. Always, she swore. So there’s no hurry in how he takes apart the woman he loves so dearly, in one of her favorite ways to be unmade. No matter how many times she claws the sheets and hisses, “Please, Star. F-fuck, I need you inside of me.”

It turns something in the depths of him to hear his own name said as a prayer. It makes him want with a force and harshness stronger than any thirst he’s felt for blood. He wants to turn her. Change her. Forever, for good. For the life they could make from their bodies, bound as close as souls could be. He wants to see her swell with the love they make, with all the love he’ll leave inside her.

She’s so close, her legs quaking violently when her hand tangles his hair and yanks his head upright. She’s beautiful, flushed ruby red, taking her air in shallow doses. Her eyes burn with equal measures adoration and reproach.

Astarion smirks, unrepentant, lips smeared with devotion. “My love, any work of art takes time. And that’s what we’re making, you know. When others look upon our progeny, they will weep in the sight of such beauty.”

“If all it takes is time, dearest,” she says, with a smile just as filthy, “then I don’t want to waste one second of it lying here empty.”

“Mmm,” Astarion sighs, nosing down against her throbbing clit, eyes flashing back to hers as he dares another lick. Her fist tightens in his hair. Astarion only chuckles.

“You’re right, of course,” he croons. “That won’t do, at all. I do recall promising to-- how did you put it the other night? ‘Fuck you full and senseless’? I’m more partial to what you begged me for a tenday ago, when I had you face-down and waiting for me as soon as the sun was set. Remind me again, my love, what you said when you weren't gasping my name?"

Astarion presses the tip of his tongue to her clit again and tastes her rapid, ravenous pulse in the heat of it. Tav’s hips jerk in response, but he holds her fast.

“I-I said I want-- that I want--”

“You want me to ‘breed you like a damn animal’," he finishes for her. "Oh, don’t be shy now, my sweet. We’re far past that. And we want the same things, after all. But," he sighs, letting his lips drag through her flushed folds, "I've another promise to keep, first.”

Astarion flicks his wrist, muttering magic beneath his breath. Tav’s sharp little yelp of surprise shoots heat straight to his groin. His cock throbs as she settles again, arms bound above her head by his mage hand, tits bouncing from the slightest struggle against her restraints. She smirks up at him, eyes aflame with fresh desire. Escape is the farthest thing from what she wants.

“You lie back now, dear,” Astarion drawls. “You’ll take me soon enough. You’ll be so good for me, like you always are, and take everything I give you. And I’ll take very, very good care of the woman I intend to make a mother.”

Astarion watches her keenly, tracing his forefinger down through her slick. He unfurls it, circling her cunt daintily, and watching her writhe for even the faintest promise of friction. He’s not sure if it’s his mercy or his selfishness that readily discards the thought of keeping her here, just like this, for the rest of the day. She’s mesmerizing, with the way her back arches from the blankets, and how her body strains towards any touch he’ll spare her.

All mine, he thinks, with a smile that makes him feel weightless. He grounds his hardened cock against the edge of the bed, groaning. All yours, darling. Just for you.

Pride rumbles low in his chest as he sets his mouth back to work again and knows she can’t cover her own. There’s no muffling his name pouring from her lips. No hiding how she cries for him. Her whole body winds taut, shuddering with every stroke of his tongue.

Finally, finally, he lets his finger slip inside her. Astarion sighs into a satisfied purr, letting the tremble of it soak into her sex. Her cunt’s a vice around his knuckle. Every pump of his finger feeds the building burn inside him, fanning the ache to be sheathed in that tightness. He only aches more, feeling her squeeze around his finger, and knowing she longs for him just the same.

He slips in a second finger to join the first, feeling her spread and then clench anew. Astarion ruts aimlessly into the mattress, in time with the thrust of his wrist. The head of his cock weeps anticipation with the rogue tear trailing down the side of her cheek. It’s only pleasure that makes her cry.

There’s only love in her heavy-lidded gaze as she pants, “Please.”

Mercy, then, Astarion resolves. For both of them.

Her thighs quiver against his ears like leaves in a breeze. Astarion swirls his tongue against the bud of her clit and sucks tightly. Tav stiffens abruptly. His arms hook firm around her legs as a shattered sound breaks from her throat,and a hard tremor courses through her hips.

He holds her through it, pinning her to the bed until just the faintest brush of his lips has her shuddering. The start of her plaintive whimper has him easing back. A murmured word sets her wrists free of her restraints. Her heart still hammers, sumptuous, in his head, as he peppers her legs in kisses soft as velvet.

“Beautiful,” he whispers with each one, slinking up her body while she comes back down. “So, so beautiful.”

He thinks of new life, as his knee bends between her thighs and drags her open all over again. He thinks of the graveyard, where he had her freely beneath the stars, in the dirt where he woke centuries ago. He thinks he’d be happy to die again, this way, as he slides forward and buries himself inside her waiting heat.

Astarion grates out a long, low moan as he basks in the wrap of her arms and her cunt. Dimly, he feels her fingertips threading gently through his curls. He thinks of sunlight on his skin again as he sinks in fully, bracing his arms on either side of her head, letting his forehead tilt against hers. He can feel her pulse thrumming through her body, through his cock, through his fogged-over thoughts. His hips roll to the sound, as if it beckoned him to motion. Tav’s head drops back into the pillows. She lets out a long, contented hum, while her body rocks in time with his.

“Is this what you needed, darling?” He huffs a laugh, catching her lips in chaste kiss. It’s enough for her to taste her own sweetness. And one squeeze from her cunt is enough to cut his breath away all over again.

“I think you needed me, too,” she purrs.

“Y-yes,” he stammers through bared teeth, his throat tied taut as she wrings him for all he’s worth. “Yes.”

She knows exactly what he needs, what he yearns for. He needs her, needs this, needs to see his seed seeping from her fucked-out hole, pink and puffy and leaking. He’ll know the rest of it was spent so deep inside her, her fertile womb is flooded. That’s his, too, with the rest of her.

Hips high for me, beautiful, he’ll say, when his last thrust is done. And he’ll hold her legs up against his shoulders, kiss her heels, and slip the pillow beneath her pelvis. Just to be sure it takes.

It’ll be another couple months before they’ll start to see the fruit of their efforts. Until Tav starts to bloom with it. And then, he’ll be hard pressed not to have his hands on her every hour. Cupping the fresh heft of her breasts as they grow with the passing days, heavy from him, for the babe growing in her belly. He’ll soothe her weepy eyes and tits alike, with a skilled tongue and sweet whisper. Rub her shoulders to ease the new weight her bones carry. Draw his nose down her neck and smell not just her, but himself, and the consequences of what they did, right here in this bed.

Feel her change beneath his hands and feel so fucking proud to be the reason.

Pleasure winds, binding, around his cock, and he feels that hunger snap its jaws around him all over again. His hips snap with it, jerking frantically. I need you, all of you, he thinks, and if he weren’t already fucking her, he’d be on his knees, begging for all he’s worth. Her cunt quivers, and he’s lost to the grip of her. Astarion shoves his own knuckles in his mouth to stifle a strangled cry.

“Star?”

Astarion rips awake in a sweat. He sees familiar wooden beams above his head, above his bed. Sunlight streaks the floorboards, leaking from behind the curtains. Turning his cheek, he finds his lover peering at him from over her shoulder, concern wrinkling her face. Tav still lays on her side, and Astarion still presses against her back. But his hand clamps tight to her thigh, bare where he hiked up her tunic. And his cock twitches fitfully against her ass, unspent and painfully hard.

Just a dream, then. For now, at least.

He lets out a long, weary sigh, slumping back into the sheets. Tav tilts her head, the worry in her gaze gradually dissolving into a mischievous gleam.

“I thought you might--” she starts, snickering, “but you were having sweet dreams, weren’t you?”

“The best I’ve ever had,” Astarion mutters mournfully as he buries his face in his pillow. “You were there, of course.”

Astarion rarely sleeps anymore. It’s not normal, not natural for an elf. But it was a trick he taught to dodge Cazador’s torment at least for a few hours a day. Reverie used to mean putting the horrors on repeat. He’d slowly eased from the habit, now that he has new memories worth seeing a second, third, or hundredth time.

Still, occasionally, he drifts to sleep without meaning to. Sometimes, he wanders off into novel nightmares. Or, if he’s lucky, he dreams of making love to his wife and making her pregnant. Of making their own little dhampir.

His hips shift, and he hisses. Pre-cum seeps from the head of his cock, slickening the shaft. It’s not enough. Not after such a succulent fantasy. But one touch from his darling might have him sated, if not entirely satisfied. Pleasure stabs, sharp, through his groin as she shifts and brushes him with her motion. He grimaces.

Just one touch alone could do it.

“I’m here now,” she smirks, twisting to face him. Her hand slips down between them. Mercy, he thinks, as her fingers wrap his length. He thrusts into her palm with a pleading whimper. “Tell me all about these dreams of yours.”

A/N: If you're yelling "Let him breed!!" at the screen just know I'm right there with you holding a megaphone about it 💜

If there's interest (from others & myself) perhaps there might be a part two where Tav takes matters into her own hands. Makes him say exactly what he wants, if he wants to have it so bad 👀

EDIT: This is now officially a part one of two 😉

If you'd like me to add you to a tag list for future one-shots, or all of my future BG3 fic (including multi-chapters), leave me a comment and let me know which you'd like!

& HUGE thank you to some lovely Discord and Tumblr friends/moots who cheered me on as I worked on this one! 💜

Tag List: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #tavstarion #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #astarion breeding #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion x f!tav #f!tav x astarion #my writing #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate #divider credit: firefly-graphics #end banner credit: cafekitsune

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kentopedia · 4 months ago

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ᡣ𐭩 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 . . . the french are glad to die for love

after a night performing, you meet with the duke, but he's not anything like you'd been expecting.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. ft. sanji ! f!reader, moulin rouge au, alcohol, smoking, romance, prostitution, burlesque/cabaret dancers, humor, very very brief mention of suicidal ideation, suggestive content. 8.7k words.

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, i'm very nervous to post this so pls be kind to me ‪‪❤︎‬ if you aren't familiar with moulin rouge, the writing's a bit silly / eccentric at times, which is a little outside my comfort zone. so if you hate it... say nothing lol ><

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 .˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 .˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊

Paris was the city of lovers, as they said. Romantic and doused in shades of red, painted with hearts for stars and a dazzling galaxy complete of past romances.

Red, yes, was the color of Paris. But it came from not from dalliances, but from blood and tears, the scarlet hues mixed in shades of pain and misfortune. Nothing you had expected when you’d first stepped foot in the city with a half-developed mind, just off the boat from your own country. You’d had a suitcase filled with your finest clothes, which truly weren’t much, and a few necessities. But you’d been leaving from nothing, and you’d go on to have nothing, finding yourself in yet another desperate situation.

In the wake of revolutions, Paris was supposed to be a place of rebirth, to start fresh and finally live out your dream as an actress. But things never turned out the way they were planned — such had been the case since the beginning of time.

Instead of finding your way into the Palais Garnier, on the stage in beautiful velvet gowns, laced with glittering diamonds and rubies, you found yourself on the streets, singing for anyone who would listen. Then, you were acquired by a man who promised you a life of luxury and an opportunity to be a star.

And who were you to refuse such an offer?

Thus concluding the simple, albeit melancholy tale of how you found yourself at the Moulin Rouge, part-time singer, part-time dancer, and full-time actor. A cliché story of ambition and lost dreams, of aspirations that had never come to fruition.

Still, you had your moments of stepping into the role of the glittering ruby, the dazzling diamond. There were even times when you felt that, maybe, you were shaping up to be the prima donna you’d dreamed of becoming. That you had already taken that role on and made it your own, not in a golden opera house, but on a stage of darker colors, crafted for those that crept in the shadows, rather than the heavens.

But what being an actor at the Moulin Rouge meant was forgetting what it was to be yourself. Each evening, you put on a mask of beauty that you didn’t feel to your core, shrouded in cheap jewels that had become meaningless in the face of giving up your real dream. No matter how many times you told yourself this was right, a stepping stone to the path of greatness, it still felt like a lie.

But the years carried on, and the pain subsided. You got used to the sharpened eyes of hungry men, of people that would never want you for any longer than an evening. They were charming, sure, and they paid a pretty penny for a night — if you were willing to give it to them.

It was enough. It had to be.

Things weren’t so bad, you supposed. You’d left your home like you’d always planned to, even while this shapeless existence was hardly any better.

Still, returning to your house of cards, of rags and dirtied floors, seemed like an even bigger failure. Perhaps not to your family, who would’ve deemed your life as a courtesan the greatest shame of them all. To you, though, the greatest shame would have been to admit that you were wrong.

Your fifth year of working at the Moulin Rouge set into motion the beginning of the end. There was nothing different about the evening that tipped the first domino… Not that you could recall, at least.

As always, an array of stars glittered over Montmartre, a beautiful Parisian night, lit up with red. From the streets, the Moulin Rouge glowed like a beacon, combating even the loveliest parts of the French skyline, outlandishly bright, but mystical all the same. It wasn’t often that you saw the outside of the cabaret, not the way your patrons did. Sometimes, you wondered what it was like for them, to walk in for the first time and see the beautiful stars, dancing just for them on the candlelit stage.

The very stage you were soon to find yourself on.

A necklace of rubies — undoubtably fake — hung heavy on your chest, weighing you down just like a cough in your lungs did. From beyond your four walls, you could hear the crowd that had formed in the intimate hall, already wet with anticipation of the dancers. And while some, perhaps, were doubtful, here for the first time, you knew they would leave with an itch to return, if only to see the star of the Moulin Rouge.

You.

Staring into the mirror, you listened to the heels of your friends click across the stage, getting into position for their first number. It was comforting, almost, how the simple sound was there for your every night, alerting you of just how much time you had before your final act.

You smeared rouge across your cheeks, sporting a grim smile, and made sure the color was bright enough to combat the lights that would illuminate you.

Then, you inhaled, and stood from your chair, to get dressed before your number began.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get far, already crowded by the chest of your keeper, the flashy owner of the Moulin Rouge. Buggy.

He was dressed as he always was — to the nines, and impeccably lively. Much livelier than you would ever be outside of the glittering nightclub. Sometimes, you wondered just how much of his persona was an act, and how much of it was every bit the extravagance he’d been born with.

“There’s my star,” Buggy said, dragging a finger across your cheek, eyes lit up by his pale makeup. “I’ve been looking for you.” Your name left his lips cheerfully, and you smiled, thinly plastering on enthusiasm.

“Well,” you answered, batting your eyelashes heavily. “Here I am. Where I’ve been for the past five years, every night, at this very time.”

He threw an arm over your shoulder as he always did, like the two of you were old friends, and the air of professionalism you tried to keep between you was needless. “Yes, yes,” he responded, waving off the slight bit of sarcasm. “Listen. I have a manner of business to discuss.”

Your smile quickly fell. You knew what that meant. “Buggy,” you said, unreeling yourself from his embrace, his hot palm dropping from your shoulders. “It’s hardly been a day since the last one. You promised me I wouldn’t have to take on any more.”

Not that you’d believed him when he’d said that, but… There were only so many men you were willing to seduce, especially when the other dancers would have gladly accepted the work. You weren’t the only courtesan at the club, and just because you were the star, didn't mean you would put the others out of a job.

“I did, I did, and I’ll keep that promise… After this last time.” Buggy’s words were on the edge of charisma, but they weren’t able to reach that delivery. Full of a dramatic flair, sure, but nothing further. His smile was thin, desperate, and though you wanted to ask his true intentions about this particular meeting, you wouldn’t. You already knew the answer.

You held his gaze sharply, eyes narrowing before you relented, a heavy sigh leaving your lungs.

There had been talk about the finances, only recently, and just through the grapevine. Claims that the Moulin Rouge was going bankrupt, and there was only one person with enough beauty and charm to save it.

A heavy burden to bear, indeed.

And while you were hopeful, devastatingly so, that the claims weren’t true, you weren’t blind to the dwindling waitstaff, the decreasingly lavish decorations. One of your dancers had even left in the last week, a young girl who didn’t bring much to the table, but didn’t deserve to be tossed back onto the streets either.

You’d be a fool not to notice that there was trouble… Trouble Buggy had convinced you not to worry about, but that concerned you all the same.

With a frown, you bowed your gaze, then perked back up with a smile. As if holding a tiara high on your head, you straightened, erasing the depressing dimness from your eyes, hoping you shone as brightly as he wanted you to. “Alright,” you hummed, softening your voice, “What do I need to do?”

Buggy grinned, face revealing perfect showmanship, and pinched your cheek. “There’s my star.”

The man you were to seduce on the stage tonight was a duke.

He wasn’t from Paris, wasn’t from France at all, but instead, from some intriguing land further East, hailing a vast amount of wealth and a large wallet that could easily bankroll the entire nightclub. Salaries, performances, food and so on. That alone told you all you needed to know.

Just one night. That would be enough to convince him that you were a dazzling diamond, and you deserved a place on the stage. A different stage. It would be enough to get him to put his money on the table, entranced enough by the energy of the evening to invest in the Moulin Rouge. Enough to intrigue him, even if he was a difficult man to please.

One night might not turn out be just one, you knew that. But you’d do anything, anything it took to achieve you dreams. Not just for yourself, not for Buggy… but for all of the others that you called your friends. You deserved an opportunity to be a real actress, and they deserved a place to live, a place to work.

Besides, you were getting older, already closer to thirty than your early teenage years, and those of the underworld did not want an aged woman, so much as they sought the delicate features of a barely turned adult. It was a disgusting, filthy world you lived in, but it kept you alive, and sometimes, that was all you could ask for.

“Remember,” Buggy’s words echoed in your ears, sharp and desperate to be heard, even over the drowning noises of the orchestra. “He’ll be in the back booth. There’s a group of men with him, they’ll all have drinks. Just catch his eye, sometime during the dance. But don’t worry too much about that, otherwise you’ll lose your focus.”

What you got from that was: You should try extra hard to catch the eye of an impressive man, but you should not seem like you were trying at all.

A somewhat daunting task, but it would be simple enough. There hadn't been a man yet at the Moulin Rouge who hadn’t stumbled over himself when you gave him your brilliant smile.

You breathed, a deep inhale that cleared out the anxiety lingering in your chest. Then, you blew it out, and the curtain rose, blinding you with overwhelming yellows and reds from the lights, ones that ignited the jewels on your neck, outlining your chest, drawing everyone’s attention to you.

It was hard to see anything at all, but you could feel all their eyes on you — a hundred or so pairs that scoured you like a piece of meat.

And when you got to the floor, close enough that you could feel the hot breaths of your favorite clients, they threw bills at you until you could no longer hold them in the tight lines of your bodice.

You smiled at every individual like you’d never smile at anyone again, patted their cheeks until they passed out with red, swooning faces. Then you left them, still reeling from your touch, eyes glued to you with the focus of a tortured scholar.

Performing had always been a rush to you, left you lively and with an energy that you’d never found in anything else. But sometimes, performing like this, exploiting no one but yourself and your magnetic charm, left you empty at the end of the day. You left the stage cold, drained of every ounce of warmth that had been dragged into you from the spotlight.

It was invigorating to be wanted, but it could never compete with the crushing loneliness that came with being used.

And that warmth you got from the stage, the rush of devotion and adrenaline that came with incessant adoration? Well, you’d never felt anything like that, never been able to replicate it either, until a set of eyes landed on you from a distant booth, where the Duke was said to be sitting.

You felt the heat before you saw him, the candy-red color of desire bleeding into you. It dragged across your back, digging into your shoulder-blades like a needle, piercing, but only lightly. There was something soft around the harsh edges of want, and when you turned to meet that stark desire, you almost faltered in surprise.

He wasn’t what you’d been expecting.

Just as Buggy had said, the corner-most booth held a man, surrounded by many others. The table was littered with glasses — both empty and full of alcohol, and a cloud of smoke hovered around them. All of the men leaned over the table, eyeing you with awe-struck eyes, as you sparingly gave them your sweetest smile.

But it was the innermost man that you honed in on, one being jostled around by the wealthy others in his booth. Blonde, blue eyes alight with a conflicted sort of desire, wearing a suit tailored to fit him perfectly.

The Duke.

Allegedly.

From what you’d been told, there were enough clues to convince you that this dazzled man was the one you were looking for. Surrounding him were older patrons, ones that were familiar with Buggy, and nearly all of the dancers. Rich men that would have gladly accompanied a foreign noble, shown him the beauty of Montmartre before the sun rose and they were back to respectable conversation.

Yet, he seemed…

Well, he didn’t seem very lordly.

That, though, was not a question you wanted to linger on for too long. Your mind would spin into uncertainties, and you would fuck this up before you could fuck him.

Instead, you sharpened your smile, lowered your eyes seductively, and continued your performance, painting more attention onto that side of the room.

Which raised another red flag that you were all too happy to ignore. Far opposite of what Buggy had sad, the duke did not seem like a difficult man to please. Rather, all you could think was that he would be an easy catch, with the way his cigarette dangled from his lips, parted in awe. His irises might as well have shaped into hearts as he watched you, tracing your every movement without so much as blinking.

You brightened. For some reason, his adoration gave you much greater satisfaction than you would have liked to admit.

Riding on the elation that your prey, the source of your future, was in the palm of your hand, you wrapped up the rest of your performance perfectly, tying it up with a beautiful scarlet ribbon. Buggy was standing on the edge of the stage as you made your way down, bowing dramatically, knowing that you had succeeded in every goal he’d set for you.

“Do you think I lured him in?” you asked softly, accepting the robe given to you by one of the stage-hands, a man just on the cusp of his twenties.

Buggy smiled, his red-painted lips spreading across crooked teeth. “I don’t call you the diamond for nothing, do I, my dear?” he said, pinching your cheek.

The rouge came off between his fingers, and your eyebrows crinkled, before releasing, as you remembered all the ways you could keep yourself from looking older. You swatted your friend-not-friend’s hand away before wrapping yourself tighter in the robe, feeling so much smaller and younger than you truly were.

Despite all the men you’d taken to bed, all the nights you’d shared in throes of passion (their’s, of course, never your own), you still felt the scared, hardly-adult you’d been when you first set foot in Paris.

Buggy noticed the change in your demeanor, as you tried to gear yourself up for an encounter with the Duke. The charming, blonde noble seemed kind enough, softer around the edges than many of the men you’d seduced over the years. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

Never, though, would it be something that you wanted to do.

“What’s the matter, my gem?” Buggy asked, not quite in a way that was kind, but enough to show concern. His eyes were gentler than the rest of his appearance, and you weren’t sure you were grateful for it.

You curled away from his hands, sniffing back the onslaught of doubt and self-loathing that always came upon you when you used your body in such a way. It was something that you’d been taught to feel disgusted by, even though it kept a roof over your head, and the heads of the people that you’d come to call your family.

“It’s nothing,” you said, because it was the truth. It was nothing new. The same blur of feelings that had haunted you since the first day you’d sold yourself to another still lingered. You’d always thought it would get easier… but it hadn’t. It still ended with you wanting to tear your skin from your body, but never following through with a slide of poison down your throat.

Because that was the easy way, wasn’t it? A quick way to end your torment, without knowing if you’d ever see the other side. And, perhaps you weren’t as brave as you wanted to believe, but you wanted to see if there was another side. If there was a brighter end, a brighter future, where you could shine on the stage of the Palais Garnier as a real actress, and not just in the glittering scarlet lights of the Moulin Rouge.

Buggy eyed you skeptically, any kindness in his irises now gone as his lips turned into a thin line. “It better be nothing,” he said, guiding you across the stage, before reaching a doorway that would send you up into the Elephant Room.

Which was the most private area of the Moulin Rouge, one saved for the most illicit affairs. It was your room, and only those patrons that were willing to pay the highest price were allowed entry.

“Remember, I’ll send him up to you, and all you have to do is give him a night he won’t forget, alright?” Buggy stood in front of you, gripping your shoulders in a warning. “Now, show me that dazzling smile, diamond.”

Reluctantly, but with all the passion you had gathered in your chest, you smiled, knowing that it was real enough to set something alight in his own. The reaction — just a small quirk of his lips in return — was enough to let you know he was satisfied with the show you’d put on.

“There she is. We’ll have a new investor soon enough.”

You were certain of that. You had to be certain of that, or your livelihood would be down the drain, and a future of shimmering lights and diamond-encrusted gowns would be out of the question.

On the walk up the stairs, you spoke soft words in your head, hummed the same tune you did for every show. It reminded you of who you were — at least, who you were to them. The ones who would have sold an arm and leg for a chance to win your heart, even though, after all the years that passed, you didn’t think you had one to give anymore.

The stage was all the love you had to offer. Perhaps, the only type of love you believed in, anymore.

You made your way up the spiraling staircase to the Elephant Room, and opened the door with a sigh, letting your weight rest against the doorknob. For a moment, you deflated in the threshold like a woman in a Shakespearian tragedy, exhaling the tension that had wrought in your shoulders.

Until you felt eyes slide across to you, unexpectedly, and you found you weren’t alone in the Elephant Room.

Without pretense, the Duke was waiting for you, his eyes dancing along the interior, taking a moment to gaze at every corner of the room. There was interest in his irises, as he searched for other secrets of your life through your belongings

Then, the door slammed shut behind you, and the spell was broken. The Duke turned to face you, eyes widening with alarm, as your back went straight as a wire.

He wasn’t supposed to be there already.

A second slipped by, and you gawked at each other, your own mouth dry with the confusion and surprise of his ill-timed appearance. Surely Buggy hadn’t sent him to the Elephant Room already? You’d only just parted.

Well, you supposed it didn’t matter now anyway. La vie continue.

Smoothly, you recovered, raising your shoulders to release an air of confidence, and smiled brightly. You twisted your hair across your collarbone, hoping it would highlight the smooth planes of your chest, where the ruby necklace had already been removed. “Ah, my apologies, monsieur. I wasn’t aware you were waiting for me.”

The Duke blinked as you strutted past him, taking the two quick steps to your vanity. Just enough to brush against him, feel the desire rolling off of him in waves.

Pointedly, he tried hard not to let his eyes drift lower, tracing just along your hips before snapping back up to to the back of your head. “How would you have known?” His words came out thick, as if something was lodged deep in his chest. “I haven’t even introduced myself.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” you said over your shoulder, lowering your voice huskily. “I’ve heard so much about you. I trust your visit to the Moulin Rouge has been pleasant?”

He met your gaze through the mirror, seemingly enraptured, and cleared his throat as he calculated a response. “Très agréable, mademoiselle.”

You smiled, humming through an affirmative, before continuing. “Wonderful. I’ll be ready in just one moment.” Imperceptibly, you sprayed perfume, hoping it would mask the sweat that had gathered from your performance. Then, you made your way over to a cart, sifting through expensive bottles of alcohol. “Drink?” you said, speaking softly to yourself. “I have champagne or…” You shook each of the bottles, realizing they were all empty. Not a drop left. “Well. I have champagne.”

“I’m alright, madame. Merci.”

You began to pour your own glass, which you would certainly be needing, when it dawned upon you that his accent was rather Parisian, and absolutely not as foreign as Buggy would have had you believe. Your champagne slipped, nearly spilling over the edges of the cup, before you turned to eye the blonde with what you hoped with a sultry grin.

“Ah. Your French is very beautiful,” you said, smiling over the edge of your glass as you sipped at it, wondering if your eyes were as alluring as you believed. “You’re a quick learner.”

He stared at you, lines creasing his features as his lips parted, obvious skepticism weaved within his posture. Then, without another word, he ignited the cigarette he had slipped between his lips, the end glowing before he inhaled. A long drag was taken from it, settling in his lungs. “Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. I’m not sure how to answer that,” he said, exhale releasing a cloud of smoke into the air.

You laughed, a high-pitched giggle that turned you back to face him, his free hand stuffed in his pocket like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Usually people answer compliments with another thank you, but it’s no matter.” You forced another small sound up out of you, suddenly unsure exactly what to do next.

He was… not what you’d been expecting, and the usual turn of events wasn’t progressing as it should have been. The Duke was supposed to be an intimidating man, one who knew what he wanted and would take it without question. That's what you'd heard, anyway. You were starting to wonder if what Buggy had told you were nothing but rumors.

Waving the comment off, you made your way back to the vanity, checking that your scarlet lipstick had not smeared. His lingering gaze still traced against every curve of your body, and you stuck your hips out further, leaning towards the mirror with a small grin. “I apologize I didn’t have time to change. I wasn’t expecting you here so soon.”

The Duke nodded, only slowly processing your words before tapping on the cigarette. “Oh, there’s… no need.” Then, he shook his head, blinking, as if cringing internally. “Unless you’re uncomfortable. In that case, I’ll um… turn around.”

You laughed, hiccuping as the quick gulps of champagne came bubbling up inside of you. “Well, it’s no matter, really. I’m sure they’ll come off soon enough.” The comment was meant to be a simple segue into the rather normal routine of your work, low and seductive.

Instead, his eyes went wide, cheeks flushed as he looked, quite pointedly, anywhere but you. “No,” his voice rang at a higher pitch as you stalked towards him, your glass of champagne drained and discarded. “No, I’d really rather you keep them on, actually.”

You blinked, a bit puzzled by that. But it wasn’t the strangest request you’d ever gotten, and you were determined to please him, just as Buggy had requested. “Alright. Whatever you want, amour.”

Like a cat, you crept up to the Duke, splaying your hands across his chest. A small sound left his throat, cheeks turning a darker shade as he took a step back, grasping for words. Your hand fisted his tie, satisfied by his reaction as you followed his stumbling lead back towards the bed.

“How would you prefer to start?” you whispered, as his knees hit the edge of the heart-shaped mattress, legs buckling until he was flat on his back, gawking up at you from the bed. “I admit you are a hard one to read. Just say the word, I can be whatever you want.”

You scrambled on top of his thighs, dress hiked up to reveal the smoothness of your own legs, which quickly caught his attention.

“I-I’m not sure that we’re on the same page here,” he said, swallowing, though watching every one of your movements with rapt attention.

You plucked the cigarette from his lips, and took a long drag, smiling down at him.

The smoke filled your lungs, calming your nerves marginally. They were cheap cigarettes — not those usually desired by the nobility, but who were you to judge for odd preferences? He’d found his way here to you, after all.

“No?” you answered softly, taking one more long inhale of the cigarette before you leaned forward, placing it into the ashtray, still burning. There was a long streak of red from your lipstick, staining the thin cylinder of white. “Then what is it that you’re here for?”

He exhaled, fingers reaching up along your thighs, the touch so featherlight that you almost weren’t sure it was even there. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten the question entirely, jaw slackened as he stared at you above him, before he swallowed, and sat up on his forearms.

The movement brought your faces even closer together, his nose just centimeters from brushing your own. It was then you realized just how blue his eyes were, the color illuminated by the dim candlelight, deep hues of turquoise and navy swirling together to create a stormy sea. His thick, blonde eyelashes fluttered closed as he blinked at you, and the movement alone brought you out of your stupor, his voice raspy upon each syllable.

“I’m here for the play…?”

You drew back, needing a moment to breathe as you squinted your eyes to study him. It was rare for you to get a client like him, wealthy, but so uncertain, a charm about him that you couldn’t quite pin. They were never as handsome either, most far older than you, willing to throw cash at a younger, beautiful woman.

Questions raised at the back of your mind, desperate to be asked, but you ignored them, beaming as you angled your head. “Ah. Of course. The play.” Your voice was saccharine, octaves higher than your usual volume. “What is my role, then?” you asked, tugging off his tie as you leaned into him, your lips just barely brushing his own. His breath was hot against your mouth, a hint of cheap alcohol still lingering on his breath. “I’m far too used to being the seductress, but I can be the damsel in distress, if you’d prefer that.”

“Your role…” It was said more to himself than anything, not stopping you as your fingers began to unbutton his starched white shirt. You tilted your head forward, noses brushing together as you rested your forehead against his.

The air grew warm between you, and for a moment, a beautiful, fleeting second, you lost yourself. Your grip on his top grew slack, fingertips caressing the warm expanse of his chest. He breathed into your mouth, and your eyes fell shut, letting him connect his lips to your own, the moment exploding in a rush of beautiful, ruby fireworks.

And you were keen, then, to let him do whatever he would have wanted, his touch so featherlight and gentle, you wondered if you could have fallen in love with him. How quickly your heart, coated in steel and another layer of iron, betrayed you, dropping from your own chest right into the palms of the man that you needed as a savior.

But the moment did not last so long, and your vulnerability evaporated as quickly as the layer of dew beyond la Seine. As if coming back to himself, he choked, pulled away from your lips and pushed you back by the shoulders, staring at you with wide eyes and warm, tinted cheeks.

You paused, watching as he rushed to his feet like he couldn’t get up fast enough. How easily the mood had soured, even as he muttered one apology after another, unable to meet your gaze.

The Duke’s hands were shaky as he held the cigarette to his mouth, eyes fixated on the ceiling. He had plucked the same one back up from the ashtray, the streak of your bold, crimson lipstick imprinted on the end of it.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, hoping the worry wasn’t obvious in your words. If there was a problem, you were desperate to fix it. You couldn’t afford to ruin this, not when so many things were at stake.

He hesitated, another cloud of smoke leaving his mouth as he waved his hand around, ash falling from the cigarette. “I’m sorry — I’m sorry. I can’t focus when you’re,” he swallowed, cheeks burning, despite the hardness very obvious in his pants, “looking at me like that.”

“Focus?” you said in gentle confusion, eyebrows pinched tighter, as the beginnings of a dreadful realization dawned upon on you.

Feeling discarded on the bed, you sat and watched as he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, straightening like it was an important doctrine, before clearing his throat, and reciting a beautifully composed poem.

The words were horrifically romantic, each line strung into another as if they had been pieced together by his very own heartstrings. And though you had not processed a single word, it had still struck a cord down deep in your weathered heart, and you continued to stare, sick with your own shame.

It was beautiful — hauntingly so — a poem of love that could rival even the greatest of French writers. But, all you could think about was the pounding in the back of your mind, the panic steadily rising up within you.

“You’re here for a play. An actual play,” you said stupidly, gaping back at him, your entire body going rigid with embarrassment. “You’re serious.” No longer was your tone beautifully high-pitched, innocent despite your sensuality. It had lowered in horror, your eyes going wide as you realized that all of this was a terrible, terrible misunderstanding.

Which seemed a lackluster reaction to whatever he was looking for, and he frowned, tilted his head back before heavily inhaling another puff of smoke. “Well, I suppose I would prefer that sort of reaction to hearing that my writing is awful. The play wasn’t my idea, just for the record.”

“Writer?” you screeched, scrambling to your feet. “You’re not a Duke? Not the Duke?”

His eyebrows lifted, searching your face for any hint of a joke, and when he found none, he laughed, face splitting beautifully with a smile. He gestured to himself like he was amazed you would even think so, his suit hardly of the latest fashions, the cufflinks a dulling silver.

Which, in hindsight, was truly a marvelous mistake.

“No, I am not a duke.” His forehead wrinkled, and he, finally, stamped the cigarette out on the ashtray, subtly putting the stub back into his pocket. “Is that why you thought I couldn’t speak French? Je viens de Paris. I thought that was obvious.” Once more, he laughed, smiling in a manner that was far too out of place for the situation. Then, just as dramatically, his face fell, eyes going wide with concern. “Hold on. Did you not know that I would be here?”

“No!” you exclaimed, putting your finger to his chest as you shot forward, glaring with the heat of a thousand suns. Your features morphed into something horrible, though you doubted it was as intimidating as you hoped. “No, I have been waiting on a Duke, not some amateur, impoverished writer from this dreadful city I regret ever stepping foot in. And if you tell me that you’re another one of Luffy’s tragic bohemian protégés—”

He smiled sheepishly, tilting his head before you could even finish your sentence. “Well. First of all, I wouldn’t say I’m an amateur.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, a sound leaving your throat in dismay as another voice — the exact voice you were hoping not to hear — called out from the window.

“Sanji!” Luffy said, a headful of black hair falling over the side, grinning at both of you. “How’s it going? Have you convinced her yet?”

“No!” you shouted, already rushing towards the window, shooing Luffy away. Over and over you repeated the word, Luffy merely swinging back and forth from whatever rope he’d tied himself to, more amused than anything “Get out of here, Luffy! I should’ve known it was you that put him up to this.”

For years, Luffy had been trying to recruit you, hoping you'd be an actress in one of his performances, and that the Moulin Rouge would be the place that funded it.

With his endless confidence, Luffy was certain that one day, he would create the best production in the history of Paris. But you were certainly skeptical of his ideas ever taking off, Buggy even more-so, and he refused to put even a single franc towards funding any of Luffy's productions.

Despite the rejection, you continued to get pestered, Luffy somehow convinced that he could help you become an established actress quicker than your current occupation could.

Luffy laughed, still with the audacity to ask if you liked Sanji’s writing, and you pushed his head back out the window, muttering profanities to yourself.

“Who’s with you? Usopp? Zoro? I’m going to kill all three of you!”

You yelled that last bit louder, just to be sure the two men you knew were up on the roof could hear you as well. And, just as expected, a muttered string of words escaped Zoro, and a much louder, panicked sound came from Usopp.

They peeked their heads into the window with Luffy.

“I tried to stop him,” Usopp said, wailing as Zoro hushed him, his dark eyes clouded with regret. “I knew it was a horrible plan, I’m so sorry.”

Your lips drew into a thin line, unconvinced, despite all the theatrics. “I want you all out! Get back up there before—”

Footsteps started up the stairs, and your eyes went wide, panicked as the voices of Buggy and the Duke, the real duke, started up the stairs.

“Leave!” you hissed, shoving Luffy and Usopp back out the window, before turning to face Sanji, who was rather uselessly standing in the middle of the floor. Groaning, you gripped him by the arm, pulling him across the room as you scanned for a good hiding spot. “Hide. I need you to hide. He can’t see you.”

“What’s going on?” Sanji asked. “Luffy told me—”

You released a sharp laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh, I’m certain Luffy told you a lot of things,” you huffed, letting your hand slip down into his own as you dragged him into a corner of the room. “Unfortunately, Luffy’s plans are sometimes too grand, and he needs someone to bring him down to Earth. Which you, clearly, did not do and now—”

Your name was called out from behind the door, and you cursed, pushing Sanji into the corner of the room, near the vanity. “Stay there. Just… hide under something!”

“Where?”

But the door was already opening, and you scrambled into a chair, running your fingers across your hair to make sure you seemed somewhat presentable. You brought your legs up under you, lowering your gaze to bat your eyelashes as the Duke and Buggy entered the room, both staring at you with intrigue.

“Here she is,” Buggy said, gesturing towards you with a curious look in his eye, a dark smile forming on his painted face. There was a warning there, one that you were not foolish enough to ignore. “My beautiful diamond. Hopefully just as lovely as she was up on the stage tonight.”

The Duke’s regard for you was hardly passionate, though you could see a sliver of desire under all the layers of intimidation. He was a tall man, dark hair falling to his shoulders in thick strands. A long scar ran across his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, and he looked down at you, studying every piece of you like you were nothing more than a decoration to admire.

You waited for him to say something, but it was clear he was waiting for the same, and you stood, perhaps too rapidly, and made your way over to him.

“Monsieur, what a pleasure it is to meet you,” you smiled, if only to ease the anxiety strung through your body. Dipping your head, you looked back up at him with siren eyes, “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to visit.”

The Duke paused for another moment, studying you before taking your hand, and kissing it softly. It was a soothing gesture, despite the intensity of his eyes. Tension seeped gradually from your shoulders.

“The pleasure is mine, my dear,” he said, his voice deep, raspy. “And there’s no need for such pleasantries when we’ll be acquainted soon enough.” His thumb ran across your cheek, before his hand fell back to his side. “I’d prefer Crocodile.”

Buggy, just feet behind the Duke, began to back away, exhaling in relief. “Well, I will leave you to it, then. And—”

That was all he could get out, as the scene shattered.

Before Buggy could make his escape, a sound came from the window, a yelp, then an echoing shout, as Luffy, Usopp and Zoro fell down from the window, swinging into the room from the dangling rope. They landed in a somersaulting heap, just inches from where Sanji had been hiding, and your jaw slackened, before your entire body stiffened once more.

Not a word rang through the room as you stared at the three of them, Crocodile sliding his gaze over to you for an explanation. The silence was tangible, heavy with uncertainty.

A nervous laugh left Buggy, but it was quickly cut off as Usopp pulled both Zoro and Luffy up by their coats, and exclaimed, “Are you ready for rehearsal?”

“Rehearsal…” you muttered, and at the same time, Crocodile posed the words as a question, his eyes narrowed, unamused.

“I wasn’t aware that there were other things going on this evening,” he said.

“Ah,” you continued, keeping yourself composed as you moved to stand in front of him. “Non, there’s nothing going on we just…” Internally you cursed, over and over, glancing at Buggy, who was near to shouting at Luffy, the two of them locked in a stand-off. There would be no help from any of them it seemed, as they waited for your reaction.

You placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of Crocodile, softening your expression into one of expectation. “Well, I know this isn’t what you had in mind, monsieur, but we thought now would be a good time to introduce you to our new production… Right, Buggy? While we’re all here together, of course. A once in a while opportunity.”

You smiled, eyes narrowing exaggeratedly at Buggy, before the obvious question became clear to him.

“Oh,” he nodded slowly, before bursting into the same smile he always used for your shows. “Right. Of course. Our new show—”

“Which, we have written specifically for you, Sir, if you would be so keen on investing.” You took Crocodile’s arm gently, leading him past the chair where Sanji was hiding, hopeful he would reacquaint himself with the rest of the troupe. And, as if reading your mind, Sanji scrambled to his feet, standing alongside Zoro and Usopp like he’d been there all along.

You exhaled softly, continuing to the Duke, “It was going to be a surprise, but we supposed it would be best for you to see it now, before we started any production. You are so wise with your investments, we didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

Crocodile gave you an odd look, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he believed you. Then, you flashed him a hopeful smile, naive under all the great bravado, and he relented, amused by your earnestness.

“Well, I am not usually interested in investing in such small ordeals, but…” He waved a hand, before running the other down the breadth of your spine, a touch that was near possessive. “If it stars our lovely diamond, it is sure to be a hit, no?”

You relaxed, making a show of leaning into his advances.

“Of course,” Buggy proclaimed, far too intense for your liking, as he tried to ease the Duke back out of the Elephant Room. “Would you like to get started on paperwork? How about we work out the details, and we’ll find another evening for you and—”

Crocodile raised a hand, the room swiftly silenced. “I need to know the story first, before we handle business. Not even the most beautiful of stars can carry a dying universe, I’m afraid.” He turned to you, his eyes so intense it was hard to muster up the courage to speak.

“Story?” You blinked, your smile falling. “Yes. Right. The story. Well, that’s an excellent question, and you would be certain to ask that, of course…” You looked to Buggy, then Usopp, who seemed all too happy to blend in with the shadows. Then to Zoro, who stood stiffly, and shrugged. Finally, your eyes landed on Luffy, who was grinning wildly and pushing Sanji forward, far too excited that this was all taking place.

“Here’s our writer,” Luffy proclaimed, patting Sanji on the back before taking a step away and crossing his arms. “Go on and tell them.”

Which was a way to say the play hasn’t been written yet, and we’re making this all up as we go, in less obvious words.

You wanted to melt into the floor, curl away from the hot palm that still rested on the small of your back, as you stared at Sanji helplessly, begging him to come up with an answer.

And while the time seem to pass far too slowly for your liking, he didn’t even fumble for words as he nodded to you, dragging his eyes across the audience that was watching him expectantly.

“It’s about love,” he said smoothly, confidence seemingly regained now that you weren’t the only person in the room. “It’s about love overcoming all obstacles.”

His eyes met yours once again, so deeply blue and beautiful. Against your better judgment, your heart surged out of your chest.

“Yes! And it’s set in Switzerland!” Luffy exclaimed, laughing with delight.

“No, no,” Sanji snapped, before recovering his story, mind working rapidly as he thought up a tale that would be imaginative enough to spark the interest of the Duke. “It’s set on the seas!” Then he lowered his overexcited voice, the words softening with adoration. “And there’s a courtesan. The most beautiful courtesan in the world.”

Sanji's gaze fixed on you, and you blinked away, hating that awful feeling that bloomed in your heart. Still, a small smile tugged at your lips, one that you hid from everyone else.

“But,” he said, tearing his attention away from you. “Her city’s been invaded by an evil pirate Warlord. Now, in order to save her kingdom, she has to seduce the evil Warlord. But, on the night of her seduction, she mistakes a penniless… A penniless…” He looked around helplessly, licking his lips. “A penniless cook, and she falls in love with him. He wasn’t trying to trick her, but he was dressed as a prince because… well… he was trying to infiltrate the Warlord’s headquarters.”

“And I will play the captain of the crew that the cook works on!” Usopp interjected, taking a step in front of Sanji, his arms raised high with excitement, far too proud of himself.

You coughed down a laugh as Crocodile regarded him with an impatient look. “Alright... What happens next?”

Sanji spared a quick scowl to Usopp, before regaining the attention of everyone in the room, weaving each word with precision. “Well, the cook and the courtesan, they are to hide their love from the evil Warlord—”

“With the help of their actual Captain, who has magical powers where he’s made out of rubber!” Luffy, this time, decided to add his own artistic storytelling, which silenced the entire room from skepticism.

Sanji blinked, hesitant. “Yes, well, that part’s still in the works,” he promised Crocodile, waving his hand dismissively. “There’ll be a crew, with a swordsman and a navigator… and of course the Warlord will have his own set of pirates working for him. It’s a grand production, the embodiment of the Bohemian ideals…”

Sanji continued the story, crafting a plot of truth, beauty, freedom and love. But you were focused only on him, the passion with which he spun the tale, softening at the tragic romance that would take place between the courtesan and the cook. Every so often, your eyes would meet, and you would smile, if only slightly, with encouragement, enough to keep up his unwavering confidence until the end.

"The finale hasn't been written yet,” he admitted, wrapping up his summary of the unfinished play, as the rest of you huddled around Crocodile for a reaction, his face dreadfully unreadable. “But—”

“We would love to get you involved artistically,” Buggy interrupted, excited by the prospects of the thrilling production and an investor. “If you have any suggestions.”

A tense ten seconds passed, as Crocodile regarded each one of you, thoughtful. “The story could use some work,” he mused. “But, generally I like it.”

An eruption of cheers burst out from each of you, and you smiled, giggling as you leaned into the Duke, hopeful that your gratitude was evident. Across the room, Sanji relaxed, lighting up another cigarette, and Buggy gestured forward, talking at such a rapid speed you were certain his words were slurring together.

“Come, come with me,” he said, ushering Crocodile out of the room. “We’ll talk business.”

Crocodile followed, but spared one last moment for you, as you followed the two men to the door, guiding him out.

“I apologize that our evening together was different than anticipated,” you said, as genuinely as you could, tracing a hand down his chest. “Perhaps another night would be best for us to talk.”

“Perhaps.” He hummed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his smile widening crookedly. “I still need to get acquainted with our star. Fame will suit you, my dear.”

You smiled, a surge of pride overcoming you, one so strong that you couldn’t even wallow in the discomfort of his touch. “I look forward to it.”

The two of you parted, the moment evaporating as Crocodile followed Buggy out the door. And, when it finally slammed shut behind the two of them, you exhaled, all of the anxiety leaving your body in a flush.

The four other men went silent as you whirled on them, expressions dour as they waited for you to be the first to speak. Sanji’s jaw was tight as he looked away from the door, back to you, regarding you with an unreadable expression.

But, you were still reeling on your success, too excited to care about the anger you’d felt earlier. You broke into a cheerful grin, rushing to throw your arms around the young ring-leader. “Luffy,” you said, close to weeping. Things weren’t over yet, but there was a parting in the clouds, a sun shining through, as the hope of a future, a better one, became real. “Thank you. For the first time, one of your ridiculous plans actually worked. I’m very grateful.”

He smiled like it was nothing, and your laughter became infectious, bubbling out of you in an effort to keep down your tears. You turned to the other two, both watching you curiously.

“Usopp, thank you for that wonderful recovery. I’m not sure what we would have done if you’d not planned an emergency rehearsal.”

He grinned wide, puffing his chest out. “Ah, well, I knew someone had to act fast.”

Lastly, you turned to the green-haired man, and his name sooner died on your lips, when you realized he had contributed very little. “Zoro. You were useless actually.”

Sanji snorted, and though Zoro’s face twitched, he didn’t bother saying anything to the writer. “You looked like you had it handled.” He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well. I suppose we did.” You rolled your eyes, your mood suddenly deflating. The high of panic and elation had worn on you, leaving you with an ache in the back of your head, your hands still jittery. “Anyway, I’ve just about had all the fun I can handle for one night—”

“Uh-huh,” Zoro scoffed, a jab at your rather unconventional occupation.

You ignored him, pushing them all towards the door. “—I am very grateful for your help in getting our new investor, but we’ve got a busy week ahead, and I would like some rest. So, leave.”

They all held their hands up in surrender, and while Sanji hadn’t been a part of the group you’d been addressing, he slowly followed when Luffy called out to him. There was talk of throwing a party across the street, at the dingy apartment complex that all the Bohemians lived in, despite it being late already.

The four of them made to leave, waving enthusiastically as they rushed down the stairs, far too worked up to be quiet. Sanji lagged behind them, giving you a kind smile before making his exit, a soft bonne nuit, escaping his lips.

“Sanji…” You called out, just before he closed the door behind him, his hand resting on the frame. Sanji turned, glancing over his shoulder, bright eyes pinning you right where you stood. “I’m sorry. So very sorry for the misunderstanding.” You waved your hand, drawing your fingers across your face to rest on your cheeks, already warm with shame. “I feel horrible.”

He paused, before a a grin split his face, irises burning with soft intensity. “Don’t,” he said, exhaling a laugh. “I enjoyed it, actually.”

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