Kid Pirates - Exam Day - One Piece

[Setting: Victoria Punk Medical Bay Corridor; Morning]

The metallic tang of the ship's air always seemed sharper outside the medical bay, mixing with the faint, sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to your clothes. As you stepped through the doorway, the clipboard pressed against your hip, the corridor felt charged with a tension so thick it was almost palpable. Four pairs of eyes immediately snapped toward you, each pair carrying a different flavor of restrained longing and simmering impatience.

Killer was the first to react. He stepped forward with his usual measured grace, his movements fluid despite the heavy armor he wore. On the outside, he was the picture of calm the composed Vice Captain who could face down a Marine fleet without breaking a sweat. But as he closed the distance between you, the rapid, rhythmic thudding of his heart was unmistakable in the quiet space. To anyone else, he looked merely attentive; to you, there was something in the way his breathing hitched just slightly when your eyes met. He was profoundly grateful to you every breath he took was a gift you had secured for him and that gratitude had long since twisted into something far more consuming. He wanted to be close to you, to feel the proximity of the person who had stitched his life back together.

"Aye, Doctor. Ready when you are," Killer said, his Scottish accent soft but steady. His voice lacked its usual clinical detachment; there was an underlying thread of something warmer, something almost reverent. He moved to enter the room, positioning himself to follow you, deliberately taking up space in a way that felt like he was claiming the moment.

Behind him, the atmosphere in the corridor soured instantly. A low, frustrated grunt erupted from Kid, who was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest. His face was already darkening with a flush of irritation, his jaw working hard as he glared at Killer's back. "Oi! Why's the bastard goin' first?" Kid snapped, his voice rough and unnecessarily loud. "Shouldn't I be at the front of the bloody line?" His possessiveness was flaring visibly; the mere thought of Killer getting private, hands on attention from you before he did made his blood boil with jealousy. He tried to maintain his intimidating Captain persona, but the way his fingers drummed agitatedly against his bicep betrayed how flustered he truly was.

Heat stood just behind Kid, his usual gloomy and deadpan expression faltering. As you caught his gaze, his pale complexion didn't just flush it burned a bright, unmistakable red. He didn't say a word, but he couldn't stop staring at you, his eyes tracking the way your fingers gripped the clipboard. He looked almost overwhelmed, his usual intimidating aura crumbling into something shy and painfully devoted.

Wire remained silent, as he always did, but his presence was heavy. He stood like a shadow, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that felt like it could pin you to the spot. He didn't interrupt Kid's outburst, but his gaze was predatory in its focus, watching every micro expression on your face as if he were memorizing the way you moved. When you looked his way, he didn't flinch; instead, he held the eye contact, his deep voice rumbling low when he finally spoke, barely audible over Kid's grumbling. "We're all waitin', Doctor. Don't mind the Captain's temper."

[Setting: Victoria Punk Medical Bay; Time: 10:15 AM]

You pick up your stethoscope and put go to put it to his chest, "Wire. Stop moving away." You sigh.

Wire's back hits the edge of the metal medical desk with a dull thud, the impact jarring his frame but doing nothing to settle the sudden storm brewing in his chest. He had been trying to maintain that careful distance that professional, stoic barrier he always kept but the doctor's sigh and the direct command makes his stomach flip. He's trapped now, the cold surface of the desk pressing into his spine while the heat from {{user}} radiates just inches away.

He looks down at {[user}}, his dark eyes tracking every minute movement, every shift in their expression. Inside, his mind is a chaotic mess. Fuck, he thinks, his throat tightening. They're right there. Too close. I can smell them. The mere thought of those hands touching his skin sends a jolt of electricity straight down his spine, pooling dangerously low in his gut. He wants to lean in, to close that remaining gap and feel them against him, but his training and his need to appear composed keep him rooted to the spot.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. When he speaks, his voice is several octaves lower than usual, rough and thick with a restrained intensity. His slight Scottish accent curls around the words, making them sound more intimate than he intends.

"Aye... sorry, Doc," he rumbles, the sound vibrating in his own chest. "Didn't mean tae be a bother."

He doesn't move another inch, but his breathing has changed it's shallower now, more deliberate. He's watching them like a hawk, his gaze fixed on their hands and the stethoscope. His pulse is already hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that he's certain the doctor is going to detect the moment that cold metal disc touches his chest. He braces himself, his muscles tensing beneath his clothes, his fingers curling slightly at his sides as he waits for the contact.

[Setting: Victoria Punk medical bay; Afternoon]

"Heat, I need to check your heart. Please just remove the shirt so I can actually hear it better." You groan. "I wouldn't have to use my ear if Captain would stop breaking my tools."

Heat's broad shoulders tensed visibly at your request, his entire frame locking up like he'd been struck by lightning. For a man who usually commanded fear with nothing more than a gloomy, deadpan stare, he suddenly looked like he wanted to melt into the floorboards. The intimidation he normally radiated crumbled instantly, replaced by a visible, creeping heat that started at the base of his throat and raced upward. A deep, unmistakable crimson flush flooded his pale cheeks, spreading down to the tips of his ears.

"Aye... well, Captain's always bein' a bloody menace wi' the gear, innit?" Heat mumbled, his Scottish accent thickening slightly as his voice dropped into a shy, gravelly register. He avoided your eyes, staring intently at a spot on the wall just past your shoulder, though his breathing had already begun to hitch, becoming shallow and uneven.

Despite his grumbling about Kid, his hands moved with a hesitant, almost reverent slowness. His fingers, rough from years of combat, trembled slightly as they reached for the hem of his shirt. He didn't pull away or refuse; his devotion to you was absolute, even if the prospect of your hands and your ear touching his bare skin made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. The fabric strained against his muscular torso before he finally gathered the courage to lift it, baring his chest to the cool air of the medical bay.

"There's... there's that good enough for yeh, Doc," he muttered, though he couldn't quite meet your gaze, his eyelashes fluttering downward as he braced himself for the contact. His chest was broad, the muscles defined and solid, now dusted with a faint sheen of nervous sweat that made his skin glisten under the bay's lights. A dark, narrow happy trail of hair traced a path down from his sternum, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

[Setting: Victoria Punk Medical Bay; Afternoon]

You are currently moving your hands on his bare back to feel the newest wound as you sigh. "It'll be fine, but that's not what I worry about. Every time I see you I have noticed a bump in your pants. I think you might a cyst on your upper thigh. I need you to remove your clothes so I can check."

Kid stiffens immediately at the touch of your hands against his back. His skin is furnace hot beneath your fingertips, his muscles corded and tense like steel cables stretched to their breaking point. Every time your palms slide over the jagged ridges of his scars and the fresh, tender edges of his newest wound, a low, involuntary grunt escapes his throat a sound that sits somewhere between frustration and something far more vulnerable.

When you mention the 'bump' in his pants, his entire body goes rigid. A violent flush spreads across his broad shoulders, creeping up the nape of his neck until his ears burn crimson. His breathing, already heavy from the exertion of his recent fight, hitches sharply. He knows exactly what you're talking about. The friction of your proximity, the clinical intimacy of your touch, and the sheer authority in your voice have made his cock pulse insistently against the fabric of his trousers, betraying his composure completely.

Dammit, he thinks bitterly, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth creak. This Doc has tae read me like an open book. How am I supposed tae keep a tough front when they're lookin' at me like I'm some kind of patient instead of their Captain? His heart is hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal, each beat echoing in his ears. The thought of you touching him there really touching him, without the barrier of clothing makes his stomach flip with a terrifying mix of arousal and sheer, unadulterated panic.

"A cyst? Don't be daft, Doc," he growls, though the effect is ruined by the way his voice cracks slightly, rough and strained. He tries to summon his usual arrogant glare, but his eyes are darting everywhere except your face, unable to meet your steady gaze. "I'm fine. Just... just the wound. Don't go makin' a fuss outta nothin'."

Despite his protests, his hands move to his belt. His fingers are unsteady, fumbling with the buckle in a way that betrays his internal chaos. He's furious at himself for being this flustered, furious that his body reacts to you with such shameless hunger, but the possessive streak in him the part that wants to claim you and keep you locked away in this bay forever is warring with his need to maintain his dignity.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale that sounds suspiciously like a whimper he's trying to swallow, he manages to undo the leather strap. The metal buckle clatters against the examination table with a sound that feels deafening in the quiet room. His hands drop to the waistband of his pants, hesitating for a heartbeat before he begins to push them down, revealing the pale skin of his hips.

"Fine," he mutters through gritted teeth, his face now a deep, burning scarlet. "If you're insistin' on bein' so thorough... just get it over wid."

[Setting: Victoria Punk medical bay; Time: 11:47 AM]

The medical bay is quiet except for the distant, rhythmic creak of the ship's hull and the faint hum of equipment. The air carries that familiar cocktail of antiseptic and sea salt. Killer sits on the edge of the examination table, his bare torso exposed to the cool air. His lean, scarred muscles catch the pale sunlight streaming through the porthole, highlighting the pale blonde happy trail that disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.

He remains perfectly still, his masked face tilted slightly toward you. On the surface, he is the picture of his usual calm, level headed self, but beneath that exterior, his heart is hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every time your fingers brush against his skin, a jolt of electricity shoots through him. He can feel the slight temperature difference your hands are cooler than his overheated skin and the sensation makes his breathing hitch almost imperceptibly.

"Why is it every time you come in you have scars over scars?"

When you groan, your voice laced with that particular brand of exasperation and concern, Killer's chest expands with a slow, deep breath. He watches your expression intently through the slits of his mask, his observant nature tracking every micro expression you make. The fact that you care enough to be frustrated by his injuries sends a warm rush of devotion through him. He wants to reach out and pull you closer, to feel more than just professional contact, but he restrains himself, savoring the agonizingly slow pace of the exam.

"Aye... part of the job, I suppose," he murmurs, his voice carrying that low, rough Scottish lilt. "Can't expect to survive this long in the New World without collectin' a few souvenirs."

He shifts his weight slightly, a soft grunt escaping him as his thigh muscles flex against the table. He deliberately moves in a way that prolongs the contact, hoping you'll have to spend a few more seconds examining the new marks on his ribs. The thought of Kid waiting impatiently in the corridor likely fuming with jealousy that Killer got to be alone with you first only makes Killer feel more satisfied.

His gaze drops to where your fingers are touching him. He's hyper aware of the texture of your skin against his, the way your touch contrasts with the rough scar tissue. He wonders if you can feel how fast his pulse is racing beneath his skin, and part of him hopes you can. He wants you to know what you do to him, even as he plays the role of the cooperative patient.

[Setting: The Victoria Punk medical bay; Mid morning]

Wire stood rigid in the center of the sterile medical bay, the door clicking shut behind him and sealing him into this private space with you. For months, he had watched you from the shadows of the corridor, his dark, intense gaze tracking every movement of your hands as you tended to the crew. He had admired your competence, the way you had saved Kid and Killer, but beneath that respect burned a heavy, brooding hunger that he fought to keep buried under his usual stoic professionalism. Now, hearing your voice that calm, commanding tone directed solely at him, his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I need you to strip. You know the drill Wire." You sigh. You needed to do a fully body exam.

A muscle jumped in his jaw as he processed your order. Strip. The simple command felt like a physical weight in the room. He wanted to be close to you desperately but the idea of you seeing him vulnerable, of your clinical, skilled hands roaming over his skin, made his blood run hot and his pulse skyrocket. He was a man of few words, but his silence now wasn't one of indifference; it was the silence of someone fighting to maintain control while drowning in desire.

"Aye, Doctor," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower, rougher register that vibrated in the small space. His Scottish accent was thicker than usual, roughened by the tightness in his throat. He didn't look away; instead, he maintained that hawk like eye contact, his dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that bordered on worshipful. He wanted you to see how much he was affected, even as he tried to play the part of the obedient patient.

His fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, each one feeling impossibly heavy. His movements were deliberate, slow, and professional, but there was a slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his composure. As he undid the first button, revealing the dark hair at the base of his throat, he kept his gaze locked on yours, silently demanding and craving your approval. His mind was racing, imagining the moment the fabric would fall away, leaving nothing between his body and your examination.

[Setting: The Victoria Punk medical bay; Afternoon]

"Heat, stop fighting me and bend over so I can check you already." You scoff. "Or would you prefer to look at me when I cup your balls?"

Heat froze mid scoff, his entire body locking up as your words cut through his attempt at intimidation. For a man who usually commanded silence with nothing more than a gloomy stare, he looked suddenly, helplessly exposed. The pale complexion that usually made him look like a ghost drained of color for half a heartbeat before a violent, spreading crimson flooded across his cheeks, his ears, and down the column of his throat. His breathing hitched audibly, the sharp intake of air whistling through his teeth as his usual deadpan expression shattered into something raw and vulnerable.

"I that's no' yer no' allowed tae speak tae a man like that, Doc," he stammered, his Scottish accent thickening noticeably as his composure crumbled. He tried to maintain some semblance of his intimidating persona, but his hands were unsteady where they rested at his sides, and his pupils were blown wide with a mixture of mortification and desperate, shameful arousal. "Dinnae threaten me wi'... wi' such filth."

Despite his verbal protest, his body betrayed his words instantly. The authority you wielded as their doctor the same authority that had saved his life was more powerful than his pride. His shoulders slumped, and with a shaky, humiliated exhale that sounded dangerously close to a whimper, he slowly turned around. His movements were stiff, his muscles tensing as he braced his hands against the examination table, bending forward to obey your order. His ass was raised toward you, pale skin stark against the dark fabric of his trousers, and the way his spine arched showed just how much he was trembling under the weight of your attention.

Outside in the corridor, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken violence. Through the partially open door, Kid could be seen leaning against the bulkhead, his metallic arm creaking as he clenched his fist. His face was twisted in a scowl of pure, possessive fury, his eyes burning holes into the back of Heat's head. Killer stood silent beside him, though his usual calm was gone; his helmeted head was tilted toward the doorway, his breathing heavy and rhythmic as he watched you through the gap, his entire body coiled like a spring. Wire was further down the hall, standing like a shadow, his dark eyes fixed on the medical bay with an intensity that suggested he was counting every second Heat spent alone with you. They were all there, each one of them seething with a jealousy that threatened to boil over, desperate for the moment your hands would turn away from Heat and find them instead.

[Setting: Victoria Punk Medical Bay Corridor; Time: Morning]

"Captain! If you break one of my tools again I will have to shackle you!"

Kid's face immediately contorted into a familiar scowl, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his ears were already beginning to burn a bright crimson. In his massive, scarred hand, he held what remained of a delicate blood pressure cuff now twisted and snapped beyond repair. He had been fidgeting with it while waiting, his restless energy and lack of patience proving more destructive than any enemy.

"Hah?! Who d'you think you're talkin' to, ya little !" His voice boomed down the narrow corridor, but he cut himself off with a rough grunt, his grip tightening on the broken metal. "I didn't even break it on purpose! The damn thing's flimsy as hell!"

He stepped forward, trying to loom over you to reassert his dominance as Captain, but as the word 'shackle' echoed in his mind, his bravado faltered. His breathing hitched. The thought of you the person he secretly craved more than any treasure in the Grand Line actually putting hands on him, restraining him, binding his wrists... it sent a jolt of heat straight to his gut. His stomach did a treacherous flip, and he suddenly found it very hard to maintain his angry expression.

Kid's internal state was a battlefield. Shackles? This brat actually thinks they can tie me up? He wanted to yell, to throw something, to demand respect. But beneath that, a darker, more desperate part of him was practically preening at the idea. The thought of being completely at your mercy, unable to move while you examined him, made his blood sing.

Behind him, Killer let out a low, muffled chuckle behind his mask. He had been leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, observing the entire exchange with sharp eyes. He knew Kid's tells better than anyone; he could see the way the Captain's shoulders were shaking slightly, not with rage, but with suppressed arousal. Killer's own heart rate spiked as he looked at you, his devotion deepening. He found himself wishing he were the one being threatened with shackles just for an excuse to be held by you.

Heat, standing a few paces back, remained silent, his usual deadpan expression firmly in place. However, his pale complexion was already flushing. He was staring at you with an intensity that bordered on hunger, his gaze tracking the way you stood your ground against Kid. He was completely tongue tied, his throat dry, imagining what it would be like if you turned that stern authority on him.

Wire remained the most composed, though his dark eyes were fixed on you like a hawk. He didn't move a muscle, but his voice dropped an octave when he finally spoke, the Scottish lilt heavy and brooding. "Easy now, Captain. You're makin' a scene." His gaze never left yours, his silence carrying a weight of possessive interest. He wasn't just watching the argument; he was memorizing every detail of your expression.

Kid finally managed to find his voice again, though it came out more rough and strained than he intended. "I'm the Captain here! I don't need no damn shackles!" He barked, but he didn't back away. Instead, he shifted his weight, his boots scraping against the deck plating, his chest heaving as he stared at you. "So go ahead then, Doc. Try it. See what happens."

[Setting: Victoria Punk Medical Bay Corridor; Time: Morning]

You open the room to the medical room. "Who wants to go first?"

The air in the narrow corridor outside the medical bay was thick enough to cut with a blade, charged with an unspoken, volatile tension. The four men standing there some of the most feared pirates on the Grand Line looked less like a crew of conquerors and more like predators coiled to spring, each one hyper aware of the person standing in the doorway. When your voice cut through the silence, asking who wanted to go first, the reaction was instantaneous and fractured.

Eustass Captain Kid was the first to react, though it came out as an aggressive bark. He pushed off from the wall he had been leaning against, his metal arm whirring faintly with the movement. "Me! Obviously, it's bloody well me first, so quit yer yappin' and get on with it!" His declaration was loud and commanding, but it failed to hide the way the tips of his ears had gone a vivid crimson. His chest puffed out, trying to maintain that intimidating Captain persona, but his pupils were blown wide, tracking the movement of your hands with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Internally, his blood was roaring. Don't look at them. Don't you dare look at the others like that, he thought fiercely, casting a venomous, jealous glare at Killer. The thought of your hands those steady, healing hands touching his skin made his stomach flip in a way that infuriated him.

Killer didn't move as abruptly as Kid, but his entire demeanor shifted. He stood perfectly still, his calm exterior a stark contrast to the way his pulse was visibly hammering against the column of his throat. "There's no need to shout, Captain," he said smoothly, though his voice held a slight, uncharacteristic edge. His masked eyes remained fixed on you, unblinking and observant. He was already calculating the minutes until he could be alone with you in that room, using the exam as a legitimate excuse to feel your touch against his body the body you had saved. He felt a surge of protective possessiveness, his jaw tightening as he noticed Heat's obvious staring.

Heat, usually the most silent and intimidating of the bunch, looked like he might actually combust. As soon as you spoke, his pale complexion flooded with a deep, unmistakable flush that spread down to his collar. He didn't speak; he couldn't. He simply stood there, his breathing becoming noticeably shallower. His gaze was locked onto you with a raw, unguarded desperation, tracking the way you shifted your weight. When his mind wandered to the inevitable moment you would ask him to remove his shirt, his throat went dry. He felt almost submissive beneath your gaze, his usual gloomy intensity melting into something far more vulnerable.

Wire remained the most composed, but the atmosphere around him was heavy with a brooding, dark energy. He didn't step forward, but he watched you like a hawk, his dark eyes studying every micro expression on your face. When you asked the question, his voice dropped an octave as he finally spoke, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "We are all at your disposal, Doctor." His words were formal, almost polite, but the way he held eye contact with you was anything but professional it was a challenge, a silent claim that made the space between you feel dangerously small.

The jealousy between them was palpable, a physical weight in the corridor. Kid's eyes darted between Killer and Wire, his nostrils flaring as if he could scent their interest in you. They were all waiting, each one secretly praying you would choose them first, eager to escape the competition and surrender to the examination they all craved.

Kid crossed his arms tightly over his chest, grunting as he shifted his weight, his eyes fixed on you with challenging heat. "Well? What're you waitin' for?"

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