Summary: You're haunting Law's dreams, and he's finally reached his breaking point.
Content: Smut, AFAB!Reader, Wet Dreams, Masturbation, Vaginal Sex
Word Count: 2.8k
Law would give anything to stop thinking about you. At least to stop thinking of you topless, moaning his name.
He had never thought of you in such a way, he would insist to anyone who would listen. No, of course he never had sexual thoughts about you: you’re his friend! One of his closest, oldest, dearest friends. A very beautiful, kind, and beloved friend, whom he had known long before he became the cool and collected captain he was.
Okay, maybe he had a few of those thoughts back when you were both teens and his hormones had run wild. But he pushed them down, like a good friend would. And anything he had done to banish those thoughts was between him and God. That was years ago, anyway, and he had fully convinced himself he only saw you platonically.
Until the damn dreams started.
Law had never been particularly fond of dreams. They were never kind to him. Faces of those he’d lost, those he failed to save, mistakes he couldn’t undo all haunted him at night. He was reluctant to sleep at all most days, only giving in after you or Bepo had forced him to lay down and exhaustion overpowered him. Once he would have been grateful for pleasant dreams or a full night’s sleep.
Law! Yes, Law!
Your voice haunted him, the image of you on top of him. The way you so sweetly called for him, the way you clenched around him, the way your chest bounced with every movement. God, it was intoxicating. He would give anything to hear you call his name like that again. Anything except risk your friendship, one of the only things that kept him grounded in life. When he woke up from the first dream, a stain on his pants and shame in his heart, he swore he would never let something like this affect your relationship.
But then it happened again.
And again.
And again.
Always something different. Sometimes you were on top of him, sometimes below him, sometimes on your knees, sometimes bent over his desk. Every time your beautiful eyes blinked at him, filled with tears of pleasure, your sweet voice keening for him to give you more, more, more. And every time he woke up to a problem needing to be solved and more feelings to push deep down, never to return. Until the next night, when it happened again.
He had never been more grateful that he had his own room. He can’t imagine how humiliating it would be if someone else saw him like this, biting down on his pillow as he rut into his own hand. If someone saw the way tears slipped down his lashes as he sped up, heard his cry of your name muffled into the fabric between his teeth, he would never be able to recover.
But luckily, no one ever would. His shame would stay in the dim light of his cabin, and his carefully protected image of control would remain unblemished. You’d never suspect a thing.
But the thoughts remain.
And he could handle that, really, he could. He’s a grown man, he can control himself. But you just keep pushing him, not even knowing what you’re doing. It’s small things, really. Yesterday, when you laughed at a dumb joke Shachi told you, you leaned forward enough to show off just a hint of your cleavage. Something that shouldn’t even phase him, but made him white knuckle the table to stop himself from throwing you over his shoulder and marching down to his room.
The day before that, you put your hand on his knee during dinner, thumb gently brushing against him as you smiled and told him you thought everything was going to be okay. You’ve comforted him like that a thousand times, but he couldn’t focus on the tender tone of your voice, only the feeling of the warmth of your hand seeping through his pants. He imagined that hand sliding higher and higher, how that warmth would feel somewhere else.
He had to excuse himself from dinner. You thought he was still upset, tried to follow him in concern, and he just barely managed to fend you off before he ran to his bathroom and took care of the hard-on you’d given him. He prayed you didn’t hear his quiet moans of your name or the sound of him pumping his cock in his hand.
A thousand small things, ways you show you care or small motions that show off your body, all building pressure that threatens to burst whenever he looks at you, threatens his carefully crafted control.
You’re so determined to break him, but he remains strong.
Until you wake him halfway through the worst dream yet.
Law! Law! God, yes, Law! Your voice is still ringing in his ears, your cunt still tightening around his cock, as your hand shakes him awake.
“Law! You can’t sleep here, you’ll fuck up your back.” Your voice is so soft, so concerned, as you try to pull him up from his desk. He can already feel the pain in his spine as you pull him to his feet, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.
He’s hard, he’s horny, and you’re right here, your hands on him as he can still hear you screaming his name.
He takes a step forward, his arms threatening to wrap around you, and he can just barely process that you’ve removed your hands from him as your eyes shift away from him.
“Law?” Your voice is meek, nervous, not at all like his dreams. But the red on your cheeks, the way your eyes shine? Those are familiar. He’s so close now.
“Do you know how hard it’s been?” He can barely keep the shake from his voice.
“What?” You take a step back, but your back hits the wall behind you.
“I’ve been holding back for months. Trying to keep control, to not ruin this, but you just,” he takes a step forward.
“Keep,” another step.
“Haunting me.” Your chests are pressed together, and he can feel every breath of yours as your tits press against him. They feel even better than he imagined. He almost expects you to push him away, to run, but you don’t. Instead you stare at him with your stupid, beautiful doe eyes, lips slightly parted, face flushed, and he can’t hold back anymore.
Your lips are soft. They’re slightly tacky from your chapstick, and he’s delighted to find it makes you taste like strawberries. You tense for a moment, and he fears he’s frightened you, ruined everything, but then your arms wrap around him and he knows you’ve wanted this just as badly as he has.
His hands grip your ass as his tongue presses firmly against your lips, which you almost immediately part wider to allow him better access. One of your hands presses firmly against his back, while the other slides forward to grope at his chest. Your fingers press into his shirt, seemingly torn between pulling him closer and feeling every inch of him beneath your fingertips. His hips roll against his will, and the whimper you let out into his mouth destroys what little self control he has left.
He lifts you with ease, pulling you impossibly closer, before throwing you onto his desk, papers and logs be damned. Nothing on it is more important than him being inside of you as soon as humanly possible. In his dreams, he always stripped slowly and sensually, teasing you until you were begging for his touch, his cock, but he’s going to explode if he isn’t inside you within the minute. He practically rips off your uniform, throwing it behind him, where he can hear it take something that sounds suspiciously like his lamp down with it, glass shattering when it hits the floor. He can’t bring himself to give a shit.
“Law,” you say in that squeaky little voice you always get when you’re surprised. “What’s—”
Your sentence breaks off into a moan as he sinks his teeth into your neck. He can smell your shampoo mixing with the scent of your sweat, and god he really might break this desk beneath you if you keep driving him insane. Your hand shoots to the back of his head, gripping his hair and tugging as you continue to let out little whimpers and moans with every thrust of his clothed hips against your panties.
“Every night, you ruin me, and I have to wake up and pretend to forget,” he groans into your neck. “Every night you give me everything I’ve ever wanted just to take it away. You’re cruel.”
He wants to take off his jeans, but he can’t bring himself to remove his hands from you. You’re so much better than his dreams, soft and warm and real beneath his fingers. His mind could never have conjured up such a perfect feeling.
You must have read his mind, because your hands slide his coat from his shoulders, fingers tracing his abs down to his waist. He’s so lost in the feeling he doesn’t understand your intent until you let out an adorable frustrated huff. “Stop moving for a second,” you snap, fingers struggling to grab the button of his jeans.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“If you tackled me to the desk so you can grope me while you cum in your pants I’m leaving.”
The laugh that rips through him stills him just long enough for you to pop the button and rip his pants and underwear down. The fabric catches on his thighs, but you’re stuck, frozen, watching his cock spring out of its prison. Law has always been proud of his body, but nothing has made him feel sexier than watching the way your mouth falls open looking at him.
“You’re drooling,” he chuckles.
“I am,” you say, not taking your eyes off of his dick. You reach for it, fingers tracing lightly up his length, and watch as it twitches in response.
“Don’t tease me,” Law says through gritted teeth. One hand grips the desk for dear life, the only thing holding him back from slamming into you like an animal.
“Oh? Don’t what? I couldn’t hear you.” Your fingers trace back down, following the vein, touching enough to stimulate but not enough to pleasure.
Law is a proud man. He does not beg. He would never—
“God, please—” His voice breaks off once you mercifully wrap your fingers around him, thumb rubbing briefly against the head. He shudders, head falling forward, pressing himself as deeply into you as he physically can.
“It’s even bigger than I imagined,” you murmur.
“You imagined me?” He tries to make his voice sexy and gruff, but it comes out as more of a whine.
“All the time.”
He latches onto your neck, both to get himself to stop talking before he makes himself sound as undone as he feels, and to mark you as his. He desperately needs to leave some kind of sign that this happened, something to tell him tomorrow this wasn’t just another one of his tortuous little dreams. This is real, it is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and by god is he going to make sure he remembers every single moment.
His free hand reaches for your panties, pulling them down far more carefully than he did your uniform. The delicate lace is a bit less durable than thick canvas. You hiss as your cunt is exposed to the air, your hand slightly tightening around his cock.
He removes himself from your neck to look you in the eye. Your face is flushed, your pupils blown out, and your hair is a mess. You look beautiful. “Ready?”
“Please fuck me already, Captain.”
You barely have time to get your hand out of the way before he’s slamming into your entrance, the force of it shaking the desk beneath you. You feel heavenly, warm and wet, clenching around him. Law lets out an absolutely mortifying noise, halfway between a moan and groan, and you clench around him tighter in response.
“God—”
“Oh Law—”
His dreams didn’t compare to the real thing. Your voice dripping with desire and want, the friction as he pulled out inch by torturous inch, it was beyond dream or fiction. He could never have conceived something so wonderful. He ruts back into you, to the hilt this time, your hips slamming together with near bruising force. The desk shakes again, creaking dangerously, but he doesn’t give a shit and he can’t imagine you do either.
One hand remains on your hip to stabilize you, and the other takes the opportunity to explore your chest as he kisses you. Your teeth clack together, your noses bumping, but none of the awkwardness detracts from the feeling of your soft lips against his. You easily allow his tongue into your mouth, putting up no fight to the tidal wave of lust driving him to consume you whole.
Your chest is so soft beneath Law’s fingers he could weep. His teenage self would have killed a man to feel this, and frankly, he still would now. You whine into his mouth when he pinches your nipple, a sound that he swallows greedily. He wants every part of you, every noise and smell and feeling you can offer.
He tries to keep control of his hips, but he can feel his pace growing quick and sloppy. He wants so desperately to remain in control of everything, to spend the entire night giving you all of the pleasure you could stand, but you feel so good around him and he’s needed this for so very long.
He pulls back for a breath, chest heaving, and he sees your eyes have grown unfocused, your mouth still open as the spit connecting you catches the light.
“Law, yes, god, yes!” You sing like an angel. He can feel your legs growing tense as they tighten around his hips, and he’s assured to know you’re as out of control as he is. His hand reaches down, his fingers not hesitating for a second before finding your clit. His rough fingers press against you, rubbing experimentally as he tries to follow your expressions to see what way will best make you fall apart beneath him. You’re far too gone for such intense study, as every move he makes brings you closer to the edge. Your nails dig into his back, dragging down his shoulderblades, and it takes everything in him not to cum instantly. He’ll be damned if he cums before you do.
Your breath quickens as your moans turn to high pitched whines, growing louder and louder until one final thrust and rub brings you beyond the edge. You throw your head back and scream, your arms pulling him closer until your chests touch, your legs wrapping around him and locking him in place. You spasm around his cock, squeezing as though your life depends on it, and he follows soon after with the small thrusts your legs will allow him.
You collapse beneath him, boneless, as he comes as deep into you as he physically can. He falls on top of you soon after, barely catching himself on his forearms to keep from crushing you. His chest heaves as he tries and fails to catch his breath, so instead of breathing he settles for suffocating while admiring your beautiful flushed face. Your eyelids have fallen shut, your mouth letting out little puffs of air as you struggle with the same problem he is. His dreams never got this far, to the after.
It’s amazing.
You look so amazing fucked-out beneath him, a smile on your face that he’s sure you aren’t even aware is there. He could live in this moment forever, just staring at you, knowing he’s the one who made you look like this.
Even as he leans forward a little too far and a loud crack lets him know the desk is giving out beneath you.
He just barely manages to pull you on top of him so his back hits the floor instead of yours. You’re tucked into his chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively. You stare at the desk’s remains as he stares at you, and when you laugh, his chest tightens. God, he might be more in love with you than before.
As he lifts you, watching the way your eyes sparkle as you giggle and ask how he’s going to explain the desk to the crew, he thinks he can live with some more frustrating dreams. It’ll never compare to the real thing, and he has a feeling you won’t mind him coming to you for more help in the future.
Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @eggrollforyou
Summary: You're haunting Law's dreams, and he's finally reached his breaking point.
Content: Smut, AFAB!Reader, Wet Dreams, Masturbation, Vaginal Sex
Word Count: 2.8k
Law would give anything to stop thinking about you. At least to stop thinking of you topless, moaning his name.
He had never thought of you in such a way, he would insist to anyone who would listen. No, of course he never had sexual thoughts about you: you’re his friend! One of his closest, oldest, dearest friends. A very beautiful, kind, and beloved friend, whom he had known long before he became the cool and collected captain he was.
Okay, maybe he had a few of those thoughts back when you were both teens and his hormones had run wild. But he pushed them down, like a good friend would. And anything he had done to banish those thoughts was between him and God. That was years ago, anyway, and he had fully convinced himself he only saw you platonically.
Until the damn dreams started.
Law had never been particularly fond of dreams. They were never kind to him. Faces of those he’d lost, those he failed to save, mistakes he couldn’t undo all haunted him at night. He was reluctant to sleep at all most days, only giving in after you or Bepo had forced him to lay down and exhaustion overpowered him. Once he would have been grateful for pleasant dreams or a full night’s sleep.
Law! Yes, Law!
Your voice haunted him, the image of you on top of him. The way you so sweetly called for him, the way you clenched around him, the way your chest bounced with every movement. God, it was intoxicating. He would give anything to hear you call his name like that again. Anything except risk your friendship, one of the only things that kept him grounded in life. When he woke up from the first dream, a stain on his pants and shame in his heart, he swore he would never let something like this affect your relationship.
But then it happened again.
And again.
And again.
Always something different. Sometimes you were on top of him, sometimes below him, sometimes on your knees, sometimes bent over his desk. Every time your beautiful eyes blinked at him, filled with tears of pleasure, your sweet voice keening for him to give you more, more, more. And every time he woke up to a problem needing to be solved and more feelings to push deep down, never to return. Until the next night, when it happened again.
He had never been more grateful that he had his own room. He can’t imagine how humiliating it would be if someone else saw him like this, biting down on his pillow as he rut into his own hand. If someone saw the way tears slipped down his lashes as he sped up, heard his cry of your name muffled into the fabric between his teeth, he would never be able to recover.
But luckily, no one ever would. His shame would stay in the dim light of his cabin, and his carefully protected image of control would remain unblemished. You’d never suspect a thing.
But the thoughts remain.
And he could handle that, really, he could. He’s a grown man, he can control himself. But you just keep pushing him, not even knowing what you’re doing. It’s small things, really. Yesterday, when you laughed at a dumb joke Shachi told you, you leaned forward enough to show off just a hint of your cleavage. Something that shouldn’t even phase him, but made him white knuckle the table to stop himself from throwing you over his shoulder and marching down to his room.
The day before that, you put your hand on his knee during dinner, thumb gently brushing against him as you smiled and told him you thought everything was going to be okay. You’ve comforted him like that a thousand times, but he couldn’t focus on the tender tone of your voice, only the feeling of the warmth of your hand seeping through his pants. He imagined that hand sliding higher and higher, how that warmth would feel somewhere else.
He had to excuse himself from dinner. You thought he was still upset, tried to follow him in concern, and he just barely managed to fend you off before he ran to his bathroom and took care of the hard-on you’d given him. He prayed you didn’t hear his quiet moans of your name or the sound of him pumping his cock in his hand.
A thousand small things, ways you show you care or small motions that show off your body, all building pressure that threatens to burst whenever he looks at you, threatens his carefully crafted control.
You’re so determined to break him, but he remains strong.
Until you wake him halfway through the worst dream yet.
Law! Law! God, yes, Law! Your voice is still ringing in his ears, your cunt still tightening around his cock, as your hand shakes him awake.
“Law! You can’t sleep here, you’ll fuck up your back.” Your voice is so soft, so concerned, as you try to pull him up from his desk. He can already feel the pain in his spine as you pull him to his feet, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.
He’s hard, he’s horny, and you’re right here, your hands on him as he can still hear you screaming his name.
He takes a step forward, his arms threatening to wrap around you, and he can just barely process that you’ve removed your hands from him as your eyes shift away from him.
“Law?” Your voice is meek, nervous, not at all like his dreams. But the red on your cheeks, the way your eyes shine? Those are familiar. He’s so close now.
“Do you know how hard it’s been?” He can barely keep the shake from his voice.
“What?” You take a step back, but your back hits the wall behind you.
“I’ve been holding back for months. Trying to keep control, to not ruin this, but you just,” he takes a step forward.
“Keep,” another step.
“Haunting me.” Your chests are pressed together, and he can feel every breath of yours as your tits press against him. They feel even better than he imagined. He almost expects you to push him away, to run, but you don’t. Instead you stare at him with your stupid, beautiful doe eyes, lips slightly parted, face flushed, and he can’t hold back anymore.
Your lips are soft. They’re slightly tacky from your chapstick, and he’s delighted to find it makes you taste like strawberries. You tense for a moment, and he fears he’s frightened you, ruined everything, but then your arms wrap around him and he knows you’ve wanted this just as badly as he has.
His hands grip your ass as his tongue presses firmly against your lips, which you almost immediately part wider to allow him better access. One of your hands presses firmly against his back, while the other slides forward to grope at his chest. Your fingers press into his shirt, seemingly torn between pulling him closer and feeling every inch of him beneath your fingertips. His hips roll against his will, and the whimper you let out into his mouth destroys what little self control he has left.
He lifts you with ease, pulling you impossibly closer, before throwing you onto his desk, papers and logs be damned. Nothing on it is more important than him being inside of you as soon as humanly possible. In his dreams, he always stripped slowly and sensually, teasing you until you were begging for his touch, his cock, but he’s going to explode if he isn’t inside you within the minute. He practically rips off your uniform, throwing it behind him, where he can hear it take something that sounds suspiciously like his lamp down with it, glass shattering when it hits the floor. He can’t bring himself to give a shit.
“Law,” you say in that squeaky little voice you always get when you’re surprised. “What’s—”
Your sentence breaks off into a moan as he sinks his teeth into your neck. He can smell your shampoo mixing with the scent of your sweat, and god he really might break this desk beneath you if you keep driving him insane. Your hand shoots to the back of his head, gripping his hair and tugging as you continue to let out little whimpers and moans with every thrust of his clothed hips against your panties.
“Every night, you ruin me, and I have to wake up and pretend to forget,” he groans into your neck. “Every night you give me everything I’ve ever wanted just to take it away. You’re cruel.”
He wants to take off his jeans, but he can’t bring himself to remove his hands from you. You’re so much better than his dreams, soft and warm and real beneath his fingers. His mind could never have conjured up such a perfect feeling.
You must have read his mind, because your hands slide his coat from his shoulders, fingers tracing his abs down to his waist. He’s so lost in the feeling he doesn’t understand your intent until you let out an adorable frustrated huff. “Stop moving for a second,” you snap, fingers struggling to grab the button of his jeans.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“If you tackled me to the desk so you can grope me while you cum in your pants I’m leaving.”
The laugh that rips through him stills him just long enough for you to pop the button and rip his pants and underwear down. The fabric catches on his thighs, but you’re stuck, frozen, watching his cock spring out of its prison. Law has always been proud of his body, but nothing has made him feel sexier than watching the way your mouth falls open looking at him.
“You’re drooling,” he chuckles.
“I am,” you say, not taking your eyes off of his dick. You reach for it, fingers tracing lightly up his length, and watch as it twitches in response.
“Don’t tease me,” Law says through gritted teeth. One hand grips the desk for dear life, the only thing holding him back from slamming into you like an animal.
“Oh? Don’t what? I couldn’t hear you.” Your fingers trace back down, following the vein, touching enough to stimulate but not enough to pleasure.
Law is a proud man. He does not beg. He would never—
“God, please—” His voice breaks off once you mercifully wrap your fingers around him, thumb rubbing briefly against the head. He shudders, head falling forward, pressing himself as deeply into you as he physically can.
“It’s even bigger than I imagined,” you murmur.
“You imagined me?” He tries to make his voice sexy and gruff, but it comes out as more of a whine.
“All the time.”
He latches onto your neck, both to get himself to stop talking before he makes himself sound as undone as he feels, and to mark you as his. He desperately needs to leave some kind of sign that this happened, something to tell him tomorrow this wasn’t just another one of his tortuous little dreams. This is real, it is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and by god is he going to make sure he remembers every single moment.
His free hand reaches for your panties, pulling them down far more carefully than he did your uniform. The delicate lace is a bit less durable than thick canvas. You hiss as your cunt is exposed to the air, your hand slightly tightening around his cock.
He removes himself from your neck to look you in the eye. Your face is flushed, your pupils blown out, and your hair is a mess. You look beautiful. “Ready?”
“Please fuck me already, Captain.”
You barely have time to get your hand out of the way before he’s slamming into your entrance, the force of it shaking the desk beneath you. You feel heavenly, warm and wet, clenching around him. Law lets out an absolutely mortifying noise, halfway between a moan and groan, and you clench around him tighter in response.
“God—”
“Oh Law—”
His dreams didn’t compare to the real thing. Your voice dripping with desire and want, the friction as he pulled out inch by torturous inch, it was beyond dream or fiction. He could never have conceived something so wonderful. He ruts back into you, to the hilt this time, your hips slamming together with near bruising force. The desk shakes again, creaking dangerously, but he doesn’t give a shit and he can’t imagine you do either.
One hand remains on your hip to stabilize you, and the other takes the opportunity to explore your chest as he kisses you. Your teeth clack together, your noses bumping, but none of the awkwardness detracts from the feeling of your soft lips against his. You easily allow his tongue into your mouth, putting up no fight to the tidal wave of lust driving him to consume you whole.
Your chest is so soft beneath Law’s fingers he could weep. His teenage self would have killed a man to feel this, and frankly, he still would now. You whine into his mouth when he pinches your nipple, a sound that he swallows greedily. He wants every part of you, every noise and smell and feeling you can offer.
He tries to keep control of his hips, but he can feel his pace growing quick and sloppy. He wants so desperately to remain in control of everything, to spend the entire night giving you all of the pleasure you could stand, but you feel so good around him and he’s needed this for so very long.
He pulls back for a breath, chest heaving, and he sees your eyes have grown unfocused, your mouth still open as the spit connecting you catches the light.
“Law, yes, god, yes!” You sing like an angel. He can feel your legs growing tense as they tighten around his hips, and he’s assured to know you’re as out of control as he is. His hand reaches down, his fingers not hesitating for a second before finding your clit. His rough fingers press against you, rubbing experimentally as he tries to follow your expressions to see what way will best make you fall apart beneath him. You’re far too gone for such intense study, as every move he makes brings you closer to the edge. Your nails dig into his back, dragging down his shoulderblades, and it takes everything in him not to cum instantly. He’ll be damned if he cums before you do.
Your breath quickens as your moans turn to high pitched whines, growing louder and louder until one final thrust and rub brings you beyond the edge. You throw your head back and scream, your arms pulling him closer until your chests touch, your legs wrapping around him and locking him in place. You spasm around his cock, squeezing as though your life depends on it, and he follows soon after with the small thrusts your legs will allow him.
You collapse beneath him, boneless, as he comes as deep into you as he physically can. He falls on top of you soon after, barely catching himself on his forearms to keep from crushing you. His chest heaves as he tries and fails to catch his breath, so instead of breathing he settles for suffocating while admiring your beautiful flushed face. Your eyelids have fallen shut, your mouth letting out little puffs of air as you struggle with the same problem he is. His dreams never got this far, to the after.
It’s amazing.
You look so amazing fucked-out beneath him, a smile on your face that he’s sure you aren’t even aware is there. He could live in this moment forever, just staring at you, knowing he’s the one who made you look like this.
Even as he leans forward a little too far and a loud crack lets him know the desk is giving out beneath you.
He just barely manages to pull you on top of him so his back hits the floor instead of yours. You’re tucked into his chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively. You stare at the desk’s remains as he stares at you, and when you laugh, his chest tightens. God, he might be more in love with you than before.
As he lifts you, watching the way your eyes sparkle as you giggle and ask how he’s going to explain the desk to the crew, he thinks he can live with some more frustrating dreams. It’ll never compare to the real thing, and he has a feeling you won’t mind him coming to you for more help in the future.
Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @eggrollforyou
Summary: Your husband’s brother finds you. Life with him and his sham of a family is as cold as the snow your husband was found buried in. You're going to wilt slowly living with Doflamingo, you’re sure. No flower can survive in such snow.
A/N: Sorry for being late, everyone! The entire chapter 9 actually has 21.7k words but I decided to split it because the rest of the parts of the chapter aren't done yet!
Thank you to everyone who leaves comments, reblogs or likes the story! I love reading all your comments & theories and talking to you all! Thank you for all the support on this story! 💕💕🫶🏻🫶🏻❤️🦩
Tags: Doflamingo/Reader, Female!Reader, Rosinante's Wife!Reader, Civilian!Reader, Rosinante x Reader (mentioned through flashbacks), Donquixote Pirates, Kidnapping, Gaslighting, Size Difference, Forced Proximity, Mentions of Fratricide, Violence, Grief, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Mentions of Murder, Sexual Objectification of Women, Loss of Autonomy, Controlling Behavior, Forced Hugging, Possessiveness, Post-Minion Island, North Blue Doflamingo, Red Suit Doflamingo, Touch-Starved Doflamingo, Doflamingo is His Own Warning, Protective Donquixote Doflamingo, Adult Themes, NSFW, Masturbation (Male Performing), Sexual Innuendos, Implications of Oral Sex (Rosinante/Reader)
Doflamingo crossed the lounge room in three strides, ripping open the doors of his office. Once he was inside his office, he closed the tall door, and locked it from the inside.
He walked to his red armchair, loosening his tie completely from his collar as he went. The sunlight through the windows caught on his shades, the polarized glass reflecting it back to the source.
On his way there, Doflamingo unbuttoned the golden buttons keeping his double-breasted suit jacket closed, pulling it off quickly, revealing his black dress shirt. He tossed the feather coat and the suit jacket on the nearby hanger, making sure they landed properly on the hook by crooking his index finger, sending out a string to guide them.
Sighing, he sat down on the plush, tall wingback armchair, his large body making a heavy sound. He unfastened the tie, and tossed it on the table.
Sweat ran down his forehead, veins visible on his neck and temples. He felt too hot, trapped in his own clothes.
“Damn woman,” he grumbled fondly, smiling up at the ceiling, grin wide and curved. “You really give me a workout...”
Doflamingo loosened the collar around his neck, then unbuttoned the buttons of his dress shirt, freeing his collarbone and chest, stopping above his abs. The sunlight traced over his revealed, tanned skin, casting a soft gold light across his muscular chest.
A relieved sigh left his lips. He extended his legs under the table, stretching them out completely, his stiffened muscles and bones popping in gratitude.
Doflamingo unbuckled his belt. The bulge in his red suit pants was more prominent now, a large tent angling to the right across his right thigh. Doflamingo palmed it over the fabric, readjusting it again, a rush of pleasure running down the thickness of his cock at the touch.
He exhaled, heat running rampant through his body. He needed to get off. The tension was too much to handle.
He pulled his length out. The slit was red and wet with precum, his thick member hard and throbbing in the air, thick veins lining the skin.
His long tongue slipped out, licking his lips hungrily, remembering the taste of your tears, the texture of the skin of your cheek.
Delicious.
He’d nearly done it then. Grabbing you would be easy with how much smaller your body was from his. Freeing his cock, parting that lovely black bathrobe down your shoulders and slipping those black silk pajama pants along with your panties - which panties were you wearing, he wondered. Was it some of the black lace ones, or were they the white lace ones? Fuck. - down your soft thighs for him to slot his cock between them would be easy.
It was quick. Desperate. Violent. Personal. Intimate in its debauchery and want.
Doflamingo grabbed his erect cock and stroked it aggressively fast in his fist, not bothering with slowness, with building up to the pleasure. His hips bucked up, thrusting into his fist with powerful, hard hip thrusts that would make a woman gag and choke on his cock.
He just needed you to hold out that pretty tongue of yours out for him so he can rest the tip of his aching cock there and soak you in the white of his cum.
He imagined it - you, on your knees, here under the table, lips parted, mouth open, tongue out, the head of his cock hovering over your mouth. Your pretty face, flushed, your eyes, needy, staring right up at him.
“Haaaah...”
Panting, heaving, breaths becoming quicker and quicker in a wild staccato without any control, Doflamingo stroked himself faster. Squeezed his cock harder, on the verge of pain, pleasure stringing across his body, balls tightening as he thought of you, you, you... fucking you atop the table with the desserts strewn out and discarded because Doflamingo was having his favourite dessert - you - licking your tears as he fucked you, fucked you. Deep and hard, pushing your entire body across the silk white tablecloth, your cunt squeezing his cock that throbbed in return, pushing deep inside you, bottoming out with each thrust, your desperate mouth forming a breathless, pleasure-filled word -
“Doffy -”
Heat. Pleasure. It all coalesced into a single surge of tension leading to satisfying completion.
Doflamingo cummed within seconds.
He groaned your name when he burst in pleasure, his cock releasing thick, white stains of cum into his fist and over the wood of his office desk.
His tall body bent forward, basking in the sharp, powerful ecstasy as a few more dribbles of cum escaped him. When it was done, he panted, chest rising and falling with each breath. His right knee shook with the final aftershock.
Fuck.
Doflamingo exhaled, tilting his head back, sweaty face and flushed cheeks, blond hair slightly damp, a few strands falling out of arrangement, touching his forehead. He loosened his grip on his softening, stained cock.
His eyes fluttered shut behind his sunglasses, his body basking in the intense, muscle-straining orgasm.
After regaining his breath, Doflamingo looked down on the mess he made of himself, and clicked his tongue. There was cum on the polished cherry wood veneer of the underside and wall of his office table, staining the wood with drippling streaks of white. He opened a drawer, took out some wet wipes, and cleaned out his hands and cock, as well as the underside of the table, but not the walls of his foot space.
Doflamingo wasn’t going to bend over to clean it. The cum there can be cleaned by the maids - that’s what he pays them for, anyway.
He tossed the wet wipes into the trash can beside his desk, filled with discarded papers and shredded letters. He pulled his cock back inside his boxers, but kept his pants unzipped, letting his skin breathe. He leaned back in his chair, his large, tall body slumping into it.
His thoughts wandered to you, the reason of his passion, and the reason for the mess he made of his desk.
He licked his lips hungrily.
Were you sleeping, he wondered. You were less argumentative than yesterday, but the sharpness, anger and raw dislike remained in every word you spoke to him. He didn’t blame you for being tired. He knew the signs of a mind tired by sadness.
Doflamingo chuckled. He’d let you rest. Let you grieve, let you burrow yourself in the silken covers and thick warm furs of his duvets, and be miserable.
He wondered what Giolla would put you in once she got to properly style you. It would be black, he was sure. You’d insist upon it. You’d wear your grief, and you’d wear it well. Stubbornly, even.
Doflamingo was certain that whatever the result, you would look beautiful in the color of grief. Dulled yet elegant, in an unapproachable way. But that’s exactly what a grieving widow is, isn’t it?
Doflamingo had to admit, he’d miss the blue you wore yesterday. It lit you up so wonderfully. Especially your blue dress.
Now, for the next few months, you’d be wearing black.
Grieving. Quiet. In pain.
It was Doflamingo’s fault. He did that to you. He tore you apart, without even knowing you exist.
Guilt should have come. Yet, no guilt came. Instead, he felt relieved. Satisfied, even. Your heartbreak belonged to him, your sorrow was caused by him.
Those parts of you were his, and his alone.
At that thought, Doflamingo’s lips stretched into a sharp, demonic, massive, smug smile.
Later down the line, a year or a bit later from now, other parts of you would become his, too. Doflamingo could wait.
Unlike his clumsy little brother, whose time with you was done and over, Doflamingo had plenty of time with you.
The rest of your life together, in fact.
He smiled, a gruesome expression.
Oh. That’s funny.
After all, isn’t that how you and his brother were supposed to live?
The rest of your lives together?
Doflamingo started chuckling, his broad shoulders shaking, the pink feathers of his coat swaying with the movement of his body.
It’s like Doflamingo got the benefits of the groom instead of the groom himself.
Now that’s funny!
After a few seconds of giggling, Doflamingo burst out laughing, loud and deep, the sound sweeping across the room in a vocal sense of triumph, the laughter turning into a resounding, manic cackle of glee.
The executives and officers were having breakfast in the galley. It was a tradition for the main crew to have the three main meals of the day together despite their busy schedules across the ship, but the most important person was missing.
Their captain wasn’t sitting at the head of the table.
It wasn’t unusual of the captain to miss breakfast and have it in his office, wanting to work through the paperwork while eating, or holding a meeting with his executives over brunch while having tea. However, his absence was noticed today because he shared breakfast with them for the past few months without staying in his office.
Pica was starting to squirm with unease. He leaned over to Diamante, whispering in his ear. “Do you think she stabbed him in the throat while he slept?”
Diamante rolled his eyes at Pica’s worrisome tendencies. He lifted his large red coffee mug with the black diamond symbol on it, taking a few large gulps of his espresso before placing it back on the plate.
“Doffy’s Observation would pick up on her murderous intent. Plus, he had the servants get rid and lock up anything sharp that could be used as a weapon. He even locked away his nail clippers and shaving razors.” Diamante laughed, nasty and arrogant. “Anyway, she’s not the type. Too much honor and nobleness from those marine parents of hers. Doesn’t have the guts for that sort of messy, bloody murder. Far too hands-on. Her fingers would shake.”
Giolla entered the galley through the single doors with a chirpy, “Good morning, everyone!”
“Morning, Giolla,” the crew greeted with various degrees of energy, Dellinger’s happy call of her name being the loudest and happiest.
“Where’s Doffy?” asked Diamante, swallowing an entire piece of large toast into his mouth, chewing, thick lips smacking together, each crunch crunch of the toast audible.
“Young Master is having breakfast together with missus,” said Giolla brightly, proudly announcing this to the crew. She tittered on to her seat, moving like a dancing ballerina, the frilly skirt of her purple dress flowing in all directions.
Baby 5 squealed happily at this reveal.
“As long as Young Master’s alright,” said Gladius, taking a bite of his bread spread with cream cheese.
“Of course he is, in.” said Machvise, ripping apart a large steak with his bare, large hands with the ease of ripping paper. “We were worryin’ for nothin’, in.”
“It’s good they’re spending more time together,” commented Señor Pink, flipping to another page of the morning’s newspaper the News Coo had delivered to the ship.
Lao G placed his cup of green tea down. He formed the letter g with his blue gloved hands and fingers. “Together! There’s the G!”
Diamante snorted. “I bet he’s getting to know her even better…”
Trebol laughed, snot trailing down his nose.
“Diamante-sama,” scolded Giolla, narrowing her eyes. “There are children at the table.”
“My bad, my bad!” Diamante stopped laughing, trailing off. He smirked savagely, and murmured into his red coffee mug with the black diamond symbol, “Doesn’t make it any less true…”
Diamante tipped the cup to his mouth, and sipped on his espresso, the slurping noise filling the galley.
“Why, I’d never -” gasped Giolla, scandalized.
Diamante scoffed. “Oh, stop it with the pearl clutching, Giolla. It’s so obvious a blind man would see it.”
“He’s offering comfort.” Giolla said, giving Diamante a disapproving look. “The Young Master is not a brute.”
“Right,” said Diamante, snickering at both of those sentences. Giolla always had a soft spot for Doffy because of their shared love for bright, colorful fashion. “That’s why he took her to sleep with him in his cabin. For comfort.”
Trebol laughed nasally, snot dripping down his nostrils. “Behehehe! Let Doffy have some fun! He deserves it after everything that happened with Corazón, behehe! What better way to do it than to get comfortable with Corazón’s cute little wife, behe!”
Diamante grinned, his large teeth and spread mouth taking up more than half of his face. “I bet he comforted her with his dick.”
Baby 5 gasped, covering her mouth. A blush bloomed on her cheeks.
“Diamante!” Giolla screeched, reaching with her hands to cover Dellinger’s little ears in an attempt to keep him innocent regarding the means of human reproduction. “There are children present!”
“Their own fault,” said Diamante, unbothered. He tipped his glass of wine to his mouth, taking a sip. “If they don’t want to hear, they should scram.”
The children scowled at him, disgusted. They were ignored.
“Behehehe!” Trebol giggled. “At least Doffy will show her a better time than Corazón, behehe!”
Señor Pink placed his cup of latte down to its plate. “I hope you’ll have fun explaining to Young Master how Baby 5 learned the word dick.”
Diamante’s smile fell quickly, vanishing from his face. Both he and Trebol stopped laughing. Behind his sunglasses, Diamante’s blue eyes were wide and startled.
The reason for the sudden shift went without saying. Their captain didn’t approve of any sexual innuendos or conversations to be done in front of the children, especially around Baby 5.
“They’re having breakfast together,” said Giolla firmly. “Nothing else is happening.”
“I bet he’s eating her for breakfast,” said Diamante, unashamedly sleazy. “Probably covered her mouth, though. Otherwise, we’d hear the screams and crying by now.”
Baby 5 gasped, turning to Giolla in a panic, her dark blue eyes blown wide.
“Is Young Master really eating missus?” asked Baby 5 uncertainly, eyes filled with worry. She liked you a lot. She didn’t want Young Master to eat you! You were very nice to her, and made her feel happy, like Young Master tucking her in bed did.
“No, dearie,” said Giolla gently. She frowned at Diamante, glaring at him for upsetting the children. “Diamante-sama is just joking, zamasu.”
“Sure I am,” laughed Diamante mockingly. “That’s why I won’t try to go in there for the next hour. Because I’m joking.”
“It’s none of our business what Doffy does with her,” said Pica, squealing the words, speaking up for the first time. “Try to show some respect. She’s Doffy’s sister-in-law.”
“You’re saying that because she didn’t laugh at your voice,” said Diamante, rolling his eyes.
Pica opened his mouth to respond, but Gladius beat him to it, speaking up.
“Pica-sama is right. It’s disrespectful to the Young Master.” said Gladius.
“Pica judges people on whether or not they laugh at his voice,” said Diamante, rolling his eyes.
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t right, behehehe! Doffy’ll get mad at ya if he hears you’ve been saying dirty things about Corazón’s little wife, behehe!”
Diamante grunted, putting his long legs up on the table, slouching in his seat with a huff. “You all know I’m right. He’s got that look when he looks at her.”
None of them commented, hardly disagreeing.
Their captain very clearly cared about you. However, you were very clearly not here of your own will, and very clearly did not hold any care for him. You were very much a fish taken out of your tank, put into another tank with new, bigger, more dangerous fish you didn’t know, with their captain being the one fish you did know, but also the fish that scared you the most.
“If you're all done prying into the Young Master’s personal affairs… Look at this.” said Señor Pink.
He put the morning newspapers down on the table.
Diamante, Pica and Trebol all leaned forward in their chairs, covering the length of the width of the table easily with their long torsos. The rest of the crew also leaned around the newspapers along with the kids including Dellinger, making a full circle around the spread page Señor Pink put. They all stared down at the newspapers, their eyes widening as they read the title.
MINION ISLAND MASSACRE
Barrel Pirates Wiped Out
Navy HQ Marine Commander Killed in Action
“Well, shit.” said Diamante, and laughed.
“Cora-san without makeup kinda looks like the Young Master, dasuyan.” commented Buffalo. “Though more moody.”
“Wooks gwumpy,” babbled Dellinger, giving the picture a judgy look with his big brown eyes.
“It doesn’t say anything about the Op-Op Fruit, in.” said Machvise.
“They ain’t gonna make that public, behe! They don’t want the world to know they screwed up, behehehe!” sleazed Trebol, giggling, snot and mucus trailing down his nostrils.
“We need to let Young Master know,” said Gladius, lifting his warm light blue coffee mug with the words PUNK POP on it, taking a careful sip not to burn his tongue. “I doubt he’d want missus to find out.”
Giolla frowned disapprovingly. “She deserves to see it.”
“That’s for Doffy to decide,” said Trebol, giggling, mucus trailing down his slimy coat. “But I think Pink’s right. Doffy probably won’t let her see it. She’d start cryin’ again, behehehe!”
“Is the traitor in the obituary, too?” asked Diamante, snatching the newspapers from the table with his long fingers with ease. Buffalo and Baby 5 whined, since they were still reading the article.
“He is!” crowed Diamante. “Look! In the marine obituary, at that!”
“Body retrieved and buried,” read Diamante. “Shame. Wish he got buried in the snow.”
Señor Pink checked his wristwatch. He finished his coffee, patted his mouth clean with a napkin, and stood up from his seat. “I need to head to the meeting with the Young Master. Excuse me.”
“Gladius, make sure the kids don’t get scarred,” instructed Señor Pink as he walked past the spiky-haired man toward the doors of the galley.
Gladius choked slightly.
“Whysfiwmyfal?” garbled Gladius through a mouthful of scrambled eggs in his mouth, muffling any coherency of his words.
Señor Pink didn’t reply, simply waved to them, opened the doors, and left. He walked down the wooden hallway of the ship, hands in his pockets. He reached the entrance of the captain’s cabin, tried to enter, and when the golden doorknob didn’t budge, he fished out a copy of the key. It didn’t surprise him the Young Master locked the tall double doors. The Young Master couldn’t risk it, even if you were most likely locked in the bedroom separated by their own doors. There was always a possibility of you finding some tool and lockpicking your way out.
Once inside, Señor Pink closed and locked the doors again. He crossed the chessboard-patterned floor, heading toward the right to the tall double doors of his captain’s office. He knocked twice.
“Enter,” came Doflamingo’s muffled, strong voice.
Señor Pink entered into the room. “Good morning, Young Master. I’m here for the budget report.”
Doflamingo’s merlot suit jacket laid on the mahogany hangar beside the doors. The pirate captain had taken it off, leaving himself in his usual black silk dress shirt and red tie. He looked slightly dishevelled. Señor Pink hoped there didn’t come to an altercation between the Young Master and you.
“Yeah,” said Doflamingo. “Take a seat.”
Señor Pink did so, sitting down on one of the chairs.
“How is everyone doing?” asked Doflamingo, his usual curved smile on his face.
“Alright,” replied Señor Pink. As he got ready to continue, he wondered how he should refer to you. He had a feeling calling you Corazón’s wife, for all how correct it was, would displease his captain. “Giolla let us know you were having breakfast with missus.”
Doflamingo leaned back in his armchair, smirking. “Yeah. I was.”
“How was it?” asked Señor Pink, curious.
Doflamingo leaned back in his chair.
“It was nice. I really enjoyed it.” said Doflamingo, a fleeting, amused smile crossing his face. It faded quickly when he thought about how you reacted to the whole event - like a cornered little mouse forced to have breakfast with a lion.
“It didn’t seem as enjoyable for her, though,” said Doflamingo, smiling sharply. He put his left leg atop his knee, resting his arms on the armrest. “She’s very easily frightened. Half the time, she looked at me like I’d attack her. The other half, like she was going to cry, fufufufu! It was interesting.”
“You’re a very hard-boiled man, Young Master.” said Señor Pink. “Your sister-in-law seems like a sunny-side-up. She’s not used to hard-boiled men, and feels uncomfortable around them. Threatened, even. She feels more comfortable with sunny-side-up and over easy men. They show who they are right away, and she likes their open vulnerability. I’m not surprised she married Corazón.”
“That’s a completely different type of egg, isn’t it?” asked Doflamingo, frowning, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not even boiled, but fried.”
Doflamingo didn’t like fried things. The mere word reminded him of the fire trying to fry him when he was a child.
Señor Pink chuckled. “Yeah. I thought your brother was hard-boiled like you, but turned out he was an over-easy one. Fried on both sides, but his center was soft and gooey.”
Doflamingo turned quiet. He never heard a better description of his brother, and of all things, it was his brother being described as an egg.
“Have you read the morning newspapers yet, Young Master?” asked Señor Pink.
“No,” said Doflamingo, smiling his usual smile, sharp but curious. “Anything interesting?”
Señor Pink took out the folded newspapers from the inside of his suit jacket.
“Page fifteen and sixteen,” said Señor Pink, offering the newspapers to Doflamingo.
Doflamingo took the newspapers, and opened them to the mentioned pages. The large title of MINION ISLAND stood atop the page.
Doflamingo stilled, his entire body stiffening.
The right vein above his right eye twitched in annoyance, his mouth pulling downward at the sight. He read through the text to see how much information was shared with the public about the events on Minion and his traitorous brother. There was no mention of Doflamingo or his crew.
The picture of his little brother without makeup in the sailor’s uniform was strange to see - somehow more stranger than seeing him in a Marine commander uniform in pictures with you. In this picture, his little brother looked like any other marine Doflamingo would see on the battlefield. Doflamingo decided he preferred his brother in his Navy commander uniform - Rosinante looked too easily forgettable in the usual marine uniform, getting lost in the crowd of marines with the identical uniform, despite this being the picture that was on Rosinante’s official record, since every marine took a picture in the common uniform when entering the Navy.
It didn’t sit right with Doflamingo. For his brother, to wear such an undistinctive uniform, like he was just another marine, another soldier in the ranks.
He looks stupid, Doflamingo decided, feeling a swell of anger at the marines for not finding a better picture to put in the newspapers — ignoring the fact it was the official picture every marine took. Even Marine Admirals wore the normal marine uniform in their official files.
They should have put a picture of Rosinante in his commander’s uniform. It’d look better. He just looks like another marine fodder…
Is that what you wanted? thought Doflamingo, staring at the image of his younger brother. To disappear in the crowd? You always were like that…
Doflamingo enjoyed the spotlight. Rosinante preferred the back row, as far from the stage as possible.
There was no mention of Law or the Op-Op Fruit. No mention of you disappearing, either. Of course not. Sengoku didn’t let Morgans put that in because he was hoping to cut a deal with Doflamingo this morning, to get you back to Marineford.
Doflamingo smiled ruthlessly.
Too bad. Doflamingo wasn’t his brother. He didn’t let go of things that belonged to him.
“Don’t let my sister-in-law see this,” ordered Doflamingo, chuckling. He handed the newspapers back to his officer, unsmiling. “Once you’ve read it, throw it away. Tell the rest of the Family, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
You were woken out of sleep by a massive hand lightly shaking your side, followed by a rough, deep, commanding voice speaking your name. You grumbled sourly under the duvets and furs, swiping at the arm attempting to pull you out of the serenity of sleep.
It was useless. Your hand met the firm muscle of a man’s forearm. For a moment, you thought it was Rosi, but the voice didn’t match. Rosi’s voice wasn’t like that.
It was the other one. The other brother.
The one you didn’t want to see, little less hear. You never knew you could find someone’s voice so grating on your ears. It was the tone. The tone of someone who never got smacked in the face for anything in his life, the tone of someone who commanded people constantly, the tone of a man who expected to be obeyed as naturally as the sea laps at the shore of an island.
That awful epiphany – that it was Doflamingo stirring you awake, not Rosi – simply caused you to let the hand you used to smack at his forearm with fall limply, tucking it back under the duvets to regain the warmth to it.
“Get up,” repeated Doflamingo. He looked down at you with deep disapproval, the skin of his brow line scrunched. “You’re going to Giolla for a fitting.”
“I already have clothes,” you grumbled, wishing Doflamingo would go away and leave you in peace to sleep.
You sighed, closed your eyes, and turned your back to him, lying your head back down on the pillow. You didn’t want to see Doflamingo’s face or hear his voice for the rest of the day.
“Those are the basics,” said Doflamingo dismissively.
That casual dismissal woke you up. You sat up in bed.
“What?” you whispered, absolutely baffled, unable to conceal the confusion and shock on your face.
You were completely dumbstruck. You had a full wardrobe of clothes - some from very expensive, reputable brands - that would last you a decade, if not more, and he called those ‘the basics’?
You were starting to understand Baby 5’s words from yesterday now. Undoubtedly, her surprisingly high standard for fashion came from Doflamingo’s influence.
“You need fitted clothes,” said Doflamingo. He was at your wardrobe now, sifting through your clothes. Undoubtedly picking something for you to wear. “Dresses and coats, too.”
Those words motivated you to lift your head from the pillow, glaring at his broad, large back. “If you deny me access to T-shirts and blouses, I will cut your dress shirts to shreds, Doflamingo.”
Doflamingo turned his head to you over his right shoulder and smirked, the dimples on his cheeks deep and fond, dangerously charming yet devilish. “Without knowing where the scissors are?”
“I’ll use my teeth,” you said, narrowing your eyes threateningly.
“Kinky,” said Doflamingo delightedly, a grin blooming across his mouth, sharp and frightening.
“Creative,” you corrected, frowning at him, ignoring the way your gut clenched at the sight of his usual curved smile.
Doflamingo put the clothes at the foot of the mattress, atop the covers.
“Ten minutes,” said Doflamingo. “Brush your hair, teeth, and dress. Perfumes are on the vanity. I haven’t bought you any skincare or makeup yet, I’ll do that when I disembark this afternoon. If you have brand preferences, write them down.”
You didn’t want him to get you any makeup. You didn’t intend to wear makeup — not for Doflamingo. Makeup was something you took the time to apply when you wanted to present yourself in a graceful light, be professional, make a good impression at an event, be it job related, or being at a marine ceremony as a marine’s wife. Makeup was something that required time, patience, care and effort. All things you didn’t feel like scrounging up within you at all.
And certainly not for pirates, or your husband’s murderer.
“Can you get me Doro?” you asked.
“Doro?” asked Doflamingo, his smile gone as he tried to remember the brand named that way. “I don’t know that brand.”
He put his gloved hands in his pockets, scowling down at you with another disapproving look. “If it’s a cheap brand, forget it.”
“It’s a shortened name.” you replied.
“For what?” asked Doflamingo with a too large, arrogant smile.
A smile you were going to wipe off his face with your next sentence.
“Serums,” you said casually. “You know, skincare in liquid form. Great for the face. They make very good mouthwash products, too. Makes my skin all smooth and glowy, and cleans my tongue. Tastes great, too.”
“I already have all the skincare including serums in the vanity, you can use mine,” said Doflamingo. “I don’t have any makeup except nail polish.”
For a moment, you were surprised Doflamingo used skincare at all. You didn’t look into the vanity very much in your search for something yesterday - you thought half of the skincare products you saw were left behind by women Doflamingo slept with. You were reluctantly impressed that Doflamingo took skin care seriously.
It still couldn’t help him with those blood vessels popping out on his forehead and neck, though.
“That’s just asking for irritation,” you said.
“Fine,” said Doflamingo, annoyed. “What’s so special about that brand, anyway?”
“Nothing much,” you said casually. “Do is from Donquixote, Ro is from Rosinante.”
Silence.
You smiled sweetly.
Doflamingo looked at you in absolute disbelief. The shocked, surprised look on his face was absolutely worth it. The expression his face made was so funny you almost laughed. It was the look of a man who thought I can’t believe I fell for that.
“You know what, cuñada?” asked Doflamingo, leaning forward to the bed toward you.
Before you could process the threat, Doflamingo climbed atop the bed on all fours. You scrambled back from him, but his long torso easily caught up to your smaller frame, and within a second, his elbows were on each side of your shoulders, his red suit and tie filling your sight. His broad body covered you in his shadow, blocking your sight.
He pinned you without directly having to touch you. There was simply no way out, no escape, not with a man as large as Doflamingo like this above you.
You never used to get scared when Rosinante climbed atop you like this, and he was as broad as Doflamingo was, even if slightly shorter by a few centimeters. Two meters and ninety-two was pretty much three meters to someone like you, who was of normal height.
You were scared now, with Doflamingo above you in the same way; on the bed, on all fours, his legs bent at the knees resting beside your knees, his torso curved down over your body so his head was at the same height as yours, his massive palms resting beside each side of your face.
Caging you in a tight, small cage where you could barely breathe, staring up at him like a wide-eyed doe taken off guard by a tiger.
You liked when Rosinante got atop you. You felt safe when he did that. You felt aroused and hot when Rosinante did that.
It was because you trusted Rosinante. It was because Rosinante never felt threatening to you.
You didn’t trust Doflamingo. He used his size exactly for what it was meant for; to be threatening, menacing. To scare you into submission. To have your instincts as a human being take over and shriek “Nope! Not a chance! I’m not fighting that guy! Lay down and hope he doesn’t notice us!”
And it’s exactly what your body did. It surrendered. Made itself small, hoping Doflamingo wouldn’t notice you.
Except Doflamingo did notice you. Worse, Doflamingo was giving you his full attention.
Doflamingo leaned down to you, his large, dangerous, handsome face entering your vision; a grinning demon bearing down on you, a helpless human. His face was getting uncomfortably close to yours, to the point you leaned your head down into the mattress so your noses don’t touch, your spine lowering from your sitting position to a laying one.
The back of your head hit the red silk of the pillow.
You inhaled sharply, surprised and terrified.
Doflamingo’s gruesome smile merely widened at your reaction, satisfaction clear on his face.
“I have a better idea,” he purred, leaning close to your face, his evil smile filling your sight.
You trembled under his voice, the sound trailing a crawling sensation across your skin that made you fear his strings were climbing up your arms. You held your breath, not daring to breathe, staring into his crimson sunglasses with a mix of stubbornness and terror.
You forced a rigid smile onto your face. It wobbled and shook. “What?”
Doflamingo’s lips twitched at the sides, the gruesome smile curling impossibly wider. He hummed, the sound echoing in your ears, making your legs quiver, trapped under his hovering, massive body.
His large face came to a stop above yours, hovering an inch from you.
“I’m going to get you a Dodo,” decided Doflamingo, grin sly and wicked. “Donquixote Doflamingo.”
Your confidence and smile faded, replaced by absolute horror on your face.
“No,” you mumbled, voice a panicked high pitch.
“Yes,” said Doflamingo, grin turning wider and wider, sharper and sharper, more large white teeth showing with each second.
Doflamingo tapped his chest proudly, resting his large gloved palm on his red suit jacket. “Straight from the source, sweetheart.”
You gagged. Loudly. Truthfully. Honestly. Instinctually.
Veins bulged on Doflamingo’s forehead, and he asked roughly. “Want five minutes to get ready?”
You growled into the silk red pillowcase. Momentarily, you thought of throwing the pillow at him, but thought better of it. You didn’t want to make a man like him angry.
“No,” you said, quiet and docile, exactly how you knew he wanted you to reply to him.
Doflamingo laughed. The sound was short, but dark and resounding, reaching all the way into your ribcage to hollow it out, making you quiver beneath him in complete terror.
“That’s good,” he said, pleased. The sunlight shone on his sunglasses, making them gleam and glint just like eyes would.
Giving you another predatory smile which made the hairs on the back of your nape stand on end, Doflamingo retreated, getting off of you, and off the bed.
The oxygen returned into the air. The thick, suffocating pressure of Doflamingo’s heavy, intimidating presence subsided. You inhaled again, shakily, your chest trembling with the rapid inhales and exhales of air, your body no longer holding its breath.
Now that Doflamingo was no longer pinning you down to the bed with nothing but his body, you slowly sat up, swinging your legs onto the carpet where your slippers were. The cold hit you right away. A surging chill enveloped your body. This time, you trembled because of the lack of heat, not a massive amount of fear.
You rubbed your arms to get some heat back to your body. The worst part about ships in winter - especially winter in North Blue, the coldest of the seas - was the lack of heating. No wonder Doflamingo wore his feather coat all the time, or that everyone wore winter coats indoors. Except Giolla. That woman was built differently, going around in a dress in zero degrees indoors without trembling at all.
It was freezing cold.
“Am I supposed to wear that?” you asked, frowning at the clothes Doflamingo laid out for you.
It was a black long-sleeved silk button-up dress shirt with a v-neck collar with an untied ribbon at the collar, as well as a black knee-length, tight-fitting pencil skirt. On the floor were black four-inch heels.
It took everything in you not to physically recoil at the sight of the heels.
“Perfect, isn’t it?” asked Doflamingo proudly.
“It’s zero degrees here,” you said, staring at the clothes Doflamingo picked out for you, unable to believe what he chose. Did he want you to freeze to death?
“You can wear stockings,” said Doflamingo proudly, smiling wickedly, like he had already intercepted your argument and found the solution. His gloved, brown fingers lifted a pair of thick, black stockings with swirly lace patterns that looked far too much like weaving strings.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes menacingly.
Doflamingo’s demonic smile and chuckle told you everything you needed to know about that.
You got up, walked past his legs that were taller than you, and to your closet. You went through the clothes on the hangars, and found a few good pieces. You took them off the hangars, folding them onto your forearm to change into them.
You picked an oversized, black, cable knit turtleneck wool sweater, black jeans, a black belt with a shining silver buckle, and black flat sneakers.
“You’re not going to wear that, are you?” asked Doflamingo with a cruel chuckle, the mockery clear in his voice, gesturing to the clothes.
“Yes,” you said calmly, not bothered by his judgy tone. “I am.”
That reply wiped the smile right off Doflamingo’s face.
“What’s wrong with the clothes I picked?” asked Doflamingo.
You decided not to deign him with an answer, not wanting to waste more of your energy on arguing with him. There was nothing inherently bad about the clothes he picked, but they were far too formal, too fancy. Though, knowing Doflamingo, it shouldn’t have surprised you.
Also, it was about the principle. You didn’t like him picking out your clothes.
You may want to spend your time crying in bed and grieving, but you’d be damned if you didn’t pick out your own clothes. You weren’t going to a ball, or theatre. The easier and faster the clothes can be taken off for Giolla to take measurements of your body, the better. You were going to waste a full ten seconds unbuttoning the black blouse Doflamingo picked out for you, not to mention the stockings and skirt. You’d rather die than walk across a ship in three inch heels, whether the ship was anchored or not.
“Nothing,” you said as calmly as possible. “I just like picking my own.”
“But -” started Doflamingo smoothly, with a smile ready to trick you.
“But what?” you challenged, giving him a pleasant smile that was as sharp and sweet as a sword. “Go on, Doflamingo. Dig yourself a deeper grave.”
Doflamingo’s jaw clenched, and he shut his mouth. He was straining so hard not to speak his face was turning red, veins throbbing on his forehead, neck and temples from the intensity of his frown and held-down rage.
Satisfied, you took the clothes you picked up - along with normal, soft black cotton underwear and an elastic black sports bra, ignoring the black lace panties with a tiny bow at the front and a black lace push-up bra Doflamingo put out for you, the perverted flamingo freak - and headed for the bathroom.
“(Y/N),” Doflamingo called after you, the sound of his powerful voice calling your name freezing you on the spot. It sent shivers down your spine, spreading cold in your bloodstream, your gut sinking with raw fear. “At least wear the underwear I picked for you.”
You whirled, turning a full half-circle, whipping your index finger up at him, pointing it sternly, glaring at him with the most deadly glare you were capable of. A warning every woman used when she’d had enough of a man talking.
Doflamingo, who had been following after you to the bathroom, stopped midway.
The reaper’s curved smile remained large and unflinching on Doflamingo’s face, but you knew the glare worked, regardless of his constant, unflinching, eerie grin. If you didn’t draw the line at this, it would be another thing he’d try to control.
A long, tense silence settled between the two of you as you two stared at each other.
Doflamingo eyed you, still grinning. You could feel his gaze, could feel his curiosity, wondering when you'd back down.
When the staring continued, and your expression remained firm and stern despite his smile, Doflamingo let out a grand, exaggerated sigh, his broad chest and shoulders slumping with the breath.
“Fine,” he grumbled. He threw his hands up in defeat. “Wear what you want.”
You decided not to think about the way the words for now seemed to linger unspoken.
Satisfied, you turned back to head to the bathroom.
“You sure you don’t want to wear a skirt?” started Doflamingo, following after you again with his large strides like a vulture stalking its prey, his spine slouched over you halfway, his long body curved like a bow over your head, casting you in his massive shadow.
You slammed the bathroom doors in his masculine face, locking them from the inside. Doflamingo’s muffled, loud laughter made you shiver.
You undressed and dressed up quickly. You used the white toothbrush and pink toothpaste to wash your teeth. You washed your face with water. Brushed your hair.
When you re-emerged, all dressed in your clothes, Doflamingo hummed. You could hear an argument coming.
It came a few seconds later.
“It’s cute,” he admitted. “But -”
“Please don’t say the word cute,” you interrupted.
Doflamingo grinned, and you realised your mistake too late.
“Cute,” he repeated, just to make you squirm. You did your best not to show it, but by the way his cheeks dimpled at the curve of his smile, he noticed it regardless, taking some sickening pleasure in distressing you.
You grabbed black socks to go with your black sneakers. They were quite elegant sneakers, definitely the expensive, stylish ones.
You headed back to your closet to grab a coat. You had to pass by Doflamingo’s tall leg again. Doflamingo followed after you.
“It’s not exactly screaming widow though, is it?” asked Doflamingo, smooth and deep.
He towered at your back, leaning down again with a deep bend of his spine, his massive face with its devious grin hovering above your right shoulder, next to your face.
“Don’t you want something elegant and inaproachable to tell everyone how beneath you they are?” he asked, his voice deep against your ear, caressing across your earlobe. “How they’re not allowed to even look your way?”
You found a fur coat; a long, black one, reaching down to the knees. You shut the wooden doors of your closet with a soft click.
Only then did you turn your head to him, and were taken off guard by the closeness of his face. Doflamingo’s torso was practically curling over you, bent like a flamingo’s long neck, his face facing your own now.
Doflamingo gave you an innocent, friendly, sweet smile. It was the freakiest smile you saw on him yet. It did nothing to assuage your worries at his excessive proximity. The smell of citrus and sea settled over you, alluring and soothing, another means of luring you into a trap.
“I’m in mourning,” you growled. “Not in a fashion show. I’m not competing to be the best-dressed woman in the world.”
Doflamingo stared at you for a long, silent moment. He looked like he might argue with you on that last comment, as if the mere insinuation of you not wearing the best clothes and not being the ‘best-dressed woman in the world’ wasn’t allowed in his world.
You stared right back at him, firmly keeping your ground, focusing on your determined expression in his sunglasses rather than the rest of his face - especially his sly smile.
“Awww,” he whined. “But you’d look so cute in the clothes I picked, fufufu!”
His gloved fingers reached out to caress your cheek. You slapped at the long, puppeteering digits. Once whacked, Doflamingo pulled them away, pursing his lips at you, pouting like a child who wasn't allowed to grab any more candy.
“I don’t want to be cute,” you snapped, losing your patience, a fire starting in your chest - anger. “Out of the way.”
Doflamingo chuckled, stepping away two steps, straightening up to his full height, giving you space to move again.
“You can be in mourning and still look good while doing it,” said Doflamingo. His browline scrunched slightly, but his unnerving smile remained. He was clearly displeased he wasn’t getting his way, that you weren’t falling for his manipulative words.
“It’s good then,” you said brightly, patting the side of his upper thigh reassuringly, sending a smile up his way; it was rigid and sharp, not reaching your eyes at all. “That you don’t get a say.”
For a moment, Doflamingo didn’t move.
After a moment of tense silence passed, Doflamingo leaned down to you again, encompassing you in his tall body and shadow, his broad frame caging you in without trying.
“You sure like mouthing off to me,” he said, grinning down at you.
You froze for a moment, a surge of fear rooting your feet to the ground, unable to look away from the threatening grimace on his face.
“It comes with the territory.” you replied, standing your ground decisively, ignoring the frantic beat of your frightened heart telling you to run.
Doflamingo stared down at you for a moment longer before his face completely shifted from serious to amused, and he laughed.
“Fufufu! That it does!” he said, grinning.
He stared down at you for a few more seconds. Sweat started gathering at your back.
Doflamingo chuckled. “Try not to overdo it.”
He reached down, settling his large hand atop your head. You froze, breathing in from fear. His massive hand moved, rubbing at your head, mussing up your tidied-up hair.
You gulped. You realised sweat had gathered on your palms. You hated how easily Doflamingo could frighten you.
You huffed, reaching up to fix up your hair. You didn’t like how Doflamingo kept petting your head like you were a cute little dog.
You followed after Doflamingo as he opened the doors of the bedroom for you. The two of you crossed the lounge room where you had your breakfast and tea, toward the final set of tall white doors that would lead you out into the corridor.
Doflamingo opened the doors.
The moment the space to the outside was wide enough, you ran under his arm without having to duck and sprinted for it.
You didn’t get far.
Three running steps in, a large hand grabbed the back of your shirt, long, thick fingers snatching up the fabric covering the middle of your back.
You let out an ear-piercing shriek when the ground vanished beneath your feet, your body hauled upward, higher and higher. An open sense of falling entered your gut, and you screamed.
You didn’t remain airborne for long. The hand deposited you. The underside of your thighs settled on a thick, hot forearm. Your heart nearly lunged out of your ribcage.
Doflamingo adjusted his left arm where you sat. Unlike before, where he cradled you like a kitten, this time was different, but no less embarrassing.
This time, you were sitting on Doflamingo’s forearm, facing the front, your legs dangling down the air, your spine and the back of your head pressed to his chest, your left shoulder brushing against the inner side of his upper arm, letting you feel how muscular and firm his arm was beneath the fabric of his red suit.
Your face burned.
“Put me down!” you demanded, twisting to look up at him.
“If you didn’t want to be carried, you shouldn’t have made a run for it,” said Doflamingo firmly, adjusting your thighs on his forearm so your back pressed against his chest, making you gasp when your spine collided with his muscled chest. Your entire body turned feverishly hot.
Doflamingo grinned at your clear embarrassment.
You fumed, and decided to hop down, since he wasn’t holding you anywhere around your body, giving you free movement.
You looked down. Your stomach dropped at how high and far away from the floor you were. It was more than a two meter jump.
That changed your mind. You leaned backward, your back and head bumping once more into his chest.
Doflamingo exited his cabin, stepped into the hallway with you, and locked the doors.
You covered your face, feeling your cheeks flush in embarrassment. “This is embarrassing...”
Doflamingo chuckled, enjoying in your shame as he carried you like a stuffed toy.
“I think it’s cute,” said Doflamingo, drawing out the syllables of the last word. He smirked down at you. “I like carrying you.”
Your stomach did a sommersault.
“Y-You can’t say stuff like that!” you stuttered, cheeks warm.
“Why?” asked Doflamingo, laughing again.
“It’s not proper,” you said quietly, breaking eye contact, looking away from him. The longer he stared at you, the warmer your face got.
“Fufufu!” Doflamingo tilted his head toward you, wearing a charming smile that made him even more handsome. “I’m a pirate. There’s nothing proper about me.”
For your own well-being, you decided not to reply.
It didn’t take long for Doflamingo to cross the hallway and reach the entrance to the spiral stairs he’d carried you down on. He descended down, and exited on the next floor below. The hallway didn’t have a carpet here, but everything else was well maintained.
If your evil brother-in-law was useful for anything, it was covering long distances in a few strides. If you didn’t think about how weird and frightening it felt to be carried like this, you might admit it was a good way of transportation. You didn’t need to do anything, simply sit, lean back into Doflamingo and the left side of his broad torso. The ride wasn’t bumpy, either.
Doflamingo came to a stop in front of wooden doors with painted handprints of all sizes and colors. You bet a thousand berri the large pink handprint was from Doflamingo’s hand.
You squirmed, trying to get down again, to which he clicked his tongue at you for, like you were a misbehaving kitten trying to squeeze out of his hands. You grumbled, settling down.
Doflamingo knocked on the doors, rapping on them with his gloved knuckle.
“Come in!” came Giolla’s voice, muffled through the wood.
Doflamingo opened the doors, ducked his head, and entered into the room.
The reality didn’t make any sense. You must be dreaming. There was no way a room like this existed in the world.
You blinked owlishly, numerous times. When the view remained the same, you reached up with your palms and rubbed at your gawking eyes.
Upon opening them again, the room before you remained.
“Welcome to my humble abode, zamasu!” chirped Giolla, tittering excitedly on her heels, full of vigor and energy. “Come in, come in!”
Humble was a severe understatement. Everywhere you looked, there were fabrics of all colors and types in rolls. All types of clothes hung on hangers. The walls were covered in colorful, abstract paintings, as well as framed sketches of clothes. There were two work benches, both covered in materials. One was a painting desk, covered by paints, glasses of brushes. The other was a sewing desk, covered by accessories, fabric, and a grand sewing machine. A massive orange settee rested against the wall. On the other wall was a tall, large mirror in front of a short podium. In the far right corner of the room was a section with a surrounding orange curtain.
“How did you like the cakes, missus?” asked Giolla excitedly. She reminded you of a swan - a very colorful swan.
You were too busy gawking at the room to hear the question. Doflamingo placed you down on the solid, flat ground. You were still gawking, barely registering your feet were back on the floor and that you were standing.
“Oh, don’t go calling me a mermaid, Young Master!” said Giolla, putting a hand on her cheek as she blushed, flattered.
“Fufufufu!”
You tugged at the red suit sleeve of Doflamingo’s left arm twice to get his attention. Doflamingo hummed, leaned to the left, bending down low, curving his spine down to you, leaning his ear next to your head.
“Is she a mermaid?” you whispered to Doflamingo stealthily.
Doflamingo chuckled, and gave you a sly grin. “Who knows.”
You gulped. Giolla was definitely past thirty, and some species of mermaids grew legs after that age and were able to live both in water and on the surface. If Giolla was a mermaid, could she still drown because of her Devil Fruit paralyzing her?
Doflamingo chuckled at your face. “I do love teasing you.”
That still didn’t answer your question.
Doflamingo went back up to his own height.
“Don’t touch the abstract paintings of people or animals,” said Doflamingo, walking past you, the pink feathers of his coat brushing over your right shoulder. He took a seat on the orange settee, legs spread, curved smile gleeful and malicious. “Some of them are people.”
Your eyes widened.
“Well, were, fufufufu! They die after an hour if Giolla doesn’t revert them back.” Doflamingo leaned back on the settee, crossing his right leg over his left, wearing a villainous smile. “Now they’re just art.”
“I can’t wait to get started. With missus here in front of me, the font of my imagination is just bubbling over, zamasu!” squealed Giolla.
Giolla was a bit too much — energy wise. It was overwhelming. You weren’t sure you could handle it.
The doors of the room opened abruptly. You let out a startled shriek at the sight of Diamante, who ducked his head and five-meter tall body under the doors. You stumbled backward, tripped on one of the floorboards, and crashed on your butt.
You fell right between Doflamingo’s spread, long legs, your spine pressed at the foot of the settee, the soft pink feathers of his coat cushioning your spine. His legs caged you in from either side, just like his arms would when he was standing.
“Hey, Giolla, have you seen Doffy -” started Diamante.
“Oh,” said Diamante, casting his eyes down to you. You met his blue gaze firmly, but stealthily shifted closer to Doflamingo's right leg, used to the movement from all the years of sticking by Rosi's leg.
Diamante tipped his hat to you and Giolla. “Hello, ladies.”
“Hello, Diamante!” said Giolla. She offered the tall, lanky man an orange plate of massive cookies. “Cookies?”
“Sure,” said Diamante, reaching down to the massive cookies on the plate, taking two into his massive hand.
“Sorry to interrupt, Doffy,” said Diamante, smirking. “We need you at the port.”
Diamante tossed both cookies into his large mouth, chewing through them.
Doflamingo hummed. It came from behind you, at an elevated level.
Before you could properly react to the realisation of how wrong you looked sitting at the foot of Doflamingo’s legs, Doflamingo's long arms reached down to you, his large palms grabbing you under your armpits, his long fingers grabbing onto your upper arms.
You let out a panicked shriek of a puppy who thought it was going to be eaten by a bear as you were lifted off the floor into the air.
When Doflamingo put you back on your feet, you stopped screaming. You blinked rapidly, confused.
Doflamingo chuckled at you. Giolla and Diamante stared at you like you were the weirdo.
“It’s fine,” said Doflamingo, chuckling. He stood up from his seat on the orange settee. His full height overtook the room, making you shiver. You stepped to the side, out of his way. “It’s better if we’re all there to check the loot.”
What loot? you thought instantly, worry starting to gnaw at you. Was Doflamingo about to raid the island he anchored at while you were stuck trying on extravagant clothes?
The juxtaposition of carnage and extravagance didn’t miss you. It made you feel sick.
Doflamingo put his hand on your shoulder. His palm completely covered your shoulder, his long, gloved fingers resting on your collarbone, his thumb brushing against the space where your shoulder curved into your neck.
You froze up, body stiffening.
“Be nice with Giolla,” Doflamingo advised you, voice firm and smooth at the same time, careful in its croon. “If you two aren’t done by lunch, the servants will bring the food here.”
By some miracle, despite your clenching stomach filled with fear upon the enveloping contact of his massive gloved hand around your shoulder, you managed to process the words, and nodded.
“Wait…” You blinked, whipping your head up at him, nearly giving yourself a muscle cramp in your neck. “Done by lunch? Isn’t lunch five hours away?”
Doflamingo merely chuckled in response to your question, which didn’t bode anything good.
“Yeah,” he said. Then, he moved, and what he did next surprised you.
Doflamingo squatted down to be at your height. His legs were spread open, surrounding you from both left and right. His long arms rested across the length of his legs, his hands hanging loosely down his knees. One moment, your surroundings were open. Now, you were surrounded by Doflamingo from all sides except from behind.
His face was still taller than you, but only a few inches now. At this amount of closeness, you truly realised how big and wide his body was. You were completely enveloped by Doflamingo’s body without his body touching yours, barring anyone from seeing you over his shoulder.
You blinked, baffled and confused. You’d never experienced this sort of position. Not even Rosinante squatted to be at your height during your marriage and relationship, so seeing Doflamingo this way shocked you.
He looked friendly from this height, and completely non-threatening. He gave you a smug smile.
Forget it. He is threatening.
“So I’m going to need something to keep me going,” he said. His large hand reached out, and your body flinched on instinct. Doflamingo ignored it, cupping your chin between his thumb and index finger.
Your heart sunk at his expectant look and sharp, large smile. From that look, you knew what he wanted. He wanted you to kiss his cheeks again. Not only that… with the intent look on his face, he was probably going to reciprocate at the same time and kiss you on the cheeks.
In front of people.
You swallowed heavily.
You took a bracing breath, and leaned toward him. When Doflamingo leaned right in, you felt a spike of anxiety in your gut.
Your lips landed on his large right cheek, while his own much larger mouth pressed to your right cheek. Your lips landed on his left cheek, and his own on your left cheek, too, his massive mouth covering your entire cheek.
After that was done, Doflamingo wrapped his long arms around your back, and pulled you to him, hugging you.
You croaked like a frog being suffocated, gasping. Your breasts pressed against Doflamingo’s broad chest. You felt the smooth fabric of his merlot suit, and were enveloped by the alluring, pleasant smell of sandalwood from his cologne. Your head rested awkwardly on his thick, muscular shoulder.
“Hm?” asked Diamante, mouth full of chocolate chips cookies from the orange plate he held in his large palm. “Oh, sure…”
Giolla sighed wistfully.
Emboldened by Giolla’s comments, Doflamingo pressed a few more kisses at the top of your head, which made Giolla squeal about how cute the two of you are - again.
You rolled your eyes.
After Doflamingo was done, and still after another ten seconds didn’t release you from his arms, you started squirming in his coddling hug, trying to get free.
In return to that, Doflamingo simply pulled you closer to himself, tighter, until the entire warmth of his body enveloped you like hot weather on a summer day.
“Let go…” you whispered quietly to him, “this is embarrassing…”
In return, Doflamingo hugged you tighter, your breasts pressing even further into his chest. Your cheeks flushed a deeper red, the blush spreading across your face.
Now Doflamingo was just doing it to embarrass you.
“Come on, Doflamingo… let go…” you whispered, growing more and more desperate and ashamed by the closeness by the passing second.
“Not until you hug me back,” said Doflamingo simply, not bothering to whisper like you were. You could feel the smile on his face in his smug, pleased voice.
You restrained a sigh.
“Doflamingo -” you started, ready to argue.
“Hug,” insisted the three-meter tall pink menace of your life stubbornly, his warm breath caressing your neck, the fluffy spikes of his hair tickling your cheek and ear.
You sighed, long and exhausted. You lifted your arms, and wrapped them around the middle of his massive back, feeling the firm muscles beneath your palms under his red suit. You pressed your hands flat across his back, and gave him a squeeze, leaning into him.
Doflamingo squeezed you closer to him, resting his cheek on your shoulder, his heavy head a straining weight on your shoulder.
After giving you another squeeze in his massive, enveloping arms and hands, Doflamingo let you go. You let him go, stepping away from him.
Grinning and satisfied, Doflamingo stood back up, and turned to Giolla.
“I leave my sister-in-law in your skilled hands, Giolla.” Doflamingo said, smiling.
“Don’t you worry, Young Master!” assured Giolla. “I’ll take care of missus!”
Doflamingo chuckled. “Glad to hear it.”
You tried to sneakily back away into the exit, but you bumped into Diamante’s leg. You flinched like a cat. Diamante tapped you on the shoulder with his knee. To him, it was a tap. To you, it was a shove.
You stumbled forward, away from the only exit. You whirled to glare at Diamante. Much like with Doflamingo, you had to crane your neck back to do it. In return to your glare, Diamante merely gave you an arrogant, ugly smile, and tossed another large chocolate chip cookie into his massive, ugly mouth.
You wished he would choke on it.
“As much as I’d love to stick around and watch you try out Giolla’s designs, work calls.” said Doflamingo, putting his gloved hands in his pockets, leaning over you with another of his arrogant smiles that made you want to punch him. “So I’ll see you later.”
Doflamingo chuckled at your frowning face. He turned away from you, clearly done with you for now.
“Let’s go, Diamante.” commanded Doflamingo, sauntering to the doors, the pink feathers of his coat swaying with his every move.
“Have fun, ladies.” said Diamante.
He tipped his hat to you and Giolla, then strutted off after Doflamingo, closing the doors behind himself. After a moment, you heard his and Doflamingo’s laughter through the closed doors down the hallway.
Bastards.
“Alright!” said Giolla energetically, clapping her nail-polished fingers together with a loud clap, making you jump, startled. “Let's get to work, zamasu!”
“Wait -” you went to argue, but Giola's tall figure rendered you numb as she took a grasp of your shoulders and steered you forward. “Uwah!”
“Young Master already picked the designs and fabrics! He has such a wonderful sense of fashion!”
“Great,” you said after a moment. “Right. Great.”
Twenty-four hours into your new life with your brother-in-law, and you were already ready for a vacation from him and his ‘family’ both.
You watched Giolla grab rolls of black fabrics.
“Are those all…” you started, unsure.
“Indeed!” confirmed Giolla brightly. “Young Master mentioned you’d want black clothes, so he requested for quite a batch.”
The words shocked you. Your eyes widened, your lips parting. There were so many rolls of black fabric hung on the wall, as thick as Pica’s arms, that you were blinded by them. All were different in texture; cotton, velvet, satin, silk, furs. Varying shades of black you didn’t know existed.
You reached your hand forward, touching a long meter of unfolded black satin. You nearly flinched your hand back at the surprising softness of it, fearing you’d ruin the incredible textile quality with your probing touch. They were all high quality. And high-quality fabric was expensive. It was hard to imagine how much money Doflamingo spent.
And all of these fabrics were for you?
“You look surprised,” said Giolla, giggling, taking your horrifying disbelief for a positive reaction. “Young Master isn’t as callous as you think of him, zamasu. He’s quite the emotional man.”
“First, let’s take your measurements,” said Giolla. At your paled face, she waved off your worries. “We’re both women, dear. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
You gulped.
Not wanting to risk getting Giolla mad, you went into the changing room and stripped down to your underwear. You stepped out, and Giolla took you by the hand gently and led you to a small raised platform in front of a tall mirror.
Much to your relief, Giolla didn’t take much time to take your measurements, and didn’t comment on anything. At her instruction, you stepped down from the platform, your bare feet touching the thick fur of the colorful carpet spread across the floor. Giolla went to one of the hanging poles from which many dresses of all colors, length, fabrics and style hung, each on their own hanger.
Giolla picked out at least twenty of them.
“You have twenty finished designs to try!” announced Giolla happily, while your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. “Come on, missus! To the changing room, zamasu!”
Much like a deer in the headlights, all you managed to do was take the first two dresses Giolla gave you, and headed back to the changing room.
You started thinking that with all the ideas Giolla had, you might need a bigger closet.
Over the next hour, you changed between dresses and stood still for Giolla to make adjustments to the finished dresses and other clothing you started trying out, using you as her perfect mannequin. You didn’t argue, and didn’t talk very much. Giolla had no problem with that. She talked enough for the both of you, telling you about the fabrics of the clothing you wore, talking about some of the paintings on the walls, and her favorite books.
It helped you to relax a little, the anxious clench in your gut and the tension in your shoulders dissipating slightly.
After that first hour. Giolla must have noticed you were growing tired of all the standing and constant changing, so she instructed you to take a seat on a red couch while she made some finishing touches to another dress.
You were currently in a long, dark purple silk dress with a slit on the right leg, comfortable on the plush couch you were sure was a couch you saw in a designer magazine. It all felt rather extravagant yet ridiculous.
“Are there any jackets you’re making me?” you asked, resting your face on your hand. Not to look elegant, but to try to rest in some way before having to stand again.
“Of course!” said Giolla brightly. “Leather jackets, denim jackets, shearling jackets, coats. There’s even -”
Giolla stopped herself with a gasp, hovering her manicured hand over her mouth. “Oh, but I will not say! I must not say! I’ll ruin it for you! Young Master will be very displeased if I do that!”
“Ooooookay,” you said slowly, more confused than curious. Whatever jacket or coat Doflamingo had Giolla working on for you, you simply hoped it wasn’t your own feather coat. Knowing Doflamingo, he’d get you a tri-colored feather coat or something.
“Is there something… low profile I can wear?” you asked.
“What for, zamasu?” asked Giolla, confused.
It didn’t surprise you that the Donquixote Pirates didn’t think much of low profile outfits. They liked wearing whatever they wanted. If their outfits didn’t turn heads and make people whisper, then they probably weren’t good enough.
They wore such over-the-top, colorful clothing that normal people would think they’re a circus. Except a circus can’t burn your town to the ground, steal everything you own and kill you.
Then again, many people in the world wear clothes that make no sense. On a summer day, you saw Vice Admiral Garp off duty once; he was wearing blue summer shorts with colorful fish patterns, and a short-sleeved button-up shirt that nearly blinded your eyes with all the colors on it.
Rosinante once bought blue capri pants with red hearts all over them. They were the worst thing you ever saw in your life. It wasn’t that you didn’t like capri pants. Rosinante could definitely pull them off and look good in them.
That is, as long as they’re a single, solid color.
You burned those atrocious pants the next day. If you didn’t, you would start thinking of divorcing him.
A shudder of fear went down your spine when you remembered seeing a few capri pants in Doflamingo’s closet. You wouldn’t be surprised if Rosinante got the idea by watching Doflamingo wear capri pants.
“Just...” you said, choosing your words carefully. “Something casual, you know. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Missus,” said Giolla in a careful, yet firm tone. “You aren’t very good at lying.”
Were you that obvious? Pretending and faking facial expressions was your husband’s secret skill, not yours. You were always told you were far too easily readable, even when the emotions weren’t on your face. You were too honest for your own good.
“I just... want something normal.” you confessed.
“The dresses I have in the closet, and the dresses you showed me... They’re all so...” You didn’t want to say over the top, dramatic, or anything like that. Despite the fact that was exactly what the dresses were. “Elegant.”
“How often do you dress formally, missus?” asked Giolla.
“For work, usually,” you said honestly. “I can barely walk in very high heels, though.”
“What do you usually wear when you’re relaxing?” asked Giolla.
“Shirts and pants,” you said promptly, not thinking very much of it.
When Giolla gave you an expectant look, you realised that was far too vague for her — she wanted to know the specifics.
You rubbed at your cheek with your finger awkwardly, feeling like you’d been rather rude by not being more specific. Giolla was a stylist and a clothes designer; vague terms weren’t going to be enough for her to get a proper image of your go-to clothes.
“Uh... Blouses and summer dresses sometimes...” you said. “I thought… maybe I could get a normal jacket. A windbreaker with a hoodie or… something.”
Giolla stared at you for a moment. “This feels a bit much for you, doesn’t it, zamasu?”
You smiled, but fought not to cry. For some reason, a swell of emotion descended on you upon those words. Not because they hurt, or offended you, but because they reminded you of what you’d lost - normalcy. Your right to pick your own clothes.
“You could -” you started, voice cracking. You paused, swallowed down, and started over. “You could say that.”
Or maybe, what was normal for you was absolutely unacceptable for Doflamingo. It was very clear he held high standards for things he bought. It was clear in everything around you: the carpets, the furniture, the wood, the decorations, the lighting, the jewelry, the hygiene products, the food, the hired help, the rooms and... The clothes.
“I don’t think a windbreaker would be out of reason,” said Giolla. Your eyes widened. “I’m already designing you more winter jackets and coats. I might as well add another one to the design sheet.”
“Really?” you asked, eyes widening. A smile bloomed across your face, and you beamed with hope.
“Well, look at that! What a beautiful smile you have, missus!” said Giolla, delighted by your smile. “Now I simply have to do it! Let me get my sketchbook!”
Giolla got off the podium, humming a song as she went to one of the shelves, searching through thick sketchbooks.
“There it is!” she said happily, taking an orange sketchbook from the pile. She placed it on the table, took a quill and a bottle of ink from one of the cups, opened the first empty page of the sketchbook (which was close to the end), and started drawing, much to your surprise and awe.
Within minutes, Giolla was done, and she walked over to you excitedly.
“How about this, missus?” asked Giolla, turning the sketchbook towards you to show you the sketch.
It was a detailed sketch of a windbreaker jacket, with a hoodie.
“That looks amazing!” you said, smiling. Your smile fell slightly when you saw the outline of Doflamingo’s jolly roger on the left side of the jacket’s chest.
“It’s a very… simple jacket.” Giolla said mindfully. It was clear she caught on that you didn’t like the symbol being on the jacket, but tried her best to explain her reasoning to you. “Young Master is more likely to approve it if it has a bit of style. He has very high standards.”
By simple, you knew what Giolla meant to say without saying it, mindful of hurting your feelings. The jacket was ordinary. Something commoners wore during winter seasons. Something you’d see people wearing while going on a hike. It didn’t stand out, didn’t show the wealth of the wearer or intended to make jaws drop at the sheer style and fashion of it. It didn’t make people move out of the way.
But… you liked it.
It wasn’t ideal, and you were sure the rest of your outfit would be put over the jacket to conceal its “boring” factor. But if that was what it took for you to get to wear it, then that was a sacrifice you were willing to make.
Doflamingo can put as many of his symbols on the cloth of the clothes you wear as he wants. But it will never reach your heart.
You tried about ten more dresses and were starting to gather up a sweat.
“How about we take a break, zamasu?” suggested Giolla.
“Yeah,” you said, silently relieved. You felt like you were about to pass out.
“You can have some cookies and lay down on the sofa if you want, missus. I’ll have some drinks brought in. What would you like?”
“Water,” you rasped, walking to the orange sofa and collapsing on it in the most polite way possible.
Giolla chuckled. “Water it is, zamasu.”
You grabbed some of the large chocolate chip cookies from the orange plate - the cookies were the size of your palm. Once you bit into them, you were surprised how delicious they were.
Within minutes, the servants delivered a large jug of water with two glasses and some sandwiches. You thanked them as they served the drinks on the coffee table.
You poured your glass fully and gulped it all down.
Giolla handed you the sketchbook, insisting you look at the other designs she made for you. It started somewhere in the middle. You started flipping through the pages, amazed by Giolla’s skills.
You liked the design of the shearling coat. It was simple, with black skin, a grey sheepskin lining on the collar, along the zipper and cuffs. There was another similar one, except this one was a black sheepskin coat, covering the area of your upper thighs. It was a double-breasted one, with deep front pockets.
You turned to the next page, nibbling absentmindedly on the chocolate chip cookie, careful not to get crumbs on the couch. There were designs for springwear and summer wear, too.
And dresses.
So many dresses.
“Jeez, Giolla, this is a lot of clothes…” you whispered in awe.
“Not at all, zamasu. Some are designs I made with Baby 5 a while ago. She likes clothes, the sweet thing. If only she’d be as firm with people as she is with picking clothes.” Giolla shook her head disappointedly, giving an overly dramatic sigh. “She’s too good to strangers.”
At one point, you came to the end of the sketchbook. You noticed through all the designs of the winter clothes that there were no coats longer than knee-length. You wanted at least one coat that would completely cover your legs.
“Giolla, can I sketch one?” you asked.
Giolla lit up. “Of course, zamasu! Let me get you a quill and some ink.”
“Thank you,” you said.
Giolla returned with a bottle of full ink and a quill. It was nice to hold a quill again. Most of your job consisted of writing down translations on the parchment, and having the sense of familiarity by holding the quill soothed you.
You dipped the quill into the ink bottle, and started sketching out an outline of a long coat with wiggly lines. It took you about fifteen minutes, and it was nowhere as good as the other sketches Giolla made, but it was good enough.
“What about this?” you asked, showing it to Giolla, who was delighted to look at what you designed.
“What an interesting coat, zamasu!” said Giolla.
You’d sketched out a long winter coat that reached all the way down to the shoes, with a slightly fluffy outline resembling sheep skin. It had a high collar, and you were satisfied with how warm it looked, exactly how you imagined it. You circled the spots where Doflamingo’s jolly roger could be placed: on the hem, on the left breast, and on the side of the shoulder on the left sleeve. You even sketched out a pattern of strings on the bottom reaching to the would-be jolly roger on the bottom. You refused to draw Doflamingo’s jolly roger. It was only a sketch, anyway.
“What’s the material?” asked Giolla.
“Fleece,” you replied.
“I do love how it looks like sheep wool. And the high collar.” said Giolla. “Very mysterious.”
“Yeah. And it’s very fluffy. My dad had one like it. Marine-issued, I think.” You chuckled fondly at the memory. “It was so cool. He carried Kikoku on his right shoulder all the time with it, too.”
Giolla hummed. “May I make it for you?”
For the second time that day, your eyes lit up with hope and happiness.
“Really?” you asked.
“Of course! It’d be a shame not to! It’s a wonderful design, missus!” said Giolla. “How about we add some primrose petals to it? Give it a bit of your touch, too.”
Giolla took the quill from your hands, and what took you minutes, she did in seconds, with far more precision and detail.
She showed you the result.
Petals of primroses floated in between the outline of the strings shaped like large tiger stripes coming toward the circle representing the jolly roger on the hem of the coat. It looked like they were being carried by the wind with the strings. It looked beautiful.
“We’ll make the jolly roger and the strings cerise, and the petals yellow. You want the coat to be oil black, or perhaps a charcoal black? Oooh, maybe a dark brown? Of course, we’ll need heavyweight fleece for the cold weather…”
You smiled, fighting off tears. It was nice to know you got to pick at least one thing you’d wear.
“Some dark brown with a shade of black,” you said, taking another chocolate chip cookie from the orange plate on the coffee table in front of the settee. “I’ll let you decide. You’re better at colors.”
You stretched out your legs across the floor, along with stretching your arms high over your head, arching your spine, stretching your back to its full capacity. “I think I’m ready to get back to trying on clothes. What’s the next one?”
Giolla beamed. “This next one is the Young Master’s favorite! It’s wonderful, missus! He has excellent taste!”
You immediately felt slightly apprehensive. Knowing Doflamingo, this dress was going to be extremely revealing and sexy.
You decided not to despair too much about it. Giolla handed the merlot red dress - of course it’s merlot - to you and you headed to the changing room. The silk was luxurious, soft and smooth under your fingers. It had halter straps rising over each breast and wrapping around the back of the neck, leaving your shoulders, arms, collarbone and upper back bare. The front neckline was completely revealing, the deep, plunging V-neckline extending down the center of your décolletage, stretching across your stomach and ending slightly above your waist.
The sight of your own body in such a revealing front made you flush as red as the dress.
Yeah. Pervert. The only thing keeping this dress up on your body are hopes, prayers, and your breasts. Despite it all, it was beautiful. Gorgeous.
You wished Rosinante could have seen you in it. Your poor husband would probably pass out.
Your face paled when you saw the outline of your breasts when you turned for Giolla to make more measurements.
“You can see my breasts if you look at an angle!” you cried. That made Giolla burst out into giggles.
To make your point, you turned at an angle, and saw the curve of your breasts. You shrieked in a panic, pressing down on the silk, on the edge of tears. “See! You can see the curve! What am I, an escort?!”
Giolla continued giggling. “You look beautiful, missus.”
“I look like I can fuck Sir Crocodile and boast about it.” you said in disbelief, blinking at your own reflection, wondering how you got here.
“Don’t say that in front of the Young Master,” said Giolla, giggling harder. “He’ll get worried.”
“Crocodile isn’t even my type!” you cried defensively. “This dress is way out of my league!”
“Nonsense, missus.” said Giolla sternly. “It is very much in your league, you merely have to get used to wearing it. It fits you perfectly. We’ll shorten the neckline straps so they can’t actually see your nipples from an angle, but we’ll leave the curves. Their own imagination will ruin them.”
Your face turned white. “They can see my -”
You let out a squeak, and pressed your hands over the silk on your breasts, firmly pressing it to your skin.
“Yes, missus. Unless you want to start a war in the ballroom and that Young Master has to kill a few hundred men to defend your honor, I’d say we do tighten that part, as you say.” Giolla giggled like a schoolgirl. “Unless you’d like to start a fight to the death, zamasu! That would be fun for the Young Master!”
You huffed, unsurprised by how much Doflamingo enjoyed violence. “Of course it would…”
You didn’t like the thought of Doflamingo killing people.
When you turned and saw the back of the dress, your face paled again.
“That’s… the back…?” you asked hoarsely.
The back might as well not exist, much like the front. It was a deep V-shape, revealing all of your upper and middle back, starting to narrow the amount of revealed skin as it descended, ending right above your waist.
“What you wear reflects on the Young Master’s reputation and image,” said Giolla, fixing up the merlot dress, taking more measurements with the measuring tape, placing a few pins at the waistline. “What a woman wears shows how well the man cares and provides for her.”
Cares, huh… you thought, staring at the tall mirror in front of you as Giolla made the adjustments to the dress to better fit your body. The longer you looked at yourself in the mirror, the more you wanted to scoff at the ridiculousness of it all. What a joke.
You didn’t need to be cared for by a man like Doflamingo. You were perfectly cared for by Rosinante, and even without Rosinante, you weren’t a helpless child who needed help with everything. You could take care of yourself.
So what if Doflamingo had more money? What if Doflamingo bought you more stylish, expensive clothes? You didn’t care about such things. You weren’t impressed by such things. You were happy in your casual summer dresses, shirts, pants and blouses. You were happy with the two silk dresses for formal events in your wardrobe in yours and Rosinante’s house.
Of course, as a wife of a marine, whenever you went out in public with Rosinante — especially if it was a formal event in Marineford he attended as a marine commander — you put effort into your appearance, dressing yourself up to a standard for a ball or a gala. The last thing you wanted to do was give a bad impression, or embarrass Rosinante — not that he much cared about looks. However, he was always openly grateful for the effort you put in on those nights, verbally expressing it. Whenever you two attended a more formal event and you dressed up, he continuously flattered you the entire night, making you blush over and over again with his open gawking.
You wanted to put effort into your looks for those special moments. You wanted to wear dresses for those events, not only for yourself, but for Rosinante.
Because you loved him. Because you cared about him. You cared about your image when seen with him, and you cared about his image to his supervisors, too. Rosinante might not have been able to spend half a billion berries for a one-of-a-kind, personally designed dress, but his care shone through with the gowns he did buy you, which were the height of beautiful in your eyes. Because they were bought with your preferences in mind. Because Rosinante spent six months saving up for them. Because Rosinante cared about you, in the truest sense of the word.
Objectively, all the dresses you were trying on now were hundreds, thousands times more beautiful than the two beautiful dresses you did own. They were the sort noble women wore. The sort of dress royal women wore. The sort of women who didn’t blink when they spent 100,000,000 berries on it, because maybe the money came from another’s pocket.
Yet… none of these dresses were beautiful to you the way the blue dress — the only clothing item Doflamingo let you keep from your actual wardrobe, the one Rosinante gifted you — was.
This wasn’t about care. This was about making a statement. Sending a message woven in silk, colored in deep merlot.
“You’re mine now. I decide what you wear. You get to wear black not because you want to, but because I’m allowing you.”
You were like jewelry. Jewelry Doflamingo likes showing off. Jewelry only Doflamingo can have.
Like a… like a…
Pet.
A pet human.
You smiled bitterly.
Doflamingo really is a Celestial Dragon.
Finished with the pins, Giolla stepped back, looking at you expectantly, with no little amount of bubbling excitement.
“What do you think, missus?” she asked.
You looked at the mirror; you looked gorgeous. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Like a noble woman from a rich country. Any other woman would be flattered and flustered at the mere extravagance of the clothes.
“I think I’m going to put barbeque sauce in my brother-in-law’s pancakes,” you said calmly, smiling menacingly.
Giolla laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes, zamasu!”
A small chuckle escaped you. Even if Giolla was a pirate, she was definitely better company than your brother-in-law.
A/N: Thank you for reading! 💕❤️🫶🏻🦩
Art in the chapter:
1) Doflamingo reading the newspapers
2) Doflamingo kneeling in front of Reader
Reader's Merlot Dress: Front Style + Shape + Straps, Color + Back +Trail, Another Angle Pic
tags: Doflamingo x reader, no specific p/ns used, phone sex, masterbation, doffy is a warning in itself, wet dream, manipulation/gaslighting/blackmail, again it's doflamingo,
kinktober day 11: phone sex
!!minors dni!!
This was embarrassing - no humiliating. There was no right reason for him to be waking up in an almost cold sweat from a dream about you of all people. His cock throbbed in his pants, palming it to relieve some of the ache and hopefully take his mind off of the dream replaying in his head. But it didn't help, all he could picture was your greedy little mouth taking him down, the vibrations of your moans around his shaft that he swore felt real, like you were here and doing his bidding.
Doffy didn't hate you per se, but he didn't enjoy the way you saw him nothing more than a person and not the divine King and celestial dragon that he was. Then again, that mindset had him itching to get you in his bed, bend you to his will like he did everyone else, possibly without the use of his strings.
Scoffing, throwing the pile of papers sitting in his lap, he rose from the chaste he lounged on, stomping over to his desk where the den den mushi was, barely hesitating in grabbing the receiver. You didn't answer after a couple of rings, the line going dead and irritation rising hot in his veins. Doflamingo tried again, curling his lips into a smile when the other line picked up, the rustling of what sounded like bedsheets sending a twitch to his painfully hard cock.
"What?"
"Did I wake you?" Pulling the desk chair out enough for him to slide in, extend his long legs and loosening the waistband of his trousers, giving himself a smidge of relief.
"Obviously, what do you want?"
"Your help." Purring into the receiver, letting out a sigh as his palm stroked the bulge in his briefs, the tingling sensation of just his own touch running through his body.
"No. Goodnig-"
"I wouldn't, unless you want the Navy to learn your current whereabouts and supposed "progression" with this unauthorized investigation into Dressrosa you're doing." Cutting you off before you could end the call, laughing under his breath knowing the little blackmail he had on you would work in his favor.
Doffy smiled harder at the exasperated sigh you let out, the further rustling on your end, indicating you were at least sitting up now. He hadn't bothered waiting for your answer, pulling his leaking cock out to grip the base, letting out a long sigh. A bead of pre-cum trickled down the underside of his thick cock, glistening in the low light of the lamp in the corner of his office.
"Now," Beginning in a low voice, though unsure of how to ask for your assistance. Truthfully, Doflamingo wasn't sure this was even going to work, would your voice be enough for him to get off? Or would he have find a way to get you over here and put that smart mouth of yours to use.
"Is this going to take all night?"
"Only if you let it." Sneering back, stroking his closed fist around the base of his cock, humming low and imagining you down on your knees between the chair and desk, waiting so patiently for him to slip the head of his cock past your lips.
"And what exactly am I helping you with?' Sounding very much annoyed and tired, like this was the last thing you wanted to be woken up for and Doffy knew that, and it somehow made this all the more fun, for him at least.
"Just a little problem, you so happened to cause." Speaking through closed teeth as he watches his own hand move upwards on his shaft, coming to squeeze around the flushed head of his cock, craving the feel of a smaller hand, or better yet a mouth.
"Elaborate on said problem so I can go back to bed Doflamingo." Grunting disapprovingly at the way he worked around giving you a proper answer, not knowing how the mere irritation in your tone got his body running hotter at the sound.
"Mm where's the fun in that?" Forcing his tone to remain unwavering, despite the increased ache and throb from his cock, needing you to keep talking, not even caring about what but it was better than his own imagination.
You went silent for a moment, maybe two, simple breathing into your receiver and doing more for Doflamingo on the other end who left you unaware of his situation for now. He used the low steady breaths he listened to, to imagine the breaths you would take to even out your breathing when holding his cock in your throat. He had yet to experience such a thing with you, though he wanted to, it was going to take "convincing" on his end. Which he had no problem with, the heavenly demon had his varied ways when it came to getting what he wanted.
"I just need your opinion,"
"On what?" Grounding out, teeth clenched for the fact that even if you hung up, Doffy would just call again.
"if you were here, in my office, down on your knees, would you do what I asked?" Airy words filtered into his receiver, hips twitching at his own words and the same idea of you being present in his office, spurring the arousal more.
"Huh? What the hell-" Stopping mid-sentence, causing Doflamingo to abruptly pause his hand working up and down on his cock, heart beating out of his chest with excitement. You figured it out, such a smart little thing you were.
"You called me to get off didn't you?"
Unable to differentiate the tone in your words, hints of irritation, amusement and shame mixing altogether as you voiced the realization. Doflamingo chuckled low, thumbing over his leaking slit, smearing the pre around the angry tip.
"I did," Sneaking in a groan as he gathered his thoughts, picturing you flushed at the sound and frozen where you sat on your bed. "So for the sake of your reputation, help the young master out."
"Hah! Use your fucking imagination for all you care."
Annoyance washed over him almost instantly, snarling under his breath and squeezing his hand impossibly hard around his own cock. Did you really not care about your career to brush him off like that? Obviously putting too much faith in your intelligence there for a second.
"Believe me I am, but do this for me and I'll put in a good word to the admirals about a promotion, I know that's what you've been working towards. Why you came to Dressrosa, why you're so convinced there's something deeper going on here." Twisting the truth only he and his family were aware of as a way to tangle you into his grasp, get you to bring him relief. You were bold, maybe too bold in uncovering the truth but Doflamingo was smarter than you and knew how to dangle what you wanted with the promise of receiving it. He didn't care, as long as he sat pretty and got what he wanted. He wouldn't let your little investigations go too far into uncovering the truth, but he would have fun with it.
"Now, answer my question." Resuming the tight strokes up and down from his own hand, watching more and more pre leak from the slit and trail down the underside of his thick cock.
"Does it involve my mouth?" Testing the water with your own question, Doflamingo allowing it for the sake of hearing more of your voice.
"Perhaps, could involve your hands." Biting back another moan at the idea of one or both of your hands moving up and down on his dick, struggling to wrap just one all the way around.
"Then maybe."
He shivered at the sudden seductive drop in your voice, how smooth and easy the words rolled off of your tongue into his ear, the slight shutter down his back.
"Does the young master need a throat to fuck? Is that what this is about?"
Shit. He wasn't expecting that, jolting in the desk chair and releasing a few sporadic breaths, increasing the speed of his fist around his cock. He could hear you laugh on the other end, softly hum back at him that could be mistaken as a moan, taking anything from you at this point.
"Yes, precisely." Tittering a small laugh through his words, slouching in the chair, raising his hips in the air as his fist worked solely around the head.
"Awh, well it's a shame that no one is there to help. Is the young master too afraid to ask for some?"
Oh now you were taunting, which mixed the heat and annoyance in his gut rapidly. Doflamingo could have anyone he wanted at any time, asking for help wasn't the issue, never was for him. What he wanted was you, for no good reason other than he could.
"No, there's just a preference for someone." Growling back, bringing his hand to his mouth to spit, needing the lubrication to ease the constant skin rubbing on skin.
"Oh? I'm assuming it's me?"
"Stop acting dumb." Spitting back to your coo of a question, tired of you beating around the bush, past the point of needing to hear your voice and needing you to basically talk him through it, but not willing to admit that.
That same devious laughed echoed in his ear, urging his hand to work faster to bring him to that relief he was seeking. The schlick sound of the added lubrication to his cock had made it to your end, pulling another taunting hum.
"You want my mouth stretched around your cock huh? Hit the back of my throat as you greedily fuck my mouth?"
His body shot forward, violently gripping the receiver of the den den mushi while simultaneously pumping his cock furiously. Doffy groaned low, trying to stifle and hid the effect your words had on him, but also not caring as much as he would've.
"Exactly, put you in your place once and for all." Snarling back with curled lips, enjoying the play on words and how easy it was.
"It'll take more than that, but I'll let you have your fantasies."
Fuck you were so irritating and arousing all at once, but it was working, feeling himself getting closer and closer to his much needed release. If only he were shoving his cock impossibly deep into your mouth, holding it there and watching the tears brim in your eyes and roll down your cheeks. God it was such craving, amplified times ten on the impulse to call you and seek out your help.
"You'll swallow all my cum like you're suppose to, not let a drop go to waste." Looking down at the furious movements of his hand through hooded eyes, teething his bottom lip and slowly teetering on the edge.
"Only for you."
Doflamingo audibly groaned at the sudden and new breathlessness of your words, like you were beginning to enjoy this yourself, but he didn't care to ask or know, only focusing on himself.
"That's right, you'll do it all for me. Take my cock, swallow my cum, let me use you like how I know you want me to."
His head fell back on the top of the chair, rutting his hips into his own hand and panting, gasping for air as the euphoria ran hot in his veins, so so close.
"You're about to cum to the thought of your cum glistening on my lips aren't you?"
"Shut up, don't-"
"Watching me clean it with my tongue, gather the last of it and let you see me swallow, humming like an eager whore."
Shit he was close, unable to stop the whine slipping from his lips, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his own fist again. Just a little more, just a little more.
"C'mon, cum in your own hand to the thought of me, young master."
The heels of his shoes dug hopelessly into the ground, hips shooting into the air as ropes of cum shot into the air and into his hand, unable to help the deep groans of relief and movements from his lower body. Your voice fell silent on the other end, barely noticing until the familiar annoyed sigh came through.
"Is that all you needed?"
Relaxing in the chair, admiring the stained hand before his face, Doflamingo chuckled low. "Yes, your assistance was much appreciated."
"Don't get used to it." Biting back and waiting a cautionary second prior to ending the call, Doflamingo laughing to himself still as he placed the receiver back on the den den mushi. Whether you liked it or not, this was going to be a reoccurrence for how ever long he wanted it to be, until he could hold you in his grasp, make you his plaything.
The sun is just starting to set when you step onto the deck.
The sky is painted in soft gold and fading orange, the ocean reflecting it in slow, shifting waves. The Polar Tang sits steady near the island, quiet for once.
You rest your hands lightly against the railing. Waiting.
He’s not late. If anything, he’d be early. So the fact that you’re the one here first… it makes your chest feel a little too tight.
Footsteps sound behind you, and you don’t turn right away.
“…You’re early.”
You smile slightly.
“…So are you.”
Then you glance over your shoulder.
And there he is, Trafalgar Law.
Something about him is different. Not obvious, but there. Less distant. Less guarded. Like he tried, without wanting it to look like he did.
He steps closer, stopping beside you. Close, but not touching. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The village isn’t far. Small, quiet, tucked between the shoreline and a line of low hills.
You walk in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other. Both of you trying not to smile too much.
The bookstore café is easy to miss.
A narrow storefront, warm light spilling through the windows, shelves packed tightly with books that look like they’ve been there for years.
You stop without thinking.
“…This is your ‘place’?”
“…Yes.”
You glance at him, a small smile forming.
“You took me to a bookstore.”
“…You read.”
“…I do.”
“…Then it’s appropriate.”
You shake your head, amused, and step inside.
“…I like it.”
A pause.
“…Good.”
The air inside is warm. Quiet. Soft conversation hums in the background, the faint clink of cups, the comforting smell of tea and paper.
You drift toward the shelves without thinking.
Law follows. Not hovering. Just… there.
“…You’re going straight for fiction,” he notes.
You glance back at him.
“…And you’re not?”
“…No.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess, medical texts? History?”
“…Occasionally.”
He pauses near a lower shelf. Reaches down and pulls something free.
“…This is… my guilty pleasure.”
You step closer, looking down at the cover.
“…Sora, Warrior of the Sea?”
You look up at him.
“…You’re serious.”
A pause.
“…Yes.”
You study him for half a second.
Then you smile. Not teasing. Just… interested.
“…Tell me about it.”
That catches him off guard.
“…What.”
“You said it’s your guilty pleasure. Everyone has one,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “So what’s it about?”
He doesn’t try to deflect for once. Doesn’t brush it off.
Instead.
“…It’s about a marine soldier who fights Germa 66. The structure is predictable. Clear conflict. Clear resolution.”
You lean slightly closer, glancing down at the page he’s opened.
“…That’s it?”
“…No.”
A pause. Then, quieter
“…He always does what he says he will.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest soften.
“…You like that.”
“…Yes.”
You nod slightly.
“…I get that.”
He glances at you.
“…You do.”
“Yeah.”
You shift just a little closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his.
“…Read it to me.”
Another pause, but he does.
And you listen. Actually listen.
And somewhere between the lines, between the way he talks about it, you realize you’re not really focused on the story anymore.
You’re focused on him.
The way his voice lowers slightly when he explains something.
The way he gets just a little faster when he’s interested.
You smile faintly to yourself.
He’s… kind of adorable.
“…You’re smiling,” he says suddenly.
You blink, caught.
“…Am I?”
“…Yes.”
You glance back at the page, pretending to think.
“…I like it.”
“…The story?”
You look at him again.
“…Both.”
That stops him. Just for a second.
“…Both… noted.”
A little while later, you’re seated side-by-side. Tea between you. Books scattered across a table.
The quiet feels easy again.
“…Do you have a preference?” he asks.
“…For what?”
“…Fiction.”
You smile slightly.
“…I do.”
A small shift in his expression, almost teasing.
“…Well, tell me about it.”
You lean back just a little, thinking.
“…It’s an adventure romance,” you say. “The kind where they travel everywhere, get into situations they probably shouldn’t survive, and somehow still find time to fall in love along the way.”
He watches you.
“…That sounds inefficient.”
You laugh softly.
“It absolutely is.”
“…Then why do you like it?”
You shrug slightly.
“…Because it’s not predictable.”
“…And?”
“…Because they choose each other anyway.”
Your voice softens without you meaning it to.
“…Even when it’s messy. Or complicated. Or doesn’t make sense.”
You glance at him.
“…They don’t need guarantees.”
He goes quiet for a moment.
“…That’s risky.”
“…Yeah.”
“…And you prefer that.”
“…Sometimes.”
Another pause.
“…I can see the appeal.”
You smile.
“…Can you?”
“…Yes.”
The quiet returns. But this time it feels different. Closer. Like something shifted without either of you needing to say it out loud.
Law glances at you again, then at the books, and for once he doesn’t try to analyze it. Doesn’t try to break it down into variables or outcomes.
He just lets it exist.
Because somehow this moment, with you beside him, the quiet, the conversation, the way it all fits feels… right.
picking up the call or keep fucking you? it's such a dumb question when both can be done.
A/N: based on this request, it was a fun one, press f for mihawk tho. i'm sorry i'm late on my usual schedule, my neck hurts like hell. enjoy the meal.☆
CW: f!reader, established relationship, specific CW are listed under each character
WC: 2k
Sabo got you in a chokehold, one gloved hand squeezing your throat, the other gripping your waist almost painfully, making you gasp and cry out with each thrust. Your nails try to find a grip on his shoulders as he pounds into you hard enough to make the desk shake, blonde hair sticking to his forehead, eyes blazing with passion. “That’s it sweetheart, taking me like a good girl,” He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ve been thinking about fucking you all day… You have no idea how many times I jerked off imagining being inside you.”
Face flushed, mind invaded with dirty pictures of Sabo jerking off while working at the same desk you’re sitting on, your wrap your legs around his waist, letting out strangled moans. Even more when he yanks up your top and bra, exposing your breasts bouncing with each snap of his hips. Sabo didn’t even bother locking the door - anyone could just walk in and see him pounding into you with all his might. He doesn’t care, solely focused on tightening his grip around your throat, kneading your breast with his free hand, gloved fingers circling your nipple. “You-” The ring of the snail phone fills the room, interrupting the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin. “Just ignore it,” you mutter, knowing damn well he’s a professional when it comes to not picking up a call. But Sabo gives you a lovely smile that doesn’t match how rough he’s taking you. “Shh,” he warns, pulling out slightly and hitting your sweet spot hard enough to make your eyes roll back. He lets go of your breast, answering the call, keeping you impaled on his cock. “Koala,” he says calmly, his hips continuing his brutal pace without missing a beat. “What is it?”
You bite your lips, trying to muffle your moans, Sabo’s eyes flickering between your burning cheeks and the sight of his cock sliding in and out, glistening with your wetness. Mind hazy, you barely listen to the conversation, way too focused on trying to muffle your little whines. Koala, totally oblivious to the fact her boss is buried balls deep inside his girlfriend, is talking about mission details and reports and Sabo listens, his focus perfectly split between you and his duties. “Noted,” he replies softly with his usual warm tone. Your nails dig deeper into Sabo’s skin, your legs trembling when his hand lets go of your neck to find your clit, circling it lazily with his thumb. “Got it, understood,” he speaks softly, rubbing your clit lightly, feeling how your cunt spasms around him, the overwhelming pleasure building inside you slowly reaching the point of no return. He pulls out almost the way out before slamming right back inside you, making you cry out. “Shh.”
Desperate, biting your swollen lips, choking on your own moans, you let out other broken sounds. “Are you okay, Sabo?” He looks down at you and slides two gloved fingers inside your mouth, pushing them down your throat to silence you.
“Everything is fine, Koala,” Sabo replies with a lovely smile - as if you weren’t gagging and drooling on his glove, legs shaking uncontrollably. He continues to roll his hips, knowing you’re right on the edge, pussy clenching around him. “Keep me updated.”
“G-gonna..” you try to speak weakly and Sabo ends the call mid-sentence, not even giving Koala the chance to achieve her report. “Damn, you’re noisy, sweetheart. But I couldn’t let you cum in silence when you’re always making the prettiest sounds for me.” He murmurs, taking off his fingers to squeeze your throat again as he watches your face contort in pleasure. The second his thumb finds your swollen clit once more, orgasm hits you so hard your vision goes white for a second.
“You’re clenching around me like a vice,” Sabo whispers, your juice dripping down his length and on the desk, your cunt milking his cock so nice he inhales sharply. “Making a mess on my desk… that call really turned you on.”
ft.Sir Crocodile
CW: office sex,rough sex, domination, slight spanking, press f for mihawk
Crocodile’s rings dig into your hips, his strong grip holding you in place, keeping you full and stuffed while you squirm, nails clawing the wood of his desk. His golden hook tightens around your neck, choking you slightly each time his hips snap forward, his length disappearing inside your tight cunt. “Stay in place,” He commands firmly. “But you’re supposed to have a meeting with Mihawk, h-” You don’t even have the chance to achieve your sentence, Crocodile bends you harder over his desk, almost folding you in half, back arched in a mean angle. “And? I’m busy fucking my wife right now.” He says through gritted teeth, pulling out before slamming back in, his fat tip hitting your cervix. “And I don’t like hearing my wife saying someone else's name.”
His hand leaves your hip to spank your ass roughly, his rings making you whine in pain. Nonchalant, Crocodile takes a drag from his cigar, using the beautiful curve of the small of your back as an ashtray, watching how you jolt. Immediately, his fingers steady you again, his thick length sliding in and out you with wet, sloppy sounds, his heavy balls slapping against your flesh. “Always making the filthiest noises for me.”
Brutally, he releases your neck and your body goes limp, your face almost smashing against the desk, your breasts squishing against it. Papers scatter everywhere, the poor desk shaking and begging for mercy more than you.
Your high heels almost slip on the floor as you struggle to stay upright and Crocodile gives your ass another rough spank. “Behave,” he grunts as if he weren’t the one that pulled your shirt up enough to expose your breasts and yanked up your skirt, panties sloppily tossed to the side. “I’m going to break my ankles,” you whine but Crocodile doesn’t slow down. “The only thing that's going to break is you once I'll be done.” Your high heels continue to wobble precariously, and you hold onto the edge of the desk as you would hold to your dear life.
The snail phone that miraculously didn’t fall from the desk suddenly buzzes loudly and Crocodile doesn’t even pause his thrusts. “Pick it up,” he commands, his thick cock stretching you wide open. “Tell Mihawk I’ll be late.” He adds, taking another drag of his cigar before blowing the smoke out over your back.
“I can’t…” You wail between moans. “Answer. That is what a secretary is supposed to do.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation. Weakly, when you pick up the call, Mihawk immediately asks where Crocodile is, without bothering hiding the annoyance in his tone. “S-Sir Crocodile is…” You trail off, muffling a moan when his tip hits your sweet spot. “... busy.” You gasp, panting.
“Busy with what exactly?” Mihawk asks, suspicious. Unfazed, Crocodile slams inside you, his cock twitching. His golden hook cups your throat once more. “Tell him…” He murmurs softly against your ear, pulling out almost completely before slamming right back inside you to emphasize his point. “I’m busy taking care of important matters,”
“Busy… withimportantmatters,” you answer weakly, voice high-pitched.
Mihawk pauses, probably noticing how breathless you sound. “Really?” You open your mouth in a silent scream. Crocodile’s thick length never stops moving, fucking you so deep and making your eyes roll back. You can barely think straight, let alone sound normal, his hips snapping against your ass, sloshing noises of your wet cunt and skin slapping against skin filling the office.
Brain totally mush, unable to find a good excuse, you turn your head, looking at Crocodile, seeking for his help. “Answer,” He urges you. “Tell him I’m handling delicate negotiations.”
Biting your lips, trying to brace yourself, you open your mouth but let out a strand of incoherent sounds, Crocodile bullying your sweet spot on purpose, your dripping wet pussy making the filthiest, lewd noises.
“Crocodile. Wrap your ‘negotiation’ soon. And wash your hand.” Mihawk speaks coldly, voice thick with disgust and irritation before ending the call brutally.
When Smoker is back home, the first thing in his mind is not to take off his uniform but to feel how tight and wet you feel around him. Especially with your legs smashed against your chest, his thick length buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s aiming for your soul, savoring each deep thrust into you, the poor couch creaking and sinking under his weight. His uniform coat opened on his strong chest rustles, hanging loosely on his broad shoulders, his cigars forgotten in the astray filling the room with tobacco scent.
“Sorry for coming home so late… Work was a nightmare” Smoker murmurs, brushing your thighs. “But this fucking cunt is pure heaven…” His hips snap, setting a pace rough enough to let go of all his stress and frustration. How debauched he looks, with his pants just pulled down enough to free his hard length, his hair totally disheveled from how hard you held his head when he was eating you out like if your pussy was his first meal in months.
Pupils dilated with lust, he hits that spot inside you, making your eyes roll back and cry out his name loudly, your dripping wet cunt soaking his cock. “Always ready for me…” He whispers, watching how you’re taking him so well, every single inch. “You have no idea how much I needed this… fucking you senseless.”
“Harder,” You beg between two desperate moans. “That’s what I like to hear…” His hands grip your legs tightly, using them to pound into you with all his strength, his hips slapping against your thighs. “Fuck, look at you…” He murmurs, leaning to capture your mouth in a rough kiss, swallowing your sweet cries, his pace never slowing down.
“Open your mouth,” he commands and you obey, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, when the little snail phone in his coat pocket starts to ring. By habit, Smoker grabs it, ready to answer. “Don’t pick up the call, just keep fucking me,” you beg, but Smoker is just a workaholic, so he answers without thinking. “What?” He snaps, voice professional but thick with his annoyance. “Tashigi, what’s wrong?” His voice softens, but he keeps thrusting hard inside you, giving you deep thrusts leaving you gasping for air.
Face flushed, you try to ignore the fact he’s casually talking to his subordinate and your friend right now, but moans keep escaping you. Smoker glances at you, slowly pulling out to flip you on your stomach, lifting up your hips. With one strong hand, he pins your head against the couch cushion to muffle your moans and slam right back inside you.
Balls slapping against your wet cunt, he moves to a steady rhythm, but still, he keeps talking calmly, in control. “Focus, you don’t need me, you can handle it.” Drooling into the cushion, your nails try to find a grip, Smoker sliding deeper into you, making you whimper and whine. Eyes glued to your ass jiggling, Smoker takes a deep breath, trying his best to focus but you’re taking him so well it’s hard to not be hypnotized. “Just trust your own judgment and justice, don’t follow orders blindly,” he says, voice raspy, his cock throbbing inside you as he adjusts your position, keeping you pinned and helpless.
With each thrust, his tip hits that spot inside you, making your whole body shake under the strength of your orgasm. “Yeah, you got this. Goodnight.” Smoker ends up the call quickly, releasing your head. “How did it feel to muffle your screams while I was buried all the way inside you?” He asks, spanking your ass cheeks hard enough to leave a red mark. “You’re so debauched, love.”
Hands gripping your hips, Smoker keeps you helpless, all spread out for him, fucking you hard enough to make you cry out his name properly, clear and loud this time.
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ please, reblog, like, comment if you like my work.
summary : seconds ago? he was just normally fucking you with his cock. but now? he created that thick smoke tendril, adding the thing with his cock, both of it fucking you now . . .
cw : pwp. rough/unprotected sex. dirty talk / petnames ("brat", "princess", "little star", "baby"). brat taming. light bondage. tentacle-like play (smoke tendrils). overstimulation / fem!masturbation. multiple orgasms. creampie. smoking kink / use of moku moku no mi. mild pain/pleasure mix. post-sex cuddling. banter. light ooc !smoker. no use of y/n.
wc : 2k
⋆ MASTERLIST
"Christ, you’re—ngh—being such a dick about the pace tonight," you muttered, twisting the damp sheets between your fingers as Smoker's cigar smoke curled around the ceiling lamp like lazy storm clouds. The cheap bunk groaned beneath you; one of those thin Navy-issue things that barely fit a grown man, let alone a grown man currently driving into you like he wanted to splinter the frame.
His teeth flashed around the cigars, that familiar smirk you wanted to slap off him. "Funny thing to say now, don't ya think?" A particularly rough thrust punctuated the word, making your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders. "Since you were the one who begged for this, little star."
You hissed through your teeth, equal parts irritation and pleasure, as the mattress springs protested. The room smelled sex and cedar, like the inside of his coat when he'd pinned you against the wall earlier, all heat and impatience. The sea rocked the ship in a slow, taunting rhythm, waves slapping the hull in time with his hips.
"Begged?" You rolled your eyes, though the effect was ruined when he angled deeper and your voice cracked. "I suggested—ah—you try being less of a brick wall for once—"
He chuckled, and you hated how it reverberated through you, right down to where his cock was slamming against your poor muscular tube. Hated how his hands knew exactly where to grip; one under your thigh, hiking your leg higher, the other splayed across your hipbone.
The cigars glowed when he inhaled, casting his face in flickering amber. You watched, mesmerized, as twin streams of smoke escaped his nostrils, framing his sharp features. His eyes never left yours.
"Still talking shit I see," he observed, dragging his thumb over your bitten-red lip with a certain reverence. It was kind of sweet how he could still be gentle at the same time that he was fucking you like an animal.
You nipped at his calloused finger, defiant even now. After all, you were the brat here, right? Got to maintain your role intact. "Someone’s gotta fill the silence while you—” A sharp snap of his hips stole your breath, and you were almost certain that if he kept going in and in, his cock would come out of your mouth and hit you in the face to shut you up. "—grunt like a caveman."
"Uh-huh." His free hand slid down your stomach, slow as a prowling beast, and your abdominal muscles twitched under his touch. "Sounds like you’re the one doing the grunting, princess. All those little noises… they don't come out of nowhere, eh?"
You kicked his calf weakly with your free foot; a half-hearted protest. Unfortunately, that was all you had at the moment due to your lack of... mobility here. He caught your ankle easily, pinning it to the mattress, spreading you wider like an accordion. The shift in angle punched a embarrassing punched-out noise from your throat.
Smoker’s grin turned wolfish. "There it is… like music to the ears."
"Asshole," you breathed.
He leaned down until his lips brushed your ear, stubble scratching your cheek. "Keep calling me names," he murmured, sweet as sin, "see what it gets you."
The cigar tumbled from his teeth onto the floor, forgotten. His mouth found yours instead; hot, demanding, tasting of tobacco and peppermint mouthwash. You arched into him, all arguments drowned out by the slick sound of skin on skin, by the creak of the bunk, by his mouth devouring yours in lazy frictions.
And when his smoke finally moved, twisting down your body with purpose, you stopped talking altogether. The first tendril curled around your wrist; solid enough to pin, but still warm as living breath. Another slid between your thighs, lazy as a cat stretching in sunlight, and you bucked against it instinctively.
"W...what? That's cheating, baby!" you gasped against his mouth, but the words dissolved into a moan when those smoke-fingers found your clit, circling the bud with maddening precision. Your hips stuttered, torn between arching into the touch and grinding down on his cock.
Smoker chuckled (the bastard actually chuckled in your face) and bit your lower lip, following with his tongue sliding over it to ease the pain. "Thought you liked when I played dirty in bed, princess."
Your breath hitched as the smoke curled tighter around your wrist, anchoring you to the rusted metal frame of the bunk. Another tendril (thicker this time) wound its way down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake before slipping between your thighs. It wasn’t just heat; it was him, the same way his calloused hands knew exactly where to press to make you squirm.
"Of course I like it but…ngh…how about warning a girl beforehand, uh?" you gasped again, but the protest turned into a broken moan as the tendril flicked over your clit, teasing in quick, maddening circles. Your hips jerked forward, and the conflicting sensations left you dizzy, thighs trembling with the effort of holding still.
Smoker didn’t let up. Weird it would be if he actually did. His mouth trailed down your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point as he murmured against your skin. "Shoulda known you’d bitch even when I’m givin’ you exactly what you asked for. Little brat. Nothing's really enough to you, eh?"
You would’ve snapped back (you hadn’t asked for his damn devil fruit to join the party) but then the tendril pulsed, thickening just enough to press harder against your clit, and your retort dissolved into a strangled cry. Your nails scrabbled against the smoke binding your wrist, but it held firm, unyielding as the man himself.
"Fuck—fuuuck !" you choked out, back arching off the mattress. The coil in your gut tightened dangerously, pleasure building too fast, too much. You tried to keep your thighs open, trying to fit his two cocks (one, technically, metaphorical) inside you. "I can’t—ah—I can’t, Smokey—"
"Sure you can, baby. You’re already takin’ it. Look at you... so greedy…. this brave little cunt’s swallowing both my “cocks” so well now," he rumbled, dragging his lips back up to yours, giving you something to distract yourself with. The remaining cigar tumbled from his mouth, forgotten, as he kissed you hard enough to bruise. His tongue swept against yours, tasting your ragged breaths, and you whimpered into his mouth when he rolled his hips again. The tendril moved with him, mimicking the way his fingers would curl inside you.
Even if you tried to hold back for an extra minute or so, this was indeed… too fucking much for you.
The orgasm hit like a storm surge: sudden, violent, tearing through you with enough force to make your vision whiten at the edges. Your entire body locked up, muscles taut as rigging in a gale, and for one dizzying second, you forgot how to breathe. The only thing anchoring you was Smoker’s weight, the solid press of his chest against yours as you shuddered violently beneath him.
He didn’t stop while you were melting beneath him. Because he was still there... trying to reach his own peak too.
Even as you gasped, oversensitive and shaking, he kept moving, his thrusts slow but relentless. The smoke-tendril gentled stroking your clit in lazy, soothing circles, but the pressure never eased. His breath was ragged against your ear, his own control fraying at the edges. "C’mon," he groaned, voice rough as a ship's rope, intoxicated with neediness. "One more. For me, little star."
You groaned in a weak form of protest, but your hips lifted anyway, chasing the friction he needed even as your body trembled with exhaustion. The second peak came slower, building in waves until it crashed over you with less force but twice the sweetness, leaving you boneless and gasping.
Smoker followed soon after, his rhythm stuttering before he buried himself deep with a low groan, his semen spurting in hot jets inside you, filling you up like an empty cup. His big body melts, his forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your skin as he rode out the aftershocks. For a long moment, the only sounds were the creak of the ship, the distant call of gulls, and the ragged harmony of your breathing.
Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you nudged his shoulder with your chin. "Told you I could take whatever you dished out, old man."
He lifted his head just enough to glare at you, but the effect was ruined by the way his mouth twitched at the corners. "Brat," he muttered, rolling off you with a grunt. The smoke-tendrils dissipated, leaving your wrists free, though the ghost of their warmth lingered on your skin.
You stretched, wincing at the ache in your muscles, then flopped onto your side to face him. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and you reached out to smooth a wayward lock behind his ear; just so you could watch him scowl at the gesture. ah, it never gets old.
"Next time," you said, grinning when he narrowed his eyes at you, pretending to look angry, "try keeping up with me. It's a bit annoying being the only one who can actually handle the pressure."
Smoker exhaled sharply through his nose before reaching over to pluck the fallen cigar from the floor. He rolled onto his back, letting the bunk take his full weight with a protesting creak, and stuck the cigar between his teeth without bothering to relight it. "Next time," he muttered around it, "I'll let you do all the work. See how long that smart mouth lasts, since you say you're much better than me."
You snorted, stretching your legs out just to nudge your toes against his thigh. "Promises, promises, babe. You're all bark and no bite." Through the porthole, the first hints of dawn painted the sky in watery blues and pinks, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets.
Woah… who would have guessed you two would spend the whole night fucking!?
His hand found yours without looking, calloused fingers lacing through yours in a gesture so casual it made your chest ache. You stared at your joined hands—his knuckles scarred from a hundred brawls, yours still trembling slightly from exertion—and something warm unfurled beneath your ribs. It was stupid, really, how such a small thing could undo you more thoroughly than any of his smoke-tendrils or even his cock ever had.
"You're thinking too loud again, little star" Smoker grumbled, thumb tracing idle circles over your pulse point. He always knew when you were getting too lost in your own mind.
"Just wondering if the Marines teach all their vice admirals to fuck like they're trying to win a war or it's just you," you shot back, but there was no bite to it. Your voice came out softer than intended, frayed at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with this man beside you.
He turned his head to look at you then, cigar bobbing as he spoke. And the smirk he gave you was pure mischief wrapped in masculine charm. "Only the ones who get stuck babysitting insubordinate little—"
The rest of the insult dissolved into a grunt as you rolled on top of him, straddling his hips with deliberate slowness. His hands came to rest on your waist automatically, as you plucked the cigar from his mouth and took a long drag. The smoke curled around your tongue, before you blew it directly into his face.
His eyes narrowed. "haha real mature, baby."
You grinned, leaning down until your noses brushed. His eyes, from that distance, were like puddles of hot chocolate. "Learned from the best, old man."
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The ship groaned around you, the distant shouts of the morning watch mingling with the cry of seabirds. Then Smoker's hands slid up your back, pulling you down until your chests pressed together. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness, all rough edges and raw feelings, and you melted into it like you hadn't spent the last hour trying to out-stubborn him.
When he finally pulled back, his breath warm against your lips, he muttered, "Go to sleep, brat. Don't want you all grumpy and bitching in the morning."
You sighed dramatically but curled against his side anyway, tucking your head under his chin. His arm settled around your shoulders, heavy and solid, and you closed your eyes to the sound of his heartbeat.
Smoker with fem!reader who isn't very versed in self-pleasure.
"Show me."
Smoker talks you through it.
Cw: 18+ mdni, masturbation, he watches, mentions of alcohol consumption, mention of sex toys, unprotected pinv sex, creampie, explicit language.
The first time you run into Captain Smoker on a walk was truly happenstance - an evening stroll to clear your head. He's seated in a tiny restaurant on this beautiful night; the garage door-style window open to let the night breeze in.
It gives you pause, seeing a man of his status sitting alone at a diner. You'd known what he had done for your neighbor's daughter; the kindness he showed her after she smashed her ice cream on his pants. You'd admired from afar on several occasions in your time living in Loguetown.
That night just seemed different, seemed to make you bolder in the empty streets as the sun began to set and you watched him munch quietly on a pancake.
You paid for his meal that night. Simply waltzed into the diner, stood next to him without speaking directly to him, and set down some Beri.
He merely looked at you quizzically, trying to finish his bite before speaking, but you flagged down the server and were gone in an instant.
There had been too much bad blood and bad moods around a lot of people in your life lately and you figured a simple act of kindness might make things a little lighter; shift into a positive.
Little did you know that he would seek you out.
The next time you see him, he's perched on that same barstool but this time not hunched over his food. He's. Staring. And as soon as you attempt to walk by, he's on your heels.
"Why did you do that the other week?"
You shrug, pause, feel your cheeks heating up.
"I just thought you might need some kindness too."
He grunts, exhales smoke, but keeps it from your face.
As he ashes his cigar, he pulls Beri from his pocket, attempts to give it to you.
"No," you step away, as if it's a haunted relic.
"Take it."
"It was a gift."
"We can't accept gifts."
"Well, that's too bad. I refuse."
His look darkens. "Take. It."
A chill runs up your spine, even in the evening's heat.
"It was a gift, Captain."
"Well I want to pay it back."
You shrug. "I guess you'll just have to find another way, Sir."
And you waltz off, feeling heated and happy.
And this is how Smoker started seeking you out at 6pm every few weeks.
It starts simple - him quietly joining next to you on your evening walk. He's almost timid, head bowed, sure not to meet your eyes directly. You dont talk much, just keep a steady pace.
The next week, he shows up with both fists clenched around wine bottles: one red, one white.
"Women like wine...right? I dont know what you drink- if you drink..."
You see his ears reddening, can sense his anxiety. You can't help but laugh, causing him to straighten, narrow his eyes at you.
"It's stupid, forget it..." he grumbles, turning on his heels to leave.
You catch his shoulder, try to pull him back, ignore how strong and sturdy he feels under your touch.
"Let's open one," you urge, nodding toward your home. "Please, come in."
A glass and a half in on an empty stomach and you're chatty. Smoker watches with a humored gaze, hiding his smirk behind his wine glass.
Smoker's intensity is such a stark contrast to the backdrop of your flower-lined patio.
"So, really, why did you pay for my food the other night?" He leans back in his chair.
"You were kind to my neighbor's kid and I thought you looked lonely."
He quirks an eyebrow at you, notices your gaze trailing across his bare torso.
"Hm. That's it?"
"That's it."
"Why did you decide to start spending time with me once a week?" You challenge.
"You were kind to me and I thought you looked lonely."
You gape at him, using your words against you.
He chuckles softly.
"If you mind the company, I could go..." he makes to stand.
Your hand grips his wrist, trying to force him back down in his seat, but with the size of him, he won't budge. He pulls teasingly and you're sprung to your feet
A reflex, he reaches to catch you.
You're practically pressed against his chest now, staring up at him, hand perched on his warm, chiseled chest.
He inhales sharply, never the one to allow anyone this close to him.
You notice him dip down slightly, eyes focused on your lips, before he hesitates and straightens again, but keeps his hands on you.
"Please," you begin, not quite sure where you're hoping to go with this.
His thumb trails against your hip, a thrill filling you before he lets go completely.
You return to your seats, but the tension between you is noticeable.
You ask him to join you tomorrow to finish the bottle.
When tomorrow comes, you're sure he'll stand you up, what with how obvious this crush is.
Three raps on your door. Late tonight, but you rush to greet him.
"I...got caught up," he steps in looking disheveled.
You make for the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and the bottle of wine. Youd given up hope when the 6 o'clock hour came and went.
You feel his presence behind you and gaze over your shoulder to catch him staring.
"Got anything stronger?"
You raise a brow, nod calmly. "One of those days?"
He grunts, sliding into your kitchen chair while rubbing his temple.
You pour him some whisky, leave the bottle beside him on the table, settle down across from him.
The conversation flows easily tonight - about your job, his work, your thoughts on the recent renovation of some shops in town.
And then you see his cheeks go pink. He's had four glasses - who's counting - and you've removed your top layer, leaving you in a tank.
"Two glasses and the clothes come off, huh?" He comments - a teasing lilt to his voice.
"Can't imagine if I had a glass of whisky," you meet his jest.
Once again, you feel the tension in the room.
You want to kiss him.
Your eyes flick down to his smirk.
He leans back in his chair, finishes his glass.
The weeks continue. The meetings frequent.
And one particular night, Smoker shares the news he'd heard about the approval of a new shop opening at the end of your street.
"Yeah, I haven't heard what type of store it'll be."
"Toys," he states simply.
Your mind wanders.
With your second glass of alcohol poured, you almost spit out your sip.
"Oh?" You swallow, cover your mouth, feel your cheeks heat up at the thought of it. "Wow! Like...adult toys?"
Now it's Smoker's turn to heat up.
"What?! Toys. Like a toy store. Like for children."
"Oh, my God..."
You both laugh.
"You heard the word toys and immediately thought something raunchy?"
"Well, when you say it like that, I can't help it!"
"Say it like what?" His tone darkens.
"Like that."
"That's just my voice."
"Mhm."
"What, my voice makes you think raunchy thoughts?"
You bite your lip, so caught.
"You have no idea."
The moment stills.
"Then share," Smoker speaks softly. "You use any of these toys while you think about it?"
You feel heated. "I...should," you stutter. "I'm not very...well-versed in self-pleasure."
He hums, takes a sip. "That's a shame."
You finish the glass.
"So a toy store would have been beneficial for you," he continues.
You nod, "if only. And if only I had someone to...experiment with."
He smirks. "What qualifications would they need?"
"Well, they'd need to be you."
He inhales sharply.
"So I haven't been reading this wrong?"
"You have not."
In a fluid motion, Smoker nods, finishes his drink, stands up, and hoists you up with ease.
He heaves you to the nearest wall and presses his mouth to yours.
The kisses are eager, desire behind every movement.
You want him naked in your bed, want his head between your thighs, letting him learn your body, want him to teach you what you might like.
"Need you sober before we do this," he speaks gruff against your neck, kissing languidly.
You nod, understanding.
"This why you bought me dinner?" He chuckles.
You shake your head, wanting to defend your actions, but he presses his mouth to yours again.
"I'm teasing," he speaks between kisses. You nip at his lower lip, enjoy the deep groan he lets out. "Christ..." you wrap your legs around him, grind your lower half against him. "If we don't quit now, I don't know if I'll be able to control myself."
This thrills you.
You want to urge him on, realizing how long it's been that you've ignored your attraction to him.
When he sets you down, you gaze up at him, letting your hands trail down his torso, feeling his warm skin, enjoying how he tenses at your touch.
"You are too tempting..." he growls when your fingers reach his belt.
"Around you, I can't help it."
The way you're looking up at him, the way you kneel before him, he feels his cock twitch.
Throwing his head back, he moans at your caresses on his thighs.
You don't dare make a move until he gives you the go-ahead.
"Tomorrow," he chokes out. "God, tomorrow. Sober. Please."
The word echoes in your head.
Please.
You stand, nod, kiss his chest, love when he curls forward into you to catch your lips with his again.
You don't know how much longer you keep kissing and fondling each other, but the heat that blooms through you is hard to ignore, especially as you transition to straddling him on the couch. Grinding against his clothed cock isn't enough.
You need him.
"You leave me like this, I'll have to play with myself tonight," you tease.
He groans, leans his head against the back of the couch, bucks his hips up against you.
"I can only imagine the sight of that..." His eyes flutter closed.
You pepper kisses across his neck, hum when you hear the deep growl he's releasing.
"Almost at my breaking point, doll," he says.
"Im not even tipsy, sir," you acknowledge.
"I bet. I know. I'm sure," he breathes. "Tomorrow."
---
Tomorrow arrives- a Saturday - a recognizable knock on your door, and a hungry looking Smoker.
"Brought you some coffee and bagels," he steps inside, surprising you.
Coffee safely on the counter, he greets you with a kiss that turns heated.
"Couldn't stop thinking about last night. Forgive me for being so bold...I-"
You press your hand to his chest. "I have needed you all night, Smoker. Please. Don't apologize."
He's half-hard already.
You barely make it through breakfast before you are pawing at each other again.
"What were you thinking about last night?" You breach the subject.
"Everything. All of it. But the thought of you showing me how you like to be touched..." he sips his coffee. "It haunted me."
You wind up in your bedroom before you know it, stripping for him, feeling bold and free with his hungry gaze urging you on.
"Tell me," he hums against your bare breasts, bite marks adorning the trail he's left down you. "Tell me how you pleasure yourself..."
You nod, nipples hard as he swirls his tongue around one.
"I usually lay down on my front because I need that stimulation on my clit."
As the words leave you, you feel flushed speaking them aloud.
He shifts, gazes up at you.
The look he's giving you...this was a bad idea.
"Now show me."
Your breath hitches as he removes his body from yours, takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and watches.
Slowly, you trail your fingers lower, begin playing with your clit. He watches with a hooded gaze. When your fingers trail lower, dipping inside of yourself, you hear his deep inhale.
Glancing his way, you can see his erection through his pants, see the arousal clouding his expression.
"This isn't what you described," he speaks lowly.
"Well, yeah. I just flip over on my stomach and let my palm cup pressure on my clit. It's not...-"
He hums, leaning back.
"Why don't you try it like this...?"
He presses his palm to your knee, spreads you open a little, and cups your hand around your cunt.
Your back arches, a small whine leaving you.
"Now keep going. Pump your fingers. Don't mind the audience."
You nod, continuing the pace and pressure.
Several times, you feel your orgasm close in, only to lose it again.
It's frustrating, to say the least. And you'd tried masturbation this way before, to no avail.
"Do you mind if I...?"
He'd been patient. He'd waited. As long as he could.
But watching you sprawled out like this for him?
He wants to touch himself - is desperate for it.
"A view would be great," you tease, angling your body just slightly so you could see him.
And, my, what a view it was.
You convinced him to strip from the jacket. Shirtless, leaning back, he strokes his cock while he watches you play with yourself.
Staring at the muscles in his forearms, you inhale a sharp breath as you angle your fingers to reach your g-spot.
Cupping both palms against yourself, you chase that orgasm, feel the flush of your skin.
Minutes pass, then Smoker pauses to give his cock a break.
"Please." Tears well in your eyes.
"Please, what?" He huffs a laugh.
You close your eyes, shake your head.
"I cant help if I dont know," he places his palm on your knee again. You're on fire. "Tell me what you need."
"It's not enough. I'm so close, but I can't." Even getting the words out at this point of arousal is frustrating you.
"What do you need?" Smoker repeats.
"God...your fingers. Your thick Goddamn fingers. Please!"
Oh.
Oh...
Smoker doesn't hesitate.
Cock hard and pants around his thighs, he leans closer, places a hand on the bed beside you, hovers over you.
"Alright, sweetheart. It's alright."
You moan when you feel his middle finger slide along your clit, gather wetness, then dip inside you.
"Oh, fuck..." He can't help but moan.
You're so swollen, so damn wet, so close...
The noise you make when he slips inside of you is enough to make his cock twitch.
"God...Smoker..." you whine as he guides his finger in and out.
"Hm? You okay?"
You nod, "want your cock."
"Mmm...jeez...demanding today," he hums, caught off guard by your vulgarity. "Fine, honey, okay."
And he's fumbling with his pants, guiding you further on the bed, kneeling, then laying over you.
He strokes himself against your wetness before guiding his cock in.
You're. So. Damn. Swollen.
He chokes on a moan.
Warm and wet and tight from arousal...
Within the first few thrusts, you're digging your nails into his biceps and moaning his name like a prayer.
He feels every pulse of your orgasm as you shatter beneath him.
"Oh, sweetheart, good...yes, god, let go..."
Your orgasm is probably the strongest you've had.
Tears well in the corners of your eyes, relief hitting you as soon as you catch your breath.
Smoker eagerly fucks you, kissing your skin and whispering gentle words when you're coming down.
One deep kiss alerts him that you're ready for him to keep moving.
"However you want me," you whisper and he's pretty sure he's addicted to you.
Hooking your legs around his hips, he pulls you close, flips over so you're on top.
Your jaw drops, surprise that this is the position he wants.
"Ride me," he grumbles with his deep voice. "Want to watch you work for it."
A defiance flashes in your eyes.
You snap out of it quickly, turning to pull off his pants completely, not letting his cock slip from you once.
Your hands press to his bare chest and you slowly start grinding on him.
His eyelids flutter closed as you lift off then slam back down onto him.
Watching him enjoy you shoots pleasure through you.
You're slowing down, deepening your movements on him. He groans loudly when you play with his tip before gliding back down on his cock.
"God, I need more of you..." he pulls you down, presses your chests together, kisses you deeply.
His hands are at your lower back, guiding the speed he wants. Even in this position, you find him in control.
A short shift of his breath alerts you that he's close.
You break the kiss, pull back, sit up straight, change positions to balance your weight on your feet instead of your knees. The new position offers you more leverage and allows for better riding.
Smoker chokes on air when you start riding him again. His back arches off the bed and the most alluring deep moan leaves him as he fucks up into you trying to get deeper, trying to control his pleasure.
You keep going.
When you whisper, "That's it, sir, just let go. Cum in me..." you watch his chest rise sharply and a deep growl leaves him.
His hips stutter slightly before you feel him press in tightly, gripping you by the hips.
You gaze trails down his face, watches the closed eyes, the pleasure dancing across his expression, his neck angling back. You feel him fill you with warmth.
You can't help staring, moving your hips gently as he tries to catch his breath.
When he catches you looking, he captures your lips, cupping his hands on either side of your face.
"My...let's get you cleaned up..." he hums gently.
"Why? Aren't we just going to do this again in the shower?" You hum as you pepper kisses across his jawline, down his neck.
The moan that leaves him shoots pleasure through you.
"Insatiable," he teases. You pull back. "But yes, let's."
It consumes your morning and afternoon, needing a rest before waking again and letting him take you at sunset.
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