You’re in the kitchen with Nami. Soft conversation. Warm lighting. Laughing a little over booze.
“I mean, I don’t think he even realizes how much I watch him,” you say, smiling. “He’s always so focused. So serious.”
Nami raises a brow. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”
You nod. “I know.”
Then softer—like it slipped out:
“I love him.”
Around the corner—Zoro stops walking.
Completely.
Stares ahead like someone just threw a sword through his chest.
He backs up. Quiet. Leans against the wall.
Breathes. Once. Twice.
“…Shit.”
When you leave the kitchen later, he’s waiting outside.
Doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you to him, forehead resting on yours.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
You blink. “What?”
“I need to hear it. Straight from you.”
You soften into a smile. “I love you.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like finally—
then kisses you like he plans to hear it every day for the rest of his goddamn life.
SANJI
You’re helping Robin prep some herbs for dinner. Quiet. Peaceful.
“He’s such a flirt,” you say. “But he doesn’t realize how sincere he really is. He’s gentle. He listens. He remembers.”
Robin hums knowingly. “Sounds like you’re awfully smitten.”
You laugh, bashful. Then:
“I love him, Robin.”
Outside, just beyond the doorway—Sanji nearly drops the wine bottle he was carrying.
His heart is pounding like cannon fire.
He peeks in. Sees you smiling. Glowing. Talking about him.
He exhales slowly. Hand on his chest.
“Mon dieu…”
Later that night, when everyone’s winding down, he pulls you aside. Hands shaking just a little.
“Did you mean it?” he asks. “What you said... to Robin.”
You blink, cheeks already flushing. “Y-You heard that?”
He grabs your hand. Brings it to his lips.
“I felt it,” he murmurs. “And I’ve never wanted to hear something so badly in my life.”
When you say it again, against his lips, he doesn’t kiss you.
He hugs you first. So tightly you start squirming.
Then kisses you like you’re an oath he’s taken for life.
SMOKER
You’re talking to Tashigi. Voice soft. Steady.
“He’s not easy to be around,” you admit, a little smile on your lips. “But I’ve never felt safer. Or more seen. I don’t think he realizes how much that means to me.”
She smiles behind her glasses. “You care for him very deeply.”
You nod. “I do. I love him.”
Out in the hall, Smoker freezes.
He’d been walking past—cigars in mouth, usual scowl in place—
But now?
Everything stops.
He leans against the wall. Quiet. Processing.
You love him.
Him.
The man made of smoke and walls and muttered complaints.
Later, he walks into your room without knocking.
You look up, startled. “Smoker?”
He walks over. Pulls you into his chest. Doesn’t let go.
“Just… say it to my face next time, would you?”
You blink. “What?”
He exhales. “The thing. That you told Tashigi earlier.”
You freeze. Then soften into a smile.
“What? That I love you?”
He groans softly—like it hurts. Then leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That.”
A few silent moments settle around you both. You smile as his thumb traces your cheek, his eyes locked on your lips.
“You mean it?” he mutters.
You smile, rising on your tiptoes as you press your lips to his.
“You know I do.”
KUZAN
You’re sitting beside Borsalino. Talking quietly.
“He’s so complicated,” you say, swirling tea in your cup. “Acts so nonchalant, but he’s kind in ways no one sees. Soft when he doesn’t mean to be. And I love him for all of it.”
Kizaru just hums with a quiet smile, nodding like he already knew.
Around the corner—Kuzan stops breathing.
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Just… caught the tail end.
But that line. That line.
It lands like a knife made of flames right in his cold chest.
He backs away slowly. Hands in his pockets. Trying to play it cool.
Fails completely.
That night, he knocks softly on your door.
You open it, surprised. “Hey.”
He stands there, quiet. Watching you. Like he’s trying to memorize you again.
Then—softly:
“You love me?”
You blink, startled. A bit scared. “...Y-You heard that?”
“Didn’t mean to.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Just… couldn’t pretend I didn’t.”
You look down. Step closer. “Yeah. I do.”
He exhales. Deep. Shaky. Then pulls you in, arms wrapping around you like you’re the only safe place left on earth.
“…Good,” he says against your hair. “Makes us both idiots.”
KIDD
You’re sitting at the workbench with Killer. Talking low.
“He’s such an ass sometimes,” you mutter. “But he remembers the smallest things. He fixes stuff without asking. And when he’s soft—god he’s so stupidly soft.”
Killer doesn’t say a word, but he ruffles your hair.
You laugh. A little embarrassed.
Then—quiet. Almost shy:
“Killer, I love that idiot.”
Outside, around the corner, Kidd has completely stopped functioning.
He was mid-lecture at Heat—paused. Mid-word. Mid-rage.
“…Did you hear that?” he says, like someone just punched him in the chest.
Heat opens his mouth. Closes it. Quietly walks away.
Kidd leans against the wall. Breathes like he’s holding back an explosion.
Later, he finds you. Doesn’t say much. Just steps in close.
“You told Killer something earlier.”
You freeze. Flush. “D-Did I?! Haha, I don't remem—”
“—Don’t even try.”
He stands in your way. Eyes narrowed. Voice low.
“Instead, why don’t you say it to me this time.”
You fold under his intense glare. “I... I love you, okay?”
He grabs your face. Pulls you in.
“You better.”
And then kisses the lights out of you.
BECKMAN
You’re with Yasopp and Lucky Roo. Laughing over drinks.
“He’s so calm, it makes you forget how dangerous he is,” you say. “But that’s what I love about him. I feel safe. Like I can breathe around him.”
They raise their eyebrows. Yasopp pulls a teasing smile.
“Ohooo, that’s a big word. We hear that right?”
You nod. “Yeah. I love him, you guys.”
Down the hall—Beckman stops.
He was walking in. Coffee in hand. Chill as ever.
Now? His fingers curl around the mug.
You love him.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t walk in. Just stands there for a minute. Soaking it in. Processing.
Then walks away.
And comes back later—heart pounding.
Finds you alone.
“Hey,” he says casually. “Got a second?”
You nod. He steps close. Not too close.
“You said something earlier. To the guys.”
You blink. “Oh. You heard that?”
He nods. “Do me a big favor and say it again. Right now.”
You smile. “...I love you, Beck.”
He exhales. Soft. Grabs the back of your neck and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred.
“…Then I think it’s about time I start acting like I’m worthy of that.”
DOFLAMINGO
You’re sitting on a couch, talking quietly to Vergo. Voice low.
“He’s... lost in his own world sometimes,” you say with a fond smile. “But I think I see more than he wants people to. There’s softness under the madness. And I love him for both parts.”
Vergo smiles. Like he sees it too. “You told him yet?”
You shake your head. “He’d laugh. Or twist it into a cruel joke.”
Then softer—
“But I do. I love him. Both parts.”
“Heaven and demon.”
Around the corner, Doflamingo has gone absolutely still.
He was headed in to gloat about something stupid.
Now?
He’s frozen. Stuck in place.
You love him, huh? Both parts?
Not just the mask, not just the monster.
Him, the two parts that make up the whole.
Later, he walks in casually. Like nothing happened.
But his glasses are off.
“You love me, sweetheart?” he says flatly. Like he's trying to push something down, while opening it apart at the seams.
You nearly drop the glass in your hand. “Wait—what—”
He’s in front of you in two strides. Looks right through you.
“Say it. I want to hear you say it when you know I’m listening.”
You stare back, defiant. “I love you, Doffy.”
He exhales. Shaky. Covers his eyes. Like he hates what it does to him.
What you do to him.
“Stupider than I pegged you for...” he mutters.
Then lowers his hand. Grabs his glasses. Grins.
Small. Real. A little shaky.
“…Fine. I’m yours, then. You better be ready for that.”
LUCCI
You’re in the corner of a quiet hallway, talking to Kaku.
“I don’t think he even knows how much I care,” you whisper. “He’s so guarded. But I see it—the little things. The way he notices. The way he protects without ever admitting it.”
Kaku nods. “You sound in deep.”
You smile. “I am. I love him.”
Down the hall, Lucci stops moving.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just… listens.
You love him.
And you said it like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t impossible.
Like it was true, of all things.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t confront you.
Just turns. Walks away. Quiet.
Later, he shows up at your door. Doesn’t knock. Just opens it.
when TRAFALGAR D. LAW finds out his fwb, STRAWHAT!READER was DOFLAMINGO'S sugar baby?
BUT I'M THE JEALOUS TYPE !
PLOT. after donquixote doflamingo’s defeat, everything should have been over. instead, he left one final mess behind, exposing your sexual history through an inappropriate bounty poster for all of dressrosa to see. now your crew knows, your secrets are out, and worst of all, trafalgar d. water law, who was your no-strings-attached fuck buddy, the one person you really didn’t want finding out. and judging by the way he reacts, this was never as casual as either of you pretended.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst(?), age gaps, reader is 22, law is 26, doflamingo is in his 40s, doffy and reader had a sugar baby-daddy relationship, law and reader are fwb, bunny outfit, taking pictures after sex, cunnilingus, fingering, squirting, p in v, no protection, creampie, doggy style, prone bone, pussy drunk law, fem reader, not proofread, poorly edited.
CHARACTERS. TRAFALGAR D. LAW FT. DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO
WC. 4.7k
masterlist
based on this ask :: photos sourced from pinterest
You had always known that your place in the world felt uncertain, shifting depending on who stood beside you. For a while, it was Doflamingo. In the 10 years that Doflamingo had ruled over Dressrosa, you were raised a simple citizen, only to later catch his eye when you turned 18.
2 years, he had you in his clutches. You were one of many women Doffy indulged in, but safe to say you had grown to take a special spot on his lap. He always wanted you. He always asked for you, even as his other women were left in a dry state.
If you were honest, it hadn't been so bad in the beginning. He bought you the finest of things, spoiling you with riches and taking good care of you. But when you would see the rare happy couples on the streets of Dressrossa, the reality would always hit you hard.
Doffy could never come to love you like that, not when he had his cock inside another woman whenever it wasn't in you. Soon, it started to feel degrading, him fucking you as though that was all you were good for. So you ran.
Stowing away on ships, somehow managing to remain hidden, and ending up in places you hadn't even heard of. You had felt lost, but that changed once the Straw Hats came into the picture.
You had been there when the crew was still small, before Chopper had joined, and they had accepted you without question once they noticed Luffy had taken a liking to you, excited to have a friend on board.
You had enjoyed their company, but the truth was, you did not have what the others had. Nami could read the sea with precision, while Zoro carried the strength of his sword, sharpened through years of relentless training.
Sanji moved with both skill and purpose, feeding the crew and even protecting them when it mattered, while Usopp, despite all his fear, never failed to deliver when it mattered most, his aim steady.
You, on the other hand, had only ever been defined by something far less tangible, something that could not be measured because your place had come from the bond you had formed with Luffy.
It was enough for a while—to be included simply because he wanted you there. After all, with Luffy, there was never a demand to prove your worth.
Still, you had tried to find something more solid to stand on, something that belonged to you alone, and that was tending to injuries. But when Chopper stepped into the role of doctor, that fragile sense of purpose you had built for yourself began to unravel.
It crept into your thoughts more often than you cared to admit, that question of why you were there, what you truly contributed, whether your presence was a nuisance, and those thoughts might have consumed you entirely if not for Luffy.
When Bartholomew Kuma scattered the crew, tearing all of you apart, there was no time to hold onto anything, and when you opened your eyes again, you were alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
In a place you did not recognize.
Surrounded by nothing but dense forest and strange creatures that kept their distance.
The days stretched on, blending into one another until time itself began to lose meaning. You were left only with your own thoughts.
Three months passed like that, with nothing but survival to occupy your hands and no way out.
That was when you met Law. You remembered seeing him once at Sabaody, just another pirate crew in the chaos.
Trafalgar D. Water Law had recognized you almost immediately, his gaze dragging over you that had made you suddenly aware of how bad you must have looked.
The cuts, the bruises that had been patched up poorly with whatever you could find, it was obvious you had been on your own for a while.
He did not say much about it, just offered to treat you like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you did not bother arguing.
He had worked quietly, fixing what you had done wrong, his hands working with surgical precision.
It was through him that you finally heard what had happened, the news hitting like a storm.
Portgas D. Ace was dead.
At that moment you had wanted nothing more than to reunite with Luffy, but when you read further of the newspaper, his message had been clear through the image, to meet again in two years instead of now.
You stayed with the Heart Pirates. Days turned into weeks, and no one pushed you to leave, but no one exactly welcomed you either. They tolerated you, that was the best way to put it.
It took you a month to actually ask him.
When they were taking their leave off the island, he had offered to drop you off somewhere safer, but you asked him to take you with him, just for a while.
Law had disagreed, simply because you were not his responsibility. And more importantly, you belonged to another crew, even if that crew was not with you right then.
His crew had not been rude about your extended presence, but it was obvious they were not too thrilled about the idea.
Still, you did not drop it. You kept asking, pushing a little more each time even when you knew you did not have much to offer in return.
Maybe it was your persistence, maybe he just got tired of saying no, but he agreed in the end. And just like that, you were not alone anymore.
You had spent longer on that submarine than you expected to and the Heart Pirates had started easing up around you. The edge softened along the way as you first befriended Bepo, and later Ikkaku.
When you had begged to Law to teach you medicine he had not looked impressed at the idea. But he had agreed anyway when you told him you were tired of feeling useless.
It started simply enough, long hours spent going over things you barely understood at first, his explanations short and always to the point, expecting you to keep up without much hand-holding.
The late nights became a norm as the routine settled in quickly—most of the crew would be sleep while you stayed up trying to make sense of the hefty syllabus.
It was never easy when you would be in his study, him explaining the same topic over and over again till it stuck, because your mind would get distracted more of often than not.
You couldn't remember how it begun, but one kiss was all it had taken for those very study sessions to end with his head between your thighs, licking at your cunt as a reward for your boost in performance.
After that, the pattern was set between the two of you. You would secretly fuck any chance you got, making sure to be as far as away from the prying eyes and ears of his crew members.
And it was good that Law had ordered them to be away from his study during your tutoring hours, not knowing you were definitely getting dicked down by their captain, his hand over your mouth.
You both didn't need to say it, but had spoken about it anyways. There would be no expectations, no rules, no feelings. It would just be something you both could use to take your mind off of things.
Nearly a year had gone by with you still there, and the change in him was subtle, but it was there, in how his gaze would desperately dart across the room to find you first.
The crew noticed it. They always did. Not that they said it out loud. They did not know what to make of it, of you, of how their captain seemed a little less distant now that you were around.
You did not know what to make of it either, you were just making the most of the situation. But a day came where you did define your feelings for Law, and it was something you did not expect.
It was one of those nights in his private room, you his bed, skin to skin as the aftershocks of your orgasms still drifted heavily in the air.
Law wasn't talkative, nor did he open up easy. But back then you both had started to share things from your past, just small things that wouldn't bear much consequence.
But when he spoke about how he got his Devil Fruit, about the person who had saved him, the story shifted something inside you completely.
Because he mentioned a name you knew all too well.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
The moment it had left his mouth, something in you had unraveled, your thoughts catching up all at once, pieces of your own past rising up your throat. You had never imagined your two worlds overlapping like this, never thought the man you had left behind would resurface in such an unexpected way.
You did not interrupt him, did not tell him what you knew, even when it sat heavy on your tongue, because the way he spoke about it made it clear this was not something he shared lightly.
And Doflamingo's part in your story was also not something you ever wanted to speak about. Fuck, how could you forget the way Doflamingo's fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises that lingered for days?
Gentle? The bastard didn't know the meaning of the word. Everything had been a facade, a pretty wrapping paper concealing the rotten core of his obsession.
Somewhere in the haze of champagne and empty praise, you'd lost sight of yourself. His whims became your commandments and his pleasures your sole purpose.
You'd convinced yourself it was love, that you had a choice, but the truth was, you'd been drowning in his darkness and calling it light.
Waking up was a bitch, realizing that the gilded cage was still a cage, the luxuries he gave you were still tools to mold you into his perfect plaything.
You woke up anyway, shaking off the fog and seeing the ugly truth of your situation. Leaving him hadn't been easy, a necessity to salvage what scraps of your soul remained.
You'd buried that chapter of your life, locking it away in a vault deep in your mind. Pretended it was ancient history, a ghost story that couldn't touch you anymore.
Until now.
Until Dressrosa loomed before you, a specter of your past, daring you to deny its existence.
The memories surged forward, shattering the walls you'd erected. His cruel smile, his cold eyes, the way he'd used your body...it all crashed over you.
Coming back to Dressrosa was like plunging into a nightmare.
Walking away from Law had been the hardest thing you'd ever done, even if you couldn't bring yourself to call it what it was.
Putting distance between you and that submarine, between you and him, had let you pretend that part of your life was over.
You had slipped back into the fold of the Straw Hats like you'd never left, letting their laughter and camaraderie wash over you. It was easier that way, pretending that the ghost of Doflamingo and now Law didn't linger in the shadows of your mind.
But Dressrosa had other plans. This island, with its twisted games and secrets, always had a way of airing out the laundry, of exposing the skeletons in your closet.
And yours came crashing down around you like a ton of bricks.
"Doffy... please..."
The sound of your own voice, wrecked and breathless, was the only thing filling the room as you arched your back, your nails digging into the plush cushion of the bed, your lower body off the edge.
He didn't answer with words, only a low growl as he drove into you again, his pace relentless. You were still trapped in that ridiculous bunny outfit, the thin, tight fabric of the leotard stretched taut beside your pussy, digging into your skin with every lunge.
The friction of the material against your swollen clit, combined with the sheer size of him stretching you wide, was driving you toward a breaking point you'd been teetering on for what felt like weeks.
"God, look at you," Doflamingo rasped, his voice dripping with a dark, possessive hunger. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder as he plunged deeper into you.
"This fucking outfit... it looks so goddamn sexy on you. Like a little pet waiting to be used."
Every degrading word felt like a caress, fueling the fire in your gut.
You were losing yourself, your vision blurring as you creamed his cock, the slick, hot friction making you cry out.
"Doffy!"
As he reached his peak, his grip on your hips tightened until it was bruising, pinning you down as he flooded you. The sensation of him filling you so deeply triggered a violent, toe curling orgasm, your insides convulsing around him with a gush.
When he finally pulled away, the absence of his heat left you feeling exposed. He let you collapse, and you fell to your knees on the cold floor, panting, your legs trembling too much to hold you upright. Your hair was a wild, tangled nest, your chest heaving..
"My sweet little bunny," he murmured, his voice smooth and satisfied.
You looked up, eyes glassy and unfocused, searching for a moment of peace but all you saw was the flash of a lens.
Click.
The sound of the shutter was like a gunshot in the silent room. You froze, realization dawning on you as you saw the camera in his hand.
He had captured it: the dejected slump of your shoulders, the messy, post sex state of your hair, and the shameless exposure of your body in that leotard.
You weren't a woman in that moment; you were a trophy.
Seeing that bounty poster, your face leering back at you from the Wanted list, was like being punched in the gut.
It was the picture that made your stomach turn. That skimpy bunny costume, the one Doflamingo had bought for you, the one he'd fucked you in until you screamed. Seeing it now, in the harsh light of day, made you want to gag.
But the real kicker was the price tag. Six fucking stars. Worth more dead than alive. More valuable as a prize than as a person.
You stood there, staring at the paper, feeling the weight of your crew's stares boring into your back.
They didn't understand.
They didn't know about the years you'd spent as Doflamingo's strings. They didn't know about the way he'd shaped your life, your choices, until there was nothing left of you.
You'd kept it a secret, because you didn't know how to explain it without it changing the way they saw you. But now, with that poster screaming the truth for all to see, you couldn't hide from it anymore.
The distant roar of the crew's laughter drifted across the water, a jagged reminder of the joy you were currently failing to share.
To them, the victory was pure a triumph of spirit over Doflamingo's tyranny. But to you, the victory tasted like ash. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see the fallen Heavenly Demon; you saw that fucking poster.
Six hundred million.
The number felt like a mockery. It wasn't a bounty for a warrior; it was a price tag on his once most cherished possession.
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air settled in your bones. You hugged your knees to your chest, trying to make yourself small, trying to disappear into the shadows of the deck.
You felt exposed, as if the moonlight was stripping away your clothes.
You were waiting for the questions, for the confusion, for the pity.
You feared the moment they would realize that the girl that had spent so long with them wasn't just a comrade, but a woman who had been broken and branded by the very monster they had just fought to topple.
The wood of the deck groaned softly under a steady weight. You didn't need to turn around to know the cadence of those footsteps.
They weren't the chaotic, bouncy strides of Luffy or the heavy march of Zoro. These steps were quiet.
The atmosphere shifted, thickening with a familiar presence.
You held your breath, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a sudden desperate urge to flee rising in your throat.
But you remained frozen, refusing to look at the unexpected visitor.
"Care to explain?"
"Explain what," you said, your voice a brittle shield. You forced yourself to keep it steady, even as your heart thrashed against your ribs.
Law didn't blink. He didn't offer comfort.. Instead, he held the poster out, the photo staring at you like accusatory eyes.
"How did he get this picture of you?"
You looked away, the salty air suddenly feeling too heavy to breathe.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"How," he repeated. It wasn't a question; it was a command. He stepped into your personal space, the shadow of his tall frame swallowing you whole.
The poster was a barrier between you, a physical manifestation of the secret you had tried to drown in the sea.
"It... was before you," you whispered. "Before the Straw Hats. Before everything."
"And you didn't think to mention it?" His voice was low, but the edge of it was razor sharp.
"Why should I have?" You snapped, the defensiveness rising like a fever. You hated how small you felt under his scrutiny.
"Why do even you care? We aren't...we aren't anything, Law."
That was the catalyst. You saw his jaw lock, a muscle leaping in his cheek. The controlled Surgeon of Death flickered, revealing the man beneath who was bleeding.
"That's not the fucking point!" he hissed, the sudden profanity jarring in the quiet night. He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing yours.
"When I told you about my past, when I opened up to you, I had no idea I was handing my vulnerabilities to his lover."
"He wasn't my lover! I was his victim just as much as you were, Law! That is exactly why I didn't say anything! Because it's humiliating!" you shouted back, the tears finally stinging your eyes.
The silence that followed was deafening. You expected him to snap back, to defend his pride or demand more answers, but the sharp edge in his posture suddenly crumbled.
Law flinched as if you had struck him. The darkness in his eyes shifted, the-fury receding. He saw it then—not just the secret you were keeping, but the trembling vulnerability of the woman standing before him.
He realized he hadn't been fighting for the truth; he had been fighting for his own ego.
"God..." he breathed, his voice losing its edge.
He took a hesitant step forward, his hands reaching out but stopping just short of your skin, as if he were afraid his very touch might bruise you.
"I'm sorry. I...I was being a fool."
He let out a shaky exhale, his gaze softening with regret.
"I'm sorry...for making you feel like you had to defend your own pain to me."
He let out a ragged breath.
"It's just...the thought of him. The thought that he laid hands on you, that he saw you like that... it feels like he always has a claim over everything in my life."
"He has nothing!" you cried, your breath hitching. "It is all in the past!"
The tension snapped.
"Then let it stay there," he breathed, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
He collided with you. The kiss was a violent reclamation, a desperate attempt to overwrite the memory of Doflamingo's touch with his own.
His hands slid from your jaw to your chest, his palms heavy and warm through your clothes as he kissed you with a hunger that bordered on anger.
The walk to your room was a blur and the moment the door clicked shut behind you, the pretense of restraint shattered.
Law didn't wait for you to turn around. He pushed you against the wood of the door, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly so you had to wrap your legs around his waist.
He kissed you roughly, his tongue searching yours as he steered you toward the bed, finally setting you down. Stripping both you and himself, his eyes tracked every inch of skin he uncovered of you.
You sank back into the mattress, and his head lowered as he knelt on the ground, finding his place between your legs.
The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat against your folds. You let out a soft hiss at the notion, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he buried his face in the junction of your thighs.
He groaned against your cunt, lapping at your folds with an uncharacteristic greed, his tongue swirling around your clit before dipping deep into your soaking heat.
He was drinking you in, his nose pressing into your soft flesh, inhaling the heady scent of your desire.
"Fuck," he muttered against your wetness, his voice muffled and slurred.
"Missed this so goddamn much..."
His fingers joined the assault, slowly dipping in till he was knuckles deep inside you, pumping at a punishingly slow pace, the friction there but not quiet enough.
And when he settled the pads of his fingers against that delicate spot inside you, his tongue worked your clit in tandem until you were arching off the sheets, your hips bucking against his mouth.
"Why'd you have to run away back then, huh? Mmmm...Could've had you another year..."
He was becoming intoxicated by you, his breathing ragged and uneven, clearly losing himself in the saccharine taste of you.
Law was no longer composed. His tongue was lashing against your clit rhythmically, his free hand gliding up to palm at your breasts.
"Law... Law!" you wailed, your voice cracking as you clawed at the sheets.
He didn't slow down. If anything, the sound of your desperation spurred him on. You could feel the tension building in your lower abdomen as your vision blurred, the room spinning as the pleasure peaked.
"I know you missed this too, baby..." he slurred against your cunt, "Let it all out."
With a choked moan, your body finally surrendered. Your walls clamped down on his fingers as a sudden gush of fluid erupted from you, soaking his face and chest as you squirted, your entire body convulsing in the orgasm.
You lay there, gasping for air, your limbs heavy and trembling uncontrollably. Law lifted his head, his chin and lips glistening, his eyes hooded. He looked truly drunk on you, his breath coming in ragged huffs as he watched the aftershocks burn your muscles.
Not giving you a moment to recover, he surged up your torso. You could feel the scorching heat radiating off his skin, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen pressing into the soft swell of your breasts.
He captured your mouth in a searing kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue.
"I can't believe he touched you like this," he rasped against your lips, his voice rough with a jealousy that seeped into his very bones. "Can't believe these hands, this body, was ever his..."
To punctuate his words, he gripped your hips with bruising force, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your hips as he hilted himself inside you with a single thrust.
You cried out, your back arching sharply off the bed as he stretched you out.
"Tell me," he demanded, his hips rolling in a slow, grinding circle, stirring his cock inside your fluttering walls.
"Tell me you're mine now. Tell me no one else will ever touch you like this again."
"Hahh-! Hah-! I'm- I'm yours-!"
He set a deep, heavy rhythm, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your moans and his guttural grunts.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours as he loomed over you.
"So f-fucking precious to me- Hahh-!...She doesn't even know it..."
"Mphm-! L-law..."
"So perfect...ngh-! around my cock...Can't believe I let you r-hah! run away... U-unforgivable..."
Law sounded as though he had lost all reason, barely conscious, his only motive to feel you cum around his cock, just like you had on his tongue.
He hooked your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts to drive even deeper into your pussy. The new position allowed him to grind against that spongey patch inside you with every pump of his hips, sending bolts of pleasure up your spine.
You could feel another orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly as he fucked you with a single minded purpose, chasing his own rapidly approaching release.
One hand grabbed on your your calf desperately, planting a heavy kiss before biting down onto the flesh to muffle his voice. That moment of pain sent you spiraling, creaming his cock in all its glory as moaned in abandon.
And it was no sooner that he reached his release, buried deep as the ropes of white tainted you from within.
Time had lost all meaning as the night went on. And you could only hope no one from your crew decides to show up.
You were no longer lying flat; he had hauled you up onto your hands and knees, forcing your hips high and your chest low in a devastatingly vulnerable position.
From this angle, every thrust was driving into you with such depth that you felt him reaching deeper each time.
He was drunk off of you, completely untethered from his usual persona. His hips slamming into yours with an echoing slap that sounded so obscene.
You were a mess of sweat and slickness, your skin glistening under the dim light, your hair plastered to your neck as you gasped for air.
"God... fuck..." Law groaned, his large hands clamped onto your hips like iron shackles, his thumbs digging into your waist to anchor himself.
You were too spent to do much more than survive him. Each time he lunged forward, you could only weakly push your hips back, meeting his momentum with a desperate, instinctive tilt of your pelvis.
Your moans had devolved into wet, gurgled sounds, caught in the back of your throat as the sensation overwhelmed your ability to breathe.
Between your thighs, the creamy mixture of his multiple orgasms and your own overflowing juices had formed a slippery ring around his base. And as he drove in and out, the liquid overflowed, trailing in long, translucent streaks down the insides of your thighs.
He was relentless, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more frantic as he chased the next peak, his breath hot against the nape of your neck.
"Stay right there," he rasped, his voice cracking with a possessive need. "Don't- hah! fuck! Don't move...just take it...take all of it..."
Law's pace became rapid, thighs slapping against your ass as his thrusts lost all semblance of control. He gripped your hips so tightly his knuckles turned white, his fingers bruising your skin.
"I'm...fuck...!" he choked out, his voice breaking as his entire body stiffened.
He drove into you one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he were trying to merge his very soul with yours.
You felt the sudden release, the sensation so intense it triggered a final convulsion in your own body, your walls clamping around him in an all too familiar manner.
He collapsed onto your back, his heavy weight pinning you into the mattress. For several long minutes, the only sound in the room was the thudding of your hearts and the ragged hitching of your breath.
Slowly, the frantic energy ebbed, but Law didn't pull away immediately; instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing as he let the tremors subside.
His touch, that was once so aggressive, softened as his hands slid to your waist to trace soothing circles over your damp skin.
As he finally rolled to the side, he pulled you with him into the tangle of damp sheets, the silence of the night returning.
The weight of the past, the sting of the bounty, and the jealousy had all been washed away, drowned in the presence of each other.
It was all worth it, even if you woke up to the loud scream of Nami the next morning.
Could I request one piece villains (bartolomeo and Kidd included) with a soft kind reader? Like he's a monster and the reader is a literary a flower (gn reader pls) hope it's not much!
SOFT HEARTED
GN!Reader x One Piece villains (+ Kid and Bartolomeo)
(I hope I included everyone you would want)
Warnings: toxic/abusive relationships, violence/cruelty, manipulation, power imbalance, dark themes, cruelty, self-sacrifice, arranged marriage, possible sensitive family dynamics
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!
DOFLOMINGOᯓ★
A Kindred Spirit in a Cruel World (3,176 words)
The salt-laced wind whipped strands of hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar expression that rarely left your features. You were a soul of unwavering kindness, a beacon of warmth in a world often cloaked in shadows. For you, true joy came from the simple act of giving – a piece of candied fruit to a child with wide, hopeful eyes, a comforting word to a stranger in distress, or even, if the need arose, a selfless offering of yourself, an organ donated without a second thought to save a life. Your compassion was boundless, your empathy a deep well from which you drew strength and offered solace.
People often wondered how someone like you, so inherently good and giving, found yourself entangled with a man like Donquixote Doflamingo. He was everything you weren't – a force of nature driven by a chilling cruelty, a man who reveled in the suffering of others, who twisted lives for his own amusement. His laughter, a harsh, cackling sound, often sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest pirates, yet to you, it was merely the echo of a different kind of storm. You saw the broken boy beneath the flamboyant exterior, the scarred past that molded him into the monster he had become. And despite the vast chasm between your natures, a strange, undeniable bond had formed, pulling you deeper into his dangerous, unpredictable world. You were the sun to his moon, the calm to his chaos, a tender hand reaching out to touch the untouchable. But how long could such a fragile connection endure in the tumultuous currents of the New World, especially when one heart beat with boundless love and the other pulsed with unyielding darkness?
You were excellent at seeing. Not just with your eyes, but with your entire being. You saw the flicker of doubt behind a braggart's grin, the tremor in a bully's hand, the silent plea in a hardened criminal's eyes. This wasn't a skill you honed; it was an inherent part of you, a profound capacity for empathy that allowed you to connect with the raw, often hidden, core of another being. And it was this very quality, your boundless compassion, that had first snagged Doflamingo's attention, drawing him in like a moth to a dangerously bright flame.
He remembered the first time he truly saw it, or rather, felt it. It was on some forgotten island, a backwater where his crew had just finished asserting their dominance. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and fear, the usual aftermath of their arrival. Doflamingo was striding through the chaos, a predatory smirk plastered on his face, when he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because you had. You were kneeling by a collapsed stall, not tending to a fallen comrade or assessing damage, but gently stroking the ruffled feathers of a terrified pigeon, murmuring soft, comforting words. A silly, insignificant bird, in the grand scheme of his brutal world, yet you treated it with a tenderness that defied the very atmosphere he cultivated. He watched, utterly perplexed, as you then offered a small, broken piece of bread to the creature, your eyes shining with a pure, unadulterated kindness that seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed armor of indifference.
It was infuriating. It was fascinating. It was, he grudgingly admitted to himself, captivating. Your inherent goodness was a stark contrast to the ugliness he embodied, and for a time, that contrast intrigued him. He found himself drawn to it, to the way your empathy softened the sharp edges of his world, to the bizarre comfort of your compassion, even when he pretended to scorn it. He’d test it, push against it, only to find it unyielding, unwavering. And a strange, possessive feeling began to fester within him – a desire to keep that purity close, to have it reflect back at him, a twisted mirror to his own depravity.
But now, that same boundless empathy, that unending compassion, was a festering wound, a constant, irritating reminder of everything he wasn’t and everything he refused to be. Your ability to see past the facade, to offer understanding where he craved fear, to forgive where he delighted in vengeance, had curdled into a bitter resentment. It was a weakness he couldn't tolerate, a light that burned too brightly in his shadowed existence, threatening to expose the very depths of his cruelty. It was what he loved and loathed, the very essence of you that both bound him and drove him to the brink of fury.
He remembered it like it was yesterday, the memory vivid and biting. It was Baby 5. She’d been careless, as usual, taking a hit during a skirmish that was meant for someone else, her body crumpling in a most un-Doflamingo-like display of vulnerability. The sight of her, pale and bleeding on the grimy deck of their ship, usually elicited nothing more than a disgusted sneer from him. A weakness. A liability.
But then you were there.
You moved with a quiet urgency he found both perplexing and infuriating. Your hands, usually so gentle, were surprisingly steady as you knelt beside Baby 5, ignoring the blood that stained your clothes. Your touch wasn't clinical or detached; it was infused with that damned, unwavering compassion that burned him. You didn't just tend to the wound; you murmured soft reassurances, your voice a soothing balm against the harsh reality of their world. He watched, transfixed, as you pushed strands of hair from Baby 5's tear-streaked face, your eyes filled with an unbearable, soft sorrow for her pain.
He saw the way Baby 5, usually so desperate for validation, melted into your touch, her rigid posture softening, her sobs subsiding into quiet whimpers. You treated her not as a tool, or a subordinate, or a nuisance, but as a person, a fragile being in need of comfort. It was a scene that twisted something cold and hard in his gut. A part of him, the part he brutally suppressed, wanted to reach out, to understand that profound connection you effortlessly forged. But another, larger part, the one that governed his entire existence, raged.
Weakness. That’s all he saw. Your empathy was a gaping hole, a vulnerability he couldn't comprehend, let alone tolerate. It was a stark reminder of the sentimentality he'd long ago excised from his own being, a betrayal of everything he stood for. And in that moment, watching you pour your boundless kindness into someone he considered expendable, the first tendrils of that bitter, simmering hatred began to wrap around his twisted heart. It was a contradiction, a paradox he couldn't reconcile: the very thing that drew him to you, the very thing he secretly craved, was also the most potent source of his disdain.
God, you were the source of his anger, the very wellspring from which his fury flowed. Your existence was a constant, irritating contradiction to his own. It wasn't just your kindness in general, but your courage to openly display empathy and compassion right there, in front of him, that truly set his teeth on edge. It was a defiance, a silent rebellion against the cruel world he'd so painstakingly built around himself. He’d watch you, offering a gentle hand to a whimpering child, speaking softly to a terrified subordinate, or even, once, just gazing with a profound, aching sorrow at the destruction he’d wrought, and a cold, sharp rage would coil in his gut.
He hated you for it. Hated the way your inherent goodness shone, unbidden and untamed, like a defiant sunbeam piercing through his carefully constructed darkness. He hated that you saw beyond the monster, that you refused to cower, that your compassion was so absolute it made his own barren existence feel even colder. It was a mirror reflecting his own twisted soul, showing him everything he'd lost, everything he'd sacrificed, everything he’d brutally suppressed to become the man he was.
Yet, it was the same damned thing that had drawn him to you in the first place. Like a moth to a flame, he'd been inexplicably pulled into your orbit. Your unwavering kindness, your fearless empathy – it was an anomaly he couldn't comprehend, a challenge he couldn't resist. He’d wanted to possess it, perhaps even to corrupt it, to see if he could break that unbreakable spirit. He’d wanted to understand it, to tear apart the enigma of your compassion, to find its weakness, its breaking point. But you never broke. You simply continued to be you, radiating that infuriating, mesmerizing warmth, a constant thorn in his side and a strange, undeniable anchor in his chaotic world. It was a maddening paradox: the thing he despised most about you was also the very thing that had, against all reason, brought him to his knees.
The air in the opulent, yet often chilling, halls of Doflamingo's palace crackled with an unspoken tension. You had been tending to one of his crew, a low-ranking grunt who'd caught a nasty fever, and your quiet ministrations had, as always, drawn Doflamingo's gaze. He watched from the shadows, a familiar knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his chest. Your effortless kindness, your pure, unadulterated compassion – it was a constant affront to his very being, a soft hand gently pressing against the jagged edges of his soul.
When you finally straightened up, he was there, blocking your path. His usual predatory smirk was replaced by something colder, more volatile. "Fufufu... still playing the innocent healer, are we?" His voice was a low growl, laced with a familiar mockery.
You met his gaze, your own eyes unwavering. "Someone needed help, Doffy."
"Help?" he scoffed, taking a step closer, his tall frame looming over yours. "Such a pathetic sentiment. Don't you see, little dove? This world doesn't reward kindness. It devours it. And you... you practically bleed it." His hand, usually so quick to unleash devastating strings, reached out, not to strike, but to brush a lock of hair from your face. The touch was feather-light, yet it felt charged with an unbearable weight. "It infuriates me."
A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken truths. You knew what he meant. You always did. Your empathy, the very core of your being, was a constant challenge to his cruel philosophy.
"It infuriates me," he repeated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "how you can look at the ugliness of this world, at me, and still find... something. How you can offer that soft hand, that gentle gaze, when all I've ever known is taking and destroying." His eyes, usually hidden behind his sunglasses, were now piercing, raw, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something akin to vulnerability, a deep-seated confusion that warred with his inherent cruelty. "I hate it."
The words were harsh, blunt, an honest confession of his bitter resentment. And yet, in that moment, the raw honesty of it was almost disarming. You didn't flinch. You didn't argue. You simply stood there, your compassion a silent, unyielding force against his venom.
Then, just as the anger seemed to reach its peak, a different kind of storm brewed in his eyes. His gaze dropped from yours to your lips, a sudden, almost desperate hunger replacing the fury. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, his breath ghosting across your face.
"I hate you for it," he rasped, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn't quite name, "but I can't... I can't stay away."
And then, before you could even process the words, his lips were on yours. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, almost violent in its intensity, a desperate claim. It was the kiss of a man consumed by a maddening contradiction, a torrent of anger and a desperate, undeniable yearning, all tangled up in the paradox of his twisted heart and your unwavering, infuriating kindness. In that kiss, the love and the hatred, the fascination and the revulsion, all collided, binding you to him in a dangerous, undeniable embrace.
The kiss had been a jarring shift, a violent tenderness that left you both reeling. Afterwards, Doflamingo had pulled away, his face a mask of conflict, and stalked off without another word, leaving you alone in the silent, echoing hall. This was the pattern of your relationship with him – intense bursts of raw emotion, followed by a tense, often suffocating silence.
You were his, in his own twisted sense of the word. He introduced you as such, a subtle possessiveness in his tone that brooked no argument. You were a permanent fixture in his life, a strange, soft anomaly in the Donquixote Family’s brutal hierarchy. The crew, hardened by years of Doflamingo's rule, regarded you with a mixture of confusion and cautious respect. They’d witnessed his volatile rages, his chilling indifference, yet you were the one person who could, at times, evoke something else from him – a flicker of something akin to worry, a strange, almost gentle touch, or even a fleeting, unguarded expression that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
For your part, you navigated his volatile nature with a blend of unwavering patience and quiet defiance. You wouldn't change who you were for him, and he, in turn, seemed to begrudgingly accept that. He’d yell, he’d rage, he’d mock your bleeding-heart tendencies, but you would simply meet his tirades with a calm gaze, a soft rebuttal, or even, occasionally, a pointed silence that infuriated him more than any argument. He’d test your compassion, presenting you with situations designed to break your spirit, to force you to acknowledge the "reality" of his world. He’d make you witness acts of cruelty, hoping to see the idealism shatter in your eyes. But it never did. Instead, you'd find small, subversive ways to mitigate the damage, a whispered word of comfort, a hidden act of kindness, an almost imperceptible gesture of solace.
This constant push and pull was the core of your existence together. He thrived on power, on control, on instilling fear. You, on the other hand, sought to soothe, to understand, to alleviate suffering. It was a clash of fundamental forces, a storm and a calm, perpetually locked in a dangerous dance.
There were moments, rare and fleeting, when the "love" part of their relationship, however twisted, would surface. He would watch you as you slept, a strange, almost tender expression softening his usually sharp features. He'd pull you closer during a storm, the rough expanse of his arm a surprising comfort. He'd bring you rare trinkets, not as gifts of affection, but as tokens of possession, yet the act itself held a bizarre, almost endearing sincerity. And you, in turn, found yourself drawn to the wounded boy beneath the tyrannical facade, to the flicker of humanity he so desperately tried to extinguish. You loved him, not for what he was, but for what you believed he could be, for the glimpse of a tortured soul you occasionally saw in his eyes.
But then, just as quickly, the mask would snap back into place. The cruelty would resurface, the mocking laughter would echo, and the cold, hard reality of who Doflamingo truly was would assert itself. And in those moments, the hatred he held for your inherent goodness would flare anew, a constant reminder of the chasm between you. You were his greatest weakness and his most coveted possession, a constant source of both agonizing frustration and undeniable fascination. It was a love built on paradox, sustained by conflict, and perpetually teetering on the brink of beautiful destruction.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violent orange and bruised purple, a fitting backdrop for the paradoxical life you shared with Doflamingo. Years had passed, marked by countless clashes of will, by his bouts of cruel amusement and your unwavering, stubborn kindness. Their relationship wasn't a fairytale, nor was it a conventional romance. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, in the most unlikely of pairings, two vastly different individuals could, against all odds, find a way to make things work.
It wasn't that the toxicity vanished; it simply became a part of the air you breathed, a constant, low hum beneath the surface of your shared existence. Doflamingo still reveled in chaos, still inflicted pain, and still, at times, openly disdained your empathy. You, in turn, never stopped offering comfort, never stopped seeing the lost boy beneath the Celestial Dragon's veneer. But something had shifted, solidified into a bizarre, unspoken agreement.
He had learned, in his own twisted way, to tolerate your goodness. More than that, he had come to rely on it, though he would sooner tear out his own throat than admit it. Your presence was a grounding force, a silent barometer that measured his own volatile temper. When his fury threatened to consume everything, your calm presence, your steady gaze, was often the only thing that could anchor him, if only for a fleeting moment. He might scoff at your compassion, but he knew, deep down, that you were the only one who could truly see him, the only one who didn't fear him unconditionally, and perhaps, the only one who didn't want anything from him other than his flawed self.
And you? You had come to understand that Doflamingo's love was not a soft, gentle thing, but a fierce, possessive grip. It was in the way his hand would linger on your arm for a fraction too long, in the way he'd dismiss a threat against you with a chilling finality, or the almost imperceptible softening of his voice when you were truly distressed. You accepted that his world was one of shadows and blood, and you chose to illuminate your own small corner of it, a quiet defiance that he, surprisingly, came to respect. You weren't changing him, not fundamentally, but you were undeniably influencing him, softening the edges of his brutal regime in ways no one else ever could.
Their life together was a constant tightrope walk, a delicate balance between destruction and a strange, profound connection. There were no grand declarations of love, no idyllic moments under starry skies. Instead, it was in the shared silences, in the way he'd instinctively reach for your hand during a tense standoff, in the fierce protectiveness he unconsciously displayed. You were the quiet anchor to his storm, the gentle touch to his hardened cruelty, and in that complex interplay, you found your own unconventional version of forever.
The world might call your relationship toxic, and perhaps it was. But in the volatile, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line, you and Doflamingo had forged a bond that, against all logic, endured. It was a love born of contradiction, sustained by unwavering acceptance, and ultimately, a testament to the fact that even the most disparate souls could find a way to fit, imperfectly but inextricably, together.
CROCODILE ❀.ೃ࿔*
Where kindness meet cruelty (2,431)
You always saw the good in people, even when no one else did. Your heart was an open book, filled with empathy and a boundless capacity for kindness. You were the one who'd offer a comforting embrace to a weeping stranger, whispering words of encouragement until their tears subsided. Sacrificing your own well-being for another's happiness was simply second nature to you, a quiet act of devotion that defined who you were. In a world often steeped in cynicism, you were a beacon of unwavering compassion, a gentle soul whose presence brought warmth to even the coldest corners.
And then there was Crocodile. Your lover, and the jarring counterpoint to your own gentle nature. Where you offered solace, he dispensed harsh truths. Where you sought understanding, he wielded anger like a weapon. He was the shifting sands of a desert storm, unpredictable and unforgiving, a stark contrast to your own steady, calming presence. You, the compassionate secretary of the Cross Guild, found yourself drawn to the very man who embodied everything you weren't. It was a paradox, a love story etched in opposing shades, and yet, it was undeniably yours.
The docks of Nanohana were a chaotic symphony of shouts, creaking wood, and the salty tang of the sea. A young street urchin, no older than ten, stumbled, sending a cascade of oranges tumbling from their overloaded basket. The fruit rolled across the cobblestones, some squashed underfoot by hurried passersby. The child's lip trembled, tears welling in their eyes, a whimper escaping their throat.
You, ever the first to react, were already moving. Your steps were swift and light as you knelt beside the distraught child. "Oh, you poor thing," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm amidst the din. You began to gather the remaining oranges, carefully brushing off the dirt before placing them back in the basket. "It's alright, we'll get these picked up. Don't you worry." You even pulled a small, pristine handkerchief from your pocket, gently dabbing at the child's tear-streaked face. You'd likely offer to buy them a new batch of oranges, or at the very least, share some of your own rations. You wouldn't just fix the problem; you'd mend the child's spirit.
Meanwhile, Crocodile would observe the scene from a short distance, a scowl deepening on his scarred face. His eyes, sharp and calculating, would assess the situation not with pity, but with a cold, almost detached analysis. He wouldn't lift a finger to help. Instead, he'd bark, "Get up, you sniveling brat! Crying won't put those oranges back in the basket. Learn to hold onto your belongings, or you'll starve." He might even kick a stray orange further away, not out of maliciousness, but as a twisted form of tough love, a brutal lesson in self-reliance. For him, the child's misfortune wasn't an opportunity for kindness, but a chance for a harsh, unforgettable lesson about the unforgiving nature of the world. He'd tell you later that coddling only bred weakness, that true strength came from enduring hardship alone.
The docks incident was a stark, undeniable fissure in their shared reality. It was a clear line drawn in the sand, illustrating precisely where your unwavering empathy diverged from Crocodile's unyielding pragmatism. You'd spent the rest of that afternoon ensuring the child was truly alright, even managing to convince a local vendor to give them a few extra oranges, while Crocodile watched, his arms crossed, a silent, disapproving observer.
Yet, despite these glaring differences, you made it work. It wasn't always easy, and there were countless silent battles fought in the space between your intertwined fingers. But moments of unexpected tenderness, like scattered desert blooms, punctuated their harsh landscape.
You remember one particularly rough night in Alabasta, the wind howling like a banshee through the desert, whipping sand against their temporary shelter. You were shivering, despite the worn blanket wrapped tightly around you. Crocodile, ever alert, seemed to sense your discomfort without a word passing between them. He didn't offer a platitude, or even a direct question. Instead, he simply shifted closer, his large frame radiating a surprising amount of warmth. He draped his own heavy cloak over your shoulders, its rough fabric a stark contrast to the softness of his subtle gesture. He never acknowledged it, never mentioned it the next day, but the quiet act spoke volumes. It was in these small, unspoken gestures that his version of affection manifested—a protective instinct, a silent acknowledgment of your presence and comfort, even if it was buried beneath layers of gruffness.
Another time, after a particularly grueling Cross Guild meeting, you found yourself overwhelmed by the endless paperwork and the constant tension that simmered between the members. You were slumped over your desk, a headache throbbing behind your eyes. Crocodile entered, a cloud of cigar smoke preceding him. He usually had a biting comment or a new demand. But that day, he simply pulled up a chair opposite you. He didn't speak. He just sat there, meticulously cleaning his hook, the rhythmic scrape of metal against leather the only sound in the room. You didn't realize how much you needed that quiet, undemanding presence until he was there. It wasn't comfort in the traditional sense, but it was his comfort—a shared silence that somehow eased the pressure in your head and the weight on your shoulders. It was in these moments that you truly understood how deeply intertwined your lives had become, a testament to a bond forged not in similarity, but in the acceptance of profound differences.
The quiet moments, the ones where the world's chaos faded into the background, became the bedrock of your relationship. You learned to read the subtle shifts in Crocodile's demeanor, the slight tightening around his eyes that signaled a flicker of concern, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his jaw when he genuinely approved of something you'd done. And he, in his own gruff way, came to rely on your presence, on the gentle order you brought to the tumultuous operations of the Cross Guild, and perhaps, to his own turbulent mind.
You often found yourself sifting through stacks of bounty posters in his office, organizing the chaos of wanted criminals and their ever-increasing prices. He'd be hunched over his own desk, a plume of cigar smoke curling around his head, ostensibly engrossed in a map or a strategy document. But you knew he was aware of your every movement, the soft rustle of paper, the quiet hum you sometimes made when you were deeply focused. He’d never admit it, but your steady, calming presence was a quiet anchor in his storm-tossed life.
One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows of their temporary headquarters. Rain lashed down in sheets, and the wind howled like a hungry beast. The power flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness before sputtering back to life. You jumped, startled, a small gasp escaping your lips. Crocodile, who had been observing the storm with an almost casual indifference, turned his head. He didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than usual. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reached out and flicked a switch on a small, oil-burning lantern he kept on his desk, its warm, steady glow pushing back against the encroaching shadows. It was a simple act, yet it spoke volumes. It was his way of saying, "I'm here. You're safe."
You smiled then, a soft, genuine smile that reached your eyes. He didn't return it, of course, but you saw the briefest flicker in his own, a hint of something unreadable, perhaps even content. In that shared, silent moment, amidst the raging storm and the world's cruel indifference, you knew, unequivocally, that your contrasting souls had found an unlikely, yet unbreakable, harmony. You were the light, he was the shadow, and together, you cast a unique silhouette against the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line.
Crocodile would never admit it, not even to himself, but your relentless kindness was a persistent, inconvenient anomaly in his carefully constructed world of cynicism. He viewed emotions as weaknesses, vulnerabilities to be exploited, yet your boundless empathy chipped away at his hardened resolve in ways he couldn't comprehend, let alone control. It was like a constant, gentle pressure against a rock, slowly, imperceptibly eroding its sharp edges.
He'd often scoff at your bleeding-heart tendencies, muttering about sentimentality being a burden in the Grand Line. He'd witness you offering a stray dog a portion of your own meal, or patiently listening to a tearful merchant lamenting their losses, and a muscle in his jaw would tick. It wasn't anger, not precisely. It was… disquiet. Your actions defied his every belief about survival, about the ruthless efficiency required to thrive in a world that devoured the weak.
One blistering afternoon in Alabasta, you both found yourselves navigating the dusty streets of a small desert town, en route to a discreet meeting. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the distant sound of a bazaar. As you passed a narrow alley, a faint, mewling sound caught your ear. Tucked away in the shadows, a tiny kitten, no bigger than your palm, lay curled on the grimy sand, its fur matted, its ribs starkly visible. It was shivering, despite the heat.
Without a moment's hesitation, you knelt, extending a gentle hand. The kitten, wary, flattened itself further, but you remained still, your voice a soft, reassuring murmur. "Hey there, little one," you cooed, your fingers slowly, carefully reaching out to stroke its head. It flinched, then, surprisingly, leaned into your touch, letting out a weak purr.
Crocodile stopped, his shadow falling over you both. He watched, his golden eyes narrowed, a mixture of disdain and something unreadable in their depths. He half-expected you to leave it, to continue on your way. Instead, you carefully scooped up the trembling creature, cradling it against your chest.
"We can't just leave it, Crocodile," you said, your voice quiet but firm, not even looking at him as you began to gently clean the kitten's matted fur with a damp cloth you always carried. "It's starving. It won't last the night."
He let out a low, exasperated grunt. "It's a stray, Y/N. This isn't a charity mission. We have business." His words were sharp, cutting, but you noticed he didn't move to stop you. He merely stood there, a formidable, unyielding presence, observing your tender ministrations.
You didn't argue. You simply continued to comfort the kitten, your fingers stroking its tiny head until its purrs grew stronger. You knew he wouldn't outright forbid it, not when you looked at him with that earnest, unwavering gaze. He'd grouse, he'd mock, but he wouldn't force you to abandon it.
Later, back at your temporary lodgings, you found a small, chipped bowl on the floor, filled with water and a few scraps of dried meat. The kitten, now somewhat revived, was cautiously lapping at the water. Crocodile was nowhere to be seen, but the message was clear. He hadn't asked about the kitten, hadn't acknowledged its presence beyond his initial protests. Yet, the bowl was there, a silent, grudging concession to your persistent heart. It was a vexing, illogical feeling for him, this involuntary response to your empathy. He understood power, control, ambition. But your quiet, unwavering kindness? That was an enigma he was still, against his will, trying to decipher.
Years passed, measured not by calendars, but by the relentless pursuit of power, the fleeting alliances, and the dust of countless islands. The Cross Guild grew, its influence spreading like a desert storm, and through it all, you remained at Crocodile's side, the unwavering constant in his tumultuous existence. The kitten, long grown into a sleek, healthy cat, often curled on your desk, a silent, furry testament to that long-ago moment in Alabasta and to Crocodile's begrudging, unspoken tolerance.
He never softened, not in the way one might expect. The scowl rarely left his face, his words remained sharp, and his ambition burned as fiercely as ever. But something shifted. The exasperated grunts became less frequent, the cynical remarks sometimes carried a faint, almost imperceptible hint of dry amusement. He still chastised you for your "naiveté," but the bite in his voice was tempered by a strange, almost possessive undertone.
It was during a tense standoff with a rival crew on a remote, rain-swept island. A young, inexperienced crew member, overwhelmed by the sudden violence, froze, directly in the path of an incoming attack. Your eyes widened in alarm, and without thinking, you moved. Not to fight, but to push the young man out of harm's way, leaving yourself momentarily exposed.
Time seemed to slow. Crocodile, already engaged with the opposing captain, saw it all. His golden eyes, usually cold and calculating, flashed with something akin to raw, visceral panic. For a fraction of a second, his guard wavered, a dangerous lapse. But before he could curse, before he could intervene, you had already completed your selfless act, tumbling to the ground with the crew member, both of you narrowly avoiding a devastating blow.
The fight raged on, but the brief, unguarded look on Crocodile's face spoke volumes. It was not anger at your recklessness, not disdain for your perceived weakness. It was a fleeting, terrifying glimpse of fear – fear for you.
Later, when the dust settled and the enemy lay defeated, you stood a little shaken, but unharmed. Crocodile approached, his cloak billowing around him, a silent, imposing figure. He didn't ask if you were hurt. He didn't offer praise. He simply reached out, his hook glinting, and with surprising gentleness, he nudged a stray strand of hair from your face. His eyes, devoid of their usual malice, met yours. For a long moment, an eternity in their complex dynamic, there was no anger, no judgment, only a quiet, profound understanding.
He might never articulate it, but in that silent gesture, in the way he allowed your kindness to exist unfettered in his brutal world, was his ultimate acceptance. You were the anomaly, the inconvenient truth, the softest edge to his sharpest ambition. You were the one who saw the flickering good in a heart he insisted was barren. And perhaps, in a way he would never acknowledge, you were the only one who could truly anchor the shifting sands of Sir Crocodile. You were his balance, his contradiction, and his most fiercely, silently guarded treasure. Their story wasn't one of change, but of profound, unwavering acceptance of each other's unchanging, contrasting natures.
KATAKURI 𐙚 ˚🍰 ⋆
The flutter and the stone (2,593 words)
A warmth emanated from you, a silent, comforting glow that drew people in like moths to a flame. You were the kind of soul who’d offer a gentle hand to someone stumbling, not just to pick them up, but to steady them until they found their footing again. Sacrifice wasn’t a foreign concept to you; it was a quiet understanding, a willingness to put another’s well-being above your own, even if it meant hardship for yourself. You were truly one of the best, a beacon of empathy in a world that often felt devoid of it.
But then there was Katakuri. He was a stark contrast to your vibrant spirit, a calm and serious presence, his emotions carefully guarded behind an impenetrable facade. An arranged engagement by Big Mom herself had sealed your fate, weaving your compassionate nature into the fabric of his stoic world. Now, you found yourself living alongside him on Whole Cake Island, the sweet, saccharine air a strange accompaniment to the quiet, almost detached reality you shared. You, a soul brimming with kindness, and he, a man of unwavering composure, were bound together in an intricate dance orchestrated by a Yonko.
He'd expected a hindrance, a constant, buzzing annoyance orchestrated by his mother. That's what most of these arranged marriages were: a liability, a weakness he'd have to account for. He'd envisioned someone fragile, prone to tears and dramatics, clinging to him for protection, constantly seeking attention he had no desire to give. He'd braced himself for endless chatter, for a person who would disrupt the rigid order he'd meticulously crafted in his life. The idea of sharing his space, his very existence, with someone so utterly out of sync with his own stoic nature had been, frankly, irritating. He’d prepared for the worst, for a constant drain on his already limited patience, a shadow of inconvenience following him everywhere.
But you… you were different. You were a quiet warmth, not a demanding heat. You didn't cling; you simply existed, a gentle presence that somehow softened the edges of his perpetually sharp world. The "endless chatter" he'd anticipated never materialized. Instead, you offered thoughtful observations, quiet support, or sometimes, just a comfortable silence. He’d found you, more than once, tending to a wounded crewmate with a tenderness that made even the gruffest pirates soften. You'd share your meals, offer comfort without being asked, and your eyes held a depth of understanding that surprised him. You didn't demand his attention, but your quiet acts of kindness drew it anyway.
You didn't just shine; you fluttered. You were a vibrant, living thing, a soft current of light that seemed to effortlessly navigate the harsh realities of Whole Cake Island. He found himself, against his better judgment, observing you. How you'd hum a soft tune while organizing supplies, how your laughter, soft and genuine, could cut through the usual cacophony of the island. He’d catch himself, on rare occasions, feeling a faint, unfamiliar stir in his chest when you’d offer a gentle smile his way. He'd expected a burden, a heavy weight to bear. What he got was… something akin to light. A light he hadn't known he needed, but now, he found himself, in his own silent way, watching, almost waiting, for its gentle, steady glow.
You had an uncanny knack for anticipating needs, a quiet magic that hummed beneath your gentle demeanor. Katakuri would find his favorite tea brewed just so in the mornings, a small, thoughtful gesture. Or, on days he was particularly swamped, he'd discover a meticulously packed lunch waiting for him – often including those subtly sweet mochi he favored, even though you’d never seen him eat them openly. It wasn't just for him, though. Your kindness was a boundless well. You'd often prepare extra portions, enough for his siblings, even a specially made sweet for Big Mom herself, always left in a place where it would be easily found, without any fanfare or expectation of thanks. You simply did.
One sweltering afternoon, a sudden, torrential downpour erupted over Whole Cake Island. Katakuri had been in a particularly intense training session, his usual stoicism even more pronounced as he pushed himself. He’d barely paused for breath, let alone considered the oppressive heat or the sudden chill the rain brought. His siblings, too, were scattered across the sprawling complex, many caught off guard by the unexpected shift in weather.
As he finally wrapped up, Mochi sticking to his skin from the exertion, he started towards his usual post. But when he arrived, there was a small, steaming cup waiting. Not just for him, but several, strategically placed for others who would soon be arriving. It was a ginger-lemon tea, perfectly warm, with a subtle sweetness that cut through the humidity and offered a comforting heat against the sudden dampness. Beside it, a stack of freshly folded, dry towels.
You weren't there, of course. You never were, not to receive praise or acknowledgment. But the faint scent of ginger and lemon lingered, a silent testament to your presence, your unwavering thoughtfulness. Katakuri picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into his calloused hands. He took a slow sip, and for a fleeting moment, a faint, almost imperceptible easing of his perpetually tense shoulders could be observed. You just… knew. And you acted, a quiet force of nature, making the world around you a little bit softer, a little bit kinder, without ever being asked.
You continued to weave your quiet magic into the fabric of Whole Cake Island life, a gentle counterpoint to its often chaotic rhythms. Katakuri, for his part, found himself in uncharted territory. He was accustomed to calculating, to predicting, to controlling. But you, with your unassuming kindness and innate ability to simply be, defied all his expectations. He couldn't quite categorize you, couldn't fit you into any of his established frameworks. It was unsettling, yet… not entirely unpleasant.
One evening, after a particularly grueling day of territory patrols and dealing with a new batch of unruly subordinates, Katakuri returned to his private quarters. The air was heavy, the usual tension in his shoulders even more pronounced. He expected the familiar silence, the solitary decompression he always sought. Instead, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminated the room, and the scent of freshly brewed herbal tea, a blend he recognized as one that aided relaxation, wafted gently towards him.
You were there, of course, perched on a plush cushion, a book open in your lap. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, usually bright with warmth, holding a quiet understanding. You didn't speak, didn't offer effusive greetings or pointed questions about his day. You simply gestured to the steaming mug on his small table, then to another cushion opposite you.
He hesitated for a moment, an almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd never truly shared this space with anyone, not in this way. But the subtle invitation, devoid of any demand, was strangely compelling. He settled onto the cushion, his imposing form making the furniture seem almost fragile. He picked up the mug, the warmth a welcome contrast to the cold calculation that had dominated his day.
You returned to your book, yet your presence was anything but distant. It was a comfortable, silent companionship, a soothing balm to the weary edges of his mind. He found himself, for the first time in a long time, truly relaxing. The tension in his jaw eased, his shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. He didn't know what to call this feeling, this quiet sense of calm that settled over him. But as he sipped his tea, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you read, a thought, foreign and unexpected, drifted through his mind: perhaps this arranged marriage wasn't a burden after all. Perhaps it was… something else entirely. Something he was only just beginning to understand.
The silent tea-drinking evenings became a quiet ritual, a comfortable pause in the ceaseless rhythm of Whole Cake Island. Katakuri found himself anticipating them, the subtle shift in his mood almost imperceptible even to him. He’d never craved companionship, never sought it out, but your presence was different. It wasn’t a demand, but an invitation, a soft echo that resonated within his usually unyielding self.
The little interactions began to accumulate, tiny threads weaving a tapestry of connection. One blustery morning, you found him meticulously patching a tear in his scarf, a rare moment of vulnerability in his otherwise flawless exterior. You didn’t comment, didn’t pry, but simply offered a spool of stronger thread from your own sewing kit. He grunted in acknowledgment, a sound that in anyone else might have been dismissive, but from him, it was a quiet acceptance. Later, he noticed the mend was virtually invisible, stronger than before.
Another time, during a particularly chaotic family meeting, a flurry of paper charts went tumbling, scattering across the floor. Before anyone else could react, you were already gathering them, your movements swift and efficient, organizing them back into their proper order without a single word of complaint or even a look for approval. Katakuri, observing from the corner, found a flicker of something akin to admiration stir within him. You weren’t just kind; you were competent, resourceful, and utterly unassuming in your helpfulness.
He even started to notice your preferences. The way you always took your tea with a dash of honey, not sugar. The quiet smile that played on your lips when you managed to coax a wilting plant back to life. He’d find himself leaving a small, perfectly ripe fruit on your table, or ensuring a particularly comfortable blanket was draped over your favored reading chair. These were not grand gestures, not yet. They were quiet acknowledgments, a recognition of your unique presence, and a subtle, almost unconscious desire to contribute to your comfort, just as you so readily contributed to the comfort of everyone around you.
This wasn't just an arranged marriage anymore. The rigid lines of their initial agreement were blurring, softening with each shared silence, each unspoken understanding. It was becoming something else, something real and unexpected. A quiet, blossoming partnership rooted not in duty, but in a burgeoning, unfamiliar warmth.
The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but Katakuri himself. His siblings, accustomed to his imposing, unyielding presence, might have noticed a slight softening around his eyes when you were near, a less rigid set to his shoulders. But for him, it was a profound internal reordering. The quiet comfort you brought wasn't just a pleasant diversion; it was becoming an essential anchor in his turbulent world.
One afternoon, a squall of minor, yet persistent, issues arose across the island. A supply shipment was delayed, a kitchen pipe burst, and two of his younger siblings were squabbling over a prized confection. Katakuri moved with his usual efficiency, dispatching orders, making calls, his mind a whirl of solutions. Yet, a low thrum of irritation persisted beneath his calm exterior. He found himself, almost unconsciously, seeking you out.
You were in the vast, labyrinthine library, meticulously cataloging old maps. The scent of aged paper and faint cinnamon clung to the air around you. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, as always, holding a quiet, welcoming light. You didn't ask what was wrong, didn't demand explanations. Instead, you simply offered a small, freshly baked cookie from a plate beside you. "They just came out of the oven," you said softly, a gentle invitation in your voice.
He took it, the warm, slightly crisp cookie a surprising comfort in his large hand. He ate it in two bites, the familiar sweetness a momentary balm. He then, to his own surprise, found himself recounting the day's minor frustrations, not in detail, but in a series of clipped, gruff sentences. You listened, truly listened, your gaze unwavering, a silent well of understanding. You didn't offer advice, didn't try to fix anything. You just were.
And in that quiet acceptance, the knot of irritation in his chest began to loosen. The problems hadn't vanished, but his perspective on them had shifted. He felt a quiet sense of calm, a subtle centering that he hadn't realized he craved until you provided it. When he finally rose to leave, the silence between you wasn't empty; it was full, a testament to the unspoken bond that was solidifying between you. He paused at the door, turning his head slightly. "Thank you," he rumbled, the words rough but sincere. It was a rare, almost unprecedented admission from him, a testament to how deeply your quiet presence had begun to affect him. The arranged marriage had indeed become something else entirely. It was becoming a haven.
The "thank you" had been a tremor, a subtle shift in the carefully constructed facade Katakuri presented to the world. For you, it was a confirmation, a quiet acknowledgment that the seed of connection you had diligently, patiently sown was beginning to take root. You didn't press, didn't exploit the rare moment of vulnerability. You simply offered a small, gentle smile, a warmth that resonated with the burgeoning shift within him.
The silent tea rituals evolved. Sometimes, you would softly read aloud from your book, your voice a calm murmur against the backdrop of the bustling island. Katakuri, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, would often find himself listening, the words weaving through the usual strategic calculations in his mind. He even began to notice the stories you favored – tales of quiet heroism, of small acts of courage, of unexpected tenderness in harsh worlds. These were the stories that mirrored the silent strength he was coming to see in you.
One particularly stormy night, the type of tempest that rattled the very foundations of Whole Cake Chateau, the power flickered and died. The usual emergency lights clicked on, but the vast, opulent halls felt eerily dark and unsettling. Katakuri, ever vigilant, was already moving to check on security and his siblings. As he passed his quarters, however, a soft light caught his eye.
You were there, not with a flashlight, but with a collection of small, flickering candles, strategically placed to cast a warm, comforting glow. You were not fearful, not flustered. Instead, you were humming a soft tune, carefully placing more candles, your movements calm and deliberate. When he entered, you simply looked up, your eyes reflecting the candlelight, making them seem even brighter.
"It's easier to see," you murmured, "and… it's warmer."
He stood there for a moment, the usual tension in his shoulders finally loosening. The storm raged outside, the world felt chaotic, but in this small pocket of warmth and soft light, with you, there was an inexplicable sense of peace. He found himself, for the first time, simply existing in your presence, without needing to calculate, without needing to guard.
He sat on his usual cushion, and for the first time, you leaned in, gently resting your head against his arm as you continued your quiet work with the candles. He didn't flinch, didn't stiffen. Instead, a warmth, far deeper than the flickering candlelight, spread through him. It was a warmth that settled into his very core, chasing away the lingering chill of the storm and the ever-present weight of his duties. This wasn't just an arranged marriage, a duty to be performed. This was… home. And in that quiet, candlelit room, surrounded by the soft flutter of your presence, Katakuri, the unbreakable warrior, finally understood. This was real. And against all odds, it was beautiful.
BUGGY THE CLOWN ༘⋆𖦹 🎪 🎈
The Compassionate Heart and the Clowns Love (2,145 words)
The salt-laced wind whipped your (Y/N)'s hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. You were a beacon of kindness in a world often consumed by chaos and cruelty. Where others saw danger, you sought understanding. Where despair festered, you offered a comforting hand. You were the one who'd sit with someone through their darkest hours, patiently listening, offering words of encouragement, and lifting them back onto their feet. The thought of sacrificing your own well-being for another's safety wasn't a burden; it was simply who you were. You were a good soul, pure and unwavering, a testament to the best of humanity.
And then there was Buggy. He stood beside you on the ship's deck, his signature red nose twitching slightly in the breeze. He was a whirlwind of contradictions, a walking, talking paradox to your own serene nature. Where you were selfless, he was self-serving. Where you were gentle, he was… well, he was Buggy. Loud, theatrical, and prone to dramatic outbursts, he was the kind of person who'd trip over his own feet and then blame the ship for moving. He was undeniably chaotic, a clashing cymbal to your quiet melody. Yet, he was your best friend, a bond forged in the crucible of shared adventures and countless debates. What you didn't know, however, was that beneath all his bluster and clownish antics, Buggy held a secret close to his heart – a fervent, almost obsessive adoration for you. You, the kindest soul he’d ever met, the person who made his chaotic world just a little bit brighter.
You'd often find yourself tending to the small, potted tangerine tree you kept on deck, a splash of vibrant green against the endless blue. Each leaf was carefully inspected, every nascent fruit admired with a quiet joy. Buggy, ever the lurker, would pretend to be polishing his cannons nearby, his gaze, however, was fixed on you. He’d watch as your fingers, so gentle and sure, brushed away a stray speck of dust or tested the soil's moisture. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh would escape his lips as he saw the soft, contented smile that graced your face. "What a weirdo," he’d grumble to himself, but the words lacked any real bite. Instead, a familiar warmth would spread through his chest, a feeling he refused to name but cherished all the same.
One blustery afternoon, a new recruit, still green and seasick, stumbled against the mast, dropping a tray of freshly baked bread. The loaves, a rare and cherished treat, scattered across the grimy deck. The recruit's face crumpled, tears welling in their eyes, anticipating a harsh reprimand. Before Buggy could unleash one of his famously theatrical tirades, you were there. You knelt, not to scold, but to gather the ruined bread, your voice a soothing balm. "It's alright," you murmured, your hand gently resting on the recruit's shaking shoulder. "Accidents happen. We'll just bake more." You even managed a small, reassuring smile, and the recruit's tears slowly subsided. Buggy, his mouth agape, watched the entire exchange. His planned tirade died on his tongue, replaced by a strange, almost painful ache in his chest. He'd never seen anyone react with such pure, unadulterated compassion. It was in moments like these, witnessing your boundless empathy, that Buggy felt himself tumbling further, irrevocably, in love with you.
You knew Buggy's temper was as short as his stature, and often as explosive as his Buggy Balls. There were countless times his face would contort into a mask of fury, his voice rising to a theatrical roar, usually over something trivial like a misplaced map or a particularly unflattering comment about his nose. Most of the crew would scatter, wisely giving him a wide berth. But not you.
One sweltering afternoon, a clumsy crewmate tripped, sending a precarious stack of Buggy's meticulously polished cannonballs clattering across the deck. The sound of metallic chaos was immediately followed by Buggy's indignant shriek. "You imbecile! Do you know how long it takes to buff these beauties?! They're practically jewels! I'll chop you into a hundred pieces and feed you to the Sea Kings!" His body began to separate, his disembodied hands already twitching with menace.
The poor crewmate, pale and trembling, braced for impact. But then, a calm, steady hand rested on Buggy's arm. It was yours. "Buggy," you said softly, your voice cutting through his enraged bellow like a soothing breeze. "It was an accident. Look, no real harm done. We can gather them up, and I'll even help you polish them again. We have plenty of time."
Buggy's separated limbs paused, his furious eyes blinking. He looked from the scattered cannonballs to your gentle face, then back again. His anger, so quickly ignited, seemed to deflate under your unwavering calm. He let out a dramatic huff, reassembling himself with a flourish. "Hmph! Fine! But only because you asked, (Y/N)! And you'd better polish them until they gleam like my magnificent nose!" He still grumbled, but the genuine threat had vanished, replaced by a theatrical show of lingering annoyance. You simply smiled, already kneeling to pick up the cannonballs, and Buggy, despite himself, found his heart doing a strange little flutter.
Another time, during a particularly frustrating negotiation with a shady merchant, Buggy found himself completely outmaneuvered, his grand plans unraveling before his very eyes. He'd stormed back to the ship, red-faced and fuming, kicking at anything that dared to be in his path. He paced the deck, muttering curses and slamming his fist into his palm. "That conniving weasel! How dare he! He'll regret this! I'll send a Buggy Bomb right through his wretched shop!"
The crew kept their distance, knowing better than to interrupt a Buggy tantrum. You, however, approached him, a mug of steaming tea in your hands. "Buggy," you said, offering it to him. "You look like you could use this."
He glared at the mug, then at you. "What do I need tea for, (Y/N)?! I need revenge! I need to show that miserable flea who he's messing with!"
You gently pressed the warm mug into his hands. "Sometimes," you said, your voice soft and understanding, "a moment of calm can help you think clearer. Besides, you're the greatest captain on the Grand Line. You'll figure out a way to get what you want, without resorting to blowing up perfectly good shops."
Buggy stared at the tea, then at your encouraging expression. The rigid tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, almost imperceptibly. He took a hesitant sip of the tea, then another. He still looked disgruntled, but the wild anger in his eyes had softened into a frustrated pout. "Hmph. Fine," he mumbled, taking another gulp of tea. "But I'm still getting my revenge. Just… after this." He never did end up blowing up the shop that day. And as he watched you walk away, a faint, almost imperceptible blush crept onto his painted cheeks. Every time you treated him with such quiet understanding, such unwavering belief, he felt a pull, a warmth that had nothing to do with the Grand Line's sun, and everything to do with you. He was, completely, hopelessly, madly in love.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. A gentle breeze rustled the ship's sails, carrying the scent of salt and adventure. You were sitting by the railing, gazing at the glittering expanse of the sea, a quiet contentment settling over you.
Buggy, however, was a whirlwind of nervous energy. He paced the deck, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the fading light. His mind was a battlefield, warring between his usual theatrical bluster and a sudden, crippling shyness. He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head, each version more dramatic and magnificent than the last. But now, with you so close, so calm and effortlessly kind, all his carefully constructed speeches dissolved into a jumbled mess.
He stopped abruptly, facing away from you, his hands clenched at his sides. "Y-Y-You know, (Y/N)!" he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I'm the greatest pirate captain on the Grand Line! The magnificent Buggy! No one can compare to my genius, my charisma, my... my incredible nose!" He gestured wildly to his face, but his usual confidence was noticeably absent.
You turned, a small, amused smile playing on your lips. "Of course, Buggy," you said, your voice soft and patient. "No one doubts your magnificent qualities."
His shoulders sagged slightly at your gentle tone. This wasn't going as planned. He spun around, his face a dramatic mask of internal turmoil, his cheeks a surprising shade of crimson beneath his make-up. "B-But... but there's something else! Something... something even more magnificent than my incredible powers and my vast treasure!" He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting to yours, then quickly away. "It's... it's you! You're... you're the most amazing, kindest, most infuriatingly selfless person I've ever met! You make my heart feel all... all weird and tingly! Like a hundred tiny explosions going off at once!"
He finally looked at you, his normally boastful eyes wide with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. "I... I think I'm in love with you, (Y/N)! Madly, completely, utterly in love!" The words tumbled out in a rush, leaving him breathless. He stood there, frozen, waiting for your reaction, his painted smile feeling incredibly stiff. The silence stretched, filled only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull, and the frantic pounding of Buggy's own heart.
The silence that followed Buggy's confession hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the ship. Buggy, for once in his life, was utterly still, his eyes wide and vulnerable, fixed on your face. He braced himself for a laugh, a bewildered stare, anything but what came next.
A soft, genuine smile bloomed on your face, a warmth that seemed to banish the last vestiges of twilight from the deck. You stepped closer, your hand gently reaching out to touch his arm. "Buggy," you said, your voice a calm, steady melody that quieted the frantic beating of his heart. "You really are something else."
His breath hitched, and he stared at you, waiting.
You chuckled softly, a sound that sent a strange, delightful shiver down his spine. "Those 'weird and tingly' feelings? I get them too, with you." Your gaze, so open and honest, met his, and he felt a jolt, like a tiny electric current passing between you. "And yes, Buggy. A thousand times yes."
Buggy's jaw dropped. His eyes, usually so expressive in their theatrical fury, were now wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "Y-Y-You... you mean it?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're... you're not just being kind?"
You laughed again, a fuller, more joyful sound this time. "No, Buggy," you affirmed, your grip on his arm firm and reassuring. "I'm not just being kind. I really do feel something for you. All of you. Even your magnificent nose." You squeezed his arm gently, your eyes sparkling with affection.
A colossal grin, wider and more genuine than any of his usual theatrical displays, spread across Buggy's face. He let out a whoop of pure delight, so loud it probably echoed across the silent ocean. In a flash of spontaneous joy, he found himself doing something utterly uncharacteristic: he pulled you into a surprisingly gentle, yet firm, hug. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and for a moment, the notorious Pirate Captain Buggy, the loud and bombastic clown, was simply Buggy, a man completely, blissfully, and truly in love.
The news spread through the crew like wildfire. Initially, there were whispers, then outright disbelief. "Captain Buggy? In love? With (Y/N)?" But as days turned into weeks, the evidence was undeniable. Buggy, while still prone to his dramatic outbursts, seemed to have a new spring in his step. His threats of dismemberment were often softened by a glance in your direction, and he'd even been caught, on more than one occasion, looking at you with an expression so ridiculously fond it made the crewmates snicker.
You, meanwhile, remained your steadfast, compassionate self, but now there was an added layer of warmth, a quiet joy that resonated with Buggy's newfound, if still chaotic, happiness. You'd still calm his tantrums, still offer gentle guidance, but now, there was an unspoken understanding, a shared tenderness that had blossomed between the kindest soul on the Grand Line and its most theatrical pirate captain. Their journey continued, but now, it was a journey shared, two vastly different individuals sailing under the same flag, bound by a love as unexpected and vibrant as the Grand Line itself.
ROB LUCCI 𓇢𓆸
Kind Soul, Cold Hearted Love (2,158)
A salty breeze ruffled your hair, carrying the scent of the sea and distant islands. It was a familiar comfort, one that always managed to soothe the edges of your heart, no matter the turmoil within. And there was often turmoil. Not from your own spirit, which was a wellspring of empathy and unwavering support, but from the stark contrast of the world around you, and more acutely, the man by your side.
You, dear soul, were a beacon of warmth in a world often shrouded in shadow. You were the soft hand that cradled a weeping friend, the gentle voice that whispered encouragement when hope seemed lost, the unwavering presence that offered solace even at the cost of your own comfort. You would readily throw yourself into harm's way for a stranger, your kindness an almost tangible force, a quiet strength that made you truly one of a kind. You loved with a fierce, unconditional devotion, and that love was currently anchored to a man who embodied everything you weren't.
Rob Lucci. His presence was as cool and unyielding as the deepest ocean, his gaze often distant, calculated. He moved with a predatory grace, his actions driven by a harsh, singular vision of “justice” that frequently left collateral damage in its wake. There was an edge to him, a contained aggression that simmered beneath his composed exterior, a coldness that could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest marine. You were a vibrant bloom, and he, a jagged, beautiful shard of ice. How could two such disparate souls find their way to each other? And more importantly, how could a heart as open as yours navigate the guarded complexities of his? This was the story of your love, a testament to the fact that even the coldest hearts can be touched by the purest kindness, and perhaps, even find a strange, unsettling warmth.
It wasn't a grand, sweeping gesture that drew Rob Lucci to you, but rather a slow, insidious erosion of his carefully constructed indifference. He had always seen the world in stark black and white, good and evil, with himself as the unwavering instrument of the latter's eradication. Emotion was a weakness, compassion a luxury he could not afford in his pursuit of "Absolute Justice." Yet, you, with your boundless capacity for kindness, began to chip away at that hardened resolve.
He first observed it during a mission – a tense standoff in a bustling port town. A stray shot had sent a wooden crate tumbling, threatening to crush a small, frightened child. Before anyone else could react, before even he, with his heightened senses and lightning reflexes, could fully process the danger, you were there. You didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. You simply threw yourself forward, shielding the child with your own body as the heavy wood splintered against your back. A gasp rippled through the crowd, quickly followed by a collective sigh of relief. You, however, merely offered a wobbly smile to the child, brushing dust from their hair as if nothing untoward had happened.
Lucci, perched silently on a rooftop, had watched it all, his eyes narrowed. He processed the data: illogical, inefficient, entirely self-sacrificing for no strategic gain. And yet... the genuine relief on the child's face, the murmurs of gratitude from the onlookers, the soft, unburdened light in your eyes. It was utterly alien to his understanding of the world.
Later, he found you tending to a wounded Marine soldier, your brow furrowed with concern as you carefully bandaged his arm. The soldier, usually gruff and stoic, was speaking softly to you, a rare vulnerability in his voice. You listened, truly listened, offering quiet words of comfort that seemed to possess a strange, healing quality. Lucci felt a peculiar flicker in his own chest, an unfamiliar sensation. He dismissed it as an anomaly, a momentary distraction.
But the anomalies continued. You were always there, a quiet presence of solace amidst the chaos. You offered a drink of water to a tired guard, shared your meager rations with a hungry street urchin, even risked admonishment to gently correct a superior who was being unnecessarily harsh to a subordinate. Each act, small and seemingly insignificant, was a direct contradiction to the ruthless efficiency he embodied.
He started finding excuses to be near you. Not overtly, of course. He would be "observing" a sector you were in, or "analyzing" the crowd near your position. He'd catch glimpses of you, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious, but always radiating that same unwavering warmth. He noticed the way people gravitated towards you, drawn by your innate goodness. He saw how even hardened criminals, when faced with your unvarnished compassion, would sometimes falter, a flicker of something human crossing their eyes.
One evening, under the pale glow of a distant moon, you found him alone, perched on a deserted dock, Hattori nestled on his shoulder. You didn't question his solitude or his presence. Instead, you simply sat a respectful distance away, drawing your knees to your chest, and looked out at the tranquil water. After a long silence, you spoke, your voice soft as the lapping waves. "Sometimes," you murmured, "even the strongest need a moment to just... be."
He didn't reply, didn't even turn his head. But Hattori, his ever-present companion, ruffled his feathers and cooed, a soft, approving sound. You didn't press him, just continued to sit, a silent, comforting presence. It was in that quiet, unassuming moment, amidst the salty air and the vast, indifferent ocean, that something shifted within Rob Lucci. It wasn't a sudden burst of emotion, but a slow, almost imperceptible thaw around the edges of his frozen heart. He didn't understand it, couldn't categorize it, but he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wanted you near. He wanted that inexplicable warmth to continue to exist in his desolate world, even if he couldn't yet comprehend why. And that, for a man like Rob Lucci, was the beginning of everything.
The stark contrast between you and Lucci was a chasm you, in your boundless optimism, barely perceived. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes, the almost imperceptible softening of his posture when you were near, and mistook it for burgeoning tenderness. You were a creature of pure, unadulterated light, and to you, everyone possessed a spark of that same light, even if it was buried deep. Lucci, however, saw the truth with chilling clarity. He was a predator, a tool forged in the fires of ruthless efficiency, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he didn't deserve your softness.
He'd watch you sometimes, when you thought he wasn't looking. You'd be helping a junior agent untangle a complicated knot, your brow furrowed in concentration, a gentle smile playing on your lips when they finally succeeded. Or you'd hum softly to yourself while mending a torn piece of equipment, your movements deliberate and caring. You saw worth in everything, from the smallest insect to the most hardened criminal. Your compassion was a balm that seemed to soothe the raw edges of the world, and it infuriated him, even as it drew him in.
He’d tested it, subtly at first. He'd purposely use a harsher tone with a subordinate in your presence, expecting your gentle rebuke, perhaps even a look of disapproval. Instead, you'd simply offer a quiet suggestion for a more efficient, less confrontational approach, your gaze unwavering, devoid of judgment. It was like trying to chip away at a cloud with a hammer; your kindness simply absorbed the impact, leaving him bewildered.
There was one incident that truly solidified his internal conflict. A subordinate, terrified of Lucci's notoriously short temper, had botched a critical task, leading to a minor but irritating setback. Lucci's gaze had sharpened, his usual calm replaced by a cold fury that promised severe repercussions. The subordinate visibly trembled, bracing for the inevitable. You, however, had stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on the man's arm.
"It was an honest mistake, Lucci," you'd said, your voice surprisingly firm, "and easily remedied. Perhaps if we approach it from this angle..." You then calmly outlined a solution, one that was both effective and avoided any further humiliation for the blundering agent. Lucci had simply stared at you, his internal algorithms struggling to process this anomaly. You had, without even realizing it, diffused a volatile situation, protected someone from his wrath, and offered a better path forward – all with a simple, genuine act of kindness. He'd dismissed the subordinate with a terse nod, but his eyes remained fixed on you, a strange mix of grudging admiration and self-loathing swirling within their depths.
He knew he was cold. He knew he was aggressive. He had seen the fear in people’s eyes when he entered a room, the way they instinctively recoiled from his presence. And he had accepted it, even cultivated it, as a necessary shield in his brutal world. But you… you saw past the shield. You saw something he himself barely recognized, a glimmer of humanity he had long since suppressed. And the terrifying part was, your gentle touch was starting to make him feel it too. He didn’t deserve it. He was a monster, a weapon, and you were everything good and pure. The thought of tainting you, of dragging you into his darkness, was a stark reality he grappled with every waking moment. Yet, the thought of letting you go, of existing in a world without your unwavering light, was far more unbearable.
The quiet moments became more frequent, the unspoken understanding between you and Lucci deepening with each passing day. Your love didn't burst forth like a supernova; instead, it bloomed slowly, like a desert flower coaxed open by persistent, gentle rain. It was built on the small, almost imperceptible acts of kindness you showered upon him, acts that, to anyone else, might seem trivial, but to Lucci, were profound in their foreignness.
He'd often find a small, meticulously folded napkin tucked into his coat pocket, a fresh fruit or a precisely cut piece of meat wrapped inside – a quiet acknowledgment of his often forgotten meals amidst the chaos of his duties. You never made a show of it, never asked if he’d eaten it. You simply left it, a silent offering of care that gnawed at the edges of his rigid self-sufficiency.
There was the time he'd returned from a particularly brutal mission, his clothes torn and stained, his usual impassive demeanor betraying a hint of weariness. You didn't question, didn't pry. Instead, you simply set out a basin of warm water and a clean cloth, and without a word, began to gently tend to a superficial cut on his arm. Your touch was feather-light, your gaze soft and unwavering. He'd stood there, utterly still, a strange vulnerability washing over him as your fingers, so utterly unlike his own calloused ones, cleaned and bandaged his wound. He couldn't remember anyone ever tending to him with such tender care.
You also had an uncanny knack for anticipating his needs, even before he recognized them himself. If he’d been hunched over mission reports for hours, a slight tension in his shoulders, you’d appear with a steaming mug of tea, or a quiet suggestion for a brief walk. You never demanded, never insisted. It was always a gentle offer, a soft invitation to ease the burden he so stubbornly carried. He'd find himself accepting these small gestures, a foreign warmth spreading through him each time, even as his logical mind struggled to reconcile it with the cold, hard reality of his existence.
One evening, after a particularly grueling assignment, he found you waiting for him in his dimly lit quarters. You weren't imposing or loud; you were simply there, a quiet anchor in his turbulent world. You had a book in your hands, not reading, but simply holding it, your presence a soft counterpoint to the harsh silence. When he entered, you merely offered a small, knowing smile. You knew he needed to decompress, to shed the day's brutality, and you instinctively understood that your quiet, non-demanding presence was exactly what he needed. He didn't speak, nor did you. He simply sat, and for the first time in a long time, the ever-present tension in his jaw began to ease.
These small, constant acts of profound kindness, delivered without expectation or judgment, began to chip away at the fortress he had built around his heart. He saw the world through your eyes, if only for fleeting moments, and in those moments, it didn't seem so bleak, so entirely unforgiving. He knew he was undeserving of such grace, that his darkness could easily eclipse your light. Yet, the thought of your unwavering goodness, of your gentle touch, had become a silent, undeniable craving. He wasn't sure what this unfamiliar feeling was, but every fiber of his being now yearned for the quiet solace you brought.
KID જ⁀➴
Kind Soul, Ruthless Pirate (2,040 words)
The salty spray of the Grand Line was a familiar kiss on your cheek, the chaotic symphony of the waves a lullaby you’d grown to love. You were, by all accounts, a beacon of warmth in a world often consumed by darkness. If someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand; if tears fell, your shoulder was a ready haven. You’d sacrifice your own comfort, even your safety, without a second thought if it meant easing another's burden. Your heart, a vast and boundless ocean of kindness, was truly one of the greatest treasures on these seas.
And then there was Eustass Kid. The man who stood at the helm of the Kid Pirates, his crimson coat a stark contrast to your gentle spirit. He was a supernova, a name whispered with a mixture of fear and awe. Cruel, aggressive, and utterly ruthless, he was everything you weren’t. The world often wondered how someone like you could ever find solace, let alone love, with a man like him. Yet, beneath the clanging metal and the fiery glares, there was a different kind of connection—a silent understanding that defied logic. You were the calm to his storm, the quiet anchor that kept him from drifting too far into the abyss. It was a bizarre, beautiful dance, and somehow, it worked. You loved him, and in his own fiercely protective way, he loved you too.
The scent of ozone always clung to Kid, a mix of his devil fruit and the sheer force of his presence. You’d often find yourself unconsciously leaning into it, even when he was grumbling about some perceived slight from Killer or the stupidity of a Marine patrol. One afternoon, you were patching up Heat's torn jacket, a task you'd taken on countless times for the crew. The needle was finicky, and you let out a soft sigh of frustration. Without a word, a large, calloused hand, usually reserved for crushing metal or enemies, reached over and deftly threaded the needle for you. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but the small gesture, the unexpected tenderness in his rough movements, spoke volumes.
Later, as the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, you sat on the ship's railing, watching the endless expanse of the sea. Kid, usually pacing or shouting orders, found his way beside you. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the railing, his arm brushing yours. The silence between you two was never awkward, but comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding. You traced patterns on the weathered wood, and then, almost imperceptibly, his pinky finger hooked around yours, a silent anchor in the vastness of the ocean. He'd never admit to such a soft gesture, but you felt the gentle pressure, a quiet affirmation of his presence.
And then there were the nights after a particularly brutal encounter, when the ship was still humming with the aftermath of battle. You’d be tending to the wounded, your hands steady and soft, your voice a soothing balm. Kid, covered in grime and dried blood, would always find you. He wouldn't ask for help, or even acknowledge your efforts directly. Instead, he’d simply plant himself nearby, leaning against a bulkhead, his good eye fixed on you. Sometimes, he’d just watch, a silent, almost possessive vigil. Other times, he’d gruffly shove a mug of hot tea into your hands, or a piece of scavenged fruit, his way of making sure you were taken care of, even as he was still dripping with the fight. Those were the moments that reminded you, and everyone on the crew, that beneath the rage and the metal, there was a fierce, unwavering devotion that only you could truly see.
You knew the signs. The clenching of his jaw, the subtle tremor in his metal arm, the way his voice would drop, becoming a dangerous rumble just before the explosion. It usually started with a trivial insult from a rival captain, a faulty navigational chart, or even just a particularly stubborn knot in a rope. Whatever it was, when Kid's temper flared, the entire crew braced themselves. But you didn't brace; you moved.
One blustery afternoon, a smaller pirate crew dared to challenge Kid's authority, their captain spewing arrogant taunts across the choppy waves. Kid’s hand immediately shot to his hilt, his muscles coiling, the air around him crackling with suppressed magnetism. Before he could make a move, you were there, your hand gently but firmly placed on his bicep. Your touch was like a cool stream against hot iron.
"Kid," you said, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the rising tension. Your eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the raw fury in his gaze softened, just for you. "They're not worth it. Let them learn their lesson another day, in a way that doesn't stain your coat." You offered a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head. He glared at the retreating ship, his chest still heaving, but he didn't move. He simply growled, a low, frustrated sound, and the crew collectively exhaled.
Later, after a particularly brutal clash with a Marine patrol, Kid was pacing the deck, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He was muttering darkly, kicking at stray debris, his good eye gleaming with a restless energy that bordered on destructive. The crew gave him a wide berth, understanding the danger. You, however, approached without hesitation.
"You're going to wear a hole in the deck," you remarked, a hint of playful exasperation in your tone.
He stopped, turning his furious gaze on you. "They almost got Killer! And they dared to call us rabid dogs!"
You walked closer, reaching up to gently cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble. His skin was warm, flushed with anger. "And you showed them they were wrong, didn't you?" you soothed, your voice a calm melody. "You protected your crew, like always. You were incredible out there." You could feel the tension slowly drain from his body under your touch. He leaned into your palm almost imperceptibly, his rage slowly dissipating into a simmering warmth. He wouldn't admit it, but your praise, your unwavering belief in him, was the only thing that could truly rein him in.
There were countless other moments, small and significant. A whispered word when he was about to rip someone’s head off for a minor infraction, a steadying hand on his arm when his temper threatened to consume him. You were his anchor, his quiet strength, the one person who could calm the raging storm that was Eustass Kid. And in return, he was fiercely, undeniably yours.
Life on the Grand Line, even with your calming presence, was relentlessly harsh. There were days the storms were less about the weather and more about the weariness that settled deep in your bones. After a particularly harrowing escape from a tenacious Marine Vice Admiral, the entire crew was exhausted, you most of all. You’d spent hours tending to the wounded, your energy completely drained.
You finally collapsed onto a coil of rope, too tired to even make it to your hammock. The salt-laced wind was biting, and you shivered, pulling your worn jacket tighter. Just as you were about to drift into a restless sleep, a large, heavy mass was draped over you. It was Kid’s signature crimson coat, still smelling faintly of ozone and his unique, metallic scent. You opened your eyes to see him standing over you, his back to the railing, seemingly engrossed in the churning waves. He didn't say a word, didn't even look at you, but the warmth of his coat was immediate and comforting, a silent acknowledgment of your fatigue. It was a gesture so unlike his usual aggressive demeanor that it spoke volumes.
Another time, a small, intricate wooden bird carving you'd been working on for weeks—a gift for a tiny, shy islander you’d befriended—slipped from your grasp during a sudden lurch of the ship. It skittered across the deck, heading straight for the churning sea. Your heart leaped into your throat. Before you could even react, Kid's metal arm shot out with lightning speed, snatching the delicate carving mere inches from the edge.
He retrieved it, his fingers, usually so destructive, surprisingly gentle as he held the tiny bird. He squinted at it, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his eye, before he simply placed it back in your hand. He didn’t comment on your relief, didn't tease you for your clumsiness. He just averted his gaze, as if catching himself in a moment of unexpected tenderness. The crew who witnessed it pretended not to see, a silent testament to the rarity of such a display from their captain.
And then there were the nights when nightmares, remnants of past dangers or the ever-present threats of the sea, would steal your peace. You’d wake with a gasp, heart pounding, the phantom chill of a near-death experience clinging to you. You’d try to calm yourself, but sometimes the fear was too overwhelming. It was during one such night that you felt the gentle dip in the hammock beside yours, and then, a warm, heavy weight settle over your hand. Kid, ever the light sleeper, had noticed your distress. He didn't speak, didn't try to comfort you with words. Instead, he simply stayed there, his large hand enveloping yours, his presence a silent, immovable anchor against the tide of your fears. In those moments, his rough exterior melted away, revealing the unwavering support of the man who, despite all odds, was undeniably there for you.
Their relationship wasn't a grand, sweeping romance, filled with dramatic declarations or public displays of affection. It was built in the small, almost imperceptible moments that stitched their vastly different worlds together.
You often found yourself sketching, capturing the fleeting beauty of the Grand Line on whatever scrap paper you could find. One lazy afternoon, while you were engrossed in drawing a particularly striking sunset, Kid approached. Instead of his usual booming voice, he merely grunted, pulling up a barrel to sit beside you. You braced yourself for a critique, perhaps even a sarcastic jab about your "childish hobbies." Instead, he simply watched, his single eye surprisingly intent on your work. When you finished, he reached out, not to grab, but to gently tap the drawing with a metal finger. "Good," he grunted, a rare, genuine compliment. It was a small word, but from Kid, it felt like a symphony.
Food was another surprising avenue for their connection. While Kid was a notoriously unpicky eater, devouring anything put in front of him with aggressive efficiency, you knew his quiet preferences. If there was a specific, less common fruit scavenged from an island, you'd make sure a portion was always set aside for him, even if it meant foregoing your own. He'd never acknowledge it with words, but you'd catch him sometimes, a fleeting glance in your direction, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of thanks as he devoured his share.
One chilly evening, after a particularly rough storm, you were bundled up on deck, shivering despite your layers. Kid, who rarely seemed affected by the elements, walked by, then paused. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with two steaming mugs of heavily sweetened tea, a rarity on the ship. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours, a silent warmth passing between you. He then settled down beside you, not too close, but close enough that the heat radiating from his large frame offered extra comfort. You drank your tea in comfortable silence, the quiet companionship a testament to the deep, unspoken affection that thrived between you both.
These were the moments that defined your love for Kid: the unexpected acts of consideration, the silent understandings, the unwavering presence. You were his gentle compass in the storm, and he, in his own gruff, powerful way, was your steadfast anchor. It was a love forged not in commonality, but in the profound acceptance of each other's contrasting natures, a testament to the idea that even the fiercest of flames could find solace in the kindest of breezes.
BARTOLOMEO ༉‧₊˚.
Gentle Soul, Boisterous fanboy. (1,925 words)
A soft breeze ruffled your hair as you looked out over the sparkling expanse of the Grand Line. You were a gentle soul, known across islands not for grand feats of strength, but for the quiet power of your compassion. When someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand. When tears fell, your embrace was a comforting harbor. You'd willingly stand in harm's way if it meant another's safety, a quiet guardian in a chaotic world.
And then there was Bartolomeo. Your Barty. He was… different. Where you were a gentle ripple, he was a crashing wave, all boisterous declarations and unwavering devotion, particularly when it came to the Straw Hats. His love for Luffy and his crew was a force of nature, often expressed with a protective snarl towards anyone who dared disrespect his idols. He was loud, he was brash, and sometimes, he was absolutely infuriating. Yet, beneath the thorny exterior of the Straw Hat fanboy, you knew there was a fierce loyalty and a heart, however uniquely expressed, that beat just for you. It was a strange harmony, your quiet grace and his roaring passion, but somehow, it worked.
The first time Bartolomeo saw you gently coaxing a frightened stray dog out from under a market stall with soft whispers and a piece of your lunch, he stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been in the middle of a rather loud, one-sided argument with a street vendor who’d dared to suggest "Straw Hat Luffy was just a pirate." His own booming voice had faltered, his eyes fixed on your serene face as the dog, tail wagging, licked your outstretched hand. He felt a strange lurch in his chest, something entirely unfamiliar to the usual surge of fanboy rage.
"Oi, what're you doing with that mutt?" he'd gruffed later, sidling up to you as you shared your water with the now calm animal.
You’d simply smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "He was scared, Bartolomeo. He just needed a little kindness."
He'd grunted, shuffling his feet. Kindness wasn't exactly in his usual repertoire, especially not towards a mangy street dog. But watching you, it seemed… right. Later that day, you found a surprisingly fresh, if slightly squashed, fish left discreetly beside the dog you’d befriended. You knew exactly who it was from, even if he'd never admit it.
One blustery afternoon, a new recruit to Bartolomeo's crew, overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated chaos that often followed in the wake of the Straw Hat Fan Club, broke down. He was curled up in a corner, sobbing quietly, convinced he wasn't cut out for pirate life. Bartolomeo, for all his bluster, looked genuinely perplexed, his usual bravado deflating slightly. He just stood there, hands on his hips, completely unsure how to handle a crying man.
You, on the other hand, moved without hesitation. You knelt beside the man, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "It's alright," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm. "It's a lot to take in at first, isn't it? But you're stronger than you think. We're all here to help each other."
You stayed with him, talking softly, until his sobs subsided and he looked up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Bartolomeo, watching from a distance, felt that familiar, strange lurch again. You had a way of seeing past the surface, of finding the vulnerable core that he, with all his walls and his loud exterior, often missed. He might not have understood how you did it, but he knew he was endlessly grateful that you did.
The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the screech of gulls as your small ship, the Kind Heart, bobbed gently on the waves. Bartolomeo, as usual, was perched on the figurehead – a surprisingly well-carved depiction of a smiling sheep – his green hair whipping in the wind. He was excitedly pointing towards a hazy island on the horizon, a place rumored to hold a legendary, incredibly rare type of cola that even the Straw Hats hadn't tasted.
"Y/N! Look! That's gotta be it! The Isle of Fizz! I can just imagine how stoked Boss Luffy will be when I tell him I found cola even he's never had!" Bartolomeo's voice boomed across the deck, his enthusiasm infectious despite its volume.
You chuckled, adjusting the worn map in your hands. "The legends also say it's guarded by some rather… enthusiastic creatures, Barty."
He scoffed, slamming a fist into his chest, a green barrier momentarily flickering around it. "Hmph! What kind of weaklings could stand against the great Bartolomeo?!"
You smiled softly. His confidence, though often over the top, was also strangely reassuring. You knew that beneath the bravado, he would always have your back.
As you drew closer to the island, the lush green foliage gave way to towering, oddly shaped rock formations that seemed to bubble and fizz at their peaks. The air grew sweeter, carrying a faint, almost sugary aroma. Suddenly, a volley of sticky, brown projectiles rained down on your ship.
"Cola bombs!" Bartolomeo roared, deflecting the sticky globs with his Barrier-Barrier Fruit. "See, Y/N? I told you there'd be a challenge!" He actually seemed thrilled.
You, however, were more concerned about the creatures launching the attack. They were small, furry beings with large, bulging eyes and what appeared to be miniature cola bottles attached to their backs. They chittered and screeched, their tiny hands furiously squeezing more cola bombs.
"They seem more scared than aggressive," you observed, noticing how they retreated slightly whenever Bartolomeo's barrier appeared. "Maybe we should try talking to them?"
Bartolomeo stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "Talking? To fizzy furballs that are trying to glue us to the deck?"
"Well, fighting them doesn't seem to be getting us any closer to the cola, does it?" you pointed out gently.
With a dramatic sigh and a roll of his eyes, Bartolomeo relented. "Fine, fine. But if they try anything, they're getting a face full of barrier!"
You carefully approached the edge of the ship, offering a piece of the sweet bread you'd baked that morning. "Hello there," you called out softly. "We just want to see the cola. We won't hurt you."
The furry creatures paused their attack, their large eyes blinking curiously at the bread. One particularly bold one crept closer, sniffing cautiously. You held your breath as it tentatively nibbled at the offering. Soon, others followed suit, their chittering softening into more curious sounds.
Bartolomeo watched the scene unfold, his usual boisterousness replaced with a quiet fascination. He saw how your gentle demeanor and genuine kindness were having a far greater effect than any display of strength could.
Eventually, one of the creatures, seemingly the leader, gestured with a tiny paw towards a path leading into the island's interior. It made a series of bubbling noises, and you had a feeling it was inviting you to follow.
"Well, Barty," you said, turning to him with a smile. "Looks like they're willing to show us the way."
He grunted, but there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Hmph. Guess being nice ain't always a bad strategy, huh?" He still looked ready to deploy his barriers at a moment's notice, but for now, he followed you onto the Isle of Fizz, a strange blend of gentle diplomacy and impenetrable defense venturing into the unknown.
You lay on the makeshift cot in your ship's infirmary, a bandage wrapped around your arm. The scent of medicinal herbs filled the small space, a stark contrast to the sweet, fizzy aroma of the Isle of Fizz that still clung faintly to your clothes. Bartolomeo paced back and forth in the cramped room, his usual swagger replaced by a tight furrow in his brow.
"I just… I don't understand, Y/N!" he exclaimed, his voice rough with a mixture of worry and exasperation. "Those cola geysers were strong! One wrong step, and – and you just jumped in front of that little fur ball! Why would you do that?!"
You offered him a weak smile. "He looked so scared, Barty. And he was just trying to protect his home, just like we would."
"Protect his home?!" Bartolomeo threw his hands up in exasperation, his green hair swaying wildly. "Y/N, you could have been seriously hurt! That cola could have burned you something awful! And for what? Some… some fizzing rat!"
"They weren't rats, Barty," you said gently, wincing slightly as you shifted. "They were just trying to defend their treasure. Besides," you added, your gaze softening as you looked at him, "you were right behind me. I knew you'd protect me."
Bartolomeo stopped pacing, his face softening slightly, though a hint of his frustration remained. "That's not the point! I shouldn't have to protect you from your own… your own selflessness! You can't just keep throwing yourself into danger like that!"
He knelt beside your cot, his large hands hovering awkwardly above yours, as if unsure whether to touch you. "You're… you're too kind, Y/N. Too good for this world sometimes. And it scares me." His voice was softer now, the booming edge gone. "What if I wasn't fast enough? What if my barrier didn't hold? What would I do then?"
You reached out, your uninjured hand finding his. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of fighting, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. "You would have found a way, Barty. You always do. And besides," you squeezed his hand reassuringly, "I know my limits. I wouldn't do anything truly reckless."
He looked down at your hand in his, a conflicted expression on his face. He knew your heart was pure, that your every action was guided by an innate desire to help others. It was one of the things he loved most about you, this unwavering compassion. But it also terrified him. The Grand Line was a dangerous place, and your tendency to put others before yourself was a constant source of worry.
"Just… just be more careful, okay?" he mumbled, his gaze still fixed on your hand. "Think about yourself sometimes too. You're important, Y/N. More important than any fizzy cola or scared little creature in the world."
You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. For all his bluster and obsession with the Straw Hats, Bartolomeo cared deeply. In his own loud, protective way, he loved you fiercely. "I will try, Barty. I promise. But you have to promise me something too."
He looked up, his green eyes questioning. "What's that?"
"Promise me you'll never stop being you," you said softly. "Your strength, your loyalty… even your crazy fanboy moments. That's all part of why I love you."
A faint blush crept onto Bartolomeo's cheeks, and he looked away, a rare moment of bashfulness. "Tch. Of course not. Who else would protect Boss Luffy's honor with such… enthusiasm?"
But as he looked back at you, a genuine, heartfelt smile touched his lips. He squeezed your hand gently. "Just… try not to give me so many scares, alright?"
You chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through you despite the ache in your arm. "I'll do my best, you big softie."
He scoffed, puffing out his chest. "Softie?! I am the great Bartolomeo!" But the grin on his face betrayed him. In the aftermath of the cola geyser and your selfless act, a deeper understanding had settled between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the contrasting forces that somehow, beautifully, held you together.
OHHHH I GOT AN AMAZING IDEA WHAT IF READER DOESN'T GIVE ONE PIECE MEN A KISS BACK AFTER THEY KISSED READER?
DESCRIPTION: When you don’t kiss them back
WARNINGS: None. This isn’t an angst fic I promise, established relationships in everyone’s but Law’s
CHARACTERS: Shanks, Doflamingo, Law, Ace. (Doflamingo's section can be interpreted as being part of the Immune To Your Charms universe but doesn't necessarily have to be)
WORDS: 2,561
A/N: I'm back after being sick so my writing is still a bit on the rusty side! Thank you for this request and I hope you like it. I kept everything light hearted and more on the playful side with this request which works out well since today's April Fools Day. Enjoy 💕
*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*
DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI
———————
SHANKS
Sometimes on the Grand Line there are moments of monotony, even for a crew as adventurous and boisterous as the Red Hair pirates. With the previous island long gone and no new island in sight for fun and entertainment in sight, you all had to find your own ways to pass the time. Lounging in one of the hammocks strung up on the deck for these long stretches of nothing you cast your sights around the Red Force, searching for inspiration. For a while nothing came to mind. Then when your gaze found your Captain and lover at the other side of the deck, you slowly smiled as an idea began to form. Shifting in the hammock, you made yourself comfortable and slowly let your eyes slide closed while you waited for your moment.
Shanks missed you. Your watch had been the last one of the night and early hours so when he woke, your side of the bed was cold. Despite the general lack of activity as they sailed calmly he still had his duties to oversee first before completely relaxing. Finally when he ensured nothing else needed to be done, he made his way directly to where you were lounging. It was cute how peaceful you looked but there was too much space on the hammock for his liking. With a grin he slid his arm under you and effortlessly had you lifted just enough to lie down before settling you to rest against him.
You were more than used to moments like these so you merely let Shanks adjust you both with your eyes closed and body relaxed. Shanks softly spoke your name to gently coax your mind to sharpen to focus on him. Holding back the urge to laugh you instead let out a soft hum of acknowledgement, letting him know you heard him but still you didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t need to to know the half pout beginning to pull at his lips. “Didn’t get my good morning kiss today.”
At that you finally opened you eyes and Shanks grinned broadly at you, of course that would get your attention. He leant in to get the kiss he was dying for all morning but when his lips met yours he frowned because at the very last second you’d pressed your lips into a tight line. This was not the kiss he’d been so eager for. You didn’t kiss him back. Shanks lightly narrowed his eyes to see the playful glimmer dance in yours. Immediately he knew you were only doing this to be a menace and not because he’d actually done something to deserve being denied your affection.
Shanks chuckled softly, this was any easily remedied situation. With a confident smile firmly in place he leant in again. You eyed Shanks carefully, all too aware of what you were getting in for when you made the decision to mess with him. You remained as relaxed as possible beside Shanks as he pressed his lips against the crown of your head, then your temple. Slowly he moved precisely, placing tender kisses against your skin. He made sure to kiss your cheek, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth, and your jaw. But never your lips. Finally he placed a kiss against your jaw before moving his head to rest in the crook of your neck, his lips strategically near the spot you both knew was a weakness of yours. Then without warning he took a breath and blew a raspberry against your skin causing you to laugh and struggle away from the persistent ticklish feeling. “Okay, okay you win!” You grinned, pushing at his head. “You win!”
Finally relenting, Shanks pulled back to grin at you broadly, his arm around you tightening to keep you close against him again. Closing the last amount of distance you granted Shanks his prize and kissed him deeply, smiling into it when he happily returned it.
DOFLAMINGO
How you came to find yourself in Dressrosa’s Palace was still unexpected to you at times. Even more shocking were the circumstances that led you and Doflamingo to get together in a functioning and actually loving relationship. Something that also threw Dressrosa’s King off too on many occasions, not that he’d openly admit it. Were everyone saw the fearsome, bloodthirsty pirate, you…well you saw the bloodthirsty pirate aspect of that too. However you never feared the man, it was physically impossible to feel it. You could most certainly feel frustration with him and annoyance, you were the only one to never back down and confront him on anything he did that you didn’t agree with. More than anything though, you felt safe with him and reassured that you were literally the only person for him.
Today though you felt playfully curious, wondering just how much Doflamingo would put up with your mischief and random testing of his limits in patience. You strode casually into his office and smiled sweetly, watching Doflamingo pause in his work to sit back slightly in his seat to observe your approach. Even with his glasses hiding his eyes from view, you could read his body well enough to know he was already anticipating some sort of nonsense from you. Since it was you though, it was nonsense he welcomed and he grinned. “Now what’s brewing in that mind of yours today?”
“Can’t I grace you with my presence?” You asked with a smirk as you sat on the edge of the desk and lightly tapped your lips, a wordless request for a kiss. Knowing that wasn't all you were up to Doflamingo still grinned wider and leant forward, his lips pressed against yours. The second he noticed you didn’t reciprocate it he pulled back to regard you carefully. Innocently you blinked at him and tapped your lips again. With a dramatic sigh, Doflamingo brought his lips to yours and just like before you didn’t return the action. He pulled back to frown down at you.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to kiss me?” You asked, your expression still a perfect mask of false concern.
“You going to keep sitting there like a statue?” He asked with a small teasing grin. “Don’t you want me to kiss you?”
“I do but the thing is I was working out the numbers and you owe me a lot of kisses before I can kiss you back.” You explained sweetly and shrugging lightly. “Until it’s even, I can’t kiss you.”
“And how did I amass such a debt, exactly?” Doflamingo chuckled, finding this far more entertaining that reading overzealous reports from middle rank pirates under his command looking to impress him. “Since I’m King, can’t I pardon myself?”
“Won’t work with me Doffy.” You shook your head, swiftly dodging this time when he tried to claim your lips while you were speaking. Quickly you pinched his chin and stared at him with playful severity. “I need ample payment. If kisses are too simple, you can get creative to get rid of the debt.”
“Creative, huh?” Doflamingo grinned pressing a kiss against your unmoving lips. “A kiss is one. How many does a back rub take off my bill?”
“Oh a really good one is five.” You told him, you should have expected he’d find a way to enjoy this instead of get impatient or agitated. Doflamingo laughed and leaned in a confident grin shaping his lips that made you suspicious.
“If I send Trebol on a mission?” Your eyes glinted immediately but you still didn’t take the initial offering. This was a negotiation after all. “Oh and he can’t return for at least two weeks.”
Immediately you broke out into a grin and tapped your lips once more. This time when his lips met yours, you returned it eagerly. If it meant you weren’t bothered by Trebol for a while, he could have as many as he wanted.
LAW
“Is it true that when people kiss their brains release a hormone that’s the same as when they use drugs?” You asked curiously from your spot on the sofa, looking over to watch Law pause in reading his medical notes to meet your gaze. It wasn’t rare for you to ask random questions like is. A lot of the times it was because you were genuinely curious but other times you were asking because you either wanted to fluster or toy with him in some way. Today’s question seemed to one of those days. His eyes narrowed slightly, trying to not give an outward reaction.
Subtly clearing his throat Law returned to his medical notes, focusing on the words on the paper and not on your question echoing in his mind. “Something like that.”
“So you could get addicted if you kissed someone enough times?”
“Not exactly…” Law began, tapping his foot lightly on the floor. He was about to go into the complicated biology and chemistry of it all but then you asked another question.
“Is that why you haven’t kissed me yet?” You grinned as Law all but choked on nothing. “Scared you’ll get addicted?” His widened eyes looked to you again and he was thankful no-one else was around to have heard it otherwise it would have made things more embarrassing; for them to see him begin to blush so childishly.
Instead it was just the two of you, staying behind to watch the Polar Tang while they explored. It had been peaceful and calm, just what he wanted up until you threw your bomb of a question into the usually content atmosphere that occurred when you were together. Now he had to try and force his mind to restart, to form an actual response instead of just the blank, openmouthed floundering he was currently doing. It only made things worse to see you so thoroughly pleased with yourself, your lips curved into the proudest smile. As your Captain, he should have reprimanded you but he could only imagine finally kissing you, doing what the two of you had been dancing around for a while now; finally give in. “Wouldn’t get addicted if I kissed you.”
You shifted in your seat and pulled yourself closer to Law, eyes firmly on his face. Gently you took the forgotten medical notes from his hand and set them behind you before leaning in. “I’m willing to test the theory if you are.”
There was no backing out of the challenge now, not after he’d boldly stated he’d be fine if he kissed you. Besides he didn’t want to back down, not when he could see a hopeful shine in your eyes under the playfulness. Carefully he set his hand on your side and leant in, pressing his lips to yours only to glower when you smiled but made no further response. He pulled back to scowl at you. “The hell you call that?”
“What? We were testing if you’d get addicted if you kissed me, not the other way around.” You protested with a grin. “So did it work?”
“Idiot! Do it right this time.” Law snapped but without his usual sharpness in his tone.
“You want to kiss me again already? Sounds like you are addicted after-” Your playful taunt was cut off when Law’s lips claimed yours. It had taken all of your restraint the first time to hold back in kissing Law and there was no way you were ever going to stop yourself again. Despite all your teasing, maybe you were the one that was going to prove the theory right and be the addicted one.
ACE
The feast was in full swing, plentiful food and drink seemingly never-ending and that was perfectly fine for you and the rest of the Whitebeard crew. You would have thought that you all would have grown tired of the partying by now but because of the close relationship of the crew it never lost its impact. Hundreds of parties and feasts in your memory and all of them feeling like it was the very first one. Tonight you and the others made yourselves comfortable in the festive environment amongst the civilians of the island town you were staying at. Letting the infectious joy heighten in you, you looked around with a smile and soon set your sights on Ace who as always was the life of an already lively party.
Ace was surrounded by civilians and crew alike, talking animatedly and warmly. For the residents of the town you could see they felt as if they’d known the pirate for a lot longer than a mere evening but that was your boyfriend all over, able to put anyone at ease and give everyone the right amount of attention. It was something you always admired about him. In the middle of whatever he was talking about you froze when Ace suddenly met your gaze and pointed you out with a broad grin. The civilians looked to you excitedly while the rest of the crew in earshot rolled their eyes in amusement; most likely having heard this story for many times before. You offered them a smile and small wave before getting pulled into your own conversation again.
It wasn’t long before you heard hurried footsteps sound from behind you. You turned and were pulled immediately into a kiss by Ace. You reacted against your initial instinct and kept your mouth firmly closed. It hadn’t been your intention to not kiss Ace back and when he pulled back with a pout you swiftly grabbed his hand. Quickly you swallowed the mouthful of food you’d been eating before your boyfriend appeared. “Sorry, that was just really bad timing.”
“It’s never bad timing though if I get to kiss you though.”
“That’s sweet but it is bad timing if I’ve got a mouth full of food, Ace.” You argued with a laugh only to roll your eyes when Ace grinned and shook his head.
“Still not seeing a downside to the scenario. Two of my favourite things right there; food and you.”
“You’re so weird.” You laughed while Ace grinned down at you, wrapping his arms around your waist and hugging you tightly.
“And you love me for it.”
“Sadly that’s true. I’m madly in love with every part of you, including your food obsession.” You smiled and leaned further into the comforting embrace you were in. At this time of the evening, when he’d had his fill of food and drink Ace became more affectionate and clingier than usual. As long as he was in touching range of you by this time he was happy to continue the feasts and parties for another handful of hours. Reaching up you adjusted Ace’s hat so you could see more of his face and pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips in silent apology for your unintentional rejection. Then you brought him into a second, deeper kiss, only pulling back when your attentions were grabbed by some of the civilians calling for Ace to tell them another story. You sighed slightly and pulled back, remaining securely in his arms. As fun as the feasts and parties were, you couldn’t wait to get back onto the ship and set sail again since it meant less people would be vying for Ace’s attention and you’d get him all to yourself again.
Hello, I'm back, thank for the patience ❤️, here's the second part
Part 1
𝕄𝕚𝕙𝕒𝕨𝕜
You’re in his castle library, a fire crackling in the hearth. He’s reading, and you’re watching him, marveling at the man who chose you. The words tumble out before you can stop them, a quiet, vulnerable admission.
"Mihawk?"
He doesn't look up from his book. "Yes, little bird?"
"I... I've never... had an orgasm with a partner before."
He turns a page. Silence. You feel your face flush with heat, convinced you've ruined the peaceful evening. Then, he slowly closes his book, setting it aside with deliberate care. He turns his head, his hawk-like eyes pinning you in place.
"Explain," he commands, his voice soft but sharp as a blade.
"I just... they never could. I don't know. Maybe it's me."
A small, humorless smile touches his lips. "It is not you. It is a fundamental failure of imagination and skill on their part. A lack of artistry." He stands, his movements fluid and predatory as he crosses the room to you. He cups your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "To have a masterpiece in your hands and not know how to make it sing... that is the height of foolishness."
He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "They were amateurs. They were clumsy children with a palette of paints they could not comprehend." He straightens up, his expression one of intense, focused purpose. "We will rectify this immediately. Strip."
"Mihawk—"
"Now," he says, his voice a low growl. "I will not have my partner feeling inadequate because of the blundering of lesser men. I am going to worship you with the precision of a master swordsman. I am going to learn every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every secret desire. I will make you cum so hard you forget your own name, and then I will do it again. By the time I am done, the memory of anyone else will be erased from your body, replaced only by the pleasure I give you."
You do as he asks, your trembling hands removing your clothes until you stand bare before him. He circles you slowly, his gaze appreciative, analytical. "Exquisite," he murmurs. He leads you to the plush rug before the fire, laying you down with a gentleness that belies the intensity in his eyes. He kneels between your spread legs, his gaze holding yours.
"Watch me," he commands softly. "I want you to see who is touching you. I want you to see the man who is going to give you what you've been denied."
He doesn't use his fingers first. He lowers his head, and the first flat, broad stroke of his tongue against your folds makes you gasp. His tongue is nothing like you've ever experienced. It's controlled, precise, and impossibly dexterous. He flicks your entrance, teases your inner thighs, and then, finally, circles your clit with the pointed tip of his tongue.
The pleasure is sharp, immediate, and overwhelming. He watches your every reaction, his dark eyes burning with intensity, learning exactly what makes you shudder, what makes you moan. He alternates between broad, languid licks that build the tension and quick, flicking movements against your clit that send jolts of electricity through you. He's eating you out.
"Breathe," he murmurs against your core, the vibration of his voice a delicious torment. "Do not fight it. Let it build. Let me take you there." He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, hard, at the same time he flicks it relentlessly with his tongue. That's all it takes. The pleasure coils, tighter and tighter, until it snaps. Your orgasm washes over you, a slow, powerful wave that steals your breath and arches your back. You cry out his name, your eyes fluttering shut.
"No," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Open your eyes. Look at me." You force your eyes open, and the intensity in his gaze as he watches you fall apart is almost as powerful as the orgasm itself. He continues his movements, drawing out your pleasure until you're a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him. Only then does he pull back, his lips glistening with your essence. He licks them slowly, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. "A masterpiece," he purrs. "And I have only just begun to appreciate it."
𝔻𝕠𝕗𝕝𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕠
The confession is made in the decadent aftermath of one of his parties. You're sitting on his throne, his massive frame leaning over you, his signature grin in place. You're feeling loose, brave, maybe a little reckless.
"Doffy?" you say, tracing the patterns on his feathered coat.
"What is it, little thing?" he purrs, his large hand resting possessively on your thigh.
"Something you should know. I've never... you know... finished with anyone else."
His grin freezes. For a terrifying second, it disappears completely, and you're left looking at the cold, dead-eyed monster underneath. The room seems to drop in temperature. "What," he says, his voice a dangerously low hum, "did you just say to me?"
"I just... they couldn't," you stammer, suddenly realizing your mistake.
He throws his head back and lets out a laugh, but it's not his usual amused cackle. It's a sharp, cruel, mocking sound that makes your blood run cold. "Couldn't? Of course they couldn't! Useless, pathetic little worms! They were playing with a god's treasure and didn't even have the sense to be awed by it!" He straightens up, his shadow completely engulfing you. "Fuffuffu... this is just precious. My little treasure has never been properly unwrapped."
He snaps his fingers, and the doors to the throne room swing shut with a deafening boom. He looms over you, his grin back in place, but wider, more predatory. "Well, we can't have that, can we? It's an insult. A crime against me, by extension." He hooks a finger in the collar of your dress. "I'm going to have to correct their failures. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. I'm going to fuck you until the only name you can remember is mine, until the only pleasure you can comprehend is the pleasure I give you."
He rips your dress away with a casual display of strength, the fabric tearing like paper. He doesn't bother undressing himself. He just spreads your legs, his gaze devouring you. "Let's see what they were so scared of." He sinks to his knees, a position of submission he would never take for anyone else, and presses his face against your core. His tongue is long and impossibly dexterous, but he doesn't rely on it alone.
He starts with his fingers, two of them sinking into you without warning, curling immediately to press against that sensitive spot inside you. You gasp, your back arching off the cold throne. At the same time, his mouth descends, his hot tongue laving your clit with broad, possessive strokes. The dual stimulation is mind-bending. His fingers pump in and out of you, a relentless, perfect rhythm, while his tongue circles and flicks your clit, occasionally sucking it into his mouth with a sharp, intoxicating pressure.
"Look at you, falling apart already," he growls against your folds, his voice a dark, mocking purr. "They had no idea, did they? How to make you sing?" He adds a third finger, stretching you, filling you completely as his tongue works faster, more insistently. It's an overwhelming assault on your senses, a calculated, expert attack on your pleasure centers. You're writhing, gasping for air, your hands tangled in his hair as he devours you.
"That's it," he snarls, his fingers hooking just right as he sucks hard on your clit. "Cum for your king. Let me feel it. Let me taste what they were too stupid to claim."
His command, combined with the perfect, brutal stimulation, is your undoing. Your orgasm is a violent, shattering thing, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs. Your entire body convulses, your back arching off the cold throne as he continues his assault, his fingers and mouth working in tandem to draw out your pleasure until you're a sobbing, overstimulated wreck beneath him.
He rises to his feet, a triumphant, feral smirk on his face. He brings his glistening fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a loud, appreciative sound. "One," he says, undoing his trousers and freeing his massive, hard cock. "Now for the main course." He thrusts into you without warning, filling you completely, stretching you to your limit. He sets a brutal, unforgiving pace, each thrust a claim, a brand. He leans down, his large frame covering yours, his hot breath in your ear. "You belong to me," he snarls. "This pleasure belongs to me. Say it."
"It's yours!" you sob, your nails digging into his back. "It's all yours, Doflamingo!"
"Fuffuffu... damn right it is," he laughs, and proceeds to fuck you until you can't remember your own name.
ℝ𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙
The confession comes out on the beach at Sabaody, the two of you sharing a bottle of sake and watching the sunset. The atmosphere is relaxed, warm, and safe.
"Ray?" you say, leaning your head on his shoulder.
"Hmm?" he hums, taking a swig from the bottle.
"I have to tell you something. It's a bit silly."
"Nothing's silly when it comes to you, sweetheart," he says, his voice warm and affectionate.
You take a deep breath. "Before you... I've never actually had an orgasm with a partner."
He stops mid-swig. He lowers the bottle and looks at you, his dark eyes, usually so full of mirth, are now wide with a gentle, genuine shock. "Never?" he asks softly. "Not even once?"
You shake your head, feeling a familiar pang of embarrassment. "No."
He sets the bottle down and turns to face you fully, taking both of your hands in his. His are large, calloused, and warm. "Oh, my dear girl," he says, his voice thick with a sorrow that isn't for him, but for you. "All that time... what a terrible, tragic waste." He brings your hands to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles. "Their incompetence is not your shame, you hear me? It's their loss. A profound one."
He looks at you with an expression of such tender determination that it makes your heart ache. "Well," he says, a small, confident smile returning to his face. "We're going to have to fix that, aren't we? Right here, right now." He stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. "Let's go home."
Back in the comfort of your shared home, he doesn't rush. He lights a few lamps, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. He undresses you slowly, his hands reverent, his lips pressing soft kisses against every inch of skin he uncovers. "So beautiful," he murmurs against your shoulder. "My beautiful girl."
He lays you down on the bed, his body covering yours, but not with any pressure. He's just there, a warm, solid presence. He kisses you, a deep, slow, passionate kiss that is full of promise and adoration. His hands roam your body, not with a goal, but with a desire to know you, to memorize you. He touches you like you're the most precious thing in the world.
When he finally settles between your thighs, he looks up at you, his eyes soft and full of love. "Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you. Let me give you what you deserve." He lowers his head, and the first touch of his mouth against your core is so gentle it makes you want to weep.
He starts with soft, open-mouthed kisses, his tongue warm and wet as he explores you slowly. There's no rush, no ego. It's pure, unadulterated worship. He takes his time, learning your body's responses with the patience of a master craftsman. He listens to your breathing, feels the way your muscles tense and relax, and adjusts his touch accordingly.
He uses his tongue in broad, lazy strokes that build a deep, simmering pleasure, then narrows it to a firm, focused pressure on your clit that makes your toes curl. He alternates this with sucking gently, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth and lavishing it with attention. It's not an assault; it's a conversation. He's asking your body what it wants, and your body is answering him in gasps and shivers.
"That's it," he whispers, his voice a low rumble against your folds. "Just let go for me, sweetheart. You're safe. I've got you." He slides two fingers inside you, his mouth never leaving your clit. His fingers are long and skilled, curling to press against that perfect spot inside you while his tongue continues its maddeningly perfect rhythm.
The combination is your undoing. The pleasure builds, no longer a simmering heat but a rising tide. "Ray," you gasp, your hands fisting in his graying hair. "Oh, Ray..."
"I'm right here," he murmurs. "Let it happen. Cum for me."
His gentle command is all it takes. The wave crests and crashes over you, and your orgasm washes through you, warm and all-encompassing. It's not a violent explosion but a deep, powerful release that steals your breath and brings tears of relief to your eyes. You cry out his name, your body trembling as he works you through it, his touch softening, prolonging the pleasure until you're limp and boneless on the bed.
He crawls back up your body, gathering you in his arms and holding you close. He presses soft kisses to your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks. "There," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "That's how it's supposed to feel."
You bury your face in his chest, a few happy, relieved tears escaping. "Thank you," you whisper.
He just holds you tighter, stroking your hair. "No, my dear girl," he says softly. "Thank you, for trusting me enough to show you."
Pay the Devil His Dues - A Doflamingo x Reader Fanfic Part 1
Your desperate, starving parents trade you to the ruthless new town Lord, Doflamingo, to cover their taxes.
Part One | Part Two
Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. AU. Age Difference. Size Difference. Dubcon. Innocent Reader. Slightly Rough Sex (will be rougher next chapter). Biting/Marking. Oral Sex. Doffy’s Monstrously Huge Dick.
Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more and @benkeibear!
Any feedback/comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated!
You vividly remember the day Donquixote Doflamingo arrived in your town. He was the new Lord sent to reign over the locals after the last one was executed for lining his own pockets with money meant for the emperor, Kaido.
The first thing he did was order all the citizens to gather in the town square, where he introduced himself and explained how things were going to be from then on.
“Everyone will pay their taxes,” he said firmly, an unnatural grin on his face. “On time. Every time. And to make it clear just how serious I am, we’re going to have a little show today!”
All the townspeople glanced at each other nervously. Something about this man put everyone on edge. Maybe it was his freakish height. He stood far above every other man there. Or maybe it was the strangely casual state of his attire. He wore the crisp military uniform of the empire in a way no one had ever seen before. The shirt was left unbuttoned and open, displaying his tanned, chiseled torso. The pants hung low on his hips, almost scandalously so, and the long coat was draped loosely over his shoulders.
No, you think it must have been the demonic grin that seemed to be etched onto his otherwise handsome face. It was made more eerie by the blood red lenses of his glasses that completely obscured his eyes.
Doflamingo snapped his fingers and another soldier stepped forward, holding a scroll. The man opened it and called out a name. “William Smith. Step forward please.”
The crowd looked around. The name wasn’t familiar to you, but you certainly didn’t know every person in town. Finally you noticed some sort of commotion taking place several yards away. A man had broken into a run and was fleeing the square.
He didn’t make it very far.
Two soldiers ran after him, tackling him to the ground. He struggled and screamed as they bodily dragged him to Doflamingo, who was standing in the center of the town square, still grinning.
As the soldiers held the man in place, Doflamingo addressed the townsfolk.
“Mr. Smith here failed to pay his taxes the past two months in a row. The last time he did pay, he was a week late and only paid half. So let this be a lesson to all of you!”
So quickly you could barely process what was happening, Doflamingo pulled a large knife from the pocket of his pants and strode over to the now panicking William Smith. While everyone looked on in horror, the new Lord of the town plunged the knife into William’s belly, then ripped it across his abdomen.
Innards began to spill out, guts and organs, still steaming, hitting the ground with a wet “splat”. For a few moments, William just stared down at his own entrails with shock, as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, he fell forward, landing in the pile of his own guts.
Horrified silence loomed over the crowd as they looked at the now dead body with wide eyes. Until Doflamingo began to laugh.
In the months that passed since then, the town has become poorer and desolate. The people, like your parents, work hard day and night and still have barely enough resources to survive. All the money goes to taxes.
Occasionally someone will not have enough. Depending on how much they still owe, different punishments are handed out with ruthless efficiency.
Not paying the taxes at all results in swift execution. Paying half or less results in public lashings or, in severe cases, the chopping off of a limb. And paying close to the full amount but being a bit short results in the soldiers raiding your home to take anything of value you might have, including livestock and food rations.
It didn’t take long for everyone to figure out Doflamingo is just as corrupt as the last Lord. He’s probably just smarter about it. He accepts trades of things he personally wants, like wine, food, and of course, women.
Generally, it’s the women who voluntarily offer themselves. Some seem to view it as a humiliating but necessary evil they must do to survive or protect their families. But some seem to actually like going to Doflamingo every month.
At first, you couldn’t believe it. He’s a monster who is terrorizing your town. You’ve all witnessed his violence, his brutality. But the more you see of him, from a distance with your mother as your father pays the taxes, the more you understand.
There’s a certain magnetism to Doflamingo, a charisma you can’t help but notice. He’s handsome, well spoken, strong, and has a powerful position in the empire. It’s not that surprising that some women would want to sleep with him.
But you could never do such a thing, primarily because he terrifies you. He is not a man who would show mercy under any circumstances, not even to a frightened girl who has never been touched by a man. The word “gentle” could never apply to him.
There’s also the fact that he would never be interested in you to begin with. He’s never even glanced in your direction. Why would he? You’re an impoverished peasant girl who owns exactly two stained dresses. He’s a wealthy Lord and high ranking soldier.
You’ll probably never even speak to the man.
Tomorrow is the first day of the month, the day taxes are collected. Your parents have been strangely quiet the past few days, whereas they normally fret and complain this time of the month.
Maybe it’s because tomorrow is also your birthday. You’ll finally be of age, an adult. You’ll be able to accept suitors, if anyone is interested, and possibly even marry.
You go to sleep with these thoughts in your head, and end up having a bizarre dream about marrying Doflamingo. It’s both scary and exciting.
The next day your parents don’t even mention your birthday, which is unusual in itself, but they also barely speak to you at all as they prepare to go to the square.
A huge crowd is gathered, most of the men lined up in single file to pay their dues. Ordinarily, most women and children wait on the sidelines, aside from the women who have come to offer themselves in lieu of payment.
To your surprise, your mother lines up with your father and pulls you along with her. What is going on? She isn’t planning to offer herself, is she?!
“Mother, what are you doing?” you ask.
“Shush. We don’t have the money this month. We’re going to try to appeal to his pity.”
Oh no. This will end terribly! Several families have attempted such a thing, but at best it only turns a severe punishment for one into a lesser punishment for many. One man who would have been sentenced to having his arm cut off only had to give up his pinky finger, while his wife and adult son endured public lashings.
Is that what will happen to you? The thought of being tied up in the square and whipped in front of everyone was beyond horrifying. Will that be how Doflamingo will see you for the first time? You can scarcely imagine the humiliation.
As the three of you move along the line, your heart races with worry and your mind clouds with dread. By the time you reach the front, your body is trembling with fright and you’re fighting to hold back tears.
Doflamingo sits in a high backed chair on a raised platform, looking like a king on a throne. One long leg is draped over the arm of the chair and you can see his lean muscles flexing beneath the skin of his abdomen as he talks casually with the other soldiers standing around him.
When he looks up at you and your parents, it’s obvious he notices the new faces. He probably already knows that your father can’t pay and has come to beg for leniency, but he says nothing.
He simply watches and waits for your father to begin his pleas.
To your shock, it is your mother who speaks first. And what she says shocks you even more.
“My Lord, we’ve come to offer a trade,” she says. Then she pulls you forward be the arm. “Our daughter came of age today. We give her to you as payment for our taxes.”
What?! You look at your parents frantically, not believing what you heard. Surely your father would never agree to such a thing! But he’s looking at the ground, avoiding your eyes.
Doflamingo’s face turns slightly toward you as that terrible grin spreads over it. “Oh? And how many months of taxes do you think she’s worth?”
Your mother looks firm and resolute. “Twelve, my Lord.”
Doflamingo stands up and steps closer. Being directly in front of his full height makes you realize just how frighteningly tall he is, and how small and insignificant you are.
All at once he reaches forward and rips your pitiful dress open, tearing it off your body as if it’s made of paper and leaving you in your thin white shift.
You shriek in alarm, curling in on yourself to protect your modesty. Your parents turn their faces away.
“Don’t look away now,” Doflamingo says to them. “You’re the ones who brought this sweet little lamb to be slaughtered.”
You tremble before him, using your arms to shield yourself from his gaze as much as you can. You can’t see his eyes, but you can feel them burning into you.
After a few moments, he says, “Six months.”
Your father looks stunned. “Only six? But my Lord, she is our only daughter…”
Doflamingo returns to his seat. “I’ll make it eight, if she pleases me.” Then his attention shifts back to you. “Today is your birthday?” he asks.
You nod, too afraid to speak.
He laughs. “What cruel parents you have.”
You look back at them. Are they cruel for doing this? Or just desperate and starving? Neither of them will meet your gaze.
The deal finalized, your parents are shooed away and two soldiers drag you in the opposite direction, toward Doflamingo’s base. One of them throws a long military coat over your shoulders, a kindness you didn’t expect. While your shift does cover most of your body, it is by design extremely thin and clinging to your curves. For a young woman to be seen in public this way would be a scandal you could never live down.
When you arrive at the huge house reserved for the Lord of the town, you see mostly soldiers moving about, patrolling, or just taking breaks. A few servants can be spotted doing chores. You’re relieved to see that a few of them are women.
None of the soldiers seem to pay you any mind. No one leers at you or tries to take the coat away. They simply lead you down a hallway and hand you off to some women who are doing laundry. Dozens of military uniforms are folded into near stacks, and three women are scrubbing sheets.
“See that she’s taken care of,” one of the soldiers tells the women, before leaving the room.
The three women look at you in confusion, as if they have no idea why you’re there. Haven’t any other daughters been handed over to Doflamingo before?
One of them, who looks old enough to be your mother, steps forward. “Are you a new servant?” she asks, her eyes clearly drawn to your state of undress beneath the coat.
You begin explaining what happened, but you only get halfway through the story before you start crying. Maybe your parents are cruel after all.
All three women rush forward and hug you. “It’s alright,” one of them is saying, “we’ll look after you!”
“It’s not so bad here,” another offers, clearly trying to console you. “As long as you don’t anger the Lord, he won’t do anything terrible to you.”
The oldest, who looks positively ancient, gives you a grin. “And if he does mistreat you, come tell me! I’ll give him a good whacking!”
The others laugh. “Don’t mention it in front of the Lord, but he’s weak to grandmas!”
You wipe your eyes and try to smile. At least there are nice people here. They help you clean up, bathe, and even give you a dress to wear. The youngest among them, still a good six years older than you by your guess, brought the dress from her own closet. It doesn’t fit perfectly, but well enough, and it’s far nicer than any dress you’ve ever owned.
“There, pretty as a princess,” the motherly one says, looking you over.
You bow your head slightly to show respect. “Thank you, all of you.”
With nothing else to do, you help them with their chores until the end of the day, when the tax collection is over. When Doflamingo walks into the base, flanked by soldiers, he barely gives you a passing glance.
You’re a little disappointed. You’re dressed up for the first time in your life, and some small part of you hoped he would notice.
It’s late in the evening before he calls for you, summoning you to his quarters. Once the soldiers escort you there and leave, Doflamingo stands up from the desk he’d been sitting at. Across it are scrolls and books filled with names and numbers. This must be where he manages the taxes collected.
He walks around the desk to stand in front of you, looming over your far smaller frame.
“I’m going to give you a choice. Consider it a birthday gift,” he adds, that ever present grin widening.
You have to crane your neck to look up at him, but you nod.
“You can stay here and use your body to pay your family’s taxes. It won’t be pleasant. I won’t treat you gently. I’ll wring every drop of value from you,” he says, his voice deep and powerful.
The words are scary, but somehow, deep down, there’s an inexplicable thrill to them.
“Or,” he continues, “you can officially separate yourself from your parents and walk away. Of course you’ll have to pay your own taxes starting next month.”
What? You can just… leave? You hesitate, then ask, “What will happen to my parents if I do that?”
The grin widens again. “They’ll be executed immediately. Not that you should care. They threw you to the wolves and abandoned you.”
The two options dance around in your mind. It’s true your parents betrayed you, but they were facing execution otherwise. And they’re still the people who raised you.
But to stay means to give yourself to a brutal and violent man who terrifies you, to let him do as he pleases with your body. Even if you have been feeling a spark of excitement at the thought of being touched by him, it doesn’t overcome your fear of him.
Doflamingo steps closer, so close you can practically feel him. “Choose,” he says. “I’m not a patient man.”
You stare up at him, seeing the reflection of your wide, frightened eyes in his sunglasses. You know there’s only one choice you can live with.
“I’ll stay,” you say in a shaky voice, your lips quivering.
A low, rumbling laugh emanates from him as he reaches one hand toward you. Reflexively, you flinch. You’ve seen the level of cruelty and violence his hands are capable of. You feel his hand on your head, and it slides down to your neck, then to the front buttons of your dress.
“W-wait!” you cry, and he pauses. “This is a borrowed dress, my Lord,” you say quickly. “One of the women who work here let me wear it. If possible, I’d like to return it to her.”
You glance up, prepared to face his wrath, but instead he’s looking at you with amusement as he withdraws his hand. “If you don’t want it ripped apart, take the dress off yourself,” he says.
“Alright,” you say, reaching up to your buttons with trembling fingers. You unfasten them slowly but steadily, trying to drag this out without making him angry. He returns to his desk and sits on it, watching you as if you’re putting on a show for him.
Once the buttons are undone, you carefully untie the belt at your waist and then slide the dress off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor before quickly picking it up and holding it in front of you.
The shift given to you is a bit smaller than the one you wore in, showing a little more of your thighs. You stand there holding the dress awkwardly. “Um, where should I…?”
He gestures toward a chair in the corner. “Leave it there.”
You gingerly step over to the chair and gently drape the dress over the back of it, trying to leave it as smooth as possible. When you walk back to your previous spot, in front of Doflamingo, you can feel your face burning.
All this time, you’ve secretly wanted him to look at you, to notice you. Of course you imagined it very differently. In your forbidden daydreams, you pictured him spotting you in the crowd on collection day, and then being so enamored with you that he immediately stopped the collection and stepped into the crowd to approach you. He’d take you back to his base to be his bride, and be so happy with you, so touched by your love, that he’d change his ways and become a kind, noble Lord.
Such childish fantasies.
He steps away from the desk and approaches you again, slowly. His huge hands land on your shoulders, then slide down your arms, pulling the thin straps of your shift with them. As the silky fabric slips down over your breasts, revealing them to the cool air of the room, you close your eyes. It’s too embarrassing to look at him.
The shift continues sliding down, eventually pooling around your feet. You’re completely exposed now, totally bare before a merciless tyrant. You’re afraid, naturally, but you can’t manage to tamp down the electric current running through you, the thrill of finally being perceived by Doflamingo.
You gather your courage and open your eyes, only to see his red glasses leering down at you. Your first instinct is to shrink away, but before you can even have that reaction, he suddenly pulls you to him, your delicate body crashing against his. You can feel his smooth, hard chest, the heat of his skin where his open shirt bares it.
His hand moves to your chin, lifting it up so that your face is tilted skyward. He bends down and kisses you. It’s not the sweet, romantic kiss you daydreamed about. It is rough and dominant, his tongue pressing into your mouth and filling it while his hand holds your face still. It’s suffocating, but the heat of it, the taste of his mouth, is somehow intoxicating.
You’re not sure what to do. You’ve never done anything like this, but be reflex you raise your hands to his toned abdomen and rub across it, relishing the feel of it.
He breaks the kiss and looks down at you, at your hands, then laughs. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?”
You pull them away, shyly dropping them to your sides. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so brazen.
He takes your hands and places them back on his body. “I don’t mind a needy woman,” he says, pulling his shirt off his shoulders. Your eyes roam over him, taking in the absolutely sinful sight. Your hands, carefully and hesitantly, move across his muscled torso.
Seemingly amused by your wandering hands and staring eyes, he unbuttons his pants and pushes them down, giving you more to see and touch. When your eyes fall upon the absolute beast between his thighs, you gasp and draw back a step.
You’ve never seen one up close before, but is it normal for a cock to be the size of your arm? It’s as terrifying as it is mesmerizing. He takes one of your hands and pulls it toward the shocking organ, guiding your fingers to wrap around it as best they can. It’s hot and heavy in your soft grip, and as you watch, it grows and stiffens, like magic.
He sits on his desk, spreading his thighs, and ushers you to your knees before him. You’ve heard enough stories from village women to know what he wants, what he expects of you.
Looking up, you tilt your face to get the angle right, then you hold the massive cock up with both hands. You start by licking it, running your tongue along the underside, hoping you’re doing this right. Then you lick the tip of it, as you would a sweet treat.
His hand appears on your head. “Open your mouth,” he says, and you obey. You feel it slide into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat almost immediately. Your body’s reflex demands you pull away, but his hand is holding you in place. “Breathe through your nose,” he tells you. “Relax your throat.”
You do as he said, trying to will your body to calm down and accept the huge cock in your mouth. It’s not even halfway in, and already you’re choking. He pulls your head back, enough to let you breathe, before pulling it back down. He moves your head slowly, but firmly, establishing a rhythm as well as his complete control.
Doing your best to please him, fighting back your urge to panic, you keep your tongue moving as he continues moving your head. There’s something scary about surrendering control of yourself to someone else, especially someone you’ve seen murder numerous people. But you can’t deny the slick dampness between your thighs. He’s looking at you! He’s paying attention to you!
After a while, he pushes your head down and holds it there. “Don’t spill any,” is the only warning he gives you before a massive load of cum floods your mouth. You swallow it down as fast as you can, barely tasting it before it disappears down your throat.
When finished, he releases you, and you pull away to take several deep breaths. He only gives you a few moments of reprieve before he pulls you up to your feet, not hard enough to hurt but firmly enough to let you know he has little patience.
He stands from the desk, then lifts you onto it, pushing you onto your back and spreading your legs. As shameful as this position is, you still feel a hint of exhilaration when you think about his eyes upon you. His huge hands begin to roam freely over your body, heating every inch of your skin with his touch.
You feel something hard and heavy against your thigh. You look down and see that, surprisingly, he’s already hard again. For a man over twice your age, he sure has plenty of stamina.
Thinking you’re not quite ready to have that monster shoved inside you, you close your eyes again. The next thing you feel is his long fingers between your legs, spreading open your soft folds. They slowly rub over your clit, then his thumb draws circles around it.
Your back arches off the desk as you moan, and you hear him laugh again. At this point you feel too good to be humiliated, so you ignore his amusement. You’re dripping wet as one of his fingers slides inside you. It stings a bit, but it fills you up nicely. When he curls his finger, he touches something deep within you that makes you gasp.
He withdraws his hand and climbs onto the desk, his arms on either side of you, caging you in with his massive frame. You imagine you must look like a tiny mouse to him, gazing up at him with glassy eyes. That terrible grin is still plastered on his face as he reaches down and positions himself at your entrance. It feels like he’s moving in slow motion, letting both the dread and the excitement build.
Then, he pushes in.
He won’t fit. Not without seriously hurting you, but he’s splitting you open regardless. It hurts, and you whimper as you tremble beneath him, trying not to cry or disappoint him. You have to please him to keep your parents alive.
And… there’s that small hidden part of you that wants to please him for your own satisfaction.
He begins moving, and you’re certain he’s no more than halfway in. Maybe he doesn’t want to break his new toy too quickly. His thrusts are slow and shallow at first, then become faster and harsher, making you cry out in both pain and pleasure.
You look up at him, at the reflection of your tear stained face in his glasses, wishing you could cling to him. Would that anger him?
“M-my Lord… May I please…?”
“Hmm? What is it you want?” he asks, never pausing his movements, his cock stirring the deepest parts of you.
You wince at the sting. “May I please… hold you?”
He stops for the briefest moment, seemingly staring at you from behind his sunglasses. Then he grins again. “Do as you please.”
Your hands creep up his shoulders and hook around his neck, holding onto him for dear life as he continues wrecking you.
His tip repeatedly hits that spot. The one that took your breath away, the one that makes you want to feel him even deeper. Soon, you’re shuddering and crying as your first orgasm washes over you. Your arms weaken and fall away from his neck, and in response, he leans down and kisses your throat. You feel his long, wet tongue glide over the tender skin, then, out of nowhere, you feel his teeth bite down. You cry out, your hands instinctively trying to push him away, but you’re powerless against him.
The pain of the bite subsides, and his tongue laps at the wound. It must not have been very deep. Your struggling arms go still.
In the next moment, you feel his cock bulge inside you. Then, as suddenly as he did in your mouth, he spills his entire load in your virgin pussy.
He holds you under him for a few moments more, still gently licking the spot on your neck where he bit, his cock still lodged inside you. Then he pulls away and stands up. He pulls on his clothes, drapes his own military coat over you, and leaves you lying on the desk.
Summary: Impel down letters he couldn’t sent to his darling.🦩
BEWARE ENGLISH IS NOT MY NATIVE LANGUAGE! (So I can make mistakes)
Impel down is hell. I’m sure of it but you know me little bird I’ve been in the hell since that day. You were my light,still are.
I’ve been keeping an eye on the newspapers. You’re not in them, which is good. The less the world knows about you, the better. As for how I know so much… fufufu, little bird, you know I have connections everywhere. I don’t think Marines would be interested in sending this to you though.
The days drag on in this cage. Irritating, isn’t it? You should be here to make them more interesting.
The Marines think these walls can keep me contained. Fufufu. They’re more foolish than I thought.
However a cage is still a cage, I suppose. Cold stone. Iron bars and those chains I hate.The same faces every day. They stare at me as if I’m some monster from a story told to frighten children.
Maybe they’re right, yet every morning I wake up and the world is still turning exactly as I said it would. Kingdoms rise. Kingdoms fall. Pirates chase dreams. Marines chase pirates. Nothing changes.
Except one thing…You aren’t here.
Strange, isn’t it, little bird? Out of everything I’ve lost, that’s what irritates me the most.
Sometimes I find myself looking toward the door when footsteps echo down the corridor. For a moment I almost expect to see you standing there, giving me that look.
“Doffy, are you causing trouble again?”
Fufufu…Of course I am.
Trouble is the only thing I’m good at.
I wonder what you’re doing now. Whether you’re eating properly. Whether you’re sleeping enough. Whether you’ve finally learned to stop trusting every fool with a smile.
If not, I’ll have to lecture you when we meet again and we will meet again but don’t misunderstand. This isn’t hope. Hope is for people who wait.I make things happen.
After the total shit show at Punk Hazard, Doflamingo wants nothing more than to just find some comfort in his wife, but when he returns home, he can't find you anywhere.
Did you really leave him, like you had threatened all these years?
Taglist: @ashara-dawn @idkmi1y
Doflamingo was pissed. He was pissed to hell and back, even, and it bugged him, since, if memory served right, it had been more than a decade since he was this thrown off his game. He knew about the little ploys Law was going about for a time now, but he had not expected this.
Of course, he knew about his doings. He had kept a track of him ever since his men had caught a glimpse of him back when he was still at North, trying to pass the Calm Belt with his new little friends with nothing but a small boat, while he was still wet behind the ears and the loss of his savior still fresh. How could he not, when he was supposed to be his third Corazón and give him eternal youth thanks to the devil fruit that was supposed to be Doflamingo's in the first place?
Yes, he knew there would be some bumps on the road, but that damn brat had crossed the line when he went to that damn island and blew up his factory. Now, his dear old partner was blowing a fuse for his merchandise, the man who was supposed to create those SMILEs was held hostage, and two of his best subordinates were dead, buried under rubble. What a shame, wasn't it?
Oh, yeah, pissed was a light word for what he was feeling right now, but he was a patient man. He knew he would get what he wanted one way or the other, he just had to... tweak a few small things in his plan, that was all, and reconsider some things like the unexpected variable that turned out to be the Strawhats.
Once he got a hold of Law, oh, he would have to punish him first. Maybe even a little training session to get him to submit and listen to him as well. Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. A proper subordinate should know when to listen and stop his years-long temper tantrum and do as he was told, after all.
These were things to think about for tomorrow, however. For now, he just wanted to return home, lock himself into your two's bedroom, have a drink or two for Vergo and Monet, and then let himself melt between your arms for a good night's rest.
Yeah, that sounded good.
Once at the palace, no one dared to bother him as he walked past the halls. Just from his stance alone, it was clear that he was not in a good mood, and, honestly? He would have used any excuse to rip some heads at this point. Maybe a bit of blood and screams from squirming little rats under his palm would cheer him up, you know?
It usually did, but he decided not to. He wanted to see you soon, after all, and he knew how much you hated the scent of death on him, and if he came to the bed with clothes dripping with gore, he had a pretty strong suspicion that you would not share the night with him.
Ahh...it was hard to be a good husband sometimes, wasn't it? Just so many compromises!
...But you were worth it, he supposed.
He went to the fifth floor, walked to the left, got to the third hallway, and reached the second door. There, he expected to be greeted with the smell of your perfume. Vanilla Caramel. It had not been his favorite at first, far too sweet for his taste, but, with time, now the mild, endearing scent had become a reminder of home.
There, he was met with none of that. There was a slight chill in the room, and when he turned his head, he saw that the window at the other side of the room was open, and the strong wind was making the curtains flutter against his desk.
He tsked. You always did that. Why did you even feel the need to air the room every hour of the damn day, anyway? It was cold enough as it is, especially during the chilly winter, but no matter how much he berated you, you never even seemed to attempt to stop this admittedly annoying habit.
"Maybe I should just bolt the windows shut," he thought, and went to close them.
Where were you, anyway? Why weren't you here to meet him? He was pretty sure Buffalo had seen him at the entrance and rushed to inform the rest of the Family.
Were you upset about something again and giving him the silent treatment? He can't think of any reason as to what he could have done to catch your bad side, though, especially since he had been trying to be a bit more amenable since your special day was around the corner, and he would rather spend the day celebrating you, kissing and making love, than fighting about God knows what.
He huffed, not being able to help but pout a little. He felt disappointed, he had to admit. He had expected to get pampered a little for the rest of the night, but now—
Then, he noticed an envelope on his desk, jammed between the pages of a book he had left half-read.
"What the hell..?" He mumbled and reached his hand to take it out. No one was allowed in their bedroom other than a few selected people, so who would dare to—
It was from you. He knew it instantly, just by a single glance. After all, he could recognise that chicken scratch writing from anywhere.
He didn't waste much time and ripped open the envelope to pull out the paper and read.
To Doffy,
Husband,
I'm not really sure when you'll read this, probably around the time you sit down to finish some paperwork, but hopefully, I will be long gone by then.
I just wanted to say that I tried, I really, really did. I tried to love you, I tried to change you, I tried to hold on to the hope that one day you would finally see reason and grow a soul, because I always believed ever since I was a little girl that, even if it was buried deep down, every person had the capacity for empathy, love, and compassion, even if it takes some time to bring those feelings out.
I am ashamed to admit that you proved me otherwise. You showed me that some people are just born without something...that makes you human, I suppose. I don't know how else to explain this, however bitter it sounds. I don't know. Maybe it's me. Maybe I was not the right person for you. Maybe, one day, you'll find your real soulmate, and something will just click, and you'll finally learn what it means to really be in love, to actually care for someone, and even see the world for what it is, and not this cesspool we all are here to suffer like you seem to believe.
God, I loved you so much. I really did. A small, foolish part of me still does. But I feel like I've lost so much of myself all these years, like you just took and took and took, and...now I've only got a few pieces left, until it's not me anymore. Do you get what I mean?
I don't want to lose that, too.
Please, if you really love me, leave me be. I can't keep this facade up anymore, or else I will have to keep struggling with these suffocating feelings until it actually kills me. Or you do.
Despite everything you did to me, I still hope you will change for the better, that you will stop feeding this never-ending resentment of yours and your taste for cruelty, however foolish and naive it sounds.
Goodbye.
And, just like that, Doflamingo felt a rush of anger surge all over him. It was surprising, really, how much rage a man could feel in a single day.
....What the fuck was this? What the hell were you blabbering about? You wanted to leave him? You didn't love him anymore? That this marriage was hurting you? And what about all the nonsense about empathy and compassion you threw at him in the middle, anyway?
What a load of bullshit.
He provided for you, protected you, and gave you a life that millions could only dream of. You never went hungry, you never had to worry about anything, you could get anything, do anything you wanted just by asking him.
Was this the life that was supposed to be suffocating? Hah! What an ungrateful little thing you turned out to be. But he was also at fault, he supposed. Maybe he had spoiled you too much over the years.
Without thinking, he crumbled your letter between his palms. It was trash, anyway. Some of the furniture, the wall in front of him, and the wardrobe were sliced with his clutter of strings flying around as well.
Better get the anger out before he does something he would not like, anyway.
No, he decided, then. No, he was not going to let you go. He will bring you back home because you made a vow to him back then, and not even death would be able to pull you away from him now.
In sickness and in health, for better or for worse, no matter what, you two would stay together. That was what you had promised.
Yeah, this was just a bump in your relationship, that was all, nothing more, nothing less. And, as the responsible and devoted husband that he was, he would come get you from whatever hole you inevitably got yourself lost in and smooth things out. You probably regretted leaving by now anyway, and only resisted the urge to return home because of your pride.
"Just you wait, darling," he chuckled under his breath, and grinned, before leaving through the now broken window, holding onto the clouds with his strings. "Seems like I really can't let you leave my sight more than a week or two, huh? Well, no matter, you'll have all the attention you could ever want now."
