18+ Big scary men who let you slap them during sex.
He’s massive beneath you — broad chest, thick arms, powerful thighs that could easily pin you down if he wanted. But right now he’s on his back, letting you ride him however you want. His hands rest on your hips, not guiding, just holding you steady as you sink down on him.
You lean forward, bracing one hand on his chest, and bring the other down hard across his cheek. The sound is sharp. His head snaps to the side with the force of it. A low, guttural groan rumbles out of his chest as he twitches hard inside you. “Fuck… do it again,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
You slap him again, harder this time, watching the way his eyes flutter and his jaw clenches. His hips buck up sharply, driving deeper into you. The sting on his cheek blooms red against his flushed skin, but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, he looks drunk on it. “Harder, baby,” he begs, voice hoarse. “I can take it.”
You ride him faster, grinding down on him while you slap him again and again. Each hit makes him groan louder, his grip on your hips tightening as he lets you use him. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, dark and hazy with lust.
When you finally come, clenching hard around him, you slap him one last time, right as your orgasm hits. That’s what breaks him. He groans deep and filthy, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, thick and hot, pulsing with every slap you land.
Afterward, he’s breathing hard, cheek bright red, but he pulls you down against his chest and kisses you soft and attentively. His hand strokes your back gently, almost apologetically, like he’s the one who should be sorry.
“Again next time?” he murmurs against your lips, voice still rough.
You smile and kiss the reddened mark on his cheek.
18+ mdni !! men who come home on their lunch break just to eat you out
His fingers tap a restless rhythm against the desk, eyes flicking up to the clock for what feels like the hundredth time. 12:24. Too slow.
His leg bounces under the table, breath coming a little too sharp for someone who’s supposed to be working. He’s waiting and barely holding it together and counting down to 12:30 like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
You’re sprawled on the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling aimlessly on your phone when the front door flies open. He storms in, eyes wild and searching, zeroing in on you like a man who’s been starving for days. “I only have fifteen minutes left,” he rasps, voice already wrecked.
Your bottoms hit the floor in one swift tug. He drops to his knees between your thighs, spreading you open with firm hands. His mouth descends, soft, urgent kisses to your clit, then his warm tongue licking slow, deliberate stripes before sucking hard.
He groans low against you, the vibration ripping through your core. His tongue pushes inside, fucking in and out in greedy strokes until you clench hard, coming with a shudder, coating his mouth. “Six minutes,” he mutters, muffled.
He pins your thighs wider, licking and sucking relentlessly until another orgasm crashes over you; sharp, blinding, your scream of his name echoing off the walls.
He pulls back just long enough to grab a bottle of water from the side table, pressing it into your shaky hands. With careful fingers, wiping between your thighs with a soft cloth, cleaning you gently, then tucks the throw blanket around your hips. Leaning down, he brushes a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat.
“We can finish this when I get off work,” he murmurs, voice low and promising. Then he’s gone again—door clicking shut behind him—leaving you flushed, boneless, and already counting the hours until he walks back through it.
【 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 】 ─── ❝ WHEN A MAN'S SO GOOD WITH KIDS THAT YOU MAKE HIM CARRY YOURS . . . ❞
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : smut . (con)noncon . dubcon . breeding . mommy kink . out of character . daddy kink . p in v ( genitals aren't mentioned so you can imagine the characters with either sex organs ) . multiple orgasms . rough sex . marathon sex . riding . sub!top!reader . dom!top!reader . dom!bottom!characters . sub!bottom!characters . watersports ( piss kink / golden shower ) . edging . feminisation? ( usage of cunt can be interpreted literally of figuratively )
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : this came out of nowhere. I forgot what the inspiration was but the thought suddenly came to me so I decided to write it. This is also my first time writing like this so I hope it still makes sense. Do enjoy. Any interactions are greatly appreciated.
【 UPDATE 】 ──────────── ❝ because people are commenting, I'll explain why Kirara Hoshi is here. I am aware of that Kirara is seen as transfem and I do not deny it. I put her in here solely because of that. Not to misgender her but rather to extrapolate on the fact that she's trans.
The section she's in ⌗ . 𝐈𝐓❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 directly adresses that some of these characters do/may not want children because of their physical appearance. If the implication wasn't clear: I personally found the thought interesting if Kirara is content with her new body and refuses to carry a child because she wants to keep her feminine figure — this was always the thought, the initial one. Same with the male characters: they don't want their abs gone or musculature to fade. So a sort of body dysmorphia. They've worked hard to get that figure and they don't want to be in any other state.
But as I said, genitals aren't explicitly mentioned (save for maybe a few times) so you can interpret as the characters as either having male or female sex organs.
Biologically, she was a male, so I thought it still fit the premise. Who knows whether she had any form of surgery at all? There are synthetic props to help people feel affirmed in their gender, who's to say Kirara isn't using them?
⌗ . 𝐈𝐓❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
Part of him hated the thought of having a child.
For one reason or the other, some thing (or things) prevented him from indulging in the idea.
Perhaps his insecurities, perhaps the shame of his stellar physique wasting away only to be chubbed and swollen, whatever it was, he was certain in his saying no. Even if the reason wasn't his own selfishness, he couldn'r risk bringing a child into the world. His sanity, his future, his livelihood, all of it would be threatened.
You were adamant and he was persistent. Though he much enjoyed the act of procreation; be it the slaps of your thighs against the backs of his, the unrelenting thrum of your gnawing at his oversensitive, pouring hole; or even the way you'd pull him flush against you as your hot, thick seed infiltrated every crevice of his womb, disallowing him even a micrometre of space from each other's skins.
He couldn't deny how addictive it was: forgetting everything, letting pleasure overload his senses, taking his entire being over like a warm blanket. The constant reminder of the red and purple splotches all over his person stinging whenever he moved an inch or the way he was shaking and boneless on your shared, ruffled, sodden sheets.
The heaviness of his body was real. And so were the tears.
You wished you could say that they were there from his overwhelming satisfaction but you knew that they came from his reluctance. But you had enough.
Sex was a common part of your lives, but ever since you pitched the idea of children, he'd been sure to avoid you. He did not let you anywhere near him, epsecially not between his legs. You refused to leave or stay within the house without at least some relief — seeing families made you restless, and you did not want any innocent passersby witnessing your excitement.
But how could you sate the desire when your lovely (and now slowly encroaching on unbearable) little lover refused to aid in your distress?
Even with much coaxing like gifts, spoiling or pampering him, feeding him compliments or food. He hadn't a need to lift his finger. And he ate it all up.
You bent over backwards for at least some compromise but he never gave in.
So you took.
And took.
And took.
Ignoring his screams, you jackhammered into his clenching orifice, pinning his wrists behind his back in a bruising grip. His knees dug into the mattress as the ferocity of your hips continued to beat both the springs and the bed frame into breaking into submisison.
Even like this, his body couldn't refuse you. He was an odd mix of loose and tight. Tight like always but loosened from constant wear and tear. His screams were indescipherable. It was easy to tell that he was saying something but the gurgling of his saliva mixed with the unbridled moans disguised it entirely. So as much as he was screaming, it was hard to tell whether he truly was against it entirely.
Unfortunately for him — this time — you'd been pent up for much too long. And he hadn't helped in the least. In fact, he only made it worse.
He had an effortless charm and an a sirenic allure. Walking around your shared home in next to nothing, treating what used to be your abode like it was his as well, making himself comfortable with your garments, using your bathing products when he was too lazy to get more of his (even if it was in the cabinet in the bathroom). Or when he left his bodily fluids around, no matter the colour.
Those coupled with your undying devotion towards him and your undeniable attraction to him, it was no surprise that you snapped.
You barely even remember how it started. You knew you saw red and the next thing you knew? He was crying, screaming, and writhing under you as he begged you to stop. But as he did, his body was begging you for more. The mixed signals confounded you, but you chose to ignore him entirely and focus on your own pleasure.
The dinner table had long given out from his first five orgasms, one leg breaking from the speed and vigour of your thrusts (and his constant thrashing. And no thanks from the slap he delivered to you in trying to shove you off him while snapping you back yo your senses. But you didn't. You just got furious and the red mark on your cheek sealed his fate). The bed was damn near close to irreparable by his nth orgasm — only your 3rd.
Then it finally gave out.
The wood broke and splintered, the bottom half of the bed now on the ground, leaving the bed in a slant. You didn't care but he did. The jolt and the new angle — thanks to gravity — impaled him deeper onto your relentless cock. Your caging grip on his hips making it far, far worse than need be.
Even with the handicap of the uneven bed, your thrusts did not waver. In fact, it felt like they refused to. The slaps of skin slightly negated due to the new angle, and now it felt like your hips were glued to his blustered ass. Instead of pulling out and pushing back in, it was your cock digging deeper and deeper into his worn, wet walls, the hilt of your cock never moving an inch from where he gripped onto you so nicely.
Left with nothing to properly grip onto anymore, his hands scampered across the sheets, unfortunate in finding either pillow or bolster to perchance muffle his unwilling sounds or hide the shame in his face. Instead, they traversed to your wrists, almost trying to claw you off him. And once again, to no avail. His arms were shaky, boneless, and heavy. Though he may have gotten a few scratches on you, they were nothing compared to those he could indent into your skin 'til beads of red started trailing down the ridges of your physique — when he was sobre and unimpaired.
Although, let's be real here. Even if you were the one who wanted to change from those long, deep strokes into his sweet spot; to the kind that never once moved the slightest bit to or from his hole, none of it would be that easy had his quivering cunt not been the grippiest thing known to man.
It was almost impressive. At times when he'd offer (or you insisted) that he cockwarmed you — maybe you were 'cold'. Maybe you were bored. Maybe he wanted to tease you. Maybe he wanted you to lose your mind and fuck him like a rabid animal in heat — he'd manage to take control by clenching around you, and you'd falter, growing weak in the knees and holding his midsection tighter as you whimper and pant into his neck, back, or chest. You couldn't even warm him, his control over the muscles in that region stumped you and left you defenceless.
Not only the pelvic floor muscles, but he had a conscientious system of moving his hips: gyrating, grinding, thrusting, in circles or up and down. You were never able to take your eyes off him.
Your eyes were doomed to follow the rhythm of his tantalising hips — like a snake to a snakecharmer's melody.
That is, of course, when he got what he wanted.
He had you wrapped around his finger, yes, but you had your limits.
Safe to say, he had long blown past yours.
You felt like his face in the mattress was a punishment towards you. He riled you up and refused to listen or reason so why would you spare him the shame? He deserved to be ridiculed. You could have taken him by the window or right outside your home and let him understand more intimately about how debilitating the thought of a family was to you.
When a wife nuzzles into her husband as he has their kid hoisted in his other arm; you'd twitch inside him and move him harder onto your throbbing cock.
When children play together and soon run back to their parents: you'd quicken your pace the further away the were from you.
When a child was crying from falling and scraping a knee or simply out of childish brattiness; you'd hold onto him tighter & slow the pace down to deep, slow grinds — but never missing that spot that made him see stars.
And so, you flipped him onto his back — unable to pull out in the process which only screws him deeper onto your cock and left him trembling and spasming around your girth, leaking a little more — and continued.
"We're not stopping until you're surely pregnant, brat."
Then you pistoned your hips, the slapping of skin resuming once again, accompanied by the squleching of his insides sucking you only deeper in, and strands connecting your skin from the aftermath of your many combined releases.
You had no mercy for him and pushed your weight onto the backs of his thighs, pinning his ankles by his head.
His body screamed at the stretch because he wasn't that flexible. Sure, he kept his appearances up but flexibility wasn't the aim. So in tandem, a ragged scream tore out of his mouth — still mixed with sounds of pleasure — as more tears spilled out of him (and his hole).
"Be good and give me a family, baby." You panted, your hips moving recklessly like it was trying to spell what you were saying. Same could be said for how and when your tip pressed into that spongy spot. Almost like morse code. But an unbearably riveting one.
He hadn't an inkling what his last thought was before he passed out.
Now you had free reign over him and he was unable to stop you.
God knows how long it'd take before he woke up.
So you were sure to make the most of it, in or out of his consciousness.
Having kids was charming but not an immediate concern. He had an affinity for them but he was content with or without them. Or at least, it wasn't enough of a priority that it had to consume his entire life.
His childhood may not have been entirely fulfilling but whose is, really? It is expected of the mind to not be 100% content with themselves or their situations. Even with the love of your life — with all the good you could possibly worship them with, there is always a flaw or two that was undesirable in presence and perhaps frequency. After all, it is human nature to not be perfect. And those imperfections are what make us human.
The raw, feeling part of us that ties us to our corporeal forms, that ties us down to worldly posessions and desires. That part that disallows us from being 100% in our divine counterpart.
But if it was sin to commit to those 'atrocities', why was it made at all?
One could bargain that it was not created in the goodness of the giving one's heart, but then why allow it at all?
The act of procreation is a beautiful thing. An intense sharing of vulnerabilities and passions that bring lovers to their closest states, baring their insecurities for the other to worship and strengthen.
Gentle kisses pressed into his skin, you made sure to show your adoration to your lovely partner. The pressure of your lips onto his skin was enough for him to feel but not hard enough to bruise.
Through time, toil, trouble, you had grown with him and seen through the worst parts — new or old. You were there for him and he was for you.
It was out of nowhere. You asked his opinion about children as he was coming out of a shower — fully nude. He found better comfort in the lack of restraints — where you went up behind him and wrapped your arms around his torso, sinking your nose into his nape where his natural musk was most prominent.
He did take his time to think it through. On one hand, having a family was enchanting. On the other, would that get in the way of anything? (Sex-wise or not)
As he thought it over, your touch slowly grew feverish, pressing down into his skin at times. Your hand never parted from the expanse of his midriff while the other stayed particularly close to his genitals.
He'd look so good pregnant . . .
"Babe?"
Carrying a kid . . . Carrying our kid . . .
He'll look so cute . . . Round and swollen . . .
"Baby?"
One isn't enough . . . Three is still too little . . .
"..."
I need to get him pregnant . . .
"BABY!"
You looked up from his neck and hummed, sinking back down in an instant.
"Yeah?"
"Wanna make babies?"
What.
"What?" you asked, a little stunned. He smirked, "You heard what I said." He turned to face you, his body still caged in your arms as you stood there still paralysed from his words.
"You were also mumbling." His arms slithered up your torso, deliberately teasing your chest before intertwining his fingers behind your neck, caressing the hairs on the back of it — a rather damning weak spot of yours which always let him succeed in drawing a whimper or a shiver from you. "Barely."
"Take me to bed, daddy."
Your arms shot down to under his thighs, lifting him up with ease. You also did not waste your time in devouring his lips; all teeth, tongue and pure hunger behind your actions.
That word honestly took you off-guard. You basically forgot that you too would be a father should you sire children. Clearly your mind was preoccupied with the exciting fantasies of your lover being the parent to your children. So preoccupied that you being a father was negated in the equation. A more than just significant portion of it and still you cared only for his involvment of it.
The equation that would achieve your dream would be [you] + [him] = [family].
Though there is a less direct equation that really is the true form of it. The prior one was the simplified version of it. And that equation was ([you] + [him] - clothes) = long, sweaty, bed-rocking, window-fogging, throat-parching, back-arching, hole-clenching, neighbour-complaining sex.
The worst — or best — kind. Whatever you interpret it to be.
At times clothes ended up in tatters and you'd have to hide from society until the refraction period really set in and the heat dissipated. Because unfortunately, your clothes were not just victims of physical trauma but they underwent the worst psychological trauma by getting caught in the middle of your skirmishes — loads and loads splashing onto them and coating them so thickly it'd take days for them to dry.
This time, the lack of clothes on him gave you the misfortune of not having that opportunity. Though it was neither good nor bad. Access was easy but sometimes the piling tension made the reward much more tempting.
Regardless, the straining of your cock against your bottoms was certainly thankful for the lesser amount of barriers.
Once you had him on the bed, you rushed to fish your cock out.
He stared openly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Watching you struggle was delightful. Your desparation was palpable and amusing to say the least. But so was seeing your thick, red cock flop out and leaking onto his heated skin.
It'd defintely take no less than a whisper of a breath to get you to cum in an instant.
You sprad his legs further and lined up with his entrance, his hips moving over your tip just to fuck with you.
You whined and gripped his hip with your free hand, looking pleadingly into his eyes. He simply rolled his eyes in fond mirth and stilled his hips, allowing you some peace of mind.
You let out a shuddering breath and pressed the tip in, whimpering his name once it made contact with his tender flesh. You heard him chuckle but you didn't react. He had every right to laugh at you.
Here you were being needy and desperate, so unlike your usually more composed and level-headed self.
Rationality was out the door. The world shrunk to just the two of you.
The tip of your cock flared with heat any and everytime it even grazed his skin, sending jolts of pleasure into your system that had your toes curling.
It felt like you were teasing yourself even by doing nothing. And before you knew it, you had slammed yourself into him, buried to the hilt and still trying to go deeper.
However, you weren't fully in control of yourself so instead of hitting his sweet spot like you always did. You instead jammed yourself up toward his torso like you were trying to come out of his stomach.
In place of a debilitating, sinewed moan; you were treated to a raw scream from the man underneath you who clutched onto your wrists at that very thrust.
It left him panting like he got the wind knocked out of him 'til he had the need to cover his face with his arm from the shock.
But you were too lost in the sauce.
Your hips moved in quick, shallow thrusts — as if your body was moving on its own and only half-heartedly. Just pure instinct. No heart.
"S-sstooopppp . . . " he whined (slurred, really) — unsatisfied that you're not putting your back into it. He only accepted your 120%. 100% minimum. Nothing less. But more is always welcome.
Of course you didn't register his words and leaned over him instead.
This time, however, logic may not have been at the forefront of your thoughts but the feeling part was.
You could feel every twitch, clench and flutter he had to offer you. You chased that feeling, needing the entirety of your cock overwhelmed by his reactions.
Letting all your body weight on your arms caging his head in, your thrusts grew determined and measured. Almost mechanical in nature but programmed to bring both of you over the edge.
Every buck of your hips nailed him in the exact spot that always made his legs shake a little more everytime something impacts it. He whined and cried right into your unhearing ear, moaning all sorts of things that grew more and more intelligible as the seconds tick by; further obscured by everytime your skin met his.
"I'm gonna cum . . . "
The statement could have come from either you or him. Maybe both of you. The lines blurred, time no longer mattered. It wasn't clear how long it'd been nor how many rounds you'd insisted on but his hole was an interesting mix of puffy, gripping, sloppy, and tightening.
Every build up was less and less felt.
His walls were slick and rubbery. Almost as if you'd hear squeaking instead of squelching — if you put your ear right where you were relentlessly hammering into his insides. Like a cloth wiping onto a window, it was an easy slip-and-slide.
"Ffffuuuucccckkk~" he moaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. His mouth gaped open, one hand gripping onto your bicep, the other scratching up your back; his back bowed off the sheets, toes curling in the air. "Fucking co— aahhnn~!! come inside m-meEE—!! DADDY!!! " he screeched into the air, spurting his release the second yours made impact with his sweet spot.
You both panted, globs of cum pushed out with every pulse and twitch of your still-hard cock; aided with his never-ending clenching and sutble grinds or the even more obvious convulsing of his form that left his breaths stuttering and melodious, whines mixed into the little whimpers and bated breaths.
Even dazed, you never neglected the attention he always craved. You leaned down and kissed him through the high, letting the heat die down just a little so he could have a bit of a breather.
You kissed down his neck with demure, gentle pecks — lingering long enough so he was aware of you, but still not long enough where it'd descend into degeneracy quickly.
Your free hand cupped the bottom of his distended torso, caressing the softened lines of his musculature. You reveled in the slight bump — an impressive feat on your end. It was a sweet moment. You smiled once again at the thought of a child, loving one, feeding one, raising one. And him alongside you.
He was your perfect person. An absolute angel and a sure godsend. You'd never see yourself with anyone else.
"Who said you could stop? Do I look pregnant to you?"
He'd spend hours staring at catalogues, advertisments, other families — anything that related to the idea of growing a family. Even things that were unrelated, his mind would warp the thing or concept itself and somehow rationalise it to having children.
This man had long wanted your babies. Much, much before you did.
At times, he would stare longingly in a distracted haze. Otherwise, he'd be touching himself to the thought of your breeding him. Cum overflowing out of his hole, his uterus flooded with your combined releases.
He'd wrap his legs or arms around you to lock you in, keeping a tight grip with his puffy, used pussy clenching around your throbbing cock — spent or not.
The moment you brought the idea to him. Confident or sheepish. Or even if you ignored all decorum and slammed him against a wall or threw him on the bed, it wasn't long before the tables flipped and you along with it.
You intended to forgo this entire breeding endeavour on your own terms, but the yearning and misery you caused him powered out your recent fascination.
Soon enough, you'd find yourself bound to the bed, his legs bracketing yours. And with in inhumane pace, wetness, and tightness, he bounced on your reddened cock like his life depended on it.
"Finally gonna make me a mommy?" He spat at your drooling self, feeling every twitch or leak your cock did while nestled deep inside him.
It was difficult to chose: take all he wanted from you or tease you for making him wait.
In the end it switched between both. The first few orgasms he pulled out of you were out of raw desperation, back-to-back and relentless. He gave you neither break nor refractory period, slamming himself on your half-hard or even fully softened cock. But it takes no less than one clench and you were rock hard once again and kissing into that sweet, sweet spot inside of him that made the world fade around him.
Later, however, it was clear that you were completely out of it and had no say over your releases. Some were dry (which he then proceeded to mock you about it or whine as he did not wish to waste anymore time being empty of your offspring), some were weak and little in volume, some were thick and bountiful. But it didn't stop there.
He spent hours getting his fill of your addictive cum, so he never let you out of the bed or move from where you were trapped being straddled by him. Before he even knew it, some of your releases were unbearably warm but focused; like a stream or a hose with high pressure.
That's when he realised that you were urinating.
Finally expelling it, it flooded his insides as it did your cum. He would've found it hot had it not been the 'replacement' for your semen. So he belittled you about it and instead of pulling off your cock in disgust, he kept bouncing on your oversensitive cock with the pretense of: "Everytime you piss inside me, I'm going to take 3 more orgasms out of you."
So he did.
It was impossible to tell how long time had passed or how many actual orgasms he manages to pull out of you. You were out of it and he was nowhere near done.
It got to a point where he got too tired to keep riding you. But he — once again — did not let you go. He spoke, but you couldn't focus. You could only feel movement: he took off the restraints around your wrists and pulled you between his legs as he lied down.
Then he brought your hands onto his waist while he locked his legs around you.
The second he slipped you back inside him, you keened and nearly doubled over. Your cock felt like it was rubbed raw. It was red, a vibrant, blushing red. It felt like your every nerve ending was exposed and he still wanted more?
A sudden tug from your 'leash' made you whine. You didn't even realise that he tied your wrist restraints onto your neck to act like a leash.
"Fuck me, daddy." he commanded, panting, but certain.
Your breathing was ragged and completely unstable. But he tugged once again with the same command — only darker this time — and you relucted, moving your hips.
But you did it too weakly, so he tugged harder this time and you actually whimpered trying to close your legs. Still, the longer you didn't move, the more and the harder he'd tug. And when that wasn't enough, he'd start slapping you back into sobriety.
An extremely short-lived one unfortunately.
So when you finally managed to start fucking into his heat like he wanted it, you couldn't stop any of the pathetic and incomprehensible noises that came out of you. Like a kicked puppy or a deaf person, your words were jumbled, incomplete, and mixed with breathy whimpers and high-pitched whines.
All your muscles were screaming at you, begging for rest and rehydration. But no. Until his torso was bloated and all the ridges of his abdominals were completely blurred into a rounded softness, he would not let you stop.
You, on the other hand, were moving mindlessly but you could barely process the sensations. There was a light tingling between your legs and your cock felt swollen to an ungodly degree. At this rate you'd believe that you couldn't get hard anymore.
But that wasn't the case. Not with the tip of your erect cock digging into all the wrong places, the tightness of his gummy walls springing it back to life. You were hitting everywhere except that one spot but neither you nor he could get you to get it right where he wanted it.
He dug his heels into your ass, moving you with his thighs in an effort to guide you there. To no avail. You were too out of it; pace too sloppy; hips stuttering erratically — the depth and length of your strokes were completely unpredictable.
He whined but his trembling thighs were useless, so he had to let your overstimulated state attempt to breed him further.
Unfortunately you gave out. Or at least your thighs did. You fell on top of him, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You ended up drooling onto him while he stroked your hair.
Perhaps he took pity on your frazzled state so he let you drool, whine, and tear up onto him; letting you a moment's rest as he lovingly dragged his fingers through your sweat-slicked hair. He continued with gentle kisses onto your head, content with just your twitching member buried into his sopping hole for the moment.
"You still owe me babies, daddy." he chuckled into your hair, letting you doze off for a moment. But when you wake up? You're not getting out of him.
ㅤㅤ ── hiroki dan, jason todd, geto suguru, kamisato ayato, kaveh, luuk, xiangli yao, brant, jiyan, hugo vlad, wu chang, acrobat (mike morton), seer (eli clark), knight (richard sterling), qin shi huang, hades, oikawa tōru, sugawara kōshi, cedric diggory, newt scamander, l lawliet,
summary : you and dean are just as grumpy when it comes to waking up early.
warnings : just a fluffy blurb!
wc : 480.
notes : guys i’m taking requests for dean too from now on btw!! if you have any ideas pls lmk, i really wanna write more abt him but i just feel like i don’t really have original ideas, so help a girl out!!!
You firmly believed that there wasn’t a more excruciating sound in this world than the buzz of an alarm clock during an idyllic morning — such as that one.
A ray of sunshine attacked your tired eyes as soon as they fluttered open at the irritating ring. You rebelled against the brightness immediately, burying your face back into Dean’s shoulder.
“Oh, Jesus Christ…” a low grunt vibrated in his chest underneath you.
The digits on the clock announced it was 7 a.m. Yesterday, you and Dean had promised Sam it would be the last time you two turned up late to an investigation. Poor guy had been up on his feet doing research practically since sunrise, letting you night owls get your beauty sleep. Nights were getting shorter, and mornings had been growing colder since winter came around, and you both couldn’t help but let yourselves turn a bit lazy.
“Dean. It’s seven,” you groaned, accompanying the alarm, yet still not moving a muscle. “We promised Sam–“
“Sweetheart, please just smash that piece of trash,” his whine rumbled over your head, fed up with the noise. You felt him affectionately squeeze the soft back of your thigh between the grumpy hums that slipped past his lips. Clingy as he always was during such an hour.
Too sleepy to question the order you actually approved of, you leaned over to the nightstand. Dean’s hand crept up your waist and clutched at the curve, keeping you from falling off the bed as you reached out your arm. The chilly air of the motel room grazed your skin in places where the covers slipped off as you finally hit the device, turning it off.
“Oh, thank God,” he muttered in a hoarse tone followed by a pleased hum. “Now get back here.”
You felt Dean’s palm rubbing circles on your back, warming you up, making sure you’d crawl right back into his arms. With a deep sigh, you dropped back on the mattress.
You snuggled back into his hold. Your legs intertwined in a familiar way, his arms wrapped around your frame with a crushingly affectionate force. “‘S too damn cold...” you heard him mumble grumpily.
“Mhm. Let’s just…five more minutes,” you groaned and felt him tug you closer right away, burying his face in the softness of your hair.
“You read my mind baby.”
A nice shiver crossed your skin as his nose gently nudged the ticklish spot below your ear. He held onto you like he was afraid you would evaporate into thin air and deprive him of the softness of your body, the nice smell of your skin, the love of your touch.
Your eyelids fluttered shut immediately. How could they not when his body was like a damn heater? When his deep, steady breaths soothed your body and mind? There was no way in hell you’d deny yourself that.
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.
Ft. I. Midoriya, K. Bakugou, S. Todoroki, E. Kirishima, and D. Kaminari
AN: Was anyone else obsessed with boyfriend does my makeup videos on youtube as a kid? Bcz I was!
CW: Reader wears makeup (obvs), suggestive themes (Izuku & Denki), I tried not to mention any specific skin tone, but pink blush and lipgloss are mentioned...uh, Kirishima has two moms?
Izuku is surprised by the request, but takes it seriously, genuinely wanting to do a good job, even if it was just for fun.
He tries his hardest to replicate your everyday routine, Mr "I keep notes on people" knows it by heart obviously, he just doesn't quite have the skills to do it justice.
Mumbles to himself as if it's an analytical task, eyes squinting as he takes in your face and works out how best to apply each product. At one point he reaches out to grab your neck to still you, immediately blushing red and apologizing profusely as you start laughing at him.
He just put you in a chokehold to apply foundation.
"OMYGODIMSOSORRY—"
You laugh, sending him a wink. "Wow ‘zuku, didn't think we were headed that direction…"
His cheeks glow maybe the reddest you've ever seen, freckles practically blended into the skin around them. "I DIDN'T MEAN TO I SWEAR!"
In the end the base is blended pretty well, but the eye makeup leaves a lot to be desired, and your brows are…quite harsh to say the least, almost resembling that time you let Eri do your makeup..
He comes out of it very impressed by the steady hand you must have to replicate this every day!
"I think I can safely cross 'makeup artist' off of my list of possible back-up career paths..."
—---—
Katsuki, much like Izuku, decides to go for your everyday look that his stalker ass is incredibly familiar with. He takes it seriously, as he does pretty much everything, telling you to “sit still,” and “quit your damn fidgeting,” while he moves between steps.
However, unlike Izuku, Bakugou absolutely slays—you come out looking almost better than you do when you do it yourself.
He grew up with fashion designers as parents; he watched a lot of models get their makeup done backstage while in between babysitters (not many could handle his bratty child self) and sometimes watched his own mom do hers before going out. Plus, you're telling me Best Jeanist, BJ himself doesn't glam up a lil? Yeah right…that's basically his drag mother.
In the end he's smug as hell as you look yourself over, practically gobsmacked by his skill. Everything looks perfectly blended, the eyeliner is sharp, brows are shaped and fluffed up, and he got pretty much every detail of your daily look correct, down to your favorite lip combo. He even managed to apply fake lashes without them looking like they're melting off…
"What the hell Katsuki?! This was supposed to be funny!"
—---—
Shoto doesn't really understand makeup. He had Yaoyorozu try to cover his scar once out of curiosity, and on rare occasions where Endeavor was busy and they were left to their own devices, a middle-school Fuyumi would sometimes use him as a makeup guinea pig, but it always felt heavy and itchy on his skin. He thinks the fact that girls wear that stuff everyday is impressive, and maybe a little masochistic…
He usually doesn't pay much attention when you get ready to go out, mostly just waiting patiently while you do your thing, reading manga on his phone. He's not dumb, he knows girls don't naturally have glittery eyelids and red lips, but he's also not the best at spotting natural looks…
"Do you use this one?" He asks a million times, reading the label on each product intensely. He is taking it seriously, he just doesn't really know what he's doing. Uses the wrong products in a few spots, needing your guidance to pick the right brushes for different areas. Is too scared to hurt you with mascara, so he makes you put that on your own lashes.
"This is really hard…"
In the end, your base is…okay; blush is in the right spot…but your contour is splotchy. Your mascara is nice (thanks to yourself)...but your eyeliner is thick and uneven, he accidentally used an eyeshadow that was a little too dark, and he didn't even touch your brows, in fact, he was actually surprised when you said you put makeup on them.
You giggle as you look over yourself in the mirror, pecking his cheek as he blushes in embarrassment behind you, reassuring him with a pat on the head. "You did a good job for your first time, Sho!"
"Did I? I don't know if I believe that…"
Pays a little more attention to you whenever you do your makeup from now on. He wants to try again sometime and do better!
—---—
Eijiro agrees easily, saying trying new things is manly. Neither of his moms are super into makeup, so this is pretty new territory for him.
He does a shockingly good job on the eyeliner (middle-school emo phase coming in clutch!), although it's more intense than you tend to go for. He's also absolutely shocked at the torture contraption that is a lash curler, staring at it when you hand it to him.
“I thought Mina was joking when she told me about these…”
The rest is…well…
It's clear his skills haven't improved much since his middle school guyliner days—in fact, you could probably pass as a middle-schooler who just got her first makeup kit for Christmas; It's wearable, it's not like you'd look outrageous in public…but your foundation isn't really matching your neck; heavy bronzer makes your face a bit and he doesn't really know better to blend it down. You should've expected he'd go for the bronzer—two or his best friends are gyaru, so it makes sense he'd be familiar with a sun-kissed (more like smacked, in this case) look. There's some specks of mascara smudged onto your eyelids, and your brows are…well, they make themselves known, but hey, your emo eyeliner and pink lipgloss are nearly perfect.
It's an odd mix of aesthetics.
Still, your boyfriend is so proud of himself that you can't help but be happy with the results too, shaking your head with a grin as you examine the final look, Kirishima practically beaming in the background as he sits on your bed.
"Did I do okay?"
"You did great hun."
—---—
Denki never grew out of his guyliner phase. He's pretty excited when you ask him, immediately digging into your stash. As previously mentioned, he's a gyaruo, and he's always been a little interested in makeup, though he doesn't wear much himself besides a little eyeliner and sometimes concealer if he stays up a little too late playing League…
He doesn't take it too seriously, laughing whenever he messes up and using a makeup wipe to correct it. Definitely pokes your eye with the mascara wand by accident…but is totally apologetic about it, even offering to get down on his knees to make up for it…
He doesn't try to replicate your everyday look, instead having fun playing with all the products and colors; complains if you don't have any wild lipsticks. Jokes about making you look like a clown.
"Don't you have like…a nice blue?"
"You want me to wear blue lipstick??"
It's not too bad in the end! He's never done graphic eyeliner before, so it's a bit wonky, and the colours are brighter than you'd typically go for, the blush is hot pink and quite.. abundant. If you question it, he shrugs, leaning back in his chair cockily.
"Sabrina Carpenter wears a lot of blush, y'know."
"She doesn't wear green and purple eyeshadow!"
The eyeshadow in question is clearly blended by a beginner: muddy where the colors meet. He left your eyebrows plain and fluffy after a failed attempt to try different products on them to make them look bleached. It's a bit of an editorial look, to put it nicely…you can tell what he was going for, with some touch ups it would be pretty cool.
He thinks you look cool as hell, absolutely rebukes anything else.
╰┈➤ CW: 18+ (as usual), pregnancy, semi lactation kink.. If you squint.., no apocalypse (Ellie mentions I believe, idk.. I don’t proof read), use of papa
Just coming in hot with the Joel Miller fics but he’s so.. Ughhh.. Can’t help it. Maybe I should just make a series.
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The sound of running water and the feel of Joel’s hands pulled you out of your hazed stupor. The two of you were enjoying a bath together. Since you got pregnant all those blurry months ago, your husband has insisted on you doing nothing alone.. That includes even taking baths by yourself. It was like he was scared that if he looked away for too long the baby would just magically appear without his knowledge. He couldn’t risk not being by your side during the birth so he vowed to always stay by your side.
You watched as Joel caressed your belly, the taut skin smooth beneath his palms as he massaged the wet glands. The bath water swayed with every movement, splashing onto the floor every now and then. He could careless though. His fingers trailed your poked out belly button.. His eyes filled with a sparkle as he marveled the gentleness of this scene. Joel placed his head on your shoulder, relaxing against you. His legs on both sides of you since he was sitting behind you in the water. His fingers continued to grope and graze.
It was peaceful. Ellie was at your mother’s house for the weekend so it was just the two three of you, together and alone. Joel wouldn’t have it any other way..
After the bubble bath the two of you got out of the bathtub and went to the bedroom to dry off. Joel obviously dried you off first, taking his time to pat down your body smoothly before grabbing lotion and oil to rub into your skin. You couldn’t help but notice the obvious harden-on he had poking through his towel. The towel was wrapped tightly around his waist but it still hung loose and dangerously low.
Lately, his libido had high skyrocketed since you began to show. It was like your body had a natural aphrodisiac since the baby was planted inside of you.
“Looks like someone's awfully excited to see me.” You snickered.
Joel paused his movements. He had just gotten to your belly.. The oil he was applying dripped down your skin. He looked down at the tent in his towel and smiled up at you. The crinkles from his smile lines exposing his age. It added to the growness he had about himself. Something that kept you well attracted to him.
“Course’ I am. You know how I get when I see this pretty belly..” Joel's hands continued their gentle massages as he finished oiling your belly. He stood to his feet to then oil your arms and back.. Moving to your neck. The last place he oiled were your breasts.
Your tits were big and swollen, very heavy due to the trimester you were in. Any touch to them sent shivers down your spine. Your nipples were always the sorest part. Joel knew that.. So he took his time with massaging in the moisturizer. His thick fingers kneading into the fat flesh. His eyes trailed from one nipple to the next. He bent down just enough to be eye level with your breasts. He cupped one in his hand before guiding it towards his mouth. You gasped for a moment—you're sensitively on the highest level, before relaxing into his mouth.
Joel suckled and his tongue swirled along the peak that would soon produce milk. His eyes were closed in concentration. He only opened them when you began to pull at the strands of his curly locs. He pulled away, spittle following his lips and trailing down his chin. He stood back to his original height and held your waist, caressing the curve where your belly protruded.
“Oh darlin’..” The southern draw of his voice tickled the insides of your ears every time you heard it. “Can’t wait until you're leakin’ with milk.. Suckling these utters will be lots more better..”
You cringed at how vile he was becoming.. Not saying it didn’t turn you on, because it did.
“I gotta have ya.. Let me feel ya, darlin...”
Joel didn’t give you time to answer. He guided you back onto the bed, adjusting your body so that you were laying on your side. Sex was always on your side nowadays since Joel had read resting on your side allowed better blood flow for the mother and baby.. Something silly, but you indulged nonetheless.
Joel dropped his towel and crawled into bed right behind you. Luckily, you were already naked so all he had to do was lift your leg up slightly.
“Are you comfortable, love..? Just tell me if it becomes too much..”
Joel kissed the side of your temple before beginning to rub at your bare cunt with his free hand. You tensed for only a split second before closing your eyes and allowing whatever whiney noises to escape your lips.
Your husband pressed his face into your neck, planting soft kisses and hickies against your skin as his ring finger and middle finger worked at your engorged clit. You gripped onto the silk bedding beneath you, his name falling off your tongue like a sacred prayer only for his ears to hear. It pleased him that he was pleasing you.
His fingers moved onto the insides of your folds. He mushed your cunt lips together, spreading the lips open to reveal the pink flesh before shoving one finger slowly inside of your slit. He hissed from the tightness that clammed around his fingers before he began to thrust in and out. It didn’t take you long before you were gushing around his one, singular finger.
You relaxed, sighing softly just from that small amount of pleasure. You could feel his breath on your skin, panting and huffing.. The smell of old coffee and cigarettes he smoked outside your home and away from your nostrils. You closed your eyes, beginning to slowly creep into a slumber before you were gently pulled back out by the feeling of your husband’s slick fingers caressing your belly.
“I ain’t done with you yet, darlin.. Just hold on for me a little longer.. Papa’s gotta get off too..”
yooo can u plsss write about will smith hockey, fluff is lowkey fire hahaha :)
Yess bro I got u
will smith x reader (fluff)
author’s note no warnings for this, it’s my first time trying to write fluff tho so stick with me,,, reqs open— gender neutral reader
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There was nothing Will loved more than coming home to a hot meal after a rough practice. You would be standing in front of the stove, tending to a couple pans and checking the oven every few minutes, and he would come in the door, all pouty until he smelled your cooking.
He would come up behind you and hug you while he rested his chin on top of your head and watched what you were doing before he walked away.
20 minutes later, the oven beeped and you yelled that the dinner you prepared was ready. Will came out of the back of the house, wearing pajama pants and a big t-shirt, fresh out of the shower with wet hair and reeking of deodorant and fresh cologne.
His scent floated around you in the air as he walked by you to the fridge to get a drink. You guys sat down at the table, and he ate as if he’d never been so hungry in his life.
“You’re such a good cook, thank you.” he said.
You smiled and were happy that he appreciated the meal that you poured so much effort into.
“Watch tv with me?” he asked.
As much as you wanted to say yes, you had to decline to “clean up the dishes,” you said.
He shook his head and grabbed your hand with a smile. “Don’t worry honey, I’ll clean it up later. Watch tv and sit with me.”
How could you say no to that… You followed him over to the couch, where he let you pick your spot and then sat down next to you. He put his arm around you, pulling your head up close to his mouth to kiss the top a few times. “We’ll watch whatever you want.” he said.
“How was practice today?” you asked.
“I hurt the muscles in my arm, but I don’t really wanna talk about practice, let’s just be together.”
He rested his cheek on top of your head, tired. You finally settled on something to watch as you listened to his pulse getting slower and slower as he relaxed more.
You set the remote down and grabbed the forearm that he said felt sore. You gently pressed into the muscles, trying to relieve some of his pain as the least you could do to repay him for how much he does for you.
His head got heavier on top of yours as he fell asleep, all his muscles and limbs going limp.
His head eventually fell forward, waking him up for a minute while he looked around groggily. He scooted about a foot away from you, then leaned down into your lap, using your legs as a pillow and resting his hand on your leg.
You twirled your finger around a damp piece if his hair, causing him to hum and get sleepier. He kissed your leg one time, then fell asleep. You continued to play with his hair until you eventually fell asleep yourself.
