#I hope you know that “pudgy” and “fat” are compliments 'round these parts

[catboybiologist]

you're pudgy as fuck 🤣 your have a beer gut. very male of you.

might i suggest putting the fork down and hopping on a fucking treadmill, lardass?

I've actually been trying to put on some more weight recently to prepare for the ~5 backpacking trips I have lined up for this summer, so thanks for noticing 😊

Remember to eat well for y'all's nutrition, energy, and transition! If you do have physical exercise goals, remember that you gotta eat to have the energy for them!

[ofallthingsnasty]

pairing: crocodile x f!reader tags: fat reader, yandere, past violence, written from nico robin's pov as a little character/relationship study, minors dni word count: 0.9k

note: I had this thought about Robin meeting Crocodile's well-kept basement wife for the first time ages ago but wanted to expand on it a little, mainly because I love the melancholic and stuffy feel being his basement wife has to me. This is mainly vibes and exploration, but I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it! If you want to know more about 'your' scar, I talked about it here and here.

For the first time since she’s met Crocodile, Nico Robin is actually surprised. 

She hadn’t been when she had first seen his lavish base at Rain Dinners in all its opulent glory, hadn’t flinched when she noticed the gigantic species of gators swimming through an even more gigantic, underground tank, hadn’t raised a brow at his penchant for expensive clothes and jewelry and countless cigars, something so decadent compared to the starving land around him.  No, instead it fit him like a glove; that elegant, suave style of evil that had crawled into the very foundations of his lair to fester and rot and ooze wickedness whenever she returned. A marvel to witness, truly, such commitment to the bit. Predictable. Placeable.

What doesn’t fit, however, is a dependent. 

A man like Crocodile - with all his peacockery, arrogance, scorn and grandeur, isn’t someone she can see oh-so-graciously letting someone partake in the riches he has carefully hoarded just because of the goodness of his heart. It’s laughable, the thought. She could have seen him with a child, maybe, a little brat from some old flame many moons past, a little snot-nosed kid who is the epitome of spoiled, who gets too little attention and too much money from daddy.  That, she could have seen sitting on that old, luxurious chaise after getting called back to the base. 

But not you. Not fully-grown, very much not snot-nosed, you.

You’re so small, she thinks, or at least you seem to be. Compared to the grand interior surrounding you, the expensive leather settee you’ve been put on, the dark fur that nearly swallows you as you sit, nothing but your hands and round face peeking out from underneath, you are, in fact, quite small. Small and scared, the coat that’s been draped over you making you look like you’re all fat, bug-eyed rabbit and no part lithe and feisty wolf. If she wasn’t trying to grasp this situation she’d suppress a laugh at the clear intention behind your gaudy little outfit: like a purse, you’ve been dressed to compliment his outfit of the day, undoubtedly just as ornamented with pelt as you. You’re an unusual sight for the wife (and wife you are, she notes with a glance at a gold band wrapped around your pudgy finger) of someone as high-ranking as a warlord - if she had to imagine anyone befitting of that title it would have been someone more sleek; tall, classy, with observant eyes and painted lips that give way to pearly and sharp teeth. Someone whose mere presence whispers power, someone who is at least half as capable as Mister 0 himself.

What’s sitting right in front of her is a liability, a living, breathing shackle. And those are dangerous in the world the two of them operate.

And it begs a simple question: why? Why show her this, make her aware of your presence? Everything he does has a reason, but what purpose does this encounter serve? Robin’s life has been nothing but running, running and then some more running - and so does her mind, ever on edge, ever hunted. She needs to put this into a category, to discern good from bad from somewhere in between, especially when it comes to the inherent danger that is Crocodile. But it makes no sense to her, no matter how hard she tries to find any in the short second she has seen you. Is this a lesson? A show? A reward? A sign of trust? 

Nothing quite fits. She tilts her head as your eyes flutter over her form; taking in the seemingly relaxed elegance, her effortlessly chic outfit. You don’t seem to know either, fear and confusion etched into your soft features. Too easy to read, she thinks. He has clearly never told you about her. Not involved in this business. Hm.

Before she can take another step towards you - to glean another detail, to lure a word out of you that might solve this little mystery - the heavy thud of opening doors startles you. You sit ramrod straight in a millisecond, face instinctively pulled towards the source of the noise. Although she stays right where she is, it gives her another piece in the puzzle to work with: with the motion, a gnarly scar bulges underneath fake light, spanning from the edge of your mouth almost to your ear, gifting you an unnatural, lopsided smile. Ah. She knows Crocodile’s handwriting when she sees it, knows how heavy it can be with his left hand especially. 

You aren’t here out of your own free will.

How fitting, after all.

Not a dependent, but a captive. A cherished one, at that. A little pet, his favorite, tucked away and kept in safety.

She almost wants to scoff at the revelation. Evil, through and through. But this isn’t yet another display of just how cartoonishly bad he is, she thinks, until-

Until you part your lips to reveal a horribly tainted smile as you spot him, hurrying to sit up from the stiff leather and scuttling over. He doesn’t even look at her as you greet him quietly, awkward and uneasy, his face so utterly pleased with whatever this display is supposed to show him. You fold one hand over his right wrist and pull close as he laughs at your antics - you don’t act like this normally, do you? 

Finally, as he excuses you to disappear behind him, whispering something to you that she’d consider intimate if she hadn’t seen the raw, unembellished fear in your eyes, if she hadn’t known that the scar that adorns your face is years-old, it clicks.

This isn’t for her. It’s for you.