#rob x y/n | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunandflame · 1 month ago

Text

Heat of the Beast

The signs had been there all day, subtle but unmistakable — the kind of tension that coiled low in your gut and whispered of danger wearing the face of desire.

Warnings: nsfw, rough smut, rutting instinct, size difference, mild breeding kink, use of devil fruit (zoan hybrid form), possessive dominance, tbh it's pwp

Word Count: 3275

Pairing: Rob Lucci x AFAB!Reader

crossposted on AO3

The signs had been there all day.

You had seen it in the way Lucci watched you — those intense, slow drags of his green-gold gaze across your body like he was memorizing you, branding you. The way his fingers lingered too long against yours when passing a cup of tea, the way his breathing had become almost imperceptibly deeper, slower, more deliberate.

Heat.

You knew what it meant by now. Once a month, his animal blood overpowered even his iron will, dragging him down into a storm of instincts he usually despised. He hated losing control. Hated being reduced to nothing but the primal urge to take, claim, breed.

Tonight was worse.

You could feel it in the air between you — thick and heavy, almost buzzing. And even now, as you sat on the bed, pretending to read, you could feel him looming just beyond the doorway. Watching you.

Waiting.

"Lucci?" you called softly, heart pounding, pretending not to hear the way your own voice trembled slightly.

There was a long pause — and then the slow, deliberate thud of his boots across the floor.

He stepped into the room, and the air shifted immediately.

You swallowed hard.

He wasn't fully shifted — not yet — but you could see the signs: the sharp gleam of his pupils narrowing into slits, the slight enlargement of his canines when he exhaled slow through his teeth, his muscles tensed and coiled tight under his black shirt.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual — rough, thick with restraint. "Come here."

Not a request. A command.

You set the book down with trembling fingers and stood. Your steps were hesitant — not from fear — but from the electricity that seemed to snap between your bodies as you approached.

You barely had time to inhale before he seized your wrist — gently, but with a grip that brooked no argument — and pulled you close, pressing your smaller form against the broad, tense wall of his chest.

He was burning to the touch. Heat radiated off him in waves. His scent — deep, musky, wild — curled around you like smoke, dizzying and addictive.

His head dipped low, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

"You smell like you want me," he murmured, voice a dangerous rasp. "You know what I need. Don't you?"

You nodded weakly, breath hitching, body already betraying you — arching into him, thighs pressing together.

He chuckled low — a dark, rumbling sound from deep in his chest — and his hand slid possessively down your side, over the curve of your waist, pausing at your hip. Holding you there.

"Say it," he ordered softly. "Tell me you’ll let me."

You shivered — half from nerves, half from the way his dominant presence swallowed you whole.

"I’ll let you," you whispered, barely audible. "I’m yours."

A growl vibrated against your body in response — approving, pleased — and then suddenly the heat between you ignited.

His body began to shift against yours — taller, broader, heavier — as the beast inside him took over. Muscle thickened under your palms; black-spotted fur prickled against your fingertips; claws pricked the bedsheets when he caged you against the mattress.

His hybrid form was terrifying — breathtaking — devastating.

A massive leopard-man looming over your much smaller frame, his green eyes burning down at you with pure, unfiltered hunger. He bent over you, nudging your cheek with his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Mine," he rumbled — a savage, reverent declaration.

You whimpered when his clawed fingers gripped your thighs and pushed them apart — rough but careful — as though he barely trusted himself not to tear you apart.

His mouth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear — and for a moment, he simply hovered there — breathing hard, muscles trembling with restraint.

"Last chance," he rasped, voice breaking with need. "Tell me no, and I’ll walk away. I’ll fucking tear myself apart if I have to. But if you say yes..."

You tilted your head back, throat bare to him, surrendering completely. "Yes," you breathed.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward — kissing you bruisingly hard, hands everywhere — dragging you down into the primal, raw hunger he'd bottled up for too long.

You moaned into his mouth as he manhandled you effortlessly — lifting you, spreading you, grinding the massive, throbbing heat of him against your core through the thin barrier of your panties. Still clothed — but barely — the friction between you was overwhelming. You could feel the hard outline of him, huge and leaking through his pants, rutting against you in slow, desperate rolls of his hips.

Your skirt bunched up around your waist; your panties were soaked through in minutes.

Lucci's claws shredded the front of his own trousers enough to free himself — thick, slick, dripping precome already — and he pressed the blunt, hot head against your trembling entrance.

Still fully clothed, panting, grinding against each other like animals in the dark. You clutched at his spotted fur, nails digging deep, gasping his name.

"Lucci—"

"Shh," he growled against your throat, grinding harder, his cock catching against your clit just enough to make you sob.

"Take it," he rasped. "Be good for me. Let me have you."

One savage thrust — and he buried himself halfway inside — the stretch nearly unbearable, so big it stole the breath from your lungs. He froze immediately, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he fought the urge to slam into you.

"Too tight," he growled against your shoulder. "So good—fuck, you're good—"

He rocked his hips in tiny, controlled thrusts — barely moving — stretching you slowly, agonizingly, forcing your body to take every thick inch.

Your legs trembled, wrapped around his waist.

Every movement was clumsy, desperate, still fully clothed, driven by pure animalistic need.

Lucci's mouth latched onto your throat — not biting, but hovering dangerously close — and his entire body shook with the effort of holding back enough not to hurt you.

"Mine," he rasped again. "Always. Forever."

You could only nod helplessly — body burning, nerves on fire — as he finally bottomed out inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in the most primal way possible as his cock throbbed deep inside you, buried to the hilt — impossibly thick, stretching you so full it made you whimper breathlessly against his furred chest.

And for one, trembling moment — Lucci didn’t move. He hovered there, shuddering, arms locked on either side of your head, whole massive body tensed like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

You could feel it. The primal, trembling urge inside him to just take you. To rut into you like a wild animal until you forgot your own name. But somehow — barely — he held himself still, teeth gritted, low snarling breaths rasping against your neck.

"Too small," he growled roughly, voice cracked with the effort of restraint. "You're too fucking small—"

You whimpered, squirming helplessly underneath him — but the tiny flex of your hips against him was enough to shatter what little control he had left.

He snapped.

The first thrust wasn't pretty — it was brutal, needy, frantic — a dragging pull-back of his hips that made you keen, made your nails rake helplessly down the thick muscles of his arms. When he drove back into you, it wasn't smooth — it was clumsy, messy, as if he couldn’t not slam back to the deepest part of you, chasing some feral, inborn high.

"Fuck—," Lucci snarled, forehead dropping to press against yours, his whole body shaking.

He pumped his hips in shallow, devastating thrusts — grinding you down into the mattress, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.

Each thrust was a struggle — not because he wanted to stop — but because he wanted to fuck you harder, deeper, rougher than your body could take. He cursed low and vicious under his breath in between every slow, desperate thrust.

Your thighs clung to his waist, trembling, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to keep him there — pressed so deep inside you that you felt him everywhere.

"S-so good," you gasped, arching up into him, sobbing his name.

Lucci snarled — a dangerous, wrecked sound — and bent to crush your mouth under his in a kiss that was less kiss and more claiming.

Teeth scraping.

Tongues tangling.

Breathless, broken gasps between the slamming of hips against hips.

"Say it," he demanded raggedly against your mouth, pounding into you with short, brutal thrusts that made the whole bed shudder. "Say you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed without hesitation, clinging to him, body clenching tight around the thickness of him.

He lost it.

With a guttural growl, he shoved one huge arm under your waist — dragging you impossibly closer, tipping your hips up at a brutal angle — so he could bottom out even deeper inside you, grinding against your cervix with every desperate thrust.

"That's right," he snarled. "That's right. Mine. Mine. Fucking—mine."

He was rutting into you like he couldn't stop — rough and relentless, making you cry out with every slam of his hips, tears slipping down your cheeks from the overwhelming stretch, the raw burning pleasure.

Your body clung to him, trembling, and it only made him more frantic — chasing the smell of your heat, the slick between your thighs, the desperate way you mewled his name like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Gonna breed you," he growled against your throat, voice raw, almost mindless. "Fill you up. Knot you if I have to. You're mine."

You sobbed something — yes, please, anything — and that was all he needed.

His hips slammed into you faster, messier, all rhythm forgotten — reduced to pure instinct, rutting hard and wild and mindless, grinding you into the mattress with each possessive thrust.

You barely realized you were coming until your whole body convulsed — clenching tight around him — sobbing his name brokenly into the crook of his neck.

Lucci growled— A ragged, feral sound that was half-pain, half-ecstasy — And his hips stuttered once, twice — before he drove himself impossibly deep one last time and came. The heat of it spilled inside you — endless, overwhelming — filling you up so much that you whimpered against his neck, nails raking down his back as he ground against you through the aftershocks.

Even after he came, he didn't stop moving — slow, shallow grinds, refusing to pull out, cock twitching deep inside you, his massive frame caging you down, panting harshly against your throat. Still trembling. Still barely holding back from starting all over again.

You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not with the way Lucci’s massive body was pressing you into the mattress, the heat of his skin searing against yours, his cock still sheathed so deep inside you it felt like you’d never be empty again.

He was trembling. Full body, bone-deep shakes — low, ragged snarls rumbling against your throat like he was still fighting himself, even though the worst of his heat had been sated. His arms locked tighter around your waist, keeping your hips pinned flush to his.

You whimpered softly — half overwhelmed, half aching — trying to shift, to ease the heavy stretch where he was still grinding slow, instinctive rolls into your sore, soaked cunt.

The second you moved, Lucci growled — deep, guttural — and shoved himself deeper, grinding into the soft, swollen spot inside you with brutal finality.

"Don't—" he rasped, voice shredded raw from panting and snarling. "Don't move. You're not going anywhere."

You could feel the thick twitch of him inside you — the way his cock swelled slightly, as if even the thought of pulling away made his body rebel. Possessive. Wild. His green eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness, pinned you — the feral glint in them making your heart stutter and your body shiver under him.

Slowly — as if he didn't trust himself — he nuzzled his nose against your neck, dragging in slow, ragged breaths of your scent. You felt the gentle scrape of his fangs skim the soft skin there — not biting, just hovering, threatening.

A reminder.

A warning.

You were his.

You would stay his.

"Smell like me now," Lucci rumbled hoarsely, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Inside and out. They’ll know who you belong to."

You whimpered — overwhelmed, trembling, brain foggy from the brutal fucking and the way his weight blanketed you.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his back — still buried in the thick fur between his shoulder blades — and Lucci purred lowly in response, pressing his entire body closer, caging you against the bed as if he could merge you with himself if he just pressed hard enough.

Even soft, even done, there was no escaping him. You were stretched to the brink around him — aching, throbbing — slickness smearing between your thighs, a messy, embarrassing wet heat. But Lucci didn’t pull out. Didn’t let you breathe.

His hips gave tiny, unconscious rocks — not to fuck you, not yet — just to keep himself inside, to keep the bond sealed, to keep your body trembling around his cock until you couldn’t remember what it felt like to be alone. His nose brushed your jaw, a rare, dangerous tenderness in the way he held you — like a wounded animal clutching its mate, afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

"Little thing," he rasped, the words a broken, reverent snarl against your skin. "Took me so well."

You keened softly — overwhelmed, flooded with the heat and praise and the lingering, dizzy ache of being so utterly filled.

He shifted, lowering himself even more until your chest was pressed flush to his — your heart pounding frantic against his much slower, rumbling pulse.

Slowly, gently — he hooked one massive, furred hand under your thigh and hitched it higher around his waist, making your battered core clench weakly around him, earning a low, dangerous growl.

"Fuck—" he gritted out. "Tight still. Don’t squeeze me—"

But your body wasn’t listening — clenching and fluttering helplessly around the thickness of him, still greedy even after being ruined. Lucci’s control frayed further — he pushed into you with a shallow thrust, slow but unstoppable, grinding deep where you were most sensitive. You whimpered, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t stop — moving in slow, aching, endless rolls — dragging his cock along every battered, oversensitive nerve inside you until your thighs were trembling and you were mewling brokenly against his shoulder. It wasn’t rough anymore. It was tender now — brutal in a different way — as if he was trying to mark every inch of you from the inside out, to imprint himself so deep that even time couldn’t wash him away.

The air was hot, sticky, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and something more primal — something that made your instincts curl inward, pressing closer, submitting without even thinking.

Lucci pressed his forehead to yours, breathing raggedly through his nose, one hand still cupping the underside of your thigh, the other wrapped tight around your back, keeping you caged and motionless under him.

"You’re mine," he whispered, voice wrecked, low, barely human. "Always. Even if you run, little thing. Even if you fight me. You're mine."

You whimpered weakly, nodding — because you couldn’t speak — because it was true — because even if you could have fought him, you never would.

You were his. And he would never let you forget it.

He nuzzled your jaw again, low growls of satisfaction rumbling through his chest as you sagged bonelessly under him — utterly, completely spent — trembling from the overwhelming fullness and the soft, endless way he rutted into you, claiming you over and over, even in the trembling aftermath.

You didn’t know how long he stayed like that — fucking you slow and deep and possessive in the dark, murmuring broken, snarling praises against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was your broken, shaky breathing against his massive chest, and the low, rumbling growl in his throat that hadn't fully stopped — a deep, vibrating sound of possessive satisfaction and lingering hunger.

You clung to him — fists tangled in the thick fur at his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck.

And he buried himself deeper around you, curling his larger body protectively over yours, surrounding you in heat and scent and the heavy, primal thrum of his heartbeat.

His cock still pulsed deep inside you, a slow, lazy twitch of ownership that made you whimper softly — overstimulated, overwhelmed — but somehow craving even more.

You could feel the way his muscles trembled under the fur. Not from exhaustion — no. From restraint. From the brutal, raw effort it took not to flip you over and take you again, harder, rougher, the way his instincts demanded.

Instead, Lucci dragged in a deep, shuddering breath — and pressed his huge, clawed hand between your shoulder blades, cradling you close.

"You’re safe," he rasped into your hair. His voice was rough, ragged — the words almost a plea. "With me. Always."

You nodded weakly, still trembling. One massive hand slipped under your thighs, adjusting you so gently it made your chest ache. He moved slowly, carefully — as if he thought you might break if he wasn't careful enough. Still half-dressed, your skirt pushed up indecently around your waist, your panties hanging loosely from one ankle — but he didn’t seem to notice, or care.

All he cared about was the way you smelled — the way you felt — warm, spent, and utterly his.

His tongue — rougher in this form — rasped slowly over your shoulder, a slow, claiming lick that made you shiver again. Marking you. Scenting you. Binding you to him in ways far deeper than any ring or vow could.

You tilted your head weakly, exposing your throat without thinking. The growl that tore out of him was feral — but somehow gentle, too.

Slowly — agonizingly slow — Lucci shifted back, just slightly: shrinking down from his full hybrid form until he was still larger, still powerful, but more human in shape. Still, his green-gold eyes blazed down at you with naked, possessive adoration.

He cupped your jaw with one clawed hand, thumb stroking your cheek — a soft touch that betrayed the animalistic hunger barely restrained beneath his skin.

"You're too good to me," he murmured roughly.

You blinked up at him, dazed, body still thrumming from the aftermath. "I love you," you whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked from crying out his name.

Lucci stiffened — just for a moment — and then his mouth crashed against yours, devouring you in a kiss that tasted like desperation and devotion. When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against yours.

He was breathing hard, trembling slightly. "I almost lost control," he confessed in a low, tortured whisper. "You made me feel—" His voice broke off, strained.

You stroked his jaw with trembling fingers. "You didn’t hurt me," you promised softly. "You never could."

Another deep, shuddering breath from him — as if your words physically relieved something heavy in his chest. Carefully, Lucci shifted again — this time fully back into his human form — and collapsed onto the bed with you, wrapping his massive body around yours.

His green eyes watched you — not cold now, but something devastatingly raw. As if you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

One large hand splayed protectively over your belly, fingers curling as if to shield the most vulnerable part of you from the world. He buried his face against your throat again, murmuring something so low you almost didn’t catch it.

"Mine," he breathed. "Only mine."

You smiled weakly, closing your eyes, letting the heavy warmth of him lull you into a fragile, exhausted peace.Outside, the world spun on — but here, in this dark little cocoon of heat and whispered devotion, you were safe.

Cherished.

Claimed.

This was a little request from @potato-imouto under this post. I hope you liked it sweetheart 😘

340 notes · View notes

multi-fandom-imagine · 2 months ago

Text

For the Wolf’s Victory || Robb Stark ||

After the failed Frey-Bolton ambush. Carnage still fresh. His sword still warm. He returns to you under the cloak of night—bloody, breathing hard, eyes wild—and the moment your eyes meet, he’s already undoing his belt

A/n: The Red Wedding never happened, Cause fuck that.

It started out as a whisper, a comment he wasn't supposed to hear.

Death.

His men slaughtered

Grey Wind.Dead.

His mother...throat slit

And you, his gem. The one light in his life snuffed out like a candle.

Robb could barely contain the rage that simmered through him and when the moment was right he struck.

And he did not leave one Bolton or Frey alive and while is soldiers celebrate, while his mother rests with Grey Wind by her side, he will take you and make you his in every way.

Robb made his way towards your tent, his tent. The one furthest away from everyone. He wasn't thinking, only one thing on his mind.

You

The tent flap opened, your head snapped up to meet your husband's gaze. The man was covered in blood as you stood.

“Robb—?”

He crosses the room in two strides.

One bloody hand wraps around your waist. The other grips the back of your neck. And he kisses you like a man starved, blood staining your dress.

“No one touches what’s mine,” he growls into your mouth, his eyes slipping closed as he presses his nose into your neck inhaling your sweet scent.

His hands are shaking with adrenaline as they tear at your laces. “They tried. They fucking tried. To take everything.”

Fabric ripping, breasts freeing as he then pulls you in for another kiss as you moaned as Robb bites at your jaw, only to pull you in for another bruising kiss as you felt the iron tang of blood on his lips.

“But I found out. And I burned them for it.”

Your torn dress falls to the floor. You’re breathless, naked beneath him. He’s still half-armored, still wearing the blood of traitors—but his hands are reverent on your skin.

“I killed them for you,” he says, voice low and shaking with fury and want. “For us.”

And then he lifts you, hauls you to the bed, and throws you down onto the furs. Your legs parting, a deep heat pooling at your center as Robb watches you.

He doesn’t undress...not right now. Not with how desperately he needs you.

He just frees his cock, already hard, already leaking.

And you open for him, legs parted, eager, wet, desperate for your husband, your warrior, your wolf.

He slams into you in one stroke—deep, brutal, and claiming—and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clawing at his chestplate only for them to slide down slicked with blood.

“Robb—!”

“Say you’re mine,” he snarls, fucking into you hard, hips snapping with barely-restrained violence.

“I’m yours—gods—I’m yours—”

He grunts, slamming deeper. “Say it again.”

You do. Over and over. Each time more breathless, more raw, as he pounds into your cunt like he’s trying to fuck the memory of betrayal out of his own mind.

His blood-slick hands grip your thighs. His mouth crashes to yours. His whole body trembles as he drives deeper—rougher—until he’s gritting through his teeth. Dark curls slicked with sweat and blood as he kept his gaze on you, on the way your breasts bounced with each thrust.

“I should’ve died today.”

“But you didn’t,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, his lips, his scars. “You came back. To me..My wolf...My King.”

He thrusts once—twice—and buries himself to the hilt, groaning as he spills deep inside you, his cock pulsing, flooding you with hot, triumphant release.

You both collapse, tangled in sweat, blood, and sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

He holds you close. Breathes you in.

And in the silence after his storm, he whispers:

“You’re the reason I survived.”

306 notes · View notes

2b4st4r · 4 days ago

Note

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.

268 notes · View notes

luxthestrange · 8 months ago

Text

OP Incorrect quotes#57 Drama-

After the whole fiasco with Enie lobby, finding out the man you fell in love with was an undercover agent and only using you as cover to obtain the blueprints from Iceberg...So when he failed EPICALLY, You decided to take up the offer along with Franky to join the straw hat...happily living in peace knowing you dodged a bullet....thinking he died-

Y/n*Looking at Lucci, standing in his new fancy suit*...You're alive

Lucci: No, Need to sound so disappointed...Is that any way to speak to your Ex-Fiance?No hug?~

Y/n: Go hug a landmine-*Sees Hattori waving wing at themself and smiles at him waving back*Oh I can't hate you pretty bird, I did miss you~

#one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #opla #opla x y/n #opla x reader #one piece lucci #lucci x reader #lucci x y/n #one piece lucci x reader #rob lucci #rob lucci x reader #rob lucci x y/n #one piece angst #one piece incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes

651 notes · View notes

sl4sh3rsub · 2 years ago

Text

rz michael myers hcs (nsfw: mdni)

rz michael myers x reader (AFAB, AMAB, FtM, MtF)

warning: a lot here. mikey has a monster cock, insecure + inexperienced michael, he doesn't talk but makes noise + mouths words + grunts syllables sometimes (selectively mute ig?), oral sex (both giving and receiving), excessive creampies, fingering (receiving), no lube we die like men his dick n spit does it for him, masturbation, rimming (both giving and receiving), knife kink, excessive mentions of precum + spit + cum, creative use of cum/arousal fluids in arts projects, musk kink, choking (receiving), mentions of sex toys, thigh humping, mention of canon SA and violence (nothing w/ or directly involving reader), p in v + anal (all unprotected - pls stay safe irl), cum eating, slight somnophilia, bruises and hickeys, cockwarming, slight worship (receiving), dry humping, handjobs, 2 mentions of him having a mini shrine to you, mentions of needle hrt in ftm + mtf bits (feel free to ignore), mentions of the institute/asylum

a/n: sorta edited. tried not to be too ooc, but it's more focused on a softer side of michael - personally i think his character is very different to og/peepaw myers! rz mikey is more based in instinct rather than previous experiences/societal expectations, so there's more general hcs than separate sections this time. NOTE: feel free to read any sections, tried my best to not use gendered terms in agab sections but lmk how i can improve :3

order: general hcs first then amab + afab then ftm + mtf, different sections = different content n tried not to repeat much

_ _ _ _ _

general hcs

as michael is very inexperienced with kissing, he'll smash his lips against yours and become a huffing mess after he gets worked up from your breath mingling with his and your darkening gazes meeting

if you play with his hair and gaze into his eyes, he can't help it if he gets half-hard - his body will always needily react to your attention and affection

he's most at home in grey sweatpants - he's very used to wearing them while making his masks and associates them with comfort and the years of creatively honing his craft

so naturally, don't be surprised when his already impressive girth pulses and thickens at the sight of you bending over or reaching something off a high shelf

mikey will absolutely make you your own special mask!! although, the glue he uses for your personal paper mâché mix is a bit more,, personal. he'll also use your arousal to paint the inner layer of his favourite mask :( he simply needs to have some semblance of you with him at all times, especially whenever he's out on the town and away from your embrace

he's borderline hypersexual and gets half-hard and extremely sensitive without reason, however he doesn't always feel the need to act on his urges with you. expect him hiding his arousal during mundane activities, getting flushed and shy when he realises that you notice :<

if he's comfortable on the couch, he'll make himself at home with a horrendous manspread. naturally, this leads to him getting flustered whenever you kneel in between his legs with a mischievous glint in your eye. if you ask him sweetly, he'll be more than happy to sit you in between his strong thighs and let you hump into his hand while you both watch a movie

if he's not feeling like he wants to be inside you, he'll lie on his back with his knees up, pulling you to straddle his waist and lean back against his thighs. from this angle, he's able to watch you play with yourself and masturbate above him while feeling your weight grounding him, just out of reach but almost close enough to taste

he loves taking you from behind and kissing the base of your neck, your breathless giggles echoing in his ears as his long hair tickles your shoulders and back

michael loves having you cockwarm him while he makes his masks!! he adores it when you doze off with your cheek smushed into his shoulder during a late night arts-and-crafts session, the slow pulse of his heartbeat deep inside you

he's so, so incredibly thankful for you, that he's able to unleash his frustrations into you, whether it be about a ripped mask or just about pentup emotions. he's eternally thankful for your love and under the table support

you are mikey's angel, his true saving grace. after his long bout at the institute, he was fully convinced that being loved by anyone was impossible for him. your welcoming arms and gentle praise proved him wrong and completely changed his image of heaven - to michael, it's no longer a cloudy sky mentioned in those old books, it's your warm embrace and loving gaze. it just took him a little while to realise that he was in his own little paradise with you

he tries his hardest to treat you with absolute reverence and adoration T-T he's devoted to making you feel good with him, no matter what. usually, this means holding back from skullfucking you at a brutal pace whenever you give him head. your throat is just so tight around him :( it's got him steadying himself against a wall with his hand, shaking and sweating from holding back, with his gorgeous, garbled moans encouraging you to swallow the saltiness of his length

mikey's wandering hands always end up on your ass or tummy whenever you cuddle together, it's just comforting for him

he's one of the strongest, largest men to ever walk the earth, but the way he gently traces your facial features makes you forget that completely. michael handles you like you're made of porcelain, only using soft pressure unless you assure him he won't break you easily

he has a big, strong and beefy body. lord knows how he maintained it in the institute but with you, he's gonna try his damnedest to put all of his strength to good use - whether it be getting you off while fingering you, his toned forearms barely breaking a sweat or his tree trunk thighs tensing while you ride them

mikey is not trimmed or well-groomed downstairs, his pubes are a wild and unkempt cloud of blonde and light grey hair, so you know he's not caring about how you look at all. you're a fuckin deity in his eyes and he'll dispose of anyone who makes you feel anything other than heavenly

michael is uncut, big and thick, with a large vein running up the underside - so heavy and large that it can't even stand up against his belly, instead slightly bobbing with his pulse and hanging low. it's the type you see in lewd magazines, where it tilts down even when fully hard

when you're on your knees for him, expect his weepy cockhead to drip onto your face while you kiss and nip at his heavy, full balls

oh yeah, this man has the definition of breeder balls; hanging low, swollen and filled to the brim with his potent cum. he truly has so much to give, so you'd better be ready for multiple loads throughout the night

in contrast to michael's hard cock, his nipples are soft and incredibly sensitive. if he's trying to cum as fast as possible, he'll sneak a hand up his shirt and pinch at them relentlessly - make sure they're puffy and spit-glazed after you've been ontop, he goes absolutely feral would really appreciate it

mikey has massive hands too - his fingers are enough to fill you considerably, but he often resorts to stuffing your mouth with them or using his palm to muffle your noises if you're being vocal. he definitely doesn't want the cops called on you just because he's great at pleasuring you

his cock feels heavy inside you, almost like he's deep in your chest whenever he bottoms out. the weight is absolutely dizzying as it stretches you out each thrust and rubs all of the right places. he easily gets drunk on the feeling of you clenching around him, leading to his head being tossed back with drool dribbling down his chin at the sensation

he has the biggest size kink possible but he really doesn't want to get carried away when exerting his strength and size on you - he doesn't want to get carried away or hurt you too badly :(

michael uses whatever knife he can get his hands on during foreplay to add a bit of risk and edge. cutting off your underwear and shirt, tracing down thighs and hips and gently nicking your skin every once in a while, but he quickly tosses it if you beg him to fuck you desperately enough - he doesn't wanna hurt you that bad, not before he's even gotten started

mikey is incredibly insecure about himself and his own worth as a person. he fears your love is only temporary and that you'll move on, leaving him behind as a memory or an adrenaline rush of foolish regret :( for that reason, he's terrified to go too hard or hurt you badly - he's convinced you'll be in pain and be fearful of him if he fucks up. be sure to reassure him when you're together after you have a rougher time and he's manhandling you more <3

initially when he learnt about dry humping, he was confused as to why he craved the friction so desperately but he's learnt to give in - michael will almost immediately cum in his pants if you quietly reassure him you'll clean up the mess you're both bound to leave on his clothes. half the fun (in his eyes, at least) is seeing you get flustered over the sheer amount of his load that's seeping into his boxers from just that little bit of friction

his favourite place to have you is on his lap - cockwarming, cuddling or napping, he does not care. he needs to have your face pressed into his neck with his larger frame providing you with warmth and stability

will rarely fist his cock but if you ever catch him, you might be able to make out his lips repeating the shape of your name over and over

for a long while at the start of your.. arrangement, he had no idea how to initiate sex. he'd just hover close to you, desperately hoping you'd notice the heat radiating from his massive, obvious bulge. would start to bite the inside of his cheek and guide your body towards him in a desperate hint if you didn't clock it immediately

he also did not know shit about the human anatomy, so he'll need you to guide him to where you want to be touched and with a bit of coaching, he'll learn the correct pressure and pace to get you off easily

if you tease him while he's in his overalls, the sight of his lower region slowly darkening with his endless pre and the sound of his haggard breathing devolving into animalistic grunts is nearly enough to make your knees give out

michael isn't a massive fan of fucking you on your bed, especially if your room is in a similar layout to his back at the institute. haunting memories brought on by the guards cast negative clouds across his mind and that is the last thing he wants with you. he'd much prefer to go at it against a wall, the couch or even the floor. most of the time, around his desk is where the action happens and your bed is solely reserved for sleep <3

he loves smearing his precum all over your face, loves letting his musk seep into your skin while your eyes glaze over with lust

he cups your chin, cheek and jaw whenever you have his full attention and his heart melts when you nuzzle into him - his thumb plays with your bottom lip and if you decide to suck on it to keep your mouth occupied, so expect to have mikey silently begging you to cockwarm him while his brain goes fuzzy

while you relax for the evening, watching a movie together, expect him to position you with your head on his thigh (your face way to close to his crotch ofc)

michael loves you sucking on his soft cock and warming him with your mouth, he adores the slow feeling of him growing hard as you moan and gag around his length

when you introduce him to the concept of the sixty-nine position, he absolutely short-circuits. what do you mean you can both suffocate in each other's musk while getting each other off?? what do you mean he can prop himself up above you so he can spend time teasing you while forcing you to choke on his length???

michael always cums a bit too quickly and a bit too much - the moment he enters you for the first time, he can't help but fill you up immediately (good thing he's blessed with inhuman stamina)

he's also the biggest fan of you offering to clean up the mess of his cum dripping down his shaft - if your ass is a bit tender and sore from his rough pace, he's more than happy to soften in your mouth while the two of you catch your breath and wind down

mikey isn't very confident with toys and would much rather pleasure you by himself, but he wouldn't mind learning slowly what you prefer over time

he's also not a fan of lube - it feels too cold on his skin and the slippery nature of it scares him a little, so the best way to get him all coated in pre (for your comfort ofc) is to rim him. his tip drools and spits out so much of his arousal whenever you fuck him with your tongue, rest assured it'll bubble down his shaft and drip onto your chest. the delicious flush of his neck and upper chest is a glorious sight to behold

he first feels the urge to make love to you slowly after he sees a steamy, romantic sex scene with a married couple on television - he wants to give you the warmth and care the actors portray on screen

when you first offered to give him head, he tentatively slapped his cock against your tongue to test waters and see if you liked the taste but ended up addicted to the feeling. he'll smack it against your lips and tongue every time you're on your knees for him

his heavy balls slapping against your chin while he floods your mouth with salty, thick warmth is one of his favourite sounds

he starts breathily whimpering in his gravelly voice whenever he fully bottoms out in your heat, one of the rare moments when he totally loses control over his lust for you

he grunts out the syllables of your name when he's about to cum, digging his fingers into your hips and nipping your neck, leaving deep marks on your skin

mikey gets the same rush whenever you both cum together as to when he stabs someone and kills them after a long game of cat and mouse - there's a reason why the french call it 'petit mortis', a little death

the first time the two of you had sex, it brought out such intense emotions from michael that he was left shaken, crying from confusion about the onslaught of feelings he just shared with you. he is originally torn between holding you close and never letting you go as well as instantly leaving and isolating himself in his own space - like he's used to. he needs time to fully mull over the situation and new sensations he experienced but he would really like to have you nearby incase he needs a hug :(

on a long day, after you've given him head, he'll softly catch his breath while watching you blissfully hum and rest your cheek against his thigh. he huffs a small chuckle as you press light kisses into his softening cock

myers really doesn't want to hurt your ass or bruise your upper thighs too much as he needs to have you perched on his lap whenever he can, but you can expect tender skin from his hips slapping into you as well as bruises from his grip on your waist and hips

if he was too rough with you the night before (maybe accidentally leaving bone-deep bruises or purple marks and scratches along your body), he'll disappear early next morning and return during breakfast with a fistful of fresh tulips as an apology, with their stems partially crushed. just be sure to rinse off the dirt still attached to the roots, it's the thought that counts :<

michael may be inexperienced and bashful but he'll try anything once if it gets you off and brings you pleasure

michael loves to place his hand around your throat, just as a reminder of his sheer strength and power over you. with the slightest amount of pressure, he could make your brain go dumb and your tongue loll out

he chokes you until your eyes become unfocused, your little gasps and whines becoming softer and softer. the proud glint in michael's eyes is deserved, as you fully trusted him with your life while you were in your most vulnerable position. he holds you close while you unsteadily catch your breath, mumbling about how good you are to him and stroking your hair all the while

if you're too shy to look up at him while he fucks you or gives you head, he'll tilt your chin up and groan when your cheeks flush at his blown out pupils

he's the type to not pull out after, needing to soften and catch his breath while still feeling connected, inadvertently overstimulating you without fail as his whole body is racked with aftershocks

if he's feeling mean, michael will make you hump his thigh while he palms at his dick during one of his arts and crafts sessions

he wipes the last dribbles of his cum on your inner thighs after he pulls out. he'll clean it either way - with a damp towel or his tongue, it's up to you <3

occasionally after a spree, he'll need to let his mind rest and will use you as his cute little fleshlight, burying himself deep inside you while guiding your hips along with his rhythm at a bruising pace. if you pay close attention, you'll see his lips forming silent prayers and whispers of apology whenever you yelp from the pace

his post-kill musk is potent enough to make your head spin. if you rest your cheek against his pectoral, you'll be able to feel his heartbeat start to slow against you :<

his guilty pleasure is pulling out while cumming thick spurts, slapping his tip across your skin while smearing his load all over you, be it your lips and cheeks or ass and thighs

michael doesn't want to disturb your sleep if he's needy, so he'll slip your hand in between his boxers and pajama pants to feel your smaller hand against his throbbing bulge. he's content to doze like that but expect to feel him humping into your fist while he sleeps. you may wake to the sound of sheets rustling as he licks up the mess he made, much too tired to change sheets but not wanting it to dry and soil your sheets

he insists on placing his hand firmly on the back of your neck whenever he takes you from behind - to stop you from fucking yourself back on his cock and squirming at his pace

after sex with mikey, it's a common occurrence for you both to be a panting mess on the floor when he's done, your throat sore from mindless babbling and loud moans - all complete with a wet, drool-covered spot on your shirt from his grunts through gritted, gnashed teeth. when he's floated back into the right headspace, he's absolutely mortified by his behaviour and is tentative to even glance at you in a less than innocent way for the next couple hours

if your soft body goes limp in his arms after a mind-blowing orgasm, he gets scared at first and stops his thrusts. he's worrying he hurt you but, once he realises you're alright, he'll support your head and neck and go completely feral, thrusting and grinding until he reaches his high as well

whenever you fall asleep ontop of him, he needs to have your face tucked into the crook of his neck - the scent of your hair and sex in the air lulls him to sleep quicker than any sedative could

he adores your attention while you both bask in your respective afterglows - your hands gently cradling his face while he tucks himself away is one of his favourite, most soothing actions of yours. he'll always rub circles into your skin in return

_ _ _ _ _

amab hcs

michael is inexperienced and completely driven by instinct when it comes to giving head - he wouldn't be deep-throating, instead focusing on your tip and licking along your veins. he's a master of giving handjobs, with the amount of spit he shamelessly coats you with (not to mention his rougher hands)

if he's particularly needy, he'll come up behind you and gently undo your belt while tracing his fingers over your zipper, nosing at your jaw and softly rutting into your ass while panting above you

the moment your fly is undone, his breathing gets ragged and drool nearly starts dripping down his chin

cages you against a bench or wall to rut against your ass and breathe in your scent after a long day at work

if you introduce him to rimming,, lord save your soul. his scruff rubs your ass raw with how often he goes to town on your tight, puckered hole. his favourite bit is pulling back and admiring how you glint in the light with his spit shining all over

of course, the extra spit only helps his efforts of bullying his throbbing cock into your poor hole

whenever michael is close to the edge while buried deep in you, he starts uncontrollably twitching and bumping your prostate, causing you to let out a pitchy whine at the unexpected feeling. every time without a doubt, his eyes roll back and growls into your ear at you clenching around him

he has a small photo shrine of your cocks together, a mess of cum and spit framed for his appreciation (he's a romantic)

his dirty fantasy is getting your attention while you're on the phone in bed by mouthing and groping at your cock, working you through the fabric of your pants

michael is obsessed with rutting his cock against yours, covering each other in your arousals, cum spurting up onto your chests as you nip and kiss at each other's chest and throat

_ _ _ _ _

afab hcs

mikey loses his mind a little each time you cream on his shaft, feeling your arousal dripping down to his balls and coating the insides of his thighs. just the thought of your slick coating him is enough to make his eyes roll back

he rips or cuts your underwear off you if he's too impatient to wait for you to fully undress

once michael is fully stuffed inside you, he gently traces where you meet, in awe of how he manages to fit in your heat

his large hands span over the bulge of his cock in your tummy, making you tear up at the pressure and drip onto the sheets

leans his head closer to your ear just to make sure you hear his groans and grunts while he destroys your pussy

his favourite sight is his pearly globs of cum oozing out of your puffy, soaked hole - made complete by the fucked out glaze in your eyes as you stare at the blurry spectre of a giant between your thighs

he tentatively gropes your thighs and enjoys warming his hands by sticking them up your shirt. if you both happen to make an appearance in public, expect him to crowd around you to try and shield you form from wandering eyes - he may be yours but you're also his, so no one has a right to touch or even look at your precious body (especially not your soft tits or ass, they're for him only)

teach him to tie his hair in a messy bun or acquire a hairband for him to keep his hair from getting sticky whenever he does down on you, slurping and worshipping your pussy like it's his god-given purpose on this earth

once he tries taking you in a mating press, he accidentally discovers heaven. he can fully dwarf you in his shadow and also cradle your pretty face while erratically thrusting and groaning in that raspy voice you love. if he fucks you dumb, he's more than happy to wipe away your tears

sometimes michael hesitates pushing into you for fear of it hurting too much, unintentionally resulting in him working you up by teasing your entrance with his thick cockhead then nudging your clit, fully soaking his length in your arousal

_ _ _ _ _

ftm hcs

mikey initially gets scared if you administer hrt yourself with a needle - he knows what happens to rowdy patients who get the needle back at the asylum. however, as he slowly notices physical changes in your body, he'll marvel at your form developing before his very eyes

michael's sadistic side comes out when he spanks your cock until your sloppy boycunt is drooling onto the mattress. he makes sure to gently slip his finger in your hole every so often, his delight in your whines is very evident when you can feel him throbbing under you

his strong forearms easily hold down your hips to stop them from rutting into his mouth whenever he sucks you off, making you shiver with every thrust of his tongue. his dick is neglected while he goes to town, not that mikey minds at all. he knows he'll be able to go balls deep after you've cum at least once to loosen up for him

due to his strength, he'll keep you still even while you become overstimulated, the pleasure bordering on pain but he's too far gone to care - this man becomes so pussydrunk that he can barely process that he's stained all of the material in your immediate vicinity with your arousal; your pants, his shirt, the carpet and not to mention the couch or bedsheets from his erratic wiping of his fingers when they get too slippery

loves to have you bouncing on his cock - grabbing your hips until they're bruised to control the pace and depth, pushing you to take all of him inside

sometimes if you look extra delectable while attempting to reach something off of a high shelf, michael may not be able to control himself and his craving for your taste - he will bend you over with no hesitation and make out with your cunt, nose glistening in your folds as his chapped lips graze against your tdick and his chin dripping with your pre. his massive hands groping your ass as he spreads your legs for better access

the rhythmic clapping of his heavy balls slapping your sopping cock is forever engrained in his mind, sometimes resurfacing at the most inconvenient times - he will be forced to rush home in the middle of an attempted spree just to feel your body against his

_ _ _ _ _

mtf hcs

michael chases the sensation of having you pressed up against him while you're wearing clothing he's gotten you

he loves you feeling pretty whenever you're on top, tucking your hair behind your ear and using his thumb to swipe his cum off your chin

he will make you do your makeup before you fuck, needing you to feel as beautiful as possible while he absolutely destroys your hole - lipgloss smeared, mascara running, hair mussed and bruises all over your hips. he views you as a goddess, so expect him to make you feel like one

when you guide him to take your balls in his mouth, he'll eagerly suckle on them then return to your tip for his reward, eager to lap up your arousal with obscene slurping noises and proud huffs of satisfaction

he has a small shrine of your panties he's borrowed, keeping the ones with the dainty floral details for 'creative inspiration'

mikey gently squeezes on the back of your neck when preparing to take you from behind - he cannot simply cum from you squirming in impatience and grinding into him, he's not even inside you yet (it would be a waste quite frankly)

as his stubble rubs you raw whenever he eats you out, prepare for the bubbling heat beneath your skin to return tenfold whenever he fucks your thighs like a madman

_ _ _ _ _

sorry if writing quality dropped, this took so long lmao. art the clown is next btw, look out for that.

thanks for reading. lmk if you liked it. if i got anything wrong, don't hesitate to tell me.

stay safe.

5K notes · View notes

magicalbunbun · 1 year ago

Text

my BIG BROTHER myers

They are outside before michael could walk inside and kill anyone.

Mike is embarrassed 😳

#michael myers #myers #halloween #rob zombie #myers family #slasher #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #slashers x y/n #slashers x you #slashers x reader #slashers #rob zombie michael myers #rz michael myers #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #olderbrother reader

1K notes · View notes

6lostgirl6 · 2 years ago

Text

A Night To Dismember

Pairing: Michael Myers x Fem!Reader

TW: Detailed Gore, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Sexual Assault [Not by Michael], Slightly Possessive Michael, Protective Michael, Mature Audience only!

A/N: Requested by my bestie @prettywhenibleed! I really hope you enjoy this and it was an absolute pleasure to write this for you!! Love you, my favorite slasher whore! ❤️ This isn't my best work, I'm afraid, forgive me.

The Smith's Grove Sanitarium operated according to a schedule that was consistently set in motion without interruption. No authorized doctor employed by the sanitarium, however, would have foreseen this. Medical specialists thought they were completely familiar with Michael Myers' behavior. He was docile and kept to himself, despite being the most dangerous and threatening patient in the hospital.

But if you left him alone, there was a chance he would treat you in a similar fashion. The sole exception would be if touching his masks or otherwise bothered him. Even being among other patients was something he never enjoyed.

You were a new patient, recently exiled from society and your family because of your dreadful infatuation with fire and burning objects of interest. Your arrival left the building in absolute shock. On your first day, you were assigned to the recreation room. When you entered the room, your initial instinct was to walk over to the largest and most dangerous man within the sanatorium while grinning brightly. You only watched him work on a paper mache mask while standing over his hunched figure in the corner of the room, his hospital-approved supplies scattered along the table.

You thought the colors were stunning, which you happily expressed.

As a precaution against Michael harming you, guards stood by the recreation room's entrance wielding batons. Michael, on the other hand, did the exact opposite, giving you a cursory glance before grunting and slackly pointing for you to sit next to him.

It was like you and Michael had your own timetable inside the sanitarium, and this went on for the next few months without fail. As directed by his psychiatrist, Michael was permitted to create his masks in the recreation area in the mornings. You would follow not far behind and take your normal seat beside him at a table chosen at random, apart from the other patients. You would merely watch him create his masks and ramble about whatever was on your mind. Michael never responded to the conversation, but that didn't stop you from talking to him because he had his own style of doing so without words. You have grown accustomed to deciphering his thoughts from his basic grunts and gestures.

"Hey, Mikey." You said with a smile, taking a seat at your usual spot next to Michael's side, placing your tray of food onto the table.

Michael was in the middle of placing wet paper mache on the face mold for his mask, his fingers caked in colors of paint and residue from the paper mache. He paused for a moment, giving you a small grunt as acknowledgement before returning to his activity.

You smiled more, chuckling at his usual ways of communicating as you watched him craft. You've always been interested in his masks and the variety of patterns he would use for each one. Many of his masks had their own unique qualities. However, you knew to only look, not touch.

"I see you're adding bright colors this time; are those happy pills finally working?" You teased him, nudging him softly with your body.

Michael huffed through his nose, which you learned was his way of chuckling as he shook his head at you. In the past, It took a while, but you had a better understanding of Michael's gestures and emotions than the doctors.

Simply because you treated him like a person, not an experiment.

"Maybe next time then." You replied, turning towards your tray before glancing at his project once more. "You're really good at that, Mikey. You're really talented."

Once again, Michael paused his movements, his stained fingers holding the paper mache while his eyes remained downcast. His fingers twitched before he resumed, and you almost thought you said something wrong.

"I didn't mean-"

You were cut off as Michael grabbed another mold from the table, pushing it in your direction. Your eyes widened slightly as you pushed your tray out of the way as Michael's slow movements brought other materials in your direction.

Still in slight awe, you watched him turn towards you, and your eyes connected through his favorite orange mask. You couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat at the way his eyes stared into your own, seemingly piercing into your own soul.

The doctors were wrong; his eyes weren't soulless, nor were they black, resembling a massive void of nothingness. They were blue, similar to a clear sky or the glimmering waves of the ocean.

He huffed before pointing a finger at the materials and then towards you. He wanted you to mold with him.

"Thank you, Mikey." You said softly, a bright smile on your face.

When your eyes met Michael's, he was unable to comprehend the sensation in his chest. Usually, when his sight fell on their figures, individuals would tremble or turn away. He wasn't concerned by their fear of the facility's most dangerous patient. He actually benefited from the fear he instilled in the hearts of many who came to the sanitarium.

Yet you didn't...and he liked that.

He liked that you weren't scared of him, speaking to him, or even touching him like you've been these past few months. The thought of you being scared of him made him feel...hollow.

When you started working on your own mask using the materials that were laid out on the table, Michael couldn't help but covertly place a palm on his chest to feel how his heart was refusing to settle down. He almost wanted to groan in annoyance, hating the way he liked being around you and having your attention.

He had been content with his solitude for a long time, He preferred being alone and had been for many years. However, the notion of you leaving him made the murderous itch inside him threaten to resurface.

He decided that he would keep you with him, protect you with everything he has, and extinguish anyone who threatened to ruin that. With darkened eyes, he returned to working on his mask.

On that day, you and Michael became closer.

You weren't born yesterday and you certainly weren't born stupid. Trouble was afoot in the institution and it was either happening under the doctors' noses or they simply didn't care enough to investigate. Over the past week, you would hear feminine screams down the hallway in the women's section of the institution during the late hours of the night. Last night, the screams could be heard two doors down from your room.

The screams and cries began when a new guard was appointed to the institution, supposedly replacing a well-known guard who was at the age of retirement. Due to your paranoia, you would sit on the edge of your bed, watching the door in the chance of someone entering your room when they weren't supposed to.

During the days, you would spend all you could with Michael, hoping that your association with him would make you seem off limits to mess with, or you hoped. Yet, Michael couldn't protect you when the sun went down and the men and women would return to their respective cells on opposite sides of the institution.

Tonight, you were following the same routine, sitting on the edge of your bed and watching the door. Your mind was in shambles, trying to come up with a plan in that chance, that horrid chance of the new guard coming for you. You hoped it wasn't what you were thinking, and for once, you prayed.

God never heard your prayers, and he certainly didn't now, especially when the jingling of keys were heading down the hallway, towards your room.

Michael couldn't sleep and when he couldn't sleep, he would simply pass the time by creating more masks or painting designs onto them. He was sitting at his desk, the surface covered in paper mache, markers, paint, and crayons. He was in the middle of adding a touch of red when he heard the distant sound of screaming.

His annoyance was disguised under his mask as he sighed and tightened his grip on the crayon in his hand to the point that it almost broke in half. He puffed again at the commotion and went on, indifferent to the screams. Perhaps a patient was making a scene during the nightly check-ins.

In order to block out the noises, Michael withdrew within the walls of his mind. It was a way that allowed Michael to escape freely from the confinement of his cell. He would always imagine a life outside the institution, with you. He would imagine the way he would protect you and provide for you. The thought used to sicken himn, but now he enjoyed it, the possibility. The sound of keys jingling, seemingly opening his cage, caused him to pause, though. With a loud crash, the cell door swung open, and shouting could now be heard outside of his room.

"Want some, freak?" The guard asked him in an mocking manner while Michael remained at his desk, his back to the guard. Michael immediately understood what the guard was pulling when he heard the feminine screams and intended to ignore it.

He continued to ignore his surroundings, ignoring the rage building within his chest. The sound of his bed creaking didn't deter him from continuing on with his activity. However, it all changed when the victim screamed one word.

"Michael!"

You.

Your trapped figure on his bed, with your nightgown pushed up so that only your thighs were visible, caught Michael's attention as his head whirled around. Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, which streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed and struggled. His eyes quickly shifted to the guard hovering over you, and he developed tunnel vision instinctively.

A ferocious roar erupts from Michael's mouth and takes hold of the guard by the neck and collar of his shirt, throwing him off balance. In the midst, you shakily brought yourself to a sitting position, fixing the bottom of your nightgown to cover yourself. Your eyes watched as Michael picked up the guard, pinning him to the wall with eerie silence. The man in his grasp was yelling in pain and fear as Michael kept him pinned, his legs dangling in the air.

"L-Let go! Let go, you fucking punk!" The guard cried out.

Michael did not like that, not at all. Without a second thought, Michael hurled him into his desk, his art supplies falling to the ground in a cluster of clangs while the man groaned in pain. Like a predator stalking his prey, Michael's towering form stalked over to the smaller male, his eyes black as night and void of any life or mercy within. His large hand reached out to grab the same red colored pencil,

Michael's next action seemed to be a blur, he body launching onto the guard and stabbing him with the colored pencil, his resiliant strength making the pencil tear through flesh and muscle.

You watched in a sickening twist of fascination and awe, watching as Michael stabbed the guard over and over, leaving no body part untouched, the man;s screams filling the room. Your heart felt warm, knowing that Michael was willing enough to kill someone for you.

Lastly, Michael stabbed him until his chest, stomach, and face was shrouded in punctures, cuts, and wounds. With one last jab, the colored pencil stabbed into his neck, making the man gurgle on his own blood.

"Michael..." You whispered, your eyes taking in his bloodied form as he slowly turned to you, heaving himself up and moving towards you. It was as if he was a trained dog hoping he made his master proud. However, you were nothing of the sort. When he was close enough, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing yourself into his strong form. "Thank you..."

Michael gave a small huff, hesitantly touching your head with his bloody palm, staining your strands with the bodily fluid. Without another word, Michael pushed you away and grabbed your hand, pulling you off the bed and heading towards the door.

"Where we are going?" You asked in confusion, following behind the behemoth of a man down the stark white hallway.

In response, Michael tugged on your hand and you decided to go along with whatever he had in his mind. He saved you after all; even when he didn't have to, he did. It made you feel safe and protected in his presence.

"Alright, Alright." You muttered, your figures turning a corner and out of sight.

Red and white.

Those were the colors you would never forget. The way the walls were coated in blood and bodily fluids of various nurses and guards that laid along the floor in mangled messes.

Michael was strong, very strong. You remembered the way he smashed a guard's skull in with his fingers alone. You shuddered at the thought, crossing your arms and staring at the wall in front of you as you waited for Michael to finish off his last victim. A nurse arriving at the right place at the wrong time as Michael ambushed her, his hands around her throat as he strangled her.

Michael walked over to you, his muffled huffing practically hovering over your ear as he showed you shoes and coat. You stared at the items with a blank expression, wondering what he wanted you to do with these.

He huffed before shaking the items in his hands, motioning the items towards you. You sighed before taking the items with a small smile, throwing on the shoes and coat. You felt the warmth of the fabric soothe your cold figure.

"Thank you..." You muttered softly, looking up at him as he stared down at you.

He couldn't help but think you looked...cute.

He offered you his bloodied hand, which you instantly took and followed him to the exit. You both were finally going to be free and it was all thanks to him.

After a few hours of walking, your feet were beginning to ache and the adrenaline from earlier was wearing off.

After your fifth yawn, Michael stopped in his tracks, turning towards you in the middle of the field. He simply stared at you as you bent forward to rest your hands on your knees.

Michael, I need to rest for a moment. Please my-" Your words were cut off when Michael stormed over to you, grabbing you roughly around the hips, hoisting you into his arms. His arm went around your waist, while the other held your back in a bridal style fashion.

Your eyes widened from his sudden roughness, however you couldn't complain as you basked in his warmth, nuzzling your face in the bloodied fabric of his robe.

"Thank you." You said, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to finally relax for the first time tonight. You didn't notice the way Michael was staring at you in his arms, his darkened eyes filled with something unknown, dangerous...maybe even a little bit of caring.

Silently, he turned and resumed walking through the field, making sure to keep you safe as you began to doze in his arms.

Finally, you were his.

Spam Liking W/O Reblogging = Blocked

Tagging: Comment to be added!!

@prettywhenibleed @ghoulgeousimmaculate @britany1997 @rottent33th @slaasherslut @bluecoolr @the-pinstriped-hood @flower-crowned-lady @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @azzy-ozborn @strrvnge @repostingmyfavs

4K notes · View notes

cosmosluckycharms · 3 months ago

Text

hobie and spider!reader

goodnight

#platonic btw #spider bat!reader #astv hobie #hobie x reader #atsv hobie #spider punk #hobie x y/n #bug like angel #spider reader #i keep forgetting that reader is a rich girl #like yes queen keep robbing those 7/11's

161 notes · View notes

boypied · 4 months ago

Text

submissive!mac loves when his boyfriend becomes the ultimate power bottom. He always tries his best to hide it from everyone as he wants to come across as the tough macho man he plays himself to be, but when you're both alone together he can't help but love when you're in control.

You make sure he never has a condom on, Mac gets super hard knowing that you're both fully in contact. He's never really fucked with condoms anyway. submissive!mac 's body jolts and pulsates in agonising pleasure as you constantly ride him in a fast, rough pace.

He will never admit this to his friends, but he loves having his hands restrained; handcuffs, rope, duct tape, whatever can restrain his hands he will have you use on him. Another thing that submissive!mac loves all too much is the "cowgirl" position... or at least in your case; "cowboy".

Even though submissive!mac loves feeling his slightly more dominant boyfriend ride him like there is no tomorrow, that doesn't stop Mac from having sudden surges of dominance. He can have your eyes rolled back, slobbering and speaking a completely different language as he pounds away at you.

It took Mac a long time to come to terms with his sexuality because of his upbringing, but the moment that he met you, he knew that you were the one for him. submissive!mac loves you with all of his heart, even though he struggles to show it on occasion when he becomes anxious when he hears hatred tones or bigoted language.

#mac mcdonald #mac mcdonald x male reader #rob mcelhenney #rob mcelhenney x male reader #its always sunny in philadelphia #iasip #iasip x male reader #iasip mac x male reader #gay #x male reader #fanfic #x male y/n #male reader #boypied

175 notes · View notes

bigball-thefrog · 4 months ago

Text

It's Just For The Mission, Right?: Rob Lucci X Reader

______________________________

Poll

Alright we are back with the second short story of my Lucci Poll. And I am so glad this one was saved for last. Why? You may ask. Because I am happy to announce, that this post, is...

SMUT!

Yes, you heard me, dirty, filthy smut! And it may not be my longest fic, but I do think that this is the best smut I've done yet! So please enjoy, and I shall now give the warnings below.

Warnings/Tags:

Gender neutral reader with female genitals

Lucci and Reader in a fake relationship

Vaginally oral

Vaginally sex

Unprotected sex

Lucci goes feral and uses his Devilfruit

Idk if Zoan users count as monster fucking

User gets scratched and bitten

Overstimulation

Backshots

Dictionary/Measurements:

Cunnilingus is an oral sex act consisting of the stimulation of a vulva by using the tongue and lips.

7,5 inches = 19.05 centimeters

8 inches = 20.32 centimeters

2,5 inches = 6.35 centimeters

______________________________

It was about a year after Lucci and the rest of CP9 had settled into their fake lives in Water Seven. While everyone each had different roles that helped the mission. Your role... Was unique, because your role was to pretend to be Lucci's stay-at-home girlfriend. You basically mingled amongst the people to find out any information about the island. It was simple, cleaning, shopping, chatting, it was rather nice and you almost could forget you were undercover.

The only weird thing was when Lucci had days off from the Galley-La Company, he'd spend those days with you, pretending to be a good boyfriend. Lucci hated having to be in a fake relationship with you, which led to Lucci did the bare minimum to make it look real, you'd barely go on dates, and only small dinner dates, you were lucky to get a kiss on the cheek, otherwise it was just hand holding, it made you seem like an awkward almost forced couple rather than a real one, but it was fine, everyone beloved it so you kept doing it the same way.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Kaku had thrown a house party for the members of Galley-La and their spouces. You and Lucci had arrived and were acting as usual, Lucci stayed quiet with his hand awkwardly holding yours and you would talk to everyone about everything while dragging him along. You were talking to some random person that Lucci knew from work, who already seemed drunk and wouldn't leave you two alone, commenting about your relationship and just how "conservative" you two seem as a couple. "I mean, are you two really even a couple? I bet you two haven't even fucked yet!" The man howled with laughter before going back to drinking. For some reason, Lucci's grip on you became tighter and he seemed more tense. For the first time that night, he let go of you and went to go talk to someone else. He left to a different room with Kaku to talk for a bit and when they came back, Kaku pointed to a room and winked at Lucci before going back to mingle, Lucci just stared at you, giving you a look that just said, "Come now" you followed him into the room, and it's when he closed the door you realized that Hattori wasn't on his shoulder, which almost never happened, something must be wrong. Then, also surprisingly, Lucci spoke, using his real voice for the first time in a year, "We need to talk about our 'relationship'." You sighed, "Lucci if it's about hat guys comment, it's alright, there's plenty of couples that don't have a sex life and are doing great! We don't have to-" "They're starting to get suspicious of us, we act like we don't even want to be together, they're gonna start asking questions soon, and if they find out we're spies, the world government would have our heads." He was right, you both were forced to pretend to be in a relationship when you didn't want to, and it showed. And you know you'd be in trouble if anyone found out, "So what do we do?" you asked, trying to come up with ideas, Lucci looked down and clenched his fist, "I think... We're going to have to... Have sex..." Your eyes widened, have sex? With your teammate? Just so people would belive you two were in love? It was a sured. "Lucci, I'm not so sure about that..." "What else would you suggest, huh? You and I can't act like a loving couple to save our lives, and getting married would be too far! But if we have sex, and we do it loud enough, then they'll hear us and they'll think that we're in love."

You looked away, still hesitant about the idea, so Lucci took your chin in his hand and made you look at him, "Hey, this is just for the mission. And you don't want to fail the mission, do you?" "No" "The you'll do anything for the mission to be successful, right?" "Yeah, anything... Yeah, this will just be a no strings attached thing, just for the mission." Lucci smirked and let go of your face, "There we go... Now strip down and get naked, the faster we start the faster we finish." You nodded, stripping yourself down while Lucci did the same, only stopping at his pants and just leaving his chest out. He pushed you o sit down on the edge of the bed and knelt down in between your bare legs, "What are you doing?" you questioned. "I must get you aroused, and the fastest way I can think of doing it is with Cunnilingus. So I can stimulate you into producing arousal fluid, so it's easier for me to slide in and for it to hurt less. So just sit back and let me work." You nodded, leaning back and gripping the sheets in anticipation. Lucci pried your legs open and wasted no time in burying his face between your legs and attaching his mouth to your clit. You gasp and shuddered, the feeling already making you warm. With a lick through your folds, Lucci began eagerly sucking you clit, sending waves of shock and pleasure through your body. With his tongue darting our every so often to lap up your leaking juices, Lucci inserted two fingers and began thrusting them in and out, hoping to make you climax faster. And it did, you squirmed and shake, a knot forming in your stomach and growing rapidly. When your orgasm finally came crashing down on you, you clenched your legs together, squishing Lucci's fave between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm on his face. After calming down, you unwrapped your thighs from Lucci's head and fell back, lean in on your elbows. Lucic let out a gasp of breath after being released from your thighs. He wiped your fluids from his face and looked down it in his hand, before licking it clean. With a predatory smirk, Lucci stood up an and spoke, "You're ready~"

Lucci stood in front of you as he began undoing his pants. Both pants and boxers falling to the ground, you were met with his full glory, 7.5 inches long and 2.5 inches wide, Lucci was packing and he carried it well. He took ahold of his length, giving it a few pumps to bring it to life, his now erect penis pushing 8 inches. He walked over to you on the bed, a new, almost primal look I his eyes. He said nothing and just flipped you over so you were laying on your stomach. He climbed onto the bed, sitting behind you. He pressed his tip right at your dripping folds. He carefully pushed his tip inside and stopped, he let go of his cock and adjusted his position so his hands were on either sides of your hips. With a shuddering sigh, Lucci spoke once more, "Are you ready?" also with a shuddering sigh, you nodded.

Lucci once again wasted no time and pushed all the way in without stopping. You let out a scream of both pleasure and pain as he burried himself to the base. Barely giving you time to adjust Lucci began moving, thrusting at a pace that wasn't slow, but wasn't fast either. You gripped the sheets again the pleasure starting to overtake the feeling of pain. Lucci grabbed one of your hips to steady himself as he kept the same pace. His fingers dig into your soft flesh as he let out a deep possessive growl as he thrusted particularly hard before going back to his normal pace. You could feel your second orgasm building again, this one feeling bigger than the last. You clenched around his dick as your orgasm came crashing down, more powerful and more pleasurable than before. Lucci stopped as he felt you clench and climax around his dick, the pleasure affecting him too. He threw his head back and moaned, but he didn't cum, he just froze as he felt you ride out your climax and squeeze and coat his dick. As if something in him snapped, once your climax stopped, he lifted his head up to look at you again, his eyes dilated and now showing an inner primal feeling that broke free. He gripped your hip painfully and began thrusting again, but each second he went faster and you felt him grow.. Bigger? Looking behind you, you see Lucci had used his Devilfruit and had gone full leopard, just to fuck you. A growing feeling of pain and overstimulating started to affect you, causing you to scream and whimper more, but the feeling of pleasure still outnumbered all. Lucci let go of your hip and fell on top of you, squishing you under this weight, grunting and growling as he fucked you like a wild animal. Lucci gripped the sheets and sank his sharp teeth into your shoulder as he fucked you hard and fast, forgetting about his previous agreement and just focusing on his pleasure. Your third orgasm was coming fast, and you could feel Lucci was coming too. With another hard crash of pleasure, you screamed out Lucci's name and clenched around his duck again and coating it in another layer of your juices. This sent Lucci over the edge as he let go of you, sat up, and thrusted a few more times before pulling out and cumming all over your back.

Lucci fell back onto his elbows and transformed back into a human, as he caught his breath and looked at the sight of you, all fucked out, when suddenly and the door burst open with Paulie barging inside, "What the fuck is going on I'm here?!" he shouted before freezing, his cigar dropping to the floor. The sight of Lucci, naked and his softening penis dripping with the last of his cum and you, also naked with cum splattered on your back made him turn red. He quickly looked away before shouting again, "L-lock the door next time!! A-and put some clothes on, you're too exposed!!!" he quickly left, leaving you two alone again. Lucci smirked and let out a 'hmph' before getting up and putting his clothes back on. "I'll go grab a towel and some bandages for the claw and teeth marks." He stated before heading to the door, "Oh, and don't expect this to be a one time thing, we still need to keep up this reputation until the mission is over, got it?" you nodded. He turned to open the door when you spoke again, "And this is, still onlt for the mission, right?" "Of course it's only for the mission, nothing else." He stated and left. But you both knew that deep down, that this wasn't for the mission anymore...

______________________________

Sorry this took long, I'm not used to writing smut and I'm always just scared I'm gonna get caught😭 But I hope you enjoy this and I'll start with the ideas from the Crocodile poll hopefully soon. Bye bye 👋

Kelly🐸

#one piece #oneshot #one piece anime #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #rob lucci #rob lucci one piece #one piece rob lucci #rob lucci x reader #lucci #lucci one piece #one piece lucci #op lucci #lucci x reader #one piece smut #rob lucci smut #lucci smut #op smut

178 notes · View notes

moonydustx · 11 months ago

Text

another day, another thought (a smutty one)

(Sorry for mistakes, this has been drafted for so long that I confess I didn't pay attention to proofreading)

(I added jujutsu kaisen characters because I'm still obsessed, let me know if you'd prefer me to separate the content)

You were the most precious thing to him.

You were a comfort on stressful days, a breath of air every time the sea seemed to pull him under. The way you loved each other was no different. Slow thrusts, hands sliding down your body, sweet praises sang in your ear every time you felt him deeper inside you. You are like a goddess on top of him, riding him and allowing your hands to trace delicious patterns over his skin.

"You're so good, so beautiful. I could stay here all day."

"Do you have one more for me? Please, babe, just give me one more."

"Open that pretty mouth… That's it, nice and slow. You fucking love it, don't you?"

Sometimes they thought about what it would be like to ruin you, what it would be like to see your red ass slapped, tears falling from your eyes as he fucked you.

But after filling you, the way your eyes seemed lost, your body panting and a simple touch seemed to take you to ecstasy. Damn, that was already too much. You were already too much.

Killer, Katakuri, Mihawk (hear me out all goth aside, he's sweet), Sanji, Kaku, Rayleigh, Ace, Usopp (OP), Nanami, Higuruma, Choso (JJK)

You were his girl.

Hand in hand through the streets, two companions for any situation, two fearless souls ready to do anything. You were his fearless girl, except when you were alone. Alone you were his whore he dominated you and you didn't bother to complain. Asking for more and more as he left you hanging on the edge. Tears down your face as he thrust hard, your legs hanging against his shoulders as you could barely breathe.

"You can take it like a good girl, huh? Or you'd rather be a little whore. My little whore of my own."

"I want to see you make a mess, cum for me."

The sound of the slaps on your ass echoed, yet on all fours towards him you tried to seek even more contact. It didn't take long for your honey to spread all over the bed and your legs to weaken. Feeling him cum inside you, his body soon appeared on your back.

"Such a good girl. You did very well sweetheart."

Crocodile (he is the owner of this category), Smoker, Rob Lucci, Kid, Bartolomeo, Paulie (OP), Toji (JJK)

You were the apple of his eye.

For anyone looking, it was difficult to understand the relationship between the two of you. You were always in places together, but it was difficult to decide if you actually had something. But you had, at least between the two of you. There were times when, after a difficult night, you ended up in each other's beds. Sometimes just looking for a slower pace, for deep thrusts filled with wet kisses. Other times, the two of you were just after each other's orgasms. The noise of his skin against yours echoed, your hair was pulled and you moaned without worrying about who might hear.

"I missed you so much, I won't let you get out of this bed."

"Hold it a little. That pussy squeezing me, fuck… I need to cum with you. Hold it a little, can you hold it a little? I want to feel you cum with me."

Sometimes it was missing each other, sometimes it was stress, sometimes it was jealousy. There would always be an excuse, a feeling and a desire that would drag you to their bed.

"Can you stay here for the night? I'm not done with you yet."

"You're going to leave me full of hickeys." "At least that idiot friend of yours will know you have an owner." "Owner?" "You still don't understand, do you?"

Law, Zoro, Shanks, Franky, Luffy, Sabo (most of the time he goes into crazy sex mode) (OP), Gojo, Geto (JJK)

oh my god so many tags sorry

a/n: Would you add anyone else? Let me know!

606 notes · View notes

sunandflame · 27 days ago

Note

Please do a Rob Lucci x Pregnant reader. What kind of father would he be?

Full of Me

Rob Lucci never expected fatherhood to change him, but the moment he felt the life growing inside you, something primal shifted — and the man who once instilled fear in others now found himself fiercely protective of what was his.

Warnings: nsfw, smut, pregnancy kink, intimacy during pregnancy, mild possessiveness

Word Count: 1382

Pairing: Rob Lucci x Pregnant!Reader

a/n: could be seen as the continuation of 'a quiet hunger'

crossposted on AO3

You weren’t sure exactly when the change happened.

Maybe it was the day you told him.

You had rehearsed it so many times. Imagined his reaction, his silence, your fear. How he would process the fact that you were carrying his child. Rob Lucci — the World Government’s silent executioner, a man more feared than loved — was now bound to something so fragile, so human.

But when you had finally said the words, heart pounding and throat tight, he only looked at you with unreadable eyes. His silence stretched so long it made your lungs feel tight. And then—

“You’re certain?” His voice was low. Careful.

You nodded, and his gaze dropped, briefly, to your stomach — the smallest of bumps then, just beginning to show.

You expected tension. Dismissal. Maybe even anger.

But instead, he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and gently—so gently—placed his hand over your lower abdomen. Not saying a word. Just feeling.

And that was it.

No declarations. No promises. Just instinct. Just presence.

Now, months later, you noticed the changes in him more easily.

He didn’t speak about it. Not directly. But you saw it in how he hovered closer to you than before. How his movements were slower, more deliberate, whenever he was near you. How his eyes drifted toward your belly more often—especially when you were resting. Like he didn’t quite trust the world not to hurt you. Like he didn’t trust himself not to be too much.

The first time he felt the baby kick, he flinched.

You watched him as his brows furrowed ever so slightly, as if confused that something so small could move with such force.

“...They're strong,” he murmured, resting a palm across your stomach. The way his thumb brushed small circles there—protective, tentative—nearly brought tears to your eyes.

He didn't know softness. But with you…with this? He tried.

Lucci wasn’t a man made for fatherhood. Not by anyone’s expectations. Not by the life he had led.

But somehow… it suited him.

He never said it, but you could feel the shift in the air. He would come home earlier when he could. He brought back things he would never admit were for the baby—blankets with tiny pawprints, soft booties you were certain weren’t standard issue. Once, you caught him lingering over a baby book you had left on the table, flipping the pages as if studying.

You didn’t point it out. You didn’t need to.

And then, one night, after you’d fallen asleep curled beside him, you woke to the feel of something heavy and warm against your side.

It was Lucci’s hand. Large, scarred, and resting carefully over your swollen belly.

You didn’t move. Just listened.

“I won’t let anything touch you,” he whispered, barely audible in the dark.

You knew he wasn’t just talking to the child.

It had been a long day. One of the rare days he’d stayed home.

You stood by the open window, the moonlight casting a silver sheen over your bare skin, hands cupped beneath the round swell of your belly. Lucci had been watching you from the edge of the bed—silent, unmoving—but you could feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.

His voice came low, steady behind you. "You’re beautiful like this."

You turned, heart thudding at the way he said it—not just in the words themselves, but the way he said them. Like it surprised him. Like the sight of you, heavy with his child, stirred something primal in him he wasn’t quite used to feeling.

When he approached, it was slow and deliberate. Lucci always moved like a predator, but tonight, there was something more contained in him. As if he were holding back. As if the sight of you, full with the life he’d created, did something dangerous to him.

He stopped just in front of you, eyes raking down the soft curve of your breasts, the stretch of your hips, the heavy roundness of your stomach. You saw the way his jaw flexed.

"You still want me like this?" you whispered, almost uncertain.

He didn’t answer with words. Just leaned down and kissed you.

It was different. Slower. Hungrier. A deep, unspoken yes that curled through your veins like fire. His hands roamed your body carefully at first, thumbs ghosting the underside of your breasts, down your sides, pausing over your belly with reverent pressure.

When he lifted you into his arms, it was effortless. And when he laid you on your side in bed, curling his body around yours protectively, you felt the tension roll off his shoulders—not fear, but something else. Something more ancient.

He was hard against your thigh already, thick and pulsing.

You guided him in with a small gasp, feeling how careful he was despite the burn of how deep he filled you. His hands cradled your belly from behind as he slid in fully, breath catching low in his throat. He stilled. Shuddered.

"You're… full of me," he murmured, voice rough, unsteady in a way that made your toes curl. "I can feel them. In you. While I’m inside you."

You whimpered. The way he said it—almost reverent, almost undone—made your whole body tremble.

He started to move, slow and deep. Not pounding. Not rough. But claiming. Each stroke was deliberate, angled, grinding into the spot that made you arch. His lips brushed your shoulder as he whispered, "I put life in you. And your body still begs for more."

His breathing grew heavier. You could feel his restraint, the primal urge pacing inside him like a caged animal. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"You won’t."

"You have to tell me." His voice was sharper, but not cold. More like he was fighting something inside himself.

"I trust you," you whispered, reaching back to cradle the side of his face.

Something about those words broke him open.

Lucci groaned into your neck, thrusting harder now—but still measured, still tuned to the shape of you. One of his hands slid down to cup your thigh, hiking your leg up to take him deeper.

"You don’t understand what this does to me,” he rasped, thrusting again—slow, hard, claiming. “Seeing you like this. Full of me. Heavy with me.”

You moaned, fingers curling in the sheets as your body clenched around him. He felt it, the way you gripped him tight, and it nearly undid him.

He fucked you through it, breathing ragged against your skin, until your orgasm took you with a sharp cry muffled into the pillow.

He was shaking by the time he came. Not from effort—Lucci didn’t strain—but from the intensity of it. His hips pressed deep, burying himself as far as you could take him, as if he wanted to feel his seed fill you all over again. His mouth was open against your neck, breath hot and stuttering.

He stayed inside you long after, hand spread across your belly protectively, possessively.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, reverently, with no one to hear it but the child growing within you. “Both of you.”

So what kind of father would Rob Lucci be?

A protective one. Viscerally so.

The kind who doesn’t cradle in public, but whose eyes scan every room before you walk in. The kind who doesn’t speak in sweet nothings but holds your hand tighter when you’re tired. The kind who doesn��t call himself a father, but who jolts upright the moment he hears a cry in the night and reaches the crib before you do.

He’d be terrifying to others—but safe to his own.

And for your child?

He would teach them silence and precision. But also patience. He’d be stern but not cruel. And when they grew old enough to climb onto his lap, to tug at his hair, or pull at the collar of his coat—

He would let them.

He would hold them as long as they wanted. He’d bear their weight in full Zoan form if it meant keeping them amused. He’d carry them on his shoulders without a word, letting their tiny hands clutch his ears.

He would scowl at anyone who stared too long.

And when they asked him one day, “Papa, were you scary before me?”

He would pause.

And say, with complete honesty: “Yes. But not anymore.”

Tagging my gurl @auryborealis because we both crazy for him.

327 notes · View notes

lqveharrington · 12 days ago

Text

Simple | S.C.

Summary: first date with Sodapop Curtis <3

Pairing: Sodapop Curtis x fem!reader

Includes: just cutesy, fluffy, couple things, your sister’s name is Andrea, Steve and your sister getting frustrated when the two of you are oblivious

a/n: the Sabrina carpenter divider works for Sodapop, lol

A month since school let out, you and Soda have been hanging around one another a lot more than you usually did over the summer. Maybe because you were finally free from the shackles of Will Rogers High School or maybe it was because Soda kept calling you over to spend time with him at the DX or at home, but it seemed like every waking hour the two of you were next to each other.

Truthfully, you and Soda used to hang out anywhere and everywhere when you were younger. But ever since Soda dropped out and began working full time at the DX, there was barely time for you to ever speak with him. So over summer, you would typically spend most of your time at the DX or the Curtis house hold, not caring about the intense smell of gasoline or being deep on the East side of Tulsa.

But this year, you spent more time with him than usual. Neither of you noticed the difference, but every one else around you did.

The first one to notice was Steve. Of course he did, he worked with Soda every day.

He would watch in amusement every time he caught Soda fumbling over his words or caught you tucking and untucking strands of your hair in nervousness. He saw how in love the two of you were. Hell, whenever you came by, Soda practically ran over and enveloped you in a hug, spinning you around while you laughed. Steve didn't understand how the two of your were only friends.

“Just ask her on a date already.” Steve would always complain after you left the DX, tapping his fingers on the counter in annoyance.

And everyday Soda would reply with, “Mind your own damn business.”

“Your business is my damn business!” Steve would huff and run his fingers through his greased hair, shaking his head at Soda’s stubbornness. “And I’m saying you ask her out before someone else tries to steal her.”

The second person to notice was your older sister. And of course she noticed. Andrea always had to drive you to the DX or Curtis house because you didn’t have your stupid license, it was just her job.

But she didn’t mind. She saw how happy you would get whenever you saw the middle Curtis brother. It was like a switch flipped in you that only he could trigger. Your smile became brighter and your demeanor would instantly light up.

Most days Andrea would tease you about it, watching your cheeks tint a dark pink in amusement. On other days, she would try to get you to ask him on a date rather than wait for him to make the first move.

“Are you crazy?” You would reply as you hopped into her car, looking at her like she was going insane.

“Oh, please, he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing on Earth. If neither of you do anything, it’s hopeless.” Andrea would scoff and begin the drive back home, not missing the way you would mess with your necklace in thought.

And that’s how you and Soda asked each other on a date at the same damn time.

You and Soda were on the broken sidewalk at the park, making the trek back to your house when you both decided it was finally time to make a move. Granted, you were both talking about one of the cheesy romance movies you both saw a couple weeks ago with the gang.

“Would you—“

“Are you—“

You both flushed bright red before you nodded for him to finish his sentence, holding back a smile when he stumbled over his words. Seeing such a confident man confuse his own words was a sight to see, not that you were complaining or making fun of him.

In fact, you thought it was quite sweet.

“Are you— I mean, if you wanted to— Or, I meant are, available tomorrow night? It’s okay if you aren’t, I just thought it would be nice— Not that you aren’t nice, but it’s— well, it would be great if we went out for dinner. Like, on a date— We would be on a date.” Soda finished, his ears burning red as he scratched the back of his neck and silently cursed himself for how stupid he sounded.

Your own face felt like it was an even darker shade of red as you absorbed his words, twiddling with your fingers. You just prayed it was dark enough outside that he couldn’t see the deep blush on your face.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Soda.” You said softly, watching his eyes light up at your answer.

“Really?” He grinned and grabbed your arms in excitement, earning a laugh from you.

“Yes, really.” You tease and squeal when he pulls you into a hug, spinning you around fast enough that your feet was off the ground. When he finally put you back down, you smiled brightly. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“How perfect.” He cupped your face and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice mumbled as he spoke. “You’re perfect.”

Although you’ve been out with Sodapop several times, this would be the first time you’d go out together on a date, causing your nerves to skyrocket. You had probably changed outfits ten times before settling on a pretty white sundress your mother had bought you earlier that summer. You never thought you would have a use for it until now.

“How do I look?” You ask your sister as you enter the living room, cardigan in hand as you spin to show her the outfit.

“You look great.” Andrea stuck up a thumb in your general direction, not bothering to look away from the television.

You frown and tug your cardigan on, messing with the loose strings in annoyance. “You’re not even looking.”

“Okay, I’m looking now.” She rolled her eyes and shifted from her spot on her couch, eyeing you up and down like you wanted her to. Andrea sent you a sly smirk, watching your cheeks tint pink as she whistled. “Look at you all dolled up for the Curtis boy. You’ll be fine, he’s seen you in everything.”

“Not helpful.” You mutter and look into the stained mirror beside you, tugging on the dress like you could somehow transform it into something better.

Sure you lived in the better part of the wrong side of the tracks, but it didn’t mean you were any better than the rest of the folks living there. Sometimes your shoes were too big or your shirt was too small, but your family worked hard to be where you were now for you to take it for granted. It’s just…

What if you weren’t good enough for Soda?

You stared at yourself and wondered how the date would even go. Andrea had nailed it into your heard that you already acted like you were dating, so what would change between the two of you? It wasn’t like—

Knock knock knock!

“I got it.” You call out before pulling the front door open to reveal a huge bouquet of flowers being presented. It was a mixture of so many different kinds and colors that you were shocked in the best way possible. “Oh, wow…”

Soda handed them to you, his ever-so charming smile on display just for you. “Do you like ‘em? They caught my eye on the way here and they reminded me of you.”

You thumb the petals of a pink rose as you held the bouquet to your chest, voice filled with so much emotion. “I love them, Soda. Let me just put these away and we can head out.”

He nodded and patiently waited by the doorway, heart racing in excitement before your sister showed up in front of him. Soda knew your sister was overprotective, hell, Darry was overprotective as well, but Andrea looked like she could beat the living crap out of him with one look.

Her eyes narrowed at the boy in front of her, “Hey, Sodapop Curtis.”

“Hi—“

“What are your intentions with my sister?” She cut him off and crossed her arms, doing what her father had done to her own boyfriend’s first date.

Soda opened his mouth and shut it before answering truthfully, his face flushing pink at his own words. “For now see what happens on our date. If all goes well, date her for a while and then propose. Preferably when I know she’s ready.”

Andrea looked at him up and down before humming, “Good answer, Curtis, good answer.”

“What are you doing?” You crease your brows when you find your sister standing at the doorway with a please smile plastered on her face, making you wary about anything she might have said or done.

“Nothing.” She sent you a cheeky smile and watched you leave the house with Soda, your hand automatically slipping into his calloused one. “Hey! Keep your hands to yourself, pal!”

“Andrea!” You whip around, face red in embarrassment as you feel Soda tense beside you, his hand squeezing yours.

She leaned against the door frame and watched you shake your head as she spoke, “Bring her back before 12 AM. If not, I will find you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soda swallowed thickly before opening the car door for you and quietly murmuring in your direction, “Okay, I thought you said your sister wanted us to date.”

You waited for him to step inside the car before responding, smile turned up in amusement as he pulled out of your driveway. “She does, she’s just… Concerned I guess? No one has ever taken me out on a real date before.”

“No?” He glanced at you from the corner of his eyes, shocked that no one had the thought of ever asking you out before.

You shook your head and picked at your dress once more, keeping your eyes trained on the cracked road ahead. “Nope.”

“Well, everyone missed out.” Soda noted and signaled to the right, finally facing your properly. “You look gorgeous by the way.”

“Thank you.” You smile fondly and meet his eyes, smoothing your hands down your dress to stop your fidgeting. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Curtis.”

He clicked his tongue as he shifted his focus back on the road, letting his hand rest of the gear shift. “I should be offended after giving you such a pretty compliment.”

You laughed at his reaction and sighed softly, admiring him from the passenger seat. He truly was beautiful in his own Curtis way. You’ve known their family for as long as you lived and knew their genes were immaculate, but Sodapop Curtis was like a Greek god. You had known so many women to come to the DX just to catch a glimpse of him, but none of them were personally invited.

Only you were.

This was everything you both ever wanted. The flirting, the flushed faces, the underlying jealousy whenever someone spoke to the other—everything tumbled together and led to this very moment. The moment where you could sit and admire Soda from his passenger seat as he drove the two of you to your date.

“You’re staring.” Soda pointed out and let a smirk take over his face, feeling the warmth from your gaze on his cheek.

You hum and shot him the prettiest smile you could conjure, “It’s hard not to when someone as beautiful as you is taking me on a date.”

Soda pulled into a parking spot right below the glowing red sign, his hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of hair away from your face. “You know, we actually need to make it to dinner before we jump the gun, right?”

“Oh, shut up.” You laugh again and push his face away, grinning brightly when he rushed out of the car and to your side, holding his hand out for you. “What a gentleman, Soda.”

“Only for you.” He sent you a lopsided grin and laced his hand with yours as you stepped out of his car. He pulled you close to him, voice full of truth and pure admiration. “In all honesty, you do look stunning.”

“Thank you.” You smile sheepishly and thank him once more when he opened the door for you, eyes fixated on him.

The inside of the diner was nothing fancy or special. It was on the boundary of the tracks, so both sides tended to find themselves here whenever they had a date with their beloved. It was respectable enough for the socs, but still roughed up for the greasers to come and infiltrate every once in a while.

You and Soda found a booth by the jukebox, sitting beside one another instead of the traditional across from each other. The red seats were tattered and the floor was sticky with residue, but neither of you cared.

If you told anyone at the diner that it was your first date together, they would be pleasantly shocked.

You two were so close in proximity that some of the older couples found you both intoxicating sweet while couples your age rolled their eyes in disgust and jealousy. All you and Soda would talk about was stories and memories that neither of you knew just yet. Granted, it was rare since you both knew so much about each other.

Yet it was all whispers and giggles to everyone else.

When the food came around, the two of you took turns speaking, the other always enthralled about whatever the topic or story was. It could be about a really boring day and you could both keep the conversation going.

“You can’t be serious.” You press your forehead on his shoulder, suppressing a laugh at how crude his breakfast always was. “That’s a terrible, Soda.”

“Chocolate cake is good.” He protested and poked you with a French fry, laughing when you took it from him. “You need to try it one day.”

“Eggs, chocolate cake, and chocolate milk? I think I’m good.” You grin and pat his chest, thanking the waiter when he placed one chocolate milk shake down on the table. “You gonna drink this with egg too, Curtis?”

“Shut up.” Soda smiled and took a sip from one of the straws, eyes meeting yours when you also took a sip from the shake. His smile grew before he pulled away, resting his chin in his hands. “Is it weird that this isn’t our first time doing this?”

“Nah.” You attempt to copy his stronger accent, laughing when he scrunched his nose. “It’s not weird at all. It’s just different.”

“How so?” He swirled his straw subconsciously, looking at you with so much adoration that you felt like you had a cavity coming in.

You lean in closer, copying his stance with the same look in your eyes. “Because we’re eating together on a date, not as friends.”

Soda grinned and shook his head, face warming at the sight of you. “I think I like it better as a date.”

“I think so too.” You sip on the shake once more, not caring that your smile never left your face the second Soda came to pick you up at your house or that you were acting so in love.

The rest of dinner became a small game. It was unspoken of course, but you both saw the temptation. Whoever broke the barrier first and kissed the other lost, and you were both very competitive people. Your eyes kept darting down to his lips with every word he spoke and his eyes drifted to your lips whenever you laughed.

It was torture.

By the time Sodapop had driven you home, the sun had already set and the stars highlighted your faces brightly. Neither of you had broken just yet, but the yearning behind both your eyes spoke louder than anything else.

“I had fun.” You say softly as you move to stand in front of him, hair blowing slightly from the wind.

Soda was leaning on the front of his car, smiling down at you with his hands light on your waist. The head beams of his car was on, leaving the two of you as a black silhouette.

“Yeah?” He traced circles on your waist, the fabric of your dress soft under his touch.

You nod and pretend to wipe a stain off his shirt, resting your hands in his chest. “Yeah…”

Soda carefully moved one hand up to your cheek, thumbing the area. His voice was quiet when he spoke, careful not to break the barrier of infatuation currently housing the two of you.

“Can I kiss you yet? Or are ya still teasing me?”

“Do whatever you want.” You grin happily before finding yourself pulled into a loving kiss, letting your hands gently tug on the collar of his shirt.

He brought his other hand up to cup both your cheeks, deepening the kiss ever so slightly before the slam of your front door on your porch scared the living shit out of the both of you.

“Sodapop Patrick Curtis, you better keep your hands and lips to yourself!” Andrea yelled from the door and eyed the boy almost sneeringly, making you stifle a laugh with the back of your hand. “You get in the house missy. You’re waking up early to see this boy in the morning anyway.”

You roll your eyes in amusement before turning your attention back to the person your shared your very first kiss with, nothing but love filling the space between the two of you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Curtis.”

“I better.” He laced a hand with yours and snuck one last kiss to your lips before Andrea could yell once more. “Tell your sister hi for me.”

“She’d hate you for that.” You tease and squeeze his hand. You looked up at him and smile, “Thank you again, Soda. I dare say this is my favorite memory of us.”

“Simple and effective.” Soda said softly. “I’ll see ya later, gorgeous.”

You wave as you step up into the house, still smiling like a fool.

Yeah, you loved Sodapop Curtis.

68 notes · View notes

twobitsblade · 3 months ago

Text

i present to you - the lethal face card of a 20-year-old robert hepler lowe!! ʚ♡ɞ

#twobitsblade #the outsiders #⋆. 𐙚 ˚ random #sodapop curtis headcanons #sodapop headcanons #sodapop curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #sodapop imagine #sodapop #the outsiders sodapop #sodapop curtis #soda popinski #sodapop patrick curtis #sodapop x steve #sodapop fanart #sodapop x y/n #sodapop x oc #rob lowe #men

91 notes · View notes

hannahbarberra162 · 29 days ago

Text

Il Gattopardo (Rob Lucci X Reader, OS, dubcon, Mafia AU)

18+ MDNI | on Ao3

I got a few asks about the pussycat himself, Rob Lucci. I myself have seen the light and have added him to my roster. Here, for you Lucci-nonnies, is a Mafia AU for Lucci. It's dub con but he's not really all that bad (for Rob Lucci)

I’m trying out a new style - this is basically the outline for the series I cooked up for him. I’m feeling a little burnt out tbh and don't want yet another WIP on my list. I didn't edit this too heavily, so don't yell at me.

Dub con, forced/ arranged marriage, Lucci typical violence (though not described in detail)

You were a waitress at a fancy club that catered to the highest ranks of the social elite. The clientele weren’t to your taste - always leering, often grabbing your ass as you passed by - but the pay wasn’t something you were in a position to turn down. The owner had ties to some…interesting people but you did your job and earned your pay.

Most of the guests who booked the back room were mafia guys, bringing with them their cigars, their ladies, bottleservice, and their overflowing wallets. All you had to do was plaster on your best smile, grin and bear their terrible attitudes for a few hours and you’d be at least a thousand dollars richer.

Tonight was a big party in celebration of someone or other. You’d worn your highest heels and shortest skirt in honor of the event, navigating the stairs to the VIP section from the bar with ease. The club was bumping, the music loud as you faked laughter at yet another shitty innuendo from a mid ranking Capo. Some of the other girls would take it to the next level, sitting on their laps and letting them get a taste, but that wasn’t really your style. You were there for the job, not anything more.

You were the only one in the secluded section for the moment, the other ladies had been sent for dinner service. It would be a short interlude when you were on your own, only 15 minutes or so - and it was already wearing on you as the Capo leaned in to put his hand on your hip.

Your smile twisted into horror as claws reached through the throat of the capo, slicing it open before your eyes. The Capo was thrown back, blood gurgling from his throat as you stood transfixed. There was only one person it could be - Rob Lucci AKA Il Gattopardo, the Leopard.

He was someone who’s name was never mentioned at full volume, as if saying it would summon him. Il Gattopardo was the top hitman to the Don of Red Line City, the Family that defacto ran the whole country. No one went against the Don, and no one survived a meeting with Il Gattopardo. Urban legend said that he’d eaten a Devil Fruit that gave him the ability to turn into his namesake animal, but you’d never believed it. As he towered over you, his claws and teeth dripping with blood, you found the urban legends were correct.

Lucci made eye contact with you as he threw the Capo like a rag doll, his smile widening into a sickening grin. Several men launched themselves at Lucci, but he disposed of them as quickly and silently as his namesake, killing them with precision and speed. You’d never seen anything like it, the men dying before they even had a chance to draw their weapons.

In what felt like hours but was likely seconds, everyone in the back room was dead, your uniform now spattered with blood. The entire time, you hadn’t moved, had barely breathed, as your survival instincts had you rooted to the spot. Finally, Lucci stood to his full height and ambled towards you, flexing his hands as he readied to end your life.

A white pigeon fluttered from his shoulder to your own, its claws gripping into your shoulders. Lucci’s look changed to a more contemplative one as he looked over your now blood spattered uniform. Looming over you, he grabbed your jaw and tilted your face up. Even though you were about to die, you kept your eyes open as tears ran down your face, locking eyes with the killer once more.

To your shock, Lucci’s grip on your chin tightened as he leaned down and licked the tears off your face in one long stripe of his rough tongue. You shivered, both from the contact and the intensity of the stare he was giving you. Lucci removed his tie, his muscles rippling under his bloodstained clothes, and covered your eyes in a makeshift blindfold.

You were taken to a holding facility of some kind. You were expecting to be killed or tortured, though neither happened. You were allowed to shower, given some food and water, and a cot to sleep on. A few days later you were given a white dress, shoes, and makeup and told to get ready. After you donned the outfit, you were again blindfolded and taken by car somewhere nearby.

As the blindfold was removed, you saw you were at a church, with Il Gattopardo holding your car door open. He offered his hand and you accepted as he helped you from the car. Lucci was in an all white suit, the pigeon from the night before in a matching ensemble. His hand was warm and calloused and held your own sweaty palm firmly. You couldn’t have run even if you wanted to - and the number of armed, dangerous Mafia men didn’t bode well for your escape anyway.

Entering the Church, you saw the Don of the Celestial Dragon Family waiting inside the building. He briefly kissed Lucci on the cheek before turning his attention to you. Lucci’s hand tightened on your own in warning, though he still hadn’t said a word.

“Well, well. My dear Robert has finally chosen a bride for himself. I have to say, I was a little surprised at his method of selection, but who can argue with a flower as beautiful as this one? Go along Robert, I’ll walk her down the aisle to you,” the Don said while spreading his hands in a gesture of goodwill. Lucci nodded and let go of your hand as the Don offered you his arm. He walked down the aisle towards the priest and you felt like you’d been traded from one predator for an even nastier one.

The Don was smiling as he spoke quietly to you but there was nothing but ice in his tone. “You know why we didn’t kill you yesterday?” he said as you linked your arm on his own. “The only thing standing between you and death? That man right there, il gattopardo. He asked for you as compensation for last night, and I, the generous Don that I am, agreed,” he continued in the same soft voice as music started playing. The Don pulled you along in step with him as he slowly walked you down the aisle, Lucci watching your every move.

“He asked to marry you, not keep you on the side like some of the men do. What do I care? If he wants to marry the first bar whore he takes a fancy to, that’s his business. And would you like to know your business?” he asked as you passed armed guards watching you from behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Your business is to keep him happy. If he comes home at 3 AM wants head, you give him head. If he wants your ass morning noon and night, that’s what you give him. You’ll marry him, keep him happy, and drain his balls for as long as he sees fit. And if he comes to work upset, well, you’ll get a visit from me. And neither of us want that, now do we? You know what happens to witnesses,” he said serenely as he gently pat your arm. By that time you’d made it to the end of the short walkway, Lucci waiting for you with his hands in his pockets.

“Now give me a kiss on the cheek, marry Robert, and see to it that we don’t meet under poor circumstances. Do we understand one another, bellezza?” You nodded, and kissed the Don like he commanded. The Don flashed another smile at the impassive Lucci and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Just a little marriage advice, she’s a smart young woman. You’ve chosen well, my son.” The pigeon once again moved to your shoulder, the nails on its feet nicking the delicate skin of your collarbones.

The rest of the short marriage ceremony was a blur. The only part you remembered was finally hearing Lucci’s voice for the first time as he said “I do.” You didn’t remember saying the same but you must have because soon Lucci slid a golden wedding band on your finger - it was a perfect fit. He then handed you a matching ring for you to put on his own finger. You replicated his movements with shaky fingers, the ring sliding on easily.

His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him as he kissed you for the first time. His lips were soft and gentle, almost chaste, but his fingers dug into your skin so harshly tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Lucci scanned your face after pulling away, the calm smile of before flashing to the crazed one you’d seen in the bar.

It quickly faded as the Mafia men cheered for your union as Lucci led you away from the church into a waiting car. At first you didn’t speak during the ride to the compound, just looked out the window at the passing scenery.

“On my lap,” il Gattopardo said as a way of greeting. Remembering the Don’s words, you hastily climbed onto Lucci’s lap, his broad, muscled thighs providing you ample seating. He didn’t speak again and you didn’t either as the car made its way to the Don’s massive compound. You weren’t naive, from your work in the bar you knew Mafia men fucked in their cars all the time. Still, you had hoped your wedding night (if you could call it that) would be on an actual bed, not in the back of a moving vehicle.

But Lucci just wrapped his arm around your middle and pulled you closer, his fingers trailing up and down your arm. His other hand crept up your thigh, drawing closer and closer to the lacy lingerie you’d been given along with the dress. He wasn’t looking at you, but as his fingers grazed the edge of your panties, he bit your earlobe. You stifled a squeak as his fingers ran up and down the crease separating your leg from your groin.

As the fortified 15 foot gates began to open to let the car in, Lucci’s goatee tickled your neck as he leaned in, his arm tightening around you once again.

“Did you think I was going to fuck you in front of the driver, sweet little wife? No, no. You’re only for me, no one else,” he said as you leaned your head back onto his shoulder.

As a husband, Lucci was… not what you were expecting. He was cold and distant, but nearly always polite to you. He always greeted you and kissed you before he left, no matter the time of day or night. You weren’t sure if he liked you, but he tolerated your presence well.

Lucci’s house was the farthest away from the Don’s mansion, located deep within the forest at the back of the hundred acre property. Sometimes you thought you saw him running through the woods, but he was too fast to track with your bare eyes. You often felt like he was watching you from deep in the forest, though you weren’t able to catch him in the act. Still, the back of your neck would prickle and you knew he was out there somewhere, making sure you were safe at home.

Lucci was surprisingly agreeable to any changes you wanted to make in the household - he told you that the house was yours to do with as you pleased. He told you to redecorate if you wished and bought any furniture or appliances you asked for. He supplied you with money for your wardrobe - he said nothing you had before was suitable - and complimented you on the new decor of the house. A few days after you’d moved in Lucci asked you if you wanted an engagement ring, but you ultimately declined, stating that you liked the ring he’d given you and didn’t need anything more. He’d nuzzled you that night for the first time, pleased with the answer you’d given.

Despite his aloof but composed nature, you never forgot the sight of his fur dripping with blood in the nightclub or any time you’d seen it thereafter. He’d come home at times with his spots barely distinguishable from the rest of his coat, licking his chops after a successful slaughter. He’d shower outside before he came in but the sight was unnerving enough that you avoided him until he came into the house, the water running off his fur now clear rather than dirty red.

To ensure it wasn’t your blood he was wearing, you quickly learned what his likes and dislikes were, and tailored your entire life to meet them. It wasn’t the Don’s threats that kept you up at night, it was the deadly leopard whose arm draped over your body that you needed to appease.

Like - Rob Lucci liked to see you waiting for him when he got home from work. He also liked when you ate dinner with him, or at least sat with him when he ate dinner. You learned to cook his favorite meals, which you made for his daily dinner. Most nights at dinnertime he was out working but you thought he did try to return on time. Stripping himself of his work clothes, he’d take a shower and you’d heat his food, sitting down with him after setting the table. He’d come into the kitchen in clean sweatpants, his well muscled body flexing with every move. His routine was to kiss you on the head, sit down across from you, and eat in silence. Afterwards, he took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and thanked you for the meal, occasionally complimenting your cooking. Every single night.

Dislike - Rob Lucci was intensely jealous. “Kaku says you spoke to another man at the grocery store today,” he’d stated one afternoon as you cooked in the kitchen. He’d come in silently, stalking behind you as you hummed and prepared one of his favorite dishes, ossobuco, for later that evening. You’d squeaked and dropped the wooden spoon into the pot, as Lucci’s leopard form pressed further into you. “Did you want him to die? Is that what you wanted? To see his life blood run down my chin?” he seethed, his razor sharp teeth close to your ear. You didn’t even think he was in the city, he’d told you he’d be gone for several days for this latest mission.

“I..I…” you faltered under his intensity, folding yourself smaller and smaller. He was good to you, nice to you sometimes, but you’d never forgotten who he really was. A cold blooded killer who happened to want you warming his bed. Your eyes filled with tears as he grabbed your throat, his claw tipped hand serving as warning enough. You’d spoken to a man during your check out encounter, but how did Kaku know? You’d only met the enforcer a few times when Lucci had brought him home and you hadn’t seen him around town. “I’m s-sorry, I was j-just talking about the price of the food, he was just a kid,” you whispered. You didn’t know what else to do as the hand around your throat tightened. The worker had been maybe 16, and he proudly told you how the grocery store was his first job.

Lucci tutted at you, releasing you from his grasp. “You are mine,” he’d husked, nipping the tender skin of your shoulder, small droplets of blood seeping out. He licked the wound clean with his Zoan tongue, making you wince with its harsh texture.

You’d met Kaku a few times, and his other coworkers only once before, when there’d been a mandatory Family dinner at the main house. Lucci had instructed you not to cook dinner that night and brought you to the mansion, his and Hattori’s suits matching your dress.

You felt uncomfortable and out of place as you scanned the room and saw some of the Family’s most infamous members, some with significant others. Lucci barely interacted with the others during the cocktail hour, keeping his hand on the back of your neck the entire time.

You’d sat silently to his right and watched as the various Mafia members chatted and spoke together, laughing and cavorting together. Lucci spoke a few times to Kaku, the giraffe amusing in his own way. You smiled once at something Kaku said and Lucci gripped your upper thigh under the table.

Another Zoan called for your attention, a man with a strange mustache and a long ponytail. “So your wife does exist, Lucci. Thought you were makin’ her up this whole time. Has he spoken to you yet? Or just grunts when he wants somethin’?” he asked derisively, finally looking at you.

Even though Jabra was talking to you, he was still looking at Lucci while he spoke, a wild glint in his eye. You didn’t answer, afraid of the outcome. Lucci transformed his hand and stabbed his claws into the thick mahogany table, the table cracking between his fingertips. Conversation momentarily stopped as others watched the exchange, with Jabra’s laugh ringing out in the background. Meanwhile he patted your thigh under the table, and you entwined your fingers with his own. His thumb stroking over your hand showed his anger was not directed towards you.

As soon as the wives were dismissed by the Don so the Family could discuss business, Lucci immediately sent you back to the house under armed guard, staying for the business meeting at the end of the meal. He returned a few hours later, his suit and skin torn by jagged claws, some of the blood his own but most not. He kissed you then went to change, not mentioning what had happened. You didn’t ask.

Like - Lucci liked that you took excellent care of Hattori. You prepared high quality, fresh bird food for the pigeon daily and catered to his every desire. The Don had said that Lucci was the one who saved your life, but you knew Hattori’s approval was the reason Lucci had spared you. The bird was your lifeline, and you treated him like a king. It was a little disconcerting watching him drink scotch out of a cup, but if that’s what Hattori wanted, that’s what Hattori got.

Dislike - Lucci didn’t like when you left the compound, much less the house. Like his animal, Lucci preferred a solitary life. For you that meant that he always wanted you home or under his surveillance. He’d had outdoor furniture delivered to the house so you could sit under the shade of an umbrella outside, and would walk the nature trails with you on sunny days, but he wanted you waiting for him whenever he made it back to the house. He was gone for days and sometimes weeks at a time but you dutifully made dinner every night just in the event that he came home.

At first he just had everything you needed delivered to his house - groceries, clothes, furniture, books - but eventually you begged him with enough fervor that he allowed you to leave to go shopping. He’d take you into town himself, patiently watching as you selected your wares. He didn’t complain as he smelled candles that you were thinking of purchasing, giving his input if they were too pungent for his taste. He looked collected, even casual, but you knew that lurking just under the surface of his calm demeanor was an animal who relished in the spilling of blood.

~NSFW~

You were fairly certain Lucci didn’t mean to hurt you. He was careful to dull or bite off the tips of his claws before he touched your nude form, and didn’t batter you with his incredible strength. Heeding the warning from the Don, you never denied him no matter what time of day or night he wanted you. That being said, nearly every time you had sex with him you ended up crying, tears streaming down your face as you inevitably begged him for mercy.

Whether it was from overstimulation, edging, tickling, being stuffed full too many times, being fucked for hours on end, being bitten somewhere sensitive, you always ended up crying. Which in turn drove Lucci absolutely wild, filling you to the brim with his come over and over until you thought you’d burst.

Lucci carried you over the threshold of your house after coming home from the Church. You didn’t even have time to look around the house before he sliced through your bra strap as his fingers toyed with your dress. “Run,” was all the warning you got as he set you down on the hardwood floors. You looked up at him with wide eyes and tried to bolt as fast as you could out of the house. You didn’t make it past the living room before Lucci caught you, your body on the floor as he kept you in place easily. He kissed you deeply while rucking up your dress, catching both of your wrists in one large hand and pinning them over your head.

“I can smell your desire, little wife. You’ve been ready for me,” was all he said before he plunged into you. You later learned that he’d been going easy on you, not using the Zoan form of his cock and allowing you to adjust to his length.

Lucci took you on the floor where he’d caught you, later flipping you over for doggy style as you panted beneath him. You’d never taken anyone near as large as Lucci, and definitely not with the intensity he had. He plunged into you over and over, the tip of his cock brushing your gspot, giving you a sensation you’d never had before. One hand was under your belly, pushing against his own cock within you while the other rubbed your clit more tenderly than you were expecting.

Lucci had you coming on his cock as he buried himself in you. The first time you came, he bit your shoulder blade with his Zoan teeth, making you scream even louder as you hit your peak. It wasn’t like in the romance novels you used to read, it hurt as his teeth rent your flesh. He was proud of himself afterwards, licking the spot repeatedly even as you whined.

Later, after he’d come in you twice, he’d carried you to his bed. You were nodding off to sleep, thinking that he might have worn himself out, only to feel his rough tongue on the insides of your thighs. It was a harsher texture than a human tongue, making you try to close your thighs from surprise. Lucci held your legs open easily, taking what he wanted from you.

After he’d licked his fill, he transformed into his Zoan form. You scooted back on the bed, frightened. “I can’t - that’s not going to fit,” you whispered, gesturing to his weeping cock. He fisted it as he looked at you, stroking it in a loose fist. His human cock had been large, but his Zoan one was enormous, matching his gigantic leopard form.

“It will. You were made for this,” he purred, grabbing an ankle to pull you back towards him. You wrapped your legs around his waist and braced for intense pain, but it didn’t come. Not exactly. Lucci fed you his cock slowly, pushing forward every time you exhaled.

Even with his patience, he was dripping sweat by the time he was finally sheathed within you. You felt his possession of you everywhere - his cock stretching you full, his fur on your legs, his teeth on your face - it was all too much. As he began moving, you began crying from overstimulation. Like the night you met, he leaned down and licked the tears off your face but this time kissed you deeply thereafter.

Within minutes, Lucci was bouncing you on his lap, thrusting up into you as you came yet another time. You lost count of how many orgasms he wrung from you on your wedding night, but he allowed you to sleep in the following day. You woke around noon and stumbled into the kitchen to make him food, only to find him drinking tea on the couch.

After that point, for as domestic as Lucci was when he was relaxing in your presence, he was feral when he came back from a mission. He always wanted you in lacy underwear, which he would immediately shred. He then would lap at your folds until you were wet enough to take him, splitting you on his throbbing member. He’d thrust into you without abandon until he came deep within you.

After the first time he came, the sex would be a little less intense, but always under Lucci’s control. Sex was on his terms, on his schedule, and at his convenience. He always made sure you came multiple times, but you weren’t allowed to do anything to chase it yourself - he had to be the one to make you come undone.

You also weren’t allowed to masturbate when he was gone. No matter how long he would be gone for, you weren’t allowed to touch yourself without him. “That’s my pretty pussy,” he’d growled in your ear the day after your wedding as he prepared to leave the house. “Don’t you dare touch it while I’m away.” You were too scared to defy him; sure he’d be able to tell if you disobeyed his orders.

Lucci always felt for himself while he was inside you, his hands pressing against your abdomen to feel his own cock as he fucked you. When he was in his Zoan form, the bulge was particularly pronounced and Lucci reveled in seeing your distended walls taking him. “My wife, taking me so well, being so good for me,” he’d purr into your ear as his hand pressed down on you, intensifying the feelings of being completely full. The rare praise coupled with the overwhelming sensations often had you coming as soon as the words left his mouth - not that he let you stop there.

When the weather permitted, Lucci would have you flee down the nature trails near the house to chase you down. You never made it far, he was faster and stronger than you could ever dream of being. He took you wherever he caught you - against a tree, bent over a rock, or even on the forest floor.

One time you managed to fool him for a few seconds using a piece of your clothing heavily doused in your scent. Lucci had delighted in your deception, forcing you to sit on his face once he caught you, his long Zoan tongue thrust deep within you as you ground yourself on his face. By the time he was done with you, he had to carry your limp body back to the house as you dozed off in his arms.

If he felt you weren’t obedient or strong enough, he wouldn’t allow you to come until you’d “proven” yourself. Sometimes that involved sucking him off until your jaw ached, sometimes that meant riding him to his satisfaction, and sometimes that meant you were thrown over his knee and spanked, your ass sore and red for days to come.

His sensitive sense of smell made him able to detect when you were wet and waiting for him. He would rub his nose up and down your slit and inhale deeply, licking his lips to begin tasting you.

Lucci was obsessed with your breasts. Even when you weren’t having sex, he was always pawing at them or slipping his hand under your shirt and bra to touch them. When your shirt was off, it seemed like one of your nipples was always in his mouth and the other rolled between his calloused fingertips. Many times he bruised your nipples and breasts from his attention, but that only increased his attention. He loved when you were impaled on his cock, writhing as he sucked on your nipples but not allowing you to thrust yourself up and down.

Lucci loved when you cockwarmed him. He said it was a type of training for him, to want something intensely and deny himself the pleasure. There were many nights where you found yourself impaled on his cock in his armchair, facing away from him as one hand gripped your hips and the other read missives or non fiction books. One night you weren’t as focused as Lucci and were squirming but he kept you in place easily as your juices coated his thighs over the course of an hour.

“You are not this weak, bellezza. Show me your strength,” he said quietly as he continued reading. You inhaled a breath and tried to focus on anything but the massive cock buried within you, its tip kissing your gspot as Lucci shifted his body in the chair.

It worked until Lucci transformed just his cock, the change in size making you moan from pleasure. Lucci gave you a smirk and kissed your forehead. “Opponents don’t play fair.”

He spanked you for not withstanding the training as you should have, his leg holding down your own as he put you over his knee. You took what he gave you, trying to show him that you could be strong in your own way. He spanked you until you cried then took your ass for good measure. That night he let you pet his fuzzy Zoan ears as a reward before you drifted off to sleep.

“You’ll become stronger, bellezza. But you’ll always be my soft underbelly,” Lucci said as his own eyes slid closed. From him, it might as well have been a declaration of love.

#rob lucci #lucci x reader #Lucci x you #rob lucci x reader #il gattopardo #not the interesting novel and movie #the silly mafia AU I wrote for a fiction man #I have *gotten over* his ballsack beard #I see his potential as a blorbo now #Though all the murder is a little much IMO #lucci one piece #tw dubcon #tw dacryphilia #primal play #x reader #op x y/n #reader insert

107 notes · View notes