the-k44rds

[the-k44rds]

Oh my gosh, this amazing

rob lucci - meet cute

cw: fem!reader, sfw, water 7 pre-straw hats

a/n: put me in a luffy and rob lucci sandwich

rob lucci didn't get crushes.

he's a bloodthirsty, stoic, bringer of justice. lucci didn't waste time on such irrelevant emotions. he barely wasted time on any emotions, besides his pride.

but being undercover on this mostly peaceful island of water 7 has brought changes. for three years now, rob lucci has been working as a carpenter at dock 1. for three years now, rob lucci has had to speak through his pigeon as to not reveal his voice. for three years now, rob lucci has maintained the facade of a socially awkward, oddly strong, quiet man who definitely doesn't have the primal urge to kill.

and for three months now, rob lucci freezes when he sees a certain girl around town.

it's terrible. it's torture. he's never felt so.. out of control. the worst thing is, everybody knows it.

maybe the description of socially awkward isn't as far off as he hopes.

lucci, for all that he is prideful, cannot handle himself any time he's making his way through the backstreets and happens to see you on a yagara or walking in his general direction. with a very improper use of his training, lucci ducks behind a building and waits until you've passed. and this was an effective solution.. until kaku happened to be with him.

imagine the surprise on the fellow cp9 agents face when all of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, lucci has grabbed kaku by the wrist and practically whipped him into an ally alongside curly haired agent. a feather from hattori gently falls to the stone ground where they once stood. at first, kaku suspects there may finally be an advance in their mission, so he stays silent and follows luccis signal. yet, nothing happens. the only thing he sees is you passing by on your yagara.

that's when kaku pieces it together.

and after that day, the entire shipyard is aware of the stoic and odd rob lucci's crush on a girl from the backstreets.

paulie is the most relentless teaser. despite his own shyness with women, he can't deny the overall humor in rob lucci actually having emotions.

it makes lucci so frustrated (flustered), he almost wants to blow his cover.

it comes to a head one night at blueno's bar. paulie, kaku, and tilestone have miraculously been able to convince lucci to go for some drinks. they were one of two groups in the bar, the other being a rowdy bunch of thugs from the backstreets. it was as peaceful as it could get in the bar, until you happened to walk in with your girl friends.

the four shipwright's at the bar froze, heads turning almost cartoonishly to lucci. outwardly, he looked nonchalant, if not a little miffed. inwardly, he was pushing back his fight or flight response.

lucci's inner tension only rose as your group of girls took a seat on the bar stools next to him. and then, you sat directly next to him, still engrossed in your cheery chatter with your girl friends.

lucci thought he might survive this encounter. until hattori, traitor he is, cooed from his perch on luccis shoulder. you turned your head to him at the noise, and lucci almost jumped out of his seat at the new proximity.

"aw, cute bird! you're rob lucci, from dock 1, right?"

damn it, he forgot he had a reputation already. rob lucci sensed the three men on the other side of him gasp and tense, most likely openly staring.

"...yes." lucci responded through hattori. for a moment, he almost used his actual voice.

you looked like you were about to speak again, until the most aggravating voice lucci could think of spoke up.

"doesn't he like her!?" tilestone, being known to yell every word with his booming voice, was possibly the worst person to be here on this night.

your friends gasped from on the other side of you. kaku and paulie gasped on the other side of lucci. tilestone was confused.

your eyes widened up at him. a bashful smile grew on your face and you tilted your head slightly to the side. "do you?"

lucci pursed his lips and nodded rigidly, an unnatural hint of color forming on the tips of his ears.

a beat passes.

"..can i buy you a drink?"

[the-k44rds]

If I were to make a Zoro one-shot, it'd be purely angst cuz I can't see myself being bro's bbg.

Sanji on the other hand...

[the-k44rds]

WHAAAATT

THIS IS A MOMENT IN HISTORY

TAKE A PICTURE

ｍｙ　ｄａｒｌｉｎｇ

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Pairing: Figarland Shamrock x Reader

elbaph spoilers

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

A huff went past your lips, and your body slumped towards your desk, your hand supporting the weight of your head. He said he was going to be back today, you mused, first sniffing, then rubbed your eyes. You held that position for a minute; your hand covering your eyes while your stress caused pain to throb behind your eyes. 

Really, how much longer were you going to stay up waiting for him? Did you not have your own business to attend to, in his absence? Regardless of his return, there were meetings tomorrow, paperwork to be done, aristocratic gatherings you have to show face in.

Oh, how Celestial Dragons love their aristocratic convocations. If you were to show with heavy, tired eyes, you would turn into the topic of discussion for the week, sure to be slandered in quiet whispers and hushed tones. “Poor thing,” they would hiss, “So attached to that commander, and Garling is so harsh to her…” This was a fate you’d faced more than once before. 

Sighing once more, you lifted yourself from your chair and stretched your sore legs. The whine that came from the friction of the furniture sliding made you wince. It was time to retire for the night–you needed to keep your sanity intact, and the first step was sleep. The clicking of your heels down empty, soulless halls only intensified the loneliness in your chest. Mary Geoise was never a good home for you. As a younger woman, you fantasized about leaving to explore the world, free from expectations and rules. Maybe you lacked the will to make your fantasy a reality. Maybe you were just as much a slave as the unfortunate ones beneath you. 

“Good evening, ma’am.”

Your eyes glanced over to your personal servant. She bowed, holding a white envelope in her hands. “This arrived for you, ma’am.” You took the envelope from her hands, bidding her thanks and a good night. She left your quarters, and you tore the envelope open and took a letter out. You carefully unfolded it, and felt your heartbeat through your whole body. Your husband hadn’t come home as promised, but he at least wrote you.

“My Darling, 

I hope this finds you well. I have missed you in my travels. Were I not traveling for my duties as commander, I would have loved to have had you by my side. You are my peace.

Word has reached me that you are throwing yourself into your duties, albeit at the cost of your health. Please, my love, don’t forget to rest. There are others that can shoulder all of those responsibilities you are throwing onto yourself. I have sent orders to those appropriate to ease your burden. You are not to work as hard as you have been. That is not the life that I will allow for you to have. 

I often find myself dreaming of you and your touch. I dream of us tangled up in sheets, enjoying the pleasures of being man and wife. 

I will be home as soon as I am able. We are off to Elbaph for business. 

Yours truly, 

     Figarland Shamrock”

You reread the letter a few times, your body feeling a bit cold. Your bed would be empty a little longer, and you already knew that what would transpire in Elbaph would be changing your life to come in your little, lonely corner of the world.

[the-k44rds]

—⭑ˎˊ˗ Sacred Indulgence ۶ৎ

◟◟ʀᴏʙ ʟᴜᴄᴄɪ × ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ◟◟

۶ৎ. ◟◟ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴜʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ? ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ. ᴀɴ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴅᴇꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪꜰᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ◟◟

۶ৎ. cw: fluff/hurt. You heard me. + not proofread!!! | dividers by @uzmacchiato & @/cursed-carmineᝰ.ᐟ | wc: 1314 ᝰ.ᐟ

۶ৎ. a/n: gee, I wonder what could have possibly inspired this? + my fellow Italian brothers and sisters, I deeply apologise if I butchered your gorgeous language. Correct me on what's wrong please 💔💔

“Rob Lucci of Cipher Pol ‘Aigis’ Zero,”

There is a certain disquiet in realising one’s existence equates to null in the eyes of the gods.

“Where is York?”

It wreaks vertigo from within, the spiraling of one caught in the field of truths and lies.

But those very gods made one what they are or become, no? The notion of relevancy is then rendered irrelevant. No creation has the right to be or want more than what they are or what has been given. It is unseemly. Ungrateful.

That is the assumed thought process...

“Rob!”

“Papà!”

“Pa!”

But temptation is catered to the tastes of many, for even the mightiest soldiers crumble before the sin of indulgence. 

Cipher Pol’s finest blade would know this fact better than most in ways more intimate than permitted for a weapon.

Rob Lucci once scoffed at the idea of vulnerability. Vulnerability meant loss of the control an agent of his calibre must maintain at every millisecond. Loss of control meant weakness, and weakness within Cipher Pol meant that the blade had dulled. And a dull blade is of no use.

But one day, he had dulled. Far more than he had ever before. He had allowed vulnerability. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable.

“The usual, Mr. Lucci?”

He had sinned. He had indulged himself beyond the lust for blood, a talent to those he serves—sanctioned.

He had indulged himself in sentimentality.

He had tainted himself. And by the time he realised, it consumed him beyond the point of return.

“Love... I saw what happened. Egghead... Vegapunk…”

“I’m alright.”

“Rob…”

“Sono vivo.”

The hands cupping his face grounded him from the memories of the disaster he was subjected to on Egghead. The eyes that had taught him love observed him for any injuries both physical and mental. They found none. None she could immediately pinpoint.

His attention was quickly redirected towards the little voices demanding his attention. Down his eyes went, landing on his two children clinging on to his legs, one attempted to climb while the other hugged.

“Mi ma’a, papà! (Mi sei mancato, papà)” the boy exclaimed as he clung on to Lucci’s leg as if it were his new plush toy. “Po'ché 'ia, pa? (Perché sei andato via?)” the twin asked as her little hands gripped his slacks with childlike determination, eager to scale the mountain of muscle that is her father.

Against his will, his eyes softened before his massive frame lowered, arms circling the much smaller frames clinging to him.

“Mi dispiace per la mia assenza. I had to work.” 

The toddlers barely registered what he had spoken and only understood that their papa was home and that they could cling freely.

Lucci allowed them to do as they wished, watching as their little fingers poked at his face or their hands explored the toned curve of his shoulder. He didn’t stop them. He never did.

He wandered the familiar halls of his home, listening to their toddler-speak with focus equal to his missions. When either of them addressed him, he responded without a moment’s hesitation, revelling deep down when their small mouths lifted in amusement.

Of all things... this was the temptation catered to his tastes.

Domesticity. Sentiment.

Love.

Had one told Rob Lucci of the past that it would be love, of all things, to bring him to his knees, he would have never even lifted his nose to look down on them. 

But he knows now. When faced with love, he, too, is no better than the common man.

Soon, long after his return home and after the twins were thoroughly entertained, it was time for bed. Naturally, they were fussy. They did not want to let go of their father, papà, but the gentle reassurances of their mother, oh, he’s not going anywhere, along with Lucci’s own decision to take them to bed and remain until they fell asleep calmed them down.

After having made the journey to their shared room, he laid down. He gently settled them on his torso and observed as they went on about their toddler activities. It was only a matter of waiting now.

As he waited for them to tire out, he observed how they played with each other (him included). He listened to them babble and giggle, watched them walk and wobble on the bed before collapsing with joyful giggles.

Being subjected to their playing, Lucci decided that conversing with them would be the best way to tire them out faster. He held his very active daughter to prevent her from falling face first onto the floor, even if his dialogue consisted of dry questions or responses. 

“Vi siete comportati bene?”

Meanwhile, his beloved watched how he kept them occupied with an amused smile. It wasn't often that she'd witness Lucci this domestic.

“They found it necessary to be quite chaotic today.”

“Oh really?”

“They played around a tad too much with their food and left a mess in the front room.”

Soon enough, the lively laughter of the twins would die down to calmer babbles, and eventually to the gentle silence filled by their soft breaths.

Only when they were fully asleep—one spread like a starfish and the other clinging to him—did Lucci truly take the time to admire their small faces. From the thick curls on their heads to pads of their toes, Lucci took in every minute detail. It wasn’t mere observation. It was admiring the blend of his genes and of his beloved put into two, innocent beings with terrifying intensity.

They are his. His gifts beyond his talent for killing.

He didn’t speak a word, only admired.

His beloved then entered the scene, quietly making her way to the bed with a serene smile. She, like Lucci, simply admired their two children before looking up at him. Really looking at him.

He saw it. He saw what made him and so many others crumble.

“They’re yours.”

Love.

“Ours.”

With either twin held by either parent, they tucked them into their cribs before returning to their shared bed.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Can’t enjoy a bit of silence now?”

“You haven’t told me how you fared in my absence.”

Even if he was certain of their well-being, he needed to hear from her that they were all right. That she and their children were safe while he was busy being the blade of justice for the World Government.

“We were all right, Rob. I found out they have a preference for apple-flavoured foods and seem to enjoy playing hide-and-seek,” she chuckled as she trailed her fingers down the planes of his chest.

Lucci let out an imperceptible breath. They were as they should be.

“Good,” he offered little commentary or response, she understood that Rob Lucci was not a man who wasted words, for his actions spoke loudest.

“Goodnight, Rob,” she whispered sweetly, lips pressing onto his almost reverently before resting her head on his chest to drift away to the land of dreams.

Lucci, however, did not.

He remained awake, a silent sentinel within his small world. He did not sleep yet. Not when the three individuals he cherished most were right where they needed to be. Not when his hands—trained to tear apart flesh and break bone without remorse—had the opportunity to do more. To love and nurture.

He turned his attention to his beloved long asleep, his hand tracing the curve of her jaw and cheek, briefly settling there as his eyes admired her features with quiet reverence.

Thus, with a final press of his lips to her forehead and a last look to their children, he closed his eyes and drifted off.

And yet, whether or not he has acknowledged so; he will never truly be the man first until the weapon he was made to be is destroyed…

۶ৎ. a/n: it was chapter 1111... chapter 1111.

[the-k44rds]

HAI YENVY! i’m here with a request i hope ur ready 😇😇 nagumo x reader where every day magumo tries to sneak bites of readers lunch and reader scold him abt it 😇super easy for u cs i don’t wna get BEAT. again ☹️☹️

── .✦ NAGUMO YOICHI: munching on your lunch .ᐟ

(a/n: I NEVER BEATED YOU STOP IT!!!!🤬🤬🤬)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ IN WHICH, you know it’s him who always eats your lunch .

⊹ fluff, highschool au ᝰ nagumo x fem! reader

── YOU LOOKED down at your lunch, noticing that your rice was half-eaten and your omelette had bite marks in it.

your eye twitched. you had left to use the restroom to go wash your hands, and when you came back, someone had decided to eat your meal.

and you obviously knew who it was: nagumo yoichi.

your eyes narrowed and darted around the cafeteria, quickly landing on nagumo. he was already staring at you with a smile, as if he had done nothing wrong.

a vein popped out of your forehead, and your eye twitched. you picked up your utensils and lunch, stomping over to where he was sitting.

"explain this?"

he heard your voice and turned to look at you. you pointed at your lunch, and he looked at it. "what do you mean?" he said, feigning confusion.

one thing about him was that he lied to you a lot. "nagumo, i know you did this!" you put your lunch down on the table and sat beside him.

"hm… what do you mean?"

"you’re acting as if you didn’t eat my chocolate chip cookie yesterday, the soup i had the day before, the chicken i had the day before that, and my meal today." you listed only a few things he had done.

he chuckled and clasped his hands together. "oh, come on, (name)! you always have the best lunches! i can’t help but try some of it!"

"then ask me to try some next time?!" you softly punched him in the shoulder. he sighed, "you’re cute. i’m gonna eat you next."

"uh, no thank you.”

"can i have more of your omelette?" he reached his hand out.

"NO! you ate like almost all of it!" you slapped his hand away, and he winced.

he pouted like a sad puppy, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. "i’ll pack extra lunch for you tomorrow, but you have to give me something in return."

"like… a kiss?"

"LIKE MONEY!"

© MIFVYFILMS please do not copy, repost as your own, or translate MASTERLIST

[the-k44rds]

Don't you hate it when you use a really speciifc phrase, thinking it's original only to find out its part of something popular and now you look like a copy paster.

[the-k44rds]

So I just found out he does it AGAIN in Dressrosa and even LAUGHS, like....

He loves bullying people bro and he likes to laugh about it.

Wait wait wait, I've been seeing posts about Hattori, Lucci, and this ventriloquism (had to look up the meaning 💔). You mean to tell me LUCCI was speaking in this high-pitched ass voice through Hattori because he's basically that ASS at conveying emotion?

Don't even focus on that, HE WAS MAKING SUCH A HIGH-PITCHED VOICE? ROB LUCCI?? Cipher Pol's finest, ROBERT LUCCI??? WHAT.

[the-k44rds]

I saw fanart of kid Lucci and my bro told me that he looks like Serverus Snape and now I can't unsee it.

[the-k44rds]

—⭑ˎˊ˗ Sacred Indulgence ۶ৎ

۶ৎ. ◟◟ʀᴏʙ ʟᴜᴄᴄɪ × ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ◟◟

۶ৎ. ◟◟ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴜʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ? ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ. ᴀɴ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴅᴇꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪꜰᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ◟◟

۶ৎ. cw: fluff/hurt. You heard me. + not proofread!!! | dividers by @uzmacchiato & @/cursed-carmineᝰ.ᐟ | wc: 1314 ᝰ.ᐟ

۶ৎ. a/n: gee, I wonder what could have possibly inspired this? + my fellow Italian brothers and sisters, I deeply apologise if I butchered your gorgeous language. Correct me on what's wrong please 💔💔

“Rob Lucci of Cipher Pol ‘Aigis’ Zero,”

There is a certain disquiet in realising one’s existence equates to null in the eyes of the gods.

“Where is York?”

It wreaks vertigo from within, the spiraling of one caught in the field of truths and lies.

But those very gods made one what they are or become, no? The notion of relevancy is then rendered irrelevant. No creation has the right to be or want more than what they are or what has been given. It is unseemly. Ungrateful.

That is the assumed thought process...

“Rob!”

“Papà!”

“Pa!”

But temptation is catered to the tastes of many, for even the mightiest soldiers crumble before the sin of indulgence. 

Cipher Pol’s finest blade would know this fact better than most in ways more intimate than permitted for a weapon.

Rob Lucci once scoffed at the idea of vulnerability. Vulnerability meant loss of the control an agent of his calibre must maintain at every millisecond. Loss of control meant weakness, and weakness within Cipher Pol meant that the blade had dulled. And a dull blade is of no use.

But one day, he had dulled. Far more than he had ever before. He had allowed vulnerability. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable.

“The usual, Mr. Lucci?”

He had sinned. He had indulged himself beyond the lust for blood, a talent to those he serves—sanctioned.

He had indulged himself in sentimentality.

He had tainted himself. And by the time he realised, it consumed him beyond the point of return.

“Love... I saw what happened. Egghead... Vegapunk…”

“I’m alright.”

“Rob…”

“Sono vivo.”

The hands cupping his face grounded him from the memories of the disaster he was subjected to on Egghead. The eyes that had taught him love observed him for any injuries both physical and mental. They found none. None she could immediately pinpoint.

His attention was quickly redirected towards the little voices demanding his attention. Down his eyes went, landing on his two children clinging on to his legs, one attempted to climb while the other hugged.

“Mi ma’a, papà! (Mi sei mancato, papà)” the boy exclaimed as he clung on to Lucci’s leg as if it were his new plush toy. “Po'ché 'ia, pa? (Perché sei andato via?)” the twin asked as her little hands gripped his slacks with childlike determination, eager to scale the mountain of muscle that is her father.

Against his will, his eyes softened before his massive frame lowered, arms circling the much smaller frames clinging to him.

“Mi dispiace per la mia assenza. I had to work.” 

The toddlers barely registered what he had spoken and only understood that their papa was home and that they could cling freely.

Lucci allowed them to do as they wished, watching as their little fingers poked at his face or their hands explored the toned curve of his shoulder. He didn’t stop them. He never did.

He wandered the familiar halls of his home, listening to their toddler-speak with focus equal to his missions. When either of them addressed him, he responded without a moment’s hesitation, revelling deep down when their small mouths lifted in amusement.

Of all things... this was the temptation catered to his tastes.

Domesticity. Sentiment.

Love.

Had one told Rob Lucci of the past that it would be love, of all things, to bring him to his knees, he would have never even lifted his nose to look down on them. 

But he knows now. When faced with love, he, too, is no better than the common man.

Soon, long after his return home and after the twins were thoroughly entertained, it was time for bed. Naturally, they were fussy. They did not want to let go of their father, papà, but the gentle reassurances of their mother, oh, he’s not going anywhere, along with Lucci’s own decision to take them to bed and remain until they fell asleep calmed them down.

After having made the journey to their shared room, he laid down. He gently settled them on his torso and observed as they went on about their toddler activities. It was only a matter of waiting now.

As he waited for them to tire out, he observed how they played with each other (him included). He listened to them babble and giggle, watched them walk and wobble on the bed before collapsing with joyful giggles.

Being subjected to their playing, Lucci decided that conversing with them would be the best way to tire them out faster. He held his very active daughter to prevent her from falling face first onto the floor, even if his dialogue consisted of dry questions or responses. 

“Vi siete comportati bene?”

Meanwhile, his beloved watched how he kept them occupied with an amused smile. It wasn't often that she'd witness Lucci this domestic.

“They found it necessary to be quite chaotic today.”

“Oh really?”

“They played around a tad too much with their food and left a mess in the front room.”

Soon enough, the lively laughter of the twins would die down to calmer babbles, and eventually to the gentle silence filled by their soft breaths.

Only when they were fully asleep—one spread like a starfish and the other clinging to him—did Lucci truly take the time to admire their small faces. From the thick curls on their heads to pads of their toes, Lucci took in every minute detail. It wasn’t mere observation. It was admiring the blend of his genes and of his beloved put into two, innocent beings with terrifying intensity.

They are his. His gifts beyond his talent for killing.

He didn’t speak a word, only admired.

His beloved then entered the scene, quietly making her way to the bed with a serene smile. She, like Lucci, simply admired their two children before looking up at him. Really looking at him.

He saw it. He saw what made him and so many others crumble.

“They’re yours.”

Love.

“Ours.”

With either twin held by either parent, they tucked them into their cribs before returning to their shared bed.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Can’t enjoy a bit of silence now?”

“You haven’t told me how you fared in my absence.”

Even if he was certain of their well-being, he needed to hear from her that they were all right. That she and their children were safe while he was busy being the blade of justice for the World Government.

“We were all right, Rob. I found out they have a preference for apple-flavoured foods and seem to enjoy playing hide-and-seek,” she chuckled as she trailed her fingers down the planes of his chest.

Lucci let out an imperceptible breath. They were as they should be.

“Good,” he offered little commentary or response, she understood that Rob Lucci was not a man who wasted words, for his actions spoke loudest.

“Goodnight, Rob,” she whispered sweetly, lips pressing onto his almost reverently before resting her head on his chest to drift away to the land of dreams.

Lucci, however, did not.

He remained awake, a silent sentinel within his small world. He did not sleep yet. Not when the three individuals he cherished most were right where they needed to be. Not when his hands—trained to tear apart flesh and break bone without remorse—had the opportunity to do more. To love and nurture.

He turned his attention to his beloved long asleep, his hand tracing the curve of her jaw and cheek, briefly settling there as his eyes admired her features with quiet reverence.

Thus, with a final press of his lips to her forehead and a last look to their children, he closed his eyes and drifted off.

And yet, whether or not he has acknowledged so; he will never truly be the man first until the weapon he was made to be is destroyed…

۶ৎ. a/n: it was chapter 1111... chapter 1111.

[the-k44rds]

Trebol Sucks and I hate-love-hate him for it.

There's one thing I think I'll never change my mind on and that's ever liking Trebol beyond the fact that he's a glazer to the death/j

On a serious note, I don't think I'll ever truly like him for what he did. I like how irredeemable he is, don't get me wrong, love me a good irredeemable character, but he's on of those characters whose evil you love and don't love. The same counts for Diamanté.

Now, I'm far from Dressrosa but I know the basics, okay. Trebol is the entire reason I really pity Doflamingo because he was groomed into what he is now and it's unlikely he will ever truly understand beyond his warped worldview how it ruined him and his last living blood-relatives.

Doflamingo was 10 when he met Trebol. Not even a preteen. He was a child. He had just awakened his Conqueror's Haki and Trebol saw him and saw opportunity to exploit him. Trebol ruined him the moment he laid eyes on him.

Trebol and Diamanté made Doffy believe that he was a king chosen by the heavens, and in doing so nurtured the mindset that a king must never show weakness, successfully suppressing and stunting Doflamingo's emotional growth/expression until it had been thoroughly destroyed.

Because of this, Doflamingo never had a chance to be neither normal or saved again. The last bit of his childish innocence was taken by the neck by claws from the shadows and destroyed without remorse.

They made Doflamingo a monster, they caused the rest of his internal suffering. They ensured that he'd be never saved again, and for that, I will truly hate them.

[the-k44rds]

ripping the hair from my roots WHY CAN'T WE BE HAPPY

charlotte linlin did not stumble upon you by accident. nothing about her fixation was whimsical, despite the carnivorous twinkle in her gaze when she first spotted you among the crew she meant to tear apart. she had a nose for bloodlines in the same way she had a nose for sugar, and yours carried the kind of rarity that pried her pupils wide.

your maternal branch stretched back to an old maritime clan that once occupied a crescent-shaped archipelago in the north blue. the clan was known for bone density that resisted fracture, unusually efficient oxygen intake that allowed them to stay submerged for periods longer than most fishmen, and dermal tissue with elasticity rivaling the longarm tribe. centuries of intermarriage with unrelated merchant houses refined that base consisting of slimmed frames, symmetrical faces, those irises with near-metallic luster. even your mitochondrial inheritance carried mutations in metabolic regulation that meant unparalleled endurance, something linlin’s personal doctors confirmed with a giddy sort of reverence.

to her, you were less a woman and more a walking genealogical blueprint worth hoarding. she thought of how your children might inherit sharpened teeth from katakuri, paired with the resilience and stamina etched into your cells. she thought of palate, too. your complexion had that warm, toasted undertone that reminded her of caramelized sugar, and your scent carried a faint mineral note of sea-salt that she insisted was “good enough to eat.”

when her eye landed on sanji, it was practicality rather than desire. germa lineage meant combat-viable spawn, a fleet of neatly engineered soldiers in the womb of her daughters. but with you, her logic grew feral, nearly devotional. she called it fate, though her homies whispered it sounded more like starvation.

she orchestrated the acquisition with precision. the tea party summons had been a trap layered under layers, bait disguised as diplomacy. sanji’s capture was public, his chains forged of his own family shame and duty. yours was quieter, more intimate: a hand clamping over your mouth in the velvet dark of a corridor, homies cackling while they bound your wrists, your screams muffled into the perfumed upholstery of a transport carriage. linlin didn’t risk you slipping into the sea or vanishing in rebellion. she wanted you delivered intact, swaddled almost like fine patisserie awaiting display.

by the time both of you were seated at her table, sanji slouched in iron cuffs and you dressed in something ornate she’d ordered overnight seamstresses to whip up, it was already decided. she declared you bride to her most cherished son, the one she considered a miracle, her katakuri. she slammed her hand to the table and the earth shook; nobody contradicted her. your skin tone she compared to almond sponge, the curve of your cheeks to strawberries pressed into cream, the balance of your figure a layered cake cut too clean to be real. she said it aloud, too, in her thunderous laugh, “a perfect slice for my katakuri!”

linlin had summoned him in that sing-song bark of hers, sugar sticking to the corners of her mouth from whatever tart she’d just shoved down. katakuri felt that heaviness he always did when she called. he bowed out of respect, more habit than devotion, and she wasted no time. she slapped the photograph onto the table with a laugh so loud the walls vibrated.

“look at her! look at this sweet little parfait i’ve found for you. perfect face, perfect body, perfect blood. my son, you’ll put a baby in her, won’t you? i want to see what you two can bake me up.”

katakuri didn’t touch the photo right away. he didn’t want to. your face stared back, captured mid-turn, hair spilling across your shoulder, expression caught between confusion and irritation. he felt something twist in his chest but kept his voice even. “mother, this isn’t necessary.”

linlin snorted, slapping her palm against the table so hard the plates rattled. “necessary? of course it is. you’re my strongest son. you deserve the finest dessert. she’s it. she’s cream and honey rolled into one, she’s the next generation of sweetness. don’t play coy with me. i want to see her belly swell with my grandchild.”

he clenched his jaw beneath the scarf, eyes fixed on the photograph now, because avoiding it was worse. you were stunning, he couldn’t deny it, but stunning didn’t erase what this meant. “you’re asking me to—”

“not asking,” she interrupted, dragging the word into a growl. “deciding. she’ll be yours, and you’ll be hers. i’ll have little petit fours running around before long, carrying that bloodline forward. think of it — mochi and her lineage mixing. delicious.”

katakuri’s hands curled into fists at his sides. he wanted to argue, to tell her he wouldn’t treat a wife like livestock, to admit the thought of you seeing really seeing him was enough to choke him with dread. but linlin was grinning, her teeth flashing, already convinced.

she shoved the photograph across to him. “take it, dream of her. she’s yours to crack open, son. don’t disappoint me.”

he picked it up finally, the edges trembling faintly between his fingers. your eyes looked up at him from the glossy paper, alive in a way that made his throat dry. he tucked it under his arm and left without a word, her laughter following him down the hall like an aftertaste he couldn’t spit out.

he read the reports. your bounty had been climbing steadily, not luffy’s level but high enough that you weren’t brushed off as decoration. wanted posters pinned up, stacked on tables, ink smudged from being handled too often. big eyes glaring at the viewer, tan skin sharp against the cheap print. your crimes listed in heavy strokes: sabotage of world government supply lines, theft of artifacts, destruction of naval outposts. reckless, but effective. enough to draw attention, and enough to prove you weren’t just another pretty face.

what linlin really salivated over was buried deeper, in the footnotes of marine intelligence. he had heard that your mother’s mother’s mother had carried a fragment of something old, something beyond devil fruits or haki. an ability the scholars at ohara once tried to categorize but lost before they burned. bloodline inheritance, rare and erratic, showing only once in a generation. you were the first in centuries to manifest it, and you’d used it just enough to confirm the suspicion.

katakuri sat with this knowledge heavy in his hands, heavier than the photograph. if you came here, you’d be celebrated in a way that was just another brand of prison. he knew it because he’d lived it.

knowing soon you’d be dragged into this menagerie of siblings who only saw you as leverage, he wondered, when you stood across from him, would you look at him the way you looked from the paper? or would you see what he hid, and leave him bare in ways his scarf could never protect.

to her children, her rationale was obvious: sanji would anchor alliances with germa, you would enrich the family’s genetic catalog. linlin’s gaze lingered on you longer than it did on him, though, and everyone noticed. her tongue rolled the word delightful when she looked at you. she imagined bloodlines and banquet courses in the same thought, and in her world, the difference barely mattered.

she never just called you by your name. every time you entered the dining hall she came up with a new one. éclair, truffle, mille-feuille, my precious baklava, her voice booming. her eyes devoured you, always. she coddled you as if you were some delicate confection that might melt if she didn’t keep you close. 

she built you an entire tower that leaned almost obnoxiously above the rest of totto land, a candied monument stuffed with every luxury she could think of. trudy, the dresser with a shrill personality and too many opinions about your color palette, demanded you wear gowns so layered and sparkly that you could hardly breathe. frills to your knees, silk stitched so fine you were scared to spill frosting on it. big mom paraded you around as if you were a prize she had snatched straight from the heavens, stuffing your plate at every turn, coaxing “one more bite, my darling flan, you’re too thin, don’t you want to be sweet and plump for mother?”

katakuri was spared from this lunacy, for now. you didn’t even hear his name until linlin wanted you to. everything else was siblings circling you with their own brand of smugness, dangling information like candy they’d never let you bite. they bragged about his strength, about how he was undefeated, about how he carried the family’s reputation on his back. some laughed when you asked specifics, others leaned in close just to whisper “you’ll see” before vanishing down the hall. nobody said you’d need to crane your neck until it hurt just to meet his eyes. six-teen feet. and you were barely five foot eight.

linlin’s obsession wrapped tighter with every day, and the dread settled heavier. you weren’t sure whether to hope your supposed betrothed would be kind, or whether kindness even existed in this family at all.

he thought you were beautiful, anyone with a pulse could see that, but the idea of being tied to you made something coil in his stomach. an uncomfortable weight. a wife meant someone who would eventually see him unmasked, and that thought was unbearable. he respected your strength, but he kept his distance, his silence a wall taller than his frame.

linlin’s idea of subtlety was dumping a ten-tiered cake in front of you and demanding you finish the first three layers before she grew bored. every meal was a spectacle, and every spectacle was aimed at the same goal of plumping you up, softening you out, turning you into the sugared doll she envisioned standing beside her son. she’d clap her massive hands together and shriek “more syrup, more cream! feed my little caramel drop, she needs to be ripe!” servants scurried like ants, piling pastries higher than your head, ladling chocolate thick enough to drown in.

you tried to keep up at first, politeness winning out over resistance, but your stomach rebelled long before linlin’s appetite waned. nausea rolled heavy, your tongue coated in sugar, teeth aching with every forced swallow. she noticed when you pushed plates away, her grin sharp as she leaned down, voice booming through the hall. “not enough, darling! a wife for my katakuri mustn’t be brittle. she must be rich and filled out like a proper sweet roll. keep eating! you’ll thank mama later.”

it wasn’t optional. trudy, your sentient dresser, screeched if you left a tart untouched. compote pouted theatrically if you declined another slice of fruit cake. perospero laughed every time you looked green, muttering about how linlin liked her sweets with cream, not crumbs. every angle was covered, every sibling enlisted in the performance of fattening you up.

sickness became your nightly routine. curled in silk sheets with your stomach churning, breath shallow, wishing for plain rice or salted broth, anything that wasn’t drowning in frosting. sanji was livid, whispering through gritted teeth during stolen moments in corridors that it was abuse, that it was poisoning you. he’d glare at the dessert carts wheeling in as if he could set them ablaze with his eyes alone.

linlin, of course, only laughed harder. “she’ll plump up beautifully! a perfect bun in the oven before long, you’ll see.” her voice cracked the chandelier, her joy vibrating through every brick of that castle. and you sat, spoon trembling in your hand, stomach raw from indulgence you hadn’t chosen, realizing the empress of sweets wanted to bake you just as much as she wanted to feed you.

your own trickiness offered you some reprieve.

the tower was never as locked as linlin believed. guards grew lazy when the corridors stretched long, when the feasts dulled them into sugar-drunk stupors. you learned their patterns, the doors that creaked and the ones that didn’t. slipping out became an act of survival.

sneaking out with sanji had become ritual. the two of you carved little slivers of freedom into the suffocating clockwork of totto land. slipping into kitchens, stealing wine, sitting cross-legged on marble floors while he fried something savory and you let him talk. you never got caught, and you almost started to believe you never would.

but that night, trudy had stuffed you into something ridiculous made of thin silk, neckline dipping low, hem too short to cover your thighs when you sat down. “a proper sleeping ensemble for a bride-to-be,” she’d chirped, her wooden drawers snapping shut in satisfaction. you left anyway. silk slippers on cold tiles, determination pushing you through the same halls you’d learned by heart. except you misstepped. one wrong turn in the labyrinth, one shadow cast differently, and suddenly the path you knew twisted into something foreign.

the castle at night was cruel. drafts clawed at you through stained glass windows, the chill sharp against bare shoulders. you wrapped your arms tight around yourself, muttering curses under your breath, trying to retrace your steps. you told yourself you weren’t afraid, but the corridors stretched endlessly, the candlelight too sparse, the sugar-sweet smell of the place cloying until it turned nauseating.

and then you stumbled right into your groom-to-be.

feet stopped in front of you first, boots that could crush your whole body if he stepped wrong. you dragged your gaze upward and it just kept going, taller and taller, until your neck strained. sixteen feet of muscle, scarf hiding half his face, eyes unreadable in the dim light. katakuri.

your body reacted before your brain caught up. heart slamming, heat pooling embarrassingly low, terror prickling at your ski,. you masked it the only way you knew how: with words. “so this is the part where you stomp me back to my tower, right? …or maybe eat me, since your mother already thinks i’m a tart.” it came out a thin, half-baked, desperate humor coating nerves so raw they almost shook.

he didn’t laugh. he crouched instead, so suddenly you flinched, but the movement was careful. even at half-height, he still towered over you. his eyes ran over you, not lasciviously but with a kind of restrained concern. he could see you were cold. the tip of your nose faintly pink, skin goosebumped beneath the silk trudy had condemned you to.

without a word, he shrugged off the heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. thick, warm, smelling faintly of mochi flour and the sea air that sometimes slipped past the candy walls. he draped it over you, not touching more than he had to.

“go back,” he said finally, rumbling in a way that made the floor hum beneath your slippers. “this isn’t safe.”

you swallowed, trying not to stare at the width of his chest, the impossible reach of his arms, the way he filled the entire corridor just by existing. “you’re—” your voice cracked, so you steadied it with a crooked smile. “you’re taller than the stories.”

he didn’t react, just straightened to his full height again, making your neck ache as you followed him up with your eyes. “keep the cloak,” he added, and that was all.

he turned, silent, walking you through the corridors as though he’d been doing it his whole life, and he had. when you reached the familiar door of your tower, he didn’t wait for gratitude. only lingered a moment longer, eyes narrowing as if committing you to memory, before vanishing back into the dark.

you clutched the cloak tighter once you were inside. the first meeting with your so-called fiancé, and he hadn’t said more than a handful of words. but you could still feel the weight of his size in every part of you, the gravity of being so close to something that large.

terror, relief, and something else you couldn’t name tangled in your stomach as you lay back against your bed, his cloak swallowing your small frame whole. morning light spilled through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily over piles of dresses, ribbons, and scattered sweets. trudy’s hinges screeched before she even entered, because she always knew when something was off in her domain. today, something was.

“what is this?” her wooden face contorted in horror, arms rigid at her sides. the cloak. the massive cloak of katakuri lay draped over your chair, spilling onto the floor, smelling faintly of hi.

you grinned innocently, lounging atop a pile of silk, flipping your hair over one shoulder. “oh, this?” you said, “i found it in the hall. thought it’d make a nice blanket.”

trudy’s drawer-hinges squealed. “blanket? this is a man’s coat! and that man! you—” she stopped, tapping her wooden chin. “this is scandalous! you cannot sleep with—ugh — him’s cloak!”

you smirked, stretching your legs provocatively, letting the cloak droop just enough to show how it swallowed you whole. “don’t be so uptight. it’s perfectly normal. ‘sides, it keeps me warm at night. and it smell... so sweet.” you twirled a strand of hair around your finger, eyes sparkling mischievously. “besides, it’s not like i actually met him properly. just… happened to stumble right into his feet.”

trudy’s jaw (if she had one) would have dropped. she slammed herself against the dresser, rattling drawers. “you stumbled into katakuri?! and you… kept his cloak? this is — this is… i cannot!”

you feigned a yawn, letting your hand lazily drift over the heavy fabric. “don’t get your gears in a twist. no one knows. and if they did, you’d keep it a secret anyway, wouldn’t you?” your tone was teasing, but the undercurrent of danger amidst a family that would devour you in a heartbeat was crystal clear.

trudy whirred angrily, drawer knobs rattling. “i… i… this is unprecedented. utterly improper. you—”

“i’m fine,” you interrupted sweetly, snuggling further into the cloak, hiding your hands beneath the folds. “see? perfectly fine. warm. safe. and i get to… remember him. that’s all.”

trudy huffed, spinning around, refusing to look at you, muttering curses under her little wooden breath. you let out a giggle, stretching luxuriously, letting the cloak engulf you like a fortress of someone impossibly huge and unknowable.

you had been delivered to him under the pretense of marriage, but it felt more like sacrifice. you thought of linlin’s obsession with your “genes” and felt your stomach twist, because she hadn’t factored in how utterly overwhelming the physical act of creation with this man would be.

brûlée never did anything without a little bite in it. she told you where to find him with that sly curl in her lip, already knowing you’d run headfirst into the fire. but her tone lacked its usual sting, softened by the smallest flicker of approval. “he won’t entertain you,” she said, brushing lint from her skirts, “but if you’re fool enough to try, you’ll find him there.”

later, you slipped out past trudy’s fussing. she gasped when she saw you without paint and powder, hair unpinned and falling over your shoulders, clothes loose and comfortable instead of stiff and constricting. you smirked at her horror, waved her off before she could squeal, and vanished down the quiet corridors.

the night was heavy with the scent of sugar, everything on totto land always coated in sweetness, but the place brûlée sent you was different. the courtyard was half-forgotten, lanterns dim, no sugar-coated fountains or frosting-lined paths. katakuri was there, exactly where she said, towering at the edge of a balcony, the sea spread out below and the stars scattered overhead.

you thought he was watching the constellations, head tilted back, shoulders squared. it looked peaceful until you noticed his fists were tight at his sides, his jaw set beneath the scarf.

you cleared your throat, quietly, like you could ever spook him. ridiculous, considering his sheer size. he turned fast, quicker than you expected, cloak shifting with the movement.

“you shouldn’t be here.” his voice was sharper than earlier, almost a growl.

“probably,” you admitted, stepping closer anyway, bare feet against the cool stone. “but brûlée told me where you’d be. that must mean something.”

his brows drew together, a faint ripple of irritation flickering across his face. “she shouldn’t have.”

“well, she did.” your tone carried more boldness than you felt. “so now i’m here. are you going to throw me back in the tower, or let me stay for a while?”

he stared down at you, silent. the silence stretched so long you thought he might actually pick you up and haul you back, but instead he sighed and turned away.

you took it as permission, slipping up beside him, leaning on the railing. “so. what is it? you like watching the stars? hiding from your family? or both?”

katakuri’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something close. he shook his head. “not the stars.”

you waited, pressing him with your silence. he exhaled again, slow. “i watch the horizon. i need to know what’s coming before anyone else does.”

you blinked at him, trying to digest that. he wasn’t avoiding people because of shyness or mystery, but because he carried a burden none of his siblings could really shoulder.

still, you tilted your head, softened your voice. “but sometimes, it’s nice to just look at them. they’re beautiful.”

his gaze flicked to you, sharp and searching. after a long pause, he said, almost reluctantly, “yes. they are.”

for the first time that night, you felt like he wasn’t speaking about the sky at all.

trudy knew something was happening the moment you started humming through breakfast. “you,” she hissed when no one was near, “you’re sneaking out.”

you blinked with exaggerated innocence, picking at a fruit tart. “you make me sound so wicked.”

“you are wicked! look at you — fresh-faced, flushed, glowing,” she snapped, eyes darting to the loose silk you’d thrown on that morning. “don’t think i don’t notice the fabrics disappearing from your wardrobe either. what are you doing at night? who with?”

you leaned close, murmuring, “with your worst nightmare.” and then added, before she could sputter, “or your future brother-in-law. depends how you look at it.”

she nearly dropped dead on the spot. scandalized didn’t even begin to cover it. you let her stew in the implication all morning, teasing with half-answers, watching her clutch at her pearls.

trudy sulked. drawers slammed themselves shut when you tried to tug a chemise free, doors creaked menacingly whenever you slipped in late, silks puckered from nowhere if she felt you were pushing boundaries. the old armoire was offended beyond reason. “gallivanting every night in indecency,” she groaned in her stiff, scolding voice, “making a fool of yourself for a man who ought to be left alone.”

it only made you grin harder, lingering before her mirror, tugging a sash just a bit lower to get a rise out of her. she would cough and clatter, muttering about scandal and ruin, but she still let you go. trudy had no lock on your ankles, just her disapproval.

katakuri had learned to expect you once dusk bled into the courtyards, he didn’t ask why you kept finding your way out of the chamber they’d locked you in. he could guess. routine had taken shape without either of you naming it: the scratch of your silk slipper against stone, the faint glow of your lantern climbing toward the terraces where he liked to linger.

tonight you’d decided not to behave. you carried yourself deliberately, silks rustling in a way that drew attention rather than cloaked it. you held the lantern high enough to catch his jawline in amber light and asked, with the smallest tilt of your chin, “do you like my silk?”

the question stopped him cold. katakuri had no business looking at you the way he did, no business imagining the glide of that fabric against his palm. his answer came slower than his pulse, an awkward, gravel-thick “…yes.”

your route to him required climbing a high stone platform, a ledge where the lantern halo made your face look far too tempting for his composure. you slipped once, cursing under your breath, until his hand wrapped around your arm with terrifying ease. he steadied you like you weighed nothing, broad palm covering half your upper arm, fingers indenting the silk. first touch, unsanctioned, and it burned through both of you.

you banked the moment without wasting it. you leaned closer than courtesy allowed, lantern swaying, shadows shifting over his mouth. you teased him again, “careful. i might think you want me climbing just so you can put your hands on me.”

he didn’t answer. he held your arm a beat too long before letting go, jaw set tight beneath his scarf.

katakuri never broke his mother’s rules. but tonight he broke his own. he stayed still, listening, when you tilted your head and told him things you’d never risk saying to linlin, things only a captive bride bold enough to test her future husband would dare.

it was impossible not to imagine how loving him would even work, when every night you found yourself sitting at his side and looking at him far too long. his body was monstrous in its dimensions, not grotesque but commanding, cut from a different cloth of existence entirely. his hand alone could span the length of your back with ease, fingers pressing into either side of your ribcage if he ever laid them there.

your shape wasn’t lost on him either. you were not slight everywhere, you carried yourself with proportion that couldn’t be ignored. your dresses did no work hiding that, and you didn’t try much to temper it. you were aware of the contrast, the way his looming shadow turned you into something pocket-sized by comparison, a doll to be picked up without effort. and that thought burrowed into your mind.

you began to draft little plans in secret, if you were going to commit yourself to him. how would intimacy even begin when his fingers alone were thicker than your wrists? how would you bridge the sheer scale of him? you thought of your thighs around his hips, of his hands circling your waist entirely, of being lifted and set wherever he pleased. you wondered if he’d be careful, or if he’d lose that discipline you’d spent weeks battering against.

you wanted to see how far the restraint went when his body could so easily swallow yours whole. committing to him meant learning how to be carried, maybe even devoured by someone so impossibly larger than you.

you could be his dolly if you had to. you could be more than that too. you already were.

weeks bled into one another under the weight of wedding preparations, and there was no mistaking the fact that charlotte linlin was savoring every moment of it. every morning you were pulled from bed and shoved into some confection-colored gown, fabrics layered so heavily with ruffles and lace that you could hardly move without creaking like an overstuffed pastry cart. attendants powdered your skin, rouged your mouth, brushed your hair until your scalp burned. trudy clicked her wooden teeth in smug delight every time the wardrobe snapped shut on another garment deemed “perfect for the bride.” you barely had room to breathe, yet you smiled sweetly, because it entertained linlin to see you dolled up, and because you learned quickly that it distracted most from how restless you actually were.

feasts were endless. tables broke under the weight of meat, candied fruit, elaborate cakes taller than you were. linlin’s laughter shook the walls when she ate, children shouting over one another for favor. you saw sanji across more than one hall, eyes darting anywhere but yours. his knuckles were always white when he held the plate.

siblings circled like carrion birds, each with their own interpretation of you. some looked at you with distaste, some with curiosity, a few with open jealousy.

your nights with katakuri became your tether. he tried to make them shorter, to push you away with brusque words, yet you learned to show up regardless.

ritualistically, you were still dressed each morning in gowns so low-cut sanji nearly fainted on sight. linlin loved it, thought it hilarious, and so the dresses grew tighter, shorter, more revealing. you never dressed like that for him before. you saw the longing in his eyes, the despair too, and it hurt to know that both were twisted together.

you weren’t supposed to wander without an escort, but brûlée always slipped you through the cracks when she felt indulgent. one afternoon she dragged you into a side parlor, far from linlin’s shrill laughter, away from the chorus of seamstresses measuring and remeasuring your frame. she shoved a tray in your lap, piled high with sweets so gaudy you almost gagged at the scent. glistening caramel, marzipan swans, spun sugar roses. you pushed them around with your finger until she rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before snapping her fingers at a servant. minutes later, bowls of pickled radish and dried squid appeared. hardly gourmet, but it wasn’t sugar, and that meant more than you could say. you thanked her sincerely, and she waved it off, cheeks mottled red.

she sat opposite you, lounging inelegantly, chin propped on her palm, sharp features softening with uncharacteristic patience. she didn’t usually look at anyone the way she was looking at you then. you realized quickly she wasn’t there for idle chatter.

“you’re drowning in gowns and cake while the island shakes,” she said finally, picking at her teeth with a lacquered nail. “they keep you away from it all, but it’s there. jinbe standing against mama. that straw hat brat raising hell. plots crisscrossing like spiderwebs. none of it touches you because they want you busy rehearsing smiles. but you should know. the house isn’t steady. it never was, but now it trembles.”

you leaned forward, fingers sticky with caramel you hadn’t wanted to eat, pressing into the hem of your skirt. “and him?”

her mouth twitched, as though she hadn’t meant to open that door but couldn’t stop herself. “he’s not made for tenderness. but you... you get under his skin. i see it.”

you stayed still, waiting.

brûlée’s eyes narrowed, searching your face for cracks. “so i have to know. do you love him, or are you stringing him along for survival? don’t answer for his sake, or for the theater they’ve built around this wedding. answer for mine. he’s my brother. he carries all of us on his shoulders. if you’re playing, you’ll crush him without even realizing it.”

you shifted uncomfortably on the settee, swallowing against the sugar film coating your tongue, throat dry, stomach queasy. it wasn’t a exactly a question you could dance around. she wanted an answer, and for once you couldn’t play coy or clever. your chest felt caught between ribs that didn’t want to expand, your throat raw from holding back what you hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone yet.

you stared down at the half-gnawed marzipan swan, its sugar wing stuck to your fingertip. nothing about the sweets room or the endless parades of gowns had ever made you feel smaller than this.

“i don’t know,” you admitted, voice quiet enough you weren’t sure she’d catch it. but she did. her brows ticked up.

“freedom was all i thought about when i was first brought here. it still is, most days. i miss my captain. i miss my crew. i miss the ocean. i don’t know if freedom means more to me than… him. because when i’m with him, he makes me feel… i don’t know. safe. sometimes it’s frightening, how much i start to want that. but when i think of the sea, it feels like home. i don’t know which i’d choose if i had to, and that scares me.”

brûlée didn’t interrupt. her hand hovered near her mouth, still and uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“i can’t picture myself living here alone. this island eats people whole. but... maybe i could endure the sugar and the ceremonies if it meant i wasn’t alone, if it meant he was beside me. i just… wouldn’t want to wound him if he’s already looking at me like i’m not something temporary. i don’t want him to regret letting me in, if he really has.”

brûlée leaned back, eyes flicking across your face like she was cataloging every syllable, testing for weakness. then, slowly, she let out a long breath.

“at least you’re not pretending,” she said, almost grudgingly. “most would lie. you didn’t.”

your thumb worried the sticky wingtip until it tore off in a little rip of sugar. you popped it into your mouth just to keep from talking too fast, but the words tumbled out anyway.

“do you think he… loves me?” you asked, soft, almost embarrassed, your eyes avoiding hers.

brûlée’s mouth twisted into something caught between a grimace and a smile, her jagged teeth showing for a moment before she hid them. she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and stared at you with a sharpness that made you feel stripped bare.

“you realize that’s a childish question,” she said, but her tone wasn’t cruel. “love’s not something he gets to practice much. he’s built for mother’s commands, not for… that.” she waved a hand vaguely, as if “that” could cover all the ways you made her brother unravel.

you pressed, a little desperate. “but does he?”

her eyes narrowed, then softened just slightly. “he lets you near him. closer than anyone else, closer than even me. you think that’s nothing? he waits for you. he listens when you speak. he lets you see what no one’s supposed to see. so maybe he doesn’t call it love, maybe he doesn’t even know if that’s what it is. but whatever it is, it’s yours. only yours.”

your stomach flipped, sugar-heavy and nauseous, but not from the sweets this time.

brûlée leaned back, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe the audacity of it all. “so yes. in his way. maybe not in the way you’ve known it before, but in the only way he knows how.”

in the end, loyalty was louder than comfort. you could never abandon the promise you made when you took that first step onto the deck of the thousand sunny. no matter how sweet the silks, no matter how steady the hand offered to you, freedom tasted better. you would leave totto land carrying the favor of charlotte katakuri, your figure softer with the ten pounds of sugar and cream pressed into you during your confinement, your pockets filled with memories of stolen moments, and your heart aching from what you turned away. you would return to your captain, to your shipmates, to the ocean that had always been yours, and you would not look back until the sea itself forced you to.

but in some other life, one untouched by obligation and the pull of the horizon, you would have stayed. you would have lived in a home that smelled of baked flour and roasted cacao, the sound of a kettle whistling in the mornings while katakuri sat at the kitchen table, far too large for the chair yet somehow making himself small for you. you would have brushed the powdered sugar from his jaw, scolded him softly when he stole bites of your breakfast, and earned that quiet laugh he never gave anyone else.

he would have carried you effortlessly, one arm under your thighs, the other pressed against the small of your back, because your body weighed nothing to him. you would have learned how easily he bent when it came to you, how a man sixteen feet tall could bow down to touch his forehead to yours, how his massive hands could be tender enough to cup your cheeks. evenings would have ended with you stretched across his chest, your ear pressed against the steady thrum of his heart, while he stroked slow lines down your spine, his breath stirring the hair at your crown.

and sometimes, when the quiet closed in, hehe would have preferred you above him, always. your palms planted against the breadth of his chest, your knees braced against the firmness of his ribs, your body moving with deliberate grace. there, he could see you clearly. it gave him the illusion of restraint, with his strength leashed, his weight surrendered to you, though his hands never failed to anchor you when you leaned too far forward or faltered. he spoiled you this way, with his patience and with his adoration, with the certainty that in his world you were sovereign. he would kiss you until you couldn’t think of anything but him, until the only loyalty that mattered was to the man above you, the one who wanted nothing but to keep you, to cherish you, to taste every part of you until you begged for rest.

a child would have come from that love. your child, his child, a being large-eyed and perfect. he would have been unflinching through every ache of your body, holding you in ways that relieved weight, feeding you morsels when your hands were too weary. he would have sworn in quiet, breathless mutters that you would never go without. and afterward, when the infant slept on his chest, he would return to you. lifting you into his lap as if you were spun sugar, brushing his lips across your knuckles with a reverence that never dulled. he would murmur against your skin about the day, about the world, about nothing at all, just to keep your eyes on him a little longer.

you would have grown old together, in that other life, where the sea was only a distant sound and the horizon meant nothing at all.

[the-k44rds]

funniest tumblr experience is waking up to 20+ notifications all from ONE person who has obviously just found my account and they then proceed to like and reblog my last dozen or so posts which is then followed by a mysterious anonymous ask. brother who are you trying to fool

[the-k44rds]

COOKED (and I'm currently cooking too, trust vy)

what happens if the reader falls asleep on laws shoulder? 🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨

── .✦ TRAFALGAR D. WATER LAW: on and off your shoulder .ᐟ

(a/n: probably ooc 😢😢 i hope you still like it tho ❤️❤️)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ IN WHICH, you fall asleep on his shoulder, what does he do?

⊹ fluff, headcannons ᝰ law x gn! reader

YOU FELL ASLEEP, and your head unexpectedly fell on his shoulder.

at first, law will try to push you off without waking you up. if you're a light sleeper, you'll wake up anyway, process what's going on, before dozing off again.

and he'll be stuck like that again. as stiff as a rock. silent—although, his breathing a little different.

but if you’re a heavy sleeper, he’ll yank his shoulder away, and your head will fall on the seat. once the weight of your head lifts from his shoulder, he’ll feel at ease again.

however… having a heart within him, he feels a bit bad and will call bepo to go get you a pillow.

he stays by your side as you’re sleeping, his arms crossed.

law will also take some sneaky glances at you, just to make sure you’re still alive and breathing—not having nightmares, of course.

yeah, he cares about you.

his mind will go silent and wander back to when you first fell asleep on his shoulder. he feels bad again and sits you up straight. he scoots closer to you and lets your head fall on his shoulder again.

yeah, he likes it like this. he’s not moving anymore. not until you wake up.

© MIFVYFILMS please do not copy, repost as your own, or translate MASTERLIST

[the-k44rds]

Big Luffy finds a weird looking cat.

[the-k44rds]

[the-k44rds]

New man discovered.

Who's-Who.

Had he remained a government agent, he and Lucci would've had to fight for my favourite spot.

[the-k44rds]

Wait wait wait, I've been seeing posts about Hattori, Lucci, and this ventriloquism (had to look up the meaning 💔). You mean to tell me LUCCI was speaking in this high-pitched ass voice through Hattori because he's basically that ASS at conveying emotion?

Don't even focus on that, HE WAS MAKING SUCH A HIGH-PITCHED VOICE? ROB LUCCI?? Cipher Pol's finest, ROBERT LUCCI??? WHAT.