#kidd x reader

Masterlist

Warnings (overall)- MDNI; 18+ content; Dark themes: Non-con; TRAUMA/language/NSFW; Gore; explicit content; slight Dead Dove; not proof read- first story (please be kind), follows canon One Piece from Kidd Pirate's POV

Can now also be found on Ao3! Unbreakable

Kidd POV

He lasts two days.The crew took bets. Wire won.

Kidd had to be patient. Kidd doesn’t do patience.

He couldn’t stand the quiet of the cabin anymore. Couldn’t stand the sound of you just breathing without being able to do something about it. He paces, clenches his fists, fights the urge to tear metal from the walls just to feel it give under his hands. He wants to break something.

That won’t help you. He wants to fix you. There’s nothing he can fix. Then his eyes drift—again, always—to the space where your leg should be. The crude damage is gone now. Cleaned. Treated. But the absence is worse than the wound ever was, and it always will be.

Kidd goes still.

“…Tch.”

He turns on his heel and storms for the workshop. Metal answers him immediately, responding to his pull like it’s been waiting. Scraps, plates, gears, discarded weapons—everything rattles, slides, slams into place as Kidd works with vicious focus. His hands move on instinct, shaping, bending, refining. Not delicate—but precise. Controlled. Angry in the way that builds instead of destroys. He doesn’t stop until his shoulders burn and his palms are raw. He doesn’t think about how scared you looked. He doesn’t think about the scream. He thinks about balance. Weight distribution. Shock absorption. Mobility. He thinks about making something that will hold you up when he can’t.

Killer POV 

Killer watches from the doorway once, just once. Kidd is hunched over the workbench, eyes wild but sharp, metal bending like it knows better than to resist. It’s obsession—but not the reckless kind. The focused kind. The kind that keeps a man from falling apart. Killer exhales slowly.

Good, he thinks. If he stopped moving, that’s when we’d have a problem.

He turns away, already making a mental list of supplies they’ll need.

Masterlist

Warnings (overall)- MDNI; 18+ content; Dark themes: Non-con; TRAUMA/language/NSFW; Gore; explicit content; slight Dead Dove; not proof read- first story (please be kind), follows canon One Piece from Kidd Pirate's POV

Three POVs. One breaking point. A scream that shatters. Reality breaking apart. And the two men who will never let you fall again. Kidd’s rage. Killer’s guilt. Your body choosing survival the only way it knows how. (panic episode, injury, heavy protective themes)

Kidd POV

The scream hits him like a hook through the ribs. Kidd’s head snaps up, chair shrieking back as metal in the workshop rattles in answer. His heart drops straight into his boots. It isn’t sound so much as violence—a pressure wave that rattles metal, fractures glass, crawls straight up his spine and sinks claws into his skull. Every instinct in him ignites at once.

That’s you. Not pain. Not anger. Terror.

Kidd doesn’t remember crossing the ship. He’s moving before the scream finishes tearing itself apart, boots slamming against deck as magnetism ripples in his wake. Bolts shudder. The walls hum low and dangerous. Glass explodes somewhere ahead.

“Mouse—”

Kidd doesn’t slow. He faintly hears Killer calling him. The door to his quarters doesn’t survive. It tears free with a splintering scream, slamming into the wall hard enough to crater it. The room is chaos. Shattered glass. Blood on the floor. You. You’re on the ground, screaming, thrashing — and Killer has you. Kidd’s brain can barely register he’s not hurting you. Not attacking. Holding you in a restraint — arms locked, body braced — doing everything right and still looking like the enemy.

Something in Kidd snaps. Metal screams as it bends, coils, braces — not striking, not yet — but the air turns heavy with it.

“Get away from her.”

The words aren’t loud. They’re lethal.

Killer freezes instantly, eyes flicking to Kidd — not defensive, not angry — just understanding the danger of being the wrong person in the wrong position.

“Kidd—” Killer starts, breathless. “She’s hurtin’ herself—”

“I said—” Kidd steps forward, boots crunching glass. “-get the FUCK away from her!”

For half a heartbeat, Killer hesitates. He releases you, hands coming up as he backs off, even as you collapse forward with a broken sound. Then Kidd is there, hands gripping your face, forcing your eyes on him as he drops to his knees in front of you.

“Mouse.” His voice cracks.““Hey. Hey. Mouse. Look at me.” His voice no longer soft, instead a low command. Your eyes are wild. Glassy. Not seeing him. Seeing something else. Someone else.

“It’s me,” he says, louder now, closer, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re safe. You hear me? You’re on my ship. You’re with me.” You only answer with whimpers, hands still clawing at your leg, nails red with blood. 

“Fuck—”

He grabs your wrists, firm but careful, pinning them before you can tear yourself open again.

“Look at me.”

Nothing. Kidd presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in — linen, stringent alcohol, clean — the wrong smells of his mouse, but at this moment still grounding to him as he knows it means you’re safe. He breathes you in, steadying his heartbeat so he can anchor you back here to him.

“You’re safe,” he forces out, teeth clenched. “You’re on my ship. Nobody’s touchin’ you ever again. I swear it.”

Behind him, Killer exhales, shaking — relief and guilt tangled together. Kidd doesn’t look back. Not for a second. You scream again, the sound tearing out, but falters—just for a second. Kidd seizes it.

“I’ve got you,” he growls, arms growing tighter around you, pinning you to his chest with crushing certainty. “I fucking got you. No one’s touching you. No one’s taking you. You’re not there anymore.”

Your body is shaking so hard it hurts to hold you. He can feel how light you are. How out of place.

“I’m here,” he repeats, like a vow, a threat to the universe itself. “I’m not letting go.”

Slowly—agonizingly—your resistance weakens. The screams break into sobs. Kidd feels your strength drain out like blood into the deck. Kidd doesn’t let go when you slump against him. He just holds you tighter.

Reader POV 

Warmth. That’s the first thing you register. Arms around you—solid, unyielding. Something real. The shaking won’t stop, but it doesn’t matter as much when you’re being held like this.A voice cuts through the noise. Low. Familiar. Furious in the way that always meant safe.

Kidd.

Your fingers curl weakly into fabric. Into him. Proof you’re not dreaming.The room fades in pieces. Light smears. Sound stretches and warps like it’s underwater. Your chest hurts when you breathe, but the panic is slipping—dragged down, heavy, distant.

You try to say his name. It doesn’t make it past your throat. There’s pressure on your forehead. A steady weight. A promise whispered close enough to feel. You cling to that.

Then the fog rolls in—thick, merciful, quiet— and the world finally lets you rest.

Killer POV

Killer forces himself to breathe. This isn’t the time to feel. He moves automatically, kneeling beside them, eyes scanning with brutal efficiency. You are Shaking. Having a severe panic response. Likely a trauma-induced hallucination. Pulse—fast, erratic. Fever still present. Too high. And then there’s the leg. What’s left of it. The bandages are soaked through. Red. Angry. Infection not fully gone—not yet. You’d been tearing at the skin, nails breaking, reopening wounds that barely had a chance to close. Killer swallows hard behind his mask.

Too late. Again.

He shouldn’t have been the one here when you woke. Should’ve anticipated this. Should’ve— He cuts the thought off. Guilt won’t help you heal.

“She’s crashing,” Killer says quietly, steady, professional. “Adrenaline’s burning out. If she doesn’t sleep now, her body’s gonna force it.”

Kidd doesn’t look at him. He just nods once, jaw locked, arms iron around her trembling form.

Killer reaches in anyway—gentler this time—checking you pupils, your breathing, adjusting the bandage with careful hands. You flinch. Killer freezes.

“I know,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I know. I won’t hurt you.”

But the words feel hollow. Because someone already did. And he wasn’t there to stop it.

“She’ll go under soon,” Killer says, forcing the tremor out of his voice. “Coma. Body’s protecting itself.”

Kidd presses his face into your hair. Killer looks at the scene—the shattered room, the blood on your hands, the way you’re curled instinctively into Kidd like he’s the only solid thing left in the world—and something cold settles in his chest. They were supposed to protect you.

They failed. And whatever took you apart like this? Killer makes a silent promise. It won’t get a second chance.

Kidd POV

Your weight goes slack.

Not limp—just… gone. Like whatever had been holding you upright finally gave up. Kidd tightens his grip automatically, dread punching straight through his ribs.

 “No—” The word barely makes it out, caught somewhere between a growl and a plea.

Killer’s there in a breath, fingers already checking your points– neck, wrist, chest. Calm. Precise. Professional. Everything Kidd is not right now. Everything he needs.

“She’s breathing,” Killer says. “Heart’s steady. She’s just… out. Her body is protecting itself.”

Just.

Kidd presses his forehead to yours anyway, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches. He doesn’t move when Killer gently pries you from his arms, doesn’t argue when you’re settled back onto the bed, bandaged and pale– terrifyingly still.

“She’s alive,” Killer repeats, softer this time. “She needs rest. You dragging yourself apart in here won’t help her.”

Kidd laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

Masterlist

Warnings (overall)- MDNI; 18+ content; Dark themes: Non-con; TRAUMA/language/NSFW; Gore; explicit content; slight Dead Dove; not proof read- first story (please be kind), follows canon One Piece from Kidd Pirate's POV

The next part may take a HOT minute to be posted.... I have- I lost my notebook. 🤦‍♀️😶🤦‍♀️and it kinda has the details for the next chapter.... ANYWAYS! enjoy this 2 chapter update!! 😅🥲

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Kidd finds you where the world threw you away. Broken. Fevered. Alive.

He carries you back to the Victoria Punk and refuses to let you out of his arms — not for the crew, not for the doctoring, not even for sleep. This time, he’s not letting you go. Some rescues aren’t victories. Some are promises.

Kidd POV

Kidd’s boots kicked the door with barely restrained fury. Every second without you was a second too long. He didn’t need Killer to confirm it—he felt your absence like a wound. The trail had led them here, a forgotten corner on the outskirts of The Human Shop’s holdings, quiet except for the occasional scrape of metal and low groan of the other prisoners. Apparently this was where they sent the rejects. 

The door splintered open, and Kidd froze, nostrils flaring. There you were—or what was left of you. Wife #17 as you had been named. His Mouse. Discarded like trash on the floor. The chains clinked faintly as you tried to shift. Kidd’s breath catches in his throat as he stumbles forward, fists tightening, eyes focusing solely on you. Killer stayed back, scanning for movement- calculating, silent, letting his captain lead.

“Y/N… Mouse?” Kidd’s voice was low, guttural, disbelief lacing every syllable. His gaze dropped—and froze. Your leg. The wooden stump was unmistakable, crudely fashioned, yet immovable. His chest tightened as the words clawed at him: someone did this to her.

“She’s alive,” Killer murmured, placing a steadying hand on Kidd’s shoulder. But Kidd barely felt it. The world narrowed down to you. Alive, breathing, wounded—and his.

Without thinking, he dropped to his knees beside you, ignoring the eyes of other captives- guards already incapacitated. “Mouse,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and shaking, “I got you. I’ll get you out of here.” His hands were gentle but firm as he checked your chains and the bindings on your wrists, calculating the quickest way to release you.

Why had they put you in Sea-prism stone? The answer didn’t matter though. Kidd had what mattered.

“You’re safe now,” he said, though it felt like a lie even as the words left his mouth. He could feel you trembling, the shock radiating off you like fire. You looked up at him, eyes wide-glassy, trying to place the familiar in the midst of horror.

“I swear, you’ll never… never be touched like this again,” he growled. Every muscle coiled, ready to tear apart anyone who dared to come near. Killer moved in silently, cutting through the remaining restraints and scanning the area for threats. Kidd’s heart was a storm, part rage, part relief, part guilt that he hadn’t arrived sooner. But the moment was fleeting. You were all that mattered. He lifted you carefully, supporting your weight as you weakly leaned into him. “We’re leaving,” he said, voice steel now, “and nobody’s stopping us.”

The rescue wasn’t clean—the guards must have set off an alarm before becoming invalid. But Kidd’s fury was precise, terrifying. Every strike, every motion was calculated, a blur of vengeance and protection. He delivered swift punishment, justice all while NEVER dropping you. Never again. The world outside reduced to the screaming of marines too foolish to stay out of their way. Kidd didn’t speak. His mind turned like gears with so many thoughts. As the ship neared he decided that for all the darkness you had just endured, he would keep holding on. And if change was required then he would carve a new path with you- together.

By the time they reached the ship, you were tucked safely in Kidd’s arms, Killer your sentry. And Kidd held you. He held on as the crew tried to catch glimpses of you. He held you as Killer cleared the way to his quarters. He held you as the Victoria Punk cut through the waters. He doesn’t bother with the med bay. Anything you need can be done here—on his bed, where he can see you, where he can keep you.

“I need to take a look,” Killer says, stepping in and reaching for you.

Kidd’s grip tightens instantly. A low growl slips free before he can stop it—raw, animal, protective. It doesn’t matter that it’s Killer. Doesn’t matter that he trusts him with his life. You’re here. Back in his arms. And for the first time since you were taken, Kidd can breathe.

Killer pauses, reads the room, then exhales slowly. “Put her on the bed,” he says instead. Reluctantly, Kidd does. He stays close—too close—hovering like he might snatch you back up at any second. Killer works in silence. Quick. Efficient. Professional. He checks your pulse, your breathing, presses two fingers to your neck. Your skin is burning.

“She’s got a fever,” Killer mutters. “High.”

Kidd’s jaw tightens.

Your leg—what’s left of it—is red, swollen. Angry. Infected. Killer doesn’t comment on the nails driven crudely into the stump. He doesn’t need to. Kidd can see them. Every one of them. Each a violent promise for vengeance.

When Killer finally removes the ruined wooden prosthetic, Kidd doesn’t hesitate. “Throw it overboard.”

Killer does.

Splinters. Blood. Rot. Killer cleans everything meticulously, hands steady despite the rage simmering beneath the surface. Antibiotics follow—stolen from the Straw Hats raccoon dog who definitely had more medical sense than most Marines. Bandages, tight and clean.

Through all of it, you don’t flinch.

Kidd sits the moment Killer finishes, pulling you into his lap like instinct alone demands it. He wraps himself around you, arms iron, like if he lets go even a little you’ll disappear again.

“She’s a strong Punk,” Killer says quietly. “Anyone else would’ve died from half of this.”

Kidd barely acknowledges him as he slides behind you, wrapping himself like a shield around you. He already knows how strong you are. You’ve always been too strong. Strong enough to survive things you never should have had to.

But why you?

Why his mouse?

“When will she wake up?” Kidd asks. It’s quiet. Small. Not the voice of a man who commands ships and tears cities apart.

Killer hesitates. “Partner—”

“When.”

Killer meets his eyes. Doesn’t lie. “I don’t know. The fever could break tonight—or it could get worse. The infection was bad. Being clean now helps. The meds help. But right now…” He exhales. “We wait.”

Kidd scoffs. Wait.

Patience has never been Kidd’s strength.

“I’m staying with her,” Kidd says immediately.

“I know.” It’s not impertinent. Not dismissal. It’s Killer’s unwavering awareness of who his partner is.

“You’re in charge.”

“I know.”

Kidd doesn’t look up. “Get us out of here. Anywhere. As far as possible.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Killer turns to leave, stopping only when Kidd speaks again—so quiet it almost doesn’t sound like him at all.

“Kill… we’re not ready for the New World yet, are we?”

Killer doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

He remembers Victoria. He remembers this look. And for a brief moment, Killer doesn’t know what Kidd will do next.

“Then we train,” Kidd says. “Until we can topple a Yonko. Until I can protect her.”

The last words are barely audible. Meant for himself. Killer says nothing. He simply closes the door behind him and starts shouting orders to the crew. The ship moves.

Kidd holds you in the dark, steady quiet, pressing his face into your hair like anchoring himself there will keep you tethered to this world.

“Please don’t leave me, Mouse,” he whispers.

MDNI- Minors Do NOT Interact

Masterlist

Warnings (overall)- MDNI; 18+ content; Dark themes: Non-con; TRAUMA/language/NSFW; Gore; explicit content; slight Dead Dove; not proof read- first story (please be kind), follows canon One Piece from Kidd Pirate's POV

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You stop being a person the moment the iron hit your back. A new name you never chose. Wife Number Seventeen belongs to Saint Charlos now — and tonight he expects what he paid for.

Survival is the only thing that matters. Survive. Endure.

But even broken things can still bite. And the moment you strike a Celestial Dragon, your life changes in ways that can never be undone.

Reader POV

Pain still licks at your back as reality settles into place. Flashes of collars and chains. You are a slave to Saint Charlos. Your name no longer exists. Your freedom no longer exists. You no longer exist.

You were simply, Wife Number Seventeen. 

Your eyes open to unfamiliar faces—women dressed in once-white nightgowns, now dulled by dirt and time. You try to move. Pain flares hot and sharp, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Don’t,” an older woman says gently, stepping closer. “The salve hasn’t fully healed your flesh yet.”

Your gaze drifts. The room is small—barely a bedchamber. Straw mats line the floor, bodies pressed close together. A single narrow window lets in a weak, flickering sliver of light. Every woman wears a collar. Only you wear cuffs.

Sea-prism stone. The teal gleam is unmistakable. Despair settles heavy in your chest as your new existence is explained in careful, softened words. They don’t say everything—but they don’t have to. You understand enough.

Saint Charlos expects to consummate the “marriage” tonight.

Your stomach heaves. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Survive.Just survive.

Hands help you sit up. Help you dress. The gown they give you is sheer, barely a suggestion of fabric. Your back is re-bandaged with practiced care. Their voices are quiet. Their touches kind.

And in their faces, you see it— the pity… and relief. It’s not them tonight.

You are left kneeling before a tall, stately door. Advice echoes in your mind like a prayer spoken too late.

Don’t make noise unless prompted.Don’t touch unless told.Let him do as he pleases.Never cry.

Your body screams at you to run. For a single, foolish moment, you think you might— The door opens. The light beyond the doorway is blinding.

You lower your gaze immediately, just as you were told. The scent hits next—sweet, artificial, sickening. Perfume layered over rot. Feet approach. Slow. Heavy set.

You focus on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

You are not here, you tell yourself. You are somewhere else. You are still on the Victoria Punk. Kidd is yelling. Killer is laughing. The world is loud and alive.

A hand grabs your chin, forcing your face upward. You freeze. Not because you want to—but because every instinct knows resistance here means death.

“Hmm,” Saint Charlos hums, voice high and pleased. “This one’s still breathing properly. Good. Wife Seventeen should last longer than the last one.”

Your thoughts scatter, slipping away like sand through open fingers. You retreat inward, curling around the one thing they cannot take yet.

I will survive.

Even if you have to become something monstrous to do it. Somewhere deep inside your chest—beneath the fear, beneath the pain—something stirs.

Hungry. Cold. Waiting.

And for the first time since the collar snapped shut around your throat, you feel it: Not hope. But the faint promise of violence.

He forces you to the bed, hands clammy as he gropes you. You feel the silky fabric flow across and off your body. You suddenly miss the thin shield of protection, barely if any as it was.  He paws at you mercilessly. You are his slave, for his pleasure. You hold back tears. You do your best to pretend it's Kidd. His hands, his touch. His love. Tears threaten to fall as you try to picture the last time you were with Kidd. His laugh, his voice and embrace. You long for Kidd's brand of power, control, and love. Love that was in every look, touch, glance. 

You succeed somewhat in making yourself believe it's just another night with the captain you love. Until a Clammy sweaty hand grips your cunt. Fingers too pudgy. Too soft. Smells too sweet and stale. Not the rough strength scented of sea brine and oil. 

Everything. Is. WRONG. 

You move on instinct, something beating within you as the Celestial Dragon is moaning in pain the sound like a wounded animal tearing from his throat. For half a heartbeat, the room is silent — stunned, impossible. You had struck a Celestial.

Then the screaming starts.

High, shrill, furious. “GUARDS—!”

You don’t think. You run.

Bare feet slap against marble as you tear through the chamber, vision tunneling, heart trying to claw out of your ribs. You almost make it. Almost reach the door at the end of the hall — freedom or death, you don’t care which.

A gunshot cracks the air. White heat rips through your leg and the world flips sideways. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked from your lungs, the smell of fresh blood filling your nose before the pain even registers. You scream.

Boots thunder toward you. Rough hands seize your arms, dragging you back as blood smears across the pristine floor. You fight until your strength gives out, until the sea‑stone bites and your body goes numb and heavy. As consciousness slips, one thought burns brighter than the rest:

Kidd. Please.

Darkness takes you before you see where they take you, what they do to your leg — but you feel the certainty settle in your bones.

MDNI- Minors Do NOT Interact

Masterlist

Warnings- MDNI; 18+ content; Dark themes: Non-con; TRAUMA/language/NSFW; Gore; explicit content; slight Dead Dove; not proof read- first story (please be kind), follows canon One Piece from Kidd Pirate's POV

This story takes place pre-time skip, basically when we first meet Kidd as a real character on Sabaody and follows him and his crew's journey to Onigashima. Most likely spoilers ahead throughout the story.

You are on the black market ship being taken to Sabaody- where you learn first hand the true horrors that hide behind power. Not gonna lie, it's gonna get dark. Read at your own risk.

Reader POV 

Pain drags you back to consciousness. The familiar creak of a ship rolls beneath you, but something’s wrong — an acrid stench burns your nose. You jolt, instinct screaming, move and metal answers back. Chains rattle. Bite. Dig into your skin.

You gasp, eyes darting as they struggle to adjust to the dark. You aren’t alone. Shapes line the brig — bodies slumped against the walls, breathing shallow, some too still. Different sizes. Different silhouettes. Different races.

“What the fuck…” you whisper.

Movement beside you snaps your attention. A girl shifts, chains clinking softly. In the darkness you can’t tell her age, but her voice is young — too young.

“We’re cargo,” she says flatly.

Your heart stutters. “What do you mean, cargo?” the word sticks like rust in your throat.

“We’re headed to Sabaody,” she replies. “They say it’s a slaver’s paradise.”

Slaves.

The word hollowes you out. Nausea rolls through your gut as you jerk against the restraints, chains screaming in protest. Eyes turn toward you. You don’t care.

“There’s no point,” the girl says. “People tried. They screamed. Then they stopped.”

You force a breath, chest heaving. “Well aren’t you just a bucket of sunshine.”

She snorts — barely — then pulls her knees to her chest, turning away. Conversation over. You keep working the chains until your arms burn and shake, until the fight bleeds out of you. Not giving up. Just… pausing.

“When do the guards come down here?” you ask quietly. “For food. Medical. Anything?”

You feel her eyes on you.

“They don’t,” she says. “They left food.” She nods toward a dark square in the center of the brig. “Once.”

Your stomach flips. “Food?”

“Scraps. Rotting. Whatever they didn’t want.” A beat. “Live or die — they still get paid.”

She turns on her side and goes still. Cargo. Slave. You were a person. You are a person. Just because some spineless bastards got the jump on you doesn’t mean your freedom is forfeit. You stare into the dark, jaw tight.

Kidd was coming. He had to be.

And when you broke free — because you would — the violence you’d unleash would make this ship regret ever taking you.

Hours pass. The fire inside you dims, then gutters.

Not quitting, you think. Resting.

Let Kidd catch up. Let him play hero if he had to. You curl in on yourself, eyes slipping shut. Just a small break.

Hunger claws you out of sleep. It’s sharp. Mean. It twists in your gut until your breath comes shallow and uneven. You stare at the dark pile in the center of the brig, then down at the chains biting into your wrists. You scowl.

Fuck this.

If those bastards wanted to sell you so badly, you’d make damn sure you were worthless.

Time stretched — hours, maybe more. It’s impossible to tell down here. Light barely reaches the brig, just enough to remind you the world still exists somewhere above. You snort softly to yourself, the sound brittle.

Davy Jones’ locker, you think.

Hunger won’t let you sleep, but the stench of bodies — sweat, waste, fear, bile — makes your senses beg for it anyway. You hold out as long as you can. You’re not sure how long that is, only that you hope it’s long enough to be at least a little proud of.

Eventually, your body decides for you.

You shuffle forward on shaking legs, chains dragging against the floor. No one else moves. Whether they’re asleep or simply too weak to care, you don’t know.

The smell changes as you approach the pile. The reek of human filth fades, replaced by something sour — sharp enough to sting your eyes. Tears prick as you grit your teeth and crouch, hands plunging into the heap.

It’s slimy. Squishy. You gag.

Fuzzy rot brushes your fingers. Something collapses wetly beneath your palm. You shove it aside, breathing through your mouth, digging desperately for anything that won’t turn your stomach inside out. Your hands find something firm.

You freeze.

Carefully pulling it free, ignoring the rotten mess sliding down around your ankles. It’s round. Intact. Covered in strange bumps that make your skin crawl.

Not fuzzy. Not slimy. Good enough.

Your nerves scream at you, but your stomach screams louder. You don’t let yourself think. You don’t give yourself time to doubt. You bite.

The texture is ripe — almost pleasant — but the taste is vile. Bitter. Wrong. It coats your tongue and makes your throat seize. You nearly spit it out. Nearly. Hunger wins.

You force it down, swallowing fast, choking on the awful flavor because if this is the least rotten thing in the pile, you don’t want to know what the rest tastes like. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, chest tight. At least you ate.

Your stomach churns violently. You slump back against the wall, chains cold and unforgiving against your skin. The bitter taste still clings to your tongue, sour enough to make your eyes water. Whatever that fruit was, it sits in your gut like lead.

Rotten, you decide.

Your limbs feel heavy. Too heavy. Like the weight of the chains is sinking deeper into you, dragging everything down with them. Breathing takes effort. Even lifting your head feels like work.

Your eyes slide shut.

When they open again, something is wrong. The darkness isn’t whole anymore. Shapes bleed out of it — faint, colorless outlines that make your pulse jump. You blink hard, breath hitching. The brig is still dark, but now you can see the edges of things. The curve of the walls. The slope of the floor. The hunched forms of bodies pressed along the sides.

It’s dim. Muted. Like the world’s been washed in ash. You swallow, heart racing. You don’t remember light coming down here. You squeeze your eyes shut again. When you open them, it’s still there.

Panic prickles under your skin. Your gaze keeps snagging on movement — a shoulder shifting, a chest rising, fingers twitching in sleep. Every tiny motion feels loud, like it’s being shoved directly into your skull. Your head throbs.

The chains feel heavier than before, leeching the strength from your muscles, making your thoughts sluggish and slow. Whatever’s happening to your eyes, it feels wrong. Like your body is doing something without asking you first.

I’m just sick, you tell yourself. Starving. Exhausted.

Your breathing evens out despite yourself, eyelids fluttering. The strange half-light refuses to fade, but your body gives up the fight anyway. Sleep drags you under again.

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Your chains glint in the harsh sunlight, and for a split second, you let your eyes linger. Anything to distract you from what’s happening. Kidd, you better be on your way to rain hell on these fuckers, or so help me…

Your thoughts are shattered as the line of prisoners is yanked forward, harsh hands dragging you toward a new cage stamped with a single word: HUMAN.

Exhaustion that had almost snuffed out your fire flares back to life. You thrash like a cornered animal, every step against the ground feeling like a nail hammered into your coffin. Reality sinks in like a stone dragging you to the bottom of the ocean: Kidd isn’t here. Not yet. And you are being led straight into the slaughter of your freedom. For a heartbeat, you consider it — turning yourself in to the Marines if it meant catching a glimpse of him one last time. Then instinct kicks in. You fight. Bite. Kick. Pull. Every ounce of strength left in your limbs explodes through your body. The chains bite, the metal digs into your skin, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not ever.

Until…Click.

The sound is sharp. Final. The world seems to tilt as your gaze drops to the metal now locked around your throat.

A collar.

Frozen horror roots you in place. Someone—five prisoners ahead—screams and fights back.

There’s no warning. His head explodes.

Blood and bone paint the floor as his body collapses, twitching. No one needs to ask what happened. The collars aren’t decoration. They’re explosives. The fight drains out of you instantly. Your chains are removed. Rough hands shove you forward, through a door, into a new holding corridor. Cells line both walls. One by one, cages open. One by one, prisoners are pulled out.

They all enter the same door at the end of the hall.

None of them return.

Your breathing turns shallow. Ragged. Kidd is not here. Yet. You repeat it like a prayer. A lie you need to survive.

More leave. More disappear.

Kidd’s not here….. yet.

Soon, only a handful of cages remain.

Yours included.

You press your back to the bars, heart pounding, forcing your thoughts to race for solutions that don’t exist. You know it now. When that door opens for you, you’re not coming back.

Voices pull you from the spiral. The guards are whispering—something about a mermaid arriving for auction. A mermaid? Did you hear them right? Fishmen exist, sure—but mermaids are a sailor’s myth.

A door creaks open. Hope flares, sharp and stupid. Maybe it’s Kidd. Maybe he finally found you. Maybe—

The footsteps stop in front of your cell.Your senses blur as panic floods you. Hands grab for you, tugging hard—and then harder. You don’t move. Confusion flickers across the guard’s face. A harsh beep snaps your attention to his hand: A remote.

You don’t know what drives you—instinct, rage, desperation—but you fight. You twist, kick, snarl, even with death sitting snug around your neck. They drag you into the hall.

A kick takes your legs out. Hands swarm. You’re lifted, hauled toward that door.

Kidd, you think desperately.

“KIDD!”

Your scream tears out of you—raw, unfiltered—and then something breaks.

Sound doesn’t just leave your throat. It detonates.

Glass shatters. Windows explode. The air vibrates violently around you as you’re thrown onto a stage beneath blinding lights.

Silence crashes down.

Did… you do that?

The moment costs you. New restraints clamp onto your wrists—teal metal gleaming ominously. The moment they lock, your strength evaporates. Your body goes heavy. Hollow.

Seastone.

You can’t move. Can’t think. Can only exist as the auctioneer’s voice drones on, listing your “qualities” like inventory. Hundreds of eyes burn into you. Not the ones you want.

If I have a Devil Fruit…The thought barely finishes before—

“Sold!”

Reality finally lands.

It doesn’t matter that you’re a Kidd Pirate. It doesn’t matter that you fought. It doesn’t matter who loves you.

Kidd’s not here. And you realize, YOU are nothing here. 

You are simply entertainment. A commodity.

“Sold—to Saint Charlos!”

You’re dragged offstage immediately, shoved to your knees. Boots stop in front of you.You look up. A grotesque man looms, wrapped in silk and arrogance, a glass bubble over his head like the world’s air isn’t worthy of him.

The slap comes fast.

“How dare you look at me, slave!” he shrieks. “I don’t care if you’re to be my seventeenth wife—know your place!”

Your stomach heaves.

Wife?

Hands seize you. Clothes are ripped away. You try to cover yourself— Agony explodes at your neck. You scream, only for another shock to tear through you. A shock collar, your mind supplies numbly. Of course it is. Rage surges—then dies instantly. You know Celestial Dragons. And one of them owns you now.

Running means death. Fighting means death. So you choose the only thing left.

Survive.

Saint Charlos circles you, delighted, obscene. Finally—

“Here.”

You’re forced to your knees, arms strapped to posts. Metal hisses. Something is shoved between your teeth—a bit.

You pull uselessly at restraints as the Celestial giggles behind you.

“Wife seventeen! Wife seventeen!”

Fire erupts across your back. White-hot pain. The smell of burning flesh—your flesh—floods your senses. You scream around the bit as something gives inside you, pressure popping deep in your spine.

“Ugh,” Saint Charlos complains, covering his ears. “Why are all wives like this? That horrid noise hurts!”

Black creeps into your vision.

This time, you don’t fight it, as a doubt grows like a thorn in you. 

(Author’s note: okay! If you don’t like it? Then you may keep your comments to yourself. Just don’t read it. We don’t need negativity!..🥰)

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Short Fuse, Tall Trouble ❤️‍🔥

(Y/N), bless her heart, was vertically challenged. A pint-sized powerhouse, she could take down a sea king with a glare and a well-aimed punch. Her calm demeanor and sharp wit were legendary on the Kid Pirates ship. She wasn't easily flustered, a quality that often left her partner, Eustass Kid, eating his words. Not to mention her beauty, which was only enhanced by her curvy figure, complete with a pair of thighs that could crush a man's skull... metaphorically, of course.

Their relationship was a fiery dance, a constant push and pull of egos and affection. But even the most explosive couples have their breaking points. Kid, in his infinite wisdom, managed to cross that line. The reason? He made fun of her height in front of the crew during a card game. It wasn't just the insult, it was the public humiliation. (Y/N) could handle a joke, but Kid had touched a nerve, a deep-seated insecurity she usually kept buried. So, she decided revenge was a dish best served cold... and hilariously petty.

The next week was hell for Kid. It started subtly. His favorite metal arm-cleaning brush went missing. Then, she started "accidentally" shrinking all his clothes when she did the laundry. His boots were filled with itching powder. His precious weapons were replaced with rubber replicas. He couldn't sit down without a whoopie cushion blasting a rude noise. Kid, being the stubborn pirate he was, refused to apologize. His pride was as big as his ego. But as the days wore on, the pranks escalated. One morning, he woke up to find his hair dyed bright pink. Another time, she replaced his breakfast with a plate of rubbery, flavorless tofu.

Killer, Kid's ever-reliable first mate, watched the chaos unfold with a mixture of amusement and horror. "Just apologize, Kid," he advised, adjusting his mask. "You messed up. (Y/N)'s not one to hold a grudge, but you really pissed her off." Kid scoffed. "Apologize? To her? Never!" But deep down, he missed her. He missed her sarcastic remarks, her calm presence, and, most of all, her touch.

By the third week, Kid was a mess. He was sleep-deprived, itchy, and sporting a terrible pink dye job. He missed her kisses, her cuddles, and the... other privileges that came with being her boyfriend. He was pouty, a sight that would make any self-respecting pirate captain cringe. Finally, his desire overcame his pride. He needed her back. He scoured the island they were docked on, determined to find the perfect apology gift. After hours of searching, he stumbled upon a stall selling bizarre trinkets. Among the dusty shelves, he found it: a plushie. It was a weird, lopsided creature with mismatched eyes and a single, floppy ear. It was hideous, yet somehow... endearing.

This is finally a continuation of a fic I wrote 2 years ago! It's linked in the author's note at the top of this one and both are great but also just fine as read-alones.

They be hella smutty though, so minors DNI!

Please enjoy...

Little Steps...PART 2 (Finally!)

Synopsis: You're determined to slip Eustass Kid a love potion at Sabaody. And with blood magic as powerful as yours, how could you lose?

Word Count: 4.1k

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, HawkinsPiratesCommander! Witch! HawkinsYoungerSibling! Reader, Blood Magic, Blood Ingestion, Canon-Typical Human Trafficking, Suggestive

Notes: Supermassive Automatic by Kick the Robot