#multiple x reader

Blurred sounds scattered across you as you began to wake up. Your eyes were still blurry, so you couldn't make out the figures surrounding you, but they sounded oddly familiar. 

"Guys, shut up. She's awake".

A warmer, much larger hand grabs yours, "Are you alright now, love? You were out for a while, we were all so worried".

The stranger sounded nice, but your vision still hadn’t cleared up enough to figure out who was talking to you, so all you could do was stare blankly at the person holding your hand. 

The room went silent for a while before being interrupted by another man from your left. "I know she's just confused, but I can't lie that face she's making is so adorable". You assumed he was talking about you and a warm blush coated your cheeks. 

"Romance, now is not the time!"

Romance? As in, from the Saja Boys? 

Your vision soon came back, and surrounding you, you could see all five members of the Saja Boys, each staring at you fondly. 

Abby was the one holding your hand. He was sitting on the infirmary bed with you and Jinu. 

Mystery and Romance were on your left.

And Baby was on your right. 

You couldn't help the gasp you let out once you saw them. 

"Am I dreaming?" you accidentally said aloud. 

Jinu lets out a chuckle, "No darling, we are very much real. I could pinch you if you don't believe me. Are you feeling better now?"

You beamed, eyes sparkling with happiness. It almost sounded too good to be true, but still, you went along with it. 

After being trapped in the studio, you assumed you were too late to meet them. and concluded that it was nearly impossible for a group as popular as the Saja Boys to join a company as small as yours. Talking with other idols, especially those of the opposite gender, at things like award shows wasn't forbidden, but it was strange, so today was probably your only opportunity to meet them, and you did.

Albeit in a very unconventional way.

"I'm feeling a lot better now, thank you so much. I'm so happy to meet you guys, I'm such a big fan. But, what are you doing here with me? Shouldn't you be touring the company?" you questioned, finding it odd how they weren't with Jina, but with you.

“You passed out in Abby’s arms, how could we just leave and pretend nothing happened?” Baby spoke up calmly, although his eyes glistened with hints of worry. Your heart warmed at their thoughtfulness. 

According to Hojin and the other staff members, you weren't an important member, so they often ended up forgetting about you. Whenever something happened to you, they told you to just suck it up.

But despite never meeting you, the Saja Boys already cared so much about you. So much that they would wait here in the infirmary with you. 

Suddenly, you were reminded that you had forgotten to introduce yourself.

“Sorry, I forgot to say, I’m (Y/N). I'm a member of Harmoness. It's an honour to meet you”. You bowed your head, mostly in gratitude. If it weren't for them you'd probably still be stuck in the dance studio.

“We know who you are, princess. We did our research before coming here”, Romance teases, getting closer to the bed and putting his arm around your shoulders. You shivered at the close proximity between you. He began to lean closer, slowly closing the distance. By now, your body had frozen in place, your eyes locked into his. His every move was under your impenetrable gaze. You could see his lips coming closer and closer to yours, till they quickly diverted towards your ear. 

You'd be lying if you said you weren't just a bit disappointed.

The feeling of his warm breath and strong grip had your mind in a frenzy. He was so close you could feel the heat radiate off him and smell the sweet, but musky scent of his cologne. 

“Although you should know, princess, most of our information was from one of us,” he began, turning his head to the side. You followed his gaze, being too curious to stay frozen. 

Your mouth hung slightly in shock once your eyes made contact with an awkward-looking Mystery. His feet were shuffling across the ground, and his head was drooped down, almost like he was guilty of something. 

Romance walked away from you, much to your dismay, and came back dragging Mystery, who seemed very unwilling. “Go on, man, you can do it. You've been waiting so long for this moment”.

Mystery refused, shaking his head firmly. Watching the scene unfold was the equivalent of watching someone grow an extra head. You were left utterly confused. Why would Mystery know anything about you? Them doing research before coming here made sense, but out of all the people they got their information from, why was it Mystery? 

Mystery was the cool, mysterious figure of the group, so watching him act like this, so embarrassed, it was honestly so adorable. Perhaps the mysterious, quiet persona he had was just a cover-up for his shy personality.

Romance shook his head in disappointment. “Mystery is a big fan of yours, (Y/N). He's a little too shy to admit it, though”. You blinked slowly, taking in the revolutionary, newfound information. For a moment, you thought you had heard him wrong.

Mystery, a fan?

Of you?

You were surprised that he even knew about you, but being a “big fan”, it just seemed impossible. 

A monotone-like voice perked up, “Ever since you debuted, I've been a fan”. Taking a closer look at Mystery, you could see a red hue crawling up his neck and ears. Just saying that much was too much for him, but he pushed through the embarrassment and continued, slowly coming closer to you. “Honestly, I didn't care about the others, I only liked you”.

Despite how unbelievable it was, it was the truth. Before being recruited by Jinu and becoming one of the Saja Boys, Mystery had been obsessed with you since your debut. His time in the demon world became a lot more bearable once you entered his life. The image of your warm smile burned layers into his brain. He’d seen countless hours of footage of other humans, and despite his very stoic face, he could tell how fake their smiles were, but yours. Yours was carved by angels.

His need to consume human souls almost completely subsided once his hunger was directed towards you.

Although it was a very different type of hunger.

Mystery had become completely infatuated with you, so when Jinu proposed that he join the Saja Boys, he knew this was his way of finally getting to you. 

And now you were finally right in front of him, but all those hours of planning were in vain. He just couldn't find the right words to say. Couldn't figure out how to stand or move right. His heart wouldn't stop beating, and his head wouldn't stop replaying the images from his fantasies. It was all too much at once. He was glad Romance had stepped in to help. 

You sat there, blissfully unaware of the turmoil occurring within Mystery. The other members stared at the both of you in amusement, knowing just how deep Mystery's obsession with you was. When he talked, it was only ever about you. 

And once the members saw you passed out in Abby's arms, they could finally understand him. They could smell the purity radiating off you, and with that, a warm, longing feeling overcame them. They would often tease Mystery for his strange fixation with you, but now they were all just as crazy about you. 

An adorable, child-like giggle interrupted their thoughts. You thought it was silly how someone as talented as Mystery would be a fan of someone like you. He even said he didn't care about the other members, which you found even more amusing. 

Still, it made your heart flutter knowing you were special to him. You looked up at him and smiled even wider, almost laughing at the confused look on Mystery’s face. “Thank you for your support! I never would've thought I'd be saying that kinda thing to someone like you. I figured I was so irrelevant that no one would notice me, but it's crazy how you guys do”, you babble, oblivious to the changing emotions going through the boys.

‘Irrelevant’

The word sent ripples of disgust through them. 

Being the most level-headed of the group, Jinu asked the question that was on everyone’s minds. “Why would you be irrelevant?” 

Maybe it was because you’d just woken up, or the lack of food in your stomach, that you ended up speaking without thinking. “My manager likes to tell me that a lot because I'm the least popular member of Harmoness. But he thinks that that’s a good thing because my looks and vocals aren't very good”. 

Looking around the room, you realized you had chosen the wrong dialogue. You could see each of their faces, drenched in what looked like rage. You couldn't understand what about your sentence made them this angry, but still you apologized. 

“Sorry, I'm just rambling at this point. It's probably cause I'm so hungry, that's probably why I passed out. My manager has me on this really strict diet and I never had breakfast-”.

You quickly stopped yourself, realizing that this definitely wasn't helping the situation.

“I wasn't supposed to tell you that, please just forget everything you heard”. But looking around the room, you knew they wouldn't be able to. How could they, when someone as precious as you was forced to suffer, even just for a minute. It broke their hearts to think about. 

The sound of a door slamming open quickly drew your attention towards it, and you could see Baby running out of the room in a hurry. 

Did you do something to upset him? 

“He's just going to do something real quick, he'll be back,” Abby says, and you nod, still a bit confused. 

You felt a wave of awkwardness enter the room, so you quickly changed the subject. “So, how did you guys find the tour? Are you thinking of joining?” You were very curious to know, praying that they’d at least consider it. Because of their explosive popularity, you knew they'd be treated like gods if they were here.

Jinu spoke up, still looking frustrated. “It was alright, I mean people did keep sucking up to us. Although, Romance and Abby had no complaints about that”. You let out another giggle, yeah, that definitely sounded like them. 

The sweet sound that came out of you had put the boys in a temporary trance. To them, everything you did was adorable.

They didn't bother asking what you thought of the company, already knowing how mistreated you were. It was something Mystery had picked up on from looking at hours of behind-the-scenes footage of you. He’d picked up on your changing behaviour, quick weight loss, and awkward chemistry between your members. 

So after piecing together all the footage, he figured mistreatment was definitely plausible. But still, hearing it from you, seeing you try to hide it. It sickened, not just him, but all of them. 

It was also suspicious the way your ‘leader’, Jina, wasn't too pleased about the idea of helping you. She was confident someone would come find you, but from your screams, they could tell no one had come for hours. How could they just walk away from you? Plus, you seemed a little too attached to Abby’s chest, even refusing to let go once you reached the infirmary. 

Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing Baby holding several kinds of unhealthy-looking junk food. He plopped them down on your lap and looked away nonchalantly, “For you”.

You looked down at the pile, mouth watering at the sight of the buffet of calories. You couldn't remember the last time you had a burger, or even instant noodles. It was definitely too much for you to handle, but you appreciated his efforts. 

“Thank you so much”, you beamed. You were so grateful, not just to Baby, but to all of them. Never in your life had you felt so loved and cared for. 

As if possessed, you began digging into whatever random food you picked up from the pile. You scarfed down one burger for the next, and honestly, you didn't feel ashamed.  It would’ve been rude if you didn't eat the food Baby bought for you, that's the only reason you were eating it, you thought. 

Due to the speed of your consumption, you forgot to chew and ended up choking. You started coughing and looking around the room, in search of a drink. A hand touched your shoulder, and you look up to see Mystery, holding a bottle of water. 

Quickly, you took the drink and gulped it down. Once you were done you exhaled in relief, “You saved me”, you laughed, looking up at Mystery with gratitude. “I've not eaten this much in so long, I must've gotten a bit too excited”.

You turned to Baby, who was on his phone, and asked, “How much was all this? I'll pay you back”. He turned, looking bored, before returning to his phone. 

“The staff gave it to me for free”.

Honestly, you found that hard to believe, but maybe it was because of how famous Baby was. Perhaps they wanted to give a good impression of the company, so they didn’t want him paying. 

The others let out a small smirk, knowing what had really happened out there. He most likely sucked out the souls of some of the staff and took the food for himself. But he wouldn't tell you that. 

The sweet moment was eventually ruined by the sounds of agitated screaming coming from behind the door. “She ruined everything, Manager! I tried to stop them, but they wouldn't listen”.

Everyone, including you, cringed at the sounds of complaint. You prepared for the whirlpool of trouble you were about to receive. 

The door burst open, revealing a pissed, middle-aged man. His gaze locked on you, his mouth wide open, ready to scream at you. That was until he saw the five boys surrounding you, each looking at the manager with a look that could kill. 

Hojin quickly put on a rehearsed smile and came up to ask how you were. You knew it was just an act, something to look better in front of the boys but you still went along with it; you’d done enough to damage his reputation already.

Behind him, you could see your fellow members, glaring at you from the door, but once their eyes made contact with the Saja Boys, they quickly switched up, putting on a perfect smile and even fixing up their hair. The boys responded with a snarl.

“So, boys, I take it you enjoyed the tour,” Hojin remarked, not wanting to focus on you any longer. To him, the Saja Boys were a prize, and he needed to win it. Harmoness had clearly run its course, so maybe he'd have better luck with the Saja boys, he thought. 

None of the boys wanted to answer, especially not to someone like him. All they wanted to do was go back to watching you. Watch you smile. Hear you giggle. And feel the warmth your heart gave out. But they couldn't, not when there were others around.

Jinu, being the leader, was forced to speak up. “It was good, definitely needs some improvements though”.

“Oh, any suggestions?” Hojin questioned, eager to please in any way he could. 

“The dance studio needs to be closer to other people,” he sneered coldly, still not over how you’d been trapped for so long. His heart ached with the thought of you being scared and alone in there.

Hojin laughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say in response. Jina spoke up, coming closer to Jinu, “I'm assuming you're planning on joining our company, I'd love to see you more,” she flirts, getting closer and closer to him. 

During the tour, she was so focused on the members that they barely got anywhere. She also had a nasty habit of showing off whenever she could. Being the most popular member of Harmoness really gave her an ego.

“We'll let you know at the Idol Awards,” Jinu said, backing away from Jina. 

Your head shot up and turned towards Jinu, “You're going to be at the Idol Awards too?” Jinu's eyes went back to yours and immediately softened, feeling you were much easier to be around than these other pesky humans. 

You could see Abby about to respond, but was cut off by Soo-ah. “Doesn't she know anything? They announced this weeks ago”. Each of the boys turned to glare at the maknae, but her attention was too focused on you for her to take notice. 

Abby ignored her and spoke, leaning closer to you. “We'll be at the Idol Awards performing our new song, will you be there for us, love?”

Hojin and the girls looked at each other in confusion. How could you have gotten so close to them already? Jina was especially jealous, wondering how the spotlight was taken by someone as insignificant as you. 

The nickname sent you blushing, and you nodded. “We're also going to perform a new song there, we've been working really hard on it!”

“We can't wait to hear it, darling, but unfortunately, we have to leave now,” Jinu says, and you couldn't help the frown forming on your lips. You felt like you had just met them and wanted to spend more time with them. This is the best moment you've had in years. 

“Don't look too sad, princess, we'll meet again soon,” Romance smirked, and you perked up slightly at the thought. You were glad they wanted to see you, just as much as you wanted to see them. 

“And don't even think about paying me back for the snacks, they're all yours,” Baby chimes, his face showing a ghost of a smirk on it. 

Mystery gave you a shy wave and left along with the others. You were going to miss them. The Idol Awards weren’t that far away, but you had no idea how you were going to recover once they were gone. The mark they left on you stained layers deep. 

Although it definitely motivated you to practice even harder, knowing they were going to be there watching.

Jinu was the last to leave, but not before asking Hojin and the girls to come outside with him, leaving you alone. Thank goodness, you did not want another lecture from anyone right now. 

You started putting the pile of food on the nightstand, but something had caught your eye. On one of the crisp packets, you saw a Post-it note. 

xx-xxxx-xxxx  call me don't text I want to hear your voice ❤ - Baby 

Out of all the things you expected the note to say, it wasn't that. Despite his adorable, nonchalant on-stage persona, Baby was anything but. In person, he often kept to himself, hardly speaking and allowing his looks to do the talking for him. But online, he was the complete opposite. With his appearance hidden, he could speak his mind freely. It’s why Baby is so attached to using his phone.

It had been the reason why he was acting so bored when he was with you. On the outside, it looked as though he hardly cared for you, but on the inside, his heart was blooming with emotions just for you.

You really had no idea just how much these boys loved you. In your mind, you assumed the boys just wanted to be your friend.

What you didn't realize was that the boys weren't interested in being just friends, but so much more. 

But you were going to find that out soon. 

Very soon. 

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a/n - thank you @jellyjellyghost for letting me know how to format korean phone numbers :D

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People often wondered how someone like you, so inherently good and giving, found yourself entangled with a man like Donquixote Doflamingo. He was everything you weren't – a force of nature driven by a chilling cruelty, a man who reveled in the suffering of others, who twisted lives for his own amusement. His laughter, a harsh, cackling sound, often sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest pirates, yet to you, it was merely the echo of a different kind of storm. You saw the broken boy beneath the flamboyant exterior, the scarred past that molded him into the monster he had become. And despite the vast chasm between your natures, a strange, undeniable bond had formed, pulling you deeper into his dangerous, unpredictable world. You were the sun to his moon, the calm to his chaos, a tender hand reaching out to touch the untouchable. But how long could such a fragile connection endure in the tumultuous currents of the New World, especially when one heart beat with boundless love and the other pulsed with unyielding darkness?

You were excellent at seeing. Not just with your eyes, but with your entire being. You saw the flicker of doubt behind a braggart's grin, the tremor in a bully's hand, the silent plea in a hardened criminal's eyes. This wasn't a skill you honed; it was an inherent part of you, a profound capacity for empathy that allowed you to connect with the raw, often hidden, core of another being. And it was this very quality, your boundless compassion, that had first snagged Doflamingo's attention, drawing him in like a moth to a dangerously bright flame.

He remembered the first time he truly saw it, or rather, felt it. It was on some forgotten island, a backwater where his crew had just finished asserting their dominance. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and fear, the usual aftermath of their arrival. Doflamingo was striding through the chaos, a predatory smirk plastered on his face, when he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because you had. You were kneeling by a collapsed stall, not tending to a fallen comrade or assessing damage, but gently stroking the ruffled feathers of a terrified pigeon, murmuring soft, comforting words. A silly, insignificant bird, in the grand scheme of his brutal world, yet you treated it with a tenderness that defied the very atmosphere he cultivated. He watched, utterly perplexed, as you then offered a small, broken piece of bread to the creature, your eyes shining with a pure, unadulterated kindness that seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed armor of indifference.

It was infuriating. It was fascinating. It was, he grudgingly admitted to himself, captivating. Your inherent goodness was a stark contrast to the ugliness he embodied, and for a time, that contrast intrigued him. He found himself drawn to it, to the way your empathy softened the sharp edges of his world, to the bizarre comfort of your compassion, even when he pretended to scorn it. He’d test it, push against it, only to find it unyielding, unwavering. And a strange, possessive feeling began to fester within him – a desire to keep that purity close, to have it reflect back at him, a twisted mirror to his own depravity.

But now, that same boundless empathy, that unending compassion, was a festering wound, a constant, irritating reminder of everything he wasn’t and everything he refused to be. Your ability to see past the facade, to offer understanding where he craved fear, to forgive where he delighted in vengeance, had curdled into a bitter resentment. It was a weakness he couldn't tolerate, a light that burned too brightly in his shadowed existence, threatening to expose the very depths of his cruelty. It was what he loved and loathed, the very essence of you that both bound him and drove him to the brink of fury.

He remembered it like it was yesterday, the memory vivid and biting. It was Baby 5. She’d been careless, as usual, taking a hit during a skirmish that was meant for someone else, her body crumpling in a most un-Doflamingo-like display of vulnerability. The sight of her, pale and bleeding on the grimy deck of their ship, usually elicited nothing more than a disgusted sneer from him. A weakness. A liability.

But then you were there.

You moved with a quiet urgency he found both perplexing and infuriating. Your hands, usually so gentle, were surprisingly steady as you knelt beside Baby 5, ignoring the blood that stained your clothes. Your touch wasn't clinical or detached; it was infused with that damned, unwavering compassion that burned him. You didn't just tend to the wound; you murmured soft reassurances, your voice a soothing balm against the harsh reality of their world. He watched, transfixed, as you pushed strands of hair from Baby 5's tear-streaked face, your eyes filled with an unbearable, soft sorrow for her pain.

He saw the way Baby 5, usually so desperate for validation, melted into your touch, her rigid posture softening, her sobs subsiding into quiet whimpers. You treated her not as a tool, or a subordinate, or a nuisance, but as a person, a fragile being in need of comfort. It was a scene that twisted something cold and hard in his gut. A part of him, the part he brutally suppressed, wanted to reach out, to understand that profound connection you effortlessly forged. But another, larger part, the one that governed his entire existence, raged.

Weakness. That’s all he saw. Your empathy was a gaping hole, a vulnerability he couldn't comprehend, let alone tolerate. It was a stark reminder of the sentimentality he'd long ago excised from his own being, a betrayal of everything he stood for. And in that moment, watching you pour your boundless kindness into someone he considered expendable, the first tendrils of that bitter, simmering hatred began to wrap around his twisted heart. It was a contradiction, a paradox he couldn't reconcile: the very thing that drew him to you, the very thing he secretly craved, was also the most potent source of his disdain.

God, you were the source of his anger, the very wellspring from which his fury flowed. Your existence was a constant, irritating contradiction to his own. It wasn't just your kindness in general, but your courage to openly display empathy and compassion right there, in front of him, that truly set his teeth on edge. It was a defiance, a silent rebellion against the cruel world he'd so painstakingly built around himself. He’d watch you, offering a gentle hand to a whimpering child, speaking softly to a terrified subordinate, or even, once, just gazing with a profound, aching sorrow at the destruction he’d wrought, and a cold, sharp rage would coil in his gut.

He hated you for it. Hated the way your inherent goodness shone, unbidden and untamed, like a defiant sunbeam piercing through his carefully constructed darkness. He hated that you saw beyond the monster, that you refused to cower, that your compassion was so absolute it made his own barren existence feel even colder. It was a mirror reflecting his own twisted soul, showing him everything he'd lost, everything he'd sacrificed, everything he’d brutally suppressed to become the man he was.

Yet, it was the same damned thing that had drawn him to you in the first place. Like a moth to a flame, he'd been inexplicably pulled into your orbit. Your unwavering kindness, your fearless empathy – it was an anomaly he couldn't comprehend, a challenge he couldn't resist. He’d wanted to possess it, perhaps even to corrupt it, to see if he could break that unbreakable spirit. He’d wanted to understand it, to tear apart the enigma of your compassion, to find its weakness, its breaking point. But you never broke. You simply continued to be you, radiating that infuriating, mesmerizing warmth, a constant thorn in his side and a strange, undeniable anchor in his chaotic world. It was a maddening paradox: the thing he despised most about you was also the very thing that had, against all reason, brought him to his knees.

The air in the opulent, yet often chilling, halls of Doflamingo's palace crackled with an unspoken tension. You had been tending to one of his crew, a low-ranking grunt who'd caught a nasty fever, and your quiet ministrations had, as always, drawn Doflamingo's gaze. He watched from the shadows, a familiar knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his chest. Your effortless kindness, your pure, unadulterated compassion – it was a constant affront to his very being, a soft hand gently pressing against the jagged edges of his soul.

When you finally straightened up, he was there, blocking your path. His usual predatory smirk was replaced by something colder, more volatile. "Fufufu... still playing the innocent healer, are we?" His voice was a low growl, laced with a familiar mockery.

You met his gaze, your own eyes unwavering. "Someone needed help, Doffy."

"Help?" he scoffed, taking a step closer, his tall frame looming over yours. "Such a pathetic sentiment. Don't you see, little dove? This world doesn't reward kindness. It devours it. And you... you practically bleed it." His hand, usually so quick to unleash devastating strings, reached out, not to strike, but to brush a lock of hair from your face. The touch was feather-light, yet it felt charged with an unbearable weight. "It infuriates me."

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken truths. You knew what he meant. You always did. Your empathy, the very core of your being, was a constant challenge to his cruel philosophy.

"It infuriates me," he repeated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "how you can look at the ugliness of this world, at me, and still find... something. How you can offer that soft hand, that gentle gaze, when all I've ever known is taking and destroying." His eyes, usually hidden behind his sunglasses, were now piercing, raw, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something akin to vulnerability, a deep-seated confusion that warred with his inherent cruelty. "I hate it."

The words were harsh, blunt, an honest confession of his bitter resentment. And yet, in that moment, the raw honesty of it was almost disarming. You didn't flinch. You didn't argue. You simply stood there, your compassion a silent, unyielding force against his venom.

Then, just as the anger seemed to reach its peak, a different kind of storm brewed in his eyes. His gaze dropped from yours to your lips, a sudden, almost desperate hunger replacing the fury. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, his breath ghosting across your face.

"I hate you for it," he rasped, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn't quite name, "but I can't... I can't stay away."

And then, before you could even process the words, his lips were on yours. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, almost violent in its intensity, a desperate claim. It was the kiss of a man consumed by a maddening contradiction, a torrent of anger and a desperate, undeniable yearning, all tangled up in the paradox of his twisted heart and your unwavering, infuriating kindness. In that kiss, the love and the hatred, the fascination and the revulsion, all collided, binding you to him in a dangerous, undeniable embrace.

The kiss had been a jarring shift, a violent tenderness that left you both reeling. Afterwards, Doflamingo had pulled away, his face a mask of conflict, and stalked off without another word, leaving you alone in the silent, echoing hall. This was the pattern of your relationship with him – intense bursts of raw emotion, followed by a tense, often suffocating silence.

You were his, in his own twisted sense of the word. He introduced you as such, a subtle possessiveness in his tone that brooked no argument. You were a permanent fixture in his life, a strange, soft anomaly in the Donquixote Family’s brutal hierarchy. The crew, hardened by years of Doflamingo's rule, regarded you with a mixture of confusion and cautious respect. They’d witnessed his volatile rages, his chilling indifference, yet you were the one person who could, at times, evoke something else from him – a flicker of something akin to worry, a strange, almost gentle touch, or even a fleeting, unguarded expression that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

For your part, you navigated his volatile nature with a blend of unwavering patience and quiet defiance. You wouldn't change who you were for him, and he, in turn, seemed to begrudgingly accept that. He’d yell, he’d rage, he’d mock your bleeding-heart tendencies, but you would simply meet his tirades with a calm gaze, a soft rebuttal, or even, occasionally, a pointed silence that infuriated him more than any argument. He’d test your compassion, presenting you with situations designed to break your spirit, to force you to acknowledge the "reality" of his world. He’d make you witness acts of cruelty, hoping to see the idealism shatter in your eyes. But it never did. Instead, you'd find small, subversive ways to mitigate the damage, a whispered word of comfort, a hidden act of kindness, an almost imperceptible gesture of solace.

This constant push and pull was the core of your existence together. He thrived on power, on control, on instilling fear. You, on the other hand, sought to soothe, to understand, to alleviate suffering. It was a clash of fundamental forces, a storm and a calm, perpetually locked in a dangerous dance.

There were moments, rare and fleeting, when the "love" part of their relationship, however twisted, would surface. He would watch you as you slept, a strange, almost tender expression softening his usually sharp features. He'd pull you closer during a storm, the rough expanse of his arm a surprising comfort. He'd bring you rare trinkets, not as gifts of affection, but as tokens of possession, yet the act itself held a bizarre, almost endearing sincerity. And you, in turn, found yourself drawn to the wounded boy beneath the tyrannical facade, to the flicker of humanity he so desperately tried to extinguish. You loved him, not for what he was, but for what you believed he could be, for the glimpse of a tortured soul you occasionally saw in his eyes.

But then, just as quickly, the mask would snap back into place. The cruelty would resurface, the mocking laughter would echo, and the cold, hard reality of who Doflamingo truly was would assert itself. And in those moments, the hatred he held for your inherent goodness would flare anew, a constant reminder of the chasm between you. You were his greatest weakness and his most coveted possession, a constant source of both agonizing frustration and undeniable fascination. It was a love built on paradox, sustained by conflict, and perpetually teetering on the brink of beautiful destruction.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violent orange and bruised purple, a fitting backdrop for the paradoxical life you shared with Doflamingo. Years had passed, marked by countless clashes of will, by his bouts of cruel amusement and your unwavering, stubborn kindness. Their relationship wasn't a fairytale, nor was it a conventional romance. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, in the most unlikely of pairings, two vastly different individuals could, against all odds, find a way to make things work.

It wasn't that the toxicity vanished; it simply became a part of the air you breathed, a constant, low hum beneath the surface of your shared existence. Doflamingo still reveled in chaos, still inflicted pain, and still, at times, openly disdained your empathy. You, in turn, never stopped offering comfort, never stopped seeing the lost boy beneath the Celestial Dragon's veneer. But something had shifted, solidified into a bizarre, unspoken agreement.

He had learned, in his own twisted way, to tolerate your goodness. More than that, he had come to rely on it, though he would sooner tear out his own throat than admit it. Your presence was a grounding force, a silent barometer that measured his own volatile temper. When his fury threatened to consume everything, your calm presence, your steady gaze, was often the only thing that could anchor him, if only for a fleeting moment. He might scoff at your compassion, but he knew, deep down, that you were the only one who could truly see him, the only one who didn't fear him unconditionally, and perhaps, the only one who didn't want anything from him other than his flawed self.

And you? You had come to understand that Doflamingo's love was not a soft, gentle thing, but a fierce, possessive grip. It was in the way his hand would linger on your arm for a fraction too long, in the way he'd dismiss a threat against you with a chilling finality, or the almost imperceptible softening of his voice when you were truly distressed. You accepted that his world was one of shadows and blood, and you chose to illuminate your own small corner of it, a quiet defiance that he, surprisingly, came to respect. You weren't changing him, not fundamentally, but you were undeniably influencing him, softening the edges of his brutal regime in ways no one else ever could.

Their life together was a constant tightrope walk, a delicate balance between destruction and a strange, profound connection. There were no grand declarations of love, no idyllic moments under starry skies. Instead, it was in the shared silences, in the way he'd instinctively reach for your hand during a tense standoff, in the fierce protectiveness he unconsciously displayed. You were the quiet anchor to his storm, the gentle touch to his hardened cruelty, and in that complex interplay, you found your own unconventional version of forever.

The world might call your relationship toxic, and perhaps it was. But in the volatile, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line, you and Doflamingo had forged a bond that, against all logic, endured. It was a love born of contradiction, sustained by unwavering acceptance, and ultimately, a testament to the fact that even the most disparate souls could find a way to fit, imperfectly but inextricably, together.

CROCODILE ❀.ೃ࿔*

Where kindness meet cruelty (2,431)

You always saw the good in people, even when no one else did. Your heart was an open book, filled with empathy and a boundless capacity for kindness. You were the one who'd offer a comforting embrace to a weeping stranger, whispering words of encouragement until their tears subsided. Sacrificing your own well-being for another's happiness was simply second nature to you, a quiet act of devotion that defined who you were. In a world often steeped in cynicism, you were a beacon of unwavering compassion, a gentle soul whose presence brought warmth to even the coldest corners.

And then there was Crocodile. Your lover, and the jarring counterpoint to your own gentle nature. Where you offered solace, he dispensed harsh truths. Where you sought understanding, he wielded anger like a weapon. He was the shifting sands of a desert storm, unpredictable and unforgiving, a stark contrast to your own steady, calming presence. You, the compassionate secretary of the Cross Guild, found yourself drawn to the very man who embodied everything you weren't. It was a paradox, a love story etched in opposing shades, and yet, it was undeniably yours.

The docks of Nanohana were a chaotic symphony of shouts, creaking wood, and the salty tang of the sea. A young street urchin, no older than ten, stumbled, sending a cascade of oranges tumbling from their overloaded basket. The fruit rolled across the cobblestones, some squashed underfoot by hurried passersby. The child's lip trembled, tears welling in their eyes, a whimper escaping their throat.

You, ever the first to react, were already moving. Your steps were swift and light as you knelt beside the distraught child. "Oh, you poor thing," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm amidst the din. You began to gather the remaining oranges, carefully brushing off the dirt before placing them back in the basket. "It's alright, we'll get these picked up. Don't you worry." You even pulled a small, pristine handkerchief from your pocket, gently dabbing at the child's tear-streaked face. You'd likely offer to buy them a new batch of oranges, or at the very least, share some of your own rations. You wouldn't just fix the problem; you'd mend the child's spirit.

Meanwhile, Crocodile would observe the scene from a short distance, a scowl deepening on his scarred face. His eyes, sharp and calculating, would assess the situation not with pity, but with a cold, almost detached analysis. He wouldn't lift a finger to help. Instead, he'd bark, "Get up, you sniveling brat! Crying won't put those oranges back in the basket. Learn to hold onto your belongings, or you'll starve." He might even kick a stray orange further away, not out of maliciousness, but as a twisted form of tough love, a brutal lesson in self-reliance. For him, the child's misfortune wasn't an opportunity for kindness, but a chance for a harsh, unforgettable lesson about the unforgiving nature of the world. He'd tell you later that coddling only bred weakness, that true strength came from enduring hardship alone.

The docks incident was a stark, undeniable fissure in their shared reality. It was a clear line drawn in the sand, illustrating precisely where your unwavering empathy diverged from Crocodile's unyielding pragmatism. You'd spent the rest of that afternoon ensuring the child was truly alright, even managing to convince a local vendor to give them a few extra oranges, while Crocodile watched, his arms crossed, a silent, disapproving observer.

Yet, despite these glaring differences, you made it work. It wasn't always easy, and there were countless silent battles fought in the space between your intertwined fingers. But moments of unexpected tenderness, like scattered desert blooms, punctuated their harsh landscape.

You remember one particularly rough night in Alabasta, the wind howling like a banshee through the desert, whipping sand against their temporary shelter. You were shivering, despite the worn blanket wrapped tightly around you. Crocodile, ever alert, seemed to sense your discomfort without a word passing between them. He didn't offer a platitude, or even a direct question. Instead, he simply shifted closer, his large frame radiating a surprising amount of warmth. He draped his own heavy cloak over your shoulders, its rough fabric a stark contrast to the softness of his subtle gesture. He never acknowledged it, never mentioned it the next day, but the quiet act spoke volumes. It was in these small, unspoken gestures that his version of affection manifested—a protective instinct, a silent acknowledgment of your presence and comfort, even if it was buried beneath layers of gruffness.

Another time, after a particularly grueling Cross Guild meeting, you found yourself overwhelmed by the endless paperwork and the constant tension that simmered between the members. You were slumped over your desk, a headache throbbing behind your eyes. Crocodile entered, a cloud of cigar smoke preceding him. He usually had a biting comment or a new demand. But that day, he simply pulled up a chair opposite you. He didn't speak. He just sat there, meticulously cleaning his hook, the rhythmic scrape of metal against leather the only sound in the room. You didn't realize how much you needed that quiet, undemanding presence until he was there. It wasn't comfort in the traditional sense, but it was his comfort—a shared silence that somehow eased the pressure in your head and the weight on your shoulders. It was in these moments that you truly understood how deeply intertwined your lives had become, a testament to a bond forged not in similarity, but in the acceptance of profound differences.

The quiet moments, the ones where the world's chaos faded into the background, became the bedrock of your relationship. You learned to read the subtle shifts in Crocodile's demeanor, the slight tightening around his eyes that signaled a flicker of concern, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his jaw when he genuinely approved of something you'd done. And he, in his own gruff way, came to rely on your presence, on the gentle order you brought to the tumultuous operations of the Cross Guild, and perhaps, to his own turbulent mind.

You often found yourself sifting through stacks of bounty posters in his office, organizing the chaos of wanted criminals and their ever-increasing prices. He'd be hunched over his own desk, a plume of cigar smoke curling around his head, ostensibly engrossed in a map or a strategy document. But you knew he was aware of your every movement, the soft rustle of paper, the quiet hum you sometimes made when you were deeply focused. He’d never admit it, but your steady, calming presence was a quiet anchor in his storm-tossed life.

One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows of their temporary headquarters. Rain lashed down in sheets, and the wind howled like a hungry beast. The power flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness before sputtering back to life. You jumped, startled, a small gasp escaping your lips. Crocodile, who had been observing the storm with an almost casual indifference, turned his head. He didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than usual. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reached out and flicked a switch on a small, oil-burning lantern he kept on his desk, its warm, steady glow pushing back against the encroaching shadows. It was a simple act, yet it spoke volumes. It was his way of saying, "I'm here. You're safe."

You smiled then, a soft, genuine smile that reached your eyes. He didn't return it, of course, but you saw the briefest flicker in his own, a hint of something unreadable, perhaps even content. In that shared, silent moment, amidst the raging storm and the world's cruel indifference, you knew, unequivocally, that your contrasting souls had found an unlikely, yet unbreakable, harmony. You were the light, he was the shadow, and together, you cast a unique silhouette against the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line.

Crocodile would never admit it, not even to himself, but your relentless kindness was a persistent, inconvenient anomaly in his carefully constructed world of cynicism. He viewed emotions as weaknesses, vulnerabilities to be exploited, yet your boundless empathy chipped away at his hardened resolve in ways he couldn't comprehend, let alone control. It was like a constant, gentle pressure against a rock, slowly, imperceptibly eroding its sharp edges.

He'd often scoff at your bleeding-heart tendencies, muttering about sentimentality being a burden in the Grand Line. He'd witness you offering a stray dog a portion of your own meal, or patiently listening to a tearful merchant lamenting their losses, and a muscle in his jaw would tick. It wasn't anger, not precisely. It was… disquiet. Your actions defied his every belief about survival, about the ruthless efficiency required to thrive in a world that devoured the weak.

One blistering afternoon in Alabasta, you both found yourselves navigating the dusty streets of a small desert town, en route to a discreet meeting. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the distant sound of a bazaar. As you passed a narrow alley, a faint, mewling sound caught your ear. Tucked away in the shadows, a tiny kitten, no bigger than your palm, lay curled on the grimy sand, its fur matted, its ribs starkly visible. It was shivering, despite the heat.

Without a moment's hesitation, you knelt, extending a gentle hand. The kitten, wary, flattened itself further, but you remained still, your voice a soft, reassuring murmur. "Hey there, little one," you cooed, your fingers slowly, carefully reaching out to stroke its head. It flinched, then, surprisingly, leaned into your touch, letting out a weak purr.

Crocodile stopped, his shadow falling over you both. He watched, his golden eyes narrowed, a mixture of disdain and something unreadable in their depths. He half-expected you to leave it, to continue on your way. Instead, you carefully scooped up the trembling creature, cradling it against your chest.

"We can't just leave it, Crocodile," you said, your voice quiet but firm, not even looking at him as you began to gently clean the kitten's matted fur with a damp cloth you always carried. "It's starving. It won't last the night."

He let out a low, exasperated grunt. "It's a stray, Y/N. This isn't a charity mission. We have business." His words were sharp, cutting, but you noticed he didn't move to stop you. He merely stood there, a formidable, unyielding presence, observing your tender ministrations.

You didn't argue. You simply continued to comfort the kitten, your fingers stroking its tiny head until its purrs grew stronger. You knew he wouldn't outright forbid it, not when you looked at him with that earnest, unwavering gaze. He'd grouse, he'd mock, but he wouldn't force you to abandon it.

Later, back at your temporary lodgings, you found a small, chipped bowl on the floor, filled with water and a few scraps of dried meat. The kitten, now somewhat revived, was cautiously lapping at the water. Crocodile was nowhere to be seen, but the message was clear. He hadn't asked about the kitten, hadn't acknowledged its presence beyond his initial protests. Yet, the bowl was there, a silent, grudging concession to your persistent heart. It was a vexing, illogical feeling for him, this involuntary response to your empathy. He understood power, control, ambition. But your quiet, unwavering kindness? That was an enigma he was still, against his will, trying to decipher.

Years passed, measured not by calendars, but by the relentless pursuit of power, the fleeting alliances, and the dust of countless islands. The Cross Guild grew, its influence spreading like a desert storm, and through it all, you remained at Crocodile's side, the unwavering constant in his tumultuous existence. The kitten, long grown into a sleek, healthy cat, often curled on your desk, a silent, furry testament to that long-ago moment in Alabasta and to Crocodile's begrudging, unspoken tolerance.

He never softened, not in the way one might expect. The scowl rarely left his face, his words remained sharp, and his ambition burned as fiercely as ever. But something shifted. The exasperated grunts became less frequent, the cynical remarks sometimes carried a faint, almost imperceptible hint of dry amusement. He still chastised you for your "naiveté," but the bite in his voice was tempered by a strange, almost possessive undertone.

It was during a tense standoff with a rival crew on a remote, rain-swept island. A young, inexperienced crew member, overwhelmed by the sudden violence, froze, directly in the path of an incoming attack. Your eyes widened in alarm, and without thinking, you moved. Not to fight, but to push the young man out of harm's way, leaving yourself momentarily exposed.

Time seemed to slow. Crocodile, already engaged with the opposing captain, saw it all. His golden eyes, usually cold and calculating, flashed with something akin to raw, visceral panic. For a fraction of a second, his guard wavered, a dangerous lapse. But before he could curse, before he could intervene, you had already completed your selfless act, tumbling to the ground with the crew member, both of you narrowly avoiding a devastating blow.

The fight raged on, but the brief, unguarded look on Crocodile's face spoke volumes. It was not anger at your recklessness, not disdain for your perceived weakness. It was a fleeting, terrifying glimpse of fear – fear for you.

Later, when the dust settled and the enemy lay defeated, you stood a little shaken, but unharmed. Crocodile approached, his cloak billowing around him, a silent, imposing figure. He didn't ask if you were hurt. He didn't offer praise. He simply reached out, his hook glinting, and with surprising gentleness, he nudged a stray strand of hair from your face. His eyes, devoid of their usual malice, met yours. For a long moment, an eternity in their complex dynamic, there was no anger, no judgment, only a quiet, profound understanding.

He might never articulate it, but in that silent gesture, in the way he allowed your kindness to exist unfettered in his brutal world, was his ultimate acceptance. You were the anomaly, the inconvenient truth, the softest edge to his sharpest ambition. You were the one who saw the flickering good in a heart he insisted was barren. And perhaps, in a way he would never acknowledge, you were the only one who could truly anchor the shifting sands of Sir Crocodile. You were his balance, his contradiction, and his most fiercely, silently guarded treasure. Their story wasn't one of change, but of profound, unwavering acceptance of each other's unchanging, contrasting natures.

KATAKURI 𐙚 ˚🍰 ⋆

The flutter and the stone (2,593 words)

A warmth emanated from you, a silent, comforting glow that drew people in like moths to a flame. You were the kind of soul who’d offer a gentle hand to someone stumbling, not just to pick them up, but to steady them until they found their footing again. Sacrifice wasn’t a foreign concept to you; it was a quiet understanding, a willingness to put another’s well-being above your own, even if it meant hardship for yourself. You were truly one of the best, a beacon of empathy in a world that often felt devoid of it.

But then there was Katakuri. He was a stark contrast to your vibrant spirit, a calm and serious presence, his emotions carefully guarded behind an impenetrable facade. An arranged engagement by Big Mom herself had sealed your fate, weaving your compassionate nature into the fabric of his stoic world. Now, you found yourself living alongside him on Whole Cake Island, the sweet, saccharine air a strange accompaniment to the quiet, almost detached reality you shared. You, a soul brimming with kindness, and he, a man of unwavering composure, were bound together in an intricate dance orchestrated by a Yonko.

He'd expected a hindrance, a constant, buzzing annoyance orchestrated by his mother. That's what most of these arranged marriages were: a liability, a weakness he'd have to account for. He'd envisioned someone fragile, prone to tears and dramatics, clinging to him for protection, constantly seeking attention he had no desire to give. He'd braced himself for endless chatter, for a person who would disrupt the rigid order he'd meticulously crafted in his life. The idea of sharing his space, his very existence, with someone so utterly out of sync with his own stoic nature had been, frankly, irritating. He’d prepared for the worst, for a constant drain on his already limited patience, a shadow of inconvenience following him everywhere.

But you… you were different. You were a quiet warmth, not a demanding heat. You didn't cling; you simply existed, a gentle presence that somehow softened the edges of his perpetually sharp world. The "endless chatter" he'd anticipated never materialized. Instead, you offered thoughtful observations, quiet support, or sometimes, just a comfortable silence. He’d found you, more than once, tending to a wounded crewmate with a tenderness that made even the gruffest pirates soften. You'd share your meals, offer comfort without being asked, and your eyes held a depth of understanding that surprised him. You didn't demand his attention, but your quiet acts of kindness drew it anyway.

You didn't just shine; you fluttered. You were a vibrant, living thing, a soft current of light that seemed to effortlessly navigate the harsh realities of Whole Cake Island. He found himself, against his better judgment, observing you. How you'd hum a soft tune while organizing supplies, how your laughter, soft and genuine, could cut through the usual cacophony of the island. He’d catch himself, on rare occasions, feeling a faint, unfamiliar stir in his chest when you’d offer a gentle smile his way. He'd expected a burden, a heavy weight to bear. What he got was… something akin to light. A light he hadn't known he needed, but now, he found himself, in his own silent way, watching, almost waiting, for its gentle, steady glow.

You had an uncanny knack for anticipating needs, a quiet magic that hummed beneath your gentle demeanor. Katakuri would find his favorite tea brewed just so in the mornings, a small, thoughtful gesture. Or, on days he was particularly swamped, he'd discover a meticulously packed lunch waiting for him – often including those subtly sweet mochi he favored, even though you’d never seen him eat them openly. It wasn't just for him, though. Your kindness was a boundless well. You'd often prepare extra portions, enough for his siblings, even a specially made sweet for Big Mom herself, always left in a place where it would be easily found, without any fanfare or expectation of thanks. You simply did.

One sweltering afternoon, a sudden, torrential downpour erupted over Whole Cake Island. Katakuri had been in a particularly intense training session, his usual stoicism even more pronounced as he pushed himself. He’d barely paused for breath, let alone considered the oppressive heat or the sudden chill the rain brought. His siblings, too, were scattered across the sprawling complex, many caught off guard by the unexpected shift in weather.

As he finally wrapped up, Mochi sticking to his skin from the exertion, he started towards his usual post. But when he arrived, there was a small, steaming cup waiting. Not just for him, but several, strategically placed for others who would soon be arriving. It was a ginger-lemon tea, perfectly warm, with a subtle sweetness that cut through the humidity and offered a comforting heat against the sudden dampness. Beside it, a stack of freshly folded, dry towels.

You weren't there, of course. You never were, not to receive praise or acknowledgment. But the faint scent of ginger and lemon lingered, a silent testament to your presence, your unwavering thoughtfulness. Katakuri picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into his calloused hands. He took a slow sip, and for a fleeting moment, a faint, almost imperceptible easing of his perpetually tense shoulders could be observed. You just… knew. And you acted, a quiet force of nature, making the world around you a little bit softer, a little bit kinder, without ever being asked.

You continued to weave your quiet magic into the fabric of Whole Cake Island life, a gentle counterpoint to its often chaotic rhythms. Katakuri, for his part, found himself in uncharted territory. He was accustomed to calculating, to predicting, to controlling. But you, with your unassuming kindness and innate ability to simply be, defied all his expectations. He couldn't quite categorize you, couldn't fit you into any of his established frameworks. It was unsettling, yet… not entirely unpleasant.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of territory patrols and dealing with a new batch of unruly subordinates, Katakuri returned to his private quarters. The air was heavy, the usual tension in his shoulders even more pronounced. He expected the familiar silence, the solitary decompression he always sought. Instead, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminated the room, and the scent of freshly brewed herbal tea, a blend he recognized as one that aided relaxation, wafted gently towards him.

You were there, of course, perched on a plush cushion, a book open in your lap. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, usually bright with warmth, holding a quiet understanding. You didn't speak, didn't offer effusive greetings or pointed questions about his day. You simply gestured to the steaming mug on his small table, then to another cushion opposite you.

He hesitated for a moment, an almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd never truly shared this space with anyone, not in this way. But the subtle invitation, devoid of any demand, was strangely compelling. He settled onto the cushion, his imposing form making the furniture seem almost fragile. He picked up the mug, the warmth a welcome contrast to the cold calculation that had dominated his day.

You returned to your book, yet your presence was anything but distant. It was a comfortable, silent companionship, a soothing balm to the weary edges of his mind. He found himself, for the first time in a long time, truly relaxing. The tension in his jaw eased, his shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. He didn't know what to call this feeling, this quiet sense of calm that settled over him. But as he sipped his tea, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you read, a thought, foreign and unexpected, drifted through his mind: perhaps this arranged marriage wasn't a burden after all. Perhaps it was… something else entirely. Something he was only just beginning to understand.

The silent tea-drinking evenings became a quiet ritual, a comfortable pause in the ceaseless rhythm of Whole Cake Island. Katakuri found himself anticipating them, the subtle shift in his mood almost imperceptible even to him. He’d never craved companionship, never sought it out, but your presence was different. It wasn’t a demand, but an invitation, a soft echo that resonated within his usually unyielding self.

The little interactions began to accumulate, tiny threads weaving a tapestry of connection. One blustery morning, you found him meticulously patching a tear in his scarf, a rare moment of vulnerability in his otherwise flawless exterior. You didn’t comment, didn’t pry, but simply offered a spool of stronger thread from your own sewing kit. He grunted in acknowledgment, a sound that in anyone else might have been dismissive, but from him, it was a quiet acceptance. Later, he noticed the mend was virtually invisible, stronger than before.

Another time, during a particularly chaotic family meeting, a flurry of paper charts went tumbling, scattering across the floor. Before anyone else could react, you were already gathering them, your movements swift and efficient, organizing them back into their proper order without a single word of complaint or even a look for approval. Katakuri, observing from the corner, found a flicker of something akin to admiration stir within him. You weren’t just kind; you were competent, resourceful, and utterly unassuming in your helpfulness.

He even started to notice your preferences. The way you always took your tea with a dash of honey, not sugar. The quiet smile that played on your lips when you managed to coax a wilting plant back to life. He’d find himself leaving a small, perfectly ripe fruit on your table, or ensuring a particularly comfortable blanket was draped over your favored reading chair. These were not grand gestures, not yet. They were quiet acknowledgments, a recognition of your unique presence, and a subtle, almost unconscious desire to contribute to your comfort, just as you so readily contributed to the comfort of everyone around you.

This wasn't just an arranged marriage anymore. The rigid lines of their initial agreement were blurring, softening with each shared silence, each unspoken understanding. It was becoming something else, something real and unexpected. A quiet, blossoming partnership rooted not in duty, but in a burgeoning, unfamiliar warmth.

The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but Katakuri himself. His siblings, accustomed to his imposing, unyielding presence, might have noticed a slight softening around his eyes when you were near, a less rigid set to his shoulders. But for him, it was a profound internal reordering. The quiet comfort you brought wasn't just a pleasant diversion; it was becoming an essential anchor in his turbulent world.

One afternoon, a squall of minor, yet persistent, issues arose across the island. A supply shipment was delayed, a kitchen pipe burst, and two of his younger siblings were squabbling over a prized confection. Katakuri moved with his usual efficiency, dispatching orders, making calls, his mind a whirl of solutions. Yet, a low thrum of irritation persisted beneath his calm exterior. He found himself, almost unconsciously, seeking you out.

You were in the vast, labyrinthine library, meticulously cataloging old maps. The scent of aged paper and faint cinnamon clung to the air around you. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, as always, holding a quiet, welcoming light. You didn't ask what was wrong, didn't demand explanations. Instead, you simply offered a small, freshly baked cookie from a plate beside you. "They just came out of the oven," you said softly, a gentle invitation in your voice.

He took it, the warm, slightly crisp cookie a surprising comfort in his large hand. He ate it in two bites, the familiar sweetness a momentary balm. He then, to his own surprise, found himself recounting the day's minor frustrations, not in detail, but in a series of clipped, gruff sentences. You listened, truly listened, your gaze unwavering, a silent well of understanding. You didn't offer advice, didn't try to fix anything. You just were.

And in that quiet acceptance, the knot of irritation in his chest began to loosen. The problems hadn't vanished, but his perspective on them had shifted. He felt a quiet sense of calm, a subtle centering that he hadn't realized he craved until you provided it. When he finally rose to leave, the silence between you wasn't empty; it was full, a testament to the unspoken bond that was solidifying between you. He paused at the door, turning his head slightly. "Thank you," he rumbled, the words rough but sincere. It was a rare, almost unprecedented admission from him, a testament to how deeply your quiet presence had begun to affect him. The arranged marriage had indeed become something else entirely. It was becoming a haven.

The "thank you" had been a tremor, a subtle shift in the carefully constructed facade Katakuri presented to the world. For you, it was a confirmation, a quiet acknowledgment that the seed of connection you had diligently, patiently sown was beginning to take root. You didn't press, didn't exploit the rare moment of vulnerability. You simply offered a small, gentle smile, a warmth that resonated with the burgeoning shift within him.

The silent tea rituals evolved. Sometimes, you would softly read aloud from your book, your voice a calm murmur against the backdrop of the bustling island. Katakuri, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, would often find himself listening, the words weaving through the usual strategic calculations in his mind. He even began to notice the stories you favored – tales of quiet heroism, of small acts of courage, of unexpected tenderness in harsh worlds. These were the stories that mirrored the silent strength he was coming to see in you.

One particularly stormy night, the type of tempest that rattled the very foundations of Whole Cake Chateau, the power flickered and died. The usual emergency lights clicked on, but the vast, opulent halls felt eerily dark and unsettling. Katakuri, ever vigilant, was already moving to check on security and his siblings. As he passed his quarters, however, a soft light caught his eye.

You were there, not with a flashlight, but with a collection of small, flickering candles, strategically placed to cast a warm, comforting glow. You were not fearful, not flustered. Instead, you were humming a soft tune, carefully placing more candles, your movements calm and deliberate. When he entered, you simply looked up, your eyes reflecting the candlelight, making them seem even brighter.

"It's easier to see," you murmured, "and… it's warmer."

He stood there for a moment, the usual tension in his shoulders finally loosening. The storm raged outside, the world felt chaotic, but in this small pocket of warmth and soft light, with you, there was an inexplicable sense of peace. He found himself, for the first time, simply existing in your presence, without needing to calculate, without needing to guard.

He sat on his usual cushion, and for the first time, you leaned in, gently resting your head against his arm as you continued your quiet work with the candles. He didn't flinch, didn't stiffen. Instead, a warmth, far deeper than the flickering candlelight, spread through him. It was a warmth that settled into his very core, chasing away the lingering chill of the storm and the ever-present weight of his duties. This wasn't just an arranged marriage, a duty to be performed. This was… home. And in that quiet, candlelit room, surrounded by the soft flutter of your presence, Katakuri, the unbreakable warrior, finally understood. This was real. And against all odds, it was beautiful.

BUGGY THE CLOWN ༘⋆𖦹 🎪 🎈

The Compassionate Heart and the Clowns Love (2,145 words)

The salt-laced wind whipped your (Y/N)'s hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. You were a beacon of kindness in a world often consumed by chaos and cruelty. Where others saw danger, you sought understanding. Where despair festered, you offered a comforting hand. You were the one who'd sit with someone through their darkest hours, patiently listening, offering words of encouragement, and lifting them back onto their feet. The thought of sacrificing your own well-being for another's safety wasn't a burden; it was simply who you were. You were a good soul, pure and unwavering, a testament to the best of humanity.

And then there was Buggy. He stood beside you on the ship's deck, his signature red nose twitching slightly in the breeze. He was a whirlwind of contradictions, a walking, talking paradox to your own serene nature. Where you were selfless, he was self-serving. Where you were gentle, he was… well, he was Buggy. Loud, theatrical, and prone to dramatic outbursts, he was the kind of person who'd trip over his own feet and then blame the ship for moving. He was undeniably chaotic, a clashing cymbal to your quiet melody. Yet, he was your best friend, a bond forged in the crucible of shared adventures and countless debates. What you didn't know, however, was that beneath all his bluster and clownish antics, Buggy held a secret close to his heart – a fervent, almost obsessive adoration for you. You, the kindest soul he’d ever met, the person who made his chaotic world just a little bit brighter.

You'd often find yourself tending to the small, potted tangerine tree you kept on deck, a splash of vibrant green against the endless blue. Each leaf was carefully inspected, every nascent fruit admired with a quiet joy. Buggy, ever the lurker, would pretend to be polishing his cannons nearby, his gaze, however, was fixed on you. He’d watch as your fingers, so gentle and sure, brushed away a stray speck of dust or tested the soil's moisture. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh would escape his lips as he saw the soft, contented smile that graced your face. "What a weirdo," he’d grumble to himself, but the words lacked any real bite. Instead, a familiar warmth would spread through his chest, a feeling he refused to name but cherished all the same.

One blustery afternoon, a new recruit, still green and seasick, stumbled against the mast, dropping a tray of freshly baked bread. The loaves, a rare and cherished treat, scattered across the grimy deck. The recruit's face crumpled, tears welling in their eyes, anticipating a harsh reprimand. Before Buggy could unleash one of his famously theatrical tirades, you were there. You knelt, not to scold, but to gather the ruined bread, your voice a soothing balm. "It's alright," you murmured, your hand gently resting on the recruit's shaking shoulder. "Accidents happen. We'll just bake more." You even managed a small, reassuring smile, and the recruit's tears slowly subsided. Buggy, his mouth agape, watched the entire exchange. His planned tirade died on his tongue, replaced by a strange, almost painful ache in his chest. He'd never seen anyone react with such pure, unadulterated compassion. It was in moments like these, witnessing your boundless empathy, that Buggy felt himself tumbling further, irrevocably, in love with you.

You knew Buggy's temper was as short as his stature, and often as explosive as his Buggy Balls. There were countless times his face would contort into a mask of fury, his voice rising to a theatrical roar, usually over something trivial like a misplaced map or a particularly unflattering comment about his nose. Most of the crew would scatter, wisely giving him a wide berth. But not you.

One sweltering afternoon, a clumsy crewmate tripped, sending a precarious stack of Buggy's meticulously polished cannonballs clattering across the deck. The sound of metallic chaos was immediately followed by Buggy's indignant shriek. "You imbecile! Do you know how long it takes to buff these beauties?! They're practically jewels! I'll chop you into a hundred pieces and feed you to the Sea Kings!" His body began to separate, his disembodied hands already twitching with menace.

The poor crewmate, pale and trembling, braced for impact. But then, a calm, steady hand rested on Buggy's arm. It was yours. "Buggy," you said softly, your voice cutting through his enraged bellow like a soothing breeze. "It was an accident. Look, no real harm done. We can gather them up, and I'll even help you polish them again. We have plenty of time."

Buggy's separated limbs paused, his furious eyes blinking. He looked from the scattered cannonballs to your gentle face, then back again. His anger, so quickly ignited, seemed to deflate under your unwavering calm. He let out a dramatic huff, reassembling himself with a flourish. "Hmph! Fine! But only because you asked, (Y/N)! And you'd better polish them until they gleam like my magnificent nose!" He still grumbled, but the genuine threat had vanished, replaced by a theatrical show of lingering annoyance. You simply smiled, already kneeling to pick up the cannonballs, and Buggy, despite himself, found his heart doing a strange little flutter.

Another time, during a particularly frustrating negotiation with a shady merchant, Buggy found himself completely outmaneuvered, his grand plans unraveling before his very eyes. He'd stormed back to the ship, red-faced and fuming, kicking at anything that dared to be in his path. He paced the deck, muttering curses and slamming his fist into his palm. "That conniving weasel! How dare he! He'll regret this! I'll send a Buggy Bomb right through his wretched shop!"

The crew kept their distance, knowing better than to interrupt a Buggy tantrum. You, however, approached him, a mug of steaming tea in your hands. "Buggy," you said, offering it to him. "You look like you could use this."

He glared at the mug, then at you. "What do I need tea for, (Y/N)?! I need revenge! I need to show that miserable flea who he's messing with!"

You gently pressed the warm mug into his hands. "Sometimes," you said, your voice soft and understanding, "a moment of calm can help you think clearer. Besides, you're the greatest captain on the Grand Line. You'll figure out a way to get what you want, without resorting to blowing up perfectly good shops."

Buggy stared at the tea, then at your encouraging expression. The rigid tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, almost imperceptibly. He took a hesitant sip of the tea, then another. He still looked disgruntled, but the wild anger in his eyes had softened into a frustrated pout. "Hmph. Fine," he mumbled, taking another gulp of tea. "But I'm still getting my revenge. Just… after this." He never did end up blowing up the shop that day. And as he watched you walk away, a faint, almost imperceptible blush crept onto his painted cheeks. Every time you treated him with such quiet understanding, such unwavering belief, he felt a pull, a warmth that had nothing to do with the Grand Line's sun, and everything to do with you. He was, completely, hopelessly, madly in love.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. A gentle breeze rustled the ship's sails, carrying the scent of salt and adventure. You were sitting by the railing, gazing at the glittering expanse of the sea, a quiet contentment settling over you.

Buggy, however, was a whirlwind of nervous energy. He paced the deck, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the fading light. His mind was a battlefield, warring between his usual theatrical bluster and a sudden, crippling shyness. He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head, each version more dramatic and magnificent than the last. But now, with you so close, so calm and effortlessly kind, all his carefully constructed speeches dissolved into a jumbled mess.

He stopped abruptly, facing away from you, his hands clenched at his sides. "Y-Y-You know, (Y/N)!" he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I'm the greatest pirate captain on the Grand Line! The magnificent Buggy! No one can compare to my genius, my charisma, my... my incredible nose!" He gestured wildly to his face, but his usual confidence was noticeably absent.

You turned, a small, amused smile playing on your lips. "Of course, Buggy," you said, your voice soft and patient. "No one doubts your magnificent qualities."

His shoulders sagged slightly at your gentle tone. This wasn't going as planned. He spun around, his face a dramatic mask of internal turmoil, his cheeks a surprising shade of crimson beneath his make-up. "B-But... but there's something else! Something... something even more magnificent than my incredible powers and my vast treasure!" He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting to yours, then quickly away. "It's... it's you! You're... you're the most amazing, kindest, most infuriatingly selfless person I've ever met! You make my heart feel all... all weird and tingly! Like a hundred tiny explosions going off at once!"

He finally looked at you, his normally boastful eyes wide with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. "I... I think I'm in love with you, (Y/N)! Madly, completely, utterly in love!" The words tumbled out in a rush, leaving him breathless. He stood there, frozen, waiting for your reaction, his painted smile feeling incredibly stiff. The silence stretched, filled only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull, and the frantic pounding of Buggy's own heart.

The silence that followed Buggy's confession hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the ship. Buggy, for once in his life, was utterly still, his eyes wide and vulnerable, fixed on your face. He braced himself for a laugh, a bewildered stare, anything but what came next.

A soft, genuine smile bloomed on your face, a warmth that seemed to banish the last vestiges of twilight from the deck. You stepped closer, your hand gently reaching out to touch his arm. "Buggy," you said, your voice a calm, steady melody that quieted the frantic beating of his heart. "You really are something else."

His breath hitched, and he stared at you, waiting.

You chuckled softly, a sound that sent a strange, delightful shiver down his spine. "Those 'weird and tingly' feelings? I get them too, with you." Your gaze, so open and honest, met his, and he felt a jolt, like a tiny electric current passing between you. "And yes, Buggy. A thousand times yes."

Buggy's jaw dropped. His eyes, usually so expressive in their theatrical fury, were now wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "Y-Y-You... you mean it?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're... you're not just being kind?"

You laughed again, a fuller, more joyful sound this time. "No, Buggy," you affirmed, your grip on his arm firm and reassuring. "I'm not just being kind. I really do feel something for you. All of you. Even your magnificent nose." You squeezed his arm gently, your eyes sparkling with affection.

A colossal grin, wider and more genuine than any of his usual theatrical displays, spread across Buggy's face. He let out a whoop of pure delight, so loud it probably echoed across the silent ocean. In a flash of spontaneous joy, he found himself doing something utterly uncharacteristic: he pulled you into a surprisingly gentle, yet firm, hug. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and for a moment, the notorious Pirate Captain Buggy, the loud and bombastic clown, was simply Buggy, a man completely, blissfully, and truly in love.

The news spread through the crew like wildfire. Initially, there were whispers, then outright disbelief. "Captain Buggy? In love? With (Y/N)?" But as days turned into weeks, the evidence was undeniable. Buggy, while still prone to his dramatic outbursts, seemed to have a new spring in his step. His threats of dismemberment were often softened by a glance in your direction, and he'd even been caught, on more than one occasion, looking at you with an expression so ridiculously fond it made the crewmates snicker.

You, meanwhile, remained your steadfast, compassionate self, but now there was an added layer of warmth, a quiet joy that resonated with Buggy's newfound, if still chaotic, happiness. You'd still calm his tantrums, still offer gentle guidance, but now, there was an unspoken understanding, a shared tenderness that had blossomed between the kindest soul on the Grand Line and its most theatrical pirate captain. Their journey continued, but now, it was a journey shared, two vastly different individuals sailing under the same flag, bound by a love as unexpected and vibrant as the Grand Line itself.

ROB LUCCI 𓇢𓆸

Kind Soul, Cold Hearted Love (2,158)

A salty breeze ruffled your hair, carrying the scent of the sea and distant islands. It was a familiar comfort, one that always managed to soothe the edges of your heart, no matter the turmoil within. And there was often turmoil. Not from your own spirit, which was a wellspring of empathy and unwavering support, but from the stark contrast of the world around you, and more acutely, the man by your side.

You, dear soul, were a beacon of warmth in a world often shrouded in shadow. You were the soft hand that cradled a weeping friend, the gentle voice that whispered encouragement when hope seemed lost, the unwavering presence that offered solace even at the cost of your own comfort. You would readily throw yourself into harm's way for a stranger, your kindness an almost tangible force, a quiet strength that made you truly one of a kind. You loved with a fierce, unconditional devotion, and that love was currently anchored to a man who embodied everything you weren't.

Rob Lucci. His presence was as cool and unyielding as the deepest ocean, his gaze often distant, calculated. He moved with a predatory grace, his actions driven by a harsh, singular vision of “justice” that frequently left collateral damage in its wake. There was an edge to him, a contained aggression that simmered beneath his composed exterior, a coldness that could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest marine. You were a vibrant bloom, and he, a jagged, beautiful shard of ice. How could two such disparate souls find their way to each other? And more importantly, how could a heart as open as yours navigate the guarded complexities of his? This was the story of your love, a testament to the fact that even the coldest hearts can be touched by the purest kindness, and perhaps, even find a strange, unsettling warmth.

It wasn't a grand, sweeping gesture that drew Rob Lucci to you, but rather a slow, insidious erosion of his carefully constructed indifference. He had always seen the world in stark black and white, good and evil, with himself as the unwavering instrument of the latter's eradication. Emotion was a weakness, compassion a luxury he could not afford in his pursuit of "Absolute Justice." Yet, you, with your boundless capacity for kindness, began to chip away at that hardened resolve.

He first observed it during a mission – a tense standoff in a bustling port town. A stray shot had sent a wooden crate tumbling, threatening to crush a small, frightened child. Before anyone else could react, before even he, with his heightened senses and lightning reflexes, could fully process the danger, you were there. You didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. You simply threw yourself forward, shielding the child with your own body as the heavy wood splintered against your back. A gasp rippled through the crowd, quickly followed by a collective sigh of relief. You, however, merely offered a wobbly smile to the child, brushing dust from their hair as if nothing untoward had happened.

Lucci, perched silently on a rooftop, had watched it all, his eyes narrowed. He processed the data: illogical, inefficient, entirely self-sacrificing for no strategic gain. And yet... the genuine relief on the child's face, the murmurs of gratitude from the onlookers, the soft, unburdened light in your eyes. It was utterly alien to his understanding of the world.

Later, he found you tending to a wounded Marine soldier, your brow furrowed with concern as you carefully bandaged his arm. The soldier, usually gruff and stoic, was speaking softly to you, a rare vulnerability in his voice. You listened, truly listened, offering quiet words of comfort that seemed to possess a strange, healing quality. Lucci felt a peculiar flicker in his own chest, an unfamiliar sensation. He dismissed it as an anomaly, a momentary distraction.

But the anomalies continued. You were always there, a quiet presence of solace amidst the chaos. You offered a drink of water to a tired guard, shared your meager rations with a hungry street urchin, even risked admonishment to gently correct a superior who was being unnecessarily harsh to a subordinate. Each act, small and seemingly insignificant, was a direct contradiction to the ruthless efficiency he embodied.

He started finding excuses to be near you. Not overtly, of course. He would be "observing" a sector you were in, or "analyzing" the crowd near your position. He'd catch glimpses of you, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious, but always radiating that same unwavering warmth. He noticed the way people gravitated towards you, drawn by your innate goodness. He saw how even hardened criminals, when faced with your unvarnished compassion, would sometimes falter, a flicker of something human crossing their eyes.

One evening, under the pale glow of a distant moon, you found him alone, perched on a deserted dock, Hattori nestled on his shoulder. You didn't question his solitude or his presence. Instead, you simply sat a respectful distance away, drawing your knees to your chest, and looked out at the tranquil water. After a long silence, you spoke, your voice soft as the lapping waves. "Sometimes," you murmured, "even the strongest need a moment to just... be."

He didn't reply, didn't even turn his head. But Hattori, his ever-present companion, ruffled his feathers and cooed, a soft, approving sound. You didn't press him, just continued to sit, a silent, comforting presence. It was in that quiet, unassuming moment, amidst the salty air and the vast, indifferent ocean, that something shifted within Rob Lucci. It wasn't a sudden burst of emotion, but a slow, almost imperceptible thaw around the edges of his frozen heart. He didn't understand it, couldn't categorize it, but he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wanted you near. He wanted that inexplicable warmth to continue to exist in his desolate world, even if he couldn't yet comprehend why. And that, for a man like Rob Lucci, was the beginning of everything.

The stark contrast between you and Lucci was a chasm you, in your boundless optimism, barely perceived. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes, the almost imperceptible softening of his posture when you were near, and mistook it for burgeoning tenderness. You were a creature of pure, unadulterated light, and to you, everyone possessed a spark of that same light, even if it was buried deep. Lucci, however, saw the truth with chilling clarity. He was a predator, a tool forged in the fires of ruthless efficiency, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he didn't deserve your softness.

He'd watch you sometimes, when you thought he wasn't looking. You'd be helping a junior agent untangle a complicated knot, your brow furrowed in concentration, a gentle smile playing on your lips when they finally succeeded. Or you'd hum softly to yourself while mending a torn piece of equipment, your movements deliberate and caring. You saw worth in everything, from the smallest insect to the most hardened criminal. Your compassion was a balm that seemed to soothe the raw edges of the world, and it infuriated him, even as it drew him in.

He’d tested it, subtly at first. He'd purposely use a harsher tone with a subordinate in your presence, expecting your gentle rebuke, perhaps even a look of disapproval. Instead, you'd simply offer a quiet suggestion for a more efficient, less confrontational approach, your gaze unwavering, devoid of judgment. It was like trying to chip away at a cloud with a hammer; your kindness simply absorbed the impact, leaving him bewildered.

There was one incident that truly solidified his internal conflict. A subordinate, terrified of Lucci's notoriously short temper, had botched a critical task, leading to a minor but irritating setback. Lucci's gaze had sharpened, his usual calm replaced by a cold fury that promised severe repercussions. The subordinate visibly trembled, bracing for the inevitable. You, however, had stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on the man's arm.

"It was an honest mistake, Lucci," you'd said, your voice surprisingly firm, "and easily remedied. Perhaps if we approach it from this angle..." You then calmly outlined a solution, one that was both effective and avoided any further humiliation for the blundering agent. Lucci had simply stared at you, his internal algorithms struggling to process this anomaly. You had, without even realizing it, diffused a volatile situation, protected someone from his wrath, and offered a better path forward – all with a simple, genuine act of kindness. He'd dismissed the subordinate with a terse nod, but his eyes remained fixed on you, a strange mix of grudging admiration and self-loathing swirling within their depths.

He knew he was cold. He knew he was aggressive. He had seen the fear in people’s eyes when he entered a room, the way they instinctively recoiled from his presence. And he had accepted it, even cultivated it, as a necessary shield in his brutal world. But you… you saw past the shield. You saw something he himself barely recognized, a glimmer of humanity he had long since suppressed. And the terrifying part was, your gentle touch was starting to make him feel it too. He didn’t deserve it. He was a monster, a weapon, and you were everything good and pure. The thought of tainting you, of dragging you into his darkness, was a stark reality he grappled with every waking moment. Yet, the thought of letting you go, of existing in a world without your unwavering light, was far more unbearable.

The quiet moments became more frequent, the unspoken understanding between you and Lucci deepening with each passing day. Your love didn't burst forth like a supernova; instead, it bloomed slowly, like a desert flower coaxed open by persistent, gentle rain. It was built on the small, almost imperceptible acts of kindness you showered upon him, acts that, to anyone else, might seem trivial, but to Lucci, were profound in their foreignness.

He'd often find a small, meticulously folded napkin tucked into his coat pocket, a fresh fruit or a precisely cut piece of meat wrapped inside – a quiet acknowledgment of his often forgotten meals amidst the chaos of his duties. You never made a show of it, never asked if he’d eaten it. You simply left it, a silent offering of care that gnawed at the edges of his rigid self-sufficiency.

There was the time he'd returned from a particularly brutal mission, his clothes torn and stained, his usual impassive demeanor betraying a hint of weariness. You didn't question, didn't pry. Instead, you simply set out a basin of warm water and a clean cloth, and without a word, began to gently tend to a superficial cut on his arm. Your touch was feather-light, your gaze soft and unwavering. He'd stood there, utterly still, a strange vulnerability washing over him as your fingers, so utterly unlike his own calloused ones, cleaned and bandaged his wound. He couldn't remember anyone ever tending to him with such tender care.

You also had an uncanny knack for anticipating his needs, even before he recognized them himself. If he’d been hunched over mission reports for hours, a slight tension in his shoulders, you’d appear with a steaming mug of tea, or a quiet suggestion for a brief walk. You never demanded, never insisted. It was always a gentle offer, a soft invitation to ease the burden he so stubbornly carried. He'd find himself accepting these small gestures, a foreign warmth spreading through him each time, even as his logical mind struggled to reconcile it with the cold, hard reality of his existence.

One evening, after a particularly grueling assignment, he found you waiting for him in his dimly lit quarters. You weren't imposing or loud; you were simply there, a quiet anchor in his turbulent world. You had a book in your hands, not reading, but simply holding it, your presence a soft counterpoint to the harsh silence. When he entered, you merely offered a small, knowing smile. You knew he needed to decompress, to shed the day's brutality, and you instinctively understood that your quiet, non-demanding presence was exactly what he needed. He didn't speak, nor did you. He simply sat, and for the first time in a long time, the ever-present tension in his jaw began to ease.

These small, constant acts of profound kindness, delivered without expectation or judgment, began to chip away at the fortress he had built around his heart. He saw the world through your eyes, if only for fleeting moments, and in those moments, it didn't seem so bleak, so entirely unforgiving. He knew he was undeserving of such grace, that his darkness could easily eclipse your light. Yet, the thought of your unwavering goodness, of your gentle touch, had become a silent, undeniable craving. He wasn't sure what this unfamiliar feeling was, but every fiber of his being now yearned for the quiet solace you brought.

KID જ⁀➴

Kind Soul, Ruthless Pirate (2,040 words)

The salty spray of the Grand Line was a familiar kiss on your cheek, the chaotic symphony of the waves a lullaby you’d grown to love. You were, by all accounts, a beacon of warmth in a world often consumed by darkness. If someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand; if tears fell, your shoulder was a ready haven. You’d sacrifice your own comfort, even your safety, without a second thought if it meant easing another's burden. Your heart, a vast and boundless ocean of kindness, was truly one of the greatest treasures on these seas.

And then there was Eustass Kid. The man who stood at the helm of the Kid Pirates, his crimson coat a stark contrast to your gentle spirit. He was a supernova, a name whispered with a mixture of fear and awe. Cruel, aggressive, and utterly ruthless, he was everything you weren’t. The world often wondered how someone like you could ever find solace, let alone love, with a man like him. Yet, beneath the clanging metal and the fiery glares, there was a different kind of connection—a silent understanding that defied logic. You were the calm to his storm, the quiet anchor that kept him from drifting too far into the abyss. It was a bizarre, beautiful dance, and somehow, it worked. You loved him, and in his own fiercely protective way, he loved you too.

The scent of ozone always clung to Kid, a mix of his devil fruit and the sheer force of his presence. You’d often find yourself unconsciously leaning into it, even when he was grumbling about some perceived slight from Killer or the stupidity of a Marine patrol. One afternoon, you were patching up Heat's torn jacket, a task you'd taken on countless times for the crew. The needle was finicky, and you let out a soft sigh of frustration. Without a word, a large, calloused hand, usually reserved for crushing metal or enemies, reached over and deftly threaded the needle for you. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but the small gesture, the unexpected tenderness in his rough movements, spoke volumes.

Later, as the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, you sat on the ship's railing, watching the endless expanse of the sea. Kid, usually pacing or shouting orders, found his way beside you. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the railing, his arm brushing yours. The silence between you two was never awkward, but comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding. You traced patterns on the weathered wood, and then, almost imperceptibly, his pinky finger hooked around yours, a silent anchor in the vastness of the ocean. He'd never admit to such a soft gesture, but you felt the gentle pressure, a quiet affirmation of his presence.

And then there were the nights after a particularly brutal encounter, when the ship was still humming with the aftermath of battle. You’d be tending to the wounded, your hands steady and soft, your voice a soothing balm. Kid, covered in grime and dried blood, would always find you. He wouldn't ask for help, or even acknowledge your efforts directly. Instead, he’d simply plant himself nearby, leaning against a bulkhead, his good eye fixed on you. Sometimes, he’d just watch, a silent, almost possessive vigil. Other times, he’d gruffly shove a mug of hot tea into your hands, or a piece of scavenged fruit, his way of making sure you were taken care of, even as he was still dripping with the fight. Those were the moments that reminded you, and everyone on the crew, that beneath the rage and the metal, there was a fierce, unwavering devotion that only you could truly see.

You knew the signs. The clenching of his jaw, the subtle tremor in his metal arm, the way his voice would drop, becoming a dangerous rumble just before the explosion. It usually started with a trivial insult from a rival captain, a faulty navigational chart, or even just a particularly stubborn knot in a rope. Whatever it was, when Kid's temper flared, the entire crew braced themselves. But you didn't brace; you moved.

One blustery afternoon, a smaller pirate crew dared to challenge Kid's authority, their captain spewing arrogant taunts across the choppy waves. Kid’s hand immediately shot to his hilt, his muscles coiling, the air around him crackling with suppressed magnetism. Before he could make a move, you were there, your hand gently but firmly placed on his bicep. Your touch was like a cool stream against hot iron.

"Kid," you said, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the rising tension. Your eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the raw fury in his gaze softened, just for you. "They're not worth it. Let them learn their lesson another day, in a way that doesn't stain your coat." You offered a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head. He glared at the retreating ship, his chest still heaving, but he didn't move. He simply growled, a low, frustrated sound, and the crew collectively exhaled.

Later, after a particularly brutal clash with a Marine patrol, Kid was pacing the deck, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He was muttering darkly, kicking at stray debris, his good eye gleaming with a restless energy that bordered on destructive. The crew gave him a wide berth, understanding the danger. You, however, approached without hesitation.

"You're going to wear a hole in the deck," you remarked, a hint of playful exasperation in your tone.

He stopped, turning his furious gaze on you. "They almost got Killer! And they dared to call us rabid dogs!"

You walked closer, reaching up to gently cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble. His skin was warm, flushed with anger. "And you showed them they were wrong, didn't you?" you soothed, your voice a calm melody. "You protected your crew, like always. You were incredible out there." You could feel the tension slowly drain from his body under your touch. He leaned into your palm almost imperceptibly, his rage slowly dissipating into a simmering warmth. He wouldn't admit it, but your praise, your unwavering belief in him, was the only thing that could truly rein him in.

There were countless other moments, small and significant. A whispered word when he was about to rip someone’s head off for a minor infraction, a steadying hand on his arm when his temper threatened to consume him. You were his anchor, his quiet strength, the one person who could calm the raging storm that was Eustass Kid. And in return, he was fiercely, undeniably yours.

Life on the Grand Line, even with your calming presence, was relentlessly harsh. There were days the storms were less about the weather and more about the weariness that settled deep in your bones. After a particularly harrowing escape from a tenacious Marine Vice Admiral, the entire crew was exhausted, you most of all. You’d spent hours tending to the wounded, your energy completely drained.

You finally collapsed onto a coil of rope, too tired to even make it to your hammock. The salt-laced wind was biting, and you shivered, pulling your worn jacket tighter. Just as you were about to drift into a restless sleep, a large, heavy mass was draped over you. It was Kid’s signature crimson coat, still smelling faintly of ozone and his unique, metallic scent. You opened your eyes to see him standing over you, his back to the railing, seemingly engrossed in the churning waves. He didn't say a word, didn't even look at you, but the warmth of his coat was immediate and comforting, a silent acknowledgment of your fatigue. It was a gesture so unlike his usual aggressive demeanor that it spoke volumes.

Another time, a small, intricate wooden bird carving you'd been working on for weeks—a gift for a tiny, shy islander you’d befriended—slipped from your grasp during a sudden lurch of the ship. It skittered across the deck, heading straight for the churning sea. Your heart leaped into your throat. Before you could even react, Kid's metal arm shot out with lightning speed, snatching the delicate carving mere inches from the edge.

He retrieved it, his fingers, usually so destructive, surprisingly gentle as he held the tiny bird. He squinted at it, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his eye, before he simply placed it back in your hand. He didn’t comment on your relief, didn't tease you for your clumsiness. He just averted his gaze, as if catching himself in a moment of unexpected tenderness. The crew who witnessed it pretended not to see, a silent testament to the rarity of such a display from their captain.

And then there were the nights when nightmares, remnants of past dangers or the ever-present threats of the sea, would steal your peace. You’d wake with a gasp, heart pounding, the phantom chill of a near-death experience clinging to you. You’d try to calm yourself, but sometimes the fear was too overwhelming. It was during one such night that you felt the gentle dip in the hammock beside yours, and then, a warm, heavy weight settle over your hand. Kid, ever the light sleeper, had noticed your distress. He didn't speak, didn't try to comfort you with words. Instead, he simply stayed there, his large hand enveloping yours, his presence a silent, immovable anchor against the tide of your fears. In those moments, his rough exterior melted away, revealing the unwavering support of the man who, despite all odds, was undeniably there for you.

Their relationship wasn't a grand, sweeping romance, filled with dramatic declarations or public displays of affection. It was built in the small, almost imperceptible moments that stitched their vastly different worlds together.

You often found yourself sketching, capturing the fleeting beauty of the Grand Line on whatever scrap paper you could find. One lazy afternoon, while you were engrossed in drawing a particularly striking sunset, Kid approached. Instead of his usual booming voice, he merely grunted, pulling up a barrel to sit beside you. You braced yourself for a critique, perhaps even a sarcastic jab about your "childish hobbies." Instead, he simply watched, his single eye surprisingly intent on your work. When you finished, he reached out, not to grab, but to gently tap the drawing with a metal finger. "Good," he grunted, a rare, genuine compliment. It was a small word, but from Kid, it felt like a symphony.

Food was another surprising avenue for their connection. While Kid was a notoriously unpicky eater, devouring anything put in front of him with aggressive efficiency, you knew his quiet preferences. If there was a specific, less common fruit scavenged from an island, you'd make sure a portion was always set aside for him, even if it meant foregoing your own. He'd never acknowledge it with words, but you'd catch him sometimes, a fleeting glance in your direction, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of thanks as he devoured his share.

One chilly evening, after a particularly rough storm, you were bundled up on deck, shivering despite your layers. Kid, who rarely seemed affected by the elements, walked by, then paused. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with two steaming mugs of heavily sweetened tea, a rarity on the ship. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours, a silent warmth passing between you. He then settled down beside you, not too close, but close enough that the heat radiating from his large frame offered extra comfort. You drank your tea in comfortable silence, the quiet companionship a testament to the deep, unspoken affection that thrived between you both.

These were the moments that defined your love for Kid: the unexpected acts of consideration, the silent understandings, the unwavering presence. You were his gentle compass in the storm, and he, in his own gruff, powerful way, was your steadfast anchor. It was a love forged not in commonality, but in the profound acceptance of each other's contrasting natures, a testament to the idea that even the fiercest of flames could find solace in the kindest of breezes.

BARTOLOMEO ༉‧₊˚.

Gentle Soul, Boisterous fanboy. (1,925 words)

A soft breeze ruffled your hair as you looked out over the sparkling expanse of the Grand Line. You were a gentle soul, known across islands not for grand feats of strength, but for the quiet power of your compassion. When someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand. When tears fell, your embrace was a comforting harbor. You'd willingly stand in harm's way if it meant another's safety, a quiet guardian in a chaotic world.

And then there was Bartolomeo. Your Barty. He was… different. Where you were a gentle ripple, he was a crashing wave, all boisterous declarations and unwavering devotion, particularly when it came to the Straw Hats. His love for Luffy and his crew was a force of nature, often expressed with a protective snarl towards anyone who dared disrespect his idols. He was loud, he was brash, and sometimes, he was absolutely infuriating. Yet, beneath the thorny exterior of the Straw Hat fanboy, you knew there was a fierce loyalty and a heart, however uniquely expressed, that beat just for you. It was a strange harmony, your quiet grace and his roaring passion, but somehow, it worked.

The first time Bartolomeo saw you gently coaxing a frightened stray dog out from under a market stall with soft whispers and a piece of your lunch, he stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been in the middle of a rather loud, one-sided argument with a street vendor who’d dared to suggest "Straw Hat Luffy was just a pirate." His own booming voice had faltered, his eyes fixed on your serene face as the dog, tail wagging, licked your outstretched hand. He felt a strange lurch in his chest, something entirely unfamiliar to the usual surge of fanboy rage.

"Oi, what're you doing with that mutt?" he'd gruffed later, sidling up to you as you shared your water with the now calm animal.

You’d simply smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "He was scared, Bartolomeo. He just needed a little kindness."

He'd grunted, shuffling his feet. Kindness wasn't exactly in his usual repertoire, especially not towards a mangy street dog. But watching you, it seemed… right. Later that day, you found a surprisingly fresh, if slightly squashed, fish left discreetly beside the dog you’d befriended. You knew exactly who it was from, even if he'd never admit it.

One blustery afternoon, a new recruit to Bartolomeo's crew, overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated chaos that often followed in the wake of the Straw Hat Fan Club, broke down. He was curled up in a corner, sobbing quietly, convinced he wasn't cut out for pirate life. Bartolomeo, for all his bluster, looked genuinely perplexed, his usual bravado deflating slightly. He just stood there, hands on his hips, completely unsure how to handle a crying man.

You, on the other hand, moved without hesitation. You knelt beside the man, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "It's alright," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm. "It's a lot to take in at first, isn't it? But you're stronger than you think. We're all here to help each other."

You stayed with him, talking softly, until his sobs subsided and he looked up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Bartolomeo, watching from a distance, felt that familiar, strange lurch again. You had a way of seeing past the surface, of finding the vulnerable core that he, with all his walls and his loud exterior, often missed. He might not have understood how you did it, but he knew he was endlessly grateful that you did.

The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the screech of gulls as your small ship, the Kind Heart, bobbed gently on the waves. Bartolomeo, as usual, was perched on the figurehead – a surprisingly well-carved depiction of a smiling sheep – his green hair whipping in the wind. He was excitedly pointing towards a hazy island on the horizon, a place rumored to hold a legendary, incredibly rare type of cola that even the Straw Hats hadn't tasted.

"Y/N! Look! That's gotta be it! The Isle of Fizz! I can just imagine how stoked Boss Luffy will be when I tell him I found cola even he's never had!" Bartolomeo's voice boomed across the deck, his enthusiasm infectious despite its volume.

You chuckled, adjusting the worn map in your hands. "The legends also say it's guarded by some rather… enthusiastic creatures, Barty."

He scoffed, slamming a fist into his chest, a green barrier momentarily flickering around it. "Hmph! What kind of weaklings could stand against the great Bartolomeo?!"

You smiled softly. His confidence, though often over the top, was also strangely reassuring. You knew that beneath the bravado, he would always have your back.

As you drew closer to the island, the lush green foliage gave way to towering, oddly shaped rock formations that seemed to bubble and fizz at their peaks. The air grew sweeter, carrying a faint, almost sugary aroma. Suddenly, a volley of sticky, brown projectiles rained down on your ship.

"Cola bombs!" Bartolomeo roared, deflecting the sticky globs with his Barrier-Barrier Fruit. "See, Y/N? I told you there'd be a challenge!" He actually seemed thrilled.

You, however, were more concerned about the creatures launching the attack. They were small, furry beings with large, bulging eyes and what appeared to be miniature cola bottles attached to their backs. They chittered and screeched, their tiny hands furiously squeezing more cola bombs.

"They seem more scared than aggressive," you observed, noticing how they retreated slightly whenever Bartolomeo's barrier appeared. "Maybe we should try talking to them?"

Bartolomeo stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "Talking? To fizzy furballs that are trying to glue us to the deck?"

"Well, fighting them doesn't seem to be getting us any closer to the cola, does it?" you pointed out gently.

With a dramatic sigh and a roll of his eyes, Bartolomeo relented. "Fine, fine. But if they try anything, they're getting a face full of barrier!"

You carefully approached the edge of the ship, offering a piece of the sweet bread you'd baked that morning. "Hello there," you called out softly. "We just want to see the cola. We won't hurt you."

The furry creatures paused their attack, their large eyes blinking curiously at the bread. One particularly bold one crept closer, sniffing cautiously. You held your breath as it tentatively nibbled at the offering. Soon, others followed suit, their chittering softening into more curious sounds.

Bartolomeo watched the scene unfold, his usual boisterousness replaced with a quiet fascination. He saw how your gentle demeanor and genuine kindness were having a far greater effect than any display of strength could.

Eventually, one of the creatures, seemingly the leader, gestured with a tiny paw towards a path leading into the island's interior. It made a series of bubbling noises, and you had a feeling it was inviting you to follow.

"Well, Barty," you said, turning to him with a smile. "Looks like they're willing to show us the way."

He grunted, but there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Hmph. Guess being nice ain't always a bad strategy, huh?" He still looked ready to deploy his barriers at a moment's notice, but for now, he followed you onto the Isle of Fizz, a strange blend of gentle diplomacy and impenetrable defense venturing into the unknown.

You lay on the makeshift cot in your ship's infirmary, a bandage wrapped around your arm. The scent of medicinal herbs filled the small space, a stark contrast to the sweet, fizzy aroma of the Isle of Fizz that still clung faintly to your clothes. Bartolomeo paced back and forth in the cramped room, his usual swagger replaced by a tight furrow in his brow.

"I just… I don't understand, Y/N!" he exclaimed, his voice rough with a mixture of worry and exasperation. "Those cola geysers were strong! One wrong step, and – and you just jumped in front of that little fur ball! Why would you do that?!"

You offered him a weak smile. "He looked so scared, Barty. And he was just trying to protect his home, just like we would."

"Protect his home?!" Bartolomeo threw his hands up in exasperation, his green hair swaying wildly. "Y/N, you could have been seriously hurt! That cola could have burned you something awful! And for what? Some… some fizzing rat!"

"They weren't rats, Barty," you said gently, wincing slightly as you shifted. "They were just trying to defend their treasure. Besides," you added, your gaze softening as you looked at him, "you were right behind me. I knew you'd protect me."

Bartolomeo stopped pacing, his face softening slightly, though a hint of his frustration remained. "That's not the point! I shouldn't have to protect you from your own… your own selflessness! You can't just keep throwing yourself into danger like that!"

He knelt beside your cot, his large hands hovering awkwardly above yours, as if unsure whether to touch you. "You're… you're too kind, Y/N. Too good for this world sometimes. And it scares me." His voice was softer now, the booming edge gone. "What if I wasn't fast enough? What if my barrier didn't hold? What would I do then?"

You reached out, your uninjured hand finding his. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of fighting, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. "You would have found a way, Barty. You always do. And besides," you squeezed his hand reassuringly, "I know my limits. I wouldn't do anything truly reckless."

He looked down at your hand in his, a conflicted expression on his face. He knew your heart was pure, that your every action was guided by an innate desire to help others. It was one of the things he loved most about you, this unwavering compassion. But it also terrified him. The Grand Line was a dangerous place, and your tendency to put others before yourself was a constant source of worry.

"Just… just be more careful, okay?" he mumbled, his gaze still fixed on your hand. "Think about yourself sometimes too. You're important, Y/N. More important than any fizzy cola or scared little creature in the world."

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. For all his bluster and obsession with the Straw Hats, Bartolomeo cared deeply. In his own loud, protective way, he loved you fiercely. "I will try, Barty. I promise. But you have to promise me something too."

He looked up, his green eyes questioning. "What's that?"

"Promise me you'll never stop being you," you said softly. "Your strength, your loyalty… even your crazy fanboy moments. That's all part of why I love you."

A faint blush crept onto Bartolomeo's cheeks, and he looked away, a rare moment of bashfulness. "Tch. Of course not. Who else would protect Boss Luffy's honor with such… enthusiasm?"

But as he looked back at you, a genuine, heartfelt smile touched his lips. He squeezed your hand gently. "Just… try not to give me so many scares, alright?"

You chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through you despite the ache in your arm. "I'll do my best, you big softie."

Ekko

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Oh- uh- what??"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Genuinely very caught off guard. Not at all in a bad way, he just doesn't know how to respond to such a sudden and blatant flirt. Quickly tries to think of something to say as you're chuckling and reassuring him it's okay

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He ends up telling you through his fluster that it's not really gonna bring you any good to proudly announce a Zaunite as part of your family name. But in the end, he gives you a soft smile and says it's a nice thought he isn't against

Sevika

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Is that so?"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 More keen on the idea than you'd might think- tells you it wouldn't be such a bad idea, but you'd have to prove it's a name worth adopting first, teasingly daring you to make it a name you'd both be proud to wear

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Tells you to reconsider once or twice, but mostly because she loves seeing how determined you get when defending her right to bear your name

Silco

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Doesn't pick up on what you're implying at first at all, simply tells you that isn't how that works and you're talking nonsense

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You have to prod into the implications a little more to get him to finally register what you're actually trying to say. It takes him a moment, but when he catches on he falls silent for a while

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Ends up mildly tripping over his words while telling you he's not really someone to give such an important thing to, and that you should get a better head on your shoulders and keep focused (largely to hide the fact that the offer genuinely caught him off guard. He's never gonna stop thinking about it)

Vander

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Actually not against the idea. Seems to chuckle it off at first, but once he realizes you're being serious he fondly mulls over the idea with you while cleaning up for the night

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Recognizes the idea might not be very feasible, but hey, what's wrong with having hope? Everyone's allowed to have dreams to chase, right? No harm in chasing this one together, then

There was a prickle at the nape of your neck. Without thinking, you slipped out of bed.

Your bare feet moved soundlessly across the wooden floor, muscle memory guiding you through the darkened house.

You reached Granny’s door.

You pressed your palm gently to the wood, and your eyes softened.

There she was.

Granny, fast asleep on her side, soft snores rising and falling like tide, a blue branch from a cup of tea long gone cold beside her looming over—

Wait a fucking damn minute.

Golden eyes bulging like a startled fish. Blue skin, lanky form. Purple, jagged markings curling around the whole body. Webbed hands held still mid-air.

And tusks.

Two large, curved ones framing its gaping mouth.

In any other context, its face might have looked… funny.

Startled.

Like someone walked in on them stealing a cookie.

But this was no joke.

You recognized it instantly from the sketches in the demonology texts.

A water demon.

An it was leaning over Granny. Inches from her.

No.

“STAY AWAY FROM MY GRANNY!”

Your body shot forward in a blur. Your fingers—claws—circled its throat before it even blinked, its surprised expression hadn’t even changed by the time your grip tightened.

The momentum would’ve made the demon slam into the wall if not for—

Poof!

Granny stirred, rubbing her eyes slowly.

She yawned into her sleeve.

“Mm...? Hm?”

She tilted her head toward the window, blinking at the moonlight.

Then laid back down.

“…must’ve been the wind.”

——oOo——

The moment you reappeared parting the white smoke—deep in the woods just beyond the reach of the village lantern light—you slammed the water demon into the earth.

Grassy dirt kicked up around you as your claws dug into his throat, pinning him hard.

White mist curled and snaked around his wrists and ankles, dragging them down, holding them tight to the earth—mist made manifest, a power you barely understood yet, but somehow, it obeyed you now.

The demon struggled, webbed fingers twitching in vain.

If you weren’t furious, you might’ve marveled at your strength.

Instead, your fingers squeezed.

“̴S̷t̵a̸y̷ ̴a̴w̷a̷y̵ ̷f̶r̸o̶m̴ ̷m̴y̵ ̸G̵r̴a̸n̶n̵y̸.̸”̶

Your voice rippled out of you—lower, distorted, almost echoing over itself. Your claws, sharper than bone and cold as the season, dug into his skin.

You felt it—the flesh giving way. Something warm and thick began to seep through your grip.

Blood.

The water demon whimpered.

A soft, high-pitched noise like a kicked puppy.

You blinked.

Wait—

Your eyes darted to its face again.

Big watery gold eyes.

Lips trembling slightly.

Why does it look… cute?

No, NO, NOT THE TIME, ME—

Poof!

The demon burst into a puff of red smoke with a pitiful pop.

Gone.

You stared at the space where he once was.

Still on your knees. Still breathing hard as your claws grasped at nothing.

You stared at your hands, the tips dyed in—

“Huh.”

Dark and thick like warm syrup.

“So demons bleed red.”

Without thinking, you dragged your tongue along one claw, and your eyes widened.

“It tastes…”

Rich?

Sweet?

You licked your lips.

“Delicious.”

——oOo——

Granny stirred for the second time that night.

Her eyes scrunched, trying to make out the figure looking over her.

“Mm… sweetheart?” Her voice was soft and groggy. “You alright?”

She saw you opened your mouth, then closed it.

“…A nightmare,” you said in a whisper.

“Oh, my poor thing. Want me to brew you some moonflower tea?”

Your head shook quickly. “No—no, it’s fine. You should rest. I didn’t mean to wake you, Granny, I just…”

You rubbed your arm, glancing away.

She tilted her head, then patted the space beside her on the bedding.

“…Want to sleep here tonight?”

You stiffened.

Then, a little embarrassed, you nodded.

She smiled, her eyes softened.

“Tch. Come here, you silly girl. Get under the blanket, quickly, before the night air bites you.”

You slid in gently beside her, careful not to press too close with your still sweaty body.

But Granny curled an arm around you anyway, warm, gentle, and steady.

“…It’s good to have you back,” she murmured, already drifting.

You laid there, wide-eyed, staring into the dark.

And you clutched her hand tight.

——oOo——

You were tending the garden when it happened.

The sun was bright, the soil warm beneath your nails. The herbs were growing strong—almost time to harvest the chrysanthemum. You hummed a little under your breath, patting the earth down—

"How fascinating..."

You froze.

The voice was deep. Husky. Smooth. With a strange, trailing echo that seemed to bend at the end of each syllable.

You turned your head so fast your neck might’ve popped.

“Granny?” you called out.

She glanced up from the porch, where she was stringing herbs. “Yes?”

“Did you… did you just hear someone talking?”

She blinked at you. “No, child. Why?”

“…No reason,” you lied, and turned back.

"Be not afraid—"

“Would.”

“What?”

“Huh?”

A long, awkward silence.

You cleared your throat, returning to the garden bed and trying to pretend none of that happened.

“So what is this, am I just—hearing voices now? Great. That’s new. Maybe I’m finally losing it.”

"Not quite."

Your hands paused over a patch of mint.

You waited for more context.

You received none.

"If you're not gonna talk, then don't talk.” you snapped, rubbing at your temple.

"You are... quite impatient."

"And you sound like a rejected Shakespeare understudy.”

There was a gasp in your mind.

You could practically hear the indignation.

But also… confusion?

"While I do not know of this ‘Shakespeare’ you speak off…"

His voice dipped into a soft mutter.

"I feel like that is an insult."

“No shit, Sherlock.”

More droning followed—something about mortals and respect and your “undignified tongue”—but you tuned it out.

“Dear, I’m opening the shop!” Granny’s voice floated from the doorway. “Come help when you’re ready!”

“Be right there!” you chirped, cheerfully.

As if you didn’t have a mysteriously sexy, possibly eldritch entity screaming in your brain like a cranky stage actor.

And apparently, you spoke that out loud in the form of muttering:

“If Mister Big Voice in my skull doesn’t get me smited before lunch.”

"I heard that."

“Then stop lecturing me, you’ll get nowhere with me in that tone, Mister.”

“…Mister?” he repeated.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a name, do I?” You smirked. “Unless you want me to keep calling you Dramatic-Old-Man-Who-Might-Be-a-Cult-Leader.”

A beat of silence.

But somehow, you felt him simmering.

Like a teeny, furious little fireball. Brimming with evil and indignation. The image made you laugh.

“…You are treating this far too casually.” the voice sulked—can you believe that?

“Says the one who just popped into my head and started lecturing me about etiquettes.”

“Very well,” he said finally, regaining his regal edge. “Then allow me to properly introduce myself.”

You rolled your eyes.

"I am Gwi-ma."

Well, there’s your daily dose of headaches. Should you even be surprised?

“The—"

"Let me stop you right there.” You turned to the herb basket and recited flatly, “Gwi-ma. The King of Demons, Demon King. Sealed by the Honmoon. Said to lead the hordes of demons if ever unsealed. Also rumored to grant mortals’ wishes in exchange for something, yada yada.”

"In the flesh, my dear."

Of course he said it like that. With such smug pride.

You sighed, dragging your hand down your face.

A migraine was coming on. You could feel it.

“Seriously. I just want to live a peaceful life with my Granny. Is that too much to ask for?”

Gwi-ma chuckled, as if this was some inside joke between you.

“Oh, we both know why that is, don’t we?”

You froze.

This time, you didn’t need to speak the question out loud for him to give you the answer.

“Gwak Seol-jun. The name ring some bells, no?”

Shit.

“You, my dear, took a soul belonging to me.”

“…”

"Do you truly not understand what you are?" His tone shifted—deepened. “You are far more than you believe,” Attempting something…

You took a guess, “You want something.”

“Sharp indeed.” he said, silken. “You are… unique.”

“You mean I’m a freak.”

"I mean," he said, slow and velvet-slick, "I want you to work with me."

You paused.

Work with him? Why does he not just—forcibly control me like the rumors suggested?

“…Why?”

Another chuckle, “You will understand with time. But I know that you are anything but a humble girl—”

“You’re refusing to elaborate, huh?”

He said nothing.

“Yeah, well, no thanks,” you said flatly.

“Rejecting my offer already?”

“Yup.”

“Then, what is your greatest desire—"

“Wow, how original.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Nope.” You cut him off flatly, uprooting another herb. “Not playing the monkey’s paw game.”

"You don’t even know what I was going to offer—what is this ‘monkey’s paw’ you spoke off?"

“I know the drill,” you dusted your hands. “Wish granted, tragic twist, ‘oh no it’s cursed,’ cry in dramatic rain.”

You started ticking them off.

“Immortality? Great. Except no eternal youth—so you end up a thousand-year-old prune shuffling through centuries like a raisin with regrets.”

“…Wait—”

“Wish for gold? Oh, everything you touch turns into it—congrats, now you can’t eat, sleep, or hug anyone without liquefying their spine into bullion. Love that for you.”

“That’s not—”

“Craving knowledge? Fantastic. Enjoy knowing everyone’s dirty secrets, exactly when they’ll die, and every horrifying cosmic truth your mind is not remotely equipped to handle. Hello, lifelong existential dread.”

You held up another finger.

“Want to cheat death? Sure—say hello to eternal labor, pushing boulders up hills or ferrying souls across rivers till the end of time while screaming internally. Or cursed to watch everyone you love die over and over again, this can work with the immortality one as well.”

You weren’t done. You were just getting warmed up.

“—Those are just some from the myths abroad. But even I could come up with more of these.”

You kept going, launched into it like you’d been waiting your whole life for this rant.

“If not immortality, then wish for youth? Sure. You stay sixteen forever while the world decays around you. Everyone thinks you're possessed. Or worse, keeps trying to marry you.”

“Protection from all harm? Ooooh, nice. Except now nothing can touch you. No hugs, no high-fives, no sense of temperature—go ahead and try sipping hot tea, you walking ceramic plate.”

“Want to protect the people you love? Hope you’re ready to feel every single injury they take. Knife wounds, fevers, childbirth, emotionally distant dads—yep, all yours now.”

“…I—what—”

“Fame forever? You got it. As a mass-murdering villain history twisted you into. Every bard sings about your crimes while your ghost listens in mild outrage.”

“Wish for freedom? Boom. You’re untethered from fate, law, reality—can’t die, can’t connect to anyone, forgotten the second they look away. Enjoy eternal ghosting.”

“No heartbreak? Sounds peaceful. But now you’re numb to everything. Can’t feel joy, can’t fall in love. Just blank-eyed staring into sunsets while puppies make you feel nothing.”

“Eternal happiness? You’re locked in your happiest memory forever, drooling in a corner while people feed you rice porridge. It’s a trap and a nap.”

At this point you were pacing in a small circle.

“Unlimited power? The world collapses under you, now you’re alone. Ruler of nothing. Congrats, emperor of the void.”

“And the ‘fix everything’ dream? Every touch heals the world—but chips away at you. Your life, your soul, your memory, until you’re just an empty meat puppet who forgot how to spell your own name.”

You glared into the middle distance, muttering now.

“Oh—and the crowd-pleaser—‘Be loved by all.’ Congrats, you’re now the protagonist of a yandere horror story. Everyone wants to date you, kill for you, kill you, pick one. Or, now you’ve got a cult. Wide-eyed weirdos singing your name in harmony while you scream inside because none of it’s real. You’re a god with no friends.”

“Don’t even get me started on strength—"

You trailed off, hand still mid-gesture.

Only now did it fully registered—Gwi-ma had gone silent. Complete radio silence. In the unsettlingly thoughtful way.

“You’re quiet. Why are you quiet?”

A beat.

Then:

"Those are… actually quite inspired."

You stared at the horizon.

“Oh no you didn’t.”

"I could adapt several of these into very compelling contracts..."

“If you’re gonna use my paranoia as deal templates, at least give me credit!” you snapped, jabbing a finger into the air. “I want my name in fine print at the bottom of your next doomed soul contract, with a little floral border. Oh! And I demand royalties, thank you very much.”

“…You’re absurd.”

“Thanks. It’s a defense mechanism.”

——oOo——

It had been a long day.

Not physically, no. You were already used to pulling weeds, running errands, and haggling with customers who still tried to short-change an old lady’s tea.

It was your head that felt bruised.

And it was all because he wouldn’t shut up.

"A soul like yours, lingering among human bones, really is a waste of potential."

“You call Granny a waste one more time and I swear I wouldn’t even consider that offer.

There was a pause.

Then a slow, syrupy drawl.

"So you are considering right now~"

You groaned, and by the time the moon rose above your rooftop, you'd endured several hours of Gwi-ma’s long-winded commentary.

Correction: Gwi-ma’s whining.

You’d tried ignoring him.

Really, that’s the only thing you could do since he’s in your head and not whispering in your ears, even though he sometimes made it feel like he was. Thus, stuffing your ears with cotton would prove ineffective.

You really hope he couldn’t follow you into your dreams.

“Have you ever been told you’re so insufferable?”

“Who would dare?”

So, only you then.

Collapsing back-first onto your sleeping mat like a punctured rice sack, you buried your face into the blanket, muffling a scream.

A beat of silence passed. You turned your head slightly.

Your eyes shifted toward the demonology scrolls near your pillow.

They were there, spread out, aged, and fragile, their edges curled like dried leaves, seemingly glowing faintly in the lanternlight.

You’d meant to train tonight. More. To explore your abilities now that your last feast kept the hunger at bay.

Sharpen your skills and perhaps you would gain more control over that side of you.

But...

“…”

“…”

You squinted toward the ceiling like it personally offended you. “Well? Aren’t you gonna say something?”

"Hm." A thoughtful hum echoed through your mind. "Would you like me to teach you the ropes?"

You sat up warily. “What’s the catch?”

“None." he replied, almost too smoothly. "I simply… want to observe you. Your potential intrigues me."

“…You mean you want to watch me fumble around like a glorified test subject.”

"Semantics."

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not agreeing to anything unless I know exactly what I’m getting into. So answer me these first,” Though you wouldn’t put it past him to lie or twist the truth. “What happens if I follow your instructions? Do I really not owe you anything? Does it bind me to some deal? Will I owe you a favor in some vague future? If I go along with this, will I be cursed, hunted, warped, accidentally married, or doomed to carry your demonic spawn?”

"…That’s oddly specific."

“Answer the questions.”

"None of the above. You’re not making a wish, you’re asking for guidance. No contracts, no soul-deals, no blood price—unless you'd like that aesthetic. I do miss the old rituals."

You narrowed your eyes. “So this isn’t another Monkey’s Paw situation?”

A long sigh came from him. “Must you assume the worst of me?”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

"You wound me."

“Like I care.”

You rolled over to the side, fingers trailing along the worn edge of a scroll. You opened it with a quiet rustle, ran your fingers along the edges, tracing the faded ink drawings of grotesque demons and chaotic beasts, all with his jagged marks in purple.

Then—at the center—something abstract. Swirling mess of violet and hot pink? fire with a barely discernible face. You had trouble making out the eyes from the shapes alone most if not all the time. Though, you supposed the lightest part of the flame was the mouth.

“…This you?”

"My better side, if I do say so."

You snorted softly, still dragging your fingers along the curled edges. Your other hand reached toward the binding, loosening the last corner.

“So... where do I start?”

And for once, his tone changed.

Quieter. No lazy purr. More… serious.

"Your true form."

You blinked.

“…I thought the glowing white markings, fangs, claws, and red eyes were my demon form.”

"No. That’s a transitional state. An echo. A fragment. An instinctive mask. I can feel it,” he said. “Something deeper. You’re… different. You carry light like it’s bone-deep. But it’s twisted, refracted. What lies underneath… even I can't see. Not yet."

“You keep saying ambiguous shit like that.”

You stared at your hand. Was he referring to something more connected to that hunger?

You made a face. “...Well, how am I supposed to turn into it if I don’t know what it even looks like?”

"Instinct. Memory. Desire. All three. I’ll guide you."

He paused, and you sensed his attention narrow, like a whisper brushing the inside of your mind.

"Close your eyes," he said softly. "Now breathe in through your mouth, not your nose. Let the cold fill your chest."

You did.

"Now think—not of shape, not of skin or face—but of feeling. The first instinct. What felt most right when the world first made sense."

Your breath slowed.

The cold seeped in.

"Beyond what you think is you. Where the first light touched your bones...”

Your fingers twitched.

Your markings flickered.

“Let go of the memory of being human."

A beat.

Your pulse thrummed. The mist in your veins surged.

"Open the door you keep sealed."

Your heart slowed.

Your breath stilled.

Then—

You stepped through.

End Note: