#sunnys work

The Cross Guild meeting was in full swing—and so was Crocodile’s rage.

Buggy was sweating through his face paint. Mihawk looked like he regretted breathing the same air as everyone. And Daz Bones was staring at the ceiling like he was manifesting early retirement.

“I said,” Crocodile growled, cigar clenched between his teeth, “we told the broker in Baltigo to keep the damn schedule. Why are we just now hearing he flipped sides?”

Buggy laughed nervously. “Haha! Funny story—turns out he didn’t like being paid in IOUs and circus coupons!”

Mihawk gave Buggy a sideways glance. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh come on, I was just trying to save gold!”

“You’re going to save yourself a head, if you’re lucky,” Crocodile snarled.

He stood up from the table so suddenly that Buggy flinched and dropped a whole stack of maps. “I should’ve gutted you when I had the chance. You are singlehandedly compromising every shipment from—”

The doors slammed open with the force of a cannonball.

“Hiiiii~!”

The mood in the room crashed.

You stepped in, beaming, completely oblivious to the war-crime levels of tension in the air. You held up a very sweet-looking bento box, wrapped in sunny yellow fabric. “Sorry to interrupt! You forgot your lunch again, baby!”

Dead. Silence.

You walked straight up to Crocodile—Crocodile, ex-warlord, sand demon, desert king, literal human embodiment of “don’t talk to me”—and stood on your tiptoes to give him a kiss on the lips. Right there. In front of the Cross Guild.

Buggy choked on his own tongue. Mihawk blinked twice—an earthquake by his standards. Daz Bones just straight-up dropped his arm, which had been half-turned into a blade.

“I made the cumin rice you like!” you said, gently placing the lunch box into your terrifying husband’s hands. “And the spicy lamb. And your favorite pickles! Oh, and I put a note in, don’t forget to read it!”

Crocodile stared at you.

Stared at the box.

Stared back at you.

“…You barged into my war meeting.”

You just giggled and smoothed out his coat. “You always get cranky when you don’t eat.”

Another stunned pause. Mihawk leaned back slightly in his seat, clearly processing the fact that the deadliest man at the table had just received a forehead kiss with lunch.

Buggy was the first to break.

“YOU HAVE A WIFE?!”

Crocodile didn’t dignify him with a response. He was too busy opening the box.

“She kissed him on the mouth,” Buggy squeaked. “Like it was normal!”

Daz Bones tilted his head slowly. “She seems… nice.”

“She’s sunlight in human form,” Buggy hissed. “He shouldn’t be allowed near her! He’ll sandstorm her or something!”

Crocodile finally looked up. “She’s my wife, Buggy.”

“You never said you had a wife!”

“You never asked.”

Mihawk leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

“…Are those tiny carrot hearts?”

Everyone paused.

Crocodile glanced down. Sure enough—nestled in the corner of the rice box were five delicately cut carrots, each in the shape of a tiny heart.

There was a beat of silence.

“I love carrot hearts,” Daz Bones said flatly.

Buggy was spiraling. “What the hell is happening. I thought he lived in a sand pit like a lizard—he has a domestic life?! He gets little notes with his lunch!?”

Crocodile calmly lifted the bento, took a bite of the rice, and chewed with the kind of deadly serenity only he could pull off.

“I swear to god,” Buggy muttered, “if there’s a dessert in there I’m gonna explode.”

You popped your head back through the door.

“Oh! And don’t forget your little mochi, I put it in the side pouch!”

Buggy screamed.

Crocodile, smug now, didn’t look up.

He was already going for the mochi.

The sun had dipped low in the sky, filtering through the shoji screen in streaks of amber and gold — the kind of light that made shadows stretch and warmth linger just a little longer across the wooden floorboards.

You sat with your back propped against the wall of the engawa, knees loosely bent beneath the familiar weight of his head in your lap.

Kyojuro’s hair had grown unruly these past months.

The wild length of it spilled like fire over your thighs, tangled in places where sleep or sweat or battle-weary days had woven little knots of neglect. It was still beautiful — golden silk ignited with vermillion tips — but it had taken on the unpolished look of someone who was no longer performing for the world. No longer standing tall on the battlefield, blade in hand, flame in his voice.

He didn’t need to anymore.

You dipped your fingers into the strands gently, lifting them away from his neck, trying not to tug too hard where the worst of the tangles had taken root. You felt him shift slightly, a soft exhale brushing against the fabric of your yukata.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. Or, tried to. It barely registered as a twitch.

“No… it feels nice.” His voice was low and warm, like kindling on embers — no longer roaring, but still unmistakably Kyojuro.

There had been a time when he wouldn’t let you help.

Not out of pride, never that, but because he didn’t want to burden you. His arms, though still strong, no longer moved like they once did. His grip failed him on bad days, and the old wound near his ribs made even the simplest stretches feel like drawn blades against his skin. It was humbling for him, who once stood unshaken before Upper Moons.

But lately, he’d started letting go more.

He leaned into your help. He leaned into you.

And tonight, he’d let his knees fold beneath him on the tatami and rest his head in your lap without asking — just tilted his head with that quiet look in his eyes, and you understood.

The brush glided through his hair now with more ease. You detangled the worst of it with slow fingers, working your way through flame-colored lengths that gleamed in the fading light. Your hands knew his hair the way your heart knew his rhythm — slow now, less rushed. But still steady. Still warm.

He hummed once, a soft sound of contentment, before going utterly still.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Instead, you leaned forward just slightly, brushing your lips against the crown of his head, where the heat of him was strongest, and stayed there.

His breathing had evened out.

Your fingers stilled where they had been combing slowly through the final strands, and you smiled to yourself, holding still like the moment might shatter if you so much as breathed too loud.

Kyojuro Rengoku — your husband, your flame — had fallen asleep in your lap.

The weight of him was warm, familiar. Trusting.

You rested one hand gently across his shoulder, the other still buried in his hair.

And for once, you allowed yourself to be the strong one. To protect him from the cold draft seeping in through the paper doors. To run your fingers through fire without fear.

To keep him safe — as he had done for so long — here, in the quiet he finally deserved.

He stirred in the warmth of half-sleep, not yet ready to leave the quiet.

There was a pressure beneath his cheek — soft, warm — and fingers still threaded through his hair like whispers. His body registered the weight and presence of you before his mind did. He knew it in the way a tree knows sunlight.

You were there.

His wife.

His beloved.

He stayed still, not wanting to break the peace that wrapped around him like a woven blanket. There were things he remembered vaguely: the gentle tug of a brush in his hair, your voice asking if it hurt, the faintest kiss against the crown of his head. And then, nothing. Sleep had pulled him under like the tide.

It was rare for him to fall asleep like that. So quickly. So trustingly.

But your lap had felt like home. And your hands… gods, your hands.

They had once trembled when touching his wounds, when caring for him after Akaza. But now they moved with the confidence of love — steady and patient. Not afraid of his pain. Not afraid of him.

He opened his eyes slowly.

You were looking down at him.

Noticing, maybe, that he was awake now — but you didn’t speak. You just smiled.

His breath caught in his throat.

There was a softness to your expression that belonged only to these stolen, quiet moments. Hair loosely pulled back, eyes half-lidded with peace, fingers still tangled in his hair like you’d never stopped brushing it — like you didn’t want to.

He had seen you bloodied in battle. Crying in grief. Laughing in celebration.

But like this — serene, devoted, gently watchful — you were something sacred.

He wanted to thank you. Say your name. But the words didn’t come.

His body didn’t move.

He didn’t want to disturb the way you looked at him now. As though he wasn't a retired Flame Hashira with a body that betrayed him some days. As though he was still whole, still strong — still worthy of this kind of love.

A hand rose, slowly, from where it rested at your side. He reached for you — not with urgency, but reverence — and let his fingers graze along the hem of your sleeve.

You looked down, tilting your head. “You’re awake?”

He nodded, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Only just,” he whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “I didn’t mean to… fall asleep like that.”

“You needed it,” you murmured. And then, quieter still: “I’m glad you let yourself rest.”

Kyojuro closed his eyes again.

The pulse of love inside his chest was slow, but steady — a kind of heat that didn’t roar like fire, but glowed with a gentler burn. The kind that stayed through the night.

He moved his hand to rest over your knee and gave it a small, grateful squeeze. “You’re so good to me…”

You brushed your fingers through his bangs again, tucking them away from his face. “Of course I am.”

His throat tightened.

So much had been taken from him — the speed of his sword, the power in his arms, the battles that once gave his life shape. And yet… here, in your lap, wrapped in the scent of sakura and late summer wind, he had never felt richer.

He had everything.

Everything he had ever fought to protect — love, warmth, a place to lay his head — lived here, in the curve of your smile and the cradle of your lap.

“I think I could stay here forever,” he murmured. And in a voice made soft by the weight of emotion he rarely let show, he added, “I love you.”

You bent slowly, gently, and kissed his forehead — and if he hadn't been so still, he might’ve trembled from it.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I love you too.”

And for once, he let himself believe it fully.

You weren’t sure exactly when the change happened.

Maybe it was the day you told him.

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

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

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

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

You expected tension. Dismissal. Maybe even anger.

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

And that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But somehow… it suited him.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t move. Just listened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You won’t."

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

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

Something about those words broke him open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what kind of father would Rob Lucci be?

A protective one. Viscerally so.

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

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

And for your child?

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

He would let them.

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

He would scowl at anyone who stared too long.

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

He would pause.

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

The gardens of Kuraigana Island were not what one expected of the World’s Greatest Swordsman. Gnarled old roses clung to the stone walls, stubbornly alive against wind and storm, and vines crept across the courtyard in tangled green webs. It was a place that seemed carved from shadow and silence.

Which is why Perona nearly screamed when she turned a corner and saw someone humming as they watered a row of stubborn tulips.

The woman wore no black frills or sharp edges, nothing ghostly or severe. Instead she radiated warmth, her laugh as bright as the sun cutting through storm clouds. She bent low, cooing to the flowers as though they were children, and when she noticed Perona, her face lit up.

“Oh! You must be Perona! Mihawk told me you like sweets—I baked a cake this morning, would you like a slice?”

Perona blinked. Then blinked again. “...Mihawk told you?”

The woman beamed. “Of course. He tells me all sorts of things.”

Perona’s jaw dropped. “Liar. Mihawk doesn’t tell anyone anything!”

The laugh that followed was so genuine, so utterly without guile, that Perona felt like she had been doused in glittering sunlight against her will.

Before she could demand answers, Zoro stomped into the courtyard, sweat-soaked from training. He barely noticed them at first, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders.

“You’re working so hard,” the woman said warmly, already moving to fetch something from a tray on the stone table. She returned with a tall glass, condensation slipping down the sides. “Here—lemonade. You’ll dehydrate out there.”

Zoro accepted it on instinct, tipped it back in a long swallow—and then nearly choked to death when she added, with that same cheerful lilt:

“My husband respects your dedication, you know.”

Zoro sputtered, coughing into his hand. “Husband?!”

“Yes.” She tilted her head, smiling as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “Dracule Mihawk.”

The swordsman froze, lemonade still dripping from his chin. “...Mihawk. Married.”

Perona floated closer, glaring. “I told you she was lying! There’s no way Hawk-Eyes is married. He doesn’t even smile!”

As if summoned by their disbelief, the man himself appeared, silent as ever, from the stone archway. His presence cut through the courtyard like the edge of Yoru itself, and both Zoro and Perona straightened automatically.

Mihawk’s eyes flicked to his wife, then to the glass still in Zoro’s hand. “You’ve met.”

The woman beamed at him. “They’re lovely! Perona was just keeping me company, and Zoro’s working so hard out there—you should’ve seen the swings he was practicing.”

To their combined horror, Mihawk actually softened. Not much, not enough to be obvious—but his golden eyes lingered on her with quiet fondness, and his hand brushed the small of her back as he crossed to take the empty watering can from her grasp. The gesture was casual, intimate in a way that made Zoro feel like he had stumbled into something private.

Perona’s mouth hung open. She pointed an accusing finger. “You—YOU—you’re really his wife?!”

The woman laughed lightly. “I am. Surprising, isn’t it?”

“Shocking!” Perona shouted, little ghosts of disbelief fluttering around her head. “You’re so… so… sunshine-y!”

“And Mihawk is… not?” she asked innocently.

“HE’S A SCARY STATUE WITH EYEBROWS!”

Zoro, still processing, muttered, “I didn’t even think he liked people, let alone…” His words trailed off, his brain short-circuiting.

Mihawk, unbothered, set the watering can aside and plucked up the glass from Zoro’s hand as though the conversation bored him. He turned it between long fingers, then said in that deep, even tone, “You talk too much.”

His wife only smiled up at him, utterly unruffled. “And you love me for it.”

For the first time in his life, Zoro swore he saw Mihawk’s mouth twitch. Not into a smile—heaven forbid—but into something that almost resembled amusement. Then, without a word, Mihawk leaned down and pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple.

The world went silent.

Perona screamed like someone had stabbed her. “WHAT DID I JUST SEE?!”

Zoro’s face heated despite himself, and he turned away sharply, muttering, “Tch. I didn’t need to see that.”

His wife only laughed, resting her hand on Mihawk’s chest with the ease of long habit. “You’ll get used to it.”

“NEVER!” Perona shrieked, flitting dramatically into the air. “I’ll NEVER get used to seeing Hawk-Eyes in love! It’s—it’s horrifying!”

“‘Horrifying’?” Mihawk repeated, tone deceptively flat.

Perona squeaked and darted behind Zoro, using him as a human shield.

Zoro sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You two are insane.”

But when he risked one more glance, he caught the way Mihawk’s gaze lingered on her—the faint softening in the edges, the silent tether of two opposites bound together. And though he’d never admit it out loud, Zoro thought maybe—just maybe—it made sense after all.

The room is quiet, lit only by the flicker of candlelight and the golden sheen of moonlight slipping past the windows. The mirror stands tall before you, framed in old oak and polished to a perfect gleam.

You sit at the edge of the bed, completely bare, thighs parted just enough to accommodate the man kneeling before you. Dracule Mihawk is fully clothed—white shirt open at the throat, fingers curled possessively around your hips to hold you steady as he lowers his mouth between your legs.

You gasp at the first touch of his tongue, the way he knows you—slow and deliberate, tracing fire over every nerve. But when your head starts to tip back, a low, velvet voice murmurs against your skin:

“Don’t take your eyes off your reflection.”

Your gaze snaps back to the mirror.

At first, you see only yourself—flushed, lips parted, the shape of your own hunger. But then, from just beneath the angle of your thighs, you see the shadow of him. His black hair. His sharp profile. The way he fits so naturally in this act of worship.

“Watch,” he breathes. “See what I see.”

Your breath hitches. And for a few blissful moments, you do—your own body trembling under his attention, your beauty no longer abstract but tangible, reflected back in candlelight and lust.

But then your eyes flutter shut.

He stops.

Your whimper breaks the silence.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze—those gold, hawk-sharp eyes locking with yours in the mirror. His mouth glistens, but his expression is calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I said don’t look away.”

It’s not cruel. It’s reverent. As if he's trying to teach you something sacred—how to see yourself the way he does. He resumes only when your eyes find the mirror again.

Every time you glance away, even for a second, he punishes you with aching stillness—lips hovering just close enough to feel the heat of him, but denying you the touch. It’s maddening. Exquisite.

He doesn't look up again. He doesn't need to.

Your eyes are fixed on the mirror now—desperate, wide, glistening. You’re watching everything: the flex of your thighs as they tremble, the slight bounce of your breasts with each shallow breath, the perfect picture of surrender painted across your face. And below—him. His dark head moving between your legs with devastating control, tongue and lips working in rhythms that leave you gasping, boneless, undone.

You're already close, shamefully so, when he slides one hand up to your chest—callused fingers circling a nipple, teasing it to a taut peak. His other hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider, forcing you to watch how open you are for him.

“So responsive,” he mutters into your heat, voice like gravel smoothed by wine. “Look at yourself. Look at what I do to you.”

You whimper, hips bucking helplessly—but he pins you down with a single glare in the mirror. That molten gold pierces right through you, makes you feel owned in the most delicious way.

Then he does it—that thing. That skilled, sinful roll of his tongue right where you need him, and your whole body arches forward like a bow pulled tight.

Your moan breaks free—ragged, needy, desperate.

But your eyes close.

He stops.

“No—no, please—!” You gasp, instantly lifting your head, chasing the friction he denied.

His gaze flicks up again, lazy, dangerous. “I warned you.”

He licks his lips. Slowly. Purposefully.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls. “Or you’ll finish with your own fingers. And I’ll watch.”

The threat makes you clench around nothing, the very idea of touching yourself while he watches you from the edge of the bed like a predator just as thrilling as it is humiliating.

But you don’t look away again.

He rewards you. And this time, he doesn’t slow.

He devours you—no mercy, no patience, just a man who’s learned your body like a map and is dead set on getting you lost in it. His tongue drives you toward the edge, his fingers dig into your thighs, and that damn mirror—that mirror—captures everything. The flush spreading down your chest, the way your jaw slackens in surrender, the tears welling at the corners of your eyes as you fall apart completely.

“Now,” he breathes, voice barely audible, lips pressed to your core. “Come for me. And don’t you dare look away.”

And when you do—when the pleasure hits like fire and you shatter with a scream that echoes off the walls—your reflection is right there to witness it.

Your ruin, your release, the raw truth of what he’s turned you into.

His queen, naked and shaking, worshipped until you forgot how to be anything but his.

You don’t remember how it started—only that now, your thighs are trembling and your knuckles are white where they grip his horns. His horns, solid and curved like handles crafted by the gods, anchoring you as he devours you like a dying man clinging to salvation.

Kaido lies beneath you, massive and half-naked, the dark tattoos on his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes through your slick heat. His hands—those scarred, brutal hands—are gripping your ass, spreading you wider, pulling you down harder against his face with possessive, growling greed.

“Don’t run,” he rasps against you, voice muffled and thick with hunger. “You wanted this.”

His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, then flicks up with precision, making your entire spine jolt. You gasp, your hips stuttering as he growls, low and pleased, sucking your clit into his mouth like it’s the only thing worth tasting.

You try to lift yourself, overwhelmed, but his grip tightens.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, voice gravel and heat, “you’re stayin’ right here.”

He grinds you down against his face, dragging your folds along his tongue like he’s memorizing every inch of you—every taste, every tremble. One thick hand slips around to press at your lower back, keeping you steady as the other spreads your cheek, his thumb sinking in just enough to make you moan out loud.

“Fuck—Kaido—”

His eyes flick up at you. Wild. Wanting. Dark with something primal that borders on reverence. You’ve never seen a man look at you like that—with his mouth full of you and his entire world narrowed down to the way your body shakes on top of him.

“You gonna come on my face.” he mutters, lips slick, beard damp. “Hold on to me. Don’t fucking stop now.”

And you don’t. You grind. You rut. You ride his mouth like it’s a throne built for your pleasure—and he’s the beast that guards it.

When you finally cry out, legs shaking, hips bucking, he doesn’t let go. Not until he’s licked up every drop. Not until you collapse forward, breathless and ruined, and he exhales beneath you like you were the thing that tamed him.

Then, softly, with his voice thick and dangerous:

“Next time, you’re not walking for days.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Kaido moves.

One hand wraps around your waist, the other cups the back of your thigh, and with a growl, he lifts you like you weigh nothing—flips you over, lays you flat on your stomach across the bed, hips arched, ass up. The room spins for half a second, your heart still pounding from the orgasm he dragged out of you, and then—

“Don’t even think about running now,” he rumbles behind you, voice dark, wrecked, and hungry.

You hear the soft metallic clink of his belt coming undone. The drag of fabric. Then the weight of him kneeling behind you, hot skin against your thighs as his rough palm slides up your back—slow, possessive—before he grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to hear you gasp.

“I make you come with my mouth,” he growls against your ear, voice ragged. “Now I fuck you like you’re mine.”

And then—he pushes in.

Thick. Heavy. Stretching you open inch by devastating inch until you can’t do anything but moan his name. One of his massive hands grips your hip so tightly you’ll feel it for days. The other plants itself beside your head as he starts thrusting, slow at first, like he wants to savor how tight you are around him, how wet you still are from riding his face.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s what happens when you sit on a dragon’s mouth, girl.”

You whimper something—yes, please, fuck—but it’s incoherent beneath the sound of skin meeting skin, the bed creaking under his strength, the deep, guttural sounds he makes every time he bottoms out inside you. Then his hand comes down—smack—against your ass, just hard enough to sting, to make your muscles tighten around him.

He snarls. “Tighten on me again and I’ll come just like that.”

You cry out. He leans forward, massive chest blanketing your back, the heat of his breath on your neck.

“You want it rough?” he hisses. “You want me to ruin you?”

You nod, panting. “Yes—Kaido, please—”

He pulls out almost entirely—then slams back in so deep you see stars.

“Then take it,” he growls. “Take every fucking inch.”

You’re already trembling beneath him, your cheek pressed into the mattress, nails clawing at the sheets. Kaido’s hips slam into you with punishing rhythm, his breath ragged, sweat dripping down his spine as his body coils tighter, like a storm about to break.

He’s cursing under his breath now—low, growled filth between gritted teeth. One hand grips your hip so hard it bruises. The other slides under your belly, fingers rubbing your clit in rough, perfect circles that leave you gasping his name like a prayer.

“F-fuck—Kaido—”

“Come for me again,” he snarls, voice cracked and dangerous. “Come so I can feel it—so I can finish inside you like I should’ve the first time.”

You do—cry out, shaking around him, tightening like a fist—and that’s it. That’s all it takes.

With a roar, he slams deep and stays there, cock buried to the hilt as his body locks over yours. His spine arches. His muscles seize. And then— He comes inside you, deep and hot, growling like a beast that’s claimed what’s his.

“Fuck—take it,” he groans, voice hoarse. “Take all of it. You’re mine, you hear me?”

You whimper, too wrecked to speak, and he doesn’t stop. He grinds into you slowly, deliberately, riding out every pulse of his release, making sure you feel every thick spurt as it floods your core.

He lowers over you then, heavy and overwhelming, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. His beard scrapes your skin. His breath is fire on your ear.

“I’ll kill for you,” he whispers, barely there. “Burn down the whole damn city if they touch you. Build you a world with my hands if you just stay.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because he already knows—you’re not going anywhere.

And neither is he.

The world had narrowed to the gentle lapping of waves against polished stone and the hush of warm wind sweeping over the villa’s private terrace. Somewhere below, the sea shimmered gold from the setting sun—but you barely noticed.

Because he was looking at you like that again.

The sky had turned to honey, dusk rolling in slow and warm. You wore nothing but a silk robe—ivory, sheer, tied in a lazy knot at your waist—and your skin still glowed from the bath he’d drawn for you earlier. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine clung to you. Your steps were silent as you crossed the polished floor, barefoot, but his eyes still found you. They always did.

Crocodile sat on the edge of the villa’s massive bed, bare-chested, slacks undone, cigar forgotten between his fingers. His scarred chest caught the light, and the contrast of his golden hook against his tanned skin made your breath catch. He was sprawled like he owned the room. Like he owned you.

Maybe he did.

“You’re staring,” you teased, leaning on the doorframe.

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling like a secret between you. “That’s because I married a goddess.”

You flushed—caught off guard even now, three days after the wedding. After vows whispered before an ancient altar, after nights tangled in each other and mornings slower than time. Even now, he still had a way of making you feel like something sacred. Something his.

“You haven’t stopped looking at me since we got here,” you said softly.

“I’ve earned the right,” he murmured, eyes dark, hooded. “I married you.”

You let your robe slip just slightly off one shoulder. “Have you?”

The look he gave you was pure possession.

He stood. Walked toward you like a slow, rolling storm. His cologne—sandalwood, clove, a hint of sea salt—wrapped around you like silk. When he stopped inches from you, the heat of his body raised goosebumps on your skin.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing, dressed like that?”

“You like it.”

“I love it,” he said, voice low and raspy. “But I love what’s underneath more.”

His hook touched the tie at your waist—gentle, deliberate—and tugged. The knot came loose. The robe parted. His eyes lowered, molten with want.

He stepped behind you, one hand flesh, the other cool metal, sliding down your sides. You gasped softly, leaning back into him as he pulled the silk from your shoulders. It slipped down your arms and pooled at your feet. His lips brushed the nape of your neck, reverent.

“All mine now,” he growled.

You shivered. 

“You nervous?” he asked next, rough against your ear.

“No,” you whispered. “Just... overwhelmed. Happy.”

The air between you charged, heavy with the weight of promises made three nights ago, now about to be kept. Crocodile stood behind you, hands dragging slowly down your bare waist. His hook remained at your side—dangerous, gleaming—but his other hand? Hot. Steady. Possessive.

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmured, voice a slow purr against your ear. “At first.”

His teeth grazed your neck, and your knees nearly buckled.

He chuckled—low and pleased. “Don’t fall apart on me yet, habibti.”

You were lifted before you could reply. His arm slid beneath your knees, the metal curve of his hook pressing cold against your thigh as he carried you to the bed. He laid you down like you were priceless. Sacred. And yet his gaze said he’d ruin you before the moon rose.

He removed the rest of his clothes slowly—purposefully—watching your eyes the entire time. You took in the thick lines of muscle, the broad chest, the scar that crossed his torso like a war medal. And lower…

Your mouth went dry.

He saw. Smirked. Crawled over you with the grace of a desert lion, hair tousled and golden eyes dark with heat.

“Tell me,” he said, voice husky, “do you want me slow?” He dipped his head to kiss your throat. “Or rough?” He bit, just enough to sting. You gasped.

“Both,” you whispered. “Start slow. End… however you want.”

He growled something in a language you didn’t understand—and you felt it more than heard it.

His mouth found your chest, warm and wet and patient. He sucked one nipple between his lips, tongue teasing until you arched, breath broken. His hook braced your waist, cold contrast against the heat of his tongue.

“You’re so sensitive,” he rasped, switching sides, lips wet with you. “So soft.”

Your fingers clawed at his back. “Crocodile—please—”

“I am pleasing you,” he said, licking a slow stripe down your stomach. “Don’t rush me.”

But you felt the tension in him. Barely leashed. Coiled tight. 

When his mouth reached your thighs, you shuddered. He opened them with a nudge of his hook—gentle but firm—and dragged two fingers through your wetness. 

He hissed. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Already this wet for me?” He glanced up, eyes glowing. “You want me to taste you, wife?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. Please.”

And gods—he did.

Crocodile buried his face between your legs like a starving man. His tongue moved slow, then fast, then teasing again—drawing whimpers from you like silk unraveling. He sucked on your clit until your thighs trembled, and when you came, it was with your hands in his hair and his name sobbed against your wrist.

He didn’t stop.

Another orgasm hit you too fast, too hard. He dragged it out, lips never leaving you, until you were gasping his name and pushing weakly at his shoulders.

Only then did he rise, mouth wet, eyes burning.

“Still overwhelmed?” he asked, voice wrecked with restraint.

“Please,” you begged. “Need you inside—”

He kissed you, deep and possessive. You could taste yourself on his tongue. When he finally slid inside you, it was slow. Torturous. He filled you completely, holding himself still as you clutched at him, thighs trembling.

“Mine,” he rasped against your mouth. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you breathed. “Always yours.”

His control snapped.

He began to move—hard, deep, claiming every inch of you. The bed rocked with each thrust. Your moans turned to cries, and his name became the only word you could remember. He kissed your cheek, your shoulder, the curve of your neck. He marked you—softly, sweetly, then with teeth.

When you came again, he followed, spilling into you with a groan that vibrated through his whole body. He didn’t pull out. He didn’t move.

He just held you.

~~~

You woke to the hush of waves and the warmth of breath on your shoulder.

The sun hadn’t yet risen fully—just a pale gold glow bleeding through the gauzy curtains that swayed in the breeze. The sheets beneath you were tangled silk, still warm from the heat of the night. Every inch of your body ached, but not unpleasantly.

He was still there. Still inside the bed, and still impossibly close.

Crocodile's arm was wrapped around your waist, his bare chest pressed to your back. His hook—removed sometime during the night—rested nearby on the nightstand, but his remaining hand was sprawled possessively across your stomach.

You shifted slightly, only to feel him press closer, groaning against your skin.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

“Nowhere,” you whispered, smiling into the pillow. “Just stretching.”

“Mm.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Don’t.”

You giggled softly. “You can’t stop me from stretching.”

“You're sore, aren't you?” he murmured, smugness threading into his drowsy tone.

You flushed. “...A little.”

He chuckled. “Good.”

You rolled onto your back slowly, and he moved with you—elbow propped, gaze sleepy and warm. Without the usual tension in his brow, he looked younger. Softer. Unarmored.

“You look smug,” you whispered.

“I’m married,” he said, leaning down to kiss your collarbone, “to the most beautiful creature on the sea.”

His lips trailed higher, warm and slow. He kissed your jaw, your cheek, the tip of your nose. When he reached your mouth, the kiss was so gentle you almost cried. Lazy. Lingering. The kind of kiss that made time irrelevant.

You curled into him. “How long can we stay here?”

“As long as we want,” he said without hesitation. “I told them not to expect us back for weeks.”

You blinked. “Weeks?”

“You think I waited all this time just to have you for three days?” he drawled. “No, habibti. I plan to ruin you properly.”

You snorted, muffling your laughter in his chest. “You're awful.”

“I’m perfect,” he said, tugging the covers higher over you both, “and you’re not leaving this bed until I say so.”

You yawned against his shoulder. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning to.”

His hand found yours beneath the covers, fingers interlacing lazily. “Sleep more. I’ll wake you when the champagne arrives. Then I’ll draw us a bath,” he said. “Then you’ll eat something.” He nuzzled the small of your back. “Then I’ll have you again.”

You laughed into the pillow, heat rising in your face. “I didn’t realize I’d married a tyrant.”

“You married a man who waited too damn long to call you his.”

You turned, and he caught your face in his hand—gentle, slow, reverent. His thumb brushed your lower lip. And when he kissed you again—full, sweet, unhurried—you felt the weight of forever in it.

The rest of the day passed in sun-drenched blur. Silk robes and fresh fruit. Long baths and longer kisses. A nap curled against his chest, your legs over his, his hand on your thigh as he murmured things you only half-remembered, words that sank into your bones like heat.

And when night fell again, you returned to those same sheets—already warm, already familiar—with the man who made the world stop when he looked at you like you were everything.