Nasty Fucking Freak

Haha my REALLY LONG bayverse turtle headcanons

Part Two: Their Anatomy

(NSFW EDITION)

FIRST I have extremely cute ones to make up for the fucking cringe I'm about to shove down your throats 😥

Nostrils pointed AT YOUR FACE. They feel bad about this once in a while but you can feel them breathing DIRECTLY into your eyes and you will have to make loving eye contact while pretending your eyes aren't shriveling up like raisins.

Holding his hand is extremely weird at first cuz of the three fingers. and he is EXTREMELY aware of that so be prepared to suck that shit up for him 😭 he will feel so bad. Also all the turtles get weirded out when you're seeing/touching their feet for the first time. He'll be like, "ew wtf don't look at me-". Will sometimes stare at your joined hands on the table; even if he's supposed to be paying attention to something else. He just kinda stares in wonder at the symbolic acceptance there; you're fingers wrapped around his.

Cuddle marks 🥺 your turtle will feel super bad when they see them on your face, back or tummy, but you wear them will pride. Case in point, the turtles are EXTREMELY TEXTURED MEN and are not exactly comfy cuddle material. Skin to skin WILL get you marked up if you lay on their arm or chest too long. He will HATE it unless you love it. Then he might come to like it.

He is so warm. You could curl up with him in the chilly lair for HOURS because it's literally perfect. And if you are prone to having cold hands and feet? Worry not. He finds them a LIFESAVER and might even ask you to place them somewhere he needs to cool off. Like the back of his neck or his face 😭

His kisses are extremely overwhelming and awkward if he isn't aware of it. His mouth is WAY bigger than yours, and so are his lips. To kiss his small human property he must do so GENTLY for it to be pleasant, unfortunately. Make-out sessions toe a thin line. But let's face it, everywhere else on your body is FREE GAME😘

Getting undressed in any way, shape or form will be the most stressful part for him the first few intimate times. He will be so unhappy to do it, might even try to avoid it entirely. So don't let him. Instead, help him through it. Undress him slowly and kiss anything new you see, encourage him to do the same to you.

They have stretch marks. You'll think their scars or turtle stripes at first. But they are super pretty light green marks behind their shoulder, under their arms, their sides and legs. You mostly find them in areas of skin. But you can spot them between his scales sometimes.

DIM THE LIGHTS. His stress levels will lower with them. You'll need light, yes. But give him shelter.

mask OFF. Respect what makes him comfortable, and if he really doesn't want it off, don't take it away. But three out of four turtles don't take their masks off easily, so you might have to plead to see their face. They look VERY DIFFERENT without their masks. He will feel the most vulnerable and ugly without it, so once it's off? SMOTHER that mother fucker in kisses 😭 he needs to know you don't think he's revolting.

Okay CRINGE TIME.

SEX WITH LITERAL TURTLE MEN

MINORS DNI (NSFW Turtle Anatomy)

Plasteron layout is different on every turtle. But they all have really cool navel scutes and ridges 🤤

Plasteron isn't sensitive, but rubbing the skin under his shell it's a good way to get him to gasp. Featherlight touches over his v-line will get his hips to twitch. Or running your tongue along the edge of his plasteron- particularly the collarbone or abdomen areas, where shell meets skin- duuude his shivers will be more than worth it. They are all touch-starved, so sensations like these will be new and instantly addicting.

They have tails. Small stubby triangular ones just at the end of their spines. Due to the mutation, it's kinda hard for your turtle to move it consciously. Kinda like moving your ears. Their tails are completely useless, easy to hide with clothes, overwhelmingly cute and they are very SENSITIVE.

The physically can't get pegged lmao. They don't have a back door. Just like turtles, their bodies do NOT separate urine and feces like humans do. Instead they have one cloaca. They don't have a G-spot like humans.

Inside his cloaca is where they hide their junk. It is located where a human woman's clitoris is. It's just under the last pair of their scutes; which frame the soft pinkish slit in an upward chevron pattern. No balls! Instead, he has internal ridged structures between his legs to protect the sensitive organs inside. A kick between a turtles legs would earn a curse and anger, but it wouldn't cripple him. The cloaca's entrance isn't sensitive unless aroused. Arousal often causes his cloaca to swell and lubricate in readiness to drop.

Erections are extremely uncomfortable. They have powerful muscles that can keep their fully erect penis mostly inside, but it hurts. Their discipline is incredible, and if they don't want out, it takes A LOT to get them out. Movement like walking is extremely undesirable with an erection, as it only stimulates his penis and stretches and stimulates reproductive muscles.

They drop their penis. They can drop it at any time. Dropping and pulling (retracting) an unaroused penis isn't a big deal. It's super small but still sensitive, so expect your turtle to slap your hand in the shower if you try to touch it. But dropping a fully aroused penis actually kinda hurts him upfront- because his dick is fucking HUGE and it has to push through his small cloaca slit.

His penis is scary AF. You have to try so hard to not let it show though because he knows. It's a gradient of light to dark purple, the tip being the darkest. Shaped nearly like a shovel 😂. The tip is super spongey though and doesn't get ridged...but everything else does. You will not, I repeat, will NOT be able to fit it in the first try. Like at all.

The tip is the most sensitive. Its pointed shape makes it easy to slide out of the cloaca. A fully aroused penis inside the sheath isn't always easy to hold completely in. Just the tip can still cause tent in his pants.

Once he's out, he's OUT until he's satisfied or unaroused. It's like, literally impossible to pull back a fully aroused god sized dick into a tiny sheath, a tiny sheath that feels MUCH BETTER with it out.

His orgasm is really long. Human male orgasms last between 10-30 seconds. But his? 1-2 minutes. It's less one orgasm and more ten to fifteen rapid fire smaller orgasms. He cums, a lot. Not just literally cumming a lot of fluid, because it's A LOT of fluid. But he will literally be in an orgasmic state three times longer than you will be.

Orgasmic cuddles are his embarrassment and his darkest need.

Leo and Donnie have a habit of pinning their lover down on the bed in a quick fit of urgency. Then just staying there; breathing through the pleasure as if it's something to endure. Then in an attempt to hide their desperation they'll shakily attend to aftercare, fighting through the surges 🥴 they'll need a partner to tell them that they're okay. It's okay, keep going babe, you're alright. C'mere keep moving. Move with it, c'mon. Don't stop till it's over. You're okay. You're doing so good baby, I know. I know, you feel so good, keep going- Donnie is the loudest and Leo shakes the most during orgasmic stimulation.

Raph stops, curls up and curses in a nearly high voice before pulling out suddenly, hiding his face while he thrusts desperately into his own hand. You'll have to hold his head close while he pushes through this as fast as he can. He hates this and is embarrassed by it. To get him back inside won't be hard though. Just a few whispers and pets to his face and his hips are back to work, albeit much more shakey and forceful. He'll be fighting his own strength the entire time, trying not to squeeze and break you in his pleasure.

Mikey is whiney and twitchy but he can hold a conversation. He just has no idea what you're saying. He'll be trying to get you water and asking if you're okay all while he's busy trying not to pull your hair and push you down as he takes his pleasure. He'll beg to stay inside for a bit longer though. Then when you twitch or move around him he does this thing with his hips as if he's soothing you both and omfg it looks so good on him. He's hard to resist.

ANYWAY If you stop moving, you're turtle will just need to hug you for a bit. Maybe hide his face somewhere, bite something while his body tightens through breathing exercises with his hips twitching hard into yours a few times. He can try to talk but it's strained, and if he reaches for something or changes positions he'll be shaking like a leaf.

But mannn if you continue stimulation, like if you ducked down to give him head while he's still cumming~ he's not gonna leave the bed on working legs. And your pillows would probably be torn in half. And you are either fixing his bitten lip after OR your neighbors would hate you forever. Cuz...the noise.

Cleanup is a fucking killer for everyone involved. The turtles won't want to stand up and your an absolute WRECK and all you two will want to do is sleep. But too bad. You gotta get up to pee and he has his...MESS to clean up.

Stamina is unheard of. Sorry girls. No multiple rounds with these guys. BUT good thing it takes for-fucking-EVER for him to orgasm.

Cuddles after tho are INCREDIBLE and will knock you both out in seconds.

I randomly gave them a year of life just for aesthetics

CANNIBAL , bartolomeo

★

summary ; your lovely boyfriend, barto, is hungry! luckily for him, his amazing girlfriend (you) have just the right thing to fill him up!

warnings ; 18+ content , dark content , gore / blood , consensual cannibalism , slight dacryphilia , eating out , jersey accent barto (LOL)

a/n ; again . . . taken from my one-shot collection ! also , i'm taking requests now. i might be a bit slow , but i'll try my best !

★

★

"such cute thighs ya got..."

the green haired man between her thighs cooed. his lips kissed up them, licking them occasionally. her hands gripped the sheets, soft breaths slipping from her mouth.

"so sensitive . . ." his teeth nibbled on her thigh, dangerously close to her crotch. her hands wound up in his green locks, tugging at them gently. his mouth opened, almost like a snake. a large bite was formed into her thigh, his teeth sinking into them. she gasps, now pulling harshly on his hair. blood begins to trickle down her thighs, staining the pale, white sheets. his teeth dug deeper, flesh ripping apart, her leg now growing sore. "bartooo . . ." she whined his name, directing his mouth to her dripping cunt. her bottom lip quivered, tears brimming in her eyes. "mmm . . ." his tongue lapped at the blood, licking all the way to her entrance. her eyes fluttered shut, huffing in pleasure.

"i'm still hungry."

he bit back into her thigh, making her scream in surprise. he tugged at the flesh, ripping it off the bone. she bit her lip, holding back a moan. the pain was severe but she couldn't help but be aroused by it. blood gushed out, a small pool of it gathering underneath her. she felt disgusted with herself. tears spilled from her eyes, running down her cheeks. "aw. . . don't cry." he grabbed her hand, guiding it down to his crotch. she felt the bulge, rubbing it. bartolomeo groaned, smacking her hand away. "since ya fed me, i'll make sure to take real good care of ya, sweet thing."

he dove into her pussy, licking wildly. what a wonders a tongue like that could do. she laid her head back, whimpering in pleasure, tears still running. he continued to eat her out, tongue striding up her folds perfectly. she spoke behind her teeth, biting down. her body stiffened, feeling her climax. her mouth opened, but nothing came out. 

"ya taste betta than ya look, girly."

she pouted, looking up at him through wet lashes. "kidding, of course. you're hot as fuck!" the cannibal licked her juices up, relishing in her facial expression. the blood mixed with her cum, creating a sweet taste that barto couldn't get enough of. "such a sweet girl. now, you can help me out, can't ya?" his pants fell to the ground, his cock standing in all its glory. her eyes widened, gulping, looking at the size of it. "it's . . . way bigger than it felt." he chuckled, rubbing the missing chunk of her thigh. blood coated his slender fingers, making him grin.

"you can handle it, i know ya can."

a different kind of meat would be replacing the missing one.

★

Memes made by yours truly, a mentally ill person with daddy issues.

I'm disappointed in myself. Sorry mom and dad.

og pics under the cut

Seguir leyendo

I did some designs of thomas without the mask ✨✨

This is not the official design since my style changes a lot 😩

Let Me Take Care of You

Word count: 1900

Masterlist

Notes: A small, very light and cute one-shot in response to a post I saw a while ago. I really love Katakuri, and I’ve been wanting to write for him for a while, but I didn’t have a real project involving him. So when I saw your post, @mew-ya , I decided to go for it. I found your idea adorable, and it inspired this piece. It’s not much, but I hope you’ll like it nonetheless. I’m taking this chance to say that I really love your art, and your OC Maren is so cool! I absolutely love the duo he forms with Katakuri! 😍

Tags: Katakuri x gn!Reader, fluff, comfort, reader needs rest, SFW. English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

You’ve lost track of the days.

Since the failure of Pudding’s wedding, chaos has taken over Whole Cake Island, and rumors of the Charlotte Family’s disgrace are spreading like wildfire across the seas of the New World.

Alliances have been shaken, mistrust is eating away at the bonds woven between the different factions, and the pressure on Big Mom’s powerful family has become unbearable.

You were thrown into this turmoil immediately.

Your days blur together without pause, dictated by tense meetings, endless negotiations, and discussions where every word is carefully weighed. Even though she is not currently on the island, the Empress’s shadow looms over every exchange, and the slightest misstep could prove fatal.

But it’s not just the allies you have to deal with.

The Charlotte family members themselves have become more demanding, more impatient. They want guarantees, results, immediate solutions. You barely have time to breathe between requests.

"Prepare a detailed report on this week’s commercial movements." "We need to review the treaty conditions, make sure the new proposals are drafted by tomorrow." "Tell the cook I want a special dessert, now." "Why hasn’t this file been sent yet?" " The ministers of Totto Land are meeting in an hour, make sure everything is ready.."

Each demand piles on top of the last, forming a mountain of responsibilities that never seems to shrink.

You barely sleep, sometimes you forget to eat, but you don’t have the luxury of slowing down.

As Katakuri’s spouse, you cannot afford to fail.

Fortunately, you are never truly alone. There is always someone – or rather something – there to assist you without you even needing to lift a finger.

The Homies are everywhere around you. These little sentient beings, created by Big Mom, seem to anticipate your every need.

When you sit at your desk, a chair slides under you before you even pull it out.

When you reach for a pen, one of them is already handing it to you, practically vibrating with enthusiasm at the idea of serving you.

When an endless discussion with influential members of the Charlotte family leaves your throat dry, a cup of hot tea magically appears on the table in front of you, placed on a tray by a Homie who doesn’t say a word, preferring to slip away as soon as its task is complete.

If your stomach lets out a quiet growl - which you usually ignore, too focused on your work - a plate of food is suddenly placed beside you. Carefully chosen snacks, never too heavy, just enough to give you a boost of energy without forcing you to stop for too long. You’ve gotten used to eating without thinking, mechanically swallowing whatever is placed in front of you between two paragraphs, two reports, two meetings.

The Homies chatter cheerfully and frenetically around you, and you absentmindedly nod in acknowledgment, accepting what they offer without truly paying attention.

Everything is fluid, organized, almost too perfect. You never have to ask for anything. Everything you need is already there. You accept this silent help as a given, without questioning its origin, without even imagining that someone might be behind it all.

And yet…

That night, you are far too absorbed in your work to wonder about this strange phenomenon.

For weeks, you’ve been stringing together meetings and negotiations with relentless discipline. You barely sleep, you forget to eat, and whenever Katakuri tries to remind you to take a break, you always give him the same answer:

"I’m fine."

No.

You are not fine.

He has been watching you for days, waiting.

Each night, you stay awake long after Katakuri returns from his own missions. Sometimes, he finds you still sitting at your desk at dawn, dark circles under your eyes, fingers tightly gripping a pen or a stack of documents.

Katakuri is not a man of many words. He prefers to observe, to understand. He knows how to spot a crack before it becomes a fracture, how to anticipate a collapse before it’s too late.

And everything about you screams collapse.

He saw it in your posture, more tense than before. In your breathing, shorter. In your hands, trembling ever so slightly, a movement so subtle that no one else would notice.

But he sees everything.

He has been watching you, silently. He knows that look, the look of someone refusing to admit they are pushing past their own limits. He has seen it too often in himself, in his brothers and sisters… but seeing it in you is unbearable.

That night, it’s the last straw.

He comes back late from a mission and, just as he expected, you’re still awake, hunched over a desk buried under paperwork. You don’t even lift your head when he enters.

"You’re home late," you remark absentmindedly, scribbling something on an urgent mission report.

He doesn’t answer.

He has stopped in front of your desk, observing you in silence. He doesn’t need words to understand.

He has watched you exhaust yourself day after day, the fatigue deepening under your eyes, the stiffness settling into your body. He has noted every little sign: the dark circles, the slight thinness of your fingers, the way your shoulders tense under stress.

You want to be perfect.

You want everything to be under control, every task carried out with impeccable precision. Because you refuse to be a burden. Because you refuse to let anyone doubt your worth.

He knows this obsession. He knows what it’s like to want to be infallible.

But he also knows what it costs.

He steps closer and gently takes hold of your wrist, stopping your frantic movements. When he lifts your chin with his other hand to lock eyes with you, his expression is filled with concern.

His skin is warm against yours.

"You’re trembling," he states.

You pull slightly against his grip, trying to free yourself. But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, doesn’t try to restrain you—only to hold you there, to make you understand that he won’t let this slide.

"I’m fine," you breathe out.

A lie.

Again.

And he’s had enough of hearing them.

"Did you take the time to eat properly today?" he asks.

Your gaze wavers.

"How much sleep have you gotten this week?"

You finally pull away, barely concealing your frustration.

"Kata, I don’t have time to rest. I have to make sure everything runs smoothly. The family has already suffered enough losses, I can’t…"

"You can’t what?"

He interrupts you, his voice slightly sharper. He doesn’t need to raise his tone.

"You can’t show the slightest weakness? Do you think that’s what will prove you deserve your place here?"

You clench your teeth.

"I have to be up to the task. After the disaster of Pudding’s wedding, we have to prove that we are still reliable. You don’t understand…"

"Don’t talk to me as if I don’t know what it means to carry a burden."

Silence falls. He still doesn’t break eye contact.

Then, without warning, he moves around the desk and lifts you effortlessly, his movements fluid and controlled. A small gasp of surprise escapes you, but he doesn’t give you the chance to protest further.

"Kata! Put me down right now, I have work to do!"

"No. Not tonight!"

His tone is firm.

He doesn’t slow down as he carries you away from your desk.

With slow but determined steps, he crosses the room. Every muscle in his body seems tense, not with anger, but with unwavering resolve and he gently sets you down on the couch before disappearing into the adjacent room.

You hear faint sounds: the opening of a cupboard, the soft clinking of porcelain.

A few moments later, he returns. In one hand, a thick, warm blanket. In the other, a steaming cup of tea.

Without a word, he drapes the blanket over you. Then, he places the cup in your hands. The contact of the warm ceramic against your fingers sends a slight shiver through you. You want to protest, to argue that you don’t need this, that you have to get back to work. But the moment the warmth of the cup seeps into your hands, something inside you cracks.

An invisible tension you weren’t even aware of carrying begins to fade, little by little. Your back, usually rigid and straight, sinks slightly against the couch. You slowly lower your gaze to the cup.

And suddenly, everything clicks into place.

The Homies who always seem to know exactly what you need. The snacks that appear without you asking. The supplies, the reports, the documents that always seem to be within reach.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It wasn’t just the Homies diligently doing their jobs.

It was him.

Katakuri.

Since the very beginning, he had made sure you ate, even when you were too absorbed in your work to think about it. He had ensured you stayed hydrated, that your belongings remained in order, that nothing was missing.

He had anticipated your every need, orchestrating everything in the shadows, without ever expecting anything in return. Without even telling you.

You slowly lift your eyes to him.

He says nothing.

He stands there, tall and imposing, arms crossed, watching you with that unwavering, piercing gaze. But there is no reproach, no irritation in his expression.

Only patience. And determination.

"You lecture me when I skip a meal, when I don’t get enough sleep… But what about you? Who takes care of you?"

You lower your eyes, unable to respond.

Because he’s right.

He sighs again and settles next to you. Then, to your great surprise, he loosens the scarf covering his face and lets it fall onto his lap.

This simple gesture is a silent declaration of trust, a way to show you that you are important enough for him to lower this barrier. One that he never lets down in front of anyone.

Katakuri never shows his face.

Even in your presence, he always ensures he stays in the shadows. He doesn’t want you to see him too clearly. He doesn’t want to witness that flicker of fear or disgust he has seen far too many times in others’ eyes. Even though you have told him, again and again, that his face neither frightens nor repulses you.

But that’s not the kind of thing one believes easily after a lifetime of rejection.

So, he never responded.

He never told you that he believes you, that he accepts your words.

But to you, it isn’t necessary. He doesn’t need to say it. You have understood for a long time that his scarf is not just an accessory.

It is his wall.

His shield.

And yet, tonight, he lets it fall.

Not for just anyone.

For you.

Right now, in this moment, there are no negotiations, no reports to write, no alliances to manage. There is only him, you, and this bubble of quiet he is trying to offer you.

He gently removes the cup from your hands and sets it on the table beside you.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the blanket he gave you earlier and wraps it around both of you, pulling you close to ensure the warmth envelops you both.

You take a deep breath, and the familiar scent of Katakuri soothes you more than you’d like to admit.

Little by little, your resistance fades. Your body gives in to exhaustion, and you let yourself lean into him.

You fought sleep for a moment, your mind still reluctant to completely surrender, but one last glance at him was enough to make you understand.

You can finally let go in complete safety.

Katakuri will not leave.

He will watch over you.

As he always has, in silence, in the shadows, without ever asking for recognition.

Tag list : @jintaka-hane @novemberhope @imveryyellow @lxshoxk @fanaticsnail @daydreamer-in-training @pandora-writes-one-piece Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be added (or removed) from the tag list.

I did some silly genderbend art for a friendgroup !

Kiss, Marry, Kill: Part 1/2 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: In which Buggy overhears a private conversation and uses that knowledge against you. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Word Count: ~3k (of 5.3k) Warnings: Clown abuse, strong language, incorrect use of a straight razor.

Never had you on my mind Now you're there all the time Never knew what I missed until I kissed ya

---

By all accounts, Buggy should be having a great time. There's food, alcohol, gambling... hell, there's even a swimming pool. Not that he can partake, but he can live vicariously.

Instead, he's got a whole school of shark eyes trained on him as he sits on a stool next to Arlong's throne. This water park sucks.

He's not chained up or anything. The threat of a couple dozen sets of teeth ripping into him is reason enough to sit perfectly still, keep his mouth shut, and try to look as small as possible. No sudden movements, no change in expression, no—

"Kiss the clown, marry the waiter, kill Pink Hair."

Buggy sits bolt upright and looks around. Who the hell said that?

Arlong doesn't even deign to look at him. "Hear something?"

Clear. Crisp. With a little bit of an accent, maybe. He's heard it somewhere recently, but where?

Certainly not here. It was a woman's voice, and Arlong Park is a bit of a sausage party at the moment. Not that he can tell on sight with fishpeople.

"Answer me, clown," Arlong rumbles.

He forgets who he's talking to for a moment. "Eavesdropping's an art," he snaps. "You can't rush art."

Big mistake. Arlong responds with a low, wet growl. "It's been three days. My patience is running thin."

Quiet chatter. The clinking of silverware. Someone chewing with their mouth open. The little pirates are at a restaurant, it seems.

He relays this to Arlong. He's less than pleased. He enunciates every word to show his teeth. "Care to be more specific?"

A shudder crawls up the back of Buggy's neck. He takes a swig of his drink to cover it. He places his fingers over his remaining ear, straining.

"You're shitting me." That voice he recognizes. The redhead. The one who ruined his show. The one Arlong's so interested in. Nadi? Nani? Noni?

The other woman speaks. "Nami, you rejected him," she says. "Girl Code only applies if you were dating."

Nami. That's her, the conniving little bitch. "No, not the waiter. I mean you'd seriously kiss the clown? He nearly killed us."

He'd recognize Rubber Boy's voice anywhere, the little shitheel. "And his nose would get in the way."

The mystery woman speaks up again. "That's nothing new. I’ve smacked noses with plenty of guys."

Okay, that narrows it down. It’s not the redhead, it can't be Rubber Boy or the bounty hunter, so that leaves...

...you. Of course it's you. How could he forget you? You're the only one who laughed at Axe-Hand Moron. Granted, it was more like a snnrrrk and you immediately clapped your hand over your mouth, eyes wide with horror, but it was a laugh all the same.

And in that moment, he knew he liked you. Bad sense of humor. Cute smile. A little bashful. He appreciates that. Sure, you helped humiliate him not an hour after the fact, but all's fair in love and piracy.

"Look, I'm not saying it’s a good idea," you continue, "but sometimes you gotta live dangerously."

The bounty hunter speaks, dry and droll. "Storms are dangerous. Bar fights are dangerous. You're just insane."

"Oh, c'mon, you're not seriously gonna hold Fu..." You pause. "Kiss Marry Kill answers against me."

So that's what's going on. "They're just chattering like they always are," he says to Arlong.

Arlong does not like that answer. He snatches Buggy up by the neck, lifting him clear off the ground with only one hand.

"Wait! Wait wait wait! They're still talking! I might have something!" He kicks and struggles, but it's no use.

You speak. "You think everything pops off? ‘Cause a gal could really— hyurk.”

Laughter all around as you’re cut off by something. Sounds like you choked.

“Thank you, Usopp,” Nami says. “I am not having that conversation.”

Arlong saunters over to the pool, carrying Buggy like a ragdoll. He has precious few seconds now. C'mon, he wills them, say something useful!

A slap, a spit, then a couple of hard coughs. “Nice shot,” you wheeze. “Use the unspicy peanut next time. I think I burned my windpipe.”

The new guy — Usopp — scoffs. “Spicy? Please. This isn’t spicy. Baratie spicy is barely a zip. Now, you want spicy, you gotta hit up the Great Pepper Isles. Their chilis are so hot, I had an out-of-body experience.”

And boom, there it is. Right as he's about to be dropped into the water, his ticket to life.

“Baratie! They're at Baratie," he chokes out. "That floating restaurant. That really nice one I got thrown out of, the pricks."

It was Cabaji's fault. Turns out whipping a unicycle out at the bar is frowned upon. Who'd've thunk.

Arlong 'smiles.' All teeth and gums and no mirth at all. "Consult our charts," he says to the nearest fishman. "I'll prepare our compass."

He grabs Buggy by the hair and yanks. In the interest of not getting his neck broken, he separates his head from his body. Unfortunately, gravity takes over and his body plunges into the pool.

Weakness swamps him like a rogue wave. He can't say a word as he's stuffed into a cloth sack and everything goes dark.

In both ears, all he can hear are the sounds of laughter.

---

Someday, Buggy will learn not to run his fat mouth. That day is not today.

Usopp barges into the galley and lobs his head through the air, a low slow toss. He only has a moment to appreciate not being overhand pitched before landing on the floor. Not on his nose, fortunately, but it still hurts.

He points at the blonde guy — Sanji? Sanji. "I can't take it anymore. He's your problem now. I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

He tramps off as Buggy flips himself upright. “What’s his problem?” he asks no one in particular. “Sheesh, you make one ‘your mom’ joke and—“

A decidedly unmanly yelp escapes him as he's popped up into the air. The world spins and turns and he braces himself to hit the ground again, only to be caught in soft hands. He's spun around...

...and comes face to face with you, regarding him with curious, contemptuous eyes.

Oh, you're even prettier up close. The redhead's a looker, but she's still a kid. Soft. Pale. Set like a mousetrap, ready to spring and break some poor chump's neck at the slightest provocation.

But you? You're a grown-ass woman. Comfortable in your sun-kissed skin. A twinkle of experience in your eye and the ease of someone who's been sailing her ship for years.

He can't help but smile. "Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here, gorgeous," he says with a wink.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sanji shoot him a glare. Your expression remains cool and uninterested. Shifting his head to your side, you hold him against your hip like a laundry basket. Even through your trousers, the soft swell of flesh warms his cheek.

“Weren't you just on buggysitting duty?” you ask Sanji.

Buggysitting? Really? "I'm right here, y'know," he grumbles.

He's ignored, as per usual. Sanji straightens up and huffs. “New guy always gets the shit jobs.”

“Let’s trade,” you say. “You take my watch and I’ll mind our chatty compass.”

Rude. “I’m still right here.”

Sanji shakes his head. “Go get your beauty sleep. Not that you need it, of course."

Wow, that was a bad line. Buggy makes his displeasure known with a retch.

“Sleep is for people who don’t have coffee.” You flap your hand toward the door. "Shoo.”

Sanji glances between you and Buggy, but heads for the door. "Any trouble at all, love, and I’m a shout away."

A little smile colors your voice. "If he starts gnawing my ankles, you’ll be the first to know."

Sanji returns the smile, sickeningly sweet. As he leaves, you sit at the table, placing Buggy across from you.

He wants nothing more than to plant his leg on a stool, lean in on his knee, and give you a toothy grin. But alas, he must settle for the grin. "Alone at last. Come here often?"

You don't even bother to look at him, too preoccupied with picking up a very shiny straight razor and a strip of leather. Muscle ripples under your skin as you slide the blade back and forth.

"So you're the barber," he says. You don't respond. "Can't imagine you're too busy on a ship with a bunch of babyfaces." Still nothing. "Don't suppose I could get a shave, then? Last time I used a straight razor, I ended up like this!"

"Barber surgeon," you say as you inspect the blade. Dissatisfied with some invisible blemish, you continue stropping.

He shrugs, only to remember he can’t. "Say, doc, I can't feel anything below my neck. Could you take a look?”

Irritation tints your voice. “Not a doctor,” you say. You’ve clearly had to explain this countless times before. “Doctors treat the inside. I fix up the outside.”

“Splitting hairs, Miss Sawbones.”

Shiff shiff shiff goes the razor. "If you don't stop talking, we’re gonna see if cutting off the nose really does spite the face. Might be an improvement for you.”

That’s just low. “Keep talking shit and this bark is gonna turn into bite.”

You finally look up. You level the razor at him, glaring down the blade. “You’re the only one talking, clown.”

Damn. Your eyes are pretty. Warm as the first sunbeam of a summer morning, but dark as the blotches he gets in his eyes when he looks into a spotlight by accident. Hot like one, too. Heat lurks below the dark surface, like warm charcoal about to catch fire.

Nerves ball up in his absent chest. He swallows them and summons his bravado. “Can ya blame me? I’ve got shit else to do. I’ve met parrots with more to say than you.”

"Count the cracks in the ceiling."

"One, two, three—“ He gives an exaggerated groan. “Didn't you say you were gonna make coffee? Can I get in on that?"

You scoff, but you do stand. "Last thing you need is caffeine.”

“The last thing I need is to be held hostage by a bunch of greenhorn nobodies,” he says, "and yet here I am."

“Sucks to suck,” you say. You pull a pot out of a cupboard and fill it with water. “How do you take it? Sugar? Cream?”

“Black. Like my heart.”

You let out that snnnrrrrk of a suppressed laugh again. What a nice sound. “Something we got in common.”

“Black heart or black coffee?”

“Yes.”

Such a simple, easy response. Not even particularly clever. But the delivery with no hesitation, no intonation, no second guessing the punchline. He laughs. “I knew I liked you!”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You try to kill everyone you like? No wonder you have no friends.”

He hops to the edge of the table. Not an easy feat with only a stump. “C’mon, babe. All’s fair in love and piracy.”

Calling you babe was a blindfolded over-the-shoulder shot in the dark, but it lands. You add a smile to your glance. “I’ll give you that and nothing more.”

Somewhere, miles away, his heart flutters. He lets it. “Will you still give me coffee?”

“Only if you shut up ‘til this water boils.”

In this state, he’ll take any scrap of stimulus he can get. He bites his tongue and bites it hard, willing himself not to speak.

Silence creeps in. Silence leads to stewing, and stewing leads to bad thoughts. Bad feelings. Lonely feelings. Like how long it’s been since he’s had a friendly cuppa joe with someone. Or had someone honestly laugh at his stupid jokes.

Especially not someone as quick as you. Or as pretty. Or with such a nice ass. Or who maybe-sorta-kinda-might-possibly be interested in him. Potentially. Hypothetically.

There’s no damn way, he tells himself. You’re humoring him. You’re definitely shacking up with that cook — young, charming, handsome. Or the bounty hunter, maybe — tall, dark, broody.

You wouldn’t give him a second glance. Him, a pathetic, painted, big-nosed weirdo. Who is currently a severed head. A temporary state, but still not a good first impression. Even though his actual first impression was trying to kill you and your buddies. This second first impression is just as bad.

A sharp groan escapes him before he can stop it. He eyes you, expecting you to snap at him or worse.

But you don’t. You pause in your pouring to peer over your shoulder at him, gaze soft. “Y’alright?”

There goes his heart again. Ugh. “Peachy. That coffee done yet?”

You curl your lip. “What’s got your panties in a knot?”

“Just realized I’m gonna need a straw or some shit.”

Still sneering, you set a shallow mug in front of him. “I’ll see what I can find.”

See? You definitely don’t like him. Stupid fucking jackass, letting his hopes get up. This is what he gets.

…A nice, warm cup of coffee. If you really hated him, you wouldn’t have given him coffee, right? Or be looking for a straw?

You’re just humoring him. You just want to save your friend. Catch more flies with honey and all that. He’ll be more agreeable if you’re friendly.

Across the room, you open a drawer. “Hey, bendy straws. Perfect.”

You’re breaking out bendy straws for him? There’s gotta be something there! At least a little something!

No. No way. Coincidence.

You place an oddly long straw into the mug. He realizes it’s three normal ones jammed end-to-end, creating a pipe ending just about level with his mouth.

You just pulled some engineering shit so he can drink coffee with you. There’s definitely something.

An ice cube plops into the mug and you slide back into the booth with your own cup. “Might dilute it a bit, but can’t have you burning your mouth.”

His distant heart flips again. He has to say something. Before he can convince himself otherwise. He says the first thing that comes to mind.

“So,” he says, “‘kiss the clown,’ eh?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That’s the first thing he thought of? Seriously? He braces himself for boiling coffee thrown in his face.

You freeze mid-sip, brows raised. “Excuse me?”

Okay, you don’t look mad. “Don’t deny it, babe. I heard everything. Kiss Marry Kill? Nice job keeping it kid-friendly, wink wink."

You stare at him with those dark eyes. "No idea what you're on about."

"I know you know. And I know you know I know." He waggles his eyebrows, hoping for a laugh, but he gets nothing.

You watch the steam swirling up from your mug. "What do you want me to say, exactly? That I chose you to kiss?"

"I just wanna know what possesses a woman to make her want to shack up with the guy who tried to kill her and her friends." He lips the straw into his mouth and takes a test sip. Still quite hot.

"Circumstance. Process of elimination. Being put on the spot." You pick up the razor. Your fiddling with it belies your agitation.

"Don't lie to me, babe," he croons. "I can see right through you."

You stare at him. "And what is it that you see?"

What does he see? "A woman on a knife's edge of self-satisfaction and self-destruction. Once bitten, twice shy, but when he comes around the third time, you just can't help yourself."

Your fiddling becomes more insistent. You break eye contact to look at the razor. He's hitting on something. Time to push some buttons.

"You bet on the wrong horse every time. You think it'll be different this time. But it never is." He smiles bitterly. "Something else we got in common. Birds of one ugly feather."

Your gaze softens as you return your gaze to him. "So you found the problem, Doctor Headshrink. What’s the prescription?"

Shoot your shot, Buggy. "Kiss the clown and maybe we'll find out."

You're still for a few moments. Then slowly, carefully, you slide your hand across the table. You pull him closer as you lean lower in your seat to eye level with him.

He can't help the way his breath quickens. It's been so, so long since he had any kind of intimacy. Your reedy fingers trace his jaw down to his chin. Your thumb comes up to pull at his bottom lip, and he lets out a satin-soft whimper as he opens his mouth to you.

You strike like a snake, yanking his tongue out with one hand and readying your razor with the other. His choke turns into a scream as you bring it down, severing his tongue clean at the root.

It's one thing to disconnect body parts. Pop a leg off, drop an ear — he’s used to it. But it's a different story when said part is supposed to be inside of him. His tongue waggles like a fish as he tries to return it to his mouth, but you keep a firm grip.

"You can have this back in the morning," you say.

He wants to cuss you out, but what comes out is ew bihck, whadda fuhck iss won wif ew, gif ih bahck.

You laugh. And lord, what a laugh you've got. Loud, like a party gone late into the hours of the night. Clattery, like a dozen plates shattering on the floor. Full of mirth, like a drunk on payday.

And, for the briefest of moments, his rage is forgotten. He wants to make you laugh like that.

But it returns with a vengeance, replaced with a desire to see you squirm.

---

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Ouch.