Have you ever wanted to enter the one piece world? Maybe you want to be friends with the strawhats, or the heart pirates? Perhaps you'd rather be dating one of them, or all of them!! Here you can do that, feel free to send in requests in my request...
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A/N: MINORS BYE BYE.
Ummmm so Killer alone was 20K words ahh... lol.
Anyway I love you too you NSFW demon!! Enjoy
Crocodile The halls of Rain Dinners were quieter at this hour, your footsteps echoed off the walls as you made your way through the dimly lit corridor. Most of the casino's patrons were still several floors below, their laughter and the clinking of chips creating a distant hum that barely penetrated this high.
Up here, where the real business of Baroque Works was conducted, the atmosphere was different, heavier, more deliberate. The scent of expensive cigars and leather hung in the air, mixing with the faint perfume of secrecy that seemed to cling to every surface.
You'd grown accustomed to these late nights over the months you'd served as Mr. 0's personal assistant. The paperwork that kept the organisation running smoothly, the countless reports, communications, and documents that required review. You didn't mind. You were good at your job. Exceptional, even. That's why you'd been given the position in the first place and why you'd earned a codename. Miss Kitty, few people outside the upper echelon knew your real name.
The folder in your hands contained correspondence from the World Government, marked with their official seal. Standard fare for a Warlord of the Sea, though the contents still required review before Mr. 0 could respond appropriately.
You reached his office door, that imposing barrier of dark wood and brass fixtures, and knocked twice. Crisp, professional, exactly as you always did. "Enter". Even through the door, his voice carried that familiar low rumble, the kind that never needed to be raised to command attention. It settled somewhere in your chest, a sound you'd become intimately familiar with in ways that had nothing to do with your official duties.
You pushed the door open and stepped inside, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Miss All Sunday sat in one of the chairs across from Crocodile's massive desk, her legs crossed with effortless elegance, that perpetually enigmatic expression on her face, her blue eyes flicked toward you as you entered. There was always something knowing in that gaze, as if she could read the secrets written in invisible ink across everyone she encountered.
Your eyes moved to the man behind the desk. Crocodile sat in his high backed chair like it was a throne, which, in many ways, it was. The massive fur coat draped over his broad shoulders made him appear even larger, more imposing. His hook rested on one arm of the chair, the metal gleaming dully in the warm light from the desk lamp, while his other hand, his real hand, held a cut crystal glass of whiskey.
Amber liquid caught the light as he raised it briefly to his lips. A cigar smouldered in the ashtray beside him, a thin ribbon of smoke curling upward. He was intimidating by design. Everything about him screamed power and danger, from the scar across his face to the cold calculation in those golden eyes, but you'd learned to navigate that danger, to exist within its radius without flinching.
