When I arrived in the Sabaody Archipelago, I wasn't subtle. I was a dragon. The kind that can turn day into evening with merely taking flight. Shadows crept through the canopy, and yeah–all sets of eyes in a three-mile radius honed in on me as if I was the last boss in a game they hadn't upgraded for. Marines, pirates, bounty hunters, bootlegged fishmen, you name a few. I watched at least one kid come close to wetting himself.
My landing was controlled, smooth. Four legs on the ground, hardly a tremor in the earth. A jumbo airplane that had been built from death-sized metal, that slid into a bed of flowers. Perona? She disembarked my back at her own sweet-ass pace, arms loaded with her cute little gothy bags as if we're off for a holiday and not into the lion's den. I at last shifted back—biped, two-and-a-quarter stories, and already regretting every decision that brought me here.
I gazed up at the tops of the trees, the tension in the air, the odor of decay and seastone combining with wet sea air. Sighed, not from tiredness, but from knowing I could sense already: I'd made a mistake.
"Perona," I told her, my voice low and flat. Not in anger with her—disappointed with the universe, maybe with myself.
"Yes, dear?" She had replied politely, not knowing. Or perhaps maybe. She had that serene, unnerving presence, like she was in possession of information you weren't.
"There was a swordsman in Mihawk's, wasn't there? The one who left with you to Sabaody?" I asked. I was far too calm in demeanor. That is how you recognize that harm is already done.
She blinked. "Yeah, that occurred." Puzzled, not knowing in which direction I was heading with this. That poor thing. She had no notion what I was going to do here.
And that's when it struck me—like a shot from a seastone to the temple.
"Fuck." It wasn't a swear word. It was a dirge for the plan I had been counting on.
Her head tilted. "Did I do something wrong?" she inquired, and her voice really did sound distressed. That stung more than it should.
I shook my head. "No, you didn't. I just miscalculated."
And I had. Spectacularly.
I had forgotten that, as Luffy had made Sabaody a circus by knocking out a Celestial Dragon with one hit—pre-timeskip, not so long before—that the entire slave auction business was completely undercover. The beehive had been kicked over by Luffy, and the bees were Marines with admirals on speed dial. The World Government didn't just plug the gap. They made it un-hackable.
There were no longer open marketplaces here. No longer golden opportunities to take those smug, soft-fleshed World Nobles in the middle of a transaction. No simple killings. No poetic justice.
Now? The Celestial Dragons acquired in Mary Geoise, or personally through brokers in the Underworld with connections in their native territory—somewhere far off from snoops and hot-head rubber-fists vigilantes. A fortress defended by bureaucracy with at least three admirals as gatekeeper.
Which meant, the target had moved, and I stood in a deserted town with fangs ready and no one to shred to pieces.
And worst of all? It did make sense. Of course they would prioritize themselves after that public degradation. You're not punched in the face on live Den Den Mushi and go business as usual. Not if you're stupid, anyway, and the Celestial Dragons may be depraved, but they're certainly not stupid—not when it comes to keeping personal safety in priority.
I gritted my teeth, my nostrils expanding. This was not a logical hiccup. This was a roadblock. I had brought napalm to a funeral and expected fireworks.
"Fucking hell," I muttered to myself. Perona didn't say a word. She sensed it too, now.
The quiet wasn't awkward. It was oppressive. A hushed, unvoiced realization that we'd arrived too late to make the kind of impact that I'd imagined. The one that shakes the earth and sets the skies ablaze.
The other possibility was to blow this island to glass. One long, steady blast in, two, if I held a grudge, and this whole rock would be a crater, smoldering. Not a single soul in here could stand in my way, a few hardcases with chip-on-their-shoulder attitudes and a few rusty cutlasses, but come on—let's be serious here—if you're not building haki or calling down meteors, you're scenery.
And yet... wastage. Pirate posturing to waste firepower against civilians. Everybody post-skip are blowing up islands for kicks, half the New World morally allergic to the notion that they might not. Entire populations wiped out like smudges on a chalkboard, and nobody so much as fluttered an eyeblink as long as it wasn't a Yonko was doing it.
But... Opportunity here, the kind that doesn't recur. Going full-on Anakin Skywalker on the Celestial Dragons may not have been the best plan. Not yet. Standing there being a big showy target with a grudge to bear was the kind that got you Kizaru'd before dessert. I had no need for being showy. Not yet. The smart move was stealth. Backroom machinations. No headlines. Wanted posters. Not until my hand was on the switch and the world wasn't ready to react.
For goodness' sake, did I really shout?
"Alright, Perona. Let's go get you a nest or something," I told her, looking back over my shoulder.
She nodded like this was a honeymoon, not a banishment. I could've done this myself easy—travel by sea alone, no ship, no burden—but now I had a goth undead girl with me with enough luggage for a normal-sized city for a week. She wasn't freight cargo. She wasn't ballast. And she also wasn't going to make her ghostly hind end walk the Grand Line by herself. That meant we had to acquire a ship. Real pirates make their own, right? Traditional. Romantic. Sane-adjacent.
"Okay, dear!" she trilled, skipping almost.
I could not even buy myself lunch—a house, a hotel room—morality was a choice. Theft was taxation without a state. And if she had served under Gecko Moria, she wasn't reticent when it came to property laws.
"Do you have bread, Perona?" I asked, gazing down the street.
"What does that mean, bread?" She blinked.
Right. Tone it down. Not everyone is familiar with slang honed in dead-end message boards and net-speak.
Cash. Money. Purchase
"OHHH." She smiled. "For a house? Of course. I was a pirate. I'm still a pirate," she went on with a sarcastic curtsy and a ghost girl swagger.
So we leave for the village proper, a fishing village perched on the edge of obscurity, with a dock, a few inns, and three fishermen who smelled like bait. My boots pounded the old cobblestones like war drums. I wasn't stealthy, but subtlety is not quiet. It's making them realize you're present and not sure if they should flee.
Folks gazed out from doorways. The air vibrated with tension like a fog, heavy and anticipatory. They had no idea what I was. And that is the strongest thing to be. Unknown.
Perona orbited me like a consumerist poltergeist spoof. I was going to be stuck with her, so I might as well accustom myself to accepting a haunted conscience.
Nothing could prevent me from robbing the joint blind, anyway.
"You want to pick out the place or must I burn one down and blame destiny?"
She smiled. "Steal something nice, maybe with a porch?"
Ah, romance.
**
Turned out that we didn't need to pay or steal a damn thing. Not a word was uttered. Not even by the marines. Which was funny, given that marines generally did like to say things—the kind that preceded cuffs or bullets. But with both Sentomaru yeeted off the island and the rest of their command chain busy with wet noodles and empty threats, they weren't exactly in a mood to throw hands with something that could possibly breathed fire and cast god-sized shadows.
If my coming didn't scream "not your problem," they had been dumber than they claimed. I literally darkened the fucking sun. Cast a winged shadow over half the port as if I was announcing the Second Coming. They had seen the dragon. They had felt the heat. They had seen the clouds part like I was Moses, and everybody suddenly had a revelation: let's not upset the monster with jurisdictional paperwork.
And suddenly we had a "motel room." Ours, complimentary. You may stay as long as you like. Free quiet. Or at least that is, until a rear admiral with a death wish stopped by and evicted us.
I didn't trust it, naturally. Generosity smells a lot like fear when you know what's behind it. But I wasn't going to complain. Not when I had better things to do. Like finding someone who could weld steel with his teeth and design blueprints in his sleep. A shipbuilder. Preferably not drunk. Preferably not a member of a doomsday cult.
Sabaody was as good a place as any in which to search. With Shakky running her information den in the guise of a bar, she had the underworld mapped in her brain like a bartender knows hangovers—up close, remorsefully, and without illusions.
Perona was cozied up, being her ghost-girl self. Fluffing pillows, tossing barbs, probably judging thread counts fit for a queen. I wasn't inside yet. I didn't need to be. As long as I could maintain myself in my shifted state, I would. Not that I couldn't. Because I didn't fucking want to.
I had scales. I had wings. I did not need to prove myself to a group of sea-level NPCs who pretended that guns mattered.
I walked that rocky path, exited the motor lodge, really a rambling hovel with aspirations, and proceeded down the highway in the general direction of Shakky's.
"I''ll be back, Perona," I muttered, eyeing a slice through the glass like a father poised to sneak out in the middle of his kid's recital. "I'll be back. Don't launch a Cold War in my absence."
"I ought to be telling you that," she pouted, folding her arms like that was going to make a difference to me.
I sneezed. Didn't even bother to reply. I was already halfway down the street, my feet kicking up dirt, my hair cutting through air.
Shakky's bar was waiting.
Her bar was exactly the same as in the anime—dirty but lively, smoky-smelling walls covered in tales and questionable lifestyle decisions. It was one of those instances where the fourth wall bent just so for me to indulge in the raw feeling of being here. In One Piece. In person. In the atmosphere.
She had quite clearly heard me coming. No problem when I was essentially earthquaking the entire islet with every step. She was standing in the foreground, as calm as a cigarette in a hurricane, waiting with that smirking, you've-seen-better-and-probably-slept-with-it smile. I stopped maybe a step or two away, granting her that proper space for my Godzilla-sized presence.
I opened my mouth to speak. Then stopped.
She wasn't telepathic. Sound mattered. And if I wanted her information, she had to deliver it into my ear, not act it out in some cheap kabuki theater. So, alright. Showmanship reduced. Practicality increased.
I had changed. Muscle rippled, bulk vanished, bones snapped like thunder in velvet. By the time I was done, I was again human-sized—shirtless, and augmented. I couldn't even guess what my face would be like in this shape or in both my shapes, for that matter, but Perona told me I was sexy and quite frankly, I would trust her then being in front of a mirror. Mirrors lie. Women don't—at least, not in matters of appearance. That is sacred.
I glanced over at Shakky. Her eyes re-started, trying to compute the change that had just happened as if it wasn't a transgression in the 4 Seas and seven religions.
"I could use your assistance," I told her, speaking in a normal, conversational tone, striding as if I owned every square inch I covered.
She blinked, once. Presumably still trying to get her head around how a battleship-sized buster call creature had been able to morph into a bare-chest guy with a Greek god physique and the war criminal swagger.
"Come in," she replied at last, for what else could she say?
I entered the bar. Dark, neat, but inviting. That perfect blend of risk and warmth. The kind of bar where your beer is warm, your tab is too high, and your fight had best be a quick one or she's pummeling your jaw with a beer bottle.
I settled onto the leather-worn, height of the stool and let my eyes sweep the room. She stood behind the bar, a vision in elegance and authority, and placed both hands on the bar as if in a declaration of ownership over the space between us. Don't mess with me, her posture cried out, but you're going to anyway, her body told me.
And trust me, this woman was hot. Not just in the "anime milf" kind of a manner, but seriously, really hot. Curves that gravity was even jealous of, and her chest—well, let's just say greater than Perona's was not exactly the best description. They could've had a zip code by themselves. Only reason this woman wasn't hit on left and right is that everybody with a functioning brain had figured that she could crush some teeth before you could say "double D's."
"Ahem."
Her smile snapped me out of my internal cataloging. She was grinning smugly, clearly aware of the manner I had stared at her breasts as if they owed me a fee.
"Sorry," I said.
"Don't be," she replied, leaning forward slightly, her eyes glinting. Not offense, but invitation.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a testament to how utterly down-bad One Piece women can be if you had some good game and weren't banana-shaped. Wasn't she married to Rayleigh or, I don't know? I couldn't remember anything about her.
Shakky was a background character you hardly noticed—like Perona. They show up when the plot demands they do, and they quietly disappear like awful wifi. But Shakky's smoky eyes had my attention in a choke hold right now, and that wasn't something I was particularly keen on fixing.
"I was wondering where I could find a shipbuilder on this island. You know, someone who can slap together a real ship," I told her, speaking smoothly but with a hint of 'I'm on the brink of a bargain.'
She sat back as if for the cover of one of those soft-core sex mags, pushing out her breasts like the centerfold attraction. And, sure, I was staring. Not subtle. Not remorseful.
"I might be able to tell you," she replied at last, her "what's in it for me" venom dripping through her words, "but what is in it for me if I spill the secrets?"
Her smile was so razor sharp, it could cut glass. I was already caught in that slow burn, my dick getting hard in my pants as if it had a mind of its own. She was even looking at my hardness like she had won some kind of carnival prize.
"It depends," I replied, trying not to sound gruff but succeeding wonderfully well at failure. "Do you take Beli or... body?"
She coaxed out the word 'body' like a bargain you couldn't resist and closed in, moving in a fluid arc through the bar as if the place belonged to her, which it did. I stood—standing being upright with the intent to make a power move—and traced a hand over her face, slow and intentional. She didn't pull back. She shifted in against it like something to be begged for.
I grabbed her tight and that brought her to me. I slid my hand down, gripping ass as if claiming it. The kind you don't inquire about when the look in her eyes is anything to judge by.
Our kiss was a storm breaking upon the shore—feral, brutal, and unrelenting. Our lips collided, and I swear on the name of fucking Poseidon that I could feel it in my tailbone. Her breasts against my chest as if trying to escape from the bind of her corset, and the taste of her—whiskey and gunpowder—had me drunk.
I grabbed her waist and bent her against the bar without even a flicker of hesitation. She didn't need to be asked. The manner in which she was looking at me, she was begging for it. And before even a sound could escape her, my hand was on her ass, gripping, sensing the tension in her asscheeks. Like a fruit that I had not picked for years.
She opened her eyes wider, but complained not. She merely looked up at me with those smoky eyes, her gasping for air, her lips biting into her lower one. That was enough encouragement for me.
"You're going to tell me, aren't you, sweetheart?" I panted, my own voice raw with need, as I had her lean over the bar. The bar creaked under her, but she hardly even noticed. Or cared.
"You're going to be telling me where the best shipwrights on this island are hiding, and maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to continue wearing that smug grin on your face when I'm done with you."
Her eyes sparkled with a pleased expression, as if she had not been treated to being a pirate queen in quite some time. Or perhaps she was just pleased to have something besides booze making her blood pulse. Either way, she inhaled in shock as my hand wandered to her plump ass cheek when I smacked it a few times with a firm enough touch that I could sense her flesh would be fiery-red under her pants.
"You're a cheeky one, aren't you?" She smiled, her words carried on a seductive whisper.
"I can be worse," I snapped brusquely.
And with that, I dropped my pants.
Her eyes grew saucer-sized as they beheld my big black-veined cock, which sprang out like a snake from a basket. It was long and fat, the kind that could make even the greatest pirates jealous, the kind that could conquer empires with a mere flick if I so desired.
I smiled, gripping it at the base and running my fingers over it slowly, temptingly. It was clear that she had never so much as glimpsed anything like it. But this was a pirate. She had seen things. And this woman was married to f***ing Dark Rayleigh. She must know what a man's pride and delight was like.
But she refused to pull away. Instead, she leaned back, thrusting her ass against me, allowing my cock to sit on her like a sausage on a frigidly cold bun. She was attempting to be cool, but I could feel her heartbeat speeding up, the warmth radiating from her body. Her own personal dragon was definitely riled.
I hunched forward, my cock rubbing against her, teasing, and I breathed against her ear, "How does that feel?"
Her eyes fluttered closed, and a low, throaty moan slipped past her lips. "It feels like a promise," she breathed, her voice a smoky sigh.
I moved quietly into place, and she reclined, pulling her pants down & inviting me to her wet, waiting opening. I slipped inside, and she was tight, tighter by far than any chest I had ever opened which were none yet. Her walls gripped me like a clamp, as if trying to trap me inside for good. But I had higher goals.
I began fucking her, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear. Things that would make a saint sweat and a devil blush. I called her a slut, a whore, a dirty pirate bitch. And she welcomed it, moaning with every thrust. Her vulva was a burning, wet caress against me, a volcano on the brink of eruption at any instant. Her moans grew louder, reverberating through the bar like the most seductively irresistible siren call, and I knew that any who might be outside could overhear if, if there was anybody outside.
"You like that, huh?" I growled, my hands gripping her hips, pounding my cock into her with a harsh brutality that would've wrecked a lesser woman. "You enjoy being fucked like the cheap piece of trash you are?"
Her moans grew louder, more desperate, as she thrust back against me. "Yes, yes, oh god, yes!" her throat raw from screaming as I mounted her. Her cunt gripped my cock, begged for release, but I wasn't going to let her come yet. I was going to enjoy this sensation, this control I had over her.
I pulled back nearly entirely, with only my cockhead inside her, and watched her whimper and squirm, trying to get me back in. "Please, don't stop," she panted. "I need it. I need you to fuck me harder, deeper!"
She was speaking directly to my soul. I sneered and rammed back against her, her yelling my name, or perhaps a chain of swear words. I had no idea. I didn't care. I just knew that she enjoyed it rough. The manner in which she gripped me, the scratches her fingernails dug against the table—it was all the encouragement I required in order to push harder.
I raised her leg up to the bar, just so I could reach deep within her, and oh, was she enjoying herself. Her wet, tight pussy was like a glove of paradise for my cock. She was moaning like a banshee, crying out for me to go deeper, harder, and harder, and I, obedient servant of pleasure, obliged to the best of my ability.
She had already creamed on my cock once, but the second time was like witnessing a collision between the ocean and the shore with a full moon. She contracted in spasm in her pussy, her walls gripping like a vice as she climaxed. The moan that emerged from her throat was a sound that filled space, echoing off walls like a call from a siren, and I couldn't help but let out a triumphant roar.
My nut was imminent, but it wasn't a gentlemanly knock. It was a battering ram that blew down the doors to my sanity. I could sense it, the wrenching tension in my balls, my cock pistoning in her tight, gripping pussy. The rooms blurred with each drive, my vision narrowing to the area where the only thing I could see was her round, perfect ass jouncing back to me, the only sound I could hear was the slap of flesh against flesh and her ragged gulps for air.
"I'm about to cum," I growled into her ear, my breathing in rough, rasping spurts. Shakky's eyes rolled back in her head, and her ass ground back against me, insisting that I push in deeper and harder. I could feel her pussy gripping my cock, begging for the sweet release we both craved.
And then it hit—like a wave of raw, unbidden desire. I spilled inside her with a coast-to-coast shout, my semen rushing in her so that she was drenched. She screamed out my name—or was it a warning shout?—as her body convulsed in the force of her third orgasm. It was like witnessing a storm upon the sea, wild and unconfined.
When I withdrew at last, my cock was slick with her juices, and her body glistened as if just crowned queen of the pirates. I slapped her ass a final time, imprinting my mark upon her perfect-appearing flesh, and her eyes met mine with a mix of desire and adoration that was as fulfilling as anything ever experienced.
But I was steadfast, my cock stiff as if anticipating a procession. And, it seemed, Shakky had not had enough from me yet. She slid off the bar, dropped to her knees with panther-like ease, and engulfed my still-beating cock in her lips. Her tongue ran back and forth over the head as if relishing the taste of conquest, her teeth nipped at the sensitive tip just enough to make me quiver.
My hand slipped behind her head, my fingers tangling themselves in the softness of her hair as she pulled me deeper into her mouth. It was like trying to bring a tornado to heel with a thread, but somehow, somehow, for a fleeting instant, she succeeded, her eyes on mine, daunting me into looking away. I didn't. I never did. Not with something as lovely as this to see.
"You're a good little cock-sucking pirate whore, aren't you?" I growled, my tone raw, the kind that might make a saint spit nails.
Her eyes welled up, but she did not back off. Simply pulled me in tighter, as if trying to consume me whole. I watched her, the way she worked me—so ravenous, so desperate for acceptance. It was like viewing a work in progress. Every stroke of her tongue was a blow to my self-control. I had to admit, she was skilled. The kind that could cause a saint to swear fealty to the devil.
"Take it all, slut," I growled, the next load coming; She nodded, never once looking away, and swallowed me down her throat so that my balls slapped against her chin.
And that was when the dam broke. I came, this time harder, spasm after spasm of burning, heavy cream into her mouth that she gulped greedily, her eyes welling up with water but never leaving my own. She swallowed every droplet, whatever it was, her throat going into overdrive in order to accommodate my orgasm. And when I finished, she gazed up at me, her mouth overflowing, and flashed a look that suggested that she would perform the act over again in a heartbeat.
"Fuck," I panted, trying to restrain myself. She laughed against my cock, the vibration humming through me like a call from a siren. I was still erect and that was when she brought out the big guns.
She ripped her breasts out of her corset and let them spill out like two perfect scoops of vanilla ice cream. They were enormous, round and heavy, with erect, rosy nipples that invited my teeth. She closed her hands tightly around my cock and slid them up and down, holding them together tightly so that I could feel the warmth of her body closing in on me from every angle. I couldn't take my eyes away from the sight.
"Oh, you enjoy that, huh?" Shakky goaded, her own eyes glinting with depravity as she squeezed my cock between her breasts. The heat, the yielding curves, was paradise against my body, and I could sense the warmth of her lips against my shaft as she filth-talked me. "You like watching me use my tits to get you off?"
"Yes," I panted, not able to comprehend. It was all too much, too tremendous. She had me in the palm of her hand, or pressed between her breasts, and she knew it. She went on, her motions increasing, speeding up, her hands in rhythm with her chest pushing me to the brink.
My eyes rolled back in my head, and my hips pushed forward, my cock sliding, slithering against her breasts like a snake with a hunt in mind. I was there, so close, and she was aware that I was. "Do it," she breathed, her voice a sultry purr that sent shivers running down my spine. "Cum for me."
And I did. Letting out a shout that shook the bar and probably caused every fish for a mile to flee, I branded her chest with my semen. It splattered onto her big breasts, the wet, warming fluid puddling in the crevices around her nipples like a nasty necklace of white gold. She was smirking at me, her eyes smoldering with victory and desire as she continued to clamp her breasts around my cock, milking out the last drop of semen.