Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a one night stand, and it was with the Massacre Soldier.

Sure, Penguin had thought about those thick thighs and bulging muscles since first stepping foot on Sabaody (and they’d only gotten larger since then), but the idea that he actually had a chance with the blond demigod… Like, there was no way. Not with Penguin.  

So when the opportunity presented itself in the form of that beautiful, beautiful man approaching him in a dark alley and, for some reason, inviting him to dinner instead of immediately dissecting his spine from his body, Penguin jumped at the opportunity.

It was a one night stand and it was glorious.

It was dinner at a soba shop where the soba was just okay (Killer made several comments that he’d had better, but that everyone and their mom was at the same soba shop run by some blond show-off, and in comparison this place offered relative privacy), immediately followed by messy kisses under a half-raised mask in the alley behind the shop, and Killer pulling back to propose they take this back to his room (a rented one a few streets over).

And, again, it was a one night stand with the Massacre Soldier.  

Penguin had felt out of his depth from the first moment Killer had pulled him aside, but each step along the way had been nothing but the, likely, best moment of Penguin’s life. They’d had light and delightful smalltalk all through dinner. Killer’s lips had been firm yet soft against his own, and his heavy hand on Penguin’s waist when he suggested that they take this back to his room… 

Penguin was living a fever dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

And maybe he got a little too into it. Maybe this was his own fault. 

Killer had brought Penguin up to his room and their time started out slow and languid, lingering touches and hot breath across skin as they undressed one another. The persistent weight of Killer’s hands on Penguin’s chest, arms, thighs, as he watched in rapt fascination as Penguin opened himself up for Killer (it had been a while and it was clear the man was hung). It had been the slow rolling of hips and biting kisses down the neck, and Penguin inwardly had sworn that this was, hands down, going to always be the best night of his life.

Then he had made the mistake of suggesting that Killer put that sash of his to good use and tie Penguin down a little.

Well. “Mistake” might be going too far. More like Penguin’s brain-to-mouth filter had been thoroughly destroyed by Killer’s teeth against his jaw and his wide fingers replacing Penguin’s thinner ones. “Mistake” might imply that Penguin did not, in fact, desperately want what he was suggesting.

And Penguin sure did. Desperately want that sash around his wrists.

And it turned out, Killer was very skilled with knots.

So. Maybe that wasn’t a mistake at all. And Killer’s fantastically adept fingers wrapping his sash around Penguin’s wrists and up his arms just a few times, with fancy knotwork inbetween, before flipping him onto his stomach, hips in the air, and sliding his fat cock into Penguin, had Penguin seeing stars and gasping out the names of gods he never even remembered learning. 

Killer, up until this point, had been mumbling the occasional sweet nothing against his skin, between kisses and nips, bits of “you’re doing so well,” and “you smell amazing,” and “that’s right, good job.” Things that had Penguin melting against the mattress in joy, building him up and painting his cheeks red because how is this real how is he real how is this happening.

And then, when Killer’d planted him face first into the mattress, one ear flap smushed under his cheek and brim hiding what’s left of his vision, and he slid his cock into Penguin until Penguin was left gasping and grinding against his tied arms, Killer murmured, almost to himself, “Oh shit, you’re taking my whole cock like this, aren’t you?”

And Penguin, accidentally, mistake-number-two, whined , clenching around Killer in a way that had them both gasping, Killer’s fingers suddenly digging into his hips in a way that would certainly leave bruises later.

“You like that?” Killer asked, zeroing in on Penguin’s response, voice, low and sweet like dripping honey. “You like being told how easy you take it? How your body just sucks me in like you’re desperate for it?”

And Penguin, well, he hadn’t known how much he would like that, blood rushing to his face in a way that would be embarassing if his face wasn’t shoved into the mattress, his own cock twitching between his spread thighs, precome leaking onto the sheets. 

And suddenly Killer’s gentle sweet murmurings turned filthy. His voice just as slow and syrupy as he slowly rocked his hips into Penguin, teasing and taunting him, telling him just how desperate he was, just how obvious that desperation was, just how clear it was that Penguin was gagging for Killer’s cock, that it was so obvious.

And most of Penguin’s responses were lost into the sheets, his yes, gods, yes— all mixing with the drool pooled against his lips as he’s ploughed into, whole body twitching under the sensation of being properly fucked by the Massacre Soldider.

Penguin came untouched the first time, then touched the second, then milked the third. 

There had been so little of his mind left by the end of that. It had felt like the perfect experience. The sort of thing he would think with longing on for the rest of his life. 

And then, sudden and earth shattering, a pounding at the door had interrupted them. 

Through the haze that made up his brain by that point, Penguin heard the distinct cadence of Killer’s captain, Eustass Kid, yelling at Killer to get the fuck out here and there’s urgent shit happening Kill, and, you’ve got two minutes before I break the door down—

And Killer scrambled off of Penguin, pulling out and leaving Penguin empty and leaking, feeling suddenly ice cold ice fucking cold all over without fingers bruisingly grasping at his hips, teeth grazing his spine, a body bearing down on him. 

Penguin blinked and the next thing he knew, the Massacre Soldier was there, in his face, fully dressed, helmet firmly on his head. He blinked again and suddenly Killer was rolling him over onto his side (and shit, he felt the come gush out of his hole at that new position), his large fingers going for the sash around Penguin’s wrists, the knots that he had so carefully worked into it.

And Penguin wanted to protest, to say that no, let him have this a little longer, let him bask in this glorious night for just a few more minutes, let him kiss Killer back, he hadn’t been able to since he ended up on the bed—

But words weren’t forming right, and his arms got tugged and jostled until the sash was more or less wrenched from his skin, red marks left in its wake not from the application but from the removal.

Killer seemed to pause for a moment after he’d managed to fully extricate Penguin’s wrists from the scarf, and Penguin tried to say something, anything, to make himself sound intelligent. Sound worth seeing again.

But then the pounding on the door sounded again, and Killer’s head snapped towards the noise, his one hand reaching out and wrapping around Penguin’s for only a second before he let go, running towards the door, saying something about keeping the scarf.

And then the door slammed behind him, and he was gone.

And Penguin was cold.

Penguin was cold for a long time. 

— 

It was fully dark outside by the time Penguin was finally able to pull himself up to a sitting position, although he had no frame of reference for when the two of them had made it to the room to start with. Still, he had to fumble with a candle for a good few minutes before it successfully lit, giving him enough light to find his scattered clothes. 

They felt like sandpaper against his skin. 

He looked back at the bed one last time, at the mess and the blue scarf, still knotted in places, and it made his stomach roil. He had— it had been a good night, right? He’d thought it was. But the more time passed, the more wrong it felt. The more Killer’s words echoed in his mind. How desperate he had been, how blatantly obvious he’d been gagging for it. And he had been. Like a fucking— a whore. And Killer had known that, had seen it on him. And now he was gone. 

He left the sash. It made him sick to look at. Limping out of the room, Penguin moved slowly. He felt like his brain was moving through sludge, like his feet had lead weights in the boots. He didn’t have it in him to be sneaky, to check he wasn’t being followed or attracting attention. He probably was attracting attention; if even the Massacre Soldier had been able to peg him as a whore from the first moment he laid eyes on him — why else would he have asked Penguin out— probably everyone could see it.

The one thing Penguin did successfully, is he didn’t cry until he was back on the Tang. Back in his own bed. 

He’d been lucky that most everyone was out doing shit for the mission, assigned tasks from the Captain. Things that Penguin should’ve also been doing, if he hadn’t been stupid enough to hook up with the Massacre Soldier.

Why had he thought that he was worth that? THat Killer would think he was worth it?

On his own bunk, hidden away under extra blankets he pilfered from Shachi and Bepo, Penguin sobbed. Quiet and exhausted and sad. His brain just replaying those moments when Killer had pulled the sash from his wrists in frustration, the red marks left behind, the way Penguin apparently hadn’t even been worth one last kiss. 

Did they kiss on the lips at all? He wasn’t sure anymore. Probably not. Whores didn’t deserve that. 

It was easier to stop thinking at some point. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest. All he could do was sink, feelings engulfing him and rushing over him like waves, until the pillow under his face was so damp it became hard to breathe. 

At some point, like a shadow passing into the room, so’s Penguin barely noticed, Shachi arrived. Penguin only became dimly aware of him when he slipped in behind Penguin on the bed, wrapping his arms around Penguin’s chest and shushing into the fabric of his hat.

Penguin whined, without the energy to actually turn over and face him, and certainly without the energy to admit that he was only sad because of what he’d done to himself. It had been his own fault for wanting like that. For being so desperate for a cock in his ass. 

But Shachi stayed, at one point forcing Penguin to sit up enough to drink water and have some candied fruits, although they tasted like ash in Penguin’s mouth. 

And it felt like hours. 

Maybe it was hours.

Until Penguin was able to sit up and lightly push Shachi off and say, “I’m fine, Shach. Don’t worry so much.”

“Tell me what you’re not fine about, then,” Shachi argued, immediately.”

“It was nothing,” I’m just not worth it, “Just a disappointing night out,” The Massacre Soldier thinks I’m a whore, “Just disappointed I couldn’t pull a guy who was willing to pay for a full night in a hotel,” or just stay the whole time.

Shachi looked at him like he wasn’t in the least bit convinced, and Penguin shrugged. His fingers felt stiff. All of him felt that way. More wooden doll than human. His head felt like cotton. He wanted to sleep. 

“You’re not hurt?” Shachi asked, skeptical.

If Penguin left this room, his limp would be more than obvious. But sitting down he could mostly ignore the aches. “Not at all,” he said. “Just tired.”

Shachi squinted at him. “Fine,” he said. “Drink your water. I’m going to sleep in your bed tonight.

“What—” Penguin frowned, gratefulness at not being along blooming in his chest. “Why?”

“Because you stole my blankets,” Shachi said, making himself comfortable on Penguin’s bunk. “Now you have to deal with the consequences.”

Penguin was glad, so glad. Someone was still willing to stay with him. 

A memory of Killer flashed in his mind, sans helmet, smile soft, and Penguin felt sick again. Unwanted.

He crawled under the covers with Shachi, and shivered despite the warm night and the furnace of a body wrapped around him.

—

Word made its way around the crew that someone had fucked with Penguin.

He’d tried real hard to keep quiet about his shame— because he was ashamed! He acted like a little whore to get one of the strongest and sexiest men in the world to fuck him— as if they were actually on the same level! — but Shachi was good at weaselling information out of him, and the Captain even moreso. They knew he’d had a one night stand that went very badly, and for some reason no one would believe him that it was his own fault. 

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to admit that Killer was the one he’d humiliated himself in front of. With. To. 

He didn’t leave his room until well into the afternoon the next day, well after Shachi’d gone and come back three times with snack that he’d force fed Penguin, after Bepo and Clione and Hakugan and, most embarrassingly, Law had all come in to check on him. He didn’t leave his room until Shachi told him that he stank (not true) and he needed a shower (maybe true).

There was a sadness and gloom hanging over him but he trudged through the regulation Four Minute Polar Tang Shower (the shower cuts off after four minutes ever since Shachi used their whole freshwater supply napping in the shower) and wrung his hat out in the sink afterwards. 

Donning a new set of coveralls that smelled like Shachi (and also definitely weren’t clean, just clean er), Penguin dragged himself up to the deck, an overcast view of the mountains of Wano in the distance.

Also, another ship.

The Victoria Punk, headed straight in their direction.

Penguin staggered back a step but before he could flee back down into the depths of the Tang, found himself gripped firmly in the arms of Shachi, who’d been coming up the stairs after him.

“No way,” Shachi admonished. “Sunlight. Sad eyes need sun.”

“It’s overcast,” Penguin tried weakly to argue, to no avail. Instead he found himself shoved forward along with Shachi, towards where the captain was standing with two Straw Hats (where is their ship?); Nami and Monkey D Luffy himself. 

“Oh, Penguin, you’re awake,” Law noted as Shachi basically dragged him to the group. “Good, I need your help with this part of the plan.”

“Uh,” said Penguin. “I’m not sure that—”

“I don’t know if you heard, but we’ve formed a tentative alliance with the Kid pirates, which isn’t a good move as they’re terrible on all fronts, but—”

“What’d you say about me, Trafalgar you bitch?”

The captain sighed, glancing over at the Victoria Punk, which was now sidling up to them, with a handful of Kid’s crew throwing ropes over towards the Tang to moor them together.

“I’m saying you need to be willing to stick to my plan,” Law groused, massaging his temple. “It’s hard enough that we know Straw Hat won’t.”

“Sure won’t,” Luffy said. “Dunno why we’re even bothering with this. We just gotta fight them, right?”

Law sighed again. Penguin was too busy watching with an eagle eye towards the Punk, seeing first Kid come into view as he hopped over the side, plummeting the fifteen feet or so to the Tang, and then—

The Massacre Soldier, mask firmly in place, following suit.

Penguin tensed. He could feel tears forming in his eyes like an automatic reflex and he hated it, hated this, everything in him was telling him to run, to not embarrass himself further, not when he was such a failure that Killer didn’t even—

“Hey,” Shachi whispered in his ear, wrapping his arms around Penguin’s torso. “Hey, what’s happening? What’s wrong?”

Penguin shook his head. He couldn’t speak— he was going to cry if he did.

“Oh—” Shachi seemed to connect some dots. “Oh fuck no— Hey, Shithead!”

Both Kid and Killer’s head snapped towards the two of them. 

Penguin wanted the ground to swallow him whole. The tears formerly in his eyes were wet on his cheeks. He didn’t want Killer to recognize him. Prayed that somehow Killer didn’t care enough about him to remember the hat.

“Hey you flaming red fuck face!” Shachi screeched. “Did you hurt my best friend?”

Oh. Shachi connected the wrong dots.

“Huh?” Kid yelled, stomping towards them. “What the fuck, that scrawny little loser in your arms? Like I’d touch him with a ten foot pole.”

Killer hadn’t moved from his spot. He tilted his head. Even through the mask, Penguin felt his eyes. 

Out of desperation, humiliation, and embarrassment, Penguin made one aborted attempt to flee back down the stairs of the Tang. Probably through the act of sheer surprise, he made it out of Shachi’s grip, but he only got about three steps before someone grabbed his boiler suit from behind, holding him in place with one fistful of material.

“Whoa, Eustass, call off your dog!”

“Jesus, Blondie, let go of my Peng!”

Penguin, already struggling with being the centre of attention in what feels like the lowest moment of his life (and that’s saying something, he once beat up a polar bear), did what he had really wanted to do since Shachi forced him to get up.

He went limp.

Just fucking collapsed.

He didn’t hit the floor like he intended, instead he found himself hoisted up into a pair of strong arms. 

He continued to play dead anyway.

“You think I asked him to go after your weird little crew member?” Kid was yelling. “Killer, what are you doing, put the thing down!”

“Blondie! You’re the one who fucked him up last night!” Shachi yelled, which was possibly the most embarassing thing to happen to Penguin yet, because it was followed by a number of voices all talking over one another about that.

Killer didn’t seem to care much about any of this, because the next thing Penguin knew, he was being carried under one arm as the Massacre Fucking Soldider apparently took his leave of the situation, leaping back up towards the Victoria Punk, using the rigging to land himself back on the deck.

This is good, Penguin thought. He’s going to kill me now, and I won’t have to deal with this anymore.

That being said, Penguin worked to keep himself limp and lifeless right up until Killer dumped him on the floor of a much darker room inside the ship.

The wind knocked out of him, Penguin rolled over with a wheeze.

“Sorry,” Killer said. “Missed the bed.”

Penguin was then picked up by the back of his boiler suit again, and then unceremoniously dumped on a mattress on the floor a mere foot from where he had been dropped before. 

Penguin considered going back to playing dead, but he did just do quite the undignified wheeze. It’s hard to go back to being dead after that.

“I can go,” he offered instead. “I know you probably just wanted an out from that situation, but I can, uh, sneak back onto my ship.”

Killer, having just taken his helmet off, fixed Penguin with a look that said he considered whatever was just said patently insane. “You think that I took an out by carrying you onto my ship and putting you on my bed?”

“You put me on the floor,” Penguin pointed out, and then remembered that that was not the point. “This is your room?” he squeaked. He figured this was, like, a Drunk Bed. The bed for members of the crew who came home too drunk to be trusted in their own bunk. The Tang’s Drunk Bed was right outside the galley so everyone could mock them in the morning. 

Killer sat down on the mattress in a neat cross legged pose, his lips pursed together. “Was yesterday… not good? For you?”

Penguin blinked. “Uh,” he said. Tears immediately gathered in his eyes again. He looked down at his hands and blinked rigorously but it didn’t particularly help, the tear tracks weren’t even dry on his cheeks before new ones started to fall. “No, it was great,” he lied, traitorous voice cracking as he spoke.

Killer’s previously calm facial expression morphed very quickly into panic. He put his hands up as if to comfort Penguin — or push him over…? — but they remained frozen in the air. “Uh—” he stuttered. “It was clearly not—”i

“No, this is fine, I’m fine,” Penguin snapped, hunching over. “Like, okay, I’m not fine! I’m a— I embarassed myself and I must have done something wrong and you left because I wasn’t good enough and I was clearly—”

“Whoa,” Killer said. “Whoa— no! Whup! Hey!”

He did not do anything particularly right, after that. Killer’s chosen course of action ended up being to put his hand over Penguin’s mouth, and then rather… push him over with it. 

Penguin’s head ended up hitting the floor. The rest of him was still on the mattress, at least.

“Shit—” Killer said, and then Penguin ended up off the floor again and gathered into Killer’s arms. 

“Fuck. Sorry.”

Penguin was full on crying by now. There was surely nothing more pathetic than being (badly) comforted by the man who hadn’t even enjoyed his night with you.

He waited a moment before trying to wiggle out of Killer’s hold, but Killer instead tightened his hold and momentarily Penguin couldn’t breathe and—

Honestly, that was the sort of tight hold that Penguin really needed. He cried more. It was, once again, embarassing.

“You uh—” Killer stutters. “Don’t— stop moving. I have to comfort you.”

Penguin at this point had ended up with his face buried in a bicep. He mutters something unintelligible into it.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Killer said, apparently not bothering to decipher the bicep talk. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I was afraid that if I didn’t hurry, Kid would break the door down and I didn’t want him to see you like that.”

“Gagging for it,” Penguin muttered, then realised Killer could actually hear him that time.

Killer paused. “Well, yeah,” he said. “In the hottest sense of the word, yeah. I would’ve had to kill him if he saw you like that, I think.”

Penguin, despite himself, snorted. “You can’t kill your captain,” he said.

“For you, I’d consider it, I think,” Killer mused.

Penguin shivered a little. It still didn’t feel like truth, but it did feel… good.

“That redhead of yours is very loyal,” Killer said a moment later.

Penguin was starting to lose feeling in several of his limbs from how tightly Killer was holding him. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s good like that.”

“He bit me,” Killer mentioned, conversationally.

“He— when?!” Penguin tried to move, but Killer’s arms were like metal traps.

“When I was climbing the rigging. He got my ankle. I might need a rabies shot.”

“We have those,” Penguin said. He still felt weird. He felt off. But he liked talking about Shachi. Shachi was safe. 

“Good. Because I think he’ll do it again.”

“Not as long as you don’t get near him.”

Killer blinked down at him, his long lashes stark against the blue in his eyes. “But I’m going to get near him all the time,” he said, like this was an obvious thing. “Because I’m going to keep seeing you.”

Penguin— many emotions warred for the surface, and all that ended up coming out was a whine. 

Killer kissed the top of his hat.

“You don’t have to do that,” Penguin said again. “I swear, I’ll be normal after this. And not cry anymore.”

He didn’t know that that was true, honestly. 

“Shut up,” Killer said. “Respectfully. I’m going to date you. But I think I need to hold you for a while first. Until you believe it. 

Penguin whined again, sticking his face into the crook of Killer’s elbow. Three of his four limbs were very much asleep but he appreciate the crushing pressure of Killer’s muscles.

“Shhhh,” Killer shushed. “Go to sleep. Maybe by the time your orca figures out what room we’re in, I’ll be willing to let you go.”

—

It only took Shachi a little over an hour, but it was a good hour.

Then it took another half an hour for Penguin to regain the feeling in his limbs.

It was worth it, though.

The purple kiss marks left all over his face were also worth it.