╔══ஓ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔♱᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ஓ══╗
♱) ̊⋆+ᛝ⨍ꫀׁׅܻ ꩇׁׅ݊ɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ꫀׁׅܻ ℘ᨵׁׅ᥎꫶ׁׅᛝ+⋆ ̊)♱

♱)⋆ᛝ ᥣׁׅ֪ꪱׁׅꪀׁׅƙׁׅ֑꯱ׁׅ֒ ᛝ⋆)♱

. ۫ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ℘ꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻqׁׅυׁׅꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪: 𓊆XXX𓊇

⊹+ ̊‧(‿+୨ ꯱ׁׅ֒ꪱׁׅ ꩇׁׅ݊ꪱׁׅᥣׁׅ֪ɑׁׅ֮ꭈׁׅ: 𓊆XXX𓊇

𓍯𓂃 ̊⋆ ꒰ঌᨵׁׅtׁׅhׁׅ֮ꫀׁׅܻꭈׁׅ ℘ᨵׁׅ᥎꫶ׁׅ: 𓊆XXX𓊇

♱)⋆ᛝꭈׁׅɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ᨵׁׅ ꩇׁׅ݊ᐣᛝ⋆)♱

Paulie ♱

♱)⋆ᛝ ᝯׁꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻժׁׅ݊ꪱׁׅtׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒ ᛝ⋆)♱

✦ by @PrettyLittleVampire

ᛝ))♱))♱))♱))♱))ᛝ

♱) ̊⋆+♱𓊆ꪱׁׅꪀׁׅꪱׁׅtׁׅꪱׁׅɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ ꩇׁׅ݊ꫀׁׅܻ꯱ׁׅ֒꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ᧁׁꫀׁׅܻ 𓊇♱+⋆ ̊)♱

ᛝ))♱))♱))♱))♱))ᛝ

Beneath the bruised gold dusk that settles over Water 7 like a weary sigh, the shipyards breathe their endless rhythm hammers ringing like distant bells, sawdust drifting through the air like powdered light, ropes creaking under the weight of a city built on sweat and stubborn will. The canals mirror dying sunlight, broken and glittering, and from Dock One rises the familiar scent of tar, seawater, and the smoke curling from Paulie’s ever present cigar.

He stands under the towering ribs of an unfinished ship, goggles pushed back into his blond hair, shirt smeared with the labor of the day. He’s frowning he always is, as though the entire world insists on misbehaving in ways only he can fix. A length of rope coils at his hip like a loyal serpent, ready to spring at the slightest irritation.

When you cross the gangplank toward him, you catch the faintest twitch of his eyebrow, the subtle flicker of acknowledgement he’d never voice aloud. You have learned that Paulie loves fiercely, but quietly behind a wall of prickly temper, scathing remarks, and a moral code so intensely prudish it curls back on itself in comedy.

You step closer, boots clacking against the wooden planks, and the haze of cigar smoke around him parts just enough to show the soft glow in his eyes.

“Oi,” he mutters, biting down on the cigar again. “What’re you doing wandering 'round a place like this? You’ll get sawdust in your damn eyes. Or worse...” His gaze flicks down your neckline for half a second; he clears his throat, offended by his own staring. “...or, uh, you’ll catch the attention of the men here. Shameless... outfits... everywhere these days...”

His words trail off, swallowed by a puff of smoke.

The grungy edge of the evening gives him a certain rough beauty shadowed jaw, sweat slick collarbones visible where his yellow shirt has loosened, those perpetually cracked goggles making him look like he’s survived a dozen storms and still refuses to bend to the next.

You step into his space, catching the faint smell of burnt tobacco and salt.

“Paulie,” you say softly.

His name curls like ribbon between you. He stiffens.

“What now?” he answers, but you hear the tremble under the irritation.

You pluck the cigar from his lips.

His entire body freezes, an unfinished thought hanging in air. “H-hey! That’s, give it back, would you? I’m working here! You can’t just...”

But you don’t give it back.

You take it between your fingers and hold it away from him, then lift your gaze so he’s forced to meet your eyes. The sunset stains him in amber, and somewhere behind that scowl, the truth trembles: he’s tired, wound tight, carrying debts he doesn’t speak of, guilt he pretends to shrug off, memories of Iceburg bleeding out under CP9’s boots still clinging to him like grit.

“You don’t need this,” you murmur.

He scoffs his shield. “I need something. Keeps me focused. And don’t start some sappy emotional...”

You lean in and kiss him.

The warehouse lights hum. The sea murmurs. And Paulie who has slammed giants with ropes, who withstood CP9 beatings, who stood against Aqua Laguna’s ruthless tide goes utterly still under the softness of your mouth.

Your lips taste of warmth, of salt, of dusk.

His hands hover in midair, fingers twitching, as if unsure whether to push you away or pull you closer. For a man who can tie complex rigging knots in the blink of an eye, Paulie fumbles entirely when touched gently.

When you pull back, his goggles are slipping, his cheeks tinged red.

“What... the hell was that...” His voice cracks. “You... you can’t.... You can’t just replace a man’s cigar with.... with...”

“Kisses?” you finish, stepping forward again, crowding him against the ship’s ribs.

He swallows hard. “D-don’t say it so easily.”

“Why not?”

“Because I...” His voice breaks off. He looks away. “Because I’ll get used to it.”

You slip a hand under his jaw, guiding him back toward you. His breath hitches not from pain, not from surprise, but from surrender.

The gritty air tastes of smoke and worn rope, but you kiss him again slow, lingering, grounding. His hands finally move, one gripping your waist, the other clutching the wooden beam behind him as though any more tenderness might knock him off his feet completely.

When you break away, the cigar lies forgotten somewhere on the planks.

Paulie tries to straighten himself, tries to scowl again. Fails miserably.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, voice rough as sandpaper. “I’ve dealt with debt collectors, Aqua Laguna, CP9 hell, even Luffy but you... you’re worse than all of ’em combined.”

“Is that a complaint?” you ask, teasing.

He shakes his head, blond hair catching the light. “No,” he admits quietly. “It’s not.”

He adjusts his goggles, as if hiding the softness blooming under them.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “If it keeps you happy... I’ll cut down on the cigars.”

“Cut down?” you echo.

He sighs. “Alright, alright maybe I’ll quit.” His ears redden. “If... if you keep doing that. The... the kiss thing.”

A rope slips from his sleeve, coiling around your wrist with a gentleness that contrasts his gruff exterior. He pulls you closer not hard, just enough that you feel the frantic beat beneath his ribs.

“Just don’t expect me to say it all poetic like,” he murmurs, forehead brushing yours.

The shipyard hums, the dusk deepens, and in the grungy glow of Water 7’s evening, Paulie leans in for another kiss no cigar between you this time, nothing but the warmth he swears he doesn’t crave and the tenderness he’s still learning how to hold.

╚══ஓ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ஓ══╝