BOOM!
The sea behind Hachinosu Island split in two.
York stood on the shore, shirtless and sweating. He maintained his punching posture as the massive fissure in the ocean slowly closed.
RUMBLE!
The water collided with the force of a thunderclap, sending spray hundreds of feet into the air.
York took a breath. He clenched his fist again.
Armament Haki flowed like ink, turning his skin obsidian.
Then, Conqueror's Haki crackled around it—black and red lightning.
EXHALE.
He punched.
The shockwave tore through the air, piercing the closing waves and splitting the ocean again.
One punch. Another punch. Another.
He had just unlocked Advanced Conqueror's Haki (ACoC). He couldn't guarantee it would activate every time. He needed repetition. He needed to burn the sensation into his muscle memory.
Most men would collapse from exhaustion after an hour of this. Using Haki drained spirit and stamina.
But York was different.
Whenever his energy dipped, he simply opened his senses to the island behind him.
"Life Drain."
Across Hachinosu, random pirates would suddenly feel a bit more tired, a bit more sluggish. Their vitality flowed invisibly into York, refueling his tank.
He trained for three days and three nights without stopping.
Rocks D. Xebec walked out of the frozen laboratory nearby. He stopped, watching York demolish the ocean for the thousandth time.
"What a monster," Rocks muttered. It was the first time he had ever used that word for someone else.
"HEY! KID!"
York paused, his fist midway to the water.
"Roger is leaving the day after tomorrow! You can stop now! Save some strength!"
York turned, wiping sweat from his brow. "The day after tomorrow?"
"Yeah. He said if you don't fight by then, he's gone."
"Heh. Who said I wouldn't fight?"
York grinned. He headed straight for the kitchen.
The Morning of the Duel.
The morning sun filtered through the cracked shutters of York's quarters on Hachinosu, painting golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Gloriosa lay beneath him, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink, her Amazonian curves flushed and glistening with a light sheen of sweat. She had woken to the familiar weight of his body pinning her down, his morning hardness already nudging insistently against her inner thigh.
"York...?" Her voice was thick with sleep and sudden heat. "Don't you have a duel with Roger today?"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he rolled his hips forward, grinding the thick length of his cock along her slick folds. She gasped—sharp and needy.
"Ah—!"
York caught the sound with his mouth, kissing her hard, tongue plunging in to taste the lingering sweetness of last night's wine on her lips. His hands roamed possessively: one sliding up to palm her heavy breast, thumb circling the stiff peak of her nipple until she arched into him with a whimper.
"Mmmph... York..."
He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear. Gloriosa's fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving red crescents on sweat-slick skin.
"You talk too much," he growled against her collarbone. "Let me relax you properly before I go kill Roger."
He shifted lower, shoving her thighs apart with his knees. Gloriosa's breath hitched as cool air kissed her exposed sex. She was already soaked—had been since the moment she felt him harden against her in his sleep. York groaned at the sight, low and feral.
"Fuck, look at you. Dripping for me already."
He didn't tease. He never did when he was like this—focused, predatory. Two thick fingers plunged into her without warning, curling upward to stroke that spot inside her that made her hips jerk.
"Ahh! Yes—there—!"
Her walls clenched greedily around his fingers as he pumped them in and out, the wet schlick-schlick-schlick filling the room. Gloriosa's head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream that quickly turned vocal.
"Nngh... York—deeper—!"
He obliged, adding a third finger, stretching her open while his thumb found her clit and rubbed firm, relentless circles. Her thighs trembled, heels digging into the mattress.
"Shit—I'm—I'm gonna—"
"Come on my fingers first," he ordered, voice rough.
"Then I'll fuck you properly."
She shattered with a broken cry—"Aaaahhh!"—her pussy spasming, gushing slick down his wrist. York didn't stop, didn't slow, just kept stroking through her orgasm until she was twitching, oversensitive and whining.
Only then did he pull his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a satisfied hum.
Gloriosa watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, chest heaving.
"You're... evil."
He smirked, fisting his cock—thick, veined, already leaking at the tip—and lined himself up.
"And you're mine."
One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt.
Gloriosa's back bowed off the bed.
"OH—FUCK—!"
The stretch burned so good she saw stars. York didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled back almost to the tip, then slammed back in, setting a brutal rhythm that had the heavy wooden bedframe creaking in protest.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
The wet slap of skin on skin echoed with every deep stroke. Gloriosa's breasts bounced with the force of his thrusts; he caught one in his mouth, sucking hard on the nipple while his hips pistoned relentlessly.
"Mmm—yes—harder—!"
She clawed at his back, leaving bloody trails. York hissed in pleasure-pain and fucked her even deeper, the head of his cock battering her cervix with every stroke.
"You like that?" he rasped. "Like being split open before I go fight?"
"Y-Yes—gods—don't stop—!"
He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her in half. The new angle let him grind against her clit with every thrust. Gloriosa's eyes rolled back.
"Ah—ah—ah—York—I'm—again—!"
"Come inside me," she begged, voice wrecked. "Fill me up—please—"
York's rhythm stuttered. His balls tightened.
"Fuck—take it—"
He slammed in one last time, burying himself as deep as possible and came with a guttural groan. Hot spurts of cum flooded her, triggering her second orgasm. She screamed his name—"YOOORRK!"—walls milking him dry while her whole body shook.
They stayed locked together for long moments, panting. York's forehead rested against hers.
"Better?" he murmured.Gloriosa laughed breathlessly. "Much."
He kissed her slow and lazy this time, still half-hard inside her. Eventually he pulled out with a wet pop, watching his cum leak from her swollen pussy with dark satisfaction.
...
Outside the Door.
Stussy paused in the hallway.
She had "accidentally" walked past York's room. Again.
Through the heavy wood, she heard the sounds. The soft gasps. The rhythmic creaking.
She bit her lower lip, her hand hovering over the doorknob.
No... I can't...
I'm not like Gloriosa. I'm not that kind of promiscuous woman!
She pulled her hand back as if burned.
But the thought lingered.
She was a woman. She was human. And she was lonely.
For two years, she had chased Whitebeard. She had been the perfect, supportive admirer. And for two years, she had been treated like a piece of furniture.
Why? Stussy thought bitterly. Why does he like Shakky but not me? What am I missing?
Her mind drifted to York.
He was a lecher. He was dangerous. His fruit was wicked.
But... look at Gloriosa.
Before Hachinosu, Gloriosa was a stranger—a trophy of war. By all rights, she should have been a miserable slave.
Instead? She was happier than most queens. York protected her. He satisfied her. When Roger insulted her, York challenged him to a deathmatch without hesitation.
Stussy touched her cheek. She was 36 years old. In this line of work, beauty faded fast.
I want that, she realized with a pang of envy. I want someone to look at me like that.
She sighed, a bitter smile on her lips. She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the floor.
I need a drink.
...
Inside the Room.
Gloriosa stared at the door.
"She left again..."
She looked up at York, who was busy with her neck.
"Aren't you going to reel her in yet? She's clearly waiting for you."
"I'm not in a hurry," York mumbled against her skin. "The more I ignore her, the more she wants it."
He sealed her lips with a kiss, ending the conversation.
The Bar.
An hour later, York walked into Shakky's Rip-Off Bar. He felt loose, confident, and slightly unsatisfied—the perfect state for a fight.
He saw Stussy in the corner, nursing a bottle of wine alone. He ignored her.
"YO! YORK! YOU'RE FINALLY HERE!"
Roger shouted from the center table. The Pirate was already drinking.
"Are you ready?"
"Of course," York said, walking over. "Ready anytime."
Roger grinned and raised a glass.
"Before we fight... how about a drink?"
York paused. Refusing felt petty.
He took a glass of whiskey from Shakky.
CLINK.
He downed it in one go. Roger did the same, slamming the empty glass on the table.
"YOSH! Final preparations complete! Let's go outside and kill each other!"
Roger stood up, his coat flaring. He led his boisterous crew out the door.
York watched them go. He turned back to the bar.
Shakky was wiping a glass, her eyes hollow.
"Has Rayleigh appeared?" York asked.
Shakky froze. She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
"What a coward," York scoffed.
He leaned over the counter, looking her in the eye.
"How about you consider giving up on him?"
York smirked.
"Become my woman instead. I promise I won't leave you waiting."
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