Hello, Great And Wonderful Writer. Could You Please Write Something Romantic? Y/n Is In The Navy. A High-ranking

Doctor Trafalgar, Love Expert?

Law gives terrible love advice to Penguin while clearly ignoring his own painfully obvious crush on you.

Law X gn! reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, friends-to-lovers typeshi(?) law being timid a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1.1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

If there was one thing Trafalgar Law wasn’t qualified to do, it was give romantic advice.

Sure, he was a brilliant surgeon, a pirate captain, and had a smirk that could make a nun sin, but when it came to feelings—specifically his own—he was a flaming shipwreck in a storm of emotional denial.

And yet, here he was, arms crossed, giving unsolicited love advice to Penguin like he was the therapist from a soap opera.

“Just tell her she’s inefficient,” Law said with a straight face. “It’s a compliment.”

Bepo blinked up at him. “...Captain, I don’t think calling Penguin’s crush inefficient is going to help his chances.”

“You asked for honesty,” Law muttered, flipping through his medical journal like it was more interesting than this disaster in progress. “Efficiency is attractive.”

“To you, maybe!”

You, meanwhile, were watching this entire trainwreck from the galley door with a cup of tea and the kind of secondhand embarrassment that deserved its own trauma counseling.

“Law,” you called. “Did you just say ‘inefficient’ as a flirting tactic?”

He didn’t even look up. “It’s a practical compliment.”

You snorted. “What’s next? ‘Your presence improves my survival odds by 6.4%’?”

“…Depending on the environment, that’s a generous estimate.”

You and Bepo shared a look. A look that screamed, Why is this our captain?

The whole thing had started that morning when Penguin had walked into the common area in a flurry of nerves and confessed, “I think I like someone.”

Law, who’d been reading while pretending not to be listening to music in one earbud (yes, he still used wired ones, don’t ask), barely lifted his gaze. “Then tell them.”

Penguin shuffled. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s the truth.”

“And what if they don’t like me back?”

Law gave the emotional equivalent of a shrug. “Then adapt. Rejection is survivable.”

Penguin groaned from the couch. “Cap, you can’t treat love like it’s battle tactics.”

“It’s a high-risk operation involving fragile variables and potential bloodshed. Sounds pretty accurate.”

Shachi nodded. “Okay, that’s fair, but also incredibly bleak.”

And that’s when Law was voluntold by everyone that if he was going to act like he knew how love worked, he had to give actual advice.

Hence: Doctor Trafalgar, Love Expert?

“Okay,” you said, taking the empty seat beside him and plucking the journal from his hands. “If you’re so good at giving advice, help me out.”

Law narrowed his eyes. “With what?”

“I think someone likes me,” you said casually, leaning back like you weren’t about to stir up the most delicious chaos. “But I can’t tell if they’re just awkward or trying to be subtle.”

His jaw tightened. “Who is it?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I need your expert opinion.”

Law closed the journal and set it down very deliberately.

Everyone in the room went very still. Bepo, Penguin, and Shachi exchanged silent screams with their eyebrows.

“Well,” Law said coolly. “What are the signs?”

“Hmm,” you hummed. “They hover a lot. Make excuses to talk to me. Kind of avoid eye contact but also stare when they think I’m not looking.”

His eye twitched. “Stare?”

“Yeah. And once, they brought me extra rice even though I didn’t ask.”

Silence.

Law stood up. “That’s suspicious.”

“Oh?”

“Sounds like they’re trying too hard.”

“Ohhh?” you said, biting back a smile.

“They’re probably nervous. Emotionally constipated. Bad at expressing feelings.” He said all this like he wasn’t describing himself to an absurdly accurate degree. “Possibly repressed.”

“Should I confront them?”

“No,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“It might scare them away.”

“But if they like me…”

“Then wait for them to say something first.”

Bepo coughed. “So… basically just let them suffer in silence?”

“It builds character,” Law said.

You covered your mouth to hide your grin. “You’re such a romantic.”

Law’s ears turned pink. “Shut up.”

Later that day, Shachi cornered you near the engine room with a look of deep judgment.

“You’re torturing him.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

He pointed a wrench at you. “You know he likes you.”

“Do I?”

“You’ve been fake-flirting with a ghost for the last week just to get him to react!”

You smirked. “It’s good cardio.”

Shachi groaned. “He’s gonna combust. I saw him look up love confession rituals on his snail phone last night.”

Your eyes widened. “No.”

“Yes! And he accidentally joined a forum for single dads in North Blue.”

You wheezed. “He’s going through it.”

“So help him out!”

“…Fine.”

The opportunity came the next morning when you walked into the kitchen and found Law staring at a mug of coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t look up when you entered, just mumbled, “Morning.”

“Morning,” you said, walking over. “Sleep okay?”

He made a grunt of vague disapproval.

You sat beside him. “Thinking about your crush?”

He choked on his coffee.

“I mean,” you said, oh-so-innocently. “That mystery person you gave advice about.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re very nosy.”

“You’re very obvious.”

He gave you a look. “I don’t have a crush.”

You tilted your head. “Are you sure? Because everyone on this ship seems to think you do.”

“Everyone on this ship is bored.”

“Bored enough to notice how you go quiet when I talk, how you walk into rooms I’m in and pretend it’s for unrelated reasons, or how you stare at my lips when I eat dessert?”

He went dead silent.

You leaned closer. “So. Doctor Trafalgar. Any prescriptions for yourself?”

“…Shut up,” he muttered, face flushed.

You blinked. “Wait. That was a confession.”

He got up.

You grabbed his wrist.

He froze.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly softer. “I like you too, dumbass.”

He blinked.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a little red candy. “I was going to make you say it first, but you looked like you were about to diagnose yourself with heartbreak.”

He blinked again.

“…You like me?”

“God, yes. Even when you’re being a brick wall with nice tattoos.”

“…I have more than just tattoos,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah, you’ve also got a charming inability to express affection. It’s cute.”

He shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Pause.

He looked down.

He was.

“…Tch.”

You laughed and tugged him back down. “Stay.”

“…Fine.”

Later, Penguin came in to find the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder, quietly sharing a plate of snacks.

“Captain?” Penguin said, tilting his head. “Did you take your own advice?”

Law didn’t look up. “No.”

You grinned. “He took mine.”

Hello, hello, hello, beautiful, gorgeous, divine

I love your story Marco nooo I love all your stories you are fantastic

I love you, please beg for something. Can you create a Marco the Phoenix story for y/n? Where y/n saves Thatch's life by stopping Teach's attack? Thatch was injured, but not seriously, losing the yami yami nomi. However, y/n was seriously injured protecting her nakama. Marco and Ace, his brother, are very worried. More so Marco 😏 Since the young woman wasn't waking up, When she regained consciousness, she played a joke on Marco for being so worried, Pretending not to recognize them 🤣 Later, Y/n spoke to Whitebeard, discussing the traitor and how dangerous he would become in the future. When she returned to Marco, she lay down next to him, thanking him for taking care of her all that time, and that even though she couldn't answer him, she always heard him calling her. Please, I implore you.

lmaoao this is funny i like it! dahaha u can support me through ko-fi, but please know that tips are never expected but always deeply appreciated! also I hope this is to ur liking!

Teach Tried It, I Survived It

After stopping Teach’s betrayal and nearly dying, you wake up in Marco’s arms—and decide that pranking him with fake amnesia is exactly what he deserves before finally falling into the comfort of home and love.

Marco the phoenix x reader tags: slight angst, sfw, ooc, bl00d/v!olence, happy ending, betrayal, a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The sun blazed high over the open sea, casting golden light across the deck of the Moby Dick. The battle was well underway — a scrappy band of pirates had made the monumental mistake of challenging the Whitebeard Pirates. Bad for them. Good for everyone else who needed a bit of exercise.

You ducked under a wild swing from some random enemy pirate, spun on your heel, and delivered a solid punch to his gut. He crumpled with a satisfying oof.

"Oi! Y/N!" Thatch shouted from a few feet away, grinning like a maniac, a strange fruit in his hand. "Check this out!"

You sliced another pirate across the side with your blade (nothing fatal, you were feeling merciful today) and jogged over.

"What did you find this time?" you asked, breathing hard, a spark of excitement lighting your eyes.

Ace clambered over a fallen mast to join you. "Yo, Thatch, whatcha got?"

Thatch held the thing out like it was a newborn kitten. The fruit was round and black with swirling violet patterns, almost like the night sky had been trapped inside it.

"I found something interesting," he said proudly.

Ace squinted. "Ohhh... is that a Devil Fruit?"

You leaned closer. "Looks like one. Wonder what it does."

Behind you, a presence stiffened. You glanced over your shoulder.

Teach — good ol' big, laughing Teach — was standing there, his usual grin stretched way too tight. His forehead was shiny with sweat despite the easy fight. When he noticed you looking, he barked out a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Heh! Devil Fruit, huh? Zehahaha! Who knows? Maybe it's a lame one, like making your farts turn into explosions!"

Ace snorted. "Wouldn't put it past the sea."

You shook your head, laughing, not noticing the way Teach’s hands clenched at his sides.

That night, the Moby Dick was peaceful. The waves lapped lazily against the hull. Most of the crew was sprawled across the deck or below, snoring, laughing, or drinking.

You had just curled up in your hammock when a strange noise cut through the stillness.

Scuffle.

You bolted upright, instincts screaming. Without a second thought, you grabbed your weapon and padded silently toward the sound.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

There, in the dim lantern light, was Teach — stabbing Thatch through the side.

"Teach?!" you gasped.

Thatch grunted, struggling, but Teach was too strong. His eyes were wild, desperate, like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, you leapt into action.

"THAT'S ENOUGH! TEACH! HOW DARE YOU!?" you roared, slamming into Teach with everything you had.

The two of you crashed into the deck. Your blade flashed; Teach snarled and swung a fist, and you met it with a grimace, blocking the worst of the blow. It was chaos — wood splintered under your feet as you battled, the sounds waking a few of the closer crewmates.

But Teach was slippery. He was fighting like a man who had nothing left to lose, and with one last shove, he pushed you back, making you stumble.

Your foot caught the edge of a broken beam, and before you could react, Teach's fist landed squarely on the side of your head. The world spun instantly, your vision going blurry as the impact sent you crashing to the ground.

“Y/N!” Thatch cried weakly from where he was still slumped, blood dripping from his side.

You blinked hard, trying to regain your senses. A searing pain throbbed in your head, and the edges of your vision blurred even further. You could barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears as your body felt like it was on fire.

Just as you tried to push yourself up, Teach took his chance, grabbing the mysterious fruit from Thatch’s weakening grip. His sinister laugh filled the night air as he turned and bolted into the shadows, vanishing before anyone could stop him.

You couldn’t chase him.

Your body was failing you.

With a grunt, you collapsed to the floor, dizziness consuming you. Your world tilted, everything spinning as blood pooled beneath you. The last thing you heard was the frantic sound of footsteps.

.

.

When you cracked your eyes open, it was to the blinding white of the infirmary ceiling. Everything hurts, your head hurts.

The room was filled with silence, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed. Marco sat slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed in exhausted vigilance. He hadn’t left your side in days — barely eating, barely sleeping. Even Ace, who was normally a ball of chaotic energy, was quieter than a graveyard at midnight, sitting against the wall and anxiously tossing a small ball between his hands.

Then, finally, the miracle happened.

You groaned.

Marco was upright so fast he nearly knocked over the chair. "Y/N?!"

Your eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. Slowly, you turned your head, taking in the sight of Marco — disheveled, wide-eyed, hopeful — and Ace, who had shot to his feet, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

You blinked a few times. A mischievous thought bubbled up. You couldn't resist. Then you tilted your head in confusion.

"...Who are you?" you rasped, your voice hoarse from disuse.

The world froze.

Marco actually stumbled back a step, his mouth parting in horror. "W-What?"

Ace dropped the ball he'd been tossing — it hit the floor with a pathetic little bounce. "No way," he muttered, eyes wide as saucers.

You frowned, genuine confusion painted across your features. "Where am I? What happened? Are you... my doctors?"

Marco choked on air. "Doctors?! w-well, I am! but..." His voice cracked, his wings briefly puffing out in shock. "Y/N—it's me! It's Marco-yoi!"

You gave him a pitying, bewildered look, like he was some delusional lunatic. "I'm sorry, I... I don't know any 'Marco.'"

Ace ran a hand down his face, whispering to himself, "Oh my god, oh my god, Pops is gonna kill us."

Marco dropped to his knees by the bed, panic etched into every sharp line of his face. "Y/N, please, listen! It's me! You—you always called me 'birdbrain'! Remember? And Ace—he's the loud one! You always yell at him!-yoi"

You gave a tiny, skeptical squint at Ace. "He does look like he yells a lot," you mumbled thoughtfully.

Ace put a hand over his heart, wounded. "Hey!"

"Y/N..." Marco reached for your hand, his own trembling. "Please tell me you're joking."

You pulled your hand away, shrinking back against the pillows dramatically. "S-sir!, I don't even know you! Why are you touching me?!"

Ace looked between you and Marco, starting to sweat buckets. "She really doesn't remember us?! Oh my god—I'm not ready to raise someone! I can barely keep my plants alive!"

Marco paled. "Ace, this isn't about raising—"

"We'll have to teach her everything again!" Ace wailed. "How to walk! How to talk! Oh no—do you even remember how to eat?"

You blinked at him, deadpan. "I don't know... can you show me?"

Ace immediately picked up a banana from a nearby fruit basket and started dramatically demonstrating how to eat it, like some crazed tutorial video.

"First you PEEL it," he said loudly, yanking the peel down and waving it in your face. "Then you put the FOOD PART in your MOUTH—"

"Enough!" Marco barked, his voice cracking with desperation.

He turned back to you, gripping the edge of the mattress. His eyes were so blue and so full of heartbreak that you nearly cracked right there.

"Y/N..." he whispered, voice raw. "Even if you don't remember me... I'll stay with you. I'll protect you until you remember. I swear it."

Your throat tightened.

You stared at him for a long, tense moment.

Then you cracked a wicked smile.

"...Dumbass," you wheezed, voice croaky but full of teasing mischief. "Of course I remember you, pineapple head!"

The silence was so thick you could hear a pin drop.

Ace's banana hit the floor.

Marco stared at you, eyes wide, processing... and then, "WHAT?!"

You burst into a fit of raspy laughter, clutching your sides painfully. "Oh my god, the LOOK on your face—!" you cackled, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

"You little—!" Marco sputtered, half lunging at you and half hugging you at the same time.

"You should've seen yourselves!" you wheezed. "Ace was about to teach me how to chew!"

Ace pointed an accusing finger at you. "You gave me a heart attack, Y/N! I was ready to start teaching you object permanence!"

Marco collapsed onto the side of the bed, groaning into your blanket. "I can't believe you did that-yoi. I was ready to—!" His voice broke again.

You smiled softer now, reaching out and brushing his messy blond hair back from his face. "I'm sorry, Marco... couldn't resist. You were just too easy."

He lifted his head, cheeks flushed slightly, a trembling smile forming. "You're the worst," he said hoarsely, voice thick with relief.

"And you love me for it," you teased.

"...Yeah," he whispered back, no hesitation at all.

You blinked.

Your heart fluttered.

Ace, oblivious as usual, was still dramatically re-enacting how he was going to "re-educate" you with flashcards and alphabet songs in the background. You and Marco stared at each other, soft and quiet amidst the chaos, and for a moment, the world was right again.

You were safe. You were alive. You were home.

.

.

Later, once the fuss had died down (and Ace had finally been dragged off to sleep), you found yourself summoned to Whitebeard’s quarters.

The old man sat on his throne-like chair, the steady pulse of his IV a soft, constant background noise.

"You fought well, little one," Whitebeard said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. His gaze was heavy, serious. "But you were lucky."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully.

"Teach..." you began.

Whitebeard’s eyes narrowed.

"He was after that fruit," you said grimly. "It wasn’t random. He knew what it was. And if he went so far as to attack Thatch, his own crewmate..." You shook your head. "He's dangerous. More dangerous than we realized."

Whitebeard grunted, the sound low and displeased.

"A traitor among my sons," he murmured, anger flashing in his gaze. "We will hunt him down."

You hesitated. "He has the Yami Yami no Mi now. I don't know much about it, but I saw enough. That fruit... it's not normal. His power—"

"—Will be immense," Whitebeard finished.

You nodded grimly.

There was a long silence.

"You did well protecting your brother," Whitebeard said at last, his expression softening. "Rest now. Heal. We have a long road ahead."

You bowed again and left, heart heavy but determined.

When you returned to the infirmary, Marco was there, perched like a golden phoenix on the edge of the bed.

He looked up, immediately easing when he saw you.

"Hey, yoi," he said softly.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you limped over and, without asking, slid onto the bed beside him.

Marco froze, startled — and then melted, wrapping an arm carefully around your shoulders so you didn’t jostle your injuries.

For a while, you just lay there, breathing together.

Finally, you spoke, voice quiet against his chest.

"Thank you."

He tilted his head down, puzzled. "For what-yoi?"

"For staying," you murmured. "For talking to me even when I couldn’t answer. For calling me back."

Marco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"You heard me?" he whispered.

"Every word," you said, smiling faintly. "Even when I was somewhere dark... you were there."

Marco closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours.

"You scared me so bad," he whispered, voice raw. "I thought I'd lost you-yoi"

"You didn’t," you promised.

He kissed your forehead, the gentlest brush of lips, barely a touch.

"I’m not going anywhere," you said.

Marco smiled — a real one, full of love and hope and lingering fear.

"Good," he said, pulling you closer. "Because I’m not letting you out of my sight-yoi."

You chuckled softly, your heart full despite the pain.

"Guess you're stuck with me," you teased.

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Marco said against your hair.

And for the first time since everything had gone to hell, you felt truly safe.

Sea Kings, Smart Mouths, and Stolen Hearts

A wandering scholar with the rare ability to read the Poneglyphs finds themselves entangled in the chaotic world of the Whitebeard Pirates.

PART 3 OF READER WHO CAN READ PONEGLYPH

whitebeard pirates x gn!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: Ace, Thatch, Izou, Marco

tags: fluff, sfw, harem, soft

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ffs cringe and oc

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Moby Dick was a floating temple of chaos.

You’d been on board for exactly three hours when you witnessed a fistfight over the last bottle of rum, a man juggling knives while drunk off his ass, and someone trying to arm-wrestle a literal sea king. And for some reason, every single one of them tried to rope you into it.

You were sitting on a barrel near the railing, minding your own damn business, when a piece of driftwood floated by — a small, smooth thing, carved with ancient script.

Your fingers twitched.

The words called to you. Whispered in a tongue long dead to the world. It was harmless, but old. You reached out, brushing your fingers over it, murmuring softly.

“Hey, what’re you doin’?”

You didn’t even flinch when the voice broke your concentration. You finished reading the last word before looking up. A man stood there, grin too big for his face, hair looks like bread, scar on side of his eye. He's sun-browned and scarred, and a bottle swung lazily in his hand.

“Talking to wood,” you said dryly.

He barked out a laugh. “Name’s Thatch. I like you already.”

“Is it because I didn’t scream?”

“Nope. It’s ‘cause you look like you’re about to either murder someone or seduce ‘em. That’s a rare vibe to pull off.”

You quirked a brow but said nothing. Thatch clapped you on the back anyway, nearly sending you overboard.

“C’mon,” he said. “You can sulk better at the fire.”

Dinner on the Moby Dick was less of a meal and more of a battle royale.

Men shouted, meat sizzled over open flames, and ale flowed like water. You sat at the edge of it, quietly nursing a cup of something that tasted like regret and old socks.

A man with fiery freckles and a grin to match dropped into the seat beside you. He immediately reached for your drink.

You grabbed his wrist without looking.

“Mine.”

He blinked, then grinned wider. “Name’s Ace. You’re the new one, huh?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I’m the old one. I’ve just been invisible this whole time.”

Ace snorted. “Smartass.”

Thatch appeared behind him, slinging an arm around both your shoulders. “Told you, Ace — they’re my favorite.”

You were already plotting his demise.

It didn’t take long for the others to circle.

A man with long, flowing hair and sharp eyes introduced himself as Izou. He looked you up and down like you were a puzzle with missing pieces.

“You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly.

“Thanks.”

“I like strange.”

You raised your cup in salute.

And then there was Marco.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you from across the fire, golden eyes flickering like dying embers. When he finally approached, you were standing alone on the deck, staring up at a sky so thick with stars it made your teeth ache.

“You’re not like them,” Marco said quietly.

“Observant.”

He smirked. “What’s your deal?”

You hesitated. But the truth felt easier here, in the dark.

“I read things,” you said. “Things I shouldn’t be able to. Ancient things.”

“Poneglyphs.”

You stiffened, and Marco’s smirk turned sharp.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Your secret’s safe. Pops wouldn’t give a damn. Most of us wouldn’t either.”

You eyed him. “And you?”

“I find it interesting.”

You snorted. “You would.”

His laugh was soft. “Smartmouth.”

The next day, some poor idiots tried to attack the Moby Dick.

They came in hot — four ships bristling with cannons and swords, foaming at the mouth about bounties and revenge. You barely blinked.

The crew went feral.

Ace leapt into the fray with fire on his heels, Thatch laughing as he tossed knives with deadly precision. Izou shot a man out of mid-air, unfazed as blood misted the deck.

One fool broke through the chaos and made a beeline for you.

“Oi, scholar!” he sneered. “You’re worth a fortune!”

You sighed.

Raising a hand, you spoke a word older than kingdoms, and the man’s sword crumbled to dust in his grip.

He paled.

You spoke again, and the air around him shimmered — his boots turned to brittle stone, cracking beneath him. The third word sent him flying backward with a force that shattered the nearest mast.

The crew went dead silent.

Ace let out a long, low whistle. “Yo.”

“Did you see that?” Thatch yelped. “That was badass.”

Izou eyed you like you’d just turned into his favorite thing.

Marco, perched on the highest beam, grinned.

“Not helpless, then.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hardly.”

After that, you became a sort of legend.

The scholar who spoke to stones and made enemies vanish with a word. The one even sea kings gave a wide berth.

And the harem started forming before you could stop it.

Thatch started bringing you food, drinks, and increasingly ridiculous trinkets (“This is a seashell shaped like a butt, you’re welcome.”).

Ace followed you everywhere. Literally everywhere. You once found him outside the bathroom.

“What,” you demanded.

He shrugged. “Felt like it.”

"tsk."

Izou taught you how to braid hair. His hands were surprisingly gentle for a man who could blow your head off without blinking.

And Marco? He made it worse.

Sitting beside you at night, speaking of things he shouldn’t remember. Old places, lost names. His hand brushing yours when no one was looking.

You should’ve run.

You didn’t.

And the comedy never stopped.

Like the time Ace tried to fight a giant crab to impress you and got pinched in a place no man should ever get pinched.

Or when Thatch bet you couldn’t outdrink him and passed out three shots in, leaving you to doodle a mustache on his face.

Or when Izou declared you’d look better in one of his kimonos and actually wrestled you into one. (It did look good. You never admitted it.)

Even Marco wasn’t safe. You caught him napping once, a seagull perched on his head. You didn’t tell him. You let it happen.

Then came the Poneglyph.

Buried in the heart of a ruined island, half-sunken beneath the sea. You felt it before you saw it — an ache in your chest, a pulse beneath your skin.

The crew followed you in.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Thatch muttered.

“Maybe ‘cause it’s cursed,” Ace said, poking a skull.

“Both of you shut up,” Izou hissed.

You found the slab in the heart of the ruin. Black stone, ancient words glowing faintly. It sang to you.

And like an idiot, you answered.

You spoke the words.

Power thrummed through the ground, the air, your bones. The sea roared. The sky cracked.

The world shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were on your knees. Marco was crouched beside you, worry in his gaze.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah.”

“What did it say?”

You hesitated. “War’s coming.”

His jaw tightened.

But then Ace clapped you on the back, nearly toppling you. “If anyone’s startin’ a war with you on our side, they’re screwed.”

Thatch grinned. “Dibs on being your right-hand man.”

Izou smirked. “I call left.”

Marco chuckled. “I’ll be wherever you need me.”

You sighed. “You’re all idiots.”

But you didn’t feel alone anymore.

That night, on the deck beneath a sky bleeding silver, Marco sat beside you.

“You belong here, y’know,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

“Not just as some scholar. As one of us.”

You stared at the sea. “Even if I’m dangerous?”

He shrugged. “So are we.”

He touched your hand, fingers curling around yours.

“Besides,” Marco added, a grin tugging at his lips, “you still owe me a drink.”

You smiled.

For the first time in years, it felt easy.

“Deal.”

Smoke Break

A collection of fiery, smoky encounters where passion burns as hot as the cigars and blunts exchanged between you and some of the world’s most dangerous daddies i mean men — every kiss laced with smoke, heat, and unspoken desire.

Benn beckman x reader x sanji x smoker x crocodile | ONE SHOT

Tags: fluff, flirty, smok!ng, w3ed mentions, blvnt smok!ng, cigarette smok!n, mouth-to-mouth sm0ke sharing, minor spit description, light nsfw tension

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

word count: 3.3k

MINORS DNI!!

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

I'm so high in here, been smokin' on this weed

Only drug a bitch is on is the tree

But I lasted ten rounds like a freak

Like a G

Benn Beckman

The deck still stank of gunpowder and sea salt by the time you slumped onto the steps leading up to the helm, boots heavy with exhaustion. Your knuckles throbbed from the earlier brawl with some no-name pirate crew dumb enough to pick a fight with the Red Hair Pirates. You won, obviously—but victory didn’t erase the tight coil of stress still buzzing under your skin.

You dragged your hood up over your head, shielding your face from the low sun. Hands steady, you pulled out a battered little tin from your pocket, the familiar ritual already soothing your frayed nerves. You broke down the nug slowly, fingers working with careful, practiced motions. You barely even registered the distant sound of boots approaching.

Benn Beckman stopped a few feet away, cigarette halfway to his lips, brows lifting slightly at the sight of you hunched over the tray.

He leaned against the rail, arms crossed.

"Rough day?" he drawled.

You didn’t look up right away, just finished rolling your blunt with a lazy flick of your thumb. When you finally glanced his way, your gaze was cool, detached—like you were sizing him up and decided he wasn’t worth worrying about.

"Nothing a smoke can't fix," you muttered, voice low and even.

Benn whistled low under his breath, impressed.

"Didn't think you were the type to roll your own medicine."

You snorted, lighting the blunt with a snap of your lighter.

"Cigs are for rookies," you said, plucking the cigarette from his fingers without asking. You tucked the blunt between his lips instead, your touch casual, intimate.

Benn played along, inhaling deep. His eyes hooded slightly as the taste hit him—stronger, sweeter than he expected.

"Holy shit," he coughed out, laughing.

You took the blunt back from him with two fingers, tapping it lightly against the railing.

"Too much for you, old man?" you teased, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of your mouth.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated in his chest.

"Old enough to know better. Dumb enough not to care."

You offered the blunt again—not by hand this time, but by leaning in, smoke trailing from your lips in a lazy, tantalizing swirl. Benn caught on quick, closing the small distance between you. His mouth brushed yours just enough to catch the exhale directly, smoke passing from your tongue to his.

The heat flared instantly.

Before you could pull back, he tilted his head slightly, deepening it into a kiss—slow, languid, tasting of smoke and adrenaline. His hand found your jaw, rough thumb grazing your cheekbone with a kind of reverence that didn’t match how fucking cocky he was about it.

When you finally parted, a thin, silver thread of spit clung stubbornly between your tongues until it snapped, leaving a hot smear of want in its wake.

You sat back, lazily dragging the blunt between your lips again. Your expression barely shifted—still that same unreadable cool—but your hooded eyes glittered with something dangerous, something alive.

Benn wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning like he just won the biggest prize in the world.

"You always this generous after a fight?" he asked, voice low and rough.

You exhaled slow, letting the smoke roll between you both like a secret.

"Depends who's asking."

Benn’s grin widened, cigarette long forgotten at his side.

"Good," he said, leaning in close enough that you could smell the faint whiskey on his breath.

"'Cause I’m not planning on being just a one-time habit."

Sanji

The galley was quiet at night, all the chaos of the day gone still. It was your favorite time—when the ship seemed to breathe slow and easy, and nobody was around to bother you.

You sat perched on the counter, blunt half-rolled between your fingers, working fast but precise. You glanced around — no way in hell you could borrow a lighter from anyone without exposing your little habit.

Of course you didn’t bring yours. Of course.

You sighed through your nose and hopped down from the counter, moving toward the stovetop. You twisted the burner’s dial, letting a tall flame lick up from the gas, the soft click click whoosh breaking the silence.

You leaned into the flame, lighting the tip of your blunt directly against it, shielding it with one hand like an old habit.

That’s when you heard a low whistle behind you.

"You know," Sanji’s voice drawled from the doorway, lazy and amused, "most people come to the kitchen for food. Not... that."

You turned slightly, the blunt between your lips, glowing softly as you took your first pull. You held his gaze through the smoke, your expression unreadable, unbothered.

"Guess I’m not most people," you said coolly, exhaling a slow, thick ribbon of smoke into the low light.

Sanji didn’t flinch. Didn't fawn.

Instead, he grinned, a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth as he stepped into the kitchen, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hands sliding easily into his pockets.

"You could've just asked for a light," he teased, voice like silk and heat. "I would've given it to you. Anything you want."

You shrugged one shoulder, casual.

"Not exactly advertising my hobbies."

Sanji stopped a few feet away, head tilting just slightly, studying you. You could feel the weight of his gaze — not heavy, not invasive — just... there, like a hand trailing just over your skin without touching.

"You're full of surprises," he murmured, voice dipping lower.

You took another hit, slow and deliberate, letting the thick taste settle on your tongue. As you exhaled, Sanji moved closer, crossing into your space so naturally it felt like gravity.

"Mind if I...?" he asked, eyes dropping to the blunt between your fingers.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward slightly, parting your lips just enough to offer the smoke right to him.

Sanji caught the game instantly.

He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and set it on the counter. Then he leaned in, mouth brushing dangerously close to yours—not kissing, not yet—and drew the smoke straight from your mouth with a slow, deep inhale.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the warm skin behind your ear.

When he exhaled, it was right against your lips, warm and intoxicating.

The space between you crackled.

You barely had time to process before he closed the gap completely, his mouth pressing to yours in a kiss that was all slow burn, all slow claiming. His grip tightened just a little, guiding you against the counter behind you without force—just the kind of confident pressure that made your stomach flip.

You kissed him back, matching his heat with your own, the taste of smoke and fire mixing between your tongues. When you finally parted, a thin, sticky thread of spit clung between you, snapping when you tilted your head back, breathless but still wearing that same cool smirk.

Sanji stayed close, his forehead brushing against yours, his fingers still tangled loosely in your hair.

"You," he said, voice low and warm, "are way too dangerous to be left alone in my kitchen."

You chuckled, flicking ash into the sink.

"Then don’t leave," you said, voice lazy, teasing.

Sanji smiled against your cheek, teeth just grazing your skin as he whispered,

"Wasn't planning to."

And from the way his hand slid down to your hip, you knew he meant it.

Smoker

The port was busy, noisy, and reeking of salt and sweat.

Perfect place to disappear for a while.

You slipped between two battered brick buildings, finding a patch of shade away from the main street. No patrols, no Marines. Just the low hum of the sea and the sharp scratch of your lighter as you tried, once, twice — and cursed under your breath.

Dead. Perfect.

You rolled the unlit blunt between your fingers, considering your options. Borrowing a lighter wasn’t on the table — too many judging eyes. Especially for someone like you, already treading too close to the Navy's leash.

"Problem?"

The deep, rough voice made you freeze. A shadow stretched into the alley. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

Vice-Admiral Smoker stepped into view, coat draped over his broad shoulders, two cigars clamped between his teeth, smoke curling around his head like a storm cloud.

You gave him a flat look, the blunt dangling lazily from your lips.

"No lighter," you said simply.

Smoker snorted, amused in that dry, almost imperceptible way of his. He pulled one cigar free and tucked it into his coat, flicking his silver lighter open with a smooth motion.

He lit his remaining cigar, took a deep drag — and then, without saying a word, held the lighter out to you.

You raised an eyebrow but leaned forward, cupping a hand around the flame as you lit the blunt, your face close enough to his chest that you could smell the faint scent of smoke, leather, and something warmer underneath.

You inhaled slow, savoring the first pull, then leaned back against the rough brick wall with a sigh.

"Didn't peg you for the sharing type," you said, smoke curling from your mouth.

Smoker grunted, replacing the cigar between his lips.

"Don't make me regret it," he said, but there was no real bite in his voice.

For a moment, you just stood there, passing slow, lazy pulls between you. The world outside the alley blurred into meaningless noise.

Then, bold from the buzz creeping in your veins, you leaned forward again—holding the blunt between your fingers—and offered the smoke directly to him, a silent challenge.

Smoker’s gaze sharpened slightly, amused. He plucked the cigar from his mouth and stepped into your space, his broad chest almost brushing yours.

Without hesitation, he caught the smoke straight from your lips, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him — and then, instead of pulling back, he kissed you.

It was rough at first, full of the same heat and tension that always seemed to spark between you. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing firmly as he tilted your head back just slightly.

You opened for him without thinking, the kiss deepening into something slower, hotter — tongues brushing, breath hitching between you. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt and something that was just him.

The world outside the alley dissolved entirely.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t messy — just breathless, lingering. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath in the haze of smoke curling between you.

"You," he muttered, voice low and thick, "are nothing but bad news."

You smirked against his lips, your hands still fisted loosely in the fabric of his coat.

"Good thing you’re terrible at saying no," you murmured.

Smoker let out a rough, half-laugh, half-growl, and kissed you again—deeper, slower, like he had no plans to stop this time.

And honestly, neither did you.

You barely had time to settle into the heat of Smoker’s mouth again, the slow grind of his body pressing yours back against the brick wall, when—

"S-smoker-san?!"

The sharp voice cracked through the alley like a gunshot.

Both of you froze.

Smoker broke the kiss with a low, almost feral growl under his breath, his hand still curled possessively around your waist.

You cracked one eye open lazily, barely lifting your head from Smoker’s shoulder to glance toward the entrance of the alley.

Tashigi stood there, sword awkwardly bumping against her hip, her entire face rapidly turning the color of a boiled lobster.

"I— I— I was looking for you to discuss patrol routes— but I can—! I can come back later!" she sputtered, already halfway turning on her heel, practically tripping over herself to get away.

Smoker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, the kind of breath that usually meant someone was about to get absolutely wrecked—but he didn’t move away from you. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still flexing slightly against your hip.

"You’d better," he said, loud enough for Tashigi to hear as she fled back into the chaos of the port.

You couldn't help it—you laughed. A low, smoky sound that vibrated against his chest.

"Think we traumatized her," you said, voice rough with amusement.

Smoker shot you a sideways glare, but there was no real fire behind it. If anything, he looked... pleased. Dangerous. Like a man who didn’t give a damn who saw what he wanted.

"Serves her right for barging in without knocking," he muttered, gruff.

You arched a brow, grinning lazily up at him.

"Maybe you should install a door in your alleys."

Smoker huffed a laugh — a real one, low and brief — and bent to kiss you again, less careful this time. Hotter, a little messier. His free hand finally dropped the half-burned cigar, grinding it under his boot as he pressed you back into the wall, fully claiming your mouth again like he had all the time in the world.

And honestly, for once, you hoped he did.

Crocodile

The lounge was dim, soaked in the kind of golden light that made everything seem a little more expensive than it probably was.

Low jazz music played from hidden speakers, and the soft clink of chips and whiskey glasses filled the background.

You slouched lazily in a velvet armchair near the back, rolling the blunt between your fingers, cool and unbothered. No one really noticed you here — not with the heavyweights and high-rollers stealing the spotlight.

But, of course, he noticed.

You felt it before you saw him — a shift in the room’s atmosphere, a change in the way conversations dropped to murmurs.

Crocodile’s presence was like a thundercloud creeping over sunny skies.

You kept your expression blank, indifferent, even as you realized your lighter was nowhere to be found.

Perfect.

Exactly what you needed.

You sighed, the blunt sitting unlit between your lips, considering your next move.

A shadow fell across your table. You didn’t bother looking up.

"Need something?" Crocodile’s voice rumbled, amused.

You tilted your head slightly, fixing him with a bored stare, the blunt still balanced at the corner of your mouth.

"Seems I’m short a flame," you said, voice dry.

Crocodile’s lips curled around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something sharp and entertained.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he bent slightly at the waist — slow, deliberate — bringing the burning tip of his cigar close to the end of your blunt.

Too close.

He stopped just shy, forcing you to lean in to meet him.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and steady, and leaned forward, lips brushing barely near his cigar, lighting your own off the glowing ember. The flame caught with a faint crackle, a tiny hiss.

The whole time, Crocodile didn’t move an inch.

The smell of smoke, expensive leather, and something faintly spiced wrapped around you like a second skin.

You leaned back into your chair, taking a long, slow pull from the newly lit blunt. The first hit bloomed warm in your lungs. You exhaled lazily toward the ceiling, your eyes half-lidded.

"You're welcome," Crocodile said, voice dripping with dry amusement, straightening to his full height.

You tapped ash into a crystal ashtray nearby without even glancing at him.

"Didn’t say thank you," you replied coolly.

He chuckled — a low, dangerous sound that vibrated in the base of his chest.

"Didn't expect you to."

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The tension crackled softly between you, thick and slow, like molasses dripping from a knife.

Crocodile shifted, the gold of his rings catching the low light as he pulled a chair up to yours — close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table.

Deliberate.

Territorial.

"You planning to cause trouble tonight?" he asked, cigar smoke curling lazily around his words.

You blew out another cloud of smoke, just as lazy, just as unbothered.

"Depends," you murmured, voice low. "You planning to stop me?"

Crocodile smirked around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry.

"Not tonight."

He sat back, perfectly relaxed, the image of a king amused by the antics of his favorite piece.

You could feel his eyes on you as you smoked, weighing every slow drag, every lazy exhale.

Watching.

Waiting.

The house always won in places like this.

And tonight, it was clear you weren’t going anywhere.

The minutes slipped by in a slow, heavy haze.

The blunt burned low between your fingers, each drag slower than the last. Across the small table, Crocodile watched you like a predator sizing up easy prey — not rushing, not moving, just waiting for the exact right moment.

You met his gaze through the rising smoke, your face blank, but your heart starting to thrum a little harder behind your ribs.

He shifted finally, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. The gold of his rings caught the light again, flashing like a warning.

"Come here," he said lowly, almost conversational, like you were a thing he fully expected to obey.

You didn't move immediately. You took another lazy pull from your blunt instead, blowing the smoke off to the side with a small smirk. Testing him. Pushing.

Crocodile huffed a small laugh under his breath, all amusement gone razor sharp.

Without warning, he reached across the table, hand catching you by the wrist — not rough, but firm, dragging you forward until you were pulled out of your chair and into his space.

The blunt dangled forgotten from your fingers as he leaned in — close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across his face, the glint of amusement and warning in his heavy-lidded eyes.

He reached up with two fingers, plucking the blunt casually from your grip and setting it in the ashtray with a careless flick.

"You’re slow," he murmured, voice like warm gravel. "Let me show you how it's done."

You barely had time to process it before Crocodile’s lips crashed into yours.

It was rough — like he was making a point. His mouth devoured yours with an intensity that was unexpected, yet exactly what you needed. His cigar still burned between his fingers, and before you even had the chance to think about it, he tilted the cigar toward your lips, offering the smoke as you kissed.

The warm, glowing tip of the cigar hovered near your mouth, and you instinctively opened up, taking in the deep, spicy taste as you inhaled. The heat of it filled your lungs, mixing with the taste of Crocodile’s kiss — rich, dangerous, intoxicating.

You pulled back just a bit, lips brushing against his, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling out from your mouth and into his.

Without breaking eye contact, Crocodile inhaled the smoke you gave him, his gaze darkening as he held it in for a beat, then exhaled it slowly, sending it back toward you.

The air was thick now, saturated with smoke and the lingering taste of him. Every breath felt like it stretched the moment, making it last forever, and yet, you knew it was only a brief exchange.

When he pulled away, his lips were curved into that same smug, dangerous smirk.

"Better," he muttered, voice rough with satisfaction. "Now you’re getting it."

You smirked back, though your chest felt a little tighter than it had before.

"You’re insufferable," you said, the words coming out softer than you intended, but your heart was still racing in your chest.

Crocodile chuckled low, the sound like a dangerous promise.

"Only when it suits me," he said, leaning back in his chair and taking another slow drag from his cigar. He didn’t look at you directly but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your lips. "You’ll learn, eventually. That’s how the game is played."

You stayed there, breathless and still, as the tension simmered between you.

The house always won.

And tonight, you were playing Crocodile's game

Hello, good morning. I'd like to request a story. Please.

Redheaded Shanks by Y/n Shanks, T/n, and Buggy were apprentices and friends on the Jackson Gold. T/n and Shanks had a strong relationship. After the crew abandoned their young apprentices and the crew disbanded, the trio of boys went their separate ways.

Years later, Shanks, without knowing anything about Y/n, found out she was in the Navy. He couldn't believe his eyes. He knew she hated the Marines. They were the ones who killed her family. So why is she with them?

When he was able to locate her, he found out she was a vice admiral in the Navy. He found her in a bar where his subordinates were eating. When she left to return to the ship, the redhead took her to a dark alley. The woman didn't recognize him, or rather, she didn't want to recognize him. She tried to leave him. Then he kissed her. The woman blushed, you idiot, leave me pushing him. Please.

hehe~ this is a nice idea! i hope this is to your liking!

𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫, 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬

Years after you went to separate ways, fate and a stubborn redhead force old scars to the surface—and maybe, just maybe, a second chance too.

Shanks x gn! reader | ONE SHOT a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc tags: slight angst, sfw, fluff, reunion, persistent shanks word count: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

It wasn’t often that Red-Haired Shanks was left speechless.

But there he was, jaw slack, hand frozen midway to his tankard of ale, staring at the newspaper Benn Beckman slapped onto the table like it personally offended him.

Vice Admiral (Y/N), the youngest rising star of the Navy.

Clear as day. A picture too — you, standing proud in a sharp white coat, sword at your hip, a grim smirk on your lips that Shanks knew wasn’t real.

"You're kidding," Shanks breathed.

"Afraid not," Benn muttered, biting down on his cigar. "They say this one's the 'Steel Lady' of the seas. Ruthless. Brilliant. Deadly."

"Sounds sexy," Lucky Roo said between mouthfuls.

Shanks didn’t laugh. He didn’t move.

You, wearing their uniform? Their colors? The ones who burned your home, slaughtered your family, the reason you once spat the word "Marine" like poison?

It didn’t make sense.

It hurt.

Buggy’s old shrill voice rang in his head — "She'd rather die than join the Navy, you dumbass!"

(Back then, they were just kids — him, Buggy, and you. Apprentices. Family.)

What the hell happened to you, (Y/N)?

Later That Night

The tavern was roaring with laughter, Red-Hair’s men in full swing, clinking mugs and howling songs.

Shanks barely heard them. His single eye was pinned to the entrance.

You walked in like you owned the damn place.

Your Vice Admiral coat fluttered behind you, and you barely spared a glance at the pirates crowding the booths. You ignored the gawking stares, the muttered curses. Just went straight to the bar, ordered a drink like it was any other Tuesday.

Cool as hell, Shanks thought numbly.

You nursed your whiskey quietly. No friends. No entourage.

A thousand memories burned behind his eyes — your laughter, your scowl, your hand tugging his when he was too slow, your voice mocking Buggy into oblivion.

You looked… older now. Stronger. Sharper.

Lonelier.

When you finished your drink, you slid a few beli across the counter, nodded at the bartender, and headed for the door without a backward glance.

Shanks was already moving.

The Alley

You sensed him before he touched you — instincts honed razor-sharp. You whirled around in the dark alley, hand already at your sword.

“Easy, easy," Shanks laughed, stepping out of the shadows, hands raised in surrender. "It’s just me, (Y/N)."

You froze.

For a heartbeat, your face was naked — shock, pain, longing — before you slammed the shutters down.

"I don’t know you," you said flatly, voice cold enough to bite.

Ouch.

Shanks smirked, tilting his head. "Oh, come on. That’s not very nice. After all those years?"

"Move." You sidestepped him.

He moved with you, blocking your path like a giant, infuriating wall of muscle and grinning teeth.

"I’m serious," you snapped, shoving his chest. "Get out of my way."

"You recognized me," he said smugly.

You scowled.

Big mistake.

Because that's when Shanks grabbed you — not rough, but firm, calloused hands catching your wrist and yanking you flush against him. You gasped, instinctively swinging your knee, but he twisted, laughing, spinning you into the wall.

"Still feisty," he chuckled, eyes gleaming.

You gritted your teeth. "Let go, Red Hair, before I make you regret it."

Shanks leaned closer, voice dropping. "Why, Vice Admiral? Scared you might miss me?"

You went still.

God, you hated him sometimes. Hated that he still smelled like salt and sunlight, like stupid wild freedom. Hated that your heart was hammering like it remembered every stupid kiss under stolen sunsets.

"You idiot," you muttered, voice cracking. "Leave me alone—"

He kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Messy.

You stiffened — then shoved him hard, breaking the kiss with a ragged gasp, fists pounding weakly against his chest.

"You— jerk!" you hissed, cheeks blazing, but the punch you threw was sluggish. Shanks caught your wrist again easily, tugging you back into him with a breathless, stupid smile.

"You’re still bad at punching," he teased, forehead pressed against yours.

"You’re still bad at thinking," you grumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He laughed, warm and rough and real.

Goddammit.

You wanted to cry. Or kill him. Or kiss him again.

Maybe all three.

You shoved him back and drew your sword in one smooth motion.

"I told you to leave," you growled, pointing the blade at his nose.

Shanks just grinned, one hand on his sword hilt. "If I beat you, you have to come have dinner with me."

You blinked. "What are you, twelve?"

"Is that a no?"

"You’re on, bastard."

The clash was fast and brutal.

You moved first, slashing low, testing — he parried lazily with the flat of his blade, laughing like he wasn’t even trying.

You scowled and sped up, strikes raining down like thunder. You weren’t a kid anymore. You were a Vice Admiral, for god’s sake. Stronger. Smarter. Meaner.

But Shanks wasn’t a kid either.

He was Shanks. Yonko. Legend.

He dodged your killing blows with maddening ease, ducking, weaving, flicking your sword aside with infuriating little nudges.

"You’re slower than Buggy," he teased.

"Take that back!" you snarled, aiming for his head.

He sidestepped and flicked your forehead with one finger.

You yowled, stumbling back.

"You did not just—!"

"Oooh, (Y/N)'s mad~," Shanks sang, dodging the next slash by an inch.

You tackled him.

Both of you crashed into a heap against the wall, laughing, panting, grappling like idiots.

Shanks pinned you easily, one knee on your stomach, both your wrists caught in one hand.

You glared up at him, chest heaving.

His smile faded, something soft creeping into his eyes.

"You grew up," he said quietly, thumb brushing your pulse.

"You didn’t," you muttered.

He barked a short laugh. "Guess not."

The fight bled out of you.

For a moment, you just stared at each other. Breathing each other in.

You never forgot how he looked — wild, free, infuriating. He never forgot you either — fierce, stubborn, brilliant.

"I missed you," Shanks said roughly, voice cracking.

You swallowed.

"Missed you too, idiot."

He let you go.

You didn’t run.

Instead, you slumped against the wall, arms limp at your sides, feeling like a ship run aground.

Shanks flopped down next to you, legs stretched out, shoulder bumping yours.

"You look good in white," he said, nudging your coat.

You snorted. "You look bad in red."

"Harsh."

"You deserve it."

He laughed again — that same easy, golden laugh — and for the first time in years, you smiled. Really smiled.

.

.

.

"So..." Shanks began after a long, comfortable silence. "Vice Admiral, huh?"

You picked at a loose thread on your glove. "Spy."

He blinked. "Huh!?"

"I’m not really with them," you said, voice dropping. "I’m... gathering information. Playing the long game."

"You’re a double agent?!"

"Keep your voice down, dumbass!"

He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes sparkling.

You rolled your eyes. "It’s complicated. But yeah. I’d never really join them. I just... needed a way to get close enough to tear them apart."

Shanks looked at you like you hung the moon.

"You’re insane," he said, utterly delighted.

"You're one to talk."

He grinned wide and stupid, then threw his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into a rough side hug.

"I always knew you were the coolest," he said proudly.

You mock-gagged. "Gross. Get off."

"Never."

You didn’t actually pull away.

Instead, you let your head fall against his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat. Steady. Warm. Real.

For the first time in years, you felt like maybe you weren’t carrying the weight of the world alone.

Somewhere, across the seas, Buggy sneezed violently. "Ugh," he sniffled, glaring at his crew. "Someone’s talking shit about me! I bet it’s those two idiots! I hate them!" (He didn’t. Not really.)

.

.

.

As dawn broke over the water, you and Shanks sat on the rooftop of a random tavern, legs dangling over the edge.

He was telling you some ridiculous story about losing his hat and arm ("It wasn’t my fault, okay?! There's a kid in East Blue who said the same thing as Captain Roger did, those same words of our captain!") and you were laughing so hard your ribs hurt.

You hadn't laughed like this in years.

Maybe... Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe you could still have something.

Him.

You glanced sideways — at his messy hair, his stupid, wide grin, the scar across his eye you hadn’t dared touch yet.

Maybe you could still have home.

"Hey," you said, voice soft.

He turned to you, eyebrows raised.

You leaned in — quick, reckless — and kissed his cheek.

"You owe me dinner," you said, grinning.

Shanks blinked, stunned for once.

Then he whooped loud enough to wake half the town, tackling you in a bear hug.

Somewhere between the laughter, the yelling, and the ridiculous wrestling match that followed, you realized something.

You weren’t lost anymore.

Hot Springs, Hot Tempers

You and King accidentally end up in the same secluded hot spring. Cue awkward tension, steamy misunderstandings, and fluffy chaos.

King X gn! reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, king being bad at flirting(?), ooc king, post-battle

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You had no idea the hot spring was co-ed.

Okay, to be fair, the old innkeeper had mumbled something about the “blessed harmony of nature,” but you’d tuned her out while ogling the steaming bath behind her. After all, after days of dodging explosions, clashing with marines, and nearly getting cooked alive by Kaido’s fire breath (which—honestly—should be illegal), you were in desperate need of a hot soak.

So, in you went.

Alone. Glorious. Gloriously alone. Or so you thought.

You sunk into the mineral-rich waters with a satisfied moan, stretching out your limbs like a boiled noodle.

“Finally,” you sighed. “Peace.”

And that’s exactly when you heard it—the sound of something massive stepping through the entrance behind you.

You froze mid-soak. Slowly turned your head.

And there he was.

King.

All 20-foot-something of him, broad shoulders covered in black scales and steam, towering at the threshold with his helmet already off, wings folded behind him like a damn mythical creature who forgot how personal space works.

He stopped, towel hanging over his shoulder, completely stone-faced as your eyes met.

“Oh no,” you said flatly, water sloshing around you.

King blinked. “...This is the private spring, isn’t it?”

You shot up, half-submerged. “I thought this was the solo spring!”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re the one barging in here like some half-naked goth dragon!”

“I’m wearing a towel.”

“Barely!”

An awkward silence settled like fog on the water.

Then you noticed it—King’s expression faltering ever so slightly, as though realizing he had, in fact, just crashed a very vulnerable soak session.

“I’ll leave,” he muttered, turning on his heel with all the grace of a man who never once had to care about bathing etiquette.

“No, wait—ugh. Don’t.” You sighed, flopping back against the smooth rock ledge. “It’s fine. Let’s just pretend we’re two strangers in an awkward commercial.”

King paused. “A what?”

“Never mind.”

He stepped forward, water rippling violently with every heavy-footed motion, and settled into the far end of the spring. The opposite end. The farthest possible distance between you and his very large, very shirtless self.

Great. Now you had to pretend you weren’t occasionally glancing at his shoulders.

To be fair, you tried not to. But he was right there. With skin that shimmered like obsidian under the moonlight and muscles that made Greek statues look like soggy breadsticks.

And then he caught you looking.

You quickly looked away.

“I wasn’t—uh—I mean, nice... wings?” you blurted out.

His eyebrow raised. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

You groaned and covered your face. “I’m under pressure, okay?! You’re like—intimidating hot.”

King blinked. His cheeks, you could swear, colored faintly at the edges.

“Don’t call me hot.”

“Well don’t show up shirtless, glistening with steam like some overworked fanfic trope.”

A beat.

“…What’s a fanfic?”

“Forget it.”

Another silence.

Then, out of nowhere, King spoke. “I didn’t know you used hot springs.”

You side-eyed him. “I didn’t know you bathed.”

“I’m not a savage.”

“Well, jury’s still out.”

King huffed, turning his face slightly. For someone who once split a marine ship in two with his boot, he looked incredibly put out by your teasing. Almost pouty.

You smirked.

“Well, since we’re stuck here together… might as well enjoy it,” you said, leaning back against the stone and letting the warm water lull your muscles.

King tilted his head. “You’re not going to try anything stupid?”

“What, like seducing you with my wrinkly prune fingers?” you held up your soaked hands.

“…Yes.”

You snorted. “Please, you’d combust before anything happened.”

He grunted. “Fair.”

A few more moments passed. You dared peek again.

He was leaning back, steam coiling around his broad frame like silk, wings shifting with every subtle motion. You noticed he had a faint scar running along his collarbone—jagged, healed-over, and oddly… human.

“You have a scar,” you said before you could stop yourself.

King opened one eye lazily. “Observation. Noted.”

“No, I mean… I didn’t think Lunarians could scar.”

He was quiet for a beat. “I got it before the flame. Before I could heal.”

“Oh,” you murmured, eyes softening.

The mood quieted.

But then you, unable to help yourself, added: “...So you were a clumsy kid.”

He side-eyed you. “I fell from a sky cliff. That’s not clumsy. That’s survival.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you looked very majestic doing it.”

“I did.”

You both cracked a small laugh. A real laugh.

And then—

SPLOOSH!

A wild monkey cannonballed into the spring.

You screamed. King leapt halfway out of the water with his wings flared.

“WHAT IN—?!”

The monkey screeched, flopped onto a rock, and began casually bathing itself with a smug little expression.

“…Are you serious?” you muttered.

King glared at the monkey. “It’s staring at me.”

You nudged closer. “Probably impressed by your wingspan.”

“Or your screaming.”

“Excuse me! That was a war cry of surprise.”

“I thought it was a kettle exploding.”

“You—!”

You were cut off by the monkey stealing your towel.

It yanked it from the side, chattered triumphantly, and bolted into the woods.

“HEY!!”

King, somehow, did not move to help. In fact, he looked… amused?

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned.

His lips twitched. “Consider it karma for calling me a ‘goth dragon’.”

You groaned and sank deeper into the water. “I’m gonna have to air dry now like a soggy noodle.”

“You’ll survive,” King said, voice warm with uncharacteristic amusement.

You both sat in steamy silence for a bit longer, the earlier tension melting with the mist.

After a few minutes, King shifted closer. Not much—just a foot or two. But it was enough to make your heart stutter.

“...You come here often?” he asked, in the most unintentionally awkward tone imaginable.

You blinked.

“…Are you hitting on me?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

You raised a brow. “That was absolutely a pickup line.”

“It was not.”

“You literally just asked, ‘do you come here often?’ in a secluded hot spring.”

“…Coincidence.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then—you burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe this. You’re terrible at flirting.”

King flushed. “I’m not trying to flirt.”

“Oh, no, of course not. That towel drop earlier was just an accident too, huh?”

“That was gravity’s fault.”

You giggled so hard you slipped slightly under the water, splashing like a drunk dolphin.

And then—you felt his hand.

Gentle. Large. Holding your elbow to steady you.

You froze.

He looked surprised at himself too, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to do that.

But he didn’t pull away.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, suddenly very aware of the fact that your face was burning hotter than the water.

King’s gaze softened. Just slightly.

“You’re welcome.”

You both stayed like that, too long, too close. Until—

“HEY!!” someone called in the distance. “Is the spring free yet?!”

It was Queen.

You and King jumped apart like teenagers caught making out behind the gym.

“I should go,” you said.

“Yes. Right.”

You stood up, realized you still didn’t have a towel, and groaned.

King turned his back with a surprising amount of respect. “Take mine.”

“…Wait, seriously?”

“You’ll catch a cold,” he muttered, ears slightly red.

You wrapped it around yourself, stunned silent for once.

As you left the spring, water dripping and heart racing, you dared glance back at King—still chest-deep in steam, gaze lowered, face unreadable.

But there was a faint curl to his lips. Almost like a smile.

You didn’t know what that meant. But you did know one thing:

You were definitely coming back to this spring.

And next time, you might just forget to bring a towel again.

King’s Helmet Mystery

What the hell is under King’s helmet? You're determined to find out. King’s patience? Running thin. Your schemes? Ridiculous. His reactions? Surprisingly flustered.

King X gn! reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, ooc king, slight v!olence

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The day you joined the Beasts Pirates, you swore you’d never fall for anyone on the crew. They were all either terrifying, annoying, or both.

Then you saw King.

And more importantly—you saw his helmet.

It wasn’t love at first sight. No, it was curiosity. Burning, rabid, downright obsessive curiosity.

“Why do you always wear that helmet?” you had asked on day three of being around him.

King didn’t even look at you. “None of your business.”

So obviously, that meant game on.

Phase One: Casual Questions (Totally Not Interrogation)

You began with subtlety.

“Hey, King, don’t you get hot in that thing?” you asked, leaning on a crate next to him.

“I don’t feel it,” he replied flatly.

“Must be sweaty in there though.”

“No.”

“What if you get an itch?”

“I don’t.”

“…What if a bird poops on it?”

He turned his head slightly. “Why would a bird—?”

“Just saying. You’d never know. Could be walking around with mystery poop on your face all day.”

King walked away.

You followed.

Phase Two: Bribery

You slid a pristine box of limited-edition dango on the table.

“I’ll give you all of these if you just lift it. Half an inch. One second.”

“No.”

“I won’t even look!”

“You’ll look.”

“…You’re right, I would.”

King didn’t budge.

So you tried again with spicy sake, rare fruits, a handmade lava-resistant scarf, and even a knitted plush version of him that you personally stitched.

He didn’t even glance at them.

Though you did catch him later discreetly carrying the plush to his room.

Phase Three: Stealth Mission (Failed)

In the dead of night, you tiptoed through the dim corridors of Onigashima’s fortress. You had intel. King always removed his armor to sleep. You just needed a peek.

You pressed your ear against the sliding door of his room. Silent.

Then you slowly slid the door open and—

“Nice try,” King’s voice cut through the dark. You screamed.

He was still wearing the damn helmet in bed.

“I—okay, first off, do you SLEEP with that on?!”

“Yes.”

“…Do you shower with it?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

King smirked under the helmet.

Or at least you imagined he did.

He always had that smug aura like he was eternally amused by your suffering.

You sulked for a week.

Phase Four: Drastic Measures

You made a PowerPoint presentation.

No, really.

You dragged King into the briefing room and stood in front of a projected slide that read “TOP 10 REASONS TO SHOW ME YOUR FACE (PLEASE).”

“I made charts,” you announced.

King just stood there, arms crossed, flames dancing on his back.

“Reason One: Friendship. Friends share secrets. Boom.”

“Not friends.”

“Okay, Reason Two: I’ve literally never told anyone your height, weight, wingspan, or bedtime even though I definitely know all of those things and could sell that info to fangirls.”

King tilted his head. “Do you have fangirls?”

You blinked. “We’re not talking about me.”

By Reason Six (“For Science!”) and Reason Nine (“Because I said pretty please”), King stood and left the room.

You considered it a soft win.

Phase Five: The Disguise Plan

You put on a replica of his armor.

“Guess what?” you said, stomping around dramatically. “I’m you now.”

King didn’t even look up from polishing his sword.

You strutted in front of him, wings flapping. “Look at me, I’m so cool. I’m scary. Ooooh, no one knows my face. I’ve got MYSTERIES.”

“You look ridiculous.”

“Thank you.”

He sighed. “You have work to do.”

“Oh? So does King! He needs to show me his face before I LOSE my mind.”

Still nothing.

But Sasaki did walk by and immediately drop his drink at the sight of you.

“Why are there two of them now?!”

King groaned.

You cackled.

Phase Six: Reverse Psychology (and Screaming)

“Y’know what?” you said over dinner one night, loud enough for the whole table to hear. “I don’t even care what King looks like. Probably has a dumb face.”

The whole table froze.

King looked up, one brow probably raised under the helmet.

“Maybe he’s got, like, two noses,” you continued, chomping down on a rice ball. “Or maybe it’s just all teeth. Like a shark. Disgusting.”

“Why are you so obsessed with him then?” Jack muttered.

“I’M NOT.”

You totally were.

“Maybe you’re just in love with him,” Queen teased.

You choked on your drink.

King stood up without a word and left the room.

You internally screamed.

Phase Seven: The Fluffy Flop

After months of trying, you finally gave up. You sat on a cliffside just beyond the fortress, legs dangling, wind whipping through your hair.

“I give up,” you sighed to no one. “Maybe he does have teeth for a face.”

“Doubt it.”

You yelped.

King landed next to you, wings folding.

You scooted a little.

“…Sorry if I annoyed you.”

“You do.”

You sighed.

But he stayed.

You sat in silence, watching the moonlight reflect off the water.

“…It’s not about hiding,” King said suddenly. “It’s about surviving.”

You turned your head, surprised.

“I don’t care what people think. But I care about what they do. Especially if they knew what I am.”

You stared at him.

And then, for once, you said nothing snarky. Just nodded. “Okay.”

The Day the Helmet Came Off

It was during a battle.

You got hit—hard—and thrown across the battlefield, crashing into debris.

Everything spun.

Then—flames.

You blinked up to see King standing over you, face uncovered, the pieces of his helmet cracked and steaming beside him.

“…Whoa,” you whispered.

He was beautiful.

Strong jaw, red markings, piercing golden eyes. Sharp, fierce. Yet soft. Not what you imagined.

“Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside you.

You blinked. “You—your face—”

“Don’t say anything.”

You nodded dumbly.

He helped you up, hand lingering on your waist longer than necessary.

You whispered, “Definitely not all teeth.”

King groaned.

.

.

.

He wore the helmet again the next day.

You didn’t push.

But when no one else was around, he lifted it just enough to let you see his eyes.

You grinned. “I knew you liked me.”

King rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He didn't move away.

Mission accomplished.

And you didn’t even need PowerPoint this time.

Hi! Could you write about katakuri and his childhood sweetheart. Like they were pretty close friends since childhood, she has been friends with him from when he didn't used to cover his face. But they never said 'I love you' to each other. And now that they've grown up, Big mom has asked(ordered) the reader to marry Cracker/Oven. She maybe confesses her love to katakuri, but him being the perfect son he is, doesn't want to disobey his mom, so he let the marriage happen.

I know requests are off, but if you like the idea, please do write about it, idc even if it takes like a month or two. I'm absolutely in love with your writing.

oohh! that is good! tis not much but, hope u like this!

The Sweetness We Never Tasted

You’ve loved Katakuri since you were kids. But Big Mom has chosen another path for you—and he won’t fight her to stop it.

katakuri x reader

tags: sfw, arranged marriage, childhood sweethearts, angst

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff cringe, and akward

word count: 1.1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The air in Totto Land always smelled faintly of sugar, but today it was too sweet—so sweet it made your stomach twist.

You stood in the rose garden behind the Chateau, the very place where you and Katakuri used to sneak pastries as children, hiding behind the candy-cane columns and daring each other to steal more from the kitchen. Those days felt like dreams now—soft, distant, and a little too painful to look at directly.

And now, you were waiting for him.

You clenched your fists, heart pounding. He was late. Or maybe he was avoiding you.

No. He wouldn’t.

“(Y/N),” a deep voice rumbled behind you.

You turned.

Katakuri stood there, tall as ever, shadows cutting across his face from the low afternoon sun. His scarf was on, of course. He didn’t show his mouth anymore. Not to anyone.

Except you—once.

"You're late," you said, forcing a smile.

"I came as soon as I could."

There was always something different in his voice when he spoke to you. A softness hidden under the gravel. He glanced around before walking over to stand beside you, close enough that his arm nearly brushed yours. He didn’t touch. He never did. Not anymore.

"So..." You stared down at your boots, trying to summon the courage that had kept you alive in this family all these years. "Have you heard?"

He didn’t answer immediately. The silence dragged between you like the end of a rope—fraying, tension snapping strand by strand.

"Yes," he finally said. “Mama told me.”

You swallowed hard. “She wants me to marry Cracker.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Only a subtle clenching of his jaw beneath the scarf gave him away.

“I didn’t think she’d do it,” you whispered. “I thought… I thought she’d at least ask me. Or you would. Before it got this far.”

Katakuri turned his face away, eyes focused on something in the distance. Maybe he was looking at the horizon. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to look at you.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It makes sense politically.”

You laughed bitterly. “Of course. Because that’s what marriage is in this family. Strategy.”

Another beat of silence. Your voice shook when you said his name.

“Katakuri.”

He looked at you now. Directly. It hurt.

“I need to know,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Did you ever feel it too?”

His shoulders tensed.

“When we were kids… when we were teens… when we’d sneak out after dinner to watch the stars from the rooftops… when you showed me your mouth and told me I was the only one you weren’t ashamed around… Did that mean nothing to you?”

You didn’t mean to cry, but the tears came anyway—quiet, burning down your cheeks.

“I always thought we’d have time,” you said. “That one day we’d stop pretending and actually say it. I waited for you to say it first. I waited for years.”

He took a step toward you. His hands twitched like he wanted to hold yours.

“I wanted to,” he said.

"Then why didn’t you?"

"Because I knew this would happen."

You blinked. “What?”

“I knew Mama would never allow it,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t choose based on love. She chooses for power, for bloodlines, for strength. Cracker is a biscuit soldier commander—strong, obedient. You’ve always been one of her favorites. Of course she'd put you with someone she trusts.”

“But you’re her favorite too. More than Cracker. If you’d said something—if you’d just told her we wanted—”

“I couldn’t,” he cut in. “I’m not just her son, (Y/N). I’m her soldier. Her perfect creation. I do not defy her.”

You stared at him. “Not even for me?”

His silence was louder than any answer.

You stepped back like he’d slapped you. “You would’ve let me go without a word. Without knowing.”

“I thought it would be easier,” he said. “If you hated me. It would hurt less.”

You covered your mouth, choking on the sound that wanted to escape. “You coward.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve fought for you,” you said. “I would’ve burned everything down for you.”

“I know.”

You turned to leave. You didn’t want him to see you fall apart.

But his hand caught your wrist.

“(Y/N).”

You froze.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched. You turned to face him again, slowly.

“What?”

He stepped closer. “I loved you then. I love you now. I’ll love you after the wedding, and I’ll hate myself every day for not stopping it.”

You stared at him, heart breaking in slow motion. “Then stop it.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Why?” Your voice cracked. “Why not fight for once? Why not just—”

“Because if I do, Mama will kill someone,” he said. “Maybe Cracker. Maybe you. Maybe one of your crewmates. You think she wouldn’t?”

Your voice died in your throat.

“I can’t risk your life,” he said. “I’d rather lose you than bury you.”

You collapsed into his arms without thinking, fists pounding against his chest.

“I hate you,” you sobbed. “I hate you for not loving me enough to try.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you, trembling.

The embrace didn’t last long enough.

The wedding day arrived too quickly.

You wore the gown Mama picked. Something ridiculous and pastel with lace up to your chin and jewels that dug into your collarbones. Cracker looked pleased enough, though he kept grumbling about how annoying formal events were. He barely looked at you.

Your mind was elsewhere anyway.

Katakuri stood near the front, expression blank. You couldn’t read anything behind that scarf and those crimson eyes.

You were numb as the vows were spoken. Your lips moved, but they weren’t your words. When the crowd cheered, it felt like your ears had gone underwater.

Your heart stayed behind in that garden.

That night, you sat alone on the balcony while the festivities carried on below. Cracker was off getting drunk with Opera and Snack, bragging about how ‘lucky’ he was to get someone like you. You felt sick.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

You didn’t turn. You knew the footsteps.

“Shouldn’t you be with your husband?” Katakuri asked quietly.

You didn’t answer.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Then don’t stay.”

He hesitated. You could hear the tightness in his breath.

“Did you mean it?” you asked.

“Mean what?”

“When you said you love me.”

“Yes.”

“Do you still?”

“Yes.”

You turned to him. “Then why did you let them take me?”

He looked like he wanted to shatter.

“Because I thought I was strong,” he said. “But I’m just her puppet, (Y/N). We all are.”

You walked up to him, slowly.

“I would’ve run with you,” you said. “I would’ve left everything behind.”

He looked down at you. “You still could.”

“No,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

You leaned up and kissed the scarf covering his mouth, just once.

Then walked past him, back into the room.

That night, Katakuri stood alone on the edge of the island, staring out at the moonlit sea.

He didn't cry.

But if he had, the ocean might’ve wept with him.

you are great

hehe~ thank uu sm! u flatter me~

Confined Hearts

A routine supply run turns chaotic when you and Law get trapped below deck — but maybe being stuck alone isn't such a bad thing after all.

Law X gn! reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, secret relationship, trapped a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The steady hum of the Polar Tang was strangely comforting. Somewhere above, the Heart Pirates went about their usual routines: cleaning, charting, fixing whatever needed fixing after their last chaotic encounter with a Sea King. You lounged lazily against a stack of crates in the storage bay, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you watched Trafalgar Law pick through supplies, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance.

He looked… good. Way too good for your heart to handle.

Denim jeans that hung low on his hips, simple white t-shirt slightly damp from the humidity, his tattoos curling like secret messages down his arms and up his throat. You tried not to stare, but it was hard when you knew just how warm and soft that skin was under your fingers.

Not that anyone else could know. Not that the crew — bless their oblivious souls — had the faintest idea.

Being in a secret relationship with your stoic, sharp-tongued Captain was its own kind of dangerous thrill. One wrong move, one wrong look, and Shachi or Penguin would never let you live it down.

Law glanced over his shoulder at you, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

"You planning to help, or just stand there like a useless lump?"

You snorted. "Bold talk from a guy who's been glaring at the same box for five minutes."

"Planning," he drawled, straightening up and cracking his neck. "Unlike you, who specializes in doing absolutely nothing."

You tossed a rag at his head. He dodged it with irritating ease, a faint smirk flashing across his mouth before it disappeared into his usual deadpan stare.

You fought a grin. God, you loved being able to push his buttons.

"Fine, Captain," you said dramatically, hopping off the crate. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do everything in my power to serve you."

There was the tiniest flicker in his expression — a shift only you would notice. The kind that made your stomach flutter and your mind race with all the things you could do if you weren't surrounded by supplies and crates and the whole damn crew upstairs.

Law turned back to the stack, voice low enough that you almost missed it. "Later," he murmured. "If you're good."

A shiver ran down your spine. You swallowed hard and tried to act normal.

You really, really hoped no one was coming down here anytime soon.

.

.

The moment it happened, it was pure chaos.

One second you were moving a particularly heavy crate like Law asked — the next, the ship rocked violently. Somewhere far above, there was a muffled shout and the shriek of metal. The crate slipped from your grip, slamming into the wall with a loud THUD.

Before you could react, the heavy storage door — that was supposed to stay propped open — swung shut with a bone-shaking bang.

You froze.

Law cursed under his breath, lunging for the handle. You rushed to help him, heart hammering in your chest.

He yanked on it. You yanked on it. Nothing.

"Locked," he growled, rattling it harder. "Dammit."

"No way." You shoved at the door uselessly. "We're stuck?!"

Law's face was grim. He jiggled the handle again, then pulled a Den Den Mushi out of his pocket. Static crackled. No signal.

"Great," you muttered. "Metal walls. Thick metal walls. We're basically in a fridge."

"It's temporary," Law said, though even he sounded annoyed. "Someone will notice we're missing."

"Yeah, after they realize we’re not up there helping fix whatever the hell broke!"

You leaned against the door, groaning. Being stuck alone with your secret boyfriend was not the worst thing in the world. But being stuck with Law, who was a menace when he got bored? Dangerous.

You felt his eyes on you and cracked one open.

"What?"

He was studying you in that way he did sometimes — silent, sharp, as if he was dissecting your entire existence.

"You panicking already?"

You huffed. "No. Just… strategizing."

"Mm."

You shifted awkwardly. "And you? Cool as a cucumber, huh?"

He shrugged. "Trapped with you? Could be worse."

You blinked, thrown off by the softness in his voice.

You opened your mouth to reply — but then he moved, striding toward you with that slow, deliberate gait that meant trouble. The kind that usually ended with you pressed against a wall, dizzy and breathless and wondering how a man so outwardly composed could make you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

Law stopped inches away, tilting his head slightly.

"No crew," he said lowly. "No interruptions."

Your pulse spiked. "Y-Yeah?"

He smirked — slow, devilish, rare.

"An advantage."

.

. Before you could react, Law's hand was sliding up your arm, slow and deliberate, sending sparks shooting across your skin. His other hand braced next to your head, caging you in.

"Cold?" he murmured.

"A little," you managed, your voice breathy.

He leaned in closer, nose brushing your temple, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

"Good," he whispered.

You shivered, and not just from the temperature.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, and you closed your eyes, savoring the rare moment. Law wasn't usually this openly affectionate — not where anyone could see. But here, with only the dim overhead lights and the smell of metal and salt around you, he was different. Softer. Greedier.

"You smell like engine grease," you teased, voice shaking.

He chuckled — a low, rare sound — and nipped lightly at your earlobe.

"Not complaining when you're the one who started this."

You laughed — and Law grinned, wide and boyish, before capturing your mouth in a kiss that stole every coherent thought from your head.

God, he kissed like he owned you. Deep, slow, unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the solid weight of him against you. His hands skimmed down your sides, lingering at your waist, before sliding under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. You gasped softly against his mouth.

"Law…" you murmured.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tender.

"You okay?" he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. "More than okay."

He kissed you again, softer this time. Almost reverent.

Minutes slipped by — slow, honey-thick minutes where all you could feel was the heat of his mouth, the calluses of his fingers, the way his heart thudded against yours.

Eventually, you broke apart, resting your forehead against his.

"I can't believe we're stuck," you whispered, laughing a little.

He smirked. "Best damn accident this ship's ever had."

You laughed again, biting your lip.

Law tilted his head, studying you. "You think the crew suspects?"

You thought about it. "Honestly? They're either oblivious or think we're mortal enemies."

Law hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe we should give them a real show after this."

You gawked at him. "You? Public affection?"

He shrugged. "Shock value."

You grinned wide. "You're evil."

"And you love it."

"Yeah," you said, softer now. "I do."

Something shifted between you — something heavier, more real. Law's expression softened. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, gentle in a way he never was with anyone else.

"I love you too," he said simply.

Your breath caught.

Law rarely said it. He didn’t have to — you saw it in every careful look, every small touch, every stolen moment. But hearing it out loud still sent warmth flooding through you.

You cupped his face, smiling.

"Guess being trapped isn't so bad," you said.

He kissed your palm.

"No," he agreed. "Not bad at all."

.

. Hours later, when Shachi and Penguin finally managed to force the door open — sweaty, out of breath, and triumphant — they found you and Law sitting side-by-side on the floor, looking suspiciously flushed and suspiciously content.

"Uh, Captain..." Shachi said, blinking. "Everything good?"

Law stood up smoothly, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. "Fine," he said blandly. "Just trapped."

You fought the urge to giggle.

Penguin narrowed his eyes. "You two sure you didn’t kill each other?"

Law smirked — a private, dangerous thing — and tossed an arm around your shoulders with casual ease.

"Not yet," he said.

You caught the startled looks the two crewmates exchanged — and laughed all the way back to your shared cabin, tucked securely against Law’s side.

Maybe being trapped wasn’t such a bad thing after all.