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corpscs · 3 days ago

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you wanna be mad ⧗ yelena x new avenger f!reader

‎♡ part one ♡ prev part ♡ part six ‎♡ next part

♡ wlw ⋆ no use of y/n ⋆ enemies to lovers ⋆ angst ⋆ injury ⋆ amnesia trope ⋆ reader was an original avenger ⋆ yelena doesn’t understand her feelings ⋆ r is rightfully confused ⋆ thunderstorms ⋆ puzzles ⋆ this part is lwk more sad than the rest i‘m sorry ⋆ ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes i will probably find them later ⋆ divider ⋆ russian is from google/reddit ⋆ images are not mine ⋆

♡ chto - what , khoroshiy - good man

♡ masterlist ♡ word count: 2k

bones’ now playing ▶�� mad - reneé rapp

“Really?” Yelena asked Bucky through the phone. “Could you not have just said that your informant was Alexei this entire time?”

Bucky’s phone call had interrupted Yelena and yours quest to settle on a takeout restaurant. You watched her curiously from her seat across the table. You could tell Yelena was becoming a bit more comfortable around you. Feeling less like she was walking on broken glass. Bucky still hadn’t returned from meeting his informant and was now calling to check in. Letting you two in on the fact that said informant from all those days go was actually just Yelena’s dad.

“Thanks for letting me know, old man.” Her voice oozed sarcasm and she left the old man jab open ended to insult both her father and Bucky.

“He somehow put himself back undercover, I wasn’t gonna go in and rain on his parade.” Buckys voice responded.

“Oh my God.” Yelena rubbed at her eyes.

“He seemed fine.”

“He is a senile old man.” You furrowed your eyebrows. Based on the photos you had been shown he didn’t seem that old to you. You began thinking his super soldier serum lowed his physical aging.

“Yelena, stop that.” You scolded her.

“Is that you?” A man’s voice screamed, with Russian accent thicker than Yelena. “Are you alright Little Avenger?”

“Aren’t I the only original Avenger on the team?” You asked quietly while looking at Yelena.

“Yes, but to him you are young. It’s better than the kotenok mstitel'.” You tipped your head to the side as Yelena fought to hide her smirk behind her cup. “Kitten Avenger.”

“Oh, no.”

“Alexei is just a fat old man.” Yelena tried to make you feel better. To be fair you did feel a bit better, knowing that somebody around here didn’t think you were all doom and gloom. But if he was Yelena’s father figure you weren’t sure where that placed the bar to begin with.

“Chtooo Yelena!” He yelled over the phone, rushing out a cluster of Russian sentences that sounded very unhappy. She laughed into the receiver.

“It’s alright! I think it’s cute.” You tried to calm them down. You could hear Bucky chuckling on the other end of the receiver. He and Yelena were both aware that you hated actually the nickname. You had never seen the fun in the nickname and claimed it was demeaning to your title as a former Avenger.

Yelena could understood how you had felt, now having experienced a fraction of what your life must have been like as an Avenger. She saw how the term little or kitten probably felt like a downplay on everything you’ve done and been through. Even if Alexei didn’t mean it, Yelena knew it wasn’t right to keep the things she knows about you from you. She tapped the mute icon.

“Actually, you hate it.” She admitted. “You said you find it demeaning.” You sat with the new information for a moment as Alexei continued to yap into the phone.

“I,” you paused. “That makes sense, I guess.”

“I know he does not mean that, I think it would be okay for you to not hate it.” Yelena offered you in your silence as Alexei’s story kept going on and on. “It’s your choice, I just felt you should know.”

You let out a frustrated groan. “I feel like if I disagree with what everyone tells me about myself, it’s a betrayal to myself. Like breaking up a puzzle I’ve spent three a weeks putting work into.”

“A puzzle?”

“They’re fun.” You defended yourself.

“How are you even the same person?” Yelena tried to stifle a laugh.

“You mean I’ve never forced you guys to do a puzzle?” Yelena thought for a moment.

“I’ve seen you do puzzles with Bob sometimes.”

“YELENA!” You swore you saw her eye twitch as she ripped her stare away from you to click the microphone and unmute her father.

“WHAT?” She yelled back.

“I said; tomorrow Winter Solder and I ride to meet a friend. We will call back for check in.” He informed. "Old friend from home. Khoroshiy."

“Just, be careful.” She said.

“Thank you!” You rushed out in a yell. Still obviously feeling guilty for losing the intel.

A boom of thunder startled you after Yelena pressed the disconnect. Yelena had stat straight up in alarm from the sound while you, mouth open and just about to speak, outwardly screamed on reflex. She jolted and immediately flashed you a what the fuck? look, but you were laughing too hard to respond. “That was an accident.” You gasped out eventually catching your breath.

“Really, you scream on accident?” She had now gotten up and began rummaging around the kitchen cabinets. You saw a flash of lightning somewhere off in the city. Yelena began rambling off about dinner as you half listened and watched the rain. You didn’t really feel like you had the right to be picky about food lately.

Another boom of thunder sounded off, this time close to the Watchtower. You jumped, but no scream this time. You watched a large bolt of lightning descend and disappear into the skyline.

Rain pelted against the windows of the Avengers Tower. Storms from a hurricane had been assaulting the length of the East Coast all week.

You were looking down at the gift you received from a S.H.IE.L.D. Agent during the prior year’s Secret Santa. You had tucked it away into the depths of your closet to prevent someone making a very embarrassing discovery without your control.

Bounty in hand, you asked the AI where the team was and you were delighted to find out they all had gathered in one of the common spaces. You laughed as your footsteps tapped along the tower floor.

“I hear trouble.” You heard Steve’s voice echo out of the open entryway before you even reached the door. Curse him and his super soldier hearing

You fluttered into the room to see the team lounging amongst the sofas and chairs. Half watching the movie playing on the flat screen, half engrossed in their own projects or cellphones. You loudly dropped your box onto the table, the slap and rattle of the cardboard pieces unmistakable.

“Hell, no.” Tony said, not even looking up from his weird hologram cellphone.

“Not again.” Natasha laughed at you while sitting up straight.

“Just be glad it’s not friendship bracelets.” Bruce added sarcastically. He didn’t even look up from his tablet, just continued looking over some of his spreadsheets.

“There are unspoken rainy day rules.” You defended yourself with an irritated whine to your tone.

“Well, you know how I feel about rules and it’s been raining for six days.” Tony joked. Clint clicked off his phone and flipped open the box, snorting at the image on the front. Of course he was the first to go for it. Having children himself, he’s no stranger to a good puzzle. “Really Barton? We can’t keep supporting this habit, she’ll never get clean.”

“You’re so dramatic! It’s just a puzzle, and you didn’t even look at the box.” You pushed the empty lid across the glass table. Tony let out an exasperated sigh before looking down to see him in his Iron Man suit printed on the glossy cardboard.

“You know, maybe this one is fine.” He tilted his glasses down his nose while picking it up to get a better look. “Not the photo I would have gone with, but I guess this is still a good one.”

Natasha called your name, grabbing your attention. “So, do you have a puzzle of everyone on the team or is it just Tony?” Heat creeped up your neck as she teased you.

“It was gift!”

“I’m only slightly creeped out but mostly flattered that someone gifted you my likeness in puzzle format.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Are you sure that it wasn’t actually a threat?”

“… and you are not listening to a word that I have been saying to you.” Yelena had turned to look at you a moment ago. You had that same far off look as you stared out the window. Your eyes were fixed on a single spot, expression empty and your pupils slightly dilated. She felt like disturbing you would do no good so she decided to wait this one out. Only needing to wait a minute or so longer before you snapped out of it.

Thunder boomed, lightning flashed almost immediately in close proximity to the tower. You both could feel the vibrations from the storm rattle through your bodies. You jolted and sat up straight, blinking to see her standing a few feet away.

“You went off somewhere else again.” Yelena looked over at the counter where your notebook sat. “Do you wanna write it down?” You didn’t respond.

When she looked back over at you she was not expecting to see tears bubbling up in your eyes. You shook your head as you bit down on your lips. Yelena stood stiffly, not knowing exactly what she should do. She wanted to chastise you for not writing it down while it was still fresh, but you had your own feelings to work through.

Yelena watched you take in a shaky breath, “Somebody would always do a puzzle with me if I asked.” Yelena watched as you blinked quicker, but it didn’t matter, the tears fell anyways.

As the seconds ticked by Yelena’s panic was spiking. Your breathing quickened as you sniffed a few times in precession. Still blinking.

Yelena could do a lot of things. Hand to hand combat. Hack systems. Fly a helicopter. Jump out of a helicopter. Shoot guns. Wire explosives. However she believed could not do this.

Yelena turned to hand you a tissue from the opposite counter. “Do you want to do a puzzle?” Yelena asked. You sniffled into the paper, and laughed.

Being so casual with Yelena still sat weirdly with you. Both painfully aware the tension between you, but neither of you confident enough to say anything yet. Yelena didn’t understand her feelings. And You couldn’t remember.

Yelena had walked over to the cabinets under the TV where there was a few boxes of collective board games and picked up the stack of puzzle boxes of various sizes for you to choose from.

When the team came to place their orders to the takeout place Yelena claimed was her favorite. They were greeted by Yelena and you working on the corner portion of the puzzle you chose. It was an image of The Great Wave of Kanagawa by Katsushika Hokusai. Bob joined in immediately.

“A puzzle? What is this? Like a brain thing for therapy?” John asked as he sat down to look at all the pieces.

“No.” You snipped at him. The entire table seemed to freeze. Yelena let out the laugh she had been holding in at the familiarity of your tone, Ava joining in. Bob nervously looked between you and John.

“At least you still know how to bark at Walker.” Ava elbowed you with a smile as she walked behind your seat. You sat up in your chair and held your hands up like you were caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

“I’m sorry, that was a little aggressive.” You said to him. He shrugged. “You’re the one with brain damage.” Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“You don’t actually know that already, right?” Bob asked swallowing nervously. His tone was serious.

“No, Bob.” You answered. “Med staff said I have to keep going back for scans. It’s why Bucky banned me from leaving the tower.” You grumbled out. Your memory was soup and you wanted to see New York not through a window, but you also wanted your brain to heal and it was safer inside the tower.

"Good." Bob nodded with a relieved expression. "Not good because of the brain damage, good because you-you there could be less... Damage." You gave him a smile, letting him ramble on even if he didn't need to over explain himself so much.

"Thank you, Bob."

sorry for the delay i am nothing but a sleepy bitch

if you noticed this chapter was not in all lowercase, i'm changing the casing of all my fics on here and ao3 to proper capitalization so ignore that shift you see rn HAHA

♡ the bone lady

tag list: @s0urw00lf @callsignwidow ⋆ comment to be added

#corpscs fics #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x female reader #wlw fanfic #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova x you #yelena belova fic #wlw #lesbian #yelena belova #thunderbolts #new avengers #marvel fanfic #thunderbolts x reader

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flyingbanananas · 1 day ago

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Overboard (Marco x Reader)

You don't remember how you got here, and when your eyes finally blink open slowly, stung by the light, you notice that you're not floating. You're falling! You're falling from the sky, and beneath you, there's the vast open ocean.

The world goes white as you hit the water.

Where's up? Where's down? Where's home? So many questions, but you don't know how to answer them. What you do know, however, is that you can do nothing but rely on the help of those kind pirates who fished you out of the sea.

_____

~ 8.000 words I Part 2/? << Previous Part

Just when you think the chaos can’t possibly get worse the doors slam open again, harder this time, with the force of a man who has never done anything gently in his whole life.

So, you see him enter – a man with uncombed black hair, sun-freckled skin, and absolutely no understanding of how to control the volume of his voice. “Is that bacon I smell?!”

You blink, not able to look away from him as he makes his way to the breakfast items. You’ve never seen him before, of course, but apparently everyone else has and they make it known very clearly.

“Ace, you bastard, don’t shove!” one of the pirates grunts as the newcomer elbows past him with an easy grin.

But Ace just laughs, easy and unbothered. “Sorry, sorry… emergency situation.”

“Hey! Get in line like the rest of us!” another growls, but Ace isn’t listening. He’s already halfway down the line, weaving through the crowd like a man on a mission. “Lines are for people with patience. I’ve been up since dawn. I earned this.”

As he comes closer and closer one of the pirates yells in horror, “Someone stops him before he eats the whole tray again!”

But no one stops him.

You watch, mouth half-open, as the freckled man shoves the last poor soul aside and descends upon the buffet like a man possessed. He’s grinning bright and chaotic, already snatching two slices of toast in one hand and scooping up bacon with the other, completely ignoring the outcry around him.

“Move, move, move! I’m starving!” he says, weaving through his crewmates like a wild animal let loose.

Someone finally tries to tug the plate from his hands—but he dodges without breaking stride, now balancing three rolls in the crook of his elbow, still reaching for more.

According to the comments this seems like a recurring event, so shocked but intrigued you glance over Thatch, ready to ask him if this is really happening every morning.

And this is when you notice he hasn’t moved.

His face is buried in his hands, elbows planted on the table, and the quietest groan escapes him. Not loud. Just the sound of a man who’s died this death too many times.

“Why did I even bother?” he mumbles into his palms. “Why do I try?”

Across the room, Ace now somehow has a second plate stacked with food, and, God help you, he’s balancing a cup of juice in his mouth, grinning around it like he’s just pulled off the world’s greatest heist.

The others start yelling again.

“Not the last melon!”

“ACE!”

“You menace! Drop it!”

Unbelievable… truly unbelievable… You’ve never seen something like this, so you continue to sit there quietly, the food on your plate completely forgotten, coffee cradled in your hands as the steam curls upward, brushing against your face.

You sit and continue to watch, noticing that Ace is still at the center of the breakfast chaos, grinning like a kid in a candy store as he evades every attempt to stop him.

It’s truly fascinating seeing how one pirate lunges for his arm only for Ace to spin away effortlessly. It’s like a dance. Then another tries to block the tray basically throwing himself over it, but Ace ducks under it, snatches the last piece of ham with his teeth, and gives a muffled, triumphant, “Ha!”

It’s ridiculous. It’s a mess. And yet… Somewhere beneath the noise, it’s almost… warm. Loud, messy, obnoxious… but alive. This is what a family looks like.

You glance over at Thatch again. He hasn’t moved much, still slumped over the table, his face buried in his hands, but you catch the tiniest peek of one eye watching the scene. Only to sigh a moment later.

“I swear,” he says, voice muffled but heavy, “one of these days I’m poisoning the bacon.”

You don’t even try to stop the laugh that escapes you this time. It slips out, surprising even yourself.

“Maybe this is his way of complimenting your cooking,” you offer, grinning into your cup.

Thatch peeks at you again, this time with one brow arched. “By treating it like a full-contact sport?”

You shrug, not able to stop smiling. “Some people leave reviews. Some people apparently tackle their friends over toast and sausages.”

Thatch huffs a short laugh despite himself, rubbing a hand down his face. “God help me, I hope you don’t out to be like this.”

“Never,” you sip at your coffee. “I swear to never punch someone to get to one of your breakfast items.”

He shakes his head, trying to hide his smile but failing. “Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

The chaos doesn’t let up immediately, but eventually, after several more minutes of food-based warfare and shouted threats, Ace finally settles beside Thatch with a dramatic thud.

He slams not one, but two trays down in front of him stacked high with everything the galley had to offer. Eggs, bacon, toast, sausages, if it was edible and not nailed down, it’s on his plate. A fried egg nearly slides off before he catches it with alarming reflexes and pops it into his mouth like a snack.

He grins wide, a gleam of genuine appreciation in his eyes. “Thatch, your cooking never disappoints. I already know this is gonna be amazing.”

Thatch just shakes his head, still half-buried in his hands.

Then Ace’s eyes flicker toward you. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls the glass of orange juice he’s still been carrying from his mouth, juice dripping at the corner of his grin.

“You’re the girl I heard so much about,” he says, voices low and teasing, but not unkind. “The one who fell from the sky.”

You blink, caught off-guard.

Before you can say anything, however, Thatch’s hand shoots out, a warning in his eyes. “Ace, leave her alone.”

But Ace just laughs, undeterred. He reaches across the table and grabs your hand in a firm shake… maybe a little too firm. You feel the heat from his skin, vibrant and alive as he introduces himself.

“I’m Ace,” he announces with that boyish enthusiasm that somehow manages to fill the entire room. “Glad to finally meet you.”

You manage a small, tentative smile, still getting used to the whirlwind that is Ace.

Ace barely waits for you to let go of his hand before launching into a furry of questions, his mouth half-full of food as he talks and eats at the same time. Bits of toast and bacon occasionally escape his lips, flying through the air.

“So, what’s it like? Falling from the sky, I mean. It must have been crazy! Were you scared? Do you know where you are? Oh – and do you like bacon? Because if you don’t, I’m gonna have to question your life choices!”

Thatch’s eyes twitch dangerously with each mouthful Ace talks through, each crumb a personal insult.

“Ace! For the love of everything good… chew before you talk!” Thatch snaps, voice sharp.

Ace, however, just grins, unbothered, and lets out a booming laugh that shakes the bench and the food on it. “Sorry, old man, but the food’s too good to stop eating only to ask a few questions.”

Thatch’s face darkens. His fingers curl into fists on the table. You swear he looks like he might commit murder right then and there instead of just talking about it. But thankfully, before the storm breaks, a calm, familiar voice cuts through the tension behind you.

“Calm down, yoi.”

You turn slightly and see Marco approaching, a cup of coffee in hand. He slides onto the bench next to you across from Ace, his presence immediately grounding. Even Thatch visibly relaxes, rubbing his temples, while Ace grins even wider.

Marco takes a sip of his coffee and then glances at Thatch, shaking his head with a knowing smile. “Give the kid a break, Thatch. He means well… mostly… and yelling at him won’t change anything. We already tried that years ago.”

Thatch grumbles but leans back, finally releasing some of the tension.

You glance at Marco.

He’s not saying anything directly at you, but his gaze lingers on you. Calm and steady… assessing. It's not invasive, but watchful like he’s silently checking for any signs of pain or weakness.

It makes your skin prickle, though not unpleasantly.

“You’re not eating?” you ask, nodding toward the coffee in his hand.

Marco takes a slow sip, then shrugs. “Not much of a breakfast guy, yoi,” he mutters, voice low and smooth, like this is just another quiet morning for him.

Before either one of you can say something else, however, Ace cuts in cheerfully. “More for the rest of us!”

You turn, surprised by how fast he’s managed to shovel everything in. His trays are empty. Scraped clean, even the crumbs seem to be missing. How is this even possible?

And just like that, he’s already standing up, plate in hand, clearly ready to raid the buffet again. But Ace doesn’t get far, because Thatch moves faster. Thatch grabs Ace by the back of his shirt and yanks him back down to the bench with a thud. “Sit your ass down.”

Ace blinks at him, confused but still grinning. “What? I’m still hungry.”

“Yeah? And so is everyone else, you bottomless pit,” Thatch snaps, voice tight. “Let the others breathe before you go in for round two.”

“But –“

“Not buts, Ace! You can wait five damn minutes!”

Marco chuckles into his coffee, amused but not intervening this time. You hide a small smile behind your cup as well, watching the way Ace pouts like a scolded child while Thatch glares holes into the table.

The scene is ridiculous.

Then Marco leans back just slightly, his blue eyes moving away from Ace to focus on you. Even without smiling, he carries an ease about it, like nothing could ever really rattle him.

“You look better today,” he eventually says quietly. “Less pale.”

You blink, surprised by the softness in his tone. “Yeah,” you nod, offering a small smile. “I feel better, too. Thank you, by the way… for yesterday. I remember you catching me.”

He waves a hand like it’s nothing, casually taking another sip of coffee, but you catch it. That tiny smirk curling at the corner of his mouth like your words meant more than he’d let on.

Warmth blooms in your chest, subtle but undeniable. However, before the moment can stretch too long, you notice something moving in the corner of your eye. So, you glance down, just in time to see a fork slowly creeping toward your place.

Ace, hunched over slightly like a guilty child mid-crime, is reaching for your bacon with an expression of exaggerated innocence.

You blink, not really knowing what to say or how to act. But it seems like you don’t have to because a second later Thatch notices what Ace is about to do too and smacks Ace’s hand with his own. “Leave her damn food alone, Ace!”

Ace jumps slightly but laughs, not even pretending to be sorry. “What? You said I couldn’t get back to the buffet, so I’m just making do!”

“That’s not ‘making do’, that’s stealing!” Thatch snaps, his face a mix of outrage and exasperated affection.

Marco chuckles under his breath beside you, entirely unsurprised. “He does this every morning, yoi.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “He can have it,” you say, nudging the plate forward just slightly. “I’ve had enough. My stomach’s still a little… off.”

That causes Thatch to pause mid-sip of his coffee, brow furrowing with concern. “You’re sure? I can wrap it up, put it aside for when you feel better, and –“

Before he can finish the sentence, Ace has already snatched your plate.

“YES!” he grins, triumphant, and without an ounce of hesitation begins devouring what’s left. Eggs, bacon, toast, all gone in seconds, shoved into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

You blink, stunned.

Thatch’s eye twitches. “Ace!”

“She said I could have it!” Ace insists through a full mouth, muffled by food. “It’s not stealing if you’re allowed to take it!”

Thatch buries his face in his hands again. “This is why we can’t have nice things…”

Marco, beside you, continues to sip his coffee with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky your metabolism keeps up with your appetite, yoi,” he mutters toward Ace.

Ace just beams, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, still chewing loudly.

You sit back and watch them all for a moment. Thatch frustrated, Marco calm, Ace ridiculous and it strikes you again how bizarrely normal this moment feels. Like you’ve somehow stepped into the middle of a family breakfast that’s been going on forever.

And somehow, you’re not entirely unwelcome.

Realizing that you chuckle again, this time softer, warmer. It bubbles out before you even realize it, and for a moment you just sit there, watching the chaos unfold with a strange sense of ease.

You don’t even know how much time passes until Marco leans in a little, his voice low but not urgent. “When you’re done I’d like to take you to Pops. He will probably want to see you,” he says and then puts his coffee mug down.

It’s empty.

Your smile falters, not out of fear, exactly, but out of uncertainty. You blink at him. “Pops?”

“Whitebeard,” Marco clarifies, tipping his head. “Our captain. You met him yesterday.”

You nod slowly, trying the name in your mind. Whitebeard. You remember now—vaguely. The deep voice. The way the deck seemed to hush when he spoke. How your legs barely held you up, and Marco’s hand had never left your arm.

He spoke to you kindly, like a giant who didn’t need to roar to be heard. You, however, only told him your name and after that, things went hazy.

Marco watches you carefully like he’s making sure the memories aren’t overwhelming. You blink once, then again, grounding yourself.

“Right,” you murmur. “Yesterday.”

Marco gives a small nod, then glances over toward the buffet where Ace is already piling a second plate. “You don’t need to be nervous, yoi.”

“Well, he’s the captain,” you murmur, “So, it’s only normal to be somewhat nervous.”

Marco hums in quiet agreement, but there’s something warm and reassuring in his gaze when he looks back at you. “He’s our captain, yes,” he says. “But he’s also Pops. He’s not the kind of man who bites.”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose. “Unless you mess with his crew, I assume?”

That earns you a smirk. “Exactly.”

“Alright,” you finish the last sip from your cup and place it on the table, standing soon after only to glance down at your bare feet, the white gown swaying lightly as you rise.

Marco rises as well, locking eyes with Thatch for a moment before nodding and then guiding you out of the dining hall, slow and unhurried.

The door creaks shut behind you, muffling the chaos inside. It’s like stepping into another world… quieter, cooler, with only the distant sounds of the ship waking up for the day. Boots on deck. Voices carried by sea wind. The creak and sway of the Moby Dick beneath your bare feet.

Marco walks at an easy pace, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze forward. But every so often, you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye—checking, gauging. You’re not sure if it’s concern or habit.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers brushing the hem of the gown.

“Do all unexpected guests get this kind of hospitality?” you murmur, breaking the silence.

Marco gives a quiet chuckle. “Depends. Most don’t fall out of the sky.”

“Guess I’m lucky, then.”

“Or interesting,” he says without missing a beat, and when you glance at him, you catch the faintest smile playing on his lips.

The corridor opens wider now, and sunlight begins to seep in, bright gold creeping through open panels, the promise of morning on the horizon. The scent of salt and wood and distant citrus drifts past.

Then, as if the very ship is guiding you, the path straightens.

Marco finally speaks again, quieter now, more thoughtful. “He’ll want to see for himself that you’re alright. That you’re no threat. That you're…” he glances your way, “...alright.”

Your steps falter just a little. “You think I’m not?”

Marco doesn’t answer right away. His eyes shift to the sunlight slanting through the wood, his profile calm but unreadable. Then he exhales slowly, something almost like a sigh but without the weight.

“I think you’ve been through something,” he says, voice even. “And people who’ve been through something… sometimes they don’t know how they’re doing until the right person asks.”

That strikes deeper than you expect.

You fall quiet for a beat, listening to the creak of the ship, to footsteps on a distant deck, to the steadiness in Marco’s stride beside yours. He doesn’t press, doesn’t look at you like he expects anything.

Eventually, you reach the heavy doors at the end of the hall. A deep, warm light glows from the space beyond them. There’s something solid in the air, like walking into the heart of something ancient.

Marco lifts a hand and knocks three times.

Only a moment later from the other side, a low voice answers, “Come in.”

The door creaks open, and warm light spills into the corridor, illuminating the vast room beyond in rich golden hues. The scent of medicinal herbs hangs in the air—bitter, earthy, laced with something metallic. The space is grand but not lavish. The walls are lined with bookshelves and maps, and sunlight pours in through wide, open windows that overlook the endless sea.

At the center of it all, on a massive chair that looks more like a carved throne than any proper seat, sits Whitebeard.

He’s larger than you remember, or maybe it’s just the way he fills the room. His presence is immense. He’s shirtless, broad chest wrapped in fresh bandages, an IV line tucked into his thick forearm. Two nurses hover at his side, one checking his vitals, the other adjusting the medicine.

He looks worse than he did yesterday—paler, more tired. But somehow… not weaker. His aura holds. His eyes are sharp beneath the thick brow, and when they lift to you, there’s a glint of warmth, not judgment.

“Ah,” he rumbles, voice like distant thunder. “There you are.”

You shift your weight unconsciously, suddenly aware of how small you are compared to him. Marco steps forward slightly, but Whitebeard lifts a hand, gentle but firm. “Thank you, son. I’ll speak with her alone.”

Marco pauses. You freeze.

Alone?

Your head snaps toward Marco, eyes wide, panic flashing before you can stop it.

Whitebeard catches it instantly and laughs. A deep, booming sound that fills the room and shakes the very walls.

“No need to look like I’m gonna eat you, girl,” he chuckles, waving the nurses off with a quiet “That’s enough.” They bow slightly, respectfully, before stepping out through a side door.

You stand frozen in place.

Whitebeard’s gaze returns to you, still bright with mirth. “If you’d like Marco to stand right outside that door, I won’t stop him. He’s got good ears. You just have to call, and he’ll be in here quicker than you can blink.”

You hesitate.

Then Marco murmurs beside you, “Your call. I won’t go far.”

You glance between them, one man a force of nature, the other a calm current beside you. Then, slowly, you give a faint nod. “…Outside the door,” you whisper, voice unsure.

Marco meets your gaze, steady and reassuring. “I’ll be right there.”

He leaves with the soft click of the door behind him, and now, you’re alone with the captain.

“Come closer, girl,” he says, not unkindly. “My old eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

You hesitate only a second longer before obeying, stepping forward slowly. The floor creaks beneath your bare feet, the long white gown you wear brushing softly at your ankles. You stop a few steps from him, and he leans back slightly, the large chair groaning under his weight.

“You’re steadier on your feet today,” he notes, then eyes you from head to toe. Not judging, not harsh, just observing. “That’s good.”

You nod once, still a little tense, unsure what to say.

“You don’t look like someone who’s from around here,” he says next. “Tell me, where’re you from?”

You blink. “… I don’t remember,” you admit.

Whitebeard watches you for a long, quiet moment.

“Don’t remember, huh?” he repeats, not with suspicion but with something closer to understanding. He leans back, a heavy exhale leaving his chest. “That kind of forgetting… doesn’t come from hitting your head.”

You lower your gaze. He’s right, of course. You hadn’t crashed through the sky with just a bump on the skull. It’s deeper than that like something carved out of your mind or locked away too tightly to reach.

“I remember…” you start, then pause. “The way the air smelled before I fell. Like iron and lightning.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Sounds like a hell of a storm.”

You nod. “And a voice, maybe. I can’t tell if it was mine or someone else’s.”

Whitebeard hums, thoughtful. “The sea doesn’t always ask permission when it takes something.”

That makes you look up. “Do you know by chance how I can get back home?”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, not in frustration, but in sympathy. Then he shakes his head once, slowly. “No,” he rumbles, “I don’t.”

Your shoulders fall just a little, the weight of that answer pressing down, even though you’d half expected it.

“But,” he adds, voice steady and warm now, “I can offer you something else.”

You glance up, unsure.

“A place here,” he says. “Until you find a way home. A roof, a crew, a family to stand by you. You won’t be alone.”

Something in your chest tightens, not out of fear this time, but from the unexpected comfort in his words. You’d never expected someone so massive, so powerful, to speak with such calm certainty.

“Thank you,” you murmur, voice small.

Whitebeard grins. “Don’t thank me yet, but something tells me you’ll be fine.” He then calls for Marco to come back inside.

The door opens with a soft creak, and Marco steps back inside with his usual relaxed gait, though his eyes flicker to you immediately as if checking that you’re still doing alright.

Whitebeard doesn’t miss a beat. “Marco, find her a room to stay in and something to wear that isn’t a hospital gown, would you?”

Marco nods, sparing you a faint smirk as his gaze drops to your bare feet and the loose white fabric swaying around your legs. “Yeah, I think we can manage that, yoi.”

You glance between them, lips parting like you want to protest, somehow still unsure if you’re really meant to be here if you deserve the care they’re offering, but Whitebeard’s presence leaves no room for doubt.

There’s no pressure, no demand. Just a quiet assurance that, for now, you belong.

“Come on,” Marco says gently, motioning for you to follow him. “Let’s get you settled.”

____________________

The corridor quiets as Marco comes to a stop, one hand on a worn wooden door. His fingers curl around the handle, and with a soft click, he pushes it open.

“This is it,” he murmurs.

The door swings inward with a faint creak, revealing a small room bathed in pale light. The first thing you notice is how quiet it feels like the room is holding its breath. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden beam from a small, round window high on the wall.

Inside, there’s just enough: a narrow bed tucked neatly against the wall, a small table with a chipped corner, and a modest wooden closet. The floorboards are old but swept clean. A folded blanket rests at the foot of the bed, and there’s a stillness that suggests this space hasn’t been used in a long time.

You step inside slowly, your bare feet brushing against cool wood. Your fingers graze the edge of the table, then trail along the windowsill as you turn in a slow circle.

“…Is this a guest room?” you ask quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Marco lets out a quiet huff, amused. “Not exactly.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching you with that familiar calm.

“It was just a storage closet before,” he says. “I figured if Pops gave the okay, you’d need a place to say. So, I cleared it out when I had time to spare.”

“You cleared it out yourself?” you ask, a little surprised that one would take on such a task alone. And for a stranger of all people.

Marco shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Where else would you stay? It wouldn’t feel right leaving you to sleep in the infirmary or in a random bed with the rest of the crew.” He pauses, then adds, more gently. “You’ve been through enough, but if you don’t like it –“

“It’s perfect,” your voice is softer now as you speak. Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten a little. So, you turn toward him fully, the faintest smile curling at your lips. “Thank you, Marco.”

His eyes hold yours for a beat longer. Then he shifts, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s warmer now. More sincere. “Don’t mention it.”

You look around once more, then back to him. And something unspoken lingers in the space between you—gratitude, perhaps. Or maybe the first flickers of trust.

He lifts his chin toward the closet. “I put some spare clothes in there. They’re probably a little big, but better than walking around in that gown.”

You glance down at yourself and exhale a quiet laugh. “Definitely better.”

“I’ll wait outside,” he adds, already backing up into the hallway. But before he pulls the door closed, his gaze lingers on you one last time, just long enough to feel like a quiet promise.

Then the door shuts with a soft click, and you’re alone.

You stand in the center of the little room for a beat longer, letting the silence settle. The gentle sway of the ship beneath your feet is more noticeable now that everything is quiet again.

Then, you turn to the closet. It opens with a soft groan, hinges stiff from disuse. Inside are a few neatly folded clothes stacked on a low shelf. There are simple things, clearly meant for men, but clean and soft-looking. There’s a shirt, white and a little oversized, a pair of drawstring pants, and a worn navy-blue sweater that smells faintly of sea salt and citrus.

You hesitate for a second, then run your hand across the fabric. It’s warm from the sun still clinging to it.

Changing is quick, and you try not to think too hard about how everything hangs loosely off your frame. You roll the pants at the waist and fold the sleeves back so your hands peek out. It’s not perfect, but it’s… comforting. Like wrapping yourself in someone else’s steadiness.

You catch your reflection in the tiny window’s glass—your hair is a little wild, but your eyes look clearer, more awake. It’s not much, but for now, it’s enough. You take a slow, steadying breath and turn to the door, easing it open as quietly as you can.

Marco is still there, leaning against the wall across from your room. Arms crossed, head tilted, that same quiet patience etched into his posture. At the soft sound of the door, his gaze lifts, and the faintest smile touches his lips.

“Better,” he says simply, straightening up.

You glance down, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the oversized sweater. “It’s a bit big.”

He chuckles. “You make it work.”

A smirk tugs at your lips despite yourself. You step into the hallway and pull the door shut with a soft click behind you. “So,” you ask, head tilting as your voice finds its footing again, “what now?”

Marco pushes off the wall and starts down the corridor at an easy pace. “Now?”

“Yes. I mean… I can only guess how much work it takes to keep a ship like this running,” you say, a bit hesitant. “And when I’m staying here… eating your food, taking up space… I want to help.”

Marco slows, casting you a sideways glance. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says, voice even but firm. “You’re our guest.”

You frown slightly, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah, but I don’t want to sit around while everyone else works.”

This is when he stops walking, turning to face you fully. “No one’s expecting you to earn your keep here if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

His words are kind and meant to reassure you, but something inside you still stirs with unease. “I know,” you say softly. “But it doesn’t feel right. I really want to do something. Please.”

He studies you for a long moment, quiet. No judging. Just listening. Then, finally, a slow smile pulls at his lips. “Alright, let’s find your sea legs then.”

You fall into step beside him again, your pace matching his almost instinctively. The corridor seems less daunting with him beside you, even if it still twists like some kind of steel maze. He moves through it like he’s done it a thousand times. You, on the other hand, had spent half the morning turning in circles and ending up in the same hallway twice.

But before your thoughts can spiral, Marco makes another turn, and sunlight spills through a nearby opening. A few more steps and the air shifts—brighter, salt-tinged, open.

And then, just like that, you’re stepping out onto the deck.

The moment you step out onto the deck, sunlight washes over you, bright and golden, warming your skin and casting the sea in dazzling blues. The wind carries the sharp tang of salt, and the ship creaks gently beneath your feet. Around you, the crew is already busy. Some of them are hoisting sails, shouting instructions, laughing, and moving with a rhythm that can only come from years of sailing together.

It’s… incredible.

You trail beside Marco, eyes wide, watching pirates move up and down the rigging like it’s second nature. Some nod politely as you pass, others give you curious glances, but no one stops you.

Suddenly Marco gestures toward a coil of rope near the main mast, the salt breeze tousling a few strands of his hair.

“Alright, first test,” he says, turning to you with that half-smile that always manages to unsettle you a little. “Can you tie a simple anchor knot?”

You blink. “A what now?”

“I guess that’s a no,” he chuckles softly to himself. “It’s used to secure heavy lines. We use it for tying down cargo, anchoring something in rough seas because it doesn’t come undone easily.”

Next, he crouches beside the rope and begins to move his hands with the kind of ease that makes it look like second nature. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

You step a little bit closer to ensure you see what he’s doing but keep your distance enough to not be in his way while he works.

“This goes over…” he says slowly, looping the rope, “around the standing line… back through here… and then tighten.”

When he pulls the final loop taut, the knot holds firm, solid, and clean. It looks so easy when he does that and when he glances up at you, expectant, and hands over the rope you truly believe that you can do that. “Your turn.”

“Okay,” you kneel beside him, the coarse rope already awkward in your hands but you try not to get distracted by that. You focus on mirroring the steps Marco showed you: over, around… back through…?

You pull, already guessing that you made a mistake along the way and when the knot slips apart the moment you’re done it’s not really surprising to you.

Even Marco says nothing at first, just watches. To your surprise his gaze isn’t judgmental… if anything, he looks kind of amused.

“Alright,” he murmurs, “not bad, but let me help this time.”

Before you can answer, he shifts closer. One of his hands gently finds your wrist, steadying it, while the other guides your fingers to the right position on the rope.

“Here,” he says softly, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. “Hold it like this. You want tension, but not too much. See?”

The warmth of his hand wraps around yours, moving just slow enough for you to see and understand what you’re doing. However, concentrating is difficult when your heart thuds too loud in your ears. It’s so loud at one point you’re afraid Marco himself might hear it.

“Now take the end, thread it here… no, under… that’s it… and pull through,” he keeps explaining, guiding your fingers and pointing out what to do to ensure you’re doing it right. “Don’t yank it yet. Let the loop form first.”

You do exactly as he says, your fingers clumsy but more confident now with his guiding pressure against your hand. And when you finally pull the knot tight, it holds. Messy, but it holds.

“There you go,” Marco says, leaning back just enough to let you breathe. His voice is quiet and warm. “Not bad.”

You look down at your handiwork, then up at him. “It’s kind of crooked.”

He shrugs. “So was mine, the first time I tried. You’ll get better.”

You smile a little, still aware of how close he is, how his hand lingers for a second too long before letting go.

“Tying knots, and checking the supplies, those are the basics,” Marco says, straightening up with a quiet chuckle. “But you can’t just tie knots all day of course.”

You tilt your head, “I guess not… is there anything else I could do then?”

Marco grins a little, waving you over as he starts walking. “Anyone who’s new on a ship usually has to shrub the decks. Old tradition.”

“Of course it is,” you mutter, falling into step beside him.

You wander across the deck, the breeze tugging at your clothes and ruffling your hair. Crew members pass by, giving you a few curious but friendly glances. No one seems to truly mind that you’re here.

But soon Marco comes to a stop, turning toward the stern. You nearly bump into him before you realize it. He, however, simply points with a nod toward a mop and bucket leaning innocently against the railing.

“There it is,” he says with a lazy grin, “your first real assignment.”

You stare at it. “You’re serious.”

You squint at him. “I’m guessing messing this up is nearly impossible but what if I do it anyway?”

Marco crosses his arms, head tilting just slightly. “Then I’ll have to assign you to kitchen duty, which means waking up early and following Thatch’s orders.”

You blink, not really looking forward to rising before the sun does each morning. “I’ll scrub the deck squeaky clean.”

He chuckles. “Alright, but don’t use too much soap and water. We don’t want anyone to slip and fly overboard.”

“That… has happened before?”

“Let’s just say one of us once took out three people and a barrel of flour in one go.” Marco flashes you a grin. “It was a tragic day but it made for a great story.”

You laugh despite yourself and reach for the mop, already resigned to your fate. Marco watches you get started, then leans casually against the railing nearby, arms crossed again in that ever-relaxed way of his.

“You do a good enough job,” he says after a moment, tone a little more thoughtful now, “we can talk about letting you take on some light watch duty. Maybe sit in the crow’s nest from time to time.”

You freeze, mid-mop. “…The what now?”

He nods toward the mast. You follow his gaze—and your eyes land on the tiny platform far, far above the deck. The crow’s nest sways gently with the mast, high above the sails and ropes.

Your stomach drops.

Marco glances back at you just in time to catch the way your face goes a little pale.

“…Everything alright?” he asks, brows lifting slightly.

You manage a weak nod, gripping the mop just a little tighter than before. “Y-yeah. Totally fine. Happy just scrubbing the deck, actually. The deck’s great. I love decks.”

There’s a pause. You don’t dare look up again.

Marco hums softly, and you can feel the way he’s studying you. Not judging… just… noticing.

“Afraid of heights?” he asks, gently, like he’s offering you an out rather than teasing.

You bristle slightly, embarrassment prickling at your neck. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no smugness in his expression. Just that steady calm, like he’s letting you keep your pride while still clocking the truth.

“Well,” he says, pushing off the railing and giving your mop a small nudge with the toe of his boot, “you’re not going up there today anyway. For now, focus on not flooding the deck.”

You scowl playfully, cheeks still a little warm. “You really know how to motivate someone.”

You continue mopping in slow, steady strokes, conscious of every step, every splash of water while Marco watches. The deck isn’t exactly sparkling, but you’re doing your best to follow Marco’s earlier instructions.

Not too much soap, not too much water, and no accidental deaths by slipping.

Marco, true to form, doesn't go far. He settles against the railing again, arms loosely crossed, gaze occasionally drifting over the sea… but more often than not, it's fixed on you.

At first, you try to ignore it. Focus on the mop, the wood under your feet, and the rhythm of the work. But after a while, it becomes impossible not to notice the way his presence lingers. He’s relaxed but alert. There, but not hovering. And somehow, that makes it easier to keep going.

Eventually, you finish one section and straighten up, wiping your brow with the back of your hand. He’s still there.

Curiosity finally gets the better of you. “Hope you don’t mind me asking,” you say, tilting your head, “but what is it you actually do around here?”

Marco looks over, amusement flickering in his eyes like he’s been waiting for that question. “I’m the commander of the first division,” he says like it’s no big deal.

You blink at him. “That… sounds important.”

“It is,” he replies with a small shrug like he’s not trying to brag, just stating fact.

“But what does that mean?” you ask, genuinely curious. “Like, what do you actually do?”

He chuckles, voice smooth and a little warm. “I oversee the first group of fighters in Pops’ crew. We’re organized into divisions and each one has its own commander. I’m in charge of one of them.”

You frown slightly, trying to picture it. “So you’re like… a lieutenant? Or second-in-command?”

“Not quite,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking up to the sky like it’s giving him hints on how to explain his position to you without overcomplicating things.”I handle strategy, fights, and logistics for my division. But when it comes to the whole crew, Pops still makes the final call.”

You nod slowly, taking it all in. “Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Marco shrugs again, but there’s a hint of pride in his eyes. “It is. But I like it. Keeps me busy and out of trouble.”

You smirk. “I can imagine.”

For a moment, the two of you allow the moment to settle between you as the breeze picks up again, tugging at your clothes. Slowly you tug a loose strand of hair behind your ear as the constant buzz of the crew fades into the background.

Then you tilt your head, a question coming to mind. “Now I’m wondering… If you’re the commander of the first division, who’s the commander of the second? Is there even a second division?”

Marco smirks, eyes sparkling. “There are sixteen actually. Each with their own commander. Different strengths, different responsibilities. This keeps the ship running smoothly. We’re a big crew after all.”

You let out a low whistle, impressed. “I see… so who are the other commanders?”

Marco continues to smirk as he answers. “Well, there’s Ace –“

You blink “Ace?!”

Your voice carries far louder than you intended, echoing across the deck like a gunshot. A few nearby crewmates glance over, but none faster or more dramatically than the man himself. Therefore, from across the deck, Ace straightens like someone called his name for battle.

“What?” she shouts back, a grin already spreading across his face. “You’re talking about me?”

You stare in disbelief, and Marco gives a quiet snort beside you, making you turn to him again to keep the conversation going.

“Ace,” you repeat again, quieter this time, still in disbelief. “He’s a commander?”

“First-class menace,” Marco says dryly, watching as Ace starts making his way over. “And yes. Second division. Strong as hell, reckless as hell, and eats like he’s got three stomachs.”

While Marco continues to explain to you in his own way how Ace earned the title of a commander even though his first impression was more than a little bit chaotic, you watch as Ace weaves through the crew, as he makes his way toward you.

“He doesn’t look like a commander,” you murmur, already regretting your outburst.

“He doesn’t act like one either,” Marco mutters, sipping from his mug. “But don’t let the grin fool you. He’s sharp when it counts.”

This is when Ace finally reaches you, planting a hand on the railing, wind tousling his messy black hair. “So, what’s all this about me being amazing? Couldn’t miss you yelling my name out of excitement.”

“More like out of shock,” Marco chuckles. “She just found out you’re a commander.”

Ace beams like it’s the best compliment he’s ever received. “Damn right, I am. Second division. Best division.”

You open your mouth to ask him a question but no word leaves your lips as he drapes an arm around your shoulders with the ease of someone who does everything in an instant. So, you look to Marco, quietly hoping he’ll navigate the unusual situation but he doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t know what else Marco told you, but don’t let him talk you into joining his division,” Ace suddenly says, mock-whispering in your ear. “That man’s a workaholic. No fun. Seriously, believe me.”

Marco sips his coffee. “I keep things organized. That’s called leadership.”

Ace spins to face him. “It’s called soul-crushing.”

He turns back to you with exaggerated horror. “He made me sit through a two-hour meeting once. Two hours. I almost died.”

Watching Marco and Ace interact and basically bicker with each other, relaxes your nerves a little and you even find yourself laughing quietly despite yourself. “Aren’t you in charge too? I don’t think your workload could be that much different.”

“I delegate,” Ace says proudly.

Marco sighs. “He delegates to the trash bin.”

Ace ignores that. “Anyway, second division? Way more fun. We train together, we fight together, we eat like kings. None of this ‘logistical protocol’ crap.”

“You also forget the paperwork,” Marco mutters.

“I didn’t forget it,” Ace says, hand over his heart. “I lost it. Huge difference.”

You shake your head with a grin. “You make it sound like total chaos.”

“The good kind,” Ace grins. “Besides, we’ve got a solid crew. Tight-knit. You'll see.”

Then his eyes flick to you, more focused now. “Have they told you what division you're getting assigned to?”

You shrug. “No idea. I didn’t know I’d be assigned at all.”

Marco nods. “We place people based on skills and where they’re needed. Nothing random.”

Ace waves a hand dismissively. “That’s boring. You gotta feel it out. See what clicks.”

Suddenly, he lets go of your shoulders and steps right in front of you, leaning forward a little with that wide grin on yours. “I tell you what. Tomorrow, come with me. Nothing wild, just a look at how we run things. I’ll think of something fun to show you why my division’s the right pick.”

“That’s not how this works,” Marco says, flat.

Ace doesn’t even turn around. “Marco, when’s the last time you had fun?”

Marco raises an eyebrow. “This morning. I saw you fighting Jozu for a sausage roll, remember?”

Ace grins wider. “See? Good times.”

He looks at you again. “Seriously, though. Come with me tomorrow. We’ll keep it chill. Just enough to show you what we’re about. No pressure.”

You consider it. “You sure it’s not just an excuse to slack off?”

Ace winks. “Can’t it be both?”

You consider it… really consider it, but before you can make up your mind Marco finally uncrosses his arms and fixes Ace with a stern look. “Let’s keep it real for a moment, Ace. She’s not trained for field work yet.”

“I’m not throwing her into a fight, old man,” Ace says. “Just showing her around. Are you really planning on making her clean the deck for the next few days? Weeks? Months?”

Now there’s a beat of silence. You glance at Marco, arms crossed again and jaw set. Then you look at Ace, still watching you with that same bright confidence.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

“Perfect!” Ace claps once, loud and final. “I’ll take that as a yes. Operation: Steal-the-Rookie starts at dawn.”

Marco exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face like he’s already regretting tomorrow.

Ace, undeterred, shoots you a grin that practically sparkles.

“You won’t regret it,” he says.

#fanfic #fanfiction #one piece #whitebeard pirates #one piece x you #marco one piece #marco the phoenix #marco x reader #op thatch #op izou #op marco #one piece x reader #whitebeard pirates x reader #oc x canon #x reader

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