2b4st4r

[2b4st4r]

Hello! I just wanted to thank everyone who has sent in requests. I am genuinely grateful that you enjoy my writing! However, as much as I appreciate your requests, I want to remind everyone to check my rules at the bottom of my (pinned) master list. There are some requests that I will not fulfill because they go against my rules or make me uncomfortable. I sincerely apologize, but I cannot write about topics that violate my guidelines or that I find distressing.

I want to assure you that 90% of the requests I have received will be completed either by next week or within the next few days, as I will be taking a small break. Thank you for your understanding!

I want to clarify that I’m not trying to make fun of anyone; I understand that people have different interests and preferences.

For anyone who is worrying or wondering if their request was the issue, it likely wasn’t. Those who read my rules will understand this better. The requests I declined were for fics involving incest, which I’m not comfortable with, and detailed racism, which I also state I’m uncomfortable with in my rules.

Additionally, for the person who requested the mermaid reader x Straw Hats, I won’t be proceeding with that specific request. I apologize, but the details you provided and the elements you wanted make me uncomfortable. I don’t believe I would enjoy writing it enough to deliver the piece you’re looking for, and I’m truly sorry about that.

[2b4st4r]

Hello! I hope you're okay.

I saw that you make some super mega good stories, and I wanted to make you a request for Roronoa Zoro and Reader, It could be the decade where Sanji and Nami change bodies but instead of Nami and Sanji they are Zoro and Reader,It's just that I recently finished the Punk Hazard arc and I loved it but I didn't tell myself what a story would be like if I were Zoro and Reader.

If you do I would really appreciate it if you have a wonderful day and keep writing, your stories are very beautiful and original.

Hazardous Hearts ༄.°

₊ ⊹ Zoro x Reader

✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚

✶⋆.˚ Words: 8,725

༉‧₊˚. Warnings: Body swapping, minor injuries/blood, disorientation, suggestive themes, unrealistic reactions/arc.

✶⋆.˚ A/N: It has been a while since I've watched Punk Hazard, so this may not be canon, as I do not remember 90% of it! But I tried. Ps. Request will be open but i might not get to them right away as i may take a small few day break😽

✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚

The bitter grasp of Punk Hazard’s frozen side clung to you like a shroud. It was bone-deep, lung-burning, an insidious chill that snaked its way past your thick coat and even through the doubled-up warmth of your gloves. Every breath you exhaled blossomed into a swirling, shivering ghost, a transient specter in the frigid air, a stark reminder of the unforgiving landscape. You pulled your coat tighter, a futile attempt to barricade yourself against the relentless cold trying to seep into your very bones.

Zoro, ever the stoic, trudged ahead. His arms were crossed over his chest, his swords a familiar, comforting presence jostling softly against his hip. Not a single complaint escaped his lips, but the tell-tale clench of his jaw and the deep furrow in his brows spoke volumes. He never overtly displayed discomfort, not until it became an unbearable inferno within him. Yet, after all this time, you’d grown adept at deciphering his unspoken language, at reading the subtle shifts in his demeanor.

“Are you absolutely certain this is the right way?” you finally broke the silence, your eyes narrowed against the glaring, icy horizon.

He spared a quick glance over his shoulder, a hint of his usual gruffness in his tone. “Why are you asking me like I’ve got a map stuck in my head?”

You snorted, a puff of frozen air, and quickened your pace to fall in step beside him. Your boots crunched rhythmically on the frost-crusted earth, the sound a stark counterpoint to the howling wind. You knew, with a certainty that hummed in your very being, that you could find the correct path. It would be effortless. For a fleeting moment, you allowed your eyes to drift shut, stretching your consciousness out like a vast, intricate web. Threads of awareness brushed against dozens of minds scattered in the distance – panicked, confused, some frozen in sheer terror. Marines, perhaps, or even Caesar’s remaining men. None of them were thinking clearly, their minds a jumble of fear and disorientation. You pulled back, the mental tendrils retracting swiftly.

“I’ll take us the right way,” you stated, a mischievous glint in your eye as you opened them. “Just figured I’d let you feel useful for a minute.”

He scoffed, a low sound rumbling in his chest. “Tch. I’ll remember that next time you’re freezing your ass off and crying for someone to carry you.”

You arched a brow, a smirk playing on your lips. “Someone, or you, Zoro?”

He didn't reply immediately, but you caught the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth – a fleeting acknowledgment, a silent concession.

The familiar tension crackled between you once more, a charged energy that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, curled in your throat, gnawing at your tongue. It was a sensation woven into the fabric of your interactions, alive in the moments you caught him watching you from the periphery of his vision, in the unconscious way he never strayed too far, even when he could easily walk alone.

A comfortable silence settled between you, or so it had always been. But something was different now, a subtle shift you couldn't quite pinpoint. The air grew heavier, the silence thicker.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the desolate landscape – the unmistakable sound of ice splitting under immense pressure. A low rumble followed, growing in intensity. Ahead, a sudden, violent plume of frost and gas erupted from the ground, hissing and thick, obscuring the path forward. Your body reacted without conscious thought, pure instinct taking over. You shoved Zoro back with all your might, just as the frozen earth beneath your feet gave way with a sickening lurch.

The fall was mercifully brief, a short drop into the icy abyss. You didn't scream; you’d faced far worse in your travels. But the gas, acrid and biting, hit your exposed skin like a searing flash of ice and static. Before you could even register the sensation, before your Devil Fruit powers could react, the world spun violently, plunging into a dizzying, suffocating blackness.

Then, stillness.

But not quiet.

Because something was profoundly wrong.

Your limbs felt… heavier. Longer. A strange, unyielding pressure dug into your side – swords? A jolt of confusion shot through you.

Your breath hitched, but the voice that echoed, reverberated within your skull, was not your own.

“What the hell…?”

Your eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving.

But it wasn’t your body staring back at you. It was yours, undeniably, yet you weren’t in it.

It was Zoro.

In your body.

And judging by the stunned, almost horrified way you – no, he – was blinking down at himself, the realization was mutual, a silent understanding passing between your swapped forms.

“Y/N?” he asked, the word a bewildered whisper. But it was your voice that emerged from his lips, light and undeniably feminine.

And when you tried to reply, to articulate the sudden, terrifying truth, it was his deep, gravelly voice that rumbled from your throat.

Oh no.

Oh hell no.

The icy air of Punk Hazard, which moments ago had been a source of chilling discomfort, now felt like a secondary concern, utterly eclipsed by the bizarre, impossible reality that had slammed into you. Your gaze, now from Zoro’s emerald eyes, locked onto your body, standing before you, and the sheer disbelief threatened to buckle your knees. Zoro. In your skin. His broad shoulders, once so familiar as a constant presence beside you, now felt incredibly, jarringly foreign as your own. You lifted a hand, one of Zoro's calloused, powerful hands, and watched it in a stunned trance. It was undeniably his, scarred and strong, yet it responded to your will.

“What… what the hell just happened?!” Zoro’s voice, your voice, high-pitched and distinctly feminine, sliced through the frigid silence. The shock on his face, reflected in your features, was almost comical, if the situation weren’t so utterly terrifying. His eyes—your eyes—were wide, darting from his own hands (now your smaller, more delicate ones) to his reflection in your new, muscled form.

A wave of dizziness washed over you, a sudden, disorienting rush. It wasn't the kind of vertigo from a quick spin, but a deeper, unsettling sensation. Your center of gravity felt entirely different. Every movement felt clunky, almost unwieldy. Zoro’s body, for all its undeniable strength and lean power, was a new, complex machine you were suddenly expected to pilot. When you tried to take a step, your new legs felt heavier, longer, requiring a conscious effort to coordinate. It was like learning to walk all over again, each muscle firing with an unfamiliar power that threatened to overbalance you. The swords at your hip—Zoro’s swords—clanked ominously, a reminder of the weight you now carried.

Meanwhile, Zoro, in your body, brought a hand to his forehead, his brow furrowed in a way that was unmistakably his, despite the delicate features. “My head… it feels… weird,” he muttered, his voice still unnervingly your own. He blinked, a flicker of true discomfort in your eyes. “Lighter. Too light. And there’s this… buzzing.” He was experiencing the subtle thrum of the Kokoro Kokoro no Mi, the residual energy of your Devil Fruit. You knew it wasn’t a bad headache, not the searing pain that came from truly pushing the fruit’s limits, but an unfamiliar pressure, a low hum of power he wasn’t accustomed to. For Zoro, who relied on brute strength and keen senses, this subtle, internal sensation was utterly alien.

You, in Zoro’s body, could almost feel his frustration building, a familiar storm brewing behind your eyes. The silence that had once been comfortable between you was now thick with unspoken panic. This was beyond anything either of you had ever encountered. Body swapping? It sounded like something out of a deranged fairy tale, not a real-world dilemma for pirates.

“This… this can’t be happening,” you finally managed to choke out, your voice Zoro’s deep rumble, an alien sound escaping your own (his) throat. It felt wrong, utterly, profoundly wrong, to hear his voice articulate your terror. You clenched your new (his) fists, feeling the immense strength contained within them. “This is some kind of… illusion, right? A trick of the gas?” You desperately tried to rationalize it, reaching out with your (his) mind, a habitual gesture, only to find nothing. The subtle hum of your Devil Fruit was absent. You were in Zoro’s body, completely devoid of your own abilities. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow: your greatest weapon, your very essence, was gone.

Zoro, in your body, stalked a tight circle, his movements stiff and awkward, a jarring contrast to your usual fluid grace. He smacked a palm against your forehead with a frustrated grunt. “Illusion or not, I’m in your damn body, and I don’t like it,” he growled, his voice still your own, making the threat sound almost comically unmenacing. “Everything feels… flimsy. And what’s with this constant buzzing in my head?” His internal compass, usually so reliable, seemed to be spinning wildly in this new, lighter vessel. He stopped, glaring at his new (your) hands. “And why are your arms so… short? How am I supposed to hold three swords with these?” The last question was laced with genuine, Zoro-esque indignation. The very idea of fighting with your smaller frame was clearly an affront to his warrior pride.

You stared at him, at yourself, a strange mix of horror and a burgeoning, desperate humor bubbling up. "You think your arms are short? Try walking in your body! It’s like trying to pilot a battleship with a joystick designed for a toy boat!" You gestured wildly with Zoro's hands, the movement still feeling incredibly unnatural. "And what about my Devil Fruit? My powers! They're gone! I can't feel them! I can't read anything, I can't manipulate anything! I'm useless!" The panic was setting in, cold and sharp, eclipsing even the physical strangeness. Your powers were your lifeline, your unique contribution to the crew. Without them, you felt utterly vulnerable.

Zoro, despite the obvious shock, seemed to be processing the problem in his typical, straightforward manner. He stopped pacing and looked at you, your face a mirror of his own confused determination. “Alright,” he said, your voice firming, “so we’re… like this. For now. This gas must’ve done something.” His gaze swept over the fresh crack in the ice, the lingering plume of gas. “We need to figure out what happened and how to fix it. And we need to find the others. Nami and Sanji are probably already at each other’s throats.” The thought of Nami and Sanji, given their volatile dynamic, suddenly swapped, added another layer of bewildering chaos to the situation. The possibility that this wasn't just happening to the two of you was a terrifying prospect.

The realization settled over you both, heavy and cold as the Punk Hazard air. You weren't just experiencing a weird sensation; you were experiencing each other's entire physical existence. The differences were profound, immediate, and utterly disorienting. Zoro, accustomed to his imposing physique, now felt like he was floating, his body too nimble, too light, and plagued by an inexplicable mental hum. You, used to your lithe frame and the subtle hum of your Devil Fruit, now felt anchored by immense muscle, every movement a deliberate, weighty effort, and a profound emptiness where your powers once resonated.

“We need to get out of this,” you stated, the words sounding alien in Zoro’s voice. “Fast.”

The initial shock slowly gave way to a grudging acceptance, replaced by the immediate, pressing need to move. The cold of Punk Hazard was a constant, biting reminder of their precarious situation. Zoro, in your body, shivered visibly, though his expression remained stubbornly grim. You, in his, found the increased muscle mass actually offered a surprising, if unfamiliar, warmth against the biting wind.

“Alright,” Zoro grunted, his voice your own, but laced with his familiar gruffness. “So, we’re heading for the research lab. That’s where Caesar’s usually holed up. If anyone knows how to reverse this, it’s him.” He started off, a slight, awkward hitch in his step as he adjusted to your shorter legs and lighter build. He kept one of your hands, now his, pressed to your temple, the subtle thrumming of your Devil Fruit an unfamiliar sensation he couldn't quite shake.

You fell into step beside him, or tried to. Zoro’s stride was naturally longer, his gait more powerful. You found yourself overcompensating, nearly tripping a few times as you wrestled with the sheer weight and momentum of his body. It was like wearing a suit of armor that was both too big and perfectly tailored at the same time. You’d always admired his raw strength, but now, experiencing it firsthand, you realized the incredible control it took to wield it. Every step was a conscious effort, every swing of an arm felt like moving a lead pipe.

“My swords,” you rumbled, Zoro’s voice foreign on your tongue. “You usually carry them on your hip, right? How do you even walk with these?” You gestured to the three katanas at your side. They felt heavy, almost unwieldy, their scabbards knocking against your leg with every awkward step. You were used to the subtle hum of your Kokoro Kokoro no Mi, using your mind to influence and perceive, rarely relying on physical weapons. Now, these formidable blades were your only means of defense, and you had no idea how to wield them.

Zoro scoffed, your voice sounding unusually petulant. “You just… walk. They’re part of you.” He then winced, bringing your hand back to your (his) head. “This mental static is annoying. And everything feels… too bright. Too loud.” He was experiencing the heightened sensory input that came with your Devil Fruit’s awakened state, a constant, low-level buzz of information that you’d learned to filter out years ago. For him, it was like someone had cranked up the volume on the world.

“That’s my Devil Fruit,” you explained, trying to keep the frustration out of Zoro’s voice. “It’s always ‘on’ to a degree. You just… learn to ignore the background noise.” You sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. “I can’t use it in your body, though. It’s like my mind is disconnected.” The realization still stung. You were a skilled fighter without your Devil Fruit, but it was your primary offensive and defensive tool. Without it, you felt oddly naked. “Do you… do you even have a weapon of your own in my body? I usually just use my powers.”

Zoro paused, actually looking down at your (his) waist. “There’s a small dagger in your boot,” he finally offered, the idea of relying on such a diminutive blade clearly insulting his sensibilities. “And a couple of throwing knives in your jacket pocket.” He pulled one out, flicking it expertly, your smaller fingers demonstrating a surprising dexterity as the blade glinted in the dim light. “Not exactly my preferred arsenal, but it’ll have to do.”

As you continued, the conversation became a strange mix of complaints and reluctant advice. You found yourself describing the subtle nuances of your Kokoro Kokoro no Mi to him, how to mentally push past the buzzing, how to focus. He, in turn, tried to articulate the feel of his swords, the balance, the weight distribution. It was an absurd, intimate exchange, two halves of a whole trying to teach each other how to exist. You even found a strange, morbid humor in it.

“You know,” you mused, Zoro’s voice taking on an uncharacteristic lightness, “I always wondered what it was like to be this strong. This… solid.” You flexed a bicep, surprised by the sheer density of muscle.

Zoro, in your body, rolled your eyes. “It’s just heavy. You get used to it. I always wondered how you managed to hear everyone’s thoughts all the time without going crazy.”

Just as a sliver of genuine, if bizarre, camaraderie began to form, a low growl echoed from the icy crags ahead. Three figures emerged from the swirling frost, massive, hulking forms clad in the distinct, bulky gas masks and protective suits of Caesar Clown’s men. They were armed with large, crude bladed weapons, their eyes behind the masks fixing on the two of you with hostile intent.

“Intruders! Cease and desist!” one bellowed, his voice distorted by his mask.

Your heart leaped into your (his) throat. A fight. Now. In his body, without your powers. And Zoro, in your body, with your powers he barely understood, and a dagger.

“Tch,” Zoro scoffed, stepping forward, your smaller frame surprisingly defiant. “Just what we needed.” He pulled the small dagger from your boot, holding it in your hand as if it were a toothpick.

“Zoro, wait!” you roared, the sound of his voice surprisingly commanding. “We can’t just charge in! I don’t know how to use your swords, and you… you’re in my body!”

“Doesn’t matter whose body I’m in, I’m still a swordsman,” he retorted, though his movements were stiff, unaccustomed to your lighter weight. As the first of Caesar's men charged, Zoro sidestepped with surprising agility for your body, bringing the dagger up. He tried to mimic a familiar Santoryu stance, but it looked comical with only a single, tiny blade in your hand. He managed to deflect a clumsy swing with the dagger, the clang surprisingly loud.

Meanwhile, you, in Zoro’s body, were having your own struggles. The weight of Wado Ichimonji felt incredible, but utterly foreign. You tried to draw it, fumbling with the hilt for a moment before finally unsheathing it with a scrape of metal. The blade felt perfectly balanced in his hand, but your muscle memory for swinging was all wrong. You swung awkwardly, the blade whistling through the air, missing the charging enemy by a wide margin. You were used to precise, mental attacks, not broad, physical ones. This was proving to be far more difficult than you anticipated.

Zoro, relying on your Devil Fruit, found himself in a completely new kind of struggle. He instinctively tried to read the minds of the charging enemies. A jumble of thoughts assaulted him – kill… intruders… orders… gas… cold… It was overwhelming, a chaotic symphony of fear and aggression. He tried to focus, to implant a suggestion, as you’d described. “Stop,” he thought, pushing the command out with all his might, channeling the unfamiliar energy. One of Caesar’s men faltered for a moment, clutching his head, but his will wasn't strong enough to fully stop the attack. The distraction, however, was enough for Zoro to duck under a wild swing and jab the dagger towards the man’s leg, scoring a shallow cut through the thick suit.

You, meanwhile, focused on the raw power of Zoro’s body. You gripped Wado Ichimonji with both hands, trying to remember the way Zoro moved, the way he shifted his weight. You braced yourself, and when another gas-masked figure lunged, you swung with a desperate, untrained force. The sword connected with a clang against the man’s weapon, sending a jarring vibration up your (his) arm. It wasn't elegant, but it was powerful. The force of the impact made the enemy stumble back.

This was a nightmare. Two of the Straw Hats’ most capable fighters, reduced to fumbling, awkward versions of themselves, fighting with unfamiliar tools and alien abilities. The cold of Punk Hazard felt less daunting than the sheer disorientation of battling in each other's skins. They needed to reverse this, and fast.

The clash against Caesar’s men was a brutal, disorienting dance. You, navigating Zoro’s body, lumbered and swung with raw, unrefined power, each strike feeling less like a precise cut and more like a desperate bludgeon. The Wado Ichimonji felt like an extension of his arm, perfectly balanced, but your muscle memory simply wasn't there. You parried wildly, blocked with brute force, and relied on Zoro's inherent strength and durability to weather the blows that would have crippled your own body. One of Caesar's men managed to land a glancing hit to your new side, the impact rattling your teeth, but Zoro's hardened muscles absorbed most of the shock. You returned the favor with a clumsy but powerful kick, sending the masked figure sprawling.

Meanwhile, Zoro, trapped in your smaller, lighter form, fought with a maddening blend of his usual ferocity and an utterly foreign set of tools. He dodged with uncanny speed, utilizing your body’s natural agility, but his strikes with the tiny dagger were often ineffective against the thick suits of his opponents. The mental onslaught of your Kokoro Kokoro no Mi was his new battleground. He gritted his teeth, a low growl escaping your throat as he tried to push through the cacophony of thoughts. He focused on one of the larger goons, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

“Drop your weapon,” he mentally commanded, pouring all his frustrated will into the suggestion. The target’s movements faltered, his eyes glazing over for a split second, and the large axe he held clattered to the ice. It was enough. Zoro capitalized instantly, a swift, practiced movement of your smaller hand bringing the dagger up and across the exposed neck of the suit. He wasn’t used to this kind of subtle, mental warfare, but the primal instincts of a fighter were overriding his discomfort.

The fight dragged on, a testament to their individual tenacity, even in compromised forms. You landed a heavy, ungraceful blow with Zoro's hilt against the head of another assailant, the man slumping to the ground. You felt the immense power in your (his) arm, but also the awkwardness of not knowing how to truly wield it.

Then, Zoro decided to end it. He focused all his remaining mental energy, the buzzing in your (his) head intensifying to a painful throb. He spotted the last two remaining goons, both converging on you.

“Sleep!” he mentally roared, throwing every ounce of his warrior’s will into the command, using your Devil Fruit in a way you rarely dared to, pushing its limits with sheer force. It was a raw, unrefined burst of power, unlike your usual precise manipulations. The two remaining men froze mid-stride, their eyes rolling back as they collapsed in a heap.

The silence that followed was broken only by the wind and the heavy breathing of two exhausted pirates. You both stood amidst the fallen enemies, a strange mix of triumph and utter bewilderment on your faces.

“That… was ridiculous,” you wheezed, Zoro’s voice rough, as you leaned against a rock, feeling a dull ache in your new (his) shoulders from the unaccustomed strain.

Zoro, in your body, didn't reply immediately. He stood rigid for a moment, then swayed, bringing one of your smaller hands up to his nose. A thin trickle of blood, bright red against the pallor of your skin, began to seep from your nostril. He wiped it away with the back of your hand, a grimace on your face.

“That power… it’s a pain in the ass,” he gritted out, your voice hoarse. He was trembling slightly, the mental exertion clearly taking its toll. He pressed a hand against your temple, the headache now a sharp, insistent pain. But despite the bleeding and the obvious discomfort, his eyes, your eyes, held a defiant glint. He might have been in your body, fighting with a woman’s strength and a baffling mental ability, but he was still Zoro. He could grit through it. He always could.

You rushed to his side, concern etched on Zoro’s features. “Zoro, are you alright? What happened? Did you overdo it with my fruit?”

He just waved a dismissive hand, still wiping the blood. “It’s fine. Just… a headache. Never used my head for anything but directions before.” The sarcasm was evident, though the pain was clear in your voice. “We need to keep moving. Before more of these clowns show up.”

The victory felt hollow. They had won, but at what cost? They were both battered, exhausted, and no closer to reversing this impossible swap. The cold of Punk Hazard felt even more oppressive now, a constant reminder of their bizarre predicament.

Wary and winded, you and Zoro continued your trek across the frozen wasteland, leaving the unconscious Caesar Clown goons behind. The biting wind felt less like an external force and more like a manifestation of the lingering disquiet between you. Zoro, in your body, still occasionally touched his nose, a phantom ache perhaps, or a reminder of the unexpected, brutal power of your Devil Fruit. You, wrestling with his muscular frame, found your steps slowly becoming less clumsy, a raw, primal strength beginning to assert itself.

"You know," you rumbled, the words feeling surprisingly natural in Zoro's deep voice now, "I never realized how much you rely on just… brute force. It's like you hit everything with a hammer."

Zoro, striding beside you, scowled, but the expression was comically softened by your features. "And you rely on... whispers and magic tricks. How do you even fight without actually fighting?" His voice, still your own, had a faint, gravelly edge from the earlier strain.

"It's not 'magic tricks,' it's mind manipulation," you corrected, feeling a familiar defensive prickle. "And it's a lot more efficient than swinging a giant hunk of metal around. Less collateral damage." You then added, a mischievous glint in Zoro's eyes, "Though I have to admit, this body does feel pretty good. Solid. Like I could punch a hole through a wall." You flexed his bicep experimentally, admiring the ripple of muscle.

He scoffed. "Don't get any ideas. You break it, you buy it." Then, after a moment, he added, his voice a low grumble in your ear, "And you actually do fight. Remember those knives in my boot? You can actually throw them, believe it or not."

The cold, desolate landscape stretched out before you, endless expanses of ice and jagged rock formations. Your breath continued to fog, each plume a visible representation of the strangeness of your situation. The silence that fell between you wasn't truly comfortable anymore; it was laced with an undeniable, awkward intimacy. You were both acutely aware of the other, of the fact that you were literally walking in their skin.

"So," you began, breaking the quiet, your voice still Zoro’s, "this buzzing in your head… is it constant?"

Zoro sighed, rubbing your temple with his (your) fingers. "Yeah. It's like a low hum, always there. And sometimes it gets louder, like when I tried to make those guys sleep. You really live with this all the time?"

"For years," you confirmed. "You learn to filter it out. It's how I know where everyone is, what they're thinking, how I sense danger." You paused, then, unable to resist, you added, "Speaking of sensing things… are you, uh, noticing anything… different? About yourself, now that you're in my body?"

He stopped, turning his head to look at you, his usual stoic expression replaced by a look of bewildered frustration on your face. "Different? Everything's different! I can barely walk without feeling like I'm going to float away, my arms feel like noodles, and I have this constant ringing in my ears." He shook your head slightly, then his eyes narrowed, a familiar, calculating glint appearing. "And what are you implying, anyway?"

You smirked, a genuine one that felt odd on Zoro's face. "Oh, nothing. Just… curious. Sometimes being in someone else's shoes gives you a new perspective, right?" You watched him, a hint of playful challenge in your gaze.

He just stared at you for a long moment, then let out a low grunt. "This is just… strange. And I don’t like strange.” He started walking again, faster this time, as if trying to outpace the awkwardness.

You kept pace, a light laugh rumbling from Zoro’s chest. "Admit it, it's a little exciting. A new challenge."

He didn't respond directly, but you caught the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth – a flicker of something unreadable, a silent acknowledgment of the bizarre thrill that came with absolute novelty. You walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of your boots on the ice and the howling wind. Each step was a continuous negotiation with your new body, a slow, arduous process of learning how to move, how to exist.

"So, where do you think the others are?" you asked eventually, needing a change of topic. "Nami, Sanji, Robin... If this gas did this to us, imagine what it might have done to them."

Zoro let out a weary sigh, your voice carrying an uncharacteristic note of concern. "Hopefully, they're just as confused as we are and haven't killed each other yet. If Sanji ends up in Nami's body..." He trailed off, the mental image apparently too horrifying to complete.

You couldn't help but chuckle, a deep, rumbling sound. "Or Nami in Sanji's. Can you imagine her temper combined with his kicking power? Chaos."

As you discussed their crewmates, a strange sense of familiarity began to settle over you both, despite the profound physical alienation. It was the same rhythm of conversation, the same shared concerns, the same underlying current of an unbreakable bond. You were still you, and he was still him, even if the packaging was completely wrong.

You walked for what felt like hours, the sun a pale, distant orb in the icy sky. The terrain grew more treacherous, leading you deeper into a labyrinth of jagged ice formations and narrow, winding paths. You both moved with a newfound, grudging coordination, anticipating each other's reactions, a silent, unspoken understanding forming between the bodies you now inhabited.

The relentless wind of Punk Hazard howled its mournful song, a constant, chilling companion as you and Zoro continued your search for the rest of the crew. Each step was still a conscious effort, a conversation between your will and the unfamiliar muscle and bone you now commanded. You, in Zoro’s body, were slowly gaining a clumsy grace, the sheer power of his limbs becoming less a surprise and more a tool, albeit a blunt one. His broader shoulders, once merely impressive from a distance, now felt like a heavy shield against the biting cold, a surprising comfort.

Zoro, on the other hand, in your much lighter frame, seemed perpetually irritated by the lack of physical resistance. He occasionally flexed your smaller hands, as if expecting them to suddenly sprout his usual callouses. The lingering headache from using your Devil Fruit was still a dull throb, but he was learning, quickly and ruthlessly, to push past it, to filter the mental static that hummed in your head. He’d even, once or twice, instinctively reached out with a mental probe, a strange, half-formed thought, a clumsy attempt to tap into your power. He never admitted it, but you felt the faint, unfamiliar brush of his nascent mental prodding.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, his voice still your own, but laced with his familiar, low growl. "How do you fight like this? It's like I'm made of air."

You snorted, a deep, rumbling sound from Zoro's chest. "And you, you're like a walking mountain. Every step feels like an earthquake." You then added, unable to resist, "But I have to admit, it's... interesting. Seeing the world from your perspective." You glanced at him, a half-smile playing on Zoro's lips, a strange sensation. "You never talk much, but now I'm feeling your thoughts, even if they're just grumbles about being cold or annoyed."

He shot you a look, a flicker of something almost akin to embarrassment in your eyes. "Don't get any ideas. And I don't 'grumble'."

"Oh, you definitely grumble," you countered, enjoying the rare opportunity to tease him from within his own skin. "It's a low, rumbling, very Zoro-like grumble."

The landscape began to shift, the endless ice plains giving way to more jagged, unstable formations. Cracks spiderwebbed across the frozen earth, hints of the volatile geology beneath. You both navigated the treacherous terrain with a renewed focus, the shared danger a familiar anchor in the midst of their physical disarray.

"Think they'll be swapped too?" you asked, the question heavy with unspoken dread. The idea of the entire crew being caught in this bizarre body-switching phenomenon was both terrifying and darkly hilarious.

Zoro grunted. "Wouldn't surprise me. Knowing our luck, Sanji's probably in Nami's body and trying to kick someone with her legs, and Nami's in Sanji's body trying to extort money." The mental image, while grim, brought a brief, shared moment of morbid amusement.

The truth was, this strange predicament, this forced intimacy of inhabiting each other's bodies, was chipping away at the usual unspoken barriers between you. You'd always had an undeniable bond, a silent understanding forged in countless battles and shared dangers. But now, it was different. You felt the raw, unyielding strength of his limbs, the constant pull of his swords, the sheer weight of his existence. And he, for the first time, was experiencing the subtle, almost ethereal hum of your mind, the constant flow of information, the delicate balance of your Devil Fruit.

"You know," Zoro said, his voice your own, but softer, almost contemplative, "it's weird. This… buzzing. It’s annoying, but it’s like… I can tell what everyone’s feeling, even without seeing them. Is that what it’s always like for you?"

You nodded, a slow, deliberate movement of Zoro's head. "That's the basic input. You learn to sort through it. It's why I always know if someone's lying, or if trouble's brewing." You paused, then added, a mischievous glint in his emerald eyes, "It's also why I know when you're secretly smiling even when your face is a brick wall."

He froze, your body tensing, and you could almost feel a wave of intense, flustered annoyance emanating from him. "I do not 'secretly smile'."

You laughed, a deep, rich sound that felt powerful coming from Zoro's chest. "Oh, you absolutely do. Just a little twitch. I see everything, Zoro."

He just grumbled, a frustrated sound that was still your voice, and quickened his pace. Despite his protests, the air between you shifted, a subtle, almost imperceptible softening. This forced exposure to each other's inner worlds, both physical and mental, was creating a new layer of understanding, a different kind of connection. It was uncomfortable, yes, but also undeniably profound.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long, stark shadows across the ice, the silence became less about awkwardness and more about shared vigilance. You were heading in the general direction of the Research Lab, a place you both knew would be crawling with Caesar's forces. This strange, new relationship would be tested even further.

The icy wasteland, so vast and desolate moments before, gradually yielded to a landscape of familiar wreckage. Burned-out lab structures rose like skeletal giants against the grey sky, their twisted metal scaffolding resembling abstract art. Thick trails of soot snaked across the ground, grim markers of past battles, and the faint, acrid scent of scorched chemicals hung in the air, a sure sign that the Research Facility was finally drawing near.

Zoro, still navigating your smaller body with an awkward, lurching gait, stumbled slightly over a chunk of debris. He muttered under his breath, a low grumble that was oddly high-pitched in your voice. “Your legs are too fast for their own good.”

You, inhabiting his broad, heavy frame, offered a dry grunt in return, the sound resonating deep in his chest. “Your body’s like dragging a statue through a swamp. You should thank me for not snapping your knees every time I take a step.”

The banter, though snappish and laced with their usual competitive edge, was starting to feel like a familiar tether—anchoring them both in something known amid the surreal hellscape they were navigating. It was a strange comfort, this shared exasperation. But the moment of weird stability shattered when a voice, piercingly familiar, rang out ahead.

“Oi! Hold it right there, you suspicious bastards!!”

Zoro’s—no, your—head whipped toward the source of the voice, his green eyes widening in surprise, just as a tall, angular form barreled into view… wearing Sanji’s impeccably tailored suit. But the body beneath the familiar pinstripes wasn’t Sanji’s.

It was Chopper’s.

Chopper, in Sanji’s lean, elegant frame, skidded to a halt in a cloud of kicked-up frost, looking wildly around with a panicked expression. His gestures were clumsy and exaggerated, his long limbs flailing as if he was trying very hard not to fall flat on his face. “W-Wait! You’re… you’re Y/N and Zoro, right?! I mean, that’s you in there?!”

You blinked, a slow, deliberate movement from Zoro’s face, then took a cautious step forward, towering over the frantic Sanji-Chopper. “Chopper?!”

“Y-Yeah!! I think?!” Chopper-in-Sanji stammered, clutching Sanji’s slender neck. “This is Sanji’s body and it smells weird and everything’s long and I keep getting distracted because I want to cook stuff but I don’t even know how!!” He wrung Sanji’s hands, the chef’s usually graceful movements now imbued with the reindeer’s inherent clumsiness.

Zoro groaned beside you, running one of your smaller hands through your own (his) short hair. “You got it easy, reindeer. Try having no muscle and a brain full of static.”

Then came a metallic creak from behind Chopper/Sanji, followed by heavy, stomping footsteps and a disturbingly cheery voice that seemed utterly out of place in the frigid air.

“SUPER!! Found ‘em, guys!!”

A small figure sprinted out of the snow next—Chopper’s tiny reindeer form—his stubby arms swinging wildly and an exaggerated, wide grin plastered across his round, furry face. But the voice that bellowed from the cute little reindeer was deep, booming, and unmistakably Franky’s.

“Oi, lovebirds!” the high-pitched tone bellowed, carrying surprising volume from such a tiny frame. “You two get caught in the chaos too?! I swear, if I have to deal with this tiny reindeer ass for one more hour, I’m gonna punch a snowflake!”

You squinted, trying to reconcile the sight with the sound. “Franky…?”

“Damn right!” he snapped, waving stubby reindeer arms as dramatically as possible, considering their limited range of motion. “My body’s gone full cutie mode! I can’t even punch without flying backwards from recoil!”

Another voice cut in from the side—sharp, deadly calm, and utterly, profoundly done with this entire situation.

“I want my body back.”

Your gaze shot toward the newest arrival. It was Franky’s towering, cyborg form, clad in his usual open shirt, giant forearms whirring with mechanical menace. But the expression on his face, the precise posture, the simmering irritation that radiated off him in waves?

It was Nami.

“I swear, if I hear that cola-addicted lunatic say ‘SUPER’ one more time using my mouth, I will drown him in snow,” Nami—now in Franky’s imposing body—said coolly, one massive, cybernetic hand clenched into a fist that could crush boulders.

“Hold on,” Zoro said slowly, gesturing with your hands, the motion still a little stiff. “That means…”

“Yup.” The sultry voice now belonged to Sanji—inside Nami’s perfectly proportioned body. He stepped forward from behind a wrecked pipe, his usual golden hair replaced with Nami’s vibrant orange locks, and a dreamy, disoriented expression on her (his) face. He moved with a strange mix of feminine grace and his usual dramatic flair. “I’ve seen heaven and hell. At the same time.”

He clutched the sides of his new form dramatically, twirling a lock of orange hair with a dainty hand. “I must protect m-myself with every fiber of my being. I am too precious. So soft. So—”

“Shut UP!” Nami barked from Franky’s throat, her face flushing a furious red, steam practically pouring out of Franky’s mechanical ears.

Chopper-in-Sanji shrieked, jumping nervously. “Nami, don’t break the body!! That’s your actual body!!”

“I KNOW!!” she roared, her voice booming from Franky’s massive frame, the sound echoing through the frozen wreckage.

It was chaos. Beautiful, terrible chaos. You stared at the bewildered group, your (Zoro’s) mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief. Your crew, your battle-hardened, insane, hilarious, beloved crew—all swapped. All functioning at about sixty percent efficiency. Maybe forty.

“You two, huh?” Franky-in-Chopper asked, pointing a stubby reindeer hoof at you and Zoro. “Switched by the gas?”

You and Zoro exchanged a long, weary look, a silent agreement passing between you, a shared understanding of this impossible reality.

“Yeah,” you muttered in Zoro’s voice. “It happened right after a gas plume hit us. One second we’re on solid ground, next second, I’ve got callouses on my callouses.”

“It’s Law’s ability,” Chopper, in Sanji’s body, explained, adjusting Sanji’s cravat nervously, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of his doctor persona. “I ran into some of the scientists in the lab—we think he was here before us. Maybe testing something. His Ope Ope no Mi must have triggered during the gas leak. The swap wasn’t intentional… but it’s stuck.”

“Great,” Zoro grunted, leaning his small body against a broken piece of machinery. “So the idiot scalpel man decided to throw all our souls into a bingo machine and then vanished.”

Sanji-in-Nami placed a hand over her (his?) heart, his face a picture of exaggerated despair. “This may be the worst day of my life. I can’t even light a cigarette—there’s no lighter in these dainty little pockets.”

“Don’t you dare smoke in my body!” Nami barked, her voice a deep rumble from Franky’s voice box.

“You better hope he doesn’t cry in it either,” Franky, in Chopper’s form, added darkly, his tiny reindeer face surprisingly menacing. “I don’t think his tear ducts stop.”

Chopper, in Sanji’s body, frowned. “That’s not true! They do! …Eventually!”

Nami-in-Franky groaned and crossed massive, mechanical arms over Franky’s broad chest. “Okay, enough. If this is Law’s fault, and he’s not here, we need to figure out two things: one, how to survive until we find him. And two, how to stop Sanji from breaking Nami’s spine.”

“Delicate,” Sanji added helpfully, running his hand down Nami’s arm. “Beautifully fragile, like seafoam.”

“SHUT UP, SANJI.” Nami’s roar in Franky’s voice vibrated through the air.

Zoro sighed and leaned heavily on Wado Ichimonji (which you’d been carrying, badly). “Well, at least we know it wasn’t just us.”

You glanced around at the utter madness, the mismatched voices, the bruised pride and silent chaos that was your crew. Somehow, this was worse than any battle you’d ever fought.

You spoke, your tone dry, the words sounding surprisingly natural from Zoro’s deep voice. “If Law was here, I’d switch all of us again. Just to teach him a lesson.”

Franky grinned through Chopper’s button nose. “Yohoho! That’s the spirit!”

“That’s Brook,” Chopper corrected automatically, the doctor in him unable to let a misattribution stand.

“I KNOW, BUT I NEEDED A LAUGH, TONY-BOY.”

You, Zoro, and the rest of the crew collectively groaned as the wind howled louder around you.

This was going to be a very, very long day.

The blizzards raged relentlessly, a furious whiteout that reduced visibility to mere feet. Snow pelted down in sharp, icy gusts, stinging exposed skin, but with the crew finally reunited and as mentally braced as they could possibly be, they pressed onward. Their destination: the main research building, where they believed Law might have last been seen. The storm felt like an enraged beast, clawing and tearing, trying to rip them apart, but even in their swapped, disorienting forms, the Straw Hats were never the type to go down quietly.

Well, except for Zoro. He was actually pretty quiet in general. But still.

"Careful on that patch!" Chopper, now in Sanji's sleek body, shouted, his voice oddly deep as he hopped over a slick, black sheet of ice with a dancer’s unexpected grace. "Sanji's legs are good but these shoes are so slippery—!"

His warning was cut short as Franky, tiny and furry in Chopper’s body, slipped on the treacherous ice and tumbled forward like a bowling ball, a miniature, blustering snowball. He collided squarely with Chopper (in Sanji’s body), sending the chef-reindeer hybrid careening straight into Nami, who was still inhabiting Franky's towering, unyielding form. She didn't budge an inch, absorbing the impact like a colossal, flesh-and-steel mountain.

There was a horrible creaking sound as Chopper-in-Sanji rebounded off Nami-in-Franky.

"You okay, Chopper?" Nami asked, her voice a deep rumble from Franky's speaker-like chest, glancing down from seven feet above. Her massive robotic arms picked him up like a snow-dusted rag doll, a striking image of raw power applied with gentle concern.

"I… I think I bruised something!" Chopper-in-Sanji wailed, wriggling in her grip. "But it wasn't my body so I dunno what it was!"

Meanwhile, Sanji, draped in Nami’s slim form, had his head wrapped tightly in a scarf, a desperate attempt to conceal the furious flush that crept up his neck every time he caught his reflection in an icicle or a shimmering pool of meltwater. "Why are women's pants so tight? This is restricting. I am being oppressed."

"You're fine," Nami growled through Franky’s clenched, metallic teeth, her patience wearing thin.

You and Zoro led the way, a strange, mismatched pair. You, in Zoro's body, had finally begun to master his wide-legged gait, though your grip on his swords remained awkward, a constant reminder of your unfamiliarity with blade-work. Zoro, still inhabiting your body, had long since given up trying to adjust your clothing, settling for buttoning his coat all the way up to his nose, a small, stubborn defiance against the biting cold.

"It's cold," he muttered, your voice small and muffled by the high collar. "How do you live like this?"

You didn't answer, your attention caught by a looming, jagged shape ahead. The remains of a heavily-damaged security gate stretched across your path, its twisted metal frame looking as if it had been ripped apart by something enormous. The main lab building was still a good walk away, but this was where things started to feel wrong.

Really wrong.

"Everyone down!" you barked, your voice Zoro's deep rumble, surprisingly commanding.

A moment later, a massive beam of sizzling, gas-fired energy cut through the frigid air precisely where you had just stood. The deafening hiss of its passage lingered.

Smoke flared across the pristine snow, revealing the source—half-machine, half-human soldiers, their forms bulky and menacing, wearing clear dome helmets that distorted their features. They wielded strange, bubbling weapons that pulsed with an eerie green light. Caesar’s elite enforcers.

"We've been waiting!" one of them growled, his masked voice crackling with electronic distortion. "The Straw Hats won't leave this island!"

"Well, that's a problem," Zoro grunted, cracking your knuckles with a small, brittle sound. "Because I'm planning on leaving with two swords and a bad mood."

The group sprang into motion with the synchronized chaos of a well-oiled, yet completely disoriented, machine.

Nami, empowered by Franky's enormous body, unleashed a devastating Coup de Vent, a blast of compressed air that obliterated two of the charging soldiers immediately. The immense recoil sent her skidding backward, but she was ready this time, using Franky’s absurd weight to dig his heels in and skid to a halt, a mountain of cyborg fury.

Chopper, in Sanji’s body, spun into a blur of frantic kicks and low dodges, moving with an awkward, lanky grace, yet somehow getting the job done. "This body wants to fight without me thinking about it! It's scary!" he wailed, his high kicks surprisingly potent.

Franky, tiny and squeaky in Chopper's reindeer form, held his stubby arms out dramatically, striking a familiar pose, as if he still had weapons to unleash. "YEAH! TAKE THAT!! Uh—wait, I don't have anything to actually shoot!"

"Duck, idiot!" Nami shouted from Franky’s chest, her voice booming, and a soldier’s bubbling weapon whizzed right over Franky’s furry head, a near miss that made the tiny reindeer yelp.

You and Zoro—each still trying to coordinate with the wrong limbs—ended up back-to-back, a whirlwind of clumsy slicing and awkward punching. A few near-misses, a desperate headbutt that left you both dizzy and seeing stars, but eventually, the last soldier was left groaning and twitching in the pristine snow.

Sanji, breathing hard in Nami’s slim form, flopped dramatically onto a shattered crate, his (her) chest heaving. "This body is not made for battle. Or maybe I'm just too careful."

"You tripped on your own braid," Zoro muttered, still catching his breath, the headache from your Devil Fruit flaring.

They pushed onward, navigating through cracked hallways and abandoned labs filled with frozen tools, shattered beakers, and melted syringes. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of chemicals and decay. The further they went, the clearer it became—something had gone terribly wrong here long before their arrival. This wasn't just a research facility; it was a graveyard of scientific ambition.

Then finally—inside the central chamber, a vast, echoing space with shattered containment units glowing eerily with residual energy—they found him.

Trafalgar Law.

Slumped casually beside a cracked table, one sleeve of his striped coat ripped open, bruised but remarkably conscious. He sat there with a peculiar calm, as if he hadn't just caused the biggest, most chaotic body scramble in pirate history.

"Yo," he said with a bored blink, his gaze sweeping over the bizarre assembly of swapped Straw Hats. "Took you long enough."

"YOU—!!" Nami’s voice thundered, resonating through Franky’s speaker-like chest, shaking the very foundations of the ruined lab. "You did this!"

Law raised an eyebrow, slowly taking in their disoriented forms, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

"I didn't mean to. There was a chemical leak. My ability must've mixed with the airborne gas—my Room reacted before I could cancel it. It's never happened before."

"You mean we've been stuck like this for HOURS because you had a hiccup?!" Sanji cried, his voice a furious shriek from Nami’s throat, his hands gesturing wildly.

Law’s eyes landed on you and Zoro, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "You two. Hm. Interesting."

You folded your arms, Zoro’s body casting a long shadow over the scattered debris. "Swap us back, Trafalgar."

"I was going to," Law said, pushing himself up from the table, brushing a few stray flakes of snow from his coat. "Just needed to regain some energy. And make sure none of your souls were damaged in the crossfire."

"Souls?" Franky, in Chopper’s tiny body, squeaked, his voice trembling with genuine fear. "You mean, like, our actual souls got peeled off like bananas?!"

Law rolled his eyes with a world-weary sigh, lifting his long blade, Kikoku. "You're fine. Hold still."

He activated his Room—and in a sudden whirl of wind and brilliant, pulsing light, the world blurred, a kaleidoscopic vortex of colors and sensations.

A pulsing jolt—like being thrown through a dream, a powerful, invisible hand seizing your very essence—slammed through your chest. You felt yourself tugged backward, a dizzying, disorienting sensation of being reeled in. And then—

Snap.

Silence.

You gasped—and felt your own breath, sharp and cold, in your own lungs again. You wiggled your fingers, your fingers. You felt your own heartbeat, a familiar rhythm in your chest.

You looked up—

Zoro, across from you, flexed his hands, a genuine, wide smirk spreading across his face.

"Finally."

"EWW!" Chopper squeaked, flailing his hooves, scrambling to embrace his own furry body. "I was in Sanji's body for so long I think I developed an ego!!"

Sanji was on his knees, hugging himself dramatically, his hands running over his own body with reverence. "I'll never get to experience Nami-swan's heavenly hips again…"

Franky flexed his proper, massive arms, the satisfying whir of his mechanics a welcome sound. "BACK TO BEING BEEFY, BABY!"

Nami slapped her own arms with relief, a sharp, crisp sound. "Finally. I feel like myself again. And I'm gonna kill Sanji if he ever talks about my hips again."

Law, already looking utterly exhausted by the Straw Hats' sheer presence, turned to leave, his long coat swishing. "If it happens again, don't come looking for me. I'm not running a daycare."

"You are so lucky we don't carry sedatives," Nami muttered, crossing her arms, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

The Straw Hats, back in their rightful bodies but mentally shaken and profoundly humbled, stood there in the shattered lab—snow still falling softly beyond the broken walls. Exhausted. Humbled.

But together again.

And already planning sweet, sweet revenge.

[2b4st4r]

I’ve been STUCK on this same request for the past two days. I have no idea how to continue because I don’t remember the arc they are mentioning very well anymore; it feels like it was fifty years ago. However, I will make sure to deliver it to them tomorrow, trust 🙂‍↕️🤞

[2b4st4r]

Hehehehe okay here's one with robin again pleaseee!! Robin with fem reader platonic where she treats reader as a sister and loves to spoil her? Like robin loves to be partnered up with reader whenever they explore a new island, she always sits next to her during meal time or anything really, and is really really protective of her. So when they split and reader gets into some trouble and she got hurt from some guys and robin sees her bruised and a little bloody she loses her cool and starts looking for the idiots who hurt her sister? It can be whatever you want honestly like reader gets kidnapped or something but robin still loses her cool and the poor sap that dared hurt her sister will get one heck of a good beating?

-😊

The Scholar’s Fury

Nico Robin x Reader (Platonic)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

⋆˚✿˖° Words: 3,983

⋆˚✿˖° Warnings: Violence, abduction, medical trauma and recovery, psychological distress, fem reader

⋆˚✿˖° A/N: I made this a little shorter than I normally do, and I’m so sorry. I’ve just been a bit burnt out, but I promise it’s still good!!

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Robin was an ever-present hum, a quiet constant in your world. Not suffocating, never that—her presence was a gentle art, a silent comfort that mirrored your every move, like a shadow tethered to the sun. She was there, just behind you, beside you, close enough to be a palpable warmth yet always too subtle for anyone else to notice. It was a silent carving of space, a wordless decision made long ago that you, above all others, were worth safeguarding.

At the dinner table, her spot was perpetually beside yours. Amidst Luffy’s boisterous chaos or Sanji’s dramatic spirals, Robin remained anchored next to you, an unyielding fixture. Her hand would occasionally brush yours as she offered rice, or she'd pour your tea before the thought even fully formed in your mind. She anticipated your desires without a single question, as if she'd committed your unspoken thoughts to memory like treasured verses from an ancient text.

When island missions called for pairings, her choice was swift and unwavering. “You’ll come with me,” she’d state, not with a command, but with the quiet conviction of someone who saw beyond your surface, into the intricate depths beneath. There was never a need to question her selection; it simply felt right, a natural alignment.

Even on days when your voice was barely a whisper and your thoughts tangled into an indecipherable knot, Robin never made you feel like a burden. She offered no pressure, just a steady, unshakeable presence beside you, as if her very being could ground you to the earth. And perhaps, in a profound way, it did.

You weren't accustomed to such quiet steadfastness, to a closeness that required no grand pronouncements or intricate explanations. But Robin was always near. And with each passing day, you found yourself realizing that this quiet, unwavering proximity was precisely where you wanted to be.

Today, silence stretched on and on, not the heavy, aching kind, but a quiet that settled over everything like the salty air, seeping into your clothes, your skin, your very breath. Even the Thousand Sunny seemed hushed, her usual groans and creaks softer than usual, as if the ship itself had decided to rest.

You sat on the deck, knees drawn to your chest, sketchbook propped against them, though your pencil hadn’t moved in ages. The sea spread out endlessly, glittering under the sun as if it had all the time in the world. The others had already gone ashore for a quick supply run, nothing urgent, just a chance to stretch their legs.

You didn’t go.

You weren’t sure why. Nothing bad had happened. You weren’t sad, hurt, or even particularly tired. You just… didn't feel like it. The thought of navigating crowds, of all that noise and movement, made something in your chest tighten. So you stayed.

Robin, as always, had stayed with you. She’d drifted to your side quietly while the others were still bickering over Sanji’s lunch. Her presence simply folded into the space beside you, no words needed. She leaned her forearms on the railing, her smooth voice a soft inquiry, “Not going today?”

You just shook your head. It was enough. She nodded, understanding perfectly—of course she did.

But then Nami’s voice cut through the quiet, something about an ancient ruin on the island she needed to show Robin. You caught the familiar gleam in Robin’s eyes before she turned her head, the soft hitch of interest she never quite hid when history called.

Robin looked at you. A brief glance, one of those moments where time seemed to slow. She didn't ask permission or if you’d be okay—she trusted you, knew you'd speak up if you needed something. That was the unspoken understanding you shared.

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, her fingertips brushing the top of your head, a feather-light touch. “Don’t float away without me.”

You smiled, small but genuine. “I’ll try.”

Now, the ship was truly quiet, a hush that wrapped around you like a warm blanket and a sigh. The wind lazily tugged at the sails. You could hear distant seagulls and the gentle slap of waves against the hull.

You missed her.

It wasn’t a panicked missing, just a low, familiar echo in your chest. Robin had a way of making silence feel less solitary. She didn’t fill it; she simply shared it. You’d grown so accustomed to her silent companionship that without her beside you, the world felt slightly off-kilter.

You leaned back against the warm wood of the ship, sketchbook forgotten in your lap, and closed your eyes for a moment. Sunlight filtered through your lashes, soft and golden.

She’d be back soon.

And when she returned, she’d settle beside you without a word. Maybe she’d show you something she found on the island, or perhaps she’d just sit close enough for your shoulders to touch.

Later, maybe you’d even show her what you’d drawn—even if it was messy, even if it was unfinished. Robin never cared about perfection. She loved the way your mind moved across the paper.

She saw the things you didn’t know how to say.

And you knew, without a doubt, she always would.

A prickle of unease snaked its way through you. You weren’t sure when they arrived. Perhaps you’d simply let your guard down, lulled by the deceptive stillness, the comforting embrace of the sun-drenched silence. Danger hadn’t been on your mind. Not today. Not here.

The first indication was a sound, not the familiar creak of the ship or the cry of gulls, but something far softer: whispers. Foreign, unfamiliar, like breath blown through cupped hands. Your eyes blinked open, and you straightened, your sketchbook slipping from your lap with a startlingly loud thud on the deck.

You turned towards the sound, your heart quickening with a growing sense of dread.

Footsteps. Light, quick, barely audible.

Your gaze darted across the deck, into the shadows near the mast, then towards the galley doors. Nothing. The Sunny continued its gentle sway, seemingly oblivious to the shift in atmosphere. But your body knew. A cold certainty settled deep within you.

You rose, hesitantly, every movement now a careful deliberation. “Hello?” you called out, your voice a low, unsure whisper that barely carried beyond the railing.

No answer.

Then, a sharp, sudden movement behind you. The immediate sting of something sliding into your neck. Your hand flew up, too late, too slow. You spun around, but the world was already tilting, your knees buckling. Your vision blurred at the edges as your legs gave way beneath you.

Two—no, three figures stood there, shapes in the sunlight, indistinct and too close. One, a tall man with a pale scarf obscuring the lower half of his face, held an emptied syringe between two gloved fingers.

“She’s smaller than I thought,” a woman’s voice murmured, smooth and devoid of interest. “Is that really her?”

“Doesn’t matter,” another replied, younger, breathless. “She’s the one Nico Robin is always glued to. That’s leverage enough.”

Your hands twitched on the deck, a futile attempt to move. You tried to speak, but your tongue felt heavy, useless. Your body was an anchor, no longer your own. Your vision dimmed further, dissolving into indistinct shapes and shadows. Footsteps.

“She’s out,” the scarfed man confirmed.

You felt them lift you, arms hooking under yours, under your knees. Your body sagged, helpless in their grasp.

“She’s lighter than I thought. Damn.”

“She won’t be when Robin finds out.” A pause, then a chilling chuckle. “Let’s hope she doesn’t.”

The last thing you registered before the world went black was the soft thud of your sketchbook, blowing open on the deck, its pages fluttering wildly in the wind as if desperately reaching for someone.

Someone who wasn’t there.

Not yet.

The taste of metal coated your tongue, a sharp tang in the stale air, and the unforgiving bite of cold stone pressed against your cheek. The darkness wasn't absolute, but it clung to everything, a heavy, wet blanket disturbed only by a faint, flickering light somewhere behind you. A torch? A lantern? You couldn't tell. Your body ached, a dull, pulsing throb, as if your limbs had been disjointed and clumsily reattached.

Your arms were bound behind your back, and judging by the strange pressure, your ankles too. You were slumped on the floor, knees scraped raw, your clothes damp with something you didn’t want to identify. Your head throbbed.

“She’s awake.”

The voice was low, laced with amusement, and close. Male.

You blinked, trying to clear the blur from your vision, and slowly turned your head. The room swam as three figures solidified into view.

Two men. One woman.

The scarfed one stood to the side, arms crossed, watching. Another man with a crooked nose grinned like a jackal, pacing restlessly. And the woman—elegant, terrifying—wore a long coat that swayed with her every movement, her eyes narrowed on you like a hawk observing its prey.

“I was wondering when you’d come to,” she said coolly, crouching to your level. “You took longer than expected. Guess you’re not as hardy as the rest of them, hm?”

You didn’t answer. Your throat was dry, your tongue thick and heavy.

“Smart girl,” she added, tilting her head. “No screaming. Not yet.”

You glared at her through the haze of pain and confusion. “Why…?”

“Why you?” the jackal-grinned man chuckled. “You’re Robin’s pet. That’s reason enough.”

“She’s always with you,” the woman added, her voice flat. “Always watching you. Sitting next to you. Picking you for missions. Honestly, it was either you or the cook, and he would’ve been too much trouble.”

You tugged against the restraints, a weak, jerky movement. The metal dug into your wrists.

“Still fighting?” the woman asked softly. “That’s adorable.”

Then, a sharp crack. A boot connected hard with your ribs.

White-hot pain exploded in your side. You gasped, crumpling inward, air violently expelled from your lungs. The man with the grin laughed.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he sneered.

Another kick.

And another.

A sharp jab to your temple made your ears ring. Now, you tasted blood—fresh, coppery, thick.

“Robin’s gonna find you eventually,” you croaked, your voice shredded and thin.

“Oh, we hope she does,” the scarfed one murmured from his corner. “That’s the whole point.”

Meanwhile, back on the Thousand Sunny, the crew returned from the island, their arms laden with bags and new supplies. Luffy was already complaining about his hunger, despite having devoured three full meals. Usopp and Chopper traded trinkets, and Sanji, a fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear, hummed a tune.

Robin, however, had been quiet the entire walk back.

She was the first to step onto the deck.

And then, she froze.

Your sketchbook was still there, open, flipped to a page the wind had long since battered. A page she knew you hadn’t finished. The teacup, untouched and cold, sat by your favorite seat.

Robin’s heart stilled in her chest.

You weren’t on the ship.

Her gaze swept the deck, narrowed like steel. She said nothing at first, moving swiftly and gracefully towards the galley’s edge, checking every corner. Nothing. Her eyes darkened.

“Y/N?” she called. Once. Calm. Too calm.

No answer.

Zoro tilted his head. “She didn’t come out to meet us?”

“She said she’d stay behind,” Nami replied, a frown now creasing her brow. “Robin, didn’t you—”

Robin was already moving, no, searching. Her hands glided over railings, around doors, her mind a roaring flood of "no no no no—"

She turned sharply to the others, her voice clipped and flat. “She’s gone.”

Then, softly: “They took her.”

The crew fell silent.

A cold dread settled over the air.

And somewhere, far away, bound and bleeding, you whispered her name like a prayer.

“Robin…”

You had no idea how much time had slipped by. The room remained a constant, oppressive presence—always dark, always cold. The stones beneath you were slick with something that could have been water, or blood. Your body felt like shattered glass, painstakingly pieced back together, breath by agonizing breath. You’d long since stopped counting the bruises, the fractured ribs, the hours spent drifting in and out of a fog so profound it mirrored drowning.

But you were still breathing. And that, you clung to, had to count for something.

You lay curled on your side, trembling, each breath a struggle. Your wrists were raw. One eye was swollen shut, and blood crusted the corner of your lip. Your own heartbeat pounded in your ears, louder than the distant voices, until one voice cut through the haze.

“She’s still awake?”

It was the woman again, her tone cool and cruel. Her heels echoed as she drew closer. You didn't flinch this time; you simply lacked the energy.

“You’ve held up better than I expected,” she said, crouching beside you once more. Her face was a blur of shadow and flickering firelight. “Still not begging. Not crying. She really did raise you like a little sister, didn’t she?”

With effort, you lifted your head. “Why… her?” you rasped, your mouth barely moving. “Why Robin…?”

The woman smiled, as if at a private joke. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t you know who she is?”

“She’s Robin. She’s my—”

“Sister. Yes, yes, we’ve noticed. The way she looks at you like you’re her last thread of peace.” Her smile vanished. “That’s why.”

She rose and began to pace again.

“Nico Robin is dangerous. Not because of her hands, or her past, or her bounty. But because she knows things. Ancient things. World-shaking things. And she’s been keeping quiet… because of you.”

You blinked slowly, your eyes swimming, barely clinging to consciousness.

“She’s soft when you’re around. Too soft. That makes her vulnerable. And vulnerable people make mistakes.”

“So you took me,” you whispered.

“To break her,” she confirmed. “And to make her talk.”

A silence descended, heavy as the earth holding its breath.

Then, a weak, broken, bitter laugh escaped you. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

The woman raised a brow. “Oh?”

You grinned through bloodied teeth. “You didn’t take Robin’s weakness… You took her reason.”

Back on the Thousand Sunny, the ship was roaring.

Robin’s heels echoed through the halls as she stormed through the Sunny like a ghost fueled by fire. Her usual calm was gone, utterly consumed.

Maps. Journals. Every memory of the past day unfurled in her mind with razor precision. She tore through possibilities, hands blooming from the walls around her, searching every crevice of the ship, every ripple in the sea.

“She wouldn’t leave,” Robin hissed, her voice low and sharp as broken glass. “She wouldn’t wander off. Not without telling me. Not without—”

“She didn’t,” Nami said quickly, running beside her. “We know she didn’t. That sketchbook was still open. She never leaves it like that.”

“She didn’t even finish her tea,” Chopper added, his eyes wide and wet. “It was cold.”

Robin stopped in front of the rail where your cup still sat. The very one she poured for you.

She touched it gently.

Her fingers trembled.

Zoro stood a few paces behind her. “We’ll find her.”

Robin didn’t answer. Her eyes had gone distant, deeper than memory—into the parts of her that only you had ever touched. The parts that had become soft again. Human again.

She turned slowly, and when she faced the crew, they saw something that made their world tilt.

Not panic.

Rage.

A controlled, quiet, surgical rage.

“She’s alive,” Robin said, not a hope, but a promise. “I’d know if she wasn’t.”

Luffy stepped forward, serious for once. “Then let’s go get her.”

Back in the cell, you were drifting again.

Everything hurt. Everything. Even breathing. You were cold. Barely conscious.

But in the oppressive dark, deep within you, a single thought bloomed like fire.

Robin’s coming.

You didn’t need to see her, didn’t need to hear her voice. You felt her—storming towards you like the sea itself.

And this time, she wasn’t coming as your sister.

She was coming as the Devil of Ohara.

And for the ones who hurt you—that was the last thing they’d ever see.

The cold. It was the first thing to claw you back from the edges of unconsciousness, a cruel hand keeping you just lucid enough to feel the pain. You’d lost track of time—hours, perhaps days. The beatings came in rhythmic intervals now. They weren't even asking questions anymore; they simply wanted to break you, to reduce you to a raw, trembling mess before Robin arrived.

Their voices drifted from beyond the door.

“She’s barely hanging on,” the scarfed man muttered. “Another day and she won’t even be worth it.”

“She doesn’t need to be worth anything,” the woman snapped, her voice sharp. “She’s bait. If Robin’s not here by tomorrow, we start carving her name into the girl’s skin. That’ll get her attention.”

You didn’t flinch. You lacked the strength. But your teeth clenched weakly, gritting through the taste of blood. You wanted to utter her name, Robin, even if only in your head. But your mind felt slippery, your grip on consciousness fading.

Then—

The torches lining the corridor outside the cell began to extinguish. Not all at once, but one by one, like a deliberate touch brushing them out.

And then, silence.

The first scream ripped through the hall, short, sharp, muffled by a wet, sickening sound. The guards outside didn't even have time to shout. Something snapped, a sound like bone breaking in a closed fist. Another scream, abruptly cut short. Then nothing again.

The door to your cell creaked open.

You couldn’t lift your head. Perhaps this was another hallucination; you’d experienced them before—visions of the sea, your friends, warm hands on your face that always vanished.

But this time…

This time, you felt her.

Her presence flooded the room like a rising tide. A heavy silence, a hush full of teeth.

Robin stepped into the flickering light of the single remaining torch.

She appeared calm, serene even. But her eyes—oh, her eyes. They were black holes, wide, endless, and furiously incandescent. Her cloak was splattered with blood. Her hair, windblown and wild, had a few strands clinging to her cheek like ink.

Your woman captor turned, hand reaching for a weapon, and—crack.

A hand bloomed from her own shoulder, gripping her throat. Another sprouted from the stone wall behind her, yanking her head back.

Robin didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“Clutch.”

The sound that followed was not meant for human ears. Bone twisted and popped. The woman’s body dropped like a marionette with its strings severed, eyes wide, mouth frozen mid-scream.

The others didn’t even attempt to flee. They knew.

Robin’s hands—dozens of them—erupted from every surface: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. They grabbed, snapped, ripped. Not a single drop of blood touched you. She was precise. Surgical.

When it was over, she finally turned to you.

Your vision blurred, black at the edges. Your body was shutting down, but you still saw her. Still saw the way her eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

“Y/N,” she whispered.

She knelt beside you, gathering you in her arms as if you were made of glass. Her touch was careful, reverent. Her hands trembled.

“I’m here,” she said, over and over. “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

You tried to speak, your lips barely moving.

She leaned closer. “What is it?”

You choked out the words, cracked and useless. “I knew… you’d come.”

Robin closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to yours. Her breath hitched; you felt it.

“I should’ve never left you,” she whispered. “I won’t—ever again.”

And in her arms, as the last threads of pain pulled you into sleep, you finally let go.

Because you were safe now.

Because Robin was here.

Because Robin always found her way back to you.

The days that followed were gentle, a soft unfurling after the storm had passed. The ones who took you were gone, their makeshift prison nothing more than rubble. The sea was calm again, yet nothing felt quite the same.

You woke slowly, in a series of fleeting moments. A room lit by candlelight, the comforting press of warm linen, the distant lull of waves against wood. A gentle pressure around your ribs, tight but not painful, accompanied by the clean scent of bandages and the faint, familiar trace of lavender—Robin’s perfume.

Then, a voice. Soft. Familiar.

“You’re awake.”

Robin sat beside the bed, her fingers loosely curled around your hand. Her hair was pulled back, but wisps had escaped, framing her face. She looked utterly exhausted, yet when she saw your eyes open, her entire face brightened with something akin to sunrise.

“You’ve been asleep for almost two days,” she said, her fingertips brushing your forehead. “You’re safe. You’re on the Sunny.”

Your throat ached as you tried to speak, but she was already pouring water, holding the glass to your lips. You drank slowly, gratefully.

“How… bad is it?” you rasped, the words catching.

Robin hesitated. “You’re healing.”

You understood. Bruised ribs. A sprained wrist. A mild concussion. The angry red marks around your ankles and wrists where you’d been bound.

But you were alive.

And Robin hadn’t left your side once.

The crew treated you with a newfound gentleness. Even Luffy, usually a whirlwind of noise and chaos, moved around your recovery with the cautious grace of a bear in a tea shop. He brought you your favorite snacks, even the ones he disliked, and sat beside you, humming nonsensical tunes.

Chopper checked your bandages every few hours, murmuring worries to himself even as he reassured you, “You’re getting better, I promise.”

Nami visited in the afternoons, brushing your hair back with steady fingers and recounting stories of what happened after Robin stormed that base. (Apparently, no survivors. No witnesses. No mercy.)

But it was Robin who remained the longest.

She didn’t hover, simply stayed close. Reading in a chair beside you. Holding your hand when the nightmares came. She helped you walk when your legs were still weak, her arm always just behind you like a silent safety net.

One morning, she brought your sketchbook.

It was scuffed at the edges, but otherwise intact. She placed it on your lap without a word.

You opened it with shaky fingers.

There, in the center, was a new drawing.

You didn’t remember making it.

It was of her—Robin. Sitting with her head bowed, hair shadowing her eyes, arms folded like wings. But behind her, drawn in soft lines and warm ink, were countless hands cradling the ocean, lifting a tiny figure—you—from a dark, watery place.

Your eyes stung.

You looked up at her, your voice catching. “Did you…?”

She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “You drew it. Right before I found you. Chopper says your mind kept working even while your body shut down.”

You stared down at the drawing, a lump in your throat. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t need to,” she said, her hand reaching for yours. “I remember it enough for both of us.”

By the end of the week, you began sitting out on the deck again, a blanket across your lap, the sea breeze in your hair. The others passed by often, leaving small gifts—a kind word, a flower, a cup of warm tea.

Robin always joined you near dusk.

She rarely spoke much, simply sat beside you, the silence comfortable once more, just as it used to be. Sometimes, her hand would brush yours. Sometimes, you would lean into her shoulder.

There was no need to say it aloud. No need to ask if she was staying close again.

She was.

She always would be.

Because once, Robin had decided—you were hers to protect.

And this time, she wouldn’t let anyone take you from her again.

[2b4st4r]

Every time i imagine you I think of robin idk why like she’s the only person I can see writing this good and this fast 😭 love you and robin tho even if you are her

That is actually so sweet! Robin is one of my favorites, and I'm glad I remind you of her. I was considering sharing a bit more about myself, but I didn’t want to interrupt anyone's reading. Thank you!(●’◡’●)ﾉ

[2b4st4r]

Heyyyyyyy here's another request please and im sorry!! Strawhats x fem reader where fem reader is a gentle quiet person who likes to draw. But she comes from a loud wild fun big(im talking like 10 siblings big and shes the middle child?)family? So when the strawhats are with her its just so peaceful but when they meet her family theyre shocked that she isnt like them? But her family truly loves her and she just prefers quietness over loudness but she does participate whenever they have activities(if its not too wild yk). So when they do play a game and reader finally gets active the strawhats see a new side to her and theyre just all happy that she's happy? Anyways last request for this week🙂😭

The Artist Unveiling

Straw Hat Pirates x Reader

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

⋆˚࿔ Words: 5,571

ᯓ★ Warnings: there’s none really!! maybe hinted fem reader but that’s really it:)

⋆˚࿔ A/N: I actually had such a fun time writing this. As someone who is a middle child in a large, unruly family, this was amusing. ( ˘ ³˘)

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

You never really saw the point in talking when your hands could speak volumes more. It wasn’t that you disliked conversation; it’s just that your voice often felt unnecessary.

The Thousand Sunny had its pockets of quiet, if you knew where to look. The upper deck at dawn, the lawn deck after supper, or the observation room late at night once Nami was asleep. But the rest of the ship? Silence was a rare commodity. Luffy's endless shouts about meat or danger, Nami barking orders from the helm, Usopp and Franky's raucous laughter over explosions and inventions. Even Zoro, usually so stoic, managed more grunts and growls in a day than you uttered in a week.

Still, they never seemed to need your words. They managed just fine without them. It made you wonder if you were invisible, or just… an adjacent presence. You truly loved them. They were warm, wonderfully chaotic, larger than life – like your family back home, only wetter, louder, and somehow even more prone to dramatic outbursts.

So, you showed it instead. Love, appreciation, worry, loyalty—it all came out in gestures, in sketches, in small, thoughtful things they never had to ask for.

You’d leave a stack of hand-drawn posters, depicting meats and victorious poses, by Luffy's hammock. He’d believe they'd magically appeared, proudly slapping them onto the mast, always exclaiming, "I LOOK SO COOL!" You never set him straight.

You'd sneak into the galley when Sanji wasn't looking, reorganizing the spice shelf exactly how he liked it, even though it made no sense to anyone else. You'd leave neatly folded drawings of rare fish near the fridge, ones you remembered from the waters they’d passed. Sometimes he found them. He never said a word, but they’d remain tucked behind the glass of his spice rack.

You’d mend tiny tears in Zoro’s waistband when he'd carelessly left his swords lying around like some wayward teenager. You knew he probably wouldn’t notice your stitching – he barely noticed if his shirt was inside out – but you did it anyway. Once, after his hundredth push-up, he grunted when you handed him water. You counted that as a thank you.

For Robin, your gifts were always quiet: pressed flowers placed between the pages of her books, shaped into hands, sun hats, or other delicate forms. She always saw them. Sometimes, she’d glance your way, a thoughtful look in her eyes, soft with an understanding you never needed to articulate.

Franky would find blueprint doodles slipped under his door. Just ideas, silly ones: a cola-powered bird, a submersible duck, a cannon shaped like a fist. He once left a thumbs-up sticker on your pencil case, and it was still there.

Usopp received drawings of his tales: Sniper King with glowing eyes and a flowing cape, vanquishing ten-ton sea beasts with a slingshot made of sea prism stone. He’d beam for a week afterward, convinced Luffy had drawn them. Luffy, of course, denied it. You never corrected either of them.

Brook got a song sheet – a half-finished melody you weren’t sure he’d understand. The next day, he played it. Softly, slowly. It had no lyrics, but you hummed along when no one was listening.

Even Jinbe. You’d observe the tension in his shoulders during battle, the way he sat alone after dinner, always facing the sea. You left a drawing on the railing beside him, a depiction of the ocean from below. He held it for a long time.

They didn’t always see you. Most of the time, they didn’t know who cleaned the cannon barrels, untangled the ropes, or replaced the busted hinge on Nami’s drawer. Most of the time, they’d assume it was someone else – Robin, Chopper, or even just the wind.

And maybe that was perfectly fine.

Because you did have things to say. You just said them in ink and charcoal, in brushstrokes and fingerprints. And when you couldn’t say “I love you” in words, you drew it – over and over and over again.

Your sketchbook was filled with them.

Your family. Your loud, wild, beautiful family.

Back home, silence wasn’t a given; it was a luxury you had to fight for—sometimes quite literally.

Ten siblings. Ten. That wasn't a family; it was a constant storm system. Shouts echoing down the hallway at sunrise, sandals flying in impromptu chases, arguments over chores escalating into full-blown warfare. Someone was always crying. Someone was always singing. Someone was always breaking something.

And then there was you. The quiet one. Smack-dab in the middle. Not the oldest, not the baby. You learned to exist in the in-between spaces, in the corners, in the moments when no one was paying attention. That's when you truly thrived, with a pencil in hand, a notebook tucked under your arm, and a world of your own making inside your head.

But don’t mistake that for passivity.

You were competitive. Cutthroat, if we’re being honest. Games of tag devolved into warzones. Arm wrestling matches usually ended with someone in tears (most often your older brother). Once, your cousin dared you to race him across the rooftops. You fell, cracked two ribs, and still claimed victory because he tripped first. Your mother grounded both of you, but your siblings declared you a legend.

You were quiet, sure. But when it mattered—when someone challenged you, or a goal was in front of you—you ignited. There was a fire in your belly, something sharp beneath your stillness. And your family saw it. They never mistook your quietness for softness. You were a force in your own right.

The Straw Hats hadn’t seen that side of you.

And you were determined to keep it that way.

The Sunny didn’t need another chaos engine; Luffy filled that role perfectly. You didn't need to prove yourself with shouting or competition here. On this ship, you could just be. You could draw in peace, offer quiet help, and let your love be known through actions.

Still, there were moments—tiny ones—that reminded you of home. The way Sanji would yell, “DON’T WASTE FOOD!” just like your second-oldest sister used to. How Chopper would puff up, embarrassed by praise, so much like your little brother. How Nami haggled with vendors as if she were born to it; your mother would have adored her.

Sometimes, you’d catch yourself smiling at their bickering, their teasing, their noise. It didn’t annoy you the way it used to back then. Now, it warmed you. It brought back memories of late nights squished between siblings on the roof, watching stars and daring each other to jump to the neighbor’s shed. Of stealing the last dumpling and feigning innocence until chaos erupted. Of bruised knees and belly laughter.

One night, Luffy threw a spoon at Zoro across the dinner table. Zoro caught it without looking. Nami smacked both of them with her shoe. Sanji screamed about manners. You bit back a grin. Home, you thought.

But even with all that comfort, all that familiarity… you kept your competitive side buried.

You didn't want them to see it.

Didn't want Luffy to get that look in his eye, the one that screamed, “LET’S FIGHT!”

Didn't want Usopp to challenge you to a game of darts and never recover from the inevitable defeat.

Didn't want Zoro to grunt, “You’re not bad,” and then make you train at sunrise for the rest of your life.

So you played your part.

Quiet. Gentle. Helpful.

The invisible current beneath their wild tides.

And for now, that was enough.

It was a slow day at sea. No islands dotted the horizon, no danger loomed, not even a weird sky fish appeared to distract Luffy. Just sun, ocean, and a rare breeze that made the sails flutter gently, like laundry on a line. Everyone was restless in their own way, but not enough to tackle chores or engage in training. Inevitably, boredom had taken root.

That’s when the idea struck.

“GAME NIGHT!” Usopp bellowed from the deck, standing tall on a crate as if declaring a national emergency.

You looked up from your sketchbook, a pencil still resting against your lower lip. Your spot in the shade beneath the mast had been perfect, your drawing of Robin nearly complete. But already, Luffy had seized Chopper, shaking him with glee and shouting something about "ultimate championships" and "you’re going down!"

You offered a small smile, quietly closing your sketchbook and tucking it under your arm. You didn't always join in, not because you didn't want to, but because… well, your voice tended to get swallowed in all the shouting, and sometimes it was easier just to watch.

But today—maybe today you’d try.

They dragged out a small stack of makeshift games Sanji had salvaged from some market: dice, a deck of uneven cards, strange board pieces shaped like sea creatures, and a cracked hourglass filled with pink sand. Nothing matched. Nothing made sense. But somehow, it worked.

“What are we playing?” you asked, just loud enough to be heard.

Chopper’s eyes lit up. "Y/N! You’re playing too?!"

You nodded, slipping into a spot between Robin and Franky on the grass. Nami gave you an approving glance—one of those small looks that made you feel seen without a single word.

“Alright,” Usopp announced, holding up a tattered rulebook as if it were sacred scripture. “We’re playing ‘Pirate’s Gamble.’ You get three coins, two cards, and one challenge per turn. Lose your coins, you’re out. Win the most cards, you win the game.”

Zoro grunted. “Sounds stupid.”

“Too bad,” Nami said, already shuffling the deck. “We’re all playing.”

The game made no sense. None of the rules were consistent. Sometimes winning a round meant arm wrestling. Sometimes it meant guessing a number between one and a hundred. Once, you even had to balance a spoon on your nose while telling a joke, which ended with Luffy choking on laughter and Sanji yelling that it didn’t count.

But you played. You sat there quietly, watching, listening, picking up the flow like you always did. And when it came time for your first challenge—arm wrestling Nami—you hesitated.

Everyone leaned in. You were quiet. Gentle. The one who drew them in soft colors and pressed flowers into their maps.

But you weren’t weak.

You gripped Nami’s hand, your eyebrows raising slightly when she smirked at you. She expected it to be easy.

You let her believe that.

Then, in one sudden snap of movement, you pinned her hand flat against the crate.

Silence.

“…What,” Nami said.

Luffy screamed, “THAT WAS AWESOME!!”

Zoro squinted at you. “Huh.”

Usopp’s mouth hung open. “Have you been hiding your strength this whole time?!”

You didn’t say much. Just gave a small shrug and smiled softly, your cheeks warm.

The game continued, louder now, more chaotic, and somehow even more fun. You didn’t win—you weren’t trying to—but you didn’t disappear, either. You played. You laughed a little. You high-fived Chopper when he beat Zoro in a rock-paper-scissors challenge. You drew a doodle of Franky with seaweed hair and slid it across the circle, and he snorted.

They were loud. You were not. But you belonged there.

And when the sun began to set and the laughter finally faded into yawns and leftovers, you slipped away to your corner with your sketchbook. But this time, it wasn’t to be alone. It was to remember.

You sketched the game. The way Nami’s jaw dropped. The way Luffy’s fists punched the sky in joy. The grin on Chopper’s face. The chaos, the color, the energy.

You loved them.

And they were starting to understand the way you showed it.

It had been a long time since you’d last seen your family.

Your father. Your sisters. Your brothers—older, younger, the twins, the baby. Too many names to list, too many memories to sort through. You missed them all with this dull, low ache that you kept tucked somewhere behind your ribs, like a sketch you never finished—always there, always waiting for the right moment to return to.

And then the moment came.

“We’ll be docking at the next island for a couple days,” Nami announced one lazy afternoon, charting the wind with her usual fierce concentration. “Should be a decent place to restock and stretch our legs.”

You heard the name of the island, and your heart stopped. Just for a second. Long enough that the sound of it echoed through your chest like a bell struck underwater.

That was home.

Your hand twitched around the pencil. You blinked down at the drawing you were working on—Luffy, asleep in a tree—and smiled without realizing it. A small one. The kind you didn’t even notice on your own face unless someone else pointed it out.

“Y/N?” Robin tilted her head toward you, watching.

And that’s when it slipped out. “That’s my home island.”

The crew perked up instantly.

“No way!” Chopper gasped, bouncing in place. “Really?!”

“That’s awesome,” Usopp grinned. “You gonna show us where you grew up?”

You nodded, and this warmth unfurled in your chest, soft and blooming. “I can’t wait for you to meet my family.”

You didn’t say how many.

You didn’t think you had to.

You just laughed quietly when Luffy declared, “I BET THEY’RE AS QUIET AS YOU!” and you murmured, “…Something like that.”

You could feel the buzz in your bones as the island came into view. Familiar trees, familiar cliff shapes, the scent of the coastline—it all came rushing back in like it hadn’t been years.

The Sunny hadn’t even fully dropped anchor before you were standing at the railing, fingers gripping the wood, eyes scanning for the dirt path that curved past the hills, for the old fishing shack by the beach. Your heart was hammering like a drum solo in your chest.

And just as you thought maybe they’d all forgotten, you heard it.

A scream.

“Y/N?!!”

It was your little sister’s voice. Then your brother’s. Then your cousin’s. Then more—voices layering over each other, racing, yelling, erupting into the wild chaos that was your family.

“Y/N’s back!!”

“I SEE HER!”

“I CALLED HER FIRST!”

“NO YOU DIDN’T, I DID!”

The shoreline was suddenly full of bodies.

A stampede.

Your siblings, all shapes and sizes, barefoot and wild and fast, tore across the sand like a tidal wave. You barely had time to brace before the first one slammed into you—a tackle-hug so powerful it nearly knocked you off the deck.

Then the rest came. Climbing over the rail. Clinging to your arms, your shoulders, yelling in your ears, ruffling your hair, kissing your cheeks. A blur of voices, of too many names shouted too quickly.

You were buried.

Utterly and completely.

The Straw Hats stood frozen behind you.

Luffy blinked. “…Huh.”

Zoro, who’d wandered out to see what the fuss was, stared. “How many are there.”

Sanji’s cigarette dropped from his mouth.

Chopper counted on his hooves, lost track at six, and gave up. Usopp was pale.

Brook whispered, “Yohoho… it’s like she was raised in a stampede…”

And Nami, wide-eyed, leaned toward Robin and said, “I don’t think she mentioned the number.”

You, at the center of the chaos, laughed. Laughed. Loud and bright and free, the kind that rarely made it past your lips. Your younger sister clung to your waist, the twins fought over who you missed more, and someone yelled, “YOU’RE FAMOUS NOW?!”

You looked back at your crew, breathless, grinning.

“This is them,” you said. “My family.”

They didn’t say it, but you saw it on their faces—everything made sense now. The reason you were so quiet, so careful. The reason you didn’t need to shout to be heard. You had come from a place where noise was a given, and peace was something you carved out for yourself.

They watched you in this new light, surrounded by love and mess and too many arms around your neck.

You weren’t just the quiet girl with the sketchbook anymore.

You were their quiet girl with the sketchbook.

And you were loved. Loudly. Unconditionally.

Just like always.

You hadn't worn a smile like that in ages. Not the polite, almost imperceptible ones you offered when someone praised your art. Not the shy, fleeting grins for Chopper’s latest herb discovery or Zoro’s rare, gruff "good job." This was different.

Your face was alight, a full-force, cloudless sunshine kind of smile, teeth showing, eyes crinkling at the corners. A laugh kept bubbling in your throat, like soda shaken too long, and your cheeks actually ached from the sheer joy of it.

You turned to your crew—your second family, the ones who had rarely heard your voice above a whisper—and with your siblings still clinging to your arms, you beamed at them. “Everyone,” you announced, “meet my family.”

A dozen heads whipped toward the Straw Hats with wild, unbridled curiosity. Immediately, the chaos reignited, like fire doused in oil.

“Is that the one with the green hair?! He looks so mad!”

“Whoa, he’s huge! Is he a fish?!”

“Which one’s the captain?”

“That one has a sword in his mouth!”

“Is that skeleton real?! Can I touch his bones?!”

“*You travel with boys?! Oh my god, you have a crush on one of them, don’t you?!”

“No, she doesn’t!” one of your little brothers snapped indignantly. “She’s a pirate queen, obviously.”

Luffy was already knee-deep in the sand, tangled in a joyous pile of your younger siblings like he’d always belonged there. “YOUR FAMILY IS AWESOME!!!” he screamed, getting a piggyback ride from a six-year-old. “Wait—Y/N! Is that your mom?!” He pointed to your father, who stood in the distance, watching the pandemonium with arms crossed and a crooked, proud smile.

“No, Luffy,” you said gently, a soft chuckle escaping. “That’s my dad.”

“Oh.”

Nami, meanwhile, looked like she was clinging to sanity by a thread. “How do you function with this many siblings? How do you even breathe?”

You just shrugged, still grinning. “You get used to dodging elbows.”

Your older sister, arms crossed, eyed Nami up and down. “You’re the navigator?”

Nami raised a brow. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” your sister said, a flicker of approval in her gaze. “You look expensive. I like it.”

Nami blinked. “…Thanks?”

Sanji was practically swooning, stretched out in the sand like a man utterly overwhelmed by beauty. “So many younger siblings… This must be what heaven feels like…”

“You lay one finger on any of them,” you warned sweetly, your voice surprisingly firm, “and I will draw you falling off a cliff. And then make it happen.”

Usopp was swarmed, your cousins hanging off him like festive decorations. “Are you really a sniper?! Do you have a gun?! Have you killed someone?!”

“W-Whoa, whoa, let’s stick to ‘incredibly heroic storyteller,’” he stammered, sweating profusely.

Zoro looked mildly uncomfortable with a toddler attempting to scale his leg. “Do they bite?”

“Sometimes,” you said, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“…I respect that.”

Brook had gathered a small, mesmerized group, playing a soft tune on his violin while two of your sisters meticulously braided tiny flowers into his coat. “Yohohoho, I haven’t felt this youthful in years!” he laughed, then added, “Ah wait… I’m a skeleton, I don’t feel anything at all.”

Jinbe, calm and composed, knelt beside your father. The two had somehow gravitated to the same quiet edge of the crowd, exchanging a look that spoke a thousand words men of few words never needed to utter. Respect. Pride. Trust.

Robin stood beside you, watching the scene unfold with a soft, knowing smile. “They’re exactly how I pictured them,” she said.

You glanced sideways at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Loud. Chaotic. Completely in love with you.”

You paused, looking back at your sprawling family—your siblings running in dizzying circles, your father pretending not to smile as he watched you, your crew folding effortlessly into the madness as if they’d always belonged.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back another huge smile, but it burst forth anyway. “They remind me of you guys,” you said quietly. “It’s kind of the same. The noise. The warmth. All of it.”

Robin gently bumped your shoulder with hers. “We’re the same in your eyes?”

You nodded. “Always have been.”

And maybe it was the way you were glowing. Maybe it was the way you stood taller, laughed louder, moved freer. But your crew saw something in you they hadn’t before. A different side. A side not hidden by silence or shadow. A side that truly shined.

And even though the day had only just begun, even though Luffy was already making plans for some sort of “welcome-home feast,” and your siblings were excitedly mapping out pirate-versus-family obstacle courses, you knew one thing for sure:

This—all of this—was home.

And now you had two of them.

By midday, someone had unearthed the old wooden crates from behind your family’s house—the very ones your older brother had once defaced with crooked numbers and audacious declarations like "BATTLE ZONE" and "ARE YOU A COWARD?" in black tar paint. These weren't just family games; they were meticulously disguised warfare, and with the Straw Hats now in the mix, the battlefield had gloriously expanded.

It was, frankly, inevitable.

“Alright!” your cousin bellowed from atop a barrel, a whistle dangling from her neck as if she were born to orchestrate delightful mayhem. “Family vs. Pirates! Winner gets bragging rights and the last piece of sweet bread!”

That, predictably, snagged Luffy’s attention. “I’M IN!” he roared, practically vibrating with excitement.

“What are the rules?” Zoro inquired, already cracking his knuckles with a dangerous gleam in his eye.

Your cousin simply grinned, a wicked glint in her own. “There are none.”

Robin let out a soft, amused chuckle. “This is going to be entertaining,” she murmured, a hint of genuine delight in her tone.

You stood in the middle of it all, your smile still blindingly bright, but now subtly sharpened—like sunlight catching on finely honed glass. The familiar warmth radiated from you, yet something in your eyes had distinctly shifted. You bounced lightly on the balls of your feet, cracked your own knuckles with a satisfying pop, and tilted your head, a predator scenting the wind.

Nami, ever perceptive, glanced at you sideways. “…You good?” she asked, a flicker of surprise in her expression.

You merely grinned, a wide, genuine, slightly terrifying grin. “Yeah. Just haven’t played this in a while.”

The games commenced with "Island Dash," a relay-style race that demanded barefoot sprinting, audacious object collection from various corners of the village, nimble dodging of surprise attacks from ambush-loving siblings, and the supreme challenge of returning without dropping a single precious item.

You ran second for the Straw Hats.

Usopp was up first, a whirlwind of panicked energy, sprinting like his very life depended on it, yelling something incoherent about ankle traps and “dirty tactics!” And just as he launched himself in a dramatic dive for the baton, you snatched it cleanly out of midair, a blur of motion, and bolted.

You were no longer merely running; you were a silent, focused, lethal streak. You didn’t just move; you weaved, a master of your childhood terrain. You remembered precisely where the hidden traps would be, the exact crate your younger brother favored for ambushes, the spot where your sister would feign a trip only to actually trip you if you weren’t careful.

You leapt over a rogue bucket with effortless grace, slid under a flapping clothesline with surprising fluidity, ducked a projectile shoe (courtesy of a grinning Zoro) without losing a single beat in your stride.

When you hit the finish line, your crew stood utterly dumbfounded.

You barely even breathed hard. You simply handed the baton to a wide-eyed Chopper and turned, a calm, deeply satisfied nod your only commentary.

“…What was that?” Sanji managed to stammer, looking utterly flummoxed.

“Y/N’s got wheels,” Zoro muttered, a rare flicker of impressed surprise in his usually stoic gaze.

“She’s holding back!” Luffy crowed, his grin widening impossibly. “I knew she was hiding something!”

Next up was "Tower Wars."

The objective: stack wooden crates as high as humanly—or pirate-ly—possible, climb to the precarious summit, and plant a flag—all while the opposing team relentlessly tried to dismantle your architectural masterpiece with bean bags, strategically aimed buckets of water, or, in true family fashion, mild but potent emotional damage.

You didn’t even flinch when your cousin, mid-climb, shrieked your full name and dramatically recalled, “Remember when you cried ’cause your drawing got smudged in the rain?!”

You simply reached the top, casually body-blocked a perfectly aimed flying sandal with one arm, and planted the flag with the other, all in one fluid, defiant motion.

The cheers from both teams were deafening, a riotous symphony of familial pride and grudging pirate admiration. Even your dad cracked a rare, proud smirk from his chair near the porch.

By the third game, "Screaming Toss"—which involved yelling trivia answers at the top of your lungs while attempting to catch slippery, overripe fruits—you were fully, gloriously locked in. Competitive. Focused. And, to Nami’s delight and slight bewilderment, sharp-tongued in a way that made her eyebrows shoot up, prompting her to mutter, “So she does have a savage side.”

You were still undeniably you—quiet, kind—but now your crew could see the spark. The undeniable fire. That unshakable, unstoppable part of you that never needed words to make itself loudly known.

When your brother tried to psyche you out during a round of “Truth or Dare Dodgeball,” yelling a ridiculous dare as he threw, you wordlessly dodged the incoming projectile, caught the ball with lightning speed, and pegged him squarely in the shoulder without so much as a blink.

“Holy crap,” Usopp whispered, wide-eyed. “She’s cold.”

“She’s awesome!” Chopper squealed, bouncing with glee.

And by the end of the day, with everyone utterly exhausted, adorably covered in grass stains, various bruises, and a smattering of leftover flower petals (courtesy of Brook’s impromptu floral arrangements), the Straw Hats and your family had sprawled out across the hillside in a magnificent, tangled heap. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in fiery hues. Luffy had one of your younger siblings asleep on his chest, snoring contentedly. Sanji was amiably grilling something delicious with your older brother, trading secret family recipes. Franky and your cousin were locked in an epic arm-wrestling match, grunting with effort. Nami had cunningly stolen someone’s towel and repurposed it into a perfectly squishy pillow.

And you?

You were lying comfortably between Robin and your younger sister, your sketchbook open, rapidly capturing the day’s glorious chaos in quick, sure lines. Your sister leaned into you, whispering silly jokes that made you quietly snicker. Robin held a fragrant lemon sprig between her fingers, a thoughtful smile playing on her lips. “You really should’ve warned us about your competitive streak,” she mused.

You smirked, a knowing glint in your eyes. “You would’ve made me team captain.”

“We still might,” Nami called out from her comfy towel-pillow perch.

Luffy stretched, a wide, contented grin on his face. “Y/N, your family’s CRAZY.”

You looked over at them all—the pirates who had become your second home, your family tangled up in theirs, the lines between them gloriously blurred and non-existent now—and you simply smiled.

“They’re just like you guys,” you said.

And this time, not a single soul argued.

That night, the entire island was ablaze with celebration. Lanterns, strung between trees, glowed like tiny stars pulled from the velvet sky, their warm light dancing in the gentle breeze. The air was thick and sweet with the intoxicating scents of grilled fish, steaming rice cakes, and roasted fruit, while laughter spilled out from every shadowy corner of your old village. Your father had unearthed the ancient fire drums; someone else coaxed a soft melody from a flute. At the heart of it all, a colossal bonfire roared like a primal heartbeat, drawing everyone in, moths to its flickering flame.

The usually boisterous Straw Hats had never been quieter, not out of discomfort, but out of sheer, wide-eyed awe, as your childhood friends and siblings enthusiastically dragged them into wild dances, fiercely competitive food challenges, and gloriously off-key singalongs.

Luffy, a whirlwind of pure joy, spun around with two shrieking kids perched on his shoulders, his head thrown back in unrestrained laughter, narrowly avoiding a collision with the groaning food table.

Sanji was locked in an epic cooking showdown with your third-oldest sister, the two of them flinging seasoning back and forth like a pair of culinary duelists. Your sister, to everyone's surprise, was clearly winning.

Usopp, meanwhile, found himself cornered by your relentless cousins, forced to spin more pirate tales—though they kept shouting, "More blood! More danger!" like a pack of pint-sized, bloodthirsty editors.

Zoro, surprisingly tranquil, sat cross-legged by the roaring fire, a bowl of something steaming in his lap, a small toddler completely passed out against his shoulder. He made no attempt to move, not even when Nami, ever the opportunist, teased him mercilessly. "Look at you, Mr. Softie," she cooed.

"Shut up," he grumbled, though a faint blush dusted his cheeks.

Chopper, utterly delighted, had found a kindred spirit in your village healer, the two of them deep in animated conversation about rare herbs, both giggling like excited children.

And Brook… Brook was performing. Full-on concert mode. Violin in hand, his polished bones gleaming in the firelight, your entire village swayed and danced to his music as if they’d known the melodies their whole lives.

And you?

You were sitting quietly at the edge of the fire circle, your sketchbook resting on your knees, your eyes glowing with the reflected firelight. You didn’t need to draw tonight. Not right now. You just wanted to see it all, to let every vibrant detail burn itself into your memory.

Robin settled gracefully beside you, sipping the warm tea your father had brewed. She glanced your way, a soft, perceptive gaze.

“You’ve never looked happier,” she said gently, her voice barely a whisper above the joyous din.

You blinked, surprised by her observation. Then… you simply nodded. “It’s been a long time since everything felt… whole.”

She offered you a warm, knowing smile, a shared understanding passing between you. “It suits you.”

A chorus of shrieks suddenly broke out from the center of the crowd as one of your younger brothers, with mischievous glee, managed to trick Luffy into eating something impossibly spicy. Luffy let out a primal scream, his face contorting, before he shot off into the woods, chasing the giggling culprit and yelling, “COME BACK HERE YOU LITTLE DEMON!”

You laughed, a genuine, unrestrained burst of mirth, covering your mouth with your hand.

Then your father approached.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and quiet, just like you. His hair held more streaks of silver than you remembered, but his dark, familiar eyes softened with profound affection when he looked at you. He wordlessly handed you a steaming cup of something. Not tea. Not alcohol. Just the spiced citrus drink he always made when you were sick as a child.

You took it in both hands, murmuring a soft, heartfelt “Thanks, Dad.”

He sat beside you, the bonfire’s fierce dance reflected in the depths of his eyes.

“You look good,” he said simply, his voice a low rumble. “Brighter.”

You looked out at your crew, then at your siblings, at the seamless blending of two worlds you never imagined could fit so perfectly together.

“I feel brighter,” you admitted, the words a gentle exhale.

He nodded once, a silent affirmation. “That’s what family’s supposed to do. Bring light to the parts of you that forget how to shine.”

You stayed there a long while, letting the warmth and the glorious noise wash over you, a soothing tide.

Later, as the bonfire burned down to embers and people began to curl up in cozy blankets or sway sleepily to Brook’s final, soulful song, your siblings gathered around you one by one. Some drifted off to sleep against your side. Others clung loosely to your arms or draped themselves across your shoulders like content cats, seeking your comforting presence.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

Your crew saw it all. The tender way you held your sister’s small hand. The gentle way you tucked your brother’s unruly hair behind his ear. The way your smile never faltered—not because you were trying, but because it had simply become a permanent part of your face.

It was Nami who spoke first, her voice just loud enough for the rest of the crew to hear above the dying embers and soft murmurs.

“…She belongs here,” she said, a note of quiet understanding in her tone.

Luffy, chewing contentedly on the last piece of sweet bread, tilted his head. “Nah.”

They all looked at him, curious.

“She belongs with us,” he declared, his voice ringing with unwavering confidence. “But this is part of her too.”

You didn’t hear their words, lost in the sweet symphony of the night.

But you didn’t need to.

Because that night, wrapped in layers of love, noise, starlight, and the glowing embers of the bonfire—you knew.

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

With all of them.

Two families. One heart.

And for once, you didn’t feel like the quiet one at all.

You just felt gloriously, utterly whole.

[2b4st4r]

A Shift in His Grip ༉‧₊˚.

✶⋆.˚ Law x reader

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Words: 3,157

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Warnings: past abuse, hinting of non-consensual touch, anxiety/PTSD themes, hinted female reader. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆ A/n: Hi! This is your request. I apologize, but I may have deleted the draft containing the request and lost it. However, I have included a screenshot of the request. Sorry that this piece is a little shorter than my usual ones!

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

The relentless sway of the Heart Pirates' submarine had long since ceased to be a disorienting force. It was now the steady, predictable rhythm of home, a lullaby beneath your feet. The ship no longer rocked; it breathed. And with each breath, you felt the comforting hum of familiar voices, a symphony of shared lives. Shachi's boisterous laugh, a warm echo down the steel corridors, often punctuated by Penguin's absurd impressions, which somehow grew louder and more exaggerated the more Bepo grumbled in exasperation. They weren't just crewmates; they were your anchor, your family. You’d shared countless meals, stood shoulder to shoulder in the thick of battle, and meticulously patched their wounds with the practiced hand of someone who understood the fragility of flesh. You even, on more than one occasion, treated them as impromptu furniture – leaning against Ikkaku’s steady frame during a never-ending watch, dozing off on Clione’s surprisingly soft shoulder during rare moments of downtime, or simply snagging a jacket right off someone's back without a word of permission.

Yet, amidst this easy camaraderie, one unspoken rule reigned supreme, an invisible barrier as potent as any iron bulkhead: Don’t. Touch. You. It was a decree never uttered, a boundary never explicitly drawn. It simply was.

The genesis of this sacred law traced back to your very first week aboard, a lifetime ago. A supply run to a port town so unremarkable, its name had long since dissolved into the mist of forgotten memories. Rain lashed down, a cold, relentless shroud. Someone, in a misguided attempt at kindness, reached out. You couldn't recall who, not anymore. Just a hand. A palm. Warm, unfamiliar. It connected with your back, a gentle, well-meaning gesture.

You reacted without thought, a primal instinct flaring to life. Your elbow, a sudden weapon, cracked hard against a jaw. The sickening thud, the surprised gasp as they crumpled. You didn't speak, didn't glance back. You simply walked, a figure consumed by the downpour, arms folded tight across your chest, until the ship was a distant memory. You didn't return until the veil of night had descended. No one questioned you. They didn’t need to.

After that, a silent understanding settled over the crew. They learned with a swiftness that spoke volumes. In the cramped confines of the medbay, tools were no longer handed but slid across the counter. There were no back-slaps of congratulation after grueling missions, only respectful nods. Even when chaos erupted, when you were bleeding and furious, they gave you space, a wide berth that acknowledged your invisible boundaries. Shachi, ever observant, began to ask for permission, a whispered "Is it alright?" before even the slightest brush in a tight passageway. Penguin would raise his hands in a theatrical gesture of peace every time he found himself too close for comfort. Even Bepo, the gentle giant, whose very presence was a warm invitation to a hug, maintained a respectful distance, waiting patiently until you initiated contact.

It wasn't fear they felt, not truly. It was a profound, quiet care. They gave you their loyalty, their boisterous stories, their laughter that echoed through the submarine. But they didn't touch your skin. That was the unyielding truth, the silent pact. And, with a strange and unwavering grace, everyone respected it.

Everyone, that is, except…

No. You wouldn’t think of him. Not yet.

Contact. Even in the crucible of your worst moments, when blood pulsed down your leg and your ribs rattled with each agonizing breath, you faced it alone. You were a self-contained island of pain and resilience. Bandages wrapped with trembling fingers, bones set with a clenched jaw and a guttural, unspoken cry. You didn't want their pity, didn't want to flinch from their kindness, a tenderness that felt like a violation. It was safer this way. Cleaner. To trust someone to press their hands against your skin? No. Never again.

You remembered the soul-deep exhaustion, the endless ache of patching yourself up in the solitary confinement of locked doors, illuminated only by the dim, swinging bulb above a grimy bathroom sink. You remembered staring into your own reflection, meticulously avoiding the places where your hands still shook.

But then, there was that one time. You tried to bury the memory, to seal it away in the deepest recesses of your mind, but your very skin remembered. It was a mission gone catastrophically wrong – the deafening roar of explosions, a missed signal, someone screaming your name through a choking haze of smoke. You didn't remember falling. You only remembered waking.

The air, clean and sharp, smelled of antiseptic and fresh linen. The gentle, familiar rocking of the ship beneath you. And then you saw him. Law. His hands, steady as ever, meticulously peeled off clean gloves and tossed them aside. For once, it wasn't Bepo or Shachi or even your own trembling fingers pressing gauze to the ragged wound on your stomach. It was him. His fingers, usually so swift and precise, worked with the practiced rhythm of a surgeon, yet with a slowness, a gentleness that was entirely unexpected. He said nothing. You said nothing. You lacked the strength to fight, to push him away, to demand the dignity of self-sufficiency. All you could do was lie there, heavy-limbed and hollow, and let it happen.

Your breath hitched, a silent gasp, when his gaze, sharp and unyielding, landed on it. You knew he saw it. The mark. Burned faintly into your side, a ghost of a whisper, still visible after all this time. That damned hoof. The indelible brand of property. You hadn’t seen it in years, hadn’t needed to. It was hidden, tucked beneath layers of clothing, shielded from the world. But not from him. Not when he was this close, his hands the ones peeling back the layers of fabric and congealed blood.

He paused. Just for a fleeting second. And then his fingers resumed their work. Not faster, not rougher. Softer. As if he were handling something precious, something sacred. You didn't utter a word. You simply turned your head, staring at the sterile ceiling, and allowed him to see you. You didn't know what terrified you more – that he had touched you, or that you had let him.

A subtle, unspoken shift began after that. You avoided him. Not loudly, not dramatically, but in small, silent adjustments. You found yourself sitting across from him now, not beside. You'd leave a room just before he entered. Your gaze would drop, a silent surrender, when his met yours. You didn’t even have to articulate it; he understood. And perhaps that was the crueler twist. Not the touch itself, nor even the haunting memory of it. But the look. The way his eyes didn't flinch from what they had seen, the way they held you without judgment, as if he had already performed the complex calculations and accepted the monumental weight of what you carried. As if he wasn't afraid of it.

It was unbearable. That kind of profound softness… it cut deeper than any blade. You had grown accustomed to people flinching. In Mary Geoise, it was the reflexive obedience of inferiors. On the run, it was thinly veiled pity. On this ship, it had become respect. But this? This quiet understanding, this raw kindness radiating from the eyes of a man who rarely lingered his gaze on anyone for too long – it threatened to split you open.

The crew noticed, of course. Bepo watched you with worried glances, his large, kind eyes following your too-quick exits from rooms. Shachi and Penguin would drop their voices to hushed whispers whenever Law entered, sensing the electric tension. It spread through the submarine like oil on water, an unseen current. But no one spoke of it. It was too raw, too real, too… not their place.

"The Crowned Silence," they sometimes joked about Law's perpetually quiet presence. That’s what it became around you, an unspoken pact. No one spoke of the medbay. No one dared to mention what he had seen, or the quiet reverence with which he had stitched you back together, or the way your hands now trembled when he stood too close. They simply… didn't mention it. And for that, you were profoundly grateful. Because if someone had dared to voice what you already knew – if someone had looked at you and articulated the unbearable truth – you might have shattered.

It had been a long time since you’d lost control. You were a master of distance, an artist of detachment. You excelled at keeping your head down, at smiling through the biting cold, at ensuring your sleeves always covered the faded scars of old burns. You didn’t need comfort. You didn’t want touch. You had control.

Until you didn't.

It happened fast. Too fast. An ambush, perhaps. A mission twisted irrevocably sideways. Too many voices, too much searing heat, the acrid scent of smoke clawing at something ancient and terrified deep within your chest. Your legs moved, but your lungs refused to obey, struggling for air. Your hands shook uncontrollably, your mouth dry and parched. You were scared. So utterly, profoundly terrified. And you didn't even realize what you were doing until…

Your hand— It reached. It didn't grab a coat sleeve, didn't yank someone from harm's way. It wasn't instinct. It was need. And the fingers that laced between yours… they weren't Bepo’s. Not Shachi's. Not Ikkaku's. Not anyone you could laugh it off with later, dismissing it as a panicked reflex. No. It was his. Law's. Rough fingertips. Callused palms. Cooler than you expected. Steady.

He didn't look at you. Didn't ask. He simply held your hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it didn't shatter every unspoken rule between you. And worse – you didn't pull away.

After that day, something irrevocably changed. Perhaps not all at once, not like a switch flipped, but slowly. Quietly. Like the inexorable pull of the tide. You told yourself it was a fluke. You were scared. You panicked. You weren't thinking clearly. But the next day… he stood a little closer. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that you could feel him in your space. Enough that you could sense the warmth of his presence at your back in the medbay, his proximity a low hum you couldn't tune out.

Then came the next time. You were tired. No, you were utterly exhausted. Leaning against the cold metal wall outside the mess hall, head buried in your hands, bones heavy with the lingering exhaustion of an impossibly long mission. You didn't hear him approach. But you felt it. A hand on your shoulder. Just that. His. He said nothing, made no sound. But he didn't pull away when you didn’t flinch. He stayed.

And that became the pattern. You'd find him beside you during late-night walks on the deck, his hand brushing yours, never grasping, just… there. In meetings, he'd pass you things, his fingers grazing yours as if it meant nothing. As if he wasn't Law. As if you weren't you. You caught him watching sometimes, but not with that cold, calculating gaze he once possessed, not like a surgeon dissecting a specimen. Like a man. And you? You stopped moving away. Stopped avoiding his shoulder when you sat beside him on the bench. Stopped pretending your hand didn't linger beside his for a second longer than necessary. Stopped acting like you didn't feel it.

The crew noticed. Of course they did. They weren’t fools. They were pirates, not idiots. Bepo blinked slowly, his worried gaze fixed on Law whenever he stood too close to you. Penguin whispered something to Shachi one night, and both of them stared a little too long when you walked into the room with a towel draped over your shoulders – his towel. No one said a word about it aloud. Not yet. But you could feel it in the charged silence, a tangible shift. Something was blooming. You were terrified of it. And yet – you never let go first.

What had begun as infrequent, almost accidental contact, steadily grew into something more. It started in passing, small things, almost imperceptible. A hand on your back when navigating crowded ports. Knuckles brushing as you passed him a scalpel. His thigh pressed against yours during quiet dinners. Nothing loud. Nothing obvious. But it was always there. He was always there.

At first, you questioned your own perception, convinced you were imagining it, that you were the one reaching, leaning just a little closer, desperate not to be alone in your own skin. But then – his hand started finding yours first. Fingers brushing the inside of your wrist like a tentative question. And when you didn't pull away – his palm settled into yours as if it had always belonged there. He held your hand like it was normal. Like it was always supposed to be this way. Sometimes without even looking at you. Sometimes even while he was mid-conversation with the crew, his voice low and sharp – but still, his fingers wrapped around yours under the table like an anchor.

And then it got worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Arms brushed constantly now. Shoulders leaned together. Pinkies hooked lazily during slow, aimless walks through the ship. There was a single, shattering moment – you were leaning over the map table, tracing a course, and his hand slid up your spine. Open. Flat. Warm. You froze. But you didn't move. And when you finally looked at him, he didn't speak. Didn't ask. Didn't back off. He just looked at you the way he always did now – like he was seeing you, truly seeing you, and not flinching. It wasn’t accidental anymore. It wasn't just comfort. He was choosing you. And worse – you were starting to choose him back.

It had to happen eventually. The talking part. The naming part. You had both danced around it for so long, touching without asking, holding without question, as if the delicate tapestry woven between you would unravel the instant one of you spoke it aloud. But one night, the words slipped free.

It was quiet. Late. The crew was deep in the throes of sleep. Rain tapped gently against the reinforced glass of the observation room. You were curled on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, wearing a shirt that wasn't yours. His, perhaps. You couldn't recall if he'd given it to you or if you’d just started pulling it from the clean laundry without asking. He sat beside you, a book in one hand, your leg tucked beneath his as if it had always belonged there. And then, without looking up from the page –

"Does it still hurt?" His voice was low, almost a murmur, as if he feared the question itself might shatter the fragile peace.

You didn't answer right away. You didn’t have to ask what he meant. You stared ahead, watching the shadows dance across the glass. "Sometimes," you said quietly. "Less than it used to."

He nodded. Didn't press. You waited. And then –

"Why me?" Your voice cracked at the end, a whisper, an ache you hadn't meant to vocalize.

He didn't flinch. "Because you don't let anyone touch you," he said simply. "But you let me."

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't poetic. It was just honest. You blinked slowly, swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

Silence stretched between you, a tide pulling back, revealing hidden depths. And then – his hand found yours. No urgency. No pressure. Just warm fingers slipping into the space between yours like a puzzle piece that had been waiting a long time to fit. "I'll stop if you ever want me to," he murmured, his thumb brushing your knuckle, a feather-light touch. "You know that, right?"

You looked down at your hands. Your smaller one, enveloped in his. Fitted. Chosen. You didn't say yes. You didn't say no. You simply leaned your head against his shoulder and stayed there, until the rain stopped its gentle drum and the first pale light of the sun began to bleed through the curtains.

You didn't talk about it again for a while. Not in words. But everything you did was louder than any spoken declaration. You started reaching for him first. Sometimes it was quiet – your hand finding his when the ship rocked a little too hard. Other times, it was deliberate. Your fingers brushing his as you passed behind him in the medbay, just to feel the heat of him. You began to recognize how often he let it happen. How he slowed down just enough for you to keep pace. How he never pulled away first. He never asked for your touch, not once. But he always received it like a man who'd been starved of it all his life. And maybe he had.

There was something in the way Law held you that felt… reverent. Not fragile, not delicate – he knew you weren't made of glass. But there was a profound respect there. Like your body was a story, and he was reading it slowly, carefully, with every point of contact. Every brush of his knuckles down your spine. Every graze of fingers against your wrist when he took your pulse, as if he wanted to memorize the very rhythm of your being.

The crew noticed the change. It became harder to ignore when Law started standing next to you during briefings, shoulders almost always touching. When his coat found its way draped over your shoulders after long shifts without anyone needing to ask. When his bunk, usually cold and untouched most nights, was sometimes quietly empty at dawn. No one said anything. Not to your face. But you could feel it in their eyes. The shift. They didn't look at you like they were waiting for you to shatter anymore. They looked at you like someone coming back to life.

One night, long after curfew, you found yourself lying beside him, both of you tucked into that narrow cot that didn't quite fit two people – but somehow always did. You were lying on your side, facing him, one of his hands resting loosely at the base of your neck, his thumb stroking your jaw as if to remind you he was real. You stared at him for a long moment. At the way the moonlight caught the faint scar under his eye. At the exhaustion tucked just behind his eyelids that never quite went away.

"You always look like you're bracing for something," you whispered, the words barely audible.

His thumb paused for a heartbeat, then continued its gentle rhythm. "Maybe I am."

You didn't ask what. You didn't have to. You were bracing, too. Both of you – so accustomed to control, to being the calm in the chaos – that this… softness… was terrifying. But still, he held you. And still, you let him.

[2b4st4r]

just saying u r such an amazing writer <3 i really hope u will never feel burnout or discouraged to write :) i really enjoyed reading all of yours fics fr keep it up + will always support you :>>>

thank you so much! i’m genuinely so glad that so many of you look forward to my fics and enjoy them!

[2b4st4r]

Hello, could you do Akainu x reader, where the reader is an admiral and daughter of Garp? The two have known each other since they were young and are now married, but with Ace's death they have separated. The reader is sweet, kind, beautiful like Hancock, pretty much the opposite of Akainu. Maybe adding flashbacks from when they were young, other marines reacted to their relationship, and things like that?

Ashes and Admirals

Akainu x Reader

✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Words:10,825

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Warnings: grief, emotional abuse kind of, female reader, violence/war, depression, and betrayal.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ A/N: I wrote this really angsty, but itried to include everything you wanted. It was nice to write, even though I personally dislike this character. I'm not judging you for liking him; he just makes me so mad!

✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ

“You think this is justice?!” you scream, voice cracking as the tears finally spill past your lashes. “You killed him, Sakazuki!”

Akainu’s glare could burn holes in iron. His jaw clenches beneath the brim of his cap, and his voice bellows back like a cannon shot. “I did what had to be done! He was a pirate! A threat to the balance—!”

“No! He was my nephew!” you sob, fists trembling at your sides. “Ace was family. You knew what he meant to me, to Luffy— you knew!”

The air between you crackles with more than rage. The office feels too small for the both of you, suffocating with tension, grief, and heat—always that damn heat that clings to him like a curse. His magma burns everything it touches, and lately, it feels like you’re no exception.

“You’re letting emotions cloud your judgment again,” he growls. “You think I wanted this war? You think I enjoyed any of it? The world—your father—they entrusted me to protect it!”

But you’re not hearing him anymore. All you see is Ace, dying in your arms. Luffy, screaming. The chaos of Marineford carved into the back of your skull like a brand you’ll never escape.

And here he is—your husband. The Fleet Admiral. The man whose hands are soaked in blood you can’t forgive, even if your heart once beat wildly for him.

Because it wasn’t always like this.

Once, Sakazuki had been the quiet gravity you leaned into. Stern, yes. Brutal, always. But there was a strange steadiness in him, a shield that let you rest when the world spun too fast. He believed in control, in absolutes. Justice was not a debate, not to him. It was law. Flame and fury disguised as discipline. He was everything you were not.

And you—oh, you were you.

Sweet, radiant, unpredictable. Daughter of Monkey D. Garp. The sea had whispered to you since birth, and even without a title, the world listened when you spoke. You were a storm in silk, the woman whose smile made even warlords uneasy. You rivaled Hancock in beauty, but you never saw yourself that way. You walked barefoot across deck boards, laughed too loud, hugged too tight. You believed that love could fix anything.

Even him.

And somehow, back then, it did. In the quiet moments, when his hand would brush your back and the world was still. When he’d say your name like it anchored him. When you kissed him like you were stealing something sacred. You were fire and water. Chaos and order.

But now?

Now, the magma swells behind his eyes. You see the man the world fears—the one they crowned to keep peace by force.

And you wonder if you married a man you never truly knew.

“I lost Ace,” you whisper, voice broken. “I’m losing Luffy. And now I’ve lost you.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

And so you turn away, even as your heart stays behind.

The wind had smelled of salt and clementine that day—brisk and sharp, curling through the open sky like a sailor’s hymn. The sun scattered its golden light across the harbor’s edge, painting ripples on the water with a dreamer’s hand. And in the lull between duty and dusk, you saw him.

Sakazuki.

Not the man the world would come to tremble beneath—not yet. No “Admiral.” No “Fleet Admiral.” Just a man in uniform with a quiet scowl and shoulders that carried more than their share of burden. He stood alone near the edge of the dock, his coat thrown over one arm, a cut bleeding quietly beneath the fold of his sleeve. He looked like a wounded beast trying not to limp.

And you, in your sea-salt hair and ivory shawl, had been laughing with the tide.

The moment your eyes caught on him, you stopped. Not because he was handsome—though, in a jagged way, he was. Not because of the blood. But because something about him looked so very lost, like he had forgotten how to ask for help.

You approached without hesitation.

“You’re bleeding,” you said gently, kneeling beside him with soft hands and sun-warmed fingers. “Are you going to let the ocean see you like this? She’ll think you’re weak.”

He scowled, more out of habit than offense. “I don’t need help.”

“No one said anything about need,” you replied, already tearing a piece of your shawl to press against the wound. “Sometimes help just comes. Like sunlight. Or rain.”

Your touch was unafraid. Gentle, but not delicate. You were used to salt and storms, to wild things that didn’t like being touched. You smelled of jasmine and salt, and there was a calm in your gaze that disarmed him in a way the battlefield never could.

He should have pulled away. Should have snapped at you. Should have left.

Instead, he watched your hands move, watched the wind tangle strands of your hair like it adored you. And something in his chest—a place long buried beneath discipline and duty—shifted. Cracked.

“You’re Garp’s daughter,” he muttered at last.

You tilted your head. “And you’re one of his headaches, aren’t you?”

His jaw clenched, but your teasing smile softened it, just enough.

He remembered the way the light hit your face. The way your laughter made the gulls quiet. The way you talked to him like he was human. Like he wasn’t just justice wrapped in iron.

You stayed by his side that afternoon. Sat with him while the tide rolled in, humming a song your mother once sang. Told him about the constellations, about stories sewn into stars. And he—he listened. Not because he cared about stars or stories.

But because it was you.

And in the slow crawl of twilight, you asked for his name—not his rank. And he gave it.

Sakazuki.

And when you said it, he swore it sounded like something worth holding.

From that day on, the tides never quite returned to their old rhythm.

You saw him again a week later, then again after that, and again without meaning to. Sakazuki, with his stormcloud gaze and calloused hands, always trying to look too busy to stop—and yet, always stopping when it was you.

You didn’t ask much of him, not in those early days. You didn’t question the long silences or the way he sometimes stared too long at the sea like it owed him something. Instead, you met him where he was: in quiet harbors, in borrowed shade, with cups of tea you made too sweet on purpose just to see the faintest twitch of disapproval in his brow.

You, wild and bright and stubborn. Him, stern and sharp-edged but steady.

A strange kind of friendship bloomed between you. Unlikely. Unspoken. But real. He would walk you home under twilight skies, your shawl trailing behind you like wings. You would leave handmade food on his doorstep in clay-wrapped bundles, refusing to admit they were yours. He never said thank you, but you’d find the cloths folded neatly on your windowsill by morning.

He trained relentlessly. You watched sometimes, perched on fences or cannon crates, your chin resting on your arms as he moved like a blade honed by will alone. You would whistle or toss a plum at his back when he grew too serious, just to provoke a grunt or a rare, reluctant smirk.

You brought color into his gray world. Not loud or blinding—just warm.

“Why do you keep showing up?” he asked one evening as the sun bled out across the water. The question came out rough, defensive.

You didn’t flinch. You just smiled that small, almost secret smile. “Because when you look at the sea, you look like you miss her. And I don’t like seeing anyone miss something alone.”

He stared at you for a long time then, as if memorizing the shape of you against the dusk. His answer was silence, but somehow, it said more than words ever could.

And then came the laughter.

Yours, bubbling and bright, filled with the sort of joy he didn’t understand but wanted to. You’d drag him to town festivals, make him try food from stalls that left his lips stinging with spice. You would dance barefoot in the rain and scowl when he refused to join you, and he would watch from under an awning with his arms crossed and something dangerously close to fondness softening the hard lines of his face.

You showed him the world didn’t always have to hurt to be real.

He taught you how to read maps from memory, how to feel shifts in the wind, how to fire a rifle if you had to. You taught him the names of every bird on the southern coast and how to mend nets with one hand and how to sing lullabies in old fishermen’s tongues.

You weren’t lovers. Not yet. But the world began to curve in a way that made room for the possibility.

There was a night—humid and starlit—when you fell asleep beside him on the docks. Your head rested lightly on his shoulder, your hair carrying the scent of wind and lavender. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. His heart thundered so loud he was sure it would wake you.

But you just sighed softly in your sleep, and murmured his name like it was the calm between waves.

He didn’t sleep at all that night.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t mind.

It happened slowly, the way mountains shift, the way shorelines change—not in sudden eruptions, but in small, undeniable steps. You and Sakazuki became something more without ever naming it. No grand declarations. No confession under the moon. Just glances that lingered longer, silences that felt full instead of empty, the way his hand would brush yours and stay there just a breath too long.

And people noticed.

He was the Marine who scorched islands for the sake of justice, the embodiment of law without mercy. Sakazuki, whose very presence straightened spines and silenced rooms. And then there was you—bright, empathetic, the freespirited daughter of Garp, with a voice that calmed storms and eyes that made pirates and marines alike feel seen.

The whispers began almost instantly.

“She likes him?”

“Can she stand him?”

“Maybe she’s trying to change him.”

“He’ll break her. Or worse—she’ll soften him.”

You were laughter where he was silence. You greeted life like a friend, while he met it like a soldier. You believed in second chances. He believed second chances got people killed.

Still, the bond deepened. When he was promoted to admiral, it wasn’t the Fleet who heard it first. It was you.

You found him sitting on the edge of the training yard, silent, staring out at the horizon like it had said something cruel. His gloves were off. His hands—always so strong—were clenched in his lap.

“They gave it to me,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “Admiral?”

He nodded once.

For a moment, the wind filled the space between you. And then you smiled, all sun and sea breeze.

“I’m proud of you,” you said softly.

“I didn’t ask for pride.”

“No,” you said, walking toward him until you stood at his side, “but you have it anyway.”

His eyes met yours. And for the first time, he let you see it—doubt. The weight of responsibility, the fear of becoming what he hated. You placed your hand on his, and his fingers wrapped around yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime to be held like that.

The next time anyone saw you together, it was at a formal gathering—small, official, meant to celebrate his promotion. You arrived late, as always, with salt in your hair and flowers in your braid. He was already there, stoic in his uniform.

You didn’t say a word when you crossed the room. You just placed your hand on his arm and smiled.

The room fell dead silent.

Sengoku nearly dropped his drink.

Tsuru’s eyebrows vanished into her hairline.

Smoker coughed violently and then glared at nothing in particular.

A few lieutenants started whispering fast and low.

And then—of course—Garp.

He confronted Sakazuki the very next morning.

“You know what you’re doing?” he asked, eyes sharp beneath the easy grin. “That girl is my daughter, not a retirement plan.”

Sakazuki didn’t flinch. “I’m aware.”

“You hurt her,” Garp said, stepping closer, the laughter gone, “and no rank in the world will save you.”

“She’s not the one who’ll be hurt,” Sakazuki said. “She’s the one who could ruin me.”

Garp blinked. Just once. Then laughed. Loud, deep, and real. “Well,” he clapped the man’s shoulder, nearly knocking him sideways, “at least you know.”

Even Sengoku pulled you aside, days later. His voice was quiet, but his concern was loud.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked. “You could have anyone. That man… he’s magma. He destroys.”

You tilted your head and answered with a smile. “And I’m the sea. I understand how to hold fire.”

It became something of a bet among the Marines. A pool of beli passed between hands with predictions scrawled across napkins and scrap paper.

“Two months.”

“Six. He’ll snap.”

“No, she’ll leave. She’s too soft.”

“She’ll civilize him.”

“He’ll turn her cold.”

“She’s gonna melt him from the inside out.”

But time passed. And the two of you? You didn’t shatter. You didn’t burn. You bent, you learned, you grew. You argued, of course—you fought—but it was never cruel.

He came home late most nights, quiet, exhausted. You would kiss his temple and hold him without asking. And in turn, he would wrap you in his arms like you were the only soft thing left in the world.

And maybe… maybe that was the truth.

The rumors had always buzzed like flies, but lately they’d become impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just whispers anymore—it was chuckles in the halls when you walked by, raised brows over cups of sake, and that damn betting pool. You’d caught wind of it after hearing two Vice Admirals arguing whether you’d leave Sakazuki because he was “emotionally constipated” or because “he never says please.”

You’d nearly broken your teacup.

He heard about it a week later. You could tell by the way he stomped into the house and slammed the door hard enough to make the frames tremble.

“They’re betting,” he muttered, voice low and smoldering as he tore off his gloves. “On us. Like this is some kind of circus.”

You were lounging on the veranda, sunlight catching the curve of your smile as you sipped from a shell-shaped cup. “I told you. You didn’t believe me.”

“I didn’t think they’d be that stupid.”

“They’re Marines,” you shrugged. “That’s half their personality.”

He grunted.

You tilted your head at him, watching his scowl deepen as he stood there, still fuming, trying to figure out whether to yell or walk it off. You patted the spot next to you.

He didn’t sit, but he hovered nearby, pacing like a caged bear.

Then you said it—softly, sweetly, like asking what he wanted for dinner.

“So… you wanna get married?”

He froze mid-step.

“What?” he asked, deadpan.

You looked up at him with that same dangerous glint that always made his mouth twitch, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “Let’s get married. You and me. Might as well. We’re already scandalous, right?”

“You want to get married out of spite?” he asked, one brow twitching.

You grinned. “Only partially.”

He stared at you.

And then, to your great satisfaction, he laughed.

It wasn’t a full one—not yet—but it was real. A dry, deep rumble in his chest that slipped out before he could crush it down. You’d always loved that sound, rare as it was, like hearing thunder roll gently instead of break the sky.

You sat up, reaching for his hand.

“We’ve talked about it before,” you murmured, quieter now. “And you know I love you. You don’t need to give me a ring to prove it. But I’m choosing you. Every day. Even when you don’t say thank you. Even when you’re mad at the whole world and I have to throw a spoon at your head to get you to listen. I still want you.”

He looked down at you, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. His expression had softened, just enough.

“I knew,” he said, voice low, “the moment you made me that fish stew in silence after I pissed you off.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The one you said was too salty?”

“It was,” he replied. “But you still cooked it. That meant more than sweet ever could.”

You laughed, pressing your forehead to his.

“Then let’s do it,” you whispered. “Let’s make it official.”

You didn’t plan some grand ceremony. No ballrooms. No banners. Just a trip into town, him in his pressed coat, you in your sun-bleached shawl, walking hand-in-hand through the marketplace.

You chose the rings together. Not flashy. Not expensive. His was a band of dark forged steel, simple and strong. Yours had a single etched wave curling through the metal, barely visible unless the light hit just right.

The jeweler blinked three times when he saw who stood before him. Then dropped his pen. You smiled.

Later that night, you sat on the roof of your small shared home, legs dangling over the edge, watching the stars blink awake.

He sat beside you, arm around your waist, quiet as always. But his hand found yours. His fingers brushed the ring gently—like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“They’ll say you’re crazy,” he muttered.

You smiled, turning to kiss his temple. “Let them.”

And far below, somewhere in the barracks, a loud groan echoed as someone realized they owed thirty thousand beli to Vice Admiral Tsuru.

The next morning, the air in Marine HQ was unusually sharp—like the sea itself knew something was coming. The sky was a bright, blinding blue, the kind that demanded attention. The kind that didn’t allow for secrets.

The grand meeting hall was already full when you and Sakazuki arrived.

Vice Admirals lined the far wall. Sengoku was seated at the head of the long obsidian table, his fingers laced tightly beneath his chin. Tsuru stood beside him, sipping tea like she already knew more than she should. A few newer faces murmured at the edges, trying not to gawk too openly. And then—of course—there was Garp, lounging with one foot on the table, a rice cracker half-eaten in his hand, waiting for the meeting to start like this was just another day in paradise.

Until the doors opened.

You and Sakazuki entered side by side, calm and composed. His cape flowed behind him like molten shadow. You wore navy blue with a soft, sheer wrap over your shoulders, sea-glass earrings dancing in the sunlight that spilled from the windows. And on both your hands—left ring fingers—gleamed quiet metal.

A steel band for him.

A silver wave for you.

It was Tsuru who noticed first. Her teacup paused midair.

Sengoku followed her line of sight.

Then a fork clattered loudly from a young Vice Admiral’s tray at the back. Someone gasped. And somewhere in the corner, you swore you heard someone whisper, “No way. No freaking way—”

Sakazuki didn’t blink. He walked forward with the same unbending precision he always had. But your hand brushed against his just as you passed Garp’s chair. And Garp?

The old man choked on his rice cracker.

“You got married?!” he thundered, leaping to his feet so fast his chair scraped violently across the floor.

You smiled sweetly, lifting your hand and wiggling your fingers so the ring sparkled under the skylight. “Morning, Dad.”

The room erupted.

“You what?”

“Since when?!”

“I thought she was gonna leave him after that fight last month—”

“I had money on ‘six months tops!’ Damn it—”

“You married her?! Her?”

“You married him?!”

Sengoku’s hands slammed down onto the table.

“Everyone. Silence.”

It took a few seconds, but the room quieted—sort of. You could still hear muffled muttering and the sound of Garp recovering from shock with loud crunches of cracker.

Sengoku turned his eyes to Sakazuki. “Is this real?”

“Yes,” Sakazuki said without hesitation. “We’re married. As of yesterday.”

A beat.

Tsuru’s teacup met the table softly. “Congratulations,” she said, voice unreadable.

Someone in the back groaned, “That means I owe Kizaru fifty thousand—!”

You cleared your throat and smiled. “Sorry we didn’t invite the whole base. You know how Sakazuki is with crowds.”

He gave you a dry sideways glance. “You’re the one who suggested the temple wedding.”

“Because I knew if we did it here, you’d incinerate the cake.”

The room blinked. He let you tease him? In public?

Kizaru leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well well… The volcano has a wife now. Didn’t see that coming…”

“Are you both sure about this?” Sengoku asked, still eyeing the two of you like you’d announced the formation of a new warship fleet rather than a marriage.

“I’m sure,” Sakazuki said. “We don’t need anyone’s approval.”

You stepped forward then, your voice gentler but firm. “But we figured if you’re all going to keep betting on us, you should at least have the facts right.”

There was a collective groan.

“You could’ve told us!” one officer complained. “I had the date of your breakup party planned—!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Breakup party?”

Garp scratched the back of his head. “I, uh, may have… prepared a speech about how I’d support you no matter how hard you dumped him.”

Sakazuki crossed his arms.

Garp grinned and added, “Guess I’ll save it for the divorce.”

You burst out laughing.

The sound was rich and bright and utterly fearless. And when you glanced over, you caught it—just for a second—on Sakazuki’s face: the faintest tug of a smirk. Small. But real.

You leaned against him slightly, still smiling. “Sorry to disappoint, everyone.”

“No one’s disappointed,” Tsuru said at last, standing up and straightening her coat. “Just… stunned.”

Then she lifted her cup once more and added, calmly:

“But I did bet on forever.”

A few jaws dropped. One man cursed. Another started writing on a notepad furiously. Garp stared at her like she’d just betrayed the world.

You took your seat beside Sakazuki as the meeting finally, finally, began. The murmurs still hadn’t died entirely, and they probably wouldn’t for weeks. But for the first time in a long time, the rumors couldn’t touch you.

Not when you had each other.

Not when the rings on your hands gleamed like promises stronger than steel.

The title didn’t change everything.

You were still you, and he was still him. The vows didn’t erase the fire in your arguments or the weight of your silences. If anything, marriage made it louder—the way he’d grumble when you left dishes in the sink, the way you’d throw a pillow at him when he refused to let you patch him up after a mission.

“Sit down, Sakazuki!”

“I said it’s fine.”

“There’s literal magma blood dripping on the damn floor!”

“Don’t exaggerate—”

“You’re bleeding on the cat.”

But for every clash, every gritted-teeth disagreement, there were twice as many quiet moments. His hand finding yours beneath the table during meetings. You massaging his temples in silence when the reports got too heavy. Late-night tea with your legs tangled under the kotatsu, his voice rough from exhaustion, your head against his shoulder as the world outside raged on without you.

The Fleet didn’t stop betting. Not really.

There were always whispers—“Another fight? Must be close now.”

“She didn’t show up to lunch last week. Trouble in paradise.”

“I give it another three months.”

But the months stretched. Turned to years.

The betting pool shrank, eventually forgotten, replaced by an unspoken understanding: you weren’t going anywhere. Neither was he.

He still wasn’t warm—not to anyone but you. But they noticed the way his eyes softened when you entered a room. The way he didn’t raise his voice in your presence. The way he listened when you spoke, even when no one else could make him yield.

You kept your own life—free, untamed, tied to the sea like always. You still visited ports on your own, took tea with pirates you trusted, made friends in strange places that would’ve made the Navy shiver. He let you, never stopped you. Not because he liked it, but because he trusted you.

And every time you returned, salt on your cheeks and stories in your breath, he’d take you in his arms like it was the only place you were ever meant to be.

You’d sit together on the porch, watching the sun slide beneath the water. He’d speak little. You’d speak plenty. The world moved on around you—new wars, new enemies, new reasons for him to frown and you to worry.

But every night, you came back to each other.

“You regret it yet?” you’d ask sometimes, your voice lilting with amusement as you ran your fingers over his calloused knuckles.

“Not once,” he’d mutter. “Though I could’ve done without the cat.”

You’d laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Too late. He loves you now.”

And he did.

You’d catch him some nights, asleep on the couch, that grumpy little thing curled on his chest. A blanket thrown carelessly over them both. A book you’d been reading beside his arm. You’d pause in the doorway, heart too full for words.

There were still fights. Still scars. Still the weight of the world on both your backs.

But there was also love. Deep, unwavering, unshakable. The kind that didn’t come from fantasy or convenience. The kind that endured.

And somewhere, tucked in a forgotten file cabinet in HQ, the betting pool sheet sat gathering dust—still waiting for an ending.

But it never came.

It was supposed to be a quiet day.

The breeze rolled in warm off the sea, and the sun poured lazily over Marineford like a peace offering. You were walking through the eastern courtyard, humming to yourself, a woven basket on your arm filled with pastries you’d picked up for Sakazuki’s officers. You’d planned to drop them off with a smile and slip away before anyone could drag you into paperwork.

And then you heard it.

“Heh. Guess that Fire Fist brat finally ran out of luck. Should’ve known—blood like that doesn’t get far.”

Your steps halted.

Another voice chimed in, sharp and unbothered. “Yeah. Monkey D. Luffy’s brother, right? Figures. Trash breeds trash. Bet the execution’ll be a public one.”

There was a pause—the kind that happens when the wind dies just before a storm.

You turned around slowly.

The Marines—three of them, all younger, mid-rank, cocky—were laughing near the barracks.

You walked up to them with your basket still on your arm.

“Say that again,” you said softly.

They blinked, confused. One of them laughed. “We were just saying—”

“No,” you said, your voice no longer sweet. “Say it again. About Ace.”

There was a silence then. Not just in that space, but spreading—like the tension in the air had reached into every shadow and told it to hold its breath.

Because you—you, the gentle one, the bright one, the one even pirates spoke kindly of—you were furious.

One of them tried to backpedal. “We didn’t mean anything by it, ma’am—”

You dropped the basket.

“You dare talk about Ace like he’s nothing? That boy is my nephew. He was raised by my father. He grew up in my home. I taught him how to sail. I bandaged his knees. I kissed his forehead goodnight!”

Your voice rose, sharp, cracking with something none of them had ever heard from you before: grief and rage braided into one.

And then you turned on your heel and marched toward the central tower, hair flying behind you like a banner of war.

The guards outside Sengoku’s office opened the doors for you without a word—part fear, part respect.

Inside, the room was full.

Garp was seated near the wall, his jaw tight. Tsuru stood beside him, arms folded. Kizaru and Aokiji flanked the long window, Sengoku at the center of the room, mid-conversation. And Sakazuki—your husband—stood with his back straight, eyes like cooling embers.

All of them turned when you entered.

“Y/N,” Sengoku began, his voice cautious, “I was going to call for you—”

“You’re executing him?” you said, cutting him off, voice trembling with fury. “You’re killing Ace?”

The room stilled.

Sengoku’s brows knit. “He’s a commander of Whitebeard’s crew. He’s Gol D. Roger’s son—”

“He’s my nephew!” you screamed, voice finally cracking. “He’s Garp’s grandson. You’re telling me that doesn’t matter?!”

Everyone turned to Garp.

The old man’s face was shadowed. His fists were clenched on his knees. But he said nothing.

“Killing him won’t fix the world,” you continued, stepping further in. “You’re not proving justice by slaughtering a boy.”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” Sakazuki said then, voice low.

Your head whipped toward him.

“He’s a pirate, Y/N. A dangerous one. This is about sending a message.”

You stared at him, something brittle cracking behind your ribs. “A message? You want to spill my family’s blood on a platform for a message?”

He held your gaze. But his fists were clenched.

Tsuru finally stepped forward. “Y/N—”

“No,” you said, tears now burning hot at the corners of your eyes. “This isn’t justice. This is cruelty. Ace isn’t a saint, but he doesn’t deserve to die like this.”

And then you turned to Sengoku.

“If you go through with this… I will not forgive it.”

The weight of your words dropped like cannonfire.

“Y/N…” Garp said at last, voice barely audible.

You looked at him, and your heart broke all over again. The sorrow in his eyes mirrored your own.

“I won’t let him die without a fight,” you whispered. “Even if I have to burn the damn world.”

And then you turned and walked out.

No one stopped you.

Not even him.

The world blurred.

You didn’t remember leaving the tower. Not the steps you took or the faces you passed—only the sound of blood rushing in your ears and the taste of fury in your throat. The tears didn’t come right away. They never did. But your hands were trembling, your breath quick, shallow, as if your own body was trying to cage the grief before it shattered everything.

You walked. No destination. Just forward.

Down past the eastern wing. Past the cliffside barracks. Past the tide-washed gardens that you’d once helped replant after the last storm. Finally—finally—you reached a forgotten edge of Marineford: the old training cliffs, where no one went anymore. Where the earth cracked from years of battle and the sea beat endlessly against the rocks far below.

You stopped at the edge.

The sky was so clear. The water so blue. The air so calm.

And then it hit you.

The sob built in your chest like a storm breaking loose from inside your ribs, wild and aching and alive. You dropped to your knees.

And your Haki exploded.

It surged out of you like a tidal wave, untamed and raw. The earth cracked. The cliffs trembled. Far below, the sea hissed against the rock.

Every single soul on base felt it.

Vice Admirals stopped mid-sentence. Ensigns dropped their pens. Aokiji flinched, Tsuru sighed. Garp’s eyes shut slowly. Kizaru went dead silent for once. Even Sengoku set his cup down, hands motionless.

No one moved.

Because they all knew.

Only one person could make the air feel like this. Only one person’s Haki held grief like thunder and love like a blade. Only you.

No one went after you.

Not because they didn’t care—

But because they knew it would end worse if they did.

You stayed there for hours. Let it out in pieces—tears, gasps, screams buried into the sleeves of your shawl. You grieved for Ace, for Luffy, for your family, for the boy who used to cling to your leg and pout when you left town. For the man he’d become. For the sentence they’d handed him.

And for the husband who stood silent as the world signed your nephew’s death.

—

You didn’t go back to HQ. You went home.

The sun was starting to set when you opened the door to the small house you shared. You were barefoot, your hair tangled from the wind, your face streaked with dried tears.

It was quiet inside.

You sank onto the floor by the table, your shawl falling from your shoulders. The silence pressed in around you, thick, suffocating, too much.

Then you heard the front door.

It creaked open, then closed with that deliberate weight only one person ever had.

Boots stepped across the floorboards. The rustle of a coat. Then—stillness.

You didn’t look up.

Sakazuki stood in the doorway of your shared home, watching you. His expression unreadable. You knew that stillness in his posture—controlled, armored, carefully restrained.

But his eyes… his eyes looked tired.

“I didn’t agree with them,” he said quietly.

You didn’t move.

“I didn’t vote. Sengoku made the call.”

You still didn’t answer. The only sound was the soft ticking of the old clock on the shelf.

He walked forward. Slowly. Like you were a wild animal that might bolt.

When he stopped in front of you, you finally looked up. Your eyes were red, your face pale, but your stare was unyielding.

“You stood there,” you whispered. “And you said nothing.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t even try,” you choked, the words cutting through your throat. “You just stood there. You of all people know what family means to me. And you stood there.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m trying to hold the world together,” he said, low and pained. “And it’s falling apart faster than I can keep up. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this.”

You stared at him. Silent.

Then, finally—finally—his walls cracked.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, one hand on the floor, the other reaching for yours.

“I’m scared too,” he admitted. Barely a whisper. “But if I let myself care too loudly, the whole damn Navy will break.”

Your lips trembled. You didn’t want to forgive him. Not yet. But gods, you still loved him.

He pressed his forehead to yours, and for a long moment, neither of you moved.

“Let me be here,” he murmured. “Even if you hate me right now. Just let me be here.”

So you did.

You both sat there, side by side on the floor, with the sun slipping through the window and your sorrow between you like a ghost. You didn’t speak again that night.

But his hand stayed in yours.

And for now… that was enough.

You knew.

You’d always known.

Deep down, past the warmth of his touch, past the quiet moments and soft glances and nights spent tangled in each other’s arms—you knew who he was.

Sakazuki was not a man who bent easily. He didn’t sway in storms. He was the storm.

And beneath all his silences, beneath the small comforts he’d learned to give only to you, was still that same unshakable will: Absolute Justice.

That was what came first. Before kindness. Before compromise. Before love.

Even before you.

And that truth—that brutal, bitter truth—settled in your heart like ice.

Because no matter how many times he’d held you, no matter how gently he’d said your name, you knew: if proving a point meant putting Ace to death, Sakazuki would do it.

Not because he hated Ace. Not because he didn’t love you.

But because to him, mercy was a weakness.

And justice was everything.

—

You left that morning with no fanfare, no announcement, only the cold determination of someone who had nothing else to lose.

They tried to stop you at the gates to Impel Down.

The guards shifted uncomfortably when you approached, recognizing you instantly. Some bowed. Some saluted. Most simply stepped aside. But one—young, brave, and stupid—stood in your path.

“I-I’m sorry, Lady Y/N,” he stammered, hand tight on his weapon. “Warden Magellan didn’t clear visitors today. Not for—”

Your eyes met his.

Cold. Piercing. Unmoving.

He took half a step back, as if he’d felt a blade press to his throat.

“I am not a visitor,” you said calmly. “I am Ace’s family. And I am done being told to wait.”

He tried again, voice cracking, “It’s just—there are protocols—”

You raised your Haki without a word.

The stone beneath your feet cracked. The metal railing groaned.

He collapsed to his knees before you ever touched him.

“Tell Magellan,” you said, turning away, “if he has an issue, he can take it up with Sakazuki. Or better yet—with me.”

No one stopped you after that.

You descended the levels of Impel Down in near silence. The deeper you went, the colder it became—thick, damp air curling around your skin like smoke from an old fire. Screams echoed in the distance, but you didn’t flinch. Your heart was already too full of ache to make room for fear.

Finally, they brought you to the cell.

Level 6.

The prisoners nearby had grown quiet. Even the most monstrous among them sensed the shift in the air.

The guard slid open the final door.

You stepped inside.

And there he was.

Ace. Shackled. Leaning against the far wall. His head lifted slowly at the sound of the door.

His eyes met yours—and widened in disbelief.

“…Y/N?”

You tried to smile.

But you couldn’t.

You rushed forward instead, kneeling in front of him, your hands trembling as you reached for his face. The chains clinked when he moved, startled by your touch, his mouth parted as if the sight of you stole his voice.

“You’re really here,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, forehead pressing against his. “I should’ve come sooner.”

His hands tried to reach you, but the chains held him short. So you closed the distance yourself, wrapping your arms around him as much as you could, your fingers curling into his hair like he was still that boy who used to sleep beside your fireplace and complain about your overcooked rice.

“I’m gonna die, aren’t I,” he said, voice low.

The words made your throat close.

You didn’t answer.

“I knew they’d do it. Knew they’d use me.” He tried to laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Tell Luffy not to be stupid, okay? He’s gonna try something. I know he is.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.

“I’ll protect him,” you said. “I’ll protect both of you.”

He looked away. “Even if it’s Sakazuki standing in the way?”

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t ask it cruelly. Just quietly. Like someone asking if a star would still shine when the sky caught fire.

And for a moment, you said nothing.

Because the truth?

You didn’t know.

But you did know one thing:

You would not let Ace die without a fight.

You leaned forward again, pressing your lips to his temple. “Rest,” you whispered. “Save your strength.”

He exhaled shakily, shoulders trembling.

You stood and turned to leave, your hands clenched so tight they burned.

Because soon… very soon…

You’d have to stand between the man you loved—

And the family you swore to protect.

And this time, no one would walk away untouched.

You went every day.

Every morning, before the sun climbed over the edge of the sea, you were there—walking the dark, narrow corridors of Impel Down with a purpose no one dared question anymore. The guards no longer looked you in the eye. Even Magellan stopped asking what you hoped to accomplish.

You weren’t there to stop the execution.

You were there for him.

And Ace… Ace stopped asking you to.

He stopped trying to push you away.

Because every day, when you arrived—soft-eyed, steady, and unflinching—it reminded him that he wasn’t alone. That someone in the world still loved him like a brother, like a son, like the bright, reckless boy he used to be.

You never cried in front of him. Not once. You talked to him like he had all the time in the world. Told him stories, teased him gently, made him smile. Sometimes you brought books, just so you could read aloud and let your voice fill the empty space.

Sometimes… you just sat in silence, your hand pressed to his shackled one.

Sakazuki hated it.

He never said it outright—not the first time, not the second. But on the third day, he stood in the doorway as you buttoned your coat, jaw tight.

“You don’t have to keep going,” he said.

“I know I don’t have to,” you answered, calmly. “But I will.”

“He’s not your son, Y/N.”

“No,” you replied, fixing your collar. “He’s my family. And he’s dying. I won’t let him do it alone.”

His silence said everything.

The next day, he tried again. And the day after that. The arguments grew louder, sharper, edged with fear he didn’t know how to name.

“He chose his path,” Sakazuki said once, voice raised. “He made his decisions. This is the consequence.”

“He chose freedom!” you shouted back. “And so did Luffy. You think that’s worth death? You think I can just sit back and let you all murder him for it?!”

“He’s a pirate.”

“He’s a boy! A boy who has more heart than half this damn Navy!”

Neither of you backed down.

But still, every day, you left.

And he let you.

Because in the end, Sakazuki knew: he might’ve claimed your heart, but he could never chain your soul.

The night before the execution, the world was too quiet.

You sat beside Ace in the low orange light of his cell, your hands folded in your lap, not touching him this time. Not speaking. You just looked at him. And he looked back.

There was a calm in him you didn’t expect. Something heavy, yes—but no fear.

“I’m glad you came,” he whispered after a long silence. “Every day. I mean it.”

You nodded once, your voice caught somewhere in your chest.

He leaned back against the stone. “Will you be there? Tomorrow?”

“I already promised,” you said.

His smile was tired, crooked. “Did Uncle Sakazuki lose his mind?”

“More than usual.”

He laughed. Just once.

You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t let yourself—not yet.

And when it was time to leave, you stood slowly. Ace followed you with his eyes, his face unreadable in the dark.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” you replied, voice trembling.

Then you turned and walked away, the sound of your steps echoing in the cold.

—

Marineford was a storm before the storm.

You arrived before the crowd. The wind howled in the distance. Warships lined the edge of the sea like jagged teeth. Marines swarmed the grounds, readying for war, unaware that fate itself was circling overhead.

And then—your footsteps on the stone.

Heads turned.

Conversations stopped.

The air thickened.

Garp was the first to see you.

He stood by the main tower, hands behind his back, staring down at the execution platform. When he turned and saw you approaching, his eyes widened in disbelief.

“Y/N—no,” he said, moving toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I told him I’d be,” you said. “I’m keeping my word.”

Behind him, Sengoku looked up from his war table. His expression dropped.

“Y/N,” he called, stern, “go home. This isn’t your fight.”

“I know it’s not my fight,” you replied. “That doesn’t mean I won’t stand beside him.”

And then he arrived.

Sakazuki.

He came around the corner, already dressed in full uniform, cap low over his eyes, coat draped heavy across his broad shoulders like the burden he refused to share. And when he saw you…

His steps halted.

He looked—shocked. Just for a moment.

Then his gaze swept over you. Your storm-gray coat. The way you held your hands tight at your sides to keep from trembling. The pain you were hiding just beneath your skin.

And something cracked in his chest.

He walked up to you slowly. Stopped a few feet away. The wind flared between you.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, low, rough.

“I had to,” you replied.

“Y/N—”

“I promised him,” you cut in. “And I won’t let him face this alone.”

The silence between you was thick with everything you couldn’t say.

He stared at you like he wanted to stop the world itself. Like, just for a moment, he wished he wasn’t who he was.

But he didn’t ask you to leave again.

Because he knew what the answer would be.

The sun rose cruel and golden over Marineford, gilding the gallows in light so beautiful it mocked what they were built for.

You stood there in the courtyard, the execution platform looming in the distance like a monument to everything you’d failed to stop. You watched as workers adjusted the chains, polished the blades, secured the stone beneath the posts. Every clink of metal twisted deeper into your chest.

You didn’t cry.

You felt like you should. Like something in you wanted to collapse and scream and tear it all down with your bare hands. But instead… you felt nothing.

Just hollow.

Just alone.

Sakazuki hadn’t spoken to you since the night you returned from Impel Down. He came home like he always did. Slept beside you like he always had. But the silence between you had stretched wide and brittle, like sea glass about to break.

You still reached for each other at night.

Still curled beneath the same blanket.

Still loved each other—Gods, you did.

But love had become a quiet ache, something bruised and unspoken, trapped between who you were and what you could never agree on.

He never asked if you’d stay home.

He already knew the answer.

You stood in the harbor wind, your coat flapping around your legs, your hair catching the light like black silk. You stared at the platform and felt every second weigh down on your bones.

Then you heard heavy footsteps behind you.

“Y/N.”

You turned to see Garp.

His cap was pulled low, and the shadows under his eyes looked carved there. He didn’t wear his usual grin, didn’t even try. When he stepped close, he looked at you like he was bracing for a goodbye.

“I need you to promise me something,” he said, voice hoarse.

You didn’t answer right away.

“Don’t fight,” he continued, eyes on yours. “Don’t interfere. Don’t go up there. Not when it starts. Not if the pirates come. Not even if…”

He faltered.

You swallowed. “Not even if they kill him?”

His jaw clenched. His throat worked.

“…Not even then.”

You looked away, back at the platform.

“I’m not sure I can keep that promise.”

He stepped closer. His hand found your arm.

“Then promise me you’ll try.”

You didn’t speak for a long time. The wind was cruel. The sea restless.

But eventually, your voice came, cracked and quiet.

“…I’ll try.”

Garp’s expression broke then—not with frustration, not with anger, but with sorrow. The sorrow of a father who had tried to protect all the wrong things and lost all the right ones.

And when you swayed, just slightly, under the weight of it all—he caught you.

You collapsed into his arms like the little girl you used to be. No titles. No strength. No steel behind your spine. Just you. And him. And the grief between you both.

He held you against his chest, and you let yourself fall apart. Quietly, without ceremony. Tears soaked into his uniform. Your hands curled in the fabric like a child clinging to a world that was slipping through her fingers.

He didn’t speak. He just held you.

—

From the high command tower, Sakazuki stood at the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression didn’t change. It never did. But his eyes… his eyes followed you.

He watched Garp hold you, saw your shoulders shake, saw your fingers clench his coat like you were drowning.

Behind him, Sengoku stood with his arms folded, looking out beside him.

“You know she’s not going to stay quiet,” Sengoku said softly.

Sakazuki said nothing.

“She loves that boy like her own. You know that.”

Still, no answer.

“I warned you, Sakazuki. If this happens… if this goes through, she might never forgive us.”

The Fleet Admiral turned then, eyes hard, old lines etched deep in his face. “She might never forgive you.”

Finally, Sakazuki spoke.

“She already hasn’t.”

Sengoku’s mouth tightened. He glanced once more to the scene below—where you were wiping your face with trembling hands, trying to reassemble yourself before the world came to watch.

“And if she breaks?” he asked quietly. “If she chooses them?”

Sakazuki didn’t answer right away. His hands were trembling at his sides, so faint only someone watching closely could tell.

“I’ll do what I have to,” he said at last.

“But I hope,” he added, quieter now, “I never have to see that day.”

The drums began just before noon.

They echoed through the bones of Marineford like war itself had been given a heartbeat—slow, solemn, terrible. A hush fell over the fleet of gathered Marines, thousands strong, all poised around the execution platform that towered in the center of the island.

You stood at the edge of it all. Behind the front lines. Where family was allowed to watch but not interfere.

Your hands were fists at your sides. Your expression unreadable. Every part of you was still. Calm.

But inside, your soul was screaming.

The gates opened.

They brought Ace in chains—wrists, ankles, chest—and dragged him to the platform like a trophy. His face was bruised, bloodied, but his spine remained straight. His head high. His eyes locked forward, unflinching.

You didn’t blink.

Your mouth trembled, but you forced it still. You had promised Garp. You had promised yourself.

You would not break.

Garp stood nearby, higher up, his face a stone mask.

Sengoku stood before the crowd, flanked by Aokiji, Kizaru, and—closest to you—Sakazuki.

Your husband stood tall and unmoving. Unreadable to everyone but you. He refused to look your way.

And then, Sengoku’s voice rang out, carried by den den mushi across the world.

“Portgas D. Ace… son of Gol D. Roger.”

You heard the whispers ripple through the gathered masses. Felt the shock bloom like fire.

Ace didn’t deny it.

Didn’t lower his gaze.

Didn’t flinch.

You wanted to run.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you held your breath and watched.

And then… the sea split.

A quake. A roar. A surge of water so massive the world tilted with it.

Whitebeard had arrived.

His ship—Moby Dick—erupted from beneath the sea itself, rising like a leviathan from the depths. Behind him, ships burst from hidden ice, from the sea floor, from every direction—his fleet, his children, his army.

The battle began.

Cannons fired. Ice froze over the sea. The Admirals moved like gods of destruction—Aokiji launching frozen spears, Kizaru striking like light itself, Sakazuki hurling molten fists that tore through steel.

You didn’t move from your place.

You watched them fight. Watched Marines fall, pirates charge. Watched blood soak into the earth.

And then—chaos.

A shout from the sky. A shape.

Straw Hat Luffy came falling from above.

You felt your breath vanish.

“LUFFY—!”

He hit the ground like a meteor, yelling Ace’s name before the dust even settled. His crew wasn’t with him—not all of them. Just a handful of the worst criminals in history, newly escaped from Impel Down, now crashing into the middle of the war like they had nothing to lose.

Your nephew had come to save his brother.

You should have known.

Ace’s eyes lit up when he saw him.

And from then on… it was fire and blood.

Luffy threw himself at the front lines. Charging admirals. Fighting warlords. He screamed until his voice cracked. Got up every time he fell. Took every hit like his body didn’t matter.

You couldn’t stay back any longer.

You stepped forward once—just once—until a hand gripped your arm.

“Y/N,” Garp said behind you, his voice low and ragged. “You promised.”

You stared ahead at the storm. At the children trying to save each other while the world ripped itself apart. You clenched your jaw.

“I promised,” you whispered.

So you stayed.

But your Haki pulsed off your skin like a storm barely restrained.

Then—suddenly—Sengoku moved.

He ordered Ace’s execution mid-battle.

The executioners raised their blades.

Time slowed.

You were already stepping forward—you were going to break that promise—when Luffy screamed.

“HAAAAAA—!!!”

A shockwave exploded from him. The executioners dropped. Marines collapsed.

The air warped.

Conqueror’s Haki.

Your hands flew to your mouth.

You had always known Luffy was special—but this?

Even Sengoku staggered for a heartbeat. Even Sakazuki turned to stare.

It was only moments later—moments—that everything went faster than you could process.

Ivankov, Jinbei, Crocodile, Inazuma— all of them trying to hold the line. Luffy sprinting up the scaffold. Garp standing in his way—stopping himself from punching the boy who called him Grandpa.

Ace looked at him—eyes wide, trembling—and shouted his name.

You screamed with him.

And then—the chains broke.

Ace was free.

The platform crumbled beneath the force of battle. Lava. Lightning. Blades. Screams.

You saw Luffy and Ace fight side by side, fire and will clashing with the full might of the Marines.

And somewhere in the chaos—

Sakazuki began to move.

He was heading for them.

You froze.

You saw it in the way his jaw set. The way his eyes burned. He wasn’t going to hold back. He wasn’t going to stop.

Not for Ace.

Not for Luffy.

Not even for you.

And that was when your heart truly broke.

Because in this moment—this one terrible, irreversible moment—you understood:

You loved him.

But he was about to become the reason you lost everything.

You felt the shift before it happened.

It was like the air itself stopped breathing—just long enough for your instincts to scream. For your heart to lurch in your chest like it knew a tragedy was coming and your body couldn’t stop it in time.

Luffy was still panting from the climb.

Ace was standing beside him, free at last.

There was fire on his shoulders, hope in his eyes.

You exhaled shakily.

Finally.

And then you saw him.

Sakazuki.

Your husband, moving through the battlefield with the same purpose he always had. Unrelenting. Untouchable. His jaw set, his coat billowing like a judge’s robes in a courtroom that had already decided the verdict.

You moved before you even realized.

You ran.

You heard Garp’s shout behind you—your name, raw and cracked—but you didn’t stop. Your haki flared like lightning on the sea, tearing through bodies that tried to block your path, but they weren’t the target.

He was.

You couldn’t let him reach them.

He launched himself upward—a pillar of magma exploding toward Ace and Luffy with death in its wake. His voice boomed through the sky:

“You pirates don’t deserve to live—!!”

And then—Ace moved.

You saw it—too late.

He turned. He shielded.

He stood in front of Luffy.

You were still running when it happened.

The fist.

The heat.

The scream.

Luffy’s scream shattered the sky.

Your knees buckled as you watched the blow tear through Ace’s back—magma punching through flesh, fire clashing with fire—and for a moment the world was silent.

And then it shattered.

You didn’t remember what happened between the scream and when you reached them.

All you knew was the blood.

So much of it.

Luffy was cradling Ace now, weeping openly, fingers digging into his brother’s skin like he could hold him here, like if he held tight enough, he could undo it.

You fell to your knees beside them.

“Ace,” you whispered.

He looked at you, and it broke you.

Because he smiled.

Even now. Even in this.

He was smiling at you.

“Sorry…” he rasped. “Guess I made things hard again…”

You shook your head wildly, hands pressing against his wounds, against the heat, trying to stop what couldn’t be stopped.

“No, no, no—stay with me, Ace—stay, you’re gonna be fine, we’ll get you a ship, a doctor—Luffy, tell him—”

But Luffy couldn’t speak. His sobs were too heavy.

Ace’s fingers brushed your cheek. Gentle. Final.

“Take care of him…” he whispered. “Don’t… be mad at him…”

You didn’t understand. “Who—?”

His eyes flickered past you.

Over your shoulder.

To the man who had killed him.

You turned.

Sakazuki stood there, hand still burning, breathing hard, expression unreadable.

He didn’t move.

You stared at him like you didn’t recognize him.

Like he was a stranger wearing your husband’s face.

And maybe he was.

Maybe he always had been.

When Ace exhaled for the last time, his body going slack in Luffy’s arms—

You screamed.

Your haki shattered the ground around you, cracks ripping through the earth, Marines and pirates alike dropping to their knees, choking on the force of your grief.

Even Sakazuki flinched.

But you didn’t fight him.

You didn’t lunge. You didn’t strike.

You just looked at him.

Tears streaked your face, your lips trembling, your body shaking with too much to hold.

And with your voice broken and empty, you asked him one question:

“…Was it worth it?”

He didn’t answer.

Because maybe even he didn’t know.

You didn’t feel the end of the world.

You only felt Ace.

His body was cooling in your arms. Blood stained your hands, your knees, your chest. You cradled him like you used to when he was small, when he’d fall off the roof trying to impress you, when he cried from nightmares he’d never admit to having. Back when he needed you.

Now you held what was left.

You weren’t sure how long you knelt there.

The battlefield raged around you—smoke, fire, screams.

But none of it reached you.

Ace’s head rested in the crook of your shoulder, his freckles pale, eyes closed. There was something horribly peaceful about it. Like he’d found what the world refused to give him in life—rest.

You didn’t weep anymore.

You were empty.

“Luffy…”

You heard Jinbei’s voice, faint but clear, carrying your youngest nephew away from the burning chaos. Luffy was limp in his arms—his screams had stopped. He was barely conscious, his skin pale, mouth open like he still couldn’t draw breath.

And behind them—he chased.

Sakazuki.

Your husband.

Like the war hadn’t taken enough.

Like your pain hadn’t been enough.

He tore through Marines and pirates alike, magma devouring everything in his path. His voice rang out, a monstrous command to end it, to kill the Pirate King’s blood before another spark could catch fire.

You didn’t chase him.

You didn’t scream for him to stop.

There was no part of you left that could.

You just clutched Ace tighter.

Luffy and Jinbei disappeared into the smoke, somewhere past the walls of crumbling justice.

And then—the tide shifted.

The order to retreat echoed.

nShanks had arrived. The Red-Haired Emperor himself, splitting the sea in his wake, demanding the war’s end with nothing but a sword and a presence that silenced even death.

The fighting stopped.

The chaos dulled.

The blood was left to dry.

Still, you didn’t move.

Even as Marines rushed around you, picking through wreckage, dragging the wounded from the field, you stayed there—on your knees, on that broken stone, Ace’s lifeless form in your arms.

Someone tried to approach.

You raised your Haki just slightly, and they stepped back.

You weren’t ready to let go.

You couldn’t.

Later, when the ash had settled and the sun began to bleed over the ruined harbor, Sengoku stood high above the courtyard, coat torn and mouth grim.

He looked down at you.

You, who had loved the Navy and the sea.

You, who had loved your family more.

You, who had married the very man who destroyed what you had left.

“Leave her,” Sengoku said to the soldiers.

“But sir—”

“She’s done more than enough.”

And so they did.

They left you there, alone with the dead, surrounded by the wreckage of what had once been a proud, powerful stronghold. The price of Absolute Justice glimmered in the pools of blood at your knees.

And the world, though it tried to move on…

Would never forget the woman who knelt in silence,

holding her nephew long after the war had ended.

The battlefield had quieted.

Ash clung to the air like snowfall, soft and gray, muffling the groans of the wounded and the hush of ocean wind. The flames had died, the magma had cooled, and the last gunshot had long since faded into silence.

You were still kneeling in it.

The ruins of Marineford surrounded you, but all you saw was the boy in your arms—the man he’d become, the man they burned alive in front of you.

You could feel his weight beginning to settle into something that no longer felt like a body.

But you couldn’t let go.

You wouldn’t.

Not until someone made you.

And that someone came, as you always feared he would.

Sakazuki’s boots crunched over blood-slick stone as he approached, slow, steady. You didn’t look up. You didn’t move. You heard him stop a few feet away, that familiar shadow falling over you like a memory that no longer belonged to the world you were in.

“Y/N.”

Your name—just your name—quiet, too quiet.

You didn’t answer.

“Come home.”

Still, nothing.

His voice was lower now, softer than it had been all war. “Let me take you back. Please.”

And for the first time, you stirred.

You looked up.

Your eyes were red and hollow, your face streaked with ash and salt. But there was something hard in you now—something neither of you could put back. The kind of fracture that even time couldn’t heal.

You didn’t speak.

You just looked at him.

And then—

“No.”

The voice didn’t come from you.

It came from behind him.

From Garp.

He strode toward you, heavy and furious, eyes shadowed and jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His uniform was torn, stained with smoke and blood, his fists balled so tightly they trembled.

Sakazuki turned.

“You’ve done enough,” Garp growled.

“She’s my wife.”

“She was your wife,” Garp snapped. “Before you killed her goddamn family.”

Sakazuki’s eyes narrowed. “I followed the orders. I followed the law.”

“You murdered my grandson.”

Garp’s voice cracked then. Just slightly.

“She just held his body for six hours, and you think you can walk over here like this and pretend to care? After what you did? After what you let happen?”

“She’s not your possession,” Sakazuki said, his tone tightening. “She comes home with me. I can take care of her.”

“You can’t take care of shit.” Garp stepped closer, his voice a low, dangerous thunder. “You’re the reason she’s like this. You’re the reason he’s dead. And as far as I’m concerned, you don’t get to have her anymore.”

The two men stared each other down—two titans at war, one seething with guilt, the other with unbearable grief.

And in the middle, you remained silent.

Because the truth was—you didn’t know where home was anymore.

Not with the Marines.

Not with Sakazuki.

Not even with your own reflection.

So when Garp finally turned to you, eyes still full of sorrow, he didn’t ask.

He just offered a hand.

You looked at it.

Then you looked at your husband.

And still… you said nothing.

You rose slowly, gently laying Ace’s body down as if he were only asleep. Your fingers brushed his hair back one last time.

Then you turned to Garp and took his hand.

Sakazuki didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop you.

Because he knew.

As Garp led you away—away from the wreckage, away from the man you once loved—you didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

Because in your heart, something had burned away with Ace’s last breath.

And there was no going home from that.

The next day came.

And the sun still rose.

That was the worst part.

You opened your eyes to the pale light slipping through the window of Garp’s home—the same home you’d grown up in, now filled with silence instead of laughter. The birds still sang outside. The wind still blew. The sea, ever faithful, still kissed the shores.

But nothing inside you moved.

Not really.

You got up. Dressed. Braided your hair the way Ace used to compliment. You stepped into the light like a ghost might—present, but only in the most technical sense. You walked to Marineford’s ruins like everyone else… to help rebuild.

okay so here is part 2 because it genuinely won’t let me type or paste my writing into here so..

[2b4st4r]

Ashes and Admirls 2

˖°𓇼🌊⋆🐚🫧

Part one!! ||has warnings, words, etc||

˖°𓇼🌊⋆🐚🫧

It wasn’t you.

You didn’t speak much.

Didn’t argue. Didn’t smile.

You followed orders. Lifted beams. Reconstructed barracks. Gave reports. Nodded when spoken to. But it was like your soul had been scraped thin—something that once sang with fire now left quiet and hollow.

People noticed.

They whispered behind your back.

“She hasn’t laughed once.”

“Did you see her eyes? It’s like… she’s not even there.”

“I heard she hasn’t spoken to the Fleet Admiral since the war.”

“I heard she left him.”

You didn’t respond. You never did.

Even the soldiers who used to stand straighter when you walked by had stopped trying to catch your attention. Your presence no longer lit the room—it only dimmed it.

Even Sengoku noticed.

He passed you once near the reconstructed war table. Paused. Looked like he wanted to say something.

But when you glanced up at him, your gaze so quiet and unreachable…

He only nodded and walked away.

—

At home, Garp tried.

He tried so hard.

He cooked your favorite meals. Made loud jokes like he always had. Sat on the porch with you in the evenings and talked at you, even when you didn’t talk back. He brought up Luffy every so often—tenderly, carefully—just to see if you’d respond.

You didn’t. Not at first.

You’d sit in the same spot every night, hands folded neatly, your cup of tea gone cold by the time the moon was up. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stayed there—quiet and still and wrong.

Once, he came into your room and found you sitting on the floor beside your old chest of memories.

Your hands rested on a faded drawing Luffy had made when he was small—him, you, and Ace with enormous heads and no necks.

You didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

Garp knelt beside you, placed a hand on your shoulder, and felt your body flinch under the touch like you weren’t used to warmth anymore.

“You don’t have to carry it alone, you know,” he said quietly.

You looked at him then. Your eyes were dry, but they looked like they hadn’t rested in years.

“Don’t I?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Later that week, a few of the younger Marines tried to approach you at the worksite.

“Lady Y/N,” one of them said, timidly, “we—we made this. For… for Fire Fist.”

He held out a small wooden carving. Simple. Sloppy. But made with care—a likeness of Ace, holding his hat and smiling.

You stared at it.

Then took it gently, your fingers brushing the carved lines. You traced them slowly, and for a moment… a small breath caught in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

The boy looked stunned. Then nodded quickly and ran off.

It was the first time anyone had heard you speak in a week.

But you didn’t smile.

You just sat down on the stone steps and held the carving to your chest.

And far away, up in the Marine command tower, Sakazuki watched from the window.

His hands were behind his back. His face unmoving.

But he watched you sit there for a long, long time.

And said nothing.

It happened just over a month after the war ended.

The official announcement came during a high-command meeting, though the decision had been settled days earlier in quiet corners and shadowed conversations.

Sengoku had stepped down.

Sakazuki had taken his place.

You heard the words in silence.

Nodded when they were said.

Even offered the briefest congratulations when protocol demanded it.

But your heart didn’t move.

It hadn’t since Ace died.

Since Luffy vanished.

Since your world broke open.

You didn’t go home that night. Not then.

You walked back to Garp’s house. Sat on the porch. Listened to the sea. Let the truth settle on your shoulders like another stone you’d never put down.

But the next day…

You went home.

The house was just as you’d left it.

Everything in its place. Spotless, silent. Your shoes still beside the door. A cup you’d left on the counter—washed and set aside. He’d been here. He’d waited. Or maybe he hadn’t.

You weren’t sure anymore.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The air felt tight, too clean, like no one had really breathed in it in weeks.

Then you heard him.

“In the office.”

His voice, low and clipped, floated through the hall. It didn’t sound like victory. It didn’t sound like anything at all.

You walked in slowly, your heels soft against the polished floor, and there he was.

Sakazuki.

Now Fleet Admiral.

He stood behind the wide desk where Sengoku once stood, his arms behind his back, eyes locked on a stack of reports he hadn’t even flipped through. His coat was freshly pressed. His rank, heavy on his shoulders.

He didn’t look up.

You stared at him.

This man.

Your husband.

Your executioner.

“…So,” you said quietly, “you got what you wanted.”

He turned his head slightly. Just slightly.

“It’s what the world needed,” he said.

You didn’t answer right away.

You stepped further into the room, your voice growing colder. “And what about what I needed?”

That was the first time he looked at you.

Really looked.

Your eyes met, and it was like something long buried cracked open.

His jaw tightened.

“I did what I had to do.”

“You killed my nephew.”

“He was a pirate.”

“And he was mine!”

Your voice cracked—sharper than the wind outside, angrier than it had ever been before. The grief you’d bottled up was unraveling, the ache spilling through your chest like seawater through a cracked hull.

“You didn’t just kill Ace,” you whispered, stepping closer. “You let them drag him through the streets. You let them chain him. Humiliate him. You stood there and watched the boy I helped raise die screaming—and you did it in the name of justice.”

“I did it for peace.”

You laughed.

A hollow, wounded thing.

“There’s no peace in you,” you said. “There never was. You just wanted power. You always did. And now you have it. A title, a chair, a bloody crown.”

“You think this is about titles?” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Do you think I wanted to be Fleet Admiral so I could sleep better at night? So I could feel good about what had to be done?”

“No,” you said bitterly, “I think you did it because you couldn’t stand not being the one in control.”

His hands clenched. “You’re acting like I took joy in what happened.”

“You didn’t take joy—you took pride.”

You were shaking now. “You believed in it. That’s worse.”

A silence fell between you, deep and sharp.

You looked at him, eyes wet, voice shaking but steel beneath it.

“I loved you. God, I loved you. I thought—maybe—I could be enough to make you see the world differently. That my love, that our marriage, that Ace and Luffy—that I could matter enough to make you pause.”

He stared at you.

You stepped back. Just once. Just a single step. But it felt like the whole house shifted.

“You chose justice over me,” you said.

And that’s when his voice broke.

“I am justice.”

You stopped breathing.

It wasn’t just a motto anymore.

It was his truth.

And you knew, right then and there, that this—this—was the beginning of the end.

Your eyes welled with tears you couldn’t hold anymore, but your face remained steady, even as your heart shattered for the second time in thirty days.

“…Then you don’t get to have me anymore.”

And that’s where it started.

The shouting. The accusations. The heartbreak.

The scene the whole damn base would hear through the walls.

Where the Fleet Admiral and his wife—the woman once called the kindest heart on the sea—stood in their home, torn by grief and love and everything that had ever mattered between them…

And burned what little they had left.

“You don’t get to have me anymore.”

The words hung between you like a gunshot—suspended in the air, echoing in every corner of that house that had once held laughter, late-night tea, kisses on the kitchen counter, and the quiet warmth of a love people never understood.

And Sakazuki—Fleet Admiral now—he just stood there.

Jaw clenched.

Eyes dark.

Unmoving.

You’d never seen him look so human.

And then—he broke.

“You think this was easy for me?!” he snapped, stepping forward, fists shaking at his sides. “You think I wanted to stand there and do nothing while you looked at me like I was the one who put that hole in his chest?!”

“You were!” you screamed.

The dam shattered.

“You were the one! You didn’t pull back, you didn’t hesitate! You saw him, you knew who he was to me, and you did it anyway! Don’t you dare talk about easy!”

“I did what I was ordered to do!” he shouted, “What had to be done!”

“No one held a gun to your head!” you cried, stepping closer, your finger jabbing his chest. “You weren’t some pawn! You chose it! You chased Luffy down like a rabid dog—my nephew! You were going to kill him too!”

“He’s a pirate!”

“He’s a child!”

You were both shaking now.

“You stood by and let them hang Ace on a stage like a spectacle!” Your voice trembled with fury. “And when he was free, when we had a chance, you ended it. You looked at his back and you still—you still—”

You choked.

Your knees almost buckled.

“He called me mom once,” you whispered.

Sakazuki went still.

“He was little. Five or six. He was sick. I was holding him. He had a fever, and he couldn’t stop crying. And he just… he curled up against me and whispered, ‘mom.’”

Tears spilled freely now.

“And you killed him.”

His face contorted—anguish, rage, restraint all at war.

“He stood in my way. I gave him a chance to move.”

“HE WAS PROTECTING LUFFY!”

You were sobbing now, but your voice didn’t lose its edge.

“He died to protect the only family he had left. And I watched him—I held him—while the fire ate through him, while your justice burned a hole clean through his back.”

Sakazuki turned away.

His hand clenched around the edge of the desk so tightly the wood cracked.

“I’ve done things you’ll never understand,” he ground out. “I’ve carried this world on my back longer than you know. If we hadn’t stopped him—if we hadn’t sent a message—”

“To who?!” You flung your arm out. “To pirates?! To children?! To me?! Was that the message, Sakazuki?! That even the people closest to you are expendable?! That love doesn’t matter if justice is involved?!”

He turned back toward you slowly.

And his voice dropped low, like stone sinking to the bottom of the sea.

“I lost you the moment I let you love a pirate.”

Silence.

Silence so loud it rang in your ears.

Your heart stuttered.

You stared at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time in years, he felt like a stranger.

“I didn’t lose you at Marineford,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I lost you the day you started believing the world needed you more than I did.”

Something flickered behind his eyes.

Guilt. Regret.

But not enough to change him.

You stepped back, a breath between each retreating footfall.

“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” you said. “I did. I gave up everything—my title, my freedom, my family—for a man who swore he wasn’t like the world he fought.”

Your hands trembled at your sides.

“But the truth is, you’re worse. Because you knew what love was. And you chose to set it on fire.”

His expression faltered—only for a second.

But it was too late.

You turned. Walked toward the door.

And just before your hand reached the knob—

“Y/N.”

His voice, cracked. Almost broken.

You stopped. One breath.

Two.

Then, without turning around—

“…Don’t call me that.”

And you left.

It wasn’t announced.

There was no formal declaration.

No news headline, no trumpet of war.

But everyone knew.

By the next morning, the air in Marineford felt different. Heavier. Too quiet in the wrong places, too loud in the others. No one had seen you enter the main base. You hadn’t slept there. You hadn’t even passed the gates.

And his office door never opened.

That was the first sign.

The second was the bed in his quarters.

The one you shared.

It was stripped bare—your side cold and untouched. One pillow missing. One coffee cup gone. One coat—yours—vanished from the hook by the door.

You hadn’t taken it.

You’d left it at Garp’s.

But to the eyes of the Marines, it was as if you’d disappeared.

And slowly, the whispers started.

“She didn’t come home.”

“They say she left him for good this time.”

“She’s with Vice Admiral Garp again.”

“No, she left the base altogether—she’s never coming back.”

“They say she screamed at him. Called him a murderer to his face.”

“They were married for years. I didn’t think it’d end like that.”

And then came the sound of burning.

A few of the younger Marines had returned to the rec room, to the drawer where they’d kept the old betting pool—the long-running, half-joking collection of predictions for when, and how, you and Sakazuki would finally split.

Divorce. Death. Disappearance.

No one had guessed “war.”

But when they opened the drawer and pulled the tin box out—

No one could touch it.

Not because it was cursed.

But because it hurt.

There were coins. Slips of paper. Wagers spanning over five years.

And in silence, one of them struck a match.

No one stopped him.

They burned the entire box on the balcony overlooking the sea.

There was no cheering. No final toast.

Just flames. And silence.

And someone murmuring, “It didn’t feel like this when they got together… why does it feel like the end of the world now?”

—

Garp didn’t say much, either.

He was quieter than usual. His laugh came less often. His punches were softer—still strong, but distracted. He’d cook enough food for three and only set two plates. He left the back door unlocked every night, as if still expecting someone to return.

He checked on you, of course. Every morning.

Sometimes you’d be sitting on the porch, tea untouched in your hands, eyes locked on the horizon.

Other times you weren’t there at all—wandering down near the docks, barefoot in the early mist, looking out at the waves like they might bring something back.

He never pushed.

Never asked.

Just stood nearby and waited.

Once, after a particularly quiet breakfast, he looked at you across the table and said—

“I never liked him.”

You blinked.

Then offered the barest breath of a smile. “I know.”

He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “But I know he loved you.”

You stared at your tea.

“He loved justice more.”

“…Yeah,” Garp said. “He did.”

Neither of you said anything else for a long time.

—

Sengoku, meanwhile, didn’t ask questions. But he watched.

He noticed the emptiness in Sakazuki’s eyes during the next meeting. Not the cold, focused intensity they’d all come to expect from the new Fleet Admiral—but something hollow.

A piece missing.

He said nothing during debriefings. He didn’t scold anyone. He didn’t argue.

He just sat there, signed documents, issued orders.

And when Sengoku approached him in private, closing the door gently behind him, he asked only one thing:

“Was it worth it?”

Sakazuki didn’t look up from his desk.

He just murmured—

“…You tell me.”

Sengoku studied him in silence.

Then, after a long breath:

“You know, I thought you’d destroy her.”

Sakazuki’s shoulders tightened.

“But I think maybe… she destroyed you first.”

And he left.

—

That week, no one spoke your name in the mess hall.

No one joked about your beauty.

No one asked about your smile.

Because the woman who once turned magma into calm, the woman who could sit beside a volcano and make it purr, was gone.

And all that remained of your love…

Was smoke.

No official report was filed.

No transfer.

No discharge papers.

But when you left—

You were gone.

You weren’t a Marine.

Not by title. Not by blood.

You never had a rank, never wore a proper uniform.

But you had been a pillar.

A presence so steady and deeply stitched into the bones of Marineford that even without stripes or stars, they all turned their heads when you entered a room.

And now… you didn’t enter anything.

You stopped going to meetings.

You stopped walking the halls.

You stopped returning letters—if anyone dared send them.

And Sakazuki…

He stopped vouching.

There had been a time where he defended your space in the Marines, whether people liked it or not. He spoke quietly, sternly, to officers who questioned why you were there. Who you were. Why you stood beside him without a badge.

But not anymore.

He said nothing now.

And his silence was your funeral.

—

Garp found you early in the morning, just after sunrise.

You were folding your things into a modest travel bag—the few items you’d left behind when you moved in with Sakazuki all those years ago. A blanket. A carved sea stone. A few letters from Ace, a drawing Luffy made, and a pendant you hadn’t worn since the war.

You didn’t flinch when the door creaked open.

You knew it was him.

He stood there for a long moment in the frame. Scratched the back of his neck, like he was trying to rub the ache from his chest.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

His daughter. His bright, beautiful girl. The woman who used to laugh like the ocean and fight like a storm, now folding up her life like a flag taken down after battle.

He didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He only stepped forward, gently took the bag from your hands, and helped you pack the last few things in silence.

When it was all done, and you stood by the door with your coat draped over your arm, he finally said—

“You don’t have to run, you know.”

You glanced at him.

“I’m not running,” you said softly.

“I’m just… done standing still.”

He nodded slowly.

Then pulled you into his chest—arms warm, large, secure—and held you for a long, long time.

When you pulled away, his eyes were red.

So were yours.

And then you were gone.

—

The first person to notice was Sengoku.

He came to deliver a sealed report, stopped outside your old quarters, and found them empty. The bed made. The drawers bare. The pendant on the windowsill, glowing in the morning sun.

He closed the door quietly.

Then told no one.

They would find out soon enough.

—

Then came the whispers.

“She left.”

“She’s really gone.”

“She didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Where do you think she went?”

“Maybe back to Wano. Or the Calm Belt. Somewhere no one would bother her.”

“Do you think she’ll ever come back?”

No one answered that last one.

Because it wasn’t just that you’d left.

It was the way everything shifted after you were gone.

The meetings were duller. The walkways colder. Marines spoke more carefully now, like they were afraid even their tone would dishonor your memory.

And Sakazuki—Fleet Admiral Sakazuki—was never the same.

He no longer sat in meetings with his jaw set and spine straight.

He slouched now. Quiet. Heavy in his chair.

He didn’t yell as much.

Didn’t erupt.

Some say he stopped carrying his coat half the time. Just walked the halls in silence. No one dared ask why. No one dared speak your name.

Because your name wasn’t gone.

It had become sacred.

A name they whispered like a prayer.

A ghost on the lips of the strong.

And even though you had no rank—

Even though your name was erased from the official rosters—

Your absence left a crater where a whole legend used to stand.

And in that silence, for weeks to come—

Everyone realized…

they had never really known what you meant to them until you were no longer there.

[2b4st4r]

jeez you write a lot holy hell are you sure you arent burning out?? or forcing yourself? 😭😭

Ngl I'm feeling really burnt out right now, but I want to finish this group of requests before taking a break. I don’t want to keep them waiting too long.😭

[2b4st4r]

Hi! i love your writing a lot!!! and I see that you frequently post fics that I would consider longer so I was wondering how long it usually takes for you to write around 10k words?

Writing over 10,000 words typically takes me around 10 hours, depending on my mood that day!

[2b4st4r]

Hello again! Thank you so much for fulfilling my request, it was so beautiful and I enjoyed reading every single word of it. I just can’t get enough of your writing, it literally makes my day. I want to make another request please, where the strawhats meet someone (female) who can basically turn invisible but also has phantom like qualities like she can walk through walls but when she holds something or someone, they can turn invisible too and walk through walls as well. Again similar idea where the strawhats are very impressed by her and want her part of their crew. You are in full control on how lengthy you want it and the direction of the plot goes too. Please take as much time as you need to write this, no need to feel rushed. I hope you have a great rest of your week, please take care of yourself!

A Whisper in the Walls ˎˊ˗

Straw Hat pirates x Reader

✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧

⤷ Words: 12,637

⤷ Warnings:Loneliness/isolation, vulnerability, bittersweet elements, fem reader!

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ A/N: I had such a nice time writing this; it was so fun! Oh, also, I tried a different writing style. Please give me feedback! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧

The wind always tastes like dust here.

Dry. Bitter. Like old bones ground into the sand, swept through the cracked alleyways and broken windows of a town no one really remembers how to leave. The buildings lean like tired ghosts, all slouched shoulders and hollow eyes, their doors always half open, like they’re waiting for someone to come in… or something to come out.

You prefer the rooftops.

The island is called Uonuma, but most passing sailors just call it “The Whisper.” It’s the kind of place that only shows up on a map when it wants to. Trade ships give it wide berths. Fishermen swear their nets rot faster when they drop anchor here. And the Marines? They avoid it like it’s cursed. Which, in their defense… might not be entirely wrong.

There are stories about you. Whispers that float in with the sea fog and never quite leave.

Some say you’re the ghost of a dead girl who cursed the island with her dying breath. Others say you were a child born in a storm, who drowned and came back wrong. The more creative ones think you’re a shadow of an ancient weapon, sentient and silent, bound to the decaying ruins.

You’ve heard them all. Sometimes you even whisper them back to the drunks who wander into the ruins at night. It’s a game, really.

You’re not dead, though. Mostly.

You’re just… different.

The Yūrei Yūrei no Mi. That’s what they’d call it, if anyone really knew what you ate. If anyone had the guts to get close enough to ask. The Ghost Ghost Fruit. And you, a drifting phantom with dry fingertips and a voice like an attic door creaking open.

You can feel when people walk into your world—when they pass that invisible threshold between the living and the forgotten. It’s not like a sixth sense exactly. More like… a pressure. Like someone walking across the top of a coffin.

Today, it was a ship. Big one. Loud. Happy voices. The press of dozens of souls, hearts beating, laughter echoing against the walls of the dead town like rain on a tin roof.

The Straw Hat Pirates.

You don’t get many visitors who aren’t either lost or looking to be.

From the safety of a rooftop, the wind tugging at your coat and the sun struggling to burn through the fog, you watch them step off the ship. You phase your hand through the rusted chimney next to you, just because you can. It passes through with a soft chill, like your body’s just a suggestion, not a rule.

Robin’s gaze lingers a little too long on a cracked statue near the docks. She’s heard the rumors. The way her hand drifts toward her chin tells you she’s curious, maybe even amused. Jinbei is more serious—his expression unreadable, but alert. Nami’s frowning already. Too many broken windows. Not enough people. The island is unsettling and she knows it.

Brook… well. He’s humming something under his breath. A requiem? A lullaby? With him, it’s hard to tell. His eyesockets flick this way and that, and if he still had a heart, you’d bet it’d be pounding.

The rest scatter a little, like kids on a field trip. Luffy’s shouting about “ghost food” while Usopp nervously clutches a slingshot and Sanji complains about the lack of restaurants. Franky’s already poking at a crumbling water wheel. Chopper’s trying to get a pigeon to talk to him.

You sigh. You hate this part. The introductions. The screaming. The part where they realize the walls are watching.

You don’t want to scare them. Not really. But sometimes, it just happens.

Your foot brushes the edge of the rooftop. You lean into the emptiness, let gravity pretend it matters. As you fall, you vanish—no flash, no shimmer, just gone. It’s easy now. Like stepping into another room. You let your body phase through the roof of the inn below, drifting down like mist. Your boots make no sound when you land. You make no sound.

You peek through the cracks in the wood at the newcomers outside, the taste of the island’s fear still stuck to your tongue. They’ll feel it soon enough. The way the shadows move wrong. How their voices echo too far. How the doors sometimes close even when there’s no wind.

You turn invisible again. Old habit. Safer that way.

You’ll watch them. Learn their rhythms. Figure out if they’re just passing through… or if they’re the kind who dig too deep.

And maybe—just maybe—if they’re not complete idiots… you’ll let them see you.

Eventually.

When the fog is just right.

You watch them stagger through the abandoned streets like children in a haunted playground, curiosity and trepidation mingling in their laughter and whispered anxieties. You, ever the unseen puppeteer, feel a rare thrill—a hunger not for solitude but for that vibrant, electric pulse of life. Joy, amusement, even a touch of mischief spark inside you as your eyes narrow at a solitary figure cowering near a mossy lamppost. The man with the long nose—known among the few islanders who dare speak his name—hides in a doorway, shaking so fiercely that his shadow seems to shudder on the crumbling wall. His darting eyes, desperate to avoid detection, are almost a dare, tempting you to play.

You glide along the silent corridors of the ruined town, every step deliberate, every breath a whisper. Memories of lonely days haunted by the echo of your phantom existence ripple like distant laughter, and for once you crave the warmth of connection—even if only to tease. A mischievous smile curls your lips as you drift silently behind a shuttered window near the bustling market square. Below, Luffy’s exuberance fills the empty air; his eyes light up as he stumbles over a loose cobblestone, sending a ripple of delighted confusion through the group. With a subtle twist of your power, you ripple the shadows around his feet so that, for an instant, they seem to come alive—waving like grasping hands. The laughter around you falters into startled gasps as Luffy jerks upright, his grin turning into astonished wonder. You can’t help but let out a silent chuckle, savoring the sweet taste of his fear and delight intertwined.

Across the open lane, Robin stands near a collapsed stone arch. Her cultivated calm is momentarily disrupted as the faint sound of a creaking door—impossibly out of rhythm with the stagnant silence—echoes from behind her. You tug at reality, and a gust of air flits through her hair, carrying a phantom whisper that brushes past her ear like a secret. She turns sharply, eyes sparkling with both irritation and reluctant amusement, as though she suspects the hand of mischief. Her gaze drifts to Jinbei, who is already alerting the others with that inscrutable seriousness of his. The subtle terror you’ve planted spreads like a controlled ember, not to harm, but to remind them of the eerie life pulsing through these deserted corridors.

Even Sanji, ever the connoisseur of sensations, shudders just as the aroma of an inexplicably chilled breeze precedes a fleeting glimpse of a figure barely visible in the corner of his eye. A door creaks open on its own near the dining hall of the dilapidated inn, and Brook’s skeletal hand pauses mid-air as he reaches for a chair that suddenly slides away on its own. Each small scare, a gentle reminder of your presence, fans the flames of legend and leaves a ripple of laughter in its wake—a laughter only those brave enough to acknowledge the uncanny might understand.

Some islanders have long since accepted your nature. In dim taverns and hidden safe houses, a few whisper encouraging words, urging you to keep the unwelcome souls at bay. They know the balance you maintain between mischief and menace, between playful haunting and the solemn duty of protecting their fragile haven. Their gentle approvals remind you that you are not alone, even as you walk the line between phantasm and flesh.

In the shadows, your essence drifts, ever unseen yet palpably felt. The man with the long nose, trembling at the threshold of a deserted alley, becomes a small thrill—a beacon of life among those ghosts of rumor. His shaking, his futile attempts to hide, ignite within you an impulse to stretch the boundaries of your own loneliness by interacting with these trespassers, these souls living in a world too lively to be haunted alone.

And so, with every silent leap from one forgotten doorway to another, you embrace this new sense of purpose. The island, with its eerie stillness and hidden inhabitants, becomes your canvas. A gentle scare here, a subtle whisper there, you orchestrate a dance of shadows and fear—a performance meant to remind these wanderers that here, on these haunted streets, nothing is ever as it seems. Tonight, in that bittersweet interplay of mirth and mystery, you promise yourself that even a phantom can find moments of joy in the laughter and terror of those who dare cross your path.

The longer you linger, the more the fog seems to dance in your favor.

It coils between buildings like curious fingers, sliding around the Straw Hats’ legs as they cross into the heart of the town. Their footsteps are loud—far too loud for this quiet place—and you can’t help but trail above them, watching from the rooftops like some amused gargoyle. A few shutters creak as you pass, but you don’t bother to muffle the sound. You want them to know something’s watching.

Below, they’re reacting exactly how you hoped.

“What was that?” Usopp’s voice spikes as a chill runs up his spine. He spins around with a dramatic flourish of his slingshot, eyes bulging. “Something just breathed on me! I swear! I felt it on my neck!”

“It was probably your own cowardice,” Robin muses, her tone light, but her eyes are tracking the fog like a scholar studying a living thing. “Though… there’s definitely something here. It’s not just ghosts. It feels… aware.”

“I like it!” Luffy shouts, arms flung wide. “It’s like the island’s playing tag!”

He sprints forward into the fog, vanishing briefly, then reappearing halfway down the street, laughing like a child in a funhouse.

You blink.

That one’s different.

“Captain!” Sanji calls after him, already irritated, coat fluttering dramatically. “Don’t just run off, you idiot! What if the ghost doesn’t like tag?!”

Brook tilts his skull slightly, as if listening. “I must admit, even I feel… a presence. It’s like being stared at by something cold and shy. Like someone’s peeking from behind the curtain of the afterlife.” He shivers, which you find adorable, given his complete lack of skin.

Chopper hops nervously between them, glancing toward a weathered old shop with broken glass and ivy crawling through the cracks. “I don’t like it… This place feels like it’s not really empty. Like it’s just pretending to be.”

And then, from across the road, a quiet chuckle.

The Straw Hats whirl around to see an old woman sitting peacefully on a stoop, leaning back in a rickety chair like she’s sunbathing in a place where the sun barely bothers. Her skin is paper-thin, folded over bones like tissue, but her eyes are sharp and kind.

“Oh, don’t mind her,” the old woman says with a raspy laugh, eyes twinkling. “She just likes to play.”

Your heart lifts at the sound of her voice.

Mama Reiko.

She’s one of the few who knows you’re real—really real—and not just some cautionary tale. She’s never feared you. Not once. Occasionally, she brings you dried seaweed snacks or pickled plums in little cracked bowls and fusses over your hair like you’re still ten.

“She?” Brook asks, stepping forward with curiosity. “Do you mean the ghost girl in the legends?”

“Oh, she’s not a ghost,” Reiko says, leaning forward. “She’s alive. Just… a little touched by the other side.”

Robin narrows her eyes slightly. “The stories said she could vanish, walk through walls, even make others vanish. That she’s part of the island itself.”

Reiko just chuckles again, unfazed. “The stories say a lot of things. Most of them wrong. Except the part about her being mischievous. That part’s true.”

You snort quietly, hiding above them. Reiko winks up at the roofline, right where you’re crouched, and for a second, you feel like a kid caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

The Straw Hats look up.

You’re already gone.

But the breeze that follows tickles their ears. A soft whisper, like someone giggling just behind them. Brook spins around. Usopp screams. Luffy laughs even harder.

“Yoooo! That was AWESOME!” he yells into the empty air. “Do it again, ghost friend!”

You blink again, unsure how to process that. No one’s ever asked you to keep going before. Usually, they run. Or cry. Or wet themselves. (That happened once. You don’t like to think about it.)

From your place behind a crumbling signpost, you reach out with the tips of your fingers, invisible and intangible, brushing gently against the back of Nami’s shoulder. She stiffens. Looks behind her.

Nothing there.

You shift a pebble beside her foot. She steps back.

“Okay. No,” she says firmly, holding her staff out. “I am not in the mood for ghost games today. Not when we just restocked supplies.”

“She likes you,” Reiko pipes up helpfully.

“She could show it with snacks instead of invisible groping,” Nami mutters.

That makes you laugh. Loud enough that the sound actually echoes this time, bouncing off the narrow alleyways like a bell in the mist.

You let yourself phase through the wall of a nearby bakery and perch in the upper window, chin resting on your arms as you watch them regroup, faces lit up with varying degrees of fear, confusion, and reluctant amusement.

You haven’t felt this alive in years.

They’re fun. They’re loud. They’re curious.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll let them stay a little longer.

Maybe, for once, you won’t just be the ghost they’re afraid of.

Maybe… you’ll be the one they remember.

There’s a strange rhythm to their presence now. The way they move through the ghost town feels less like trespassing and more like… visiting. A few of them even laugh freely now, their voices pushing back the quiet like sunlight prying through closed shutters.

And still—you linger.

You don’t usually go this far. Not with your other powers. The invisibility, the phasing—that’s easy. That’s safe. But the other part, the part that lets you share it, the part that pulls someone just slightly out of phase with the world… it feels different. Intimate. And you haven’t used it on anyone in a long time.

But the swordsman—Zoro, they called him—catches your attention in a way you don’t expect.

It isn’t just the way he moves, like someone who doesn’t trust walls to be solid or paths to stay straight. It’s that… he’s calm. Unbothered. He isn’t flinching at every whisper like Usopp or peering into the mist like Robin. He walks forward, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning but steady, as if he’s been in stranger places than this—and maybe he has. He moves like a man who wouldn’t panic, even if the floor disappeared under his feet.

So you test him.

You drift low, behind him, your form shifting like a curtain in a draft. He’s standing near an old fountain, glancing toward Mama Reiko, who’s muttering to Luffy and laughing in her throat like she’s hiding a hundred secrets under that sun-wrinkled smile.

You slip up behind Zoro and, gently—just for a breath—you touch him.

Your fingers ghost across his shoulder.

And his entire right arm vanishes.

It’s only for a second. Just a flicker of your power. But it phases out of the visible world, translucent and cold like morning fog, until only the hilt of his sword seems to float in midair.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t jump.

He stares at it.

There’s a pause—a silence with weight—and then he slowly flexes his now-invisible fingers. They pass through a nearby rusted lantern hanging from a beam. He watches it happen. Then he exhales.

“Huh,” he says. That’s all.

You blink down at him from the awning you’re crouched on, a little stunned. You expected confusion, maybe even a startle. Not… acceptance.

Mama Reiko watches the whole thing from her seat, and when Zoro’s arm fades fully back into the world again—returning with a shimmer like heat in the air—she hums with a knowing little smile.

“She likes you,” Reiko calls across the street, pointing her cane in Zoro’s direction. “Letting someone borrow that power? She doesn’t do that for just anyone. You must not be too annoying.”

Zoro glances upward, expression unreadable. His fingers curl once around the sword hilt again, testing the feel of it. “I didn’t even see her.”

“She sees you,” Reiko says, tapping her temple. “Ghost Girl’s always watching.”

Luffy laughs like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “Yoooo! Zoro, she likes you! Maybe she’ll teach you ghost powers! Then you’ll never get lost again!”

“I don’t get lost,” Zoro mutters.

“Your arm just did,” Sanji snorts, lighting a cigarette. “It was probably trying to find the exit.”

Zoro scowls and flips him off, with the hand you just turned invisible. You cackle silently from above, curling tighter into yourself with glee. You haven’t laughed like this in… God. Years.

Down below, Chopper is practically vibrating.

“Wait wait wait!” he says, tugging on Brook’s sleeve. “Did you see that?! That was amazing! She touched him and—poof! His arm was gone! Gone!”

“She really is a ghost,” Brook murmurs with awe. “Or something very close.”

“More than ghost,” Reiko says, watching the rooftops with a fond sigh. “She’s heart and mist and memory, all twisted into something soft. But she ain’t cruel. Not to the ones who don’t deserve it.”

Robin steps forward now, eyes narrowed in fascination. “So she can share her phasing ability… That explains some of the rumors about people vanishing just by being near her.”

“She can take you with her,” Reiko confirms, folding her hands. “Make you see the island the way she does. Hollow. Quiet. A step out of time.”

You watch them all with something warm bubbling in your chest. Not fire—nothing so bright. Just… warmth. Like the soft coil of steam from a teacup on a cold morning. These people—this crew—they aren’t just interesting. They feel alive. Messy and loud and bright in all the places you’ve long since gone dim.

And maybe, if you’re careful… maybe you’ll let one of them see you for real.

Not just the shadow in the mist.

But you.

The ghost girl of Uonuma.

The one who watches—and maybe, just maybe, wants to belong.

You follow them further than you meant to.

Their laughter tugs at you—something magnetic, something you forgot you missed. For so long, your place has been the fog, the half-seen alleys and crumbling rooftops. But now, you drift closer, your presence thin and quiet, stitched to the breeze that carries the scent of cracked stone and old rain.

They pass the bakery where you once lived. You pause there for a moment, watching Chopper peek into the broken windows, eyes wide. There’s still a pale curtain swaying in the dark, though no one’s opened that window in years. You wonder if he notices. You hope he does.

They keep walking, weaving through the husk of the town as the fog thickens at their feet. The air grows colder here—not hostile, but dense, like a warning murmured under breath. You can feel the edges of your influence, the stretch of your power like a spider’s web laid carefully over the bones of the place you’ve sworn to protect.

And now they’re approaching it.

Not a wall, not a gate, not anything that would catch the eye of someone who doesn’t know.

Just a shift.

A line in the world where your influence ends.

They’re at the edge of the phantom town.

Everything they’ve seen—half of it isn’t real. Not really. The broken rooftops, the endless fog, the illusion of a place forgotten by time… It’s a veil you keep over what lies beyond. The real Uonuma. Not a ghost town, but a hidden village, quiet and still, tucked safely away from pirates, from bounty hunters, from Marines who don’t care who they burn.

Robin slows down first. She’s sharp. She feels it.

“There’s something strange here,” she murmurs. “The fog stops.”

“What fog?” Luffy asks, already two steps ahead of her. “There’s just road.”

And then he crosses the line.

He doesn’t even take a full step.

As his sandal passes through the veil, there’s a sound—low and hollow, like a bell struck underwater—and the air shudders. Light warps around him. Then something grabs him, invisible, and tosses him backward like a leaf in a gust of wind.

“Luffy!” Chopper yelps.

Luffy lands hard, skidding on his back with an oomph and a laugh. “Whoa! That was cool!”

“Cool?!” Nami rushes over, crouching next to him. “What was that?!”

Zoro’s already drawing a blade, not in panic, but with the calm readiness of someone who knows he’s being warned. Robin’s eyes narrow. Brook reaches a bony hand toward the invisible barrier and draws it back just before his fingers pass through.

Mama Reiko approaches from behind, her cane tapping the stones like a steady drumbeat.

She doesn’t speak at first.

She waits.

And you—hovering just above, tucked into the roof of an abandoned watchtower—give her the sign.

You let a single petal fall.

A white blossom, impossibly fresh, drifting through the fog like a piece of snow. It lands softly on her open palm.

She nods, smiles to herself, and turns to the crew with the weight of someone who’s seen too much and is still proud to carry it.

“She’s protecting something,” Reiko says. “That’s why she keeps the fog so thick, the buildings so broken. To hide what’s still left.”

Nami blinks. “Hide what?”

“The real village,” Robin says softly. “It’s still here.”

Reiko taps the stone with her cane. “Beneath all this? There are gardens. Children. Elderly folks. Craftsmen. People who fled the world and came here because they wanted to be forgotten. And she—our little ghost—let them be.”

“She made this whole place look dead?” Usopp asks, peeking around as if he might suddenly see something new.

“She made it invisible,” Reiko says. “Just like she does with herself. Just like she did with your swordsman’s arm. She cloaks the town in phantom light, in illusion. So no one can find what’s still worth protecting.”

“She’s powerful,” Jinbei says, his voice low with respect. “To sustain such a field across an entire town…”

“She’s more than powerful,” Reiko says. “She’s kind. Even if she acts like a little goblin most days.”

You flinch slightly at that, then laugh into your hand.

Reiko grins like she heard it.

Luffy’s already standing again, brushing dirt off his shorts. “So if she’s protecting people… then that means she’s a good ghost, right?”

“She’s not a ghost,” Reiko says, for maybe the tenth time today. “She’s a girl who made herself into a ghost to protect what was left.”

Luffy squints up at the empty space where your power curls in on itself. His grin is big, wide, bright. “Then I like her.”

You hover there for a moment, unsure why your chest feels warm and tight at the same time.

They saw through it. Through you.

Not the scary stories. Not the whispers. Not even the veil of fog.

They saw the intention.

The protection.

The choice.

You exhale and let your form phase through the wall again, quiet as dusk. You won’t let them through the barrier. Not yet. Not all the way.

But maybe… maybe you’ll walk with them a little longer. Just behind the mist. Just out of reach.

And maybe next time, when Luffy steps forward again—

You won’t throw him back.

They don’t know it yet, but you’ve started the test.

It’s something older than the fog, older than the peeling rooftops and half-forgotten alleyways. A whisper passed down in your bones—not something you were taught, but something you knew, the way your Devil Fruit let you slip through the world like a rumor. It isn’t cruel. But it is real.

Because no one’s gotten this far in years.

Not this close.

And deep down, where even Mama Reiko can’t reach, you’re scared. Scared that they might see too much. Or worse… that they might take what doesn’t belong to them.

So you test them.

It begins quietly.

Their shadows stretch too far as they walk.

The light bends in the wrong direction, like it’s being pulled away from their bodies, hungry for something beneath their skin. Robin is the first to notice. Her foot hovers mid-step as she watches her own shadow flicker, stretching along the cracked stones like a river of ink.

“Something’s… wrong,” she murmurs, fingers twitching.

Chopper pauses beside her, nose twitching. “The air feels weird. Like it’s buzzing.”

“It’s her,” Brook says, his voice quiet now, respectful. “She’s watching us.”

But Mama Reiko says nothing.

She sits back down on her stoop, pulls a small plum from her basket, and bites into it slowly, watching the fog without blinking. She knows exactly what’s happening. But she won’t interfere.

She never does.

You begin with Zoro again.

Not because he’s the easiest, but because he’s steady. You draw your presence along his shoulder like a breath of frost, not enough to stop his steps—just enough to nudge. To see what stirs beneath his calm.

He doesn’t falter.

But his shadow doesn’t follow him. It lags behind. And when it catches up, you see it—clear and sharp, like a second skin turned inside out.

The echo of him.

The soul’s silhouette.

Solid. Sharp-edged. Bound by resolve and direction, even if his path never makes sense. There’s a storm in it—anger, purpose, loyalty. He would kill to protect his crew. Die, too. You don’t touch it, but you see it.

You move on.

Nami flinches as something brushes her ear, but it’s not your fingers—it’s the weight of being known.

You tug her shadow gently, and the soul below it glimmers like gold under glass. A thief’s fire. Quick, cunning, and restless. But there’s love there, buried in worry. Worry for the others. For herself. For a home she once lost and never quite found again.

Usopp talks louder now, maybe to scare away the feeling. “You guys feel that?! It’s like we’re being sniffed by the spirit realm! I swear if I explode into flowers or bones, I’m gonna haunt her forever—”

And then he feels it too.

Just for a moment.

A weightless pull behind his ribs, like a hand reaching through a mirror, touching his fear, his bravery, all tangled like roots under the surface. You feel his soul flicker and dance—fragile, sure, but honest.

None of them see you.

But all of them feel you.

You don’t show yourself. You can’t. Not for this.

Because this test—it’s not about strength, or cleverness, or even kindness.

It’s about truth.

What would they bring into your town?

Who would they be, if the mist let them through?

Luffy is last.

He’s not worried. He’s laughing again, standing with his arms out, spinning slowly in a patch of open stone like he’s trying to catch raindrops that aren’t there.

“Hey, ghost girl!” he calls up into the air. “Wanna be friends yet?”

Your breath hitches.

You slip behind him, silent as memory, and let yourself reach—just a little. Just to touch the soul you can already feel burning in him like a second sun.

And it’s—blinding.

You recoil.

It’s not that it’s too much. It’s that it’s too open.

Luffy’s soul is wide, unfiltered, untethered. There’s no shadow over it. No fear. Just joy, and hunger, and grief, and light. The kind of light that doesn’t ask permission before it shines.

He laughs again and turns toward the fog.

“C’mon,” he says to the others. “She’s still watching.”

Zoro huffs. “Yeah. Felt that.”

“Felt like getting x-rayed by a goddamn ghost cat,” Nami mutters, rubbing her arms.

Chopper is half-curled on Brook’s shoulder now. “She saw inside us.”

Brook nods solemnly. “Our souls are in good hands.”

And still, Mama Reiko doesn’t say a word.

Not until you give the second sign.

A low gust moves through the street. Slow and deliberate. Not natural. It lifts the hem of her shawl and carries the scent of plum blossoms.

She smiles into it, stands, and dusts off her skirt.

“Well,” she says, looking toward the mist’s edge. “That’s a first.”

“A first what?” Robin asks.

“She’s never tested this many before,” Reiko says, stretching her back with a quiet pop. “Usually just one. A scout. A wanderer. Someone easy to turn around.”

“So… did we pass?” Luffy grins, eyes wide with hope.

“She hasn’t decided yet,” Mama says, and her voice is heavy now, more than age. “She’s still watching. Still wondering if you’re the kind who takes, or the kind who protects.”

Then, quieter, to herself: “But I think she wants to hope.”

And you, floating just above them, hovering between fog and air, ghost and girl—don’t know what you’ll do yet.

But you are hoping.

And that’s more dangerous than anything.

The veil parts.

Only for a moment. A breath. A heartbeat between fog and light.

It begins with a shiver in the air, like the world exhaling. The mist at the edge of the ghost town peels away—just enough. A sliver of light opens like a door, narrow and golden. And through it…

They see it.

The real Uonuma.

Sunlight spills down whitewashed walls and cobbled streets dappled with green vines. The smell of fresh bread drifts through the air, and laughter—children’s laughter—bubbles like a spring from somewhere unseen. Clothes flap on lines between houses. Flowers bloom wildly in windowsills. The town is alive.

Nami gasps. Chopper’s eyes go wide with wonder. Even Robin’s lips part, the light reflected in her gaze.

“Whoa…” Luffy says, shading his eyes with his hand. “It’s like a whole new world.”

But before he can take a step forward—

She appears.

You appear.

You don’t drift or phase in.

You walk.

Out of the mist like a ghost given form, barefoot on stone, your hair swept in every direction by a breeze that doesn’t exist for anyone else. The air around you shimmers faintly, like the heat off sun-baked roofs, but cool—unreal. You’re not dressed in rags, but you wear the stillness of the veil like a cloak. There’s something hollow and soft in your expression, like moonlight caught in a reflection.

And it is the first time Mama Reiko has seen you fully in years.

She stops breathing.

Her hand curls around the head of her cane, and her eyes shimmer with something that looks like awe.

“…Y/N,” she whispers.

You don’t look at her. Not yet.

You stand in front of the opening, one step from the sunlit threshold, and raise your hand.

“Stop.”

Your voice is soft. So soft it shouldn’t carry. But it does. It ripples through the air, past flesh and bone, into spine. Into soul.

The crew stops dead.

Even Luffy.

Your eyes flick over them. Sharp, knowing. You can see them—all of them. What they are. What they carry. What they’ve done. The fog inside people always speaks louder than their smiles.

Zoro meets your gaze with a quiet nod. Robin studies you like an artifact in motion. Chopper stares like he’s seeing a myth.

And Sanji?

Sanji’s jaw goes slack. A puff of smoke drifts up from the end of his cigarette, forgotten.

“…Mon dieu,” he breathes. “An actual goddess…”

Brook leans toward him and says, “She’s literally made of mist and melancholy, Sanji-san, be respectful.”

“She’s made of art,” Sanji mutters, smoothing his hair. “Look at her eyes. That’s the kind of woman who haunts you in your dreams and your favorite jazz record.”

You ignore the swooning.

Mostly.

But your eyes narrow slightly, and the temperature drops just enough for a breath of mist to curl around his ankles.

He shuts up.

You speak again.

“This place,” you say, gesturing to the sunlight behind you, “isn’t for outsiders. Not unless they mean no harm. Not unless they carry nothing sharp inside them.”

Nami opens her mouth to protest—“We’re not here to hurt anyone”—but you hold up your hand again, and your gaze lands on her with weight.

“I know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Robin steps forward, her voice calm. “You let us see it. That means something.”

“I let you see because I’m thinking.” Your voice wavers then, just a little. Just enough to betray the strain. “No one’s gotten this far in years. No one’s gotten this close. The last time someone did…”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

The air thickens.

And behind you, the children’s laughter quiets, just a little.

Reiko’s voice breaks the silence—cracked, but firm.

“She’s scared,” the old woman says. “But she still showed herself. Which means she wants to trust you. Wants to believe you’re not like the others.”

Luffy doesn’t hesitate.

He steps forward—just one step, respectful, not reckless—and meets your eyes with a wide, earnest smile.

“We’re not,” he says simply. “We’re different. You’ll see.”

You stare at him for a long time.

That strange, blinding soul of his flickers behind his gaze like a second sunrise.

You don’t let them in.

Not yet.

But you step aside just enough for the sun to reach their feet.

And that’s more than you’ve ever done.

Mama Reiko watches you with tears quietly building in her eyes. “There you are,” she whispers. “My little ghost girl.”

You say nothing.

But the way you linger in the light—half-turned, half-here—means everything.

You step forward.

The sunlight behind you frames your silhouette like a mirage—almost there, almost solid. Your steps are quiet, careful, like the ground beneath your feet only accepts you out of habit. The mist parts in your wake.

The Straw Hats watch you with the wariness of people who’ve seen too much and still aren’t sure if this is a dream or a trap. Even Luffy, bright and open, quiets now. Something in him understands this moment is important.

You stop a few feet in front of them.

“I’m going to give you rules,” you say.

Your voice isn’t cold. But it isn’t warm either. It’s the voice of someone used to being the last line between peace and ruin. Of someone who’s learned that kindness, without limits, gets things burned.

“First: You don’t go where you aren’t led. Some doors stay closed for a reason. Second: You don’t speak of this town when you leave. Not its name. Not its people. Not me.”

You pause, and the fog curls tighter around your feet, listening.

“Third: You don’t lie. Not to me. Not while you wear this.”

From your sleeve, you pull something wrapped in an old cloth—delicate, almost reverent. You kneel and begin to unwrap it on the stone ground.

It’s a small, carved wooden box, worn by time and weather. The kind of thing that looks like it belongs in the corner of an attic, behind letters and unsent memories.

You open it.

Inside are bracelets.

Seven of them, each made from iron darkened with age, etched faintly with old symbols—ghost-script from before the island was named. They look like they shouldn’t fit together, and yet… they hum with a quiet, pulsing presence. Like they’re waiting.

You look up.

“These,” you say, lifting the first one with both hands, “will connect you to me.”

Robin’s eyes flicker with curiosity. Jinbei stiffens, cautious. Chopper leans forward in awe. Usopp reaches for his sling—half on instinct.

You hold the bracelet just above your palm, the metal dark and matte. No glimmer. No light.

“Before you put it on,” you say slowly, letting your gaze pass over each of them, “you need to understand something.”

The mist around your shoulders thickens. The sun dims slightly behind you, as if bracing itself.

“This island lives because I’ve made it invisible to the world. Not just from the eyes of people, but from fate itself. I keep death from coming. I keep hunger away. I stop storms from touching our roofs. These bracelets are part of that.”

You glance down at the bracelet. It pulses once—soft, alive.

“If you put it on,” you say, “you’ll be under that same protection. You’ll see what the town really is. You’ll be allowed to walk its streets without the mist. But—”

You lift your eyes again. The air chills slightly.

“—if you try to harm anything, if your intent turns against the people here, even in passing…”

You snap your fingers gently, and the bracelet in your hand shudders—then dissolves into mist, reappearing in your other palm.

“…I will know.”

Zoro’s grip tightens on his sword, not out of threat—out of habit. He studies the bracelet with a slow breath.

“Sounds fair,” he mutters.

Sanji steps forward next, hands in his pockets, grin still plastered across his face like it might help.

“I wouldn’t dream of hurting a single thing here, especially not a town protected by a beautiful woman with eyes like forgotten lullabies.”

You say nothing, but the mist curls around his ankles again in warning.

“…Right,” he says quickly. “Just the bracelet. Understood.”

You begin passing them out one by one.

Chopper takes his with trembling hands, whispering, “Wow… it’s kind of warm…”

Robin holds hers like a relic, brushing her thumb across the etchings. “It’s old magic. Ancient, maybe even pre-Void Century. Fascinating.”

Brook bows slightly, skeletal fingers curled around his bracelet. “I may be dead, but it still resonates. Remarkable.”

When you hand one to Usopp, he hesitates.

“It’s not gonna, like, turn me into mist or erase my memories or make me eat spiders, right? ‘Cause I’ve got very specific allergies—”

“It connects you to me,” you say flatly.

He pauses. Blinks. Then flushes.

“Oh. Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Luffy’s the last.

He steps forward, grinning like he already knows he’ll wear it.

You hold it out, but pause.

“You’re the one I worry about most.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because people like you burn too brightly. You change things without trying. You don’t break rules—you bend them until they snap in half and start dancing.”

Luffy laughs.

“I like dancing.”

You stare at him.

Then slowly, carefully, you press the bracelet into his palm.

The moment each one of them wears their band, the air changes. Not with weight—with clarity.

The fog thins just slightly, like a veil being pulled back inch by inch. The town behind you breathes deeper. The birdsong grows clearer. And in their chests, each Straw Hat feels it:

A pulse.

A tether.

A link—subtle and strange and alive.

They are connected to you now.

To the ghost.

To the guardian.

And though they don’t know it yet, the bracelets are watching too. Quietly waiting to see who they’ll become in the light.

You finally look at her.

Mama Reiko.

Your eyes lift, slow and reluctant, the way a ghost might glance back at the life it left behind. For a second, you’re not the guardian, not the mist-veiled warden with one foot in this world and the other in something softer.

You’re just Y/N.

And she’s just the woman who raised you when everyone else was too afraid to try.

Her eyes glimmer behind the thin cloud of her breath, the fog curling around her feet like it knows better than to touch her.

“Well,” Mama says, voice dry but warm, “you still got bones under all that gloom after all. And here I thought you’d vanished for good, girl.”

You don’t smile.

Not quite.

But your shoulders drop a little. That sharp, haunted tension loosens.

“I never left,” you say, voice low. “I’ve been right here.”

Mama clicks her tongue, leaning on her cane.

“You’ve been hiding, not living. There’s a difference.”

You glance toward the Straw Hats. “I had to.”

Mama’s brow lifts. “And now?”

You stare at her for a moment, the weight of years and silence blooming between you like fog over water.

Then you say, “Now I’m thinking about letting them in.”

Mama’s face crinkles. A slow, blooming smile cuts across her cheeks, small and private like a secret kept warm in her palm.

“Took you long enough,” she mutters, and settles back onto her stoop.

You turn to the crew.

“Come on,” you say simply. “Follow me.”

They do.

One by one, bracelets humming faintly against their skin, the Straw Hats step past the mist’s edge. Luffy bounds forward without hesitation, grinning wide. Robin walks with curiosity in her gaze. Zoro lingers only half a beat before striding through like the fog’s nothing but smoke. The rest follow, some cautious, some awestruck.

And the moment they cross into the real Uonuma—

Everything changes.

The heaviness lifts.

The taste of the air sweetens, losing its stale, sunless flavor. Warm light spills across their shoulders like it belongs there. The old stone streets glow with life. Flowers lean toward them. The breeze is soft and smells like plum blossoms and morning bread.

Children stop running mid-game, wide-eyed and silent.

One of them points with a gasp. “Mama! Look! People came through!”

An older boy ducks behind a barrel, peeking out with excitement instead of fear. A little girl grips her doll and tiptoes out into the path, staring at Luffy with her mouth hanging open.

Elders pause at their doorways. Bent spines straighten just enough to watch. Their gazes are careful but not unkind. One old man squints hard and mutters, “A skeleton. Huh. That’s new.”

You keep walking.

You don’t look back.

But you feel Mama Reiko watching you.

She’s smiling again, a private, pleased kind of smile, like someone watching a sprout push through the cracks in old stone.

“She’s letting them see,” she says softly, to no one in particular. “That girl’s heart’s still soft, no matter how many ghosts she tries to wrap around it.”

And inside the town, as the Straw Hats take in the vibrant world hidden behind the phantom veil, the wind carries something lighter than mist—

Hope.

For the first time in a long, long time.

You walk a little ahead, the mist behind you curling shut like a door finally sealed.

The Straw Hats keep close, their footsteps oddly quiet against the cobbled streets. You don’t need to tell them this place is sacred—they feel it. The air hums with something quiet and kept, like a place that’s been holding its breath for years.

You stop beneath the shadow of an overgrown lantern post, its iron wrapped in creeping vines. The town stretches ahead, open and sunlit, the market square just beginning to stir. Banners sway gently in the breeze. Stalls dot the plaza—some selling woven fabrics dyed in the colors of twilight, others stacked with sun-warmed fruit, old trinkets, dried fish, or soft clay pottery.

You speak, without turning.

“I’ll let you shop.”

Luffy lights up like a lantern. “YOSH! I wanna try the—”

“But,” you interrupt, calm but firm, “you stay with me.”

They all pause.

You glance back over your shoulder, eyes soft but unreadable.

“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for them.”

Robin gives a respectful nod, her voice gentle. “We understand.”

You begin walking again, slower this time, and the Straw Hats follow in your wake like a ripple across still water.

The market is alive, but cautious.

People watch from behind stalls and fabric shades. Some don’t recognize you at all—young faces, children grown while you haunted rooftops and mist. Others pause with recognition dawning slow across their expressions, like sunlight through cloud.

An old woman selling ribbon falters mid-sale, fingers still curled around a roll of blue silk. Her eyes go wide.

“…Ghost?” she breathes, the word not quite fearful. Not quite believing.

You pause beside her stall, eyes meeting hers. The woman exhales sharply. “It is you.”

You nod once. “Keiko.”

She startles. “You remember my name.”

“You used to braid flowers into my sleeves when I passed.”

Keiko flushes—laughs nervously, rubbing the back of her neck. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten. It’s been so long, Y/N…”

“I never forget.”

Her hand reaches out slightly, then hesitates, unsure if she’s allowed to touch you. You let her.

She brushes your sleeve. Still real. Still warm.

Behind you, Chopper’s ears twitch.

“Wow…” he murmurs, voice hushed. “They know her. They really know her.”

“More than I thought,” Sanji says softly, his eyes sweeping the square.

The vendors are shifting. Slowly. One by one.

A man selling dried plum sweets straightens his back and offers a cautious, respectful nod.

A woman with sun-lined eyes and a cart of painted masks glances toward you, and though she says nothing, she lifts a carved fox mask as if in greeting.

Not everyone smiles.

Some watch from their porches, unmoving. A handful lower their eyes and close their doors. Fear doesn’t vanish in a day.

But no one shouts. No one calls you a curse.

You stop at a fruit stall. The boy behind it—maybe seventeen, maybe younger—stares like you just floated out of a myth.

“…You’re her,” he whispers. “You’re the reason we’re still here.”

You tilt your head, almost amused. “And you’re the reason the apples are still sour.”

He stammers, flushing.

Luffy leans over your shoulder. “Ooooh! Do you got meat??”

You give him a side-eye. “Luffy.”

“Right. Sorry. Ghost meat?”

Usopp elbows him. “Dude.”

The boy nervously offers you all a small basket of fruit. “It’s fine,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “Take it. Please. It’s an honor.”

You take the basket. Then—maybe on impulse—you pluck a fruit from it and hand it to the boy.

“Split it,” you say. “With someone who’s still afraid.”

He nods, cradling it like it means something. Because here… it does.

Further down, you pause at a small trinket cart—one that sells old charms made from wood and bone, each one tied with thread dyed in the village’s own root-stain reds and sky-indigo blues.

You pick one up. A ghost-bell charm.

The woman behind the cart stares, mouth slightly open. “I never thought I’d see you… not in daylight.”

You look at her, expression unreadable. “I never thought I’d be seen.”

She smiles, tentative. “Welcome back.”

You tuck the charm into your sleeve and nod.

Behind you, Mama Reiko watches from her stoop, cane across her lap, eyes glittering with something halfway between pride and knowing smugness.

“She’s walking like she belongs again,” Mama mutters. “Hah. About damn time.”

You lead the Straw Hats deeper into the heart of the town, where people are beginning to step out of the shadows, not with cheers or fanfare—but with quiet, cautious hope.

A little boy tugs his mother’s sleeve and whispers, “Is that her? The ghost lady?”

The mother glances at you, your mist trailing softly behind your bare feet as you move, and nods.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “That’s our ghost.”

And the ghost is smiling. Not fully. Not yet.

But enough to feel a little less like a shadow.

And a little more like someone home.

You keep walking—past the old peachwood fence where sparrows nest, past the stall with lanterns dyed with indigo ink and stitched with wind charms, past the parts of town you’ve watched for years without stepping into.

It’s strange.

Your feet feel heavier the deeper you go, not because of dread, but because you’ve never really walked this far with company. The veil always curled tighter the moment someone came close. You weren’t meant to share this place.

And yet here they are.

The Straw Hats.

Bright. Unfiltered. Chaotic like wind over river stone.

Luffy bounds between stalls like a pinball, staring at everything with such awe it makes your throat ache. Chopper clings to Usopp’s shoulder, whispering theories about the bracelets and the fog and your “anti-curse ghost frequency.” Robin’s eyes are soaking in every corner like she’s reading the town itself. Brook hums as he walks, and Zoro looks like he wants to pretend he doesn’t care—but you catch him looking. Not just watching. Looking.

Sanji’s been trailing slightly behind you the whole time. Not in fear—no, he’s watching you. Guarded, maybe, but respectful. Like if he looked away, you might vanish again.

You’re not used to being seen like this. Not touched by attention that isn’t suspicion or reverence or old dread.

It’s exhausting.

And… it’s kind of nice.

You stop near a stall run by a woman you haven’t spoken to in years. She’s selling grilled mochi cakes, their skins browned and crisped with soy and sugar. They smell like a warm home.

“I’ll pay for them,” you say.

You hand her coins you haven’t used in over a decade. They still carry the faint scent of incense and moss.

She looks at your face.

And she smiles.

“No need,” she says. “It’s good to hear your voice again, Y/N.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

You just quietly take the food and turn back to the group.

Luffy’s already halfway to swallowing one whole, and you flick a tiny bit of mist at his face, making him splutter.

“Chew,” you warn.

“Mmph—’kay,” he says, mouth full.

Chopper nibbles delicately and gasps. “It’s so gooood!”

Sanji gives a low whistle. “You always feed your guests this well?”

You don’t quite meet his eye. “Guests don’t usually make it this far.”

He tilts his head at that but doesn’t push.

Usopp inches up beside you, his hands jittery. “S-So, Miss Ghost Protector Lady—uh, Y/N—I heard from that old man over there that you once walked through an entire avalanche and made it turn around. Is that true?”

You stare at him.

Then blink. “No.”

“Oh.”

“But I did convince a dying tree to stop pretending it was dead just to spite the sun.”

He gawks.

Robin laughs softly behind him.

As you pass, villagers nod to you—some cautiously, some with eyes wide like they’ve only seen you in dreams. One child hides behind her father’s leg and peeks out, whispering, “She’s not scary at all…”

You stop walking.

You kneel slightly, just enough to look the child in the eye.

“That’s because you’re not afraid.”

The girl stares at you, round-eyed, then offers a tiny flower she’s been holding. A single ghost lily.

You reach out and take it gently.

The petals are cool and fragrant, and for a moment your hand almost flickers into mist—but you hold steady.

“…Thank you,” you say.

When you turn, Luffy’s grinning at you like you just told a joke only he heard.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“You’re weird,” he says simply.

“Thanks.”

“I like you.”

The words land so cleanly, so plainly, that your next breath catches somewhere between shock and laughter.

It’s been so long since someone just said that without fear. Without needing a reason.

You shake your head. “You’re all so…”

“Awesome?” Usopp offers.

“Noisy,” you reply.

“Fair,” Robin chuckles.

You start walking again, deeper into the town. Some of the villagers fall into step near you, watching the Straw Hats with growing curiosity. You hear murmurs:

“Are they pirates?”

“Did she let them in?”

“Why now?”

“They’re smiling.”

And the truth is—so are you.

Just a little.

The wind picks up. It smells like baked rice and blooming citrus trees. There’s music in the distance—soft, string-plucked, the kind that sounds older than most names.

You’ve never walked this far from the veil without looking over your shoulder.

But now you’ve got laughter at your side, footsteps following yours, and seven strangers with light in their hands and storm-song in their voices.

And for the first time in years…

You’re not alone.

“Hey! Y/N!”

You don’t have time to turn fully before it happens—

Luffy’s warm hand wraps around yours.

You freeze.

For a second, you’re not the veil-walker, the ghost, the guardian of Uonuma’s phantom shell. You’re just a body—a startled one—and that body is being tugged forward at full Straw Hat Captain speed.

He yanks you toward a nearby stall, one with a bright red canopy and tiny carved animals perched along the edges. “Look at these!” he grins, pointing wildly. “They got little wooden tanuki with hats!”

You should pull back. You should.

But his grip is warm. Alive. Real.

And something in your chest—dormant for far too long—trembles.

You go with him.

Your footsteps are unsure at first, like bones that forgot how to move with joy. And then—

You flicker.

Not disappear.

Flicker.

Your body stutters from mist to solid in a breath, like the ghost in you is surprised by your own decision. The bracelets on your crew shimmer faintly in response—just for a second—and then settle.

And then suddenly you’re fully visible.

No haze. No veil. No glimmering edges.

Just you.

In sunlight.

Whole.

And the entire street stills.

The town hasn’t seen you like this in over a decade. Not half-faded between planes, not as a drifting shape on a rooftop or a voice behind the mist.

But you. Laugh lines around your mouth that haven’t been used in years. The tilt of your brow. The quiet intelligence in your eyes. The figure that has haunted their stories, their songs, their warnings to curious children—suddenly very much human and standing in the middle of the market holding a pirate’s hand.

Gasps ripple like wind through tall grass.

You hear someone whisper, “She’s… she’s still beautiful.”

Another voice, hushed and reverent, “She’s real.”

And in the distance, a child yells with glee, “She’s not floating anymore!!”

You jerk your hand back.

Too fast. Too harsh. Your fingers tremble as you hide them in your sleeves, face dipped low, mist already curling instinctively around your ankles like a defense.

“I—don’t—” you start, but the words slip sideways, flustered and raw.

Luffy blinks at you.

“Oh,” he says, unbothered. “Did I scare you?”

“I—no. Not scared. I just—” you pause, startled at your own voice. It sounds so close when it’s not echoing through the fog. “That was… sudden.”

He grins, not a trace of shame. “You looked like you wanted to go somewhere but were pretending not to.”

You blink.

“That’s not… unreasonable,” you admit, quietly.

He beams.

Then turns to the vendor, who has been frozen with a painted tanuki in his hand the whole time. “We’ll take two of those!”

The man stammers, but eventually nods, wrapping them carefully and placing them in a cloth pouch. Luffy pays without hesitation, then shoves one toward you.

“Here!” he says. “Now you got a matching one with me.”

You hold the little wooden tanuki, its tail curled in a spiral, hat perched slightly crooked. You don’t know what to do with it.

“You… don’t have to give me things.”

“I want to,” Luffy says, with that easy simplicity that always sounds like the most truthful thing in the world.

You stare at him. At the creases in his smile, the way his joy is so loud it feels like it could drag the stars down to earth.

The townsfolk are still watching.

Some are crying quietly.

One of the elders—Hideo, an old man with a voice like rust and wind—mutters from his stall, “Maybe the ghost girl’s finally tired of being lonely.”

Mama Reiko, sitting across the square with a pipe between her fingers, watches with a look you can’t quite name. Not amusement. Not surprise.

Something gentler.

“She’s remembering,” Mama says to herself, eyes never leaving you. “What warmth feels like.”

You glance back at the Straw Hats—all of them watching, in different ways. Robin gives you a faint, encouraging nod. Zoro pretends he’s not paying attention, but his hand is close to his sword. Just in case. Chopper’s already drawing in his notebook, whispering something about “social re-entry response patterns.”

And Sanji?

Sanji is staring.

Eyes full of reverence. Like you’re made of light, not fog.

You shove the little tanuki into your sleeve. “Fine,” you say softly. “But if he curses me, I’m blaming you.”

“He’s not cursed!” Luffy laughs. “He’s got a hat.”

You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches.

Just slightly.

Then, still a little shaken, still not used to the way people are looking at you without fear, you keep walking.

But you don’t disappear this time.

Not completely.

The mist still clings to your feet.

But the sun?

It’s beginning to cling to your shoulders too.

Luffy is the first.

Of course he is.

He treats you like you’ve always been there, like you’re just another voice in the crew’s storm of noise and laughter and chaos. He doesn’t tiptoe around your silence or the way your voice sometimes comes out like a whisper through old stone. He just is.

He sticks beside you as you walk, grinning wide, hands behind his head.

“So you’re like… a mist ghost?” he asks.

You glance sideways. “Something like that.”

“Cool.”

“…You’re not scared?”

He looks at you like that’s the weirdest question he’s ever heard. “Why would I be scared of someone who protects a whole island?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Then, slowly, you murmur, “You’re… very bright.”

“Thanks!” he beams.

And you vanish.

You blink out of existence on instinct—so fast the mist coils around your clothes like you just crumbled into smoke. Luffy stands blinking, then laughing.

“Hey! Come back, Ghosty!”

You reappear a few feet to the left, mist unrolling from your arms like long sleeves. “Don’t call me that.”

“But it fits!”

“I’m regretting letting you in.”

“Nah,” he grins. “You like us.”

You don’t argue.

Because, somehow, you do.

Zoro is harder to read.

He doesn’t talk much. But he watches everything. Especially you.

He doesn’t flinch when you appear behind him on a rooftop without a sound.

“I was curious if you could sense me,” you say, ghost-light curling around your shoulders.

“I knew you were there,” he mutters. “Smelled like cold stone.”

You pause.

“…You have a good sense of smell?”

“I trained in places where people tried to kill me.”

You blink. “Same.”

Zoro smirks at that.

A silence falls between you.

Then, casually, he tosses something at you.

You catch it without thinking.

It’s a small bottle of herbal oil. Local-made. Meant to soothe aching joints.

“You looked stiff earlier,” he says. “Like you don’t walk much.”

You don’t know how to answer that.

So you disappear again.

He chuckles under his breath. “Hah. She poofed.”

Nami is suspicious, at first.

Not hostile. Just careful. She’s good at reading people—especially the kind who could be dangerous if they weren’t kind.

“You’ve been alone for a long time,” she says one afternoon as you both browse a fabric stall.

You run your fingers over a bolt of indigo silk. “Is it that obvious?”

Nami hums. “You react like a wounded cat. Sweet underneath but ready to vanish.”

You sigh.

“You don’t need to protect yourself from us, you know,” she adds, then softens. “At least, not unless you’re planning to steal our stuff.”

“…I don’t want anything.”

Nami watches you, then slowly presses a small coin purse into your palm.

“What’s this?”

“Ghost girls need shopping money too.”

You blink at her. A ripple of cold fog leaks from your sleeves—embarrassed, startled.

Nami smirks. “There she goes.”

Usopp avoids you for most of the day.

Not because he’s afraid.

Because he’s terrified.

You catch him peeking at you from behind barrels. Ducking behind stalls. Once, you float past him in your mist-form just to spook him for fun.

He screams.

Later, he tries to impress you.

“There was this one time I defeated a hundred shadow demons in one night,” he says, arms flailing as you both sit beneath a paper lantern.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They tried to eat my soul, but I was too powerful. My haki was too strong.”

You lean in.

“Is that so?”

You phase your hand through the lantern. The fire dims—flickers—and Usopp yelps.

“AaAAgh!! I-I mean! Yes! I mean—NO! I—”

You’re gone in a swirl of fog.

And from somewhere above him, your laugh echoes down.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed like that in years.

Sanji is dramatic.

Hopelessly so.

When you approach his end of the market, he spins with the grace of a dancer, one hand over his heart.

“Y/N-saaaaan~!”

You stop dead.

“…What are you doing.”

“Blessing the heavens for creating a being of such elegance,” he breathes. “You walk like mist given form. You vanish like a dream. You haunt my soul—”

You vanish.

Instantly.

Behind him, Robin chuckles into her palm. “That’s the third time you made her disappear, cook-san.”

“She’ll come back when she’s ready,” he sighs, lovestruck. “They always do.”

You reappear next to him, expression dry. “I didn’t leave because I liked it.”

He swoons. “She came back to reject me—how romantic.”

You shove a fruit tart in his mouth and walk away.

Chopper is nervous in the way young deer are nervous.

He tries to analyze you first—asks if you’re made of ectoplasm or mist. If your organs work. If you have a heartbeat.

You let him press his ear to your chest.

You do have a heartbeat.

It’s just… quiet. Like it echoes through deep stone.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers.

“…You’re not afraid?”

“No way. You protect people. You’re like a spirit doctor.”

You look away. “I’m not that good.”

He shakes his head. “You’re better.”

You vanish for a full ten seconds.

When you return, you drop a tiny carved bone charm into his hoof.

“For protection,” you say, and disappear again.

Chopper clutches it to his chest like treasure.

Robin is easy to talk to.

She listens. She understands silences as well as she does words.

You sit beside her on the temple steps one afternoon, both watching the children play in the courtyard. She doesn’t speak right away.

“I read about Uonuma once,” she says eventually. “A town swallowed by mist. Lost in time.”

You nod. “They’re not lost. They’re just… hidden.”

“Because of you.”

“…Yes.”

She turns, eyes soft. “You’ve done well.”

It takes you several seconds to reply.

“…Thank you.”

And when the silence comes again, it doesn’t feel lonely.

Brook approaches you late at night, where the moonlight pours through the mist like milk through water.

You look at him and feel something ancient.

Two ghosts meeting under borrowed stars.

“You’re not quite like me,” he says.

“No,” you agree.

“But you’re lonely, too.”

You nod.

“I won’t ask if it hurts. I know it does.”

You pause.

Then say, “…You can play for me sometime.”

Brook bows. “It would be my honor.”

You don’t vanish.

You just sit with him, letting the wind carry his tune into the quiet heart of your island.

Jinbei approaches you carefully.

Like a warrior. Like a diplomat.

Not because he fears you. But because he respects you.

“You hold great responsibility,” he says.

You nod.

“I have also protected things. Burdens that never sleep.”

Another nod.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, “when was the last time you rested?”

You look at your hands.

“…I don’t remember.”

“Then perhaps it’s time.”

You disappear before you even know you’re doing it.

He chuckles. Deep. Understanding.

“I’ll ask again later.”

You’re all together in the square when it happens.

Someone tells a joke. Probably Usopp. Or maybe Luffy falls off a stall again. Sanji’s yelling. Chopper’s laughing.

And something bubbles in your chest.

Light.

You don’t fight it.

You smile.

Not the polite ghost-smile you wear for strangers.

A real smile.

And they all see it.

And in that moment, something clicks.

You’re not just the ghost. The veil. The protector.

You’re you.

And for the first time in years…

That feels like enough.

The sun is setting.

You’ve always liked that hour best—when the sky goes soft and gold, and the mist around Uonuma curls up like it’s folding into sleep. There’s something peaceful about it. Something gentle. Like even the ghosts are tired.

The Straw Hats are preparing to leave.

You knew this moment would come. But it still lands like cold stone in your chest.

They stand by the docks. Laughing. Talking. Loading crates of fruit and little souvenirs. Chopper shows off a beetle he caught. Nami counts the coins she made trading local goods. Sanji lights a cigarette and grins up at the fading sun.

And Luffy… Luffy is looking at you.

Still.

Still bright. Still impossibly loud in his silence.

You walk with them to the edge of the dock. The villagers line the mist’s edge, quiet. Not mourning. Just watching.

You don’t know it yet.

But they do.

They’re watching you go.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

They can feel it. You’re not fading anymore.

You’re glowing.

You bow your head slightly to the villagers—soft, almost shy.

You whisper your goodbyes. Light passes over your fingers, turning your sleeves golden at the tips.

Children wave, some on their parents’ shoulders. Elders fold their hands in prayer. Shopkeepers nod with faint, sad smiles. A few of them bow.

They aren’t losing a ghost.

They’re setting you free.

And still, you don’t quite feel it.

Not yet.

Y/N!” Luffy calls, grinning wide, his hat tilted too far back on his head. He waves you forward, closer to the ship. “Come on!”

You blink.

“I’m not coming with you,” you say gently.

Luffy grins wider. “Why not?”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

The mist at your feet curls tighter. “This is my place.”

“Nope,” he says.

You stare at him.

He points at you. “You feel like one of us. And if you feel like one of us, you are one of us.”

You shake your head slowly, unsure. “You don’t understand…”

Zoro crosses his arms nearby, watching. Nami frowns thoughtfully. Brook tilts his skull. Sanji is already dramatically lighting a farewell cigarette.

But Luffy?

Luffy takes a step forward.

He holds out a hand. “Come with us. I want you to. We all do.”

Your breath catches.

The air shifts. Your body flickers.

Just slightly.

You don’t vanish entirely—just enough to feel that pull, that slip between choices.

“I can’t,” you say.

And your voice cracks.

They all pause. Even Luffy.

“I can’t,” you say again. “I don’t think I… I’m allowed to leave.”

And though none of them truly understand what that means, they all see it.

The weight.

The veil you still carry.

“Okay,” Luffy says softly. He doesn’t argue. Just smiles. “We’ll see you again.”

Then they go.

One by one.

They wave. Chopper cries. Usopp promises to write you an epic. Sanji blows a kiss. Robin gives a polite nod. Jinbei’s farewell is a quiet bow, respectful and sure. Brook plays a parting tune that drifts through the air like a memory.

And Luffy, the last to board, simply looks at you.

Still glowing.

Then he’s gone.

And the weight comes crashing back.

It’s heavier than it was this morning.

So much heavier.

You don’t remember walking back. Just the sound of footsteps that might’ve been yours. Mist swallowing you like a cradle.

You end up where you always do when your heart hurts.

On the stone bench under the old bell tower.

Head on your knees. Cloak pooled around you like a wilted flower. Your breath fogging against your knees as the weight settles into your ribs.

The bench creaks.

Mama Reiko sits beside you without a word.

You don’t lift your head. “They’re gone.”

“I know.”

“I said no.”

“I heard.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“…I know.”

Silence.

A bird cries somewhere overhead, carried by the fading light.

You press your face deeper into your arms.

“They’ll forget about me.”

“No, they won’t.”

“I’ll forget about them.”

“No, you won’t.”

More silence.

Then, Mama says, “You’re not supposed to stay here forever, little mist.”

You freeze.

“But the veil,” your voice trembled, a mere whisper. “If I leave, they’ll be exposed. The village. The people. I keep them safe.”

Mama’s hand found your shoulder, a comforting weight. “You’ve already done that, my dear. For so long.”

Your shoulders shook, a silent tremor echoing the quake in your heart. “If I go… I don’t know what I’ll be.”A soft hum vibrated from Mama’s chest. “You’ll be free,” she murmured, her voice like a gentle caress. “You’ll be you.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and thick. You couldn't speak, couldn't voice the fears that coiled in your gut. But then, Mama’s hand, warm and steady, found your back. The heat seeped into you, a quiet reminder: you weren’t a ghost anymore. Not truly.

Mama watched the distant ship shrink on the horizon, its bright red flag a defiant splash of color against the vast blue. The mist, your constant companion, curled around her ankles, but her gaze was fixed on the burgeoning sunlight. You remained hunched beside her, a phantom who’d forgotten how to haunt.

Finally, her voice, soft as a sea breeze, broke the spell. “Little mist, you’ve done enough.”

You didn’t move.

“Every stone in this town knows your touch. Every child has grown up under your quiet protection. And every person here… we love you.”

You pressed your forehead harder to your knees, willing the world to disappear.

“But we don’t need your chains to prove it,” she continued, her tone gentle yet resolute.

You shook your head, the gesture devoid of defiance, only a desperate tremble. “What if I go and they need me? What if I leave and the veil lifts and everything falls apart?”

Mama chuckled, a soft, knowing sound. “Then we’ll face the sun.”

You blinked, the words echoing in the quiet.

She offered a smile, one only the very old possess—wisdom etched with sorrow, pride shining through. “You’ve been the sky over us for so long, child. But it’s time you came down and lived.”

Just then, a tiny voice pierced the air. “Y/N!”

You lifted your head, barely. It was the girl from earlier, the one with the flower crown, running barefoot down the misted path. Petals bobbed in her hair like captured stars. She skidded to a stop, breathless, her cupped hands holding something small and soft.

“I made you a new one!” she panted, presenting a lopsided, faintly glowing daisy ring. “You left yours behind…”

You stared at the fragile ring, then at her beaming face. “You should go,” she declared, her voice bright with conviction. “You should really go!”

“What?” you managed, a whisper of disbelief.

Her grin widened. “We want you to go. You deserve to go!”

Your voice cracked. “But—”

“Everyone says so!” she interrupted. “Mama says, and Teacher says, and even grumpy old Da said it! You protected us! You can go be happy now!”

You stared, speechless. Slowly, your fingers closed around the little flower crown. And something in your chest snapped. Not pain, not grief, but the clean break of something brittle finally shattering to let the light pour in.

Your body flickered. Once. Twice. And then you were running.

The mist swirled behind you, a desperate attempt to hold on, but it couldn't. It lifted, uncoiling, unraveling, rising into the sky. You tore down the path barefoot, past the market stalls, past the temple, past the watchtower. With every pounding step, the veil crumbled. Sunlight, warm and bright and real, poured in like a tidal wave. The town gasped; some shielded their eyes, others fell to their knees in awe. Color flooded back into everything: the salty tang of the sea, the hum of the wind, the undeniable pulse of life.

And you—you kept running.

Past the last stones of the path, to the cliff's edge. The Thousand Sunny was still visible, a steady silhouette drifting towards the open sea. You flung up your arms, mist spinning from your skin like newly unfurled wings, like smoke torn loose from its ancient lantern.

“WAIT!” you screamed, your voice raw and free.

Far ahead, the sails shuddered. The ship slowed. And one by one, the Straw Hats turned to the horizon. Luffy was the first to see you. His mouth fell open, then—his grin split the sky.

Home

Back at the edge of town, Mama sat alone on the bench, watching. A soft wind ruffled her robes, and around her ankles, the last of the mist curled up like morning fog and vanished. She closed her eyes. “Go on, little ghost,” she whispered, a benediction. “Time to live.”

The Thousand Sunny groaned under the weight of an impossible reunion. You stood there, barefoot, your cloak whipping in the wind, breath caught in your throat, hand still half-raised. Luffy’s voice boomed across the water like a cannon, deafening the sea itself.

“GET ON THE SHIP!”

You blinked, your eyes stinging, whether from the wind or something more fragile, you weren't sure. Then, he was grabbing the side of the ship, stretching his arms like a slingshot. “Don’t worry! I’ll come get you—!”

“Luffy, wait—!” Nami began, but it was too late. He launched himself toward you like a comet.

You flinched, almost phasing out of instinct, vanishing as you always had. But you didn’t. You let him crash into you, his arms locking tight around your waist, nearly bowling you over the cliff's edge. He laughed, breathless and wild.

“You came,” he grinned, joy radiating from him. “You really came!”

You wheezed a tiny laugh, unused and rusty. “You kind of gave me no choice.”

“Yup!”

He grabbed your hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and pulled you—dragged you—back toward the Sunny, where the rest of the crew had gathered. Their expressions were a mix of shock, relief, and, in Sanji’s case, hearts exploding from his eyes.

“Y/N-chwuaaaaan!!” he sobbed. “You finally came to bless this humble ship with your ethereal beauty!!”

Usopp slapped him aside. “Dude! She’s joining! Focus!!”

Chopper’s eyes sparkled. “I knew it! I knew she’d come!”

Brook waved his bony arms. “A ghost joining the crew?! That’s a dream come true for me! Yohohoho!”

Even Zoro, half-dozing with his arms crossed, cracked an eye open and offered the faintest smirk. “Took you long enough.”

Robin met your gaze, a knowing smile on her lips that seemed to say she’d seen this coming all along. Franky was already popping open a celebratory cola. “You ready for the SUPER life, Y/N?!”

Jinbei nodded, his presence calm but warm. “You’ll find peace with us. In time.”

Nami leaned on the railing, squinting. “So? You sure about this? You’re not gonna disappear mid-sail, are you?”

Your stomach flipped, and for a second—

Poof. Gone.

The crew blinked. Luffy looked around, mildly panicked. “Wait—Y/N?!”

Then you popped back into existence three feet to the left, hands covering your face. “Sorry! Sorry—I just—got nervous—!”

A beat of silence. Then the whole crew burst into laughter. Even you. It was small, unused, rusty, but it was a laugh.

Luffy pulled you over the railing, plopping you onto the Sunny’s deck with a satisfied grin. “You’re one of us now,” he declared. “No backsies.”

And just like that—you were home.

The sails caught the wind. The town disappeared behind the mist, now only a faint memory wrapped in sunlight. You stood near the rail, still clutching the flower crown from the little girl, its petals fluttering in the breeze. You couldn’t hear the town anymore. But maybe that was okay. You weren’t their ghost anymore. You were you.

And from the way the Straw Hats chattered, teased, and pulled you into a hammock of laughter, stories, and snacks—maybe you weren’t just you. You were one of them. And for the first time in years—you didn’t feel haunted. You felt alive.

[2b4st4r]

٠ ࣪⭑ Marvel ٠ ࣪⭑

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

masterlist ૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა

╰┈➤ Smut is red, SMAU’s will have (📱) emoji, head-cannons will have (🧠)

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Avengers ⋆˙⟡♡

N/A

X-men ⋆˙⟡♡

N/A

Spider-verse ⋆˙⟡♡

n/a

Villian’s ⋆˙⟡♡

n/a

[2b4st4r]

✶ Demon Slayer (KNY) ✶

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

masterlist

╰┈➤ Smut is red, SMAU’s will have (📱) emoji, head-cannons will have (🧠)

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

❀˖Demon Slayer’s ❀˖°

n/a!

˙⋆✮ Demon’s ˙⋆✮

n/a!

[2b4st4r]

The Last of Us ༉‧₊˚.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

masterlist

╰┈➤ Smut is red, SMAU’s will have (📱) emoji, head-cannons will have (🧠) ༉‧₊˚.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

⋆⭒˚.⋆ All of The Last of Us ⋆⭒˚.⋆

n/a

[2b4st4r]

little warning!!

You can disregard my recent masterlist posts; they were made to improve accessibility! Sorry!