l4wsrule

[l4wsrule]

One Piece x Overwatch by 한석범

[l4wsrule]

I see your requests are open so id like to request something! So im a little nervous going back to work next week after being out for a month due to surgery. Could i maybe get Marco, Shanks, and/or Ace helping reader readjust with going back to normal crew life after being out with an injury? Fluff if possible! Thank you!

Rekindled Fire

Ace x reader

words: 5,604

warnings: descriptions of violence , use of y/n, F!reader.

━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━

The clash of steel rang in your ears, a symphony of destruction you'd grown intimately familiar with. Sweat stung your eyes, but you didn't dare blink, your gaze locked on the chaotic maelstrom of the battlefield. This wasn't just another skirmish; this was a brutal, no-holds-barred brawl against the notorious Black Tide Pirates, a crew as relentless as the very waves they sailed. Their captain, "Barnacle" Barty, a hulking brute with a hook for a hand and a sneer permanently etched onto his scarred face, was a force to be reckoned with. Your trusted cutlass, Seasplitter, felt like an extension of your arm, its familiar weight a comfort as you parried a vicious blow from a burly Black Tide first mate, his weapon a crude, spiked club that whistled dangerously close to your ear.

Around you, the Whitebeard Pirates fought with their usual ferocity. Jozu, a shimmering diamond, tore through their ranks, leaving a trail of stunned and bruised enemies. Vista's graceful swordplay was a deadly dance, cutting down foes with elegant precision. But your focus was narrow, your world shrinking to the space between you and your current opponent, and the reassuring, fiery presence beside you.

Ace.

He was a whirlwind of flames, each punch a scorching inferno that sent Black Tide pirates scattering. His signature "Fire Fist" erupted, incinerating a cluster of enemies who dared to get too close. A surge of warmth, not from the heat of his Devil Fruit but from the sheer comfort of his proximity, washed over you. You moved in sync, a deadly pas de deux amidst the chaos. When he needed an opening, you created it. When you were pressed, his flames were there, a blazing shield.

Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed over you. Barnacle Barty himself. His single eye, glinting with malice, fixed on you. "So, the Whitebeard witch," he rasped, his voice like grinding stone. "Heard you're quite the handful. Let's see if those pretty eyes can still see after I'm done with you."

Before you could react, his massive hook swung in a wide arc, aiming for your head. Time seemed to slow. You twisted, Seasplitter coming up to block, but the force of the blow was tremendous. Your arm screamed in protest, and you skidded back, your boots digging trenches in the splintered deck. Just as Barty prepared to follow up, a wall of fire erupted between you, forcing him back with a roar of frustration.

"Leave her alone, Barty!" Ace's voice, usually laced with an easygoing warmth, was now a low growl, filled with barely contained fury. His body was wreathed in crackling flames, his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored the inferno within him. You felt a fierce protectiveness bloom in your chest, even as you rubbed your aching arm. He was always there, your fiery anchor in the storm.

Barty sneered, "Ah, the brat. Still playing hero, are we? You think you can stop the Black Tide?"

"I don't think," Ace retorted, his fists igniting, "I know."

You knew what was coming. Ace, when truly angered, was a force of nature. But Barty was no pushover. This wasn't going to be a quick fight. You adjusted your grip on Seasplitter, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. This was your life, this exhilarating dance with death, side-by-side with the man you loved, surrounded by your family. The stakes were high, the air thick with tension and the smell of gunpowder and salt. The roar of the ocean, the cries of battle, it all faded into a dull thrum as you prepared to jump back into the fray, ready to protect your crew, ready to protect him, no matter the cost.

Your decision was instantaneous, a primal instinct overriding all else. Barty, fueled by rage and the promise of a decisive blow, brought his hook down with terrifying speed towards Ace, who, despite his fiery prowess, was momentarily caught off guard, a split-second opening in his defense. There was no time to think, no room for hesitation.

You lunged.

The world blurred, the cacophony of battle fading to a distant hum. All that mattered was the space between Barty's lethal hook and Ace's unshielded form. You pushed Ace with all your might, a desperate, forceful shove that sent him stumbling out of the direct path of the attack.

Then, an agonizing, searing pain blossomed in your side. The hook, meant for Ace, found its mark in you instead. It wasn't a clean cut; it was a brutal, tearing rip through flesh and muscle, a searing brand that felt as though molten iron had been plunged into your body. A choked gasp escaped your lips, raw and involuntary, as your vision swam. The impact spun you around, sending you crashing to the splintered deck, Seasplitter clattering uselessly from your numb fingers.

The world tilted, painted in shades of blinding white and an encroaching darkness. The scent of your own blood, metallic and sickeningly warm, filled your nostrils. You heard Ace's roar, a guttural sound of pure anguish and fury, echoing in the hazy distance. He was there, suddenly, kneeling beside you, his hands hovering, unsure how to help, his face a mask of horrified disbelief. His usual fiery aura flickered, diminished by the shock.

"Y/N!" His voice was raw, laced with a torment that tore at your heart more than the wound itself. He gripped your hand, his touch oddly gentle, yet trembling.

Through the haze, you could see Barty, his face contorted in a sneer of triumph, already preparing for another strike, this time aiming for Ace, who was still reeling from the shock of your sacrifice. But Ace, seeing the renewed threat, erupted. His body became a supernova, flames licking hungrily at the air, his eyes blazing with an intensity you had rarely witnessed, an unholy inferno born of despair and vengeance.

You wanted to tell him to be careful, to not be reckless, but the words wouldn't form. Your breath hitched, each inhale a fresh wave of agony. The deck beneath you felt cold, hard, unyielding. The battle raged on, a distant, muffled roar, but your world had shrunk to this small, agonizing space, illuminated by the desperate fire in Ace's eyes. You could only watch, helpless, as your sacrifice ignited a storm within him.

Ace was a blur of righteous fury, his Hiken erupting with a force that sent Barnacle Barty reeling back, momentarily stunned. The air crackled with the sheer heat of Ace's anger, and the Black Tide pirates surrounding them instinctively retreated, their faces pale with fear. They knew that rage. They knew what it meant to cross a Whitebeard commander, especially one who had just witnessed a loved one fall.

But Ace’s focus was already off Barty. He was by your side in an instant, his fiery aura still simmering but his hands now surprisingly gentle as he tried to assess the damage. He tore a strip from his own shirt, pressing it against the gaping wound in your side, trying to staunch the gushing blood. Your vision was tunneling, the edges darkening, but you could hear the frantic shouts of your crewmates.

"Doctor! Get the doctor!" someone yelled, and the words barely registered through the fog of pain.

Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared, his lean frame moving with an urgency you rarely saw from him. It was Marco, the First Division Commander, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a look of grim determination. He was the crew's doctor, his Phoenix Devil Fruit abilities granting him extraordinary healing powers, but even he couldn't fix everything with just a touch.

He knelt beside you, his bright blue flames flickering around his hands as he gently pushed Ace's makeshift bandage aside. A sharp intake of breath from Marco confirmed your worst fears. "This is bad, yoi," he muttered, his voice unusually strained. "The hook went deep, caught something vital. We need to get her to the medical bay, now."

Ace scooped you up with a tenderness that belied his usual boisterous nature, holding you close to his chest as he sprinted towards the lower decks of the Moby Dick. The battle above still raged, but for Ace, nothing else mattered. You could feel the warmth of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your back, and it was the only thing keeping the encroaching darkness at bay.

The medical bay was a flurry of controlled chaos. Nurses, usually tending to less severe injuries, moved with frantic efficiency, preparing instruments. Marco barked orders, his voice sharp and clear despite the urgency. He had shed his usual jacket, his arms bare, revealing the strength that belied his often relaxed posture.

He looked at you, his gaze piercing through the pain-induced haze. "We need to operate, Y/N. The wound is severe. I can stabilize you, but it's going to be a long shot. There's internal bleeding, and a major artery might be compromised."

You wanted to nod, to tell him you trusted him, but even that small movement sent a fresh wave of agony through you. You could only manage a weak squeeze of Ace's hand, which he still held tightly. His face was pale, drawn, a stark contrast to his usual vibrant self. He looked at Marco, desperation etched across his features.

"Do whatever it takes, Marco," Ace pleaded, his voice hoarse. "Anything."

Marco nodded, his expression resolute. "We'll do our best, yoi. But... it's going to be touch and go. It’s a very serious injury. She’ll need all her strength to pull through this."

As they prepared for the surgery, the last thing you saw before the world dissolved into blackness was Ace's face, hovering above yours, his eyes filled with a raw, agonizing fear you'd never seen before, and a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek.

The world returned to you in fragments, a mosaic of muffled sounds and hazy sensations. The rhythmic creak of timbers, the distant roar of the ocean, the soft murmur of voices – all slowly coalesced into a fragile reality. You felt a dull ache, a persistent throb that was a constant reminder of the gaping void in your memory. It was as if you had been adrift in a vast, dark sea, and now, slowly, you were being pulled back to shore.

The surgery, you would later learn, had been a brutal dance with death. Marco, with his steady hands and keen medical mind, had fought tooth and nail for your life. The internal bleeding was extensive, the damage to the major artery severe. He’d worked for what felt like an eternity, his blue flames a constant, flickering beacon in the operating theater, sealing wounds and cauterizing torn tissue. He'd poured every ounce of his Phoenix Devil Fruit's restorative power into you, pushing his own limits to the brink. It had been a desperate race against time, a battle you were losing until the very last moment. Your life had hung by the thinnest of threads, a testament to Marco’s skill and the sheer will of your body to survive.

Slowly, carefully, you opened your eyes. The infirmary of the Moby Dick was exactly as you remembered it, familiar in its clinical warmth. Sunlight, filtered through a porthole, cast a gentle glow on the crisp white sheets pulled up to your chest. The air smelled of antiseptics and something faintly sweet, perhaps a medicinal herb. You tried to shift, but a sharp tug in your side stopped you, a stark reminder of the massive bandage covering your torso. It felt tight, oppressive, but also reassuringly protective.

You were alive.

A wave of profound relief, so intense it almost brought tears to your eyes, washed over you. You had survived. The fight, the pain, the terrifying darkness – it was over. For now. Your gaze drifted around the room. Empty beds, neatly made, lined the walls. A small, familiar figure was slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head resting on the mattress, his spiky black hair a chaotic mess.

It was Ace.

He was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Even in slumber, a faint trace of exhaustion lingered on his face, a testament to the ordeal he had endured. A bandage, neatly wrapped, was visible on his left forearm – a minor injury, you realized, in comparison to yours. He must have stayed here, watched over you, for who knew how long. A warmth spread through your chest, eclipsing the physical discomfort. A silent testament to his love, a comfort deeper than any medicine.

A soft groan escaped your lips as you tried to shift, the sound barely audible, but it was enough. Ace’s head snapped up, his eyes, usually blazing with life, now wide with a dazed, disoriented look that quickly transformed into pure, unadulterated relief.

“Y/N?” he breathed, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the chair, and was instantly by your side, his hand gently covering yours. His touch was hesitant, as if you were made of glass. “You’re awake. Thank the heavens, you’re awake.”

A small, weak smile touched your lips. “Hey, you big dummy,” you whispered, your voice raspy. “Did you really think I’d kick the bucket that easily?”

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-sob, and leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. You could feel the tremor in his body, the sheer exhaustion and worry he’d been carrying. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Before you could respond, the infirmary door slid open with a soft swish, and Marco stepped in, a medical chart in his hand. His gaze immediately fell on you, and a rare, genuine smile broke through his usual stoicism.

“Good to see you awake, yoi,” he said, his voice calm but with an underlying current of relief. He walked over to the bed, pulling up a chair on the opposite side from Ace. “You gave us quite a scare. It was a close call, kid. Very close.”

He began to check your vitals, his fingers light and practiced on your wrist, his eyes scanning the monitors beside the bed. Ace, still holding your hand, watched Marco with an intensity that could burn holes in steel.

“How is she, Marco?” Ace asked, his voice tight with a lingering anxiety.

Marco finished his assessment, then straightened up. “Stable. All vitals are strong, given the trauma. You’re incredibly lucky, Y/N. The hook went deep, perforated your peritoneum, and came dangerously close to your kidney. But we managed to stop the bleeding and repair the damage.” He tapped the chart. “You lost a lot of blood, and you’ll be on a strict recovery regimen for a while, but you’re going to pull through, yoi.”

He looked directly at you, his blue eyes serious. “You’ll be weak for a bit, and that wound will take time to heal. No fighting, no strenuous activity for at least a month, possibly more. We’ll keep you here in the infirmary for a few weeks to monitor for infection and ensure proper healing. We’re not taking any chances.”

You managed a small nod, relief washing over you in waves. You were alive. You would recover. And Ace was right here.

The first few days were a blur of pain, exhaustion, and the constant hum of the ship. Your world was confined to the infirmary bed, punctuated by Marco's regular visits. He was a meticulous doctor, his assessments thorough and his instructions clear. He’d check your bandages, listen to your breathing, and prod gently around the wound, always with a reassuring, "Looking good, yoi," even when your own body screamed otherwise. Ace was a near-constant presence, rarely leaving your side unless it was for a quick, essential duty. He'd bring you broth, read to you from tattered adventure novels, and simply sit there, holding your hand, his quiet strength a palpable comfort.

Your first real failure came on Day Five. Marco decided it was time for you to try and sit up. The simple act felt monumental. You braced yourself, pushing with your arms, but a searing pain ripped through your side, making you gasp and collapse back onto the pillows. Shame washed over you. Ace was instantly there, his face etched with worry. "Easy, easy," he soothed, gently pushing a strand of hair from your face. Marco just nodded, unperturbed. "It's a big incision, yoi. Your core muscles are still healing. Don't push it. We'll try again tomorrow." It was a small setback, but in that moment, it felt like an insurmountable obstacle.

Small Victories

The next day, with Ace propping you up and Marco supervising, you managed to sit upright for a full minute, your teeth gritted against the protest of your wound. It was a tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless. Each day brought small, incremental improvements. Soon, you were shuffling a few steps to the bathroom, then taking short walks around the infirmary, clinging to Ace's arm like a lifeline. The feeling of your feet on solid ground, even just for a moment, was a sweet taste of freedom.

One afternoon, about two weeks after the surgery, Marco brought you a light training dummy. "Time to start building that strength back, yoi," he said. You scoffed. "You want me to fight that?"

He just raised an eyebrow. "Just gentle movements. Focus on your stance, your balance. Don't engage the core too much yet."

Your first attempts were pathetic. Your arms felt like lead, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. You tried a simple parry, and a sharp jolt of pain reminded you of the internal stitches. You wanted to scream in frustration. Ace, watching from a nearby chair, looked like he was biting his tongue to keep from rushing over.

"Again," Marco instructed calmly. "Slowly. Focus on the form, not the power."

You gritted your teeth and tried again. And again. And again. You failed to hold a stance without wobbling. You stumbled when trying a simple lunge. But with each attempt, the movements became a fraction smoother, the pain a tiny bit less jarring. You focused on the muscle memory, on the years of training that were embedded deep within you.

A Glimmer of Hope

Then came the day you truly felt a shift. It was three weeks post-op. Marco had cleared you for slightly more active, but still gentle, exercises. You were practicing a series of slow, deliberate sword forms with Seasplitter, its familiar weight now comforting rather than cumbersome. You moved through a sequence, focusing on breathing, on balance, on controlling the slight tremble in your limbs. As you brought the blade down in a controlled, fluid arc, there was no sharp pain, just a dull ache. You completed the sequence, breathing heavily, but feeling a surge of satisfaction.

Marco, who had been observing from the doorway, gave a rare, genuine nod of approval. "Good, yoi," he said, pushing off the doorframe. "That's progress. Significant progress."

Ace, who had been leaning against the wall, watching your every move, straightened up, a wide, relieved grin spreading across his face. "Told you she's tough," he boasted to Marco, then winked at you. "You'll be kicking ass again in no time, Y/N."

You smiled back, a real, unforced smile. You still had a long way to go. The scar tissue would ache for months, and your full strength wouldn't return overnight. But you had faced down death, endured the pain, and pushed through the frustration. You were getting stronger, day by day, with your family by your side. The open sea called, and soon, you would be ready to answer.

The day finally arrived, a crisp morning bathed in the golden light of the rising sun. It had been two long months since you’d last felt the bracing wind on your face outside the infirmary, two months since you’d heard the true, unadulterated roar of the Grand Line from the open deck. Marco, after a final, thorough check-up, had given you the all-clear, with the stern caveat to still be mindful of your limits. "No heroics just yet, yoi," he'd warned, a rare glimmer of concern in his eyes.

You stood before the full-length mirror in your cabin, pulling on your familiar pirate attire. The fabric felt foreign after weeks of soft infirmary gowns, but also wonderfully normal. Your cutlass, Seasplitter, hung at your hip, its weight a comforting, familiar presence. You traced the faint, reddish line of the scar peeking from beneath your shirt – a permanent reminder of how close you’d come. A wave of nerves, cold and unsettling, washed over you.

You'd fought countless battles, faced down monstrous beasts and formidable foes without a flicker of fear. But this was different. This was the fear of being less than. The fear of not being able to keep up, of being a burden, of failing the crew, of failing Ace. Your hands trembled slightly as you buckled your belt.

Ace found you just like that, leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on his face. "Ready to rejoin the chaos, Y/N?" he asked, his voice laced with his usual easygoing charm. But then he saw the subtle tension in your shoulders, the slight tremor in your hands. His smile softened, and he pushed off the frame, moving to stand behind you. He wrapped his arms gently around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "What's wrong? You're usually busting down the door to get out there."

You leaned back into his warmth, drawing strength from his embrace. "I don't know, Ace," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm... nervous. What if I'm not ready? What if I'm too slow, too weak? What if I can't pull my weight? What if I get in your way?"

He squeezed you gently. "You think I'd let you get in my way? Never. And you're not weak, Y/N. You faced down death and spat in its eye. You think a few weeks off deck is going to change that? Marco said you're cleared, and if Marco says it, it's gospel. Besides," he chuckled, a warm breath against your neck, "you've been driving him crazy with your endless questions about when you could get back to sparring. He practically begged me to take you off his hands."

He turned you gently in his arms so you were facing him. His eyes, usually so full of fire, were soft, reassuring. "Look at me. You're a Whitebeard Pirate, one of the best. You're my partner. We're a team, always have been. And if you're feeling a little rusty, we'll knock that rust off together. I'll be right there, every step of the way. Just like you were there for me." He paused, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your cheek. "You saved my life, Y/N. You think I'm going to let anything happen to you out there now?"

His words, simple and heartfelt, were a balm to your frayed nerves. The warmth of his touch, the unwavering trust in his eyes, slowly chased away the chill of doubt. You took a deep breath, the salty air of the ship filling your lungs. He was right. You weren't alone. You never had been.

"Okay," you said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "Okay. Let's go."

With renewed resolve, you stepped out of the cabin, Ace's hand finding yours. The familiar sounds of the bustling deck, the laughter of your crewmates, the distant cry of gulls – it all enveloped you, a warm embrace. You were back.

Stepping onto the main deck of the Moby Dick was like breathing fresh air for the first time in months. The salty spray of the ocean instantly invigorated you, chasing away the last vestiges of infirmary stuffiness. The familiar rumble of the ship beneath your feet was a comforting rhythm, a heartbeat you’d sorely missed. Your eyes, accustomed to the muted light of the medical bay, drank in the vibrant chaos of daily crew life.

Thatch was bellowing orders in the galley, the aroma of a hearty breakfast already wafting tantalizingly through the air. You caught a glimpse of Jozu, his diamond form gleaming as he effortlessly lifted a massive crate, while Vista’s laughter drifted from a group gathered near the mast. It was all so wonderfully, gloriously normal.

As you and Ace walked hand-in-hand, heads began to turn. Smiles, wide and genuine, broke out across familiar faces. Hands waved. "Y/N!" someone shouted, and then a chorus of welcomes erupted. "She's back!" "Lookin' good, Y/N!"

Your initial nervousness began to melt away, replaced by a surge of warmth and belonging. These were your people, your family.

Pops, massive and imposing even in his seated position, boomed with laughter from his usual spot. "Looks like my troublesome daughter decided to rejoin us, huh?" he rumbled, a fond smile on his face. You grinned back, feeling a lightness in your chest you hadn't experienced in weeks.

Ace, still holding your hand, steered you towards the bustling galley. "First order of business: getting some proper food into you that isn't bland infirmary slop," he declared, pulling out a chair at a table already laden with plates of eggs, bacon, and freshly baked bread.

You spent the morning simply being. You ate, laughing at Thatch's boisterous stories, feeling the easy camaraderie of your brothers and sisters in arms. Later, you sat with some of the younger recruits, listening to their tales of recent adventures, offering advice, and feeling the familiar pull of mentorship. You still felt a slight stiffness in your side, a dull ache that served as a constant reminder, but it was manageable, easily pushed to the background by the sheer joy of being back.

The real test came in the afternoon. Ace, true to his word, found you. "Ready to knock off some of that rust?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes, gesturing towards a less-crowded part of the deck.

You grinned, a challenge blooming in your chest. "Lead the way, firecracker."

He started you slow, just as Marco had instructed. Gentle sparring with staves, focusing on footwork and balance. Your first few moves were clumsy, your timing off, and you stumbled more than once. Ace, ever patient, simply adjusted his own movements to match yours, offering quiet corrections. "Too much power in that swing, remember your core," he'd say, or "Shift your weight, like this."

Then came the moment you felt the old rhythm return. You ducked under a feint from Ace, pivoted, and brought your staff up in a clean, swift block that met his with a satisfying thwack. Your movements were fluid, precise, and for the first time since the surgery, you felt your muscles respond with the familiar strength you'd always commanded. Ace grinned, a flash of genuine surprise and pride on his face. "There it is!" he exclaimed. "Welcome back, Y/N!"

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, you stood on the deck, a comfortable fatigue settling into your bones. You were back in your element, back with your family. The road to full recovery was still ahead, but you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your heart, that you wouldn't walk it alone.

Life aboard the Moby Dick quickly resumed its familiar rhythm, and you found yourself seamlessly re-integrating into the sprawling family that was the Whitebeard Pirates. The initial aches and stiffness from your injury slowly faded into a dull background throb, a constant, low-level reminder of your near-fatal encounter.

Back in the Fray

The first time you were truly tested came a week later during a routine patrol. A smaller, rogue pirate crew, emboldened by rumors of Whitebeard’s commanders being temporarily indisposed (no doubt thanks to the Black Tide Pirates spreading misinformation), dared to make a move on a supply convoy under Whitebeard’s protection.

You found yourself on the front lines again, Seasplitter a familiar weight in your hand. The sounds of battle – the clang of steel, the shouts, the impact of blows – were no longer a distant echo of trauma but a vibrant, immediate reality. Your movements weren't as reckless as before, a newfound caution guiding your parries and thrusts. You moved with deliberate precision, valuing efficiency over flashy displays. You remembered Marco’s words, "No heroics just yet."

Mid-skirmish, a hulking pirate swung a heavy axe towards your head. Your instincts screamed to dodge, but your recovering core muscles protested. Instead, you pivoted sharply, letting the axe’s momentum carry it past you, then countered with a swift, clean strike to the pirate's arm. It wasn't the powerful, sweeping blow you might have delivered before, but it was effective, disarming him instantly. Ace, who was scorching a group of enemies nearby, glanced over, a proud grin flashing across his face. You caught his eye, and a silent understanding passed between you – you were still a formidable fighter, just a smarter one now.

Camaraderie and Comfort

Evenings on the Moby Dick were often filled with laughter, music, and the clinking of mugs. You found yourself drawn to these gatherings on deck, no longer retreating to the quiet solitude of the infirmary. One night, while sharing a bottle of sake with Thatch and Vista, the conversation turned to the infamous Black Tide Pirates.

"Heard Barty's still spitting mad about the beating we gave him," Thatch chuckled, taking a long swig. "And even more so about his little 'victory' being short-lived, with you up and about, Y/N."

You raised your mug, a wry smile on your face. "He'll get no sympathy from me. Some lessons need to be taught more than once."

Vista, ever the elegant swordsman, nodded approvingly. "Indeed. Your recovery has been remarkable. Many would not have made it back to the deck so swiftly."

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, grateful for their unspoken acknowledgment of your struggle and recovery. It was moments like these, surrounded by your brothers, feeling their acceptance and respect, that truly solidified your return.

Later, you often found yourself on deck with Ace, leaning against the railing, watching the stars blaze across the endless sea. He'd tell you about the latest islands they'd visited while you were recovering, or recount some new, ridiculous prank Thatch had pulled. Sometimes, you'd just stand in comfortable silence, his arm slung around your shoulders, the gentle sway of the ship beneath you.

One night, he squeezed your shoulder. "You know," he murmured, his voice soft, "it feels right, having you back here. The ship just wasn't the same without you."

You leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "It feels right to be back," you agreed, the vast, star-dusted ocean stretching out before you. You were a Whitebeard Pirate, a frontline fighter, and a survivor. And you were home.

Life on the Grand Line, however, rarely allowed for prolonged periods of peace. Just as you were settling back into the rhythm of daily life, a new, ominous shadow began to creep across the horizon. Whispers, then outright reports, began to filter through the pirate grapevine: the World Government was making an unprecedented push into a notoriously volatile stretch of sea, an area known for its independent pirate strongholds and treacherous currents – an area the Whitebeard Pirates frequently navigated.

One blustery morning, a lookout’s shout pierced the usual deck chatter. "Marine ships! Bearing down on us!"

The announcement sent a ripple of tension, quickly followed by a surge of readiness, through the crew. This wasn’t a rogue pirate skirmish; this was the World Government, a direct confrontation with the might of their naval forces. As the Marine battleships, sleek and imposing, emerged from the mist, their cannons already swiveling to target the Moby Dick, a grim determination settled over the deck.

Whitebeard’s booming laugh cut through the rising tension. "Hah! Looks like the old man's still got their attention, eh?" He rose from his captain's chair, his massive figure casting a long shadow over the deck. "Alright, my sons! My daughters! Show these dogs of the government what happens when they cross the Whitebeard Pirates!"

You felt the familiar thrill of battle, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but this time, it was tempered with a sharpened awareness. Your hand instinctively went to Seasplitter's hilt. Beside you, Ace ignited, his fists already flaring with hungry flames. He glanced at you, a familiar fiery grin on his face, but his eyes held a deeper, more serious resolve.

"Ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice low, a promise and a challenge rolled into one.

You met his gaze, the vast, unforgiving ocean stretching out behind him, the imposing Marine fleet ahead. The scar on your side gave a phantom throb, a quiet reminder of battles past, but it no longer felt like a weakness. It was a testament to your resilience, a symbol of your survival. You had faced death and returned stronger.

"Always," you replied, your voice firm, a fierce light in your eyes. "Let's show them what a Whitebeard Pirate can do."

As the first cannonballs screamed through the air, heading straight for the Moby Dick, you and Ace charged forward, side by side, a united front against the encroaching tide of the World Government. The fight for survival, for freedom, and for family had truly begun anew.

[l4wsrule]

i noticed garling and shanks look so similar (duh) so i did a lil something

[l4wsrule]

peak writing i'm so SO inlove with this

Pipe and Prejudice

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Oneshot Length: 3.5 K+

Pirate law says don’t screw the crew. Beckman says: Not unless it’s him.

To gently encourage @jintaka-hane to never stop writing Benn Beckman.

Benn Beckman doesn’t walk. He arrives.

Every step is deliberate. Every movement measured, like he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second of it. He’s tall in the way that makes people straighten their backs when he passes, broad-shouldered and lazy-limbed like a wolf that hasn’t bothered to hunt yet. Everything eventually comes to him.

Salt-kissed hair falls in careless waves, streaked with silver at the temples in a way that shouldn’t be hot, but absolutely is. There’s stubble along his jaw, the kind that begs to be scraped against skin. His voice, when he actually chooses to use it, is low and smooth with just enough gravel to feel like sin you can’t afford but want anyway.

He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t need to.

One glance from under those heavy-lidded eyes and people either shut up, shape up, or rethink their life choices. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who could kill you with a look. He’d rather ruin you slowly though. A hand on your throat. A smirk at the edge of his mouth like the punchline to a private joke.

And that damn cigarette?

Always within reach. Cradled between his fingers or tucked into his mouth like a warning. He lights it lazily, exhales like he’s bored, and watches you like he’s anything but.

His lips are always slightly curled, like he knows something you don’t.

Spoiler: he does.

And his hands. Scarred, steady, infuriatingly controlled. The kind you imagine gripping the wheel of a ship or the curve of a thigh with the exact same precision.

Benn Beckman isn’t loud. He’s just there. In your space. In your thoughts. In your blood.

And if he ever really touched you?

You’re pretty sure the ship would burn down from sheer atmospheric tension. He wouldn’t even flinch.

He’s so hot. And it’s starting to make you a little pent up.

Okay. A lot.

Especially since, you know, it hasn’t exactly been easy being part of his crew.

And that hypocritical asshole Benn Beckman?

Still has the nerve to act like you’re the one who can’t behave.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s doing it on purpose.

You know it. The crew knows it. Even the damn birds flying overhead know it.

Ever since you glanced, and yes, it was just a glance, thank you very much, at that long-legged mercenary in port (the one with the smirk and the suspiciously clean fingernails), Benn Beckman has made it his life’s mission to personally torpedo every attempt at affection in a fifty-nautical-mile radius.

Which would be fine. You’d respect the effort.

If it weren’t his rule.  And if you weren’t quietly nursing the unspoken, increasingly loud need to climb him like a tree. 

But he said:

No crew hookups, he said.

No emotions. No entanglements. We’re pirates, not a soap opera.

No babies (Bold, and underlined three times)

He said it with all the smug wisdom of a man who could bed half the port with nothing but a smirk and a well-timed flash of abs. At the time, you thought it was pretty reasonable.

And yet, months later, you’re the one dry as the Calm Belt and twice as volatile.

It started subtly.

A look. A step. That pipe leaned too casually on his shoulder as he just so happened to be standing between you and a promising flirtation. Then, almost lazily, he tapped the ash right onto the poor man’s sleeve.

No apology. Just a low, amused hum and a look that said, “Oops. My bad. You were in the way.”

And then it escalated.

You tried to sneak off during docking to meet that handsome tanner with the kind hands and the stupid, endearing laugh. Benn suddenly developed a deep, burning interest in knife-throwing drills. Right outside the exact door you needed to slip through.

You tried a drink with a sailor from another crew. Benn sat beside you without invitation, then proceeded to clean his pipe with the slow, deliberate menace of a man gutting a fish. Somehow, soot ended up directly on your date’s collar. The man excused himself immediately. You didn’t even get a sip.

You flirted with a charming rogue who wrote you a song. Benn whistled the same tune behind him. Off-key. Loud. Deeply disrespectful. The poor man gave up halfway through the second verse and muttered that he “wasn’t feeling it anymore.”

You chatted with a quartermaster from a supply ship. Benn strolled past, eyes flat, voice cool. “Didn’t know you were into men who can’t read a tide chart.” He was gone before the poor guy could finish blinking.

You danced. Just danced. With a noble in a tavern.

Half a spin in, Benn appeared like a mid-boss encounter. He stole the man’s drink right off the table, took a slow sip, then leaned in and muttered something so vulgar it made you blush. You. Who once out-cursed Shanks during a hurricane and won a bottle of rum and a lifetime of respect from Lucky Roux.

It was psychological warfare. And he was winning.

The crew?

Of course they noticed. But they said nothing. They remembered the rule.

Benn’s rule.

No emotional or physical entanglements within the crew.

For harmony. For professionalism.

For reasons™.

Which would be fine. Noble, even. If Benn Beckman weren’t out here acting like you belong to him, without having the decency to follow through.

Every time someone flirts with you? Benn shows up. Every time you flirt back? Benn exists louder.

And you?

You haven’t even kissed anyone in months. Not a stolen kiss in a shadowed hallway. Not a drunken mistake after a raid. Not even a pity peck from a crewmate with too much rum and not enough self-preservation.

You’re going mad. Horny. Lonely. Emotionally blue-balled by a man who won’t even break his own damn rule.

And worse?

He’s not possessive in a way you can fight. He’s calm. Polite. Maddeningly composed. No theatrics, no yelling. No sulking in the corner like a jealous idiot.

And it’s not even jealousy. He’s not possessive.

He’s interfering.

Casually. Constantly. Confidently.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to think he’s enjoying it.

Every thwarted suitor. Every lingering stare. He plays the calm, superior puppetmaster of your dry spell every moment.

A one-man blockade.

A silent, pipe-smoking shadow who somehow appears at just the right moment to obliterate your chances at intimacy like it’s a goddamn hobby.

You're not even sure why anymore. Does he think he’s protecting you? Is it some twisted sense of duty? Or is he just a power-tripping hypocrite who enjoys watching you suffer?

At this point, you’re not sure whether you want to slap him, kiss him, or set his stupid pipe on fire.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You try. Gods, you try.

You flirt.

You flutter lashes. You laugh at jokes that aren’t even funny. You lean forward during card games and pretend not to notice when shirts ride a little low. You compliment knife skills. You fawn over his muscles. You even complimented a very unfortunate mustache because the owner had good calves.

None of it works.

Because Benn Beckman is everywhere.

Like salt in the sea, like mildew on wood, like some extremely judgmental barnacle that has emotionally latched onto your libido and refused to release it from the hull.

You try again with a visiting swordsman. A tall one. Sweet. Mutter's poetry when drunk.

Benn walks by mid-conversation, glances at your companion’s sword, and says, “Bit small for compensation, isn’t it?”

The man leaves instantly.

Then there's the shy medic from a nearby ship, who offers you flowers. Real flowers! You get one whiff before Benn “accidentally” drops his coat over them and says, “Allergic?” You aren’t, but the medic panics and runs anyway.

The next guy, you try to kiss. Try. You’re in a shadowed hallway, lips inches away, and a pipe taps lightly on the wall beside your head.

You both freeze. And Benn, not even looking at you, says casually, “Captain’s looking for you. You were going to report in an hour ago.” The man flees like a rat from a sinking ship. You’re left alone. Again. With a heat in your veins and a scream caught behind your teeth.

You really try to be normal about it, at first.

You flirt like a polite menace. You offer compliments. You even bake—bake—a pie for a carpenter who helped fix a busted plank near your quarters.

Benn drops the entire dessert into the ocean with a casual “Oops.” The carpenter pretends it never happened and never speaks to you again.

Fine.

You flirt harder. You wear a necklace with cleavage implications. You lean against barrels in suggestive ways. You ask questions like “Do you believe in soulmates?” with all the sultry poise of a woman about to commit crimes.

Each time, Benn appears. Never angry. Never loud.

Just present.

He looks at men like they’re bread left out too long. One man you try to woo tells you, “I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to be buried at sea.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely in Benn’s direction. “He looks like the type to anchor a man with weights.”

Eventually, you grow unhinged enough to ask Shanks for help.

Desperate times. Desperate measures. Spoon in hand.

“Shanks. I haven’t been kissed in six months. I’m going to throw myself off the side of this ship and hope I land on something hot.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just grins that ridiculous grin and takes a sip of his drink like you didn’t just declare a romantic emergency at sea.

“Sounds like you already did,” he says. 

You throw a spoon at him. Not hard enough to cause damage, but with intent.

He ducks, still laughing, and yells, “Yasopp, she’s officially snapped! We’re five days from a Beckman-related homicide!”

From the crow’s nest, Yasopp calls back, “I give it three!”

Down on the deck, Lucky Roux mumbles something about prepping a mop, just in case.

And somewhere behind you, you can feel Benn’s gaze burning into your back like a storm rolling in.

You don’t look.

You’ve got at least one more spoon in your pocket. And if he says something smug tonight, it’s going straight between his collarbones.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The celebration night starts simply.

Rum flows. Music plays. The Red Force is riding high off a fresh victory, and for once, you think…maybe tonight?

You wear your best shirt. The one that says, "I’m available, dangerous, and fully prepared to ruin lives with eye contact alone."

You lock eyes with a visiting sharpshooter. Dimples. Fast hands. Good aim. He makes a joke that’s actually funny, and you nearly cry from the sheer relief.

He invites you to dance. You accept before Benn can emerge from the shadows like the final boss of celibacy.

The deck glows with lanterns. The stars are bright. The music is rowdy, but melodic. The sharpshooter’s hands settle just right on your waist. Confident. Respectful. Warm.

You laugh at something he says. You lean in a little. It feels… nice. Not electrifying. Not dangerous. Just easy. Normal. The kind of moment you haven’t had in months.

He dips you in a practiced move. Eyes bright. Smile easy.

The air tightens. The laughter dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. The music still plays, but now it echoes like it’s coming from the bottom of the sea.

You don’t have to look. You feel it.

The storm has arrived.

You turn your head just slightly. And there he is. Benn Beckman.

Leaning against the mast like he owns the moonlight. Not borrowed. Not shared. His.

His coat hangs open, sleeves pushed to the elbows like he just handled something violent or intimate—maybe both. The lantern glow catches the line of his throat, the edge of his jaw, the slow drag of smoke curling from his lips like he’s sculpting the tension on purpose.

Hair tousled by the sea breeze. Scar barely visible under the lamplight. Cigarette balanced between two fingers like a threat. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.

He just watches.

Not even looking at you. He’s watching him. The sharpshooter who unknowingly walked into his territory.

Assessing. Judging.Plotting a deeply personalized murder, with footnotes and a dramatic conclusion. Complete with a warning label and monogrammed body bag.

You try to ignore it. You force yourself to keep dancing. You laugh again, louder this time. Sharper. Petty. Just to prove you still have free will.

But Benn’s gaze doesn’t shift. He’s locked on you like you just committed high treason in full view of the mast. Like the moment you let another man’s hand touch your waist, you started a war.

The sharpshooter dips you again, still smiling, still unaware he’s dancing in a blast radius. You meet his eyes. And then, he kisses you.

Soft. Simple. Perfectly acceptable. You let it happen.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not poetry. But it’s something. And for one brief, fragile second, you think maybe the curse has been lifted.

But in your periphery, Benn straightens.

He moves with that infuriating calm. Like gravity, parts for him. One step. Two.

Towering. Broad-shouldered. All slow fury and sharp angles, radiating heat like he just walked out of a fight, or your last three fantasies.

His coat shifts with every step, open just enough to flash the knife-honed lines of his chest, sea-worn and sun-bitten. That scar along his side catches the lantern light, his cigarette glowing dim between his fingers like a fuse counting down.

His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, flick to the sharpshooter with all the warmth of a storm cloud about to ruin someone’s year.

And he stops.

Just close enough to make your skin burn.

The sharpshooter opens his mouth to say something.

But nothing comes out. Not a word. Not even a breath.

Benn doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

The look he gives is a sentence, a verdict, and a funeral all in one.

The poor bastard swallows hard, nods like it was his own idea to leave, and looks away so quickly you wonder if he regrets ever being born.

Benn turns to you. Slow. Unhurried. Dangerous.

His eyes drag over you with the weight of something that sees too much and dares you to flinch.

You say nothing. You can’t.

Not with that look.

Not with the way your pulse trips in your throat like it forgot how to function.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on yours.

Then he exhales. Smoke, silence, and something that coils in the air between you like a wire pulled too tight.

He doesn’t touch you.

But your whole body knows he could.

And if he ever did?

You’re not sure the ship would survive it.

You’re not sure you would.

“Get. Off. Her.”

Benn doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It slices through the music like a blade to canvas; clean, cold, and final.

Your poor dance partner releases you like you’re made of dynamite. He takes one last glance at Benn, stammers something about needing another drink, and vanishes like a man fleeing death.

You turn. Jaw tight. “What is your problem, Beckman?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You.” His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.

“You and your damn flirting. You and every bastard who thinks they can put their hands on you.”

The words hit like a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. You’re too stunned to speak. Too furious to breathe.

And then he steps closer. Too close.

Close enough that the scent of smoke and sea salt curls into your lungs, warm and dizzying. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’s been holding back fire, and you’re the match that finally struck.

His eyes never leave yours. They’re dark, hungry, infuriating. And his voice drops. Smooth. Dangerous. Unapologetic. The sound of a man who’s done waiting, and doesn’t give a damn about consequences.

Your voice is low. Shaking. With rage. With exhaustion. With months of unmet needs and tension wound so tight it’s a miracle you haven’t combusted on the spot.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in, all six-foot-something of sun-bronzed, scar-marked, sea-weathered menace, radiating heat and bad decisions.

His shirt’s open at the collar, the dip of his throat catching the lantern glow. That scar along his ribs was just visible beneath the edge of his coat. His hair was tousled like he had just rolled out of someone’s bed, his cigarette was forgotten between two fingers, and smoke was curling lazily past lips you’ve spent far too long imagining.

And his eyes, dark, hooded, locked on yours with the precision of a man who already knows what you taste like. A man who could wreck you with a look. A man who is.

He steps closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough that your breath stutters, and your pulse has nowhere to run.

“You’re not mine.” He breathes the words like a vow, slow and deliberate. Low enough that they settle against your skin. “But if I’m not allowed to have you—no one is.”

Silence. Around you. Between you. Like the moment before a storm breaks. Still, sharp, electric.

And he just stands there, too good-looking to be legal, with the firelight turning him into temptation carved from smoke and salt and every bad idea you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Someone drops a mug. Somewhere, Shanks mutters, “Thank the sea gods—I was two weeks away from staging a fake wedding.”

You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.

You slap him.

Hard. Sharp. Satisfying.

You kiss him.

Harder. Hotter. Meaner.

It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. It’s months of frustration. Of sabotage. Of cockblocking so relentless it deserves its own bounty poster.

It’s a collision. Of ego. Of need. Of finally.

And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting, like every smug look, every quiet stare, every damn lit cigarette was just foreplay he’d been layering like kindling.

You don’t remember how you ended up below deck. One second you’re biting his lip; the next, there’s a wall at your back and Benn’s hands at your hips, kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s been starving. For you. Specifically.

He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t rush. He devours with the steady, unhurried confidence of a man who’s thought about this in excruciating detail.

Later, when you’re pinned against a storage crate, breathless, barely dressed, and actively questioning your spinal alignment, you pant against his throat.

“Is this against your rule?”

He doesn’t even pause. Just mutters against your skin, warm and wicked: “An exception.”

Clothes? Gone. Pipe? Dropped and probably rolling somewhere beneath a barrel. Your dignity? Folding like a busted card table.

You moan something that might be his name or might be a new swear invented on the spot, probably one the crew will adopt out of context.

He kisses your throat again, biting this time. A warning or a reward. Then mutters, “New rule. Just for you.”

“What’s the rule?” you pant, somewhere between delirious and ready to throw him down again.

His mouth brushes your jaw as he grins, slow and cruel in the best way: “No one touches you but me. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically. Twice on Sundays just to be sure.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re too busy making absolutely sure he never rewrites that rule again. Possibly ever.

Up above, the crew takes bets on how long you’ll last before you both break something important.

Shanks wins. He bet on ten minutes and a broken table.

You wake up in a supply room. Naked. Sore. Smug.

And unfortunately? So is he.

Benn Beckman, in all his post-sin glory, is still half on top of you. Bare chest rising and falling, scarred and golden in the early light slanting through the hull beams. His hair’s a mess, his lips are kiss-bitten, and one hand is still resting possessively on your hip like he’s asleep but ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong.

And he’s hot. So hot it’s personally offensive.

The kind of hot that should come with warning signs. All long limbs, sharp edges, and that low, lazy strength that screams if you run, I’ll catch you—and not in a healthy way. Even now, bruised from your fingernails and still smug from last night, he looks like he walked straight out of your most unhinged fantasy and into a problem.

You glare at his perfect jawline and whisper:

“You’re still an asshole.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just smiles, the smug bastard, and murmurs,

“You can glare all you want. Doesn’t change who you woke up under.”

The worst part? You can’t even pretend to be mad. Not when your legs are still jelly. Not when his scent is still warm on your skin. And definitely not when his hand is still resting exactly where it shouldn’t be, curled possessively on your hip like he knows you’re not going anywhere.

Because you’re not. Not yet. Not when he’s this warm, this close, and just barely awake enough to be soft about it.

You sigh. "You’re lucky you're pretty."

He grins without opening his eyes. "That’s not the only reason you kept me."

You smack his chest gently. Mostly.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Upstairs, Shanks updates the crew manual. Section 6B now reads:

Crew fraternization is forbidden.

Addendum: Unless your name is Benn Beckman and you're a tall, pipe-smoking menace with sniper eyes and slutty forearms.

In which case, fine. But at least pretend you’re conflicted, you smug bastard. Also, buy her dinner, you coward.

[l4wsrule]

⟢ ・⸝⸝ why are you crying ?

ׂ╰┈➤ how different one piece men would react to you crying over something stupid ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

t͟a͟g͟s͟: ace, law, kidd, sanji .ᐟ , fluff, romance, sfw, comedy(?) in some parts.

n͟o͟t͟e͟: established relationship for everyone except kidd (depending how you perceive it, up to you.) i also wanted to include sabo but i currently ran out of ideas, so lmk if i should do more!!

　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

𓇼 ⋆.˚ : The sun hangs high in a cloudless sky, its golden warmth spilling over the polished warmth of the wooden deck. Gentle waves lapping rhythmically against the hull of the Thousand sunny.

A mild breeze stirs the sails, fluttering them lazily as the ship sailed on forward, the rigging creaks occasionally. Seagulls squawking and birds chirping from a comfortable distance in the vast horizon. But otherwise, silence reigned the vessel as everyone else was sleeping in their cabins during this peaceful morning. It was quiet, too quiet.

And then, there was you. Pacing back and forth around the kitchen, a panicked mess. You were basically a walking storm, trapped in skin. The scent of burnt food from a plate placed on the counter hitting your nose with an acrid, bitter edge.

The smell, of course, didn't go unnoticed. From a particular cook in the ship who quickly rose from his sleep and made his way towards the kitchen in quick strides. Pushing the door open in panic. His mind rushed with thoughts like : "Is it an intruder, a possible enemy attack?"

But those thoughts were soon completely erased as he was met by the sight of you standing there in the middle of the kitchen, a guilty expression on your face, like a child who just broke their mother's sacred living room vase. Taking a glance behind you, he finally identified the source of the smell, a black vapor of smoke emiting from the plate. His gaze soon shifting to yours again. His worried expression immediately softened upon seeing tears streaming down your face.

"Mon amour— What's wrong, what happened ?" He implored in a soft tone, walking towards you. His hands hovering over you as if he was scared you'd break the moment he touched you.

"Food.. it..- I cooked, and it burned, and — " You muttered out incoherently between sobs. You knew he hated wasting food more than anything else.

The cook wasted no time in pulling you in his arms, into a tight, comforting embrace. He had no idea what you were saying, but, despite whatever you thought, your tears were his biggest weakness.

" Shh.. M'lady, calm down, I'm not mad at you, please stop crying. " He cooed, deseperately trying to stop your endless stream of tears soaking through his shirt.

He didn't say anything for a while, and neither did you. Simply holding you in a comforting enfold, until you quieted down and gathered your thoughts.

You were the one ending the hush.

"I wanted to cook something for everyone before you woke up, since you always work so hard, and I burned it..." Your voice trembled slightly, as though you were confessing a sin.

Sanji simply stared down at you for a moment, then let out a small laugh, like he was holding himself back just a bit more than he was letting on. He then tightened his hold on you, always ensuring and prioritizing your safety, before swiftly lifting you off the ground slightly, with ease. J enough to twirl you around in his arms.

"My love !! You're so cute I could die !!"

"Wh- Sanji !!" Your hands hung in the air, unsure of where to face them. Eyes widening. You couldn't help but laugh along at the sudden gesture. Your face an odd mix of tears and joy.

He eventually placed you down on the ground again.

"So.. you're not mad..?"

"Y/N, darling, if you told me you burned a man to ashes, I would blame him for standing in your way."

You chuckled at the reassurance, a faint blush dusting your already red, post-crying cheeks. He always had a certain way with words that boosted your mood in no time.

The blonde reached closer and wiped the remaining tears off your complexion with his thumbs, ever so gently. Treating it like fragile glass. His hands slightly cold, contrasting against your warm, roughed up face. Before placing a soft kiss to your nose.

"It's okay to make mistakes, let's remake it together before the others wake up, hm?" He reassured you, patting your back here and there.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ And so, the entire hassle was over, you eventually cooked the meals again with Sanji's help, he instructed you, carefully watching you, making sure you don't spill, burn yourself, anything of the sort. A proud, loving warm smile plastered on his face the entire time. It was both a means of bonding and teaching you more of his secret cooking tips he wouldn't tell a soul about.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

༯ ࣪ ﹏𓊝 ⋆. The moon hangs full above the idle mast, casting a spell on the currently anchored ship of the Whitebeard Pirates, lanterns swing from ropes, their golden glow flickering across their faces. The sound of crickets trilling in the grassy field ahead was loud, never loud enough to overcome their cheerful singing and laughters erupting like cannon, as they partied, for whatever reason.

Their excuse? "There is no celebration, we simply celebrate living through another day !" With half empty barrels of rum, sake.. you name it, beside them.

And you were there in the middle of them, on god knows how many bottles of rum. Probably not much, considering your tolerance. You couldn't afford to drink that much. Though you were already a tad bit tipsy, losing count of the previous ones.

Beside you, was your significant lover, none other than Ace.

"Cheers again!"

"Cheers ! To the charming lady who stole my heart ~ " He said with a cheerful smile on his face, the one he'd always wear. The one that always caused a flutter in your heart. His voice dropping down an octave at the last sentence.

You simply enjoyed eachother's presence, a bit too much. The sound of the crowd almost vanishing, that of boots stomping as the others danced with wild abandon, some arm in arm, some spinning solo.

Just as you were about to grab yourself another bottle, he did it. again. His signature move.

Ace's freckled face suddenly fell on your lap, his previous laughter soon replaced with a faint snore. Your eyes widened as you looked down at him. Hands suspended above your head, unsure of what to do.

You blinked a few times, processing it, and before you knew it, you unwillingly burst into tears. Probably due to the alcohol, but that was a conversation for another day.

"Ace !! Are you dead ?! " You whined, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Tears helplessly falling along your tinted cheeks.

Noticing your fussy state amidst the chaos, Marco walked up to you, arms crossed, he let out an amused laughter at the two of you.

"Haha ! Y/N !! You really crying? Give him a minute or two, you should get used to it by now."

That didn't go through your head. Not the slightest bit. You continued shaking him like you're trying to reach a coin from an empty penny bank.

He soon rose from his— rather short slumber, looking at you with a dead, plain expression. Like you had just insulted his entire bloodline, accessing the situation in his half drowsy, half drunken head.

He raised an eyebrow as he saw the tears on your face. Upon noticing that, you promptly averted your gaze away from him, wiping them off using the back of your sleeve.

"..Were you crying?? " Portgas asked, a mix of worry and amusement stirring in his voice, each of the two fighting for dominance.

"Absolutely not." You affirmed, your response quick and sharp.

"Pehahaha ! You wereeee ~ " He insisted in a tune-ish tone. A laugh eventually booming out of him. A laughter that always brought warmth to your chest, no matter what. Even now, when you were pretending to be mad.

Scooting closer to you, he draped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you against his side. His free hand curling into a fist and ruffling your hair playfully. "You thought I died or somethin' ?" The brunette teased, low chuckles escaping the back of his throat despite him. Holding himself back.

"..Could you stop doing that out of the blue? Atleast warn me beforehand!! What if you actually died?? What would I do with myself, Ace!" You dramatized, perhaps way too much. It's the alcohol, again.

He didn't exactly try to ridicule you or make fun of you, knowing how emotional you'd get in your light headed form. He leaned closer and pressed a kiss to the side of your head, patting your shoulder reassuringly.

"You're such a crybaby. I won't die, not anytime soon, and especially not because of this. Alright?"

How ironic.

"..'Better not, you fool.." You mumbled under your breath.

༯ ࣪ ﹏𓊝 ⋆. When you thought he hadn't heard you, well, he had. His earlier amused smile shifting into a warm, content one. Finding your tipsy, worried self oddly endearing. But brushing off this funny interaction aside, not wanting to bring down the mood, both of you soon placed your focus back to enjoying your quality time alongside eachother before the end of the night.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

˙✧˖🔧 ⋆｡˚ A gruesome fight had just ended between the Kid Pirates and another rookie crew, who foolishly thought they were good enough and actually stood a chance to match against your captain.

Your crew, of course, left the attack victorious. Albeit, the ship, Victoria, was left in a tremendously bad shape. And you were so kind to offer fixing up a few loose wooden boards.

Spoiler: You had no shipwrighting experience whatsoever.

And so you struggled, for hours. Deseperately attempting to fix the mess.. and you just may have made it worse. Though your pride didn't allow you to admit you couldn't do it.. or maybe the fear of telling Kidd. So, you simply chose to drown in silence.

You sat down, leaning against the railing. Smoothing your hair back and sighing, a few tears falling from your face with your forehead in yours hands, elbows propped on your knees.

This was dumb. Why were you crying?

You thought: everyone is so strong and reliable, You thought you could at least help with some measly ship fixing.

Zoning out, your mind eventually turned off, but your tears never ceased raining down your face. Until he passed by.

A deep, aggressive voice pierced through your earlier silence.

"Oi — You done fixing that up or what ?!"

You immediately flinched, standing up abruptly, with a hammer still in your hand. Face slightly reddened and puffy from your quiet sobs.

Kidd wasn't born yesterday, he certainely wasn't the smartest one in the bunch, either. But when something was wrong, he could definitely sense it.

" What the hell. Y/N. Crying, on my ship ? In my sight?? " He scolded roughly. A growl emitting beneath his words.

"I'm not crying, I just couldn't figure out how t —" You gave him a half-assed excuse, gripping the hammer tighter around your hand.

Eustass looked back and forth between you, the hammer, and the still unfixed mess behind you. It wasn't hard to put two and two together.

"Tch— You're pathetic, give me that." He commanded firmly, his tone as gruff as ever as he took the hammer from your hand by force in one swift motion. Kneeling down where the touching up needed to be done, and getting to work without another word.

"Captain, you didn't have to, I can—" You protested quietly, walking behind him.

"Shut up and actually make yourself useful— Bring more screws. Now."

Not another word was spoken from you. You quickly hurried off to grab more supplies, sighing in relief on your way.

˙✧˖🔧 ⋆｡˚ Why, relief? Because you knew. You knew he wasn't actually mad. That's just how he is. A tough exteriour, hiding a much more caring and reliable facade, especially towards you and the rest of his crewmates. You could tell he felt just a tad bit bad for your pathetic, sorry self. Though he would never admit it out loud. And he didn't necessarily have to, since you could read him like a book anyway.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

⊱ 🧊 ׅ ✧ ⋮ Onboard the famous Polar Tang submarine, where everyone else was busy managing whatever important stuff going on. You, on the other hand, were.. well, definitely busy, with something else.

Curled up in a ball on the couch of Law's office, wrapped around yourself like a cocoon, face buried in your knees. You weeped, uncontrollably. Like you just witnessed the sky shattering and falling above you. Your form shaking slightly with each sob errupting out of you.

And there he was, sitting on his desk, his multiple attempts at focusing on his work were futile.

He'd already tried comforting you, but those attempts were just as pointless.

He wiped a hand roughly over his face, as if he was giving up on life itself entirely.

"Will you stop crying over that already ? " He grumbled gruffly, his gaze shifting to you again.

"No !! I feel so, terribly bad, I wish the ground opened and swallowed me whole ! "

"So dramatic." Trafalgar sneered, rolling his eyes.

"You just don't get it!" You whined.

"Oh, I do get it." He affirmed amidst standing up, making his way towards you again. He sat beside you, awkwardly.

You were unconsollable.

"..Listen, I really don't think Bepo's the type to hold a grudge over you accidentally stepping on him— Hell, he doesn't hold grudges at all. He's just Bepo." Law assured you, placing an awkward hand on your back, patting it a few times.

You eventually pulled your face out of your knees, sniffling, dabbing at your tears with the back of your hand.

"But— He looked so pained, and sad, and the way HE apologized because of MY mistake —"

"He's not sad, I was with him just a moment ago, he's playing cards with Penguin and the others like nothing happened. I bet he already forgot about it."

You paused. It was a long, dramatic pause. You wanted the earth to swallow you whole once again, but this time, for different circumstances. You just embarassed yourself, crying senseless over nothing. Though your tears finally stopped their ceaseless falling.

He blinked a few times, confused by your sudden silence, and the way you stared at him.

"..Really? He's not sad? Or mad at me?" You asked again, making sure, again, and again.

"I never lied to you." Law reassured you, times over, and over. As much as you needed.

With a now relieved smile, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close for a hug. He stiffened and stilled for a moment, a small, barely there blush brushing against his cheeks. But he didn't hesitate to hug you back.

"Idiot. You should really save your tears for more important matters next time." The surgeon mumbled against your hair as he plopped his chin ontop of your head. More of an advice than a scold, he didn't exactly like seeing you crying, and it showed, in his own special way.

⊱ 🧊 ׅ ✧ ⋮ He wasn't exactly the emotional type of guy. When it came to situations like this, or any situation, really. He was always more logical, rational, and critical. He acted on finding a solution rather than giving out comfort, but he learned to know how to balance between the two when it came to you, he deeply cared, despite not showing much through his cold and distant facade. Which only seemed to collapse around you.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

[l4wsrule]

Zoro yearns for you during the training timeskip, but he’s a good boy. Suggestive.

a/n: it’s like 2am and this is super self indulgent. Did not read through it I’m about to pass out.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The two years that Zoro spent without you was agonising. He felt empty but his head was full, and his pent up frustrations only grew. He didn’t know where you were, if you were safe… if you were alive.

He takes out his frustrations on relentless training, everyday, cursing at himself for not being strong enough. His heart burns whenever he thought about the events that happened at sabaody, how he was so helpless, how he wasn’t able to keep you safe, to keep everyone safe. So he drowns himself in fighting, in getting stronger.

On the occasional nights however, when the fog around the island lighten, and the stars peak out from behind the clouds. Zoro sits at a balcony, quiet with his thoughts. His longing, for you. He reminiscents on the nights like this back on the sunny, you curled up next to him under the watch of these same stars. The moon illuminating your features, your soft voice that would grace his ears. A melody, accompanied by the symphonies of the ocean.

On nights like this his hands itches for you, and his body yearns. And his mind imagines. He wants to hold you, your soft skin against his, to feel you breath fanning his ears, your gasps, your cries, your love. He curses himself for thinking it, but he couldn’t help himself. His hands slide down, hesitantly… he really shouldn’t be doing this. He didn’t even know if you were doing okay right now, if you ever felt the same way about him. But His hands, inexperienced, palms himself through his loose pants. Eyes closing shut from the pleasure of such little friction, images of you flooding his mind. And then all there was is guilt, washing over him like a tidal wave.

He grunts, this isn’t right, He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be thinking of your body in this way when neither of you ever went further than cuddle to keep warm.

So, he turns his gaze back into the sky, forcing his hands to move away. He lets out a shaky breath that drifts in the cool air. He will wait, until he sees you again. Until you’ve let him into your heart fully, before he will ever allow himself to think about you in this way again.

[l4wsrule]

[l4wsrule]

i was meant to be someones spoiled and mischievous house cat

[l4wsrule]

in plain sight

roronoa zoro x reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: when the straw hats start speculating about zoro's mysterious girlfriend, you and he decide to let the rumours run wild—until the truth comes out most unexpectedly. w/c: 3.6k c/w: secret relationship, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns.

There's no other way to get through to him than being straight up. That's how it works with Zoro, and it's something Nami has learnt to do without regret.

"You're seeing someone."

The swordsman shifts where he sits against the mast, his lips quirking into a scowl. "And you think it's your business because...?"

Nami has the urge to punch him in the shoulder, but it isn't like he'd feel it anyway, so she refrains.

"So it's true, then?"

"Can you just leave me alone? Aren't there clouds you need to yell at?"

She growls, deep and irritated before stomping to the back of the ship where she knows you and Robin will be.

Zoro smirks to himself, happy that he's palmed the problem off to you. He knows Nami will figure it out eventually, but seeing her so frazzled is satisfying.

You slam your book down on your thighs, your eyes darting around suspiciously like you can feel someone scheming against you. There's a tightness in your chest before Nami stops before you, her hands on her hips and her brows set in a nasty frown.

"He's unbelievable!"

Robin gives you a sidelong look before bookmarking the page of her book and sliding it onto the table. "What's the matter?"

"Zoro."

You bite your tongue and close your own book without marking the page, eyes trained on the navigator. From the way your heartbeat increases, you already know what she's going to say.

"What'd he do this time?" You squeak, hoping they don't hear the shake in your tone.

Nami rolls her eyes as she collapses onto the sun lounge. "He's keeping a secret."

"This again?" Robin chuckles. "How can you be so sure?"

"He smiles."

You blink. "What?"

Robin can't contain her giggles. "That's your evidence?"

"Yes!" Nami exclaims. "And he showers more than once a week!"

"Maybe he's working on himself..." You offer, the cuticle of your left thumb close to bleeding. Small hands close over where you pick, and you glance at Robin who remains focused on Nami.

"Are you sure you're not looking at this too closely?"

Nami shakes her head at the archaeologist. "This is different."

"Ladies! Could I interest you in a beverage?"

Your attention turns to Sanji, who glides over to you, a tray of pink and orange drinks in his hand. They tilt dangerously to the right when he presents them before you, and you take one. The condensation is a welcome sensation against your hot skin, and you immediately slurp down the drink—the nerves simmering through your veins make you hasty.

"Slow down," Robin tuts, taking a sip of her own cocktail, her eyes narrowed.

You know she knows, otherwise she wouldn't be babying you. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

"Rumour has it..." She continues, tilting her head at Sanji. "That Zoro has a girlfriend."

You choke on your drink, but Sanji's reaction draws the attention away from you, thankfully.

"What?" He yells, spluttering. "Who? Why? How?"

It's not really a secret, just the beginning of a newfound mutual attraction—you wouldn't even go as far as calling it a relationship yet, let alone labelling you as Zoro's girlfriend.

Nami nods along, seemingly egging Sanji on despite her earlier vexation and interest in the situation.

"Who is it?" Sanji presses his hand to his forehead. "I feel bad for her. We need to get this poor girl outta there."

Robin shrugs. "It's just a rumour. Who knows if it's even true."

"He didn't deny it when I asked him," Nami says, her gaze meeting Sanji's eagerly. "We need to figure it out."

The cook nods. "And when we find her, we need to perform an exorcism."

"Do you remember that waitress from Dressrosa?"

"The one who winked at him?"

"Yes!"

Nami and Sanji disappear, the wind carrying their voices and their sandals and dress shoes heavy on the wooden deck of the Sunny as they converse to the galley.

"How long are you going to let them meddle before you tell them?"

You twist your lips. Of course, Robin knows. "We only started speaking about it a few weeks ago. Nothing's official and we aren't even sure if it would be appropriate."

She hums, mulling over your words as she swirls the straw around in the sunset-coloured liquid.

"They don't know it's you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it."

You snort. "You're evil."

Robin smirks, picking her book back up with her free hand. "Just think about it."

—

You step out of the lower quarters, Zoro’s green haramaki jacket slung loosely over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs like it belongs there. It’s warm, a little scratchy, and it still smells faintly of sun-dried sweat and steel—undeniably him. The night air bites at your legs, but the jacket holds you like a dare.

Robin’s words from earlier echo in your head, smooth and dangerous: “They don’t know it’s you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it.”

So you decide to take her advice.

The galley is quiet when you push open the door. Dimly lit, the overhead lamp hums, casting a warm glow over the countertop where Sanji and Nami are standing far too close, heads bent together in hushed conspiracy. The air smells like citrus and tension.

Sanji is mid-sentence—something whispered and scandalous—when he sees you. He freezes, jaw half-open. Nami’s eyes snap up to follow his gaze, and everything stills.

You don’t say a word as you glide past them toward the stove, bare feet soft against the tiled floor. The only sound is the clink of the kettle being set to boil and the rattle of teacups. Their silence trails you like a pair of shadows.

Then, finally—

“Wait,” Nami says, blinking like she’s trying to reset her vision. “Is that—?”

You glance down at yourself like you’d forgotten what you were wearing. Feigning surprise, you laugh under your breath and tug the jacket tighter around your body. “Oh, this? Found it in the laundry pile. Might be Zoro’s. Not sure.”

You catch the shift in Sanji’s face like a storm rolling in—he chokes on his own cigarette smoke, coughing once, twice, eyes already watering with disbelief and disgust.

“That thing?” He sputters, voice rising half an octave. “That filthy, ragged—seaweed-coloured disgrace? You—you—should be wrapped in silk, in crushed velvet! Not whatever that moss-headed neanderthal sheds after a workout!”

You raise your eyebrows, unbothered. “Mm. But it’s warm.”

Nami’s staring now, more than looking—like she’s trying to do the math on something that shouldn’t be adding up.

You pick up your mug, now full and steaming, and cradle it in your hands. The ceramic is hot against your palms, grounding. You take a long sip, letting the moment stretch.

Then, casually, over the rim of your mug, you grin. “You’re right, Sanji. His girlfriend would probably hate me wearing it. Don’t you think?”

That lands like a firework.

Nami’s hand shoots out and grabs Sanji’s arm, her eyes going wide, like she’s just been handed the final piece of a puzzle she didn’t even realize she was solving. Sanji, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to faint.

You say nothing else.

The silence breaks only as you turn and make your way to the door. You don’t look back, but you can feel their stares trailing after you, sharp and electric.

As the door swings shut behind you, the muffled explosion of whispers begins instantly. Names. Theories. Wild speculation.

You let yourself smile into your tea.

—

"I'm on the list," You say, nudging your shoulder into Zoro’s as you wander past the last row of closed market stalls.

The town’s emptying, the sun bleeding its way down between leaning rooftops and flickering lanterns. There’s a stillness to this street, a hush that comes only after a good day of noise, food, and crew-wide mischief. For once, it’s quiet—just the two of you, tucked into the rarest sliver of privacy the world ever offers.

Zoro doesn't look at you, just grunts, a familiar sound rumbling in his chest. “What list?”

“Nami’s.”

That earns a slight turn of his head, a single eye narrowing in suspicion. “What’s she doing now?”

“Compiling suspects.” You smirk. “Of who you’re allegedly dating.”

He slows a step, not quite stopping. Another grunt—this one closer to a sigh. “You serious?”

“She’s up to five pages,” You continue, voice casual like this is normal. “I’m top three. Could be number one by tonight if I play my cards right.”

“That bad, huh?”

“She’s even got Franky on there.”

Zoro barks out a low laugh, the sound brief and amused. “What, because he complimented my swords once?”

“Probably,” You hum. “She said he gave you a suspicious thumbs-up the other morning.”

“That’s just Franky’s default setting.”

You shrug. “Try telling her that.”

He snorts, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying not to smile. The silence between you stretches, easy and familiar, filled only by the sound of your boots on stone and the rustle of wind through paper lanterns.

“She’s also started giving me these looks,” You add after a beat, waving a hand in the air and twirling your finger vaguely around your face. “Real invasive ones. Like she’s waiting for me to confess to murder or something.”

Before your spin can complete its full, dramatic arc, Zoro grabs your hand—steady and sudden. It isn’t forceful, just deliberate. Grounding.

He pulls you closer, not enough for anyone to see from a distance, but enough that your knuckles brush the fabric of his trousers, enough that your hand is suspended in the space between your bodies. Your pulse jumps.

“So what,” He says, voice quieter now. “You scared?”

You scoff, not bothering to hide the small huff of a laugh. “Of Nami?”

He shrugs, but there’s something in the way he watches you now—something more focused than usual. Like he's waiting. Like he’s asking a question without actually saying it.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “I’m not scared. Just…” You trail off, letting the truth settle before saying it aloud. “Not ready to be the Sunny’s new soap opera.”

He raises a brow, skeptical.

You nudge his hand with your pinky. “You know how they are. One clue and suddenly there’s a betting pool, matching outfits, crew-wide interventions…”

“They’ll move on in a week,” He says, like it’s obvious.

You arch a brow. “You really think that?”

He doesn’t answer, but his grip on your hand lingers.

A breeze slips between the buildings, catching the hem of your shirt and the edge of Zoro’s sash. The moment holds, quiet and strange, like the calm before something shifts.

Then you glance up at him, smirking. “For the record, I am honoured to be on the list.”

Zoro exhales through his nose, amused again. “Be funnier if she put Luffy on it.”

“She might. Give her time.”

He finally lets go of your hand, but only so his pinky can loop around yours instead—barely touching, almost nothing.

But you feel it anyway.

—

Back on the ship, you’re curled up on the bench seat in the lounge, one of Sanji’s lemon cakes half-eaten beside you and your book lying facedown on your lap. It’s supposed to be a relaxing afternoon—the kind with quiet waves, distant seagulls, and maybe even a nap—but of course, peace never lasts long on the Sunny.

Not when Nami’s around.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the cutlery in the adjacent kitchen. Nami storms in like she’s coming back from war—journal clutched in her hand, hair wind-whipped, eyes gleaming with the kind of chaos only someone with a vengeance (and a highlighter) can conjure.

“I’ve got it!" She exclaims, eyes wide with excitement.

Robin, seated at the small corner table with a cup of spiced tea and the latest historical epic, doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes slide lazily to the side, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve got what?”

“The proof.” Nami tosses her journal onto the table with a flourish. “I know who Zoro’s seeing.”

Your stomach flips, fast and stupid, like a switchblade. You sit up a little too quickly, the book slipping from your lap and thumping against the bench. Your hands tighten around the cushion.

Robin closes her book with exaggerated slowness. “Who is it then?”

Nami slams her palm flat against the open page. In massive, block-lettered fury—underlined, circled, and highlighted in two shades of orange and one aggressive yellow—it reads:

Zoro’s Secret Girlfriend (ongoing investigation – DO NOT TOUCH)

Below it is a bulleted list—no, an attack plan—of dates, observations, and “suspicious interactions.” You recognize some of them. A late dinner. A training session at dusk. The time Zoro walked into the lounge with wet hair and didn’t immediately complain about how tired he was.

Then, the kicker.

“It has to be Vivi,” Nami says, voice deadly serious.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

She jabs her finger at the journal like she’s unveiling classified intel. “Zoro was acting weird the day we got the letter from Alabasta. All twitchy. And he left dinner early.”

“Because Luffy threw a banana at his face,” You mutter. This is the first time you've looked at her list in detail, and it's impressive. You're shocked at the level of dedication she's applied to the topic of Zoro's love life.

She ignores you. “And Vivi always smiled at him weirdly. You remember that, right?” She flips two pages, finding her next piece of so-called evidence. “Right here. Drum Kingdom. They disappeared at the same time for almost twenty minutes.”

“That was two years ago. They were getting firewood,” Robin points out, sipping her tea. She doesn’t sound particularly invested, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. You don’t know if it’s from amusement or malice. Probably both.

Nami waves her off. “So they say. But we can’t trust that.”

You cover your mouth under the pretense of rubbing your nose, just to keep the bubbling laughter at bay. Your cheeks are starting to ache.

“And the jacket?” Robin asks, tilting her head. “Would Vivi have sent it back just to—what—taunt you?”

Nami’s eyes narrow. She considers that.

“That is strange,” She mutters, tapping her pen against her chin. “But maybe it’s part of a long game. A signal. She sent the jacket as a memento—like a silent claim.” She snaps her fingers. “It’s genius, actually. Classic misdirection.”

You stare at her, mouth parted, a strangled noise somewhere in your throat. The very idea of Vivi sending Zoro anything—let alone one of his most disgusting pieces of clothing—is so far removed from reality it circles back to being impressive.

Robin covers a chuckle with her tea.

Nami beams, proud of her conspiracy. “We’ll know for sure when we dock next. If he gets mail from Alabasta, we’ll have confirmation.”

“I think you might be reading into this a little too much,” You offer carefully, voice tight.

Nami throws you a look. “You’re still on the suspect list, you know.”

You lift your brows. “I feel honoured.”

She narrows her eyes at you but doesn’t push. Instead, she closes the notebook with a decisive thud and marches off with purpose.

Once she’s gone, Robin leans toward you, voice low and amused. “You nearly cracked a rib holding that in.”

You drop your head back with a groan. “She thinks it’s Vivi. I can’t—”

“It’s not your fault you’re a better liar than Zoro.”

“I’m not even lying!”

“Not saying something is still a lie,” Robin says, smiling into her cup. “Just a polite one.”

You sigh, covering your face. “This is going to explode eventually.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You lower your hands. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Robin’s smile sharpens. “Of course I am.”

—

That night, you sneak into the crow’s nest with two mugs of tea and a plan to make fun of Nami, only to find Zoro already there, sprawled out across the floor like he owns the place.

He’s shirtless—of course he is—sweat-slick from training and radiating the kind of smugness that should be illegal after sundown. His swords are leaning up in the corner, and the faint scent of steel, wood polish, and the body soap you forced on him lingers in the air.

You pause in the doorway, catching your breath before stepping in like you weren’t just eavesdropping three hours ago on a whispered theory that placed Vivi as his mysterious girlfriend.

Now, Nami's going stir-crazy in the galley. You left her there after watching her frantically pin strings and photos to the wall for an hour. Robin took over watching her so you could come see Zoro.

“She thinks it’s Vivi now,” You announce, sliding the door shut behind you and making your way over.

Zoro cracks one eye open, unimpressed but curious. “Why?”

You hand him one of the mugs, fingers brushing as you pass it off. “She made a crime board.”

He sits up just enough to take the tea from you, tilting it toward his mouth. “A what?”

“A full conspiracy setup. Pins. Strings. Timeline. She’s gone full investigator. Sanji’s involved, too. Robin’s watching it like it’s live theatre.”

Zoro takes a long, slow sip of his drink. “That’s some serious delusion.”

“She circled Vivi’s name in red ink.” You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you. “Twice.”

He grunts like he might actually be impressed.

You rest your mug on your knee and glance over at him. “We could clear it up.”

Zoro doesn’t look at you, but his fingers find the edge of your mug, thumb grazing where yours rests near the handle. It’s barely a touch, but it’s familiar now.

You don’t pull away.

“We will,” He says, voice quiet and low.

You raise a brow. “When? After they accuse Chopper?”

He doesn’t answer that. Just turns his head enough to meet your gaze.

“But I like this,” He says instead.

You blink. “Lying?”

“No.” He holds your stare. “Us.”

Your throat tightens, like your body’s bracing for something heavier than the silence.

You could say something honest. Something dumb. Something real.

But then he smirks, that slow, stupid, smug thing he does when he knows he’s rattled you, and adds, “Besides. Watching them unravel is better than those trash romance comics you read.”

You blink once. Twice.

Then you punch his arm, full force.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Those comics are educational,” You say, deadpan.

Zoro sips his tea like he didn’t just get assaulted.

“Sure they are.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. The warmth of the tea seeps into your fingers. The warmth of him is worse—closer, heavier, unspoken.

And maybe you’ll tell them.

Eventually.

But for now, you sit side by side in the quiet, sipping tea under the stars like there’s nothing to hide at all.

—

It happens, of course, when you least expect it.

The Sunny is anchored just off the coast of a quiet island, one of those sleepy little towns with sun-faded paint and overripe fruit stands. The crew is gathered on deck, full from lunch and dozing in patches of sun. There’s laughter, easy and echoing, and for once, everything feels still.

Which is exactly why it can’t last.

“Alright,” Nami announces, slamming her journal on the deck beside the lounge chair with the weight of divine judgment. “I’ve narrowed it down to two people.”

You, unfortunately, are within earshot.

Across the deck, Zoro is lying flat against the grass-green towel Sanji passive-aggressively laid out for him. He’s pretending to nap. He’s also terrible at pretending.

“Two?” Robin asks, mild and amused. She doesn’t even look up from her book.

“Yes.” Nami taps her pen like a war drum. “It’s either Vivi—”

“Oh my god,” You murmur, inhaling sharply.

“—or you.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You look up from your drink. Slowly.

Sanji chokes. “What?!”

Brook drops his violin. Usopp sits up like he’s been shocked. Chopper squeaks. Luffy blinks twice, then points at you. “Wait. You?”

You sigh. “Define you.”

“You’ve been wearing his jacket,” Nami says, like she’s unveiling a murder weapon. “You made tea for him. You blushed when I said he was seeing someone.”

“She blushed,” Sanji echoes, horror-struck. “This betrayal… cuts deeper than Zoro’s ugly fashion choices.”

You glance at Robin. She’s smiling into her book. Traitor.

Zoro, still flat on his towel, opens one eye. “Are we done?”

“We are not done,” Nami snaps. “I demand an answer.”

The crew is looking at you now. Seven pairs of eyes, wide and waiting.

And honestly? You’re tired.

Of ducking glances and dodging questions. Of pretending Zoro doesn’t sneak into the galley at night to make you his weird version of tea. Of acting like your pulse doesn’t skip every time his hand brushes yours—even now, even here, in front of them.

So, you take a breath.

And then—without fanfare, without ceremony—you walk across the deck, past the gawking stares and dropped jaws, and drop to a crouch beside Zoro.

He looks up at you, calm. Familiar. A tiny, knowing smirk playing on his mouth.

You roll your eyes.

Then you lean down and press a kiss to his cheek. "I liked it better when they didn’t know.”

There’s a pause.

Then chaos.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

“Zoro?! You—?!”

“MY HEART—!”

“Why not me?!” Sanji sobs.

Luffy is clapping. Chopper is spinning in circles. Usopp is screaming about betrayal. Brook is composing a heartbreak ballad in real time.

Robin closes her book with a content sigh. “Finally.”

Zoro just closes his eyes again, smug and unbothered.

You sit beside him, arms loosely wrapped around your knees, letting the noise roll over you.

And despite everything—despite the shouting and the flailing and the fact that Sanji might never recover—you smile.

[l4wsrule]

"Pretty Pink" drink

| Summary : Once upon a neon-soaked evening, you sat at the bar, legs swinging, drink in hand, watching Sanji dance through bottles and flame. A shimmer of pink in your glass, a lazy smile on your lips—until something small, unseen, slipped into the night.

Type : Fluff

Warnings : Bartender!Sanji, drink tampering (attempted), mild violence, protective behavior, alcohol, slight oblivious!reader, fem!reader

The lively hum of the bar wrapped around you like a warm, fizzy embrace. Neon lights flickered against the polished counter, casting soft glows across your mostly empty glass. You swung your legs back and forth on the barstool, idly watching Sanji work his magic behind the bar.

Your gorgeous, golden-haired boyfriend moved like poetry in motion, twirling bottles, pouring drinks, charming patrons with that devilish smile of his. You sighed dreamily, propping your chin in your palm as you traced the rim of your drink with a manicured nail.

“Enjoying the show, princess?” Sanji’s smooth voice pulled you from your thoughts. He slid a fresh pink cocktail in front of you with a wink.

“Mhmm, my pretty bartender boyfriend is the best part of the night,” you cooed, taking a dainty sip of your drink. It was sweet, fizzy, and—most importantly—pretty pink.

Sanji chuckled, ruffling slightly your hair. “What am I gonna do with you, sweetheart?”

You grinned up at him, about to say something flirty when a stranger slid into the seat next to you. He was nondescript, just another face in the sea of patrons, but you felt an uneasy shift in the air. You paid him little mind, too busy savoring your drink and waiting for Sanji to look your way again.

It wasn’t until you saw the man’s hand move over your glass that your tipsy haze lifted just a little. You blinked slowly, watching him pour something from a tiny vial into your drink. The pink color dulled instantly, and your brows knitted together.

Ew. Now it wasn’t pretty anymore.

You turned your nose up at the ruined drink, pushing it away with a pout. Without hesitation, you waved Sanji over, your lips forming the perfect spoiled little frown.

“Another one, angel?” he teased, already moving to make you a fresh cocktail.

“Mhm. That dude put some nasty stuffi in my drink… it’s not pretty pink anymore.”

Sanji froze, the ice in his shaker rattling ominously as his head snapped toward you. “What did you just say?”

You pointed at the men with a pout. “That dude put something in it. It got all ugly and stuff.”

Sanji followed your line of sight to the man sitting beside you. His ocean-blue eyes darkened, his entire body tensing like a wire about to snap. The stranger barely had time to react before Sanji vaulted over the bar with alarming speed.

The next few moments were a blur—Sanji grabbing the man by the collar, a powerful kick sending him sprawling onto the floor. A flurry of gasps rippled through the bar, but you remained perched on your stool, watching with wide, curious eyes.

Sanji didn’t just stop at knocking him down. No, your fiery protector was livid. His foot came down, pinning the man’s chest as he loomed over him, smoke practically curling from his cigarette.

“You lowlife piece of shit,” Sanji spat, his usual charm completely gone. “You think you can pull something like that under my watch?!”

“I-I didn’t—”

Sanji’s foot pressed down harder, silencing whatever pathetic excuse the man was about to make. “If you ever show your disgusting face around here again, I’ll make sure you leave in a body bag.”

The guy scrambled away the second Sanji let him go, disappearing into the night like a roach scurrying under a fridge.

With a satisfied huff, Sanji straightened his tie and turned back to you, his expression softening. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You tilted your head, blinking up at him. “Uh-huh. But my drink isn’t pretty anymore.”

Sanji let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

Still, he wasted no time whipping up another drink, making sure it was the prettiest pink you’d ever seen. He slid it in front of you with a fond smile, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“There you go, princess. A fresh one.”

You clapped your hands together, delighted. “Yay! Thank you, Sanji! You’re the bestest bartender ever!”

His heart melted at your words, and as you took a happy sip of your new drink, he swore he’d always be there to protect his sweet little airhead—his adorable, oblivious princess.

The Court :

@dazaiwifey @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @sle3pymarimo @sweet-3-whispers @bubbyluffy

[l4wsrule]

Beckman’s Law

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

(Soul Shanked Masterlist)

Oneshot Length: 3.5 K+ You’re a bounty hunter to rescue a kidnapped Kuja, you almost pull it off; until mid-escape your soulmark goes off like a siren. On the other end? Benn Beckman.

For @thatanonymouschocolate

You never liked working with the Kuja. Too many snakes. Too much beauty. Too much Boa Hancock.

But when the Empress of Amazon Lily personally commissions you—a rare female bounty hunter with enough spine to say no to a Warlord—you say yes. Because Boa is pissed. And when she’s pissed, fleets disappear.

The job?

Retrieve one of their own. A nameless woman. Young. Powerful. Vanished about six months ago. And according to Hancock’s most trusted scout, she’s been kidnapped by Red-Haired Shanks.

So you do what you do best. You infiltrate. Slip onto the Red Force during a fake marine heist. Blend in. Everything goes smoothly. You are seconds away from springing the girl and pulling off the most impressive jailbreak of the year.

You were so close to greatness.

The mission had been flawless. You studied the Red Force’s schedule like scripture. Spent six weeks pretending to be a washed-up keg vendor with gout in three toes. You won three arm wrestling tournaments, snuck into the crew’s poker games, and started sleeping in a hammock you had no business using.

The hostage—Shanks’ allegedly “honored guest,” who smiled far too much for someone allegedly abducted—was slung over your shoulder, half-limp, half-laughing. She had agreed to the escape. Helped you fake a dramatic fainting spell. Lit the emergency fireworks herself. You were twelve feet from the getaway boat. The wind was perfect. Your “WE’RE BEING BOARDED” alarm was already echoing through the lower decks.

You were about to become a legend, the first person in history to successfully pull off a heist from the Red Force.

You were twelve feet from victory.

Twelve. Feet.

And then he turned the corner.

Benn. Freaking. Beckman.

At first, you froze. Because wow. That was a lot of man. Tall, broad-shouldered, greying in that “I know things and will ruin your life respectfully” sort of way. You’d clocked him from across the deck before, but figured he was just hot in that “dad at the bake sale who used to be in a gang” kind of way.

You were wrong.

He was tall. Weathered. Scarred. Holding a mug that probably contained either black coffee or the blood of lesser pirates. His hair was silver like it had been applied by divine strategy. He looked like he won his fights without needing to raise his voice.

You’d heard of him before. Everyone had. He was the man who made warlords nervous just by walking into a room. The one who smirked like he knew exactly where your birthmark was and had already drafted the apology note for what he’d do next.

But no wanted poster could prepare you for the real thing.

He was stupidly hot. Criminally hot. The kind of hot that made the air feel spicy.

That scar. Those shoulders. The quiet strength tucked under a shirt that needed to be investigated for safety violations. His hands were broad and worn, his rings scuffed, his fingers long enough to complicate your entire personality. His mouth looked like it had whispered state secrets, ruined reputations, and possibly a few marriages.

He was halfway through barking orders when your eyes met when you locked eyes for a single second— 

—and your soul did something treasonous.

Full cosmic ignition.

Like your ribs had been replaced by sparklers. Like the universe hit the soulmate alarm and laughed while doing it.

You choked. The hostage gasped. Benn staggered like he’d been uppercut by fate.

“…Damn,” he said quietly. “That’s new.”

He dropped the barrel he was carrying and caught himself against a post like he’d been sniped through the chest. One of the crew asked, ‘Boss, you good?’ and Beckman just stared at you like you were the punchline to the universe’s worst joke.

And from the way his pupils dilate? From the way he flinches like he’s been gut-punched by destiny?

Yeah.

You’re his soulmate, too.

“Naw,” he said flatly. “I’ve been compromised.”

Your legs went weak. Your heart launched itself into your spine. Your vision narrowed to just him. Your knees buckled. You stumbled like the deck had suddenly sloped uphill.

The hostage gasped and whispered, “Oh my god, it’s him, isn’t it?!”

Beckman flinched like he’d been stabbed in the lung.

He looked directly at you. Straight through you. Past your fake identity, your backstory, your explosives.

Gives you a real one over that has you crumbling in fear.

“Well, shit.” He smirks and says, “I take it back, sweetheart. I’m wide awake now.”

You tried to fight it. Really, you did. You had six more backup plans. One involved a smoke bomb and an exploding ham. You were going to be immortalized.

Instead, you flatlined and yelled,

“I DON’T BELIEVE IN SOULMATES.”

Then you did the logical thing: panicked and slapped the hostage across the shoulder.

“RUN!”

She did not.

“Damn, woman, give me a second.” He groaned. “It’s too early for this sort of breakdown.”

She squealed like a traitor and ran toward him.

Then you threw a smoke bomb at his feet, grabbed a rope, and screamed “FOR THE EMPRESS!” while launching yourself off the rail.

You lunged the opposite direction—but Beckman was already moving. He moved like he had all the time in the world, but you never had a chance. A blur. A flash of motion. 

You got five feet of swing before a hand snagged you mid-air like a misbehaving kitten.

Next thing you knew, you were hauled bodily against a chest that felt like it had its own gravity. You tried to stab him. He plucked the knife from your fingers like you’d handed him a spoon.

He had caught you mid-vault like you weighed nothing, spun you around, and held you bridal-style while the crew screamed, “WE GOT ANOTHER ONE!”

Your hostage? Laughing her entire traitorous ass off.

You screamed, “LET ME GO, YOU WALKING CIGAR AD.”

“Tempting,” Beckman muttered, “but unfortunately the universe says I have to kidnap you now. For your safety.”

“I WAS KIDNAPPING YOUR BOSSES GIRLFRIEND FIRST—”  you screamed, kicking furiously.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Relax,” he said calmly. “This isn’t how I thought today would go either.”

“You are NOT surprised enough for this!” You hissed.

“I’m a first mate. Calm is my job.”

“RELEASE ME!”

You threw a smoke bomb out of pure spite. It went off inside Beckman’s coat. He didn’t flinch.

“Can’t,” he says. “Soulmate clause.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You kick him in the ribs. He doesn’t flinch. Just sighed and said, “That’s my girl.”

You nearly bit him. You try to break free. Beckman readjusts you like your luggage with attitude. And he looked down at you—face still unreadable—and said in the exact same tone someone might reserve for “We’re out of rum” or “The anchor’s stuck”:

“Well. I guess we’re kidnapping you, too.”

Shanks poked his head up from below deck with a slice of toast in his mouth. “What’d I miss?”

The hostage pointed at you like a proud matchmaker. “She lit up like a New Year’s flare! While trying to run off with me!”

Shanks tilted his head thoughtfully. “Was she any good?”

“She had explosives, six escape routes, and three fake IDs,” she said brightly. “I would’ve gone willingly.”

“Sounds like a keeper,” Shanks grinned. “Benn, you want me to officiate, or should I prep a second room?”

You shrieked. “This isn’t a double wedding, you glorified sea hobo!”

Beckman, still unbothered, sighed like he was already tired of his soulmate’s vocabulary. “She’s very expressive.”

You tried to headbutt him.

He tilted his head slightly to dodge it, adjusted your position, and said, “Okay. Time for Plan B.”

“What the hell is Plan B?!”

He dropped you. Onto a chair. Which he had pulled up behind him at some point because of course he had.

Then he pulled out a pair of fuzzy handcuffs—fuzzy, because he’s polite, apparently—and calmly cuffed you to the armrest.

You sputtered, “Are you kidding me—?!”

He leaned close, mouth by your ear, and said in a voice like melted sin,

“I just found my soulmate in the middle of an active hostage situation. Let me have one win today.”

And the worst part?

Your traitorous stomach flipped.

Now you’re in the captain’s quarters. Still handcuffed. The tea is annoyingly delicious. The hostage is cuddled into Shanks’ side, whispering “I told you you were his type,” like this is a matchmaking cruise.

And Beckman?

Beckman leans against the wall across from you with his shirt sleeves half-rolled up, forearms crossed, and a face like he’s already imagining what kind of curtains would look good in your shared cabin.

You try not to stare at his hands.

You fail.

He raises one brow. “You good?”

“Fine,” you croak, while actively experiencing a psychological wardrobe malfunction.

“Sure,” he says, clearly not believing you.

You try not to look at his jaw.

Or his collarbone.

Or the way he smells like warm gunpowder and forbidden decisions.

Your soulmate is not just a silver-fox warlord with tactician-level calm and a smirk that’s likely outlawed in several countries. He’s a walking crime of attraction.

You refuse to make eye contact.

Because if you do, you’ll end up flinging yourself into his chest out of pure self-preservation.

Beckman hasn’t moved. He’s still leaned against the door like the ship isn’t on high alert because you just tried to rob it. Like he doesn’t care that you infiltrated his crew, almost kidnapped one of his people, and still have three concealed weapons hidden in places you know he’s aware of.

He’s too calm.

Too quiet.

Too—oh no—competent.

The man oozes “I’m not mad, just disappointed” energy, except you’re not a child, and that expression on his face makes your whole frontal cortex short-circuit.

You clear your throat.

“So… is this the part where you interrogate me?”

He lifts a brow. “Would it work?”

“Depends. On your methods. And how many buttons are undone when you use them.”

A beat of silence.

Then he actually laughs, a low, deep thing that sounds like it should come with a warning label and a locked door.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re starting to flirt.”

“I’m starting to panic.”

“You flirt when you panic?”

You glare. “It’s that or scream.”

He’s right in front of you now, crouching a little so he’s level with your chair. One hand rests on the armrest beside your cuffed wrist, just enough to make your heart kick up into your throat.

You hate how good he smells. You hate that your body’s reacting like you’re in some trashy romance novel and not a hostage situation.

You hate even more that you’re not hating it enough.

“You really thought you could break into the Red Force,” he murmurs, voice low and amused, “snatch a crew member off the main deck, and not end up in cuffs?”

“I was six feet from success.”

He hums. “Seven, actually. I was watching from the crow’s nest for an hour.”

You narrow your eyes. “Pervert.”

“Professional.” He shrugs. “Until this happened.”

His fingers brush your wrist where the cuff sits, thumb casually stroking the edge of your skin like he’s not thinking about it. But you are.

Your body flinches, traitorous and too warm, and you hate the part of your brain that whispers, Well, he could interrogate me. Thoroughly. Over several hours. Shirtless, probably.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you snap.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a puzzle you’re enjoying too much.”

He smiles, a real smirky little smile, and you feel something in your chest give way like it’s under siege.

Then he says, “You know we can’t let you go, right?”

You scoff. “So what’s the plan? Throw me in the brig? Sell me to Hancock with a gift basket?”

He leans in, just a little closer.

“No,” he says, eyes sharp and mouth curved. “I think I’ll keep you.”

You blink.

“…Excuse me?”

“Figure it’s easier that way. Shanks already lost one crewmate to a soulmate bond. I’m not about to let mine jump off the ship just because she’s too proud to admit she likes the view.”

You open your mouth to object, but he taps your lips with one finger.

“Don’t bother. Your heartbeat gave you away.”

You slap his hand. “That’s harassment.”

“That’s courtship,” he corrects, standing again. “At least by pirate standards.”

Back on Amazon Lily

The Den Den Mushi rings. Loud. Shrill. Unannounced.

Boa Hancock, Empress of Amazon Lily and walking goddess of destruction, lounges on her throne while surrounded by her loyal warriors, radiant and serene as always—until she hears the voice on the other end.

“Hi, this is Benn Beckman. Just calling to say thank you for sending over the bounty hunter. Very helpful. We’ll be keeping her.”

Silence.

Utter, cosmic silence.

Then: click.

The transponder snail closes its little eyes with a shrug. Job done.

The entire hall stares at Hancock, waiting for her reaction.

Her eye twitches.

A vein in her temple throbs.

She inhales deeply—gracefully. Regally. With poise befitting the world’s most beautiful woman.

And then she absolutely loses her goddamn mind.

You sit in the captains cabin, still handcuffed, still fuming, been fed  Beckman’s tea like it’s poison you refuse to admit tastes good.

Your original target, Shanks’ alleged “hostage,” the one you were so close to rescuing, walks up beside you with two sandwiches and a grin that could melt glaciers.

“I brought you lunch,” she chirps.

You scowl. “You’re supposed to be escaping.”

“I already did,” she says. “From the Amazon Lily.”

You blink. “What?”

She plops down beside you like this is a picnic and not an emotional hostage standoff. “You thought I was kidnapped?”

“You… weren’t?!”

“I mean, I kind of was, but to be fair I was also emotionally committed. But—-“ She bursts into laughter, slapping her knee like this is the greatest comedy she’s heard all month. “In the end I agreed to taking in my man-creature. I’m committed to training him. Signed a contract and everything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this first?” You wailed. “I snuck onto a Yonko’s ship to rescue you!” 

“From what? Unmatched backrubs and an emotionally stable Red-Head?!” She laughed darkly. 

You sputter. “He literally stole you!”

She leans back on her elbows, gazing out at the sea. “Yes, but we are also soulmates. I just… didn’t fight it.”

Hancock failed to mention the part where she was Shanks’ soulmate. Because of course she did.

“Fucking hell—“ You gape at her. “You’re not being brainwashed?”

“Nope.”

“Threatened?”

“Not unless you count sexual tension and one-arm puns.”

You blink. She hands you a sandwich. You try and take it automatically. Because apparently, your whole worldview is on fire and your in fuzzy handcuffs.

She puts the sandwich up. You take a bite.

She sighs dreamily. “Honestly, I didn’t even like him at first. Too loud. Too confident. Too much of that smile.”

You nod aggressively. “Right? Too charming. Too pirate.”

“And then he looked at me one day and said, ‘I never needed a reason to want you. You just walked in and everything after that stopped being negotiable.’

Holy shit.

The dumb red-head pulled that out?

You stop chewing.

“Oh,” you say weakly.

“Yeah,” she says. “So I stayed. Best decision I’ve ever made.”

You stare at her.

She winks. “So. You ready to surrender yet?”

“I am not surrendering.”

“Mmhm. That’s what I said. Right before he kissed me so good I forgot my name.” 

You could almost feel how good that kiss was, and it wasn’t helping.

You’re still sputtering when a shadow falls across you both.

Benn Beckman.

His arms are crossed. His eyebrow is raised. His mouth is doing that smirk again.

“You harassing my soulmate?” he asks her mildly.

“Absolutely,” she chirps, then stands. “I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck, Benn. She’s scrappy.”

She vanishes into the corridor.

You look up at him. “You’re all insane.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

You cross your arms. “I’m not going to fall for you just because my ribs tingle and you smell like heartbreak and expensive bourbon.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

You squint. “Then why am I still cuffed?”

He sits beside you, just close enough to radiate heat, and speaks low and slow. Too calm for how feral you feel.

“I didn’t cuff you to keep you prisoner.”

“Really? Because my wrist disagrees.”

“I cuffed you,” he says, eyes on yours, voice low and maddeningly calm, “so you wouldn’t bolt before I got the chance to show you why staying might be the better option.”

Silence.

You forget how to blink.

Then—as if he’s not already toeing the line of emotional terrorism—he lifts a hand and casually drags the hem of his shirt up to scratch his side.

Just a quick motion.

But it’s enough.

Just enough for you to catch a sliver of toned muscle, the edge of a scar curving over his hip, the faintest trail that vanishes somewhere unholy.

You make a sound.

It might be a gasp. Might be a death rattle. Could be your dignity folding itself into a paper swan and sailing off into the sea.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

(He definitely notices.)

He smooths the shirt back down and leans in, close enough that you smell salt, smoke, and danger wrapped in warmth.

“Stay,” he says, soft and devastating. “Or go. I won’t stop you. Just know—if you walk away, I’ll miss you every day you’re gone.”

You can feel your heartbeat trip over itself.

You don’t even answer. Your soul does it for you.

Beckman straightens, watches you without a trace of smugness. Just that quiet, unshakable confidence.

And then, casually, as he steps back, and rolls up his sleeves. Both of them.

Forearms. Veins. Scars. Strength. The works.

Drool pools in your mouth.

He doesn’t say another word.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you’re staying.

You just hope no one asks why, because “forearm exposure and emotional damage” isn’t a legally defensible answer.

Shit shit shit shit.

Your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He pulls the key from his pocket and unlocks the cuff with a quiet click.

Your wrist is free.

He stands.

Doesn’t touch you.

Just looks down, eyes warm and maddeningly sure.

“I’ll be topside,” he says. “Take your time.”

And then he walks away.

No tricks. No threats. No smugness. You stare at your freed wrist. He unlocked the cuff. Gave you the choice. Walk or stay.

And you sit there like a decorative barrel, tea still warm in your hand, absolutely not moving.

Not because you’re scared. Not because you’re stunned.

But because you know damn well you’re not leaving.

Your body hasn’t even considered standing. Your knees are like, “lol okay. Sure. Run. Into what? His arms again?”

Your brain is desperately trying to mount a defense, whispering things like, “You’re a bounty hunter. You have standards. You have pride.”

But unfortunately, your pride is very busy thinking about his forearms.

You glare at the empty space where he’d been. “Rude. Emotional manipulation via smolder.”

Shanks’ girl peeks back out of the corridor, holding a sandwich in each hand like a gossiping lemur. “Sooooo…?”

You groan. “He gave me the tragic lover goodbye line.”

“Oooo,” She nods. “He's good at those. Did he use the forearms?”

“Of course he did,” You hiss, “Why is he built like a man who ruins your credit score and gives you stability?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m supposed to be rescuing you.”

She takes a bite. “I’m thriving.”

You fall back against the deck with a dramatic sigh, arms flung out like a corpse at sea. “I hate him.”

She grins. “No you don’t.”

“I hate how hot he is.”

“Fair.”

“I hate that he cuffed me as a hostage and now I’m the one emotionally attached.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m gonna commit to this ship out of spite.”

“Do it,” she says with reverence. “Pirate out of pettiness. It’s the strongest kind of loyalty.”

You pause. Stare at the sky.

Then sit up. “You know what? Yeah. Yeah, fine. I’m not leaving.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really. You think I’m gonna let him win by being noble and mysterious? No. I’m winning this. I’m staying out of revenge.”

“…Revenge for what?”

You stand and storm toward the stairs. “FOR BEING IRRESISTIBLE.”

You find Beckman on the upper deck, adjusting some rigging like the picture of calm pirate authority.

He glances over his shoulder.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Thought you were thinking it over.”

You stride past him, shoulder-checking him as you go. “Shut up. I live here now.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he laughs.

Low. Warm. Smug as hell.

He follows you down the deck with maddening ease.

“You moving into my quarters or the guest room?” he calls casually.

“Yours,” you snap. “Out of principle.”

“Understood.”

He falls into step beside you, hand brushing lightly against yours. Not grabbing. Just there.

And just like that, it’s done.

You’re not a prisoner. You’re not an intruder. You’re not leaving. You’re a problem now.

And Benn Beckman looks like the solution.

[l4wsrule]

Hello I love your writing ! May I request yandere sabo please ?

Of course! I hope you enjoy this!

Under His Control, Always

Yandere Sabo x Reader

In which, you fell into Sabo’s trap, caught in his grip—whether by force or by choice, you were never meant to escape.

“(Y/n), come with me and join the Revolutionary Army.”

The cup you were pouring booze for Sabo spilled as your eyes widened in surprise. You were taken aback by his sudden suggestion.

“Huh?”

“We’re leaving at midnight. By morning, the Navy will be here, and it’ll be—”

You cut him off. “What are you talking about, Sabo? Have you forgotten that I’m a princess of Dressrosa?”

Sabo looked just as confused as you felt. He didn’t understand why you were bringing up something so obvious. “Of course, but what does that have to do with this?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “It has everything to do with what you’re saying right now. If I joined the Revolutionary Army, I’d be a criminal.”

Sabo chuckled. “That’s normal, (Y/n).”

Something felt off about Sabo. He was acting strange, and he wasn’t making any sense. You’d known him long before the Dressrosa incident. You’d always liked him as a friend because of how kind and understanding he was.

But the way he was acting now made you worried.

“Sabo, I feel like you’re not getting it. I have to be there for my people as the princess of this country. I would love to join the Revolutionary Army if the circumstances were different,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Sabo.”

Sabo’s expression faltered. His eyebrows furrowed, disbelief still written all over his face. “But (Y/n), you said it was your dream to join the Revolutionary Army.”

Your gaze softened as you gently held his hand. "Yes, it was my dream. But now my country is free. I can't abandon my duties as their princess. I hope you understand, Sabo."

Sabo wasn’t ready to drop the subject yet. After all, no matter what you said, he was going to take you with him, one way or another.

"Your country may be free for now," he said, his tone serious, "but that doesn’t mean there won’t be more threats in the future." He cupped your cheeks softly, his touch tender yet insistent. "Y/n, the world is dangerous. If you leave me, I won’t be able to protect you anymore. And if you think you're strong enough to handle it alone, you’ll soon realize how wrong you are. But I’ll always be here for you—if you stay with me."

You turned your head, avoiding his gaze. "But our country is under Luffy's protection. No one would dare challenge him."

Sabo’s grip on your face tightened slightly, his voice darkening. "That may be true, but there are still stronger, more terrifying pirates out there. Luffy won’t be able to save you in time." He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "But that won’t happen if you come with me."

You bit your lip, torn. Deep down, you knew he was right, but you weren’t going to give in easily. "Even then, I trust Luffy. He would never let anyone hurt his friends."

Sabo’s hands slid down to your shoulders, his grip firming as he tightened his hold. "What about me?" His voice was strained, almost desperate. "I’ve known you longer than Luffy. Do you not trust me? Was everything we shared a lie?"

Guilt stabbed at your chest as you realized how deeply he felt. You hadn’t meant to make him doubt you. "No, Sabo," you whispered, shaking your head. "That’s not what I meant. You’re also my precious friend, but I just... I really don’t think I can abandon my people and become a criminal."

Sabo's eyes darkened, his face obscured by the shadow of his hat as he muttered under his breath. "I see."

Sabo’s grip on your shoulders softened, and his expression became almost pleading, as if the tension in his voice had melted into something far more vulnerable. He took a slow, deep breath, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart beat faster.

"Y/n... please, just one last thing," he said, his voice quieter now, almost softer. "Before I leave, can I have a hug? I don’t want to leave things like this between us. You’re so important to me... and I need to feel like I’ve at least held on to something of you, even if it’s just this."

His words hung in the air, heavy with a mixture of longing and quiet desperation.

You hesitated, the weight of his gaze pulling at you. Part of you wanted to step away, to remind him that he couldn’t just ask for whatever he wanted—but another part of you, the part that still saw him as a dear friend, softened. The look in his eyes was hard to resist.

"Just a hug, (Y/n)," he coaxed, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I promise, then I’ll leave you in peace... Just one. For old time’s sake."

You exhaled, unsure, but then you gave a small nod, unable to say no to him. "Alright, Sabo."

His smile returned, but it was quick, almost predatory with a hint of malicious intent, though you didn’t catch it. You stepped forward cautiously, and as you wrapped your arms around him, the warmth of his body enveloped you, and you allowed yourself to relax for just a moment.

But then, everything shifted.

Before you could pull away, Sabo’s hands were suddenly at your wrists, pulling them behind your back in one swift motion. You gasped, your pulse spiking in alarm as you tried to push away, but his arms were already around you, holding you too tightly.

"Wha—" you started, panic creeping into your voice.

"Sshhh," Sabo whispered, pressing his palm firmly over your mouth, his touch cold and calculated now. "I’m sorry, Y/n. But you’ve left me no choice."

Your eyes widened in shock as you struggled against him, but his grip only tightened. He moved quickly, using his other arm to secure your body against his chest. You couldn’t believe what was happening.

Tears stung your eyes, and your heart raced as Sabo turned, his arms locking around you like a vice. You barely had time to react before he hoisted you up over his shoulder. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried to free yourself, kicking your legs wildly, but it was no use.

"Don’t fight it," he murmured, as though it were all so simple, as though this was the only way it was ever meant to be. "You’ll see, Y/n. This is for the best."

Your muffled cries for help were drowned out as Sabo walked steadily toward his ship, his steps purposeful and unwavering. With every step he took, the reality of what was happening sank deeper into your chest.

He wasn’t taking you to the Revolutionary Army to keep you safe.

No... He was taking you because he wanted you with him, no matter what it cost.

With each passing moment, your heart sank deeper, the cold truth settling in—you were trapped. Every shred of warmth Sabo had shown you, every tender gesture, every soft word… all a lie.

A meticulously constructed web, designed to lure you. And you had walked right into it, a fool, blind to the dark intentions hiding beneath his affection.

Now, there was no escape. Not from him. Not from this.

[l4wsrule]

How the hell does Luffy keep his flip flops on while he fights???

[l4wsrule]

-SABO- Uuuuus !!

[l4wsrule]

you know a joke that never EVER gets old is when a character says smth like “I will NOT go to [place] and that is FINAL” and then it cuts to them in that place I eat that shit up every single time

[l4wsrule]

zosan is everywhere for those who are willing to see

[l4wsrule]

Bound by His Flame

Yandere Portgas D. Ace x F!Reader

(Y/n) is part of the strawhat crew. Takes place when Ace met Luffy and his crewmates in Alabasta.

Ace is delusional and manipulative. Ace uses blackmails to get what he wants.

Luffy having a brother wasn’t surprising. What was surprising, however, was the unsettling feeling (Y/n) couldn’t shake—the sensation of Ace watching her intently for quite some time. Honestly, it made her uncomfortable, though she tried her best to ignore it.

Night had fallen, and despite the scorching heat during the day in Alabasta, the temperature had dropped sharply. A chilly wind swept through the camp, causing (Y/n) to hug herself tighter, shivering against the cold.

Just then, she felt someone sit beside her. She turned her head, startled.

“Ace?” she said, surprised. He was the last person she expected to join her.

Ace smiled. “Are you cold?”

(Y/n) nodded. “Yeah, it’s freezing.”

With a soft chuckle, Ace wrapped an arm around her and gently pulled her against his chest. (Y/n) flinched, caught completely off guard, her eyes widening slightly.

She didn’t want to trust her gut feeling, but she couldn’t help being wary around him. It had been that way the entire trip.

Ace would either stare at her in silence during their travels or casually flirt with her. At first, she brushed off the flirting—but the way his gaze darkened whenever she got close to Zoro or Sanji was harder to ignore.

Something about him unsettled her.

“It’s warm, isn’t it?” Ace’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Huh?” she blinked, disoriented, before realizing the warmth spreading through her body. “You’re right. It is warm,” she said, her eyes lighting up as she momentarily forgot the unease that had been gnawing at her.

Ace’s smile brightened, but (Y/n) looked away, guilt tugging at her heart.

‘How could I think that way about him? There’s no way he’s dangerous. His smile is so bright… so kind. Right?’

Oh, she was so wrong.

Terribly wrong.

In fact, she was the foolish one here.

There was no reason to feel guilty for a man like him.

No reason to feel bad at all.

It was late—well past midnight—but (Y/n) was still wide awake. No matter how many times she tossed and turned, she couldn’t fall asleep.

With a quiet sigh, she finally sat up and slipped out of her tent. The camp was silent. Everyone else was fast asleep and the only sound that could be heard was the howling wind.

She sat alone beneath the vast desert sky, gazing up at the stars that shimmered like scattered diamonds.

“Can’t sleep?”

(Y/n) nearly screamed, falling back in shock—until a hand quickly covered her mouth.

Her wide eyes locked onto the familiar face above her. “Ace?!”

“Yes?” he replied, feigning innocence.

“You scared me! Don’t do that again,” she grumbled, sitting up with a huff.

Ace raised his hands in defense, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry, sorry.”

She exhaled slowly. “Anyway… why are you up this late too?”

“Same reason as you,” he said with a shrug.

Then his tone shifted. “Actually… there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

That caught her attention. She turned to face him fully. “And what is it?”

Ace’s expression turned serious as he reached out and gently took her hand. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“(Y/n), leave Luffy’s crew and come with me.”

She blinked. Her brows furrowed as if he’d just spoken in a language she didn’t understand.

“…Huh?!”

Ace didn’t back down. “If you’re with me, I can protect you better. And no one would dare mess with someone under the Whitebeard Pirates.”

He continued rambling, but (Y/n) was already tuning him out. Her stomach twisted in discomfort.

“What the hell are you even saying?”

Ace looked taken aback but then chuckled. “Ah—right. You must be confused.” He looked at her with a strange intensity. “I’ve fallen in love with you, (Y/n). I want you to be with me.”

(Y/n) sighed, trying to process his words. She pulled her hand from his and stood up slowly.

“Ace… I don’t see you that way. I’m sorry. And I’m not leaving Luffy’s crew just to stay with you.”

She turned to head back toward her tent—but suddenly felt a sharp grip on her wrist. She winced.

“Let go of me, Ace!”

“No,” he said, his voice trembling. “(Y/n), you don’t understand. You don’t understand how much I need you. I need you.”

She turned her head away, her voice quieter now. “No, Ace. I understand. But you need to understand that I don’t feel the same way. I can’t change that, and neither can you. You have to accept it.”

“Accept… it?”

Ace stood there frozen, her words echoing in his ears like a death knell. His hand slowly slipped from hers as if all the strength had drained from his body.

Something inside him cracked—quietly, but painfully.

He hated that feeling.

His grip on her wrist tightened as he glared down at her.

“I’m not going to accept that,” he growled. “I don’t care if you don’t feel the same. You’re coming with me. You’re leaving Luffy’s crew.”

(Y/n) gritted her teeth, yanking her arm, though his grip held firm.

“Who are you to decide that?”

A dark grin spread across Ace’s face, sending a chill down her spine. Without warning, he pulled her roughly into his chest and wrapped his arms around her in a suffocating hug.

“Oh, baby… don’t be so cold,” he whispered. “I’m your one and only lover.”

(Y/n) squirmed, struggling between his arms as she tried to push him away.

“No, you’re not!”

His hold only tightened. And that’s when she felt it—his body heating up, far beyond human warmth. Her breath hitched, panic rising in her throat. Her eyes widened in fear as she tapped frantically on his back.

“Do you have anyone precious to you, baby?” he muttered.

(Y/n)’s heart dropped. Her mother—sick, fragile, and bedridden back on her home island—flashed in her mind like a warning.

“What are you—”

“Like your mother, for example?” he interrupted coldly.

Her entire body went still.

“H-How do you know about her?” Her voice cracked as tears began to sting her eyes. But it didn’t matter how he knew. All that mattered was keeping her mother safe.

“Please… please don’t hurt my mother!”

Ace’s expression hardened. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look at him. She cried out in pain as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Baby, you ask for too much,” he said with a cold smile. “You think the world gives you anything for free?”

She shook her head desperately, barely able to breathe.

“No—please. I’ll come with you. I’ll do anything you want. Just… just promise me you won’t lay a finger on her.”

Her sorrowful gaze met his cold eyes.

“Will you love me?” he asked quietly. “Will you stay by my side?”

“…Yes.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

At her answer, Ace finally let go. His touch softened as he placed a hand on her cheek—then leaned in and kissed her, rough and possessive.

(Y/n) hesitated before returning the kiss, forcing herself to comply. She parted her lips and allowed him in.

It felt like he was trying to suffocate her with it.

Not just with the kiss—

But with the weight of ownership.

The terrifying need to make sure she knew:

She was his.

And his alone.