yandereonepieceimagines

[yandereonepieceimagines]

You should make a masterlist!! Just a suggestion you don't have to!! (⁠•⁠‿⁠•⁠)

Hello!

Good news! There should already be a masterlist available. You can find it here:

Masterlist - Yandere One Piece Imagines

If you need anything else or have suggestions on how to make the masterlist easier to find, please let me know!

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Issho headcanons in the way you did with the other three admirlas? Sfw and nswf?

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But of course! I’m always open and excited to write for any of the Admirals. ;P

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Warning! NSFW Below!

Issho Fujitora

SFW

* The first time Issho met you, it was during an evacuation in a chaotic port city, during a pirate attack. Amidst the confusion, your calm voice and the subtle spark of your Haki stood out to him, offering comfort and direction when many others lost hope. He listened intently, a soft, unseen smile curving his lips before moving toward the source of the danger.

* What captivated Issho wasn’t just your compassion alone, but also how you lived by your own rules of right and wrong, quietly resisting the labels others tried to place on you. Instead of trying to contain or control you, he found himself drawn to the edges of your world, watching over you not as a warden, but as a silent guardian. If you ever noticed the odd sense of safety that seemed to follow you, Like disasters missing you by mere moments or threats mysteriously vanishing, it was Issho, subtly bending fate in order to protect you.

* He knows your presence in ways others can’t: the sound of your laughter, the subtle way you move through a crowd, the warmth you bring wherever you go. In his mind, he’s memorized every detail he can still sense, and though he rarely intrudes, he often knows where you are.

* Unlike most yanderes, Issho is never possessive in a cruel way. When you leave for long stretches, he feels the ache of distance, but never tries to force you back. Let alone doing so through the sway he has as a Marine Admiral. He believes that true devotion isn’t about chains, but about unwavering presence.

* Should anyone try to harm or manipulate you, they often find inexplicable misfortune. A sudden weight on their body, a sense of unease that drives them away, or obstacles that fall down in their path. Issho never boasts about it.

* When you travel across the seas and their islands, you sometimes catch sight of him alone nearby, seemingly by coincidence, enjoying a bowl of soba or listening to the sounds of the street, never intruding. He greets you with a gentle nod and a calm, genuine smile, making it easy for you to join him if you wish to do so. Each encounter feels like chance, peaceful and unhurried, as if the world simply aligned for you to meet. Never suffocating, always free.

* If you ever ask him how he almost always seems to find you when it finally clicks for you, he just smiles softly and says, “I listen for the things others miss.”

* In summary, Issho’s obsession is gentle and patient. He rarely intervenes unless your safety is truly at risk. When you wander too far into danger, gravity might shift just enough to slow your fall, or a threatening presence might suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to leave. Issho trusts you to live freely, believing that genuine care means letting you choose your own path. He eventually says to you, in a low, thoughtful tone, “A caged bird loses its song. I’d rather listen to you from a distance than silence you by holding on too tight.”

NSFW

* When his, Issho’s touch is both reverent and grounding. When you’re alone together, the gravity of his presence becomes almost tangible. Like the world itself slows down so he can savor every moment with you. His hands are large and sure, exploring you with a patience that nearly borders on worship, as if memorizing every part of you he cannot ever see.

* The only time he’s truly commanding is when it comes to your safety or comfort in bed. He never lets you feel exposed or uncertain, and he always makes sure that you know you are cherished.

* He’s keenly attuned to your pleasure, using his Haki and acute senses to read your body’s every subtle shift, sigh, and heartbeat. He knows exactly when you are shivering in anticipation and when you are actually holding back, always coaxing you to let go in his arms. “Let yourself fall,” he’ll whisper, “I promise I’ll catch you.”

* In bed, Issho is not rough or hurried. He values slow, drawn-out intimacy. Drawing pleasure from your reactions, learning your rhythms, and savoring every sound you make. His deep, rumbling voice becomes even softer as he murmurs praise, making you feel cherished and protected.

* Sometimes, when the world feels too heavy, he’ll pin you gently to the futon. Not with force, but with an irresistible weight that leaves you breathless, his Devil Fruit powers manifesting as a subtle reminder that you’re the center of his world. He’ll murmur soft encouragements, with lips pressed to your skin.

* Issho loves feeling your heartbeat under his palm, letting it guide the pace of your intimacy. More often than not, he’ll say, half-teasing; “Your heart is racing. Am I overwhelming you?”

* He’s surprisingly affectionate and loves aftercare. He'll pull you close, running his hands up and down your back, and wrapping you in his kimono. The warmth of his embrace lingers, and he always listens to your needs and desires, eager to ensure you always feel safe and wanted.

* If jealousy ever stirs in him, it manifests as quiet intensity: the room seems to tilt subtly, the air thickens, and his focus narrows until you feel like you’re the only person in the entire universe. He won’t use words to claim you, but his actions leave no doubt that you belong with him, and that he’ll make sure that you feel that way over and over, until you never want to leave his arms.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Hello!! I Love your writing!

I was wondering if I could request Yandere Black Maria if that’s all right? Maybe with a courtesan under her employment?

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Thank you! I’m glad you like my writing! I also really like your idea. If you don’t mind, though, I tweaked it a bit so that she isn’t directly employed under Black Maria.

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Warning! Hint of NSFW Below!

Black Maria

You’d been in Wano for only a handful of months, a foreign face among the Beasts Pirates' pleasure hall. A stranger swept up in the currents of a land known for chaos and strength. You were no naive girl swept up by power, wealth or glamour. You’d chosen this path, and you knew how to navigate it. The truth was, you didn’t mind the work itself. In fact, you relished the freedom and money your own reputation and skill afforded you here. You could be selective, and you were- never letting just anyone into your bed, and only sharing your sheets with those whose company you actually enjoyed, or whose strength you genuinely respected. You sought out partners who could match you, challenge you, or simply offer a night where you could drop your guard almost completely. Rare, precious things for a woman who spent most of her life on the move. Alone.

There was power in being wanted, but you never let it turn into a cage. You had set your standards long ago. And you weren’t at all shy about enforcing them.

Even so, there was a restlessness that nothing could quench for long. Your blood ran hotter with the thrill of travel. Also of new lands and testing your strength against the world itself. Every coin you earned was a stepping stone to the next horizon, and you never let yourself forget that. Money was money, after all, and you’d learned long ago how to use your good looks as skillfully as your blade.

Kaido himself had, with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, given you a rare pass: work here, raise funds, share your knowledge and strength with the Beasts pirates in the time that you are here, then leave when you wished. No further strings, no debts. That kind of freedom was intoxicating in its own right. For now, you danced among the flowers of Black Maria’s domain, gathering whispers and riches in equal measure.

From the start, Maria’s attention felt different from the others. Her eyes followed you from the farthest corner of the hall, blue and burning, her lips curling from behind her pipe, her laughter low and dangerous. She was bigger than life. An absolute beauty and a terrifying monster all at once. Her touch gentle one moment, cruel the next. There was always an edge to her playfulness when she spoke to you, and her presence seemed to fill every shadowed corner of the hall. The other women joked about her possessiveness, but you quickly came to see the truth lurking beneath it. A hunger that was rarely satisfied, and a loneliness that no amount of celebration or power could mask anymore.

You never forgot that Maria herself had been the first to seek you out. Not as your boss, but as an equal drawn to your fire. You never truly worked under her; your arrangement with the pleasure hall was independent, so there was nothing improper about her requesting your company. In fact, it was the only way she could morally hire your services, and she had wasted no time, making the arrangements almost instantly the moment you set foot in Onigashima. She couldn’t keep her hands off you the second the opportunity arose. Though there was always a longing in her touch, a hunger for you to be hers willingly in a different way, one day.

It was flattering, in a way, to be so singularly desired by someone as infamous as Black Maria, and you didn’t mind indulging her. As long as it happened on your own terms. So when the shuttered hall was empty one night, her hair down, swords gleaming besides the bed, she reached out again as she laid beside your much smaller form. Her index finger gently trailed across your bare shoulder. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and silk, and for a brief, silent moment, you wondered if she would ever let you go at all that day.

"You’re planning to leave, aren’t you?" she asked, her voice smooth and deceptively soft. But her eyes glinting with something sharper underneath. You met her gaze without flinching.

"I am. I never meant to stay in Wano for long. I have places to see."

Maria pouted, her lips curving in a way that was almost childlike, but there was something dark hiding in her smile. "You could have more here. More than any coin. More than any fleeting adventure."

You shook your head, already feeling the pull of the sea beyond the country’s waterfalls. "I’m not made for cages, Maria."

Her expression hardened, horns catching the lantern light in a way that made her look almost mythical. "And if I told you I couldn't let you go? If I made you stay, just for me? Would you still run?" Her fingers tightened around your throat. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your heart race and your instincts flare up in warning.

You could see it now. How she’d woven webs not just of silk, but also of affection. You wondered how many before you had mistaken her touch for something gentle, something safe. But you weren’t like most. You’d seen too much to be afraid, and she seemed to sense that, too. A glimmer of something akin to admiration flashing across her features.

She pressed her lips to your ear, her breath warm and her voice honey sweet. "You think Kaido's word has that much sway around here? I can be much more persuasive than him. I could give you the world if you stayed by my side. Or... I could break you just enough so no one else will ever look at you. Would you like that?"

For a moment, you wondered if you’d underestimated the risks of your little stay in Wano. But the fire in your soul was fiercer than the one in her wheel. You grimaced, lifting her fingers from your throat. For the first time, the chill running down your spine wasn’t from her beauty or her power, but from the ugly, possessive thing showing itself in her voice. It wasn’t exactly a game to her, not really, and it wasn’t only affection, either. That realization cut deeper than any blade, and left you more unsettled than you cared to admit.

You leave the bed and step back, putting a little distance between you, before getting yourself dressed. “I think I need some air,” you then say, tone light, but your eyes never leaving hers. “Don’t wait up for me.”

She watches you go, muscles taut beneath her flawless skin, knuckles white around her pipe. She could stop you, but she doesn’t. Maybe she knows it wouldn’t be so simple, not with your strength almost matching her own. The knowledge seems to electrify her instead of calm her, red lips twisting into a slow, hungry smile as you disappear into the lantern-lit corridors.

For Maria, the promise of a struggle only sharpens her desire. Power begets power, and your refusal, your resistance… These only make her want you even more.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

I really like how you write them! Can I have Akainu, Crocodile and Doflamingo being outsmarted? With a sea prism cuff.?

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But of course! And oohhhh, I see exactly what you’re trying to do. :P

I absolutely love the idea. Especially with Doffy involved! He’d be all over that, in his own unique way, of course.

By the way, the lampposts are reinforced with diamond cores. So, it’s pretty much impossible for many to break out of those restraints right away.

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Warning! Hinting at NSFW!

Donquixote Doflamingo

The cliffs of Coral Spine Bluff on the north side of Stone Huts Island overlooked the sea in a sheer drop, framed by bursts of crashing waves below. It was a popular lookout spot. Scenic and peaceful. At least, until today.

Now, silence ruled.

A crowd had gathered just beyond the edge of the bluff, wide-eyed and unmoving, and with their breath caught in their throats as they looked upon the bound man at the cliff's edge.

And not just any man.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Tall, imposing and with a lean chest wrapped in pink feathers and exposed muscle beneath, he stood with one wrist shackled to a titanium pylon by a sea prism stone cuff. Even in restraint, his presence was downright monstrous. An apex predator frozen into a moment of stillness. You had moved in a blur, barely quicker than his reflexes, ducking under the sudden arc of his arm as he'd tried to grab you. His fingers had grazed your shoulder, just enough to remind you how close you'd come to being caught. Your heart thundered, your pulse roaring in your ears, but you didn’t stop. You slipped in just close enough to snap the cuff shut around his left wrist, feeling the faint tremble of risk replaced by a sharp burst of control.

The sunlight glared off his signature shades, but nothing could mask the slow, devilish curve of his grin.

You had done it. Somehow.

Your chest still heaved from the effort of the confrontation. Your hood was up, cloak fluttering behind you in the wind as you retreated down the path. Your ship was already prepped to take off. The town below buzzed with disbelief, but you didn’t linger long enough to revel in the shock of the citizens. You had no intention of staying to bask in this temporary moment of victory.

Not with him.

Not when his presence still clung to the back of your mind like a thread you couldn’t shake off.

You hadn’t said anything to him. No parting words. No quips. Just the snap of the cuffs and the immediate sprint toward the docks. Your instincts screamed louder than any triumph.

He didn’t thrash. He didn’t snarl, either.

He only watched. Unmoving. Still.

That was until you reached the ship’s deck and looked back.

His head tilted slowly, sunglasses catching the sunlight. That smile; the kind that made your skin crawl and spine freeze, widened into something amused and sinister all at once.

And then came his voice. Low. Drawling. Playful. A velvet threat soaked in something warm and terrible.

"You are only delaying the inevitable."

Your blood ran cold, and the words sunk into your chest like an anchor. The sea breeze stilled. The air itself stopped moving.

You could’ve sworn even the gulls fell silent in that moment.

The space between you and the bluff stretched wider with each second. And yet his presence loomed even larger. Like it had taken root in the very air.

He fed on the unease like it was foreplay. The tension in your shoulders only deepening his pleasure.

His smirk widened just a fraction more. Slow and deliberate. As if savoring your reaction was more satisfying than any physical retaliation. His head tilted slightly further, as though admiring you from afar. Like a toy that had just slipped out of reach but not yet out of his control. And just for a heartbeat… So brief it might have gone unnoticed… He trembled.

A subtle shiver rolled through his shoulders. Frustration. Hunger. That instinctive, possessive rage restrained just enough to keep him still. It made what he said next feel even more unsettling…

"The next time restraints are used," he purred, voice laced with thick innuendo, "it will be in my bed. You'll be the one trembling then.~"

That laugh. Slow. Drawn out. Soaked in anticipation.

"Fufufufufu!~"

The sound echoed off the cliffs, riding the wind like a haunting promise. Every villager present flinched.

You turned away without a word, the air tighter around your chest than ever before. The sails caught, the ropes strained and the ship creaked to life.

But your pulse didn't settle.

Not when you could still hear him.

Not when you knew he meant it.

Sakazuki Akainu

The docks of Stone Huts Island buzzed with tension, and the usual bustle of merchants and fishmongers were reduced to whispers and wide eyes. Just off the plaza, near the storefronts shaded by awnings and lanterns, a titanium lamp post now bore a new, very jarring addition.

Admiral Sakazuki Akainu was chained to it.

One wrist locked tight in sea prism stone. The restraint bit into his skin, veins twitching with controlled fury. His crimson uniform, now dusted from the scuffle, still clung to his massive frame like armor. The Justice kanji on his cloak’s back looked more ominous than noble now.

His jaw was clenched, the hard lines of his face locked in a snarl that simmered with rage and something far more sinful.

You had done it. You had actually done it.

Your cloak billowed in the sea breeze as you made your way toward the ship waiting at the end of the dock. Your steps were steady, but your heart was racing. You were still recovering from the sprint, the gamble. You hadn’t expected it to work. Not with him. But you had struck in that narrow window, when his guard was just low enough. The risk had nearly cost you.

Even in the thick of it, he hadn’t used his Devil Fruit powers.

You knew he could have scorched the stone beneath your feet or turned the air itself molten. But he didn’t. Not here. Not with civilians present. And certainly not with you in reach. He didn’t want to hurt you. No. You realized now. Not even close. That restraint wasn’t just physical. It was personal.

And that gave you just enough time to act.

You had ducked under his reach and snapped the cuff shut around his wrist, retreating in the same breath. It had been close. Close enough that your back had nearly broken out in a sweat at the heat of the proximity. One more second, and you’d have been in his grip.

But now?

Now he stood like a volcano forced into stillness. Surrounded by townspeople too afraid to speak and too transfixed by the rare sight of an Admiral subdued.

“You think anyone else gives a damn about you?” Akainu barked suddenly, his voice sharp but composed. Measured in a way only a Marine could manage in public. “You think any of them know who you really are?”

Locals flinched, some unsure of what he actually means, a few backing away as his voice cut through the plaza like heat. But he didn’t look at them.

He looked at you.

“You just do not get it,” he growled, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his cap. “I’m the only one who sees you. You can run. Hell, you can chain me. But it won’t change that.”

He didn’t shout it like a threat. He meant it. Every word.

And you knew better than to mistake these words- that kind of obsession, for anything else.

You reached the gangplank. One hand gripped the railing. But something inside made you pause.

And when you turned back…

There it was.

Not the cold, cruel sneer of an Admiral known for incinerating pirates.

It was that smile.

A heated grin. Deep. Hungry. The smile of a man shackled not just to a post, but to the thought of you. His gloved fists clenched tight at his sides, and though rage still shimmered behind his eyes, it warred with something much more dangerous. Something that flushed across his cheeks in a soft, unsettling hue.

A blush.

High on his cheeks, stark against the weathered bronze of his skin, it stood out like a brand. You hadn’t known Akainu could blush. Not a man built of lava and law. But there it was. Undeniable. And it made the hunger behind his eyes all the more disturbing.

You stared back. Just for a moment. The ship rocked beneath your feet, the wind curling around your cloak, but you stayed rooted in place. Drawn to the sight of him. Not out of victory, but from the chill crawling up your spine.

In that moment, you understood exactly what he was thinking.

He wasn’t only angry because you had gotten away.

He was also thrilled that you’d dared to get close and defy him in the way that you did.

You hadn’t escaped.

You had ignited something deep, volatile and entirely yours.

And now it was only a matter of time before it came roaring back for you.

Sir Crocodile

The sun bore down upon Stone Huts Island, its tightly packed stone houses casting compact shadows across the winding alleys that twisted toward the busy port. This wasn’t some desolate battlefield. This was a vibrant hub, full of noise, motion and oblivious normalcy. And that was precisely why Crocodile had chosen it. Word had placed you here, long enough to act. He would strike in a place you'd never expect to be vulnerable. In plain sight.

But he miscalculated.

The sharp clink of sea prism stone cuffs broke the salty breeze as Crocodile released a guttural snarl, his left wrist locked tight, the second cuff coiled around a titanium lantern post. The metal barely groaned beneath the sudden strain. His instincts had fired instantly the moment you'd lunged. He saw it coming, but too late. His abilities, stripped by the sea prism stone, couldn’t activate fast enough to slip free, to ensnare you in turn. You were a blur. He’d almost caught you. Almost reversed it all.

Instead, he was bound.

His fur-lined coat slipped from his shoulders in the clash, falling into a heap of fabric and dust at his feet.

For a split second, fear had surged through you. Getting that close was like leaping into a lion’s jaws. His sheer size, that suffocating presence… Every single part of him screamed danger. But the instant the cuff snapped into place, that fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, relieved certainty.

The trap had worked. He was locked. And his rage surged, thick as cigar smoke in his throat.

He bared his teeth for only a second. A flash of untamed hatred. His heavy-lidded eyes, burning beneath thin, furrowed brows, locked right on you. The long scar across his nose looked even more severe in the tightness of his glare. Strands of black hair had slipped from their slicked-back hold, framing his face in disarray, and he looked like a man one twitch away from snapping everything around him.

At his feet, his cigar lay crushed beneath his boot. His golden hook, gleaming and inert, gave a useless twitch. He could still flex it, but it had been neutralized. Useless and mocking in the light.

Curious townsfolk had gathered and formed a nervous semicircle along the edge of the plaza. Locals. Dockhands. A child tucked behind a merchant’s leg. No one spoke. No one dared. Even bound, Crocodile exuded the weight of a monster. A Warlord subdued, but far from defeated.

They knew better than to look too long. Better than to speak.

And still, he smiled.

Not the slow, amused smirk of confidence.

This was thinner. Tighter. Sharpened into something almost venomous. You hadn’t merely escaped. You’d outplayed him. Lured him in. Outmaneuvered him where he was supposed to have every advantage.

Anyone else would already be dust for less. But you weren’t just anyone.

His eyes tracked your ship as it slipped from the docks, sails rippling in the wind. There you stood at the bow, composed beneath the deep hood of your cloak. You always hid your presence. Since the very beginning. Even now, as you drifted out of reach, you kept your distance cloaked.

But just as you turned away… Just as your head tilted back to face forward… It happened.

A flicker.

The ghost of a smirk. Small. Involuntary. Not for him. Not meant to taunt. Just a brief curl of satisfaction you didn’t even know you let slip.

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked hard and a muscle beneath his scar jumped. His shoulders coiled with renewed rage, the cuff biting into his wrist as he tested it again, knowing it was useless.

Not because of your guts. Not even because you’d caught him. But because of that smirk.

The unintentional insult. The accidental reminder that you had beaten him. And worse… You didn’t even mean to rub it in.

Your scent still lingered faintly. The moment you had locked him in place played over and over in his mind, each replay feeding the gnawing ache in his lower gut. Desire twisted inside him.

You hadn’t just won. You had stirred something.

He didn’t crave your blood. He never had. But what he always wanted from you ran even deeper now. Slower. The fire in your eyes. The edge in your voice. He wanted the look you’d give when the game turned. The moment of realization, not from afar, but close. Very, very close. From behind closed doors.

Next time, there would be no second chance.

It wouldn’t be a chase. It would be a claiming.

And when he caught you, because he would …. He wouldn’t stop at just metaphorical chains.

He would tether you to him, in every way.

Let the villagers remember this day. Let them tremble at the sight of a Warlord restrained.

This wasn’t defeat. This was obsession, bared for all to see.

And you had made him want.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Can i request arlong x ahab reader, but instead of hunting the whale shes hunting HIM?

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What another unique request!

I intentionally wrote the scenario so that the reader starts out as an ordinary civilian. Otherwise, the whole dynamic, and the struggle, wouldn’t really make sense in terms of the One Piece world’s power scaling.

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Arlong the Saw

You had always pictured this moment. His blood in the sea, your harpoon finally tasting revenge. Every sleepless night since that shipwreck, every time you traced the jagged scar along your side, it was his face you saw: Arlong, sawshark demon. The monster who tore your world apart.

He barely remembered. To him, you were just another human, another speck beneath his sandal, another ship destroyed by his own monstrous lust for revenge. But you remembered. You remembered the burning sky, the taste of salt and smoke, the bodies in the water, and the weight of your promise. You’d kill him, no matter what. You trained as best you could, learned to navigate the East Blue, learned how to wield a harpoon. But the gap between you and him was an ocean of its own.

Your first attempt was almost comical, in hindsight. He was coming ashore, probably to see that rat-faced Marine, Nezumi, when you lunged from behind the crates, an old harpoon raised. Arlong didn’t even seem surprised. The strength difference between you was immense. The power of a male fish-man so absurdly greater than any average human, let alone a civilian woman like you, that it felt like swinging a stick at a tidal wave. In one motion, he snapped your weapon like a toothpick and sent you sprawling in the dirt, blood in your mouth and your heart pounding with hate.

His crew erupted with laughter, openly jeering at you, their voices echoing across the docks. "Did you see that? The human actually thought she could stab Arlong!" one of them crowed, while another mimed your clumsy attack. Only Hatchan remained quiet, all six arms crossed and gaze elsewhere, almost awkward in the midst of the spectacle. You scrambled away, humiliated, barely making it to the alley before you heard Arlong’s amused voice echoing after you: “Come back when you’re stronger, little human.”

You hid for hours, furious at your own weakness. But that night, searching through the abandoned junk at the edge of the village; rusted nets, shattered wood, and broken blades, you found it. A real harpoon. Heavy and iron-tipped, lost by some unfortunate fisherman long ago. Its shaft was sturdy, the point sharp and gleaming even after years at sea. When you gripped it, you felt something almost like hope.

The next time you attacked, it was different. You waited in the shadows as Arlong and his crew swaggered up the dock. When you struck, your new harpoon drove through the air with speed and weight, whistling inches from his side. He sidestepped easily, but his eyes flickered. Not with fear. Of course not. But with surprise. You managed a second thrust, more precise than before, and for a heartbeat you caught the edge of his yellow cabana shirt. Then his hand closed around the shaft and wrenched it away.

He inspected it, sharp teeth glinting as he grinned before throwing it back at you. “You found yourself a real weapon now? Hah! Got some fight in you after all.” His crew was less impressed. They howled with laughter, one of them bellowing, "Oh, look, she’s graduated from sticks to real metal! Maybe next time she’ll bring a cannon!" Another mimicked your attack, only to also pretend to stumble and fall flat. Only Hatchan stayed silent, shifting his gaze from you to the sky.

You fought harder each time after that. You clung to your harpoon, refusing to let it go, always aiming for his heart, his throat. Anywhere you could hurt him. You got faster. Learned to feint and dodge. Felt your muscles harden from constant use. But against Arlong, it was never enough. The gap between you was more than just size and strength. To you, it felt like you were fighting the ocean itself. No matter how determined you were, how much you improved, there was no crossing that divide in a matter of weeks. Still, you kept coming back. Still, he kept letting you escape, battered but alive.

The mockery of the crew became part of the ritual. Every new attempt, they’d spot you coming, snickering and nudging each other. "Careful, Arlong! Maybe this time she’ll scratch you!" they’d howl, thoroughly entertained by your persistence. Hatchan, as always, stood apart. Never laughing, never intervening, just quietly watching you with a look you couldn’t quite read.

But with every attack, you noticed Arlong’s attitude shift. His shark eyes lingered on you longer, his grin stretching wider. Curiosity, hunger, and something darker began to mingle with his amusement. You tried not to flinch when you heard his laughter, but there was always that heat beneath his words lately: “Persistent. Are you really after my head, or something else?”

You hated him. You wanted to carve your revenge into his light blue flesh. And yet, your life began to orbit his shadow. The planning, the rage, the inevitable defeat... It was maddening. Yet every day, you woke up reaching for that harpoon, even as your bruises darkened and your hope thinned.

What you didn’t know was that Arlong had never met a human who kept coming back for more in the way that you did. There was something in the way you glared at him, the raw hatred, the refusal to kneel. He thought of you when he wasn’t meant to. Wondered how you kept finding him. He even started to spare your favourite hiding places, just to see if you’d try again.

One night, after your latest defeat, he didn’t leave right away. He knelt beside your broken form, fingers brushing the scar on your cheek. “You want revenge so thoroughly? You hate me that much?”

You glared at him, clutching your harpoon in shaking hands. His grin only widened.

He didn’t hurt you any further. Instead, he eventually just watched you limp away into the darkness, his gaze heavy and lingering. But revenge was all you saw. The world around you blurred, every pain and every humiliation sharpened into a single, burning focus. You would make him pay. If he stared, if he lingered, you didn’t care. You barely even noticed. You were too busy planning your next attack, too obsessed with sharpening the tip of your harpoon, too consumed with hatred to pay mind to anything else. The only thing you noticed was that somewhere along the way, that look of intrigue in his eyes had shifted, changed into something you couldn’t name, something that left a chill along your spine in rare, quiet moments when your mind wasn’t clouded by vengeance. But you never stopped. You never considered running. The hunt was everything.

Even as you moved through the narrow alleys of the village, slipping past shuttered windows and moonlit rooftops, you barely registered the sense of being watched. If the sea itself pressed down on you, you pressed back, teeth bared, harpoon in hand. Each echo of laughter from the docks, every taunt or whispered rumor about the crazy human girl trying to kill Arlong, only steeled your resolve. That night, as you escaped into the silence, all you could think about was what you’d do differently next time. Where you’d strike, how you’d dodge, how you’d finally make him bleed. Whatever haunted feeling there was; whatever promise of salt and teeth, it barely broke through the fog of your anger. You lay awake long after, not from fear, but from the endless drumbeat of revenge driving you toward him, again and again.

But Arlong was patient, letting the tension twist and tangle in your mind. You didn’t know it yet, but to him, this was all a kind of game. A hunt that wasn’t over until he said so. Your retreats only heightened his interest. Your defiance, the very hatred in your eyes, made him ache to see what you would do next, how far you’d run, how far you’d go for that sliver of revenge you could never seem to reach. And somewhere in that darkness, as you tried to quiet your mind, he made a decision.

The next time you came for him, Arlong decided, he wouldn’t let you walk away anymore. If you wanted him so badly… Well, he’d make sure you never left his side again. This time, it wouldn’t end with you running. One way or another, he’d keep you close. Whether you liked it or not. But beneath that predatory certainty, there was something different lurking in Arlong’s mind. A hunger that went beyond battle. He wondered, almost hungrily, if the fire that drove you to hate him could be reshaped, twisted into something new, something entirely his.

It was a selfish, possessive fantasy: that he, the monster who scarred you, might also become the only one able to heal you. That maybe, in forcing you to stay, he could turn that stubborn hatred into a different kind of obsession, one born of survival, rivalry, the rough comfort only a soul like him could offer. His methods would never be gentle; the only language he truly understood was struggle, challenge, the thrill of the hunt. But somewhere between the sharpness of your glare and the persistence of your attacks, Arlong began to crave not just your defeat, but your attention, your rage. Maybe, someday, something much closer.

The next clash would not be like the last. One way or another, he would test the limits of your resolve, and perhaps see if a new bond could be forged through a story only the two of you could share, tangled together for good.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Reader wearing anti-simp armor wth Boa Hancock Alvida and Cavendish?

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Of course! I’m not sure if you were expecting something different from the way I put together these little scenarios. In a way, they’re definitely shaken up. Just not in a comical sense. I let them be a bit more mature about it.

I also really enjoyed writing for these three! It’s different, for once. :)

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"Iron Mace" Alvida

Dusk slowly settled over the port town in a wash of gold and purple, sunlight spilling its last colors across restless waves and catching on every weathered plank, every faded awning strung along the busy market stalls. The shouts of sellers mellowed into raucous laughter as the throng swelled, voices rising over the music of the tide. Y

et at the farthest edge of the dock, you’d managed to carve out a pocket of stillness for yourself. Perched atop an old mooring post, boots crusted with dirt from distant shores, you observed the circling gulls, their cries barely cutting through the hum of the crowd. You might have looked like just another traveler, but there was a peculiar gravity about you. Subtle and undeniable, like a pebble cast into a silent pond, sending ripples no one could see but everyone somehow felt.

Alvida spotted you immediately. She had a knack for that. And she'd never allow it to be the one to fade into the background. Not with her flawless skin and the unmistakable sweep of a white hat crowned with a crimson plume, catching the breeze like a banner. Every step she took was measured, radiating a poised defiance, each movement a statement that demanded the world’s attention. Yet tonight, she moved with a restless energy, seeking an escape from the relentless spectacle of Buggy’s circus. For once, she needed to feel like her own master, not merely another flourish in someone else’s act.

As she approached, she assessed you with a practiced eye, picking up on the quiet strength and authority that seemed to gather around you. There was something beneath the surface. A current she couldn’t quite name but that had set her instincts on edge. Outwardly, you appeared unremarkable, yet the air vibrated with the unmistakable aura of danger. Alvida had survived the Grand Line long enough to know when to be careful, and she recognized the presence of Haki in the way you carried yourself. Unforced, unspoken and powerful.

Of course, Alvida would never reveal even a flicker of hesitation. She slipped into her trademark poise, lips twisting into a sly smile as she strolled up beside you. “You look awfully comfortable,” she drawled, her voice silky and teasing. “Is this your kingdom, or are you just waiting to be crowned?”

You met her gaze with a small, wry smile, an expression that suggested both amusement and indifference. “Not at all. Just soaking up the sunset. And that’s a bold choice of attire for a place like this.”

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me?” The question hung in the air, inviting a reaction. Some sign that you were suitably impressed.

You only shrugged and looked back at the harbor. “Should I?”

A flicker of annoyance passed through her, but Alvida mastered it with a toss of her hair. “Iron Mace Alvida,” she declared, her usual boast rolling easily off her tongue. “Rumor says that I’m the most beautiful woman on the seas.”

You nodded, your tone genuinely unruffled. “Nice to meet you, then. You’re welcome to share the quiet.”

For a moment, she hesitated before easing herself onto the post beside yours, careful to keep her immaculate coat clear of filth. The two of you let the silence stretch, broken only by the distant music and the lull of the waves against the pilings.

Alvida tried again, curiosity sharpening her words. “Most people can’t stop staring, or at least try to win me over. You’re different.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “I mean, travel enough and you see a lot. Takes more than a feathered hat to impress me. Especially after the New World.”

That startled her, however briefly. She masked her reaction with an arch of her chin, but the name- the New World, crackled between you. That explained the sense of danger she’d felt: something far beyond the tame threats of the East Blue. Excitement mixed with caution as she sized you up anew. Alvida had always been the one others chased, but suddenly she found herself leaning forward, wanting to know more.

“I supposed this means you’ve been out there,” she said, tone light but eyes sharp. “Not many come back in one piece.”

Your gaze was steady, impossible to read. “It’s a different world beyond the Red Line. But I found out that I prefer places where the rules make more sense and where the sunsets are easier on the eyes.”

Conversation wound between you, both of you feigning indifference. Yet Alvida felt herself pulled in by your measured calm, by the way you held yourself without arrogance, your strength revealed not in words but in the quiet weight of your presence. She watched your hands as you spoke, catching herself wondering what they were capable of. Her curiosity sharpened into something almost hungry.

For once, Alvida found herself outmatched in the game of attention. She flirted, provoked, tested your patience, but you met her efforts with steady ease, leaving her alternately exasperated and fascinated. The realization that her looks barely registered with you was both frustrating and oddly thrilling.

As night deepened, the docks behind you alive with distant revels, Alvida realized she hadn’t spared a thought for Buggy or her crew for nearly an hour. There was only you: inscrutable, dangerous, impossible to impress. And suddenly, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted the conversation to end.

In that shimmering tension, something deeper took root: the beginnings of an obsession, curling quietly around her heart.

"Pirate Empress" Boa Hancock

The jungle heat pressed in, heavy and fragrant with blooming orchids and crushed leaves. You sat on a mossy root beneath the arching branches, sketchbook balanced against your knee, quietly capturing the curve of a vine curling around an ancient tree.

A faint ripple on the wind, the subtle hush of paddles in the distance… Enough to catch your attention, but not enough to startle you. You looked up just in time to see a longboat gliding up to shore, its hull painted in winding patterns that hinted at serpents and culture.

Women with snakes hanging from their necks stepped onto the sand, moving with purpose but not immediate aggression. One figure in particular stood out, her presence unmistakable even at a distance. Boa Hancock. Her reputation had reached ports and islands far from this one. Her posture was serene, her gaze quietly assessing as she walked a little ahead of the others, dark hair trailing behind her like a silken banner. Coiled close by her side and impossible to miss, was a massive white and red snake, scales glinting pearlescent in the filtered jungle light. The serpent's head swayed lazily near Hancock’s ear, tongue flicking as if in quiet appraisal of the scene.

You felt it as soon as she set foot on the shore. A pressure in the air, subtle but undeniable. Hancock’s Haki pressed outward, washing over you in a wave far stronger than your own. It was neither cruel nor taunting, simply there. An effortless assertion of power. You were not surprised; she was, after all, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. If anything, the sensation was almost reassuring, a confirmation that stories of her strength were no exaggeration.

For a moment, no one spoke. The jungle was full of insect song, and you returned your attention to your journal, shading in the feathered crest of a bright green bird. The newcomers watched in silent curiosity rather than open hostility. Salome’s great body curled and uncurled at Hancock’s feet, dark eyes regarding you with the same cool detachment as his mistress.

It was Hancock who broke the silence, her voice rich and measured. “You’re quite at ease, for someone so far from home.”

You glanced up again, calm and direct. “A nasty habit for explorers, I suppose.”

She stepped closer, her shadow falling across the page. The other Kuja hung back, exchanging murmurs, but Hancock only watched you, her expression unreadable. Salome’s head drifted closer, tongue flickering near your sketchbook before withdrawing, apparently impressed. You studied Hancock with quiet interest.

“You know who I am,” she said. It was not at all a question.

You nodded, offering a hint of a smile. “Boa Hancock. One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. Your reputation and bounty precede you, even beyond the Grand Line.”

There was no tremor in your tone, just a matter-of-fact respect. Hancock’s eyes narrowed, lips forming the slightest pout. A flash of wounded pride, as if your calmness was almost an insult to her.

“And you’re not afraid?” she pressed, a subtle edge of challenge in her tone.

You met her gaze steadily. “I don’t make a habit of letting fear choose my actions. I’m just here to document flora and fauna. Nothing more.”

A strange, charged silence lingered. For a split second, Hancock felt the familiar impulse to use her Devil Fruit powers on you. To turn that maddening composure into stone, to force a reaction from you, any reaction. The temptation flickered in her eyes, but she hesitated. There was something almost magnetic about your neutrality, a puzzle she refused to break simply out of frustration. It would be too easy and far less satisfying.

She lingered, eyes flicking down to your journal. “Show me your sketches,” she demanded, the imperious tone brooking no refusal.

You passed her the sketchbook without hesitation. She turned the pages slowly, taking in the careful renderings of birds, insects and wild fruit. Each detail rendered with the patience of someone who truly saw the world. For a while, the sounds of the jungle weaved around the hush between you. Salome watched, curled protectively beside Hancock, every bit as regal and inscrutable as his master.

Hancock found herself dumbstruck by your composure, her irritation dissolving into a restless, unfamiliar curiosity. No matter how many times she glanced at you, she couldn’t read anything but quiet confidence and focus.

“Your drawings are precise,” Hancock said quietly.

You gave a small nod. “Well, it’s the best way I can learn to understand a place.”

Something softened in her posture. She sat on the root beside you, less an empress and more a curious individual for a few minutes. Conversation suddenly came easily: she asked about the storms you’d seen on the open sea, the strange flavors of distant markets, the colors of sunsets over unfamiliar harbors. In return, she spoke with measured pride of her homeland’s fierce traditions and rare beauty, Salome’s massive form never far from her side.

Time slipped past unnoticed until the shadows grew long. The Kuja warriors stood guard at a respectful distance, but even they seemed puzzled at how easily the two of you fell and stayed into conversation.

When Hancock finally rose, her glance lingered on you. Thoughtful and awfully intent. You saw in her eyes not the fleeting interest of a queen meeting a stranger, but the first, faint trace of something far more persistent.

Cavendish of the White Horse

The autumn air was cool and fresh, tinged with the smell of damp leaves and wet earth. The park felt emptier than usual. Benches were tucked in the shade, half-lost under piles of orange leaves, and the late afternoon sun hung low. Maple trees stood along the path, their leaves spinning down. Somewhere in the distance, you could just make out the faint notes of a violin coming from an open window. It gave everything a cozy, almost secret feeling.

You were settled on a weathered stone bench, notebook open in your lap, sketching the shadows that tree branches painted on the ground. Every once in a while, you’d looked up and catch the sunlight glimmering on the pond, then went back to drawing. There was a calm about you, a quiet focus that made you stand out from the usual crowd. Even though today, the park felt like it was moving in slow motion. As if the whole world was pausing just for you.

Cavendish’s arrival was a pageant in miniature. He strode along the main path in his signature white coat, hair shining gold under the afternoon sun, blue plume swaying with each precise step. Each stride seemed to catch the last light, his presence drawing glances from nearly everyone- elderly couples pausing their stroll, children quieting their games, even the pigeons looking up as he passed. Passersby glanced his way, some whispering or sighing, but their attention barely registered to you. For Cavendish, who was used to heads turning everywhere he went, the sight of someone so thoroughly unimpressed was both a curiosity and an affront. For a moment, he simply watched you, debating his approach, before his own vanity nudged him forward.

He lingered, just out of arm’s reach, waiting for you to look up. When you finally did, your gaze was neutral- polite, but without awe or fluster. There was a composure in your eyes that set you apart from the world around you. It was not the emptiness of indifference, but the stillness of a deep pool. Patient and completely unbothered. That, more than any Haki he could sense rolling off you, drew his interest sharper than his own blade. He could feel it: an aura of strength that roughly rivaled his own, subtle but undeniable, woven into the calm of your posture and the steady rhythm of your breath.

“Not every day a beautiful afternoon like this goes unnoticed,” he said, his voice smooth and melodic, practiced for effect. “Nor every day someone in this city ignores Cavendish of the White Horse.” The words were delivered with a trace of theatrical flair, the sort that made lesser hearts flutter.

You glanced him over, noting the immaculate clothes, the sword at his hip, the easy poise. “A good afternoon’s always worth noticing,” you replied, tone warm but level. “I just prefer not to compete with the scenery.” You gestured with your pencil toward the amber leaves, letting him interpret your meaning as he wished.

He tilted his head, not quite sure whether you were complimenting him or dismissing his presence entirely. The ambiguity unsettled and intrigued him. For Cavendish, used to praise and instant recognition, your measured response was its own quiet challenge. He found himself searching your face for something more. An approval or admiration he was so accustomed to receiving.

Cavendish took a seat on the far end of your bench, carefully dusting away a leaf first. The gesture was elegant, almost courtly, as if honoring some unspoken rule of dignity. He watched you sketch, curiosity brightening in his eyes, his posture straightening unconsciously. “If I may ask, what brings you to a place like this? Not many people choose solitude when they could be surrounded by attention.” His tone was light, but there was a flicker of real curiosity beneath the practiced charm.

You smiled, continuing your lines. “Attention has its place. Peace has its merits, too. I take it you’re used to admiration?”

He laughed, a touch of self-deprecating pride mixing with genuine amusement. “It tends to follow me. Though it’s rarer to find someone strong enough to ignore it, and strong enough to carry such presence. I sense it,” he added, meaning your Haki, but not naming it directly. He tilted his head, studying you anew, as if weighing the measure of your strength against his own.

Your pencil paused, eyes meeting his. “Strength comes in many forms. Not all of them require an audience.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.

Something flickered in Cavendish’s gaze. He could feel a subtle surge within him. A restlessness, the faint stirring of Hakuba, not out of bloodlust but a sharp, unfamiliar interest. A need to be seen and understood, not just admired. For the briefest moment, Hakuba’s presence shimmered at the edge of his consciousness, drawn by your mysterious composure. A craving not for conquest, but for genuine connection.

The conversation drifted, effortless but tinged with tension. Cavendish asked about the autumns you’d witnessed, the cities you’d visited, gently probing for praise, or even the smallest sign of admiration. Yet your replies remained thoughtful and steady, never deferential. You described distant places in crisp detail, never embellishing, and when he pressed for tales of adventure, you shared them without extra theatrics. Cavendish started opening up more than he’d expected. Talking about where he came from. Telling stories about the sea, and slipping little hints of the loneliness he usually hid behind his charming confidence.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the sun sank lower and the air grew colder, bringing with it the sharp and smoky smell from far-off chimneys. That’s when Cavendish realized he was hooked. Not by someone else’s looks, but by the wild, confusing excitement of meeting a gaze that didn’t look at him with unfiltered adoration.

He found himself watching the way you moved, the unhurried confidence in your words, the way you seemed so grounded in the present moment. For the first time in memory, he wanted not to be admired, but to be noticed. To be truly seen. It was the beginning of something far more dangerous than simple vanity, an obsession rooted not in conquest, but in the desire to pierce your inscrutable calm.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Hiii!!! I‘m so glad that I’ve found someone who writes for sentomaru… the most underrated one piece character, I tell you. Anyways, how about sentomaru x pirate!reader? How would that go? Nsfw would be great too if thats not too much…

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Of course! When it comes to romance, there are plenty of characters I’d be happy to write for. And as for the scenario I had in mind, it does get a bit NSFW, but probably not in the way you’d expect. xD

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Warning! NSFW Below!

Sentomaru

The moon hung low over Sabaody Archipelago, its light broken by the shadows of mangroves and the colossal silhouettes of Pacifista. Tonight, though, a ripple of excitement and uncertainty ran through the Marines: your ship had literally emerged from the seas, rising up in a rush of foam and spray, having come from the depths after sailing through Fish-Man Island all the way from the New World. Only to head back to the Grand Line instead, for reasons no one in the Marines could fathom. At the center of the commotion, Sentomaru stood with his battle axe braced on his shoulder, sharp eyes fixed on your ship making a daring, midnight escape.

He had heard the stories. A captain with a four hundred million belli bounty, your ship bristling with cannons and a crew loyal to the bone.

He’d tracked you and your crew from Sabaody, following rumors and reports until you landed on a small, vibrant island called Pavot Island, which was famous for its endless fields of poppy flowers blooming in every color imaginable. It was there, for the first time, that he crossed blades with you in person. The battle tore through the painted fields and shook the heart of the island, ending only when, working alongside your crew, you cut down the Pacifista he had brought as backup, leaving nothing behind but shattered metal, scorched petals, and a memory that haunted him after.

That was only the beginning. Word spread fast after Pavot Island: you’d already crushed two more Pacifista under your blade, and your crew had blasted the remaining three to smoldering heaps. Sentomaru’s pride creaked with something vile. He hadn’t met someone like you before. Someone who stood her ground, eyes blazing with the wild freedom he’d only ever heard pirates talk about.

Your clashes were brutal, every meeting shaking the earth with the force of your blows. You were equals. Each time your blade met his axe, sparks flew, neither of you giving ground. But what started as professional duty twisted into something sharper, deeper. Each time you flashed that mocking grin, wild hair loose, sweat glinting on your cheek, Sentomaru felt his heart race in a way no fight ever had.

He told himself it was about the challenge, about pride. But after hearing your story through a recent report… How you’d been forced into piracy the day you cut down a highly corrupt Marine, how you fought only for your own freedom, not for treasure or bloodlust, he started to watch you with a different kind of hunger.

Sometimes, late at night, he’d remember the last time you clashed weapons. The memory would come unbidden, sharp as the ring of steel meeting steel; your laugh, low and mocking, just before you vanished in a swirl of smoke. He could almost feel the heat of your body, the way your movements were so alive, so unpredictable.

The raw power in your stance, the way your muscles tensed as you moved with a deadly grace, left a deep impression on him. The challenge in your eyes as you tore through his defenses, the ferocity in your smirk, and the stubborn pride that refused to yield even when pressed to the limit. All of it replayed in his mind over and over again. You had left him, for the first time, flat on his back, staring up at the stars, the scent of gunpowder and scorched air still lingering. Heavy with the bitterness of fire, the chemical tang from Pacifista lasers, and something wild and floral burning from the ruined fields.

He gripped the edge of his futon hard, breath coming faster as memories twisted into fantasy. The thought of you; untamed, dangerous, almost within his grasp, set his nerves aflame in a way no opponent ever had. He shouldn’t want you. He was supposed to capture you, not crave the weight of your body under his, not fantasize about sinking his teeth into your shoulder and listening to you gasp his name, rough and needy. In his mind’s eye, your heartbeat pounded against his, matching his ragged breaths, your hands tangled tight in his black hair as you arched up to meet him. You’d laugh, low and breathless, just for him, and he’d leave another mark. Hidden where only you two would know, a secret claim no one else could see. “No one else gets to touch you like this,” he’d whisper into your ear, voice hoarse, as he pressed closer. It was a craving that haunted him- wanting you wild, spent, and wrapped up in his arms for hours after, his big hands tracing your skin, unable to let you go even when the fire between you finally settled to a smolder.

But Sentomaru had never been good at playing by the rules. And when it came to you, the lines between duty, obsession, and desire had started to blur into something he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, control anymore. The more he tried to bury the ache, the deeper it took root, spreading through him like wildfire, leaving him restless, wanting, and consumed by the image of you just out of reach.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

You know how dedicated Smoker was with trying to capture Luffy? That but with yandere Smoker and Pirate Reader pretty please.

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Ohohoho! This ask is great! xD

Honestly, I think a lot of us must have daydreamed about this at some point. It was definitely a little fantasy of mine. I’ve always had a soft spot for Marines like him... :P

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Smoker the White Hunter

It started in Loguetown, your boots clapping against rain-slick cobblestones, the scent of the sea mixing with the threat of justice hanging thick in the air. It wasn’t the first time you’d felt eyes on you like that. When you were nothing more than a small-shot pirate with just two crewmates, you’d crossed paths with him before. Even back then, Smoker’s gaze had been like iron- unyielding, sharp and impossible to forget. You’d barely slipped away that day, luck and inexperience making you three invisible as the crowd swallowed you up. But you never forgot that pressure, or the name the Marines whispered: “White Chase.” Always with two cigars burning between his teeth, always surrounded by that telltale haze.

You didn’t go looking for trouble, but trouble always found you. Usually wearing a Marine uniform. The wanted posters in your hand, your own face grinning back at you, the bounty a staggering four hundred million belli, felt surreal. It hadn’t always been this way. The second time you ran into Smoker, it was nothing like the first.

By then, your crew had grown. No longer just two at your back, but a real force. He’d expected an easy capture this time, but your Haki; wild and instinctive, flared for the first time in open conflict, cutting straight through the protection of his smoke. You saw the shock in his eyes, the way he suddenly realized you were now a threat he’d never faced before.

You kept him at bay with a practiced ease that bordered on playful, almost daring him to make his move. Your crew, now seasoned and quick-witted, let you handle the little scuffle, standing back and making a show of gathering supplies from the market stalls while Smoker tried; and failed, to get past you. You taunted him with every step, letting the minutes drag on, the tension thick in the air. It was a kind of legendary ease, the sort that could turn even a New World veteran’s head, though he himself didn't realize it then.

For Smoker, that moment became an obsession. It wasn’t just the news articles about your crew’s feats in the two years since that first meeting. It was the way you slipped away, the first to ever do it with such infuriating confidence, as if the world itself bent in your favor. As you called for your crew and everyone regrouped on the ship, you flashed him a mocking salute, and were gone. Leaving him alone in the crowd, the chase burning fresh in his mind.

When your ship set sail, you thought you’d left Loguetown completely behind this time, but you could feel the weight of Smoker’s pursuit long before you saw his smoke trailing on the horizon. You didn’t just beat rival pirates. You crushed them, sent the worst fleeing back into the Four Blues, their Jolly Rogers tattered. That was your reputation, your truth. And he was obsessed, more dogged than any Marine, bounty hunter or rival pirate captain.

Crossing Reverse Mountain should have given you a head start, and for most in your crew, it was more nostalgia than fear. This wasn’t your first time braving those wild, roaring currents. It was your second climb and descent, and you all loved the rush of it. The climb and plunge might have shaken lesser pirates, but for you and your crew, it felt like routine. You gripped the rail with a smile as your crew let out familiar, fearless cheers, relishing the surge of adrenaline as if greeting an old friend.

Behind you, Loguetown faded into memory, the East Blue now just another story.

But Smoker was a man with connections. He didn’t need to gamble on the mountain’s currents. He, Tashigi, and his crew took a special Marine vessel designed for just such pursuits, using the same perilous route up and over Reverse Mountain as you did. For the first time, justice and obsession combined to drive him directly along your trail, through the same roiling waters, the ship straining beneath him as he chased you into the Grand Line like a curse you couldn’t shake.

Everywhere you landed, rumors spread fast: the pirate captain with a bounty to rival legends, the woman who left other pirates broken but left towns and villages untouched. It should have been easy for Smoker. Just get close and confront you. But it never happened. Not once.

Your crew was your shield and your sword. They met every lucky approach with grins and blades, their own Haki blooming in the air. They handled his Marines like an afterthought, and when Smoker himself arrived, it was as if your crew’s unity formed an impenetrable wall. They joked, sometimes right in his line of sight, “Looking for our captain again, White Chase?", "Too slow!” or “Maybe next time, Marine!” With every encounter, Smoker tried to press forward, to get just a glimpse of you through the chaos. He never succeeded.

You watched from the distance sometimes. Your crew had a way of keeping you perfectly out of reach, as if it was all a fun game they knew how to win every single time. You trusted them, and they trusted you. While they held the line, you would vanish just before Smoker could break through, your laughter carried off by the wind.

He grew more desperate with every island, every failed attempt. Reports came to you from a trusted friend… How he’d started studying your crew’s moves, mapping your sailing routes, learning the names of every member aboard your ship. His obsession with you grew with every failed chase, and your crew made sure he never got closer than the echo of your name.

At first, you wondered what drove him. Justice? Duty? But as the months wore on, your crew noticed the way he’d linger just a moment too long at the docks you’d just left, staring after your ship with that haunted, hungry look. “It’s not just the idea of putting you in chains himself that drives him, captain,” your first mate said, smirking. “He’s chasing something else entirely. Something he probably doesn’t even understand himself. Poor sod doesn’t stand a chance.”

You never ran from him. Not really. You sailed the way you always did, straight and proud, daring him to try his luck. The stories spread: Smoker haunted the Grand Line, shadowing a pirate captain he could never quite catch, a captain shielded by a crew almost as formidable as she was.

And deep down, you wondered: not if he would catch you, but just how long he’d keep chasing, and what he’d be willing to risk. Because as long as your crew stood with you, he would always be left wanting, reaching for a shadow that slipped away every single time.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Could I request an oblivious reader with yandere shanks?

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Ooooofff… Poor Shanks… Even he has his limits. xD

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"Red-Haired" Shanks

The sky was a cloudless blue, and the sun blazed over the endless, restless sea. There was no fanfare as the Red Force, flagship of the Red Hair Pirates, cut through the water that day. Only the subtle hum of a well-run ship and a certain newness in the air.

You stood by the railing, your travel pack slung over one shoulder, watching sunlight flicker on the waves. The deck beneath your boots was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. You’d always liked the beginning of another new voyage. Every ship and sky a promise of uncharted places.

Your being here was never part of the plan. A week ago, you’d only stopped in a battered little port town for supplies, only to find the place in chaos: powerful bounty hunters and pirates trading blows, barrels exploding in the square. In the end, it was your sharp aim and a well-placed distraction that helped turn the tide for the Red Hair Pirates. But only because you knew that this particular group of bounty hunters was corrupt to its very bones. When the dust cleared, Shanks himself laughed. He’d arrived a minute too late to end the fight himself. Still, he had invited you to join them, at least until you found the next fork in your own journey.

You accepted, with a simple, “For now,” and nothing more. The sea was vast, and you had your own maps to fill. Your own ship yet to buy.

The crew welcomed you with the easy camaraderie of people who trusted fate. Lucky Roux shared his lunch, Yasopp wanted to help you train through target practice, and even Benn Beckman, who said little, nodded in quiet approval as you unpacked in a spare cabin.

But you noticed, after a few days, that Shanks watched you more closely than what's normal. Not with suspicion. Instead, a sort of quiet curiosity.

If you spent the evening on deck tracing new constellations into your journal, he’d appear with a bottle and a joke, standing just close enough that you could feel his presence. If you helped repair the rigging, he’d offer advice, though you were sure he knew you didn’t need it.

You assumed it was just a captain’s habit. He seemed the type to look after all his people. You respected his easy confidence, the way he led the crew with nothing more than a laugh or a look, how even the rowdiest pirates seemed steadier in his warm presence.

You never saw the way his eyes lingered, or how his smiles grew softer when you were near. You didn’t notice the crew exchanging knowing glances as Shanks sought your company again and again.

One evening, as the sun bled into the sea, you stood alone at the bow, drawing the outline of a new island from memory. The wind carried voices from the galley, laughter and song. Shanks joined you, wordless at first, watching the water with a thoughtful expression.

Finally, he spoke, his tone unusually serious for a man like him, and of his legend. “Not many people get to see the world from this ship,” he said. “You fit in here, you know.”

You smiled slightly, eyes still on your journal. “It’s a good ship. Good crew. But the New World’s big. I won’t stay long. There’s more for me to see. Preferably alone.”

He grinned, but there was a tightness around his eyes. “Maybe I’ll convince you to linger. I could show you all the best places. Things you’d never find on your own.”

You glanced at him, calm and unhurried. “If you know any islands that aren’t on these charts, I’d be grateful, then.”

He chuckled, but you didn’t notice how he watched you, searching for something in your gaze. A sign that you finally understood what he actually meant by it. All he found was quiet honesty and that stubborn restlessness.

When you returned to your journal, content and oblivious, Shanks stayed by your side a little longer, silent as the sea. Something possessive flickered deep in his eyes for just a moment. The first real spark. And for the first time in years, Red-Haired Shanks realized he truly wanted something, and that he might not be able to simply take it.

The feeling only grew as the night deepened, unnoticed by you. And so, the first threads of obsession quietly took root.

Another week passed at sea, and the Red Force was a world of its own. Pirates in constant motion, the smell of salt and stew, and laughter that never seemed to run dry. You found a quiet rhythm among them, and the crew had learned to give you space to scribble in your journal or to quietly examine the stars. It surprised you, sometimes, how normal it all felt.

What you didn’t notice was how often you still caught the Yonko’s eye. Or the way Shanks had started showing up wherever you went. Always with an easy grin, sometimes with a joke, sometimes just to watch.

He tried, in his way, to be subtle at first:

Once, during breakfast, he slid his chair a little too close, eyeing your carefully spread map between the plates. "Be a shame if any of this coffee ended up on your chart," he mused, tone light. "Would you trust me to keep it safe, or should I keep you safe from the coffee instead?" You only glanced up, unfazed, and shifted the map further from both cups. "It's waterproofed," you replied, missing the playful spark in his eyes.

One dusk, while you studied the horizon, Shanks joined you quietly. "You know, sunsets like these are supposed to be shared with someone special," he ventured, voice low. You barely looked up from your notes. "It's useful for measuring direction, especially with the way the colors hit the clouds out here. Is it always this vivid in this part of the New World sea, though?"

And once, when you came in from a cold watch, Shanks offered his coat with a little flourish. "Might suit you better than me tonight." You thanked him, used it as a cushion for your journal instead, and returned it later without a thought.

You were used to men who spoke too loud or got too close, so his presence was just background. Like a gentle breeze that shifted with you. But Shanks, for all his power and fame, was not immune to frustration. In private, his teasing started to grow more deliberate. It didn’t work.

Then one night...

It was after dark, the deck mostly quiet except for the slap of water and distant voices from below. You lingered on the railing, tracing a new constellation into your notebook by lantern light, when Shanks appeared with that unhurried swagger of his.

He leaned beside you, intact arm nearly brushing yours. “You know, I’ve noticed it’s been a cold week on the seas. Lonely, too, if you’re not used to pirate company.”

You glanced up, barely pausing. “That’s why I keep a flask of a warm drink and three layers.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “But you know… Sometimes, it helps to have a little extra warmth. A body’s warmth. I could share mine, if you ever get tired of the cold…”

You didn’t miss a beat. “There are plenty of spare blankets in the storage, Shanks. You don’t have to freeze for pride. Not when you’re one of the Four Emperors. I’m sure your reputation can survive an extra blanket or two.”

For a split second, Shanks looked as if he’d swallowed his own tongue. Then he smiled brightly, just a bit crooked. “You don’t make this easy, do you?”

You shrugged, noncommittal, already turning the page in your journal. “Easy isn’t always interesting. That goes for many things in life.”

His eyes lingered on you a moment longer. Long enough for the air to thicken with something unspoken and wild. You missed it completely, focusing instead on the steady flickering of the stars and the gentle rock of the ship.

When Shanks finally left, footsteps quiet and retreating, a sense of urgency seemed to coil around him. Restless and sharp, driven by the knowledge that you were openly planning to leave at the next port. For the first time, a darker thought took root: if he couldn't win your heart with charm, perhaps he would have to keep you by his side until you let him.

What began as a spark of intrigued hunger was quickly growing sharper by the night...

[yandereonepieceimagines]

What are your thoughts and head cannons on yandere izou??

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Ooohhh, an Izou request! I’ve put together my ideas on what he’d be like as a yandere in the headcanons below!

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Izou

* Izou’s yandere tendencies are deeply influenced by his samurai loyalty and fierce sense of protection. He is not the possessive, outwardly unhinged type at first, but he is quietly, relentlessly watchful, and his devotion is all encompassing.

* He’s not intimidated by your strength. In fact, he respects it, almost reveres it. But that makes him even more obsessed with keeping you close: a powerful partner is a rare treasure in this world, and he fears losing you more than anything else.

* Izou knows your routines, your favorite sea routes, your secret dreams. He leaves cryptic messages on islands he’ll know you visit, little signs only you would recognize. Proof that he’s always close, even when unseen.

* His devotion borders on worship. He wants to be the only one who can truly understand and protect you. Even if that means eliminating rivals in the dead of night, so your journey remains safe.

* If he believes you are in danger, Izou will appear out of nowhere, guns at the ready. He’ll watch your fights from the shadows, trusting your skill, but the moment he senses true risk, he steps in. Lethal and coldly efficient.

* He can’t stand the idea of you being hurt, even if you’re capable. He’ll patch you up with hands steadier than his own heartbeat, scolding you for being reckless but his touch gentle.

* Izou never tries to control your freedom or your journey, but he absolutely claims you in quieter ways. You’ll find small, protective charms slipped into your coat pocket, or a handmade bullet pendant meant as a warning to those who would cross you.

* He doesn’t care about your lack of a bounty. He’s the only one who sees your true value, and he’s proud of it.

* His jealousy is mostly hidden behind a polite smile and narrowed eyes. If anyone gets too close… Be it pirate, average noble, or fellow explorer, Izou’s stare sharpens, his hand lingering near his pistols. Sometimes he’ll put an arm around your shoulders in a rare public display, his grip firm.

* If someone tries to flirt with you, he’ll calmly redirect the conversation, subtly humiliating the other person. If that fails, the offender may find their ship mysteriously sabotaged.

* If he ever feels you might leave him behind for the thrill of adventure, he’ll grow colder, more desperate. He might wound a potential threat under the guise of a dual or *warning.*

* In his darkest moments, he’d rather see you isolated from the world than risk losing you. He’d destroy bridges, burn ships… Anything to keep you by his side. Even if you will hate him for it.

* When his, despite his subtle intensity in public, Izou is gentle in private. He holds you as though you might vanish, murmurs old Wano poems into your hair, and listens intently to your tales of the sea. He never treats you as fragile. Just precious.

* Izou’s love is a mix of honor and obsession. He will protect your freedom, but never let you forget: you are his, as surely as he is yours.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

You brought me on an idea with a little bit of a crack/funny scene with the baby 5 ask xD What about the reader, stumbling into those Den Den Mushi moments, where it rings? Here is at least one moment that I think about:

Crocodile who tries to reach Mr.3, but is met with the reader exploring Little Garden, and is the one who stumbled on the wax house instead of Sanji. Bonus if she instantly has beef with him.

But can you do something similar with Doflamingo, King and… Akainu too, maybe? Really like how you seem to imagine our magma man to be like as a yandere!

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Omg even Akainu! xD That makes me happy! This one was tough, but I gave it my best shot! I actually picture the reader being pretty strong. Definitely tougher than most of the infamous pirates from the Grand Line and beyond. But compared to the true heavy hitters of the New World, she’s still a bit below average. So honestly, she either doesn’t realize what she’s getting herself into or she just doesn’t care.

Crocodile, though, is an exception. Unlike most characters, I genuinely feel he was introduced way too early in the series and Luffy was rocking some serious plot armor to pull off that ultimate win. In my mind, Crocodile is still stronger than the reader. I always try to let that show whenever I’m writing scenes with him.

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Donquixote Doflamingo

The trees of the island bled red and gold. Their leaves rustling like paper caught in wind. It was always autumn here. Perpetual twilight, where the sky stretched heavy with bronze clouds and the ground was layered in thick, crunchy carpets of fallen foliage. You had landed only hours ago. Your small but dependable ship anchored in a quiet inlet where no marine nor pirate eyes would pry. The island wasn’t charted on most maps, but you weren’t most travelers.

You weren’t searching for anything in particular. Sometimes, the Grand Line simply offered places that drew you in like a whispered dare. And so... With your satchel strapped and weapon sheathed, you had wandered into the woods until you found it.

A log cabin, old but sturdy, tucked beneath the boughs of a crooked sycamore. Moss crept up the sides, and its windows reflected the orange canopy above. No smoke in the chimney. No footprints around. But the door had been left ajar, as if someone left in a hurry.

You pushed inside.

It was quiet. Functional. Whoever lived here had cleared out in haste. Half-eaten rations still on the counter, a coat flung across a chair and a Den Den Mushi blinking silently in a wooden bowl.

You turned around to leave, but then it rang. "Pururururu."

The snail jerked further to life, its face twitching into a grin far too amused for the stillness of the room. The sudden noise startled you. Not because it was loud, but because it felt so out of place in the quiet gloom of the cabin. Like the room itself had been waiting for that moment.

You stared. The Den Den Mushi’s features animated as if it already knew something you didn’t. Its little eyestalks twitched in your direction, looking at you.

Then, with a faint frown, you picked it up.

"Hello? Owner of this Den Den Mushi isn't here right now."

"Well, well," came a smooth, languid voice on the other end, practically dripping with theatrical charm. "And who might you be, hm? I didn’t know we’d upgraded from grunts to goddesses."

You blinked, confused. The line was unusually clear. His voice had that honeyed tone that suggested he was far too used to being listened to.

Then you sighed.

"Alright? Anyhow... Whoever this is, your person is not here. And neither am I, for long."

A pause followed. Long enough that you almost set the transmitter down again.

Then a short laugh. "Oho? You’re not going to play along? And here I thought I was being charming."

"You're not," you replied dryly. "You sound like a man who talks too much and listens too little."

Another beat of silence followed, but it felt heavier now. Charged. As if he hadn’t expected to be dismissed so quickly. You imagined him leaning forward, just slightly, intrigued by your disinterest.

"Now, now, don’t be so cruel," the voice said again, the velvet edge thinning, revealing something less polished beneath. "At least tell me your name. Surely that’s not too much to ask?"

"No," you said again, sharper this time.

"Oh? Then maybe just a hint?"

"…Still no."

A pause. It lingered longer this time. Then he let out a low chuckle, but there was a new note to it. Something colder and more deliberate.

"You know, people don’t usually trouble me like this. It’s bad manners."

"Then consider this an education," you muttered.

And with a tired breath, your patience gone and your interest long since vanished, you clicked the line shut.

Unceremoniously. And completely unmoved.

Far away, in the lavish interior of a certain sky-lit palace where the sun's beams fell across velvet furniture, a tall figure lounged in a throne-like chair. Doflamingo stared at the now-silent Den Den Mushi. The curve of his lips still twisted in a smile, but his eyes from behind his distinct sunglasses had narrowed. There was a stillness in the room. A coiled quiet that belied the tension blooming behind that smirk.

He tilted his head back before letting out a small chuckle that echoed like shattered glass through the vaulted space. he is far too delighted for someone who had just been so thoroughly dismissed. But the sound was hollow, yet razor-edged. Amused, yes, but in that way predators are amused when prey shows unexpected teeth.

‘So that’s how you want to play it...’

He ran a tanned finger along the Den Den Mushi's now dormant shell, as if expecting it to wake up again with your voice, to apologize, to beg. His grin remained, but it no longer touched the sharpness in the rest of his features. The mood in the room shifted, the temperature cooled by calculation.

You had no idea who you were speaking to. No fear. No reverence. Just irritation and the gall to hang up on him.

Amusing. Unforgivable.

He laced his fingers beneath his chin, elbow resting comfortably on the arm of his chair as the lenses of his glasses flashed gold beneath the sunbeams. The wheels were turning. Names. Faces. Locations. You had become a question that needed answering, and once answered, a piece he would yet decide how to keep.

King the Wildfire

The air was brittle and sharp. Each breath you took cutting into your lungs like tiny knives. Snow fell in soft sheets, almost too delicate for the world it blanketed. You had landed your ship; small, frost-lined, and slightly worn by travel, on the edge of a cliffside inlet. It was the kind of winter island only the bold or the desperate would approach, hidden deep in the New World, far off any trade route or charted log pose.

You’d come here for solitude. Maybe to resupply. Maybe to breathe. Even in the New World, there were moments when the silence of the snow could drown out the madness of the sea.

But the island wasn’t empty.

You found the cabin while following a trail of broken pine branches and faint blood marks half-buried beneath the snowfall. Whoever had stumbled through here had been in a hurry, and hurt. The cabin itself was wedged between slabs of frozen rock, built tight against the wind, its windows frosted over and door cracked open slightly.

Inside, it was dark, dimly lit by a fire that had long since died. Supplies had been overturned. A half-unpacked crate of rations sat untouched, next to a thick black fur-lined cloak that hung by the wall. Whatever had happened here, the occupant had left, or even been taken, suddenly.

You should have left. It was none of your business.

But the Den Den Mushi on the corner table suddenly stirred from its blanket.

Its eyes blinked open, slow and groggy, then twitched to life. Its shell, black and almost armored, vibrated slightly as static bled through its mouth. Then it rang. "Pururururu"

You frowned, hesitated, then stepped forward and picked it up, your fingers tensing instinctively.

"Yes? Whoever this is, they’re gone now. I just found the place."

There was a pause. Then, a steady voice came through with a weight that settled instantly in your chest. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

"Who are you."

Not a question. A demand.

You raised an eyebrow. Lips twitching at the coldness of it as you are more intrigued than intimidated.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you that mystery voice?"

Another pause. Then a sound like wind through steel. Controlled, but dangerous.

"This line was not meant for you."

"Clearly," you muttered, already feeling the conversation sour. "Take it up with whoever left their life behind here. I’m just passing through."

"Describe yourself."

You snorted, more amused than concerned. "You first."

Silence.

And then, for a moment, you thought he’d ended the call.

But then he spoke again. Slower. Measured. Almost... Thoughtful.

"You shouldn’t be there."

That sent a prickle up your spine. You glanced toward the window, suddenly more aware of the wind outside, of the cabin’s exposed position.

"Tch. Don’t worry. I won’t be for long," you muttered, your breath curling in the frozen air as your fingers hovered just a moment longer over the receiver.

The silence on the other end thickened, as if he was still there. Judging. Waiting for a mistake you wouldn’t make.

Your lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. With a soft exhale and zero ceremony, you clicked the transmitter down with finality, like closing a door on a storm that hadn't quite reached you yet.

Amid the churning clouds of a storm-gray sky, a tall, dark figure hovered. No longer flying in motion. Enormous and winged, it was enshrouded in a mantle of black leather and flame.

King stared at the Den Den Mushi nestled in his gloved hand. It looked almost like a pebble cradled in his palm. His jaw set, unreadable behind his obsidian mask, but his eyes narrowed beneath it- two sharp coals in a sea of silver cloud.

You had not been afraid. Not respectful. Not even curious.

You had spoken to him like he was just another voice. A stranger. Like he didn’t matter.

Now he needed to know the face behind that voice. The stranger who spoke so carelessly.

And if you thought the cold of the island would hide you, you didn’t yet understand what burned beneath his skin.

Sakazuki Akainu

The island was alive with birdsong and breeze, the scent of wildflowers sweet on the air. Spring had settled thick into the ground. Lush green hills rolled beneath a soft blue sky, and warm sunlight danced across the surface of quiet streams. It would have been peaceful. It should have been.

But something felt off.

Your ship was moored in a small cove just beyond a canopy of flowering trees, nestled beside jagged cliffs. You'd come here for a brief survey. Mapping islands untouched by the World Government, collecting samples, maybe marking a few points of interest. It was the kind of work that should have felt routine by now. But as soon as your boots touched the forest floor, the wind shifted. The birds quieted. Something- someone was missing.

It was a trail of bootprints that led you to the modest hut perched on a slope above the stream. Simple, sturdy, built with intention. But the door was ajar, the interior empty. No food. No packs. Just the remnants of someone leaving in a hurry.

And a Den Den Mushi, sitting neatly atop a wooden desk.

It rang the moment you stepped in.

You stared at it. Just long enough to question your instincts. Then you picked it up.

"Hello? The person linked to this Den Den Mushi is currently nowhere in sight."

"Who the hell is this?" the voice growled through the line. Low, gravelly and laced with the tightly controlled outrage of a man unaccustomed to sudden surprises.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You first."

A pause. Just a beat. But it was dense with barely contained irritation.

"You're trespassing on restricted grounds. Identify yourself immediately."

"Pass," you said flatly, not in the mood to entertain command barked like law.

The silence that followed turned molten. You could practically feel the seethe radiating from the snail. The Den Den Mushi even twitched slightly in your hand, as if anticipating the fury on the other end.

"Listen well. I don’t care who you think you are, or what authority you pretend to operate under-"

"You want to try that again with a little less barking and a little more humility? Who are you exactly?"

The voice hissed like boiling coals. "I am Admiral Sakazuki Akainu."

You blinked. Then scoffed. "Oh. That explains the total absence of warmth."

The line went still, but not with silence. It felt like the kind of stillness before a firestorm rips through the sky. The Den Den Mushi's features slowly twisted in discomfort, its body drawing back just slightly further as though it too feared what was coming next. Yet its face… Its face still mirrored the one on the other end. And that face was furious.

Then he spoke again, lower this time, slower: "You have five seconds to explain why you're there."

You rolled your eyes. "Take a hike. I currently abide by the law, as the island itself isn’t officially limited. And I won’t let some old man too high up his horse ruin my expedition. Not today."

You didn’t give him the chance to steamroll the conversation again. Your finger hovered just half a second longer, then pressed down with quiet finality.

Click.

Out at sea, aboard a massive Marine battleship cutting through the blue, the call ended with a sharp click that echoed louder than it should have in the Admiral’s quarters.

Though you weren't present to witness it, the ambient atmosphere within the Admiral’s quarters had changed noticeably in the span of just a minute. An almost tangible pressure descended, as if the temperature and tension simultaneously rose in response to the call's abrupt end.

Sakazuki stood behind his desk, gloved fists clenched tight at his sides, the Den Den Mushi still twitching faintly in fear on the polished surface. The words you’d left him with still rang in his ears. Unapologetic, dismissive and entirely undeserved in his mind.

Your voice. Your tone. That defiance. It wasn't just a slight… It was a challenge. And whether you realized it or not, you had his full attention now.

He stared out the porthole, his jaw working, heat radiating faintly off his shoulders as magma simmered just beneath the surface of his skin.

You had mocked him. Dismissed him. Treated him like an annoyance.

You still had no idea who you were speaking to.

But he did.

You were now a question he needed answered. A fire he had no intention of extinguishing, but rather understanding.

He would find you. He’ll go directly to the spring island instead. Marineford can wait.

And when he gets there, he would meet your defiance not with fury, but with equal intensity. A force not to silence you, but to match you. He needed to know what kind of mind stood behind that voice, and what kind of a heart dared to challenge his.

You had sparked something he couldn’t ignore.

Sir Crocodile

The jungle of Little Garden buzzed with ancient life, massive prehistoric flowers blooming in unnatural colors, their petals bigger than sails and glistening with dew the size of pearls. You had come to this strange island alone, navigating the Grand Line aboard your own compact but expertly built vessel. Fast, stealthy and equipped to endure the worst of the seas. It was all you needed. You never did like sailing in someone else’s shadow.

Your boots sank into mossy earth as you ventured deeper into the foliage, drawn not by a map or mission but by curiosity alone. Something about the raw, untouched feel of the island tugged at you. And then you saw it. Tucked into a grove of twisted trees. A structure entirely out of place.

A house made of wax. It looked like a giant box with oddly charming round windows, basic in shape and strangely pristine among the jungle's chaos. The structure seemed almost cartoonishly simplistic, its smooth waxy exterior untouched and looking quite fresh. It stood there like a misplaced toy dropped in the wilderness, absurd in its bold presence but undeniably inviting. Your instincts bristled at the unnatural sight. Every survival lesson told you to walk away. And yet, curiosity whispered louder, more insistent. It always did. You stepped inside.

It was quaint, eerily tidy, with the faint scent of candlewax and floral tea lingering in the air. The interior was smooth and softly glowing, with light filtering gently through the round windows. A kettle still steamed gently on the table, and porcelain teacups were set out neatly for five, their delicate rims catching the light. As if the host had just stepped out and would return any minute.

You arched a brow but shrugged, placing a modest stack of belli beside the cup that looked unused. Gratitude without a name. You sipped. Jasmine? Maybe bergamot? You have no clue. Still… Surprisingly refined for such a bizarre setting.

After a few minutes of soothing silence, a strange crackling sound broke the quiet. Muffled, subtle, like a whisper trapped in a box trying to escape. It was faint, but persistent, threading unease through the otherwise peaceful stillness of the wax house.

Your eyes drifted toward a modest wicker basket tucked against the wall. You approached slowly, each step muffled by the waxy floor beneath your boots, and crouched to examine the basket.

Curiosity, again, won over caution.

Cautiously, you flipped open the lid. A low, static hum greeted you, followed by the sudden blinking of a Den Den Mushi, its tiny snail body twitching awake as if shaken from slumber. You picked up the call.

Its eyes blinked at you, already mimicking the tension of someone on the other end of the line. Someone who looked anything but friendly.

"Hello?" you said smoothly, lifting it to your face. "Whoever owns this Den Den Mushi isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? I could write it down for this..." Your eyes examined the engraved black lettering and the serial number inscribed neatly near the top of the Den Den Mushi's shell, just above the dial casing. An identifier likely tied to its designated owner, which made it all the more curious. "Mr. 3?"

The snail's mouth twitched, its face forming into a vaguely annoyed scowl. You watched, your brow arching slightly, as the Den Den Mushi’s features settled into the likeness of someone clearly unamused. There was a pause. Intentional and weighted. Then came a voice. Low, smoky and steeped in suspicion: "Who are you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the tone. Not what you expected from answering a snail call in a wax house.

"Excuse me?" you asked, your voice tightening with a mix of confusion and annoyance.

"Who are you." the voice repeated even sharper now. Every word laced with barely restrained authority. It wasn’t a question anymore. It was a demand.

Your spine straightened instinctively, the hairs on your arms rising in silent protest. Irritation surged, flaring beneath your calm expression.

"That sounds like a personal problem," you replied, tone clipped. "Why does it matter so much to you anyway?"

A pause stretched out between you like the calm before a storm. Then, as if on cue, the temperature of the room seemed to shift. An invisible heat curling through the line, thick with tension. Whoever was on the other end wasn’t just irritated. They were dangerous. And they weren’t used to being talked back to.

But that only made your disinterest grow.

"Wait. Don’t answer that," you said, your voice suddenly as cold as it had been curious a moment ago. You glanced at the snail’s twitching face and exhaled slowly.

"I’m already bored with the start of this conversation as is. Have a nice day, and I hope your attitude truly isn’t as low as your voice is. Bye."

Click.

Far across the Grand Line, deep within the opulent, marble-veined walls of Rain Dinners, a warlord sat behind a desk carved from dark wood, the room scented faintly of cigars, a tinge of ozone and dry desert wind. The Den Den Mushi before him had gone still, its mimicry fading, the tiny snail now blinking blankly once more.

Crocodile's golden hook tapped once against the desk’s surface, the soft clink echoing louder than it should have. His lips curled. Not quite a smile, but something darker, bemused and simmering with intent. It wasn’t anger that stirred behind his deep, heavy-lidded eyes. Not entirely. No, it was intrigue. Thin, sharp intrigue that slipped into something more vicious the longer he sat with the silence.

Across the room, lounging comfortably beside the lounging Bananawani, Miss All Sunday didn’t say a word. She continued stroking the creature’s chin with idle grace, her fingers moving in lazy circles as if this moment meant nothing to her. But her eyes, sharp and impossibly calm, flicked toward Crocodile. Her smile grew just slightly. Subtle, knowing  and amused. Still, she said nothing. Just a glance, a raised brow, and the curve of her lips betraying silent amusement.

He ignored her entirely.

No one�� No one spoke to him like that. Not Marines, not pirates, not even the fools under his employ. And yet, that voice; sharp, cool, unshaken, had done exactly that.

Who were you? Why were you there? And how dare you hang up on him like this?

His mind, once razor-focused on the original task, began to shift. The irritation you’d sparked twisted into something far more obsessive. Cold calculation replaced surprise. Your words repeated in his head. Not just the insult, but the tone: bored, dismissive, utterly unafraid.

Now he had to know who you were.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

if you write for One Piece Gold/Filler, can I request Tanaka with an affectionate security guard reader? Like reader is mostly caring and loving towards everyone else (yes Tanaka eventually gets a hug lmao!).

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Of course! I have seen almost all the movies!

I’m afraid I’ll be deliberately keeping things platonic with him, though.

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Tanaka

Gran Tesoro glittered under the artificial lights. A paradise built on gold and power, where the rule of Tesoro was absolute and the slightest misstep could mean ruin. In this gilded, floating empire, you worked. An affectionate and beloved security guard known for your kind heart, gentle demeanor, and the genuine smiles you offered to everyone, regardless of rank and financial power.

You treated even the most hardened gamblers with care. Your hugs were known throughout the lower decks, given freely and warmly, a rare comfort in a place that thrived on fear and greed.

But where warmth thrived, shadows watched.

Tanaka, the head of security, observed everything.

At first, it was purely professional. You were new, unseasoned perhaps, but something in your eyes; a gentleness he couldn't comprehend, made him uneasy. Yet, you performed impeccably. Efficient. Kind. Loyal. Maybe too loyal…

And that's when it started.

Tanaka phased through walls like a ghost in the veins of the ship. The Nuke Nuke no Mi made him omnipresent in his domain. He didn't sleep much. Not when there were threats. Not when there was you.

He saw how you laughed with other guards. How you leaned on them, shared meals, patched up cuts with soft hands. And every time you showed affection to someone else, something twisted inside him. Not envy. Something older, colder. Protective and caring.

But he never stepped too close.

He kept a calculated distance. Always appearing aloof, sometimes even cold. He never accepted your offer to join in meals. He rarely responded to your friendly questions with more than a shrug or short sentence. He didn’t want you to notice what he noticed. He didn’t want to get in the way of your light.

Yet he watched. Ever so carefully.

When a subordinate security guard brushed too close to you and smiled too long, Tanaka appeared in Tesoro's grand office with a concern. Not a lie, but an implication.

"Quite sloppy with standard protocols lately."

Tesoro hated inefficiency.

The man wasn’t executed. He was demoted. Sent to a post far away from yours. Other times, Tanaka simply intervened with a few well-placed words, pulling people off your team, reshuffling patrol routes, ensuring no one lingered too long in your space.

You started to notice how people became more formal when Tanaka was around. How quickly some walked away when he appeared. But to you, he was different.

"Tanaka-san, you’re always working."

"You need to rest too, you know."

And eventually…

"Come on. Even you deserve a hug every once in a while."

And then you hugged him.

Tanaka didn’t move for three whole seconds.

He trembled. Laughed that awkward "Surururu" of his. And said nothing. After that day, he started to hover nearby more often, but never too close. Always a few paces back. A silent guardian.

He didn't want your fear.

He didn’t want your love, either.

He just wanted your safety.

He respected you for who you were. Not just as a loyal subordinate, but as someone good. Someone who shouldn't be stained by this place. And if that meant he had to play the villain in the background, moving pieces in a game no one else could see, so be it.

Let them think it was coincidence. Let them feel the cold in his stare.

But no one would ever harm you.

Not while he was still moving through the walls and floors of Gran Tesoro.

In a city of illusions and greed, Tanaka kept his distance. Not out of fear. But out of loyalty.

And he would protect your light, even if it meant being alone in the dark.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Hello 🤗 I love your writing! If it piques your interest, may I request some yandere Jinbe? If not, that's fine! The vision is this: Jinbe falls ill (maybe due to harmful algae in the water or smthng) and is bed ridden for a while. His crush, a fellow Strawhat, studies under Chopper as a nurse and thus tends to Jinbe throughout his recovery. She's very tender, attentive, and kind. I just love the idea of him suffering and pining at the same time.

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Thank you! Honestly, I love writing about Jinbe. He’s such a compelling and, frankly said, a bit of an underrated character. :)

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"Knight of the Sea" Jinbe

The algae had bloomed in eerie colors; vivid purple and sickly blue, and laid like bruises on the water's surface. As they navigated the treacherous waters, an unusual rock formation suddenly had jutted up violently from the depths, threatening to tear through the Sunny's hull. Jinbe had no choice. He dove into the water to dislodge the ship and steer it away manually, haven known full well the risk. It wasn't until they’d left the cursed region behind that Jinbe began to falter. The helmsman, usually stoic and resolute, had collapsed at the wheel without warning. Chopper diagnosed it quickly: a rare marine toxin specific to fish-men.

He'd be bedridden for weeks.

You volunteered immediately, eager to help Chopper and do something useful. Nursing Jinbe meant late nights with herbal compresses, changing sweat-soaked sheets, and preparing bland but restorative broths. You were gentle. Kind. Always humming softly while you worked. Jinbe said little at first. Just a quiet, respectful nod when you adjusted his pillow or wiped his brow.

But you began to notice it.

How he only looked you in the eye when no one else was around.

How his gaze lingered. Not lustfully, but with a strange, burning reverence.

The first time you felt it, really felt it, was during a routine check. Chopper had gone to rest, and it was just you and Jinbe in the Sunny’s infirmary. His fever had broken. You were sure of it. And yet, his hand; massive, webbed, and calloused, suddenly closed around your wrist as you turned to leave.

"You should stay here. Some of the crew may not be as careful with you."

You blinked, unsure and confused. "Everyone on this ship looks out for each other, Jinbe. You don’t have to worry about that."

He didn’t release you. His grip wasn't painful. But it was firm. Like a heavy chain disguised as concern.

"They don't look after you in the way that I do," he said, voice low, fevered and thick with something you couldn't quite name. "They don't notice the way your hands shake when you're tired. Or how you bite your lip when you’re thinking..." He drifts off...

Your throat tightened. You tried to laugh it off. "You're not well. You should rest."

His clouded eyes didn’t waver. Then, after a beat too long, he let you go.

The next day, in front of Robin and Nami, Jinbe barely spoke a word. He kept his eyes shut. Robin asked if he needed more water; he only grunted. Nami teased him about missing out on mealtime gossip; he didn’t respond. But when they left, and the infirmary door clicked softly shut, his eyes opened. Instantly. Fatigue still clearly evident. A weakened warrior.

Eyes on you.

"They don't understand how precious you are to me," he murmured. "How easily something so vital could be taken away if I remain bedridden for even a day longer."

You laughed nervously. "You really should sleep, then. You need your strength."

He smiled. Soft, almost tender. But there was something in it that made your skin prickle.

"Only if you stay here. Where I can see you. Where nothing can happen to you."

The straw hat crew remained blissfully unaware. Jinbe never said anything overt. He never crossed a line. But you found yourself checking the door more often. Noticing when his gaze trailed after you even when you weren’t speaking. When you excused yourself, his eyes didn’t just follow, they clung. Like he was memorizing the shape of your departure.

You told Chopper he seemed to be recovering well. But when you passed Jinbe that night’s medicine, his fingers brushed yours and lingered.

"Last night, I dreamt you fell overboard," he said, eyes clouded but locked onto yours. "I woke up in a panic. If anything ever happened to you... I wouldn’t be able to ever forgive myself."

Your heart pounded. You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

"I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere."

He smiled too.

And this time, you were sure: that smile didn’t reach his eyes, either.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Hello! Can I have a funny scenario with Doflamingo, Crocodile and Aokiji where the 8th Shichibukai suddenly laughs at something very funny that happens between Doflamingo and Crocodile? At least in her eyes? And that she couldn’t stop?

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Of course! I had fun thinking up of something that she would think about to go off the rails like that! And I do believe that a certain someone’s presence would make sure that she wouldn’t be able to stop, either!

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Donquixote Doflamingo Vs Kuzan Aokiji Vs Sir Crocodile

The tall walls of Marie Geoise’s meeting chamber made even the Shichibukai seem small. Today’s rare 'fuller attendance' was only missing the presence of Moria, Mihawk, Kuma and Hancock.

You sat beside Jinbe, sipping tea. On your other side, Crocodile exhaled cigar smoke with all the restraint of a simmering sandstorm. Doflamingo lounged at the table’s far end, his pink feathers as loud as his cackling taunts. Aokiji and Garp, the designated Marine 'supervisors,' kept a lazy eye on the chaos. Aokiji nearly asleep, Garp crunching through his snacks.

It started, as usual, with Doflamingo’s mouth. Never able to resist stirring the pot when Crocodile was present. Yet it had grown markedly worse lately, ever since you began attending these meetings as the newest Shichibukai. Any time you were present, it was as if both men lost their already fragile restraint, competing to one-up and outshine each other, and dragging the entire room’s mood into their private storm. His voice, loud and lilting, cut through the tense atmosphere like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“Crocodile.~ Did you miss me? Your glare’s gotten even sharper, fufufu! I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me since the last time we played together in Paradise. I’m almost touched.”

Crocodile’s hook gleamed dangerously, the golden curve catching the light as he turned his head, smoke curling from his cigar in tight, annoyed spirals. He gave a withering stare, one that could have withered an oak tree. “One more word, and you’ll be picking sand out of those feathers of yours for weeks.”

Doflamingo just grinned wider, draping himself even more lazily over the table, his posture all swagger and provocation. He swung one long leg over the other, letting his feathered coat spread behind him like a peacock on parade. “Is that a threat, or are you flirting again? Maybe I should send you flowers next time! Lighten up that stormy mood. You always get like this when I’m around… It’s cute.” He let out a sharp, ringing laugh, all sharp edges, clearly baiting Crocodile for a reaction.

He leaned back, fingers flexed, sunglasses gleaming in the light. “You know, we could settle this properly. Get the whole table involved. Wouldn’t that be fun?” His tone was almost singsong, but there was a dangerous edge under the surface, a subtle challenge in every note.

The tension rolled through the chamber, thick as syrup and twice as sweet for those who weren’t the direct targets. Even the Marines at the edge of the room stiffened, some exchanging nervous glances, unsure if the table would survive yet another of these infamous spats. The air felt charged, as if something explosive might happen at any second.

Jinbe’s gills tensed. You; a veteran of New World skirmishes, equal to the strongest, almost choked on your tea instead, a splutter escaping. Instead of regaining composure, laughter bubbled out, infectious and genuine, making you double over in your chair.

Aokiji, suddenly wide awake, partly sat up. Doflamingo paused, sunglasses glinting. Crocodile’s scowl deepened from besides you.

You waved a hand, still giggling. “S-sorry! Hahaha! Oh, it’s just… I suddenly pictured you two… Pffft…! Like an old married couple. Doflamingo teasing, Crocodile grumbling. It’s just so-”

Your laughter trailed off into giggles as the room went silent, the tension thick enough to cut.

Doflamingo’s grin became strained, the tips of his fingers twitching. Crocodile’s glare hardened. Aokiji just stared. Expression unreadable. A bead of cold sweat rolling down his cheek.

You didn’t notice the way Doflamingo leaned forward, or how Crocodile’s grip around his hook tightened reflexively. Even Aokiji seemed more awake than usual, a frosty aura creeping into the air.

Jinbe, wise to the ways of trouble, scooted a little ways away from you.

Garp laughed from the other side of the table, oblivious, “Young people these days!”

Your laughter had already set the mood into pandemonium, echoing around the marble hall and drawing a few startled glances from the Marines stationed nervously at the doors. As you turned to Garp of all people, the one Marine here you had an unusual and notoriously good bond with, your giggles only increased, spilling over into hiccupping snorts.

“Hey, Garp,” you managed, breathless and with tears gathering in your eyes, waving a hand in front of your face as if to fan away the contagious hilarity. “Seriously, if those two did get married, who do you think would be the man in the relationship?”

Garp barked out a booming laugh, crossing his arms in front of his chest, completely and understandably unfazed by the dangerous tension radiating from Doflamingo and Crocodile. His whole body shook with mirth, crumbs from his ever-present crackers dusting the table.

You pressed on, voice wobbling with amusement, “With egos like that, there’s no way either would ever back down. They’d both end up in dresses just to spite each other!”

Garp’s laughter bounced off the stone walls, hearty and infectious, pulling some brave Marines along, too. “With Sengoku standing there as the officiant, regretting every single life choice he’s ever made!” he roared, slapping his thigh.

You nearly choked again, spluttering into your hand as you tried to regain composure, only to lose it all over again. “Exactly! Just imagine Sengoku’s face! He’d be weighing up retirement right there at the altar! And, wait, wait, wait, Akainu would have to bring the rings instead of sake cups, because, you know… Sakazuki...? Sake...? Rings...? get it?”

You dissolved into fresh peals of laughter, wiping your eyes. Even a few of the silent Marines at the back struggled to keep their faces straight.

Garp cackled so hard you genuinely feared the table might split in two. “Akainu with the rings! Maybe even seething! Bet he’d look about ready to erupt!”

Seizing the comedic momentum, Aokiji; until now a near-statue at the edge of the room, shifted lazily, an amused smirk curling his lips. “Then I guess that makes you the one tossing flower petals down the aisle, huh?” His tone was perfectly deadpan, but his gaze lingered on you just a bit too long.

That absolutely broke you. The mental image hit you so hard you doubled over, falling nearly out of your chair, clutching your stomach, laughter echoing off the high ceiling. For a moment, it was just you, Garp, and the ridiculous parade in your head; flower petals, and two towering Warlords in dresses somewhere behind you.

One certain individual was not so amused.

Crocodile, at your side, looked as though he might combust on the spot. His glare could have incinerated you, and then the table, his hook tapping a dangerous rhythm now. Inside, he was fuming. How could someone as powerful and feared as you be so casual, so openly amused with something like this? At his expense?

Doflamingo, on the other hand, was not one to let a moment like this pass, especially when it came to you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, his voice syrupy and sly, dripping with calculated intent. “Fufufu! I wouldn’t mind wearing a dress if I was marrying you instead, little bird. If that’s what it takes.~” The words, on the surface, sounded playful, but there was a razor-thin edge beneath them. His gaze slid over you with thinly concealed hunger, sunglasses almost failing to hide the glint of dangerous intent lurking there. Each syllable seemed to echo through the meeting hall, hanging in the air just long enough for everyone, especially Crocodile and Aokiji, to feel the heat of the challenge. He didn’t just say it only for a laugh. He said it as a gauntlet too, thrown with that wicked smile and an undertone that spoke of dangerous obsession.

Crocodile’s response was instantaneous as his scowl darkening. He glared so fiercely you wondered if he might reduce the table to dust, his hook tapping so hard you imagined him splitting the armrest in half. A muscle in his neck jumped. The tension between them felt like a lightning storm about to break loose. To your left somewhere, you felt the temperature drop.  Its source being the heavy, icy stare of Aokiji, who, for the first time in the meeting, let a sliver of true emotion show: a warning. His eyes, normally half-lidded and detached, now sharpened and pinned Doflamingo with a cold, threatening look. A chill spreading ever so faintly in the air, as if daring Doflamingo to press his luck, to try and lay claim to you in such a public way.

And yet, you; caught up in your laughter, shoulders shaking, completely oblivious, barely noticed the shifting tides. To you, it was just another moment of comedic relief, but for the three men, it was a silent declaration of war. There was nothing playful about the way they watched you now. There was nothing innocent about the fire in Doflamingo’s grin, the storm brewing in Crocodile’s eyes, or the bitter frost of Aokiji’s attention. The tension wrapped itself around the table like a serpent, unnoticed by most, but deadly for those who could sense it.

You were on the ground now, knees knocking the cold stone, gasping between uncontrollable bursts of laughter. “Only if I get a top-hat! Imagine the wedding photos, Garp! Me in a top-hat, Doflamingo pouting in pink chiffon...!”

Garp pounded the table, roaring so loudly the room shook. “You in a fancy suit and a man in a pink dress towering next to you! What a circus! Hancock as the flower girl instead, too! Sengoku would probably quit the Marines on the spot! Ohoho, I can see the headlines now!”

Your laughter only intensified at Garp’s booming reaction, sending you sprawling until you were clutching your ribs, tears streaming freely down your face. Even the most stoic Vice Admirals near the entrance were biting their cheeks now, trying not to snicker. For a fleeting moment, the suffocating seriousness of Mary Geoise felt far, far away, replaced by the absurdity and warmth of your laughter bouncing off the ancient walls. Jinbe shook his head in disbelief, but even he had to stifle a small smile.

“Maybe Boa would glower so much she’d manage to ruin the bouquet!” you managed, voice cracking between gasps, sending another round of laughter through Garp and a few of the braver Marines.

Suddenly, you sat up, wiping at your eyes, “And if it’s meant to be a proper wedding between me and Doflamingo instead, I’m going to have to drag Mihawk in as the grumpy ring bearer! He'd be my pick!”

You couldn’t resist painting the scene further, “Can you imagine the look on Mihawk’s face? Standing there in his fancy coat, sword and all, holding a little velvet pillow with the rings. He’d be glaring daggers at everyone, looking like he’d rather duel the whole guest list than hand over those rings!”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, giggling, “And Crocodile, if he were there, you know he’d refuse to sit with the rest, probably sulking in a miniature sandstorm by the door. Aokiji would freeze the wedding punch just to annoy him further!”

This time, however, as your wedding fantasy had so brazenly pivoted away from the Crocodile-Doflamingo dynamic to Doflamingo and yourself at the altar, something sharp shifted in the room. Doflamingo’s grin widened. No longer just playful, but gloating. He shot a sidelong glance at Crocodile, tilting his head in a way that made his ever-present sunglasses catch the light. Doflamingo never let anyone see his eyes, but somehow the tilt of his head, the angle of his smile, and the way his grin sharpened said everything. The implication was clear: in your imagination, it was you by Doflamingo's side now. Not him. He stretched back on his seat, practically radiating satisfaction, his smile all teeth and challenge, savoring the sudden reversal.

Crocodile’s scowl darkened, his hook flexing dangerously, but Doflamingo basked in your attention, rolling his tongue across his teeth as if savoring victory. He let out a low, satisfied “Fufufu!” that sent a ripple of tension across the table, the rivalry between the two Warlords no longer veiled but razor-sharp and exposed.

At the same moment, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, a visible shiver running through the air around Aokiji. The lightest breath of frost curled off his shoulders, and even the laughter from the nearest Marines faltered as they felt the cold bite at their skin. His gaze was like arctic glass, watching the scene unfold with a heavy, unspoken warning. It was especially noteworthy to the most keen-eyed observers, and to the men whose egos were most on the line, that the dynamic in the room had shifted. Where before the imagined scenario revolved around Doflamingo and Crocodile as partners in a mock marriage, your narrative had now, with Doflamingo’s deliberate and bold flirtation, pivoted squarely toward a pairing of you and Doflamingo at the altar. This was no accident; the pink-feathered Warlord, with practiced cunning, had seized the opportunity presented by your joke, steering the playful banter away from rivalry with Crocodile and instead, right under everyone’s nose, recast himself as your chosen partner. Even if only in jest. The calculated maneuver, masked by laughter and innuendo, was not lost on many, least of all Crocodile and Aokiji, who registered this subtle but significant power play with growing agitation and cold resentment.

The obsidian depths of Aokiji’s eyes narrowed, the frozen air around him growing even more pronounced as his silent possessiveness thickened, laying an extra layer of pressure over the already fraught atmosphere.

“Bwahaha! Sengoku officiating, Mihawk as the ring bearer, Hancock as the flower girl… What’s next, Kizaru as the wedding photographer? Imagine the photos!” Garp howled, nearly doubling over from his own seat.

He then slapped his knee hard. “Picture Kizaru with a camera, ‘Oohh, say cheese, ne?’ All the guests almost blurred out because he’s accidentally taking the pictures at light speed! Sengoku pulling his hair out, trying to keep everyone in line!” Garp was gasping between snorts, clutching his chest.

The mental image snowballed between you and Garp, both of you unable to stop yourselves.

The joy was so thick you barely registered how tense the atmosphere had become elsewhere. Meanwhile, Doflamingo’s grin only widened, reveling in the chaos, every giggle from you fueling his desire to claim you for himself. He leaned back, his long fingers steepled, unseen gaze fixed hungrily on you, thoughts spinning with possessive fantasies of you laughing like this for him and him alone.

Crocodile, for his part, finally, finally snapped. With a sharp, audible crack, his cigar split cleanly in two between his teeth, smoke curling up in thick, angry ribbons around his face. The scent of burning tobacco mingled with the cold air, drifting up to join Aokiji's tension. He didn't even seem to notice the ruined cigar as it tumbled from his lips, the action more cathartic than anything. He seethed in silence, hook gleaming, his glare now absolute and unyielding, eyes promising that anyone daring to make you laugh this hard again for such stupid reasons would pay dearly for it. Doflamingo most of all.

Aokiji, unreadable and silent, made a mental note: he would not let you slip away. The way you lit up the room, the way you laughed without care, sent a shiver through even his current icy composure. He was more awake now than at any point in the meeting, his attention laser-focused on you, already quietly plotting ways to ensure you would stay this bright and free, but only in his presence.

Jinbe, ever the responsible one, pressed a massive palm to his forehead, sighing so deeply it was almost lost in the laughter. Silently, he prayed the meeting would end before anyone actually proposed or before a war broke out.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Can i request Zoro x reader that is similar to Ahab from moby dick?

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Of course! A very creative ask! I like it. I think this is an ask that would resonate with a lot of op men and women, actually.

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Roronoa Zoro

The trees of the island arch high overhead, blotting out the afternoon sun. You move with purpose through the underbrush, every muscle strained, senses tuned for any movement, every sound. You don't have time for distractions. Not when your whole life has been consumed by one thing. Hunting down that monstrous Sea King. The one that haunts your nightmares to this very day. The one that turned your heart to stone and your resolve to steel.

When a swordsman suddenly steps out from the shadows, you barely spare him a glance, haven sensed his fledgling Haki long before spotting him with your eyes. Green hair, three swords at his hip, the presence of a born fighter. These are just facts you crudely file away, none of them relevant to your hunt. He introduces himself as Roronoa Zoro, says he may be lost, but you’re curt, barely answering. You have no patience for people. Especially not for pirates. You’ve seen his wanted poster before.

He follows you, curiosity sparking in his eyes as he watches the sharp, practiced way you wield your harpoon and the way you glance always toward the sea. He asks questions. About you, your scars, but your replies are clipped, cold, the minimum required for politeness. All he learns is your hatred, your obsession. Not your past. You have no time for conversation, or for sympathy.

Yet, Zoro’s interest only deepens. You see him watching you train, his gaze lingering on the determination in your eyes, the power in your movements. Eventually, he offers to spar, a hint of eagerness in his voice. You don't even hesitate before declining. Your answer is as cold as the ocean at midnight. You tell him, flatly, that he is not strong enough, that you have no time for pointless duels. The hunt is the only thing that matters. When he lingers, you ignore him, returning your full focus to the water, the horizon, the monster you intend to destroy. For you, his curiosity is just another distraction, easily brushed aside.

You show him the scars the Sea King gave you, only because he won’t leave you be. You speak of your hatred as if it is a fact, not a feeling. Zoro listens. He takes care of his swords as you hone your harpoon, and even though you never ask for help, he remains, silent and steadfast, almost protective.

With every passing hour, you sense his growing fascination. See it in the way he still lingers after dusk, the way he offers his strength without being asked, the way his eyes follow you, unwavering.

For you, there is only the Sea King, and vengeance. For him, perhaps, there is something more. But you are cold as steel, untouchable, and nothing; not curiosity, not admiration, not even his rare smiles, can thaw the ice inside you. The hunt is all that matters. Anyone who forgets that is just another distraction.

The sun is sinking, washing the ocean in bruised purples and gold. Zoro stands at the edge of the sand, arms crossed, watching you as you drive your harpoon again and again into the air. With each strike, bursts of wind explode outward, so strong they whip sand up the beach and send massive ripples surging across the waves, as if a small portion of the ocean itself is momentarily split by your will. Each blow is a declaration: you are here for a purpose, and nothing else.

He can’t help but be fascinated. Your focus is absolute, your strength raw and unyielding. There’s something familiar in your single-mindedness, something that echoes in the depths of his own ambition. Zoro thinks of Mihawk. The very swordsman he swore to surpass. But your obsession is different. Where his is a mountain he wishes to conquer, yours is a hurricane you wish to end.

He notices, now, that you are alone. No crew. No allies. You travel the Grand Line without a flag or a name at your back. He has no clue where your ship is, if you even have one. That must mean that you are strong. Stronger than he is now. The thought eats at him, gnawing like hunger. He wonders, quietly, if he could do the same.

The moment breaks with the soft crunch of footsteps on the sand. Robin’s silhouette appears, graceful and calm, eyes shining in the dim light. "There you are, Zoro," she says, voice calm. "We’ve been looking for you."

He hesitates, glancing back at you one last time. You don’t even pause in your training. The sea wind tugs at your hair, the only sign you notice anything beyond your training. Zoro is tempted to stay, to ask more, to try, again, to learn what drives you so relentlessly. But the Straw Hat crew is waiting, and Robin’s presence is a reminder of the path that he has chosen.

He turns to leave, swords heavy at his side, but something dark and restless lingers in his chest. A curiosity that borders on newfound obsession. A possessive edge that he doesn’t want to acknowledge yet. He will remember your own obsession, the way it matched and seemed to outpace his own, and the sight of you alone on the beach will burn itself into his memory. A part of him almost resents the world for letting you stand apart, for letting you hunt and suffer like this alone. He will remember your solitude, and wonder… No, decide, that if anyone else dares get close to you when your paths would inevitably cross again, they’ll have to go through him first. Maybe, just maybe, one day he’ll be the only one who truly understands that wild, unbreakable drive burning inside you.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Hey, can I request a yandere scenario done separately with who's who, ulti, sasaki, king, and jack, where the reader is a regular citizen of wano? Wano probably follows old courtship traditions like sending poems, gifts, tea ceremonies, or dinners, so it would be interesting for them to try to court the reader this way.

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I like this request, and I believe Wano does have these customs within its borders.

I can totally picture Who’s-Who really getting into it, though…

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Jack the Drought

You lived a life of quiet anonymity nestled deep in one of the smaller mountain villages of Wano. Not important enough to be caught up in politics, not remote enough to be forgotten. You sold paper charms, hand-pressed and brushed with ink prayers, by a modest shrine tucked into the woods.

That was until the earth trembled.

The trees bowed. The air grew thick.

And then he arrived.

Jack the Drought.

His presence was cataclysmic. The road cracked under his boots. Mountains seemed smaller. The villagers scattered, hiding in root cellars and beneath floorboards, whispering prayers to ancestors long dead.

But not you.

You stood still. Because he stood still. Looking at you.

A silence settled, broken only by the sound of wind chimes on your porch and the heavy groan of strained wood above the earthen path and from beneath his weight. He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just knelt, shockingly gentle, placing a single haiku on your offering plate:

*Rock under soft moss. I do not know how to bend. But I’ll wait to learn.*

Each visit that followed felt like a natural disaster wrapped in ceremony. He would appear suddenly, massive frame crowding the entire path, holding offerings too large for your tiny shrine. A cedar tree with blossoms still clinging to its limbs, a boulder carved with your name, once even the entire roof of a nearby bandit’s den, gift-wrapped in silk.

He never asked permission.

When you stepped back, he bowed. Body creaking with the strain of restraint. He didn't speak much, but when he did, it was low, like thunder tucked behind mountains. "You're much too soft for all this filth," he muttered, the words rough like stone dragging through dirt. "Makes me want to crush everything that touches you."

When a local traveling merchant dared accuse him of threatening the peace, the man vanished. You never saw his shop on wheels again. When another suitor offered to walk you home, Jack followed. The suitor ran. Jack did not. The suitor never returned. Jack always did.

"I don’t need to crush anything," he murmured, crouching to meet your eyes more properly. "But I will, if it keeps others from breaking you."

The shrine was too small for tea ceremonies with him, so he brought one to you. Laying planks of rare wood in a ring around your shop, stacking crates of rare leaves, silks and bowls, all perfectly arranged despite his enormous fingers.

"I don’t fit here," he said one evening. "But I’ll carve out space until I do. Until you say yes."

And you believed him. Not because you feared him, though you actually obviously did, but because behind that metallic jaw and brutal history, there was something unnaturally solemn. As if the monster known only for destruction was, in some way, learning how to worship instead.

You brewed tea the next morning. Jack sat on the ground, arms crossed, waiting.

"I’ll wait as long as you want," he rumbled. "But I won’t wait quietly."

The mountain birds stopped singing that day.

But you poured the tea anyway.

King the Wildfire

You lived a quiet life on the cliffs of southwestern Ringo, the snowy side of Wano, the kind of life built around weathered wood, cold winds and smoke from a clay stove. Your small home stood beside a cooking barn used in warmer months. Or as warm as Ringo could get. The structure was closed on all sides, built sturdily with thick wooden walls and sliding doors to keep out the snow. A vented roof let the smoke rise, and lanterns hung from the beams inside, casting golden light over the floor mats. It had once hosted village feasts and festival gatherings, but now served only you. A quiet corner of warmth against the cold.

He came at dusk.

A towering figure dressed in black and fire, nearly thrice the height of any tall man you’d ever seen. Wings like charred banners hung from his back. He wore a mask, and no one in the village dared say his name.

You didn’t run.

The first time, he said nothing. Only looked. The second time, he left a small box. An ancient porcelain spoon painted in an unfamiliar style. Rare. Maybe extinct. Inside was a folded note in careful, angular handwriting:

*Even old things can still serve. I will not let this world forget yours.*

The third time, you met him at your gate.

“I would ask to enter,” he said, voice like distant thunder, “but your ceiling wouldn’t hold me.”

He turned his gaze to the barn-like structure beside your house, where mats still lay folded. “Could we eat there instead?”

You nodded.

He ducked under the frame with surprising ease, settling on the ground with the restraint of someone who knew his strength too well. When you brought him food, simple rice and simmered fish with local seasoning, he studied the tray for a long time.

His gaze flicked briefly to you, unreadable, then back to the tray as he slowly lifted his gloved hands to the clasps of his mask. He removed it without ceremony, revealing a face you didn’t yet realize almost no one else had seen. Not like this. You stared, unsure if you were witnessing something personal, or something even historical.

“I haven’t tasted something this honest in decades,” he said at last, haven taken in a spoonful.

He returned every week. Always to the barn. Always bringing something.

One night, a charred iron cooking pot inscribed with strange scripts. On another night, preserved spices from somewhere across the sea, carefully wrapped in heat-proof silk. And once a broken katana with your family crest embedded in the tsuba.

“I found it before others did,” he said. “Thought it should come back here. Where it was made.”

He never smiled. Never spoke more than needed. But his gaze lingered when you served him. When you adjusted the stove’s flame. When you offered a second portion.

He never flirted. His affection came in offerings and declarations silently spoken like edicts:

“I have watched kingdoms rot. But a meal; shared and remembered? That is harder to kill.”

One night, you found him already waiting, a table set with two bowls. One small, one large.

“I want you to eat with me,” he said. “Not for courtesy. But for history. Yours. Mine.”

You sat.

He watched you eat as if committing every movement to memory.

“Your hands preserve something I don’t know how to keep,” he murmured. “I’ve only ever known how to burn. But I can learn. For this. For you.”

You looked at him across the lanternlight, unsure what to say.

But you didn’t run.

And that was enough.

He came to you again.

And again...

Sasaki

Your family brewed sake in a quiet village southeast of the Kuri region. You’d been doing it since you could walk. Measuring the koji rice, turning barrels, testing scent, keeping the balance of fire and season. People came from all over Wano to buy your family’s blend. But you? You lived simply. And quietly. Until Sasaki arrived.

The first time you met, you thought he was lost. He towered over your storefront, golden horns glinting in the sun, cap askew like he barely noticed it was there. His shaggy green hair made him look wild, but his eyes had a lazy sort of mischief, like he’d already made a decision and was watching to see if you’d figure it out.

“Yo,” he’d said, too casually. “You the one who sells that sweet sake? The one with the plum finish?”

You nodded, heart pounding a bit too hard. He bought six bottles. Came back two days later for more. Then every day. Then twice a day.

He brought gifts. The first was a rock shaped like a fish. “Found it by the river. Looks kinda like your shop sign, right?”

The second was worse. A bundle of pickled radishes wrapped in an old Marine uniform. “The radishes are the gift. Don’t worry about the cloth.”

He was terrible at this. But he kept trying.

One morning, you found a jug of sake by your door. It was your own brand, but the label had been messily scratched out and replaced with one scrawled in charcoal: *Only the best for the future Mrs. Sasaki.*

You didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt the doors.

He began appearing at your brewing hut. Not asking to come in, just leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sword sheathed, waiting. Sometimes he left haiku. They were... Not at all good.

*Strong like wild boar wine. You kick harder than an oni. Still, I'd like the taste.*

You didn’t know what he saw in you. But he saw something. And it made him unshakable.

When a traveling merchant flirted with you too long, Sasaki sat beside him at the inn and drank until the man passed out. You found a note the next morning slipped under your shutters: *Don’t drink with strangers. They’re much too weak for your kind of fire.*

You tried to tell him to stop. He listened, tilting his head like he was thinking.

Then he showed up the next day with a tea set... And a wolf skull, awkwardly set on a cloth.

"Look, I'm bad at this courting stuff, but I’m not bad at wanting things. I want you. That’s it."

His smile was lazy, fanged, and impossibly sure.

You brewed tea out of nerves, poured two cups, and watched as Sasaki drank his with both hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with something that delicate.

Then he grinned. “You’re letting me stay. That’s practically a yes.”

And honestly? You weren’t sure if he was wrong.

Ulti

You had always lived a quiet life in the Flower capital of Wano. A simple tea merchant with a modest shop tucked between the bustle of Kabuki performances and kimono stands, you were content observing the festivals, the parades, and the shadows of the powerful passing through.

That was until she came.

Ulti was chaos incarnate. Her sudden appearance in your life was as disruptive as a thunderclap. She had stormed into your shop one afternoon, flinging the doors open with a dramatic "Achiki wants tea, arinsu!" Her voice was too loud, a bit rough, too entitled and the power radiating from her too overwhelming to ignore.

She was striking. Even terrifying in her beauty. Taller than you and imposing, with large pinkish-violet eyes fringed by thick lashes, her lower face concealed behind a pink scalloped mask trimmed in white. Long blue hair fell to her back, streaked with vivid pink and a lone white strand over her left eye. Her blunt bangs framed her forehead, split slightly to the side, with a single ahoge that stood defiantly upward. Most telling of all were the bull-like white horns that curved sharply from the sides of her head.

She wore a long-sleeved, white pleated minidress with a blue bow beneath a pointed collar, the skirt flaring above her knees. A deep-blue fur-trimmed cape trailed behind her, and her red high heels clicked with every dramatic step.

You served her tea out of fear the first time. She said nothing about the taste, only stared. Intensely.

The next day, she came back. And the next. And the next. And the next...

At first, you thought it was just coincidence. But then came the letters. Folded delicately in silken paper, scented faintly of wisteria. Haiku, of all things. Crude, sometimes clumsy, but unmistakably hers:

"Fragrant steam rising. Your hands, graceful in light. Mine- all mine."

Then came the gifts. Clumsy arrangements of stolen silks and strange beast bones. She once dropped off a basket of dango with a note that simply said, *Eat. Or I will feed you myself. *

Your neighbors began to whisper. You tried to keep distance, remain polite, but Ulti never accepted polite refusals. She’d swing between pouting like a spoiled noblewoman from behind her mask. Tilting her head, fluttering her lashes, and speaking in affected tones, and snarling threats that chilled your bones and made even hardened samurai think twice. One time, you returned a gift, and she crushed the teacup in her hand until shards dug into her skin, blood trickling down onto your tatami floor like crimson ink. You tried to protest, but she just smiled with bloodied fingers and said, "My feelings don’t break just 'cause you’re scared of love, arinsu."

When you tried to hide for a few days, she found you. Burst through the paper walls of a friend’s home and dragged you out by the wrist in front of a full dinner party.

"You think you can run from love?! You think I care about your silly fear?! I like you, okay?! So you’re mine, arinsu!" she yelled, her cheeks flushed from more than just fury.

Then she bowed. Deeply. Hands trembling. She had waited for just the right moment, just after the shouting had ended, just when the quiet had returned to the narrow street. Her bow was deliberate, not just to you, but to the silence she had shattered moments before. A hush fell over the few townspeople who dared peek out from behind doors and shutters, their breath caught in their throats at the surreal display of violence turned ritual. It wasn’t just about being polite; it was a mix of asking and insisting, all dressed up to look like proper manners.

"So... Come to tea with me. A proper one. I'll wear the fancy kimono and talk nice and not break anything else. I'll even pour your cup first, arinsu. Please. Just one tea. Just... One."

And somehow, that frightened you more than her threats.

She arrived the next day wearing a short-cut, pale kimono, its sleeves trailing gracefully and marked with thin vertical stripes. The obi at her waist bore a delicate floral motif, a black and white ribbon tied tightly around it.

But you accepted.

Because you knew... If Ulti was this terrifying in love, rejecting her might bring the wrath of a beast Wano hadn’t seen since the last raid of the Beast Pirates.

You sipped tea with trembling hands as she smiled across from you.

"See? I can be elegant. Now, say you love me too..."

Who’s-Who

Your home sat at the base of an old shrine path, where the moss grew thick between the stones and the wind carried incense from the mountains. You sold charms and paper, writing prayers for those too ill or busy to visit the temple themselves.

You were quiet. Private. A speck of calm in the chaos that Wano had become.

Which, perhaps, is why he noticed you.

He didn’t speak the first few times. You saw him at a distance. An unnaturally tall man in a red jacket, standing in the trees just beyond the prayer arch, watching. His helmet glinted. His hair, like thick sakura petals, barely moved with the wind.

Then came the poems.

You’d find them tucked into your prayer box, or slipped under the sliding doors:

*I forgot myself watching your ink pull the light. A still blade in bloom.*

You thought it was a joke, at first. Maybe a monk playing a trick. But they kept coming. Lines that painted dreams in syllables, that knew how to twist longing into art.

Eventually, he left more than words.

A lacquered brush, perfectly balanced, wrapped in silk dyed the color of blood. A black tiger lily pressed in a folded sheet of rice paper. Once, a thin blade carved with a poem so small you could barely read it:

*Your breath cuts deeper than any steel I once held. Name it. It is yours.*

You didn’t know who he was.

Until he told you personally.

He sat waiting on your veranda one evening, one leg casually crossed over the other, the last of the twilight dancing in his smirk and reflecting off the red lacquer of his helmet.

“Who’s-Who?” he said, then tilted his head. “Yeah, I know. Sounds like a riddle. Real clever, right?” His tone was dry, amused by the irony of it.

You blinked, caught between confusion and a laugh you didn’t dare let out.

He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees, eyes glinting from behind his yellow lenses. “You’ll figure it out. Names don’t matter much when the rest of the world wants to forgot them. But you? You’ll call me something else, eventually. Something better.”

The grin didn’t reach the eyes behind his mask, but the weight of his voice did. It wasn’t a threat. Far from it. But it made your fingers tighten around the tray like it had suddenly become your anchor to the ground.

“I was someone once. Important. But the only time I feel real now; sharp, like I haven’t rusted through, is when I’m writing about you.”

He tilted his head, watching your reaction with a flicker of interest beneath his yellow lens. “That’s not nothing. That’s the kind of thing people write histories about. Or eulogies.”

You said nothing.

He handed you another poem, folded with sharp precision into a tiger-shaped origami:

*Prayers are too soft. So I carved my heart sharper. And left it for you.*

He leaned in close, voice slipping beneath his grin. “Let the others bring flowers. I'll bring teeth. But I’ll wrap them in poems, and you’ll still taste them. You’ll read every one. You’ll get to know every line like a vow.”

You looked at the poem, still. He smiled, just slightly.

“I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to love me yet. But you’ll never forget the one who did.”

[yandereonepieceimagines]

I’m feeling silly 🤪 I can’t elaborate other than in bullet points 😅 yandere Sanji vs Reader (Female) where reader is a. Latina so she expects the queen treatment and in return you treats him as such b. Is still that humble, please, yes, thank you know Latin/southern manners type of shit and c. Can handle herself! 👏 💁‍♀️ he would be so frustrated and all over her lol. Sanji: what do you mean get out of your kitchen?! I am doing the cooking! Reader: shh 🤫 just sit down and let me take care of you here have a drink.

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Unique ask, to say the least! Quite specific, even!

I intentionally wrote her character so that her exact cultural background is very open to interpretation for readers. However, her personality and traits are definitely something I could draw on here!

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Vinsmoke Sanji

The scent of garlic and saffron filled the air, but it wasn’t Sanji behind the stove.

“No, no, no! What do you mean get out of your kitchen?!” Sanji’s voice cracked, his eye wide with unfiltered horror and disbelief. “I do the cooking around here, my love! Always!”

You slid past him with the grace of someone born to be obeyed, soon placing a warm drink in his trembling hands. “Shh. Just sit down and let me take care of you,” you murmured, tone calm, royal and final. “You’ve been on your feet all day, haven’t you? Relax, Sanji.”

He nearly collapsed. “I… Yes, thank you, but, my heart, what are you doing to me?”

You hummed as you stirred the sauce. Confident and steady. One hand on your hip, the other wielding a ladle almost like a weapon. You’d fought your way through worse than pirates and violent storms only the Grand Line could give. Cooking was second nature. Power radiated off you in waves, and he basked in it.

He was the Straw Hats’ cook. Their cook. But you? You cooked for him. You treated him like a prince, even as your very presence wordlessly demanded you to be treated like a queen.

And he was completely into it.

You didn’t even have a bounty. But that made it worse. You didn’t need one. The World Economy News covered you with wary fascination. Headlines read: "The woman the World Government watches closely", "Too powerful to ignore". A single misstep on your part, a lean toward the wrong side, and a bounty would be given and would shoot past the stars.

Yet here you were. Humble, kind, yet very confident in everything that you do. Stronger than any of them. Especially him.

“HEY!” Luffy’s voice shot from the deck. “Can you make that beef stew again?! The one with the spicy stuff that made my nose cry?! I WANT THAT!”

You chuckled, calling back without missing a beat. “Of course. Coming right up, Captain.”

Sanji stared, appalled. The queen… Serving him? Serving them- the other men on the crew? How dare they ask for your attention like it was theirs to take? You weren’t theirs. You were his. His goddess. His perfect, untouchable vision of strength and softness.

Every day with you was paradise... And purgatory.

He watched you laugh while trying to teach Luffy to chop herbs (horribly, Sanji noted, though he wasn’t at all surprised). That sound- your laugh, made his heart thud so hard it rattled his ribcage. His cigarette slipped from his lips. He barely noticed.

It got worse when you served Zoro and Usopp.

You ladled stew into their bowls with a smile, lightly brushing off Zoro’s lazy grunt of thanks and Usopp’s overly dramatic praise about how you were surely trained in a royal palace. They laughed with you, shared warm jokes like old friends.

Sanji stood frozen at the edge of the Going Merry, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Zoro… ZORO was sitting there, getting your cooking, like he deserved it. And Usopp? He was practically swooning. You even patted his head. His.

Sanji’s fists tightened around the rag in his hands, trembling.

“They don’t deserve this,” he muttered to no one. “They don’t deserve her.”

Every bite they took felt like a personal betrayal. Every smile you gave them twisted like a knife in his chest.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.

The closer they got to the next island, the more unhinged he felt. Every moment with you became too sweet, too fleeting. He began to memorize the sound of your voice, the rhythm of your footsteps, even the way you tucked stray strands of hair behind your ear.

That night, when the crew finally slept, he found you on the upper deck, silhouetted by moonlight as you stared out at the stars. The breeze tugged gently at your cloak, and for a moment, he let himself believe he could stop time.

“You’re not staying,” he said, voice tight. It wasn’t a question. It was grief wrapped in the shape of a sentence.

You turned, soft-eyed. No denial. No hesitation either. You smiled like you’d already made peace with the goodbyes.

“The sea calls for me. But don’t worry.” You stepped closer, reaching up to brush his golden hair from his face, fingertips lingering. “I’ll always be your queen, as you like to say.”

And then you turned.

Sanji stood frozen, the cold wind nothing compared to the emptiness suddenly blooming in his chest. He clutched that promise like a man drowning, desperate for air. Desperate for you. Disbelieving. Unwilling.

His fingers twitched at his side, aching to grab your wrist and pull you back to him. To fall to his knees, to beg; just one more day. No. A week. No. Forever.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered into the wind. “You could stay... you should stay. With me.”

His voice vanished into the night. You were already gone. And he already knew he couldn't stop you from going.

When you disappeared down the gangplank at sunrise, the Going Merry never smelled the same again. Every breath he took in the ship’s modest kitchen tasted like absence, like grief simmered low and slow.

He still set an empty plate out for you every night. A fork. A cup. Napkin folded perfectly.

Not just in case.

But in mad, undying hope.

That you’d walk through that door again.

That you’d remember where you belonged-

With him.

Only with him.

He should start planning how to actually make it happen.