guys pls drop ur fav op fics im so picky but desperate to read, my favs are ace, marco, law, kid and shanks plsss ur fav series!! one shots are also fine ofc but i wanna read something life changing!!
Listen... I absolutely ADORE Ace (that first time fic was so good I had to like it on my alt too), he's my fav, but Kid is my side chick.
I would love if you could write Eustass Kid x Reader with the same plot as Operation First Time. Sure it's embarrassing that Ace, second commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, is a virgin. But Eustass the CAPTAIN of his own crew. A virgin!?
Anyway take care of yourself! Your writing is amazing <3
-🐦⬛
Ohhhhh this is SO hot👀 definitely writing this, will update the ask and include the link when finished!! I love Kid I hope I can do him justice haha
Also my first anon with a symbol!! This is so exciting I'm all giddy and shit lmao
imagine modern au ace as a firefighter who goes to help for story hour at a library (i work at a library and we often have people in different careers present to the kids and their favorite is ALWAYS the firefighters). he’s expecting a 60+ sweet old librarian lady to be running it then BOOM reader is young and cute
AHHH THIS SOUNDS SO GOOD IS THIS A REQUEST CAN I WRITE THIS I LOOOOOOOVE MODERN!AU FIREFIGHTER ACE AND OMG HOW SHOULD I EXPAND IT LIKE SHOULD IT JUST STAY FLUFFY OR MORE AND HOW LONG SKSKSKSK SO MANY IDEASSSS
Operation: First Time. || Portgas D. Ace x Reader.
Summary: You and Ace finally stop dancing around your feelings and start dating, but there's one problem: neither of you has any idea what you're doing. While you're both suffering from mutual frustration, Ace accidentally outs himself as a virgin and gets ambushed by the commanders with the world's most embarrassing relationship advice session. At the same time, the nurses decide you need a confidence boost and give you your own crash course.
Or: Ace asks the commanders for advice once, and they spend the next day wishing they had minded their own business after hearing exactly how enthusiastically he put their lessons into practice.
Tags: smut (mdni!!), first time sex, you're both virgins, oral sex (both receiving), vaginal sex, lots of fluff in it too cuz they love each other a lot and are awkward beans
Wordcount: 9.9k
A/N: first ace story ladies and gents (but definitely not my last hehe)!! this was so so much fun to write so i hope y'all enjoy this too😭🫶 also guys i started writing my book and like,,, fanfics are so much easier, send help lmao also i had to use an ai tool to get the formatting right, really sorry just wanna say that early on but my google docs fucked up the formating the entire time, i spent HOURS on it and i didnt do anything different so im very confused, but yeah figured id just say it, no writing or editing was actually done with it!! really just the formatting!! as always, pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
The Moby Dick was more than a ship: for you, it was the only home you had ever truly known. As one of the few women on the crew and the youngest member by a significant margin, except Ace that is, you had been adopted into the fold with a ferocity that was both heartwarming and slightly suffocating.
From the moment you stepped on deck, you became the collective little sister of the Whitebeard Pirates.
Pops doted on you with a booming laugh and a gentle hand on your head. Marco looked after you with a sleepy, protective eye. Thatch constantly tried to feed you delicacies from the galley, and Izou spent hours ensuring your wardrobe was as sharp and stylish as his own. You were the heart of the ship, the precious gem they all swore to protect.
But there was one person who looked at you differently.
Portgas D. Ace.
For months, the two of you had been locked in a dance of agonizing tension. It was a clumsy, electric lingo of lingering glances, accidental brushes of shoulders, and conversations that trailed off into heavy silences. Everyone saw it. The entire crew saw it. Whitebeard would often chuckle into his massive sake cup, watching the two of you stumble through a simple conversation, while Marco would sigh, wondering when the idiot Second Commander would finally grow a pair and make a move.
Then, finally, it happened. A moonlit night on the upper deck, a shared bottle of something strong, and a confession that had been bubbling over for half a year.
You were finally, officially together.
However, “together” was currently a very relative term. While the emotional bond was searingly hot, the physical side of things was… Well, at a complete standstill.
You were both shy in your own ways, and Ace, despite his reputation as a bold, fire-wielding powerhouse, was surprisingly hesitant. He treated you like you were made of the finest porcelain, terrified that if he pushed too hard or too fast, he might break the spell.
Of course, this hesitation didn’t stop his imagination.
Ace was twenty years old, brimming with testosterone and hopelessly in love. Every single night, while you slept soundly in your quarters, Ace was in his own bunk, tossing and turning. He spent hours just staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the way your laugh sounded or the way your skin felt when you held his hand. He spent a great deal of time with his hand wrapped firmly around his dick, groaning your name into his pillow, struggling through the solitary release because the reality of you was so much more intoxicating than any fantasy. He was a virgin, a fact he guarded with a fierce, embarrassed pride, but his libido was currently at a breaking point. He wanted you - deeply, desperately - but he had absolutely no idea what he was actually doing.
The afternoon sun was beating down on the Moby Dick, leaving the crew drenched in sweat and grime. As per tradition, the men headed to the massive communal baths to scrub off the dirt from the day and relax. The bathhouse was filled with the boisterous shouting of dozens of pirates splashing around in the hot springs.
Ace sat submerged up to his chest in the steaming water, his eyes closed, leaning his head back against the smooth stone. Even here, in the company of his brothers, his mind was drifting. He was thinking about the way your dress had hugged your curves this morning, and the way you had winked at him before heading to help the nurses. He felt a familiar, insistent throb in his groin, and he cursed silently, sinking deeper into the water to hide the evidence of his distraction.
Nearby, Thatch, Marco, Vista, Jozu and Haruta were lounging in a larger pool, the conversation flowing as freely as the sake they had bought along. As was common in the baths, the talk had eventually shifted toward the… romantic exploits of the crew.
“I’m telling you,” Thatch bragged, gesturing wildly with a soapy hand, “the girl in the last port had a passion for the culinary arts that matched my own. The way she looked at me while I was describing the perfect reduction sauce… it was practically foreplay. By the time we got to the room, we didn’t even make it to the bed.”
Vista chuckled, twirling a lock of his mustache. “Ah, Thatch, you always lead with the stomach. For me, it is all about the grace of it. The anticipation is where the true pleasure lies.”
Marco let out a lazy hum, his eyes half-closed. “You’re both too loud, yoi. The best way is just to be attentive. Listen to what she wants, follow the lead, and you’ll do just fine. No need to make it complicated.”
Ace listened to them, his brow furrowed. He felt a surge of inadequacy. He loved you more than life itself, and he wanted to make you feel everything they were talking about, but as he listened to their elaborate terminology he realized there was a massive gap in his knowledge. He knew the basics, of course, but the actual mechanics of pleasing a woman were a mystery to him.
He looked at his brothers - men who were older and seemed so confident, so experienced. He trusted them. And more importantly, he was currently suffering from a level of horniness that made his brain malfunction. And so he did something he would 100% come to regret later on.
“Hey,” Ace blurted out, his voice cutting through the laughter.
The group fell silent, looking over at him. Ace rubbed the back of his neck, his face already beginning to tint pink. “I… uh… how do you actually please a woman?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Thatch froze mid-gesture. Marco actually opened one eye. Even Vista’s mustache stopped twitching. They all stared at Ace, the realization hitting them like a cannonball to the chest.
“... Wait,” Thatch whispered, his eyes widening. “Ace… are you telling me you’ve never…?”
“Never what?!” Ace snapped, his temper flaring as he felt the heat rise to his cheeks.
“You’re a virgin!” Haruta shrieked, splashing water everywhere in his excitement. “Our 2nd commander is a total novice! A blank slate! A babe in the woods!”
“Shut up!” Ace yelled, his skin starting to smoke as his Devil Fruit reacted to his embarrassment. “I just… I want to do it right! Y/N is… she’s special! I don’t want to mess it up!”
The tone of the room shifted instantly. The mockery vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense sense of brotherhood. These were his brothers, and the mission had now become clear: Ace needed a crash course in the art of intimacy. Mainly so that he wouldn’t hurt you, their only little sister.
“My god,” Marco sighed, though there was a smirk on his face. “We’ve been letting you wander around like a lost puppy. Sit down, Ace. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but we’re having a meeting.”
The commanders closed in around him, forming a tight, steaming circle. Ace looked like he wanted to melt into the floor, but he stayed, his curiosity and desperation ultimately outweighing his shame.
“Alright, listen up, kid,” Thatch began, his voice taking on the tone of a master chief explaining a complex recipe. “First rule: the main event is not the goal. The goal is the journey. If you just dive straight in, you’re like a guy who serves the dessert before the appetizer. It’s a crime! Scandalous even! You have to start with the build-up. Kissing, obviously, but don’t just stay on the lips. The neck is a goldmine, Ace. The collarbone. The soft spot behind the ear. You tease and you make her ache for it.”
Ace swallowed hard, his imagination immediately firing off images of you arching your back as he kissed your neck. He let out a small, strangled noise.
“Exactly,” Vista added, nodding approvingly. “The psychological element is key. Tell her how beautiful she is. Tell her exactly what you want to do to her before you actually do it. The anticipation builds the tension, and when the tension finally snaps, the pleasure is ten times more intense. You can trust us old folks on that.”
“Now, let’s talk about the… logistics,” Marco said, his voice practical. “The clitoris, Ace. Pay attention. For most women, that’s the center of the universe. If you just focus on the penetration, you’re missing the party. Use your fingers, use your tongue - be gentle at first, then increase the pressure based on how she reacts. If she starts breathing heavily and gripping the sheets, you’re on the right track, yoi.”
Ace was staring at them with wide, dinner-plate eyes, his face a deep shade of crimson. “The… the tongue?”
“Yes, the tongue!” Thatch exclaimed. “It’s called oral, you idiot! You spend time down there. You treat it like a delicacy. You taste her, you explore, you make her come before you even think about putting your dick in. That’s how you become a legend in the bedroom.”
Jozu, who had been mostly silent, grunted in agreement. “And don’t rush the entry. Slow and steady. Make sure she’s wet - and if she’s not, use your hands and mouth until she is. Forcing it is a one-way ticket to a slap in the face.”
“What about… positions?” Ace asked in a small, hesitant voice.
The brothers shared a look and grinned. This was the part they had been truly waiting for.
“Right! Positions!” Thatch stood up, using his arms to demonstrate. “You’ve got your classic Missionary - good for intimacy, looking into her eyes and kissing her, you get the gist. But if you want something with more… impact… you go for Doggy Style. You get behind her, grip those hips, and really lean into it. It allows for deeper penetration, and let me tell you, the view from back there is a masterpiece.”
“Don’t forget the Cowgirl;” Izou chimed in, having joined the conversation. Ace didn’t even see nor hear him coming, that’s how immersed he was. “Let her be on top. It gives her control over the depth and the speed, and you get to watch everything. There is nothing more erotic than seeing a woman take exactly what she wants from you.”
“And if you’re feeling adventurous,” Vista added with a wink, “try the legs-on-shoulders approach. It changes the angle, hits different spots, and lets you see every single expression on her face.”
Ace felt like his brain was melting. He was visualizing all of this - you on top of him, you arched over the bed, the feeling of your skin against his - and he was becoming painfully, visibly erect. The water around him was practically simmering.
“And for the love of Pops, Ace,” Marco warned, “don’t just go full speed from start to finish. Change the pace. Slow it down, speed it up. Tease her. Pull back just when she thinks you’re about to finish. Drive her crazy.
“I… I think I get it,” Ace gasped, feeling completely overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information. He felt a mixture of terror and an almost uncontrollable urge to sprint out of the bathhouse and find you immediately.
“One more thing,” Thatch said, his expression becoming suddenly serious. “Communication. If she tells you something feels good, do more of that. If she just so much as winces, stop. The best lovers are the ones who listen the best.”
Ace nodded fervently, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt like he had just survived a battle with a Yonko, but instead of a scar, he had a mental blueprint for the most intense night of his life. He couldn’t take it anymore; the tension in his body was too much, and the mental images were too vivid.
“I’m out! I’m leaving!” Ace yelled, suddenly standing up and splashing water everywhere. He didn’t even bother with a towel, grabbing his clothes in a blur of motion and sprinting toward the exit, his face glowing red like a flare.
As he scrambled through the doorway, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the suffocating atmosphere of “brotherly advice”, a loud, booming voice echoed through the bathhouse.
“And Ace!” Thatch screamed after him, cupping his hands around his mouth. “You and Y/N don’t forget to use protection, okay?!”
The sound of Ace’s humiliated shriek echoed all the way down the hall as he vanished, leaving the commanders laughing hysterically in the steam.
Remember when you had told Ace you had to go and help the nurses? Yeah, you hadn’t actually been asked to help them. In fact, you’d practically forced your way in, offering your services as an “assistant” with a desperation that had raised a few eyebrows. But you weren’t there to fold bandages or organize tinctures. You were there because you were in a state of an absolute, agonizing crisis.
You were eighteen, hopelessly in love, and currently vibrating with a level of sexual frustration that felt like it might actually cause you to spontaneously combust.
The problem was your boyfriend.
Ace was, by every objective standard, a masterpiece of a man. He was twenty, brimming with a magnetic energy that seemed to pull everyone toward him. And then there were his… well, physical assets. The golden-tan skin, the dusting of freckles across his nose, and the fact that he spent approximately 99% of his waking life shirtless. You had spent months memorizing the ripple of his abdominal, the breadth of his shoulders, and the way his chest heaved when he laughed.
You wanted him. You wanted him with an intensity that terrified you. But you were shy - painfully so - and Ace, despite his reputation, was treating you like you were made of sugar. He kissed you sweetly; he held your hand with a tenderness that made your heart ache; he looked at you with such pure and unadulterated devotion that you felt like the center of his universe.
But he didn’t move.
As frustrated as you were, you had even gone so far as to sneak into a boutique at the last port, spending a small fortune on a set of lingerie. It was a deep, sultry crimson that you were certain would make his brain short-circuit, but it currently sat untouched in your chest, because every time you thought about putting it on, your face heated up and you imagined him looking at you with those wide, innocent eyes and you simply lost your nerve.
“Alright, sweetheart, enough with the daydreaming. If you’re going to “help” us, you might as well be honest about why you’re really here,” a voice called out.
You jumped, nearly knocking over a tray of saline solution or whatever they had called it. Nurse Hana, a woman in her thirties with a sharp gaze and a knowing smirk, was leaning against a cabinet, arms crossed. Beside her, Nurse Mimi, who was younger and significantly more mischievous, was giggling behind her hand.
You felt the heat crawl up your neck. “I… I just thought…”
“You’re thinking about our dear second commander,” Mimi chirped, stepping closer. “We got you figured out, sweetie. We’ve seen the way you look at him. And we’ve seen the way he looks at you. “It’s like watching two magnets that are too scared to actually click together. It’s exhausting for the rest of us, really.”
You slumped against the table, defeated. “Is it that obvious?”
“Honey, the entire crew is betting on when you two will finally stop just flirting and actually get laid,” Hana said bluntly.
You gasped, your face turning a shade of red that rivaled the lingerie you were currently wearing.
“I- we- it’s not like that!”
“Oh, please,” Mimi laughed, pulling you towards a cluster of chairs in the back of the ward where they were taking their break. “Sit. Tell us everything. What’s the hold-up? Is he not interested? Is he… lacking in the equipment department?”
“No!” You whispered urgently. “He’s perfect! He’s more than perfect! He’s just… he’s so gentle. I don’t know how to make him realize that I want him to stop being gentle. I don’t know how to start it without it being weird!”
The two nurses exchanged a look. A predatory one.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Hana sighed, though her eyes were twinkling. “You’re trying to wait for the man to lead, but Ace is a dork. A hot, muscular, oblivious dork. Men like that often need a very clear map to their destination. They’re terrified of overstepping, especially when they’re as smitten as he is.”
“So… what do I do?” you asked, your voice small.
Mimi leaned in, her expression becoming intensely focused. She clearly enjoyed this. “First of all, we need to talk about the visual. Do you have anything… provocative? Something that says ‘I am not a doll, I am a woman who wants you to take her’?”
You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I have… some lace. Red.”
“Are you wearing it right now?”
“... Maybe.”
Mimi let out a triumphant shriek. “Perfect! Absolute gold! Listen to me: you tease him with it. You let him see a strap. You let him catch a glimpse of a thigh. Until he finally crumbles.”
For the next hour, the infirmary became a classroom of a very different sort than the one Ace was currently attending in the baths. While the commanders were giving Ace a technical manual on the mechanics of pleasure, the nurses were giving you a masterclass in the art of seduction.
And they were explicit.
“Don’t just wait for him to kiss you,” Hana instructed, gesturing with her hands. “Take the lead. Grab him by the back of the neck - he loves that, trust me, men with those shoulders have a weakness for being pulled in. Bite his lower lip. Just a little bit. It signals that you’re demanding his affection, not just accepting it.”
You felt dizzy just listening to her. “B-bite him?”
“Yes, bite him!” Mimi added enthusiastically. “And once you get him in the bedroom, don’t just lie there. Use your body. Rub yourself against him. Let him feel how much you want him through your clothes first. The friction is what drives him crazy, trust me. And for the love of God, use your hands. Explore him. He’s shirtless all day, right? Use that. Trace the lines of his muscles, linger on his chest, move down… slowly… until he’s practically begging you.”
“But what if I don’t know what to do… down there?” you whispered, your heart hammering.
Hana leaned back, her expression softening but remaining frank. “Listen, the first time is always a bit of a mess. He’s probably just as nervous as you are. The secret isn’t perfection, so don’t overthink what you should do for now; it’s enthusiasm. If you’re making noise, if you’re arching your back, if you’re telling him exactly how good he feels, he’ll feed off that. Guide him. If he goes somewhere you don’t like, move his hand. If he hits a spot that makes your toes curl, moan. Loudly. Men are simple creatures, they just want to know they’re winning.”
Mimi winked at you. “And remember: the more you treat it like a delicious secret you’re sharing, the more he’ll lose his mind. Seduction isn’t about the build-up. Make him ache for it. Make him feel like he’s starving and you’re the only feast in the world able to satisfy him.”
By the time you left the infirmary, your head was spinning. You felt like you had been given a secret weapon, but the weight of actually using it felt monumental. You walked back toward your quarters, your legs feeling a bit like jelly, the nurses’ voices echoing in your mind: Bite his lip. Use your hands. Make him ache.
As you reached your door, you saw a flash of orange and black.
Ace was standing there, leaning against the railing, looking like he had just stepped out of a storm. His hair was still damp, clinging to his forehead, and he was wearing his usual trousers, his chest bare and glistening slightly in the fading light.
He looked… different. He looked wired.
There was a strange, frantic energy in his eyes, a mixture of sheer terror and an almost violent level of horniness, that you had never seen in him before.
“Hey,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep crimson. “Hey, Y/N.”
You stopped, your breath catching. You looked at his broad shoulders, the way the muscles of his chest flexed as he breathed, and suddenly, all you could think was: He’s a feast.
“Hi, Ace,” you replied, your voice sounding breathier than you intended.
He shifted his weight, looking everywhere but at you. “I… uh… the baths were… really educational. I mean! Not that I learned anything! I just… the guys were talking. About… stuff.”
You blinked. Educational? A sudden, suspicious thought crossed your mind. Had Ace been talking to the other commanders? Had he received his own version of the “crash course”?
The realization of that possibility sent a jolt of electricity through you. If he was just as desperate and “educated” as you were, then the tension between you was now stretched to the breaking point.
“Is that so?” you asked, taking a daring step closer.
Ace jumped slightly, his eyes finally snapping to yours. The look in them was searing. He looked like he wanted to devour you and apologize for it at the same time. “Yeah. I mean, I just… I really love you, Y/N. And I want… I want to be good for you. I want to make sure everything is… perfect.”
The “perfect” comment hit you right in the heart, but it also gave you the opening you needed. You remembered Hana’s words: Don’t wait for the man to lead.
You reached out, your hands trembling slightly, and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was scorching - literally. He let out a sharp, strangled gasp, his entire body stiffening at the contact.
“Ace,” you whispered, sliding your hand upward, tracing the line of his pectoral muscle up toward his collarbone. “I don’t want perfect.”
Ace’s pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. He looked like he had forgotten how to breathe. “You… you don’t?”
“No,” you murmured, stepping into his space until your chest was brushing against his. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “I just want you.”
Ace made a sound - a low, needy whimper that sent heat straight to your core. He instinctively reached out to wrap his arms around you, but he hesitated, his hands hovering an inch from your waist, still terrified of breaking you.
You didn’t let him hesitate. You reached up, grabbed the back of his neck - just like Hana said - and pulled him down.
What followed wasn’t a sweet kiss. It wasn’t the tentative, tasting-the-water kind of kiss you were used to. You slammed your lips against his with a hunger that surprised even you, and as you did, you caught his lower lip between your teeth and gave it a sharp, experimental nip.
Ace practically exploded.
A muffled sound escaped his throat, and his arms now fully slammed around you, hosting you off your feet and pinning you against the wooden wall of the corridor with a thud that probably woke up half the ship. He kissed you back with a desperation that was almost violent, his tongue seeking yours with a clumsy, frantic energy.
He was shaking. God, he was actually shaking in your arms.
“Y/N,” he gasped, breaking the kiss for a split second to press his forehead against yours. His breath was hot, his voice a ragged wreck. “I don’t… I’ve never… I don’t know if I’m doing this right!”
You laughed, a small, breathless sound, and wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Neither do I, Ace. Just… just keep going.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He carried you into your room, kicking the door shut behind him with a loud bang.
The moment you hit the bed, Ace was a whirlwind of passion and total incompetence. He tried to be the suave, confident lover the commanders had described, but his nerves were shot. He went to pull your shirt over your head, but he got caught on your arm, nearly pulling you off the bed in the process.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” he yelped, his face turning bright red. “I just- I wanted to be smooth! Thatch said the build-up is everything, and I’m like really trying to build it, but I’m just-”
You giggled, pulling him back down by his collar. “Ace, stop listening to Thatch. Just look at me.”
He stopped, his gaze falling on you. The heat in his eyes returned, that raw, hungry intensity that made your stomach flip. He leaned down, kissing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, his movements becoming more confident as he stopped listening to his spiraling thoughts and started following the instincts of a man who had been starving for months.
Then, he felt it. The lace.
As he shifted his weight, his hand brushed against the edge of the crimson lingerie you were wearing beneath your clothes. He froze, his hands pausing on your hip. “What… is this?” he whispered, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
“A surprise,” you whispered back, reaching down to slowly slide the fabric of your shirt where he had previously failed upward, revealing the intricate, daring red lace that hugged your curves.
Ace stared. Actually, he didn’t just stare; he looked like he had seen a vision of the gods. His jaw actually dropped, and for a moment, he looked completely paralyzed.
“You… you’re wearing… that’s… you look…” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “I think my brain just melted. Y/N, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
The sincerity in his voice was so overwhelming that it almost broke the mood, but then he groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure longing, and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore,” he whimpered. “I want you so bad it hurts.”
You felt a surge of confidence, remembering the nurses’ advice. You reached down, your fingers brushing against the waistband of his trousers, and you felt him jump, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.
“Is this okay?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he gasped, his eyes wide and blown out. “Yes, please, anything, just… don’t stop.”
The next few minutes were a chaotic mix of tension and absolute clumsiness. Ace tried to implement the “slow and steady” approach Marco had suggested, but every time your skin touched his, he seemed to forget how to function. He tried to kiss your neck while simultaneously trying to remove his trousers, resulting in him accidentally rolling off the side of the bed with a loud thump.
You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach.
Ace popped his head up from the floor, his hair a disaster, his face flushed, looking like a giant, albeit horny golden retriever.
“I’m okay! I’m fine! I just… the angle was off!”
You reached down, grabbing his hand and pulling him back up. “You’re a dork, Ace.”
“Your dork,” he countered, lunging back onto the bed and pinning you beneath him. Now, the laughter faded, replaced by a heavy, seething heat. The air in the room felt thick, charged with the scent of the sea outside, fire, and an unbearable amount of anticipation.
Ace hovered over you, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding himself back. He looked at you - really looked at you - and the clumsiness vanished, replaced by a tenderness that was almost spiritual. He traced the line of your lip with his thumb, his expression one of pure awe.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m so nervous, Y/N. I really want this to be perfect for you.”
“It already is,” you replied, pulling his head down for another kiss.
As he began to explore your body, his hands shaking but his touch becoming more sure, you felt the world outside the room disappear. There was no Moby Dick, no Pops, none of your brothers - just the heat of his skin against yours and the rhythmic thud of two hearts beating in sync.
He moved down, his kisses trailing over your stomach, his breath hot against your skin. He remembered what Marco had mentioned, and you could tell he was thinking hard about it. He paused, his head tilting as he tried to remember exactly where the “center of the universe” was.
You let out a soft, encouraging moan, arching your back and guiding him with your hips. You had gotten rid of your shorts and underwear a long time ago.
“Right. There. Yes,” he whispered to himself, sounding like a student taking a final exam.
When he finally made contact with his tongue, you let out a sharp, loud cry, your fingers digging into his shoulders. The sensation was electric, a sudden explosion of pleasure that made your vision blur.
Ace froze, his eyes snapping up to yours, wide with panic. “Did I hurt you?! Did I do it wrong?! Oh god, I’m sorry, I-”
“No!” you gasped, pulling him back down. “No, Ace… it’s perfect. Don’t stop. Please, please, please.”
He let out a long, shuddering breath, a look of intense relief washing over him. He sank back into you with his tongue, his movements becoming more fluid and instinctive. The “education” from his brothers was still there in the back of his mind, but as the heat rose, only the raw, honest desire of two people who loved each other far more than they knew how to handle was left.
The tension eventually reached a fever pitch. Ace was hovering over you, his chest heaving, his eyes locked onto yours with a searing intensity that made you feel like you were melting into the sheets. He was a mess of freckles, sweat, and unbridled passion.
“I’m going to…” he started, his voice breaking. “I can’t… Y/N, I can’t hold it…”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so there was no space left between you, your heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“Then don’t hold it,” you whispered. “Just give it to me.”
The tension had reached a point where it was no longer sustainable. With a ragged groan, Ace shifted, his movement hurried yet cautious, as he finally managed to rid himself of the last of his clothing.
For a moment, you simply froze.
You had spent months imagining him, memorizing every single visible inch of his shirtless torso, but you were entirely unprepared for the sight of him fully exposed. As he settled down between your thighs, the moonlight filtering through the porthole illuminated him, and your breath hitched in your threat.
He was magnificent.
You had never seen a man like this before - not really. You had heard the nurses talk, and you had caught glimpses of the crew in the baths, but this was different. This was Ace. He was thick and heavy, his length impressive and pulsing with a life of its own. He was already leaking, a small, glistening bead of pre-cum crowning the head of his cock, shimmering in the dim light. He looked desperate, his vein-mapped length twitching with every erratic beat of his heart.
You felt a wave of intense, dizzying curiosity wash over you. Your eyes widened, tracing the curve and the sheer size of him. He looked so powerful, yet as he looked down at you, his expression was one of complete, vulnerable surrender. He was trembling, his chest heaving, looking as though he might actually combust if you didn’t touch him soon.
“Y/N,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, sounding completely wrecked. “I…I’m sorry if it’s… too much. I don’t know if I’m… normal.”
The slight insecurity in his voice, despite the imposing sight of him, made your heart swell. You reached out, your fingers hovering just an inch from his skin.
You could feel the heat off him, a literal warmth that made your fingertips tingle.
“Can I…?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Can I touch you, Ace?”
He let out a half-sob, half-groan, his eyes closing tight. “Yes,” he choked out, “God, yes. Please.”
As your fingers finally made contact, Ace let out a sharp, strangled gasp. His skin was scorching, smoother than you expected, and incredibly sensitive. You started slowly, your hand wrapping around the base of him. You were surprised by how your hand couldn’t even fully close around the girth of him; he filled your palm and then some.
You felt him jump under your touch, a violent shiver racking his entire frame. You began to move your hand, a tentative, sliding motion upward to the crown. The feeling of the slick moisture between your skin and his made a small, needy sound escape your lips.
“Oh god,” Ace whimpered, his head falling back against the pillows. “Y/N… you’re… you’re actually doing it. You’re touching me. This… holy shit.”
You gained confidence, remembering the nurses’ advice about enthusiasm. You tightened your grip slightly and increased the pace, sliding your hand up and down the length of him. The friction was intoxicating. You watched him, captivated by the way his abdominal muscles rippled and clenched with every stroke.
Ace began to make sounds you had never heard of him - high-pitched moans and frequent whines that vibrated through the mattress. He gripped the sheets beside your head, his knuckles white, his hips beginning to stutter-step upward, instinctively seeking more pressure.
“Right there… just like that,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t stop… don’t ever stop.”
You shifted your body, rubbing your thigh against his hip, wanting to feel as much of him as possible. You started to move faster, your palm slick with his arousal, the sound of the wet filling the quiet room. Ace was practically sobbing now, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. He looked absolutely desperate, his eyes blown wide and glazed with a level of pleasure that seemed to be bordering on pain.
Driven by a sudden, daring impulse, you decided to try something more. You slid down the bed, your hair spilling over his thighs, and looked up at him.
Ace looked down at you, his face a mask of pure shock. “What are you… Y/N?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned forward and opened your mouth, tentatively taking the head of his cock inside.
The sensation was overwhelming for both of you. The taste of him was salty and warm, and the feeling of him filling your mouth was an intimacy that felt almost sacred. You swirled your tongue around the tip, mimicking the movements you’d imagined doing countless times already.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Ace let out a scream - a loud, shocked sound that was cut off as his entire body went rigid. He didn’t even have time to move his hips; the mere sensation of your mouth, the warmth and the wetness, was the final straw for his overstimulated nerves.
He bucked upward, his hands flying to your shoulders to steady himself, and then he exploded.
You felt the hot pulses of his release hitting the back of your throat, a sudden flood of heat that left you breathless. He came with a violence that surprised you, his body shaking with powerful, uncontrollable spasms as he emptied himself into you.
He groaned your name over and over, until he finally collapsed back into the bed, completely spent.
Silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing.
You slowly pulled away, licking your lips, and looked up at him. Ace was staring at the ceiling, his chest still heaving, his face a shade of red that rivaled his necklace. He looked utterly devastated.
“I… I did it,” he whispered, his voice sounding hollow. “I actually… I lasted about three seconds.”
He covered his face with his hands, a muffled groan of pure embarrassment escaping him. “I’m such an idiot. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to be a legend in the bedroom like Thatch said, and I just… I just blew it immediately.”
You felt a wave of tenderness wash over you. You crawled back up his body, pressing your chest against his, and kissed his cheek softly.
“Ace, look at me,” you murmured.
He peeked through his fingers, his eyes wide and sheepish.
“It was perfect,” you whispered, smiling. “You were so… intense. And I’ve never had anyone make me feel the way you do. Who cares about being a legend? I just want you. You’re allowed to not immediately get everything right during your first time.”
Ace let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest, burying his face in your neck. “You’re too good to me, Y/N.” I don’t deserve you.”
“Hush,” you giggled, rubbing his back.
As you lay there, you felt a familiar, aching throb between your own legs. Ace had found his release, but you were still vibrating, your body humming with a need that hadn’t been satisfied from his earlier try.
You shifted slightly, rubbing your center against his thigh, and let out a small, involuntary moan.
Ace stiffened, his senses returning. He pulled back slightly, looking at your flushed face and the way your eyes were clouded with desire. He looked down at your lower half, then back at you, a look of realization dawning on his face.
“You’re… you’re still…”
“I am,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and needy. “Ace… I’ve never… I’ve never had an orgasm. I don’t know how it feels.”
The embarrassment vanished from Ace’s face, replaced by a fierce intensity. He might have been a novice, but the love he felt for you was a powerful motivator.
“I’m going to give it to you,” he vowed, his voice returning to that low tone that made your toes curl. “I don’t care if I’m a dork. I’m going to make you feel everything and do it right this time.”
He moved with a new kind of purpose. He shifted his body, gently pushing you back onto the pillows and sliding down between your legs. You gasped as he parted your thighs again, his eyes admiring you with a reverence that made you feel like a goddess.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his breath hot against your inner thigh.
He started with his mouth once again, kissing the soft skin of your legs, moving higher and higher. You trembled, your fingers digging into the sheets as he approached the center of your heat. When his tongue finally made contact with your clitoris, you let out a sharp, loud cry, your hips arching off the bed.
“Is this… is this still right? Like before?” he asked, glancing up at you, his lips glistening.
“Yes!” you gasped. “Oh god, yes, right there!”
Ace didn’t need further instruction. He dove back in, his tongue working with a rhythmic intensity that made you see stars. He was applying the lessons from the baths perfectly after a little but of fooling around. You were a mess already, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Then, he added his fingers.
He slid two fingers inside you, the friction of his movement complementing the stimulation of his tongue. You felt full, stretched, and utterly consumed by him.
You began to moan loudly, the sound echoing in the small room, your head tossing from side to side.
“That’s it, Y/N… just let go,” Ace murmured against your skin, his voice encouraging. “Tell me what you need.”
“More… please, Ace, more!” you cried out, your voice breaking.
He increased the pressure, his fingers curling upward, hitting a spot that sent a jolt of pure electricity through your entire spine. You felt a tension building deep within you, a coil tightening tighter and tighter until it felt like you were about to snap.
The world blurred. The sounds of the ship faded. There was only the heat of Ace’s mouth and the rhythmic drive of his hand.
Suddenly, the coil snapped.
A wave of intense, crashing pleasure slammed into you, starting at your core and radiating outward to the tips of your fingers. You screamed his name, your body shaking in a violent, prolonged orgasm that felt like a thousand suns exploding behind your eyelids. You gripped his hair, pulling him closer as you rode the wave of pleasure, your breath hitching in a series of sobbing gasps.
As the intensity slowly faded, you collapsed back into the mattress, completely limp and glowing.
Ace pulled back, looking up at you with a triumphant, beaming smile. He looked proud and his eyes were shining with affection.
“Did I… did I do it?” he asked breathlessly.
You couldn’t even speak for a moment.
You just reached down and pulled him up, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him with everything you had.
“You did it, Ace,” you whispered against his lips that tasted like your juices. “You did it perfectly.”
He let out a contended sigh, rolling over to pull you into the crook of his arm.
You lay entwined in Ace’s arms, your breath finally beginning to level out, your skin humming with a glow that had nothing to do with the dim moonlight filtering through the porthole. For a few minutes, the world was nothing but the steady, thumping rhythm of Ace’s heart against your ear and the soft, contented sighs he let out into your hair.
But as the initial haze of the orgasm receded, a new kind of tension began to coil in the pit of your stomach. You were satisfied, yes, but there was still a lingering, hollow ache. The “main event” was still looming, a mountain neither of you had ever climbed, and the anticipation was starting to feel like a physical weight.
Ace seemed to be feeling it too. You could tell by the way his grip on you tightened slightly, his fingers tracing mindlessly, shaky patterns across your lower back. He was quiet, but his body was radiating a heat that was bordering on feverish.
“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice still a ragged, low wreck.
“Yeah?” you murmured, tilting your head back to look at him.
He looked completely undone. His freckles seemed to stand out more against his flushed skin, and his eyes were wide, searching your face with a mixture of raw adoration and a mounting, desperate nervousness. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, terrified of the fall but dying to jump.
“I… I want to,” he started, his voice cracking. “I mean, if you’re still up for it. I don’t want to rush you, or… or make you feel like I’m just trying to get to the end. I just… I really want to be inside you.”
The honesty in his voice sent a shiver of heat straight to your core. You didn’t answer with words; instead, you shifted your body, sliding your leg over his hip and pulling him closer, your chest brushing against his. You could feel him stirring against you, the hard, pulsing length of him returning with a vengeance, pressing firmly against your thigh.
“I want you too, Ace,” you breathed.
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, and for a second, it looked like he might just dive in, driven by pure instinct. But then, a flicker of memory crosses his face.
He froze, his eyes widening as he remembered the final piece of advice from Thatch.
“Right! Protection!” he gasped, suddenly scrambling backward.
The sudden movement was so abrupt that he nearly rolled off the bed again. You let out a startled giggle as he frantically began searching through his trousers, which were discarded in a heap on the floor. He dove into the fabric, his movements chaotic and hurried, until he finally produced a small, square foil packet.
He held it up like it was a piece of ancient treasure, staring at it with a look of profound confusion.
“How… how does this actually work again?” he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.
You watched, half-amused and half-endeared, as the formidable second commander of the Whitebeard Pirates engaged in a life-or-death struggle with a piece of latex. He tried to open the packet with his teeth, but in his haste, he nearly ripped the condom itself. He let out a small, panicked yelp, his face turning a shade of crimson that rivaled the ripe tomatoes in Thatch’s kitchen.
“Dammit! Thatch made it sound so easy!” he hissed, his fingers fumbling with the edges of the foil. “He just said ‘use protection’, he didn’t give me a manual!”
“Do you want help?” you offered, your voice trembling with suppressed laughter.
“No! No, I got this! I’m a pirate! I can handle a small piece of rubber!” he declared with a burst of misplaced confidence.
He finally managed to get the condom out, but then came the actual application.
Because he was so wired - his heart racing and his hands shaking from the sheer intensity of his arousal - the process was anything but smooth. He struggled to get the positioning right, his fingers slipping, his movements clumsy. At one point, he accidentally pinched himself, letting out a sharp “Ow!” that made you burst into full-blown laughter.
“Stop laughing!” he groaned, though he was grinning despite his obvious frustration. “This is a high-stress operation!”
After several minutes of trial and error, and a fair amount of breathless cursing, he finally managed it. He let out a triumphant huff, looking at himself with a sense of accomplishment as if he had just navigated the Grand Line without a Log Pose.
He crawled back over to you, his eyes darkening as he settled between your thighs. The atmosphere shifted instantly from comedic to searing. The laughter died away, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. Ace hovered over you, his arms shaking as he braced himself on either side of your head.
“Are you… are you okay? Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice dripping with so much love it made a genuine smile break out on your lips. He was perfect.
“I’m sure, Ace. Just… be gentle,” you whispered back.
He nodded, his expression one of absolute focus. He guided himself to your entrance, the tip of him brushing against you. You felt a sharp intake of breath from both of you. The heat radiating off him was immense, and as he began to push forward, the sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced.
“It wasn’t the effortless slide the commanders had implied to him. Instead, it was a slow, pressured stretch. You felt your muscles tighten instinctively, a small gasp of discomfort escaping your lips as you felt the sheer girth of him filling you.
Ace stopped instantly. He froze, his muscles locking up, his eyes wide with terror.
“No,” you gasped, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers digging into his cheeks. “No, don’t stop. It’s just… it’s a lot. It’s just the first time. Just… stay still for a second. Let me get used to it.”
Ace stayed perfectly still, though he looked like he was vibrating. He was holding his breath, his chest heaving, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that felt like it could burn through the sheet. You could feel him pulsing inside you, a heavy, insistent throb that echoed the beat of your own heart.
Slowly, the initial discomfort began to face, replaced by a feeling of incredible fullness.
It was an overwhelming sensation, a physical connection so deep it felt emotional. You shifted your hips slightly, testing the feeling, and let out a long, shaky sigh of relief.
“Okay,” you whispered, your voice breathy and warm. “I’m okay. You… you can move now, Ace.”
You expected him to dive in right in. Instead, the moment you gave him permission, Ace let put a sound that could only be described as a whimper.
He didn’t move. In fact, he seemed to sink even deeper into the mattress, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder, his body shuddering violently.
“Ace?” you asked, confused. “Why aren’t you moving?”
He let out a choked, needy groan, his voice muffled against your skin. “I… I can’t,” he rasped, his breath hot and erratic.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you saw that his eyes were completely glazed, his pupils blown wide. He looked absolutely wrecked to say the least.
“Y/N… you feel… holy shit, you feel so good,” he whimpered, a stray tear of sheer overstimulation pricking the corner of his eye. “If I move… if I even move an inch right now… I think I’m literally going to cum again. I can’t… I can’t handle it.”
You blinked, a small, surprised laugh escaping you. “Are you serious? You’re the second commander! You have legendary stamina!”
“Not when I’m inside you!” he wailed softly, his voice cracking. “It’s too much! It’s like… like I’m being hugged from the inside! I’m losing my mind, Y/N! I’m actually losing it!”
The sight of him - this powerful, stubborn pirate, completely defeated by the simple sensation of being inside you - was the most erotic thing you had ever seen. You felt a surge of playful confidence, remembering the nurses’ words about taking the lead.
You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back, and gave a sharp, deliberate tug, pulling him deeper.
Ace let out a loud, undignified shriek, his back arching off the bed. “OH GOD! STOP! NO, DON’T STOP! BUT STOP!”
“You’re such a dork,” you giggled, your voice dripping with affection. You began to move your hips in a slow, grinding circle, testing the friction.
Ace made a sound that was once again half-sob, half-moan. He gripped the headboard behind you so hard that the wood groaned under the pressure. “I’m going to die,” he gasped, his eyes rolling back. “I am actually going to die right here on this bed. This is it. Tell Pops I love him.”
“You’re not dying, Ace. You’re just sensitive and dramatic,” you teased, increasing the pace slightly.
As the rhythm established itself, Ace finally found his footing, his movements transitioning from erratic shudders to deep, purposeful thrusts. He wasn’t “smooth” in the way a seasoned lover might be - he was too eager, often pushing too fast or missing the angle - but every single movement was fueled by a level of devotion that was intoxicating.
“Is this… is this okay?” he panted, his voice returning to that low, commanding tone, though it was still punctuated by the occasional whimper. “Am I… am I doing it right?”
“Yes,” you moaned, your head tossing from side to side. “Right there… oh god, Ace, yes!”
Hearing your pleasure seemed to give him a second wind. He stopped worrying about the “manual” and started listening to your body. He remembered Marco’s words about changing the pace, slowing down just as you were reaching a peak, only to drive back in with a sudden intensity that made you scream his name.
The room felt like it was catching fire. The heat radiating from Ace’s skin was literal now, the air shimmering around him as his emotions flared. Every time he hit that specific spot you felt a jolt of electricity shoot through your spine, and Ace would let out a ragged, needy sound, as if he were the one receiving the pleasure.
“I love you,” he gasped, his voice breaking as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made your toes curl. “I love you so much, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t believe this is real.”
The emotional weight of his words, combined with the physical intensity of the act, pushed you over the edge. You felt the coil tighten, the tension building into a crescendo that felt like a tidal wave crashing over you. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his tan skin, and let out a loud, prolonged cry as your orgasm slammed into you.
Ace didn’t wait long to follow after you. The moment he felt your internal muscles clench around him in the throes of release, he lost the last shred of his control.
“Y/N!” he moaned, his voice echoing through the entire room.
He delivered one final, deep thrust, pinning you against the mattress with the full weight of his body. Then he stiffened, his muscles locking up in a violent spasm as he emptied himself into the condom. He groaned your name over and over, a long, shuddering release that left him completely spent, his breath coming in jagged, sobbing gasps.
For a long time, neither of you moved. You lay there in a tangle of sweaty limbs and tangled sheets, the only sound the creaking of the Moby Dick as it swayed in the ocean waves.
Eventually, Ace shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked firmly against his chest. He let out a long, contented sigh, his eyes half-closed and dreamy.
“So,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and satisfied. “How was the ‘main event’?”
Ace let out a soft, sheepish chuckle, kissing the top of your head. “I think… I think I might have failed the technical part. I definitely… messed up on the way.”
You giggled, snuggling closer to him. “I don’t know. I think you did just fine for a novice.”
“A novice, huh?” He grinned, a flash of his usual confidence returning. He tightened his grip on you, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. “Well, the thing about novices is that they’re very eager to practice. I think I might need a few more… educational sessions. Just to make sure I’ve mastered the technique.”
You laughed, your heart full. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping back into that low, dangerous register as he began to nuzzle your ear. “I think we should probably start with a review of a few different positions. You know… for science.”
You laughed. “Hm. For science. Of course.”
The sun hadn’t even begun to peek over the horizon, and the Moby Dick was shrouded in a heavy, pre-dawn mist. At roughly 5:00 AM, the ship was usually silent, save for the rhythmic splashing of the waves and the occasional snoring of a crew member.
Except for the commander’s deck.
Edward Newgate, the strongest man in the world, stepped out onto the main deck for his early morning sake, his massive frame cutting through the fog. He stopped mid-strike, his eyes blinking in confusion. There, huddled around a small table on the docks of the upper deck, were his top commanders.
It was a sight that would have terrified any enemy fleet. Marco, Thatch, Vista, Jozu and Izou were all present, but they didn’t look like the formidable leaders of the Whitebeard Pirates. They looked like survivors of a shipwreck.
Marco was slumped over the table, his face pressed against the wood, one eye open and twitching. Thatch was staring blankly into a bottle of sake, drinking straight from the neck with a thousand-yard stare. Vista’s legendary mustache was drooping, and Izou was rubbing his temples with a look of profound spiritual exhaustion. Jozu was simply sitting in silence, staring at a wall as if trying to erase a memory from his soul.
They were surrounded by empty bottles and half-eaten plates of snacks, looking like they hadn’t slept in three days.
“Gurarara!” Whitebeard’s booming laugh echoed across the deck. “What in the world is this? A secret meeting?”
The commanders didn’t even jump. They didn’t have the energy to be startled.
Marco let out a slow, rattling sigh. “Pops… please. Just… stop talking. The vibrations of your voice are too much for my brain right now, yoi.”
Whitebeard paused, leaning down to peer at his sons. “You all look like you’ve been fighting a Yonko for forty-eight hours. What happened?”
Thatch slowly lifted his head. A single tear of regret rolled down his cheek. “Worse, Pops. Much worse.”
“Explain,” Whitebeard commanded, though he sounded amused.
“We gave him a crash course,” Izou whispered, his voice a mixture of horror and betrayal. “We thought we were being helpful. We thought we were guiding him. We thought we were protecting our little sister by ensuring Ace knew what he was doing.”
Whitebeard blinked. “Ace and Y/N? I figured they’d finally gotten around to it.”
At the mention of the couple, the entire group of commanders flinched simultaneously, as if they had been struck by a physical blow.
“You don’t understand, Pops,” Vista groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. “The walls on the commander’s floor are thick. They are very thick. But Ace… He really doesn’t do anything halfway. The sheer… volume… the enthusiasm… the screaming…”
“He’s a monster,” Jozu grunted, his voice hollow. “A loud, passionate monster.”
The commander shared a look of collective trauma. They had spent the last several hours trapped in a psychological war, listening to the evidence of Ace implementing every single piece of advice they had given him - and then some.
Because they saw you as their precious baby sister, every moan, every gasp, every loud thud against the wall had felt like a personal attack on their sanity.
Thatch suddenly slammed his bottle onto the table, his expression one of pure agony.
“I regret it!” he wailed, his voice cracking. “I regret teaching him! Why did I tell him about the neck?! Why did I mention the clitoris?! I’ve created a beast and now I have to live with the mental images!”
“I told him to change the pace, yoi,” Marco muttered into the table, sounding defeated. “I didn’t realize he’d take “driving her crazy” as a literal mission objective. I can still hear it. I can still hear her screaming his name. I think I have permanent hearing loss in my left ear.”
Whitebeard stared at them for a long moment, then he let out a laugh so massive it nearly knocked Thatch off his chair.
“Gurarara! It seems the boy is really thorough!”
“It’s not thorough, Pops! It’s an auditory assault!” Izou snapped, though he looked too tired to actually be angry.
Just as a heavy, blessed silence fell over the group, a sound drifted across the deck from the direction of the commander’s quarters.
“ACE! OH MY GOD, ACE-!!!”
The scream was followed by a loud, unmistakable THUMP that vibrated through the floorboards of the ship. The commanders froze. As one, they all slowly turned their heads toward the sound.
Thatch let out a broken whimper and leaned forward, burying his face in the sake bottle. Marco simply closed his eyes and began to pray to a god he didn’t even believe in.
“I’m retiring,” Marco whispered. “I’m leaving the crew. I’m moving to a deserted island where the only sound is the wind, yoi.”
portgas d. ace cannot fuckin’ believe this is happening.
portgas d. ace swallows. his calloused hand trembles as he snakes it into his unbuttoned shorts.
all the while, he can’t look away from you — his best friend — touching yourself.
this whole thing started with an awkward conversation about the half-hard cock digging into your backside after an afternoon nap. there was no avoiding it, not when ace buried his face in his hands and grumbled something about being pent up.
you, in turn, made a joke about how you haven’t gotten off in weeks.
ergo: you get it, you’re pent up, too.
there was a beat of tension. then:
“you… uh… i mean, if you need to… take care of it…?” you said, eyes darting to the curve straining against the front of his shorts. ace felt dizzy. you chewed your thumbnail.
isn’t that how most things like this start, slow and curious?
“i mean, we’re best friends,” are the words that put the metaphorical nail in the coffin, mumbled around the nervous habit of a bitten nail, “think of it as… mutual support...?”
he agreed too quickly, swallowing down a bout of unnerving want.
“right. i’ll do me. you do you," he rasped, head nodding and pupils blown wide, "yea. mutual support. good thinkin’, scraps."
that nickname felt like foreplay. it punched the air out of your lungs.
and so it began: mutual support. more like mutual masturbation, but who's correcting the record in a moment like this? not ace. definitely not ace.
no, portgas d. ace is too busy trying to remember how to breathe. is it hot in here? it feels hot in here. fuck, yep, it’s hot because he’s doing the thing — the thing where sparks of ignition dance across the sweat on his skin. it’s a dead giveaway that he’s excited. losing his edge.
your hand steadies under the waistband of your underwear, your head against the pillow. ace lies beside you, your shoulders barely touching, body heat bleeding into one another. your leg is thrown over his thigh, and your bunk has never felt smaller.
portgas d. ace is panting, and not once do his eyes break from yours.
not when you bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds, not when he thumbs the head of his throbbing cock, not when you slip your fingers through your folds. his jaw falls open, nostrils flare, and finally, his eyes fall to the pearling of your nipples through your tank top.
“fuck,” he mumbles, “…is this… is this okay?”
“yea. yea, it’s… it’s good. are y-you good?” you breathe, and your eyes fall to the sight of his cock, pulled from his shorts. you almost whine, because it’s pretty. thick and throbbing and he’s stroking himself faster now and his forearms flex while he does and that’s your best friend—
your faces are close now, shoulders touching. your toes curl against his calf. your eyes dart back up to his. he’s staring while he nods, his gaze is intense. enarmored. the look in your heavy-lidded eyes is no better.
portgas d. ace’s abdomen tenses, his breath stutters, and he sighs out:
"keep — fuck — keep looking at me like that."
you’re biting your lip again when you nod, working a tight circle against your clit beneath your bottoms. your lashes flutter, and your breath hitches higher, and you make a soft sound in the back of your throat. his mouth is parted, and so is yours, and when you both huff out a needy pant, it mingles.
portgas d. ace can’t resist. his eyes snake down again, toward where your fingers work themselves quicker and needier beneath your bottoms — ace wets his lips, curses to himself.
this is uncharted territory. the kind of territory that isn’t supposed to exist between best friends.
“fuck, you’re so hot,” the honest appraisal rushes out like a tie between a prayer and a revelation, “m’close, scraps—”
portgas d. ace is fucking up into his own hand while staring at you, and good fuckin’ god, it is the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. his hips roll, his muscles tense, and you whine when you spy the precum beading at the head of his cock. you’re right there, right at the edge.
“—me too,” it breaks from your throat in a whisper; you squirm, and ace’s breath fans across your face, “i’m… i’m gonna—”
“yea?” his forehead knocks against yours, and he nods, “you gonna come?”
he’s goading you; his nose brushes against yours. you can’t help that his name trembles out of you with a hunger. “ace, ace—”
that’s all it takes. ace smothers the sound of his release in a kiss that’s devouring. it’s the sort of kiss that doesn’t happen between best friends. the kiss sends you over the edge, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that watching your best friend finish across his chest while you come around your own fingers isn’t really best friend material, either.
portgas d. ace, kissing you like a man starved while you finish hard enough to tremble, certainly isn’t going to complain. after all, you’re best friends. best friends help one another out.
[Bonus Scene] Where Flowers Bloom Again. || Marco x Reader.
Summary: After the fall of the Whitebeard Pirates, Marco has built a quiet life on Sphinx Island, spending his days as the village doctor and trying not to dwell on the ghosts of his past. But when a wounded young pirate arrives on the island, his peaceful routine is suddenly turned upside down. What begins as a temporary stay for you slowly becomes something more when you found an unexpected companion in none other than Marco the Phoenix, your doctor, and when the time comes for you to leave, you realize that maybe that's not what you want anymore.
Tags: pregnancy, childbirth, family feels, domestic fluff
Wordcount: 3.2k
A/N: i know i said yesterday, but i mayyyy have completely forgotten this in the drafts lmao anyways now it's really over😭😭 but my next story, an ace smut one-shot that's like 10k words long is already done i just don't know when to post yet lol but i already miss them and wanna thank everyone of being on this journey with me, ily all😭🫶 pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
Taglist: @laserbeyza @itsmugiwarasfault
[Previous. || Here.] [Series Masterlist.]
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom, casting soft, honey-colored streaks across the wooden floor. You were drifting in that hazy, blissful space between sleep and wakefulness, cocooned in the warmth of the heavy quilts and the steady, rhythmic heat of Marco’s body behind you. His arm was draped heavily across your waist, his fingers curling possessively into the fabric of your nightgown.
It was a peace you had grown to cherish over the last four years.
That peace lasted exactly three more seconds.
THUMP.
The mattress groaned under a sudden, violent impact. A small whirlwind of energy launched itself from the doorway, sailing through the air with a recklessness that could only belong to one person. She landed squarely in the center of the bed, her tiny knees digging into your ribs and the mattress bouncing wildly.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!”
The scream was high-pitched and brimming with a level of excitement that could have powered the windmills of Sphinx Island for a decade.
You gasped, your eyes snapping open as you were jolted awake. Beside you, Marco let out a low, startled grunt, his grip tightening on you instinctively as he nearly rolled off the side of the bed.
“Iris!” Marco’s voice was a sleep-roughened rumble, though the edges of it were softened by an immediate, undeniable affection.
You looked up to see your four-year-old daughter beaming down at you. She was a miniature mirror image of yourself, from the shape of her nose to the spark in her dark eyes, but she was topped with a wild, unruly mop of bright blonde hair that mirrored Marco’s own. She was currently wearing a mismatched set of pajamas - one sleeve striped, the other polka-dotted - and she was vibrating with an intensity that made her look like she was about to take flight.
“Daddy! Mommy! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” she cheered, bouncing on her heels.
Marco groaned, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, which were currently crooked on his face. You realized he must’ve fallen asleep with them on and giggled slightly. He shifted, reaching out a long arm to catch Iris by the waist before she could launch herself a second time.
“Careful, little bird,” he murmured, his voice returning to that lazy, sleepy cadence you loved. He gently pulled her away from your midsection, his gaze shifting to your stomach. “You’ve got to be gentle. Remember what we talked about? Mommy’s carrying your little sibling right now.”
Iris paused, her expression turning suddenly serious. She looked down at the prominent, heavy curve of your belly, which was currently stretching the fabric of your nightgown to its limit. She leaned forward, her small face scrunched in concentration, and placed a tiny, soft hand on the peak of your stomach.
“Is the baby awake too?” she whispered.
As if on cue, a powerful, rhythmic thud echoed from within. The baby _ whom you were almost certain was a boy, just like you felt Iris was a girl - and responded to his sister’s touch with a violent roll that made your entire torso shift.
Iris gasped, her eyes widening. “He’s dancing! He wants to celebrate my birthday!”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, reaching up to stroke Iris’s blonde hair. “I think he’s just excited to finally meet you, Iris.”
You shifted slowly, trying to find a position that didn’t make you feel like you were trying to move a mountain. This pregnancy had been a surprise - a delightful one, but still - that had come along when Marco was approaching forty-nine. Neither of you had planned for a second child so late in the game, but as you looked at the love radiating from Marco’s dark eyes, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.
“Alright, alright,” Marco chuckled, finally sitting up and stretching his broad shoulders, his joints popping with a sound that made Iris giggle. “Since it’s a very special day, I suppose I can grant a temporary exemption from the ‘no jumping on the bed’ rule. But only for today, yoi.”
“Yay!” Iris shrieked, throwing her arms around Marco’s neck and peppering his cheek with a dozen rapid-fire kisses.
Marco melted instantly, his composure vanishing as he pulled her into his lap, peppering her forehead with kisses of his own. You watched them, a warm feeling settling in your chest. You had spent so much of your life as a lonely navigator, sailing through the void of the Grand Line with people you barely knew, but here, in this small house on a quiet island, you had found a gravity that held you.
The morning was entirely chaotic, just like you grew to love it. Iris didn’t just walk; she bounced. She didn’t speak; she narrated her every move with the passion of a captain addressing a crew.
“First, we have the presents! Then, the cake! Then, I’m going to show you my new medical chart!” she announced, leading the way to the living room.
Marco walked beside you, his hand never leaving the small of your back. He was perpetually attentive, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of fatigue or pain. He had become a master at assisting you, just like when you were pregnant with Iris, anticipating your needs before you even voiced them. He helped you settle into the reinforced armchair, placing a few extra cushions behind your back with a precision that spoke of his medical training.
“Comfortable, yoi?” he asked, his voice low and tender.
“I’m fine, Marco,” you smiled, though you leaned into his touch. “Just... very heavy.”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your temple.
The presents were a highlight of the morning. Iris tore through the wrapping paper with a ferocity that would have intimidated a Sea King. From you, she received a beautiful, hand-stitched navigator’s cloak, scaled down to her size, and a set of high-quality drawing pencils for her maps and medical charts. From Marco, she received the “crown jewel” of her birthday: a professional, child-safe medical kit, complete with a real stethoscope and a leather bag that looked exactly like the one Marco carried.
Iris gasped, clutching the bag to her chest. She immediately draped the stethoscope around her neck, her expression shifting from a playful child to a focused professional in a matter of seconds.
“I’m going to be the best pirate-doctor in the whole world!” she declared, standing tall on the rug. “I’ll sail the Grand Line just like you and Daddy, and I’ll heal everyone! I’ll find the most amazing medicines on the most dangerous islands, and I’ll make sure nobody ever gets a boo-boo again!”
Marco leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed, a look of profound pride shimmering in his dark eyes. “A pirate-doctor, huh? You’ve really got the spirit of our family in you, little bird. Just make sure you study your botany first. The plants can be tricky.”
“I already know about the Digitalis!” Iris countered confidently, pointing a finger in the air. “And the Monkshood! You told me they’re pretty but dangerous!”
You beamed at her. She was spirited, brilliant, and entirely too smart for her own good. She was a whirlwind of ambition and kindness, a perfect blend of your resilience and Marco’s strength.
By midday, the house smelled of vanilla and buttercream. Marco had spent the previous evening in the kitchen, humming a low tune as he baked a small and simple cake. He wasn’t a professional chef by any means, but he put a level of care into the frosting that was almost meditative - with your help, of course. As much as you could in your current state.
As you all sat around the table, the sunlight streaming through the windows, Iris stared at the cake as if it were a legendary treasure.
“Make a wish, Iris,” you encouraged.
She closed her eyes tight, her little face scrunched up in an expression of intense focus. After a moment, she blew out the candles with a mighty huff and a triumphant grin.
“What did you wish for?” Marco asked, sliding a piece of cake onto her plate.
“I wished that the baby comes soon so I can teach him how to read maps and make medicine!” she exclaimed.
You laughed, feeling a sudden, sharp kick against your ribs. “I think he’s eager to learn, Iris.”
After the cake, as the sugar rush began to settle, Iris crawled into your lap. It was a struggle to fit her, given the sheer size of your stomach, but she didn’t mind. She pressed her ear against the fabric of your dress, hugging the great curve of your belly with all her might.
“Hi, baby brother,” she whispered, her voice soft and sweet. “It’s my birthday today. I’m four now! That means I’m a big girl. I’m going to protect you and teach you everything. You just stay cozy in there and try not to hurt Mommy too much, okay? I’ll save some cake for you.”
You looked up at Marco, who was watching the scene with an expression so tender it felt fragile. The sight of his daughter embracing his unborn son was a moment of pure peace. He deserved every single ounce of happiness.
“Alright, little bird,” Marco said, standing up and offering a hand to Iris. “The sun is starting to dip. It’s time for our walk.”
The walk up the northern hill was a slow, deliberate procession. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the wild, blooming jasmine that always seemed to thrive on Sphinx Island.
Marco took his role as the protector of the family with a seriousness that was both touching and slightly overbearing. He hoisted Iris up onto his broad shoulders, her tiny hands gripping his golden hair for balance. He then turned to you, sliding his arm firmly around your waist, providing a steady support that allowed you to keep your balance despite the shift in your center of gravity.
“You doing okay, yoi?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your side.
“I’m okay,” you breathed, though your breathing was shallower than usual. “Just... a bit winded.”
“Lean on me,” he commanded gently. "Don’t even try to carry the weight yourself. That’s what I’m here for.”
As you ascended the slope, Iris began to sing a song she had made, her voice ringing out clearly through the quiet hillside. You watched her, the little golden-haired silhouette atop Marco’s shoulders, and felt a surge of gratitude.
When you reached the summit, the vast, shimmering expanse of the ocean stretched toward the horizon, and the two grand memorials of Edward Newgate and Portgas D. Ace stood there, beautifully taken care of thanks to you, Marco and Iris.
Iris scrambled down from Marco’s shoulders the moment you reached the flat ground. In her hands, she clutched a small, weathered wooden bucket filled with a vibrant collection of flowers.
“Look!” she exclaimed, pointing to the blooms. “I grew them myself in the garden! I used the special soil Daddy helped me mix, and I sang to them every morning!”
The flowers were a mix of deep blue delphiniums and bright, snowy-white anemones - flowers you had taught her the meanings of. Remembrance and purity. She always said those two were her favorite flowers, the flower she was named after apparently being “too boring” for her.
With a level of focus and reverence that was heartbreakingly beautiful, Iris knelt before the headstones. She carefully placed the flowers around the base of the memorials, smoothing the dirt with her small, dirt-stained fingers.
“Hi, Grandpa! Hi, Uncle Ace!” she chirped, her voice echoing softly across the hill. “I’m four now! I’m learning how to be a doctor and a pirate! I brought you these flowers because they’re the prettiest ones in the garden. I hope you like them!”
Marco stood behind you, his hand resting on your shoulder, his gaze fixed on his daughter. You could feel him trembling slightly. It was a rare sight - the legendary Phoenix, the stoic commander, moved to the point of silent tears.
Seeing Iris continue the cycle of remembrance, seeing her love for people she had never met, was the final piece of healing for him.
“They love them, Iris,” Marco whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I know they do.”
Iris stood up and hugged Marco’s leg, then turned and hugged your stomach. “I think they’re happy we’re here.”
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold, you all lingered on the hill for a while longer. You stood there in a comfortable, shared silence, the three of you anchored to each other and to the memories of the men who had paved the way.
The walk back down was slower, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. Marco practically carried you the last few yards, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective strength that made you feel entirely safe.
Once you were back inside the warmth of the cottage, Iris fell asleep almost instantly, curled up in a ball on the living room rug, her medical bag still clutched in her tiny hand.
Marco helped you into bed, his movements slow and reverent. He spent a long time massaging your swollen ankles, his large hands working with a tenderness that always made your heart ache.
“You were wonderful today,” he murmured, leaning up to kiss your forehead.
“We were wonderful,” you corrected, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Our little bird is growing up too fast.”
“She is,” Marco agreed, his dark eyes shimmering with a love that was as vast as the ocean you had both once sailed. He shifted, placing his hand over your stomach, feeling the final, gentle flutter of the baby within. “And I can’t wait to meet the little man who’s been kicking you all day.”
You smiled, closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep in the circle of his arms, surrounded by nothing but pure, unfiltered love.
The world had narrowed down to the scent of sterile linen, the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock, and the absolute, bone-deep exhaustion that settled into every fiber of your being. The last twenty-four hours had been a blur of agony and endurance, a marathon of labor that had pushed you to the very edge of your strength. It had been a long, grueling battle but as you lay back against the pillows, the silence of the room felt like a sanctuary.
In your arms, wrapped in a soft, cream-colored blanket, lay the reward for every second of that struggle.
He was a big baby - substantial and healthy, with a weight that felt grounding against your chest. As you looked down at him, you saw a dusting of bright, pale blonde hair clinging to his scalp, a clear, undeniable mark of his father. He was quiet for the moment, his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his small features peaceful in the dim light of the afternoon.
Beside you, Marco was a shell of his usual composed self. He hadn’t left your side for a single moment, acting as both your doctor and your husband, his voice constantly whispering words of encouragement through the longest night of your lives. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and his hair more disheveled than you had ever seen it, but the look of raw adoration he cast upon the baby was enough to make your heart ache.
The quiet was suddenly broken by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open.
A small figure appeared in the doorway. Iris had been staying with Mika and the other villagers, and the separation had been the hardest part of the day for her. The moment she saw you, her lower lip trembled. Her eyes, wide and brimming with tears, locked onto yours.
“Mommy!”
She scrambled across the room, her small footsteps thumping against the floorboards. She burst into a fit of sobbing, the kind of heartbroken cries that come from a child who had been confused and terrified that something had gone wrong.
“I was scared!” she wailed, reaching the edge of the bed and clutching the sheets. “I was so scared you weren’t coming back! Why did it take so long? Why did you stay in the room for so long?!”
You let out a soft, shaky breath, reaching out one arm to beckon her closer. “Oh, my sweet girl... I’m okay. See? I’m right here.”
Iris didn’t stop crying, but she immediately shifted into “doctor mode,” despite her tears. She climbed onto the edge of the mattress with surprising agility, her small hands hovering over you with frantic concern.
“Are you hurt? Do you need a bandage? Do you need some water?” she fussed, her voice a high-pitched, worried warble. She began to pat your arm and check your forehead, her tiny face scrunched in intense concentration as she tried to “diagnose” the exhaustion she saw in your eyes. “I can help! I have my kit! I can fix everything!”
A soft, rumbling chuckle escaped Marco. He reached over and gently scooped Iris up, lifting her from the edge of the bed and settling her carefully beside you. He tucked her in against your side and patted her head lovingly.
“I think Mommy is just tired, little bird,” Marco murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “She did a very big job. And look... that’s your little brother.”
Iris froze, her gaze shifting to the bundle in your arms. The sobbing stopped instantly, replaced by a wide-eyed, breathless silence. She leaned in, her nose almost touching the baby’s, her breath hitching as she stared at the tiny, blonde-haired human.
“He’s... he's really here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
With a tenderness that mirrored Marco’s, Iris leaned forward and wrapped her small arms around both you and the baby, pulling you into a cautious, protective hug. She was careful not to squeeze too hard, her small head resting against your shoulder as she let out a long, shaky sigh of relief.
Marco shifted, sliding further onto the bed and wrapping his massive arms around all three of you. He pulled you and your children close, his chin resting on top of your head, his heartbeat steady and strong against your back. For a long moment, no one spoke. There was only the sound of synchronized breathing and the overwhelming feeling of a circle finally closing.
You looked up at Marco, seeing the look in his dark eyes, and then you looked down at your son. You thought of the legacy he came from, Marco’s big, loving family, and specifically the man who had loved and cared for them all.
“Marco,” you whispered, your voice raspy but certain.
He hummed softly, his grip tightening slightly.
“His name,” you said, looking at the baby's peaceful face. “I… I want to name him Edward.”
Marco stiffened for a fraction of a second, his breath catching in his throat. The name of the man who had been his father in every way that mattered echoed through the room.
A single tear escaped Marco's eye, sliding down his cheek as he pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to your temple.
“Edward, huh…” Marco whispered, his voice breaking not with sadness, but with a profound, shimmering joy. “It’s perfect, yoi. It’s absolutely perfect.”
Iris shuffled a little beside you two. “Mommy, Daddy, when can I play with him?”
You both laughed, and you carefully placed a thousand kisses on top of your daughter's head. “Soon, sweetheart. Soon.”
[Epilogue] Where Flowers Bloom Again. || Marco x Reader.
Summary: After the fall of the Whitebeard Pirates, Marco has built a quiet life on Sphinx Island, spending his days as the village doctor and trying not to dwell on the ghosts of his past. But when a wounded young pirate arrives on the island, his peaceful routine is suddenly turned upside down. What begins as a temporary stay for you slowly becomes something more when you found an unexpected companion in none other than Marco the Phoenix, your doctor, and when the time comes for you to leave, you realize that maybe that's not what you want anymore.
Tags: pregnancy, childbirth, WANO SPOILERS!!!, vista & jozu make a cameo, protective marco, idk just lots of fluff lol
Wordcount: 10.9k
A/N: epilogue here!! the reason for why i did an epilogue is because of the pregnancy trope, i know a lot of people don't like it which is why i wanted to write it seperately. i hope y'all like it!! bonus scene will be posted tomorrow and then the story is truly done🥲🥺 pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
The spring that followed your engagement was the most vibrant you had ever witnessed. The island seemed to bloom in sympathy with the new life you and Marco were building together, the hillsides erupting in a riot of wildflowers and the air tasting of salt and sweetness.
Your wedding was not a grand affair. There were no towering cathedrals, no elaborate gowns, and certainly no official government documents. You were both still pirates at heart - souls who had spent their lives defying the laws of the world. A sterile piece of paper from a distant government felt antithetical to the kind of love you shared. Instead, you had a small, quiet ceremony on the cliffs overlooking the sea, the very place where your horizons had once been the only thing you could trust.
The guest list consisted of the people who had become your world: Silas, Mika, Haru, and a small army of your students, all of whom had spent the morning arguing over who got to hold the rings. Mrs. Gable had practically insisted on organizing the festivities, treating the event with the gravity of a royal wedding, though she spent most of the ceremony whispering to the other women about how “about time for Marco” it was.
You wore a simple, flowing white dress that caught the breeze, and Marco looked devastatingly handsome in a clean, light blue shirt, his golden hair swept back, his eyes shimmering with a vulnerability he no longer tried to hide. You didn’t have a priest; instead, you stood before the vast, shimmering expanse of the Grand Line and exchanged vows that were raw, honest, and entirely your own. You promised to be his anchor when the ghosts of the past grew too loud, and he promised to be your sanctuary, a place where you would never have to feel lonely again.
When you finally kissed, the children erupted into cheers, and the elders wept openly. It was unofficial, it was unconventional, and it was perfectly, wonderfully yours.
Married life settled in like a warm blanket on a winter night. The transition from lovers to spouses felt natural, a seamless continuation of the support system you had already established. Your days were filled with the usual chaos of the schoolhouse and the quiet, steady rhythm of the clinic. You found a profound peace in the mundane: the way Marco would leave a single, perfect flower on your bedside table every morning, the way you would sneak into the clinic during his lunch break to feed him the hearty stews he often forgot to eat, and the way you both navigated the shared silence of the evenings, watching the windmills turn against the twilight.
Marco became even more devoted, if that was even possible. He treated you with a reverence that sometimes made your heart ache, as if he were still half-convinced you were a dream he might wake up from. He leaned into the role of a husband with a fierce intensity, though he still maintained his sleepy, casual cadence. He was the man who would spend hours helping you organize the school’s library and the man who would pull you into his arms in the middle of the night just to make sure you were still there, his heartbeat a steady drum against your ear.
And even though so much had already happened in so little time, life still wasn’t done with its changes.
It started on a Tuesday. You had woken up feeling strangely heavy, a dull haze clouding your mind. The moment the scent of Marco’s morning coffee hit your nostrils - a scent you usually adored - your stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. You barely had time to push back your chair before you were sprinting for the bathroom, the sound of your own retching echoing against the tiles.
At first, you dismissed it. A touch of food poisoning, perhaps, or a lingering effect of a cold. But as the days turned into a week, the pattern became undeniable. Every morning, like clockwork, the world would tilt, and you would spend an hour clinging to the porcelain, your body shaking with a fatigue that felt bone-deep.
Marco, of course, noticed immediately. He was a doctor, but more than that, he was a man who observed your every breath. He began following you into the bathroom, his expression a mixture of clinical concern and husbandly panic. He would hold your hair back with one hand and rub your back with the other, his voice a soothing rumble calming you down.
“You’re not getting better, yoi,” he murmured one morning, his dark eyes scanning your pale face. “Your appetite is gone, your sleep is erratic, and this nausea... it’s too consistent for a simple stomach bug.”
You leaned against him, exhausted, the scent of his skin the only thing that didn't make you want to heave. “I’m fine, Marco. I’m just... tired.”
“You’re a terrible liar, even for a pirate,” he replied, though there was no edge to it, only a deep, shimmering tenderness.
He didn't ask you to come to the clinic; he simply brought the clinic to you. He performed the tests with a focused intensity, his large hands trembling slightly as he reviewed the results. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs, a strange mix of apprehension and a flickering, hopeful flame igniting in your chest.
When he finally looked up, the mask of the doctor had completely vanished. His eyes were wide, glistening with a raw, unfiltered joy that left you breathless. He didn’t say a word at first; he simply moved forward and gathered you into his arms, burying his face in your neck and letting out a shaky breath.
“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “We’re... you’re pregnant.”
The words hit you like a damn ship. For a long moment, you couldn’t breathe. You were a pirate; you had survived storms, wars, and the crushing loneliness of the sea. But this - this was a different kind of adventure. You were terrified. You thought of the losses Marco had endured, and you wondered if you were ready to bring a new life into a world that had been so cruel to the people you loved.
But as you felt Marco’s heart racing against yours, and as he pulled back to press a lingering, reverent kiss to your stomach, the fear was eclipsed by an overwhelming sense of excitement. You were creating something. You were building something, someone, but of so, so much love.
“A baby,” you breathed, your hand resting over his. “We’re having a baby.”
“A little boy,” Marco murmured, a small, genuine smile transforming his face. “Or a little girl. Either way... I’ve got you both.”
The first few months were a grueling test of endurance. The morning sickness didn’t just stay in the morning; it became a constant companion that followed you from the school to the bed. There were days when you couldn't keep down a single piece of toast, and the smell of the village’s fish market - once a mundane part of your day - now felt like a personal assault on your senses.
Marco became an absolute whirlwind of over-protectiveness. He practically banned you from the schoolhouse for the first trimester, insisting that you rest, hydrate, and let the children “manage their own” for a while. He spent his evenings researching every possible prenatal nutrient, bringing you strange concoctions of ginger and lemon that he swore would settle your stomach. He became a human pillow, adjusting your position every few minutes to ensure you were perfectly comfortable, his large frame acting as a shield against the world.
“Marco, I am pregnant, not made of glass,” you would protest, though you secretly loved the way he hovered.
“You’re carrying my child, yoi,” he would reply, his voice low and possessive. “That makes you the most precious thing on this island. I’m not taking any chances.”
As you entered the second trimester, the nausea finally began to recede, replaced by an unpredictable hunger. You found yourself craving things that made no sense - pickled plums with honey, or cold porridge at three in the morning. Marco handled it all with a sleepy, indulgent smile, often venturing out into the village at odd hours to find exactly what you needed, his golden hair windblown and his eyes tired, but his resolve unwavering.
Then came the day the changes became visible.
It happened gradually, then all at once. You had noticed your tunics feeling a bit snug, the fabric pulling slightly across your midsection, but you had attributed it to the increased appetite. However, one morning, as you stood before the mirror in your robe, you saw it. A distinct, gentle curve had formed over your lower abdomen - a small, firm swell that signaled the end of your “hidden” phase.
You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to the bump. It wasn’t huge yet, but it was there. A physical proof of the life growing inside you.
When Marco walked into the room, he stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze dropped to your stomach, and the air in the room seemed to vanish. He approached you slowly, as if he were afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. He knelt before you, his large hands hovering tentatively before finally settling on the curve of your belly.
The moment his palms touched you, you felt a small, rhythmic flutter, a tiny kick.
Marco froze. His eyes widened, and a look of pure awe washed over his features. He pressed his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes, a low, rumbling sound escaping his throat.
“I can feel them,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “They’re really in there, yoi.”
But as the weeks progressed, the physical reality of the pregnancy began to take a toll. You had always been smaller than Marco, but as the baby grew, the disparity became a real challenge. Marco was a giant of a man, over two meters tall with a frame built for power and endurance. It became clear very quickly that the baby had inherited his genetics.
By the fifth month, your stomach wasn’t just showing; it was prominent. Extremely so. You felt as though you were carrying a boulder. Your back began to ache with a persistent, dull throb, and your center of gravity shifted so drastically that you found yourself waddling more than walking.
“I feel like a beached whale,” you groaned one afternoon, leaning back against the sofa with a heavy sigh. “Marco, I think this baby is trying to rearrange my internal organs.”
Marco looked up from his medical texts, his expression a mix of sympathy and amusement. He moved to sit behind you, pulling you back against his chest and placing his large hands over your bump. Even through the fabric of your dress, you could feel the sheer scale of his palms; they nearly covered the entire swell of your stomach.
“Well,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “They are my child. It’s only natural they’d need a bit more room to grow, yoi.”
The rough patches intensified. You suffered from edema in your ankles, and the insomnia became a nightly battle. You would toss and turn, unable to find a position that didn’t feel like you were being crushed by your own body. Marco became your nightly sanctuary, spending hours massaging your swollen feet with aromatic oils and whispering stories of the Moby Dick to the baby, his voice a rhythmic lullaby that eventually coaxed you into a fitful sleep.
Despite the discomfort, there were moments of such profound tenderness that the pain felt insignificant. There were the evenings when you and Marco would sit on the porch, the two of you watching the sunset over the hills, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both felt the baby move - sharp, strong kicks that spoke of a spirited child.
You began to imagine the future. You pictured a small, golden-haired child running through the halls of the schoolhouse, laughing with Leo and Maya. You imagined Marco, the legendary commander, reduced to a puddle of mush by a toddler’s smile. You imagined a future full of light and love.
One evening, as the first hints of autumn began to cool the air, you sat in the clinic, watching Marco organize his vials. You were dressed in one of his oversized shirts, the fabric stretching tight over the high, round curve of your belly. You felt a sudden, sharp movement from within - a roll so powerful it actually shifted your posture.
“Oof!” you gasped, clutching your side.
Marco was by your side in an instant, his hands steadying you. “Everything alright? Contractions?”
“No,” you panted, a small, tired smile on your lips. “Just... I think they’re trying to do a lap around my ribs.”
Marco chuckled and leaned down to press a kiss to the peak of your bump. He stayed there for a moment, his eyes closed, listening to the life within.
“Take your time, little one,” he whispered. “Your mother is doing all the hard work. Just please take it a little easier on her, hm?”
You looked down at him. You reached out, running your fingers through his golden hair, feeling a sense of completeness you had never known in all your years on the sea.
By the time you hit your seventh month, the pregnancy had become a full-time occupation. Your stomach was now a prominent, heavy curve that made the simplest tasks feel like mountaineering expeditions. You had largely stepped back from teaching, though you still spent your afternoons sitting in a specially reinforced chair under the oak tree, guiding the children through their lessons with a voice that was often interrupted by the need to catch your breath.
Meanwhile, Marco became an expert at anticipating your needs before you even spoke of them - a glass of water, a cushion for your lower back, or a gentle hand rubbing the tension out of your calves. He looked at you with a mixture of adoration and an almost fragile kind of fear, as if the sheer miracle of your pregnancy was something that could be snatched away if he stopped watching for a single second.
The peace of Sphinx Island, however, was apparently never meant to be absolute. The world outside continued to churn, and eventually, the past came knocking in the form of a massive, eccentric mink.
It happened on a humid Friday afternoon. You were resting on the porch of the clinic, your eyes half-closed as you listened to the distant laughter of the children, when a loud, boisterous voice shattered the tranquility.
“MARCOOOO!”
You jolted awake, your hand instinctively flying to your stomach as a towering, feline figure stormed into the yard. Nekomamushi was his name you later learned, and he apparently didn’t do anything quietly. He arrived like a whirlwind, his presence filling the space with an intensity that made the air vibrate.
Marco stepped out of the clinic, his expression shifting from confusion to a weary sort of recognition. “Nekomamushi,” he sighed, though there was a trace of a smile on his lips. “It’s been a long time, yoi.”
You watched from the porch, feeling the baby kick sharply against your ribs, as if the child could sense the sudden shift in energy. Nekomamushi didn't waste time with pleasantries. He dove straight into the heart of the matter, his voice booming as he spoke of Wano, of the oppressive reign of Kaido and Big Mom, and the desperate need for allies to tip the scales.
“The time has come, Marco! The gears are turning! We need your strength in Wano!”
You felt a cold prickle of anxiety bloom in your chest. You knew the name Kaido. You knew the legend of Wano. For a man like Marco, a call to arms from an old ally shouldn’t have surprised you, yet it did. You grew so used to your everyday life here.
Marco’s expression hardened. He didn’t look at Nekomamushi; instead, his gaze flickered to you, resting on the heavy curve of your stomach. The tenderness in his eyes was momentary, replaced by a grim determination.
“I can’t, Neko,” Marco replied, his voice steady and final. “I have responsibilities here. Sphinx needs a doctor, and my family... my family needs me.”
Nekomamushi paused, his large eyes scanning you. He let out a soft, rumbling sound, his tone softening. “A family, eh? I see. Congratulations, Marco. But… if Wano falls, or if the balance is broken, no island or home is truly safe.”
“I’m aware of the stakes,” Marco countered, his voice dropping an octave. “But I also have the matter of Weevil to consider. He’s a wildcard, and if he decides to make a move on this island or the remaining territories, I’m the only one who can keep the peace here. I can’t leave Sphinx vulnerable, and I certainly can’t leave my wife and unborn child in a place where some lunatic could cause chaos at any moment.”
The argument lasted for nearly an hour. Nekomamushi pushed, pleading with the spirit of the Whitebeard Pirates and the bonds of old friendships. Marco held his ground, his refusal rooted in a fierce, protective love that left no room for negotiation. He was no longer just a former commander; he was a husband and a father-to-be. The weight of the child in your womb outweighed the call of a distant war.
Eventually, seeing that Marco’s mind was set, Nekomamushi sighed, a sound that seemed to deflate his massive frame.
“I understand, Marco. A man’s first duty is to those he loves,” the mink said, his voice tinged with a lingering sadness. He looked at you and gave a respectful nod. “Take care of her, Phoenix. And take care of that little one. I hope the next time we meet, the world is a bit brighter.”
With one last boisterous laugh that echoed through the valley, Nekomamushi departed as quickly as he had arrived, leaving a trail of dust and a heavy, suffocating silence in his wake.
You stayed on the porch, your heart hammering against your ribs. You wanted to tell Marco it was okay - that you were proud of him for choosing you and the baby over the chaos of war. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t need a legendary hero; you just needed him.
But as you looked at him, you saw that he was deep in thought.
Marco remained standing in the center of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest, staring off toward the northern horizon. He didn’t move for a long time.
You could see the war raging behind his eyes. You knew the guilt that was currently clawing at him - the feeling that he was abandoning his brothers, the sense that he was hiding here while others fought and bled in his name. He was a man who had spent his entire life as a shield for others, and the idea of standing still while the world burned was a poison he didn’t know how to swallow.
Slowly, you stood up, your movements heavy and labored. You walked toward him, your hand resting on your stomach, and stopped a few inches away.
“Marco?” you whispered.
He didn’t turn around. He didn’t even blink. He just kept staring at the horizon, his jaw set tight, his breathing shallow.
“I’m okay with your choice,” you added softly. “We’re okay. Whatever you will choose in the end, even if you change your mind.”
“I know you are, yoi,” he murmured, his voice sounding hollow, stripped of its usual warmth.
He didn’t speak of the matter for the rest of the afternoon. He went back to his patients, he helped you into bed, and he kissed your forehead with a tenderness that felt like a goodbye, even though he was still standing right there. He was physically present, but his spirit had already drifted toward the distant shores of Wano.
The days that followed Nekomamushi’s departure were draped in a heavy, suffocating sort of tension. On the surface, everything remained the same. Marco continued to be the perfect husband - perhaps too perfect. But while he was physically there, his mind was a thousand miles away. You could see him staring at the horizon during his breaks at the clinic, his expression a mask of profound conflict. He was fighting a war within himself, a battle between the man who wanted to be a father and the man who had spent his life as a protector.
The turning point came on a Tuesday, nearly two weeks after the mink's visit.
A Den Den Mushi call arrived at the clinic, the voice on the other end frantic and hurried. You were sitting in the living area, folding a small pile of baby clothes personally sewed by Mika, when you heard Marco’s voice drop into that low, commanding tone he only used when he was in “Commander mode.”
“What do you mean he was captured? Who did it?”
You froze, the small white onesie in your hands suddenly feeling heavy. You didn’t need to hear the rest of the conversation to know that the Weevil situation - the primary anchor that had kept Marco tied to Sphinx, alongside you of course - had been resolved. The threat to the island’s stability had vanished
When Marco stepped out of the clinic, he didn’t look relieved. He looked devastated.
He walked over to you and sat on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands. He didn’t say a word, but you could feel the air around him vibrating intensely. The last excuse was gone. The only thing standing between him and the call of his brothers was you and the life growing inside you.
For a few days, the silence between you became a wall. He didn’t bring it up, and you didn’t push. You could tell he was trying to force himself to be content, trying to convince himself that staying was the “right” choice. But you knew Marco. You knew that if he stayed now, not out of duty but out of a fear of leaving you, he would eventually begin to resent the very sanctuary he loved. He would look at you and the baby, and instead of seeing joy, he would see the reason he had let his allies down.
You couldn’t let that happen. You loved him too much to let him become a prisoner of his own guilt.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep golds, you found him standing on the porch, staring out at the ocean. He was leaning against the railing, his broad shoulders slumped, looking every bit the tired man who had carried the world on his back for too long.
You walked up behind him, moving slowly due to the weight of your stomach. You wrapped your arms around his waist as best as you could, pressing your cheek against the warmth of his back.
“You’re thinking about it,” you whispered.
Marco stiffened slightly, then let out a long, ragged sigh. He didn’t turn around. “It’s nothing, yoi. I’m right where I need to be.”
“Stop lying to me, Marco,” you said, your voice firm despite the tenderness in it. “And stop lying to yourself.”
He finally turned, his eyes dark and clouded with a conflict that broke your heart. “I can’t just leave you. Not now. You’re... you’re so close to the end. What if something happens? What if the baby comes early? I can’t be across the sea while you’re in pain. I want to be with you during it.”
You reached up, cupping his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you. “I am a pirate, Marco. I’ve survived the Grand Line. I have the strongest doctor on the island as my husband, and I have the most loving community in the world surrounding me. I will be fine. We will be fine.”
“I can’t risk it,” he rasped, his grip tightening on your waist.
“Then risk it for your soul,” you countered, your voice cracking slightly. “Because if you stay here while your friends are fighting for their lives, you’ll never forgive yourself. And eventually, you won’t be able to look at me without remembering what you gave up. I don’t want a husband who is haunted by the things he didn't do. I want you to go, to finish this, and to come back home knowing that you did everything you could.”
Marco stared at you, his breath hitching. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, and you felt a single, hot tear fall onto your cheek.
“I don’t want to leave you, yoi,” he whispered, his voice broken.
“Then don't think of it as leaving,” you murmured, kissing his nose. “Think of it as making the world safe for our child. Go be a hero one last time. Go protect your family, and then come back and be a father.”
He let out a choked sound - half-sob, half-laugh - and pulled you into a crushing embrace. He held you with a desperation that told you everything. He had been waiting for permission to leave, and you had just given it to him.
The following few days were spent preparing for his leave. Marco spent every waking second making sure you were completely set up. He coordinated with Mika and Mrs. Gable, ensuring they knew exactly how to handle any emergency. He stocked the house with every medicinal tea, every supplement, and every comfort you could possibly need. He worked with the village elders to ensure the clinic would be run by a temporary replacement he had flown in from a nearby island.
But the hardest part were the nights, filled with a quiet, aching longing. He spent hours with his head resting on your stomach, talking to the baby and promising them that their father would be back soon. He kissed every inch of your skin as if he were trying to memorize you, to carry the scent and feel of you across the ocean as a talisman.
The morning of his departure arrived with a cold, gray mist that clung to the hills of Sphinx. You stood on the docks, wrapped in a heavy shawl, your hand resting on the high curve of your belly.
Nekomamushi was waiting, his presence a stark contrast to the somber mood. But Marco didn’t look at the mink. He only had eyes for you.
He stepped into your space, his hands framing your face. He looked at you with a raw, unfiltered intensity, a mixture of love, guilt, and a fierce, burning resolve.
“I’ll be back before you know it, yoi,” he promised, his voice thick. “I swear on my life, I will come back to you.”
“I know you will,” you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. It was a kiss that contained the unwavering trust you had in him.
He pulled away slowly, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. He gave you one last, lingering look, then turned and stepped toward the ship.
As the vessel began to pull away from the docks, Marco looked back one last time. He didn’t wave; he simply pressed a hand over his heart, his gaze locking onto yours.
You stood there until the ship was nothing more than a speck on the horizon, the cold wind whipping your hair around your face. You felt a sudden, sharp kick from within - a strong, demanding movement that made you gasp.
You looked down at your stomach and smiled through the tears.
“Your daddy is going to save the world, little one,” you whispered, leaning into the breeze. “And then he’s coming home to us.”
The first few days after Marco’s departure were the quietest you had in a long time. The house, which had been filled with his low humming, the scent of his coffee, and the constant, grounding presence of his large frame, suddenly felt cavernous. You spent a lot of time sitting on the porch, staring at the horizon and wondering if the azure flames of his were currently lighting up the dark skies of Wano.
The loneliness was a physical ache, rivaling the pressure of the baby in your womb. You found yourself talking to the child, telling them stories about their father - about his stubbornness, his kindness, and the way he looked when he was truly happy. You were doing your best to stay strong, but the weight of the pregnancy was becoming an exhausting battle. Your ankles were perpetually swollen, and the baby had decided that your bladder was a favorite punching bag.
You didn’t feel alone in the village, though. The people of Sphinx had practically adopted you. Mika brought you extra portions of stew, and the children would often come by the house just to press their ears against your stomach and listen for the new addition to the life on Sphinx. They were your support system, but there was a specific kind of void that only Marco could fill.
About a week into his absence, a large, imposing ship docked at the harbor. It wasn’t a Marine vessel, nor was it a merchant ship. It had the rugged, weathered look of a pirate crew.
You were in the garden, attempting to prune some of the herbs for the clinic, when you saw them approaching your small house on the hill.
You were greeted by the sight of two men who looked like they had been carved from the very mountains of the Grand Line. One was a towering man with a build like a fortress, his expression stoic and unmoving. The other was more flamboyant, with a distinctive mustache and an air of sophisticated confidence that reminded you of a duelist.
You recognized them from Marco’s stories and the few old posters you’d seen. These were the surviving division commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates - men who had once stood as the pillars of the strongest crew in the world.
They stopped at the edge of the garden, their gazes landing on you. The man with the mustache - Vista - tilted his head, a curious glint in his eyes.
“Pardon us, miss,” Vista said, his voice smooth and polite. “We’re looking for Marco. He told us to report to Sphinx Island to provide security, but we can’t find him.”
You blinked, the trowel still in your hand. You remembered Marco saying he had “arranged for help,” but he had been so vague about it. He had simply told you that some “capable people” would be arriving to keep an eye on the island. He hadn’t mentioned that he was calling in the big guns.
“I’m his wife,” you said, your voice a bit raspy from disuse. “And he’s... he’s in Wano.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
The stoic man, Jozu, actually paused mid-step, his eyes widening. Vista’s mouth dropped open, his sophisticated composure vanishing in a heartbeat. They looked at you, then at each other, then back at you.
“Wife?” Vista echoed, his voice reaching a pitch you didn't know a man of his stature could hit. “Since when does Marco have a wife?!”
“And what do you mean wife?” Jozu rumbled, his voice like a landslide. “He’s a workaholic, how did he…”
You felt a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. You cursed your husband silently, because of course he hasn’t mentioned you. God, he was probably grinning from ear to ear wherever he was right now. You shifted your weight, and as you did, the loose fabric of your dress clung to the high, unmistakable curve of your stomach.
The reaction was instantaneous. Vista let out a strangled gasp, pointing a finger at your midsection. Jozu’s jaw practically hit the dirt.
“Is that... is that a baby?!” Vista shrieked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Marco has a baby?! A mini-Marco?!”
They looked so shocked it was almost comedical. To them, Marco was the stoic survivor, the man who had carried the grief of an entire era on his shoulders without ever complaining in front of any of them. The idea of him as a husband - let alone a father - was a concept that shattered their entire understanding of the man.
“He didn’t tell us,” Jozu muttered. “The idiot didn’t say a word. He just told us the island needed protection.”
“Of course he didn’t!” Vista exclaimed, suddenly stepping forward with an air of intense mission. “He was plotting this! He probably knew we’d lose our minds! Look at her! She’s glowing! And the baby... oh, the baby is going to be absolutely adored!”
In the span of five minutes, the dynamic shifted completely. They were no longer just here on Marco’s call to take care of the island while he was gone; they had transformed into the world’s most overprotective uncles.
“We can’t believe he kept this from us,” Vista lamented, though he was already helping you carry your gardening basket back to the house. “The audacity! When he gets back, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind for not letting us in on this joy.”
But as you led them inside, you noticed the way they looked at you as the woman who had managed to do the impossible. They saw the way you spoke of Marco, the way your eyes softened when you mentioned him, and they realized that Marco hadn’t just found a partner; he had found a reason to finally move forward.
The initial shock had settled into a warm, humming sort of curiosity. Vista was still buzzing with energy, asking a million questions about pregnancy as you guided them inside, while Jozu had already begun a mental inventory of the house’s structural integrity, eyeing the beams as if he were preparing to reinforce the entire cottage against a hurricane.
You looked at the two men - men who had bled and fought alongside Marco for decades. “Do you wish to see the graves?” you asked softly.
The change in the room was instantaneous. The flamboyant energy vanished from Vista’s face, replaced by a solemn, raw longing. Jozu didn’t speak, but his gaze dropped, and his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction.
“Yes,” Vista whispered, his voice devoid of its usual theatricality. “We... we haven’t been here for a long time.”
You nodded, understanding the weight of that admission. You knew that for many of them, the grief was a mountain too steep to climb, a memory too sharp to touch. You moved slowly toward the kitchen, your hand supporting the underside of your heavy stomach, and returned with a large basket of fresh flowers. You had gathered them earlier that morning - deep blue delphiniums and bright white anemones.
“I would go with you,” you began, your voice trailing off as you felt a sharp, insistent kick from the baby, forcing you to pause and take a steadying breath. You leaned against the wooden table for support, your face flushing slightly from the effort. “But these days... it’s hard for me to climb the hill. I can’t quite make the ascent without needing a nap halfway up.”
Vista’s expression immediately shifted to one of intense concern. “Please, stay here! Do not even think about moving a muscle! We shall handle everything.”
“If you could please lay these flowers there,” you continued, handing the basket to Jozu. “And... just tell them that Marco is happy and will make it safely back home. I think they’d like to know that.”
Jozu took the basket from your hands. He didn’t say a word, but the way he gripped the handle told you everything. He gave you a single, slow nod, a silent promise that the task would be done with the utmost honor.
As they stepped out of the house and began their way up the northern hill, the cottage returned to a peaceful silence. You stood by the window, watching their silhouettes grow smaller against the gray slope. You felt a strange sense of closure in this; Marco had spent so long as the sole caretaker of those memories, and now, he finally had his brothers back to share the burden while he was taking care of something else.
Wanting to show your appreciation for their unexpected visit, you decided to make them a proper meal. You moved into the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You didn’t have much in the way of luxury, but you had the fresh herbs from your garden and the hearty root vegetables Mika had brought over.
You decided on a thick, savory stew, Marco’s favourite food from you. You chopped the garlic and onions with a rhythmic precision, the scent filling the room and making your stomach rumble. As you stirred the pot, you reached for a small bunch of fresh rosemary, bruising the leaves between your fingers to release the oils before stirring them into the simmering broth.
You remembered the night Marco had first tasted this stew. You remembered the way his eyes had clouded over with a bittersweet nostalgia, and the way he had mentioned a man named Thatch. You wanted to recreate that feeling for these men, knowing they missed their friend dearly too.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the stew was thick and fragrant and finally ready. You set the table with a simple cloth and a few candles, the soft light casting a warm glow over the room.
The sound of boots on the porch signaled their return. When they entered, they were different. The tension that had been in their shoulders had dissipated, replaced by a quiet, reflective peace. They looked exhausted, but their eyes were clear.
“The flowers looked beautiful,” Vista said softly, his voice sounding a bit thick. “Thank you for thinking of them, Y/N.”
“There’s no need to thank me. Of course I’m taking care of Marco’s family,” you replied with a genuine smile. “Now, please, sit. You must be starving.”
They sat down, the large table feeling even smaller with Jozu’s massive presence. You served the stew into deep bowls, the rich aroma of rosemary and slow-simmered meat filling the space.
Jozu took a slow, cautious sip of the broth. He paused, his spoon hovering in mid-air. His eyes widened, and he looked up at you, his expression one of sheer disbelief.
Vista, meanwhile, had barely tasted the first spoonful before he let out a shaky, ragged exhale. He closed his eyes, a look of profound longing crossing his face.
“My god,” Vista whispered, his voice trembling. “This taste... it tastes exactly like...”
Jozu grunted, a low sound of agreement that vibrated in his chest. “Like Thatch’s…,” he rumbled, his voice sounding like it was fighting back a wave of emotion. “The way he used to overload the galley pots with rosemary... he always said it was the secret to a crew’s morale.”
You smiled, because Marco had said the exact same thing. You watched them eat, seeing the way the simple meal had lit up their entire faces.
“Marco told me about him,” you said softly. “He said Thatch was the heart of the galley.”
Vista let out a watery chuckle, wiping his eyes with a napkin. “The heart? That man was a hurricane in an apron!”
As the meal continued, the conversation shifted to stories, just like when you and Marco sat down to eat. They told you about the antics of the crew, the loud laughter, the midnight feasts, and the unwavering loyalty that had defined their lives. They told you silly stories of Marco as the spirited young commander who had once tried to out-eat the rest of the division.
You sat back, listening to them, your hand resting on your stomach as the baby kicked in response to the booming laughter of the two men. By the time the bowls were empty, the three of you weren’t strangers anymore. You were a family bound by a shared love for a man who was currently fighting for the world.
“You’re a wonderful woman, Y/N,” Vista said, his gaze warm and sincere. “Marco is a lucky man. We’ll make sure this house is the safest place in the New World until he returns.”
You smiled, feeling a profound sense of peace. The loneliness of the last week had vanished, replaced by a warmth that no amount of winter chill could touch. You couldn’t wait for your husband to return to share all this warmth with.
The three weeks that followed the arrival of Vista and Jozu had been lively thanks to the two men taking care of you. Vista had practically turned into your personal attendant, insisting on carrying every single item you touched, while Jozu had spent his free time quietly reinforcing the porch and the bedroom furniture, ensuring that nothing would so much as creak under the weight of the growing family.
But as the days ticked by, your body began to reach its limit. You were now very close to your due date. Your stomach was a magnificent, heavy sphere that made it nearly impossible to see your own feet. Every movement was a calculated effort, and the baby - true to their father’s genetics - was incredibly active, their movements feeling less like flutters and more like a small storm raging within you.
You spent most of your time in a state of floating anticipation. You didn’t know exactly when Marco would return, but you felt it in the air. The wind on Sphinx had changed and you knew he would be back before your baby would come.
Then, on a Monday afternoon, the sky suddenly ignited.
You were sitting in your reinforced chair on the porch, watching Maya and Leo play a game of marbles in the dirt, when a brilliant flash of azure flames streaked across the horizon. The light was blinding, a celestial blue that cut through the clouds, descending with a graceful, sweeping arc toward the clinic.
“He’s here!” Maya shrieked, jumping up and pointing at the sky.
Your heart leaped into your throat. As the flames receded, Marco appeared. He didn’t land with his usual effortless grace; he touched down heavily, his boots hitting the dirt with a thud that spoke of sheer exhaustion.
He looked like he had been through a war - because he had. His light blue shirt was tattered, stained with blood and soot, and his golden hair was matted with dust. He looked thinner, his face drawn and his eyes shadowed by a weariness that went deeper than mere physical fatigue.
But the moment his gaze locked onto you, the exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a raw, shimmering intensity.
“Marco!” you cried out, trying to stand, but the weight of the baby made you stumble.
He was there in a heartbeat, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that nearly knocked the wind out of you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. He didn’t say a word for a long time; he just held you, his large frame trembling slightly, as if he were finally allowing himself to collapse now that he was safe.
“I’m back,” he whispered. “I’m home, yoi.”
The reunion was filled with endless emotions. Vista and Jozu rushed forward, their voices booming with relief and joy. There were heavy pats on the back, loud laughs, and the kind of aggressive affection that only old brothers can share. For a few minutes, the air was filled with the celebratory energy of a returning hero.
But as the adrenaline faded and the group moved inside the house, the atmosphere shifted. You noticed it first. As Marco sat at the table, he didn’t look at the food or the smiling faces of the children gathering around him and asking questions. He stared at the wooden table, his expression vacant, his eyes brimming with a grief that felt like a physical weight in the room.
Vista and Jozu noticed it too. Their laughter died away, replaced by intuitive silence. They knew that look. They had seen it after Marineford. They had seen it after the Payback war.
Marco cleared his throat, but the sound was strained. He looked up, his gaze moving from Vista to Jozu, and then finally to you. The love in his eyes was still there, but it was entwined with a profound, agonizing sorrow.
“We won,” Marco began, his voice barely a whisper. “Wano is free. The people are safe.”
He paused, a single tear escaping and tracing a path through the soot on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and when he spoke again, the words felt like a blow to the chest.
“But… we lost Izou. He’s… he’s gone.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was a silence that tasted of old wounds and so much pain.
Vista’s hand, which had been resting on the table, tightened into a fist, his knuckles turning white. Jozu let out a guttural groan, his head dropping forward as he stared at the floor. The joy of the return was instantly extinguished, replaced by the crushing familiarity of loss.
You felt a sob rise in your throat. You didn’t know Izou personally, but you knew the hole he left behind. Another brother gone. You knew that for Marco, Vista, and Jozu, this wasn’t just the loss of a comrade; it was the erasure of another piece of their youth, another fragment of the family they had spent their lives trying to protect.
Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Marco’s hand, squeezing it with everything you had. You didn’t try to offer platitudes; you didn’t tell him it would be alright, because in this moment, it wasn’t.
Marco turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with yours, and he leaned his forehead against your shoulder. He let out a long, shaky exhale, his shoulders finally slumping.
“I tried,” he murmured, his voice broken. “I tried to save everyone, yoi.”
“I know you did,” you whispered, leaning your head against his. “I know. We all know. This isn’t your fault.”
For the rest of the evening, the house was quiet. There were no boisterous stories or loud laughs. Instead, there was a shared, solemn mourning. Vista and Jozu stayed close to Marco, their presence a silent, steady support, while you provided the warmth and the tenderness that you always gave your husband in moments like these.
As the night deepened, Marco finally retreated to the bedroom. He didn’t want to be the center of attention; he just wanted to be near you. He spent an hour lying on his side, his hand resting on the high curve of your stomach, listening to the baby move.
He didn’t speak of the war, or the blood, or the screams. He just listened to the rhythmic thrum of the new life growing inside you. He stayed like that for a long time, his eyes closed, his breathing slowly syncing with yours.
“He would have loved this,” Marco whispered, his voice sounding small in the darkness. “Izou... he always had a soft spot for children. He would have spoiled this baby rotten. I managed to tell him but… what use is it if he can never see it for himself?”
You reached out, stroking his golden hair, your heart aching for the man who had seen too much death in one lifetime.
“Then we’ll tell them about him,” you replied softly. “We’ll tell them about all of them. Pops, Ace, Thatch and Izou, too… We’ll make sure they know that they are loved by people they never got to meet.”
Marco shifted, pulling you closer, his embrace fierce and protective. He kissed your temple, a lingering, desperate press of his lips.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” he murmured. “Thank you for giving me a place to come back to.”
You closed your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. The world outside was still broken, and the grief was still there, but as you drifted off to sleep, you knew that as long as you had each other, you could survive any storm.
The birth of your daughter happened two weeks later. It began on a rainy Tuesday - a fittingly dramatic start - when a sharp, sudden contraction ripped through your abdomen, nearly knocking you off your feet in the middle of the kitchen.
“Marco!” you gasped, your voice strained.
He was in the room in a blur of flames, his medical instincts kicking in before he had even fully materialized. He was at your side in a heartbeat, his hands steadying your hips, his dark eyes scanning your face with a professional intensity.
“It’s time.”
“No fucking shit, Marco!” You would apologize later for cursing at him. Or not. After all, it was his fault to begin with that you were in this state.
The next few hours were a blur of pain, sweat, and the grounding sound of Marco’s voice. For the first time in his professional career, Marco was struggling to stay clinical. He was an expert at delivering babies for the women of Sphinx, but as he looked at you - his wife, his anchor, the woman carrying his child - his hands trembled. He was caught in a frantic, emotional tug-of-war between the husband who wanted to scream in sympathy with you and the doctor who knew exactly how to manage the process.
“Breathe, yoi. Just breathe with me,” he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of your pain. He was everywhere at once - checking your vitals, wiping your brow with a cool cloth, and whispering promises of love into your ear.
Outside the room, the atmosphere was purely chaotic. Vista and Jozu had refused to leave the house, and they were currently pacing the hallway like caged lions. You could hear them through the door - Vista’s frantic whispering and Jozu’s heavy, rhythmic thumping as he paced. They were the most powerful men in the vicinity, yet they were completely powerless in the face of a laboring woman. Every time you let out a particularly loud scream, you could hear Vista let out a small, sympathetic yelp of his own.
Helping Marco was a seasoned midwife from the village, a kind woman with weathered hands and a no-nonsense attitude. She was the only one in the room who remained completely calm, occasionally giving Marco a pointed look that seemed to say, Step back and let me work, Doctor, before you faint.
The final push was the hardest thing you had ever done. It felt as though your entire body was being torn apart, a white-hot agony that left you gasping for air. You gripped Marco’s hand with a strength that would have crushed a lesser man’s bones, your nails digging into his skin.
“Almost there, Y/N. One more! Just one more!” Marco urged, his voice cracking with emotion.
With one last, guttural scream and a final, bone-shattering effort, the tension suddenly snapped. The silence of the room was shattered by a sharp, healthy, and incredibly loud cry.
The world stopped.
Marco’s hands, usually so steady, were shaking as he caught the small, slippery form of your daughter. He let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, his eyes filling with tears as he carefully cleaned her and wrapped her in a soft, white blanket. When he finally placed her in your arms, you felt a wave of love so intense it physically hurt.
She was beautiful. She had a dusting of golden hair that matched her father’s and a pair of curious, dark eyes that seemed to take in the whole world at once.
“She’s perfect,” Marco whispered, his face resting against yours as you both stared at the tiny miracle in your arms.
“Her name is Iris,” you breathed, your voice exhausted but happy. You looked up at him, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Named after the first flower you gave me.”
Marco’s heart practically melted. He kissed your forehead, his eyes closed in a state of pure bliss. “Iris. It’s a beautiful name, yoi.”
As the adrenaline began to fade and the room settled into a peaceful hum, you shifted slightly, looking up at your husband with a mischievous glint in your eye.
“You know,” you whispered, your voice regaining some of its usual playfulness, “I told you. I told you all along that it was a girl.”
Marco blinked, his expression shifting to one of mild surprise. “What?”
“I felt it!” you bragged, a small, victorious laugh escaping you. “For the last two months, I just knew. I could feel it in my gut. But no, the great Dr. Marco had to tell me that ‘intuition isn’t a medical science’ and that ‘statistically, it's a fifty-fifty chance.’ You kept saying I couldn’t know for sure because you’re the doctor!”
Marco stared at you for a moment, then he let out a soft, defeated chuckle, leaning his head back against the pillow. “Tsk. I suppose a doctor’s logic is no match for a mother’s intuition, yoi.”
“Exactly,” you teased, leaning into him. “Admit it. I was right.”
“You were right,” he murmured, pulling both you and Iris closer to his chest. “You’re always right, Y/N.”
The door creaked open, and Vista and Jozu peered in, their faces etched with a mixture of apprehension and hope. When they saw the tiny, golden-haired bundle in your arms, their expressions shifted into something profoundly tender.
“Is that her?” Vista whispered, stepping inside with a lightness in his step that was entirely new.
“Meet Iris,” you said, smiling at the two men.
The two legendary commanders crowded around the bed, their massive frames making the room feel tiny. Jozu reached out a single, giant finger, and when the baby instinctively curled her tiny hand around it, the stoic man let out a shaky breath.
“She’s tiny,” Jozu rumbled, his voice sounding like it was on the verge of breaking. “But she’s got a strong grip. A real pirate’s grip.”
“She’s an angel!” Vista exclaimed, his eyes glistening. “Look at her! Marco, you’ve actually done it. I can’t believe that you’re her father!”
“Now what the hell does that mean, yoi?”
As the three men stood guard over you and your daughter, you felt a sense of completeness that you had spent your entire life searching for. You looked at your daughter, the face that already looked so much like yours - maybe you were a bit delusional, she was just born after all -, and smiled.
The first few days of your daughter’s life were a hazy, beautiful blur of sleepless nights and overwhelming love. The world outside continued to turn, but inside the walls of your home, time seemed to slow down, measured only by the rhythm of feedings, diaper changes, and the soft, rhythmic breathing of a newborn.
Marco was a revelation as a father all while still being the best husband you could have asked for. He would have a warm glass of water and a plate of nutrient-rich snacks waiting for you before you even realized you were hungry. He spent hours simply staring at the baby, his expression one of such profound wonder that it felt as if he were seeing a miracle every single time she blinked.
However, the transition into motherhood brought its own set of challenges. On the third day, you felt the tell-tale tightness and heat in your chest as your milk finally came in. It was a sudden, heavy sensation that left you feeling tender and slightly overwhelmed.
You were sitting in the rocking chair, cradling the baby, when you felt the first surge of discomfort. You let out a small, frustrated huff, shifting the baby in your arms.
“Everything alright, yoi?” Marco asked, appearing instantly at your side. His medical eyes scanned you, immediately picking up on the physical change.
“My milk... it’s coming in,” you whispered, a bit flustered. “It’s a bit... intense.”
Marco’s expression softened into something deeply tender. Of course the process didn’t weird him out, he was a doctor after all. He knelt beside you, his large hand resting gently on your shoulder.
“Just take it slow,” he murmured. “The little bird is hungry, and you’re exactly what she needs.”
Little bird, the nickname he had given her.
The first time you fed her was a moment of raw intimacy. As you guided her to your breast, there was a brief moment of struggle - a few fussy whimpers and a bit of clumsy searching. You felt a flicker of anxiety, wondering if you were doing it right. But then, she latched.
A sudden, sharp tugging sensation radiated through you, followed by a wave of relief that felt like a physical release of tension. You looked down and saw her tiny jaw working, her small hand curled into a fist against your skin. In that moment, the bond between you solidified into something unbreakable.
Marco didn’t move. He stayed knelt beside you, his gaze fixed on his daughter with a look of such unfiltered adoration that it brought tears to your eyes. He reached out, his long finger gently brushing the baby’s velvet-soft cheek.
“Look at her,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s so small... but she’s so strong.”
He leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Thank you, Y/N. For everything.”
As the first week passed, the curiosity of the village reached a breaking point. The children, who had been waiting with bated breath, were finally allowed a visit.
It was a chaotic, joyful afternoon. Maya, Leo, and Haru crowded into the living room, their eyes wide with awe. They had seen babies before, but this was their teacher’s baby - the “little bird” they had been talking to for months.
“Is she real?” Maya whispered, leaning in with an intensity that almost knocked the baby out of your arms.
“Of course she’s real, Maya,” you laughed, gently guiding her to sit beside you. “Just remember, she’s very small, so you have to be very quiet and careful.”
The children were surprisingly disciplined, though their excitement was palpable. Leo spent ten minutes explaining to the baby how to count to ten, while Haru whispered a secret “welcome to the island” message into her tiny ear. They looked at her with such pure, uncomplicated love that it filled the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.
Marco stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, watching the scene with a proud, sleepy smile. Every time a child asked a question, he would answer with a gentle, low rumble, teaching them how to be kind to the smallest among them.
However, the time eventually came for the men Marco called family to depart. When your daughter was about two weeks old, Vista and Jozu announced that their mission was complete. The island was stable, the clinic was running smoothly, and the “little bird” was healthy and thriving.
The goodbye was a nostalgic affair. They stood on the docks, the sea breeze whipping through their hair. Jozu, the man of few words, stepped forward and placed a heavy, supportive hand on Marco’s shoulder.
“Keep her safe, Marco,” Jozu rumbled. “And keep the little one strong. We’ll be visiting one day again and bring others along, too.”
Vista, true to his nature, was far more dramatic. He knelt before you, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles with a flourish. “Farewell, lovely Y/N! Please, for the love of all that is holy, write to us! I want to know the moment she says her first word - and I expect it to be Uncle Vista!”
You laughed, your heart feeling a bit heavy as you looked at the two men who had become your unexpected protectors. “I promise, Vista. We’ll write.”
Marco stepped forward, shaking their hands with a firm, grateful grip.
“Thanks for everything, yoi,” Marco said, his voice steady. “I owe you one.”
“You owe us a lot of drinks when we return!” Vista shouted as he climbed back onto the ship. He turned back, waving wildly with a beaming smile. “Until next time, family!”
As the ship pulled away from the harbor, you leaned your head against Marco’s shoulder, watching the vessel disappear into the horizon. The house would be quiet again, and the boisterous laughter of the commanders would be gone, but the void they left was easily filled by the tiny, rhythmic breathing of the baby in your arms.
You looked up at Marco, whose eyes were shining with a peace that had taken years to find. He kissed your forehead, then leaned down to kiss the baby’s nose.
“Just us now,” he murmured, his voice a low, contented hum. “Just the three of us.”
You didn’t go back to the house immediately after. Instead, you looked up at the northern hill.
“Let’s go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the receding tide.
Marco looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours. He knew exactly where you wanted to go. He didn’t say a word; he simply shifted the baby in his arms, tucking her securely against his chest, and began the slow ascent.
The walk was quiet. You moved in a synchronized rhythm, your shoulder brushing against his. The air was crisp, smelling of salt and the wild, blue flowers you had spent months cultivating on the slope. Every few steps, Marco would pause to look down at Iris, his expression one of such fragile wonder that it made your heart ache. He looked at her just like he had the day she was born, and you knew he would look at her every day that was still coming.
As you reached the summit, the world opened up. The vast, shimmering expanse of the ocean stretched out before you, and the two grand memorials of Edward Newgate and Portgas D. Ace stood in their timeless, silent dignity. The blue delphiniums and white anemones you had planted were in full bloom, their colors vibrant against the weathered granite, a testament to the care you had given these graves.
Marco stopped. He stood before the headstones, his frame trembling slightly. The wind whipped his golden hair, and for a moment, he neither moved nor said a word.
He slowly sank to his knees in the frost-nipped grass, his movements heavy with a reverence that felt like a prayer. He didn’t speak at first. He just knelt there, his head bowed, the baby resting against his heart.
“Pops,” Marco whispered, his voice breaking a little. “Ace...”
He looked up at the stones, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He shifted Iris in his arms, lifting her up so she could see the horizon, so she could feel the wind that had once carried the laughter of the strongest crew in the world.
“I want you to meet someone,” he murmured, his voice shaking. “This is Iris. The daughter my incredible wife has given me. She’s your niece and granddaughter.”
He leaned forward, bringing the baby closer to the memorials. Iris, as if sensing the weight of the moment, didn’t cry. She remained quiet, her wide, curious eyes blinking up at the towering stones, her tiny hand reaching out to grasp the air.
“She has the spirit of a pirate already,” Marco said, a watery smile finally touching his lips. “And she’s got a stubborn streak that would make you proud, Pops.”
You knelt beside him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders and leaning your head against his. You felt the tension finally leave his body, a great, shuddering exhale that seemed to release years of accumulated grief. In this moment, the graves were witnesses to a new beginning. You were introducing the next generation to the family that had shaped the man you loved, ensuring that the names of Whitebeard and Ace wouldn’t just be memories of war, but stories told to a child in a peaceful home.
“They can see her, Marco,” you whispered, kissing his cheek. “They know she’s here. And they’re happy for you, wherever they are.”
Marco closed his eyes, a single tear finally escaping and falling onto the baby’s soft blanket. He pressed a lingering kiss to Iris’s forehead, then looked back at the graves one last time.
“I’ve got her,” he whispered, his voice now steady and certain. “I’ve got them both. I promise I’ll make them proud and protect them, yoi.”
He stood up, lifting you and the baby into his arms in one sweeping motion. As you turned to walk back down the hill toward the glowing lights of the village, the blue flames of his phoenix form flickered briefly around you, warming the cold air and lighting the path home.
You looked back one last time at the silent hill, then looked up at the man who had become your entire world. The man you too now proudly called family. And as you descended the slope, hand in hand, heart in heart, you could feel the spirits of Marco’s family walking beside you, blessing every step of the journey you were taking together.
Summary: After the fall of the Whitebeard Pirates, Marco has built a quiet life on Sphinx Island, spending his days as the village doctor and trying not to dwell on the ghosts of his past. But when a wounded young pirate arrives on the island, his peaceful routine is suddenly turned upside down. What begins as a temporary stay for you slowly becomes something more when you found an unexpected companion in none other than Marco the Phoenix, your doctor, and when the time comes for you to leave, you realize that maybe that's not what you want anymore.
Tags: hurt/comfort, proposal, fluff, healing
Wordcount: 3.6k
A/N: i can't believe this is the end... of course, the epilogue and a bonus scene will still follow, but still, i'm emotional rn😭😭 i would have never finished this wothout y'alls engagement, so i wanna thank everyone who commented and reblogged!! even to the silent readers, i see you all and wanna thank everyone for going on this journey with me <33 my first fanfic here and i had so so much fun, i hope a few of y'all will stay with me and read my other things too!! again, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! i know this isn't the best story but it means a lot to me so everyones feedback is greatly appreciated. pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
The weeks bled into months, and the rhythm of your life on the island shifted from the tentative steps of a guest to the deep, rooted certainty of a resident. You found yourself no longer counting the days until a voyage, but rather counting the days until the next harvest festival or the next rainy afternoon spent curled up in the house’s library Marco had built for you.
And then there were the flowers.
It became a sacred, daily tradition. Every single morning, regardless of the weather or how early Marco had to leave for his rounds, there was a flower waiting for you on the porch. He had become a scholar of botany in his spare time, pouring over old texts to learn the intricate language of petals and stems, simply because he knew flowers brought you joy.
Some days it was a spray of Yellow Tulips, accompanied by a note that read: “You are the only sunshine I need.” Other days, it was a single White Camellia, signifying longing and admiration, with a brief scrawl: “Counting the minutes until I can hold you again.” When he felt particularly overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings, he would leave a Red Rose - the classic, unabashed declaration of love - with a note that simply said: “Mine.”
You kept the dried petals in a leather-bound journal, a catalog of his devotion. It was his way of speaking when the words felt too heavy, a constant, colorful reminder that you were cherished in a way that transcended the physical.
Publicly, the two of you practiced restraint. Marco remained the poised, professional doctor of the village, and you the dedicated teacher. He wasn’t a man for grand displays of affection in the square; he didn’t feel the need to perform his love for an audience. Instead, your intimacy in public was woven from a thousand invisible threads. It was the way his hand would graze the small of your back as you walked through the market, a brief, grounding touch that said I am here. It was the way he would catch your eye from across a crowded room, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips that sent a secret jolt of electricity through your veins. It was the subtle shift in his voice when he spoke to you - a softening, a tenderness that was reserved solely for your ears.
The village, including the ever-watchful Mrs. Gable, noticed. They saw the way you leaned into his space, the way he looked at you as if you were the only fixed point in a spinning world. They didn’t need to see you kissing in the streets to know that the bond between you was an unbreakable cord.
But once the door to the clinic clicked shut and the world was locked outside, the restraint vanished.
The transition was almost violent in its intensity. The moment the lock turned, the “Village Doctor” disappeared, replaced by a man whose hunger for you was an endless, aching void. It was as if the energy he spent being composed and professional during the day was stored up, a coiled spring that snapped the second he had you alone.
There were afternoons when the rain hammered against the roof, turning the clinic into a secluded island of its own. He would catch you in the hallway, pinning you against the wall with a sudden, desperate strength. His hands, so precise and gentle with his patients, became possessive and demanding, sliding under your clothes with a feverish urgency.
“Hah… Marco,” you would gasp, your head hitting the wood as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.
“I’ve been thinking about this since ten this morning, yoi,” he would growl, his voice a low vibration against you. “I couldn’t focus on a single patient knowing you were just a few blocks away.”
In the bedroom, he often joked that you made him feel like an insatiable teenager instead of a man in his forties. He explored your body with a worshipful intensity, as if he were trying to memorize every curve, every sigh, every tremor. Over and over again. He loved the way you sounded when you lost control, the way your voice broke when you screamed his name. He would spend hours on you, his tongue and fingers working with a focused devotion, ensuring you were completely undone before he ever allowed himself the pleasure of entering you.
When he finally did, it was with a raw, powerful energy that left you both breathless. He would grip your hips, his muscles corded and straining, driving into you with a rhythmic, relentless force that felt like it was fusing your souls together. The sound of your bodies colliding was the only music that mattered at that moment. He would look deep into your eyes, his dark irises blown wide, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration and desire.
And afterward, the silence was always a warm blanket. You would lie tangled together, limbs entwined, the air smelling of salt and sex and the lingering scent of the day’s flower.
In those quiet hours, the stories came. Marco began to open the floodgates of his memory. He told you about the early days on the Moby Dick - the chaos of a crew that was more of a family than the deadly force the stories described. He told you about Whitebeard’s booming laugh, the way the old man could shake the very air with his presence, and the fierce, protective love he had for every one of his “sons.”
He told you about Ace - not the tragedy of his end, but the brilliance of his life. He described Ace’s reckless grin, his appetite that could empty a galley in minutes, and the way he would sleep anywhere, oblivious to the world. He told you about the brotherhood they had shared, the late-night drinks under the stars, and the shared dreams of a world where they were truly free.
“He was a handful, yoi,” Marco murmured one night, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “Always jumping into trouble before the rest of us could even figure out where the trouble was coming from. But he had a heart that was too big for his chest. He loved us... he loved all of us so much it hurt. Well, after he was done trying to kill Pops of course.”
You listened, your heart aching for the man he had been and the man he was now. You realized that by sharing these stories, the burden on his shoulders finally got lighter, and you grew closer in a way that was beyond being just his partner. You became his family, just like his crew was.
One evening, as the first chill of winter began to creep into the air, you sat together on the porch, wrapped in a single, massive wool blanket. Marco was leaning back, his arm around you, his gaze fixed on the twinkling lights of the village below.
“You know,” he said softly, his voice reflecting the peace of the twilight. “I spent a long time thinking that my life was a book that had already reached its final chapter. I thought I was just reading the epilogue.”
You shifted, looking up at him, the moonlight silvering his golden hair. “And now?”
He looked down at you, and the expression in his eyes was so full of love it felt like a physical weight. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Now,” he whispered, “I think I’ve just started a new volume. And I can't wait to see how the rest of the story goes, yoi.”
“Wow, you’re getting more and more sentimental the older you get.”
“Oh shut up.”
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder, knowing that no matter what the future held, you were exactly where you were meant to be.
The winter air on Sphinx Island didn’t bite with the cruelty of the open sea, but it had a persistent chill that made you crave the scent of cinnamon and the heavy, grounding weight of a certain pineapple-haired doctor.
Today was the Winter Festival. It was the one day of the year where the entire village seemed to vibrate with a frantic, joyful energy. You had spent the better part of the morning submerged in a sea of children, your hands stained with gold paint and your boots caked in frosted mud. Leo, Maya, and Haru had been your little generals, directing you with an intensity that would have made a Marine Admiral sweat.
“Teacher! The garland is slipping!” Maya shrieked, pointing toward the eaves of the schoolhouse.
You laughed, the sound puffing into a cloud of white mist. You reached up, nudging the evergreen branch back into place, feeling the satisfying thrum of the community you had helped build. As you stepped back, you caught sight of Marco across the square. He was wearing a heavy, dark coat that made him look even more imposing than usual, though his expression was as sleepy as ever. He was currently treating a toddler’s scraped knee, his large hands moving with that familiar, effortless precision.
When he looked up and caught your eye, he didn’t wave - that wasn’t his style. Instead, he gave you a slow, hooded blink and a tiny, knowing smirk. It was a look that said I see you, and I’m thinking about exactly what we’re doing once the sun goes down. You wanted to scold him for being so insatiable, but you weren’t better. At all. Your heart did a slow, dizzying roll in your chest. You blew him a kiss, and for a split second, the professional mask of the village doctor slipped, replaced by a look of raw hunger that made your skin tingle despite the cold.
As the afternoon waned, the village transformed. Hundreds of lanterns were lit, casting a gold glow over the whitewashed stone cottages. The smell of roasting chestnuts and spiced cider filled the air, and the sound of fiddles began to echo through the square. The feast was beginning, and the children were dancing in clumsy circles.
But as the noise reached a crescendo, you felt that familiar, quiet pull in your chest. It was a calling that always grew stronger when the noise was getting a little too loud. As someone who spent her last years mostly alone on the sea, sometimes you still needed a break from all this action.
You slipped away from the festivities, moving quietly through the shadows. You didn’t tell Marco; he was currently embroiled in a heated debate with Silas about the quality of the winter cider, and you knew he wouldn’t have stopped you - he knew this need of yours. He just wouldn’t have been able to resist following you if you had told him… for obvious reasons.
The walk up the northern hill was slow. The frost crunched beneath your boots, and the wind whistled through the skeletal branches of the trees. You carried a basket of fresh, winter-blooming flowers - deep red hellebores and stark white anemones - and a small lantern that cast a flickering light against the gray slope.
When you reached the summit, the world fell silent.
The graves of Edward Newgate and Portgas D. Ace sat in their timeless stillness, overlooking the black expanse of the ocean. In the moonlight, the landscape was a study in silver and shadow.
You knelt in the dirt, your knees soaking up the chill, and began your usual ritual. You carefully cleared away the dead leaves and the encroaching frost, polishing the stones with a soft cloth. You arranged the flowers with precision, ensuring the colors were vibrant against the weathered granite.
“It's a beautiful night,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “The village is glowing. The kids are happy. And Marco... Marco is finally breathing again.”
You sat there for a long time, leaning your back against the cold stone of Whitebeard’s memorial. It felt strange, because you didn’t know these men, not really, only from Marco’s stories, but you knew the holes they had left in the man you loved. For months, you had come here in secret. You didn’t do it out of a sense of duty to the dead, but out of a desperate, protective love for the living. You wanted the place where Marco’s loved ones rested to be beautiful. You wanted their spirits to know that he was cherished, that he was safe, and that he wasn’t standing guard alone anymore.
“I’m taking care of him,” you murmured, closing your eyes. “I promise I’m taking care of him.”
A sudden, sharp ripple in the air caught your attention. The freezing wind was abruptly replaced by a wave of intense, comforting heat.
Then came the light.
A brilliant, shimmering explosion of azure flames descended from the sky, illuminating the hillside in a celestial glow. The great phoenix landed softly behind you, its wings folding with a graceful rustle before the flames receded, leaving Marco standing there in the moonlight.
He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under his coat. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at the graves - and then at the flowers. And you.
You stood up slowly, brushing the dirt from your skirt, feeling a sudden wave of vulnerability. “You found me.”
Marco didn’t look at you. His gaze was fixed on the anemones and the hellebores, the perfectly tended earth, and the absence of dust on the headstones. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frost, and knelt beside the graves. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched one of the petals you had just placed.
“Elara told me where you were,” he whispered, his voice rough, stripped of its usual sleepy cadence. “She told me you’ve been coming here for months.”
You looked away, staring out at the dark horizon. “I just... I wanted it to be nice. I know you still can’t bring yourself to come up here. I didn’t want them to be… lonely.”
Marco turned to you then. The look in his eyes was something you had never seen before. It wasn’t just love; it was a profound, shattering realization. He looked at you as if you were a miracle he didn’t deserve, as if you had reached into the deepest, darkest part of his grief and planted a garden there.
He stood up and stepped into your space, his large hands framing your face. His palms were warm and you immediately leaned into his touch.
“You did this for me,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. “All this time... you were taking care of them for me in secret.”
“I just… love you, Marco,” you whispered, a single tear escaping and tracing a cold path down your cheek.
Marco stiffened. None of you had said these words out loud yet, so they seemed to echo in the silence of the hill very, very loudly. He had spent so long protecting himself, building walls of professional distance and weary humor, that hearing those three words in the presence of his fallen family seemed to break something inside him.
He pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you with a desperate, crushing strength. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt a shudder run through his powerful frame. He wasn’t just hugging you; he was clinging to you, as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
“I spent the entire time since they’ve been gone thinking that the only way to honor them was to stay in the pain,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I thought that if I let myself be truly happy, I was betraying them. I thought I had to be the lonely sentinel of this island and just fulfill my duty to protect it.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark and swirling with emotion.
“But you... you didn’t ask me to forget them. You didn’t ask me to stop hurting. You just walked into the dark with me and started planting flowers.” He let out a shaky breath, a small, watery smile touching his lips. “I love you, Y/N. God, I love you so much it scares me, yoi.”
Your heart soared. Hearing him say it - actually say it - felt like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. You beamed up at him, your hands clutching the lapels of his coat. “I know. I’ve known for a while.”
Marco chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through your chest. He stepped back slightly, his expression shifting. The vulnerability was still there, but it was now joined by a fierce, determined resolve.
He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, simple velvet box.
Your breath hitched. Your entire world narrowed down to that small box and the man holding it.
Marco dropped to one knee.
The legendary Phoenix, the former First Division Commander, the man who had stood against admirals and survived the end of an era, was kneeling in the frosted dirt of a winter night. He opened the box to reveal a ring - a delicate band of white gold set with a small, brilliant sapphire that mirrored the color of his flames.
“Y/N,” he began, his voice steady despite the emotion. “I've lived most of my life as a pirate. I’ve been a son, a commander, and a doctor. But now, I’m just Marco. And the only version of myself that I actually like now is the one who is with you.”
He looked up at you, his eyes pleading and hopeful.
“I don’t want to just be your lover. I want to be your everything. I want to wake up to your face every morning for the rest of my life. I want to build a home with you.”
He took a deep breath.
“Will you marry me, yoi?”
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t speak. A sudden, sharp spike of panic flared in your chest - not because you didn’t want this, but because of the sheer certainty of it.
“Marco…” you stammered, your hands flying to your mouth. “Are you... are you sure? I mean, we’ve only been together for a few months. We've had so many ups and downs, and you've had so much loss... are you sure you’re ready for this? To commit everything to me?”
Marco’s expression softened. He didn’t look surprised by your panic; he looked as if he had expected it. He reached up, taking your hand and kissing the knuckles with a tenderness that made your knees weak.
“I’ve spent my whole time here on Sphinx waiting for things, Y/N,” he whispered. “I waited for the grief to fade. I waited for a sign that it was okay to move on. And then you washed up on my shore, half-dead and stubborn as a mule.”
He gave a small, knowing smirk.
“I don’t need ten years to know that you’re the one. I’ve known since the first time you argued with me about my medical orders. I’ve known since you started teaching those kids how to read.”
He squeezed your hand, his gaze unwavering.
“I’m happy to finally settle down. My days as a pirate are over. I want the quiet. I want the schoolhouse. I want the village. But most of all... I want you."
“And,” he continued, a slight smirk playing on his lips, “I’m not getting any younger, yoi.”
You shook your head at his last statement, but the panic vanished, replaced by a warmth so intense it felt like you were being wrapped in his azure flames. You practically launched yourself at him, knocking him backward into the frost.
“Yes! Yes, a thousand times yes!” you screamed, laughing and crying all at once as you pressed your lips to his.
Marco groaned into the kiss, his arms locking around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He rolled you over, pinning you to the soft, frozen earth, his kiss deepening into something hungry and desperate. It was a kiss of promise, a kiss of belonging, a kiss that sealed your futures together under the watchful eyes of the legends on the hill.
He pulled back, breathless, and slid the ring onto your finger. The sapphire sparkled in the moonlight, a tiny, brilliant star of your own.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ve finally got you.”
You stayed there for a while, lying in the cold grass, staring up at the winter stars. You didn’t feel the need to be anywhere else.
“You know,” you whispered, snuggling closer to his warmth. “Mrs. Gable is going to absolutely lose her mind when she finds out. She’s still a little mad even though I already forgave you a long time ago.”
Marco let out a loud, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the hillside. He kissed your forehead, his eyes closing in a state of pure bliss.
“Let her,” he whispered. “I think I can handle a few old ladies if it means I get to keep you.”
As you walked back down the hill, hand in hand, the blue flames of his devil fruit flickered briefly around you, warming the air and lighting the path. You looked at the ring on your finger and then at the man beside you. You had spent your life as a navigator, searching for a destination, mapping out the unknown and, most importantly, for people you could finally call home. But as you leaned your head on Marco’s shoulder, you realized that the search was over.
Summary: After the fall of the Whitebeard Pirates, Marco has built a quiet life on Sphinx Island, spending his days as the village doctor and trying not to dwell on the ghosts of his past. But when a wounded young pirate arrives on the island, his peaceful routine is suddenly turned upside down. What begins as a temporary stay for you slowly becomes something more when you found an unexpected companion in none other than Marco the Phoenix, your doctor, and when the time comes for you to leave, you realize that maybe that's not what you want anymore.
Tags: smut (mdni!!) though not as much as the previous chapter, hurt/comfort, getting together, soft Marco, emotional reconciliation, discussions of grief, emotional intimacy (once again pls tell me if i forgot something)
Wordcount: 6.5k
A/N: only one shorter chapter remaining after this one!! but don't worry, there's still an 11k epilogue and like a 3k bonus scene, so it's not over yet. as always i wanna thank everyone reading and commenting so so much yall are the only reason i finished this, especially this fast <33 pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
The morning light was far too bright. It sliced through the gaps in the window shutters, stinging your eyes and highlighting the chaotic state of the room. Your body felt heavy, a delicious, dull ache radiating from your hips and thighs.
As consciousness slowly returned, the first thing you felt was the emptiness beside you. The sheets were cool where Marco should have been.
Panic, sharp and cold, pierced through your post-coital haze. Did he leave? Did he realize what happened and decide it was too much? Was he going back to the way he was before despite his promise? Your heart began to drum a frantic, anxious rhythm against your ribs. You sat up too quickly, a wince escaping your lips as your muscles protested.
“Marco?” you called out, your voice a mere rasp.
No answer. Only the distant sound of the tide.
You scanned the bedside table, your eyes landing on a small, folded piece of paper. With trembling fingers, you snatched it up.
I had to leave early because a family is dealing with two very sick children. I’ll be back later this afternoon. I really want to talk to you properly. Please be here. — M.
The note should’ve stopped you from spiraling, but it didn’t. You slumped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Talk properly. What did that mean? Was he going to apologize for breaking the “friendship” truce? Was he going to tell you that the night was just a mistake caused by a plant? The uncertainty was a harsh physical weight, pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.
Knock. Knock.
The sound was frantic, and coming right from the front door of the clinic. You froze. It wasn’t the steady, measured knock of a patient or the light tap of a child you were used to. This was… different.
You threw on a robe, pulling it tight around your aching body, and shuffled toward the door. You expected a village elder, one of your students with an early question about homework or perhaps a worried Silas.
When you swung the door open, you nearly tripped over a wall of colorful fabric and formidable expressions.
It wasn’t just one person. It was an assembly.
Mrs. Gable stood front and center, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. Flanking her were Leo’s mother, Haru’s mother, and at least half a dozen other women from the village, all of them looking like they were ready to march on a foreign territory.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Mrs. Gable huffed, stepping forward without being invited. “We thought you might have died in there!”
“I... I’m fine,” you stammered, leaning against the doorframe for support. “What’s going on? Is everyone alright?”
“We aren’t alright!” Haru’s mother cried, her face flushed with indignation. “We heard! Mrs. Gabel told us all of it!”
Your face went from pale to a shade of crimson so deep it felt hot. “You... heard?”
“Heard?” Mrs. Gable stepped closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried to every corner of the porch. “Young lady, I came by yesterday evening to ask Marco about the salts for my leg, but the... the noises coming from this house... I couldn't even get a word in! It sounded like a battlefield!”
“It was... a misunderstanding,” you tried to say, but your voice was failing you.
“A misunderstanding?” Leo’s mother interjected, her eyes flashing. “The screaming? The gasping? We know how men are, dear. They get a bit of excitement and they forget their manners. They treat a lady like a piece of driftwood in a storm!”
“He was too rough with you, wasn’t he?” another woman whispered, her face full of pity. “We saw him looking all distant and cold lately. To think, he waits until you're vulnerable and then-”
“He wasn’t being rough!” you protested, though the sheer memory of his hands on your hips made your breath hitch. “It was just... intense.”
“Intense is one thing,” Mrs. Gable snapped, pointing a finger at you. “But neglectful is another. He’s been walking around this village like a ghost, acting like he doesn’t know you, and then he comes in here and-” She made a vague, sweeping gesture toward your bedroom. “-and does that? It’s scandalous! And quite frankly, it's disrespectful to the position you hold in this village!"
You stood there, paralyzed, as the jury delivered its verdict. They were a multitude of maternal protection, and they were absolutely convinced that Marco had taken advantage of a moment of weakness and was now going to try and “smooth it over” with a simple apology and a quiet conversation.
“Listen to me, dear,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice softening but remaining firm. She reached out and took your hands in hers. Her skin was dry and papery, but her grip was iron. “We love our Marco dearly, but we also know how men work. They think a few kind words and a heavy sigh will fix everything. They’ll come back here, they’ll look at you with those big, sad eyes, and they’ll say they’re sorry. And you’ll want to believe him, because you’ve grown fond of him.”
“I… I have,” you admitted quietly, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.
“Then don’t you dare accept it!” Mrs. Gable declared, her eyes blazing. “If he wants to be with you, if he wants to treat you like the lady you are, he shouldn’t just apologize. He needs to earn it. He needs to grovel! He needs to stand at your feet and prove that he understands what he’s done. He needs to show you that you are his entire world, not just a way to pass a Sunday afternoon!”
“Yes!” Leo’s mother echoed, nodding vigorously. “Make him work for it! Don’t let him off easy. If he wants your heart, he has to really work for it first!”
The women began to murmur in agreement, a chorus of “Exactly!” and “That’s right!” and “Don’t be a fool, dear!”
You looked at the sea of determined faces. Part of you wanted to scream that they were completely wrong, that the night had been the most beautiful, consensual, and soul-shattering experience of your life. But another part of you - the part that still felt the sting of his recent distance, the part that had spiraled into panic when you saw that note - felt a wicked, tiny spark of satisfaction.
Because they were right. And yes, you understood Marco, understood what he went through, but it was a fact that the way he behaved did hurt you. So if he thought he could just walk back in here, give you a meaningful look, and have everything return to “normal,” he was in for a very rude awakening.
“You’re right,” you said, your voice gaining a sudden, unexpected strength. You looked Mrs. Gable straight in the eye. “He shouldn’t be allowed to just... say he’s sorry.”
A collective gasp of triumph went up from the group. Mrs. Gable beamed, looking like she had just won a war.
“That’s my girl!” she crowed. “Now, we’ll be watching. If he tries to take the easy way out, you let us know, and we’ll be right here to remind him of his duties!”
As the crowd of women began to disperse, still whispering and nodding in approval, you stood on the porch, watching them go. You felt a strange mix of embarrassment and empowerment.
You went back inside and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door. You weren’t sure if you were playing a game or if you were actually going to hold him to this. But as you thought about Marco - the way he had looked at you, the way he had promised to be there - you knew one thing for certain.
When he walked through that door this afternoon, he wasn’t going to get a warm welcome. He was going to get a reckoning.
The afternoon dragged with an agonizing slowness. Usually you would be at the school this time of day, but the weather was so good today that you cancelled class, and so you spent the hours tidying the clinic as a way to ground yourself. Every time you passed the mirror, you caught a glimpse of your eyes - they were bright, still slightly puffy from the night’s tears and the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the passion that had followed.
You knew Marco. You knew the man who had once stood as a commander of a legendary era, a man who had carried the weight of losing a crew that felt more like family than anything else in the world. You knew that his silence wasn’t born of indifference towards you, but of a profound, bone-deep fear. To love something was to eventually lose it, and Marco had lost more than most men could fathom. He lived in the shadow of a bygone era, a man surrounded by the ghosts of those who had once called him brother. His distance was his armor. His silence was his fortress.
But as you sat in the quiet of the living area, waiting, you realized that while you understood his grief, you couldn’t live with the way he treated you. Not even because it hurt you, but because he harmed himself the most and probably didn’t even realize it.
The sound of his heavy boots on the porch signaled his arrival. You didn’t jump up. You didn’t rush to the door. You stayed seated at the small wooden table, your posture straight, your hands folded calmly in your lap.
The door creaked open. Marco stepped in, looking exhausted. His shirt was stained with dust from the docks, his hair even more disheveled than usual. When his eyes found yours, the tension in his shoulders visibly eased, replaced by a warmth that made your heart ache.
“I’m back, yoi,” he said softly, his voice low and melodic. He walked toward you, his gaze lingering on your face, clearly searching for something. “I... I was thinking about you the whole time…”
He reached out, his hand moving toward yours on the table. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t meet his hand either. You kept your eyes fixed on his.
“Sit down, Marco,” you said. Your voice wasn’t sharp, but it lacked the usual softness he was accustomed to. It was steady. Firm.
He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features, but he complied, pulling out the chair opposite you. He sat, his large frame making the chair look small. He looked at you expectantly, his expression a mixture of hope and wariness.
“I wanted to apologize for the... the way things have been,” he started, his voice earnest. “The distance. I’ve had a lot on my mind, and I know I haven’t been... present. I didn't mean to make you feel-”
“I’m not mad. But… that’s not what I need, Marco,” you interrupted. You didn’t raise your voice, but the intent was clear.
He paused, his brow furrowing. “Then what do you need?”
“I need you to understand why I’m being like this,” you said, leaning forward slightly. "The night we shared... it was incredible. It was everything I’ve wanted. But… it didn’t erase the last few weeks. It didn’t erase the way you looked right through me or sometimes even fully ignored me for weeks.”
Marco’s expression hardened, a flash of his old, defensive self flickering in his eyes. “I told you, I've been dealing with-”
“I know, Marco,” you countered, your voice softening but remaining unyielding. “I know about how you lost Whitebeard, Ace and so many more. I know about the weight you carry. I’m not asking you to drop it, Marco. I’m not asking you to forget who you were or what you’ve lost. I can live with your ghosts. I can.”
You paused, letting the weight of your words settle between you.
“But I will not be a ghost in your life,” you continued. "I will not be someone you only reach for when you’re lonely or when the tide is high. If we are going to do this - if we are going to be more than just people who share a bed when we feel like it - then you have to let me in. Not just the parts of you that are strong and legendary, but the parts that are afraid. The parts that are tired.”
Marco sat in silence, his gaze dropping to the table. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with the truth of your words. You could see the struggle in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the wood. He was fighting the urge to retreat, to pull that armor back on and push you away with a joke or a shrug.
“You're asking a lot, yoi,” he whispered, his voice thick.
“I’m asking for honesty,” you corrected. “I’m asking for effort because that’s what I deserve. I’m asking you to realize that while you’re busy protecting yourself from the pain of losing me, you’re actually causing me pain right now. The silence hurts more than the fear ever could.”
He looked up then, and the look in his eyes broke your heart. It wasn’t anger or defensiveness. It was a raw, naked vulnerability that he rarely showed anyone. He looked like a man who had been standing in a storm for a lifetime and had finally realized he was shivering.
“I don’t know how to do it,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to be... like that. Without feeling like I’m opening a door that can't be closed.”
“Then let’s learn together,” you said, reaching across the table. This time, you took his hand. His skin was rough and warm, and as your fingers entwined with his, you felt him exhale a long, shaky breath. “But you have to stop running away. You can’t keep building walls and then wonder why you’re lonely behind them.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand over, squeezing yours with a desperate, grounding strength. He bowed his head, his forehead almost touching the table, and for a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing.
Then, slowly, he rose from his chair. He didn’t move toward the door, and he didn’t move toward the bedroom. He walked around the table and stopped directly in front of you.
He didn’t say anything. He simply sank to his knees on the floor at your feet.
Your breath hitched. The village women had been right. The legendary Marco, the man who had commanded fleets and faced down the most powerful men of the sea, was kneeling before you.
He took your hands in his, his head bowed, his golden hair falling over his eyes. He looked up at you, his expression solemn and profoundly sincere.
“I was wrong,” he said, his voice steady and low. “I thought I was protecting myself by keeping the world out. But all I was doing was keeping you out, and you’re the best thing that has happened to me in a long time. I’ve been a fool, yoi.”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your hands, his lips lingering there.
“I don’t want to be a man who lives among ghosts anymore,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to be a man who lives with you. I will make the effort. I will show you. I will earn the right to stand beside you.”
He stayed there, kneeling, his hands still holding yours, looking up at you with a gaze that promised everything. He wasn’t just apologizing; he was surrendering himself entirely to you.
You looked down at him and saw him stripped bare. He wasn’t a legend at this moment. He wasn’t a commander. He was just Marco, a man terrified of his own heart, yet willing to offer it up to you on a silver platter.
Your breath hitched, a single, stray tear escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. You didn’t speak. Instead, you reached down, your fingers trembling slightly as you brushed them against his jaw, then buried them in the thick, golden strands of his hair.
A low, broken sound escaped his throat at your touch. He leaned into your palm, his eyes closing, a look of pure, unadulterated relief washing over his face.
“You don’t have to stay on your knees forever,” you whispered and chuckled quietly, though your heart secretly relished the sight of his surrender. “But you do have to mean it. Every word.”
“I do,” he rasped, his voice vibrating against your skin. “I swear it on everything I am, yoi.”
He didn’t rise immediately. Instead, he stayed there, a man at prayer. He began to kiss your hands, his lips slow and reverent, moving from your knuckles to the sensitive skin of your wrists. Each kiss was a promise, a silent vow of the effort he intended to make. He was groveling, yes, but it wasn’t out of shame - it was out of worship. He was treating you like something sacred, something he had nearly lost through his own negligence.
The sensation of his warm lips against your skin sent a new, different kind of heat blooming in your chest. It wasn’t the frantic, chemically-induced fire of the Velvet Siren; no, it was a slow-burning, steady warmth that made your blood hum with a deep, soul-level longing.
He moved his kisses upward, his face pressing against your thighs, his breath hot through the fabric of your robe. He let out a ragged exhale, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, pulling you slightly closer to him as he knelt.
“Marco,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He looked up, his eyes dark and swirling with a hunger that was about you and you only. It was the hunger of a man who had realized he had been starving in the midst of plenty.
“I want to show you,” he murmured, his voice a low, predatory growl that sent shivers racing down your spine. “I want to show you exactly how much you matter. Not just with words, but with everything I have.”
He stood up then, but he didn’t pull away. He stepped into your space, his large, warm body pressing against yours, forcing you to lean back against the edge of the table. His hands, calloused and strong, slid under your robe, finding the bare skin of your waist and traveling upward.
“Let me,” he whispered against your lips, his breath smelling of salt and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him. “Let me spend the rest of the night proving it to you.”
You didn’t answer with words. You reached up, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a desperate, hungry meeting of mouths that tasted of apology, of passion, and of a new, terrifyingly beautiful beginning.
He groaned into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound as he backed you further against the table, his hands roaming your body with a possessive intensity. The table creaked under your combined weight, the sound echoing in the quiet room, an accompaniment to the sudden, violent rekindling of the fire between you.
The transition from the table to the bed was a blur of feverish skin and whispered promises. This time, the intensity wasn’t fueled by the frantic, artificial heat of the flower, but by a profound, starving need to be together. Marco was careful - painfully, beautifully careful.
He worshiped you. His mouth traced the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, and the swell of your breasts with a slow, agonizing tenderness. Every touch was an answer to your earlier plea. He watched your eyes, his own gaze heavy and molten, ensuring he was there for every gasp, every shuddering breath.
“Ah... mmm…” You arched against him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as he moved within you. The rhythm was steady and felt less like sex and more like two pieces of a broken thing finally clicking into place.
“You’re so good… so gorgeous,” Marco’s voice was a low, vibrating hum against your neck as he buried his face there, his breath hot and ragged. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring the way you felt around him, the way your body sang under his touch.
When your climax came, it wasn’t a violent explosion, but a long, shimmering wave that seemed to pull the very air from your lungs. You clung to him, your face hidden in the crook of his shoulder, sobbing softly - not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of being wanted so completely. He held you through it, his own release a quiet, powerful shudder that seemed to anchor you both to the earth.
Later, the room was bathed in the soft, silver glow of the moon. You only realized now how much time had passed. The air was cool, but the bed was warm, heavy with the scent of your shared intimacy.
You were tucked against his side, the weight of his arm a comforting, solid presence across your waist. You were wearing his shirt - a simple, white linen garment that was far too large for you. The sleeves swallowed your hands, and the hem reached mid-thigh, the fabric smelling deeply of him in a way that made you dizzy.
Marco was tracing idle, lazy patterns on your skin, his fingers moving over your shoulder and down your arm. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy, but peaceful.
“You’re very quiet, yoi,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and contentment. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
“Just thinking,” you replied, shifting closer to him, your head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.
“About?”
You hesitated. The thought had been hovering at the edge of your mind for weeks. You thought about the school, the children, but also the sea. You thought about the way the village felt like a living, breathing thing, and how, for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like a traveler passing through.
“About the future,” you said softly. “About how much has changed in such a short time.”
Marco was silent for a moment, his hand coming to rest over your heart, feeling its steady beat. “It has. A lot has changed.”
You took a deep breath, the scent of his shirt filling your lungs, grounding you. You realized then that you didn’t want to go back to the uncertainty of the sea. You didn’t want to be a wanderer anymore. And yes, God knows how much you loved being a pirate, but it had been a lonely time.
“Marco,” you said, your voice gaining a sudden, quiet clarity. You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. His gaze was soft, attentive, waiting.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. The words felt heavy, but also incredibly light, as if a great weight had been lifted from your shoulders. “I’m staying. On this island. With everyone and… and with you.”
The hand on your waist stilled. Marco stared at you, his eyes widening slightly, the moonlight catching the sudden, intense moisture in them. He didn’t speak immediately; he seemed to be processing the weight of your choice.
Then, he pulled you up, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce, desperate strength, pulling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in your hair, and you felt him shudder a little against your skin.
“Thank you,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “Thank you, yoi.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression one of profound, overwhelming gratitude. He kissed you then with a deep, soulful tenderness that felt like a vow.
“I’ll make it worth it,” he promised, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll spend every day making sure you never regret staying.”
You smiled, a small, tired, but beautiful thing, and drifted off to sleep in his arms, finally, truly, home.
You woke slowly, the transition from sleep to consciousness feeling like drifting through honey. The first thing you registered was the weight of the world around you feeling significantly lighter.
The oversized linen shirt was still bunched around your waist, and the air in the room was cool, but you were encased in a cocoon of heat. Marco’s arm was a heavy, comforting anchor across your middle, his thumb tracing slow, mindless circles against your hip.
He stirred as you shifted, a low, sleepy hum vibrating in his chest. He didn’t pull away; instead, he tightened his hold, pulling you back against him until there wasn’t a breath of space left between your bodies.
“Morning,” he rasped, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that felt like it was vibrating directly into your spine. He pressed a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck.
“Morning,” you whispered back, turning in his arms to face him.
His eyes were open, clear and focused. There was no shadow of the distant commander in them this morning. There was no wall. He looked at you with a terrifyingly beautiful clarity, as if he were seeing you for the very first time, and seeing everything he had almost thrown away.
“You stayed,” he murmured, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip. It wasn’t really a question more than it was an observation.
“I stayed,” you confirmed, leaning into his touch. “I told you, didn’t I? I’m home. I’m not going anywhere, Marco.”
He let out a breath - a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to release the last of the tension he’d been carrying for years. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’m going to make sure you never regret it. I promise you, yoi.”
You chuckled. “You already said that, silly.”
The morning passed in a haze of domesticity that felt both foreign and utterly right. You moved through the small house with a new rhythm. There was no frantic rushing to hide the signs of the night before, and no awkward silences to fill. When you went to the kitchen to prepare a simple breakfast of fruit and bread, Marco was there, hovering close. His presence was a constant, grounding warmth. He helped you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he sliced fruit.
As you ate on the small porch, looking out over the village waking up below, the silence between you was comfortable. It was the silence of two people who finally had nothing left to hide.
“The schoolhouse needs a few more shingles on the north side,” Marco said suddenly, breaking the quiet. He wasn’t looking at you; he was looking at the horizon, but his hand found yours on the table, his fingers interlacing with yours. “I’ll head up there after I check the supplies at the docks. I can fix it before the rains come.”
You smiled, a genuine, bright one. “I think the children would appreciate a dry classroom.”
“I think I would appreciate seeing you work in a dry classroom, too,” he corrected, casting a side-long, smoldering glance your way that made your stomach flip.
When you finally stepped out into the village later, the change in the atmosphere was palpable. It was subtle, but you felt it. The village women were out, hanging laundry or sweeping porches, and as you and Marco walked side-by-side - his hand resting possessively, yet tenderly, on the small of your back - the whispers began.
You saw Mrs. Gable near the well. She paused mid-scoop, her eyes darting between Marco’s hand on you and the unmistakable glow in your expression. She didn’t scold you. She didn’t demand an explanation. Instead, she gave a slow, satisfied nod, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips before she turned back to her work.
The “jury” had reached a verdict, and they were pleased. Though you knew that Marco would probably still have to endure a few weeks of comments here and there.
As you walked toward the schoolhouse, the sounds of the village - the distant shouts of fishermen and the laughter of your beloved students - felt like a symphony. You realized that you weren’t just a guest here anymore. You weren't just the person who helped the doctor or the teacher who stayed for a season.
You were finally, truly, a part of the foundation.
You reached the schoolhouse, the scent of fresh sawdust and sun-warmed wood greeting you. You stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the empty desks and the chalkboard, visualizing the children filling the space with chaos and curiosity in just a few minutes.
A hand settled on your shoulder, and you didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. Marco stood behind you.
“It’s a good place,” he said softly, his gaze following yours. “You worked very hard. You can be really proud of yourself.”
“It is,” you agreed, turning in his arms. You looked up at him, the man who had finally decided to stop living in the past and start building a future with you. “Though I couldn’t have done it without you and everyone else.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He simply leaned down and kissed you - a slow, deep promise of a thousand tomorrows - while the sun rose higher, casting long, bright shadows over the island you had both decided to call home.
You spent the next hours navigating a sea of tiny, inquisitive minds, correcting spelling mistakes and answering questions that ranged from “How many stars are there?” to silly ones like “Why does Marco look so grumpy in the mornings?”
Every time a child laughed or a small hand reached up to show you a drawing, you felt a swell of warmth in your chest. It was a different kind of fulfillment than the passion of your life out on the sea, but no less profound.
By the time the final bell rang and the last child scurried out the door, your limbs felt heavy, but your heart felt light. You walked back toward the small house on the hill you now officially called your home, the afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows across the dirt path.
As you approached the front door, something caught your eye. Nestled in a small, hand-carved wooden bowl sitting on the doorstep was a single, magnificent flower.
It was an Iris. Its petals were a deep, velvety violet, streaked with veins of royal blue and gold, standing proud and elegant against the weathered wood of the porch.
Your breath hitched. Beside the flower lay a small, folded scrap of parchment. You picked it up, your fingers trembling slightly. The handwriting was unmistakably Marco’s - a little rugged, bold, but written with a careful, deliberate precision.
“For the hope you brought back to my life. You are the light in the dark. - M.”
Of course you knew the language of flowers - your most beloved hobby you’d picked up during your travels. Marco knew that because you told him. The Iris symbolized hope, wisdom, and valor. But more than the meaning, it was the gesture. It was his way of communicating the things he still struggled to say aloud. It was a silent, beautiful statement of his affection towards you.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, you tucked the flower into your hair and felt a sudden, inexplicable pull toward the hill.
The walk up to the graves was silent, save for the rhythmic sounds of your boots on the dry grass and the whistling of the wind through the tall trees. The hill was a place of heavy memories, ones you knew Marco still couldn’t face, and so you did it for him.
You stood before the two grave stones, the wind tugging at your hair. You didn’t speak to the dead, but you stood there in a moment of profound respect. You acknowledged the weight of their absence, the scars they had left on the man you loved. But as you looked out over the ocean while placing new flowers you plucked this morning and silently sweeping the dust on them, you realized you weren’t standing there to mourn. You couldn’t, after all. You only knew them through Marco’s stories. No, you were standing there to honor the fact that life, in all its messy, beautiful, terrifying glory, continued. You were the living proof of that continuity.
With a final, quiet breath, you turned away from the shadows and began the descent.
The evening air was cooling as you reached the house once more. You stepped inside, stripped off your teaching apron and rolled up your sleeves, moving into the kitchen with a sense of joyful intent.
The kitchen soon filled with the comforting sounds of food preparation; the rhythmic knife work against the wooden board, the sound of garlic and onions hitting hot oil in a pan and the savory, mouth-watering aroma of rosemary and slow-simmering broth began to fill the small space.
You prepared a hearty stew, accompanied by crusty bread and a simple salad. As you worked, you found yourself humming a low, contented tune, your mind drifting to the way Marco’s eyes had looked in the moonlight yesterday.
You set the table, lighting a single candle that cast a soft, dancing glow over the wood. The house was quiet, but not for long.
As you heard the distant, heavy tread of boots approaching the porch, a smile tugged at your lips. You wiped your hands on your apron, smoothed your hair, and waited. Your doctor was coming home, and for the first time in a very long time, the house was full of light.
When the door swung open, you were already there, waiting by the hearth, the smell of the savory stew filling the small space.
He stepped inside, pulling his jacket off with a weary exhale. He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual from a day spent dealing with illnesses and injuries from the villagers. “You’re late,” you teased, stepping up behind him.
“It was a long day, yoi,” he murmured, his voice sounding like gravel rubbing together.
You didn’t let him slump into a chair. Instead, you reached up, your fingers finding the tense, hard muscles of his shoulders. You pressed down, working your thumbs into the knots he’d accumulated throughout the day.
“Relax, old man,” you joked, pressing a little harder into a particularly stubborn spot. “You’re stiff as a board. If you keep carrying the weight of the whole world on your back, you’re going to need a cane before you hit fifty.”
Marco let his head fall forward with a tired, rumbling chuckle. “That feels good.” He shifted under your hands, leaning back against you. “Old man, huh? You’re really going to hold that over me?”
“You are,” you giggled, smoothing the hair back from his neck. “And I’m your girlfriend now, so I’m obligated to take care of you… but also make fun of you.”
Marco stilled. He turned slightly, looking at you over his shoulder with a thoughtful expression. He paused, his gaze drifting to the window for a split second before returning to yours.
“My girlfriend,” he repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Wow. Getting made fun of by my own girlfriend... that term sounds so weird for my age. It feels like I’m a teenager again.”
You kissed his cheek, softening your teasing. “Well, you’ll always be my favorite old man.”
He smiled - a real, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes - and pulled you toward the table.
Dinner was quiet, the only sounds were the scrape of spoons against bowls and the soft crackle of the fireplace. The stew was rich, the broth thick with herbs and root vegetables. You watched him closely as he took the first few bites, hoping he liked it.
He paused midway through a spoonful, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. He swallowed, his eyes dropping to the bowl, then back up to you. A strange, misty light flickered in his eyes.
“This,” he started, his voice unusually quiet. “This tastes a little like Thatch’s cooking.”
Your heart skipped a beat. You knew the name. You knew what he meant. But you hadn’t expected him to say it - not like this, not with a faint, fond smile playing on his lips rather than a wince of pain.
“Thatch?” you repeated softly, afraid to break the spell.
“Yeah,” Marco murmured, looking down at his bowl, his fingers tracing the rim. “He always insisted on adding extra rosemary to the broth. Said it brought out the flavor of the meat better. He’d stand in the galley of the Moby Dick, wearing that ridiculous apron he loved, singing off-key while he stirred the pot. He used to say that if the food wasn’t made with a bit of joy, it wasn’t worth serving to the crew.”
He let out a soft, huffed laugh, a sound of pure nostalgia. “He was always the one to start the party. If the morale was low, he’d whip up something special, and suddenly, the whole crew would be laughing again. He was... he was a loud, cheerful idiot sometimes, but he was the heart of the galley.”
You sat frozen, your fork halfway to your mouth. You felt a swell of warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the food. This was the first time he had spoken of them not as martyrs or as ghosts, but as people. As friends. As family who had lived and breathed and laughed.
He wasn’t talking about their deaths. He was talking about their lives.
“I’d love to hear more about him,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, careful to keep the invitation open without crowding him.
Marco looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the genuine interest in your eyes. He didn’t look like he was bracing for an emotional blow. He looked like he was finally willing to share a piece of his history with the person who was now part of his future.
“He used to try to teach the younger members how to fillet fish,” Marco continued, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. “He was terrible at being strict about it though. He’d just end up tossing flour at them when they messed up, especially at Ace. At one point he wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen anymore. It was chaos.”
You smiled, tears pricking the corners of your eyes - not from sadness, but from pure, unadulterated happiness. You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours.
“I’m glad you’re telling me this, Marco,” you said, meaning it with every fiber of your being.
He turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles. “I’m glad I can tell you,” he replied, his voice firm and steady. “I think... I think I’m finally ready for you to know them, too.”
2087
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
jbbartram-illu
germansingergirl
stormborns
kaledo-art