Smoker's Fury (One Piece) (Smoker)
The reader is the secretary of Vice Admiral Smoker in Loguetown. She has a run-in with some thugs who don't like Smoker but would never attack him, so they target you, which was a big mistake. When you show up to work with a split lip and a black eye, Smoker is furious. So when Smoker tells you no one will bother you again, you don't ask questions.
The morning air in Loguetown felt heavier than usual. You kept your head down as you walked into the Marine office, the dull ache in your jaw pulsing with every step. The bruise around your eye had darkened overnight, and your split lip stung each time you breathed too sharply. You had tried to cover it—powder, careful angles—but there was only so much you could hide.
The door creaked open. Silence fell almost instantly. At the far end of the room, Smoker sat behind his desk, a cigar already lit, smoke curling lazily around him. His sharp eyes flicked up—and froze.
The cigar snapped between his teeth. In an instant, he was on his feet. “...Who did this to you?” His voice wasn’t loud. That made it worse.
You hesitated, offering a weak shrug as you set your papers down. “It’s nothing serious—”
“Was it them?”
You met his gaze, steady despite the knot forming in your chest. “They’re not worth your time, Vice Admiral.”
The room felt like it dropped ten degrees. “I’m going to kill them.”
Your breath caught. You stepped forward quickly, placing a hand on the desk between you, grounding yourself. “You said you wouldn’t.” That stopped him—barely.
His jaw tightened, smoke spilling from his lips in a slow, controlled exhale. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think this isn’t enough to change my mind?”
There it was—the fury he kept buried under discipline and rank. Not reckless. Not wild.
Focused. Dangerous.
You softened your voice. “If you go after them like that, it won’t just be them who pays for it.” You held his gaze. “I’m fine. Really.”
He didn’t answer. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of his cigar.
Then, He turned. And walked out.
“Vice Admiral—!” you called after him, but the door slammed shut before you could say anything else.
The office buzzed back to life in nervous murmurs. You exhaled slowly, already reaching for the den den mushi on your desk. “…Tashigi? Yeah. It’s me.” You glanced at the door. “Can you… keep an eye on him?”
—
The next time you saw Smoker, the sun was already setting. You were still at your desk, finishing reports, when the door opened again. He stepped inside as if nothing had happened. Same coat. Same cigars. Same unreadable expression. But there was something… settled about him. Final. You didn’t ask.
He approached your desk, dropping a stack of documents in front of you. “Those need filing.”
You nodded, sliding them into place. “Of course.”
A pause. Then, more quietly— “No one will bother you again.”
Your hand stilled for just a second. You looked up at him. There were a hundred questions you could’ve asked. You didn’t ask a single one. Instead, you gave a small nod. “Thank you, Vice Admiral.”
And just like that, you handed him the next set of paperwork. He took it without comment.
—
Later, as the office emptied, Tashigi lingered by your desk. She adjusted her glasses, clearly debating how much to say. “…He found them,” she admitted finally, voice low.
You didn’t look up from your work. “I figured.”
Tashigi hesitated. “He used his Devil Fruit.” Your pen paused. “That’s… all he told me to say,” she added quickly.
You nodded once. That was enough—more than enough. Outside, the wind carried the faint scent of smoke through Loguetown’s streets. And for the first time since that night, you felt safe.
—
The next morning, Loguetown carried on as if nothing had happened. Orders barked. Papers shuffled. Marines moved in and out of headquarters with the usual urgency. And at the centre of it all, Smoker pushed open the door to his office. Something was… off. It took him half a second to spot it. Right in the middle of his desk sat a neatly wrapped bento box—and beside it, a small wooden case he recognised immediately.
His eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, boots heavy against the floor, and set his jitte against the desk with a quiet thunk. The cigars in his mouth shifted as he stared down at the items, as if they might explode. He didn’t touch them at first.
Smoker wasn’t a man for gifts. Didn’t trust them. Didn’t need them. And yet— His gaze flicked toward your desk. Empty. “…Tch.”
He reached for the wooden case first, flipping it open with his thumb.
Inside, lined perfectly, were his favourites. Rare. Hard to get, even for someone of his rank. His jaw tightened. Then, slower this time, he pulled the bento box toward him. The lid came off. Steam no longer rose from it, but the scent lingered—familiar, unmistakable.
His favourite. Not store-bought. Not rushed. Made. Carefully. Smoker stared at it in silence. No note. Of course, there wasn’t. You weren’t the type. …Neither was he. For a long moment, he just stood there, shoulders squared, smoke curling upward as if waiting for some kind of explanation that wasn’t coming.
Then he clicked his tongue under his breath. “…Idiot.”
It wasn’t clear who he meant. He sat down heavily in his chair, dragging the bento a little closer. His gaze lingered on it a second longer before he reached for his chopsticks. A bite. Another. He didn’t rush. Didn’t comment. But the tension in his shoulders eased—just slightly.
—
By the time you returned—later than usual, arms full of files as if nothing had changed—the office door was already closed. You knocked once.
“Enter.”
You stepped inside. Smoker sat behind his desk, exactly as always. The bento box was gone. The cigar case, too. Only a faint trace of food remained in the air—and a fresh cigar burning between his fingers.
You set the files down. “Apologies for the delay—”
“Next time,” he cut in, not looking up, “don’t waste your money.”
Your lips twitched faintly. “It wasn’t a waste.”
A pause. He signed a document, sharp and precise. “…Food was decent.”
That was as close to a thank you as you were ever going to get.
You inclined your head slightly. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
Another silence settled between you—but it wasn’t tense. Just… understood.
As you turned back to your desk, you caught it— For a fraction of a second— The way his hand lingered near the cigar case before he pulled another one free. Careful. Measured. Like it mattered more than he’d ever admit.