Synopsis: Michi’s job description includes tailoring, verbal abuse directed at Crocodile, and surviving deadlines that should kill lesser people.
What it does not include is falling in love with a former Shichibukai who sees her as a convenient tool.
Notes: I don’t know if I’m managing to make Michi suffer enough, but the goal is to torture you all until things start going to shit :)
Next cookies: The next piece will probably be something like this too, since I’m in that kind of mood. *maniacal laugh intensifies*
Crocodile’s ship was smaller than Michi had expected. No crowded deck, no shouting, no running around or numerous crew. Its members consisted of only a few people who moved with efficiency, each seeming to know exactly where to be and what to do. It was a compact, functional ship, discreet in a way that fit perfectly with the man who commanded it.
That was when she saw him. A tall man, rigid posture, arms crossed, an expression far too impassive to be mistaken.
“…Daz?” Michi stopped for a second, genuinely surprised. Even knowing he had once been a member of Baroque Works, she hadn’t expected to see him again after most of the others had scattered.
The man blinked a few times before a spark of recognition appeared in his eyes as he realized who the girl was. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me that.” he replied, his voice deep and controlled. “Miss Michi.”
“So it really is you…” she murmured, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “What a pleasant coincidence.”
“It’s good to see you alive.” He inclined his head slightly, a minimal but respectful gesture.
“The feeling is mutual.” she answered, sincerely.
Crocodile watched the exchange in silence, his gaze shifting from one to the other with attention. “You know each other?”
“Spiders Café.” Daz replied before Michi could open her mouth.
“I used to be a regular customer, nothing special.” the girl continued, trying to make it sound like it was nothing at all. Daz, however, seemed willing to be less economical with the details.
“Until she got into trouble with Miss Valen— I mean, Miss Mikita.” For an almost imperceptible moment, his lips curved upward.
Michi clenched her teeth, jaw tense, clearly holding herself back from grabbing her own suitcase and throwing it at the man’s head as she was reminded of that inconvenient incident.
Crocodile let out a low sound through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a restrained chuckle. He would have to ask Daz later what Michi had gotten herself into that time. Then he turned to one of the nearby crew members, who had been paying a little too much attention to the conversation. “Take Michi to her quarters. Show her everything she’ll need.”
He handed the heavy suitcase to the man without ceremony. “If anything is missing, let me know.” he added, already walking away alongside Daz.
“Alright…” Michi murmured, watching him disappear across the deck.
The crewman made a short gesture for her to follow. The ship’s inner corridors were narrow, but clean and well lit. No excessive luxury, everything designed to work. When he finally opened a door and stepped aside to let her in, Michi paused at the entrance.
The room was small, yes. But comfortable. There was a bed against the wall, simple and neatly made. A long table by the window, with enough space for her to cut her fabrics. A sewing machine already in place, rustic in appearance, but definitely functional. A low cabinet, a coat rack fixed to the wall—and when she opened the furniture, Michi felt her chest give a small jolt. Fabric rolls. Good fabric.
Some chosen with frightening precision for the kind of work she usually did. So he had been paying attention after all. The air felt lighter in her lungs. Breathing became… easier. It was as if the rose growing inside her had noticed the gesture too, retreating a little in the face of the hope that flickered back to life in her heart.
“M—Mr. Crocodile ordered everything prepared in advance.” the crewman explained, a bit awkwardly. “He said you’d need a place ready for sewing.”
“Yeah, I am a work maniac after all.” she replied. Her lips trembled, rehearsing a smile she stopped before it fully formed. She had no intention of showing how much it had affected her—not there, not in front of someone from Crocodile’s crew. There was a reputation to maintain, and a pride just as large as his. “We can continue the tour of the ship later. I have a lot to do. You’re dismissed.”
“Y-yes, miss!”
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
The corridor was quieter at that hour. Most of the crew had already turned in, and the ship’s constant sway became more noticeable without hurried footsteps or pirates shouting back and forth. Crocodile stopped in front of the door that led to Michi’s quarters. Just to check if everything was in order. Nothing more than that.
He knocked twice.
“Come in.” her voice replied almost immediately.
The room was lit only by an oil lamp near the table. The smell of new fabric, waxed thread, and machine oil mixed in the air. Crocodile took a few steps inside and stopped. His attention immediately landed on the coat rack beside the seamstress.
The vest was finished and properly hung. Not just finished—it was perfect. Embroidered with meticulous precision, delicate patterns running through the dark fabric as if they had been born there. Beneath it, carefully folded, was a matching handkerchief, the colors chosen to complement the set without stealing too much attention—exactly what he had ordered three days earlier.
“This…” he began, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Wasn’t this scheduled for two days from now?”
Michi was sitting in the chair, shoulders slightly slumped, writing something in her planner. When she lifted her face toward him, the light revealed what the silence had been trying to hide. She was a little pale, dark circles already beginning to form, her eyes still attentive but tired in a way that didn’t come only from work—something easier to notice when she wasn’t wearing her usual oversized lenses.
“Yeah… it was” she replied, closing the notebook and setting it aside along with her glasses. “Guess I got a little carried away.”
Crocodile watched her hands—slender and steady—tremble just a little. “You pushed yourself too far.”
“You know that I hate delays.” Michi shrugged, forcing lightness. But the attempt fell apart when she coughed. Dry at first. Then deeper. Hidden into a clenched fist, too fast to be polite, too slow to go unnoticed. Crocodile frowned for a moment before shifting his gaze to the vest, as if evaluating the stitching—though his attention was on something else entirely.
“I noticed earlier.” he said, his voice far too neutral to be casual. “The coughing.”
“I think I caught a cold.”
He lifted his eyes to her, surprised by how quickly she answered. “The ship’s doctor is available. It would be wise for you to see him.”
Michi smiled. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Too rehearsed for his taste. “Alright, I’ll do that tomorrow.”
Another coughing fit came, stronger this time. She turned to the side, pressing the handkerchief to her mouth. For a second, Crocodile thought he saw something dark stain the fabric, but when she folded it quickly, there was nothing visible.
Maybe he was imagining things. After all, he was tired too, from all the logistical movement he’d had to handle in the past few hours.
“Go to the doctor.” he repeated, more quietly. “That’s not a request.”
Michi nodded slowly. Crocodile didn’t like the answer. But he didn’t push. He turned to leave, then stopped at the door. “The work turned out… excellent, as always.” he said, without looking directly at her. “Rest. That’s also an order.”
When the door closed, Michi remained seated for a few seconds. Then she opened the handkerchief. It was red, and there was a petal. She took a deep breath—once, twice—until the discomfort settled. “Good thing he didn’t see that.”
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
The night refused to pass, and Michi knew it without needing to look at a clock, without counting the ship’s sway or the intervals between the creaking wood. Her body simply no longer shut down like it used to. Sleep had become a fragile agreement, made of short naps and abrupt awakenings—and that night, not even that seemed possible.
Since the first signs had appeared weeks earlier, the nights had grown shorter. Sleep came late and left early, sometimes didn’t even show up to explain itself.
She lay there for a while, staring at the dark ceiling of the room, counting her own breaths as if that might make any difference. Each inhale came with a strange weight in her chest, as if the air had to pass through a path that was too narrow. It didn’t exactly hurt—at least not yet. It was just… uncomfortable.
“Don’t think about it. Keep your mind busy doing something.” That was what she always did.
Before, that meant sewing until her fingers went numb, embroidering increasingly intricate patterns just to keep her mind occupied with something other than his name and the damn uncomfortable feeling that came with it. But now there was nothing to sew. No pending orders. No cut fabric waiting for finishing. Crocodile had given the girl a night of rest, and it wasn’t helping her relax in the slightest.
Michi sat up carefully on the bed, half-expecting the world to spin—it sometimes did when she got up too fast—but that night only a heavy fatigue came, as if it were stuck to her bones. She grabbed her coat, her glasses, slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, and left.
The ship’s corridors were almost completely silent. The low lighting cast long, distorted shadows, making everything feel slightly unreal—as if she were walking inside a thought, not a real place. Each step echoed too loudly in her own ears, so she began to walk more slowly.
The ship smelled different at night. Less heated metal, more salt, old wood, and oil. A steady smell. Michi liked it—it was easier to breathe when the world smelled like something concrete.
Breathe.
She stopped for a moment, resting her hand against the cold wall. Inhaled deeply. Held it. Let it out slowly. It worked… more or less.
It was strange how the body seemed to learn to love someone before the mind had given permission. Before she could organize it into safe words like crush, admiration, or mistake. The feeling had simply taken root—silent, patient—growing where it shouldn’t, taking up more and more space.
Michi touched her own chest over her clothes, pressing lightly, as if she could keep everything in place with enough force. There was no pain at that moment—just the memory of the cough, the strange taste in her mouth, the way she had learned to fold the handkerchief too quickly.
She moved to a side porthole and watched the dark sea outside. The waves reflected little light, breaking and reforming without hurry. The sea didn’t care—it never did—and strangely, there was something comforting in that.
If I die at sea… she thought, with a calm that scared her. Maybe that would make sense.
Not because it would be romantic. Not because it would be beautiful. But because the sea didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand embarrassing explanations about loving someone who could never return it the right way—someone who looked at her as a resource, a useful piece, a controlled variable.
She didn’t blame him for that. In fact, that was the cruelest part: she understood. Crocodile was made of control. Of walls. Of cold decisions. Truly liking someone would be a dangerous weakness. Michi knew that better than anyone. She herself had spent her life sewing things for others—reinforcing, repairing—without ever being the center of the structure. She almost never made a piece for herself. She knew he was the same way.
The problem wasn’t loving. It was her body deciding to expose it. She coughed again—this time weaker—but still brought her hand to her mouth out of reflex. When she lowered it, she stared at her palm for a second longer than necessary, searching for something she didn’t want to see. There was nothing. Not yet.
“Just a little longer…” Michi rested her forehead against the cold corridor wall, closing her eyes. “Let me stay just a little longer…”
Not for him. Not exactly. For the work, the routine, the sound of the ship waking up, the way things still seemed possible during the day. For the comforting illusion of usefulness she had near him.
Michi straightened her posture, took another deep breath, and started walking again. If she couldn’t sleep, at least she could exist in motion. As long as she was walking, sewing, breathing—even with difficulty—she was still here. And for now, that had to be enough.
Warnings: blood, illnesses, cursing, violence, major spoilers, angst and Crocodile it's bad with feelings.
Word count: ~2.300
Synopsis: "Michi’s job description includes tailoring, verbal abuse directed at Crocodile, and surviving deadlines that should kill lesser people.
What it does not include is falling in love with a former Shichibukai who sees her as just a convenient tool."
Notes: Now I'm going to hibernate for another six months and you’ll never know the rest of the story. Just kidding, only until February, I’m busy with cosplay stuff. Also this fanfiction was planned to be a CrossGuild x reader, but I think Crocoboy is kinda cool, so I'm playing favorites now.
Next cookies: Dunno, but probably this or some oneshot.
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
Ever since becoming a Shichibukai, whenever Crocodile needed his clothes adjusted or new pieces commissioned—whether for an important occasion or because some battle had destroyed his previous attire—he always went to a certain seamstress.
“YOU DAMNED SAND WORM! You ruined the embroidered vest I spent three nights making with my sweat and blood!” snarled the frail girl with large round glasses and a perpetually foul mood. “I hope you don’t have the nerve to come asking for another one just to destroy it again with your complete lack of care!”
If there was anyone capable of yelling at Crocodile without risking having their head torn off, that someone was Michi. His trusted seamstress, the only person to whom he delegated his most personal, delicate work—usually under deadlines that would be humanly impossible for anyone else. Michi was the only one in the region capable of delivering a finished piece in a matter of minutes whenever he needed to attend urgent negotiations or events, and he admired her for it. He also admired her courage: shouting at a Shichibukai without so much as trembling was something very few would dare. Perhaps it was just stubbornness, but it was impressive all the same.
“I assume that is precisely the reason for my visit.” Crocodile replied, utterly unfazed by the girl’s fury and showing no hostility.
“Why you—” Michi was already preparing to throw one of her tailor’s rulers at his face, but more than anyone, Crocodile knew how to deal with his seamstress’s fierce temper. A few sweet words or a well-placed compliment were enough to make her melt and completely change her mood. And Crocodile, being the manipulative bastard that he was, would never let an opening like that go to waste in negotiations.
“I liked the pattern you embroidered along the sides.” the man said as he stepped closer, placing his enormous hand—nearly the size of Michi’s head—into her hair, ruffling it lightly. “It will be missed in my wardrobe.”
Michi’s expression softened almost immediately, shifting into something unexpectedly shy yet brimming with pride. The dangerously sharp rulers were set back onto the table. Crocodile had struck her most sensitive point: her appreciation for well-made work. A small gesture of affection that moved her far more than he could ever imagine.
“Oh, stop it… It’s not that good. If I’d had one more day, I could’ve made it much more elaborate…” she murmured with a pout, arms crossed, the posture of someone who never quite knew how to react to praise. “…with those covered buttons you like.”
“Then I’ll come pick it up in five days.” Crocodile said, already turning to leave the small, cluttered atelier. “I want the covered buttons… and a matching scarf.”
“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice, huh? What would you do without me…” she grumbled, hands on her hips. “But just this once! If you ruin my clothes again, I swear I won’t forgive you!”
It must have been the hundredth time she’d said that… and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Deep down, though, she was excited about the new commission. Crocodile was one of the few people with refined taste in fashion and punctual payments. Michi hated to admit it, but he was an excellent client and always brought new challenges into her otherwise quiet routine as a tailor.
“I’ll be more careful,” Crocodile assured her, pausing at the door. “And, Michi… don’t forget to eat. You’re getting too thin.”
“SHUT UP, YOU IDIOT CROCODILE! I’M PERFECTLY FINE!” Michi turned red instantly and threw a spool of thread at the door as it closed behind him, narrowly missing.
It wasn’t as if he truly felt any affection for Michi—of course not. At least, that was what Crocodile liked to believe. To him, her presence was merely… convenient. Amid so many who trembled at his name, it was curious to have someone who faced him head-on, fearless, driven only by sheer stubbornness and a pride as sharp as the needle she wielded.
That was why he made sure her health was in order. Not out of concern—never—but for the simple, periodic, and systematic maintenance of yet another efficient piece on his board.
Or so he told himself, countless times, trying to convince his own heart. At the end of the day, Michi was just a seamstress. Terribly competent, true—perhaps even irreplaceable in practice—but still merely a valuable tool for his plans, just another pawn on his board.
But fate has a terrible habit of interfering with even the most calculated strategists, especially those arrogant enough to believe they control everything. Certain calamities arrive without warning, strike anyone—regardless of power, status, or fame—and bloom precisely in the strongest hearts, when unreturned feelings take root too deeply.
And when Crocodile left the cramped, cluttered atelier that afternoon, leaving behind Michi with her face lit by hopes she tried to hide… she coughed.
A dry, abrupt cough, followed by a strange pressure in her chest, as if something were opening inside her. And then came the petals. Damned petals.
Small, pale roses, their tips stained a cruel, vibrant hue, speckled with blood—a morbid beauty that revealed the inevitable truth behind them. A desert rose. Hanahaki.
Michi liked Crocodile far more than was professionally appropriate, far more than she herself would have liked. She eagerly awaited his visits, even if she would never admit it to herself. She had never imagined, however, that her feelings would grow so high, so fast, so strong. She had always known the distance between them: she, a simple seamstress with no fame, no prestige, no power. He, the Emperor of the Sand. A name that made entire islands tremble. Only a fool would allow herself to fall in love with someone so unattainable—and Michi knew that. That was why she locked her feelings away in the deepest, most suffocated corner of her heart, where she thought they would die without causing damage.
And how wrong she was. It was hard to maintain that self-control when he was such an absurdly attractive man, so elegant, so… damn it, he matched everything she created! How she loved sewing for him. That arrogant pile of sand looked perfect in absolutely any fabric, any cut, any color. And, ironically, that only made the illness worse, torturing her heart every time he wore something made by her hands.
Michi leaned against the table, exhausted from the recent episode, the bitter taste of blood still lingering on her tongue. She needed to act. The progression of the disease was far too fast—she knew she wouldn’t survive another month if things continued this way.
She knew the basics of Hanahaki and had no intention of dying anytime soon… but she also didn’t want to tear from her chest the feeling that was killing her. She didn’t want to lose that silent, impossible love for the man she admired from afar.
She just wanted a little more time. A few more clothes sewn for him. A few more conversations.
Maybe just long enough to be remembered.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the bell above the door. A customer was coming in.Michi quickly wiped the blood-stained petals from the table with a handkerchief, tucked the pain into the same dark corner of her heart where she kept her feelings, adjusted her smile—and prepared to attend to the unfortunate soul who dared interrupt her personal tragedy.
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
Three days later, the atelier’s bell rang far too early. The morning had barely begun when Michi lifted her eyes from the fabric she was sewing, irritated. She hadn’t even opened the shop curtains yet, and someone already dared test her patience. She had no appointments that day—certainly not with him.
The door opened without ceremony. Crocodile entered as he always did anywhere: filling the space with his imposing presence and threatening aura. His heavy coat still smelled of sand and smoke, the cigar unlit between his fingers, his expression too serious even by his standards. There was no theatrical arrogance there—only the look of someone who had already had a complicated start to the day.
Michi immediately knew something was wrong.
“You left the door unlocked.” he commented, as if this were just another ordinary visit.
“That’s the fault of idiot crocodiles who make me sew until late at night.” she shot back automatically, though her voice faltered slightly at the end. She coughed right after, disguising it. “What is it now? Did some pirate kick your ass?”
Crocodile closed the door behind him. “The Shichibukai were dissolved this morning.”
The words fell into the atelier with the weight of an anvil. Michi froze, the needle stopped between her fingers. She didn’t know how to react. She hadn’t expected the Marines to make a decision like that—but it made sense. After the Paramount War, everything in the institution had turned into a mess. Jinbei resigned to join the Straw Hats, Trafalgar was revoked for forming a pirate alliance, Doflamingo resigned for reasons no one understood, and to make matters worse, the Marines had accepted that suspicious clown Buggy as an ally. Let’s be honest—trusting criminals to solve problems was never a good idea to begin with. That system had been doomed for a long time.
“…Huh.” That was all. No exaggerated surprise, no dramatic commentary. She had heard enough rumors not to feign shock. Even so, the silence that followed was thick. The seamstress didn’t know what her client’s next move would be, much less why he had come personally to tell her.
“I’m leaving the island today,” Crocodile continued. “I’m forming a new business.” He paused briefly, watching her closely. “And you’re coming with me.”
It wasn’t a request. Not even a suggestion. He had already decided. She knew that look—there was no room for negotiation.
Michi blinked once. “…What?”
“You’re coming with me.” he repeated, as one would state a meeting time or a ship’s destination. “I’ll need you.”
She opened her mouth to respond—to curse, to argue, to throw a ruler at him, perhaps—but nothing came out. Her chest tightened slightly. The words hit her square in the heart: need. He needed her. Michi couldn’t refuse when he spoke like that, and Crocodile knew it—knew exactly how to use calculated words against her to achieve his goals.
“You won’t be safe staying here,” he added quietly. “And I don’t intend to lose a valuable asset right now.”
Asset.
Of course. Obviously. She was nothing more than that. Why had she deluded herself into thinking she was more than just another card in his deck? And how dared he stab her heart after words that had meant so much?
Michi let out a short, humorless laugh. “You really know how to convince people.”
“I don’t need to convince you,” he replied. “I just need you to come with me.”
The silence stretched between them. Morning light filtered into the atelier, illuminating threads, fabrics, paper patterns scattered across the table—everything that had been her life until now. And Michi was about to leave all of it behind because of an arrogant, self-assured man she was now bound to.
She thought about saying no. Just to see his face twist into irritation. Just to disrupt his plans and prove he wasn’t in control of everything. But the metallic taste was already forming at the back of her throat. Her body was tired. Time was running too fast.
In the end, Michi only sighed, swallowing the strong urge to cough—swallowing the wreckage of her shredded pride. It was a matter of survival.
“Fine.”
Crocodile raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. He had expected the seamstress to resist, to yell at him, to call him a sand worm or throw one of her spools of thread at his head—but she simply… agreed. No argument. No violence. None of her usual impatience. That wasn’t like Michi.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Yup.” She was already turning away, opening drawers, pulling a suitcase from beneath the table. If I argue, I’ll end up coughing blood in front of you, and then it really will become a scene. That was what she wanted to say—but she held back. He didn’t need to know that part.
Crocodile watched in silence as she began packing with practiced movements: scissors wrapped in cloth, threads sorted by color, needles stored with almost excessive care. Every gesture seemed too automatic, as if she weren’t thinking much. But she was—thinking far more than she wanted to.
“We leave in two hours.” Crocodile informed her.
“So you really did come early.” she replied, folding the embroidered vest she had been working on and hesitating for a second before placing it in the suitcase. “I’ll need space to work on the ship.”
“I’ve already taken care of all arrangements.”
She nodded, not looking at him. “Great.” She coughed lightly, controlled. “Then let’s go… before I change my mind, you idiot pile of sand.”
Crocodile said nothing, but he felt slightly less tense at the return of Michi’s usual rebelliousness. Then he turned to leave, certain she would follow.
And she did.
It wasn’t as if she had much choice. She would die if she stayed behind, suffocated by the desert rose stubbornly growing in her chest. This was the most logical decision she could make.
Still, Michi couldn’t help wondering why the hell her heart had chosen that man to love.
Maybe it was because he never left when she insulted him.
Or the fact that he picked up her heavy suitcase and carried it to the ship without saying a word.
I wanna write something about Franky x Reader or Oc, but there's too many options, I can't decide! What do you wanna see?
So... It's being a while since I post anything here, well the reason you ask? Just having a toxic relationship with my creativity and affairs with the procrastination (tehee~)
Warnings: SFW, Angst, Fluff, Past trauma, Injuries, Violence, Feelings (a lot of feelings), Corazon memories.
Word count: ~1500
Synopsis: Robot Girl makes a mess, Law gets angry.
Robot girl almost turns into a mess, Law has PTSD crisis.
Notes: I was playing a video game. My favorite character died. Oh well, I'm felling down and I gonna make everyone feel too.*joker noises intensify*
Next cookies: Zoro x Nonbinary!Reader, Sanji x Autistic!Reader or maybe Koby x Flirty!Reader. The possibilities are endless...
It was supposed to be a normal day aboard the Polar Tang, or at least as normal as things could get with Nana around. Speaking of which, our heroine was already marching toward the infirmary with the determined stride of someone who was very much not invited and very much plotting something terrible to torment Law.
“Oh no, here she comes” Law muttered, rolling his eyes as the rhythmic sound of her boots echoed down the hallway like some twisted musical number.
The walking nightmare burst through the door with a dramatic flair, a makeshift (and probably stolen) lab coat billowing behind her.
"Mr. Doctor Captain Emo, reporting for duty! I’m here to help with the patients today!" she announced, saluting proudly.
Law didn’t even look up from the medical reports, as he always did whenever the girl came in with her latest brilliant idea. “No, you’re not.”
“Too late! I already did my first round! Penguin gave me a 9.5 for my patient care!” she winked playfully. “Would’ve been a 10 if I hadn’t taken his blood pressure using a piece of hydraulic hose.”
Law raised an eyebrow.
“Where did you get a hydraulic hose?”
“Stole it from the bathroom. But don’t worry! I replaced it with... something else!”
He ran a hand down his face in frustration.
“You’re going to destroy my submarine.”
“But at least our patients will be well cared for! With themed band-aids!” She spun on her heels and pulled out a sheet of animal-print medical stickers from her improvised pouch.
He stared at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to shut her down for a week or just let her blow up the entire sub. In the end, he sighed.
“Alright, ‘Doctor Punk’... if you insist, you can help by cataloging the meds.”
“Yatta!” She gave a small jump, almost knocking over the shelf beside her.
“But if you mix up the painkillers and laxatives again, I swear I’ll take you apart for maintenance.”
Nana straightened up, hand to her forehead in a ridiculously stiff soldier pose.
“I solemnly swear not to cause mass evacuations... again.”
Law closed his eyes for a few seconds and then... the faintest ghost of a smile flickered across his face. Just a little. Barely there. But she noticed. And in that moment, while clumsily trying to organize the shelf, Nana knew one thing for sure:
She was changing the daily rhythm of that submarine. Especially for a certain grumpy captain who smiled rarely—
But less rarely now.
. . .
At first glance, the island seemed peaceful, clear skies, fresh breeze, and few civilians on the streets. A perfect spot to resupply the sub, fix some damage, and give the crew a breather.
Law was quieter than usual, his gaze too sharp for a simple walk through a port town. Nana, on the other hand, strolled behind him with her hands behind her head, studying the sky like she was searching for patterns in clouds that didn’t exist.
Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin had been tasked with gathering supplies while Law and Nana inspected a few parts bought from local mechanics. It was quick. Too quiet.
Then came the ambush.
Marine cannons roared before anyone could react. Explosions shook the buildings, and within seconds, the village was chaos. It all happened too fast—clear skies turned to smoke and fire. Marines emerged from every direction, too coordinated, too brutal. This had definitely been planned.
Cannon fire echoed through the narrow streets as the Heart Pirates scrambled to respond. Law kept his cool, but his eyes never stopped moving. He barked quick orders, sword already in hand.
“Shachi, Penguin! Fall back and guard the sub!”
“Bepo, with me!”
“Nana, stay behind me!”
But she didn’t. Of course.
A Marine officer—one of those swordsmen with a rank way too high for a simple ambush—charged at Bepo from behind, blade mid-swing.
It was fast.
The scene unfolded like snapshots in Nana’s mind. The gleam of the sword, the shadow of the strike... and she moved. The impact flung both her and the officer into a crumbling wall. The crash that followed drowned out the battle noise for a moment.
“NANA!” Law’s voice ripped through the air like a gunshot.
When the dust settled, all that could be seen were the ruins of the building. Law’s chest tightened. His fingers curled into fists, his eyes narrowed, mind racing. What if she was—
A dry knot formed in his throat. He started moving, but debris blocked the way. The sounds of the battle felt distant, muffled by the pounding urgency in his chest.
The world stopped.
Then, as if answering his unspoken plea, a piece of wreckage shifted, and a staggering figure rose from the rubble. Her clothes were torn and filthy, blood ran down her forehead, scratches marred her face, and one of her arms was definitely not okay—but when she saw Law, she raised both hands beside her head in a peace sign, beaming the biggest, most innocent smile she could muster.
"I'm fine!"
It hit him like lightning.
Law froze. His heart skipped. Eyes widened—
And for the first time in ages, the stoic mask cracked. That gesture, that smile... He’d seen it before.
Rosinante.
That same peace sign. That same stubborn smile, even with a battered body. That same overwhelming light of someone who protects without hesitation. The memory stabbed through his chest.
Nana grinned, expecting a scolding, a lecture—but Law only walked toward her, silent. His eyes were too intense, too dark. He stopped right in front of her. She struggled to stay on her feet, smile wavering slightly.
He lifted a hand and gently brushed a blood-streaked strand of hair from her face. Then, without a word, slipped one arm under her knees and lifted her into his arms.
Nana blinked wide-eyed. “Whoa! This is new…”
“Don’t talk.”
She blushed a bit, but obeyed. Just looked at him as he carried her. That’s when she noticed. Law wasn’t angry. He was... different. Something inside him was broken, trying to reassemble itself.
“Captain...?” she murmured.
He didn’t reply. Just held her a little tighter.
The silence between them weighed heavier than any explosion. But deep down, something had shifted. An old scar... being touched by new hands.
The hatch of the Polar Tang sealed shut with a muffled clunk. Inside the sub was warm and dry, in stark contrast to the once-fresh island breeze. The quiet felt even heavier after the chaos outside.
Law marched through the corridors with steady steps, still carrying Nana like she weighed nothing. She wanted to joke—say something about getting a “VIP ride in the captain’s arms”—but the tension in his shoulders made her think twice. His face remained dark, focused, but there was something deeper behind it. Something she couldn’t read.
The infirmary door was shoved open, and within seconds, Law laid her down gently on one of the beds. Nana exhaled softly as the firm mattress met her back.
“Hey, Captain… no need to be so gentle. I may be busted, but I’m still made of steel!”
He ignored her. Pulled on gloves, switched on a cool lamp overhead, and began examining her wounds in silence. It was as if he was hiding behind his professionalism—but the way his fingers touched her bruised skin… There was care in it. More than just medical duty.
Nana pursed her lips, uneasy. “Are you… mad at me?”
Law let out a short sigh through his nose but didn’t meet her eyes. He wiped the blood from her forehead with almost tender movements. “No.” A pause. “Just annoyed by how little you value yourself.”
The words landed like a brick. Her eyes widened, confused. “Huh…?”
“If you’d taken longer to crawl out of that rubble… if Bepo had still gotten hurt…” He stopped, cloth frozen in his hand. “You can recover fast. But that’s not a reason to throw yourself into danger like you don’t matter.”
Nana opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Something in his voice... in the tight grip on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t just anger, it was...
Fear.
She softened her smile, still trying to keep the mood light. “Sorry, Captain. I just… I saw Bepo was in trouble, and you told him to go with you. I thought I could help.”
“And you did.” Law finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and there was something unspoken there. Something old. Heavy.
For a moment, Nana wanted to say something—anything—to break the tension. But he had already turned away, putting supplies back, walls rebuilding themselves around his shoulders. She stayed silent, watching him more closely. Law was still cold. Still composed. Still blunt.
But there were cracks now. Tiny. Almost invisible. And she had seen one. A gesture, a smile, two hands raised beside the face. A memory she didn’t understand, but one that shook something deep in the doctor’s soul.
Nana let out a soft breath and sank deeper into the bed. Maybe… maybe she was starting to understand why her captain held so much inside.
Synopsis: Time to work on the counselor stuff and get close to these loud pirates.
Notes: Sorry about the shorties, I'm a little bit busy with cosplay stuff. Ace have lotta accessories, but I love him, so is worth the trouble. Do you guys want to see cosplay related content?
Next cookies: Second chance
It didn’t take long before they set up a room for your new role. It was small, probably some old storage space, but big enough to turn into a cozy office for receiving your “patients.” Anyone who stepped inside could tell it was so you: soft cushions, little potted plants, and a cookie jar (courtesy of Thatch, for emotional support he said). The final touch? A little sign on the door that read: “Yoru’s Counseling Room. The door is always open.”
The fame of the Pelican Counselor spread like wildfire, and every day your tiny office welcomed all kinds of visitors: pirates seeking advice, others homesick, and some who just needed someone to talk to. It was strange, for the first time you saw things from a softer and more compassionate angle. So many strong, intimidating pirates... with such fragile hearts. Little by little, you felt like a sister to each of them. At last, you truly understood what it meant to be part of this crew.
That big, loud family.
Haruta was one of your first patients. You remember the day vividly. The curious crowd had finally given you some breathing room after the grand opening of your office when you heard hesitant footsteps outside the door. Someone was clearly too nervous to knock. After a few seconds, there it was, a soft knock and you immediately invited them in.
“Hey, Yoru.” He didn’t seem particularly cheerful, but he tried to act casual. “Everything alright around here?”
“Haruta! Good to see you. Things have been a little slow.” You offered a gentle smile. “But what about you? How are you doing?”
He flinched at that.
“Uh... I think I messed up.” He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed, and sat on the couch, staring at the floor for a moment. You waited. “I made Marco really mad.”
You raised an eyebrow. Marco being mad wasn’t exactly rare, it was practically part of life on the Moby Dick. But something in Haruta’s tone made it sound a little more serious than usual.
“What happened?”
Haruta sighed, shoulders slumped. “On the last island we stopped at, he bought something weird... a stuffed animal. Marco’s not really the plushie type, you know? So Izo and I figured it out right away — it had to be a gift for some girl. But when we asked, he wouldn’t say who it was for.” He covered his face with both hands. “Sooo... I had the brilliant idea to kidnap the plushie until he told us. And, yeah, that obviously just pissed him off.”
You sat quietly, processing it. You never thought you’d see Marco actually angry like that, it was new. Not that you could lie, now you were curious about the story behind the plushie too.
“Now I don’t know how to give it back without getting my head chopped off,” Haruta sighed heavily. He really did seem to care about making things right, they must be close friends.
You slowly crossed your legs, rested your elbows on the chair’s arms, and gave him a half-smile.
“Well, first of all, kidnapping sentimental mascots isn’t exactly a technique endorsed in therapy books.”
Haruta groaned, sinking deeper into the sofa.
“Buuut... lucky for you, I know how to fix it. I’ve made mistakes like this myself, and to be honest? The best way to fix it is by being direct and sincere. Return the plushie, apologize, and be honest. Marco isn’t the type to hold grudges. But from now on, be more mindful when you’re stepping into someone’s personal space. You could lose more than you think.”
Haruta looked much calmer when you finished.
“Guess I was pretty hard-headed... I’ll think twice before plushie-napping again.”
“Then my job here is done!” you said with a grin, hands on your hips. Then, leaning toward him like you were revealing a state secret, you whispered “But just between us, if you find out who the plushie’s for, you have to tell me.”
Haruta burst out laughing.
“If I survive bird-brain’s fury, I swear I’ll tell you.”
Warnings: SFW, Too much fluffy, Anxiety, Sanji being cute.
Word count: 1100
Synopsis: Shy girl, flirty cook, too much feelings.
Notes: Since Toei Animation has been feeding us nothing but crumbs when it comes to Sanji, I decided to give him some extra love myself.
Next cookies: Second chance and Pelican Counselor.
It had become part of the Sunny’s routine, a predictable, almost comedic cycle that played out every single day, as if it were baked into the very rhythm of the ship.
Yoru would walk into the kitchen, hoping only for a cup of tea or maybe something to nibble on. But Sanji never missed her entrance. He would stop whatever he was doing, turn in her direction with that dazzling smile and sparkling eyes, and shower her with compliments so sweet they could give you a toothache.
"Yoru-chwaaaan!" he’d sing out. “I made chocolate pudding! Nami told me it’s your favorite.” Then, stepping closer to take her hand with gentle confidence, he’d add, “Though I doubt it could ever be as sweet as you.”
She froze on the spot. Her shoulders tensed, hands shook, and her whole face flushed a bright red, starting from her neck all the way to her scalp. And then, like some instinct for survival kicked in, Yoru would spin on her heel and bolt, tripping over her own feet, heart racing, breath caught in her throat.
It happened. Every. Single. Day.
Yoru was like a walking ball of anxiety — a quiet storm of bottled-up emotions. Compliments, especially when wrapped in Sanji’s soft, adoring voice, were too much for her. And the daily attention he somehow gave only to her? Impossible to process. She was like a frightened kitten; one step toward her and she was already gone.
And yet... Sanji never gave up. In fact, he adored watching her face go red, her eyes darting around for an escape, her lips parting as if to speak — only to end up with a stuttered mess of tangled words. To him, it was the most charming sight. It was rare to find someone so genuine, so transparent with their feelings. Her shyness was like a rare gem hidden in the vastness of the sea.
That evening, Robin sat in the shade with a book between her fingers and a knowing smile on her lips. She watched the scene unfold like a daily episode of a romantic comedy that never got old.
"Sanji-kun, one day you're really going to give her a heart attack" she commented, amusement lacing her voice as she watched Yoru disappear down the hall again like prey escaping a predator.
Sanji laughed softly, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Better to die from love than to live without it” he answered, dreamily.
Robin shook her head and returned to her book. “Hopeless.”
He chuckled again, but his gaze lingered on the corridor where Yoru had vanished. There was something different in that laugh — a hint of real tenderness. Because deep down, it wasn’t just about teasing. There was something honest about the way he looked at that timid girl… and a quiet hope that one day, she might smile back — without running away.
. . .
The night was peaceful, but inside Yoru’s head, a storm was brewing. No matter how tightly she shut her eyes, her thoughts wouldn't leave her alone. She was thinking damn thinking thoughts and it wouldn’t let her rest. What if she took a step forward? What if... those compliments and all that attention were just something he gave to every girl, like free samples? What if he didn’t accept her feelings?
So many "what-ifs" circled in her mind, it felt like her brain might catch fire right there in her room. “I need some air” she mumbled.
When Yoru couldn’t sleep, her favorite place to go was under the orange trees. She didn’t know why, but the fresh, citrusy scent always made her feel lighter — maybe a memory from childhood. She wrapped her arms around herself, walking slowly between the trees, the night’s chill kissing her skin. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply. Then, her brain — traitorous as ever — whispered “I wonder what he smells like…”
“Ugh, stop it” she muttered, shaking her head as if it could fling the thought away.
“Mademoiselle? Out here at this hour?” His voice, husky and smooth, was unmistakable even in the dark. Sanji stood by the railing at the edge of the garden, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.
“I couldn’t sleep” she admitted, approaching him slowly.
“Thinking about me, mon amour?” he asked with that crooked smile, a playful glint in his eyes.
Normally, that line would have her red from head to toe. But this time… something was different. A small ember of courage warmed her chest. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe, she just couldn’t hold the feelings in anymore.
“Actually… yes,” she said, looking away and nervously fidgeting with her hands.
Sanji froze. The smile faltered. His eyes widened ever so slightly. The cigarette nearly slipped from his fingers. And for the first time, a faint blush touched his cheeks.
Yoru had never seen him like that. And for a moment, her nerves gave way to a soft laugh that bubbled up without permission. She covered her mouth quickly, startled by her own reaction.
Sanji cleared his throat, dragging slowly from his cigarette to cover his own surprise.
“Yoru-chan… you’re going to give me false hope like that,” he murmured, voice lower than usual, his smile uncertain — but his eyes full of something rare and true.
She looked down at her feet, fingers knotting together, her voice a quiet whisper. “I… I don’t want it to be false…”
He stepped forward — not abruptly, but with the care of someone approaching something fragile. “Yoru,” he said softly. Just her name. And it was enough to make her breath hitch.
She finally looked up. His eyes met hers — no teasing, no games. Just warmth. Gentle, open warmth. He raised a hand slowly, brushing his fingers against hers. She didn’t pull away. Their hands fit together clumsily, unsure — but real.
“You don’t have to say anything now,” he whispered. “I just want you to know... you're not just another girl to me.”
Yoru felt her heart lurch. When she tried to answer, the words tangled on her tongue. Sanji leaned forward. Not quickly. Not too close. Just enough. He took her hand in his, turned it over, and placed a slow, tender kiss in the center of her palm. The contact was featherlight — but it sent shockwaves through her entire being.
She froze. Her heart was doing somersaults. Her brain? Complete static.
“I—I think… I need… Umm... GOOD NIGHT!!”
And she spun on her heel and bolted, footsteps pounding down the deck in pure panic.
Sanji stayed where he was, staring at the space where she’d been, her warmth still lingering in his hand. Then he laughed — soft, not mocking — just full of fondness.
“That girl’s going to kill me with cuteness.”
The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly as he turned his eyes to the starry sky, smiling like a man who knew, even with all the chaos… this was the start of something really sweet.
Warnings: SFW, Angst, Fluff, Past trauma, Law is bad with fellings.
Word count: ~1.700
Synopsis: A story of found family, emotional healing, and a dangerously carefree robot who tries to challenge Law's emotional walls in very odd ways.
Notes: Yanno I can't hold myself. Again.
Everything was going smoothly aboard the Polar Tang that morning. It was nearly time to surface to refresh the air when the sonar picked up something unusual.
“Captain! We’ve detected a strange object on sonar. Something very dense near the surface,” Bepo announced, turning to Law with a hint of nervousness. “Should we investigate?”
Adjusting the periscope, Penguin blinked at the sight. “Looks like a capsule… but it’s kind of dented,” he commented, frowning. His expression quickly shifted to concern. “Captain, you need to see this.”
What Law saw made his stomach tighten. Etched on the side of the capsule were the words: “Dr. Vegapunk – Punk 7.”
He had to decide quickly: ignore it and carry on with the mission, or take a gamble on this strange artifact. At best, it could hold valuable information against the Marines; at worst, a trap that could endanger everyone on board. He had to tread carefully.
“Surface,” Law commanded, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. It was a high-stakes bet — and he was willing to take it.
The Polar Tang rose to the surface in seconds. Its decompression systems, designed for strategic retreats amidst Grand Line chaos, functioned flawlessly. As soon as they emerged, they spotted the strange metallic sphere floating in the distance. Law was already standing by the hatch.
“Room. Shambles.” In a blink, the capsule appeared on deck.
“Solid ground detected. Emergency protocol initiated" announced a metallic voice as the object began to open automatically.
From inside emerged a small, humanoid-looking girl (insert your imagined features here). One side of her face was marked by what resembled a crack. Slowly, she opened her eyes, pupils adjusting to the light.
“Are you… Dr. Vegapunk?” she asked in an innocent tone, tilting her head as if she genuinely didn’t know what to expect.
Law didn’t answer right away. He’d expected a weapon, a machine, classified documents, maybe even a dangerous chemical… but a girl? That wasn’t part of any calculation.
“Mochi mochi?” She waved her hand in front of his face, making him flinch slightly.
“I’m not Vegapunk. I’m Trafalgar D. Water Law. Identify yourself immediately.”
“Punk 7, at your service!”
Law kept a stern expression, but his eyes were already scanning every inch of her. His internal diagnostic instincts kicked in: vitals, structure, threat level. But before he could speak again, the girl hopped nimbly out of the capsule and stretched her arms like she’d just woken up from a nap.
“Ahhh, it feels good to be out of that awful thing! How long was I asleep? No wait… did I sleep for years?” She looked around with childlike curiosity, approaching the ship’s railing with wide eyes. “Wow, this is the real ocean?! Amazing! I’ve only seen simulations! Hey, do you guys have turtles? They still exist, right? Oh no—what if they went extinct while I was sleeping?!”
Law frowned, completely thrown off. It’s not every day a potential World Government weapon emerges from an experimental capsule asking about turtle extinction.
Bepo, equally baffled, leaned closer to whisper, “Captain… what now?”
Meanwhile, the girl, blissfully unaware of the tension around her, turned to the crew, hands on her hips and beaming like a cheerful radio host. “Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening, mystery crew! Pleased to meet you! You can call me Punk 7… or just Nana! It’s friendlier, right?”
“Captain, can we keep her?” Ikaku was already hugging her, teary-eyed.
“Enough!” Law cut in. “First, I need to know who — or what — you are, where you came from, and why you were in that capsule.”
Nana paused, raised a finger as if about to give an excellent explanation… then made a thoughtful face. “Hmm… good question, Mr. D. Water Serious,” she said, then gave herself a playful bonk on the head and laughed sheepishly. “Hehe, I kind of… broke?”
Law arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘broke’?”
“Oh, you know. Classic existential glitch, maybe a few corrupted files here and there, some missing data. Totally normal after being locked in a capsule on standby mode with probable head trauma.” She shrugged with an overly calm grin. “I don’t fully remember my purpose. But I do have a great sense of humor and an updated joke database!”
“That… is not at all reassuring.”
“And it shouldn’t be!” she declared, throwing her arms out dramatically. “Because if there’s one thing humanity fears, it’s when their creation develops its own opinions.”
Law stepped closer, cautious. “Do you remember anything useful?”
Nana placed a hand on her chin, thoughtful.
“Hmm… I remember lights. Lots of lights. And a voice—probably Vegapunk’s—saying, ‘This should work.’ Which, you know, sounds sort of hopeful. I also remember a lab… and music. They used to play a song to calm me when tests went wrong. Oh, and a banana bread recipe! Though that one might’ve come from a pirated cooking program…”
Law crossed his arms, his brain aching from trying to process her nonsense. She was worse than the damn Straw Hat. “So you have no idea what your real purpose is?”
“None! But hey, maybe the universe sent me to you guys for a reason!” She pointed to the sky excitedly, then shrank a little. “Or maybe I just hit the wrong button in the capsule. Both options are equally likely.”
Law sighed. She was a walking enigma, possibly one of Vegapunk’s secret projects, but oddly… she didn’t feel threatening. At least, not yet.
“We’ll monitor you closely. Until we understand more about who — or what — you are, you’ll be under observation. And don’t go snooping around the submarine.”
“Understood, Captain Grumpy!” She saluted dramatically, nearly slipping. “Punk 7, official mascot of the Polar Tang, reporting for duty!”
Penguin chuckled to Shachi. “I give her three days before she touches the main engine.”
Shachi replied without looking away from Nana, who was now mimicking Bepo’s gestures.
“Three? That’s optimistic.”
. . .
Silence ruled Law’s lab, broken only by the sound of instruments and pages turning. The room was sterile, precise, like the man himself — everything in order, nothing out of control.
Until…
“Captain, have you considered that if this place had a bit more color, patients might feel more comfortable?”
Law didn’t look up. “No. And stop putting glitter in my workspace.”
Nana, hanging upside down from the ceiling pipes (for some reason), made a dramatic pout.
“Aww… you never let me add personality to things! This place looks like a depressed dentist's office.”
Law finally looked up, glaring as if he could teleport her across the ocean. “This is a submarine operating room, not an amusement park.”
“And that’s exactly why it needs a touch of life!” she said, flipping down with an unnecessarily acrobatic and loud landing. “By the way, when was the last time you slept more than three hours?”
“None of your business.”
“Aha!” She pointed at him like she’d just solved a mystery. “I knew it! You’re one of those self-sabotaging leaders!” She started mimicking him. "I'm too strong to need rest! Caffeine is my only friend!’”
Law rubbed his face in frustration. “I never said that.”
“And I never said you did.”
Whether he liked it or not, Law was aware: Nana had completely disrupted his routine. She invaded his space, challenged his logic, made up wild theories about the crew (“Bepo’s probably a Revolutionary spy disguised as a mascot!”) and, worst of all… she asked questions. About him. About how he felt. About what he wanted.
And that was dangerous.
Not because she was malicious, on the contrary. Nana was like a ray of sunlight wrapped in cracked metal, still determined to shine. She laughed easily, spread chaos like it was confetti, and somehow… she was filling parts of Law he didn’t know were empty.
She reminded him of Corazon.
Not in looks, not exactly in behavior. Corazon was clumsy in a quiet way, always trying to put out fires — while Nana loved to start them. But there was something… a similar light. A spark that refused to die, even in darkness.
Law hated it.
Because every time she smiled at him like he deserved it, something inside him hurt. An old pain, deep and lingering. As if the universe was testing whether he could lose another light. “Not again” his mind whispered every time she made a joke at his expense or bumped into him just to get a reaction. “Don’t get attached.” He couldn’t afford it. Not anymore.
But Nana didn’t understand those boundaries. She kept cracking his armor. And worst of all — she made him laugh. Something he hadn’t done, not truly, since…
Since he saw Corazon’s body bleeding on the ground.
Law closed his eyes briefly, still sitting on deck, ocean sounds in the background, Nana beside him staring up at the stars.
"You remind me of someone I can’t forget", he wanted to say. "You make me want to protect someone again. And that terrifies me." But he didn’t.
“Hey,” Nana broke the silence, gently nudging his arm. “If you could change something about your past… would you?”
He took a while to answer. “I don’t know,” he said at last, voice low. “Sometimes I think yes. Other times… I think it made me who I am.”
“You know, I don’t have a past. But sometimes I think that just means I can be whoever I want. A mess in progress,” she joked, but her smile was smaller.
Law looked at her. For the first time, not through the lens of caution or logic — just with quiet humanity. “You’re not a mess. Just… under different circumstances.”
She turned to him, surprised by the quiet confession. “You’re really getting soft, Captain.”
“Shut up, Nana.”
She smiled, not mocking this time. A small, grateful smile. Almost reverent. And for once, Law allowed the silence to exist between them, not as discomfort, but as something necessary. As if maybe, just maybe, her presence wasn’t a threat.
This is the introduction of a ff I am working on, just can't keep my hands out of posting it. I'm trying to write angst and later Hanahaki, suggestions are appreciated.
"Dear diary, today was an exceptionally awful day. The captain is still trying to find a role for me on the ship, but it seems I can’t even mop the floor without causing accidents. I tried to help Thatch in the kitchen—I mistook salt for sugar and made the food completely inedible. Then I tried washing dishes—broke three plates. Finally, I thought serving the food would be easier… but how was I supposed to know Vista was allergic to peanuts? You can probably imagine how that ended."
You sigh and keep writing, as if burying the pencil into the paper might ease the frustration in your chest.
"It’s like fate is out to get me. As if all that wasn’t enough, there hasn’t been a single task this week that needed my flying abilities. Ever since my last slip-up, the captain’s been choosing only Marco for those missions. The one thing I’m actually good at was taken from me by that stupid bird-brain!" You huff, annoyed. Just because you also ate a Tori Tori no Mi, people love to compare you to Marco—which is so unfair, considering his is a Mythical Zoan and yours just turns you into a pelican.
A freaking pelican.
If you’d known what that cursed fruit did, you never would’ve eaten it. It’s not like you're an expert in Devil Fruits, but weren’t you supposed to get something cooler along with the transformation? Like, I don’t know, a special attack, a built-in weapon, or some heightened senses? All you got was bird form and a sudden, overwhelming urge to fly sometimes. Great powers, huh?
Your thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Who could it be at this hour? You answer, and of course—it’s the captain. He’s probably here to kick you off the crew after a whole month of being dead weight and getting in everyone’s way.
"Yoru, my daughter… do you have a minute to talk?"
Okay, this is bad. He’s definitely going to kick you out. With tears already threatening your eyes, you nod.
The walk to wherever he’s taking you is quiet. You glance around at the few pirates still awake at night, doing rounds, finishing tasks, or just drinking and enjoying their free time. You haven’t had the chance to really get to know most of them since you boarded the Moby Dick, and honestly, even for someone super sociable like you, there are just too many pirates to befriend everyone in such a short time. Still… you’ll miss these loud, rowdy people.
Once you reach one of the meeting rooms, Whitebeard stops, opens the door, and gestures for you to enter. You obey without question. To your surprise, there’s someone else inside. Marco. Of course. It had to be him. He nods in greeting. Whitebeard sits at the head of the table and gestures for you to take the seat next to him.
"So, sir… how can I help you?" Your voice comes out shakier than expected, nerves on edge.
The captain fixes you with that intense gaze. Even seated, his presence is overwhelming to someone like you. It feels like one wrong move and he’ll see right through every crack in your soul.
"My daughter, I’ve been watching you," he begins. "I know things haven’t been easy, that you’re still trying to find your place on this ship… and well, breaking a few dishes in the process."
Marco stifles a laugh. That bastard. You tense up even more. This is it. He’s going to say it. You’re out.
But then Whitebeard leans forward slightly, hands resting on his knees.
"But we’ve discovered that you have a gift, Yoru. And it’s not your Devil Fruit."
You blink, trying to process what he just said.
"So… what is it?" you ask, confused.
"Yoru," Marco says now, much calmer. "We’re in a crew with over a hundred men, and somehow you always manage to listen to everyone’s problems. You remember more names than I do—and I’ve been here way longer. You listen, give advice, and notice things before people even realize something’s wrong. You care about every one of us."
"And you trip over us at all the best moments too yoi!" he adds. Whitebeard lets out a deep laugh that shakes the floor.
"What we’re trying to say, my daughter, is that we want to give you a new role on the ship. One that, frankly, none of us are particularly good at." Then, with a serious and decisive tone, he continues:
"I want you to be the crew’s emotional support."
You fall silent. Something inside you stirs, like you’ve finally found your purpose on this ship. Releasing a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding, you answer:
"I accept."
You lift your head, a smile forming on your face.
"Pelican Counselor, at your service!"
"Perfect, because you already have your first client, yoi" Marco grins. "If I have to listen to Thatch sing while cooking one more time, I might switch his eye drops with hot sauce. I need to talk to someone before I snap."
That earns a genuine laugh from you. For the first time since joining this crew, you feel like you’re truly contributing—like you have an official place here.
And that changes everything.
"Looks like it’s time to start our first therapy session."
Synopsis: they have feelings for each other, but are too clumsy to realize.
It was a day like any other in the Thousand Sunny’s workshop. Franky and ___ were hard at work on a new upgrade for Usopp’s slingshot. Or at least they had been, until ___ leaned over the worktable to grab a pencil and accidentally brought her face dangerously close to Franky’s—so close it almost gave him a nosebleed.
He wasn’t used to this. He was great at building things, blowing them up, and shouting “SUPER!” during chaotic battles. But figuring out how he felt about ___? That was a whole other story.
It was complicated.
Especially because she treated him like a true friend. She always came to him with crazy ideas, helped with ship projects, laughed at his dumbest jokes—and Franky didn’t want to ruin that. But on the other hand, every time she laughed at his ridiculous jokes, he wanted more. He wanted to be the reason behind all her smiles, if that made any sense at all.
But saying that without sounding like a complete idiot was hard. “Hey, ___-tan, wanna test a new booster and, I dunno, maybe hold my hand?” Yeah, definitely not like that. Despite calling himself a pervert, Franky had never really experienced anything romantic in his life.
“Franky, are you okay?” she asked, her concerned voice snapping him out of his thoughts.
“SUPER! Everything’s great!” he replied quickly, trying to cover his inner conflict. “I was just thinking maybe we should add a rubber piece here to boost propulsion.” He pointed at a part of the schematic that made absolutely no sense from an engineering standpoint.
“You can’t put rubber there, Franky...” she said with a soft laugh.
“Oh, I guess you're right!” he said, a bit embarrassed, scratching the back of his head. “You know what? I think I need a Cola to get my brain working again.” And he darted out of the room, leaning against the door outside like he had just dodged a disaster.
“He must be tired,” she thought. Made sense—they’d been stuck on that project for a while. “Maybe I should take a break too.”
On the Sunny’s deck, Nami and Robin were sitting under one of the orange trees, sharing tea and... certain observations.
“Look at him, rushing out of the workshop again,” Robin noted, drawing Nami’s attention to the scene unfolding.
“He acts like he’s fleeing a monster, not a girl,” Nami said, amused.
“Should we help?” Robin asked, resting her chin on her hand with a mysterious smile.
“Hmm… maybe, but for now I think it’s more fun to watch.”
“I agree.”
...
As ___ walked toward the kitchen for a snack, she noticed one of the fans was stuttering.
“That’ll be a problem if it breaks,” she muttered, climbing up on a stool to inspect it.
“Need some help, mademoiselle?” Sanji’s smooth voice caught her by surprise, leaving her flustered.
“A-ah! Sanji! I was just, um, fixing the… rotating side-thrust motor thing!” she tried to explain, completely forgetting the name of the fan mechanism.
With a theatrical gesture, Sanji pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped a smudge from her cheek.
“A lovely lady like you should take better care of her appearance,” he said with a smile.
___ froze like a jammed gear, letting out a choked squeak and glancing around for an escape.
“I need to… fix… that thing! I forgot about it!” she blurted before running off, nearly tripping as she disappeared down the hallway.
Sanji watched with a satisfied smile, lighting a cigarette. Behind him, in the kitchen doorway, Franky stood with arms crossed.
“She’s adorable when she’s nervous, isn’t she?” Sanji said with a smirk.
Franky sighed and chuckled quietly. He was so screwed.
...
The sun was starting to set as the two finished the project. Franky secured one last piece of the mechanism while ___ held it steady.
“___-tan, can you hand me the—”
“Here!” she passed the tool before he even finished.
Franky took it, tightened the final screw, and shouted a triumphant “SUPERRR!” Wiping sweat from his forehead, he turned to her.
“All done! This thing’s more stable than a mechanical bull on training wheels!”
She laughed at the absurd comparison.
“I’m glad it worked out,” she said, plopping down on the floor with relief.
“Everything works out with you around,” he blurted without thinking, blushing when he realized what he’d said.
She beamed.
“That’s not true. Remember when I knocked over the nut and bolt crates and mixed them all up?”
“Of course. Took us three days to sort them again.” He laughed, lying down beside her.
“And that time you fell into the sea and I freaked out?”
“I thought you’d short-circuit or something.”
“Don’t worry. This amazing machine is waterproof!”
They sat in silence for a moment. Franky noticed ___ had dozed off. She had this superpower of falling asleep anywhere, and it always surprised him. He gently covered her with a blanket and started tidying up the workshop.
“Goodnight, ___-tan,” he murmured, placing a small kiss on her forehead before returning to his work with a huge grin.
...
It was a rainy day on the Sunny. On days like this, Franky usually stayed in the workshop, sometimes skipping meals. ___ knew this and decided to make something special to cheer him up: the Supreme Burger—his favorite.
As expected, Sanji was in the kitchen, slicing fruit—probably for the girls. He immediately noticed her arrival.
“How can I assist you, mi amour?” she blushed.
“Hey, Sanji... I wanted to make some burgers. The ones Franky taught me. But last time they came out kinda weird...” she said, scratching her head in frustration.
Sanji knew how close she was to that perverted cyborg and how much he meant to her. That only made Sanji think she was even more charming. Franky was a lucky guy to have someone who cared so much.
“Don’t worry, my princess. I’ll share all my culinary secrets with you.” And without further delay, they rolled up their sleeves and got to work.
As the burgers started cooking and the delicious smell filled the Sunny, Franky couldn’t help but notice. Seeing them in the kitchen, close together, making those burgers—the special recipe he had taught her—tightened something in his chest. That recipe had been something special between them. And there she was, making it with someone else. It hurt more than he expected.
Franky returned to the workshop and buried himself in a random project, making no progress at all. He tried to distract himself, do anything but think about the ache in his chest. The betrayal. The heartbreak from someone he trusted so deeply.
What he didn’t expect was for her to knock on his door with a tray full of burgers, fries, and Cola. And the worst part: a radiant smile on her face.
“Franky, I brought you a snack!” she said as soon as he let her in. “You seemed really busy today, so I wanted to pamper you a bit.”
“___-tan...” He didn’t know whether to feel happy, sad, angry, or run away entirely. In the end, jealousy won. “Finished having fun with the cook?”
She paused, placing the tray on the table. A mischievous smile slowly curled on her lips.
“Are you jealous?”
Franky dropped what he was holding, stunned.
“WHAT?!”
“You’re jealous,” she laughed. “You always act like this when I do something with Sanji.”
“I-it’s not jealousy! It’s strategic crewmate safety measures! Band dynamics! Ship security proto—”
She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.
“Franky,” he froze. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Franky looked away, blushing.
“Maybe I just don’t like the idea of someone else taking my place.”
“Hey, that’s not gonna happen. I swear. You’re like... the only guy who doesn’t judge my colossal disasters.”
“It’s just... the Supreme Burger was our thing. Seeing you make it with someone else... that was kinda...” The sadness and embarrassment in his voice was unmistakable.
She stepped closer.
“I didn’t know it would hurt you that much,” she said, resting her head on his chest, hiding her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Franky was flustered, holding her gently by the arms.
“No, no. You don’t have to apologize! You were trying to do something super sweet.”
She lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her cheeks tinged pink. Damn, this girl... she was going to destroy his heart. Without thinking, he reached up and gently touched her face. Just a few inches and—
“HEY, FRANKY—”
Usopp burst in through the door, catching the scene.
“Heh,” he smirked, covering his mouth. “I’ll come back later.” And he closed the door again.
I am Mi-tan, a young adult who loves videogames, comics and anime.
Favorite series: Fullmetal Alchemist, One piece, Monster and Nichijou, but I have a special love for Akira Toriyama works and this cute little fellow Beelzebub, so precious.
If you wanna talk to me about anime and mangá I do apreciate (I need more interaction with humans ;^;)
Monster Adicted ~Precious Boys~ @electric-ocean-explorer - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
