[niggette]

IF I DON’T GET MY WAY, I GET A ATTITUDE !

˚₊·➳❥ Ven ♡ she/they ♡ grown ♡ personal blog first and writing second, meaning we get live over here - from politics to porn lol.

no vore, scat/piss, raceplay, or ageplay.

˚₊·➳❥ don’t be afraid to geek with me :3 unless you’re a capitalist or a radfem, my inbox stay open :3

˚₊·➳❥ masterlist ˚₊·➳❥ ao3

©niggette - don’t put my work into ai or anything else, obviously.

[cpericardium]

[niggette]

trynna watch castlevania with this girl and she throws a whole fit when sypha opens her mouth…

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Marco the Phoenix (1/2)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

pics and HERE and HERE

Marco x Reader Length 20 K+ Rating: 16K+ Warnings: Chronic illness, Disability, Isolation and Loneliness, Language, Canon Violence, Depression and Self-esteem, Emotional Stakes, Grief, Mild Angst,

for @andreasaintmleux76

Next

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

You were not what most would call a warrior of the sea. 

No salt in your hair, no rope burns on your palms, no tales of leviathans or buried treasure rattling in your lungs. You were what they called delicate, which was a polite way of saying your legs did not work the way they should, your lungs occasionally mutinied without warning, and you lived tucked into a sun-dappled bed like a stubborn little deity at the edge of town.

The house was modest, with whitewashed walls and a sagging blue roof, but the villagers treated it like a shrine. Your window faced the garden, and the garden faced the world. Roses tangled up the trellis, marigolds tumbled into neat rows, and bees drowsed through it like loyal guards. From your bed, you could see everything: your small kingdom built of petals, stone paths, and the dusty road leading away.

Your sheets were always floral, freshly laundered by neighbors who competed quietly over who would get the task. They slipped sprigs of lavender into the folds, certain that scent alone might heal what medicine could not. Birds often stole in through the open window. They strutted across your blankets, left crumbs in your hair, and settled in your lap as if you were some woodland princess with a tragic story.

The tragic part, you could confirm. The princess part was still under review.

Your brother bore most of the weight of that tragedy. He worked too hard, his hands always raw from hauling nets and crates, his back bent from labor that paid too little. He rose before dawn and came home long after sunset, determined to keep the roof sound and the cupboards stocked. He rarely smiled anymore, except when you managed to tease one out of him. You knitted beside your bed to ease the strain on him, your needles clicking softly and steadily in the evenings: shawls, mittens, small blankets for children. Villagers bought them gladly, partly for the warmth and partly to feel they had a piece of your touch in their homes. The coins you earned were not much, but they kept flour in the pantry and oil in the lamps.

When you were a child, people called you the golden girl. Not for your hair or your smile, but for your impossible luck at surviving what should have ended you. A fever at nine. A collapse at sixteen. A drowning spell at twenty during the spring festival, when your lungs suddenly betrayed you. You came back pale and gasping, and from then on, people stopped saying your name first. They called you delicate, and they said it with pity.

The rest of the village adored you in ways that were both comforting and exhausting. The grocer left you plums still warm from the sun. Children crept in with guilty confessions, asking you to bless them with forgiveness you had no power to give. Strangers knocked on the door with bowls of soup and some trembling tale about how their grandmother had once been sick too, and how meeting you was inspiring. You smiled, nodded, and stirred your tea while they looked at you like you were already halfway to sainthood.

You had not been out of bed since you were twenty-three. Your body was treacherous, a vessel that sprang leaks if you so much as dreamed too hard. But your mind was never still. It roamed through tavern gossip carried by your brother, through the books that traveled from hand to hand until they reached your bedside, through every story you pieced together from scraps of overheard talk. Your mind built kingdoms out of nothing and lovers out of smoke. It carried you far past the horizon to places your body would never go.

You were adventurous at heart, wild with a soul that would not sit still, even if your body had no choice but to. And then one day, so did your head.

It happened on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were always the quietest days. Your brother would be out on the water, hauling nets until his palms were rubbed raw, and you would be left alone with your knitting and the garden noises. That morning, you had spread your herbs across the low table by the window. Sunlight slanted through the glass, catching the orange curls of dried peel, the silvery veins of mint, the pale curls of valerian root. You were crushing peels with the flat of a spoon and muttering about how the postman was late again, about how if he lost your yarn order one more time, you would have to resort to unraveling old blankets.

And then a stranger’s voice blurted into your thoughts like it had tripped over the welcome mat.

“The hell? Is someone in my head?”

You froze. For one heartbeat, you thought it was your brother, though he had never once managed to sneak back without you hearing the door. For another heartbeat, you thought maybe it was your own inner voice finally breaking from boredom.

Then you screamed. Out loud. The spoon clattered to the floor. Orange peel flew like confetti as you threw it in the general direction of the window, as if citrus alone could banish demons.

The voice came again, startled but amused. “What was that? Did you just throw something?”

“Excuse you?” you shouted back in your mind before you could even stop yourself, as if this was something you had been trained for. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’m busy, not going crazy.”

“…Are you a ghost? Is this some New World curse?”

“I’m alive. I’m a person. And who in the blue seas are you?”

There was a pause. A long, searching pause. Then a low chuckle rippled through your skull, warm and incredulous. “Ah, I see. Well, that’s a first. But I understand now.”

You pressed a hand to your temple, glaring at the herbs like they might be responsible. “Get out. Whoever you are. Go haunt someone else. I’m making tea.”

“I’m not haunting you,” the voice said, gentler now but still crackling with something you could not name. “At best, it’s a mutual haunting.”

You sat back against your pillows, heart hammering like a drum, staring at the birds on your sill. They cocked their heads at you, as if you were the strange one.

“What are you?”

Your world had always been small and contained, stitched together with yarn and books and your brother’s quiet sacrifices. Now, without warning, someone had thrown open a door in your head and stepped inside.

“…Marco?”

You blinked. “Oh. I don’t think my books prepared me for something rude like a ‘Marco’. Wrong number.”

That shut him up. For a heartbeat, the link went very still. Even the birds on the sill seemed to hold their breath, beaks half open, wings frozen like punctuation. The light in the room brightened and dimmed, accompanied by the kind of silence that makes rugs creak and teacups sound loud. Outside, somewhere down the lane, your brother’s cart wheels whispered past as if nothing at all had happened. Inside, the herbs on the table smelled suddenly very ordinary, as if biasa could calm whatever brazen thing had just barged into your head.

Then, somewhere on a ship you had never seen, a man rubbed his forehead and muttered a soft, disbelieving laugh. You could imagine the sea at his back, gulls shrieking, ropes whining against masts. The laugh had salt in it, the sort of laugh that belonged to men who had made storms their business. For a moment, you pictured a deck scattered with wet planks and careless maps, a figure leaning too long into a horizon he owned only in his head.

He came back like a pigeon with a vendetta. The voice returned fast, all breath and apology and mischief, and it filled your skull with the precise smugness of someone who had just won a bet.

“Did you get a ringing in your ears before I showed up?”

“No, but I did get a strong urge to hit someone with a teacup.” You said it aloud, because saying things out loud felt like a small, defiant ritual. Your hand tightened around the teacup until the edges bit warm into your palm. The porcelain winked at you like a traitor.

“Do you see colors? Heat flashes?” he asked, curiosity prickling through your mind, and your own recoiled.

“Are you diagnosing me or flirting? Because either way, I’m not very flattered.”

Your brother came in then, broad-shouldered and tired, raising a brow at what was clearly a conversation between you and the bird perched on the windowsill. He lingered in the doorway, smelling of brine and sun, saltwater in the frayed cuffs of his sleeves. His eyes scanned the room the way they always did, as if he could count your breaths from across the threshold. You gave him your most innocent smile, the one that usually kept him from worrying too loudly. He exhaled through his nose, muttered something about “knitting and talking to birds again,” and set a basket of plums on the table.

You could feel the blood in your ears, a bloom of heat under your collar. For one absurd second, you wondered if the hallucination’s question had been literal, or if sailors now asked about synesthesia the way midwives asked about morning sickness. Your imagination betrayed you with vivid pictures: a lighthouse painted in impossible pinks, the sea foaming with violet tides, a sky that hummed in colors you could almost touch.

You shut your mouth and opened your mind. You shook your head, and the motion made the room tilt for a breath. 

“No ringing. No colors. Just this unbearable annoyance and the faint certainty that I should put a lid on the sugar bowl.”  The steam curled upward in fragile spirals, carrying your words like gossip to the rafters.

The voice hummed. Not quite laughter, not quiet thought, but a sound like the creak of a sail stretching in the morning wind. It ran through you like a thread pulled tight, neither kind nor unkind, just there. Present. And for the first time since it had arrived, you felt less like a bedbound oddity and more like the captain of a bizarre ship.

Your brother poured you a cup of tea. His hands were steady from years of hauling nets, but his brow furrowed at the way you whispered to empty air. He set the cup down carefully, as if hot porcelain might break you more easily than glass.

There was a pause. A long pause. A concerningly long pause. So long you thought he might have left entirely, that the silence would swallow him back into whatever ocean birthed him. You almost missed it when the words finally came, soft and sharp at once.

“Tch. Damn. You don’t know, huh.”

The birds tilted their heads. Your brother shifted the basket of plums closer to the center of the table. And you gripped your teacup tighter, suddenly sure that whoever this “Marco” was, he had just stepped into your life with boots still dripping from some storm you had not yet seen.

“Know what?” you asked, trying to sound bored.

“…About soulmates?”

The words sat heavy, like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples of meaning spread out from them, slow and deep, touching corners of your mind you hadn’t let anyone near. Your mind immediately conjured every ridiculous bedtime story you had ever read, the kind with gilded spines and illustrations of knights kneeling in devotion: nonsense, all of it. Fairy tales dressed up as wisdom. You nearly snorted into your tea.

“Oh, splendid. Not only am I haunted, I am haunted by a romantic.”

On the other end of the link, Marco exhaled. You could feel the warmth of it even though it was nowhere near your ear, a faint brush of heat across the inside of your skull.

“Not haunted. Not romantic. Just… fact.”

You raised your brows at the birds as if they might confirm or deny the statement. They had the decency to look confused, tiny heads cocking like punctuation marks. Your brother, oblivious, reached for a plum and muttered about needing more salt for supper. His rough fingers were stained with brine, the basket heavy with fruit he’d bartered for at the dock.

“Sure,” you said, steadying your voice as if you could chase him off with sarcasm. “And next you’ll tell me you’re a noble. A prince. Or perhaps a cursed teapot. Take your pick, fantasy.”

There was another pause. Then the low rumble of his laugh. It was a sea-sound laugh, deep and resonant, like waves folding over rocks. “Let’s just start with soulmates. Just imagine your fairy tales are now coming true.”

Your tea sloshed in the cup. The steam rose in thin threads that wove themselves into shapes you didn’t want to name.

You blinked. “…Like... fairy tale soulmates? With singing animals and mysterious glowing birthmarks?”

“No. The real kind.”

“Sorry, that sounded fake. Try again.”

He didn’t laugh. That was your first clue he was serious.

“It’s rare. But sometimes, two people’s haki resonate so strongly, their minds connect. Usually starts with echoes. Then full conversations. Sometimes images.”

“So you’re telling me this is real? That you’re actually inside my head, and I’m not just slowly going crazy from lack of vitamin D?”

“Yoi. It’s real. You’re not hallucinating. Probably. Though you may see some feather-adjacent images on my end that seem a little crazy.”

You stared at the ceiling and let out the most dramatic sigh of your life. The sound was long and theatrical, as though you could exhale the entire situation out of existence.

“Of course. Of course I’d be medically bedbound and somehow still get mansplained about destiny by a seagull.”

“Excuse you. I’m a phoenix.” 

Ah, yes, the fine difference of being haunted by a regular bird and a mythological one.

“…Same thing. Just on fire.”

Your brother, who had been slicing a heel of bread at the table, stopped mid-cut. His shoulders were broad from hauling nets, his palms scarred from salt rope burns. “What now?” His voice was careful, the voice of a man who had long since learned that your episodes of dizziness and your daydreams sometimes blurred together.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, pressing your hand to your forehead. “Just sighing at the universe.”

He set the knife down and leaned against the chair, dark eyes scanning you with the same intensity he used to study the sea before a storm. “You’re flushed,” he murmured. “Is it your lungs again? Are you dizzy? Do I need to get the doctor?”

“No,” you said, maybe a little too sharply. “I’m fine. Tea mishap.”

His frown deepened. “You’re talking to yourself again. Or to the birds. You do that when you’re tired.”

From the link, Marco’s voice curled lazily through your thoughts, smug as a cat napping on treasure. “He sounds worried. Tell him you’re fine before he calls in a priest or something.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I am fine,” you said aloud, softer this time. “Really. Just tired of birds.”

Your brother lingered a moment longer, gaze flicking to the windowsill where the birds were still lined up like a jury. Finally, he nodded, but not without muttering under his breath about making you more soup, or stronger tea, or dragging you outside into the sun. His words faded into the background as he left the room, footsteps heavy with the same exhaustion that always followed him home from the docks.

When the door closed behind him, the link filled the room again, warm and salt-rough.

“Yoi,” Marco said quietly. “That sigh? Ten out of ten. But don’t scare him like that.”

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling beams. “You’re giving me unsolicited advice now? Fantastic. We’re really soulmates.”

A chuckle followed. “Better me than, say, a Marine officer or a Revolutionary. You lucked out.”

You scoffed. “Lucked out? I’m stuck in bed, and I’ve apparently drawn the attention of some delusional bird who thinks Haki is whispering sweet nothings in my brain. What’s next, you’re going to tell me you’re a famous hot-shot?”

Silence stretched, but not the same kind as before. This one pulsed. Heavy. True. Even the kettle on the stove seemed to hush.

“…I’m a fairly well-known hotshot.”

Your cup hit the saucer hard enough to rattle. Tea splashed over the rim, running down your fingers like a sticky warning. “Oh, wonderful. My hallucination has a résumé.”

“Not hallucination. And if you ever read a newspaper, you’d know my name.”

You narrowed your eyes at the ceiling. “The only names I read are bounties pinned outside the grocer’s shop. They’re there to warn people, not to inspire them.”

He hummed, amused. “Then you must have seen mine.”

“Apologies,” You said dryly, “But I don’t think pigeons get bounties.”

He did laugh then. Just once. Quiet and low. You heard it echo in your skull like someone humming in the dark, like a deckhand tapping a rhythm on a barrel. Somewhere in that sound, you caught a hint of sea spray, the snap of canvas, the rolling creak of a ship.

“You’re funny,” he murmured.

“You’re nuts,” you replied. “Soulmates aren’t real.”

“We’re literally talking to each other with our thoughts right now.”

Your brother, who had been trying to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping, froze in the act of setting a jar of salt on the table. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, voice sharp with worry. “You’ve been muttering for ten minutes.”

“Birds,” you said at once. “Practicing for a fairy tale. Don’t worry about it.”

He looked from you to the birds and back again, jaw tightening the way it did when he wanted to say more but didn’t dare. “You’re pale,” he muttered. “Maybe I’ll send for the doctor.”

“See?” you transmitted the thought, sharp as a pebble skipped across water. “I’ve just gone insane. You’re a fever dream with good grammar.”

“Nah,” came the reply, lazy and amused. “I don’t dream this pretty.”

You immediately grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a sad little thump, then slumped to the floor, feathers puffing out like a white flag of surrender. One drifted lazily down into your teacup, spinning in the steam like a ship lost at sea.

“Are you, my brain-ghost-bird, flirting?”

 “Absolutely.”

You stared at the ceiling beams, at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight like they were mocking you, then narrowed your eyes and said, “Let me guess. Next, you’ll say we’re fated to fall in love.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good.”

“…Yet.”

“SIR BIRD!” You gasp, half amused, half offended. “Take that back, you charred-chicken—”

The link rippled with laughter, low and rich, like the purr of a ship’s engine under your feet. “Charred Chicken?” he repeated, amused. “That’s new. You’re full of surprises, yoi.”

You scooped the stray feather out of your tea and flicked it toward the window, scowling at the birds on your sill. “You tell me your name is Marco the PHOENIX, you say you’re some famous pirate, you roost in my head like a smug pigeon, and now you’re flirting. What am I supposed to call you? Mister Phoenix?”

Another laugh. Warm. Rolling. The sound of a person who had been through storms and still found room to be entertained. “Marco works,” he said. “But I like Sir Bird. Suits me.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going to end up in one of those bad den den telenovelas for ‘aiding and abetting’ imaginary bird people.”

“Relax,” Marco murmured, voice still amused. “You’re fine. Just a girl with a room full of birds and a line to a phoenix. Could be worse.”

You peeked through your fingers at the window. Outside, the garden buzzed with bees, your brother’s nets hung to dry, and the world looked the same. But inside your head, a pirate was laughing, and you were losing the battle not to laugh with him.

-X-Unexpected Sights-X-

You refused to believe it for three whole weeks. You told yourself it was stress. Bad herbs. Some rare vitamin deficiency. Anything but the obvious. Every time his voice threaded through your thoughts, you muttered at it, ignored it, or drowned it out with the scrape of your knitting needles.

He would reach out from the sky, over god-knows-where, after long silences that stretched like cracked glass.

“Still breathing, sweetheart?”

 “Barely. One of the hens laid an egg on my stomach today. Why, Bertha, why???”

 “…That’s affection.”

 “That’s trespassing. Much like what you’re doing.”

It wasn’t until your brother slammed a hand on the table one evening and announced he would march into town and hire the fanciest doctor in the archipelago—regardless of how much it drained what little savings you had—that you broke.

You stared at him, horrified. “No,” you blurted, gripping the blanket over your lap like it could anchor you. “I’m not sick. Not like that. I’m just… hearing things.”

He froze, shoulders still heaving from the long day at the docks. “Hearing… things?”

“A voice.” The words tumbled out like loose coins. “Not like the fever-dream kind. Not like when I can’t breathe and everything goes black. It’s clear. He talks to me. Says we’re…” Your lips pressed together. It felt ridiculous even before you said it. “…soulmates.”

Your brother’s face shifted, the sharp lines of worry easing into something slower, thoughtful. Not disbelief, not panic. Just… recognition.

“Ah.” By the way he turned, you knew you were screwed.

“You know about them,” you groaned.

He nodded slowly, pulling out the chair by your bed and sitting heavily. The legs scraped against the wooden floor, a low sound that somehow felt final. “I’ve heard of it,” he said at last. His voice had gone quieter, more careful, as though he were handling something fragile. “Fishermen talk. So do travelers on the docks. Old sailors swap stories about it over grog and dice. Some call it a curse, some call it a miracle. Most of us never see it.” His gaze held yours, steady and searching. “But it’s real.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, salt-stiff sleeves wrinkling under the pressure of his forearms. He smelled of the sea: brine, tar, and faint fish oil, and there was a tiredness in his posture you only saw when he thought you were asleep. “You’re saying you have one.”

You flushed, the heat creeping up your throat before you could stop it. “I didn’t ask for it. He just showed up in my head. Like an uninvited guest.”

“And you didn’t tell me.” The way he said it was not angry, but it landed heavy, like a dropped anchor. He looked hurt, his eyes shadowed and tired, and you promptly apologized, albeit with a hint of sass.

“If it happened to you, would you have believed it?”

His silence was answer enough. His lips pressed into a line, his fingers drumming once against his knee before stilling. He looked at you the way he looked at the sea before a storm, as if trying to read what would come next and knowing he couldn’t.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Marco’s voice purred with infuriating timing. “Told you I was real, yoi.”

You pressed your face into your hands with a groan, muffling a sound halfway between a laugh and a scream.

Your brother rubbed a calloused hand down his jaw, thumb brushing at the stubble there. The motion was a nervous habit you’d seen a thousand times before, usually when bills came due or storms rolled in early. His skin was always rough from rope, salt, and sun, and the sound of his thumb scraping across his beard was as familiar to you as the creak of the old house at night. “So who is he?”

You peeked at him through your fingers, heart hammering like a drum. “A bird-man,” you said at last. The word felt like a confession, ridiculous and heavy at the same time.

His brows shot up before he turned away, gripping the bridge of his nose like he might pinch the madness out of it. “Of course he is.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Marco gasped, a dramatic, offended sound. “Bird-man? Really? That’s what you’re going with? I’ll have you know I’m a successful older man with a medical certificate.”

Your brother didn’t hear him, of course. He just sighed, running a hand through his salt-stiff hair, pushing it back from his forehead until it stuck up in wild tufts. His shoulders sagged under the weight of exhaustion, but his voice was steady. “This world already takes enough from us,” he said quietly. “If this… thing is real, you need to be careful.”

The words carried the weight of every time he’d come home with split knuckles from dockside fights, every time his hands had blistered raw from pulling nets alone, every time he’d pressed his lips thin when the money didn’t stretch far enough. He had sacrificed his back, his pride, and the better part of his youth to make sure you were safe in your little room, guarded from the world that had already taken too much.

He hesitated, then added, “There was a girl a couple of towns over. Her soulmate apparently chased her down and killed a couple of people who tried to help. He just dragged her off, and I doubt she’ll be seen again.” He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His eyes were dark and intent, the way they got before a storm. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press into your chest. You glanced down at your useless legs under the blanket, the stillness of them mocking you like they always did.

“I’m afraid there’s not much running in this fairy tale,” you said at last, the corner of your mouth twitching upward despite the knot in your throat. “I mostly consist of yarn and bad bird puns.”

Your brother let out a soft, helpless laugh, though his hand dragged down his face like he wanted to scrub the fear away. “Don’t joke about this.”

You nodded him off, lifting your teacup like a tiny shield. “Go to sleep. You always get overprotective when you’re tired.”

He hesitated, then reached out and tucked the blanket more firmly around your legs, a small, unconscious gesture that said everything he did not. He collected his basket, muttered something about checking the nets at dawn, and padded toward the back of the house, leaving the smell of salt and plums behind him.

Marco stood at the edge of your mind like someone lingering in a doorway, as if he had been polite enough not to step farther without an invitation. The sensation was strange and distinct, like sensing a breeze that was not there.

“What did you mean?” he asked softly, his voice stripped of its lazy humor. “Is there… something wrong? Are you actually sick?”

The question landed differently than all the others. Up until now, he had been a shadow, a voice, a teasing presence. Now he sounded like a man who had just realized the ocean under his ship was deeper than he thought.

You stared at the cooling tea in your hands, the steam fading into nothing. It would be easy to make a joke, to hide behind sarcasm again. That was what you always did when the questions got too close to home. But something in his tone, hesitant and careful, caught you off guard.

“It’s not a big deal,” you said finally. The words felt flat, thin, like paper trying to cover a wound. “There was an incident around a decade ago. Pirates. My legs haven’t functioned since then.”

You swallowed hard and tried to shove the memories back into the box where you kept them locked—the shouting. The water rising too fast. The taste of salt and iron in your mouth as your body betrayed you. The way your brother had carried you home, shoulders shaking with a grief he refused to show. You had learned to bury it under yarn, under books, under the flutter of bird wings. But now, with this link pried open between you and a stranger, something slipped.

It was small, just a flicker. The hint of sadness you kept under your ribs. The frustration that gnawed at you in the quiet hours. The anger that sparked whenever someone called you delicate, as if your bones were glass instead of stubborn iron.

You felt him feel it.

The link tightened, a ripple of heat moving through it like flame catching at the edge of paper. Marco did not say anything right away, but the silence was heavy, not empty. He had caught it, and you felt it.

You felt a flicker of something he had not shown you before. Not pity, but a kind of still, quiet anger on your behalf, like an ember banked under ash.

“Yoi,” he murmured at last. “Guess I wasn’t ready for that answer.”

You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Nobody ever is.”

The birds shifted on the sill, their claws clicking against the wood like tiny drumbeats. The kettle hissed softly in the background. Marco’s presence stayed where it was, patient but now unmistakably there. Not just a voice, but a person.

“Then we will figure it out,” he said finally, as if it were obvious. “Flying is my specialty.”

And for the first time since his voice had appeared, the knot in your chest loosened just a little.

“Oh, good lord,” you muttered. “Now you’re going to try and convince me you fly?”

There was no hesitation. “I do.”

You groaned into your blanket, dragging the fabric over your face. “Wonderful. My brain ghost thinks he is an actual bird.”

“Phoenix Devil Fruit,” he corrected, his tone edged with amusement. “Big difference.”

You peeked at the birds on your sill. They all stared back, glassy-eyed and judgmental, as if waiting to see how this argument ended. Their feathers rustled like gossip in the breeze. You rolled your eyes at the ceiling beams. “Of course. Next, you’ll tell me you breathe fire too.”

“Close enough,” he replied, his tone just shy of smug. “Blue flames. Regeneration. Phoenix stuff.”

You snorted into your cooling tea, almost choking on the steam. 

“Phoenix stuff. Right. And I’m secretly the Pirate King.”

Through the link, you felt his smile, wide and unbothered, the sort of smile that belonged to a man who had stood on the prow of a ship and laughed in the face of storms. It warmed you from the inside out, sunlight over saltwater. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me, yoi.”

You pressed the heel of your hand against your forehead, trying not to smile back. The birds on the sill cocked their heads in unison, as if they too were waiting for whatever came next, a jury of feathery skeptics.

Your brother’s footsteps creaked in the hall, the old floorboards groaning under his weight. The world around you was small and ordinary: tea gone lukewarm, yarn piled in baskets, sunlight fading into evening. But inside your head was something extraordinary. A soulmate with blue fire in his veins, speaking to you as casually as if you were already part of his crew.

And you hated how much you wanted to believe him.

-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-

Marco did not bother you much, not even at first. His voice was not the sort that barged into your head, loud and insistent. He preferred to settle like a bird on the roof of your mind’s house, quiet and watchful, content to squat there while you wandered out to the balcony of your imagination. You could almost picture him up there, knees bent, feathers fluffed, listening as you rambled. When you talked to yourself, which was often, he would sometimes lean over the edge of the shingles and drop a word or two like crumbs.

His voice carried the weight of calm seas. It was low, slow, with a dry warmth that made you wonder if he actually felt emotions or if he simply marinated them for three days until they came out faintly flavored. Yet he was not dull. He asked questions. He asked endlessly. About your village. About your days. About the aches that kept you inside. And, most curiously of all, about the birds. Why did they constantly crowd your sill? Why they perched on your shoulders like you were the main attraction? Why do they follow you around the room like unpaid security staff. And most baffling of all, why did you insist on naming them Garry, Larry, and Terry???

You answered him with what you had, which mainly was sass. “Because they act like Garry, Larry, and Terry,” you told him, as if that cleared anything up. “If you’re going to loiter in my skull, at least make yourself useful. Go spy on someone interesting and bring me gossip.”

“Sure,” he replied every time, as though you had just asked him to pick up milk from the market. “You would not believe what Thatch did this one time.”

“Who’s Thatch?”

“… He was my brother. And usually, a damn good cook. He made dinner, but he mixed the sugar and the salt, yoi. Teach nearly spat out his entire plate that time. I may have also encouraged Jizo to contribute to this mix-up.”

You blinked at the wall. “Okay. Tragic. But only for whoever Teach is.”

Marco paused.

“Don’t feel bad for Teach,” Marco continued, as if you had pressed a sore spot. “He deserved it for what he did to Ace. You remember him, right? Bad manners, tried to assassinate Pops the first week.”

You dropped your spoon into your tea. “I—what? Who are these people you keep talking about? Why did your Pop’s adopt murderous children?”

“My family tradition,” Marco said, calm as ever, like he was describing neighbors you should have already known. “Regular stuff on the High Seas.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “So I asked for gossip, and you brought me the world’s weirdest family newsletter. Got it. Sailors.”

“Mostly correct. Things have changed a lot since pops died.”

Family was clearly everything to Marco. The first time he had told you his pops had died, you could tell it gutted some part of him. But he wasn’t afraid of his feelings, nor of yours, and that made him very, very attractive. Even though you had never seen him, and against your better judgment, you started looking forward to his constant presence.

And unfortunately, he was very easy to fall in love with.

Your problem was that Marco made excellent conversation, which was the oath straight to your heart. He did not do pity, which already put him leagues ahead of your neighbors. Where the villagers offered soft voices and careful eyes, Marco never flinched. He had a sly sharpness hidden inside that calm, a knack for catching your sarcasm and volleying it back until the two of you were trading lines like seasoned comedians. You told him more than you meant to, small scraps of truth that slipped out in the pauses between his questions.

Your world had shrunk to the size of a room. A brother who was always gone, chasing wages in other towns. A body that tethered you to bed, to a chair, to a window. A village that looked at you with sympathy, but not recognition, not humanity. And into that narrowness, Marco’s presence pressed in, steady and warm. He became something you had not realized you were starved for. Not pity. Not a quiet hand on your shoulder. Simply company.

 He was a voice that stayed, steady as a bird that would not leave the roof.

“So what are you doing today?” he asked, voice all lazy and calm.

“Eating chicken noodle soup,” you huffed, blowing steam off the spoon. You slurped a mouthful, swallowed, then added with solemn gravity, “My apologies about your brother.”

Marco laughed, and the sound spun through you like a corkscrew, light and warm. The chicken on your sill fluttered, as if the air itself had shifted.

“You’re so ridiculous,” he said. “I’ll have you know you’re more closely related to chickens than I am.”

You paused, spoon hovering midair, then gave the bowl a suspicious look. “Excuse me? You’ve got feathers.”

“Different category. Mythical.”

“How convenient,” you muttered, poking the noodles like they had betrayed you. “So you get to rise from the ashes, dodge soup-based cannibalism charges, and—what—skip taxes too?”

“Correct,” Marco said, utterly unbothered. “All benefits package, yoi.”

You snorted. “Oh, I see. So being a big blue turkey comes with perks.”

“Phoenix,” he corrected, calm as a dictionary.

“Big. Blue. Turkey.” You said it slowly, spoon pointed at the ceiling for emphasis.

On the sill, Garry ruffled indignantly, Larry leaned into the glass for backup, and Terry let out a sharp chirp that sounded suspiciously like agreement. You gestured at them like an attorney presenting evidence. “See? Even the locals think you’re full of it.”

Marco’s laughter returned, low and rich, and you realized you liked it far too much for your own good.

Slowly, without meaning to, you began waiting for him. You caught yourself saving bits of news just for him, little things that would otherwise have slipped away unnoticed. A funny line from your brother’s dock gossip. A strange word you had come across in a book. A chick that had tried to steal bread right off your plate. You began holding those details in your pocket like coins, ready to spend them when Marco came around. And more often than not, he did. You found yourself listening for him in the quiet moments before sleep, like someone waiting for the tide to roll back in.

In return, he told you stories. About islands so far beyond the Red Line that the stars themselves looked rearranged. About storms that swallowed ships whole, so fierce you could hear the groan of wood and the prayers of men in his voice. About the old days, when he had seen Roger himself on a deck, laughing like a man with nothing left to lose.

And when your silence stretched too long, when he caught you disbelieving, he would explain. Again and again. What the mythical haki really was. Why did some people resonate? How rare it was to find someone who could hear him like you did. He reached for examples the way a schoolteacher might grab chalk, rattling off names like Sengoku and Garp as though those were household references.

“They sound like grumpy uncles,” you told him once, half-smiling into your tea.

“Accurate,” he admitted without shame. The warmth of his reply came through the bond like sunlight slipping under a door. “Very grumpy, estranged uncles. Probably wouldn’t attend our wedding.”

You’d rolled your eyes at that—half at the joke, half at the word our. A lot of what Marco said seemed to have layers you couldn’t quite decipher, like jokes told in a language you almost knew. It was a frustratingly common sensation for you, a disabled shut-in whose life had long since slowed to a crawl. People passed by without a glance. News came secondhand. Even your brother’s voice had begun to sound like it belonged to someone further away. You hoped for the day he found something real, someone real, unlike this weird, mental-asylum-adjacent situationship you’d landed in—your own private radio station, starring “Marco the Phoenix.”

You’d read books once—back when your legs still worked, back when afternoons were wide and full of promise—about lovers finding each other across time and tide, connected by magic and the will of the stars. Nonsense, you’d called it then. Now you called it worse, especially with a grown man elbowing his way into your head, insisting you were his divine match.

“So just to be clear,” you said aloud to your quiet cottage, “I can’t walk, haven’t left this bed in six years, and now apparently I have a soulmate. Who happens to be a laid-back dude with wings and an alleged medical degree.”

You blinked up at the water-stained ceiling beams, scoffed, and let your sarcasm echo. “That tracks.”

Marco, annoyingly, heard all of it. He didn’t even bother to argue anymore.

“You’re taking this well,” he commented dryly, voice soft as feathers in your mind.

“You should see me when I actually panic,” you shot back. “There’s throwing involved.”

“I’d offer to catch it,” he said, a smile curling under the words, “but I’m a little far.”

“No chance, sentient bird,” you muttered, tugging the blanket higher.

“You could just admit it’s real.” He chuckled, low, patient, maddening. Through the link, you felt a flicker of something like a wingtip brushing against your thoughts, gentle and deliberate, as if to say, I’m here anyway.

You tilted your head and raised a brow toward the window.

“Oh, I believe something’s happening. I just don’t think it’s fate. I think the universe tripped and landed on the wrong person.”

“You’re not the wrong person.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I do,” he said, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. “You’re a beautiful person.” 

He replied without hesitation. Your breath caught, the air of the room seeming to hold still as if it too had been startled by his certainty.

“You can’t see me.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You closed your eyes and pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’ll believe me eventually.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I already did,” he murmured. “The second I heard your voice.”

He always said things like that. Not like a man flirting, not even like a man trying to convince himself, but as if it were simply the truth. Like it was math. Like it was the sea and the sky and every breath he had taken since hearing your voice.

You swallowed hard and tried not to care, staring at the ceiling as if it could give you an answer. His certainty rolled through the link again, soft but unyielding, a tide you could neither stop nor entirely welcome.

You didn’t trust voices in your head.

Especially not ones with a calm drawl and a habit of asking invasive medical questions, as if he were doing a house call from the stratosphere. He had already inquired about your pulse, your medication, the state of your joints, and whether your blood pressure was normal. You half expected him to send a prescription through the ether next.

“Any dizziness today?” he asked, right on cue, sounding infuriatingly gentle.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “If I say yes, are you going to materialize out of thin air with a stethoscope?”

“Only if you ask nicely,” he said, and you could feel the smile riding under his words again. “What does your temperature usually run?”

 “Normal.”

 “What’s normal?”

 “Mine.”

“You get tremors? Any circulation issues?”

 “Is this flirting?”

 “Not this time. It’s triage.”

 “Then buzz off, Dr. Imaginary.”

You crossed your arms and glared at the ceiling beams, because glaring at the actual sky felt a little too theatrical. The fact that he was polite, warm-voiced, and very obviously some kind of genius didn’t matter. You had learned early that charming people were usually dangerous, and the ones who asked too many medical questions were worse.

“Why do you care?”Suspicion crept into your voice despite yourself. “You planning to write a paper on ‘delusional shut-ins with spicy attitudes’?”

He huffed—half laugh, half sigh—and you pictured him rubbing the bridge of his nose like a teacher trying to keep patience with the world’s most challenging student.

“I am a doctor, yoi.”

“I didn’t ask for a doctor. I asked for gossip. And soup recipes.”

“Tough,” he said, more amused than offended. “No soup recipes until after you reveal your blood pressure.”

You scoffed. “We don’t do blood pressure in backwaters. We just do imaginary friends who are a little too savvy with compliments.”

“You should explore the world more,” Marco said softly, “I think you’d find my compliments towards you are well-warranted.”

“Flattering bird.”

“Do it. Go be with people in your village and connect with them.” His voice sharpened into something intent, almost insistent. “It’s good to be with people, even when it’s hard.”

You smile.

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “Is this the doctor’s orders?”

Through the link, you felt his answering smile like a quiet ember pressed close, steady and sure. He did not reply, but the silence carried the weight of a yes.

So fine. Maybe you would. But you would complain.

The wheelchair was ancient, already old when you got it, and more painful to use than it was usually worth. The wooden arms pinched, the wheels squeaked, and every stone in the path jarred through your spine. Still, as your bond with Marco deepened, your brother grew more insistent that you leave the cottage. Likely, he was concerned that you were, in fact, losing your mind.

“People sort of get the idea of a soulmate,” your brother warned one morning as he steadied the wheels down the uneven step. “But it is pretty odd to see you speaking to no one.”

You huffed and crossed your arms. “I think Marco would have a few choice words about being called a no one.”

“He is not here, though, is he?” Your brother muttered, though his voice carried the gentleness of someone who did not want to wound.

In the back of your mind, Marco stirred, warm and amused. “Tell him I am offended. Deeply. And that I would never forget to oil the chair wheels like he has.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself.

Your brother would park you with friends or in the tiny square before heading off to do chores or gather groceries. There was always someone who would come by to keep you company, trading gossip or offering a bit of bread or fruit.

And if no one had a free moment, Marco was more than happy to fill the silence.

The villagers began to notice. Not Marco, of course, but the way you had started talking more often. Muttering at your shawl and chuckling at nothing. Arguing with the empty air about soup, or birds, or whether salt should be allowed anywhere near a teapot. Children whispered that the old chair must be enchanted. Older folk murmured that you had always been odd, though not unkind.

It was easier to let them wonder than to explain the truth —that your constant companion was a voice only you could hear.

“Yoi, if you actually reply to me, they're going to think you've lost it,” Marco warned gently, as a mother crossed the street with her daughter rather than pass too close to your chair.

You chuckled at nothing visible. “To be fair, they assume I’ve been off since getting hurt.”

“Small minds are scared of big dreams. Be careful, little bird.”

You did not joke back this time. You tucked his words away, letting them settle like stones at the bottom of a river.

Sitting at the well, you overheard two women whispering, their voices sharp in the heat of the afternoon.

“They say she is losing it.”

“She has been losing it for years,” the other replied, lowering her tone. “Now she talks about doctors no one has seen.”

Your fingers tightened around the wicker of your basket until it creaked. You kept your head bowed and thought, if only you knew.

In the back of your mind, Marco’s presence stirred again, protective and steady, the faintest brush of wings across your thoughts as if to shield them. He never said anything cruel in return, but the pulse of his emotion was enough to remind you that you were not alone.

Not everyone in the town was so quick to judge. Many neighbors went out of their way to draw you into things, leaving baskets for you to sort, or asking for help with stitching when their fingers were clumsy. Your knitting needles became an excuse for company, and you were often parked in the square with wool in your lap and someone leaning close to swap gossip. The chatter was fresh, engaging, and made you feel—at least for a little while—like part of the weave rather than a loose thread.

However, the rhythm of the village shifted when the Marines began to arrive on the island. Men in crisp white coats and blue sashes strode through the port, discussing surveys and supplies, their notebooks already measuring where a base might be situated. Their polished boots looked out of place against the cobbled lanes.

The villagers muttered louder than ever. Some feared what the presence of uniforms would bring, remembering old stories of pressed service and heavy taxes. Others welcomed the idea, hoping it might mean stability or trade, or at the very least a broader market for fish and fabric. Arguments broke out at the well, in the square, in the tavern, until the air itself seemed restless.

Through it all, your soulmate stayed at the edge of your thoughts, sharp now, listening in with the kind of quiet that meant he was paying attention to every detail.

You listened too, though from your window rather than the square, chickens crowding the sill as if they were part of the conversation. When you mentioned it offhand to Marco, his reply came so sharp it startled you.

“Marines,” he said. His calm voice had tightened, just enough for you to notice. “You do not want that.”

You spooned broth from your bowl and arched a brow at the ceiling. “Oh? And why should I care if a bunch of men in neat coats decide to build a fort by the dock?”

“They bring trouble,” Marco said. “Gold and maps.”

“More trouble than you?” you teased, the corner of your mouth lifting.

For a long moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched taut across the bond. Even the birds seemed to pause, feathers ruffling against the glass as if they too waited.

When he finally spoke, his voice had softened again, but the weight beneath it pressed low in your chest.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Much more than me.”

The broth cooled between your hands. You wanted to laugh it off, to tell him he was being dramatic, but the sincerity in his tone sat with you longer than you expected. For the first time, you wondered if your imaginary doctor with the calm drawl and ridiculous bird jokes might actually be something dangerous after all.

Yet you were on the side of the Marines coming. You could already imagine the dock widened, the shops rebuilt, the square busy again. A proper clinic, real medicine, supplies that did not depend on the tide or your brother’s aching back. Soldiers meant trade, and trade meant your brother might not have to keep leaving for work.

When the village elders met, you spoke softly but clearly, and they listened. For all their pity, they knew you had a sharp head for planning. You laid out what could be gained: routes, markets, protection. Even the gruff old fishermen who muttered about taxes had to admit the thought of steady buyers sounded good.

“Stability,” you told Marco one evening, stirring your tea as the chickens dozed on the sill. “Order. A doctor who is not just a man with herbs and a big spoon. We could use that here.”

Through the link came silence. Not his usual easy quiet, but something heavier. It dragged at the edge of your thoughts, unsettling in its weight, as if he had more to say but refused to let it pass his lips.

At last, his voice reached you, low and deliberate. “Stability is not what they bring.”

The spoon stilled in your cup.

That stopped you. You tilted your head. “Why do you even care where I live? It’s not like you’re going to swoop in on your big blue wings and—”

“Did you miss the part where we are soulmates?” His voice cut across yours, still soft but carrying a weight that made your mind go still. “I am very invested.”

Heat rushed up your neck and into your face, a flush you could not control.

You let out a small laugh, hoping it sounded normal. “Or you’re just a very determined imaginary physician with boundary issues.”

“Could be,” Marco said. You could feel his smile flicker in the bond, not quite hiding the worry threaded through it. “But you’d be sad if I were.”

Outside, the tide rolled in, washing against the pilings with a slow hush. The chickens hopped and tilted their heads as if listening too. For the first time, you wondered if the voice on your roof was not entirely a delusion.

In the back of your mind, his presence lingered, steady and warm, like a heartbeat carried across water.

Then, softly, he asked, “Where do you live?”

You blinked into your tea. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, and his voice was not lazy this time, “if the Marines are sniffing around, something is stirring. And I want to know what you are walking into.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “South Blue. Little island, barely on the maps. We get by, but… things have been unstable for a while.”

“Unstable how?”

You tapped the rim of your cup, trying to sound casual. “The Kid Pirates came through last season. Left the docks in splinters, took half the cargo with them. We rebuilt, but everyone’s been on edge since. The Marines setting up shop would mean protection.”

The bond went very still, so still it felt like holding your breath. Even the usual hum of him—his featherlight presence at the edge of your thoughts fell silent. It was not the peace of calm seas, but the hush before a storm.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and stripped bare of humor. “If Kid has been to your island, the Marines are not coming to protect you. They are coming because you are on a map they already fear. You may be on a pirate circuit. Pirates will follow a hotshot and are known to strike multiple ports repeatedly, after they recover.”

Your fingers tightened around your cup. You wanted to ask what he meant, but something in his tone told you that once he explained, nothing would feel simple again.

You frowned at the window. “You know a lot about Kid.”

“Part of sailing is knowing the dangers,” Marco said. His calm was back, but there was steel beneath it. “But don’t mistake the Marines for protection. They only protect their own.”

You shifted, uneasy, though you tried to mask it with sarcasm. “So what, my nosy bird doctor is going to fly all the way from wherever you are and defend us from pirates?”

“Yes,” Marco said simply. “If I must.”

You stared down into your tea, heat creeping up your neck, and decided very firmly that he was only joking.

Elsewhere:

In truth, Marco did know you. In pieces. In moments. He knew how you scratched your wrist when you were lost in thought. How you lied and said you weren’t in pain, but your mind buzzed differently when it hurt. He knew you named your herbs like they were friends and that your favorite time of day was just before the birds woke up — when the village was still and the sky hadn’t decided what color it wanted to be.

He knew that when you laughed, it felt like sun-warmed linen and the soft clink of a teaspoon on porcelain.

And he missed it. Every time you went quiet, he missed it like a man freezing misses firelight.

Your own hurt sheltered you, cocooning yourself in the disbelief of your worth.

Marco wasn’t deterred. If anything, he just got worse. Asking questions, digging into symptoms, trying to guess what sort of paralysis you had, like it was a riddle, and he was playing for your life.

“When did the muscle failure start?”

 “…When I was twenty-three.”

 “Was it sudden or slow onset?”

 “Is this a date? Do I need to put on perfume?”

“You ever been checked for neurotoxins? Spinal infection?”

 “You know what I’ve been checked for? None of your business.”

Eventually, you snapped.

“Listen here, voice man. I don’t know what kind of weird sky cult you’re from, but I’m not giving my medical history to a stranger who lives in my brain. What if you’re part of some secret government psychic program? Or a brain parasite with a doctorate?”

“I’m not.”

“You sound very sure for someone who won’t show his face.”

Silence. Then he grinned.

“You want to see my face?” he said, and he could hear your unhappy expression. “You’d fall in love.”

You made a face so hard your eyebrows hurt.

“Gross. You’re full of yourself.”

“No. Just full of concern. And maybe a little caffeine.”

“Do you hit on all your patients?”

“Only the ones I can’t stop hearing.”

You tried not to smile.

You failed.

His heart fluttered in joy. And perhaps his wings did as well.

-X-Strange Happens-X-

The Marines did end up coming.

The village square buzzed louder than you had ever heard it. Fishermen leaned against their nets instead of mending them, women pressed close with baskets half-forgotten at their sides, and children darted underfoot, too quick to be caught. Even the old men who usually clung to the tavern door had shuffled into the light, curiosity pulling them along.

Your brother wheeled you to the edge of the crowd and parked you near the well where you could see. The ancient chair creaked in protest as if reminding you it had not been built for rallies, but you ignored it, leaning forward to catch the words booming through the square.

At the center, a Marine officer stood tall in a spotless coat, his white cap gleaming like bone under the sun. His voice carried like a brass bell, sharp and ringing, each word calculated to reach the furthest ear.

“South Blue has been unsettled,” he declared. “But order will return. A new base here means safety, jobs, and stability for your families.”

Applause broke out, scattered at first, then swelling until it rolled across the crowd like surf against the rocks. Relief. Excitement. The promise of wages that did not depend on the sea behaving for once. Mothers clutched their children with watery smiles. Young men grinned at each other with the reckless joy of those already imagining steady pay in their pockets.

You felt it catch in your chest. It was impossible not to. You could already picture it: the dock widened and repaired, ships from other islands bringing goods your village had never seen, perhaps even a clinic with real medicine instead of herbs steeped in boiling water. Your brother might not have to leave so often. Maybe you would breathe easier in a world that was finally moving forward.

Later, as the villagers spilled out in cheerful knots, you sat by your window, watching smoke rise from kitchen fires. The chickens pressed close on the sill, waiting for crumbs. That was when Marco’s voice came, sharper than usual.

“You are pleased.”

“Of course I’m pleased,” you said, flicking crumbs at Garry. The chick hopped indignantly and pecked at your fingers anyway. “A Marine base means protection, trade, order. A doctor who isn’t just a man with herbs and a big spoon.”

There was silence, a silence so taut you could hear your own pulse in it. Even the birds stopped their fidgeting.

Then, at last: “You do not want that.”

You rolled your eyes at the ceiling beams. “You keep saying that, bird-man. Tell me why I shouldn’t be glad about soldiers with neat coats and actual paychecks.”

“They will not protect you,” Marco said. The calm had gone out of his voice, replaced by something heavier, something that made the birds flutter uneasily and scatter to the far end of the sill. “They will poison you. They will draw fire here. Pirates will come because Marines are here, and you will be caught in the middle.”

“Don’t you want me to be healthy?” you asked, your throat tightening in a way you hadn’t expected. “I could get better. This could be good.”

There was a pause, long enough that you thought he had let it go.

“My apologies. You’re right. I hope it will only be good for you.”

Something in his tone made you frown. The apology did not sound like surrender. It sounded like retreat. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am glad if you are glad,” Marco said. His voice had that slow-roasted calm again, the one you could never decide was genuine or just practiced. “It is not my place to sour your news.”

You tilted your head at the ceiling, watching light sift through the beams. “You always have an opinion. Go on, then.”

Another beat of quiet. You felt him turning something over in his mind, patient as always, like a man weighing a stone before throwing it.

Then, soft as a feather brushing glass: “Only that Marines… change places. They make islands into things they were not before.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest tugged strangely. “You talk like an old man with sea stories. Try being optimistic for once.”

“I am,” he said, and you felt it—a thread of warmth unfurling in the bond. Yet beneath it lay something heavier, quiet and careful, as though he were already bracing for storms you could not see. “I always am happy with you.”

And the topic was dropped.

The first week was nothing but noise and bustle. Marines tramped through the village in orderly lines, their boots clapping like drums on the cobblestones, their white coats flashing in the sun. The sound was strange against streets that had known only fishermen’s sandals and children’s bare feet. Wagons rattled in with lumber and stone, wheels crunching over gravel, and the villagers hurried to help unload, eager for coin.

For the first time in years, the square was alive, not with gossip or worry but with industry. Nets were abandoned on doorsteps, half-mended. Laundry went unpinned, forgotten on lines that sagged in the salt wind. People crowded to watch the officers mark out plots with neat chalk lines, measuring where barracks and armories would stand. Children ran beside the wagons, shouting questions, chasing after Marines who smiled stiffly but did not answer.

You sat in your chair near the well, your brother standing at your shoulder, and let the energy of it wash over you. Hammers clanged, orders rang, laughter lifted as coins clinked into hands that had too long been empty. For a moment, it almost felt like hope had blown in with the sea breeze.

In the back of your mind, though, Marco was silent. His presence was there, steady as always, but he did not speak. And that silence was louder than the hammering.

Time pressed forward, measured by the noise outside your window. You watched as men in blue coats marked the ground with chalk and hammered stakes into the earth. Trees fell at the edge of the village, the rhythmic bite of saws giving way to the thunder of trunks crashing into the soil. The air filled with sawdust, sharp and dry, clinging to your throat whenever the breeze shifted.

Later came the smoke. Black columns curled into the sky from kilns where they fired bricks and patched ships. The smell of resin, pitch, and scorched wood filled the square, permeating even the cracks in your shutters. At first, it was exciting, the scent of progress drifting on the air.

“This is good,” you said aloud, setting your teacup down a little too firmly, as if to make it true. “Real change, finally.”

On the sill, Garry and Larry fluffed their feathers, unsettled by the racket. Terry gave a rough little sound that might have been a cough, if birds could cough.

From the bond, Marco’s silence lingered, patient but heavy, like the sky before a storm.

Marco’s voice brushed the edge of your thoughts. “Are you well?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? The docks will be bigger, and trade will come back. My brother might not have to leave. Maybe we’ll even have a proper clinic.”

He did not answer right away. When he did, his voice was warm, almost carefully so. “That would be good. I am glad you see hope in it.”

But underneath, you caught something else. The way he hesitated before hope, as though it was a fragile word in his mouth, too breakable to hold.

“You don’t sound glad,” you accused, cracking bread into pieces for the chickens. They pecked greedily, crumbs scattering across the sill.

“I am glad if you are glad,” Marco said again. Then softer, so soft you nearly missed it: “Just… do not sit too close to the worksite. The air there is not good.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes at the ceiling beams. “You sound like my brother.”

“Then perhaps he is wise.”

Outside, another tree fell, the ground trembling with its weight. The air already tasted different, thick with ash and sawdust, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just the smell of progress.

It began so slowly you almost missed it.

The sawdust that stung your nose when the breeze shifted. The smoke from the brick kilns curls over rooftops, turning the sky a hazy gray. The cough that rattled your chest in the mornings, brushed off at first as the damp or a stormy night’s sleep.

By the second week, the cough lingered. Your chest tightened whenever the wind blew from the shipyard, heavy with resin and char. Even your bones ached, deep and dull, though the sun on your blankets was warm.

Marco’s questions grew sharper, quieter. He no longer teased about soup or birds. Instead, he asked how many hours you coughed at night, if you had a fever, and if your breathing eased with tea. His voice was steady but carried an edge, as if he were holding his worry tight to keep it from spilling into you.

“How often now?”

“Two nights running.”

“Color?”

“Still clear,” you muttered, embarrassed, as if he had asked about your underclothes.

He never chided, only tucked the answers away, voice steady as if building a chart you could not see. You could almost picture him bent over some invisible page, writing your symptoms into careful rows, with neat columns filled with notes on lungs, pulse, and air quality.

“Any pain?” he pressed after a beat.

“Just aches. The kind you get when it’s damp.”

“Your breathing?”

You hesitated, then lied. “Fine.”

The bond shifted, heavy with disbelief. You had the strange, almost physical sensation of him staring at you through the silence. When he spoke, it was in that same calm tone, but softer, the weight under it unmistakable.

“Do not lie to me. Not about this.”

Your throat tightened. His questions were not just idle fussing. He was tracking you like a doctor with a patient he could not reach. Every cough you brushed off, every ache you dismissed, he tucked into some unseen ledger, his silence weighted with calculations.

Your brother, meanwhile, quietly began to work with the Marines. Not as one of them, for he would never wear their coat, but as a courier, a messenger, a runner of errands. They paid well for strong legs and quick feet, and he told you it was honest work. He carried letters to the shipyard, ferried reports from the kiln foreman to the officer at the square, and guided supply carts through the narrow lanes when the locals grumbled about blocked roads.

Each evening, he returned with sweat on his brow and coin in his palm, proud to show you the food he had bartered for, or the fabric he had managed to save toward a new blanket for winter. The Marines praised his reliability, and the villagers praised his luck.

You praised him, too, though in your chest something coiled uneasily. The cough in your lungs rattled louder at night, and the smoke from the kilns pressed heavier against your windows. When you mentioned it, your brother only shook his head. “It is temporary,” he said. “Once the buildings are up, it will settle. This is the price of progress.”

The villagers were too busy to notice, wrapped up in new wages and the thrill of coin clinking in their pockets. But thanks to your brother’s errands, the Marines noticed you. They noticed the drawn woman at the window who always seemed to be watching.

They began to stop by under the guise of courtesy.

“Miss, can we fetch anything for you?”

It might have been kindness, yet the weight of their stares and the casual tilt of their smiles felt more like curiosity, or worse, flirtation. You had no way to walk away, no excuse to slip past them, and that helplessness pressed down heavier than the cough in your chest.

Your brother did his best to intercept, polite but firm, steering them back to their duties with a steady hand on their sleeves. Still, their interest lingered like a cloud of smoke. It pressed you inward. You closed your shutters earlier. You kept to your bed more often, sparrows fussing on your sill when the evening haze drifted in thick enough to sting your eyes.

And in the quiet that followed, Marco’s presence curled close, steady but edged with something sharp, as though he was watching every footstep outside your door.

“You should stay away from them.”

“They are Marines,” you whispered hoarsely, spooning broth that did little to soothe your throat. “They are here to help.”

His silence stretched so long you thought he had left. Then, almost too soft to catch, he muttered, “They’re not me.”

You didn't know how to process that, so you avoided the confession entirely, shoving it aside like a book you weren't ready to open.

“The opening of the base is tonight,” you said, adjusting the blanket at your lap as if that mattered. “I think I’ll be well enough to go. The coughing is getting better.”

It was not, but you forced the words out with practiced ease.

For a moment, Marco said nothing, and you felt the weight of his listening press against you. When he did answer, his voice was calm, almost too calm. “You should stay inside.”

You laughed softly, though it sounded thin, brittle against your raw throat. “And miss the biggest thing to happen here in years? Please. My brother will be there, the whole town will be there. It would be strange if I weren’t.”

“You are not strange,” Marco said, and there was a quiet firmness to it, like stone under sand. “But the smoke will be heavy. The noise will carry. It will not be good for you.”

You ignore his advice.

You ignored his advice.

The gathering was meant to be celebratory. Lanterns swung from the beams of the hall, their light casting ripples of gold across the worn planks and catching on the glass of half-filled cups. Smoke from the shipyard trailed through the open shutters, curling with the steam of cooking pots and the sweet tang of fruit wine.

Villagers clustered together in their best clothes, sea-salt-worn jackets brushed clean, skirts freshly mended. The air buzzed with pride and plans. Talk of wages and trade routes, of new roofs and wider docks, filled the space until it hummed like a hive. Children darted between legs, giggling as they wove through the crowd, and even the older folk—those who rarely left their porches—had shuffled forward to witness the moment.

You had insisted on coming, even if it meant being wheeled in your brother’s old chair, a blanket tucked firmly across your lap. The wheels squeaked each time he pushed you forward, but you held your head high, nodding at neighbors who met your eye. You wanted to be seen. To remind them you were still part of this island, not just a pale figure at a window.

The hall smelled of pine smoke and bread, of pitch still clinging to the uniforms of the Marines who stood at the edges like pillars in their spotless coats. Their presence filled the room, clean white and polished brass gleaming in the lantern light. You felt their gazes pass over you as you were wheeled toward a place near the front, curiosity tucked beneath their courtesy.

From the sill of your mind, Marco pressed close, his silence taut, his presence a low thrum just beneath your heartbeat. “Too much smoke. Too much noise.” You ignored him again, forcing your hands to smooth the blanket on your lap as if that alone could ground you.

Your brother bent low, murmuring reassurance as he adjusted the chair into position. Around you, the villagers clapped when the officer stepped onto the dais, his cap shining pale as bone under the lanterns. His voice rang clear, the promises of protection and prosperity rolling out like scripture. The hall answered in cheers and applause, the sound swelling until it pressed against your ribs.

You tried to join in, even smiled when neighbors turned to nod at you, but the cough stirred deep in your chest, threatening. You swallowed it down with a sip of weak tea from the cup your brother had pressed into your hands.

At the center of the hall, a Marine lieutenant laughed with easy arrogance, white teeth flashing under lamplight, his spotless coat gleaming as though the smoke had never touched him. When his eyes found you, his expression sharpened with interest. He broke from the circle of officers and strode toward your chair, bowing far too low, a smile fixed too tightly on his lips.

“You honor us with your presence,” he said smoothly, his voice slick as oil. His hand brushed the arm of your chair as if he had any right. “It is rare we meet such pretty company outside the capital.”

Your throat tightened. The air was thick already, heavy with the smoke of the kilns and the press of too many bodies, and the lieutenant’s sharp cologne only made it worse. You forced a polite smile, but the cough caught before you could answer.

Marco’s voice sparked sharply in your head, cutting across the haze. “What is wrong?”

You shook your head faintly, trying not to alarm anyone. “It’s nothing. Just—” The words snagged in your chest.

The lieutenant’s smile faltered as you bent forward, coughing so hard your vision blurred. The sound tore through the hall, raw and jagged. Someone gasped.

Your brother swore under his breath and shoved the man aside, steadying you with one hand while fumbling for the cup with the other. Villagers crowded close, voices rising in a muddled chorus.

“Water, she needs water—”

“Here, sit her up—”

“Get cloth, wet cloth—”

Hands pressed cups against your lips, cloths against your forehead, too many touches crowding in all at once, well-meaning but overwhelming. The world blurred with heat and noise.

Through it all, Marco’s voice surged, no longer soft but urgent, fierce in a way you had never heard before. Enough. Tell them to back away. Tell your brother to get you into the air. Now.

The chickens shrieked outside the shuttered windows as though echoing him, their wings beating in frantic rhythm.

“Back, give her air—”

“Get her home—”

“Insubstantial constitution,” the Marine doctor muttered as he stooped over you, his tone more weary than concerned. “She should not be out. The smoke does no favors. Get her out of here, it’s ruining the party.”

Marco was a storm in your head, his calm torn away. “Tell me how bad. Tell me what you feel. Are you breathing? Answer me, yoi!”

You could not. You could only clutch at your brother’s sleeve as he hurried the chair toward the door, the hall spinning in dizzy fragments of lantern light and murmurs. The cough rattled through you, deep and hot, shaking your whole body until you felt hollowed out.

“Stay with me,” Marco demanded, panic bleeding into every syllable. “Slow breathing. Stay with me.”

You wanted to answer, to reassure him, but the smoke pressed down like a stone weight on your chest, and all you could do was gasp and hold on.

Your brother half-dragged, half-wheeled you through the night streets, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes wide with fear. The wheels of the chair squealed against the cobblestones, catching on uneven stones as he shoved it forward with brute force. He muttered apologies you could barely hear between coughs, promises that you would be fine, that he should never have let you go, that he should have noticed the haze thickening above the rooftops.

By the time he carried you up the steps and laid you on your bed, his arms were trembling with exhaustion, his breath loud and uneven. He tried to smooth the blanket over you, but his hands shook so badly he could not pull it straight.

Then he broke. He pressed his fists hard against his eyes, shoulders bowed, his breath sawing ragged in his chest. The sound of it cut through you more sharply than your own coughing. He had never let you see him like that, never allowed the weight of his worry to fall where you could catch it.

Marco was in your head the entire time, his voice sharper than you had ever heard it. “Tell me your pulse. Count it out for me. How deep is the cough? Is it breaking blood?”

You could not say anything, not even think it. You tried. Between gasps, you whispered apologies, croaked that it was clear still, no red, no blood. It was not enough for him.

“Stay awake,” he urged, panicked. “Stay with me, yoi.”

The door banged open before you could answer. A town doctor, coat half-unbuttoned and hair disheveled from being roused in the night, pushed past your brother’s protests with the authority of someone who knew he would not be stopped. He knelt at your bedside, hands cool and efficient, pressing at your wrist, tilting your chin, checking your eyes with a squint that was more practiced than kind.

“Lungs strained,” he said briskly. His tone carried no sympathy, only the clean edges of diagnosis. “She should not be outside. Too delicate for it and too much trouble for others.” The word delicate fell like a judgment, as though it were a flaw rather than an illness. “Rest, broth, keep her inside. I will send tinctures.”

Your brother bristled, anger trembling beneath the weight of his fear. “She needs more than tinctures.” His voice cracked, his fists clenched at his sides. “She was choking in front of half the village. Do something.”

The doctor rose, already looking past you toward the doorway, his attention shifting like someone marking off a task. “I will do what I can,” he said. “That is all.”

Your brother’s breath hitched, as though he might strike the man or collapse under the weight of his helplessness.

Through the bond, Marco’s voice surged again, dark with fury. “Tinctures. Useless. That man is no doctor. If I were there, I would—” He broke off, the force of his emotion shuddering across your thoughts like wings beating against glass.

You tried to breathe evenly, to calm both of them, but the air scraped ragged in your lungs. You closed your eyes against the smoke still clinging to your senses, against the ache in your brother’s voice, against the storm Marco was barely holding back.

“Stay with me,” he whispered again, raw this time. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

You shut your eyes, too tired to argue with either of them. Your brother’s ragged breathing at your bedside, the Marine doctor’s clipped footsteps fading down the hall, Marco’s voice circling your thoughts like a hawk. It was too much, too loud. The room smelled of smoke and salt and the bitter tang of herbs from the doctor’s satchel.

You turned your face into the pillow, the fabric cool against your cheek, and whispered, half to yourself, half to him, “You really do sound like a doctor.” Your voice cracked on the last word.

For a long moment, he said nothing. You could feel him there, though, his presence curling low and tight in your mind like a great bird folding its wings.

Then, quiet as a flame guttering low: “Then let me come save you.”

The words slid under your ribs and stayed there, warmer and more dangerous than anything he had said before. They did not sound like a plea. They sounded like a vow.

Your fingers curled in the blanket. You wanted to believe him. You tried to tell him yes. But the smoke in your lungs and the ache in your chest felt like an anchor, and all you could do was lie still, eyes closed, while his voice hung in the dark like a promise waiting to be kept.

Instead, you slept.

-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-

The weeks that followed pressed you further inside. The air grew heavier by the day, thick with smoke from the shipyard and the acrid bite of coal. Even with the shutters closed, the haze slipped in through the cracks, scratching at your throat until every morning began with a cough that rattled your ribs. The sparrows stayed restless in the nearby roofs, wings flicking as they hopped from perch to perch, unsettled as though the sky itself had soured.

From your window, the town no longer looked like your town. Stacks of lumber and barrels of pitch had swallowed the neat square where you once watched children play chase. The cobblestones were scarred by wagon wheels, stained by oil, dulled by constant trampling. Marines drilled in lines across the old market, their boots striking in unison until dust lifted in clouds and clung to everything it touched. Their shouts echoed against the walls of the houses, drowning out the chatter of neighbors and the sound of gulls.

It was less a village now than an extension of the base. The smells of salt and fish had been replaced by resin, smoke, and the metallic tang of new nails hammered into timber. Where once you could hear merchants bartering and children laughing, now there was only the bark of orders and the heavy rhythm of construction.

Yet the people seemed brighter than ever. They filled their baskets with food purchased from coins freshly minted into their palms. They lingered in the evenings, speaking of steady wages, of safety, of ships that would bring trade from places they had only heard of. They told each other the Marines meant order, and they began to walk taller, their steps lighter, as if simply having soldiers at their side was enough to sweep away fear.

From your window, you tried to believe it too, feeling both smaller and more cut off. The square no longer held any space for you. It was full of boots and barrels, and you were left with a view of backs and smoke.

Marco’s voice came to you one evening, low but strained, like a rope pulled too tight. 

“How are you, my dear?”

You tucked your blanket closer and tried to smile, though no one could see it. “Terrible. But being inside helps. Maybe if I stay inside long enough–”

“No,” he corrected softly, the single word slipping in with a quiet finality. “You need a real doctor. Medicine.”

You paused, fingers stiff against your cup. The tea had gone cold, but you held it anyway, needing something solid in your hands. “That’s not… I can’t ask for that.”

“You can and should. Your brother understands, but he needs your approval.” Marco’s tone made your skin prickle, steady but edged, like a man standing on the brink of saying more than he should.

“But when you pressed,” he only went quiet again, his silence heavier than his words. “He won’t spend the money when you’re as worried as you are,” he murmured at last, and it was not an accusation so much as a sad truth.

You laughed, a little too sharply, the sound scraping against the smallness of the room. “Have you ever been poor? My brother would stop eating for a week if he thought it would help.” You stared into your cup and whispered the thought you had meant as a joke, but which landed like a stone in your own chest. “If I were a good sibling, I would just roll myself into the sea and let him live his life—”

The bond jolted, a sudden crack of heat and noise. Marco’s presence flooded your thoughts, no longer careful or contained but fierce, like blue fire under your skin. “Do not ever say that.”

You blinked, startled, the cup trembling in your hands.

“Do not ever think that,” he repeated, slower now but no less intense. “You are not a burden. You are not something to throw away.”

For a moment, the room felt larger, warmer, as if something with wings had folded itself over you. Your breath came unsteady, the cough still sitting heavy in your chest, but the sting behind your eyes was not from smoke.

“Sorry,” you whispered into the quiet, ashamed at how small it sounded.

Marco did not answer at once. His presence hummed low in your mind, steady and deliberate, until his voice finally came, softer than you had ever heard it. “I wish you could feel what I feel when I hear you. You are more than your pain. You are more than this room.”

You pressed your knuckles to your lips, trying to swallow the ache that rose with his words.

“I thought,” he continued, careful but unshaken, “I could wait. That keeping the bond would be enough. But every day you grow weaker, and every day I sit an ocean away. I want to come to you. I want to see you, to put my hands on yours, to keep watch at your bedside instead of listening to your cough through walls I cannot break.”

The chickens shifted on the sill, feathers rustling like parchment in a breeze.

“You should not meet me,” you managed, your voice raw. “I’m sick. Disabled. Useless and a burden.”

“No,” he said at once, the sound low and steady in your skull. So quick, it could only be the truth. 

“You are already my everything.” His reply came with the weight of a vow. “And if you would let me, I would come tomorrow. I would find your island, walk through the smoke, and carry you out myself. Nothing would keep me from you.”

Your heart thudded unevenly, caught between disbelief and the dangerous warmth of wanting to believe. The words wrapped around you like a net, both frightening and steadying. You stared at the ceiling beams until they blurred, trying to blink away the heat rising behind your eyes.

On the sill, the chickens were silent now, feathers puffed against the cold air creeping in through the shutters. Their stillness matched the bond, heavy and humming as if waiting for your answer.

“You talk like a story,” you whispered, a tremor running through your fingers. “Like something out of a book. People don’t… they don’t say things like that.”

“I do,” Marco said quietly. The certainty in his tone was not loud, but it was absolute. “I do because I mean them.”

Something in you faltered. You pressed the heel of your palm to your mouth, half to keep in the cough, half to keep in the sound you did not want him to hear. You could feel him waiting, wings folded tight, holding his breath on the other side of the distance.

For the first time, you wondered not just if he would come, but what would happen if you said yes.

You considered Marco’s proposition. You did not know where he was, what sea he sailed, or even which sky he slept under. He spoke of distances as if they were nothing, as if an ocean were no more troublesome than a doorway. You knew enough from your brother’s stories to understand that crossing the Grand Line, let alone the Red Line, was no simple thing. It required ships, maps, courage, and a measure of madness.

And yet the way Marco said it was compelling. His words did not sound like a boast or an attempt to impress you. They carried the weight of certainty, like someone stating that the tide would come in or the sun would rise.

You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders and stared at the ceiling, listening to the chickens shuffle restlessly on the sill. The bond hummed faintly, warm and steady, like a heartbeat echoing from very far away.

If he genuinely meant it, if he really could find you, the thought should have frightened you. Instead, it curled in your chest like a fragile spark of hope you could not name.

You turned your face into the pillow and whispered before you could stop yourself. “You sound so sure.”

“I am sure,” he answered at once, his voice low and warm as it brushed against your thoughts. “I will find you if you ask me to.”

Your breath caught. The room seemed smaller, the distance between you thinner, as if with a single word you could change everything.

Two days later, a fishing crew staggered back into the harbor with half its men burned and the other half babbling of blood-red fire on the horizon. Pirates had been spotted in nearby waters.

The fishing crew’s return lit the village like dry tinder. Men carried the injured into the square, their arms streaked with burns, their voices trembling with stories of fireballs ripping through the sea. The name spread on every tongue–Pirates. The very sound of it set the children to tears.

The Marines, in contrast, only straightened their coats and raised their voices louder. “Remain calm,” the lieutenant barked. “The base will stand. The base will protect.” They promised ships, promised guns, promised order. People clung to those words as if they were driftwood.

Marco’s voice came sharp in your head, stripped of its lazy calm. “They probably have a map of the Grand Line in that base. Do you understand what that means? It is bait.”

You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your chest burned with every breath. “That’s a rumor,” you whispered.

“It is true.” His voice trembled, the bond carrying it straight into your bones. “You are sitting in the middle of a target, breathing poison every hour, and you think I should be calm?”

Your hand curled tighter around your teacup. “I don’t want to trouble my brother. He finally has steady work. He comes home every night now. He laughs more. Do you know how long it has been since I’ve heard him laugh?”

The chickens shifted uneasily on the sill, their wings flicking at the tension in your chest. Marco said nothing at first, only letting the silence stretch until you wanted to cover your ears. 

“I am glad for him. But if he comes home one night and finds you gone, what use will that laughter be?”

You closed your eyes. The truth of it was that you had grown sadder, and the village had noticed. You no longer asked to be wheeled to the square, saved bits of dock gossip for Marco, and no longer teased the birds with crusts of bread. Your brother thought it was only fatigue. The villagers called it “delicate nerves.” But Marco knew. He felt it in every shallow breath you took, every pause when you pretended you were fine.

“Tell me honestly,” he said at last, his voice low, raw, stripped of its practiced warmth. “How bad is it now?”

You did not answer. You only leaned your forehead against the window frame, watching smoke curl up from the half-built base, dark against the evening sky.

“It’s manageable."

You felt him frown at your lie.

It came at dusk while your brother was out. A fishing boat limped into harbor, sails torn, half its men carried on makeshift stretchers. The survivors staggered down the dock with burns striping their arms and faces, clothes hanging in scorched tatters. Their voices cracked as they spoke of a ship bristling with iron and red-haired fire that tore through the waves like a beast.

“Pirates,” one rasped, collapsing against a barrel. “It was the damn pirates.”

The name spread through the crowd like a sickness. Mothers pulled children close, men swore under their breath, and the elders crossed themselves with shaking hands. By the time the last survivor was carried into the square, the entire village was muttering the name with dread.

The Marines arrived not long after, coats sharp, voices louder than the people’s fear. “Remain calm,” the lieutenant declared, his tone more command than comfort. “The base is nearly complete. We will protect you.”

But protection, it turned out, meant walls for themselves. Cannons wheeled into place facing the sea, patrols doubled at the gates, and workers pressed harder to finish the fortifications. When villagers asked for guidance, they were waved off. “Stay out of the way,” the officers said. “Leave the fighting to us.”

So the people clung tighter. They spoke proudly of the base now, of Marines who would keep the pirates at bay, of how their little island had been chosen for something greater. To them, the danger was proof of their importance.

Marco was nearly frantic in your head. His calm had cracked days ago, but now it shattered entirely. "Listen to me. They are building a target. The pirates will not let it stand. You must get out, yoi."

You pressed your hands to your ears, though the sound came from inside. “Stop it. You’re making it worse. You always make it sound worse.”

Because it is worse, Marco snapped. His voice was sharp with fear, nothing lazy in it now. 

Your chest tightened, though whether from smoke or his words, you could not say. You wanted to tell him to stop, to be calm again, to laugh like he used to. But when you opened your mouth, only a cough came, raw and tearing, and Marco’s voice broke with it.

“Please. Tell me you are breathing. Tell me you are all right.”

You curled forward in your chair, blinking hard at the floorboards. You could not lie to him. Not anymore.

The storm rose out of the sea like a bruise, black clouds rolling heavy, wind snapping ropes and shutters. Rain drummed on the roof in rigid, relentless sheets. You sat at your window, blanket pulled close, chickens lazing on the sill. You were waiting, though you did not know for what.

Then the cannons came.

The first blast rattled your walls, dust sifting from the beams. A second cracked through the storm, so close you flinched as if it had struck the house itself. The square erupted in screams.

Smoke began to filter into your ramshackle house.

“Marco,” you breathed.

“What happened?” His voice snapped into your thoughts, sharp with sudden attention.

“They’re here,” you gasped, already sliding from your chair onto your rear. The floor shook beneath you, another blast splitting the air.

“Stay low”, he said, and you could feel the shock ripple through him. “Stay steady. Don’t be seen—Find a hiding spot.”

The air filled with smoke, sour and heavy. You coughed, dragging yourself toward the cellar hatch. Somewhere ahead, a child cried, high and panicked, a sound that cut through everything.

Marco felt it the instant you did. “Don’t lose your head. Focus. Where is your brother?"

“Oh my god, he’s with the Marines—”

A loud explosion cut you off, and you cried out.

“It’s okay, just focus on yourself—“

A young cry rang out, startling you. Lifting your body with more strength than you imagined possessing, you searched for the voice. The explosion was caused by a cannon that had found a home in your wall, tilting the structure precariously, and it broke down your neighbor's wall.

Next door lived a young pair of parents and their toddler—you gritted your teeth and dragged yourself forward, debris scraping off the flesh on your hands as you pulled yourself into the house next door.

Looking around, you found that besides the wall, it was in better shape than your own. A newer home.

And that potentially meant a cellar.

Crying startled you from the thought, and you crawled toward the sound, palms scraping the floorboards. 

A boy huddled at the base of the stairs, sobbing under a rain of splintering wood. You pulled him into your arms, his weight clumsy and hot against your chest.

“I’ve got you, buddy. Mommy and daddy are coming—”

Another blast shook the house. Your lungs seized, coughing hard. Marco was there instantly, his voice steady, warm, firm.

“Listen to me. Hold the boy. Pull him close. You are not alone. Keep moving and find the cellar.”

You staggered forward on your elbows, half-carrying, half-dragging the child. It’s a slow, agonizing process carrying a body and a half.

Smoke blurred your eyes, the boy’s cries shrill in your ear. Marco carried it all through you; the panic, the ache, the choking breaths.

You forced your way into the kitchen, inch by inch.

“Almost there. You’re doing well. Reach for the hatch. That’s it. Good.”

Your hand closed on the latch, and you wrenched it open. You tumbled inside with the boy, the door slamming shut above you. Darkness swallowed you whole, broken only by your ragged breathing and the boy’s small, shaking sobs.

Marco’s presence pressed close, fierce, and unyielding. “You did it. You saved him. Stay with me now. Just breathe.”

You pressed your forehead against the child’s hair and whispered, hoarse but steady, “Thank you for being here.”

And Marco, though he could feel every cough and tremor through you, answered with quiet conviction. “I will always be here for you.”

The cellar was pitch dark, the air close and damp. You pressed the boy against your chest, rocking him as though that alone could drown out the thunder of cannon fire. Dust sifted down through the beams. Somewhere above, men screamed, voices breaking against the clash of steel and the boom of guns.

Marco stayed with you. His voice threaded through the din, low and steady, as if he were sitting right there in the dark beside you. “Slow your breathing. Match mine. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it. Again.”

The child cried in your arms, clinging to you for dear life.

You tried to be calm, but your chest hitched, your breath stuttering. “My brother—” The word cracked, raw and broken. “He was at the base. He—he’ll be—”

Fear strangled the rest. You curled tighter around the child, your nails digging into the blanket.

Marco caught it all through you, every jagged edge of panic. “Do not spiral. Hear me. You cannot know yet. Your brother is strong. He will find cover. He will fight if he must. Be strong for the child.”

“I should be there,” you whispered, voice muffled against the boy’s hair. “Not here hiding—”

“You are saving a life right now,” Marco interrupted, firm but not unkind. “That is no small thing. Hold onto that. Anchor yourself there.”

The boy whimpered, pressing closer. You tightened your grip until your arms shook. “He’ll come looking for me,” you whispered. “What if he comes back to the house—what if—”

“Then you will call for him,” Marco said, sharper this time, urgent but still steady. “This will be over soon. Do you understand?”

Your throat closed, tears spilling hot over your cheeks. “I can’t lose him, Marco.”

For a moment, the bond pulsed with his own raw, unguarded fear. Then it steadied again, his voice wrapping around you like firelight against the dark. “You are not losing him tonight. Breathe. Stay awake. Let me carry what you cannot.”

Above, the roof groaned under another blast. The cellar door rattled on its hinges. The boy sobbed into your chest, and you pressed your lips to his hair, rocking him even as your own body shook.

“I want to meet you, at least once,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him that you would.

Marco’s voice came through the bond warm and fierce. 

“Then I’ll come. But only if you promise to marry me, because if we meet, I won’t be able to leave again.”

You laughed, then cried, and then quietly laughed again.

“How dare you make me feel better. Don’t you know you have to keep those types of promises?”

He quietly chuckled, but you got the distinct impression he was crying as well.

“I hope so.” 

The storm broke sometime before dawn. The guns fell silent, leaving only the hiss of rain and the groan of timbers collapsing. You did not sleep. You sat in the cellar with the boy curled against you, whispering half-coherent comforts until his sobs softened into hiccups and silence.

When the hatch creaked open at last, you flinched against the sudden shaft of light. Voices spilled down, sharp at first, then breaking into gasps of relief.

“There—he’s here! Gods, he’s here!”

Hands reached down, pulling the boy from your arms. A woman gathered him up, clutching him so fiercely he squealed, overwhelmed but alive. The family pressed around, kissing his hair, thanking every saint and ancestor they could name. They thanked you too, voices trembling with gratitude, but you barely heard them.

They gratefully settled you on their last stable chair. Your eyes searched the ruined square beyond. Smoke rose from shattered walls, scorched beams leaning against one another like broken ribs. The air stank of gunpowder and charred wood. Marines staggered through the wreckage, barking orders, faces grim. Villagers wept in doorways, counting who was left.

It was a Marine who came to you, his expression shuttered. He knelt low, speaking with the false gentleness of bad news. “He fought bravely at the line. Held them off long enough for others to get clear. I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

The world tilted. For a moment, you thought you had misheard, but Marco felt it the instant you did. The hollow cracking in your chest, the way your breath seized, the ground rushing out from beneath you.

“No,” Marco said, his voice raw, desperate. “Stay with me. Do not close down. Do not—“

You heard nothing else. You crawl in the mud, the voices of the boy’s joyful family carrying on behind you like echoes from another world. You wanted to scream, but the smoke and grief strangled it into silence.

Marco was still there, frantic, flooding the bond with warmth and steady words you could barely process. “I have you. You are not alone. Hold on to me.”

But all you could think was that your brother would never come home again, and you had lived to see it.

They brought a familiar body into the square at noon. The rain had thinned to a mist by then, but smoke still clung to the air, sour and heavy. He looked smaller on the stretcher than he ever had in life, his broad shoulders slack, his hands limp at his sides. The villagers gathered in silence, heads bowed. The Marines stood stiff and proud, as though posture could substitute for respect.

You sat just outside the doorway, the wheels of your chair sunk slightly into the mud. You had been in it most of your life; the world from the waist down had always been a distant thing, but never had the distance felt so cruel. He was only ten steps away. Ten steps, and you could not reach him.

Your hands gripped the armrests until your knuckles whitened. “Please,” you whispered, to no one and everyone. “Please, let me get to him.”

Marco’s voice came instantly, low and steady. "Take a breath, it could be a mistake."

“My brother,” you managed. “He’s… they’re calling him a hero.” The word came out bitter, splintered.

Through the bond, you felt Marco’s own throat tighten, though he kept his voice even for you. "He was your anchor. I know."

“I can’t—” You pressed your fists against your mouth, breath shuddering. “I can’t even touch him. I can’t even… say goodbye.”

The sparrows on the roof fluttered restlessly, then went still, their tiny heads tilted as if listening. Marco’s presence pressed in closer, warm but fierce. 

Tears blurred your vision until the stretcher was only a blur of color and shape. The Marines were already murmuring about sacrifice, about duty, about how his name would be remembered. Their words slid over you like oil on water.

Marco stayed quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was raw, stripped of its lazy humor. "I am here. Hold onto my voice. I will carry you."

You bowed your head, clutching the armrests until your hands ached. “Will you leave me?” you whispered, and in the bond you felt Marco’s answer, quiet and confident.

“Never.”

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

It turns out the Marines were as stupid as Marco insinuated.

The dead man was not your brother.

At noon, they carried your brother home on a stretcher. Not shrouded, not silent, but groaning as he shifted under the bandages. The villagers crowded the street, some crying, some clapping his shoulder as he passed. The Marines walked behind with stiff pride, their flag folded and ready, as though disappointed they could not drape him in it yet.

You waited at the doorway, hands locked on the arms of your chair. When they set him down before you, your breath caught.

His face was half-swollen, one eye purpled shut. His arms and chest were wrapped in thick bandages already stained with seeping blood. Burns striped his skin where the cloth ended, angry and raw. He tried to smile at you, but the movement tugged too sharply at his wounds, and it twisted into a grimace.

“Don’t give me that look,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from smoke. “I told you I’d only be gone for a bit.”

Your hands shook as you reached for him, unable to stop the tears blurring your sight. “You ass. You look—”

“Like hell?” he croaked, managing the faintest grin. “Better than the alternative.”

The villagers muttered about bravery, about how he had stood his ground at the line. The Marines declared him a hero, his wounds proof of his devotion to their cause. Their words felt sharp, hollow, almost possessive.

But you only saw your brother: alive, battered, but still breathing.

Marco’s voice filled the quiet spaces inside you, steady as the tide. “What a relief.”

You nodded faintly, your tears slipping free. 

Your brother reached clumsily for your hand, squeezing it despite the tremor in his own. You gripped him tightly, refusing to let go.

The Marines drifted back toward their barracks, satisfied. The villagers dispersed in whispers, grateful but wary. You stayed at the doorway, your brother’s hand in yours, listening to his shallow breaths.

Your brother slept in the next room, his breathing uneven but steady. You sat by the shuttered window, a blanket across your lap, the smoke from the base still lingering faintly in the night air. 

Marco’s voice came low, quieter than usual, like he had been holding the words back for days.

 "I want to keep my promise. I can no longer wait.”

You tilted your head, suspicious. “Your promise?”

“I want to come.” There was no trace of the lazy drawl he so often wore. “I want to marry you.”

Your heart gave a startled leap. “Marry? Me?”

“Yes.” A pause, then, almost too soft: “Being apart like this… It’s killing me. Every day I hear you in danger—I can’t do anything. I want to keep you safe.”

You swallowed hard, staring at your still hands folded in your lap. “Marco… I don’t want to chain you to me. I don’t want to burden you.”

Silence stretched between you. For a moment, you thought he would retreat, as people always did when the truth of your life became too heavy. But Marco’s answer was simple, steady. 

“You've never been, or ever will be, a burden. Not to your brother, and certainly not to me.”

Your chest tightened. “Marco—”

“I mean it.” His voice held no edge, no hesitation, only quiet certainty. “I love you. I can’t pretend I don’t anymore. Whether you’re walking or sitting, whether you’re sick or well, it doesn’t change it. I’ve already chosen.”

You froze, heat flooding your cheeks. Shock mixed with something sharper, a dangerous thread of hope you tried to tamp down. “You don’t understand. People say things like that, but they don’t know what it takes. The hours, the patience. The reality.”

Marco’s tone softened, but it never wavered. 

“I’ve lived most of my life at the bedside. Burned men, sick men, broken men. I know what care costs. I also know what it means to give it freely. If it’s you, it’s no loss. It’s what I want”.

You gripped the blanket tighter, your throat dry. “You can’t just decide this so calmly.”

Through the bond, you felt the flicker of his smile, warm and sure. “You’d prefer I were dramatic? Oh, my perfectly fluffy companion, whose knitting needles crossed the strings of my heart—”

Despite yourself, a breath of laughter slipped free. Nervous, aching, but honest.

You sat staring at the floorboards, your pulse loud in your ears. It was one thing for him to flirt around the edges, to soften your loneliness with banter and gossip. It was another to hear it spoken plain: I love you.

Your first instinct was to laugh it off, to tell him he was a fool, to push the weight of those words away before they could settle. But he didn’t sound like a fool. He sounded like Marco; steady, quiet, so sure it left no room for doubt.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” he said gently. “You think I’ve not seen what you’re afraid of? I have. I’ve tended to men who never walked again. I know what’s required. And it doesn’t scare me.”

Your throat closed. You wanted to argue, to throw your reality back at him, but the words stuck because you felt the truth of it in him. No pity, no false promises, no bright illusions, just the weight of someone who had lived beside wounds and chosen to stay anyway.

You pressed your hands together in your lap. “Even if I believe you… It still doesn’t make sense. You’re out there, sailing across the seas. I’m here. Stuck.”

Marco’s voice warmed, low and sure.

“And we hear each other anyway. We are the perfect match.”

The silence that followed was fragile, trembling like glass in your hands. You wanted to reject it, to hold onto your defenses. But something in you cracked, quiet and small, the part that had been starved for someone to stay.

“I shouldn’t agree with you,” you whispered, eyes burning. “But I do. Against all reason.”

You felt his smile ripple through the bond, soft and bright. 

“Ask me.”

You closed your eyes, clutching the blanket tighter, and let yourself breathe, for once not as someone’s burden, but as someone who was loved.

“Please come.”

You told your brother the next morning. It slipped out without meaning to, as you wheeled yourself closer to his pallet with a stack of clean cloths in your lap. You had been humming — humming — which you never did, and his sharp eyes caught it instantly.

“What’s got into you?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.

You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Marco.”

He frowned. “The soulmate again?”

“Yes,” you admitted, cheeks warming. “He… cares for me. He wants to come.”

Your brother sat up straighter, ignoring the pull on his bandages. “Here? Why?”

You blushed, and his neck went red.

“Ah.” He sighed, winding the fishing cord around his hand. “And he thinks he can sail here? Why does he think that?”

“He’s a ship’s doctor,” you said quickly. “A very good one. He knows about fevers, and wounds, and breathing—”

“A ship's doctor?” he pressed. “For what crew?”

You paused, realizing you didn’t know. 

“Crew?”

“Don’t ship doctors usually have a crew?” he questioned. “And from what you’ve told me, he talks like a man who’s lived the Grand Line. Perhaps even the New World. That’s not just a sailor’s doctor. That’s a pirate or a marine’s doctor.”

You blinked at him, stung. “No. That can’t—not Marco. Pirates are monsters. Marco isn’t like that.”

But the moment you said it, old conversations replayed in your mind. The way he had once said Pops with reverence, as if the word itself was holy. The way he dropped places like Reverse Mountain and Fishman Island as if he’d stood on them. His casual gossip about “the divisions” and “a kid named Ace.” 

All things you had pushed aside as strange quirks in your imaginary physician.

Your brother’s mouth is set in a hard line. “I’m going to ask Marines about that Marco name. Consider asking your soulmate who they work with. He’s been concealing it if you don’t already know. And if he can’t be honest, he shouldn't come.”

That night, while you dozed fitfully, he limped down to the square and found a Marine officer he knew from the docks. You heard about it the next morning.

The officer had listened, then laughed outright.

Your brother came home pale, his jaw tight. He didn’t tell you right away, but when he did, his voice cracked with anger and fear.

He returned from the docks with his jaw set tight, a folded sheet clutched in his hand. He laid it on your blanket without a word.

You smoothed it open with trembling fingers.

The poster was rough, ink smudged from long circulation, but the face was clear. A man with gold eyes, hair swept back, features drawn with stark precision. Beneath it, bold letters screamed:

MARCO THE PHOENIX. FIRST DIVISION COMMANDER. WHITEBEARD PIRATES.

“฿1,374,000,000.”

The number meant nothing to you. The title meant everything.

Your chest went hollow. It was him. It was the man perched on the roof of your mind’s house, the one who teased you about chicken soup and pressed you for every cough and breath. The one who laughed so low and warm it curled through your ribs like firelight. The one who asked if he could come to you.

You pressed your hand against the paper, tracing the outline of his face. The artist’s strokes had captured something of him, but not the way you knew him. Not the subtle calm, the dry humor, the quiet warmth he carried into every word. This felt both alien and exactly right.

“He’s a pirate,” he said flatly. “Not a doctor. Not a man you can trust. A pirate.”

The words dropped into you like stones into water, sinking deep. Your hands trembled on the blanket, your heart pounding. Because suddenly it all fit. The gossip, the names, the calm way he had spoken of men and battles that should have been far beyond the reach of your little island.

Through the bond, Marco was quiet. Too quiet.

Your brother stood stiffly at your side, arms crossed. “If this is your Marco, we have a problem. This guy is a criminal. The kind who burns villages and laughs while they do it. Supposedly has medical knowledge for what good that does the raiders.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. You should have shouted a denial, thrown the poster back at him. But you couldn’t. Because every line, every brush of ink on the paper, felt like him.

Your brother continued.

“Marco the Phoenix was the First Division commander of Whitebeard’s crew,” his voice lowered. “He was one of the most infamous pirates on the seas before Maineford a year ago!”

The poster trembled in your hands. You could not look away from it, nor could you accept it. You were at a loss, suspended between the man the world named a monster and the one you had come to love in the quiet of your room.

You sat with the poster spread across your lap long after your brother left the room. The ink blurred at the edges where your tears had dropped, but the face remained, unyielding.

When Marco’s voice came, it was quiet. 

“You have questions.”

Your throat tightened. “Questions?” You laughed, short and sharp. “I have a thousand. Starting with why you let me believe you were anything but this.” You tapped the paper with a shaking finger.

You never asked what I was, Marco answered, steady. 

“You asked who. And I gave you truth in the ways I could. I’m no longer a pirate. Not after losing to Teach.”

Your eyes burned. “Truth? You lied by omission. You let me think you were just—just some doctor with a soft voice and too much time. You never told me you were one of them. A pirate.”

“Would you have listened?” he asked, without edge. “Would you have heard me if I had said it at the start? Or would you have shut the door in my face?”

Your breath caught. He was right, and the worst part was knowing it.

Anger boiled up to cover the ache. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make me feel safe, make me—” You broke off, choking on the word. “I trusted you. And now I look at this face and I don’t know if I should be sick or terrified.”

Marco did not flinch.

“I will not denounce Pop's, nor the good we did—Remember your own Marines and their tendency to be self-serving. That's the entire New World, and the Whitebeard Pirates protected people selflessly, giving up their lives to do so. I may be a pirate, but like you, I'm more than just a label: the man I showed you was myself without one. I have never lied about that. And not my care, or my voice, or what I feel for you. And I won't stop now either."

“Don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Don’t say it.”

“I love you.” 

You stuttered, the poster crinkling in your hands.

Tears spilled over your cheeks. “Then stay away. Never come here. I don’t ever want to see you now. Do you hear me? Never.”

“As you wish.”

The bond went silent. Not broken, not gone, but still, as if he had drawn back from the edge of your thoughts and folded himself away into the farthest corner.

You pressed your hand hard over the bounty poster, your tears blotting the ink until his face swam.

And Marco kept his word.

The chickens were the first to notice. They crowded your sill more than ever, restless, chirping as if trying to fill the gap. You tossed them crumbs with trembling hands, whispering half-hearted jokes that fell flat without his laugh to meet them.

Your brother noticed too. “You’re quieter,” he said one morning, fastening his bandages. “Are you okay?”

You shrugged, staring into your tea until the steam blurred your vision. “Maybe I am.”

The villagers noticed in subtler ways. Where you had once wheeled yourself to the square with small smiles, humming under your breath, you now lingered indoors. You listened more than you spoke, your answers short, your gaze drifting somewhere far away. They muttered again about “fragile nerves,” but even they sensed something sharper beneath it.

At night, you lie in bed, the silence pressing like a stone against your chest. You told yourself this was what you wanted. You had demanded it. But when your lungs rattled and your heart raced, when you turned toward the empty roof of your mind’s house, you could not help the ache.

Because it felt as if someone had left forever, closing a door that might never open again.

And Marco, true to his word, stayed gone.

Taglist:

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[lovelyyywitch]

Thank you so much! Could I request something with the Whitebeard pirates, could be a canon x reader, I don’t mind. Like on the battlefield, Whitebeard sees feral reader and is like “aren’t you too XXX to be here?” And they respond with “aren’t you a little too old!?” Obviously Whitebeard’s surprise adoption mode is activated

Thank you and sorry this was… a little too vague!

Whitebeard pirates with a bratty reader

Synopsis: What happens when the Whitebeard Pirates cross paths with a bratty reader?

Pairing: Whitebeard Pirates x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: Fluff, found family, swearing, canon violence, features two readers (Barmaid!Reader and Archer!Reader), nicknames (mostly “kid” and “girl”), hints of Ace x Reader and Izou x Reader.

Author’s Note: English is not my first language.

I’m not sure if the reader comes off as truly bratty or just sarcastic, but well, live laugh love, I suppose.

I also wasn’t sure if this is what you had in mind, so I wrote two different scenarios :)

The Fearless Barmaid

It wasn’t a battlefield, but these pirates sure acted like it was. After drowning in booze, they were itching for a brawl, jumpy as hell.

The barmaids cowered behind the counter, keeping their distance from the chaos, all except one.

She stepped forward, planting herself between the rowdy brawlers and the table where a couple of intimidating pirates lounged, not yet throwing punches but clearly headed that way. She could tell from the fire in that freckled kid’s eyes, his fists already sparking with flames.

Annoying, honestly.

Pirates always had to flex, proving who was the toughest, the meanest, the most terrifying. Childish nonsense. She didn’t give a damn about their egos, only the filthy mess they’d leave behind, the broken tables, the spilled grog, the bloodstains she’d be scrubbing till dawn.

And from the look of that giant of a man at the center of the table, mustache white as bone, they weren’t paying for a single shattered mug.

“What’s the problem, gentlemen?” she asked, stepping in, voice sharp.

“Stay out of it, bitch,” one brawler spat, his breath reeking of cheap rum.

“Charming,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping like spilled ale. “I don’t care, and I won’t care, why you idiots are fighting. But if you’ve got issues, take them outside before I make you.”

“You’re a bit mouthy, aren’t you?” the giant rumbled, his voice like an earthquake.

She didn’t flinch. “And you’re a bit old to be starting bar fights, aren’t you? Thought age brought wisdom, but guess not.” She let the words hang, sharp as a cutlass.

The bar went dead silent. The brawlers froze, the giant’s crew gaped, and even her coworkers looked like they’d seen a Sea King.

No one talked to him like that.

She racked her brain, wondering why, until a trembling barmaid whispered, “Why the hell are you pissing off the Whitebeard Pirates?”

Oh.

That explained the mustache, the sheer size of the man, towering like a damn island.

Edward Newgate, Whitebeard himself.

The realization hit like a cannon blast, but she’d already thrown the stone, there was no taking it back. She squared her shoulders, keeping her cool.

“You’re on your own, kid,” one brawler muttered, slinking off.

She was screwed.

Whitebeard squinted, his gaze making her feel like an ant. But she stood firm, arms crossed, waiting for whatever came next. His crew watched, tense. Her coworkers shook, probably praying her big mouth didn’t get them all sunk.

Then, a massive hand slammed the table. She flinched, just a bit, before Whitebeard’s laugh boomed like a storm. “GUARARARARA! Calling me old and stupid? You’ve got guts, girl!”

Her face was a mess of emotions, not quite relief, not quite shock. She didn’t know what to feel.

Marco, the blonde with a lazy smirk and half-lidded eyes, leaned forward. “Sorry for the trouble, yoi. Right, Ace?”

Ace, the fire-fisted kid, huffed, freckles glowing with a faint blush. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he mumbled, looking like a kid caught stealing cookies. He’d definitely been the one who started it, and the guilt was written all over his face.

“Uh, alright,” she said, glancing between her trembling coworkers and the pirates.

“Another round, girl!” Whitebeard roared, grinning wide enough to show half his teeth.

She nodded, still reeling, and strutted to the kitchen, cool as could be until she was out of sight. The second she hit the back, she leaned against the wall, heart pounding like a war drum.

What a rush.

“Are you insane?” her boss hissed, storming in, two barmaids trailing like scared puppies.

“It worked, didn’t it? No fight, no mess,” she said, shrugging.

“You’re lucky Whitebeard didn’t crush you,” her boss snapped. “You could’ve gotten us all in deep shit.”

“It didn’t happen, so let’s move on,” one barmaid cut in, sensing the boss’s temper flaring.

“This round’s coming out of your pay,” he growled before storming off.

She stared after him, incredulous, but got back to work. She hauled trays of grog, though someone else handled the monster jug Whitebeard chugged from, no way she was touching that. As she turned to slip behind the bar, a voice stopped her.

“What’s your name?” Whitebeard asked, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

“None of your business, since I’m not supposed to chat with you,” she said, blunt as a club.

“Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow, mustache twitching with a smirk.

“For your information, next time you lot plan to go full pirate in here, think about who’s cleaning up your damn mess,” she said, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze of booze.

Ace piped up, looking sheepish. “Wait, you got in trouble because of us?”

“Damn right,” she said, salty as seawater.

“Sorry,” Ace said, rubbing his neck, his grin creeping out.

“You’re sorry?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “As in, you, the pirate, are sorry?”

“Yeah?” Ace tilted his head, grin widening like he was daring her to keep up.

“Come on, love, have a drink with us,” Thatch, the pompadour guy, called, leaning back with a lazy wave.

“‘No’ is implied in ‘I got in trouble because of you,’” she shot back.

“Just one drink!” Ace pressed, eyes sparkling.

“Nope,” she said, walking off.

But those damn pirates didn’t let up. By closing time, they’d somehow roped her to their table, her boss fuming in the background. Ace, three drinks deep, was a clingy, whiny mess, blabbering about how “cool” she was for calling his Pops stupid. Whitebeard just laughed, like she was already one of his kids. The whole crew seemed to take a shine to her, for reasons she couldn’t fathom.

In the drunken haze, they asked her to join their crew.

Why? Hell, why not?

Pirates were impulsive like that.

And maybe it was Ace’s stupidly handsome face, or the itch to see the world, but the idea started sounding less crazy.

Her boss stomped over, barely holding it together. “It’s closing time. Start cleaning,” he said, glaring daggers at her before turning to the pirates. “We’re closing, so if you could get going…”

“Right!” Vista, the guy with the twirly mustache, bellowed. “We’ll be back, don’t miss us, girl!”

And they kept coming back, over two damn years. Her boss was a nervous wreck every time their heavy steps echoed outside, always two seconds from firing her. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the sheer insanity of it all, but one day, she’d had enough. When they rolled in again, she didn’t wait for a hello. She marched to their table and planted her hands on her hips.

“I want to join your crew.”

Silence.

The whole bar, pirates and coworkers alike, stared like she’d grown a second head.

“HELL YEAH!” Ace whooped, bouncing like a kid. “Can she, Pops? Please, please, please!”

“Please, please, please,” Thatch echoed, grinning like a fool.

Marco smirked, leaning back. “Please, yoi.”

Whitebeard’s laugh shook the walls. “I’d have recruited you the first night, girl!”

The unexpected help

The Whitebeard Pirates were knee-deep in a brawl they’d call a friendly scuffle, which, for them, meant pummeling a ragtag crew of filthy, lowlife pirates dumb enough to think they could take on the Emperor’s sons. It was just a handful of Whitebeard’s crew, barely breaking a sweat, when, out of nowhere, an arrow sliced through the air, dropping one of the scumbags like a sack of rotten fish. The shot came from gods-know-where, and when they squinted at the trajectory, there was nothing but empty shadows.

Both sides froze, confused, but these were pirates, so they shrugged it off and kept swinging

Then another lowlife crumpled, an arrow sprouting from his chest. Marco, sharp as ever, caught a flicker of movement in the trees, a shadow slinking through the grime and chaos. Curiosity piqued, the first division commander took flight, his phoenix flames licking the air. By the time he reached the treeline, the shooter was gone, already weaving through the battlefield like a ghost, loosing arrows with deadly precision. His crewmates didn’t even clock her until bodies hit the dirt. Marco, perched above, let out a low whistle, impressed. He could practically see Pops’ eyes gleaming with that familiar glint—the old man was already thinking of adopting another stray.

Marco swooped down, landing on a rock beside Whitebeard, smirking. “Yoi, this just got a hell of a lot more interesting.”

Pops lounged on a massive rock, unbothered by the brawl. His sharp eyes tracked the mystery sniper, amused at how she danced around even his best men’s observation haki. The girl was good, slippery as an eel in a bilge. But luck wasn’t on her side forever. The enemy crew’s own sniper, some greasy bastard, landed a shot, grazing her shoulder. Her hood fell back, revealing a young woman, barely more than a kid, with a glare that could curdle rum.

“Oi, brat!” Whitebeard’s voice boomed, a grin splitting his face. “Aren’t you a bit young to be playing with filthy pirates like us?”

She didn’t flinch, nocking another arrow, eyes locking onto Whitebeard’s like she was staring down a sea king. Without breaking eye contact, she loosed the shot, dropping another enemy dead. “And aren’t you a bit too old to be picking fights with snot-nosed rookies?”

The crew froze.

Then Whitebeard’s laugh erupted. “Gurararara! I like your spirit, girl!”

The fight wrapped up fast, the enemy crew reduced to groaning heaps of battered flesh. The girl was ready to slip away, probably to vanish back into whatever dark corner she’d crawled out of, when Fire Fist Ace, that reckless, shirtless lunatic, practically tackled her. “That was INSANE!” he hollered, grinning like a kid who’d just found a treasure chest full of meat. “What’s your name? Wanna join us? THAT WAS SO DAMN COOL!”

She blinked, clearly thrown by the human hurricane in front of her. Ace, undeterred, grabbed her arm, dragging her toward Whitebeard. “Pops, you saw that, right? Coolest damn thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Can we keep her?” Ace asked, sounding like he was begging for a stray dog, not a person.

She yanked her arm free, crossing them over her chest, her scowl sharp enough to cut through steel. “I’m not some pet you can keep, you fire-brained idiot. I’m a person.”

Ace scratched the back of his head, that stupid, infectious grin still plastered on his face. “Okay, okay, sorry! So, uh, would you mind if we kept you?”

She stared, mouth slightly open, utterly flabbergasted. “What… the actual fuck?”

Whitebeard leaned forward, his mustache twitching with amusement. “What do you say, kid? Wanna join my crew?”

She threw her hands up, exasperated. “I don’t even know you lunatics! I only jumped in because I had a score to settle with those scum-sucking bastards. Not because I wanna join your weird-ass crew.”

Thatch chimed in, “Isn’t she just adorable?”

Izou, ever the tease, sauntered over, his kimono swishing, eyes glinting with mischief. “She’s like a pocket-sized, arrow-slinging spitfire.”

She wasn’t even that short, damn it. These freaks were just built like walking masts.

Unfair didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Come on, lass, have a drink with us!” Vista called.

“Nope. I’m out,” she snapped, turning to leave.

“Nooo, don’t go!” Ace whined, throwing himself in her path, all puppy-dog eyes and boundless energy. “One drink, come on! I bet you won’t wanna leave after. We’re the coolest pirates on the seas!”

“Says who?” she shot back, unimpressed.

Izou slid up beside her, way too close, his painted lips curling into a smirk. “She’s mean. I love her.” He leaned down, meeting her glare head-on, his long hair brushing her shoulder. “What do you say, hmm? Join us?”

She froze, caught off guard.

Okay, maybe Izou was stupidly pretty, all sharp cheekbones and cool confidence, and maybe, just maybe, she was a little curious about the samurai-looking shooter.

He was a sniper too, he said, and that sparked something in her.

Damn it.

Around them, the Whitebeard Pirates watched, grinning like idiots, waiting for Izou to seal the deal. Whitebeard, especially, looked like he’d already decided she was his daughter.

Relentless, the lot of them.

After some serious arm-twisting, a lot of grog, and Izou’s relentless charm, she caved. A trial run, she told herself. Just to shut them up.

Spoiler: she didn’t regret a damn thing.

[sh4nksslvt]

Sea Kings, Smart Mouths, and Stolen Hearts

A wandering scholar with the rare ability to read the Poneglyphs finds themselves entangled in the chaotic world of the Whitebeard Pirates.

PART 3 OF READER WHO CAN READ PONEGLYPH

whitebeard pirates x gn!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: Ace, Thatch, Izou, Marco

tags: fluff, sfw, harem, soft

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ffs cringe and oc

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Moby Dick was a floating temple of chaos.

You’d been on board for exactly three hours when you witnessed a fistfight over the last bottle of rum, a man juggling knives while drunk off his ass, and someone trying to arm-wrestle a literal sea king. And for some reason, every single one of them tried to rope you into it.

You were sitting on a barrel near the railing, minding your own damn business, when a piece of driftwood floated by — a small, smooth thing, carved with ancient script.

Your fingers twitched.

The words called to you. Whispered in a tongue long dead to the world. It was harmless, but old. You reached out, brushing your fingers over it, murmuring softly.

“Hey, what’re you doin’?”

You didn’t even flinch when the voice broke your concentration. You finished reading the last word before looking up. A man stood there, grin too big for his face, hair looks like bread, scar on side of his eye. He's sun-browned and scarred, and a bottle swung lazily in his hand.

“Talking to wood,” you said dryly.

He barked out a laugh. “Name’s Thatch. I like you already.”

“Is it because I didn’t scream?”

“Nope. It’s ‘cause you look like you’re about to either murder someone or seduce ‘em. That’s a rare vibe to pull off.”

You quirked a brow but said nothing. Thatch clapped you on the back anyway, nearly sending you overboard.

“C’mon,” he said. “You can sulk better at the fire.”

Dinner on the Moby Dick was less of a meal and more of a battle royale.

Men shouted, meat sizzled over open flames, and ale flowed like water. You sat at the edge of it, quietly nursing a cup of something that tasted like regret and old socks.

A man with fiery freckles and a grin to match dropped into the seat beside you. He immediately reached for your drink.

You grabbed his wrist without looking.

“Mine.”

He blinked, then grinned wider. “Name’s Ace. You’re the new one, huh?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I’m the old one. I’ve just been invisible this whole time.”

Ace snorted. “Smartass.”

Thatch appeared behind him, slinging an arm around both your shoulders. “Told you, Ace — they’re my favorite.”

You were already plotting his demise.

It didn’t take long for the others to circle.

A man with long, flowing hair and sharp eyes introduced himself as Izou. He looked you up and down like you were a puzzle with missing pieces.

“You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly.

“Thanks.”

“I like strange.”

You raised your cup in salute.

And then there was Marco.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you from across the fire, golden eyes flickering like dying embers. When he finally approached, you were standing alone on the deck, staring up at a sky so thick with stars it made your teeth ache.

“You’re not like them,” Marco said quietly.

“Observant.”

He smirked. “What’s your deal?”

You hesitated. But the truth felt easier here, in the dark.

“I read things,” you said. “Things I shouldn’t be able to. Ancient things.”

“Poneglyphs.”

You stiffened, and Marco’s smirk turned sharp.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Your secret’s safe. Pops wouldn’t give a damn. Most of us wouldn’t either.”

You eyed him. “And you?”

“I find it interesting.”

You snorted. “You would.”

His laugh was soft. “Smartmouth.”

The next day, some poor idiots tried to attack the Moby Dick.

They came in hot — four ships bristling with cannons and swords, foaming at the mouth about bounties and revenge. You barely blinked.

The crew went feral.

Ace leapt into the fray with fire on his heels, Thatch laughing as he tossed knives with deadly precision. Izou shot a man out of mid-air, unfazed as blood misted the deck.

One fool broke through the chaos and made a beeline for you.

“Oi, scholar!” he sneered. “You’re worth a fortune!”

You sighed.

Raising a hand, you spoke a word older than kingdoms, and the man’s sword crumbled to dust in his grip.

He paled.

You spoke again, and the air around him shimmered — his boots turned to brittle stone, cracking beneath him. The third word sent him flying backward with a force that shattered the nearest mast.

The crew went dead silent.

Ace let out a long, low whistle. “Yo.”

“Did you see that?” Thatch yelped. “That was badass.”

Izou eyed you like you’d just turned into his favorite thing.

Marco, perched on the highest beam, grinned.

“Not helpless, then.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hardly.”

After that, you became a sort of legend.

The scholar who spoke to stones and made enemies vanish with a word. The one even sea kings gave a wide berth.

And the harem started forming before you could stop it.

Thatch started bringing you food, drinks, and increasingly ridiculous trinkets (“This is a seashell shaped like a butt, you’re welcome.”).

Ace followed you everywhere. Literally everywhere. You once found him outside the bathroom.

“What,” you demanded.

He shrugged. “Felt like it.”

"tsk."

Izou taught you how to braid hair. His hands were surprisingly gentle for a man who could blow your head off without blinking.

And Marco? He made it worse.

Sitting beside you at night, speaking of things he shouldn’t remember. Old places, lost names. His hand brushing yours when no one was looking.

You should’ve run.

You didn’t.

And the comedy never stopped.

Like the time Ace tried to fight a giant crab to impress you and got pinched in a place no man should ever get pinched.

Or when Thatch bet you couldn’t outdrink him and passed out three shots in, leaving you to doodle a mustache on his face.

Or when Izou declared you’d look better in one of his kimonos and actually wrestled you into one. (It did look good. You never admitted it.)

Even Marco wasn’t safe. You caught him napping once, a seagull perched on his head. You didn’t tell him. You let it happen.

Then came the Poneglyph.

Buried in the heart of a ruined island, half-sunken beneath the sea. You felt it before you saw it — an ache in your chest, a pulse beneath your skin.

The crew followed you in.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Thatch muttered.

“Maybe ‘cause it’s cursed,” Ace said, poking a skull.

“Both of you shut up,” Izou hissed.

You found the slab in the heart of the ruin. Black stone, ancient words glowing faintly. It sang to you.

And like an idiot, you answered.

You spoke the words.

Power thrummed through the ground, the air, your bones. The sea roared. The sky cracked.

The world shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were on your knees. Marco was crouched beside you, worry in his gaze.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah.”

“What did it say?”

You hesitated. “War’s coming.”

His jaw tightened.

But then Ace clapped you on the back, nearly toppling you. “If anyone’s startin’ a war with you on our side, they’re screwed.”

Thatch grinned. “Dibs on being your right-hand man.”

Izou smirked. “I call left.”

Marco chuckled. “I’ll be wherever you need me.”

You sighed. “You’re all idiots.”

But you didn’t feel alone anymore.

That night, on the deck beneath a sky bleeding silver, Marco sat beside you.

“You belong here, y’know,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

“Not just as some scholar. As one of us.”

You stared at the sea. “Even if I’m dangerous?”

He shrugged. “So are we.”

He touched your hand, fingers curling around yours.

“Besides,” Marco added, a grin tugging at his lips, “you still owe me a drink.”

You smiled.

For the first time in years, it felt easy.

“Deal.”

[alexa-yukiyu]

Hi, could I ask for whitebeard pirates with a female reader that’s kind of like Yor Forger from Spy x Family? Socially awkward and aloof, has poor cooking skills(Poor Thatch having to not throw up to hurt reader’s feelings) but is super strong and polite!!

Little Brothers Beware (Whitebeard pirates x sister! reader)

A/N It's been a but since I saw spy x family so l may be rusty, I know it's not exactly her characterization but similar and hopefully close enough for you!

Reader here is Replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/drinkthesky and @/firefly-graphics

"I messed it up again, didn't I?" Dokucha sniffled, watching Thatch's face grow more more sickly as he try to down the food.

"Good Job, Thatch. You made our sister cry," Izou drawled, watching the scene before him leaning into the dining table and against his closed fist and a slight smile on his face as he watched the scene unfold.

"How despicable of you," Haruta snickered

"Quit with the yappin’, you idiots!" he sneered, glaring at his brothers.

"Ah, Dokucha, don't cry. It wasn’ that bad, it just had too much spieces," he fusses, turning to her

"It's okay. We both know I am no good in the kitchen," she sighed.

"Or the med bay," Marco called as he walked behind them.

"Or the med bay..." she mutters

"I'm sorry I have failed you as a sister!" she cried, hugging him.

"Look at you, Thatch, making a lady cry again," laughed Izou next to him with a similar mischievous grin.

"Hush ya gettin’ on my last nerve," he growls, snapping his head to them only to turn it right back at the sobs of his sister.

"You could never fail me, Dokucha; yer the best sister I could ever ask for!" He exclaims, rubbing her back in a reassuring manner

"You mean it?"

"He's a liar, Dokucha," Calls Izou

"You're lying to me?" Dokucha questioned, looking up at Thatch, a tremble on her lips

"N-No course not, they are just spouting nonsense."

"That's not what you said with her last dis-.

"Hey, Dokucha, did they ever tell you about the time Izou and Haruta went at it?" Thatch spoke promptly, cutting him off watching with a satisfied grin as her sobs stop at the news

"You were fighting?" she growled as she turned around slowly, glaring at the two commanders, who had wiped their smiles from their faces as they shook their heads

"Of Course not, Big sis; we were only training right Izou?" Haruta called nervously at the haunting glare the woman was sending the pair

"Yes, we were to be sent to an important mission, so we figured some training before leaving would do us good."

Thatch threw them a grin as he leaned over Dokucha's ear, whispering in her ear loud enough for the two to hear.

"Ahh heard they were callin’ each other quite colorful names, and that Marco had too patch up a couple injuries," he spoke with a smirk as he glanced at them.

"You know what? I believe that was Haruta; he was quite angry that morning," Izou commented.

"You traitor!" Haruta hissed

"Haruta..." Dokucha growled, glaring at the man

"Y-yes?"

"How many times have I told you not to fight with your brothers?" she snarled, slowly approaching the man who by now had shot out of the stool he sat on in favor of backing away from her.

"Come on, dokucha, it was just playful banter."

"Banter was it? I guess if you have enough energy to fight with your brothers, then you have energy for a training session with me."

"That's really not necessary."

"I insist, little brother," She chirps, throwing a dark grin his way as she drags Haruta off to the training ground.

"I'll get you assholes back for this!" He screamed back to the snickering men on the kitchen

"Oh-ho, you really do have energy. I'm sure you can do an extra long session then!"

"Wait, no, sis, I didn't mean that!" he wails.

Marco sighed, shaking his head as he drank his tea, looking at the other two disapprovingly.

"She is going to find out, you know; once she finds out you tricked her, she will be furious."

"Oh, come on, Marco, she won't know,I I won't say anything, will you, Izou?" Thatch spoke, glancing at the sniper

"If you remain quiet about me, I will remain quiet about you," he confirmed as they both turned to Marco.

"Leave me out of this," he grumbled, walking out.

"We got dirt on ya too, you know!" Thatch calls with a grin

"Oh? Do remind me, who does your checkups and heals you when you fight amongst each other behind her back or go into dangerous missions, and who keeps silent when you fall ill and don't tell her?" He drawled with a grin hidden behind his cup as he continued walking

"Maybe, let's include Marco in tha silent treaty," Thatch Mutters.

"Agreed"

I just realize it's been a week 🙊 oops? Im also surprised myself I din’t include ace, but ya know the other commanders need some loving too

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[lovelyyywitch]

Hihi, I find your zoan cat user one piece things so cute, and I was wondering if you could do like a selkie version of it.

Like from mythology, seals would can shed their coats and become human. Like imagine just finding a seal and going, 'yup thats my new pet!', and then a while later there just a person in a seal coat on the deck.

I think it would just be cute and stuff, tyty for reading this :)

How they react to reader being a selkie

Synopsis: What happens when the Straw Hats and Whitebeard Pirates meet a selkie?

Pairing: Jinbe x Fem!Reader.

Content Warning: Fluff, found family, swearing, canon violence, accidental kidnapping, innuendos (but nothing too explicit), mentions of death, Namivivi is canon here, also Franky x Robin, I kinda did whatever I wanted with how selkie transformation works in each scenario.

Author’s Note: English is not my first language.

For some reason I couldn’t add the last one, so the Heart Pirates are getting their own part.

I hope you enjoy this!

Straw Hats

The Straw Hats dropped anchor at a grimy little island, craving a breather before their next chaotic adventure.

The crew sprawled across the beach, lounging in their usual messy style: Zoro snoring like a chainsaw, Robin buried in a book, Franky and Usopp tinkering with some half-baked contraption, and the rest of the lot off wandering, probably stirring up trouble.

Luffy, being Luffy, was sprinting along the shore, kicking up sand and laughing like a lunatic, when he spotted a lump sprawled in the sand. Naturally, he poked it with a grubby finger until the thing stirred, a seal, blinking up at him with big, curious eyes, clearly annoyed at being woken from her nap.

“SHISHISHI! SO COOL!” Luffy whooped, hoisting the seal onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, bolting back to the crew with a grin.

The seal squawked, thrashing in his grip, her panicked barks drowned out by Luffy’s cackling. “OI, GUYS!” he shouted, skidding to a stop. “CHECK OUT WHAT I FOUND!”

“WHOA, AWESOME!” Usopp hollered, stars in his eyes. “A seal for the aquarium! We’re gonna be legends!”

Wait, what the hell?

She squirmed harder, but Luffy’s rubbery grip was like a damn vice.

To make matters worse, she couldn’t shift to her human form, it wasn’t nighttime, and without the moon’s pull, she was stuck as a seal. All she could do was hope these idiots would chill long enough for her to explain.

They didn’t.

With a gleeful cheer, Luffy yeeted her into the Sunny’s aquarium, basically kidnapping her into a tank full of slimy fish and murky, scum-crusted water.

Transforming now would be suicide; she’d tested her human breath-holding skills before, and sure, she could last longer than most, but she wasn’t about to risk drowning in this tank.

So there she was, trapped, swimming circles in the grimy tank, making awkward small talk with the fish. The pirates would pop in sometimes, gawking like she was some circus act. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper would press their faces against the glass, laughing at her flips and barks, thinking she was just a “super-smart seal” She tried to signal she was more, but they just clapped like she was performing tricks.

Infuriating didn’t even cover it.

Robin would slip in to read, her calm presence a small relief, though she never looked up from her book, only murmuring, “How intriguing,” now and then.

Brook, that creepy skeleton, would strum his guitar for the fish, and okay, his tunes were catchy, she’d bob along, earning his “Yohohoho!” cackle.

Zoro, Nami, and Franky barely showed up, just distant names to her, their absence leaving her to stew in her fishy hell.

Then, salvation swam in.

Jinbe, the massive blue whale shark Fishman, joined the crew, and the aquarium became his crash pad.

She’d never been so thrilled to see another sea creature.

One night, as Jinbe deflated onto the tank’s sandy floor like a giant, cuddly pufferfish, she seized her chance. Holding her breath, she shifted to human form, swam down, and poked his face until he cracked open an eye.

He blinked, then jolted upright, spotting a woman in a seal-skin coat where a fish should’ve been. Without a word, he grabbed her arm, rocketed to the tank’s exit, and hauled her out, setting her dripping on the deck. She dangled in front of him, flashing an awkward smile.

“Uh, hi,” she mumbled, shivering in her soaked seal skin.

Jinbe sighed, rubbing his temple. “Those morons, keeping a selkie in their damn aquarium.”

He set her down gently, and she craned her neck to meet his gaze. “I don’t think they knew I was… you know,” she said, cheeks burning.

“How long?” Jinbe asked, voice low but sharp.

“Two, maybe three months? I kinda lost track,” she admitted.

Jinbe’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry for this mess. Luffy wouldn’t have done this if he’d known.”

“Yeah, well, he snatched me off the beach before I could say a word,” she said, shrugging. “Nice to meet you, though.”

Jinbe’s toothy grin softened. “Likewise, though I wish it wasn’t in this… situation.”

The next morning, breakfast was a circus.

Jinbe strode into the kitchen, the selkie peeking out from behind him, her seal hood still up. Luffy tilted his head, mid-bite. “Why’s the seal out of the tank? Did it escape? Shishishi, that’s funny!”

The crew froze as she stepped forward, revealing her human face. Luffy’s jaw dropped, then his eyes narrowed. “OI! DID YOU KILL MY SEAL TO WEAR HER AS A COAT?!”

She yelped, ducking behind Jinbe as Luffy’s glare turned murderous. Jinbe snatched him up by the collar, holding him like a feral kitten. “Listen, you idiot,” Jinbe growled. “She’s a selkie. You’ve been keeping a person in your aquarium for months.”

Robin chuckled, eyeing the selkie’s shy face. “I knew something was off, but a selkie… fascinating.”

“You mean Luffy kidnapped a lady and kept her in a fish tank?” Sanji wailed, hearts in his eyes. “HOW CRUEL! Oh, the suffering she must have endured! Mademoiselle, allow me to prepare a feast to make amends!”

Luffy stopped struggling, eyes wide. “WHAT?!”

“Yeah,” the selkie muttered.

Silence.

Then chaos. The crew hit the deck, bowing and bawling apologies. Luffy clung to her leg, blubbering for forgiveness. Sanji was a mess, wailing about her suffering. Chopper sobbed into his hooves and Nami was yanking Zoro’s head down to bow, despite his grumbling. Robin, Brook, Franky, and Usopp kept it together, offering calm apologies like actual adults.

“It’s… fine,” she said, stepping back, overwhelmed. “Just a misunderstanding.”

It wasn’t fine. Months trapped in a filthy tank, treated like a pet, unable to shift without drowning, she’d missed her human form, her freedom. But seeing their tearful, guilty faces, the way they groveled like they’d committed high treason, she couldn’t hold a grudge.

They were idiots, sure, but they were sorry idiots. For now, that’d have to do.

She couldn’t just dive back into the sea and swim home. The Sunny had sailed too far from her island, and no amount of selkie stamina could get her across those treacherous currents. She was stuck, bewildered, with no clear path forward.

Jinbe, ever the steady hand, offered suggestions, while Nami pored over maps, tracing routes and muttering about tides. But it was hopeless, her home was too distant. In the end, they agreed she’d stay with the Straw Hats until they reached an island close enough for her to catch a ship back.

So, she settled into life on the Sunny, pitching in where she could, anything to feel useful during her temporary stay. Slowly, the crew’s chaotic warmth chipped away at her wariness, and she found herself weaving into their messy tapestry of friendship.

She was still a bit sore at Luffy for the whole aquarium fiasco, but the guy was like a human sunbeam— you couldn’t stay mad at him. His infectious grin and relentless enthusiasm pulled her into his orbit. He was touchy in a way that felt thoughtless, natural: an arm slung over her shoulders, bone-crushing morning hugs, or his rubbery limbs literally wrapping around her waist to drag her across the ship to show her some “cool” seashell or weird fish he’d found. “Look at this! Isn’t it awesome?! Come on, let’s go eat it!” he’d shout, oblivious to her flustered protests.

Zoro was quieter, a solid presence who didn’t talk much. They’d share comfortable silences, her watching him train or nap, him grunting approval when she helped sharpen a blade. “Not bad,” he’d mutter. It wasn’t deep, but it was easy.

Chopper, though, was a whirlwind of excitement. “A selkie?! That’s so cool! Does it hurt when you change? Can you really talk to fish?!” he’d squeal, bombarding her with questions. When she nodded, his eyes practically popped out. “Teach me! I gotta know for my fish patients! Please, please!” His earnest curiosity was contagious, and she’d spend hours explaining how she could sense the fish’s chatter, mostly complaints about cramped tanks or bad kelp.

Sanji was a gentleman, intense but respectful, his eyes sparkling when he asked about her favorite foods. “No ‘whatever’s fine,’” he insisted, leaning in. “Tell me what you love. If I don’t know it, I’ll learn, for you, my dear.” His determination to cook her something special, paired with his endless culinary rants, made her feel oddly cherished, even if his flirtations were a bit much.

Franky was more distant but cool in his own way, tossing her a grin and a “SUPER!” whenever she admired his ship tweaks. They didn’t click deeply, but the mutual respect was there.

Usopp, on the other hand, was her kindred spirit, both of them jumpy, prone to yelping at sudden noises. They’d swap exaggerated stories, cowering together during storms, laughing at their own cowardice. “And then the sea monster was THIS big!” Usopp would gesture wildly.

Brook was… weirdly fascinating. His skeleton charm and bizarre humor grew on her, especially when he’d play soulful tunes for the fish, winking at her mid-performance. “Yohohoho, a selkie’s dance deserves my best song!” he’d declare, strumming wildly.

Nami and Robin adopted her like a sister, their late-night talks sprawling from heavy debates about freedom and justice to giggling over silly, hormone-fueled confessions.

One night, after too much wine, they turned into teenage girls, spilling their crushes. Robin, usually composed, blushed faintly when Nami teased her about Franky. Nami, meanwhile, was a mess over Vivi, clutching a box of her letters, a pendant with a lock of Vivi’s hair dangling from her neck, yapping poetically about her “desert queen” with a lovesick sigh. “I need her back,” Nami groaned, dramatic and yearning.

Then their eyes turned to the selkie, glinting mischievously. “Sooo, you got a crush?” Nami asked, leaning in with a wicked grin.

“No, not really…” she lied, her face heating up under her seal coat.

“You totally do!” Nami squealed. “Let us guess! Is it Sanji… Oh, wait! Zoro?”

She wanted to sink into the deck and disappear.

Robin, sipping her wine, said calmly, “It’s Jinbe. Obvious as the tides.”

“What?!” Nami gasped, then studied the selkie’s flushed face. “Oh, you do! You gotta tell him! This is gonna be so much fun!”

Her eyes widened, heart racing. “No way! He doesn’t see me like that, and I can’t just—”

“He thinks you’re beautiful,” Robin cut in, matter-of-fact. “He told me. Said you’re kind, smart, a good heart.”

“He… what?” Her voice cracked, panic rising. She buried her face in her seal skin, mortified.

“He likes you!” Nami shook her excitedly. “Confess already! Or I’ll charge you for the advice!”

“Jinbe’s too reserved to make the first move,” Robin added. “Even if he rejects you, he’d be gentle. But trust me, he won’t.”

The selkie was a wreck after that.

Around Jinbe, she turned into a clumsy disaster, tripping over ropes, stammering, blushing like an idiot. Nami and Robin watched with barely concealed glee, plotting to nudge things along. Sanji, ever the romantic, caught on instantly and joined the scheme, mourning dramatically that she’d be “Jinbe’s darling” and not his. He started seating them together at meals, shooing Luffy away when he tried to drag her off for adventures. “Go with Jinbe, captain’s orders! And no meat for you if you interrupt!” Sanji would say, kicking Luffy aside.

Robin took a subtler approach, dropping hints to Jinbe during their talks. “She’s quite fond of you,” she’d say, smirking as Jinbe’s eyes widened. The realization hit him like a tidal wave, he deflated, hands covering his face, his stoic demeanor crumbling. “I didn’t know,” he muttered, reeling. Her nervousness, her stuttering, it all clicked.

He’d been smitten since he pulled her from the tank, charmed by her wit, her kindness, the way she’d swim with him or tease him playfully. But when her behavior shifted, he’d feared the worst: that she’d realized he was a Fishman, tainted by their bad reputation.

“She’s half-seal,” Robin said, amused and then, as if she could read his mind.“She doesn’t care about that. Talk to her.”

So he did. He summoned her— yes, summoned, his formal tone making her stomach flip— to the aquarium room. She stood there, fidgeting under his towering presence, feeling like a shrimp facing a whale.

“I’ve been informed you like me,” Jinbe said, blunt as a harpoon.

Her face paled. “You… have?” Her voice was a squeak, her mind screaming to dive into the sea and swim to oblivion.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “I feel the same.”

She froze, braced for rejection, not… this. “You do?” she choked out, throat tight.

“Yes.” He studied her, then softened. “You seem… unsettled. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable—”

“NO!” she blurted, waving her hands, her seal skin slipping off one shoulder. “You haven’t! I’m just… freaking out because I didn’t think you’d like me back, and now I’m like, what do I do? Do I kiss you? I don’t know!”

Jinbe’s deep chuckle rumbled through the room. “A kiss would be nice.”

Her heart thumped like a war drum, she took a hesitant step forward, Jinbe’s massive hands, calloused yet gentle, lifted her off the floor with ease. She leaned in, her cheeks blazing, planting a shy, clumsy kiss on his whiskered cheek. His sharp-toothed grin flashed like a beacon, his deep chuckle rumbling as he caught her nervous gaze. She’d been a wreck, worrying he’d balk at this messy display of affection, but that grin told her he was all in. Emboldened, she went wild, peppering kisses across his broad, scaly face, making the stoic fishman giggle— yes, giggle, a sound so pure it could melt the Grand Line.

Let the man bask in his joy.

Kissing his lips was trickier, his fishman features made it an adventure, but she managed a soft peck, awkward yet sweet. Jinbe’s eyes softened, his deep voice murmuring approval, for him, this was paradise, a moment of pure, unfiltered connection.

He was utterly smitten, his heart swelling at the thought of her bounding over, throwing her arms around him in a spontaneous hug, no matter the chaos of their pirate life. It grounded him, this selkie’s fearless affection, turning the towering fishman into a giant cuddle bear, or rather, cuddle fish. His broad, sturdy frame was built for hugs, and napping on his warm, cushy tummy was unmatched. At sunset, with the beach’s sand still toasty, Jinbe sprawled out, carefree, the selkie dozing atop him like he was her personal island.

Her trust, her ease around him, it sparked a warmth in Jinbe he couldn’t name, a pride that puffed his chest and a happiness that anchored his soul.

Luffy, of course, missed the entire romantic memo. The Straw Hat captain didn’t clock that Jinbe and the selkie were an item until he barreled into the aquarium at the worst possible moment, catching them tangled in a very compromising position.

To Luffy’s innocent brain, they weren’t lovers caught in the throes of passion, they were just… wrestling? Naked?

The selkie, red-faced and mortified, hurled a pillow at him, shrieking, “GET OUT, LUFFY!”

Luffy, dodging the projectile, tilted his head, genuinely baffled. “Oi, what’re you guys doing? Looks fun! Can I join?”

Another pillow clocked him square in the face, this one launched with the force of a cannonball.

Later, Luffy wandered into the kitchen, pouting about how Jinbe and the selkie had booted him from the aquarium, not letting him in on their “weird game.” Sanji, mid-chop, froze, his cigarette nearly falling from his lips. He spun on Luffy, eyes blazing like he’d seen a culinary blasphemy, grabbing his captain by the shoulders and shaking him like a maraca.

“Luffy, you idiot! You don’t just barge in when they’re alone together, and you definitely don’t ask to join!” Sanji’s voice cracked with exasperation, his chivalrous soul horrified. “Do you get it?! That’s private time!”

Spoiler: Luffy didn’t get it. It happened two more times, the selkie’s screams echoing through the Sunny, until she finally begged Franky to install a lock on the aquarium door, muttering about “that rubber-brained menace” under her breath.

Whitebeard Pirates

Let’s just say Ace is an absolute idiot, plain and simple.

In Alabasta, he’s got that cool, cocky older brother vibe, all smoldering charm and fiery confidence. But the second he’s back with the Whitebeard Pirates? Boom, Luffy 2.0, unleashed. The man’s brain takes a vacation, and he’s running on pure, unfiltered dumbass energy.

Around the Whitebeard Pirates, Ace drops all his walls, letting his inner chaos demon loose, and it’s a glorious mess.

Picture this: him slathering his chiseled abs in cooking oil, trying to fry eggs on his freaking stomach while Thatch, torn between yelling “What the hell, Ace?!” and cackling like a hyena, inevitably chooses the latter, doubled over, wheezing. Or that time Ace thought he could outsmart Marco with a prank— big mistake. Marco, with that lazy, smug phoenix grin, slapped him with a month-long punishment so brutal it had Ace scrubbing decks and muttering about his own stupidity.

And now, oh boy, Ace has outdone himself in the dumbass department, and somehow, only the Sea Kings know how, he’s drowning in the damn ocean.

Yeah, Ace, the Fire Fist Devil Fruit user, managed to yeet himself into a situation where he’s flailing in seawater like a soggy noodle. The Whitebeard Pirates were miles away, because of course Ace decided to go “exploring” solo. He’d wandered too far out on a crumbling cliff, spotted a feisty beast, and thought, “Hell yeah, let’s throw hands!”, without noticing the rocks were loose. One epic brawl later, the cliff gave way, and down went Ace, beast and all, plunging into the sea in the most avoidable, facepalm-worthy way possible.

He thrashed, trying to swim up, but Devil Fruit users and water don’t mix. His vision blurred, limbs turned to lead, and the last thing he saw before blacking out was a seal swimming toward him, probably wondering why this idiot was even out here.

When Ace came to, he was sprawled in a cave, the crash of waves echoing off the rocks. He turned his head and, bam, there’s a woman in a shimmering seal coat staring at him.

Instinct kicked in; he bolted upright, scooting back, ready to throw flames if she was trouble. “Oi, who are you?!”

She just tilted her head, confused, like he was the weird one. “You feeling alright? You were half-dead when I dragged you out of the water.”

“HUH?!” Ace’s jaw dropped, signature freckles practically glowing with embarrassment.

“You’re a Devil Fruit user, right?” she asked calmly.

“Yeah, uh… oh, crap, the cliff!” He smacked his forehead, hard enough to leave a mark. “Man, that was stupid.”

“You fell from a cliff?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“I wasas fighting this feisty creature, you know? Rocks were loose as hell…” He trailed off, scratching his neck, sheepish. “Where am I, anyway?”

“My house,” she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You live in a cave?” Ace’s eyes bugged out, scanning the place. It was straight out of a fairy tale: sparkling stones, a clear pool of water stretching to the back, glowing faintly. No furniture, no nothing, just pure, magical vibes.

“Yeah.” She smiled, unbothered.

“Where do you sleep?” he asked, genuinely stumped.

“In the water,” she said, like he was the one missing something obvious.

“But you’re human!” Ace’s brain was doing cartwheels, trying to keep up.

“Not really. I’m a selkie,” she said, her grin teasing now.

“That’s so damn cool!” Ace shouted, stars in his eyes, all traces of caution gone. “That’s why I saw a seal before I passed out, it was you!”

She nodded, clearly entertained by his over-the-top enthusiasm.

“By the way, I gotta get back to my family. Are we far from the village?” Ace asked, already itching to move.

“A bit. I can guide you if you want,” she offered.

And so, they trekked back to the village, a long-ass hike that took nearly the whole day. Ace chatted nonstop, probably about fights and food.

When they finally hit the village, Ace started asking around for the Whitebeard Pirates, his massive back tattoo, a blazing symbol of his loyalty, on full display. The selkie noticed but didn’t connect the dots. In her mind, pirates were just trouble, not family.

No way this goofball was tight with those pirates, right?

“They’re at the tavern, let’s go!” Ace grinned, practically bouncing.

“I should head back…” she started, hesitant.

“C’mon, just one drink!” Ace pleaded, flashing that earnest, puppy-dog look that could charm even a rock. “I gotta brag about the badass lady who saved my sorry ass!”

She sighed, unable to resist his infectious energy, and followed him into the rowdy tavern.

The Whitebeard Pirates were there, sprawled across tables, tankards clashing, Thatch belting out a sea shanty with that ridiculous pompadour bouncing, Marco smirking from the corner, and Whitebeard himself looming like a mountain, laughing loud enough to shake the walls and rattle the filthy, beer-soaked floorboards.

“Where the hell have you been?” Thatch asked, slamming his mug down hard enough to slosh foam over the rim.

“You won’t believe what happened!” Ace exclaimed, eyes wild, freckles standing out against his grin.

“Who’s that, yoi?” Marco asked, pointing lazily at the girl half-hiding behind Ace.

“Dude, did you befriend a selkie?” Thatch asked, clearly amused, leaning in so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“No, I fell from a cliff into the water and then I befriended a selkie,” Ace corrected, rubbing the back of his neck like it was no big deal.

The entire table froze, digesting the fact that Ace was standing here right now out of pure, dumb luck, again.

“In what situation do you find yourself near a cliff knowing you’re a Devil Fruit user, yoi?” Marco asked, deadpan, one eyebrow arched like he was already tired of the answer.

“Fucking hell, son,” Whitebeard rumbled, then turned to the selkie. “Thank you for saving his dumb ass.”

She nodded, too overwhelmed by the fact that an Emperor of the Sea—the strongest man in the world—had just thanked her, his massive hand dwarfing the tankard he raised in salute.

“One of these days you’re gonna get yourself killed,” Izou said, amused, sipping his sake with elegant disdain. He didn’t think Ace could reach a new low in stupidity.

Maybe he was wrong.

“Would you like to join us for a drink, girl?” Whitebeard asked. “Tonight’s on me.”

The selkie looked at Ace, and he nodded vigorously, so she nodded too, clutching her cloak tighter.

“YAY!” Ace whooped, nearly knocking over a chair.

“Shy little thing, aren’t you?” Thatch said, noticing how she was really, really quiet.

“You’re just scaring her with that stupid hair of yours,” Ace chimed in, dodging a playful swipe from Thatch’s fist.

“I will throw you back into the ocean,” Thatch growled, but he was grinning.

“Your hair is cool,” she said, voice small.

Which was countered by Thatch’s bellow: “YOU SEE? YOUR FRIEND GETS IT! Cool people always recognize other cool people!” And then he fist-bumped her so hard her arm jolted.

The selkie eventually started to feel a bit more comfortable, less intimidated by these loud, sweaty, filthy pirates. They weren’t that scary, they were even a little silly, even the great Whitebeard. They drank all night; she met a couple of other commanders, some as intimidating as Sea Kings with scars and missing teeth, others surprisingly nice. Especially Vista, with the mustache and top hat, he was a calm gentleman through and through, offering her a clean handkerchief when she sneezed from the dust kicked up by stomping boots.

At some point, she ended up wedged between Vista and Marco, watching Ace arm-wrestle the entire tavern next to Thatch. It started calm, then suddenly they were hollering about who had stronger arms, veins popping, sweat flying, the table creaking under the strain.

So, obviously, the selkie, in fear of being caught in the middle of flying elbows and splintered wood, changed seats after Ace started challenging the whole damn room.

“Do they… do this often?” she asked Marco, having to shout over the roar.

“They do, yoi,” he sighed. “They’re very annoying.”

“Oh,” she nodded, clutching her mug like a lifeline.

“They’re well-intentioned,” Vista added, polishing his swords with a rag that had seen better days. “Just… stupid. And a bit hotheaded. Especially Ace.”

“Yeah,” she said, wincing as a chair leg snapped. “I can see that.”

“WHO’S NEXT!?” Ace barked, chest heaving, eyes blazing like he’d fight the ocean itself.

A big man with arms like cannon barrels stepped up. The selkie didn’t think Ace could— never mind. He slammed the guy down so hard the table exploded in a shower of splinters and ale. Her eyes widened as Whitebeard’s laugh boomed, only egging Thatch on more.

Out of nowhere, Ace spun to her, grinning like a kid. “Did you see that?” Like he was fishing for praise, or maybe just showing off— same difference with him.

So she smiled and nodded, cheeks warm.

“You shouldn’t feed his ego, yoi,” Marco muttered. “He’ll be ten times more annoying now.”

“Oh, great,” she hissed through her teeth.

The competition ended when, after three broken tables and a puddle of blood from someone’s split knuckle, the owner shuffled out, pale and trembling, begging them to stop before the whole place collapsed.

The selkie felt a pang of empathy— she’d been just as terrified hours ago.

Marco apologized smoothly, promised they’d pay for the damage, then grabbed Ace and Thatch by the collars and forced them to bow, foreheads to the sticky floor, muttering apologies through gritted teeth.

The night was chaos, and she ended up sticking around the Whitebeard Pirates the whole time they were on her island. They were loud, crude, covered in scars and booze and sea salt, but they treated her like family from day one. So, of course, she was tempted to join.

There wasn’t much on this island for her. Her cave. A few friends. The same gray waves every morning.

And Ace? Ace was relentless. He’d drag her into his nonsense with that stupid, infectious grin, like the world was one big adventure and she was missing out.

Now they sat on rocks by the beach, the Moby Dick looming in the moonlight, sails furled, crew shouting as they loaded the last barrels. Ace had been hinting all week, never outright asking, just nudging.

But now? Now he was serious. No grin. Just those dark eyes, steady for once.

“Do you want to join us?” he asked.

“Ace, I don’t know…”

“You said you’re having fun. You could have infinite fun if you came with us.”

“Maybe… ACE!”

He’d fallen backward off the rock, flat on his back in the sand. She scrambled over, straddling his chest, shaking him. “Ace! ACE!”

And then, he snored.

Was he… sleeping?

“Ace!” She shook him harder. “ACE!”

“Umm, what?” he mumbled, blinking up at her like he’d just had the best nap of his life.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT!?” she shrieked. “You just, fell! I thought you were dead!”

“I’m narcoleptic,” he said, yawning. “Just fell asleep. By the way, you should join us.”

“You’re so stubborn,” she panted, heart still racing.

“So that’s a yes,” he grinned, sitting up so fast she nearly toppled.

“And really stupid,” she added, shoving his shoulder. “And… yes. I’m joining.”

Ace exploded with energy, grabbed her waist, rolled them down the beach in a tangle of limbs and laughter and sand in her hair. She yelped, flailing, until they stopped in a heap, him on top, grinning like he’d won the world.

“YAY! I knew you would!”

[alexa-yukiyu]

Hello I hope you've been sleeping and eating well, may I request this? Whitebeard Pirates x Inosuke reader like he was the smallest and youngest among them, he gets into a lot of trouble

Inosuke was raised by boars his life and he has little to no human contact

Inosuke is influenced more and more by the Whitebeard pirates ways ways and becomes more accustomed to affection and generosity, learning to also acknowledge the strength of people besides himself and develop feelings of friendship towards the Whitebeard pirates , although he does still retain his proud nature and constant want for praise. He also begins to think more strategically when engaging in combat, using smarter tactics he has picked up from more experienced Demon Slayers and not just rushing into fights head-on without thinking, he goes mad when anyone tries to hurt his family, though despite being a troublemaker he can be shy and quiet whenever it comes to new things like Inosuke would hold Marco sleeve and watch in awe as a parade was happening

So how would the Whitebeard pirates react seeing their youngest and smallest crewmate being quiet for the first time like someone made a comment like "I wonder why would they allow a troublemaker boar into their crew?" And Inosuke started wondering that too and started being quiet as the Whitebeard pirates were behind him glaring at the bastard who made their youngest upset

Doubtful affections ( Whitebeard pirates x m!reader)

I don’t know how to feel about this one yall I really liked it at the beginning but then it was eh maybe I tried to hard using different characters I think that lowkey ruined it but nevertheless here we are I am proud that I finished dit today though! :)

Personification of Fossa was heavily inspired by @hannahbarberra162 ‘s own take on the character :)

Reader here has been replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika and @/fireflygraphics

“Why does it have to be boars anyway? We haven’t had sparrows in a while, and they are here by the plenty,” Ace whined as he followed after his brother.

“Cos’ the sparrows are here to control the caterpillar population, the villagers recently managed to get it under control and save their crops; boars are killin’ off their livestock,” Thatch huffed out, venturing further into the forest and away from the grasslands the village had made a home in

“We can get some good meat, and they will trade us materials if we help hunt them down; it’s a win-win for both sides.”

Ace let out a hum in response, looking further into the forest and placing an arm out to halt Thatch, gesturing for him to be quiet and lower himself on the ground.

Thatch is quick to understand the reasoning behind his actions as not far from there was a large sounder grazing on the wild vegetation. Letting out a smile as he unsheathed his knife and edged closer to them

“We goin’ to eat good tonight,” he grinned, stalking closer to the boars, knife raised and ready to strike; the opportunity ended as elated for the hunt he had failed to notice the foliage beneath his feet, cringing at the loud crinkling sound that quickly alerted the sounder.

“Ha...Howdy”

“Good going, Thatch,” Ace sarcastically called after they had managed to fend off the angry mothers that had charged at them the minute they realized someone had gotten too close to them and their piglets.

“Quit yer Hollerin; it ain’t matter how it got done. What matters is we got the meat,” he called, rolling his eyes and taking a glance at a nearby bush for a moment, his attention going back to the gathering of their hunt.

“Make yer’self useful and take care of the last one, think might be anotha piglet.”

“Aye, Aye, Captain,”” he called dismissively, igniting one of his hands as he approached the bush.

“Come here, piggy, piggy, come....here? Thatch you might want to take a look at this:”

“What is it? Oh.” The two men gawked at the sight in front of them; perhaps if they were not as worried at the fact that in front of them sat a toddler alone in the middle of the woods, they would have found it amusing at the mannerisms it showed as it let out what they guessed were small growls and charges towards them, a mask just as small as he was decorating his head.

Ace grinned gingerly. He picked up the aggressive child and boosted him up in the air for a few seconds. A laugh escaped him as the boy started giggling, his small hands trying to reach the man.

“Ya ain’t a boar, ain’tcha? What are ya doin’ all alone here?”” Thatch questioned, looking up at the giggling boy

“You don’t think he was being raised by one of the boars, do you?” Ace mulled lowering the toddler onto his hip, occasionally bouncing him

“Don’ see any other way he coulda survive alone out here” he mumbled, slipping off the boy’s mask to take a peak at his features.

“Well, it doesn’t matter cause he’s coming with us”” Ace laughed, but it was cut short as the child sank his teeth into his torso, gaining a hiss from the man.

“He’s gonna give Marco a run for his money.”” Thatch grinned, finding humor in his brother’s glowering

Thatch was definitely not wrong when he spoke those words as Marco stood in front of the child watching at his latest achievement; he had made a mistake in giving his back to a child who had been raised in the wild, and what did this cost him? A clinical bed, as the current one was now trashed, with small claw and bite marks littering it, springs and stuffing exposed to the frigid air of the room

Marco let out a sigh at the sight

“Alright, let’s set things straight; you do not destroy things,” Marco called, stopping the child from digging his teeth into the bed once again. He placed him on his lap, facing him, and held him as he struggled to get away from him and attack him.

“We can do this all day,”” he stated, looking down at the boy, who eventually stopped trying to headbutt his way out and began pointing to the bed.

“Don’t destroy my clinic,” he called sternly. He complied with his silent request and placed the child on the bed, watching him for a while to see if he would repeat his actions. He nodded when he didn’t and simply sat there staring at him. He then began assessing the child, taking all measurements, and, much to his displeasure, vaccinating him.

“There we go, you did great. Now I think it’s time you meet the rest of your brothers. Pops is waiting too.” he called, lowering the boy to the ground, his eyes softening as he gingerly took hold of his sleeve as they left the clinic, slowly walking closer to the deck, the rowdiness of the crowd getting louder and louder the closer they got

“You have improved greatly, Dokucha,” Vista applauded as he approached the small boy after he had successfully beaten his opponents under his brother’s watch.

A now older Dokucha spun around to meet his brother grinning at him

“You think so, Vista-nii?!” He called excitedly as he pulled up his mask and sheathed his wakizashi. Even though six years had already gone by since the day he had been found in that forest among boars, the young boy had kept his signature mask, having to replace it every year to fit his growing body.

“Your agility with the wakizashi has increased. Your movements are much smoother than last time, and your stance has improved as well. You no longer stumble on your feet when you must spin to meet opponents behind you,” he complimented, mirroring the child’s wide smile.

“Of course, I did a good job! I am the best after all!” he boasted as he put his hands on his hips in a proud manner.

“Remember to not underestimate your opponent regardless of their skill, or it will be your downfall on the battlefield,” He said as he placed a hand on the child’s head.

“I won’t, Vista-nii, don’t worry!”

“Now then, I must finish some training with my unit before we depart. Are you able to stock up on some of our supplies? We need new whetstones and truingstones"

“Leave it to me, Vista-nii!”

“Atta boy! I will see you shortly!” He called as he walked away

“Alright! I Saw a blacksmith right around the corner!” Dokucha noted as he made his way into the local village

“Here it is,” he remarked as he made his way inside the store, easily finding the items he was searching for and making his payment. Waving off the store owner as he made his exit, stopping as he heard the shop owner begin to talk, he turned around to see what the owner needed, only to once again be stopped as another voice spoke up.

“Who was that dear?”

“It was one of the Whitebeard pirates; he came to refill some of their smithing supplies.

He knew he was quick to jump into action; he had greatly improved this in the last years as he was less prone to suddenly lash out and act out on impulse. Under his brother’s tutelage, he now analyzed the situation and thought of a solution before his body moved. Much to Marco’s surprise and pleasure, the small boy had shown a great ability to strategize, coming up with strategies and views that never failed to impress him, much to his pleasure.

“Oh, was it one of the commanders? I heard Vista was around.”

“No, it was the boy,”

“That small child that tags along with them? I heard he was up to no good.”

Nevertheless, since he was still a child, it was only normal that many mannerisms he gained during his first two years of life still prevailed, which his brothers and father welcomed as they had grown to be a part of him. This, however, was not the case with people outside his circle; he was not deaf to the people’s words, the whispers of judgment following everywhere he went. He usually never let this get to him as he knew better than to care for stranger's words, but today was not one of those times.

“I wonder why they even keep such a boy.”

“I know, right? If anything, he would be a liability. That crew comprises such strong people, and then there’s him.”

“Maybe they felt bad for the boy, heard he was raised by boars. Can you believe that?” he said with a small laugh.

“Boars?! HA! I'm sure they keep him for entertainment. Their days at sea are very long after all.”

“Oh! That must be it I'm sure they...

Dokucha turned around, not waiting to hear the rest of the conversation, as he made his way back to the ship

“Have any of you seen Dokucha?” Namur questioned as he entered the mess hall, looking around for said boy

“He asked me for swimming lessons, and then the little rascal didn’t show up,” he grumbled, making his way to the table where the rest of the commanders sat at

“I asked him to get some materials from me, but I haven’t seen him since then,” Vista piped up

“I saw him go to his room earlier. Has he not left since then? It’s been hours since then,” Jozu noted, sharing a few worried glances with his brothers

“I will go check in on him,” Izou stated as he made his out of the mess hall

“Dokucha, are you there?” Izou called as he knocked on the door to his room, frowning as he received no response

‘He’s a light sleeper, so there’s no way he didn’t hear my knocking,’ he thought as he took a bobby pin out of his hair and easily unlocked the door, his frown deepening as his eyes fell on the lump on the bed.

“Dokucha?” He called sitting down on the bed

“The door was closed for a reason, Izou-nii,” the child grumbled, his voice muffled by the bed sheets. Despite this, the roughness and scratchiness of the voice was not lost to Izou as he swiftly removed the covers from the boy and pulled him closer to him.

“I have told you that it is unbecoming to not look as someone when you speak,” he called, tightening his hold as Dokucha tried pushing him away.

“Just leave Izou-nii,” he growled.

“I will not leave until you tell me what has had you acting this way.”

“Why do you even care? I’m just a form of entertainment for you guys, so you don’t have to pretend anymore, so...just leave me alone!” he cried.

Shocked by his words, Izou is quick to release him, watching as he broke down in front of him.

“Who told you this?”

“So it’s true!” he wailed, his cries growing louder as he turned away until a delicate hand made his place under his chin and softly turned it back.

“Dokucha. I do not know where you have heard of this, but know that it could not be farther from the truth,” he softly spoke as he lifted his face.

“We care for you deeply; we were all so happy the day Ace and Thatch brought you aboard. Trust me, living in a ship surrounded by such barbarians can become tiring after a while.” He started gaining a small giggle from the child at his words

“But then there was you; you were the most delicate yet wildest thing I had seen,” he voiced with a small smile.

“It was quite a sight, having a toddler run around amock and causing experienced warriors to lose their minds over such a small thing,” he recalled with a smile.

“It’s concerning how quickly you became the most precious treasure that any of us have found. And that is why I would like to know how you ever thought you were simply a means for entertainment,” he finished, looking down at Dokucha.

The child, comforted by the words, threw himself into Izou's arms, sobs racking his small body.

“Was it because of something we said or did? Despite not being as uncivilized as some of them, I understand some of us can be a lot,” he spoke as he hugged the boy closer to him, rubbing his back to soothe his cries.

“No, it wasn’t you guys.”

“Then?”

Encouraged by his words, Dokusha told him of what he had heard in the shop earlier. After a while, his brother smiled at him and encouraged him to relax for a while as he and the others 'handled it.’

“Say Fossa-nii, why did everyone leave?” Dokucha wondered as he looked up at the stars that filled the sky

“They had something that needed ta be handled,” he huffed out as he lay beside the boy.

“What is it?”

“What with the damn questions?! Just shut up n’ go to sleep,” the man growled, only getting a small snicker in response.

“I love you, Fossa-nii!” he exclaimed, throwing himself towards said man, hugging him tightly.

“Tch, yer lucky m' in a good mood,” he grunted out.

"Hey, hey, did you sneak any out today?" the child whispered, looking up at him

"Ya better not tell that idiot about this," he grumbled as he pulled out a small pastry from his pocket, handing it to the boy.

"I won't! Cause then I won't get any treats after hours!" he exclaimed, munching on the pastry and ignoring the snickers escaping his brother.

Ahhhh im tired yall but I finally finished it. What are we thinking?

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

@hannahbarberra162

[alexa-yukiyu]

HIIIIIIIII

Ive been dead uh, I read abandoned treasures. If you EVER, get the chance or time to write a part too I will literally melt beneath your feet-

I LIKE to think reader might be scared of someone- xd for some odd factor. I think a interaction like that might be a saucey base Xd

XOXO - FROM THE DEEPTS OF HELL!!

Sick Treasure ( Thatch x child!reader x Marco)

Pt 1

A/N LEEE NO IT’S ME WHO IS BACK FROM THE DEPTHS , two whole seasons later and your request has arrived! Dokucha is still a savage on this one but the character is going trough trauma soo.

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese for the enjoyment of both reader and oc character readers alike!

Dividers by @/firefly-graphics

It turns out that emotional burnout was not the only that led to Dokucha’s body giving out; the effects from the sun poisoning they had subjected themselves to had finally hit its climax, leaving the small child bedridden and with a high fever at the clinic.

“How are they?” Thatch questioned as he entered the clinic, gaining the attention of Marco, who sat at the desk looking through papers, a pair of glasses perched on his nose as he did so, watching as his brother placed a small plate of food next to the sick bay bed.

“Their fever has begun to recede-yoi, the swelling has also gone down though because they are healing, the skin has begun to peel, so we have to give them distractions from the itching so that they don’t delay the healing by tearing the skin open-yoi.” he listed, removing the glasses from his face and tossing them on his desk as he spun on his chair to face the chef.

“Hells’ bells!” Thatch yelled in surprise as Dokucha suddenly shot up from the bed. They looked around, confused, frowning as they saw the two commanders. Their little minds slowly filled in the pieces as they glanced at the IV attached to their arm, their hands inching towards the tube.

“Don’t think about it-yoi,” Marco warned as he also shot from his chair and approached the kid.

“You take those off or get out of this clinic without being cleared off, and I will make sure you have no access to your little watch post-yoi,” he warned, pointing a finger their way in a silent challenge.

“I can sue you for malpractice and kidnapping,” they snapped back, not willing to step down from the argument

“First of all, I’m not sure how someone your age even knows that-yoi,” Marco started—throwing a slight glare at Thatch as the latter let out a snicker at Dokucha’s words.

“Second, I am doing my job as a doctor and ensuring you are back to health; that includes making sure you remain here while I do, lest your sun poisoning gets even worse-yoi. I would be performing malpractice if I let you leave in the state that you are.

Third, “We’re pirates; we’re already wanted, so accusing us of anything will do you no good-yoi,” he informed her, letting a little snicker himself at the horrified look they sent his way at his final words.

“Hey, Don’t worry Kid, your safe here; I just need you to stay a little bit longer so I can be sure you won’t faint on us-yoi” he reassured with a smile as he ruffled their head, retracting it just as quickly when Dokucha swatted at him.

“Now, I’ll be at my desk looking through your labs. I’ll leave you to Thatch-yoi; I need you to eat and drink something,” he called as he walked away and took his previous position. He began browsing through a small array of papers, his glasses now back on his face.

“Howdy Sweets!” Thatch greeted, taking Marco’s previous spot. He opened a small table connected to the bed and placed the plate he had brought to the room on it.

“Seeing as you probably have nausea, our options aren’t big, but we still have to try to get somethin' in you. M’sorry, my first dish to ya is hospital food,” he told her as he offered them the dish.

“…This is hospital food?” They mumbled in awe. The dish itself was pretty, like nothing Dokucha had ever seen, with a serving of noodles on one side accompanied by what Dokucha could only guess was some type of curd that seemed to have been baked to perfection. Those were surrounded by different vegetables, from leafy greens to bright red vegetables whose names escaped the child’s mind; a vibrant yellow liquid surrounded the array of food, and the smell was beyond anything they had smelt.”

“Yeah?” Thatch tentatively answered, confused about the reaction of the child, worried that it perhaps was not to their liking

“B-But this is…

“M’sorry if ya don’t like it sweets, I would still like for you t-

“The yummiest food I’ve seen…”

-eat some so ya ca- hah?” Thatch shared a glance with Marco, who by now had lowered the papers and watching the interaction a similar frown on his face.

It was true that Thatch’s skills were well above those of other pirates, not only in cooking ability in general but also in making food an essential part of treatment; but for a simple broth, a food simply meant to help the sick be nursed to health, to be called the best food they had, well, that certainly raised some alarms in both their heads, though they chose not to act on them.

“Well, Marco thinks you’ll be fit as a fiddle come tomorrow, so I’m sure I can get you somethin’ even betta.”

“No, I won’t need it. Papa and Mama will be back by then, so I don’t need your food.” Dokucha called as they seemingly snapped out of the reverie they had entered at the sight of Thatch’s food; their previous attitude to them returning

“Dokucha. They are not coming back-yoi,” Marco stated

“Yes, they are! You guys are liars! Dirty liars!” they yelled, throwing the plate onto the floor in a fit of anger, the sound of the broken ceramic echoing around the clinic.

“Thatch, could you come a bit later? Maybe bring them some dinner instead-yoi.”

Hearing this, Thatch let out an exasperated sigh, and Dokucha could have sworn they heard him muttered something along the lines of ‘not again’ in his heavy accent before he nodded his head and waved dismissively to the Doctor as he left.

“Dokucha, do you know how long it has been since you last saw your parents-yoi?”

“Why does that matter? It doesn’t matter how long it’s been; they are coming back,” they snarled.

“Alright, Let’s make a deal-yoi

You have around a month until you are out of the woods from this sun poisoning. If during that time you let us do what we need to get you there, I will talk to pops about returning to the island we found you in if your parents return during that time great-yoi. But if they don’t, you have to listen to us; you have to listen to what we have to say about it without giving us the cold shoulder.”

“…you won’t force me to stay?”

“No, even if your parents don’t come, you just need to listen to what we have to say about it. Afterward, you are free to go or stay-yoi”

“My parents will be there.” They stated, determined, glaring at the man

“So you agree-yoi?”

“Yes”

Our men are so equipped to deal with trauma 😷

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

@hannahbarberra162

@epochal-oracle

[bouquet-bride]

How He Acts With Your Pet Cat

you live with an adorable spoiled kitty and your boyfriend has a special relationship with them too ♡

notes: modern au ♡ NSFW ♡ fluffy ♡ gn!reader

Vista

Unfortunately for him, your grumpy old man of a cat is extremely territorial and protective of you. He stares at Vista when you spend time together, sitting just behind the man, right out of his line of sight, and he doesn’t like it when your boyfriend gets too handsy with you.

Angry yowls and hisses have interrupted more than one heated make-out session, and you’ve been forced to lock your cat out of the bedroom whenever you and Vista have sex. The fierce little creature has bitten and scratched Vista’s shins and back one too many times for his taste.

But Vista loves the angry old thing no matter what, and he knows how much that cat means to you. He’ll feed him if you’re away, will keep his water bowl clean and filled, and will take care of the litter box while your cat judges from afar.

Your grumpy cat likes to be as close to you as possible when you’re all watching a movie, and he will give Vista the stink eye when the man tries to cuddle with you. But when your cat is lost in all the pets and love you give him, if Vista adds his hand to the mix, the grumpy little man won’t notice and will actually quite enjoy the large and warm hand petting him. Until he realizes who’s hand it is.

After months of patiently trying to get on his good side, when Vista is finally rewarded with a slow blink and maybe even some headbutts, he will be very proud and happy. The bedroom door still needs to be locked during sex, but Vista doesn’t mind, he understands the little creature’s jealousy.

Thatch

Obviously, he provides home-made meals and raw diet and the best things any cat could ever get. Thatch uses dirty tricks (food and treats) to win your skittish little cat over, and it works perfectly. You have to step in and tell Thatch to watch the portions when your little baby gains too much weight, and the chef will immediately fix the meals he makes. Your cat gets everything she needs, and the best quality she can get, too.

Your cat warms up to Thatch very quickly thanks to the excellent food and the chef’s confident and warm demeanor. She loves snuggling up to him, and will sometimes push you aside to nestle herself against Thatch’s side. She likes to roll up next to his pillow at night, and purrs quietly against his head.

His heavy and skilled pets are very much appreciated by your little cat, as is grooming time. Thatch is very good with a hairbrush, and your kitty will request scratches and grooming often, sometimes headbutting Thatch’s comb for some extra loving. Thanks to his efforts, her coat looks shinier and softer than ever.

Thatch has no idea how to play with a cat, and gets pretty confused when she swats at his hair or tries to catch his legs. He’s scared he’ll kick her! Even once you’ve explained how she likes to use her toys, Thatch still finds it a little awkward, and can’t quite get the hang of it. He’s great for cuddles, but cat playtime is a skill he struggles to develop.

Marco

He’s very good with cats, unsurprisingly. Marco is calm and playful, and he knows when to stop teasing your kitty. Playtime was actually what brought them close the fastest. Marco quickly understood your cat’s favorite games and spent many afternoons and early mornings indulging the furry creature, until he was trusted a second caretaker.

Marco always remembers food, water, and litter, makes sure your cat’s toys are where they are supposed to be, and always has the little creature’s safety in mind. He never leaves food out, takes care that all plastic and paper bags are stored, vacuums frequently…

The doctor cares for your cat whenever you’re busy, and is very good and trimming his sharp little claws without too much hassle. Marco even tried to give the poor thing a bath, though he was less successful there…

Izou

The best cat person around. He is quiet, careful, patient, measured, and respects boundaries. Most importantly, Izou knows how to show affection from afar, with his demeanor and tone of voice, and your fat cats respond very well to his presence. From the start, they’ve been very welcoming and positive about Izou’s presence, and he’s never given them reason to doubt him.

You’re the one spoiling your babies with food, so despite Izou’s best efforts to enforce a diet, no such thing will happen. The plump and happy creatures will remain plump and happy, and the best Izou can do is buy lower calorie food.

He prefers to spoil your pets with handmade toys, collars, and carious accessories, including dresses and sweaters and adorable matching hats. Your holiday cards always look adorable, the four of you in perfectly tailored matching outfits.

Since Izou is such a calm and stabilizing presence, he often finds himself with a lap full of fat, purring kitties. Whenever you all cuddle together, the cats will press themselves as close to you as possible, or weasel their way in between you and Izou for extra cozy cuddles.

Corazon

Your poor little girl really did her best with Corazon, but he’s simply too clumsy. Despite treats and quiet words and plenty of good attempts, Cora fell over and dropped things one too many times to keep your kitty’s trust. He did his absolute best not to drop her when she let him hold her at first, but alas…

She lets him pet her when she’s rolled up on the bed next to you, or on your lap, but Corazon has lost all carrying privileges. Whenever he manages to set himself on fire, trip, or drop something loud, she will hide from him for a few hours, observing him in silence until she decides it’s safe to come out again.

When he’s sleeping next to you or lounging on the couch with you, then she will be a little more willing to approach. There’s no risk he will fall over or break things there, so she feels safe enough to enjoy his calm and warm presence.

thank you for reading ♡

[bouquet-bride]

Bug Rescue Part 1 - Marco

You're miserably scared of bugs... Thankfully you don't encounter them very often while out at sea, but what happens when you do?

cute little drabbles for my fellow phobic girlies ~ ♥ next up: Thatch, Vista, Corazon, Whitebeard, and Izou ♥

The doctor is eyeing the large centipede with growing interest, the Phoenix inside him ready for a little treat. The bug is getting closer to his work desk and Marco shifts his head and neck, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. He’s sure there’s no one around to see him, but he’s too enthralled by the prospect of a fun snack to hear your approach.

“Ma-AAAH!!”

His head snaps back up, bird eyes wide and staring at you in shock, while the bug scuttles around in a panic. You scream a string of profanities before throwing your notepad in the general direction of the insect, hitting it head on and promptly flattening it. Marco sighs in disappointment.

“UNSHIFT!” you yell at him, hands shaking by your sides as if you were covered in bugs yourself.

The Phoenix cocks his head to the side, his long neck slowly relaxing from the surprise you gave him.

“I didn’t know you were so scared of bugs. Maybe a little phobic, yoi?”

“Unshift, and stop trying to diagnose me! I’m fine!!”

With a pensive hum, Marco’s body returns to normal. He gives your notebook a somewhat saddened look. You follow his gaze and belch audibly, realizing that you now have to pick up your belonging and scrape a dead bug from it. With another pointed look, the doctor smirks a little and turns to you fully.

“What did you need me for, yoi?”

“I have- well had,” you correct with a helpless gesture towards the wad of paper, “the stock list you requested.”

“Hm. I’m sure it’s fine.”

You shift a little, awkward, and Marco smiles wider.

“Want me to get it for you? Miss I’m-totally-not-scared-of-bugs?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, crossing your arms.

He chuckles and picks up the stained notebook. Thankfully for you, the bug sticks to the floorboards rather than the smooth back of your paper pad, but the sight of it squished to the floor still pulls a quiet retching sound from you.

Marco is about to taunt you further when you huff up angrily, glaring at him.

“Don’t start! Besides, you were gonna eat it, weren’t you?! You had your head shifted, you weirdo!”

“You have no proof of that,” he says lowly, eyes narrowing.

“Ah-HA!” you yell in triumph. “You do eat bugs!”

Your victorious outburst is short lived, your face paling as realization hits you.

“Oh my god, you eat bugs… You eat bugs and I- I let you kiss me!”

“You let me?” he taunts, smiling wide. “You love it when I kiss you, yoi.”

“Not anymore!” you belch, taking a step back and looking absolutely disgusted.

Marco’s smile sharpens into a mean grin and he rises from his chair slowly, tossing the stained notebook on his desk.

“No? You sure?” he drawls, walking up to you.

“Don’t you dare!”

In a burst of blue flames, he’s over you, his hands catching either side of your face and squishing your cheeks together.

“Marco,” you mutter threateningly, struggling to speak properly in his tight hold. “Don’t you dare!”

“Hmmm?”

You squeal when he leans in slowly, closing your eyes and hitting his arms and shoulders. To your shock and dismay, the doctor licks your lips, laughing when you scream in protest.

“EW!”

“You killed my snack,” he says in a low voice, pushing you back towards the nearest bed of the infirmary. “I think I deserve compensation.”

“Hey! I’m not compensation for a bug!”

This time he kisses you properly, finally releasing your cheeks to catch your neck and hip instead.

“No, pretty bird, you’re much tastier than a bug.”

You whack him over the head as he takes you down to the mattress, the two of you chuckling now, your irrational fear of bugs forgotten, at least for now.

@hannahbarberra162 i wrote for birb doctor i hope i did ok!

[bouquet-bride]

Bug Rescue Part 4 - Whitebeard

You're miserably scared of bugs... Thankfully you don't encounter them very often while out at sea, but what happens when you do?

cute little drabbles for my fellow phobic girlies ~ ♥ others: Marco, Thatch, Corazon, Vista, Izou ♥

You’re coming back to bed after a quick bathroom break, a small lamp lighting your way, when you see a large shadow scurry at your feet, its many legs tapping frantically on the old wood of the cabin.

At your uncontrolled shriek of terror, your lover grunts and shifts, reaching for you blindly. He knows good and goddamn well there’s no real reason for you to be scared, and it wouldn’t be the first time a bug’s unfortunate presence caused you to disrupt his slumber.

Quite the achievement, given how soundly Newgate usually slept. He doesn’t find you around the bed so he begrudgingly opens his eyes, finding you quickly thanks to the lantern’s glow. You’re retreating from the spot where the insect vanished, bare feet twisting uncomfortably as you put your lamp down on your nightstand.

“How can such a small creature be so bloody loud?” the giant man grumbles to himself, rolling over to catch your little body and lift it closer to his face. His eyebrows furrow as he leans back a little to properly focus on you. “What’s the matter with you, woman? It’s barely dawn.”

“There’s a cockroach in the room!” you protest angrily, limbs flailing around his strong grip.

“Hm. Didn’t bother me.”

Newgate puts you down on the mattress by his head and sighs when you bolt right back up, ready to rant until he disposes of the pest.

“It’s already left the room,” he sighs, interrupting you.

“Has it?!”

“Use your damn haki if you don’t believe me.”

You pout at him and stay seated on the bed, closing your eyes and taking a deep, calming breath, cringing as you extend your focus and seek the bothersome life form. There’s nothing around you but your massive lover’s steadying presence, so you finally let yourself relax.

“You’re too old to be screaming like that every time you see a bug,” he chastises you playfully, large hand wrapping around you to push you back down on your pillow.

“Trust me, I wish phobias eased with age,” you gripe with no real bite.

Your lover chuckles fondly, large fingers carefully rubbing down you back.

“I shouldn’t be complaining,” he murmurs apologetically. “You’ve kept your energy. I should be grateful for that.”

“You talk as if I was eighty…”

Despite your reproachful tone, you’re smiling again and getting more comfortable in your massive bed, ready to finish your night in Newgate’s comforting presence. He’s right, in some ways, after decades of screaming at every insect you were unfortunate enough to encounter, one would think you’d get tired of it and find some peace.

You’re relaxed and drifting again when you feel a shift behind you. With a deep breath, you tap in your observation haki one more, not willing to disturb Newgate again and certain the cockroach wouldn’t have returned after the fright you’d given it.

When you scream and jump against his shoulder, the captain swears and sits up, fully awake once more.

“By the dead, what-”

“IT’S BACK!!”

With more unhappy grumbling, your lover stomps around the bed and glares at the scampering pest. He raises his leg to dispose of the threat but you scream again, disgusted.

“Not with your foot, you filthy brute!”

“With what then?!”

“Your shoe!”

More grumbles follow as he stomps back to the wardrobe, grabs his boot, and chucks it at the cockroach, effectively obliterating it in a loud blow.

“Is it dead?!” you ask stupidly, clutching the sheets to your chest.

“Woman, if that thing survived my boot, I’ll let it join the damn crew.”

You snort at that, a nervous laugh bubbling from your lips. Newgate laughs with you and flop back in bed with a loud groan.

“No point trying to sleep now,” he complains.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize sweetly, gently stroking his cheek before pressing a little kiss to his furrowed brow.

A non-committal grunt is your only response but you know he’s not mad at you, not when he’s wrapping you up in his grip again to pull you closer and adjusting his body to be more comfortable.

“We might as well relax a bit until the sun rises, I suppose…”

He hums at your suggestion and takes another deep breath. When you laugh again, he doesn’t respond, lost to slumber once more. You don’t know why he bothers complaining that you wake him up, when it’s so easy for him to go right back to sleep… It’s a little harder for you, and age certainly hasn’t helped in that department either. You yawn softly and rest your head against Newgate’s warm arm, happy to share a few more peaceful moments before your day truly begins, with hopefully less bugs this time.

i wrote a romantic fic with dad.... i really did it.....

@onepiecereactions i hope you like it !

[bouquet-bride]

Bug Rescue Part 3 - Corazon

You're miserably scared of bugs... Thankfully you don't encounter them very often while out at sea, but what happens when you do?

cute little drabbles for my fellow phobic girlies ~ ♥ others: Marco, Thatch, Vista, Izou, Whitebeard ♥

Your surprised yelp echoes in the hallway and is quickly followed by a much louder, much more urgent scream of terror. Corazon puts his newspaper down quickly and rushes to your room to rescue you from whatever horror is assaulting you.

“I’m here, my dear- oof!”

He trips over the runner rug and slams into your bedroom door, forcing it to swing open brutally, the wood groaning as it hits the wall hard. You scream again, jumping from your hiding spot on top of your bed. Corazon lands face first in the middle of your room, his long legs bent back over his body before falling behind him heavily.

The little stink bug responsible for your terror is clumsily trying to make its way up the wall by your window, but it loses its grip and falls much like your dear boyfriend, though it lands on its smooth back instead.

You squeal as its little legs wiggle about in a disgusting display. Corazon props his head up, confused to find the room empty save for you.

“There, there!” you yell at him, pointing at the insect.

“Oh! I thought you were in danger,” he sighs, relieved.

“I AM IN DANGER!”

He nods quickly and scurries up to his feet to collect the little stink bug before opening your window carefully to let it out.

“I wonder how it got in,” he muses before closing the window. “Are you-”

“It fell on my head!” you whine, still distressed.

He walks over to you quickly, shushing you. A large, warm hand brushes over your hair, smoothing it out from the knots your frantic shakes and jerks tied it into.

“There are no others, right?” you ask in a fearful voice, still standing on your mattress, very upset.

“Come here,” Corazon says softly, sitting on your bed and motioning towards his lap.

He helps you sit comfortably and spends a long time silently combing through your tresses, occasionally pressing kisses to your head, assuring you that there is nothing there. Once you’ve calmed down, Corazon is very happy to keep you close to him, a soft smile hidden on his face as it sits above your head, his chin resting on you.

“I swear, if another one of these CREATURES falls on me, I’ll set this whole building on fire,” you grumble with no real anger, fingers twisting the feathers of his large coat.

“The poor thing meant no harm,” he speaks softly. “It must have fallen from its home…”

His pretty painted eyes look up at your room’s ceiling and sure enough there’s a little crack above your vanity.

“It doesn’t know it’s intruding.”

“It’s filthy.”

Corazon chuckles.

“You sound like Doffy…”

With an indignant gasp, you turn around swiftly in your boyfriend’s arms and catch his ear tight, yanking hard in punishment.

“How dare you?! Bugs don’t belong in people’s homes!”

“Ow- ow- ow, I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Besides, I called you for help, didn’t I? Doffy would have obliterated the entire neighborhood.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course you’re right,” he winces, tall back bowed over you as you pull even harder on his sensitive lobe.

“What the hell are you two doing again?” Law asks from the busted door frame, bored eyes glaring at you with open disdain.

“Law, I told you not to come in when we’re together in bed.”

You yank his ear harder at that but Corazon only chuckles at Law’s unimpressed expression.

“Don’t give him inappropriate ideas!” you chastise. “Law, Cora was only helping me catch a bug, we’re fine.”

The child rolls his eyes.

“That’s what made you scream like that? Pathetic…”

“Law!” Corazon scolds, still bent by your side to ease the sting on his ear. “That’s rude!”

“Whatever… Finish being weird, I’m hungry.”

“We’re not being weird!” you argue, finally releasing your boyfriend’s reddened ear.

Corazon smiles happily while you and Law pull your tongues at each other childishly. The boy laughs a little before running away, throwing one last quip on his way out.

“Oh, you little-”

“Leave it,” Corazon whispers. “Let the little creature scamper away.”

You turn to him with a pout, but relax when you see the glimmer in his bright eyes. When you bring your hand to his face, it’s to gently cup his cheek this time, fingers carefully tracing his features.

“Thank you for saving me,” you murmur with honesty.

“Anytime,” he responds, shifting to kiss your palm.

[bouquet-bride]

Bug Rescue Part 5 - Izou

You're miserably scared of bugs... Thankfully you don't encounter them very often while out at sea, but what happens when you do?

cute little drabbles for my fellow phobic girlies ~ ♥

others: Marco, Thatch, Corazon, Whitebeard, Vista ♥

Izou is happily gazing upon a beautiful pair of white butterflies, enjoying the way the creatures dance in the slight breeze, when you take a seat next to him. He smiles and greets you in a soft voice, pulling a tea cup from the tray at his side and handing it to you. Afternoon tea together was not a ritual either of you ever skipped, and the lovely spring air made this day particularly auspicious for quality time.

With a pleased sigh, you settle by his side with your tea and turn your face upwards to the warm sun. You must not have noticed the butterflies when you approached him, careless and relaxed when you sat down, but as soon as you see them your entire body goes stiff and your eyes zero in on them, your pretty face distorted in shock and terror.

When one of them lands on your forehead, pulling a distressed squeal from you, Izou can’t help his soft chuckle. He knows how deep your fear of bugs goes, and he will dispose of them quickly, but the delicate wings of the creature are such a wonderful ornament for you… He takes a second to observe the scene and thinks he’ll have to craft you something inspired by this perfect shade of eggshell white, but moves quickly once the other insect lands on your nose.

“Fly away now,” he chastises, carefully brushing the butterflies off your face with the tips on his fingers.

Instead of leaving immediately, the pair flutter to his hand and the samurai takes a few more seconds to wonder at their beauty. Your breathing is accelerating next to him, so he shakes his hand once, away from your face, and sighs as the insects float away.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Izou asks with a gentle voice, catching your shoulder and returning his attention to you.

You shake your head and he coos sympathetically. Your first bouts of phobic fear in his presence had surprised him, and concern had pushed him to ask Marco for advice. Once he learned there was nothing to be done, Izou had vowed to do his best to protect and reassure you, and he was always happy when your terrified trembling turned to soothed sighs under his care.

He kisses your forehead, wiping away the lingering touch of the insect’s legs, and then your nose, to finish grounding you back in reality.

“Deep breaths, beautiful, just like that… It’s over.”

With a slow nod, you close your eyes, take a very deep breath, hold it with him, then relax, pushing all the tension out of your body.

“How unfortunate that you’re forbidden from enjoying such beauty…”

“I- I think butterflies are pretty,” you say in an unsteady voice, “just not- when they’re so close.”

Izou chuckles and kisses your cheek then straightens up for a sip of tea.

“Would it be alright if they were sculpted?”

“Sculpted?”

“Yes. Their shape and color complimented your beauty wonderful. I would like to make some new accessories for you, though if you think it would bring you unease…”

The samurai is happy to see you smile again, a faint blush returning to your previously pallid complexion.

“Izou… You don’t have to,” you bashfully respond.

“I want to.”

“Then… I think… no, I know whatever you make will be perfect for me.”

It never fails to fill him with pride and joy when you show how deeply you trust him. He worked hard to earn that, every day, and the fact that you trusted him so deeply you were ready to entertain his insect-themed crafts was proof of how strong your bond was. Perhaps that would be the inspiration behind the jewelry he intends to make.

What a wonderful paradox, Izou thinks to himself while you both drink in silence, that such delicate creatures would symbolize something so unshakably strong…

@razzledazzleelderberry your beautiful man is too classy for shenanigans

please like and reblog if you enjoy my writing ~

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

A Sparrow at Sea 1/?

MDNI

Whitebeard pirates/reader (fem)

Summary: Turned into a bird as part of a slave-smuggling operation, you get your revenge - and then your revenge gets you. Panicked and alone, you crash land on a very large, very famous ship full of very large and quite infamous men.

I promised myself I wouldn't post another incomplete one-shot, but here we are! Dealing with a bit of burnout and could use the interaction, buddies. Aiming for maybe two more 'chapters.'

Enjoy!

Master List

The bastards turned you into a bird.

So, you set their fucking warehouse on fire.

You sat – perched – several rooftops away, watching the little flames you’d gathered work into the prepared kindling.

Satisfaction glowed warm in hollow bones.

It hadn’t been easy. You’d labored for hours, too angry to rest after escaping the Devil Fruit user’s sweaty hands as he tried to shake your shrunken body out of your clothes and into a cage. You’d pecked his hands bloody and taken off through a broken shutter.

The kidnappers’ second Devil Fruit user, a Zoan type, slammed into the wood behind you, the owl too big to fit through the same crack a sparrow could. He’d hooted in rage, and you went scrambling over rooftiles and windowsills, trying to understand how to grab things with your feet.

Adrenaline fed into growing anger, and your little heart pumped hard with outsized emotions. Hiding was easy when you were so small. Plenty of merchants threw covers over their market stalls at night, and every building had nooks and crannies you could hop inside. Away from the men, their fingers, and their talons.

Once the owl’s shadow stopped circling and the night lost its edge to the blue hour, you set about your revenge.

Flying was more or less intuitive (a few painful experiments aside). Figuring out what you could and couldn’t lift took longer. You’d hoped to wrap some coals to drop on your target, but they were too heavy and dangerous to manage without hands. You took to setting twigs and scraps alight in torches and open lanterns. The flames caught you more than once, but only your poor little feet. If you lost your feathers, you’d have new problems, and you’d rather struggle to stand than fail to fly. At least in your current shape.

Which you’d have to do something about.

At some point.

If it didn’t wear off.

Which was a level of horror you weren’t ready to face yet. You’d contemplate your future as you took a dust bath in the ashes.

What would’ve taken less than an hour in your human body took until daybreak as a sparrow.

You panted as you watched the fruit of your labor ignite like a second sun. Straw and twigs fed the blaze until it clawed past the shingles and into the beams, growing fast and hungry down the walls and into the great room below. You hoped their smuggled goods would go up in smoke. You hoped the man who’d taken your hand to seal a deal for a few pounds of fenced sea stone would lose skin, limb, or life.

Damned slave trader.

It had all been too well-rehearsed to be their first attempt, and the cage was old and well-used. It wasn’t a bad plan, practically speaking. None of the Yonkos liked having people from their territories poached, even if they participated in the trade themselves, and sneaking a whole person out of a busy port was no easy task, let alone a profitable number of whole persons. A cage full of sparrows, though? No one would look twice.

If you were bigger, you’d lock the doors so they could all burn together.

But maybe they would anyway. The first shouts didn’t rise until the roof had collapsed, and you imagined a room full of sleeping men slapped awake with fire and falling beams.

The flesh on your feet cracked as you adjusted your grip on the roof’s edge, but you took the pain with pride. You’d done this. They thought they stripped your power from you with your sturdy bones and your opposable thumbs, but they were all wrong. Dead wrong. Fuckers.

The smoke hung low over the town, blending with the dense fog rolling in from the sea. Leaping flames illuminated the haze and cast writhing shadows on the streets below. Just as the neighborhood woke to the smell and distant screams, and the first calls for water and aid rang out, a winged shadow launched through the hole that used to be the warehouse’s roof.

The owl looked more like a demon from your diminished perspective, and you hunkered low on instinct, hoping he wouldn’t see you – the one animal lacking common sense – lingering within blocks of the mounting inferno.

But sharp, predatory eyes locked on you, and he dove with a shriek that promised murder. He could disembowel you in the public square and no one would even know they were witness to your execution. The owl was built to stab, and rip, and tear flimsy little things like you apart.

His wings spread wide, and his talons flashed gold as they came to bear.

You flung yourself from the roof, flapping wildly to catch the air as you fell away from danger. The blades on the monster’s feet scratched into the wood where you’d just been, and your heart stuttered.

He wanted you dead as much as you wanted him to burn.

As the owl gathered himself, peering into the dark for his target, you managed to find your balance in the air. Fluttering low and fast, you took the first corner. Your hunter’s wings were silent, and you only knew how close he came when an unnatural breeze cur over your back.

Too close.

No matter how small and quick you were, so long as he kept you in sight, he was always a breath from drawing blood. He knew his shape, and you did not. Sooner or later, you’d run out of corners, out of obstacles to keep between you.

And then you would die.

As a fucking bird.

Overhead, the fog thickened as you neared the water. The smoke wasn’t so heavy, but plenty of people lost themselves in weather like this. Maybe you could lose an owl.

You pushed into the damp, white cloud, serpentining to keep the owl from diving at you again. A discontented rumble of a hoot broke the silence in your wake, and you raced on, chasing the sound of waves and the densest cover.

As the sun rose, the water vapor glowed, catching and holding the light. You hoped it blinded the predator. At least convince him the chase wasn’t worth it.

But you couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t see him. So, you kept on flying like you were being hunted. Just because you were clever didn’t mean you were the smartest one in the room. You’d learned that lesson the hard way many times over, and it rubbed itself into your fresh wounds all over again with the salty sea spray.

There was always someone quicker, someone sharper, someone stronger. Someone with better connections and greater wealth. And no one had the decency to lay their traps in the open with a warning signs for casual passersby.

Over confidence wouldn’t get you this time. You’d fly forever if meant escaping the Zoan-user.

It felt like you did fly forever.

The sun rose, the fog thinned, and you started circling to look above, below, and behind for the shadow of another, larger bird. Besides a few seagulls, though, nothing appeared. Which was a relief until the fog cleared away and nothing but ocean spread below you.

You nearly fell out of the sky when you realized you couldn’t see land. Not even a lump on the horizon. You’d thought the fog would be gone by midmorning, but you realized the sun was too high and too low at the same time, like it had already crested and started heading down.

You were lost.

Worse, you were tired.

Sparrows weren’t seabirds. They couldn’t soar through empty skies to far-flung islands without many rest points in between.

You had flown far. And you saw no rest points. Not even a rock or a breaching chunk of coral.

Panic drained into a reserve, fueling a mindless fugue state that pulled you away from your growing distress. Your wings burned, but you shouldn’t have them at all. Dangerous thoughts. If felt like you were still carrying fire in your fragile claws, and you shuddered as your legs tucked too close to your body. Wrong feet, wrong legs, wrong body.

You shouldn’t be a bird at all, and you were going to die as one because you picked a fight with many someones much bigger than you without any kind of escape plan or preparation. An idiot in feathers with a small brain and burnt toes.

How much longer could you stay aloft? If not for the strong wind, you thought you might’ve already dropped low enough for the higher waves to catch your wings. And then you’d be doomed. Death by drowning or a hungry shark. Maybe even pecked to death by the gulls loitering in your periphery.

What a way to go.

And then you saw a shape in the distance. Tall and broad. That was all you could make out. It could’ve been a sea king for all you cared, so long as it stayed above the surface and let you rest.

The thing had a whale’s face, but not a whale’s shape. A whale island? No. No, you realized those square clouds were sails. Those holes were for cannons, not little caves in a cliff. Even as a human, you distantly understood, the ship – because it could only be that – was enormous. The whale at the head made sense. Good gods, it might as well be a floating island. Or an island whale.

People milled around the deck, so you fluttered up, calling on the last of your energy and determination to find a safe roost. The top of an empty crow’s nest was just what you needed. You crashed into the platform, rolling into the mast, where you sprawled – legs up – under the crushing weight of survival.

[dawnsarchive]

Heat-Seeking (Izou x Reader)

One Piece | Izou | 3.4k | Masterlist

On a ship as busy as the Moby Dick, the night watch offered a peace you would give up for very little. You loved the cool night air against your skin, adored the quiet offered in the later hours, and often spent the time alone with your thoughts.

The brisk winds brought with them a different consequence and you wandered into breakfast each morning with aching hands and fingers stiff. The warmth below deck always hit your skin in waves after hours spent above in the sea air but it never seemed to reach your hands quickly enough.

You drifted to your usual spot next to Izou, holding your hands in front of you and blowing gently over your skin. “Night watch is starting to get really cold now that we’re approaching a winter island,” you complained. “My hands have turned to ice. I think they’ll actually snap off if I move too fast.”

Izou hummed over his cup of tea, steam still drifting off the drink. “It’s hardly that cold,” he said.

You gave him a slightly unimpressed look. Then you reached out and rested your hand over one of his own. He flinched on instinct, the liquid in his cup swishing dangerously close to the rim.

“See,” you said, taking your hand back. “It’s freezing out there.”

“Do you not take a blanket or a coat with you?” he asked. “Gloves, at least?”

You smiled and rubbed your palms together. “Don’t have any good enough for the sea air. And dragging a blanket around is far too much work. But don’t worry too much about me, I’ll probably survive.”

He shook his head. “You have questionable survival skills.”

“At times,” you acknowledged.

The next morning when you joined him at breakfast, a second cup of tea waited by your usual seat. You smiled warmly at him as you picked it up, the heat seeping into your sore joints. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head toward you. “It’ll be the most effective way to keep you warm in the morning. Maybe your hands will defrost.”

You teasingly wrapped your hand around his wrist and he startled at the temperature. “We can hope.”

His eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers circled his wrist before he took another measured sip of tea as though nothing had happened at all.

It turned into a fun little game; resting your hand against him every time you returned from your night watches. He stopped startling eventually but he still gave you a look that made you laugh every time. He even started shifting his sleeve out of the way before you reached for him, subtle enough that you almost thought you imagined it the first few times.

He wasn’t the warmest person on the ship by any means. There were plenty amongst the crew who carried enough heat to chase the cold from your hands instantly. Somehow though, resting your fingers against Izou’s wrist or forearm always worked better than the tea he slid toward you every morning.

“I’m starting to believe you crawl down the side of the ship and sit with your hands in the ocean for hours,” he muttered.

“I think it’s the wind,” you said. “It’s been a little chilled.”

“I’m going to ask Marco to remove you from the night watch at this rate,” he warned. “Although you may enjoy the air, I think you’ll be far less useful once frostbite finishes claiming your limbs.”

“If I lose an arm, I’m sure he could reattach it.”

Izou gave you a firm look. “That’s decidedly not how his powers work.”

“Maybe he couldn’t with his phoenix fire but I trust that he’s a good enough doctor.”

Izou shook his head slightly. You snuck a hand under his sleeve, pressing your fingers into the warmth of his forearm. If nothing else, he was rapidly learning how to function at breakfast with one hand.

Days passed with the same routine until one morning when you wandered into breakfast and found a fine black box sitting neatly beside your cup. Dark silk ribbon had been wrapped carefully around it, the knot pristine enough that you immediately looked toward Izou.

He nudged it toward you once you approached. “For you. Seeing as you insist upon inflicting pain onto yourself.”

You frowned but lightly pulled on the ribbon. Inside the box lay a pair of perfect leather gloves, stitched in a fine, strong thread. Their rich colour was mesmerising. They were the most beautiful gloves you’d seen and you had no idea where Izou could have even gotten them from.

“These are beautiful,” you breathed out, gently lifting them from the box. “Where did you get them?”

“I commissioned them for collection prior to our arrival on the last island,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “They should fit.”

And they did. They were warm and elegant but flexible too. You ran your fingers over the back of one after you put it on, rolling your hand around to test them.

“How did you get it so perfect?” you asked.

He inclined his head, smile faint but proud. “They’ll take some time to break in but at least now you should keep all your fingers.”

You placed them carefully back into the box. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

“Try not to ascribe too much selflessness to it. This is an act of self-preservation.”

You laughed and reached for your cup of tea. The warm ceramic was a welcome balm against your still chilled fingers. It was impressive that Izou always managed to have it at perfect drinking temperature by the time you arrived.

You were halfway through breakfast when Izou glanced over at you. “Are you not cold this morning?”

“Hm?”

He nodded to your hands. “You only received the gloves now. I imagined my suffering might still last until tomorrow.”

You held your tea up for him to see. “As a thank you, I’ll give you a break from your torment,” you teased. “I did see something pretty interesting last night though. A young sea king or… at least a very small one.”

For a second, something strange flickered across Izou’s face; a slight displeasure that was smoothed away back into perfect composure immediately. He adjusted the sleeves of his kimono and nodded to you to continue.

“That’s quite unusual.”

You nodded, not quite sure what to make of his momentary unhappiness. When it didn’t come back, you brushed it off as nothing. If it truly bothered him, you assumed he would mention it eventually.

The gloves quickly became part of your usual wardrobe. The leather softened more with every wear until they fit like they had been made with your hands in mind from the start. Even on warmer days, when the sea breeze carried no bite at all, you still found yourself reaching for them before leaving your room. They were fashionable enough to suit just about any outfit and they provided a nice talking point.

Mainly because of you. You wouldn’t stop talking about them.

Everybody on the ship had heard at least one explanation about how amazing the gloves were and how much you appreciated Izou for the gift. By the third day, several members of the crew had started finishing your sentences for you whenever the subject came up.

It got to the point where, when you joined Izou and Thatch for dinner, the chef pointed a spoon at you the second you approached the table. “I don’t want to hear about the gloves. I know they’re nice but I’ve heard it enough.”

“I haven’t even said hello yet,” you protested softly.

“Because you were about to start talking about the gloves.”

Haruta snorted loudly from further down the table. “He’s right. You’ve talked about nothing else for days.”

Izou looked toward the gloves with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Not pleased but not exactly annoyed either.

Thatch noticed immediately. “Oh, now that’s interesting,” he muttered into his drink.

“Be quiet,” Izou said without missing a beat. “It’s warm enough that you don’t need gloves right now.”

“I know but they’re so soft and lovely,” you said, holding them up for him to see. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

“No, I just didn’t anticipate such enthusiasm for them.”

You smiled fondly. “They’re such a lovely gift. I appreciate them a lot.”

“They’re only gloves.”

You frowned, not having expected the sharp dismissal. You were far from the only person giving him strange looks; even Thatch had paused in his conversation with Jozu, his brows furrowed in Izou’s general direction.

“Only gloves?” he repeated.

Izou ignored him.

“But they’re so thoughtful and well-crafted,” you protested.

“You might be overstating their features. You praise them so much you would think I forged them from gold.”

“They’re the nicest thing I own.”

“I think that says a great deal more about the quality of your wardrobe then,” he said. “I should consider getting you some more articles then.”

You smiled, tension somewhat broken by his dry comment. You nudged him with your elbow gently. “Izou, they’re my favourite because you gave them to me. I would love them no matter what they were.”

Something softened briefly in Izou’s expression before he lowered his gaze toward his drink again. He hummed in acknowledgement but said nothing else about the subject.

Two days later, the gloves disappeared.

There was no way you could have lost them. You’d worn them for the first portion of the night before you went to bed. And whenever you did that, you’d always take them off and delicately put them into their box which sat atop your dresser.

But when you went to get them before breakfast, they were gone.

The box still sat where you had left it but when you pulled it open, the folded paper inside rustled empty beneath your hands. No leather. No gloves. A strange cold panic settled in your stomach almost instantly and within minutes you were dragging through your room hard enough to rattle furniture against the walls.

You went through every other person’s hammock or bunk in case it had been moved. You stuck your head into the dustiest parts of the room and got rewarded with nothing but several sneezing fits.

Your next stop was the crow’s nest where you almost gave Haruta, who was half-asleep on his watch, a heart attack. He insisted there were no gloves up there and you almost landed on Fossa when you clambered back down.

You moved across the deck with enough frantic speed that crew members had to step aside before you collided with them. Boots hammered against the wood as you cut between groups, your eyes catching desperately on every dark corner and unattended surface.

Vista caught you as you rushed out of the dining room, already planning on making your way toward the galley. You were never in there but maybe somebody else had seen it.

“Missing something?”

“My gloves,” you said. “You know, the leather ones that – ”

“I know your gloves,” he interrupted. “The ones that Izou had specifically made for you. The same pair he spent weeks planning for.”

“I mean, I don’t know about him spending weeks on them…”

“I do,” Vista reassured. “Thatch wouldn’t stop complaining about Izou hovering around the galley while organising it.”

That made it so much worse… You rubbed your arms and gave him a desperate expression. He shook his head with a slight chuckle.

“Alright, let’s see if we can find them then. I remember you wearing them last night.”

“I was,” you said with a nod. “I remember taking them to my room but I’ve looked there twice now and found nothing.”

On Vista’s instruction, more than half of the fifth division found time between their daily duties to search the entire ship for your gloves. You helped where you could, buzzing about between the group as they checked every barrel and table.

Enough people climbed into the crow’s nest that Haruta eventually leaned over the railing with murderous intent in his eyes.

“There are no gloves up here!” he shouted across the deck.

“Check again!” somebody yelled back immediately.

“I will start kicking people off this ship!”

You winced when he did so, looking around to see if Izou was anywhere to be seen.

You weren’t sure you were ready to tell him yet.

“I know you’ve lost your gloves,” Marco said when you made your way to the infirmary before you even started explaining yourself. “I don’t understand why half the ship needs to come to a halt because of it though.”

“It’s only the fifth division,” you defended.

Marco gave you a flat look. “It’s not only the fifth,” he muttered. “I’ve caught about a third of my division looking around the medical bays. Fossa just checked my office for gloves.”

“Maybe they ended up there.”

“Why would they end up there?”

“They’re really important to me, Marco. If I’ve lost them, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Have you checked the rooms?”

“Twice. Just not the commander’s quarters aside from Vista’s.”

“Why would they be there?”

“They wouldn’t but I’m leaving nowhere unchecked. Speaking of…”

Marco sighed and still allowed you to go through both his office and personal quarters despite you never having been in either before. You were also needing to avoid Izou as best you could, ducking away when you spotted him on the storage deck.

You convinced some of the other commanders to let you look through their quarters too but eventually ended up pacing empty-handed next to Vista.

“I have an idea,” he said. “But I don’t know if you actually lost them.”

“Do you think somebody could have stolen them?”

He tapped a rhythm against the hilt of a blade, his gaze scanning over the deck. “I don’t think anybody would steal them but if they were truly lost, my men should have found it by now. Did Izou simply give them to you because your hands were cold?”

“That’s what he said,” you acknowledged quietly. “Though I think he was getting tired of freezing every morning. I have watch again tonight and I’m not used to this weather anymore.”

Vista hummed, clearly thinking. “I think I know where they might be. I’ll check and keep you updated.”

Unfortunately, whatever his plan, it didn’t result in your gloves returning before evening came along. The only reprieve you got was that Izou didn’t arrive at dinner and that both reassured and panicked you in equal measure. The guilt you had about him knowing that you’d lost his precious gift weighed heavily on you.

And your night watch started out even more miserable.

Marco offered to switch your schedule for the evening but you rejected it, planning to spend your free time searching over the deck. Again.

Instead, you ended up leaning uselessly against the railing, accomplishing very little beyond staring out across the dark ocean. The wind curled relentlessly around your fingers and knuckles, cold enough now that every flex of your hands felt tight and uncomfortable without the gloves.

It was far from the coldest temperature you’d sat through but it felt all the worse.

And you were kind of missing Izou too. You weren’t used to avoiding him.

You didn’t know how long you stood, watching the ocean pass instead of actually doing what was required of you, but your mourning was interrupted by a smooth voice.

“Are you plotting the best way to get frostbite again?”

You startled; turning to find Izou standing far closer than he should have been able to get without you noticing. You must have been completely lost in your thoughts to not notice his approach – as quiet as he moved, it was still with a steady enough pace that you normally recognised his approach.

The wind shifted strands of dark hair loose across his face, silk catching briefly in the moonlight as he waited for your answer. The lantern glow from further down the deck softened the sharpness of his expression but did little to hide the quiet attention in his eyes. You smiled, a shaky and uncertain thing.

“It’s a nice evening for it,” you answered.

You wrung your hands together, joints slightly stiff from the cold. Izou’s gaze dropped to them for a second before he met your eyes.

“You look cold.”

“I am,” you admitted, slipping them behind your back on instinct. “But nothing too bad… I… I lost the gloves. I’m so sorry Izou. I searched everywhere for them and they’re nowhere. They must have gone overboard because I checked every corner of the ship.”

“I know,” he said. “I noticed how many on the ship were looking for them today.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologised again. “I tried my hardest to keep them safe.”

“Don’t apologise. There’s nothing to be so upset over. They’re only gloves.”

You brought your hands back around to breathe on them, pressing your palms together. “I know but I appreciated how warm they kept me. And they saved your arms too.”

Izou sighed, stepping closer smoothly. “I hardly complained about it though I fear on a night like this, my sleeves may not provide you with enough warmth at all.”

“It’s really okay,” you said with a small laugh. “I’m not losing fingers yet.”

His gaze lingered on your hands for a moment too long and then he held out his hand. “I’m not certain we should take that chance. After all, you clearly have poor circulation.”

You almost laughed but rested your palm carefully against his. His hand was far warmer than the night air, heat sinking quickly into your stiff fingers. Before you could pull away again, Izou stepped closer and guided your hand toward his waist, settling it lightly against the overlapping silk of his kimono.

Your heart stuttered almost to a stop, breath catching.

“Unless I’ve misunderstood your interest?”

His words were softer now, not quite unsure but still testing. As though he was waiting on you for an answer you’d yet to give.

“No,” you said, a little too fast and a little too honest. “I mean… that’s… thank you.”

You hesitated for a second before moving your hand properly. Your fingertips dragged lightly over the cool silk first, testing, before slipping beneath the edge of the fabric. The warmth of his skin startled you almost as much as the quiet breath Izou drew in. You immediately tried to move back but he caught your wrist before you could do so.

“Sorry,” you said. “I know it’s cold.”

“That’s why we’re doing this in the first place,” he said. “You already reach under my clothing all the time to touch my arms. I’m surprised this embarrasses you.”

A nervous chuckle slipped out before you could stop it. “This is very different to that.”

“Is it?”

You unfurled your fingers, pressing your hand gratefully against his warm side. You could feel his breathing beneath your palm, the steady rise and fall of his very well-muscled chest moving softly. Your heart stuttered dangerously hard in your chest but you managed to get yourself to breathe.

Izou leaned closer until his forehead rested lightly against yours. The gesture was so careful it made your chest ache. At some point, his free hand had found your other one too, fingers threading slowly through yours despite the cold still clinging to your skin.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The ship creaked softly around you and somewhere higher above, the sails shifted against the wind. Izou’s fingers remained loosely threaded with yours, steady and warm.

“I made a mistake,” he admitted. “Two, if only one that I truly regret.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have given you those gloves,” he said. “I thought they would help you stay warm but failed to realise you would seek me out less in return.”

You smiled at that. “They were very nice gloves though. I liked them a lot.”

“I noticed that today. I’m considering returning them but I’ll only do so if you promise that you’ll continue to come to me when you’re cold.”

“Wait, you took them?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

You huffed, unable to find space in your heart for any emotion other than relief. “Izou, that’s terrible. I was worried sick.”

“And I’m sorry for that but I don’t regret this outcome. Do you?” You laughed and tilted your chin a little closer to him. “Not at all.”

Tags: @miwn8 ; @aceincase