Another blurb idea I will write for later, but it's been floating here and now you guys get to hear it! Ponyo is a great movie and I just have so many ideas from it.
Imagine Dragon married the ocean itself, an embodiment of freedom. And you just are so charmed by this man and have not one, but three sons with him. Ace, Sabo, and Luffy. Of course, not all of them are biological, but the minute Luffy swore them as brothers you heard and accepted them as your own anyway.
Let's take this even further with Luffy then deciding to introduce his brothers to his mother who swoops up from the ocean to hold Luffy with so much love and affection for their son. He melts and groans because the Devil Fruit makes him weak, but doesn't fight it because this is his parent.
Ace and Sabo are shocked, but accept the fact that the ocean is now their parent too.
Then imagine them older and bragging about how the ocean is always in their favor.
Ace telling the Whitebeards that they won't have to worry about rough weather ocean wise because his mom is the ocean. And you of course visit Whitebeard yourself to make him swear to protect your son.
Sabo, when he doesn't have his memories, still has the sense that the ocean adores him and that there is nothing to fear.
And Luffy brags every chance he gets. The Strawhats get annoyed every time and think he's lying until you decide to actually appear before the crew to coo over him one evening.
May I humbly request something for Sanji, Zoro, Buggy, Mihawk and Law (separately)
With an S/o who is trying to be a good contributing member of the crew. But has a chronic pain and numbness in their hands making it difficult to do, a lot of things like ship chores and fighting.
And s/o feels guilty for not being able to contribute/struggling to contribute as much as the others?
Hands That Matter
gn!reader
characters: sanji, zoro, buggy, mihawk, law
a/n: sorry for the wait! I tried to make them have all different but it was kinda hard to not repeat myself, but I still gave them different moods. also I hope I described the reader's feelings right (づ￣ 3￣)づ
word count: around 1.2k - 1.6k each
anime m.list || ao3 || ko-fi || requests list
── .✦ Sanji:
tags: established relationship, chronic pain, soft sanji, hurt/comfort, domestic moments, emotional talks, hand pain, caring sanji
Usopp and Luffy are yelling somewhere above deck. Nami is complaining about something being broken. Chopper laughs so hard you can hear it through the walls.
And you stand in the kitchen trying to hold a plate without dropping it.
Your fingers shake… again.
You tighten your grip, jaw clenching “Careful, love.”
A warm hand slides under yours before the plate slips. Sanji takes it easily.
You immediately pull your hand back “I had it.”
“Mhm.” He smiles softly “And I’m the Pirate King.”
You huff quietly.
He places the plate down and turns back to the stove. The kitchen smells warm. Garlic, butter, something sweet baking in the oven.
Usually the smell makes you happy.
Today it only makes your chest hurt.
“I can still help…” you mumble.
“You are helping.”
“I barely cut two carrots.”
“That’s still helping.”
You look down at your hands.
Your fingertips are numb again. That strange heavy feeling like your hands are asleep and aching at the same time.
You flex them and pain shoots through your wrists.
You hide it quickly but Sanji notices everything. His eyes flick toward you for one second.
“You should sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sweetheart…”
“I said I’m fine.”
Silence.
Only the sound of oil sizzling in the pan.
You hate that tone in your own voice… sharp and angry, but not at him, never at him, mostly at yourself.
Sanji says nothing after that. He just moves around the kitchen calmly, cigarette hanging from his lips while he cooks for the crew like always.
Perfect movements.
Your eyes stay on his hands… strong hands. Fast hands. Hands that work.
You swallow hard.
“I can wash the dishes at least.” you say.
“You washed them yesterday.”
“And dropped three.”
“You dropped one.”
“It still broke.”
“So?” He shrugs “Franky breaks half the ship every week.”
“That’s not the same…”
He glances at you again and you look away first.
You move toward the sink before he can stop you. The plates are already stacked there.
You can do easy.
You grab the sponge, but the moment you squeeze it, pain burns through your palm so suddenly your breath catches.
The sponge slips right out of your hand.
Splash.
Water everywhere.
“Ah—shit.”
You try to grab it quickly, but your fingers refuse to close properly. The plate beside it tilts dangerously.
Sanji catches it before it falls, of course he does.
And suddenly your eyes burn.
“I’m sorry…” you whisper.
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I can’t even do dishes right.” your voice cracks embarrassingly at the end.
You turn away fast.
Stupid.
You hate crying about this.
You hate the pity even more.
But Sanji doesn’t sound pitiful when he speaks… he sounds serious “Look at me.”
You don’t.
A chair scrapes softly against the floor.
Then he’s in front of you, looking at you carefully “Look at me, love.”
Slowly, you do.
His brows are slightly furrowed “You think I care about dishes?”
“No, but—”
“You think I want you here because you can scrub pans?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then tell me what you mean.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because the truth feels ugly.
Sanji waits patiently anyway.
Your throat tightens.
“I just…” you stare at the floor “Everyone does so much.”
“Hmm.”
“Luffy fights sea monsters like it’s nothing. Zoro trains until he bleeds. Nami handles navigation alone during storms. Usopp builds things. Franky fixes everything. Robin knows everything. Chopper is our doctor.”
You laugh weakly.
“And I can barely hold a knife some days.”
The kitchen goes quiet.
You expect him to answer immediately, but he actually doesn’t. He just moves closer and very gently, he takes your hands.
Even though you try to hide how stiff they are, his thumbs rub over your knuckles carefully.
“Does it hurt right now?” he asks softly.
You hesitate “…Yes.”
“Numb too?”
You nod.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday.”
“And you still tried to help me cook breakfast.”
You shrug helplessly “I wanted to do something useful.”
Something flashes across his face, not anger at you, but something sadder “Oh, sweetheart.”
The nickname almost breaks you.
You look away again.
“I know everyone says it’s okay,” you whisper “but it doesn’t feel okay.”
Sanji stays quiet for a second, then he suddenly pulls you gently against his chest.
One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rubs your back slowly.
“You listen to me now.” he says quietly.
His voice is low and firm in that rare way he gets when he means every word.
“You’re part of this crew.”
You grip his shirt weakly.
“You hear me?”
“…Yeah.”
“No. Really hear me.” He leans back enough to look at you “You think being useful is the reason we love you?”
Your eyes widen slightly “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You fall silent.
Sanji sighs softly “When Chopper gets sick, do we throw him overboard because he can’t work?”
“No.”
“When Zoro is half dead after a fight, do we tell him he’s lazy?”
“Of course not.”
“When Luffy can’t move after doing something stupid?”
“That happens every week.”
Sanji snorts quietly “Exactly.”
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you.
“There it is.” he murmurs.
Your face warms.
He brushes his thumb under your eye.
“You’re hurting,” he says simply “that’s not failure.”
“But I make things harder.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I can’t even help in fights.”
“And?” His brows pull together again “Do you think your only value is fighting?”
You hesitate “A little…”
“Absolutely not.” he says it immediately, strongly “You make this place softer.”
Your breath catches.
Sanji continues before you can answer.
“You stay with Chopper when he studies too late. You listen to Usopp’s stories even when they’re terrible lies.” he smiles faintly “You help Robin find books. You calm Luffy down sometimes, which is honestly a miracle.”
You blink rapidly.
“And me?” he says quietly “You help me too.”
“How?”
He gives you a look like the answer is obvious “You sit with me during late nights in the kitchen.”
Your chest aches.
“You taste every new recipe.”
“You cook those for everyone.”
“I still want your opinion.”
His fingers squeeze yours carefully “You remind me to rest.”
“You never rest.”
“Exactly. Someone has to tell me.”
Another tiny laugh escapes you.
Sanji smiles softly at the sound.
Then he lifts one of your hands carefully to his lips and kisses your knuckles, slowly, like your hands are something precious.
Not broken or useless.
“You do enough.” he whispers.
The words hit harder than you expect, because part of you still doesn’t believe them.
And maybe he sees that, because he suddenly tilts your chin upward gently.
“And even if you did nothing,” he says, “even if all you could do was sit here and breathe beside me, I would still want you here.”
Your eyes sting again immediately “Sanji…”
“I mean it.” his forehead rests against yours now “You don’t have to earn your place every single day.”
The tears finally spill over.
You hide your face against his chest with a frustrated sound.
“Ah, don’t cry…” he murmurs immediately, holding you tighter “Now I’ll cry too and the others will never let me live it down.”
You laugh weakly through tears.
“There you are.”
His hand rubs your back slowly.
After a while, your breathing finally calms.
“…I still hate it.” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“I hate needing help.”
“I know that too.”
“And I hate feeling weak.”
Sanji hums thoughtfully. Then he gently pulls back just enough to look at you “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re strong as hell.”
You immediately shake your head “No.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t even—”
“Love.” His voice softens again “You wake up hurting and still try every day.”
You go still.
“That sounds strong to me.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
Maybe because nobody ever says it like that.
Sanji smiles a little.
“Now.” He wipes under your eyes gently “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not the doctor.”
“Temporary doctor’s orders.”
You snort.
“You sit right there.” he says pointing toward the small chair near the kitchen window.
“And what are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“I should help.”
“You should rest.”
“But—”
He gives you a look… not angry, just stubborn. Very Sanji.
You sigh dramatically and sit down.
“Good.” He smiles again finally, softer now “That’s my sweetheart.”
You watch him move around the kitchen again.
Comfortable.
After a minute, he speaks without turning around “Can you do something for me though?”
Your shoulders tense immediately “What?”
“Tell me if the sauce needs more salt.”
You blink “That’s it?”
“That’s a very important job.”
A small smile pulls at your mouth.
Sanji glances over his shoulder and catches it immediately “There’s the smile I like.”
He brings over the spoon carefully.
You taste the sauce. Warm. Rich. A little spicy.
“It needs more pepper.”
Sanji gasps dramatically “Perfect. I trained you well.”
He bends over and leaves a soft kiss on your lips before moving back to the kitchen.
You laugh again, more real this time.
And somehow, sitting there while he cooks beside you, the guilt feels quieter.
Not gone maybe, but quieter.
Sanji notices that too as he smiles softly to himself before turning back to the stove.
“See?” he says gently, winking at you “Always helping the chef.”
Pain shoots through your fingers immediately. Your hands feel numb in some places, burning in others. You try to ignore it and keep sweeping.
“You missed a spot.”
You look up and see Nami pointing near the stairs with her pen.
“Oh—yeah. Thank you.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” You smile quickly “Just tired.”
She watches you for a second longer before walking away.
The second she leaves, you shake your hands behind your back.
It hurts.
Again…
Later, everyone eats lunch together.
Luffy is stealing meat from everyone’s plates.
Sanji is yelling “LUFFY! STOP TOUCHING THE FOOD!”
“I’m hungry!”
“You already ate three plates!”
“I’m still hungry!”
Basically the usual.
Across the table, Zoro drinks quietly.
You glance at him and he notices immediately.
He watches you with a questioning expression on his face and says “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That face means trouble.”
You laugh softly, making him smirk.
Then his eye move lower to your hands.
You pull them under the table immediately, which makes his expression change a little.
That evening, you find him training on deck. Weights. Swords. Sweat.
Normal Zoro things.
You stand nearby awkwardly “Can I train with you?”
He pauses “You trained yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And the day before.”
“I know.”
“And you could barely hold the practice sword after.”
You force a laugh “I’ll get better.”
He studies you carefully “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Big lie… but you hate saying no. You hate sitting around while everyone works.
Everyone has something.
Nami navigates.
Sanji cooks.
Usopp fixes things.
Chopper heals people.
Robin researches.
Franky builds.
Brook plays music.
Jinbe steers.
Zoro fights.
And you… you struggle to even hold a mop some days.
So you keep trying, even when your hands shake, even when your fingers go numb, and even when you wake up at night because pain crawls up your wrists.
You keep trying because if you stop, what are you useful for?
“Again.” Zoro blocks your attack easily.
Your wrists hurt already.
You tighten your grip at your best and then swing again.
He blocks again “You’re too tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that every five minutes.”
“I am fine.”
Your fingers suddenly lose strength and the sword slips.
You freeze.
Your hand tingles painfully.
Zoro looks down at the fallen sword, then at you.
You quickly bend down to grab it, but pain shoots through your wrist so hard you suck in a breath.
But he already heard that “You’re hurt.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“I said I’m fine!”
Your voice comes out sharper than you mean.
The deck goes quiet, even the wind feels still.
Zoro stares at you, then he sighs “Come sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit.”
You hate how weirdly gentle his voice sounds… it makes your chest hurt.
You sit down near the railing while he puts the practice swords away.
For a while, neither of you talks.
Then he sits beside you.
“You’ve been hiding it.”
You stare at the ocean “Hiding what?”
“The pain.”
You shrug “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to you.”
You laugh weakly “Not really.”
“You can barely hold things some days.”
Your throat tightens.
“I can still do stuff.”
“I know.”
“I just…” You swallow hard “I’m slower.”
Zoro says nothing.
“And everyone else does so much…” you continue quietly “I can’t even finish basic chores without messing up.”
“You don’t mess up.”
“I do…”
“You don’t.”
“I do.” you repeat, louder this time “I can’t scrub the deck long enough. I drop things. My hands stop working in fights. Sometimes they go numb for hours.” your voice shakes “I’m supposed to help the crew.”
“You do help.”
“How?”
The question comes out too fast and too honest.
You immediately regret it, but Zoro doesn’t get angry.
He leans back against the railing “You think helping only means fighting and chores?”
“I mean… yeah? In a pirate crew, yeah.”
“That’s stupid.”
You blink “That’s rude.”
“It’s true.”
You glare at him weakly.
He continues anyway “When Chopper patches us up after the smallest cut, is that useless?”
“No.”
“When Brook plays music or makes you all laugh after bad days?”
“No.”
“When Luffy drags us into trouble and somehow makes people free?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
You open your mouth and close it again.
Zoro looks toward the sea “You stay awake with people when they can’t sleep.”
You blink.
“You listen when someone’s upset.”
You stare at him.
“You remember small things.” he says “Like how Chopper likes compliments. Or how Usopp gets nervous before fights and what calms him down.”
Heat rises to your face and say “That’s not important.”
“It is.”
“It’s not enough.”
Zoro goes quiet for a moment, then suddenly snorts “You know? I don’t like using him as an example, but even the weird eyebrows man never uses his hands to fight.”
You stare at him “…Sanji?”
“Unfortunately.”
A small laugh escapes you.
Zoro points at your hands “There are other ways to fight.”
“I can’t exactly kick like him.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But—”
“Even I use my mouth for a sword.”
You blink again “That… sounds weird when you say it out loud.”
“It works, doesn’t it?”
You laugh despite yourself.
“There’s more than one way to help people. More than one way to fight.” He looks directly at you now “You keep trying to force yourself into something that hurts you.”
Your eyes sting suddenly “I just don’t want to be dead weight.”
His expression hardens immediately “You are not dead weight.”
The words come fast, strong and certain.
“You hear me?”
You look away quickly.
“You belong here.” he says quietly now “With us. With… me.”
Your chest aches painfully, in that overwhelming kind of way that isn't always bad.
“You noticed all that?” you ask softly.
“Obviously.”
“I thought I hid it well.”
“You hide it terribly.”
You groan “Great.”
“You flex your fingers every ten seconds.”
“…Oh.”
“And you make this face.”
“What face?”
“This one.” he copies your annoyed expression badly.
You stare at him “That looks nothing like me.”
“It does.”
“You look constipated.”
“Tch.”
Now, that makes you finally laugh… a real laugh this time.
Zoro watches you carefully afterward, like he’s checking if the sadness is still there.
And it is, but lighter now.
“You really think there are other ways?” you ask quietly.
“Yeah.”
“What if I still can’t do enough?”
“You don’t decide that alone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the crew already wants you here.”
Your eyes widen slightly.
“And I want you here…” he adds.
The softness in his voice nearly kills you but his red ears are so cute.
You stare at him for a long moment, then suddenly lean forward and kiss him.
Zoro makes a surprised sound against your lips.
Then one hand moves carefully to your waist, pulling you closer in a gentle push. Always gentler than people expect from him.
The kiss is warm and slow, feeling close and safe.
When you pull back, your face feels hot.
“That was a thank you.” you mumble.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“You can thank me again if you want.”
You snort loudly “There’s the idiot swordsman again.”
“And there’s the smiley you.”
You lean against his shoulder.
Finally, you don't feel guilty about all this.
── .✦ Buggy:
tags: established relationship, chronic pain, insecurity, comfort, subtle care, emotional hurt/comfort
The ship rocks hard under your feet as someone on deck is screaming again.
“WHO TOOK MY FUCKING CAPE?!”
You close your eyes “…There he is.”
One of the crew points quickly “Captain Buggy, Mohji used it to cover the cannon!”
“WHAT?!”
You hear stomping, loud crashing and then a man screaming in fear.
Then Buggy’s voice again “YOU USED MY CAPE FOR A CANNON?! ARE YOU INSANE?!”
You smile a little despite yourself, because your hands ache badly, today too.
The numbness started this morning before sunrise and it crawled from your fingertips to your wrists until even holding a spoon felt strange… like your hands belonged to someone else.
You flex your fingers slowly, pain shoots up your arm “…Ow.”
You hide the sound quickly.
You still have work.
Everyone on this ship works.
Even if Buggy acts dramatic and lazy sometimes, the crew still moves because people do their jobs.
You want to do yours too.
You grab the rope beside you and start tying down the supply crates before the weather gets worse.
Your fingers slip immediately “Damn it.”
You try again but the knot comes loose.
You try again and again and again.
Your jaw tightens “Come on…”
You can fight through pain, usually… but numbness is worse. It makes your hands stupid.
You try pulling harder.
A sharp sting suddenly burns through your palm and your fingers give out completely. The rope falls.
“Shit—”
“Why are you doing that?”
You jump.
Buggy stands behind you with his arms crossed.
“You’re gonna tie the crates like that?” he asks.
“I can do it.”
“Yeah? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fighting a rope and losing.”
“I said I can do it.”
Buggy narrows his eyes.
You hate that look… that careful one. The one that says he noticed something is off.
“I’m fine.” you add quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
“I am.”
“Sure.”
You glare “Why are you even here?”
“Because this is my ship.”
“You were screaming about your cape two seconds ago.”
“That’s different. That was important.”
You snort softly.
Buggy walks closer and grabs the rope from your hands and says “I’ve got it.”
“No, give it back.”
“Why?”
“Because I should help.”
“You are helping.”
“How?”
“You’re standing there looking pretty and keeping morale up.”
“That’s not real work.”
Buggy starts tying the knot quickly “Well, good thing I, the captain, didn’t ask.”
You cross your arms.
The ache in your hands pulses harder now from trying too much.
Buggy notices you rubbing your fingers, but he says nothing, and for you, that somehow feels worse.
Later, the crew gathers for lunch.
You sit beside Buggy while everyone argues over portions.
Cabaji points across the table “Captain, they’re taking extra meat again!”
“I CAN SEE THAT!”
“It was one piece!” someone shouts.
“THAT’S STILL THEFT!”
You try picking up your cup but your fingers twitch halfway there and the cup slips.
Buggy catches it before it falls, fast.
Nobody else even notices.
“Careful,” he says loudly “you break my cups, you buy new ones.”
You stare at him “…Thanks.”
“Tch. Don’t get emotional.”
He pushes the cup back toward you more carefully this time.
Under the table, his foot bumps yours once, soft, as if he’s checking you’re okay.
You look down quickly before anyone sees your face.
That night, the pain gets worse.
Rain hits the ship hard. Wind screams outside your room.
You sit on the edge of the bed trying to wrap your wrists tighter. Maybe if you press hard enough, your hands will listen again.
You hiss quietly.
The door opens.
Buggy walks in carrying a plate “What are you doing sitting in the dark like some tragic widow?”
You blink “What?”
“I brought food.”
“I can see that.”
“Well don’t sound too grateful.”
He puts the plate beside you.
You stare at it “…I wasn’t hungry.”
“Yeah, because pain does that.” he shrugs “Eat anyway.”
You freeze.
Buggy starts taking off his coat like he said nothing strange.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
Silence fills the room for a moment except for the storm outside.
You look down at your hands again “I hate this.”
Buggy pauses “Hate what?”
“This.” You flex your fingers weakly “I can’t do basic things some days.”
“So?”
“So I’m supposed to help!”
“You do help.”
“How? I can barely hold a cup lately.”
Buggy scoffs loudly “Please. Half my crew can barely hold conversations.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stand suddenly and start pacing “I can’t fight right. I drop things. I mess up knots. I slow people down—”
He looks at you. No jokes. No yelling. Just sharp eyes watching carefully.
“You think I keep you around because you can fight?” he asks.
“I mean… it helped.”
“That’s stupid.”
You blink.
Buggy points at you dramatically “You think I, the great Captain Buggy, only values people for strength? Look at my crew! Half these idiots eat soap if nobody stops them!”
A crash sounds outside.
Someone yells, “IT WASN’T SOAP!”
Buggy shouts toward the door, “YES IT WAS!”
Then he looks back at you again as his voice lowers “You’re with me because I want you here.”
Your chest hurts suddenly, but different from before.
“You don’t get it,” you whisper “I feel useless.”
Buggy groans loudly like the conversation annoys him.
Then he walks over to say “You know what I think is useless?”
“What?”
“You sitting here hurting yourself because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”
You look away “I don’t want people treating me differently.”
“Good. Because they won’t.” Buggy crouches in front of you “But I will.”
You blink again “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says slowly, “and please don’t make me repeat it, that I’ll help before you ask. And I’ll make it look natural so nobody bothers you about it.”
You stare “…You already do that.”
Buggy freezes for half a second, then immediately points at you “HAH! So you noticed!”
“You’re not subtle.”
“I’m extremely subtle.”
“You literally steal things from my hands when they hurt.”
“That’s called romance.”
Despite everything, you laugh, small and tired, but real.
Buggy watches your face carefully after the sound leaves you, like he missed hearing it.
“Tch.” he mutters “There it is.”
“What?”
“That annoying laugh.”
“You like my laugh.”
“I never said that.”
“You smile every time.”
“I do NOT.”
“You’re smiling right now.”
“I’m just naturally charming.”
You laugh again.
Buggy’s shoulders loosen slightly, then he grabs your wrists carefully.
“You’re warm.” he says.
“My hands always are when they hurt.”
“…Does it feel bad now?”
“A little.”
He rubs circles into your wrists with his thumbs, awkwardly. Like he refuses to admit he learned how to help properly.
“You don’t have to fix everything alone.” he mutters.
You look at him quietly and admit “For someone who screams all day, you say really nice things sometimes.”
“Don’t spread that around.”
“Your reputation?”
“Exactly.”
You smile softly.
Buggy notices immediately and squints at you suspiciously “What?”
“You’re being cute.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.”
The storm outside gets louder, but inside the room, it feels strangely calm.
Buggy keeps rubbing your wrists.
You finally whisper, “I’m scared sometimes.”
He goes still “Of what?”
“That one day I won’t be able to do anything useful.”
Buggy clicks his tongue “Then you can sit next to me and insult people professionally.”
“That’s your job.”
“I can share… with you.”
You smile weakly.
“But really,” you say, quieter now, “what if I become a burden?”
Buggy’s expression changes immediately, sharp and obviously offended “Don’t say that.”
You blink at the sudden tone.
“I mean it.” he says “Don’t call yourself that.”
“…Sorry.”
“Tch.”
He stands up fast and pulls you with him.
Before you can react, his arms wrap around you tightly, not graceful and not elegant at all, just very Buggy style.
“You’re an idiot sometimes.” he mutters against your hair.
“You say that lovingly.”
“I say it truthfully.”
You relax slowly against him.
His chin rests on your head.
Outside, thunder cracks loudly.
Buggy squeezes you once more and then he pulls back enough to look at your face “You done being dramatic now?”
“You’re literally hugging me.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You snort softly.
His eyes flick down to your mouth for one quick second, then away immediately.
“…What?” you ask.
“Nothing.,,”
“You made a face.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Buggy groans like this is exhausting, then suddenly grabs your jaw dramatically and say “Fine! Since you clearly require attention—”
He kisses you, fast at first, almost clumsy. Then softer when you lean closer.
His gloves brush your cheeks carefully.
You melt a little against him.
Buggy huffs quietly into the kiss.
When he pulls away, his face is slightly red under the makeup.
“You better not get all emotional about that now.” he says immediately.
“Too late.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
You grin.
Buggy rolls his eyes dramatically, but he kisses your forehead anyway before pulling you back against his chest.
It doesn't fall far, it falls onto the wooden table with a dull clack and your shoulders tense instantly.
You stare at your numb hand… again.
The feeling comes and goes every day. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes your fingers feel heavy like stone. Sometimes you cannot even tell if you're holding something until it drops.
Today is one of the bad days.
You flex your hand slowly “Damn it…”
Across the kitchen, Dracule Mihawk looks up from the book in his hand.
His eyes move from your face to the knife “You are pushing yourself again.”
“I’m fine.”
“You dropped it three times.”
You hate that he notices everything.
You grab the knife again before he can stand up “I said I’m fine.”
Mihawk closes his book with one quiet motion.
The sound alone makes you nervous.
Not because he's angry, Mihawk rarely raises his voice and that almost makes it worse somehow. His silence always sees too much.
He walks toward you slowly “Give me the knife.”
“I can still cut vegetables.”
“You can barely hold the handle.”
Your jaw tightens “I’m trying to help.”
“And I didn’t say otherwise.”
“But you’re doing everything lately.”
“That’s incorrect.”
“You know what I mean.”
Mihawk studies your face for a long moment, in a calm and sharp way “You're in pain today.”
You look away first “…It’s not worse than normal.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The numbness crawls higher into your wrist. You hate it and so you hate your own body. Hate the stupid weakness in your fingers. You used to fight beside him. Not at his level, obviously, nobody is at his level, but enough to stand proudly beside him.
Now even holding a teacup too long hurts.
You laugh quietly, bitterly “Some good partner I am.”
Mihawk’s expression changes slightly but enough that most people would miss it… you don’t.
“You think your worth depends on what you can carry with your hands?”
“It should depend on something.”
“It does.”
“Like what?”
“You're here.”
You blink “That’s not enough.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Mihawk…”
“You speak as though I chose you for labor.”
His voice stays even, deep and calm.
“But I can’t fight properly anymore.”
“You still can.”
“Not like before.”
“No,” he agrees immediately “not like before.”
The honesty hurts more than pity would.
You pull your hand back against your chest “See?”
Mihawk sighs softly through his nose.
“You continue to measure yourself against impossible standards.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
That actually earns the faintest look of amusement.
“Yes. Perhaps.”
You lean against the counter, exhausted already.
“I just…” You swallow hard “I hate needing help.”
“You have needed help since the day we met.”
The memory flashes immediately. You trying to hide shaking hands while wrapping a wound. Mihawk silently taking the bandages from you without a word. The first time he held a cup near your lips because your fingers stopped cooperating halfway through dinner.
He always knew. Always.
And somehow that makes the guilt worse.
“I thought maybe if I worked harder…” you mumble.
“To accomplish what?”
“To stop being a burden.”
Silence.
You shouldn't have said that.
Mihawk steps closer.
His voice lowers “Never say that about yourself again.”
The words are quiet, but firm enough to cut stone.
You stare at him.
“You think caring for you is a burden?”
“I mean—”
“You think I am forced into it?”
“No…”
“Then don't insult my choices.”
You look down quickly “…Sorry.”
Another silence.
Then you feel leather gloves brush lightly against your wrist.
Mihawk lifts your hand carefully, like he already knows exactly where it hurts.
“Where is the numbness?”
“Mostly fingers. Wrist too.”
“And pain?”
“Everywhere.”
“Hm.”
You almost laugh tiredly “Very helpful answer, I know.”
“It's accurate.”
His thumb presses lightly against your palm. Testing.
You flinch and his eyes narrow immediately and he asks “That bad?”
“It’ll pass.”
“You say that often.”
Because it usually does… sometimes.
You watch him remove his gloves one finger at a time before setting them aside.
Then he reaches for the kettle.
“I can still make tea myself.”
“I'm aware.”
“Then why are you—”
“Sit down.”
“…You sound like a doctor.”
“You would ignore one of those as well.”
You mutter something under your breath.
“I heard that.”
“I know.”
You finally sit at the table while Mihawk moves around the kitchen with smooth, easy motions. Precise and controlled like always.
He never rushes.
“You don’t get annoyed?” you ask quietly.
“At what?”
“At me struggling all the time.”
“No.”
“But doesn’t it get tiring?”
Mihawk pours hot water into a cup “Yes.”
Your chest sinks immediately.
Then he continues calmly “Pain is tiring. Watching someone you care for hurt is tiring. That doesn't mean I resent you.”
You stare at the table “I can’t even hold my sword properly some days.”
“You're grieving.”
The words hit harder than expected “What?”
“You speak as though you lost nothing.”
Mihawk sets the cup in front of you carefully.
“But you did.”
You look up slowly.
“You lost ease. Strength. Freedom. Certainty in your own body.” His gaze stays on you “Yet you expect yourself to feel nothing about it.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
Nobody says things like that to you.
Most people tell you to stay positive, to try harder or to be grateful it isn't worse.
Mihawk never lies to make things easier, and somehow that comforts you more.
“I’m tired…” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“I hate feeling useless.”
“You aren't useless.”
“I can’t even help around the castle without messing up.”
“You help me every day.”
“How?”
“You listen.”
You blink.
“You stay.”
Another answer comes before you can speak.
“You make this place feel inhabited instead of empty.”
Your face warms immediately “Mihawk…”
“And,” he says calmly, “your presence discourages idiots from interrupting my evenings.”
You laugh despite yourself “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The romantic talk.”
A faint smirk touches his mouth “Don’t become spoiled now.”
You wrap your hands carefully around the warm cup. Heat helps sometimes.
MMihawk watches your grip for a moment, then he asks“Have you practiced the stretches I showed you?”
“…Sometimes.”
“You forgot.”
“Maybe.”
“Hm.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am.”
You groan softly “I knew you were going to say that.”
“You injure yourself further by ignoring limits.”
“I’m trying not to have limits.”
“That's foolish.”
You glare at him weakly “You’re supposed to encourage me.”
“I am encouraging you… to use your brain.”
You snort into your tea.
The room grows quieter after that, but a comfortable quiet. Rain taps lightly against the castle windows.
Mihawk sits across from you again with his wine.
You watch him for a while.
“How are you so patient with me?”
“I’m not patient.”
“You are with me.”
“That’s different.”
The answer comes too fast to be accidental.
Something soft pulls painfully in your chest.
You look at your hands again “They’re ugly lately.”
Mihawk immediately looks irritated “Your hands.”
“The swelling’s worse.”
“They’re hands.”
“You know what I mean.”
“They’re yours.”
He says it like that settles everything and maybe to him, it does.
You laugh quietly again “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you remain here.”
“Unfortunately.”
“How tragic.”
You smile into your tea.
Then the numbness suddenly spikes sharply through your fingers.
You hiss softly.
Mihawk is beside you immediately and says “Show me.”
“It’s fine.”
“Show me.”
You hold out your hand reluctantly.
He takes it carefully between both of his larger hands.
His thumbs move slowly across your knuckles, with a gentle pressure.
“You should rest.”
“I rested yesterday.”
“You rested poorly yesterday.”
“…You notice too much.”
“Yes.”
His fingers continue massaging your hand slowly and it kinda helps, but not enough to remove the pain completely. Nothing ever does. But at least it’s enough to loosen the tightness in your chest.
“You know,” you mumble, “most people would leave.”
Mihawk looks genuinely unimpressed “I’m not most people.”
“I know.”
“Then stop speaking as though I’m temporary.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
That’s the problem with him. Mihawk doesn’t speak gently often, or at least not so obvious, but when he does, every word lands directly inside your ribs.
You look at him quietly. At the sharp golden eyes, at his calm face… at the man feared across entire seas sitting here massaging your aching hands without complaint.
“You really don’t mind?”
“No.”
“Even when I can’t do things?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I get frustrated?”
“I expect it.”
“Even when I’m difficult?”
One eyebrow lifts slightly “You’re frequently difficult.”
You gasp softly in fake offense.
“But yes.”
You shake your head with a tiny laugh.
“You’re terrible at comfort.”
“And yet you’re calmer now.”
“…Damn it.”
That tiny almost-smile appears again.
Victory.
You stare at him for another quiet moment before speaking softly.
“Thank you.”
Mihawk pauses, then he nods once “You don’t need to thank me for loving you.”
Your breath catches immediately, because he just said it so simply, like it’s a fact. No embarrassment and no hesitation, and that makes it feel even more real.
You stand slowly from the chair.
Mihawk watches you carefully in case your hands fail again.
But instead, you step closer until you are standing between his knees.
His gaze lifts toward you “What are you doing?”
“You said something nice.”
“A rare mistake.”
“So I’m rewarding you.”
“Hm.”
You place your hands lightly against his chest and he just lets you.
Then you lean down and kiss him softly and slowly.
Mihawk goes still for half a second before one hand settles against your waist.
His thumb brushes once against your side while he kisses you back with quiet restraint, controlled like everything else about him… but warm… always warmer than people expect.
When you pull back, he looks at you silently for a moment.
Then he says “You’re smiling.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth quickly this time and tell him “That’s annoying.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, eyes softer now, “you continue to stay.”
Not enough to stop functioning completely and not enough to count as an emergency.
Just enough to make every small thing irritating and exhausting and humiliating if you think about it too long.
Today, unfortunately, you keep thinking about it.
You stand in the kitchen of the Polar Tang staring at the container in your hands, jaw tight as you try twisting the lid open again.
Nothing.
Your fingers slip as pain sparks through your wrist.
You grit your teeth and try again anyway, but the lid doesn’t move.
God, this is stupid.
Behind you, the crew is loud as usual… Shachi laughing too hard at his own joke, Penguin arguing back, Bepo trying unsuccessfully to calm them down before Law inevitably tells everyone to shut up.
Normal.
Everything feels normal except for you.
You finally force the lid open using the edge of the counter, but the motion sends a sharp ache through your palm that makes you hiss quietly.
And for some reason, the fact that something this easy has to become a whole ordeal every single time, makes your chest feel tight suddenly.
You set the container down harder than intended and stare at your hands.
The numbness comes in waves today.
Fingertips tingling, grip weakening without warning, joints stiff and sore like your body is punishing you for existing in it.
You hate it and you hate that everyone else can move without thinking about it.
You hate that you have to calculate every little task.
You hate needing help.
Most of all, you hate that you’re used to it now.
“You’re glaring at the counter.”
Law’s voice makes you jump slightly.
You look over your shoulder.
He stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
“…I’m fine.” you say automatically.
“Hm.”
That hum means liar.
He watches you for another second before his eyes drop to your hands.
Your fingers curl instinctively.
Law notices that too, of course “You’re hurting.”
It isn’t a question.
You look away “It’s manageable.”
“That bad, then.”
“I said manageable.”
“And I said that’s bad.”
His voice stays calm, flat, irritatingly perceptive.
You exhale sharply through your nose and lean back against the counter “I’m just tired today.”
Law walks into the kitchen quietly, stopping in front of you “Tired physically or mentally?”
You laugh once without humor “Guess.”
His gaze stays on you long enough that your throat starts tightening.
You hate that he can read you this easily and you hate that part of you is relieved by it too.
“I can’t do anything right today.” you mutter finally.
“That’s not true.”
“I almost lost grip on my weapon yesterday.”
“You still hit your target.”
“Ikkaku had to finish maintenance for me.”
“Because your hands were locking up.”
“I can’t even open containers normally half the time…”
“So?”
The word catches you off guard.
You blink at him.
Law’s expression barely changes, but there’s something firmer in his tone now.
“So,” he repeats, “you adapt. Or someone helps you. That’s not a moral failure.”
“It feels like one.”
Silence settles heavily between you while the submarine hums around you softly.
You stare at your hands again.
“I just feel useless sometimes…” you admit quietly “everyone else contributes so much more than me.”
Law’s eyes narrow slightly “You think your value to this crew depends entirely on physical ability?”
“No, but—”
“No,” he interrupts flatly “you don’t get to ‘but’ your way out of this one.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitches weakly.
Law steps closer.
“You help Bepo study navigation routes because he gets overwhelmed reading maps.” he says “You reorganized the medical storage because none of these idiots know how to put things back correctly. You stay up repairing clothes and equipment even when your hands hurt.”
“That’s small stuff.”
“It still matters.”
You swallow hard “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
Law goes quiet, then he sighs softly through his nose and reaches for your hands “Give me these.”
You let him take them without protest.
His fingers are warm around yours, steady and careful as he turns your hands over in his grip. He presses gently along your palms and wrists, thumbs working against the sore muscles like he already knows exactly where it hurts most.
Because he does know… he always does.
“You’ve been overusing them.” he mutters.
“I know.”
“You compensate when they start going numb.” His thumbs press into the base of your palm, easing some of the ache immediately “That strains everything else.”
You watch his face while he works, focused and quiet. Slightly annoyed in the way he always gets when he cares too much about something.
“You notice everything.” you mumble.
“I’m a doctor and captain.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Hm.”
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
Your chest aches but not in a bad way.
You suddenly feel exhausted all over again.
“I hate this…” you whisper.
Law’s hands still for half a second “I know.”
The simple honesty in it almost breaks you.
No forced positivity and no pretending it’s easy. Just understanding.
Your eyes sting embarrassingly fast.
Law notices immediately, because of course he does.
“You’re thinking too much again.” he says quietly.
“I can’t help it.”
“You can.” his thumbs resume their slow movements against your hands “You just don’t know how to stop.”
You laugh weakly “Amazing diagnosis, doctor.”
“I’m very talented.”
That actually earns a real laugh from you this time, and there it is that tiny shift in his expression when he hears it, small enough most people would miss it entirely.
You don’t, you know Law too well for that.
Warmth blooms slowly in your chest, soft and aching and without thinking too hard about it, you step closer and reach up to grab his face.
Your fingers fumble slightly against his cheeks from the numbness.
Law lets you reposition your hands without a single complaint.
Then you kiss him right on the mouth, slow and warm.
He exhales softly through his nose, surprised for only a second before one hand slides automatically to your waist.
When you pull back, you kiss his cheek… then under his eye, then the corner of his jaw.
“You’re being weird.” he mutters.
“You’re nice to me.”
“I’m literally treating your symptoms.”
“You’re holding me.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You laugh quietly against his skin before kissing his forehead.
Law sighs like you are personally exhausting him, but his grip on your waist tightens slightly.
“You know,” you murmur between kisses, “you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like affection.”
“I don’t like affection.”
“Mhm, sure.”
You kiss his nose. Then beneath his lip. Then his temple.
Law’s ears start turning faintly pink beneath the brim of his hat.
Victory.
“You’re annoying.” he grumbles.
“But you love me.”
He goes silent for one fatal second too long, making you grin immediately.
“There it is.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You kiss him again before he can argue further, softer this time, lingering long enough to feel the way he melts despite himself.
Law’s hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin.
When you pull away again, he rests his forehead lightly against yours with a quiet sigh.
“You done?” he asks.
“Not even close.”
He gives you a deeply unimpressed look that loses all effectiveness when you kiss both his cheeks in quick succession.
“You’re clingy now.”
“I’m having a bad day and you’re my cure.”
“Hm.”
That stupid soft hum again.
You smile a little and then you say softly “You know? You’re a good doctor and a good captain… but you’re also a perfect partner. I love you a lot.”
Law rubs his thumb slowly along the side of your neck while looking at you with that quiet, intense focus he gets sometimes, the one that always feels like he’s paying attention to every tiny detail about you at once.
“Then… for that, don’t forget you don’t have to prove you’re useful to deserve being here.” he says quietly.
Your chest tightens.
Even now, hearing that from him feels overwhelming.
You lean forward and kiss him one more time, gentler now.
Law lets you… of course he does.
Then, after a second, he presses a small kiss back against your mouth so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
Summary... a series of headcanons where you do the "wiping my seat" trend on them!
Contains... suggestive themes and flirts, usage of alcohol, fluff, and silly moments.
A/N: I am never on time for these things, Rayleigh and Gaban were supposed to be here... but I am ill and will post them later.
Benn Beckman
With another red-haired pirate party in full swing, meeting many new people and some old, Beckman had his hands full. Naturally, he'd went up onto the quarterdeck to have a smoke, to get away from the noise just so he didn't get the people coughing up a storm. Once again, he'd felt you coming up behind him from a mile away.
"Somethin' the matter, sugar?" He calls to you before you can get within six feet of him, spares you a glance before returning to his pack of cigarettes, lighting another one up. Just in the distance you can hear what sounds like Shanks singing drunkenly, and laughter from the friends gathered around him. Inside of your hand, you clutch the piece of tissue paper tighter.
A snicker slips past you, immediately alerting Beckman that something was up. He turns to face you, squinting at you in the dark just as a cold gust of wind blows through you. You shake against the wind, and Beckman begins to walk closer to you, forgetting the suspicious look he threw straight at you earlier.
"Here, just wrap this around..." Beckman grunts as he holds his cigarette between his teeth like a cigar, removing his purple grass-patterned cape to wrap around you instead. Just as his face is close enough, you reach out with the tissue in hand. When it swipes against the corner of his mouth, he waits until he's done draping his cape over your back before he speaks.
For a few seconds, he blinks, still staring down at you. You continue gently wiping his face, making sure to get the corners of his mouth— you can barely contain your laughter. Were there crumbs on his face? Maybe he'd had something gathering in the corner of his mouth... It could just be another prank the guys had delegated to you.
Beckman decides to ask you. "What on earth are you doing?" He sounds concerned for a second, but when you answer, that all flies out the window. "I'm wiping my seat off." That answer alone has him pausing for a moment, and he can only blink at you. Before he starts to smile, wide and pure. He blows smoke from his mouth, before stomping out his cigarette on deck.
"Yeah? I think it's just about ready for ya, huh? I'll go on and have you try it out in just a second." He grasps you suddenly, throwing you over his shoulder as he heads down to the deck, passing by the whistling crew and cackling captain. Oh boy, you're in for a long night...
Red-haired Shanks
Shanks is all about silly pranks, but he's normally the only one orchestrating these things, so of course he wouldn't expect you to have a certain trick up your sleeve. The problem is, he's surrounded by his men, and some other pirate affiliates, your nerves won't allow you to pull it off now... But, it's now or never. He's drunk, and after he gets done talking, he's heading straight to you for a kiss and then dragging you into bed with him, or his hammock, whatever he's in the mood for that night.
"Hey Lucky, got a napkin?" You nudge the man next to you, who is busy cooking up a delicious meal inside the kitchen. You narrow your eyes as you try to get a better look at your lover outside, still laughing with the crowd. Beck isn't there, normally he would find a way to disperse the crowd so you could mess with Shanks.
Lucky hands you a napkin, mumbling something into the lamb chop he's feasting on, you don't catch it, and instead swallow your anxiety and worry so you can walk out on deck. Your partner in crime is chatting with his lover up on the quarterdeck, it's now or never; you won't remember the prank in the morning. Shanks doesn't pay much attention to you when you walk up, and neither does the crowd.
With a shaky hand, you raise the napkin to his face. There was a bit of grease around his lips, so you spend some time wiping that off, completely forgetting your previous motive. Shanks' eyes widen as he suddenly turns silent, when the napkin moves to the corner of his mouth and his cheeks, he can finally talk again.
"Hey, hey, hey! What's that for? You're embarrassing me here, babe. How dirty am I, anyways?" Shanks chuckles at your antics, setting off a chain of laughter. You wait for him to stop flapping his lips and look up at you.
It takes every ounce of courage you have, at least all that's left after managing to make him yours. "Cleaning my personal seat." You state matter-of-factly. Shanks stares at you in shock, and the laughs halt— before his smile begins, getting wider by the second. Shanks starts to laugh, way too loud, you spot Lucky peeking his head out from the kitchen, nibbling on a turkey leg now, and Beckman throws a curious look your way as he retreats to his room. The crowd resumes their laughter.
"Personal? Well, I don't know about that... Ow, hey! That hurts! Ouch! I'm sorry! This sexy face is yours to sit on! YEOWCH! Stop pinching me! AH!" Shanks yelps and squeals, jumping left and right to avoid your pinches to his sides, the laughter doubles over, and it continues even when you drag Shanks off to your bedroom. Somehow, you managed to pull off that joke without fumbling over yourself.
All that laughing kept your seat nice and warm that night, you were glad for that.
Portgas D. Ace
Doing this joke with Ace would have two different outcomes depending on whether or not the other commanders were around. He values his image as the "confident and charismatic young commander" more than anything, even if many already knew he was completely different when he was with you. This time, he wasn't alone.
This was the perfect time to embarrass him and get back at him for the time he set your sweater on fire after he sneezed, he did have a slight cold, but your new sweaters singed fabric was the true tragedy. All he did was try and kiss you with his runny nose and chapped lips, you shudder involuntarily at the memory. That's besides the point— Ace is going to pay.
"Oh, now I remember!" Ace laughs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he converses with Vista, everybody is adding on little bits and pieces, Ace expects you to do the same when he sees you approaching.
"Hey, what's up? Got nothing to do today, either?" Ace beams at you. Marco crosses his arms and glances between the two of you, he raises an eyebrow at the fancy cloth napkin you hold in your hand. You glance at it, too, and then at the crumbs on Ace's face. Back to the napkin, then Ace, and so on and so forth. Ace blinks slowly at the napkin as well. Somehow, Thatch has joined in, and is even doing his best frog blink.
After you've finished admiring their performance, you approach Ace and begin wiping his face. Ace furrows his brows at this.
"Uh...?" While you continue wiping his face off, dragging the cloth against his cheek, he grabs it from you and begins wiping his own face, still visibly confused, as is everybody else. Small, clueless giggles begin in the crowd. Nobody knows what your point is, but seeing the display, everyone cracks a smile.
"Ah? What's the shtick? Calling me dirty?" Ace clears his throat, crumpling the napkin into a ball and almost incinerating it, but Thatch gives him a glare as his fancy dinner napkins are threatened. Ace gives you an easy smile, and your own grin suddenly grows very sinister.
"Oh... Nothing. I just wanted to make sure my seat wasn't getting too dirty. I'll mess it up myself later." With a triumphant smile, you steal Ace's smile from his face, now glowing red as a fire poker on a winter night.
Immediately, the surrounding men snicker and laugh themselves to tears, some slap Ace on the back and give him a proud smile, others are smirking at the mention of anything even remotely sexual. Ace himself is clearly experiencing a technical error, and can't find any words.
"My man!" One person shouts, another whistles and cries out "get you some!" just as Ace lowers his head in shame. You are all too proud of yourself, and walk away with a little extra pep in your step.
Ace watches you walk away. The men follow his gaze and only whistle louder. He's never living this down. Especially not with that bashful "maiden-like" smile he's got.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈ ❝a perverted list of petnames and drabbles of dirty talk our One Piece Men would use,,,,❞
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: NSFW!!! MDNI! petnames, vaginal fingering, degradation and praise, sub/dom, vaginal penetration, dirty talk, size difference, smut drabbles; afab!reader. There will be more specific tags beneath each One Piece Men, I can't include them all here. Please note that I envision the reader shorter than our men.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: if you can’t handle petnames, even as something simple like “baby” this post is not for you; I will be using corny ones, nasty and degrading nicknames shamelessly. so be warned!❞
⁃ my dear broody, indifferent leopard. He’s intense. Outside and within the bedroom. He doesn’t do flings, situationships or anything other but “his”.
⁃ His pet names have hints of all his beloving traits. Possessive, controlled, measured and extremely professional. He wouldn’t throw out the words sweetheart or darling or doll out casually! That wouldn’t be professional at all,,,
⁃ ,,,But if he marked you? Made you his by scent alone?
⁃ He’ll tie a cute pretty ribbon around your neck, white and satin, and you’ll hitch your breath when he secures it. And it’ll be tight with purpose. So to leave a trace, a dent, a small faint mark to let others know, he was there first.
⁃ By then, Lucci would lean in slow and measured, your jaw grabbed, voice hot and heavy as his breath skims over your earlobe, whispering; “Mine.” and then nibble, latch his mouth on your neck.
⁃ Sucking, kissing, biting and licking. And if you try to push him for being too flustered, he’ll bury himself deeper, growing annoyed with your squirming; you both know its useless.
⁃ and if you insist he calls you by a pet name, it’ll always be done with the undertone of possession, control and claim.
⁃ “My wife” “my girl” “my pet” it’s always “my” with him. As if the hickeys on your neck or the matching dress to his suit isn’t enough of an indicator of who you belong to.
⁃ “But what about in bed Mlem!?” Look here pretty, Rob Lucci, for the man he is — is extremely territorial. Maybe it’s the animal in him, but when he fucks he does it to scent, to rut, and to leave a mark of himself in there. It’s instinct — animal.
⁃ Eye contact during it. 100%.
Not because its endearing: but it’s about domination. That he has control, power and isn’t willing to let you go from his sight. It’s all about making you feel small, vulnerable and terribly weak under in him — and it’s working. His gaze is focused, dark and narrowed but as you grow more hot; breath gone and huffing? Turning flushed and sensitive? Something soft settles in his gaze. It’s faint, almost unnoticeable but it’s there (as he thrusts into your harder)
⁃ he likes how small you look under him.
a sense of vulnerability perhaps; how you allow a killer like him to grab, bite and pull you despite knowing his truer nature. That unspoken trust? It does something to him, something warm, stuttering; a human feeling. It’s unbecoming and he can’t get enough of it, can't get enough of you.
- Rob Lucci is a biter. He bites. Neck, nipples, thighs and all over your chest, he’ll bite and nibble and kiss as he fucks you through it. And if you’re just a little bit too loud, he grips your throat, or shove a finger down your mouth. “Shhh,” his voice slathers across your neck, hot and heavy, as he thursts into you. Hands gripping your wirsts hard enough to bruise. “so tight—”
⁃ He’ll degrade you, just enough to make you teary, call you pathetic, mock your tears, and have you beg for more.
⁃ You’re wet from just a bit of kissing and core rubbing over his thigh? “Tch, pathetic.”
⁃ You moan just a little bit too loud? Back arching a little too high? “How needy.”
⁃ You tug at him, pleading with him to stop teasing? All he offers is: “Beg.”
⁃ And when he fingers you — his fingers long and precise, hitting each spot as you make a mess on his thigh? “Look at you, all stupid from just my fingers,,, it’s almost humiliating.” And he says it with a small, faint chuckle.
⁃ And if you want more? You’ll have to beg with him, tug and plead with him as he keeps circling your clit, kissing and nibbling your neck. Hands clutching onto his long, dark hair to ground yourself.
⁃ Truly, Rob has his ways of making you feel impossibly needy.
⁃ and then, for taking it without a fuss or a cry—he’ll offer smaller praises, the pace of his thrusts slowing down, turning heavy, hard and entirely controlled.
⁃ And as he leans in with a faint curve of a smirk on his lips. His voice laced with a small dark undertone of condescension; “good pet” or maybe when he feels gentle, his voice drops lower and the words that leave his mouth sounds more like a secret than praise; “you’re too good for me,,, too good,” or his favourite “you’re mine. Only mine.”
Summary: His dirty talk is possessive, curt. He let’s you know how stupid you look, how small and cute you sound beneath him — and he talks to you like you’re prey, something that’s within his mercy, and his alone.
It’s not meant to be teasing or degrading; it’s meant to be dominating. Possessive. You’re his, and he’ll let you know about it for each thrust and fuck.
Sir Crocodile 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- sub/dom dynamic, pseudo incest, Daddy kink, size kink,,,, and corruption kink if you squint your eyes. shy- and cute!reader
- outside the bedroom the petnames drip with class, finery and everything rich in this world; Sir Crocodile is scum but scum made of gold, gems and the finest burgundy silks. The same goes with his petnames.
- “Darling” “My lady” “My wife” or when he feels especially fancy, “My pearl”. It all drips with luxury, wealth and better manners made of opulence. You’re not just his girl; you’re his lady, and she doesn’t come cheap.
- That’s how he would refer to you in front of others but behind closed doors? The fine edge of expenses doesn’t drop but it grows soft, domestic. Depending on your personality; shy, younger, smaller? I can see him refer to you as “doll” or even something casual like “bunny”. It rolls of his tongue like rough gravel with just a touch of possession as he gropes your waist.
- “We want the dirty talk mlemiie!” Ok fine, NSFW related; Crocodile is a man of luxuries, don’t expect him to just fuck you through it because you’re needy. You’ll have to earn your pleasure. The same goes for his dirty talk.
- you want him to be more gentle with his tone? Kinder? Softer? You have to deserve it, after all you’re the one who got needy, desperate and utterly wet for him — and when you start crying at his words, all teary eyes and begging; he’ll crease his brows at you, chuckle a little to himself when you start to pathetically rub his hand against your panties. You’re so desperate it’s laughable.
- He’s mean. Not in a “bohoo, poor you!” but in a “you want me to stop? No? Then behave.” And he says this whilst relentlessly teasing you, fingers skimming over your lace, one finger plunging into you, sliding over your folds as he watches you with that smug, proud grin of his. Cigar stuck to his handsome face.
- Look… in bed… the pet names are to showcase you’re his little babydoll, okay? He likes you when you’re beneath him; small, vulnerable and ready to be ruined. It’s all about who is in power here and between you two? It’s him. It’s always him.
- If you’re into it, he refers to himself as “daddy”, taaaaalk to the wall.
- And the nicknames comes off mostly for praise unless of course,,,
“you’re my good girl aren’t you?” He says, hook around your waist to dig you deeper onto his cock.
And if when you’re on your knees? Sucking him off? “You can take it, you’re daddy’s little girl after all—” he hums, hand gripping your hair, pushing you deeper and deeper. And he won’t pity you for gagging.
“Look at you, you’ll sit still and be good f’me, won’t you?” His breath hot on your ear as his hand makes it up your thigh, skimming just under your skirt—his lips grazing your jaw when he feels you’re all soaked through. “Wet? Already? From a bit of kissing? Maybe you’re dirtier than I thought, maybe you’re not my good girl anymore, maybe you're just a slut,” he says that, withdrawing and you panic, clinging onto him, begging and pleading not to stop and he loves seeing how pathetic you can get.
- He’s rough, firm—he grips you during it. Hard enough to leave bruises, dents and marks of his choking. At first, especially if you’re inexperienced, he’ll start off gentle, not soft, not faint but slow, careful not to break you — but as the night progresses, when your walls clench and flutter onto his cock, practically swallowing him whole, he can’t hold onto his restrain. He’ll fuck you hard, rough, the little moans you give off as he breaks you in half only fuels his lust for you.
- At that point, Sir Crocodile is far from being in control, all he wants is to feel you—wet, squelching and hot.
Summary: In public? On everyday occasion? The petnames are classy, adoring, with just a tinge of something domestic. But behind closed doors? He’s sweeter; gentler. You’re his doll, his cuter, smaller wife and his treasure alone to spoil. And further into your little home, when it’s just you, him, sweat and sex? Rough but not mean enough to make you cry unless you beg for it—sweet but not enough to not put you in your place; which is beneath him, legs clenched around his torso as he takes you for himself.
Trafalgar D. Water Law 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- degradation kink, dacryphilia, sexual overstimulation, breath play
- Look, this skinny emo plans, asserts, and calculates. And yes, he is grumpy but have you seen the amount of time this man gets flustered? He doesn’t do intimacy well, not as well as he would like to. In other words: Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death and youngest Warlord of the Sea — gets shy.
Like, really shy.
He’s a dork.
A loser.
A geek.
And I freaking love it.
- Mostly he’ll call you by your name but when it’s just the two of you? Or when you’re crying or in pain? That controlled demeanour of his turns soft, brows easing as he comes close to you; “Baby” “Love” or even as something cheesy as “Pretty girl”.
- Law is surprisingly soft with his wording, tone low and gentle, a tone reserved for you and you alone. But not in public, not ever, he has a reputation to uphold, alright?
- He’s a tease. He likes teasing you, grinning all sly and mocking when your hand is latched over his collar, pouting and tiptoeing, trying to earn a kiss — and he’ll just watch in pure, unfiltered amusement at your try reaching for a kiss. and when he finally leans in, head tilting, ready to kiss you—he’ll swipe out of reach once more. And he loves that you get all flustered and sulky over it, tugging and pulling at him.
- But in bed? During sexy time? That cute, dorky, shy demeanour vanishes the further the night goes on.
At first, he’d be hesitant; his tatted hand landing above yours is faint, eyes not meeting when you inch closer, his ears slightly red.
- “You sure about this babe?… I mean, I want to, I just…” he rubs his neck and you decide to tease him. “Just what, Law? You shy?” You say the last part with a hint of a giggle and he’ll look to you then, that cute, dorky loser expression he wore? Gone. Something sharper settles in his gaze, something close like provocation. The rest of the night? Don't expect him to be shy about it anymore because the next minute, you’re pushed down your back, his hands bracing between your head and you’ll stare dumbly into his face. A switch has been flipped. The dork you were teasing? Gone.
- “Shy? You wanna see how shy I get?” His hands travel beneath your skirt, fingers skimming over your lace, his lips going beneath your jaw—”What’s the matter? Don’t wanna talk back no more’?” And whenever you’re ready to retort, he’ll plunge a finger into your folds, thumb circling your clit, pushing, pulling and fingering you till you’re nothing but a wet, moaning mess. That’s the kind of man he is in bed; his fingers skilled, precise and controlled—each curl inside your walls are done to make you flinch, arch and clutch onto him.
- Degrading nicknames. Definitely.
- He likes it when he gets to mock at the state you’re in—”Slut” “whore” and even associate you as “cock dumb”, and which you are. You are dumb for him, especially when he fingers you, pull your clit, and bite your neck as you cum for the third time—tears streaming down your face when he curls his fingers deeper into you, pulling, plunging and squeezing your clit. Law is mean when he fingers, and you love it enough to become a sobbing, whining mess.
- “hah, look at you, fuckin’ slut, takin’ my cock—fuck—just like that you stupid whore” he says that, whilst pushing you into a mating press, legs curled and aching as he stretches you deeper—his hands on your wrists, gripping you hard enough to leave them bruised and marked. And you’ll whine as he moves harder, rougher, not once showing mercy because you’re a whiny mess beneath him.
- And if you tug at him, still begging for more? He’d chuckle, the one that has a hint of cynical mockery in it—”Oh yeah?” His hand glides up from your chest to your chin, tilting it up, thumb on your lower lip. Nudging, rubbing. “Open” and you can’t help but to obey, tongue lolling out, eyes teary as he spits in your mouth and you swallow on instinct. “Hah, what a whore.” and he’ll fuck you harder for it, pushing you deeper into your mating press and rutting into like you’re nothing but a whiny, dirty cum rag.
- Law indulges in breath play. (Source? Me) You’ll wear a choker, one that he meticulously tighten and releases, observing your reactions, asserting when to punish and reward you as he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, forcing you to swallow more of his length, making you choke on your spit; breath hitching, chest filling with air before forces another thrust, releasing the choker just enough to let you sob a moan. Tears streaming down your face for how mean he is during it—turning you into a blabbering, begging mess of cum and sweat.
- For praise; it’s a mix of both degradation and sweetness.
“Who’s the prettiest slut, huh?” He says, bending you over his desk, hand on your throat as he raw dogs you into your cunt, tight and wet for him. Walls squelching around his cock. You won’t be able to answer, as he chokes you, his tatted hand gripping you hard enough to make you drool out spit. “You is it? Yeah—shit—you’re the only whore f’me”
- the tone he carries is possessive, cynical and a dark underlying infatuation he can’t get rid of no matter how much he pounds into you, your pussy swallowing and sucking his length—not once wishing for him to stop.
Summary: Law is a soft lover who hides behind grumpy scowls and nonchalance but underneath it? He holds a special tenderness for you, even if he’s mean in bed—you’re his baby, his love, his most prettiest girl. And if you actually start sobbing, crying and tell him how he’s legit hurting your feelings during sex? He’ll stop mid thrust, eyes widening and brows going up as he lifts you up into his chest. Voice low, dark as he kisses the side of your hair. “shhh, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry… don’t cry.”
That’s just the kind of softness he has for you, and you alone.
Donquixote Doflamingo 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- bondage, degradation and size kink, power difference and toxic relationship dynamics
- My manipulative, blonde birdie. Everything about Doflamingo screams arrogance, wealth and pride — he’s flashy, but not gaudy. He’s got taste, even if it is over the top flamboyant, enough to out-sparkle a gyaru’s own decoden collection, but despite this, there is a hint of elegance. Classic, rich and everything unfair in this world.
- His petnames for his lover would be “Sweetheart” in either the most condescending, patronising tone or a gentle softness so unbecoming of him it makes you flinch.
- He’d wave you over, pat a hand on his lap, let you rest your head on his chest as he tells you about this beautiful fine satin that you would love for your room’s bedsheets, but unfortunately they were stained with blood so he couldn’t fix it for you. And he’d say all of that in the most kind, slow tone he could ever recreate—caressing your hair, stroking your cheek, soft motions lulling you to sleep.
- Doflamingo’s petnames ranges from there. “Dove” “darling” and when he feels especially casual, “baby” on a few occasion, and the way it leaves his mouth, it makes your ear twitch, feet already padding his way. When he calls for you, it puts you into a trance; pulling you towards him like strings around your neck begging for your name to leave his mouth again and again and again.
- His attention is a drug, and his affection becomes a need; a dark delving desire that cannot be anything but the most sweetest taste of codependency and worship.
- He’s possessive. And so is his love. He doesn’t merely want you, but own you.
- Unlike Lucci, there is a darker twist in his desire for his lover, one that strips you off choice and autonomy—you’re his. Everything about you is his — your name, your smile, even your blood running beneath your veins is tied to that man and he’ll make sure you know it. Brand you in his clothing, his jewellery, his money, wealth and power—and if he gets lovesick enough, he might even mark you with an innocent string across your wrist carved with his name. He’ll call it a bracelet, a gift, but you see it for what it truly is: cuffs. So you won’t go, leave and betray.
- each petname is done to show you and everyone else that you’re his—”my darling” “my sweetheart” and “my pretty girl”; each and everything that rolls of his tongue is ‘his, his, his’.
- In bed? Doflamingo is a freak. He mocks, he humiliates, he dumb you down into something small, stupid, weak and pretty — one that he adores to push and pull at. Strings fastening across your joints as he calls you all the dirty things you can imagine.
- “puppet” “pet” “doll”; petnames to accentuate your place in his world: strung and made by him. “slut” “whore” “slave”, all three to emphasize your use in his bed—to please, bend and be fucked with—it’s not about mere domination but ownership; you’re his and he gets to use you however he wish.
- The nicknames grows more and more cruel as the night goes on—”cumrag” “dirty cumsock” “sextoy” it all drips with degradation, dominance and mockery, and maybe when he feels gentle, he’ll lean down your ear, fingers trailing your jaw as you take a third of his finger into your wet little pussy, “That’s right, be louder with your cute moans, let them know who you belong to baby,” his voice hot against your ear, neck arching as he rewards you with a circle on your clit.
- Whether you two do it in private, in the pool or in the back alley where anyone can walk in—the strings are at play. Squeezing your wrist together so tight you think they’ll saw your hands off, or wrapped across your thigh to spread your legs at an obscene angle—it does not matter. Choking or holding you, they’re present. Always.
- “Hah? What’s the matter little pet? Can’t take no more?” He’d laugh at that, yanking your hair as he forces you swallow more of him—lips swollen, tears running down your cheek and he’ll do nothing but push you hard enough to make you gag. “You’re the one who begged to be my little toy, so get to work.”
- And when you’re curled into a mating press, legs anchored into the air with strings strung across your ankles; calf aching, thighs burning as he digs himself deeper into you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise—he’ll mock at the state he has you in. “Doffy! Doffy! Doffy! Is that all you can say now?” He’ll grin, forcing a finger down your mouth and on instinct you’ll suck, lick, the taste of salt sticking to your tongue as you swirl around his finger for more—giving him no choice but to push even deeper. “Hah, you dirty cumrag.”
- He’ll humiliate you, make you use your words.
You’re needy, tugging his sleeve for attention but all he gives you is one innocent tilt of his head, grin playing on his lips. “Hmm? You want me to do what?” He says, leaning down knowing exactly what you want but plays oblivious just to see you flustered. “Huh? You want this?” His hand trails beneath your waist band, slithering along your lace, one finger going over your panties, “Go on then, tell me what to do.”
The way your cheeks burn, how you chew your lower lip in frustration as you try and force him to just finger you — It’s humiliating, adorable, and he fucking loves it.
Summary: Doffy is meanie, but he won’t break you, no. You’re his pet, his girl, and favourite person in all one package; he’ll love you in the most wicked and twisted way there is. Affection draped in possession, attention marked with control, and nicknames spewed out to keep you tethering for more and more. Never once, looking out your birdcage when your eyes are solely set on him. And he’ll ensure that, with strings and chains.
Roronoa Zoro 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- brat/dom dynamic, praise
- Lazy, sleepy but disciplined and righteous. This man doesn’t play regarding you. You’re his girl.
- Zoro isn’t the type of guy to show you off but he won’t mind it if you cling onto his arm in public for the world to see, or turn him into your personal body guard. No. He’ll protect, shield and nudge you to the side—yes he will grumble, yes he will scowl but he wouldn’t let you out of his sight for a second. Not because you aren’t capable, but because he’s protective, observant and always ready to get you out of harms way. Lousy, but loyal. Fiercely so.
- With that established, petnames under his guise are casual, aloof. “Babe” “woman” or when he grumbles under his breath after you nag to him about how he forgot your snacks; “must you be so damn bossy, lady.” and then he’ll go and get your snacks without further complaint.
- He says it with a tone like it’s a drag, a pain in his butt and yet, there will be a hand on your waist, a shoulder to always lean on and eyes always glazing over your shape. Low, watching and yearning.
- “Mlem, where is the NSFW???” Look here pretty, petnames in bed remain rather civil — the “babe” elevates to “baby”, and it's either in the most lousy tone or as if to mock you. He’d call you "pretty", maybe “beautiful” when he feels especially soft but other than that; he's aloof.
- sure, Zoro’s lazy even in bed but if you’re a brat? The kind that talks back? tease with petty comments and attitude testing his every turn? He's a brat tamer. Talk to the wall. Zoro is a prideful man but he likes a good fight, and when you’re being all difficult and bratty? It turns him on like no other, knowing he can get you screaming his name in private quarters, saying the most nastiest things in your ear, voice low and husky as he talks you through it.
- and if that attitude is still up; best know he’s going to bite back, rough, mocking; the softer petnames become taunting, mean. “Hah? What’s the matter baby? You were talkin’ a bunch of shit just a second ago, what happened?” Zoro says with a cocky smile on his face, knowing damn well you can’t talk back with your lips around his dick, his tip hitting the roof of your walls as he forces you further down by the back of your head.
- Zoro is a tease. He edges, taunts and mocks at the state you’re in whilst relentlessly thrusting into you, and every time you’re about to reach your high—he slows, withdraws and forces you into a lewder position against the wall. “I know baby, I know—you can take it—fuck, yeah,” Zoro’s voice vibrates across your neck, hot and flaring as he fucks you through it, hands on your thighs to press you deeper onto his cock. “spread your legs for me, you can do that can’t you, pretty girl?” your walls squeezes at that nickname, and you can feel his lips curving into a smile at that reaction. His voice is husky, a tone of condescension hidden beneath the breaths as he thrust into you. “You like that? You like being called pretty?”
- Zoro manhandles; toss you across the bed, slam you against the wall, arch your limbs in such way it makes you strain and all he’ll offer as comfort is a kiss below your neck—”shhh, I’ll help your stretchin’ routine later, ‘kay baby?” he says, gripping you harder, rougher, not once seeming to let you go.
- His strength is a force; no matter how much you squirm against him he'll keep you pinned down; hand pushing down your head against the sheets, or an arm locked around your neck as he pounds into you from behind. And he loves, how utterly useless, small and vulnerable you are against his grip.
Summary: Zoro is the type of boyfriend that rolls with anything you roll with. You openly tell him you like being called “angel”? Next morning rolls off his tongue as if he’s called you it a a thousand times already; natural and casual. And in bed, there is no difference. You want to be called degrading nicknames? He’ll comply, and maybe it’ll leave his mouth a little bit too good
𝟏𝟖+ 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 | he sends you a voice message while he’s away.
“hey sweet thing. missing ya’.”
his voice erupted, you could only hear the sound of his breathing, imagining the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“how have you been, mm? eating well? hydrating? you best be taking care of yourself while ’m gone.” he laughed, that squeaky one where you could tell his throat was tight from holding something in.
“wish you could feel how much i’m missing you.” you heard his breath shake at the last syllable, then the tell-tale sound of his zipper slipping down rang out. a loud zzziipp like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
a moment of silence then a harsh hiss came from his side as he wrapped a hand around his aching member, stroking it to full mast. “shit baby, i’m so hard just thinkin’ about you.” he groaned, then a rustle of clothes came as he shoved his pants down to his ankles.
he shifted his phone so that it was placed right beneath his cock, you could hear it slap against his phone screen, hot and heavy. “listen to it. listen to what you do to me.” he panted, beginning to pump himself, every tug of his length drawing a throaty sigh from him.
“wish you were here. y’know, sucking me off.” he paused to breath, stifling a whine as he imagined the scene in his head. “gosh, you’d look so pretty, mouth full of me. choking on me.” he continued.
“or you could just sit on it. let me hump you ‘til you pass out, all dumbed out on my dick.” he rasped, voice dropping a milky octave. you could hear him spit down on his cock, smearing the glob of saliva over his length.
“if you were here, i’d bend you right over this desk and fuck—” he sped up his strokes, you could tell he was close with how whiny he got. “i’d do so much to you darling, but you’re just not here. and it’s killing me.”
“miss you, so fuckin’ bad.” his voice cracked, you could hear the lewd fap-fap-fap of him fisting his cock ruthlessly, teetering on the edge of release.
“bet you’re touching yourself too, huh?” you could hear his smirk through the phone, “bet you’re getting off at seeing me so desperate and needy. you’re evil.” he grunted.
“shit, i’m close.” he cursed through gritted teeth, you could hear his chair creak under his weight as he pumped his cock, chasing his orgasm.
“this one’s for you.” he panted, the sounds of his fist becoming slicker. after a couple more strokes, he came all over himself with a muffled groan, making a mess everywhere.
“it’s so much.” he grumbled, already regretting what he did knowing he would have to get up and clean off. “and i blame it on you.” he chuckled, you could hear him tucking himself back into his pants.
“anyway. i’ll be back soon. love you, byee.” he spoke before blowing an obnoxious kiss to the phone and cutting the voice message.
Oh my, I just read your jinbe fic and it was so beautiful, and your writing is so nice! If I could request could you do 'when brook realized he's in love with you'?
The Ghost of a Heartbeat
Summary: when brook realized he's in love with you
Song: Redbone - Childish Gambino
Author’s note: That was such a great idea! Thanks for requesting!! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
For an undead gentleman like Brook, falling in love isn't just about a racing pulse—it's an awakening of the soul. Discovering love after a lifetime of isolation and loss brings a profound shift to his eternal journey.
The night air outside the Thousand Sunny’s kitchen was thick with the salty tang of the New World. It was late—the kind of late that only the night watch and the insomniacs kept track of.
Below deck, the soft, rhythmic snoring of Luffy and Chopper was muffled by the heavy wood. On the galley deck, however, there was only the gentle scrape of a polished mahogany table and the quiet, melancholic sigh of a violin being tuned.
Brook sat alone, his long, spindly legs crossed as he hunched over his instrument. The single lantern overhead caught the polished ivory of his skull, casting long, dancing shadows across the empty plates from dinner.
He had lived two lifetimes worth of memories—fifty years adrift in the dark, skeletal fingers tracing the same melodies over and over until the notes themselves felt like ghosts. He knew sorrow, and he knew joy.
But tonight, as he plucked the strings, the resonance felt entirely different. It vibrated deep within a ribcage that held no heart, yet a warmth spread through his bones that he hadn’t felt since the days of the Rumbar Pirates.
A soft click of the galley door interrupted the silence. Brook paused, his empty eye sockets turning toward the entrance as his jaw clicked into a welcoming smile.
"Yo-ho-ho-ho," he murmured, his voice raspy and light. "Is that the lovely Nami-san, or perhaps Robin-san coming to steal my rum?"
"Neither, you old bag of bones." You walked into the warm glow of the galley, wrapping a thick, knitted blanket tighter around your shoulders. You offered him a tired, genuine smile. "Just me. I couldn't sleep. The waves are a bit too loud tonight."
Brook’s posture straightened slightly, the movement betraying an almost comical level of surprise. He set his violin gently onto the velvet cloth beside him and adjusted his yellow hat. "Ah, Y/N-san! Please, sit down."
He gestured with a skeletal hand to the chair opposite him, sweeping an invisible hat off his head in a courteous bow. "A musician’s late-night symphony is hardly the best lullaby, but you are more than welcome to share the quiet."
"I don't mind it at all," you said, pulling out the chair and sinking into the seat. You rested your chin in your palms, watching him. "In fact, I like it when you play. It's usually the only time things are completely peaceful."
Brook’s permanent, skull-etched grin seemed to soften. He gave a quiet chuckle, the sound echoing lightly in the empty room. "Peaceful, yes. I suppose fifty years of silence teaches a skeleton how to appreciate the quiet moments. Though, having you here certainly makes the Florian Triangle—metaphorically speaking—a much brighter place."
You let out a soft hum, your eyes tracing the line of his violin. "Do you ever get lonely, Brook? Even with all of us?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and sincere. Brook froze. The memory of the fifty years of drifting, surrounded only by the bones of his fallen Nakama, was a shadow he wore like a well-tailored suit.
He looked away, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a slow rhythm against the wooden table.
"Oh, Y/N-san," he whispered, the humor momentarily draining from his voice. "I have known the absolute, suffocating definition of loneliness. I have sat in the dark with the bones of my friends, playing the same tune, praying that someone—anyone—would hear it. But then... a certain rubber boy broke the door down."
He turned his skull back to face you, his empty sockets somehow conveying an intense, burning affection. "And since I joined this crew, I have never once been lonely. Least of all when I am sitting here, talking to you."
A light blush dusted your cheeks, though you didn't look away. "You say the sweetest things, Brook."
"I mean every word, my dear," he said, and for once, he didn't follow it up with a joke about seeing your undergarments. His tone was entirely stripped of his usual theatrics, replaced by a raw, ancient tenderness.
"You have a very special place in this old skeleton's heart. Even if I don't have one to give you!" He threw in a quick 'Yo-ho-ho-ho!' to lighten the sudden gravity of the confession, but it fell flat, dissolving quickly back into the serious, flickering candlelight.
You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table. "I'm really glad you joined us, Brook. I don't know what we'd do without you."
Brook stared at you. Really stared. It struck him then, with the sudden, sharp clarity of a crashing wave, just how much you had burrowed your way into his undead existence. As a skeleton, his life was largely static.
He was the same as he had been decades ago, preserved by the Yomi Yomi no Mi. But you—you were alive, shifting, and growing.
You brought color to the perpetual black-and-white of his after-life. When you laughed, the sound struck a chord in his soul that vibrated with a sweeter, deeper melody than any song he had ever composed.
Is this love? the thought echoed in the back of his mind. How could a skeleton fall in love? He had no heart to pound against his ribs, no flushed cheeks to betray his affection.
Yet, the intense, overwhelming desire to protect you, to make you smile, and to ensure you were warm and safe—it was a feeling as potent as the day he first picked up a sword to defend his crew.
It was an active, emotional presence, far deeper than a passing compliment or a friendly gesture.
"Brook?" You tilted your head, noticing his sudden silence. "Are you okay?"
Brook snapped out of his reverie, his posture jerking slightly. "Ah! Forgive me, Y/N-san! My mind was simply wandering back through the decades. It’s a bad habit of a ninety-year-old man—well, fifty-nine in terms of living years, I suppose!"
He let out another soft 'Yo-ho-ho-ho,' this time carrying a note of genuine, slightly nervous affection.
He leaned forward, the joints in his spine creaking quietly. "Tell me, Y/N-san. Since I am a musician, I often think of life as a grand composition. There are crescendos of battle, rests of sorrow, and staccato moments of adventure. But you... you have become a constant, beautiful melody that plays quietly in the back of my mind. Even when the cannons are roaring or Luffy-san is making a mess, I find myself thinking of you."
Your eyes widened slightly, the blanket slipping just an inch off your shoulders. "Brook... are you being serious right now?"
"I am as serious as a skeleton can be!" Brook gave a small, courtly nod, his bony fingers reaching out across the table to hover just above your hand.
He didn't dare touch it—not yet, fearful of startling you with the cold, unyielding reality of his bones.
"You see, I have sailed this sea for a very, very long time. I have seen the sun rise and set over the Grand Line for decades. I thought my capacity for new feelings had withered away with my flesh. But ever since I met you, Y/N, every day feels like a completely new, unwritten sheet of music."
He swallowed, his skull tilting downward slightly as if he were trying to look you in the eyes.
"To love someone is to will their good, as the philosophers say. And I... I find that my greatest desire in this eternal life is simply to see you happy. To make sure your path is filled with beautiful notes and warm days. Is that not what love is? Even if I can offer you nothing but a song and the company of a dead man?"
The galley was completely silent, save for the lapping of the waves against the hull of the Sunny. The realization that he had just confessed his true feelings—not as a joke, not as a flirtatious quip, but as the deepest truth of his soul—hung beautifully between you two.
Brook felt a sudden tremor run through his bones, a phantom anxiety that mimicked the nervous pounding of a mortal heart.
He had waited fifty years for companionship, but he had never expected to find a love that transcended life and death.
You looked at him for a long moment, the warmth in your eyes reflecting the soft yellow glow of the lantern. Without a word, you reached across the small gap and placed your warm, living hand directly over his skeletal one.
Your skin was soft, sending a jolt of comforting warmth straight into his cold phalanges.
"Brook," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "You are so much more than a dead man or a collection of bones to me. You are my friend. You are my comfort. And I don't care about the logistics of a heartbeat. I love you too."
Brook went perfectly still. If he had been capable of gasping, the air would have abandoned him entirely. The cool ivory of his face seemed to radiate heat.
He slowly turned his hand over in yours, his bony fingers gently lacing through yours with the utmost care.
"My dear..." he breathed, the word trembling slightly. "I... I don't know what to say. I never thought I would experience the sweetness of love again. I thought my story was destined to end in the dark with my old Nakama. But here you are, bringing such brilliant light into my second life."
A tear, entirely real and glistening in the candlelight, welled up in his left eye socket and traced a slow path down the curve of his skull. It fell with a quiet drip onto the wooden table.
"Oh, excuse me! I’m crying, and I don’t even have eyes to weep with! Yo-ho-ho-ho!" He laughed, but this time the laughter was thick with emotion, a beautiful, vibrating sound that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of his soul. "But please, understand, Y/N-san. These are tears of the most profound joy."
"I understand," you said, smiling at him through your own glistening eyes. You squeezed his hand gently. "I'm really glad I came up here tonight."
"And I am eternally grateful for the insomnia that brought you to me, Y/N-san," Brook replied.
He leaned back in his chair, his posture loose and elegant once more, but his hold on your hand remained firm and protective. "The Florian Triangle was dark and cold for fifty years. But I would gladly drift in the darkest seas for an eternity if it meant I would eventually end up sitting at this table, holding your hand."
He picked up his violin once more with his free hand, resting it against his shoulder. He looked at you, a depth of devotion in his empty gaze that words simply couldn't capture.
"Allow me to play a song for you. Not one of my usual sea shanties, but a brand-new composition. A song just for you, Y/N. To mark the day this old skeleton’s soul truly came back to life."
The bow touched the strings, and the first note rang out into the quiet night. It wasn't the frantic, chaotic music of a party, or the mournful dirge of the Bink's Sake he had played for decades in the dark.
It was soft, lilting, and incredibly warm. It swept through the galley like a gentle breeze, telling a story of a long journey, a dark wait, and the brilliant, unexpected sunrise that followed.
As the music filled the room, Brook watched you. He watched the way the lantern light caught your hair, the way your breathing slowed to match the rhythm of his playing, and the peaceful, happy expression on your face.
He memorized every single detail, etching it into a memory that didn't require flesh or blood to hold.
For an undead man, fifty years of solitude had left deep scars on his spirit. But playing this song, for this person, made every single day of the dark wait worth it.
The silence of the past fifty years was finally broken by a melody that he knew would last for the rest of eternity. He realized then that love wasn't about having a beating heart or blushing cheeks.
It was about the emotional connection, the quiet comfort of presence, and the sheer joy of knowing that even in a chaotic world, you were exactly where you were meant to be.
The final note vibrated into the air, slowly fading out until there was only the gentle swoosh of the sea against the wood. Brook lowered the bow, the silence returning, but it was no longer the lonely, heavy silence of the past. It was comfortable, warm, and shared.
"Did you like it, Y/N-san?" he asked, his voice returning to its lighter, theatrical tone, though the lingering tenderness remained underneath.
"It was beautiful, Brook," you said, leaning over to gently kiss the top of his skull. "Truly beautiful."
Brook froze, his entire frame vibrating with a joyful tremor. He touched his hand to the spot where you had kissed him, his jaw dropping in an exaggerated expression of shock.
"Oh! Y/N-san! How scandalous! To take advantage of an innocent skeleton like this! Yo-ho-ho-ho-ho!" He threw his head back, laughing into the night air. "But... I suppose I don't mind it at all! In fact, I would very much like it if you did that again!"
You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head at his sudden shift back to his eccentric self. But you didn't let go of his hand. "You're incorrigible, Brook."
"And you are my greatest masterpiece," he replied smoothly, lifting his hand to give yours a courtly, gentle squeeze. "Now, my dear, it is very late. If we don't get some rest, Nami-san will surely make us walk the plank for keeping the lights on!"
He stood up from his chair, his bones creaking musically. He walked around the table, bowing deeply as he offered you his arm. "Shall we retire to our quarters, Y/N-san? This old gentleman promises to be a very courteous, very romantic escort."
You smiled, taking his bony arm and letting him lead you out of the galley. The night was still dark, and the ocean was vast and unpredictable, but as you walked through the quiet corridors of the Thousand Sunny with the skeleton gently humming a soft, loving melody, you knew that you were completely safe.
For Brook, having you by his side transformed the perilous New World into a stage where every day was an opportunity to show you how much you meant to him.
The rest of the crew slept on, oblivious to the quiet romance that had blossomed in the heart of the ship. Downstairs, the sleeping quarters were peaceful.
But up on deck, and in the quiet hallways, the music lingered—a testament to a love that had defied time, distance, and even death itself.
The next morning, the sun rose over the vast horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of gold and pink. The Thousand Sunny sailed steadily on, cutting through the calm blue waters of the New World.
Down in the galley, Sanji was already bustling about, the clatter of pots and pans announcing the start of a new day. But long before the rest of the crew awoke, Brook had been up, sitting in his favorite spot, softly playing his violin.
The melody was the very same one he had composed for you the night before—a soft, lilting tune that held all the warmth and joy of his newfound realization.
When you walked into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, Brook’s skull immediately turned toward you. A bright, welcoming grin seemed to stretch across his features.
"Yo-ho-ho-ho! Good morning, Y/N-san!" he chirped, his voice echoing cheerfully in the room. "I hope you slept well! The early morning sun is quite beautiful today, isn't it?"
You smiled, walking over to sit beside him. "Good morning, Brook. I slept wonderfully. Did you?"
"Oh, like a log!" he chuckled, though the joke was slightly lost on a skeleton who had no muscles to relax. "Though, to be honest, I spent most of the night thinking about our little conversation. I even wrote the second verse to my new song!"
He picked up his violin again, adjusting his yellow hat. "Would you like to hear it? I believe it has a rather lovely staccato section that perfectly captures how my heart would beat if I still had one!"
"I'd love to hear it, Brook." You rested your chin on your hands, watching him intently.
Brook nodded, his bony fingers expertly positioning the bow. As the first notes filled the air, the heavy scent of Sanji’s cooking began to mingle with the gentle music. It was a perfect, ordinary moment aboard the Thousand Sunny.
But for Brook, every single note he played was a declaration. It was his way of speaking the words he had confessed the night before, over and over, in a language that transcended the boundaries of life and death.
When he finished the verse, he held a long, vibrating note that seemed to hang in the air like a promise. He lowered the bow and looked at you, the love in his hollow eyes radiating a warmth that went far deeper than any physical flush.
"You know, Y/N-san," he whispered, leaning in closer so that only you could hear. "I spent fifty years in the dark, believing that the music of the Rumbar Pirates was the only thing that kept me tethered to this world. I thought I was just a ghost, doomed to wander the Florian Triangle forever. But now... I realize that I am exactly where I belong. And you are the reason I am so grateful to be alive."
You reached out, covering his bony hand with yours. "You're not a ghost to me, Brook. You're the most alive person I know."
Brook’s jaw dropped in his classic comical shock, though his hold on your hand remained firm. "Oh! Y/N-san! To say such things to an innocent skeleton! You'll make my non-existent heart flutter right out of my chest! Yo-ho-ho-ho-ho!"
He laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the galley just as Sanji stepped over with a plate of breakfast for you.
"Stop flirting with the guests, you bag of bones," the cook grumbled, though a small, fond smile touched the corner of his lips. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."
"Ah, Sanji-san! Such hospitality!" Brook cheerfully accepted the plate, though he didn't let go of your hand. "A musician must keep his energy up, especially when he has a lovely lady to serenade!"
You laughed, taking a bite of your food while Brook, with exaggerated and elegant gestures, managed to eat his own meal without his face getting in the way.
It was a noisy, chaotic, and wonderfully normal morning for the Straw Hat Pirates.
But throughout the day, whether you were relaxing on the deck, helping Nami with the maps, or just watching the waves, Brook was never far behind.
He would offer you his umbrella when the sun got too hot, play a cheerful, upbeat tune to keep your spirits up while you worked, or simply sit beside you and share the quiet moments of the afternoon.
He was there, offering not just a presence, but a constant, emotional engagement that made you feel cherished and protected.
For a man who had once been entirely alone, every second spent with you was a treasure he refused to take for granted. He had realized his love for you, and he intended to spend the rest of his eternal life proving it.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and purple, you found yourself standing at the railing of the Thousand Sunny.
The sea breeze was cool, whipping your hair gently around your face. You leaned against the wood, watching the end of another adventure.
A gentle step sounded behind you, and a familiar yellow hat appeared in your peripheral vision. Brook stood beside you, leaning against the railing with a long, elegant sigh.
"The sunset is quite magnificent today, isn't it, Y/N-san?" he murmured, his violin case slung securely over his back.
"It really is," you agreed, turning to smile at him. "I think this has been one of the best days we've had in a while."
"And I believe it is because we have each other," Brook said softly. He reached out, his long, bony fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.
His touch was as light and careful as a falling feather, but the affection behind it was as heavy and solid as the anchor of the ship. "You have brought such brilliant color to this old skeleton's world. Even when we are sailing through the most dangerous waters, I never feel the cold anymore."
You leaned into his touch, your hand coming up to rest on the ivory curve of his cheekbone. "I love you, Brook."
Brook went perfectly still, the sea breeze ruffling his afro as he stared down at you. The love he felt for you was a living, breathing thing, vibrating deep within a soul that refused to be silenced.
He leaned his head slightly into your palm, his permanent grin widening with a genuine, ancient tenderness.
"And I love you, Y/N-san," he whispered, his voice trembling just enough to convey the depth of his emotion. "For all of eternity, and even beyond that."
He took a step back, sweeping an invisible hat off his head in a courtly, dramatic bow. "Now, my dear! The stars are beginning to come out, and a musician's work is never done! Allow me to play a song to welcome the evening—a tune that will surely be as beautiful as the lady standing before me!"
He pulled out his violin, resting it against his shoulder with practiced ease. As the first notes drifted into the cool night air, you stood by the railing, listening to the man who had survived fifty years in the dark to bring such beautiful music into your life.
The silence of the Florian Triangle was nothing but a memory now, replaced by a melody of love and companionship that you knew would echo for the rest of your days.
The rest of the crew might have been shouting and laughing below deck, but up here, the night belonged to the two of you.
And as Brook played the final, lingering note of the evening, he knew with absolute certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be—beside you, sharing the beautiful, unwritten music of your life together. . . . .
Doflamingo bringing you to a Gala event. You're in a beautiful, but thin, dress, and it's very obvious that there's a rope dress, and toys, beneath the fine silk and expensive accessories.
Of course the cameras and populace make conjecture about the symbolism of money and bondage, but the people directly at the Gala, past the red carpet, away from the cameras, know exactly what it is.
Because he turns on the vibrators
And they are blatantly loud.
And you are horribly sensitive. No one asks if he's drugged you, or if you've simply been trained, but the highlight of the Gala is when he suspends you in the middle of the ballroom, giving the guests an unobstructed view of you as you writhe in ecstasy.
Drool and pleasure puddled on the floor beneath you before you finally pass out.
it’s something he’s always been acutely aware of—a point of embarrassment. when he was a teen, he clumsily pierced them with an unsterile needle, hoping that the momentary pain and constant stimulation would desensitize them. instead, the delicate golden jewelry only seemed to pronounce his shame.
the first time you and zoro have sex, he harnesses his lifetime of discipline and restraint, barely clinging to coherence each time your soft chest meets his. he preoccupies your wandering hands and mouth with other parts of his body—his scarred fingers, his corded biceps, his chapped lips—until he’s fucking you in earnest.
he wants to blame it on you for milking every notion of sense and self-awareness from his body. but as he loses himself in increasingly sloppy strokes, one palm kneading your hip, the other coaxing you closer and closer to the edge of bliss, you dip your head. whisper-light, you tease his nipple with your tongue, laving at the barbell before grazing the peaked flesh with your teeth.
by the time zoro realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. a savage jolt of pleasure goes straight to his cock; unbidden, a sound between a moan and a growl rips itself from his lungs, his head falling back as he climaxes prematurely.
to say that he’s mortified would be an understatement.
if zoro wasn’t still rocking into you, working you through the apex and aftershocks of your orgasm, he would be out the door, jumping into the sea. he doesn’t know what to say when you peer up at him from beneath heavy lids, gaze warm and glazed over with desire. his usually-stony face is twisted up and crimson; there’s something akin to an apology on the tip of his tongue.
“whoa,” you muse, fingertips smoothing over his dewy pecs. “that was so fucking hot.”
lying there in heady silence for a moment, you catch your breath, soaking in your boyfriend’s bewildered expression. his reaction catches you off-guard—you thought he would be raring to go for another round. his cock is, after all.
you lean up, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “you’re not done yet...are you, big guy?”
maybe zoro shouldn’t be self-conscious, after all.
During his sun-weathered years, he’s indulged in virtually every other vice: pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth. He’s a pirate—not a hero, and certainly not a saint; he doesn’t care for such a narrow worldview that reduces people to “good” or “evil.” His sins weigh equally on his conscience, and another wouldn’t kill him. It’s just that his appearance never really struck him as important.
Starting when he was as a foul-mouthed youth, back when he was too scrawny to properly wield a bokken, he broke his body and rebuilt it day after day, month after month, year after year—all so it could stand to bear the weight of his dreams. Each muscle, tendon, and ligament was shaped through sheer grit, expertly honed into a weapon unfettered by the strictures of metal.
But as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, middle-age lapping at his scarred ankles, he can’t help but feel disheartened by his reflection. Not by the wrinkles that perpetually crease his forehead and tug at his eye and crinkle when he smiles, and not by the scar tissue that mars his flesh.
It’s his physique that bothers him.
Age has been kind to you, you told him recently, hands worshipful as you traversed his sloping hills and broad valleys—the very same you’ve mapped for the better part of your lives. His hulking, corded muscles aren’t gone; he’s much taller than he was when you met in your late teens, and he’s as bulky as ever. But he’s soft, now. The fruits of his labor are cushioned beneath a stubborn layer of fat.
(“Healthy fat,” you say matter-of-factly between mouthfuls of dinner, handing him another plate laden with food.
Tch.)
And it’s not like he’s lost any strength—he still trains incessantly. Hell, he can still pick you up and throw you around as though you weigh nothing, just like he did twenty years ago. He can still fu—
“What’s up?”
You pull your lover from his thoughts, the scowl that furrowed his brow relaxing as you step up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle.
Shaking his head, he turns to face you. “Nothin’ important.”
“You know I’d never lie to you, right?” You reach upward to cup his windblown cheeks. He sinks into your touch, a cat lazing in a stray beam of sunlight.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he teases, lips curling when you huff.
“Then please believe me when I say you’ve only gotten more impressive since I met you, Zo. Love suits you. Comfort suits you. I suit you.”
Zoro exhales through his nose. His steel gaze meets yours, its edges unfinished and raw—unusually vulnerable. Nosing at your hand, he presses a lingering kiss to your palm. “I’ll try to take your word for it.”
You sidestep him in the cramped galley, ignoring how the flesh of his arm burns you as it brushes against your shoulder. Tuning out the noisy chatter and clanking dishes, you worry your chapped bottom lip, darting to the door.
When the cool breeze kisses your face, you gulp it down with greed. The brine settles uncomfortably in your lungs, but you keep going, taking and taking and taking until you can’t anymore. It isn’t until you dry heave that the tears flow. They scald your cheeks in rivulets and drip down your chin, falling dejectedly onto the deck. The stars—shimmering pinpricks in the velvet night—offer you no comfort in their silence. But a sense of calm washes over you as you slow your breathing to match the lazy lap of the waves against the hull.
“The hell’s this all about?” Zoro demands to your back as he bursts outside, half-shouting.
(Tactless as ever.)
In a melodramatic fantasy, you imagine jumping overboard. The murky sea floor would grant you a moment’s peace, surely… But you know Zoro would dive in to save you without hesitation—then proceed to give you even more grief than he already has.
Instead, you snap.
“I just want to be left alone. Can you not be dense for—fuck, I don’t know!—five fucking seconds?” You don’t bother turning around to deliver your outburst, eyes fixed on the boundless horizon.
Your words are harsh, but they don’t rattle Zoro. What does concern him, however, is the syrupy thickness of your voice—the way it hitches and clumps as you speak. He’s beside you in three strides, coaxing you to face him with his warm, scarred palms, aching tenderness in his touch. You can’t meet his steel stare.
“Hey, look at me,” he entreats, gravel voice wrapped in silk. A callused thumb nudges your chin upward, your watery gaze meeting his concerned frown. “What’s goin’ on? Whatever it is, it’s gonna be okay.”
Shaking your head before he finishes speaking, a fresh sob bubbles past your lips, wet and desperate. You collapse into his chest as his strong arms encircle your waist, anchoring your bodies together. You weep to the tune of his steady heartbeat and the slow rock of the tide. The heaviness in your spirit feels insurmountable—a tsunami that will surely drown you.
Zoro rests his chin atop your head. “I’m always here,” he murmurs into your hair. “As long as you want me to be.”
I do, you think to yourself. I want you to be. But you don’t have to say it. Because he can hear it in the way your nails bite deeper into his skin, the way your emotion dampens the fabric of his shirt; so he holds you now. And he will continue to do so for as long as you’ll have him.
꒰ ˙✧ ˖° 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ༘ ˚ ꒱ Being a marine your duty to serve the government would always come first. Whether that was to your friends or family you would always have a clear priority in mind. A shame that your soon to be husband disagrees with this notion.
꒰ pairings! ꒱ yandere! shanks x reader! & yandere! mihawk x reader! ( separate )
꒰ author's note! ꒱ؘ : Decided to try my hand at a darker love story and was pretty satisfied how it turned out! Originally the reader wasn't supposed to be as toxic as they are but I just couldn't help myself lowkey.
— Red-haired Shanks
Being a Vice-admiral was rough on the soul. Having to deal with paperwork, annoying criminals that only knew how to cause trouble, and of course having to handle an overbearing Yonko.
So, maybe you did bring the last one down on your head. But who could blame you? Being the apprentice of Garp the Hero meant being exposed to a wide variety of pirates of the great era. Amongst the most important were the Roger Pirates, of course. Which was probably when you first laid your eyes on the bright bundle of red hair who was staring into your soul from behind the dock. It had not been something all that interesting to you at first. Matter of fact you dismissed it as something not worth your time, and instead focused on proving your worth to your mentor.
( Many would argue that bringing a child to a fight against one of the more notorious pirate crew would be insanity. However, you would argue that you turned out pretty well all things considered and it certainly wasn’t that bad )
What you didn’t consider was that such a cold dismissal had sparked something in the future captain of the red haired pirates that you would never quite be able to extinguish.
Shanks would after this moment repeatedly seek you out much to Buggy’s chagrin. It was like watching a moth desperately chase a flame — and try to fight it?
Well, when you’re raised in a pirate ship your whole life things may become a little warped in terms of behaving normally. For Shanks who had seen Roger fight Garp his whole life and call it ‘friendly roughhousing' it wasn’t too unexpected that he would copy what he saw.
This being going after you every time he saw you to fight as a way to get your attention. It baffled you at first — as you had believed the two cabin boys did not participate much in combat. Only to have to dodge a punch to your face in a normal afternoon. But you weren’t the one to backdown from a challenge, not back then and not even now. So you gave it your all right back to the scrawny red-haired boy that always seemed eager to chase after you.
What you didn’t know was that Shanks had surprised the whole crew by going after you. Their young protege had not been someone who sought after fights. Rather he dealt with them if they came to him or to his friend. So, seeing him be so eager to run after Garp’s young apprentice had left many scratching their head in confusion.
But not their Captain. The future king of the pirates had simply stared after Shank who seemed to be almost jumping in anticipation to see you again and laughed himself silly. Afterwards, it seemed that Roger left Shanks to his own devices when Garp was nearby, and if anybody asked he would simply shrug and call it “young love”
The intensity of the so called “young love” was upped by a hundred after the execution of Roger.
A day that would be engraved in the red haired’s memory for two reasons. The death of the man who raised him, and your presence. It had been a surprise to see you wondering around in the execution — Shanks didn’t think Garp would have let you witness the gory parts but perhaps he was mistaken.
Not that he had much time to think about what Garp was doing after being rejected by his closest friend under the rain. Shanks felt the rain seep into his clothes, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. The streets seemed to be empty, and he had forgotten where exactly Buggy had run off to. He felt too numb to acknowledge the tears dripping down his face as he stared down at his hands.
Until a hand grabbed his hand and brought him into an unsure hug. You had seen Shanks take off onto the distance and worried for someone you had considered a friend you took after him. Only to find him drenched by the rain like a pathetic cat that was thrown away.
You weren’t someone usually moved by pity, but to see someone who was usually so bright and cheerful drenched in rain looked like his life had been drained away did move your heart just a little.
However, if future you could go back into the past and stop you from comforting Shanks without doubt you would have done it without hesitation.
Because this very moment would give birth to your biggest headache know to earth.
Shanks became almost obsessive with how much he had started checking on your whereabouts. Sending you parts of the treasure he would obtain with his start up crew, and talking his crew’s ears off when it came to you. What had once been an innocent, albeit persistent, puppy love had snowballed into a possessive devotion from one of the strongest pirate this new era had ever seen.
And you? Well, initially you found it amusing. It was funny to think a pirate had fallen in love with a marine whose job was to bring the guillotine down on his head. A situation that would probably make him the butt of the joke in many places.
In the back of your mind you could admit that you held some sort of affection for the pirate that you deemed pathetic. However, the bigger part of you knew that most of the indulgences you let him take was to boost your ego. Having someone like him practically begging at your feet for your attention? Who wouldn’t be flattered?
But perhaps you had forgotten that you should never feed a stray dog; they always keep coming back for more.
So, perhaps you started indulging him. Perhaps you let him into your bed to have a good time with him. But who could blame you when whimpered so pretty? Batting his eyelashes and leaving his shirt unbuttoned every time he came into your bed at night. Clinging into you and shedding tears every time he wishes to sway you into keeping him longer by your side.
But at the end of the day. You were a marine. Somebody who shouldn’t let their affairs with a nefarious pirate get in the way of their job or a good relationship with a trustworthy civilian or fellow marine officer. Which was why you didn’t assume that Shanks would take it too personally when you started seeing other people. After all, it wasn’t a serious arrangement for you so why should it be one for him?
And the one day he found you indulging a young officer who had gifted you a bouquet of flowers to ask you out. Shanks, disguised as a marine, stared down with a blank look on his face at the marine who had pink cheeks and stuttering words, and then looked at you who had an amused smirk in your face while accepting the flowers.
His hands dug so deeply into the tree he was hiding behind that it caused a hole to be blasted into it.
Rage didn’t cut what he felt after seeing this. Neither did betrayal. What he felt was more easily compared to somebody reaching inside his chest and holding his heart tight enough that it caused death from pain.
The confrontation afterwards did not do him any good either.
“Who was that you were with?” Shanks asked as he cornered you in your office while staring daggers at the flowers you held in your arms with a detached look on your face.
Walking past him you gently set your flowers down on the table and took off your coat and shrugged nonchalantly.
“A nice recruit — truly kind of him to be looking out for me don’t you think?” You asked with a low chuckle. Shanks felt his eye twitching at the sheer rage he was experiencing and grabbed your shoulder so he could look straight into your eyes and twisted you around.
“Really? That’s all you have to say? A nice recruit? He was obviously asking you out!” You had never seen him quite like this. Shanks seemed to be loosing his grip on his temper as he stared at your unbothered face who seemed to find no issues with the situation.
“So what?” You said as you attempted to shrug his hand of your shoulders and put some distance between the two of you. Only for him to dig his hand more deeply and drag you back closer to him, “What we have is nothing serious. Especially with both of our positions.”
Your words seemed to have stunned him. Something you didn’t really understand. Thinking that he may have simply having one of his possessive streaks again you placed your hands in his waist and dragged him closer until both of your hips were touching one another.
“What’s wrong Shanks? Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” You asked with a lighthearted smile not noticing the way his haki seemed to be loosing control.
“Really, you’re thinking too much about this. I’ll still be seeing you, okey? But I need to start thinking about a relationship that will help me out.” The implication that this relationship that you both had was only dragging you down was not lost to him.
His hand slowly moved down until they rested on the hem of your shirt. And rested his head on your shoulders as the cogs in his head started turning.
“So that’s what you need, huh?” He muttered into your shoulders while slowly placing kisses on your neck. His hand moved down to get rid of the buttons that held your shirt together to place his hands on your chest, “Someone that’s strong?”
You chuckled and assumed this was just another conversation like the others you had before.
“Not only that. Someone that’s strong would help me in terms of reputation would be nice.” Now you were just talking about an unlikely fantasy. Getting with someone that was strong and had a good reputation? Unlikely.
That’s not what Shanks heard, though. He now knew that you would only seriously take his advances if he was strong enough that everybody would think twice before attacking him — or anybody under his protection. You let your shirt fall onto the ground, and spun both of you over so Shanks could rest against the wall while you leaned closer to him to press a kiss in his lips which he returned eagerly.
And then he smirked with a dark glint as he entangled his hands onto your hair. Already imagining a bright future for the both of you. If it included you without your white uniform then that was something that only he needed to know.
Months later his visits had started to decrease, and you had no doubts as to why. Everybody had heard about Shanks’ more active fights in the Grand Line, and the new world. Challenging pirates who had a strong standing to defeat them then taking their territory under their flag so fast it could be considered a sport. What you hadn’t expected was for Shanks to eventually clash with a Yonko and win. The marines around you were in a frenzy after hearing that there was a new Yonko, especially with the strong skills he was showcasing.
Many were expecting a bloodbath to start occurring with the new pirate having such a grand tittle.
You held no such worries. Shanks? Shanks who begged on his knees for you to let him sleep over? That Shanks?
And perhaps you had let the version of him in the bedroom and your personal life cloud your mind as to how much of a menace he could be. Which was why you hadn’t been bothered when you had been assigned to the New World.
Until you had woken up to Shanks lounging in one of the rooms’ chairs that was placed next to your bed. You startled yourself into a sitting position as you yelped. Your heart thumped in your chest as you looked at Shanks who greeted you with an easy smile and a wave of his right hand.
Ignoring your widened eyes he widened his smile and leaned forwards to be closer to you.
“It’s been a while! I’ve missed not seeing you so regularly.” He had the audacity to pout at you as if you both were old friends catching up.
You blinked rapidly at him almost sure that you could blink him away from reality.
“Shanks…? What are you doing here! If somebody catches you — “ You whispered with urgency as you yanked his shirt closer to you to shake him around. He chuckled with mirth as he let himself be yanked around. A lovesick glint in his eyes which you failed to notice became more prominent.
He gently placed his hands on top of yours, and rubbed his thumb across your hands who tightened their hold on his shirt.
“I’ve missed you.” He repeated his previous stamens as if that was enough to explain what he was doing here. In a guarded marine base that had more than just the average security.
You furrowed your eyebrows with annoyance now rising in the face of his nonchalant attitude. But just as you opened your mouth to rip him a new one a loud explosion rattled your bedroom and left you in a flight or fight mode.
You snapped your neck back to Shanks who sighed with annoyance and muttered, “Really, those guys don’t know how to take it easy.”
His tone resembled a child whining over spilled ice cream and you couldn’t help but look at him with an open mouth.
“I need to go!” You shouted as you attempted to run towards the door and figure out who exactly was attacking the base ( although in the back of your mind you were suspicious of who exactly was behind this ) but before you could get back a hand sneaked round your wait and dragged you back to bed.
You snapped your head back to shout at Shanks only for him to also move on the bed along with you and sit on top of your hips to keep you immobile.
“Shanks! Just what do you think you’re doing?! The base is —“ Just as you were about to attempt to leave again he placed one of his hands over your mouth to silence you and smiled down at you. For the first time since you’ve met him you couldn’t help but think that it looked quite sinister with the moonlight shinning down on him.
“Don’t be silly.” He tutted with the grace of someone chastising their pet for misbehaving.
“I’m the one who called this attack!” Shanks stated with closed eyes as his smile widened. He pressed down more harshly onto you as you attempted to get rid of his constricting hold.
“After all, you were the one to tell me you need someone strong right? Who better to do that than a Yonko.”
‘Was this man nuts?’ You thought as you stared back at him. Who could your words have been twisted into this?
However what you didn’t quite understand was why your limbs were becoming more sluggish. It was as if an invisible weight was pressing down on you. Your hands were they were attempting to push Shanks away only for them to loose their strength and become more of a light touch than an actual attempt to escape.
“Don’t worry, I understand this may be new to you but I think it’s time we both move forwards with our relationship.” Shanks stated as he let his hand fall away from your mouth and instead move to pet and caress your hair.
“But I already did what you wanted you know?” He whispered at a lower volume like a secret between the two of you, “I think it’s time we both do what I want.”
— Mihawk Dracule
You were one of the top contestants for the open position of CP0. A marine who specializes in covert operations and gathering of information. It truly was your speciality.
But perhaps your own strength dragged you too close to the sun. The reason for this? Your most recent target had been Dracule Mihawk, and your part of the mission had gone exceptionally well. Everybody’s else part? Not so well.
A rising swordsman who had been terrorizing anybody who he deemed a ‘worthy’ swordsman was more of a pain than your marine higher ups realized. This man was know was Dracule Mihawk and he seemed determined who challenge anybody who he deemed challenge worthy. However, he didn’t seem to show any mercy onto anybody who got on his way either. Which was why seven marine warships had been lost to his ire. This swordsman seemed to challenge anybody who crossed his path that was strong indiscriminately. Whether it was marine, revolutionary, or even a bounty hunter.
And it had become a problem faster than anybody expected. Which was why you were dispatched. Before making another reckless decision your boss decided that gathering information regarding the man’s weakness would be beneficial for the marines. Going as far as to offer you a promotion if this mission went well.
With eagerness you accepted and started planning how to make contact with your target.
Thankfully for you there was an edge you had over other agents that would make it more likely for Mihawk to approach you.
Your swordsman skills.
You certainly weren’t worthy enough to be put in the level of an admiral but your skills are regarded as one of the best in the marines.
Which was why you decided to take a simple route of approach and challenge him to a duel. Although you doubted you could defeat him without serious injuries, a duel would be easier to control rather than a battle to the death.
And it was a success.
This man had accepted your duel and won just like you expected. However he seemed quite eager for a rematch. Claiming that you could better than that. The fact that he realized that you were holding back was a suprised, but not an unwelcome one. As you twisted it into your favor to keep yourself closer to him for a while longer.
“Ah! I recently got into a little spat with some pirates so I’m not in my best shape.” You mentioned offhandedly noticing how his eyebrow twitched in annoyance at the idea of his opponent not being in their top shape when fighting him.
“Could I buy you dinner as an apology?” This was supposed to make you look a little pathetic and not much of a threat. After all, what type of person invites their opponent for a drink after loosing a fight? However, you had not expected for him to actually ponder it silently then nod in acknowledgment.
As he sheathed his sword you were left a little out of your depth as you realized that this man who had started to become feared across the four seas had accepted to eat dinner with you. It was almost enough to make you smile in victory. Almost.
So, that was how your afternoon went. You invited Mihawk to a nice restaurant in town to eat alongside you. Although, you hated to admit it this was more enjoyable than you had realized. You expected a man who would boast of his accomplishments to his opponents to boost his own ego. Instead, you met a man who was surprisingly thoughtful and not that bad of a company.
A shame he wasn’t a marine. You would have loved to take him out on an actual date. But duty calls so instead of lamenting your losses you upped your own act to make it obvious in what sense you were interested in him.
A light touch on his upper arm, a laugh that was just a little too eager, and your body resting just a little too into his personal space to be a coincidence. At the end of the night you had given him your Den den mushi number with the clear expectation of making this a reoccurring event.
However, just as a precaution you mentioned offhandedly that in a couple of days you would be in your top shape and you wouldn’t mind a second round.
Under the moonlight at night, your vision must have failed you because you could almost fool yourself into believing you had seen a ghost of a smile in his face. But in the next second after you blinked it was as if nothing had occurred so you shook it off.
While Mihawk went back to his boat looking a little more at ease you went back to a private room to report your findings to your superiors. And your positive progress of the mission. Depending on the information you brought throughout the mission was what the end goal would be. Whether that was ambushing the swordsman or recruiting him was none of your business. As long as you committed your mission correctly you did not care for anything else.
And just like you expected a couple of days later you received a call from the infamous swordsman. Who demanded your presence like a king did for his jester.
“Demanding aren’t we?” You teased as if you both were old friends. A smile on your face as you waved at the outlaw in front of you who seemed to be waiting under a palm tree with his arms crossed.
Once he saw you he grunted in acknowledgment and rolled his eyes, but didn’t correct you or make you stop your teasing behavior.
“You’re late.” He stated as he raised an eyebrow before turning his back on you to start walking towards the field both of you would be clashing at.
You chuckled good heartedly and followed him while making idle chat. Taking any comment he didn’t ignore as encouragement that progress was being made.
‘And this is the cold-hearted swordsman everybody fears?’ You thought with a secretive smile as you stared at his side profile. Deciding not to mention that he had purposely arrived earlier at the meeting spot.
This back and forth continued occurring. A spar between the two of you would occur and then you would spout an outlandish excuse as to why you both needed to clash again, and he would accept it. Of course these would always end with you dragging him somewhere to visit or eat at. It was almost baffling to you with how much he let you get away with. Taking him by the hand like you both were lovers, buying him clothes for him to wear, and even demanding him to help you get better with the sword.
Eventually it would all reach a new level when the weather became harsh enough that your spoken worries of sickness would sway him enough to stay at a hotel with you over night. One that just so happened to only have one room left with one bed.
And perhaps you let your hand trailed long enough to imply something, your smile may have become more seductive, and your words took a more suggestive tone to them. Enough so that once you both got to the room he didn’t stop you when your hand trailed to the back of his neck. Or when your lips touched his throat in a slow manner, and perhaps he was also looking forwards to this with the speed in which he let his clothes fall onto the ground.
You took him by the hand and lead him to the only bed that was present in the room. Slowly pushing him down until you were straddling him and intertwined your hands together to place them in your waist. Taking note of the soft pink hue that appeared on his cheeks you leaned closer until your mouth was next to the shell of his ear.
“I’ve been looking towards this for a while you know?” You mentioned like you were commenting on the weather and not about having your way with him.
Mihawk grunted and shifted his hips to be closer to yours and muttered in a tone that if you didn’t know any better would call bashful, “I’m aware.”
You chuckled and started trailing kisses down his throat.
“And you just let me? Were you that eager to see me chasing after you?” You muttered in a low volume with the intent of teasing him. Keeping a keen eye on the way he momentarily looked away and cleared his throat with some fluster.
“It’s okay — I quite liked it.” You whispered like it was a secret between the two of you nobody was allowed to know. And just for this night you let yourself think you both were lovers that were simply taking the next step in your relationship and that you weren’t on a mission to ruin him by the marines.
What you weren’t aware of was that Mihawk was by far a hesitant man. Taking more drastic measures with those who started getting in the way of your time together. Marines who he would usually just gravelly injure started getting killed, and pirates that gave him too long of a glance while looking to fight would get beaten down without time to showcase their skills. Something that he previously avoided doing to savor the clash between swords. He had almost become a mad dog since meeting you.
Which was all that the marines needed to know to believe that he couldn’t be reasoned with and should instead be put down before he became a bigger issue.
This was the order that you received a week after you spent your first night with him. And like the good soldier you were you followed through. Not before giving him a last kiss on the cheek. Which he wouldn’t know would be your so called ‘goodbye’ kiss.
Your new task? Get him to go to a remote island to be ambushed by marine personnel. Of course, you wouldn’t personally fight him head on. Rather your invitation to another spar would drive him to go to this specific location where he would be ambushed and put down for good.
Your mission was deemed a success up to that point. Everybody’s else? Not so much.
You wouldn’t only be made aware of this once your personal Den den mushi started to ring in the middle of the night. Assuming it was your boss you responded like you had been programmed to do so.
“Marine officer reporting to duty—“
“Cute.” A low voice muttered through the connection device which was not your boss. This voice was one you had made cry out in pleasure and had become familiar with through the span of months. The voice that had filled you with warmth now only filled you with cold, cold dread.
“…how did you get this number?” You questioned with as much professionalism you could inject into your shaky tone. The person across the line made a ‘tsk’ sound as if he was chastising you for such a foolish comment.
“Perhaps we should ask the man who had this transporter snail.” The man who you knew as Mihawk stated with a flat tone that did wonders to hide the rage that was coursing through his veins, “However, he is incapacitated at this moment.”
He commented as if what your superior was going through was a common cold that made it difficult for him to speak and not his limbs being amputated from his body in a cruel manner that had left him in suffering for as long as possible.
“Mihawk—“ Your sentence got cut off by the swordsman who started speaking with a tone that was as sharp as his sword.
“I thought that what you needed was time.” He mentioned while making a clean slash of his sword to get rid of the blood that was now coating Yoru. Surrounding him were the leftovers of the eight warships which had attempted to take him down. Wood splattered across the floor from the slashes he made to the so called ‘impenetrable’ ships. Alongside were the bodies of hundreds of marine officers alongside two vice admirals which had underestimated just how much of a hassle it would to take this swordsman.
Mihawk started taking some steps onto the shore while efficiently avoiding the bodies that were still twitching in the ground, “I am not a fool, and I do not enjoy being made one.”
Before you could speak Mihawk continued talking and his next words would leave you petrified.
“From the start I was aware you were a marine. I am not unaware of what goes behind the close doors of the marines — I simply do not care for it.” Your mouth was left opened in disbelief at what you were hearing through the phone.
“I let you keep your charade because I knew your guilt was the only thing keeping you back from being truthful.” He muttered while slowly turning his blank face into a frown that you had never seen before aimed at you.
“I let you into my bed believing that it would be the last step you would need to give yourself completely to me.” Like a man who wasn’t used to being wrong his words seemed stilled as if they didn’t want to completely leave his mouth.
“However, this?” You didn’t have to see what he was pointing at to know what he was referring to. You closed your eyes and put your hands in your head at the absurdity of the situation. You? Feel guilty? What type of nonsense was he spouting?
“Perhaps I let your leach be too wide. I’ll make sure to certify such mistake.” You almost sputtered with indignity. You? Having a leach from the man who allowed himself to be dragged around like a well trained dog? It was ridiculous!
“So I’ll give you one warning,” You were tempted to interrupt but you felt as if you would greatly regret it in the future if you went through it, “You can hide as much as you want, but I’ll hunt you down and make those around you pay for this betrayal of yours.”
You gulped with trepidation after hearing the promise in his tone, and you were left without leg to stand on in this situation.
“Mihawk, sweetheart — can’t we talk this out? I know this looks bad, but surely this is too much for this type of situation.” You were grasping straws and you knew it. There was no way you could turn this in your favor. The mission had completely failed and Mihawk now had a personal vendetta against you and possibly the marines.
“Is that it?”, He asked with an entertained tone of voice you doubted was completely without anger, “Perhaps I should teach you a thing or two about begging for forgiveness. Do not fret I’ll make sure to be throughout once I find you.”
Those were his last words before he hung up on you. Leaving you with tremors in the hand that you had be holding your Den den mushi with. It was as if his presence had filled your room for a moment. A finality on his words that let you know he would make sure they were made a reality. You couldn’t even comfort yourself with the promotion you were going to get. Having a sinking feeling in your gut that this was far from over.
And you were unfortunately right.
Mihawk made himself notorious for the marines. Making sure to hunt down anybody that wore the white uniform and efficiently taking care of them albeit cruel enough to leave many begging for mercy.
There was no place in the four seas that was safe from his wrath. Nobody that was not part of the mission knew what exactly the marines had done to earn his wrath.
The government had lost thousands of marines alongside millions of berries with the damage that Mihawk had cause every time he was spotted. It was bad enough that the Fleet Admiral had to get involved. Unsurprising, as he had been the one to reccomend your boss to deal with Mihawk.
His solution? Offer Mihawk Dracule a position as a warlord. A position that was denied for months until a second clase was offered. Which by that point the damage had become severe enough that he had been recently called, “The strongest swordsman in the four seas”.
So what type of clause could they offer to make him consider the offer of becoming a warlord?
You.
Even to get such a strong asset into their hands the Marines refused to completely hand over an officer to someone that was considered an outlaw.
So the solution? You would become a supervisor of the swordsman. Glorified babysitting is what some would call it. A date with the guillotine is what you would call it. Worse part of this? There was no other position you could go to while being the supervisor of a warlord. It was impossible to leave the job as he would accept nobody else and as a result resign the position. You were in a cage and you had were becoming keenly aware that it seemed to have no door.
So, you accepted your task with none of the joy that the Pirate King seemed to have at his execution. What can you say? Not everybody was excited to meet their end.
As you walked back to your office you couldn’t help but drag your feet along the way. Knowing that you would get one week before having to meet with Mihawk, the bane of your existence.
You opened the door and closed it with the speed of someone who had the devil on their toes. Which wouldn’t be too far when you consider the situation you found yourself in.
However just as you did that your chair spun around to reveal Mihawk. Who was calmly nursing a glass of wine ( your wine ) and sitting down with the grace of someone who belonged there.
For a second you stared at each other in silence. Before you attempted to sprint back out from your office only to stop last minute as Mihawk’s words reached your ears.
“Take a step out of that door and only you and I will be left alive by the end of today.” He stated with the calmness of someone who knew that there was nobody in this building who could truly pose a challenge to him. The admirals were nowhere near and neither was the fleet admirals. Those who were in this building were of less ranking than a vice admiral. You were truly trapped.
“Mihawk…” You muttered with apprehension as you saw the sword that was resting on his lap.
“It’s been a while hasn’t it, beloved?” He stated with a small quirk of his lip. You had no doubt that he was finding sadistic amusement from this. Before you could answer he continued as if you had responded.
“I am a man of my word at the end of the day so I thought I should start your lessons early.” Your body shuddered at the implications of his anger being directed at you, “So, how about you start your apologies by getting on your knees?”
Although he worded the sentence as a question it was the furthest it could be from it.
And you were keenly aware you would never get away from this man unless he killed you first.
other pirates / marine - m!one piece x chubby fem!reader
You give him a full body massage
featuring. shanks, dracule mihawk, donquixote doflamingo, charlotte katakuri, crocodile, caesar clown, buggy, smoker
cw/tags (19+ Only | Minors DNI). established relationship/situationship, fluff, massages, light humor, banter, moments of vulnerability
Shanks
"Alright, shirt off, captain. I mean it this time."
Shanks laughed, already tugging the fabric over his head with his arm and launching it across the room like a flag of surrender. "You know, most people just buy me a drink."
"Most people haven't watched you wince reaching for every bottle today. Lie down."
He threw himself face-first onto the bed with the enthusiasm and you climbed up beside him, swinging one leg over to straddle his lower back, your full weight settling onto your knees. He groaned loudly before your hands even made contact.
"Shanks, I haven't even started yet."
He shrugged. "I'm pre-enjoying it."
You decided he didn't need a warning before you started and pressed down on the space between his shoulder blades. The groan that came out of him was raw and deep, nothing like his pre-enjoyment one. "Fuuuuuuck, baby.--Yeah, that's the good stuff."
It became clear to you that years of one-armed swordsmanship and casual brawling had turned his muscles into a landscape of neglect. You dug your thumbs along the ridge of his spine in slow ascending circles, and every ounce of tension left his body at once.
"Do you ever actually take care of yourself?" you asked, leaning your entire bodyweight into a knot near his armed shoulder that felt like a buried stone.
"That's what I have you for," he mumbled, words already dissolving into the pillow.
You shook your head, smiling, and moved lower. His back was a map of old battles he laughed about at dinner but clearly still felt. Your knuckles rolled along the tight bands above his hips and he shifted beneath you with a sound that heated your face.
You kept going anyway, thorough and unhurried, tracing every abused muscle from neck to tailbone before pulling his arm toward you and working down from shoulder to fingertip. Each scarred knuckle uncurled as you rubbed the calluses smooth.
Minutes passed. His breathing had gone deep and rhythmic, red hair spilled everywhere like a tide.
"Hey Shanks... You awake?"
Silence. He was out like a light.
Dracule Mihawk
"Take your coat off."
Mihawk studied you from across the room, those hawk-gold eyes of his followed each movement as you set out oil and cleared the floor.
"I have no injuries requiring attention..."
"Three days of nonstop training and you haven't loosened your grip on that sword once. Your forearms are doing the talking your mouth won't. Coat. Off. Now."
A beat of silence. Then, without breaking eye contact, he undressed with meticulous precision, each garment folded and placed down with care.
He somehow made even this feel like a duel he intended to win on composure alone.
He laid face down on the arranged blankets, and every line of his body remained perfectly rigid. You knelt beside him, laid both palms flat between his shoulders, and met exactly what you'd anticipated, refusal to yield in every fiber of his back.
"Y'know, breathing would help."
"I am breathing."
"You're rationing air. Breathe out, all the way."
He complied, and you rode that exhale down, driving your thumbs deep into the muscles at the base of his skull. One finger beside his head twitched. Nothing else. But you learned his body language by now, and that twitch was practically a shout.
You used your forearms next, pressing them flat along the broad planes of his back and rolling forward with your full body behind each stroke. The man was corded steel from neck to hip. You found each place where the tension had fossilized and bore down without apology, patient and relentless, matching his stubbornness with your own.
When you finally gathered one forearm into your lap, his fingers were locked as if he was still gripping his sword. You pressed both thumbs into his muscles, working from elbow to wrist in slow passes and felt the his grip loosen by a degree. His hands were large with long fingers, and you gave each one your attention until his hand rested open against your thigh.
"You are..." He paused for long enough that you thought he might not finish. "...remarkably persistent."
"Learned from the best. He carries a giant sword and stubborn as a mule in his own way."
His eyes remained closed, but the corner of his mouth shifted by exactly one millimeter.
Donquixote Doflamingo
"Fuffuffu, and here I thought tonight was going to be boring."
He was sprawled across the couch, legs stretched to the length of it, feathered coat fanning out behind him in every direction. The grin hadn't left his face since you made the suggestion to massage him. If anything, it got wider.
"I'm going to need you to take this seriously for once in your life."
"I take everything seriously. Especially entertainment."
"Shut up and strip 'Mingo, I won't ask again."
He stood, and the full absurd height of him unfolded until you were craning your neck. His coat dropped first, its pink feathers pooling on the floor. Then his shirt. He made a show of it, rolling his shoulders, turning so you could see every carved line of his torso. Performing even though his audience was just you.
He dropped onto the bed stomach-first with enough force to bounce the mattress. His chin propped on folded arms, sunglasses still perched in place.
"There, happy? Now impress me."
You straddled his lower back and your thighs barely spanned the width of him. The terrain ahead was almost absurd, acres of taut muscle that seemed to go on forever. You placed both palms flat on his shoulders and drove downward with everything you had.
The grin flickered.
"That all you've go--"
Your elbow found the snarl of tension beneath his left shoulder blade and ground into it with a slow, merciless rotation. His sentence died and his teeth ground together. Through his locked jaw came one tight exhale that he absolutely did not want you to hear.
You smirked seeing his body ever so slightly. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"...Just keep going bitch."
His attempt to mock you landed on deaf ears as your fists tracked up his spine, pressing into each groove. Your thumbs then carved channels through the bunched muscles of his neck. When you shifted lower and dug into the knotted bands along his ribs, his fingers twisted the sheets into white-knuckled fistfuls.
"For a bitch I seem to be doing a good job at unravelling you, no?" you said as your palms swept across his lower back.
"Get over yourself." he muttered, voice stripped of its usual venmon, sunglasses slid halfway down his nose. You lifted them off and put them on yourself.
"Mmm, no.--Also, these are mine now."
It was fortunate you were his favourite, otherwise you'd be dead by now.
Charlotte Katakuri
He almost refused. But his shoulder had been bothering him all day, and he knew you caught him rolling it when he thought nobody was looking.
"For me?" you asked quietly, the concern in your voice made his walls crack immediately.
He held your gaze for a long breath, then lowered himself to the floor without a word. A standard bed couldn't hold and you prepared for this, layering every spare blanket into a pallet wide enough for him. He settled face down, arms folded beneath his forehead, and the sheer scale of him made the room feel small.
You climbed onto his back like scaling a hillside. Your knees bracketed his spine, your full weight was barely anything to him. The muscles under your hands felt less like a body and more like building. Dense, enormous, and reinforced.
"Where does it hurt the most?" you started.
"It... doesn't hurt."
"Katakuri, I know what I saw earlier, don't lie to me."
He paused. "...Between my shoulders."
You found it immediately. A knot the size of your fist buried deep in the thick muscle that connected his neck to his shoulder. You stacked both thumbs on top of it and bore down, letting gravity and your entire body feed the pressure. His ribs expanded in a long, uneven breath, and the exhale that followed came out with hesitance.
You stayed there until the knot surrendered, then moved outward across the vast terrain of his back, driving your elbows into the places your hands couldn't reach deep enough.
He was silent through most of it, but his breathing kept betraying him, catching in small places when you found pain points he'd been tolerating for too long.
"Everyone relies on you," you said, working your fists along the muscles above his hips. "Who do you relies on though?"
No answer. But one massive hand drifted back and found your knee. His fingers curled around it and stayed, thumb resting against the curve of your leg.
The tension left him in layers as you continued massaging him, like peeling back years of standing guard.
"You can come me for help sometimes," you told him. "I'm not going anywhere."
His grip on your knee tightened once. Brief and deliberate.
That was his answer and it was enough for you.
Crocodile
The office had gone quiet hours ago. His pen moved across documents with mechanical precision, but you'd noticed his shoulders creeping higher and higher toward his ears over the last hour. A tell he'd never admit to having.
"Come with me."
"No."
"That wasn't a question." You walked to the desk and planted both hands flat on the papers he was writing on. "You're turning into a gargoyle. Your neck will be a lost cause if you sit here for another hour."
His pen stopped, heavy-lidded eyes lifting to meet yours, and for a moment you thought he'd dismiss you entirely. But something in the way you held his gaze must have landed, because he set the pen down and followed you without speaking.
His shirt came off behind the closed door, and he laid face down on the mattress like he was submitting to a medical procedure.
You took your place beside him and pressed your fingers into the column of his neck. Granite. Absolute granite from skull to shoulder, every tendon was pulled so tight you could have plucked them like strings. You braced one hand against his shoulder and dug the thumb of the other deep into the muscle below his ear, dragging downward.
Nothing. Not a sound or even a twitch. The man could take a cannon blast without flinching, so you hadn't expected this to be easy anyways.
You laid both your forearms flat across his upper back and leaned forward, letting your full body become the tool, rolling slow and heavy from his shoulders toward his spine. Something deep in the tissue gave way with an almost audible release, and his breathing changed. Just barely. A fraction slower on the exhale.
"Finally found it," you murmured.
"Found what."
"The part where your body finally admits it's human."
He said nothing to that, but didn't argue either, which from Crocodile amounted to a admission.
You kept working, mapping the topography of old damage across his back. Healed fractures. Scar tissue thick as rope. Places where the muscle had rebuilt itself around trauma and never quite learned to let go. You honored each one, pressing around it, coaxing the surrounding tissue to loosen its grip.
His hook rested at his side, motionless. But his remaining hand, curled beside his head, had gradually opened as you worked your way down his spine.
"Every now and then," you said while continuing your work, "you could just tell me when something hurts."
A very long silence.
"...This is enough for now."
Your lips twitched and you pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and his breathing told you he'd finally, grudgingly, let go of the tension.
Caesar Clown
"Shurororo! What is happening?! Why are there candles?!"
He was orbiting the room at ceiling height, legs trailing into vapor, pointing at your setup with the kind of alarm usually reserved for a chemical spill. The pillows, the oil, the cleared table, all of it apparently constituted a threat to his scientific worldview.
"It's a massage. You need one desperately. Get down here!"
"I need nothing of the sort! My body operates at peak efficiency! Every cell is performing exactly as it--"
"You literally cried picking up a beaker this morning."
"That was an involuntary vocalization brought on by a temperature fluctuation!"
"Okay fine. It was a yelp, Caesar. A tiny, sad yelp. If you want your lackeys to hear it next time fine, if not, get on the table."
He materialized his full form with reluctance, landing on the floor and shedding his lab coat with the wounded dignity of a man being asked to surrender state secrets.
Beneath it, his frame was lean and hunched, the product of someone who treated his own body as an afterthought to his brain. He arranged himself face down on the table, still muttering about having his work interrupted.
You placed your hands on his upper back and felt the full scope of his neglect. His muscles had layer upon layer of tension from countless nights passed out over research notes in positions that would make a chiropractor weep.
Your thumbs pressed into the channels beside his spine and he made a noise like a teakettle releasing steam. High, involuntary, immediately followed by a fierce(?), "--I meant to do that."
"Of course you did hun."
You worked up towards his neck, where the muscles had shortened and bunched from perpetual hunching. Each knead drew another sound out of him, a squeak here, a sharp inhale there that he couldn't govern no matter how hard he tried. When you found a cluster of knots between his shoulder blades and pressed your knuckles into them with slow rotation, his fingers gripped the edges of the table and his forehead dropped flat against the cushion.
"This is," he started, voice cracking, "purely therapeutic and I am only allowing it because a healthy body supports a healthy mind and--"
"Caesar for fucks sake, just enjoy it."
A strangled pause. "...Fine."
You moved to his arms, where the muscles were wiry and perpetually clenched from pipette work and stirring and whatever chaos his hands got up to in the lab each day. His fingers fought you at first, but you coaxed each one open with patient pressure until his hands lay flat and still.
By the time you finished, his eyes were barely open. You brushed his hair off his forehead and his whole face turned toward your touch on instinct, chasing it without thought or pretense.
"Tomorrow?" you asked.
One eye cracked open. He tried to summon something imperious and landed somewhere closer to hopeful.
"I suppose I'll allow it, if it proves to improve my workflow."
Buggy
"No. Absolutely not. Nope. Not happening. I know what this is, this is a setup, you're going to crack my spine and I'll split into forty pieces and then who's going to put me back together, huh? WHO!?"
He'd been backing away from you since you mentioned the word "massage," both hands up, nose red with indignation, feet already lifting off the floor in preparation for a full aerial retreat.
You caught him by the wrist before he could float away.
"Buggy. Sit down, while I'm still asking nicely."
"I will NOT sit down! I am Captain Buggy, the genius, the legend, the future King of the Pirates, and I will not be manhandled into some--"
"You've been rubbing your own neck for two days and whimpering in your sleep."
His mouth opened then closed before pausing for a moment. "...I do not whimper."
"Try telling that to someone who you don't sleep with next time, maybe they'll believe you." You let your implication hang in the air without clarification.
He sat reluctantly on the edge of the bed, rigid as a plank, eyeing the bottle of oil in your hand like it contained poison. His outfit came off in stages, each piece removed with exaggerated caution, until he was bare from the waist up and looking at you like a man about to face execution.
"If anything detaches, that's on you."
"Noted, wouldn't be a first time. Turn around." Again, you let the implication hang.
It was a mystery if he was reading between the lines or not.
He obeyed, presenting you with a back that was carrying tension in places you didn't know tension could live. You settled behind him, your legs on either side of his hips, and pressed both thumbs into the muscles at the base of his neck.
The noise he made could only be described as a deflation. Every cubic inch of bluster leaving his body in a single, trembling exhale. His head dropped forward like someone had cut the strings holding it up.
"Oh~" he breathed. "Oh, that's...Mm!"
"Good yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
You grinned against his shoulder and kept working. His muscles were a patchwork of strain and neglect, tight everywhere, tender in most places. You kneaded across his shoulders, pressing your chest against his back for leverage, and felt each knot pop and release beneath your fingers. He twitched and hissed at the sore spots but leaned into you rather than pulling away, his body betraying what his mouth refused to admit.
When you moved to his arms, things got complicated. Your thumb pressed too deep into his bicep and the forearm below the elbow detached entirely, floating gently upward. You caught it without breaking rhythm, tucked it against your lap, and kept massaging the upper portion.
"Sorry! That happens when I, uh--"
"I know. Relax. I've got it." You reattached the forearm and ran your palms down the full length, smoothing over the seam until his fingers uncurled. He watched you handle the disconnected pieces of him without flinching, and something in his expression crumbled quietly in a place he thought you couldn't see.
You moved behind him again and pulled him back until he was leaning against your chest, your arms wrapped around his middle, chin resting on his shoulder. His hand found yours and held on.
"That's probably enough for today, should we do this more often?" you asked, knowing that despite being together for a while now, he didn't totally believe your motives yet.
He simply nodded as he realized maybe--maybe, you liked him genuinely.
Smoker
He had been standing at the railing for over an hour, jacket open, two cigars burning low between his teeth, staring out into the ocean. You watched the way he kept rolling his left shoulder and decided enough was enough.
"Inside. Now."
He turned his head just enough to look at you sideways. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You've been grinding your teeth and favoring that shoulder since this morning. I set everything up already, so you can either walk in there with me or I can make a scene in front of your entire crew."
He recognized that arguing on this would cost him more energy than complying, so he bit down on both cigars, exhaled a thick cloud through his nose, and followed you below deck without another word.
His quarters were sparse. Military neat. You cleared the small table and covered it in folded blankets to give him somewhere to lie down. He eyed the setup, then you, then back at the setup.
"Cigars first." you stated, holding your hand out to receive them.
"No."
"Smoker, do you want me to scream? In your quarters no less? HR will be back on your ass quick, after you just got them to leave us alone."
He held your gaze for five full seconds before pulling them from his mouth and placing them in the ashtray near his bunk. The jacket fell next, then the shirt beneath it, revealing a torso built like a battering ram. Stocky and thick, packed so dense with muscle that you knew your fingers had their work cut out for them.
He dropped onto the table face down, arms folded tight beneath his forehead. He was rigid from scalp to heel. Braced, like he expected a fight to break out at any moment.
You started at his shoulders, pressing your palms flat against the broad caps of muscle and squeezing with slow, deliberate force. He held steady for the first few passes, giving you absolutely nothing.
So you changed tactics. Both thumbs stacked on top of each other, you found the gnarled mess buried deep in his left shoulder and bore straight down into it.
His breath left him in a rough, involuntary burst. His fingers curled once against his own forearm.
"There we go~" you murmured in satisfaction to yourself and kept the pressure steady until the knot began to lose its hold.
His lower back was a different story entirely. Everything he carried sat right there, locked into the thick columns of muscle on either side of his spine. You folded both fists and pressed them in, rolling upward with your full weight, and a groan came out of him so loud you swore it it vibrated the table.
"Not. A. Word," he said immediately.
"Damn, maybe HR's gonna come for me instead this time.."
"The hell did I just say?"
You bit down on your grin and kept going. When you finished, you sat on the edge of the table beside him. His eyes were still open, but barely, the permanent furrow between his brows smoothed for once.
"Feel better?"
He grunted, reached for his cigars, and paused. Then his hand changed direction and landed on your thigh and squeezed once as he exhaled smoke.
"...Yeah."
TAG LIST: @matronofthevoid
a/n. This is for a peer who has been recovering from surgery. Hope you enjoyed and are feeling better/taking better care of yourself than the sillies up above!
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: this is a request from a reader followed into a part 2! I'm in the worst writers block since the dawn of time & this really helped me to get my brain flowing again; thank you dear reader (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ❞
Vinsmoke Sanji
It was in the evening — he was prepping the ingredients for tomorrow’s breakfast when you trudged inside. He didn’t glance or look, just from the foot steps alone; he knew his pretty girl had come in.
“I’ll be right there beautiful, just need to prep these—”
You take him in a hug from behind. Face pressing into his spine.
His chopping, halts.
Blinking, eyes going wide.
“Er—”
You nudge your face into his back and he flinches, his back arching when you press yourself even deeper.
A shiver running down his shoulders—a pleasant one.
“H-hey, what’s with the sudden attention—?”
“Shhh.” You mumble into his shirt, he smells good. Like cologne, like those fancy cigarettes he so likes and cooking wine. A bit sweet, almost. You want more of it, more of him.
“Just enjoy this moment whilst you still can, Sanji.”
He drops his chopping knife. Prepping forgotten.
He turns, however rigid, and faces you.
You don’t let go of him no, you immediately press your face back into him, into his chest.
Arms wrought around his waist.
Sanji leans back against the counter, one hand going to the small of your back, and the other to take a quick smoke before plucking out his cigar. Jaw going up so not to blow smoke in your face.
Damn. Sorry Luffy but he has to admit it. He could die right here, right now, and be the happiest man alive.
He looks down to you “Why are you spoiling me today? Did you like the parfait that much? I’ll make some more if you want, if it means I'll get more of this.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” you nuzzle into his chest, smiling. “I just missed you. That’s all. Promise.”
And he chuckles at that.
Locking you in an embrace, hands on the small of your back. Trying to breathe as slow as possible as he leans his cheek against your hair.
“Don’t hesitate missing me more often.”
Smoker
(note: opla smoker... i'm not over him, not anytime soon)
Reports regarding the recent incidents at the harbour has been delivered — and that’s what he was over seeing, back leaned against his chair, legs tossed up his office table and on his third cigar of the hour.
And when you peeked inside, you’ll earn yourself a look over his report papers. And earning even an accusing brow when he sees the little mischievous smile on your face.
“Whatever gotten you giddy — better not force me to scold you.” he says as you tiptoe forward, hands behind your back as you come close. And when he returns his glance to his reports once again—that’s when you entrap him in an embrace.
Your nose nestling to his neck. Breath hot on his throat.
He freezes. Blinks twice. Before digging his molars into his cigar and giving you a hard glance.
“Hey, doll, is everything as it should—”
You withdraw. Cupping his stupidly handsome face, before leaning in, kissing him on the cheek. His nose. His temple. His chin and jaw and everywhere else. Lipstick marks all over his face. He’s bashed pink.
“You’re so handsome, I want to eat you.”
“… right—” and before he can continue, you manoeuvre into his lap and bury your face into his neck.
A proud, pleasant, victorious smile appears on your face when you hear him drop the reports, drill down his cigar and widen his knees to make space for your seat.
You resist calling him a good boy.
His larger palm goes to the small of your back, just resting there before taking hold of your jaw, grip firm as he makes you look at him.
“What’s with all the attention today? Are you well?” he says, rubbing your lower lip with his thumb — all business and broody and you snort. Not taking him seriously with all those lipstick marks across his face. “Just shut up and enjoy this moment before it passes.” That’s all you say before you bury into his chest again.
And he leans back, heart beating a little too fast. A little too hard.
And you know what?
Sure.
He’ll take it.
Whatever his pretty girl says.
Dracule Mihawk
He was cooking, chopping up vegetables with such precision and focus you almost think he’s going on a limb, and not a carrot. That’s when you trudge inside the kitchen, and he hears you. Not withdrawing his gaze from the cutting board, not once.
“Dinner won’t be ready before eight, and no, you won’t get a test bite this time.” He says, his knife not stopping — not until he feels your hand on his shoulder blade.
At that; he halts. Not blinking.
You slide your hands up his back, feeling how his toned muscles underneath his ivory shirt flexes beneath your fingers. His heart stutters, just a little before turning to face you.
You have mischief spelled in your eyes, a smile all too playful and giggling.
He tilts his jaw and gives you a brow. “Is everything well?” He says as you catch his hands in yours. Interlacing your fingers.
You come closer, and he presses himself against the counter at your sudden boldness.
“Dear?” You say, leaning in, cheeks all flushed and a corner of his lip jerks. Frowning.
You’re beautiful. And it’s having its effect on him.
His hands reaches out to your face, removing a lock of hair so to see you clearly. “Hm?”
You bring his hands close to your collarbones, still holding them, as you tiptoe, “Kiss me.” You say before closing your eyes and pout your lips.
Dracule Mihawk doesn’t get flustered or bashful, no. Absolutely not. But he does part his lips, eye twitch (just a little) as you keep tiptoeing up. His head short-circuits and when he’s silent for just a second too long, do you open your eyes, scowling and withdrawing.
“Whatever. You lost your moment, buddy.” You wave him off, turning on your heel but just before you get the chance to even take one step further—does he grab you from behind.
Hand on your shoulder and an arm slung across your collarbones.
He pulls you into his chest, feel his warmth radiate into your spine, and he takes a hold on your jaw. Forcing you to meet his lips.
He kisses you, and it’s not tender—but bruising. And when he parts, you’re the one who’s all flustered. A satisfied smirk makes it to his cold mouth, rubbing your lower lip with his thumb.
“Clingy today, aren’t you? What’s with the change of heart.”
You turn to face him, hands going to his shoulder blades as you bring him into an embrace. And he let’s you. Holding you back.
You press your face into his chest.
“Missed you, that’s why.” You nustle against him, “I missed you so much.”
He blinks. Sharp eyes narrowing — and somehow softening. “I see.”
And he brings you closer by the small of your back, placing his chin on top of your hair.
He won’t admit it, but he wouldn’t mind if you missed him a little more often.
Portgas D. Ace
Ace was polishing the beads to his necklace, sitting at the edge of his bed when you stepped inside. He spots you, and an immediate grin comes into face as he puts his necklace back on and flexing it at you. “Babe, look, they’re glistening aren’t they—?”
Your steps are hard, fast—plunging as you throw him into an embrace.
He catches you, leaning back against the bed. Completely motionless and tense as he feels you rubbing your face in his neck. Hands tugging onto his back. And then he twitches when he feels you kissing him there. Pecking him. Nibbling him and he flinches.
“Er, babe, I—uh—” What the hell is going on?
You look up to him, your face sly and he goes pink.
You’re so pretty. Too pretty.
His heart is bulging out of his chest as he grabs hold of your shoulders.
“Did something happen? You’re being quite attentive today.”
You tilt your head, deciding to play with him a bit.
Your hands travel from his back, down to his shoulders and tugging onto his collar. Pulling him forward. Just a little.
“My boyfriend is so handsome.” You say, one palm going to where his heart sits. Its beating, hard and fast. You resist not smirking when glancing back to him, “How could I not miss his touch, hm? Tell me that, Ace.” You tug his collar again, grinning and Ace is malfunctioning.
What the… wow. Okay. You know what. He’s not complaining.
But god, he doesn’t know what to say to your sudden boldness.
He just stares like an idiot.
“Er.”
You scowl, “Here I am, giving you my undivided attention and all you say to me is… ‘er’!?”
“No what—I mean, I should, I—?”
You press your face back into his chest. He’s so warm. He smells so good. You want more of him, so you tug him closer, shushing him. “Shut up and enjoy this moment whilst you still can.” You hum, nestling close to his chest.
And you feel him embracing you back. Pressing his cheek against your hair line.
“Yes. Of course. Anything my pretty girl says.”
And he means it, even when his face is completely red, and his heart thumping out his ribs.
Anything you want—he’ll take it.
And when his most lonesome hours comes yet again, he’ll think of you and this moment again and again.
Red-hair Shanks
Shanks wakes up alone on deck with the worst hang over of his life. Slouched over a table. Damn. How much did he drink last night? He can’t remember jack-shit, anyways — he reaches for the nearest mug, still half-full, and zero knowledge if it belongs to him or not, but he chugs down the drink anyways.
“Phew,” He swipes his chin, that’s better.
He hears the footsteps of a certain beauty inching close and he looks up.
Blanket over your shoulders. He puts on that charismatic, toothy smile of his.
“Hello gorgeous, mind giving me some attention this lovely morning—” And before he gets to finish, you lean in, placing the blanket over his shoulders. Cheek pressed into his red, red hair.
Either he’s dreaming or really freaking drunk right now — but are you… are you actually giving in and offering affection? You?
Wow. He loves this dream.
He slings his arm over your shoulder, hesitating before actually pulling you in.
“Shanks.” You say, voice soft and he tenses. “You need a bath.”
You say that and yet you take in the scent of his hair, press your cheek harder against his head.
“Mmnh… I probably should; wanna join me?” He clutches you closer, and you manoeuvre into his lap. Nestling into his throat. Nudging your nose over the crook of his neck, he’s so warm. And with the morning breeze, it feels so pleasantly good, you can’t get enough of it, enough of him.
You feel him sink into your embrace, the blanket bristling heat between you two and you pull away only so you can grab his face and kiss his cheek. One on the left, then on his right, before making it to his brows.
You lean back, and the man is staring you down, taking in your features as the faintest tint of a blush is made on his ears. Heart beating a little bit too hard.
His hand travels down your spine to the small of your back. His fingers lazy, hand loose, before pulling you closer, spreading his knees so you can have more space.
“Spoiling me today aren’t you? What’s the special occasion and can we make it more often?”
You snort. “Savour it. It’s just for this moment, and this moment only.”
You lean back in, pulling him deeper into your embrace and he softens. Scoffing a little. As he sinks into your warmth.
If this a dream — he really doesn’t want to wake up.
Whether or not they meant to hurt you by saying it, they did. By the time they caught on, you were already changing to someone out of reach.
𝓬haracters: Sanji, ASL brothers, Shanks
tags: Angst & Comfort, some established relationship, accidental injury, WCI spoilers, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns.
song: capable of love - pinkpantheress
SANJI isn’t cruel because he stopped loving you, he’s cruel because he’s trying to. He truly believes pushing you away is the only way to protect you.
Even the day you needed his reassurance most.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He bit out, stepping his way into the carriage that took him to the humiliation of a marriage he didn’t even want.
“I was never going to choose you.”
Sanji is the man who worships the ground you walk on. The one who lights up just because you’re in the room. So why was he being like this?
The line between black and white became such a blur in your teary eyes. You’d straightened your back, fixed on anything but his face. “Understood.”
That’s the moment he’d realize he went too far, even if it was to keep you away. Because in the world he gets out of this alive, how could it possibly go back the way it was.
In short, it didn’t.
You fought just as hard as everyone else bringing him back, but you acknowledged him differently. No more soft glances across the table. No more eyes lingering when he smiles. No more quiet conversations you had with him in the kitchen.
Sanji can survive rejection.
He cannot survive being treated like he’s nothing special to you, he was barely clinging on from just a week of your silence.
—
You’re alone in the kitchen, cutting fruit. Not because you need to. Just because you don’t want to sit out there with everyone else, it was too cold, a bit too warm as well.
The knife presses into the peel of the orange, juice on your fingers.
Footsteps.
“..You’re going to cut yourself holding it like that,” he says softly, a hand gripping the edge of the counter near you, but never too close. "I’ll cut the rest, ma chérie."
“I’m fine.” You said, numb.
The knife slips, just like he said.
You hiss under your breath as the blade grazes your finger, blood trickling down your wrist. His hand wraps around your wrist instinctively, stopping the bleeding with a cloth he had.
“I told you,” he breathes, but his voice cracks around the word. “Your hands are too precious.”
You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.
"I'm fine." You tried again, but it was even less convincing than the first.
His heartbeat is fast, it’s the longest interaction you guys had. “Look at me.” he whispers into your ear, you felt your whole body shiver. “You can’t keep ignoring me like this.”
“Yes I can.” And you could, but you sadly weren’t so simple.
You try not to look at him, but it’s hard not to see straight when he’s the one holding you. When you looked up finally, you notice how his composure was gone, no elegance left. Your hand trembles against him.
“I thought if you hated me, you’d stay away. You’d be safe.” His thumb presses lightly over your knuckles. He already explained this before, the first day even.
“But that also meant you stopped loving me,” he continues, voice rough. You didn’t have the heart to correct him. “And I don’t know how to breathe when you do that.”
Tears formed in his eyes before yours, you could hear it in the way he breathed.
“I need you to look at me again,” he whimpers, a choke at the end. “Even if you’re angry. Even if you hit me. Just don’t treat me like I’m nothing.”
That’s his real fear.
His grip softens, but he doesn’t let go.
“I love you,” he says, steady now.
A shaky breath was let out, but this time it from you. “I hate you so much.” You breathed, but despite your words your head sinked into his shoulder. “You can be so cruel.”
In other words, I love you too, but I’m still mad.
He brought a hand to your back, hesitating before it settled there permanently.
SABO
The room had settled into an uneasy quiet.
Sabo had work stacked higher than usual, little casualties have been popping up and it’s been taking a toll on the moral of everyone.
You were there anyway, for him.
Your head laid against his desk, watching him with that soft patience he never seemed to earn but always received. When his ink slipped and a word smeared across the page, you let out a quiet laugh, already half stood to fetch him a fresh sheet.
But that was it for him.
“Don’t you have something to do?” He asked, it felt a lot more sharper than anything. He was tired, frayed at the edges. “Instead of hovering around me.”
Ah.
You blinked once, like you hadn’t quite processed it. Then you pushed yourself up slowly from the chair, the echo of it filling the silence. “I.. yeah.” A pause. Breath catching slightly. “I’ll see you around, Sabo.”
The door clicked shut.
At first, he told himself it was better this way, less pressure on both of you.
If anything, he thought it was a good change at first. You began matching him more, the work, the missions, the way you bit your pen when you thought.
You guys began living the same life style, but not in the same life.
When you passed him in corridors, your eyes didn’t linger anymore. No small smile. No teasing remark under your breath.
He started noticing things he hadn’t before.
How often you had been the one pulling him out of his own spiral. How often you had made the room feel less like an office and more like somewhere people could still breathe.
And now you weren’t doing that anymore.
Because of him.
He didn’t look at the chair at first. Because that chair was yours, literally. You brought it in a random day and it never left.
When he finally did, it stood out more than it should have, pulled close to his desk, slightly angled, like it had been part of the room’s routine. Like you had been still here with him.
Not once did he touch it, hoping one day you’d just be there.
And still, he didn’t say it to your face.
—
Koala didn’t bring it up gently, that wasn’t in her nature. She banged the desk, grabbing his attention fast.
He stared, a bit shock.
“Sabo, the girl used to live in your presence.” she scolding pulling his cheek, hard. He whined a bit. “She could barely even joke with you without worrying you’d push her away again!”
His fingers tightened slightly against the paper in his hands, the worst part was this was something he didn’t even think about.
Koala exhaled, softer now but no less firm. “Can’t you see how much she’s doing for you?”
His gaze drifted from her, back to the chair.
—
It took him longer than it should’ve to find you. Not because you were avoiding him, you weren’t. You were exactly where you always were, but still completely different.
When he stepped into the room, you didn’t look up. Not even once.
He brought a chair with him, it scraped across the floor like any wood on wood interaction. You paused for half a second, then kept writing. He brought it closer anyway and sat right beside you.
Then he leaned forward until he could rest his head on his arm against the edge of your desk. That made your pen stop, but you still didn’t look at him. He exhaled through his nose, something almost bitter at himself.
“I keep thinking about that day,” he admitted, eyes fixated on something near your hand. “Your presence was never the problem, I should’ve never made you think it was. If anything, I was.”
Silence stretched again, but he knew you were listening at least. He shifted his body, slower this time, and rested his head fully on your desk. “I don’t want this version of us to be the only one that exists,” he said quietly.
Then, after a breath that sounded rough, “I don't want this to be it.”
Finally, you did look at him, head tilted slightly to his side. Your eyes were much duller now, they looked tired, much more tired than him. He noticed your chapped lips, messy hair, bruised finger. All of his faults.
You saw apologies you never thought could be said through just an expression.
Carefully, he reached up and let his fingers slip into your hair, smoothing the ends. Holding on to you in anyway he can, and you leaned into it, not completely.
Because you were still here.
And this time, he wasn’t going to act like that didn’t matter.
ACE -
You popped up behind Ace with a bright yelp, grabbing both his shoulders hard enough to jolt him forward. He gasped, nearly dropped what he was holding before realizing it was you. “You trying to kill me?”
“Not yet.” You stepped back dramatically, hands on your hips while you turned side to side. “For now, answer me. How do I look?” You asked, looking up with a mischievous grin.
You’d actually tried to impress him. Fixed your hair. Change your outfit. Put effort into it. The kind of effort that makes your stomach twist because you care who’s looking. You cared if he was looking.
Ace blinked, looked once, then again. “It’s.. different.”
Different.. what does that mean?
Silence.
You waited, but nothing followed.
“..Thanks.” You smiled anyway, a tight one that fought to frown. He nodded like he’d done his job, walking away with a silent goodbye.
It was fine, didn’t matter.
You told yourself you can move on, but all you remember that night was scrubbing your face, throwing the clothes, and never considered doing it again for your own sake. Why? Because you cared too much.
The next day, you wore something that didn’t risk that embarrassing pause. It was dull, something you found in the back of the laundry. You didn’t even like how it looked.
And when the days followed, you began expressing that same color.
Ace didn’t even think anything about it, he didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable. He thought you were, he really did.
—
Izou started off softly, a genuine worry masked as an innocent question. “What happened to her cute outfits?” He asked, leaning against the wall. “I wanted to learn a thing or two.”
Ace stiffened, then thought about it. Really thought about it, or specifically that day. He remembered the way you’d looked at him, hopeful. Expecting something more than a passing comment.
And yeah. He’d panicked.
Not because you looked bad, because you looked good. It was different in a way that made his brain short circuit and his mouth betray him.
But it was the fact he didn’t correct himself instantly is what brought him here.
He realizes that change you made wasn’t for comfortability, but because Ace was dumb enough to not notice.
That you did it for him.
—
Ace found you later, leaning against the railing, a hint of déjà vu from when you met him here days ago. It took you a second to register him, and even then you were pretty dismissive.
He stood there awkwardly. “That thing you wore the other day.”
You froze but kept your voice low, avoiding that hopefulness in your throat. “Yeah?”
“It wasn’t bad.”
You stared at him, the wind pushing a strands of your hair across your face the longer he waited, he wasn’t even close to grasping how small he might look like right.
"You.." He looked away from you, tapping on the railing with this restless motion. “You looked good.”
That was his honesty, that was his a dirty secret. God he was pathetic.
“I’m not good at pretty words,” he admitted. “But I don’t ever want you thinking I don’t like the way you are. Or the way you try. I..” He swallowed. “I really liked it.”
There it was.
Your smile came easier this time, still small, a little bit hesitant. “Why’d it take so long to say it?”
He gave you a look, accepting every step he was allowed. “I know.” He kicked lightly at the deck, looking at you softly. "My favorite was two weeks ago, definitely that one. I noticed my name on your nails—.”
“Shut up.”
LUFFY -
You used to talk with your whole body. You’d lean into him without thinking, knee knocking his, like you guys were kids again. “But he still lives,” you said chuckling, smiling down at the page. “He’s a pretty tragic character, I didn’t expect it to get so dark.”
You looked up and Luffy wasn’t looking at you.
“Oh,” he muttered. “That’s cool.” The wind filled the silence. You waited for the follow up he’d ask. The confused question. Anything. He sighed, “Ya’ done yet?”
You smiled like your feelings weren’t hurt.
“Yeah, there wasn’t much.” you said, the book closing with a soft thud. He didn’t notice how small you sounded. “I’ll see you later, Luffy.”
That was the last time you went to him with a chapter still warm in your hands.
And he didn’t worry about it.
Luffy didn’t notice absences the way other people did, mainly because you guys were apart of the same crew, so that distance wasn’t much. But, he’d look to his side sometimes, expecting your elbow in his ribs.
He didn’t know why that bothered him, not yet.
—
The ship stopped at a new island for a restock. Luffy walked down the stands, a certain group catching his eye. It was a book promotion, about the one you wouldn’t shut up about.
He tried to remember the last time you wouldn’t shut up about anything.
The last time you’d tugged on his sleeve. The last time you’d sat next to him with that look in your eyes like you were about to explode with something you couldn’t keep in.
Robin watched his expression shift. Watched the confusion settle, then the sadness. “Luffy,” she said carefully, “when’s the last time she talked to you about a book?”
That caught him off guard.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Luffy tried again. “She.. she hasn’t lately.” He stated quietly, and that felt weird to say. You guys talked daily still, that wouldn't change. But it wasn't the same.
Robin tilted her head. “Hasn’t? Or stopped?”
The noise of the market suddenly felt far away.
He replayed it, you on the deck, smiling down at the page. He remembered saying it, but he didn’t remember what your face looked like after.
And that was all it took for him to run back to the ship.
_
He reached the library, breathless by the time he opened the door. You stared at him in disbelief, watching as he stubbornly sat right next to you with his hands in his lap. You pulled the book in your hand closer.
“Something wrong?” You mumbled, each inch you leaned back was an extra two inches he leaned in.
“Tell me about the book.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I want you to ramble to me again.” He whined, a frustrated hand trembling in his lap.
“You were the one who looked bored.” You stated bluntly, ending with a sigh. "You don't have to listen—“
“But I’m not!” He retorted instantly, a slight crack in his voice. “I miss it when you came to me. I know, I struggle to look interested.. and sometimes I get distracted.” He began the useless rambling. “But! But.. I really like when you get excited.”
You both stared at each other for seconds too long. He wasn’t done talking, but he wanted to know if you were still waiting for him. Your gaze softened, feeling a light tremble in your lips.
So he continued.
“I don’t know why.” He frowned, answering the question your face expressed. “But still, I remember things. Like how you like uh.. uhm laya’s..”
“Laios.”
Your favorite, he knew him despite his selective memory.
SHANKS -
“You’re not the only woman in the world.” Shanks gave a low chuckle into his drink like it was nothing worth holding onto.
His shoulder brushed yours on purpose, fingers lazily grazing your hand as if he already expected you not to pull away.
“A man like me can’t be tied down.”
Translating to, he doesn't want anything serious.
The words should’ve been light, it was a joke after all. But every joke had an underlining truth, like when he said it to you. You stared at him for a second too long, jaw locking as you forced out a scoff. “I’m not trying to tie you down.”
You pushed back from the table. The chair scraped. “I’m going to the ship.”
He didn’t say anything, eyes lashes fluttering as he watch you slowly leave through the door.
After that, nothing changed for him for the following month. It looked like that at least.
You stopped letting him touch you, everytime he nuzzled your face, wrap his hands around your waist, you would brush him off. He would flirt with you at times, and you stared at him in silence until it got too awkward- and so on.
All the dumb shit you used to put up with all because you liked him.
And it got to him.
Shanks brushed a finger against the table, a long strained groan leaving his lips. He misses you, but in a weird way where you were there, but just not his to take. He didn’t notice what changed, not yet.
He laughed at that thought, not even realizing no other woman besides you has been in his mind for as long as this, as desperately as this.
“Shanks.”
He jumped out of thought, slowly turning around to face Beckman. “..yes?”
“Quite frankly we don’t care about your woman life. It’s not our business.” He was honest, brutally honest, and somehow the emperor knew what was coming already. “But don’t be surprised when you treat the girl like a one night stand and she doesn’t put up with you.”
Shank’s blinked, mouth slightly parting with nothing coming out.
“I wouldn’t—” But he did, that’s exactly what it sounded like that night. He swallowed whatever spot was in his mouth. “She doesn’t want me.”
Excuses.
“She did want you, Shank’s.” He huffed, light frustration in the tone of his voice, translating it from a womanizer to a yearner. “So do something about it, yeah?”
—
You were sitting on a crate, head tipped back toward the sky, pretending you weren’t waiting for anything. He stopped behind you, far from silently.
You finally looked up, meeting a sullen look in his eyes, it looked like regret. “Captain?”
“I haven’t had a one night stand in weeks.” He whispered, like he was trying to joke and failed halfway through.
Huh.
You only chuckled, the one people force. “A fuck isn’t happening,” you said sharply, standing up. “Nice try, though.”
“What? No.” He stepped forward too fast. “That’s not what I meant.”
You blinked, a part of you shaken from his rare honesty. Or rather you were afraid of it. “Then what was it?”
“I’m sorry.”
Your hands tightened at your sides, you knew exactly where this was coming from, and you weren’t ready for it.
“I miss when you looked at me, not like others.” He exhaled, annoyed with himself. “I like when it’s just us, I don’t care what you call it, or what it was. I just..”
He stopped, but he was already too far in.
“I want you close,” he said instead, simpler. “Not like everyone else.”
But nothing was matching up with what he’s said already.
“I thought I couldn’t tie you down.” You breathed, a hitch in your throat.
How gazed softened, finding somewhere to leave his hands that wasn’t on you, he landed on his belt. It wouldn't be necessary though. “I was wrong—“
Your hand lifted before you could think, pressing against his mouth to stop him from saying something else that would undo you.
Shank’s eyes deepened, unexpectedly, he caught your wrist.
He held it there, slowly kissing your palm with a softness you didn’t know he had in himself. It was something he’d been trying not to do for a long time.
“I’ll make it right,” he said against your hand, voice low.
You didn’t forgive him, but you didn’t walk away either. And he made sure you’d never regret that decision of letting him closer again.
A/N: I hope everyone saw that dungeon meshi sneak and started cheering like how I did. Thank u for readinggg this was actually really fun to write
༯ humor / head-cannons / modern au / established friends / sfw / fem reader / no use of yn / kisses / probably a little toxic who knows
A/N: idk where I was going with this but it was oddly fun?? I have like 4 drafts that are fully planned out and just need to be properly written.
LUFFY was actually purely unintentional despite how it looked. When you first told him you broke up, he barely reacted. Just tilted his head and went, ‘Oh. Okay.’ Then asked if there was any food in your bag.
At the time, he didn’t think much of it beyond the basic idea. Relationships ended sometimes. That was all.
But immediately things started to change. Your ex is around you less, a lot less. And suddenly all that empty space in your schedule ended up filled with him instead. Meals together, work breaks together, wandering around together because somehow the two of you kept ending up side by side naturally.
Luffy didn’t notice how attached he’d gotten to your presence until it became part of his routine, neither did you.
Then one day he sees you laughing at something with your ex again.
Something ugly twists in his chest so hard it actually confuses him. Luffy gets jealous in a way that was surprisingly in between clinging on to your side and intensely territorial without realizing it.
Your ex touches your shoulder? Luffy is suddenly between you two, asking questions that could’ve waited. Someone flirts with you? He’s staring at them with a gaze that makes it awkward for everyone.
As arrogant as it sounded, he never actually felt threatened by your ex. Somewhere deep down, Luffy already assumed you’d choose him. He just didn’t know why he wanted that so badly yet, so he still competed.
And when people ask why he’s acting weird, he’s played it off with an innocent look.
NAMI is the type to leave lingering touches rather than playing out of jealousy or yearning. She knew exactly what she was doing.
She noticed how flustered you got whenever she touched you, so naturally she started touching you constantly. Fingers brushing your thigh during conversations. Resting her chin on your shoulder while reading over your phone. Holding your waist in crowded spaces when there was clearly enough room already.
Your ex hated her immediately.
Which only encouraged her further. To Nami, their irritation just proved she was succeeding. Besides, as far as she was concerned, they had no right to complain anymore.
One night they confronted her about it, frustrated and suspicious, only for Nami to blink innocently before smiling.
“What?” She asked sweetly. “I’m just there for them.”
Meanwhile her nails were tracing circles against your lower back right in front of them while she smiled.
Cruel. Absolutely cruel in the best way possible.
BOA treated your breakup like a blessing sent directly from heaven for her. A minor inconvenience out of the way.
The second she found out you were single, she became unbearable. But the worst part was how impossible it was to dislike it.
Gifts appear in your space that are far too expensive to refuse, or rather too accurate. Your wardrobe starts changing overnight. Jewelry, perfumes, fabrics you never thought you’d own, suddenly they’re just.. yours.
And she watches your reaction every time, something about the way your expression softened at the gesture settled pleasantly in her chest.
She wants to get used to that.
But it wasn’t the main goal, she simply wanted herself woven into every part of your life.
The scent of her perfume lingering on your clothes. Earrings catching the light whenever you moved. Silks and fabrics against your skin that reminded you of her every time you touched them.
She replaced your memories of your ex so thoroughly you barely noticed it happening.
But even mentioning your ex’s name offended her. Every story you told about them had her staring at you in genuine disbelief, like she couldn’t comprehend how anyone could fail to worship you properly.
And maybe that’s what made her so effective. Boa loved loudly, it was very intense for just anyone in the world. She made you feel adored every second you were near her.
Boa gave you devotion, that was a hard difference to ignore.
DOFLAMINGO absolutely, undeniably, intentionally homewrecked your relationship.
There wasn’t anything accidental about it at all. What can he say, he's impatient.
That same devotion Boa had for you was the similar for him, but in his own twisted up ways of wanting you to need him. He saw the cracks early and pushed his fingers directly into them with a grin.
Every insecurity your relationship had, he fed it carefully until your ex started feeling paranoid every time his name came up even before the relationship ended.
And you began to believe the things he said.
Doflamingo enjoyed it, being the problem at least. He liked watching your attention drift toward him more and more each week once it was finally done, how you would run a hand through his hair, touch his skin with the tip of your fingers.
Liked how your ex slowly realized they were losing you to someone they couldn’t compete with, who understood how to treat you right and wrong.
One evening your ex finally snapped and accused him outright, blaming him for the outcome. Doflamingo only laughed in his face, saying something even you thought was pretty rude.
You ignored him for a bit.
Still, later that night, you let him tilt your head back and leave slow kisses from your neck all the way to your cheek. Noting how sweet you tasted.
ACE got protective before he even realized he liked you, that’s what made it tricky to hide. You’d mention your ex upsetting you and suddenly Ace was furious on your behalf like it personally happened to him.
If you knew he was there for you then, imagine now.
He hovered constantly after the breakup. Sitting too close beside you. Walking with an arm around your shoulders. Pulling you against his chest whenever you looked upset because apparently physical affection solved everything to him.
Honestly, it worked embarrassingly well.
Ace felt nice in a way that was hard to explain, because he’s literally warm. Warm skin, warm laughter, warm words. At some point, you stopped resisting it entirely. You started leaning into him first. Letting him pull you close whenever you looked exhausted.
All the comfort you never really got in your past relationship.
Your ex noticed too.
Especially the night Ace answered your phone for you while half asleep beside you. ‘they’re busy right now.’ He muttered lazily, then hung up immediately. He knew who it was, and that’s what made it even better.
He leaned into the top of your head again, ignoring the way you scolded him for being immature while he chuckled in your ear.
SABO was extremely patient, mainly because it was both intentional and he was confident.
Every action always meant something one way or another.
A chair pulled out beside him before you even thought about where to sit. A cup of tea already made the exact way you liked it. Him remembering tiny details from conversations you forgot even mattered.
You’d mention once that you hated walking home alone at night, and suddenly Sabo was always coincidentally headed the same direction.
His gentleness came in soft, consistent touches until relying on him became second nature. And the more he replaced those missing pieces, the more you realized you were leaning on him emotionally.
Sabo noticed, pretty fast actually.
The first time you instinctively searched for him in a crowded room. The first time your bad day ended with you at his side instead of texting your ex. The first time you laughed at something and immediately looked toward him for a reaction without thinking.
He creates situations where giving it to him feels natural. Not in a malicious way exactly, but certainly in a possessive one.
You already adjusted to how comfortable it was being around Sabo, rejecting every advancement your ex made to talk to you with him in mind. And he took you in whole heartedly.
KID is terrible at subtlety. Like genuinely awful at it. If your ex texted you, he’s already leaning over your shoulder trying to read it with a scowl so deep it looks painful.
“Ya’ better ignore him.” He raised an eyebrow, and you extremely, reluctantly agreed.
Yea, sadly he had a point mentioned how stupid you looked.
The worst part is he acts like he’s the reasonable one. Meanwhile he’s showing up places uninvited, yours specifically. It could be late at night, middle of the day, morning, and he’d knock at your window once a little too loud, then followed by weaker ones.
He literally has your key.
In other cases, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders in public, a thumb rubbing at your shoulder. If anyone points it out Kid is grumbling in anger, like the audacity for anyone to even assume that was the case was baffling.
You weren’t close to him before the relationship, it happened afterwards. If anything you found him annoying at first. That was mainly because you were bitter he wasn’t letting you get your way.
Instead of letting you sleep in with sadness, he’s the one pushing you to go out. Parties, movies, stores, and overtime you realized how much it helped.
When it’s just the two of you, he softens in the weirdest ways. Fixing your jewelry with rough fingers. Quietly memorizing the things you like just so he can pretend it was accidental later.
You assumed it was some type of phycology, being so pushy you actually started to like him.
zoro making you ride the handle of his katanas omg who said thaaat (not a request just someth to think about.....)
Accidentally turned this into a fic, I can’t help myself 😝
You worked up a sweat and exerted yourself training. There’s nothing ZORO’S more attracted to than strength and you continuing to better yourself makes him proud. What better way to show that than to make you ride the hilt of Wado Ichimonji.
His thumb is pressing against your clit while his free hand grips the sheath from underneath you. ZORO watches the hilt slide in and out of you with a dazed assessment. The sight was almost hypnotic.
“You’re getting better. You haven’t collapsed yet.”
Your thighs shook around his waist as the praise ran through you, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as you hold onto him. He’s making you work for it. You’re trying to remain composed, but the combined length of Wado’s hilt and the pressure of ZORO’S thumb is driving you crazy.
ZORO shifted the sheathed sword in his grip and the top of the hilt pressed into your gummy walls just right. You nearly fell apart right there and then. Your head fell onto his shoulders and you keened. “ZORO, please-“
“Not giving to you. You got to take it.”
ZORO circled the hilt inside of you and that pushed you over. Your hips stuttered and bucked as your climax washed over you. ZORO finally moved his thumb and drew it out. Your chest heaved with each pant and your thighs ached.
He lifted you up and slowly pulled the hilt out of you. You immediately felt empty and missed feeling full. “Might put it your ass. Think you can take it?”
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