not that you’re complaining — how could you? especially since something has changed in recent months. something has become sticky, mushy, needy.
feelings. there are new feelings, but you both ignore the aforementioned sticky, mushy, needy feelings because you’re best friends, and best friends don’t have sticky, mushy, needy feelings for one another.
portgas d. ace is always hanging off you. his arm, freckled and strong, is always slung around your shoulders. he leans and slouches, pressing the full length of his body against your side whenever he can. he’s always there, in your orbit, tangling himself up in your space.
the crew knows that you, a vice-lieutenant shipwright, and the division commander are two peas in a pod; inseparable, indivisible, and integral. where his voice carries, your laughter is soon to follow. ace burns bright, like a star streaking across the sky, and you’re the moon he dances for. you call his name from high up on the mast, and he always calls yours back.
no one pities the fool portgas d. ace makes himself for the sake of your smile. no one pretends there isn’t something else there, either. marco thinks it’s gonna kill him — ace, with his longing looks, and you with your lingering smiles. always when the other isn’t looking, but for fuck’s sake, marco is looking. marco sees it. marco can’t unsee it.
feelings! sticky, mushy, needy feelings!
portgas d. ace, whose threshold for appropriate touching is quickly diminishing despite the whole best friend title. his newest, baddest habit is a sturdy kiss to your temple in passing — always paired with a murmured hey you. he’s recently started to tangle his fingers in yours during quiet moments up on deck. always during the setting sun, always when you’re off shift, and he’s avoiding whatever new responsibility pops throws him.
portgas d. ace, who starts sleeping in your bed — he blames the barracks. they’re too crowded. marco, his bunkmate, snores. you’re lucky, he says, you’ve got a tiny little cabin, with a tiny little bed, and a tiny little water room. a perk of being one of the few female crewmembers. the perk is stolen by ace, who starfishes out and runs hot. you start sleeping with less and less clothing, and ace chases the feeling of your skin against his in his sleep.
there’s a line. always. you’re best friends. best friends who touch and roughhouse and laugh. best friends who fall asleep in one another’s arms, best friends who knock foreheads together when they hug, best friends who daydream about kissing one another—
portgas d. ace is your best friend. best friends don’t kiss.
tags: fluff, light comedy, established relationship, protective, pda
a/n: sorry for playing so much with ace T.T
words count: around 1.3k - 1.4k each
masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi
── .✦ Zoro:
The sun is down. The sky is dark, but the town is bright with lights and music.
You just finished eating at a small place by the sea. The food was great. Now, the crew stands outside, full and happy.
Luffy stretches his arms “Alright! Let’s go explore!”
Usopp nods “Let’s split up! We’ll cover more ground!”
You feel warm. Maybe too warm. That third drink… or was it the fourth? Either way, your head is spinning just a little. But your smile won’t leave your face.
Nami pulls out a map “Okay, I’ll go with Sanji, Chopper, Zoro, and Y/N.”
“Eh? Why am I in that group?” Zoro asks, already frowning.
Nami smirks “Because I said so. Try not to get lost this time.”
You giggle and stumble a little “I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
Zoro looks at you, arms crossed “You can’t even stand straight.”
You step forward and grab his arm “That’s why I need you.” Your voice is soft. Sweet. Maybe a little loud.
Zoro freezes. His cheeks turn the faintest pink. He glances around—people are watching “H-Hey. Don’t cling like that.”
You grin and press your cheek to his shoulder “But you’re warm.”
“Oi, marimo,” Sanji says, cigarette between his lips, “If she wants to hold you, let her. You lucky bastard.”
Chopper runs ahead, excited “Let’s find some cool shops!”
You keep holding onto Zoro’s arm as the group walks. He keeps trying to shake you off, gently. But you won’t let go.
“Y/N,” he says in a low voice “People are staring.”
“So?” You look up at him with a small smile “I like holding you.”
He sighs “You’re impossible.”
“But you love me” you tease.
He looks away, his voice barely a whisper “…Yeah.”
You blink “What?”
“Nothing” he grunts.
Nami glances back and smiles “You guys are so cute.”
Zoro groans “Don’t start.”
You lean even closer “Zoro~”
“What now?”
“Carry me.”
“No.”
“Pleaaase?”
Sanji laughs “I’ll carry you, mademoiselle—”
“No!” Zoro snaps. He sighs again and crouches “Fine. Get on.”
You cheer quietly and hop onto his back. Your arms go around his neck “Zoro’s the best…”
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t puke on me.”
You rest your head on his shoulder, finally closing your eyes.
Zoro walks, steady and strong, even with you on his back.
Behind you, Nami whispers to Sanji, “He’s totally soft for her.”
Sanji shrugs “Still don’t get what she sees in that mosshead.”
Zoro’s ear twitches “I can hear you, idiots.”
The streets are quieter now. Fewer lights. Fewer people.
You’re still on Zoro’s back, half-asleep. Your cheek rests against his shoulder. His body is warm, and his footsteps steady.
Sanji walks ahead with his hands in his pockets. Chopper’s beside him, talking excitedly about a candy shop he saw. Nami looks at the stars.
Then it happens.
“Oi, oi… look at those two up front.”
The voice comes from a shadowed alley. A group of men steps out. Maybe five… no, more. Eight? Ten?
All of them wear smug grins and old, ragged clothes. Drunk or bored, or both.
“Redhead’s got legs for days” one of them whistles.
Another points at you “And that one’s already clinging to her man. What a shame.”
You blink slowly, still a little tipsy, but even you catch that.
Zoro stops walking.
Nami’s eyes narrow “Great.”
Sanji steps forward fast, arm out in front of Nami and Chopper “Let me handle this.”
Zoro lowers you gently to the ground “Can you stand?”
You nod smiling proudly at you don't even know what “Mmhm. I’ll try my best”
He steps away from you, his hand already on one sword.
The men keep talking.
“Hey sweetheart,” one says to Nami, “you and your friend here, ditch the blond twig, the dog and that Grinch. We’ll show you a good time.”
Another laughs “Yeah the drunk one too. Bet she’s easy.”
Everything goes still.
Sanji’s eyes glow with rage “What did you say?”
Zoro doesn’t speak. He just draws his sword with a soft shing.
The leader of the group smirks “Look at these pretty boys. Gonna cry?”
Sanji takes off his jacket slowly “Nami-swan, Chopper—stay back.”
Chopper grabs Nami’s hand and pulls her behind a cart “Be careful!”
Zoro turns his head slightly toward you “Sit down. This’ll be quick.”
You nod and sit near the cart, leaning against it.
The men charge first, loud and sloppy.
Bad idea.
Sanji moves like fire, one man down with a spinning kick.
Zoro is calm and cold. His sword flashes but he doesn’t cut them, just knocks them flat with the dull side. Quick. Clean. Brutal.
But then someone tries to sneak around.
Toward you.
“Hey, maybe I’ll take the quiet one... she cute”
Zoro’s blade is at the man’s neck in a second. His voice is low, dangerous.
“Say another word.”
The man gulps.
“Zoro” you whisper. You’ve never seen his eyes like this. Sharp. Dark.
“I’m fine,” he says “But I don’t like people looking at you like that.”
Sanji grabs another by the collar and slams him into the ground “Next time you look at a lady like that, I’ll rearrange your face.”
The rest scatter fast. Limping, running, one even crawls away.
Silence again.
Chopper peeks out “Is it over?”
Nami sighs “Yeah. Idiots.”
Zoro walks back to you. He crouches “You okay?”
You nod “They were gross.”
He offers his hand. You take it.
“Next time,” he says, “stay close.”
“I was literally on your back.”
He grunts “Still.”
You smirk “Were you jealous?”
He looks away “…No.”
“You were.”
He doesn’t answer, just picks you up again, bridal-style this time.
You blink “What are you doing?”
“You can’t walk, and I’m not letting you fall behind.”
Sanji lights another cigarette, muttering, “Show-off.”
Zoro ignores him. You wrap your arms around his neck again, this time without teasing.
“Thanks” you whisper.
His voice is soft, only for you “Always.”
Zoro still holds you in his arms as the group walks again. You rest against his chest, eyes half-closed, smile lazy.
But after a few more steps, you squirm a little.
“Zoro?”
“Hm?”
“You can put me down. I can walk now.”
He pauses “You sure?”
You nod “Promise. I’m not that drunk anymore.”
He stops and gently lowers you onto your feet. His hands linger on your arms a second longer, just in case you stumble.
You wobble just a little but stay up.
“See?” you say with a proud smile “Told you.”
He nods “Fine. But don’t fall again.”
You start to walk, but then he does something strange.
He reaches down… and takes your hand.
Your eyes widen a little. So do Nami’s.
Even Chopper notices “Whoa… Zoro’s holding hands?!”
Zoro doesn’t let go. He doesn’t look embarrassed, either. Just keeps walking like it’s nothing.
Nami raises an eyebrow “Since when do you hold hands in public?”
Sanji raises both eyebrows “Yeah, mosshead, you sick? Got a fever or something?”
Zoro glances at them “Tch. I just don’t want her tripping.”
Chopper runs up beside him, grinning “But you never do that! That’s so cute!”
Zoro sighs but doesn’t snap “Yeah, well. You’re fine, Chopper. Just don’t push it.”
You look at him. Really look. His face is calm now, jaw relaxed, grip warm around your fingers. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just… right.
You don’t know why you feel shy suddenly.
But you say it anyway.
“I have a crush on you. Do you like me back?”
The group stops walking.
Zoro blinks. His eyes meet yours.
“I’m your husband...” he says, flatly “Literally.”
You freeze. Then blink “Oh yeah.”
And then you squeal.
You start bouncing in place, grinning like crazy “You do like me!”
Zoro doesn’t even try to hide the tiny smile that pulls at his lips.
You drop his hand and throw your arms around his neck “Zoro, I like you so much!”
He catches you easily “Yeah, I know.”
And then you kiss him.
Right there. In the middle of the street.
It’s soft but sure. You lean into him. He lets it happen.
He kisses you back.
Chopper covers his mouth “Oh my god…!”
Nami gasps, then laughs “This is so going in my diary.”
Sanji nearly drops his cigarette “I hate this timeline.”
Zoro pulls back just a little, still holding you “You’re drunk.”
You whisper, “But not that drunk.”
He exhales slowly “Yeah. Sure.”
You rest your forehead against his “I love you.”
He answers without thinking “I love you too.”
Another pause.
“You just said that out loud?” Nami shouts.
Sanji groans loudly “This is a nightmare.”
Chopper claps his hooves “They’re in love! So cute!”
Zoro finally sets you back down, brushing your hair out of your face.
“Come on,” he says “Let’s go back before the idiots behind us explode.”
── .✦ Sanji:
The Thousand Sunny docks at a bright island full of music, shops, and food stalls. The air smells like grilled fish and sweet fruit. It’s the kind of place the crew loves.
“Let’s eat everything!” Luffy cheers.
“You say that on every island” you say, smiling.
“Because it’s always true!”
You walk beside Sanji, your fingers brushing his. He takes your hand without even looking and brings it to his lips.
“My beautiful angel,” he murmurs “Shall we find a feast worthy of your beauty?”
“Just one that won’t kill us,” you joke “Please.”
The crew ends up at a cozy restaurant near the center of town. There’s a band playing outside, and the tables are shaded with bright cloths. People are drinking and laughing everywhere.
“Find a seat,” Sanji says “I’ll handle the food.”
You touch his arm “Don’t take too long.”
“Only death could keep me from you, mon amour.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart does that little flutter. Sanji always talks like that. He means it too, in his own dramatic way.
You sit with Nami, Robin, and the others. Everyone’s talking and laughing. Luffy tries to steal bread from someone else’s plate. Typical.
At the counter, Sanji orders. That’s when two women walk in, locals, dressed in soft, colorful clothes. They spot him instantly.
“Oh no,” Nami mutters “Look who just walked into his life.”
You turn and see them. One’s got curly black hair, the other wears silver earrings that swing when she walks. Both walk straight to Sanji.
You watch calmly.
“Hi, stranger” says the taller girl.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the short one asks, leaning close.
Sanji smiles politely “Just visiting. I’m with friends.”
“Too bad,” the tall one says “We were hoping you’d say you were alone.”
“Oh? Then I must break your hearts, ladies,” he says, still smiling “I’m already spoken for.”
Your chest warms at that. But still… he doesn’t leave.
Then the shorter one laughs and says, “Just one drink. That’s not cheating.”
Sanji hesitates. He looks toward your table. He meets your eyes.
You shrug with a soft smile “Go ahead.”
He raises an eyebrow “Are you sure?”
You nod “You’re too polite to say no anyway.”
He stands there for a moment longer. Then he sighs dramatically, presses a hand to his heart, and says, “Forgive me, my love. It’s only a drink.”
“Don’t fall in love with anyone” you say.
“Impossible. You already own my heart.”
He walks with them to a small table in the corner. They giggle. One pours him something pink into a glass. He keeps his hands to himself, posture perfect, but he talks, smiles, flatters. You can almost hear the compliments from here.
Zoro leans closer “You’re really letting him do that?”
“Why not?” you say, sipping your drink.
“He’s literally flirting right now.”
“No. He’s just being Sanji.”
Robin chuckles “You trust him.”
You nod “I do.”
Still, your eyes don’t leave him. Even if your heart knows he’s yours, it’s hard to ignore two girls laughing at his jokes.
After ten minutes, he stands up, bows, and walks back. One of them tries to touch his arm, but he gently steps away.
“Thank you, ladies. But my real treasure is waiting for me.”
When he sits beside you again, you hand him a glass of water.
“Done being too polite?” you ask.
He takes the glass “It was torture, I swear.”
“You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
“I was praying you’d come save me.”
You laugh “Liar.”
He leans closer “I only ever mean it when I talk to you.”
You smile and take a bite of your food.
But you don’t let go of his hand under the table.
The meal is almost done. Luffy’s plates are stacked like a tower. Usopp is bragging about something that never happened. You lean back in your chair, sipping a cold drink. Sanji sits beside you, close but calm.
You feel his warmth next to you. You feel… okay.
Until they show up again.
The same two girls from earlier. The tall one waves. The short one smiles like she’s just so happy to see him again.
“Is this seat taken?” the short one asks, already pulling over a chair next to Sanji.
“You’re back,” Sanji says politely “What a surprise.”
You don’t say anything. You’re watching. Listening.
They sit anyway.
Tall girl rests her arm on the back of Sanji’s chair “You left so fast earlier. We didn’t get to hear more about you.”
Short Girl adds, “We’ve never met someone so… elegant. You must be used to lots of attention.”
Sanji chuckles nervously “Please, you flatter me.”
You raise an eyebrow. He’s not leaning toward them, but he’s not moving away either. He’s being polite. Too polite.
You glance at Zoro. He’s smirking.
Nami mutters under her breath, “I’d slap them.”
Robin sips her drink “This is getting interesting.”
One of the girls tries to feed Sanji something off her plate.
You drop your fork.
Everyone goes silent for a second.
Sanji finally leans back “Ladies, I can’t—”
You stand up slowly. You smile. But not the nice kind.
You walk over and rest your hand gently on his shoulder. He turns to you like the sun just came out. You don’t look at him yet. You look at the girls.
And you say, loud and clear “That’s my husband.”
The words hit the table like thunder.
Both girls freeze. One blinks. The other pulls her hand back like she touched fire.
Sanji turns bright red. His eyes go wide. Then his mouth falls open “Y-your… husband?”
You finally look at him.
“Yes. You’re my husband, aren’t you?”
He starts nodding so fast it’s like his head is going to fall off.
“I’m your husband!” he says, grinning like an idiot, heart eyes in full bloom “Forever and ever! I belong to you, my love!”
He grabs your hands, kisses them one after the other “Your husband. Only yours. Always.”
You smile sweetly at the girls “Thanks for keeping him entertained.”
They stand up awkwardly, mutter something, and walk away quickly.
Sanji’s still holding your hands. Still blushing. Still staring at you like you just saved his life.
“I love when you get possessive” he whispers.
“You just love when I call you ‘husband’” you say.
“…Maybe.”
You lean down and kiss his cheek “Then behave, husband.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Sanji’s still holding your hands like they’re sacred treasure. The girls are gone, the crew is snickering quietly, and you finally sit back down beside him.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off you.
“You’re incredible” he whispers.
“You’re lucky I am.”
He gives you a dreamy sigh “Marry me again.”
“You’d flirt with the waitress at the wedding.”
He gasps “I would never!”
“You’d compliment her hair while holding my hand.”
“…I would,” he admits “But I’d still only see you.”
You give him a look. That look.
And then you glance down at his hands.
“Hey.”
“Yes, angel?”
“Why didn’t you wear your ring today?”
He blinks “What?”
You raise an eyebrow “It’s usually easier once they see that you’re taken.”
Sanji looks down at his bare left hand like he just noticed it. Then he immediately starts digging in his coat pocket.
“I—I was washing dishes this morning!” he says, panicking “I didn’t want to scratch it! I swear I meant to put it back on!”
“Uh-huh.”
He finally finds it. A simple gold band, a little worn from kitchen life, but still shining.
He grabs your hand and slides it on with dramatic care, like he’s proposing again.
“There. Forgive me?”
You hold up your hand and show him the matching one on your finger.
“I always wear mine.”
He groans “I’m the worst husband ever.”
You lean in close “You really are.”
He tilts his head, eyes hopeful “But I’m your husband.”
You sigh, pretending to be annoyed, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your face.
“Yeah,” you say softly “You are.”
He lights up again.
“You make me crazy” you say.
He kisses your hand “Then let’s be crazy together.”
“Get a room, this is disgusting.” Zoro says while drinking.
“Nooo, no room. I want to see.” Brook replies getting punched by Nami before he can even do his usual laugh.
The crew laugh but you don’t put your eyes away from your husband, blushing and smiling softly and he does the same.
── .✦ Law:
The fire crackles in the middle of the camp. Meat sizzles, drinks pour, and the air is full of laughter and victory.
The war is over. Kaido is down.
Tonight is for celebration.
You're sitting close to Law, sake cup in hand. It’s warm in your chest now. The fourth cup? Maybe fifth? You lost count. Whatever. You’re relaxed. Happy. Tipsy.
You lean back, stretch, and laugh at a joke Usopp just told, even if you didn’t fully hear it.
Shachi blinks “She’s having fun. Someone mark the date.”
“I’m telling her you said that” Ikkaku warns, grinning.
Law glances at you “You good?”
You grin “Mmhmm. Sake’s nice.”
He hums but watches you for a beat longer.
Across the fire, Luffy stands on a barrel “This party needs more energy!”
Sanji spins around at your laugh “Y/N-chwaaaan! You look radiant in firelight! Please, dance with me!”
You shake your head and gesture at Law “Taken.”
That single word makes Penguin choke on his drink.
Kid raises an eyebrow “Taken, huh?”
You smirk and lean into Law’s space, voice teasing, “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll make it obvious.”
Law narrows his eyes “What does that mean?”
You grab his hat, pluck it off his head, and drop it on your own. It’s too big and slides over your eyes.
Shachi lets out a shriek-laugh “Oh my god, she’s wearing his hat!”
“Y/N, give it back.” Law says flatly, reaching for it.
You tilt your head “No.”
“Give it—”
“Say please.”
He stares at you “You’re drunk.”
“Didn’t say no” you sing.
Zoro makes a low sound that might be a laugh. Sanji, meanwhile, is clenching his wine bottle like it personally betrayed him “She’s flirting with him? With that guy?”
Nami snorts “They’re sitting in each other’s space, Sanji. She’s on him.”
“Tragedy!” Sanji whispers.
You grab Law’s face with both hands “Hey.”
“What.” he says stiffly.
“You know I like you, right?”
The fire quiets. Everyone freezes. Even Luffy stops mid-meat-bite.
Law tenses “What are you doing?”
“Reminding you. In case you forgot.”
Shachi and Penguin look away. Bepo buries his face in his paws. Ikkaku groans “Oh no, it’s happening.”
You poke Law’s cheek “I like your murder face.”
Kid laughs out loud “Murder face?!”
“Shut up” Law growls, glaring across the flames.
You curl up next to him, still wearing his hat “So handsome.”
“Y/N,” he mutters, voice low “Stop.”
You tilt your head “Why? You’re mine, right?”
“…Yes.”
Usopp drops his cup.
“Excuse me?!” Sanji shouts.
“Did we just get a whole relationship reveal during party time?” Nami blinks.
Robin smiles gently “I was wondering how long they’d keep it quiet.”
Kid looks between you and Law “You? With him? Damn.”
“Respect.” Heat adds, raising his drink.
You raise yours too, still leaning into Law “Cheers.”
Law looks like he wants the ground to swallow him.
You wiggle your fingers in Law’s hair, still wearing his oversized hat.
“You know,” you say, voice soft but playful, “you’re kind of impossible to ignore when you blush like that.”
Law tries to pull his face away, but you catch his chin gently “Don’t be shy.”
He groans, but you can tell he’s smiling behind the cup he’s raising to hide his face.
Sanji is practically vibrating with jealousy a few feet away “Oi! Don’t hog the captain! She’s mine too, damn it!”
You laugh “Sanji, you’re sweet, but Law’s got me.”
Law’s eyes flash toward Sanji “Careful.”
You glance back at Law, eyes sparkling “You know you’re the hottest boyfriend I could ask for.”
Law freezes. Then, deadpan but with a tiny smile, he says, “I’m your husband.”
The camp goes silent.
For a split second, your brain glitches—wait, husband?—and then you explode, louder than anyone expected, “OMG YAYYY! I FORGOT YOU MARRIED ME! BEST NEWS EVER!”
You throw your hands up in the air, practically bouncing in your seat like you just won the lottery. Your smile stretches impossibly wide, and your eyes sparkle with giddy excitement.
“Law! We’re married! Can you believe it?!” you gush, nearly knocking over your sake cup “I totally forgot you married me! I’m so lucky! This is the best news ever!”
Law’s eyes widen as he watches you go full-on happy dance mode, his usual calm cracking. He reaches out quickly, steadying you by the shoulders.
“Hey, hey, sit down.” he says with a low chuckle, his voice gentle but firm.
You wobble slightly but don’t stop grinning “Can’t! I’m too excited!”
He sighs, shaking his head fondly, trying again to settle you “You’re going to fall.”
You catch his hands, laughing “Maybe, but it’s worth it!”
Law’s cheeks darken just a bit, but he can’t help the soft smile tugging at his lips “You’re ridiculous.”
You lean closer, eyes bright and teasing “Ridiculous? I prefer when you call me adorable.”
A few of your crew are watching, amused. Penguin smirks “She really lights up when she talks about you.”
“Yeah, I’ve never seen her this happy” Shachi adds.
Law’s hand stays steady on your shoulder, and after a moment, you finally settle back down, still glowing.
“Don’t scare me like that” he mutters quietly.
You squeeze his hand “Never. You’re stuck with me... husband.”
He groans dramatically but the warmth in his eyes says otherwise “I’m already regretting marrying you.”
You laugh “Good.”
Luffy’s mouth is wide open, still holding half a meat leg “Wait… married?!”
Nami drops her drink “You two are married?!”
Kid bursts out laughing “Well, no wonder you’re so attached, freaky doctor!”
Sanji’s jaw drops, completely stunned “Husband?!” He looks like he might faint.
Bepo squeaks and hides behind a tree.
You bounce happily “Yep! Secret’s out! We’re married, but only the crew knew.”
Law sighs, adjusting his hat back onto his head “I wanted to keep it quiet.”
“Too late now! You said that yourself!” You grin.
Robin chuckles “Well, congratulations. I always thought you two were close.
Zoro shrugs, grumbling, “Figures.”
You lean into Law, wrapping your arm around his waist “Guess you can’t escape me.”
Law looks resigned but happy “Good.”
Sanji crosses his arms, muttering, “I need a drink…”
You giggle and whisper to Law, “Worth it.”
Law just shakes his head with a small smile.
The campfire flickers as everyone recovers from the big reveal. You lean against Law, still smiling but your eyes hold something deeper, a shadow behind the joy.
Law notices. His gaze sharpens “You’re quiet now.”
You take a shaky breath “I… I'm drinking to forget, but it's not working.”
His eyebrows knit “Forget what?”
You glance away, voice low “How you almost died in the fight. I saw you, Law. It scared me.”
For a long moment, no one speaks. The warmth from the fire feels heavier.
Law’s usual hard edge softens, and he reaches out slowly to pat his hat on your head.
“Hey” he says quietly, voice gentle.
Law reaches out and pats his hat gently on your head. His voice is low, almost careful.
“You’re important to me.”
You look up at him, surprised but steady “Same here.”
His hand lingers a moment on your shoulder before he pulls back slightly, the usual sharpness softened.
He almost forgets you’re in public, his hand lingering on your shoulder like he wants to pull you close. The tough captain’s guard drops for just a second.
Kid smirks “Whoa, Law getting soft.”
Penguin frowns, eyeing your sake cup “You’ve had enough.”
You reach for it again.
His hand shoots out, stopping you “No more.”
Shachi nods “We need you clear, not drunk.”
You pout “But I’m having fun!”
Bepo hops closer, worried “Captain, she’s too loud already.”
Law stands, arms crossed, watching you “They’re right. No more drinking.”
You frown but lower the cup “Only because you said so.”
Law’s lips twitch into a rare smile “Good.”
Your crew surrounds you protectively.
Ikkaku teases, “Lucky he’s soft with you.”
You lean on Law, feeling safe “I am.”
Sanji mutters, “Unbelievable...”
Law’s hand slides around your waist, pulling you close “Stop worrying now. Stay with me.”
You sigh happily “Always.”
── .✦ Shanks:
The sun is high. The air smells like salt and grilled fish.
The Red Force is docked near a lively island. There's music, laughter, and drunk pirates everywhere. Shanks is somewhere near the tavern, talking too loudly, laughing like nothing in the world is wrong.
You sip your drink under a shaded canopy near the docks, far from him but close enough to hear his stupid laugh.
You haven’t spoken in four days.
Not since the fight.
"You're impossible" you’d said.
"You're too stubborn" he'd answered.
Then silence.
Now? You're pretending he doesn't exist. He's pretending the same. Except that you know he sees you. Just like you see him. Always.
“Why are you even mad?” Lucky Roux had asked.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t even know anymore.
“Wanna talk about it?” Yasopp tried.
You glared at him until he walked away.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over your table. You glance up.
It’s a man. Not part of the crew.
Tall. Dark skin. A silver earring. Broad shoulders and a smirk you don’t trust.
“You look lonely” he says, leaning close.
You raise a brow “I’m not.”
“No one should drink alone on a day like this.”
You say nothing. But you don’t tell him to go away either.
From across the street, you feel Shanks before you see him. He’s leaning against a wall, one foot crossed over the other, grinning lazily.
He’s watching.
Of course he is.
The stranger sits down beside you “Name’s Davor” he says, offering a hand.
You shake it, quick “Mm.”
“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing away from the party?”
You smile, small. Still not interested. Still mad.
But then your eyes meet his again... Shanks.
He tips his head slightly, smug as ever. His eyes are saying, Go ahead. Play. You’re still mine.
Your blood heats up.
Fine.
You turn to the stranger, eyes a little softer “You look strong” you say, laying a hand lightly on his arm.
He grins, surprised “I train a lot.”
You let your fingers trace the curve of his bicep “I can tell.”
From the corner of your eye, Shanks pushes off the wall.
Still smiling.
Still calm.
But his jaw is tight now. You know that look. He’s coming.
Davor leans closer “Careful. You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll think I have a chance.”
“Yeah, but careful...” you say, smirking “I bite.”
“I like that.”
You let out a fake little laugh, sweet and mean at the same time.
Shanks steps behind the man without a sound “Hey,” he says, cheerful “Enjoying the view?”
Davor looks up “R...Red-Haired Shanks?”
“Red-Haired Shanks, yes.” He nods at you “That seat’s taken.”
Davor blinks “She didn’t say she was—”
“She didn’t have to” Shanks cuts in, voice low now.
You lean back, sipping your drink, acting bored.
But your heart is racing.
Davor glances between you both “I didn’t mean any disrespec—”
Shanks claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, all teeth “Course not. Just be careful. Some things look unclaimed when they’re not.”
Davor stands quickly “Got it. Sorry, ma’am.”
He walks away fast.
Silence.
You look at Shanks.
He looks back, eyes hot and shining.
Neither of you says anything.
Then, he leans down, his lips near your ear.
"That was cute," he murmurs "Trying to make me jealous."
You roll your eyes “Didn’t try. Just succeeded, or you wouldn't even be here.”
He chuckles “You done being mad?”
You shrug “Maybe.”
He reaches for your drink, takes a sip without asking “Good. 'Cause I’ve missed you.”
You don’t reply.
But you don’t stop him when he sits beside you either.
Not this time.
Shanks stretches his legs out under the table like he owns the world, like he didn’t just interrupt a conversation you were clearly enjoying.
He takes another sip of your drink. Loudly.
You don't look at him.
He waits a second. Two.
Then “So... was that your type?” he asks, too casual “The whole broody and tall thing?”
You blink at the horizon, bored.
Still not speaking.
Shanks grins. He thinks this is funny "Should I cut my hair and start lifting barrels just to compete?"
Still nothing.
"Hello?" he singsongs, nudging your knee with his "Cat got your tongue? Or did Davor take that too?"
You sigh. Long. Loud. Then, you stand.
His smile falters just a second.
"Where you goin’, sweetheart?"
You don’t answer.
You walk.
Back toward the bar. Back to the party.
Back to Davor, who’s drinking something bitter and looking around like he wants to vanish into the floor.
You sit next to him again.
He jumps “Uh—didn’t expect to see you again.”
You smile sweetly “Why? Did my Captain scare you?”
“...A little.” He laughs nervously.
You lean in anyway, eyes half-lidded, voice soft “Don’t worry. He’s not gonna do anything. I won't let him.”
Across the square, Shanks is still sitting at the table. Watching.
You meet his eyes.
He raises his cup in a little mock-toast. That damn smirk is back, the one that says, Go ahead. You’ll come crawling back anyway.
So you turn back to Davor.
“I didn’t get to finish admiring these muscles earlier” you say, touching his arm again. Slower this time.
Davor blushes, but tries to play it cool “You really wanna keep poking the dragon?”
You grin “Why not? It’s not like he’s breathing fire yet.”
Behind you, you hear a whistle.
It’s Shanks.
You don’t turn around.
You just smile wider.
Let him feel the burn this time.
Davor laughs awkwardly when you run a finger down his arm “You’re bold...” he says.
You smirk “You’re still here.”
He shrugs “Only because he hasn’t killed me yet.”
You glance sideways. Shanks is still at the same table, drink untouched, elbow on the wood, chin resting on his hand and eyes fixed on you.
His smile is now gone.
He stands.
The chair screeches back. He walks slow, boots steady on the wood. No smirk now.
You brace, but don’t look away.
Davor sees him coming and tenses “Alright, maybe I should leave now—”
“No,” Shanks says, voice sharp “I’ll talk.”
You tilt your head “Oh? Now you want to talk?”
“I’ve always wanted to talk.” His eyes burn into yours “But you were too busy flirting with that guy’s forearms.”
You lift your chin “I wasn’t flirting. I was proving a point.”
“To who?!”
“To you!”
He runs a hand through his red hair, frustrated “Y/N, what do you want from me right now?”
“I love making you jealous” you say, arms folded, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
He steps closer “I’m not jealous” he says, jaw tight. Then softer, “Just… stop.”
His voice lowers even more “You were right. About the fight. I was stubborn. I didn’t listen. I acted like a damn idiot.”
You blink.
You weren’t expecting that.
“I…” You shift your weight “I don’t even remember why we fought.”
He stares at you “Are you serious?”
You nod “No clue.”
For a moment, the two of you just… stand there. Then his lips twitch. A small, surprised smile. It grows. That warm Shanks smile. Real.
You smile too.
“Wanna start over?” you ask, voice lighter now.
He nods, eyes soft “Yeah. I’d like that.”
You hold out your hand “Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N. I think I have a crush on you.”
He laughs, taking your hand, pulling you in close.
“Babe,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back, “I’m your husband.”
You grin, leaning into his chest “God, I love when you talk domestic to me.”
He kisses your forehead.
“Let’s go finish this somewhere more private.” he whispers.
“Lead the way, Captain” you say, arms wrapping around him.
Davor clears his throat in the distance “So uh… I’m just gonna go—”
“Good call” Shanks says without looking at him.
"Oh Devor!" you call making him turn in surprise "For real... nice arms."
You smirk, still tucked against Shanks’ side, while Davor nods awkwardly and shoots a terrified glance his way.
Shanks turns to you and flicks your forehead. You pout, rubbing the spot like it actually hurt, acting confused about why he did it.
He smiles at you before leaving a kiss on the same spot on your forehead "Idiot, I love you. Now if you're done here..."
And just like that the storm ends.
── .✦ Ace:
The sun is high when the ship docks near a strange little island. Green trees, bright flowers, and weird fruit hanging from every branch. It almost looks like a dream.
You lean on the railing, watching as Ace stretches his arms beside you.
“Another island, another chance to explore” he says with that wide grin of his.
You poke his side “Another chance for you to pull dumb pranks?”
He laughs “No promises.”
He always pranks you. Hiding your shoes. Filling your drink with chili powder. That time he pretended to fall overboard just to hear you scream his name.
You still haven’t gotten him back.
Not yet.
As the crew unloads, you stay close to Ace. You already know the plan.
Marco leans in and whispers in your ear, “You sure you wanna do this?”
You nod “He deserves it.”
Thatch tosses a weird purple fruit into your hands “This will do the trick. Looks freaky, but it’s just sweet inside. Take a bite, pretend you lose your memory. He’ll freak.”
Ace is walking ahead, clueless. You smirk. Time for revenge.
The moment comes during lunch.
Everyone is sitting under a big tree. The sun is warm. Laughter fills the air.
You sit beside Ace and hold up the fruit “Hey, look what I found.”
Ace raises an eyebrow “That looks… sketchy.”
You shrug “You afraid of a fruit now?”
He scoffs “No. I just don’t want you turning into a duck or something.”
You grin and take a bite.
Everyone goes quiet.
You chew slowly, then suddenly drop the fruit and grab your head “Ow… what… what’s happening…?”
Ace sits up fast “Babe?”
You look around, eyes wide “Who are all of you?!”
He freezes “Wait, what?”
“I... I don’t remember anything! Why am I here?! Who are you?!” you shout, pointing at Ace.
"Yeah sure... nice prank, now you can stop alreaady." he says rolling his eyes at you.
You try your best to stay serious, confused and scared... and it actually works because one look over at you and Ace scrambles to his knees “It’s me! Ace! We’re pirates! You love me, remember?!”
You stare at him like he’s a stranger “Pirates?! I don’t even like the ocean!”
You hear muffled laughs behind you, Thatch’s hand over his mouth, Marco shaking with silent laughter, Izou biting his lip so hard it might bleed.
Ace grabs your shoulders “You’re joking. Right? Right?!”
You blink at him, dead serious “Please don’t hurt me! Someone help!”
He turns pale “What?! Hurt you?! I would never! I—guys, help! What do I do?! Should we call a doctor?! Is there a doctor fruit?! I don't know!!”
You sniff, faking a tear “I don’t even know your name!”
He holds your face gently, panic all over him “It’s Ace! Portgas D. Ace! We’ve been together for years! You sleep on my chest every night, you steal my food, you… love me.”
You’re so close on giving up already, you hate seeing him like this. But then you look over at the crew and they start silently making gestures to make you continue it.
And you do.
You’re back on the ship.
Ace insisted.
“If she sees our room,” he told the crew, “she’ll remember everything. Right?”
Marco just raised a brow “Maybe.”
Thatch was trying not to burst into laughter again “Yeah, maybe.”
So now you’re walking beside Ace, pretending to be confused but curious.
You glance around the deck, eyes wide “This is… a nice boat.”
He corrects you instantly “Ship.”
“Right. Sorry, bro.”
Ace flinches “Bro?”
You smile sweetly “Yeah. You’re being really nice to me, bro. I appreciate it.”
He narrows his eyes “You called me ‘lovebug’ yesterday.”
You shrug “Guess I was weird before the memory loss.”
He mutters something under his breath.
When you reach your shared room, he pushes the door open with hopeful eyes.
Inside, it’s warm and messy. Blankets kicked half off the bed. His shirt on the floor. Your hairbrush sitting on the dresser.
He points at the pictures stuck to the wall “See? That’s us. Kissing.”
You tilt your head “Wow. Looks like I liked you a lot, bro.”
He looks physically wounded “Please stop calling me that.”
You walk over to the bed and flop down “It’s comfy in here.”
Ace stands there, running a hand through his hair “You really don’t remember any of this?”
You shake your head with wide, fake-innocent eyes “Nope. But you seem chill. Kinda cute, too.”
He perks up “Cute?!”
“Like… for a brother.”
He groans “I’m not your brother!”
You stare at him, unblinking “Sorry. Bro.”
Ace falls to his knees beside the bed and grabs your hands “Okay, no. That’s it. This has gone too far. Bro here. Bro there. Bro??? I’m your husband!”
Your eyes go wide “What?!”
“Yeah?” he shouts “We sleep together, we travel together, we fight together, we’re in love! You kiss me every morning! You steal the blankets! You chew too loud but I still love you! And don’t make me say what we do closed door now!”
The rest of the crew looks annoyed by this last sentence.
“It’s not like you’re quite “closed door” anyway…” Marco says as if he’s scolding you both.
But Ace doesn’t even seem to care. He just stares at you with the sorriest expression you ever seen on him.
You sit up fast, eyes softening at Ace. The prank suddenly doesn’t feel as funny anymore.
“…Ace.”
“I don’t care if you don’t remember me,” he says, voice quiet now “I’ll make you fall for me again. I’ll tell you everything, every story, every stupid moment. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
Your chest tightens.
You bite your lip, then finally blurt out, “Ace… I’m sorry. It was a prank.”
He blinks “What?”
“I didn’t think you’d fall for it that hard! I thought you were just playing along until a minute ago!” you say, grabbing his hands “It was Thatch’s idea. I just wanted to get you back! I didn’t mean to… Ace, I’m so sorry.”
He stares at you in silence.
Then slowly leans back.
Then throws his hands in the air and screams into the room.
“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!”
You’re hugging him, trying not to laugh and cry at the same time.
Then you hear a snort.
Then a muffled cackle.
Thatch is holding his stomach, tears running down his face “OH MY GOD. ‘BRO?!’ BRO?! I’M YOUR HUSBAND?!’ I’m gonna DIE.”
Marco leans against the wall, arms crossed, shaking his head with a small smile “I warned you not to prank someone more dramatic than you.”
Izou is fanning himself “I almost broke character when she said he was ‘kinda cute’... That was brutal.”
Ace whirls on them “You were all in on this uh?”
Thatch throws both hands in the air “Obviously!”
“You could’ve given me a heart attack!” Ace says.
Marco smirks “I was watching to make sure you didn’t set the ship on fire with your emotions.”
Izou snickers “That speech, though. The blankets. The chewing. I was this close to crying.”
You nudge Ace “Aw. They all thought it was sweet.”
Ace glares at you, then at the others “You’re all monsters.”
💭: ace "accidentally" gets doused in a love potion after a slight mishap during alchemy class. he suddenly becomes unbearably clingy and dramatic with you, much to the dismay of the first-years. there's just one teeny tiny problem: it's completely fake.
ace finds that it might be possible to fool you by spraying an uncanny amount of cheap perfume.
pairing. ace trappola x gn! reader ft. first-year gang
wc. 3.6k
warnings. crackfic, reader is prefect, ooc ace cs i know his ass is too prideful for this (probably), ace humiliating himself for 3.6k words, oblivious(not really) reader, second-hand embarrassment
a/n. so ace-pilled holy shit i was lowkirkenuinely cringing writing some of these lines bye i love my little fumbler 🥹🥹✌
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam—if there is a will, there is a way.
An irrefutably classic phrase, one that is strewn across the vast sea of modern literature, and in moments that blend with the mundane life. It, at its core, resonates with the very sentiment of human perseverance and unyielding nature—defiant, arrogant, yet all the more unapologetically humane.
It is an honest attestation to humanity—a primordial inheritance that has bled through one’s flesh and bones since breath was first given, and dust became living.
The phrase has always been bracketed for conquerors and geniuses, for those who have stood on the precipice between will and subjugation—life and death. It is a consensus that has outlived empires, etched onto monuments, and passed down through blood and scripture—scrawled in the handwriting of sleepless architects who drew lines until the graphite snapped, and in the frantic, ink-smudged margins of poets who starved just to feed a single verse.
It is also laced in the mutters of delusion posed by lovesick fools.
“You’re utterly pathetic, do you know that?”
Ace waves his hand absentmindedly in return, not even bothering to look up from where he has draped himself across your lap in a boneless and shameless manner. He leans his weight entirely to your side with a heavy sigh, polluting the air with the violent smell of cheap roses and synthetic hibiscus.
The air around him is thick with a scent so aggressively floral that it feels like being hit in the face with a funeral wreath. It’s a cloying, syrupy catastrophe of concentrated sugar that seems to radiate off his blazer, making nearby students cough and retreat—even Grim had abandoned you ten minutes ago after loudly declaring that his “snout hairs are being burnt through.”
“I’m touched by your concern, really,” Ace sighs dreamily, his voice dropping into a honey-thick register that makes Epel look like he’s about to physically gag. “But love is just a cruel and incurable affliction.”
“What in tarnation are ya saying?” Epel replies, horrified. “You… you reek of perfume from Sam’s shop!”
“It’s a love potion,” Ace corrects solemnly. “Get your facts right.”
“I told you, it was a complete accident in the lab.” Ace murmurs, his fingers tracing idle, lingering patterns against the lines of your palm. He’s been “unable” to let go of your hand for the last forty minutes, yapping about how the warmth of yours grounds the hazy territory of his tangled mind. “One minute, I’m just stirring the cauldron, the next—bam—pink smoke right at my face, and suddenly, the Prefect is the only person in the world that matters—it’s a tragedy, isn’t it?”
He tilts his head, resting it on your shoulder and peering up at you through his lashes with a gaze he clearly thinks is “smoldering” but is actually just intensely focused on making sure you aren’t suspicious.
Epel stares at him aghast, disbelief painting his countenance as he tries to blink away the ridiculous sight in front of him. Deuce stands slightly farther away from the scene, partly to stay away from inhaling that biohazard and mostly to save himself from embarrassment, looking deeply conflicted about whether he should intervene or let his friend continue to descend into social suicide.
“You really should pay attention to the steps Professor Crewel gave us.” You sigh, trying to steady him as he practically melts against your form.
You do not notice the collective agony radiating from everyone else.
Ace suppresses a smirk against your shoulder. He’s a fencer—he knows all about finding an opening, no matter how cornered or tight it might be. If he can’t find a way to your heart through normal, non-embarrassing means, he’ll simply build a bridge out of lies and stinky perfume.
He slackens his shoulders, his gaze turning glassy with manufactured devotion, and with devastating overcommitment, he squeezes your hand like a maiden grasping her final earthly tether.
“Prefect,” Ace calls out softly like he’s moments away from collapsing into an early grave (you swear you can see Deuce grind his teeth in cringe). “I don’t think I can survive this cruel affliction alone.”
Deuce makes a strangled noise. “Ace, it’s not possible to die from a love potion!”
“Oh, Juice… You truly don’t know anything.” He sighs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply—unfortunately, it turns out to be a massive tactical error on his part, because he ends up breathing in a mouthful of his own gas chamber of a perfume. He chokes for a split second, but he recovers with the terrifying tenacity of a man who could take on Lebron in a match.
“See? Love is the most twisted curse of all.”
Epel physically recoils. “Oh, no way you said that.”
“Ace,” Deuce hisses under his breath, face impressively red from secondhand embarrassment. “You said you were only gonna act a little weird!”
“Well, excuse me for being committed to the role.” Ace shoots back before instantly melting back into his lovestruck persona the moment your attention diverts back to him. His expression softens with almost terrifying speed, eyes half-lidded as he gazes up at you, as if you personally hung the stars, the moon, the sky, and everything under heaven. “Sorry, Prefect… loud noise makes my symptoms worse.”
You, completely oblivious to the fact that a standard love potion doesn’t require a daily application of five ounces of lavender eau-de-toilette, merely pat his head with a sympathetic sigh. “Does your head hurt? Maybe we should go to the infirmary…”
“No! No infirmary!” Ace stumbles out quickly in a panic, his voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat and drops it back into that low, dramatic purr. “The school nurse doesn’t have the cure. Just… let me stay like this for five… or fifty… more minutes.”
He is, without a doubt, a top-three fumbler in the history of Night Raven College. He has alienated his friends, ruined his favorite blazer, humilaitingly seen by a handful of his upperclassmen, and smells like three different air purifiers in the dead of summer—but as he feels you wrap an arm around his shoulders to keep him from sliding off your lap, Ace decides that not even Sun Tzu can outsmart him in a strategic battle.
Ace is a genius—holy shit, he’s for sure one hell of a tactical genius bastard.
He presses closer, a smug and completely hidden victorious grin stretching across his face against your shoulder.
Epel mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “yeah, bet the nearest mental institute might help ya instead,” but he doesn’t dwell on it.
Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Ace’s “condition” unsurprisingly somehow follows you everywhere.
EXHIBIT #01: THE HEARTSLABYUL UNBIRTHDAY PARTY.
You can feel stares drilling straight into your soul, but you try your best to feign ignorance, opting to enjoy a slice of tart in lieu. Beside you, your sticky parasite doesn’t seem to get the memo, as he effectively continues to paralyze you by using your shoulder as a personal pillow, his arm looped tightly through yours.
“Prefect… the tea is too bitter,” Ace whines, his voice dropping into that theatrical cadence that nearly makes Trey drop his spoon. “The only sweetness I can tolerate right now is your presence. Feed me a forkful of that strawberry tart? My hands are just… so weak from the potion’s tolls.”
“If your hands are weak, Trappola, I can detach them from your wrists, if you’d like.” Riddle seethes from the head of the table, his teacup trembling with a dangerous clicking sound. His face is a shade of red that rivals his cape—half from the sheer, unadulterated public indecency of the display, and half because the sugary foulness permeating through the air is ruining the aroma of his Earl Grey.
“A—Ace, please, Housewarden Riddle is looking right at us,” Deuce whispers frantically from across the table, looking paler than paper. “You said you were just going to ask the Prefect to walk you back to the dorm!”
“I can’t help it,” Ace sighs dramatically, tightening his grip on your arm and leaning his head further on your shoulder. “If I’m not near the Prefect, I might seriously stop breathing—it’s the potion doing it, I’m telling you! You wouldn’t want to explain a corpse at an Unbirthday Party, would you, Housewarden?”
His fellow dormmates look the other way with varying degrees of expressions that encapsulate their desperate prayers of coming out of the party alive.
“I am going to count to three,” Riddle says, his voice lowering into a terrifyingly calm note as he pulls his magic pen. “And if you are still doused in that unsavory cologne and violating personal space boundaries, I will see to it that it will be Off With Your Head for a straight month!”
EXHIBIT #02: THE LIBRARY.
“Look at this section, Prefect,” Ace mutters, his warm breath hitting your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that he definitely notices, given his shit-eating grin that he doesn’t bother to conceal. “See, the ancient kings fought wars for land and territory, but I’d give up the whole world just for a single glance from you, y’know?”
From across the table, a poor Scarabia student groans into his hands. Genuinely, get this corny shit out of my face.
Seated in the quietest, cramped corner of the library, as dust motes dance beneath the dim lights, the supposed “study session” for your upcoming history quiz is completely overturned the moment Ace decides to sit so close to you that he is practically in your skin. His chin rests heavily on your shoulder, his chest pressed against your back, while his hands “helpfully” guide your fingers across the page.
So much for trying to pass Professor Trein’s class.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over the table in the form of Sebek Zigvolt, who, with his arms crossed, stares at the two of you with a snarl of pure, righteous indignation.
“Trappola!” Sebek starts to bellow, before remembering where he is and dropping to a harsh and aggressive whisper that still rattles the desk. “What is the meaning of this indecent display?! Get off the Prefect at once! Your vile stench insults the very air Lord Malleus breathes!”
“Ugh, talk about bad timing. It’s called romance, Sebek. Not everyone is emotionally repressed.” Ace doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, dropping his chin back onto your shoulder and tightening his hold on your waist with an arrogant, proprietary tug that cements his position. “Prefect, my head hurts… tell that loud pipsqueak to go away.”
“Loud pipsqueak?! Why, you impudent, malingering fraud—”
Before Sebek can burst a blood vessel, you hurriedly lift your hand to Ace’s forehead, your fingers brushing against the fringe of his bangs as you press the back of your palm gently against his skin.
Your brows knit together in concern, your thumb unconsciously smoothing a strand of his hair away from his forehead. “You do feel a little warm… maybe the potion is affecting you more than we thought.”
Ace nearly fucking ascends.
The moment your cool fingers brush against his forehead, his entire brain short-circuits. The smug grin completely vanishes, replaced by a bright red flush that creeps up all the way up to the tips of his ears. Your thumb idly smooths down his hair, and Ace suddenly realizes that playing dead might actually become a reality if his heart keeps hammering against his ribs this thunderously.
Sebek merely gapes at you in utter, speechless cosmic horror, his chest locked mid-breath as he watches your hand actively comfort the enemy. His mouth opens once, then closes again with an audible click as he struggles to process the cataclysmic level of gullibility unfolding before him in real time.
“Prefect,” he says slowly, voice immensely strained with the effort of remaining civil, “surely you cannot be believing this buffoonery.”
Ace gasps as though Sebek has just insulted his entire lineage. “Why are you all against our love? Is it a crime to yearn? Is it a cardinal sin to be entirely consumed by the most profound and inescapable emotion known to mankind?”
Ace clutches weakly at your sleeves with the grace of a tragic heroine abandoned at sea, his eyelids fluttering with a level of vehement agony that is likened to a mourning opera singer. He blind-grabs your free hand from the desk, clutching your knuckles against his chest right over his furiously beating heart.
“Don’t look at him, Prefect,” Ace pleads, his voice trembling and delicate like spun sugar—so terribly artificially sweet just like the overwhelming wave of vanilla floating directly up Sebek’s nostrils. “If the world stands against us, then I’ll stand against the world.”
Sebek’s face violently transitions from an offended purple to a vein-popping, volcanic shade of crimson.
EXHIBIT #03: THE CAFETERIA
“Ace, I genuinely wish from the bottom of my heart that you will fall into a ditch and never be seen again.” Epel deadpans, his fork hovering precariously close to his plate of baked potatoes.
His knuckles are white from his grip, and his face is gnarled into an expression of raw visceral disgust that is worse than when he’s talking about lifestyle lessons with Vil.
Across from him, Jack quietly nods in agreement while trying—and failing—to eat his lunch through the suffocating floral fog emanating from Ace’s blazer.
“I can taste the perfume.” He says, disgruntledly, his ears flattening so far back that it’s practically pinned to his skull.
“That sounds like a personal problem,” Ace replies without shame.
The humid midday heat of the cafeteria has essentially aerosolized Ace’s three layers of perfume, turning your circular table into a high-concentration chamber that can suffocate a small woodland ecosystem. Nearby students have already cleared out, dragging their trays three tables away just to escape the fumes, leaving the first-year gang isolated in the red zone.
Poor Jack, being a beastman with heightened senses to top it all off—it’s a miracle he hasn’t passed out yet.
“Prefect,” Ace pokes your arm, his tray sitting almost untouched in front of him because, apparently, lovesickness has also robbed him of the ability to feed himself, “can you cut my omelette and feed me? I think I’m going to faint…”
Epel massages his temple. “Please stop talking.”
You glance between Ace’s sprawling state on your shoulder and his untouched lunch. “Is it really that bad?”
“See? Prefect gets me,” he sighs. “Unlike you heartless people who mock a man suffering through the torment of forbidden love.”
“There’s nothing forbidden about it!” Deuce whisper-yells, looking seconds away from ripping his hair out of second-hand humiliation. “You literally made this whole thing up!”
Ace gasps loudly enough to earn several irritated looks from nearby upperclassmen.
“Deuce…” he breathes out quietly, eyes full of faux betrayal, “how could you expose my medical history in public?”
“That is not what medical history means!”
“Wow, look at him trynna act smart.” Ace snickers near your ear, completely unfazed by the fact that Deuce looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. He slides a fraction lower, his shoulders slumping deliberately as he lets his weight anchor completely against your side.
“You were the one who asked me to help you!” Deuce hisses, lurching toward his direction with a desperate tone of someone attempting damage control, his voice pitched low enough as he jabs an accusatory finger toward him. “You said—and I quote—bro, it’ll just be a little joke for like ten minutes. Ten minutes, Ace!”
“Well, plans evolve, Deucy Juice.” Ace merely shoo’s him, letting his head drop onto your shoulder again, his hair tickling your neck as he shifts closer, shamelessly stealing warmth and attention as if it’s his God-given right.
Jack looks greatly disturbed as the seconds tick by. “You’re making us lose our appetite.”
“That sounds like jealousy.” Ace replies instantly before reaching his fingers over to play with the hem of your blazer. “It’s okay, I get it. I’d be jealous too if I saw us together.”
Epel slams his forehead directly against the table.
EXHIBIT #04: THE BOTANICAL GARDEN.
The golden sun bleeds a heavy, bruised orange through the glass panes of the Botanical Garden, but the natural fragrance of rare flora has been completely eradicated.
By evening, the entire first-year population has become unwilling participants in Ace’s one-man theatre production.
You sit on a stone bench near the temperate zone, trying to review your notes for the day, but it proves hard in practice when Ace is practically poured over your lap, his legs stretching across the bench, while his face is buried into your side.
He lets out a drawn-out sigh loud enough to constitute a public disturbance.
“What now?” Grim groans, his paws clamped so tightly over his snout that his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “You’ve been leaking that fake flower juice all day! My ears are ringing from your whining!”
“Nothing,” Ace replies, his voice a lazy murmur that rumbles right against your ribs. He shifts slightly, dragging his cheek along the fabric of your uniform. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” You ask, not looking up from your notes.
He cranes his head up to gaze at your eyes, looking at you through the messy, unstructured fringe of his bangs, lips curling into a devious smirk. “...You.”
“Oh, how touching.” Grim snarls right back at him.
“Ugh, just throw that damn ginger back to his dorm, henchhuman!” Grim’s muffled voice wails from behind you, now burying his face into a nearby bush brimming with exotic plants to save his nostrils.
Before said ginger can concoct a two-page excuse for why the scent of Heartslabyul’s air—especially if away from you—would further detonate his predicament and cause the fall of NRC, Ortho's buoyant voice beats him to it.
“Incredible!” Ortho chirps cheerfully, his mechanical voice cutting through the (frankly repugnant) air. “My atmospheric sensors indicate that the floral fixative concentration in this exact three-meter radius has nearly reached the level that is technically classified as a skin irritant! Ace, are you attempting to pheromone-bond with the Prefect?”
What the fuck.
“...Pheremone… bond?” You repeat, weakly.
“...Ortho,” Ace says carefully, in the tone of someone who’s trying to lace an emergency exit out of a conversation. “Look, buddy, my guy.”
“I’m just curious!” Ortho continues, his eyes blinking with the bright, faultless energy of someone who has absolutely no idea of the scale of the bomb he just dropped. “Pheremone-bonding is a documented cross-species courtship behaviour—I read about it in volume three of Advanced Magical Biology—where one party attempts to establish a scent association with a preferred individual through sustained proximity and repeated olfactory exposure!”
Ace nearly faints for real this time. The absolute, paramount confidence that he’s been riding all day as he flaunts it right at every possible chance shatters into a million jagged pieces. A violent, red blush erupts across his face, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck and up to the tips of his ears.
“Ortho, shut up!” Ace panics, his voice cracking spectacularly as he scrambles out of your embrace. He bolts upright, stumbling over his own legs as he storms right up to the floating guy.
He stands on his tiptoes, his face completely ablaze as he frantically swats at the glowing holographic charts floating in the air. “Why do you even have graphs for this?! Delete them! In fact, burn them!”
“But these are important visual aids!” Ortho protests, dodging Ace’s flailing hands with effortless ease as he floats higher into the air. “See? This chart clearly displays the increase in physical clinginess whenever the Prefect directs positive attention toward you! Would you like me to print a comprehensive report for your Housewarden?”
“What?! No! No one is printing anything!—”
While the two of them are locked in a high-stakes, hyper-panicked screaming match—Ace frantically jumping up and down to try and drag the other out of the air—Grim slowly peeks his head from the shrubbery. His blue flame ears twitch as his eyes dart between Ortho’s glowing charts, Ace’s crimson face, and your completely serene countenance.
Grim blinks—he looks at Ace, then looks back at you. A sudden, sharp realization strikes his brain, and he waddles over to your side on the bench, completely ignoring the chaotic noises in the background.
“Wait a minute…” He mumbles, pointing a paw directly at your face. “Henchhuman… you knew from the beginning, didn’t you?!”
You look at Ace, currently yelling at the robot three feet away, entirely stripped of his cool-guy facade and looking thoroughly like a thief caught red-handed. You let out a small, amused huff and calmly reorganize your books.
“Mhm.” You hum noncommittally.
Grim’s jaw drops, his tail snapping wildly in the air. “You knew?! And you just let him drag you around all day?! You let him ruin my nose hairs with that cheap flower juice for nothing?! Why didn’t you just punt him out the window?!”
“Well,” you reply smoothly, leaning back against the stone bench as you watch Ace fervently try to jump-kick Ortho’s thrusters, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “He just looks so cute trying so hard to find an excuse to cuddle with me. I figured the least I could do was let him have his win.”
Grim drags his hand down his face so hard it might as well leave a physical mark on his face, groaning loudly into his paws at the realization that he is trapped in a greenhouse with a shameless yearner and an absolute enabler.
content ⸝⸝ (separate) clingy ! zoro roronoa + monkey d. luffy + portgas d. ace x fem ! reader , fluff , ≈ 500 words per drabble
಄ zoro roronoa (takes place during egghead)
─── zoro can’t sleep without you.
as strange as it sounds, he can’t drift off until you’re in his arms, pressed against his chest. this even applies to his daily naps, no matter how short they might be. he yawned, stretching his arms behind his head before leaning back against the ship’s dock. the two of you were supposed to be guarding it—alongside brook—while the rest of the crew was with the vegapunks.
“[first name],” he called out just as brook had poured you a glass of tea.
you turned immediately at the sound of your name. “yes, zoro—?” you responded, already recognizing his usual sleeping posture. “i’ll be there in a second. just let me finish this tea… ooh! hot, hot.” you blew on the steam before taking another sip.
he grunted and sat up. “drink quickly, or i won’t be able to sleep.”
you rolled your eyes playfully. “yes, you will. you can’t sleep without me anyway.”
he frowned, knowing you were right. clicking his tongue, he walked over to where you were sitting at the table near the edge of the ship. he sat on the floor beside your chair and leaned against it—somehow managing not to tip it over.
“you’re going to fall asleep like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“you’re taking too long,” he explained, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes. “i had to improvise.”
you took another sip and started stroking his hair with your fingers. “alright then. when i finish this, i’ll come lay beside you.” you assumed zoro had drifted off shortly after, lulled by your gentle touch and soft movements. surely, with your fingers running through his hair, he should be asleep in no time.
well, you thought.
you finished the glass brook had poured for you and left it on the table for him or sanji to clean later. you settled beside zoro, making yourself comfortable, only to see his eye open. you flinched. “you’re still awake?!”
he uncrossed his arms and laid back on the deck. “i’ve been this whole time. my arms are empty.”
you sighed and scooted closer until you were lying on top of him, your head resting on his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist. “okay, okay,” you whispered. “go to sleep now.”
and just like that, roronoa zoro fell asleep without any trouble.
“yohohoho—oh.” brook paused mid-step, taking a few steps back as he realized what was happening. “what if i join in on the cuddling? wouldn’t that be a great surprise yohoho—!”
still asleep, zoro suddenly tossed a sword in brook’s direction. it landed with a thud, piercing straight through the ship’s wall.
“HOW DID HE DO THAT?!”
಄ monkey d. luffy
─── everyone but luffy can see the way he treats you differently from everyone else. no matter how many times his own crew called him out for his behavior toward you, he would brush it off and insist he did the same with everybody else—even though that wasn’t entirely true. wherever you went, luffy was always down to tag along, just to make sure you had a companion—even if it wasn’t strictly necessary.
he knew you were as strong as the rest of the straw hats. but for some reason, he never wanted to leave your side. during battles, he would suggest you—mostly just you—to come with him. and when you swallowed nervously, knowing you were about to face the toughest enemies on the seas, he would reassure you, promising he would keep you safe, no matter what.
and he was right. always.
when night fell, he had walk down the ship until he reached your room.
knock! knock!
by now, it was practically a daily routine. he would show up and ask if he could spend the night with you because he had had a ‘bad dream.’ (you still weren’t sure if that was true or not.) if you refused, he would latch onto you until you gave in. there was no point in rejecting your captain’s nightly request.
you opened the door, and he sprang forward, hugging you tightly. you stumbled backward. “what kind of nightmare did you have this time?” you asked, trying to peel him off, but it was useless.
he giggled, looking you in the eye. “none! i just want to be here.”
the door was still open—anyone could walk by and see what the captain and his crewmate were up to. but everyone knew luffy slept in your room by now. it wasn’t a secret.
“okay…?” you raised a brow. “go sleep on the couch—”
“can i sleep on your bed this time?”
“…you want me to take the couch instead?”
“we can both lay on the bed together!” his big grin was impossible to resist.
you didn’t enjoy seeing luffy frown, so you sighed and led him over to your bed. “...alright.”
you didn’t realize your bed wasn’t really big enough for two people. you had your back turned to luffy, facing the opposite direction. you exhaled, trying to sleep—until you felt a rubbery hand grab your shoulder. you shifted, turning to face your captain. his face appeared right in front of yours, your noses almost touching. you nearly fell off the bed, but his hand kept you from doing so.
“yes, luffy?” you swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck.
“i have a feeling you’re going to fall,” he said. “want me to hold you so you don’t?” he blinked innocently, silently hoping you would say yes.
you sweat-dropped at him. “i mean… sure.”
his arm wrapped around you in an instant. “good night, [first name]!”
“night.”
and with the door still open, sanji, chopper, and robin walked by, heading to grab a glass of water. when they passed your room, they paused.
sanji’s mouth dropped. “WHAT?!”
chopper loudly shushed him. “shhh! you’ll wake them up!”
robin smiled warmly. she didn’t say anything. but she did think one thing.
“so cute.”
಄ portgas d. ace
─── you never quite knew if portgas d. ace’s clinginess was something you adored or simply tolerated in your relationship. there was no denying you loved his affection—you craved it—but there were moments when it tipped into something harder to manage. the crew on whitebeard’s ship knew to disappear the second the two of you were in the same space, keen to avoid ‘interrupting something.’ however… whitebeard himself remained unaware of the unspoken rule.
“ace… would you let go? i’m trying to fix this tear in the top.” you pleaded, prying at his arms wrapped around you. his bare chest pressed against your back, his chin nestled in the crook of your neck, and frustration flickered under your skin. “i can’t even move my arms..!” you huffed, finally voicing the issue.
only then did he loosen his hold, though his head stayed tucked close. “thank you.” you breathed out, picking up the sewing materials again to mend the large hole in the shirt you wore. but your relief lasted all of a minute before his arms were wrapped around you once more.
“ace—!”
“it’s not enough.” he murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder.
you turned your head to face him. “what’s not enough?”
“i need to be in your skin.” he admitted, pulling you even closer.
you sighed, no longer bothering to resist. “is this not close enough for you?”
“nope.” the word vibrated against your skin as he shook his head. dropping the sewing materials again, you surrendered to his hold—like you always did. it was just one of the many times ace had derailed your plans, prioritizing his need for your attention above everything else.
“did you already wash up?” he asked, inhaling deeply at your neck. “you always smell good.”
“no, i was going to take a bath after fixing this.” you said, gesturing to the shirt on the floor. he didn’t so much as glance at it—nor did he care that he was the reason for your delay.
“fix it later, or have pops do it himself.” he yawned. “why don’t we bathe together?”
“i don’t trust pops with my equipment—seriously?” you blinked, realizing what he had suggested. “i swear, you’re getting clingier every day.”
“how could i not?” he grinned, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. “everyone should know you’re mine.”
“i think they already do.” you muttered under your breath. with a reluctant sigh, you finally untangled yourself from his grip. “fine. get the bath ready.”
“i wanna get it ready with you—”
“you’re so needy!”
authors note. first post after 100 yearssss i hope you guys enjoyed :))) FIRST ACE WORK I'VE DONE LESSGOOOO pls request so my master-list isn't filled with old and poorly written pieces...😞
For Zoro, when it comes to expressing affection, it’s in the small, meaningful moments. Zoro loves kissing your forehead, because he feels it's a form of his protectiveness over you. He’d do it in quiet moments, when you're falling asleep on his shoulder or when he’s about to leave for a mission. He’d press his lips tenderly to your forehead while his hand gently hold the back of your head. A silent loyalty and a deep, unspoken love. It’s his way of saying, "I’ll love you and protect you, always".
ᴀᴄᴇ – ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ
Ace is impulsive, and wears his emotions on his sleeve. When he kisses you, it’s intense, and for him one kiss isn't enough, it always turns into a make out session with him pressing you against the wall. A French kiss from Ace is messy in the best way, his hands around your waist, pulling you into him like he can’t get close enough. He'd mutter your name against your lips. He'd tilt his head as the kiss deepens, raw and heated. You can feel every ounce of his need and affection in that kiss. With Ace, kissing is not only physical, it’s emotional and desperate. "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you YN"
ꜱᴀɴᴊɪ – ᴘᴀʟᴍ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ
Sanji is the ultimate romantic. When he kisses your palm, it’s like he’s worshipping you. He'll gently take your hand, bow his head slightly, and press his lips to your skin, he'd kiss your finger tips one by one. It’s like a devotion, a promise to love each part of you. He’d look up at you afterward with those adoring eyes, smiling up at you. Even when he's flirty, this type of kiss is pure, sweet, and drives you crazy. Because it shows how gentle yet passionate he is about you. "Mon amour, mon coeur, every part of you deserves to be cherished".
ᴍɪʜᴀᴡᴋ – ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ
Mihawk is composed and not into PDA. But behind closed doors, when he lets his guard down around you, his kisses are slow and deep. He’d kiss your shoulder when you’re sitting together in silence or when you’re waking up beside him. Quietly brushing his lips against your skin as if savoring the moment, savoring you. His voice would be low while he expresses how much he loves you. It's a sensual kind of intimacy. When Mihawk kisses your shoulder, it feels like he’s claiming you in the calmest, most powerful way and you can't help but surrender under his lips. "You're mine"
ꜱʜᴀɴᴋꜱ – ɴᴇᴄᴋ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ
Shanks is confident, teasing and knows exactly how to make your heart flutter. Besides, he's really obsessed with your neck. He’d trail kisses down your neck when he's holding you in his arms.He's so playful but at the same time holds you protectively while doing it. You’d feel him press his lips just below your ear, and then chuckle when he feels the heat crawl up your neck. With Shanks, a neck kiss is flirtation, teasing and deep affection wrapped together. "I love the way you shiver when I do that".
Warning: Hair pulling, spitting, face fucking, office sex, riding, missionary, fem rev, male rev, fingering, spanking, angry sex, kitchen sex, p in v, nipple play, drunk sex, rough Zoro, mean Sabo, raw, teasing, jealousy.
An: I finally posted this. It's not really my favorite, but I hope you like it. @blushinglemon
Sanji
You have to beg this man to pull your hair, like, actually, on hand and knees, because he just doesn’t want to hurt a hair on his love's head.
You can only get him to do it if you do what he likes.
That thing is putting his two favorite things together: you and food.
So just be prepared to feel sticky after it’s all said and done. All I'm saying
Safe to say you’ll both be happy by the end of the day.
The kitchen was a symphony of sizzling pans and Sanji’s quiet, focused humming. You watched him from the doorway, noting the sharp line of his shoulders and the precise flick of his wrist as he seasoned a pan-seared scallop. The air was thick with garlic, white wine, and the promise of a meal that would make you weep. But you weren’t here for the food. Not tonight.
You’d been dancing around the issue for weeks. The lingering touches when he handed you a plate, the way his blue eyes darkened when your laugh echoed in the galley. The man was a fortress of chivalry, a knight in a crisp black suit who would sooner throw himself into the sea than risk making you feel like anything less than a lady. It was maddening. You didn't want a pedestal. You wanted the man beneath the suit, the one with the calloused hands and the hungry gaze he thought he hid so well.
You took a breath, the scent of him—tobacco, sea salt, and sage—cutting through the gourmet aromas. You walked to the central island, the marble cool under your palms. He hadn’t looked up, his concentration absolute.
“Sanji.”
“Hmm? Dinner in ten, my darling. The beurre blanc needs just a moment more to reduce.” His voice was a smooth, distracted melody.
“I’m not hungry for dinner.”
That got his attention. He glanced over, a charming, puzzled smile on his lips. “Nonsense. Everyone is hungry for my cooking.”
You leaned forward, letting the neckline of your shirt gape just enough. You saw his eyes flicker down for a millisecond before snapping back to your face, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’m hungry for you.”
The spatula in his hand stilled. The smile vanished, replaced by a tense, guarded expression. “Don’t say things like that. It’s not… proper.” He turned back to the stove, but his movements were stiff now. “You deserve romance, candlelight, and courtship. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely at the steamy, chaotic kitchen.
“I deserve what I want,” you said, your voice dropping low. You came around the island, standing close enough to feel the heat from the burners. “And I want you. I want you to stop treating me like I’ll break.”
“Because you might,” he said, the words torn from him. He finally looked at you, and the raw want in his eyes stole your breath. It was there, a wild, barely contained thing, warring with a lifetime of conditioning. “The thought of being rough, of losing control… I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you. Not a hair on your head.”
You knew then. Pleading wouldn’t work. Logic wouldn’t work. There was only one key to this particular lock. You’d seen the way he looked at you sometimes when you ate, a strange, potent mix of culinary pride and something far more primal.
You reached past him, not for him, but for the small bowl of fresh, plump strawberries he’d been hulling for dessert. Your fingers closed around one, its ripe red surface glistening under the kitchen lights. You held his gaze, your lips parting as you slowly brought the strawberry to your mouth. The first bite was deliberate, the juice bursting on your tongue with a sweetness that made your eyes flutter closed for a moment. A tiny drop escaped, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your chin.
Sanji’s breath hitched, his hands tightening around the edge of the counter. You could see the battle in his eyes—the need to stay composed, to resist, warring with the hunger you were stoking. You took another bite, letting the fruit linger on your lips, the juice glistening like a temptation he couldn’t ignore.
Then, with a suddenness that made your pulse leap, his hand shot out. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping firmly but not painfully, pulling your head back just enough to force your gaze to meet his. His breathing was ragged, his blue eyes dark with a heat you’d never seen him fully unleash before.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growled, his voice low and rough.
You smirked, licking the juice from your lips, and then you let the half-eaten strawberry slip from your fingers onto the counter. “I know,” you murmured, your voice a sultry challenge. “Are you going to stop me?”
For a moment, it seemed like he might. His grip loosened slightly, his internal struggle clear on his face. But then, with a growl of surrender, his fingers tightened again, pulling your head back further, exposing your neck. His other hand came up, brushing away the stray drop of juice from your chin with his thumb before he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin.
“No,” he whispered, his voice a mix of warning and promise. “But you’re going to regret pushing me, love.”
And in that moment, you knew you’d finally broken through.
Sanji froze. His entire world narrowed to that droplet.
You let the strawberry fall from your fingers onto the counter. You leaned in, your lips a breath from his ear. “Taste it,” you whispered, your voice husky. “Come on, cook. Don’t let it go to waste.”
A shudder racked his frame. His hands, which had been gripping the counter’s edge, knuckles white, lifted. One cupped your jaw, his thumb, rough from knifework, swiping through the juice on your chin. He brought his thumb to his mouth, his eyes locked on yours, and sucked it clean. The sound was obscene in the quiet kitchen.
That was the switch. The last thread of his restraint snapped with an almost audible twang.
His mouth crashed onto yours, not with the gentle reverence you were used to, but with a desperate, starving hunger. It was all heat and demand, his tongue claiming yours, tasting the strawberry, tasting you. The spatula clattered into the sink, forgotten. He lifted you onto the cool marble of the island, pushing bowls and utensils aside with a reckless sweep of his arm. The world was steam, spice, and Sanji.
His kisses trailed down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, as his hands worked frantically at your clothes. “You play a dangerous game,” he growled against your skin, his breath scorching.
“I know,” you gasped, arching into him as his fingers found your breast, his thumb circling a taut nipple through the fabric. “Now play with me.”
He made a sound like a wounded animal, all frustration and unleashed desire. He yanked your pants down your hips, the air cool on your suddenly exposed skin. He knelt before you, there on the kitchen floor, but the act wasn’t worship. It was devouring. He pushed your thighs apart, his gaze blazing as he took in the sight of you, wet and ready just for him.
“Mine,” he breathed, the word more possession than endearment, and then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your head falling back. His tongue was an artist’s tool, used now for pure, sinful pleasure. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circled the aching bud with an utterly maddening precision. He alternated between broad, flat strokes and sharp, focused flicks, his hands gripping your hips to hold you still as you writhed against his mouth. Every nerve ending was on fire, the pleasure coiling tight and deep in your belly.
“Sanji… please…”
He understood. He rose, fumbling with his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. He was beautifully, fully hard. He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds. He paused there, trembling, a final war in his eyes.
You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him to you. You looked up at him, your eyes pleading, your body begging. “Now. Don’t make me beg anymore.”
With a ragged groan, he surrendered. He pushed into you, one slow, exquisite inch at a time, filling you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. The feeling was overwhelming—the fullness, the heat, the rightness of it. He stayed buried to the base for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting.
Then he moved.
It was nothing like you’d imagined. It was better. Hard, deep thrusts that drove the air from your lungs, each one punctuated by the slap of skin and his guttural curses against your skin. He hit a spot deep inside that made you see stars again and again. The kitchen around you blurred—the simmering pots, the forgotten food; it all faded into a haze of sensations. Your nails dug into the shoulders of his suit jacket as he pounded into you, the marble counter solid and unyielding beneath you.
“Is this,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming frantic, “what you wanted? This… mess?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, the coil inside you winding impossibly tight. “More.”
He slammed into you, one final, brutal thrust, and you shattered. Pleasure erupted through you in blinding waves, your body clamping around him, milking him as your cries echoed off the copper pans. With a shout that was half your name, half a sob, he followed you over, his own cum pulsing deep inside you, hot and endless.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and a pot bubbling over somewhere on the stove. He was still inside you, slumped against you, his face buried in your neck. You were both a sticky, sweaty, glorious mess. He finally lifted his head, his expression one of dazed awe and a hint of horror.
“Oh, god,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “The… the beurre blanc is ruined.”
You let out a breathless, giddy laugh, your fingers tracing the shell of his ear. “Worth it.”
He looked at you, at the wreckage of the kitchen, at the two of you joined together amidst his culinary domain. A slow, real smile, one you’d never seen before—unburdened, possessive, and sated—spread across his face.
Zoro
You don’t even have to ask him; he just does it without second thought.
He curls his finger deep into your hair and pulls it, causing you to lean back into him.
He's rough about it just like he is with most things, and don't try to complain about it; he’ll just pull tightly and say, “You asked for it."
He loves to do it while he's fucking your face; just something about the way you try to catch your breath when he pulls on your hair gets him every time.
He also loves the afterglow you have on your face, makeup all smeared and your hair all messed up like you just walked through a storm; your look alone makes him want to go for a round two.
The tension had been building for weeks, a slow, simmering pot about to boil over. You’d been so busy with Sanji, planning that surprise party for Zoro’s birthday, that you’d missed the signs. The way Zoro’s usual grunts of acknowledgment had turned to silence, the way he’d stop his katana drills to watch you walk away from the kitchen, his jaw tight. You thought you were being clever. He thought you were being his.
It all shattered when he stormed into the galley. You were laughing, wiping flour from your cheek as Sanji twirled, a plate of delicate appetizers in his hand. “For you, my darling, only the finest—” The cook’s words died as the door slammed open.
Zoro didn’t speak. His eyes, dark and sharp as his blades, locked onto you. In three strides, he was across the room, his hand closing around your bicep with a grip that brooked no argument. He dragged you from the stool.
“Zoro, wait, I can explai—”
“I don’t want to hear another thing about that shitty cook.”
His voice was a low, vibrating rumble that cut through any protest. He hauled you through the ship, past a wide-eyed Usopp, and into the men’s quarters, kicking the door shut behind you. The dim room smelled of him—of steel, salt, and clean sweat. He released your arm only to push you backward until your knees hit the edge of his bunk.
He stood before you, a monument of frustrated muscle, and began stripping his haramaki and pants with brutal efficiency. There was no ceremony, no slow seduction. This was a claim. His cock, already thick and half-hard, sprang free, and the sight of it, of his intent, sent a heat pulsing straight to your cunt. You knew this dance. You knew his moods.
You didn’t wait for a command. Your hands, trembling slightly, not from fear but from a desperate kind of anticipation, reached for him. You wrapped your fingers around his base, feeling the hot, velvety skin over the iron-hard core. You leaned forward, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his cock, from base to tip. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest, and the sound was better than any praise.
Emboldened, you took the swollen head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the crown, tasting the first salty hint of him. You teased the slit, loving the way his abdominal muscles jumped.
“Stop teasing.”
The words were a growled warning. A heartbeat later, he took control. His hands clamped on the sides of your head, and he thrust forward, sheathing his entire cock down your throat in one smooth, punishing stroke. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes as your body convulsed around the sudden, overwhelming intrusion. He didn’t pause. He didn’t care. He set a ruthless, driving rhythm, fucking your face with the same focused intensity he used to split boulders.
You braced your hands on his powerful thighs, the muscles there flexing with every thrust. The world narrowed to this: the slap of his hips against your face, the salty-bitter taste of him, the strain in your jaw, the desperate need for air. You pushed back weakly, a primal instinct for breath, but he was ready.
His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply and arching your throat. The sudden sting was electric, a bright pain that melted into a deep, submissive thrill. He held you there, immobile, his cock still buried deep.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he rasped, his breath coming in harsh pants. His hips gave a shallow, possessive grind. “You’ve been running from me all day. So you’re going to sit there and take my cock like a good girl. Got it?”
You blinked up at him, tears blurring his fierce, satisfied expression. He took it as assent.
“Good. That’s what I like to see.”
He released your hair, but only to guide you back to him, resuming his pace. This time, the rhythm was different. It was still dominant, still rough, but it was for you. He watched you, his eye dark with a feral hunger, mesmerized by the messy, desperate picture you made. Each time he pulled back, you gasped, dragging in ragged breaths, your lips swollen and slick. Each time he plunged back in, you swallowed around him, a tight, wet suction that pulled another ragged groan from him.
His fist returned to your hair, not just holding it now but using it. He’d pull back, stretching you taut, then push you down, controlling the depth and speed. The slight burn on your scalp synced with the fullness in your mouth, creating a feedback loop of sensation that had you wet and aching between your legs. You could feel him thickening, the rhythm becoming more erratic, more urgent.
He was close. You could taste it, feeling the tension coiling in the base of your spine. With a final, brutal yank on your hair that tilted your face up to his, he drove himself balls deep and held. A hot, pulsing flood erupted down your throat. You swallowed convulsively, taking every drop as he shuddered through his release, his groans echoing in the quiet room.
When he finally slid out, you collapsed forward, hands on the floor, coughing, dragging in sweet, clear air. Your makeup was smeared, your hair a wild, tangled mess from his hands. You felt thoroughly used, utterly wrecked.
Zoro looked down at you, his chest heaving. His gaze traveled over your flushed face, your glazed eyes, and your bruised, parted lips. The aftermath. The storm he’d put you through. A low, appreciative rumble sounded in his chest.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with spent passion. His thumb, surprisingly gentle, swiped at a streak of mascara under your eye. The contrast to his earlier roughness made you shiver. The possessiveness in his gaze didn’t fade; it transformed, heating anew. He was still hard, or hard again, his cock resting heavily against your cheek.
He curled his fingers back into the mess of your hair, not pulling yet, just owning the grip. “All messed up. Just for me.” He leaned down, his breath hot on your ear. “Think you can handle round two?”
Law
He gives you a long, judgmental look, almost like you've grown two heads.
After a while of you asking, he’ll finally ask, "Why?" When you tell him that you just think it would be hot and that some of your other friends talked about it, he just shrugs and says, “Fine.”
It took him a while to see the appeal, but after pulling your hair a couple of times and seeing the flustered look on your face, he couldn’t help but want to do it all the time.
Now, sometimes he just pulls your hair to make you stop running around, knowing exactly what it does to you, especially when he's drunk.
Music thumped through the hull, a frantic heartbeat echoing the laughter and shouts from above. The air in the shared cabin was still and cool, a stark contrast to the sweaty, rum-soaked chaos of the deck party. You were still buzzing with it, the ghost of Usopp’s tall tales and the silly, breathless races with Chopper and Luffy dancing in your veins. You hadn’t even heard him calling your name. Not the first time, nor the second.
It was on your fourth triumphant lap, skirt fluttering, that you felt it—a firm, inexorable tug at the very end of your ponytail, snapping your head back just enough to steal your momentum.
You whirled, a giggle dying on your lips.
Trafalgar Law stood there, his expression an impenetrable mask of patience worn thin. The fingers of one hand were still loosely wrapped in your hair, a silent claim. The yellow of his gaze, usually so analytical, held a dark, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the party.
“Come on,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the distant music. “You’ve had your fun.”
You wheezed out a protest, but it was pointless. He didn’t listen. His grip tightened, not painfully, but with absolute certainty, and he turned, leading you—no, towing you—by your hair toward the cabin door. It was a dominant, possessive gesture that sent a jolt straight to your core, melting the playful energy into something liquid and warm.
Once inside the familiar space, your bravado returned. As he released you to shut the door, you darted for it, a giddy laugh escaping as you stuck your tongue out at him. Freedom was two steps away.
You didn’t make it.
His hand fisted in your hair again, a sharper, more deliberate pull that stopped you dead. He yanked you backward, your spine meeting the solid wall of his chest with a soft "oof." His other arm banded around your waist, locking you in place. You could feel the hard length of his cock already pressing against your lower back, a promise and a threat.
Then his fingers were tilting your head back, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss.
It was all command and hunger. His tongue swept past your lips, neither asking nor taking. You met him with equal fervor, a fight for dominance that you knew, with thrilling certainty, you would lose. Your tongues tangled in a wet, heated dance that tasted of spice and the faint, medicinal hint that was uniquely him. Your hands came up, clawing at the front of his shirt and clinging for balance as the world narrowed to the slick heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, and the possessive groan that vibrated from his throat into yours.
When he finally broke the kiss, a thin, glistening string of saliva connected your lips for a heartbeat before snapping. You stared up at him, your breath coming in short pants. His eyes were half-lidded, the gold nearly swallowed by black, focused solely on you.
“Go lie on the bed,” he instructed, his voice gravelly with want. “Pants off. Legs spread.”
A shiver, delicious and deep, wracked you. You didn’t hesitate. You never did, not with him. Not when he used that tone.
You turned, your fingers fumbling with the tie of your skirt as you walked the few steps to the bed. You let it fall, then hooked your thumbs into your panties, drawing them down your legs. You left a trail of clothing, a breadcrumb path of surrender, before climbing onto the cool sheets. On your back, you let your knees fall open, presenting yourself to him completely, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Law watched, a slow, approving smirk touching his lips as he removed his shirt, the intricate tattoos stretching over his muscles. He approached not like a lover but like a conqueror surveying his prize.
He knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands firm as they hooked behind your ankles. In one smooth, powerful motion, he dragged you to the very edge, your ass barely on the mattress. He pushed your thighs wider, then settled his shoulders between them, his large hands spreading you open further for his inspection, for his pleasure.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit.
You cried out, your back arching off the bed. Oh god.
He hummed against you, the vibration making you twitch and gasp. He did it again, slower this time, lapping up the wetness that had already gathered, tasting you with a focused intensity. His tongue was clever and relentless. It circled your entrance, dipping inside just barely, teasing, before swirling up to pay devastating attention to your clit.
Flick, circle, suck. He varied the pressure and the rhythm, keeping you teetering on a knife’s edge. He’d flatten his tongue and rub broad, maddening circles, then point it and tap at the swollen bud with rapid, precise flicks that made your toes curl and your hips jerk.
“You taste,” he murmured, his breath hot against your soaked skin, before he licked another long, slow stripe, “so fucking sweet.”
The praise, growled against your most intimate flesh, unraveled you further. You were a writhing, pleading mess, your hands fisting in the sheets, then tangling in his dark hair. You didn’t pull, just held on as he feasted.
He slid one hand up your inner thigh, his thumb finding your clit as his mouth moved lower. His tongue speared into you, deeper this time, a rough, fucking motion that made you see stars. He fucked you with his tongue, his thumb maintaining that perfect, circling pressure, and you could feel the coil in your belly tightening, tightening.
Just as you were about to shatter, he pulled back. You whimpered at the loss, a sound of pure need.
Law looked up, his chin glistening with your arousal. His eyes were wild and possessive. “Not yet,” he commanded, his voice thick. He leaned in again, but this time he replaced his tongue with two fingers, sliding them into you with ease, crooking them just right. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking it deeply, ruthlessly between his lips as his fingers pumped inside you.
The dual sensation was too much. The coil snapped.
Your orgasm ripped through you, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body bowed off the bed. Waves of electric pleasure pulsed from your cunt, milking his fingers, as he continued to suck and lick, drawing out every last shuddering ripple until you were limp and trembling.
Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. He rose to his feet, looming over you, his need visibly straining against his trousers.
“Good,” he stated, as if grading your performance. He unfastened his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp, promising sound. “Now it's my turn."
Ace
He laughs at the idea at first, thinking you're joking.
When he sees you're actually serious about it, though, it's game over.
He's the type to pull your hair while he's fucking you as a missionary.
He will pull your hair so that he can spit in your mouth.
The whiskey was a warm, liquid blur in my veins, a familiar haze that blurred the edges of the cabin and melted the space between us. Ace’s laugh was a low, gravelly rumble next to me, his arm slung over my shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my bare thigh. Your clothes—a scattered trail of jeans, a t-shirt, and his flannel—were lost somewhere between the door and the couch, casualties of our weekly ritual.
The ritual always ended the same way.
His hand was already there, sliding under the thin cotton of your panties, his palm rough and warm against your skin. You arched into him, a sigh escaping your lips as his thumb found the slick, aching center of you: just a hint, a tease. Your head fell back against his chest.
“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, his voice thick with drink and desire. His other hand came up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardened into a tight peak against the fabric.
You didn’t answer. You just turned, crushing my mouth against his in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and need. Your hands fumbled with the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, freeing him. He was already hard, the length of him hot and heavy against your stomach.
Time lost its meaning. Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was the sheer, grinding feel of him. He shifted you, pulling you onto his lap, your back to his chest. One strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you steady. The other hand stayed between your legs, his fingers playing over your clit in a dizzying, inconsistent rhythm—soft circles, then a sharp, fleeting press—that made your hips jerk and your breath catch in ragged gasps.
Then he entered you.
Slow. So damn slow. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, a tantalizing pressure, before he finally pushed in. A full, deep stretch that made your eyes roll back. Oh god. He filled you completely, a perfect, burning fit. He began to move, a steady, relentless pump that ground into your very core. His fingers kept working your clit, the dual sensations coiling a tight, desperate spring low in your belly.
Your mouth found his chest. You leaned forward, taking one of his nipples into your mouth. You licked it, then rubbed your teeth against the sensitive nub. He groaned, a sharp, gratifying sound, and his thrusts became harder, faster.
“You feel so fucking good, babe,” he mumbled into your skin, his breath hot on your shoulder.
You only moaned into him, the sound vibrating against his chest. Your nails dug into the muscles of his back, seeking purchase, scratching shallow trails across his skin as he drove into you. The pleasure built, a rising tide threatening to pull you under. His hand on your stomach pushed down, firm pressure, making you feel every inch of his penetration, how deep he was fucking you, and how he owned the space inside you.
I’m close. So close.
The warmth bloomed first—a sudden, liquid heat spreading through your hair, a wetness trickling down your scalp. Then the tug. A firm, possessive pull on my ponytail that yanked your head back, forcing your eyes open.
You looked up. Ace’s face was above you, flushed, sweat beading on his temple. His grin was lazy, dumb, and utterly triumphant. “Come on,” he breathed, his voice husky. “Open that pretty mouth for me.”
He licked at your bottom lip, a slow, wet stroke. You obeyed, your mouth falling open in a pant.
Right then, you felt it. Something wet and warm slid across your tongue—the taste of him, of you, salty and intimate—until it hit the back of your throat. His spit. He’d pulled your hair to make you watch, to make you taste every bit of him as he fucked you.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. “I can never get tired of that. You look so good for me.”
His hand left your stomach, cupped my jaw, and pulled you into a kiss. It was rough, playful, and full of tongues and possessions. Exactly like him. Your mouths moved together, messy and hungry, as his cock continued to plunge into you, each thrust jolting through your body and into the kiss.
The coil snapped.
Orgasm tore through you, a white-hot lightning bolt that seared up from your clit and deep from where he filled you. Your body convulsed around him, a series of sharp, uncontrollable clenches. You cried out into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss. He held you tighter, his movements becoming frantic, driving into you, tightening rhythm until he shuddered, a harsh groan breaking from his lips as he spilled into you, his heat joining mine inside.
He finally broke the kiss, panting. His eyes, dark and satisfied, locked onto yours. He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “Ah,” he sighed, a world of affection in that single sound. “I love my dirty girl.”
Sabo
He's super polite about it, but is perplexed about what made you want to do this.
He'd ask if you’re okay first, maybe even slightly concerned. If you reassure him.
Sabo is sneaky; he looks soft but can be really mean at times. Moments like those are when he loves to pull your hair.
Oversimulation and hair-pulling are his go-tos when you are acting bratty.
The last of the commanders files out, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving only the hum of the overhead light and the heavy scent of ink and spent coffee. You push back your chair, the legs scraping loudly in the sudden quiet, already turning toward the exit. A week of whispered promises broken by urgent summons, of cold sheets, and of a colder spot beside you in the bed. Today, you’d decided, would be different. The slit in your skirt was daringly high, the neckline of your top dipping just so. The slow brush of your foot against his calf under the massive war table was a calculated risk.
His voice stops you cold, not with volume, but with tone. It’s the voice he uses for insubordinate recruits. Dear. Where do you think you’re going?”
You freeze, your hand inches from the doorknob. You glance back. Sabo hasn’t moved from the head of the table, but the easy, diplomatic smile is gone. His face is a placid mask, but his eyes, those sharp blue eyes, are dark with a promise that makes your stomach flip. “Why don’t you go ahead and close that door? Lock it for me as well, dear.”
The order is soft and absolute. A shiver, equal parts fear and electric anticipation, races down your spine. You do as you’re told, the solid thunk of the bolt sliding home sounding impossibly final in the silent room. You lean against the door, waiting, your earlier bravado evaporating.
He doesn’t speak. He simply crooks a finger, gesturing you forward. Each step across the polished floor feels like a mile. When you’re within arm’s reach, his hand snaps out, not harshly, but with undeniable authority, wrapping around your wrist. In one smooth, effortless motion, he stands and guides you, then places you onto the wide, polished surface of the strategy desk. Maps and reports scatter, fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves.
“You thought,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leans over you, caging you in, “you could just waltz in here, dressed like a temptation, and tease me all through that meeting… without being punished?” His free hand smooths over the bare skin of your thigh, exposed by the rucked-up skirt. The touch is deceptively gentle.
You bite your lip, refusing to answer, a last spark of defiance. You want to see the mask crack. You need to.
Thwack.
The sharp, sudden smack to your ass cheek is a shock of pure sensation—a bright, stinging heat that blooms through the thin fabric of your underwear and vibrates deep into your flesh. You gasp, your back arching off the cool wood.
“So now you can’t speak?” he asks, his palm circling the already-warming skin. “You were sure mouthy earlier with those little sighs and shifts in your chair.” His smile returns, but it’s different now—predatory, intimate. “Since you felt the need to be such a tease, you can do all the work today.”
He sinks back into his high-backed chair, rolling it closer to the desk’s edge. His hands go to his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room. He frees himself, his cock already fully erect, jutting proudly against his stomach. The sight, after so long, sends a fresh pulse of wetness between your thighs. “Go on,” he says, his words clipped. “Ride it. Show me how needy you really are.”
Hands trembling, you push your damp panties aside, holding his gaze. You position yourself over him, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance. You sink down in one slow, excruciatingly delicious slide. The feeling of him stretching you, filling you after the weeks of absence, is so intense it borders on pain, a glorious, full ache that makes your vision blur. A broken moan escapes you as you bottom out, your hips flush against his.
“There,” he breathes, his composure slipping for a second, his head falling back. “Now move.”
You do, setting a punishing pace from the start, bouncing on him with a frantic energy born of frustration and pure, unadulterated lust. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the office. You watch his face, your pleasure magnified by the sight of his controlled facade unraveling—his lips parting, his eyes squeezing shut, a deep groan tearing from his throat as you clench around him. His obvious pleasure eggs you on, and your first orgasm crashes over you quickly, a sharp, convulsing wave that makes you cry out and falter for only a second before you force yourself to keep moving, chasing the next.
By the third, your thighs are screaming in protest, a deep burn setting into the muscles. Your movements become sloppier and slower. A low groan of exhaustion slips out.
Thwack.
Another stinging smack lands on your other cheek, making you jolt. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” Sabo chides, his hands gripping your hips to steady you. His smile is back, wicked and delighted. “Don’t tell me my dear is all worn out. I know you can do more.” He releases you, leaning back to truly watch, as you struggle to continue. You squirm, the overstimulation becoming a sweet agony, feeling like you’re trying to both escape and impale yourself further on his relentless length.
After the fourth shattering climax, you break. Tears of overwhelm prick your eyes. “P-please,” you beg, your voice ragged, your body slumping forward against his broad chest. “Sabo, please… I can’t… you take over. Please.”
“Ah,” he sighs, the sound rich with feigned sympathy. He thrusts upwards once, a shallow, pointed movement that makes you gasp and your inner muscles clutch him tightly. “I don’t know. You were the one being so needy. But now you can’t even handle me?” The slight movement sends another jolt of unbearable pleasure through your oversensitive clit, now swollen and throbbing. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, a hot tear tracing a path down your cheek and onto his skin.
You feel him shift. “Fine,” he whispers into your hair, his arms wrapping around you to hold you close. “I guess I’ll take over. But we’re not stopping until I say so. Got it?” He doesn’t move, waiting. You manage a weak, desperate nod against his shoulder. “Good girl,” he purrs, one hand coming up to swipe the tear from your cheek. His thumb brushes your lower lip. “That’s what I like to hear.”
In one powerful motion, he stands, lifting you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he remains buried inside you. He turns and lays you back down on the desk, this time with your shoulders pressed to the wood, your head hanging slightly off the edge. He looms over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his blonde hair falling into his eyes. “Now,” he says, his breath warm on your face, “let’s see how many times I can make you come before you forget your own name.”
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 honestly.. 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.
Summary: When Ace visits Luffy, his eyes latch on to one of the crewmates. . . .
Song: Slow Down - Chase Atlantic
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
The deck groaned under Ace’s weight as he stepped aboard the Thousand Sunny, but his grin faltered when he saw you—not Luffy—leaning against the mast, your fingers idly twisting the breeze into spirals that danced like invisible ribbons around your wrists. The air itself seemed to pulse in time with your breath, thick and electric, and for a heartbeat, Ace forgot why he’d come.
Luffy tackled him from behind, laughing, but Ace barely registered the impact. His gaze snagged on the way your lips parted—just slightly—as you exhaled, sending a gust skimming across his collarbones, warm and teasing.
"Who’s that?" he muttered, low enough that only his brother could hear.
Luffy’s grin widened, shark-like. "Ohhh, you noticed?" He wiggled his eyebrows, sticky with rice from whatever he’d been devouring. "Y/N can make the wind do anything." The way he said it—like a challenge—sent heat crawling up Ace’s neck.
Ace swallowed, tasting salt and something sharper. "Yeah?" He kept his voice casual, but his pulse wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all you. Your fingers twitched, and suddenly the air between you thickened, carrying the scent of his sweat, the faintest tang of gunpowder clinging to his skin.
Luffy moved on with the conversation, oblivious—or maybe not—babbling about some island with meat trees, but Ace wasn’t listening.
Your bare feet padded silently across the deck, the wood smooth under your toes, and you slipped into the shadow of the mast—just out of reach, just far enough to make Ace’s jaw tighten.
The air around you hummed with restrained energy, and the space where your body had been a moment ago still carried the ghost of your warmth, the scent of something wild and untamed.
Ace’s fingers curled into his palms, the roughness of his calluses catching against his skin. He exhaled sharply, watching as the wind you’d left behind curled around his wrist like a question, teasing the fine hairs there before dissipating. His pulse thrummed thickly in his throat, a drumbeat out of sync with the waves lapping at the hull.
Luffy tugged him toward the aquarium bar, oblivious, chattering about Franky’s latest upgrades—something about cola-powered cannonballs—but Ace’s attention snagged on every flicker of movement in his periphery, searching for the dip of your waist or the curve of your shoulder in the shifting sunlight.
The air tasted different where you’d stood—charged, like the moment before lightning cracks the sky open.
The galley door swung shut with a whisper of wind, deliberate, teasing. Ace caught the barest glimpse of your fingers curled around the frame before you vanished inside, leaving behind the faintest impression of your presence—warmth lingering in the spaces between molecules, your scent woven into the salt-stiff fabric of his shirt. His teeth clicked together.
Luffy tugged him toward the crow’s nest, oblivious to the way Ace’s pulse kicked against his ribs like a trapped bird. “And up there’s where Usopp watches for—”
Ace wasn’t listening. His gaze scraped over every shadow in the rigging, every shift of sailcloth, hunting for the barest ripple of disturbance in the air—your signature, your silent laugh. The wind carried nothing but salt and the chatter of the crew below, and the absence of you burned sharper than any presence.
Luffy’s elbow jabbed his ribs. "Ace! You’re not even looking!" He pouted, waving at the gleaming figurehead, but Ace barely registered the sunlight glinting off the lion’s mane.
His pulse thrummed in his fingertips, restless, and he flexed his hands against the ghost of your touch still clinging to his skin.
The galley door creaked again—just a fraction—and Ace’s breath caught. But it was only Sanji, balancing a tray of drinks with practiced ease, his cigarette smoke curling lazily upward.
The disappointment settled heavy in Ace’s gut, sour and unfamiliar. He exhaled through his nose, tasting the lingering trace of you—something floral and wild, like the wind after a storm.
His fingers twitched toward the empty space beside him, where the air still thrummed with the memory of your presence. The ship rolled gently beneath them, and Ace imagined he could feel the shift of your weight against the boards, the whisper of your breath threading through the rigging. His skin prickled, hyperaware of every stray current brushing his bare arms.
Luffy jabbed a finger at the mast, grinning. "See? It’s way taller than the Merry’s!" Ace nodded absently, his gaze darting past his brother’s shoulder to the darkened doorway of the women’s quarters—had that curtain just swayed?
The air there hung unnaturally still, thick as honey, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Behind him, Nami’s citrus perfume cut through the salt, sharp and bright, but it was the phantom brush of your breath against his nape that made his shoulders tense. He turned—too fast—and found only empty space, the deckboards warm where sunlight pooled.
The wind carried a snatch of your laughter from somewhere above, but when he craned his neck, the crow’s nest gaped empty, its ropes swaying like they’d just been touched.
Luffy dragged him belowdecks, crowing about the new cannon storage, but Ace’s knuckles grazed the wall as they passed, and the wood hummed under his touch—residual vibration, the echo of footsteps that weren’t his.
He inhaled deep, catching the barest hint of ozone tangled in the ship’s damp, and his pulse stuttered. Your scent. Close.
The laundry line snapped taut under your fingers, damp fabric swaying like sails in the sluggish afternoon air. You didn’t turn when the heat bloomed behind you—knew the exact cadence of his footsteps, the way the boards sighed under his weight.
Ace’s shadow stretched long across the deck, his breath a slow, deliberate thing against your shoulder blades. The sun had baked the cotton warm, but his nearness scorched hotter, the air between you wavering like mirage.
Your fingers twitched; the wind coiled lazy around the hanging shirts, wicking moisture from the fibers with a whisper. Ace’s shirt fluttered against his chest, sleeves brushing his forearms—close enough to tease the fine hairs there, not close enough to touch.
You exhaled, slow, and the breeze carried the scent of him back to you—woodsmoke and sea salt, the stubborn tang of gunpowder clinging to his skin. His fingers flexed at his sides, knuckles brushing the hem of his own damn shirt where it hung, still damp, between you.
Behind you, Ace swallowed audibly, his throat clicking. The laundry line creaked as you stepped away, your bare feet silent on the sun-warmed deck.
The wind curled playful around his wrists, tugging at his sleeves like it wanted to pull him closer—or maybe that was just you. You didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. The air itself trembled with the weight of his gaze, hot as a brand between your shoulder blades.
Luffy’s voice shattered the moment like a cannonball through glass. "Ace! Sanji made meat-flavored cotton candy!" He barreled across the deck, arms waving, and Ace barely had time to brace before his brother collided with him, sending them both stumbling into the rigging.
The ropes groaned under their weight, and Ace’s elbow knocked against the mast—pain flared bright up his arm, but his eyes stayed locked on you, on the way your lips curved as you turned, finally, to watch.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of sugar and meat, the sharp tang of Luffy’s excitement. But beneath it all—beneath the salt and the sun and the ship’s creaking bones—Ace could still smell you. Wild. Close. Gone.
Dinner was quickly served, and Ace sat opposite you. The table between you was laden with Sanji’s latest feast—glazed ribs dripping honey, towers of buttered rolls, skewers of seared meat glistening under the galley’s warm light—but Ace barely registered the spread.
His fingers tightened around his fork, the metal groaning under his grip, as you leaned back in your chair, deliberately slow, your bare foot brushing his calf under the table. The contact was fleeting, barely there, but it sent a current up his spine, sharp as a lightning strike.
You didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. The air between you was thick with unspoken tension, the breeze from the open porthole carrying the scent of your skin—something floral and dangerous, like night-blooming jasmine tangled with gunpowder.
Your fingers traced idle patterns on your glass, condensation beading and rolling down your knuckles as Ace’s jaw worked, his throat bobbing with each swallow.
The crew’s laughter blurred into white noise, the clatter of cutlery distant, muted, as if the world had narrowed to the space where your knee now pressed against his, deliberate and unyielding.
Ace’s breath hitched. The fork in his hand bent, the tines curling inward like claws. You finally met his gaze, your lips quirking as you took a slow sip of wine, the red staining your mouth—a challenge, a provocation.
The air around you shimmered, charged with the weight of his attention, the way his pupils dilated, swallowing the firelight whole. You exhaled, and the candle between you guttered, the flame bending toward him like it couldn’t resist the pull of his heat.
Across the table, Nami’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with amusement. “Ace, you’re not eating.” His gaze snapped to her, but his fingers twitched toward you, drawn like a compass needle to true north.
You leaned back, breaking contact, and the air rushed back between you, cool and taunting. The candle flared back to life, casting shadows that danced across his collarbones, the hollow of his throat.
You smiled, small and private, as Ace’s knuckles whitened around his ruined fork. The game wasn’t over. It had barely begun.
The crew dispersed like scattered embers—Chopper yawning into Usopp’s shoulder, Sanji humming as he stacked plates—but Ace lingered, his pulse a slow, heavy thing beneath his skin.
You slipped away without a word, the sway of your hips deliberate, the hem of your skirt brushing the back of your thighs. The doorway swallowed you whole, but the air in your wake clung to him, thick with the memory of your knee pressing into his, the phantom heat of your breath against his jaw. His shirt stuck to his shoulders, damp with something other than sweat.
Your door clicked shut behind him, the sound final, a punctuation mark. Ace exhaled, rough, and the hinges groaned under his palm—not a push, not yet, just the weight of his hesitation.
The scent of you here was richer, deeper: salt and the bitter tang of ink from the maps strewn across your bed, the oil you used to sharpen your knives lingering on your fingertips.
You turned, slow, your back to the porthole, moonlight carving silver along the curve of your neck. “Lost, Fire Fist?” The words curled, smoke-light, around the space between you.
Ace’s throat worked. The air in the room shifted, pressurized, as he stepped forward—one pace, two—until the heat of him pressed against you, close enough to feel the shudder of your breath against his chest. Your fingers found his wrist, tracing the pulse there, erratic as a storm-tossed ship.
His skin burned under your touch, the embers in his veins flaring with each brush of your thumb. "Not lost," he murmured, the words rough, smoke-roughened. "Just following the wind."
Your laugh was low, deliberate, as you pressed your palm flat against his sternum. The fabric of his shirt scorched under your fingers, threads curling from the heat radiating off him.
"Careful," you whispered, watching his pupils swallow the moonlight whole. "Winds change direction without warning." The air between you thickened, tasting of salt and the ozone-sharp promise of lightning, and Ace’s fingers dug into the wood of the doorframe, splinters catching in his skin.
You stepped back, letting the breeze coil around him like a living thing—tightening just enough to make his ribs expand against the pressure before dissolving into nothing.
His breath hissed between his teeth, but you were already turning away, the hem of your skirt whispering against the floorboards. The porthole rattled as you passed it, a gust of wind slamming it shut with finality.
Ace’s reflection warped in the glass, his jaw clenched tight around words that wouldn’t come.
The bunk creaked as you sat, rolling a knife between your fingers—the blade catching moonlight in jagged shards. You didn’t look up as Ace’s shadow stretched across the floor, didn’t acknowledge the way his knuckles whitened around the doorframe.
"You’re persistent," you mused, testing the edge of the blade against your thumb. A bead of blood welled, stark against your skin, and the air in the room shuddered as Ace’s control snapped.
He moved like wildfire—sudden, consuming—one hand closing around your wrist, the other pinning the knife to the wall with a thud that vibrated up your arm. His breath scorched your cheek, uneven, his chest heaving against yours like a caged thing.
"Persistent?" His voice was gravel, smoke, the embers of a dying fire. "You’ve been playing with me since I stepped on this damn ship."
You exhaled, slow, and the candle by the bedside guttered out, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of Ace’s tattoos—embers in the night. His grip tightened, calluses rough against your pulse, but you didn’t pull away.
Instead, you leaned in, close enough to taste the salt on his lips, close enough to feel the hitch in his breath when your knee brushed his thigh. "Playing?" You let the word curl, languid, around the space between you. "Or waiting for you to catch up?"
The knife clattered to the floor as Ace’s mouth crashed into yours, all heat and hunger, his teeth catching your lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of iron bloomed between you, sharp and metallic, and you laughed into the kiss—a challenge, a surrender—as the wind outside howled, rattling the porthole like it wanted in.
His hands burned paths down your sides, igniting every inch of skin they touched, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer, deeper, until the line between his fire and your storm blurred into something neither of you could control.
Ace groaned when you bit down on his tongue, the sound rough and raw, and his grip tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
The air between you crackled, charged with the weight of everything unsaid, and you broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Still think I’m playing?" against his mouth.
His answering growl vibrated through you, low and possessive, and you grinned as he shoved you back onto the bed, his body following yours like a collapsing star.
The mattress dipped under his weight, the sheets tangling around your legs as Ace’s mouth found the pulse point beneath your jaw, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin there.
You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair as the wind outside surged, sending papers fluttering off the desk in a whirl of motion. His hands were everywhere—kneading, gripping, claiming—and you arched into him, your back bowing off the bed as his lips traced a burning path down your throat.
Ace’s breath hitched when your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails in their wake, and he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils blown wide with want.
The air between you thrummed with tension, thick and heady, and you smirked, dragging a thumb over his swollen lower lip.
"Fire Fist," you murmured, your voice rough with amusement, "looks like you finally caught up."
His answering grin was feral, all teeth and hunger, and then his mouth was on yours again, his hands mapping your body like he was memorizing every curve, every scar, every shuddering breath. . . .
