Oops, Your Towel
You barge into the wrong room. Marco is there. Dripping. Shirtless. Silent.
marco the phoenix x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, accidental tension a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe and akward word count: 1.2k
masterlist | ko-fi
The hallway of the Moby Dick was steamy, humid, and warm—like someone had decided to turn it into a sauna. You blinked, wiping at your brow as you lugged your towel over your shoulder and squinted at the cabin doors.
“Was it the third or the fourth door down?” you mumbled to yourself. All the rooms looked the same, and you were still getting used to the layout after only two weeks aboard the Whitebeard Pirates’ ship.
You sighed. Whatever. You’d take a quick shower, throw on something comfy, and crash. You’d had enough training, teasing from Thatch, and sun for one day.
You pushed open the third door confidently.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind you was drowned out by the soft drip of water. The scent of warm steam and something clean—pine and smoke, maybe?—hit you immediately.
You froze.
The air was still. Quiet.
Then you saw him.
Marco.
Standing in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, water trailing in glistening rivulets down his chest, neck, and abs. His blond hair was damp, messier than usual, a few strands stuck to his forehead. He had his back turned to you initially, looking into the small wall mirror above the cabin’s sink.
And when he turned—
Oh.
His blue eyes met yours. Calm. Silent. Blinking once. Twice.
You just stood there.
Both of you unmoving.
You swore you stopped breathing.
“Oh. My god.”
You slapped your hands over your eyes, towel nearly falling from your own shoulder.
“I—Sorry! Wrong door! I didn’t see anything—well, I did, obviously, I mean—you’re very see-able—no, wait, not what I meant!” You fumbled back toward the door, bumping into the wall, panicking. “I was looking for the shower and this isn't my—OH MY GOD.”
Marco still hadn’t spoken. Still shirtless. Still dripping.
Was he smirking?
You risked a peek between your fingers.
Yep. Definitely smirking.
“You’re not in your room-yoi,” he said casually, leaning a hip against the sink, arms folding across his broad chest. His towel barely moved. “You okay there?”
You could feel the heat flooding your face. “No. No, I am not okay. I just walked in on the first division commander practically naked and I’m—I'm very much not okay.”
Marco tilted his head, voice calm and smooth. “You could’ve knocked.”
“I thought it was my room!” you squeaked, eyes darting everywhere but his torso. Which was not easy. Because his torso was right there. And it was a very nice torso.
“Easy mistake-yoi” he said lightly. “You’re new.”
You dared a glance at him again. He wasn’t mad. Not even flustered. Just... amused.
Figures. Marco was always composed. Cool. Impossible to rattle. Meanwhile, you felt like your soul was climbing out of your body and running off the ship.
“I’ll go. I should—go.” You reached for the doorknob, fingers fumbling. It wouldn’t open. “Why won’t this open—?”
“Ah. Lock’s a little weird,” Marco said. “You have to jiggle it.”
“Of course I do.”
He stepped closer.
You didn’t move.
“Here, let me,” he murmured, reaching past you. His arm brushed yours. His chest just barely touched your shoulder. His scent filled your nose—clean, musky, warm.
Your breath caught.
He fiddled with the handle, then the door creaked open.
But you didn’t move right away.
“Thanks,” you breathed, eyes still on the ground.
He leaned down a little, voice lower, softer. “You’re not running anymore. That mean you’re not so embarrassed now?”
“Don’t push your luck,” you muttered.
Marco chuckled. The low, velvet sound of it nearly made you melt. “I was just enjoying the moment-yoi.”
You turned to glare at him, flustered. “You enjoyed being walked in on half-naked?”
He gave you an infuriating little shrug. “Wasn’t exactly a hardship.”
Your mouth parted. “Marco!”
“You did say I’m very see-able.” That teasing lilt again. “Can’t say I mind hearing that.”
“You’re evil.”
“And you’re cute when you panic.”
You didn’t know whether to run again or stay and punch him.
Maybe both.
“Goodnight, commander,” you huffed, stepping into the hallway quickly before he could throw another smooth line at you.
“Sweet dreams,” he called. “If I show up in ‘em, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself-yoi.”
You nearly tripped over your own feet.
The Next Morning
You swore to bury the memory forever.
Avoid Marco. Avoid the hallway. Avoid rooms. Just stay on the deck, maybe jump off the ship. Easy.
But fate—more specifically, Thatch—had other plans.
He dragged you to breakfast with a grin, and wouldn’t you know it—Marco was already at the table, reading a newspaper, sipping coffee, legs casually crossed.
Shirt on this time. Sadly.
But when his eyes lifted and found yours—sparkling, teasing—you knew he remembered everything.
You made a beeline for the other side of the table.
“Morning,” he said smoothly, like the previous night never happened.
“Hi,” you mumbled.
Thatch blinked between you. “Something I missed?”
Marco didn’t skip a beat. “Just showing the new girl around yesterday. She got a little... turned around.”
Your eye twitched. “Marco—”
“Hmm?”
“You’re the worst.”
He smiled lazily. “Still cute when you panic.”
You scowled and shoved a piece of bread in your mouth, muttering under your breath. “Smug, damp bastard.”
He heard it.
And he grinned.
Later That Week
You thought it was over.
Until it wasn’t.
You walked into the galley late one night for a drink—still in your loose sleep shirt, hair messy—and there he was.
Marco.
Again shirtless.
Again wet.
This time in loose pants, drying his hair with a towel, standing near the sink.
He turned. Saw you. Smirked.
“Déjà vu-yoi?”
You sighed, hand over your face. “Do you just... live shirtless now?”
“Only when I know you’ll walk in.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbed a glass, and filled it.
Marco set the towel down. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have not,” you lied.
“You have.” He walked closer. “Didn’t like being teased?”
“I didn’t like being caught off guard.”
“Hm.” His gaze softened. “You caught me off guard too, you know.”
You raised a brow. “You looked pretty composed for someone caught dripping wet.”
He chuckled. “What, you wanted me to blush and panic?”
“Yes!”
“You’d prefer that over me flirting?”
You froze.
He stepped closer. Close enough that your heart thudded uncomfortably loud.
“I wasn’t just teasing-yoi,” he said, voice quiet now. “I liked seeing that side of you. Soft. Caught off guard.”
You swallowed.
“I...” You met his eyes. “I kind of liked it too.”
His smile was smaller this time. Less smug. More real.
“Good,” he murmured. “Means I don’t have to wait for another accident.”
You blinked. “What do you mean—?”
He leaned down and brushed his lips against yours—barely there. Testing. Waiting.
You didn’t pull away.
Instead, you tilted up, kissing him fully this time.
And his hands went to your hips, pulling you closer, water still damp against your shirt. It was soft. Warm. Slow.
When he pulled back, breath warm against your cheek, he smiled again.
“Still flustered?”
“Shut up.”
“Still cute.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
You sighed, forehead against his chest. “No. I don’t.”
He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Sweet dreams again tonight-yoi?”
You smiled into him.
“Only if you’re in them.”