A/N: thank you @austrianmusiclover13 for your request about "Marco or Hongo for a reader who has aches in their joints despite being young?" I went with Marco bc despite me really really liking Hongo I have no clue how to write him. And i really feel you about thehip and lower back pain I've been in therapy for quite some time bc of it now.
Plot: you're trying to hide your pain from your lover but he is too observant to not notice
Warnings: none really, sfw, fluff, Marco calling you little bird, established relationship indicated
Characters: Marco x GnReader
The Moby Dick was a place of endless energy, a bustling floating home where you, had found a new home and your family. Being one of the Whitebeard Pirates was exhilarating, a life of adventure few could dream of. Yet, for all the excitement, your body had started to stage a quiet, insistent rebellion.
It started subtly a few months ago, a dull throb that would flare up after a long day of training or sailing. Now, it was a persistent ache in your lower back and a sharp, gripping pain in your hips that made every morning an exercise in carefully masked grimaces. You attributed it to roughhousing, too much (and maybe wrong) lifting, anything but a genuine issue that would worry your family.
You became a master of subtle adjustments. Leaning "casually" against railings, shifting your weight frequently, always choosing a seat over standing and making sure your smile was bright enough to distract anyone from the slight stiffness in your stride.
Today there was a small celebration held after a successful supply run. Barrels of sake were being tapped, Thatch was serving up a mountain of roasted meat and the sound of sea shanties echoed off the waves. Everyone was dancing, or at least stumbling rhythmically and having a good time.
Except for you.
You were leaning against the railing, a drink in your hand, laughing at a joke Vista had just cracked. To anyone else, you looked like you were having the time of your life. But across the deck, tucked into the shadows of the upper bridge, Marco was watching. He noticed how you didn’t shift your weight. He noticed how you leaned heavily on your right arm to take the pressure off your left hip. And he noticed the tiny, microscopic wince every time a loud burst of laughter made you vibrate.
He didn't say anything then. He knew your pride and he knew a party wasn't the place for a "consultation." But he was keeping score.
Later that night, the ship was finally silent, save for the creaking of the timber and the distant watchman's footsteps. In the privacy of your shared quarters, you moved with the grace of a brittle glass statue.
You climbed into bed with a slow, deliberate care that made Marco’s heart ache. Usually, you’d roll right into his arms, tucking your head under his chin and sleep soundly till he had to almost throw you off him in the morning to wake you. Tonight though, you stayed strictly on your right side, your body stiff, your breath hitched for a second as you found a position that didn't send a flare of agony through your lower back.
Marco lay there in the dark, his eyes wide open. He reached out, his hand hovering over your hip, but he hesitated. He wanted you to come to him. He wanted you to trust him enough to drop the "tough pirate" act and tell him what's been bothering you.
He didn't sleep much that night. He just listened to the rhythm of your breathing, noting how it never quite leveled out into the deep, easy pull of a person who was truly comfortable.
The next morning, the sun was barely over the horizon. Marco came out onto the deck to find you already "at work."
You were sitting on a small wooden stool, hunched over a brass cannon, polishing it with a rag. It was a chore that needed doing, but it wasn't urgent.
Ten minutes passed. You didn't move.
Twenty minutes. Your movements became sluggish.
Forty minutes. You were still there, your knuckles white as you gripped the rag, your face pale in the morning light.
Marco walked over, his boots clicking softly on the wood. He didn't stop until he was standing directly over you. He could see the slight tremor in your legs. You were stuck. You had sat there so long that your hip had locked up, and you were terrified that if you tried to stand, a flare of pain would shoot through you that would make it clear how painful this was and reveal what you had been trying to hide.
"That's the cleanest cannon in the New World, yoi," Marco said, his voice low and steady.
"Just... making sure it's ready for the next fight," you managed, not looking up.
"Stand up, little bird."
"I'm almost done, Marco. Just five more minutes—"
"Stand. Up," he repeated leaving no room for arguments.
You exhaled deeply then gripped the edge of the cannon, bracing yourself to push off the stool. But the moment you tried to straighten your spine, a sharp, jagged pain sliced through your lower back and down your left thigh. You let out a choked sound, your knees buckling before you even got halfway up.
You didn't hit the deck. Marco’s arms were around you instantly, scooping you up as if you weighed nothing. He sat down on a nearby crate, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling his legs, a position that forced your hips to open and took the crushing pressure off your spine.
"I've got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "Stop fighting it."
"It's just a flare-up," you gasped, your forehead resting on his shoulder as the tears you had been holding back since the party finally started to sting your eyes. "I'm fine, I just need a second."
"You're not fine. You're exhausted from pretending," he countered gently. He didn't wait for another excuse. He placed his large, calloused hands flat against your lower back, right where the nerves were screaming.
Then came the glow.
The blue phoenix flames erupted from his palms, wrapping around your waist like a warm, living silk. It wasn't the searing heat of a fire, it was a deep, penetrating warmth that felt like it was reaching into your very bones. You felt the tight, knotted muscles in your lower back begin to uncoil. The sharp "stabbing" sensation in your hip joint faded into a dull, manageable thrum, and then, finally, into nothing at all.
"There," Marco whispered, his body shielding you both from the wind. "Just breathe. Let the flames do the work."
You felt your body go limp against him, the relief so overwhelming it made you dizzy. The "locked" feeling in your hip melted away, replaced by a lightness you hadn't felt in weeks.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his neck.
Marco pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. He looked tired, but his expression was incredibly tender. "Don't be sorry. Be honest. I’m your lover, but I’m also your doctor. You don’t have to hide your 'rust' from me, yoi. I like polishing you up much more than I like polishing those cannons."
He kissed your nose, his hands still glowing with that restorative blue light. "Now, we're going back to the cabin and keep working on that muscles, so you can sleep on whatever side you want, because I'm going to get the pain away yoi."
Back in the quiet of your cabin, the air was still and smelled faintly of sea salt and the medicinal herbs Marco often kept on hand. He didn’t let you walk, no he insisted on carrying you all the way, setting you down on the bed with a gentleness that contrasted with the serious, focused look in his eyes.
"The flames took away the inflammation, yoi," he said, peeling back the covers. "But your muscles are still knotted like a tangled rigging line. If I don't work those out now, you'll be locked up again by sunset."
He gestured for you to lie on your stomach. You obeyed, burying your face in the cool pillow. You felt the bed dip as he straddled your thighs, his weight a grounding, familiar presence.
"This isn't going to be a spa rubdown, litte bird," he warned, his voice dropping into his professional doctor tone. "I need to get deep into the fascia. Tell me if it's too much, but don't tell me to stop."
He started at the base of your spine. At first, it was just the warmth of his palms, but then he leaned in. Using the heels of his hands, he began to drive slow, rhythmic pressure into the muscles flanking your vertebrae.
You let out a muffled groan into the pillow. It wasn't the sharp, stabbing pain from before, it was a heavy, bruising ache. It felt like he was unearthing tension you had buried months ago.
"Breathe through it," he commanded softly.
He moved his thumbs to the top of your hip bones, finding the exact spot where the nerves had been pinched. He pressed down, hard. Your hands flew out to grip the bedsheets, your knuckles turning white.
"Marco—!" You gasped as you felt the uncomfortable pressure.
"I know, I know. I’ve got you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble but he didn't let up. Instead, he reignited a flicker of his blue flames in his fingertips. The heat surged through the pressure point, softening the stubborn knot under his thumb until you felt a physical pop of release.
He spent the next twenty minutes working his way down your glutes and into your hip flexors. It was uncomfortable, bordering on agonizing at times, as he used his elbows to break up the "rust" in your joints. You found yourself sweating, your breath coming in short huffs, but with every passing minute, the heavy, leaden feeling in your lower body was being replaced by something else.
Finally, he told you to roll onto your back so he could work your left hip better, the source of all your misery. He manipulated the joint with practiced ease, stretching the limb and applying pressure to the socket. You felt a dull, deep ache and then.......relief.
It was like a dam breaking. A rush of warmth flooded down your leg and the constant "noise" of your chronic pain went silent.
Marco finally pulled back, the blue glow of his flames fading. He stayed seated on the bed, his hands resting lightly on your back, waiting for you to catch your breath.
"You okay, yoi?"
You shifted experimentally. You moved your hip. You twisted your lower back. There was no pinch. No catch. No grinding sensation. No restricted movement. For the first time in what felt like years, your body felt... light. Flexible. New and comfortable.
You rolled over onto your stomach then back onto your back, something you hadn't done comfortably and without grunting in weeks and looked up at him. Your face was a little flushed from the intensity of the massage, but your eyes were bright.
"I feel like I just got a new body," you whispered, reaching up to trail your fingers over the tattoo on his chest. "I didn't think it was possible to feel this... quiet inside."
Marco’s expression softened, the clinical mask dropping to reveal the man who loved you. He leaned down, pinning you to the mattress with his gaze as he cupped your face.
"That's how you're supposed to feel," he said, kissing your forehead. "You're a warrior, but you're not a machine. Don't let yourself get that bad again. I don't care how busy we are, my first priority is making sure you can stand tall, yoi."
He pulled the blanket up over you and tucked you in. "Now, sleep. For real this time. If you try to get up before noon, I'm pinning you down myself."
Taglist: @jintaka-hane @fleetadmiralsoffice @hakiofdreams @welcome-to-the-grandline @sailing-to-laugh-tale @legends-of-the-grandline @devilfruitdiaries @waannty @luna-the-moon-guardian sweetsaltygingerbitch (once again I'm just reminding you that if you want me to stop tagging you please tell me or if someone wants to get added)
Summery: Grumpy kid gets grumpier and also torn to shreds meow
Notes: I LOVE THIS CHAPTER CHAT I WORKED SO HARD🙏 I’m so proud of myself🤩 plus I deleted the last massive scene and I had to rewrite it off memory, that pmo so bad. It’s 2 am rn chat
You woke up delirious, unsure how long you had been passed out in that bush. However, night had fallen, the moonlight shining down on your face through the leaves, once again.
You could barely process anything, not the carefree, giddy laughter of drunken men walking by, or the painful thorns and sticks poking you from the bush. Not even the bugs crawling through your damp clothing could register in your mind.
Lying in that spikey bush, listening to passersby as they enjoy the night. The stars caught your gaze, distant and cold. You remember looking up at them years ago with so much brightness of your own. Now, they only seemed to look back in quiet disappointment. Your drifting thoughts began to fade as the boisterous drunk laughter became louder than your internal monologue.
You must have been close to a bar; why else would there be so many drunkards nearby?
You shut your eyes tight and let out an exasperated groan, your hand sluggishly moving to rub at your eyes. The voices around you slowly came into focus; no longer a slur of voices, they were loud, energetic, and far too close. Another round of laughter began, yanking you further out of your dazed state.
Awareness returned in small pieces. The cool night air rustling the bush you were still lying in. The lumpy dry ground beneath you. The unmistakable feeling of hunger.
A wave of pain washed over you, muscles aching while you tried to shift. You let out a sharp breath at the sudden soreness; the thorns pricking you from the bush you once found comfortable also became painfully obvious with the movement.
The scratchy sticks and dry leaves make your intense sunburn irritated with every shaky breath.
You attempted to sit up, only to collapse, hissing out a harsh breath through clenched teeth. You let out a frustrated groan at the failure and positioned yourself for a better attempt.
You sucked in a breath and rolled onto your side with a grunt. Twisting again, you shifted onto your stomach and pushed yourself upright. Your tired muscles pulsed and screamed beneath your weight as you grabbed a branch off the bush to pull yourself up with.
You slowly and painfully stood up, stumbling until you found flat ground. Your head poked out of the rustling bush, and you stood idly by for a moment to catch your breath and let the pain settle.
The pain did not settle. You were in agony, and your calves were about to cramp.
You went as still as a statue when you felt the sensation in your calves. If they tore right now, you would just die on the spot. Everywhere on your body is aching, hungry, and burnt; you did not need to deal with this right now.
You pushed out an exasperated breath to force your attention away, instead looking to the mass of intoxicated people crowding the dock.
They were lively, that's for sure. Carelessly guzzling from their bottles, their slurred voices overlapping each other, laughter spreading throughout the people like a virus. Every cheer and clink of glass seemed to get louder the longer you stared.
They were pissing you off. The noise started to make your head hurt, the only thing that was slightly improved by your shitty sleep.
By the time more people came sauntering over, you'd decided it was time to leave.
Ignoring the excruciating pain in your legs, you stomped through the sticks and leaves of the bush onto the concrete path. The cold, rocky path was a strange sensation, especially after being at sea for so long.
You looked to your feet while you trudged on the path, realising you were still barefoot, your shoes still tied to the belt loop of your pants by the laces.
You couldn't be bothered to lean down and put your shoes back on, so you ignored the sharp rocks and gravel beneath your feet.
Unfortunately, the path only got rockier and sharper when you started to walk towards the town. You only got fed up after you kept stepping on sharp rocks. You swear your feet went straight for every sharp rock on this fucking road.
Running an irritated hand through your hair, you stopped dead in your tracks and dropped straight on your ass. The drop hurt, but you were far too pissed off and uncomfortable to care.
You untied the shoes and removed them from your pants, slipping the drenched things on. Wet shoes were fucking uncomfortable, but at least you didn't have to impale your feet on this dirty cold path anymore.
Passersby watched you wriggle and worm your way into the wet shoes, jamming your fingers into the stiff things and leaning back trying to push your feet into them; you'd be embarrassed if you weren't, ya know, wrecked.
After successfully equipping your shoes, you climbed back up to your feet and continued your amble, not before noticing the small crowd of unnecessarily muscled men that formed near you.
They obviously enjoyed watching your stupid fumbling. You could hear the chuckles as you trudged away from the scene.
Weirdos.
The path was lit by gas lanterns planted atop the stone wall next to the path. You could see why it was a popular island; the ambience was calm, and it wasn't too hot.
It could do without the pedestrian traffic, though. Seriously, why were there so many people here? And why are so many of them absurdly large? You've met giants before, but there are more here than actual giant populated places.
The lack of sight is getting annoying. These humongous meat sacks tower over you, and now, you can't see a damn thing!!
You know the dock is huge, but the island itself isn't that big. It's only popular because it's basically a calm zone, and the Grand Line has a very limited amount of calm zones.
You had no idea what time it was, but it mustn't have been late, seeing as the place was so active; there must have been a party nearby. A big one by the looks.
The distinct smell of meat filled your nostrils, causing you to practically salivate at the mouth. Fuck, you missed that smell.
You looked around trying to pinpoint where the smell was coming from, and to your left a grill sizzled with all sorts of meat. Lamb, pork, sausages, chicken, bacon...
You didn't even realise you'd stopped walking until a woman bumped into you from behind. She muttered an apology, and you barely registered it, too focused on the sizzling meat. The smell was almost intoxicating; you swear you could smell each individual meat.
You ripped your eyes away from the grill, and you forced yourself to walk away from the precious meat.
You might have been fucking starving, but you'd have to lose your mind to ask for a piece. Let alone talk to a rando. You'd have to find a place to get food. Preferably, as soon as possible.
You dug into the pocket with your Beri in it, praying they weren't too damaged, and you were pleased to see that they were only tightly stuck together.
You carefully pried the papers apart; they were still a little damp, but they'll dry by the time you find a place to eat at.
You saw an empty seat along the path and took the chance. You slumped down on the green-painted bench; you let your head roll back and rest on the metal bar just above your shoulders.
You glanced around hoping to see a restaurant or store you could get some food at, but your eye stopped on the musty green rag beside you.
It was a jacket. The musty green camouflaged against the dark green paint covering the seat. You stared at it for a moment. Absolutely not. You weren't going to touch it; just your luck that the owner would show up the second you get your mitts on it.
...You were getting kind of cold...
...
And it was a pretty nice jacket too. Pretty clean, no suspicious stains...
It'd be a shame if someone lost it. Or if someone stole it.
You stole it.
Snatched that thing up real quick and rushed off like you just pulled off a bank robbery.
Continuing down the stone path, you slipped your arms into the sleeves of your new jacket; it was fairly heavy, giving you a nice layer of warmth.
It was a few sizes too big, but you weren't complaining. Surprisingly, it didn't smell too bad, though it was definitely on that bench for a while; it smelt like dirt.
The fabric was worn down and a little sun-bleached; the soft material on the inside was also generously aged.
You looked like a bum.
A comfortable bum, but sure. The sleeves drooped below your fingertips before you gripped the hems to fiddle with the buttons.
Your shoulders slumped under the comforting weight. Anyone that took a good look at you would think you've been living out of that jacket for years, not minutes.
You shoved your hands into the pockets, anyway. There's no point pretending to have dignity when comfort is on the line.
Your fingers brushed over some old pocket lint, and you grimaced, deciding to reel your fingers into fists instead of mushing around in someone else's hand grime.
Your stomach chose this moment to growl with all the desperation and pleading it could muster.
Right. Food.
You lifted your head and scanned the buildings around you; there was a tavern and a few bars.
You could go for some greasy bar-style food, but the places were exceptionally busy tonight, probably packed with tourists.
You decided not to try your luck; they probably wouldn't let you in anyway.
After walking a few streets down, the smell of food hits you. Grease, fresh bread, something sweet. Waddling towards the smell, the street crowded with people, the busy path opened into a market lined with food stalls.
What day of the week was it? You were pretty certain it was a weekday, but they usually only have markets open on weekends. Whatever, as long as there was cheap food.
You sauntered through the crowd, looking for a reasonably priced food stall. Sneaking past people is surprisingly easy when half of them are three times your size.
Your attention was pulled towards one stall serving meat pies, a variety of hot sausages, and roasted potato wedges, among other things.
The shouting was what caught your attention. The vendor barked out probably the longest order you've ever heard, as she and the cook stacked the food onto the fold-out table besides her.
You stared at the pile of packaged food, the aroma wafting to you, the rich and greasy smell enough to make your stomach twist.
Steam lifted over the stacks, carrying the smell of the food further. For a moment you forgot about the irritated burns beneath your stolen jacket, the growing tiredness in your muscles, the bubbling anger in your chest, everything. Except for the intense hunger, which was only worsening in its demands the longer you stared.
You forced your eyes off the food and picked up your feet, walking towards the stall, glancing at the sign above the woman to check the prices.
Eight beri for two medium beef and cheese pies. Sounds good enough. You honestly couldn't care less what you ate right now; literally anything would fill this godforsaken pit in your stomach.
Lining up behind two women, you waited with a fading patience. Your eyes shifted to watch the cook remove a layer of foil from some potatoes, the steam swirling in the air.
The man cut into multiple baked potatoes in front of him and lathered them in butter and cheese, sprinkling them with a red seasoning before leaving the station.
The woman stepped up to the bench and scooped them into small cardboard boxes, setting a few aside before handing two boxes to the women in front of you.
The women shuffled away from the stall as your eyes tracked the potato boxes in their hands, imagining the pull of the warm cheese and the flavour of the seasoning hitting your taste buds.
You practically had your back turned to the stall as you watched the potatoes disappear from your sight.
Behind you that same woman was trying to catch your attention as you reminisced over the sight of the potatoes.
"OI, KID," she barked, snapping her finger towards your head. You spun around and frowned towards the impatient woman.
She didn't seem to care, grumbling something about 'kids these days'.
"What do you want, turd?" She huffed, tucking a loose hair into her hairnet.
You deadpanned at the woman for calling you a turd, then grumbled out a response.
"Two medium beef and cheese pies," you replied, and the woman looked at you expectantly.
"Please." Your voice flattened that word. You weren't exactly unmannered, but this old fart was getting on your nerves; she should have better things to do than hassle a stranger.
She hummed in a satisfactory tone and opened her palm towards you with the same expectant expression.
"That'll be eight beri."
You rustled the papers around for a second before handing them to the woman, who was still waiting with her palm out.
Taking the cash, she turned her back and shouted your order to the cook, who gave an unenthusiastic groan in reply.
The woman turned back to you and poked a finger in your face, "Wait right here." she said hastly and wandered back into the station to help the cook.
She should be grateful you didn't bite that wrinkly old finger the second she shoved it in your face.
You stood around for a good couple of minutes, shoulders sagging and arms swaying as you waited for your food.
You looked to the table besides you, and that massive stack of food had disappeared. Huh. The people that ordered that must have dragged that hoard away while you were longingly gawking at those potato boxes.
That crone snapped into your face again, and you almost felt a vein in your forehead burst.
She pushed two boxes into your arms and shooed you away, which you were fine with.
If she didn't just provide you with these pies, you would've chewed her nasty fingers off.
The second you stepped away from that stall, you opened one of the boxes and bit straight into the pie you pulled out.
The crust was warm and flaky, crunching between your teeth perfectly. The filling is a rich gravy with beef pieces and creamy cheese. It all hit you at once as you dragged yourself to the closest available seat.
God, not even the food in your hometown was this good. You dropped a tired head onto the table in front of you as you lazily munched away at the pie. The exhaustion from this last week weighed heavily on you. Your back was hunched as you devoured the pie.
The warm, comforting feeling the food was giving you caused a familiar lump to form in your throat and your vision to go blurry.
Was it relief? The second you saw the island, you knew you'd live, so why would this feeling take control now?
You found yourself recounting the events that transpired only days ago. You still remember the exact feeling of being held underwater by the force of that explosion.
The feeling of helplessness has been consuming you over the last few days. Fuck, you hated that feeling. And whatever the fuck you are feeling right now.
You can barely focus on your pie because your throat just keeps getting tighter.
Jesus, even earlier when you woke up, the carefree, joyful laughter of those people by the docks, sharing drinks and fooling around together.
You didn't hate that they were having a good time; you hated that you've never had that. You hate that you never will.
You remember feeling left out, cast away. Not by the strangers at the docks, but by your own blood.
A growing child needs care and support to thrive. To become someone extraordinary, to become greater than the last generation.
Without that care and support, that child will end up just like you.
Bitter and afraid.
You've left people wishing they could forget you, your bitterness never leaving them, lingering, slowly rotting them from the inside out. That's your legacy.
You ruin and you take. Draining people of all they're worth and casting them aside after.
You were trained to survive on scraps; now you survive by clearing your path and taking what you want, no matter who is in your way.
You'd started eating your second pie sometime during your overthinking, the taste going sour from the wave of guilt and shame that washed over you.
You cleared your throat, bringing a hand up to your face to rub at the pool in your eyes that was threatening to spill over.
There was a chuckle from besides you as you swiped your face. The noise made you jolt, and you stared at the shirtless stranger with wide eyes.
"That good, huh?" The intruder mused with a mouth full of food.
"And you haven't even tried the potato wedges yet!" He continued, jamming a fist of roasted potato pieces into his mouth.
You stared at the man, who was currently shovelling a dozen different foods into his mouth, with irritation knitting into your brows.
When did he get there!? How the hell did he just fit that entire damn pie into his mouth? And why was he shirtless?
Your eyes drifted to the table in front of him, stacked and littered with the same cardboard boxes your pies came in.
This must've been the guy with that big-ass order. Like any reasonable person would, you thought it was for a group of people, but this guy's scarfing down the calories like he's about to go into hibernation.
"That's a pretty bad burn you've got. I know a guy that can fix ya up." He interrupted your thoughts with his voice again, giving you a grin, to which you returned with a scowl.
He only laughed at the gesture, continuing his yapping. "You're pretty funny, you know?" the man said between chuckles.
What? You didn't even say anything. You grumbled a small 'Whatever' and turned away to keep eating your pie, not caring for whatever the blabbering man had to say.
The man only grinned and continued stuffing food down his gullet, smacking his lips as he chewed.
...Why has everyone you've met on this island pissed you off?
The lip smacking only got worse when the sauce from his pie spilt onto his fingers, and he started sucking it off like a feral dog.
This guy is disgusting.
You've never been super sensitive to noises, but this was just ridiculous.
GOD, HE'S SUCKING ON A SAUSAGE. WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM?
The veins in your forehead popped as the grotty chewing and slurping noises filled your ears before he spoke up again.
"You know, you're pretty ballsy, sitting next to a pirate." He said, not bothering to swallow his food beforehand.
His statement caught you off guard enough to distract you from the sloppy sounds on your right. You looked back to him with a sliver of confusion tracing your features, and the disgust was still evident as you replied,
"Where?" You looked away from the man, scanning your surroundings.
The place was still exceptionally busy; if you weren't used to seeing fighters and large individuals, you'd probably be on higher guard right now.
Offended, the man teasingly scoffed, "Ouch." He paused before continuing, "You're not the smartest tool in the shed, are you?" he snickered.
Raising a brow, you turned back to the man, a growing flame lit in your eyes. "Excuse me?" you asked, far more offended than the charismatic man.
"Just sayin'." The glutton added, jamming some more potato wedges into his gob.
You were about to lose it.
Because of this guy's grotesque slobbering and his insult, you were fuming.
Fuck, you'd dealt with so much shit this week, and it was a man-shaped garbage disposal that made you snap.
Before you had the chance to throw a raging fist at the man, he interrupted, AGAIN.
"So, I'll educate you!" The man declared, "You're talking to the one and only Fire Fist Ace; you might’ve hearda me?" he boasted, face beaming with a prideful grin as he outstretched his hand, motioning for you to give him a handshake.
Breathing out a sharp breath through a clenched jaw, you glanced at his hand before looking away, rejecting his handshake.
"Nope, never." Shrugging the prideful man off. He looked surprised that you didn't recognise his name. What an egotistical jerk.
"Really? I'm the second division commander of the Whitebeard pirates!" Ace reiterated, moreso pleaded, his hand still outstretched.
Something in your head finally clicked when he said he was a pirate. That's what he was getting at.
...A pirate? You really hated pirates. And disregarding the literal bombing that took place a few days ago, this man was the prime reason for that hatred.
He ignored all your boundaries and personal space, smacked his lips as loud as humanly possible right in your ear, and insulted you for no reason.
You needed no further proof. This man was a pirate.
You scowled at the man, and he patiently waited for you to take his hand. You grimaced at his lightly greased hand.
“I'm not shaking your hand, pirate. " You spat your words at the man.
He raised a brow and retracted his hand, asking, "Huh? You got something against pirates, kid?"
You scoffed, "Something like that, yeah," you grumbled.
He stared as you finished your second pie, face flatter than before. Then, you heard the familiar idiotic snickering.
"Who would've guessed you were the type for grudges?" his reply laced with sarcasm.
"Most folks in places like this don't mind us. You aren't from here, are ya?"
You ignored his question and shot back, "Most folks haven't met enough of them."
"Careful. Keep that tone up, and I might have to start taking it personally." He shook his head and warned with a cheeky glint in his eye.
Huh? His guard was up. You were pretty shit at reading emotions and stuff, but you grew up around well-guarded men. You know when someone is ready to pounce.
But that unbothered smirk on his face didn't make it seem like he was looking for a fight. Just ready for one.
Rolling your eyes and muttering, "Sure," you hesitated, "You'd have to care first."
He paused, then his head turned back to his mound of empty wrappers.
"Says the one crying over pie," he teased. You could practically hear the grin in his voice.
This asshole was making fun of you.
Your head shot towards him, sharp glare digging into his side profile.
"I wasn't crying, dick," you hissed to the man.
"Sure, sure." He spoke, his grin still seeping into his words.
You decided in that moment to leave. This shirtless pirate was about to catch some hands. Shit, he should be grateful you don't report him to the marines.
Well... You would, but you aren't exactly the most rule-abiding citizen around; you've stolen a bit more than just a jacket and left a few bodies behind you...
Sighing, you stood up, grabbing your rubbish and giving that dickhead Ace one last glare before stomping away, irritation stirring with every step.
You heard his annoying giggles as you trudged away. You would love to never come in contact with him again. Or anyone else on this island for that matter; everyone fucking sucked.
You took a deep breath, hoping to clear some of the burning anger from your chest.
You focused on the path, walking along, looking for a place to sleep for the night. There was no chance you had enough money for a motel room.
You had, like, 20 Beri left, and it was put to much better use on food instead of a bed anyway.
You are absolutely certain you could find a comfier bush than the one you passed out in; that thing was made from daggers and saw blades.
Sleeping outside wasn't the worst place to sleep. As long as there weren't drunkards right besides you, screeching their laughter into your ears.
Thinking of a place to sleep wasn't a very stressful subject, slightly surprising you. You were looking forward to sleeping on a mattress, but you've had enough wins today, you suppose.
Your tasty pies for one, the useless nap two.
Those pies were the best damn thing you'd ever had. Aside from the pirate intruding your thoughts a dozen times, it was a fucking good meal.
Sure, you were still hungry, but goddamn, you felt a whole lot better. You were getting used to the feeling of an empty, needy stomach; now that it's full, you could run a marathon. Or sleep for a week.
Yeah, you'd much rather sleep right now; maybe find some water first.
Your muscles still hurt, but after walking for a while, they were warming up, not aching the way they were earlier.
You were walking back through the town, the streets still booming. It had to be around midnight right now. Seriously, why are there still people everywhere? It must've been the weekend.
Sliding your hands into your pockets, you looked towards the stars again, not bothering to speak to them in your mind.
If they wanted to be ashamed of you, so be it; that's their choice. You don't need those little pricks anyway, not like they've ever done anything for you.
All they do is stare down at you all night; it just feels like a looming presence whenever you are aware of them.
The sun burns you, the moon laughs at you, and the stars fucking hate you. It's a bit funny when you think about it.
While you were busy thinking about the stars, a real looming presence crept closer.
The sharp gaze dug into the back of your head; his presence was heavy, like a predator. Boots crushing rocks with heavy footsteps. Sheathed weapon patting his back with every movement.
Your guard lowered the further away from that pirate you got.
That is, until the unmistakable stench of bloodlust hit your nose. You immediately became aware of your surroundings.
Not quick enough, it seemed, because, like a thief in the night, he pounced towards you, unsheathing his scythe and swinging at you with the force of someone with intent to kill.
You managed to push yourself forward just in time to miss the full blow, his scythe still slicing through a thin layer of your skin.
He landed behind you, and you turned around almost instantly, shocked and confused by the sudden attack.
You felt the warm blood drain down your back as the man swung his weapon around in his hand.
“Dammit, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, you little shit.” The man groaned, more impatient than angry.
Fuck, how could you let this happen? Why would you let your guard down, even for a second? Jesus, you deserve that hit for being so sloppy.
You suddenly heard a few gasps from behind you.
Goddamnit, you were still in the middle of town. There were bystanders circling around you and the man.
This guy obviously didn’t care about witnesses if he’s fine with attacking you in a crowded street.
Before you could look at the people any longer, the man was sprinting towards you, scythe aiming straight for your head.
You leant back to avoid his blade, taking the opportunity to kick the perpetrator in the jaw from beneath him as he dove over you.
He gave you no time to recover and quickly pounced back to you. You launched yourself forward to dodge his attack from behind you, not managing to go far enough.
You seethed when you felt his weapon rip through your back, right overtop of the first gash.
He landed in front of you, and you leapt back, putting distance between you and the attacker. You reached a standstill with the man, watching him crack his neck and spit a tooth out.
“Look, I’m being paid a lot of money to take you out, kid. Don’t fuck this up for me.” He growled, his sharp words catching you off guard.
What? Who would pay to have you killed? You know you had a few enemies across the sea, but no one should’ve known where you were.
You didn’t even have a bounty, at least not any with your real name on it.
God, he was a creepy motherfucker, though. He had long, greasy blonde hair. Features so sharp they could rival his blade.
You watched him reel his scythe back, bend his knees, and give a cunning grin. You recognised that stance. He was preparing to use consecutive strikes.
An amateur would be destroyed by this move, but not you. You knew this attack like the back of your hand; all you had to do was think of the perfect counter.
Fuck, but this guy was much faster than you. You weren’t slow by any means, but this guy was just on a different level. You’re lucky you have enough speed to almost dodge his killing blows.
Most consecutive attacks began with a direct hit because it catches the opponent off guard. Not you, though. You were ready for it.
You watched the man sprint towards you again, tearing his weapon through the air, ready to rip you apart.
He lunged at you, and you leapt into the air, grabbing hold of his scythe as it slid beneath you.
Using his iron grip to your advantage, you pulled the scythe further behind you mid-air. You quickly jolted your legs out and slammed your feet into his face.
His teeth and nose collapsed into his head with a sloppy crunch. You landed behind the man, hearing him thump onto the ground. His body, more like.
You turned to the defeated attacker lying face down on the ground. Blood pooled on the floor around his smushed head.
Shit, you might’ve kicked too hard; he looks a little dead. Whoops. Wait, no, not whoops. He attacked you; he deserved that. Serves him right. Dickhead.
You tore your eyes away from the man and realised how many people were looking directly at you. There were people watching from almost every angle.
Some had disturbed expressions on their faces, while others had grins carved into theirs, like they just won a bet on a cage fight.
But that didn’t matter to you. Not when the agonising pain hit you.
You barely even registered the pain after the first hit, too focused on the fight.
Now, all you can focus on is the warm blood seeping out of your back.
Fuck, you couldn’t even move your shoulders without blood gushing out of the wounds.
You were probably losing a lot of blood. And you should probably be doing something about it.
But you couldn’t do anything, not when the voices around you were blurring and your eyes were fluttering shut.
Before you realised it, you were on the ground, your arm lying atop your torso after you collapsed onto your side.
The last thing you remember seeing was a familiar shirtless torso and a yellow tuft of hair.
meow hello
IM SO HAPPY WITH THIS ONE CHAT
I used a spell checker and it fixed all my shitty grammar, now there’s some fancy semi colons for u lovelies.
It’s 2 am and I need to get up at 7 am bruh kill me
If I mischaracterise ANYONE in this series PLEASE TELL ME I’ll die from cringe if I mischaracterise💔💔
Allsan date ideas, dilfs included. Cuz I want age gap yaoi and also need a break from crochet and asks for like twenty minutes.
Luffy is someone who goes around to any and all food vendors, eats with Sanji, says it's good but not as good as Sanji's while playing with his boyfriend's hands. Sanji is bright red.
Zoro: They're just just fighting and fucking in an open field, much to Sanji's dismay. Change my mind.
Law and Sanji will go knick knack shopping and give each other shit the whole time. Even if they don't find anything they are just dogging on each other and grinning like the biggest dorks.
Ace will haul Sanji off on his little Jim hawkins sail board thing and take Sanji away and watch him swim. Ace loves seeing his boyfriend soaking wet.
Sabo is just actually just taking the man somewhere quiet to read. He is breaking and entering to do it, but that doesn't matter.
Marco and Sanji are going sight seeing, they are flying and skywalking to do said sight seeing. Everyone else is annoyed at them.
Katakuri is just not letting Sanji walk around, he is yelling about it while in his boyfriend's hands. To katakuri this is a date, to Sanji it is more like a kidnapping.
Crocodile is taking him to hookah shop and they are having fun with all the different tobaccos, even if there's steam and it makes him annoyed. Crocodile likes to spoil his Prince.
Mihawk, like Luffy, is going around with Sanji to food vendors, but also rare spice markets and dropping a SHIT TON of beri so he can watch the man glow almost as much as when he talks about the All Blue.
are you normal or are you thinking constantly about that scene in the ace novel manga that wasn't in the novel itself that oda personally added and sketched out for the artist where thatch was asking marco to stop ace from fighting whitebeard for the 100th time (after thatch was shown worrying over pops's health and the damage he was starting to take) and marco was just like 'nah, i can't do anything about that'
and very interestingly how in marineford it wasn't mentioned at ALL that marco was a doctor, much less THE ship's doctor (which was revealed in 909), which the fandom (including me) understandably took and ran with to mean that he was always trying to control whitebeard's drinking-- but we never see him in the series itself ever trying to do so, even though the nurses try (234)
and in fact we have seen him chilling with pops while he's drinking without saying anything about it even after he lost his hair (1023 and 1121, while he's talking about the 'race of gods on top of the red line', which we learn in wano is something he does when he gets drunk)
do u ever think about. marco knowing that if pops decided to take it easy, stay on land, fight less, drink less, and pay more attention to his health, he'd probably have a few more years to live but asking him not to do the things that make him happiest (sailing around, partying and drinking with his family) would be torture for that stubborn old man, so marco doesn't say anything. just quietly watches his dad who he devoted the last 30+ years of his life to die slowly (and quickly) and simply does what he can to make him comfortable
and in his FINAL MOMENTS, the last person whitebeard thinks of and addresses is marco-- the viz translation makes it sound like [his crew] gave him everything [they have], but the raws are more explicit in that he says 'everything [i have], i received from you guys'.
oda's processing a lot of his feelings about parenthood through kuma and bonney and the giants on elbaf but he's definitely also at the age of going through adult child of elderly parent emotions, so i'm excited to see that pan out.
which all leads me to the question of. who the fuck is polo gram???????????????????????
