Marshall D. Teach

Captain for a Day

When Smoker lends you his giant Marine coat to keep warm, you accidentally become G-5's newest "Vice Admiral" for the day — much to his horror (and secret amusement).

smoker x gn! reader | ONE SHOT Tags: fluff, sfw, G-5 chaos a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc word count: 938

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You should have known better than to complain about being cold on a Marine base, of all places.

Especially near a certain grumpy, cigar-smoking, Vice Admiral.

It was a chilly morning on G-5 base, and you were standing awkwardly near the training yard, your arms wrapped around yourself. You hadn’t realized just how thin your jacket was until the cold ocean wind decided to slap you right in the soul.

"Cold?" Smoker's gruff voice rumbled from behind you.

You turned to find him standing there, arms crossed, two cigars burning away like little smoke chimneys.

"I'm fine," you said, teeth chattering audibly.

Smoker narrowed his eyes at you for exactly 0.2 seconds before shrugging off the massive white Marine coat draped over his shoulders — you know, the one with the fuzzy collar, the gold epaulets, the one that absolutely screamed Important Marine Guy.

Before you could protest, he was tossing it over your head like a blanket.

"Don't argue," he muttered, already turning away like it was no big deal.

You froze under the weight of the coat. It was huge. It practically swallowed you alive. The hem almost touched the ground. You could barely peek out from under the fluffy collar.

You stared after Smoker’s retreating back, then tugged the coat tighter around yourself.

Warm. Very warm.

You weren’t going to complain.

The first salute happened thirty seconds later.

You were shuffling across the training yard, trying not to trip over the coat, when a young Marine spotted you.

"VICE ADMIRAL, SIR!" he barked, snapping to a crisp salute so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

You blinked at him. "Uh… what?"

The Marine’s face turned beet red when he got a closer look at your very not-Smoker face, but he'd already committed. He stayed frozen in salute until you awkwardly shuffled away, half-waving.

Maybe that was just one guy, you thought, chuckling to yourself. No big deal.

It was not one guy.

Within an hour, you had been saluted by no less than twenty Marines.

Two mistook you for some "new Vice Admiral from Headquarters" and started escorting you around the base like bodyguards.

One extremely nervous ensign offered you his lunch.

Another, somehow, asked if you needed a "cannon fired in your honor."

You tried to explain that you were just borrowing the coat.

You really tried.

But the moment you said "I'm just—", some recruit would shout "SIR, YES SIR!" and start sprinting laps around the yard to "impress" you.

At one point, you caught a glimpse of yourself reflected in a window.

The Marine coat — slightly too big, regal-looking, with the Justice kanji on the back — Your slightly confused but determined expression — The way you nodded politely whenever someone yelled "Vice Admiral!" —

You looked like a tiny, lost, but somehow commanding officer.

You laughed until you almost collapsed.

The situation escalated — fast.

At lunchtime, Marines cleared an entire table for you at the mess hall.

They nervously placed a "Reserved for Vice Admiral" sign (hastily made with a napkin and a fork) in front of you.

You tried to slip away quietly, but every step you took, another Marine would open a door, bow, or panic because "the Vice Admiral needs more soup!"

By the time you escaped to the courtyard, you were slightly dizzy from all the awkward attention.

This is getting ridiculous… you thought.

You needed to find Smoker and give his damn coat back before this turned into a full-blown military parade.

You found Smoker near the docks, yelling at Tashigi.

He noticed you instantly — hard not to, considering you were basically wearing his entire upper wardrobe — and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"You," he growled, stalking over.

You gulped. "Smoker, I can explain—"

Before you could say more, two Marines sprinted past, saluting so hard their hats flew off.

"VICE ADMIRAL! BASE SECURITY IS DOUBLE-TIGHTENED AS REQUESTED, SIR!" one of them screamed.

"I… didn't request that?" you said weakly.

Smoker stared at the chaotic scene unfolding around you. Marines were tripping over themselves trying to impress you. Someone started unfurling a "WELCOME, HERO OF THE SEAS" banner.

Another Marine dropped a crate of cannonballs at your feet, panting, "For your personal arsenal, sir!"

"… What the hell," Smoker muttered under his breath, smoke billowing furiously.

You gave him a sheepish little smile from under the fluffy collar.

"Maybe your coat's a little…too recognizable," you offered.

Smoker dragged a hand down his face, groaning.

Tashigi tried very hard not to laugh — she failed.

"You’re returning the coat," Smoker grunted five minutes later, practically yanking it off you himself. (Gently though. Very gently.)

"Aw, but it’s so warm," you teased, shivering dramatically once it was gone.

He huffed and — to your complete surprise — slung an arm around your shoulders to pull you close to his side, sharing body heat like it was no big deal.

"If you keep causing scenes like that, I'll have to promote you," he muttered gruffly.

You choked on your own breath. "Promote?"

Smoker shrugged, totally deadpan. "Captain, minimum. Maybe Commodore. Depends how many idiots you can wrangle."

You grinned up at him. "Does being Vice Admiral's favorite qualify me?"

His lips twitched, just slightly.

"Maybe."

.

.

Rumor traveled so fast through G-5 that by sunset, the base was convinced that Smoker was secretly training you to be his "successor."

You and Smoker both refused to confirm or deny it.

(Privately, Smoker started carrying a second coat around. "In case you get cold again," he said. Totally deadpan. Totally not flustered.)

(You kept stealing it anyway.)

The Lost Reader

A mysterious reader of Poneglyphs finds a new home among the Straw Hat Pirates, slowly becoming an irreplaceable part of their crew as their love for them grows.

READER WHO CAN READ AND SPEAK PONEGLYPH

Strawhats x Poneglyph gn!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: luffy, zoro, sanji, nami, robin

tags: fluff, sfw, harem(?), soft

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

words count: 1.9k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

It started with silence.

Not the heavy kind that suffocates—but the quiet peace of wind brushing through trees, waves lapping against the sand, and birds singing above crumbled ruins. Your only companions were time-worn Poneglyphs, mossy stone relics, and the hollow ache of knowing you shouldn’t exist.

You didn’t know what you were—only that you could read them. The Poneglyphs. Their words came to you like breath, like blood. It wasn’t learned. It just… was.

And then one day, the silence broke.

“WOOOOAAAHH! What a weird island!!”

You looked up from a worn page, blinking at the explosion of sound.

A rubber man had landed face-first in your tomato garden.

You blinked again, rubbing your eyes to make sure you weren’t imagining the scene before you. The man—his limbs were stretched at impossible angles, and his face was, well… currently smushed into the dirt of your carefully cultivated tomato patch.

“Luffy!” a woman’s voice shouted from the shore. “Stop crashing into things!”

You stared in disbelief, watching as a circus of chaos disembarked from a sunny, lion-faced ship. At least, that’s what it looked like to you.

“Wha—?” You stumbled back, half-wondering if you’d stepped into some sort of dream. But no, the crew’s laughter was real. Loud, boisterous, utterly chaotic, and very much present.

Before you could comprehend the whirlwind that had just descended upon your quiet life, a figure bounded toward you. The rubber man—Luffy—was grinning at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. And, for all you knew, you were.

“Hey! Who're you? you live here? cool! SHISHISHI” Luffy asked, already sitting cross-legged on the ground as if he hadn’t just completely flattened your garden. “Wanna eat with us?”

You blinked, still too stunned to form a coherent sentence. “I… guess?...Im Y/N”

And so began your first real encounter with the Straw Hat Pirates.

Nami, with her keen eyes and sharp questions, immediately assessed the situation, interrogating you about your maps and supplies like she was about to audit your entire existence. Sanji, the ever-romantic chef, started cooking a feast so lavish that you were half-tempted to check if the food had its own backstory. The man even had heart-shaped eyes every time you praised his cooking.

Usopp, ever the over-the-top self-proclaimed hero, proudly handed you a coconut with a grin that could only be described as a “friendship orb.” “From me to you,” he declared, as if he had just made the world’s most profound offering.

And then there was Chopper, who took your pulse the second he saw you, declaring that you had “island person syndrome” and needed immediate attention.

Robin, however, watched you closely. Her gaze sharp but gentle, as if trying to figure out a puzzle no one else could see.

“You can read those stones, can’t you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You stiffened. The question sent a shiver through your spine, a fleeting reminder of the secret you kept buried deep within. You didn’t answer. Not immediately.

She smiled, soft and knowing, her eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll talk later.”

Zoro, ever the brooding figure, glanced at you and muttered under his breath, “You don’t look dangerous.” It seemed like a funny thing to say, considering he had just been trying to slice a boulder in half mere moments earlier.

It didn’t take long for you to realize what was happening: You were trapped in their orbit. In their madness. In their chaos.

And you couldn’t have been more content.

The Thousand Sunny became your new home—bright, loud, and utterly unpredictable.

Sanji insisted on cooking you all your meals. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—each time, his cooking came with a full-on serenade, and if you didn’t finish your plate, he might just shed a tear. “It’s not just food,” he’d say. “It’s love. It’s my soul in a dish!”

Nami dragged you into shopping sprees with no regard for your dwindling supplies or your protestations. “You need to look fabulous, Y/N. Don’t you want to blend in with the rest of us?” she’d tease, while tossing a dozen new outfits into your arms. You always ended up spending more than you intended, but there was something so infectious about her enthusiasm that you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Robin was the one who quietly fascinated you. You’d find her at all hours of the day, absorbed in reading a book or studying the surroundings with quiet intensity. There was something about the way she looked at you, like she already knew your secrets but would never pry.

And then there was Luffy. Always smiling. Always laughing. He treated you as though you were already part of the crew. No pretense, no hesitation. You didn’t even need to be invited. You were just… in.

“Wanna ride on top of the mast?” Luffy asked one morning, as casually as if he were asking if you wanted a snack.

You stared up at the towering mast, then back at him. “Is that… safe?”

“Nope! shishishi” he beamed, looking excited about the prospect.

Somehow, that made it make sense to climb up there with him. He helped you up like it was nothing, laughing all the while. The wind whipped through your hair, and for the first time in a long while, you felt alive. You weren’t just existing anymore.

Zoro, ever the silent guardian, began training near you. You noticed him constantly observing your movements, his gaze intense but not unwelcome. One day, you lost your footing on deck, but before you could even react, his hand shot out and steadied you.

He didn’t say much, just stared at you for a moment, before clearing his throat and muttering, “Watch your step, dumbass.”

Romance, clearly.

It crept in slowly. Unnoticed, at first.

Sanji’s compliments, light-hearted at first, began to hold a different weight. “You look beautiful today, Y/N~chwann” he’d say with a soft smile, not just as a joke, but as something that meant more.

Nami’s teasing turned into lingering glances, moments where her eyes softened when she thought no one was looking.

Robin’s hand on yours during those quiet late-night reading sessions made your heart skip a beat, like it was a shared secret, a connection you didn’t have the words to describe.

Zoro’s silence, once intimidating, became your comfort. When he was near, you didn’t need to talk. You didn’t need to explain yourself. He was just there, a steady presence.

And Luffy’s laughter—oh, Luffy’s laughter. It started to feel like home, like the sound of safety, of warmth. A constant reminder that with him around, there was nothing to fear.

But you kept your secret.

That was until one night, when you and Robin stood over a relic you had no business being near. It was buried deep beneath the cursed island’s soil, half-buried like a forgotten truth. Robin stood behind you, arms crossed, waiting for you to decipher it. You already knew what it would say, but that didn’t stop the rush of dread that surged within you as your fingers traced the ancient glyphs.

“You know what it says, don’t you?” Robin’s voice was barely a whisper. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

You stiffened.

“It’s just a story,” you muttered, voice low.

Robin smiled, a soft and knowing smile, one that suggested she understood far more than she let on. “Then you should know—they’d kill you for it.”

You didn’t answer, didn’t have the words. You just continued to trace the lines, the ancient language flowing effortlessly from your mind, sinking into the earth beneath your fingertips.

Everything changed when you found the half-buried Poneglyph on a cursed island.

It was a trap. Not for Luffy. Not for the Pirate King in the making.

For you.

You read the stone aloud, your voice quiet, shaking slightly. And for the first time in your life, the stone responded.

The words were not just etched into stone, not just an inscription—it was a message. A message that burned through the world like a beacon.

“The last of the Whisperers,” it said. “Hunted. Hidden. Forbidden.”

The ground shook. The air turned electric. The Poneglyphs around you shimmered, the glyphs becoming light, illuminating the island with a soft, ethereal glow.

The Straw Hats arrived just as you stumbled backward, your eyes wide, heart pounding, the power coursing through you like an uncontrollable force. The glyphs pulsed, and the power in your veins burned bright.

“What’s happening?!” Usopp screamed, looking ready to fight a ghost.

You looked at them—at your crew—and whispered, “They were hunting us. People who could read these stones. I shouldn’t exist.”

There was silence.

Then Luffy stepped forward, his voice unwavering, “You’re not alone.”

The Marines came shortly after.

You fought, of course you did.

For the first time in your life, you let the power in your blood surge freely. The words of the stone became light, flames of energy erupting from the ground as you slashed through the battlefield, carving the very earth with your newfound strength. You cracked the island’s crust. You didn’t even know you could do that.

Sanji’s hand grabbed yours as the ground beneath you cracked, pulling you from the collapsing cliff. Zoro fought beside you, silent and determined. Robin’s steady hand on yours kept you grounded in the chaos.

When the battle was over, and the last Marine had been driven back, you passed out.

You woke in the infirmary, Chopper hovering over you, his worried eyes darting around like he was waiting for you to disappear again. Franky was sitting beside you, sobbing into a bowl of soup.

“You scared us, you moron,” Nami whispered, brushing your hair back from your face. Her voice was soft, a rare tenderness that made your heart ache.

Robin kissed your temple as she hovered over you, whispering, “You’re more than your gift.”

Sanji didn’t say anything, but his presence was unmistakable. He curled up beside you, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, a silent vow of protection.

Zoro sat across from you, cleaning his swords. “Don’t ever do that alone again.”

And Luffy… Luffy beamed at you, that infectious smile lighting up his face as he exclaimed, “You’re stuck with us forever now!”

The tension unraveled like fraying rope.

Nami kissed you when you least expected it, quick and teasing, a spark of affection.

Robin kissed you in the library, with parchment between your hands, and the world felt like it stopped turning for a moment.

Sanji kissed you with all the intensity of someone who had been waiting for years, every touch filled with longing.

Zoro kissed you like it was the only thing that made sense, his hands warm and steady.

And Luffy—Luffy’s kiss was upside down, playful, and completely unexpected, but perfect in the way only Luffy could be.

Usopp ran away screaming, “AAAH! ROMANCE ATTACK!”

Chopper fainted. Twice.

Brook played a love song with three verses about your “sultry stare” that made everyone uncomfortable except Sanji, who wept.

Franky asked if you wanted to build a heart-shaped cannon to “blast your feelings at the world.” You said yes. It now sits in the garden.

Jinbei just gave you a nod and said, “It’s about time.”

You weren’t a secret anymore.

You were theirs.

Not claimed, not owned—but cherished. Loved, wholly and fiercely.

And though the world may hunt you, you had a crew that would burn it down before they let anyone take you.

Not a request but a shout out to the MVP asks that have been submitted that are greatly detailed requests

lmaoaoao i swear its every writers dream n i love it lolol big shout out to them fr. i have 4 more requests n its so long and detailed 😭😭😭🥰

Hello, hello, how are you? Can I please ask you for a story? Marco from the Shirohige Pirates finds out by chance that he's going to be a father. 🤣

T/n is Ace's sister, a Marine, and a vice admiral. And Marco's partner, although they see each other occasionally. Marco found out. She had been acting strange the last time they saw each other.

Aunque se ofreció a examinarla, ella se negó porque, según ella, no sería objetivo con su diagnóstico. Días después, T/n se embarcaría en una nueva misión: escoltar a nobles mundiales.

T/n was leaning on her desk, feeling a little dizzy. It's lucky her assistant gives all the orders to the others while she's feeling ill. Not even her haki has been working well these past few weeks. Hello...

T/n dio un salto y casi tiró un vaso de jarabe para el mareo que le había traído el médico del barco. T/n retiró el vaso discretamente, pero Marco lo notó. Siempre estaba tan claro, pero yo no lo había notado.

Y/n, "Hey, what's going on here? I think our next appointment is in two weeks, don't you darling?" Trying to sound normal. Covering herself with her coat. A few folders were falling.

T/n tenía que proteger su secreto. Seguramente, si él lo descubría, la arrastraría. No peor. Probablemente se enojaría con ella por no haberle dicho nada.

Vice Admiral, we're ready. The doctor asks if she's feeling better yet. Seeing the pirate in front of her, Wait, Marco, don't do it. But Marco was faster. The man was already unconscious on the floor. Y/N got up worriedly to check on her subordinate, but Maco grabbed her wrist. She was even thinner than the last time he saw her.

sounds cool tried my best >< tis not much but hope u like it, i apologize in advance if its not that accurate lolol

Blue Flames and Baby Rumors

When you starts showing unusual symptoms, Marco begins connecting the dots—and ends up with the surprise of his life.

Marco the phoenix x reader

tags: fluff, sfw, secret relationship, light drama

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

word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The ship rocked gently under the pull of the current, but your head swam like you were being thrashed in a whirlpool. Vice Admiral or not, no amount of rank could prepare you for the unpredictable wrath of morning sickness.

Leaning on your desk, you pressed two fingers to your temple, squinting at a report you weren’t processing. Your assistant was already barking orders outside your office door—thank the heavens. You hadn't given a single command since sunrise.

Then, like a damn ghost in broad daylight—

"Hello."

You jumped, nearly upending a glass of syrup meant to settle your stomach. It sloshed dangerously before you caught it, hurriedly sliding it behind a folder.

And there he stood. Marco the Phoenix.

Golden hair, calm ocean-blue eyes, and a presence that had always made your heart ache in the worst and best ways. Your partner, occasional lover, and the last person you wanted to see right now.

"...Hey," you started, voice too casual. “What’s going on here? I think our next appointment is in two weeks, don’t you, darling?” You tugged your coat tighter over your chest as a few folders slipped off your desk.

Marco didn’t smile. His gaze flicked toward the now half-hidden glass. “Motion sickness?” he asked, and his tone was far too neutral.

“Long voyage,” you replied quickly. “The escort mission has been dragging through choppy waters.”

The look in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t buying that.

You forced a light laugh, walking around the desk to pick up the fallen papers. “I’m not made of sea-stone. Even Vice Admirals get woozy sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t even let me examine you last time-yoi” he said, stepping closer. “You said I wasn’t objective.”

“I stand by that.”

He tilted his head. “You didn’t even let me try.”

You swallowed. No way in hell were you going to talk about this. You were already gambling every inch of this mission by just standing here, trying to keep a secret from the one man who literally healed people for a living.

"Vice Admiral!" your assistant called from outside. "The nobles are waiting. The doctor asks if you're feeling better yet."

You could see the moment the dots fully connected in Marco's sharp gaze.

"Wait—Marco, don't—"

Too late. In one swift movement, Marco disappeared in a flash of blue and reappeared outside. You dashed after him just in time to see your medic crumple to the ground with a startled grunt.

"Marco!"

You dropped to check your subordinate’s pulse—he was unconscious, not harmed seriously—but Marco’s hand clamped gently but firmly around your wrist.

“You’re thinner than before-yoi” he muttered. “You’ve been exhausted. Your Haki’s off. And now motion sickness?”

You stared at him. “Marco, I swear, if you say it—”

“You’re pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like cannon smoke.

You looked away, breath caught in your throat. “It’s none of your—”

His grip tightened slightly, only to loosen as you flinched.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” he said. “But you are, aren’t you-yoi?”

Silence.

Finally, you exhaled. “...Yes.”

He stepped back. “Is it mine?”

Your head snapped toward him. “What? Of course it’s yours! You—! We—! I haven’t been with anyone else, you idiot!”

Marco blinked. “I just—sorry. I wasn’t accusing. Just… processing.”

He ran a hand through his blond hair, the tension in his usually relaxed frame tangible now.

You crossed your arms, trying to look like the proud Vice Admiral you were instead of the world’s most irresponsible soon-to-be parent. “I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d drag me back to the Grand Line and throw me in a nest of phoenix feathers.”

“You were going to hide my kid from me-yoi?”

“I was going to figure things out myself first,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t want you to worry. We barely see each other as it is.”

“Because we’re on opposite sides of the damn sea.”

“Exactly.”

A long pause. You shifted uncomfortably, ignoring the familiar twist of nausea.

“I get it,” Marco finally said. “But you should’ve told me-yoi”

You frowned, defensive. “You think I don’t know that? It’s not like I’m thrilled about this, Marco. I’m a Vice Admiral. You’re a pirate. Ace—Ace would’ve flipped if he knew.”

Marco smiled faintly. “Ace would’ve been smug as hell. He always said we’d end up together.”

That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. “...Don’t do that. Don’t talk about him like he’s still here.”

Marco stepped closer, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You’re not alone in this-yoi.”

“You’re not exactly on call, either.”

“Then I’ll make myself available.”

Your brows shot up. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “You’re having my kid. I might be a pirate, but I’m not irresponsible. I’ll be there.”

You stared at him, seeing not just the Phoenix, the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates—but Marco. The man who always showed up exactly when you needed him, even if you didn’t say it aloud.

He took your hand and pressed it to his chest. “You don’t have to hide anymore-yoi”

You let out a long sigh, finally allowing yourself to lean into his warmth. “I still have to finish this mission.”

He groaned. “Of course you do.”

You smirked. “I am a Vice Admiral.”

“You’re a pregnant Vice Admiral.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Later that night, you found yourself leaning against the rail of the ship, the cool breeze easing your nausea better than the syrup. Marco leaned beside you, arms crossed, watching the sea.

“So… how far along?” he asked.

“Almost two months.”

“...Was that before or after I gave you that weird seaweed stew in Alabasta?”

You snorted. “Definitely after.”

He grimaced. “I hope the baby doesn’t remember that-yoi”

You laughed, and for the first time in weeks, it felt real. “Thanks for coming, Marco.”

He turned his head slightly. “I’ll be back before the baby’s born. Promise.”

“You better be,” you replied. “Or I’m naming it Garp.”

Marco's face turned pale. “You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

He stared, then smirked. “...Fine. But I’m putting ‘Phoenix’ on the birth certificate.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Hello, good morning, I hope I'm not bothering you. But I can make a request for Whitebeard and Fem Reader, which is a story of forbidden love where he is a pirate we know and she is an admiral. Respected that they nicknamed her mother to those who go with them, they had a secret relationship a few years ago before Roger's death that he also knew but unfortunately A reader like her had a devil fruit that was mysterious and valuable that deals with control From the dreams, some powers similar to those of MLP's Moon or Maleficent. But she had to sacrifice herself to save her men whom she considers sons. Against a pirate who was a Yonko who was protected by the navy And that devastated Whitebeard and those who knew her, but after a few years Whitebeard met a boy who was his son and reader Only he was raised with Garp who is practically the adopted brother of Ace Luffy and Sabo

Oh, I dreamed it and I swear I woke up crying. But I said it would be interesting to read. Take your time thank you ❤️

sounds cool anw tried my best>< tis not much but, hope u like it!

When the Sea Dreams of You

A powerful admiral, once known as "Mother" to her men, sacrifices herself to save them—leaving behind a secret love and child with Whitebeard. Years later, fate delivers the boy back into his father's world.

whitebeard x fem! reader | ONE SHOT

tags: slight angst, sfw, ooc, major character death, grief, oc

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: 1.1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The sea remembered her name even if the world had tried to forget it.

She had once stood atop warships with the wind billowing her cape, marines at her side, and fear in the hearts of pirates. An admiral—respected, strategic, and maternal in a way that felt divine—earning her the nickname “Mother” from those who served under her.

But Edward Newgate had once called her something else. Something softer. Something forbidden.

“Y/N.”

Their love had bloomed like moonlight on water—beautiful, distant, unreachable to anyone else. Back when the world was simpler. Before Roger died. Before Yonko politics became tangled with Navy ambition. Before dreams became dangerous things.

She had eaten a devil fruit so rare that even the elders of Mariejois feared it: the Yume Yume no Mi, Dream Dream Fruit. It granted her the power to shape dreams, trap enemies in illusions, or soothe nightmares into serenity. Some whispered she could walk between minds in their sleep, learn secrets, or even leave part of herself behind in another’s subconscious.

The World Government had seen her as both an asset and a threat. So they used her… and then allowed her to die.

At least, that’s what the world believed.

.

.

It began in silence—after battles, beneath stars, stolen moments between two great forces who knew what their love would cost.

"You know," she whispered against his chest, fingers tangled in his wild blond hair, "this can never be more than a dream."

Whitebeard chuckled, arms like mountains holding her close. "Then let’s never wake up."

They had found each other between skirmishes, on islands not marked on maps, during ceasefires no one else knew about. She would arrive wearing her navy coat, only to drop it at his feet like a surrender flag. He’d tease her, call her dangerous in more ways than one, and then hold her like the war would never reach them.

Only a few knew—Roger had been one of them. He had laughed when he found out, slapping Whitebeard on the back.

"You're crazier than I thought, Newgate! Falling for the Navy's ‘Mother’? You really wanna die, huh?"

But Roger understood. In his own way. And then he died.

And everything changed.

.

.

The pirate was brutal. A Yonko, protected by politics, feared by soldiers. He had come for her fleet—not her—and underestimated what a mother does for her children.

Her men had screamed for retreat. She stayed.

The battlefield twisted around her as she activated the forbidden side of her fruit. A nightmare realm bloomed into existence—a dreamscape that would swallow both her and the Yonko into an endless illusion, locking them in a dimension between sleep and wakefulness.

It was her final act. Her fleet escaped. Her body was never recovered. The navy quietly declared her dead, sealing all files. Honoring her in silence.

But Whitebeard knew the truth. He felt it—like a tear in his soul.

And he never forgave them.

Years Later

He appeared on Sphinx Island on a slow afternoon, knocking over crates trying to carry supplies. Hair as wild as the sea, grin just familiar enough to sting.

Marco had noticed first. “Oyaji, you might wanna come see this-yoi…”

The boy stood with a seagull feather in his messy hair and a Marine jacket tied around his waist like a belt. His laugh—loud and reckless—could’ve belonged to Ace. But there was something calmer beneath it. More… deliberate.

“What’s your name, brat?” Whitebeard asked, looming above him like a mountain.

The boy looked up. His eyes were her eyes.

“Hoshi.”

Silence fell.

“My full name’s Hoshi. Don’t really use my last name. Garp-jiji says it stirs trouble.”

Marco blinked. “Garp? As in—Vice Admiral Garp?”

“Yeah. He's kinda like my grandpa. I grew up with his other grandkids. We were like brothers.” He scratched his head. “But I don’t look like them much. People always said I looked more like… her.”

Whitebeard’s breath caught.

The boy looked up. “My mom was an admiral. ‘Mother,’ they called her. I know she’s gone. But Garp-jiji said she loved me. Said I was a dream she left behind.”

Whitebeard’s knees nearly buckled.

He whispered, “And your father?”

“Dunno. Garp-jiji wouldn’t say. But sometimes… I dream of a voice. Loud, laughing. Warm. It’s dumb.”

Whitebeard was trembling now. Marco placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

“It ain’t dumb, brat,” the old pirate said hoarsely. “You ever hear the name Whitebeard?”

Hoshi tilted his head. “Course I have. Big ol’ sea legend.”

Whitebeard knelt down so their eyes met.

“I’m Edward Newgate. Your father.”

The revelation shook the crew to its core. Most knew of her in whispers and unspoken glances. Thatch remembered her as the admiral who once spared his life. Vista swore he saw Whitebeard smile softer the weeks after her visits.

Hoshi adjusted fast. He sparred with Marco, pestered Jozu for strength training, and charmed even Izo with his mischief. But some nights, he asked Whitebeard to tell him stories about her.

And Whitebeard did.

“Your mother used to make even the sea stand still,” he’d murmur, staring out at the tide. “She held nations in her hand, but always chose to cradle her boys instead.”

“Did you love her?”

“With every bone in this old body.”

.

.

One night, Hoshi woke screaming. The crew rushed in—swords drawn, ready to fight.

“She was there!” he shouted. “I saw her! She said my name. She held me!”

Marco looked pale. “A dream?”

Whitebeard stepped in. “No… more than that.”

The Dream Dream Fruit never truly dies. Some powers linger. Some souls too stubborn to fade.

That night, as Whitebeard slept, he dreamed of a silver shore, and there she stood—older, transparent, wrapped in moonlight.

“Edward,” she said, and his heart cracked open.

“I never stopped,” he choked. “You should have told me about the boy.”

“I was protecting him. The world wasn’t ready. You weren’t safe. I thought… if he had even a chance at peace, he deserved it.”

Whitebeard reached for her. His hand passed through light.

“Is this real?”

She smiled. “As real as dreams can be.”

“Can I bring you back?”

“No. My body is gone. My soul… remains here. The price of my power.” She cupped his cheek with fingers made of stars. “But I’ll watch over him. And you.”

He wanted to scream, but all he could do was weep.

“Tell him,” she whispered, fading, “that I loved him more than life itself.”

.

.

Hoshi grew into his power, showing hints of the Dream Dream Fruit awakening within him. He spoke of visions, soft voices in sleep, sometimes warnings.

He stayed with Whitebeard’s crew, not as a soldier, but as a bridge—between past and future.

And sometimes, when the moon was high and dreams felt close enough to touch, he would feel her again.

A lullaby in the tide.

A hand on his shoulder.

The sea remembering her name.

Hello, please can I request a Shanks young apprentice x reader apprentice where she has gone many days without sleeping, she is very tired and sleepy, he finds her in the library of the gold Jackson reading one of the books that the dark king forced them to read.

If you're sleepy, you should sleep. If the captain finds out you're not sleeping, he'll scold you. "I'm not sleepy," you whispered, getting up to put the book back on the shelf. When you turned around, you saw Shanks in front of you. "You didn't notice me, did you?" "Adjusting Rader's hair."Do you have nightmares?" "Yes," you whispered. Shanks hugged her tightly to his chest and whispered in her ear."Reader

Sleep, I'll stay with you. The girl fell asleep upon feeling his warmth and Shanks's heartbeat. Shank took her in his arms before she fell to the floor

this sounds cutee!

Where the Quiet Finds You

hanks finds his fellow apprentice in the library, battling exhaustion and nightmares, and offers her the comfort she's too afraid to ask for.

Shanks x fem! reader | ONE SHOT

tags: sfw, fluff, sleeplessness, nightmares, soft comfort,

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc word count: 1.7k

masterlist | ko-fi

The ship creaked and groaned with age and travel, a sound that had become a lullaby to those who called the Oro Jackson home. Moonlight poured through the round, salt-speckled window of the ship’s small library, silvering the spines of thick maritime tomes and adventure logs that lined the shelves like ancient guardians of knowledge.

You sat at the far end of the room, curled on a stool with your elbows balanced precariously on the table, chin resting in the hollow of your palm. A book lay open beneath your sleepy eyes, but the words blurred together like waves in a storm. You blinked, fighting the pull of sleep for what must have been the hundredth time that night.

The scent of old paper and salt hung heavy in the air. You shivered slightly, not from cold, but from the exhaustion that crept deeper into your bones with every passing hour. You had stopped counting how many days you’d gone without real rest.

Rayleigh had given both you and Shanks a thick stack of reading as part of your apprenticeship under their wing—navigation theory, sea lore, ship maintenance, historical texts. You didn’t mind the learning; in truth, you craved the structure it gave you. But every time you closed your eyes, the nightmares came creeping in—half memories, half monsters. Faces you couldn’t save. Voices swallowed by the sea.

You were so tired your body hurt.

Footsteps padded softly behind you. Not threatening, but curious. Familiar.

“If you're sleepy, you should sleep. If the captain finds out you're not sleeping, he'll scold you.”

You turned slightly, recognizing the warm, teasing voice instantly.

“I'm not sleepy,” you whispered, even though your voice betrayed you with how hoarse and small it sounded.

You pushed yourself up from the stool, cradling the heavy book like a fragile piece of cargo, and made your way to the shelf to put it back. As you turned around, you nearly stumbled into Shanks.

He was standing right behind you now, closer than you expected, his red hair tousled and sticking out in odd angles. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, his shirt half-buttoned and feet bare. There was a softness in his gaze, not the usual joking sparkle you were used to, but something quieter. Something that felt too big for boys your age.

“You didn’t notice me, did you?” Shanks murmured, reaching out without hesitation to brush a few strands of hair from your face. His fingers were warm.

You looked away.

“Do you have nightmares?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

He didn’t speak again for a moment, just pulled you into him with a suddenness that didn’t feel rushed or awkward, just… instinctive. His arms wrapped securely around you, pressing your face into his chest. You could hear his heartbeat—steady and calm, like waves lapping against the hull. He smelled like salt and old parchment, and something uniquely him.

“Sleep,” he said softly against the crown of your head. “I’ll stay with you.”

You didn’t mean to, but your knees buckled a little, and before you could hit the floor, Shanks caught you. He scooped you up in his arms with surprising ease. You were light from not eating properly, worn down by sleepless nights. Your arms looped lazily around his neck as your eyes began to flutter shut.

“You’re not supposed to carry me,” you mumbled.

“I’ll tell Rayleigh I was rescuing you from literary drowning,” he teased, though his voice stayed soft, reverent.

He carried you down the corridor with care, the library door swinging quietly shut behind him. The ship’s wood was cool beneath his feet, but he didn’t mind. In the dim glow of the lanterns, he brought you to the shared cabin you and a few others used, but instead of laying you in your bunk, he sat against the wall, still holding you against his chest.

You didn’t stir.

Shanks looked down at you, eyebrows furrowed slightly. He’d noticed the signs—dark circles, the way your hands shook when holding your sword, how you’d drift off during training and then snap awake, eyes wide and frightened.

He hated seeing you like this.

“I get them too, sometimes,” he whispered, not expecting a reply.

But your breathing slowed, deepened.

You were asleep.

He rested his head back against the wood, holding you like glass. He didn’t know what the nightmares were about, but he didn’t need to. All he knew was that if you were with him, he’d make sure nothing hurt you—not dreams, not ghosts, not even the fear of being vulnerable.

The next morning, the sun broke over the horizon, its light spilling through the small round porthole in the corner of the room.

Rayleigh stood in the doorway, blinking down at the sight of the two youngest apprentices curled together like siblings shipwrecked on a safe shore. He said nothing, just gave a faint smile, turned on his heel, and closed the door behind him.

That evening, after the day’s duties and sword drills were over, Shanks sat next to you on the deck, your shoulders brushing as you shared a piece of bread and a flask of juice.

“You drooled on my shirt,” he said, smirking.

“I did not.”

“You did. Right here.” He pointed to a barely-there damp spot. “You owe me laundry duty.”

You rolled your eyes, but you smiled. For the first time in days, your limbs didn’t feel like anchors. You’d slept all the way through the night.

“Thanks, Shanks,” you said quietly, looking out at the sea.

He nudged your knee with his. “Anytime. You can always come find me, okay? Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

You nodded.

“I mean it,” he added. “And if the nightmares come back... I’ll scare them off with a wooden sword and my dazzling grin.”

You laughed. He looked satisfied with that.

That night, just as he was drifting off in his bunk, he heard your light steps by the door. You hovered there, unsure.

He didn’t even open his eyes.

“Come here,” he said simply, lifting the blanket.

You crawled in beside him, neither of you saying anything more. You nestled against his side, and he rested a hand over your shoulder.

In the quiet of the Oro Jackson, with the ocean humming softly below, you both found rest.

Not because the nightmares had disappeared.

But because you weren’t alone.

Hello How are you? 🤔 Your stories are great ☺️ Um, what is your native language? ☺️What country are you from?

hello! im doing great! thank you! i just started writing weeks ago, and im working on some requests as of now~ im from kyoto! and currently residing in Ph with my father's relatives!

hello! I saw some of your posts and was wondering if u could wright something with sanji from one piece where the reader is also a chef? Like escoffier from genshin impact. But like she has the same looks and vibe cause I was looking at her trailer or something and she only scolded the male cooks when they did bad and I LOVED that PLEASEE try to make this! Established relationship pls, thank u!

this sounds nice! im not quite familiar w the charac mentioned, tho i looked her up, soo its not much but hope u enjoy this!

Fire in the Kitchen, Heart on the Line

Being in love with a fellow perfectionist chef isn’t always easy—especially when your kitchen becomes a battlefield. But with enough butter, banter, and a little love, Sanji and his fiery girlfriend might just make it through the heat.

sanji x Escoffier!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, soft romance, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The kitchen on the Thousand Sunny was unusually quiet—until a sharp clatter echoed off the walls.

“You call that a brunoise?” your voice rang, sharp as a blade slicing through bone.

Usopp flinched, the knife slipping out of his hand. “I—I was just—”

“No excuses. These cubes are uneven enough to offend geometry itself.” You folded your arms, pristine gloves still white despite the chaos around you. “Throw it out and start again.”

Zoro, seated at the table with a skewer half-loaded with meat, muttered under his breath, “It’s a miracle you two haven’t killed each other in that kitchen yet.”

Sanji entered just then, whistling cheerfully, a towel slung over his shoulder. The moment he caught sight of you—your meticulously tied hair, that commanding glare you reserved only for the incompetent male cooks on board—his eyes lit up with hearts, and his feet nearly floated off the ground.

“Ma chérie~!” he sang, sliding behind you and planting a kiss on your cheek before dodging the spatula you halfheartedly lifted to swat him.

“Sanji,” you said in your signature calm-but-deadly tone, “I told you not to interfere when I’m teaching.”

“I’m not interfering, my love~ I’m admiring.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” you muttered, finally allowing the smile that had been threatening your lips to peek through. “Now get Usopp another carrot before I use his nose as a cutting board.”

“Right away~ Goddess of Gastronomy!” he said, twirling toward the pantry.

You sighed, pressing two fingers to your temple. Life aboard the Sunny was nothing if not chaotic.

And Sanji? He was the eye of your storm, and somehow the hurricane too.

It had been four months since you and Sanji had made your relationship official—not that the rest of the crew hadn’t seen it coming. From the moment you stepped aboard the Sunny, knives flashing and heels clicking like war drums, you and Sanji had danced around each other like rival chefs in a culinary showdown.

Your reputation had preceded you. Known in the South Blue as "Escoffier" your dishes were renowned for their flawless precision, complex flavor pairings, and an almost terrifying level of discipline. Especially toward men. Male chefs, in particular, bore the brunt of your cutting critiques. You didn’t hold back—and you certainly didn’t tolerate mediocrity.

But Sanji? He was different. He matched you plate for plate, idea for idea. And beneath all his dramatic fawning and over-the-top flirting, you had discovered something rare.

Respect.

He listened when you spoke about your work. He valued your opinions. And above all, he didn’t take it personally when you yelled at him for burning the beurre blanc.

(Well—he pouted, but only for a moment. Then he’d get right back to whisking.)

That afternoon, the kitchen was alive with rhythm. You and Sanji moved in tandem, a pair of dancers trained not in waltz but in whisk and flame.

“Ladle,” you said.

“Ladle,” he replied, handing it over.

“Temp check on the lamb?”

“Fifty-two Celsius. Medium-rare in five.”

You turned your head to glance at him, and the two of you paused, catching each other in the moment.

“You’ve got sauce on your cheek,” you said.

“So do you,” he answered, voice softer than it had any right to be.

He wiped your cheek with his thumb. You dabbed his chin with a towel. And then, just as naturally, he leaned in to steal a kiss.

Nami’s voice broke the moment. “Ugh, seriously? You two are gonna make me lose my appetite.”

You didn’t even look back. “Good. More for us.”

That night, Sanji insisted on preparing dinner himself, claiming he wanted to "treat the queen of his kitchen like the royalty she is."

You allowed it—reluctantly.

But as the aromas filled the galley—roasted duck with plum glaze, golden dauphinoise potatoes, and sautéed green beans with garlic and lemon—you couldn’t help but watch him closely from the doorway.

He had removed his jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his golden hair tucked behind his ear. His focus was intense, his movements precise. You knew he was trying to impress you. Even now. Especially now.

And it was working.

When he caught you staring, he grinned. “Enjoying the view, darling?”

“I’m mentally rating your performance,” you replied, though the warmth in your voice betrayed you.

“Out of ten?”

“Six.”

“Six?!”

“You docked three points for putting the duck skin down too early. And one for letting the fond burn—again.”

He dramatically clutched his chest. “You wound me.”

You stepped into the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He turned his head, his lips brushing your forehead. “I know.”

Later that night, after the meal had been devoured and Luffy had fallen asleep mid-dessert, you and Sanji found yourselves alone on the deck.

The sea was calm, the moonlight painting silver trails across the waves.

Sanji sat with his back against the railing, you curled against his side, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you ever think,” he murmured, “about opening a restaurant together someday?”

You blinked. “Like… an actual building? Four walls? Guests?”

“Yeah. Something quiet. Cozy. Somewhere we can work together every day and still kiss between courses.”

You smiled. “And scold the interns together.”

His laughter rumbled in his chest. “I’ll be the bad cop this time. You can be the terrifying angel of death.”

“I always am.”

He kissed the top of your head. “You’re perfect, you know?”

“No one’s perfect,” you said quietly. “Not even me.”

“You’re perfect for me. That’s better.”

As you watched the stars, warm in his embrace, you thought about everything the two of you had built. Not just the food. Not just the flirtation. But the trust. The balance. The unspoken understanding of two chefs who demanded excellence—and gave each other grace when they didn’t quite reach it.

In the kitchen, you were a storm. Outside of it, he was your shelter.

And together?

You were a fire that never burned out.

© mariah for the divider <3

Fractures in the Silence

When a moment of anger turns into a lasting scar, both Shanks and the one he loves must learn how to heal from wounds they never meant to inflict.

shanks x reader ౨ৎ🖤 ONE SHOT

main characters: shanks

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

tags: angst, sfw, angst with comfort

words count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The tavern was loud with laughter, the scent of spiced rum and sea salt thick in the air. The evening had started light, stories swapping like currency, the Red-Haired Pirates gathered together in their floating haven. You leaned against the wall, watching them with a small, fond smile. Shanks’ voice rang louder than the rest, that familiar carefree grin on his face — but there was tension in his shoulders tonight. Something was off.

You knew him better than most did. The way his laughter faltered half a second too soon, how his jaw clenched when no one was looking. It wasn’t the drink. It was something heavier. A rumor? A betrayal? You weren’t sure.

But it was only a matter of time before it boiled over.

“Captain,” Benn Beckman’s voice was low, cautious. “We can deal with this later.”

Shanks scoffed, slamming his cup down on the table hard enough to spill rum across the wood. “Later’s too damn late.”

You stepped forward, reaching for his arm gently. “Hey,” you murmured, “whatever it is, it’s not worth losing your head over tonight. You’ll handle it. You always do.”

But his eyes — dark, stormy, and burning with a mix of anger and helplessness — didn’t soften. Not like they usually did when you spoke to him. Not this time.

And then it happened. Too fast to stop it.

His hand shot out, sharp and unthinking, an open palm meant for the air — a gesture born from frustration, meant to chase away his demons, not hurt you.

But you were too close.

The slap connected with your cheek, a crack splitting the room’s noise in two. The sting bloomed instantly, white-hot against your skin. A sharp, horrible silence swallowed the room whole.

Shanks froze.

His eyes widened in horror, color draining from his face as if he couldn’t comprehend what his own hand had done. You blinked at him, your own shock mirrored in his expression, your skin throbbing.

“I—” his voice broke, barely a whisper. “Y/N…”

You forced a tight, almost too-wide smile, the taste of copper on your tongue. “It’s fine,” you said too quickly, waving a hand like you could swat away the moment. “Just… an accident. No big deal.”

But you saw it in his face. The guilt. The way his hand trembled as he lowered it. The way his whole body seemed to recoil from itself.

Benn Beckman stood up then, murmuring something about giving you both space as the rest of the crew quietly filed out, heavy boots against wood the only sound in the suffocating quiet.

You didn’t look at Shanks. Not when the world was spinning, not when you felt too much and too little all at once.

“You should sit,” he rasped, voice frayed.

“I’m fine.”

But you weren’t.

And for the days that followed, you kept pretending.

The bruise faded quickly enough, but the damage didn’t. Not the kind you could see.

Every time Shanks lifted his hand to run it through his hair, to gesture wildly in a story, to reach for you — you flinched.

It was a small thing, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. But he saw it every time. And every time it cut deeper than any blade could.

He stopped raising his hands altogether.

Stopped reaching.

And the distance between you, once so easy, so natural, stretched like a wound neither of you could name.

“Y/N,” he tried, days later, as you sat alone on the deck under a half-lit sky.

You didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

“I… I need to say something.”

You forced a weak smile, pulling your knees to your chest. “You don’t have to. It was an accident. I get it.”

“But you’re scared of me.”

The words cracked in his throat like breaking glass. You finally looked up, meeting his gaze — and saw it. The raw, aching guilt in his eyes. The weight he’d been carrying since that night.

“I’m not scared of you,” you lied.

His shoulders sagged. “Y/N… please. Don’t… don’t lie to me.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m not scared of you. I just…” You trailed off, closing your eyes as the memory hit you again, unbidden. The sting. The shock. The way your body instinctively flinched when he moved too quickly now, no matter how much you told yourself it wasn’t real.

“I hate that I did this to you,” he whispered. “I swear on my life — on the sea, on everything I am — I never wanted to hurt you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, hot and blinding. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with all the things neither of you could say.

“I love you, Y/N,” Shanks said quietly. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not now. Maybe not ever. But I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never have a reason to flinch around me again.”

You swallowed, wiping your cheek roughly. “I love you too, you stupid idiot.”

A broken, shaky laugh escaped him then — the first real sound in days. He didn’t move closer, didn’t reach for you. Instead, he sat a few feet away, letting the space stay. Letting you control it.

“Can I tell you a story?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

And so he talked. About old battles, about mistakes, about fear and fury and the weight of being captain. About how sometimes anger takes the shape of something monstrous when you’re too exhausted to hold it in.

About how it doesn’t excuse anything.

But how it could maybe, one day, be forgiven.

By the time the sun rose, the space between you felt a little less jagged.

Weeks passed. It wasn’t perfect. You still flinched sometimes. Shanks still froze every time you did. But little by little, the distance closed.

The first time he reached for your hand again, he moved slow — giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His calloused fingers brushed yours gently, and your heart stuttered. But you didn’t flinch.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And you were.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough to hold on.

Enough to let him stay.

Enough to know you’d both heal, slowly, piece by piece, in the quiet places between the crashing waves.

And maybe one day, the memory would stop hurting.

But for now, his hand in yours was enough.

It was hope.

CLINGY MUCH? | ONE SHOT

Shanks x GN!Reader

Zoro x GN!Reader

Mihawk x GN!Reader

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

tags: sfw, fluff, soft, ooc(?)

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

You were many things aboard the Red Force—calm, sharp-tongued, and painfully unbothered by Shanks’ endless antics.

You were also completely unaware of the fact that the most feared (and flirted-with) captain in the New World couldn’t seem to stop touching you.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a romantic way… at least, not that you noticed.

He’d toss an arm around your shoulders like it was a habit. Rest his hand on your waist when laughing. Tug you into his side when something “dangerous” happened, like a slightly aggressive breeze or a seagull flying too low.

You just chalked it up to him being Shanks.

Until, one bright morning, the crew decided enough was enough.

It started with Benn Beckman sighing dramatically as he walked onto the deck.

“Do you two need a room or something?”

You blinked from where you stood, arms crossed. “We’re not even doing anything.”

Benn pointed. “His hand has been on your lower back for ten minutes.”

Shanks blinked down at his own hand like it betrayed him. “Huh. Didn’t even notice.”

You raised a brow. “Are you okay? Do you have tactile issues?”

Lucky Roux snorted as he passed by with a turkey leg. “Yeah, it’s called ‘falling for someone and not knowing what to do with your hands.’”

Shanks turned red. You remained… utterly unaffected.

“Touch-starved pirate disease,” Lime Juice muttered, jotting fake notes like a doctor. “Tragic. Symptoms include: prolonged physical contact, excessive grinning, and spontaneous cuddling in public.”

Hongo popped his head out of the crow’s nest. “I saw him brush your hair behind your ear during the storm last week.”

“That was because it got in their face,” Shanks defended.

You nodded. “He didn’t want me to get stabbed by my own bangs. Very heroic.”

“You’re wearing a braid,” Yasopp called from the helm.

A long pause.

“…Okay, I’m not good with excuses,” Shanks muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand bumped yours in the process.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Captain.”

“Yes?”

“You’re touching me again.”

“...I genuinely didn’t notice DAHAHAHA.”

The crew erupted into laughter.

You blinked slowly and glanced down at your joined hands, then back up at him. “You’ve been holding my hand for a minute now. You good?”

“Maybe.”

You stared.

He stared.

“…You’re kinda warm,” he added, grinning.

“I’m wearing gloves.”

“Exactly. Impressive.”

You didn’t smile, but your voice was flat with dry humor. “You wanna marry me, too? Get it over with?”

Shanks choked. “Whoa—what?”

“You’re already touching me like I’m your lover. Might as well commit.”

The crew howled.

“I’m starting to like them more than you, Cap,” Benn said, lighting a cigar.

“They’ve got more bite,” Lime Juice grinned.

Lucky Roux offered you a celebratory turkey leg like a sword. “You just proposed better than he ever could.”

You calmly took it, giving a single nod. “Thanks. I accept my own proposal.”

Shanks was still frozen. “Wait, are we actually engaged now?”

You took a slow bite of the turkey leg, deadpan. “Keep touching me like that, and you’ll owe me alimony.”

ZORO

You were minding your own business—arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, back leaned slightly against the Sunny’s railing—when a familiar weight thunked into your side.

Again.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t glance, didn’t even blink. Just spoke.

“Zoro.”

“What.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what.”

“Treating me like a living chair.”

He grunted. “You’re stable. And not annoying.”

“That’s a compliment?” you asked, still deadpan.

“Take it or leave it.”

The crew had noticed. Of course they had. This was the sixth day in a row Zoro had casually latched onto you like a sleepy barnacle.

“Oi, mosshead!” Sanji snapped, appearing from the galley with smoke swirling and a righteous fury in his eyes. “Get off them, you clingy cucumber!”

Zoro cracked open an eye. “Make me.”

“Oh, I will!” Sanji stomped over dramatically. “Y/N-chwaann shouldn’t have to carry your freeloading swordsman body weight! If anyone deserves to be close to them, it’s me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “You literally tripped into my lap yesterday trying to ‘tie your shoe.’ You were barefoot.”

“It was a metaphor!” Sanji cried. “For falling head over heels!”

Zoro scoffed. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Says the mossy limpet glued to their side like a touchy fungus!”

Zoro didn’t move. “Jealousy’s not a good look, curly.”

“You—!!”

“Guys,” Nami sighed, “can’t we go one day without turning affection into a shouting match?”

Brook leaned on his cane, chuckling. “Yohohoho! Young love… or something!”

Usopp squinted. “Wait. Has Zoro always been this clingy with Y/N?”

Robin smiled mysteriously. “Since thriller bark, at least.”

Franky nodded solemnly. “Saw him fall asleep on their shoulder mid-battle once. SUPER unconscious.”

“I thought he was dead,” Chopper added, horrified. “Turns out he was just really comfy.”

Zoro’s grip on your shoulder tightened very slightly, and you finally glanced sideways at him.

“Do you know you’re this touchy?” you asked.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate into the deck. “I… just don’t mind you being close.”

You blinked slowly. “Is that samurai code for ‘I like you’?”

Sanji audibly gagged. “Oi! Don’t flirt in front of me!”

“We’re not flirting,” you said.

Zoro mumbled, “Might be.”

Sanji died inside.

“Y/N-chwann” he said gravely, dropping to one knee. “I beg of you—pick me instead! I would never lean on you like a sweaty tree log!”

Zoro growled. “Because you’d faint from being close.”

“AT LEAST I’D DIE HANDSOME!”

You looked between the two of them and sighed.

“I just want to drink my tea without being fought over,” you muttered, walking off—Zoro immediately following, like a shadow with swords.

“You’re still touching me,” you noted.

“Didn’t say I’d stop,” he replied casually.

You stopped walking, turned, and looked him square in the eye.

“You’re aware this is very couple-coded, right?”

He blinked, then grunted. “Guess we should make it official then.”

You blinked right back. “That was fast.”

“Why waste time.”

You smirked just a little. “Romantic.”

He shrugged. “You’re warm. And you don’t talk too much.”

“That’s your idea of a proposal?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

From behind you, Sanji dramatically screamed into the ocean.

MIHAWK

Kuraigana Island was a wasteland of stone, wind, and uncomfortable silences. You didn’t mind. You were the type to thrive in eerie places — quiet, observant, and allergic to nonsense.

Which is probably why Mihawk didn’t bother with small talk.

Or... so you thought.

Lately, the world’s greatest swordsman had developed a habit of materializing wherever you were. You’d be cleaning a blade — and there he was, pouring tea. You’d sit on the crumbling stone wall for some air — and there he’d be, suddenly trimming the overgrown vines right next to you.

At first, you thought it was coincidence.

Until today.

“...You know you don’t have to sharpen every one of my knives,” you said flatly, watching him work silently at the bench beside you.

“I didn’t,” Mihawk replied, still honing the blade. “Only the dull ones.”

You blinked. “That was my butter knife.”

“Then it was very dull.”

From the far side of the ruins, Zoro grunted as he finished a set of squats. “He refilled their canteen twice this morning.”

“Once,” Mihawk corrected, still not looking up.

“Twice,” Zoro insisted. “Once after breakfast. Then again after they just looked at the sink.”

Perona floated down with a snort. “He also folded their coat. While they were still wearing it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait. Is that why my sleeves were shorter for a second?”

“You had a wrinkle.”

“I always have a wrinkle.”

Mihawk looked up with that unreadable expression. “And now you don’t.”

Zoro huffed. “What even is this? He acts like a butler. But like, a scary one.”

Mihawk narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not a butler.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Perona muttered, arms crossed. “You fixed the strap on their satchel too.”

Mihawk didn’t respond to that.

Perona raised a brow. “You gonna deny it?”

“No,” Mihawk said coolly, “because it was crooked.”

Zoro leaned against a stone pillar, towel around his neck. “He also moved your seat at the dining table.”

“That was my seat,” you said.

Mihawk finally gave you a long, side glance. “You’ve sat on the left for the past four mornings. I simply ensured it remained consistent.”

You deadpanned. “You rearranged the furniture.”

“Briefly.”

Zoro stared. “And when they tripped over that vine—”

“I cut the vine before they fell,” Mihawk snapped with a tone just shy of defensive.

“Bro. You lunged across the courtyard.”

Mihawk sipped his wine calmly. “It was in the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And when you pulled me by the hood into the shade the other day?”

“You were overheating.”

“I wasn’t sweating.”

“You were blinking slowly.”

You stared. “That’s just how I blink.”

There was a long pause.

Then Perona gasped. “Wait, wait — you also fixed the strap on their scabbard!”

“I adjusted it. The weight distribution was uneven.”

Zoro clapped once, grinning. “So you are clingy.”

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed, the glint in them sharp and dangerous. “I am not.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, amused. “Then what would you call this?”

He paused. “Awareness.”

Perona lost it. “You mean hyper-awareness. Of one (1) person.”

Mihawk ignored her. “It’s strategic. I simply ensure you're at your most efficient.”

“That’s not efficiency,” Zoro said, wiping his forehead. “That’s doting.”

Mihawk arched a brow. “You think a swordsman cannot be observant?”

“You folded their laundry in order of fabric weight.”

“They prefer it that way.”

You blinked. “I never said that.”

He side-eyed you, expression cool. “You didn’t need to.”

You blinked again.

Zoro grunted. “You see? He’s acting like we’re all weird for noticing.”

Perona jabbed a finger toward him. “He's totally doing the ‘if I act calm, no one will notice I'm obsessed’ thing.”

Mihawk finally gave a soft, tired sigh — the kind that said you people are exhausting.

Then, turning to you, he asked, “Would you like tea?”

“I haven’t said I was thirsty.”

He didn’t blink. “You will be.”

You stared. “Are you psychic?”

“No,” he said simply. “You’re predictable.”

You squinted. “...That sounds like flirting.”

Mihawk blinked slowly. “I don’t flirt.”

Perona groaned. “OH MY GOD—”

Mihawk stood up, cloak sweeping behind him, expression unreadable as always. He held out the canteen like he’d already won this conversation.

You took it with narrowed eyes, muttering, “Thanks... I guess.”

He nodded, calm as ever. “You’re welcome.”

Zoro crossed his arms. “Still denying it?”

Mihawk looked at all of them — then at you — and with perfect poise said,

“I’m just efficient.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

You stared after him, took a sip from the canteen, and sighed.

“…Efficiently annoying.”