Benn X Reader - Blog Posts

Smoke Break

A collection of fiery, smoky encounters where passion burns as hot as the cigars and blunts exchanged between you and some of the world’s most dangerous daddies i mean men — every kiss laced with smoke, heat, and unspoken desire.

Benn beckman x reader x sanji x smoker x crocodile | ONE SHOT

Tags: fluff, flirty, smok!ng, w3ed mentions, blvnt smok!ng, cigarette smok!n, mouth-to-mouth sm0ke sharing, minor spit description, light nsfw tension

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: 3.3k

MINORS DNI!!

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

I'm so high in here, been smokin' on this weed

Only drug a bitch is on is the tree

But I lasted ten rounds like a freak

Like a G

Benn Beckman

The deck still stank of gunpowder and sea salt by the time you slumped onto the steps leading up to the helm, boots heavy with exhaustion. Your knuckles throbbed from the earlier brawl with some no-name pirate crew dumb enough to pick a fight with the Red Hair Pirates. You won, obviously—but victory didn’t erase the tight coil of stress still buzzing under your skin.

You dragged your hood up over your head, shielding your face from the low sun. Hands steady, you pulled out a battered little tin from your pocket, the familiar ritual already soothing your frayed nerves. You broke down the nug slowly, fingers working with careful, practiced motions. You barely even registered the distant sound of boots approaching.

Benn Beckman stopped a few feet away, cigarette halfway to his lips, brows lifting slightly at the sight of you hunched over the tray.

He leaned against the rail, arms crossed.

"Rough day?" he drawled.

You didn’t look up right away, just finished rolling your blunt with a lazy flick of your thumb. When you finally glanced his way, your gaze was cool, detached—like you were sizing him up and decided he wasn’t worth worrying about.

"Nothing a smoke can't fix," you muttered, voice low and even.

Benn whistled low under his breath, impressed.

"Didn't think you were the type to roll your own medicine."

You snorted, lighting the blunt with a snap of your lighter.

"Cigs are for rookies," you said, plucking the cigarette from his fingers without asking. You tucked the blunt between his lips instead, your touch casual, intimate.

Benn played along, inhaling deep. His eyes hooded slightly as the taste hit him—stronger, sweeter than he expected.

"Holy shit," he coughed out, laughing.

You took the blunt back from him with two fingers, tapping it lightly against the railing.

"Too much for you, old man?" you teased, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of your mouth.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated in his chest.

"Old enough to know better. Dumb enough not to care."

You offered the blunt again—not by hand this time, but by leaning in, smoke trailing from your lips in a lazy, tantalizing swirl. Benn caught on quick, closing the small distance between you. His mouth brushed yours just enough to catch the exhale directly, smoke passing from your tongue to his.

The heat flared instantly.

Before you could pull back, he tilted his head slightly, deepening it into a kiss—slow, languid, tasting of smoke and adrenaline. His hand found your jaw, rough thumb grazing your cheekbone with a kind of reverence that didn’t match how fucking cocky he was about it.

When you finally parted, a thin, silver thread of spit clung stubbornly between your tongues until it snapped, leaving a hot smear of want in its wake.

You sat back, lazily dragging the blunt between your lips again. Your expression barely shifted—still that same unreadable cool—but your hooded eyes glittered with something dangerous, something alive.

Benn wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning like he just won the biggest prize in the world.

"You always this generous after a fight?" he asked, voice low and rough.

You exhaled slow, letting the smoke roll between you both like a secret.

"Depends who's asking."

Benn’s grin widened, cigarette long forgotten at his side.

"Good," he said, leaning in close enough that you could smell the faint whiskey on his breath.

"'Cause I’m not planning on being just a one-time habit."

Sanji

The galley was quiet at night, all the chaos of the day gone still. It was your favorite time—when the ship seemed to breathe slow and easy, and nobody was around to bother you.

You sat perched on the counter, blunt half-rolled between your fingers, working fast but precise. You glanced around — no way in hell you could borrow a lighter from anyone without exposing your little habit.

Of course you didn’t bring yours. Of course.

You sighed through your nose and hopped down from the counter, moving toward the stovetop. You twisted the burner’s dial, letting a tall flame lick up from the gas, the soft click click whoosh breaking the silence.

You leaned into the flame, lighting the tip of your blunt directly against it, shielding it with one hand like an old habit.

That’s when you heard a low whistle behind you.

"You know," Sanji’s voice drawled from the doorway, lazy and amused, "most people come to the kitchen for food. Not... that."

You turned slightly, the blunt between your lips, glowing softly as you took your first pull. You held his gaze through the smoke, your expression unreadable, unbothered.

"Guess I’m not most people," you said coolly, exhaling a slow, thick ribbon of smoke into the low light.

Sanji didn’t flinch. Didn't fawn.

Instead, he grinned, a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth as he stepped into the kitchen, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hands sliding easily into his pockets.

"You could've just asked for a light," he teased, voice like silk and heat. "I would've given it to you. Anything you want."

You shrugged one shoulder, casual.

"Not exactly advertising my hobbies."

Sanji stopped a few feet away, head tilting just slightly, studying you. You could feel the weight of his gaze — not heavy, not invasive — just... there, like a hand trailing just over your skin without touching.

"You're full of surprises," he murmured, voice dipping lower.

You took another hit, slow and deliberate, letting the thick taste settle on your tongue. As you exhaled, Sanji moved closer, crossing into your space so naturally it felt like gravity.

"Mind if I...?" he asked, eyes dropping to the blunt between your fingers.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward slightly, parting your lips just enough to offer the smoke right to him.

Sanji caught the game instantly.

He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and set it on the counter. Then he leaned in, mouth brushing dangerously close to yours—not kissing, not yet—and drew the smoke straight from your mouth with a slow, deep inhale.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the warm skin behind your ear.

When he exhaled, it was right against your lips, warm and intoxicating.

The space between you crackled.

You barely had time to process before he closed the gap completely, his mouth pressing to yours in a kiss that was all slow burn, all slow claiming. His grip tightened just a little, guiding you against the counter behind you without force—just the kind of confident pressure that made your stomach flip.

You kissed him back, matching his heat with your own, the taste of smoke and fire mixing between your tongues. When you finally parted, a thin, sticky thread of spit clung between you, snapping when you tilted your head back, breathless but still wearing that same cool smirk.

Sanji stayed close, his forehead brushing against yours, his fingers still tangled loosely in your hair.

"You," he said, voice low and warm, "are way too dangerous to be left alone in my kitchen."

You chuckled, flicking ash into the sink.

"Then don’t leave," you said, voice lazy, teasing.

Sanji smiled against your cheek, teeth just grazing your skin as he whispered,

"Wasn't planning to."

And from the way his hand slid down to your hip, you knew he meant it.

Smoker

The port was busy, noisy, and reeking of salt and sweat.

Perfect place to disappear for a while.

You slipped between two battered brick buildings, finding a patch of shade away from the main street. No patrols, no Marines. Just the low hum of the sea and the sharp scratch of your lighter as you tried, once, twice — and cursed under your breath.

Dead. Perfect.

You rolled the unlit blunt between your fingers, considering your options. Borrowing a lighter wasn’t on the table — too many judging eyes. Especially for someone like you, already treading too close to the Navy's leash.

"Problem?"

The deep, rough voice made you freeze. A shadow stretched into the alley. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

Vice-Admiral Smoker stepped into view, coat draped over his broad shoulders, two cigars clamped between his teeth, smoke curling around his head like a storm cloud.

You gave him a flat look, the blunt dangling lazily from your lips.

"No lighter," you said simply.

Smoker snorted, amused in that dry, almost imperceptible way of his. He pulled one cigar free and tucked it into his coat, flicking his silver lighter open with a smooth motion.

He lit his remaining cigar, took a deep drag — and then, without saying a word, held the lighter out to you.

You raised an eyebrow but leaned forward, cupping a hand around the flame as you lit the blunt, your face close enough to his chest that you could smell the faint scent of smoke, leather, and something warmer underneath.

You inhaled slow, savoring the first pull, then leaned back against the rough brick wall with a sigh.

"Didn't peg you for the sharing type," you said, smoke curling from your mouth.

Smoker grunted, replacing the cigar between his lips.

"Don't make me regret it," he said, but there was no real bite in his voice.

For a moment, you just stood there, passing slow, lazy pulls between you. The world outside the alley blurred into meaningless noise.

Then, bold from the buzz creeping in your veins, you leaned forward again—holding the blunt between your fingers—and offered the smoke directly to him, a silent challenge.

Smoker’s gaze sharpened slightly, amused. He plucked the cigar from his mouth and stepped into your space, his broad chest almost brushing yours.

Without hesitation, he caught the smoke straight from your lips, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him — and then, instead of pulling back, he kissed you.

It was rough at first, full of the same heat and tension that always seemed to spark between you. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing firmly as he tilted your head back just slightly.

You opened for him without thinking, the kiss deepening into something slower, hotter — tongues brushing, breath hitching between you. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt and something that was just him.

The world outside the alley dissolved entirely.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t messy — just breathless, lingering. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath in the haze of smoke curling between you.

"You," he muttered, voice low and thick, "are nothing but bad news."

You smirked against his lips, your hands still fisted loosely in the fabric of his coat.

"Good thing you’re terrible at saying no," you murmured.

Smoker let out a rough, half-laugh, half-growl, and kissed you again—deeper, slower, like he had no plans to stop this time.

And honestly, neither did you.

You barely had time to settle into the heat of Smoker’s mouth again, the slow grind of his body pressing yours back against the brick wall, when—

"S-smoker-san?!"

The sharp voice cracked through the alley like a gunshot.

Both of you froze.

Smoker broke the kiss with a low, almost feral growl under his breath, his hand still curled possessively around your waist.

You cracked one eye open lazily, barely lifting your head from Smoker’s shoulder to glance toward the entrance of the alley.

Tashigi stood there, sword awkwardly bumping against her hip, her entire face rapidly turning the color of a boiled lobster.

"I— I— I was looking for you to discuss patrol routes— but I can—! I can come back later!" she sputtered, already halfway turning on her heel, practically tripping over herself to get away.

Smoker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, the kind of breath that usually meant someone was about to get absolutely wrecked—but he didn’t move away from you. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still flexing slightly against your hip.

"You’d better," he said, loud enough for Tashigi to hear as she fled back into the chaos of the port.

You couldn't help it—you laughed. A low, smoky sound that vibrated against his chest.

"Think we traumatized her," you said, voice rough with amusement.

Smoker shot you a sideways glare, but there was no real fire behind it. If anything, he looked... pleased. Dangerous. Like a man who didn’t give a damn who saw what he wanted.

"Serves her right for barging in without knocking," he muttered, gruff.

You arched a brow, grinning lazily up at him.

"Maybe you should install a door in your alleys."

Smoker huffed a laugh — a real one, low and brief — and bent to kiss you again, less careful this time. Hotter, a little messier. His free hand finally dropped the half-burned cigar, grinding it under his boot as he pressed you back into the wall, fully claiming your mouth again like he had all the time in the world.

And honestly, for once, you hoped he did.

Crocodile

The lounge was dim, soaked in the kind of golden light that made everything seem a little more expensive than it probably was.

Low jazz music played from hidden speakers, and the soft clink of chips and whiskey glasses filled the background.

You slouched lazily in a velvet armchair near the back, rolling the blunt between your fingers, cool and unbothered. No one really noticed you here — not with the heavyweights and high-rollers stealing the spotlight.

But, of course, he noticed.

You felt it before you saw him — a shift in the room’s atmosphere, a change in the way conversations dropped to murmurs.

Crocodile’s presence was like a thundercloud creeping over sunny skies.

You kept your expression blank, indifferent, even as you realized your lighter was nowhere to be found.

Perfect.

Exactly what you needed.

You sighed, the blunt sitting unlit between your lips, considering your next move.

A shadow fell across your table. You didn’t bother looking up.

"Need something?" Crocodile’s voice rumbled, amused.

You tilted your head slightly, fixing him with a bored stare, the blunt still balanced at the corner of your mouth.

"Seems I’m short a flame," you said, voice dry.

Crocodile’s lips curled around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something sharp and entertained.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he bent slightly at the waist — slow, deliberate — bringing the burning tip of his cigar close to the end of your blunt.

Too close.

He stopped just shy, forcing you to lean in to meet him.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and steady, and leaned forward, lips brushing barely near his cigar, lighting your own off the glowing ember. The flame caught with a faint crackle, a tiny hiss.

The whole time, Crocodile didn’t move an inch.

The smell of smoke, expensive leather, and something faintly spiced wrapped around you like a second skin.

You leaned back into your chair, taking a long, slow pull from the newly lit blunt. The first hit bloomed warm in your lungs. You exhaled lazily toward the ceiling, your eyes half-lidded.

"You're welcome," Crocodile said, voice dripping with dry amusement, straightening to his full height.

You tapped ash into a crystal ashtray nearby without even glancing at him.

"Didn’t say thank you," you replied coolly.

He chuckled — a low, dangerous sound that vibrated in the base of his chest.

"Didn't expect you to."

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The tension crackled softly between you, thick and slow, like molasses dripping from a knife.

Crocodile shifted, the gold of his rings catching the low light as he pulled a chair up to yours — close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table.

Deliberate.

Territorial.

"You planning to cause trouble tonight?" he asked, cigar smoke curling lazily around his words.

You blew out another cloud of smoke, just as lazy, just as unbothered.

"Depends," you murmured, voice low. "You planning to stop me?"

Crocodile smirked around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry.

"Not tonight."

He sat back, perfectly relaxed, the image of a king amused by the antics of his favorite piece.

You could feel his eyes on you as you smoked, weighing every slow drag, every lazy exhale.

Watching.

Waiting.

The house always won in places like this.

And tonight, it was clear you weren’t going anywhere.

The minutes slipped by in a slow, heavy haze.

The blunt burned low between your fingers, each drag slower than the last. Across the small table, Crocodile watched you like a predator sizing up easy prey — not rushing, not moving, just waiting for the exact right moment.

You met his gaze through the rising smoke, your face blank, but your heart starting to thrum a little harder behind your ribs.

He shifted finally, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. The gold of his rings caught the light again, flashing like a warning.

"Come here," he said lowly, almost conversational, like you were a thing he fully expected to obey.

You didn't move immediately. You took another lazy pull from your blunt instead, blowing the smoke off to the side with a small smirk. Testing him. Pushing.

Crocodile huffed a small laugh under his breath, all amusement gone razor sharp.

Without warning, he reached across the table, hand catching you by the wrist — not rough, but firm, dragging you forward until you were pulled out of your chair and into his space.

The blunt dangled forgotten from your fingers as he leaned in — close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across his face, the glint of amusement and warning in his heavy-lidded eyes.

He reached up with two fingers, plucking the blunt casually from your grip and setting it in the ashtray with a careless flick.

"You’re slow," he murmured, voice like warm gravel. "Let me show you how it's done."

You barely had time to process it before Crocodile’s lips crashed into yours.

It was rough — like he was making a point. His mouth devoured yours with an intensity that was unexpected, yet exactly what you needed. His cigar still burned between his fingers, and before you even had the chance to think about it, he tilted the cigar toward your lips, offering the smoke as you kissed.

The warm, glowing tip of the cigar hovered near your mouth, and you instinctively opened up, taking in the deep, spicy taste as you inhaled. The heat of it filled your lungs, mixing with the taste of Crocodile’s kiss — rich, dangerous, intoxicating.

You pulled back just a bit, lips brushing against his, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling out from your mouth and into his.

Without breaking eye contact, Crocodile inhaled the smoke you gave him, his gaze darkening as he held it in for a beat, then exhaled it slowly, sending it back toward you.

The air was thick now, saturated with smoke and the lingering taste of him. Every breath felt like it stretched the moment, making it last forever, and yet, you knew it was only a brief exchange.

When he pulled away, his lips were curved into that same smug, dangerous smirk.

"Better," he muttered, voice rough with satisfaction. "Now you’re getting it."

You smirked back, though your chest felt a little tighter than it had before.

"You’re insufferable," you said, the words coming out softer than you intended, but your heart was still racing in your chest.

Crocodile chuckled low, the sound like a dangerous promise.

"Only when it suits me," he said, leaning back in his chair and taking another slow drag from his cigar. He didn’t look at you directly but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your lips. "You’ll learn, eventually. That’s how the game is played."

You stayed there, breathless and still, as the tension simmered between you.

The house always won.

And tonight, you were playing Crocodile's game

Flustered Fury

You flirt just to mess with him. It backfires. Now you’re flustered.

Benn Beckman X GN!READER | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, flirting, ooc

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: 786

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Red Force gently rocked on the Grand Line's turquoise waters. The crew of the Red-Haired Pirates lounged on deck, bellies full from a hearty lunch, half the crew already dozing under the sails while the other half busied themselves with maintenance or mock sword fights.

You had made it a habit lately to tease Benn Beckman. He was too cool, too collected, too... smug. So naturally, your favorite past-time had become finding new ways to get under his skin.

The man never cracked.

Not when you "accidentally" called him hot in front of the crew. Not when you wore his shirt without asking and claimed you needed something that "smelled like safety and sarcasm." Not even when you told Shanks you were considering writing a love letter to his first mate just to see if he'd burn it or frame it.

But today? Today you had a plan.

You sauntered over to where Benn leaned against the mast, smoking as always, eyes half-lidded as he watched some of the younger crew members spar.

"You know," you began sweetly, stopping just short of his shadow. "I read somewhere that intelligent men are more attractive because their brains are the largest... organ."

He exhaled smoke slowly. "That so?"

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "Of course. I think you're devastatingly well-endowed."

Benn turned his head toward you, one brow lifting in amusement. "Well, you're certainly... creative."

"You love it."

"You think you’re charming," he replied, deadpan. "But you’re mostly a menace."

You fake-pouted. "Rude. I was flirting."

"I noticed."

Silence settled between you for a moment before Benn gave a tiny smirk.

"You’re not very good at it, by the way."

Your jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

He turned back to the sparring match like you were yesterday's soup.

"I’m an excellent flirt!"

"You’re an obvious flirt. That’s different."

Oh, it was on.

The next day, you doubled down.

"Benn," you greeted sweetly, hands clasped behind your back.

He didn’t even look up from his chart. "Yes?"

You dropped a folded napkin onto the map. Inside: a doodle of you and Benn holding hands, surrounded by hearts and the words 'Bennifer 4ever'.

He paused. Then picked it up. Then stared at it.

"This is a lot of glitter."

"I wanted it to sparkle like our chemistry."

He looked up at you with a neutral expression that screamed amused but suffering.

"...Are those supposed to be matching tattoos?"

"Yup. You and me. Our initials. On our biceps. I’m thinking cursive font, blood red ink."

"Mm. Dramatic."

You grinned. You were winning.

The next few days followed a theme:

You made Benn a heart-shaped sandwich. He ate it without comment but winked at you while licking mayo off his thumb.

You told Yasopp you had a dream about Benn proposing to you with a ring made from a bullet. Benn overheard.

You dropped your hat over Benn's head while he was napping. He woke up, smiled, and wore it all afternoon.

You were getting to him.

Until he got to you.

It was evening. The Red Force was bathed in amber sunset glow. You leaned on the railing, sipping juice from a coconut, when Benn joined you.

"You’re quiet today," he said casually.

You shrugged. "I figured you needed a break from all the attention."

"That’s sweet," he said, voice low. "But I never asked you to stop."

Your heart did a confused little flip.

You turned to look at him. He was very close. Closer than usual. Close enough that his scent—smoke, leather, and something warm like cedarwood—was the only thing you could smell.

"You enjoy being flirted with?" you asked, your voice a bit higher than intended.

"I enjoy watching you try."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

He smirked.

"You’re blushing."

"Am not."

He took a step closer. "You always this red when someone flirts back?"

Your brain went static. "...Did you just flirt with me?"

"You tell me, hotshot."

You took a step back. Then another. Right into a barrel.

Benn laughed.

Actually laughed.

Deep, gravelly, and smug as hell.

"You okay there, Casanova?"

You huffed. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Fine. I hate how good you are at this."

"Mm. Acceptable."

You turned your back to him, trying to hide your flustered expression. Benn leaned on the railing beside you again, clearly amused.

"So... what now?" you muttered.

"Now? We pretend I didn’t win."

"You think you won?"

"I know I did."

You turned to him slowly. "That sounds like a challenge."

He grinned. That grin.

"Bring it, sweetheart."

And thus began round two of your very complicated, very flirty, very mutual war.

Only difference was...

You were now the one blushing first.

You Punched a Yonko?

In which the reader, quietly trying to study Poneglyphs in peace, accidentally punches a Yonko and ends up entangled with the flirtatious chaos.

PART 2 OF READER WHO CAN READ PONEGLYPH

red hair pirates x fem!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: shanks, benn, limejuice, hongo

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: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You really weren’t trying to punch a Yonko.

In fact, your goal for the day was to peacefully study a centuries-old Poneglyph hidden beneath a sleepy island temple. Instead, you were now standing in front of a red-haired man grinning at you with blood trickling from his nose, surrounded by his crew, who all looked one second away from drawing their weapons.

“…Okay,” you breathed. “In my defense, you startled me.”

“You punched him in the face,” a blond man in sunglasses said, his voice straddling awe and amusement.

“Yeah, but like—accidentally.”

Shanks wiped his nose with the back of his hand, still smiling like you’d just offered him a drink. “DAHAHAHA strong punch though! You train often?”

“I didn’t know you were behind me! I thought you were a thief trying to steal the stone!” you pointed at the half-buried Poneglyph glowing faintly behind you. “You snuck up on me!”

Benn Beckman gave an exaggerated sigh from where he was puffing on his cigar. “He always does that.”

“You should wear a bell,” Hongo added dryly, as he examined your clenched fists. “You nearly broke his nose.”

“I think I’m in love,” Shanks muttered, still grinning at you like an idiot.

You blinked.

“…What?” You deadpan at him.

Lime Juice snorted. “I told you not to lean in so close when people are muttering to themselves. She was clearly in the zone.”

“I was reading an ancient, world-changing text,” you snapped, still frazzled. “I didn’t expect someone to breathe down my neck!”

“To be fair,” Benn chimed in smoothly, “not many people can actually read those things.”

That made you hesitate. Your breath caught in your chest. Most people only guessed at what the stones meant. And those who could decipher them—like the Ohara scholars—were erased for it.

The crew noticed your shift.

Shanks tilted his head. “Hey… you alright?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re being very casual about all this.”

“Well, you punched me.” He rubbed his jaw. “That kinda earns you a place at the table.”

“What table?”

“Our lunch table,” Lime Juice said, gesturing broadly to a blanket on the grass behind the trees. “We were picnicking. Captain wandered off to chase ‘Poneglyph energy.’”

“You tracked me?”

Shanks shrugged. “You glow like a beacon when you read those stones.”

Your jaw dropped. “That’s not—?! That’s not normal!”

“Nope,” Hongo agreed. “Very intriguing.”

“And very pretty,” Shanks added.

You turned on your heel. “I’m leaving.”

“No wait!” Shanks called after you. “Join us for lunch! I promise not to get punched again!”

You paused, hesitating. The idea of eating with the Red-Hair Pirates seemed… suicidal. You’d spent years hiding your ability, keeping a low profile, ducking Marines and bounty hunters alike.

But they didn’t look like they were planning to turn you in.

And the smell of roasted fish was really good.

“…I’m watching all of you,” you muttered, stomping over.

“Great!” Shanks beamed. “You can sit next to me! DAHAHAHA”

“Absolutely not.”

Lunch with the Red-Hair Pirates was insane.

You had to admit: they were nothing like you’d expected.

Shanks, despite being a Yonko, acted more like a chaotic older brother than a fearsome warlord. He kept nudging plates toward you like a golden retriever trying to feed its owner, all while regaling you with stories that involved an alarming number of explosions and nudity.

Benn Beckman, calm and poised, sat at your other side. He didn’t say much, but you noticed how his eyes never left you—watchful, calculating, but not in a threatening way. More like… protective.

“You always travel alone?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Easier to hide.”

He hummed. “Doesn’t sound easier to live.”

His words stuck with you longer than you cared to admit.

Lime Juice kept trying to impress you with “tricks,” most of which involved lighting things on fire or juggling knives. When he tried to balance a plate on his head and walk backward up a tree, you genuinely feared for his life.

“I’m very flexible,” he claimed proudly as he slipped and crashed into Shanks’ lap.

“Yeah, flexible like a bag of rocks,” Hongo muttered under his breath, flipping through a medical book beside you. Occasionally, he asked you questions about ancient glyphs and your translation methods, clearly more interested in your brain than your punching skills.

Which, okay, was kind of flattering.

You didn’t know when it happened, but by the end of the meal, you were… laughing.

You were laughing with people you’d met barely an hour ago. People who, by all logic, should’ve either kidnapped you or sold your secret to the highest bidder.

Instead, they argued about who could get you to smile the fastest.

“You like wine?” Benn asked, offering you a rare vintage.

“You like beer?” Shanks grinned, popping open a keg.

“You like really strong mystery juice I made last night?” Lime Juice offered, holding a bubbling bottle that Hongo promptly knocked out of his hands.

“Do you guys always compete like this?” you asked, bewildered.

“Only when it’s worth it,” Shanks winked.

You choked on your drink.

The day slipped by quickly after that.

You showed Hongo how Poneglyphs resonated when you hummed certain tones. He looked at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world and scribbled notes furiously.

You sparred—lightly—with Lime Juice, who was surprisingly nimble when not setting himself on fire.

You chatted with Benn about navigation, philosophy, and—when Shanks wasn’t listening—what kind of wine pairs best with sea-king meat.

And Shanks? Shanks hovered. Endearingly. Annoyingly. Constantly.

“You know, I could protect you,” he offered at one point, lying back on the grass beside you with a grin. “If you joined us. Nobody would ever dare come after you again.”

“Why would I ever trust a Yonko?” you teased, resting your chin on your hand.

Shanks tapped his temple. “Because I’m handsome and charming.”

“Debatable.”

“Because I didn’t press you about your ability.”

You paused.

“…Less debatable.”

He turned his head toward you, more serious this time. “I know what it means. What you can do. I know the world will hunt you for it. And I also know—without a doubt—anyone who tries will have to go through me first.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “That’s very dramatic.”

“Have you met me?” he grinned.

Before you could reply, Benn’s voice called over, “Captain, stop seducing our guest and help clean up.”

“I am helping,” Shanks called back. “With my charm.”

Benn just groaned and threw a towel at his head.

Night fell.

You sat with Lime Juice and Hongo near the fire while Shanks played a drunken game of darts with a tree (he kept missing) and Benn nursed a glass of something expensive, eyeing his captain like a babysitter on overtime.

Lime Juice offered you his coat when the wind picked up. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “you’re kind of amazing.”

You turned. “Me?”

“Yeah. Punching a Yonko. Reading the un-readable. And laughing at my jokes. Triple threat.”

You laughed. “Thanks, I think?”

“Don’t let Shanks hog you too much,” he added. “Some of us want a shot too.”

Hongo hummed behind his book. “I’ll second that.”

You looked between them, blinking. “Wait, what?”

Benn walked over, his cigarette glowing faintly. “They’re not joking.”

Shanks stumbled into the circle, arms wide. “Did I hear flirting?! I object! You’re all banned.”

You stared at the four of them.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that all of you are flirting with me… at the same time?”

There was a beat.

Then Shanks, Benn, Lime Juice, and Hongo all nodded in sync.

You buried your face in your hands. “This is absurd.”

Shanks grinned. “Absurdly charming.”

“I need a drink,” you muttered.

Benn passed you his glass without a word.

You didn’t leave the next morning.

Or the next.

Or the next after that.

Somewhere between watching Shanks get his foot stuck in a barrel, Lime Juice trying to build you a “romance swing,” Hongo diagnosing him with “chronic dumbassery,” and Benn pulling you aside just to ask how you were holding up, you realized something:

You were happier than you’d been in years.

For the first time, you weren’t hiding.

You weren’t running.

You were laughing. Living. Loved.

And sure, maybe the world still wanted your head.

But you had a Yonko, his second-in-command, a chaotic firecracker, and a broody medic wrapped around your finger.

If the world wanted to come for you?

Let it.

You had your crew now.