luffy my beloved

You laugh as you try to continue writing the latest adventures of the Straw Hat pirates in Wano and all the different tales and battles that the crew went on.

You were halfway through a sentence about Zoro getting lost in the Flower Capital again when Luffy nipped gently at your earlobe. The pen stuttered in your grip, making a splotch of ink on the page.

"See?" Luffy mumbled, his lips ghosting along your jaw as he grinned. "You write too much. You should play more."

His fingers flexed against your skin, rough and warm under your shirt. His touch was everywhere at once, poking at your sides and splaying across your chest, and every time you tried to refocus, he shifted, stubborn as ever. With every distracting press and teasing tug, he made it impossible to remember where you’d left off. Kaido? The Onigashima raid? You honestly forgot, and at this point? Couldn't care less,

Luffy's hands roam greedily under your shirt, fingers splaying wide on your waist as he hauls you fully onto the desk. His mouth claims yours again, tongue pushing deep while his hands roam, before his fingers tug on your waistband, taking everything off in one firm tug.

Luffy lets out a low moan when he sees you're soaking, just waiting for him, probably as desperate for this as he is.

He stands up, stepping back in between your legs, his hips grind forward, the head of his cock sliding through your slick folds.

"Fuck, look at you," he growls, voice rough and low as he leans forward to give you a kiss. "This cunt's already dripping for me. You were trying to write about the crew, but your body's telling me exactly what you need."

He lines up and slowly sinks in, burying himself to the hilt, a guttural groan rips from his throat as your walls clamp down around him. "Shit—tight, so fucking tight. You were made for my cock, weren't you? Made to take every inch of me."

Luffy doesn't wait. He pulls back and slams in again, setting a relentless pace that makes the desk creak under you. His mouth never stops moving; kissing your jaw, nipping your neck, sucking at your shoulder while his hips snap forward. Each thrust drags his cock along your inner walls, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room.

"Grip me just like that," he pants against your skin, teeth scraping your collarbone, his voice almost slurred, like he's drunk on the sensation, the connection. "Fuck, your pussy's squeezing me so good. Like it—FUCK! Like it knows who it belongs to.”

His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you in place as he drives deeper. The possessive edge in his voice grows thicker with every stroke. "Like it knows I'm the only one who gets to fuck you like this."

His voice gets lower, letting you hear the emotion in his voice, the almost painful realization of what could have happened. "We almost lost everything out there. Almost lost you.”

His grip gets tighter as he thrusts in deeply, kissing you deeply, before pulling away, an almost manic look in his eyes. “But you're here, alive, and taking my cock like you were born for it."

"Luffy," you gasp, fingers clutching at his shoulders. "Slow down, I—"

"No," he cuts in, voice ragged as he thrusts harder. "Can't slow down. Not when you're this wet around me. Tell me how it feels, tell me you want more."

"It feels—fuck—you feel so deep," you moan, hips jerking up to meet him.

"That's it," he growls, forehead pressed to yours. "Say it again. Say how deep my cock is inside that tight little cunt."

"So deep," you breathe, nails digging into his back. "You're stretching me so much."

Luffy groans loudly, his hips snapping faster. "Good girl. Keep talking. I want to hear every sound you make while I fuck you."

His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he focuses on the rhythm. His thrusts turn sharper, more desperate, chasing the tight drag of your cunt around him. "Don't stop clenching like that, feels too good. You're perfect—every squeeze, every sound you make. This pussy was made for me."

"Luffy—please," you whimper, legs tightening around his waist.

"Please what?" he demands, teeth grazing your ear. "Tell me what you want. Want me to fill you up? Want your captain to pump every drop inside this greedy cunt?"

"Yes," you cry out, voice breaking. "Want you to come inside me."

"Fuck yes," he snarls, pounding into you with renewed force. "Gonna give it to you. Gonna stuff you full until it's dripping out. Gonna keep it all in? Please?"

"Yes—yes, Luffy," you moan, body shaking under him.

Behind him, Zoro stands with his arms crossed and his eye doing that thing where it's technically looking at something neutral but is actually tracking everything. Robin is beside him, composed and unhurried, a small book already in her hand that she may or may not have been reading while walking. None of them look particularly surprised to see you. They look, if anything, like people who were expecting you and chose this corner to wait at.

"We were just heading back," Sanji says.

"Mm," Robin says pleasantly, which is not an agreement or a disagreement.

Luffy, meanwhile, has not released your shoulders. He's looking at you with that specific quality of attention he gets sometimes — not the unfocused, world-eating enthusiasm of his default mode, but something sharper underneath it. Interested. He tilts his head, and his grin shifts into something that knows more than it's saying.

"Something happened," he whispers to you, eyes sparkling in mischeif.

It's not a question, more of a statement.

"We went shopping," you say, aiming for nonchalant, but ultimately failing by the look on Luffy's face.

"Yeah." His grin widens. "And something happened."

You open your mouth to deflect, and then his hand moves — unhurried, completely unbothered by the social calculus of the gesture — and his forefinger and thumb find your chin, tilting your face one way and then the other with a thoughtful expression that is entirely at odds with how casual the touch is.

You go still, thrown by the casualness of his touch, but also by his proximity.

He examines you with the gravity of someone doing something very important, turning your face slightly left, then right, his dark eyes moving over your features with an attention that is warm and unabashed and just slightly too knowing for comfort. Your heart does something inconvenient.

"Thought so," he says finally, his voice dropping into something lower, something with a current running beneath it. His eyes trace down, briefly, to your mouth; unhurried, unapologetic about it, and then back up to yours.

He doesn't move closer, just stays there, close enough that you're aware of every point of potential contact, far enough that none of them exist yet. Holding the distance like it's deliberate. Like he's decided on it specifically.

"You're doing that on purpose," you whisper back to him, grateful that the others seem to be talking amongst themselves to give you and the captain a moment.

His grin returns, full and bright. "Doing what?"

"You know what."

"Do I?" He releases your chin, stepping back with the easy confidence of someone who just won something without appearing to try. "You look good," he adds, and the simplicity of it, after everything else, makes another one of your defenses lower.. "You look like you're starting to figure something out."

You stare at him. "That's very cryptic for someone who just manhandled my face."

"I didn't manhandle anything." He looks genuinely offended. "I was being observant. I can show you manhandling."

"He does this," Zoro says, from somewhere behind him, the tone of a man who has witnessed this behavior many times and made his peace with it.

"It works," Luffy says, unapologetically.

"It's alarming," you tell him.

"Also works," he agrees.

Robin makes a soft sound that might be a laugh, quickly converted into something more neutral. Nami, beside you, is not bothering to convert anything; she's smiling with the open amusement of someone watching a favorite scene play out.

Sanji, predictably, looks pained. "Are you done?"

"Probably not," Luffy says cheerfully. Then, to you, with the sudden pivot he does where the lightness drops just enough to let something genuine through: "I'm glad you came today, to the island. This is part of the whole reason we brought you with us, so you can explore and feel safe doing so."

The shift is small but real. You look at him, at the grin that's still there but sitting over something more serious underneath, and feel the specific warmth of being meant.

"Me too," you say.

He nods once, satisfied, like something has been confirmed. Then the grin reasserts itself completely. "Okay. Robin wants you."

"I—" Robin begins.

"She does," Luffy says. "She's been thinking about it since this morning. Franky's said she's been in a daze the whole morning."

"I have been considering," Robin says, with great dignity, "whether your presence might be useful for the research I had planned this afternoon. The phrasing Luffy has chosen is his own."

Luffy turns around to look at the ravenette, a genuine, confused look on his face. "And what's the difference between what you said and what I said?"

The rearrangement happens quickly, with the practical efficiency of a crew that's used to splitting into configurations based on what each situation needs. In this case, Robin and Zoro's stealth and battle smarts were needed to lurk around in the right places and gain more information about the island and see what information they have regarding weapons, history, or One Piece.

"Be back before it gets dark," Sanji says, to you specifically, as if the others aren't there.

"We'll take care of her," Robin says, and something in the way she says it makes Sanji's argument die before it's fully formed. He exhales, and nods, and you catch the slight tension in his jaw that he's choosing not to act on; and the choosing of it, the deliberateness of the restraint, tells you something about how far he's come in the last hour.

You squeeze his hand once before you let go, he quickly squeezes back, before the two groups seperate.

The three of you find your rhythm quickly.

Zoro, it turns out, has a specific approach to reconnaissance: he looks like he's doing absolutely nothing while actually absorbing everything within a six-meter radius. He positions himself at the edges of spaces — a doorway, a market corner, the outside of a building, while you and Robin go in — and simply exists there with his arms crossed and his eye half-lidded, and people walk past him and around him and never look twice, and he sees all of it.

Robin, meanwhile, has a different approach entirely. She moves through spaces as if she belongs in them, regardless of context. Libraries, records offices, and the back room of a shop where old maps are kept in varying states of organization are all hers as she walks with the quiet authority of someone who has never once doubted her right to be curious about things. People answer her questions with the disoriented helpfulness of those who weren't planning to be cooperative but found themselves cooperative anyway and aren't entirely sure when that happened.

You watch her do it twice before you start doing it yourself. Not copying her, your version is different, warmer, more conversational, but drawing from the same principle. Belong. Be interested. Let them think it was their idea to tell you.

"You're a natural," Robin observes, after you've gotten a great deal of useful information from a textile merchant who had, three minutes earlier, been distinctly uninterested in speaking to anyone.

"I've had practice," you say. "Different context. Same principle."

She looks at you thoughtfully. "Veloria."

"And before that." A pause. "You learn to talk to people when talking to people is the difference between safe and not."

Robin is quiet for a moment, and you can feel her filing the information away; not coldly, not clinically, but with the care of someone who understands the weight of what you've just said because they have weight of their own.

"Yes," she says simply. "You do."

The library is your favorite stop.

It's small, a single room attached to the back of a building that also appears to be a cartographer's office and possibly someone's home, but the shelves are dense and the light is good. And the smell of it, old paper and ink and something faintly floral from whatever is growing in the window box, reaches something in you that hasn't been reached in days.

You exhale when you step inside, and Robin notices.

"The smell of libraries," she says, beside you, with the warm recognition of a shared language.

"It's the same everywhere," you say. "Different islands, different climates, different everything, and libraries always smell like this."

"Paper remembers," she says, simply. "Even when the content changes."

You look at her, but she's already moving toward the shelves, her fingers trailing lightly along spines, unhurried. The afternoon light from the window catches the line of her jaw, the dark fall of her hair, the particular grace of her movement through a space full of things she loves.

You stay where you are for a moment, just watching her.

She reaches for a volume, checks the spine, and replaces it. Reaches for another as a small smile graces her lips. "You're staring," she says, without turning around.

"I'm observing," you say. "There's a difference."

She does turn then, and the look she gives you is soft and knowing and amused all at once. "Is there?"

"Well, I don't know. You're the one who told me that."

"I did." She tilts her head. "And what are you observing?"

You consider honesty, then decide it's the only interesting option. "That you're different in here," you say. "You're always composed, but in here it's — like you're not performing composure, as you feel at genuine peace."

She's quiet for a moment, looking at you in the particular way she has; taking you apart carefully, not to damage but to understand.

"Most places," she says, "I'm aware of myself in them. How I fit and what's expected." She looks back at the shelves. "Libraries are the exception. I've never had to think about who I am in a library."

The honesty of it, offered so cleanly, moves through you. "How long have you been reading?"

"As long as I can remember." A pause. "Before that, probably."

"Before you can remember?" You ask, trying to encourage Robin to open up to you.

"I was raised in a place with an extraordinary library," she says, and the words are even, but something in them is not. You recognize the shape of it, the thing that lives in a person when the place they loved is also the place that hurt them. You know that shape from the inside.

You don't ask more, choosing instead to just say: "Then it makes sense."

She looks at you again. The warmth in her expression shifts into something more deliberate, something that's made a decision.

"What about you?" she asks, moving toward you, unhurried. "What do you love that makes the rest of you make sense?"

Your breath adjusts slightly at her approach, at the way she closes the distance between you with the same ease she brings to everything. "Making things," you say. "The moment before, when it's still a blank canvas. When it could be anything."

"And then you make it real," she says.

"And then I make it real."

She's close now, not quite the way she was this morning, in the closet, with your hair in her hands, but close in the way that it feels like everything has narrowed down to the space between two people, where the words become secondary to everything else.

"You asked me this morning," she says, softly, "if it was okay to want more."

Your pulse adjusts as you attempt to hold eye contact with her. You fail at that, eyes darting away quickly before looking back. "I remember."

"I want you to understand what I meant when I said yes." Her hand lifts, and her fingers brush your jaw. "Not as permission. As an answer."

"What's the difference?" you ask, and your voice has gone quieter without you deciding it should.

"Permission is given by someone with authority over you," she says. "An answer is given by someone who has been asked what they want." Her eyes hold yours, and there's something in them that is warm and serious and entirely certain. "I want this. That's the answer."

Your heart is doing something significant. "Robin—"

"You don't have to say anything back," she says. "I'm not asking for a response. I'm just being clear." She finishes with the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.

You look at her. At the afternoon light and the library smell and the extraordinary patience of her, the way she holds space without filling it, the way she's been careful with you from the very first night on the ship in a way that has nothing to do with fragility and everything to do with respect.

You reach up and cover the hand at your jaw with your own, holding it there.

"Robin," you say again, softer this time.

"Mm?"

"Stop being so careful with me."

Something shifts in her expression. Surprise, quickly followed by something warmer, something that looks almost like delight at being caught being too considerate.

You close the remaining distance yourself.

The kiss is soft, warm, and entirely unhurried. Two people in a small library on an island whose name you'll remember specifically because of this moment, because of the paper-and-ink smell and the afternoon light and the way she makes a small sound when you kiss her, almost inaudible, like something she wasn't planning to let out. Her hand turns under yours, fingers lacing together, and she kisses you back with the same patience she brings to everything she does, and somehow that patience is the most devastating thing about it.

When you pull back, you're both quiet for a moment.

Her thumb moves across your knuckles, slow and absent, the way Sanji's does. You wonder if they know they do the same thing.

"You are," she says finally, her voice slightly lower than before, "considerably braver than I gave you credit for."

"You gave me a lot of credit," you point out.

"Yes," she agrees. "And you exceeded it." The smile that follows is real and unguarded, one she doesn't distribute widely. "Well done."

You laugh, and the laugh fills the small library, and she watches it happen with the expression of someone adding something to a list of things they intend to see again.

She brings your joined hands up, briefly, and presses her lips to your knuckles, precise and deliberate.

"Now," she says, returning to her usual register, "I believe I found a reference to a previous inhabitant of this island that I'd like to look into further."

"Right," you say, your voice is admirably steady. "Research."

"Research," she confirms, the picture of composure.

You look at her for one more moment. "Robin."

"Mm?"

"Soon was shorter than I expected."

The smile she gives you then is slow, and warm, and knows exactly what it's doing.

"You made it shorter," she says. "I told you you'd find you were being encouraged."

You shake your head, still smiling, and turn toward the nearest shelf. Your research is waiting, and the afternoon is still going, and somewhere outside is Zoro, and the ship is at the dock, and all of it is yours now in a way that still catches you sometimes, the reality of it arriving in small bright moments like this one.

You pull a book from the shelf and open it, pretending like you're absorbing any of it, when your mind is filled with thoughts of that kiss you just shared.

And from across the room, without looking up from her own volume, Robin says quietly:

"For what it's worth, the moment before, when it could still be anything." A pause. "I think I understand why you love it."

You look over at her to see Robin reading, her expression composed, the small smile still at the corner of her mouth.

You look back at your book, and you're smiling too. You briefly wonder if the Marines knew that the woman they've labeled 'Devil Child, ' all those years ago, was actually incredibly sweet.

—

When Robin was sure she was ready to leave, and with a few more kisses exchanged, you two left the library only to find Zoro nowhere. Robin had sighed before taking your hand and starting walking. The ravenette then tells you how this is a common occurrence with the swordsman, and that he'll turn up eventually. You find Zoro by sound before you see him.

Specifically, you find him by the sound of several women talking at once in the particular overlapping register of people competing for the same attention, voices bright and angled, laughter deployed strategically. You and Robin round the corner of a narrow side street and there he is — leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eye doing absolutely nothing to encourage the situation and everything to accidentally encourage it anyway, because Zoro has the specific problem of being exactly the kind of person who becomes more interesting the less effort he makes.

Although, to his credit, he looks profoundly bored. He also looks, underneath the boredom, faintly irritated in the way of someone who has been standing in one place longer than intended and has opinions about it.

Then he sees you, and the shift is immediate. Something in his posture changes, the irritation dropping away, replaced by something that sits more easily. His eye moves from you to Robin and back, and then he's already straightening, already turning toward the women around him with the energy of someone closing a tab he didn't open.

"Sorry," he says, with absolutely no indication that he's sorry. "Gotta go. My girlfriends are here."

The word lands in your chest as something dropped from a height.

Girlfriends.

You hear Robin make a small sound beside you — not quite a laugh, something more refined than that — as the cluster of women disperses with varying degrees of grace, and you stand there in the side street with your mouth doing something you're not fully in control of.

Zoro approaches without ceremony, falling into step beside you both with the ease of someone rejoining a conversation he'd only briefly stepped away from.

"Girlfriends," you say, to no one in particular.

Your voice comes out smaller than intended. Slightly flustered, slightly delighted. You turn slightly to look at the man who uses words like weapons and apparently decided to deploy this one casually, in a side street, to a group of strangers, without so much as a warning.

"Sorry I was late," Zoro says, directed generally at both of you, in the tone of someone who is offering the words more as acknowledgment than actual apology. "Hope you got what you needed."

"We did," Robin says. "Productively."

"Mm." He moves closer as he says it — closing a gap that had been unnecessary — and then, without preamble, turns toward Robin and kisses her. Clean and certain, a greeting that doesn't ask permission because it doesn't need to, and Robin receives it with the composure she brings to everything while her hand lifts briefly to his jaw.

When he turns to you, the kiss lands on your forehead, warm and deliberate. His lips press there for just a moment longer than strictly necessary, and you feel the weight of it travel down through you like something settling.

Then his hand moves. A single, light tapbefore his palm finds the curve of your lower back, easy and unashamed, a get-moving gesture that has absolutely no business being as effective as it is.

You move forward.

Behind you, you hear Robin make the sound that is her version of laughing at something she finds delightful.

"Don't," you say.

"I didn't say anything," she says.

"You were about to."

"I was thinking something," she concedes. "That's different."

Robin laughs as she glances at you with the expression of someone watching something she finds genuinely charming. "You're adorable," she says, warmly.

"I'm processing," you say.

"Take your time," she says. "He'll do it again."

Zoro, for his part, says nothing. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and the particular quality of a person who has said what they meant and doesn't feel the need to add to it.

You glance at him sideways, and he glances back; the corner of his mouth moves. You look forward again and decide not to examine too closely the increase in temperature your body feels.

You walk for a few minutes through the late afternoon streets, and the conversation settles into the comfortable shorthand of people who've been moving through the same spaces all day, comparing notes. Robin mentions what she found in the library — a historical thread she wants to pull further. You add what you picked up from the textile merchant, the cartographer's assistant, the woman at the medicinal stall who knew more about the island's internal politics than she appeared to.

Zoro listens without commenting, which you've learned means he's paying more attention, not less.

And somewhere in the listening, you become aware of something.

You don't know him, not really. You know the shape of him; the swords, the directness, the morning appearances at your doorway that he describes as passing by. You know the way he exists in a room, the particular quality of his silences.

But you don't know him. Not the way you've been learning the others, question by question, afternoon by afternoon.

And he just called you his girlfriend. In public, casually, and to strangers.

"Zoro," you say.

"Mm."

"What do you want to do? We're done for the day." You glance up at him. "We haven't actually spent any time together. Just us, or us three." You pause. "I realized I've been getting to know everyone and I don't really know you yet. And that's—" you search for the word.

"Weird," Robin supplies helpfully.

"Weird," you agree. "Given the—" you gesture vaguely.

"Girlfriend thing," Robin says.

"The girlfriend thing," you confirm.

"I'm sure," Robin adds, with the pleasant tone of someone enjoying herself, "that the fact you also spent the majority of the recon getting turned around and ending up in the same place three times had nothing to do with why you didn't accomplish anything you'd actually planned."

Zoro looks at her. "I wasn't lost," he says.

"Of course not."

"I was taking a different route."

"Several times."

"Robin," he says.

"Yes?"

A pause. He looks at you instead, and the look that crosses his face then is unhurried and direct and warm in the specific way that Zoro is warm; underneath everything, without performance, like heat from something that's been burning steadily for a long time.

"Anything I want?" he says.

The question lands with a weight that suggests he already knows the answer. Which is how the three of you end up in a bar.

It's not a bad bar. Not the kind you'd avoid, not the kind you'd necessarily seek out, but the kind that exists in every port town, worn smooth by years of use, the kind where no one looks twice at what's happening at the next table, and the drinks are poured with a generosity that suggests the owner has given up on measured shots as a concept.

Robin sits across from you both with a glass of water and an expression of serene, private amusement. She had agreed to this with the ease of someone who had already calculated how it would go.

You and Zoro sit side by side with a line of shot glasses between you that has been lengthening at a rate that would alarm Chopper if he were present.

In the first round, Zoro had been generous. Magnanimous, even.

By the third round, he is looking at you with a new quality of attention.

By the fifth, you set your empty glass down and look back at him with the particular confidence that comes from years of practice and a tolerance built on island celebrations that would make most pirates reconsider their life choices.

"What," you say, with great composure, "you didn't know I was considered a champion back on Veloria?"

Zoro stares at you, then something happens to his face that you have not seen before. Something unguarded and genuinely delighted, a crack in the usual controlled surface that lets through something warmer and more unruly underneath. He laughs, real and low and surprised out of him.

"No," he says. "I did not know that."

"Now you do," you say, and reach for the next glass with the ease of someone who has done this many times on many islands and has never lost.

Robin watches from across the table with the expression of a naturalist observing something rare in its natural habitat. She takes a small, precise sip of her water.

"I did wonder," she says, "when you agreed so readily."

"I had relevant experience," you tell her.

"Clearly."

Zoro refills both glasses. He does it without looking away from you, which should not be as interesting as it is, but his hands know where everything is without needing his eyes, and there's something about that easy competence that you are choosing not to think too carefully about.

"Veloria had champions," he says. Not a question, just turning the information over, placing it somewhere.

"Every harvest season," you say. "Whoever lasted longest at the celebration table. I held the title for three years."

"Three years," he repeats, eyebrow raised, humor clear on his face.

"I'm very competitive," you tell him.

He looks at you, and the look has something in it that is very specific and very warm. "Yeah," he says. "I'm getting that."

The conversation finds its rhythm after that; easier, freer, the kind that alcohol loosens not by removing your judgment but by removing the hesitation around saying what you actually think. You ask him questions, and he answers them, which you quickly realize is rarer than it sounds. Zoro does not answer questions as a rule. He answers yours, though. Directly, without decoration, in the way of someone who has decided you're worth the honesty.

Favorite opponent? Someone who surprised him, he doesn't give a name. What he's training toward? You know the answer before he says it, but hearing it said plainly still does something. Whether he gets lonely on watch, a pause, longer than the others, and then: "Sometimes. Less now."

He doesn't explain what changed; he doesn't need to. You lean in slightly, your shoulder finding his. He doesn't move away, instead shifting his arm, making room. His hand settles at your knee, warm and heavy and entirely without pretense.

"You're a surprisingly good conversationalist," you tell him.

"Don't tell anyone," he says. "I have a reputation."

"Of being impossible to talk to?"

"Of not needing to talk." His eye cuts to you sideways. "Different thing."

"Is it?"

"Takes two," he says simply.

You look at him, at the close warm space between you in this worn-smooth bar with the afternoon turning gold outside and Robin watching from across the table like someone who has known how this was going to go since the beginning. She catches the drifting glance you give Zoro's lips, the way he mirrors you. The way you both lick your lips, but obviously hesitate to push forward.

Well, she'll fix that for you both.

"Zoro," Robin says then, pleasantly. "Be careful. That look in her eye has been there the whole day. She's been trying to kiss me all day."

You turn to her, betrayed. Robin looks back at you with the serenity of someone who has calculated the outcome of this sentence and approves of it.

Zoro slowly turns to look at you, something hungry and unnamed clear in his eyes.

"Is that so?" he says.

"I have been," you say, deciding that honesty is the only interesting option. "She kept saying soon." You look at Robin with narrowed eyes, a self-satisfied smirk on your face now as you lean towards the devil-fruit user, enjoying the way her eyes sharpen on your every movement.

"I was building anticipation," Robin says, unruffled.

"You were enjoying yourself," you correct.

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Zoro is watching you both with the expression of a man who has just had his evening significantly improved. He leans back slightly, arm still along the back of your seat, his eye moving between you and Robin with a slow, interested quality that has heat at its edges.

"So what happened?" he asks. "With the soon?"

You meet his eye, and something in the look that passes between you is quick and mischievous and warm all at once, the kind that happens between people who have figured each other out faster than expected.

You both turn to Robin at the same moment.

She looks between you, and something shifts in her expression, the composed surface holding while something more alert moves underneath it.

"Don't," she says, with great dignity.

"Robin," you say, leaning forward, your elbows on the table. "We want to ask you something."

"I'm sure you do."

"It's a very simple question," Zoro says, from the other side.

"Mm." She looks at you both. "You're terrible at this. Both of you."

"And what are we doing?" you ask, with complete innocence.

"Making me the sole focus of two people who have just spent an hour determining exactly which approaches work on each other and are now applying them simultaneously." She picks up her water. "As I said. Terrible."

"Is it working?" Zoro asks.

A pause.

"Catastrophically," she says, which is not the answer anyone expected and sends you into laughter that you have to press your hand to your mouth to contain, while Zoro makes that low, satisfied sound that means he's more pleased than he's going to show.

"Hmm, I'm sure that's what you'd like us to believe. Or maybe," Zoro says, and his voice has dropped into something lower now, the bar noise filling the space around you, "she really just wants—"

He turns to you and kisses you.

It's not careful or tentative or asking, it's certain, the way Zoro is certain about things, his hand coming up to your jaw and holding you there with a directness that leaves very little room for anything except the fact of it. Your hand finds the front of his shirt without your permission, the kiss deepens before you've fully caught up with it starting.

Somewhere in the depths of your mind, there was a protesting voice reminding you that you were in a crowded, sticky-floored bar. It tried to surface, but every time you chased it up through the haze, Zoro did something that wrenched you right back down again: teeth nipping at your lower lip, a sound that was almost a growl reverberating from his throat against your mouth, the iron clamp of his fingers on your waist as he tugged you closer. The hand he kept at your jaw was less a caress than a command, though not one you had any thought of disobeying. Zoro kissed the way he fought; unapologetic, single-minded, with no intention of yielding ground.

At first, you half-expected him to glance aside, to check for witnesses, to hesitate in the presence of so much noise and light and other people. Maybe even to laugh the moment off and go back to his drink, as you’d imagined in your more cowardly moments. He didn’t. He never did. The attention of the bar was a non-issue, ignored in favor of the way your mouth opened for him, and the way your hands—when had you lost control of them?—curled into fistfuls at the front of his shirt, searching for leverage, for something solid. He was all muscle and warmth and stubborn intent, and you were suddenly wildly aware of the difference in your size, the way his frame could just close around you and keep you there.

You barely recognized yourself, tasting something wild and reckless in your own response, something you thought you’d left behind years ago. The press of his hips to yours, the way he bent his head to fit the line of your face, the deep, steadying rumble of breath through his nose as if he were fighting not to lose himself; all of it blurred together into a single, electrical pulse that made you light-headed and needful and half-feral with wanting.

It takes Robin a moment before she says, quietly but clearly: "We are in public."

Zoro pulls back by degrees rather than all at once, like he's making a point about it. His thumb moves along your jaw once before his hand drops. He looks at you with the expression of someone who has accomplished something and knows it.

Your grip on his shirt loosens slowly. You become aware that several people at nearby tables are looking elsewhere, diplomatically.

"Right," you say. Your voice is admirably steady for someone whose entire nervous system has just been rerouted. "Public."

"Yes," Robin says. "Public." She's already gathering her things with the composed efficiency of someone restoring order to the situation while internally processing something she would not describe as unaffected. "Shall we?"

The alley is narrow and cool after the warmth of the bar, the light lower now, the sounds of the street one layer removed. Robin leads you into it with the certainty of someone who has decided that being strategic and being decisive are not, in fact, opposites.

She turns, and she kisses you. Just her hands framing your face and the warmth of her and the particular way she kisses, unhurried and entirely present, like she has set aside every other thought in favor of this one.

You make a sound you weren't planning to make.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on her face is soft and warm and completely unguarded.

Then she reaches past you.

Zoro steps in behind you as Robin's hands settle at your waist, and the world rearranges itself into the warm press of him at your back, solid and steady, his breath at your temple. Robin kisses you again, slower. Zoro's lips find your jaw, your neck, unhurried, like he's working something out at his own pace. His hands settle at your hips, and Robin's hands are at your face, and you are very thoroughly surrounded.

You turn enough to find Zoro's mouth again, and Robin watches for a moment before his arm reaches past you and draws her in, and then the three of you are rearranging again — Robin kissing Zoro over your shoulder while your forehead rests against his chest, then you turning back to Robin, then Zoro's lips at your temple while Robin says something quiet that makes you laugh into the space between them.

Zoro's hands wander, Robin's hands wander, and you've long since stopped keeping track of whose hands are whose because the information becomes less relevant.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The walk back to the ship takes longer than it should.

This is partly because you keep stopping. Partly because Robin keeps finding things to say that require close proximity to say properly. It wouldn't be wrong to say it might also be because Zoro has apparently decided that forward momentum is someone else's problem, and his hands have opinions that keep interrupting the process.

You make it back to the dock eventually, the Thousand Sunny sits there in the evening light, warm and solid, the familiar creak of her hull and the slap of water against her bow reaching you before you're close enough to see the deck properly.

When you do see the deck, there are three figures on it.

Chopper is sitting at the railing with his hooves folded, looking out at the water. Usopp is beside him, tilted back in a precarious way that suggests he's either very relaxed or asleep. Jinbe stands near the mast with the steady, unhurried presence of someone who has been there a while and does not mind waiting.

All three notice you at approximately the same moment.

Chopper's head comes up first. "YOU'RE BACK!" He's on his feet immediately, and then visibly stops himself, remembering something, and makes a visible effort to convert his sprint-toward-you into a more measured approach that takes about two seconds before he abandons it entirely and sprints toward you anyway. "Are you okay?! How was it?! Did your ribs bother you?! "

"I feel fine," you say, which is true in multiple senses.

"Your face is—" he squints at you with the intensity of a professional. "You're flushed. Were you drinking?!"

"Medically," Usopp confirms from the railing, now no longer asleep. "That is the face of someone who was drinking. Several someones, I'd say."

"I had some drinks," you say. "I'm fine. I won!" You finish, a proud smile on your face as you look at the crew that's there.

"She won," Zoro says, from behind you, and there's a quality in his voice that has not been there before; pride, uncomplicated and direct.

Chopper looks at Zoro, then you, before looking at Robin. After coming to whatever conclusion he has, Chopper turns to look at you again with the eyes of someone who notices everything about a person's physical state, including the things that have nothing to do with medicine.

"Oh," he says.

"Chopper—"

"No, I just—" He adjusts his hat, ears twitching as he refuses to look you in the eyes. "I'm glad you had a good day."

"We all did," Robin says, warmly.

Jinbe nods once, with the particular approval of someone who doesn't need details but has taken in everything. "Welcome back," he says simply.

Usopp is looking between all three of you with the expression of a man doing very rapid calculations. "Okay," he says. "So, how was the island?"

"Good research," Robin says.

"Good drinks," Zoro says.

"Good everything," you say, and leave it at that.

Zoro scans the deck once, taking stock, then looks at the three of them. "Where's the captain?"

"Still in town," Jinbe says. "Luffy found something."

A beat.

"What kind of something?" Robin asks.

"The kind that also involves Nami yelling and Sanji running after both of them," Usopp supplies. "So, a normal something."

Zoro exhales through his nose. "Right."

"They'll be back before long," Jinbe says, with the confidence of a man who has learned to trust the crew's chaos to resolve itself on a schedule.

The conversation continues around you, easy and overlapping, and you let it, stepping further onto the deck and tipping your face up toward the last of the afternoon light. The island sits behind you, green and warm, as the water moves. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls once and then stops.

You're almost fully in the moment when you notice Usopp.

He's drifted slightly to the side, not far from the group, but angled away from its center in the particular way of someone trying to look like they aren't doing anything specific while very clearly doing something specific. His hands have come out of his pockets and are now doing something complicated at his sides, fingers moving against each other. He glances at you once, then away, then at you again.

You know that quality of fidget. You've watched him tell stories with his whole body, watched him go still when something matters more than the performance. This is the second one. This is Usopp, trying not to show that something has weight.

You drift toward him, unhurried, letting the other conversations continue without you.

"Hey," you say, quietly enough that it's just for him.

He looks at you with the expression of someone caught mid-thought. "Hey! I wasn't — I was just standing here. Totally normal."

"You're fidgeting," you say.

"I fidget all the time. Nerves of steel, actually, I just—" He stops to look at you. The performance drops, just slightly, the way it does with him when he decides honesty is less exhausting than the alternative. "Okay. I have to tell you something."

"Okay," you say, nodding your head encouragingly, the alcohol quickly burning through your body at the serious tone the sharpshooter has taken.

He takes a breath. Let it out. His hands find his pockets again, then leave them. "So. Today, while you were all in town, Jinbe and I were doing things. Around the island, generally." He gestures vaguely. "And we walked past this gallery. A local place, small, but actually really quality curration, nd I went in, just to look, and I got talking to the owner."

You watch him.

"And they mentioned they had an opening," he continues, faster now, the words finding their momentum. "One spot on the current exhibition. They'd had a cancellation and were looking for a piece that fit the collection, and I — I told them about you."

He stops, looks at you with the expression of a man who has now said the thing and must live with having said it.

"I told them about your work," he says, quieter now. "About the gallery on Veloria, about what you do." A pause, "I may have also told them that I personally knew you and had witnessed your legendary talent firsthand, and that the piece I was recommending was by someone who was going to be extremely well known very shortly." He winces slightly. "I used some of my, you know. My Usopp magic."

"Usopp magic," you repeat, humor lingering in your tone, as well as something else the Usopp couldn't specifically name.

"It's a thing. The stories get — it doesn't matter, the point is—" He looks at you directly, and underneath the flustered energy is something genuine and earnest and slightly terrified. "They agreed. There's a spot. If you want it for one of your actual pieces." He makes a careful gesture, "Not copies, but one of yours."

The words reach you in stages.

An opening.

One of your actual pieces.

Him, walking into a stranger's gallery and talking about you. Your work, your talent, the thing you've spent years protecting and hiding and carrying quietly, with enough conviction that they said yes.

You don't say anything.

Usopp watches your silence with increasing anxiety, his eyes moving over your face, trying to read it. "Okay, so, I know I maybe should have asked first, and I know you just got here and you've barely had time to figure out what's happening with everything. And if it's too much or too soon or if you'd rather not, I completely understand. It was probably overstepping, I just thought—" He exhales. "I thought you should get to have your real work somewhere. Not hidden, and not under something else." A pause, smaller. "You deserve that."

The last three words land differently from everything before them.

You look at him, at the earnest, anxious, extraordinary person in front of you, who walked into a gallery on an island he'd never been to and advocated for you with everything he had. Who did it not because anyone asked, but because it occurred to him that you might want it, and he decided to try.

You haven't been on the ship for long. You're still figuring out which sounds mean what, still adjusting to the reality of being somewhere that wants you in it. And this person, this person you've known briefly, looked at your life and found something in it worth fighting for.

Your throat tightens before you can manage it.

"Usopp," you manage to say.

"If it's bad, just tell me."

You close the distance and wrap your arms around him.

He goes still for a full second, the surprised stillness of someone who prepared for multiple outcomes and did not adequately weigh this one, and then his arms come around you, and you feel him exhale, the tension releasing all at once through his shoulders.

"It's not bad," you say, into his shoulder. "It's the opposite of bad."

"Yeah?"

"It's one of the kindest things anyone's done for me in a long time," you say, and the honesty of it comes out simpler than you expected. No performance, no careful management of it. Just true. "Thank you."

His arms tighten slightly. "I just…I figured—"

"I know what you figured," you say. "Thank you."

A beat, and then his chin comes to rest on top of your head, and you feel him smile. Not because you can see it, just because the quality of his stillness changes into something more at ease, something that's stopped holding itself carefully.

"So," he says, after a moment. "You want to go look at your pieces?"

You pull back, and the smile on your face is bright enough that he blinks at it slightly. "Yeah," you say. "Let's go."

Chopper comes because he wants to be here for you in the important moment, to cheer you on as your cheerleader. He appears at the top of the stairs to the storage hold before you've fully descended them, eyes wide and interested. "What are we doing? Can I help? I want to help."

"We're looking at her art," Usopp says.

Chopper's ears perk up to full attention. "I'll get the lanterns!"

The storage hold is warm and smells of wood and canvas, and the particular mustiness of things carefully packed. The pieces you brought from Veloria are in the far corner, wrapped in cloth and secured against the motion of the ship with the methodical care of someone who has transported fragile things before. You unwrap them slowly, and the three of you settle into the task of looking. Properly looking, in the golden lantern light, while the ship rocks gently around you.

There are more pieces than Usopp was expecting. You can tell by the way he goes quiet when the fourth and fifth emerge, by the way he stops trying to say anything and just looks. Chopper makes small sounds at each one. onWder, occasionally something that sounds like it wants to be medical terminology for an emotional response.

You move through them steadily, discussing which pieces travel well, which ones are too large, which ones have the particular quality that works in a curated space rather than a solo exhibition. Usopp has opinions, and this surprises you for approximately thirty seconds before you remember who you're dealing with.

"Not that one," he says, at the sixth piece. "The composition's too interior. It needs its own room."

You look at him. "How do you know that?"

"I build things," he says, slightly defensively. "I understand space."

"He's right, actually," Chopper says, from somewhere behind a large canvas.

"Thank you, Chopper."

"I'm just saying what I see."

"That's what good criticism is," you tell Usopp, and watch him try not to look pleased about it.

The shortlist forms slowly, argued over with good humor, Chopper occasionally weighing in with the perspective of someone who knows very little about formal art and a great deal about emotional response, which turns out to be exactly as useful as technical knowledge in different ways. You listen to both of them. You find yourself laughing more than you expected: at Usopp's embellishments, at Chopper's earnest tangents, at the particular energy of working through something you love with people who want to understand it.

At some point, the decision gets made. The right piece was identified, agreed upon, and set carefully aside.

And then the conversation continues anyway, because none of you moves to end it.

Time does its unhelpful thing again.

You realize it's significantly later than when you first noticed Chopper had gone quiet. You glance over and find him curled against a folded canvas, his hat tilted forward over his face, his small chest rising and falling with the slow evenness of proper sleep. The lantern nearest him has burned low.

You and Usopp are sitting close, shoulders touching, both of you cross-legged on the floor with a piece propped against the wall in front of you that Usopp has been talking about for the better part of twenty minutes. Your chin is resting on your knees, and you're watching him more than the piece.

"—and so what I think it's actually about," he's saying, with the focused energy of someone deep in a theory, "is not the water at all. The water is incidental. What she's actually painting is the moment before the decision. See how the horizon line sits here?" He points, tracing the air in front of the canvas. "It's not a destination, it's a threshold. She's not showing you where the person is going, she's showing you that they're about to go."

You look at the piece, at the horizon line he's pointing to, the quality of light in the upper third that you'd spent four hours on, the figure at the bottom that is more suggestion than shape.

"And the figure is small," he continues, "which everyone always reads as vulnerability, but I think it's scale. She's making the threshold big, not the person small. She's saying—" He stops, as if only just noticing that you've gotten silent, and glances at you. "What?"

"Nothing," you say.

"You're making a face."

"I'm not making a face."

"You're making the face you make when someone says something that's more right than you expected."

You look at him. He's watching you with that quality he has sometimes — underneath the performance, underneath the stories, the person who sees things clearly and quietly and doesn't always know what to do with that clarity. He's close enough that you can feel the warmth of him in the cool of the hold, close enough that Chopper's soft snoring is the only sound between you.

"That's exactly what it's about," you say, quietly.

He blinks. "Really?"

"Really."

"I thought I was embellishing. Maybe workiing some of that 'Usopp Magic', I was telling you about earlier."

"You weren't. Embellishing that is, because I am certainly charmed by your 'Usopp Magic'."

He looks back at the piece, and something in his expression shifts; the particular quality of someone receiving information that changes how they understand something they've been looking at. "Huh," he says.

"Huh," you agree.

Quiet settles between you, easy and warm. The lantern casts soft light across the canvas, over Chopper's sleeping form, over Usopp's profile as he looks at the painting with new eyes. You watch him, the familiar pleasure of having your work understood mixing with something less familiar. The specific warmth of being understood by this person, in this hold, at this hour.

He turns and finds you already looking. Neither of you says anything for a beat.

The space between you is already small, and it becomes smaller, gradually, the way these things do when neither person moves away. Not dramatically, not all at once, just the slow gravitational shift of two people in a quiet space who have been talking honestly for hours and have run out of reasons to maintain a careful distance.

His nose brushes yours first, then the kiss.

Soft, and slow, and entirely without performance. No story around it, no embellishment, just Usopp being honest in the way he is when he stops trying to be anything else.

His hand finds your arm, light and uncertain, asking rather than assuming, and you lean into it, and the kiss stays exactly what it is: tender, and warm, and real in the particular way of things that aren't trying to be more than they are.

When you separate, his eyes open slowly. There's something in them that is slightly stunned and entirely unguarded.

"Oh," he says.

"Yeah," you say.

A pause. "Was that—"

"Yes," you say.

"Okay." He exhales. "Okay. Good." A beat. "Great, actually."

You laugh, soft enough not to wake Chopper, and he laughs too, the helpless kind, and then you're both pressing your hands over your mouths trying to contain it, shoulders shaking, until it winds down into something warm and residual that sits in the hold around you like a second light source.

"Usopp," you say, when you can.

"Mm."

You look at Chopper, small and deeply asleep against his canvas, his hat askew. "I promised him earlier that I'd cuddle with him tonight."

Usopp follows your gaze. "Right."

"Do you want to stay?" you ask. "Both of you, I mean. All three."

He looks at you, and the expression that crosses his face is soft in a way he doesn't usually let through. "Yeah," he says. "I'd like that."

It takes some rearranging.

Chopper wakes up halfway through being moved, blinks at you with the profound betrayal of the recently interrupted, and then registers what's happening and assists by burrowing immediately into the center of the situation and claiming the warmest available position with the efficiency of someone who has been planning this for days.

The blankets that get involved are a matter of negotiation and eventual compromise. The lanterns are turned low. The ship rocks.

Eventually — after Chopper changes positions twice, and after Usopp gets an elbow somewhere unpleasant and reposition with minimal complaint, after you find the configuration that actually works — you go still.

You're on your side, facing out. Usopp is behind you, his arm settled over you with the careful uncertainty of someone making sure this is wanted, and you press back into him slightly to answer the question he didn't ask. His arm settles more fully, his breath evens out against the back of your neck.

Chopper is tucked against your front, small and warm, his hat abandoned somewhere to your left, his face perfectly peaceful in the low light. Your arm is around him. He makes a small sound in his sleep, satisfied, like someone who has arrived exactly where they intended to be.

The hold is warm as the ship moves beneath you all, gentle and constant.

You lie in the comfortable tangle of them. Usopp's steady warmth at your back, Chopper's soft weight against your chest? and look at the painting you chose, still propped against the far wall where you left it, the threshold and the figure and the horizon line that Usopp read correctly without knowing he was doing it.

Tomorrow it will hang somewhere new, on an island you're soon to leave. Someone who doesn't know you will stand in front of it and bring their own meaning to it, the way people do, the way you always knew they would and chose to allow.

She's not showing you where the person is going. She's showing you that they're about to go.

You close your eyes. Usopp's arm tightens slightly, dreaming or awake, and Chopper's ear twitches once and is still.

The ship carries all you forward into the dark, as you drift off to sleep.

     ‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

You surface slowly, recognizing different aspects of your surroundings to orient yourself.

Warmth first, the particular kind that comes from being surrounded rather than just covered. The familiar rock of the ship beneath you. Chopper's soft weight against your chest, still perfectly asleep, one ear twitching with whatever he's dreaming. Usopp's arm still settled over you both, his breathing the slow, even rhythm of someone who won't be waking for a while yet.

You blink.

The hold is dim, the lanterns burned down to almost nothing, but there's a thread of early light coming through the small window near the ceiling. Pale and grey-blue, the specific color of not-quite-morning, the hour that belongs to neither night nor day.

You blink again. Something is off. You can't name it immediately, just the faint pull of instinct, the sense of a changed variable somewhere in the space. You let your eyes adjust, scanning slowly, and then—

There is a face above you.

Upside down, and all too close. Dark eyes looking directly into yours with the particular quality of someone who has been waiting, with great patience, for exactly this moment of realization.

You stare up at Luffy, while he stares down at you.

His body is oriented the opposite way from yours — he must have approached from the other end of the hold to be like this and the effect is thoroughly disorienting. Like the world has been gently rotated and no one told you. His hair falls downward toward your face, completely unbothered by any of this.

Something in your chest does a helpless, warm thing.

"Good morning," you say, soft and sleepy and genuinely happy to see him in the blurred, undefended way of someone not yet fully awake.

You close your eyes again and press back into the warmth behind you, settling deeper, ready to go back to bed.

You hear a huff of laughter, low and quiet, shaped specifically to not wake the others. Then his shadow shifts, and the thin line of dawn coming through the window disappears as he leans over it — covering the light, closer now, close enough that you can feel the changed quality of the air near your face.

"Seems like someone forgot about ship tradition already," he says. The tone is light, but there's something running underneath it, something that's paying more attention than the casual delivery suggests. "No kiss for your captain?"

A pause, weighted with something playful. "Very rude."

The words reach you in stages, and when you realize what was said, your eyes fly open.

You start to push yourself up, and you make it approximately four inches before you remember, too late, that Luffy's face is directly above yours and he has not moved.

The kiss happens before either of you finishes processing it.

Your mouth meets his, or his meets yours, and there's a second of mutual stillness, both of you absorbing the fact of it, and then it's over, and you're blinking at each other in the pale early light. Both of you were slightly stunned, two people who had just done something that neither of them was precisely expecting.

Luffy pulls back the remaining inch. His eyes are bright, even in the dim light, and the grin that crosses his face is slow and thoroughly pleased with itself and the universe for engineering this specific sequence of events.

"Well," he says cheerfully. "That certainly fixes that."

You press your lips together against the laugh that wants to happen, aware of Chopper and Usopp still sleeping. "That was an accident," you whisper.

"Hmm, was it?" He sounds deeply unconvinced and entirely unbothered by the distinction.

"You were in the way."

"I was right where I was supposed to be." He tilts his head, looking at you in that way he does. Not the surface grin, the thing underneath it, the attention that is sharper and warmer and more serious than the packaging suggests. "Come watch the sunrise with me."

It's not quite a question, but it's not quite a command either. Something in between that is distinctly Luffy. The assumption that you'll want to, offered as an invitation rather than a demand, with enough space in it that you could say no.

You were never going to say no.

"Give me a minute," you whisper.

He nods and straightens, disappearing from your immediate sightline, and you turn your attention carefully to the situation you're in. Usopp is deeply asleep, his face relaxed into something younger than his usual expression, the tension he carries when he's performing fully absent. Chopper is a small warm weight against your chest, his breathing the deep, contented rhythm of someone who has spent a good night exactly where they wanted to be.

You move slowly, carefully. The practiced stillness of someone extracting themselves from sleeping people they don't want to wake.

You lean down first to Chopper, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He makes a small sound, adjusts, but doesn't wake.

Then you turn, and press a kiss to Usopp's cheek — warm and quiet, as close to a thank you as you can make it without words. His nose wrinkles slightly before he settles again.

You smile at the cuteness of both crew members before turning and finding Luffy waiting in the doorway with his hand extended, patient, grinning at nothing in particular.

You take his hand, following him as he takes you to his desired sunrise watching spot. The ship is quiet at this hour, as quiet as it can be with this crew. The water rocks the boat gently, as the distant cry of a bird somewhere off the starboard side that briefly startles you.

Luffy moves through it with the ease of someone who belongs to all hours equally, who finds no particular magic in the early morning over any other time except that it's quiet and he likes quiet in small doses. His hand stays loosely around yours, leading without pulling, the pace unhurried.

Up through the ship, through the warm dimness of the lower decks, up the stairs to the main deck where the air opens, and the sky becomes visible. He doesn't stop there, tipping his head upward.

You follow his gaze to the crow's nest, to the masthead above it, and then back to him.

"Up?" you ask.

"Best view," he says simply.

You nod, while silently thinking that this might be pushing your luck on your healing injuries, but you are willing to do it. You've climbed higher things for worse reasons.

But to your surprise, Luffy wraps an arm around you, bringing you firmly to his side, while his other stretches out and grabs one of the Sunny's mane pieces before slinging both of you to the top. A breathless gasp comes from your mouth as Luffy laughs at the sound, apparently finding much humor in it.

When you both finally rearrange yourselves comfortably, do you finally take a chance to look and see your new view: the island spreading out around you on one side and the open ocean on the other, and you understand immediately why it's his favorite spot.

The sky at this height is enormous.

At pre-dawn, the sky is not one color but a gradient of them, the deep blue-grey of true night still at the western edge, while the east has begun to bruise purple and amber at the horizon's line. The island below is still mostly dark, its lights few and scattered. The water catches what color there is and multiplies it, shifting.

You sit beside him, and for a moment neither of you speaks, just watches.

"You picked a good morning for it," you say eventually.

"They're all good," he says. Not as a platitude, instead almost like a fact he has actually verified, over years of watching them from various mastheads and clifftops and improbable perches. "Some are better, but there's no bad one."

You look at his profile, the dawn light just beginning to find it, picking out the scar under his eye, the particular set of his jaw, relaxed right now, easy.

"Luffy," you say. "Why were you up? Really."

He glances at you. "Wanted to see you."

"We could have talked at breakfast."

"Could have," he agrees. "But then everyone's there." He looks back at the horizon. "This is better."

You let that sit for a moment, feeling the shape of it — the particular compliment of someone who is generous with themselves, who shares himself widely, choosing to give you something more specific. A morning, a view. Just him.

"It is better," you admit.

He grins, and the grin tips sideways into something more private. "See?"

The conversation finds its rhythm after that, the way conversations do when the setting is right, the hour is quiet, and neither person has anything to perform. You talk about the island; what you found in it, what surprised you, the library and the gallery and the market and the particular quality of the afternoon light on the water. He tells you about his day, which involves a fruit stall confrontation that escalated in a direction you don't entirely follow but which ended with Nami getting three things for free and Sanji threatening violence that might have helped in speeding things along.

"Did you actually cause a problem?" you ask.

He considers. "Hmm, a small one."

"How small?"

"Nami only yelled for a little while," he says, which you are coming to understand as the unit of measurement for Luffy-related chaos. "And there wasn't a physical fight, which would have made it more fun, but at least Nami got things for free, so it was classified as a win."

"That's efficient problem-solving."

"I thought so," he says, comfortably.

You lean back on your hands, the figurehead solid beneath you, the wind moving through your hair at this height, carrying salt and the faint sweetness of whatever is growing on the island's interior. The sun is properly arriving now, the horizon turning from amber to gold, the first curve of it showing above the water line.

You watch it rise.

"Are you happy you came?" Luffy asks you, breaking the silence.

"Yes," you say.

"Even with—" he gestures vaguely, which you understand to encompass Vane and the tunnels and the bruises that are still fading and the life you packed into crates and carried a stranger's ship aboard on a few days' acquaintance.

"Even with," you confirm before pausing. "It's strange, I planned to leave for a long time. I thought it would feel more like running." You watch the light on the water. "It doesn't."

"What does it feel like?"

You think about it, actually. "Like arriving," you say. "Which doesn't make sense, because I've been moving since—"

"Makes complete sense," he says, light-hearted and unbothered."You can move toward things and away from things. Different feeling." He looks at you. "You were moving away for a long time, and now you're not."

The simplicity of it, the way he cuts to the center of things without ceremony, lands somewhere quiet in your chest.

"You do that," you say.

"Do what?"

"Say the right thing without knowing it's the right thing."

He blinks before giving you a charming smile. "I just say what's true."

"That's what I mean."

He looks briefly pleased, then puzzled, then lets it go in the way he lets most things go. Not because they don't matter, but because they've already been received, and he doesn't need to hold on to them. He shifts, drawing one knee up, his elbow resting on it, looking out at the full gold morning.

"I want to talk to you about something," he says.

The change in register is small, but you've been around him long enough now to hear it. The place where the lightness doesn't disappear but deepens into something more serious underneath. You straighten slightly.

"Okay," you say.

"It's about the crew," he starts. "How it works, how we work." He pauses, gathering it. "You should know."

You wait.

"Jinbe, Chopper, and Brook—" he begins, "—they're my crew. They're family. But the romantic stuff, that's not where they are. Jinbe is Jinbe. Brook has his music. Chopper has his medicine." He says it without apology, simply placing each person where they actually are. "That's not how they show love to the crew. Doesn't mean they love less."

You nod, following.

"Franky's different," he continues. "He's dabbled in poly relationships, if he's interested in someone that the crew has brought in. He's not against it, but he moves slowly, and whatever happens there would be up to both of you. No pressure from me, him, or the crew. No expectation." He glances at you. "You'd know if it was going somewhere."

You think of Franky — his enormity, his enthusiasm, the way he'd called you super on the first day and meant it entirely. "Okay," you say.

Luffy nods. "The others…" and here something in his expression shifts into something more comfortable, like he's moved into territory he knows well. "Sanji and Nami find each other often. That's been a thing for a while." He says it plainly, not as gossip, just facts. "Robin and Zoro pair off. They're good together in ways that are quieter than you'd expect from either of them."

You think of Robin in the library, and Zoro in the alley, and how neither of those things surprised you once you stopped to look.

"Zoro and Sanji—" Luffy makes a face that is complicated and fond simultaneously, "—they'd die before they admitted it works, which is funny because it obviously does. They're too similar in the ways they won't say out loud."

You file this away with interest.

"Usopp tends toward me and Nami," he continues, and there's genuine warmth when he says it, the particular warmth of someone describing something that is good and uncomplicated in his experience of it. He looks at you then, briefly. "He's going to be good to you."

"I know," you say, and mean it.

Luffy nods once, satisfied. "I fit into whatever is happening," he says then, about himself, with the same ease he might describe his preferred food or his sleep schedule. "That's just how it is. I'm not built for one lane."

"Does that work?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He looks at you like the question is interesting, but the answer is obvious. "It works if you make it work," he says. "And we do." A pause. "Robin and I don't—" he makes a simple gesture that communicates the category without needing the words. "We're close, and we love each other, but not that way. It's different with her, it's just true for us, and we don't push it."

You look at him. At the clear, uncomplicated way he holds all of this; the complex map of his crew and how they move toward and around each other without apparent weight or confusion. Not because it's simple, but because he's looked at it clearly enough that he knows where everything actually sits.

"That's a lot to manage," you eventually say.

"It's not managing," he corrects, gently. "Managing makes it sound like keeping something from falling apart, and we're not that." He looks back at the horizon, at the full gold morning sitting above the water now, the island warm and green below you. "It just is what it is. People love the people they love, and the shape of it is different for everyone. We just—" he shrugs, "don't pretend otherwise."

You're quiet for a moment. "What about me?" you ask. "In all of that. You mentioned others before. So, this isn't the first time?"

He looks at you.

"You fit," he says. Simply. "You already do. And the others were passing flings, for any combination of the crewmates. But never have we all wanted someone so badly, or at least all together. I want you to understand how it works so you're not surprised by things and so you know you can ask about any of it." His expression shifts into something more deliberate. "No one will push you into anything, that's not how we are." He holds your gaze, and the grin is gone now, and what's underneath it is something more fundamental. The captain, the person who decided to take you in and means to take that seriously. "Anything that happens between you and the crew is your choice, always. My word on that."

"Your word," you say.

"I'm the captain," he says, simply. "Which means what I say about how this crew runs is what happens. No exceptions."

The words land with the weight of something structural. Not a promise decorated with feeling, but a principle stated plainly, the way people who actually keep their word tend to speak.

You look at him for a long moment in the morning light. The sun is fully up now, the sky gone gold and blue, the water bright below you. The island is waking up somewhere to your left, its sounds beginning to carry on the wind.

"Luffy," you say.

"Mm."

"I'm really glad it was your crew."

He looks at you, and for a moment, there's no grin, no performance of anything. Just him, looking at you in the honest early light, with the expression of someone receiving something that matters.

Then the grin comes back, enormous and uncomplicated, and he tips sideways and bumps his shoulder into yours with enough force to make you grab one of the pieces of the lion's mane.

"Obviously," he says. "We're the best crew."

"So modest," you say.

"It's not modesty if it's true."

You laugh, and he laughs, as the sound goes up and out over the water and the waking island and the wide gold morning, and you sit together at the top of the world while the ship stirs to life below you and the day begins in earnest.

And sitting here, with the wind in your hair, the sun warm on your face, the crew below you, already waking up and starting the day, with this ridiculous, extraordinary person beside you? It feels exactly like what Luffy said it would feel like.

Like arriving someplace almost like home.

a/n: i cannot believe that tumblr did not want to allow me to post a 27k fic in it's entirety, so that's why it's split into two parts!

thank you for your patience with uploading this! i know i'm a couple days late, but i was struggling with editing, since i would get to it late at night!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! i love you very much, here’s a kiss from me to you 😘

dc masterlist | anime masterlist. | tip jar

taglist: @katbug27 @uniquecutie-puffs @savagenctzen @flow33didontsmoke @mybones537 @fangirlingbookworm1 @jellyjamheadobb

May 1

For about two seconds every morning, before I fully wake up, you're still here with me. Just slipped out of bed right before I woke up, headed to take your morning shower before anyone else steals the bathroom before you. But then when my arm reaches out to your side of the bed, it's cold. And that cold is like a splash of water on my consciousness, as the memories all come flooding back.

Oh mon amour, mon amour, mon amour…

It was never meant to end like this. I swore I would protect you from anything. How could I have been so blind, so foolish? So naive, to not keep you in my sight at all times during such a storm. When i see you again, I will kneel at your feet and beg for your forgiveness, if you would dare have me. I'm sorry, my dearest one, that in the end when you needed me I failed you. I couldn't keep my promise; I couldn't keep you safe.

No one's been quite the same since you've left either. Even Luffy—though he's still pretty boisterous—he's taken to walking around the ship a bunch in the evenings. Like he's trying to keep an eye on everyone on board at the same time. Usopp's been inconsolable, he cried for like the first three days straight before I had enough smacked him on the top of his head. He and I got into a bit of a fight after that before Nami pulled us apart to scold us. She set him to work on making some new type of exploding balls for him to fire from his slingshot—I wasn't paying attention. The work seems good for him though, something to keep him busy.

Nami's been the most normal of the bunch, if you could ever call her 'normal'. Truthfully, she's been one of the main ones keeping us all together. She's even been helping out in the kitchen more, we were running low on supplies and she clocked it before I did…guess I've been slipping up a lot lately. She's been holing herself up in her room a lot more, studying and continuously charting maps of where we've explored, of where you might've ended up. I walked into the kitchen the other morning and she was passed out on the bench with a bunch of books opened to ocean current maps and the stump of a candle melted across the table.

I couldn't say anything. Who am I to talk about another person's sleep schedule when I can barely sleep myself?

Zoro's been acting weird too, that damn mosshead. He and I have been avoiding each other, but anyone with eyes can see the brewing tension between us. If he had been more careful, none of this would've happened. But no, he's here, and you're not. He's training day in and day out, but your smile, your warmth, your laughter?

We will find you. I know you're out there somewhere. You have to be. You have to be.

I need you to be.

May 5

Nami keeps pushing me to keep writing. I think she's been worried for me—I haven't been eating well, if I'm being honest. I eat when I'm hungry, I just, I haven't been hungry lately. I'm pretty sure I've also accidentally made the same meal 3 nights in a row for dinner, not that anyone really noticed or cared.

On this last island we went to, they had these freaky looking animals. Birds that were absolutely massive and wildly different colors too. For a split second, I went to turn to you to joke about them, but…you weren't there.

I

I don't know what to do with it. With all of this. All the love that I have for you, i don't know where to put it. So if you could come back, come back home to me soon, that would be great. I will grovel on my knees for your forgiveness for not being there when you needed me, I won't even speak to you again if you hate me as much as I hate myself—but please, just come back home to me.

May 21

It's been almost two months.

I don't know how the sun keeps rising and falling each day. How there are people out there that can keep living their life, that the days carry on, that the moon still rises each night, that there are so many islands and animals and discoveries to be made, and I have to suffer through it all without you by my side.

It is a strange thing to look at the ocean with such hatred, as a pirate. The very thing that took you from us, from me, and I'm surrounded by it. Even my dream of finding the All Blue feels shallow—you'll never be able to achieve your dream, why should I?

The rest of the crew has practically all moved on. Nami still asks about you on every island, seeing if there's anyone that's washed on shore lately. But the further we travel, the less likely—-

Well, the less likely we'll find anything.

The look afterwards that people give her sickens me. Like a mixture of pity and regret, like we're fools on a fool's errand.

I'm just, I'm so angry all the time now. I'm angry when people look at me like they're afraid I'll slip into the ocean myself to find you, I'm angry every time Luffy laughs, or when Usopp tells his stories, or the way Zoro just sits in the crow's nest and watches the waters, like he thinks that's going to bring you back. I'm so angry, and the worst part is I know, logically, that I have nothing to be angry about. I'm pissed off that the rest of us, that I have to be alive when—

May 22

Zoro and I got into a fight today. Thank God we were on land, otherwise we might've destroyed the ship.

He was being an idiot.

We had landed on this island to restock, all splitting up with different tasks. Nami and Usopp were headed to the market, Luffy had run off in search of food, and Zoro had wandered off to who knows where—probably got lost.

I was going to tag along with Nami and Usopp, but I kept snapping at vendors that Nami forced me to go on a walk out of town.

After a bit of walking through the trees, I found a clearing where Zoro was training. Okay, so maybe I provoked him a little. I was already in a pissy mood that I just, exploded on him. I began nitpicking his training, saying that it didn't do you much good. That if he was strong enough, he wouldn't have needed Luffy's help, that he should've been a gentleman and made sure you were inside first before he headed inside. That he should've found you soon after you fell overboard.

Well, you can guess what happened after that.

I gave as good as I got, I'll have you know.

It went from screaming match to almost leveling the entire forest, before he got a lucky blow in that took me down—all those skipped meals and sleepless nights really caught up to me I guess.

He ended up sitting next to me in that clearing while I caught my breath, and, we ended up having a honest conversation. Ended up telling me about someone he knew as a kid who died pretty young—I didn't know that mosshead could have actual compassion in him, but I guess anything is possible.

And then he gave me your old notebook.

Said that I should carry out your dream, in your place.

At first I got pissed at him again for going through your stuff, but he said that Nami gave it to him a while back. She found it on your desk, and she wanted to give it to me at first, but didn't know if I'd be able to handle it. So, she gave it to Zoro. Figured that if anyone could literally knock some sense into me, it would be him.

I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise to keep you safe, mon amour.

But I will make you this new promise, I will live your dream. I will make it happen, and I will not let your legacy end with you.

You barely register the strain of your own trembling arms, your fingers gripping the overhead railing so hard your knuckles burn white. The pressure of your palms anchors you in the present, reminding you that you’re suspended in that humid, balmy darkness, your body draped over him. Your thighs bracket his, clinging to him for purchase, and your knees thud against the mattress in a steady, building rhythm.

Every muscle in your legs shakes from the effort of holding yourself up, but you refuse to slacken, refuse to let go. It’s as if relinquishing that grip would break the spell you’re under, the one that has him staring up at you, his eyes half-lidded and burning, his own hands forging bruises into your hips.

Sanji hasn’t looked away from your face, not once. Every bounce, every hesitant circle of your hips, every desperate grind—he tracks it all with a hungry patience, as though he’s cataloging every microexpression for future reference. His hands are all over you, sometimes both anchored at your waist, sometimes splaying fingers around your ribcage or snaking up to stroke the column of your throat. When you try to move faster, to chase the friction that’s already setting your nerves on fire, he simply tightens his grip and slows you back down, setting a deliberate pace that has you clenching around him, breathless and on the edge of sobbing.

You whimper, voice hoarse, letting your head fall back as you try to drag yourself down harder onto him. The ache inside you is overwhelming, hunger so sharp it feels like it might turn into pain, but Sanji’s relentless in the way he holds you, the way he draws every motion out just to the edge of unbearable.

“Please,” you gasp out, the word almost unrecognizable in the thick air of the room. You don’t know what you’re begging for. Release, maybe, or just the end of this exquisite torture.

He only laughs, a low, rolling sound that vibrates through your whole body. “No, no, no,” he croons, voice syrupy and cruel. “You don’t get to rush this, baby. Not tonight. Keep those hands right there. That’s why you’re up there in the first place.” He strokes you with the words, makes you feel small and wanton, and you realize you’d do anything he asks of you, just for the reward of that voice, of his approval. “Tonights all about taking our time.”

He keeps you moving, keeps you straining, each upstroke and downstroke orchestrated by the subtle, relentless pressure of his hands. You feel like a marionette, and he’s the puppeteer, pulling your strings with infuriating precision. It should be humiliating, should make you feel powerless, but it’s the opposite. Your entire mind has narrowed down to the perfect, aching alignment of your body to his, the way he fills you, the way he refuses to give you anything you haven’t earned.

You bite down on a moan, try to keep your breathing even as you feel your orgasm approach, but he notices anyway.

“That’s it,” Sanji says, almost purring now, hips thrusting up in time with yours, his own head thrown back as he groans. When his eyes meet yours, they’re dark and lidded, his voice containing a rasp. “Feel it. Don’t hide from it.”

He lets go of your waist with one hand and slides it up your body, trailing his fingertips from hip to ribcage to sternum in one sinuous line. You shudder, and your eyes flutter closed, but he’s not having that; he grabs your chin and tilts your face down so you’re forced to look at him.

He kisses you then, all tongue and teeth and insistent need. It’s not gentle; it’s messy, domineering, and you never want to end. Sanji sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and pulls until it hurts, then shoves his tongue into your mouth. You melt into it, let him have you, and when he finally pulls away, you’re gasping, lips numb and swollen.

He uses that same hand to grab your jaw, squeezing until your mouth falls open on its own, your tongue lolling out for him. The look on his face is pure delight, thrilled at his own power over you. Without warning, he spits into your mouth, and you shiver at the hot slickness of it, at the obscene intimacy. “Swal—,” he starts to order, but you’re already doing it, eager, desperate to please.

You see the approval on his face, feel it in his accidental hip thrust that, and your body thrums with pride. “Good girl,” he says. “That’s what I like. Love it when you listen to me. You’ve been so good, I think it’s time for your reward, don’t you think?”

He shifts underneath you, adjusts his angle, and the new position makes you see stars. You whine at the sudden, perfect pressure, and he grins up at you, wicked. “Can you take more?” he asks, his voice almost gentle now, a dark promise.

You nod, speechless, and he brings both hands to grip your waist again, this time rolling his own hips up into you so that the force of it nearly knocks the wind out of your chest. You cry out, choked, and the sound makes his pupils dilate, his cock twitching inside you. He starts to fuck up into you in earnest, meeting every bounce with a thrust that leaves you writhing, your body slick with sweat and trembling with effort.

‘Fuck, thank you for being so good to me. God, you’re incredible like this, the way you’re squeezing me.”

He keeps you at that edge forever, until your legs are shaking uncontrollably and your whole body is locked up, rigid with need. You try to hold yourself together, but you’re unraveling under his hands, already verging on tears from the intensity. He watches the whole thing, his gaze sharp and attentive, never missing a single detail.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost reverent now. “So fucking gorgeous like this. Ruined for me.” He leans up just far enough to catch your nipple in his mouth, sucking it hard and biting until you gasp again, then laves over the sting with his tongue. He does the same to the other side, and then pulls back, leaving your chest streaked with saliva and flushed red.

He slows the pace for a moment, just enough for you to catch your breath. Sanji’s pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the color of his irises as he watches you fracture apart beneath his hands. “You want to come?” he growls, voice low and feral. You nod frantically, all dignity lost. “Go ahead and be loud for me.” Is all he says before he brings his thumb down to your clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles that almost make you scream.

It feels like a live wire, pressure so precise it borders on unbearable, each circle dragging you closer to dissolution. You clamp down around him, the sensation too much, and you know you’re going to break. Your own arousal coats the inside of your thigh and his hips, the wet slide of your bodies sounding obscene in the otherwise quiet night, punctuated by his rough breathing and your choked whimpers.

Sanji leans up, mouth at your ear, and says, “Come for me, right now.” You obey, because you can’t do anything else, your body spasming around him in violent, convulsive waves. You sob through it, raw and wrecked, legs locking tight around his hips, and he holds you together, rocking you through every aftershock until you finally collapse against his chest, spent and shaking.

Afterwards, he shifts his hands to cradle your head, running his thumb over the sweat-damp line of your temple as you still tremble, clenching occassionally around his cock. You don’t want to move, not ever, and he seems to know exactly what you feel. Sanji gathers you, an arm banded tight around your back, the other stroking slow patterns from your shoulders down your spine. He holds you there, murmuring praises. “You did so good for me, baby. So good.”

Your body hums with aftershocks, not just in the throbbing ache between your legs but in every cell. For a moment the fear that you’re still too exposed, too wanton, that you’ve crossed some unspoken line and can never go back, flickers through your mind. But then Sanji’s lips are on your cheek, and then your jaw, and then making slow, lazy circuits along your hairline, and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and let yourself drift in the warmth of his praise.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, and you want so badly to believe it that you think maybe you do. You sink into him, equal parts exhausted and wild, and you feel something almost like peace settle over you.

You’re not ready for him to move, but he does, with surprising gentleness. He slides his hands under your thighs and flips you, rolling you onto your back and pinning you to the damp sheets with his weight. You blink up at him, dazed, your arms splayed out like you’ve been crucified by pleasure.

He nudges your legs wider, presses in, still hard enough to make you whimper at the sudden stretch. “Lemme fill you up,” he murmurs, words slurred with need, and he fucks you deeply now, the rhythm heady and unrestrained, every thrust pushing you deeper into mattress and into him.

You can feel how desperate he is now, the way he shudders and flexes his jaw, the way Sanji keeps his eyes locked on your face. He barely speaks, just a tumble of curses and gasps and endearments, “God, you’re so beautiful like this—fuck, the way you squeeze me, you’re dripping,” His voice cracks as he focuses on picking up the speed, your back arching up to meet him, nails scoring lines down his back in a desperate clutch. You’re oversensitive, overstimulated, but he keeps going, chasing his own oblivion with single-minded greed.

“You’re perfect, meant for me, only me.” It’s a prayer and a promise and a warning all at once, and you find yourself helpless beneath it.He comes with a guttural sound, buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit in a bruising, messy climax. The sensation sets off another, smaller orgasm that ripples through you, making you sob and cling, your legs locked tight around his hips.

He slumps, heavy and hot, blanketing you with his body. You could die like this, you think. You’d let him crush you into the mattress, leave the world behind, as long as it means you’re held this close. Sweat cools between your skin and his, and you’re both breathing in time, chests rising and falling as if you share the same rhythm.

You don’t know how long you lie there, fused together, his arms tangled around your shoulders, his nose buried in your hair. When he finally softens and slides out, you whimper at the sensation, the emptiness, but he hushes you, rolling you gently to your side and spooning up behind you.

You’re shaking, you realize—shock, or maybe just the body’s way of recalibrating. He wraps himself around you, legs tangled with yours, hands splayed over your belly, and hands caress you slowly, like he’s trying to settle your bones.

“Shhhh,” he whispers, mouth at your ear, “I got you. You did so good for me, angel. You can let go now, relax. I’m not going anywhere.” You feel the press of his lips into your shoulder, the soft, almost chaste kisses that trail along your spine. You want to turn around and see his face, but you’re too spent.

Your mind fizzes with static. You expect the silence to be awkward, but instead it’s vast, full of meaning, like the hush between thunderclaps. You don’t know what to say, or if you even can.

The room is humid and heavy with the scent of sex, sweat, something wild and animal and new. Your hair is pasted to your forehead, your thighs still slick, your body marked with his teeth and hands. You wonder if you’re ruined, if you’ll ever be able to walk around in the daylight without betraying the memory of this moment.

He doesn’t let you drift too far. Sanji buries his face in the crook of your neck and breathes you in, his hand tracing lazy circles over your hip. “Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, the question gentle but insistent. You shake your head, but he lifts himself enough to look at you, really look, blue eyes searching for any waver, any lie.

He picks up your hand, brings your wrist to his mouth, and presses a kiss to the inside of it, right over your racing pulse. “You can tell me, sweetheart. Did I push too hard?”

“No,” you manage, voice hoarse from use and emotion. “It was perfect.”

His smile is soft, slow. “Good. I want you to tell me if anything ever isn’t perfect.” He kisses you again, this time on the lips, slow and reverent. “You did so good, honey. You’re incredible. I’m so, so—I’m just—fuck, you’re everything.”

You laugh, a ragged sound, and suddenly you feel the burn of tears at the corners of your eyes, hot and unbidden. You’re not sad, not even overwhelmed; it’s just that something about being seen, being praised, being held so tightly and so completely, unlocks a well inside you that you didn’t know existed. When you start to cry, Sanji just hugs you closer, gentle hands stroking your hair and your back, murmuring nonsense and endearments until the tears dry up and you’re left empty and luminous and free.

You could stay like this for hours. You’re not sure how much time passes before he eventually shifts, gathering you up and rolling the both of you to the far side of the bed. He tucks the sheet around your shoulders and arranges your limbs so you’re cradled into his chest, your face pressed against the fluttery beat of his heart.

He smells like smoke and sweat and something faintly citrus, and you inhale it, greedy for more of him. He cards his fingers through your hair, untangling the knots left by your previous exertions, and every gentle tug sends a new shiver up your spine.

You’re so relaxed you could melt, and yet you’re more awake than you’ve ever been. Your mind skips ahead to the consequences, the morning after, the dangers of letting yourself be this soft. But all of those fears are drowned out by the simple, animal rightness of being here, in this bed, with him.

“You’re not gonna leave after this, are you?” you mumble, so tired your tongue fumbles the sentence. It’s a stupid question, he’s just as ruined as you, clearly, but you can’t help it.

He laughs, a soft puff against your temple. “You think I could let you go after that? I’m keeping you, baby. I’m never letting go.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, heavier than the sheet, and you let yourself believe them, just for tonight.

At some point he gets up, cleans you both up with a towel and a glass of water, fussing over you, making sure you’re warm and safe and comfortable before he returns to your side. He pulls you back into his arms and kisses your forehead, whispering, “I love you like this. Completely wrecked and all mine.”

You don’t answer right away. You just close your eyes and let yourself drift, held together by the arms that shattered you. Even as sleep overtakes you, you know you’ll never want anything less than this; than being wanted, being claimed, being ruined and remade in the space of a single night.

He doesn’t let you go, not yet. “Now lemme fill you up.” He flips both of you in one smooth motion, pinning you to the bed with his weight. You’re still oversensitive, still riding the edge of pleasure and pain, but he’s not done with you. He thrusts into you again, harder this time, chasing his own release. He murmurs various things along the lines of how well you fit him, the way you’re sucking him in, and how he wants to keep you filled with him. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, and he bites your shoulder to stifle his own groan.

You feel him pulse inside you, his hips grinding against yours, and the sensation triggers a second, smaller orgasm, leaving you gasping and boneless. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, and you both lie there tangled together, silent except for the pounding of your hearts.

Eventually, he pulls out, careful and gentle, and you whimper at the loss. He rolls to the side and gathers you up, pressing your face into his chest. You can feel his heart beating, steady and strong, and it lulls you into a hazy calm.

He runs his fingers through your hair, untangling it, and you realize you never want to move from this spot. Not ever.

He presses a kiss to your forehead and whispers, “I love you like this. Completely wrecked and all mine.”

a/n: and guess what? i have older 40s! zoro written and an idea for older 40s! luffy. i clearly have a problem.

what’s that rihanna say? must be smut on the brain!

but in reality, this is loosely tied with that little blurb i did on older 40s! straw hat crew, if you wanted to go check that out.

as always, thank you for reading! likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! here's a little kiss from me to you to thank you!

wanna read more? check out some of the links below! wanna request something (open till may 15th), read the rules first!

“It’s a little much,” you admit.

Nami materializes behind you in the mirror, arms crossed and wearing a triumphant smile. Her eyes wander over your reflection, and an unexpected flutter of nerves stirs within you.

“Trust me.”

Behind her, Robin leans against the doorway, clearly amused, but also unabashedly looking. “It suits you.”

You exhale softly, shaking your head just a little. “Okay.”

And before you can overthink it any further, they guide you back out onto the deck. The night has settled into something quieter now. Conversations are lower, the lanterns casting a soft glow over the wood, the ocean stretching endlessly in the background.

Sanji, Luffy, Zoro, and Usopp are gathered together, mid-conversation, until you step into view.

Everything stops.

Sanji freezes completely, his gaze locking onto you as if he forgot how to move. He exhales something that sounds suspiciously like your name, low and breathless, like it slipped out without permission. Luffy blinks once, then twice, his expression going slack in genuine surprise. His eyes flicker from you, to his crewmates, and back to you, something in his eyes you’re unable to name. Usopp’s jaw drops outright.

“Wow,” he manages.

Zoro doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow slightly as they follow you, taking in the change with quiet intensity.

Behind you, Nami lets out a satisfied laugh. “See? I told you.”

Robin hums in agreement. “They do look rather struck.”

You turn slightly, eyes widening as realization hits. “You did this on purpose?”

“Obviously,” Nami replies without shame.

You laugh softly under your breath as you turn back toward them. You must admit, having all their attention and obvious attraction really does do something for the ego.

Sanji is already moving toward you, something you can’t quite pin in his eyes, but before he can fully reach you, Nami claps her hands lightly. “Alright,” she says smoothly, “time for bed.”

She gestures back toward the room, like it’s the most obvious next step. What you don’t see is the wicked smile she gives her crewmates after successfully teasing them with the sight of you looking soft, sweet, and practically theirs.

You pause, blinking slightly, thrown off by the abrupt change, surveying the room to then glance at her. “Oh.”

Your gaze shifts instinctively to Sanji, your eyes widening just a bit. You don’t say anything, but it’s clear what you’re thinking. You thought you’d be staying with him.

Sanji catches it immediately, and something in his expression softens into something warmer and more pleased than before, and he closes the distance between you without hesitation. His hand finds yours easily, like it belongs there, and he lifts it just enough to press a soft kiss to the back of it.

“I’d be honored,” he says quietly, voice low and sincere, “to spend the night with you.”

The tension leaves your shoulders almost instantly. You smile, a little shy but clearly relieved. “Okay.”

Sanji’s posture shifts just slightly, something satisfied settling into him as he glances over your head at the others. The look he gives them is subtle, but unmistakable.

She chose me.

Luffy notices, and never one to back down, grins wickedly once he has an idea.

“I’ve got it!” he suddenly announces.

Everyone looks at him, confusion clear on their faces.

“Got what?” Usopp asks, already suspicious.

Luffy beams, turning to look only at you as he continues. “On this ship, everyone has to say goodnight to the captain and give him a hug.”

There’s a pause, and Zoro stares at him flatly. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Luffy replies stubbornly, giving his first mate a look before turning back to look at you.

“That’s not how that works.” The swordsman responded, his tone carrying a distinctive, annoyed tone.

Robin smiles faintly, clearly catching on before anyone else. “Well,” she says lightly, stepping forward, “it would be rude not to follow tradition.”

She moves to Luffy, wrapping him in a gentle, composed hug before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, captain.”

As she steps away, she gives the others a look, subtle but clear. Play along.

Usopp sighs dramatically. “Fine.” He steps forward next, giving Luffy a quick hug. “Goodnight, captain.”

“See?!” Luffy says triumphantly. “It’s real!”

Nami rolls her eyes but follows anyway, giving Luffy a quick hug and a light kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight.”

You watch, amused, then glance expectantly at Zoro. He doesn’t move.

“First mate exception,” he says simply.

“That’s not—” Usopp starts.

“Pirate rules.”

Nami snorts, giving him a pointed look. “Convenient.”

Your attention shifts to Sanji, who suddenly looks far less pleased now that all eyes are on him.

“You’re serious,” he mutters.

You smile slightly, clearly expecting him to follow through.

He exhales, clearly resigned. “Fine.”

Before stepping forward, his hand tightens around yours, pulling you along with him. “You’re the whole reason why he’s insisting on doing this anyway,” he mutters under his breath. You laugh softly as he leads you forward.

Luffy opens his arms wide, entirely pleased with himself. “See! Everyone does it!”

Sanji steps in first, giving Luffy a hug before stepping aside, but not far, because he’s already guiding you forward.

You step into Luffy’s space, his arms wrapping around you easily. The hug is warm, relaxed, and surprisingly natural. He leans in slightly, his face brushing near your neck in a way that feels familiar, even though it shouldn’t.

You adjust instinctively, hugging him back, and when you pull away, you don’t think about it. You lean in just slightly and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Quick, easy, and natural.

When you step back, it’s right into Sanji, who’s already there, arms settling around you immediately, pulling you back into his space without hesitation.

Luffy grins, feeling victorious over his perceived win. Usopp groans under his breath while Zoro scoffs, attempting to appear unaffected by Nami laughing openly. Robin simply watches on, thoughtful and obviously deep in thought, looking at the group, trying to figure something out.

Sanji doesn’t look at any of them; his focus is back on you, exactly where it’s been all night.

“Come on,” Nami says, already turning toward the room.

You follow with the girls, still smiling, Sanji close behind you, not letting distance form again. And as you walk away, he spares one last glance over his shoulder at the others, a quiet, smug satisfaction settling in his expression.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The room settles into a quiet warmth once the door closes behind the group.

It’s not the same kind of silence you’re used to in your gallery; heavy, watchful, filled with things unsaid. This one is softer, lived-in, and safe in a way that feels unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

Sanji lingers just behind you for a moment, like he’s giving you space to adjust, even though he hasn’t strayed far since you stepped inside.

“You can take the bed,” he says, voice low, gentler than it’s been all night. “I’ll—”

You turn before he can finish, already shaking your head. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“It wouldn’t be the first—”

“Sanji.”

There’s a small firmness in your tone that makes him pause. You soften immediately after. “You don’t have to do that.”

He studies you for a second, something shifting in his expression, then turns away briefly—hand moving to his face, a quiet exhale—before looking back at you. “Alright.”

There’s no argument after that. He moves closer instead, and there’s a moment of quiet negotiation—a shift of weight, a murmured sorry, an elbow briefly in the wrong place—before it resolves itself naturally.

The covers settle around you. The mattress dips as he lies down beside you, careful and deliberate, leaving a breath of space between you that neither of you quite addresses.

Then his arm slips around you, slow. Testing. When you don’t pull away, something in him seems to ease, and he draws you in the rest of the way—your back finding his chest, his warmth immediate and even, like something you didn’t know you were cold without.

One hand rests at your waist. The other tucks just beneath your arm, loose enough that you could move if you wanted to.

“This is nice,” you say quietly, into the dark.

A soft huff of laughter stirs your hair. His lips press briefly to the top of your head. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “You’re warm.”

“You don’t seem like the type to complain about that.”

“I’m not,” he says, and means it.

The room goes still. You can feel his breathing now, the slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your back, the small unconscious movement of his thumb along your side. Unhurried.

“Does your crew always take in strangers?” you ask, after a while.

There’s a shift behind you, the suggestion of movement, reconsidered. His voice comes low, close to your ear. “You’re not a stranger.”

Too quick, too easy.

“Sanji.”

“I mean it.” A pause, the ship settling around you. “We don’t just let anyone on board.”

Another pause, longer. “And we definitely don’t invite just anyone to stay.”

Something in his tone stops you, not the words themselves but the absence of performance in them, the way they land without flourish or decoration.

“Then why me?” The question slips out before you can stop it. A longer pause follows. Behind you, you feel him shift slightly, the slow rise of his chest pausing for just a moment.

“You walked into trouble and didn’t hesitate,” he says finally. “You helped us without knowing who we were.”

You draw a short breath, but his voice continues, low and unhurried. “You look at things like you’re trying to understand them. Not just see them.” A beat. “And you didn’t run.”

His arm tightens around you, a small and deliberate thing.

“That’s kind of funny,” you say quietly, “considering I’ve been running for a long time.”

“I know.” Not a guess, something steadier than that, like a door he’s already looked behind. His hand moves, fingertips brushing a strand of hair from your face with a patience that feels almost careful.

“You don’t have to tonight.”

You turn just slightly toward him, enough that the space between you closes by another inch. In the low dark, his eyes are different—the usual brightness in them gone soft, the way a lamp looks through frosted glass.

“You’re very convincing,” you murmur.

Sanji’s lips curved in a smile that wasn’t his usual, showy bravado but something gentler, a real delight in the way the words seemed to move through him. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he just looked at you, gaze searching and intent, as if he was cataloging every contour of your face and every emotion flickering across it, refusing to let the moment pass unacknowledged. “I’ve been told that.”

You hesitate, then reach up to rest your hand lightly against his chest.

“I’m glad you came back.”

Something in his expression changes. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I was always going to.”

Quiet and certain. You don’t answer, letting the words land and find a home in your mind for you to repeat constantly.

You settle back into him after that. His arms find you again more easily this time, one hand resting at your waist, the other loose against your arm. His chin comes to rest near your temple. Outside, the ship makes its small sounds; the creak of wood, the low pull of water against the hull.

Morning arrives in thin strips of gold across the floor. You surface slowly, aware of the warmth at your back before anything else, the solid weight of his arm still across you, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The room smells faintly of salt, with something warmer underneath.

You shift slightly, and his arm tightens, letting you know he’s awake.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, still mostly asleep.

“Morning,” you say softly.

Neither of you moves as the moment holds itself open a little longer than it needs to, unhurried, before the day begins to press in at the edges.

“I should go.”

He nods slowly against your hair. “I’ll walk you.”

When you step onto the deck, you expect only the soft creak of oak beneath your boots and the faint hiss of waves against the hull. Instead, there they stand, already waiting in the pale glow of dawn.

Luffy leans easily against the polished railing, one foot crossed over the other, his straw hat tilted back just enough to catch the rising sun. Nami stands beside him, arms folded, her bright hair catching the morning light like spun copper. A gentle breeze lifts a few strands of Robin’s dark hair as she lingers just behind them, serene and composed.

As you emerge, Luffy’s face brightens into a grin that feels like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Morning!” he calls, voice as lively as the gulls wheeling overhead.

You blink, surprised by the company and the warmth in his tone. “Morning.”

Nami’s amber eyes flick from you to Sanji, who stands a few paces back, arms crossed in mock impatience. “You look well-rested,” she observes, the soft lilt of her compliment drifting on the sea air.

Your cheeks warm. “I slept well.”

“Good,” Robin replies in her calm, measured voice. The wood underfoot creaks softly as a gull cries overhead. For a heartbeat, nobody speaks. The sun climbs a little higher, painting the deck in warm gold. Then Luffy straightens, hands flying to his hips as if about to embark on some grand declaration. “We’re having a party tonight.”

You swallow against the salt breeze. “A party?”

“Yeah!” He beams. “A send-off party.”

The word makes your heart stumble. “Send-off?”

Nami steps forward, voice gentle. “We’ll be leaving soon. There’s a new island up ahead.”

“New adventure,” Luffy adds with a carefree shrug, as if exploring uncharted shores is the most ordinary thing in the world. Because to them, it is.

Your chest tightens, a mixture of excitement and sorrow knotting in your ribs. “Oh.”

Robin’s dark eyes study you with quiet kindness. “It felt appropriate to celebrate before we go,” she says, voice as smooth as calm waters. “And we’d like you to celebrate with us.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears as Luffy leans in, grin wide. “With your friends.”

That last invitation grabs your attention, your gaze flickering from Luffy to Nami, then to Robin, who nods encouragingly. “My friends?”

Nami tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “You said they matter to you.” A small, knowing smile, one that promises warmth and laughter at long wooden tables. “We’d like to meet them properly.”

“And feed them,” Luffy pipes up, voice brimming with his usual glee.

Behind you, Sanji makes a sound low in his throat. “Of course we’re feeding them.” The corner of his mouth pulls upward despite himself.

Luffy nods his head, completely ignoring the chef as he continues on. “All in honor of our departure.” He grins, “And you coming, if you want.”

He says it with no pressure, no grand promises, just the opening of a door to possibility. Not demanding but offering you a chance for something greater than you know.

“We’re always up to take passengers,” he continues, glancing at the horizon where the sky bleeds pink into blue. “If they need it. If they want it.”

Silence settles as you ponder what they’ve said. This isn’t just a dinner, it’s a threshold into something boundless.

You look to Sanji, and he’s already watching, steady and patient. Not pushing you; simply waiting, ready. Your eyes return to Luffy, to the promise in his gaze. “I’ll come tonight, with my friends. And I’ll let you know about anything else.”

“Okay,” Luffy says, and that’s all, it’s enough. No follow-up questions, no rush. Just acceptance, warm as the sunlight pooling on the deck. Nami nods, satisfied, while Robin offers you a soft smile.

Sanji steps forward, his hand finding yours with quiet certainty. It feels like the final brushstroke on a canvas, completing the picture of where you belong.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low as the sea. “I’ll walk you back.”

You let him guide you down, the early morning hush returning around you. Neither of you notices the solitary figure leaning in the shadow of the streetlamp: watching and waiting. Behind you, the stranger lets out a low, satisfied murmur, lips curling into a slow, confident smirk. “Boss is not gonna love this.”

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The gallery receives you the way it always does, the soft collision of turpentine and linseed oil, the particular hush of a room full of things waiting to be looked at. The door clicks shut. You stand there a moment, your hand still on the handle, letting the smell work on you the way it usually does.

It almost works.

You flip the sign and move through the front room, your fingers trailing briefly over the edge of a frame you’ve straightened a hundred times. The morning light falls across the floor in long pale rectangles. Dust turns slowly in it. Everything exactly where you left it.

The back room is cooler. A half-finished canvas leans against the far wall, the underpainting still visible through the upper layers—ochre bleeding through blue where you haven’t yet decided what goes there. Brushes stand bristle-up in a jar of cloudy water. A palette sits crusted at the edges, still soft at the center. The smell back here is thicker, more chemical, less forgiving.

You pull a stool to the workbench and pick up a brush. Turn it once in your fingers.

Just finish, then you can leave. That’s all.

But your mind betrays you.

The piece in front of you blurs. Not literally, the lines are still there, the underpainting still bleeding ochre through the blue, but your focus slides off it. You see his hands instead. The particular way he held yours. The steadiness of his expression when he said there’s space, like it cost him nothing to offer it, like it was simply true.

Your brush drags sideways. You catch it, correct it, dip again. Press the bristles flat against the surface and drag deliberately, the way you do when you’re trying to stay inside your own head.

It almost works. The paint responds, and for a moment, the motion takes over the way it usually does. But then the ochre underneath bleeds through somewhere it shouldn’t, and you think of the color of morning light on the deck, and then you’re gone again.

“Stop,” you say aloud, to no one.

You work faster. Deliberate, mechanical. Load the brush, apply, reload. Don’t look at the underpainting. Don’t think about the way he waited.

The knock comes sharp against the front door—two clean raps—and your hand stills completely.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

You set the brush across the rim of the jar and wipe your hands on the rag tucked into your waistband, moving toward the front with slow, quiet steps.

You open the door.

“Mira.”

Mira bursts through the shop’s battered wooden door, sunlight spilling onto her bright face before she even closes it behind her. “There you are!” she calls, voice ringing off the dust-speckled shelves heavy with glass jars and leather-bound tomes. She crosses the threshold in a single eager stride, the hem of her cloak brushing the floorboards.

Her eyes, sharp and golden, sweep over you in a rapid arc, then pause just long enough to make you self-conscious. “You look different,” she declares, tone half-teasing, half-curious.

You lift an eyebrow. “Different how?”

Her grin flickers wider, lighting up the dim corners of the room. “Good different. Like you actually slept. Or didn’t sleep.”

A rush of warmth glows beneath your ribs. You give a soft laugh. “I did, actually.”

Mira arches one brow, nudges your arm with an elbow clad in patched leather. “Suspicious. Very unlike you.” She studies you closely, as though debating whether you’ve grown taller overnight.

You shake your head, but the smile won’t release. “I stayed with them last night.”

At that, Mira freezes for a breathless heartbeat, then her whole face ignites. “With the pirates?”

“Yes, Mira,” you chuckle, trying to keep your tone bland, hoping it would calm her down. “With the pirates.”

Her excitement makes her tremble, as if she’s about to burst. She clamps a hand on your shoulder. “So things are going well?”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your grin. “It wasn’t—”

“Was he there?” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial hush, impatient as always, and you know instantly that it’s the blond man that she’s been rooting for since the night you all met.

You swallow, words catching. “Well, of course he was, he’s a part of the crew. And they’ve invited all of us to join them for a dinner celebration on it tonight.”

Mira’s grin curls into something wickedly delighted. “Oh, my god.” She leans close, warm breath feathering your ear. “Tell me everything.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can, the door creaks again. Lina slips in, her footsteps hushed. The shop’s dim light pools around her slender form. She’s dressed in muted tones and stands a little back, her dark hair pinned neatly at her neck.

Her gaze finds you, soft and concerned. “There you are.”

You crease your brow. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

Lina glances at the cluttered counter—a battered globe, ceramic cups stacked at odd angles—and back to you. Her fingers rest lightly on the edge of a leather-bound tome. “Because you vanished last night. Are you okay?”

Where Mira’s voice rings and bounces off the shelves, Lina’s settles. You nod. “I’m okay.”

The distant creak of signboards drifts in from outside. Lina exhales, the small line between her brows smoothing out. “Better than okay.”

Mira claps her hands once, sharp as a gavel. “They invited us to dinner!”

Lina blinks. “What?”

You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “They’re having a send-off party tonight.” You pause, fingers finding the edge of the counter. “They’re leaving.”

The words land. Lina’s hand stills against the countertop. The ceramic cups don’t rattle, but it feels like they should. “Leaving.”

“Setting sail soon.” You look at the floor. “New island. New adventures.”

Lina’s dark eyes sharpen. “And they want us there?”

“To celebrate. And—“ you shrug one shoulder, “I think so you can meet them properly.”

Mira throws both hands up toward the low ceiling. “Obviously we’re going.”

Lina breathes out slowly through her nose, her posture settling like a ship finding its balance. “Yeah. We are.”

You look between them. “That was easy.”

“Because it matters to you,” Mira says, and leaves it there.

Lina’s gaze moves over your face the way it does when she’s deciding something. “You’re really thinking about it.”

The truth of it sits somewhere behind your sternum. “I told them I’d decide after tonight.”

Mira’s grin softens at the corners, the wicked delight of earlier gone quiet. “Then we’ll be there.”

Lina nods once. “Yeah. We will.”

You draw a slow breath. The turpentine smell has faded to something almost pleasant. “Okay.”

Mira and Lina don’t stay long after that. They linger just enough for a few more knowing looks, Mira’s fingers drumming once against the doorframe, before she claps her hands with the finality of someone who has already decided everything.

“We’ll tell the boys,” she says, cloak already swinging behind her. “We’ll all meet you at the ship tonight.”

Lina pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Her look is quieter, more careful. “Don’t overthink it before then.”

Then the door pulls shut, and the dust settles back into the shelves.

By the time evening comes in off the water, the ship is unrecognizable as the same vessel you boarded in daylight. Strings of lanterns run the length of the deck, their amber light pooling warm and unsteady on the wood. Music rises from somewhere below, something with strings—a sure sign of Brook—and laughter cuts across it in bright, irregular bursts. The whole thing floats there against the darkening harbor like a paper lantern, like something that could drift away at any moment.

You don’t have to announce yourselves. Luffy spots you from the upper deck before you’ve even crossed the gangplank, rubber arm already swinging outward in a wave that nearly takes out Usopp beside him.

“There you are!” The grin is enormous and infectious, encouraging one of your own smiles back to him.

The crew orients around his attention the way they always seem to; heads turning, shoulders opening, a natural clearing of space.

Sanji reaches you before anyone else. He doesn’t rush, exactly. It’s more that the distance between you simply closes, and then his hand is finding yours, and his expression does something quiet and unguarded that makes Mira’s fingers clench hard around your arm in her excitement at the development of your relationship with the blond man.

“Welcome.” Sanji’s voice is low and warm, and he says it to all of you, though his eyes stay a moment longer on your face. “I’m glad you came.”

Names are exchanged beneath the soft glow of lanterns, their light dancing across polished wood and glinting silverware. Usopp leaps into a sprawling tale, hands slicing through the air in intricate patterns, his voice rising and falling like the tide at their feet. Luffy, ever hungry, interrupts with wide-eyed enthusiasm: “What’s everyone’s favorite meat?” Nami tilts her head, brow arched, and fires off two questions that somehow fold into one, listening with the intensity of a scholar filing away every nuance. Robin sits a little apart, fingers curled around a porcelain cup, her calm gaze flicking across the table as though cataloging each detail.

Through it all, Sanji remains at your side, not performing for anyone, simply present. You sense the soft brush of his hand against yours, catch the faint waft of sea salt in his hair, the comforting warmth of his shoulder. Without conscious thought, your fingers find his, knotting together in a quiet confession neither of you announces.

From there, dinner unfolds like a tide pulling you all in. Sanji outdoes himself—the steam rising from each plate carries aromas of garlic, fresh herbs, and seared meat so succulent it almost slides off the fork. Conversation ebbs and flows, laughter rippling like waves, old walls crumble as your friends relax into the easy warmth of the crew, drawn in by the harmony of voices, by the way each person finds a place in the melody. And you, miraculously, you fit.

Usopp has been making you laugh so hard your ribs ache, his hands wild in the air as he reconstructs some improbable battle. Brook plays something low and sweet from the corner, enhancing the mood of the group, while Chopper has wedged himself between you and the railing, cuddling in close to your side.. At some point, Jinbe refilled your cup without being asked, and Nami leaned across the table to finish your sentence about something—you can’t even remember what—and it was just right, just easy.

Luffy dragged you and Robin into whatever he was talking to Zoro about, something involving a giant fish he swears he saw and bets, and Zoro’s expression was so long-suffering that you and Robin exchanged a glance over Luffy’s head that nearly undid you both.

And through all of it, Sanji. The warm press of his shoulder. The way his thumb moves slowly and absentmindedly across your knuckles when the conversation pulls his attention elsewhere, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it, like it’s already a habit.

Mira has been watching. Of course she has. She props her chin on her hand and regards you both over the rim of her glass. “So,” she says, voice casual but intent, “this is what’s been distracting you.”

You flush, looking away. “I’m not distracted.”

“You’re absolutely distracted.”

Sanji glances your way, amusement flickering in his blue eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Mira declares, grinning. “Because she doesn’t get distracted easily.”

Their teasing draws the attention of Lina and Darren, who now study you both with amused interest.

But on the other side of the deck, under the sweep of moonlight and the hush of rolling waves, a different conversation stirs. Luffy is leaning against the railing, arms crossed behind his head, his grin bright but his gaze serious. Zoro stands beside him—eye cool, but serious. When he looks over at Sanji, he nods, a clear gesture to join them.

Sanji exhales before turning to you to kiss your cheek, muttering a quick, “I’ll be back,” before slipping away from the table, shoulders tense, and joins them. Kellan’s brow furrows; he doesn’t miss that shift.

“You’re serious about this,” Kellan says quietly.

Luffy turns, the moonlight glinting on his straw hat, shadows making his face appear more threatening, making Kellan take a half step back. “Yeah.”

Zoro’s voice is blunt. “She’s not safe here, and you know it.”

Kellan’s jaw clenches. “You don’t know that.”

“We know enough,” Sanji says softly, his tone steady as the sea below. “And it’s enough to convince us that she can’t continue to stay here. At least with us, you know she’s safe.”

Kellan looks at him—really looks—catching the fierceness in Sanji’s stance, the way his gaze flicks back to you, even now. “You barely know her,” Kellan challenges. “This is probably a passing romance or tryst for you guys. What? Saw a beautiful woman and just had to have her? Sweep her up, give her promises, and then drop her off on another island, alone with no way home?”

Sanji’s eyes darken significantly, as the air feels more chilled. In an instant, Kellan is shown why the town has been whispering to be extra careful around these three, the Monster Trio. Sanji’s calm reply is unshakable. “Doesn’t matter.”

The air is thick with promise and worry. Zoro exhales sharply. “You’ve seen how things have been getting. Your other friend, Darren, over there, told us about what happened with the chef, and he was seen as a highlight of this town. We specifically were told of the greatness of the tavern chef, so imagine how surprised we were that he was gone.”

“Not to mention disappointed. I’d been waiting forever to try that food, and I was starving.” Luffy adds, wanting to ensure everyone knew about his inconvenience.

“If someone as prolific as the chef can disappear, who’s to say how long it’s going to be before he sets his eyes on her?” Sanji adds, his eyes drifting to look at you, the rest of the men doing the same, almost as if to assure themselves that you are still there.

Kellan is silent because he knows exactly what the men are talking about. He and the girls have spoken at length about your circumstances of arrival and the most likely date of your departure. You’ve never been exactly clear regarding your circumstances about why you came here, or what your life was like beforehand, always giving vague descriptions and changing the subject quickly.

They weren’t insensitive, and you never creeped them out so they never pushed for more information. When you eventually came under Vale’s gaze, they knew that there was something more happening there. Not just anyone gets a personal visit from the man, not to mention several private meeting where nobody in the friend group knew exactly what was happening. They knew it had something to do with fakes, most of them having seen you wrapping them up, packaging or carrying them for delivery to the boss.

But from the way these pirates were talking? It’s something more that’s happening here, and as much as he hates to admit it, they seem to know more than he does. You seemed to have grown closer with this group, feel safer with this group, regardless of how bitter it feels to admit that.

When he speaks again, Luffy’s voice has softened but carries the same iron conviction. “She’ll be safer with us. We’ll make sure of it.”

The honesty in Luffy’s words settles over them like a blanket. Kellan turns back toward the table, where laughter drifts up on the breeze, and the glow of lanterns seems warmer than ever. He watches you lean into Usopp’s side, the light in your eyes. “She’d leave everything,” he says.

Luffy shrugs, all easy confidence. “Or she’d finally get something better.”

Kellan exhales, then meets Zoro’s firm gaze. “She won’t go if we tell her not to.”

A desperate attempt to regain an idea of power, one laughable in their eyes, but they’re playing the long game. “Then don’t.”

A longer pause follows, filled only by the soft lap of water against wood.

“You’ll protect her?” Kellan finally asks, voice low and quiet, clearly feeling defeated.

Sanji answers, his voice resolute. “Always.”

It’s not shouted, but every syllable rings out with unspoken valor. Kellan nods once, a slow, decisive tilt.

Back at the table, you don’t know any of this—your world is only the sound of Usopp’s punchline from down the table, the gentle brush of Robin’s hand, the way your heart feels impossibly light. Mira studies you a moment longer from her seat next to you, then leans in to your ear, voice soft but sure. “You’re going to go with them.”

You blink, caught off guard, head turning quickly to look at her. “Mira—”

“You are,” she says, and this time there’s no teasing in her tone, only certainty. There’s a look in her eyes that shows you how serious the bright and bubbly daughter of the grocers can be. A look so similar to your younger cousin's that it makes you emotional. Once again, it’s your loved ones giving you permission to leave them behind. How often will you do this?

You hesitate. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

“I’d have to leave everything. You. Lina. The boys. You.”

Mira’s smile deepens, steady and unwavering. “And we’d still be here.” She inclines her head toward Lina, who nods gently beside her. “You wouldn’t be losing us.”

Her words strike something deep, an undeniable truth. You meet Mira’s gaze. “You’re okay with that?”

She glances at Sanji, who’s now offering you a quiet, reassuring smile from across the ship, then back at you. “You’ve been running in place for years, and gearing for what’s next for even longer.”

That shocks you and makes you pull your hand from Robin’s, pulling the ravenette’s attention. With a reassuring nod and a glance at your friends, she nods and moves down further after giving your thigh a little squeeze, clearly understanding that you guys are having an important conversation that’s probably easier to have without all of them on top of you. Not like she can’t hear from wherever she’s at on the deck.

“What do you mean?” You start, only to stop when your friends start shaking their heads, laughing at the stunned look in your eyes.

“While we might not know the specifics, we’d like to believe we’re better friends than apparently you’re giving us credit for. We know there’s some secret you’re hiding, and that there’s an extra layer between you and Vale.” Lina’s voice lowers when mentioning the Kingpin of Veloria.

“But that never really mattered to us. We saw your actions and how kind you consistently showed us. And we knew you were planning on leaving one day. You’re not exactly subtle, you know? You should take better care of your diary by the way.” Mira continues breezily, as if she didn’t admit to reading private property, “And this is a better chance than you by yourself. At least you’d be with people who have experience at sea, and who seem to care for you.”

“And maybe it’s time you ran somewhere better than random island hopping. Ran somewhere with people instead of alone.” Lina chimes in.

You swallow, the promise of something new unfurling in your chest like dawn. You look around the ship and see the crew that you’ve slowly started getting closer to. Jinbe’s and Brook’s kindness and openness to you, always making sure you feel comfortable with the crew. Franky and Chopper, who make sure to pull you into whatever conversation, whether it's just them or with various crew members.

The girls, Nami and Robin, who challenge you, are unafraid to push you. Those who have shown you kindness, friendship, and the potential for something else.

Zoro and Sanji, two hot-headed men with hearts of gold, show they care in various ways. Sanji’s ability to create delicious meals that evoke different emotions with every bite is beyond incredible. Zoro’s disciple and dedication to his friends are inspiring, and the way he seamlessly shifted that to include you did not go unnoticed.

And of course, their captain, Monkey D. Luffy, who lives life in a way that you never thought you could, and inspires you to want more for yourself. To believe that you can have more for yourself.

As you take a look around, something in your heart and mind settles at the thought of something a bit more permanent here with these people.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The night has shifted into something slower, the voices behind you have softened into smaller clusters, laughter coming in shorter, warmer bursts now, less performance, more ease. Through it all, you can still hear Mira somewhere behind you, fully absorbed in whatever story Franky is building toward, her sharp laugh cutting through the low murmur of the deck.

You haven’t gone far, just to the railing. The wood is salt-worn and cool under your palms. Below, the ocean moves in long, dark swells, the ship’s lantern catching only the very tops of the waves before dissolving into black.

It’s easier out here; the air is cleaner, the noise doesn’t reach as far.

“You always get quiet when you’re thinking like that?”

You turn your head. Luffy has appeared beside you the way he tends to; without announcement, without ceremony, and drops his arms over the railing like he’s been standing there for hours.

“Do I?” you ask. “I haven’t noticed. Weird that you noticed since it’s been less than a week.”

“Yeah. And it’s not weird, people have plenty of weird habits.” No tease in it. Just a fact, the way he says most things.

You look back at the water. “I guess I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He hums low, his gaze drifting out to follow yours across the dark surface of the sea. “Your friends talked to you.” Not a question, but letting you continue the conversation, tilting his head to look you in the eye as you continue talking.

“Yeah.” Your fingers press a little harder into the railing. “They think I should go.”

“And you don’t?”

The waves move below you, unhurried. “I don’t know,” you say. “It’s not just about wanting to leave. It’s about what’s after.”

Luffy tilts his head, the brim of his straw hat dipping slightly with the motion. He seems to actually consider it, a contrast to how he’s been bulldozing your complaints earlier in the week.

“Then don’t think about everything.” He says finally, winking at you like he’s provided you with the most profound answer.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head as the salty breeze tugs at your hair. The night sky above the deck is a canopy of stars, each one like distant lanterns. “You make it sound easy,” you murmur, voice half-drowned by the gentle slap of waves against the hull.

He leans against the rail, broad shoulders relaxed, straw hat tipped back just enough to catch moonlight on unruly black hair. “I don’t think it’s hard,” he answers, as casually as if discussing the weather. “It’s not taking on a criminal organization, or setting out to find the one piece.”

Your breath catches. You pause, stare into the infinite horizon where water and sky blur. You rolled the words over in your mind, unsure whether you wanted to believe them. “So what do you do?” you asked, needing to know how someone like him survived the world.

He straightens, no flicker of hesitation in his dark eyes. He understands that you’re just confused and needing answers, advice, something he’s gotten used to as a captain. He can give you this, something that you’ll accept from him.

He offered her a smile that was more vulnerable than any you’d seen from him yet. “I'll figure it out when I get there.”

A tightness blooms in your chest, each heartbeat echoing louder. You turn your gaze to him, lantern light dancing across his features. “That’s not really how my life works,” you say, half-laughing at yourself.

One shoulder lifts in a graceful shrug, his voice pitched low.“Then maybe it should work a little differently.”

The suggestion hung between you, neither a challenge nor a comfort. You wanted to protest, to list all the reasons and lay out the bloody truth, but the words felt futile. “I’ve spent a long time making sure things don’t fall apart,” you admit, voice a low whisper against the wood planks. “I can’t just walk away from that.”

This time, he didn’t reply right away. Instead, he tilted his head, considering you, and you could see him measuring out your words, weighing them for truth and for pain. When he nodded, it was with a kind of gravity that made you feel oddly understood. “Yeah,” he said. “But staying doesn’t stop things from changing either.”

Your heart stutters at the truth in his tone. You swallow. “You don’t even know me,” you say, softer now, almost afraid.

He meets your eyes. “I know enough.”

You frown, curiosity and something like hope warring inside you. “And that’s enough to invite me to leave everything behind? To potentially risk your crew? What if I’m a danger?”

His grin is as bright as the lanterns lighting the deck. “I didn’t say you had to leave everything. I said you could come with us. And don’t worry about my crew, though I do appreciate it. We’re a strong bunch, there’s nothing we can’t face.”

The distinction lingers in the air. You blink, unprepared for how it shifts something within you. “Just like that?”

“Yeah.” He leans back, arms resting on the railing, and gazes out at the rippling water. “You don’t have to decide tonight. You can just come see what it’s like.”

You didn’t have an answer to that. The world rocked beneath you, and for the first time in ages, it felt like maybe that was okay.

Luffy looked at you, not with pity, but with a frankness that made you want to be equally honest in return. “You don’t even know me,” you said. The confession came out smaller than you’d meant, almost a whisper.

“I know enough,” he said.

You searched his face for mockery and found none. Instead, there was a trust in his expression that you weren’t sure you’d earned. “That’s enough to invite me to leave everything behind? To potentially risk your crew? What if I’m a danger?”

He grinned, and this time it was the old, irrepressible brightness you’d seen when he first offered you to come with them. “I didn’t say you had to leave everything. I said you could come with us. And don’t worry about my crew, though I do appreciate it. We’re strong, there’s nothing we can’t face.”

The logic was so simple, so matter-of-fact, it left you blinking. “Just like that?” you asked. You couldn’t keep the incredulity from your voice.

He leaned back, arms draped over the rail. The moon touched his hair and the scar under his eye, and you were struck with the reminder that this is the future Pirate King you’re talking to. “Yeah. You don’t have to decide tonight. You can just come see what it’s like.”

You swallowed, feeling the invitation coil inside you, soft and pliant and terrifying. “And if it’s not for me?”

He turned, and in the silver light, his eyes were almost fathomless. “Then you go back. We’ll take you and find you passage with another ship. We’re pirates, not savages.” The smile that accompanied this was lopsided, but so sincere that you felt your caution melting, just a little.

It was the first time in years anyone had offered you an exit, let alone one so gentle.

“You make it hard to say no,” you said, attempting levity but betraying your actual uncertainty.

He chuckled, that odd, rolling laugh that always seemed both careless and deeply meant. “I’m not trying to make you say yes.”

You studied him, trying to see which angle he might be working from, but there was none. That was what unmoored you the most: his complete lack of pretense. “You’re not?”

He looked at you as if the question was the oddest part of the whole conversation. “You’ll figure it out.” He didn’t even sound anxious about it, just certain—like the sunrise, or the pull of the moon on the tide.

You felt the words settle, not as a command, but as an assurance. You weren’t being pushed; you were being allowed.

You stood for a while, the hush between you growing more companionable with each minute. The ship rocked; the lanterns swayed; Mira’s voice pealed with laughter somewhere behind you, and you felt a pang of both love and regret for the world you would leave behind, and the world you might gain.

Luffy’s gaze tracked the moon, then flicked back to you. He said, almost as an afterthought, “Sanji likes you.”

It was as if the wind itself stilled for an instant. You felt your face heat, blood rising in your cheeks, and you half turned away, not sure what to do with your hands. “What?”

He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the sideways tilt of his head, the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes stayed on the water. “He does. Not the only one on the crew either.” A beat. “And I think that’s reciprocated.”

Your cheeks burn. “I— that’s—“

“Be honest.” His voice was easy, unhurried, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to catch up. “We don’t lie about what we want on this ship.”

You closed your mouth. Opened it again. “Maybe,” you admitted, the word barely leaving your lips.

He nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

You blinked. “Why is that good?”

He turned then, and the light caught his eyes in a way that made them look older than usual, steadier. “They’ll take care of you.” He looks at you then, eyes soft but unshakeable. “And I take care of my crew. Because I want you on this ship.” He said it the way he said most things; plainly, without apology, like it was simply a fact he was reporting. “And I think you want to be here.”

The directness of it knocked the air from you. “That’s—“ you started.

“True?” He tilted his head, and the corner of his mouth curved up.

Simple but clear, and in his certainty, you find an echo of something you’ve been longing to feel. You turn your gaze back to the ocean, thoughts drifting in the hush between waves. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Yeah.” He leaned his elbows on the rail, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours. “I get that a lot.”

You laughed despite yourself, and he laughed too, and for a moment you both just stood there, the ship rocking gently beneath you, the future feeling less like a cliff edge and more like an open sea.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

Around you, the night continues to swell with easy camaraderie. Lanterns bob, laughter drifts across the deck. You settle into a corner with Franky, Brook, and Usopp, whose animated presence feels comfortingly familiar. Franky’s arms, a tangle of metal and muscle, slash through the air as he explains with trademark enthusiasm. “—and that’s why I’m banned for life from that franchise and not allowed in that town anymore. Worth it for the great story. ”

Brook bobs, cane in hand, skeletal jaw clicking in agreement. “Ah, yes! Let’s scare the girl off. I’m sure Sanji and the rest of the crew will greatly appreciate that!”

They both pause, look at each other seriously, before their laughter bubbles out and you join them before you can stop it. Usopp leans forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial register, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Don’t encourage them, they’ll keep going.”

“I heard that!” Franky huffs, beaming defiantly.

You shake your head, smile lingering on your lips, mouth open to respond, but your gaze drifts once more across the polished planks, past the dancing lanterns to the far side of the deck. Kellan stands there, silhouetted by moonlight, arms folded, weight shifting from one boot to the other. He’s not excluded, just quiet, a solitary figure against the vastness of the sea.

Your gaze drifts to him once, then again, each look lingering a heartbeat longer. The gentle creak of the deck beneath your boots and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull form a steady backdrop. Usopp catches the shift in your attention at once and shifts closer, his arm wrapping around you to provide you with some comfort.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lowered to a soft rumble, as if afraid to startle you. A stray breeze tugs at your hair.

You offer a small nod, leaning into his embrace briefly to warm up before sitting upright again. “Yeah. I just— I’ll be right back.”

He follows your line of sight, then turns back to you, understanding materializing in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer still. “Go.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, then lean in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “Thanks.”

For a moment, Usopp stands utterly still, as though you’ve frozen time itself. Then he blinks, shakes his head, and manages, “Yeah. Anytime.” By the time he recovers, you’ve already slipped away.

Kellan’s broad shoulders come into view as you round the rail. He lifts his head, hair mussed by the wind, clearly not expecting you. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Silence settles like a cool shadow as you take your place at his side. Both of you turn to watch the water.

“You’re not having fun?” you ask, voice lighter than the breeze.

He shifts, gaze fixed on the rolling waves. “I am,” he says, though his words are softer than they should be.

You glance at him, heart tightening. “Kellan.”

He exhales, the sound lost in the whisper of the wind, and runs a hand through his damp hair. “I am,” he repeats, then pauses. “It’s just—”

He trails off, leaving the rest suspended between you. You wait.

“You’re really thinking about it,” he finishes, voice low and steady.

You don’t deny it. “Yeah.”

Another hush falls, framed by the cry of distant gulls. “I figured,” he says quietly; no anger, no accusation, only a weight that makes your chest ache.

“I didn’t expect it to happen this fast. I thought I had months, if not a year, left here.” You admit, eyes on the horizon.

“Neither did I,” he replies with a humorless half-smile.

You shift until you face him, the ocean glinting behind his silhouette. “I don’t want to just leave everything behind. You guys, the gallery.”

“I know.” His gaze meets yours, earnest and dark as the deep water. “And I think that’s why you should go.”

His words catch you off guard. “What?”

He offers a faint smile, tender but distant. “You’ve been holding everything together here for years. For everyone else. You’ve never really done anything just for you. And with Vane’s interest in you growing and his violence upticking—” He exhales heavily, eyes showing how scared and worried he is for your safety.

“I could never forgive myself if something happened to you, and I did nothing to help you. And they can do that. They can give you what we can’t. Protection, and a life where you can live.”

You swallow, the taste of salt and fear mingling on your tongue. “Kellan.”

He shakes his head, as if to dispel a shadow. “No, it’s fine. I’m not— I’m not trying to make this harder for you.” A pause. He breathes in, then out, steeling himself. “I just… I want you to be happy.”

The sincerity of it settles deep in your chest. “I’ve been happy here. You know I love you guys.”

“I know. Brief moments of happiness, but you’ve never felt at peace.” He gives you that same gentle look. Another moment of quiet. “But you could have more. You deserve to have more.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. “And if that means leaving—” he shrugs, as if the weight of the world rests on that motion, “then you should.”

Unspoken truths thrum between you, truths you both feel but cannot voice. You step closer, fingertips brushing his arm, before pulling him into a hug. You whisper a small, “Thank you,” as your arms tighten around him, enjoying this moment of affection with your friend, possibly for the last time.

Kellan’s arms wrap around you, squeezing just as tight, his head lying on your shoulder, close to your neck. He nods once. “Just— don’t disappear completely, alright?”

You manage a small laugh, hands patting his back in reassurance. “I won’t.”

A final moment passes, then you step back, arms dropping to your sides. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah.”

He watches you walk away, shoulders squared against the breeze, and you don’t look back.

You find them clustered around the small wooden table near the rail; Sanji, Robin, and Chopper voices weaving in mid-conversation. Lanterns hang overhead, their light flickering against chipped mugs and half-eaten fruit.

Sanji is the first to notice you, naturally: he lifts his chin, gaze sharpening before you’re even fully in view.

“There you are,” he says, voice soft but carrying the warmth of shared laughter.

You stop only when you stand directly in front of him, heart pounding so loud you can almost hear it over the murmured chatter. Faint light dances across his features as you swallow, the world narrowing to the space between you and the promise of what comes next.

”I think—“ you start, then pause, breath catching slightly.

Robin’s gaze sharpens across the rim of her mug, Chopper leans forward on his small hooves, ears perked, and Sanji’s hand finds yours—warm, steady, unhurried.

“I think I’m going to stay. If that’s okay with you guys.” The words leave you quieter than you intended.

Then Chopper’s whole body jolts like he’s been struck by lightning. “What?!”

Sanji says nothing. He simply turns toward you and pulls you into his chest, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other pressed firm against your back. You feel him exhale—long and slow—into your hair.

Robin’s smile arrives the way dawn does: gradually, then all at once. “I thought you might.”

“You’re staying?! You’re STAYING?!” Chopper is already spinning in a full circle, hooves clattering against the deck that carries.

Luffy’s head snaps around from across the ship, eyes wide and hunting for the source.

Nami looks up from her drink while Usopp inhales a piece of fruit. Franky’s palm comes down on the nearest surface hard enough to rattle the lanterns.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?!” Usopp wheezes.

Chopper flings both arms toward the sky. “SHE’S STAYING!!”

A half-second of stunned silence, then the deck comes apart at the seams.

“YES!!” Luffy rockets to his feet, grinning so wide his whole face seems to be made of it.

Nami presses her lips together, but the satisfaction bleeds through anyway. “SUUUUPER!!” Franky’s arms shoot overhead, the metal gleaming in the lantern light.

Brook sweeps into a bow so deep his afro nearly grazes the planks. “A new nakama! How absolutely wonderful, YOHOHOHO!”

Usopp sprints over, still coughing. “I KNEW IT! I said it! I called it from the beginning!”

Across the deck, Zoro cracks one eye open from where he’d been half-asleep against the mast. He looks at you for a moment, then he closes his eye again, but not before the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

Through all of it, Sanji’s arms don’t move. He keeps you tucked against him, as if he’s been afraid to hold you too tightly, his chin resting lightly at your temple, the warmth of him steady and real against the cool night air.

You laugh, helpless and a little overwhelmed, your face pressed into the fabric of his jacket. Because you said it out loud, and the world didn’t end. It cracked open instead, spilling light.

The celebration lingers long after the moment passes, the fading glow of lanterns gilding every face in soft gold. Laughter drifts on a gentle breeze, mingling with the distant crash of surf against the harbor’s wooden pilings. Conversation hums like a living thing: easy and unhurried, the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you feel rooted where you stand.

Sanji hasn’t strayed far since you spoke the promise. His hand slides into yours as naturally, a silent assurance that resonates in your palm. This time, you don’t hesitate; your fingers lace together.

“Tomorrow morning,” you murmur, voice hushed but carrying over the still night. You glance from Luffy’s broad grin to Nami’s raised eyebrow and Chopper’s wide-eyed excitement. “I’ll go back, pack everything, then come straight here.”

Your words ripple through the group, drawing their attention one by one. Luffy claps his hands, eyes lighting up like sunrise. “Good.”

“Finally,” Nami mutters under her breath, but there’s no real sting in her tone, just relief.

Chopper bounces with barely contained energy. “You’re gonna love it! There’s so much to see—”

“And you’ll be well taken care of,” Sanji interrupts softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a tender, protective gesture.

You allow yourself a small, unguarded smile. “I know,” you say, your voice soft and sure.

The night remains buoyant after that as plans blossom in half-formed whispers: where you might wander first, what wonders lie beyond the next bay. Usopp’s hands fly as he weaves tall tales; Franky insists on blueprints and upgrades; Brook even offers to compose a jaunty tune in your honor.

Zoro, leaning against a nearby barrel, pretends indifference, but you catch the slight lift of his brow when his gaze meets yours.

And you, you can feel it, deep in your chest: that old thrill, the irresistible tug of the unknown. It isn’t distant anymore.

It’s right here, beating in time with every step. Eventually, the celebration dwindles, and the night hushes around you like a velvet cloak. You linger, reluctant to break the spell you’ve finally embraced. Still, reality waits in the sleeping town: your belongings, your gallery, the life you must close before you step into something new.

Sanji falls into step beside you again, as if bound by gravity. The cobblestone path is damp and cool underfoot, the air scented with sea salt and blooming nightflowers. Neither of you speaks for a time; your linked hands say everything that needs to be said.

At last, he breathes out, low and soft. “You’re really coming back. Or staying, at least with us. You’re coming with us.”

You tilt your head toward him, moonlight softening your features. “I told you I would.”

He pauses, voice thick with something like relief—and something you can’t quite name. “Just making sure.” His thumb brushes yours once more, gentle and unwavering, but telling you more about some unspoken insecurity the chef obviously had. But just as he was willing to wait for you to tell your story, you will wait for his.

You squeeze his hand. “I’ll be there.”

That settles it, he lets his shoulders relax. A delicate hush falls between you as you reach the pale wooden door of your gallery. You pause beneath the lantern light, heart hammering in your ears.

“Tomorrow.” You whisper it again, and the word hangs in the still night.

“Tomorrow,” he echoes, voice husky.

You hesitate for a heartbeat, then lean in, closing the distance with a soft kiss before pulling back to press one, two, three more soft kisses on his lips. The lanterns flicker overhead, warm and steady.

“Goodnight, Sanji.” Your voice is barely more than a breath.

He stills, then exhales, a faint smile curving his lips in the dim glow. “Goodnight, ma chérie.”

You slip inside before you can second-guess yourself. The heavy door thuds shut behind you, muffling the world you left, your mind still racing over the ship’s timetables, tomorrow’s cargo, everything waiting to be packed. Moonlight bleeds through the high windows, but here the gallery is darker than you expect. Too dark.

Your boots echo once on polished stone. You hesitate, fingertips brushing a display case so smooth it feels impossibly cold. You shrug off the chill. You’re almost there, just a few more minutes to gather what you need.

“Alright,” you murmur to yourself, breath misting in the gloom. “Just a few hours and—”

Then silence shifts, a single breath that is not yours. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and the air around you thickens. You whirl around—

Too late.

A soft sound, nothing more than a shift in the heavy dark, and then. A presence at your back. You tried to pivot, but hands caught you, crushing the air from your lungs. You braced yourself, but it was too late: your shoulders slammed into the wall, and pain shot up your spine. Something popped in your collarbone, maybe a joint.

You tried to twist free, but another grip, thick gloved and merciless, latched onto your arms, wrenching them behind you with almost surgical precision. You tried to scream, but a palm clamped over your mouth, pressing your face hard into the stone. You tasted dust, blood, and the old polish for the floors and gagged against it.

“Got her,” a low voice mutters.

“Boss was right,” another replies with satisfaction.

“No—wait—” you thrashed and tried to bite, but the hand just gripped harder. Something cold and metallic snapped around your wrists, a thick cuff cinching so tight you thought your bones would splinter. You choked out a sound that was more animal than human, but the men only laughed, low and satisfied.

They drag you through your own sanctuary: past glass cases full of artifacts you once admired, past marble pedestals now rendered irrelevant. Each step you take, your ankle grazes a stray ribbon of light from a shattered lantern. Dust motes drift like fireflies in the beam.

You’re shoved through the entrance at the back alleyway. Cold air pounces on you, carrying the musty stench of damp stone. You stumble down the narrow stairwell, ancient bricks slick with moisture, the walls nearly swallowing the thin torchlight. It feels less like home and more like a trap snapping closed.

At the bottom, the tunnel branches in perfect silence. You’d learned to walk these corridors blindfolded, each echo and draft familiar. Tonight, you don’t control any of it.

Your captors forced you down, and you lost your footing halfway. Your knees cracked the steps, each impact raw and electric, teeth chattering, but they didn’t slow; dragging you forward down the rest of the steps, knees hitting every step on the way down until you reached the bottom, and they finally let you stand. You tasted blood now, thick and metallic at the back of your throat. Overhead, a single torch flickered against the wall, throwing grotesque shadows. You could smell it—the oil, the burning animal fat, the hint of sulfur that always meant trouble.

You tried to focus on breathing, on keeping yourself upright. They’d taught you tricks, once, for getting out of a hold, but nothing in your arsenal worked when the numbers were against you. You felt your body start to shake, adrenaline burning away the last of your bravado.

You tried to think of your friends, of their warmth and kindness. Your mind drifts to the crew, to Nami’s smile, edging you on to be more daring, to Zoro’s consistent and calm presence. To Sanji, of the warmth of his palm on yours, of waking up in his arms, being around friends, the closest you’ve felt to having a family since you lost yours at the island. But the image flickered and faded, replaced by the reality of raw stone and cold fingers burrowing into your flesh.

At the foot of the stairs, the hallway opened wider, the bricks replaced by slabs of marble veined with black. The air down here was still, so still you could hear the blood pounding in your ears. The men flanking you slowed their pace, and you realized they were waiting for a signal. A door loomed at the end of the hall: ancient, oak, banded with iron, and studded with dark, wet-looking rivets.

Inside, they pushed you, hard enough that you stumbled into the center of the room. You landed on your knees, the cuffed hands biting into your back. You clenched your jaw, refusing to offer a sound of pain, but the shock of it made your vision swim. You blinked, tried to bring the scene into focus, and saw him.

Marcellus Vane sat behind a desk so enormous it looked like the altar of a cathedral. He wore black, as always; his hair was slicked back and perfectly silver, and though he smiled, his eyes were flat and empty. He held a goblet in one hand, swirling the contents lazily, as if your presence were nothing more than the anticipation of a particularly entertaining show.

He watched you for a long moment, the torchlight throwing cruel shadows across the planes of his face.

“My dear,” he said, and the softness in his tone made your skin crawl. “You’ve made quite a mess of my week.”

You said nothing. The men behind you waited, their hands heavy on your shoulders.

“You could have run, you know,” Vane mused, spinning the goblet between his fingers. “You could have disappeared into a city, changed your name, started a new life. I even hoped you would. But you always were… sentimental.”

He stood, pacing around the desk with the careful grace of a cat. In the shifting light, you could see now that the desk was inlaid with bones. Not human, at least not all of them, but the effect was grotesque, a mosaic of death under glossy lacquer.

“You disappoint me,” he said, and this time there was a hint of sharpness, a curl of anger at the edge of the words. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

Your breath comes in ragged bursts. You swallow, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “I wasn’t—you would have had your order like I promised!”

His gaze sharpens. “Don’t insult me.” The words snap like steel.

He leans forward, fingertips steepled. The torchlight glints off the rings on his knuckles. “I let you operate freely,” he continues, voice deceptively soft. “Gave you space, protection.”

You lift your chin, already seeing that he’s made up his mind. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

He sighs, as if comforting a child. “Yes, you have. Which is why this is so…disappointing.”

Your ribs ache from the sudden tilt of your torso. You try again, “I’m not. I’m not betraying you—”

“You were leaving,” he interrupts, cold as winter air. “With pirates no less.”

You open your mouth, but the response won’t come.

Vane’s face darkens. “You are an asset,” he says, voice dropping. “A very valuable one, one that I’ve spent plenty of money on to promote your fake art. You do not get to decide when you leave.”

You press your lips together. Blood trickles from the split inside your mouth. “I’m not yours, you fucki—”

The blow lands before you can blink. Fire blossoms across your cheek, stars erupt behind your eyes. Your head snaps sideways, throat rasping in shock.

“Careful,” Vane murmurs without looking up. “She’s still useful.”

You managed to get your knees under you, but the men forced you down again. Vane knelt to your level, the smile gone.

“I let you thrive,” he said. “I protected you from fools and pirates alike. I gave you the means to become something. And this is how you repay me?”

You bit your tongue; the taste of blood sharpened your senses. “You kept me caged,” you spat.

His expression barely flickered, but the men behind you tensed in response.

“It was a gilded cage, darling,” Vane said. “That’s more than most receive.”

He rose, turning his back to you. “You should have been grateful. But then, gratitude was always a failing of yours.”

He gestured, and the men yanked you upright. The pain in your shoulders was white-hot, but you fought to keep your head up. He walked to the wall, where a series of implements hung: whips, rods, and gleaming knives. He considered them as if he were shopping for fruit, then selected a slender rod tipped with a glass bulb. The end was stained dark, and you could take a good guess why. Fuck, you were in for a world of pain.

He held it up for you to see. “We have a tradition here,” he said. “For those who forget their place.”

You shuddered in spite of yourself, but you didn’t look away. You swore you wouldn’t give him that.

Vane smiled, just a little. “I respect your bravery,” he said. “But you must understand the nature of consequences.”

He nodded to the men, who forced your arms higher behind your back. The rod whistled through the air and cracked against your ribs. The sound was louder than the pain at first, but the pain caught up quickly; sharp, searing, an explosion that radiated down your side.

You gasped, but clenched your teeth, swallowing the scream. The rod struck again, this time lower, and you felt the world tilt, the edges of the room blurring. You tried to think of the sea, of the promise of freedom, but the thought was battered loose by the third and fourth blows, completely losing count as they kept going.

When they finally let you drop, you collapsed on the cold tile, breath coming in ragged sobs. You tried to focus, to measure the damage: nothing was broken, not yet, but each breath was agony.

Vane bent over you. “I hope you’ve learned something,” he said, almost kindly.

He nodded again, and the men hoisted you up by the arms.

“Take her to the display room,” Vane said. “Let her remember what she stands to lose, while reminding others of their place. We’ll do another session in an hour.”

They dragged you through another corridor, this one lined with cases filled with curios and oddities. You tried to orient yourself, to find some escape, but the men were too strong, and your body was already beginning to shut down. Other faces blur at the edges of the torchlight, eyes averted as fear anchors them in place.

The display room was vast and circular, lined with columns and a domed ceiling painted with scenes of ancient battles. A coil of rough hemp rope is thrown around your bound wrists. The fibers scrape and bite. They hoist you off the ground. Your feet dangle, toes grazing the cold stone. Muscles scream to support your weight, while the lashes left wounds that are bleeding. Your backbone arches, twisting a groan from deep within, as every breath rattles your lungs.

You’re placed behind Vane’s chair, forced to stand with your chest pressed against cool marble. Torches flare so you, and anyone who dares to look, can see.

Vane leans back, resting his chin on his hand. “Let this remind everyone,” he says softly, “what happens when you forget your place. Take advantage of my kindness, and I repay with some of my own.”

Your head thuds against the marble, breath rattling in your throat. Darkness pools around the edges of your vision. Somewhere, far too late, you realize:

You were never going to leave that easily.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

Morning arrives, but you don’t. At first, it feels like nothing, just a delay. Sanji is already up, already moving, preparing to head into town as planned. He lights a cigarette, steps onto the deck, and instinctively scans the horizon.

Waiting.

“She said morning,” he murmurs, more to himself than expecting any kind of response. He pulls the cigarette away from his mouth as he exhales, waiting for his crewmate to cross the deck and join him.

“She did,” Nami replies, softer than he sounds as she steps next to him to gaze out. “She’ll come.”

Sanji nods, forcing belief. An hour drifts by, then another. The mood sours, words fade as more crewmates join, all eyes darting to the dock.

“She’s probably just packing,” Usopp offers, though he’s trying to reassure himself more than anyone.

“Yeah, she said she had a lot to do!” Chopper adds, voice quick. But by now it’s been hours. Even if you had changed your mind, you would have told them at least.

Sanji stays silent, his gut twists. Before anyone else can speak, he says flatly, “I’m going.”

Zoro stands at once, almost relieved that someone offered him a way out. “I’m coming.”

Luffy stretches and steps forward. “Me too.” No hesitation, the rest follow.

When they get into town, the gallery door stands open. Sanji pauses inside, sweeping the room in one glance. “She wouldn’t leave her door open,” he mutters. No answer, too quiet. Something’s wrong, and it makes the chef clench his jaw with worry as his hands go to his pockets to get out a cigarette, just to hold the familiar object.

Zoro’s eyes sharpen. “Back room.”

They move as one, fast. In the back room, they find scuffed floorboards, a table corner shattered, a brush snapped in two, and blood.

Sanji stops and the cigarette falls from his fingers. “No.”

Zoro crouches, tracing the smear. “Struggle. More than one overtook her. Dirty bastards.”

Luffy says nothing, but the air around him tightens. He advances slowly, measured, then halts beside the back door that leads to the alley, knowing what lies beyond it because of Robin. “She didn’t leave,” he says, stating a fact. “And we know where they went.”

Zoro rises. “Then we take her back.” Luffy faces the crew, all traces of a grin gone.

“Where?” A beat.

“Underground.” Kellan steps from the doorway, having arrived while they were surveying, but was stopped by Jinbe from entering the gallery to give the crew the time needed to properly survey. “I can lead you there.”

“Sanji, Zoro, Chopper, and Usopp will come with,” Luffy tells the others, continuing to talk even though they all open their mouths to argue. “Two people stay here to secure it and start packing up anything that looks like she might want to keep. Everyone else, start preparing to depart. We won’t be long, but we’ll need to leave soon.”

The passage beneath the city was older than memory, brick and slime and the stink of centuries pressing close. Kellan led the way, nimble but tense, his hair and shirt clinging wetly to his frame. When he looked at the others, eyes hard as flint, but no sweat on any of them, does Kellan feel a bit of annoyance. He tries to fix his irregular breathing and to get some air on his body to cool down, in order not to look so completely out of the pirate’s league. It’s yet another sign that Kellan recieves about how he’s too weak to compare with their strength to keep you safe. He mean, the captain left half his crew behind, and only put two in charge of security of your place.

There was no chatter, no bravado, not even the usual bickering; all the energy was compressed into a single, seething will.

Sanji’s hands curled and uncurled, fingers flexing as if he could throttle the air itself. Zoro’s swords rode low, his gait loose but balanced, every muscle oiled for violence. Luffy was eerily calm, a stillness in him that was far more menacing than any of his wild outbursts. Even Usopp and Chopper, lagging a half-step behind, moved with a grim purpose that seemed to draw the very shadows toward them.

The tunnels narrowed, slick with something that might have been water or something else. The only light was that which they carried, a guttering, sickly-yellow lantern that painted their faces in carnival grotesque. Footfalls echoed, then faded as the air thickened, every sense sharpening. The city above was utterly gone, replaced by this underworld of brick and blood.

Kellan paused at a bend, one hand raised. Whispered: “Two guards. Short sightlines.”

Zoro exchanged a look with Sanji. Sanji nodded, and without a word, the pair slipped ahead. The guards, a pair of skittish men in Vane’s guard, didn’t even have time to register what was coming. Sanji sprang, heel first, into a throat hard enough to send cartilage popping. Zoro followed, drawing three inches of steel and laying open the second man’s arm to the bone before a muffled shriek could even begin. They dragged the bodies aside, and the march continued.

Another checkpoint, another pair of guards. This time, Luffy went first, an arm extending preternatural and rubbery, catching both men around the neck and pulling them together with a crack that echoed like a snapped mast. He dropped them without even breaking stride.

There were more, of course. At every junction, every threshold, Vane’s men. Some were older, battered, and slow; some were lean and hungry, hoping for advancement. It didn’t matter.

Zoro’s blade was a blur, Sanji a streak of black and blue and gold; every attack was over before it started, surgical and final. Usopp caught stragglers on the skull in silence. Chopper transformed, hooves slamming bodies against brick, eyes gone red with fury and fear.

Once the last of the men hit the ground, the room fell into a heavy, ringing silence. For a moment, no one moves as the aftermath settles slowly, dust in the air, the faint echo of collapsing debris somewhere deeper in the structure, the sharp scent of metal and stone and something darker beneath it all.

Zoro rolls his shoulder once, steadying himself, eyes already scanning ahead for the next threat. Sanji exhales through his nose, fingers flexing at his side like he’s trying to physically contain the violence still humming through him.

Luffy stands still, mind focused on the next task in bringing you back, when a small, broken sound cuts through it.

“I can—”

They all turn to see Chopper standing a few steps behind them, his entire body trembling, wide eyes glossy with unshed tears. His small hands curl into the fur at his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I can smell her blood,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of it. “She’s bleeding… and badly.”

The words don’t echo, but everything changes as the air drops, feeling like something vital has just been stripped from the room and replaced with something colder, more dangerous.

Sanji’s frozen completely, unsure if he heard the doctor correctly. “What?”

It’s barely more than a breath.

Chopper swallows hard, forcing himself to stay steady even as his voice shakes. “It’s strong. Too strong. She’s hurt—she’s really hurt—”

That’s all it takes. Sanji moves inward, his posture shifting as his spine straightens, his shoulders lock, and his entire presence tightens, as if something just snapped into place beneath his skin. His cigarette falls from his lips, forgotten, as his eyes unfocus, looking down the corridor.

“They made her bleed.”

It’s quiet, flat, but resonates with the crewmates there. Zoro’s grip settles more firmly against the hilt of his sword, and while his overall expression doesn’t change, his eye does. Sharpening, darkening as he looks forward, a silent agreement within all the crew.

They all begin moving without hesitation, just intent.

Kellan feels it before he fully understands it, the shift. He’s been around these men for hours now. He’s seen them laugh, joke, eat, relax. He’s watched you fit between them like you belonged there.

He thought he understood what they were. He didn’t because what stands in front of him now is something else entirely. The warmth is gone and replaced with

something that presses down on his chest, makes his breath shallow, his instincts scream to move, to run, to get out of the way.

Because this, this is what they are when something threatens what’s theirs.

“They touched her,” Sanji says again, softer this time, but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

Luffy doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t need to.

But when he glances back, just briefly, Kellan feels it. That look, not angry, not wild, but certain. “You said you knew the way,” Luffy says.

Kellan nods immediately. “Y-Yeah. I do.”

“Then move.”

There’s no force behind the words, no raised voice, and somehow that makes it worse.

Kellan turns without another word, leading them deeper into the tunnels, his steps faster now, more urgent.

Behind him they follow, silent and focused. Chopper stays close, small but determined, his eyes still wet but sharp with purpose.

Zoro moves like a shadow, controlled and lethal.

Sanji doesn’t look at anything but the path ahead.

His jaw is tight, his hands flexing at his sides, and there’s something restless in the way he moves now.

And Luffy walks at the front, quiet, lost in his thoughts on what’s ahead of him. Of grabbing his crew mates and getting the hell off of this island and onto the next place. He just wants to take the one good thing from here and move on. He lets out a soft growl of irritation before picking up the pace, causing the rest to do the same, much to Kellan’s chagrin,

Kellan swallows hard as he follows them further down, his pulse loud in his ears. He now knows that this isn’t a rescue, it’s retribution. And whoever took you doesn’t stand a chance. They’ll be lucky to keep the Underground intact as the end of this.

Soon the tunnels began to widen, the air turning smoky. The shouts of men ahead grew louder, the clatter of weapons and boots. Kellan whispered, “The chamber. He’ll have most of them waiting.”

Luffy nodded once, and for the first time, spoke: “Get ready.”

They burst into the main chamber together. At the far end, Marcellus Vane sat at a long marble table, as if holding court. His lieutenants flanked him, some familiar from the docks and the upper city, some strangers with the unmistakable bearing of killers. Lining the walls were Vane’s men, dozens, all armed.

Vane did not stand. Instead, he placed his fingertips together and smiled, thin and reptilian. “I must confess,” he said, his voice ringing. “I expected this sooner. After all, you’ve all been sniffing around her like a pack of dogs. But I guess the phrase, better late than never applies here.”

Sanji’s teeth grated. “Where is she?”

Vane inclined his head, and a pair of guards dragged you out. You were conscious, barely, blood caked to your face, wrists bound in front. One eye was swollen shut; your cheek was mottled purple. There was a shallow but ugly cut running from your collarbone to the edge of your jaw. Sanji’s breath left him in a slow, trembling hiss.

Vane gestured with one hand, as if introducing a prized exhibit. “She’s been such a disappointment,” he said. “But perhaps she’ll serve as a lesson to the rest.”

That was the signal the crew had agreed on; when Vane started talking, hit them hard, hit them fast.

Luffy moved first, not in a run, but a walk. He advanced down the length of the chamber, the crowd of guards between him and Vane parting as if by instinct. A few tried to stop him but Luffy did not slow, simply swatted them aside. One man flew into a column and did not move again. Another met Luffy’s open palm mid-charge, only to have his ribs compress with a sickening crunch.

Zoro and Sanji flanked him, their attacks coordinated without a word. Zoro’s swords carved clean, never lingering, each strike meant to drop a target and move on. Sanji’s legs became a blur, kicks slamming guards across the tile, shattering noses, arms, whatever was closest. Usopp and Chopper hung back, picking off stragglers, covering the flanks.

It should have been a massacre, but Vane’s men were too many, too desperate. The first wave fell easily, but the second pressed in, and the fighting grew close and frantic. A man with a spiked mace swung for Zoro’s head; Zoro ducked, stabbed once to the groin, and left him writhing. Sanji took a knife to the thigh but didn’t slow, launching its wielder into the air with a roundhouse that left fragments of teeth on the floor.

A guard raised a pistol at Luffy’s back, and Usopp, from twenty feet away, threw a glass marble that burst in the man’s face, the chemical burn blinding him instantly. Blood and smoke filled the chamber, the noise so deafening that even Vane’s cool voice was finally drowned out.

Luffy reached the dais, fists clenched. Vane’s lieutenants drew swords, forming a human barricade. Luffy’s heel struck the tile, fissures spiderwebbing out from the impact. His fist stretched, then snapped forward like a ship’s cable, punching through the line and sending three men flying. Zoro and Sanji arrived a second later; Zoro’s slash took the arm from the foremost lieutenant, Sanji’s foot caved in the chest of another.

Vane, eyes darting, finally stood. “Enough!” he roared. “Do not break formation!”

But it was too late, the men were already breaking. The tide had turned, and the survivors started to edge away from their posts, thinking of the exit rather than loyalty. Chopper, in monster form, bellowed, sending the nearest group scattering in terror.

Sanji moved for you first, only when he was sure his crew had it handled. He crossed the dais in two strides, sweeping the blood away from your face with the gentlest touch he could manage. “I’m here,” he whispered, but you only moaned, half-coherent.

Zoro covered him, blocking a last, desperate stab from behind. He twisted, elbowed the guard’s nose flat, then dispatched him with a flick of the sword. “We get her out now,” he growled.

But Luffy wasn’t done. He advanced on Vane, who had produced a hidden blade and held it low, almost casual. “You think you can come into my house,” Vane spat, “and just take what you want?”

Luffy’s face was blank. “Yes,” he said. “You made the mistake thinking you could do it as well.”

Vane lunged, the blade aimed for Luffy’s heart. Luffy barely moved, just a half-step aside, catching Vane’s wrist and twisting until the bone snapped. The blade clattered to the floor. Luffy drove his fist into Vane’s stomach—a punch so heavy that the man’s body folded around it, a deep, wet sound escaping his lips. Luffy let go, and Vane dropped to his knees, retching, bleeding, but alive.

Sanji wanted to kill him, Zoro too, but Luffy shook his head. “Not yet. Let him watch,” he said.

They cleared the dais. The last of Vane’s men tried to rally, but Usopp and Chopper kept them at bay; Kellan retrieved a set of keys, freeing you from your bonds. Sanji caught you as you slumped, lifting you as carefully as one would a wounded bird. Blood smeared his shirt, but he didn’t care.

At the door, Luffy paused, looking back at the carnage. Vane was slumped over, clutching his ruined wrist, eyes leaking hate. Luffy regarded him for a long moment, then said, quietly, “You don’t get to keep anyone.”

They made their way out, climbing the tunnel, every step watched by terrified eyes. No one followed. No one dared.

At the surface, the noise and light of morning hit them like a blessing. Silence swallows the ruined chamber. The crew turns to you, nothing else matters.

“Sanji,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“I’m here,” he replies, low and unshakable. Simple, certain, and everything you need blooms in that promise.

Beyond the shattered shutters and splintered beams, chaos recedes. Zoro steps close, eyes roaming your body and face, his hand heavy on your cheek as he tries his best to touch you lightly to not injure, but wanting to physically feel you alive and here.

Luffy darts forward, creating space for himself, concern lighting his eyes. He brushes your hair back to confirm you’re alive, you’re breathing, feeling that monstrous rage start to recede a bit now that you’re here in front of him. Luffy takes a look at his crewmate as sees that Sanji is not in the headspace to let anyone else hold you, so begrudgingly followed your friend to the pathway out.

By the time you’re back in your gallery, the world snaps into focus with a jolt. Pain blooms across every joint and muscle, sharp as the shards of glass still crunching underfoot. The door yawns open. Inside, two figures wait: Robin, noticeably tense and unreadable, and Nami, eyes round with frantic worry.

Chopper scrambles forward, his tiny hooves clattering, hands gentle but urgent as he scans you head to toe now that you guys are in a relatively stable place. “Oh my god, what did they do to you?!” His voice cracks. He touches a purple bruise blooming on your arm, hoof hovering over the bloody sides, every movement fast and tender.

Robin comes more deliberately, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. When she reaches you, her hand interlaces with yours, the only part she can touch that she’s sure wouldn’t hurt you or hinder Chopper’s ability to help heal you. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispers, breath warm against your hand as she brings it up to her lips.

You exhale into her embrace, a crack in the tension you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Me too,” you murmur, squeezing her hand in an attempt to convey a sense of sincerity.

Behind you, Nami fusses, unsure how else to help but not wanting to leave. “You’re bruised everywhere! Sanji, put her down gently—no, cradle her—wait!”

“I’ve got her,” Sanji says, adjusting his hold without missing a beat, his knuckles white. Under his careful watch, you manage a faint smile.

There’s no time to linger. Zoro’s steely gaze already sweeps the room. “We need to move.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper: “Yeah.” Firm, though quieter than usual. You know what comes next.

Packing moves quickly, almost in a blur of memory. You direct the others to gather multiple sketchbooks; spines cracked, pages warped with coffee stains and charcoal smudges, each one a fragment of your soul you cannot abandon. You select volumes from the bookshelves, their pages dog-eared, margins filled with your notes and small pressed flowers. Canvases are rolled and tied with ribbon; big ones with sweeping brushstrokes, small ones painted in half-light on sleepless nights.

Robin shoulders most of the load without complaint, freely using her devil fruit powers to move things along, while Zoro hoists the heavier crates. Franky secures easels and wooden beams, careful to avoid accidentally hitting any doorframes while exiting. Chopper stays by you, worry flickering in his big eyes, and is unwilling to leave your side lest something life-threatening happens due to your injuries before they get you back on the ship where he can fully treat you the way he wants. Sanji moves quietly among the piles, noticing each piece you choose and leave, offering no judgment, only presence.

You pause before one shelf, fingertips grazing an unassuming portfolio hidden behind dusty tomes. You lift it free: original sketches, easily sold, valuable enough to fund your next journey. Nami edges closer, her eyes flickering with anticipation as you hand it to her. “These will help,” you say simply.

Her face brightens, her eyes soft when she looks at you, tears in her eyes. You’d like to believe were relief to see you, but something tells you it’s for the value of the items you just provided. “Oh, have I told you that you’re my favorite?” You laugh softly, bright in spite of everything.

When at last the gallery feels hollow but complete, Usopp appears with a secured satchel. “We got this, too, half of what that guy had stashed.”

“Only half?” Nami asks, voice thin, crossing her arms.

“We left the rest for the island. They need it.”

A warm swell fills your chest at their thoughtfulness despite the hectiveness of the moment. “Good.”

The walk back to the ship is a tapestry of contrasts; your body aches, your eyes are hurting from the light of the day, but your heart feels lighter. Sanji’s hands tighten their grip on you, determined to get you back on the ship where you can rest, Chopper can give you a more thorough examination, and he can make you a healing meal. Like a list of things to check off, and it all starts when they finally get on board and back to sea.

When the group rounds into the infirmary, a cluster of familiar faces awaits. They’re barely holding back as they wait for Sanji to lay you down. Mira’s eyes widen; she stumbles forward, arms wide, and you’re enveloped in her fierce hug, her heartbeat steady against your ear. Lina’s next, her relief a soft exhale as she squeezes your hand. “You scared us,” she murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, each word weighted with truth.

Kellan stands back for a moment, simply watching you breathe. Then he steps in, firm and brief, and you rest your cheek against his shoulder. “It’s long past time since you’ve left, really,” he says, his voice cracking despite the tough exterior he was clearly trying to display.

You nod, voice small but sure, especially with the events of the past 12 hours. “Yeah. Thank you for helping them save me.”

Mira steps back, tears sparkling in her smile as she moves away to make room for Chopper to start healing you, ignoring the viscous look he sent their way for hugging you and getting in his way. “You'd better send letters.”

You attempt to laugh, but end up coughing, a pair of Robin’s hands there passing you. a bucket so you can spit out the blood. Once the coughs finish racking your body, and you’re passed a napkin to clean your mouth, you attempt a reassuring closed lip smile—not knowing if there was blood on your lips and not wanting to scare your friends— you continue.“I will.”

Their eyes are all wide, watching the sight you make, beaten and battered, but still trying to comfort them. Everything feels like it’s zooming, how is it that they’ve gotten here?

The captain gathers the groups attention, eyes stern but still apologetic. “Guys, I’m sorry but we’re going to have to leave immediately. We caused a lot of chaos and sure enough Marines will be on their way soon once they catch word. We’ve gotta be long gone. by then. Say your goodbyes and leave.”

Everyone’s quiet for a minute, the pirates except Luffy and Chopper leaving to give you some time and to help prepare the ship. There seems to be no words for what you guys are experiencing, unsure how to handle saying goodbye for what could be forever.

You laugh lightly, opening your arms for a group hug. “I’ll miss you all.”

Immediately they all crowd around you, not hugging back, to fearful of causing you more pain, but touching some part of you, a foot, hand or arm.

“Go, and have the greatest adventure. And don’t forget us.” Lina tells you, eyes filled with tears.

Kellan offers one last nod,hand tightening on your leg. “Be happy.” His words felt heavy and bright all at once. You close your eyes, “I will. I’ll try my hardest.”

There are no more tears, no more farewells. They step off the deck as the sails unfurl, the anchor groans free, and Veloria’s shoreline recedes.

You look out the nearby window, eyes fixed on the widening horizon. Sanji slips into the room, sitting next to you, arms encircling your waist, chin resting lightly on your head. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You inhale the salty air, the ache in your limbs, the hum of the sea beneath the hull, and the thrill thrumming in your veins.“Yeah,” you answer, voice steadier than you feel. “I think I am.”

He hums, tightening his embrace a fraction, grounding you in this new beginning. Around you, Nami leans on the rail, already flipping through that portfolio with a triumphant smile. Usopp grins beside her, eyes dancing between you and the open water.

“Told you she’d come,” he says, eyes tracing your frame as if to reassure himself that you really are there with them.

Nami smirks. “Of course she would.”

You don’t need to hear more. Your heart is pointed forward, riding each crest and trough of the waves. With Sanji holding you close, you close your eyes for just a moment, finally allowing yourself to breathe, to let go, and to step into whatever’s waiting beyond the foaming bow.

a/n: you guysss, this actually took forever and i hate it! for how long i spent on it, i feel like the ending was shit and rushed so sorry about that! i had one idea, and then changed it a billion times so now we’re here!

but it’s out there and we can move on to more fun things in the story! seeing more of the dynamic now that they have you in their hands, especially since you’re injured!!

thank you so much for your patience! it means the world! keep a look out for a calendar that i'll be posting soon for the writing pieces that will be posted for may!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! i love you very much, here’s a kiss from me to you 😘

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