i lov one piece

You banged your head against the window when the bus lurched to a sharp stop.

"Ow, fuck—?!"

You sat upright immediately and rubbed your temple. Hopefully, you wouldn't get a bruise or anything. You'd been resting your head against the cool glass and had nearly drifted off when this sudden jolt woke you.

Thankfully, it didn't hurt too much.

Blinking away the remnants of your very much needed sleep, you glanced at the view outside.

Three stops left.

An elderly woman climbed aboard at the next station, looking around for an empty seat. Not thinking it much, you pushed yourself up and gestured toward yours.

"Here."

The old woman smiled at you. "Thank you, sweetie."

You gave her a small nod before moving toward the back of the bus. Once you found a spot to stand, you slipped your headphones back on and scrolled through your playlist.

The rest of the ride passed in a blur.

When your stop finally arrived, you practically hopped off the bus.

Fresh air.

Well...relatively fresh.

The afternoon heat hit you immediately. Summer was creeping closer every day, and the humidity was already making your shirt stick uncomfortably to your back. Still, it was infinitely better than being trapped inside the stuffy bus.

...Why did they have to build the college on top of a damn mountain, anyway?

Seriously, you hated how drivers always seemed determined to cram every last passenger inside, too. By the end of most rides, everyone was packed together like sardines in a can, smelly and hot.

...You really should get your driver's licence.

Not that you had much to spare for lessons.

Adjusting your backpack, you headed toward the overpass and started the walk home.

God, you were exhausted.

Your professor had decided that today was the perfect day for a three-hour block lecture. Three hours, nonstop. Despite his students' very vocal complaints. And since you usually sat near the front, you couldn't even sneak a glance at your phone without risking getting called out.

At least it was finally the weekend.

Two whole days to rest, study for Monday's quiz, and start working on the paper your group had been assigned.

You hated the social sciences so much!

Actually, no. The paper wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that your friend had invited her boyfriend into the group without asking anyone first.

And the guy was useless!

You could already see how this was going to play out. The two of them would spend most of the project acting like they were the only people in the room, being all lovey-dovey, while you and the other two members of the group did the actual work. Then, as if that was not enough, you'd have to proofread whatever half-finished nonsense they submitted at the last minute if you wanted a decent grade, because you were a damn pushover.

Needless to say, your mood wasn't great.

You really should practice telling your thoughts more. Putting boundaries and all that nonsense. Or else this will just follow you into the workplace as well.

On the way home, you stopped at the small grocery store near your apartment, next to the pharmacy. And the moment you stepped inside, the blast of air conditioning felt heavenly.

You wandered through the aisles, looking for something easy to eat. Cooking sounded like far too much effort right now, and you definitely didn't trust your roommate to have made food for both of you, either.

"She'd better have washed her dishes this time," you muttered, or else you would put them all in her desk until her room stank up.

Eventually, your eyes landed on a cup of Yopokki.

You picked it up and turned it over.

Rice cakes.

You'd never actually tried them before, at least, not this kind, but how different could they be from instant noodles? Just thicker, right?

After a brief internal debate, you grabbed a can of soda as well. "Fuck it. It's not that expensive, anyway." And a nice meal wasn't finished without something tasty and cold to drink.

The cashier barely looked up when you approached the register.

"It'll be 1,205 berries. Cash or credit?"

"Cash." You handed over four 500-berry bills.

Honestly, you couldn't hold his grumpy attitude against him. For all you knew, he'd been dealing with rude customers for hours and just wanted to go home.

Besides, you'd be in his shoes yourself in a couple of hours.

The cashier counted the money, handed back your change, and immediately turned to the next customer.

You thanked him anyway before leaving the store.

A few minutes later, you reached your apartment building. It wasn't much to look at. It was old, so were most of the residents, and half the plumbing sounded like it was one bad day away from giving up entirely.

At least, your landlord was a decent enough guy.

He was polite, never talked down to his tenants, and if rent was a few days late, he'd usually let it slide as long as you warned him beforehand. He didn't even mind that you had brought your cat in without telling him, too.

Honestly, it was a massive upgrade compared to last year.

That old fart during your second year had practically spent the entire semester trying to kick you and Adele out under the excuse of "wanting to sell the apartment."

As if.

He just wanted to rent it to another person who would pay more, that was all.

You and your roommate had managed to drag the whole thing out until summer break arrived, but it had been exhausting with all the phone calls, threatening texts, and emails about starting legal action that he never did, by the way, whining about how much he needed money for his kids.

The bastard hadn't cared that throwing two university students out in the middle of the winter could leave them scrambling for housing, so why should you have cared about his renovation plans? Or his precious plans?

Besides, you'd checked.

The place was still on the market.

Months later, at that.

Apparently, according to one of your old neighbors, he was already looking into renting it out again, just like you had thought, since nobody wanted to buy the dump.

What a shock.

Honestly, what exactly had he even expected? That someone would pay several million berries for an apartment that could barely stay warm during cold nights?

"That bastard," you muttered under your breath. You hoped his next tenants would turn the entire building upside down. Maybe then he'd finally regret being a shitty landlord.

The elevator sat all the way on the fifth floor when you entered the lobby.

You stared at the ancient thing for a second, then shook your head.

The stairs would be faster.

Probably safer, too.

You climbed up to your floor and fished your keys out of your bag. A moment later, you pushed the apartment door open and kicked it shut behind you with your hip.

You slipped off your shoes, lined them up near the entrance, and called out.

"Hey! Adele! You here?"

No response came. She was probably still at the university. Looked like for once, you'd get a little peace before having to leave for your next shift. Nice, wasn't it?

Dropping your backpack beside the couch, you headed into the kitchen and filled the kettle. A few moments later, water was heating on the stove while you examined the Yopokki packaging.

Then you frowned.

Microwave.

The instructions wanted a microwave, and you did not have one. Just the old oven you and your roommate shared.

"Shit."

You considered it for about three seconds. Then immediately discarded the idea. The last thing you needed was accidentally setting the apartment on fire because you wanted rice cakes, after all.

A pot would work. Probably. Hopefully. You emptied the contents into a saucepan and prepared everything according to the instructions as best as you could.

Before adding the sauce, you dipped a finger into it and tasted. It was indeed pretty good!

Three minutes later, your meal was ready.

You carried the bowl to your room, opened your laptop, and pulled up the next episode of that historical Alabasta drama you'd started binge-watching a month ago.

Then you picked up your fork and took your first bite.

...

.....

.......

Okay, this was...not as good as you had hoped, to say the least. The taste was fine and all, but the texture was...definitely not up your alley, let's just say. It definitely tasted nothing like the ones you had eaten in that Korean restaurant you had gone to last year with a few of your classmates.

You still ate the whole thing, though. You'd paid for it, after all, and it was far too expensive to just throw it out. Then, to get rid of that awful aftertaste, you chugged the whole soda.

Part of you was glad the rice cakes had tasted so disappointing. At least now you wouldn't be tempted to waste money on them again.

The other part of you, however, mourned the fact that you'd spent over a thousand berries on something that had the texture of spicy wet paper.

...Life was cruel.

You washed your plate and ignored your roommate's cups that she had made a mountain at the side of the sink, because there was no way you would be her mommy, and returned to your room.

You threw your bag to the side so you wouldn't forget about it later and collapsed onto the bed. A heavy huff left you as you reached for your phone and set an alarm.

You briefly considered taking a shower before heading out, but the thought died almost immediately. You’d just sweat through your shift anyway. So what was the point? It’s not like anyone you knew ever came to that store, anyway.

You shut your eyes.

Sleep came fast.

And the alarm went off exactly one hour and fifteen minutes later.

You groaned, still too damn tired to work, but still forced yourself upright. Your body felt like it had been unplugged and plugged back in wrong. Still, you dragged yourself out of bed and changed into something more comfortable.

Thankfully, your boss didn’t insist on those cheap, itchy uniforms that nobody ever cared about except corporate.

You were still hungry, too, by the way.

But you only had about twenty minutes to reach Kajika and swap shifts with Mrs. Lucie. Once she left, though, hopefully you could sneak a few snacks from the counter. Maybe a chocolate bar, or maybe something salty. Anything, really.

You grabbed your jacket and phone, and don't forget your charger, then headed out after locking the door, and checking it three times to make sure you had actually done it, because, why the hell not?

The sun was going down by now, and the weather was a bit more tolerable than before. This little town of yours was pretty silent, and most people had already brought themselves into their homes to get dinner, then go and sleep after watching a bit of TV.

It was a bit of a boring place; there was nothing a college student could do to entertain themselves, but at least this also meant nothing bad happened. Rarely. Maybe a fight or two. Or a thief breaking in. Nothing more.

You wished they would at least have a book fest or two a year, though, or maybe bring better movies to the cinema? They only showed stuff from the 80s or cheaply made kids' movies for some reason.

It took longer than you wanted to reach the convenience store. When you finally pushed the door open, the familiar, and admittedly quite annoying, bell chimed over your head.

And immediately—

“Oh, look who decided to finally show up!” Mrs. Lucie stood behind the counter, arms crossed, looking pissed. Were you really that late? “I thought I’d have to close the night shift myself at this rate!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Lucie!” you said quickly, trying to stop her nagging before it actually started. “I’ll clean the store to make it up to you, yeah? It won’t happen again, promise. You know I’m usually not the type to cause trouble.”

“You better,” she said sharply, already walking toward the back to grab a broom. “I had other arrangements tonight, you know? I can’t wait all night just for you!”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” you agreed. “It was really inconsiderate of me. I guess I’m a bit under the weather these days, haha.”

She gave you a long look like she didn’t believe a single word of that, but didn’t press further.

“I’ll be going now, then,” she said, placing the keys on the counter and showing the broom into your hands. “You know the drill. Don’t forget to cash out before leaving.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She paused at the door. “...Have a nice night.”

“You too,” you replied and smiled.

The door chimed again as she left.

Alone now, you sighed and then started to sweep the narrow aisles one by one. Thankfully, the store was already pretty clean. Mrs. Lucie ran it like a military base disguised as a convenience shop. There wasn’t much dust, and nothing really out of place except—

Of course.

Someone had abandoned a few items on different shelves. A soda bottle here. A bag of chips there. A sad little Snickers was left sitting beside the dish soap.

You clicked your tongue, slightly annoyed, even though you were guilty of the same crime from time to time.

Was it really that hard to put things back where they belonged?

Apparently yes.

And then there was the bathroom.

You opened the door, immediately regretting it.

“Ew.”

A piece of gum had been stuck directly onto the wall, and there were some stains on the ground. Piss most likely.

...How do you even miss the toilet, man? Some people were so damn disgusting, really!

And, of course, you had to go and clean that, too. Thankfully, this convenience store sold gloves as well. You hoped your boss wouldn’t be too snippy at you for taking a pair because there was no way you would touch that with your bare hands.

Some teenagers came in not long after that, talking and laughing loudly. They made a beeline for the snacks. You watched them through the counter as they argued over flavors of chips and which soda had “the most aura,” whatever that meant. You know, the usual.

The girl, however, was a little too interested in the energy drinks. You saw it immediately. The subtle glance. The slow slip of a can into her hoodie pocket. Not subtle enough, however, especially since back in your middle-school days, you yourself had done your fair share of shoplifting, after all.

You cleared your throat.

She froze.

You pointed lazily at her pocket. “Really? You aren't supposed to have that, you know?”

She glared at you for a moment, then she pulled the energy drink back out from her jacket with an annoyed huff.

“Come on, I drink it all the time,” she said, like that was supposed to be a legal defense. "I've got the money, too. Just sell it to me."

You shrugged. “Sorry. I’m not getting in trouble for you." That woman checked the cameras sometimes. "Either get an adult to buy it for you or give it back.”

Thankfully, without putting up much of a fight, she slammed the drink on the counter, then left after showing you the middle finger. She and her friends left laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world, too, those little shits.

Whatever.

Then, later in the evening, a man with a balding spot came in. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t even look at you. He just grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of mint gum like he had to go on a date in the next few minutes, then slammed the money down on the counter.

Asshole.

You gave him his change anyway.

As he walked out, you caught just enough time to see him nearly trip over the step outside. He caught himself at the last second, but barely, and almost ate the pavement. From the looks of it, he was embarrassed, too.

You considered that karma.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Once he was gone, the store slipped back into silence. You pulled out your phone and leaned against the counter, opening a movie you’d already seen twice but were far too lazy to find something new to watch.

The convenience store was basically in the middle of nowhere anyway. Most of the traffic came from cars heading toward the nearby gas station. Nobody really “hung out” here unless they had no other choice.

Which meant loooooooong stretches like this.

A couple came in later. They looked exhausted and clearly overwhelmed. They had a crying baby and a teenager who looked permanently one scream away from snapping himself by their side, too.

The woman approached the counter. “Excuse me… could you tell us how to get to the highway exit?”

You tried to help them, you really did.

You pulled up a map, turned the phone, explained the turns, zoomed in, zoomed out, and pointed at roads you weren’t even sure you were pronouncing correctly.

The teenager sighed the entire time. The baby kept fussing between her arms, and the man looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the universe other than the damn road.

When they finally left, you weren’t even sure you’d helped. You just hoped you hadn't made things worse for them, honestly.

That was the last customer until around midnight. You, of course, were bored out of your mind, but at least you didn’t have to deal with anyone, you guessed. It could always be worse, after all.

You tried your best not to look at the clock during all of this because you were pretty sure that whenever you did, God took that as a personal challenge and did his best to slow the time without causing a rip in reality.

Then, around one o'clock, when the night had fully settled in, and even the gas station outside looked half-closed, the store TV kept playing its low, looping commercials, the kind with overly cheerful jingles with weird products they only showed this late.

You were half-listening, chin resting on your palm, when the bell above the door finally rang once again.

A customer.

You straightened a little.

The man who walked in looked rough, for lack of a better word. Rumpled clothes, wobbly legs, and that unmistakable sour, stale smell clinging to him like he’d been wearing the same clothes for the whole week.

He was probably drunk. Or well on his way there. If you had to guess, he’d already been kicked out of somewhere and decided this place was his next stop.

Just damn great, wasn't it?

“Good evening, sir,” you said.

He didn't respond, just glared at you, and wandered off into the aisles like the greeting had been background noise.

You heard things moving a moment later; chips rustling, maybe a box of chocolate bars tipping over. Then a crash.

“Just what I needed,” you huffed under your breath, and leaned back slightly. “Even more cleaning. Fantastic.”

After a few tense minutes, he came back to the counter with two six-packs and a handful of chips and slammed them down hard enough to make you flinch.

For a split second, you thought he was about to throw them at you.

You kept your expression neutral anyway, even when your heart started to beat a notch faster. No point escalating things unless you absolutely have to, right?

You started scanning the items.

Of course, you did not try to make any small talk with him, either.

“Your total is 66,750 berries, sir,” you said, then. “Cash or card?”

“What the fuck?!” the man barked instantly. “Why the hell is it that much?”

“You got two packs of Déesse,” you explained, trying to keep your voice steady. “They’re 30,000 each. That’s standard pricing.”

“Hell no!” he snapped again. “The tag said 7,500!”

You had to hold back a groan.

No alcohol was that cheap!

“Sir,” you tried again, “I can assure you that’s the correct price—”

He slammed his hand onto the counter. “No, it’s not!” he roared, leaning forward. “You’re trying to swindle me, aren’t you, you little cunt?!”

A drop of spit hit your cheek.

Your stomach tightened immediately.

This was exactly the point where things started getting bad. Not loud-bad. Not annoying-bad. Physical-bad. The kind of situation where you started mentally calculating whether running or apologizing would get you out faster before you definitely had to call the police.

You opened your mouth, ready to swallow your pride and say whatever it takes to de-escalate the situation, maybe even accept the loss just to make him leave, then—

The bell above the door rang again.

You didn’t even look at the entrance at first. Not until the drunk man in front of you looked away from you to glance back, at least.

That's when you saw him. Tall, broad shoulders, slick black hair, and a sharp, tailored suit. He probably had a decade or two over you. His watch alone must have been more expensive than this rundown convenience store, really. He also had a scar cutting across his face. It didn't ruin his looks, however, if anything, it made him look even hotter.

He didn’t speak immediately, just stepped inside. And for some reason you couldn’t explain, the drunk man suddenly didn’t look quite as confident as he had a second ago.

He glanced between the two of you, then, looking almost bored, and finally started walking toward the counter like nothing he had all the time in the world.

“Good evening,” he said once he was close to you.

“Y-yeah, good evening, sir..!” you sputtered, straightening so fast you almost knocked over the scanner. A smile appeared on your face before you could stop it. God, you were being embarrassing! Stop it! “How may I help you?”

God, his voice was so gruff and deep, too. He was definitely a smoker, wasn't he?

Why did you have to meet such a handsome man when you were wearing a days-old uniform, looking like shit?

“A pack of Winston Slender Blue, please,” he said, and rested his left hand on the counter.

You nodded, “Of course, sir. Please wait a moment."

Before you could even turn around, however—

“Hey—?!”The drunkard shoved past him. At least, he tried to, because the suited man barely moved from his place.

But the energy in the room snapped instantly.

“Wait your turn, asshole!” the drunk guy slurred, pointing aggressively. “This skank is taking care of me first! You blind or somethin’?!”

Your face went hot.

“Hey!” you yelled back for the first time since this shit had happened. “Watch it!"

The man in the suit didn’t even look bothered. If anything, he looked mildly amused.

“Skank?” he repeated. Then he let out a scoff. "It looked like to me you couldn't pay for your stuff and were bitching about it, though. Can't even pay for some cheap booze?" He mocked the other. And, dear Lord, even that faint, condescending little smirk tugging at his mouth made your legs feel like jelly. "Go search for some change if you're that desperate for a drink."

“O-okay, it’s fine, really—” you tried quickly, stepping between them slightly, hands raised. “Let’s just calm down, alright?”

But the drunk man wasn’t listening anymore. He muttered something under his breath, something nasty for sure, and raised his fist. “You piece of—”

Before he could even swing, however, let alone land a punch, the handsome man caught the drunkard by the throat, and in one smooth motion, without even hesitating for a single moment, slammed his head down onto the counter.

You heard something creak, then there was blood, oh, so much, at that, making you take a step back again.

...Why the hell had you found this so hot, though? Were you really into brutes or something? Because why did that make you—

Nope, you were not going to think about that. Not right now.

Then, the man let go of the bastard, and he slid down to the floor with a painful groan, clutching his nose, almost whimpering.

The other glanced at him for a moment, like he was nothing more than a piece of trash he had just noticed on the ground, and straightened his cuffs.

“I apologize, Miss,” he said to you, then. “We made quite the ruckus.”

Your heart was still doing something very stupid in your chest. “O-oh, it’s fine, really…!” you said quickly and cleared your throat. “I was actually scared he might do something to me.”

You glanced down at the man on the floor.

It didn't look like he would get up any time soon.

“...You actually came just in time, sir.”

The black-haired man stared at you for a moment, then hummed, "Is that so? I'm glad to hear that, then."

His eyes were so dark and captivating, weren’t they?

You quickly looked away, suddenly very interested in the cigarette rack behind the counter, and reached for the pack he had requested.

“You wanted Winston Slim Blue, right?”

“Slender,” he corrected you.

“R-right, of course."

You turned back to the register and scanned the pack. Your hands felt… slightly less steady than usual. “Your total is 9,550 berries, sir.”

He gave you his card, “Here.”

You processed the payment quickly, printed the receipt, and returned the card. “Done. Here is your receipt. Have a good night, sir.”

You waited for the man to turn away and leave, but his gaze shifted towards the man still groaning on the floor again. "...What will you do with this one, if you don't mind me asking?"

“Oh! I was just going to call the police,” you said. Then hesitated. “That wouldn’t trouble you, right..? You did kinda—” you grimaced slightly, “—but you were helping, so you shouldn’t get in trouble, right?”

The man hummed again, then pulled out his phone. You watched as he called someone, "Daz? Yes, I got my smoke. Come inside for a moment, though. There's some trash I need you to get rid of."

That made me look up.

Trash?

Damn...

Wait, what the hell did he even mean by that?

A few minutes later, a car pulled up right outside the store. It hadn't been there before, had it? It must’ve been parked across the road where you couldn’t see it properly from the counter. The engine was quiet, and the vehicle itself looked very old, but classic. It was quite polished, too. Like something that came out of an old spy movie.

A man with a short buzzcut came out from it, then.

Was this the Daz guy?

He nodded once toward you, then looked at the suited man. “Boss?”

He nudged the drunkard with his shoe. "This one."

"Got it."

Daz grabbed the drunk man by the collar like it weighed nothing and dragged him toward the door.

You stood still behind the counter for a moment and watched.

Then he opened the trunk.

Why the hell did he open the trunk?

Before you could see anything else, however, the handsome man stepped right into your line of sight and obscured your view.

“Again,” he said. “I apologize for this little mess I caused.” Then he pulled out a 10,000-berry bill and held it out. You almost felt your eyes pop out of their sockets.  “Please accept this. I assume you’re working the night shift? It would be wiser to take a taxi home… in case that fool returns.”

I don't think I'll see him ever again, you thought, in fact, I don't think that poor guy will go on to see another day after this, either.

Was this man from a gang, or something? You didn't know, but the one thing you were sure of was that he was dangerous.

“No, no, thank you, but I can’t accept this,” you said, and pushed the bill back slightly. “This is too much, sir. Stuff like this happens all the time anyway!”

“Then throw it away,” he said, then, as if it was as simple as that.

While you were internally debating what the hell to do, he was already turning his attention away from the counter to light a cigarette from the new pack. "Have a good night, Miss."

God damn it. You took the money and put it away. You would rather take it yourself than let your boss pocket it, even if it made you kinda feel like...

Whatever.

“…S-see you later, Mister!” you called after him, almost against your better judgment.

He paused at the door and chuckled.

“For your own good,” he said, exhaling smoke lightly, “I hope not.”

Luffy

It happens in an instant. One moment, you’ve brought your mace down on the head of the lion Zoan, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. You collapse next to his body, exhausted from the fight.

The next moment, the lion Zoan lunges at you from the floor, one massive paw smashing into your face with all the strength of their devil fruit, sickle claws tearing your flesh open.

You go flying. You hit the ground hard, leaving a smear of blood from your body skidding. Dazed, you try and get your bearings, berating yourself for letting your guard down early, praying it didn’t cost you the fight. The lion Zoan snarls and charges you.

“Gum-Gum Whip!”

The sight of your captain intercepting your opponent brings a heavy relief–if Luffy’s finished with his own opponent, that means your part is done, too. You can finally catch your breath.

With the rest comes the dull, burning pain across your face. The enemy mostly got you in the nose and mouth, miraculously missing your eyes. Blood runs from your nose and mouth and drips from your chin, bleeding as heavily as a head wound. Still, you’re not too concerned. It’s only when the rest of the crew catches up to you and you try to talk that you realize how much damage the lion did, because not only does speaking hurt, but Nami makes a face at the sight of you.

The local anesthetic that Chopper gives you helps a little bit, but it still hurts when he realigns your nose and stitches up the gashes. Luffy holds your hand the entire time, knowing you hate needles.

“Good job, Y/n!” Luffy says after Chopper’s done. “You’re real tough!”

“Thanks, Captain.” You sigh. “I would have been fine if I hit him again, but I thought he was down. I forgot how resilient Zoans can be.”

“You didn’t want to kill him.”

“I know, I shouldn’t take these fights so lightly–”

“Y/n, that’s a good thing.” Luffy stretches an arm around your shoulder. “You’re a good person. Besides, I was able to take him out easily because of the damage you did.”

“Nami looked horrified when she saw my face,” you say. “I must look like a mess.”

“You do,” Luffy says honestly, making you smile–which pulls on your stitches.

“Owww, oh…smiling hurts.”

“Then don’t smile!”

“I can’t help it. You make me smile. You know this.”

Luffy rubs his chin, eyes rolling up as he thinks. “Then I should stay away from you.”

“Nooo, don’t do that! I need you around to cheer me up! Especially now.” You take his hand that’s hanging around your shoulder, feeling your chest lighten when he squeezes back.

“Well, in that case, I’ll just not make you smile!” he says.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” You chuckle, then look at the mirror hanging on the wall. If you need to lower your mood, there’s an easy shortcut–the combination of your inflamed, swollen skin, plus the stitches make you look nothing short of monstrous.

Luffy notices your face falling. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s going to scar. And not even in a cool way.” Living with severe facial scarring probably won’t be that bad–you are a pirate, after all–but it’ll still be new. And, to be honest, you’re not ready for your appearance to change so dramatically.

“What are you talking about? It’ll be super cool!” Luffy says earnestly. “Everyone will know what a strong pirate you are!”

He’s trying to cheer you up. You don’t want to bring him down in the dumps with you, but you can’t help but be bummed out.

“But what if I don’t want to look cool?” you say. “What if I just want to look like me? I mean, who could possibly find a face like this appealing?” You ghost your fingers over the stitches on your lips. “Who would kiss lips like mine?”

You think you’re holding it in okay, but the admission has you tearing up. You’re being ridiculous–you should be happy to be alive. But why did it have to be your face? Why…

Luffy stares at you in that way he does when he’s thinking. You can’t tell what’s going through his mind.

It happens in an instant.

One moment you’re sitting next to each other in silence. The next moment, he wraps his other arm around you, pulls you in close, and lightly presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss.

It hurts a little, but it also feels so good that your tears break free and sting where they roll over your cuts.

“Did that hurt? I’m sorry, Y/n,” Luffy says when he pulls away.

“No, no! It was nice! It was really nice.” You have to fight not to smile.

“Oh, good! I liked it too!” he giggles, looking overjoyed.

“When I heal up, will you do that again?”

“I can do it right now!” Luffy says eagerly, but you clear your throat and tilt your head toward the doorway.

Chopper is standing there, little hooves on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed with the both of you and your method of boosting morale.

Zoro

Zoro was always one to downplay his injuries. Next to Chopper, you gave him the most trouble for it out of anyone in the crew. He figured that so long as he got medical attention, the extent of the injuries was no big deal.

He never expected to be on the receiving end.

In the heat of battle, he’s entirely focused on his opponent. This enemy crew is tough, but not the strongest they’ve faced. Strong enough to demand his full concentration.

However, Zoro knows the unique sound of a sword cutting through flesh. When he hears the shhk! noise behind him and remembers you’re also fighting a sword user, he’s so badly distracted he almost gets hit. He has just enough presence of mind to finish off his enemy before turning around.

That’s when he sees you fire a bullet into your opponent’s leg, your free arm wrapped around your stomach. There’s blood seeping between your fingers. In the time it takes him to rush to your side, you shoot your opponent again in the other leg, making him crumple, then once in each arm, rendering him completely unable to fight back from where he lays.

“Yo,” you say casually, but you’re trembling all over. Your torn shirt is staining quickly.

“You got cut,” Zoro states. He tries to pull your arm away so he can see your wound better, but you step back.

“I’m okay,” you say. You and Zoro both look down at your abdomen as you pull your arm away just slightly, and Zoro sees the unmistakable grayish-pink of your large intestine before you quickly plug up the gash with your arm again. You look back up at him. “It’s just a scratch.”

Zoro’s about ready to stab you himself, his eyes going wide with horror and rage. 

“Are you insane?!” he shouts. “A scratch?! Shit, where’s Chopper–?!”

“Ha ha–ow ow ow, hurts to laugh.” You grin, but Zoro notices you tearing up from the pain.

“Okay, just, stay still,” his hands are held up hesitantly, unsure of what to do, and he calls over his shoulder. “CHOPPER! Get over here right now!”

Once Chopper arrives, he applies an emergency field dressing and instructs Zoro on how to safely carry you back to the ship’s infirmary. You act like you’re in high spirits the entire way there, smiling up at Zoro like everything’s fucking dandy.

“This is kinda nice,” you say. “I haven’t been carried since I was little.”

“After you heal,” Zoro says, “I’ll carry you around as much as you want, okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he says gently. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course not,” you say, and Zoro curses himself for having asked–he can see you wince with every harsh step he tries to avoid.

“We’re almost there. Almost there.”

“Relax, big guy. I’ve been through worse.”

You haven’t. He’s been in every major fight you’ve been through, and it’s never been this bad. Your blood is still warm on his skin, and your color’s getting paler, and it’s all because he couldn’t protect you.

The surgery takes longer than he thought. He’s pacing the hallway outside the infirmary so much that even Sanji starts to make a comment, which would have started a fight had Robin not intervened and sternly told them both that everyone was worried.

When you come to, it’s to the sight of Zoro standing over your bed. You don’t manage so much as a ‘yo’ before Zoro gets onto his hands and knees, bowing so low his head touches the floor.

“I’ll never let it happen again!” he says, minding his volume–Chopper is only allowing him to visit because Zoro promised he wouldn’t stress you out. “It’s my fault! I’m sorry–”

“Get up.” 

He peers up at you. Your face is twisted up like you’re holding something back, but you force it into a sneer.

“Get up right now, or I’m going to make fun of you,” you say. He hesitates long enough for you to roll your eyes. “Don’t be a pussy.”

That brings him right back to his feet. “What’d you call me?!”

“You heard me,” you say. “I’m alive, aren’t I? So relax.”

“I can’t relax!” Zoro snaps. “You got hurt because of me! I was too weak! I couldn’t–couldn’t stop this from happening!”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever?!” He no longer minds his volume. “How can you be so–so calm about this?!”

“How can you be making this about yourself?”

That shuts him up real quick. Realizing his mistake, Zoro starts to get a sour feeling in his stomach, but you only smile.

“Now you know what it feels like,” you chuckle and wince, “ow–what it feels like to have someone be dismissive of your injuries. So the next time you get hurt, you big dumb idiot, how about you have some self awareness and let me worry?”

Zoro deflates a little. “I still can’t just forgive myself like that.”

“I’ll do it for you.” You hold out your hand until he takes it. “Roronoa Zoro, I forgive you–so long as you do one thing for me.”

He leans in. “Anything. What is it?”

“Even with the pain meds, I’m still sore. Kiss it better?” You smile the way you do when you’re joking, but it soon turns to a look of surprise when Zoro leans in even closer. He hesitates for a moment, face hovering above yours, before his free hand comes to cradle the back of your head and he presses a firm, intent kiss to your lips.

You stare at him when he pulls away, your expression slowly morphing into a smile–not a playful one, not a masking one, but a real smile.

“W-What’s with that look?” Zoro says, flustered now. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

“I meant kiss my stomach, dummy.”

Zoro’s eyes widen, but before he can remedy his mistake, you weakly pull him back in for another kiss. This time, he obliges without question.

Sanji

Sanji barely dodges a brutal strike from his opponent, then finishes them off with a flaming kick to the skull. You grin at him as you down your own opponent with a heavy strike from one of your tonfa.

“Careful there, Hotfoot! He almost got you!” you yell gleefully, only to narrowly avoid getting hit yourself.

“Worry about yourself, Sticks!” Sanji calls back, mirroring your grin.

“They’re not sticks!” you say yet again, smashing one of the tonfa into a pirate’s head and knocking them out cold. “You’re just jealous I can fight with my hands!”

“I choose not to fight with my hands!”

“Sure you do!”

You were well aware of Sanji’s commitment to only use his hands to cook, but it was still fun to pretend it was a skill issue. Sanji knew it was all teasing anyway. The two of you greatly enjoyed your banter, whether in or outside of battle. As physical fighters, your rivalry was a friendly one. After all, out of everyone in the crew, you spent the most time talking to each other.

The next wave of pirates comes, this time stronger than before–the enemy’s commanding officers. The battle becomes too serious for you to go on making comments, and your focus gets pulled toward your opponents.

It’s a hard, bloody fight. As soon as he defeats his opponent, he worries about how the others are faring. The rest of the crew is almost done with their own one-on-ones, and he finds himself rushing to find you first, his pace hurrying when he finds one of your tonfa lying off to the side.

You’re straddling your opponent on the ground. Your non-dominant hand is broken, held crookedly against your chest, and you’re bleeding from your hairline and mouth. With your good hand, you beat your tonfa into your opponent’s skull, over and over, a broken cry tumbling from your bloody lips with every strike. Your opponent is no longer moving, but you don’t stop, tears streaming from your eyes as you mash his face to a visceral pulp.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Sanji skids to a stop next to you, grabbing your wrist before you can strike again. “He’s dead! It’s over. It’s over. You won.”

You look at him with wide eyes. Your mouth is held open, and at first, Sanji doesn’t realize what’s wrong, but he can tell you only won by a hair from the way you’re trembling. He gets down and pulls you into a gentle hug. “I got you,” he says. “I got you. You’re okay now.”

He holds you at arm’s length and checks over your body for any injuries, finding none. Mouth still open, you pull away from him and start patting the grass with your good hand, searching for something. 

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” he says. “Please, say something.”

Sanji expects something tired and sarcastic, like ‘you don’t look much better.’ Instead, you make a strange, groaning noise as your response, and he feels a chill run through his body. You always had a quick retort for him, even when things were dire.

You seem to find what you were looking for, your hand closing around something. Sanji helps you stand up, and when you open your hand, he sees a few teeth in your palm that must have gotten knocked out.

“Your jaw’s broken,” Sanji realizes aloud, and you nod, and suddenly the way you hold your mouth open is deeply unsettling.

The silence that follows your surgery, however, puts Sanji at an even greater unease. Your jaw is wired shut to let the bone heal, and Chopper says that for the next six weeks, you won’t be able to speak at all.

You carry around a notepad with you, but for a while after you wake from the anesthesia, you don’t write anything down except to answer Chopper’s questions, opting instead to sulk.

“Come on, Sticks,” Sanji says lightly as he signs the cast on your hand. “I know you have something to say.”

You flick him off with your good hand, then seem to regret it, your face fallin along with your hand. Sighing through your nose, you grab your notepad and scribble something down, then hold it up for him to see.

‘I look like a chipmunk.’

The lower half of your face has, naturally, swollen up. Sanji shakes his head. “No, no, you look fine! You…” A pointed look from you makes him concede. “Okay, yeah. It’s swollen. What did you expect?” You look away, and he pats your shoulder. “Ah, come on, it’s not so bad. Most people find chipmunks cute, you know.”

Your eyes widen slightly and you give him a look of surprise. Sanji stiffens.

“Um, well, I mean…” he stammers. Though he doesn’t leave, for the rest of that day, you both avoid looking at each other.

From the beginning to the end of your healing process, Sanji stays by your side, always finding a way to make you feel better. He’ll hype you up by doing a drumroll while he’s waiting for you to finish writing out a thought, something which the rest of the crew picks up as well. When you’re hanging out with him in the galley, he’ll do hibachi tricks with the food he prepares to cheer you up.

The food he makes for you especially helps you get through the long weeks. You were severely bummed out at having to miss his cooking for weeks–until the first sip of the soup he cooked. You never knew a liquid diet could be so delicious. Sanji takes the time to roast and blend anything you’d wanted. Thanks to him, being unable to chew food doesn’t affect your nutrient intake at all.

He also indulges you in your favorite drink without you having asked, which is surprising. It’s not the first time he’s gone out of his way like this, but it does feel more special when you’ve been in such a vulnerable state.

‘Maybe there’s an upside to this after all.’

Sitting in the galley while Sanji cooks, you hold up your notepad for him to read.

“And what is that?” he says, walking around the prep table with a mixing bowl in his arms, looking down at what you’re writing.

‘I love y’

You pause, staring at your notepad with a weird, dumbstruck look. Sanji’s eyes widen, slowing down his mixing for a second, but you quickly recover and finish scribbling.

‘I love you treating me extra special.’ You hold up the notepad hesitantly, avoiding his eye. 

Though feeling warmth rise in his chest, Sanji plays it cool. “Well, I’m glad you’re finding the positive in this,” he says. “I personally miss the sound of your voice.”

You drop your notepad and fumble to catch it with only one good hand, accidentally smacking it to the floor. Both you and Sanji crouch down to pick it up, and freeze when your hands touch.

The urge to say ‘sorry’ is strong, though you can’t speak. Face burning, all you can do is look at him apologetically and hope he understands. But when you do, he’s looking back at you with the same expression he has when he reads a brand new recipe. Like he’s figuring something out.

You go to pull your hand away, but his fingers close around yours. “I, uh… I really mean that, you know.”

Swallowing, you glance down at his hand holding yours, then back up at him, and nod.

“Y/n,” he says, letting go of your hand to instead cup your cheek tenderly. “Would you… I mean. Can I…?”

With your heart pounding, you nod again, and Sanji leans in. You close your eyes, and a moment later, his lips brush yours, feather-light. Just that barest contact makes your head spin almost as bad as it did when you got your injury in the first place.

Sanji breaks free, and you stare at each other. A slow smile spreads across your lips at the sight of his nose starting to bleed. You both stand up, and you write something down quickly.

‘I’m sorry I can’t kiss you back.’

“That’s okay,” he says, reading the note over your shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, grinning. “I’ll gladly do all the work.”

The first time you spoke, you responded in gibberish. You were just a body of sugar, a new creation. They all laughed—the soft-melted gumdrop guards, the caramel-coated scholars, even the Chief himself. His thick molasses beard shook with joy, and he wiped a crystal tear from his peppermint smile. You didn’t understand what was so funny; the sugar in your brain hadn't crystallized into language yet. But you mimicked their laughter, tilting your head and blinking your rock candy lashes as if you were in on the joke.

He named you after her, the one you were made to replace. You still don’t know what the name means, but when he says it, you always look up. They say you were sculpted to be her exact replica—not just in the way you sparkle or the way your knees knock, but in a deeper, more profound sense. They talk about it like a resurrection. But you’re not her. You're not anyone. Not yet.

Your body is fourteen years old, but your mind is something else entirely—something raw and new. You can learn, but it’s slow. You have to be taught everything: how to walk without your jaw unhinging, how to talk without crumbling, how to think without tasting every thought like lemon powder on your tongue. The others—the gum girls, fudge boys, toffee twins—were born knowing things. You came from the mines.

You’re the only one who’s candy all the way through. You were carved from the deep-core sugar veins beneath the island, where the rock hums and glows with a pink light. The Chief spent seasons sculpting your bones from spiced nougat, wiring your joints with bubblegum sinew, and glazing your eyes until they gleamed like glassy jellies. You remember none of it, but sometimes you dream of darkness and syrup and something scraping. A spoon, maybe.

When you first saw your reflection, you touched the glass with sticky fingers, expecting her to speak. You smiled, but she didn’t smile back. Neither did you. They say you’re special, which is why they don’t let you outside. They bolt the sugar-glass windows shut with caramel bars every night and post gumdrop guards at your door even when you sleep. You’ve never seen the candy cane forests or the bubbling soda springs. The only sky you know is painted on the ceiling, with cotton candy clouds that never move.

They say the outside world isn’t sweet enough for you—that the wind might melt your frosting, the rain might wash your mind clean, and a wrong look from a wrong person might make you crack. But you don’t feel special. You feel shelved, a display in a sugar museum: perfect, untouchable, and alone.

They dress you in her clothes—lace bonnets, ribboned boots, velvet skirts stitched with sugared thread. You don’t get to choose. The Chief says she loved pink, so you wear pink. Your hair is pulled into her braids every morning, and your scalp aches, but you don't complain. You learned not to, after the silence. The Chief’s punishments weren’t physical. He’d leave you in the corner of your sugar-crystal room, whispering to the doll in your lap, wondering if she used to sit there, too. He’d look at you for a long time, his eyes full of a love that felt like a cage. He’d call you his "little spark," his "second chance," his "perfect girl." He’d touch your face like he was afraid you’d melt. You wished you would. You wished you could drip into the floor and vanish through the cracks.

The others never said no to him. They’d kneel when he passed, bow their caramel heads, and say, “She’s the island’s blessing.” You didn’t feel like a blessing. You felt like a cage with gum walls and marshmallow locks, a secret kept on a velvet leash. Sometimes, you’d press your cheek against the sugar-glass and stare at the horizon, dreaming of a world you couldn't touch. They said the outside was dangerous, bitter, unsweet. But you wondered: if it was so bad, why did they try so hard to keep it from you? The Chief said your light must be "walked away"—sealed up, hidden deep where no sour hands could stain it. He said if you went out there, the world would take you apart, bite by bite. But you’d started dreaming of teeth anyway. Not theirs. Yours.

You awoke to shouting. Not the soft coos of the maids, or the echo of Gramps’ boots in the hall. This was sharp, wild, and real. The ceiling didn’t glow with morning lights. No candy-cotton birds chirped. Just silence, and then, far off, the sound of yelling. Angry, excited, panicked. Your knees wobbled as you stood, pressing your hands against the sugar-glass. The sky was the wrong color—real blue, not painted. Down below, there was smoke, fire, and marshmallow structures broken apart like brittle toffee.

Then you saw it: a black flag, a skull with a straw hat painted above it, flapping violently in the wind. Gramps’ words echoed in your mind: “When you see that flag, lock the doors. Close your ears. Don’t even think sweetly.” You stumbled back, a sticky fear curling in your stomach. Then, a crash. Your door exploded inward. Guards flew like candy shards, screaming. You fell to your knees, your sugar-rush heartbeat thundering in your ears.

He stepped in. Not made of jelly or fondant, but warm, tanned, and soft-looking. He had a scar under one eye and a smile so wide you thought he might split in half. He wore a straw hat. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. You just stared at him.

“Hiiiii!” he beamed, waving. “Whoa—are you candy? Like, real candy?!”

“I… I think… I is?” you mumbled.

“Cool!!” he shouted, his boots crunching over crushed jawbreaker tiles. “You’re shiny! Like a jellybean but alive!”

You puffed out your chest a little, proud of yourself. “I… no… I is not jelly bean. I is… I am… I am candy person.”

The man grinned wider. “I’m Luffy! I’m gonna be King of the Pirates!”

“Pie…rat?” you said slowly. “You gonna… make pie… right?”

He burst out laughing. “Nah! Pirate! Like sailing, treasure, fighting—y’know? FUN stuff!”

Your eyes widened. “Gramps says pirates is bad-bad. You take and crunch and melt.”

Luffy tilted his head, still smiling. “Sounds like a lotta rules.” He squatted to your level, his eyes curious and kind. “You looked lonely. You okay?”

You stared. No one had ever asked if you were okay. “I… don’t know,” you whispered. And for the first time in your candy-coated life, that was the truth.

The sound of boots thunder through the hallway. A crash. Voices. So many voices. A woman with orange hair charged in, followed by a long-nosed man, a tall swordsman, a tiny reindeer, and a man with swirly eyebrows.

“Luffy, you can’t just run ahead like—” The orange-haired woman stopped dead when she saw you. “Wait… is that…?”

You shrank back instinctively. The small one with the hat gasped. “W-Whoa! Is she candy?! She smells like sugar!”

The man with the cigarette looked you up and down with gentle eyes. “She’s… beautiful.” He added, “I just meant—she’s like a sculpture or something!”

“Looks like she’s alive,” the swordsman grunted.

You pressed yourself to the wall. “I–I not ‘posed to talk to many. Gramps say too much people make my head mush.”

“You okay, sweetheart?” the orange-haired woman asked, her voice softer now. “Do you live here?”

You looked at them, strangers, loud and bright like popping candy. “Gramps say… if I talk to pirates, he’ll lock me in the dark again.”

They all went still.

You looked down, your voice trembling. “He say outside hurts. That too much people ruin my shine. That if I go bad, he gotta… re-make me.”

“Remake… you?” the long-nosed man echoed, horrified.

“I don’t want to be melted again,” you said, your eyes wide, glossy, and pleading. “I promise I be good. I didn’t ask them in, please, I didn’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Luffy stepped forward, his voice softer than you’d ever heard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But it was too late. The air snapped like brittle sugar. You heard his boots before you saw him. Gramps. His coat flared like scorched molasses, and his eyes—usually warm drip and brown honey—were dark now. Wild. He was foaming, and his thick beard crackled with static, sugar-glitter flying off like sparks.

“You touch my creation?!” he boomed, his voice rattling the walls. “You invade my sanctum? You taint my granddaughter?!”

Your whole body locked up. You dropped to your knees. “I–I’m sorry, Gramps!” you cried. “I didn’t call them! They came! I stayed in the room like good girl! Please, don’t—don’t—!”

The swordsman was already stepping in front of you. “She’s scared of you, old man.”

“She’s mine!” Gramps roared. “I carved her from the core! I gave her breath! I built her!”

You flinched at every word. Your chest heaved. “Gramps…” you whispered. “I—I didn’t want to be bad…”

“You’re not bad,” the woman, Nami, said quickly, kneeling beside you. “You’re not. You’re just a kid.”

But your eyes darted to Gramps. You didn’t understand.

The Chief’s cane slammed against the ground. “You leave this place now, pirates, or I’ll reduce you to powder and start over. I always start over.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. You only knew what he had told you. You only knew his voice. Even if part of you, deep down, was starting to wonder… what if he was wrong?

Gramps was still screaming, his voice cracking through the sugar air like lightning. “She’s not for you! You don’t understand what she is! What I’ve done! You think you can just walk in and take my masterpiece?! She’s not candy, she’s not a child—she’s perfection!” You didn’t breathe. You didn’t move. Luffy’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving you. “She’s not yours,” Zoro said flatly.

“She’s mine. I shaped her. From the core. Do you know how long it took to make something that could learn? That could laugh? That could remember?!” His voice cracked again, eyes glassy. “She’s my little spark. My second chance. And even if you did take her, you wouldn’t last a day.”

You flinched. “I—” you started, but your throat burned.

Gramps turned on you, suddenly cooing. “Isn’t that right, little drizzle? You still get confused. You don’t even know what outside means, do you?”

You blinked at him, then at everyone. “I know…” your voice wavered, “what outside looks like.”

He laughed, a horrible sound. “She doesn’t even understand half your words. She repeats things she hears, strings them together like songs. She’s barely months old. A sugar child in a teenage shell. She’s still learning emotions. Still learning how to feel.”

“She’s not some porcelain puppet,” Nami snapped.

“She’s mine!” the Chief barked again. “She’s the only thing I’ve made that never melted. She listens. She stays. She doesn’t argue or rot or run away!”

You stared at him, eyes wide. The truth you’d been told so many times began to taste like salt. “I don’t want to melt,” you whispered. Luffy’s fist tightened.

Usopp stepped up beside you first. “Hey… do you like jokes? I got lots of those. Maybe I can teach you some.”

Chopper’s antlers wobbled as he stepped forward too. “Do you want to see a real forest sometime? I know one with giant beetles and no cages.”

“Kid,” Zoro said, glancing your way. “If you walk out that door, you’ll never have to hear his voice again.”

You stared at them all, then turned to Gramps. He looked… terrified. Not angry. Terrified. Because he saw it—a flicker of something new in your eyes. Something he didn’t shape. Choice. But your feet didn’t move. Not yet.

“No, no, no—look at me, little drizzle,” Gramps said, his voice sickly sweet. “They don’t know what’s best for you. They’re strangers. I’m your Gramps. I’m your home. I made you, remember?”

Your lip trembled. “I gave you your name,” he continued, stepping closer, that too-wide smile crawling across his face. “I taught you how to walk. How to smile. I loved you when you were nothing but sugar shards and silence. Who else would do that? Who else would ever keep you?”

“That’s enough.” Nami’s voice cracked through the air.

Sanji moved first. One long stride forward, and he scooped you up before you could blink. “I got her!”

“Don’t you touch her!” Gramps howled.

But it was too late—Luffy was already there, planting himself between you and the Chief. “She’s not a thing.”

“She’s mine!”

“No,” Luffy growled, eyes dark beneath his straw hat. “She’s hers.”

You were pressed to Sanji’s chest, his coat warm against your sugar skin, a faint scent of spices in your nose. Large hands gently cupped over your eyes. You heard his voice in your ear—soft, steady. “Don’t look, sweetheart. Don’t listen, either, if you can help it.”

But you couldn’t help it. You heard Gramps scream. You heard the crash of a cane, the smack of bone against wood, the snap of candy glass. Then Zoro’s voice, cold as ice: “You ever talk about her like that again, and I’ll take your hands off at the wrists.” The wet crunch that followed was something primal.

Sanji’s hold didn’t loosen as he raced through the burning halls. You heard distant guards shouting, sugar cracking beneath your rescuers’ feet, smoke curling into your hair. But Sanji never let go. His voice was the only thing keeping you tethered. “You’re okay. We got you. You’re safe now, sweetheart.”

When you finally felt real sunlight on your face, you opened your eyes. There was a ship. A wide, golden lion’s face. A breeze. An endless stretch of ocean that wasn’t painted. You had never seen anything so terrifying. So beautiful. And behind you, back in the crumbling halls of the only world you’d ever known, you had left him. Gramps. You didn’t say it out loud, but inside your slowly-forming heart, one thought shimmered like spun sugar in the sun:

Maybe I’m not his anymore.

For the first time in your life, you felt real air—not perfumed or sealed inside sugarglass walls. It rushed past you in wild, whipping gusts as Sanji ran, his arms steady. You heard sea birds—not clockwork ones. Real, screeching, feathered birds. You heard the ocean, and it was louder than anything Gramps ever let you near. It crashed and breathed and rattled something loose in your chest, something you hadn’t known was stuck.

Then the light hit. Warm. Blinding. You peeked out from under Sanji’s coat. The sea stretched on forever—no edge, no walls, just blue on blue, sparkling like a candy dish thrown into the sun. You gasped.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” Sanji said, his voice shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline, but still kind. “Almost there. You’re okay.”

Then—wood beneath his feet. A deck. Yelling. A man with metal arms came running toward you. “Franky—she needs help!” Sanji called out. “We need a room for her, now. She’s in shock.”

They didn’t ask who you were. They didn’t scold. They just… helped. You didn’t know them. Not one of them. And yet, standing on that ship, you didn’t feel like her. You didn’t feel like the thing Gramps had made. You felt your heartbeat. You felt the sea. And you felt… like you. Whoever that was. Whoever she might become.

Sanji knelt beside you, brushing a smudge of sugar dust from your cheek. “You’re gonna be alright, okay?”

You looked at him. At the world beyond him. Then at your hands—shaking, sticky, alive.

“I… don’t know who I be,” you whispered.

Sanji smiled. “That’s alright. We’ll figure it out together.”

And for the first time, your smile wasn’t something someone gave you. It was yours.

Minutes passed in quiet stillness as you sat on the cabin floor. The hum of the ship and the soft murmur of voices felt like a gentle tide, steady and comforting. Jinbei knelt down and carefully poured warm tea into a delicate cup. “Here,” he said softly. “It’s gentle.”

You took the cup, the warmth spreading through your fingers. The smell was unfamiliar—earthy and soothing. You sipped slowly, your eyes wide.

Sanji hovered nearby. “You’ve never had normal food, have you?”

You shook your head. “No… Gramps… he always gave me candy. Said it was what she liked.”

Franky grinned. “Sounds like he tried to keep you stuck in the past.”

Jinbei nodded thoughtfully. “How old are you?”

You blinked, confused. “I’m… one month old. Maybe.”

Sanji and Franky exchanged surprised glances.

“He said I had to look like her,” you explained. “But I’m still new. Still learning. Still soft.”

Jinbei’s eyes softened even more. “That explains a lot. You’re a child in every way that matters, even if your shell tells a different story.”

You looked down, a strange mix of relief and sadness. “I don’t know anything but candy. I don’t know what else there is to eat.”

Sanji smiled gently. “Well, you’re about to find out there’s a whole world beyond sugar.”

Franky laughed, a booming sound. “And we’re gonna show you everything!”

Jinbei sipped his own tea and said quietly, “It’s good to have you with us, Y/N.”

For the first time, surrounded by people who didn’t expect you to be perfect or sweet or silent, you felt a flicker of something new. Something warm, like the sun shining through the cabin window. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of who you were truly meant to be.

The door creaked open, and Luffy stepped in. “Hey, how’s our new friend doing?” he asked, eyes bright with curiosity. Behind him came the others—Usopp, Chopper, Nami, and Zoro.

Sanji stood and straightened his coat. “She’s been through a lot,” he said quietly. “But she’s strong.”

Nami stepped forward, her voice warm but firm. “We’re going to take care of you now. No more cages, no more rules made by anyone but you.”

You blinked, overwhelmed by the kindness spilling from these strangers, these pirates who didn’t want to break you or remake you.

Luffy reached out a hand. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s show you the Sunny.”

You hesitated only a moment before letting him pull you to your feet. The deck was alive with salty breeze and endless sky. The ocean stretched on forever, inviting and terrifying all at once. You didn’t know where this journey would take you, but for the first time, you felt something soft unfurl inside—hope. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to find out who you really were.

The salty wind tangled in your sticky hair as you stepped onto the deck of the Thousand Sunny. The sun warmed your face, and the endless blue sea stretched out like a promise. Luffy bounded toward the figurehead. “Come on, Y/N! This is our home now! You can be anything here.”

Sanji hovered nearby. “And don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of food that isn’t candy. You’re going to love it.”

Nami adjusted her hat. “We’ll teach you how to read the stars, navigate the waves. You’ll be part of the crew.”

Zoro leaned against the rail, giving you a rare nod of approval. “Just don’t slow us down.”

You swallowed and looked back at the cabin, where you’d left so much behind. For the first time, you weren’t the perfect sugar-crafted doll anymore. You were Y/N. A child with a future. And the vast, wild sea was waiting to show you all the ways to be free.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself walking beside Nami and Robin. Nami’s voice was soft. “Y/N, we want to ask you something. Would you… like to come with us? To travel with the Straw Hats?”

Robin smiled, her eyes warm and patient. “We know it’s a lot to take in. But we believe you belong with us. Not as someone made for others, but as yourself.”

You stopped, your heart fluttering. The sea breeze tugged at your clothes. After a long moment, you nodded slowly. “I want to… try.”

Nami’s face lit up. “Good. We’re glad.”

Robin added quietly, “We all pray you find your own path. One filled with freedom.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “Pray? What’s pray mean?”

Nami laughed softly. “It means we hope—really, really hope—that things will get better for you. That you’ll be happy.”

You smiled, a small but genuine curve of your lips. Maybe this was the beginning. Of something new. And truly yours.

The first week aboard the Thousand Sunny unfolded like a dream stitched from sunshine and salty air. Evenings were your favorite time, when everyone gathered on the deck for dinner. You sat beside Sanji, watching in wonder as he served dishes that looked nothing like the sugary treats Gramps had fed you. You tasted everything—rice, fish, vegetables—flavors that burst like fireworks on your tongue. Sanji’s proud smile made you feel braver with each bite.

One night, as the sun dipped low, you pointed toward the sky. “What… those flying things? Birds?”

Robin smiled, eyes soft. “Yes, birds. They travel the skies, free like the sea.”

Nami leaned in. “They’re a sign we’re near land sometimes, or just passing through. They’re friends of the ocean.”

You watched the birds, a flutter of something warm and new stirring inside you. Days passed with lessons woven between laughter and chatter. Zoro patiently showed you how to hold a practice sword. Chopper explained the basics of medicine. Usopp spun wild stories. Franky showed you the engine room. Every evening, Nami and Robin helped you understand maps and history, teaching you words for things you’d never known existed.

Each answer felt like a key unlocking a world you’d only glimpsed behind your sugar walls. By the end of the week, the quiet fear that had gripped you since Gramps’ hold began to loosen. Here, on the Sunny, surrounded by people who saw you not as a perfect candy doll, but as a person, you began to feel something you never had before: home.

As the days passed, the Straw Hats began to notice the little ways your candy nature shaped your needs. One afternoon, Franky noticed you wincing after a long walk on the hot deck. “We need to keep her cool, or she might start melting,” Sanji said, wiping sweat from your forehead with a damp cloth. Nami rigged up shade sails. Jinbei brought you crushed ice and fruit juice. Sanji carefully balanced your plates with not only normal food but also little candies. Chopper mixed up a special “candy tonic.” Robin helped you practice gentle stretches to keep your bubblegum joints from stiffening.

It was strange, sometimes, being part candy in a world full of flesh and bone. But with each caring touch and thoughtful adjustment, you felt less like an oddity. More like one of them.

Life on the Sunny was loud, chaotic, and funny. Your first week brought more ridiculous moments than you could ever have imagined. The time Usopp told you to “stick to the plan,” so you literally stuck to the kitchen wall for two hours. Or the time you mispronounced “discipline” as “disco-plin,” and Luffy immediately burst into dance. You’d call Jinbei “Jin-bug” and Zoro “Snor-man.” You insisted on calling Sanji “Cinnamon,” and he never corrected you. You’d try to help Robin with her books and end up eating a corner of a thousand-year-old sea text.

But no one ever mocked you for these things. They just laughed. Lighthearted, happy laughter. The kind that didn’t make you feel small. You weren’t the strange miracle anymore. You were just Y/N. Sticky. Glitchy. Sugar-built. And part of the crew.

You had a way of talking that was just… sweet. Not in the kind sense, but literally. Every word felt dipped in sugar. It made the Straw Hats pause, tilt their heads, and smile. “Is this bed made of fluffmallow?” you asked one night. “I love the golden melties,” you said at breakfast, and Sanji knew you meant eggs. You saw the world in frosting and color, in texture and taste. And slowly, the crew began to understand that this was just how you thought. It made you… you. They didn’t need you to change.

The thing about you—something the Straw Hats were beginning to understand—was that your body looked like a teen’s, but your heart was brand new. Soft and shiny. Like a gumdrop just unwrapped. And sometimes, it showed. You’d ask endless questions: “Why do seagulls fly?” “What is a ‘job’?” “Why do pants have ‘pockets’?” You’d spin in circles until you fell over, giggling and dizzy. You couldn’t write yet. You tried once, and what came out looked like lollipop scribbles, which you proudly called your “name swirl.” When someone teased you, you’d gasp and say, “I’m melting! My feeeelings!” They’d laugh, but it was a real, happy laughter that didn’t make you feel small.

You were still learning what the world was. Still tasting it for the first time. Still figuring out what was safe and what wasn’t. And if they had anything to say about it, you’d never have to find out alone.

You didn’t realize your thoughts had changed—until one day, they didn’t feel like his anymore. It happened slowly at first. Things you used to accept without question began to itch under your skin. You sat on the Sunny’s railing with Robin, and she said, “You’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“My brain’s been buzzing,” you said, squinting at the sea. “Like… cotton candy in a soda pop. Only not sweet.”

You told her about Gramps’ “mind juice”—the things he poured into you to make you think faster, to make you more like his granddaughter. You told her how you started to know things, but he never liked it when you asked your own questions. Then you asked, “Is it okay to feel… angry?”

“Of course,” Robin said.

“Because I think I’m angry. A lot.” You swung your legs as a seagull cawed. “I didn’t think I could hate him, but I do. I hate him so bad it makes my cheeks feel hot.” You tapped your temple. “My mind’s getting faster, but it’s not his anymore.” You glanced at her, uncertain. “I think that means I’m… mine?”

Robin smiled gently and put a hand on your back. “Yes, Y/N. You are.”

And you didn’t know why, but the sea felt bigger after that. Like it had just enough room for a mind—quick and growing and finally free.

It happened like a sneeze—sudden, explosive, and completely out of your control. The crew was cornered on a rocky island. One of the bounty hunters slashed Zoro across the chest when he was distracted. You had never heard Zoro yell like that. Your sugar-laced heart dropped. You didn’t think. Something inside you cracked, like the thin layer of caramel on your skin shattering in heat. Your breath left your chest in a puff of white vapor. Your vision blurred, and suddenly—you were glowing.

Not pretty-lanterns-at-night glowing. Glowing like your veins were full of molten syrup and your eyes were pieces of crystallized honey, burning through the air. Your fingertips sparked, sugar-spun static rising off you in flickering webs. The rocks beneath your feet turned glossy, then melted into syrupy puddles. A burst of thick, iridescent sugar-glass erupted from around you, knocking people back. A high-pressure stream of boiling liquid sugar coated a bounty hunter like lava and froze midair into hard candy crystal.

By the time you came back to yourself, you were standing in a wide ring of glassy, melted ground, flickers of heat curling off your fingertips. Every bounty hunter was on the ground. Everyone was staring at you.

Zoro, blood dripping down his chest, smirked. “Well, she’s got bite.”

You blinked, then looked at your hands. The realization sank in, and you burst into tears. “D-Did I b-break the island?!”

“NO NO—” Chopper rushed forward. “You’re okay, it’s okay, you’re okay!!”

Franky whistled. “That was… super. I didn’t know you had that in you, sweet pea.”

You hiccupped. “I—I didn’t either.”

Robin knelt beside you. “Do you feel alright?”

“I feel… hot,” you sniffled. “And scared. And like… like my stomach is full of soda and lightning.”

Luffy was still smiling. “You’re strong,” he said simply. “Really strong.”

You looked up at him, blinking sugar-tears from your eyes. “…Am I gonna melt?”

He laughed, loud and sunny. “Nope. But you’re definitely one of us now.”

And that was the first time you realized you weren’t just a candy girl made to be pretty. You were a weapon. A ticking sugar-bomb with a heart full of feelings and no idea what you’d just become.

It happened fast. The fight with the Fangbloods started simple. But then one of them grabbed Usopp and put a blade to his throat. The man laughed, and you stepped forward. Your mouth opened, and a low hum rumbled from deep in your chest—a sound like cracking sugar. Your veins lit up. Your hands twitched, then exploded in a light too bright and too gold to be natural. Crystallized sugar mist burst out from your fingers, forming in sharp, shimmering threads that wrapped around the pirate and encased him in translucent, glittering amber.

Then the air dropped ten degrees. Another pirate charged, and you screamed. Not a scared scream—a sound scream. A raw, echoing pulse that crashed outward in a wave of golden pressure. The ground beneath your feet split open with a web of glowing caramelized fractures. Ribbons of hard candy surged from the cracks like roots, wrapping around the enemies and pinning them to the ground.

When it was over, you were panting, sweating, glowing faintly like a sugar lamp. The others were quiet. Even Luffy blinked.

“Whoa,” Chopper said softly. “That was…”

“Insane,” Franky muttered.

“You’re like… a candy hydra,” Usopp wheezed.

And Sanji, breathless, ran to you. “Are you okay?! Did it hurt? What was that—?!”

“I didn’t mean to…” you said, your voice shaking. “I just—he was hurting Usopp. And I got mad. I felt… fizzy inside. Like something was bubbling up. And then it just—came out.”

Robin stepped closer. “That was instinctual. Protective.”

“I didn’t know I could do that…” you whispered, staring down at your sticky hands. “I didn’t know I could do anything.”

Nami gave you a long look, then smiled gently. “Well,” she said, “you can.”

And Luffy just grinned. “Guess you’re not just candy, huh?”

Your earliest years dissolved into a blur of sensory fragments—the harsh glare of fluorescent lights reflecting off metal tables, the sharp bite of needles, and cold, unfeeling hands pressing against your skin. You spent your infancy reaching out for hands that never reached back, your cries swallowed by the relentless, low humming of medical machinery.

One particular memory always floated to the surface of your consciousness. You couldn't have been older than three, wrapped in an oversized hospital blanket, staring at a scientist crouching before you with a clipboard.

"Can you say your designation?" he asked.

You stared back, your small fingers gripping the edge of the fabric. "Designation?"

"Subject 47."

Silence stretched between you. The scientist sighed, a heavy sound of disappointment, and made a swift mark on his clipboard. Another failure.

As the years passed, the experiments intensified. Your body began to change, growing far too quickly as synthetic growth hormones were pumped through the tubes connected to your arms. They injected modified cells and tested the lineage factors of Devil Fruits over and over again. From the observation windows above, the scientists argued in clipped, clinical tones.

"Increase the dosage."

"No, stabilize her first."

"Her body is adapting."

"Impossible. Run the test again."

Every month you grew taller and stronger, and with every inch, you became less human in their eyes. By the age of seven, you towered over most adults. By ten, the facility had to construct reinforced rooms to contain your massive frame. By twelve, they stopped calling your room a room at all; it became a containment chamber.

You never truly understood why they feared you. You had never hurt anyone—at least, not on purpose. You were just big. You were big enough to accidentally crack steel railings when you reached for them, big enough to dent reinforced walls when a sudden noise startled you. Your sheer size terrified people before you could even open your mouth.

Not that you spoke much anyway. Words always felt incredibly heavy, like trying to hold water in your open palms. The scientists despised this trait. A weapon was supposed to obey, to understand complex commands, and to perform on cue. Instead, you struggled with instructions longer than a single sentence. Sometimes you forgot what they wanted halfway through a task; other times, you just stood there, staring at them, trying so hard to understand.

Each time, the notes in your file grew harsher. Cognitive deficiencies. Delayed responses. Communication failure. Behavioral instability. Failure. Failure. Failure.

When you were thirteen, you lay curled up in the corner of your chamber, pretending to sleep, and listened to the muffled voices filtering through the observation glass.

"The project has become a waste of resources," one voice said.

"Her physical capabilities exceed our expectations," another argued.

"But mentally?" There was a long pause. "She’s useless."

That word didn't make you angry, nor did it hurt. It simply confused you. You had spent your entire life doing everything they asked of you. Every agonizing test, every invasive procedure, every cold experiment—you had endured them all. You never fought back, never tried to run, and never screamed. Yet, somehow, you were still a failure.

A year later, the final decision arrived. The project was terminated. You weren't the giant, compliant weapon the World Government had envisioned; you were just you, and you weren't what they wanted.

They prepared to abandon you. The tubes were connected to your arms one last time, and a freezing liquid began to flow into your veins. The scientists moved briskly around the chamber, discussing budgets and future assignments. Not a single person looked you in the eye. No one said goodbye. To them, they weren't leaving a fourteen-year-old girl behind; they were merely storing defective equipment.

The final report was stamped onto your file: STATUS: LIVING. PROJECT RESULT: FAILURE. RECOMMENDATION: INDEFINITE STASIS. Then, darkness swallowed you whole.

Years rolled by in the deep silence of the underground facility. Dust gathered in thick layers over the consoles, the ancient machinery rusted, and the scientists moved on to other islands. Entire projects were forgotten by the world above, and deep beneath the earth, hidden behind layers of decaying steel, you remained asleep. Alive. Waiting. Like something broken that nobody had bothered to throw away.

High above, the Thousand Sunny drifted peacefully across calm blue waters. For a rare moment in the New World, nobody was fighting.

Luffy was stretched precariously across the lion figurehead, hanging upside down so recklessly that his crew had long since given up trying to warn him.

"I'm hungry," Luffy groaned to the open sky.

"You ate ten minutes ago," Nami called out from her lounge chair, not looking up from her papers.

"I'm hungry again!"

"That's not my problem."

From the galley window, Sanji leaned out with a sigh. "It sounds like it's about to be my problem."

Luffy’s eyes instantly turned into sparkling stars. "MEAT?"

"No."

"MEAT?"

"No."

"MEAT?"

Sanji groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe."

The captain vanished from the figurehead so fast he practically blurred out of existence, bursting into the kitchen. A loud, splintering crash echoed across the deck a second later.

"LUFFY!" Sanji roared.

"Sorry!"

"You broke the door!"

"It was already broken!"

"It was not!"

At the table beneath the shade canopy, the rest of the crew completely ignored the shouting. It was simply the rhythm of their daily life. Robin quietly turned a page of her book, while across from her, Chopper happily hummed a tune as he organized his medical supplies.

Robin glanced up at the little reindeer. "You seem to be in a good mood today, Chopper."

Chopper puffed out his chest proudly. "I am always in a good mood!"

"You were crying over a bird yesterday," Robin teased gently.

"It was injured!"

"It had a small splinter."

"It was suffering, Robin!" Chopper cried out, waving his hooves defensively, which only made her smile softly.

Nearby, Brook drew his bow across his violin, letting a gentle, rolling melody drift over the deck to mix with the sound of the crashing waves. Franky leaned back in his chair, pausing his carpentry work just to listen.

"Suuuper relaxing," Franky murmured.

Usopp sighed, shaking his head knowingly. "This is definitely one of those moments where something terrible is about to happen."

"Why would you say that?" Chopper asked, turning around.

"Because every single time things get this peaceful, disaster shows up out of nowhere."

"That's not true!"

"The giant goldfish," Usopp countered, ticking a finger.

"Oh."

"The sky island lightning."

"Oh."

"The ghost island. The dinosaur island. The giant children."

"Okay, okay!" Chopper cried, covering his ears.

Usopp folded his arms with an air of absolute certainty. "I rest my case."

Over by the railing, Jinbei stood beside Nami, watching the sea roll past the hull. "The weather looks favorable," the helmsman observed.

Nami nodded, charting a line on her map. "Should stay clear for at least another day."

"You've become even more skilled, Nami," Jinbei smiled.

The navigator grinned proudly, tossing her orange hair. "Obviously. Did you expect anything less from me?"

Above them all, Zoro was fast asleep, propped upright against the mainmast with his arms crossed over his chest and his three swords resting at his side.

"Is he dead?" Usopp whispered, squinting upward.

"No," Robin answered smoothly.

"How can you tell?"

"He snored exactly five seconds ago."

Right on cue, a loud snort echoed from the mast.

"There it is," Franky chuckled.

When Sanji finally emerged from the kitchen carrying plates piled high with snacks, Luffy was a shadow right behind him, shifting from side to side.

"Food."

"Back up, Luffy."

"Food."

"Back."

"Food!"

"BACK!" Sanji delivered a swift kick that sent his captain skittering across the grass deck into a stack of empty barrels.

"OW!" Luffy laughed, rubbing his head.

For a few beautiful minutes, the Sunny settled back into its comfortable routine. The music played, Robin read, Chopper worked, and the sea stretched out endlessly around them. It was the kind of peace that pirates rarely got to keep, the kind that made them appreciate simply being alive and together.

Then, Nami’s eyes narrowed. She froze, lowering her log pose. "Hm?"

Jinbei noticed the shift immediately. "What is it, Nami?"

She pointed toward the horizon. Far away, barely visible against the glare of the afternoon sun, a dark silhouette sat in the water. It was an island. It looked ordinary at a glance, but a strange, heavy feeling settled in the navigator's stomach.

"That's strange," Nami muttered. "This island... it isn't on any of my charts. Not a single one."

Robin closed her book with a soft thud. "What is?"

The crew began to gather at the railing, drawn by the sudden shift in tension. Even Zoro cracked one eye open, sensing the change in the air. The mysterious island sat perfectly still beneath the sun—silent, abandoned, and waiting.

None of them knew that deep beneath that forgotten patch of earth, a fourteen-year-old girl lay trapped in a glass cylinder, while ancient machines kept a silent tally of the years she had spent in the dark.

The island was wrong. That was the first thing the crew realized the moment their boots hit the shore.

It wasn't that it looked dangerous or threatening; it was just entirely devoid of life. There were no birds in the sky, no insects buzzing in the brush, and no signs of human movement. Even the wind seemed hesitant to blow through the cracked, abandoned concrete buildings scattered across the landscape.

The Straw Hats spread out cautiously, walking past rust-covered fences that leaned sideways into the overgrowth. Faded symbols of the World Government decorated the crumbling gates.

"This place gives me the creeps," Usopp whispered, clutching his slingshot.

"You say that about every island," Zoro muttered from behind him.

"Because every island we go to is creepy!"

Chopper trotted close to Robin's side, staring at the massive structures. Nature had begun to reclaim the facility; thick vines crawled over the concrete, and heavy roots split the walkways in half. Whoever had built this place had abandoned it a very long time ago.

Robin stopped, brushing a thick layer of dust away from a metallic plaque on a wall. "The World Government."

Franky whistled low. "That’s never a good sign."

"No," Robin agreed quietly, her eyes darkening. "It usually isn't."

Naturally, Luffy was already wandering far ahead of the group, completely unbothered by the eerie atmosphere.

"Luffy, don't touch anything!" Nami barked.

"Okay!" Luffy yelled back, immediately pressing his hand against a rusted control panel.

"LUFFY!"

Before Nami could chase him down, Chopper froze entirely. His blue nose twitched, and his furry ears swiveled toward the ground. The little doctor went completely rigid.

"...Wait," Chopper whispered.

The crew stopped in their tracks. "What is it, Chopper?" Jinbei asked, picking up on the urgency in the doctor's posture.

Chopper didn't answer right away. His small face went through a rapid succession of emotions—confusion, deep concern, and then utter disbelief.

"I hear something," Chopper breathed, his voice trembling slightly.

The entire island seemed to go dead silent. The wind died down entirely.

"Hear what?" Robin asked, kneeling down to his level.

Chopper swallowed hard, looking straight down at the cracked concrete beneath his hooves. "A heartbeat."

The crew exchanged bewildered glances. "A heartbeat?" Usopp repeated, his voice rising. "There shouldn't be anyone here!"

"There isn't," Chopper said, his eyes wide. "Not up here. It's coming from underground."

Without another word, the little reindeer took off, following the faint, rhythmic sound. The crew hurried after him, running down broken, echoing hallways, past collapsed laboratory ceilings and rusted testing equipment. Every few minutes, Chopper would pause, tilt his head to reorient himself, and then press forward, driving them deeper and deeper into the bowels of the island.

Finally, they burst into a massive, central chamber. In the center of the floor lay a yawning chasm—a massive, empty elevator shaft. The elevator cage itself had snapped and fallen long ago, leaving nothing but a drop into absolute blackness.

Franky stepped to the edge and shined his high-powered shoulder lights straight down into the abyss. The bright beams cut through the gloom, stretching down so far that they couldn't even see the bottom.

"Whoa," Franky muttered, the light reflecting off the sheer drop. "That is deep."

It was a darkness so profound that sunlight had never once touched it. A place perfectly designed to ensure that whatever was hidden at the bottom would remain entirely forgotten by the world.

The crew descended carefully into the yawning chasm, the light from Franky’s shoulders cutting thin beams through the absolute black. The further down they went, the colder the air became. It grew heavy, thick with a layer of dust that coated every surface and filled their lungs with the smell of something stale, ancient, and dead.

Then, the sound reached them.

THUMP.

THUMP.

THUMP.

It wasn’t fast, and it certainly didn't sound healthy, but it was undeniably alive. It was a heartbeat no ordinary human should possess—large, powerful, and deep enough to vibrate through the floorboards and make Chopper’s fur stand on end.

Eventually, their boots hit solid ground at the very bottom of the shaft. Ahead of them stood a door. It was a massive steel barrier, several stories tall, covered in thick sheets of rust, faded World Government markings, and broken security seals.

Franky stared up at the sheer scale of it, his mechanical jaw dropping slightly. "Holy crap."

"What kind of place needs a door that big?" Usopp whispered, stepping back instinctively.

Nobody answered. Moving together, Franky and Jinbei pressed their weight against the metal. The hinges groaned in agony, exploding a cloud of choked dust into the air as the massive doors slowly parted, revealing the nightmare hidden within.

An enormous laboratory stretched out into the darkness. Rows upon rows of shattered glass tanks lined the walls. Broken medical equipment was strewn across the floor alongside collapsed catwalks and thousands of scattered, yellowed papers. Everything was frozen in time, looking as though the people working there had simply vanished in the middle of a shift. There were no bodies and no signs of a struggle. There was only absolute, cold abandonment.

Robin walked over to a nearby desk and slowly picked up a document. Most of the pages had decayed into flakes, but others remained barely readable under the light. Her eyes narrowed. "Experiment logs."

Sanji glanced over, his expression grim. "What kind?"

Robin didn't answer immediately. Instead, she read the faded ink silently, and the longer her eyes moved across the page, the darker her expression became.

Nearby, Chopper found another file resting on a rusted cart. As he flipped it open, his small hands began to tremble violently. "Children..."

Everyone turned to look at the little doctor. He stared at the page, his voice cracking. "These experiments... they were performed on children."

An icy silence blanketed the room. The atmosphere changed instantly, the casual curiosity of the crew hardening into something heavy and furious. They continued searching the room, and every report they uncovered painted a worse picture than the last. There were files on failed subjects, failed modifications, and failed procedures. Names had been completely replaced by numbers. Children had been reduced to nothing more than data.

Usopp stopped reading after the third file, dropping it back onto the floor. "I hate this place."

Nobody disagreed.

Suddenly, Chopper froze again. The heartbeat was closer now. Much closer. His head snapped toward the shadowy center of the facility. "...There."

The crew followed him, weaving past collapsed machinery, shattered observation rooms, and mountains of forgotten records until the laboratory finally opened into a single, cavernous chamber.

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. For a long moment, the only sound in the entire world was the distant, mechanical hum of ancient machinery and that low, echoing pulse.

THUMP.

THUMP.

THUMP.

At the center of the room stood a towering containment tank that nearly reached the high ceiling. It was filled with a cloudy, bubbling blue liquid, with dozens of thick tubes connected to its sides. Against all odds, the ancient machines hooked to the tank were still functioning, drawing power from some deep subterranean source, still working to keep something alive.

Someone alive.

A girl floated inside the liquid. She was gigantic; even submerged and curled inward, her size was impossible to ignore. Her features suggested she couldn't have been older than fourteen, yet she was larger than any human should ever be. Long, dark hair drifted around her like a shroud in the water. Her skin looked pale, almost translucent, and despite her enormous frame, she was painfully thin. It looked as though every ounce of natural strength had been systematically drained from her body years ago.

Looking at her, she didn't look like a weapon. She didn't look like a monster. She just looked like a child who had been completely forgotten.

Luffy went completely silent, his usual wide grin vanishing as he stared up at the glass. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of tubes were attached to her arms, her back, her neck, and her chest, keeping her locked in a state between life and death.

Then Robin noticed something small clutched tightly against the girl's chest. The archaeologist’s breath caught in her throat.

It was a stuffed rabbit. It was old, worn, and missing one button eye, its fur faded from years in the chemical solution. Several of its seams had been carefully repaired by hand. It was the kind of toy a child carries everywhere because it is the only thing that feels safe—the kind of toy that survives when everything else falls apart.

The scientists, the researchers, the guards, and the government had all walked away. But somehow, the rabbit had stayed. Even now, in her deep sleep, the girl held it so tightly against her heart, as if terrified that someone would come and take it away.

Chopper stared up at the tank, his large eyes beginning to water. "...She's alive."

Nobody answered, because they could all hear it now. The massive heartbeat was echoing through the glass, reverberating in their own chests. Slow. Weak. Lonely.

THUMP.

THUMP.

THUMP.

A child’s heartbeat, still waiting after all these years.

Luffy broke the silence, pointing directly at the glass. "We’re getting her out."

Nami let out a soft, tired sigh, though there was no real weight behind it. "Of course that’s what you’re going to say."

"What else would we do?"

"Think about it first?"

"Why?" Luffy asked, tilting his head.

Nami opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, then opened it again. She realized that trying to explain to Luffy why releasing an unknown giant from a secret government containment chamber might be dangerous was completely pointless.

Zoro crossed his arms, leaning back. "I agree with Nami. We don’t know anything about her."

"She’s a kid," Luffy replied simply.

"She’s also the size of a building."

"She’s still a kid."

Zoro frowned, looking away from Luffy and back up at the tank. Because annoyingly... the captain wasn't wrong.

Robin quietly turned another page of the documents she held, her expression growing colder by the second.

"What do the files say, Robin?" Jinbei asked quietly.

Robin was silent for several long seconds, her grip tightening on the papers until they crumpled slightly under her fingers. When she spoke, a rare, sharp hint of anger edged her voice. "They never use her name. Not once. Only Subject 47."

She turned another page. "Physical asset." Another. "Government property." Another. "Experimental weapon." Robin stopped, her eyes lowering. "They weren't raising a child. They were manufacturing something."

The room fell entirely silent. Chopper’s fists trembled at his sides. He had read some of the medical records too—far more than he wished he had. Growth data, procedure notes, behavioral observations. Not a single report mentioned her fear, her pain, or her loneliness. Not one person had cared if she was happy. There were only measurements, results, and weaponization potential.

His antlers lowered as he stared at the floor. "Those idiots..."

Nobody interrupted him. Chopper almost never sounded truly angry, but right now, his voice was shaking with pure fury. "They kept changing her body. They kept experimenting on her and they never stopped." He gripped a piece of paper, tearing it in his fist. "They treated her like a thing. She’s fourteen. Fourteen!"

Franky’s mechanical fist slowly clenched, the metal groaning under the pressure. His eyes traveled across the sterile chamber, taking in the restraints, the observation windows, and the operating tables. "I wanna blow this place up."

Usopp blinked, looking around the dark room, and nodded slowly. "You know what? Actually, yeah."

"Quite frankly, this laboratory has terrible reviews," Brook added, his tone somber. Nobody laughed. Even the skeleton's joke fell flat against the heavy atmosphere of the room.

Sanji lit a cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his gaze fixed on the girl. "She’s starving. Look at her." Through the cloudy liquid, it was clear. Her arms were too thin, her shoulders too sharp, and her face too hollow. Her body was merely being kept functioning by machines instead of actual sustenance.

Jinbei folded his arms deeply. "There may be consequences if we interfere. Government experiments never stay simple, especially the secret ones."

Robin looked back toward the tank, watching the sleeping girl hold fast to her faded rabbit. "If we leave her here..." her voice remained calm, but there was a deep, painful resonance underneath it, "...then we’re doing exactly what they did."

That settled it. Luffy grinned, looking around at his crew. "See?"

Nami pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a defeated laugh. "I hate when you end up being right."

"Thanks!"

"That wasn't a compliment."

Luffy ignored her, turning back to the tank with absolute certainty. "Let's get her out."

"Now that was a compliment," Franky grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Suuuper. Let's do it."

The crew immediately spread out to work. Chopper hurried over to examine the life-support monitors, Robin searched the main console for shutdown overrides, and Franky began analyzing the manual release valves while Usopp and Brook assisted where they could.

After a few tense minutes of flipping rusted switches and bypassing old circuits, Robin called out, "I found it."

The crew gathered around the central console. A large emergency release lever sat hidden beneath layers of undisturbed dust. It was painted a bright, faded red, completely untouched for over a decade.

Franky wrapped both of his massive hands around the handle. "You ready?"

The crew exchanged a flurry of glances—nervous, determined, concerned, but deeply hopeful.

Luffy nodded. "Do it."

Franky threw his weight into the lever, pulling it down.

The entire facility suddenly shuddered. Emergency warning lights immediately began flashing red, casting an eerie glow across the room as ancient alarms screamed to life. Metal groaned deep within the walls, and one by one, the heavy tubes disconnected from the girl's body with a series of loud, mechanical clanks.

CLANK.

CLANK.

CLANK.

The cloudy blue water began draining from the tank, slowly at first, and then rushing out in a torrential vacuum. For the first time in years, the girl's body shifted as the buoyancy left her. The tank emptied completely until her bare feet finally touched the cold steel floor at the bottom. She remained motionless, silent, the stuffed rabbit still pressed tightly against her chest.

A final warning siren echoed through the chamber, sputtered, and died. Then, a loud, metallic hiss filled the room as the heavy glass seal unlocked.

The containment door slowly began to swing open. For the first time since she had been abandoned to the dark, Subject 47 stood free.

The very first thing you remember after the darkness breaks is a wave of pure, overwhelming panic.

It isn't because someone is hurting you. It isn't because someone is yelling at you, or threatening you, or locking you away. If they were doing those things, it would make sense. You knew those things. You grew up understanding exactly what pain and isolation meant.

What you didn't understand—what terrified you to your very core—was kindness.

The sterile glass chamber was gone. The machines were silent, the suffocating tubes had fallen away, and suddenly, there were people standing right in front of you. They were talking in soft voices. They were moving gently. They were smiling. And they were looking directly into your eyes, not at a clipboard.

You had absolutely no idea what to do with that.

As they took a step forward, you scrambled backward instinctively, your heart racing wildly against your ribs. You clutched the faded rabbit against your chest like a shield, your massive frame causing the floorboards of the laboratory to shake slightly under your weight.

But nobody chased you. Nobody lunged forward to grab your arms, and nobody shouted commands at you to stand still. Their sudden stillness confused you even more than their presence.

A young man wearing a straw hat took a few paces forward and crouched down slightly. He didn't do it to hide or to look small, just enough to show he wasn't going to climb up to hurt you.

"Hey," he said, his voice bright and clear.

You stared at him, your chest heaving as you struggled to process the sound. Slowly, the heavy, unused words formed in your throat. "...hey."

The man's grin widened into something incredibly warm. "See? You can talk."

You stared harder at him, your fingers tightening around the soft fabric of your toy. Talk. You knew that word. It used to mean a red mark on a paper.

"...talk," you repeated softly, testing the weight of it.

The man didn't laugh at you. He didn't make fun of how slow the word came out, and he didn't write anything down on a clipboard. He just nodded his head, his eyes shining with a strange, genuine happiness.

"Yep," he said simply.

You lowered your arms just a fraction of an inch, watching him closely. In your fourteen years of life, nobody had ever sounded happy just to hear you speak.

The ship was both worse and better, though you could not yet discern the difference. Everything within this new world was entirely unfamiliar. It constantly shifted beneath your heavy feet, groaning and creaking as if it were a living creature navigating the vast blue expanse. It smelled of things you had never known existed outside of a sterile baseline—the sharp tang of salt, the rich warmth of cooking food, aged wood, and the unmistakable scent of people who did not wear latex gloves or carry clipboards.

You had no concept of where you were allowed to stand, where it was safe to look, or which direction to move. So, you simply followed them. Everywhere. It was not out of a desire to be near them, but rather because your mind possessed no other protocol for survival.

At first, the crew assumed your constant presence was merely accidental, a consequence of sharing a limited deck. But as the days bled together, they realized it was entirely intentional. You shadowed Chopper as he tended to his herbs. You stood a few paces behind Robin as she read under the awning. You tracked Sanji’s movements from the galley door and lingered near Nami as she adjusted the sails. Whomever happened to be closest became your anchor. You remained always several steps behind, watching with unblinking focus, making absolutely certain they did not vanish. It felt as though the very moment you lost sight of them, the cold darkness of the facility would swallow you whole again.

One quiet afternoon, Robin turned around unexpectedly, and your massive frame nearly collided with her. The archaeologist blinked in surprise. You froze instantly, your fingers crushing the faded fabric of your stuffed rabbit against your chest.

"…Robin," you whispered, the syllable heavy and unpracticed.

The woman smiled, her expression radiantly gentle. "Yes?"

You pointed a large, trembling finger at her. "…Robin."

"Correct."

A long silence stretched between you as you struggled to find the pieces of a thought buried deep in your mind. Finally, the word escaped: "…stay."

Robin’s expression softened so rapidly it looked almost painful. "Oh," she murmured.

You did not understand why everyone kept making that specific face. It was a sad, vulnerable look—the exact expression that surfaced every single time you attempted to speak.

The concept of personal space meant nothing to you. No one had ever defined it for you, and there was no reason you would inherently understand it. Your entire life had been spent inside a single, reinforced containment chamber. The scientists came close to you only when they required a measurement or an injection, and they departed the moment they were finished. Proximity was strictly utilitarian.

Therefore, whenever the unfamiliar weight of anxiety pressed into your chest, your instinct was to stand near people. Very near. Sometimes you materialized directly behind them, looming over their shoulders like a massive, silent shadow. This particular habit startled Usopp approximately seventeen times within the first week. The first time he spun around and found you standing mere inches away, he let out a piercing scream. Terrified by the sudden noise, you screamed back. He screamed louder; you matched his volume, until Chopper finally had to rush onto the deck to calm both of you down.

Sleeping presented an entirely separate set of difficulties. The Straw Hats had assigned you a room—a genuine, private room with a real bed, plush blankets, soft pillows, and a window that looked out at the passing clouds. You had stood in the doorway and stared at it for a very long time before turning around and walking away.

The crew discovered your choice the following morning when Sanji opened the door to his quarters and nearly dropped his morning coffee. You were curled up on the hard wooden floor of the hallway outside, clutching your one-eyed rabbit tightly against your ribs.

You blinked awake, instantly alert, your muscles tensing as if you had been anticipating a blow. "…morning," you rasped.

"Why are you sleeping out here?" Sanji asked, his voice laced with confusion as he knelt down.

You looked at the floor, then up at his face, and then back down at the wood beneath you. Your mind scrambled to bridge the gap between what you knew and what he was asking. "…sleep."

"Yes," Sanji patient agreed.

"…here."

"No, sweetheart, your room," he countered gently, gesturing down the hall.

You stared at him, the word tasting entirely foreign on your tongue. "…room."

"Your room."

You offered nothing but a blank, uncomprehending stare. Slowly, the realization dawned on the cook. You were not being stubborn, and you were not refusing the comfort they offered. You genuinely did not understand the concept of a room that belonged exclusively to you, because nobody had ever given you a single thing that wasn't government property.

Food was equally baffling. It wasn't the act of eating—you enjoyed eating an immense amount, a natural craving born from fourteen years of surviving on synthetic fluids delivered through intravenous tubes. The difficult part was the element of choice.

When Sanji first leaned over the table and asked what you wanted to eat, you froze completely, your mind locking up under the pressure of the question.

"What do you want to eat?" he repeated softly.

You stared. "…eat?"

"Yes."

"…food?"

"Yes."

"…food," you concluded.

It wasn't an answer, but Sanji quickly realized you had no understanding of personal preferences. No one in your life had ever paused to ask what you liked; every detail of your existence had simply been decided for you by a committee of men in white coats.

Then came the normal questions—the casual, everyday inquiries that children your age answered without a second thought, but left you entirely stranded in silence.

"When’s your birthday?" Nami asked one morning over breakfast.

You blinked, the syllables holding no meaning. "…birthday?"

The entire dining table went dead quiet. Nami’s bright smile vanished instantly, and Robin slowly lowered her book to the table. Nobody answered right away, because no one knew how to explain a celebration of life to someone who had only ever been classified as an ongoing experiment.

On another afternoon, Brook approached you with his violin, asking if you favored music.

"…music?" you inquired, tilting your head.

The skeleton stared at you, his jaw dropping slightly. "You don't know what music is?"

You slowly shook your head. Brook looked entirely heartbroken, as if a fundamental truth of the universe had suddenly been erased right before his eyes.

When Usopp asked if you wanted to hear a story, you tilted your head in the exact same manner. "…story?"

The sniper froze, his grand gestures halting mid-air. "Wait. You don't know stories?"

Again, you shook your head slowly, thoroughly confused by their reactions. The room became quiet once more. It was a pattern that repeated itself constantly; you would speak a single, simple word, and a heavy, sorrowful silence would fall over the crew.

The absolute hardest part of your new existence was the act of talking. You tried with everything you had. The words existed inside your mind—you could feel them floating around—but they were lost, buried beneath years of silence and trauma. You understood what things meant for the most part, but translating those vast internal landscapes into structured sentences felt like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

One afternoon, Chopper sat quietly beside you on the deck, his small hooves gently checking your pulse. "Are you okay?" he asked.

You thought about it. You thought, and you thought, searching through the wreckage of your vocabulary. The answer was there, but by the time it finally migrated to your lips, all that came out was, "…okay." Chopper just smiled anyway, patting your hand.

Another day, Robin sat with you by the railing, looking out over the horizon. "What do you think about the ocean?" she inquired.

You stared out at the water. It was blue. It was massive, beautiful, terrifying, and completely endless. Too many thoughts swirled in your head, translating to far too many words you didn't possess. Your mouth opened, hovering on the precipice of speech. "…think…"

The words vanished into the wind. Robin did not push. She simply sat beside you, waiting without a hint of impatience. Eventually, you raised a large hand and pointed toward the infinite blue. "…big."

Robin smiled gently. "Yes. Very big." For some reason, that simple acknowledgment made a strange, unidentifiable warmth blossom deep in your chest.

One night, the darkness caught up to you. You woke with a violent start from a nightmare of the laboratory—the piercing white lights, the clinical voices arguing over your dosage, and the unbearable cold of the stasis fluid. You sat up, your chest heaving as you breathed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. The room felt entirely too large, too empty, and too quiet to contain the terror.

You grabbed your one-eyed rabbit and fled into the hallway without a conscious plan, simply following the primal instinct that dictated safety lay near the people who had pulled you from the glass. You wandered through the ship until you found yourself outside Chopper’s door. You slid down against the wood, curled your massive frame into a tight ball, and let exhaustion take you.

The next morning, Chopper opened his door and found you there again. This time, he didn't ask a single question. He looked down at you, then quickly averted his eyes, blinking rapidly as if he didn't want anyone to see the moisture gathering there.

"…Oh," he whispered.

You blinked sleepily, your vision clearing. "…Chopper."

The doctor offered a sad, incredibly gentle smile. "Morning."

You nodded. "…morning."

Neither of you made mention of the private room down the hall, and neither of you spoke of why you had left it. When Chopper quietly draped an extra, warm blanket over your massive shoulders before heading down to the galley for breakfast, you didn't understand the mechanics of the gesture. You only knew one absolute truth: for the very first time in your entire life, when you woke up, someone was still there.

At first, you had been entirely convinced they were studying you. It was the only logical explanation your mind could manufacture. That was what people did when they were around you; they observed your movements, recorded your reactions, measured your growth, and waited for you to inevitably fail.

But as the weeks began to turn into months and not a single clipboard appeared, you found yourself utterly bewildered. Nobody seemed interested in measuring your height, evaluating your strength, or turning you into a weapon for a distant government. They were simply, entirely interested in you. And you didn't quite know what to do with that, except to keep following them into the light.

Usopp decided almost immediately that you needed to learn games. You didn’t know what a game was, a revelation that apparently shocked him so deeply he spent twenty minutes dramatically falling to his knees and wailing to the open sky about a childhood without joy. You simply stared at him, your unblinking eyes tracking his wild flailing before you quietly whispered, “…games.” He leaped back to his feet, pointing a finger in the air as he shouted that yes, games were the very foundation of being a kid. When you repeated the word, your voice small and uncertain, his shoulders slumped and he murmured that they had some serious work to do.

The first game he chose was hide-and-seek, which quickly proved to be a terrible choice. You were enormous. Finding places to hide on a pirate ship when you stood taller than the mast was an insurmountable challenge. The first time you tried, you wedged yourself behind a thick tree in Nami’s tangerine grove, but half of your massive frame remained completely visible. Usopp found you in three seconds flat. The second time, you scrambled off the ship entirely and hid behind the hull of the Thousand Sunny itself, submerging yourself slightly in the shallow water. The crew spent twenty minutes frantically searching the deck before realizing where you’d gone. When Usopp finally peered over the railing and found you looking up at him, your face was flushed with genuine pride. You pointed to your spot and whispered, “…hide.” He grinned down at you, scratching the back of his neck, and admitted that technically, yes, you had hidden. You tilted your head, asking, “…good?” and when he assured you that you did great, a tiny, awkward, but entirely real smile broke across your face.

Chopper became your teacher next, not because anyone assigned him the role, but because the little reindeer simply couldn’t help himself. Every day, he sat with you on the lawn deck, patiently introducing you to new words—simple, easy, useful things that built a bridge between you and the rest of the world. He would point to a piece of furniture and say, “Chair,” and you would mimic him, your large finger indicating the same object as you mumbled, “…chair.” When he cheered and told you how good you were doing, you smiled, and the praise made the little doctor look like he was going to explode from pure happiness. The crew quickly learned that encouraging you worked remarkably well. Years of being criticized and categorized by scientists had made standard kindness feel like literal magic, turning every new word into a massive victory and every short sentence into a monumental achievement. One sunny afternoon, Chopper pointed toward the sky, guiding you through "cloud" and "ocean" before shifting his gaze directly to your face. He smiled warmly and said, “Friend.” You froze. The word felt completely unfamiliar, heavy with a strange importance you couldn't quite grasp. You looked at him intently, repeating, “…friend,” and when you carefully pointed your finger back toward his chest, the little doctor burst into a flood of happy, dramatic tears.

In the quiet evenings, Robin read to you. At first, she did it because she thought the structured language might help your development, but soon it became a routine she genuinely enjoyed. You would sit quietly beside her on the grass, your faded, one-eyed rabbit held securely in your lap, listening with absolute fascination. The stories opened up entire universes you had never imagined while locked in the dark—tales of brave heroes, soaring dragons, grand kingdoms, and boundless adventures. One night, Robin closed a heavy leather book after finishing the final chapter of a story. You remained perfectly still, staring at the cover in deep thought. After a long silence, you looked up and whispered, “…again.” Robin blinked, a soft look of surprise crossing her features as she asked if you really wanted to hear the whole thing over. You nodded immediately. So, she opened the book and started from the very first page, reading it again, and then again, because nobody had ever tucked you in or read you a bedtime story before.

Sanji discovered your favorite food completely by accident. Whenever he asked what you wanted to eat, your response remained largely unhelpful, consisting entirely of you repeating the word "food" back to him. Eventually, he stopped asking and started observing. He noticed that you gravitated toward warm meals, sweet fruits, fresh bread, and rich soups—anything that tasted homemade and had been prepared with genuine care. But your absolute favorite was strawberry shortcake. The first time he placed a massive slice in front of you, you took a bite and froze completely, your eyes wide and motionless. Sanji instantly panicked, leaning over the counter to ask if something was wrong with the flavor. You stared at the cake, then at him, and then back down at the plate before whispering, “…good.” The cook let out a loud laugh, asking for confirmation, and when you nodded vigorously and muttered, “…very good,” Sanji spent the next three days strutting around the deck acting like he had just won a major, legendary battle.

Nami took over the responsibility of teaching you numbers, a task that required an unbelievable amount of patience. She would sit with you at the galley table, counting out small pieces of fruit: “One.” You would follow along, “…one.” “Two.” “…two.” “Three.” “…three.” Every time she praised your progress, that magical, small smile would return to your face. Weeks into the lessons, Nami walked into the library and found you quietly sitting on the floor, counting a small pile of berries you had gathered. You were concentrating so intensely that your eyebrows were nearly touching in a deep scowl. You carefully moved one berry to the side, whispering, “…eight,” and then another, “…nine.” The navigator paused in the doorway, watching you in the dim light. A strange, tight warmth filled her chest as she realized she wasn't just watching a child count; she was watching you learn, grow, and live out the simple moments that had been stolen from you for fourteen years.

Brook introduced you to the concept of music. The moment the skeleton realized you had never heard a song in your entire life, he treated the situation like a dire, personal emergency. The first time he drew his bow across the strings of his violin for you, a melody filling the quiet deck, something unexpected happened. You began to cry. It wasn’t a loud or dramatic sob, just silent, heavy tears rolling down your pale cheeks. You didn’t even know why you were crying; the sound just felt deeply familiar, like a sudden, intense longing for something you had never actually possessed. Brook never pointed out the tears or made you feel strange for them. He simply kept playing, his music wrapping around you like a warm blanket, and every single evening afterward, you always came back to the deck to sit and listen.

From Jinbe, you learned the meaning of patience, though he never gave you an official lesson. He taught you simply through his presence. Whenever your words failed you and you locked up, he simply waited. When you became visibly frustrated with your own slow speech, he waited. When the sheer volume of new information overwhelmed you, he never rushed or pressured you, choosing instead to give you all the time in the world. One afternoon, after a particularly long silence where you struggled to find a word, you looked up at him and asked, “…why?” Jinbe smiled down at you, asking what you meant. You struggled, searching your mind before whispering, “…wait.” The fish-man understood your question instantly, his expression softening as he told you that it was because you were learning, and learning takes time. You stared at him, processing the words, because in your entire life, no one had ever given you a single second to just breathe.

Franky approached your presence on the ship from a completely practical perspective. You didn't fit. The Thousand Sunny had been built for normal-sized humans, not for someone of your massive, engineered stature. So, the cyborg went to work. Within days, a larger, reinforced chair appeared at the dining table, followed by a custom, massive bed, a sturdier table, and larger blankets. He spent his afternoons making dozens of little adjustments all over the ship so you could move without breaking things. One day, you found him covered in sawdust, hammering away at a massive slab of wood on the deck. You peered over his shoulder and asked, “…what?” Franky grinned, wiping his brow, and told you he was building a desk. When you repeated the word, he clarified that it was a desk just for you. You stared at him, your voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper as you asked, “…mine?” The heavy question hit the cyborg harder than he expected. It was for you—not for a laboratory, not for an experiment, and not for a government test. Franky smiled wide, assuring you it was all yours, and you reached out to touch the unfinished wood very carefully, as if terrifying yourself with the thought that it might disappear if you pressed too hard.

And then, there was Luffy. Luffy was entirely different from the rest of the crew. Everyone else cared deeply, everyone worried, and everyone helped, but sometimes, when they looked at you, you could see the shadow of your past in their eyes. You could tell they were remembering the laboratory, the horrific files, and the years you had lost. Luffy never did that. It wasn't because he was ignoring your past, but because he refused to let it define who you were in the present. You struggled with your words? That was fine, you were just learning. You got scared easily? That was fine, you were brave anyway. You didn’t understand a concept? That was fine, he would just explain it simply, and that was that. There was no pity in his actions, no sadness, and no walking on eggshells. There was only absolute, casual acceptance.

One afternoon, your hand accidentally clamped down too hard on a section of the ship's railing, and the wood snapped completely beneath your grip. You froze instantly, a familiar, icy panic flooding your chest as you waited for the inevitable anger, the punishment, or the disappointment of failing again. Luffy, who was sitting nearby, simply blinked at the broken wood and muttered a casual, "Huh," before looking up at you and stating that they would just fix it. There was no yelling, no blame, and no lecture. He just moved on. Another time, you got completely tangled up in a sentence, the words jamming together in your throat as frustration built up behind your eyes. The rest of the crew waited patiently for you to finish, but Luffy simply grinned and told you he knew exactly what you meant. You stared at him, asking how he could possibly know, and he just shrugged, laughing that he had no idea. The logic made absolutely no sense, but looking at his wide, ridiculous grin, you suddenly let out a small, unexpected laugh. It was a real laugh. Luffy immediately pointed at you, shouting that there it was, and when you confusedly asked what he was looking at, his grin widened even further as he said, "You."

For a moment, the concept flew right over your head, but slowly, you began to understand. The World Government had spent fourteen years trying to manufacture you into a living weapon. The rest of the world would look at you and see only a giant, a monster, or a tragic mistake. But when Luffy looked at you, he didn't see Subject 47, or a failure, or a broken piece of equipment. He just saw you. And little by little, after a lifetime of being treated like property, you started learning how to see yourself that way too.

For a while, a beautiful, comfortable routine settled over the ship. You learned how birthdays worked, you learned new songs, and you learned that Sanji would always save an extra pastry for you in the kitchen. You figured out that Chopper cried at almost anything, that Usopp definitely cheated at cards, and that Robin loved when you asked her questions about the world. You watched Franky build impossible things, listened to Brook's strange jokes, sat in the quiet comfort of Jinbe's presence, and realized that Luffy had a way of making the heaviest things feel incredibly light. Months passed by in a blur of blue ocean and bright sunlight. You didn't grow any bigger physically—your body had already done far too much of that—but you grew as a person. You laughed louder, you spoke in longer sentences, and you smiled without hesitation. You were finally stopping to look at your reflection and see a person instead of an experiment.

Then, the static began.

It started as a faint, rhythmic pulsing in the back of your jaw, a cold sensation that made your ears ring during the quietest parts of the night. At first, you thought it was just a remnant of an old nightmare, but within days, the ancient, dormant modifications deep inside your lineage factors began to stir, reacting to a distant, unseen signal humming across the sea.

The first sign was so incredibly small that under normal circumstances, nobody would have given it a second thought. Franky had been out on the deck with a piece of sandpaper, putting the finishing touches on one of the custom-made, reinforced chairs he had designed specifically for your larger frame. You were sitting nearby, watching his hands move with your usual quiet fascination, when a jagged, overlooked splinter of wood caught the side of your palm. You flinched, pulling your hand back instinctively as a tiny, shallow cut opened across your skin, weeping a single bead of crimson. It wasn't serious. It didn't even hurt enough to warrant a gasp.

But as Chopper stepped forward with a small strip of gauze, he blinked, his little hooves freezing mid-air. He stared, his eyes widening in complete disbelief. You looked down at your hand to see what had caught his attention, only to find that the cut was entirely gone. It wasn’t in the process of closing; it hadn't left a faint pink mark or a scab. It was simply gone, as if the wood had never touched your flesh to begin with. The little doctor grabbed your hand immediately, his breath hitching as he turned your palm over in the sunlight, searching for a wound that no longer existed.

"What?" you asked, mimicking the sudden, tense shift in his expression. "…what?"

Chopper looked up at you, a shadow of genuine horror flickering across his face before he could mask it. "That... that should not happen. Not like that."

The second sign came only a few days later during afternoon training. Zoro was practicing his forms on the grassy deck, the rhythmic swoosh of his heavy wooden practice blade cutting through the salty air. You were watching him from your usual spot by the mast, completely captivated by the fluid, powerful weight of his movements. Lost in a daze of curiosity, you stood up to get a closer look and accidentally stepped directly into the arc of his downward swing. The solid wooden sword struck your shoulder with a resounding, violent crack.

Everyone on deck froze. Nami gasped, and Usopp covered his eyes, bracing for the sound of you crying out in pain. But the cry never came. Instead, the heavy practice sword had completely shattered into a dozen flying splinters against your bare skin. You didn't have a bruise. You didn't even have a red mark. You simply blinked at the debris littering the grass, shrinking back slightly as you whispered, "…oops."

Zoro stared at the empty, splintered hilt left in his grip, then at your unblemished shoulder, and then back down at the wreckage of his weapon. For a long, agonizing moment, the swordsman could only mutter, "…What."

The third sign was the first one that genuinely frightened you, mostly because it waited until the absolute dead of night to reveal itself. You woke up suddenly in the pitch black of your quarters, your heart racing frantically against your ribs for no discernible reason. There was a sound—a tiny, metallic scraping sound—that felt incredibly close yet completely impossible. You sat up in your massive bed, clutching your one-eyed rabbit to your chest, straining to listen.

The noise continued, sharpening into the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps. But they weren't on the deck of the Thousand Sunny. They weren't even nearby. Through the thick wooden hull of the ship and across miles of open, dark ocean, you could hear the muffled sound of unfamiliar voices, coarse laughter, the faint strumming of a tavern song, and the deep creaking of a distant vessel navigating the waves. You covered your ears with both hands, pressing down until your fingers hurt, but the distant lives of strangers kept pouring into your head.

The next morning, Chopper sat with you in the clinic, listening carefully to your heartbeat before checking your ears with a small light. The longer he examined you, the more concerned his small face became. "That's not normal hearing, Y/N," he said softly.

You lowered your eyes, your fingers anxiously tracing the worn seams of your rabbit. "…bad?"

Chopper hesitated for a fraction of a second, forcing a bright, reassuring smile onto his face as he patted your knee. "No. No, it's not bad at all." But his voice lacked its usual certainty, sounding hollow and strained.

The fourth sign nearly destroyed a section of the ship. It happened during another relentless nightmare—the kind that brought back the sterile, suffocating smell of the laboratory, the cold bite of the stasis fluid, and the detached, echoing voices of the men who had owned you. You stumbled out of your room in a state of half-waking panic, suffocating on your own breath as you tried to escape the memories. Your mind was screaming, trapped in a loop of frantic survival.

And then, something inside your cellular structure violently snapped.

A sudden, blinding light exploded directly from the palms of your hands. It wasn't fire, and it wasn't lightning; it was a pure, volatile blue-white energy that erupted across the grass deck with the force of a localized gale. The burst was so blindingly bright that it instantly turned the dead of night into a searing, artificial day, sending a powerful shockwave rippling across the surface of the calm sea.

The entire crew came sprinting out of their quarters, weapons drawn and completely alert, only to find you standing frozen at the center of the scorched deck. You were trembling from head to toe, staring down at your own glowing fingertips with a terror that mirrored their own confusion.

"…sorry," the word cracked in your throat, coming out small, fragile, and utterly terrified, as if you were a child waiting to be locked away in a dark room for breaking a rule. Nobody yelled at you. Nobody placed any blame on your shoulders. But as Sanji quietly began clearing the debris and Nami guided you back to the warmth of the galley, a heavy, unspoken worry settled over the ship. Even you knew that something ancient and sleeping had finally begun to wake up inside your blood.

Robin spent the next three days completely buried in her research. She pulled out the decaying documents from the island, cross-referencing old World Government medical journals, historical records of forbidden lineage factor manipulation, and the fragments of notes connected to Subject 47. The more she investigated, the quieter she became. The casual warmth she usually carried vanished, replaced by a profound, serious intensity that made the rest of the crew watch her with bated breath.

Until finally, one rainy evening, she gathered everyone around the massive dining table in the galley. Including you.

The atmosphere in the room felt entirely different from their usual chaotic dinners; it was thick, heavy, and charged with a quiet dread. Robin placed a stack of yellowed, ink-stained papers onto the polished wood, staring at them for a long moment as if choosing her words with extreme precision.

"I believe we completely misunderstood the nature of the facility where we found Y/N," Robin began, her calm voice cutting through the silence.

Everyone leaned in closer. "What do you mean, Robin?" Nami asked, her brow furrowing.

Robin took a slow, steady breath, her blue eyes reflecting the dim overhead light. "The scientists who ran the project. They didn't fail."

A cold, absolute silence fell over the room. You froze in your chair, your fingers tightening around your stuffed toy until your knuckles turned white.

Chopper frowned, shaking his head defensively. "But the files we read... they explicitly said the project was terminated. They called her a failure!"

"The files were lying," Robin stated directly, opening one of the older documents to reveal a series of encrypted charts. "Look at the progression of the dates. The genetic modifications became radically more successful with every passing year. The cellular survival rates increased, the lineage factor adaptation rates stabilized, and her physical performance consistently exceeded their highest expectations." She tapped a finger against a line of dark ink. "Everything they originally set out to engineer... they achieved."

Nobody spoke. The terrifying reality of her words began to sink into the room, heavy and suffocating. Robin finally turned her head to look at you. There was no fear in her eyes, and there was no pity—there was only a deep, sorrowful understanding of the burden you carried.

"They created exactly what they were trying to create from the very beginning," Robin whispered.

Your stomach twisted into a violent, icy knot. "…what?"

Robin’s expression softened beautifully, though her voice remained steady. "A living weapon capable of infinite biological adaptation. The signs we've been seeing are the core components of that design. Rapid cellular healing. Enhanced muscular and skeletal durability. Sensory adaptation to the environment. Volatile energy generation." She paused, letting the final piece of the puzzle echo through the quiet room. "Continuous, reactive evolution."

The words hit the galley with the physical force of a cannon shot. Franky’s mechanical eyes widened in shock, Jinbe’s weathered expression darkened into a grim frown, and Chopper looked physically ill, his hooves covering his mouth.

Then, Robin said the one thing that changed the entirely of your world. "You were never defective, Y/N. They didn't abandon you because the experiment failed. They called you a failure because they realized they could never successfully control you."

Complete, unbroken silence claimed the room. You looked down at your hands—the same hands that had spent the last few months painstakingly learning how to count fruit with Nami, how to hold a pencil without snapping it, how to play hide-and-seek with Usopp, and how to gently pat Chopper’s head when he was upset. They were the hands that had finally started to feel human.

But looking at them now, they suddenly felt foreign again. Wrong. Dangerous.

The old, suffocating terror of the laboratory rushed back into your chest, bringing with it the weight of that clinical, unfeeling classification. Weapon. You were an asset. An experiment. A monster designed to adapt and destroy. Your fingers crushed the faded fabric of your rabbit as a tear finally slipped down your pale cheek.

"…weapon," you whispered, the word tasting like ash. You swallowed hard, looking around the table at the faces of the people who had given you a home, your voice breaking into a fragile, terrified plea. "…still?"

You weren't asking them what your biology was. You were asking them if they looked at you and saw the same thing the World Government saw.

The room remained motionless for one agonizing second. Then, a familiar, entirely unbothered voice shattered the tension.

"No."

You looked up quickly, your blurred vision clearing. Luffy was sitting at the head of the table, his arms crossed, looking completely unimpressed by the entire revelation. He had the exact same expression he wore whenever someone tried to explain a complex navigation route or a shift in the weather—utterly bored and completely dismissive.

"But… I can do…" you gestured helplessly to your hands, your voice trembling.

"You can do weird stuff," Luffy interrupted plainly, leaning forward on his elbows.

"…weapon," you insisted, needing him to understand the danger of what you were.

"No."

"But—"

"I said no," Luffy countered, his tone absolute, simple, and entirely unshaken by the weight of government secrets or ancient science. He reached across the table, pointing a single, direct finger straight at your chest. "You’re Y/N."

Just that. Nothing more, and nothing less.

He didn't see a classified project, or a terrifying weapon, or Subject 47, or a tragic failure of science. He didn't care about lineage factors, continuous evolution, or the red stamps on a piece of parchment. To him, you weren't a collection of dangerous abilities; you were simply the girl who liked strawberry shortcake, who hid behind the ship during games, and who needed a blanket when the night got too cold.

You stared at his wide, stubborn grin, and for the first time since the static had started in your jaw, the icy knot in your stomach completely dissolved. The documents on the table felt entirely powerless against the certainty in his voice. They had spent fourteen years trying to give you a designation, but in a single sentence, Luffy had given you something infinitely more powerful: a name that belonged to you, and a place where you would always be allowed to stay.

At first, nobody connected the dots. The world was a vast, chaotic expanse, filled with all manner of bizarre sights and impossible occurrences. A giant teenage girl traveling aboard a pirate ship wasn’t exactly standard protocol, but then again, neither was anything else concerning the Straw Hat Pirates. For months, scattered reports from remote Marine outposts and bustling harbor towns were simply filed away and ignored. A low-ranking Marine officer might spot an uncommonly large girl helping shipwrights effortlessly hoist massive timber beams to repair a damaged dock. A traveling merchant might mention a towering, pale teenager gently carrying a small reindeer through a crowded marketplace because she softly murmured that "walking looked tiring." A local newspaper photograph might accidentally capture a blurred glimpse of your face and a shock of long hair in the background of a bustling port. They were small, harmless things, easily dismissed by an overworked bureaucracy.

Until someone saw something they shouldn't have.

Far away, deep within the sterile, heavily secured corridors of a central government intelligence facility, an aging officer sat beneath the harsh glow of a desk lamp, staring intensely at a newly developed surveillance photograph. He stared for one minute, then two, before standing up so violently his wooden chair crashed backward onto the linoleum floor.

"No," he breathed, his voice a ragged whisper.

The photograph trembled slightly between his thumb and forefinger. It was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. Subject 47 had been abandoned to the dark more than a decade ago. The underground laboratory had been written off, the project officially terminated, and the dense files permanently sealed. The surviving researchers were either long dead, comfortably retired under aliases, or missing entirely. Yet there you were, captured in a grainy, long-range lens, standing right beside a ship bearing a pristine lion figurehead. And pinned against your chest, held with a delicate familiarity, was a stuffed rabbit. It was the same rabbit.

The officer’s pulse hammered in his ears as he immediately bypassed standard protocol, requesting access to the classified archives, then the higher classified vaults, and finally the records so deep and heavily restricted they barely existed in the official catalog anymore. Hours bled into the night until his fingers pulled a faded, yellowed document from a forgotten crate. It was a laboratory image from fourteen years ago: a young giant child sitting perfectly alone inside a reinforced, windowless concrete chamber, her small fingers clutching a stuffed rabbit. The same rabbit.

A profound, suffocating cold settled deep within the officer's chest. "She’s alive."

The emergency report traveled up the chain of command with terrifying speed, passing through higher officials, sector commanders, and vice admirals within days. Eventually, it landed heavily on the desks of individuals who had never even heard the project’s classified name before—people who normally ignored the dusty relics of old research, but who suddenly found themselves staring into an abyss of their own making. Meeting after meeting was called in locked, windowless chambers beneath the capital. The panic was quiet but absolute, because every single document dug out of the past screamed the exact same truth: Subject 47 should not be walking beneath the sun.

The grand briefing room remained dead silent as senior officials flipped through the recovered records. One man, adjusting his formal coat, finally broke the quiet. "What exactly am I looking at here? I thought this was an old, discarded failure."

An old scientist, his face lined with deep wrinkles and his posture weighed down by the burden of his past employment, stepped forward toward the light. His voice sounded painfully strained, heavy with an unease that had festered for fourteen years. "Subject 47," he murmured.

The official frowned, tapping his pen against the paper. "The failed weapon?"

The scientist’s expression shifted, a complicated look crossing his weathered features—one that bordered dangerously on a long-repressed regret. "No," he replied quietly.

A tense silence blanketed the room. The scientist swallowed hard, looking out at the gathered leaders. "The project never failed. The objective was to engineer a living weapon capable of adapting biologically to any battlefield, any trauma, and any adversary." He pressed a button, illuminating a massive projection screen behind him. Pages of dense research data, cellular analysis, and developmental timelines flashed into view. "Enhanced regeneration," the scientist read aloud as the pages turned. "Extreme skeletal and muscular durability. Adaptive physiology. Lineage factor integration. Accelerated evolutionary response." The old man lowered his head, his eyes fixing on the floor. "We succeeded. Completely."

The room became incredibly quiet, save for one official who let out a nervous, empty laugh. "If you succeeded so beautifully, doctor, then why in the world was the project terminated and the subject locked in stasis?"

Nobody answered immediately. The old scientist looked thoroughly exhausted, as if he had spent the last decade of his life pretending this specific truth didn't haunt his sleep. "Because we couldn’t control her."

The nervous laughter died instantly. Another official frowned, leaning forward. "What does that mean? Was there a flaw in the programming?"

"It means she wasn’t defective," the scientist’s voice dropped to a quiet, stark whisper that echoed off the high walls. "It means she wasn’t obedient. She was a child." He paused, the heavy silence suffocating the room. "The project required an unfeeling weapon, gentlemen. Instead, through our genetic tinkering, we accidentally created a person."

Nobody spoke. Because to the men who commanded armies from behind mahogany desks, that answer was infinitely worse.

As the files continued to spread through the highest echelons of the World Government, a primitive, unyielding fear grew with every review. The terror didn't stem from reports of you attacking coastal cities, conquering sovereign islands, or destroying Marine fleets; you weren't doing any of those things. The fear came entirely from the terrifying realm of possibility. Every statistical assessment reached the exact same harrowing conclusion: Subject 47 had survived stasis, escaped her containment, and was currently developing outside of laboratory conditions. You were growing without supervision, without chemical restrictions, without neural monitoring, and completely out of their control. And most terrifying of all to the bureaucracy, you were doing it alongside people who genuinely cared about you.

A top government analyst summarized the entire crisis perfectly in a high-priority brief delivered to the upper circle. His report contained only one, unadorned sentence: We no longer know the upper limits of Subject 47’s capabilities.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away across a beautifully calm sea, you had absolutely no idea that any of this was happening. You were currently sitting flat on the grass deck of the Thousand Sunny, staring down at a wooden slate, trying desperately to learn long multiplication—and losing the battle miserably.

"Twenty-four," Nami said patiently, tapping a finger against the chalk marks.

You stared at the page. You stared at it again, your brow furrowing so deeply your eyebrows almost met, before you slowly looked up at the navigator. "…evil."

Nami blinked, startled. "What?"

You pointed a large, trembling finger at the worksheet. "…evil numbers."

From the nearby railing, Usopp immediately burst into a fit of breathless laughter, nearly dropping his goggles. Nami looked deeply offended, tossing her orange hair back. "They are not evil, Y/N! It’s just math!"

You didn't lower your finger. "…evil."

"They really aren't!"

"I don't know, they kind of are," Luffy admitted, leaning over the galley stairs with a piece of meat dangling from his mouth.

Nami whirled around, pointing an angry finger at him. "Don't you start! You don't even know multiplication!"

"Exactly," Luffy grinned through his food, completely unbothered. He looked down at you and gave a firm nod. "Numbers are evil."

You nodded back in perfect solidarity. "…evil."

"Stop encouraging her!" Nami yelled, rubbing her temples as Chopper hid behind her chair, trying his best to stifle his own giggles.

A short distance away, Robin quietly turned the page of her book, a soft smile playing on her lips. Brook was humming a gentle, rolling melody in tandem with the sea, Franky was loudly hammering away at a new invention near the workshop, Jinbe stood steady at the helm watching the horizon, and the rich, savory scent of Sanji’s cooking drifted warmly through the kitchen window. The ship felt incredibly warm. Safe. Comfortable. It felt like home. You looked around the deck at the faces of your family—at the people who had patiently taught you words, shared their stories, played your clumsy games, and introduced you to music. Without realizing it, a small, natural smile graced your lips, a soft expression born of pure contentment.

But thousands of miles away, an emergency meeting had just been called in the dead of night. The World Government had finally reached the one conclusion that truly terrified them. It wasn't just that Subject 47 was alive, or that she had grown stronger outside the tank. No, the true nightmare was much simpler: the most powerful, adaptive biological asset they had ever engineered had willingly joined the crew of Monkey D. Luffy. And if there was anyone in the entire world who would encourage a living superweapon to become completely, fiercely free—it was him. For the first time in generations, men who commanded entire global fleets found themselves genuinely afraid, because you were no longer isolated and predictable. You had something far more dangerous than any experimental modification; you had people who loved you. And they had absolutely no idea what that would make you capable of.

You weren't supposed to hear it. At least, that is exactly what Robin would have said if she had known you were standing in the shadows of the corridor. Nobody on the ship was actively hiding things from you; it wasn't intentional. The issue was simply that your sensory adaptation had continued to rapidly evolve in the quiet environment of the sea. What had once allowed you to hear the creaking wood of distant ships now allowed you to pick up the quietest whispers through heavy wooden walls, sometimes without you even conscious of the effort.

And on that particular night, you heard everything.

Robin had been researching late into the night in the library, driven by a growing, maternal worry for your safety and a fear of what the Government might attempt next. The rest of the crew had gathered around her desk, speaking in those quiet, serious tones that adults reservation for things they wish were completely untrue. You hadn't meant to eavesdrop; you had simply been walking toward the galley for a cup of water when your designation echoed through the wood: Subject 47. Your feet rooted to the floorboards, and suddenly, you couldn't move.

"…there are more files hidden within the decrypted logs," Robin said, her voice dropping to a somber murmur. The distinct rustle of old parchment shifted through the air, followed by the soft creak of a chair. "The surveillance reports go back for years."

You froze in the dim hallway, your arms automatically tightening around your stuffed rabbit, squeezing it against your chest. *Years.* Your years.

Robin began to read aloud to the quiet crew, her voice trembling slightly with an emotion she rarely showed. "Subject demonstrates intense attachment behavior toward standard staff. Attachment should be strictly discouraged to maintain clinical objectivity."

Your fingers dug deeper into the faded fur of your toy.

"Subject observed crying for extended periods after caretaker rotation," Robin continued, turning a brittle page. "Recommendation: Ignore requests. Maintain isolation protocols."

A sharp, hollow ache blossomed deep within your chest. It wasn't a physical injury, but it felt infinitely worse, because the cold words suddenly acted as a key to a locked room in your mind. A fragment of a memory surfaced—small, pale hands reaching desperately toward a closing steel door, the heavy boots of a scientist walking down a corridor without looking back, and the agonizing weight of being left entirely alone in the dark. Again, and again, and again.

"Emotional instability remains highly problematic during testing," Robin read, the anger in her tone becoming sharper, more pronounced.

You stared down at the dark wood beneath your feet. Emotional instability. You hadn't known those words when you were a child inside the tank, but you had learned enough from Chopper to understand them now. To the scientists, those words simply meant crying when you were hurt. Being terrified of the dark. Wanting comfort. Wanting someone—anyone—to hold your hand. The basic, instinctual needs of a child had been categorized as genetic defects.

"Weaponization potential remains extraordinarily high," Robin’s voice sounded tight, nearly snapping under the weight of her disgust. Always that word. Weapon. Never a child. Never a girl. Never you. Just a tool to be calibrated and deployed until it broke.

Then came the final page, the final clinical assessment that had served as the period at the end of your childhood. Robin read it quietly, almost reluctantly, as if she wished she could erase the ink with her bare hands. "Status: Living. Result: Failure."

A heavy, absolute silence claimed the library. Nobody spoke, because the sheer cruelty of the data left nothing to be said.

You turned and walked away before the conversation could resume, your bare feet making no sound on the deck. Nobody noticed your departure. You walked slowly, your rabbit held like a shield against your ribs, navigating by the light of the stars. The Thousand Sunny creaked gently beneath your weight, a familiar comfort, but tonight the open ocean felt dangerously large and terribly lonely. You sat down near the railing, drawing your knees up toward your chin, and began to think.

Thinking was a dangerous thing when the thoughts were heavy. Robin had taught you how to read stories, Chopper had given you the vocabulary to speak, and Nami had taught you how to parse the world through logic. And somewhere along that journey of healing, you had learned enough to truly understand what those files meant. The scientists hadn't been frustrated because you were a monster; they had been frustrated because you were fundamentally human. You had a heart that felt pain, and to them, that was the ultimate flaw.

Another memory bubbled up from the dark—old, blurred, from a time when you couldn't have been more than four years old. You remembered looking through the glass of the observation window and asking a crouched figure a simple, desperate question. You couldn't recall the exact words you used, but the answer had echoed through the intercom with chilling clarity: No. It was always no. The memory faded back into the dark, leaving behind a realization that struck you like a physical blow. In fourteen years of existence, you couldn't remember a single person ever calling you by a name. Not once. You were Subject. You were 47. You were Property, Asset, and Failure. But you were never a person with a name.

The thought made your chest tighten until it was hard to breathe. Was the name you carried even yours? Or had you simply invented it from fragments of dreams, or borrowed it from a passing thought to comfort yourself in the dark? You didn't know, and the uncertainty terrified you. Robin had told you once that names were the most important things we possessed; they were an identity, a declaration to the world that you were someone who existed. What if yours wasn't real? What if the laboratory had stolen that from you, too?

"…Y/N?"

You flinched, your massive shoulders tensing as you pulled your gaze away from the black water. Luffy had materialized beside the railing, his sandals clicking softly against the deck. It was rare for you not to hear him approach, but your mind had been too loud. He didn't ask you why you were crying, and he didn't push you for explanations; he simply sat down on the wooden ledge beside you, his straw hat tilting back as he looked up at the stars.

A full minute passed in comfortable quiet before you found the courage to speak, the words feeling incredibly heavy in your throat. "…Luffy."

"Yeah?" he asked, not looking over, just letting his legs dangle over the side.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the plush ears of your rabbit. "…what if… what if Y/N not name?"

The ocean rolled gently against the hull, and the ship gave a familiar creak. Luffy seemed to consider this for a moment, tilting his head to the side, before he simply shrugged his shoulders. "Okay."

You blinked, utterly confused by his lack of concern. "…okay?"

"Yeah."

You stared at his profile, certain that your limited vocabulary had caused you to explain the crisis poorly. "My name," you tried again, your voice rising slightly. "…maybe not real. Maybe laboratory name."

Luffy turned his head then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, unshaken certainty. He raised a hand and pointed a single finger directly at your nose. "You’re still you."

You frowned, your chest aching. "But—"

"Doesn't matter," he interrupted instantly, his voice leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. "People can get new names. People can lose old ones. You still exist right here." He reached down and patted the worn, one-eyed rabbit resting in your lap. "When Chopper joined the ship, he was just Chopper. When Robin joined us, she was Robin." He pointed a thumb at his own chest, his signature, wide grin slowly spreading across his face. "When I started sailing, I was just Luffy. It’s pretty simple."

You stared at him, the simplicity of his logic cutting through the dense fog of your panic. "…simple."

"Yep."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the cool night air soothing the heat in your face. You held your rabbit closer, looking down at its familiar, faded fur, before you finally whispered the one word that had haunted you since you left the library. "…failure?"

Luffy blinked, his grin faltering into a look of genuine confusion. "What?"

"…am I?" The words were so small they barely carried over the sound of the waves. You weren't asking about the project results or the evaluation sheets anymore; you were asking him if he looked at you and saw a broken thing.

Luffy looked at you as if you had just suggested the moon was made of green cheese. The question clearly made absolutely no sense to his way of seeing the world. Then, he let out a loud, sudden laugh—not a cruel or mocking sound, but a bright, surprised burst of amusement. "How could you be a failure?" He began gesturing wildly with his arms, counting off your achievements on his fingers. "You learned how to speak words with Chopper! You know all of Robin’s stories! You hide behind the whole ship when we play games, you listen to Brook’s music every night, and you made friends with everyone!" He leaned in closer, his eyes crinkling with mischief. "And you eat almost all of Sanji’s special desserts before I can get to them!"

A tiny, involuntary sound escaped your throat, and you looked away shyly. "…not all."

"Most of them!" Luffy laughed.

"…most," you conceded softly.

"Exactly!" Luffy grinned, the exact same open, uncritical smile he had given you the very first day he pulled you from the glass tank. It was a look that never changed, one that completely bypassed the scars on your arms and the massive height of your frame. "Sounds pretty successful to me."

For a moment—just a fleeting, beautiful moment—the word failure felt a little bit smaller. It wasn't entirely gone, but the heavy, crushing weight of it had lessened, pushed back by the sheer force of your captain's stubborn belief in you.

And as you sat beside him beneath the endless blanket of stars, listening to the steady heartbeat of the ocean and holding your old rabbit tight, a profound truth finally settled deep within your heart. The World Government had spent fourteen years in a sterile room deciding exactly what you were supposed to be. The Straw Hat Pirates had spent only a few months letting you decide who you wanted to become. And looking out at the vast, open horizon ahead, you realized that their love mattered infinitely more than their science ever could.

The transition was so sudden you didn't even realize what was happening at first. One moment, the sun was warm against your skin as you walked through the cobblestone streets of a quiet, peaceful island town. The next, a flash of movement caught your eye—the distinct, stark white fabric of a clinical coat.

Everything stopped. Not the world around you, but the entire universe inside you.

It was just a scientist. An ordinary person wearing an ordinary garment, navigating a crowded market. But your body didn’t know the difference. Your physical form remembered the trauma long before your conscious mind could even process the visual. The piercing white lights. The cold, detached voices. The endless, invasive tests. The suffocating years.

You froze. For one terrible, agonizing moment, the timeline fractured, and you were fourteen years old again. You weren't on the deck of the vibrant Thousand Sunny. You weren't surrounded by your family. You weren't free. You were just Subject 47, trapped in a reinforced glass cylinder. That single second of hesitation was all the operatives needed to close the distance.

Later, when the fog cleared, you would wonder why you didn't simply run. You knew what you were capable of. You knew you were vastly stronger than them, faster than them, and practically impervious to their physical compliance methods. You knew that truth down to your bones. Robin knew it, Chopper knew it, and the World Government certainly knew it. But knowing a fact and truly believing it are two entirely separate things.

Somewhere deep inside the unhealed fractures of your childhood, a part of you still believed that the people in white coats held absolute authority. A part of you still believed they owned the room, owned the rules, and ultimately, owned you. So, when they firmly called out your designation across the crowded street, you stopped. When they stepped forward and gave direct orders, you listened. When they approached with restraints, you didn't move. By the time the illusion shattered and you realized what was happening, it was already over.

The very first thing you noticed when consciousness slowly returned was the smell. It was a sterile, overwhelming mixture of chemical cleaners, cold metal, and sharp medicine. The scent hit your senses so hard it made your stomach churn with an acute, physical sickness—not because it was inherently foul, but because it was horribly familiar.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting a flat, white ceiling illuminated by harsh, fluorescent lights reflecting off white walls. Your stomach dropped into a bottomless void. *No. No. No.* You recognized this room. You knew the precise hum of these lights. You knew this place, and you knew the hollow, powerless feeling creeping into your limbs. The realization arrived like a slow, crushing weight before hitting you all at once. You were back in the dark.

The room wasn’t exactly identical to the one you had been rescued from. Years had passed in the outside world, meaning the equipment had been updated, the monitoring machines were sleeker, and the walls lacked the rust of abandonment. But the underlying atmosphere remained entirely unchanged: cold, clinical, and profoundly wrong.

You sat perfectly still on a raised examination table while technicians moved efficiently around the space. Nobody greeted you. Nobody asked how you had fared during your months at sea, if you were frightened, or if you were experiencing any pain. They spoke around you, over you, and through you, treating your massive form like a piece of heavy laboratory furniture or a complex machine waiting to be calibrated. To them, the person inside the asset wasn't even there.

"Vital signs are remarkably stable," a voice droned near the monitor.

"The physical growth is unprecedented. The adaptation continues to manifest beautifully."

"Subject remains entirely responsive to baseline verbal commands."

"Recovery rates have completely exceeded our initial projections. Fascinating."

You kept your head lowered, staring fixedly at the polished floorboards, your fingers tightening around the worn fabric of your stuffed rabbit. They hadn't taken it from you. Perhaps they had simply overlooked it during the capture, or perhaps they deemed the faded toy irrelevant to your biological data. You didn't care why it was there; it was the only piece of reality left to connect you to the light.

The scientists were visibly excited, and that was easily the most terrifying part of the ordeal. They weren't angry with you for escaping, and they weren't acting out of cruelty. They were thrilled. They looked like children tearing open presents on a holiday, or researchers unearthing a legendary treasure. They looked like men who had finally recovered a priceless piece of property they thought they had lost forever.

One of them rapidly scrolled through data on a digital tablet, while another compared your current readings to decades-old paper records. A third technician could barely contain a wide, triumphant smile.

"Do you understand the sheer magnitude of what this means?"

"Of course I do. The lineage factor project actually worked."

"It didn't just work; it completely shattered our expectations. The evolutionary adaptation rates alone are incredible."

You lowered your head even further, blocking out the light. You had heard these exact conversations before, years ago, when you were small and they foolishly assumed your silent mind couldn't comprehend the weight of their words.

Nobody in the facility called you by your name. Not once. The name disappeared from the air instantly, as if it had never been spoken, as if the vibrant months spent aboard the Thousand Sunny were nothing more than a fever dream. It was as if learning your very first words had never happened. The stories, the birthdays, the clumsy games, the late-night songs, and the friends—none of it held any currency here. In this room, you were only ever Subject 47. They repeated the number over and over, tracking it on charts and entering it into databases until the constant repetition made you feel like you were losing your grip on the person you had tried so hard to become.

An older, gray-haired scientist eventually stopped near the edge of your table. There was a faint, ghostly trace of familiarity in his stern features, but it was impossible to be certain. To you, the faces of the researchers had always blurred together into a singular, unfeeling entity. He studied a printout of your baseline behavior, offering a slow nod of approval.

"The fundamental behavior remains entirely consistent," the older man remarked.

A younger assistant looked over from a computer terminal. "What do you mean, Doctor?"

The older man didn't even bother to glance at your face as he answered. "Compliance."

The word settled heavily into the sterile air of the room, cold and absolute. Compliance. It wasn't cooperation, and it certainly wasn't trust. It was just an engineering term. They viewed your cooperation as software functioning correctly, as a piece of high-grade equipment adhering to its baseline programming.

The truly terrible thing—the realization that brought silent tears to your eyes—was that a part of your broken spirit agreed with them. Not because it was right, but because the structure of the laboratory was familiar. And to a mind that had known nothing else for fourteen years, familiarity felt safe, even when it was actively destroying you. Familiarity was easy.

Life aboard the Thousand Sunny had often been overwhelmingly confusing. The crew members were constantly asking you what you wanted to eat, demanding to know what you thought about the world, and patiently waiting for your voice to find its footing. They had insisted on treating you like a real person. Being a person was a beautiful concept, but it had often felt terrifyingly massive, strange, and far too good to be real. But this? This cold routine was something you understood perfectly. Sit. Stay still. Listen. Obey. It was simple, predictable, and thoroughly known.

Days began to bleed into one another, though you couldn't be entirely certain of the time. The harsh overhead lights never dimmed, the sterile room never changed, and the clinical nature of the conversations never wavered. Occasionally, you would catch the faint mention of your family—the Straw Hats—filtering through the heavy doorway. The technicians never spoke of them as people, and certainly never as *your* people. They were described merely as a security variable, an external obstacle, or a high-priority target to be neutralized by the military. They were reduced to data points, handled with the exact same detached calculus used to measure your own pulse.

One night, after the final shift of technicians logged out and extinguished the secondary monitors, the massive laboratory became completely quiet. You sat alone in the dark, staring up at the shadow of the ceiling, pressing your rabbit tightly against your collarbone. The silence stretched out across the empty room, growing heavier with every passing hour.

And eventually, a small, dangerous thought bypassed your defenses.

What would Chopper say if he walked through that door right now and saw you sitting meekly on this table? The answer surfaced instantly, bringing a sharp ache to your throat. He would be absolutely horrified. What would Robin say? She would be furious—a quiet, terrifying anger that could level a mountain. What would Nami do? She would likely scream at the scientists until her voice cracked, throwing her weather tact to defend you. What would Sanji do? What would Franky, Brook, Usopp, and Jinbe do? What would Luffy do?

The thoughts hurt worse than any needle, and you tried desperately to force your mind back into a state of compliant numbness. But it was already too late; the dam had broken. You remembered. You remembered the gentle sway of the Sunny, the vastness of the blue ocean, the sound of Brook's violin floating over the water, and the stories Robin read to you in the library. You remembered the giant wooden chair Franky had spent days building just so you could sit comfortably at the dinner table, the simple number lessons Nami drew out for you, and the way Chopper had openly wept with joy the day you successfully learned how to say the word "friend."

Suddenly, the familiar walls of the laboratory didn't feel safe anymore. They felt suffocating, freezing, and entirely empty. You clutched the stuffed rabbit until the old seams groaned under your immense strength, your chest aching with a profound, emotional agony. For the very first time in your entire life, you fully understood the exact scale of what you had lost. And for the very first time in your life, a thought appeared that didn't belong to Subject 47, and didn't belong to the World Government. It was entirely your own—a simple, heartbreaking wish whispered into the sterile dark: I want to go home.

The exact moment the Straw Hat Pirates realized you had been taken from the island town, the entire atmosphere aboard the Thousand Sunny shifted. It wasn't a wave of panic, and it wasn't a state of confusion. It was something infinitely worse, something that made the surrounding sea seem to go dead quiet. It was pure, unadulterated rage.

Nobody blamed you for what had happened—not for a single second. Robin had piece together the timeline almost immediately, recognizing the specific tactical movements of government retrieval squads. The realization that the cipher pol agents had engineered a scenario to exploit the psychological wounds they themselves had inflicted made her physically sick. It made all of them sick. Because where the World Government saw an asset to be recovered, the crew saw a young girl who had finally started to smile. Someone had stolen their family.

Luffy was terrifyingly quiet. The crew noticed the shift instantly; there was no loud shouting, no furious demanding of answers, and no reckless charging into the distance. There was only a profound, heavy silence—the exact kind of silence that always preceded an absolute storm. The captain stood on the lawn deck, his shadow falling across the empty, oversized wooden chair that Franky had built for you. He stared at the vacant seat for a long moment, his hand resting on the brim of his straw hat. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, steady promise.

"We’re getting her back."

It wasn't a subject up for discussion, and it wasn't a strategic plan. It was an absolute fact of the universe. The crew immediately moved to their stations, the sails catching the wind with a violent snap.

When the ship finally arrived at the coordinates of the heavily fortified government facility, Chopper was the first through the breach, driven by a fury the Marines had never witnessed from the little doctor. He wasn't scared, and he wasn't worried about the odds; he was consumed by an intense anger born from seeing a child treated like an experimental subject over and over again. The moment his hooves crossed into the facility’s medical wing and his eyes landed on the cold steel restraints, the chemical monitoring systems, and the heavy leather straps, something inside his gentle heart completely snapped.

Transforming instantly into his massive Heavy Point, the doctor slammed a clenched hoof clean through a diagnostic terminal. The metal crumpled like wet paper under the impact. He pivoted, shattering a life-support monitor with his shoulder, before tearing a row of chemical drip lines completely from the wall. Papers flew through the air like snow as glass exploded across the tile floor.

"You don’t get to call this medicine!" Chopper’s voice roared, echoing off the concrete walls with a raw, tremulous power that made the fleeing technicians freeze in terror. He smashed another monitoring cart into scrap metal, his chest heaving. "She’s a kid! She’s not your goddamn experiment!"

Robin was worse. Much worse. The archaeologist moved through the corridors of the high-security facility like an inescapable force of absolute judgment. Utilizing her devil fruit powers, arms sprouted along the walls of the secure server rooms, effortlessly bypassing armed guards and locking down main consoles. She systematically accessed every classified database, every hidden archive, and every suppressed server within the facility's network. She opened them all, lifting the encryption codes and broadcasting decades of hidden government atrocities, illegal human testing, and weaponization reports directly to the open seas.

A high-ranking facility official watched in complete horror as his secure monitors cleared themselves of data, leaving only a stream of descending code. He whirled around, his voice shaking as he stared at her. "What have you done? You've destroyed generations of secure intelligence!"

Robin offered him a cold, brilliantly dangerous smile, her eyes entirely devoid of mercy. "Documentation."

Franky took one look at the facility's multi-layered blast doors and titanium security gates, and immediately decided that their existence offended him on a personal level. Massive steel walls disappeared under the explosive force of his weapons, reinforced security grates were torn from their tracks by his mechanical hands, and automated defense turrets were twisted into useless scrap before they could even fire a single round. The cyborg tore a path through the facility with an unstoppable, roaring determination, making sure that every obstacle placed between him and you lasted approximately three seconds before turning to dust.

"Suuuper terrible security!" Franky yelled, launching a rocket that completely vaporized a heavily reinforced vault door ahead. "They really should’ve tried harder if they wanted to keep us out!"

From the center of the chaos, Nami perfectly coordinated every moving part of the rescue. Having obtained the facility's blueprints via Robin's early network breach, the navigator stood with her Log Pose and a visual map, her voice crackling clearly across everyone's communicators.

"Turn left at the next junction," Nami ordered sharply. "There's a security squad attempting to form a blockade three corridors ahead. Robin, you have reinforcements approaching your eastern flank. Franky, stop destroying the literal support beams of the lower level!"

Franky paused mid-swing, his mechanical fingers hovering over a structural column. "…Maybe?"

"FRANKY, I AM NOT ASKING."

"Okay, okay, moving on!"

While Nami steered the path, Zoro and Sanji acted as the vanguard, clearing hallways with a seamless, terrifying efficiency while continuously insulting one another's lineage.

"Get out of my swinging radius, you stupid cook," Zoro muttered, his blades drawing arcs of silver light through the air as a dozen guards fell unconscious around him.

"Watch where you're aiming that mossy head of yours, you lost swordsman," Sanji countered, his leg igniting into a brilliant streak of flame as he leveled a defensive line of riot shields with a single kick. Within a matter of minutes, entire corridors of elite security forces were reduced to silent, sprawling forms on the floorboards, leaving a clear path behind them.

Further back, Usopp and Brook handled the facility’s primary defensive reinforcements by orchestrating absolute chaos. One moment a tactical squad was preparing a counter-offensive, and the next, they were engulfed in a blinding wall of green pop-green smoke, exploding stars, and the echoing, skeletal laughter of a phantom swordsman playing a haunting tune on a violin. The guards completely fractured under the psychological warfare, turning their weapons on shadows while Usopp cheered from the top of a ventilation duct—occasionally startling himself in the process.

And through the entire collapsing structure, Jinbe walked with a steady, unyielding presence, acting as the bedrock of the entire operation. Every falling piece of heavy masonry, every desperate explosive trap, and every heavy-artillery countermeasure was met by the fish-man's bare hands, his immense physical strength keeping the paths open and ensuring that not a single member of his crew was touched by the chaos.

And then, there was Luffy.

You could hear the sounds of the conflict echoing through the vents long before your mind could truly rationalize what they meant. The distant, booming impacts of explosions, the frantic blaring of secondary sirens, and the panicked shouting of security teams created a low rumble that made the examination table beneath you vibrate. The technicians inside your room began scrambling, frantically packing portable hard drives and looking toward the exits in absolute panic. Something was deeply wrong.

You sat perfectly still amidst the chaos, your large hands neatly folded over your lap, holding your rabbit securely against your chest. You did it because you had spent fourteen years of your life learning how to do exactly that: wait for the storm to pass.

Then, the reinforced eastern wall of the laboratory didn't just breach—it literally exploded into a cloud of pulverized concrete and dust. The shockwave scattered papers across the room like a blizzard, sending the remaining scientists screaming into the corners. Through the settling gray haze and the debris, the distinct silhouette of a straw hat appeared in the ruined doorway.

For a long, agonizing second, your brain simply refused to process the sight. It didn't align with any logic your mind possessed. Luffy shouldn't have been there. This facility was hidden away across vast stretches of ocean, heavily guarded by the military, and deemed entirely impossible to find. Yet, there he stood in the center of the wreckage, his coat billowing behind him, his dark eyes instantly locking onto yours. He looked at you with an expression that carried no doubt—as if he had never once considered the possibility that he wouldn't find you.

The entire universe went dead silent. The alarms, the shouting scientists, and the crumbling concrete vanished from your perception. There was only him.

Luffy’s gaze swept across the room, tracking the heavy leather restraints hanging from the table, the empty IV lines, and the familiar, small posture of fear you had reverted to. His expression darkened into a cold, terrifying intensity you had never seen on his face before. But the moment his eyes returned to meet yours, the anger vanished completely, softening into something warm and familiar.

"Hey," he said simply.

It was the exact same greeting he had given you through the glass of the stasis tank months ago. No grand speech, no complicated explanations. Just a quiet, easy acknowledgement of your existence.

Your throat tightened instantly, a sudden, burning pressure rising behind your eyes. Every single lesson you had learned aboard the ship came rushing back to the surface of your mind in a torrential flood. Every new word Chopper had taught you, every magical story Robin had shared, every game of hide-and-seek with Usopp, every sweet dessert Sanji had baked, and every song Brook had played under the stars. The Sunny. The open sea. Home.

And for the very first time since the operatives had called your designation in the street, the words didn't get tangled up in your throat. You didn't copy someone else's phrasing, you didn't hesitate, and you didn't search your mind for a safe answer. The thought simply formed and left your lips, complete, whole, and entirely your own.

Your voice trembled, sounding small and incredibly fragile in the vast room, but carrying a sudden, beautiful note of hope. "…Can I come home?"

An absolute silence claimed the laboratory. Even the cornered scientists stopped their panicked whispering, because nobody in the facility had ever expected the weapon to speak with a human heart.

Luffy froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening slightly, before his signature, wide grin broke across his face. It was the same smile that had never once looked at you like a classified project, a biological asset, or a dangerous mistake. It was the look he reserved solely for his family.

"You already are home," he said, stepping through the rubble.

Something deep inside your chest permanently shattered. It wasn't the walls of the laboratory or the restraints on the table; it was the lifetime of conditioning that had convinced you that you belonged in a cage. The years of isolation and the crushing weight of the word failure simply washed away under the force of his words.

Tears finally spilled over your cheeks, hot and unbidden, and your desperate, white-knuckled grip on the stuffed rabbit softened for the first time in days. You realized right then that the files were wrong. The scientists, the metrics, and the data points were all entirely wrong. Because if you were truly just a broken piece of genetic equipment, you never would have missed the laughter of the Straw Hats this much. And if you were truly just government property, an entire pirate crew wouldn't have torn through an army to find you.

Yet they had. All of them. Every single one of them was currently fighting their way down the corridor, risking everything because somewhere between multiplication lessons and strawberry shortcake, you had become one of them. The Straw Hat Pirates had crossed an entire ocean just to prove that you belonged to them, not to the dark.

True healing doesn't happen all at once, as much as that would make for a simpler story. Real recovery isn't a singular, dramatic moment of realization; it's a quiet, ongoing process composed of hundreds of tiny, everyday choices that nobody else even notices.

You still have nightmares on certain nights. You still wake up in the pitch black, your heart hammering against your ribs, entirely convinced for a fleeting second that the walls around you are made of sterile white concrete and that the researchers are waiting outside your door to call out Subject 47. You sit up gasping, clutching your old rabbit to your chest, your vision swimming with old fears.

But then, the silence of the night is broken by a sound. A loud, rumbling, completely ridiculous snore echoes through the wood from the adjacent deck—the unmistakable, terrible snoring of Luffy or Zoro, or sometimes both of them in a bizarre harmony. And just like that, the laboratory vanishes back into the past. Because laboratories don't snore. The Thousand Sunny does.

You still struggle to find your words on occasion. There are days when the thoughts flow easily into sentences, and other days when the vocabulary gets entirely stuck halfway between your heart and your mouth, leaving you frustrated and silent. But that is entirely fine now. Nobody on this ship sighs when you stumble, nobody taps a foot impatiently, and nobody makes a mark on a clinical clipboard under the heading of communication failure. When the words won't come, they simply pull up a chair and wait. Robin waits, Jinbe waits, Chopper waits, and Luffy just grins. Because to them, the speed of your speech doesn't matter; what matters is that you have a voice at all.

You still don't know if the name you carry was the one given to you before the laboratory took everything away. Perhaps it was a fragment of a forgotten memory, or perhaps it was something your young mind created to survive the stasis tank. You don't know, and as the ship continues to sail toward the horizon, you realize you don't need to know anymore.

This name became yours because you chose to keep it. It became yours because your family shouts it across the deck when lunch is ready, because it is written in crooked letters on the door of the library, and because it belongs to a person, not an asset. After spending fourteen years having every single detail of your life decided by men in white coats, having a name of your own choosing is the only thing that truly matters.

The years pass over the Thousand Sunny slowly and beautifully, painting themselves in the steady rhythm of the tides and the changing colors of the sky. The language that had once felt like a labyrinth of sharp, impossible glass begins to soften in your mind. You learn more words, then more, stacking them like building blocks until the gaps in your thoughts are finally filled. One afternoon, the ship is quiet save for the creaking of the wood, and you realize with a sudden, jolting sense of wonder that you are reading a simple book all by yourself, the letters forming pictures in your mind without any help at all. On another day, the deck is loud with the sounds of a chaotic card game, and you find yourself exchanging a sly, knowing glance with Usopp, subtly shifting your posture to help him cheat Nami out of a handful of belly.

The navigator catches on eventually, leading to an entirely different kind of milestone: your very first real argument. You sit at the galley table, your massive brows furrowed over a sheet of ledger paper, stubbornly debating a math problem.

"Thirty-two," you declare, crossing your arms with absolute finality.

Nami sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a piece of chalk. "Y/N, for the fourth time, it is not thirty-two."

You tilt your head, completely unbothered by her logic. "It feels like thirty-two."

"Numbers don’t have feelings!" Nami groans, her voice echoing off the kitchen tiles.

"They should," you mumble, leaning back in your reinforced seat.

"No, they shouldn't!"

"Okay," you relent, staring down at the ink marks for a quiet second before looking back up at her. "…but it still feels like thirty-two."

Nami lets out a theatrical, exhausted groan, burying her face in her hands, and the sound instantly triggers a wave of laughter from the rest of the crew lounging nearby. You listen to the warmth of their voices, and before you can even think to stop it, a bright, bubbling laugh escapes your own chest. It is a sound that shocks you every time it happens—a reminder of how much has shifted, because a year ago, you wouldn't have even known how to begin finding that joy.

Along with the words, you learn songs. Real songs, not just the wordless, aching melodies you used to hum to comfort yourself in the dark. You learn the lyrics, the intricate timing, and the profound, beautiful meanings hidden deep inside the music. The first time you manage to sing an entire verse along with Brook’s violin, your voice steady and sweet against the strings, the skeleton stops playing mid-chord and bursts into a torrent of dramatic, weeping tears. Nobody on the crew is surprised; Brook cries often, but tonight, the tears feel like a celebration.

Because no one knows the exact date you were pulled from the dark, the crew decides to simply create a history for you. They pick a completely random day on the calendar—a Tuesday filled with bright sunshine and a gentle breeze—and declare it your official birthday. You spend the first three hours of the morning in a state of deep, wide-eyed confusion, sitting on the deck while Chopper frantically explains the concept of presents, cake, and candles for what feels like the tenth time. You had simply been far too overwhelmed during his first explanation to remember any of it.

By afternoon, the entire ship is transformed. Franky spends his morning stringing up massive, colorful decorations that could be seen from miles away, while Brook composes a sweeping, triumphant march in your honor. Sanji locks himself in the galley, emerging with a mountain of food large enough to feed a small nation, anchored by a magnificent, towering strawberry shortcake. Around the table, Usopp weaves increasingly ridiculous, entirely fabricated stories about ancient birthday traditions from distant lands, while Robin quietly snaps photographs to preserve the memory, and Nami keeps the chaotic energy perfectly organized.

The peace lasts until Luffy, driven by his lack of impulse control, sneaks past the defenses and eats an entire quarter of the birthday cake before anyone else can even grab a plate. A sudden, fierce flash of anger hits your chest, and you loudly scold him, chasing him across the deck to protect the remaining slices. The sight of you standing up for yourself makes the crew laugh even harder, because it is proof of a beautiful, human transformation. A year ago, you would have simply let the world take whatever it wanted from you without a sound.

The nightmares don't vanish completely—the human mind rarely works that way—but they become less frequent. They grow smaller, more distant, like a thunderstorm passing over a far horizon. Sometimes you still wake up in the dead of night, your skin cold and your breath hitching with the sudden, suffocating conviction that the walls are white and the stasis fluid is rising. But the profound difference now is what happens the moment you open your door.

When you step out onto the moonlit deck, someone is always there. Always. Sometimes it's Chopper, who fell asleep over a heavy medical text on the lawn. Sometimes it's Robin, sitting quietly beneath a lantern with a historical journal, or Sanji, moving softly through the dark galley to brew a warm pot of chamomile tea. Other nights, it’s Usopp, frantically crafting a weapon because he saw a bug he insists is an existential threat, or simply Luffy, perched on the lion’s head because he couldn't sleep either. It doesn’t matter who it is; the moment you look out into the night, you are reminded that you will never have to be alone in the dark again.

One quiet afternoon, years after your rescue, Robin walks into the library and finds you staring intently at a piece of the past. It is an old, weathered report—one of the original, classified files recovered from the ruins of the laboratory. The paper has aged, turning a brittle yellow, and the ink has begun to fade into obscurity, but one stamped word remains perfectly, aggressively readable across the top of the page: FAILURE.

You stare at the six black letters quietly, thoughtfully, tracing the edge of the paper with a large finger. Robin doesn't try to take it away. She simply pulls up a chair and sits beside you, letting the comfortable silence stretch between you until you are ready.

"What are you thinking, Y/N?" she asks softly.

You look at the page, at the word, at fourteen years of your life condensed into a single, clinical insult. Then, you look up, a small, genuine smile breaking across your face, and you answer her. Your voice isn't perfect, and the phrasing isn't elegant, but it is entirely honest.

"They were wrong."

Robin’s blue eyes soften with a profound, quiet pride. "Yes, they were."

You turn your gaze out the window, watching the endless blue of the ocean—the same ocean that had once terrified you with its vastness, but had ultimately brought you to a home. "They wanted a weapon," you say, the words coming much easier now, shaped by your own heart. "They wanted something that didn't care about anything. They wanted something that just obeyed." The old report flutters gently in the sea breeze, and you look down at it one last time before firmly folding the folder shut. "They called me a failure because I loved people."

Robin doesn't answer immediately, because there really isn't anything left to add. You finally understand the truth completely—a truth the scientists never could have grasped with all their formulas and charts. The thing that had ruined their project from the very beginning wasn't a genetic mutation or a chemical imbalance. You were never failing. Not once. Not when you cried for a caretaker, not when you sought comfort in the dark, and not when you followed the crew around the ship because you were frightened.

Those moments weren't defects in the machinery. They were proof. They were absolute, undeniable proof that beneath all the cold modifications, the invasive experiments, the glass tubes, and the clinical reports, there had always been a human being fighting to survive.

That evening, the galley door flies open, and the crew gathers for dinner exactly as they always do. The long table is crowded, loud, and delightfully chaotic. At the center of the room, your chair waits for you—Franky’s reinforced, oversized masterpiece, settled perfectly into the space. Someone saved you a seat, just like they did yesterday, and just like they will tomorrow.

Luffy waves a fork wildly through the air to call you over, while Sanji loudly complains that everyone’s food is going to get cold if they don't sit down. Usopp is already mid-sentence, spinning a grand tale about a sea monster that nobody believes, while Brook laughs his signature, hollow laugh, and Chopper talks so fast he nearly trips over his own tongue. Nami yells at Luffy to stop stealing from Zoro's plate, Robin offers you a warm smile, Zoro snores softly in his seat, and Jinbe watches the beautiful madness with an amused, content expression.

The Sunny rocks gently beneath your feet, cradling the only home you have ever known. You take your seat, and the conversation flows around you immediately. Nobody stops to make a big deal out of your presence, and nobody treats you differently. They don't look at you like you're fragile, or dangerous, or broken. You are just family. Just another Straw Hat.

Usopp and Luffy are yelling somewhere above deck. Nami is complaining about something being broken. Chopper laughs so hard you can hear it through the walls.

And you stand in the kitchen trying to hold a plate without dropping it.

Your fingers shake… again.

You tighten your grip, jaw clenching “Careful, love.”

A warm hand slides under yours before the plate slips. Sanji takes it easily.

You immediately pull your hand back “I had it.”

“Mhm.” He smiles softly “And I’m the Pirate King.”

You huff quietly.

He places the plate down and turns back to the stove. The kitchen smells warm. Garlic, butter, something sweet baking in the oven.

Usually the smell makes you happy.

Today it only makes your chest hurt.

“I can still help…” you mumble.

“You are helping.”

“I barely cut two carrots.”

“That’s still helping.”

You look down at your hands.

Your fingertips are numb again. That strange heavy feeling like your hands are asleep and aching at the same time.

You flex them and pain shoots through your wrists.

You hide it quickly but Sanji notices everything. His eyes flick toward you for one second.

“You should sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart…”

“I said I’m fine.”

Silence.

Only the sound of oil sizzling in the pan.

You hate that tone in your own voice… sharp and angry, but not at him, never at him, mostly at yourself.

Sanji says nothing after that. He just moves around the kitchen calmly, cigarette hanging from his lips while he cooks for the crew like always.

Perfect movements.

Your eyes stay on his hands… strong hands. Fast hands. Hands that work.

You swallow hard.

“I can wash the dishes at least.” you say.

“You washed them yesterday.”

“And dropped three.”

“You dropped one.”

“It still broke.”

“So?” He shrugs “Franky breaks half the ship every week.”

“That’s not the same…”

He glances at you again and you look away first.

You move toward the sink before he can stop you. The plates are already stacked there.

You can do easy.

You grab the sponge, but the moment you squeeze it, pain burns through your palm so suddenly your breath catches.

The sponge slips right out of your hand.

Splash.

Water everywhere.

“Ah—shit.”

You try to grab it quickly, but your fingers refuse to close properly. The plate beside it tilts dangerously.

Sanji catches it before it falls, of course he does.

And suddenly your eyes burn.

“I’m sorry…” you whisper.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I can’t even do dishes right.” your voice cracks embarrassingly at the end.

You turn away fast.

Stupid.

You hate crying about this.

You hate the pity even more.

But Sanji doesn’t sound pitiful when he speaks… he sounds serious “Look at me.”

You don’t.

A chair scrapes softly against the floor.

Then he’s in front of you, looking at you carefully “Look at me, love.”

Slowly, you do.

His brows are slightly furrowed “You think I care about dishes?”

“No, but—”

“You think I want you here because you can scrub pans?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then tell me what you mean.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because the truth feels ugly.

Sanji waits patiently anyway.

Your throat tightens.

“I just…” you stare at the floor “Everyone does so much.”

“Hmm.”

“Luffy fights sea monsters like it’s nothing. Zoro trains until he bleeds. Nami handles navigation alone during storms. Usopp builds things. Franky fixes everything. Robin knows everything. Chopper is our doctor.”

You laugh weakly.

“And I can barely hold a knife some days.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

You expect him to answer immediately, but he actually doesn’t. He just moves closer and very gently, he takes your hands.

Even though you try to hide how stiff they are, his thumbs rub over your knuckles carefully.

“Does it hurt right now?” he asks softly.

You hesitate “…Yes.”

“Numb too?”

You nod.

“Since this morning?”

“Since yesterday.”

“And you still tried to help me cook breakfast.”

You shrug helplessly “I wanted to do something useful.”

Something flashes across his face, not anger at you, but something sadder “Oh, sweetheart.”

The nickname almost breaks you.

You look away again.

“I know everyone says it’s okay,” you whisper “but it doesn’t feel okay.”

Sanji stays quiet for a second, then he suddenly pulls you gently against his chest.

One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rubs your back slowly.

“You listen to me now.” he says quietly.

His voice is low and firm in that rare way he gets when he means every word.

“You’re part of this crew.”

You grip his shirt weakly.

“You hear me?”

“…Yeah.”

“No. Really hear me.” He leans back enough to look at you “You think being useful is the reason we love you?”

Your eyes widen slightly “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You fall silent.

Sanji sighs softly “When Chopper gets sick, do we throw him overboard because he can’t work?”

“No.”

“When Zoro is half dead after a fight, do we tell him he’s lazy?”

“Of course not.”

“When Luffy can’t move after doing something stupid?”

“That happens every week.”

Sanji snorts quietly “Exactly.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you.

“There it is.” he murmurs.

Your face warms.

He brushes his thumb under your eye.

“You’re hurting,” he says simply “that’s not failure.”

“But I make things harder.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I can’t even help in fights.”

“And?” His brows pull together again “Do you think your only value is fighting?”

You hesitate “A little…”

“Absolutely not.” he says it immediately, strongly “You make this place softer.”

Your breath catches.

Sanji continues before you can answer.

“You stay with Chopper when he studies too late. You listen to Usopp’s stories even when they’re terrible lies.” he smiles faintly “You help Robin find books. You calm Luffy down sometimes, which is honestly a miracle.”

You blink rapidly.

“And me?” he says quietly “You help me too.”

“How?”

He gives you a look like the answer is obvious “You sit with me during late nights in the kitchen.”

Your chest aches.

“You taste every new recipe.”

“You cook those for everyone.”

“I still want your opinion.”

His fingers squeeze yours carefully “You remind me to rest.”

“You never rest.”

“Exactly. Someone has to tell me.”

Another tiny laugh escapes you.

Sanji smiles softly at the sound.

Then he lifts one of your hands carefully to his lips and kisses your knuckles, slowly, like your hands are something precious.

Not broken or useless.

“You do enough.” he whispers.

The words hit harder than you expect, because part of you still doesn’t believe them.

And maybe he sees that, because he suddenly tilts your chin upward gently.

“And even if you did nothing,” he says, “even if all you could do was sit here and breathe beside me, I would still want you here.”

Your eyes sting again immediately “Sanji…”

“I mean it.” his forehead rests against yours now “You don’t have to earn your place every single day.”

The tears finally spill over.

You hide your face against his chest with a frustrated sound.

“Ah, don’t cry…” he murmurs immediately, holding you tighter “Now I’ll cry too and the others will never let me live it down.”

You laugh weakly through tears.

“There you are.”

His hand rubs your back slowly.

After a while, your breathing finally calms.

“…I still hate it.” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate needing help.”

“I know that too.”

“And I hate feeling weak.”

Sanji hums thoughtfully. Then he gently pulls back just enough to look at you “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re strong as hell.”

You immediately shake your head “No.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t even—”

“Love.” His voice softens again “You wake up hurting and still try every day.”

You go still.

“That sounds strong to me.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Maybe because nobody ever says it like that.

Sanji smiles a little.

“Now.” He wipes under your eyes gently “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not the doctor.”

“Temporary doctor’s orders.”

You snort.

“You sit right there.” he says pointing toward the small chair near the kitchen window.

“And what are you doing?”

“Cooking.”

“I should help.”

“You should rest.”

“But—”

He gives you a look… not angry, just stubborn. Very Sanji.

You sigh dramatically and sit down.

“Good.” He smiles again finally, softer now “That’s my sweetheart.”

You watch him move around the kitchen again.

Comfortable.

After a minute, he speaks without turning around “Can you do something for me though?”

Your shoulders tense immediately “What?”

“Tell me if the sauce needs more salt.”

You blink “That’s it?”

“That’s a very important job.”

A small smile pulls at your mouth.

Sanji glances over his shoulder and catches it immediately “There’s the smile I like.”

He brings over the spoon carefully.

You taste the sauce. Warm. Rich. A little spicy.

“It needs more pepper.”

Sanji gasps dramatically “Perfect. I trained you well.”

He bends over and leaves a soft kiss on your lips before moving back to the kitchen.

You laugh again, more real this time.

And somehow, sitting there while he cooks beside you, the guilt feels quieter.

Not gone maybe, but quieter.

Sanji notices that too as he smiles softly to himself before turning back to the stove.

“See?” he says gently, winking at you “Always helping the chef.”

── .✦ Zoro:

tags: established relationship, comfort, chronic pain, emotional support, soft zoro, insecurity, hurt/comfort

The Sunny rocks softly under the afternoon sun.

You grip the broom tighter.

Bad idea.

Pain shoots through your fingers immediately. Your hands feel numb in some places, burning in others. You try to ignore it and keep sweeping.

“You missed a spot.”

You look up and see Nami pointing near the stairs with her pen.

“Oh—yeah. Thank you.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You smile quickly “Just tired.”

She watches you for a second longer before walking away.

The second she leaves, you shake your hands behind your back.

It hurts.

Again…

Later, everyone eats lunch together.

Luffy is stealing meat from everyone’s plates.

Sanji is yelling “LUFFY! STOP TOUCHING THE FOOD!”

“I’m hungry!”

“You already ate three plates!”

“I’m still hungry!”

Basically the usual.

Across the table, Zoro drinks quietly.

You glance at him and he notices immediately.

He watches you with a questioning expression on his face and says “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That face means trouble.”

You laugh softly, making him smirk.

Then his eye move lower to your hands.

You pull them under the table immediately, which makes his expression change a little.

That evening, you find him training on deck. Weights. Swords. Sweat.

Normal Zoro things.

You stand nearby awkwardly “Can I train with you?”

He pauses “You trained yesterday.”

“I know.”

“And the day before.”

“I know.”

“And you could barely hold the practice sword after.”

You force a laugh “I’ll get better.”

He studies you carefully “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Big lie… but you hate saying no. You hate sitting around while everyone works.

Everyone has something.

Nami navigates.

Sanji cooks.

Usopp fixes things.

Chopper heals people.

Robin researches.

Franky builds.

Brook plays music.

Jinbe steers.

Zoro fights.

And you… you struggle to even hold a mop some days.

So you keep trying, even when your hands shake, even when your fingers go numb, and even when you wake up at night because pain crawls up your wrists.

You keep trying because if you stop, what are you useful for?

“Again.” Zoro blocks your attack easily.

Your wrists hurt already.

You tighten your grip at your best and then swing again.

He blocks again “You’re too tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that every five minutes.”

“I am fine.”

Your fingers suddenly lose strength and the sword slips.

You freeze.

Your hand tingles painfully.

Zoro looks down at the fallen sword, then at you.

You quickly bend down to grab it, but pain shoots through your wrist so hard you suck in a breath.

But he already heard that “You’re hurt.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“I said I’m fine!”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean.

The deck goes quiet, even the wind feels still.

Zoro stares at you, then he sighs “Come sit.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sit.”

You hate how weirdly gentle his voice sounds… it makes your chest hurt.

You sit down near the railing while he puts the practice swords away.

For a while, neither of you talks.

Then he sits beside you.

“You’ve been hiding it.”

You stare at the ocean “Hiding what?”

“The pain.”

You shrug “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to you.”

You laugh weakly “Not really.”

“You can barely hold things some days.”

Your throat tightens.

“I can still do stuff.”

“I know.”

“I just…” You swallow hard “I’m slower.”

Zoro says nothing.

“And everyone else does so much…” you continue quietly “I can’t even finish basic chores without messing up.”

“You don’t mess up.”

“I do…”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” you repeat, louder this time “I can’t scrub the deck long enough. I drop things. My hands stop working in fights. Sometimes they go numb for hours.” your voice shakes “I’m supposed to help the crew.”

“You do help.”

“How?”

The question comes out too fast and too honest.

You immediately regret it, but Zoro doesn’t get angry.

He leans back against the railing “You think helping only means fighting and chores?”

“I mean… yeah? In a pirate crew, yeah.”

“That’s stupid.”

You blink “That’s rude.”

“It’s true.”

You glare at him weakly.

He continues anyway “When Chopper patches us up after the smallest cut, is that useless?”

“No.”

“When Brook plays music or makes you all laugh after bad days?”

“No.”

“When Luffy drags us into trouble and somehow makes people free?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

You open your mouth and close it again.

Zoro looks toward the sea “You stay awake with people when they can’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You listen when someone’s upset.”

You stare at him.

“You remember small things.” he says “Like how Chopper likes compliments. Or how Usopp gets nervous before fights and what calms him down.”

Heat rises to your face and say “That’s not important.”

“It is.”

“It’s not enough.”

Zoro goes quiet for a moment, then suddenly snorts “You know? I don’t like using him as an example, but even the weird eyebrows man never uses his hands to fight.”

You stare at him “…Sanji?”

“Unfortunately.”

A small laugh escapes you.

Zoro points at your hands “There are other ways to fight.”

“I can’t exactly kick like him.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But—”

“Even I use my mouth for a sword.”

You blink again “That… sounds weird when you say it out loud.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

You laugh despite yourself.

“There’s more than one way to help people. More than one way to fight.” He looks directly at you now “You keep trying to force yourself into something that hurts you.”

Your eyes sting suddenly “I just don’t want to be dead weight.”

His expression hardens immediately “You are not dead weight.”

The words come fast, strong and certain.

“You hear me?”

You look away quickly.

“You belong here.” he says quietly now “With us. With… me.”

Your chest aches painfully, in that overwhelming kind of way that isn't always bad.

“You noticed all that?” you ask softly.

“Obviously.”

“I thought I hid it well.”

“You hide it terribly.”

You groan “Great.”

“You flex your fingers every ten seconds.”

“…Oh.”

“And you make this face.”

“What face?”

“This one.” he copies your annoyed expression badly.

You stare at him “That looks nothing like me.”

“It does.”

“You look constipated.”

“Tch.”

Now, that makes you finally laugh… a real laugh this time.

Zoro watches you carefully afterward, like he’s checking if the sadness is still there.

And it is, but lighter now.

“You really think there are other ways?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

“What if I still can’t do enough?”

“You don’t decide that alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the crew already wants you here.”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“And I want you here…” he adds.

The softness in his voice nearly kills you but his red ears are so cute.

You stare at him for a long moment, then suddenly lean forward and kiss him.

Zoro makes a surprised sound against your lips.

Then one hand moves carefully to your waist, pulling you closer in a gentle push. Always gentler than people expect from him.

The kiss is warm and slow, feeling close and safe.

When you pull back, your face feels hot.

“That was a thank you.” you mumble.

“Hm.”

“What?”

“You can thank me again if you want.”

You snort loudly “There’s the idiot swordsman again.”

“And there’s the smiley you.”

You lean against his shoulder.

Finally, you don't feel guilty about all this.

── .✦ Buggy:

tags: established relationship, chronic pain, insecurity, comfort, subtle care, emotional hurt/comfort

The ship rocks hard under your feet as someone on deck is screaming again.

“WHO TOOK MY FUCKING CAPE?!”

You close your eyes “…There he is.”

One of the crew points quickly “Captain Buggy, Mohji used it to cover the cannon!”

“WHAT?!”

You hear stomping, loud crashing and then a man screaming in fear.

Then Buggy’s voice again “YOU USED MY CAPE FOR A CANNON?! ARE YOU INSANE?!”

You smile a little despite yourself, because your hands ache badly, today too.

The numbness started this morning before sunrise and it crawled from your fingertips to your wrists until even holding a spoon felt strange… like your hands belonged to someone else.

You flex your fingers slowly, pain shoots up your arm “…Ow.”

You hide the sound quickly.

You still have work.

Everyone on this ship works.

Even if Buggy acts dramatic and lazy sometimes, the crew still moves because people do their jobs.

You want to do yours too.

You grab the rope beside you and start tying down the supply crates before the weather gets worse.

Your fingers slip immediately “Damn it.”

You try again but the knot comes loose.

You try again and again and again.

Your jaw tightens “Come on…”

You can fight through pain, usually… but numbness is worse. It makes your hands stupid.

You try pulling harder.

A sharp sting suddenly burns through your palm and your fingers give out completely. The rope falls.

“Shit—”

“Why are you doing that?”

You jump.

Buggy stands behind you with his arms crossed.

“You’re gonna tie the crates like that?” he asks.

“I can do it.”

“Yeah? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fighting a rope and losing.”

“I said I can do it.”

Buggy narrows his eyes.

You hate that look… that careful one. The one that says he noticed something is off.

“I’m fine.” you add quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

“Sure.”

You glare “Why are you even here?”

“Because this is my ship.”

“You were screaming about your cape two seconds ago.”

“That’s different. That was important.”

You snort softly.

Buggy walks closer and grabs the rope from your hands and says “I’ve got it.”

“No, give it back.”

“Why?”

“Because I should help.”

“You are helping.”

“How?”

“You’re standing there looking pretty and keeping morale up.”

“That’s not real work.”

Buggy starts tying the knot quickly “Well, good thing I, the captain, didn’t ask.”

You cross your arms.

The ache in your hands pulses harder now from trying too much.

Buggy notices you rubbing your fingers, but he says nothing, and for you, that somehow feels worse.

Later, the crew gathers for lunch.

You sit beside Buggy while everyone argues over portions.

Cabaji points across the table “Captain, they’re taking extra meat again!”

“I CAN SEE THAT!”

“It was one piece!” someone shouts.

“THAT’S STILL THEFT!”

You try picking up your cup but your fingers twitch halfway there and the cup slips.

Buggy catches it before it falls, fast.

Nobody else even notices.

“Careful,” he says loudly “you break my cups, you buy new ones.”

You stare at him “…Thanks.”

“Tch. Don’t get emotional.”

He pushes the cup back toward you more carefully this time.

Under the table, his foot bumps yours once, soft, as if he’s checking you’re okay.

You look down quickly before anyone sees your face.

That night, the pain gets worse.

Rain hits the ship hard. Wind screams outside your room.

You sit on the edge of the bed trying to wrap your wrists tighter. Maybe if you press hard enough, your hands will listen again.

You hiss quietly.

The door opens.

Buggy walks in carrying a plate “What are you doing sitting in the dark like some tragic widow?”

You blink “What?”

“I brought food.”

“I can see that.”

“Well don’t sound too grateful.”

He puts the plate beside you.

You stare at it “…I wasn’t hungry.”

“Yeah, because pain does that.” he shrugs “Eat anyway.”

You freeze.

Buggy starts taking off his coat like he said nothing strange.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

Silence fills the room for a moment except for the storm outside.

You look down at your hands again “I hate this.”

Buggy pauses “Hate what?”

“This.” You flex your fingers weakly “I can’t do basic things some days.”

“So?”

“So I’m supposed to help!”

“You do help.”

“How? I can barely hold a cup lately.”

Buggy scoffs loudly “Please. Half my crew can barely hold conversations.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stand suddenly and start pacing “I can’t fight right. I drop things. I mess up knots. I slow people down—”

“You don’t slow me down.”

“You help me constantly!”

“Oh no.” Buggy says flatly “How horrible. Helping my partner. Truly devastating.”

“Buggy.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stop moving.

He looks at you. No jokes. No yelling. Just sharp eyes watching carefully.

“You think I keep you around because you can fight?” he asks.

“I mean… it helped.”

“That’s stupid.”

You blink.

Buggy points at you dramatically “You think I, the great Captain Buggy, only values people for strength? Look at my crew! Half these idiots eat soap if nobody stops them!”

A crash sounds outside.

Someone yells, “IT WASN’T SOAP!”

Buggy shouts toward the door, “YES IT WAS!”

Then he looks back at you again as his voice lowers “You’re with me because I want you here.”

Your chest hurts suddenly, but different from before.

“You don’t get it,” you whisper “I feel useless.”

Buggy groans loudly like the conversation annoys him.

Then he walks over to say “You know what I think is useless?”

“What?”

“You sitting here hurting yourself because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

You look away “I don’t want people treating me differently.”

“Good. Because they won’t.” Buggy crouches in front of you “But I will.”

You blink again “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says slowly, “and please don’t make me repeat it, that I’ll help before you ask. And I’ll make it look natural so nobody bothers you about it.”

You stare “…You already do that.”

Buggy freezes for half a second, then immediately points at you “HAH! So you noticed!”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I’m extremely subtle.”

“You literally steal things from my hands when they hurt.”

“That’s called romance.”

Despite everything, you laugh, small and tired, but real.

Buggy watches your face carefully after the sound leaves you, like he missed hearing it.

“Tch.” he mutters “There it is.”

“What?”

“That annoying laugh.”

“You like my laugh.”

“I never said that.”

“You smile every time.”

“I do NOT.”

“You’re smiling right now.”

“I’m just naturally charming.”

You laugh again.

Buggy’s shoulders loosen slightly, then he grabs your wrists carefully.

“You’re warm.” he says.

“My hands always are when they hurt.”

“…Does it feel bad now?”

“A little.”

He rubs circles into your wrists with his thumbs, awkwardly. Like he refuses to admit he learned how to help properly.

“You don’t have to fix everything alone.” he mutters.

You look at him quietly and admit “For someone who screams all day, you say really nice things sometimes.”

“Don’t spread that around.”

“Your reputation?”

“Exactly.”

You smile softly.

Buggy notices immediately and squints at you suspiciously “What?”

“You’re being cute.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

The storm outside gets louder, but inside the room, it feels strangely calm.

Buggy keeps rubbing your wrists.

You finally whisper, “I’m scared sometimes.”

He goes still “Of what?”

“That one day I won’t be able to do anything useful.”

Buggy clicks his tongue “Then you can sit next to me and insult people professionally.”

“That’s your job.”

“I can share… with you.”

You smile weakly.

“But really,” you say, quieter now, “what if I become a burden?”

Buggy’s expression changes immediately, sharp and obviously offended “Don’t say that.”

You blink at the sudden tone.

“I mean it.” he says “Don’t call yourself that.”

“…Sorry.”

“Tch.”

He stands up fast and pulls you with him.

Before you can react, his arms wrap around you tightly, not graceful and not elegant at all, just very Buggy style.

“You’re an idiot sometimes.” he mutters against your hair.

“You say that lovingly.”

“I say it truthfully.”

You relax slowly against him.

His chin rests on your head.

Outside, thunder cracks loudly.

Buggy squeezes you once more and then he pulls back enough to look at your face “You done being dramatic now?”

“You’re literally hugging me.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You snort softly.

His eyes flick down to your mouth for one quick second, then away immediately.

“…What?” you ask.

“Nothing.,,”

“You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Buggy groans like this is exhausting, then suddenly grabs your jaw dramatically and say “Fine! Since you clearly require attention—”

He kisses you, fast at first, almost clumsy. Then softer when you lean closer. 

His gloves brush your cheeks carefully.

You melt a little against him.

Buggy huffs quietly into the kiss.

When he pulls away, his face is slightly red under the makeup.

“You better not get all emotional about that now.” he says immediately.

“Too late.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You grin.

Buggy rolls his eyes dramatically, but he kisses your forehead anyway before pulling you back against his chest.

── .✦ Mihawk:

tags: established relationship, chronic pain, guilt, comfort, quiet intimacy, soft mihawk, domestic moments, emotional hurt/comfort

The knife slips from your fingers again.

It doesn't fall far, it falls onto the wooden table with a dull clack and your shoulders tense instantly.

You stare at your numb hand… again.

The feeling comes and goes every day. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes your fingers feel heavy like stone. Sometimes you cannot even tell if you're holding something until it drops.

Today is one of the bad days.

You flex your hand slowly “Damn it…”

Across the kitchen, Dracule Mihawk looks up from the book in his hand.

His eyes move from your face to the knife “You are pushing yourself again.”

“I’m fine.”

“You dropped it three times.”

You hate that he notices everything.

You grab the knife again before he can stand up “I said I’m fine.”

Mihawk closes his book with one quiet motion.

The sound alone makes you nervous.

Not because he's angry, Mihawk rarely raises his voice and that almost makes it worse somehow. His silence always sees too much.

He walks toward you slowly “Give me the knife.”

“I can still cut vegetables.”

“You can barely hold the handle.”

Your jaw tightens “I’m trying to help.”

“And I didn’t say otherwise.”

“But you’re doing everything lately.”

“That’s incorrect.”

“You know what I mean.”

Mihawk studies your face for a long moment, in a calm and sharp way “You're in pain today.”

You look away first “…It’s not worse than normal.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The numbness crawls higher into your wrist. You hate it and so you hate your own body. Hate the stupid weakness in your fingers. You used to fight beside him. Not at his level, obviously, nobody is at his level, but enough to stand proudly beside him.

Now even holding a teacup too long hurts.

You laugh quietly, bitterly “Some good partner I am.”

Mihawk’s expression changes slightly but enough that most people would miss it… you don’t.

“You think your worth depends on what you can carry with your hands?”

“It should depend on something.”

“It does.”

“Like what?”

“You're here.”

You blink “That’s not enough.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Mihawk…”

“You speak as though I chose you for labor.”

His voice stays even, deep and calm.

“But I can’t fight properly anymore.”

“You still can.”

“Not like before.”

“No,” he agrees immediately “not like before.”

The honesty hurts more than pity would.

You pull your hand back against your chest “See?”

Mihawk sighs softly through his nose.

“You continue to measure yourself against impossible standards.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

That actually earns the faintest look of amusement.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

You lean against the counter, exhausted already.

“I just…” You swallow hard “I hate needing help.”

“You have needed help since the day we met.”

The memory flashes immediately. You trying to hide shaking hands while wrapping a wound. Mihawk silently taking the bandages from you without a word. The first time he held a cup near your lips because your fingers stopped cooperating halfway through dinner.

He always knew. Always.

And somehow that makes the guilt worse.

“I thought maybe if I worked harder…” you mumble.

“To accomplish what?”

“To stop being a burden.”

Silence.

You shouldn't have said that.

Mihawk steps closer.

His voice lowers “Never say that about yourself again.”

The words are quiet, but firm enough to cut stone.

You stare at him.

“You think caring for you is a burden?”

“I mean—”

“You think I am forced into it?”

“No…”

“Then don't insult my choices.”

You look down quickly “…Sorry.”

Another silence.

Then you feel leather gloves brush lightly against your wrist.

Mihawk lifts your hand carefully, like he already knows exactly where it hurts.

“Where is the numbness?”

“Mostly fingers. Wrist too.”

“And pain?”

“Everywhere.”

“Hm.”

You almost laugh tiredly “Very helpful answer, I know.”

“It's accurate.”

His thumb presses lightly against your palm. Testing.

You flinch and his eyes narrow immediately and he asks “That bad?”

“It’ll pass.”

“You say that often.”

Because it usually does… sometimes.

You watch him remove his gloves one finger at a time before setting them aside.

Then he reaches for the kettle.

“I can still make tea myself.”

“I'm aware.”

“Then why are you—”

“Sit down.”

“…You sound like a doctor.”

“You would ignore one of those as well.”

You mutter something under your breath.

“I heard that.”

“I know.”

You finally sit at the table while Mihawk moves around the kitchen with smooth, easy motions. Precise and controlled like always.

He never rushes.

“You don’t get annoyed?” you ask quietly.

“At what?”

“At me struggling all the time.”

“No.”

“But doesn’t it get tiring?”

Mihawk pours hot water into a cup “Yes.”

Your chest sinks immediately.

Then he continues calmly “Pain is tiring. Watching someone you care for hurt is tiring. That doesn't mean I resent you.”

You stare at the table “I can’t even hold my sword properly some days.”

“You're grieving.”

The words hit harder than expected “What?”

“You speak as though you lost nothing.”

Mihawk sets the cup in front of you carefully.

“But you did.”

You look up slowly.

“You lost ease. Strength. Freedom. Certainty in your own body.” His gaze stays on you “Yet you expect yourself to feel nothing about it.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

Nobody says things like that to you.

Most people tell you to stay positive, to try harder or to be grateful it isn't worse.

Mihawk never lies to make things easier, and somehow that comforts you more.

“I’m tired…” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate feeling useless.”

“You aren't useless.”

“I can’t even help around the castle without messing up.”

“You help me every day.”

“How?”

“You listen.”

You blink.

“You stay.”

Another answer comes before you can speak.

“You make this place feel inhabited instead of empty.”

Your face warms immediately “Mihawk…”

“And,” he says calmly, “your presence discourages idiots from interrupting my evenings.”

You laugh despite yourself “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The romantic talk.”

A faint smirk touches his mouth “Don’t become spoiled now.”

You wrap your hands carefully around the warm cup. Heat helps sometimes.

MMihawk watches your grip for a moment, then he asks“Have you practiced the stretches I showed you?”

“…Sometimes.”

“You forgot.”

“Maybe.”

“Hm.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am.”

You groan softly “I knew you were going to say that.”

“You injure yourself further by ignoring limits.”

“I’m trying not to have limits.”

“That's foolish.”

You glare at him weakly “You’re supposed to encourage me.”

“I am encouraging you… to use your brain.”

You snort into your tea.

The room grows quieter after that, but a comfortable quiet. Rain taps lightly against the castle windows.

Mihawk sits across from you again with his wine.

You watch him for a while.

“How are you so patient with me?”

“I’m not patient.”

“You are with me.”

“That’s different.”

The answer comes too fast to be accidental.

Something soft pulls painfully in your chest.

You look at your hands again “They’re ugly lately.”

Mihawk immediately looks irritated “Your hands.”

“The swelling’s worse.”

“They’re hands.”

“You know what I mean.”

“They’re yours.”

He says it like that settles everything and maybe to him, it does.

You laugh quietly again “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you remain here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“How tragic.”

You smile into your tea.

Then the numbness suddenly spikes sharply through your fingers.

You hiss softly.

Mihawk is beside you immediately and says “Show me.”

“It’s fine.”

“Show me.”

You hold out your hand reluctantly.

He takes it carefully between both of his larger hands.

His thumbs move slowly across your knuckles, with a gentle pressure.

“You should rest.”

“I rested yesterday.”

“You rested poorly yesterday.”

“…You notice too much.”

“Yes.”

His fingers continue massaging your hand slowly and it kinda helps, but not enough to remove the pain completely. Nothing ever does. But at least it’s enough to loosen the tightness in your chest.

“You know,” you mumble, “most people would leave.”

Mihawk looks genuinely unimpressed “I’m not most people.”

“I know.”

“Then stop speaking as though I’m temporary.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

That’s the problem with him. Mihawk doesn’t speak gently often, or at least not so obvious, but when he does, every word lands directly inside your ribs.

You look at him quietly. At the sharp golden eyes, at his calm face… at the man feared across entire seas sitting here massaging your aching hands without complaint.

“You really don’t mind?”

“No.”

“Even when I can’t do things?”

“Yes.”

“Even when I get frustrated?”

“I expect it.”

“Even when I’m difficult?”

One eyebrow lifts slightly “You’re frequently difficult.”

You gasp softly in fake offense.

“But yes.”

You shake your head with a tiny laugh.

“You’re terrible at comfort.”

“And yet you’re calmer now.”

“…Damn it.”

That tiny almost-smile appears again.

Victory.

You stare at him for another quiet moment before speaking softly.

“Thank you.”

Mihawk pauses, then he nods once “You don’t need to thank me for loving you.”

Your breath catches immediately, because he just said it so simply, like it’s a fact. No embarrassment and no hesitation, and that makes it feel even more real.

You stand slowly from the chair.

Mihawk watches you carefully in case your hands fail again.

But instead, you step closer until you are standing between his knees.

His gaze lifts toward you “What are you doing?”

“You said something nice.”

“A rare mistake.”

“So I’m rewarding you.”

“Hm.”

You place your hands lightly against his chest and he just lets you.

Then you lean down and kiss him softly and slowly.

Mihawk goes still for half a second before one hand settles against your waist.

His thumb brushes once against your side while he kisses you back with quiet restraint, controlled like everything else about him… but warm… always warmer than people expect.

When you pull back, he looks at you silently for a moment.

Then he says “You’re smiling.”

“You noticed?”

“I notice everything.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth quickly this time and tell him “That’s annoying.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, eyes softer now, “you continue to stay.”

── .✦ Law:

tags: established relationship, chronic pain, guilt, comfort, soft law, domestic moments, emotional hurt/comfort

Your hands hurt.

Not enough to stop functioning completely and not enough to count as an emergency. 

Just enough to make every small thing irritating and exhausting and humiliating if you think about it too long.

Today, unfortunately, you keep thinking about it.

You stand in the kitchen of the Polar Tang staring at the container in your hands, jaw tight as you try twisting the lid open again.

Nothing.

Your fingers slip as pain sparks through your wrist.

You grit your teeth and try again anyway, but the lid doesn’t move.

God, this is stupid.

Behind you, the crew is loud as usual… Shachi laughing too hard at his own joke, Penguin arguing back, Bepo trying unsuccessfully to calm them down before Law inevitably tells everyone to shut up.

Normal.

Everything feels normal except for you.

You finally force the lid open using the edge of the counter, but the motion sends a sharp ache through your palm that makes you hiss quietly.

And for some reason, the fact that something this easy has to become a whole ordeal every single time, makes your chest feel tight suddenly.

You set the container down harder than intended and stare at your hands.

The numbness comes in waves today. 

Fingertips tingling, grip weakening without warning, joints stiff and sore like your body is punishing you for existing in it.

You hate it and you hate that everyone else can move without thinking about it.

You hate that you have to calculate every little task.

You hate needing help.

Most of all, you hate that you’re used to it now.

“You’re glaring at the counter.”

Law’s voice makes you jump slightly.

You look over your shoulder.

He stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

“…I’m fine.” you say automatically.

“Hm.”

That hum means liar.

He watches you for another second before his eyes drop to your hands.

Your fingers curl instinctively.

Law notices that too, of course “You’re hurting.”

It isn’t a question.

You look away “It’s manageable.”

“That bad, then.”

“I said manageable.”

“And I said that’s bad.”

His voice stays calm, flat, irritatingly perceptive.

You exhale sharply through your nose and lean back against the counter “I’m just tired today.”

Law walks into the kitchen quietly, stopping in front of you “Tired physically or mentally?”

You laugh once without humor “Guess.”

His gaze stays on you long enough that your throat starts tightening.

You hate that he can read you this easily and you hate that part of you is relieved by it too.

“I can’t do anything right today.” you mutter finally.

“That’s not true.”

“I almost lost grip on my weapon yesterday.”

“You still hit your target.”

“Ikkaku had to finish maintenance for me.”

“Because your hands were locking up.”

“I can’t even open containers normally half the time…”

“So?”

The word catches you off guard.

You blink at him.

Law’s expression barely changes, but there’s something firmer in his tone now.

“So,” he repeats, “you adapt. Or someone helps you. That’s not a moral failure.”

“It feels like one.”

Silence settles heavily between you while the submarine hums around you softly.

You stare at your hands again.

“I just feel useless sometimes…” you admit quietly “everyone else contributes so much more than me.”

Law’s eyes narrow slightly “You think your value to this crew depends entirely on physical ability?”

“No, but—”

“No,” he interrupts flatly “you don’t get to ‘but’ your way out of this one.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches weakly.

Law steps closer.

“You help Bepo study navigation routes because he gets overwhelmed reading maps.” he says “You reorganized the medical storage because none of these idiots know how to put things back correctly. You stay up repairing clothes and equipment even when your hands hurt.”

“That’s small stuff.”

“It still matters.”

You swallow hard “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Law goes quiet, then he sighs softly through his nose and reaches for your hands “Give me these.”

You let him take them without protest.

His fingers are warm around yours, steady and careful as he turns your hands over in his grip. He presses gently along your palms and wrists, thumbs working against the sore muscles like he already knows exactly where it hurts most.

Because he does know… he always does.

“You’ve been overusing them.” he mutters.

“I know.”

“You compensate when they start going numb.” His thumbs press into the base of your palm, easing some of the ache immediately “That strains everything else.”

You watch his face while he works, focused and quiet. Slightly annoyed in the way he always gets when he cares too much about something.

“You notice everything.” you mumble.

“I’m a doctor and captain.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Hm.”

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

Your chest aches but not in a bad way.

You suddenly feel exhausted all over again.

“I hate this…” you whisper.

Law’s hands still for half a second “I know.”

The simple honesty in it almost breaks you.

No forced positivity and no pretending it’s easy. Just understanding.

Your eyes sting embarrassingly fast.

Law notices immediately, because of course he does.

“You’re thinking too much again.” he says quietly.

“I can’t help it.”

“You can.” his thumbs resume their slow movements against your hands “You just don’t know how to stop.”

You laugh weakly “Amazing diagnosis, doctor.”

“I’m very talented.”

That actually earns a real laugh from you this time, and there it is that tiny shift in his expression when he hears it, small enough most people would miss it entirely.

You don’t, you know Law too well for that.

Warmth blooms slowly in your chest, soft and aching and without thinking too hard about it, you step closer and reach up to grab his face.

Your fingers fumble slightly against his cheeks from the numbness.

Law lets you reposition your hands without a single complaint.

Then you kiss him right on the mouth, slow and warm.

He exhales softly through his nose, surprised for only a second before one hand slides automatically to your waist.

When you pull back, you kiss his cheek… then under his eye, then the corner of his jaw.

“You’re being weird.” he mutters.

“You’re nice to me.”

“I’m literally treating your symptoms.”

“You’re holding me.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You laugh quietly against his skin before kissing his forehead.

Law sighs like you are personally exhausting him, but his grip on your waist tightens slightly.

“You know,” you murmur between kisses, “you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like affection.”

“I don’t like affection.”

“Mhm, sure.”

You kiss his nose. Then beneath his lip. Then his temple.

Law’s ears start turning faintly pink beneath the brim of his hat.

Victory.

“You’re annoying.” he grumbles.

“But you love me.”

He goes silent for one fatal second too long, making you grin immediately.

“There it is.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

You kiss him again before he can argue further, softer this time, lingering long enough to feel the way he melts despite himself.

Law’s hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin.

When you pull away again, he rests his forehead lightly against yours with a quiet sigh.

“You done?” he asks.

“Not even close.”

He gives you a deeply unimpressed look that loses all effectiveness when you kiss both his cheeks in quick succession.

“You’re clingy now.”

“I’m having a bad day and you’re my cure.”

“Hm.”

That stupid soft hum again.

You smile a little and then you say softly “You know? You’re a good doctor and a good captain… but you’re also a perfect partner. I love you a lot.”

Law rubs his thumb slowly along the side of your neck while looking at you with that quiet, intense focus he gets sometimes, the one that always feels like he’s paying attention to every tiny detail about you at once.

“Then… for that, don’t forget you don’t have to prove you’re useful to deserve being here.” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens.

Even now, hearing that from him feels overwhelming.

You lean forward and kiss him one more time, gentler now.

Law lets you… of course he does.

Then, after a second, he presses a small kiss back against your mouth so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

“…Don’t look so smug.” he mutters immediately.

Rob Lucci 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

(a/n: bro my throat is sooooo bored)

- possessive traits, size difference, teeny tiny dumbification

⁃ my dear broody, indifferent leopard. He’s intense. Outside and within the bedroom. He doesn’t do flings, situationships or anything other but “his”.

⁃ His pet names have hints of all his beloving traits. Possessive, controlled, measured and extremely professional. He wouldn’t throw out the words sweetheart or darling or doll out casually! That wouldn’t be professional at all,,,

⁃ ,,,But if he marked you? Made you his by scent alone?

⁃ He’ll tie a cute pretty ribbon around your neck, white and satin, and you’ll hitch your breath when he secures it. And it’ll be tight with purpose. So to leave a trace, a dent, a small faint mark to let others know, he was there first.

⁃ By then, Lucci would lean in slow and measured, your jaw grabbed, voice hot and heavy as his breath skims over your earlobe, whispering; “Mine.” and then nibble, latch his mouth on your neck.

⁃ Sucking, kissing, biting and licking. And if you try to push him for being too flustered, he’ll bury himself deeper, growing annoyed with your squirming; you both know its useless.

⁃ and if you insist he calls you by a pet name, it’ll always be done with the undertone of possession, control and claim.

⁃ “My wife” “my girl” “my pet” it’s always “my” with him. As if the hickeys on your neck or the matching dress to his suit isn’t enough of an indicator of who you belong to.

⁃ “But what about in bed Mlem!?” Look here pretty, Rob Lucci, for the man he is — is extremely territorial. Maybe it’s the animal in him, but when he fucks he does it to scent, to rut, and to leave a mark of himself in there. It’s instinct — animal.

⁃ Eye contact during it. 100%.

Not because its endearing: but it’s about domination. That he has control, power and isn’t willing to let you go from his sight. It’s all about making you feel small, vulnerable and terribly weak under in him — and it’s working. His gaze is focused, dark and narrowed but as you grow more hot; breath gone and huffing? Turning flushed and sensitive? Something soft settles in his gaze. It’s faint, almost unnoticeable but it’s there (as he thrusts into your harder)

⁃ he likes how small you look under him.

a sense of vulnerability perhaps; how you allow a killer like him to grab, bite and pull you despite knowing his truer nature. That unspoken trust? It does something to him, something warm, stuttering; a human feeling. It’s unbecoming and he can’t get enough of it, can't get enough of you.

- Rob Lucci is a biter. He bites. Neck, nipples, thighs and all over your chest, he’ll bite and nibble and kiss as he fucks you through it. And if you’re just a little bit too loud, he grips your throat, or shove a finger down your mouth. “Shhh,” his voice slathers across your neck, hot and heavy, as he thursts into you. Hands gripping your wirsts hard enough to bruise. “so tight—”

⁃ He’ll degrade you, just enough to make you teary, call you pathetic, mock your tears, and have you beg for more.

⁃ You’re wet from just a bit of kissing and core rubbing over his thigh? “Tch, pathetic.” ⁃ You moan just a little bit too loud? Back arching a little too high? “How needy.” ⁃ You tug at him, pleading with him to stop teasing? All he offers is: “Beg.”

⁃ And when he fingers you — his fingers long and precise, hitting each spot as you make a mess on his thigh? “Look at you, all stupid from just my fingers,,, it’s almost humiliating.” And he says it with a small, faint chuckle.

⁃ And if you want more? You’ll have to beg with him, tug and plead with him as he keeps circling your clit, kissing and nibbling your neck. Hands clutching onto his long, dark hair to ground yourself.

⁃ Truly, Rob has his ways of making you feel impossibly needy.

⁃ and then, for taking it without a fuss or a cry—he’ll offer smaller praises, the pace of his thrusts slowing down, turning heavy, hard and entirely controlled.

⁃ And as he leans in with a faint curve of a smirk on his lips. His voice laced with a small dark undertone of condescension; “good pet” or maybe when he feels gentle, his voice drops lower and the words that leave his mouth sounds more like a secret than praise; “you’re too good for me,,, too good,” or his favourite “you’re mine. Only mine.”

Summary: His dirty talk is possessive, curt. He let’s you know how stupid you look, how small and cute you sound beneath him — and he talks to you like you’re prey, something that’s within his mercy, and his alone. It’s not meant to be teasing or degrading; it’s meant to be dominating. Possessive. You’re his, and he’ll let you know about it for each thrust and fuck.

Sir Crocodile 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

- sub/dom dynamic, pseudo incest, Daddy kink, size kink,,,, and corruption kink if you squint your eyes. shy- and cute!reader

- outside the bedroom the petnames drip with class, finery and everything rich in this world; Sir Crocodile is scum but scum made of gold, gems and the finest burgundy silks. The same goes with his petnames.

- “Darling” “My lady” “My wife” or when he feels especially fancy, “My pearl”. It all drips with luxury, wealth and better manners made of opulence. You’re not just his girl; you’re his lady, and she doesn’t come cheap.

- That’s how he would refer to you in front of others but behind closed doors? The fine edge of expenses doesn’t drop but it grows soft, domestic. Depending on your personality; shy, younger, smaller? I can see him refer to you as “doll” or even something casual like “bunny”. It rolls of his tongue like rough gravel with just a touch of possession as he gropes your waist.

- “We want the dirty talk mlemiie!” Ok fine, NSFW related; Crocodile is a man of luxuries, don’t expect him to just fuck you through it because you’re needy. You’ll have to earn your pleasure. The same goes for his dirty talk.

- you want him to be more gentle with his tone? Kinder? Softer? You have to deserve it, after all you’re the one who got needy, desperate and utterly wet for him — and when you start crying at his words, all teary eyes and begging; he’ll crease his brows at you, chuckle a little to himself when you start to pathetically rub his hand against your panties. You’re so desperate it’s laughable.

- He’s mean. Not in a “bohoo, poor you!” but in a “you want me to stop? No? Then behave.” And he says this whilst relentlessly teasing you, fingers skimming over your lace, one finger plunging into you, sliding over your folds as he watches you with that smug, proud grin of his. Cigar stuck to his handsome face.

- Look… in bed… the pet names are to showcase you’re his little babydoll, okay? He likes you when you’re beneath him; small, vulnerable and ready to be ruined. It’s all about who is in power here and between you two? It’s him. It’s always him.

- If you’re into it, he refers to himself as “daddy”, taaaaalk to the wall.

- And the nicknames comes off mostly for praise unless of course,,,

“you’re my good girl aren’t you?” He says, hook around your waist to dig you deeper onto his cock.

And if when you’re on your knees? Sucking him off? “You can take it, you’re daddy’s little girl after all—” he hums, hand gripping your hair, pushing you deeper and deeper. And he won’t pity you for gagging.

“Look at you, you’ll sit still and be good f’me, won’t you?” His breath hot on your ear as his hand makes it up your thigh, skimming just under your skirt—his lips grazing your jaw when he feels you’re all soaked through. “Wet? Already? From a bit of kissing? Maybe you’re dirtier than I thought, maybe you’re not my good girl anymore, maybe you're just a slut,” he says that, withdrawing and you panic, clinging onto him, begging and pleading not to stop and he loves seeing how pathetic you can get.

- He’s rough, firm—he grips you during it. Hard enough to leave bruises, dents and marks of his choking. At first, especially if you’re inexperienced, he’ll start off gentle, not soft, not faint but slow, careful not to break you — but as the night progresses, when your walls clench and flutter onto his cock, practically swallowing him whole, he can’t hold onto his restrain. He’ll fuck you hard, rough, the little moans you give off as he breaks you in half only fuels his lust for you.

- At that point, Sir Crocodile is far from being in control, all he wants is to feel you—wet, squelching and hot.

Summary: In public? On everyday occasion? The petnames are classy, adoring, with just a tinge of something domestic. But behind closed doors? He’s sweeter; gentler. You’re his doll, his cuter, smaller wife and his treasure alone to spoil. And further into your little home, when it’s just you, him, sweat and sex? Rough but not mean enough to make you cry unless you beg for it—sweet but not enough to not put you in your place; which is beneath him, legs clenched around his torso as he takes you for himself.

Trafalgar D. Water Law 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

- degradation kink, dacryphilia, sexual overstimulation, breath play

- Look, this skinny emo plans, asserts, and calculates. And yes, he is grumpy but have you seen the amount of time this man gets flustered? He doesn’t do intimacy well, not as well as he would like to. In other words: Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death and youngest Warlord of the Sea — gets shy.

Like, really shy.

He’s a dork.

A loser.

A geek.

And I freaking love it.

- Mostly he’ll call you by your name but when it’s just the two of you? Or when you’re crying or in pain? That controlled demeanour of his turns soft, brows easing as he comes close to you; “Baby” “Love” or even as something cheesy as “Pretty girl”.

- Law is surprisingly soft with his wording, tone low and gentle, a tone reserved for you and you alone. But not in public, not ever, he has a reputation to uphold, alright?

- He’s a tease. He likes teasing you, grinning all sly and mocking when your hand is latched over his collar, pouting and tiptoeing, trying to earn a kiss — and he’ll just watch in pure, unfiltered amusement at your try reaching for a kiss. and when he finally leans in, head tilting, ready to kiss you—he’ll swipe out of reach once more. And he loves that you get all flustered and sulky over it, tugging and pulling at him.

- But in bed? During sexy time? That cute, dorky, shy demeanour vanishes the further the night goes on.

At first, he’d be hesitant; his tatted hand landing above yours is faint, eyes not meeting when you inch closer, his ears slightly red.

- “You sure about this babe?… I mean, I want to, I just…” he rubs his neck and you decide to tease him. “Just what, Law? You shy?” You say the last part with a hint of a giggle and he’ll look to you then, that cute, dorky loser expression he wore? Gone. Something sharper settles in his gaze, something close like provocation. The rest of the night? Don't expect him to be shy about it anymore because the next minute, you’re pushed down your back, his hands bracing between your head and you’ll stare dumbly into his face. A switch has been flipped. The dork you were teasing? Gone.

- “Shy? You wanna see how shy I get?” His hands travel beneath your skirt, fingers skimming over your lace, his lips going beneath your jaw—”What’s the matter? Don’t wanna talk back no more’?” And whenever you’re ready to retort, he’ll plunge a finger into your folds, thumb circling your clit, pushing, pulling and fingering you till you’re nothing but a wet, moaning mess. That’s the kind of man he is in bed; his fingers skilled, precise and controlled—each curl inside your walls are done to make you flinch, arch and clutch onto him.

- Degrading nicknames. Definitely.

- He likes it when he gets to mock at the state you’re in—”Slut” “whore” and even associate you as “cock dumb”, and which you are. You are dumb for him, especially when he fingers you, pull your clit, and bite your neck as you cum for the third time—tears streaming down your face when he curls his fingers deeper into you, pulling, plunging and squeezing your clit. Law is mean when he fingers, and you love it enough to become a sobbing, whining mess.

- “hah, look at you, fuckin’ slut, takin’ my cock—fuck—just like that you stupid whore” he says that, whilst pushing you into a mating press, legs curled and aching as he stretches you deeper—his hands on your wrists, gripping you hard enough to leave them bruised and marked. And you’ll whine as he moves harder, rougher, not once showing mercy because you’re a whiny mess beneath him.

- And if you tug at him, still begging for more? He’d chuckle, the one that has a hint of cynical mockery in it—”Oh yeah?” His hand glides up from your chest to your chin, tilting it up, thumb on your lower lip. Nudging, rubbing. “Open” and you can’t help but to obey, tongue lolling out, eyes teary as he spits in your mouth and you swallow on instinct. “Hah, what a whore.” and he’ll fuck you harder for it, pushing you deeper into your mating press and rutting into like you’re nothing but a whiny, dirty cum rag.

- Law indulges in breath play. (Source? Me) You’ll wear a choker, one that he meticulously tighten and releases, observing your reactions, asserting when to punish and reward you as he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, forcing you to swallow more of his length, making you choke on your spit; breath hitching, chest filling with air before forces another thrust, releasing the choker just enough to let you sob a moan. Tears streaming down your face for how mean he is during it—turning you into a blabbering, begging mess of cum and sweat.

- For praise; it’s a mix of both degradation and sweetness.

“Who’s the prettiest slut, huh?” He says, bending you over his desk, hand on your throat as he raw dogs you into your cunt, tight and wet for him. Walls squelching around his cock. You won’t be able to answer, as he chokes you, his tatted hand gripping you hard enough to make you drool out spit. “You is it? Yeah—shit—you’re the only whore f’me”

- the tone he carries is possessive, cynical and a dark underlying infatuation he can’t get rid of no matter how much he pounds into you, your pussy swallowing and sucking his length—not once wishing for him to stop.

Summary: Law is a soft lover who hides behind grumpy scowls and nonchalance but underneath it? He holds a special tenderness for you, even if he’s mean in bed—you’re his baby, his love, his most prettiest girl. And if you actually start sobbing, crying and tell him how he’s legit hurting your feelings during sex? He’ll stop mid thrust, eyes widening and brows going up as he lifts you up into his chest. Voice low, dark as he kisses the side of your hair. “shhh, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry… don’t cry.” That’s just the kind of softness he has for you, and you alone.

Donquixote Doflamingo 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

- bondage, degradation and size kink, power difference and toxic relationship dynamics

- My manipulative, blonde birdie. Everything about Doflamingo screams arrogance, wealth and pride — he’s flashy, but not gaudy. He’s got taste, even if it is over the top flamboyant, enough to out-sparkle a gyaru’s own decoden collection, but despite this, there is a hint of elegance. Classic, rich and everything unfair in this world.

- His petnames for his lover would be “Sweetheart” in either the most condescending, patronising tone or a gentle softness so unbecoming of him it makes you flinch.

- He’d wave you over, pat a hand on his lap, let you rest your head on his chest as he tells you about this beautiful fine satin that you would love for your room’s bedsheets, but unfortunately they were stained with blood so he couldn’t fix it for you. And he’d say all of that in the most kind, slow tone he could ever recreate—caressing your hair, stroking your cheek, soft motions lulling you to sleep.

- Doflamingo’s petnames ranges from there. “Dove” “darling” and when he feels especially casual, “baby” on a few occasion, and the way it leaves his mouth, it makes your ear twitch, feet already padding his way. When he calls for you, it puts you into a trance; pulling you towards him like strings around your neck begging for your name to leave his mouth again and again and again.

- His attention is a drug, and his affection becomes a need; a dark delving desire that cannot be anything but the most sweetest taste of codependency and worship.

- He’s possessive. And so is his love. He doesn’t merely want you, but own you.

- Unlike Lucci, there is a darker twist in his desire for his lover, one that strips you off choice and autonomy—you’re his. Everything about you is his — your name, your smile, even your blood running beneath your veins is tied to that man and he’ll make sure you know it. Brand you in his clothing, his jewellery, his money, wealth and power—and if he gets lovesick enough, he might even mark you with an innocent string across your wrist carved with his name. He’ll call it a bracelet, a gift, but you see it for what it truly is: cuffs. So you won’t go, leave and betray.

- each petname is done to show you and everyone else that you’re his—”my darling” “my sweetheart” and “my pretty girl”; each and everything that rolls of his tongue is ‘his, his, his’.

- In bed? Doflamingo is a freak. He mocks, he humiliates, he dumb you down into something small, stupid, weak and pretty — one that he adores to push and pull at. Strings fastening across your joints as he calls you all the dirty things you can imagine.

- “puppet” “pet” “doll”; petnames to accentuate your place in his world: strung and made by him. “slut” “whore” “slave”, all three to emphasize your use in his bed—to please, bend and be fucked with—it’s not about mere domination but ownership; you’re his and he gets to use you however he wish.

- The nicknames grows more and more cruel as the night goes on—”cumrag” “dirty cumsock” “sextoy” it all drips with degradation, dominance and mockery, and maybe when he feels gentle, he’ll lean down your ear, fingers trailing your jaw as you take a third of his finger into your wet little pussy, “That’s right, be louder with your cute moans, let them know who you belong to baby,” his voice hot against your ear, neck arching as he rewards you with a circle on your clit.

- Whether you two do it in private, in the pool or in the back alley where anyone can walk in—the strings are at play. Squeezing your wrist together so tight you think they’ll saw your hands off, or wrapped across your thigh to spread your legs at an obscene angle—it does not matter. Choking or holding you, they’re present. Always.

- “Hah? What’s the matter little pet? Can’t take no more?” He’d laugh at that, yanking your hair as he forces you swallow more of him—lips swollen, tears running down your cheek and he’ll do nothing but push you hard enough to make you gag. “You’re the one who begged to be my little toy, so get to work.”

- And when you’re curled into a mating press, legs anchored into the air with strings strung across your ankles; calf aching, thighs burning as he digs himself deeper into you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise—he’ll mock at the state he has you in. “Doffy! Doffy! Doffy! Is that all you can say now?” He’ll grin, forcing a finger down your mouth and on instinct you’ll suck, lick, the taste of salt sticking to your tongue as you swirl around his finger for more—giving him no choice but to push even deeper. “Hah, you dirty cumrag.”

- He’ll humiliate you, make you use your words.

You’re needy, tugging his sleeve for attention but all he gives you is one innocent tilt of his head, grin playing on his lips. “Hmm? You want me to do what?” He says, leaning down knowing exactly what you want but plays oblivious just to see you flustered. “Huh? You want this?” His hand trails beneath your waist band, slithering along your lace, one finger going over your panties, “Go on then, tell me what to do.”

The way your cheeks burn, how you chew your lower lip in frustration as you try and force him to just finger you — It’s humiliating, adorable, and he fucking loves it.

Summary: Doffy is meanie, but he won’t break you, no. You’re his pet, his girl, and favourite person in all one package; he’ll love you in the most wicked and twisted way there is. Affection draped in possession, attention marked with control, and nicknames spewed out to keep you tethering for more and more. Never once, looking out your birdcage when your eyes are solely set on him. And he’ll ensure that, with strings and chains.

Roronoa Zoro 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃

- brat/dom dynamic, praise

- Lazy, sleepy but disciplined and righteous. This man doesn’t play regarding you. You’re his girl.

- Zoro isn’t the type of guy to show you off but he won’t mind it if you cling onto his arm in public for the world to see, or turn him into your personal body guard. No. He’ll protect, shield and nudge you to the side—yes he will grumble, yes he will scowl but he wouldn’t let you out of his sight for a second. Not because you aren’t capable, but because he’s protective, observant and always ready to get you out of harms way. Lousy, but loyal. Fiercely so.

- With that established, petnames under his guise are casual, aloof. “Babe” “woman” or when he grumbles under his breath after you nag to him about how he forgot your snacks; “must you be so damn bossy, lady.” and then he’ll go and get your snacks without further complaint.

- He says it with a tone like it’s a drag, a pain in his butt and yet, there will be a hand on your waist, a shoulder to always lean on and eyes always glazing over your shape. Low, watching and yearning.

- “Mlem, where is the NSFW???” Look here pretty, petnames in bed remain rather civil — the “babe” elevates to “baby”, and it's either in the most lousy tone or as if to mock you. He’d call you "pretty", maybe “beautiful” when he feels especially soft but other than that; he's aloof.

- sure, Zoro’s lazy even in bed but if you’re a brat? The kind that talks back? tease with petty comments and attitude testing his every turn? He's a brat tamer. Talk to the wall. Zoro is a prideful man but he likes a good fight, and when you’re being all difficult and bratty? It turns him on like no other, knowing he can get you screaming his name in private quarters, saying the most nastiest things in your ear, voice low and husky as he talks you through it.

- and if that attitude is still up; best know he’s going to bite back, rough, mocking; the softer petnames become taunting, mean. “Hah? What’s the matter baby? You were talkin’ a bunch of shit just a second ago, what happened?” Zoro says with a cocky smile on his face, knowing damn well you can’t talk back with your lips around his dick, his tip hitting the roof of your walls as he forces you further down by the back of your head.

- Zoro is a tease. He edges, taunts and mocks at the state you’re in whilst relentlessly thrusting into you, and every time you’re about to reach your high—he slows, withdraws and forces you into a lewder position against the wall. “I know baby, I know—you can take it—fuck, yeah,” Zoro’s voice vibrates across your neck, hot and flaring as he fucks you through it, hands on your thighs to press you deeper onto his cock. “spread your legs for me, you can do that can’t you, pretty girl?” your walls squeezes at that nickname, and you can feel his lips curving into a smile at that reaction. His voice is husky, a tone of condescension hidden beneath the breaths as he thrust into you. “You like that? You like being called pretty?”

- Zoro manhandles; toss you across the bed, slam you against the wall, arch your limbs in such way it makes you strain and all he’ll offer as comfort is a kiss below your neck—”shhh, I’ll help your stretchin’ routine later, ‘kay baby?” he says, gripping you harder, rougher, not once seeming to let you go.

- His strength is a force; no matter how much you squirm against him he'll keep you pinned down; hand pushing down your head against the sheets, or an arm locked around your neck as he pounds into you from behind. And he loves, how utterly useless, small and vulnerable you are against his grip.

Summary: Zoro is the type of boyfriend that rolls with anything you roll with. You openly tell him you like being called “angel”? Next morning rolls off his tongue as if he’s called you it a a thousand times already; natural and casual. And in bed, there is no difference. You want to be called degrading nicknames? He’ll comply, and maybe it’ll leave his mouth a little bit too good

For an undead gentleman like Brook, falling in love isn't just about a racing pulse—it's an awakening of the soul. Discovering love after a lifetime of isolation and loss brings a profound shift to his eternal journey.

The night air outside the Thousand Sunny’s kitchen was thick with the salty tang of the New World. It was late—the kind of late that only the night watch and the insomniacs kept track of.

Below deck, the soft, rhythmic snoring of Luffy and Chopper was muffled by the heavy wood. On the galley deck, however, there was only the gentle scrape of a polished mahogany table and the quiet, melancholic sigh of a violin being tuned.

Brook sat alone, his long, spindly legs crossed as he hunched over his instrument. The single lantern overhead caught the polished ivory of his skull, casting long, dancing shadows across the empty plates from dinner.

He had lived two lifetimes worth of memories—fifty years adrift in the dark, skeletal fingers tracing the same melodies over and over until the notes themselves felt like ghosts. He knew sorrow, and he knew joy.

But tonight, as he plucked the strings, the resonance felt entirely different. It vibrated deep within a ribcage that held no heart, yet a warmth spread through his bones that he hadn’t felt since the days of the Rumbar Pirates.

A soft click of the galley door interrupted the silence. Brook paused, his empty eye sockets turning toward the entrance as his jaw clicked into a welcoming smile.

"Yo-ho-ho-ho," he murmured, his voice raspy and light. "Is that the lovely Nami-san, or perhaps Robin-san coming to steal my rum?"

"Neither, you old bag of bones." You walked into the warm glow of the galley, wrapping a thick, knitted blanket tighter around your shoulders. You offered him a tired, genuine smile. "Just me. I couldn't sleep. The waves are a bit too loud tonight."

Brook’s posture straightened slightly, the movement betraying an almost comical level of surprise. He set his violin gently onto the velvet cloth beside him and adjusted his yellow hat. "Ah, Y/N-san! Please, sit down."

He gestured with a skeletal hand to the chair opposite him, sweeping an invisible hat off his head in a courteous bow. "A musician’s late-night symphony is hardly the best lullaby, but you are more than welcome to share the quiet."

"I don't mind it at all," you said, pulling out the chair and sinking into the seat. You rested your chin in your palms, watching him. "In fact, I like it when you play. It's usually the only time things are completely peaceful."

Brook’s permanent, skull-etched grin seemed to soften. He gave a quiet chuckle, the sound echoing lightly in the empty room. "Peaceful, yes. I suppose fifty years of silence teaches a skeleton how to appreciate the quiet moments. Though, having you here certainly makes the Florian Triangle—metaphorically speaking—a much brighter place."

You let out a soft hum, your eyes tracing the line of his violin. "Do you ever get lonely, Brook? Even with all of us?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and sincere. Brook froze. The memory of the fifty years of drifting, surrounded only by the bones of his fallen Nakama, was a shadow he wore like a well-tailored suit.

He looked away, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a slow rhythm against the wooden table.

"Oh, Y/N-san," he whispered, the humor momentarily draining from his voice. "I have known the absolute, suffocating definition of loneliness. I have sat in the dark with the bones of my friends, playing the same tune, praying that someone—anyone—would hear it. But then... a certain rubber boy broke the door down."

He turned his skull back to face you, his empty sockets somehow conveying an intense, burning affection. "And since I joined this crew, I have never once been lonely. Least of all when I am sitting here, talking to you."

A light blush dusted your cheeks, though you didn't look away. "You say the sweetest things, Brook."

"I mean every word, my dear," he said, and for once, he didn't follow it up with a joke about seeing your undergarments. His tone was entirely stripped of his usual theatrics, replaced by a raw, ancient tenderness.

"You have a very special place in this old skeleton's heart. Even if I don't have one to give you!" He threw in a quick 'Yo-ho-ho-ho!' to lighten the sudden gravity of the confession, but it fell flat, dissolving quickly back into the serious, flickering candlelight.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table. "I'm really glad you joined us, Brook. I don't know what we'd do without you."

Brook stared at you. Really stared. It struck him then, with the sudden, sharp clarity of a crashing wave, just how much you had burrowed your way into his undead existence. As a skeleton, his life was largely static.

He was the same as he had been decades ago, preserved by the Yomi Yomi no Mi. But you—you were alive, shifting, and growing.

You brought color to the perpetual black-and-white of his after-life. When you laughed, the sound struck a chord in his soul that vibrated with a sweeter, deeper melody than any song he had ever composed.

Is this love? the thought echoed in the back of his mind. How could a skeleton fall in love? He had no heart to pound against his ribs, no flushed cheeks to betray his affection.

Yet, the intense, overwhelming desire to protect you, to make you smile, and to ensure you were warm and safe—it was a feeling as potent as the day he first picked up a sword to defend his crew.

It was an active, emotional presence, far deeper than a passing compliment or a friendly gesture.

"Brook?" You tilted your head, noticing his sudden silence. "Are you okay?"

Brook snapped out of his reverie, his posture jerking slightly. "Ah! Forgive me, Y/N-san! My mind was simply wandering back through the decades. It’s a bad habit of a ninety-year-old man—well, fifty-nine in terms of living years, I suppose!"

He let out another soft 'Yo-ho-ho-ho,' this time carrying a note of genuine, slightly nervous affection.

He leaned forward, the joints in his spine creaking quietly. "Tell me, Y/N-san. Since I am a musician, I often think of life as a grand composition. There are crescendos of battle, rests of sorrow, and staccato moments of adventure. But you... you have become a constant, beautiful melody that plays quietly in the back of my mind. Even when the cannons are roaring or Luffy-san is making a mess, I find myself thinking of you."

Your eyes widened slightly, the blanket slipping just an inch off your shoulders. "Brook... are you being serious right now?"

"I am as serious as a skeleton can be!" Brook gave a small, courtly nod, his bony fingers reaching out across the table to hover just above your hand.

He didn't dare touch it—not yet, fearful of startling you with the cold, unyielding reality of his bones.

"You see, I have sailed this sea for a very, very long time. I have seen the sun rise and set over the Grand Line for decades. I thought my capacity for new feelings had withered away with my flesh. But ever since I met you, Y/N, every day feels like a completely new, unwritten sheet of music."

He swallowed, his skull tilting downward slightly as if he were trying to look you in the eyes.

"To love someone is to will their good, as the philosophers say. And I... I find that my greatest desire in this eternal life is simply to see you happy. To make sure your path is filled with beautiful notes and warm days. Is that not what love is? Even if I can offer you nothing but a song and the company of a dead man?"

The galley was completely silent, save for the lapping of the waves against the hull of the Sunny. The realization that he had just confessed his true feelings—not as a joke, not as a flirtatious quip, but as the deepest truth of his soul—hung beautifully between you two.

Brook felt a sudden tremor run through his bones, a phantom anxiety that mimicked the nervous pounding of a mortal heart.

He had waited fifty years for companionship, but he had never expected to find a love that transcended life and death.

You looked at him for a long moment, the warmth in your eyes reflecting the soft yellow glow of the lantern. Without a word, you reached across the small gap and placed your warm, living hand directly over his skeletal one.

Your skin was soft, sending a jolt of comforting warmth straight into his cold phalanges.

"Brook," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "You are so much more than a dead man or a collection of bones to me. You are my friend. You are my comfort. And I don't care about the logistics of a heartbeat. I love you too."

Brook went perfectly still. If he had been capable of gasping, the air would have abandoned him entirely. The cool ivory of his face seemed to radiate heat.

He slowly turned his hand over in yours, his bony fingers gently lacing through yours with the utmost care.

"My dear..." he breathed, the word trembling slightly. "I... I don't know what to say. I never thought I would experience the sweetness of love again. I thought my story was destined to end in the dark with my old Nakama. But here you are, bringing such brilliant light into my second life."

A tear, entirely real and glistening in the candlelight, welled up in his left eye socket and traced a slow path down the curve of his skull. It fell with a quiet drip onto the wooden table.

"Oh, excuse me! I’m crying, and I don’t even have eyes to weep with! Yo-ho-ho-ho!" He laughed, but this time the laughter was thick with emotion, a beautiful, vibrating sound that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of his soul. "But please, understand, Y/N-san. These are tears of the most profound joy."

"I understand," you said, smiling at him through your own glistening eyes. You squeezed his hand gently. "I'm really glad I came up here tonight."

"And I am eternally grateful for the insomnia that brought you to me, Y/N-san," Brook replied.

He leaned back in his chair, his posture loose and elegant once more, but his hold on your hand remained firm and protective. "The Florian Triangle was dark and cold for fifty years. But I would gladly drift in the darkest seas for an eternity if it meant I would eventually end up sitting at this table, holding your hand."

He picked up his violin once more with his free hand, resting it against his shoulder. He looked at you, a depth of devotion in his empty gaze that words simply couldn't capture.

"Allow me to play a song for you. Not one of my usual sea shanties, but a brand-new composition. A song just for you, Y/N. To mark the day this old skeleton’s soul truly came back to life."

The bow touched the strings, and the first note rang out into the quiet night. It wasn't the frantic, chaotic music of a party, or the mournful dirge of the Bink's Sake he had played for decades in the dark.

It was soft, lilting, and incredibly warm. It swept through the galley like a gentle breeze, telling a story of a long journey, a dark wait, and the brilliant, unexpected sunrise that followed.

As the music filled the room, Brook watched you. He watched the way the lantern light caught your hair, the way your breathing slowed to match the rhythm of his playing, and the peaceful, happy expression on your face.

He memorized every single detail, etching it into a memory that didn't require flesh or blood to hold.

For an undead man, fifty years of solitude had left deep scars on his spirit. But playing this song, for this person, made every single day of the dark wait worth it.

The silence of the past fifty years was finally broken by a melody that he knew would last for the rest of eternity. He realized then that love wasn't about having a beating heart or blushing cheeks.

It was about the emotional connection, the quiet comfort of presence, and the sheer joy of knowing that even in a chaotic world, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The final note vibrated into the air, slowly fading out until there was only the gentle swoosh of the sea against the wood. Brook lowered the bow, the silence returning, but it was no longer the lonely, heavy silence of the past. It was comfortable, warm, and shared.

"Did you like it, Y/N-san?" he asked, his voice returning to its lighter, theatrical tone, though the lingering tenderness remained underneath.

"It was beautiful, Brook," you said, leaning over to gently kiss the top of his skull. "Truly beautiful."

Brook froze, his entire frame vibrating with a joyful tremor. He touched his hand to the spot where you had kissed him, his jaw dropping in an exaggerated expression of shock.

"Oh! Y/N-san! How scandalous! To take advantage of an innocent skeleton like this! Yo-ho-ho-ho-ho!" He threw his head back, laughing into the night air. "But... I suppose I don't mind it at all! In fact, I would very much like it if you did that again!"

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head at his sudden shift back to his eccentric self. But you didn't let go of his hand. "You're incorrigible, Brook."

"And you are my greatest masterpiece," he replied smoothly, lifting his hand to give yours a courtly, gentle squeeze. "Now, my dear, it is very late. If we don't get some rest, Nami-san will surely make us walk the plank for keeping the lights on!"

He stood up from his chair, his bones creaking musically. He walked around the table, bowing deeply as he offered you his arm. "Shall we retire to our quarters, Y/N-san? This old gentleman promises to be a very courteous, very romantic escort."

You smiled, taking his bony arm and letting him lead you out of the galley. The night was still dark, and the ocean was vast and unpredictable, but as you walked through the quiet corridors of the Thousand Sunny with the skeleton gently humming a soft, loving melody, you knew that you were completely safe.

For Brook, having you by his side transformed the perilous New World into a stage where every day was an opportunity to show you how much you meant to him.

The rest of the crew slept on, oblivious to the quiet romance that had blossomed in the heart of the ship. Downstairs, the sleeping quarters were peaceful.

But up on deck, and in the quiet hallways, the music lingered—a testament to a love that had defied time, distance, and even death itself.

The next morning, the sun rose over the vast horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of gold and pink. The Thousand Sunny sailed steadily on, cutting through the calm blue waters of the New World.

Down in the galley, Sanji was already bustling about, the clatter of pots and pans announcing the start of a new day. But long before the rest of the crew awoke, Brook had been up, sitting in his favorite spot, softly playing his violin.

The melody was the very same one he had composed for you the night before—a soft, lilting tune that held all the warmth and joy of his newfound realization.

When you walked into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, Brook’s skull immediately turned toward you. A bright, welcoming grin seemed to stretch across his features.

"Yo-ho-ho-ho! Good morning, Y/N-san!" he chirped, his voice echoing cheerfully in the room. "I hope you slept well! The early morning sun is quite beautiful today, isn't it?"

You smiled, walking over to sit beside him. "Good morning, Brook. I slept wonderfully. Did you?"

"Oh, like a log!" he chuckled, though the joke was slightly lost on a skeleton who had no muscles to relax. "Though, to be honest, I spent most of the night thinking about our little conversation. I even wrote the second verse to my new song!"

He picked up his violin again, adjusting his yellow hat. "Would you like to hear it? I believe it has a rather lovely staccato section that perfectly captures how my heart would beat if I still had one!"

"I'd love to hear it, Brook." You rested your chin on your hands, watching him intently.

Brook nodded, his bony fingers expertly positioning the bow. As the first notes filled the air, the heavy scent of Sanji’s cooking began to mingle with the gentle music. It was a perfect, ordinary moment aboard the Thousand Sunny.

But for Brook, every single note he played was a declaration. It was his way of speaking the words he had confessed the night before, over and over, in a language that transcended the boundaries of life and death.

When he finished the verse, he held a long, vibrating note that seemed to hang in the air like a promise. He lowered the bow and looked at you, the love in his hollow eyes radiating a warmth that went far deeper than any physical flush.

"You know, Y/N-san," he whispered, leaning in closer so that only you could hear. "I spent fifty years in the dark, believing that the music of the Rumbar Pirates was the only thing that kept me tethered to this world. I thought I was just a ghost, doomed to wander the Florian Triangle forever. But now... I realize that I am exactly where I belong. And you are the reason I am so grateful to be alive."

You reached out, covering his bony hand with yours. "You're not a ghost to me, Brook. You're the most alive person I know."

Brook’s jaw dropped in his classic comical shock, though his hold on your hand remained firm. "Oh! Y/N-san! To say such things to an innocent skeleton! You'll make my non-existent heart flutter right out of my chest! Yo-ho-ho-ho-ho!"

He laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the galley just as Sanji stepped over with a plate of breakfast for you.

"Stop flirting with the guests, you bag of bones," the cook grumbled, though a small, fond smile touched the corner of his lips. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

"Ah, Sanji-san! Such hospitality!" Brook cheerfully accepted the plate, though he didn't let go of your hand. "A musician must keep his energy up, especially when he has a lovely lady to serenade!"

You laughed, taking a bite of your food while Brook, with exaggerated and elegant gestures, managed to eat his own meal without his face getting in the way.

It was a noisy, chaotic, and wonderfully normal morning for the Straw Hat Pirates.

But throughout the day, whether you were relaxing on the deck, helping Nami with the maps, or just watching the waves, Brook was never far behind.

He would offer you his umbrella when the sun got too hot, play a cheerful, upbeat tune to keep your spirits up while you worked, or simply sit beside you and share the quiet moments of the afternoon.

He was there, offering not just a presence, but a constant, emotional engagement that made you feel cherished and protected.

For a man who had once been entirely alone, every second spent with you was a treasure he refused to take for granted. He had realized his love for you, and he intended to spend the rest of his eternal life proving it.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and purple, you found yourself standing at the railing of the Thousand Sunny.

The sea breeze was cool, whipping your hair gently around your face. You leaned against the wood, watching the end of another adventure.

A gentle step sounded behind you, and a familiar yellow hat appeared in your peripheral vision. Brook stood beside you, leaning against the railing with a long, elegant sigh.

"The sunset is quite magnificent today, isn't it, Y/N-san?" he murmured, his violin case slung securely over his back.

"It really is," you agreed, turning to smile at him. "I think this has been one of the best days we've had in a while."

"And I believe it is because we have each other," Brook said softly. He reached out, his long, bony fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

His touch was as light and careful as a falling feather, but the affection behind it was as heavy and solid as the anchor of the ship. "You have brought such brilliant color to this old skeleton's world. Even when we are sailing through the most dangerous waters, I never feel the cold anymore."

You leaned into his touch, your hand coming up to rest on the ivory curve of his cheekbone. "I love you, Brook."

Brook went perfectly still, the sea breeze ruffling his afro as he stared down at you. The love he felt for you was a living, breathing thing, vibrating deep within a soul that refused to be silenced.

He leaned his head slightly into your palm, his permanent grin widening with a genuine, ancient tenderness.

"And I love you, Y/N-san," he whispered, his voice trembling just enough to convey the depth of his emotion. "For all of eternity, and even beyond that."

He took a step back, sweeping an invisible hat off his head in a courtly, dramatic bow. "Now, my dear! The stars are beginning to come out, and a musician's work is never done! Allow me to play a song to welcome the evening—a tune that will surely be as beautiful as the lady standing before me!"

He pulled out his violin, resting it against his shoulder with practiced ease. As the first notes drifted into the cool night air, you stood by the railing, listening to the man who had survived fifty years in the dark to bring such beautiful music into your life.

The silence of the Florian Triangle was nothing but a memory now, replaced by a melody of love and companionship that you knew would echo for the rest of your days.

The rest of the crew might have been shouting and laughing below deck, but up here, the night belonged to the two of you.

And as Brook played the final, lingering note of the evening, he knew with absolute certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be—beside you, sharing the beautiful, unwritten music of your life together. . . . .

Because he turns on the vibrators

And they are blatantly loud.

And you are horribly sensitive. No one asks if he's drugged you, or if you've simply been trained, but the highlight of the Gala is when he suspends you in the middle of the ballroom, giving the guests an unobstructed view of you as you writhe in ecstasy.

So, maybe you did bring the last one down on your head. But who could blame you? Being the apprentice of Garp the Hero meant being exposed to a wide variety of pirates of the great era. Amongst the most important were the Roger Pirates, of course. Which was probably when you first laid your eyes on the bright bundle of red hair who was staring into your soul from behind the dock. It had not been something all that interesting to you at first. Matter of fact you dismissed it as something not worth your time, and instead focused on proving your worth to your mentor.

( Many would argue that bringing a child to a fight against one of the more notorious pirate crew would be insanity. However, you would argue that you turned out pretty well all things considered and it certainly wasn’t that bad )

What you didn’t consider was that such a cold dismissal had sparked something in the future captain of the red haired pirates that you would never quite be able to extinguish.

Shanks would after this moment repeatedly seek you out much to Buggy’s chagrin. It was like watching a moth desperately chase a flame — and try to fight it?

Well, when you’re raised in a pirate ship your whole life things may become a little warped in terms of behaving normally. For Shanks who had seen Roger fight Garp his whole life and call it ‘friendly roughhousing' it wasn’t too unexpected that he would copy what he saw.

This being going after you every time he saw you to fight as a way to get your attention. It baffled you at first — as you had believed the two cabin boys did not participate much in combat. Only to have to dodge a punch to your face in a normal afternoon. But you weren’t the one to backdown from a challenge, not back then and not even now. So you gave it your all right back to the scrawny red-haired boy that always seemed eager to chase after you.

What you didn’t know was that Shanks had surprised the whole crew by going after you. Their young protege had not been someone who sought after fights. Rather he dealt with them if they came to him or to his friend. So, seeing him be so eager to run after Garp’s young apprentice had left many scratching their head in confusion.

But not their Captain. The future king of the pirates had simply stared after Shank who seemed to be almost jumping in anticipation to see you again and laughed himself silly. Afterwards, it seemed that Roger left Shanks to his own devices when Garp was nearby, and if anybody asked he would simply shrug and call it “young love”

The intensity of the so called “young love” was upped by a hundred after the execution of Roger.

A day that would be engraved in the red haired’s memory for two reasons. The death of the man who raised him, and your presence. It had been a surprise to see you wondering around in the execution — Shanks didn’t think Garp would have let you witness the gory parts but perhaps he was mistaken.

Not that he had much time to think about what Garp was doing after being rejected by his closest friend under the rain. Shanks felt the rain seep into his clothes, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. The streets seemed to be empty, and he had forgotten where exactly Buggy had run off to. He felt too numb to acknowledge the tears dripping down his face as he stared down at his hands.

Until a hand grabbed his hand and brought him into an unsure hug. You had seen Shanks take off onto the distance and worried for someone you had considered a friend you took after him. Only to find him drenched by the rain like a pathetic cat that was thrown away.

You weren’t someone usually moved by pity, but to see someone who was usually so bright and cheerful drenched in rain looked like his life had been drained away did move your heart just a little.

However, if future you could go back into the past and stop you from comforting Shanks without doubt you would have done it without hesitation.

Because this very moment would give birth to your biggest headache know to earth.

Shanks became almost obsessive with how much he had started checking on your whereabouts. Sending you parts of the treasure he would obtain with his start up crew, and talking his crew’s ears off when it came to you. What had once been an innocent, albeit persistent, puppy love had snowballed into a possessive devotion from one of the strongest pirate this new era had ever seen.

And you? Well, initially you found it amusing. It was funny to think a pirate had fallen in love with a marine whose job was to bring the guillotine down on his head. A situation that would probably make him the butt of the joke in many places.

In the back of your mind you could admit that you held some sort of affection for the pirate that you deemed pathetic. However, the bigger part of you knew that most of the indulgences you let him take was to boost your ego. Having someone like him practically begging at your feet for your attention? Who wouldn’t be flattered?

But perhaps you had forgotten that you should never feed a stray dog; they always keep coming back for more.

So, perhaps you started indulging him. Perhaps you let him into your bed to have a good time with him. But who could blame you when whimpered so pretty? Batting his eyelashes and leaving his shirt unbuttoned every time he came into your bed at night. Clinging into you and shedding tears every time he wishes to sway you into keeping him longer by your side.

But at the end of the day. You were a marine. Somebody who shouldn’t let their affairs with a nefarious pirate get in the way of their job or a good relationship with a trustworthy civilian or fellow marine officer. Which was why you didn’t assume that Shanks would take it too personally when you started seeing other people. After all, it wasn’t a serious arrangement for you so why should it be one for him?

And the one day he found you indulging a young officer who had gifted you a bouquet of flowers to ask you out. Shanks, disguised as a marine, stared down with a blank look on his face at the marine who had pink cheeks and stuttering words, and then looked at you who had an amused smirk in your face while accepting the flowers.

His hands dug so deeply into the tree he was hiding behind that it caused a hole to be blasted into it.

Rage didn’t cut what he felt after seeing this. Neither did betrayal. What he felt was more easily compared to somebody reaching inside his chest and holding his heart tight enough that it caused death from pain.

The confrontation afterwards did not do him any good either.

“Who was that you were with?” Shanks asked as he cornered you in your office while staring daggers at the flowers you held in your arms with a detached look on your face.

Walking past him you gently set your flowers down on the table and took off your coat and shrugged nonchalantly.

“A nice recruit — truly kind of him to be looking out for me don’t you think?” You asked with a low chuckle. Shanks felt his eye twitching at the sheer rage he was experiencing and grabbed your shoulder so he could look straight into your eyes and twisted you around.

“Really? That’s all you have to say? A nice recruit? He was obviously asking you out!” You had never seen him quite like this. Shanks seemed to be loosing his grip on his temper as he stared at your unbothered face who seemed to find no issues with the situation.

“So what?” You said as you attempted to shrug his hand of your shoulders and put some distance between the two of you. Only for him to dig his hand more deeply and drag you back closer to him, “What we have is nothing serious. Especially with both of our positions.”

Your words seemed to have stunned him. Something you didn’t really understand. Thinking that he may have simply having one of his possessive streaks again you placed your hands in his waist and dragged him closer until both of your hips were touching one another.

“What’s wrong Shanks? Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” You asked with a lighthearted smile not noticing the way his haki seemed to be loosing control.

“Really, you’re thinking too much about this. I’ll still be seeing you, okey? But I need to start thinking about a relationship that will help me out.” The implication that this relationship that you both had was only dragging you down was not lost to him.

His hand slowly moved down until they rested on the hem of your shirt. And rested his head on your shoulders as the cogs in his head started turning.

“So that’s what you need, huh?” He muttered into your shoulders while slowly placing kisses on your neck. His hand moved down to get rid of the buttons that held your shirt together to place his hands on your chest, “Someone that’s strong?”

You chuckled and assumed this was just another conversation like the others you had before.

“Not only that. Someone that’s strong would help me in terms of reputation would be nice.” Now you were just talking about an unlikely fantasy. Getting with someone that was strong and had a good reputation? Unlikely.

That’s not what Shanks heard, though. He now knew that you would only seriously take his advances if he was strong enough that everybody would think twice before attacking him — or anybody under his protection. You let your shirt fall onto the ground, and spun both of you over so Shanks could rest against the wall while you leaned closer to him to press a kiss in his lips which he returned eagerly.

And then he smirked with a dark glint as he entangled his hands onto your hair. Already imagining a bright future for the both of you. If it included you without your white uniform then that was something that only he needed to know.

Months later his visits had started to decrease, and you had no doubts as to why. Everybody had heard about Shanks’ more active fights in the Grand Line, and the new world. Challenging pirates who had a strong standing to defeat them then taking their territory under their flag so fast it could be considered a sport. What you hadn’t expected was for Shanks to eventually clash with a Yonko and win. The marines around you were in a frenzy after hearing that there was a new Yonko, especially with the strong skills he was showcasing.

Many were expecting a bloodbath to start occurring with the new pirate having such a grand tittle.

You held no such worries. Shanks? Shanks who begged on his knees for you to let him sleep over? That Shanks?

And perhaps you had let the version of him in the bedroom and your personal life cloud your mind as to how much of a menace he could be. Which was why you hadn’t been bothered when you had been assigned to the New World.

Until you had woken up to Shanks lounging in one of the rooms’ chairs that was placed next to your bed. You startled yourself into a sitting position as you yelped. Your heart thumped in your chest as you looked at Shanks who greeted you with an easy smile and a wave of his right hand.

Ignoring your widened eyes he widened his smile and leaned forwards to be closer to you.

“It’s been a while! I’ve missed not seeing you so regularly.” He had the audacity to pout at you as if you both were old friends catching up.

You blinked rapidly at him almost sure that you could blink him away from reality.

“Shanks…? What are you doing here! If somebody catches you — “ You whispered with urgency as you yanked his shirt closer to you to shake him around. He chuckled with mirth as he let himself be yanked around. A lovesick glint in his eyes which you failed to notice became more prominent.

He gently placed his hands on top of yours, and rubbed his thumb across your hands who tightened their hold on his shirt.

“I’ve missed you.” He repeated his previous stamens as if that was enough to explain what he was doing here. In a guarded marine base that had more than just the average security.

You furrowed your eyebrows with annoyance now rising in the face of his nonchalant attitude. But just as you opened your mouth to rip him a new one a loud explosion rattled your bedroom and left you in a flight or fight mode.

You snapped your neck back to Shanks who sighed with annoyance and muttered, “Really, those guys don’t know how to take it easy.”

His tone resembled a child whining over spilled ice cream and you couldn’t help but look at him with an open mouth.

“I need to go!” You shouted as you attempted to run towards the door and figure out who exactly was attacking the base ( although in the back of your mind you were suspicious of who exactly was behind this ) but before you could get back a hand sneaked round your wait and dragged you back to bed.

You snapped your head back to shout at Shanks only for him to also move on the bed along with you and sit on top of your hips to keep you immobile.

“Shanks! Just what do you think you’re doing?! The base is —“ Just as you were about to attempt to leave again he placed one of his hands over your mouth to silence you and smiled down at you. For the first time since you’ve met him you couldn’t help but think that it looked quite sinister with the moonlight shinning down on him.

“Don’t be silly.” He tutted with the grace of someone chastising their pet for misbehaving.

“I’m the one who called this attack!” Shanks stated with closed eyes as his smile widened. He pressed down more harshly onto you as you attempted to get rid of his constricting hold.

“After all, you were the one to tell me you need someone strong right? Who better to do that than a Yonko.”

‘Was this man nuts?’ You thought as you stared back at him. Who could your words have been twisted into this?

However what you didn’t quite understand was why your limbs were becoming more sluggish. It was as if an invisible weight was pressing down on you. Your hands were they were attempting to push Shanks away only for them to loose their strength and become more of a light touch than an actual attempt to escape.

“Don’t worry, I understand this may be new to you but I think it’s time we both move forwards with our relationship.” Shanks stated as he let his hand fall away from your mouth and instead move to pet and caress your hair.

“But I already did what you wanted you know?” He whispered at a lower volume like a secret between the two of you, “I think it’s time we both do what I want.”

— Mihawk Dracule

You were one of the top contestants for the open position of CP0. A marine who specializes in covert operations and gathering of information. It truly was your speciality.

But perhaps your own strength dragged you too close to the sun. The reason for this? Your most recent target had been Dracule Mihawk, and your part of the mission had gone exceptionally well. Everybody’s else part? Not so well.

A rising swordsman who had been terrorizing anybody who he deemed a ‘worthy’ swordsman was more of a pain than your marine higher ups realized. This man was know was Dracule Mihawk and he seemed determined who challenge anybody who he deemed challenge worthy. However, he didn’t seem to show any mercy onto anybody who got on his way either. Which was why seven marine warships had been lost to his ire. This swordsman seemed to challenge anybody who crossed his path that was strong indiscriminately. Whether it was marine, revolutionary, or even a bounty hunter.

And it had become a problem faster than anybody expected. Which was why you were dispatched. Before making another reckless decision your boss decided that gathering information regarding the man’s weakness would be beneficial for the marines. Going as far as to offer you a promotion if this mission went well.

With eagerness you accepted and started planning how to make contact with your target.

Thankfully for you there was an edge you had over other agents that would make it more likely for Mihawk to approach you.

Your swordsman skills.

You certainly weren’t worthy enough to be put in the level of an admiral but your skills are regarded as one of the best in the marines.

Which was why you decided to take a simple route of approach and challenge him to a duel. Although you doubted you could defeat him without serious injuries, a duel would be easier to control rather than a battle to the death.

And it was a success.

This man had accepted your duel and won just like you expected. However he seemed quite eager for a rematch. Claiming that you could better than that. The fact that he realized that you were holding back was a suprised, but not an unwelcome one. As you twisted it into your favor to keep yourself closer to him for a while longer.

“Ah! I recently got into a little spat with some pirates so I’m not in my best shape.” You mentioned offhandedly noticing how his eyebrow twitched in annoyance at the idea of his opponent not being in their top shape when fighting him.

“Could I buy you dinner as an apology?” This was supposed to make you look a little pathetic and not much of a threat. After all, what type of person invites their opponent for a drink after loosing a fight? However, you had not expected for him to actually ponder it silently then nod in acknowledgment.

As he sheathed his sword you were left a little out of your depth as you realized that this man who had started to become feared across the four seas had accepted to eat dinner with you. It was almost enough to make you smile in victory. Almost.

So, that was how your afternoon went. You invited Mihawk to a nice restaurant in town to eat alongside you. Although, you hated to admit it this was more enjoyable than you had realized. You expected a man who would boast of his accomplishments to his opponents to boost his own ego. Instead, you met a man who was surprisingly thoughtful and not that bad of a company.

A shame he wasn’t a marine. You would have loved to take him out on an actual date. But duty calls so instead of lamenting your losses you upped your own act to make it obvious in what sense you were interested in him.

A light touch on his upper arm, a laugh that was just a little too eager, and your body resting just a little too into his personal space to be a coincidence. At the end of the night you had given him your Den den mushi number with the clear expectation of making this a reoccurring event.

However, just as a precaution you mentioned offhandedly that in a couple of days you would be in your top shape and you wouldn’t mind a second round.

Under the moonlight at night, your vision must have failed you because you could almost fool yourself into believing you had seen a ghost of a smile in his face. But in the next second after you blinked it was as if nothing had occurred so you shook it off.

While Mihawk went back to his boat looking a little more at ease you went back to a private room to report your findings to your superiors. And your positive progress of the mission. Depending on the information you brought throughout the mission was what the end goal would be. Whether that was ambushing the swordsman or recruiting him was none of your business. As long as you committed your mission correctly you did not care for anything else.

And just like you expected a couple of days later you received a call from the infamous swordsman. Who demanded your presence like a king did for his jester.

“Demanding aren’t we?” You teased as if you both were old friends. A smile on your face as you waved at the outlaw in front of you who seemed to be waiting under a palm tree with his arms crossed.

Once he saw you he grunted in acknowledgment and rolled his eyes, but didn’t correct you or make you stop your teasing behavior.

“You’re late.” He stated as he raised an eyebrow before turning his back on you to start walking towards the field both of you would be clashing at.

You chuckled good heartedly and followed him while making idle chat. Taking any comment he didn’t ignore as encouragement that progress was being made.

‘And this is the cold-hearted swordsman everybody fears?’ You thought with a secretive smile as you stared at his side profile. Deciding not to mention that he had purposely arrived earlier at the meeting spot.

This back and forth continued occurring. A spar between the two of you would occur and then you would spout an outlandish excuse as to why you both needed to clash again, and he would accept it. Of course these would always end with you dragging him somewhere to visit or eat at. It was almost baffling to you with how much he let you get away with. Taking him by the hand like you both were lovers, buying him clothes for him to wear, and even demanding him to help you get better with the sword.

Eventually it would all reach a new level when the weather became harsh enough that your spoken worries of sickness would sway him enough to stay at a hotel with you over night. One that just so happened to only have one room left with one bed.

And perhaps you let your hand trailed long enough to imply something, your smile may have become more seductive, and your words took a more suggestive tone to them. Enough so that once you both got to the room he didn’t stop you when your hand trailed to the back of his neck. Or when your lips touched his throat in a slow manner, and perhaps he was also looking forwards to this with the speed in which he let his clothes fall onto the ground.

You took him by the hand and lead him to the only bed that was present in the room. Slowly pushing him down until you were straddling him and intertwined your hands together to place them in your waist. Taking note of the soft pink hue that appeared on his cheeks you leaned closer until your mouth was next to the shell of his ear.

“I’ve been looking towards this for a while you know?” You mentioned like you were commenting on the weather and not about having your way with him.

Mihawk grunted and shifted his hips to be closer to yours and muttered in a tone that if you didn’t know any better would call bashful, “I’m aware.”

You chuckled and started trailing kisses down his throat.

“And you just let me? Were you that eager to see me chasing after you?” You muttered in a low volume with the intent of teasing him. Keeping a keen eye on the way he momentarily looked away and cleared his throat with some fluster.

“It’s okay — I quite liked it.” You whispered like it was a secret between the two of you nobody was allowed to know. And just for this night you let yourself think you both were lovers that were simply taking the next step in your relationship and that you weren’t on a mission to ruin him by the marines.

What you weren’t aware of was that Mihawk was by far a hesitant man. Taking more drastic measures with those who started getting in the way of your time together. Marines who he would usually just gravelly injure started getting killed, and pirates that gave him too long of a glance while looking to fight would get beaten down without time to showcase their skills. Something that he previously avoided doing to savor the clash between swords. He had almost become a mad dog since meeting you.

Which was all that the marines needed to know to believe that he couldn’t be reasoned with and should instead be put down before he became a bigger issue.

This was the order that you received a week after you spent your first night with him. And like the good soldier you were you followed through. Not before giving him a last kiss on the cheek. Which he wouldn’t know would be your so called ‘goodbye’ kiss.

Your new task? Get him to go to a remote island to be ambushed by marine personnel. Of course, you wouldn’t personally fight him head on. Rather your invitation to another spar would drive him to go to this specific location where he would be ambushed and put down for good.

Your mission was deemed a success up to that point. Everybody’s else? Not so much.

You wouldn’t only be made aware of this once your personal Den den mushi started to ring in the middle of the night. Assuming it was your boss you responded like you had been programmed to do so.

“Marine officer reporting to duty—“

“Cute.” A low voice muttered through the connection device which was not your boss. This voice was one you had made cry out in pleasure and had become familiar with through the span of months. The voice that had filled you with warmth now only filled you with cold, cold dread.

“…how did you get this number?” You questioned with as much professionalism you could inject into your shaky tone. The person across the line made a ‘tsk’ sound as if he was chastising you for such a foolish comment.

“Perhaps we should ask the man who had this transporter snail.” The man who you knew as Mihawk stated with a flat tone that did wonders to hide the rage that was coursing through his veins, “However, he is incapacitated at this moment.”

He commented as if what your superior was going through was a common cold that made it difficult for him to speak and not his limbs being amputated from his body in a cruel manner that had left him in suffering for as long as possible.

“Mihawk—“ Your sentence got cut off by the swordsman who started speaking with a tone that was as sharp as his sword.

“I thought that what you needed was time.” He mentioned while making a clean slash of his sword to get rid of the blood that was now coating Yoru. Surrounding him were the leftovers of the eight warships which had attempted to take him down. Wood splattered across the floor from the slashes he made to the so called ‘impenetrable’ ships. Alongside were the bodies of hundreds of marine officers alongside two vice admirals which had underestimated just how much of a hassle it would to take this swordsman.

Mihawk started taking some steps onto the shore while efficiently avoiding the bodies that were still twitching in the ground, “I am not a fool, and I do not enjoy being made one.”

Before you could speak Mihawk continued talking and his next words would leave you petrified.

“From the start I was aware you were a marine. I am not unaware of what goes behind the close doors of the marines — I simply do not care for it.” Your mouth was left opened in disbelief at what you were hearing through the phone.

“I let you keep your charade because I knew your guilt was the only thing keeping you back from being truthful.” He muttered while slowly turning his blank face into a frown that you had never seen before aimed at you.

“I let you into my bed believing that it would be the last step you would need to give yourself completely to me.” Like a man who wasn’t used to being wrong his words seemed stilled as if they didn’t want to completely leave his mouth.

“However, this?” You didn’t have to see what he was pointing at to know what he was referring to. You closed your eyes and put your hands in your head at the absurdity of the situation. You? Feel guilty? What type of nonsense was he spouting?

“Perhaps I let your leach be too wide. I’ll make sure to certify such mistake.” You almost sputtered with indignity. You? Having a leach from the man who allowed himself to be dragged around like a well trained dog? It was ridiculous!

“So I’ll give you one warning,” You were tempted to interrupt but you felt as if you would greatly regret it in the future if you went through it, “You can hide as much as you want, but I’ll hunt you down and make those around you pay for this betrayal of yours.”

You gulped with trepidation after hearing the promise in his tone, and you were left without leg to stand on in this situation.

“Mihawk, sweetheart — can’t we talk this out? I know this looks bad, but surely this is too much for this type of situation.” You were grasping straws and you knew it. There was no way you could turn this in your favor. The mission had completely failed and Mihawk now had a personal vendetta against you and possibly the marines.

“Is that it?”, He asked with an entertained tone of voice you doubted was completely without anger, “Perhaps I should teach you a thing or two about begging for forgiveness. Do not fret I’ll make sure to be throughout once I find you.”

Those were his last words before he hung up on you. Leaving you with tremors in the hand that you had be holding your Den den mushi with. It was as if his presence had filled your room for a moment. A finality on his words that let you know he would make sure they were made a reality. You couldn’t even comfort yourself with the promotion you were going to get. Having a sinking feeling in your gut that this was far from over.

And you were unfortunately right.

Mihawk made himself notorious for the marines. Making sure to hunt down anybody that wore the white uniform and efficiently taking care of them albeit cruel enough to leave many begging for mercy.

There was no place in the four seas that was safe from his wrath. Nobody that was not part of the mission knew what exactly the marines had done to earn his wrath.

The government had lost thousands of marines alongside millions of berries with the damage that Mihawk had cause every time he was spotted. It was bad enough that the Fleet Admiral had to get involved. Unsurprising, as he had been the one to reccomend your boss to deal with Mihawk.

His solution? Offer Mihawk Dracule a position as a warlord. A position that was denied for months until a second clase was offered. Which by that point the damage had become severe enough that he had been recently called, “The strongest swordsman in the four seas”.

So what type of clause could they offer to make him consider the offer of becoming a warlord?

You.

Even to get such a strong asset into their hands the Marines refused to completely hand over an officer to someone that was considered an outlaw.

So the solution? You would become a supervisor of the swordsman. Glorified babysitting is what some would call it. A date with the guillotine is what you would call it. Worse part of this? There was no other position you could go to while being the supervisor of a warlord. It was impossible to leave the job as he would accept nobody else and as a result resign the position. You were in a cage and you had were becoming keenly aware that it seemed to have no door.

So, you accepted your task with none of the joy that the Pirate King seemed to have at his execution. What can you say? Not everybody was excited to meet their end.

As you walked back to your office you couldn’t help but drag your feet along the way. Knowing that you would get one week before having to meet with Mihawk, the bane of your existence.

You opened the door and closed it with the speed of someone who had the devil on their toes. Which wouldn’t be too far when you consider the situation you found yourself in.

However just as you did that your chair spun around to reveal Mihawk. Who was calmly nursing a glass of wine ( your wine ) and sitting down with the grace of someone who belonged there.

For a second you stared at each other in silence. Before you attempted to sprint back out from your office only to stop last minute as Mihawk’s words reached your ears.

“Take a step out of that door and only you and I will be left alive by the end of today.” He stated with the calmness of someone who knew that there was nobody in this building who could truly pose a challenge to him. The admirals were nowhere near and neither was the fleet admirals. Those who were in this building were of less ranking than a vice admiral. You were truly trapped.

“Mihawk…” You muttered with apprehension as you saw the sword that was resting on his lap.

“It’s been a while hasn’t it, beloved?” He stated with a small quirk of his lip. You had no doubt that he was finding sadistic amusement from this. Before you could answer he continued as if you had responded.

“I am a man of my word at the end of the day so I thought I should start your lessons early.” Your body shuddered at the implications of his anger being directed at you, “So, how about you start your apologies by getting on your knees?”

Although he worded the sentence as a question it was the furthest it could be from it.

And you were keenly aware you would never get away from this man unless he killed you first.