Your best friend calls, voice raw, and you realize he’s jerking off to you. The call spirals into a dirty, tense back-and-forth—him confessing all the nasty things he wants to do to you, you teasing between sweet and cruel, letting him see just enough to break him. He cums hard for you, then you make him listen while you play with yourself and orgasm. At the very end, you drop the sweetest bomb—and hang up, leaving him ruined, obsessed, and wanting more.
★2,827 words, old story, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), lots of dirty talk, masturbation, praise & a tiny bit of degradation, pet name/name calling (e.g, ma/mama, baby, sweetheart, honey¹, and slut¹), you're a little mean but he likes it, etc★
★18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕★
"Hello?" you call, picking up on the third ring. The room is quiet, the only light the coming from your amber lamp and the blue glow from your screen reflecting off your freshly done nails.
"H-hey," his voice scrapes out on the other end. It’s a wrecked sound—ragged, breathless, and vibrating with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
Your brows pull tight, a slow worry already beginning to tug at your lips. "Are you okay? You sound... off."
You picture him for a second. Maybe he’s sweaty from a run, his chest heaving under a thin t-shirt. Or maybe he’s been lugging another Amazon dresser for that old lady down the block—always the good guy, always helping somebody. But as you listen to the heavy, rhythmic hitch in his breathing, you realize you’re wrong.
Right now, your best friend is laid out on his bed, the sheets a mess beneath him. His sweatpants and boxers are shoved down to his mid-thighs, his brown skin damp and glowing in the dim light of his room. His stomach is corded, muscles tightening and rippling with every long, desperate drag of his fist. His dick is a dark, heavy weight in his hand—slick, flushed, and dripping through his fingers.
He’s slowly but firmly stroking himself to the thought—and now the sweet, taunting sound—of your voice. Precum is already smeared over his knuckles, his thumb rolling lazy over his slit before pressing harder, coaxing a deep, guttural grunt from his throat.
"Mgh—nothing. Just... talk to me," he rasps, the friction of his hand audible through the speaker.
Your frown deepens, your heart is starting to race. "Why? What’s wrong, baby?"
The pet name slips out easy, unthinking. But the effect is immediate—he moans low, a broken, helpless sound, like you’d reached through the line and wrapped your hand around him yourself. He lives for when your voice turns soft like this, when you stop clowning him and get sweet. His fist moves quicker now, his hips pushing up into his palm, seeking the friction he can’t get enough of.
"I'm fine, I promise. Just keep talking. Please."
You fall quiet for a beat, leaning back against your headboard. You listen harder. You hear the wet, squelching sounds of his grip. The sharp little hitches of breath. The low, animalistic sound he makes when his fist squeezes tighter at the base.
And it clicks.
"...You’re jerking off."
Silence. Just the heavy, frantic sound of his breathing. Then a broken, self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah. M'sorry. Can’t stop. Not when it’s you."
Your breath stutters, a prickle of heat blooming low in your belly. "You’re getting off to me? On the damn phone?"
"Every time," he admits, his voice rough and needy, but with a sudden edge of raw honesty. He wants you to know. He wants you to feel the weight of it. "Think about you all the time. That mouth. Those tits. The way your ass looks in those shorts." His pace picks up, the slick, lewd sounds of his hand working his dick filling the line. "Fuck, I’d do anything to see you ride me, just once. Just to see what that look on your face is like when I’m deep inside you."
You bite your lip, your pulse kicking against your throat. "That’s disgusting. Using my voice to get your nut. You’re nasty."
He groans like you’ve just blessed him with a touch. "Yeah, I know. But you're all I think about... you’re the only thing that gets me this hard."
"That's nice, honey. But you really shouldn't think of me like that... you know we're just friends," you murmur, your own hand sliding down to rest heavy on your thigh, the silk of your shorts cool against your palm.
"Don’t say that." His tone cuts sharp now, all the nice playfulness you've come to love is gone. "I’m not your fucking friend. You call me every day. You tell me you love me. I told you from the start—I’m not your friend." His breath hitches, the wet sounds of his fist speeding up, becoming more frantic. "You let me talk to you like this. And you let me—You let me be in your life knowing how I feel about you."
Your acrylic nail drags slow across your bottom lip. "Maybe. But I can't give you what you want, and I do love you, but don't throw it in my face," you drawl, a cruel, satisfied smirk pulling at your mouth.
"It’s kinda sad. Stroking your dick to a girl you’ll never have. We'll never be together. I’ll never let you fuck me. All you get is your hand."
He chokes out a moan, his hips snapping up into his fist with a raw, mechanical rhythm. "Yeah? Then give me something else. Show me. Facetime me, ma. Please."
You hesitate, the heat pooling heavy and agonizing between your thighs. Then, you click over.
The screen flickers to life. His camera is shaking, his breath filling the dark room. Sweat beads at his temples, his face flushed a deep, beautiful bronze, his lips parted. You know that tremor in the camera—it’s the force of his fist moving fast.
"Thank you," he exhales, the word almost reverent as he takes in your appearance.
"Hi, baby. Let me see your face," you don't ask it like a question. You order it.
He obeys instantly. His face fills the screen, his jaw tight and corded, his sharp fade a bit messy from the heat and the friction.
"You look good," you compliment, but the little laugh that follows makes it sting.
"Keep talking." He’s close, you can hear the strain in his voice. "Don't stop."
"I want to see."
He blinks, his eyes glazed and dark. "What?"
"I'm not repeating myself."
He lets out a breathless, desperate laugh, knowing your patience is thin. "Take your shirt off then. Let me see what I'm working for."
You narrow your eyes at the audacity, but you reach down and tug the pajama top off anyway. Your lace bra catches the light, the fabric straining against the fullness of your breasts. You don’t cover yourself; he’s seen you in less, and you want him to see exactly what he’s missing.
"Fuck," he groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain. He flips the camera.
Your breath catches. Your mouth goes dry. His dick is a complete mess—his fist is working tight and fast, the dark, veined length of him glistening with pre-cum. White streaks of cum are already dried tacky over his thighs from previous rounds, and his stomach is flexing with every pull. His abs are glistening, his skin slick with sweat. His thumb smears a fresh bead of precum over the flushed, velvet head until it gleams, dripping onto his knuckles.
You bite your lip hard, heat twisting through your belly, your shorts already sticking damp between your thighs.
His moan rips through the line, a guttural, animal sound.
You whisper his name, your voice low, trembling, and possessive. "... I really want you in my mouth."
His head snaps back against the pillow, a broken curse ripped from his lungs. "If I had you here? I’d fuck that throat till you cried. Till you gagged around me and begged for air. I’d hold your head and make you take every fucking inch."
You hum, a low, taunting vibration. "You’re not tough enough for that."
That pulls a dark, dangerous laugh from him. His hand works faster, the veins straining down his forearm. "Say that shit again. I’d hold your face down and shove my dick so deep you’ll feel me in your chest. I’ll make you swallow every drop."
Your thighs squeeze together, wetness soaking through the crotch of your shorts. "All talk. You’d fold the second it touched my tongue."
He groans, deep and pained. "God, you drive me fucking insane." His breath stutters, then—"Take your bra off for me. Now."
You tilt your head, slow and teasing. "You want a show?"
"Take it off." His voice is rough, a plea threaded with a hard command.
You hook your fingers into the lace, slipping it down your shoulders, letting it fall. Your breasts sit full and heavy in the camera’s glow, your nipples tight and peaked in the cool air.
He chokes on his own breath. "God, look at you. Perfect. Fucking perfect."
Your fingers lift, tugging lightly at one nipple, rolling it between your fingers. "Like this, baby?"
His hand drags hard down his dick, the slick sound of it filling your ears. "Yeah—play with them for me. Pinch ‘em. Roll ‘em." His eyes roll back for a second, his mouth slack. "Fuck—I wanna cum all over those tits. Paint you, watch it drip down your stomach. You’d look so good messy with my cum."
You coo, your voice dirty and soft. "Yeah, baby? You wanna ruin me like that? Wanna cover me ‘cause I’m yours?" You pinch harder, moaning low. "Mmh, I’d let you do it however you want."
His hips jerk up into his fist, his cock flushed dark, thick, and veined. The head is shiny with slick, and your eyes stay locked on it, transfixed by the weight of him in his palm.
You whisper, almost reverent. "I can’t stop watching your hands. They're so big and veiny. So strong. You're twitching in your grip—look at you, baby. All that for me."
He groans raggedly, his fist slapping wetly down the length of his shaft. "All for you. Always for you." His voice cracks, desperate. "Squeeze 'em, touch your tits harder. Let me see you play with those pretty nipples."
You squeeze your breast, pinch your nipple harder, tugging it until you gasp, your eyes locked on his fist pumping. The sound of it—wet, obscene, skin slapping skin—is the only thing in the world.
"Fuck," he grits out, his voice frayed. "I’d drag you down and smear every drop over you. I wanna fill you up."
You laugh softly, mean but sweet. "Yeah? You’d mark me up? Cover me so everybody knows this pussy’s yours? Even though you’ll never get to fuck it?"
He groans, almost breaking under the weight of the tease. "Stop—don’t say that. I’d fuck you stupid, ma. I’d split you open. Make you cry for me."
You hum, stroking your breast with slow, deliberate circles. "I bet you would. But right now? All you’ve got is your hand. And me watching."
His grip tightens, his strokes becoming rough and fast. His stomach flexes, his breath tearing ragged from his chest. You lean close to the screen, your voice low and syrup-thick.
"Cum for me, baby."
He moans, a high, guttural sound.
"Yeah," you coax, squeeze your breast, shifting them again, "make a mess for me. Let me see you shoot it all over yourself. Come on. Show me how much you want me."
"Fuck—" His hips stutter up into his fist. Precum spills slick down his shaft, his knuckles shiny and wet.
"Begging you, sweetheart," you whisper, cruel and filthy. "Paint yourself for me. Cover that stomach, those big hands—show me what I do to you."
He chokes, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw locked tight as his body begins to coil for the release. "M’close—oh fuck, I’m gonna—"
"Do it," you purr, sharp and commanding. "Cum for me, baby. Now."
His whole body jerks. A shout rips from his throat, raw and primal, as thick, hot ropes of cum spill over his hand, his chest, dripping down his stomach in heavy white streaks. He pumps through the release, groaning brokenly, the cum splattering messy and hot across his skin.
You sigh, watching the way it looks against his skin, your voice turning sweet again. "That’s it. Good boy. Look at that dick, dripping for me. You made such a mess."
He’s panting, ruined, his hand still twitching around his softening length. "Fuck... fuck, I love you."
You tilt the camera, watching him still sprawled—sweat dripping, stomach streaked with cum, hand twitching.
"Mmh," you hum, soft and wicked, "look what you did, baby. Got me all wet."
His head snaps up, eyes heavy but blazing. "Show me."
You smirk, slipping your hand under the waistband of your shorts, dragging the damp fabric aside. Glossy, honey-thick strings pull as you spread yourself open, the phone angled just enough to flash him a glimpse of your soaking wet center. "See that? All for you."
He groans, his chest heaving. "Touch it for me. Play with yourself—please, ma."
Your laugh is low and cruel. "Not a chance. You already got your show."
His jaw tightens, his voice rough. "Don't play with me. You don't let me watch, I'll make you beg next time. I'll make you sorry."
You lean close to the screen, your smirk sharp and triumphant. "Try me. You don't scare me, baby. I said no."
His fist curls against his stomach, frustration pouring through the camera. "Then... at least—fuck—at least let me listen. Please. Let me hear it."
You bite your lip, dragging your fingers slow through your slickness, making yourself whimper. "You’re nasty."
"Yeah," he rasps, desperate. "For you. Only for you."
You sigh, soft and sweet, pressing two fingers against your clit until your hips twitch. "Fine. You can listen. But that’s it. Just your ears."
Your moans slip out, low and syrupy, filling the line. His breath shudders at the sound, ruined but hungry again. Your fingers circle your clit, the wet, squelching sounds of your own pleasure bleeding into the line. You bite your lip, letting a whimper slip, knowing he’s eating every sound alive.
"That’s it," he rasps, his voice still raw from cumming. "Rub that pretty pussy for me. God, I wanna be there so bad—wanna hold your thighs open and eat you till you’re crying."
Your head tips back, your breath shaky. "Mghn—You talk so nasty, baby."
"You don’t even know," he grits out. "I’d spread you out and pound that pussy till you scream. I’d fuck you till you smell like me. I'd never let you leave the bed."
A moan rips out of you, high and breathless. Your fingers circle faster, your hips rolling up off the bed as the tension coils.
"You like that?" he groans. "Knowing how bad I want you? Tell me you’ll give it up one day. Tell me I’ll get to fuck you for real."
Your laugh cuts sharp and shaky. "N-No, baby. You’ll never have me like that."
He curses, a guttural sound of frustration. "Fuck. You’re killing me, ma."
Your moans rise, sharper now, your body coiling tight. "Keep talking. Don't stop."
He obeys, his voice a low, gravelly anchor. "I’d hold your hips down. Spit in your mouth while I fuck you raw. Fill you up and make you go for hours."
That does it—your back arches, your thighs clenching tight as your orgasm rips through you. A sharp cry tears from your throat, your fingers working frantically over your clit as waves of pleasure slam through your body. You gasp his name, shuddering and trembling, your juices dripping messy against your hand.
He groans raggedly, listening to the sound of your break like it’s gospel. "That’s it—fuck, that’s it. Cum for me. Good girl. Good fucking girl."
You collapse back, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin. You let out a low, satisfied hum. "Oh, shit... see what you did? You made me cum, handsome."
His breath hitches on the other end, broken and reverent. "...I’d do anything to see that."
Your breathing slows, your chest still rising and falling heavy. Your fingers slip from your soaked folds, leaving a wet sheen on your thighs. The line is quiet except for the sound of you both catching your breath.
He’s the first to break it, his voice ragged. "Man... I swear, one day—"
You cut him off with a sweet, dismissive little laugh, curling back into your pillow and pulling the covers up. "Shh. Don’t start again."
The silence stretches, thick and heavy with the things he wants to say. You can feel the ache in his voice, how close he is to spilling confessions you aren't ready to hear. So you give him something else. Something cruel, but honest.
"Thank you," you murmur, soft and sweet. Almost tender. "I love you so much, baby."
The phone goes quiet. You can picture him—eyes wide, lips parted, his heart clenching around those words. You know exactly what you’ve done to him.
You smile to yourself, curling the blanket over your bare chest. "Good night."
And you hang up before he can even find his voice to answer.
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cw: sadist reader, edging, kinda dacryphilia, char is NOT A MASOCHIST, begging
art credits: @pyanyasha on x
"haah.." he pants, sweat dripping down his bare body.
his pants rest around his ankles as a slight restraint, and wrists tied together behind his back. youre fully clothed under him (even though your shirt and pants are basically see-through now from his sweat.). They stick uncomfortably to your skin, you try to wiggle around to free yourself, just for the wettness to drench another part of skin; you shiver from the coldness.
When he said he'd do anything for you, he didn't know you'd take it so far. It's been 3 hours into you edging him now, and he's starting to go crazy—but he quickly loses himself in your touch again when you whisper sweet nothings into his ear, licking the shell of it to earn another moan out of him.
"baby.. come o-on.. please!.." he whines.
he turns his head to kiss you but you lean back. You can't help but giggle at his attempts to try and please you even while his hips jerk up into your unforgiving hand. He's trained so well.
"Youre so mean—hng!"
He keels over as you press your thumb into his tip, precum gushes out of the slit in an instant, and you swear you could hear him sob.
"t-that hurts.. (your name), please.." he sputters and writhes under your grasp, but his hips don't hesitate to move desperately now. he's so fucking embarrassed at the mess he's made already, and he hasn't came once. his pink tip puffy and glistening with his essence.
"You can take the pain.." Your lips quirk up into a devilish smirk; which he can imagine is plastered on your face based on your honeyed tone, but he has trouble looking at you, as his body involuntarily coils up.
He chokes on his own gasp of relief when you remove your thumb from his aching tip, he's eternally grateful, even if his mind is too fogged up to tell you. he lays his head back to rest against your chest, eyebrows knitting together, and lip trembling. his chest heaves with growing intensity each time your hand pumps his base; you can tell he's getting close now, so of course, you slide your hand off of it.
He cries out furiously, causing you to flinch, but you can't help the smile that forms when he tries to babble pet names and pleads. even though it's useless since they're shadowed by his rasped and feverish breaths, you appreciate the effort. His face contorts into a pathetic expression, and he looks up at you—seemingly unaware of how his hips keep bucking up into nothing.
this is the hottest thing i've ever seen
You reach out to wipe a tear threatening to spill out of his lower eyelid, while your other hand uses the blanket to dry off his cock. Then you finally lean in to kiss him, pressing your lips against his. his eyes flutter shut when you lick into his mouth, and allow his tongue to mingle with yours. you slowly close your lips around his tongue to suck on the wet muscle, bobbing your head as if it was his dick. Your hand creeps towards his unknowing cock, and You gently run your nails up and down the shaft. Causing him to shiver from such a small gesture makes you giggle into your boyfriend's mouth proudly.
you swallow his moans as you wrap your hand around his dry manhood, spine instantaneously arching. You pull away from the kiss when you pump him faster, the friction of your dry hand and his dry shaft rubbing against each other not slowing your movements down one bit. Not even when his eyes gloss over, when his nostrils flare, or even when he yelps in pain. You quickly feel the heat building in your core as he thrashes around, trying to escape the overwhelming feelings of arousal and pain youre inflicting on him.
"stop! stop, (your name)! it—Fuck!" he wails, panting shakily.
but his cries only spur You on. You lean in to nip and lick at his neck as he sobs in agony. tears start to dribble out of his eyes, contrasting the way he keeps bucking into your hand.
"it hurts! it hu-hurts!" a guttural cry tears out of his throat as you feel wetness suddenly drench your hand. salty liquid drips onto your tongue; it seems his tears made it down to his neck already, but it's hard to focus on giving him a hickey when he keeps seizing. You slow your movements down and lift your head up to look at the mess he's made.
Fuck..
drool trickles down the corner of his mouth, eyes blood shot red and skin stained from tears, hair drenched and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks, nose dripping with a disgusting mixture of sweat and snot, and chest heaving with quick and recovering breaths. Your eyes trail down to where your hand lies, holding the base of his raw, red, skinned cock. Shit. the wetness wasn't his cum, it was from serous drainage. (the clear/yellow liquid that comes out of a cut/injury). his peeled skin resigns under your fingernails, and he disorientedly looks at you, eyelids heavy. he mutters something, but youre too focused on his beautiful expression to listen, lapping up the drool that spills from his kiss-bruised lips. He whimpers at your soothing touch when you plant wet kisses on his forehead.
"hu...hurts..." his eyelids flutter closed. you worry that he's gonna faint, but he just seems exhausted for now.
"i know, let me take care of you." your hand trails along his chest, finding one of his nipples and rolling it between your fingers.
he can feel his balls aching for release, and his dick throbbing in anguish, nausea churns in his stomach at the thought of you touching it again. it hurts. so so so badly.
"No, no, please! please please please!" he hiccups.
"but don't you want to feel good? You dont wanna feel my cunt around you?" you taunt him.
"No—yes! i, i do!" he whips his head around to kiss your neck, trying to encourage you to fuck him.
You shamelessly laugh at his efforts, making his eyes gloss over once again.
the end ☺️
thank yew for reading!!! this was fun to writeeee like i literally wrote this in one day dawg 😭 - peach!
Soo i had an idea for strawhats x reader, and the reader kinda has the same mouth scars as obanai from demon slayer, but like obanai she hides it like how he does with the bandages and what not, and they can have the same personality if you wanna incorporate that, so she’s hostile, rude and she could have heterochromia like him. Then maybe one day when the strawhats are fighting marines or something she sees that one of them are about to get hurt, so she swoops in to save them. However because of that I guess her bandages come off revealing the scar?? (And maybe the scar slightly started bleeding again too, but she just brushed it off like it was nothing idkkk)
Have a nice dayyyyyy
⋆˙ The Scarred Secret ˎˊ˗
── .✦ Strawhat Pirates x Fem!Reader 𓆘
✮⋆˙ Word count: 6.4 k!!
ᯓ★ warnings: past child abuse/neglect, scaring, cult, family betrayal, Violance, PTSD, angst and fluff
✮⋆˙ a/n sorry for not posting::(((
The sea was loud, but the silence inside was louder.
The Thousand Sunny cut through the waves with a rhythmic, playful spray, the wood beneath your boots thrumming with the life of a ship that was loved. Behind you, the galley doors leaked golden light and the chaotic symphony of the Straw Hats—Luffy’s boisterous demands for more meat, Usopp’s tall tales of bioluminescent monsters, and the clinking of Sanji’s glassware.
But as you leaned your elbows against the cool railing, their voices felt like radio static from a distant shore. Darkness was a language you spoke more fluently than laughter.
You let your fingers curl into the worn wood, staring into the endless black of the ocean. For a fleeting, cold second, the horizon vanished. The salt air turned stale and thin. You weren’t on a ship anymore; you were back in the room without windows.
The memory of that darkness was thick, a physical weight that pressed against your ribs, whispering that you were a thing, not a person. You could almost hear the phantom rattle of chains—that specific, cold slide of metal against stone. You had learned back then that crying brought attention, and attention brought pain. Silence was the only armor you owned.
Unconsciously, your hand drifted upward, your fingertips grazing the rough texture of the bandages wrapped tightly around your jaw and mouth. The fabric was a sanctuary. It was the wall between the world and the jagged truth of what had been stolen from you. They thought it was a warrior’s preference. They didn’t know it was a shroud for a ghost.
A soft hiss vibrated against your collarbone.
Your white snake, a silent sentinel, tightened his coils around your shoulders. His scales were like polished marble against your neck. You reached up to stroke beneath his chin, grounding yourself in the present. He relaxed, but his golden eyes remained fixed on the dark water, mirroring your own vigilance. Sometimes, you felt like that child again—chosen for all the wrong reasons, waiting for the shadows to reach out and reclaim what they had marked.
“Oi.”
The voice was heavy and unhurried, cutting through the trauma like a blade through silk. You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to; the scent of sake and sharpened steel told you exactly who had occupied the space beside you.
“Getting lost in your head again?” Zoro muttered. He leaned his forearms against the railing, his three swords shifting softly at his hip.
You exhaled slowly, forcing the windowless room to dissolve. The sea rushed back in—the spray, the wind, the reality of the deck. “I was just thinking,” you said, your voice barely a notch above the waves.
“Hn.” He didn’t press. Zoro was many things, but a pryer wasn’t one of them. He understood the weight of a past you had to carry alone.
For a long time, the two of you stood in a silence that didn't feel like a cage. It was a silence that breathed.
“You make that face when you’re about to stab something,” Zoro said eventually, glancing at you with a half-lidded eye.
You blinked, pulled fully into the light. “What face?”
“The one where you look like you’re somewhere else. Somewhere shitty.”
Your fingers tightened on the railing, then forced themselves to loosen. The echo of the chains finally died away. “I’m here,” you replied firmly.
Zoro studied you for a heartbeat, measuring the truth in your tone, before grunting. “Good. Luffy’s looking for you. Said something about a ‘serious meat emergency.’ Apparently, he needs a judge.”
You felt the ghost of a sigh escape you. “Lead the way,” you murmured.
Zoro scoffed, turning toward the light of the galley. “You’re the one with the weird sense of direction. Don’t blame me if we end up in the crow’s nest.”
As you followed him, the night remained black, but the suffocating weight was gone. You stepped through the doors, and the warmth hit you like a physical embrace.
“Y/N!” Luffy shouted, his face stretching into a grin that could rival the sun. “You’re just in time for justice!”
Usopp pointed dramatically at a pile of grilled skewers. “Sanji is clearly favoring the swordsman! Look at the sear on that steak!”
“I am not, you long-nosed brat!” Sanji snapped, though he was busy placing a perfectly garnished plate in front of Nami with hearts practically dancing in his eyes.
You looked at the meat, then at the expectant, ridiculous faces of the crew. You pointed a finger at Luffy. “You get the biggest piece,” you said calmly. “Because you’ll steal it anyway.”
Luffy gasped, clutching his chest as if he’d been knighted. “See?! She gets me! She’s a genius!”
The room erupted. It was loud, chaotic, and smelled of spices and friendship. You remembered when you first stepped onto this ship—how you had slept with your back to the wall, watching them like a cornered animal waits for the predator to strike. But the strike never came. Instead, there was this: Chopper asking to see your snake, Robin offering a knowing, gentle smile, and Jinbei’s steady, grounding presence.
The night eventually wound down. The plates were cleared, the jokes turned to yawns, and the crew drifted toward their bunks. You slipped away, a shadow among shadows.
In the girls' quarters, Nami and Robin were settling in. They didn’t ask why you kept your face covered. They didn’t ask why you didn't eat with them. They simply offered a quiet “Goodnight” and left the lamp dim.
You waited. You listened to the rhythm of their breathing until it was deep and steady.
Only then did you rise.
You moved like a ghost to the galley, where the moonlight silvered the floorboards. On the counter sat a plate of rice and fish, wrapped carefully—Sanji’s silent way of saying he knew you were hungry.
You sat alone at the table. Your pulse thudded in your ears. The darkness here didn't feel like the room without windows; it felt like a secret.
Slowly, your fingers reached for the knot at the back of your head. You unwound the bandages inch by inch. The cool air touched skin that had been hidden for years. You felt the slight pull of the scar—the jagged, cruel mark that stretched from the corner of your mouth, a permanent souvenir of a life you’d escaped.
You ate quickly, eyes downcast, refusing to look at your reflection in the darkened window.
Creak.
The floorboards groaned. You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. You didn’t look up. You couldn't.
“You’re loud when you’re nervous,” Zoro’s voice rumbled from the doorway.
Your hands flew to the bandages, your fingers trembling as you began to rewrap the cloth with frantic, practiced precision.
“Go back to sleep,” you said, your voice tight.
There was a long silence. You expected him to walk away, or worse, to step closer.
“I wasn’t looking,” he said flatly.
You finished the knot, pulling it tight until it felt like a shield again. Only then did you look over your shoulder. He was leaning against the frame, his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't seen. Or, more accurately, he had chosen not to.
“You should eat with us,” he added, his voice dropping to a low, rough register.
“I prefer the quiet,” you whispered.
“Hn.” He didn't move. He didn't pry. He just existed there in the dark with you. “You’re safe here,” he said finally. It wasn't a promise or a platitude; it was a fact, as solid as the swords at his waist.
Your fingers tightened around your chopsticks. The terror of being known fought with the strange, burgeoning warmth of being accepted.
“I know,” you said.
Zoro pushed off the wall and turned to leave. “Don’t stay up too long. We hit port at dawn.”
As his footsteps faded, you looked down at the empty plate. The room was dark, and the sea was still loud, but for the first time in your life, the darkness didn't feel like a cage. It felt like home.
The return to the girls’ room was a silent affair, a ghost sliding back into the safety of the sheets. Your snake coiled comfortably at your side, his cold-blooded warmth a grounding weight against your wrist. You faced the wall, but for the first time in an age, you didn’t curl into yourself as if bracing for a blow. The darkness in this room had lost its teeth. It didn't whisper of the things you'd lost or the places you'd been; it simply held you. For the first time in a long while, you fell asleep before the memories could catch up.
Morning on the Thousand Sunny was never a gentle awakening. It was a volcanic eruption.
“BREAKFAST!” Luffy’s howl shattered the dawn, echoing from the deck above.
You woke instantly, your eyes snapping open to the soft gold of sunlight filtering through the curtains. It wasn't the captain's voice that roused you—it was the fact that your body had forgotten how to sleep deeply. Hyper-vigilance was a hard habit to break. Nami’s bed was already empty, and while Robin remained still, the subtle change in her breathing told you she was already navigating the waking world.
Near your collarbone, your snake lifted his head, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt in the morning air.
“You’re dramatic,” you muttered under your breath. He simply blinked, a silent observer of your morning ritual.
You sat up, your fingers moving with mechanical precision to check your bandages. Tight. Secure. The jagged truth of your past remained hidden beneath the fabric. By the time you stepped onto the sun-drenched deck, the usual storm was in full swing. Luffy was mid-skirmish with Usopp over a final pancake, Sanji was brandishing a spatula like a weapon of war, and Chopper was cheering from the sidelines.
“There you are!” Luffy beamed, a syrup-covered fork pointing your way. “Tell them I deserve the last one!”
“You don’t,” you replied flatly.
Luffy’s face fell into an expression of theatrical betrayal. “Betrayal!”
“You’ve already had seven,” you noted, grabbing a cup of tea.
“Six!”
“Seven. I count everything.”
Zoro snorted into his mug from his spot against the mast. You moved past the chaos, leaning against the railing to watch the horizon. Sanji, ever observant, appeared at your elbow. He placed a plate of finely cut fruit—small, manageable pieces—on the railing beside you. He didn't ask you to sit. He didn't ask you to unmask.
“I’m not eating it here,” you said coolly, your eyes fixed on the sea.
“I know,” he replied, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “For later.”
Your eyes flicked toward him, a brief moment of connection before you looked away. “…Thank you.”
The morning progressed in a blur of laughter and the steady creak of the ship. Jinbei arrived with news of calm waters and an island on the horizon, his presence as steady as an anchor. But the peace was shattered when Luffy, in a fit of excitement, slung an arm around your shoulders.
You froze. Your snake tensed into a coil of white muscle. Luffy grinned, oblivious to the fact that he was dancing on the edge of a blade.
“You’re coming exploring with us later, right?!”
You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a chilling neutrality. “Remove your arm.”
Luffy laughed, unabashed. “You’re so grumpy in the morning!”
“Remove. It.”
A sharp smack echoed as Zoro’s hand connected with the back of Luffy’s head. “Idiot. Don’t grab her like that.”
Luffy stumbled back, rubbing his scalp. “Ow! She didn’t even stab me this time!”
“I considered it,” you replied, though you felt the tension in your shoulders begin to ebb. Before, a touch like that would have ended in blood. Now, it ended in a warning. It was a strange kind of progress.
“I’ll go exploring,” you eventually muttered, almost to yourself.
Luffy whipped around, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Really?!”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
The island arrived in the afternoon—a lush, green stretch of rock and tropical heat. While Brook stayed behind to "guard" the ship (and avoid the steep hills), you stepped onto the sand with the others. The town beyond the treeline was a riot of color and sound, a bustling hub of life that felt alien to someone who had spent so long in the shadows.
As the crew splintered off—Luffy toward food, Robin toward books, Nami toward the promise of treasure—you found yourself trailing behind. But as you watched them, you saw the small things. You saw Chopper’s longing look at a display of rare herbs. You saw Nami’s lingering gaze on a gold bracelet. You saw Zoro’s quiet interest in a set of high-grade whetstones.
Before the Sunny, you had been a collector for the underworld. You knew the value of things, and you had the coin to prove it. You had walked away from that life with a heavy purse and a heavier heart.
One by one, you began to move through the stalls. You didn't haggle; you simply provided.
When you rejoined the group, your arms were full of wrapped parcels. You dropped a bundle of rare field manuals and dried moonroot into Chopper’s hooves. His eyes watered instantly, the sheer value of the medical texts leaving him speechless. You handed Nami a velvet box containing a gold bracelet that matched her log pose perfectly. You tossed a professional-grade whetstone to Zoro, who caught it with a look of genuine surprise.
Sanji found imported spices in his bag; Usopp and Franky found specialized tools; Jinbei received a pipe of polished driftwood. Finally, you held out a book to Robin—a first edition of a history long since erased.
Her fingers brushed yours as she took it. “…You notice more than you let on,” she murmured.
You looked away, the heat in your cheeks hidden by the bandages. “Don’t read too loudly.”
Luffy stood there, watching the exchange, his eyes wide. “Wait—did you buy stuff for me?”
You didn't say a word. You simply handed him a massive sack of meat skewers. He let out a scream of pure delight and tackled you before you could move. This time, when his weight hit you, you didn't stiffen. You didn't reach for your sword.
“Get off,” you muttered, though there was no bite in it.
“You’re the best!” he laughed, already tearing into a skewer.
As the crew moved through the town, louder and more joyous than before, you fell into step beside them. You realized then that buying these things wasn't just about generosity. It was a bridge. It was a way to participate in their world without having to say the words you weren't ready to speak.
You were still sharp. You were still scarred. You were still the woman who lived in the dark. But as the sun beat down on your shoulders and the laughter of your nakama filled the air, you realized you weren't just standing in the sun. You were finally starting to feel its warmth.
The act of giving had always been your quietest armor. Buying the things they needed before they were asked for was safer than any conversation, a way to weave yourself into the fabric of the crew without ever having to unspool your own story.
Zoro slowed his pace until he was walking beside you, his presence like a steady weight. "You don't have to do that," he said, his voice low enough that it didn't carry to the others.
"I know."
"But you wanted to."
You didn't answer. Ahead, the town was a kaleidoscope of color and noise, and for the first time, you didn't feel like a creature of the basement. You felt like someone who had made a choice.
Then, the world broke.
It happened with the suddenness of a lightning strike. Luffy, ever the impulse of the sea, reached over a vendor’s stall and snagged a fruit. The owner’s scream of "Crimson Crest!" acted like a dinner bell for violence. Within seconds, men with red sashes and hungry eyes had surrounded the crew.
The leader of the local muscle stepped forward, his gaze hardening on Luffy. You didn't think; you simply moved. You stepped between your captain and the threat, your snake’s head rising from your shoulder with a sharp, protective hiss.
"Give it back," the leader demanded.
Luffy swallowed the last bite with a satisfied grin. "Can't."
The street erupted.
Steel sang against steel. You moved with a fluid, serpentine grace, your blade deflecting strikes before they could even fully form. You were a blur of motion, a shadow that bit back. Beside you, Zoro was a whirlwind of green, Sanji a streak of fire, and Jinbei a wall of immovable stone.
But then, a whistle pierced the din. Not local muscle. Marines.
"Drop your weapons!"
Luffy’s answer was a lazy, "No," and the air filled with the sharp crack of gunpowder. The fight didn't just escalate; it transformed. This wasn't a street brawl anymore; it was an execution attempt on an Emperor.
You wove through the smoke, your blade a silver arc of precision. A lieutenant charged you, his strikes heavy and desperate. You parried, the vibration rattling your teeth, but you didn't yield. Pain was just noise, and you were a master of silence.
Then, you heard it. Chopper’s cry.
He was cornered, shielding a fallen civilian as three Marines leveled their rifles. One man, closer than the rest, raised a sword to strike the little doctor down.
You exploded forward. You didn't have time for a parry. You shoved Chopper clear, your body a living shield.
Steel met fabric.
There was a sharp, sickening snap of tension. Your vision tilted as something that had been part of you for years suddenly let go. The lower half of your face felt a sudden, terrifying rush of cold air.
A strip of white cloth fluttered into the morning light.
Time didn't just slow; it stopped. You landed on your feet, your blade still raised, but the world around you had gone mute. The Marine staring at you didn't attack. He froze, his eyes widening as he looked at what his blade had revealed.
The bandage drifted downward, weightless as a falling petal, before settling in the dirt.
For the first time in years, the sun touched the skin of your jaw. The scar pulled as you clenched your teeth—a jagged, cruel line that carved a path from the corner of your mouth, an intentional map of past cruelty. A thin seam of fresh red traced the old wound where the blade had grazed you.
You wiped the blood away with your thumb, your eyes never leaving the Marine.
Behind you, the chaos had faltered. Luffy’s fist was poised mid-air. Zoro’s swords lowered an inch. Nami made a sound—small, sharp, and broken.
"Are you hurt?" you asked. Your voice, without the muffling layers of cloth, was clear. Sharp. A bell in the wreckage.
Chopper stared at you from the ground, his eyes glossy. "Y-Your face—"
"I asked," you repeated, your pulse hammering in your throat, "if you were hurt."
He shook his head, trembling.
"Good."
You turned, the wind catching a loose thread of your remaining bandages, letting it whip behind you like a white ribbon. You saw the looks on their faces. Not the disgust you had rehearsed in your nightmares. Not the pity that would have been worse. Just a fierce, burning concern.
"Don't slow down," you said coolly, the edge in your voice cutting through their shock.
Zoro’s expression shifted, his fury turning outward toward the Marines. Luffy’s grin vanished, replaced by the terrifying stillness of a man who was about to end a war.
The battle resumed, but the energy had shifted. The Straw Hats were no longer just fighting; they were protecting.
"Scatter to the Sunny!" Nami’s voice rallied the group.
You ran, your feet light on the stone, the air still feeling strange against your skin. Every time a crewmate glanced back, their eyes would catch on the scar, but they didn't falter. They kept pace.
The harbor was a wall of white coats. The Marines were pouring in from the ships, desperate to claim the head of an Emperor. You slashed through a rifle barrel, shoving Luffy toward the pier. "Go!"
"I'm going!" he shouted, his eyes lingering on your face for a heartbeat longer than usual.
"Faster!"
The Thousand Sunny loomed ahead, a beacon of gold and wood. Brook was already at the rail, his expression turning grave as he saw the army at your heels. You leapt onto the deck, the wood thrumming beneath your boots.
"COUP DE BURST!" Franky’s roar was followed by a deafening explosion of air.
The ship didn't just move; it took flight. The docks, the Marines, and the town where you had left a piece of yourself behind vanished in a blur of white foam and blue sky. The Sunny sailed through the air for several breathless seconds before crashing back into the waves with a thunderous splash.
Then, there was only the sea.
The silence that followed was heavy. The adrenaline began to drain, leaving behind the sting of the salt air on your bared skin. You stood by the railing, staring at the horizon, your hand hovering where the bandages used to be.
You didn't reach for your blade. You didn't run to the girls' room to hide. You just stood there, the sun on your face, waiting for the first of them to speak.
The Thousand Sunny cut through the waves with a steady, rhythmic pulse that usually felt like a lullaby. Now, it felt like an accusation.
You remained rooted at the railing, your fingers white-knuckled against the wood. Your snake, sensing the jagged edge of your nerves, shifted slowly around your shoulders. He didn’t just coil; he moved with purpose, unwinding his length until his small, cool head draped across your cheek. He was a living veil, partially shielding the ruin of your face exactly where the cloth had once rested. You didn’t stop him. The small, cold weight was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Behind you, the deck was a graveyard of sound.
The silence was heavy, a suffocating shroud that had fallen the moment the ship’s flight ended. No one laughed. No one argued about rations. The crew stood scattered like broken chess pieces, their eyes fixed on you. The quiet was louder than the gunfire had been.
Your jaw tightened, the movement pulling painfully at the jagged, uneven ridges of the scar. With a practiced, dismissive motion, you wiped the last trace of fresh blood from your lip with your thumb. You turned your head just enough to look at the open ocean, your voice coming out calm, almost bored.
“...We escaped.”
But the silence didn't break. The ship rocked gently, the wood creaking as if it were the only thing allowed to speak.
“Ah!” Brook’s voice finally shattered the air, though it sounded fragile. “That was quite the escape! Yohoho! Very dramatic! I wish I could say my heart was racing, but I don’t have—” He stopped mid-sentence. You heard the rhythmic tap-tap of his cane as he moved closer. “...Hm.” Even without eyes, the shift in his posture made it clear he had seen it. The deep, intentional cruelty of the mark. “...Oh,” he whispered.
You didn't turn. You couldn't.
“Y/N?”
It was Chopper. You already knew that tone—the professional worry mixed with a child’s heartbreak.
“No,” you said immediately.
“But—!”
“No.”
Tiny hooves tapped against the deck as he hurried forward anyway. “It’s bleeding again!”
“It stopped.”
“It didn’t stop!” he insisted, his voice rising in pitch. “I can see the smear!”
You wiped your mouth again, a faint streak of crimson proving his point. “It’s fine,” you said flatly.
Chopper looked like he might burst into tears. “That’s not fine! It’s a reopened scar! And it’s on your face! What if it gets infected? What if—”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that!”
You finally glanced over your shoulder. The rest of them were still there, a gallery of witnesses. They weren't staring with the hollow shock from before, but they were watching you with a terrifying, focused intensity—the kind that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. Zoro’s jaw was a hard line; Sanji looked like he was vibrating with a dozen unsaid things; Nami’s eyes were bright with a watery, frantic concern.
“Chopper,” you said, your voice like ice. “It has been there for years.”
“But it reopened!” he pleaded, reaching out a hoof. “Please let me clean it!”
“No.”
He stomped, his little hat wobbling. “I’m the doctor!”
“And I said no.”
“You jumped in front of a sword for me!” he blurted out.
The deck went dead again. You blinked, the wind whipping a loose strand of hair across your eyes. “...Irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant!” he squeaked, his voice cracking. “If you’re hurt because of us, then I have to fix it! Please!”
You stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Your snake shifted, his head lowering from your face as if giving permission. Chopper’s eyes were huge—determined, terrified, and utterly honest. You let out a long, slow sigh that everyone on the deck seemed to hear.
“...Fine.”
Chopper let out a gasp of victory, scrambling toward the infirmary. “But,” you added sharply, “only the new cut.”
He nodded so hard his whole body shook. “Yes! Yes! Of course!”
The crew parted like the Red Sea as you walked toward the stairs. You felt the weight of their gazes on your back, a physical pressure you tried to ignore as you followed the frantic pitter-patter of the reindeer's hooves.
Inside the infirmary, the air was still, smelling of antiseptic and dried herbs. You sat on the edge of the medical bed, arms crossed, your snake coiling in your lap like a guardian. Chopper climbed onto a stool, his movements uncharacteristically subdued.
“...I’m going to clean it now,” he said softly.
You nodded. The cloth touched your skin, and it burned—a sharp, biting sting that you met with a blank expression. Chopper worked with agonizing care, dabbing at the fresh red line where the Marine’s steel had grazed the old, jagged seam.
“...Who did this?” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could catch them.
You said nothing. The silence was your answer.
“It’s deep,” he whispered, his little paws trembling slightly.
“It was,” you replied.
He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours. “...Does it hurt?”
“No.”
It was a lie, a comfortable old friend you’d carried since the room without windows. Chopper finished with a thin layer of ointment and a small, fresh strip of bandage over the new injury.
“There,” he said.
You stood up immediately. “Thank you.”
He beamed, then hesitated, looking at the roll of white gauze on the counter. “...You don’t have to cover it again. If you don’t want to.”
Your hand paused mid-air. You looked at the bandages. Then you looked at the door leading back to the world. You picked the roll up anyway, but you didn't wrap it. Not yet.
You retreated to the lower hold, a place of shadows and crates where the ship’s groans were the only conversation. You leaned your back against the cool wood of the hull, staring at the white roll in your hand. Your fingers drifted up, tracing the ridges of the scar—the map of your survival. You pressed the new cut just to feel the sting, to remind yourself you were still there.
“Tch.”
“You break the ship, Franky’s gonna yell.”
Zoro’s voice was unhurried as he leaned against the doorway. You didn't turn. The shift of his swords was a familiar sound, a steady anchor in the room.
“...If you’re here to stare, leave,” you muttered.
“I’m not staring.”
“You are.”
“Hn.” He didn't move. “You didn't wrap it.”
“I was about to.”
“You weren't.”
You glared at him, but he didn't flinch. He looked at you—at the raw, jagged reality of your face—without a single tremor of pity.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“I’m always angry.”
“Not like this.”
You looked away, toward a small porthole where the sea was painting shifting patterns of light on the wall. “...They shouldn't have seen it,” you whispered. “People look at it, and they start asking questions. Or they give me pity.” You spat the word like it was poison. “I don't want that.”
Zoro was quiet for a heartbeat. “They won't.”
“You're very confident.”
“They're idiots,” he said simply. “But they're not that kind.”
You searched his eye, looking for any trace of the lie, but there was only the blunt, honest iron of his spirit. “...Chopper almost cried.”
“Chopper cries when it rains too hard.”
A small, involuntary snort escaped you. The tension in the room snapped, replaced by a strange, quiet understanding.
“You should wrap it if you’re gonna keep fighting like a lunatic,” Zoro said, pushing off the wall.
“Helpful.”
“I try.” He paused at the door, his back to you. “They weren't staring because it’s ugly, Y/N.”
You blinked, the breath catching in your throat.
“They were staring because someone did that to you,” he finished, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. Then, he walked out.
You stayed in the shadows as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruises of gold and purple. You eventually climbed the mast, settling onto a high crossbeam where the wind was strong and the voices of the crew were just a distant hum.
You watched them from above. Luffy laughing at one of Usopp’s lies; Sanji emerging from the galley with a tray, his eyes scanning the deck as if searching for a missing piece of the ship. You saw him look toward the spots you usually haunted. He looked concerned.
Your fingers brushed the cloth in your lap. You thought about the moment the bandages fell—the silence, the shock, the fresh air on your skin. You thought about the room without windows, and the people who had tried to break you.
You had always believed the bandages were for protection. But as you sat there in the fading light, safe among the loudest, most chaotic people you had ever known, you wondered if the protection was a cage of its own.
You looked at the roll of white gauze. Then you looked at the horizon.
For the first time in years, you didn't feel like you were hiding. You felt like you were waiting for the morning.
Dinner on the Thousand Sunny was a riotous, messy affair, a storm of clashing forks and booming laughter. Normally, it was a sound you observed from the perimeter, but tonight, the atmosphere in the galley was different.
Luffy was on his tenth plate, his cheeks bulging as he roared for more meat. Sanji snapped back at him while plating a fresh mountain of steak, his movements fluid and frantic. Usopp and Franky were deep in a heated debate about the ballistic trajectory of a human launched by a cannon, while Chopper chirped away about a complex medical theory involving herbal moss.
Everything looked normal. Except for the seat at the end of the long wooden table. Your seat.
It sat empty, a silent gap in the family portrait. Sanji’s gaze lingered there longer than he’d admit as he set down a final dish of steamed fish.
“She didn’t come down for lunch either,” Chopper murmured, his ears drooping as he stirred his soup.
Zoro didn't look up from his sake. “She’s around.”
“That’s not what I meant, Zoro,” the doctor whispered.
Robin, sitting with her usual poise, closed her eyes for a fleeting second. “She may need time,” she said softly, her voice acting as a gentle anchor for the group’s rising concern.
Luffy paused, a giant turkey leg halfway to his mouth. “Time for what?”
Before anyone could answer, the heavy thud of footsteps sounded on the stairs. The noise in the galley died as if someone had cut the power. You stepped into the room, your posture straight, your movements silent. The white bandages still covered the lower half of your face, and your white snake rested in a loose, protective coil around your neck.
You sat in your usual chair. No one spoke. The silence was a physical weight, thick with the unasked questions of the afternoon. You reached for the plate Sanji had prepared—rice, fish, vegetables.
Then, you did it.
With steady fingers, you reached up and caught the edge of the fabric. You began to unwind it. The cloth came away in slow, rhythmic loops. One layer. Then another. The final strip of white gauze fell away from your face, and you set it neatly on the table beside your plate.
Then, you simply began to eat.
Across the table, the crew finally saw the truth. The scar wasn't a small thing, nor was it faint. It was a jagged, cruel line that stretched from one corner of your mouth to the other, cutting through the natural shape of your lips like a canyon. It was an old wound, healed badly by hands that hadn't cared for your comfort.
Zoro’s eye narrowed with the cold precision of a swordsman. He recognized the pattern instantly. It wasn't the clean strike of a sword; it was the uneven, deliberate work of a knife. Sanji’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. Robin’s eyes were deep and thoughtful, while Jinbei’s brow lowered in a silent, somber respect.
The fresh, thin red line where the Marine had grazed you earlier sat like a brand against the pale, raised ridges of the old scar. You chewed slowly, seemingly unbothered by the gallery of eyes.
Luffy had stopped eating—a miracle in itself. You glanced up at him, your expression neutral.
“…Continue,” you said. Your voice was different without the fabric—clearer, sharper, carrying a weight you had long suppressed.
Luffy blinked. Then, with a sudden, wide grin, he shoveled another mountain of food into his mouth. The noise returned, though it was softer now, more careful. Usopp started a story that was twice as loud as necessary to cover the awkwardness; Franky responded with an enthusiastic "SUPER!" while Chopper went back to his soup, though his eyes remained bright with unshed tears.
But as the meal progressed, you felt a familiar tension rising in your chest. You saw Chopper look away too fast when you caught him staring. You saw Zoro’s knuckles whiten. Your snake sensed it too; he coiled tighter against your neck, his small head resting against the scar like a living shield.
“You know,” Robin said, her voice a silk thread in the chaos, “you don’t have to hide here.”
You looked up. Her expression wasn't one of pity. It was the look of someone who had lived through her own darkness and come out the other side.
“Your past is your own,” Jinbei added, his voice a deep rumble of gravity. “But your place here is not questioned.”
“Yeah!” Chopper chirped, nodding so hard his hat nearly fell off. “Scars just mean you survived something really hard!”
Usopp rubbed the back of his neck. “Plus, honestly? It makes you look way tougher.”
You stared at him, a spark of your old fire returning. “…I already looked tougher than you.”
“That’s not the point!” he squawked, and the table finally broke into genuine laughter.
Luffy leaned back, a piece of meat gripped in his hand. “I think it’s cool,” he said simply. “It means you fought something big and didn’t lose.”
The weight in your shoulders finally dissolved. You didn't wrap the bandages back on. You left them on the table, a white ghost of the person you no longer had to be.
Later that night, the Sunny was bathed in moonlight. The crew had drifted to the deck, the stars reflecting in the dark water like spilled diamonds. You sat on the upper rail, the wind cooling the skin of your face.
“You want to know,” you said into the quiet.
The crew turned. No one denied it. You looked at the stars, your voice falling into a cadence that sounded like a dark fairy tale.
“I was born into a cult,” you began. “They worshipped a man who ate a Devil Fruit—the Serpent God. He believed he was divine, and they believed him. They offered sacrifices. First animals, then prisoners.”
The air on the deck turned cold. You described the windowless wooden cages and the white snake that had crawled through the slats to find you—the only creature that didn't look at you like a sacrifice.
“They decided I should look more like their god,” you said, your fingers tracing the jagged line on your mouth. “My own family… they carved me open. They said it would make me resemble him.”
The silence on the deck was absolute. You could feel the fury radiating off Zoro and Sanji, the heartbreak from Nami and Chopper.
“So I killed them,” you said flatly. “I burned the temple, and I left.”
The story ended as simply as that. You didn't ask for tears. You didn't ask for revenge. You just stood there, the scar bared to the moonlight, finally exhaling a breath you had been holding for years.
When you finally went below deck to the girls' room, Robin was still awake, reading by the glow of a small lamp. She looked up, her gaze steady on your face.
“Thank you for trusting us,” she said.
“I didn't,” you replied, sitting on the edge of your bed.
Robin’s lips curved. “Not completely.”
“...Not completely,” you admitted.
“Scars are honest,” she said, closing her book. “They are proof you survived.”
You lay back, your snake coiling beside your pillow. For the first time since joining the Sunny, the hyper-vigilance didn't claw at your throat. You didn't count the breaths of your crewmates. You didn't listen for the rattle of chains in the dark.
“Are you tired?” Robin asked.
“...Yes.”
“That’s good. It means you feel safe enough to rest.”
You didn't answer, but as you closed your eyes, you knew she was right. Morning came not with a start, but with a gentle wash of sunlight through the porthole. You stepped onto the deck, the wind lifting your hair, the sun warming the jagged ridges of your mouth.
Luffy yelled your name from the bow, and you walked toward him, your head held high. The bandages were gone. The scar remained. But as the Thousand Sunny sailed forward into the bright, open blue, you realized the morning didn't just belong to the world. It finally belonged to you.
Not necessarily big as in genitalia, but big as in broading. Big shoulders and thighs, nice and burly and tall, just taking up space even when they don't mean to.
Big as in when you two walk together they're often considered the 'dominant' one in any situation, most people you come in contact with constantly asking just how on earth you take that every night. To which you just chuckle and shake it off, because the thought of you begging for them is almost comical.
As of they don't regularly drop to their knees whether you ask them to or not, big hands pawing at your crotch or inner thighs just for an ounce of your attention. How despite their size and opportunity to just take what they want from you—they would have no struggle practically picking you up off the ground and taking the lead. But they choose not to. They choose and even prefer to be at your mercy, embracing cruel or praising words while they writhe and beg for either more or less stimulation.
infact they get flustered when you offer the idea of them topping instead, they won't turn you down because they want you to feel good but they also show how little they know about it with how shaky their hips are when they roll into you, bear hugging you with deep strokes, nuzzled deep in your neck just begging for you to do something because they don't know what they're doing but what they do know is that it doesn't feel as good as when you do it.
summary: Sylus had a little too much to drink and asks you a silly question.
warnings: alcohol consumption, fluff (and a whole lot of it), some suggestive comments but it's more of sylus being a flirt
word count: 2,728
a/n: i tried to make it clear that sylus is not an alcoholic lmao, he just had a little bit too much to drink!
“Are you gonna try and stop him orrrr,” a muffled voice asked, words echoing through the hallway. Just outside the office room of the Onychinus base, Luke and Kieran peered their heads inside to observe the white-haired man who had just stood up from his black leather chair.
They technically weren’t spying—at least they wouldn’t define it as spying—they were simply watching over their boss! Their gaze followed the man in question as he walked to the other end of the room, grabbing an unopened bottle of liquor.
“Hell no. Do you remember the last time we told him to cut back?” Kieran whispered.
“That time he kicked us out of the base for the night or the time before that—or the time before that-" Luke rambled before being cut off.
“All of them, Luke! All of them! You know better than to mess with the boss man when a drink is in his hand.” Just as Luke was about to retort, a voice cut through the brief silence—freezing the boys in their places.
“I can hear you guys, you know,” Sylus turned his head in the direction of the door, a look of annoyance twisted with amusement forming on his face. “You boys aren’t exactly…quiet.”
The door to the room slowly opened as the twins made their way inside, heads hanging low. Luke and Kieran don’t respond to him immediately, patiently waiting for whatever scolding was to follow—-yet they were only met with silence. With a quick glance up towards Sylus, the twins were met with a glare of disappointment.
“We're sorry, Boss!” they both spoke in frightened unison before turning around and speed walking down the hallway—never giving Sylus the chance to finish his lecture. He clearly didn’t care enough though, letting them leave and wonder when his discipling would come.
He continued to twist open the bottle of whiskey he grabbed from the shelf and poured it into a cocktail shaker. He wasn’t drinking for any particular reason, sometimes he just enjoyed a nice beverage on a cool autumn night. Rarely did he ever let the amount of alcohol he consumed get out of hand—but there were definitely times when he almost had too much.
Tonight, he was teetering that edge of enjoying a couple beverages and accidentally downing an entire bottle. While he kept telling himself one more glass, that didn’t stop him from having his 4th—no, 5th glass of the night. Luckily, his high body mass allowed for him to consume far more alcohol than the average person before reaching a truly intoxicated state.
As the night carried on, Sylus continued to sip on the drink in his hand, listening to a vinyl on his vintage record player. As the instrumentals from the song played, he couldn’t help but softly hum along—thoughts of you consuming his mind.
His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall as he patiently waited for the moment you arrived home. Even though the sun had long set, he knew you were safe—with help from Mephisto’s watchful eyes of course. His eyelids felt heavy every time he blinked, but he never allowed himself to rest until he knew you were safe at home.
When you finally made it to the front door of the Onichynus base and turned the doorknob, you were greeted by two familiar faces.
“Hi boys,” you waved at the twins chatting in the living room which wasn’t far from the main entrance. “Have you guys eaten? If not, I grabbed some food on my way here,” you said, lifting up a white plastic bag filled with carry out.
“We ate already! The boss made some dinner earlier,” Luke responded.
“Good to hear,” you grunted while bending over to slip off your shoes. After you stood back up, you wandered into the living room to continue the conversation. “Where is he anyway? Has he gone to bed already?”
“Uhhh…no, not exactly. He should still be in his office—but beware—he’s had a drink or two,” Luke joked.
“More like a drink or five,” Kieran chimed in, causing you to chuckle to yourself.
“Haha, thank you guys. I’ll see you in the morning,” you said your goodnights and put your food in the fridge before making your way down the hall. You weren’t terribly worried about Sylus overdoing the amount he drank because he only ever had enough to get mildly drunk, never completely wasted. Plus it really only happened maybe once every other year—if that. He had always been a responsible drinker and there were even times when you encouraged him to let loose a little more.
When you reached the door to his separate living room, you softly knocked on the door.
No response.
Based on the sound of your favorite record playing from inside, you knew he was there. You moved to open the door and called out his name.
“Sylus? Syl–there you are.” When you make it into the room, you’re met with Sylus sprawled out in his chair. His head was tilted back but it perked up at the sound of your footsteps approaching him.
“Hey—*hic*— kitten,” he managed to say, greeting you with open arms. You couldn’t hold back the smile forming at both his words and appearance. His white hair was all ruffled from leaning back and his face was flushed a crimson red. You took a seat in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Hey there handsome, what have you been up to?” you giggled. It was a rhetorical question, of course. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he had been up to for the past couple hours.
“Destressing,” he replied simply with a lopsided smirk. His hand wrapped around you and found your arm as he lightly traced your skin with his fingers. The warm touch sent shivers down your spine and a soft sigh left your lips. His touch was always so comforting after a long day at work and you couldn’t have been happier to be home. “I missed you a lot.”
“I missed you too, Sy. I always do—you know that,” you whispered back. His pupils were blown wide, most likely from all the alcohol in his system, but little did you know that no drink could get him more intoxicated than the way you do. Sylus’ body leaned ever so slightly into yours and his eyes closed for a fraction of a second longer than usual, signaling to you that it was way past his bedtime. “We should get you to the bedroom, mister.”
“Mmm, the bedroom you say?” He joked, clearly not thinking straight.
“Yes, the bedroom. You know, the place where we sleep?” you asked as one of your eyebrow raises. At this point, it is becoming hard not to burst into laughter at his unseriousness.
“We…” he paused to gather his thoughts while a faint smirk appeared on his face. “We also—*hic*—do other things there, kitten.”
“Are you trying to seduce me right now!?” You lightly smacked his arm at his dirty mind, rolling your eyes playfully. Sylus simply t in response while going to move the hair out of the way—placing small kisses along your neck.
“Do you want me to be?” he slurred and his words strung out a little longer.
“I want you to sleep!” you whined with a small smile forming on your face. Even though his lips felt amazing, you pulled him away from your neck. “You’re on the verge of falling asleep upright in this chair when our bedroom is right down the hall.”
You go to climb out of Sylus’ lap but his hands gently wrapped around your waist, keeping you temporarily frozen in place. You shook your head and laugh to yourself at his persistence before pulling away from his grip. It didn’t take much strength to do so, leaving his arms to fall back to his sides like they were made of jello.
“Can you walk by yourself?” you asked.
“Can I—*hic*—or do I want to?” he spoke back, his sass becoming far more evident since you left his reach.
“I’ll meet you in the bedroom, Sy,” you said sweetly.
Even if you wanted to, there was no way in hell you would’ve been able to lift his large and muscular body by yourself. That left him no other choice but to get up on his own two feet all by himself. You figured he would eventually make his way to you just as he always did—and you were right. When you entered your shared bedroom, it wasn’t long before a drunk Sylus followed behind you. He didn’t say anything—not that there was much room for thought with the alcohol still flowing through his blood.
Sylus came to his senses enough to change into a pair of pajama pants while you made your way to your closet and put on some comfy sleepwear. You both walked towards your respective ends of your bed, but of course it wasn’t that easy. The limited control Sylus had left of his body only allowed him to flop onto the bed.
You immediately got out from under the covers and crossed the room to his side. A breathy laugh escaped your lips at the sight of the big and strong leader of Onychinus just barely making it into his bed. You rolled his body over, lifted the sheets from underneath him, and gently tucked them over him.
When you made it back to your side of the bed, you pulled Sylus closer to you. He instantly melted into your touch, resting his head on your chest. Just as his breathing slowed and he appeared to have fallen asleep, his voice filled the room.
“I love you,” he mumbled quietly, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. His gaze was captivating yet soft. Even though there have been countless times where you have gotten lost in his eyes, you never grew tired of it—in fact, you only craved him more.
“I love you too,” you replied. Your fingers tangled with his hair and you planted a kiss on his head. He really was your everything. You truly loved and adored every second with him, even if it meant making sure he made it into his own bed on a night he had a little too much to drink.
“I always have, you know—loved you,” Sylus confessed. “From the moment I met you and…even before then. I’ve loved you in every life and—*hic*—I promise to love you in every future life going forward, kitten.”
Listening to him ramble endlessly about his undying love for you almost made your heart explode. He has always had his fair share of incredibly romantic gestures and speeches, but right now felt different. His words unraveled onto each other and in that moment he was only able to say the unfiltered thoughts that were running through his mind.
“And because I—*hic*—have always loved you, and always will. I was wondering if you’d make me the happiest man alive and…marry me?”
Your eyes widened, taken aback by his words. A light blush dusted your entire face at his confession, making it harder to think straight. You searched for any signs of playfulness or him playing a joke on you, but you came up empty handed.
He was dead serious.
“You cannot seriously be proposing to me right now,” you grinned in amusement, knowing it was the alcohol talking.
“Is that a no? If so, please reconsider…” He was genuinely disappointed by your lack of response which shouldn’t have been funny, yet a small chuckle erupted from your throat. You knew that he wouldn’t have remembered any of this in the morning, so there was no true reason to accept or reject him.
“No, I am not saying no to your proposal, Sy. But I think that you should maybe sleep on a question that big,” you giggled, hoping to either shift the conversation to a different topic or finally convince him to go to sleep.
“I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t know what it meant. I—*hic*—want to spend the rest of my life with you—every day, every minute, every second—all of it, kitten.” Even while stumbling over some of his words, Sylus had a look written all over his face. The look somewhere between love and desperation that only came when he was completely consumed by your existence. Even drunk, he was forever devoted to you.
“You will spend the rest of your life with me, but right now you need a good 8 hours of sleep.”
“Do you promise?” Sylus was practically pouting, peering up at you. You wish you could take a picture of him like this but you knew teasing him in the morning was the best you were going to get.
“I promise, baby. Let’s get some sleep now, okay?” You lean in, pressing a soft kiss on his lips.
“Okay, kitten.”
The next morning came way too soon. The bright light shining through the bedroom windows caused you to stir in Sylus’ arms. You attempted to wiggle your way out of his grasp which only makes him hold onto you tighter.
“Sy, are you awake?” you whispered.
“Mmm,” he groaned in response, clearly not wanting to start his day just yet.
“I have to pee.”
“But you’re so warm.” His arms stayed wrapped around your waist. He went silent for a minute and you assumed he just fell back asleep—grip loosening on you which allowed you to slip out from both his grip and under the covers.
When you came back from the bathroom, Sylus was already mostly awake and laying his back against the headboard. He was always like this—the moment you left his side, he wasn’t able to fall back asleep. His hand reached for his forehead and his eyebrows furrowed in mild discomfort from his hangover.
“You had quite the night,” you said, breaking the silence. “You know, you’re quite the romantic when you’re drunk.”
“I was tipsy at most, kitten.” Sylus’ morning voice was deep and raspy, laced with his usual flirtatious and teasing tone. It brought you closer to him as you hopped onto his side of the bed and positioned yourself in his lap. His words sounded convincing but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than you.
“Oh yeah, wanna know what you asked me?”
“...I’m listening.” he responded while cocking an eyebrow, expressing his interest.
“For my hand in marriage,” you choked out, almost cutting yourself off from your own laughter.
That’s when the reality of the state he was in hit him. Yeah…he was definitely far beyond tipsy.
He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed from your retelling of his words from the previous night. Not because he asked you to spend the rest of your life with him—no, he meant every word—but because he had already asked you that very question two years prior.
His gaze flickered down from your teasing eyes to the shiny diamond ring wrapped around your left ring finger. The ring he held in his hands when he actually proposed to you.
You two had been happily married to each other for almost two years but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell your intoxicated husband the truth. It probably would’ve only confused his poor brain even more which would’ve led to an endless amount of incoherent questions. At the end of the night, you knew that all he needed was to sleep the alcohol off.
Now piecing together the events from the previous night, he understood how foolish he must’ve seemed. But as always, Sylus wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“I just wanted to relive the moment,” he spoke with false confidence. A light shade of red dusted his cheeks and ears, making it evident that he didn’t have a damn clue of what he was talking about.
“It’s okay to admit you were drunk out of your mind, you know?” you laughed at his attempt to move on from last night's “proposal”.
“Tipsy, kitten, tipsy.”
“Sure, whatever you say…I’ll be sure to include that crucial detail at our ‘future wedding’ when people ask me how you proposed.”
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pretending he's your boyfriend is easier when he's pulling down your panties every chance he gets!
synopsis: he's stubborn. he's cocky. and he's unfortunately stupidly in love with you. not that you've noticed. you went from being his biggest fan to being too busy chasing your own acting career to pay attention to him or his wins. that is, until your agent and his PR manager suggest an affair between everyone's least favorite actress and racer that lands you directly in his lap once again.
pairing: grumpy!f1 driver x actress f!reader
wc: 3.1k
series content: mdni, smut, angst + fluff, occasional racing lingo, heavy yearning/pining, lots of piv sex lol, f1 au, pr relationships, fake dating but they still fuck, in denial of feelings, messy relationships, semi-public sex, getting caught, in this chapter: male masturbation lol (he wants us BAD)
PREVIEW OF CHAPTER ONE BELOW
Should he be fucking his fist to the memory of some girl he hadn’t seen in almost two years?
Probably not. But you weren’t here to scold him for it.
Now you were just a face on the screen, a ghost that clung to the corners of his mind to torture him every time he crashed back in his bed at night.
His body ached. His limbs were exhausted, his brain lagging behind his body. Training. Travelling. Rehearsing. Racing.
It all fucking sucked sometimes.
When he came back to an empty hotel room, flipping through the tv to find one of your movies playing, his palm already pressing down on the painful bulge inside his sweatpants as you laughed at a scripted joke, smiling sweetly and tilting your head as the camera captured every cute detail of your face up-close.
It was the thought of what his cum had looked like dripping all over those lips that really did him in though. How you dragged your tongue over it to taste afterwards, sucking on it and looking up at him with glossy eyes just to kiss him before the last of it was off.
He had grumbled about it, but you giggled, grabbing his hair and pulling him down, asking for another round. Greedily capturing his lips like you caught his attention, taking without hesitation. Flipping him over, grinding against him and running your manicured nails over his chest, grinning at him when the lump in his throat bobbed.
Did you remember? Ever think about him?
Rub one out in your dressing room or probably overpriced penthouse? Watch his interviews or races and wish you were there?
He doubted it.
No, you were too big for him now. Had a movie star boyfriend and your own acting awards to rival his championship trophy.
He’d still sent an invitation when he was supposed to receive it. Looked for you in the crowd like a fucking idiot.
It wasn’t like he had any way to know he still had the right number. If it was even delivered to the right address.
You didn’t show. And he saw your posts later, a snapshot of a man’s hand on your thigh, a watch that probably cost as much as some of the car parts and replacement pieces for his F1 vehicle. It wasn’t that it caught him off-guard.
It just fucking stung.
Reminded him all you were to each other was a three-night-stand. Back-to-back nights of the best sex either of you ever had.
He hoped that was still as true for you as it was for him.
