âNo Takebacks" 9 (END)
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"One of Us, Forever Now" Word Count: 2.5K+
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You didnât know this supply stop would involve warlords.
There was no memo. No strategic debrief. No whispered warning while you sipped your morning tea and adjusted the straps on your satchel of disinfectant wipes.
Instead, you're standing on the dock in your best scowl, sipping tea from a travel mug that says âEmotionally Married, Spiritually Armedâ when Benn Beckman: stoic, unflappable, probably already regretting everything, murmurs out of the side of his mouth:
âBrace yourself.â
You donât get the chance to ask why.
Because he arrives.
You were prepared to be unimpressed. Honestly, you had planned for it. Youâd heard the stories. âGreatest swordsman in the world.â âCold as ice.â âCan kill with a look.â You expected the edge. Drama. The general scent of blood, leather, and an unresolved rivalry, with a hint of eyeliner.
What you did not expect⊠was perfection.
Dracule Mihawk steps off his ship like a man personally offended by the concept of grime. Heâs wearing full black leatherâcrisp black leatherâand somehow not sweating. His coat sways dramatically in the absence of wind. His boots shine like theyâve never touched sand. His beard is lined. His hat has no lint. No one has no lint.
You squint. Scan him from hat to heel like a customs officer at the end of their shift.
Nothing.
Not a speck. Not a smudge. Not even a hair out of place.
Even his sword is polished. You can see your own annoyance reflected in it.
You, in your sensible boots, travel-stained cloak, and utility belt full of antibacterial wipes, suddenly feel like a disgruntled librarian crashing Fashion Week.
âIs that leather?â you ask, almost accusing.
âYes,â Mihawk replies, voice dry as imported wine. âAnd clean.â
You twitch. âHow?â
âIâm not married to your captain.â
Shanks, several feet away, chokes on air and lives.
You inhale through your nose. Deep. Dangerous. The kind of breath that could power a war crime.
âYou know what? Fine. Great. I hope your laundry folds itself and your moisturizer never runs out.â
âIt doesnât,â Mihawk says with calm finality. âI have a system.â
You glare. This man has a system.
Even you donât have a system that gets leather that crisp after sea travel. Youâve tried. It always ends with humidity and muttering threats at mold like a feral exorcist.
Shanks leans in, barely containing laughter. âJealous?â
âIâm offended.â
Mihawk glides away like a gothic swan in head-to-toe couture. His coat billows behind him as if it were blessed.
âIâm going to bite him,â you mutter.
Shanks beams. âAs your husband, I cannot approveââ
You whip your mop at him like a divine judgment. Benn catches it midair with the resigned grace of a man whoâs already picturing his escape goat.
âYouâll be mad about this for weeks,â Benn sighs.
âYears,â you growl. âLeather. On a ship. And it was clean.â
Somewhere on deck, Mihawk polishes a wine glass like he knows.
Later. Much later. After the warlord has gone and a well-dressed swordsman has thoroughly challenged your self-worth, you decide to process things constructively.
With threats.
âHawkeyeâs ship has no mold,â you say one morning, inspecting a suspicious smear on the railing like itâs personally offended you.
âMm,â Shanks hums, upside-down in a hammock. âThatâs because he sleeps in a coffin lined with rejection.â
You ignore him. âHe has a skincare routine.â
âSo do barnacles.â
âHe wears leather.â
Shanks sits up. âYou want leather? Iâll wear leather.â
âYouâll sweat. Youâll smell. Youâll cry and beg for talcum powder.â
He pouts. âBut Iâll look cool doing it.â
You sip your tea. Smile. Itâs sweet, dangerous, and full of vengeance. âMaybe Mihawk would treat me to leather that breathes.â
Shanks blinks. Once.
Then stands.
Then walks away.
You assumeâfoolishlyâheâs gone to sulk like a rational pirate-husband.
He returns ten minutes later. Shirtless. Smirking and wearing leather pants.
They creak when he moves.
You drop your mug. It hits the deck with a clatter loud enough to make a nearby crewmate flinch.
âYou absolute menaceââ
âI will not be replaced,â Shanks declares, standing like heâs on stage at the final act of a very dramatic opera. Shirtless. Glowing. Wearing leather pants that creak with every self-righteous breath.
âYonko rules. Pirate law. Alsoââ he lifts a hand, fingers wigglingââI copied the marriage license again. And laminated it. So legally? Youâre stuck.â
You stare at him.
âYou laminated a copy?â
He beams. âTriple laminated. Waterproof. Fire-resistant. Mold-proof. Youâre welcome.â
âYou donât even laminate navigation charts.â
âThose donât keep my wife from eloping with that emotionally stable steak knife.â
You inhale. Sharp. Controlled. Murderous.
âWhere is it?â you ask flatly.
He grins wider. âHidden. Somewhere⊠poetic.â
You blink.
âDid you hide it in Mihawkâs hat again?â
Shanks gasps. âHow did you know?â
You throw your second mug. It misses. He catches it mid-air and toasts you with it, smirking.
You blink. âYou touched his hat?â
âI fear nothing but losing your approval.â
Then he steps forward, voice low, arms sliding around your waist like a sea-born threat. âTry to leave me,â he murmurs, âsee what happens.â
You narrow your eyes. âWhat happens is I marry Mihawk and live in a minimalist coastal estate with organized spices and a bidet.â
He growls.
Then he lifts you bodily and flops you onto the nearest hammock.
âFine,â he mutters. âIâll clean the kitchen. Iâll wear the gloves. Iâll get conditioner. But you are not,â he kisses your neck, âleaving me,â kisses your collarbone, âfor a man who dresses like a villainous steak knife.â
You lie there. Heart pounding. Pride obliterated.
ââŠMaybe Iâll visit Mihawk,â you whisper.
He throws you over his shoulder. âTHATâS IT. BRIDAL CAPTIVITY.â
And somewhere, far off on a misty cliffside, Mihawk sneezes. Delicately. Then glances skyward with a faint frown.
ââŠI feel watched.â
Meanwhile...
Benn Beckman stands at the edge of the deck like a man awaiting a tidal wave made of taxes. His cigarette burns low. His patience burns lower.
Behind him, chaos.
Lucky Roux is chasing a deckhand with a ladle. Yasopp is locked in a philosophical debate with a mop. Shanks just ran by shirtless, shouting âEMERGENCY SEDUCTION PROTOCOL,â and you? Youâre in the crowâs nest, hurling annulment forms like shuriken.
Benn lights a second cigarette off the first.
âIf I fake my death,â he mutters, âI could open a bookstore. Sell maps. Sleep eight hours.â
Someone screams. Something explodes.
He doesnât flinch.
âJust need a small island. A roof. Coffee. Maybe a goat.â
Shanks appears beside him, barefoot and glitter-covered.
âHey, Bennâguess what she called me this time?â
âNo.â
âShe called me a moldy towel with abs!â
ââŠSheâs not wrong.â
Shanks claps him on the back. âYou love us.â
Benn exhales smoke into his face. âI tolerate you.â
âSame thing!â
You scream from above: âIF HEâS IN MY SOAP AGAIN, IâM SETTING THE BATHROOM ON FIRE!â
Benn doesnât blink.
He stares at the sea.
And mutters, âIâm retiring next year.â
Heâs been saying that for ten.
Not even the goat he hasnât bought believes him.
The crew still isnât clean.
Not really. Not ever.
Thereâs always at least one sock drying on the helm, waving like a cursed flag of defiance. Someone used your backup toothbrush to stir coffee last week, and then returned it to its holder proudly, as if theyâd done you a favor. You caught them. You labeled it. They still did it.
Youâve acceptedâgrudgingly, bitterly, through clenched teeth and disinfectant sprayâthat the galley will never meet your standards. Lucky Roux genuinely believes that boiling water counts as âsterilizingâ everything from kitchen knives to his actual elbow.
You complain.
Loudly. Daily. Systematically.
And yet...
Youâre still here.
Somehow, through divine punishment or karmic slapstick, the mop-based marriage still stands.
Shanks calls it âour sacred union of rum and questionable decisions.â You call it âa bureaucratic nightmare soaked in liquor and regret.â
Because the truth isâŠ
You didnât mean to marry him.
Not really.
You were drunk. He was very charming. And you were halfway through a bottle of something called âSealegsâ when the barmaid clapped her clipboard, declared you hitched, and started sobbing tears of joy.
You did check, later, furious, sober, and wielding a quill like a weapon.
Turned out, she was a legally recognized officiant in two of the four seas.
You donât talk about it. Not with Shanks. Not with Benn. Not even with Hongo, who tried to diagnose you with âpsychosomatic marital distressâ and ordered a week of bed rest while handing you tissues and a vitamin regimen.
But still⊠You havenât left.
Ports have come and gone and passed like lifeboats of logic while you stayed stubbornly, irrationally on board.
Youâve stood on docks, hand on your satchel, spine straight, fully prepared to walk away.
And yet, youâre still on this damn ship. You stopped trying to escape two ports ago.
You still make the tea just the way the crew likes it. You still correct the maps when someone confuses ânorthwestâ with ânah-weast.â You still spray people with disinfectant in the middle of a conversation.
And when they dodge? They laugh.
When Shanks calls you love, you roll your eyes, but you donât correct him.
When Benn casually asks what port youâll disembark at next, you smirk and say, âThe cleanest one.â You never pack.
Youâre not happy about the wedding. Not really. Not in a traditional, bouquet-tossing, fond-memory kind of way.
You did not want to wake up married to a barefoot Yonko with sea salt in his hair and a grin that could undo years of trauma.
But the truth is...
The shipâs not so bad.
Thereâs laughter. Thereâs chaos. Thereâs precisely zero personal boundaries, and youâve caught two grown men trying to sanitize a cannon with mouthwash, but thereâs also... something warm beneath the grime.
There are good stories. Bad hygiene.
And, unfortunately, fun.
Youâll never admit it. Not out loud. Youâd rather mop the entire sea.
But when the crew yells âWelcome home!â every time you step back on deck, when you find your favorite tea restocked, or a new notebook tucked in your drawer, or your ring quietly polished and left beside your pillow like a promiseâŠ
You donât say anything.
You just mutter, âStill disgusting,â and make damn sure they wash their hands before dinner.
Youâre not happy. Not really.
But youâre also not leaving.
Because love, apparently, is a Yonko. One who cleans for you.
Itâs not flowers. Itâs not poetry. Itâs certainly not common sense.
Love is you, standing in the corridor of a ship that smells like old rum and new regret, hands on your hips, glaring with holy fury at the man who ruined your life by accidentally making it bearable.
Shanks leans in the doorway of his cabin, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suspicious, sleeves rolled like heâs ready to do either housework or heresy. His grin should be classified as a maritime threat. His voice is a felony all by itself.
âWanna see my cabin?â
You blink.
You smile. Itâs not a kind smile. Itâs the kind of smile pirates whisper about in cautionary tales.
Then you turn, take two purposeful steps to the storage closet, and return with a bucket, a mop, and the cold steel of intent.
âAbsolutely,â you purr, hefting the mop like a weapon forged in bleach and personal boundaries. âI canât wait to disinfect the sins out of it.â
Shanks pauses.
Winks.
âYouâre really into foreplay, huh?â
You toss him a pair of gloves. Not pink. Industrial black. The gloves of someone who has seen things. Survived them. Labeled them.
âPut these on,â you say sweetly, âbefore I throw you into the bilge.â
He catches them easily. Grinning. Hopeless. Gleaming with that same rogue stupidity you married into without your knowledge.
Heâll follow you in. Of course, he will. Heâd follow you into the sea if you told him lemon-scented miracles were waiting on the ocean floor.
Because love, in this godforsaken floating germ colony, isnât candlelight or roses.
Itâs bleach.
Itâs threat-based romance.
Itâs shouting âWASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE TOUCHING MEâ in front of the entire crew and meaning it.
Itâs you, him, and a bucket full of industrial-strength disinfectant.
Thatâs your holy trinity.
And damn itâŠ
You wouldnât have it any other way. (Not that youâll ever say it out loud.)
Regret is waking up in his cabin.
Naked. Warm. Annoyingly well-rested. Shockingly clean.
The sheets smell like soap and danger. Like someone finally took your rage-stained cleaning schedule and whispered romance into it.
The air is quiet. Too quiet. And the smugness radiating off the man beside you is so thick it might even qualify as fog.
You open your eyes slowly.
And there he is.
Shanks.
Single arm thrown across your waist. One leg tangled possessively with yours, like youâre driftwood and heâs the tide. His red hair is a disaster across the pillow, the kind of beautiful chaos only someone like him could turn into charm. His mouth curves in his sleep like heâs dreaming of winning an argument he never even entered.
Like he knows.
You stare at the ceiling.
You want to scream. Or dive headfirst out the porthole. Or travel back in time and slap yourself the exact moment you said: âFine. Show me the cabin. But I swear to God, if it smells like feetââ
But it didnât.
Because the bastard cleaned it.
Deep cleaned. Marine-standard, you-standard, divine-level cleaned. The walls were scrubbed. The floors were swept. The sheets were new. The air smelled like lemon oil and repentance. The candles werenât even crooked. There were shelves. Organized shelves.
And the mop youâd left behind as a threat was still in the corner, polished. Standing upright. Respected.
And then he leaned in, maddeningly close, voice soft with triumph, and whispered:
âSee, sweetheart? All clean. Now thereâs nothing between us.â
You blame the soap. The lighting. The fact that he was wearing shoes and didnât track in a single grain of sand. You blame the fact that, God help you, you noticed his hands were washed correctly.
You didnât mean to sleep with him.
You were supposed to win.
And yet, here you are.
Naked. In his bed. Again. In a marriage you didnât agree to, beside a mop youâve grown emotionally attached to, and lying next to a Yonko who now knows he can seduce you with lemon-scented order and a lint-free throw blanket.
Regret is real.
So is the slow, maddening smile still curled on his face.
You grab the nearest pillow and shove it over his face, not with murderous intent, but just enough pressure to remind him that you are choosing violence today, but in a soft, therapeutic, married kind of way.
He laughs beneath it. Muffled. Smug. Completely unfazed. Like this is a morning routine now.
âGood morning to my favorite wife,â he says, voice distorted by cotton and cheek.
You hiss like a vampire caught in direct sunlight, clutching the sheet like it wronged you. âIâm your only wife.â
âMmhmm,â he agrees, utterly unrepentant. âThatâs what makes you the favorite.â
You press the pillow down harder.
He snorts.
Then, with the slow, luxurious confidence of a cat whoâs claimed the warmest spot on the bed and the ownerâs affection, he stretches under the covers, arms above his head, toes pointed, torso bare, grin criminal.
âTurns out,â he drawls, blinking up at you with those lazy, sea-glass eyes, âcleanliness is next to godliness.â
You stare at him.
The mop was still respectfully standing in the corner.
At the sparkling shelf of neatly folded towels behind his shoulder.
At the man who deep-cleaned a pirate cabin just to impress you and then had the audacity to be hot about it.
You throw the pillow off him with a groan and flop onto your back beside him. âI hate you.â
âYou love me,â he says, rolling onto his side.
âI hate that youâre right,â you grumble, glaring at the ceiling.
He leans in and kisses your temple, obnoxiously gentle. âWhich part?â
You shove your foot into his thigh.
He takes it as a cuddle.


















