− Higher Than A Kite

− Finer than Wine

✎mihawk x kelton

♦︎fic type: one-shot, fic-trade

♦︎ summary: after three failed attempts at taking mihawk on a date, kelton finally manages to get mihawk on a date. with the intention to show mihawk that he's serious about his feeling.

♦︎word count: 2.3k

♦︎warnings: None

♦︎a/n: this is part of a fic trade done with @loganwritesprobably, As you can see I kinda carried away but I'm really proud of this, I hope I did Kelton justice and I hope you enjoy it all the same!

The wine-red sky stretched over the horizon, casting a warm, molten glow on the vast ocean below. The waves lapped gently at the sides of the boat, a modest but elegant vessel with polished wood and billowing sails. Kelton stood at the bow, his black hair tousled by the salty breeze, a glint of gold piercing catching the fading light. His mischievous brown eyes scanned the horizon as he hummed a tune under his breath, his tall frame leaning casually against the railing.

Kelton was a man of many talents, but patience was rarely one of them. Yet, tonight was different. Tonight, he had every reason to wait. The air was thick with anticipation, a subtle excitement thrumming in his veins. The boat rocked gently as he adjusted his stance, glancing back toward the cabin where Mihawk was likely brooding, perhaps contemplating the wisdom of agreeing to this outing.

A sly grin tugged at the corners of Kelton’s mouth. He’d finally done it. After three failed attempts, Dracule Mihawk, the most feared swordsman in all the seas, had agreed to a date. And not just any date—Kelton had meticulously planned an evening that even the stoic Mihawk might find difficult to resist.

As if on cue, Mihawk emerged from the cabin, his expression as unreadable as ever. His piercing yellow eyes locked onto Kelton’s warm brown ones, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Kelton could feel the weight of that gaze, the scrutiny that would unnerve any lesser man. But Kelton was no ordinary man. “Enjoying the view?” Mihawk’s voice was smooth, carrying a hint of dry amusement.

Kelton’s grin widened. “Only half as much as I’m about to enjoy our little adventure, love.” He pushed off the railing with a fluid motion, sauntering over to Mihawk with the easy confidence of a man who was rarely, if ever, denied what he wanted. Mihawk raised a single eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by Kelton’s swagger. “You speak as though this evening holds more than just an outing.”

“Oh, it holds much more, indeed,” Kelton quipped, his voice dripping with playful innuendo. He circled Mihawk slowly, his movements deliberate, as if sizing up his prey. “But I wouldn’t dream of ruining the surprise. After all, where’s the fun in that?” Mihawk’s gaze remained steady, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or mild irritation.

The island Kelton chose was nothing short of breathtaking. A hidden gem nestled within the Grand Line, it was renowned for its picturesque landscapes and sunsets that could make even the most hardened hearts falter. It was a place of serenity, where the chaos of the world seemed to pause, allowing nature's beauty to take center stage. As you step off the ship and onto the soft sand, the air is filled with the scent of saltwater and blooming flowers, carried by the gentle breeze that whispers through the towering palms.

Kelton, with his usual swagger, leads the way, his long strides making it almost impossible for anyone of average height to keep up, let alone Mihawk. Yet, the swordsman moves with his signature grace, his eyes observing every detail of their surroundings with a calm, discerning gaze. The vibrant greenery, the distant hum of wildlife, and the sound of waves gently lapping against the shore all contribute to an ambiance that feels almost too perfect. It’s a place out of time, a retreat from the battles and skirmishes that define their lives. "Lovely, isn't it?" Kelton remarks, glancing back at Mihawk with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. His voice carries a playful lilt, as though he’s well aware of the grandeur of his choice. "Figured you could use a bit of a break from all the sword-slashing and brooding."

Mihawk, ever the stoic, merely raises an eyebrow in response, though there’s a slight softening in his usual stern expression. “It’s… suitable.” Kelton chuckles, clearly amused by the understatement. “Suitable? Darling, it’s a slice of paradise. Just wait until you see where I’ve set us up.”

They move deeper into the island, the dense foliage parting to reveal a pathway lined with lanterns that flicker softly in the dimming light. Kelton had taken his time setting up the path, carefully selecting each lantern to create a warm, inviting glow as the sun began its descent towards the horizon. He was no stranger to adventure and chaos, but when it came to moments like these, he knew the importance of setting the right atmosphere. As they near the spot Kelton has prepared, the path opens up to a secluded clearing. Here, the grass is soft underfoot, and a large, plush blanket is spread out, accompanied by an array of cushions. Nearby, a small table is set up, adorned with an assortment of wines, including the rare and expensive bottle Kelton had promised. A few plates of delicately prepared food, a nod to Mihawk's refined palate, are arranged with care.

The scene is framed by the ocean, which glitters with the last rays of sunlight, casting hues of pink, orange, and gold across the water. The sky above them is a masterpiece, the colors swirling together in a way that seems almost surreal. Kelton turns to Mihawk with a grin, spreading his arms wide as if presenting the world’s greatest treasure. “Not bad, eh? Thought we could enjoy the sunset, have a few drinks, and just… unwind. No swords, no pirates, just us and the view." Mihawk takes in the sight, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly—a rare sign of approval. "You certainly know how to make an effort."

"Only for the best," Kelton replies smoothly, moving closer to the swordsman. "Shall we?" He gestures towards the blanket, his voice softer, yet still carrying that underlying note of mischief. Mihawk nods, and together, they step into the tranquil space, leaving the world behind for a moment of peace between eachother. “You’ve gone through a great deal of trouble for this,” Mihawk observed, his tone neither approving nor disapproving, simply factual. Kelton stopped in front of Mihawk, their eyes locking despite the steady difference in height. “Well, when one is courting the world’s greatest swordsman, one must be prepared to go the extra mile.” His voice softened, the teasing edge giving way to something more sincere. “I wanted tonight to be special.” Kelton gestured toward the small table he'd set up, where a selection of rare wines awaited. The centerpiece was a bottle of vintage so rare that even Mihawk, with his discerning taste, had mentioned it in passing. It had taken Kelton months of searching and no small amount of favors to procure it, but the look on Mihawk’s face when he’d seen it had made every effort worth it.

Mihawk inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment if not full approval, and moved toward the table. Kelton followed, his gaze lingering on the swordsman’s graceful movements. Even in something as mundane as walking, Mihawk exuded a quiet, lethal elegance. It was no wonder Kelton was smitten. As they took their seats, Kelton uncorked the prized bottle, the sound of the pop satisfying in its own right. He poured them each a glass, the wine’s rich aroma filling the air between them. Mihawk took his glass, swirling the wine with practiced ease before bringing it to his lips. Kelton watched intently, noting the way Mihawk’s eyes closed briefly as he savored the taste.

“Well?” Kelton asked, leaning forward slightly, eager for Mihawk’s verdict. Mihawk opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto Kelton’s once more. “It’s exceptional,” he admitted, his tone begrudgingly appreciative. Kelton couldn’t help the triumphant smile that spread across his face. “I knew you’d like it. Only the best for you, of course.” Mihawk regarded him with a level look. “You put in considerable effort for this. Why?” Kelton’s smile faltered slightly, the question catching him off guard. He’d expected Mihawk to be more guarded, more evasive. But here was the swordsman, asking a direct question that required a direct answer.

Kelton leaned back in his chair, considering his words carefully. “Because you’re worth it,” he said finally, the playful lilt in his voice gone. “Because I wanted to do something for you—something that showed you I’m not just interested in a fling.” Mihawk studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing. “You’ve made your intentions clear before,” he said slowly. “Why now?” Kelton met his gaze without flinching. “Because I think you’re starting to realize that I’m serious.”

A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but laden with unspoken thoughts. Kelton wasn’t sure if Mihawk would respond or if he’d retreat into that impenetrable shell of his, but he held his ground, refusing to look away. Finally, Mihawk set his glass down with deliberate care. “You’re relentless,” he remarked, though there was no venom in his tone. Kelton chuckled, the tension breaking slightly. “It’s one of my more charming qualities.”Mihawk didn’t smile, but there was a softness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. “I’ll admit, your persistence is…unexpected.”

“Unexpected, but not unwelcome, I hope?” Kelton ventured, his voice hopeful. Mihawk regarded him for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. “Not unwelcome.” Kelton’s heart leapt, but he kept his excitement in check, not wanting to push too far too fast. He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So, tell me, Mihawk—what would it take for you to consider this date a success?”Mihawk picked up his glass again, taking a slow sip before responding. “A success?” He seemed to mull over the question, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “That depends.”

“On what?” Kelton prompted, eager to hear the answer. Mihawk set his glass down again, his gaze fixed on Kelton with an intensity that sent a shiver down the taller man’s spine. “On whether you can keep me interested for the remainder of the evening.” Kelton grinned, his confidence returning in full force. “Oh, I can do much more than that, love. Just you wait and see.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversation and wine, the tension between them ebbing and flowing like the tide. Kelton was in his element, weaving stories and jokes with the ease of a seasoned entertainer, all while keeping a careful eye on Mihawk’s reactions. To his delight, Mihawk seemed more relaxed than Kelton had ever seen him, the sharp edges of his usual demeanor softened by the wine and the ambiance.

As the moon climbed higher in the sky, casting a silvery light over the deck, Kelton found himself growing bolder. The wine had loosened his tongue, and he leaned closer to Mihawk, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “You know, Mihawk,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.” Mihawk raised an eyebrow, his gaze wary. “And what might that be?”

Kelton’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “That you’re enjoying this far more than you expected.” Mihawk didn’t respond immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his next words. Finally, he said, “You assume much.” Kelton’s grin widened. “I prefer to think of it as being perceptive.” Mihawk’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made Kelton’s heart skip a beat. Without thinking, Kelton reached out, his hand brushing against Mihawk’s, the touch light but deliberate.

Mihawk didn’t pull away, but his gaze dropped to their hands, his expression inscrutable. Kelton’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness churning in his stomach. “Mihawk,” Kelton said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I—” Before he could finish, Mihawk leaned forward, his movements swift and precise. Kelton barely had time to register what was happening before Mihawk’s lips were on his, the kiss firm and unyielding.

For a moment, Kelton was too stunned to react. This was Mihawk—Dracule Mihawk—kissing him. But the shock quickly gave way to something else, something warm and all-consuming, and Kelton found himself kissing back with equal fervor. The kiss was electric, a jolt of energy that seemed to ignite every nerve in Kelton’s body. He reached out instinctively, his hands gripping Mihawk’s waist as he pulled the swordsman closer. The world around them seemed to disappear, the only thing that mattered was the feel of Mihawk’s lips against his, the taste of wine lingering on his tongue. Mihawk’s hands were steady, one resting on Kelton’s arm, the other at his waist, grounding him in the moment. There was a surprising tenderness in the way Mihawk kissed him—controlled, but not without feeling. It wasn’t the desperate, heated kiss of someone losing themselves in passion, but something deeper, more intentional.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Kelton stared at Mihawk, his mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. “You kissed me,” Kelton said, the words tumbling out in a dazed murmur, a hint of disbelief in his tone. Mihawk’s expression remained calm, but there was a softness in his eyes that Kelton had never seen before. “You kissed me back,” Mihawk replied, his voice steady, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Kelton couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from his chest, a sound filled with both joy and relief. “Aye, that I did,” he admitted, a roguish grin spreading across his face. “And I don’t regret a single second of it.” Mihawk’s gaze didn’t waver, but Kelton could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Nor do I,” Mihawk said quietly, the admission hanging in the air between them, weighty and significant. Kelton’s heart swelled, the words sinking in, making him feel lighter than he had in ages. He’d always known there was something more to Mihawk than the cold, aloof exterior he showed to the world. But hearing those words—knowing that Mihawk didn’t regret this—made it all the more real.

“Mihawk,” Kelton began, his voice steady, “I meant what I said earlier. This—tonight—it’s not just about a fling. I want to be with you, not just for tonight, but for as long as you’ll have me.” Mihawk’s gaze bore into Kelton’s, the weight of his words sinking in. For a moment, Kelton thought Mihawk might pull away, might retreat into that stoic shell he was so known for. But instead, Mihawk stepped closer, his hand tightening around Kelton’s.

“You’re a fool,” Mihawk said quietly, his voice tinged with something that could almost be mistaken for fondness. Kelton chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Aye, that I am. But I’m your fool, if you’ll have me.” Mihawk’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, and for the first time, Kelton saw the walls around Mihawk’s heart begin to crack. “Then it seems we’re both fools.” Before Kelton could respond, Mihawk closed the distance between them, capturing Kelton’s lips in another kiss. This one was slower, more deliberate, a kiss that spoke of promises made and a future uncertain but filled with possibilities.

Kelton kissed back with all the passion and sincerity he could muster, his heart soaring as Mihawk’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. There was no more doubt, no more hesitation—just the two of them, together in that moment, and the unspoken understanding that this was just the beginning of something wonderful.

When they finally parted, Kelton rested his forehead against Mihawk’s, a contented sigh escaping his lips. “So,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “does this mean our date was a success?” Mihawk’s eyes sparkled with something akin to amusement. “It means you’ve intrigued me, Kelton. But don’t think for a moment that you’ve won me just yet." Kelton’s laughter was soft, a low rumble that resonated between them. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love. The chase is half the fun, after all." Mihawk’s expression softened, a rare warmth in his usually impassive gaze. “Then you’ll have to keep up, Kelton. I’m not easily caught.” Kelton’s grin widened, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Challenge accepted, Mihawk. But be warned—I’m a man who never gives up on what he wants.” Mihawk didn’t reply immediately, but the look in his eyes said everything. There was a mutual understanding, a silent agreement that they were both stepping into uncharted waters. Whatever lay ahead, it wouldn’t be easy. But neither of them wanted easy. They craved the thrill, the challenge—the chance to carve something lasting out of the unpredictable life they led.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the world around them forgotten. The wind tousled Kelton’s noir-black hair, and Mihawk’s grip on his waist tightened slightly, as if anchoring them both to this moment. The stars above glittered like silent witnesses to the promise they’d made, each twinkling light reflecting the hope of something more. Kelton finally broke the silence, his voice a whisper of sincerity. “I’ll win you over, Mihawk. It’s only a matter of time.” Mihawk’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles. “We’ll see, Kelton. But know this—no one has ever succeeded where you intend to go.” Kelton’s eyes shone with determination as he leaned in close, his breath warm against Mihawk’s ear. “There’s a first time for everything, love. And I plan to make sure this is a first you won’t forget.”

─ Too Tight, Too Much

yandere! luffy x gn! reader

• fic type: oneshot

• summary: you felt like a burden to the strawhat pirate who constantly grew stronger by the day, especially Luffy. So you decided to do them a service by leaving the crew, little did you know Luffy doesn't like to let go.

• word count: 2.3k

• warnings: obsessive tendencies, kidnapping, possessive physical touch [nonsexual]

• a/n: I forgot to post this, sorry chat 🧍‍♀️,, also can be read as platonic or romantic. Also also,, I tried something different w/ this writing style! ^^

The decision had been made long before you ever set foot on that island. It wasn’t a fleeting impulse, nor was it born from doubt in Luffy’s dream. You believed in him—more than anything.

But belief wasn’t enough.

You saw the way the others grew stronger, how their names carried weight across the sea, how they each carved their place into history with their own hands. Zoro’s blade could cut through steel. Sanji’s legs burned brighter than the sun. Robin could summon a thousand hands to break an army.

And you?

You had no grand ambitions, no great power. No Devil Fruit, no Haki, no title whispered in fear. You weren’t weak, but you weren’t enough.

So you made your choice.

It was easier than you thought it would be. The town was alive with music and laughter, lanterns swinging in the ocean breeze. The crew was lost in their own celebrations—Zoro and Sanji already in the middle of another argument, Usopp animatedly recounting some grand tale, Chopper stuffing himself with sweets. Luffy was in the center of it all, as he always was, grinning wildly, a beverage in one hand and a drumstick in the other.

It was the perfect moment. He was happy.

Distracted.

You turned away before doubt could creep in. Your steps were silent, your presence barely a whisper in the wind as you moved through the streets. No hesitation, no second thoughts. You told yourself you were doing the right thing.

That this was for the best.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

Luffy would never forgive you for this. And you would never forgive yourself.

••••

The island had been peaceful. A quiet little stop along the trade routes, where merchants gathered to restock their ships, exchange goods, and barter over prices with a mix of tenacity and exhaustion. The scent of salt and various spices hung heavy in the air, blending with the distant hum of the waves.

You had taken up temporary work guarding one of the ships docked there—a simple trade of protection for passage. The work was easy enough. A watchful eye, a firm stance, and most left you alone. You were a ghost passing through, a nameless traveler in a sea of transient faces.

Or so you thought.

After fulfilling your end of the bargain with your employer and receiving your pay, you found yourself wandering the market area, searching for an inn. The moment your boots met the soft dirt of the market, something in the air shifted. It was subtle at first, a prickling sensation along the back of your neck, a whisper of something inevitable.

Then you felt it—him.

His presence wasn’t loud or forceful, but it was all-consuming. Overwhelming. Undeniable. And when you lifted your gaze, there he was. Luffy stood in the middle of the bustling street, his straw hat tilted slightly back, dark eyes shining beneath its brim. His grin stretched wide, the same carefree expression you had seen a thousand times before, as if no time had passed at all.

“Y/n!”

His voice shattered the din of the marketplace, rising above the merchants’ calls and the chatter of weary travelers. It was raw, unfiltered joy—too much joy.

Your muscles tensed.

For a moment, you considered running. You could slip into the crowd, weave through the alleyways, disappear before he got any closer. You had done it before. You could do it again. But your feet refused to move.

Because to run would be cruel. Even for you.

You watched as he closed the distance between you with long, eager strides, his sandals slapping against the dirt road. His arms were already outstretched, reaching, claiming.

And then, he was there.

The force of his embrace nearly knocked the air from your lungs. His arms wrapped around you like iron bands, pulling you in against the familiar heat of his body. He smelled like the sea, like sun-warmed cotton and something undeniably Luffy.

He held you tight. Too tight.

A moment passed. Then another.

Slowly, you exhaled, allowing your hands to lift—to rest lightly against his back. Not quite returning the embrace, but not rejecting it either. Luffy made a sound—a breathy, contented sigh—as if something within him had finally settled.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his fingers still curled against the fabric of your shirt. His eyes burned bright, his grin never wavering.

"I knew I’d see you again," Luffy said, his voice warm and bright, like he had never once doubted this moment.

His arms were locked around you, his grip firm—too firm—as if he thought you might slip away if he let go. His fingers pressed into your back, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you aware. His breath was warm against your shoulder, carrying the scent of salt and something faintly sweet, like the remnants of a half-eaten meal.

“You’re back now.”

Your lips parted, the words forming before you could decide whether you even wanted to say them. “I—”

“I missed you.”

The words came quickly, cutting off whatever you might’ve said. Luffy met your gaze, his expression unguarded, open. His dark eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his hat, wide and too bright, like the sun reflecting off the waves. There was something in them—something you couldn’t quite place—and it sent a slow prickle down your spine.

You had known Luffy since childhood. You had seen him angry, sad, frustrated. You had seen him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. But this? This was different.

And it made your chest feel too tight.

Luffy continued to grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers twitched against your sleeve, then tightened, his knuckles going white for just a fraction of a second before his grip relaxed again.

"Come on," he said, his voice light, casual, like this was any other day. Like you hadn’t left. Like he hadn’t spent who-knows-how-long searching for you. "The others are here, they’ll be happy to see you!"

You opened your mouth—to protest, to ask him to slow down, to breathe—but the words never left your throat.

Because before you could decide what to say, his fingers wrapped around your wrist.

And this time, he didn’t let go.

There was no force behind his grip, no sharp tug that demanded movement. But it was firm.

Unrelenting.

Final.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

That second was too long.

Luffy moved, and you moved with him, pulled effortlessly into his stride as he led you through the streets.

The market blurred around you—the murmur of voices, the clang of metal, the scent of spices and fresh bread—all of it faded into the background beneath the steady press of his hand.

People turned as you passed, their gazes flickering to the infamous Straw Hat Captain. Some whispered, some pointed, but Luffy didn’t even glance their way.

His attention was locked solely on you.

And for the first time since you’d known him, you weren’t sure if that was a good thing.

••••

The reunion was warm. Too warm.

The moment Luffy dragged you into the familiar chaos of the crew, you were engulfed. Arms thrown around your shoulders, voices overlapping, laughter echoing through the air. It was suffocating in its sincerity.

Zoro was the first to acknowledge you, though in typical fashion, he kept it brief. A smirk pulled at his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Took you long enough,” he said, voice even, as if he had expected this outcome from the start.

Nami let out an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand on her hip. “You owe me for the stress you put me through,” she scolded, though there was no real anger behind her words.

Just relief.

Sanji, on the other hand, was all action. The moment you were seated, a plate was shoved in front of you, the aroma of a perfectly prepared meal filling your senses. “You’re too thin, Y/n-chan,” he fussed, already halfway to the kitchen to fetch more. “Have you even been eating properly?”

Usopp puffed out his chest, his hands gesturing wildly. “You should’ve seen what I did the other day! You’d have been impressed, I swear! I took down this massive sea beast with just—” he stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Where were you, anyway?”

Before you could answer, Chopper had scrambled onto the chair beside you, pressing small hooves against your arm, his face scrunched in concern. “You’re healthy, at least,” he murmured, checking you over despite your insistence that you were fine.

Robin smiled knowingly from her seat, eyes studying you as if she already understood the story you hadn’t told.

Franky let out a booming laugh, giving you a hearty pat on the back that nearly sent you tumbling forward. “Took off on your own adventure, huh? Well, welcome back, bro!”

Brook, ever the performer, strummed at his guitar. “Ah, Y/n-san, I would ask if you missed me, but alas, I have no heart to feel longing, yohohoho~!”

Jinbe hummed lightly in approval, his eyes looking at you over the steaming cup of tea he'd raised towards his lips. "It is nice to have you back with it, Y/n."

It was almost too easy to fall back into place.

Almost.

Because Luffy never let go.

His eyes never left you, even as he laughed at Usopp’s exaggerated storytelling or tore through his usual mountain of food. His attention remained anchored to you, sharp and unwavering.

Every time you moved, his gaze followed. Every time you spoke, his attention sharpened. And then there was his touch. Fleeting, but constant.

A hand on your wrist when you reached for your drink. A brush of fingers against your shoulder when he leaned in to listen. The back of your shirt tugged absently when you shifted in your seat.

By the end of the night, you felt the weight of it. “I should go,” you finally said, standing up from the table. “I have a room at an inn.”

For a moment, just a second, something flickered in Luffy’s expression. A shadow, a hint of something unreadable, something wrong.

Then, just as quickly, his grin returned, wide and bright. “Alright,” he said, easy as ever. “I’ll see you later.”

Not goodbye.

Not see you around.

I’ll see you later.

But you didn’t think much of it.

Not then.

••••

You had fallen asleep easily, exhaustion pulling you under the moment your head hit the pillow. The day had been long, full of laughter and conversation, the warmth of old friends pressing in on you from every side.

You had thought you were safe.

But when you woke up, something was wrong. The air smelled different—saltier, thick with the scent of the open sea. The faint trace of damp wood and metal drifted into your senses, something familiar, yet out of place.

The bed was softer, the sheets heavier, and when you shifted, you could feel the subtle sway beneath you. The sound of waves was louder—too close, too steady.

Your stomach twisted.

Your eyes snapped open, and as your vision adjusted to the dim morning light filtering through the room, the cold weight of realization settled over you. This wasn’t the inn.

This was the Thousand Sunny.

More than that—this was the Captain’s Quarters.

Your breath came slow, controlled, even as the unease crept up your spine. You sat up carefully, scanning the space, noting every detail—your bag tucked in the corner, your shoes neatly placed by the door, as if you had never left. As if you had always been here.

The door creaked open.

“Morning!” Luffy’s voice was warm, easy, as if this were just another day on the ship. As if nothing was wrong.

He stood in the doorway, his straw hat pushed back slightly, dark hair ruffled from sleep. His grin was the same as always—wide, bright, too full of something you couldn’t name.

“Sanji made breakfast,” he added, stepping inside like this was normal.

Like this was where you belonged.

You stared at him.

Your expression didn’t change, your voice remained steady. “Luffy.” He tilted his head slightly, his bare feet padding softly across the wooden floor as he closed the space between you.

“Why am I here?” you asked. Luffy blinked, as if the question itself didn’t make sense to him. “Because this is where you’re supposed to be.”

Supposed to be.

You exhaled slowly, forcing down the cold weight pressing against your chest. “You took me from the island.”

Luffy laughed.

Not a nervous chuckle. Not a guilty one.

A simple, carefree laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, as if it was obvious. “You fell asleep, so I brought you home.”

Your fingers curled slightly against the sheets. “…You should’ve asked.”

“I didn’t have to.”

His certainty was unshakable. And that’s what made your stomach turn.

Luffy moved closer, his warmth radiating off him in waves. His hand landed on your shoulder, a light press of fingers—too warm, too heavy. But then, he curled his fingers.

Not enough to hurt. But enough to hold.

“Now that you’re back,” he murmured, “I can keep going.” You didn’t breathe for a moment.

Your lips parted slightly, a rare display of emotion flickering across your features.

Luffy’s grip tightened just a fraction.

“You’re my Emperor,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can’t be Pirate King without you.”

Your heart thumped, slow and heavy.

The weight of his words settled over you like an anchor.

Your lips parted, words forming before you could stop them. “…You don’t need me, Luffy.” He grinned. Wide. Too wide. “Yeah, I do!”

His hand slid down your arm, fingers tracing your skin, slow, deliberate. He didn’t grab. He didn’t pull.

But he didn’t let go.

Instead, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, his thumb brushing lazily against your pulse.

Outside, the ship rocked gently with the waves. The world stretched endlessly in every direction, open and unreachable.

You weren’t on that island anymore.

And you wouldn’t be again.

Luffy turned toward the door, still holding your wrist, still smiling like nothing was wrong. “C’mon,” he said. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Your eyes flickered to his face, taking in the curve of his lips, the shadow in his gaze, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear again.

Your expression remained unreadable. But deep inside, something twisted.

This was Luffy.

And Luffy never let go.

I enjoy writing Y/n as a obsessed and lovesick person who'll devote themself to those they care about 🙂

𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

☥ My Art

☥ Demon Slayer

☥ One Piece

☥ One Piece, Live Action

☥ Spiderman: ATSV & ITSV

☥ Stranger Things

☥ The Walking Dead

☥ Miscellaneous 

─ Binding Shots

yandere! zoro x bartender! reader [gender neutral]

• fic type: oneshot

• summary: zoro couldn't get enough of the drinks you served, but he couldn't get enough of you even more.

• word count: 2.7k

• tw: obsessive thoughts, kidnapping, passing out

• a/n: i hope i didn't get too carried away and i really hope you enjoy this story!! i also may have included a little yandere captain luffy headcanon, since he pretty much gives zoro the ok to pursue y/n. also if i find the time i might make headcanons about y/n getting used to being with the strawhats, and more importantly zoro!

The bar pulsed with energy, the air thick with the scent of spiced rum, grilled seafood, and the occasional whiff of salt carried in from the docks.

Laughter echoed through the dimly lit space, drunken patrons toasting to their fortunes—or misfortunes, depending on the night.

You had long since mastered the art of blending into the chaos, weaving between customers with effortless grace, your hands a blur as you poured drinks, wiped down counters, and cracked jokes all at once.

The old fisherman at the counter huffed as he caught the glass you slid his way, his weathered face splitting into a grin.

"You're too damn cocky for a bartender, Y/n," he grumbled, taking a sip of the golden liquid.

"Flattery will get you nowhere—except another drink if you tip well," you shot back, smirking as you wiped the counter.

The old man let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "Damn menace, you are."

Before you could deliver another quip, the bell above the door jingled, signaling new arrivals. Your gaze flickered toward the entrance, and immediately, the atmosphere seemed to shift.

A small group strolled in, their presence commanding attention even in a bar full of hardened sailors. You recognized them instantly.

The Straw Hat Pirates.

Luffy led the pack, grinning ear to ear as he took in the bustling bar, his boundless energy practically radiating from him.

Usopp and Franky followed close behind, already deep in some ridiculous argument about whether or not cola could be turned into alcohol.

And then there was him.

Zoro.

Broad-shouldered, arms crossed, an air of quiet confidence surrounding him. His swords sat at his hip like an extension of his being, a constant reminder of his strength. But it was his eyes that caught your attention—sharp, calculating, always scanning, as if sizing up the world around him.

You’d met plenty of pirates before, but there was something different about him. Something... interesting.

They took their seats at the bar, Luffy slamming his hands onto the counter with his usual lack of subtlety. "Meat! Lots of Meat!" he declared, grinning wildly.

You arched a brow, already reaching for a bottle. "Well, if it isn’t the infamous Straw Hats," you mused, twirling the bottle between your fingers before popping it open. "What’ll it be, gentlemen?"

Usopp, ever the dramatic storyteller, ordered something fruity, a Mocktail being the first thing that came to mind.

Franky demanded something SUPER strong, his voice booming loud enough to rattle the glasses. It seemed like he'd enjoy a nice Whiskey Sour.

Luffy, as expected, wanted something with meat in it. You weren’t sure if you should be impressed or horrified.

Then your gaze flickered to Zoro, who had yet to say a word.

His arms remained crossed, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke. "Sake."

You snorted. "Predictable."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You got a problem with that?"

"Not at all," you said smoothly, already in the midst of making the other's requests. "Just saying, a guy like you doesn’t seem the adventurous type when it comes to drinks."

Zoro grunted, unimpressed, as you poured a variety of liquids into a cup and slid it toward him.

Before he could grab it, you rested your elbow on the counter, flashing him a smirk. "But hey, this one’s on the house."

That got his attention. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze flicking from you to the drink and back again. There was a brief hesitation before he picked up the cup and took a sip.

The reaction was immediate.

His grip on the cup tightened ever so slightly, his expression shifting just enough for you to notice.

His tongue tingled with the rich, layered flavors—smooth, complex, and yet strong enough to rival his beloved sake.

He swallowed, exhaling slowly as the taste settled in. Then his dark gaze lifted to meet yours, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

"What the hell is this?"

"Like it?" You grinned, leaning forward slightly. "It’s a little something I came up with myself. Thought you’d appreciate it."

Zoro didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took another slow sip, as if testing whether the first taste had been a fluke. It wasn’t. The drink was dangerously good.

Better than any sake he’d ever had.

That realization should’ve irritated him, but instead, he found himself staring at you, curiosity and something deeper settling in his chest.

He hadn’t paid much attention before, too focused on his drink, but now that he was looking—really looking—he noticed things.

The easy confidence in your posture, the way your lips curled in amusement, the glint of mischief in your eyes.

You were different. And for the first time in a long while, he was interested.

The island had a lot to offer—food stalls, markets, scenic cliffs—but for some reason, Zoro always found himself back at your bar.

It had started off as nothing. Just a casual drink, a place to sit while the others indulged in the island’s festivities. But by the third night, he didn’t even pretend he was there for anything else.

It wasn’t just the drinks—though, damn it, they were good.

Too good.

He’d never had anything quite like what you made for him, and each night, it was something better, something stronger, something just right.

But that wasn’t what kept him coming back.

It was you.

You, with your insufferable smirks, your sharp tongue, your easy laughter that rang over the low hum of the bar like a melody.

You didn’t shy away from teasing him, didn’t fawn over him like others did when they recognized his reputation.

You treated him like just another patron, another nameless face in the crowd, and yet—there was something else.

A warmth.

A familiarity.

Zoro wasn’t used to that.

And that kindness, that brightness—it was intoxicating. More so than any drink you poured.

He sat at the bar now, his usual spot, arms resting on the counter as he watched you work.

His drink sat untouched in front of him, forgotten the moment you started talking.

"You sure you’re not just using me for my drinks?" you teased, sliding a fresh glass to a customer beside him before leaning in slightly, giving him that familiar smug look. "Pretty sure this is your fourth night in a row."

Zoro scoffed, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "Tch. You wish I was that desperate."

"You wound me, swordsman," you gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "And here I thought we were forming a beautiful, booze-filled friendship."

Zoro shook his head, but there was the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. "If you keep running your mouth, I might start looking for another bar."

You chuckled, leaning your elbow on the counter. "Yeah? Go ahead. Bet you won’t find another place that can make you forget about your precious sake."

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

You both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Something about Zoro fascinated you. Maybe it was the contrast—the roughness of him, the way he carried himself like a warrior through and through, yet still sat here every night, lingering like he had nowhere else he’d rather be.

And, though you wouldn’t admit it outright, you found him... charming.

In his own gruff, quiet way.

The way his eyes followed you as you moved. The way he listened when you spoke, even if he acted like he didn’t care.

The way he never let his drink distract him from you.

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. "You know, for someone who claims they’re not interested, you sure do look like you’re enjoying the view."

Zoro tensed, his grip tightening slightly around his glass.

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and unreadable.

For a moment, you thought he might deny it. Scoff, roll his eyes, deflect like he always did.

But instead, he said, "Maybe I am." That caught you off guard.

You blinked, a slow grin creeping onto your lips. "Well, well. Look at you, actually admitting something for once."

Zoro just took a sip of his drink, but his gaze never left yours. "Don’t get cocky."

Too late.

The conversation moved on, the bar growing rowdier as the night stretched on. But Zoro wasn’t paying attention to the noise, or the people, or even his drink.

He was watching you.

The way your hands moved effortlessly, mixing, pouring, sliding drinks down the counter with practiced ease. The way you threw back your head when you laughed, unapologetically loud.

The way you leaned in when you talked to him, like it was second nature, like you wanted to be close.

Each night, his obsession grew.

It started off as simple curiosity, but now—it was hunger.

He wanted more.

More of your time. More of your attention.

More of you.

And he was starting to think he’d take it.

••••

The bar was alive with noise—the clinking of glasses, drunken laughter, the occasional outburst from some poor bastard who lost a bet.

But Zoro barely heard any of it.

He was too focused on you.

You were moving through the crowd with effortless ease, sliding drinks across the counter, cracking jokes that had customers roaring with laughter.

You had that insufferable, cocky grin on your face—the one you always wore when you knew you’d gotten under someone’s skin.

And damn it, it worked every time.

Zoro found himself watching the way your fingers moved as you mixed drinks, the precise way you handled each glass, like it was second nature.

The way you leaned in close when someone spoke, giving them your full attention, even when they were drunk off their ass and slurring nonsense.

You were good at this—too good. Too damn captivating.

And that laugh of yours—light, unapologetic, always laced with amusement at your own wit.

It was like an itch under his skin, one he couldn’t scratch.

Luffy was beside him, stuffing his face with whatever food he’d managed to get his hands on, crumbs scattering across the bar top.

Most of the crew were still doing their own thing, chatting with locals, admiring scenery or pathetically flirting with every woman in a 5 mile radius.

But then—something shifted.

Zoro didn’t notice at first, but Luffy had gone quiet.

He was watching him.

Not in his usual careless way, not with that absentminded curiosity he always had when he wasn’t focused on food. No—this was different.

Luffy’s eyes, normally bright with mischief, were unreadable, his face eerily still.

The realization sent a slow chill down Zoro’s spine.

Then, just as you walked away from the bar, Luffy turned to him. "You like Y/n?"

Zoro stiffened. A heavy silence passed between them, the background noise of the bar fading into a dull hum.

He could lie. Could brush it off. Could scoff and tell Luffy to mind his own damn business.

But he didn’t, he couldn't bring himself to lie to his captain. "...Yeah."

Luffy’s expression didn’t change. He just stared, unsettlingly calm. "Do you want Y/n?"

Zoro exhaled slowly, staring down at his half-empty glass.

Did he?

His first instinct was to say no. He wasn’t that kind of man. He didn’t take people, didn’t let his desires dictate his actions.

But the longer he sat with the question, the more it clawed at him.

The way you laughed. The way you looked at him. The way you spoke to him like he was just another guy, not a pirate, not a swordsman, not some wanted criminal.

He was a pirate though.

Pirates took what they wanted.

And he wanted you.

Zoro lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Luffy. His voice was steady, firm. "I do."

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, Luffy’s lips curled into that wide, familiar grin. "If you want something, you should take it!"

Just like that, his usual energy returned, his eerie stillness vanishing like it had never been there. He clapped a hand on Zoro’s shoulder, grinning like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"My crew gets whatever they want." His grin widened. "I’ll make sure of it."

Zoro’s grip tightened around his cup, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Luffy wasn’t just talking about letting him go after you.

He was promising something.

And for the first time, Zoro let the thought settle, let it grow, let it take root.

••••

The night stretched long, and eventually, the last few customers trickled out, their drunken laughter fading into the distance as they stumbled into the night.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before reaching for the keys in your pocket. Another good night, another pocket full of berri.

The bar was silent now, save for the quiet clinking of glasses as you tidied up one last time.

You moved on autopilot, wiping the counter down with lazy strokes before finally heading toward the door. The lock clicked into place with a satisfying snap, sealing the building in its usual nighttime solitude.

Stepping out onto the dimly lit streets, you inhaled deeply, the salty sea air filling your lungs.

The cobblestone roads stretched before you, lined with flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows against the alley walls.

For a moment, you just stood there, hands stuffed into your pockets, humming a tune under your breath.

And yet… something felt off.

A prickling sensation crawled up your spine, subtle but persistent. Like the weight of unseen eyes pressing against your back.

You froze, the night air suddenly too cold against your skin.

Your fingers twitched in your pockets, tightening around your keys.

You’re being paranoid, you told yourself. It’s just another quiet night.

You forced a breath, shaking your head. "Don’t be ridiculous, Y/n," you muttered under your breath. "No one’s watching you."

But then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Your stomach twisted.

You stopped walking, straining your ears.

Silence.

Your pulse thudded.

Then, just as you took another cautious step forward—

The footsteps resumed.

Closer this time.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs.

You picked up your pace, forcing a laugh in a weak attempt to calm yourself. "Alright, if you’re a robber, just know I’m broke as hell—"

The footsteps sped up.

Panic surged through you like a lightning strike. You bolted.

The world blurred around you as your legs carried you forward on pure instinct.

Your home was just in sight, barely a block away—But then arms wrapped around you.

A strong, unyielding grip yanked you back before you could react. A hand clamped over your mouth, smothering the startled cry that tore from your throat.

You fought.

Your body twisted, legs kicking, fingers clawing at the arm restraining you. But the grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, pressing you flush against an unmovable chest.

And then—

A voice.

Low. Calm. Familiar.

"You’re safe."

Your breath hitched.

The voice was right by your ear, warm and steady despite the vice-like grip holding you still.

"I’ve got you."

Your body went rigid.

Your eyes widened, the realization slamming into you like a crashing wave.

"Zoro?!" The name came out muffled against his hand, but you knew he heard it.

"Shhh," he murmured, voice smooth, almost soothing. "Don’t struggle."

You did struggle, thrashing as hard as you could, but he barely budged.

"Zoro," you hissed, your voice strained against his palm. "What the hell are you—?"

"I won’t hurt you," he promised, his tone steady, as if that alone was enough to justify this.

Confusion tangled with the terror clawing at your chest.

Your mind spun. Why was he doing this?

You forced yourself to think, to breathe. You had to get free, had to—

But then—Sharp pain.

A precise, practiced pressure against the side of your neck.

The world lurched.

Your limbs went weak, your vision hazy.

Your breath shuddered as a wave of dizziness crashed over you.

"Wha…" Your words slurred, head tilting against Zoro’s shoulder. "The… hell…"

Your fingers twitched uselessly, your body going slack.

The last thing you saw was a flash of green hair, blurred by the darkness creeping into the edges of your vision.

And the last thing you heard—soft, unwavering—

"You’re mine now, Y/n."

───────✿ KINKTOBER DAY 2: Cunnilingus

✎ luffy x fem! reader ♦︎ synopsis: luffy's appetite is insatiable and not just for food. ♦︎ word count: 600+ ♦︎ cw: squirting, misuse of devil fruit, oral [fem receiving]

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wet sounds fille the room, and you subconsciously thanked franky for making soundproof rooms throughout the sunny, because the sounds that were escaping your throat would make a person worry. but if they knew the situation you were in they'd realize that your loud moans were completely warranted. the sight of your captain between your legs filled your blurred vision as you raised to your shaking elbows.

his tongue was doing insane things to your body, and his devil fruit only added to that factor. he'd constantly stretch his tough into the furthest reaches of your cunt, making you keen in pleasure. this only eggs him on as he returned his tongue to its normal state and lapped at your glistening lips, eagerly stimulating you. he flattened his tongue before licking up to your clit; switch in up he wrapped his lips, wet with your essence, around your sensitive clit and sucked it with purpose. you felt your legs quivering around his head, one hand grasping the sheets for stability while the other was comfortably situated in his black tresses.

,,Oh- fuuuck,, the heat pooling where your bodies joined had your vision blurred and your arms growing weak, you couldn't do anything but slowly sink into the mattress. luffy reveled in the affect he has on your body, only increasing his attack on your weeping cunt. your essence mixed with his saliva was a taste he just could get enough of, you hole constantly leaking more and more, giving him just what he wanted. ,,y' taste s'good,, although his words were slurred and his voice was a lot huskier, you could understand exactly what he was saying; his words sending heat to your cunt pulling your closer to your next orgasm.

you knew luffy had an insatiable appetite, but you had no idea it'd carry over into sex. the quivering in your legs was back, and you could feel his already sloppy pace increase as you began rocking your hips against his eager mouth. that thread was mere minutes away from snapping and although you wanted to cum, this felt different. you didn't have too much time to dwell on it because luffy lifted slightly from your throbbing cunt, slick slower dripping from his chin back onto your soaked thighs. the pout evident on his face not deterring you from whining at the lose of contact; but he began to rub your sensitive button with his fingers.

,,stop squirming, I can't focus on eating,, with his wording and the pout on his face, you'd think he wasn't talking about you weeping cunt below him. while you wanted to listen and follow your captain's orders, the sensation his fingers were delivering to your cunt were distracted. ,,'m sorry luffy ngh- i can' help it, you feel s'good.,, luckily your words wiped the frown off his face as his iconic laugh bounced off the walls of the room and he resumed his assault on your poor pussy. it didn't take long before you felt that thread second from snapping. ,,captain, fuck, fuck! I'm- CUMMING!,, your vision darkened around the corners was you reaching your climax, your essence gushed all over luffy's face and your thighs. your thighs closed around his head subconsciously and ou felt your body moving against your will, rocking your aching cunt against luffy's face.

soon your vision returned and your head became clear, embarrassment clouded your thoughts and you lifted up, beginning to apologetic profusely. ,,oh my goodness, luffy I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen.,, the sound of his laugh cut your rambling to a halt, his tan shoulders in amusement. the evidence of your climax evident on his reddened face, and yet he didn't seem bothered in the slightest. ,,i wanna see you do that again.,, his signature grin decorated his face and you knew that this was only the beginning.

— Otherworldly Differences

mark grayson x saiyan! reader

• fic type: oneshot & fluff

• summary: crash landing on such a feeble planet wasn't on your to-do list. although this being whose nearly as strong a you confronts you, so you decide to humor him.

• word count: 5.8k

• warnings: mild canon typical violence, threat of violence, blood

• a/n: As you can see I got really carried away. 🧍‍♀️I like DBZ and I like Invincible, so why not combine the two!! Also I've just started watching invincible so sorry if he's ooc.

A shrill, wailing sound yanks you from unconsciousness, vibrating through your skull like an alarm gone haywire. You groan, forcing your heavy eyelids open, and are immediately greeted by the acrid stench of burning metal and scorched earth.

Smoke billows around you, thick and suffocating, curling from the shattered remains of your ship—a twisted hunk of alien steel embedded deep in the cracked pavement.

Your head pounds in protest, a dull, throbbing ache pulsing behind your temples. You press a hand to your forehead, then glance down at yourself.

Dust clings to your skin, mingling with smudges of soot and dried blood. Your armor, now riddled with scorch marks and gashes, groans as you shift.

Damn. That landing must’ve been rough.

Muffled shouts rise above the ringing in your ears. Blinking away the haze, you finally take in your surroundings.

Small, weak-looking creatures encircle the crash site, clad in identical dark uniforms. They hold strange little metal sticks, aiming them at you like they actually expect them to do something.

“Put your hands where we can see them!”

“Step away from the wreckage!”

“You’re under arrest!”

You arch a brow, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. They think they can arrest me? That’s adorable.

With a groan, you push yourself upright, rolling your shoulders. A shower of debris crumbles from your armor, scattering across the crater floor. Your hair, wild and voluminous as ever, whips around your face as you stretch.

"Where in the name of Vegeta am I?" you mutter, voice thick with irritation.

The humans stiffen. Their fingers tighten around their weapons, eyes flickering between you and the destruction left in your wake.

The boldest of the bunch—a man with gritted teeth and an unfortunate mustache—steps forward, barrel trained directly at your chest.

“I said put your hands up!” he barks.

You tilt your head, gaze flicking over him with mild amusement. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

Apparently, he doesn’t. None of them do. Because instead of answering, they just keep shouting, their voices a frantic mess of demands and threats.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. This is exhausting. If they refuse to answer your questions, perhaps a demonstration is in order.

Your eyes scan the wreckage, landing on the nearest object of interest—a large, boxy vehicle with shattered windows and blaring alarms.

Without hesitation, you grab it by the undercarriage, lift it effortlessly over your head, and hurl it toward a nearby building.

Glass explodes outward as the car crashes through the structure, embedding itself halfway into the second floor. The ground trembles from the impact, sending fresh cracks spiderwebbing across the pavement.

That gets their attention.

“Holy Shit!”

“She’s a freaking alien!”

“No shit,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “Now, which one of you is in charge?”

Before anyone can respond, a gust of wind nearly knocks you back. A shadow streaks across the sky, descending at high speed.

You turn just in time to see a figure land in front of you, kicking up dust upon impact.

An array of yellow, blue and back filled your vision, toned muscles flexing between the tight material of a suit.

You recognize the stance immediately. A fighter. Interesting.

“You must be the problem everyone’s freaking out about,” he says, arms crossed. His tone isn’t immediately hostile—more wary than anything.

You grin, rolling your shoulders. “Depends. You here to challenge me?”

The guy blinks, visibly thrown off. “Uh, not exactly.”

You frown. “Shame. I was hoping someone here would be worth my time.”

Despite yourself, you’re intrigued. He’s strong—you can sense it. Not nearly Saiyan strong, of course, but there’s something different about him. Something… familiar.

He studies you just as intently, gaze flicking between your tattered armor, your battle-worn knuckles, and—most notably—the towering mass of thick hair atop your head.

His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but he hesitates.

“I’m Invincible,” he offers instead.

You snort. “Bit cocky, don’t you think?”

He sighs. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

A beat of silence. Neither of you moves.

Then, cautiously, he gestures toward the chaos surrounding you. “Look, I don’t want to fight you.”

“That makes one of us,” you say, cracking your knuckles.

Mark exhales through his nose, clearly trying to be patient. “Seriously, can we just… talk?” He gestures at the wreckage, the police, the frightened civilians peeking from behind cover.

“You’re obviously not from around here, and you seem kinda… lost?”

You bristle at the implication. You are not lost. Saiyans do not get lost.

But.

Well.

You don’t exactly know where you are, and it’s slightly concerning that your ship is currently a pile of molten scrap metal.

“…Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your hands into the tattered remains of your belt. “But if this is a trap, I’m breaking every bone in your body.”

Mark exhales in relief, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Noted,” he mutters. Then, more amused than he probably should be: “You always this dramatic?”

You smirk. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

His lips twitch, as if suppressing a laugh. Instead, he just shakes his head and gestures for you to follow.

You crack your neck, glance at the still-stunned humans, and grin.

Let’s see where this goes.

••••

You hate this place.

It smells like sterilization and fear, the kind of artificially clean air that makes your skin itch.

The walls are a cold, metallic gray, pulsing with dim overhead lights. The whole facility hums with electricity, the kind that suggests they have restraints for things stronger than humans.

And the way they’re looking at you? Like you’re a specimen in a cage? You really, really don’t like that.

You sit in a metal chair bolted to the floor, arms crossed, one leg bouncing slightly as you stare at the wrinkled man in front of you.

His name is Cecil. You’ve already decided you don’t like him.

For the past ten minutes, he’s been droning on, asking questions about your species, your ship, your intentions—like you owe him answers.

You’ve made a game of not responding, watching his patience wear thin.

“You’re really not gonna talk?” he asks, finally, voice dry as dust.

You smirk. “Why would I answer to someone who can’t even fly?”

Cecil’s face twitches. Across the room, Mark—Invincible, as he insists on being called—snorts.

He tries to smother his laugh, pressing his lips together, but you see the amusement flickering in his eyes.

Cecil doesn’t react beyond a slow exhale through his nose. He’s good at this, you’ll give him that. A lesser man would’ve cracked by now.

“I’ll be honest,” he continues. “You’re not our first alien visitor, and you probably won’t be our last. But if you’re planning to cause problems—”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table, flashing him a slow, sharp grin. “I am the problem,” you say, voice dripping with amusement.

“And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

The silence that follows is delicious.

Mark shifts slightly. You don’t need to look at him to feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his body tenses like he’s preparing for you to lash out again.

You’re not going to—yet—but the fact that he thinks you might is amusing.

Cecil just sighs and rubs his temple. “Get her out of my sight.”

You stand, stretching with a dramatic groan.

“Finally. This room smells like weakness.”

One of the armed guards by the door stiffens at that, knuckles whitening on his weapon. You give him a slow, pointed grin before turning away.

Mark steps beside you, shaking his head. “You’re so charming,” he mutters, voice laced with dry amusement.

You flash him a smirk. “I try.”

He gestures toward the exit. “Come on, oh mighty warrior. Let’s get you some fresh air before you pick a fight with the janitor.”

••••

Mark insists you need to learn about Earth.

Assimilate, he says. Blend in.

You think it’s ridiculous. Why should you have to adapt to them? You are superior in every way—stronger, faster, smarter. If anything, they should be learning from you.

But… well. You suppose humoring Mark is preferable to rotting away in that dreadful government facility.

So when he insists on introducing you to “the best thing Earth has to offer,” you allow yourself to be dragged along, arms crossed and skepticism at full capacity.

Which is how you find yourself sitting in a place called Mama Luigi’s Pizza.

The walls are plastered with photographs of grinning humans holding enormous, greasy slices of something that looks like food but definitely doesn’t smell like anything worth eating.

The air is thick with the scent of melted cheese and sizzling dough, mingling with the faint tang of tomato sauce.

Mark places a box in front of you with a dramatic flourish. “Alright, first lesson in being an Earthling, food.”

You narrow your eyes at the offering. The circular dish is sliced into uneven triangles, topped with bubbling golden cheese and a thin layer of something red.

You poke it with a finger. It squishes slightly. “What is this?”

Mark sighs like he was expecting this reaction. “It’s pizza. Just try it.”

You glance at him, then back at the pizza. It doesn’t smell awful, but it looks so… soft.

Your diet consists of meat cooked over an open flame, raw energy rations, and the occasional alien delicacy that most species wouldn’t dare touch.

This? This just looks like melted goo on soggy bread.

“Do humans consume nothing of nutritional value?” you ask, lifting one of the slices and examining it like it might try to escape. “How does this pathetic excuse for sustenance fuel you?”

Mark groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not always about nutrition. Sometimes it's about taste.”

You snort. “Taste is secondary to power.”

“Okay, Y/n,” Mark deadpans. “Just take a bite.”

You sniff it warily, then, with great reluctance, sink your teeth into the gooey mess.

The moment the flavors hit your tongue, your brain short-circuits.

Salty, savory cheese. Rich, tangy sauce. The warm, crispy-yet-doughy crust. Your taste buds—so accustomed to the harsh, metallic tang of survival rations—practically explode.

You don’t mean to make a noise, but something between a hum and a low growl of approval rumbles in your throat.

Your grip on the slice tightens, fingers flexing instinctively.

Mark watches with interest as your pupils dilate. “...Well?” he prompts, smirking.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you devour the rest of the slice in two bites, grab another, and tear into it like a starving beast.

Mark blinks. “Oh. Oh wow.”

The next few minutes are a blur. The pizza—this godly, divine creation—is disappearing at an alarming rate.

You don’t pace yourself.

You don’t breathe.

You just consume.

Mark leans back in his chair, watching in a mixture of horror and awe. “Uh, you do know you’re supposed to chew, right?”

You ignore him, grabbing another slice, cheese stretching between your fingers.

Mark’s brows shoot up. “Are you—oh my god, are you actually growling?”

You pause mid-bite, realizing that yes, you are growling—a low, territorial rumble vibrating from your chest. Your muscles are coiled, posture slightly hunched as if guarding your prize.

You force yourself to relax, clearing your throat. “Instinct,” you say, voice muffled around your mouthful. “Saiyan biology.”

Mark stares at you.

Then at the emptying box.

Then back at you.

“That’s terrifying.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, completely unbothered. “It is efficient.”

Mark gestures to the now nearly empty pizza box. “That was supposed to be for both of us.”

You glance at the single, lonely slice remaining in the box, then at Mark. Then back at the slice.

You grab it.

“HEY!”

You take an exaggerated bite, chewing slowly, making direct eye contact with him as you do.

Mark groans, slumping back in his seat. “I cannot believe I just witnessed a Saiyan discovering pizza.”

You swallow and grin. “Alright.” You gesture to the crumbs and grease-stained box. “This planet might have some value after all.”

••••

Mark insists you need to learn human customs if you're going to stay on Earth.

You think human customs are stupid.

“Just try to blend in,” Mark says as he leads you down a crowded city street, his voice already laced with exhaustion. “No throwing cars, no threatening people, and for the love of God, no fighting the barista.”

You scoff, ruffling your hair in annoyance. “If this barista dares disrespect me, they’ll have earned the beating.”

Mark sighs. “I’m begging you to be normal for five minutes.”

You don’t dignify that with a response.

The place Mark drags you to is small and cramped, filled with the scent of something bitter and the low hum of human chatter. Coffee shop, he calls it. You call it a waste of time.

The line moves painfully slow. You tap your foot impatiently, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ridiculous menu full of nonsense words like macchiato and venti.

“These names are stupid.”

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to understand them. Just order something.”

Finally, you reach the front. A young man stands behind the counter, looking more exhausted than Mark. His uniform is wrinkled, his expression blank.

He sighs. “What can I get you?”

You lift your chin. “Your strongest drink.”

The barista barely reacts. “Do you want that hot or iced?”

You narrow your eyes. “Is there a difference?”

Mark nudges your side. “Just say hot.”

You roll your eyes. “Hot, then.”

The barista punches something into his register. “Name for the order?”

You blink. “Why do you need my name?”

“It’s so we can call it when your drink is ready.”

You frown. “You mean I have to wait?”

The barista, clearly dead inside, just blinks at you. “Yes?”

You lean forward slightly. “Do you know who I am?”

Mark audibly groans.

The barista, now vaguely alarmed, glances at Mark for guidance. Mark shoots him an apologetic look before turning to you, voice dangerously close to pleading. “Just give him your name and be cool.”

You stare at the barista. The barista stares back. Then, slowly, you smirk. “Fine. My name is Y/N the Warmonger.”

Mark visibly deflates.

The barista, now beyond caring, just types something into the register. “That’ll be $4.75.”

You blink. “That will be what?”

“Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”

Mark pulls out a small green rectangle and hands it over before you can start breaking things. “I got it.”

You watch as the barista takes the rectangle, swipes it through a strange machine, and hands it back.

You lean over, voice low. “Did he just steal from you?”

Mark drags a hand down his face. “That’s how money works.”

“Money is a scam.”

Mark gestures for you to step aside as the next customer moves forward. “Welcome to capitalism.”

You huff, tapping your fingers against the counter as you wait. “How long does this process take?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Mark shrugs. “How busy they are.”

You look around. There are only three other people waiting. “This is pathetic.”

“Do you have to say everything you think out loud?”

“Yes, I do.”

Mark stares at you for a long moment, then sighs. “Just… stand here and don’t start a fight.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I won’t start a fight.”

Mark looks at you like he doesn’t believe you at all.

Minutes pass. The baristas move at a snail’s pace, making drinks with far more effort than seems necessary.

Your patience—what little exists—wears thin.

Finally, someone calls, “Y/N the Warmonger?”

You smirk, stepping forward. “Ah, finally.”

The barista places a small cup on the counter.

You eye it. “That’s it?”

Mark claps a hand over his face. “Please don’t—”

You grab the cup and inspect it. It’s small—far smaller than you expected. And it’s hot, heat seeping through the flimsy material. You narrow your eyes at the tiny opening in the lid. “This is ridiculous.”

Mark nudges your arm. “Just take a sip.”

You do.

And immediately gag.

Mark snorts. “Not a fan?”

You shove the cup back at him, wiping your tongue on your sleeve. “It tastes like burnt dirt.”

“That’s coffee.”

“Why do humans drink this?”

Mark shrugs, taking a sip of his own drink. “Some of us like suffering.”

You glare at the cup. “This explains so much.”

Mark is laughing now, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe coffee isn’t your thing.”

You sneer at the cup as if it personally offended you. “I will destroy this establishment.”

Mark grabs your arm. “We are leaving.”

••••

Mark should’ve known better than to mention Halloween in passing.

The moment the words leave his mouth, you stop walking, whip around, and grab his shoulders so fast he barely has time to react.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Your grip tightens, eyes burning with intensity. "So you’re telling me there’s a day—a whole day—where I can wear anything I want, and people just… give me things?"

Mark blinks, looking mildly concerned for his well-being. "Uh… yeah? That’s… basically Halloween."

Your expression is deadly serious. "This is the best planet in the universe."

Mark sighs, prying your fingers off his shoulders. "You really don’t need to be this dramatic."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "I absolutely do. This is groundbreaking information, Mark. Do you understand how insane this sounds? Where I’m from, if you want something, you take it—or you beat someone into the ground until they hand it over."

"Yeah, we call that robbery," Mark mutters.

You ignore him. "But this? This is a sanctioned event?"

He shrugs. "Pretty much. Kids dress up, go door to door, and get candy."

Your head tilts. "Candy?"

Mark pauses, realizing something horrifying. "Wait. You’ve never had candy before?"

You raise a brow. "Should I have?"

Mark grabs you hand, a new found conviction stirring his heart. "Okay, new plan. We are absolutely fixing this."

The next thing you know, you’re standing in the middle of a store filled with costumes.

Mark drags you through the aisles, dodging plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, and a disturbing number of severed limbs. You pick up a dismembered hand, inspecting it with mild curiosity.

"Humans celebrate death?" you ask, turning it over in your palm.

Mark huffs a laugh. "Kinda. Halloween’s all about spooky stuff. Ghosts, monsters, horror movies—"

"Horror movies?" you echo, dropping the fake hand.

"Yeah, it's filled with things that's supposed to be scary—like, creepy stories, jump scares, murder-y villains—"

Your eyes light up. "You have a murder holiday?"

Mark sighs, rubbing his temple. "That’s not—never mind. Just pick out a costume."

You survey the wall of options, eyes scanning the bizarre selection.

"What’s a ‘sexy nurse’?"

Mark chokes, face growing warmer. "Not that one!"

You grin, baring sharp canines. "Ohhh, so it's not just a murder holiday."

Mark groans, dragging you toward another aisle. "We’re not doing this."

After an obnoxiously long debate (and Mark vetoing several of your more violent ideas), you finally settle on something appropriately intimidating.

A black cape, sleek armor, and a terrifying mask with glowing red eyes.

Mark squints at the tag. "Darth Vader?"

You tilt your head. "This man—he was a warrior, yes?"

"Uh… kinda?" Mark hesitates. "More like an evil space dictator."

You grin. "So, a king."

Mark sighs. "I feel like I should stop you, but… honestly? You’re weirdly perfect for this."

You flick the cape over your shoulder, nodding in approval. "Yes. Lord Vader is ready to conquer this...Halloween."

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please don’t start referring to yourself in the third person."

You smirk, already deep in character. "Lord Vader does as he pleases."

Mark groans.

Hours later, you’re stalking the streets with a plastic skull bucket (Mark refused to let you carry an actual skull), and your energy is through the roof.

"Look at them, Mark!" You gesture wildly at the groups of costumed children. "They fear me!"

"They don’t," Mark corrects. "They think you’re cosplaying."

You scoff. "They should fear me."

"That's called fear mongering."

You ignore him, marching up to a door and pounding on it like you’re issuing a challenge.

A kindly old woman answers, beaming. "Oh, what a lovely costume! And who are you supposed to be, dear?"

You puff out your chest. "I am Lord Vader! Kneel before me, mortal!"

Mark, standing behind you, mutters, "I can't do this."

The woman chuckles, unbothered, and drops a handful of candy into your bucket. "Well, Lord Vader, enjoy your treats!"

You stare down at the loot. Then at Mark. Then back at the candy.

Your voice drops to a whisper. "It worked."

Mark claps a hand on your shoulder, smiling lightly at the child like wonder in your expression. "Welcome to Halloween."

••••

Mark fascinates you.

You don’t know when it happened, or how, but somewhere between the endless sparring matches, the insufferable Earth lessons, and the way he constantly calls you out on your arrogance, you started… caring.

It’s infuriating.

He’s not a Saiyan. He’s soft. Idealistic.

Sentimental in a way that would get him killed on any real battlefield. Yet, he doesn’t break. No matter how many times he's knocked down, he always gets back up.

He’s stubborn. Stupidly determined. And worse—so much worse—he’s kind.

And every time he smiles at you, your stomach does this weird thing that you refuse to acknowledge.

You blame it on Earth’s atmosphere.

You’re sitting on the edge of a rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath you, golden from the streetlights. It’s late—too late—but neither of you seems particularly eager to leave.

Mark leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars. “Y’know, I used to think I was strong.”

You snort, swinging your legs over the ledge. “Used to?”

He gives you a sideways glance. “Yeah, and then I met you.”

You smirk. “Ah. A humbling experience, I’m sure.”

Mark groans. “I hate that you’re so smug about it.”

“But I earned the right to be smug,” you counter, grinning. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. You should thank me for showing you how weak you are.”

Mark scoffs. “Oh yeah, thanks so much, Your Highness. I love getting my ass kicked on a regular basis.”

You shrug. “You should. It builds character.”

Mark huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “You love messing with me, don’t you?”

You tilt your head. “Of course.”

“Why?”

You blink. The question catches you off guard.

Mark watches you expectantly, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you—less irritated, more curious.

You feel a strange warmth creeping up your neck.

You click your tongue. “Because you react.”

His brows furrow. “What?”

You wave a hand at him. “Most beings—weaklings—would just fear me, but you? You get angry. You argue. You fight back.” You smirk. “It’s entertaining.”

Mark shakes his head, exasperated but smiling. “You are so weird.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He leans back again, gaze shifting to the sky. “It’s not.”

Something in your chest tightens.

You don’t like the feeling.

The next time you spar, it’s different.

You’ve fought Mark dozens of times now, and it’s usually predictable. You win. He loses. He gets slightly better each time, but the outcome never really changes.

Except… today, he lasts longer.

His movements are sharper, more controlled. His dodges are precise. His counters actually make you work.

You grin, blood pumping, excitement thrumming under your skin.

“Finally,” you breathe, dodging a punch by a hair. “I was starting to think you’d never improve.”

Mark exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a very aggressive training partner.”

You smirk, throwing a kick that he barely manages to block. “And look at you now! Almost respectable.”

“Almost?”

You grin. “Let’s see if you can prove me wrong.”

He lunges again, and for the first time, you let yourself enjoy it—not just the fight, but him. The way he moves. The way he refuses to back down. The way he looks at you, like he’s actually enjoying himself too.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk, not a cocky grin, but a real smile. Bright. Genuine.

And something in your stomach flips.

You stumble.

Not much—barely a misstep—but enough. Mark seizes the opportunity, slamming into you with enough force to send you skidding backward.

You catch yourself before you hit the ground, flipping midair and landing in a crouch. Your heart is pounding—not from the fight, but from the fact that you hesitated.

You never hesitate.

Mark grins, slightly out of breath. “Hey, did I actually get you just now?”

Your fingers twitch. You force your expression back to neutral. “No.”

Mark raises a brow. “Are you sure?”

You glare. “Absolutely.”

He smirks. “You totally hesitated.”

You stand up, rolling your shoulders. “You wish.”

Mark chuckles. “Oh, I know I did.”

You hate that he’s right.

You hate that you let him be right.

And most of all…

You hate that your stomach does that thing again.

••••

You don’t care about Earth.

That’s what you’ve told yourself, over and over again, ever since you crash-landed on this ridiculous planet full of weaklings. You don’t care about its people, its customs, or its foolish attachment to peace.

But then someone hurts Mark.

And suddenly, none of that matters.

It happens fast.

One moment, you’re watching him trade blows with some costumed idiot—some third-rate, no-name waste of oxygen who dares to think they can beat him.

And then—

Mark hesitates. Just for a second.

And in that second, the bastard slams a fist straight into his ribs with enough force to send him crashing through a building.

Your vision goes red.

Your usual smugness—your sharp, teasing quips—vanish. There's no room for anything but pure, feral rage.

You don’t think.

You react.

The air around you crackles as you launch yourself forward, faster than the fool can process. One second, they’re standing there, smug over landing a hit on Mark—

The next, you have them by the throat.

Their eyes widen, hands clawing at yours, feet kicking uselessly in the air. You squeeze, just enough to make them panic.

“You think you’re strong?” Your voice is low, almost a growl, vibrating with barely restrained fury. “You think you can just touch him?”

They make a choked noise, eyes bulging. You hate looking at them. This weak, insignificant thing that had the audacity to harm what’s yours.

Your grip tightens. The building behind you trembles from the sheer force of your energy surging outward. Hair flickering between its normal color and golden for a split second.

Mark coughs somewhere in the rubble. "Y/N—"

Your head snaps toward the sound. He’s trying to push himself up, one arm wrapped around his ribs, blood smeared across his cheek.

He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, expression torn between disbelief and something else—something softer.

You don’t like it.

You scowl, then turn back to your prey. You could end this fight right now. Just a little more pressure, and they’d be nothing but a crumpled mess of bone and flesh.

But Mark—damn him—is still watching.

And for some stupid reason, you care about what he sees.

With a growl, you throw the bastard across the street. Their body smashes through a lamppost before skidding to a limp halt. You don’t bother checking if they get up. If they know what’s good for them, they won’t.

The moment they’re gone, you stalk over to Mark, who is still gawking at you.

“Did you just—”

"Shut up," you snap, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet.

He stumbles slightly, and you automatically shift to steady him, one hand gripping his forearm.

He’s warm under your fingers, his breath still uneven from the fight. His eyes lock onto yours, searching.

Your jaw tightens. "If you die, I’ll be very pissed off."

Mark blinks, then—despite the blood on his lip, despite the bruises already blooming across his skin—he grins.

“You care about me,” he says, tone dripping with amusement.

Your eye twitches.

"You care about me," he repeats, sing-song, like he’s delighted about it.

You shove him, hard enough to make him stumble back. "I will end you."

Mark just laughs, wiping blood from his mouth. "Yeah, sure. Right after you finish avenging my honor."

You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that you let yourself care.

And most of all—

You hate the way your stomach flips when he looks at you like that.

••••

It’s late—too late for anyone else to be awake—but you don’t sleep much. Not like humans do.

So you sit alone on the edge of his rooftop, arms resting on your knees, staring up at the sky. The stars above are bright tonight, scattered across the inky black like shattered glass.

They stretch endlessly, far beyond Earth, far beyond this tiny planet with its weak gravity and fragile people.

Somewhere out there, a long time ago, there was a place you should have called home.

But Planet Vegeta is gone.

You don’t remember it. You were too young when it was destroyed, sent away before the blast could reach you. By the time you were old enough to ask questions, there was nothing left to return to—just empty space where your people once stood.

You should be used to it by now.

But some nights—like this one—your chest feels hollow.

The soft thud of footsteps behind you barely registers. You already know who it is.

Mark drops down beside you, not saying anything at first, just watching the sky with you.

The silence stretches between you, comfortable in a way you wouldn’t have expected months ago.

Then, quietly, he asks, “You ever think about going back?”

You exhale slowly, gaze never leaving the stars. “Not really an option.”

Mark tilts his head. “Why not?”

Your fingers clench slightly. “Because there’s nothing to go back to.”

His expression shifts. "Oh."

You don’t like the pity in his voice. You shoot him a sharp glance. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t lose my planet—I never had it to begin with.”

Mark studies you, his expression unreadable. "Still. That’s… a lot."

You scoff. "I manage."

Silence.

Then, softly—“Then maybe Earth is your home now.”

Your head snaps toward him, expecting mockery, but there’s none. No teasing, no sarcasm—just sincerity. Just Mark.

He looks at you like it’s an obvious answer, like it doesn’t matter that you’re not human, that you don’t belong here.

For the first time, you don’t scoff.

“…Maybe.”

••••

Mark is fidgeting.

You’ve been watching him shift awkwardly in place for the past two minutes, and you can’t decide whether you’re more entertained or secondhand embarrassed.

His hands keep clenching at his sides, like he can’t decide if he wants to put them in his pockets, cross his arms, or just gesture wildly. He rubs the back of his neck so much that you’re convinced he might actually rub his skin raw. And the way he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot?

Pathetic. Yet...cute.

Your brow arches. “Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna stand there looking constipated?”

Mark flinches like you just punched him in the gut. “I—I have something I need to tell you.”

You cross your arms, tilting your head, unimpressed. “Clearly.”

He takes a deep breath, like that might somehow help him, then lets it out in a rush of air that makes him seem even more stressed.

His shoulders are too tense, his expression too strained, and his heartbeat—oh, his heartbeat is practically hammering through his chest. Is he nervous?

He’s never like this during fights. Even when he’s getting thrown through buildings, he usually keeps his cool, and pushing through with sheer stubbornness. But right now?

Mark looks like he might actually pass out.

“So, uh…” He drags a hand down his face, sighing. “I think I—no, I know I—uh—”

Your smirk widens. You can’t help it. “Spit it out, Invincible.”

That seems to make it worse. He groans, eyes squeezing shut, head tilting back like he’s begging the universe for patience.

Then, he just blurts it out.

“I like you, okay? A lot. A lot more than normal, And I know you probably think I’m beneath you, but—”

You don’t think.

You act.

Before he can finish whatever self-deprecating nonsense he was about to say, you grab the front of his suit and yank him forward, crashing your lips against his.

It’s instinct. It’s reaction. It’s the only thing you can do when faced with something that makes your chest feel tight.

For a second, he freezes.

Then, he melts into it.

His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he’s so still. You realize he’s holding his breath, and maybe you are too. The world around you fades into nothing, like the only thing anchoring you to reality is the heat of his mouth against yours.

And then it’s over.

You pull back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, letting go of his shirt like it just burned you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your face—damn it, why does your face feel hot?

You clench your fists, resisting the urge to cover your mouth, your brain screaming at you for what you just did.

Mark just… stares.

His mouth is slightly open, his eyebrows raised, his lips still parted like he’s still processing what just happened. There’s a deep flush creeping up his neck, painting his ears red, but—he’s not speaking.

Oh, universe.

Why isn’t he speaking?

Panic creeps up your spine like a slow-burning fire. You shouldn’t have done that. What if you—what if he—

“…You kissed me.” His voice is dazed, barely more than a whisper, and that’s when you snap.

You stiffen, looking anywhere but at him. “You were—talking too much.”

Slowly—too slowly—something shifts in his expression. The stunned silence fades, melting into something smug. His lips curl at the edges, the flush on his cheeks still present but no longer uncertain. It’s a look of pure, unfiltered victory.

His voice is annoyingly triumphant. “You like me.”

Your entire body locks up.

“No,” you say immediately.

Mark steps closer. “You so do.”

“I don’t,” you insist, but the way you’re backing up is not helping your case.

Mark follows, his confidence growing with every second. “You totally do. Oh my god.” He drags a hand down his face, but it’s not exasperation—it’s exhilaration. “I knew it.”

“You don’t know anything,” you mutter, face burning.

He grins. “You are so cute right now.”

Your hands clench into fists. “I will end you.”

“Oh, sure,” he teases. “But not before I kiss you again.”

You whip around so fast your hair nearly smacks him in the face. “I hate you.”

He has the audacity to laugh. A full, bright, obnoxiously victorious laugh.

“No, you don’t.”

Your mouth opens—probably to snap something back—but Mark just leans in, smirking.

“If it makes you feel better,” he muses, “I really enjoyed it.”

You go completely still, face burning impossibly warmer.

Mark grins wider, “And I know you enjoyed it too.”

Your eye twitches.

He laughs again, and you hate how much you don’t hate the sound of it.

─ Anchored Hearts

✎ shanks x pearl

♦︎fic type: one-shot, fic-trade

♦︎ summary: through the motivation of their daughter Uta, Shanks and Pearl stop dancing around eachother and finally go on their long awaited date.

♦︎word count: 2.5k

♦︎warnings: None

♦︎a/n: this is another fic trade done with a friend, Pearl belongs to @frillsinadress ! I loved writing Pearl, she's a fun character and her relationship with Shanks is soo cute!

The soft hum of the sea carried a gentle breeze through the village, rustling leaves and tugging at colorful festival banners strung from building to building. The sky, a tapestry of fading oranges and deepening purples, signaled the start of the festival’s evening celebration. Among the crowd that gathered for the festivities, Pearl stood out like a rare gem washed ashore. Her powder blue hair cascaded down in soft waves, catching the last rays of sunlight, and her fair skin almost glowed in the twilight. Her posture was poised, refined; her serene smile framed by lips that spoke with a melody so smooth it could calm the fiercest storm.

Pearl had always carried herself with a regal grace, elegance embedded in every movement. She walked with an air of timeless confidence, speaking to everyone with the warmth of an old friend, even if they had just met. Yet beneath this public composure, there was a fire—something more opinionated, more raw, that only her closest companions ever witnessed.

This evening, that sharpness was dialed back. She was content, savoring the festival atmosphere, her eyes flickering across the twinkling lights and the sea of happy faces, but occasionally her gaze would drift to Shanks, standing nearby, his broad frame illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns. Uta, Shanks' daughter, was fluttering between them with barely contained excitement, her bright eyes glinting with mischief. At just eleven years old, Uta was already far too clever for her own good, and Pearl could see right through her little charade.

Still, she let Uta play her games. There was something charming in the girl’s attempts to set her father and Pearl up, even though Pearl and Shanks were already well aware of her intentions. Pearl smiled inwardly as Uta darted between villagers, whispering and plotting. The child wasn’t subtle, not in the slightest, but Pearl admired her spirit. The girl saw something between her and Shanks—something she desperately wanted to nurture, and Pearl wouldn't deny that she wanted that something to become more as well.

As for Shanks, he stood a few paces away, laughing with a few crewmates, his eyes always drawn back to Pearl as though pulled by an invisible thread. His gaze, warm and affectionate, made her feel more grounded than she had in years. She had sailed with many, walked through many villages, but there was something about being near Shanks that made her feel… safe, in a way she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time. The festivities ramped up around them, with villagers gathering to play games and share food, but Pearl remained calm, observing everything with an amused glint in her eyes. She knew what was coming next—Uta had made it so painfully obvious that Pearl couldn't help but chuckle under her breath. But, for the sake of the girl’s delight, she pretended ignorance.

"Mom, Mom!" Uta’s high-pitched voice cut through the noise of the festival, her small frame barreling toward her with a grin too wide to be innocent. "There’s this game I want you to try! I already told Dad." Shanks wandered over, grinning like the fool he was, hands resting casually in his pockets. "Looks like we’ve both been summoned." Pearl tilted her head, giving Shanks a knowing look that he returned with a playful wink. "I see. How could I refuse such a gracious invitation?" Uta led them toward a game booth, her energy infectious as she bounced ahead. Pearl followed at her own pace, moving with the deliberate elegance that came naturally to her. Every step purposeful, every glance measured. Shanks walked beside her, his presence comforting, though the tension between them simmered quietly beneath the surface.

As they approached the booth, Pearl noticed the game involved throwing rings onto the necks of bottles, a child’s game. Her lips twitched in amusement. "Don’t worry, Pearl," Shanks said, leaning slightly toward her. "I'll go easy on you." Pearl raised a delicate eyebrow, her smile widening into something more mischievous. "That won’t be necessary. But please, try not to cry when I win." Uta giggled from behind the counter, barely able to contain her excitement as the two adults bantered. They each took their rings, Shanks tossing his with an almost casual arrogance that missed entirely, causing Uta to burst into laughter. Pearl, on the other hand, measured her throw with precision, easily hooking the ring around the bottle’s neck. "I guess I’m no good at carnival games." Shanks scratched his head sheepishly, though the smile never left his face. "Looks like the mighty Red-Haired Shanks can’t handle a simple game of rings," Pearl teased, her voice lilting with amusement. There was an easiness between them that felt natural, as though they had been playing these games their whole lives.

As the night wore on, Pearl and Shanks found themselves moving through the festival together, whether playing more games, sampling the village’s cuisine, or watching local performances. All the while, Uta hovered nearby, orchestrating the events, no doubt pushing them closer and closer. When the fireworks finally lit up the night sky, painting the darkness with brilliant colors, Pearl stood at the edge of the village square, her eyes reflecting the dazzling display above. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice low, almost as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. Shanks stood beside her, his usual playful demeanor softened into something quieter, more introspective.

“It is,” Shanks replied, though his eyes weren’t on the sky. Instead, they lingered on Pearls, who seemed to be lost in thought as they locked eyes. Her eyes were much softer, not like her usual calculating glances, her eyes held a calmness to them. A warmth, perhaps, that Shanks wasn’t used to seeing so openly from her, however, he was glad he could witness this warmth radiating from her. Uta reappeared at that moment, tugging at Pearl’s sleeve. “There’s one more thing!” she said excitedly. “I’ve planned a dinner for you and Dad—just the two of you! It’s by the beach, at sunset. I know you’ll love it!” Pearl exchanged a glance with Shanks, and they both smiled knowingly. Uta’s intentions had been clear from the beginning, but neither of them had the heart to spoil her fun. Besides, the idea of a quiet dinner with Shanks sounded… nice. More than nice, even.

Uta led them to a secluded spot near the edge of the village, where a small table was set up, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. Overhead, someone had hung a sprig of mistletoe, though it was the middle of spring, and Pearl couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. “She really went all out,” Pearl said, shaking her head with fondness. Shanks grinned, pulling out a chair for her. “What can I say? Our girl’s got big dreams.” As they sat down, the last of the sun’s rays stretched across the horizon, casting a golden glow over the water. The moment felt almost surreal—too perfect, too calm for the life they led. But Pearl wasn’t one to question such things. She leaned into the peacefulness, allowing herself to enjoy the low hum of the evening.

"So,” Pearl began, leaning forward slightly, her voice smooth as she rested her chin on her hand, her hat casting a soft shadow over her face; Shanks' heart skipped at the sight of her ethereal smile. “You’ve been rather quiet about your intentions tonight. Was this really all Uta’s doing, or did you have a hand in it?” Shanks grinned, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I’ll admit, I didn’t stop her from making plans. But you can’t blame me for wanting to spend more time with you, can you?” Pearl raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, so now the truth comes out. You’re the one behind this elaborate setup.” Shanks chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. But if Uta wants to give me a little nudge, who am I to stop her?” Pearl leaned back in her chair, her purple eyes gleaming with playful challenge. “And what exactly do you plan to do with this ‘nudge,’ Red-Hair?”

Shanks met her gaze, his smile softening as he leaned forward, his voice low and teasing. “Well, I was thinking I’d make the most of it.” Pearl tilted her head, her smile coy. “Oh? And how do you plan to do that?” Shanks’ grin widened, his voice taking on a more flirtatious tone. “I suppose that depends on how much you’re willing to let me.” Pearl’s laughter bubbled up again, her eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that.” “And you like it,” Shanks replied, his tone playful yet confident. Pearl’s smirk grew as she took a sip of her water, her gaze never leaving his. “Perhaps.”

Throughout the evening they continued their playful banter and light flirting, unable to ignore the warmth growing on their cheeks from each compliment. They happily enjoyed eachother's presence and attention but as a bundle of mistletoe dangled above them, catching Pearl’s eye once again, she found herself laughing. “What?” Shanks asked, though he was already smiling in that disarmingly charming way of his. “Uta really has an eye for detail,” Pearl said, gesturing to the mistletoe. “A bit out of season, don’t you think?” Shanks looked up, his grin widening as he took in the scene. “Yeah, but I think we should play along, don’t you?” Pearl felt her heart skip a beat, though she kept her composure as she met his gaze. “Oh, so now you’re a stickler for tradition?”

“Only when it suits me,” Shanks replied, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, his eyes never leaving hers. For a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in this small bubble of time. Shanks leaned in first, closing the distance between them with an easy confidence, but Pearl was the one who closed her eyes and met him halfway. Their lips brushed softly, the kiss tender and unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world. The world around them seemed to fall away as their lips connected, Pearl's mind spinning from the warmth of his mouth. She could taste the faint hint of sea salt on him, mixed with a surprising sweetness, like cherries. It was a little unexpected—rough around the edges, but with an undeniable softness that made her heart skip a beat.

Shanks, on the other hand, was lost in the feel of her lips. They were softer than he had imagined, even in his wildest daydreams. He’d been waiting for this—longer than he cared to admit—and now that it was happening, it felt better than he’d ever thought it could. Her lips moved against his with a grace that left him breathless, her warmth sinking into him with every second that passed. He kept it gentle, slower than the rush of the moment might have urged him to, savoring every bit of it. To his surprise, she kissed him back with just as much restraint, a tenderness he hadn’t expected. For someone so strong and confident, Pearl let herself melt into the kiss, and Shanks reveled in the sensation. His thumb lightly brushed her cheek as his other hand rested on the small of her back, pulling her just a bit closer. It wasn’t an overpowering gesture, but rather one of reassurance, as if to say he was there, holding her as carefully as he could.

Pearl, for her part, felt her pulse quicken. Despite the intensity of the moment, there was a certain gentleness in the way Shanks held her, in the way his lips moved slowly and deliberately against hers. She appreciated it—the care, the tenderness. It made her feel like he wasn’t just indulging in a moment of passion, but rather savoring her, treating her like she was something precious.

When they finally broke apart, Pearl’s eyes fluttered open, her breath still caught somewhere in her chest. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Shanks’ boyish smirk had softened, the usual mischief replaced with something far more sincere. His eyes, though still twinkling with that familiar playful spark, now held a softness she hadn’t seen before. Pearl’s lips curled into a light giggle, unable to help herself as she watched him. There was something disarming about seeing this side of him—something that made her chest tighten in a way she hadn’t expected. Shanks grinned at the sound of her laughter, his arms pulling her just a little closer, as if afraid to let go. Without missing a beat, he leaned in again, this time pressing a series of small, affectionate kisses along her cheek. Each one was quick, playful, but there was a tenderness behind every peck that made Pearl’s heart flutter.

“You’re really laying it on thick, Captain,” Pearl teased, her voice light and amused, though she made no effort to pull away. Shanks chuckled against her skin, his breath warm as he continued to press more kisses along her cheek, pausing only to murmur, “Can’t help it. I’ve got a lot to make up for.” Pearl laughed again, the sound soft and almost shy, as she felt his lips brush against her skin repeatedly, leaving trails of warmth wherever he kissed her. There was something so endearing about the way he did it—his typical confidence replaced by an almost boyish eagerness. And yet, it didn’t feel rushed or overbearing. It felt… sweet. Like he was savoring every little moment with her.

Just as Shanks was about to place another kiss near the corner of her mouth, a small, familiar voice interrupted them from the shadows. Uta’s head popped up from behind a nearby bush, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Did it work?” she asked, her voice full of hope. Pearl and Shanks both burst into laughter, beckoning Uta over to join them at the table. “Yes, it worked,” Pearl said, her voice full of warmth as she pulled Uta into a hug. “You’ve done well.” Uta beamed with pride as she slid into the seat between them, looking between her father and Pearl with wide, excited eyes. “Are you happy?” Pearl smiled, her heart full as she exchanged a look with Shanks. “Yes,” she said softly, “very happy.” And as the three of them sat together, continuing their meal with the new addition, under the fading light of the sunset, Pearl felt a contentment she hadn’t known she needed.

The festival continued around them, with laughter and music floating on the air, but in this small corner of the world, everything felt still, peaceful. Pearl glanced at Shanks once more, catching the way his eyes softened when he looked at Uta, then at her. She hadn’t realized until now how much she’d been craving this—a sense of belonging, of family. The evening stretched on, and they lingered at the table long after the food had been eaten, lost in conversation. Uta’s presence only added to the warmth of the night, her innocent questions and bubbly personality making both adults laugh. And as the stars shimmered above them, casting a gentle glow over the quiet village, Pearl knew that this was just the beginning of something new. Something real. Something that, for once, felt like it could last.

can we get some yandere zoro x bartender reader who makes the best danm alcohol he has ever tasted

OMGOSH THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!! I really hope you enjoy the story, you can find it right here!

Yall...Omni Man is hot...like really hot 🧍‍♀️