wispitty

[wispitty]

shanks x reader | “a new hire” {ch.2}

summary: you're the new waitress at makino’s bar. sweet, shy and just looking for a quiet place to belong to. but when the red hair pirates dock for the night, you catch the eye of their infamous captain, shanks—and somehow, one night turns into something far more than you'd prepared for. tag list: shanks/you, slow burnish, tension & tenderness, made from shanks brainrot (literally its so bad), first sight feelings, he's protective chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

Chapter 2: Red Shawl

The moon hung high by the time the laughter began to fade, the Red Hair Pirates trickling out in pairs and small groups, still talking over each other and making vague promises not to cause too much trouble in town. Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. Beckman gave Makino a two-fingered wave on his way out, and Shanks lingered near the counter, the last to leave���as always.

He’d already clasped Makino’s hand in a warm goodbye, exchanging a few final words only old friends understood. But even after stepping back, he didn’t move to follow his crew.

Not yet.

He turned toward the bar instead, the space now much quieter save for your quiet cleanup. You looked up as he approached, already expecting it.

“How much do I owe?” he asked casually, as if it had just now occurred to him.

You smiled gently. “Already covered.”

Shanks blinked. “…What?”

You laughed under your breath, not quite meeting his eyes. “It came out of mine.”

He stared for a second, confused. “Yours?”

“As a thank you,” you said softly, gathering a few glasses and stacking them neatly.

“For earlier. And… for a warm welcome back.”

That tug in his chest returned—low and steady.

Of course it did.

Because here you were, smiling again like it was nothing. Like kindness was just something you gave without thinking twice. And it floored him more than any battlefield ever had.

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You trying to start a tab war with me?”

You tilted your head. “Would I win?”

Shanks grinned. “You’re already ahead.”

And for the first time all night… he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave just yet.

So when the moment presented itself—when the last of his crew had wandered off into the moonlit streets and the bar had slipped into that soft, breath-between-heartbeats quiet—he leaned a little closer across the bar.

“As a thank you,” he said, voice low and warm, “let me walk you home.”

You blinked, surprised. “O-Oh! That’s very kind, but, um—I don’t live that far. I’d hate to trouble you…”

Your voice trailed off under his steady gaze, and you could already feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Behind you, like a perfectly timed ambush, Makino chimed in without missing a beat.

“Shanks, I’d appreciate it if you could walk her home. She’s still new here, and her sense of direction isn’t the best.”

Your eyes went wide. “M-Miss Makino!”

But she just smiled slyly, stacking a few plates without even turning around. It was clear she wasn’t about to save you from this one.

Shanks glanced between the two of you with that easy grin of his, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was amused or just genuinely pleased.

“Well,” he said, slipping his hand into his pocket, “can’t say no to that, can I?”

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to stall—but the words dissolved before they could form. You didn’t have a real excuse. Not one you could lean on that didn’t sound... silly.

So you nodded. Slowly. “Alright then.”

Shanks gave a small, satisfied hum as he turned toward the door, waiting for you to follow.

Outside, the sea breeze kissed the night air, cool and quiet, carrying the scent of brine and summer grass.

He let you lead for a bit, staying just a step behind with his one hand tucked into his coat pocket. But when you hesitated at a fork in the road, brow furrowed in faint confusion, he chuckled softly.

“…Left,” he murmured. “You were about to walk straight into the mayor’s garden.”

You flushed. “I-I knew that.”

“Of course,” he said, grinning. “I just thought I’d spare the roses.”

You laughed despite yourself, and beside you, Shanks couldn’t help but glance over—really look at you.

And wonder, quietly, what exactly he’d just gotten himself into.

Eventually, the two of you continued down the gently winding path, your footsteps soft against the cobblestone, the night air wrapping around you like a worn blanket.

The village was quiet at this hour—just the distant sound of waves lapping the shore and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead. Every now and then, a porch light flickered in the distance, or a windchime sang low and lonesome from someone’s balcony.

You kept your eyes forward, clutching your hands together in front of you, as if trying to will the flush off your face. Shanks, meanwhile, walked with the practiced calm of a man who had no trouble filling silence. And yet… he didn’t.

He didn’t fill it with banter. Didn’t tease or push.

He just stayed there. With you. Quietly.

That, somehow, was even more disarming.

Eventually, you spoke—just to break the tension in your chest.

“Sorry if this is a little… boring. I’m sure you’ve seen far more exciting places.”

Shanks tilted his head, considering the stars above. “I’ve seen a lot of places,” he said. “Some loud. Some bright. Some with names I couldn’t even pronounce.”

He looked over at you again, one brow raised.

“But not all of them make you feel like you can breathe a little easier, just being there.”

You blinked. “Is that what this place is for you?”

A beat passed.

His gaze lingered on you—soft, unreadable.

“Could be,” he said simply.

That made your heart skip.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled, a little smaller than before, but real.

The two of you turned the last corner, and your small home came into view, a warm porch light still flickering beside the door.

“Well…” you said, stopping at the gate. “Here I am.”

Shanks stopped beside you, and for a long moment, neither of you moved.

You were close. Not quite touching. But the space between you felt thin—fragile, like a thread could snap at any second if either of you leaned just a little closer.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft. “For walking me home.”

Shanks nodded. “Thank you. For the drink. And the company.”

You glanced up at him, your lips parting like you might say something else—but nothing came.

He looked at you a heartbeat longer, then stepped back with that same small smile, nodding once more before turning.

“U-Um, wait!”

Shanks stopped mid-step, his boot heel scuffing softly against the stone path.

He turned back to face you, one brow raised in quiet surprise—but not impatience. If anything, there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to speak again… but had been hoping you might.

You stood there by your gate, fingers curling into the hem of your sleeve, your heart beating louder than it had all day.

You didn’t even know exactly what you meant to say—only that you didn’t want him to leave just yet.

Not like that.

“I…” you started, voice catching slightly before you steadied it. “I’m glad you stayed tonight.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that same unreadable, lopsided smile. “Is that so?”

You nodded. “I… I’ve felt a little out of place here since I arrived. Everyone’s nice, but… tonight, um… I didn’t feel so out of place.”

The wind stirred, brushing between you like a whispered nudge.

Shanks said nothing for a moment.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward again. Just a few paces—enough to close the gap until the porch light cast both of your shadows together on the path.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t even lean in.

But the way he looked at you made your breath catch.

“…Then I’m glad I stayed too,” he said quietly. “And if it helps... I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Thank you.” You huff a small laugh, eyes finding the ground. “When you say it like that? Makes it easier to believe.”

Suddenly, a chilly breeze blows by as if to interrupt the moment before it could unravel anything else from you.

A realization dawns on you as Shanks lazily turns his gaze to the coast.

“Wow, uh, it’s gotten a bit chilly, hasn’t it? Um, one second, I’ll be right back!”

He watched you disappear into the house in a flurry of soft steps and trailing words, the door clicking shut behind you. For a moment, Shanks just stood there beneath your porch light, brow slightly furrowed, the faintest breath of amusement ghosting over his lips.

You’re too kind for your own good.

When the door creaked open again and you came rushing back out with a folded shawl clutched in your hands, your expression was so earnest—so worried for him of all people—that it genuinely disarmed him.

“Here,” you said, coming up to him without hesitation. “Take this. I’d hate for you to catch something foul.”

Before he could even respond, your hands had already gently wrapped the shawl around his shoulders, adjusting it over the collar of his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. The fabric smelled faintly of vanilla.

Worn, soft. Warm.

Shanks looked down at you as you fussed with the ends, your eyes focused on your task, completely unaware of the fact that no one touched him like this. No one had in a long time.

Not like this.

Not this gently.

Not in decades.

“…You do realize,” he said after a beat, “I’ve survived storms at sea with nothing but a bottle of rum and a half-torn coat.”

You looked up at him with a sheepish smile. “Then I guess this’ll be a nice change.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

And didn’t take it off.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice a little rougher this time. “For worrying.”

His eyes held yours then—no teasing, no jokes. Just something quieter. Something real.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he added.

“Don’t worry about returning it. I have plenty.”

A beat.

“I, um, like making them… I think I actually might have too many to count. So, really, keep it.”

Shanks blinked.

Then—he laughed.

Not the loud, rowdy kind his crew was used to echoing across the deck, but something smaller. Warmer. The kind that caught in his chest before it ever reached his throat.

“You like making them, huh?” he repeated, watching you with that lopsided grin growing slow and fond. “Now that’s dangerous.”

You tilted your head, confused. “Dangerous?”

He stepped back just enough to tug the edge of the shawl lightly in his hand, as if showing it off.

“Because now I know this one’s mine. Suits me too well to give it back. Even matches my hair.”

You flushed at that, your eyes briefly flicking down to the knit resting over his shoulders—dark red thread with tiny flecks of color.

It did match his hair.

You hadn’t thought about it much while rushing to grab one, but now that he said it…

You tried to cover the warmth in your cheeks with a laugh. “Well… I suppose it’s yours, then.”

Shanks offered a small nod of mock solemnity. “I’ll treasure it like a medal.”

The breeze carried through again, softer this time. Like even the wind knew it didn’t want to interrupt what had settled between the two of you.

A moment that didn’t need anything extraordinary to mean something.

Just a look.

And a borrowed red shawl.

And the kind of quiet goodbye that made him promise, in his own way, that he wasn’t going far.

“…Goodnight,” he said, voice low.

He turned at last, this time with no hesitation. But as he walked down the path, you could see it—his hand lifting, fingers grazing the edge of the fabric you’d wrapped around him like he could still feel where your hands had been.

And just before he disappeared around the corner, he looked back—just once.

And smiled.

[wispitty]

mihawk x reader | “venus & mars” {ch.3}

summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.

...right? tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda) chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

Chapter 3: Five Minutes

Later that night.

You’d just finished showering.

Mihawk’s words had plagued you all day, leaving you pouting and frowning ever since. Moaning and grumbling. Petulant. Whiny.

You sat at your vanity, dragging a brush through your hair with a pout still stuck to your lips.

“That intolerable man… ooh, I can’t stand him!”

You threw yourself onto the bed, letting your weight sink into the mattress as you buried your face in the pillows. But the cold of the sheets only reminded you of the warmth of his arms from the night before.

A softness crossed your face, uninvited.

The quiet settled in.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. That makes the words you mumble into your pillow echo like confessions.

Go catch someone else, you jerk. See if I care.

But you do care.

And that’s the problem.

You care in the way the sheets feel wrong—too cold, too empty. You care in the way your thoughts wander without permission—to the way he looked at you, listened to you, saw through you without asking for your weakness.

And most of all… you care because part of you still hopes he didn’t mean it.

That he wouldn’t catch someone else.

That he wouldn’t want to.

Outside, the moon hangs low again. Same sky. Same orbit. And somewhere in the depths of the Guild… he’s still awake.

Still reading, maybe. Or polishing a blade. Or thinking of you, with that same maddening stillness he wears like a second skin.

And then—

A soft knock.

Three slow, measured taps against your door.

Not hurried.

Not nervous.

Just… intentional.

Like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You glance toward the door.

“At this hour?” you murmur to yourself, rising from the bed in your nightgown.

You hesitate… then open the door.

The hallway lamp casts a faint glow behind him—framing him like a shadow made flesh.

Mihawk.

Still dressed, of course. As if the night couldn’t touch him the same way it touched others. But his coat was unfastened. His sword was nowhere in sight. And his hair—though only slightly—looked tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it more than once tonight.

His gaze swept over you once—taking in the nightgown, the faint crease in your cheek from the pillow, the slight flush in your skin.

And he said nothing of it.

Only—

“May I come in?”

His voice was quiet. Low.

Not commanding.

Not questioning.

Just… asking.

As though, for once in his life, the world’s greatest swordsman wasn’t here to fight.

But to see you.

You arched a brow, half-pouting already.

“To a lady’s quarters at this time of night? I think not. I’d rather not give Buggy more to talk about.”

Your cheeks burned even as you said it.

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly—not in annoyance, but in that unreadable, calculating way that always made you feel like you were the subject of some silent analysis.

Or perhaps…

Admiration.

“Buggy talks whether or not he has material,” he replied simply.

A beat. A glance at your flushed expression.

“And I’ve long stopped concerning myself with the opinions of jesters.”

He didn’t push the door. Didn’t cross the threshold.

But he didn’t leave either.

He just stood there—like a monument to stubborn, inconvenient attraction.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

The words settled in the space between you.

Casual. But not really.

“Too much wine, perhaps.”

A subtle curve of his lips.

“Or maybe I was waiting for a comet from another planet that never passed by.”

A pause.

“Venus, was it?”

He tilted his head.

“…Or shall I leave you to pout in solitude a little longer?”

You frowned, arms crossing.

“And, pray tell, what do you want me to do about your wine-induced insomnia?”

That nearly-smile returned—dangerously subtle.

Like your irritation was the exact thing he’d come for.

“I thought you might offer me a distraction.”

He leaned, just slightly, against the doorway—arms folding lazily across his chest like a man who already knew he’d be let in.

“A sharp-tongued debate. A dramatic glare. Another attempt at pretending last night never happened.”

His gaze dropped slightly—not with heat, but with something quieter. Gentler.

Something that made your stomach twist despite the chill of the floor beneath your feet.

“Or, if that’s too much effort…”

He tilted his head again.

“You could simply let me sit with you. Until it passes.”

A breath.

“No swords. No wine. Just some loaned time.”

And then—his brow lifted, just a touch.

“Unless, of course, you’re afraid you might fall to pieces again.”

You scowled.

“Hmph. Nice to know you come to me to be bored out of your mind. You hold me in such high regard.”

You heaved a loud sigh, glancing up and down the hallway before muttering.

“Five minutes. And I’m kicking you out.”

With a glare, you stepped aside and held the door open.

Mihawk entered slowly, his boots making no sound on the floor.

His gaze moved across the room once—sweeping, silent.

The walls were painted a soft pink. The bedding matched. Coquette and warm. The lights dimmed to a soft feminine glow. Your rose perfume lingered in the air.

Undeniably, unapologetically, a woman’s room.

Undeniably you.

He turned toward you, expression unreadable.

“I said sleep, not boredom,” he murmured. “You’re many things. Dull is not one of them.”

He approached the nearby armchair, but didn’t sit yet. His eyes traced the shape of the room again—lingering on the blanket draped at the edge of your bed. The slippers on the floor. The book on your vanity. The light catching in your brushed hair.

“This is… unexpected,” he said softly.

“Soft, even.”

His gaze lingered too long.

“It suits you.”

“I’m a woman. I like pink. And I like cute things. That’s all there is to it.”

You huffed, brushing past him with a pout, the hem of your nightgown skimming your thighs as you returned to your vanity. The brush was still warm from your grip earlier as you resumed combing through your hair—pointedly ignoring the man now taking up space in your very pink, very soft, very not-for-men room.

Behind you, Mihawk watched.

He didn’t smirk.

Didn’t mock.

His golden eyes followed your reflection in the mirror—quietly, intently.

“I didn’t say it was surprising,” he said after a beat, his voice lower now. “I said it suited you.”

He leaned a shoulder against the armchair but didn’t sit just yet. That sharp, stoic presence of his had softened—not dulled, not tamed—just… folded inward. Like a sword sheathed but still deadly.

“I’ve seen you command a room of mercenaries,” he continued. “Threaten generals. Debate Crocodile like you were born to ruin his patience.”

A pause.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours in the mirror.

“But this,” he said, with a faint gesture to the room, to you—bare-faced, flushed, dressed in softness—“is the first time you’ve looked completely real.”

You didn’t reply.

You just kept brushing.

Slower, now.

The kind of slow you didn’t realize until your hand stilled halfway down a strand of hair. Your brows furrowed faintly. You refused to look at him—but the heat in your cheeks deepened all the same.

And he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Mihawk let out a slow breath—less a sigh, more a shift. A subtle yielding.

“I won’t stay long,” he said, finally lowering himself into the chair. He didn’t sprawl. Didn’t lounge. He simply leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced.

“I meant what I said.”

His voice dropped even quieter, nearly a murmur.

“No swords. No wine. Just… this.”

A pause.

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

You pouted deeper, trying to look annoyed as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.

“Hmph. Enjoy your fill. You’re not allowed back in here tomorrow.”

Mihawk exhaled through his nose—not quite a laugh, but something close.

“I’ll savor it, then.”

He studied the room again. The ribbons on your vanity stool. The soft glow of the bedside lamp. The worn copy of a book on your nightstand with a petal tucked between the pages.

Then back to you.

Still brushing your hair.

Still pretending not to notice him watching you.

Still glowing pink and warm and lovely under candlelight.

“I’ll take the silence, too,” he murmured. “Even if you fill it with glaring.”

Another pause.

“I prefer it to pretending you don’t want me here.”

That earned him a glance. A sharp one.

“I don’t,” you said flatly. “That, I thought, was perfectly clear. Hmph.”

Still, you rose from your chair and crossed the room—feet brushing against the floor with that same soft defiance—and reached for the teapot resting near your windowsill.

You poured two cups.

The porcelain clinked gently.

You handed one to him without ceremony.

“But I suppose I’ll be a hospitable host, at the very least. Here. Tea. If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.”

And then, without looking at him.

“And before you ask, no. I don’t have wine.”

He took the cup when you offered it, his fingers brushing yours—purposeful.

Brief.

Enough to make something flicker in your chest if you weren’t careful.

“I wasn’t going to ask for wine,” he murmured, cradling the cup in his hands like it was something worth more than it seemed.

“You’ve already given me something warmer.”

His gaze dipped to the teacup. Then lifted—back to you.

“No poisons? No hexes?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—barely.

“…You’re soft,” he said, “but you’re still you.”

He takes a sip.

His gaze never leaves yours over the rim.

And somehow, in this quiet moment—with you flushed and pouting in silk and candlelight, and him sipping your tea like it’s the rarest thing in the world—it feels dangerously close to something like intimacy.

Something neither of you dares name.

“I should’ve poisoned it, you’re right. I missed a good opportunity. Then again, I wasn’t expecting company.”

You climbed onto your bed, curling your legs beneath you as you reached for your book—finding your page like nothing was different. Like your heart wasn’t thudding against your ribs.

He watched you move beneath the blankets, the silk of your nightgown slipping soft along your skin as you folded yourself into the pillows with perfect, practiced composure.

His chest pulled taut.

He didn’t move.

Just lifted the teacup again.

“You’re the only person I know who can insult someone and serve them tea in the same breath,” he mused, sipping. “I can’t decide if that’s generosity or violence.”

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t have to.

He could see it in the subtle twitch of your mouth behind your book. In the way your brow furrowed just enough to show you were still listening.

He watched you flip a page.

Watched your eyes scan the words.

Watched the slight shift of your legs beneath the blanket.

“Five minutes, wasn’t it?” he said quietly.

He set the cup down.

“I hope your timing’s flexible.”

You didn’t look up.

“Hmph. You’ll be bored to death soon enough. There are no swords in here.”

And his reply came immediately—low, unflinching.

“There’s you in here.”

No flirtation.

No tease.

Just… truth. Plain and sharp and completely disarming.

Like everything else he said when you least expected it.

“I’ll survive the lack of steel,” he added, resting deeper into the chair. One leg crossed at the knee. Arms stretched comfortably along the sides.

“You’re sharper than most blades anyway.”

A pause.

“And you’ve drawn blood with less than a sentence.”

“Shush,” you muttered, eyes locked on your book. “I’m reading.”

That smirk—small, smug, satisfied—curved his lips again.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t tease.

He just leaned back into the chair, letting the hush settle around you like dust in a sunbeam.

The room went still.

Peaceful.

The only sounds: the rustle of your turning pages, the faint clink of sipped tea, and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat—louder than it should’ve been. Because he was still watching you.

Watching like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

And for once, he didn’t need to say anything.

He just stayed.

Then, after a while—

“What are you reading?” he mused aloud, the question too casual to be innocent.

Your shoulders stiffened.

“N-None of your business!” you snapped, lowering the book just enough to glare over the top.

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “A romance novel, by the looks of it.”

“Then stop looking!”

He chuckled—low, amused, entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m only confirming a hypothesis,” he said, settling deeper into the chair. “The flushed cheeks. The wide eyes. The death grip on the page… very telling.”

His gaze flicked lazily toward your hands.

“Is it the brooding type this time? Or the charming rogue?”

You said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

The way you buried your face deeper into your book said plenty.

He tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity.

“...Both?”

Your ears turned pink.

His smirk widens just slightly—dangerous, but amused.

“A love triangle,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “How classic.”

You still didn’t answer.

He didn’t expect you to.

Instead, after a few seconds of quiet, he leaned back and closed his eyes—arms resting crossed against his chest—voice just soft enough to hit your spine.

“Tell me if either of them wins you over. I could use the strategy.”

The book snapped shut with a thwap.

You let out a frustrated groan and launched the nearest pillow at his chest, your face completely flushed.

“Your five minutes are up! So shoo!”

The pillow hit him with a satisfying thud—square in the chest.

And Mihawk didn’t flinch. Merely opened his eyes.

He caught it as it fell to his lap, dusted off a nonexistent speck of lint, and lifted his gaze back to you with maddening calm.

Like you were the most ridiculous—and most endearing—thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“So violent for someone reading about love.”

He stood, slow and deliberate, walking the pillow back to the bed.

He didn’t toss it.

Didn’t joke.

He placed it gently beside you, smoothed the edge of your blanket like it was ritual, then leaned down—just slightly.

Close enough that you could smell the warmth of his cologne mingling with the faint trace of your rose perfume in the air.

“Next time,” he said, voice low and impossibly certain, “I’ll bring my own copy.”

A pause.

“And stay ten minutes.”

Then, without waiting for your response, he turned—quiet and unhurried.

Heading for the door.

No swagger.

No drama.

Just the kind of composure that made it impossible to tell whether he’d won… or just left you breathless on purpose.

He didn’t look back.

But he knew you were watching.

“T-There won’t be a next time, you lout!”

You huffed behind him, clutching your book like a shield.

And at the threshold, he paused.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t smirk.

But you saw it—the subtle rise of his shoulders. The tilt of his head. That stillness he wielded like a weapon sharper than any blade.

Then—softly, silkily—

“We’ll see.”

The door clicked closed behind him.

And just like that—

He was gone.

But his presence lingered.

In the half-empty cup of tea. In the faint scent of his cologne. In the crease of the pillow where he’d placed it beside you.

Like the place in your chest he’d quietly—shamelessly—staked a claim to.

There might not be a next time…

But you knew damn well there would be.

[wispitty]

law x reader | “sugar & surgeons” {ch.1}

summary: you're an aspiring chef that never planned to end up on a submarine full of pirates. but after collapsing in the rain, you wake aboard the Polar Tang, surrounded by a crew that’s far more chaotic (and sweet) than you expected, alongside a certain captain with storm-grey eyes you can’t seem to decipher… or stop thinking about. tag list: law/you, corazon is alive and well and a member of the heart pirates au, slow burn romance, found family, food as love language, romcom vibes, happiness bc they fucking deserve it chapter list:

chapter one

Chapter 1: Cinnamon & Rain

The storm had crept in like a bad habit—quiet at first, but relentless in its persistence. Raindrops hissed against the cobblestones, soaking the narrow streets of the port town in a cold, unwelcoming sheen. The distant thrum of thunder rolled across the rooftops like a sigh of warning.

Corazon’s coat flapped heavily behind him, waterlogged and clinging to his frame. He muttered something half-hearted under his breath, not quite a curse, but far from cheerful.

This had been meant to be a simple errand. In, out, back to the ship with a restock of medical supplies and something warm to eat for the crew. Instead, he was soaked to the bone, the bakery had been closed, and the only thing he’d managed to pick up was an umbrella he forgot to open until after the rain started.

Brilliant.

He rounded the corner, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles, and tugged the collar of his coat higher. The streets were mostly deserted now, save for flickering lanterns hanging beneath awnings and the occasional stray dog darting between crates. The town, in all its gloomy hush, almost felt asleep.

Until he collided with something—someone.

He staggered back a step, arms reflexively catching hold of what at first he thought was just a bundle of fabric. But it wasn’t. It was warm. Breathing. Trembling.

A young woman.

Corazon blinked, startled, looking down at the figure now cradled awkwardly in his arms. Her clothes were soaked, her hair plastered to her face, and she looked like she’d been out in the rain far longer than he had.

“Hey—” His voice cracked out of his throat, rusty from disuse. He cleared it and tried again, softer. “Hey. Are you alright?”

She stirred faintly at the sound, lips parting, her expression flickering with something between confusion and relief. Then her knees buckled fully.

Corazon caught her before she hit the ground.

A moment passed. The rain fell.

He knelt there in the street, her weight in his arms, heart thudding not from fear—but from a strange, quiet urgency he hadn’t felt in a long time. She wasn’t unconscious, not fully, but close. And burning up.

Fever.

Corazon shifted her in his arms, brow furrowing under the wet strands of his hair. He glanced down the street. The Polar Tang wasn’t far—just past the next dock. Law was still aboard, probably irritated that he hadn’t returned yet, but—

He looked at the woman again. She smelled faintly of sugar and spices, even soaked to the skin. Her hands were scratched. Fingernails stained with something—cinnamon?

A baker?

No. A cook, maybe.

What the hell were you doing out here?

He sighed and stood, adjusting her weight gently in his arms. Rain rolled down the side of his face, stinging against the cuts he'd gotten earlier from a smashed bottle. He ignored it.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered quietly, voice barely more than a breath. “Hang on.”

And with that, Corazon carried her through the rain.

Toward the ship. Toward safety.

Toward something none of them knew yet.

After about ten minutes, her breathing started getting worse.

Sharp, shallow gasps against his coat, each one shuddering like her body couldn’t decide whether it was hot or freezing. Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his collar, grasping at something—anything—to anchor herself.

Corazon’s boots pounded against the slick stone as he picked up his pace, arms tightening protectively around her trembling frame. She was still conscious, barely, but whatever had weakened her was setting in fast. And the storm wasn’t letting up.

Another crack of thunder split the sky, closer this time. Wind surged through the streets like a living thing, howling between buildings and slamming a nearby shutter open and shut.

He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

“There, just a little more,” he whispered to her, though he wasn’t sure if she could hear. “Stay with me.”

The Polar Tang came into view—its clean yellow hull a comforting contrast against the dark storm. Crew members stood just outside the hatch, scrambling to secure tarps and equipment before the wind tore them loose. Two men in matching uniforms looked up when they heard the hurried footsteps. Their eyes widened.

“Rossi?!”

“Who’s that?!”

Corazon didn’t stop to answer. Rain streamed off his hair and down his face, his coat dragging like lead behind him as he barreled toward the ramp. His arms shifted her weight again instinctively, his voice raised—not panicked, but tight.

“She needs help. Get Law.”

The commotion brought more of the crew to the entryway, boots thudding, voices overlapping in confusion. A few of them backed up at the sight—Corazon, drenched, carrying someone unknown and clearly feverish.

The sight of him alone was enough to sound alarm bells.

“She’s burning up,” he said more firmly this time, breath hitching. “She collapsed—on the street—"

The crowd parted.

And Law stepped forward.

He was dry, composed, standing just inside the threshold with the lighting overhead casting shadows under his eyes. His coat was unbuttoned, a cup of untouched coffee in his hand. But the second he saw Corazon, soaked and wild-eyed, and the girl in his arms…

The mug was forgotten.

“Bring her in,” Law said sharply, voice already shifting into command.

The medical bay lights flickered on.

And Corazon—heart pounding, soaked to his bones, and still not letting go—finally crossed the threshold, never once loosening his grip.

The metal doors hissed open, the soft sterile glow of the Polar Tang’s infirmary spilling across the floor as Law strode in ahead of them. He’d already rolled his sleeves to the elbow, black gloves snapped on with clinical precision. The moment Corazon stepped through the threshold, the warmth hit like a wave—artificial but welcome.

“Put her on the table,” Law instructed calmly, pointing to the main med bay cot. He was already moving to the cabinets, grabbing supplies with practiced ease. “Bepo, start the vitals. Shachi, Penguin—blankets, towels, anything dry.”

“Aye!” “On it!”

Corazon didn’t say a word as he laid her down gently, water dripping from his coat onto the tile. He knelt at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, brushing her soaked hair from her face with fingers that were starting to tremble—from cold, probably. Probably.

Her brow was furrowed. Her lips parted. Her breathing, still shallow, rasped faintly with each inhale.

She looked… like hell. Yet, there was a softness to her face, even beneath the paleness and damp hair. Skin flushed with fever, lashes clumped from the rain. A bruise was forming at her knee from the fall, and a faint cinnamon scent still clung to her.

“Rossi,” Shachi’s voice broke through the hush, “you’re soaked. You’re gonna catch somethin’. Go change before you collapse too.”

Corazon blinked, barely registering the towel that had been shoved into his hands.

Bepo stepped between them, paws already checking her pulse and temperature. “She’s burning up. Fever’s been building for hours, maybe longer. Did she say anything?”

“No,” Corazon croaked, then cleared his throat. “Just collapsed. She was standing. Then—gone.”

“Then she’s lucky you found her,” Law muttered without looking up, focused entirely on inspecting her limbs, checking her responsiveness. His brows knit as he observed her condition. “There’s no sign of injury aside from the fall. This looks viral. Possibly exhaustion too—malnourished, dehydrated…”

He paused, glancing at her hands.

Small cuts, calluses. Fingertips stained faintly red-brown.

“…Cinnamon?”

Shachi peered closer. “Wait, is she a baker?”

“She smells like cookies,” Bepo offered, ears twitching.

Law didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered for just a second longer than it needed to. That's when your eyes fluttered open briefly, hazy and unfocused, and he caught the faintest glimpse of color—somewhere between honey and warm morning light—before they slipped closed again.

“Responds to light stimuli. That’s good.” He reached for an IV line. “Let’s stabilize her vitals, get her fluids—Penguin, prep antibiotics.”

“I’m serious, Rossi,” Shachi warned from behind. “You’re sneezing already. You’re not helpin’ anyone if you keel over.”

As if on cue, Corazon sneezed. Loudly.

“…That’s not a denial,” Penguin added, tossing him a dry shirt and a sour look. “Get your ass changed.”

Corazon, who had been hovering just out of Law’s way, reluctantly caught the clothes. His eyes never left her as he slowly backed toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside,” he murmured.

Law gave a curt nod without looking up.

The door slid shut behind him.

The room quieted—save for the steady beep of a monitor, the rustle of blankets, and the slow, strained breathing of a girl who smelled like warmth and sugar, even as she lay on the brink of breaking.

Law glanced down once more, his hands stilling slightly as he adjusted the IV line. For all her softness, there was something stubborn in her brow, something that made him pause.

“…What the hell were you doing out there?”

He didn’t expect an answer. But he waited.

Eventually, the rain began to soften outside.

It still pattered gently on the steel of the hull, rhythmic and distant like the lingering echo of a heartbeat. The ship had stilled with it—no rushing crew, no barking orders. Just a hush that settled over the halls of the Polar Tang like a blanket.

Corazon sat on the bench just outside the infirmary, now clad in dry sweats and a towel draped around his shoulders. His hair, still damp, clung lazily to his temples. A mug of tea rested untouched in his hands, the steam rising up to kiss his nose, but he didn’t drink.

He was listening.

Through the door, he could hear the soft beeps of the machines, the quiet shuffle of movement as Law wrapped up treatment. No alarms. No panic.

She was stable.

That alone made his shoulders ease slightly, though the knot in his chest refused to fully loosen.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Law stepped through first, removing his gloves with a snap. Bepo followed, giving a small nod and thumbs-up. Behind them, Shachi and Penguin trailed in with quieter footsteps.

“She’s asleep,” Law said flatly, coming to a stop across from Corazon. “Vitals have normalized. Fever’s still high, but under control.”

Corazon exhaled, just barely.

Bepo sat beside him with a warm sigh. “She’s lucky you found her when you did.”

“I didn’t find her,” Corazon muttered, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “She found me. I turned a corner and—bam. Face full of cinnamon girl.”

“…Cinnamon girl?” Penguin repeated under his breath, exchanging a look with Shachi.

Law raised a brow. “You didn’t see anyone else?”

Corazon shook his head. “Just her. Standing in the middle of the street. She looked confused. Pale. Barely upright. Then she fell into me.”

“She might’ve been looking for help,” Bepo said gently.

“Or trying to get somewhere,” Shachi added. “Didn’t look like she had anything on her, though. No bag. No coat.”

“Yeah,” Penguin muttered. “Just soaked and barely breathing. She definitely wasn’t out there sightseeing.”

Law crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “We’ll need to ask her questions once she wakes up. For now, let her rest.”

Corazon nodded, but his brows tugged together.

“…She smelled like bread, Law,” he said suddenly. “Even through the rain. Not just cinnamon. Dough. Yeast. Butter. She must’ve been cooking.”

Law gave him a sour look. Bread, ew.

“I’m saying,” Corazon added, defensively, “she might be a chef. Or worked in a bakery. Something happened to her. Maybe she got caught in the storm trying to escape something.”

Law didn’t argue. He just sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m not patching up a cinnamon-scented mystery girl just for you to adopt her, you know.”

“Well, duh. She’s not a stray cat.”

“You sure?” Penguin teased. “You already brought her home and wrapped her in a blanket.”

Corazon opened his mouth, then sneezed again.

“Get back in bed,” Law said flatly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always ‘fine’ until you faint in the hallway.”

Corazon grumbled but sank further into the bench. Bepo gently patted his arm.

Inside the med bay, the girl lay curled under thick blankets, color slowly returning to her cheeks. She didn’t stir—but a small crease remained between her brows, like her dreams hadn’t quite let her go.

Corazon’s gaze lingered on the closed door.

“She looked scared,” he said quietly. “Even before she collapsed.”

Law followed his line of sight, arms crossed again.

“Then let’s make sure,” he murmured, “she has no reason to be anymore.”

A few hours passed after that.

And the Polar Tang hummed gently, cradled in quiet waters.

The storm outside had faded to a light drizzle, barely audible against the hull. Inside the infirmary, the harsh white lights had been dimmed, casting the room in a calmer, warmer tone.

She was still asleep.

But this time, it looked peaceful.

Her brow had smoothed out. Her breathing had evened, soft and steady. A faint flush returned to her cheeks, the fever no longer raging but resting, like embers banked in a hearth. Her damp clothes had long since been changed into one of the med bay’s clean shirts, slightly oversized, the collar dipping off one shoulder.

She looked… better. Human again. Real.

Law stepped in first, his clipboard in hand, though he didn’t bother pretending to take notes. Corazon followed, this time dry, and significantly less sneezy. He’d left the towel behind but still had a faint halo of frizz around his head from letting his hair air-dry in true stubborn fashion.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They just stood there, a comfortable silence settling between them. The kind that came after everything had gone wrong… but then slowly started to go right.

The kind they were used to.

Law glanced down at the sleeping woman, his gaze scanning her face for any lingering signs of distress. None.

He didn’t realize how much tenser he’d been until his shoulders eased.

“She’s recovering well,” he murmured, voice low to avoid waking her. “Temperature’s nearly normal. Her immune system’s fighting back.”

He paused.

“…She’s stronger than she looks.”

Corazon stood at the edge of the bed, one hand in his coat pocket, the other lightly tapping against his thigh. His gaze was steady.

And then—softly, thoughtfully—

“She’s pretty, huh?”

Law blinked. Looked at him. Then scowled.

“That’s not medically relevant.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Corazon didn’t repeat himself.

He just tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving her sleeping form. His voice wasn’t teasing or flirtatious. It was just… honest.

Law followed his gaze. He looked again. Properly this time.

And now that he wasn’t in surgeon mode—now that the fever had broken and she was no longer clinging to life—he saw it too.

There was something warm about her. Even asleep. Even still pale and recovering. The roundness of her face, the soft lines, the faint crinkle of her lashes. The way her lips curved, just barely, like she was dreaming about something sweet.

“Hmph,” Law muttered. “Still not medically relevant.”

Corazon smiled faintly, a hand brushing over his damp bangs.

“And yet you haven’t disagreed.”

Law gave him a look.

“I’m just saying,” Corazon shrugged, sheepishly.

The girl stirred slightly, shifting beneath the blankets. One hand peeked out from under the covers—small, fingers twitching slightly, reaching toward the empty air beside her like she was searching for something in a dream.

Law stepped forward automatically, leaning in to check her pulse again, but her breathing stayed steady.

“She’ll wake soon,” he said.

Corazon nodded, glancing toward the corner of the room. “You want me to set out something for her to eat? She’ll be starving.”

Law hesitated.

“…Something light.”

“You got it.”

Corazon turned to go, a hint of his usual lopsided smile returning to his face.

“I think she’s gonna be alright,” he said quietly, more certain this time.

Law didn’t answer.

Just stood there a moment longer, watching the cinnamon-scented stranger sleep as the storm finally passed.

[wispitty]

Nothing to ask but your collection of short writes made me feel something in my chest and it was a good feeling. I cant wait to read more of what you write

thank you so much for sharing such a sweet sentiment with me!!! i really appreciate it! i hope my short writes will give you lots more good feelings in the future, tysm for reading!!! (> v <)/ ♥

[wispitty]

shanks x reader | “a new hire” {ch.1}

summary: you're the new waitress at makino’s bar. sweet, shy and just looking for a quiet place to belong to. but when the red hair pirates dock for the night, you catch the eye of their infamous captain, shanks—and somehow, one night turns into something far more than you'd prepared for. tag list: shanks/you, slow burnish, tension & tenderness, made from shanks brainrot (literally its so bad), first sight feelings, he's protective chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

Chapter 1: Warm Welcomes

The golden light of the setting sun spilled through the windows of the little seaside bar, casting a warm glow over polished wood and soft shadows. You moved behind the counter, carefully arranging plates and cleaning as you went, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly tousled from the afternoon rush. It had been about a month since Makino brought you on, and while you were starting to find your rhythm, you still felt like a small note in a song you hadn’t quite learned the melody to yet.

The front door creaked open just as you reached for a clean glass.

Boots on the floorboards. Laughter, rough and familiar. A deep voice rumbling in easy amusement. You turned, half-expecting another local—only to freeze when you saw who had stepped inside.

Shanks.

The infamous captain of the Red Hair Pirates stood in the doorway, black cloak billowing slightly from the sea breeze, his one hand casually resting on his hip. And behind him? His whole crew.

His dark eyes swept across the bar once before landing on you—lingering there, quiet and curious.

He looked older than the stories told. A few more lines around his eyes, a little more weight behind his gaze. The jagged scar over his left eye only emphasized the sharpness of his stare. And yet… the corners of his mouth pulled into a grin. Not cocky. Not even playful.

Just… warm.

“Well,” he said, voice low and smooth, “this place hasn’t changed a bit.”

Behind him, Beckman stepped in with a cigarette between his lips, giving a faint nod to the bar’s familiar walls.

Shanks tilted his head slightly, eyes still on you.

“Except that part,” he added. “I don’t remember her.”

Beckman glanced over. “New hire,” he said simply.

Shanks hummed, his grin deepening. “Is that so?”

He crossed the room slowly, shoes tapping softly on the floor, and leaned against the counter. Despite his easy posture, there was a quiet intensity to him—like the sea just before a storm, calm but impossibly vast.

You realized you hadn’t said anything. Not yet.

But when the situation catches up to you, you stiffen immediately. No matter who they are, customers just walked in. And all customers need to be greeted.

“O-Oh! Hello there! Welcome to Makino’s!”

Shanks blinked, then let out a soft chuckle at your flustered greeting. There was something disarming about it—how your voice wavered just slightly, how your hands moved quickly to set the glass down as if you’d just remembered you were holding it.

“‘Makino’s,’ huh?” he repeated, straightening up a little. “Still has a nice ring to it.”

He glanced around the room like he was taking it all in for the first time again—the weathered stools, the sun-warmed countertop, the faint scent of citrus wood polish that always lingered near the shelves. Then, his gaze returned to you, and this time it didn’t drift away.

“You must be the new waitress Makino mentioned in her last letter.” His tone was lighter now, teasing. “Said you were polite. Said you were sweet. Said you baked.”

Beckman raised an eyebrow behind him. “She also said you shouldn’t scare her.”

“I’m not scaring her,” Shanks replied easily, then turned to you again with a half-grin. “Am I scaring you?”

“Hehe, no. Not at all. Nice to meet you, Mister Shanks.”

You can’t help but break out into a soft smile as you eye the infamously famous pirate before you. One whose reputation preceded him, but not alongside all the funny stories Makino had shared with you.

“Makino’s mentioned you before to me, too. Along with your crew.”

“Seems I’ll have to bring out the best barrels if her favorite customers are back in town.”

At that, Shanks’ grin widened—not the smug kind pirates wore when they won a fight, but the kind that slipped out when someone genuinely caught them off guard. He let out a low, appreciative laugh, and his eyes—deep and sharp, but warm—crinkled slightly at the corners.

“Well now,” he said, resting his elbow on the counter as he leaned a little closer, “if that’s your version of a welcome, I might have to start showing up more often.”

Beckman muttered something under his breath about “he already does,” before heading to his usual seat near the counter.

“Don’t mind him,” Shanks said with a wink. “He just doesn’t like when someone else gets a better smile than he does.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but to your surprise, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was… fluttery. The good kind. The dangerous kind.

You turned slightly, trying to busy your hands as you reached for the drink menu and pulled out the reserve ledger Makino kept for special requests.

“If I remember right, you prefer the—ah, twelve-year aged rum? With a splash of lime?”

He blinked, a little impressed. “So she really talked about us, huh?”

“She said if you didn’t show up with a barrel of trouble, you showed up asking for her best,” you said shyly, before your eyes flicked up. “I was told to keep an eye on the charming ones.”

“Charming?” Shanks echoed, the smile in his voice unmistakable now. “I hope you listened.”

Before you could answer, one of the younger pirates called out to you from a table, asking for a round. You nodded quickly and excused yourself, turning away to grab mugs from the shelves—but you could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back.

As Shanks took his place near Beckman at the counter, they both settled into a comfortable space.

“New hire’s easy on the eyes, huh?”

Shanks didn’t answer at first. Instead, he watched you for a bit.

He watched you from the corner of his eye—how you laughed softly when one of the younger ones tried to flirt for an extra pour, how you steadied the tray with a careful hand, how your brows furrowed slightly when you thought no one was looking, double-checking the drink order on your notepad like you didn’t want to mess up.

There was a quiet care in your movements. Nothing flashy. Just… thoughtful.

“…Yeah,” he said at last, voice low and laced with something Beckman hadn’t heard from him in a while. “Easy on the eyes.”

Then, with a slow exhale, he added under his breath, “Too easy.”

Beckman chuckled, stretching his arms behind his back. “You’re staring, you know.”

“Am not.”

“You are. Like you forgot how to blink.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “I have one arm. You want me to lose that too?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

They both smirked, but Beckman didn’t push further. He knew that look on Shanks’ face well. It wasn’t just interest—it was curiosity. The kind that stuck. The kind that didn’t fade once the drinks ran dry or the ship set sail.

A few seconds later, you returned to the bar with a few empty mugs, your eyes meeting Shanks’ as you offered an amused huff, still a bit winded from running around.

He sat up straighter, gaze gentle.

“Still standing,” he teased. “That’s promising.”

You grin, shaking your head while balancing the mugs in your hands. “Goodness, you all surely know how to drink! Haha! If you’ll excuse me to wash these a second, I’ll be right back to get your orders.”

Shanks watched you disappear behind the swinging door with a quiet, lopsided smile still tugging at his lips. The clinking of glasses and the familiar hum of his crew faded into the background for a moment as he leaned back against the bar, his fingers idly tracing a water ring left behind on the wood.

Beckman eyed him sideways. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?” Shanks asked, far too innocently.

“The look-before-you-leap thing.”

Shanks huffed a small laugh. “I’m not leaping. I’m just… appreciating the service.”

Beckman scoffed. “You don’t smile like that over rum.”

“I do when it’s served with a smile like hers,” he muttered under his breath, almost surprised by his own words.

When you returned, cheeks slightly flushed from the steam rising from the wash basin and fingers damp from drying your hands on your apron, Shanks straightened ever so slightly.

“You alright back there?” he asked. “Didn’t lose any fingers in the sink war, did you?”

You let out a soft laugh as you approached, setting the clean mugs down in front of him. “Still all ten accounted for, Captain.”

He raised his brows. “Oho? Captain?”

“Well… aren’t you?” you asked with a gentle, teasing lilt. “I thought I’d be polite.”

“Careful,” he said, that playful glint returning to his eye. “You call a man ‘Captain’ with a voice like that, and he’s bound to start sailing circles around you.”

Beckman sighed. “Here we go.”

You laughed, covering your mouth just a little, and Shanks swore—for a moment—the room didn’t feel like a bar at all.

It felt like the start of something he wanted to see through.

Amidst the commotion, the sound of two doors opening rang out.

From the back door, Makino walked out, seemingly having just returned from delivering something and picking up groceries on the way.

From the front, another fresh crowd of rowdy, thirsty sailors to serve.

You quickly ran up to her, shooting her a smile while grabbing a good handful of menus.

“Welcome back! I’ll go get the new ones, you go greet old friends.”

Makino blinked at your statement for a second, her eyes sweeping over the crowded bar before landing on the unmistakable silhouette near the counter.

That familiar mess of red hair.

“Shanks,” she said warmly, already moving toward him. “I was wondering when the wind would toss you back my way.”

He turned to greet her, that roguish grin forming with genuine affection. “You really ought to bolt the windows, Makino. I might sneak in even when the doors are locked.”

They shared a hug—brief, but familiar. A silent understanding passed between them, layered with years of history and more unspoken memories than most people would ever collect in a lifetime.

Beckman tipped his head politely. “Makino.”

“Ben,” she returned with a smile. “Still keeping this one from causing too much trouble?”

Beckman gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Depends on the day.”

Behind the bar, you ducked out of their way, moving back into the wave of incoming guests, taking orders with that same soft tone and polite efficiency, weaving through the chaos like a gentle current against a tide. Shanks’s eyes followed you just for a beat—until Makino nudged him lightly with her elbow.

“She’s a good one,” she said quietly, knowingly.

Shanks glanced at her.

“She’s been helping a lot while I’ve been short-staffed. Real sweet. Bit shy.” Makino gave him a dry smile. “Not a fan of loud drunks, so behave.”

“No promises,” he said, though the smile that tugged at his lips said otherwise.

Makino leaned in a little. “She likes people who don’t just look like they’ve got stories, you know. Prefers the ones who live them.”

Shanks gave her a long look, like he wasn’t sure whether to thank her or tease her off.

But Makino was already moving down the bar, greeting familiar faces and returning to the rhythm of her tavern like she never left.

And Shanks—Shanks turned back to his drink, eyes on the rim of his mug, fingers tapping idly, even as his thoughts wandered toward you.

Eventually, the evening turned to dusk amidst the rowdy bar.

Shanks and Beckman engaged in good drinks and warm chatter, alongside Makino who joined them between serving orders.

Suddenly—

CRASH.

The crash echoed through the bar like a pebble dropped into still water. Small, but disruptive.

The chatter dipped for just a second, long enough for every head to turn toward the source of the sound. You were already moving, smile soft and apologetic as you tried to ease the moment.

“No worries,” you said gently, ducking to fetch the broom from behind the bar. “Happens all the time.”

But the snickers that followed weren’t the good-natured kind. One of the rowdier newcomers—a sailor with too much drink and too little self-restraint—elbowed his friend, nodding toward you.

“Clumsy little thing, ain’t she?” he slurred, not nearly quiet enough.

“Shame to waste a glass,” the other muttered. “But I think I’ll be the one to drop ten more if it makes her bend over like that again.”

Their laughter wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. Mean-spirited. And it crawled up your spine like ice water.

Shanks had been halfway through a sip when the sound of the crash hit, but it was the following snickers—and the look that passed between the two men—that made him stop mid-sip.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t say anything.

He just looked.

And that was worse.

Beckman didn’t need to ask. He saw it in the way Shanks’ jaw flexed slightly, the way his good hand lowered his mug to the table with the kind of silence that warned.

The men kept laughing.

Until they felt it.

That sudden stillness.

Like the shadows themselves began to stare.

Shanks rose from his seat—not fast, not dramatic. Just calm. But in a room like this, calm carried weight. The music faltered. Conversation quieted.

He took a few steps, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet as he walked up behind the two snickering men. They only realized he was there when the warmth drained from their skin.

Shanks didn’t shout. He didn’t bare teeth or pull a weapon.

He just leaned forward slightly, voice low and steady.

“…Say it again.”

The man froze.

Shanks tilted his head, like he was asking the most casual question in the world.

“I didn’t quite catch it,” he said. “Say it again. About the waitress.”

The second man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to his empty mug like it might protect him.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t think,” Shanks corrected. “That’s your problem.”

A pause.

“Mine?” He smiled faintly. “I don’t take kindly to folks like you who make good people feel small.”

Behind the bar, broom in hand, you’d returned just in time to see the two men pale like ghosts—nodding quickly, stumbling over apologies, before practically tripping over themselves to stand and relocate.

Shanks didn’t even watch them leave.

He turned to you instead, and for a heartbeat, all the noise in the room seemed to muffle again.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now. Just for you.

You strained a smile, as reassuring of one as you could muster, as you nodded. “I’m fine, thank you.”

And quietly, “Sorry, heh. Still, um, still getting used to it.”

Shanks studied you after that left your lips.

Not the kind of look meant to make you squirm—but the kind that noticed you.

The way your fingers clutched the broom just a little tighter than they needed to be. The way your smile pulled at the corners but never quite reached your eyes. The way you stood there, trying to laugh it off for everyone else’s sake.

Trying to take up less space than you deserved.

And something in him twisted.

Not in anger—not anymore. That had passed.

This was something else.

You don’t belong in a place like this.

The thought struck him unexpectedly. Not because you were soft-spoken. Not because you were too sweet. But because, maybe, people like you deserved to live in a world that didn’t demand armor to survive it.

Beckman was watching him from his seat again, brow arched, silent as ever.

Shanks cleared his throat, straightened just a little, and let a breath out through his nose.

“Well,” he said softly, slipping his hand into his coat pocket, “you handled it better than most of us would have.”

He took a slow step toward the counter again, then paused—just close enough for you to hear him over the din of the crowd.

“If they bother you again, you let me know. I don’t mind raising the tide.”

There was something in his voice now. Not teasing. Not dramatic.

A promise.

And with that, he walked away, leaving you standing there in the golden glow of the lantern light, heart a little heavier, and a little warmer too.

Shanks sank back onto his stool with a quiet grumble and the telltale sound of the stool’s wooden legs scooting along the floor. His jaw ticked slightly, still working through the remnants of whatever emotion had taken root in his chest since that encounter. He took a sip from his drink, slower this time.

Beckman said nothing at first—just blew a soft stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth and gave his captain a long, sideways look.

“You gonna sit there and scowl at every man who notices her?”

He didn’t even bother to hide the smirk.

“I’m not scowling,” Shanks muttered.

Beckman hummed. “Then your face is just stuck like that?”

Shanks grunted. “I don’t like that look on her face. Like she’s used to brushing that kind of thing off.”

Beckman didn’t comment, just let the silence say what he knew his captain was already thinking. There were a lot of kinds of strong in the world. The kind that held a sword. And the kind that held a smile, even when people didn’t deserve it.

Before Shanks could brood too much deeper, the two sailors at the next table caught his ear.

“—I’m just sayin’, she’s the nicest person I’ve met in this whole town!”

“She smiled at me, dude. Like, actually looked at me and smiled.”

“She’s gotta have someone, right? Someone like that? No way she doesn’t.”

“I dunno, I heard Makino say she just moved here. Bet she’s single.”

The two chuckled under their breath, casting bashful glances your way as you refilled a table’s water jug, oblivious to the admiration trailing in your wake.

Shanks raised an eyebrow.

Beckman let out a quiet snort. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

Shanks didn’t say anything at first, swirling the liquid in his mug.

Then, with a faint smirk: “They’d drown before they reached her.”

Beckman gave him a side glance. “You sure you wouldn’t?”

Shanks chuckled under his breath. “I’m already treading water, Ben. Don’t worry.”

He said it like a joke.

But his eyes drifted back to you all the same—watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how your face lit up with a laugh you gave to someone else.

And for just a second, that quiet tug returned to his chest.

Damn.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as passing through another port.

[wispitty]

Hey just wanted to let you know I love your small reacts series. They have made me fall in love with those characters again.

May i ask if you take requests?

hello! tysm for reaching out! i'm so happy that my delulu reacts have brought you happiness and bonded you with the charas, haha! that's the best feeling ever tbh

atm, i do not take requests cause i don't have the time for it + i'm kinda enjoying just writing on a creative whim for myself, so gonna keep requests closed for a while, but maybe in the near future i'll open them!! tysm for asking! ♡

[wispitty]

Hi!!! I just wanted to say that you are by far one of my most favorite One Piece content creators here on Tumblr! I love how short but to the point your pieces are, but they are filled with emotion and proper characterization! Keep up the amazing work!!!

I also just wanted to ask if you were thinking of adding more characters to your pieces? I would LOVE to see how you write Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, and more; you would certainly do them justice!

hello!!! thank you so much for taking the time to write something so nice and sweet, i really appreciate it! ♡ i'm happy you're enjoying my delulu drabbles haha!!

also, yes!! i've been wanting to add more characters eventually to the short reacts; maybe i'll start making a part 2 to each of the existing ones with a new line-up of guys hehehe though it might take me a bit but sounds fun! ♡♡♡

[wispitty]

mihawk x reader | “venus & mars” {ch.2}

summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.

...right? tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda) chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

Chapter 2: Too Cold. No Fire.

The main hall of the Cross Guild was alive with noise again—mercenaries clanking weapons, Buggy yelling about something inconsequential, and papers fluttering like feathers in the aftermath of chaos. And you—dressed, poised, and in control—moved through it all like the eye of the storm.

On the outside, you looked fine.

Hair brushed (mostly). Voice clear. Shoulders back.

But Mihawk noticed things others didn’t.

The faint tension in your fingers when you flipped through a report. The way your smile lingered half a second too long when addressing a subordinate. How your laugh didn’t quite reach your eyes when Buggy made some absurd declaration of dominance.

He said nothing.

He stood off to the side, reading a bounty sheet with one hand, a half-filled goblet in the other. Calm. Observant.

But he never took his eyes off you.

Not since you walked into the room.

Not since you looked right past him with that carefully rebuilt mask stretched over your face.

Eventually, he spoke—without looking up.

“You missed a signature.”

He didn’t say where. He didn’t need to.

His voice wasn’t condescending. Just… still. A ripple across glass.

And beneath it—a weight only you would feel.

“Did I? My apologies, sir. I’ll have it fixed right away.”

At that, Mihawk finally looked up.

Not sharply. Not smugly. Just… fully.

Eyes catching yours like a blade catches light—without force, but impossible to ignore.

“‘Sir,’ now?”

A brow lifted, faintly amused. Faintly disapproving. Not at your work—but at the distance you’d just put between you.

He let the word hang there, testing the weight of it in the space between you.

Sir.

You’d never called him that before. Not like that. Not with that glassy, brittle politeness that tasted like poison in his mouth.

He took a slow sip from his glass, then set it down with precision. Still watching you.

“You’re efficient today.”

Another pause. Intentional.

“Too efficient.”

And though he didn’t say it aloud, the unspoken part of that sentence lingered like incense in the air.

You're hiding again.

His tone remained perfectly even. But his gaze didn’t waver for a second.

“I’m... doing my best to be.”

He tilted his head slightly at your slight frown—like he could see the threads holding it together. Not in judgment. Just... in quiet knowing.

“Yes. I can see that.”

He stepped forward—not far, just enough to close the kind of space people didn’t usually notice. But you did.

You always noticed him.

He folded his arms, posture relaxed, voice low enough that no one else in the room could hear—just you.

“You held the line last night. Then picked up the pieces before morning.”

A beat.

“But you forgot one.”

He reached into his coat, pulled something small from his inner pocket, and held it out to you: a neatly folded handkerchief, faintly wrinkled.

Yours.

Left behind.

Tearstained.

“Next time,” His voice softened ever so slightly. “Don’t forget what you’re not allowed to leave with me.”

“Hmph! Stealing a lady’s handkerchiefs now, are we? How crude.”

He didn’t so much as blink at your accusation—or even the way you pouted and snatched your handkerchief back, stuffing it into your pocket.

Though the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, like a man secretly pleased to be scolded.

“I was under the impression I was returning missing property.” Deadpan.

A glance toward your pocket. Then to your face.

“But I suppose if it flusters you this much, I should’ve kept it.”

There it was again—that infuriating calm, laced now with the faintest undercurrent of something playful. Barely there. But there.

He let his arms rest loosely at his sides, gaze never straying.

“You’re pouting again.”

Beat.

“…I see the pieces are still there.”

His voice dipped lower—quieter, warmer. Enough to reach only you.

“But so is the woman strong enough to carry them.”

“Yes, which reminds me.”

You turn over to your bag and pull out a bottle of wine wrapped in a delicate bow.

“I asked Mr. 1 and Crocodile for some advice, and they recommended this brand. Frankly, I don't drink, so I haven't the faintest idea what it tastes like."

A pause, followed by a sharp inhale.

“If it doesn't suit you, feel free to spit it out and dump it in the sea. Regardless, it's a gift. For you. For… yesterday.”

A soft sigh.

“...For a debt I wanted to repay.”

He watched you in silence as you presented the bottle—wrapped, bowed, deliberate. And though Mihawk was many things—refined, unshakable, precise—he was not immune to grace. Especially not when it was offered like this: awkward, honest, earnest.

He accepted the gift with the same careful hands he’d hold a sword with—never casual, never careless. His fingers brushed yours only for a breath, but it lingered all the same.

He looked down at the bottle in his grasp, then back at you. Something unreadable passed through his eyes—like he'd just been handed a piece of something fragile. Something rare.

“A debt.” He repeated, quietly.

He turned the bottle in his hand once, then lowered it, holding it respectfully at his side.

“There was no debt.”

And yet, he didn’t refuse it. Didn’t diminish the gesture.

He simply met your eyes with that same, maddening steadiness. Like he saw something in you now that he hadn’t quite allowed himself to admit before.

Then—almost imperceptibly—his expression softened.

“...Thank you.”

Two words, simple and unadorned.

But from him? They carried the weight of a thousand unspoken things.

He paused, as if debating something further, then finally added:

“Next time you fall to pieces, I’ll bring the wine.”

A beat.

“…You bring yourself.”

A scoff leaves you at that.

“I'll be fine on my own, thank you very much! My pieces will not be falling for anyone's eyes to see anymore."

A beat. A narrowed sneer.

"In fact, if I recall, you just happened to take a midnight stroll through the garden with… very unfortunate timing. But rest assured, it won't happen again."

His brow arched, just barely—but the silence that followed wasn’t surprise.

It was amusement. The kind he never let fully reach his lips. The kind that lived behind his eyes like a storm held at bay.

“Unfortunate timing, was it?” he repeats, coolly.

He stepped just close enough to remind you he was taller. Calmer. Unfazed by your little declarations of independence.

“Then I suppose I should be more considerate with my midnight strolls.”

A pause. His voice dipped.

“Though if I recall correctly... it wasn’t the timing that made you fall into my arms.”

He watched the heat creep up your cheeks, slowly, deliberately—as though he’d already predicted it down to the second.

“But don’t worry.”

A slight tilt of the head.

“If you truly never intend to fall again…”

He stepped back, the faintest smirk ghosting his lips now, elegant and infuriating.

“I’ll simply be there to catch someone else.”

A sharp glare follows, only offset by another scoff from you. Louder, more offended.

However, the red in your cheeks and the annoyance in your eyes betray you. As does the slight crack in your voice.

“F-Fine then! Be my guest!” you flail dramatically.

“Go find yourself a Mercury or a Jupiter. Maybe even a Neptune, I'm sure a fastidious planet like you could use some cooling!”

Another sneer. Followed by a turn and a brisk walk past him.

“Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to work.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t block your path. Didn’t reach for your wrist or call your name.

But oh—he smirked.

Just faintly.

Just enough.

“I never liked Neptune.” Low, near your ear as you pass.

A pause.

“Too cold. No fire.”

He let you walk off with that. With the weight of that quiet jab tucked into your already-flustered chest, where your heartbeat was already misbehaving. He didn’t follow.

But his gaze?

Still on you.

Tracking every flounce. Every stubborn step.

And if you’d turned back, you’d swear for just a moment—you saw it.

That rarest flicker of something not composed.

Something wild. Unspoken.

And it was all for you.

[wispitty]

(short reacts) | "he confronts you after a spicy dream" + one piece men

summary: you left on a mission for a few days. but you haunted his dreams each and every night. moaning his name, begging for him. now you're back. and he can't take it anymore.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

The office is dark when you step in.

The only light? The glow of a cigar. And a man in a chair, surrounded by smoke and silence—eyes locked on you.

“You’re late.”

You blink.

“What? I came as soon as I got ba—”

“Not tonight.”

His voice is low. Rough.

“Two nights ago.”

He stands.

You barely get out a breath before he’s in front of you.

Back hits the door. His real hand catches your chin. Tilts your face up.

You inhale.

His scent is overwhelming—smoke, spice, and something darker.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?” he murmurs.

You shiver.

“I—”

“You think I didn’t feel you in those dreams you left me?”

His lips brush your jaw. Not a kiss. A threat.

“You said my name like it was the only word you knew.”

His hook rests cold at your hip, grounding you as his hand slides down your side.

“Begged me to touch you. Open you.”

“I—I don’t remember—”

“Then let me remind you.”

He kisses you.

Not soft. Not tentative.

Devouring.

You gasp. He groans—like he’s been starving and just tasted salvation.

“You haunted me.”

“Crocodile—”

“Say it like that again and I’ll bend you over this desk until there’s nothing left.”

You whimper.

“That’s the sound.”

He nips your collarbone. Hard enough to mark.

His hand drags down. Under your shirt. Fingers grazing your skin, slow and possessive.

“You sure you don’t remember the dreams?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

You shake your head. Barely.

“Then maybe I should show you everything you begged me for.”

And this time?

He doesn’t stop.

MIHAWK

You return late, without a word. Just how you left.

Boots click softly through the marble halls of the castle-like manor. The candles are dim. The place is quiet.

You round a corner.

He’s there.

Leaning against the wall. Cloak heavy around his shoulders. Eyes gleaming under low light. Watching you like he knew the exact moment you stepped foot on the property.

You blink.

“...Mihawk?”

He says nothing.

Pushes off the wall.

Walks toward you—purposeful. Silent.

Something in your chest tightens.

You take a step back—

He’s faster.

His hand slams the wall beside your head. You flinch—your spine hits stone.

He leans in. So close your noses nearly brush.

“You’ve been gone. Too long.”

His voice is low. Rougher than usual.

“I—I had something I needed to—”

“And every night since...”

His hand trails down your side. Grips your hip.

“You came to me in my sleep. Whispering my name. Writhing beneath me.”

You freeze. Lips parting.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

His other hand catches your jaw, fingers tilting your face up.

“You think I believe that?”

His eyes lock to your lips. And for a moment—he hesitates.

But you’re looking up at him like you want him to break.

And that’s all it takes.

He crushes his mouth to yours.

Hard. Heated. Deep. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

It’s possessive.

His lips bruise. His tongue leaves no space between you. His hand on your waist tugs you tight into him.

Your gasp gets swallowed.

He presses you to the wall like he’s trying to anchor himself there.

“You cast quite the little spell on me.”

“Mihawk—”

“Say my name like that again and I’ll ruin your throat.”

You moan softly into his mouth.

He groans.

Your legs go weak. He notices.

And he loves it.

“Don’t you ever disappear like that again.”

You nod, dazed.

He kisses you again. Slower. But no less deep.

This time, it’s not about frustration.

This time, it’s about need.

MARCO

You return to the medbay late, expecting a quiet reunion. You’re humming. Tired. Just hoping to get off your feet.

But the moment the door shuts behind you—

“Oi.”

His voice is low. Hoarse.

You turn.

He’s standing near the supply shelf. Lab coat undone. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

And his eyes? Locked on you.

“...Marco?”

He doesn’t say a word.

Just strides toward you, slowly, like a lion pacing down from its throne.

You barely open your mouth—

SLAM.

Your back hits the cabinet. A low gasp escapes you.

His hand settles against the wood beside your head. The other curls around your waist, pulling you in tight—flush to his chest.

You can feel it.

His heat. His tension. His arousal.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

“W-What do you mean—?”

He chuckles darkly. Nudges your nose with his.

“Four nights, baby.”

“Marco—”

“Four nights of you on top of me. In my head. Moaning my name like I was the only thing keeping you alive.”

You blink. Breathless.

“I—I didn’t know I—”

His lips crash into yours.

It’s deep. Wet. Desperate.

His fingers slide under your shirt, ghosting over bare skin. His knee slips between your legs, pinning you harder to the cabinet.

Your body arches into his without thinking.

“I woke up aching for you every damn morning, yoi.”

Another kiss. This one filthier. Your gasp draws his tongue in deeper.

“I thought it would stop when I saw you again…”

He growls against your mouth.

“But now I want you worse.”

You whimper.

His hand tangles in your hair.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Your lips meet his again with fire.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he whispers.

And this time, when he kisses you—

He kisses you like he’s never letting you leave again.

ACE

You come back from your assignment around sunset.

Your boots echo down the corridor as you head to the deck of the Moby Dick.

He’s sitting on the railing just outside the kitchen, watching the waves, posture relaxed.

But when he hears you?

He turns his head— And his whole body stills.

You smile.

“Hey, straaanger. Missed me?”

His lips twitch.

“You have no idea.”

You walk closer, thinking nothing of it. He stands as you pass.

“Phew, long trip! I brought snacks, though. Figured you'd be—”

He grabs your wrist.

You blink up at him.

“Ace?”

His expression is unreadable. A soft frown. Something burning low behind his eyes.

“You were in my dreams.”

Your breath catches.

“I was? Awwww, how cute—”

He glares. Steps closer. You're almost touching.

“Not just once.”

You shift, your back brushing the wall behind you. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.

“For three nights.”

He places a hand against the wall beside your head.

“Kept thinking it’d stop.”

He chuckles. Dry. Not amused.

“But it didn’t.”

His eyes lower to your mouth.

“You had your hands all over me. Said my name like it actually meant something for once.”

You try to respond, but your breath betrays you.

He leans in.

“It felt real. Too real.”

His voice drops, low and steady.

“Woke up sweating. Frustrated. Missing you.”

Your back hits the wall completely as his hand slides to your waist.

“And now you’re here…”

“—Right here in front of me.”

He kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Hot.

A kiss that knows exactly what it wants.

You gasp into it. His hand on your waist tightens. His body presses into yours just enough to make your knees shake.

When he pulls back, his voice is husky and the air is scorched.

“Did you mean it?”

You swallow.

“...What?”

He brushes your hair behind your ear.

“The way you touched me. The way you said my name.”

You stare into his eyes.

Then nod.

“Y-Yeah.”

He leans in again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles.

“I'm glad.”

He’s so glad. Because this time?

He’s not letting you wake up without him.

SHANKS

You board the Red Force just before sunset, waves golden and glittering behind you.

You stretch your arms and laugh.

“Mmm, it feels so good to be back!”

He hears you before he sees you.

Leaning against the railing near his quarters, half-shadowed. A bottle in one hand, his coat slung over his shoulder.

But his eyes? Dead on you.

“Well, well… look who finally came home.”

You grin.

“Miss me?”

“Every night.”

You laugh—but don’t notice how still he’s gone.

“Bet the crew missed me more.”

“I didn’t say the crew.”

Your smile falters.

He steps forward.

You step back on instinct.

“Shanks—?”

Your back hits the cabin door. He cages you in—one arm next to your head, his chest pressed against yours.

“Three nights.”

His voice is low. Rough. Not joking.

“You. Me. Right here.”

You blink, breath catching.

“I don’t—I didn’t know I—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours.

“You rode me like you owned me.”

“Shanks—”

“Said I was aaall yours.”

And then?

He kisses you.

It’s filthy.

His tongue parts your lips without warning. His hand grips your thigh, pulling it up against his hip as he pins you harder to the door.

Your gasp disappears into him.

His breath is fire. His mouth is all heat and hunger.

When he finally pulls back, you’re dazed—barely holding yourself up.

He chuckles, low and dangerous.

“Still think I didn’t miss you?”

You shake your head.

“Good girl.”

His lips graze down your neck.

“Now let’s see if you meant everything you whispered when you were possessing me in those dreams.”

Your knees give out.

He catches you.

And smiles like he’s won the grand line.

LAW

You walk into the Polar Tang’s medbay with a skip in your step, tossing a file onto the counter.

“Mission complete. I didn’t die. I deserve snacks.”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance over.

He’s sitting on his stool, coat off, gloves gone, eyes on you.

But there’s something off in them.

Sharp.

Tense.

You blink.

“...You okay?”

He stands.

Silent.

You open your mouth to speak again, but he’s already crossed the room—grabbing your wrist.

“Law—?”

You’re turned, spun, and pinned to the steel wall.

His body cages yours. His hand slams the wall beside your head.

“Three. Nights.”

His voice is dangerously low.

“Three nights you’ve been crawling on top of me in my sleep.”

You blink. Red.

“What? What do you—”

“Shut up.”

His fingers slide along your jaw.

“You said you wanted to be ruined. By me. Only me.”

“I-It was just a dream—!”

“No. It wasn’t.”

He leans in. Breath hot. Voice sharp.

“Because I’ve thought about it every minute since.”

His lips brush yours.

“And now you’re back. And I just don’t give a fuck anymore.”

He kisses you.

Rough. Desperate. Unforgiving.

You gasp—he swallows it. His hand grabs your waist, the other threading into your hair. His body presses close, hips locking you into place.

He kisses you like he’s claiming you.

And maybe he is.

“Law—” you whisper, dazed.

He breathes against your lips.

“You want me to stop? Say it now.”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

His mouth is on yours again before the word even leaves.

Because whatever happened in those dreams—

He’s making it real.

CORAZON

You slip into his room like always, balancing a warm drink and a little smile.

“Rosi, I brought you chamomile! Thought you could use a quiet night in.”

He turns.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, coat off, shirt wrinkled, hair ruffled like he’s barely slept.

And the moment he sees you?

His whole body goes still.

You don’t notice at first.

Until you take a step closer—and he suddenly stands.

Tall. Towering. Staring.

You blink.

“Rosi—?”

He crosses the room in three slow, heavy steps.

Takes the cup from your hand.

Sets it aside without a word.

Then leans in.

You try to speak—

“I dreamed of you.”

His voice is quiet.

But deep. Raw. Wrecked.

“Every single night you were gone.”

Your blink, then smile. Hesitantly.

“U-Um, was it at least a nice drea—”

“—You were on top of me. Whining. Begging. Touching me like you’d die if I stopped.”

You freeze.

His fingers brush your jaw. Tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it.”

He leans closer.

His nose grazes yours. His lips hover.

“But now you’re here, and I...”

“I can’t.”

And he kisses you.

Not soft. Not shy.

Hungry.

His hand cups the back of your head. His body presses into yours, guiding you gently but firmly against the nearest wall.

The kiss deepens—wet, open, breathless. You whimper. His hand tightens at your hip.

He pulls back, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he pants. “I just can’t pretend you don’t undo me.”

“Rosi—”

You kiss him back.

And he melts.

But only for a moment—before pressing his forehead to yours.

“You said you loved me. Tell me you meant it.”

“I did.”

He exhales—shaky.

Then smiles.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

He huffs a laugh, blinking back tears.

And kisses you like he’s never letting go.

[wispitty]

(short reacts) | "forced together after a fight" + one piece men

summary: you guys fought. it was over something stupid. but now you're both forced into the same space. there's tension.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

You argued in his office.

Something dumb. Lab budget. Security protocol. Who let Buggy into the weapons storage.

Now?

You’re in an elevator. Stuck.

The silence is icy. Your arms are crossed. His hook taps against the wall, rhythmically.

“...This is your fault.”

“Excuse me?”

He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him.

The air crackles.

Eventually—he shifts closer.

Just a little.

You don’t flinch. He notices.

“Hmph. You’re not afraid of me.”

“Nope.”

Another beat.

“That’s going to be a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or run this hook straight through you.”

You look at him. Pouting, cheeks a little red.

“Why not both?”

And just like that— You’re pressed to the elevator wall. His mouth on yours. Devouring.

The tension? Snapped. But the problem?

Only just beginning.

MIHAWK

The argument was so sharp it summoned a tempest.

Now you’re both stuck inside the castle’s greenhouse as the storm rages outside.

You’re on opposite sides of the room. Not speaking. Not moving.

But both very aware.

You turn your back on him. Then hear:

“...You don’t even know why I was upset.”

You tense.

“Yeah? Well, you didn’t explain.”

“Because if I said it, it would’ve sounded ridiculous.”

Silence.

Then softer—

“...You could’ve gotten hurt.”

You turn.

He’s staring at a flower. One that reminds him of you.

“I didn’t want to watch that.”

You cross the room slowly.

When you’re close, he doesn’t look at you—but he reaches for your hand.

And when your fingers touch? He grabs you.

The kiss that follows is slow. Heavy. Regretful. Like every inch of it is an apology.

MARCO

You’re stuck together in the medbay during inventory.

Tense. Awkward.

You’re muttering under your breath. He’s pretending not to hear.

Until you drop a box and huff.

“Still think I was overreacting?”

He looks up.

“Yeah. Still think you were being reckless?”

You glare.

He smirks.

“Still think I don’t care?”

You flinch.

“I never said that.”

“No, but you acted like it.”

The air crackles.

You march up to him, fuming.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re irresistible.”

You open your mouth to yell—

He kisses you instead.

You kiss back.

Neither of you apologize. But neither of you need to anymore.

And none of the inventory gets sorted that night.

ACE

You argued outside. You’re now stuck under a tarp while it pours.

You’re sitting with your knees up, glaring at opposite corners.

Eventually—

“...You okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

“...You look really hot when you’re mad.”

You whip your head toward him.

“Are you serious, Ace?!”

“You finally looked at me.”

You freeze. He leans in. Smiling nervously.

You don’t move.

So he kisses you.

Once. Gentle.

You grab his necklace and kiss him back. Not gentle.

“Still mad at me?” he smirks.

“Ask again later.”

SHANKS

You argued over something dumb.

Now you’re hiding in the same tiny storage crate after a prank went wrong, and Marines are patrolling.

It’s dark. Tight. Your backs are pressed together.

“This is awkward.”

“You think?”

“Still mad?”

“Still breathing?”

He chuckles.

Then?

You shift.

And your breath brushes his neck.

He shivers.

You smirk.

“Still want to argue?”

He turns.

“I’m not here to fight.”

He cups your face. Grins.

“Unless we’re calling what I want to do to you a fight.”

Then he kisses you.

And for once?

You let him win.

LAW

You’re stuck in his office. Door lock malfunction. You argued about protocol. You were reckless. He was controlling.

Now?

You’re pacing.

He’s sitting, jaw clenched.

“Just admit you overreacted.”

“Just admit you scared the hell out of me.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t look at you.

Until you walk over, grab his coat, and shove him against the desk.

“Why didn’t you say that first, Law?”

His eyes lock on yours.

Then he grabs your waist and pulls you in.

“Because I was too angry. And too busy seeing you almost die in my head.”

Then he kisses you.

Hard. Possessive.

And when it ends?

You’re not arguing anymore.

CORAZON

You bickered. It got heated. You stormed off. Now you're trapped in the attic of a building with a broken ladder.

He's pacing.

You’re hugging your knees.

He sighs.

“I... I didn’t mean to yell.”

You glance at him.

“I know.”

He walks over. Sits. Quiet.

“I just—when you don’t tell me things, I feel…”

He doesn’t finish.

But you reach for his hand.

And when he holds it?

You lean into his shoulder.

He kisses your temple.

“Let’s argue less.”

“Let’s kiss more.”

So you do. That night. The one after. And the one after.

Forever.

[wispitty]

Greetings there!

I wanted to say that me and my friend really REALLY Love Your little headcanon drabbles!

You managed to capture there Charakter so good! We laughed about the funny ones, we awwwed on the cute ones!

You are one of the few creators i really Look Forward to Your Work, because i can See how much You want to make Sure They Stay in Charakter!

Keep Up the Work but also Take Breaks in between!

We Love you!! (⁠づ⁠｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡⁠)⁠づ❤️

hello!!! thank you so much to both you and your friend for reading my little delulu fics, haha!! i'm really happy they bring you guys happiness, can't ask for more! thank you so much for being so sweet, i love you too!! (> v < ) / <3

[wispitty]

Hii!! I love your work, I wake a little more early to read them all since you upload so much!! tehe, but I was wondering if you take requests? 🥸🙏❓ if u do, might have to send one in lol

awwwww, omggggg! that is so SWEET ; v ; thank you for reading my stuff and i'm so happy it moves you enough to get you outta bed a little earlier, haha! (you stronger than me fr) i don't do requests atm, but thank you for asking!! <3 maybe one day, haha!

[wispitty]

Hello I hope you are well! Just saying thanks for writing some Marco stuff, I enjoyed reading it! 😁

thank you for reading!!!!! i love marco so much too!!!! literally adore that stupidly perfect pineapple fire chicken I HAVE SUCH A CRUSH ON HIM ugh lmao anyways yeah you can def expect more marco content from me haha!! thank you again!!! :'D

[wispitty]

mihawk x reader | “venus & mars”

summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.

...right? tag list: mihawk x you, slow burn, mutual pining, so much pining lmao, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors

chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

Chapter 1: Venus & Mars

The moon is a sharp sliver in the sky, like a blade left resting at the edge of darkness. Cold light spills in through the high windows, washing the hall in silver. You came here to be alone—where the marble echoes only your footsteps and not the tightness in your chest.

You sit on the stone railing of the balcony overlooking the garden, arms curled around your knees, chin tucked down as though you could fold in on yourself and disappear entirely. The wind tugs at your sleeves, whispering secrets you don’t want to hear. That you’re exhausted. That you’re unraveling. That something inside you is starting to give way.

And then—

A shift in the air.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. There’s only one man whose presence feels like silence drawn taut over a sword’s edge.

“Mihawk,” you whisper, voice hoarse from holding too much in.

You expect him to say nothing. That’s what he usually does. Quiet glances, a tilted head, maybe a scoff if you’re being especially ridiculous. And perhaps you are, sitting here trembling like glass about to crack.

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pass it off as wind.

But Mihawk isn’t fooled by wind. Or lies.

“Your shoulders are shaking.”

You freeze. Your throat works to form a response, but it’s like trying to speak past a hand around your neck.

“You’ve held yourself together too long,” he adds, walking closer—not fast, not cautious, just... deliberate.

You still don’t look at him.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. Weakly. Poorly.

He stands behind you, saying nothing for a moment. Just... watching. Then comes a faint rustle of fabric. A hand reaches forward—not grabbing, not demanding—just the barest contact. The back of his knuckles brushes your cheek.

You flinch.

“I said I’m fine.”

He exhales. His voice soft, but impossible to argue with.

“And yet you’re not.”

You finally look up. Your eyes meet his—those unnervingly focused golden eyes, always cool and unblinking like they can see through the walls you’ve spent years building.

And maybe he can.

Your lip trembles.

“It’s just—” Your voice breaks. You turn away fast, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Then you should have crossed paths with someone less perceptive.”

A weak, breathless laugh escapes you. It cracks halfway through.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Come down from that ledge.”

“Why?”

“Because if you fall, I’ll catch you. But I’d prefer not to.”

You slide off the ledge slowly. Your feet touch the floor like you’re not sure they can hold your weight. Mihawk doesn’t reach out—he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is steadying.

You stand there, looking at him, trying to swallow the wave rising in your chest.

And then it hits you anyway.

Your eyes shut tight. Your shoulders shake. A breath escapes—raw and wrecked. You sway—

—And find yourself against him.

Not pulled, not snatched—just... there. His coat shifts open just enough to let you lean into the warmth beneath it. It’s not the warmth of comfort, not exactly. It’s the warmth of something solid.

Something real.

You don’t sob. Not loudly. But you tremble as though every thread inside you has been plucked loose.

Mihawk doesn’t speak. One hand rests at your back. The other slowly—almost cautiously—lifts to your cheek, tilting your head just enough so he can see your face.

His thumb brushes away a tear. Not like he doesn’t want to touch it. Like he refuses to let it stay.

“You are not weak,” he murmurs. “But even the strongest blades need rest. And care. Or they shatter.”

A soft, broken sound escapes you. It could be a laugh. It could be a sob.

“So I’m a sword now?”

“You are something far more dangerous,” he says, and there’s a softness in the corners of his mouth that few have ever seen.

“But even dangerous things bleed.”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you can’t look away.

“Why do you care?”

He stares at you. Then, slowly, one hand cups your face with a surprising gentleness.

“Because you’ve been bleeding for a while now.” He whispers.

“And I seem to be the only one who notices.”

His gaze didn’t flinch when you did.

Golden eyes locked onto yours—not demanding, not searching, but quietly watching for the moment you'd let yourself fall apart. Or maybe… let someone catch you before you did.

His hand was warm, and that surprised you. You always imagined him cold to the touch, like the steel he carried. But this—this was human. Grounded. Real.

He didn’t say anything else. He let the silence stretch—an invitation, not a demand.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His voice dipped a little lower, almost a whisper. “Not tonight.”

However, rather than lean further into his embrace, rather than a smile brought about by his gentility...

...You can't help but scowl.

“Mihawk. I consider you to be a smart man. Sensible and logistical. So you should understand what I mean when I say this.”

You tear your face up to look into his golden eyes while tears threaten to spill from yours.

Teeth, grit. Jaw, clenched.

“Don't open something you won't be able to close.”

He didn’t flinch. Not at your words. Not at the emotion behind them.

He simply studied you—silent, unreadable as stone, though something flickered beneath the surface. Not quite surprise. Not offense. Something heavier. Slower.

His hand didn’t drop from your face. If anything, his thumb moved the smallest bit—just enough to wipe away a tear that had begun to fall despite your warning.

“I am a sensible man. And I do not start what I do not intend to see through.”

His voice was quiet. A blade sheathed in calm.

Then, after a pause. “But I also know better than to close what should never have been sealed in the first place.”

He leaned in just slightly—not to close the distance, but to anchor you in it. His presence wasn’t overwhelming. It didn’t demand anything from you.

It was simply… there. Unmoving. Unyielding.

“If you want me to walk away, say it. And I will. You’ll never see me again. But if you don’t…”

He let the words hang there—letting the choice rest in your hands, not his.

Even now, even as he looked at you like you were the only thing that wasn’t breakable in this world—he would never force your heart open. Only wait. Only offer.

“…Then I won’t close this.”

A sharp inhale leaves you. And then...

His arms came around you without hesitation as you fell against his chest.

No dramatics. No gasp of surprise. Just quiet certainty—as though he’d already braced himself for this moment, as though he’d been standing on that edge for longer than you realized, waiting for you to fall not apart… but in.

Towards him.

The fabric of his coat was thick beneath your cheek, but his heartbeat was steady. Solid. A quiet drum that didn’t falter, even as your tears soaked into the black.

He held you—not like something delicate, not like something he didn’t understand—but like a man who had carried weight before.

And knew how not to drop it.

“I’m still here.” He whispers, low, by your ear.

No poetry. No promises. Just fact. Steady. Present. Unshaken.

One of his hands moved to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving gently into your hair.

“You don't need to ask me to stay.”

He exhales, and it was the closest thing to a sigh you’d ever heard from him.

“You’ve already earned that.”

You grit your teeth as you hug him, your arms encircling his waist like a lifeline to a drowning man.

He accepted your embrace with the kind of stillness that wasn’t cold—but reverent.

One arm circled you tighter, anchoring you fully against him, while the other remained at the back of your head, a steady, grounding pressure. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just there—as if holding you was a truth he didn’t need to speak aloud.

His cheek lowered slightly, brushing the crown of your head.

“There’s no shame in needing someone.” He says, quietly.

A beat passed. Then another. You felt his chest rise with a measured breath, slow and careful, like he was adjusting to the feel of you pressed so close.

“And even if there were… I wouldn’t let it touch you.”

His voice, usually so composed, had an edge of something raw now. Not emotion spilling over—but being held back. For your sake.

For his.

He says nothing else. Just let you stay. Let you breathe. Let you be—without pretending, without posture.

As if you were safe now. As if you'd been all along.

After some time, you calm down. Tears reduced into mere sniffles.

Your eyes red, puffy and exhausted. Mimicking the sorry state of your soul.

You remove yourself silently from his embrace, but don't step too far away as your eyes stare at the ground.

He let you go the moment you moved, but not without a final, brief press of his hand at your back—as if to say he was still there, even as you stepped out of his arms.

The distance between you now was only a breath. No more than a whisper of space. But he didn’t reach for you again. Why?

Because Mihawk was not a man who chased.

And you knew that. Quite too well.

Instead, he stood steady, offering presence in place of pressure.

His gaze followed you quietly. The wind shifted, brushing your hair out of place. He didn’t fix it. Just watched you, eyes low beneath the brim of his hat.

“…You look as though you’ve been in a war.”

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t even teasing. Just his way of saying he’d noticed the redness around your eyes. The quiet exhaustion behind your breath.

Then, gently: “Did it help?”

His voice was quieter now. Not uncertain—he never was—but softer. Like he didn’t want to make you feel small for having fallen apart.

Like he knew the courage it took just to let yourself be seen in parts.

You sigh. “Too much.”

He nodded once. Not with pity, not with sympathy—just understanding, like he’d seen people come apart before… but rarely trusted anyone enough to watch them rebuild.

“That tends to be the way of it.”

He shifted, just slightly, and his fingers reached up—slow and deliberate—to brush a strand of hair away from your damp cheek. The gesture was simple. Thoughtful.

And somehow more intimate than anything he’d said all night.

“You carry too much for one person.” A pause. “But you don’t have to.”

The words weren’t a command. They were a quiet offer.

He lowered his hand, but didn’t step back.

“If ever again you feel it’s too much…” His gaze held yours, clear and steady. “Come to me.”

And for the first time tonight, his voice wavered—not with weakness, but with something close to honesty. Something rare and precious.

“I would rather bear it with you than watch you brea—”

“—Mihawk. Don’t.”

You interrupt him, your tone poised like a knife to a throat.

“Don’t tread on a line you won't walk fully through.” A pause. A breath sucked in. “Because I'll get attached. And neither of us wants that, clearly.”

Your glare in that moment—wet-eyed and trembling—was anything but sharp. But it hit. Right between the ribs, where even a sword couldn’t reach.

Mihawk didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just… looked at you.

Not with coldness. Not with regret. But with something undeniably present.

“You’re wrong... I’m already attached.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The sea breeze stilled. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.

His tone didn’t rise. His expression barely shifted. But the weight of his words hung in the air between you—clean, unflinching, and irreversible.

He stepped forward, just enough to close the sliver of space between you again. Not to claim. Not to trap. Just to be nearer.

“I tread carefully not because I won’t follow through… but because I know the cost of crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.”

His gaze lowered slightly, shadowing his eyes beneath his hat.

“But I won’t pretend I haven’t crossed it already.”

There it was. The thing you weren’t supposed to say aloud. The thing a man like him wasn’t supposed to feel. But there, in the moonlight and quiet, with your hurt still lingering between you, he gave it form.

He met your eyes again.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

However, you do. You avert your gaze from him with your cheeks stained red and a petulant little pout on your lips.

And you whisper: “You had too much wine.”

His lips curved—just slightly. Not a smirk, not quite a smile. But something dry and razor-thin, like the glint of steel under moonlight.

“I’ve had exactly one glass.”

A pause, then—

“Your deflections could use sharpening.”

He didn’t sound amused. Not fully. But there was a shift in the air—something lighter, almost imperceptible. As if he were offering you an out, if you wanted it. A way to step back from the weight of what had just been said.

But he wasn’t stepping back.

He stood there still, hands calm at his sides, watching you pout with flushed cheeks like you’d wounded him somehow.

“You may choose to pretend I said nothing.” Then, quieter: “But I won’t.”

“Hmph. I'll write this all off as an illusion then. A side effect of stress.”

Stubbornly, you mumble. Then clear your throat.

“For your presence tonight, though, you have my gratitude. I won't lie. Somehow, you always give me the strength to stand up again. It's... my most favorite thing about you.”

“However.” You sharply turn. Still glaring. Cheeks only redder.

“I won't fall in love with a man like you. We wouldn't make a good pair. You're Mars, I'm Venus. You observe, I act. You never chase, I seek it. It's not a good match.”

He stood still through your words—stoic and unreadable as always, the moonlight casting silver across the angles of his face. But your final declaration landed like a thrown dagger.

He didn’t move to dodge.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t argue.

Instead, he stepped forward again, just once—closing the space until there was nowhere else to retreat but into yourself.

His voice came quiet. Unshaken.

“Then don’t fall.”

A beat. A silence.

“Stand beside me instead.”

There was no heat to his words. No plea. Just a calm refusal to accept the version of the story where he was already dismissed.

Where this ended here, with you writing him off like a threat to your peace.

You accused him of being Mars, and yet—

“You chase what you want. I protect what I value.” A flicker of something behind his eyes. “If that makes us mismatched, then so be it.”

And for a moment—just a moment—his voice dropped low enough to almost sound like regret. Or longing disguised as reason.

“But don’t mistake my stillness for absence.”

He looked down at you now, gaze heavy, voice quieter still.

“I am here. I have always been here.”

His hand lifted again—almost reaching, almost touching—but halted just short of your cheek.

“You’ll believe it when you’re ready.”

In response, your teeth only grit tighter, but your face remains tomato-colored red as you glare at him.

And with one disdainful grunt, you mutter: “Way too much wine.”

And turn to leave.

He lets out a soft exhale—too composed to be a sigh, too deliberate to be laughter. And you didn’t see it, but one corner of his mouth curved upward, just barely.

A rare thing. A quiet thing.

The kind of expression a man like him only wore for things that struck deeper than they should.

“Sleep well, Venus.” He calls as you turn.

No mockery. Just the faintest gravity in the way he said it—like it was a name he’d remember.

And as your footsteps echoed down the corridor, he didn’t follow. True to form, he remained where you left him—silent, steady, immovable.

Meanwhile, as you storm away, you grumble under your breath.

Fists clenched at your sides, heart beating a mile a minute in your chest. Yet, your mind is convinced.

He'll never chase after me. I don't move his heart like that.

...And I'm not interested in hearts that don't yield for me.

Your boots struck the stone floor in sharp little echoes—stubborn and seething. Each step was meant to steady you. To put space between you and him. Between you and that unbearable warmth.

That unbearable truth.

But your chest ached. Because you knew—you knew—you were right.

He wouldn’t chase.

He wouldn’t call your name like a fool with something to lose. That wasn’t who he was. Mihawk was a fortress, not a flame.

And your heart didn’t want a fortress.

…Did it?

You clenched your fists. You told yourself you weren’t trembling. It was just the damn cold.

And yet—in the quiet behind you, where he should have remained…

There was a sound.

Footsteps.

Not fast. Not reckless. But real.

Measured. Intentional.

Closer.

“You said I’d never chase.”

A voice calls calmly from behind you as you stop.

Another step.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

And then—

“But for you… I’ll walk.”

He stopped just a few paces behind you. Close enough for his voice to wrap around you like a cloak.

“I won’t beg. I won’t pull. But I will follow.”

Quiet again.

“Is that enough?”

“—NO!”

You turned sharply, knuckles turning white at your sides, brow furrowed as if you were in physical pain.

“It's not enough! I'm a selfish woman who lives in the delusions of her own fantasies. S-So…”

Your voice trails off as your bravado falters. A scared, hurt look briefly flashes onto your face as you will yourself to look back into the golden eyes that haunt you.

“G-Go away. You’re a sword in a stone that I can’t break.”

He stills at your outburst—stone-faced, yes, but not untouched. Something in his expression shifts. Not pity. Not softness. Something like recognition.

Like he had seen this before. Or perhaps... felt it himself.

He took in the sight of you: fists clenched like a warrior with no weapon, eyes full of defiance and ache and that terrible, honest desperation.

And he did the most infuriating thing he could possibly do.

He stepped closer.

Not fast. Not loud. But undeniably closer.

Now just within arm’s reach, he stopped. Looked down at you—not as a man towering over, but one... meeting you where you stood.

“You say you’re selfish.”

His gaze swept over your eyes. Your trembling mouth. Your fists.

“Fine. Then be selfish.”

He opened his hands at his sides, empty, as if offering himself without ceremony.

“Demand the moon. Shatter stars. Curse me, if you must.”

“But do not—”

His voice catches. Just slightly.

“Do not ask me to go when we both know I’d stay.”

His golden eyes bore into yours. Heavy with everything he didn’t say. Everything he’d held back. And still, somehow, still—he yielded.

Not with weakness.

But with will.

“Perhaps I am stone, yes. But not one you must break.” He leaned in, just barely. “Only one you have to lean on.”

And then, quieter still: “Even if you hate me for it.”

“UGH! I'd hate you if I could, you infuriating man!”

You turned away from him, crossing your arms in a huff.

Pouting.

He let out the smallest sound—dry, low, the ghost of something between a breath and a chuckle. But it wasn’t amusement at your expense.

It was the sound of a man who had finally been wounded—and welcomed it. Like a blade drawn clean across old armor.

“Then I consider myself fortunate.” He mutters, deadpan, but faintly warmer.

A pause, before adding—

“I’d rather earn your frustration than your silence.”

You heard the gentle rustle of fabric as he stepped to your side—not in front of you, not behind. Beside you.

Close enough that the brush of his coat just barely grazed your arm.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t reach for you.

He simply stood there.

Like the mountain you claimed he was—impossible to move. But for once, maybe… just maybe… choosing to stand with you, not in your way.

After a long pause, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“…Still pouting?”

"Hmph. You don't chase, so you'll never see it." You grumble in an almost childish fashion, turning away from him yet again.

He raised a brow at that—subtle, unimpressed. But the glint in his eye betrayed him: not irritation… but something dangerously close to fondness.

“Lucky for me, you pout loud enough to feel it from here.”

A beat passed. Then, under his breath—so low it was almost to himself:

“…And yet I find I don’t mind it.”

He shifted just slightly to match your new angle, not letting you shake him off with your little turn.

If anything, he mirrored it—arms now folded across his own chest like a knight humoring a dragon guarding her treasure.

“If this is what awaits me at the end of walking instead of chasing…” A faint tilt of his head, lips barely quirked. “Then I suppose I’ll have to become a patient man.”

He turned his face toward the moonlight, letting the silence settle between you again—comfortable now. Close. Shared.

“Though if you plan to keep storming off, do let me know next time.”

A slow glance toward you.

“I’ll bring wine. Just one glass, of course.”

At that, you finally turn to look at him.

You say nothing, but you're still pouting, still glaring, cheeks red, eyes puffy, hair a little messy, but still there. Still endearing.

And he looks at you fully now.

Really looks.

At the puffiness around your eyes. The stubborn tilt of your chin. The mess in your hair that refused to obey the weight of the night. The blush that stained your cheeks like the petals of a storm-tossed rose.

And that gaze—that furious, wounded, resilient little glare that had no business being as heartbreakingly endearing as it was.

He didn’t smirk.

He didn’t tease.

He only softened.

A breath caught in his chest—barely noticeable. But there. Real.

“…You’re beautiful like this.”

Not flirtatious. Not flippant. Just honest.

He looked at you like a man who had seen many things—victories, tragedies, the rise and fall of kingdoms—and had never quite found something that stirred him quite like you did now, in this fragile, furious state.

“You think I wouldn’t chase, little Venus.” A breath. “But the truth is… I already have.”

“Liar.” You bite.

“You say you chase, but they're only on comet-paved roads in your orbit.”

You look at him one last time.

“Not mine.”

...He didn’t answer right away after that.

Because your words struck—not with heat, but with truth. A brutal, aching kind of truth. The kind that didn’t demand rebuttal. Only silence. And yet…

He still didn’t look away.

Even as you threw that final line like a closing door. Even as your voice trembled with the force of choosing distance over hope.

He stood his ground—not in pride, but in quiet defiance of the very fate you’d written for him.

“Then I suppose I will have to redraw the map.” He exhales softly, solemnly.

Yet his gaze is still steady. Golden. Unyielding.

“I do not chase comets. I wait for stars that dare fall near me.”

A step back.

A pause.

“If yours burns elsewhere… I will not stop it.”

And yet—

“But if it circles back, even once…” The faintest breath. “I will not let it go again.”

He inclined his head slightly, as if offering a final bow. Not of surrender. But respect. Of something unspoken, still held tight.

Then, quietly: “…Goodnight, Venus.”

And just like that—true to his word—he turned to walk away.

Not far. Not fast. But every step… still within reach.

“………”

“...Goodnight, Mars.”

The words sullenly leave your lips like the softest whisper as you retreat into the safety of your room.

But he heard it.

Your voice, soft and low, trailing behind like the tail of a comet refusing to vanish completely.

He didn’t stop walking.

But his pace slowed.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just enough to let the words land somewhere deep—where no blade could reach, but your voice always did.

“Goodnight, Mars.”

He would remember that. He’d carry it in silence, like he did most things that mattered.

And in the stillness that followed—beneath moonlight and tension and distance—neither of you saw it.

But the stars above burned just a little brighter.

As if, somewhere in the space between Venus and Mars…

A new orbit had quietly begun.

[wispitty]

I love, love, LOVE your little OP reactions, need more pretty please!! And if you have a tag list could I be added?

Hope you have a lovely day 💕

thank you sm!!! just posted two new ones ^v^ hope you like em!! ♡ (also, uhhh not sure what a tag list is ;v; i'm new here lmao)

i hope you had/have a great day too!! ♡♡

[wispitty]

I starting to live only for your postes ,it's ART how u capture every character PERFECTLY, keep going please we love u..♡♡♡

haha!! thank you so much for reading, cutie!! and for the adorable message, i hope my little drabbles keep giving you joy forever!!! ♡

[wispitty]

(short reacts) | "you can't sleep" + one piece men

summary: it's quiet. dark. the hour when everyone else is asleep and the world is still. but you? you can't sleep. so you go find him.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

You knock once.

There’s a pause. A slow click of the lock.

He opens the door, still dressed, still working, still smoldering.

He says nothing—just scans you up and down.

Bare feet. Oversized shirt. Puffy eyes.

He steps aside.

You whisper:

“I couldn’t sleep…”

His voice is low. Careful.

“...Come in.”

You do.

He shuts the door. Turns.

You’re still standing there, unsure.

Until he silently opens his coat and holds it out like an invitation.

One just for you. Only you.

You walk into his arms without a word.

The moment he pulls you in?

You melt.

And for the first time in years, so does he.

MIHAWK

You knock gently.

“It’s late.”

His voice comes through the door.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He opens it slowly.

You stand there. A little cold. A little embarrassed. So very small in the night.

“...I-I couldn’t sleep.”

His expression softens by a fraction.

He steps back.

You enter, and before you can say anything else, he pulls a blanket from the edge of the bed and gently drapes it over your shoulders.

“You should’ve come sooner.”

He sits beside you. Quiet. Present.

And when your head leans onto his shoulder—

He doesn’t breathe for a second.

And then?

He rests his head against yours.

Like you belonged there all along.

MARCO

He opens the door in the middle of the night.

But he’s wide awake.

“Hey, songbird. You okay?”

You hesitate.

“I… couldn’t sleep.”

His smile is so soft it could carry you.

“C’mere.”

He doesn’t even ask.

He just pulls you in and guides you to his bed, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Once you’re curled up beside him?

He rests his hand on your back and murmurs:

“Just breathe, yoi. I’ve got you.”

And when your fingers clutch his shirt?

He holds you tighter.

He was waiting for this. For you.

ACE

You knock once.

The door opens immediately. Like he’d been standing there.

“Oh! I—...Hey. You okay?”

You nod.

“Couldn’t sleep. I just…”

He blinks.

“You… wanna stay?”

You nod again.

He steps aside, nervous.

You sit on his bed, quiet.

He hesitates.

Then sits beside you. Silent for a minute.

Then?

He holds your pinky.

Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you.

But doesn’t let go.

SHANKS

You knock.

He opens the door in boxers and a loose shirt. One look at you and he’s dead serious.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just… I couldn���t sleep.”

He pauses.

Then opens his arms.

“Get in here.”

You go.

He kisses your forehead.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

You don’t.

He pulls you into bed with him, wrapping himself around you like a shield against the world.

“Sleep. I’ve got you.”

And when you finally drift off?

So does he. Peacefully.

For the first time in days.

LAW

You knock softly.

It takes a second.

Then:

“What.”

You flinch a little.

“Sorry, I just… couldn’t sleep.”

The door opens.

He’s shirtless. Hair messy. Eyes tired.

You look up at him, vulnerable.

He stares at you for a beat too long.

Then steps aside.

You sit on the edge of his bed, fidgeting.

He sighs.

Then silently climbs in, lifts the blanket and motions you over.

“Next time, don’t wait so long.”

You freeze.

Then slide under the covers.

And when his hand finds yours under the sheets?

You squeeze.

So does he.

CORAZON

You knock quietly.

No response.

You’re about to leave when the door creaks open.

He’s there. Hair tousled. Sleepy eyes.

He sees you.

You whisper:

“I can’t sleep.”

He says nothing.

Just opens his arms.

You fall into them.

He wraps his coat around you. Sits on the bed with you in his lap. Holds you close like you’re made of starlight.

You feel his heart pounding against your cheek.

He kisses your forehead. Over and over.

No words.

Just warmth.

Just safety.

Just love.