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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

You weren’t a pirate.

You weren’t a Marine.

You were informed.

Elegant and smiling, wrapped in silk and secrets, you drifted through ports like a rumor—too poised to threaten, too lovely to suspect, and far too useful to eliminate. You sold information the way others sold spices or silk, with clients ranging from the Revolution to the Celestial Dragons.

And you had rules.

One: Never sell to the stupid.

Two: Never sit on a surface you haven’t personally scrubbed.

Which is why, standing aboard the Red Force—watching a barefoot pirate scratch his back with a dead fish tail—you were already planning your exit.

“Don’t panic,” Shanks said from beside you, all charm and sea-salt grins. “That fish was already dead.”

You inhaled slowly. “I’m not panicking. I’m internally disassociating.”

He laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard all day. “That’s just how life at sea is, sweetheart.”

“No,” you said flatly. “That’s how you are. The sea is salty, unpredictable, and full of monsters. You are barefoot, sticky with rum, and just called a rash ‘character growth.’”

He blinked, mock-offended. “I clean up.”

“When?”

A pause. “…Emotionally?”

Your eyes narrowed as you tugged on a pair of gloves before daring to sit. “There’s a ring of salt-sweat on your collar so defined it could be carbon dated. You have sand in your pockets. And I know for a fact you haven’t owned soap since the Battle of Edd War.”

“That’s impressive intel.”

“I know everything, Captain. Including the fact Yasopp has used the same towel since before his son was born.”

“…Okay, that’s just scary.”

”Please refrain for speaking of crew linens before breakfast.” Lucky Roux chimed as he passes, “I still have to cook today.”

“It’s disturbing,” you corrected. “Do you know what mildew does to linen?”

There was a long pause.

“…Would you like a napkin to sit on?”

You deeply reconsidered accepting free passage across the sea.

You weren’t unreasonable. Just selective. And reasonably speaking, there was no good reason to join the Red Force.

In the beginning, you’d told yourself you were just a guest. Shanks’ attention was hard to miss, but you didn’t comment. You appreciated a handsome man as much as the next lady of lethal diplomacy—but the man lived like a charmingly drunk disaster.

And his crew had no concept of boundaries.

“You do realize you’ve been aboard for three days,” Shanks drawled one afternoon, leaning on the deck rail. “And you haven’t smiled at me once.”

“I’ve smiled plenty,” you replied smoothly, your skirts swaying in the breeze. “Just not at you.”

Benn Beckman smothered a laugh behind his cigar. Lucky Roux offered you another pastry. Yasopp was conspicuously absent—likely bathing in saltwater under your pointed suggestion.

“You’re mean,” Shanks said, still smiling, like your indifference didn’t bruise him. “Is it the arm thing? Because I swear I’m very capable with one.”

You offered him a polite, perfect smile—the kind that could make an executioner rethink his career. “It’s not the arm. It’s the smell.”

That one did sting. “I showered yesterday.”

“Captain,” you said sweetly, “rum is not soap. Nor is standing in the rain while shouting about being King of the Pirates.”

Benn wheezed beside him.

Shanks swept his cape back with exaggerated flair. “I’ve got charm! Adventure! A ship destined for legend!”

“And mildew,” you added kindly. “Lots of mildew.”

He stepped closer, tilting his head. “Join us. I’ll make it worth your while.”

You looked up at him with feigned innocence. “Captain Shanks. I have books. Blankets that aren’t damp. And sanitary standards. What could you possibly offer me?”

There was a beat. 

“Free drinks. Endless ocean. Occasional gods trying to kill us. Freedom.”

You sighed, adjusted your gloves, and eyed the small rowboat waiting just off the side.

“No,” you said simply. “Because you’re a rum-drunk degenerate, and your crew never showers.”

A chorus of half-hearted boos rose behind him—except Benn, who looked like he might propose to you for saying what he couldn’t.

Shanks grinned despite himself, even as you stepped down into the boat. “You’ll miss me, sweetheart.”

“Doubtful,” you chirped. “But I’ll send you soap.”

Later, alone in his cabin, Shanks found a delicate bar of rose-scented soap tucked inside his coat. Tied with a ribbon.

The note read:

“For the mildew problem. —Yours Never.”

He carried it for months. Didn’t even open it.

Which entirely missed the point.

Chapter Text

You are, to put it mildly, a spectacularly clean and deeply informed person.

You bathe regularly. You organize your notes. You have backup plans for your backup plans. You do not cause public scenes unless they are worth it. Unfortunately, this one was.

Because apparently, telling the truth about Lord Velcot’s very unfortunate incident with a spiced pear, a stolen wig, and three goats has consequences. 

Who knew nobles were so sensitive?

The guards chased you down cobbled alleys, and your beautifully polished boots are caked with harbor mud. You duck into a quieter corner, heart hammering, and come face to face with a man leaning against a stack of crates, chewing a toothpick, and watching you like you’re a particularly interesting card game.

"You're in a bit of a hurry," he says. “Ex-boyfriend?”

You eye him warily. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet. But I hear you know a lot of things. And I'm in the market for information."

You don’t have time for this. "And you’re offering what, exactly?"

He jerks his head toward the ship just past the dock. “A ride. Quiet. No questions, except the ones I ask.”

You study him. Weathered. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words or tolerate lies. You make a split-second decision and nod.

“Fine.”

You make it to the ship without being seen. You narrow your eyes at the size. It is beautiful. Stunning, even. A grand silhouette against the horizon, red sails snapping proudly in the wind. You expected something stately, maybe even majestic.

It’s too dark to tell.

“So,” you say, brushing dirt off your sleeves, “you the captain?”

He barks out a laugh. “Me? Hell no.”

You freeze. “Wait. What?”

“Captain’s below,” he says, grinning. “He’ll want to meet you once I tell him I brought aboard a high-value gossip with nice hair and good boots.”

You blink.

“ You’re not the captain?”

“Nope. Name’s Benn Beckman.” He offers a hand. “First Mate to the Red-Haired Pirates .”

And that’s when you hear it. The laugh. Low. Friendly. Infuriating.

Shanks.

Your blood runs cold. You know that bounty. You’ve stared at the poster enough times to curse the smile.

You whirl on Benn. “You brought me aboard a Yonko’s ship?!”

“Careful,” Benn says, clearly amused. “He’s fallen for worse attitudes.”

“Worse than me?”

He shrugs, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”

Frankly, you don’t care. You’ve had a very long day of being chased, betrayed, and slandered over what should have been a hilarious and harmless anecdote involving a pear and a powerful man’s poor choices. You accepted Benn Beckman’s offer because he looked capable, unbothered, and most importantly, clean.

And to his credit, he was.

He helps you up the gangplank without ceremony. You think maybe, just maybe, you’re safe.

The ship, however, is something else entirely.

You step aboard the Red Force and are immediately met with what can only be described as a deeply committed level of nautical chaos. Not the kind bred from incompetence; no, this is curated, almost artistic. Like someone had taken the concept of a functioning pirate crew and given it a bottle of rum, three chickens, and a head injury.

There’s laundry — actual dirty laundry —hanging from the rigging, flapping proudly like the sails of domestic surrender. A pair of polka-dot boxers snaps you in the face as the wind changes. You look up. They wave at you.

Near the helm, two shirtless crewmates are locked in what appears to be a very serious swordfight.

With baguettes . 

They parry with the grace of seasoned warriors and the idiocy of men who have not tasted fear since puberty. One of them shouts “en garde!” in a terrible accent before taking a bite out of his weapon mid-duel.

You catch sight of a chicken. It’s wearing an eyepatch. You blink. It’s still there. It stares back, solemn and ancient, as if it has survived battles you’ll never understand.

The scent of rum hits you next. Not just a scent. A presence . The rum is in the air . The planks beneath your feet creak with the ghost of spilled drinks and bad decisions. You swear the wood itself is tipsy.

You stop mid-step, overcome by the visceral assault of sight, sound, and questionable life choices.

“It’s a pigsty,” you whisper, horrified. Then you blink again, gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched deck, the howling laughter, the chaos woven with joy and freedom. You swallow, shoulders slumping.

“A beautiful pigsty.”

Benn strolls past you like none of this is strange. “Home sweet home.”

You gape at a mug crusted with something you pray is not jam. “You said quiet ride. You said no questions. You did not say I’d share air with feral pirate frat boys.”

“Mm.” Benn eyes the deck. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.”

You side-eye him. “Why does it smell like aging citrus and despair?”

“It’s lemon oil,” he says. “Someone tried to mop. Once. In 2003.”

You inhale slowly, then blink at the sheer volume of abandoned teacups, rum bottles, and suspicious socks.

And that’s when he appears. Barefoot, laughing, and wearing a half-buttoned shirt like it’s a lifestyle.

Red hair. Ridiculous grin. No concept of personal space.

“Oh?” he says, clearly amused. “New passenger?”

You freeze.

This man is everything you go out of your way to avoid. Loud. Disheveled. Ridiculously charming. Probably sticky.

You look at Benn in betrayed silence.

He shrugs. “That’s the captain.”

You point at him in slow horror. “That thing is the captain?”

Shanks beams. 

“Don’t worry, I’m mostly socialized for indoor behavior.”

You almost jumped overboard.

Benn claps you on the shoulder like this is fine and mostly to keep you dry. “Welcome to the Red Force.”

You murmur, “I would like to go home now.”

Too late. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks if you’re the new quartermaster. The chicken clucks approvingly.

The ship sways.

So does your patience.

You sigh. “At least I’m not the one who smells like cheese.”

“Yet,” Shanks adds brightly.

You stare at him. Then at Benn.

“This is your fault.”

Benn lights a cigarette like he has all the time in the world and no reason to rush. The smoke curls slowly between his fingers as he leans against the rail, watching the chaos unfold across the deck with the kind of patience that only comes from long exposure to nonsense.

“Yeah,” he says, casting a glance in your direction. “But you’re not boring. So I’d say we’re even.”

You blink at him. Then at the ship. Then at the man dueling with a mop while wearing a long coat and absolutely no pants. You look again at the chicken. It’s still wearing the eyepatch. You could swear it gives you a nod of recognition.

You should leave. That would be smart. Logical. Strategic. But the guards are still combing the port for you with the zeal of men promised a bonus, and your name is now traveling on the wind with the kind of scandal usually reserved for pirates, murderers, and bad poets.

The Red Force may be a mess, but it floats. Which is already more than you can say for your reputation.

Benn doesn’t try to convince you. When you hesitate near the gangplank, he exhales and raises one eyebrow.

“If you’ve got something worth trading,” he says, voice even, “I’ll make sure the captain lets you stay aboard until the next island.”

You weigh your choices. Running into town would be suicide. Turning yourself in would be stupidity. That leaves you with pirates.

“I have information,” you say at last, slowly.

He doesn’t react much, but the air around him seems to still. “We like information.”

“But I want terms,” you add, folding your arms.

His mouth curves, the faintest twitch of a grin. “Let’s hear them.”

You gesture toward the ship, nose wrinkling as someone swings past on a rope, yelling triumphantly while wearing only one boot and a sunhat.

“If I give you something valuable, I want a ride. A clean bunk. And someone has to mop something. Or bathe. Or both.”

He tilts his head, amused. “That’s a bold list.”

“I’m flexible on the mop,” you say, voice even. “But I will not negotiate on the bathing.”

Benn’s hand extends again, steady and solid.

There’s a pause.

Then he laughs. Not mockingly. His laugh is warm and low, edged with honest amusement, like you’ve said something no one else had the guts or sense to say. Like you’re the first fresh breeze to hit this deck in years.

“You want to trade intelligence for soap and a mop?”

“Yes,” you reply flatly. “I don’t care if I’m surrounded by pirates, but I refuse to live like a damp sock in a locker room.”

Behind you, a voice cuts in, cheerful and far too comfortable.

“What’s this about socks?”

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

The barefoot, red-haired disaster. Wearing yesterday’s shirt and today’s grin, looking like he just woke up from a nap he didn't plan and liked it anyway.

You lift a hand and gesture vaguely in his direction without turning. “That one. He’s not allowed near my quarters until he can pass a smell check.”

Shanks sounds delighted. “You want to trade for hygiene? That’s a first.”

You finally turn to face him.

His smile could outshine the sun, and unfortunately, he knows it. The hair is tousled, the shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and there’s a suspicious smudge of ink or possibly rum on his neck.

You meet his eyes and don’t blink.

“You’ll thank me when your crewmates stop losing dice to mold.”

Shanks looks like you just proposed marriage.

Benn exhales smoke and mutters under his breath, “Oh no. He likes you.”

You frown. “Is that a problem?”

Shanks leans forward slightly, eyes bright. “It’s only a problem if you plan to survive.”

You stare at him.

He smiles wider.

You already regret everything.

Benn, in true first mate fashion, steps in before your brain can start planning escape routes. He leans in, clearly entertained.

“And what are you offering?”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “How about Lord Velcot’s shipping ledger? The one that proves he’s funneling sea stone under a fake spice route.”

The grin on Benn’s face drops half an inch. His posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens like a blade being quietly unsheathed.

Shanks lets out a low whistle. “You’re just full of little treasures, aren’t you?”

“I am. And if you don’t clean that table,” you say, pointing at the sticky wooden monstrosity near the helm, “I’ll find another pirate crew. Preferably one with working soap.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Shanks laughs. Loud. Bright. Borderline offensive.

“Done,” he says. “Ride, bunk, and someone will mop. Hell, I’ll mop myself just for the story.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m absolutely not.” His grin spreads like a man daring the universe to top this moment. “Benn, get this woman a mop. And someone to fight over it.”

Benn sighs like a man who has already seen his future, and it includes too many suds and not enough peace.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You tuck your notes back into your coat and follow them onto the deck.

Later, you sip tea in the sun and watch as Shanks dramatically splashes soapy water across the boards in what could only be described as a barefoot, interpretive dance about the concept of cleaning. He’s shirtless. There are bubbles on his nose. It’s unclear whether any actual cleaning is happening, but morale is up.

You smile to yourself.

You may be trapped on a ship full of chaos gremlins, but for once, you are in charge of the mop.

The crew likes you immediately.

Unfortunately.

You hadn’t planned on charming them. That wasn’t the goal. You were just trying to barter your way out of political fallout and away from the kingdom of cursed pears. But apparently, sarcasm, a visible disdain for clutter, and the ability to identify seven kinds of mold growing under the deck planks is downright hilarious to pirates.

They howled when you called the crow’s nest a sweaty crypt. They applauded when you slapped a dirty plate out of someone’s hand with your notebook. One of them tried to give you a chicken as a sign of respect.

You had no idea what to do with that.

They start calling you Doc, even though you’re not a doctor. Or Boss, depending on the day. Someone tries “Mom” once. You draw a knife without breaking eye contact. It never happens again.

You wish you liked them.

Truly.

But they’re filthy. Every last one of them reeks of salt, stale liquor, and the ghosts of forgotten laundry. You’ve seen things. Unspeakable things. A cup being rinsed and reused without soap. A man blow-drying his armpits near the lantern. Someone—probably Yasopp—eating something he dropped on the anchor chain and declared “still good.”

You considered setting the ship on fire once. Just to start over.

The only one who seems halfway civilized is Benn Beckman.

And he can’t be trusted. Because he listens to Shanks.

You learned that the hard way after you sat Benn down and politely explained your list of basic human decencies. Clean linens. Sealed storage. A fireproof filing system. You even wrote it out on proper stationery. Benn nodded with grave understanding, the picture of cooperation. Very calm. Very reasonable.

Five hours later, you opened the door to your freshly “cleaned” quarters.

Shanks was inside. Shirtless. Reclining across your cot like he had personally conquered it. He was drinking from your emergency rum stash with the smug air of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and had every intention of staying anyway. In one hand, he held up a mop like it was a weapon, a trophy, or both.

“I mopped!” he declared, proud as sin.

“With what ?” you demanded.

He pointed to a bucket. The contents were murky. Brown. Possibly sentient.

Beckman leaned into view from the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was deciding whether to laugh or flee. “He tried.”

You had nearly thrown yourself overboard.

Now you keep a spray bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant on your belt like a sidearm. The crew refers to it in hushed tones as blessed firewater. Some say it burned the sins off their souls. Others claim it just smells like lemon death.

You don’t care. You use it liberally.

You sleep with your back to the wall. You wear gloves when touching anything communal, including dice, maps, and whatever horrifying substance Lucky Roux calls “stew.” You keep an eye on Benn at all times.

But sometimes, when you catch him watching you with that slow-burn smirk, with the sharp glint of humor behind those steady eyes, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos Shanks dragged aboard, you wonder how long you can keep up the wall.

Because even if he is dangerous… He did refill your soap. And label it.

Now you’re drying your gloves over a barrel as the Red Force drifts lazily into port. The sun warms your back. The spray glistens on the ropes. For a brief moment, it almost feels like peace.

Shanks sidles up beside you, barefoot again. Pretending not to stare. Failing.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says.

You don’t look at him. You glance toward the docked ships in the distance, then down at his shirt. It has three stains. One is definitely jam. One might be ink. The third remains unidentifiable and probably deserves its own bounty.

“You’re wearing yesterday’s crimes,” you reply.

“But I smell like today’s breeze.”

“You smell like bad decisions and damp rope.” You flick a speck of something off your skirt and turn away. “I’m staying at an inn.”

“You could stay in my cabin.”

“I’d rather be arrested.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he enjoys the chase. You don’t look back.

You do not stay onboard for long.

Not because of the danger. Not because of the pirates. Not even because someone tied three spoons together and declared it a revolutionary navigation system while two others cheered like they had just solved gravity.

No.

You leave because you genuinely fear contracting a yeast infection from prolonged exposure to whatever biological terror is festering below deck.

You make it eight days. Eight heroic, disinfectant-soaked days.

By then, you have seen things. Terrible things. A sponge used for both boots and dishes. A sock employed as a makeshift coffee filter. Shanks, offering you a drink from a cup that had visible algae blooming like it had dreams.

You had stared at him in silent horror.

He leaned in, entirely too casual, and murmured with that maddening grin, “Don’t worry. I’m naturally fermented.”

That was it.

Something in you snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was surgical.

Within the hour, you were off the ship, pacing the harbor like a woman possessed, armed with a checklist, a full coin purse, and enough rage to fund a small revolution. You did not say goodbye. You simply shoved a note into Beckman’s hand and disappeared like some shadow-born avatar of responsibility and bleach.

The note reads:

Thank you for the ride.
Please tell your captain that if he ever tries to flirt with me again while smelling like smoked socks and mystery fruit, I will file a formal complaint with the sea itself.

P.S. I hired a battalion of cleaners. You’re welcome.

P.P.S. Burn everything in the galley. Start fresh.

Two days later, the Red Force is crawling with uniformed, appalled, and absurdly expensive professionals. They come armed with scrub brushes, industrial gloves, and what may or may not be a priest. Holy water is applied liberally. Possibly exorcistically.

Shanks finds the whole thing hilarious.

“She paid for this? Really? That’s so generous.”

Benn doesn’t say much. He lights a cigarette and stares out at the sea. The note remains folded and tucked in his coat pocket, a faint crease at the corners where he keeps unfolding and refolding it. He looks like a man who saw the hurricane coming and let it dock anyway.

Because he knows.

You will be back.

Eventually.

After all, you still owe him information. Unfortunately, he still smells like cedar and is quiet competent.

You and Benn Beckman keep in touch.

Much to your ongoing dismay and your intense, justified distaste for his crew.

It begins with letters. They arrive without ceremony, sealed with a wax stamp that looks like someone crushed it beneath a boot. The pages inside are warm with the scent of tobacco and smugness. His handwriting is steady, economical, infuriatingly attractive. He writes in neat lines, clipped observations, sharp wit folded inside every sentence.

The contents vary. Rumors. Coordinates. Unverified sightings. Sketches of strange devices or ships caught using old, outdated codes. Sometimes, entire pages are devoted to mocking the hygiene rating of whatever new vessel he’s endured.

You write back.

Reluctantly.

Not because you enjoy it. Absolutely not. He is useful. That is all.

Your letters are precise. Waterproof ink, ruled margins, folded into thirds like any rational human would. You include bullet points. You underline statements like “I am not your contact. I am your cleaner.” One time, you enclosed a pressed flower. Labeled it carefully in red ink.

“This is what a normal person should smell like.”

Shanks found it charming. Unfortunately.

He refers you to interesting clients, which is usually code for irritating criminals with good coin and boundary issues. You vet them yourself. Half get rejected outright. The other half are tolerable, for pirates, and pay in full. You survive most encounters with your dignity and your laundry intact.

In return, you occasionally pass along corrected Marine patrol routes. Never enough to be considered a betrayal. Just little timing gaps. Slight detours. Adjusted weather patterns that help a ship slip into a port unnoticed, or avoid an inspection by thirty precious minutes.

It is not treason.

It is practical.

It is efficient.

It is also, depending on your mood, the only reason you haven’t tried to set Benn Beckman on fire.

And the Red Force does have ethics—not cleanliness, not order, not even basic definitions of personal space—but ethics nonetheless. That counts for something.

Besides, you are careful. Those ships you clear? They carry cargo, not people. Medicine, not weapons. And if someone tries to lie, you find out. They do not lie again.

Your network grows. Quietly. Efficiently. Smartly. The sort of network that doesn’t raise alarms, only eyebrows.

One day, Benn sends you a note.

Four words. No signature.

Need a favor. Urgent.

You groan, throw a pillow, pace your clean floor with clean feet and pure, distilled irritation, and then check your map.

You write back.

Is the red-haired one involved?

Unfortunately.

Fine. Send soap first.

He does. Lavender-scented. Wrapped in wax paper and respect. You hold it in your hand for five whole seconds before sighing like someone who has seen the cost of every decision.

You never should have gotten on that ship.

But you definitely should have charged more.

The next favor is messy.

Not morally. That part is simple. Some Celestial-backed trade ships have gone suspiciously quiet, and the rumors whisper about human cargo. You start digging. The maps are faked. The portmasters are bribed. Someone has the audacity to route through a canal that floods with raw sewage every third tide.

You send Benn a letter:

Your next client owes me two things: payment, and new boots. I am never returning to Shitwater Shoals.

He replies with:

Client says thank you. I say sorry. Shanks says ‘what’s a shoal?’

You burn the letter. Then send another.

If I die on one of these jobs, my ghost will mop your deck until it sparkles.

He sends back a bar of vanilla soap and a note that reads:

Then maybe the ship will finally be clean.

You are still not sure if it was flirtation or a cry for help.

Despite your contempt for the Red Force’s ambiance—its filth, its mystery stains, its tendency to celebrate bad ideas with fireworks—Benn never sends you jobs that waste your time. The favors are always worthwhile. Always interesting.

Rare documents. Stolen codes. Forgotten alliances wrapped in noble crests and blood-stained ledgers.

You work in silence. Bill in silence. Live alone. Clean. Far from the roar of drunken singing and the scent of salt-stained leather and over-oiled swords.

Until, every now and then, a new job arrives. Folded into a plain envelope. Delivered by hands that never ask questions. From a port you wouldn’t trust with your laundry.

Your name is scrawled on the front. Inside, there are coordinates and notes in Benn’s clipped handwriting.

No greeting.

Just the rough little BB initials scratched at the bottom like an afterthought. Or a signature.

Every time, you roll your eyes. Mutter something acidic. Stare at yourself in the mirror like you might still choose a different life.

You never do.

You pack your notes. Tuck a vial of disinfectant into your sleeve. And go.

Sometimes, you think about the Red Force .

Not fondly. Never fondly.

But with the kind of exhausted tolerance that allows you to mutter things like, “Idiots. But manageable idiots.”

And when Benn writes again:

He asked if you’re still mad.

You reply:

Define mad.

He laughs.

You never liked pirates. Not really.

But you’re starting to tolerate the bastards.

And that is, undeniably, worse.

Chapter Text

You stare at the map.

Then the weather chart.

Then your tea has gone cold in your hand, like the sinking realization in your gut.

You have to cross the ocean. Not just any ocean. That ocean. The one with no reliable commercial routes, known for storms, Sea King activity, and one infamous phrase whispered in smoky taverns: ‘You’ll have to go with them’.

You spend three hours trying to find a better option. You check your contacts. You weigh the price of bribing a Navy escort. You even consider swimming.

Then, with the slow agony of someone volunteering to lick a boot, you pull out your pen and write a letter. The wax seal isn’t even dry before you regret everything.

TO: Benn Beckman
FROM: A suffering, brilliant, hygienic professional

SUBJECT: Please don’t make me say it out loud

Need passage. No questions. One-way. One person. Must not involve mold, fermented socks, or that time Shanks tried to flirt using a mop.

P.S. I will pay. In coin. And bleach.
P.P.S. I swear, if he so much as winks at me, I will file an official complaint with the World Government’s office of decorum.P.P.P.S. I’ll send soap ahead of arrival.

Two days later, you receive a single, smugly folded response:

“We’ll pick you up. Bring your sea legs and low expectations.
Shanks already asked if he should wear shoes. I told him no.
You’re welcome.
—BB”

You consider setting yourself on fire.

When the Red Force arrives, it is, of course, dramatic. Sun at its back. Sails flared like a flirtatious cape. A man waving from the prow with no shirt, two drinks, and zero shame.

Shanks.

“Did you miss me?” he calls out.

“No,” you shout back. “But I did miss sanitation standards. ”

Benn lowers the ramp for you, wearing the same calm, wolfish look that suggests he already knows how this trip will end. You board. Grudgingly. Gloved.

The crew cheers your arrival.

Someone throws petals. Someone else throws a sock. You dodge both. Later, over tea that tastes suspiciously like rum and regret, you mutter to Benn, “I can’t believe I’m doing this again.”

He leans back, lazily satisfied. “Sure you can.”

And unfortunately, you can.

Because crossing this ocean alone would kill you. But with the Red Force?

It might only ruin your standards. 

The trip is—marginally—better.

Your cabin is… not clean, but cleared. There are no mystery socks. The sheets are new-ish. There’s a basin, actual soap, and a handwritten note that reads:

“We tried. —Ben”

Underneath, in different handwriting:

“I wore shoes!! —Shanks”

You burn the note immediately.

Still, you can’t deny it—your first impression stuck. The crew now refers to you as “the terrifying one” or “Lady Bleach,” depending on the level of formality. They stand straighter when you walk by. They rinse things before handing them to you. One even apologized after sneezing near you.

You're not respected. You’re feared. Which, for your purposes, is better?

But the real problem?

Shanks.

Shanks, who is now cocky.

As if your presence aboard is some kind of trophy. As if your sharp glares and venom-laced sighs are signs of affection. As if you didn’t once threaten to exile him to a vinegar barrel for calling you sugarplum unprompted.

You catch him once watching you from the helm, arms folded, grin slow and easy.

“What,” you snap, “are you staring at?”

“You,” he says, far too pleased. “Existing. Here. On my ship. Willingly.”

You narrow your eyes. “ Marginally willingly.”

He leans forward just enough to be unbearable. “You came back.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because technically, yes. You did contact them. You did board. You are here. But he doesn’t have to sound so victorious about it.

Benn walks by just in time to witness the standoff.

“She’ll jump overboard,” Benn warns mildly. “You know she will.”

“Only if I mop with her toothbrush,” Shanks replies.

You do consider jumping. Instead, you walk away with your dignity intact, a bottle of sanitizer swinging at your hip like a sidearm.

A week into the journey, you catch Shanks walking barefoot again.

You spray the deck behind him. He turns, eyes wide. “Did you just sanitize where I stepped?”

“Yes,” you say sweetly. “I’m marking the danger zones.”

He beams. “You’re learning to care.”

“I’m learning where to never step again. ”

He laughs. You scowl. The sea sways.

It happens one morning on deck. The sky is suspiciously clear. The gulls aren't even screaming. You should’ve known something was wrong.

You’re sipping tea—hot, blessedly clean, Lucky Roux-approved tea—and checking your ledgers when Shanks strolls by.

Wearing boots.

Polished boots.

He’s clean-shaven. Hair tied back. The shirt actually buttoned past the third one. Smells like cedar and citrus and— not even joking — soap. There’s a fresh cut to his coat, a glint to his rings, and a smug ease to his walk that makes you feel like you’re the one off-balance.

You narrow your eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with the barnacle in charge of this ship?”

He winks. “Just decided to try something new.”

You squint harder. “Like not being a biological hazard?”

He hums, leaning one elbow on the railing beside you. “Figured I’d extend my lifespan a little. You said clean sailors live longer.”

You drop your teacup.

Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like your body has gone into shutdown to preserve mental resources.

“What,” you say in a voice drained of all hope, “did you just say?”

Shanks tilts his head, grinning wider. “Clean. Sailors. Live. Longer.”

You grab the railing for support. “The end is nigh.”

“No, sweetheart. The beginning is.”

“ Don’t make this romantic.”

“Too late. I already used your lavender soap.”

You turn away, physically repulsed by how well he wears decency. It’s a betrayal. You’ve built your entire defense system around his lack of composure. His lack of cleanliness. The chaos was the armor.

And now?

He’s put together. He smells good. He’s flirting with one hand in his own jacket pocket, not yours. You hate it.

Even Benn notices.

He walks past, raises a brow at Shanks, and mutters, “Now she’s really in trouble.”

You fling your notebook at him.

But you miss, because you’re still reeling from the worst discovery of all:

Unfortunately…

Shanks cleans up really well.

You avoid your feelings the same way the Red-Haired Pirates avoid assigned bath times: poorly, pettily, and with increasing levels of chaos.

It's not denial, exactly. It's more like calculated emotional containment.

You see Shanks walking around all clean and golden like a shipwrecked demigod, smelling good, charming the crew with both charisma and citrus soap—and you simply decide to focus on other things. Important things. Like filing. Or passive-aggressively restocking the med bay with antiseptic in alphabetical order.

Meanwhile, the crew watches with interest. Not concern. Not sympathy. Just the particular kind of delight that comes when a living legend starts losing his balance over someone sharper than him.

But the worst offender?

Benn.

He’s relentless. Not overt, never cruel—just quietly disrespectful in a very specific, personally offensive way.

Like how he starts casually dropping comments like:

“We’re all real proud of the captain. He’s been wearing shirts and deodorant for five days straight. Wonder what changed.”

Or:

“Crazy how you’ve never joined the crew officially, but you’re still the only reason we have functional plumbing.”

Or the truly unholy:

“Should we change your title from Informant to First Lady of Cleanliness? Or maybe just Shanks’ Sanitation Secretary?”

You try to maintain dignity. You glare. You scoff. You avoid Shanks’ path like he’s made of pathogens again.

But it doesn’t help that he keeps getting cockier by the day.

He leans into doorframes. Winks with his eye. Starts calling you “Miss Sparkle” just to watch you snap.

You scream into your pillow at least once a night.

One morning, you storm into the galley to find three things:

• Shanks, barefoot but holding a mop.
• A chore wheel titled “Approved by Her Royal Soapiness.”
• Benn, drinking coffee, with the smuggest look known to mankind.

You stare at it all.

Then turn, very calmly, to Benn.

“I will drown you in bleach.”

He sips his coffee. “Then I’ll die clean.”

And somewhere behind you, Shanks whistles a wedding march on a mop handle.

You are not okay. And they are having the time of their lives.

Chapter Text

It was inevitable, really.

You knew it would happen the moment you sent that third slightly adjusted Marine route to Benn, and the moment you let that particularly well-dressed pirate crew slip past a port checkpoint with falsified inspection papers you definitely did not forge. You’d justified it. Every time. Good reasons. Controlled risks. You told yourself you weren’t really working for pirates.

You were just… cooperating. Strategically.

Then the bounty poster hit.

Your name. Your face. A truly flattering sketch, all things considered—sharp eyes, unimpressed scowl, elegant as ever, with a very dramatic “WANTED FOR COLLABORATION, SUBTERFUGE, AND AIDING A NOTORIOUS EMPEROR OF THE SEA.”

And just under that:

“REWARD: 25,000,000 BERRIES”

You drop the poster on the deck of the Red Force, glaring at it like it personally insulted your mother’s cleaning supplies.

“I was subtle,” you mutter, seething.

Benn takes one look and whistles low. “Twenty-five million. Not bad.”

You nearly cry.

“I use aliases. I scrub manifests. I code everything. How did they—”

“Probably the part where you keep showing up on our ship,” he says, deadpan.

You round on him. “I don’t like being here. I’m only here because the world is full of uncivilized criminals who can’t bathe without being threatened.”

“Sure,” he says, far too calm. “You just keep threatening us into transport.”

And then Shanks appears, poster in hand, glowing with delight.

“You have a bounty,” he grins, eyes sparkling. “You have a bounty!”

You cross your arms. “Because of you.”

“And what a pretty one!” he says proudly, tapping the corner of the paper. “They captured your glare. Look, Benn—she looks like she’s about to stab someone with a broom.”

“Not inaccurate,” Benn mutters.

Shanks is beaming. Absolutely insufferable.

“You’re one of us now,” he says warmly, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “They wouldn’t waste that much paper on a civilian.”

“I am a civilian.”

“You were adorable.”

You spray him with disinfectant.

He doesn’t flinch.

“You can’t stay neutral anymore,” Benn says behind you. “They’ll come for you now. They’ll watch the ports. The clients.”

You sigh.

Then you straighten your collar, square your shoulders, and mutter: “I am not joining”

Shanks leans in, whispering with a smile, “We’ll throw you a party.”

“I will throw you in the ocean.”

“Romantic,” he says, already framing your bounty for the wall.

“You don’t understand,” you growl later, pacing in front of Shanks, Benn, and a surprisingly smug Yassop. “I am a capable informant. I have skills. I have resources. I do not need a babysitting crew of weaponized laundry piles following me around like glittery barnacles!”

“You also have enemies now,” Benn says mildly. “Yonko-adjacent perks.”

“I am not a crew member. I am a tragically sober hostage in good shoes.”

“Exactly,” Shanks nods. “Too precious to let roam unsupervised. What if someone flirts with you?”

“I’ll kill them.”

“What if someone flirts better than me?”

You pause. “Impossible.”

Shanks blinks. “Wait. Was that a—”

“No. Shut up.”

“Please marry me.”

You refuse.

Point blank. With teeth.

“No,” you say, crossing your arms as Shanks watches you like a hopeful dog someone just told no fetch today.

He’s seated on a barrel. Barefoot. Probably sticky. Waving your bounty poster around like a prized love letter.

“Come on,” he grins. “You’re basically already part of the crew. You’ve got your own toothbrush cup. You bullied Lucky Roux into scrubbing the galley. Benn lets you organize his maps.”

“I’m not part of the crew,” you snap. “I’m a reluctant independent contractor with high standards and trauma.”

“Semantics.”

You lean forward, jabbing a gloved finger into his chest. “Joining this crew would mean I’ve officially accepted your lifestyle. Your chaos. Your… your lack of proper footwear regulations.”

Shanks blinks. “That’s your dealbreaker?”

“One of many.”

Benn, nearby, doesn’t even pretend not to eavesdrop. “You do realize you’ve slept on this ship more times than some actual crewmates?”

“That’s because half of them reek like cannon grease and despair!” you shout.

“You labeled the spice rack,” Benn adds helpfully. “Attempted to implement a showering schedule.”

“I was trying to survive!”

Shanks stands. Too close. Too smug. Too charming.

“You’ve saved our asses, shared intel, cursed at us more creatively than any Navy admiral ever has… and now you’ve got a bounty. Just give in.”

“I did not consent to being emotionally kidnapped by pirates.”

“But you like us.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Then slowly say, “I tolerate Benn. The rest of you are a biohazard.”

“So,” Shanks says, eyes twinkling, “you don’t want the custom cabin I had painted with anti-fungal paint and a bolted-down tea set?”

You blink.

“Wait. You what?”

He beams. “It’s got a mop closet just for you.”

Benn mutters, “That was not easy to install.”

You stare. You waver.

But then you lift your chin, fierce and unswayed.

“No. You can’t buy me with bleach storage and custom shelving.”

Shanks leans in, whispering, “There's also a lockbox with your name on it. For secrets. Or petty cash. Or bribe notes for cleaning supplies.”

“Still no.”

“Can I tempt you with a lifetime supply of disinfectant and one pirate captain who’ll wear shoes at least two days a week?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you bargaining for my allegiance with soap and footwear?”

“I’m meeting you where you’re at.”

You grab your bag. Snap your notebook shut.

“I am not joining this pirate frat house. I have standards. I have goals. I am a dignified free agent.”

And with that, you walk down the gangplank.

You miss the way the crew groans. The way Shanks sighs like he’s just lost a bet.

But Benn just smiles.

Because two days later, they find a coded message on their logbook, slipped in with the supply inventory:

“Storm coming. Navy patrol at Cape Rose. Avoid east drift.
 P.S. Someone used my tea strainer for soup again. I will return to kill you.”

Chapter Text

They come for you in the night. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just efficient, brutal, and absolutely personal.

You don’t see who tipped them off—maybe a contact turned sour, maybe someone you out-negotiated in a port full of liars and limp excuses—but they’re waiting when you close the ledgers, just outside the flickering lamplight of your rented room.

You fight. Of course you do. You get a few good hits in, too. Break one man’s nose with the heavy corner of a ledger. Stab another with a very fine (and now bent) fountain pen.

But in the end, numbers win.

They bag your head. Tie your wrists. Drag you across the stone like you’re an animal.

And then they beat you.

Hard.

Not enough to kill you—yet—but enough to make you spit blood and stars. You’re on your side, struggling to breathe through cracked ribs and ringing ears, when a boot presses against your back.

“That’s what you get for working with pirates,” someone spits.

You cough once, painfully. “That’s what you get… for using the same rag on your blade and your boots.”

A pause.

Then another boot slams into your ribs. Your breath shatters.

“You’ve got jokes, rat.”

You smile. Blood sticks to your teeth. “You’ve got gingivitis.”

The third hit nearly blacks you out.

You wake up—barely—tied to a post in a rotting warehouse. Every inch of you aches. Your head throbs like a war drum. You can taste iron. You’re dizzy, broken, bleeding. And furious.

Because their rope work is sloppy, their hideout smells. And not one of them had the decency to rinse the blood off their hands before wiping it on their pants.

Slobs.

You mutter, hoarse and shaking, “If I die here… I’m going to haunt your linens.”

They don’t even laugh. Just grunt. Watch. One of them kicks over a basin of water like he’s making a point.

You glare up through one blackening eye. “That was your last clean water source.”

Another hit. This one to the face.

You slump. You don’t scream.

But the next time they reach for you, you don’t flinch either.
 You just whisper, “You missed a spot.”

And you smile.

Because you know someone is coming.

And when the Red Force does come? When that red-haired captain storms the warehouse like a damn hurricane with Benn at his back and a sword in his hand.

You’ll survive this.

And they won’t.

Because if there’s one thing you know about the Red Force, it’s that they are alarmingly territorial over the woman they’ve unofficially declared their den mother, emotional support adult, and reluctant HR department.

You once confiscated three swords, a barrel of gunpowder, and a love letter written in blood before breakfast; and they still act like you’re the only reason the ship hasn’t sunk or exploded from sheer dumbass energy.

So when someone threatens you? Oh, they don’t take that personally. They take that as a group project.

He does come.

You hear him before you see him; distant shouting, a panicked clatter of boots on rotted floorboards, the unmistakable crash of someone’s skull meeting a wall at speed. Your captors freeze. One drops his weapon. Another bolts. The rest scramble like rats who’ve just realized the ship is on fire.

The door slams open.

Framed in broken light, soaked with rain and fury, stands Shanks.

Not smiling. Not joking. Not charming.

Just dangerous.

Sword drawn. Hair soaked to his jaw. One red cape hanging half-off his shoulder like a warning.

You’ve never seen him like this before. And in your haze of blood and exhaustion, you almost laugh.

Because now he wears shoes.

His eyes lock on you. His grin doesn’t come. His jaw clenches instead.

And then the room erupts.

You don’t catch all of it, too dazed, too broken. But you hear screaming. Wood splitting. Someone begging.

And then it’s quiet.

Sandaled feet—clean ones, you note fuzzily—thud closer. You tilt your chin, stubborn to the last, even as your ribs scream.

He kneels. Gentle. One hand brushes the blood from your cheek like it’s sacred.

“Don’t,” you rasp, voice barely there. “Don’t make a stupid joke. I swear.”

He doesn’t.

He just stares at you like you’re the only person in the world and his world is burning.

“You’re late,” you add hoarsely. “I got hit five times. And one of them… had terrible hygiene.”

Now he smiles. Barely. A sliver of warmth under the storm. “I got the one who smelled like fish paste.”

You nod, dizzy. “Good. He stepped on my coat.”

Benn appears behind him with a blade dripping and a medic kit in hand. “We found them all. No survivors.”

“Even the one who used the dirty rag?” you croak.

“Especially that one,” Benn confirms.

Shanks cuts your ropes with a single flick of his sword. You collapse forward into him, and his arms catch you like you were always supposed to fall that way.

He doesn’t let go.

Not for a long, long time.

And when you finally regain enough strength to speak again, you mutter, “This doesn’t mean I’m joining your crew.”

His chest shakes with quiet laughter.

“I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “But you’re still mine.”

When you wake up fully—patched, stitched, and pumped full of something you’re fairly certain came from Benn’s private stash, you’re aboard the Red Force again. Not by choice. 

Sigh.

This time, though, your bunk is spotless.

Sheets fresh. Towels folded. Someone actually swept.

You sit up slowly, groaning, and stare at the immaculate corner shelf where your belongings have been gently placed. Your satchel’s even been dusted.

You narrow your eyes.

“Who cleaned in here?” you croak.

From the doorway, Yasopp pokes his head in. “Oh—Hongo did an inspection. Said we had to sanitize everything before bringing you aboard.”

You blink. “Who?”

Yasopp grins like it’s good gossip. “Our new doctor. Joined while you were, uh… temporarily unconscious.”

You pause. “You got a doctor.”

“Yeah! Real serious guy. Sharp as a scalpel. Scared Lucky Roux into washing his hands.”

You stare at him in dead silence.

“You cleaned… for Hongo.”

Yasopp nods proudly. “Deck’s spotless. Galley smells like vinegar. We found the source of that mystery smell under the helm—it was a shoe. We burned it.”

Your eye twitches.

You threatened to burn this ship. You weaponized bleach. You introduced them to the concept of mop rotation and towel hooks and basic fungal prevention protocols.

And they ignored you.

But one doctor joins, with a clipboard and a glare, and suddenly they’re all model citizens in a floating clinic.

You lie back on the clean pillow, offended to your core.

Moments later, Benn leans into the room, eyebrow raised. “You’re awake. How’re you feeling?”

“Betrayed.”

He blinks. “You were nearly beaten to death. We rescued you.”

“Yes. And you cleaned for the new guy.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“…You want us to dirty it up again?”

You look at him like you might start stabbing people with thermometers.

“No,” you say icily. “I want my respect retroactively applied.”

From the hallway, you hear Shanks call cheerfully, “Tell her I wore underwear today!”

You scream into your pillow.

This crew will be the death of you.

Probably by mildew.

You meet Hongo two hours later.

He enters the infirmary without knocking, clipboard in hand, long coat perfectly pressed, surgical gloves already on.

He takes one look at you, propped up on clean sheets, arms crossed, judgment radiating, and says, “Vitals first. Complaints later.”

You blink.

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just strides in and begins checking your pulse with calm, efficient fingers like you’re one of many stubborn patients he’ll be dealing with before lunch.

“You’re the one who cleaned the galley,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

“You burned the sock nest in the helm closet.”

“Yes.”

“You made them install working bathrooms.”

He finally looks at you. Calm, unflinching. “Of course I did. I’m not running a floating plague ship.”

You stare at him.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of kinship.

Begrudging. Unspoken. Based entirely on hygiene, order, and your mutual hatred of pirate filth.

“...You got Lucky Roux to wash his hands,” you murmur.

“I threatened to shave his eyebrows.”

You nod. Slowly. “Respect.”

“Yours are next if you don’t eat more than three crackers a day.”

“…Yes sir.”

By the week’s end, you’re not friends, but you’ve reached an understanding.

You don’t insult his medicine cabinet, and he doesn’t question the disinfectant holster you wear like a gun belt.

You catch him once installing a rotating sanitation chart. You stand beside him silently for a full minute before muttering, “I tried. They laughed at me.”

“They still laugh at me,” he replies. “But they flush now.”

You look at him with the quiet awe of someone who’s met a survivor.

“...You’re doing God’s work.”

“No,” he says dryly. “I’m doing a sailor’s job with a captain who thinks rum is a food group.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

Then Shanks walks by barefoot and tries to wink at you.

Hongo hurls a bar of soap at his head.

You decide you might actually like him.

Chapter Text

You were very clear. Crystal. Glass-cutting clear.

You were not joining his crew.

You were not falling for the shampooed menace in red. And you were certainly not letting a pirate with a rum dependency, a tragic flirtation habit, and the audacity to wield a mop like a seduction tool dismantle your carefully curated life of secrets, solo missions, and strictly sanitized sabotage.

So, like any self-respecting informant with control issues and a vendetta against glitter, you announced— publicly, loudly, and with a flourish —that you were leaving at the next port and getting violently drunk .

And you did.

You disembarked with dignity. Marched down that gangplank with your coat flaring behind you, bag over one shoulder, and spine like steel. You had absolutely no regrets except for the part where you looked back. Just once. A flicker. A lapse. You hated yourself for it immediately.

Then you hit the nearest tavern like a meteor fueled by spite and unresolved father wounds.

The tavern welcomed you like a deity of chaos and poor impulse control. By the third drink, they knew your name. By the fifth, they were chanting it. You would’ve been flattered if you hadn’t been busy developing an emotional allergy to your own dignity.

The first drink? Bitter. Cold. Glorious. It burned like vengeance and citrus.

The second? Sweet. Treacherously so. Like a kiss with too much tongue and not nearly enough warning.

The third came with a toast. You don’t recall what you said, only that it involved barnacles and emotional constipation. It brought the house down. Someone slapped the table. You felt powerful.

The fourth drink? Oh, that was the gateway. That’s when you started asking questions.

Loudly.

“If the moon controls the tides, who controls my emotions?! ”

A hush. A gasp. Someone in the back whispered, “Is it… fate?”

You slammed your glass down like a gavel. “It’s that red-haired menace with the smirk !”

The bartender poured you another. You toasted the barmaid. Or the mop. Unclear.

By the fifth?

You were a myth in motion.

You’d tied your sleeve around your head like a war banner. You were standing on the table, which was already, regrettably, on fire. Not your fault. You distinctly remember telling people it wasn’t your fault.

“I’M GOING TO DIE ALONE AND SANITIZED, JUST AS GOD INTENDED!”

Someone cheered. You curtsied. The table groaned beneath you, but you refused to be humbled.

You had named the barstool Gerald. You told Gerald he was the only man who ever truly listened . The bartender poured you another out of what might’ve been respect or mortal fear. You were, at that point, a woman with momentum.

And then, of course, he arrived.

Shanks. Grinning like sin itself had taken up day drinking. Leaning in the doorway like he meant it . He looked like trouble wrapped in charm and seawater, and you were far too intoxicated to pretend he didn’t make your pulse trip.

“Did you set the table on fire again?” he asked, infuriatingly fond.

You threw a peanut at his smug face.

He caught it. In his mouth.

You hated him. You did. Truly. Except you didn’t. Not when he stepped forward, took your hand mid-insult, and spun you like you weighed less than all your emotional baggage combined.

The room tilted. Or maybe he did. His grip was steady. His smile was devastating.

“Only way I’m lettin’ you leave,” he murmured, voice like warm sin, “is if it’s with me.”

Your sloshed, sparkly brain short-circuited.

The goat (yes, there was a goat) cheered.

The barmaid burst into tears. “They’re in love!” she sobbed, completely committed to the bit.

“JUST KISS ALREADY!” someone screamed.

“ I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU TRAUMA BONDED! ” shouted someone else.

The barmaid might’ve officiated. The goat might’ve been the witness. Flower petals were thrown. No, wait. Salted peanuts. And one lemon wedge.

You screamed “AYE!” like you were commandeering your own downfall.

And then you kissed him.

Mouth first, logic later.

You kissed him like it was a challenge. Like you hated him. Like you wanted him anyway. His hands were warm on your waist, steadying you like you were the only storm he’d ever asked to weather. He tasted like rum and recklessness. His smile softened against your mouth.

Tomorrow would come. With headaches. Regret. Possibly a new tattoo and definitely questions from the crew.

But tonight?

Tonight you were drunk. Doomed. And deliriously his.

And as he spun you again—laughing, grinning, murmuring something about fate’s ass —you thought, just for a moment:

Maybe mop-based courtship wasn’t entirely off the table.

-X-

You wake up with a hangover the size of East Blue.

The sun is too loud . Your tongue tastes like citrus regret and what might be emotional betrayal. Your brain is organizing a small, somber funeral procession for your dignity, complete with organ music and a priest named Regret.

You sit up slowly. Blearily. As if moving too quickly might summon last night’s bad decisions for an encore performance.

And that’s when you see it.

A ring. On your finger. Gold. Pirate-minted. Somehow both elegant and mocking at the same time. It's on your left hand.

You blink at it. It doesn’t blink back, but spiritually? It’s winking.

“…No,” you whisper.

Then louder. “No no no—”

A groan answers you. A very male, very familiar groan.

Your stomach drops.

You are not alone.

You turn. Slowly. Dreading. Praying.

Shanks.

Naked.

Starfish position.

Grinning in his sleep like a man who just won the Grand Line and the libel case about it. His hair is a nest of glitter and sin, there’s a sock on the lamp, and the room smells like victory, salt, and bad ideas.

Your eyes track the scene like a detective at a crime scene. Bottle caps. Peanuts. A mop— WHY IS THERE A MOP —and flower petals that are clearly just fish flakes. The blanket barely covers you. You throw it over his head in a blind panic.

“NO,” you hiss, batting away invisible consequences. “No no no no—”

He sighs, dreamy and content, “Good morning, Mrs. Captain…”

You scream.

He mumbles again, “Mmm… my wife hates mornings…”

You scream louder. Viscerally. Biblically. A sound from the depths of your soul, echoed only in war zones and reality radio finales.

Somewhere in the port, a dog howls. A glass shatters. An old man clutches his chest and mutters, “They’ve done it. They’ve summoned the sea witch.”

And Shanks?

He rolls over.

Steals the blanket like a thief with no shame and no pants.

Smiles.

That slow, sleep-drunk smile of a man thoroughly pleased with himself. A man who dreams of rum and bad decisions and you in that smug little narrative he’s been spinning since the day you boarded his ship and told him to go to hell.

He mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow. Possibly “Mrs. Lucky Bastard.” Possibly “Mmm, peanuts.” Hard to say.

You stare at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back. It is unhelpful.

The room smells like citrus, rum, and shame. Glitter clings to your hair like a vendetta. Your knees are bruised. There’s a peanut in your bra. You attempt to sit up, groan like an exorcism victim, and then curse out the gods of alcohol, pirates, and mop-based courtship strategies.

You peel yourself out of bed like a tragic sticker. Your clothes are scattered. Torn? No. Artfully ruined. There’s a mop wearing your shirt. Someone, somewhere, is laughing.

The ring catches the morning light. Still gold. Still mocking. Still on your finger . You yank. Twist. Soap. Nothing.

It's cursed. You’re cursed.

You wrap yourself in the first thing you can find a coat that is not yours (possibly the goat’s), shove on your boots without socks, and slap on the largest pair of sunglasses you own. You walk like a woman who may or may not be married, hungover, armed, and unhinged.

And then you storm .

You storm back onto the Red Force like a hurricane in borrowed clothes.

Oversized sunglasses hiding your soul. Someone else’s coat billowing like dramatic foreshadowing. The ring, still on your goddamn hand , glistening like betrayal.

The ring that won’t come off.

You tried.

Soap. Oil. Bribery. Biting it.

It refused .

Your hair is a disaster. Your mood is apocalyptic. And your aura of betrayal is so powerful it wilts a potted fern as you pass. You’re holding your shoes in one hand, clutching a drink in the other, and threatening everyone in a ten-meter radius with just your eyes.

The deck goes silent. Entirely. Even the seagulls seem to pause.

Your aura radiates emotional war crimes. A deckhand fumbles a rope and flees. One unlucky fern by the galley door visibly wilts.

You ascend the ramp like vengeance on heels. Your hair is wild. Your stride is feral. You smell like lemon cleaner and regret. No one makes eye contact.

Benn Beckman, of course, is the exception. Benn, who has survived war, mutiny, and Shanks’ karaoke nights, lifts his eyes from his book, takes in the entire situation, and smirks.

“So…” he drawls, flipping a page in his book, “should I update the crew manifest?”

You throw your shoe at him.

It misses. Of course it misses. Benn doesn’t even flinch.

“How’s married life?” he asks.

“I hate all of you,” you growl, voice low and wrathful like a cursed oracle.

And that’s when he appears.

Shanks.

Shirtless. Glowing. Smug. His coat slung over one shoulder like a magazine centerfold who knows he’s just been upgraded from menace to husband.

He grins.

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth and sunlit, “I was thinking we should combine our toothbrush cups. Very romantic. Very married.”

You look at him. At the ring. At the universe that betrayed you.

You bare your teeth. “I’m going to dissolve you in lemon cleaner.”

He winks. Winks. “A clean death. Fitting for my wife.”

You see red. 

The crew collectively decides to mind their own damn business.

You, on the other hand, are already planning six methods of pirateicide and a seventh that involves vinegar, rope, and a very patient mop.

You plot six different murders before breakfast. One of them involves that mop.

Shanks chuckles.

That low, infuriatingly pleased sound. The kind of laugh that says he knows exactly what he did , and he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

He stretches like a cat who ate the canary, the crew, and possibly your last shred of self-respect. “She’s so feisty in the mornings,” he muses, eyes glittering like the bastard sun.

Benn sighs.

It’s long. Deep. The sound of a man who has lived through seven mutinies, five hangovers not his own, and every stage of Shanks’ doomed love life. He closes his book with a soft thwap and mutters, “So this is my life now.”

You don’t look at either of them.

You are too powerful. Too betrayed. Too hungover to commit homicide with proper etiquette.

And as the crew quietly bets how long it’ll take before you either stab him or kiss him again, you declare this: fiercely, decisively, that you are never drinking again .

Behind you, Shanks calls out cheerfully, “You want me to save you some toast, darling?”

You slam the door so hard the ship lists to port.

Benn rubs his temple. “She’s gonna poison your drink.”

Shanks just grins.

And then immediately detour toward the galley, raise a hand, and snarl, “Whiskey. No ice. And throw in some bleach for flavor.”

No one questions you.

They never question the captain’s wife.

Chapter Text

Escape Attempt #1

You try to leave.

Really, truly, you do.

You pack your things: your annotated files, your labeled satchel of medical-grade disinfectant, your leftover pride, and your deeply dignified rage. Every step toward the gangplank is a march of furious intent. You have your head high, your coat buttoned, and your mental PowerPoint ready titled: “The Last 48 Hours Did Not Happen.”

But when you arrive?

The crew has formed a wall.

An actual , grinning, semi-drunk, questionably clothed wall of human chaos.

They’re blocking the gangplank like it owes them money. Half of them are still eating breakfast. One of them is not wearing pants.

Benn Beckman stands at the front, arms crossed, the calm center of a storm made entirely of morons.

“You can’t leave,” he says simply.

You squint. “I literally can. I’m married , not captive .”

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Technically… you’re both.”

Before you can reply with something cutting and citrus-soaked, he appears.

Shanks. Behind Benn. Suspiciously bright-eyed. Suspiciously prepared. Suspiciously shirtless .

“I submitted the certificate,” he says cheerfully.

You blink. “You what ?”

He beams. That same stupidly radiant, joyfully unbothered expression that usually precedes property damage or kissing. He pulls a scroll out of his coat—where did the coat come from?—and tosses it overboard .

You watch, speechless, as it flutters like a smug little butterfly and lands on the beach with a soft plop .

Someone bends down and picks it up.

The mayor. Of course, it’s the mayor.

“I also made a copy,” Shanks adds proudly, tapping the side of his head.

“You—You absolute mop gremlin, that was not a legally binding— ”

“Barmaid said it was,” Benn interrupts, deadpan. “And she had a clipboard.”

“You bribed her with clams.”

“Shells are very official in this port,” he replies with the unshakable authority of someone who’s been drunk since dawn.

You drag your hands down your face, fingers curled like talons. “I am leaving. This ship . This crew . This absurd, unwashed, mop-wielding nightmare— ”

Shanks raises a hand. “Can’t let you go,” he says, and for once, his voice is serious. “It’s too dangerous.”

You freeze.

“What?”

“You’re the wife of a Yonko now,” he explains, as if you’ve somehow forgotten. “You could be kidnapped. Targeted. Publicly flirted with by people less charming than me.”

“Oh for the love of—”

“You’ll need protection,” Yasopp adds helpfully from behind a barrel.

“You mean protection from you all.”

“You need a crew,” Benn says again, shrugging like this is just how logic works now.

You stare. Hard. “I had a crew. My crew was soap, vinegar, and fear. They respected me. They miss me. ”

“They do,” Lucky Roux says with genuine sadness. “The floorboards stopped creaking after you yelled at them.”

You inhale slowly.

Deeply.

Murderously.

“I am a highly trained informant,” you hiss. “I survive on my own. I infiltrate warlords. I clean blood off the walls. The only reason none of you have hives right now is me .”

There’s a long, loaded pause.

Then Shanks nods solemnly. “Exactly. So, really, this is your fault.”

“…What?”

“You made yourself indispensable,” Benn agrees, clucking his tongue. “Honestly, poor planning on your part.”

“I will jump overboard.”

“ Again? ” Shanks says brightly. “You just got dry.”

You scream into your elbow.

Somewhere, someone starts chanting “One of us.” You’re not sure when. You’re not sure who . But suddenly, they’re all doing it.

“One of us. One of us. One of—”

“STOP IT.”

And yet you don’t leave.

Because you’re still wearing the ring.

Because the crew cleaned the bathrooms.

Because they made your tea the right way this morning, and someone left a fresh lemon wedge on your pillow like an offering.

You’re married. You’re trapped.

Escape Attempt #2

You try again.

You’ve repacked your things with a steely sense of purpose and one foot already on the gangplank. You’re not even angry this time. You’re calm . Dangerous. A woman possessed by her right to peace, order, and unscented disinfectant.

Then it happens.

A crewmember, young, frantic, itchy-looking , barrels down the dock, arms windmilling like a collapsing scarecrow. “ Wait! ” he pants. “You can’t go! Hongo says if you leave, we might get hives again!”

You freeze.

You inhale.

You turn like the villain in a low-budget horror play.

“The hives are back? ”

“No!” he wheezes, doubled over. “ That’s why you can’t leave!”

You blink. Twice. Slowly. You have cleaned the unclean. You have stared into the void of mildew and emerged victorious. You have single-handedly eradicated a fungal outbreak with vinegar, fire, and personal spite.

And now?

Now you are being bullied back aboard a pirate ship by the threat of biohazard relapse and the deeply cursed aura of a mop-based marriage.

You go. Silently. Wordlessly. Back onto the ship with your jaw clenched and your soul wilting.

You are not the first person to be forcibly adopted by a crew of unhinged, affection-starved pirates.

But you are the first one who has to refill their bleach rations daily.

God help you.

And may He sanitize this whole damn ship.

Escape Attempt #3: Midnight Acrobatics and Petty Rage

This one is classic .

Midnight. Perfect cover.

The moon is full, your nerves are frayed, and you’re done playing nice. You sneak past the galley with a bundle of stolen linens, a small knife, and a profoundly personal vendetta.

You tie the sheets together. You test the knot like a disgraced Boy Scout. You begin your descent with all the stealth and fury of a glamorous raccoon in a heist movie .

Six feet down, the linens pull taut.

And then— yoink.

You’re lifted with a snap of motion and a very undignified noise that sounds suspiciously like, “HURK.”

A shadow leans over the railing. Red hair haloed in moonlight.

“Going somewhere, darling?” Shanks chirps, upside down.

You dangle. Helpless. Swaying slightly. You hiss like a feral kettle. “ Yes. Away. Far. Anywhere else.”

He tilts his head. “Aww. That’s what you said when we got married.”

You consider cutting the rope and accepting gravity as your new husband.

Escape Attempt #4: Bribery and Betrayal

You’re desperate now.

You approach Yasopp like a war criminal, making a deal in the shadows. You hand him a pouch of coins. Slide him a bottle of rum. Whisper, “Ten minutes. That’s all I need. Look away and pretend you respect my autonomy. ”

He blinks. “Is this… hush money?”

“It’s soap money, ” you hiss. “And I have bleach connections you don’t want to test.”

He takes the pouch. Examines it.

Then immediately turns toward the deck and yells at full volume, “ HEY GUYS, WIFE’S TRYING TO ESCAPE AGAIN! ”

You don’t even get the chance to lunge for him.

The crew descends upon you like cheerful, slightly inebriated wolves. A surprisingly coordinated dogpile of grinning idiots pins you down in a tangle of limbs and giggling betrayal.

One of them— you still don’t know who —tries to gently press a mop into your hand like it’s a comfort object.

You bite him.

He thanks you.

You scream into the planks. Again.

Somewhere in the background, Shanks yells, “Honey, we’re making pancakes! Want your usual lemon wedge?”

You lie motionless on the deck, surrounded by pirates who love you far too much and hygiene standards that have dropped by the hour.

You are a woman of honor. Of independence. Of disinfectant.

But apparently?

You’re also their wife.

And you’re never getting off this ship alive.

Escape Attempt #5: Disguises

Desperation breeds innovation. Or at least bad ideas with flair .

You steal Lucky Roux’s spare cloak (which smells like ham and sin), tape on a fake mustache made of mop bristles, and slap a floppy hat over your hair like a criminal in a stage play.

You hunch. You shuffle. You commit . You make it all the way to the landing. The sea is within reach. The horizon calls your name with the sweet voice of bleach and solitude.

And then—

Benn Beckman steps in front of you like fate with crossed arms and a bad attitude. Calm. Deadpan. Unmoved by drama or costume design.

He holds out a scroll. “Ma’am, you dropped your marriage license.”

You lock eyes.

You throw the mustache at him like a ninja star.

He does not flinch.

Escape Attempt #7: Systemic Oppression

By now, you’ve learned several things:

1. Shanks’ crew may look like chaos goblins, but when properly motivated, i.e., threatened with the return of mildew, they evolve into a fully operational anti-wife-escape task force.
   
   
2. Benn Beckman definitely has your tracker number memorized and might be low-key enjoying this. You think he has an Excel Ledger.
   
   
3. There’s a crew-wide “Where’s the Missus?” rotation schedule, printed, laminated, and occasionally sung as a shanty.
   
   

You are being actively managed.

It is insulting. It is horrifying. It is working.

You’ve been tagged, tracked, intercepted, baited with lemon wedges, and gently bribed back to bed with folded laundry and homemade disinfectant.

You are being contained by affection, weaponized competence, and an emotionally manipulative husband who always remembers how you take your tea.

Escape Attempt #9: Dinghy Heist

The plan was brilliant. Classic. Clean.

Steal the dinghy. Row to shore. Send a flaming middle finger from the beach and disappear into a quiet life of bleach and agency.

Except.

You forgot to untie it.

So you sit. In the dinghy. Tied to the main ship. Drifting in a sad little circle of failure.

Later, you sulk in your very clean bunk, arms crossed, glaring at your ring like it insulted your ancestors.

The door opens. No knock. Of course.

Shanks enters, full of sunshine and smirking doom. He hands you tea.

You glare harder.

“I’m going to escape,” you tell him, flat and cold.

“Sure you are,” he says cheerfully, already fluffing your pillow.

“You can’t keep me here forever.”

“I know.” He leans in. “You’ll leave when you want to.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is this emotional manipulation?”

“Yes,” he says brightly. Proudly. Like it’s a love language .

You throw the tea at him.

He catches it.

Sips.

“Still hot,” he says. “Just like my wife.”

You scream into the pillow.

Somewhere on deck, someone updates the ship’s log:

Escape Attempt #12: Foiled by tea and smolder.
Morale: Extremely high.

You are never getting off this ship.

They are too coordinated. Too smug. Too kind in all the worst, softest ways.

And worst of all?

You’re starting to enjoy the damn tea.

Chapter Text

You didn’t know this supply stop would involve warlords.

There was no memo. No strategic debrief. No whispered warning while you sipped your morning tea and adjusted the straps on your satchel of disinfectant wipes.

Instead, you're standing on the dock in your best scowl, sipping tea from a travel mug that says “Emotionally Married, Spiritually Armed” when Benn Beckman: stoic, unflappable, probably already regretting everything, murmurs out of the side of his mouth:

“Brace yourself.”

You don’t get the chance to ask why.

Because he arrives.

You were prepared to be unimpressed. Honestly, you had planned for it. You’d heard the stories. “Greatest swordsman in the world.” “Cold as ice.” “Can kill with a look.” You expected the edge. Drama. The general scent of blood, leather, and an unresolved rivalry, with a hint of eyeliner.

What you did not expect… was perfection .

Dracule Mihawk steps off his ship like a man personally offended by the concept of grime. He’s wearing full black leather— crisp black leather—and somehow not sweating. His coat sways dramatically in the absence of wind. His boots shine like they’ve never touched sand. His beard is lined. His hat has no lint. No one has no lint.

You squint. Scan him from hat to heel like a customs officer at the end of their shift.

Nothing.

Not a speck. Not a smudge. Not even a hair out of place.

Even his sword is polished. You can see your own annoyance reflected in it.

You, in your sensible boots, travel-stained cloak, and utility belt full of antibacterial wipes, suddenly feel like a disgruntled librarian crashing Fashion Week.

“Is that leather ?” you ask, almost accusing.

“Yes,” Mihawk replies, voice dry as imported wine. “And clean.”

You twitch. “ How? ”

“I’m not married to your captain.”

Shanks , several feet away, chokes on air and lives.

You inhale through your nose. Deep. Dangerous. The kind of breath that could power a war crime.

“You know what? Fine. Great. I hope your laundry folds itself and your moisturizer never runs out.”

“It doesn’t,” Mihawk says with calm finality. “I have a system.”

You glare. This man has a system .

Even you don’t have a system that gets leather that crisp after sea travel. You’ve tried. It always ends with humidity and muttering threats at mold like a feral exorcist.

Shanks leans in, barely containing laughter. “Jealous?”

“I’m offended .”

Mihawk glides away like a gothic swan in head-to-toe couture. His coat billows behind him as if it were blessed .

“I’m going to bite him,” you mutter.

Shanks beams. “As your husband, I cannot approve—”

You whip your mop at him like a divine judgment. Benn catches it midair with the resigned grace of a man who’s already picturing his escape goat.

“You’ll be mad about this for weeks,” Benn sighs.

“ Years ,” you growl. “Leather. On a ship. And it was clean .”

Somewhere on deck, Mihawk polishes a wine glass like he knows.

Later. Much later. After the warlord has gone and a well-dressed swordsman has thoroughly challenged your self-worth, you decide to process things constructively .

With threats.

“Hawkeye’s ship has no mold,” you say one morning, inspecting a suspicious smear on the railing like it’s personally offended you.

“Mm,” Shanks hums, upside-down in a hammock. “That’s because he sleeps in a coffin lined with rejection.”

You ignore him. “He has a skincare routine.”

“So do barnacles.”

“He wears leather .”

Shanks sits up. “You want leather? I’ll wear leather.”

“You’ll sweat. You’ll smell. You’ll cry and beg for talcum powder.”

He pouts. “But I’ll look cool doing it.”

You sip your tea. Smile. It’s sweet, dangerous, and full of vengeance. “Maybe Mihawk would treat me to leather that breathes. ”

Shanks blinks. Once.

Then stands.

Then walks away.

You assume—foolishly—he’s gone to sulk like a rational pirate-husband.

He returns ten minutes later. Shirtless. Smirking and wearing leather pants.

They creak when he moves.

You drop your mug. It hits the deck with a clatter loud enough to make a nearby crewmate flinch.

“You absolute menace— ”

“I will not be replaced,” Shanks declares, standing like he’s on stage at the final act of a very dramatic opera. Shirtless. Glowing. Wearing leather pants that creak with every self-righteous breath.

“Yonko rules. Pirate law. Also—” he lifts a hand, fingers wiggling—“I copied the marriage license again. And laminated it. So legally? You’re stuck.”

You stare at him.

“You laminated a copy?”

He beams. “Triple laminated. Waterproof. Fire-resistant. Mold-proof. You’re welcome.”

“You don’t even laminate navigation charts. ”

“Those don’t keep my wife from eloping with that emotionally stable steak knife.”

You inhale. Sharp. Controlled. Murderous.

“Where is it?” you ask flatly.

He grins wider. “Hidden. Somewhere… poetic.”

You blink.

“ Did you hide it in Mihawk’s hat again? ”

Shanks gasps. “ How did you know? ”

You throw your second mug. It misses. He catches it mid-air and toasts you with it, smirking.

You blink. “You touched his hat ?”

“I fear nothing but losing your approval.”

Then he steps forward, voice low, arms sliding around your waist like a sea-born threat. “Try to leave me,” he murmurs, “ see what happens .”

You narrow your eyes. “What happens is I marry Mihawk and live in a minimalist coastal estate with organized spices and a bidet.”

He growls.

Then he lifts you bodily and flops you onto the nearest hammock.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll clean the kitchen. I’ll wear the gloves. I’ll get conditioner . But you are not ,” he kisses your neck, “leaving me,” kisses your collarbone, “for a man who dresses like a villainous steak knife .”

You lie there. Heart pounding. Pride obliterated.

“…Maybe I’ll visit Mihawk,” you whisper.

He throws you over his shoulder. “THAT’S IT. BRIDAL CAPTIVITY.”

And somewhere, far off on a misty cliffside, Mihawk sneezes. Delicately. Then glances skyward with a faint frown.

“…I feel watched .”

Meanwhile...

Benn Beckman stands at the edge of the deck like a man awaiting a tidal wave made of taxes. His cigarette burns low. His patience burns lower.

Behind him, chaos.

Lucky Roux is chasing a deckhand with a ladle. Yasopp is locked in a philosophical debate with a mop. Shanks just ran by shirtless, shouting “ EMERGENCY SEDUCTION PROTOCOL ,” and you? You’re in the crow’s nest, hurling annulment forms like shuriken.

Benn lights a second cigarette off the first.

“If I fake my death,” he mutters, “I could open a bookstore. Sell maps. Sleep eight hours.”

Someone screams. Something explodes.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Just need a small island. A roof. Coffee. Maybe a goat.”

Shanks appears beside him, barefoot and glitter-covered.

“Hey, Benn—guess what she called me this time?”

“No.”

“She called me a moldy towel with abs !”

“…She’s not wrong.”

Shanks claps him on the back. “You love us.”

Benn exhales smoke into his face. “I tolerate you.”

“Same thing!”

You scream from above: “IF HE’S IN MY SOAP AGAIN, I’M SETTING THE BATHROOM ON FIRE!”

Benn doesn’t blink.

He stares at the sea.

And mutters, “I’m retiring next year.”

He’s been saying that for ten.

Not even the goat he hasn’t bought believes him.

-X-

The crew still isn’t clean.

Not really. Not ever.

There’s always at least one sock drying on the helm, waving like a cursed flag of defiance. Someone used your backup toothbrush to stir coffee last week, and then returned it to its holder proudly, as if they’d done you a favor. You caught them. You labeled it. They still did it.

You’ve accepted—grudgingly, bitterly, through clenched teeth and disinfectant spray—that the galley will never meet your standards. Lucky Roux genuinely believes that boiling water counts as “sterilizing” everything from kitchen knives to his actual elbow.

You complain.

Loudly. Daily. Systematically.

And yet...

You’re still here.

Somehow, through divine punishment or karmic slapstick, the mop-based marriage still stands.

Shanks calls it “our sacred union of rum and questionable decisions.” You call it “a bureaucratic nightmare soaked in liquor and regret.”

Because the truth is…

You didn’t mean to marry him.

Not really.

You were drunk. He was very charming. And you were halfway through a bottle of something called “Sealegs” when the barmaid clapped her clipboard, declared you hitched, and started sobbing tears of joy.

You did check, later, furious, sober, and wielding a quill like a weapon.

Turned out, she was a legally recognized officiant in two of the four seas.

You don’t talk about it. Not with Shanks. Not with Benn. Not even with Hongo, who tried to diagnose you with “psychosomatic marital distress” and ordered a week of bed rest while handing you tissues and a vitamin regimen.

But still… You haven’t left.

Ports have come and gone and passed like lifeboats of logic while you stayed stubbornly, irrationally on board.

You’ve stood on docks, hand on your satchel, spine straight, fully prepared to walk away.

And yet, you’re still on this damn ship. You stopped trying to escape two ports ago.

You still make the tea just the way the crew likes it. You still correct the maps when someone confuses “northwest” with “nah-weast.” You still spray people with disinfectant in the middle of a conversation.

And when they dodge? They laugh.

When Shanks calls you love, you roll your eyes, but you don’t correct him.

When Benn casually asks what port you’ll disembark at next, you smirk and say, “The cleanest one.” You never pack.

You’re not happy about the wedding. Not really. Not in a traditional, bouquet-tossing, fond-memory kind of way.

You did not want to wake up married to a barefoot Yonko with sea salt in his hair and a grin that could undo years of trauma.

But the truth is...

The ship’s not so bad.

There’s laughter. There’s chaos. There’s precisely zero personal boundaries, and you’ve caught two grown men trying to sanitize a cannon with mouthwash, but there’s also... something warm beneath the grime.

There are good stories. Bad hygiene.

And, unfortunately, fun.

You’ll never admit it. Not out loud. You’d rather mop the entire sea.

But when the crew yells “Welcome home!” every time you step back on deck, when you find your favorite tea restocked, or a new notebook tucked in your drawer, or your ring quietly polished and left beside your pillow like a promise…

You don’t say anything.

You just mutter, “Still disgusting,” and make damn sure they wash their hands before dinner.

You’re not happy. Not really.

But you’re also not leaving.

Because love, apparently, is a Yonko. One who cleans for you.

It’s not flowers. It’s not poetry. It’s certainly not common sense.

Love is you, standing in the corridor of a ship that smells like old rum and new regret, hands on your hips, glaring with holy fury at the man who ruined your life by accidentally making it bearable.

Shanks leans in the doorway of his cabin, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suspicious, sleeves rolled like he’s ready to do either housework or heresy. His grin should be classified as a maritime threat. His voice is a felony all by itself.

“Wanna see my cabin?”

You blink.

You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s the kind of smile pirates whisper about in cautionary tales.

Then you turn, take two purposeful steps to the storage closet, and return with a bucket, a mop, and the cold steel of intent.

“Absolutely,” you purr, hefting the mop like a weapon forged in bleach and personal boundaries. “I can’t wait to disinfect the sins out of it.”

Shanks pauses.

Winks.

“You’re really into foreplay, huh?”

You toss him a pair of gloves. Not pink. Industrial black. The gloves of someone who has seen things. Survived them. Labeled them.

“Put these on,” you say sweetly, “before I throw you into the bilge.”

He catches them easily. Grinning. Hopeless. Gleaming with that same rogue stupidity you married into without your knowledge.

He’ll follow you in. Of course, he will. He’d follow you into the sea if you told him lemon-scented miracles were waiting on the ocean floor.

Because love, in this godforsaken floating germ colony, isn’t candlelight or roses.

It’s bleach.

It’s threat-based romance.

It’s shouting “WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE TOUCHING ME” in front of the entire crew and meaning it.

It’s you, him, and a bucket full of industrial-strength disinfectant.

That’s your holy trinity.

And damn it…

You wouldn’t have it any other way. (Not that you’ll ever say it out loud.)

Regret is waking up in his cabin.

Naked. Warm. Annoyingly well-rested. Shockingly clean .

The sheets smell like soap and danger. Like someone finally took your rage-stained cleaning schedule and whispered romance into it.

The air is quiet. Too quiet. And the smugness radiating off the man beside you is so thick it might even qualify as fog.

You open your eyes slowly.

And there he is.

Shanks.

Single arm thrown across your waist. One leg tangled possessively with yours, like you’re driftwood and he’s the tide. His red hair is a disaster across the pillow, the kind of beautiful chaos only someone like him could turn into charm. His mouth curves in his sleep like he’s dreaming of winning an argument he never even entered.

Like he knows .

You stare at the ceiling.

You want to scream. Or dive headfirst out the porthole. Or travel back in time and slap yourself the exact moment you said: “Fine. Show me the cabin. But I swear to God, if it smells like feet—”

But it didn’t.

Because the bastard cleaned it .

Deep cleaned. Marine-standard, you -standard, divine-level cleaned. The walls were scrubbed. The floors were swept. The sheets were new. The air smelled like lemon oil and repentance. The candles weren’t even crooked. There were shelves . Organized shelves .

And the mop you’d left behind as a threat was still in the corner, polished. Standing upright. Respected.

And then he leaned in, maddeningly close, voice soft with triumph, and whispered:

“See, sweetheart? All clean. Now there’s nothing between us.”

You blame the soap. The lighting. The fact that he was wearing shoes and didn’t track in a single grain of sand. You blame the fact that, God help you, you noticed his hands were washed correctly.

You didn’t mean to sleep with him.

You were supposed to win .

And yet, here you are.

Naked. In his bed. Again. In a marriage you didn’t agree to, beside a mop you’ve grown emotionally attached to, and lying next to a Yonko who now knows he can seduce you with lemon-scented order and a lint-free throw blanket.

Regret is real.

So is the slow, maddening smile still curled on his face.

You grab the nearest pillow and shove it over his face , not with murderous intent, but just enough pressure to remind him that you are choosing violence today , but in a soft, therapeutic, married kind of way.

He laughs beneath it. Muffled. Smug. Completely unfazed. Like this is a morning routine now.

“ Good morning to my favorite wife, ” he says, voice distorted by cotton and cheek.

You hiss like a vampire caught in direct sunlight, clutching the sheet like it wronged you. “ I’m your only wife. ”

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, utterly unrepentant. “That’s what makes you the favorite.”

You press the pillow down harder.

He snorts.

Then, with the slow, luxurious confidence of a cat who’s claimed the warmest spot on the bed and the owner’s affection, he stretches under the covers, arms above his head, toes pointed, torso bare, grin criminal .

“Turns out,” he drawls, blinking up at you with those lazy, sea-glass eyes, “cleanliness is next to godliness.”

You stare at him.

The mop was still respectfully standing in the corner.

At the sparkling shelf of neatly folded towels behind his shoulder.

At the man who deep-cleaned a pirate cabin just to impress you and then had the audacity to be hot about it.

You throw the pillow off him with a groan and flop onto your back beside him. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says, rolling onto his side.

“I hate that you’re right ,” you grumble, glaring at the ceiling.

He leans in and kisses your temple, obnoxiously gentle. “Which part?”

You shove your foot into his thigh.

He takes it as a cuddle.