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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Marine Headquarters. Somewhere between the third espresso and your final straw.

You were just trying to get through the day without violence or another lecture on “ethical conduct in interrogation reports.” The conference room was finally clearing out. Akainu had stormed off muttering about justice and caffeine budgets. Sengoku had facepalmed his way out the door.

You were packing up your notes, prepared to escape, when the lights dimmed slightly.

And then you heard it.

That slow, syrupy voice with the smile baked into every syllable.

“Ohh… no thinking now… just answer quick,” Kizaru drawled from his seat near the window. “Who’s your daddy?”

You froze.

You looked up.

He was reclined in his chair like a lounge act that had wandered into a war crime tribunal. His coat was draped off one shoulder. His glasses had slipped just low enough to make eye contact feel like a bad decision.

And yet.

You spoke.

“You.”

The silence hit harder than Akainu’s temper.

A pen rolled off a desk. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull flew directly into a window. Your soul tried to leave your body but tripped over your dignity on the way out.

Kizaru blinked, very slowly.

“Ohhh? Me?” he asked, like you hadn’t just handed him the greatest gift of his entire week.

You immediately backpedaled. “I meant that hierarchically. You know. Command structure. Rank and file. Strictly work-related.”

“Work-related,” he echoed, rising from his seat in one fluid, horrifying motion. “Sounded a little too sweet for that…”

You pointed at your coffee. “I was under the influence of stimulants. I can’t be held legally responsible.”

He strolled closer, hands in his pockets, smile growing like he’d been waiting for this exact conversation since the moment he met you.

“You sure you didn’t mean it?” he asked. “Because the way you said it had a little… flavor.”

You stared at him. “Everything you say sounds inappropriate.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “Sometimes I talk about fruit.”

“I hope you spontaneously combust.”

He tilted his head, grin widening. “So hostile. And after you confessed your little fantasy so publicly.”

You stepped back. “I did not confess anything.”

“Calling someone daddy in a government building is pretty serious,” he said, still grinning. “Might need to file that under… personal relations.”

“You are not filing anything.”

“I’ll take care of it myself,” he said, tone suddenly softer. “Real hands-on.”

You screamed internally.

From the hallway, you heard someone choke on their gum. Probably Garp. Possibly Fujitora. Definitely someone who was about to tell everyone.

From that day forward, you were doomed.

The cafeteria staff started calling you “Junior Admiral.”

A handwritten note showed up in your locker.

It just said:

“I’m free after 1900. Love, Dad.”

In perfect, awful handwriting.

You tried to get rid of it. He replaced it. With glitter.

And every time he passed your desk, he’d lean in real close and whisper, “Need anything, kid? Discipline? Attention? A bedtime story?”

You threatened to defect.

He offered to tuck you in.

Chapter Text

Marine Headquarters. Midday. The tension was political. The trauma was personal.

You had survived a full briefing with all three admirals. It was a miracle. Kizaru had spent the meeting making innuendos in Morse code with his eyebrows. Kuzan had fallen asleep for twelve minutes and then offered you coffee when he woke up. And then there was Akainu.

The scariest Admiral. Living volcano. Walking HR violation wrapped in magma and disapproval. Sitting at the head of the table, arms crossed, glaring like the existence of oxygen annoyed him.

You were halfway through gathering your notes and fleeing the scene when Kizaru struck.

He stretched, yawned, and said, in his lazy sing-song tone,

“Oooh, quick question before you go. First name that comes to mind. Who’s your daddy?”

You didn’t think.

You didn’t blink.

You said it.

Because somewhere between you assuming Kizaru was asking who would be your direct contact and what he actually said, your brain scrambled itself.

“Akainu.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that felt like a court martial waiting to happen.

Kuzan actually choked on his coffee. Kizaru’s glasses slid down his nose from the sheer weight of his grin. Your hands were already shaking. Your ancestors felt the shame vibrate through the timeline.

Akainu turned his head.

Very slowly.

The air got hotter. The light overhead flickered. Somewhere outside, a junior officer fainted.

“What,” he said, voice low and absolutely not amused, “did you just say?”

You tried to backpedal. “It was a joke. A stupid one. Group pressure. I was held hostage by a Kizaru moment. It was a tactical misfire.”

Kizaru nodded cheerfully. “I did nothing wrong.”

You turned back to Akainu. “I meant it… structurally. Command-wise. You’re… in charge. Which is very different from being someone’s—”

“Don’t say it again,” Akainu warned.

“Understood.” You saluted so hard your hat fell off.

Kuzan was full-on wheezing now. “I can’t believe I lived to see this.”

Akainu stood. Your soul sat down.

He crossed the room, slow, purposeful, terrifying. Stopped directly in front of you. His eyes burned hotter than his fists.

“You think this is funny?” he asked.

“No,” you said immediately.

“You think I’m someone to toy with?”

“Absolutely not.”

He leaned in slightly. His voice dropped.

“You walk into my war room, run your mouth like that, and expect to walk out without consequences?”

“I’m rethinking everything, actually.”

A beat passed.

Then, very slowly, he smirked.

Not kindly. Not warmly. Just… smirked. Like a threat wrapped in victory.

“You’ve got guts,” he said. “Stupid ones. But guts.”

You blinked. “So I’m not getting demoted?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But if you’re gonna call me something like that… you’d better start acting like someone who belongs to me.”

You blacked out for a full second.

From the corner, Kizaru cackled. “Ohhh. That sounded like a promise.”

You looked at Kuzan for help. He held up his hands. “You’re on your own, kid. I only freeze people. This was lava-level verbal disaster.”

You ran. Literally. Out the door. Into a wall. You kept running.

The next day, someone left a hat on your desk.

Black. Red trim. A single word embroidered in gold thread:

“Mini-nu.”

You threw it away.

It came back.

And from then on, anytime you made a mistake, Akainu would pause just long enough to look you dead in the eye and say,

“What would Daddy do?”

You filed for psychological leave.

He denied it.

Personally.

Chapter Text

Whole Cake Island. Early evening.

You were just trying to find the bathroom.

Not glory. Not trouble. Certainly not Katakuri.

You’d been doing a passable job laying low in the castle. Very low, actually. Emotionally subterranean. You were undercover, gathering intel, dodging Big Mom’s mood swings, and doing your best not to trip over sentient tea sets or get serenaded by a damn carpet again.

It was going fine.

Until Charlotte Flampe materialized beside you like a perfume-scented poltergeist. Her lashes were clumped, her sugar high was peaking, and her voice had the same vibe as a child holding a magnifying glass over an ant.

“I have a question,” she chirped, loud enough to summon every bored sibling within a two-room radius. “No thinking. First name that comes to mind.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Who’s your daddy?” she beamed. “Go!”

Now, to any normal person, that would’ve meant whose the man who reminds you of your parental trauma, but in like a sexy way. But your brain, poisoned by stress, espionage, and three near-death-by-singing-sofa incidents, short-circuited. You heard it like “Who’s the most terrifying authority figure you obey without question?”

Which is why, like a complete moron, you answered:

“…Katakuri.”

The silence was instant and brutal.

Even the portraits stopped singing. The gravy boats turned their handles away from you like you’d just kicked a puppy. A candy fork clattered to the ground with dramatic finality.

Katakuri, seated silently at the far end of the table with a cup of tea and two mochi logs, slowly—slowly—turned his head in your direction. His mouth was still half-covered by his scarf. His eyebrow twitched. You felt your soul attempt to file for divorce from your body.

You panicked.

“I MEANT IT STRATEGICALLY,” you blurted. “Like in the chain of command! A tactical daddy! Not—not a—not like a kink thing, oh god—”

Flampe made a noise that sounded like a sugar-glazed hyena choking on bubblegum. “OH. MY. GOD. She’s got the hots for Katakuri!”

“I don’t! It’s respect! The fear kind! Not the feet kind!”

The gasps were immediate.

Katakuri stood.

Your spine liquefied.

He walked toward you in complete silence, scarf high, boots soft on the frosting-dusted tile. You tried to sink into the floor. You considered throwing yourself out a window or praying to the nearest haunted croquembouche for a quick death.

He stopped just in front of you. The air felt heavier. He was very tall.

“…I don’t recall offering that title,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t,” you said. “It just… slipped out. I was cornered by conversation.”

A long pause.

“Do you call every strong man you fear that?”

“Only the ones who look like they could bench press my trauma.”

His brow twitched again. Someone giggled and immediately got punched by Oven.

Katakuri looked at you. Not with anger. Not even embarrassment. But something worse—pity.

“Get stronger,” he said.

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“If you’re going to say things like that in this house,” he said, eyes narrowing behind the scarf, “you need to be able to back it up.”

Behind you, someone whispered, “She’s going to die.”

Another muttered, “She’s going to marry him.”

Flampe shrieked like a tea kettle shoved in a blender.

You seriously considered biting through the nearest table leg and crawling to freedom.

After that, things got weird.

Katakuri never brought it up. Not directly.

But your training drills suddenly doubled. He called you “disciplined” like it was a secret compliment. You found mochi donuts left at your door. Once, he handed you a scarf without a word.

And when one of the brothers cracked a joke about your “little crush”?

Katakuri looked at him.

“She already knows who her superior is.”

You never called him Daddy again. You didn’t need to. Everyone else started doing it for you.

Chapter Text

Aboard the Red Force, below deck, medbay.

You had a mild concussion, one cracked rib (maybe two), and a migraine caused entirely by living with pirates who thought “recovery time” was a myth invented by cowards.

Hongo had just finished patching you up with the clinical intensity of a man who clearly wrote anatomy textbooks during shore leave. He adjusted the overhead lamp like it had personally offended him, peeled off his gloves, and gave you the kind of look that doctors reserved for reckless patients and toddlers with forks near sockets.

You know,” he said, voice calm and vaguely menacing, “your survival instincts are, at best, performative.”

You rolled your eyes. “Says the guy who once used a cauterizer as a threat.”

Hongo didn’t blink. “He was trying to take his own stitches out. With a fork.”

You opened your mouth for something witty and cutting.

And then the door slammed open.

“GAME TIME,” Lucky Roux bellowed, practically sideways in the doorframe like a cartoon bear breaking into a bakery. “No time to explain. First thing that pops into your head: Who’s your daddy?”

You were tired. Woozy. Possibly concussed.

Which is why your brain, your mouth, and your common sense didn’t speak to each other before you blurted—

“Hongo.”

Silence.

The kind of silence where even the morgue fridge went quiet. The kind that echo-locates shame.

Roux stared at you. Mouth open. Hand still raised in dramatic question pose. “Well. Shit.”

He vanished back into the corridor like a gossip nuke. “It’s HONGO!” he bellowed down the hall.

You heard it travel.

Footsteps.

Whistles.

Laughter like a rogue wave. A very drunk rogue wave.

Somewhere far above deck, a cannon fired in solidarity. Possibly Yassop.

You didn’t look at Hongo.

Couldn’t.

The tension beside you thickened into something medical and emotional. You could feel him recalculating your entire file in his head.

“I am dead,” you whispered. “I am bleeding out internally and already dead. You didn’t hear that.”

Hongo didn’t respond. Just turned. Washed his hands again. Dried them slowly, methodically, like he was contemplating switching careers to monkhood.

Then, clipboard in hand, voice smooth and surgical, he said, “I expect your vitals to improve under my supervision.”

He walked past you like nothing had happened.

You stared, slack-jawed. “That’s it?”

He paused at the door.

Turned slightly.

Voice smooth. Collected. Professional. But his ears were visibly pink.

“Oh. And sweetheart?”

Your soul fled your body.

“If I’m your daddy, you better start listening when I tell you to rest.”

He left.

He left you there.

With a flaming face, a wrapped rib cage, and a rising chorus of “Doctor Daddy” from the corridor outside.

Shanks was demanding a recount.

Yasopp wanted to sign up for First Aid classes “just in case.”

Beckman reportedly locked the galley doors and refused to come out.

And you?

You stared at the porthole. At the open sea. And seriously, seriously, considered whether it was worth puncturing a lung on the way out just to escape the Red Force’s newest shanty.

Which, by the way, now had verses.

And a chorus.

And someone playing backup on accordion.

Your vitals did, technically, improve.

But your dignity did not.

Chapter Text

Sabaody Archipelago, late afternoon. Somewhere between reckless and deeply inappropriate.

It was scorching. The kind of heat that made everything feel like a terrible decision. You were halfway through your drink at Shakky’s bar, sprawled in a chair with one leg lazily draped over the table, your dignity buried somewhere under a pile of bounty posters, when the conversation took a turn.

Shakky, the eternal instigator, leaned back in her chair, eyes glinting with that familiar, mischief-laced spark.

"Alright. No thinking. Who's your daddy?"

You didn’t even flinch.

In fact, your brain barely registered the question. It wasn’t that it was too shocking. It was more like your mind had slipped into autopilot, a weird cocktail of too many drinks and oppressive humidity weighing down your thoughts.

You opened your mouth, and out came the first thing your brain managed to process. And it definitely shouldn't have.

"Rayleigh."

As soon as the words left your mouth, it felt like time itself froze.

Shakky’s usual devil-may-care grin faltered. The fan above seemed to pause mid-spin. The jukebox hiccupped. The ambient chatter melted into an uncomfortable stillness, like everyone had just realized they were standing in front of an oncoming freight train. And the train was you, with that very answer.

You'd done it. Not just a little mistake, but a full-blown I’m about to be the punchline of the century mistake.

Rayleigh froze in place, glass still hovering in mid-air, and suddenly, the entire bar held its breath. No one moved. Not a blink, not a cough. Even the oppressive heat seemed to dissipate as though the universe had pressed the pause button, waiting to see if you were about to spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.

Your drink became the most fascinating thing in the world, and you stared at it like it might open up a hidden trapdoor and swallow you whole.

Rayleigh’s look over the rim of his glass was too calm. Too knowing. It was the same expression he might have used to gaze at a Sea King that interrupted his nap or a confused puppy that needed a bit of training. Unfortunately, you were the puppy.

Regret hit you like a ton of bricks.

A strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, came from the corner of the room. Someone else choked on a peanut. An elderly woman—who had apparently been doing her best to mind her own business—sidled away from the table, as though proximity could somehow save her from the coming catastrophe.

Rayleigh slowly lowered his glass, and the smile that spread across his face wasn’t friendly . It wasn’t fatherly . No, it was a Rayleigh smile. Dangerous. Calm. The kind of smile that made you feel like you were standing in the principal’s office with a report card full of red marks.

“Oh?” he said, his voice smooth as silk.

You immediately wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. Your mind was racing in every direction at once. Half of you wanted to laugh, half of you wanted to cry, and all of you wanted to scream into the void. You scrambled for an escape, and of course, your mouth betrayed you again.

"Wait. I meant that in the respectful, wise-mentor, silver-fox-with-a-sword kind of way," you stammered, attempting damage control with all the subtlety of an elephant roller-skating down a flight of stairs.

“You said it like a birthday wish,” a regular wheezed from the back of the bar.

“Or a declaration,” someone else added helpfully, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

Rayleigh stood up then, slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you thought your life had officially come to an end. He adjusted his shirt sleeves—like he had all the time in the world—before strolling toward you with the kind of grace that should’ve been illegal. Each step echoed like a countdown to disaster.

"Careful now," he said, his voice syrupy smooth with an edge of amusement that was doing nothing to calm your rapidly escalating panic. "That kind of title comes with expectations."

You swallowed hard, trying desperately to avoid his eyes. “Like... guidance?”

"Like obedience," he shot back, that dangerous gleam in his eye making your blood run cold. “Responsibility. Possibly allowance negotiations.”

"I already have trauma, thank you."

Rayleigh leaned down, his hand casually resting on the back of your chair like he was the most relaxed person in the room. “Then you’ll know how to behave.”

And just like that, your brain short-circuited. Your entire being went numb with embarrassment , and you could practically feel your soul trying to crawl out of your ear to escape the unbearable situation.

Shakky, who had been silently watching this trainwreck with too much enjoyment, took a long drag from her cigarette, practically glowing with amusement. “I always knew he’d collect another stray eventually.”

You turned to her, your eyes pleading. “Help me.”

“Nope,” she chirped, completely unfazed by your impending social doom. “You called him daddy. You lie in the bed you made. And it’s probably his now.”

Rayleigh stood straight again, still wearing that infuriatingly satisfied smile. He ruffled your hair with mock affection, then patted your cheek as though sending you off to the first day of school, except this was more like the first day of your personal hell .

Then, like a man who had just won some kind of bizarre, private victory, he strolled back to his seat, still smug as hell, leaving you to die a slow death from secondhand humiliation.

The teasing? Oh, it lasted for days.

Someone updated your bounty poster to read “Rayleigh’s Problem.”

You couldn’t order a drink without someone asking if you had “parental approval.”

And Rayleigh?

He started calling you “kiddo.”

Every. Single. Time.

With perfect, devastating warmth.

Chapter Text

Dressrosa. Mid-morning. The air was heavy, the chaos palpable, and you were already regretting every life choice that had led you to this flamingo-patterned nightmare.

You stood in the palace, tired and sweaty, surrounded by madness. The war room buzzed with activity; Sugar had passed out again, Pica was having a one-sided argument with a wall, and Baby 5 was on her knees, proposing to a cardboard cutout of Sora of the Sea. Just another Tuesday in the land of this insanity.

And then, as if summoned by the dark forces of poor judgment, someone (probably Buffalo, because his brain was basically the shape of a bowling ball) grinned at you from across the room and said the words that would come to haunt you for the rest of your miserable existence.

“No thinking. First answer. Who’s your daddy?”

You had options. You had so many options . You could’ve said anything . You could’ve even said Trebol and it would've been less disastrous. But no. Instead, like a cursed incantation from a forbidden tome, you opened your mouth and said, with the innocence of a small, very naïve child:

“Doflamingo.”

The room went dead silent.

Even Sugar’s unconscious body twitched in judgment from some higher realm.

It hit you like a ton of bricks—the wrongness of it. The terrible wrongness. You felt it before you even saw him. The temperature in the room shifted. The air grew thick with doom. The vibrations of impending disaster buzzed through your body, as though you had just triggered a bomb with your stupid, stupid mouth.

Doflamingo turned slowly in his chair, fingers steepled in that way that made you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. His pink coat draped around him like it had just committed a crime, and his smile stretched wide, wolfish, and far too pleased for your taste. Those damn sunglasses gleamed behind his smirk.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth like silk wrapped around a dagger. “I didn’t know we were on that level.”

Your mind scrambled for words that might undo the mess you’d just made. But it was too late. The damage was done.

You blinked rapidly, trying to force your soul back into your body. “I meant it like—like... like our crime boss. Power dynamic. You know, like ‘I fear you in a workplace-appropriate way,’ not in a... leather and chain sense.”

You cursed the moment you were born.

“Oh?” he drawled, his voice thick with amusement as he rose from his chair with the grace of a man who had no intention of letting you escape with your sanity intact. “Because the way you said it was very leather and chain.”

You immediately took a step back. “This is slander. I’m calling HR.”

“There is no HR,” he said cheerfully, his grin never faltering. “Only me.”

Trebol was choking on his laughter. Diamante, dramatically fanning himself, whispered, “Oh my god, it’s happening,” and Baby 5, sweet, innocent Baby 5, proposed to you. Again. You, of course, declined.

Doflamingo grinned wider. Too wide.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asked, walking toward you slowly. Every step felt like the countdown to some horrible inevitability. “Is that why you speak so freely?”

“You make everyone nervous,” you shot back, heart pounding. “You wear sunglasses indoors and laugh like a Bond villain.”

“Flattery,” he purred, stepping even closer.

You groaned. “Please don’t make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” he said, his voice low and silky, wrapping around you like a noose. “You named me. I accept. Now sit down. Be good.”

You stubbornly remained standing. “I have dignity.”

“Not anymore,” he said, his gloved finger gently tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him. “You gave it to me. When you called me Daddy.”

Your face flushed a violent shade of red, and with a scream that was far too loud for your own good, you shouted, “Noooooooo!”

It echoed. Through the entire room. Everyone heard it.

From that day forward, it was over.

The crew had a field day.

Someone updated the crew roster to read “Doffy's Problem.” (Okay, not what you had in mind.)

You weren’t allowed to order drinks without someone asking if you had “parental approval.” Every time.

And Doflamingo?

Every time you questioned him. Every time you dared to speak out of line, he would lean in close, glasses flashing, and murmur:

“Careful. Or Daddy might get disappointed.”

You never recovered. And you never left. Which, according to him, was exactly what a good little baby would do.

The final straw? Someone, and you had no idea who, left a custom-made onesie on your bed. It had “Doffy’s Favorite” on the back.

He autographed it.

You burned it.

He replaced it. In silk.

And you? You had no idea how to escape because you’d already handed over your soul.

Chapter Text

Aboard the Red Force, on a day too calm to trust...

The sea was gentle. The sun was warm. The crew was restless in that specific, chaotic way that meant boredom was about to spiral into something far more dangerous. Laughter bounced between the crew like a storm cloud gathering too much energy, louder than the wind and far more unpredictable.

You had just settled down with a drink, clinging to the faint hope that this might actually be one of those rare moments of peace, when it happened.

Yasopp, wearing that devilish grin of his, swaggered over, clearly way too pleased with himself.

"Alright," he said, planting his feet and locking eyes with you, his gaze practically sparking with mischief. "Rapid fire. No thinking. Just answer. Who’s your daddy?"

You didn’t even flinch. This was just another ridiculous game for Yasopp, right? He was probably just messing with you. It was one of those random questions, like “What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?” or “Would you fight a bear for the crew?”

Nothing that required serious thought.

“Shanks.”

The entire world seemed to freeze.

Yasopp’s grin faltered for the briefest moment before his eyes lit up with a gleam that could only mean trouble . The mop in Limejuice’s hand froze mid-swing. Even the sails seemed to hesitate, as if the wind wanted to know where this was going.

Across the deck, Shanks stopped mid-laugh. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes, and that alone made your stomach plummet. He looked over slowly, one eyebrow raised, his red hair catching in the light like a flash of something dangerous.

“Sorry,” he said, voice far too cheerful. “Could you repeat that?”

You took a slow sip from your drink, trying to act casual, like you hadn’t just made the worst decision of your life. “I said Whitebeard.”

Yasopp erupted in laughter, nearly knocking himself off his feet. Roux’s laughter quickly followed, and soon the entire crew was cackling like they had front row seats to the world’s most embarrassing show.

But Shanks? Shanks wasn’t laughing. That was the worst part. His smile stayed, but his eyes… his eyes were already shifting into something more dangerous. He took a slow step forward, the sound of his boots on the deck punctuating each moment like the slow tick of a clock counting down to your doom.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice smooth, almost too pleasant. “You know, if you call someone that, there are certain… responsibilities.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to maintain your composure. “Oh no. Don’t make it weird.”

Too late.

Shanks stopped directly in front of you, towering over you with that perfect balance of charm and menace that only he could pull off. “I’m flattered. Really. I mean, you could’ve picked anyone, and you chose me.”

“I panicked,” you muttered, knowing full well you’d only made things worse with every word.

“No, no, I get it,” he said, leaning in just a little closer, his grin widening like a predator with its prey in front of it. “Somewhere deep in your heart, you knew.”

“Knew what?” you asked, already regretting every breath you’d taken that day.

“That I’ve been spoiling you rotten, letting you get away with things no one else does.”

“That’s because you’re irresponsible,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper, but your heart was racing.

“Because I’m generous,” he corrected, his voice low and teasing, his presence nearly suffocating now.

“That’s not what people call it behind your back.”

He smirked, clearly savoring your discomfort. “They do say it in bed.”

A gasp rose from behind you. Roux had collapsed into a fit of laughter, and Yasopp was pounding the deck like it was a drum. Somewhere, far off to the side, someone shouted “Daddy Shanks!” at full volume, and you considered flinging yourself overboard to escape the madness.

You shot to your feet, your face burning with embarrassment. “I’m going below deck. To die. Alone.”

“You sure?” Shanks called after you, his voice smooth as silk. “You don’t want me to tuck you in?”

Without thinking, you flung your cup at him in a fit of frustration. He caught it with one hand, that wicked smile still plastered across his face.

For the rest of the week, Shanks insisted on being addressed as “Captain Daddy.”

Beckman refused to speak to either of you. The rest of the crew either teased you mercilessly or pretended they hadn’t just witnessed your humiliating fall from grace.

And you? You still weren’t sure if you regretted it.

Chapter Text

Enies Lobby, midnight. Too many secrets, too many suits, and one incredibly unfortunate slip of the tongue.

You sat stiffly at a CP0 debriefing, surrounded by cold marble, colder men, and one very brooding pigeon. The long table stretched before you, its polished surface reflecting the light like a mirror to your impending doom. The room was heavy with the scent of stale tension and lack of snacks. But it wasn’t the silence that was the most oppressive; it was the thick, looming presence of the CP0 agents around you. Rob Lucci sat across from you, the deadliest of them all, and his eyes were sharp and cold, unreadable, as if he could see straight through you. The tension wasn’t just the result of the mission briefing, but from his quiet, intense gaze that felt like a countdown to your demise.

The other agents made the atmosphere even more unbearable. Kaku, sitting to your left, was nervously tapping his pen on the table. His eyes kept flicking between you and the others, clearly enjoying every second of your discomfort. Stussy, across from him, wore that sly, knowing smile, like she could sense the trainwreck you were about to cause. Kalifa, beside Lucci, had that impeccable poker face, but the way her eyes narrowed just a little told you she was surely enjoying this. Blueno was as quiet as ever, but you could feel the tension rolling off him. Spandam, seated at the far end of the table, was glaring over at you like this whole mess was somehow your fault, though he had no room to talk. And Jabra? Well, he was pretending to be absorbed in his paperwork, but the corner of his lips twitched, giving away his amusement. Everyone could feel it. The weight of the moment.

No one had spoken for what felt like forever. The air was thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel your pulse pounding in your ears, and every slight movement you made felt like it was under a magnifying glass. Lucci hadn't said a word for twenty minutes, and you were almost grateful for that. His silence was the only thing keeping you from running for the door.

Then, fate, being cruel as always, decided you'd had enough peace.

Kaku, ever the little shit, decided it was time to break the silence with some “lighthearted” banter. “Let’s lighten the mood. No thinking. Who’s your daddy?”

You’d been bracing yourself for the inevitable question. Who was going to lead the next mission? You assumed this was it. This was Kaku’s way of easing the tension before diving into serious talk. It made sense. He was always trying to crack jokes, always teasing. It was part of his charm—or so he thought.

But then it happened. You opened your mouth, without a single thought for your future (or the actual question), and blurted it out.

“Lucci.”

The room went still, like someone had turned the world to stone. Even the agents who hadn’t been paying attention to you turned toward you, their eyes wide with disbelief. Spandam’s eyebrow twitched, but his face remained frozen in irritation. Blueno slowly raised his head, narrowing his eyes, while Kalifa suppressed an amused smile. Kaku was trying and failing to stifle his laughter, his shoulders shaking from the effort. Stussy? She was definitely hiding a smirk behind that professional mask.

And then, Lucci. Lucci’s gaze did not shift. He did not blink. He did not flinch. He just stared at you with that eerie, unblinking intensity that felt like he was sizing you up for something far worse than you could imagine.

Finally, he spoke.

“Explain.”

You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. The words that came out were completely against your will. “It was a joke. A reflex. Social brain fog. Like… chain of command. Hierarchical structure. No emotional weight whatsoever.”

The room didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Just stared at you as if you had just declared you were ready to run for president of the idiocy club.

Lucci remained perfectly still. Then, like a predator deciding whether to eat or simply toy with its prey, he tilted his head slightly. “So you fear me. And call me daddy.”

Your brain malfunctioned. You opened your mouth, but there were no words. Just regret, and air. You could feel every CP0 agent’s eyes burning into you.

“Professional respect,” you tried again, your voice breaking slightly. “Like... I fear you. In a healthy way.”

Kalifa looked like she was about to crack. Spandam couldn’t keep his grin contained anymore, and even Blueno’s usual stone-faced demeanor had cracks in it now. Jabra was outright chuckling under his breath, and Kaku was shaking with suppressed giggles. You had officially turned into the joke of the century.

Lucci didn’t break his gaze. He let a few seconds of silence drag on before his voice cut through the tension again, smooth and chilling. “Oh? Is that really your answer?”

You felt your entire body flush as if you were being burned alive. This was it. This was your legacy now.

“No!” you blurted, a little too desperately. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a— not legally binding joke!”

Lucci’s response was cold, calculated. “No. But it’s on the record now.”

You could feel your soul disintegrating. You wanted to die. You wanted to disappear from the planet, right now . The laughter that had been bubbling under the surface in the room reached its peak, and now, the agents couldn’t hide it anymore. Kalifa was openly laughing, her hand covering her mouth to muffle the sound. Spandam, utterly unhelpful, was doubled over with laughter. Even Blueno cracked a smile, and Kaku was shaking with suppressed giggles.

Lucci, still unreadable, asked flatly, “Do you want a leash?”

You froze again. Your eyes widened, and your mouth went dry. This was real. This was happening.

He blinked slowly, almost as though he was waiting for you to process what he had said. “I was referring to standard CP0 control equipment. Don’t be vulgar.”

You slammed your forehead onto the table with a loud thud. The pigeon cooed softly in what could only be described as disappointment .

The next month was a living nightmare. “Little Cat” became your new name in CP0, given to you by every agent under thirty. Someone had even drawn a fake family tree, with your name and Lucci’s at the top, and posted it on your locker. Kaku and Stussy found it hilarious, Blueno looked mildly impressed by the creativity, and Spandam took every opportunity to make sure you knew you were living in infamy. Kalifa made sure to let everyone know how good you were at digging yourself into holes.

Lucci said nothing. Not a single word. But from that day on, you were always his first choice for missions.

It wasn’t a gift. It was a curse.

And you never, ever , left your quarters without breath mints again. Just in case he got too close.

Chapter Text

Kuraigana Isle. Evening. A cursed castle, cheap wine, and decisions you were not qualified to be making.

It had started innocently enough. The Red Force crew had been invited inside. That should have been the first red flag. No one just invites pirates into a crumbling gothic murder mansion unless they are either planning to kill them or have reached such a depth of boredom that they’ve turned to chaos as a form of entertainment.

Unfortunately, Dracule Mihawk appeared to be the second one.

The dining table stretched down the great hall like a dueling ground for passive aggression. Ornate candelabras dripped wax with the slow solemnity of a church funeral. The air had the particular kind of tension that seemed to hum between old stones and older grudges.

You were seated between Limejuice and Shanks, sipping wine that tasted like antique varnish and quiet judgment. The atmosphere was polite in the same way a tiger might be polite before it decides whether or not it wants to eat you.

Lucky Roux broke the silence with a grin that could only mean trouble. He raised his cup toward the ceiling and shouted, “Alright, no time to think. Who’s your daddy?”

You didn’t think. That was the problem.

“Mihawk,” you said.

The room fell silent. Not the kind of silence that follows an awkward joke, but the kind that follows a gunshot.

Yasopp dropped a fork. Shanks stopped chewing in mid-bite. Even the wine in your glass seemed to pause, as if reconsidering its life choices.

At the far end of the table, Mihawk turned his head toward you. Slowly.

It was the kind of movement that made your instincts flare with ancient warning. Like watching a painting in a haunted house blink for the first time, like a predator who has just been politely addressed and is now deciding whether to acknowledge the mistake or correct it permanently.

You sat straighter, already talking before your mouth fully caught up with your brain.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “That wasn’t. I didn’t mean. You weren’t even supposed to hear that.”

Shanks leaned in, eyes gleaming. “You were the loudest person in the room.” His voice was low and full of delighted betrayal.

“It was a joke,” you added quickly. “A reflex. A slip. I meant it in the symbolic sense. The general sword-father category.”

“You said it,” Roux murmured, grinning like he had just lit a fuse. “You chose him.”

“I was ambushed,” you said firmly. “That was a trap question.”

Shanks rested his elbow on the table and gave you a look of profound amusement. “I always knew you liked them emotionally unavailable and heavily armed.”

“I did not mean it like that. I meant mentor. Instructor. Someone who could level me with one look. It was metaphorical. Extremely metaphorical.”

At that moment, Mihawk stood. His movements were smooth and precise, like a man who had never once needed to hurry. He walked toward the table with the patient inevitability of a storm cloud moving across the sky.

“Symbolic,” he repeated, his voice quiet. “Interesting.”

You sat up even straighter. “Please do not assign meaning to this.”

“You used the word daddy,” he said.

“It was a reflex,” you insisted, your voice reaching the edges of panic.

He stopped beside your chair. His expression gave away nothing, which was somehow worse than if he had smiled. That quiet elegance of his had always been intimidating, but now it radiated something else entirely. Victory. Smugness. A calm certainty that the damage had already been done.

“If I am your daddy,” Mihawk said, voice low and measured, “you will need proper training. A weapon. Discipline.”

You turned toward Shanks like a desperate hostage, but he was doubled over with silent laughter, shoulders shaking. Useless.

You looked back at Mihawk. “Respectfully, I am far too feral for discipline.”

“I have tamed worse,” he replied without blinking.

“I will jump into the moat.”

“There is no moat.”

“I will dig one with my bare hands and dive into it.”

Mihawk reached down and took your wine glass. He sipped from it like it belonged to him, like you belonged to him, then set it gently back in front of you.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he said. “I will send someone to measure you for a blade.”

Then he turned and walked away, his cloak sweeping the floor behind him with the kind of authority reserved for men who own several custom letter openers and have emotionally devastated someone with each of them.

Shanks watched him go, then turned to you with a grin that split his face in half. “You are grounded.”

Limejuice looked stunned. “You are going to have to do push-ups now.”

Yasopp had tears running down his face from laughter. “Sword child,” he wheezed.

You slid downward in your chair until your knees hit the underside of the table. “I am going to walk into the sea.”

“You will need a chaperone,” Shanks added cheerfully. “Daddy said so.”

You stared at the wall with the vacant expression of someone who had already evacuated their own soul. Your body was a placeholder now. A vessel for the consequences of one idiotic sentence.

The next morning, a sword arrived at your door.

It was beautiful. Polished to a mirror sheen, its balance perfect, the hilt wrapped in fine leather that matched your grip exactly. Custom-forged. Elegant. Dangerous.

There was a single note attached, written in neat, razor-sharp script.

Try not to embarrass me.

It was not signed.

It did not need to be.

Chapter Text

Aboard the Victoria Punk . Late evening. The kind of hour where the adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off and the brain had no functioning filters left.

You were perched on a battered crate near the upper deck, bruised, scraped, and smugly satisfied with yourself after surviving an ambush that absolutely should have gone sideways. Somehow, by the grace of sheer dumb luck and a few well-placed explosives, it hadn’t.

The ship still thrummed with the aftershock. Sparks shot into the air from someone welding with a vengeance in the corner. Heavy metal blared from the sound system. Boots pounded across steel. The air reeked of sweat, oil, and victory.

Killer sat nearby, cleaning his scythe blades with the kind of care that suggested he was imagining someone’s face on them. Heat was screaming obscenities at a cannon that had jammed mid-fight. Wire, dangerously bored and always five seconds away from causing a problem, spun a wrench around his finger, watching you with entirely too much interest.

Then he grinned.

It was the kind of grin that spelled trouble in all capital letters. The kind that came with bruises, consequences, and some form of humiliation you wouldn’t recover from until at least the next island. Wire leaned casually on a coil of rope, twirling a wrench between his fingers like he was plotting the downfall of someone’s dignity—probably yours.

“Alright,” he called out, voice just loud enough to cut through the noise. “No thinking. Who’s your daddy?”

The world tilted slightly.

Your brain, still riding high on leftover adrenaline and probably minor internal bleeding, registered the words—but not the context. There were too many voices. Too much metal. Too much blood in your ears and not enough blood in your brain.

You thought he meant rank. You thought it was a loyalty thing. Maybe a dumb joke about leadership.

You opened your mouth.

“Kid.”

You said it like it was gospel. Like it had weight. Like you had been waiting your whole life for the opportunity to pledge your allegiance in the most chaotic, unfortunate way possible. It came out fast. Sharp. Automatic. Like a knee-jerk reflex to an unseen command.

It left your mouth too fast. Too automatic. Too loud. It sounded less like a joke and more like a declaration of eternal allegiance from the depths of your stupid lizard brain.

Everything stopped.

The welding. The music. Even the sea breeze seemed to pause for dramatic effect.

You knew it was bad when even Killer looked up from his scythes.

Wire’s wrench clattered to the floor. Heat froze, eyes wide. One unfortunate crew member turned, walked to the edge of the ship, and stepped clean off into the water without hesitation.

Kid, who had been bent over a set of newly-forged gauntlets, slowly straightened. He looked up. No words. Just pure focus.

You locked eyes with him.

“I meant captain,” you said quickly. “Obviously. That was a captain thing. Respectful. Chain of command.”

Killer did not help. “You said it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that .”

Wire was already halfway to the hull with a paintbrush and a bucket of red. “You said it,” he crowed. “It’s doctrine now.”

“I’m going to jump into the ocean,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.

“Not without Daddy’s permission,” Heat said, deadpan.

You screamed into your palms.

Kid stood. Not quickly. Not dramatically. He moved with the kind of purpose that said he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than anyone should reasonably admit.

He walked across the deck, boots striking metal like punctuation. You tried to look away, at anything—anyone—but no one was coming to save you.

He stopped directly in front of your crate. Towering. Coat flared. The air around him was heavy with heat and ego and the faint tang of blood and gunpowder.

“You got something you wanna say to me, princess?”

You blinked up at him, heart punching your ribs. “Please don’t murder me.”

His mouth curled. “You called me Daddy.”

“That was peer pressure and a concussion,” you replied.

He leaned in slightly, grin just sharp enough to be considered dangerous. “That right?”

You nodded quickly. “Legally speaking, I am not responsible for any statements made in the presence of traumatic head injury or excessively large coats.”

He chuckled.

Which was far more terrifying than if he had screamed.

Eustass Kid does not chuckle. He snarls. He growls. He occasionally levels buildings for aesthetic reasons. But a chuckle? That was new. That was ominous.

“Good to know,” he said, straightening again. “Means I get to call you something too.”

“Oh no,” you said, already bracing.

He turned to the rest of the crew, voice loud and final. “This one’s mine now. You hear that? Mine.”

Someone whistled. Someone else cried tears of disbelief.

Killer placed his face in his gloved hands like a man preparing to file formal emotional damage paperwork.

You stood quickly, nearly tripping over the crate. “Wait. No. That’s not—this isn’t—I don’t belong to anyone.”

Kid shrugged. “Too late. You said it. You can’t unsay it. It’s real now.”

“You can’t just claim me like I’m scrap metal.”

He smirked, already turning away. “I claim everything worth keeping.”

You froze.

“Did you just say I’m worth keeping?”

He blinked at you. “No. Shut up.”

Wire let out a shriek and ran toward the ocean, presumably to scream into the void. Heat yelled for someone to grab a calendar. A Sharpie appeared like magic.

From that day on, the crew started calling you Little Gear.

Every time you followed an order without complaint, someone would sigh dramatically and say, “They grow up so fast.”

Every time you snapped back with teeth, someone would whisper, “Just like Dad.”

And Kid?

Kid would smirk.

That same smirk every single time.

The kind that said he absolutely heard what you said.

And was never, ever going to let you forget it.

Chapter Text

Aboard the Polar Tang . Somewhere under the sea. Somewhere far from your pride, your dignity, and any hope of peace.

It had been a long day.

Triage in the mud. Tactical disagreements in the rain. A field surgery that should’ve taken an hour but turned into three because someone (not naming names, but it rhymed with “dumbass with a machete”) got creative with their injuries. Law had quietly threatened to remove someone’s lungs if they didn’t shut up during stitching, which had somehow raised morale.

Now, in the mess, your goal was simple: eat your cheap noodles, regain your will to live, and pretend Shachi and Penguin’s latest debate wasn’t happening five feet away.

You were about halfway through when it happened.

Shachi leaned in with that particular glint in his eyes. The one that meant someone was about to emotionally combust, and he hoped it was you. He drummed his fingers against the edge of the table like a countdown, then struck.

“Okay,” he said brightly. “No thinking. First answer only. Who’s your daddy?”

You didn’t even look up.

Your body was present, but your soul was halfway into a coma. You were too tired. Too bruised. Too deep into this limp cup of rehydrated noodles to process anything beyond the primal need to eat and not die.

Your brain registered the words, but not the meaning . The sentence short-circuited in your head somewhere between “no thinking” and “answer only,” and your body, in its infinite betrayal, filled in the blanks on pure, exhausted instinct.

He meant chain of command, right? Someone in charge. Someone who was always breathing down your neck about protocol, proper stitching technique, and not storing coffee beans in a sterile tray. Someone with gloves, opinions, and a god complex.

You opened your mouth, slurped another bite, and answered automatically.

“Law.”

There was a noodle still hanging from your lips when the silence hit.

Not dramatic. Not shocked. Just deeply, profoundly charged .

The single noodle slipped out of your mouth and slapped against your shirt with the wet finality of divine judgment.

Not just silence: shockwave .

Every molecule in the room paused. Your brain caught up a second too late, flailed, and immediately began flashing bright red internal alerts that sounded like YOU SAID IT OUT LOUD. YOU SAID IT OUT LOUD.

Penguin stared at you like you had just confessed to burning down Christmas. Shachi gasped so hard he inhaled part of a cracker and doubled over in a coughing fit. Even the lights above flickered. You swore the submarine itself creaked. Like it had opinions.

You blinked. Realized. Froze.

Penguin turned toward you like he’d just witnessed a small crime.

Shachi recoiled like he’d accidentally unearthed ancient treasure. “Oh my god.”

Even the fluorescent lights buzzed quieter, as if the ship itself needed a moment to process.

You blinked, finally hearing what your mouth had actually said.

“I—wait. That’s not—I didn’t—”

“You definitely articulated it,” Penguin said, voice hushed with awe and horror.

“I misheard the question.”

“I asked you who your daddy was.”

“I thought you said who’s your captain! ”

“That’s not even close!” Penguin sputtered. “You answered so fast! You didn’t even chew first!”

“I’m under duress!” you said. “Also I have a mild fever and my brain is being held together by caffeine and gauze!”

Bepo walked past the doorway, caught one whiff of the tension, and didn’t break stride. He gave you a single, mournful glance that said you’re on your own , then kept walking like the wise, silent hero he was.

That was when the door creaked open.

Slowly.

With the kind of timing that suggested the universe was directing your humiliation in real-time.

Law stood in the doorway. Backlit. Arms crossed. Drenched in quiet menace. The kind of presence that screamed I heard everything, and I have a clipboard. Which, for him, meant “congratulations, you are already on a list.” He was backlit by the hall lights in a way that made him look like the ghost of very bad choices.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. He just stared.

You did not move. You didn’t breathe. You considered removing your own appendix as a distraction.

Finally, in a tone that sounded like your annual performance review being printed, he said, “Explain.”

You opened your mouth. Panic came out. Words did not.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said eventually, trying to smile and failing miserably. “It was a joke. A reflex. Peer pressure. I was under duress.”

Shachi nodded quickly. “Interrogation-level duress. I’m basically the Ciper Pol.”

Law tilted his head. The angle of a disappointed father. Which, all things considered, felt deeply unfair.

“So you’re calling me ‘daddy’ under threat?”

“Would you prefer willingly?”

Penguin screamed and bolted down the hallway like a man escaping an exorcism.

Law stared at you. For a long time. The kind of stare that said he was calculating where to bury the evidence and if the submarine had enough oxygen to support a staged accident.

“You realize,” he said eventually, “this goes into your permanent record.”

“You don’t have a permanent record.”

“I do now.”

Then he walked forward, plucked your cup of noodles out of your hands, took a bite, and made a face like he had just been betrayed by all of humanity. Without another word, he turned and dumped the entire cup into the trash.

You gaped. “That was mine.”

“You’ll eat something better,” he said.

You stared at him. “Oh my god. You really are my dad.”

He looked at you like he was five seconds away from teleporting your stomach into the freezer just to end the conversation.

“No sword,” you said quickly, hands raised. “You promised. Only internal organ teleportation if provoked. ”

“I am very provoked,” he said, and walked out.

The door shut with the same finality as a closing morgue drawer.

A second later, from down the hall, someone screamed, “I HEARD YOU CALLED HIM DADDY.”

The next morning, your locker had a new label. A printed one. Laminated.

PROPERTY OF (FATHER) TRAFALGAR D. WATER.

Law didn’t say a word about it.

But during a hostage negotiation that afternoon, when the opposing captain asked who you were, Law said, without pause, “They’re my responsibility.”

And then he handed you a pair of extra surgical gloves.

“Why?” you asked, eyeing them with suspicion.

“In case you say something else stupid,” he said.

You told yourself this wasn’t a punishment.

It was.

But your noodles got upgraded.

And somehow, despite all logic and pride, you didn’t really mind.