Have you ever wanted to enter the one piece world? Maybe you want to be friends with the strawhats, or the heart pirates? Perhaps you'd rather be dating one of them, or all of them!! Here you can do that, feel free to send in requests in my request...
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A/N: I love my man, but I've said it before I'm so bad at writing comfort, so I apologise in advance if it suckssss! Anyway here we go!
The morning sun beat down on the Victoria Punk's deck with the kind of oppressive heat that made the metal rails almost too hot to touch. You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, leaving a smear of grease across your forehead as you tightened the last bolt on one of the deck cannons.
"Oi, Y/N!" Heat called from across the deck, his light hair catching the light. "Boss wants this one checked too before we hit the next island". You grabbed your toolbox and made your way over, boots thudding against the wooden planks.
The ship creaked and groaned with the familiar sounds of the sea, the kind of noise that had become as natural as breathing after all these years. Heat stood beside another cannon, arms crossed.
"What's wrong with this one?" You crouched down, already running your hands along the barrel's base. "Recoil mechanism's been sticking. Boss nearly took my head off when it misfired yesterday".
A snort escaped you. "Yeah, that sounds about right". The two of you worked in comfortable silence, born from years of routine. Heat held parts steady while you made adjustments, neither of you needing to communicate much beyond the occasional grunt or gesture.
The rest of the crew moved around you, each absorbed in their own tasks. Wire was up in the rigging, while other crew members scrubbed the deck, checked supplies, and maintained weapons.
"Y/N!" Killer's voice cut through the ambient noise of the ship. You glanced up to find the first mate approaching, his blue and white striped mask giving nothing away as always. "When you're done there, Boss wants to go over the route to the next island. Meeting in twenty".
"Got it". You gave him a thumbs up with one hand, the other still buried in the cannon's mechanisms. Killer paused, tilting his head slightly. "You've got grease on your face". "I've got grease everywhere, Killer. It's part of the job".
You could almost sense the amusement behind his mask. He walked off without another word, his blonde hair swaying with each step. That was Killer, efficient, direct, never wasting words when they weren't needed.
Fifteen minutes later, you'd finished with the cannon and made your way below deck to at least attempt to clean up. The quarters were dim and cramped. Your hammock hung in the corner, your few possessions secured in a trunk beneath it.
You splashed water on your face from the basin, watching the grease swirl away, then changed into a cleaner shirt. The old one went into your laundry pile, which was really just a sack you'd deal with whenever the ship made port.
The 'meeting room' was your next destination. Kid was already there when you arrived, sprawled in his chair at the head of the table like he owned the world. Which, in his mind, he probably did. His red coat hung off the back of his chair, and his metal arm rested on the table. Those red eyes flicked to you as you entered.
