Sailor Gangster

At first, the bond felt innocent enough. There were brief flickers of emotion, bits of curiosity, and the occasional overwhelming urge to punch something and then apologize to it.

Then the voice started speaking in full sentences; chaotic, unfiltered, and alarmingly sincere.

“I hope he knows I love him even if I punched him. In the face.” 

“If I die, I want to die doing something cool. Like falling into lava to save a kitten.” 

“Do whales get lonely?” 

“If I set this on fire and run away fast enough, technically it’s not my fault.”

A loud voice. With zero filter. And no self-preservation instinct.

It wasn’t just thoughts. You had vivid dreams of eating everything within a fifty-mile radius. You’d wake up laughing at jokes you never told. Or screaming, because some distant, invisible dumbass decided to fight a Sea King at age ten.

You knew what it meant. The telepathic thread had been there since childhood. Most people got soft hums of emotion, the occasional comforting whisper. 

“Oi, how many push-ups does it take to break a tree?” “I should punch that guy. No reason. Just vibes.” “If I die young, bury me in meat.”

His name, as you eventually piece together through years of one-sided nonsense, is Ace. 

Full name? 

Portgas D. Ace

You’re just a normal, average person with a skincare routine and a deathly fear of taxes. Which is exactly why the universe, in its infinite humor, decided to tether your soul to Ace. He’s a human wildfire with the emotional processing skills of a stray golden retriever and the attention span of a sunburned raccoon.

His hobbies include: eating until death seems imminent, throwing hands with gods and warlords, spontaneous arson, and emotionally repressing every feeling that isn’t hunger or homicidal loyalty.

You’ve never met him. But you’ve heard him. He doesn’t know you exist. But you know him.

You know he doesn’t believe in soulmates. You know he eats like a vacuum. You know he cries alone at night and pretends he doesn’t. You know he got his first tattoo on a dare. And unfortunately… You also know that he once set a spider on fire to impress someone. (He regrets it. The spider haunted him in a dream. He whispered an apology three years later.)

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

Age 7: "Do you think seagulls ever get depressed?" You were in math class. Trying to learn multiplication tables. Your soulmate, somewhere out there, was staring into the ocean like a tiny, unmedicated philosopher with a flair for existential bird-based melancholy.

You blinked. Raised your hand. Asked to use the bathroom. Sat on the toilet and whispered, “What?”

Age 8: "If I became a pirate, do you think they’d let me keep my blanket?" It was a sincere question. It made your heart ache. Not because it was sweet, but because you realized your soulmate was already planning his outlaw era.

Age 10: “If I get eaten by a sea king, tell Luffy I died hot.”

You were sitting in the back of the library, hunched over a weathered copy of Advanced Multiplication, when the voice echoed across your skull with all the solemnity of a soldier’s final words.

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

The voice—his voice—sounded older now. Still boyish, still rough around the edges, but with the kind of melodramatic resignation only a twelve-year-old could muster with such commitment. He sounded like someone who’d stared death in the face and decided to make it weird.

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

A borderline-delinquent who philosophized about death, grilled fish, and sea birds like they were moral arbiters of heaven and hell. A boy with a voice like fire and laughter, who once gave you a blow-by-blow breakdown of how to win a fistfight with a wild boar. He narrated everything. Bad decisions. Petty theft. Emotional spirals. The occasional hallucination.

You never answered. Not once. You were practiced. Well-trained. Unshakable.

But fate, as it often does, waited patiently to make you suffer.

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

It began with a whisper. Then a crackle. Then—suddenly, violently—“BOOBS.”

You choked mid-sip of your tea. Nearly stabbed yourself with your own pencil. The word reverberated in your head like a cannon blast, unfiltered and aggressively enthusiastic. There was silence. A stunned, terrible silence.

And then his voice, slightly breathless and awestruck: “I just… wow. That bartender was built like a miracle. Do you think she noticed me? Should I have said something? Was ‘You have nice elbows’ too weird?”

You sat motionless at the kitchen table, pencil still mid-stroke in a math equation you would never, ever finish. You could feel your soul physically detaching from your body.

Almost seven years. Seven. Seven years of absurdity. Of hunger rants. Of emotional crises about clouds that looked like parental neglect. Of vivid psychic broadcasts of every single dumb fight, scar, and mood swing.

But this? This crossed a line.

You stood. Slowly. Like a woman wronged. Marched outside. And screamed into the dirt like an ancient priestess channeling divine rage.

Somewhere, far away, a bird fell out of a tree from secondhand embarrassment.

“NO!” you yelled into the sky, fists clenched. “YOU DO NOT GET TO BE HORNY AND STUPID. PICK ONE!”

And somewhere, across sea and wind and sky— He heard you.

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

“…Wait,” his voice said, softer now. “That was you. You talked. You’re real. Oh my god, who are you? Tell me your name. Tell me your location. I’ll find you. I swear—I’ll find you.”

You didn’t scream again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint. You simply answered, tone flat and final:

“No. I’m retracting my existence. Goodbye.”

And then you slammed the door—metaphysically, psychically, spiritually—and mentally filed a full restraining order against fate.

He did not take it well.

“Was it the boob thing? I swear I respect women. I mean—I don’t not notice them, but I’m not, like, a pervert. Just observational. Please respond. I haven’t eaten in four hours. I don’t know why that matters, but emotionally it feels important.”

You do not.

“If I die of heartbreak and/or starvation, tell Luffy I—wait. You already know. I died hot.”

By day four, he’d reached the melodramatic stage of soulmate grief.

“I’ve named the seagull that keeps following me. His name is Betrayal.”

You ignored him. You hardened your mind like iron. Practiced psychic silence like a religion.

But some nights, when the world was quiet and your guard slipped, you still felt the flicker of him at the edge of your thoughts: warm, restless, and ridiculous.

And once—just once—you heard him whisper through the bond, low and serious, voice heavy with something new.

“Please just let me know you’re okay. I’ll wait–”

You didn’t reply. Not then. But after the quiet way he whispered I’ll wait like a vow instead of a threat—you found yourself staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Trying very hard not to care.

And failing.

Just a little.

Eventually, grudgingly, with the emotional grace of someone returning to a party they swore they left forever…you let him back in. Not fully. Not warmly. Not with words so much as intention. But with conditions.

He wasn’t allowed to interrupt test days. No horny thoughts before noon. Absolutely no narrating your dreams back to you with commentary like, “Whoa, that one had symbolism.” And if he wanted to share his feelings, he had to at least pretend to have emotional self-awareness.

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

You became a master of selective tuning. His chaotic thoughts drifted through your mind like white noise: background nonsense you could mute with a blink. You mastered the sacred art of psychic eye-rolls.

He, in turn, began calling you “Mystery Babe” when you humored him and “Invisible Gremlin” when you roasted him into the dirt. You answered once in a blue moon. Just enough to ruin his day.

Like, “You fell off that cliff because you tried to flirt mid-backflip. Not because the ground betrayed you.”

Or, “Your idea of stealth is shouting ‘this way, boys’ at full volume.”

Or, worst of all: “I don’t dream about you. You sound like you smell like firewood and have impulse control issues.”

And Ace? He lost his entire damn mind. Delightfully. Publicly. Apocalyptically.

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

Because now he knew you were out there. Real. Sharp. Hidden. The girl who outsmarted fate, ghosted destiny, and occasionally replied just to hand him his own ego on a silver platter.

You weren’t sweet. You weren’t eager. You weren’t simping.

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

“Is Ace talking to himself again?” “No, he’s arguing with his soulmate.” “…Does she answer?” “Only to mock him.”

They started calling you The Phantom. Deuce took bets on whether you were real. Skull tried to flirt with the empty air once and got psychically blasted with, “Not you, oil-slick.”

By week three of your emotionally distant reappearance, Ace had declared—loudly, mid-fight, while on fire, “I don’t need to find the One Piece. I need to find my soulmate, so I can formally apologize for my horny teenage brain and then ask them to punch me in the face.”

There was silence.

Then the enemy captain nodded solemnly. “That’s valid,” he said, before Ace knocked him out. And honestly? Probably the most emotionally mature thing Ace had ever said.

And you almost responded. Almost. But instead… You smiled. And went back to ignoring him.

Age 15:

“I’m gonna fight this volcano. I’ve got it. No regrets.”

It came in loud and proud, mid-afternoon. You were standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting for cold medicine, when your soulmate decided to challenge a natural disaster to a duel.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. He kept going.

“If it kills me, bury me with snacks. And a sword. Even if I didn’t have one. Just for the drama.” You pressed your fingers to your temples like you could pinch the psychic connection out of existence.

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

In the most idiotic, reckless, infuriatingly loyal golden retriever way imaginable.

He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t smooth. He was a walking campfire with sass and a dangerously low number of self-preservation instincts.

You were not speaking, but still, he talked to you.

“If I ever meet you, I hope you hate me at first,” he said once, quieter than usual. “That way, I can earn it. I wanna earn it.”

“I’d probably ruin your life,” he admitted another time. “But like… nicely?”

“Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe I got the broken kind of bond.”

And then, worst of all, the one that landed like a stone in your chest: “If you’re real, I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16: 

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

You learn to live around him. You train your face not to react when he narrates his internal monologues mid-battle. You do not try to talk back. You’ve heard what happens when soulmates do that. It's called “dumbass feedback loop.” Two people yelling in each other’s heads until someone faints.

Instead, you simply exist. Quietly. Carefully. You’re old enough to drop out of school and change locations, which you do, and often. Use fake names. Pick villages with low foot traffic. Avoid taverns where Wanted Posters hang.

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t know where you are. Can’t even figure out your gender for the first ten years. He only knows you exist because he keeps trying to scream into the void, and you never scream back.

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

You do too. You get better at tuning him out.

Until one day.

“I think I’m being followed. That guy has weird teeth. I might punch him. If I die, sorry, soulmate. I wish I had kissed someone.”

You freeze. Because it’s the first time he’s said anything that sounded like a goodbye. You don’t respond, and you find the words can’t break the door you’ve built open. But you stay up all night anyway. Eyes on the ceiling. Fingernails biting your palms.

The next day?

He’s fine.

“That guy was weird, but I gave him my sandwich. He cried. I cried. We’re friends now.”

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17: 

“Okay, look. If you’re real. If you’re out there. Just… tap something. Whisper. Blink twice mentally.”

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

You become excellent at mental firewalling. He starts testing you.

“Do you like meat? Just tell me that. I won’t track you down. Probably. If you don’t respond in 3 seconds, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and go commit arson in your honor.”

Eventually, he starts talking to you the way people talk to their diaries; with sarcasm and later, sincerity.

That’s when things get complicated.

Because, behind all the reckless noise and weird thoughts about trying to headbutt a sea emperor, there’s this ache. This softness you weren’t expecting. He starts wondering out loud if he deserves a soulmate. Starts apologizing when he’s angry. Tells you about Luffy, about Sabo, and his untimely death (you sob for hours). About the fire in his chest that never quite goes out.

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

But you don’t. You can’t. You know what kind of people hunt soulmates, especially ones with D. in their name. If the Navy finds you, they’ll use you. If pirates find you, they’ll sell you. And if Ace finds you?

...You don’t know what he’d do. But it’d probably involve grinning, dramatic declarations, and upsetting explosions.

So, instead, you run. You hide. You exist in the margins. You watch from the edges of the news whenever you hear about Whitebeard’s crew. You silently cheer when you read about them protecting islands and sinking slaver ships.

You almost cry the first time Ace calls you “my tether.” And then he follows it with “which sounds weird and kinda kinky, but spiritually accurate.”

You throw a spoon across the room.

You talk to him for the first time—really talk to him—when you’re seventeen.

It’s been eleven years of chaotic background noise. Of pirate shenanigans, shirtless bragging, impromptu wrestling matches, and unsolicited thoughts about meat, knives, ghosts, fire, and, occasionally, emotional devastation disguised as jokes.

You’ve learned to compartmentalize him. A psychic raccoon rummaging around your mental trash cans. Sometimes loud, sometimes weirdly insightful. Always there.

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

You don’t even know what triggers it. You’re just heading home, a basket of bread in one hand, the sun warm on your shoulders, when suddenly the world goes sideways.

“Why does it keep happening?”

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s broken. Quiet. He’s not performing. Not cracking jokes. Just sitting somewhere, talking to no one. Maybe himself.

Maybe you.

“I keep losing everyone.” A breath. “First Sabo. Now the Spade Pirates.” He swallows hard. You feel it in your ribs. “I try to be good. But…”

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

Right there. In the middle of the road. The wind is gentle. Your throat is not.

You hesitate. For too long. Long enough to almost let it pass.

“You do.”

The word is small. Just one. But it slams into him like a cannonball.

“WH—NO WAY.” His voice skyrockets into disbelief. “You talked again! You—you heard all of that?! Forget it! UNHEAR IT. I sounded like a tragic romance novel. I need a redo.”

You roll your eyes.

“You sounded like a dumbass in pain. Which is slightly better than your usual dumbass setting.”

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

“Wait—WAIT—this is real. You’re real. You’re not dead or a voice invented by head trauma or—wait, you’re not a tree, right? I once emotionally confessed to a tree. It didn’t answer.”

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I am not a tree. You absolute himbo.”

He makes a sound like he’s been physically electrocuted with joy. And just like that, Ace starts beaming across your bond. Not literally, but it feels like light. Like heat. Like a bonfire on a cold night that you didn’t realize you’d needed.

“This is the best day of my life. Please marry me. Or at least tell me your name. Or insult me again. I’d take any of those.”

You don’t give him your name. Not yet.

But you do say, “I’m not ready for you to find me.”

He pauses. Then softens.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ve got time. Just don’t disappear again, alright?”

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’. 

You quietly wonder if it’s a strip club or a cult.

But now, you’re curious, committed, and listening at metaphoric windows in his mind palace. The crack in your own mental door widens. Just enough that you know unconsciously are transmitting some spare thoughts. 

Enough that you may accidentally transmit more details than you intend.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even a thought meant for him. It’s a snort. Of all things. A quiet, private, mental snort of disbelief.

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

Fake names. Remote towns. A personal blacklist of any island that’s ever whispered “Whitebeard.” You were disciplined. Focused. Determined not to let your soulmate ruin your peace.

Because you knew too much.

You’d heard his thoughts since childhood—unfiltered, uninvited, and deeply, profoundly stupid. You’d heard him fart. Cry. Argue with seagulls. Wonder aloud if crabs feel jealousy. You’d built up a mental image of a human raccoon with fire powers and the emotional depth of a wet sock.

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

When you see it, you’re at a sleepy little port, casually browsing a message board for work. A wanted poster with a familiar name.

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

Expression: A curl at this lips lifting up like sin.

The creature is hot.

And a pirate. 

But more important— He’s unethically hot. Shirt-open, jaw-sharp, lean-muscle, freckles-like-a-gift-from-God hot.

You envisioned a gremlin with muscles and zero self-preservation. You expected a 6-foot-tall disaster man held together by ego, duct tape, and barbecue sauce.

But this?

And he is divine punishment in man form. Shirt half-buttoned (barely). Freckles like stardust. Muscles that have never known a shirt that fits. A smile that should be federally regulated. 

And dimples. Dimples. 

He looks like he rolled out of a bonfire, forgot what a brush is, and still makes grown adults walk into walls. He looks like someone who would text “You up?” at 2 AM, and mean it platonically, then absolutely ruin your life in bed.

You sit on a bench. You stare at the poster. The wind rustles. Somewhere, someone sneezes.

You mutter, “Oh no. He’s hot. I am so screwed.”

Because now there’s a problem.

You’ve spent over a decade building immunity to his personality.

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

Ace is halfway through fighting a sea king when it hits. He literally pauses mid-punch.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “They noticed me.”

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

He beams like the sun just kissed him. He fights a sea king out of pure euphoria. He gives a romantic speech to a palm tree.

And when he laughs—low and rough, like warm honey with a death wish—your brain short-circuits.

And he lets you have it.

“Hey!” Even his mentally transmitted voice is a problem. Sleep-rough and smug, “Miss me, baby? Bet you were thinking about me again. Don’t lie—I felt it. You feel really pretty in your head. Want me to walk you through it again?”

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works. 

Because Ace is a wildfire in human skin and bad decisions.

And worst of all?

He knows.

“I’ll let you touch the V-line if you say please.”

You’ve considered hurling yourself overboard more than once. But unfortunately, Ace can swim in your head. And he’s always shirtless when he gets there. You’ve moved ten times. Changed names. Changed continents.

Ace? Unbothered. Thriving. Intensifying. He starts taking notes. (They’re mostly unreadable. But it’s the effort.) He’s narrowed it down. He knows you’re alive and that you move often. That you’ve been dodging fate with Olympic-level skill.

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

“You’ve been dodging destiny like a pro. Damn. Marry me.” Now he daydreams about meeting you mid-brawl. Or during a cursed artifact heist.

Or stealing the same apple off a rooftop and locking eyes like, “So… this is awkward.”

He doesn’t want a perfect moment. He wants you. Your weird live-stock obsessed brain and all.

And you? You still think he’s reckless, loud, and infuriating. But… maybe…Just maybe…He’s exactly your kind of problem.

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

He gets slapped into a rock. He barely notices. He is too busy grinning like a moron.

That’s it.

That’s the moment he decides: He is going to find you.

Before, it was passive curiosity. Now? It’s an obsession. Amusement. Intrigue. Hope.

Someone sarcastic. Someone real. Someone who thinks he’s an idiot (correct). Someone who sounds more like a human person than a divine blessing.

He’s doomed.

He starts doing things he never used to do. Asking questions. Collecting rumors. Not of his soulmate, because no one knows what he’s after, but about soulmates, connections, and how the hell does anyone find each other if they don’t want to?

You dyed your hair the moment his emotional compass started pinging your hometown. You moved when he began fantasizing about coastal bars.

You became an urban legend. The myth. The whisper. That one girl who’s just not answering back.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate has a reputation. He’s one of those with A Silent Bond’. Pirates dare him to try to find you. He drinks too much sometimes and mutters, “She’s real. I know she is.” Someone once asked if maybe you died.

He said, “She didn’t. She’s just better at this than me.”

And you are.

But lately, the voice has been quiet. Too quiet.

Which is why, one night, halfway through brushing your teeth, a warm, raspy thought slips into your skull like a dagger wrapped in velvet, "I think I found your hometown, but you’re already gone...You win… this time. But if I see you, I’m still keeping you."

And you choke on your toothbrush.

The next mistake in your proverbial abode being invaded comes quickly.

He first catches a glimpse of you by accident. And it ruins him for days.

The bond has always been mostly one-sided. Him shouting into the abyss, you offering the occasional snarky whisper like some irritated brain ghost with boundary issues. You’ve never slipped. You’ve never let anything real through. 

Until that day.

You were distracted. Tired. In the middle of patching a leak in your roof, your arms are covered in sap, and your soul is covered in rage because the only thing worse than your soulmate yelling about meat in your head is leaky ceilings during monsoon season.

And then, just for a flicker, you thought something too loudly.

You didn’t mean to. You were yelling internally about your ladder being possessed and made of evil wood spirits. You were furious with gravity. You were sweaty, sore, and covered in twigs.

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

Not fully. Just a snapshot, like the first page of a dream:

Sunlight streaking through wet leaves. Your face in half-shadow, eyes squinting up at a broken shingle. A smear of dirt across your cheek. Mouth pressed flat in focus. Your hand raised to swipe your brow, wrist wrapped in a red ribbon that was probably nothing but made his whole chest ache.

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

Not like the kind of “hot” he was always joking about. Not bartender-curvy or saloon-pretty or the fantasy women his crewmates dreamt up. You looked real.

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

The whisper was involuntary. Barely a word. More like a reverent exhale.

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it. 

You felt the moment he saw. The way the tether between your minds trembled, like it had finally aligned. Like it was no longer just a voice.

It had eyes. And they saw you.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, a little broken. “You’re real. You’re—”

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

You didn’t talk to him again for two weeks.

And Ace?

Ace spent those two weeks walking around like a man hit by divine lightning.

He tried drawing your face from memory. Failed. Got angry. Started sketching again. Asked Thatch if he’d ever had a religious experience involving a hammer-wielding forest nymph and a red ribbon.

Everyone thought he was concussed.

Marco eventually sat him down and asked if he'd been cursed by a wood sprite. Ace just stared at the table and whispered, “She’s incredible.” And because he’s somehow managed to wedge a figurative foot in the door jam, he gets more glimpses.

It happens at night.

You’re alone, exhausted, curled up in a too-small bed on a too-small island that doesn’t even have proper plumbing. There’s a storm outside, thunder heavy and close, and you’ve been pretending all day that you aren’t upset.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You lie there, trembling. Not with fear. Just with the quiet, suffocating ache of trying to stay strong all the time. And that’s when your thoughts falter.

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

Like a flash through water. You. In the dark. Hunched over your own arms. Quietly crying into a pillow.

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

Soft and honest and completely unguarded. The window next to your bed is cracked open. The candle is burning low. Your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to the world.

You don’t even think of his name. But you feel him. And that’s worse.

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches in that stolen second, completely still, as his chest fills with something heavy, protective, and utterly unhinged.

He sees you. The real you.

Not just the sharp voice. Not the teasing distance. But the person beneath it all. Fragile. Furious. Lonely.

“You don’t feel safe,” he realizes. “You don’t feel safe anywhere.”

You snap the bond shut again the second you feel him. It slams so hard he physically stumbles back on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

He doesn’t chase the bond. Not right away. He just sits there, staring into the storm, heart pounding like a drum.

And then, very softly, he whispers to no one.

“You don’t ever have to be alone again, you know. Not with me.”

You huff in annoyance, trying to pull the mental shutters down like you're closing a damn window, but no matter how much you lock them, he's still there, pressing against the edges of your thoughts like he's trying to squeeze through a crack. And damn it, it’s working. His mental presence fills the spaces you’ve tried so hard to keep him out of, and now you can’t stop yourself from giving him all these little snippets of your mind, no matter how much you want to.

And goddamn it, when he decides to stay on your stoop, refusing to budge, there's only so much you can do—the nerve of him. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t back off, even when your mental voice tells him to just leave. He likes hearing your rambling nonsense, which makes you even more annoyed.

But it’s not just that. It’s the gems he’s pulling from you now. The stupid thoughts you can’t quite hide. Like that one, for example. You thought, just for a second, that the man who joined the Whitebeard's crew was somehow more interested in your bond, for the social aspect of it all. Like maybe he'd just stumbled into your mental space for the friendship and sweet, sweet no-escape bonding time, right? 

It’s not completely irrational, right? Maybe a little delusional, but not out there. A guy that big with all that muscle? You really didn’t expect him to fit the “faithful romantic hero” trope—especially with “pirate” as his job title. He’s probably out there throwing hands and other things in every port he visits.

And every time something even remotely flirtatious crosses his mind, you bolt like your brain’s on fire, diving into farm animal facts just to avoid that embarrassing knowledge about what his hormones are up to behind closed doors.

He’s just not interested in you, carnally at least. Why would he be? You’re... you. He’s a famous pirate, a literal fire-bending golden retriever with abs and a fleet. He’s probably got a sexy fishwoman in every port. Hell, you'd fold for a sexy fishwoman, so why shouldn’t he?

But of course, he chooses the worst possible time to clarify. While you’re shopping. In public.

A thought slams into your brain like a meteor dipped in honey and sin.

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

You physically jolt, and the egg vendor takes a step back. “You good?”

You nod, staring into the void. Because that voice—the one you haven’t heard in weeks—is suddenly awake. Smug. Dangerous.

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

“You’ve been dodging me for years like a criminal with a crush. You flinched when you saw my poster. You think I didn’t feel that spark? I felt your thirst, babe. It came through like a punch to the solar plexus.”

You grip the egg basket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You think I’m not interested? I’ve been tracking your emotional wreckage like a lovesick bloodhound with ADHD and a lighter.”

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five damn minutes,” He practically screams, “And stop thinking about goats. Or cows. Or whatever weird barnyard tangent you go off on when you panic.”

You mentally scream, LIVESTOCK IS A COMFORTING TOPIC, and he laughs out loud in your brain.

It’s a warm, rough laugh that slides down your spine like a sin you weren’t ready to commit.

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

“You think I’m not interested? Baby, I’ve imagined every version of you. Sarcastic. Half-dressed. Mud-covered. Covered in nothing but one of my shirts and bad intentions.”

Your ears go red.

“I’ve had to apologize to my crew for zoning out during a sea battle because you accidentally had a fantasy about kissing someone else. I almost torched an island.”

You drop your entire egg basket this time. Gone, like your dignity.

You storm home.

Slamming the door behind you, you flop onto your bed and shout into a pillow,

 “STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

 “Only if you stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

You assumed he was a eunuch. Fair. No normal man could be that energetic, that unhinged, that relentless without sacrificing something vital. There was no way a person who routinely set himself on fire for fun had enough blood left in his body to maintain… well, anything.

You’d once muttered aloud—after a particularly violent surge of his soul-linked thoughts.

“If this lunatic isn’t a eunuch, I’ll eat my shoe.”

To which the voice responded, chipper as ever, “Well, hope it’s chocolate-flavored, sweetheart, because I’m very much not a eunuch.” You rolled your eyes. Typical. He’d flirt with a cactus. It didn’t mean anything. But then, just after you bathed, exhausted and trying to sleep, he struck again.

The vivid mental image. Unsolicited. Graphic. Uncomfortably detailed. And so clear, it might as well have been seared directly onto the backs of your eyelids.

He wasn’t just not a eunuch. He was… a menace.

“Still think I’m not working, baby? Want me to describe how I’d use my very functional anatomy, or do you want a slideshow? Actually, hang on—let me tilt the angle. You’re not appreciating the scale.”

You tried to block him. You really did. But Ace had never once been deterred by logic, shame, or psychic boundaries. If anything, he doubled down.

“Hey, you’re the one who said I was built like a vending machine. Just thought I’d show you the snacks.”

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

Hated that he was now giving himself full permission to know just how feral he was.

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

He could do things if you just sat still for five minutes.

He says it like a threat. Like a promise. Like he’s been waiting.

And you know he means it. Because every time you try to ignore him—every time you stubbornly pretend he’s not whispering sinful nonsense in your brain—he doubles down.

“Five minutes, sweetheart. That’s all I need. No interruptions, no running, no sassing. Just you, breathless and mine.”

You scoffed at first. Called him delusional. Told him to go flirt with a rock.

But Ace?

Ace just purred. 

“See, look at how you're so pent up, baby. I told you. Five minutes, baby. Sit still, and I’ll show you what it feels like when someone actually knows you.”

His words crawl through your mind like fire, igniting every nerve. You try to push them away, but it's useless. Ace has never been one to leave you alone, not when he’s this determined.

He’s not just talking. He’s implying, and it’s maddening. You could feel it in the way he speaks, like every word is a thread pulling you closer to something you know you’re not ready for.

But god, part of you wonders if you’re wrong. What would it feel like to finally just give in? To stop pretending you aren’t as affected as he’s been telling you?

You’re teetering on the edge. One more push, and you’ll fall.

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

“I’ve been dreaming about you for years. I’ve had practice.”

It’s maddening. Every time he gets quiet, you miss him. Every time he returns, you want to strangle him.

And now you’re terrified. Because someday, inevitably, you’re going to sit still. Just for five minutes.

And if there’s one thing you are when you’re mad and emotionally cornered, it’s petty as hell. You ghosted this man for the sin of saying boobies. Now, for trying to mentally fondle yours? You’re going nuclear.

So, you go on dates. Ace live-commentates them in your head like a sports announcer with ADHD.

“Bro. His hands are sweaty. You gonna kiss that? Ask him who his favorite pirate is. If it’s not me, stab him. What is this guy’s deal with anchovies? Are you safe??”

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

But you’re done. Emotionally. Mentally. Hormonally.

You’ve spent your entire adolescence haunted by the gremlin thoughts of a pirate you’ve never met. You’ve heard his opinions on soup, his guilty cries over cartoons, and more than one deeply concerning mental image involving rope.

So, you decide—quietly, pettily, desperately—that you’re going to break the bond by seducing a perfectly nice, boring man with great shoulders and zero mess.

Everything is set.

You’re wearing something cute but functional. You’ve got dinner plans. The guy is sweet. Polite. Zero war crimes. You even lit a candle, for atmosphere.

You’re about to lean in and kiss him when—

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Ace’s voice slams into your skull like a full-volume spiritual airhorn.

You blink.

The nice man asks if you’re okay, looking at you like you might suddenly sprout a second head.

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

“NOPE. UNACCEPTABLE. THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HE APOLOGIZES BEFORE HE CUMS. IS THIS BECAUSE I MENTIONED THE CRAB DREAM? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS MIDDLE NAME—DOES HE EVEN HAVE ONE? WHAT IF IT’S TERRY?”

You try to push him out. Focus. The man touches your hand gently.

“I WILL SET HIM ON FIRE. I HAVE FIRE HANDS.”

You exhale slowly and say aloud, “Please don’t set him on fire.”

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It is not nothing. It is a Sun God with no boundaries, loudly critiquing your sexual choices.

“I swear to GOD if he touches your waistband I’m going to hex his bloodline into extinction.”

You try again. Focus.

The man leans forward. He kisses your neck. It’s fine. It’s… nice.

And in your head?

“I HOPE HE FALLS OFF A DOCK TOMORROW AND GETS STUNG BY A SPITEFUL SHRIMP. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIS HAIR. YOU’RE JUST DOING THIS OUT OF SPITE. YOU MONSTER. PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON BEFORE I WRITE A POEM ABOUT YOU OUT LOUD AND GET TATTOOED IN YOUR HONOR.”

The worst part?

You’re laughing. On your own bed. At the same time, a very confused man is gently trying to undo your shirt.

He stops, blinking. “Uh... are you... Okay?”

You wave him off. “It’s not you. I’m—ha—just mentally haunted.”

He leaves. 

Kindly. 

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

“So. Virginity status: Intact. Thanks to me. You're welcome. I’m a public service, honestly. Now that we’ve established that, can you PLEASE just let me take care of this properly and not with whatever beige sponge you dragged out of the alleyway?”

You groan.

He whistles.

“That better not have been a moan unless it was for me.”

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

“Don’t be mad,” Ace said, smug and unrepentant. “It’s not my fault you’re mine…And if I have to monologue in your head for six hours straight to keep you from letting some weak-jawed idiot put his hands on you, I will. Seriously, babe. All I’m asking is for you to wait until I can ruin you properly.”

You nearly screamed. Again.

And because you're a petty bitch with no control over things anymore, you decide to become mean. After all, it’s the only weapon left in your emotional arsenal.

You shut him out. Well, you try to. But you know it’s a cold war now. It’s inevitable. And your first strike? Completely accidental. As you stew in your indignation, a thought slips out—just a little too loud in your head.

“You’re like a damn stray dog that can’t stop following me. You’re lucky I don’t just leave you in the middle of the alley behind the Shimotsuki market and let the cats handle you.” You send a strong mental image of the said alley just to rub it in his face.

There’s a long, tense silence.

You feel something, but it’s so fleeting you can’t quantify it until he doesn’t reply. 

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

Which, to be fair, is on brand. He feels like the kind of man who would sulk about you not liking the exact ratio of buttons on his open shirt.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself this was good. Mental distance was good. Silence was peace. You didn’t need the constant horny peanut gallery in your brain, anyway.

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

You could finally wear skirts without worrying about mental commentary like: “Babe. That hemline? You’re gonna cause weather.”

And because you're a certified bitch, you can’t casually reach out. That’s what you tell yourself, anyhow.

You didn’t know how to reach out. You didn’t even want to. You just kept your mental door cracked open a titch and hoped he was somewhere being dramatic about the situation with a drink in hand.

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

Because here’s the thing. That little “alleyway” verbal slap and mental image of a sad little garbage can? That wasn’t just a mean thought. You hadn’t realized it, but you had just transmitted an image of your direct location straight to him.

It was a soul-bond breadcrumb. A signal flare. A bullseye on your very mortal, very sexy location.

And Ace? Ace is a feral golden retriever with boobs radar and emotional tunnel vision.

The second you let that thought leak? He started sailing.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re still sitting there, pretending you don’t care, when in reality, you’ve unknowingly painted a target on yourself. You don’t know that Ace, with his relentless persistence, is already closing in.

You have no idea that the moment your mental slip happened, he was already at the helm of his ship, grinning like a maniac.

And you’re still sitting there, blissfully unaware, believing that silence is your reluctant victory.

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

You don’t answer. Is it because you were relieved and had tears in your eyes? Of course not, and if it were true, you wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course, you’re outside, being a human being and trying to be normal, so you look like a loon.

You glance around the street like someone’s going to see you talking to no one, looking like a total mess. You try to pull yourself together, pretending nothing's happening. Maybe you’re just a little shaken. But that’s fine.

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Ace?”

“You mad I went quiet?”

You cross your arms in the street, and a grunt escapes. A small child asks her mother if your mad or constipated.

He laughs.

“No worries,, babe, no hard feelings.” And there it is. That smug edge creeping back into his voice.

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

And you can hear the grin before he says the next words.

“Bet you missed me though.”

You can feel your eye twitching. This asshole. He's already won. Again.

“You’re impossible.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. I missed you too.”

You take a deep breath and hold back the mental floodgates.

You try to ignore the fact that your heartbeat’s a little faster than normal, that you’re fighting the urge to scream because you know what's coming.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it makes you want to throw your wallet at the wall and hope a racoon doesn’t scurry off with it.

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

“You know," he continues, voice oozing with smugness, "I was just busy, sweetheart. You know, tracking you. No big deal.”

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

The reality hit you like a freight train, its weight crashing into your chest. You hadn’t just let him know where you were with that stupid, careless mental slip—he’d been actively following your every move for a month. The very thought felt like you’d been exposed in ways you couldn’t possibly come back from.

The worst part? You couldn't even fight it. You knew exactly what he meant. You knew. The heat of his gaze, the way his presence lingered like a shadow over your thoughts. It was all too familiar, too dangerous.

And it felt mortifying.

You’d been trying to escape him, trying to block him out, yet all it took was a single slip-up—an image, a mental breadcrumb—and he was back, right where he wanted to be.

Without even realizing it, you screamed inside your head, “YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.”

The laugh that followed reverberated through your mind, deep and smooth, like it had always belonged there.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

A heat, a wave that crashed against your skin like a sudden fever. The air seemed to shift. A flicker of danger, like lightning before the storm. It was that hurricane’s grin, that sun-warmed sin, wrapping itself around you like an invisible tether. You didn’t know whether to run or stay, but somehow, your feet were rooted to the ground.

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

Tall. Sun-kissed skin that looked like it had been burned by more than just the sun. His shirt was partially undone, revealing just enough of his chest to make your heart skip a beat. It looked like a war crime in the making.

And somehow, somehow, he was even hotter in person.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, mouth half-open, like a cat caught peeing on the rug. Was this real? Were you really standing in front of him, the man who had haunted your thoughts for weeks, months? You tried to form a sentence, tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless, “...You... You’re real?”

That smirk. That all-knowing, impossibly smug smirk. He tilts his head.

“You gonna say hi? Or just keep pretending you didn’t hurt your own feelings more when you’re trying to hurt mine?”

Your brain short-circuits.

You attempt something vaguely resembling a sentence, but it comes out more like, “What the hell are you—how did you even—this is illegal.”

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

“Soulmates, baby. And that pretty distinctive mental image you flung at me like a broom. Shimotsuki Market. Very unique. Very trackable.”

You’re about to hurl something—anything—at him, so you grab your wallet off your hip and throw it at him. It's a reflex, a desperate attempt to do something other than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot.

He catches it effortlessly. Not even a flinch. Not a hint of struggle. Just that damn smile, like he’s deeply pleased with himself, and unfortunately, his smugness is also hot.

You try to walk past him, determined to regain some semblance of control. But of course, he steps right in front of you, blocking your path without a second thought.

“You ghosted me for years, babe. Years. I didn’t even know if you had a face. Now you do. And it’s a really cute one. So. Hi.”

You freeze. The air between you crackles with tension. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you don’t.

You can’t. Not when he’s standing there, blocking the way out, with that impossible grin plastered on his face like he owns the world—and, apparently, your mind. 

You want to hit him. Yell at him. But all you can manage is a shaky exhale, your pulse racing, your chest tight. You turn on your heel, desperate to escape, speedwalking back to some semblance of sanity. You shove past him, making it look like you’re in control.

“Rude,” he mutters, his voice laced with amusement. “But hot.”

You keep walking, determined. You’re going to get out of here. But of course, he follows.

“You’ve got a cute limp when you’re mad. Did you know that? We should talk. Or fight. Or make out. Up to you.”

Your hands ball into fists. But you don’t stop. You duck into the alley behind the shop, hoping the cramped space might give you an edge.

He follows you like a cursed Disney prince with a death wish. You whirl around, practically snarling.

“What do you want?”

He stops. The grin fades, just a little. He shrugs, casual, like he hasn’t just been stalking you for a month. But it’s not casual. It’s like he’s pulling back a little, trying to act nonchalant while wearing a smug look that says everything.

“I want you,” he says, his voice lowering. “I want to know your name. Your voice. What you actually sound like when you’re not yelling at me in your brain.”

For a split second—just one—you forget to be mad.

You forget you ever tried to run.

You’re staring at him now, and for a brief moment, there’s no anger, no desire to escape, just... him.

But then reality crashes back in.

And without thinking, you reach into your bag, grabbing the dried herbs you’ve been carrying for no particular reason, and hurl a handful straight at his face. You don’t even register what you’ve done until they’re in the air, the sharp scent of crushed rosemary and thyme filling the space between you.

You don’t wait to see the result. You sprint. Your legs move faster than your thoughts, driven by a primal instinct to get away.

Behind you, you hear him cough. Then, his laugh—rich and dark, echoing through the alleyway. “You really think you can outrun me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even slow down. You’re not scared; you're simply trying to outpace the impossible situation you've somehow found yourself in. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat louder than the last. But the truth weighs heavily on you: you know you can’t outrun him.

He laughs again. It’s a sound that rumbles through the air, low and confident, like he’s enjoying every second of this chase. “You’re gonna be so much fun.”

The words shoot through you like lightning, but you keep running, pushing your body faster, forcing yourself forward, through the winding streets, away from the port, desperate for a glimpse of safety.

But he’s already there, lurking just out of sight, like a shadow that follows no matter how fast you move.

You dodge down side alleys, weaving through crowds of strangers, your mind running through possible escape routes, trying to think ahead. You board random ships, desperate for anything that might carry you away from him. You even bribe a fruit vendor with a handful of coins, praying it’ll distract him long enough for you to catch your breath.

And still, Ace finds you.

You dart into a nunnery, desperate for sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind you like a barricade. You take a moment to collect yourself—twelve minutes, exactly, to hide in the silence. But when you peek outside, the inevitable happens.

He’s standing at the nunnery’s threshold, his grin wide and unrepentant, as if he’s never been bothered by anything in his life. He looks like he’s enjoying this chase a little too much, like the mere fact that he’s found you is some twisted game he’s winning. The game where you run, and he—always—follows.

You round a corner in a port city two islands later and hear it. 

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

You freeze, your feet stumbling over one another. Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel like a punch to the gut, the sound of them lingering in your bones. You try to move, but your body betrays you. You trip over your own foot, slamming into a nearby barrel to catch yourself.

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

Ace. Leaning against a post, relaxed, shirt half-open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His sun-kissed skin glows in the warmth of the midday sun, freckles scattered across his chest like stars in a dark sky. The sunlight seems to conspire against you, highlighting every inch of him, making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s effortlessly cool—effortlessly here.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t need to. He just stands there, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, looking at you like he’s already won.

“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

You throw a rock at him. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He dodges it with ease, like he’s seen it coming a mile away. His smile only grows wider, smug and victorious. “Not even a little.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears, your muscles aching from the running, but you don’t stop. You take off again, sprinting into the bustling marketplace. The vibrant colors of the stalls blur past you as you run faster, heart hammering against your ribs.

But he’s still right there.

He follows you, but it’s different now. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the casual grace of a predator, strolling through the crowd like he owns it. His eyes never leave you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a brand, marking you as his.

And then the worst part happens.

The locals start noticing. They cheer, like they’re watching a game, their eyes tracking the two of you with growing excitement.

One woman shouts, “GET HER, PIRATE BOY!”

You wince, a knot tightening in your stomach as the crowd roars in approval. You can’t outrun the attention now. It’s everywhere. The eyes of the city are on you, and in a moment of absurd clarity, you realize they’re rooting for him.

“Great,” you mutter, grinding your teeth together, the sound of your frustration mingling with the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

Ace grins wider, clearly relishing the bedlam he’s created. The man never stops. Never slows.

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

You vault over a fruit stand, your legs pushing you forward in a burst of desperate energy. It’s not graceful, but you’re fast—too fast to think. You hear Ace whistle, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Nice form. You always this athletic or is it just when you’re running from your problems—me—specifically?”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, and duck into a tavern kitchen, praying the staff are too busy to notice your disheveled, panicked entrance. The staff barely blinks as you slip past them, already halfway through the back door when—

He appears again.

Now he’s casually eating an apple, like he wasn’t just doing parkour across balconies and dodging flying fruit. He takes a slow bite, watching you with that maddening, self-satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

He doesn’t grab you this time. He doesn’t need to.

He just traps you.

He’s standing too close. That smile—sinful, smug, all-consuming—is never far from his lips.

“You done?” he asks, his voice low, amused.

You glare up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse quickening with the weight of it all. “No.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that crawls up your spine like heat. "Good."

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

It’s slow. Intentional. His breath brushes against your cheek. He whispers, his voice sliding against your ear like a stolen secret.

“Keep running if you want. I don’t mind.”

You feel the weight of his words, pressing in like a warning.

“Chasing you’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

And then the sucker punch:

“But eventually… sweetheart, you’re gonna trip.”

You freeze. For a moment, your knees go weak, and your brain short-circuits, like someone’s cut the power to your mind. You’re standing there, so close to him, your body fighting against every urge to lean in, to finally give in to the pull.

You almost kiss him. Out of spite. Out of sheer frustration. Almost.

Instead, you throw a spoon right into his face. It clangs loudly against his cheek, and you make a break for it, leaping through the window with as much grace as you can muster.

“WORTH IT!” he yells behind you, his voice loud and triumphant as it echoes down the alley.

You run. Because you can’t stop. You won’t stop. Not until you’ve lost him for good.

But in the back of your mind, there’s something else. A tug. A pull. The taste of his words still lingering in your thoughts.

-CAUGHT-

By nightfall, he’s still following you. Somehow. Unbothered by your death glares, your total silence, or the fifteen attempts you made to accidentally lead him into thorn bushes. He compliments the flora. Bleeds cheerfully.

You’re huffing, exhausted and borderline panicked, your legs aching from the constant running. You can feel your nerves fraying, the last vestiges of your patience worn thin. You’ve been at this for hours, your mind screaming at you to find a way to lose him, but no. There he is. Ten steps behind, like some kind of relentless golden retriever on a leash, with that insufferable, charming grin plastered on his face.

Ace looks pristine. The dirt doesn’t seem to cling to him. His hair’s a little tousled, sure, but it’s still perfect. His skin glows in the low light, and you can practically see the smugness radiating off him, his eyes dancing like he’s having the time of his life.

“You’re picturing me naked again, huh?” he says, his voice like molten honey, lazy and confident. “That’s the third time today. Just say the word, babe, and I’ll come up shirtless and apologetic.”

You growl low in your throat, gritting your teeth as you quicken your pace. This is not happening.

“Oh no,” he whispers in your mind, his voice slipping through like silk, dangerously smooth. “Was that... foreplay?”

You did not just…

The rage inside you flares, hot and violent, and you snap, throwing a rock at him. It’s the first thing you can grab, and the action is pure, unrefined anger.

You watch it sail through the air, and you’re almost satisfied with the aim, the sound of it connecting with him. But then you realize something.

He let it hit him.

You stand there, frozen in place, while he groans from the dirt, propping himself up on one elbow, still grinning like a damn idiot. And you, for some unknown reason, feel terrible.

He’s laughing.

“You know,” he says, brushing the dust off his clothes like this is the most fun he’s ever had, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, babe. You’ve got a hell of a right hook. Still hot as fuck though.”

You say nothing. Your brain has blue-screened. You’re physically incapable of processing this absurdity, this entire situation that you’ve been dragged into.

“You’re—wow. You’re stunning. And you’re standing there. And you’re not yelling at me or hating me or vanishing into mist.”

Still nothing. Your dignity is buffering, on its last thread.He blinks, his smile widening even more, if that’s even possible.

“Unless you are mist. I did hit my head pretty hard. Are you mist?”

You force the words out, your throat feeling dry. “No. Just disappointed.”

His grin widens—widens. Like he’s won something.

“Oh, thank god. That sounds like you.”

You try. You really try to stay composed, but he stands up, all sun-kissed skin and scars, the epitome of absolute menace. You feel your soul leave your body with a little ‘whoosh’ noise. And then, like he’s really not going to let you have any peace, he pulls a small, slightly squished bouquet from his pocket.

“I brought flowers,” he says, holding them out to you with an innocent grin that makes you want to scream. “Sat on them a bit during the fall. But they’re yours. Please accept them and also my eternal devotion.”

You take the flowers. Your hands are trembling, and you hate it.

You hate that you’re standing here, accepting flowers from this ridiculous, insufferable man. But, God, you hate even more that he’s standing there looking like a golden retriever with a heart the size of the sun—hot, fire-punching, fate-cursed, sweet as hell.

And worst of all? You hate that you like it.

You hate that you might even like him. Because, unfortunately, he’s a cutie. A dumb, fire-punching, fate-cursed cutie. And you’re just so screwed.

You flee, again.

Not in the dramatic, cloak-flapping, “I shall vanish into the mist” way you always thought you’d flee your soulmate—no, it’s more like a dignified power walk with panicked footnotes. You grab your satchel, muttering something about needing air, and fast-walk directly into the woods, hoping that the isolation of nature might give you a temporary reprieve from the storm of chaotic thoughts in your head.

But you’re not prepared for the soft voice behind you.

“Want me to carry that?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn, and there he is, right there, as if he’d materialized from the very forest around you. His freckles glow in the dying light, shirt offensively open like he’s trying to challenge every ounce of your self-control. The flowers—crumpled and hopeless—are still in your hand. And the other is already reaching for your bag like this is just a casual joint grocery run, not a soul-rupturing disaster.

“No,” you say firmly, pulling the satchel closer to you like it contains the last remnants of your common sense.

“Right,” he nods, unfazed. “Emotional support bag. Got it.”

You start walking again, forcing yourself to keep your pace. Your legs carry you with a tension that suggests both urgency and defeat.

And, of course, he walks beside you. Casually. Like this is just another walk in the park, like he hasn’t just smashed through a tree, declared eternal devotion, and handed you mashed flowers. Like this is his first time seeing your face, even though it feels like the most significant moment of your life.

He hums, lazily surveying the woods around you. “Nice woods. Quiet. Great for internal screaming.”

You grit your teeth, trying to ignore him, but the temptation to throw him off the trail and let your frustration explode is too great.

“You should leave,” you say, half as a request, half as a warning.

“I know,” he responds, too casually. “But I won’t.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “That’s called stalking.”

“That’s called fate,” he replies, totally unbothered. “Also, I’m very polite about it.”

You open your mouth, about to argue, when he cuts you off, adding with a teasing smirk, “I brought snacks.”

You close your mouth, your will to argue draining out of you like sand through your fingers.

The two of you walk in silence, the tension thick but oddly comfortable, until you finally reach your small cabin. You stop, spin around, and give him a dramatic flourish meant to intimidate—one last attempt at asserting some control.

“You are not staying here.”

“I accept your terms,” he says, already ducking through the doorway as though it’s his place now. “Great porch. Would die here.”

He pauses, looks at you, and for a split second, the smug grin fades. His expression softens, just a touch.

“Not that I’m planning to,” he adds, and something about the sincerity behind those words makes your chest ache.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like you're losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Because no matter how many times you tell him to leave, every inch of him belongs here.

-Emotional Turning Point-

He fits himself into your life like he was always meant to be your super handsome supporting male lead, living on the fringes of your porch and decency.

You’re not sure how he does it; how Ace, with all his chaos and charm, has somehow managed to worm his way into your routine, making himself right at home without even trying. But there he is, lounging in that damn chair by your door, making himself part of your world with a grin that says he’s here to stay. He’s everywhere. Leaning in the doorway, poking his head through the window, eating snacks with that infuriatingly content grin on his face.

It’s not that you invited him in. Not really. But it’s almost like he was always meant to be a part of this life, somehow. You can’t get rid of him, and—goddammit—you don’t want to.

Every time you try to get some peace, there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe with an offhand comment that somehow worms its way under your skin. He feels like your life now, like some permanent addition, wrapped in the scent of summer and smoke, never asking for permission, always managing to make you feel like you’re the one who’s been missing something.

And it drives you crazy. But not the bad kind of crazy. The kind where you’re frustrated because you don’t want to admit you like this new reality.

He's also so kind. So genuinely good in a way that makes you want to rip your own heart out for how much you’re falling for it. He doesn’t just show up with a smug grin and a million dumb comments. Though, hell, he does plenty of that too, but there’s something in the way he’s just… there.

The way he notices the little things. The way he makes sure you’ve eaten, even when you try to hide it. The way he doesn’t just barge in but waits for you to ask, like he knows when to push and when to let you breathe. And the most infuriating part? He does it without expecting anything in return. He’s not keeping score. He’s not holding anything over your head. He just… cares.

Which is how, eventually, you find yourself giving in. You tell yourself it’s because there’s no other place for him to sleep. He can’t keep taking the porch chair, it’s too awkward. You tell yourself it’s because he’s not that bad, right? He’s harmless, right? Maybe having him in the guest room won’t be so terrible.

But you know the truth. You know you’ve softened. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re frustrated, the way he listens without interrupting. You’ve caught him quietly fixing the little things you forget; your broken door lock, the pile of laundry you’ve been meaning to fold. And you’ve realized, with a sickening sense of vulnerability, that you’ve let him in.

The guest room? That was just the final step. You’re a pathetic push-over, no denying it.

Because now he’s there. In your home. In your life. Not just as the irritating golden retriever you thought he was, but as the person who somehow made himself indispensable.

You snort, unable to hold back the laughter, the absurdity of it all finally catching up with you.

Ace beams beside you, that ever-present, infectious smile stretching across his face as if he’s just made the greatest revelation of all time. The night settles into a quiet rhythm, the tension from the past moments fading as he settles himself into your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ace? 

Ace stays.

He stays in the most inconvenient, inconveniently endearing way possible. His presence weaving itself into the fabric of your day like a persistent, sun-warmed thread that refuses to be untangled. No matter how much you try to brush him off, he’s there, in the most Ace way imaginable: full of warmth, full of disarray, full of ridiculousness.

And then, of course, he decides to hit you with it.

He tells you who his father is exactly one week after deciding not to die for vengeance and two days after setting your entire pantry on fire trying to toast bread with his hands. You’re crouched by the pantry door, diligently trying to patch up the mess he’s made, when he flops down beside you with that same blissful grin, the one that promises you’ll never know a moment’s peace.

“By the way,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, “my dad was the Pirate King.”

You freeze.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you slowly lower the patching materials, every muscle in your body tensing in complete shock. 

The pause feels like an eternity.

Then, ever so slowly, you turn your head to face him. He’s still looking at you like he’s dropped a bombshell, waiting for the reaction. You blink once. Twice. And then, to his evident surprise, you simply say, “Okay.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, your voice steady, your expression a carefully controlled mask. “Okay.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. “Like… you don’t care?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recalibrate your thoughts. “Do you steal children?” you ask, your voice flat, as though that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, feeling the tension in your chest finally begin to loosen. “Then I don’t care if you’re the son of the Pirate King, a dragon, or the sea itself with legs. Just stop bathing in front of me.”

Ace makes a sound, like a duck being struck by lightning, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “That was ONE TIME.”

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“You were singing.” You throw a wet cloth at his face without even looking at him, too tired to care about how ridiculous this is. “Also,” you add, as you wipe off the dust from your hands, “you have a birthmark. Not that I meant to see it. But it exists. And it is shaped like a banana.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He screams into the rag, the sound muffled and exaggerated, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

You keep working, the soft smile on your lips betraying the amusement you’re trying so hard to hide. You do care.

You care about the way he burns toast but guards your garden like it’s a castle. The way he talks in his sleep, thinking no one can hear him, and makes enough food for two even when you insist you’re fine on your own. The way he tried to give you his favorite dagger like it was a friendship bracelet—like you were meant to have it.

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter who his bloodline is. What matters is the idiot sitting beside you, grinning like he’s won the lottery and setting fire to his shirt trying to impress you by flexing in the sun. The one who, despite all the madness, somehow makes you feel like this chaotic, unexpected life is exactly what you need.

You might be losing the battle, but you’re definitely winning the war.

Ace knew he didn’t have a chance the first time he heard you spoke, and frankly, he’s never been one to deny fate.

Ace is the kind of guy who falls fast, and hard. And over simple things. It’s not a grand speech that changes him. Not a fight, not a dramatic stand in the rain, not a desperate plea to spare himself.

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

You make tea. You sweep the porch. You hang up wet laundry with that same quiet, suspicious side-eye you’ve been giving him since he crash-landed into your life like a shirtless meteor of emotional disorder. You don’t flirt. You don’t cry. You don’t tell him not to go. You just exist.

Like you’ve done for years, on the edge of war and wonder. Quiet. Clever. Alive.

And Ace?

He shatters.

Because now that he’s here, now that he knows your smile in real time and not just as a phantom curl behind his thoughts, now that he knows how you brew tea when you're nervous and fake a snort-laugh when you're amused and sleep with one hand under your pillow like you're still ready to flee.

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

And if he goes after Blackbeard alone, that’s exactly what will happen.

So one night, while you’re bent over your little garden, muttering at a weed like it owes you money, he sits on the porch with his legs dangling over the side. The moon makes him look soft. Barefoot. Real.

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

You don’t look up. Your hands are busy, pulling the stubborn weed from the soil, but you can feel the weight of his words like a distant thunderclap.

“Go where?”

“After Teach. Not alone.” He scratches at his hair, a rare softness in his voice. “I was gonna. I thought I had to. But then you made soup. And yelled at the laundry. And looked at me like I was a half-cracked egg someone left in the sun too long.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. You just finish pulling the weed from the ground and set it aside, carefully, as if there’s a cosmic balance you don’t want to disturb.

“That was not a look of affection,” you say dryly, still not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he grins, that damn grin that always makes your chest tighten. “But it made me realize I want to come back. I want someone to come back to.”

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

Portgas D. Ace, fire-fist terror of the seas, Whitebeard’s reckless son, walking natural disaster.

He’s sitting still. And choosing to just live.

For himself. For his crew. And, impossibly, for you.

“I told Marco,” he says, quieter now, his voice almost unrecognizable with the vulnerability slipping through. “Let someone else bring him in. Or all of us. I’m not rushing into a trap because I want to feel like I deserve punishment. I don’t want to prove anything anymore.”

You blink. His words hit you like a wave, but the truth of it doesn't settle immediately.

“So you’re just... not dying?” You ask, the question slipping out without meaning to.

“Apparently,” he shrugs, still with that casual bravado he carries around like armor. “Real inconvenient. I’d emotionally prepped for a tragic death arc.”

You finally meet his eyes, watching as his smile falters just a little, just enough to let you see the weight he’s been carrying. And you realize, in that moment, you’re no longer looking at the man who sought death to prove something. You’re looking at a man who finally decided that maybe he deserves to live.

For the first time, Ace isn’t running. He isn’t running from his past, from his fate, or from the bedlam inside him.

He’s sitting still.

And that, in its own way, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The silence between you is more than enough.

And as he sits there, beside you, in the quiet of your little garden and under the soft glow of the moon, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that Ace has made his choice.

He’s not dying for the sake of others anymore. Not for revenge, not for the memory of his father, not for any grand ideal.

He’s living. For himself. And, maybe, just maybe... for you too.

And for the first time, it feels like the weight of it all. His choices, his fate, the chaotic spiral he’s been trapped in has shifted. It’s lighter now, and somehow, so are you.

-The Climax-

The thing about being in love—actually in love—and having a soulmate who shares not just their heart, but their food, their dreams, and their increasingly unhinged commentary on everything from ocean weather to crab mating habits, is that eventually… you just give in.

You commit to the idea.

Not quietly. Not with grace. But with a dramatic, full-body sigh, hands thrown to the heavens like, “Fine, FINE, I guess I’ll be in love with you, you ridiculous golden retriever of a man.”

And that would be fine.

If he wasn’t so good at making you mad.

It starts innocently, as it always does, with Ace just being himself. Fixing broken stuff around your ship cabin without being asked. Replacing your rickety chair with one he definitely stole from somewhere nicer. Quietly fixing your shoes with leftover leather scraps. Roasting fish at sunrise and pretending it’s not for you, even though he offers the best cuts.

Which would be sweet. If he didn’t leer when you thanked him. If he didn’t lean in like, “See? You’d miss me if I died.”

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

You like the way he absentmindedly hums when the sea is calm. The way he throws himself between danger and his crew without hesitation. The way he frowns when your hands are cold and warms them between his palms without comment. The way he talks about you to others, thinking you’ll never hear.

(You always hear. The bond makes sure of it.)

So when he saunters up, shirt undone, grin weaponized, holding a handmade seashell hairpin like he didn’t just crawl out of the ocean like a romantic cryptid, you lose it. He’s always is taller than you realize, and broader too. All sun-kissed skin, tousled black hair, freckles like spilled sugar, and that damn grin—lazy, lethal, and soaked in the smug knowledge that he’s been living in your head rent-free for years.

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

That soul-warming, spine-tingling, irrational kind of fury that only one person in the world can summon from the depths of you just by existing.

Because how dare he.

How dare he worm his way into your life with that lazy grin and those too-soft glances when he thinks you’re not looking. How dare he make your heart thunder like a war drum just by standing there, shirt half-buttoned, freckles glowing like sin under the sun. How dare he know—know—how to soothe your anger and ignite it in the same breath.

And that’s when it happens.

That sharp inhale. That white-hot glare. That moment of eye contact held just a second too long.

He tilts his head. Smirks. You see it in his eyes; the gleam, the silent countdown to disaster. You know that look. That’s the look that means he's about to say something so stupidly hot it could derail your life and you'd still thank him for the wreckage.

You take a step back, instinctively.

He steps forward, all loose limbs and barely restrained heat, the picture of someone who’s already won.

“Run,” he says, voice all honey and heat, “and I’ll catch you.”

You snap.

You lunge. Not for anything romantic—no. For a punch. A real one. Right to that smug, pretty face.

You miss.

He doesn’t.

He catches your wrist like he was waiting for it, like he dreamed of this moment. His fingers curl around yours, warm and unshakable. You meet his gaze, ready to spit fire.

But he beats you to it.

“You’re everything,” he breathes, low and cracked. Like it hurts. Like it’s truth against his ribs. “Oh no. I’m so in love with you. I’m gonna ruin everything.”

You should run.

But your knees betray you, turning soft and stupid like seafoam on a summer shore. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, drowning out every sensible thought. And then—oh gods—he leans in, close enough for you to smell salt and smoke, and his fingers thread through your hair. He murmurs something too dirty for daylight, and that’s it.

You’re gone.

“Five minutes,” you rasp, voice ragged with want and fury. “That’s all you get. Bring the fire or shut up.”

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

The next thing you know, you’re in his lap, breathless and burning, yelling, “This is your fault!” while your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to strangle the ocean. And he’s laughing—laughing—like he just robbed the world blind and left the moon as payment.

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

He grins, eyes glittering like treasure. “Then let’s make it twice.” It starts with sass. Sharp words. Quicker hands. Your teeth graze his jaw. His lips find your pulse. Buttons scatter. 

But it escalates the second you grab a fistful of his hair and hiss, “I swear to god, if you laugh—”

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your hand twitches, about to retreat.

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrecked with sudden hunger. “Oh, we’re doing this now.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

“You like pulling hair? That’s cute.” His grin splits wide.“I like begging. Guess we’re both gonna be real happy tonight.”

What follows is a blur of limbs, heat, curses, and catastrophic choices. The kind of night you survive by setting fire to every good intention and riding the wreckage down together.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a surrender, a choice. And gods help you, he kisses like he thinks you belong to him. Because you do.

Clothes come off. Fast. Probably ruined. You don’t care.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a confession, a final surrender. Like you’ve been holding back the tide of him for years and now—now, finally—you’re letting it pull you under.

And gods help you, he kisses like a man who already knows.

Knows your mouth. Knows your breath. Knows the exact way you melt when someone touches you like a secret instead of a prize.

He tastes like heat and salt and promise. His hands are already on you; hot, greedy, reverent. Calloused palms splaying across your back like he's checking you’re real.

Clothes come off in flashes. Fast. Desperate. Buttons pop. A seam tears. His shirt gets tossed somewhere near the door and yours doesn’t survive the landing. He kisses the swell of your chest with something close to awe and mutters something that makes your toes curl.

You don’t care about the bed. You barely register hitting it. You only notice him, solid and searing and all over you.

Ace doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. Every touch is sure. Every sigh you give him maps a path he already seems to know by heart.

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

His stamina is, frankly, criminal. You lose track of time. Of position. Of your own name. You understand why other pirates don’t attack him without backup.

At one point, you're clutching at the sheets like they might save you. At another, you're biting his shoulder because apparently you’ve lost the capacity for language. Everything is hot and blurred and so good you could cry. You consider it. Then he bites your ear and you do.

You finally gasp, half-laughing, half-accusing: “Okay—okay, what the hell. You’ve done this before.”

He just grins, stupid and perfect and way too pleased with himself. “Nope,” he says, rolling his hips slow and smug, “I’ve just had years of theoretical training.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...What?”

“On you, sweetheart.” He leans down, mouth against your throat. “You think I haven’t been preparing? Please. I’ve studied. I’ve visualized. I had flashcards.”

Your brain misfires. Your body, meanwhile, is betraying you entirely.

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth dragging over your shoulder like a satisfied wolf. “Sure you do. Hate me with your thighs again.”

By the time your soul returns from orbit, you’re sprawled across the mattress like a saint mid-apocalypse. Your body feels like it’s been lovingly struck by lightning. Repeatedly. You manage a weak sound. He’s already draping a blanket over you with far too much tenderness for a man who just detonated your nervous system.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

You wake up warm. Sated. And very, very naked in his arms.

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

You sit up too fast and nearly topple over. Ace hums behind you, still half-asleep. “Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

He yawns, kisses your shoulder. “Nah. Five was just to start.”

You scramble to sit up, fully panicking now, but he tugs you back down with one strong arm and starts kissing your neck like it’s not an international crime that you are being lovingly detained.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let’s call it an extended honeymoon. With, like, minor hostage vibes.”

You hiss. He kisses your jaw. You slap his chest. He grins. You try to stay mad. You do.

But when he pulls you into his arms again, presses his forehead to yours and murmurs in your ear.

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

You’re now stuck with a flammable himbo who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% commit arson for you just because someone looked at you funny.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it. 

(Especially the part where he growls at people who flirt with you, like a very polite junkyard dog with abs.)