#kiddnapping

Looking around he realizes that he must have fallen asleep in the bar they were at last night. It wasn't the fanciest place, but they had strong drinks. He could remember snippets of the night before. Jaunty tunes were sung and cups were drained. The crew was quick to show off their talents to the locals. Including himself, there was never a chance he would pass up showing off his devil fruit power.

Which is what helped him catch onto the fact that he was only a head. Groaning, he reprimanded himself. This wasn't the first time this kind of thing had happened. Usually it was in the comfort of his ship. Now, as he glances around, he comes to the conclusion of how fucked he is. No crew mates to be found or any other appendage to help out.

Huffing he finds solace in the fact that his body was still on the island. Probably dragged back to the port by his clueless crew. I mean who takes a body without a head?

The noise of keys unlocking the door catches his attention. This gives him a bit of hope. He could work with this. It shouldn't be hard to talk someone into helping him.

The door creaks open and you enter. A grin spreads across his face. Oh yes, this was a pleasant development. You were definitely something that he remembered from last night. All soft curves and sweet smiles. Tending to them like any other patron. Even as the other customers looked down on them. It was a nice change of pace. Let's see how far you would stretch that hospitality.

“Hello!” His grin widens as you jump. Hand on your chest, your eyes dart around the bar. The fear in your gaze makes you even more endearing. “Over here.”

You finally catch sight of the noise. A head? Your first thoughts are panicked. Who were you supposed to call about this? Why did you have to draw the short straw and open today.

Though as you cautiously step forward. You remember the pirates from last night. Your shift had ended earlier so you could handle opening. That didn't mean that you missed out on his abilities. While all of the crew had unique talents. It was a lot rarer to meet someone with a devil fruit power. Especially one so unique.

It wasn't until you were within arms reach that you spoke. “Um, hi.” It wasn't the best response. This was the first time you were talking to a detached head. So you could cut yourself some slack.

Looking you over, he appreciates your form even more in the sunlight. Not that you weren't stunning in the dim bar. Now though, you were radiant. The confused expression did nothing to hide your soft features. Neither did the civilian clothes. What he wouldn't give to see you in an outfit from his collection. Draping your supple body in something flashy. Yes, he needed to see you dressed in his finery.

He pushes those thoughts away. There would be plenty of time for that later. No need to rush. “Think ya can help a clown out, Sweet Cheeks?” The flush that dust your face doesn't escape his notice. If anything he wondered what could spread it even further.

Keeping your distance, your forehead wrinkles at the request. “With what?” You flinch at the cackle that he lets out. How were you supposed to know what to do? He was a head for Gods’ sakes.

Once he calms down, his smile becomes a bit more vicious as he explains. “Well, you'd start by taking me into yer lovely arms. Then carry me back to my ship. I'll pull myself together. Give ya a special reward. How's that sound Buttercup?”

You didn't miss the way his gaze rakes over you. He had done it the night before. But you were a service worker. One who likes a good tip if you can manage it. And these pirates didn't have tight purse strings.

Still a pirate was a pirate. And you were sure you couldn't trust him as far as you could throw him. Well, his whole body at least. Though an intrusive thought did wonder how far you could chuck his head.

Stepping back, you look over your shoulder at the bar. “I don't think that's a good idea. I'm on the clock….” You let the excuse hang in the air.

His face tightens in annoyance. So this wasn't going to be as easy as he wanted. That's OK, he can play hardball. “Ya know, they say the customer is always right. So why don't ya be a good girl and do as I ask. Wouldn't want the big bad pirate captain to raid yer little island. Now do ya?”

He watched as his works sunk in. It's not like he was a no name chump. Even this small bar had his wanted poster plastered up.

Everything in you is screaming no. Well almost every part of you. A small portion agrees that your racing heart isn't only because of the threat. But you mentally scold that portion.

With a hesitant nod, you gather him into your arms. Sighing, he shifts himself into a more comfortable position. Nestling against your plush chest, he settles in for a pleasant walk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Huffing, you glare down at the top of his head. “Are you sure this is the right way?” You were sure you had passed that tree a while back. In fact it seemed like he was leading you in circles.

His eyebrows shoot up at the accusation. Trying to pull off a look of innocence. “Of course, we'll be there in no time.” Which was the truth, in a way. Maybe he had taken you the long way, a couple of times. But who could blame him. Snuggled up against you, cradled in plump warmth. He would be a fool not to live out the moment to the fullest.

Though his fun had to end at some point. The sails of the Big Top crest over the tree line.

Seeing the ship bobbing in the ocean was a sight. While you had always loved the island you grew up on. There was something alluring about the sea. Though you preferred your feet on land. You couldn't help your gaze lingering on the vessel.

Each step closer to the dock brings both of you relief. For much different reasons than you would believe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Making your way onto the ship. It wasn't hard to see why the crew hadn't come to rescue their captain. Sprawled around the floating vessel, there didn't seem to be a sober awake person around.

He spat curses and insults at his passed out circus members. Would it hurt one of them to lay off the booze and keep it together? Glancing up at you, he silently takes back that thought. How else would he have ended up in the soft arms of a goddess? Though he did wish he had made a bit of a better impression.

Directing you to his private quarters, he readies his body to spring forward. The room looks much like you expected. Messy with circus pieces scattered about. A closet and trunks ready to burst they were so full of clothes. The big ornate bed was more of a personal touch than you would have guessed. It looked soft enough to sink into.

Begrudgingly asking you to set him on the desk. His body shuts and locks the door before coming forward. Adjusting his head back where it belongs, he smiles. So wide that you're sure it hurts.

Now that he was properly assembled, you get a better look at him. He was a handsome man, the face paint did nothing to hide that. But there was something about him that made you tense. Be it his attitude or pirates in general. You weren't going to stick around.

Before you could say your goodbyes, he was caging you in. “Now I recall tellin’ someone I would give them a reward. Since ya were my big helper and all.” He makes his way towards the desk.

Only to turn and put a finger to his chin. “That was before I changed my mind.” Circling you, he decides now is the perfect time to clue you in. “Ya see, it's hard to find good help. And after ya did more than I could ever expect my pathetic crew to do.” He pauses behind you and leans close to your ear. Warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Not to mention how attached I've grown to ya. I think ya would do well by my side.”

You froze. Was he serious? Turning around, you stare in shock at the humorless look on his face. A giggle bubbled up your throat. This had to be a joke. He was just pulling your leg.

“OK. Now that you're back together, I need to get back to the bar.” A firm hand lands on your shoulder as you step past him. The laughter dies on your lips.

Shaking his head, he grins down at you. “Ya don't seem to understand. Ya belong here, with me. I'll make sure that ya stay by My side.”

This statement would have been enough to shake you to your core. But as noise on the deck started to fill the air. You spotted something that made your gut twist. The shore line was drifting further and further away. Along with any hope you had of getting off this ship and getting home.

You leaned into his embrace, a comfortable, well-worn fit. "Someone’s gotta balance out all those… interesting smells on this ship. Though, honestly, I think Pops himself has his own unique brand of freshness." You nudged him playfully with your elbow, stifling a giggle.

Marco chuckled, the sound a deep vibration against your ear. "He'd probably say it's the smell of adventure, yoi. Or maybe just stale sake. Speaking of which, Thatch was trying to convince me earlier that he could invent a new 'dessert' that involved pickled fish and a generous splash of grog. I told him he was mad, but he’s remarkably persistent when it comes to culinary abominations."

"Oh, I heard about that!" you exclaimed, turning your head slightly to look at him, your toothbrush still dangling from your hand. "He was cornering Vista about it earlier. I think Vista just nodded along to make him go away. Imagine, Thatch, the man who whips up ambrosia for breakfast, suggesting such a horror. What was he calling it? The 'Sea Dog's Delight?'"

Marco shuddered theatrically. "Something equally unappetizing, I’m sure. Anyway, as the ship's esteemed medic and First Division Commander, I have to ensure the crew's health, which absolutely includes protecting them from Thatch's more… experimental phase. I may have to schedule a mandatory 'no pickled fish desserts' lecture for tomorrow." He tightened his arms around you, his lips brushing your ear. "Think you can help me enforce it?"

You grinned, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the humid ship air. "I think I can manage that, Commander. Just as long as I get to be the one to tell him his culinary dreams are crushed." You rinsed your mouth, spit, and then turned in his arms to face him fully, wrapping your own arms around his neck. The day, with its endless duties and the constant hum of life on the Moby Dick, was finally winding down, leaving just the two of you in the quiet glow of the lantern. The night stretched ahead, holding promises of shared laughter and the unspoken comfort of knowing you were exactly where you belonged.

The quiet moments like these, tucked away in the intimacy of their cabin, were the bedrock of your relationship with Marco. Out on the deck, under the watchful eye of Whitebeard, you were two formidable members of his crew, a skilled fighter and a brilliant medic, respected and relied upon. But here, the weight of command and the ever-present dangers of the Grand Line melted away, replaced by a comfortable familiarity that felt as natural as breathing.

Your relationship wasn't a whirlwind romance, born of fleeting glances and passionate declarations. It had been a slow burn, a steady, unwavering flame kindled over years of shared hardships, laughter, and the unspoken understanding that came with facing death together, time and time again. You’d seen Marco at his most stoic, patching up grievous wounds with a calm precision that belied the chaos around him. You’d also seen him laugh so hard he nearly toppled over, his usual serious demeanor cracking to reveal a mischievous glint in his eyes.

And he, in turn, had seen every facet of you. He knew the quiet ferocity that simmered beneath your calm exterior, the unwavering loyalty you held for your nakama, and the occasional vulnerability you only allowed to surface in his presence. There was an unspoken language between you, a series of knowing glances and subtle touches that conveyed more than words ever could. Whether it was a reassuring hand on your back during a particularly fierce storm or a shared smirk over one of Thatch’s outlandish ideas, every small gesture wove another thread into the intricate tapestry of your shared life.

It was a love forged not in idyllic gardens, but in the unforgiving crucible of the New World. It was a love that understood the constant threat of loss, yet chose to savor every moment. It was a love that found peace in the quiet creak of a ship at night and strength in the unwavering presence of the person by your side.

The last vestiges of the day's light had long faded, leaving the cabin bathed in the soft glow of the ship's internal lighting. You and Marco finally untangled yourselves from your embrace by the basin, a comfortable warmth settling between you. He moved to the bunk, his movements practiced and efficient as he settled under the thin blanket. You followed, sliding in beside him, the mattress dipping slightly with your weight.

"You know," you began, nestling your head onto his shoulder, the familiar rise and fall of his chest a comforting rhythm beneath your ear, "I saw Ace earlier. He was trying to convince Haruta that pineapple belongs on pizza."

Marco groaned, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. "Not this again, yoi. Is that boy trying to single-handedly destroy culinary integrity across the Grand Line?" He shifted, pulling you closer, his arm settling around your waist. "I swear, sometimes I think the only thing stronger than his Haki is his ability to conjure up truly terrible food ideas."

You chuckled softly, picturing the scene. "He was very passionate about it. Something about the sweetness cutting through the savory. Haruta looked like he was contemplating jumping overboard."

"Can't say I blame him," Marco murmured, his voice growing a little heavier, a sure sign he was nearing sleep. "Though, if anyone could make a bad idea sound convincing, it's Ace."

A comfortable silence settled between you then, broken only by the gentle creak of the ship and the distant sounds of the sea. You felt the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, the warmth of his body a solid presence beside you. It was in these quiet, mundane moments that the depth of your bond truly shone. No grand adventures or epic battles, just the simple, profound peace of being together.

"Goodnight, Marco," you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder.

He tightened his arm around you, a sleepy grunt of acknowledgment. "Night, yoi. Sleep well."

And as you drifted off, lulled by the gentle sway of the Moby Dick and the comforting presence of the man beside you, you knew that no matter what the next day, or the next adventure, brought, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The gentle rocking of the Moby Dick, usually a soothing lullaby, abruptly transformed into a violent lurch. You were thrown against Marco's side, your eyes snapping open. The comforting warmth next to you was gone, replaced by a cold emptiness where his body had been. Before you could even process his absence, a cacophony of sound tore through the quiet night: the sharp crack of gunfire, the splintering crash of wood, and the enraged roars of your crewmates, punctuated by the frantic yells of intruders.

Every instinct screamed at you. This wasn't a drill; this was an attack. You scrambled out of the bunk, your feet hitting the cold floorboards. The ship groaned beneath your feet, a living entity under duress, and the sounds from above deck intensified – the clang of steel on steel, the booming retort of cannons, and the unmistakable, furious shouts of Whitebeard himself.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging you forward. Marco was a division commander, the first line of defense, and the medic. He would have been up there the instant the first alarm sounded. A knot of dread tightened in your stomach, but it was quickly overshadowed by a surge of adrenaline. You didn't waste another second. Your hand instinctively went to the hilt of the weapon always kept within reach, a familiar weight that grounded you in the chaos. There was no time for fear, only action. The Whitebeard Pirates were under attack, and you were ready to fight.

You burst from the relative quiet of the sleeping quarters into the narrow hallway, the acrid scent of smoke stinging your nostrils. The ship’s internal alarm was blaring now, a piercing shriek that layered over the din of battle. A hulking figure, clad in the crude armor of an unknown pirate crew, rounded the corner ahead, his cutlass raised. There was no time for hesitation. Your arm came up, the familiar weight of your pistol steady in your grip. One shot. The blast echoed in the confined space, and the pirate crumpled to the floor, a surprised gurgle escaping his lips. You didn’t spare him a second glance, stepping over his fallen form and pushing through the door that led to the main deck.

The scene that greeted you was a living nightmare. The Moby Dick, usually a symbol of unwavering power, was a maelstrom of fire and fury. Flames licked greedily at the main mast, their orange glow casting grotesque, dancing shadows across the deck. Smoke billowed thick and black, making it hard to breathe, tearing at your throat. The air vibrated with the clash of steel, the roar of cannon fire, and the guttural shouts of men locked in brutal combat.

You spun, taking in the horrific tableau. To your left, Thatch, usually jovial and light-hearted, was a whirlwind of knives, his usually impeccable chef's coat singed and torn as he parried blows from three attackers at once. Across the deck, Jozu, his diamond body glinting even in the chaotic light, was a formidable anchor, deflecting cannon fire with terrifying ease, but even he seemed to be struggling under the sheer weight of numbers.

The attackers were a faceless swarm, their flags unfamiliar, a stark, unwelcome presence on your ship. They swarmed from every direction, pouring over the railings, their numbers seemingly endless. And everywhere, there were your nakama, fighting with the fierce desperation of cornered lions. They fought for Pops, for each other, for the very life of the Moby Dick.

Your eyes frantically searched for Marco. You saw his signature blue flames flaring in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos, but he was surrounded, a tempest of enemies closing in on the First Division Commander. The sight ignited a fresh surge of determination within you. This was your family, your home, and you would not stand idly by while it burned. With a roar, you plunged into the fray, your pistol spitting fire, ready to carve a path through the invaders and reach your nakama.

You were a whirlwind of focused precision, your movements fluid and economical despite the frantic pace of battle. While you didn't possess the sheer destructive power of Whitebeard's quakes or Marco's fiery regeneration, you had spent years honing your own unique abilities. Your Devil Fruit, the Buki Buki no Mi, or the Weapon-Weapon Fruit, allowed you to imbue any projectile you fired with an incredible kinetic force, making your bullets strike with the impact of a small cannonball. It wasn't about raw strength; it was about focused, concentrated power, delivered with deadly accuracy.

A burly pirate, his face contorted in a sneer, lunged at you with a heavy axe. You didn't flinch. Your pistol barked, not once, but twice. The first bullet, imbued with your Devil Fruit power, slammed into the flat of his axe, not just deflecting it, but sending a jarring shockwave up his arm that made him cry out in pain and drop the weapon. Before he could recover, the second, standard bullet found its mark, clean and precise. He toppled, leaving an opening you exploited instantly.

You moved through the chaos like a phantom, a blur of motion and gunsmoke. A grunt behind you, and you spun, firing from the hip. The pirate aiming a cheap flintlock at Blamenco stumbled back, his arm grotesquely twisted. You saw an opening, a momentary lull in the relentless assault on Jozu's flank. With a burst of speed, you darted forward, your pistol a rhythmic extension of your will. Each shot was deliberate, aimed not just to injure, but to disable, to create a ripple effect in the enemy lines. A particularly powerful round tore through a pirate's makeshift shield, sending splinters flying, leaving him exposed for Jozu to easily dispatch.

"Thanks, Y/N!" Jozu roared, his voice a deep rumble even amidst the clamor.

"Anytime, Commander!" you yelled back, reloading with practiced ease. Your eyes, however, were still fixed on the distant, fiery aura of Marco. He was fighting valiantly, his blue flames a mesmerizing dance against the encroaching shadows, but the sheer volume of attackers was relentless. You knew you had to get to him, to Pops, to anyone who needed an extra hand. The Moby Dick was bleeding, and you were one of its vital veins, pumping bullets and hope into the heart of the battle.

Through the haze of smoke and the chaos of battle, a pair of cold, calculating eyes found you. He stood on the deck of his own ship, lashed alongside the Moby Dick, a towering figure even from a distance. The captain of this invading crew was a man whose presence seemed to suck the warmth from the air, his face a grim mask beneath a distinctive, jagged scar that bisected his left eye. He had been observing the flow of the battle, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the Whitebeard Pirates, and his gaze had now settled on you.

He had watched you move, a blur of motion and deadly precision. He'd seen how your bullets, unlike ordinary rounds, didn't just pierce but shattered, sending pirates reeling with concussive force. He saw the almost surgical way you created openings, drawing enemy fire and then dispatching them with brutal efficiency. You weren't a brute force fighter, not like some of the lumbering giants on Whitebeard's crew, but there was a sharp, intelligent ruthlessness to your fighting style that intrigued him. He saw the way you prioritized targets, the economical nature of your movements, the clear synergy you had with your crewmates even amidst the pandemonium.

A slow, predatory smile stretched across his scarred face. "Well, well," he mused, his voice a low rasp that carried surprisingly clearly over the din of battle, "what an interesting little flower bloomed on this old man's ship." His eyes narrowed, a glint of something akin to admiration, but laced with a dangerous hunger. "She'd make quite the addition to my collection."

He raised a hand, and a ripple went through his crew. A select group of his most elite fighters, recognizable by their darker, heavier armor, began to shift their focus, their gazes locking onto your position. They were moving, converging, clearly under orders to cut you off from your nakama and bring you to their captain. The air around you seemed to thicken, the stakes suddenly rising in a way that had nothing to do with just surviving the attack. You were no longer just a fighter; you were a target, and a prized one at that.

A chill snaked down your spine, colder than the spray of the sea or the smoke-laden air. You felt the shift, a subtle but undeniable change in the flow of battle around you. The general chaos, while still raging, seemed to thin in your immediate vicinity. The attackers in front of you suddenly dissipated, replaced by a new, more disciplined group. Their movements were precise, their focus unwavering, and every single one of them was looking at you.

This wasn't a random skirmish; this was a targeted assault. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow, and your gaze instinctively flickered to the captain's ship. Even through the smoke, you could feel his eyes on you, a predatory gleam that made your skin crawl. He wasn’t just attacking the Moby Dick; he wanted you.

"Well, then," you muttered under your breath, a grim smile touching your lips. If he wanted a show, you'd give him one. Your Weapon-Weapon Fruit hummed with anticipation, a familiar surge of power flowing through you.

The first of the elite pirates, a hulking brute with a spiked gauntlet, lunged. You didn't wait. Your pistol spat, and the bullet, empowered by your Devil Fruit, slammed into the gauntlet with a resounding clang that echoed even over the battle. The force of the impact buckled his arm, sending him stumbling back, momentarily disoriented. You capitalized instantly, flowing into a series of quick, precise shots. Each bullet found its mark – a joint, a knee, a vulnerable point in their armor – not necessarily to kill, but to incapacitate, to disrupt. You ducked under a wide swing from a polearm, the wind of its passage rustling your hair, and countered with a close-range shot that crumpled the pirate to the deck.

The elite fighters were good, far better than the cannon fodder that had swarmed the ship. They moved with a coordinated ferocity, trying to flank you, to cut off your escape. But years of fighting alongside the Whitebeard Pirates, under the tutelage of commanders like Marco and Pops himself, had honed your instincts to a razor's edge. You weaved through their attacks, a deadly dance of dodging and firing, each shot a calculated strike.

Around you, the battle for the Moby Dick raged on, a deafening symphony of destruction. Thatch was still a blur of steel, his laughter, even now, echoing occasionally. Jozu continued to absorb punishment and dish it out in equal measure. Marco's vibrant blue flames pulsed in the distance, a constant reminder of the wider conflict. They were all too engrossed in their own fights, too focused on repelling the endless waves of invaders, to notice the specialized assault being waged against you. For now, you were on your own, a lone target in a sea of chaos, with the captain's cold gaze fixed squarely on your every move.

The fight was a blur of motion, a desperate dance against impossible odds. You ducked, weaved, and fired, your Devil Fruit humming with every kinetic shot. But there were too many of them, and they were too coordinated. You saw an opening, a momentary gap in their formation, and pushed forward, hoping to break through. It was a calculated risk, and in the chaos, a fatal misstep.

A flash of movement from your periphery. Not one of the elite guards, but the captain himself. He had moved with a speed that defied his imposing size, a predatory blur that bypassed your defenses. Before you could react, before your Weapon-Weapon Fruit could even prepare a counter, a searing, agonizing pain erupted across your chest.

His blade, a monstrous cleaver-like sword, had cut a path deep and true. The world spun, colors blurring into a sickening kaleidoscope of fire and smoke. A gasp tore from your lips, hot and wet, as your own blood welled up, blooming a dark stain on your clothes. The strength drained from your limbs, your pistol slipping from numb fingers to clatter uselessly on the burning deck.

As your body began its inevitable fall, a cruel, guttural chuckle rumbled above you. It was the captain's voice, devoid of mercy, thick with triumph. His massive hand clamped around your arm, stopping your descent just inches from the unforgiving wood. He held you suspended, your gaze locked onto his cold, triumphant eyes, the jagged scar on his face seeming to twist into a grotesque smile.

"Such a waste," he rasped, his voice cutting through the din of battle like a surgeon's scalpel. "A beautiful little flower, plucked from the old man's garden. You were impressive, I'll give you that. But now, you belong to me."

The captain's cruel laughter echoed over the pandemonium. With you dangling like a broken doll in his grasp, he bellowed, his voice carrying surprising force even over the roaring inferno and clashing steel: "Pull back! We have what we came for!"

His command cut through the battle, and as swiftly as they had appeared, his crew began to disengage. They fought their way back to their ship, abandoning their positions on the Moby Dick's burning deck, leaving behind a trail of their fallen. The unexpected retreat left the Whitebeard Pirates momentarily disoriented, the adrenaline of battle still coursing through their veins even as their enemies fled.

Just as the captain began to drag you toward the gangplank connecting the two ships, a flash of brilliant blue fire erupted across the deck. Marco, a furious, avian blur, finally broke free from his encirclement. His eyes, usually calm and analytical, were blazing with a raw, terrifying fury. He scanned the deck, searching for you amidst the smoke and chaos, and that's when his gaze locked onto the captain.

He saw you, limp and bleeding, slung over the man’s shoulder like a trophy. He saw the vivid crimson stain spreading across the captain's dark coat, a horrifying beacon against the smoke-filled air. Your blood. His blood. The sight ripped through him, tearing through his usual composure, replacing it with a primal roar of unadulterated rage.

"Y/N!" His voice, usually so steady, was a guttural cry of anguish and fury. The blue flames around him intensified, reflecting the inferno in his heart. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to launch him across the impossible distance separating him from you. He wouldn't let them take you. Not like this. Not ever.

Your vision blurred, the sounds of battle fading into a dull roar. The agonizing burn in your chest was a cold fire, consuming you. You felt yourself slipping, the captain's harsh grip the only thing tethering you to the waking world. Through the haze, you heard Marco’s raw cry, a sound of pure agony that tore at what little consciousness you had left. You tried to focus, to reach for him, but your limbs felt heavy, unresponsive.

Then, a sudden, blinding flash of brilliant blue engulfed the deck. It wasn't just his signature flames; it was an explosion of power, a raw surge of Haki that made the air crackle. You heard shouts of alarm from the enemy crew, a mix of fear and awe.

Marco was no longer just running. He had transformed, his body now a magnificent, avian hybrid of man and phoenix. His wings, spanning an impossible breadth, beat the air with the force of a gale, propelling him across the distance between ships with terrifying speed. He was a projectile of pure, unadulterated rage, an embodiment of the mythical creature he commanded.

He slammed into the captain's retreating forces like a cannonball, not stopping to fight them, but carving a direct, furious path. The elite guards who had cornered you, who had been so precise and disciplined moments ago, scattered like chaff before a storm. Some were swept aside by the immense wind from his wings, others recoiled from the searing heat of his flames, and a few were simply knocked unconscious by the sheer force of his charge.

His eyes, burning with an almost literal fire, were locked onto the captain. There was no strategy in his movements now, only a primal, unyielding drive. He would reach you. He would get you back. The fight for the Moby Dick was still raging, but for Marco, in that moment, there was only one objective: you.

The captain, still holding you, saw Marco coming. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, then narrowed into a snarl. "Damn phoenix," he spat, adjusting his grip on your fading form. He knew the speed and ferocity of the First Division Commander. There was no time to savor his victory.

He barked orders at his remaining men on the gangplank, "Cover me! Get the ship moving!"

His crew, recognizing the immediate danger of Marco's wrath, scrambled. A volley of gunshots erupted from the enemy ship, aimed not at Marco, but at the connecting gangplank, hoping to sever it and cut him off. At the same time, the enemy vessel's sails began to unfurl, the wind catching them, and the ship slowly, agonizingly, started to pull away from the Moby Dick.

You felt the shift, a sickening lurch as the distance between the two ships widened. The pain in your chest flared, a fresh wave of agony that threatened to consume the last vestiges of your consciousness. You could vaguely hear Marco's enraged roar, closer now, a desperate, guttural sound that pierced through the fog in your mind.

He was flying, a streak of cerulean fire against the smoke-filled sky. He dodged the incoming cannon fire, weaving through the desperate last-ditch efforts of the enemy crew. His powerful wings beat furiously, propelling him faster, faster, trying to bridge the ever-growing gap. The Moby Dick was still burning, still fighting, but the primary target was now clear. It was a race against time, a desperate dash to reclaim what had been stolen. You could feel the life draining from you, a cold sensation spreading from your chest. You needed him, and he was coming. But would he be fast enough?

Just as the gap between the two ships stretched to an impossible distance, and the world began to truly fade around you, a shadow fell over your face. Not the shadow of death, but the magnificent, terrible shadow of Marco's wings. With a final, explosive beat, he closed the distance. The captain, still clutching you, looked up, his sneer turning to genuine alarm as Marco descended like an avenging god.

Marco didn't slow. He didn't hesitate. He slammed into the captain with the force of a battering ram, his knee connecting with the man's chest with a sickening crunch. The captain roared in pain and shock, his grip on you finally breaking. You felt yourself fall, but before you could hit the deck, a strong arm was under your back, a familiar warmth enveloping you.

"Y/N!" Marco's voice was rough with emotion, laced with an almost desperate relief. He didn't take his eyes off the captain, but his other hand pressed gently against the gushing wound on your chest. His blue flames, instead of burning, pulsed with a soft, healing warmth against your skin, staunching the flow of blood, buying you precious time.

The captain, scrambling back, finally found his footing. He clutched his chest, his face contorted in a mix of fury and pain. "You damn phoenix!" he snarled, drawing his massive cleaver again. "You think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine?"

Marco stood over you, shielding you with his body, his form still partially transformed. His eyes, usually a calm, piercing blue, were now blazing with an inferno of rage. "She's not yours, yoi," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, a stark contrast to his usual collected tone. "She's Whitebeard's! And she's mine!"

He moved, a blur of cerulean fire. The captain, despite his bravado, was clearly outmatched by Marco's sheer speed and the overwhelming power of his Phoenix Devil Fruit. Marco struck with a brutal efficiency born of pure fury. Each kick, each punch, was imbued with the regenerative fire that not only healed him but allowed him to inflict devastating concussive blows. The captain parried desperately with his cleaver, but Marco was too fast, too relentless.

The fight was short, sharp, and decisive. Marco landed a final, powerful kick to the captain's head, sending him sprawling across his own deck, unconscious and bleeding. With his opponent incapacitated, Marco didn't waste another moment. He scooped you up gently into his arms, your head resting against his chest, the warmth of his flames still tenderly sealing your wound.

He looked up at the Moby Dick, still alight but slowly gaining the upper hand against the remaining scattered enemies. "Pops!" he roared, his voice echoing across the diminishing gap between the ships. "We're coming home!"

And with a powerful beat of his majestic wings, Marco launched himself into the smoke-filled sky, carrying you, his most precious cargo, back to the safety of your family.

The journey back to the Moby Dick was a blur of agonizing pain and fading light for you. Held securely in Marco's strong arms, the rhythmic beat of his phoenix wings was a shaky lullaby, but it couldn't fully drown out the searing agony in your chest. His healing flames, usually so effective, were struggling against the severity of the wound. You could feel his focus, his desperate attempt to keep you stable, but the internal bleeding and the sheer depth of the cut were beyond immediate repair in the air.

As he landed gently on the still-smoking deck of the Moby Dick, the sounds of battle were finally receding. Your nakama, weary but victorious, were beginning to assess the damage. But their attention immediately snapped to you and Marco.

"Y/N!" a chorus of voices cried out, laced with shock and concern.

Thatch was there in an instant, his usually jovial face etched with worry as he helped Marco gently lay you down on a makeshift bed of salvaged blankets. Jozu stood guard, his diamond form still shimmering, his gaze grim.

"She's lost a lot of blood, Pops," Marco said, his voice tight with urgency, his hands still pressed firmly over your wound. He didn't even address Whitebeard by his title, a clear indication of his distress. "The blade went deep. I've stemmed the flow, but… she needs proper medical attention. Now."

Whitebeard, his massive form a beacon of power even as he surveyed the damage to his ship, knelt beside you. His gruff exterior softened as he looked at your pale, pain-filled face. "Get her to the infirmary, Marco," he boomed, his voice devoid of its usual joviality, replaced by a command that left no room for argument. "And don't you leave her side."

You felt hands lifting you, heard hurried footsteps and hushed, worried whispers. The world was tilting, the edges of your vision darkening. You tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, to reassure them, but the pain was a relentless tide, pulling you under. The last thing you saw before consciousness completely abandoned you was Marco's anxious face hovering above yours, his eyes filled with a raw, desperate fear you had never seen there before.

The world for you had become a swirling vortex of shadow and fleeting sensations. Your body, usually so responsive and capable, felt alien, a heavy shell disconnected from your fading mind. The wound in your chest was a monstrous, searing agony, a constant, burning core that radiated pain through every nerve. It wasn’t just the initial cut; it was the relentless, insidious draining of your very life force.

Each beat of your heart, now a faint, fluttering rhythm, felt like a desperate struggle. It was a shallow, irregular drum, trying to push what little blood remained through your veins, a stark contrast to the strong, steady pulse that had always been a quiet testament to your vitality. You were growing colder, not from the chill of the deck, but from the inside out, a profound iciness spreading as your core temperature plummeted.

The loss of blood was the most terrifying enemy now, a silent thief stealing your warmth, your strength, your consciousness. It left you profoundly weak, every muscle aching with an exhaustion that went beyond any battle fatigue. Your lungs, though clear, felt starved for air, each breath a shallow, unsatisfying gasp. The very essence of your being was flickering, a dim flame in a gathering storm. You were hovering on the precipice, teetering between the world of the living and the silent embrace of oblivion, your life hanging by the thinnest, most fragile of threads.

The infirmary was a tense hub of focused activity. Marco, his phoenix form receded but his face pale with strain, worked with a furious intensity. His blue flames pulsed not with destructive power, but with a gentle, focused warmth, methodically cauterizing ruptured vessels deep within your chest. Sweat beaded on his brow as he concentrated, his medical expertise combined with his Devil Fruit's unique healing properties being pushed to their absolute limits.

Around him, other familiar faces moved with grim determination. Blamenco, usually jovial, held a steady IV bag, his large hand surprisingly gentle. Haruta was meticulously preparing bandages and sutures, his normally flighty demeanor replaced by a laser-like focus. Even Pops stood sentinel at the entrance, his massive silhouette a comforting, protective presence, his gaze rarely leaving the scene. The entire crew felt the weight of your fight for life.

Every few minutes, Marco would press his ear to your chest, listening intently to the faint, irregular thrum of your heart. Each time, a flicker of worry would cross his features, immediately followed by a renewed surge of determination. He carefully probed the wound, his fingers skilled and precise, assessing the damage that lay beneath your skin.

"Too much blood loss," he murmured, more to himself than anyone, his voice strained. He looked up at Haruta. "Another pint. And keep that plasma flowing."

He adjusted the flow of his flames, willing them to work faster, deeper. His own stamina was being taxed, the continuous use of his healing abilities draining him, but he wouldn't stop. He couldn't. He meticulously began to close the laceration, stitch by agonizing stitch, his movements unhurried despite the desperate urgency of the situation. Every knot he tied was a silent prayer, every gentle touch a promise.

Hours bled into a timeless eternity. The sounds of the ship outside, the remnants of the battle, faded into irrelevance. All that mattered was the flickering life within you, the shallow breaths, the fragile beat of your heart. Marco continued his work, relentless and unwavering, fighting death for you with every fiber of his being.

The world slowly, painstakingly, began to bleed back into your awareness. It wasn't a sudden awakening, but a gradual, almost imperceptible return from the suffocating depths of unconsciousness. The searing pain in your chest had dulled to a persistent, throbbing ache, a dull echo of the agony that had nearly claimed you.

The first thing you registered was the subtle rocking of the Moby Dick, a gentle sway that was more a comfort than a disturbance. Then came the sounds: the distant murmur of voices, the creak of the ship's timbers, and a faint, rhythmic drip… drip… drip somewhere nearby.

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy and resistant, but you managed to pry them open just a fraction. The infirmary was dimly lit, the lantern light soft and forgiving. You could make out blurred shapes, the familiar outlines of medical equipment. A soft, warm weight was pressing against your hand, and with a monumental effort, you shifted your gaze.

It was Marco. His head was resting on the edge of the bunk, his golden hair a soft halo in the dim light. He was asleep, his face etched with exhaustion, deep shadows under his eyes. His hand, warm and calloused, was intertwined with yours, a silent vigil maintained through the long, dark hours.

A fragile, quiet relief washed over you, so profound it brought a tear to your eye. You were alive. Against all odds, you had survived. The soft, rhythmic beat of your own heart, though still weak, was undeniably there, a tiny, defiant drum in your chest. And beside you, a silent testament to the fight for your life, was Marco. You were home.

Your faint movement was all it took. Even in the depths of exhaustion, Marco was attuned to your presence. His eyes, heavy-lidded moments before, fluttered open, then widened as they met yours. The relief that washed over his face was so profound it almost buckled him.

"Y/N?" he rasped, his voice hoarse with disuse and raw emotion. He pushed himself upright, gently disengaging his hand from yours to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over your skin. "You're awake, yoi. Thank goodness."

You tried to respond, to offer a reassuring word, but your voice was a mere whisper, a dry rasp in your throat. You managed a weak smile, your eyes conveying the gratitude and love you couldn't articulate. Then, a wave of dizziness washed over you as you tried to shift, even just slightly, in the bunk. Your limbs felt like lead, and the dull ache in your chest sharpened into a warning throb. You couldn't move. You were utterly, completely spent.

Marco immediately noticed your struggle, his medical instincts kicking in. "Easy, easy, don't try to move yet," he soothed, his hand moving from your cheek to gently rest on your shoulder. "You're still very weak. The cut was… deep. You lost a lot of blood. It's going to take some time, yoi."

His words, though a gentle reminder of your severe injury, were also a testament to his unwavering care. He quickly reached for a glass of water on the nearby table, helping you slowly sip from it, his movements careful and deliberate. Even though you were alive, the fight to get you back to full strength had only just begun.

The days that followed blurred into a slow, steady progression of healing. For you, it was a frustrating period of enforced idleness. The initial weakness gradually lessened, but the wound in your chest remained a constant, tender reminder of how close you'd come to the brink. Simple tasks, like sitting upright or walking a few steps, felt like monumental challenges, each one a small victory in a long, arduous war against your own depleted body.

And through it all, Marco was a constant, unwavering presence. He rarely left your side, even when Whitebeard or other commanders urged him to rest. He oversaw every medication, every dressing change, his touch gentle yet firm, his eyes always scanning for any sign of discomfort or setback. He’d bring you small, fortifying meals, patiently coaxing you to eat, even when your appetite was non-existent. He’d sit by your bunk for hours, reading aloud from an old, battered map, or just in comfortable silence, his hand often resting lightly on your arm, a silent anchor in your slow drift back to strength.

He talked to you, too, in quiet tones, filling you in on the minor skirmishes the crew had handled, the gossip from the lower decks, or even just musing about the current sea currents. He’d tell you about Thatch’s latest culinary disaster that he managed to avoid, or Ace’s boundless energy and how he was giving Pops a headache with his antics. These were not just stories; they were threads reconnecting you to the vibrant, chaotic life of the Moby Dick, reminding you of what you were fighting to get back to.

There were moments of immense frustration for you, particularly when your body refused to cooperate. Marco, sensing your mood, would simply offer a quiet, understanding smile, perhaps a gentle squeeze of your hand, reminding you that healing wasn't a race. He never pushed, never hurried. He was the calm in the storm of your recovery, a steady, unyielding force dedicated solely to your well-being. His dedication wasn't just professional; it was deeply personal, a testament to the profound bond you shared.

Weeks bled into months. The initial raw, angry gash across your chest slowly, miraculously, transformed. The fiery pain faded to a phantom ache, and eventually, the wound became a raised, silvery line, a stark contrast against your skin. It was a jagged, undeniable testament to how close you’d come to death, a permanent mark left by the captain’s cruel blade.

You often found yourself tracing it with your fingers in the quiet moments, a mix of grim fascination and a lingering echo of fear. One evening, as you lay in your bunk, the gentle sway of the Moby Dick a familiar comfort, Marco noticed you doing just that.

He shifted closer, his warmth a familiar comfort beside you. Without a word, he gently took your hand, his fingers tracing the length of the scar. Then, with a tenderness that made your breath catch, he lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss directly to the center of it. His lips lingered, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through you.

"It's a mark of survival, yoi," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble against your ear. "It shows you fought. It shows you lived."

You looked at him, your eyes welling up unexpectedly. The scar felt… ugly, sometimes. A constant reminder of weakness, of being unable to defend yourself fully.

"I know it's a lot to take in," he continued, as if sensing your unspoken thoughts. "But don't you ever feel bad about it, Y/N. Don't you ever think it makes you less. It makes you stronger. It's a part of your story, a story where you fought like hell and came back to us." He lifted his head, his blue eyes, filled with an unwavering love and admiration, meeting yours. "And I wouldn't trade that scar, or you, for anything in the world."

Life on the Moby Dick, in the wake of the attack and your recovery, settled into a rhythm that felt both familiar and, somehow, even more precious. The scar on your chest was a constant, subtle presence, but it no longer defined you. Instead, it became a quiet part of your shared history with Marco, a silent testament to the depth of your bond.

You found comfort in the small, everyday moments that spoke volumes. On a clear, star-dusted night, you'd often find him leaning against the railing, gazing out at the endless sea. You’d join him, leaning into his side as he wrapped an arm around you. Sometimes, you'd talk about constellations or the next island; other times, you'd just listen to the gentle lapping of the waves, a comfortable silence passing between you that needed no words.

There were evenings when Thatch would be holding court in the galley, concocting some new, deliciously outlandish dish, and Marco would subtly slip you a piece of whatever he was making before anyone else could snatch it. A shared glance, a small, conspiratorial smile – these were the unspoken languages of your love, woven into the fabric of daily life.

You'd often find him in the infirmary, even on his off-duty hours, meticulously organizing supplies or poring over medical texts. You’d sit with him, sometimes just observing, other times helping with minor tasks, reveling in the quiet hum of his dedication. He'd occasionally catch you watching him, and a soft, genuine smile would touch his lips, a silent invitation into his world.

And then there were the simple, profound acts of affection. A warm hand on your back as you navigated a crowded deck. His quiet presence beside you during a tense briefing. The way his fingers would gently brush yours when you passed by. Each gesture was a reaffirmation, a subtle reminder that he saw you, truly saw you, and loved every part of you, including the battle-hardened warrior and the scarred survivor.

Looking over their texts. Not overthinking how he was going to answer. He noticed a detail that could give him a break. She was going to see Huntrix's costume designer later this week.

While it would be terrible to saddle someone with the other four demons. But it would be a simple task that would get them off of his back.

So it was an easy decision to write down the address and call a meeting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frowning down at the map on his phone. Baby gave the building in front of them an equally annoyed look. Did Jinu really think they were this dumb. That this wasn't a ploy to keep them busy.

At least that was his thoughts. Until he saw that his band mates were all scattered in front of the building. Romance and Abby taking selfies, while Mystery growled at a nearby squirrel. Maybe he was right to underestimate them.

That is, if they didn't have a common interest. “I'll bet you that I can get her to swoon for me. Tell you what, the first one to get her attention, gets to pick dinner."

The moment the words left his lips, all eyes were on him. Being out of the underworld was nice. Really nice. The best part about it had to be the food. They would have never dreamed of how delicious modern food could be.

Though meal time always became a fight. Everyone had their own preferences and favorites. None of the boys would ever give up the opportunity to be the one to choose.

A round of agreements were had. Each of them is confident in their abilities to woo you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was easy enough to find your office space. But they immediately hit a hiccup, your assistant. She recognized them immediately. That would usually be in their favor. If she wasn't getting in their way that is.

Squealing and requesting pictures. Every question she asked was quickly followed by another. They would have pushed her away. But it wouldn't be a good idea to get on your bad side before even meeting you.

Then she asked a question that could get them one step closer to you. “So what brings you guys here?” It seemed as if she had just realized she was neglecting her job. Smiling sheepishly, she sat back down at her desk.

Romance was the first to speak up. “Other than seeing your beautiful face. We'd like to see (Y/N). We were wondering if she could make us something for the award show.”

Smiling brightly at the boys she nodded. “I'm sure that she would make time for such a great band. I'll let her know you're here.” Glancing at the group, she picked up her phone. “So is it just the three of you today?”

This caused the others' eyes to widen. Searching the room, they came to a panicked realization. Mystery was nowhere to be seen.

~~~~~~~~

He had to find the source of this scent. It was utterly alluring. Indescribably enchanting. Following his nose to the end of a hall, he finds it. The door was covered in the scent. Opening it, he sees only one figure.

A woman plush hunched over a desk. Hair messy, it wasn't hard to see why as your hand runs through it once again. A pinched look of concentration on your full face. Hand moving languidly over the paper in front of you. Biting your lip as you erase something while mumbling to yourself.

He could have kept admiring you. Content to spend his time just observing you. Until the hurried sound of footsteps came up behind him.

The boys pull him back as your assistant rushes forward. “I am so sorry, miss. I hope we didn't interrupt you.”

You glance up and then do a double take. When did a group of people end up in your office? Huh? Waving your hand absently, you go back to your current design. “It's fine, I didn't even notice.”

The boys were stunned. Between your dismissive nature and overwhelming scent. It was almost enough to throw them out of their disguise. A shimmer of purple flashing over each man's skin.

Baby steps forward, after composing himself. “We were actually hoping to work with you.” He sent a dazzling smile your way. That quickly turned into a frown at your reply.

“Make an appointment.” Your tone was flat and your eyes never left your work. This piece was almost done. There was no way you would stop the groove you were in.

Shouldering his way forward, Abby flexes. “Are you sure you can't make an exception for us? We are the Saja Boys after all.” He was also disappointed as you didn't even answer him. Instead you put on a pair of headphones and continue your work.

The assistance sweats as she watches this play out. She knew that interrupting your flow was a big no no. But come on, it's the Saja Boys. The up and coming boy band.

Apologizing profusely, she shuts the door. Though the boys weren't sure who it was directed at.

“I promise that you'll be penciled in this week. If you're still interested, that is?” She laid it on a bit thick. Reasoning that they were VIPs.

Romance placed a hand on her back and guided her back to the front. “Of course. We all have our quirks. Nothing I would hold against someone as special as Miss (Y/N).”

A look flashed through the group at this statement. A knowing nod comes from each demon. They had all noticed the oddly beguiling scent. That would definitely garner a later discussion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at their current home, it didn't take long to come to a unanimous conclusion. There was something special about you. And they were going to do their best to figure it out.

Each demon had their own idea of how to go about the task. All of which were wildly different.

Romance wanted to go back immediately. Hoping that taking you on a date would be great recon. Which was quickly shot down by the group. There was no way they would let him get all of your attention.

Mystery wanted to camp outside your office. Then follow you home. And anywhere you may go after that. That was called out for what it was, stalking. Which most people don't appreciate, especially the authorities. The last thing they needed was a scandal.

Baby wanted to look you up. Follow you on social media. See what you had been doing. Wanting to go back to your very first post. Maybe even make some fake accounts and message you. This was pointed out as also being stalking. Albeit digitally, still stalking all the same.

Abby was apparently the only one with patience. “Why don't we just wait until our appointment? We're going back in a few days. So it's not as if we'll never see them again.”

The others shot him glares. While they all knew this was true. It didn't help the itch they felt to experience your scent again. Hoping that the next time they saw you they might get your acknowledgement.

Each of them reluctantly agreed to his statement. Secretly thinking of ways to see you before the group would head back to your office. Even the muscled man himself.

~~~~~~~~~~

It had not gone the way they had hoped. Every chance they had to sneak out of the house. Was quickly fouled by one of the other demons. They were always trying to be one step ahead of the others. With their full schedules on top of that. It was impossible to find their way back to you.

The whole thing had even started to get under Jinu's skin. The constant arguing, sudden fights, and glares galore. It was all starting to get him to his breaking point.

The day of their meeting with you was the final straw. They couldn't even stand to be in the same room with each other. It made the waiting room of your office unbearable. They had insisted on coming early. It was a nightmare to be in. The only thing keeping them in line was your assistant.

As she went to tell you that they were here for the session, you could hear a pin drop. The dark haired man decided that he had to intervene.

Standing before the group, he gave the other men a sharp glare. “I'm not sure what's going on around here. But you guys need to control yourselves. We are demons undercover. Whatever you have going on. I'm sure it would be easier to work out if you did it together.”

The change in their demeanor at the suggestion was instantaneous. A look passed between the group as they came to the same conclusion. Working together they could get you to be theirs’ all the sooner.

With a shared nod, Baby smiles at the leader. “You know what you're right. We have the same goal. So why not work together."

A wave of relief went through the man. Maybe now the house could get a bit of peace. Not knowing how he had just sealed your fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~

This was definitely worse. They were acting normal. Well behaved and nice in fact. It was creeping Jinu out. There they sat, posters straight and quietly listening to you. All smiles as you went over a few ideas you had for them.

“I looked you guys up. You're not bad, but I'm glad you came to me. Basic street wear is only going to get you so far. Especially with the awards coming up.” You smiled as thoughts of the ceremony came to mind. It was honestly an honor to be able to design for the competing groups.

The light pink haired man aptly complimented you. “Of course, we had to come to the best. We knew that we were in the right hands after checking you out.”

This caused the leader to eye the group again. A chorus of agreements came from the others. All of them gazing at you hungrily. He took this as their demonic nature peeking through. Which made him hurry the meeting along. Not for what it really was. Predators seeking out a proper mate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You spent much more time with the men after that. Sometimes as a group. More often than not with them individually. It really came down to what their schedules allowed.

They were ecstatic to be spending more time with you. Taking in your scent, just being in your presence was wonderful. Enjoying the way your plush form would occasionally brush against their own. It was otherworldly.

Until they made an upsetting discovery. You were a workaholic. No matter how many times they tried to change the subject. Or even coerce a reaction out of you. Learn anything personal, they were all rebuffed. It was torture.

It wasn't until they all managed to be at your office at the same time, sans Jinu. That's when the dam finally burst. While the group was all trying their best to pry out anything beyond your work life from you. Baby could feel a seething anger bubbling in his stomach at your short non answers.

He stomps up to you, glaring down his nose. “Why won't you just talk to us? We're popular and good looking. But every time we make an effort to get to know you. You couldn't care less. What's wrong?” He threw his arms up, then sagged in annoyance.

Even though they were close to their breaking point. All of the men looked at him in shock. Still they looked at you in anticipation. Beyond curious about what your response would be.

You weren't impressed by the outburst. You had had problem clients before. It was a commonality when it came to your line of work. So it wasn't a surprise that you already had an answer to this issue.

“I keep my work life and personal life separate. It's just my policy, don't take it personally."

The flippant way you said it upset the men. It was obvious that others had tried to win you over at work. In their delusion they didn't take this personally. No, they came to a much more sinister conclusion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You slowly blink your eyes open. Squinting through a hazy fog, you take in the unfamiliar room. Only able to make out a few details through the small amount of light coming from a high window.

It was damp and cold. Causing goosebumps to spread across your plush body. Not much furnished the room. The mattress you laid on being the only thing to properly rest on. If you didn't count the wooden chair ominously facing you, that is.

Which held none other than Mystery. Even in the dim room, you could make out his silver hair. Feeling his eyes bore into you, you slowly sit up. Noticing how they pierce the veil of hair over them. The gaze of a predator had locked onto you.

And you weren't sure how to react. Fight or flight were supposed to be the default. But all of your instincts were screaming at you to submit.

Without speaking a word, he starts stalking towards you. Each step causes your skin to prick a bit more. His languid movements make your mind scream at you. Do anything!

As he finally looms over you, he pounces. Cradling your plush form tightly against himself. He shocks you with his next move. Instead of tearing you apart, he tucks your pliable body impossibly closer. Burying his nose into your neck, he inhaled deeply.

Your shock wears off quickly and you begin to squirm underneath him. Which greatly displeases him. Digging his hands deeper into your soft flesh, he growled. Stilling at once, you accepted your fate in the awkward position.

Only for light to spill into the room from up above. A door you couldn't make out before opening. Revealing a new figure.

Jinu had become suspicious of the other demons. Between their sudden change in behavior. And constant interest in going to the basement. A room they had never set foot in before. It was enough to make him on guard. Rushing down the stairs, he's shocked at the scene before him.

Mystery snarls at the other man. His temper flares immediately. How dare the dark haired man challenge him. He already had a claim on someone else. What little rational thought he had left was thrown away. Launching himself at the other man, shedding his veil in his anger.

You watch in astonishment as the two men fight. Claws, teeth, and limbs viciously rending into each other. As the quieter of the two shifts into something new, you pale.

How could you handle being taken by something otherworldly? Scrambling away, you put a wall against your back. Watching and hoping that the leader of the group could be your salvation.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Once the rest of the group caught wind of the fight. It didn't take long for them to drag the pair up stairs. Mystery still trying his best to struggle out of the two pinkette's hold on him. Snarling as he attempted to burn a hole through the other man with his gaze.

Composing himself, he doesn't even glance at the feral demon. Instead he stares down the remaining three. “Which one of you is going to explain to me what the hell is going on?” He endeavored to keep the anger out of his voice. But he was at his wits end with their change in behavior.

Baby surged forward, a sneer marking his face. “Why do you care? The only thing that matters to you is that hunter.” He spat the title out like a venom. He was such a hypocrite. So he could have a human. What about them! This was the first thing that broke through their demonic nature. They were not giving you up.

Shaking his head, he stared at the man in disbelief. “That's totally different. I'm distracting her. Keeping them from completing the Honmoon.” Even as it left his mouth he knew it was a half truth. Still his pride wouldn't allow him to admit it.

Leaving Mystery to the muscled demon's charge, Romance says. “He's right. Why are you allowed a have human? While the rest of us are expected to stay alone. It's what we deserve. A reward for playing nice." He wasn't far behind the feral demon in annoyance. There was only so much they could take before having an outburst.

Holding a hand up, he examines the group. “Wait, is she why you guys have been cooperating?” The pieces started to fall into place. The fights right after they went to see you. Him telling them to get along. Which they did, especially in front of you. You had a power over them that no one seemed to realize.

This has turned into an interesting opportunity. It seems he would have to head down to the basement again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You glared up the stairs. Though the space was too dark to make out the door. It didn't stop you from trying to knock it off the hinges with your furious glare. You had of course attempted to simply turn the knob. But they had thought to lock it before leaving.

So now you were wallowing in your anger. Until the door opens and a familiar silhouette fills the space. Getting to your feet, your mood brightens. Then the heavy sound of the lock turning chips away at your spirit. Why would he do that? Wasn't he going to let you out. Before he was fighting for you, yelling about your treatment. What has changed?

Making his way down the stairs, he sees you shrink away. Well, this wasn't a good start. Still he tries to assuage your worries. “I'm sorry about all this. They've got it on their minds that this was the best way to get close to you.”

You wait for him to continue. To guide you out of the dank room. Let you move on from this nightmare. But that doesn't happen. So you decide to break the silence yourself. “Then I can go. I get it. Big stars want to pull a prank. This isn't the first time I've been involved in a random stunt.”

You were lying through your teeth. At this point though you were desperate. As he smiles at you, you're sure it works. Until he shakes his head.

“That may be so. If you didn't see what we really were.” He watches your eyes widen. Becoming impressed as you stay calm beyond that. Then he shifts his form.

You're ridged as you realize it wasn't stress that caused them to look different. Sharp teeth and nails, purple skin with intricate markings. Something not human, monstrous in shape stood before you.

He could see you shrink into yourself. Pulling your shapely legs closer to your plush form. He saw the appeal, though this enchanting scent the others spoke of. It was something he hadn't experienced. By the way the group was acting, he should count himself lucky. They would stop at nothing to have you as their's. And he wasn't above using that for his benefit.

To let you know that, was out of the question. So he crafted a new explanation. “We can't let you go now that you know our secret. It's as simple as that. So be good and we'll see if we can work together.” With that he turned to leave the room.

Seeing your only hope get shattered, your anger began to rise. If he thought for one moment you were going to roll over and take this. Then they all had another thing coming.

As he opens the door you decide to let your thoughts be known. “I won't be willing to do this. Whatever you have planned. I'll fight you every step of the way.”