#post-mortem-lullaby

"You were engaged is the true one."

As she approaches him, Morgan feels something about him is off. Even if the clothes are part of a disguise, there’s something fishy which she can’t explain... Once behind him, Morgan doesn’t touch him but folds her hands together and greets him with a “Hello, sweetheart”

Little does she know... this is not Law.

♠ @post-mortem-lullaby

Emil always came up with the most unpredictable and random gifts, from chocolate bunnies to blocks of cheese. Maybe her idea was not to keep Ace well-fed as much as it was for him to take a hint and invite her over for a fondue party. Not much was needed for it, either, as long as there was a pot to stand between his hot hands and forks to fish out gooey goodness from within.

Today, however, Emil switched departments and food gave way to flowers, twisted and intertwined in a crown just the kind a younger Ace imagined his mother would have liked to braid and wear atop her angelic strawberry-blonde hair, queen-like. 

With a smile that had nothing boyish or impertinent to it, Ace lowered his head to receive the flower crown as though he were being knighted by Queen Emilia of House Utter. This was a rare honour, to receive so pretty a gift from the lady herself without it being accompanied by a teasing remark anywhere between the ‘before’ and the ‘during’; perhaps even the ‘after’ would be silent.

Alas for the freshly knighted Ace, the flower crown’s diameter surpassed that of his head and fell limp over his shoulders, petals cascading now down his person in a soft dance. So much for the grandeur of the moment! Then again, how easy could it be for a blind fishwoman to accurately measure a man’s skull without using her fingers for guidance if she had no sight to rely on? Emil had not rested her hands against Ace’s cranium for this or any other purpose.

With a pout he could not and cared not to hide, Ace told Emil to “Hold up!”, a solution already formed in his mind. 

A single, controlled flame scorched the the hard stalks and bare hands pulled the halves apart, thus fashioning two bands of the original circlet. One of these Ace placed on Emil’s hair, the other atop his own. She may share no resemblance with Portgas D. Rouge but the woman’s son reckoned Emil looked pretty with a flower tiara adorning her black mop of hair. The vivid hues of the flowers reflected well her liveliness while the flowers themselves added softness to her figure.

“Everything’s fixed now, see?” 

In the end, it was he who crowned her queen.

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ @post-mortem-lullaby

It was a tempting offer. Having his fur brushed was one of Bepo’s favourite things in the world, the most amazing and soothing sensation - and it did wonders to his mink pride as it did to his coat! More than maintenance, having his fur brushed was a ritualistic part of his well-being.

The bear accepted the hairbrush but did not know what to make of it. Though he trusted Emil, he would not entrust her with something only Law did. He cowered before the offer and refused it in the most polite way he could.

“Sorry but no. That’s… private”

At first, and knowing Law’s temper, it might seem that Bepo was fearful of his Captain - maybe Law would punish him for allowing someone else to touch his fur. But it was not fear he felt, it was something different. Bepo’s fur was not an accessory - it was his body. If humans don’t let just about any human touch their skin, or at least certain areas of their skin, minks didn’t fancy the idea of humans touching them at ease and at will, for the border between respectful touching and petting was as soft as the pelt was… And minks were not pets!

Fur brushing was something meant to be shared only with his best friend. It was one of Law’s very few social prerogatives and Bepo would not take it away.

Docks, where had there been docks before that he had been? The only docks he could remember happened to be the ones attached to Low Town, but this wasn’t them. He had heard that there was another docking side, but he had never been there before.

“Shit.”

It’s not working out too well.

Running his fingers on the side of his Den Den’s shell and trying to concentrate, Rogan bites back a groan when he still can’t tell what the braille that had been put onto the shell says. It’s supposed to be a number. He’s supposed to know how to read this to make a call, but he isn’t and he can’t.

Really, fuck braille. He hates it. Why couldn’t they just raise regular lettering? That would be easier to read- right?

“Training exercise my ass. More like leaving me alone to struggle for their own amusement.“ He grumbles to himself.

#imagine Emil giving that to Law#but she doesn't tell him those are linked and she has the other#so she turns on and off her own lamp at the oddiest hours#and Law has no clue what's happening#WHY IS HIS LAMP RANDOMLY TURNING ON?!?!