#whitebeard x reader

Benn Beckman

Someone as suave as him has definitely tried most everything. With Benn? Probably twice. Nothing surprises him, nothing scares him. Anything you want to try with him, he’ll smirk and ask if you’re sure. If you remember your safe word. But this half drunken request? This got a raised brow. Yet, he had you strip and lay back on the bed. He made you watch as he cleaned his gun, rubbing the rifle slow and teasingly as he stared at you. When he was satisfied, he stood, bringing it with him onto the bed and setting the end between your legs. He manhandled your thigh in one hand, twisting and lifting you until the smooth wood and metal touched your most sensitive place. He easily moved both you and the gun to stimulate you, slowly at first. Then he made you cum on it. Dizzy with the forbidden and fucked up nature of it all, you were putty in his hands when he climbed onto you to have his turn.

Reiju Vinsmoke

The poison princess doesn’t have the easiest home life, so you are her lifeline, her hope. For as much as strength and invulnerability is something she strives for - to project anyway - in bed she often wants things softer, sweeter, comforting. On the days she’s wanting more though? She’ll drain your soul with her eagerness. Sometimes she needs to be dominant and take control, to test your trust and release her pent up emotions. If you want to be rough with her? Go ahead, her body can take literally anything you throw at her. On particularly raunchy nights, maybe she’ll tease about bringing in a few Germa soldiers to liven things up. Careful not to joke too much, they may be clone soldiers, but as it’s seen with the Vinsmokes, they’re men after all - lust can’t fully be removed from their dna.

Thatch

He loves cooking, and he loves you. And he loves spoiling you with your favourite foods. He makes sure you eat enough to keep up with your training and work on the crew, often insisting on seconds or dessert. And as you gain, muscle or weight or both, he’s even more obsessed with you. He has to hide his hard on when he sees your shirt ride up a bit to give a glimpse of your belly. In bed, he’s insatiable with your body, kissing and holding you endlessly as you fuck. And having the key to the pantry comes with other benefits, such as taking a bit of chocolate to melt on your chest, or syrup to lick off your skin. If you call him out on his fetishes and kinks, he’ll just fuck you until you can’t walk in punishment, smirking about how you love him anyway. He’ll fill your belly with good food and then with him. Quit complaining, okay~

X Drake

He’s a simp and a simple man. Everything you do is so precious and alluring. It drives his instincts wild - protection, affection, possession. He’s terrified to use his Zoan fruit with you, of course he’d hate himself if you got so much as a scratch. But if you insist? How the hell is he supposed to resist you begging for his dick? He sets strict rules, has an emergency kit on standby. Meanwhile, his care is just making you love him more - and amping up the anticipation. He starts with his half Zoan form, carefully having prepped you before pushing inside with this thicker cock. It’s nirvana for both of you. When he finally is persuaded to go full zoan and let you play with his enormous dick? Best have a shower ready and no plans for tomorrow - watching your little human body all over his cock like that, trying to take just the tip inside? He’ll turn back into his human size just to fuck you senseless.

Perona

Your rose haired lover is pushy, demanding, even manipulative when she wants something. Never more than when she wants you. She’s impatient, and has been known to use her negative hollow ghosts to utterly distract you from your work. She drags you back to your room and into bed, comforting you with her naked chest until you feel better. Her moods are unpredictable as to what she prefers - ordering you around and making you do all the work, making you lay back and take whatever she wants to get from you, or being the ultimate brat when you take the lead. If you’re a pushover, she won’t let you leave the bed until you’re both utterly exhausted (before demanding you go get some food from the kitchen, naturally.) But if you hold firm, she’ll definitely use such dirty tricks on you more often to get her way. Her ghosts are always ready to be released, after all.

Brook

Your boyfriend is a freak. He’s nasty and pervy and kinky and you know this. Once he finally gives in to the fact that he loves you, that you most definitely love him, and that you know how to make sex work? He’s insatiable, wanting to try everything. Every possible position, every kink, every fantasy. He’ll play a cheerful song for the crew and then come over and whisper to you, asking whether you’ve thought about the latest crazy thing he wants to try in the bedroom. Using his fingers inside you is unlike anything else, feeling every ridge and knob of his bones. Finding odd attachments for the strap (the tentacle one is still his favourite). He’s up to finding inappropriate uses for just about anything if he gets to watch your body using it. And finding inappropriate uses for his own body? Nothing beats it.

Jinbe

Having a human for a lover has always made him a little nervous. You’re just so small. Kissing is a careful thing with his tusks, his hugs are measured, laying beside one another is only for when he’s awake just in case he were to crush you. He keeps you on his chest and belly, making a nest of blankets on either side of him to keep you both comfortable. But secretly, he is obsessed with the size difference. Everything about him is big, including his cock. It’s worrisome thinking about hurting you, but damn if it isn’t the sexiest thing he’s ever seen to watch you struggle and finally manage to take him inside. The mess is considerable when he finishes, but he’s always happy to take care of you after. He loves holding any part of your body, so small and soft and warm, all for him, his brave and wonderful little human lover.

Viola of Dressrossa

You are her favourite lifeline. Her joy comes to revolve around you, on her mind all hours of day and night. And once, she was tempted to use her devil fruit to see where you were. Of course she worries. And she missed you. Seeing you going about your day was more fulfilling than she’d expected though, and she started peeking in more and more often. But never when you were home alone. She respected your privacy of course. Until… a particularly lonely evening. She burned with shame and arousal as she watched you… taking care of yourself. The next time she saw you, she mentioned something about your pajamas. Something she shouldn’t have known - they were new. Dying of embarrassment, you assured her it was flattering that she needed to see you so badly, and that she’d stay to watch the show. You make her promise to look in now and then - you’ll put on a show just for her on the nights you have to be apart.

Silvers Rayleigh

As his lover, of course he’ll train you. You need to be able to protect yourself when he’s not around, after all. And as serious as he takes your training, he’s also an unrepentant pervert and hornball. At least once per session, he’ll tease you. Holding his blade to your throat when you’re on your back, wandering hands as he adjusts your stance, offering prizes or punishment based on your success in doing as he says. When you’re too exhausted afterwards, he’ll help you wash up and reward you sweetly. But when you’re up for more? Of course haki resistance is just as important as wielding it, so he’ll use his incredible strength with it to overwhelm you. In something parallel to primal play, he’ll try to overwhelm you, fucking you in punishment if you fail. He can essentially pin you down by manipulating your own haki on top of it all. You end up with world class skills in haki and fucking both.

Koby

Your lover is so sweet on you, no matter how stressed or exhausted he is from training or work, he’s always kind and gentle with you. His desire to make it up to you for all the time he’s away makes him eager to give. While he’s always bashfully grateful when you insist on taking care of him, it’s a point of pride for him to be able to give you the best of him. The best you’ll ever have. His competition against himself grows more intense, and he starts testing his observation haki on you to try to determine what you really need. And he gets damn good at it. He knows what your body will do before you do, careful to switch things up at just the right moment. He holds you close as often as he can when he gives you those earth shattering orgasms, praising you the whole time.

Fujitora Issho

To choose him for you lover is to choose your own personal teddy bear of a lover, a cuddly tiger who delights in slow evenings and good meals with you. He’s protective and gentle, but he’s a man. And you awaken in him feelings he’s never experienced. His lust for you is embarrassingly endless, and his strength to see to your needs all night long is no question. So in those long nights of indulging lust, sometimes he can’t get close enough to you. Sometimes he wants to see you fall apart even more thoroughly than usual. So he’ll use just a hint of his devil fruit to pin you to the bed. Safe in his hands, but controlled and consumed by him. Not that he needed extra strength to hold you down, but it adds to the adrenaline when he’s taking you deep and hard.

Madam Shyarly

Your mermaid lover is twice your size, and you both can’t help but be turned on by it. Her breasts are so big to you, and your body is so cute and small. A single finger of hers is usually plenty to fill you, two when you’re needing more. She loves it when you fist her. Keeping you in her lap is her favourite. Being a fortune teller, and prone to anxiety, she’s collected crystals she feels helps channel her energy. Many of them are smooth, and late one night, already hazy from the pleasure you’d given each other, she dares to get one off its shelf. She rubs it against your skin, your sensitive places, then between your legs. She teases it to your entrance, letting the rounded end just slip in. It’s so sensual and taboo that it becomes a regular occurrence. You have a locked box now that only she has the key to, filled with crystals that have nothing to do with fortunes.

Kuma

He is always such a careful and intentional lover, always gentle and tentative in learning new ways to pleasure you. It didn’t take long however, to discover the… pleasurable potential of his devil fruit paw pads. Rubbing them on your chest, stimulating your nipples. Softly grinding his palm between your legs. With the give, they’re even more effective than his broad fingertips. He needs a bit of encouragement before doing anything harder, needing to be assured it won’t hurt you. But he learns the right pressure to hold you in his palms, how to use the smaller pads to add additional stimulation. He’s too shy and modest to ever put his hands down your clothes in public, but in the comfort of your own home, sometimes he’ll be persuaded to rub you with them, carrying you to bed when your legs give out to give you his full attention.

Okiku of Wano

She was shy at first when it came to intimacy with you, but once she was assured of your love and your ability to make her feel feminine, she grew bolder. A lifetime of avoidance and repression made her curious and eager to try everything. She bought Wano’s version of the Karma Sutra, jade eggs, and quartz wands for the bedroom. With your help, she trained to be able to use them on herself with you, and if you’re willing, to use them on you too. The eggs rest inside, adding extra stretch and pressure to penetration. The wands help her prepare for you, and make for a tantalising show to use in front of you. It helps her affirm herself just as much, and sometimes asks you to use it on her.

Hongo, Dr. of the Red Hair Pirates

Regardless of your… equipment, your doctor lover is determined to never hurt you. He’s oddly adamant on training your pelvic muscles once you two reach the point of regular intimacy. He insists on using dilators to prep you, even on days you’re not planning to sleep together. Even if you say you can do it yourself, he insists on being there to make sure you insert them properly. Can’t have you getting hurt, now. Anally or otherwise, he’ll carefully push them inside you, and when it’s time to remove it, he’ll reward you for obeying your doctor’s orders with an orgasm or two. When he’s trained you well enough, he’ll suggest something crazy and possibly not medically sound - taking both one of the dilators and him inside at the same time. Are you adventurous enough?

Kyros of Dressrossa

He’d been used to living without his leg for years, and even with his balancing skill, it wasn’t always practical to hop everywhere. So you found him a cane. It was beautiful but simple, with a classy sheen to seal the wood. It took him a long time to warm up to it, but whenever he had a longer way to go, it was the lifesaver you’d promised it would be. As his lover, your job is often to make him rest. But he still pushes it. So once when he was out late, you were tired and desperately horny and a bit drunk, and took the cane that he’d left behind for the day and rubbed yourself against it. He was stunned speechless when he came home. But you were just so devastatingly sexy that he came to join you on the bed, holding the long rod himself to help you get off on it. His heavy accent in your ear didn’t hurt in that effort.

Cheap bonus: Whitebeard

The dock was lively today. Louise took a drag from her cigarette while she watched various workers load the ship she'd be taking. Dockhands hauled food, weapons, and personal items onto the ship at an efficient pace. That was to be expected. Linlin was an impatient woman who loathed tardiness.

Speed was a crucial element to this mission. Not just because Linlin wanted them to return quickly, but due to the extreme danger everyone on board would be in if the wrong people knew who was to be there for the voyage home.

Sakazuki would leave no survivors if he found out what was going on. Sengoku was holding him back for now, but his temper is too unpredictable for that to truly be a guarantee. Especially with how much he hated losing control of anything.

Louise dropped the burnt down nub from her lips and pulled a new cigarette from her pack, lighting it with a practiced ease, and taking a deep drag. This was doing nothing for her nerves, yet she kept smoking cig after cig in hopes that the next one would finally be enough. She never did get the hang of managing stress.

But, really? Who could possibly relax when they had as much on their plate as she does?

Charlotte Linlin sat perched on her throne, consuming pastries at a rate that implied she feared they would be taken from her if she didn't eat fast enough despite that very much not being true. 

She was in a good mood, something that Louise was extremely grateful for. 

“Isn’t this wonderful? I just knew this would all work out one day!” Linlin paused her eating long enough to take a swig of tea. Her eyes drift down to Louise, and she grins, “And to think you doubted that we would ever be able to get our hands on your dear (Y/N).”

“How foolish of me. I should have had more faith in you.” Louise forced a smile and idly sipped at her own tea.

Linlin cackled, slapping her free hand on the arm of her throne, “Yes, exactly! You should know better by now after everything we’ve been through. I always know what I’m talking about.”

That was true in a sense. If she was ever wrong about something, she had a way of brute-forcing the situation back into her being right again. Not that Louise would ever vocalize that thought.

“But even I have to admit that this is different from what I had expected.” Louise’s gaze flitted up at that admission. “Because this is even better than what I had hoped for! Not only am I getting the Will of D into my family, but now this marriage will also create an alliance with the Whitebeard pirates!” Linlin’s feet kicked in the air and she squirmed with excitement at the prospect.

“An alliance? From what I gathered during my conversation with him, he’s only holding onto (Y/N) for the time being because they didn’t want to go back, not because he’s assimilated them into his crew.”

“Louise, darling, what did we just say about you having more faith in me?” Linlin discarded her empty cup and leaned forward, propping up her chin on one fist. “You don’t know Edward like I do. He has a talent for drawing in troubled youth and making them one of his own, and from what I’ve heard about your kid, they’re precisely the kind of person he can’t help but adopt. Mark my words, that kid will be calling him ‘Pops’ by the time you get there.”

She seems awfully sure of herself. Louise looks down at her cup and absent-mindedly swirls the tea around. She supposes that there is hardly anything bad about you finally having a good father figure.

But Whitebeard seeing you as his own will most certainly cause problems. He’s going to want what’s best for you, and Louise isn’t delusional enough to think that what Big Mom wants is what is best for you.

“We should get back on topic, though. Since you’ve been such a useful ally, I’ll let you have some say in the matter.” Linlin sits up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Which of my children do you think (Y/N) would suit best? I think Nougat’s around their age. Or perhaps Pudding?”

Linlin’s nose wrinkles, and she retracts her previous statement, “Well, maybe not Pudding. I don’t want a bunch of three-eyed grandchildren running around.”

The topic makes Louise uncomfortable. She knows full well that you are in no state of mind to be getting thrown into a marriage with zero warning. Not to mention far too young to be reproducing. She purses her lips and tries to come up with an excuse, “It’s hard for me to say… While I’ve been able to get updates on (Y/N) through eavesdropping on Marine transmissions, it’s given me very little insight on their personality. Maybe we could wait until after I’ve brought them here? Then we could see first hand who they get along with best.”

“You want me to wait that long?” Linlin leans back in her seat and crosses her arms, openly pouting at the idea. “But I want to have the wedding shortly after your return, not have to wait however long it takes them to make a decision. It’s been so long since the last wedding, I’ve been looking forward to the cake!”

The last wedding was around six or seven years ago now, to Anana’s father. Rest his soul.

Linlin's eyes widen, and she sits up straighter, “I know! Why don’t you take the decuplets with you?”

“W-What? All of them?”

“Yes! There’s ten of them, so your kid is bound to get along with at least one.” Linlin nods to herself, and Louise knows that means she has already made up her mind on the matter. This situation just got a lot more complicated.

What a mess. Louise stares out at the sea, mulling over how best to go about this. As it stands right now, there isn’t a clear or obvious answer. What she wouldn’t give for Rouge to be here to give her advice. Her sister always knew what to do, even in the worst scenarios.

“I thought you said you were quitting.”

“She's said that like a million times. There's no way you're still believing her when she says it.”

Louise turns her head toward the voices making comments on her life choices. Newji and Allmeg respectively were standing nearby, with Allmeg using Newji as an armrest. Their grins only widen when she gives them her attention.

“I don’t recall asking for either of your opinions.” She exhales smoke, then drops the cigarette butt on the ground and steps on it. “I’m going to quit when we get back.”

The two decuplets before her exchange glances, then lean closer to “whisper” amongst themselves.

Newji holds up a hand to shield his lips from view, “I bet a thousand berry she’ll fail after a week.”

Allmeg snorts and shoots back, “I bet five thousand that she won’t even try.”

“Okay, that’s enough you little smartasses!” Louise leveled them with a glare that she knew full well they weren’t going to take seriously. That’s her fault, she supposes. She always has been soft on them.

True to her assumptions, they only laughed in response to her half-assed attempt to scold them. Rather than being able to focus on these two in particular, her attention is divided by the rest of the decuplets making their way onto the docks. 

Nutmeg and Akimeg come running up to the pier, eyes locked onto the ship with obvious excitement. Nutmeg looks over to her sister, “I can’t believe we’re finally getting to leave Totto Land, this is going to be so much fun!”

Akimeg nods eagerly, “Just think of all the new things we’re going to get to see on this trip!”

Newichi enters the scene, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a scowl on his face, “How are you two looking forward to this? Are you forgetting that one of us is going to have to get married when we come back?”

The comment makes Nutmeg whip around, visibly irritated, “Of course I remember, I’m not stupid!”

“Yeah! Excuse us for trying to make the most out of this!” Akimeg chimes in, siding with her sister.

Newgo trails in behind his oldest brother and tosses in his own opinion on the matter, “I’m with them, we should just focus on having fun in the meantime. We can worry about that later.”

Fuyumeg inserts herself into the conversation, looking unimpressed, “Besides, I don’t get why you’re the one so bent out of shape over this. It’s not like they’re going to choose you of all people.”

“Hey!” Newichi snaps his head in her direction, face flushed with anger to the point of blending in with red hat, “The hell is that supposed to mean?!”

His outburst does nothing to intimidate Fuyumeg, who just smirks and taunts him further, “What? Do you need me to spell it out? I’m saying that no one is going to choose someone with a shitty attitude like yours.”

In the next instant, there’s a clash of metal as a fight breaks out between Newichi and Fuyumeg. Their scythes collide over and over again while the other decuplets cluster around to cheer their preferred sibling on.

“Oh, great. They’re already fighting. This is going to be a long mission.”

Louise looks up, seeing that Cracker has finally arrived and is now grumbling about the situation.

Linlin had decided to send one of her Sweet Commanders along for support, should you encounter trouble. While Louise wasn’t told the specific reason that Cracker was chosen, she can guess it’s because his devil fruit gives him the fighting power of a small army all on his own. He is by no means an easy opponent… though she isn’t confident that a bunch of biscuit soldiers will do much of anything against Admiral Akainu.

Cracker lowers his head until he’s looking down at Louise, “That kid of yours better not give us any grief after all the trouble we’re going through to go get them.”

“They won’t,” Louise’s tone is sharp, not caring for his words. Cracker raises his brows at her comeback, but he doesn’t press further.

Newichi and Fuyumeg are still fighting with each other when Newshi storms up to the crowd gathered around them, his larger stature allowing him to tower over everyone else.

“That’s enough! This is our first mission away from home, we need to make a good impression!” He pauses, waiting for any form of acknowledgement, only to get none. “Are you listening to me? I said that’s enough!”

Still nothing. Newshi grits his teeth in frustration, then looks over to the only person here that is taller than him, “Harumeg, break them up.”

“On it!” Harumeg smiles as she crouches down, then grabs the two brawling teenagers; one in each fist. She holds them up to Newshi triumphantly, “Got them!”

Newshi levels both of them with a glare, trying his damnedest to establish authority, “We need to be on our best behavior for this, not getting into fights before we’ve even made it onto the ship.”

Newichi isn’t even paying attention, instead being far more preoccupied with trying to pry himself out of his sister’s iron-grip. Fuyumeg, at least, actually responds to him. 

“It’s not that big of a deal…” Fuyumeg’s arms are crossed, making her look more annoyed than ashamed. “But, fine. Whatever. I’ll stop.”

“Can’t breathe-” Newichi weakly pushes on Harumeg’s hand, face beginning to look a little blue.

Harumeg gasps and immediately lets him go… from about ten feet in the air. Despite the fact that the rest of his siblings are standing beneath where he’s falling, they all scramble out of the way rather than catching him. He hits the ground with a thud, no doubt knocking out what little air he had left. Harumeg drops down next to her brother, fretting over him.

“Oh, no! Are you okay?! I’m so sorry!” 

Cracker lets out a weary sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t understand how you’re able to be around these kids so much. I’m already getting sick of them.”

“It’s not like we’re psyched that you’re coming along either,” Newsan called up to him. “Why couldn’t we have gotten Katakuri to come with us instead? He’s way cooler.”

Unfortunately, Cracker took the bait without a second thought, “Watch your mouth, you damned brat! Katakuri obviously has better things to do than babysit you little shits!”

“But you don’t? That’s pretty embarrassing,” Newsan let out mischievous giggles at his brother’s expense. Cracker was seething, so Louise took that as her cue to step in.

“Cracker, you’re too old to be falling for their little taunts. Just ignore them.”

That earns her a dirty look, but he does begrudgingly back off from the argument, instead choosing to focus on preparing a suit of armor to disguise himself in for the journey ahead. After a few claps, he looks it over only to scowl when he sees that it’s still incomplete.

“I know I made enough…” His muttering is stopped short by the sound of chewing. He snaps his head in the direction of said noise only to spot the green hat clad decuplet casually eating a snapped off piece of biscuit. 

“Newshi! What do you think you’re doing?! Stop eating my biscuits! They aren’t meant to be food, and definitely not for free!” Cracker waits for a response, only to get none. “Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you, Newshi!”

“I’m Newshi!” Newshi yelled from over by the ship where he was helping load some of the larger crates. “You aren’t even trying if you’re confusing one of my brothers for me.”

Cracker stopped and stared at the decuplet before him, trying to deduce which one he was. He gives up and looks over at Louise expectantly. Louise sighs, “That’s Newsan.”

At the mention of his name, Newsan finally looks up from his snack, “Hm? What is it?”

“Don’t act innocent! You knew I was talking to you!”

“No, I didn’t. You were clearly talking to Newshi, not me.” Newsan shrugged, then reached out and attempted to snap off another segment from Cracker’s creation. “Hey, can you make these different flavors?”

Louise watches as the interaction devolves into another fight. This is going to be a really long voyage. 

—

Planning a murder required a lot of care and forethought. This wasn’t something you could charge into blindly. Well, you could, but that rarely ends well for the killer. Especially not when the soon-to-be victim has several advantages.

If you’re going to kill Marshall Teach, you’re going to have to be extremely careful. Not only can you not do anything to potentially tip him off to what you’re going to do, but you really need to make certain that none of his crewmates catch wind of your plans. They may be playing nice for now, but you’re sure that will end the second you try to kill one of their own.

One of the most crucial elements to your plan is the element of surprise. Yes, you’re a powerful fighter, but Teach has a significant height and weight advantage. You might have a chance in a direct fight, but you much prefer your odds in a sneak attack where he has no time to react. Speed will also be important, but with that sea stone cuff gone, you have no worries about achieving that. 

He’ll also have to be alone for this to work. You can’t risk one of his crewmates being able to come to his aid. They can’t know about this until he’s already breathed his last breath. Granted, you’ll likely be killed the second they find his body, but that’s a problem for later.

It would seem that this element of your plan was going to be the most difficult part. As you sat on the deck of the Moby Dick watching him, you bitterly took note of Teach’s impressive ability to constantly surround himself with other people. This bastard was never alone. Trying to corner him with no one else around was not going to be an easy task. Especially if he started to get suspicious.

“(Y/N).”

Someone calling your name took you out of your homicidal trance. You look up to see Whitebeard looking at you from his captain’s chair. Despite all of the days you’ve spent aboard this ship, you still weren’t used to being in the presence of an Emperor like this. Though admittedly, the fact that he’s usually seated and hooked up to medical equipment made him feel somehow less risky to be near than the other people on board.

You stiffen under his gaze and sit up straight, “Yes, si- Whitebeard?”

His eyes crinkle in amusement at your almost-slipup, but he didn’t call attention to it this time. “You seem bored, child.”

Being called a child irked you somewhat, but you weren’t about to try and boss around the strongest man in the world and tell him what he can and can’t call you. It’s not really a big deal. At least he didn’t appear to be onto your scheme.

“A little, I guess. I’m not used to having so much free time.” Good, he just thought you looked bored, not murderous. 

“Idle time is good for you. It isn’t natural to always be working.”

That sentiment was certainly not shared by the Marines, who treated someone taking a break from their duties for any reason as borderline treasonous behavior. Pirate ships, or this one at least, appeared to be significantly more lax. It was weird to have an enemy encouraging you to be mindful of your health.

“Although,” Whitebeard continues, “if you really want something to do, I believe Ace could use a hand manning the bilge pumps over there.”

What? You glance over and see Ace effortlessly operating two different pumps at once. A shocking feat given that it usually took four normal people to spin one. He doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble at all, but it feels wrong -not to mention stupid- to not take an order from Whitebeard.

Besides, if you want to get everyone here to trust you enough to allow you to carry out your plan, you’re going to have to play the part of someone that’s warming up to them. You push yourself up onto your feet and nod at Whitebeard, “I can do that. I needed something to do, anyway.”

The bilge pumps are a ways back on the massive ship. Ace, no doubt, didn’t hear that he had help on the way. His back is to you as he turns the wheels responsible for helping to pump water out of the ship. The pumps are huge, definitely requiring a great deal of strength to turn. If you hadn’t had time to recover from all the sea stone exposure, you doubt that you’d be able to assist him.

Once you’re close enough, you call out to the Division Commander, “Hey.” Ace looks over his shoulder at you, eyes widened slightly in surprise. His shock makes sense, you’re pretty sure this is the first time you’ve initiated contact with him.

“Whitebeard told me to come help you. Let me take over one of those.”

“Help me? I don’t really need help with this.” Ace continues working the pumps, showing no sign of relenting.

“Well, I’m already here, so scoot over.” Without giving him a chance to respond, you move forward and shoulder him away from the pump on the right. He loses his grip on the handle, and you quickly replace his hand with both of yours. 

Like you had assumed, this thing was heavy and took a considerable effort to turn. Nothing you couldn’t handle, though. The other marines would always make comments about your unusual strength growing up.

Ace balked initially at you commandeering one of the pumps by force, but seemed to think better or arguing with you and instead focused on working the one you left him with. An awkward silence fell over you two, with only the noise of the pump between you. Normally, you aren’t opposed to bouts of silence, but there was something that had been on your mind regarding Ace.

“So… I don’t suppose you’re the same Ace that Vice Admiral Garp was always complaining about, are you?”

“You know my gramps?” Ace looks over at you, visibly intrigued.

“Yeah, we saw each other here and there. He mostly just used those moments to complain about his family, though.” But he would usually share his rice crackers with you during these exchanges, so you would endure it.

A chuckle escapes Ace, and he shakes his head, “That sounds about right. You should have seen how pissed off he’d get whenever me and Luffy talked about becoming pirates.”

Hearing that name gives you pause, then you feel a warm tide of nostalgia wash over you. “I haven’t seen Luffy in forever. How’s he doing? You two grew up together, right?”

Rather than answering you, your words seem to have caught Ace violently off guard. He lets go of the bilge pump handle, giving it the opportunity to wheel back around and hit his slack jaw dead on. He jerks back from the force of it, but recovers just as quickly.

“You know Luffy?!” He’s pointing at you now and yelling louder than you think is truly necessary even with the pumps going.

His reaction throws you off. Was this good? Bad? You had no idea. You offer a small shrug while taking over his now abandoned pump, not wanting to let it lose its momentum, “I mean, kinda? Garp used to pull me out of training to come play with Luffy back when he was still bringing him around, but we haven’t seen each other since we were little kids.”

“Hang on…” Ace’s eyes narrow, the gears in his brain turning, “You’re that kid Luffy would talk about sometimes! The one with the shitty dad!”

Shitty dad? That’s putting it mildly. Still, you can’t help but find humor in learning how Luffy would refer to Akainu. You huff out a laugh, “Is that how he talked about him? That’s funny.” 

“I guess I’m not surprised, though. The only times Luffy ever saw him was after he’d finally tracked me down and came to drag me back to training.” A smile quirked at your lips as you started reminiscing, “Did he ever tell you about the time he threw a bucket of water at Akainu and tried to run away with me?”

Ace blinks, then grins, “He what?”

“I guess he’d gotten sick of all our hangouts being interrupted by my father. That day when Akainu came by to try and take me back, Luffy used the bucket we’d been making sandcastles with to douse him in water to try and weaken him. Before I could even process what he’d just done, he had grabbed my hand and took off down the beach so we could try to get away and keep playing.” You can still see the dumbstruck look on his face. That might have single-handedly been the most disrespectful thing ever done to him.

Okay, there’s no might about it. That was absolutely the most disrespectful thing ever done to him.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by laughter. Ace is doubled over and cackling. He starts to recover from his laughing fit, “No way! I can’t believe he never told us about that!”

“He didn’t? That’s a shame. It was pretty funny. Even Garp was laughing his ass off.” And also you, though you quickly had to hide it when Akainu finally started to give chase. You did not want him to hear you laughing at him.

As his laughter subsides, he moves to retake his place at the pump next to you, but now his attention is solely on you. “I never would have guessed you two knew each other. I’m gonna have to give him hell next time I see him for keeping those stories secret.”

“Like I said, it’s been a long time.” You’d honestly assumed that he’d forgotten about you by now. A part of you can’t help but feel oddly happy about the fact that Luffy cared enough to tell other people about your time together. You glance over at Ace again, “You never answered my question before. How is he?”

“Oh, right. He’s good. He got a devil fruit, and he’s really made the most of it. You should see him in action with it, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Well, more so than he already was.” His smile widens, and his eyes light up, “He should be setting out on his own soon. Maybe you’ll get to see him again.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.” You wouldn’t be opposed to that, even if he is a pirate. You’ve been around far worse pirates as of late.

Suddenly, a hand settles on your shoulder, and you know it doesn’t belong to Ace since you can see both of his on the lever. A head sporting red hair pops in between you two. Oh. It’s Haruta. An exasperated sigh escapes you at his appearance. He’s definitely about to start saying ridiculous things again. That seems to be his specialty even more than swordfighting is.

“What do you want, Haruta?”

“I was just looking for you so we could spar again, but look at what I found instead!” Haruta wraps each arm around yours and Ace’s necks, forcibly drawing both of you closer. “You two getting along like two peas in a pod! Like family!”

“Ugh! Would you drop that already! We aren’t family!” You stop working the pump to try and pry Haruta’s arm off you.

“But you act and sound just like him!” Haruta spins you around and scrutinizes your face, “You kinda look like him too, honestly.”

“I do not!” You can feel your face heating up from your frustration. You whip your head around to Ace, desperate enough for someone to back you up to resort to even him, “Tell him we’re nothing alike!”

Much to your dismay, Ace looks amused more than anything, though his eyes are lingering on your facial features. For a split second, his smile almost looks like it drops, but it’s back so fast that you’re questioning if you were just seeing things.

“Haruta’s got a point, you are acting a lot like me after I was first brought here.”

“Ace! Don’t side with him!” That damned traitor! And after you were nice and told him a story about his brother!

That’s just what you get for playing nice around a bunch of pirates, you suppose. Mockery, humiliation, and absurd accusations. As if you could be related to someone like him.

It was not loud. Barely audible. Little scraps of half-phrases that fell from your lips when you believed no one was listening. Tritoma heard them while you sorted inventory or wrote reports, your voice low and unfocused, as if you were answering someone who was not physically present.

At first, she thought it was the strain of the workload. Then she thought it was a simple distraction. But the third time she caught you doing it, she waited until the room was empty and leaned back in her chair with the sharp, thoughtful tilt of someone about to pry into business that absolutely concerned her.

“You have been speaking under your breath again,” she said, tapping a nail against the desk. “Should I assume your soulmate is bothering you? I can give Gloriosa a call. He shouldn’t be acting as if he can just loiter in your head.”

The words struck through you like a bell, quiet but resonant.

You froze for a heartbeat. Your quill stilled. Your posture tightened by a fraction. Tritoma saw all of it, because Tritoma missed nothing.

In your mind, Newgate felt the shift as clearly as if you had spoken his name. His awareness brushed against yours in a way he had never allowed himself the year before. He had spent months trying to bury the ache of missing you, months trying to convince himself that he could carry on without the warmth of your voice, your dry humor, your steady presence at his side.

But every time your mind brushed against his, even by accident, he felt like a dying man given a gulp of air. A thousand emotions crowded, sometimes restrained, but mostly, given openly.

He loved you. He had accepted this fully now. He loved you in that deep, tectonic way he loved the sea and the horizon and the idea of a family he had not yet found. And he could not imagine a world where he lived without you in it.

He was putting out his heart to you, begging for a second chance, not with words but with constant mental awareness.

But you could not let yourself show any of that. Not the longing. Not the warmth. Not the quiet pull your soul made toward his whenever the bond stirred. Because he didn’t love you—not when he couldn’t see past the scarecrow.

But despite your cool tenor, he remained steadfast.

You swallowed once, kept your eyes on your work, and replied in the calmest tone you could shape.

“It’s… nothing.”

Tritoma gave a soft hum, the sign she did not believe you in the slightest.

You did not answer. You could not answer. Because the moment you even tried, your mind drifted back to that impossible man, the one who had finally realized he loved you at the same time you had begun to fear you would never be truly seen.

In the bond, Newgate exhaled slowly. Not a word. Not a plea. Just a steady presence, warm and aching and impossible to ignore. A quiet pressure against your thoughts. A reminder of everything you were trying to protect yourself from, and everything he was finally allowing himself to feel.

The two of you danced like jesters around your feelings, skirting the truth with a kind of stubborn grace. You pushed him away to survive the ache. He held still because he feared pulling would make you vanish. It was a ridiculous duet, one that might have gone on endlessly if fate had not decided otherwise.

Because then the news broke.

It began as a whisper carried across the deck, a ripple that moved from one pirate to the next, gathering urgency with every retelling. A courier ship had docked. A message had come in. Someone thought they recognized a description. Someone else mentioned a Marine report. Everything was fragments, half-truths, urgent scraps.

The tension settled into the air long before anyone spoke it aloud.

You felt your pulse spike. Tritoma stiffened beside you. The Den Den Mushi on her desk twitched its eyestalks, preparing to repeat information it clearly did not want to deliver.

When the final call came through, the atmosphere snapped taut.

“God Valley,” the voice crackled through the Den Den Mushi. It was unmistakably Gol D. Roger, steady even through distortion. “Possible sighting. Confirmation pending. The Celestial Dragons are holding some sort of event there, and they have a marine blockade too. Rumor says it is a human hunt.”

Tritoma stepped closer, her brows knitting tightly as she listened. The usually unflappable woman looked as if someone had driven a blade beneath her ribs.

“They’re hunting the humans of God Valley?” she repeated quietly. “That is in the West Blue, is it not?”

Her tone carried too many meanings at once. Distance. Danger. Politics. The kind of trouble that did not simply emerge. The type of trouble that was carefully arranged by powerful hands.

“Yes,” Roger replied. “You are out that way too, aren’t you?”

Your throat tightened. Your hands curled around the edge of the desk until your knuckles blanched. Even the bond at your back, where Newgate’s presence lingered like a heartbeat, seemed to be still for one suspended moment.

Tritoma ended the call and slowly set the Den Den Mushi down. Her expression hardened into something grim and deliberate.

“If this is true,” she said, “then the Kuja will not be going.”

On the other end of the line, Roger seemed to cry out in alarm, the sound sharp and distant, but your mind had already begun fitting the pieces together.

Your ship was the closest.

The Kuja were fast, capable, and relentless when one of their own needed rescuing. People Shakky could trust to help her without strings.

But if the Celestial Dragons had taken Shakky as the prize for their hunt, and if they were still gathered at God Valley, then sending an entire Kuja ship into the region would be courting disaster. Celestial Dragons loved trafficking Kuja women more than almost anything else, save mermaids. To them, Kuja were trophies. A ship full of them would be irresistible.

Tritoma would not risk our people, not even for Shakky. Not even for someone she respected as fiercely as she respected you.

A cold, precise clarity settled over you. What she could not do as a leader, you could do as one person. A shadow capable of moving where a ship could not. You had trained for missions like this. You had survived worse. And if Shakky was truly in God Valley, every moment you hesitated was a moment she was bargaining for sport.

“I’ll go,” you said.

The words landed like the drop of an anchor.

Tritoma turned toward you with a sharp, sudden movement, her brows crossing with disbelief and something perilously close to fear. Even the Den Den Mushi swiveled its eyestalks in your direction, as if the creature itself understood that the room had shifted around those three quiet words.

You no longer had the safety of anonymity.

Your scarecrow disguise was long gone.

The ragged hat and shapeless mask that once hid you so effectively had been peeled away after the chaos in Hachinosu. Now you stood revealed: face uncovered, posture straight, beauty no longer concealed beneath layers of dirt and theatrics. A Kuja-trained infiltrator with a dangerous level of visibility.

Tritoma saw all of that in a single glance, and she understood exactly what it meant. 

Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but in the deep, resigned comprehension of what you were demanding. You were choosing to walk into the West Blue alone, into a human hunt, the center of a Celestial Dragon debauchery. A place where your looks, your skill, and your very identity would make you a prize on a silver platter if caught.

And yet, you were calm.

“Cross paths with the Oro Jackson,” you said. Your voice did not waver. It was steady, shaped by resolve rather than fear. “Roger’s crew is heading there. I will go with them.”

Tritoma held your gaze for a long moment, weighing the unspoken truths between you. You saw the calculation in her eyes, the swift assessment of your chances, the knowledge of what you had already decided before you even asked permission.

“You don’t need to do this,” she said quietly. “It’s not your fault she was taken. Shakky knew the risks of flaunting her beauty.”

“I don’t have to. I need to. I was the one who abandoned Shakky without ensuring she had backup,” you replied. “So don’t argue with me, just help me. And the Roger Pirates have treated the Kuja well, despite everything.” You hesitated only long enough to choose your next words carefully. “I can trust Rayleigh to make sure of it.”

She turned the Den Den Mushi toward the receiver.

Roger’s laugh burst through at once. “Is that Ragdoll? Sure, she’ll scare the shit out of those Dragons. We can meet nearby.”

Tritoma exhaled, and the sound carried both pride and dread. You were not her subordinate in this moment. You were her equal. Her blade. Her risk. Her responsibility and her fear.

“This is a poor idea,” she said at last. “But your guilt over Shakky is clear as day. Give me your coordinates, Roger.”

You nodded. The decision had settled in your chest the moment the confirmation left Roger’s mouth. Anything was better than doing nothing while Shakky was treated like a broodmare. Anything was better than sitting safely on a ship while her safety narrowed with each passing hour.

Your pulse steadied. Your resolve hardened.

Far behind your thoughts, almost hidden, Newgate’s presence shifted sharply in the bond. It was subtle at first, a faint tightening, a ripple of awareness. Then it grew. A stirring. A pull. As if a storm had been sleeping restlessly at the edge of your mind and had suddenly lifted its head the moment your decision solidified.

He had caught fragments of the conversation through the bond.

For the first time since the two of you had become telepathically linked, his quiet, aching longing twisted into something raw and unfiltered.

“They’re hunting people there—you can’t—please don’t go.”

The words were half-formed, pushed through the bond in a rush of panic rather than language. Fear hit you like a cold wave, sharp and instinctive, the fear of a man who had already lived through losing someone he could not bear to lose again. It pressed against your thoughts, heavy and trembling beneath the surface, as if his soul had surged forward before his mind could catch up.

“Don’t tell me what to do. We’re not even friends." You muttered. “I’m just a telepathic turn-off for you. Good enough to chat, but never enough to like.” You pushed him back.

“It’s not—okay, I was wrong. I messed up, didn’t understand, but you shouldn’t pay for it. Let me make it up to you, and I’ll get Shakky—

“No, Eddie. I don’t need your help anymore. In fact, I won’t ever call for you again. Consider us done.” You said. It was not harsh, but it was firm—the mental equivalent of placing a hand on his chest and closing a door. The bond strained, resisting, his presence trying to anchor itself to you even as you forced distance between your thoughts and his.

His voice broke against it.

“Stay with the Kuja, please. I can help Shakky, but please—“

The words were muffled, desperate, almost quiet enough to convince yourself you imagined them.

“I love you, please—”

Your jaw tightened.

“Edward,” you whispered in your mind, knowing he could hear only the echo, not the meaning, “Goodbye.”

The bond quivered like something living, wounded, and pulling towards you.

And then you turned away from it completely, sealing yourself in the cold, focused quiet you would need to walk into God Valley with a clear head.

-X-The Slip Up-X-

You boarded the Oro Jackson just after sunrise, boots steady on the gangplank, your signature hat pulled low, and your mask casting a familiar shadow across your face. The long coat you wore billowed behind you, but this time it was clean, well-fitted, and unmistakably yours rather than part of your old scarecrow camouflage.

Tritoma had ensured your current state— scrubbed the dirt from your skin. Straighten your posture. Tamed your hair into something that could no longer be mistaken for seaweed. Anyone who had known you only as the shipwrecked specter haunting Hachinosu would have taken one look and choked.

And Roger did exactly that.

He turned to greet you with a booming laugh that died halfway up his throat. His eyes went wide. His jaw went slack. He stared at you as if you had personally rewritten his understanding of the natural world.

“Oh, come on,” he blurted. “That you, Ragdoll? No—no, hold on—what—how—why didn’t anyone tell me she was—”

You punched him in the stomach before he could finish.

He folded like badly stacked firewood, wheezing, “Deserved… that… completely.”

The nearest handful of pirates froze. Someone dropped a crate. Someone else crossed themself. The entire deck vibrated with a collective, horrified whisper:

“That’s the cryptid?”

“That’s her?”

“She used to look like moldy driftwood…”

“You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“No, that’s definitely the same hat…”

Gaban approached next, a toothpick hanging loose from his lips as he stared openly.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then muttered, “Roger, you idiot, you didn’t say the swamp monster was actually—” his gaze traveled down and back up “—how do I put this politely—built by angels?”

You kicked him.

He yelped as his heel slid off the railing, arms flailing. He managed to hook a foot around a beam at the last second, dangling upside down.

Rayleigh stepped forward before Gaban could fall, catching the rope attached to his belt and tugging him upright without looking away from you.

He did not gawk.

He did not choke.

He simply smiled with polite warmth, bowing his head in greeting the way a gentleman greets a warlord.

“It is good to see you again, Ragdoll,” Rayleigh said. “Truly. You look well.”

“You charming suck up,” you said, unable to stop a wry smile from tugging at your lips.

Rayleigh’s grin broadened. “Shakky says the same thing.”

“She get a taste?” You cooed, rolling your eyes. “Or you are still pretending you don’t like her to spare your captain’s feelings?”

A few pirates choked on their drinks. Another whisper-shouted, “She talks? And her voice isn’t cursed? She actually sounds… normal. Pretty even—oh no, she heard me—”

Word spread across the deck like wildfire:

“The cryptid is hot.”

“The cryptid is really hot.”

“No, seriously, why is she hot?”

“Are we allowed to look? Should we not look?”

A small crowd gathered at a cautious distance, hovering near railings and crates as if observing a rare creature whose temperament was not yet documented.

“She has eyes.”

“She has a whole face.”

“She has bone structure.”

“I thought she was made of straw.”

“No, she sneezed dirt that one time—”

“That was camouflage, genius. She was hiding from the Marines.”

“I think she was hiding from us.”

You pretended not to notice them and walked further onto the deck. You were focused, your mission clear, your emotions carefully clipped beneath your calm exterior. The alternative was turning to ask why half the pirate population had apparently believed you were a cryptid with bad posture and worse hygiene.

Rayleigh followed at an easy, respectful distance. There was a shadow behind his eyes that had not been there the last time you met, a quiet grief held firmly in place. Even so, he offered a soft, genuine smile.

“It is good to see you safe,” he said. “Shakky…she  would’ve been glad to know you decided to treat yourself like you matter again.”

Jeez, you could see why Shakky had fallen in love with his sorry ass of all men. Rayleigh had always been the type of guy who could see through your disguise, though both of you respectfully knew where your friendship stood. You and Newgate, he and Shakky—doomed love for various stupid reasons that no longer mattered.

You had always wished he had been more perceptive about himself rather than your own situation.

Your chest tightened, but you managed a small, crooked huff. “She would also complain if I didn’t. And if I forgot the hat.”

Rayleigh huffed a quiet breath of agreement. “She said it added character.”

“I see why Shakky likes you,” you said quietly.

Rayleigh’s expression softened—not with flirtation, not with smugness, but with the solemn gratitude of someone who needed to hear that more than he expected. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As the initial bustle of your arrival settled, the Oro Jackson slipped into its usual rhythm. Pirates returned to their tasks but kept a respectful radius around you, whispering like naturalists uncertain whether you were an exotic bird or a mythical beast with impeccable aim. Either way, they knew not to touch, not to crowd, and not to test your patience.

Rayleigh kept beside you toward the bow, hands tucked loosely into his pockets. A natural deterrent, as your beauty seemed to have a similar effect as Shakky’s, though it is mitigated by your disguise. For a few breaths, he simply matched your pace, studying the horizon with a frown that held both focus and sorrow.

Then, quietly, he asked, “How’s Newgate? Can’t imagine he’s thrilled you’re here.”

You stiffened before you could stop yourself. Out of anyone on this ship, of course, Rayleigh would strike right to the hurt. He noticed people. He listened. He understood connections even when they were not spoken aloud.

“You knew?” you said.

“I suspected for years,” Rayleigh replied. “He’s not subtle when he cares for someone.” His gaze flicked to you, sharp and knowing. “And you are not as unreadable as you think, even in disguise.”

You exhaled slowly. “I blocked him.”

There was a pause, long and weighted.

Rayleigh did not scold you. He did not question you. He simply nodded once, a man acknowledging a difficult, necessary choice.

“Then you’ll meet at God Valley,” Rayleigh said. “He is probably already heading toward there with the Rocks crew.”

Your stomach tightened. “Yeah. I know.”

“Well,” Rayleigh murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “he’s going to be very pissed.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped you despite yourself. “I am aware.”

“He has been asking about you,” Rayleigh added. “More than he realizes. Always casual. Always polite. But… persistent. He gets frustrated that we cross with you more than Rocks.”

You looked down at your hands. At the thin tremor you did not want Rayleigh to notice. “I cannot deal with him right now,” you admitted. “Not while Shakky is—”

Rayleigh’s voice gentled. “I understand.”

And he did. So he let it go.

The sea wind swept across the deck, filling the sails, guiding the Oro Jackson with a steady pull toward the hell waiting at God Valley. The crew moved with an almost reverent tension around you, giving you space while still sneaking curious glances as if afraid you might vanish—or sprout wings.

The ride itself was short, a straight shot across glittering blue water that should have been peaceful. It was not. Every minute felt taut. Heavy. A countdown.

Roger joined you at the rail somewhere around the halfway mark, leaning on it with all the grace of a man who had been punched recently and was still recovering from the betrayal of his own lungs.

“You know,” he began, rubbing the sore spot on his ribs, “Shakky is one of my favorite people in the entire world.”

“I am aware,” you said.

Gaban, now dry and mostly recovered from being kicked off the ship earlier, dropped down beside him. “Mine too. Always has been. I would marry her if she would let me.”

Roger nodded with solemn enthusiasm. “Same.”

You blinked. “…excuse me?”

Gaban shrugged. “Shakky is perfect. Scary. Smart. Has immaculate taste in coats. I am not ashamed to say it.”

Roger lifted a finger. “And she hits hard. Just my type.”

Rayleigh sighed beside you, already miserable. “Please stop telling people about your type.”

You raised a brow expectantly.  

“And look, since we are sharing,” he announced, “I would also be open to marriage negotiations with you. Because you seem to be most of those things as well.”

Gaban did not even pause to think. He nodded immediately, stepping forward like a man volunteering for execution with suspicious eagerness.

“Me too. Absolutely. Please marry me.”

You stared at them, slow and incredulous, the way one might stare at a pair of parrots that suddenly learned to propose marriage.

Both men looked genuinely sincere.

Rayleigh had covered his face with his hand and was already regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

Several pirates were edging away, as though they expected the ground to explode.

“You do realize,” you said carefully, “that I am here to rescue Shakky, not acquire husbands.”

Roger considered the statement with far too much seriousness.

“You can do both.”

“No.”

Gaban leaned in as if you had whispered an invitation instead of a firm rejection.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And are you forgetting that for years the two of you have actively avoided my mere presence? Are you really so influenced by a change in my appearance that you abandon your pride and ego this quickly?”

Gaban nodded with the bright enthusiasm of a man who had learned nothing and planned to learn even less.

“You are meaner than Shakky, but I can work with that.”

“No,” you repeated, flat and immovable.

Roger sighed with theatrical agony, pressing a hand to his chest as though you had stabbed him.

“Love is so unfair. Why do women always have the craziest expectations? Is my ship not proof enough that I am man enough?”

“It is proof that you are compensating,” you replied drily.

Roger’s pout deepened so dramatically it felt like the weather might shift in sympathy.

He pressed his hands to his heart and whispered with sinful delight, “Hurt me more, future mommy.”

Rayleigh finally lifted his face from his hand. His voice came out dry as sunbleached rope.

“Both of you should be grateful she has not thrown either of you off that ship yet.”

Something in you cracked at that.

Not in a dramatic way, not in a breaking way, but in a tiny, surprising way that felt almost like relief.

And before you could stop it, the sound escaped.

You laughed.

Soft, brief, real.

It slipped out of you like the first breath after surfacing from deep underwater.

The entire crew froze.

Their eyes softened all at once, brightening with immediate, dangerous hope, as if they had just witnessed a miracle and planned to worship you for it.

And then, without warning, you burst into tears.

They were not delicate tears.

They tore out of you with the force of everything you had been holding back, everything you had swallowed to stay sharp and steady and focused on saving Shakky.

Your hand flew to your mouth. Your shoulders shook.

You could not stop.

Every pirate on that ship made the exact same panicked noise.

Gaban flailed the moment your eyes filled, knocking over a crate of coiled rope as if your tears had physically struck him.

Roger froze beside him, going pale in a way that looked almost painful.

Rayleigh swore quietly under his breath and stepped forward, the steadying presence he always became when something cracked beneath the surface.

You lifted a hand before any of them could reach you.

“Please,” you said, trying to steady your voice. “Just… give me a moment. I am trying to make sense of why I was practically invisible to all of you before this, and now suddenly everyone cares.”

The words landed like a dropped anchor.

The deck creaked under the ship’s gentle sway, and for once, the Oro Jackson felt silent. No arguing. No laughter. Even the waves seemed to hush.

Roger’s expression faltered first—confusion, then guilt, then something heavier.

Gaban’s bravado crumbled entirely, his shoulders folding inward.

Rayleigh let out a slow breath, the kind that came from knowing he should have seen this sooner.

You looked at each of them, throat tight.

“I spent years on this ship disguised as a scarecrow. I was treated like a joke at best, a nuisance at worst. Not even worth a good morning unless someone needed their boots cleaned or wanted to laugh at how pathetic I looked.”

You swallowed. “And now that you suddenly think I am attractive, you are all kind? Gentle? Interested? It makes me wonder whether you ever saw me as a person at all. And now Shakky’s gone, I’m just the convenient choice? Do you even care about her?”

Another silence followed, deeper this time.

Roger stepped forward, slower than usual, without swagger or noise. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze lowered.

“You are right,” he said quietly. “We did not see you properly. I did not see you properly.”

He looked up, shame and earnestness mixing in his eyes. “It was not fair. It was not decent. It was not worthy of a real man.”

Gaban nodded so vigorously it almost looked painful.

“I treated you terribly. I laughed. I teased. I acted like you barely existed. That was wrong. Completely wrong.”

Rayleigh’s voice came next, softer than both of them.

“I should have set the tone better. You deserved more respect than you received.”

The confession eased something tight in your chest, even if the ache did not vanish entirely.

Roger edged closer, careful this time, as though afraid of making it worse.

“Let us try again,” he said. “Not because you look different now. Not because we suddenly want things from you. But because you deserved better from the beginning.”

Roger bumped into you, surprisingly gentle for a man who had been doubled over by your fist not long ago.

“We will get Shakky back,” he said, voice low and sincere. “And we do care about her. I promise you that.”

You nodded, the full weight of what waited on the horizon settling over you again.

God Valley.

The hunt.

The Celestial Dragons.

Shakky was alone in the center of it, holding out longer than anyone had the right to expect.

The deck went quiet for a while. The crew drifted into softer conversations, boots scuffing lightly against the planks. The sea murmured against the hull. Even the breeze felt hesitant, as though aware of the storm waiting ahead.

Roger leaned against the railing and stared out across the glittering water. His expression tightened for a moment, thoughtful in the way he rarely let himself be.

Then he spoke.

“Does it really have to be Newgate?” he asked, sounding genuinely wounded. “I mean, I get why Shakky likes Rayleigh. That one makes sense. But Newgate? Losing to that guy feels like taking barnacles straight to the spine.”

The words slipped out with a mixture of sincerity and theatrical suffering.

You could not help it.

You laughed.

It was small at first, a short burst of sound you tried to swallow, but it grew despite you. Roger brightened immediately, relief softening the edges of his smile. There was a touch of sadness in it, but it was warm too, gentler than you were used to seeing from him.

And despite everything—despite the fear gathering like a storm cloud over the sea, despite God Valley waiting to devour the reckless and the brave, despite the soulmate bond pulsing faintly with Newgate’s rising panic, despite Shakky’s peril pressing sharp against the back of your mind—your lips curved into a helpless little smile.

Leave it to this crew to drag a laugh out of you on the way to hell.

Roger puffed out his chest proudly, as if the moment were entirely his doing.

“See?” he said. “We are good for morale.”

“You are exhausting,” you corrected.

“But loved,” Gaban added.

“Not by me,” you said.

Roger winked. “Yet.”

You were going to need a drink after this. 

-X-Coming for that Ring-X-

The year had been one long, quiet unraveling for Edward Newgate.

He hid it well enough. To most people, he still appeared to be the towering man with the calm authority of an anchor dropped into stormy seas. They continued to see the strength, the unshakeable loyalty, and the steady hands capable of holding a ship together through the worst tempests. But anyone who watched him closely, anyone who had known him long enough, could sense the shift beneath the surface.

There was a hollowness slowly settling under his ribs.

The emptiness he carried did not roar. It pressed against him, soft and relentless. It lingered throughout the day and thickened at night, following him into sleep and greeting him when he woke. It was a space shaped exactly like you, carved out slowly and painfully, with no hope of being filled by anything else. Every attempt to ignore it only made the absence more defined.

And then, as if the universe wished to test the limits of his patience and sanity, you shut him out.

His scarecrow.

His soulbond.

The strange and stubborn woman who hissed at authority figures and mocked danger as if it were an annoying neighbor—you had boarded Gol D. Roger’s ship with all the confidence of someone with rage and no outlet.

The thought alone sent a jagged tremor through his chest.

You, who should never confront an armada or a Celestial Dragon hunt head-on, had chosen to do exactly that.

And you had done it without hesitation.

Edward felt the realization strike through the bond like a physical blow. You were moving out of reach, charging into danger for the sake of Shakky, risking yourself because you cared too fiercely and too deeply to do anything else. You had always been like this. It was part of what made you impossible to ignore, and impossible not to love.

But it frightened him in a way nothing else ever had.

The fear that surged through him was unlike the fear of battle, unlike storms or near-death brushes. It was raw and instinctive, threaded with the terror of a man who had already faced too much loss and understood that he could not bear to face yours.

Loving you, he now realized, was not something he could survive passively.

It demanded action.

It demanded movement.

It demanded he chase the bond he had once tried so hard to suppress.

It demanded that he stop pretending he could live without you.

It demanded movement, urgency, and the kind of decisive action only a man with everything to lose could muster.

And as God Valley loomed closer on your horizon, he felt something inside himself shift, sharpen, and awaken. The quiet ache he had carried for a year transformed into something fierce, focused, and wholly impossible to ignore.

So he moved.

He moved fast.

Edward Newgate hauled ass, expeditiously and without a scrap of hesitation, straight toward God Valley. He drove the ship forward with a determination that made even seasoned pirates take a step back. Every gust of wind, every shift of the current, every creak of the hull urged caution, but he dismissed each warning with the stubborn insistence of a man who refused to arrive a second too late.

Behind him, the world he had known was beginning to come apart.

Rocks had grown stranger by the day, muttering under his breath about gods, legacies, bloodlines, and power. His eyes gleamed with a manic worry that made even the boldest crew members uneasy. Newgate noticed this, but only distantly, the way one notices lightning on the horizon while sprinting toward a burning house.

The Rock’s crew was unraveling as well. Tension snapped between members like an overstretched rope, sharp enough to leave splinters. Men who once fought side by side now exchanged wary glances, as if each suspected the other of harboring some hidden betrayal. Arguments erupted over trivial things—territory, rations, imagined slights. The atmosphere aboard the Rocks ship grew brittle, volatile, and dangerously unpredictable, as though the entire vessel had become a powder keg waiting for a spark.

Newgate noticed every warning sign.

He saw the fractures forming in real time.

He felt the crew pulling apart at the seams, strained by egos, ambition, and secrets far too heavy for any ship to carry.

But none of it mattered—not compared to the truth burning in his chest.

He did not know how long the Rocks Pirates would remain intact. He did not know what honor he would still possess when this mission ended. He did not know what choices he would be forced to make or what lines he might have to cross in the process.

What he did know, what he felt down to the marrow of his bones, was that all of it meant nothing if you were hurt.

His hands tightened around the railing until the wood groaned in protest. The bond with you was faint now, softened to a muted echo after you had forced him out, but it still existed: thin, strained, trembling. It pointed him toward you in the barest way, a whisper of direction, a flicker of your resolve that pulsed against his own.

-X-CAUGHT-X-

You slipped off the transport ship with Rayleigh beside you, the two of you moving as one through the chaos already tearing across the island. God Valley was alive with violence. Smoke curled upward in uneven pillars, the ground shuddered every few breaths as some distant blast ripped through the forest, and the air carried the mingled scents of iron, scorched soil, and the faint sweetness of crushed trees trampled flat beneath the fighting.

Rayleigh swept the terrain with his observation, his gaze sharpening as he adjusted his grip on his blade.

“The center is where the fighting is thickest. If Shakky is here, she is likely there. Stay close,” he said, though he clearly questioned whether you would actually listen.

The first wave of fighters surged toward you. Rayleigh cut through them with clean, practiced efficiency, each strike controlled and precise. You kept to his flank, redirecting blows, knocking opponents off balance, and exploiting every moment of hesitation your face carved into the pandemonium.

A man with a hammer raised over his head froze the instant he saw you. His brows shot upward. His grip slackened. He stared as though he had stepped straight into the wrong story.

“What the hell?” he whispered, baffled.

You stepped in and drove a sharp strike into his ribs. The air left him in a wheezing gasp, and he crumpled to the ground with a pitiful thump that Rayleigh very politely pretended not to hear.

More fighters surged forward, but the reaction repeated itself with comedic regularity. One pirate tripped over his own boots when his brain stalled at the sight of you. Another blinked slowly, lowered his sword, and squinted as if he expected you to vanish if he looked too hard. You slipped between them with quiet precision, disarming each one with the same calm you might use to stroll a garden path.

Rayleigh made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh, half-lost beneath the clash of steel.

Then a Marine in a torn vest caught sight of you and executed a double take so violent it nearly rewired his spine. He dodged a sword swing purely by luck, because every cell of attention in his body had shifted to you.

“Mother of god, what is—who is—what is she doing here?” the Marine stammered, voice cracking like he had hit puberty for the second time.

Roger appeared behind him and smacked him over the back of the head with the flat of his sword. The Marine dropped instantly, limbs splaying in a heap.

“See?” Roger announced, pointing at the unconscious body as if presenting evidence to a jury. “This is exactly why we should have tied you to the ship. Look at you. You look like you belong in a palace courtyard, not knee-deep in smoke and screaming.”

“Shut up, Roger,” you snapped, kicking a stunned Marine square in the chest. “I told you I am saving Shakky myself!”

Gaban blocked a blade, shoved its owner backward, and rounded on Rayleigh with genuine outrage sparking in his eyes.

“You brought her here? You actually let her off the ship? She should have stayed sitting safely on a barrel, far away from this entire disaster. What were you thinking?”

You stepped past him and drove your heel into another attacker’s jaw. The man went flying backward with a strangled noise.

“Fuck off expeditiously,” you said in the sweetest tone imaginable, as if you were offering a pleasant farewell instead of concussing someone.

Roger threw his hands toward the sky with the despair of a man who had already exhausted his patience for the entire year.

“This is what I am talking about. She is cursing like a saint, fighting like a veteran, and looks like a goddess who wandered into the wrong dimension. This is not normal.”

Rayleigh parried a heavy strike and shrugged with infuriating calm.

“She is perfectly capable.”

Roger pointed at you as if your very existence proved his argument. Rayleigh continued anyway, completely unbothered.

“Let us go, Ragdoll.”

And that was when you encountered your first Rocks Pirate of the day.

Judging by the timing, they must have landed not long before you did. The chaos ahead parted for a brief second, just long enough for Shiki to catch sight of you through the churn of bodies and smoke.

His eyes widened.

“Who is the hottie, Roger?” Shiki called out, sounding delighted in the worst possible way.

“Ragdoll!” Roger shouted back immediately, cupping his hands around his mouth as though announcing a festival banquet. He paused, savoring the look of absolute confusion that spread across Shiki’s face.

“Ragdoll?” Shiki repeated. “That really you, baby?”

He never finished the sentence, because you slipped past Rayleigh and drove a clean, sharp strike into an incoming Marine, sending the man hurtling straight toward him. Shiki staggered back with a startled grunt.

His mouth fell open. His steps slowed. You could almost see the moment his brain jammed like a broken transmission.

“What the hell,” he demanded, voice pitching upward. “That is what you look like? Look at your face. Now look at this battlefield. These two things do not belong in the same universe. Why are we here for Shakky when we have you, baby?”

“Get bent, Shiki!” you hissed, already moving toward the next threat.

“Go wait at home for me, babydoll! Don’t scratch yourself up here!” he shouted after you, actually sounding concerned you might bruise your face. The audacity. “Rayleigh, tell her!”

Rayleigh deflected a blade and sighed, long and weary, the kind of sigh normally reserved for chronic migraines.

“She volunteered. I am not her jailer.”

“You should have refused,” Shiki shot back without missing a beat. “You should have said no. You should have thrown her back on whatever ship she crawled off. You do not let someone like that walk into a battlefield. Look at me. I am getting stabbed because she is confusing everyone, including me.”

Before Rayleigh could answer, you tore through a row of Marines, your haki cracking across the air like lightning. The ground shook beneath your boots as you landed. Shiki stopped mid-complaint and stared at you as if you had just stepped out of a divine warning.

“Not happening, asshole. And not interested.”

Shiki dragged both hands through his wild hair, visibly trying to reboot his entire brain. He placed a hand over his heart with theatrical injury.

“Ragdoll, come on, baby, forgive me for not recognizing your glory sooner. I will take you to my ship and save Shakky if you marry me.”

You did not dignify that with words.

Instead, you hooked a Marine by the collar, pivoted, and threw him straight at Shiki with unnervingly perfect aim. Shiki yelped and leapt aside, barely avoiding a full-body collision.

He pointed accusingly at the collapsing Marine as though the man had committed a personal offense against the Shiki bloodline.

“Thank you, baby!” he shouted. “I will assume that is a maybe!”

Gaban skidded into view, breathless and thoroughly irritated.

“I am putting this to a vote,” he declared, stabbing a finger toward the sky. “She goes back to the ship. Immediately. Ragdoll is too pretty for God Valley. The valley might combust out of shame.”

Rayleigh gave the group a look suggesting he had reached the border of his patience several minutes ago.

“She doesn’t need your pandering.”

“She needs someone’s protection,” Roger argued while blocking a strike. “Preferably ours. Preferably on the ship. Preferably very far away from swords and explosions.”

You stepped forward, caught a Marine by the sleeve, and flipped him clean over your shoulder. He hit the ground with a grunt and stayed there. Behind you, the collective muttering of your self-appointed guardians rose steadily, like water about to reach a boil.

Roger jabbed a finger at Rayleigh, voice rising.

“Okay, fine, but if she gets hurt, I am blaming you for the rest of your life.”

Rayleigh muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a refusal to take responsibility for anything Roger had ever done or would ever do.

You walked straight past all of them without slowing. A Marine lunged in from your right, and you dropped him with a clean, practiced strike that did not even interrupt your stride.

Roger watched you go with the despair of a man witnessing his future anxiety play out in front of him.

“Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. She is going to give me wrinkles.”

Behind you, the Roger Pirates groaned, argued, shouted unhelpful suggestions, and loudly insisted that someone should have tied you to a mast because God Valley was no place for someone as serene, lethal, and distracting as you.

Rayleigh finally stepped back into your orbit, matching your pace with the ease of a man accustomed to walking through chaos. His sword dripped with the remnants of a haki clash, but he looked almost leisurely, as if he were simply strolling through a crowded marketplace.

“Straight ahead should be the central arena,” he said, voice even and focused. “I think I feel Newgate there. Do you want to wait or come?”

You huffed, a quiet puff of annoyance that somehow cut through the noise of clashing steel. At least ten nearby pirates turned their heads just to catch the sound. Several sighed dreamily, as though your irritation were a blessing from above. One became so distracted that he walked directly into a tree.

Rayleigh’s mouth twitched, barely but unmistakably, before he resumed scanning the path ahead.

You rolled your eyes so hard the motion snapped you back into yourself. Tugging your hat lower, you shielded your face from sunlight and, more importantly, from the unwanted attention following you like a tide.

“I’ll take the long way,” you said. “Quietly. That way, exit paths are covered.”

Rayleigh stopped for a single heartbeat. His frown settled into place, deep and thoughtful, the kind he wore when he was weighing a thousand possibilities at once.

“If something happens, it will be hard to find you.”

You paused. His concern settled around you like an extra layer of air, warm and grounding despite the battlefield roaring around you in smoke, haki, ash, and confusion.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, stepping aside as a stumbling pirate collapsed unconscious at your feet. “I know how to disappear.”

Rayleigh sheathed his blade for a moment, watching you with that sharp, assessing warmth he always carried when you made choices he disliked yet respected all the same.

“You do,” he admitted. “That’s the part that worries me.”

A Marine lunged from behind him. Rayleigh flicked the man into the dirt with the ease of brushing lint from his coat. He did not take his eyes off you.

“Don’t get lost,” Rayleigh said quietly. “And don’t take risks, even for Shakky. And do not let the Celestial Dragons see you.”

Before you could answer, a shout echoed through the distant chaos. Someone screamed your nickname, followed by a crash and the unmistakable bellow of Roger complaining that “she better not be doing something heroic.”

Rayleigh closed his eyes for a brief, pained moment and exhaled through his nose.

“Go before Roger loses his mind.”

You nodded, the brim of your hat dipping in the fractured light. Then you stepped away, slipping into the jagged shadows cast by shattered buildings and broken trees.

Rayleigh watched until the smoke swallowed you whole.

Only then did he turn toward the central arena, blade sliding back into his hand as his posture shifted, becoming sharp and ready. Whatever waited inside, he would meet it head-on.

And somewhere deeper within God Valley, you moved quietly and deliberately, carving your own path toward the heart of the battle.

Then Rayleigh rushed forward, the ground trembling beneath his first step as he vanished into the storm.

Hat down and cape flowing, you kept to the shadows, weaving around fights much like you had at Hachinosu. Your movements were sharp, deliberate, but threaded with a tension that had nothing to do with the battlefield and everything to do with the bile rising in your throat. You tried your best to stay focused and out of sight, a difficult job when you encountered not only Marines and pirates, but also plain civilians who had been caught up in the disaster. Families. Merchants. Children who had no business being anywhere near the kind of violence now swallowing God Valley whole.

You grimly jumped over more than a few dead bodies, many lying on their fronts, victims of a one-sided assault. Their faces were still turned toward whatever direction they had been fleeing. Some small hands still clutched at the dirt.

Your boots splashed through a dark streak of blood.

So there had been a human hunt.

The realization did not settle quietly. It detonated.

You froze for a heartbeat, rage rising so swiftly it left your vision pulsing at the edges. A sharp, ugly heat spread across your ribs like something alive trying to claw its way out. You sneered, teeth bared even though no one could see your face beneath the brim of your hat. Outraged did not even begin to touch the feeling—this was fury sharpened by grief, the kind that hummed in your bones and made your hands shake.

The Celestial Dragons had always been monsters, but this—this carnage laid out as if a road paved in human lives—this was something else. And worse than that, worse than their arrogance and cruelty, was the fact that the World Government had allowed it, facilitated it. Framed it as acceptable. Necessary. A tradition.

How dare the Marines claim justice when they were the referees for an almost ritualistic human sacrifice?

Your breath came out in a harsh tremor. You had always somewhat sort of understood the supposed job of Marines. You may be a pirate, but you didn’t approve of other pirates if they took out a few of the more reckless pirates; good for them.

But walking through this massacre, seeing what had been done to people with no weapons, no training, no chance, carved something open in you.

And it struck you, with the brutal coordination you were witnessing, that this was not their first time. The Marines were too practiced and too comfortable. The Celestial Dragons were too entertained. The layout was too neat and the bodies too systematically placed.

This had happened before.

It had happened many times.

And nobody had stopped it.

A cold, shaking anger took hold in your chest. Anger at the Celestial Dragons, at the Marines, at the World Government, at every institution that smiled while stamping out lives as if they were vermin. But beneath the anger was sorrow so deep it felt as if your lungs could drown in it. You wanted to mourn every person you passed. You wanted to scream for them. You wanted to promise that this would never happen again.

You tightened your grip on your cape and forced yourself forward, each step heavy with a vow you had not spoken aloud yet but already felt like iron. And you would never, never forgive the hands that did this.

Your fear for Shakky doubled. If she truly was here, if she had suffered even a fraction of this cruelty, if she had been hunted the way these civilians had been hunted, would she be alright? Would she still be herself after a year in such brutal hands?

The question settled in your chest like a stone. It made your steps quicker and your breath shallower. You could not stand the thought of her laughter dimmed, her sharp wit bent, her bright eyes hollowed by the things she might have seen or endured. You could not bear the idea that she might be lying somewhere on this island like the bodies you had already stepped over.

You kept low through the chaos, gliding between smoke and broken walls, doing everything in your power to avoid drawing attention. Every shadow felt like a possible threat. Every scream reminded you that you were already too late for too many people.

Then you turned a corner.

A cluster of civilians huddled behind a toppled cart, trembling and holding one another. Standing over them was a figure dressed so colorfully and absurdly that they looked like they had wandered out of a festival rather than a battlefield. Even so, the pistol in their hand was leveled at the civilians with an executioner’s calm.

One of the famed Holy Knights.

Anger overrode strategy.

Your body moved before thought could catch up. You lunged forward, your hand striking the Knight’s wrist and forcing the shot wide. The civilians fled in a panicked scramble, scattering through the debris.

Your presence finally registered, and the Knight turned her head toward you with delighted curiosity.

Her hair was blue, her cap white, and she wore a smile fit for a cat who had found a mouse it wanted to keep.

“Oh wow. You made me miss?”

The Holy Knight tilted her head. She was young, maybe not much older than you, dressed in immaculate white armor that had somehow avoided even a single scratch despite the battlefield around her. She looked you over with the slow, appreciative interest of someone browsing a market stall for rare goods. Her gaze traveled across your hat, your cape, your stance. Then, slowly, it settled on your face.

The smile widened.

Her expression brightened with genuine delight, as though she had stumbled on a treasure.

“Ooh. You are stunning,” she cooed. Her voice was sweet, bright, and horrifically sincere. “Like that Grand Prize woman, but sharper. Are you a Kuja too? My family will be very pleased if I bring you home.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Every word made it worse. Every second of her cheerful fascination felt like a rope tightening around your throat. She was talking about people as if they were stock to be cataloged—She was talking about you as if you were something she had a right to claim.

You did not bother to respond. You adjusted your stance, readying for the next attack.

She noticed the shift in your stance and smiled as if you were being cute. Then shifted her grip on her gun, switching to a hold meant for control, not execution.

“Oh, do not worry. I’ll only wound you enough to take you. You’ll still look very pretty when I’m done—I can’t wait to see everyone else’s faces.”

You closed the distance in an instant, aiming to knock the gun from her hand. She jerked back with a delighted gasp, clearly charmed that you had chosen to fight barehanded.

You feinted left, then drove your elbow toward her jaw. She blocked it with her wrist and spun, letting your momentum slide past her. You followed with a knee toward her ribs, but she hopped back neatly, cap jingling with the movement.

Her grin widened.

“You are brave. I like that.”

You lunged again, trying to get inside her firing angle, but she was quicker. In a blur of motion, she reached out and seized your mask. Before you could twist away, she ripped it off with a little sigh of satisfaction.

“Oh, wonderful. Even better up close. Even Garling might offer to buy you on the spot.”

You did not waste time reacting to the words. You slammed your palm into her shoulder, forcing her to stumble, then swept your leg toward hers. She jumped over it effortlessly and retaliated with a sharp jab of her pistol into your ribs.

You felt the metal scrape skin. She did not fire. She was not aiming to kill you.

Each strike came with a soft giggle, bright and airy, the sound of a child at play rather than a killer.

You ducked under her next swing and drove your fist toward her stomach. She twisted aside, laughter ringing through the smoke.

“You are fun,” she chimed. “But if you keep moving like that, I’ll have to break your legs. I only need you alive, but your bones will heal without a wound.”

Her tone was casual, almost sing-song.

Her movements were not.

She darted forward. You backflipped out of reach, landing hard, breath ragged. She skipped after you, perfectly composed, as if the ruins of God Valley were nothing more than a garden path.

You threw yourself sideways when she aimed the gun again. A bullet cracked into the stone where your head had been.

She clapped once in excitement.

“Good reflexes. Try that again.”

Yeah, no. Absolutely not. You were not sticking around with this smiling psycho for another second.

You vaulted over a broken column, grabbing the torn remnants of your cape so it would not snag your foot. The stone scraped your palms as you landed, but you kept running. Behind you, she chased with that same unbearable cheer, humming a lilting tune as if the two of you were sharing a game rather than fleeing for your life.

You cut through the smoke, heart pounding so hard it felt like each beat might crack your ribs. Shakky had escaped. That meant you could too. That meant there was a path out of this hell, and you only had to stay alive long enough to find it.

Her footsteps grew louder. Then the air beside your cheek ripped open as her next swing sliced past you. You felt the breeze of it, cold and sharp, far too close.

You jumped back just in time.

She paused only a few feet away, gun raised, eyes bright with giddy anticipation, as though this were her favorite part of the game.

“Oh, come now,” she said sweetly. “Do not run too far. I still need you to show off.”

You darted sideways, searching for any gap in the rubble, any path you could slip through before she closed the distance again. But as you sprinted toward a narrow passage between two collapsed buildings, a heavy figure dropped down in front of you, shaking the earth and cutting off your escape.

You skidded to a halt.

It was another Holy Knight.

The man who dropped in front of you looked like a deranged nobleman who had rolled through a battlefield and chosen to keep every stain. His flamboyant purple suit was torn across the chest. His gold embroidery was shredded. One gauntlet was completely gone, and the remaining sleeve of his black overcoat hung in tatters. His bright orange hair was half pulled free from its perfect style, and his glasses were cracked, one lens smeared with blood. A crushed rose dangled from his breast pocket.

He looked like he had been dragged through the dirt and stomped on for good measure.

His red eyes swept over the scene.

Then he saw you.

And everything inside him shifted.

The rage curdling his features melted away. His eyes widened with feverish interest. His breathing changed, smoothing into something calm and almost tender. A slow smile crept across his face, curling beneath his orange mustache like something blooming in rotten soil.

“Is that another Kuja?” he said softly. “And another astonishing beauty? It seems fortune has chosen to reward me after all.”

Your stomach twisted.

Behind you, Manmeyer stopped humming. The cheerful lightness that clung to her like perfume vanished in an instant. Her lips dropped into a tight line, and her fingers curled around her gun with a hardness that said she had no intention of sharing anything she wanted.

“Back off, Sommers. This one’s mine. I found her first. And I’m gonna sell her to Garling, since you fucked up guarding the other Kuja.”

The word hit you like a blow.

Shakky.

So she really had escaped. Relief shot through your chest, sharp and bright, but it lasted only a heartbeat. Both Holy Knights straightened as if sensing your shift, their bodies moving in eerie synchronization as they closed the distance, hemming you in with the ease of predators cornering prey.

Sommers stepped forward, brushing dust and leaves from his ruined overcoat with the air of a man who still believed he looked impeccable. The tattered fabric lifted behind him in the wind, giving him a phantom of dignity he absolutely did not deserve.

“Do not be an ass, Manmeyer. I can pay your fee,” he said, voice warm and unsettlingly smooth. “I was upset, but this one is even lovelier. Come along quietly, and I will not damage you.”

His gaze dragged over your face, slow and appreciative. It was not mere admiration, but a lustful appraisal.

You bared your teeth, a silent warning.

The girl moved behind you, boots crunching over broken debris. Her scowl deepened until her whole face sharpened with irritation.

“No way. Garling always pays more, and he’ll promote me. I am not losing that.”

Sommers snorted, wiping blood off his cracked lens without breaking eye contact with you. The smear only made his eyes gleam brighter behind the fractured glass.

“He won’t, and besides, just imagine how sour his face will be if I show up with a prettier wife and he walks away with nothing. Wouldn’t that be funny? Do you not want to see Garling play the sore loser, just once?”

He laughed under his breath. The sound was low, breathy, and disturbingly intimate, as if the idea of humiliating Garling thrilled him far more than the idea of actually capturing you. The laugh scraped along your nerves like a blade.

Behind you, Manmeyer hummed thoughtfully, the tune lilting and sweet, as if she were weighing your value against her own future promotions.

“You are pathetic, Sommers. Truly pathetic,” she said. Then her tone shifted, curious and contemplating. “But I admit it would be funny. Garling hates losing. His veins pop out when he gets angry.”

Sommers’ grin widened, showing too many teeth.

“Exactly. Let me take over. I promise to be soft.”

His definition of soft was not something you ever wanted to learn.

He stepped closer, the roses crushed against his lapel, spilling petals down his tattered suit. His gloved hand extended toward you, fingers curling as if inviting you into a waltz rather than a nightmare.

“Come here,” he murmured. “I can handle you gently. Far more gently than Garling would.”

Behind him, the girl scoffed.

“As if you know what gentle means,” Manmeyer scoffed.

They slipped into another round of bickering, voices overlapping in heated whispers over price, pride, and who had the better claim. For a brief heartbeat, their attention slid off you.

You lunged.

You pushed off the ground with everything you had, aiming to slip past the Manmeyer girl before either could react. You almost cleared the gap.

Almost.

Sommers flicked two fingers, and something sharp burst from the ground. A coil of thorned vines snapped around your ankle and yanked you off your feet. You hit the dirt hard, breath leaving you in a sharp gasp.

Sommers clicked his tongue, sounding more amused than annoyed.

“Tsk. Impatient. You should have let me finish.”

Manmeyer pointed her gun at him, scandalized.

“That’s cheating.”

He shrugged, the motion elegant despite his tattered coat.

“You were slow. And she is quick. I needed to keep her from ruining the negotiations.”

The vines tightened around your calf, dragging you closer. You clawed at the ground, forcing your body to twist, trying to kick free, but every movement only made the thorns tighten.

Sommers walked toward you with the lazy confidence of a cat returning to its injured catch. The vines dragged you closer with every step he took. He knelt beside you, close enough for you to smell the iron tang of blood still drying on his clothes. He ignored your instinctive jerk away from him, treating your resistance like nothing more than a flutter of wind across his coat.

With a smooth, possessive motion, he flipped your hat back and brushed your hair aside, fingertips grazing your cheek as if he had every right to touch you. His eyes drank in the sight of your face, widening with greedy pleasure.

His breath hitched in delight.

“Oh, lovely. Much better than I expected.” His voice dropped to a low purr. “You will be very fun to break in bed. God, Garling is going to piss himself when I marry you.”

Your stomach turned. Your pulse spiked so sharply it burned. Every instinct in your body screamed to get away, to run, to claw your way out of the vines and out of his reach. But his hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, evaluating you like livestock.

Something in you snapped with fear. But the vines tightened, your blood spilled, and faith—denied and buried—rose before pride. In that moment of rising panic, without thinking, you tore open your telepathic link and gasped out a single word.

Edward!

The connection snapped to life so violently that white-hot static burst behind your eyes. Your breath hitched as the bond yanked tight.

Then the world shook.

A deep, earth-splitting crack tore through the ground. The rubble beneath your body heaved upward in a violent surge. Dust exploded into the air like a bomb. Stones rolled. Broken beams toppled. The entire island seemed to inhale around you.

Both Holy Knights froze.

Their smiles vanished.

Manmeyer looked sharply toward the source of the tremor, her cheerful expression dissolving into wary confusion. Her brows knit, and for the first time since you had seen her, she seemed uncertain.

Sommers’ grip tightened on your jaw. His eyes flicked sideways, wide and startled, like an animal scenting something far larger and far more dangerous than itself. His breath hitched. His posture stiffened.

The ground rumbled again, louder this time. The vibration shivered up your spine and rattled through the ruins. Stones cracked. A wall collapsed somewhere behind you with a thunderous crash.

Sommers reacted first.

With a sharp jerk, he grabbed you by the waist and hauled you off the ground. The thorns around your leg surged upward, curling across your hips and ribs, binding you in a lattice of sharp vines. You struggled, but every movement only made them tighten.

He threw you over his shoulder like luggage, and you gasped.

“Enough games,” he muttered, voice tense with urgency. “I am not losing two beauties in one day.”

Manmeyer’s eyes widened as he turned to run.

“Hey. Hey. That’s my prize!” she snapped. She fired a shot near his feet, the bullet cracking stone. “Put her down. We aren’t done!”

Sommers did not slow.

“Garling can take it up with me later.”

“Absolutely not,” she snarled. “You are not stealing her. Give her back.”

He ignored her completely, vines tightening around you as he sprinted through the ruined ground. His long strides were awkward from your weight, but he pushed forward with single-minded determination, breathing fast and ragged.

Manmeyer cursed and ran after him, her boots slamming against the ground as she tried to keep pace.

The island shook again.

They were fleeing toward the center of the battlefield, dragging you with them, desperate to get away from whatever force was coming.

You could feel it too, rising through the earth like a gathering storm. Something enormous. Something furious. Something that answered to your voice.

The air thickened. Your ribs ached with every tremor. Sommers cursed under his breath and tried to sprint faster, vines dragging painfully across your skin as he cinched them tighter to keep you from slipping free.

Manmeyer shouted behind him.

“Give her back! Sommers, you idiot, stop running and help fight!”

He did not listen.

He only tightened his grip on your legs and pushed harder toward the center of the island, as if proximity to the Celestial Dragons might save him.

Then the ground split.

Not cracked.

Split.

A violent surge of force erupted underfoot, a quake so powerful it threw both Knights off balance.

Manmeyer skidded sideways.

Sommers stumbled forward.

And you felt it the instant before it happened.

A familiar roar of presence. A tidal wave of fury crashing toward you.

One moment, you were jolting over Sommers’ shoulder, struggling to breathe as you clawed at the vines.

The next, you were airborne.

Your body lifted by sheer force. The world flipped. Your vision went white. You hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. Blood flooded your mouth. Your ears rang.

A thunderous boom followed.

Eddie had come.

Not arrived. Not approached. Appeared. As if the earth itself had vomited him up in answer to your cry. His massive silhouette filled the shattered street, framed by rising dust and fractured light. Rage rolled off him in waves so thick the air seemed to bend.

He tore through the two Knights with a fury you had never felt from him before. His fist collided with Manmeyer first, a single, savage strike that hit with the force of a falling mountain. The blow launched her through the remains of a stone archway. Her body smashed through the broken structure and then skidded across the rubble, bouncing and twisting like shattered porcelain before disappearing behind a collapsed wall.

Sommers barely had time to raise his arms. Edward struck him hard, roaring your name.

The impact detonated through the ground. The shockwave split the pavement in a jagged line, sending shards of stone slicing through the dust cloud. Sommers let out a strangled scream as his body careened sideways. He hit the ground, rolled, and spun through the air like a broken rag doll.

But something else hit you first.

Your breath seized. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through your body. You looked down in agony.

One of Sommers’ thorned vines had driven clean through your flesh during the fall, the momentum shoving it in deep. Blood welled around the puncture, dark and hot, soaking into the remnants of your clothing. The thorns embedded themselves in muscle, making every small movement white-hot agony.

You choked, coughing blood onto the dirt, vision wavering.

Edward’s head whipped toward you with terrifying speed. His eyes widened, then narrowed into something deadly. His jaw locked until the muscles stood out like carved stone. The air around him vibrated. The earth rumbled beneath his boots, reacting to the rise of his fury.

“Eddie.” You cried out, blood pouring out of your face. “Finish it!”

Sommers staggered up from the rubble, swaying, dust falling from his ruined coat. His glasses were cracked beyond use, one lens missing entirely. He looked from his injured hand, still bristling with thorns, to the blood on you.

Then to Newgate.

His red eyes went wide with horror.

“No,” he moaned. “No. She was beautiful. I was going to keep her whole. You made me damage her.”

Newgate took one long, heavy step forward. The ground quivered beneath it.

Sommers backed away, voice cracking with a blend of disbelief and anger. “She was perfect. Perfect. And now I ruined it because of you. You monster. You ruined everything.”

Newgate did not respond.

He simply advanced, each step slow and deliberate, the weight of it heavier than the quake itself. His presence filled the air like a storm cloud settling over the land. Sommers’ breathing hitched. His hands trembled. Even the thorns around him quivered, reacting to his fear.

Edward’s expression was carved from fury and stone. No hesitation. No mercy. Only cold, focused wrath.

He reached for his massive naginata, gripping the weapon with both hands. The metal gleamed through the dust, reflecting his rage like a blade forged from the earth’s heartbeat.

Sommers tried to turn, to summon more vines, to run, to do anything, but he was too slow.

Edward swung.

One blow.

A single, devastating arc of force.

The air split with the impact. The ground beneath Sommers cratered. A deafening shockwave ripped through the island, flattening debris and sending dust spiraling into the sky.

Sommers was launched across the battlefield like a rag caught in a hurricane. His body disappeared into the distant ruins, a shrinking figure swallowed by shattered stone.

The island groaned under the force of it. Dust drifted down like ash. Broken stone settled in heavy, uneven clatters across the ruined street.

But before you could even process the damage, before you could fully appreciate the immensity of what he had just done, he was already at your side. One moment, he was across the battlefield, the next, he was kneeling beside you with a gentleness that did not match the destruction behind him.

He slipped an arm beneath your back and lifted you carefully, mindful of the thorns still lodged in your side. His hands trembled. His breath shook. He only paused for half a second when he finally saw your face, smeared with dirt and blood, eyes squinting with pain.

That half-second shattered him.

A pained sound escaped his throat, quiet but raw.

Your injury tormented him visibly. His jaw tightened, his brow furrowed, and anguish bled into every line of his expression.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My love, I need to move you and find you a doctor.”

You blinked up at him, vision swimming. Your head tipped slightly against his shoulder, dazed and exhausted, your eyes narrowed from the pain. You could barely hold onto clarity, but you reached out and touched his wrist with shaking fingers.

“Eddie,” you murmured, voice small and strained. “Thank you.”

Something in him cracked.

Tears welled instantly along his lower lashes, large and heavy. He tried to blink them away, tried to hold himself steady for your sake, but the relief of hearing your voice, the gratitude in it, the fact that you were still alive, was too much.

He gave a soft gasp, breath hitching, and a tear slid down his cheek.

Then another.

He bowed his head over you as he walked, cradling you against his chest with all the care he could manage while weaving through a war. His shoulders shook as he fought the urge to sob outright, his breath breaking against your hair. His voice came out thick and trembling.

“I thought I was too late,” he whispered. “I thought I lost you again. I could not bear the silence—And to find you like that, manhandled by one of those demons?”

His hands flexed around you, fingers curling as if the thought alone made him want to crush the entire island into dust. His breath trembled over your hair, hot and frantic.

You blinked up at him, your lips quivering before a faint smile formed. Even through the haze of pain, even with your vision blurring at the edges, you could not stop yourself from reaching for him with whatever strength you had left.

“Edward,” you murmured. “You are such a soft guy. Do you know how silly that is, crying on a battlefield?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, as if the words struck something deep in him. His eyes widened slightly, shining with tears that gathered and clung stubbornly to his lashes. He tried to look stern for half a heartbeat, tried to pull his expression into something strong and steady for your sake.

But another tremor passed through his enormous frame, so raw and vulnerable that it made your heart ache. You felt it beneath your palm where your hand rested weakly against his chest, his heartbeat pounding with such force that it made your ribs vibrate.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice hoarse and cracking. “It is really silly. As silly as realizing your soulmate is the prettiest woman to ever exist, and she has been hiding it because her soulmate was too big a fool to see it.”

The words broke you.

Not because of the compliment or the confession.

But because of the quiet guilt in his voice, the depth of regret, the way his arms tightened around you as if he was terrified you would slip away again.

Tears spilled from your own eyes, warm and sudden.

“Can we go?” you whispered, voice breaking gently. “And when I am better, will you marry me?”

You felt him stop walking.

Just one moment.

One breath suspended between the two of you. One heartbeat where the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the man holding you, trembling with fear and love in equal measure. His breath left him in a shaking rush, as if your words had shattered something inside his chest.

The battlefield did not stop with him. Screams echoed from every direction. Gunfire cracked through the smoke. Marines shouted orders. Pirates roared in fury. The smell of gunpowder and burning wood choked the air as bodies crashed together in brutal waves of force. The ground trembled under distant explosions, and a Marine cannonball tore through a building nearby, sending splinters raining down.

But Edward stood as if the world had gone silent, his massive frame curled around you, shielding you from every direction.

A single tear slid down his cheek and landed on your forehead.

He bowed his head slightly, his forehead brushing yours.

He nodded then, jaw trembling as he adjusted his grip with infinite care. He lifted you fully into his chest, cradling you like something fragile and priceless.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I will marry you. As many times as you want.”

Despite everything, you gave a weak, breathy laugh and closed your eyes.

“Hmm. Sure, crybaby.”

He exhaled sharply, a broken sound of sorrow and relief twisted together, and then he began to move again.

He weaved through the chaos with impossible precision, moving with a grace no man his size should have possessed. He ducked under stray gunfire, his broad shoulders shielding you from every bullet. He kicked debris aside with single, devastating sweeps of his massive boots. Stones that would have taken three men to lift scattered like pebbles under his stride.

Pirates parted for him instinctively, drawing back with wide eyes when they saw who he carried. Marines panicked at the sight of him charging through the smoke, some fleeing outright, others too terrified to move. A few brave or foolish souls fired at him, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off shattered stone as he barreled past.

He did not slow or falter. He was a force of nature, carved from muscle, grief, and fury.

He barreled through shattered walls without hesitation. Wood splintered. The brick cracked. Dust exploded around him as he shouldered aside wreckage that would have crushed a lesser man. Each impact sent small tremors rolling through the rubble beneath his feet. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to keep you safe.

A chunk of the collapsing roof slid toward you. Edward pivoted, taking the blow on his back with a grunt, then pushed forward as if nothing had touched him. His breath came out in hot bursts against your temple, ragged but steadying himself each time he felt you shift or wince.

He raced toward the outskirts, toward the hidden caches where the crew kept emergency medical supplies, toward any sliver of safety he could find. His arms tightened around you every time your breath hitched, as if he feared you might slip away between heartbeats.

“We are almost safe,” he murmured, voice thick with tears he no longer bothered to hide. “Stay awake for me, darling. I am right here.”

His words shook, but his grip did not.

And he held you tighter, cradling you against his heart as he carried you out of the hell of God Valley.

-X-The Climax-X-

The escape from God Valley was patchy in your memory. Your mind drifted in and out like a lantern sputtering in heavy wind. Faces blurred. Voices came and went. The world tilted and spun.

When you woke again, truly woke, Edward was there.

He sat beside you on a makeshift cot aboard a ship that was not the Oro Jackson and not Xebec’s either. His massive frame was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as if he were holding himself in place in the small space. His eyes were red and exhausted, but warm the moment they realized you were awake.

He exhaled, long and trembling.

“You scared me,” he said quietly. “Again.”

You tried to sit up, but pain tugged through your ribs, and he immediately steadied you with a gentle hand. His touch was careful, measured, as though you were made of glass.

He began to speak, filling in the gaps your mind had left behind.

The island was gone. Not damaged. Not scorched. Gone. What remained of God Valley had crumbled into the sea as if the earth itself wanted to bury the shame of what had happened there.

Shakky was alive. Rayleigh had gotten her out just in time, dragging her into the chaos while Marines and Holy Knights scrambled in confusion.

Rocks, however, had not escaped. Not truly. He had detonated his own legacy in a fit of mania, turning on his own crew in those final moments as if the entire world had betrayed him. He swung wildly at allies and enemies alike, screaming incoherent orders and accusations while Marines closed in from every direction. The last sight anyone had of Rocks D. Xebec was a man surrounded, raging, consumed by the same ambition that had once made him unstoppable.

The world would remember him as a monster, not the man who had terrified even the Celestial Dragons.

The Rocks Pirates disbanded within the hour. Some fled to the four seas. Some vanished into obscurity. Some turned on each other. Some simply sat down amid the wreckage and gave up. What had once been the strongest pirate crew in existence scattered like ash in the wind.

But Edward had only one goal.

You.

The Polo Crew found him first, a small and opportunistic group of pirates who were far too eager to recruit a giant of a man with a weapon taller than their mast. Edward refused their offer without a second thought. He had no interest in new captains or new allegiances. But he did take advantage of their doctor, a weathered woman with sharp eyes and steadier hands, who knew how to treat deep wounds and who did not gawk at an especially pretty patient whose abdomen had been pierced clean through.

Edward paid them with gold and a glare that could have bent iron. The crew did not question him twice.

They went to work immediately. They stabilized your condition. They stopped the bleeding. They removed what thorns they safely could, leaving the deeper ones for later treatment. They packed the wound with medicinals that burned like fire but kept you breathing. They set up crude but effective devices to drain and clean the injury.

You drifted in and out for days.

Sometimes you heard Edward’s voice, low and rough, begging you to hold on. Sometimes, you heard the waves slapping the hull of the ship. Sometimes you heard the doctor muttering instructions. Sometimes you heard nothing at all, as if you were slipping into the quiet beneath the world.

Through all of it, Edward never left your side.

He sat beside your cot, night after night, massive frame squeezed into a space far too small for him, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat unless the doctor forced him. He held your hand in both of his, terrified to let go in case your pulse faded the moment he loosened his grip.

When you shivered, he draped his cloak over you. When you groaned, he steadied your shoulder. When you breathed easier, he whispered his thanks to whatever gods might be listening.

And even unconscious, you could feel him there.

A constant warmth, a quiet promise, and a tether that anchored you to life. Now, awake at last, you blinked at him through the lingering haze, your throat dry and your body heavy.

“It is over,” he said softly. His gaze fell to the floor as if he were afraid to look at you directly. “You are safe.”

You lifted your eyes to him, still tired and clouded, but steady.

“What about you?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened, but his expression gentled.

“I will be all right. Now that you are awake. And I will not hold you to any promises you made while you were not in your right mind.”

“My right mind?” you asked, brows knitting. “What are you implying?”

He turned toward the window. His chin twitched, a small tell of how deeply unsettled he truly was.

“I was not,” he said quietly. “I was half-mad looking for you. I felt like I was hearing your screams long before they happened, and I could not find you. And—” his voice broke as he lifted a trembling hand to his face “God, it was not until you actually screamed that I could reach you at all.”

He dragged his hand down as if the memory itself scorched him.

“And those bastards had already hurt you,” he whispered. “They were planning to take you. And I keep thinking about it. What if you had not screamed? What if I had failed you so thoroughly that you had been too afraid or too injured to tell me? The thought of it…”

Both hands covered his face. His shoulders shook, the admission tearing out of him after years of restraint.

“I barely made it in time. I saw what they were doing to you, how they were talking about you? I saw how close I was to losing you. And if they had taken you, I would have died right there. I know I would have. Or I would have been shot dead trying to climb the Red Line with my bare hands just to reach you. And even that still would not have been punishment enough for the way I dismissed you when we first met.”

His voice dissolved into a wet, aching sound. He was crying in a way that broke something inside you. It broke something inside him.

“You are my soulmate,” he said. “And I was embarrassed. I was scared. I was upset that fate had given you to me when I already felt too big and strange and unworthy compared to other men. I hated myself for wanting you. So I just… gave up. I ignored your feelings. I convinced myself it was a joke.”

He swallowed hard, but the tears kept falling.

“I pushed you away before I ever understood what you meant to me. I refused to accept you because I thought distance would protect both of us. And I just let you leave—”

He huffed, offended and revolted by himself.

“I told myself it was easier not to care, but the moment it struck me you were really gone—Only then I realized what I had ruined. Only then did I realize I had already fallen for you. I loved you long before I had any right to. I loved you without knowing a single detail of your face.”

His breath shook as he forced himself to continue.

“I searched for you because of that love. I fought for you because of it. And then, when I finally reached you and saw the truth of you with my own eyes, I felt completely undone. You were beautiful in a way I had never imagined, and it terrified me. Because now I fear you will never believe that my feelings came before that. I fear you will never believe that I loved you for you.”

You stared at him.

“So you are saying that you think I only told you to marry me so you would save me?”

He nodded once. It was small. It was ashamed. His posture faltered, the last of his defenses collapsing under the weight of what he had finally admitted.

And he had a point. Anyone else might have doubted too.

However, there was evidence he seemed determined to ignore. Proof that he had already changed long before he saw your face. Evidence that he had already chosen you.

You took a slow breath.

“Then explain something to me,” you said. “If you believed I didn’t mean it, why did you save me?”

He flushed pink behind his hands.

“I would have saved you no matter what. Even if you walk away now, I will follow, even if it is only to protect you. If you sail back to the Amazon Lily, I will live on a boat just off it to protect you. My only request is that you allow me to follow you, even if it is only as your slave.”

You frowned faintly, incredulous.

“Ah,” you said. “So how rude of you to claim that I doubt your sincerity, when the truth is that I called for you. And now you are recanting my proposal for me, begging to be my slave?”

He startled visibly. His head snapped up. His eyes widened.

“No. Not for you,” he insisted, flustered. “I only meant to be respectful. You were bleeding and frightened, and I thought perhaps you said it only because…”

“Because I was scared?” you finished for him.

He winced.

You studied him carefully. His face turned slightly away, his shoulders stiff, his breath uneven. Beneath all that strength, all that height and impossible power, there was the simplest truth.

He had not rejected your proposal. He was terrified you had not meant it, and ashamed to look at your full beauty.

Because he had known you only as the scarecrow, the half-rotted hermit girl who sneezed dirt and walked strangely, and he had dismissed your confession then. Now that he had seen you—truly seen you—he believed he had no right to want you.

Maybe he didn’t.

Except—

He had been the only man willing to speak to you when you were in disguise. The only one who treated you like a person when he believed you were forgettable and strange. The only one who apologized for hurting your feelings long before he ever realized you were beautiful. 

And even now, after saving your life, after raging across an island for you, after seeing your face, he still offered you a choice. No pressure. No expectation. Just a quiet opening of his heart and his fear.

So you lifted your hand, waving it weakly like a shipwreck survivor trying to flag down help.

He glanced over, confused, brow furrowing. You motioned for him to raise his own hand.

He hesitated, as if unsure whether you meant him or someone else in the room. Then, very gently, he lifted his enormous hand.

You reached out, fingers trembling from effort and pain, and threaded your tiny fingers between his. Your hand disappeared inside his palm like a pebble swallowed by the tide. The size difference was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

You could not help but laugh in a small, breathless laugh.

He froze. His breath hitched, cheeks turning a soft pink that climbed toward his ears. He stared at your hands joined together as if you had placed a crown into his grasp. His fingers twitched around yours, unbelievably gentle for a man who could split the ground with a blow.

He finally looked at you, eyes wide and shining.

“Marry me,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “Or I will cry. And it will be very loud. And let me be the mother of your giant babies, or else I will be mad.”

A startled sound escaped him, half laugh and half sob, the kind of noise a man makes when his heart is too full, and his brain cannot keep up. He shook his head slowly, the corners of his mouth trembling upward as if he were overwhelmed by how much he loved you and completely unequipped to handle it.

His eyes glistened again. He swallowed hard. Then his enormous hand curled around yours, soft and careful, as if he feared the slightest pressure might break you.

“You want to be the mother of my children?” he whispered, voice catching. He sounded like a man who had just been handed the world, and was still afraid it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You nodded, exhausted but sure.

“All twenty-five of them.”

Edward inhaled so sharply it shook his shoulders. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at you, stunned, then a trembling laugh pushed out of him, warm and disbelieving.

“Twenty-five,” he repeated softly, as if the number itself were a blessing. “As many as you want.” But the smile that spread across his face was nothing short of radiant.

-X-Honeymoon-X-

He did marry you, eventually, but the path to that moment was far more complicated than either of you expected. After you returned to Sphinx Island, once your condition had stopped teetering on the edge of life and death, a difficult truth became clear.

The world after God Valley was not the same world you had known before.

The island itself had been wiped from the map. The government insisted nothing had occurred there, while privately the Celestial Dragons demanded stricter protections. Rumors spread in every port from the East Blue to the New World, whispering of a monstrous battle, a vanished island, and a pirate crew that had imploded under its own weight.

God Valley broke the balance of power.

And in the space left by the fall of Rocks D. Xebec, the seas began to shift violently.

Former Rocks pirates fled in every direction. Some tried to carve out their own territories. Others hid, not wanting to be associated with the man the World Government now declared its greatest threat. Rivalry grew like mold in the vacuum he left behind, each pirate scrambling to avoid becoming the next target of Marines emboldened by a rare victory.

You and Edward understood immediately that if he did not move, the world would move around him.

He had been one of Rocks’ strongest fighters. That alone made him a threat. But it also made him a target. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to protect Sphinx Island, and if he wanted to build a life with you, he needed power of his own.

You saw all of this even before he said it aloud.

“You cannot sit here and watch me breathe,” you told him as soon as you could speak without wincing. “Others will rise. Some of them will be smarter than Rocks. Some of them will be idiots. But if you do not build something now, someone else will build over you.”

He resisted at first. He did not want to leave you. You practically shoved him out the door.

“Go,” you insisted. “Lead. I will still be here when you get back.”

So he listened.

Edward began gathering allies and former comrades, approaching those who were adrift after the disbandment of the Rocks Pirates. He claimed territory not with ambition, but with necessity. Sphinx Island became his foundation. That choice alone carried deep symbolic weight. Controlling his home island, he declared to the world that he was not merely another pirate drifting through the New World. He was a protector—a stabilizing force.

Meanwhile, you recovered under the care of the Sphinx villagers, who welcomed you with warmth and curiosity. Rumors spread quickly that Edward’s gorgeous wife had survived God Valley and was recovering in their care. That rumor mattered. It bolstered his image to the outside world, turning him from a former Rocks commander into a man worth following.

During this time, the Polo Crew found him again. They had always been opportunistic but not unkind, and they recognized Edward’s potential immediately. Their captain, Polo, offered allegiance without hesitation, and their doctor—who had saved your life once already—was invaluable in stabilizing your wound.

Polo’s son, Marco, also chose to follow Eddie. Young, sharp, and gifted, he became one of the first true pillars in what became the Whitebeard Pirates. Even then, he showed the steady loyalty and quiet intelligence that would define him.

With each passing week, more pirates joined. Some came seeking protection. Others came seeking purpose. Many came because they trusted Edward more than the rising monsters of the New World.

Step by step, the shape of a new crew began to form.

A crew built on loyalty instead of fear, built on choice instead of coercion. A crew that was not merely strong, but meaningful.

And all the while, as Edward forged alliances and carved territory from chaos, you healed on Sphinx Island, preparing quietly for your future together. A future where the two of you could build something softer than the world that had tried to tear you apart. A future where he could finally dream of a family with you.

But that dream carried weight.

Edward’s choice to prioritize you over Rocks had cost him more than a few friendships. He had walked away from a captain whose death was painful and strange, but who was a good man, and he could’ve saved him. Their parting so abruptly, so violently, left a bruise on Edward’s heart that he did not show often, but could never fully heal.

He carried guilt for it, hurt from the way it ended, and carried regret for the men he could not reach and the lives that fell apart after God Valley.

He carried the understanding that the moment he chose you over Rocks, the course of his life—and the fates of everyone around him—had shifted.

But he also carried something else.

Confidence.

A quiet, steady certainty that if he had to choose again, he would still choose you. Every time. Without hesitation. He told you this once, voice soft and low as the tide.

“I am sorry for leaving that way,” he said. “I am sorry for what followed. But if it happened again, I would still pick you. Even knowing what it cost.”

You believed him.

But believing did not remove the sting of consequence.

And there were consequences.

Your own request to become “pregnant expeditiously,” as you had so boldly declared in the middle of recovery, would never come to pass. The wounds carved across your midsection, deep and violent and cruel, had torn through more than flesh. They had left internal damage that no doctor, not even Marco’s growing medical talent, could reverse.

The news came quietly.

A soft voice.

A gentle explanation.

The doctor’s hands folded together with regret.

Infertile.

The word settled inside you as a stone dropped into deep water. It did not shatter. It sank. Slowly. Heavily.

You had imagined babies with Edward, imagined a ship full of laughter that matched his booming voice, imagined children with your smile or his strength or both. It had been a warm, bright picture in the middle of your pain.

And now it could never happen.

The reality settled with a heaviness that felt ancient, something older than grief and deeper than pain. It was not loud. It did not strike all at once. It seeped into you slowly, like cold tidewater creeping up a beach until you could no longer remember when you first began to shiver.

When Edward learned the truth, he sat beside you in silence for a long time. The kind of silence that felt reverent. Heavy. Necessary. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, thick fingers digging into his palms as if he were trying to anchor himself. His shoulders were stiff, drawn in with a tension he never showed in battle, as if bracing against a force he could not fight, could not stop, could not protect you from.

His eyes were wet.

Not from disappointment.

Not from lost expectations.

But from the raw ache of watching you confront the loss of something tender and fragile. Something you had dared to want. You had faced death. You had survived monsters. You had walked into hell and come back changed. Your pretty face had scars from such an adventure.

But this—this quiet truth—felt to you like failure. For the first time in your life, you felt like you had failed him.

Your voice cracked when you spoke.

“You can marry Stussy. She would gladly have your babies.”

You meant it. You had seen how Stussy adored him, how she’d leave that laboratory she was sitting, waiting for Edward to miss her. You thought you were offering him something noble.

But Edward flinched as if struck.

Slowly—carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal—he reached out and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed a tear you had not realized was falling.

“I wanted children because I wanted a family with you,” he said quietly. “There is no family without you. You always were my first choice.”

His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a truth so powerful it made the world feel still.

“If we want children,” he continued, softer still, “there are countless little ones across the seas with no parents at all. Boys and girls with no one to hold them, no one to feed them, no one to tell them they matter. Would you be opposed to adopting?”

The words were simple.

But they carried a gentleness that struck harder than any blow God Valley had ever dealt. A gentleness that did not pity you. A gentleness that chose you. Again. And again. And again.

Something warm cracked open inside you.

Your throat tightened, but you smiled anyway.

“No,” you whispered. “Not opposed at all.”

Edward exhaled a long, trembling breath, as if the universe had just righted itself in his hands.

And so life went on.

Not easily. Not without shadows. But it went on.

Your wounds knitted slowly, the deep ones aching on cold mornings and after long days. The scars remained, pale reminders of God Valley, reminders of the moment everything changed. But they did not define you. They did not limit you. They simply became part of the story the world whispered about you.

And when you were able, truly able, you rejoined Edward on the seas.

Your first day aboard his growing ship, the one that would one day become an entire fleet, felt like stepping into sunlight after years beneath water. The crew was small at first, but loyal. Many were former Polo pirates, still grieving their old captain but grateful for a future with purpose.

And then the future shifted again.

When Polo passed away unexpectedly, the weight of it hit the entire crew like a wave breaking against stone. For Marco, it was a wound that reopened every other wound he carried. He flew into your arms, his small frame trembling, his wings flickering with grief as he buried himself against you.

You held him without hesitation, whispering soft assurances into his hair.

In that moment, you knew with absolute clarity that your choice had been the right one. Your future would not be shaped by blood, but by bond, by love, by the children who found you rather than the ones you bore.

There would always be pain. Always a quiet ache for the life you almost had. A faint sting when you saw parents with infants in crowded ports, or when you overheard lullabies drifting from distant windows. Some losses never leave completely.

But the ache softened each time another young pirate joined Edward’s crew, drawn to him the way lost souls are drawn to warmth. Boys with nowhere to go. Teenagers who had survived too much already. Some were fighters. Some were dreamers. Some were simply exhausted by the world.

One by one, they started calling you “mum.”

And then, naturally, they started calling Edward “Pop’s.”

Even the men older than you called you mum, half joking and half not, moved by the way you stitched their wounds, scolded their recklessness, and looked at them with an affection they had never received in their lives. Some of them were even drawn to you in ways that alarmed you, attracted to both the fierce woman who had survived God Valley and the gentle one who carried the crew with grace and a few ass kickings.

Edward only smiled at their admiration. Sometimes he glared. Occasionally, he lifted them by the back of the shirt and reminded them whose soulmate you were.

One evening, as the stars stretched above and most of the crew slept below deck, you sat on your husband’s knee, gazing at the sky. The sea was calm, dark, and glasslike, reflecting the constellations as if the heavens were drifting on the water. Edward rested one massive hand on your hip and the other around your knee, holding you with a tenderness no one else ever saw.

The ship rocked gently. Lanterns swayed. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and distant rain.

For the first time in weeks, the Grand Line felt quiet.

Edward pressed his forehead lightly to your shoulder, breathing you in. You could feel the warmth of him even through your clothes, steady and grounding. He always ran hotter than anyone else you knew, like his heart was some furnace inside his chest that never cooled.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured, his voice low, the words slipping into your skin the way the tide touches sand.

You smiled faintly. “I am allowed to think, you know.”

“I know,” he said, lips brushing your collarbone. “But when you think too quietly, I start worrying you are planning something reckless.”

You laughed softly, leaning back against him. “I only plan reckless things when you deserve to be punished.”

He chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated through your spine. “Then I am glad you are thinking peaceful thoughts tonight.”

But you were not entirely peaceful.

You tilted your head toward the sky, watching the constellations wheel above, sharp and bright against the dark. The moon gilded the waves in silver. The ship creaked softly beneath you, a cradle in motion.

“I was actually thinking,” you murmured, letting your voice slip into something mischievous, “that we never really got a honeymoon. I had to learn so much about you on the go.”

His arms tightened around you instantly, and you knew be was blushing. The shift in his body was unmistakable. His breath caught faintly. His chest pressed flush to your back. He straightened just enough that you could feel the alertness ripple through him, as if someone had just whispered a secret meant only for him.

He bent closer, lips brushing your ear.

“A honeymoon,” he repeated, low and thoughtful. “You want that now?”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, but you kept your tone cheeky. “Well, we got married in the middle of political upheaval, pirate recruiting, and you crying every time I stood up too fast. It wasn’t very romantic.”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and a little breathless.

“If you had told me then,” he said, voice rumbling warmly through your back, “that you wanted a honeymoon, I would have cleared the entire Grand Line for it.”

You snorted softly. “I did tell you. I told you to marry me, or I would cry. That counts as requesting a honeymoon.”

He buried his face against your neck for a moment, shoulders shaking with amusement. 

You turned enough to meet his gaze, your smile tugging wider.

“So,” you said softly, “where do you want to take me?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you as if memorizing a sight he never wanted to lose. His hand came up to cradle your jaw with the tenderness of a man holding something sacred.

“Anywhere,” he said. “As long as you are with me.”

And you melted against him, because there was nothing in the world more romantic than a giant pirate emperor who spoke with that much sincerity and meant every word.

The stars shimmered overhead as the waves rocked beneath you, the night warm and open around the two of you. The lantern beside you flickered in the breeze, painting soft gold across his face.

You leaned your forehead to his. “Actually,” you murmured, “I just want to go annoy Roger and Rayleigh.”

He blinked, surprised. “You do? Why? Last time we passed Roger, he cried.”

“Shakky says his crew is getting a little too confident. Can we go shoot some cannons at them?”

For a heartbeat, he stared at you as though you had just handed him the very concept of joy.

Then he laughed.

Not a small laugh. Not a polite one. A great booming laugh that burst out of him with such force you felt it through your spine and ribs and straight into your heart. His eyes stung with tears again, but this time from pure happiness.

“You want our honeymoon to be shooting cannons at your friends?” he managed between laughs.

You grinned. “If we don’t humble him now, they will be unbearable later. Roger says he’s going to be the ‘greatest pirate ever’. That’s too much.”

He pulled you tighter into his chest, still laughing, still letting tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Then yes,” he said. “Let’s go annoy them. And we’ll bring every cannon we have.”

He kissed you, breath warm and full of affection.

“You really are perfect,” he added softly.

You smiled, tucked against him as the ship drifted into the starlit dark.

And far away, unaware of the chaos heading their way, Roger sneezed violently and complained out loud that someone must be talking about him again.

Cosmic Joke Status: Seismic Soulmate Acquisition

You are now bound to Edward Newgate, future Emperor of the Sea, current champion of emotional repression, and full-time disaster disguised as a gentle giant. He looks like a man who would build houses for orphans, and he does. He also looks like he would stutter when you flirt back at him, and he does that too. His hobbies include adopting strays with criminal records, drinking milk like it is a performance art, pretending he is not jealous when other men look at you, and apologizing to furniture he bumps into. He insists he is not scary, which is adorable considering entire islands shake when he gets upset.

He loves like the tide, quiet at first, then inevitable. A devotion slow and deep and tectonic. The kind of love that moves continents. The kind of love that reorders his entire life because he has already decided you matter more than the world he came from. And you would not trade him for anything. Not treasure. Not calm seas. Not a safer life.

Because you were never meant to have a small love. And you wouldn’t change it for the world.

-X-The End-X-

You’d dreamt of running though that town, watching the town lights pass you. The cold air cut into your lungs as you ran, sharp and clean.

A cold sweat formed on your skin despite the temperature around you. There was no sense of urgency behind your sprint, you just knew you had to keep running.

When you became aware of the fact you were dreaming, the cold air changed. It only softened at first, the goosebumps leaving your skin, then, it began warming your face with every breath.

You kept running despite it. The buildings around you blurred into indistinct shapes, their colours and edges melting together, while the wind grew heavier and hotter the longer you ran.

It became unbearable. The thick heat pressed against you, suffocating you, like the world was closing in. It felt like you were swimming again, every movement exhausting, every breath an effort.

Your limbs burned, your chest ached, and your lungs heaved. The town ahead of you seemed to stretch endlessly, no end in sight.

Still, you pushed further, feet striking the ground in a way that could only seem unnatural. The lights flicked overhead, dimming as if they’re struggling to stay alive. Sweat poured down your back in a way that felt like nails digging into your flesh.

Somewhere deep inside you, you wondered what would happen if you stopped running. But the thought never lasted long, because by then, the heat had consumed you.

The next wave of heat melted into your flesh, exposing your bones, your muscle. Your rot.

--------

You woke to the smell of sea water blowing past your face, the thick salt smell making your stomach churn at the reminder of your recent adventure. The scent clung to you, strong and unmistakable, as if the ocean hadn’t let you go yet.

Groggily, you forced your eyes open, only to slam them shut when the light stabbed into your eyes. A low groan slipped from your throat at the bright glow. You dragged a hand up to your face, rubbing at your eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily in your limbs.

You slowly let your eyes adjust to the brightness, while you looked up at the planked roof of the room you were in.

What? Where the hell are you? You don’t even remember how you passed out, must’ve collapsed somewhere after eating those pies.

You hooked your elbows beneath your torso to push yourself up, grunting at the strain it caused.

Looking around the room, you spotted the IV next to you and the blood-soaked cloth overflowing from the bin across the room. You’ve been in an infirmary before; you know what one looks like. No big deal.

Other than the multiple other beds in the room that had people in them, nothing particularly of noteworthy caught your eye. That was, until you noticed the two open portholes on the far wall.

It didn’t make sense at first. They were too small, too round, lined with thick bolts. You stared at them, waiting to think of a reasonable explanation, some kind of themed infirmary, or it just had some extreme nautical precautions?

Then the room moved.

Not a dramatic tumble, just a subtle sway. Suddenly, the smell of the salty sea water made sense. The IV cord moved with the room, proving your newest theory.

You weren’t next to water. You were on water.

You attempted to haul yourself out of the bed, but as soon as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your body made its opinion very clear.

It wasn’t pain you felt, just a nauseatingly unnatural feeling. Like you’d been spun around a million times in your sleep. Your muscles felt hollow and unreliable.

Not to mention the soaring pain that exploded on your back. That was pain. A lot of pain. What the hell happened? You must’ve torn half the muscles in your back from the way that felt.

Straightening your back, you yanked the IV cord out of your arm, thinking the worst that could to was wake you up. But fire shot up your arm, not enough to scream, just a deep pain, followed by more nausea, as the warm blood piled up on your arm.

You clamped down onto it, fingers weak and clumsy, almost like they wouldn’t obey your brain. You fiddled with the bleeding spot before giving up and letting it be.

Standing was entirely worse.

Your vision pricked at the edges as pins and needles spread through your feet. You stood still for a moment, trying to get used to the sensation. It eventually faded into a dull throb that made your jaw clench.

Every joint complained at the movements like rusty hinges. Is this what it felt like to be old? Damn, you should’ve been nicer to the hag at that stall.

Ignoring all the parts of you currently rejecting the idea, you clumsily stumbled over to the portholes.

Sure enough, beyond the glass, a vast sea was there, deep and alive. The water moved in slow, large waves, catching the light from the sun, giving the water a yellow and white sparkle.

The horizon dissolved into the hazy blue sky, making it appear as though the water was endless. There was something calming about watching the water move.

Well, it would be calming if you weren’t balancing on a rickety wooden stool. In a stranger’s ship, in the middle of the ocean. The exact thing you spent like, a week trying to get away from.

You were about to step off the stool when you heard the door open from the other side of the room. Your head shot to the door you’d noticed earlier, a flash of panic shooting through you.

Two women stepped in, clad in pink nurse outfits and leopard print boots, looking more confused than threatening. They paused when they saw you, eyes glancing to the stool beneath your feet, then back up to you again.

For a moment, none of you spoke. The silenced stretched, tense with the question of what the hell are you doing? You suddenly felt ridiculous, like a child halfway up a tree after being told not to climb it.

One of the nurses finally spoke up while she started walking toward you, “You’re finally awake,” she said, approaching you, while the other nurse started removing a bandage on one of the other patients.

“You shouldn’t be moving so much. If I find out you popped your stitches, I’ll have your hind.” The woman added, extending her arms towards you as she got closer.

Stitches? What is she on about?

Watching as the lady walked up to you, still standing on the stool like an idiot. She motioned something with her hands, to which you only stared, raising a confused brow.

She sighed and stepped up right in front of you, sliding her hands under your armpits and lifting you off the wooden stool like you weighed nothing to her, like she’d just picked up a kitten.

You could only stare, wide eyed and a dumbfounded, as the woman manhandled you with ease, turning you by the shoulders and tugging up your singlet without so much as a warning.

You heard her give a disappointed sigh while she picked and prodded around on your back, peeling something back, inspecting it, then pressing it back into place.

For someone with arms the size of two twigs, that woman was strong. Impressively so. She turned you around again and crossed her arms, showing her disapproving expression.

“You couldn’t have stayed in bed a little longer, brat?” She said flatly, “You didn’t pop them, but you’re bleeding again.”

At that, she grabbed your arm and started dragging you back toward the bed.

You’d finally shaken off your dumbfounded haze, raising a brow at the woman’s words. “Huh? What stitches?” You muttered.

She shot you a glance, her tone sharper, “The stitches you got from street fighting.”

The woman huffed and continued, clearly unimpressed, “Ace told us all about your little spat.”

Stopping beside the bed, you squinted at the nurse, trying to recollect the memory of a fight.

…

…You got nothing.

You could still feel your blood painfully pumping into your head, these strenuous mental exercises were too much for you right now. Whatever had happened, your body clearly remembered more than you did.

You watched the nurse grumble in irritation at the poorly removed IV, fiddling with the tube in irritation as you slumped down onto the edge of the bed.

Ace. Hmm…

Where did you know that name from? Was that the man you fought? You decided to voice your thoughts to the woman, instead of reaching to conclusions.

“Oi, lady, is Ace the man I fought?” You asked, watching her clean the needle.

She turned to you, raising a brow at the question, “Hm?” Then, more slowly, “You don’t remember who you fought?”

Before you could respond, she stepped toward you, reaching for your head, turning it gently as she inspected you. Her fingers traced through your hair, checking for any swelling or blood.

Finding no damage on your head, she stepped back, frowning, “I’ll have to tell Marco about that…” she muttered, a finger tapping her cheek in thought.

You deadpanned at the woman for completely ignoring your question. When she made no move to answer your question, you groaned, spitting out,

“Who did I fight?” you practically barked at the nurse.

She shot you an offended look, “Don’t give me attitude, brat. I’m the one keeping you stitched together.” she warned, crossing her arms.

“She’s right, yoi.” The voice came from behind the nurse, amusement lacing the man’s tone.

You leaned to the side, craning your neck past her shoulder. A man stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed and a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

He sauntered his way to you and the woman, casually tucking his hands into his pockets.

“You should be nice to Sloane,” He stopped beside the woman, whose name you learned was Sloane. “She’s been pretty generous with her care, yoi”

You furrowed your brows at the man, a scowl making its way to your face. He was already annoying you with his oddly familiar smug face.

‘What the hell is yoi?’ You mumbled to yourself as Sloane turned to the man, informing him of something.

He muttered something back to the woman before meeting your eye, “Does your head hurt, kid?” he inquired.

You scowled at the man as you spat out a response, “It didn’t before you showed up.” grumbling as you inspected your sunburn.

It looked a lot better than you remember, the blisters had settled down, and your skin began to lift in some places.

The man didn’t acknowledge the comment, only letting his smirk falter and sharpening his gaze enough to make you regret saying that.

To which you deadpanned in return. Regretting things you’d said wasn’t something you did often, even if you had spat the words out without giving them a second thought.

You also couldn’t be intimidated into submission. Especially not by people with ugly ass haircuts. Seriously, who was this guy, a Muppet?

“They’re fine. Probably just slow from the blood loss and heat exhaustion, yoi.” He retorted, lip curling back into a smirk.

“Who you calling slow, Baldy?” You barked at the man’s insult.

Sloane ignored the bickering and quietly moved behind you. You jolted when she lifted your singlet, before letting her probe around.

Her hands moved carefully as she began removing your old blood-stained bandages. A shiver went down your spine when the cold air hit your wounds.

“Being a brat already?” The man said, more amused than offended, “Looks like Sloane’s doing a decent job patching you up.”

“I didn’t ask for the charity.” You glared at the cocky man as you spat a response. Sloane pressed a little harder onto your back while she applied something, making you wince.

He clicked his tongue, “No,” he agreed, “you didn’t.” His back straightened as his voice softened, but still firm, “But you woulda died out there if we hadn’t dragged you back to the ship, yoi.” He concluded, raising a smug brow on his weird little weirdo face.

You paused for a moment before rolling your eyes. This guy was full of it. You wouldn’t have died, and you knew that for a fact. Whatever happened on that island couldn’t have been that bad. You’ve fought people ten times your size and won, with ease.

“What ship?” You asked flatly.

“The Moby Dick, yoi” The man replied swiftly, like he hadn’t just dropped the most unfortunate name ever. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

With a raised brow, you slowly repeated back to the man, “We’re on the what dick?” you couldn’t have held back the faint smirk you let out even if you’d tried. I mean, the joke was right in front of you.

For a split second, his mouth twitched. He sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was obviously not the first time he’d heard jokes about the name.

“The Moby Dick. Whitebeard’s pride and joy.” He drawled, eyes flicking back to you, “Laugh it up, kid.”

You would’ve if it weren’t for the fact that he just name dropped an emperor. Suddenly the joke wasn’t so funny anymore. In fact, your stomach twisted in dread at the thought, that familiar sour expression making its way back your features.

Of all the ships in the New World, of course you would somehow end up on a Yonko’s ‘pride and joy’.

For fucks sake, wasn’t Whitebeard literally the strongest man? That basically translates to BIGGEST PAIN IN THE ASS.

You caught the man’s lazy gaze, with a dead-eyed expression.

“This is a pirate ship?”

 It was more of a statement than a question. He’s got to be kidding. No one just gets ‘rescued’ by a Yonko’s crew, he’s fucking with you.

“That’s right, yoi” He nodded at your realisation; his smirk tainted with that same smugness.

You could feel the veins in your head bulge. Of course it had to be a pirate ship. Between the Yonko looming over this ship somewhere and the egotistical prick in front of you, it was a miracle you hadn’t lost it already.

If it weren’t for the piercing pain all over your body, you’d’ve sunk this goddamn ship by now. Who the hell would drag a random person onto their ship? Fucking idiots, that’s who.

“And let me guess,” You said, rubbing at your face, “you’re a pirate too.”

Sloane had finished replacing your bandages while you while you spoke with the man. She’d stepped away briefly to throw the old bandages out, returning just in time to reply to your words.

“He’s the first division commander. Marco the Phoenix.” She said, tone suggesting you should’ve known that already.

Only you didn’t know that. Why the hell would you keep track of bunch of randos? You barely ever read the news; the only reason you even knew about the emperors is because everyone is always fucking talking about them.

You did not associate with pirates, period. They had a penchant for being ruthless, slimy scumbags.

Which to be fair, you also were but they were just so fucking shameless about it. Apparently, decency was also something they lacked.

The nurse’s words rung in your head, a familiar hatred brewed in your chest for the man in front of you, a feeling you’d felt only days prior. First division commander? That must’ve been the reason he was so far up his own ass.

“Ace mentioned you’ve got a problem with pirates, yoi.” He stated, “That’s not gonna turn into trouble for us, is it?”

He looked you in the eye as he said that, the warning clear in his eyes. You met it without flinching, your expression flat. There it was again, pirates trying to intimidate you with a few sharp words.

You were about to spit some bullshit at the man, before you began to remember the Ace guy. The memories flooded into your head. Ace wasn’t the guy you fought, he was the disgusting bum chewing straight into your ear canal at the island.

He’d also mentioned some division crap, but you probably toned out most of his blabbering.

What did he call himself? Ace the Fister? Flame Fisting Ace? Whatever, it didn’t matter.

The memories started coming back to you, though it was fuzzy in some parts. You remember waking up in an uncomfortable bush, all the drunk laughter, getting pies, talking to that pirate.

You also remember the fight. The man had caught you off guard while you were exhausted.

Your mind failed to picture his face, only remembering the scythe and the speed at which he attacked. He ripped his weapon through your skin twice, that’s why your back hurts like hell.

Looking back on it, if you weren’t so exhausted at the time, you totally could’ve avoided getting torn up.

Was he working with the pirates? Maybe he thought you were one of them, since you talked with that grubby pirate.

No, he couldn’t have. He mentioned he was getting paid to kill you, he was probably just a merc or something. But who would pay to send a merc after you? Was it his ship that blew your boat up?

So many questions, so little answers. You doubted these pirates would be any use; their generosity never usually stretches far.

“You should get some more rest, yoi.” Marco advised, “You need more time to recover.” He added, his smug demeanour finally settling down.

You were about to argue, but held your tongue, deciding it’s better for them to think you’re docile. Plus, your back really does hurt.

You did, however, roll your eyes and turn away feigning submission, albeit bluntly.

He seemed to approve of this, his gaze lingered before he finally turned and walked toward the door.

You watched his back as he sauntered back the way he came, Sloane following in suit. The other nurse that came in with Sloane was long gone, finishing her work and leaving.

Once the room was empty, you sank into the bed and laid on your back. It would have been comfortable if you weren’t stewing in anger. Also, you were laying on the twin gashes that were just rebandaged, but whatever.

You decided to roll onto your stomach, your feet dangled off the edge of the bed, and you turned your head to the side so you could breathe.

A sigh escaped your mouth at the new comfortable position. You could’ve fallen asleep right there, but you weren’t going to.

The comfort faded as you thought about the situation you were in. You were on an emperor’s ship, filled with other pirates, while you were slightly incapacitated.

Yeah, there was no way you were going to sleep on this ship.

You let out a long, overexaggerated groan, before you crawled out of the bed and started walking toward the door.

You did not want to have another painfully irritating conversation with a pirate, much less a confrontation.

So, you set out, moving cautiously in the halls, searching for a good place to hide.

-----

Thatch was having a good day. There were no mishaps in the kitchen so far, the weather will be perfect for a little afternoon reading in the sun later.

The only thing annoying him was the man blabbering in his ears.

Beside him, Ace was recalling the fight he’d witnessed to the cook, disregarding the fact that he’s already talked about it a dozen times.

Look, Thatch loved his brothers, he did, but this was excessive. Does he have nothing better to do?

Ace talked to the kid once, watched them fight, and now he’s trying to convince Pops to recruit them.

Which Whitebeard was already onboard with, he’d snatch up any kid in need, no matter the circumstances.

Thatch had seen the kid. He’d gone to the infirmary looking for Marco and instead, found them curled up in one of the beds.

He recognised them right away, they were the kid that crawled onto the dock like a zombie. He wondered if Marco came to that same realisation.

Somehow the same scowl was still on their face, the one they’d used at the dock. Even sleeping, their brow was furrowed like they were going into battle.

Thatch snorted at the sight. It was kinda funny, really. They looked like a kitten.

Sighing, Thatch eventually tuned out his brother’s yapping, mind drifting to what Izou had told him the day prior.

He recalled stumbling across the scene, catching sight of the body before it could be covered. Through the blood and grime on the battered face, Izou barely made out the man’s features; but something about them struck a chord.

The man had an uncanny resemblance to an underground assassin he’d heard whispers about. The long blonde hair, pointy nose and chin. But the scythe he carried was an undeniable factor.

That man was an assassin, no doubt. There were rumours that spoke of figures like him taking jobs for anyone with enough coin; nobles, politicians, even government officials.

That was what concerned Thatch about this situation. If it actually was the assassin his brother had been so adamant about, then it raised so many questions.

Why would an assassin be after a child? Was it personal, or did someone actually pay to have the kid killed? More importantly, how did the pipsqueak manage to take down a high tier assassin?

So many questions, too many. And, whatever the answers, he knew there would be a story with this. There always was.

-----

You were hiding in the lowest cargo hold, beneath the waterlines.

It was a really small, dark space, anyone that could find you in here had to be as small as you and be able to see in the dark.

You were laying down, face up on the floor. The cold pipes were pretty much touching your nose.

It wasn’t actually that bad, the floor wasn’t as wet as you thought it’d be, it’s not bug-ridden, and there are no strange noises.

There was a hot pipe far too close to your sunburnt shoulder, but if you move it, you’ll only strain your back.

Which also hurts right now. Sure, the cold floor isn’t as comfortable as the infirmary bed, but it’s a damn good hiding spot.

Maybe you should’ve gone in face down, though.

The journey here was a struggle. You were inevitably spotted by a few people, fortunately no one stopped you though.

Most of them were headed toward the main deck, and you didn’t see anyone near the lower cargo hold. Hopefully, it stays that way.

You didn’t exactly make a plan on the way here, just avoid as many pirates as possible. Here, it wasn’t likely they’d find you. Unless they actually searched for you. Or had piping issues.

You could just camp here until they reach the next island, it wasn’t a terrible spot. If it was unpopular enough, you wouldn’t even have to hide under the waterlines.

The nearest toilet was halfway across the ship though; the living quarters must be on the higher levels.

You weren’t too worried about food; you’ve lasted a long time without any before. The only reason you couldn’t hold out for much longer a few days ago, was because of all the energy you were burning from swimming.

You also couldn’t find your jacket anywhere. You had a rummage in the trash before you left the infirmary, but it was nowhere to be found.

Maybe it was for the better. It was probably still soaked in blood…

Speaking of being soaked in blood, your singlet wasn’t. And there was a lack of gash marks on the back. They must’ve given you a new one while you were unconscious.

God, what have you gotten yourself into? Fucking hell, you’re stuck on an emperor’s ship, in the middle of the sea.

Honestly, fuck the emperor, you were stuck on a ship with God knows how many scumbags.

How long have you been at sea? How long were you even passed out for? Did these pirates just kidnap you, then take off the next morning or something?

Jesus, you blame that Fisting Ace guy. This is all his fault.

-----

Thatch decided to bring some leftovers from dinner to the new kid himself. He could’ve made Ace do it, but he didn’t trust him not to scarf it down before reaching the infirmary.

He piled the food onto a plate, adding a little extra without really thinking about it. Probably just a habit, or instinct. Kids like that never ate enough anyway.

He covered it in a cloth and slipped out of the galley. The ship was as loud as usual, the noise always gave him a sense of comfort, even if it got annoying at times.

The infirmary door creaked open when he pushed the handle.

Empty.

The bed where the kid was curled up was empty, the only thing left was the cold rumpled sheets.

Thatch frowned at this and stepped inside, setting the plate down on a desk by the door, as his eyes slowly swept the room. Nothing broken, no blood, no signs of struggle. They’d slipped away quietly.

“Tch,” Thatch clicked his tongue softly, “Figures.” He muttered with a smirk.

He moved closer to the bed, fingers brushing over the wrinkled sheets. The sheets were completely cold, they were long gone.

A dozen thoughts crowded his head. How did a kid who was on the verge of death only a few days ago, manage to sneak around on a ship full of pirates?

How has no one noticed yet? Or he assumed no one had, Marco wouldn’t just let the new troublemaker roam the halls.

Thatch shook his head as a chuckle slipped out of his throat.

They were going to be trouble. He could feel it.

HALLOOOO thank you all for reading!

I love mommy Thatch can u tell

I really didn’t think this would get so anticipated. Y’all have been giving so much support it’s so encouraging!! Makes my fingers type so fast

ALSO I HAVE A NAME FOR THE FIC NOWW I like it but if y’all have any other suggestions, let me know

———————————

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Corazon

You had known him for years.

You met him during a meeting arranged by his brother Doflamingo. Rosinante had appeared from the shadows in a swirl of red feathers, clumsy yet somehow silent, a towering man with sad eyes peeking out from a painted grin.

You weren’t sure why he stood out. Maybe it was the way he hunched his shoulders, as if he could hide from the world even while standing six feet tall. Maybe it was the glint of kindness you thought you saw beneath the black makeup.

From  that day on though you and him shared a special bond. Not physical, not yet maybe, but emotional.

Rosinante was unpredictable, clumsy, secretive and yet, maddeningly kind. The kind of man who made you coffee when you were sad, then spilled it all down his pants in the same moment. He smiled through bruised ribs and burned trust and always was there for you when you needed him the most.

But he also never let you touch him. Not really.

Not even once.

You assumed it was part of the act. Some odd quirk of his Devil Fruit.

But the truth came during a storm.

You slipped during a mission too dizzy to see straight and you collapsed but before you could hit the floor he caught you.

His hands closed around your arms, large and gentle. Your palms pressed against his chest.

Skin met skin.

And that cursed power surged through you.

He held you in his arms, barefoot on the sand, laughing under a sunset. Your head rested against his chest. No Marines. No Doflamingo. No war. Just peace. The vision switched and you saw yourself smiling up at him, untouched by blood or betrayal, wrapped up in his oversized coat, tucked beneath his chin. It wasn’t a vision so much as a flood. A torrent of feeling, thick and suffocating. You felt his desire like it was your own: a desperate, screaming need to protect you from everyone, he wanted you yes but more than that he needed you to be okay. And the thought he tried to bury so deep it cracked his bones “Please let me live long enough to tell them I love them”

You gasped as the vision faded, his eyes widened, looked wounded, and he quickly stuffed his hands into his pockets, stepping back.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low and raspy, almost inaudible over the noise around you.

“I’m fine,” you lied, breathless. “Just… dizzy.”

He nodded once, but his gaze flicked around then he pulled something from his coat - a scrap of cloth, a bit of bandage. He offered it with both hands, avoiding your skin.

“For your hand,” he mumbled.

You looked down. In your panic, you had cut your palm and blood welled up in a small crimson pool.

Before you could protest, he crouched delicately wrapping your hand with the same tenderness you had felt in his desire. His fingers never brushed your skin again. He made sure of it.

But when his eyes found yours after he finished wrapping everything up he saw it, the ache in your eyes and he knew something had happened, he didn’t know exactly what it was but he knew something was different now.

After that… everything changed.

He avoided you. More than before.

Disappearing for days, coming back with scraped hands and tired lies.

And you, you tried to understand.

But it was like watching someone drown in a glass tank, fists pressed to the walls, refusing to let you in.

Until one night, the tension boiled over.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” he whispered, voice cracking. “When you touched me.”

Your breath caught. He had figured it out.

You nodded slowly.

His shoulders sagged as if the weight of the entire sea had landed on him. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice breaking. “I shouldn’t….I shouldn’t feel that way. But I do. And I… I can’t stop.”

Tears stung your eyes. Because you understood now that this wasn’t lust, or selfish obsession like the others. His desire was pure, painful, and impossibly kind. And it was tearing him apart.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you blurted, before your fear could catch up to your honesty.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and vulnerable.

“I’ve seen what the others want,” you went on, voice shaking. “They want to break me. Own me. Use me. But you… you just want to save me.”

His cigarette fell from his lips, landing at his feet.

“You love me,” you whispered, cornering him in the hallway of some run-down safehouse.

His smile twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You stepped closer. “I saw it, Cora. You were holding me. Laughing. Wanting a future. Yours. Mine. Ours.”

His expression finally cracked.

“You know that this can never happen,” he suddenly said.

You froze not expecting these words from him.

“Why not?”

“Because this is dangerous, being with me is dangerous,” he said simply. “And if you get too close, you’ll go down with me.”

The silence between you hit like a gunshot.

“You’ve already decided, haven’t you?” Your voice trembled. “You’ve already written the ending without even giving me a choice.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need to go,” he said softly, voice raspy as ever. “There’s a Devil Fruit I have to steal. It’s the only way to save him.”

You turned to him, tears already welling up. “And if it gets you killed?”

He flinched. Then he reached out hesitant and cupped your cheek. His fingers brushed your skin. The curse activated, and his raw, desperate desire poured into you like fire.

“I wish I could stay. I wish I could take you far away from this world. I wish I could give you a life where you never have to run again. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

It shattered something inside you.

You grabbed his wrist, pressing his hand closer. “Then don’t go. Stay with me. We can hide together. Please.”

He let out a quiet laugh—sad, hollow. “You know I can’t. If I don’t do this… that boy dies. And if he dies, everything I’ve tried to do will be meaningless.”

You leaned your forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of his coat, the lingering smoke.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Because some people were meant to save the world…

…but never get to stay in it.

The next morning he was gone and you found Corazon’s goodbye letter.

It was folded carefully, tucked inside the coat you used to mend for him, sealed with a stain of black coffee (he spilled it. Of course he did).

But the ink? The ink held his truth.

To you, The one I wanted to choose, But never could— By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. Not forever, I hope. But long enough that it might feel that way. I want to start with this: You didn’t imagine it. What you saw through your cursed fruit, my desire to hold you, laugh with you, build something gentle with you it was real. It is real. You are the one place I ever felt… human. Not a spy. Not a Donquixote. Not a broken mess in clown paint. Just a man. Just yours. But here’s the part that never stopped clawing at me: I don’t get to keep you. Because if I choose you, I can’t protect him. And if I choose him, I can’t come back to you. You always saw too much. The way you looked at me like I was already forgiven. Like I wasn’t a walking graveyard of secrets and second chances. But I am. And I know it. And I won't let you bleed because I was too selfish to walk away. So here’s the deal: If I come back, I’ll come with clean hands and a promise. If I don’t… then let this be my truth, buried in paper and ink: I love you. I loved you when you laughed at my coat. I loved you when you yelled at me for disappearing again. I loved you when you touched my hand and saw everything I tried to hide. And even now, I love you too much to drag you into this war. Take care of yourself. Find someone who chooses you with both feet planted. Someone who’s not always halfway out the door. But if you ever feel like waiting for someone foolish, You know where to find me: Somewhere between a lie and a last hope. Yours quietly, always, Cora

Weeks later, you learned the truth. The Ope Ope no Mi was used to save Law but Corazon was gone. Killed by his own brother.

They said he died smiling.

You wondered if, in his last moment, he thought of you. You wondered if he felt your heart break as his stopped.

And you promised, as you read his letter over and over beneath the dawn light, that you’d keep living. That you’d carry the memory of the man who taught you love and the price it demanded. And you promised to keep looking out for the young boy Cora gave his life for.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Whitebeard

You had joined the Whitebeard Pirates on a whim. Not as a fighter but as a mapmaker, someone who could laugh too loud and carry a bottle of sake twice their weight. Pops had taken you in like he did all the others: without question, with that massive grin and a hand on your head like a crown.

The first time Whitebeard touched you, it wasn’t grand.

It wasn’t a crushing grip or a possessive reach. It was the brush of his knuckles down your back after you slipped in the ship’s hallway.

“Careful, little one,” he said, voice a low, weather-worn rumble. “Wouldn’t want you crashing through the deck.”

That was the last thing you heard before your knees buckled and the vision hit you.

A vision so vivid your ribs ached from the weight of it.

You saw yourself, years older, laughing. Sitting at a massive table beside him. His hand in yours. A feast. A family. You saw his sons, your “brothers” and a small little girl. You felt the crushing warmth in his chest, the longing, the bone-deep ache that wanted nothing but time and a family…..time to grow old with you and his family.

The vision shattered as you gasped and almost stumbled again.

He caught you with a frown this time no skin to skin contact. “You alright?” he asked a little worried.

All you managed was a small mumble he didn’t quite understand before you turned and fled the deck, your heart in your throat.

Because that vision wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even really romance.

It was something more dangerous.

He wanted a future with you and the crew. A quiet one.

And he knew, you both knew, that the world would never allow it.

He didn’t come after you at least not at first. Whitebeard was many things but he wasn’t reckless. He waited. Watched. Gave you space.

And you… You avoided him like he was fire and you were soaked in oil.

But even from a distance, the vision clung to you. You saw it in the way he sat in silence after he watched the crew, after they laughed and smiled. You saw the way he glanced at the empty chair next to him – your chair.

He wanted you there beside him.

“You’ve been runnin’.”

Marco found you perched on the edge of the ship’s figurehead one evening, staring at the sea like it might swallow you up and keep the truth down with it.

“I’m not running,” you murmured.

“Then tell Pops why you can’t look him in the eye anymore.”

You clenched your jaw. “I touched him.”

Marco blinked and then frowned.

“I saw it. The desire. The future he wanted. It was…” You looked away. “Too much.”

Marco sat beside you, voice gentle. “He doesn’t want to scare you.”

“He didn’t,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part,” you whispered softly with that familiar ache in your chest.

Marco looked at you and then placed a hand on your shoulder giving it a slight squeeze. “You should talk to him” he said before he turned and walked away leaving you with your thoughts.  

Later that night though, Whitebeard came to you.

He waited until the ship was asleep. Until even the ocean seemed to hold its breath.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him, slow, heavy, deliberate and unmistakable.

He came to your side, towering over you as you sat there. His presence wrapped around you like the tide inescapable, steady.

“Why do you avoid me little one?” he asked cautiously.

“I didn’t mean to…I just when you touched me I..” you stopped yourself from revealing too much not wanting to bother him with this or have him know. He already had enough on his plate you didn’t want to add up on it.

“I saw it,” you said, finally. “What you want.”

“You what?”

“I felt safe and you caught me a little off guard, your hand is really warm and it felt not bad” you said not outright a lie but also not the whole truth.

A beat of silence spread between you two and the he smiled at you.

“You know sometimes I dream about peace, just us, you, me, the boys, sailing across the sea without all the chaos in the world. Living a peaceful and long life. Watching you and those idiots grow old together and see who will have the most wrinkles” he confessed suddenly.

“I know” you said “I mean I know that feeling I…..I’d want that too” you added.

“It’s a desire, a wishful thinking,” he said carefully before he closed his eyes, his massive frame casting long shadows over the deck.

“Don’t say that”

“Little one you know as good as me that the world won’t let us have this. Not now. Not with all this chaos. I’m not saying that there will never be any peace but I’m saying that when this will happen I will no longer be with you,” he explained voice firm and yet you could hear the yearning in it, the sadness.  

You were crying now, not loudly, not brokenly just… quiet, unbearable tears because you remembered the vision and now hearing him talk about the fact that he had already made peace with the fact that his desire will never come true was heart-breaking.

He looked down at you, his eyes for once looked human. Not like the eyes of the world’s strongest man, not the Yonko.

Just a man who was tired.

“Don’t cry little one, we still got some time together before you get rid of me” he joked softly and you let out a small chuckle through the tears.

Gently, so gently, his hand came up to your cheek to brush the tears away.

And this time you let it happen let the vision, painful as it was, consume you.

Once again you saw yourself older, the crew older and him sitting on his usual throne like chair on the Moby Dick, a little girl on his lap, a girl who had his smile. The crew was being a chaotic mess but his chaotic mess and you felt the warmth, the safety and the feel of home.

When the vision ended you blinked a few tears away and looked up at him smiling before you leaned into him fingers curling around his coat as you held onto it like a lifeline.

“I’ve fought gods, demons, and kings,” he said, voice low and broken. “But I don’t know how to fight the part of me that just wants to be yours,” he suddenly said as his hand came to rest at your back holding you.

“You don’t have to fight it,” you whispered. “You just have to let yourself have it”

After that night everything changed.

Not out loud.

He didn’t call you his lover. Didn’t pull you into his bed or kiss you in front of the others.

But he always looked for you when he laughed and you always found him when he was quiet.

You started sharing sake just the two of you in shared private moments were words weren’t needed. A ritual for two ghosts in waiting.

And every time your fingers brushed, your Devil Fruit showed you the same vision: A future full of love, peace, you, the crew and a little girl by his side.

But then came the war.

You knew no matter what you said he wouldn’t stop from rescuing Ace because that was just how Whitebeard was.  

He looked at you with that old grief. The kind that said he had already made peace with dying.

And he touched you again.

Not by accident, not to steady you.

His massive hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

The vision flooded back.

The two of you on the Moby Dick. Older. Scarred. But alive. A daughter on your hip. Laughing. And the crew behind you. He looked… happy, peaceful and like he finally found his own personal One Piece.

“I dreamed of that once,” he murmured.

You looked up, startled. “You… know?”

“Aye.” His thumb lingered. “I knew the moment I touched you. The fruit… showed you what I buried.”

You wanted to cry but fought the tears. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He smiled, tired and soft. “Because I’m not a man who gets to want things, little one. I’m a man who protects them.”

You wrapped your fingers around his wrist. “Then protect me by living.”

He laughed quiet and rough and heartbreakingly fond.

“I’ll try. But if I don’t come back, know this,” he said. “I never regretted loving you.”

The night before he left to save Ace you ended up in his bed for the first time, giving in to the desire between you two.

Whitebeard died standing, died protecting his family.

And in his final moments, he held something in his hand: a folded scrap of parchment.

You recognized it when it washed ashore weeks later.

It was your handwriting.

One line.

“If ever you forget yourself, remember there’s a man inside you a man I loved, a man the world never saw but I did.”

You sat long nights at his grave, hand on your belly and sometimes when you were quiet, when the sea was still, you swore you felt a hand at your back, steady as the world, whispering "I never regretted loving you."

Years later, on Sphinx island, you sat by a dock with a little girl who had his smile.

Your daughter.

Your only treasure.

And when she asked why you cried when it rained, you told her a story.

About a man who was the strongest man in the world and was called a monster for that.

But you?

You knew better.

He was a man who once dreamed of peace, a family and loved you so quietly, it nearly broke your heart.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Ace

You didn’t mean to brush against him. The table was too small. The conversation too loud. The meeting too crowded. One wrong lean, and his hand grazed yours.

Bare skin touching and that was all it took.

A vision flooded your brain, no, not a vision. A need. A longing so powerful, so raw it made you gasp before you could hide it.

You saw his hands on your cheeks, trembling—not with lust, but desperation. His voice hoarse, whispering your name like a prayer. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes shimmering with something like relief… or grief. His whole body shaking with the desire to keep you. "Don’t go. Please… don’t leave me." It wasn’t desire in the way you had expected. Not hunger. Not lust. It was deeper. It was love. But not the sweet, easy kind. This was haunted love, fragile and fierce and terrified. He wanted you like a dying man wanted air. Not because it was beautiful but because he didn’t know how to keep breathing without it. He never thought and never let himself believe he deserved this, deserved you.

And when the image vanished and you were back, staring at the man across from you, you couldn’t breathe.

Not when Ace was still looking at you with that dumb, sunlit smile, oblivious to what you now knew. What you now carried.

You avoided him for days.

You said you were tired. Sick. Busy. Anything to keep from touching him again.

Because how could you look at him when you knew? Knew that behind every laugh, every teasing nudge, every casual, friendly grin was a heart that ached for you?

And he didn’t even know you knew.

That was the cruellest part. You knew too much while he didn’t know at all.

He found you three nights later, sitting at the edge of the deck under a moonless sky.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice without its usual spark. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You didn’t answer.

He walked closer and sat beside you, letting his legs hang over the edge like yours.

Silence stretched between you. Wind tugged at your shirt. The sea below shimmered, black and restless.

“You mad at me or something?” he asked.

“No,” you whispered.

“Then why won’t you even look at me?”

You hesitated and you could feel him watching. Waiting.

Finally, you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I just…” You swallowed. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He blinked. “What? Why would you—”

Your voice cracked. “Because I know.”

He froze. “Know what?”

You turned away. Hands clenched in your lap.

“Ace… when you touched me. I—I saw it.”

His voice dropped. “Saw what?”

You looked up at him. Moonlight caught in your eyes, even if there was no moon.

“Your desire,” you said. “What you want. The Yoku Yoku no Mi... it showed me.”

He stared at you like you had ripped the air out of his lungs.

You kept going, voice barely a whisper. “You want me. Not just like that, not like the others. You want me like it’s killing you. Like you’re scared if you ask that I’ll disappear. Like you’d rather burn than be the one to hold on too tight. I saw that you were afraid to let yourself feel loved because you think you don’t deserve it.”

You saw it all of it. Every moment he kept buried under fire and smiles. The loneliness. The fear. The way he’d convinced himself you deserved better. The way he wanted to stay beside you but never dared to hope.

“I saw it,” you said again, softer this time. “I felt it.”

He looked away, his shoulders tense.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

When he finally did, his voice was low. Barely there.

“…Guess there’s no point lying, then.”

Your heart clenched.

“Ace—”

“I didn’t mean for you to find out,” he muttered. “I thought… if I could keep it quiet, maybe it wouldn’t ruin anything.”

“It didn’t ruin anything,” you said quickly.

He laughed bitterly. “Didn’t it?”

You reached out with a trembling hand. Slowly, you touched his fingers brushing his knuckles.

It was enough.

The desire flared again, faint but familiar. That same image. His lips against your forehead. That quiet, desperate plea:

“Don’t leave.”

But this time… it didn’t hurt.

Because now, you wanted it too.

“Ace,” you said gently. “You don’t have to be scared. Not with me.”

His head dropped forward. Hair hiding his eyes.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered. “People leave. Or I leave them. It’s just how it goes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.” You turned his hand over and placed your palm flat against his. A full contact.

He closed his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping.

“You think I deserve love?”

Your heart shattered at that stupid question.

“I know you do.”

But you felt it the way the distance between you two seemed to suddenly grow. The fear of being vulnerable was a wall you couldn’t break at least, not yet

“I’m sorry,” he whispered pulling away. “I can’t be what you want, what you deserve.”

You wanted to scream, to beg him to stay, but all you could do was watch him walk away fire burning behind his steps, and your heart burning with him.

Later that night when everything was still, but your world felt shattered, you stood alone on the deck in a small corner until you saw Ace walking up to you stopping before you, the flickering lanterns casting shadows on his face the same face that once smiled so freely, now etched with pain and resolve.

His eyes searched yours, desperate, but guarded.

“I can’t,” he said softly, voice breaking. “Not like this. Not with all this… inside me.”

You reached out, fingers trembling, but he stepped back, avoiding your touch.

“I’m not the man you deserve. I’m fire that burns too fiercely, too recklessly, there is so much bad blood in me.”

“Please,” you whispered, tears blurring your vision “don’t leave.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile flickering.

“Sometimes love means letting go. For your sake… and mine.”

His hand brushed your cheek, gentle, warm, a fleeting touch that said everything words could not.

A small vision that showed you how much you meant to him but how much he feared letting you close

“I’ll carry you with me,” he promised. “Even if we never meet again.”

And with that, Ace turned away, the weight of his pain heavier than the sea wind that tore at your hair.

You stood frozen, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the night, and the silent ache of goodbye settling deep inside you.

Time passed until you found yourself on the battlefield, the roar of battle thundered all around. Smoke choked the air - screams tore through the chaos. You found yourself pressed between chaos and desperation only one thing was clear, save Ace.

You had to reach him.

Through the blood and fire, you pushed forward, heart pounding.

And then there he was standing next to his younger brother Luffy. Ace’ proud, fierce eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of hope in the storm.

He smiled just for a moment but it was enough to make your heart flutter.

“I’m okay,” he said, breath ragged. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

You swallowed tears. “I’m not leaving you.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek, skin against skin, and your cursed fruit flared.

Not battlefields. Not dying screams. Just you and him, safe. A quiet smile, a gentle touch, a whispered promise. “I want to live for you because I finally see that I deserve it, I deserve you.”

But fate was cruel.

Before you could hold him, the world tilted, the strike came fast and then Ace fell.

You screamed, reached for him, but the weight of the impossible dragged him away as he collapsed against Luffy.

His eyes found yours one last time as you rushed to his side, pain, love, and regret mingled there.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

And then the light faded.

You collapsed beside him, tears burning hotter than any flame.

The cursed fruit’s visions haunted you, not just desire, but loss, the unbearable cost of love in a world broken by war.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Thatch

Most of the time the things you saw when you touched one of the crew, it was harmless. Boring. A snack, a promotion, a quiet nap, a woman for a night.

But then came Thatch..

You had tripped on the stairs. He had caught you, calloused hands gripping your bare forearm.

It was instinct. Reflex. He held you like it was nothing.

But it hit you like a cannonball.

A vision, a future you didn’t know he imagined.

You laughing in a kitchen filled with light. A ring on your finger. His jacket over your shoulders. His lips on your neck as he hugged you from behind. A home. A love. You and him. Happy.

You jolted, gasped, scrambled away like he burned you. The tray crashed to the ground. He blinked, confused.

“…You okay, sweetheart?”

You stared at him. Too long. Too hard.

And he looked at you like you were precious, like you were the One Piece.

“You’ve got eyes like a trap, sweetheart. I walk in, and I don’t wanna leave.” He said with a charming smile.

And you suddenly couldn’t bear it.

You thought maybe if you gave it time, the feeling would pass. His desire would fade. He’d meet someone else, flirt with some girl at a port bar like he always did.

But it didn’t fade no in fact it only grew stronger.

Every time he touched you, you saw more and more and always you and him together, always a ring on your finger, always him cherishing and loving you.

And the worst by now you wanted it too.

But what if it was just a fantasy? A fleeting thought sparked by the fruit? You couldn’t trust what you saw. You shouldn’t trust it. So you kept your distance because you were a coward.

And Thatch noticed.

“Did I do something?”

His voice was quieter than usual. No teasing. No smug grin.

You looked up from your mug. You hadn’t even realized he was in the galley.

“…No,” you said quickly. “I’ve just… had a lot on my mind.”

He nodded slowly.

Then, he walked to you, stood close and gently placed his hand on yours.

The heat surged and another vision flooded you.

You and him under the stars and him leaning in kissing you underneath the moonlight. Whispering your name like a prayer, his eyes full of love. “You’re the only one I’d never stop chasing because you’re worth it.” And then he knelt and pulled out a small box with a ring inside, it was his dream idea to ask you to marry him.

You bit your tongue when the vision ended.

“I think about you a lot,” he said. Honest. Low. “Not just in the way you probably think. Not just for a night.”

You swallowed.

“I know you’ve got secrets. Everyone here does.” His thumb brushed your knuckle. “I won’t ask for them. But if you ever want to talk, or, hell, even yell at me, I can take it.”

You didn’t respond.

You were afraid if you opened your mouth, you’d tell him you saw every secret he didn’t know he had.

And god how you loved him for it and that was eating at you.

A few days later Thatch burst into your quarters with the giddy energy of a boy who found buried treasure.

“You won’t believe what I found”

You blinked blearily from your hammock. “If it’s more spiked jam, I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Nope. Better.” He held out the chest.

Inside sat a strange black fruit, spiraled and sinister. It gave you a strange feeling.

“…Is that a Devil Fruit?” you asked cautiously.

He nodded. “I checked the book. Yami Yami No Mi. Darkness. Gravity. Crazy stuff.”

You sat up. “Where did you get this?”

“Found it,” he smirked brightly.

“You wanna consume a Devil Fruit that gives….really bad vibes” you asked carefully and he just gave you that charming smile.

“Probably, you should have seen Teach I think he’s a little jealous that I found this beauty” Thatch joked but you didn’t think this was a joking matter.

“…Thatch, I don’t like this”

He waved you off. “Ah don’t worry sweetheart, I’m still debating when to bite into it, by our rule – finders keepers.”

“Just be careful,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “Aren’t I always?”

You looked at him.

“No. You’re not that’s why I said it.”

He smiled and stepped close and before you knew it cupped your cheek. His thumb grazed your skin and the desire hit again.

He wanted to tell you he loved you. Not someday. Tomorrow. Out on the deck. You and him the morning breeze the sun rising and him holding your hand, kissing you and telling you those three words.   

Your heart was racing, your cheeks heating up and you almost said it back.

But fear won again and you still didn’t dare telling him about your power about the fact that you felt for him, what he felt for you. You sighed….tomorrow, tomorrow you’d tell him, tomorrow when those three words would leave his lips you would tell him everything you decided.

The next morning you woke up to shouting. Marco. Vista. Ace.

You staggered out of bed barefoot, heart thundering.

You knew, you felt it that something was wrong.

“Where’s Thatch?”

No one answered you but the looks on their face said enough.

You stormed onto the deck and found him there. Face down. Crumpled. Bleeding.

Your knees gave out.

The Yami Yami no Mi was gone. So was Teach.

Thatch’s lips were still. His body still warm.

And all you could think was: He died wanting me. And I never said it back.

They buried him at sea. You didn’t cry. Not at first. You were too angry. At yourself. At Teach. At fate.

But that night, alone on deck, you finally whispered the words:

“I saw you. Every time you touched me. I saw how you felt and I loved you too. ”

The stars said nothing.

You swallowed, grief and regret washing over you. Regret you never told him, you never let him in on your secret, on the fact you felt the same, that you wanted to kiss him as badly as he wanted to kiss you.

“I felt it too. But I was afraid… that maybe it wasn’t real. That it was just the fruit messing with my head.”

You touched your own arm, where he used to hold you.

“…But it was real, wasn’t it?”

You smiled. Broken. Tired.

“I would’ve said yes, Thatch. If you had asked.”

The wind carried nothing back but salt and silence.