#yassop

Their captain, Vance, was a lanky, preening peacock who strutted around like he owned every ripple on the Grand Line. He fancied himself the next Pirate King, a second coming of Roger. Mostly, though, he just looked like a guy who’d stared at too many wanted posters and thought, Yeah, I could totally pull that off. His crew was a collection of rejects from a circus that went bankrupt: a parrot-obsessed brute whose feathered companion squawked incessant insults, a blind navigator who insisted he could “feel the waves” (which usually led to hitting them), and a cook so ancient she held earnest conversations with her butcher knives.

You, however, were entirely unfazed by their particular brand of madness. All you needed was a lift, so you’d signed on for the truly thrilling tasks: swabbing decks, peeling potatoes, and generally fading into the background. You were practically a human shadow, keeping your head down and your mouth shut.

Until they spotted it.

The Red Force. Shanks’ ship. The Yonko’s infamous Jolly Roger unfurled against the horizon like a scarlet middle finger, screaming, “Stay the hell away!” But did these brain-addled nobodies on the Skeletal Sirens heed the warning? Of course not. They saw it and collectively thought, Hey, why not poke the sleeping dragon with a very tiny stick?

Vance’s grin stretched wider than a kraken’s maw, as if he’d just won a lottery no one else was even aware of. “This is our moment!” he shrieked, slapping his sword against the deck with a clang that sounded suspiciously hollow. “The Pirate King’s legacy starts now!”

You, meanwhile, let out a long-suffering sigh, peeled a banana with surgical precision, and settled onto the railing, eyes half-lidded. Because, no, you were definitely not here for this.

The ensuing “battle” was pure, unadulterated chaos. Swords clanged like kitchen pots in a hailstorm, shouts echoed, and almost every one of those glorious freaks went down faster than a lead balloon in a hurricane. Blood, sweat, and gunpowder fumes mingled in the air. You watched, serenely munching your banana, utterly unbothered. Let them play their silly little pirate game. You just wanted to reach the next island.

Because this? This was not your fight. Not today, not tomorrow, probably not ever.

The symphony of clashing steel and cries of agony swelled around you, but you barely deigned to look up from your banana. One by one, the Skeletal Sirens toppled like poorly stacked dominoes. The parrot guy emitted a final, squawking curse as he plummeted overboard. The blind navigator, bless his heart, tripped over his own two left feet and vanished beneath the waves with a surprisingly polite gurgle. And the ancient cook, mid-lecture to her bread knife, barely managed a choked gasp before a blade found its mark. All in a matter of seconds.

A particularly grimy pirate, a fresh cut bleeding stylishly across his cheek, staggered toward you, his grin crooked and manic. “Hey! Are you gonna help, or just sit there like a damn fruit-eating statue?!” He brandished his rusty cutlass, clearly expecting you to spring into heroic action.

You slowly turned your head, eyes locking onto his with an expression of profound disinterest. Then, with a deliberate peel-snap, you took another bite of your banana. Silence descended, heavy and far more deafening than the cacophony of battle.

From the deck of the Red Force, a shadow detached itself—a tall figure, moving with an almost lazy grace, eyes surveying the wreckage with cold, practiced precision. His scarred face twitched into a faint smile as his gaze finally, inevitably, settled on you.

“Interesting,” the man murmured, his voice a low rumble. “She doesn’t belong here.”

It was Benn Beckman, Shanks’ first mate, a man known for his unflappable demeanor and unnervingly accurate aim. His sharp eyes cut through the chaos, sensing something far deeper and infinitely more dangerous lurking beneath your quiet, banana-munching exterior.

Beckman’s gaze lingered, as if weighing your very existence, before he melted back into the shadows cast by the towering mast. The fight, what little was left of it, raged on. But you? You simply finished your banana, cracked your knuckles with a tiny, almost inaudible pop, and waited. Because this whole unfortunate mess? It wasn’t your problem. Not yet.

You flicked the banana peel overboard with a casual flourish, watching it twirl once in the air before plopping into the ocean with a tiny, utterly unconcerned sploosh.

“Should’ve just stayed in the South Blue,” you muttered, dusting your hands off on your pants as if you’d just finished a delightful picnic, not witnessed the utter, spectacular decimation of an entire pirate crew.

The deck was eerily quiet now, save for the creak of wood and the pathetic groans of the Skeletal Sirens scattered across it—some twitching, most unconscious, all entirely irrelevant. Vance, the so-called next Roger, was face-down with his rear end pointed optimistically skyward, his sword bent in half beside him like a discarded toy.

You sighed and leaned back against the railing, lifting your face to the sky, letting the gentle breeze caress your skin.

That’s when one of the Red-Haired Pirates—a younger guy, full of unearned swagger, clearly trying to prove his worth—shattered the silence with a triumphant yell. “You missed one!” he bellowed, charging at you like he’d just stumbled upon the final boss of a particularly irritating video game.

You blinked.

And when the blade came whistling down, you merely sidestepped. Lazy. Effortless. Like avoiding a particularly slow-moving tumbleweed.

Then, with a barely perceptible exhale, you flicked your finger against his forehead.

CRACK.

He went flying. Truly airborne. Spinning like a kicked can, flipping through the air with a long, shocked scream that dopplered into the distant blue.

BOOM. He hit a mast. Slid down it. Didn’t get up.

You stared after him, one eyebrow twitching up ever so slightly. “…Oops.”

Up on the deck of the Red Force, a few heads swiveled in unison.

“Was that—?”

“Yup.”

“Wasn’t he—?”

“He was new.”

One of the senior members slapped a hand over his eyes with a groan. “Aw, hell, I told him not to run off.”

Even the crew members who’d been mid-chuckle started to quiet down as a familiar, powerful presence stepped forward.

Shanks.

He’d been leaning casually near the helm, sipping from a bottle, watching the entire spectacle unfold like a particularly amusing play he’d already seen a dozen times. But now, his single visible eye sharpened, settling on you. Not with alarm. Just… a profound, amused intrigue.

“She’s not one of theirs,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

“She flicked Enji into the air,” Yasopp mumbled, a note of bewildered respect in his voice.

“Flicked.”

Shanks let out a low whistle. “That’s gotta hurt.”

Then he grinned. Broad and boyish, like a kid who’d just discovered a particularly fascinating bug.

“I think we just found the most dangerous person on that whole ship,” he said, tipping his bottle in your direction.

And you?

You had already settled yourself cross-legged in a patch of sun, watching the waves roll by, completely uninterested in the utter pandemonium you’d just unleashed. You yawned.

“Can I please just get dropped off at the next island now?”

You tilted your head back, cracking your neck with a lazy stretch. The sun felt gloriously warm. The screams had mercifully stopped. You could finally hear the seagulls again.

“Hey,” you called out, not bothering to raise your voice too much. “Red guy with the fancy coat.”

Shanks, mid-swig, paused and blinked. “…Me?”

You nodded once, propping your cheek on your knuckles. “Yeah. You heading to Eddora Isle next?” You said it like you were asking if he had a spare lighter. No care in the world. Just casual, as if you hadn’t just launched one of his crewmates into low orbit seconds ago.

A dead silence descended upon the Red-Haired Pirates. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Yasopp’s rifle slipped a little in his grasp. “Did… Did she just call him red guy?”

Lucky Roux blinked at you, then at Shanks. “Did she just ask for a ride?”

Shanks blinked a few more times, processing. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, Eddora’s our next stop.”

You stood up with a long, put-upon sigh, dusting your pants off like this was a regular Tuesday morning commute. “Perfect,” you said, walking toward the Red Force with absolutely zero hesitation. “Thanks. I’ll ride with you guys, then.”

You stepped over the unconscious body of one of the Skeletal Sirens, used their prone captain’s back as a convenient stepstool, and casually boarded the Red Force without a second glance back at the carnage.

A low whistle slid from Yasopp’s lips.

“She just—walked on.”

“She’s not even asking permission,” Roux added, watching in awe as you started eyeing a sturdy-looking barrel as a potential seating option.

“Should we… stop her?” one of the newer members mumbled, sounding less brave than he intended.

“Did you want to stop her?” Benn Beckman asked dryly, still meticulously cleaning his rifle, not bothering to look up.

“No.”

“Then sit down.”

Shanks watched you find a suitable spot, plop down, and kick your feet up like you owned the place. He scratched his head, his grin widening into a full-blown, delighted smirk.

“…Well, damn,” he said, leaning against the railing. “You always make your entrances like that?”

You looked up, your expression as dull as a cloudy day. “I was just supposed to mop floors.”

And just like that, the Red Force became a whole lot more interesting.

The Red Force creaked a low, satisfied groan beneath your feet as it pulled away from the wreckage of the Skeletal Sirens—now nothing more than a pathetic, floating monument to regret and spectacularly bad decisions.

You leaned against a crate, methodically picking dirt from beneath your fingernails. No one stopped you. No one could stop you. The air around the Red-Haired Pirates had subtly shifted; they were still pirates, sure—but now they were pirates carefully observing the human enigma lumped lazily on their deck like a stray cat that had just, inexplicably, mauled a lion.

“So, uh…” Lucky Roux ambled over, juggling an apple in one meaty hand. “What’s your name, anyway?”

You didn’t even bother to look up. “Y/N.”

“Oh. Cool. So, where are you from—?”

“South Blue.”

He blinked. “O-Okay. What’d you do before—?”

“Nothing.”

“…You got any—?”

“Nope.”

There was a pregnant pause. Roux blinked again, slowly backing away, whispering, “She’s like talking to a rock that can kill people.”

Across the deck, Yasopp leaned on the rail with a lazy grin, nudging one of the younger pirates. “Bet you can’t knock her back a step.”

The rookie puffed out his chest, cracking his knuckles with all the misplaced confidence of a man who hadn’t witnessed Enji’s spectacular aerial ballet. “Bet I can.”

Benn Beckman didn’t even look up from where he was cleaning his gun. “Please don’t.”

“C’mon,” Yasopp egged him on, eyes twinkling. “It’ll be fun.”

The rookie swaggered up to you with a half-cocked grin. “Hey. Y/N, right? Wanna—”

CRUNCH.

He didn’t finish the sentence. You hadn’t even looked at him. You’d just tilted your foot sideways—a mere toe tap, really—and the guy went flying into a barrel so hard it exploded into splinters.

A muffled groan emanated from inside the wreckage.

“…Okay,” Yasopp muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s two down.”

“She didn’t even look at him,” one pirate whispered in disbelief.

“She doesn’t even know his name,” another added, clearly traumatized.

You stretched your arms over your head with a tired grunt and turned your face toward the sun again, as if the whole incident was a minor inconvenience.

Shanks approached next—grinning like he was walking into a bar fight he’d specifically arranged for his own entertainment. “You always this talkative?” he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

You squinted one eye open. “Only when someone’s bothering me.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Fair enough. So… what are you doing out on the sea? Got any grand dreams?”

“I want to get off at Eddora Isle.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. “You’re not running from the Marines?”

“No.”

“Not chasing treasure?”

“Nope.”

“Not avenging anyone, looking for your long-lost brother, hunting a devil fruit, or trying to become Pirate Queen?”

You opened both eyes, a look of profound revulsion on your face. “…What? No. Ew.”

There was a beat of stunned silence on the deck.

“…I like her,” Shanks announced suddenly, beaming at the crew, who exchanged uneasy glances.

“She scares me,” someone muttered under their breath.

“Same.”

Yasopp leaned in conspiratorially from behind Shanks. “Does she even know who we are?”

Shanks turned back to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you?”

You looked him dead in the eye, your expression as flat as yesterday’s soda. “You’re Red Coat.”

Shanks paused. “…Close enough.”

You closed your eyes again, clearly signaling the end of the conversation.

From that point on, no one dared to ask questions. They just gave you a wide berth, treating you like a particularly sleepy, yet highly volatile, landmine. You had no idea you’d just become the most mysterious, most feared, and most aggressively chill passenger the Red Force had ever had the distinct pleasure of transporting.

The Red Force was slicing through the waves in that lazy, effortless way only a Yonko’s ship could manage—when suddenly the water ahead exploded.

A massive sea king erupted from the depths like a furious, liquid mountain, showering the deck with salt and sea foam. Its colossal head reared high, jaws snapping, eyes wide and furious, clearly having a very bad day.

“Sea king!” someone bellowed. “Prepare to fight!”

Chaos erupted on deck. Swords were drawn, guns cocked, and the crew scrambled into battle positions with shouts echoing over the beast’s guttural roar.

But you? You just sighed.

Without a word, you pushed off the railing and plunged into the churning ocean below.

The crew froze. Beckman slowly lowered his rifle, blinking in disbelief. Yasopp muttered, “She’s got a Devil Fruit, right?”

Shanks’ single eye widened, a mixture of shock and dawning amusement spreading across his face. “Maybe…”

Seconds later, you burst back from the water, slick hair plastered to your face, muscles gleaming under the sun. Clutched casually in your arms was the sea king’s massive, dripping eyeball—pure white and utterly, irrevocably destroyed.

You hauled yourself up the side ladder with a casual grunt, ignoring the stunned silence that had settled over the entire crew.

Shanks blinked twice, then again. “You… you killed it?”

You shrugged, adjusting your grip on the enormous, slimy orb. “It was looking at me funny.”

Lucky Roux’s jaw hung open so wide you could probably see his breakfast. “She ripped out its eyeball.”

Yasopp let out a low whistle. “That’s not normal strength. That’s insane strength.”

Beckman gave a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes narrowing, a dangerous curiosity in their depths. “No Devil Fruit needed.”

You wiped your hands on your pants as if you’d just finished a particularly messy snack, then looked around at the wide-eyed pirates.

“Well,” you said, tossing the eye overboard with a soft plop, “that’s one less headache.”

Shanks shook his head, grinning wider than ever, pure delight bubbling up. “You’re definitely not from around here.”

You smirked, plopped down on the deck, and started peeling another banana.

“Just tell me when we get to Eddora Isle,” you mumbled, clearly done with the day’s quota of excitement.

The crew exchanged looks that clearly said: We have absolutely no idea what we just signed up for.

The Red Force cut through the sapphire waves, the salty wind tangling your hair as the sun dipped low, painting the sky with streaks of fiery orange and soft pink. The ship creaked and groaned underfoot like an old beast settling into a steady pace, the rhythmic slap of water against hull keeping time with the crew’s low hum of activity.

You sat cross-legged on the deck, legs stretched out, arms resting on your knees as you watched the horizon blur and stretch. The sea was calm now—the earlier chaos reduced to nothing but bewildering stories and wide-eyed, slightly terrified stares.

Beside you, Shanks lounged casually, one boot resting on the railing, his crimson coat fluttering like a battle-won banner. “So,” he started, his voice easy and low, as if you were discussing the weather, “why exactly are you headed to Eddora Isle? You don’t seem like the typical ‘I wanna be Pirate Queen’ type.”

You blinked slowly, chewing thoughtfully on your now-half-eaten banana. “Honestly? I’m just hungry for the island’s bakery. Heard they have the best sweet buns in the Grand Line. Thought I’d try ‘em out.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow, a slow, amused grin creeping onto his face. “You’re serious?”

You shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Yeah. It’s the little things.”

The crew nearby froze for a moment, glancing at each other like someone just admitted their life’s ambition was to become a professional napper.

Lucky Roux let out a low whistle. “You’re here for buns?”

“Better than glory or revenge,” you muttered, taking another bite.

Yasopp chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s the most refreshingly normal thing I’ve heard in years.”

The sea breeze picked up, tugging at the sails and whipping your hair into your face. You brushed it away lazily, eyes half-lidded, and let a small, genuine smile slip free.

For the first time since boarding the Red Force, you felt a flicker of ease. The crew wasn’t so weird anymore—not entirely. Maybe you weren’t just a stowaway. Maybe you belonged here in your own strange, lazy, banana-loving way.

Shanks tilted his head, watching you with genuine curiosity, his expression unreadable. “You don’t wanna fight, you don’t want treasure, you don’t want power. What’s left for someone like you?”

You tapped your chin, thoughtful as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in ever-deepening hues. “Maybe just… peace. Sweet buns. And maybe a little less excitement.”

He laughed, the sound booming across the deck like thunder rolling over calm seas, entirely without malice.

“Fair enough,” he said, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To peace, sweet buns, and unexpected allies.”

You clinked your fist against his arm lightly, still smiling faintly. The Red Force sailed on, carrying you all toward whatever awaited on Eddora Isle—and whatever chaos, quiet, or ridiculousness the future might bring.

The Red Force finally dropped anchor off the coast of Eddora Isle, the ship gently bobbing in the surprisingly murky water. You hopped down onto the dock, expecting… well, you weren’t exactly sure what. Maybe something charming—a bustling port town, or at least a bakery that didn’t look like it was about to spontaneously combust.

What you got instead was a landfill masquerading as an island.

Trash was piled high like grotesque mountains: rotting crates, broken barrels, and enough slimy seaweed to choke a sea king twice over. Rats scurried through the garbage like it was a five-star buffet, and the smell hit you like a punch to the face from a very large, unwashed fist.

“Is this… Eddora Isle?” you asked, blinking at the towering piles of refuse, a hint of genuine dismay in your voice.

Shanks chuckled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah, well… it’s a bit rough around the edges. The bakery’s supposed to be here somewhere.”

You narrowed your eyes, stepping cautiously over a particularly suspicious puddle that seemed to be actively pulsating. “Supposed to be.”

After a not-so-pleasant trek through what could only be described as the world’s worst trash dump, you finally found the bakery. The sign was faded and peeling, the windows grimier than a pirate’s soul, and the “fresh buns” inside looked suspiciously like overcooked rocks.

You took a hesitant bite.

The taste? Somewhere between burnt seaweed and profound regret.

You almost choked. “This isn’t sweet buns. This is a crime against buns.”

Shanks laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair, tears streaming down his face. “Welcome to Eddora Isle!”

You sighed, wiping crumbs off your mouth with a look of utter defeat. “I think I’ve officially lowered my expectations to negative infinity.”

After a moment, you looked up at the Red Force crew lounging nearby, still grinning at you like you’d just survived a culinary apocalypse.

“Well, what now?” you asked, folding your arms, resigned to your fate.

Shanks stretched, a wide yawn escaping him. “We’re headed to Kaito Cove next. Heard the rum there’s strong, and the fish are plentiful.”

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest in your eyes. “Mind if I hitch a ride?”

He smirked, a knowing glint in his eye. “Thought you’d never ask.”

And just like that, you found yourself settling back onto the Red Force—the strangest, most chaotic, yet strangely accommodating crew you’d ever met—and heading toward your next stop.

Maybe this lazy pirate life wasn’t so bad after all.

The Red Force was back on the move, slicing through the waves toward Kaito Cove, and you found yourself—somehow—no longer just a reluctant passenger but a semi-official member of this bizarre pirate family.

It started small. You didn’t exactly volunteer, but when the cook shouted, “Y/N! Grab that sack of salted fish!” you shrugged and did it without complaint. The crew blinked like they’d seen a ghost—or maybe just a ghost who didn’t mind doing chores.

Lucky Roux cracked a genuine smile. “Didn’t think you’d stick around after the bakery disaster.”

You tossed the sack over your shoulder with surprising ease, barely breaking a sweat. “Food’s food. Besides, it’s better than cleaning puke off the deck.”

That earned a genuine, booming laugh from Yasopp, who was fiddling with his rifle nearby. “She’s got a point.”

Slowly, the impenetrable walls you’d built around yourself started to crumble—not because you suddenly craved friendship, but because you didn’t have much choice. They kept cornering you with questions, relentless in their curiosity.

“Hey, Y/N, what’s your favorite drink?”

You shrugged. “Water.”

“Really?” Enji muttered, wiping blood off his sword, looking genuinely disappointed. “That’s boring.”

“Boring’s underrated.”

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in magnificent shades of pink and gold, Shanks found you sitting near the helm, legs dangling over the side, idly tossing small pebbles into the shimmering water.

“Never thought I’d see the day when Y/N actually joined in,” he said, sliding down beside you with an easy grace.

You glanced at him without much interest, a pebble arcing into the sea. “I didn’t exactly ‘join.’ I’m just… here.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Sometimes ‘just here’ is exactly where you need to be.”

Over the weeks, you learned their names—well, most of them. Yasopp was the sharpshooter with the dry, often sarcastic wit. Beckman was the quiet, calculating first mate who didn’t say much but whose intelligent eyes missed absolutely nothing. Lucky Roux was the lovable, perpetually eating goofball who always had a ridiculously exaggerated story. And Enji, the hotheaded swordsman, still tried way too hard to impress you and failed spectacularly every single time.

And Shanks? He was the unpredictable storm wrapped in a boyish grin, somehow both recklessly impulsive and profoundly wise.

You didn’t open up much. Your answers remained short, your expressions largely deadpan. But the crew noticed. They noticed when you stopped hiding in the shadows and started sitting with them during meals, when you’d let out a quiet snort of amusement at their truly awful jokes, when you challenged Enji to a drinking contest and, to everyone’s stunned surprise, actually won.

One night, Yasopp nudged Shanks, a thoughtful look on his face. “She’s different, huh?”

Shanks grinned, his eyes twinkling with a shared secret. “Yeah. She’s exactly what we didn’t know we needed.”

And you? Well, maybe, just maybe, you were starting to believe that, too.

The Red Force hummed along under the golden afternoon sun, but all anyone could really focus on was the one thing that had become abundantly, gloriously clear—Y/N’s appetite.

It started off innocently enough. A quick bite here, a snack there. But soon, it was less “snack” and more “full-on, apocalyptic feast,” and the crew was a fascinating mix of amazed and slightly terrified.

Lucky Roux watched in stunned silence as you polished off an entire loaf of crusty bread, a massive chunk of salted fish, and half a wheel of cheese—all before midday, and seemingly without blinking.

“Does she ever stop?” he whispered to Yasopp, who was busy cleaning his rifle but clearly keeping one eye, or perhaps both, on your impressive performance.

Yasopp smirked. “She eats like the sea itself is gonna starve if she doesn’t.”

During meal times, you became a whirlwind of efficiency and focus, your fork (or sometimes just your bare hands) moving faster than anyone could possibly follow. Plates disappeared at a rate that made even Shanks raise an impressed, albeit slightly bewildered, eyebrow.

One evening, as the crew gathered around for dinner, you were already halfway through a massive pot of stew, dipping a hunk of crusty bread into the bubbling broth like it was your lifeline to existence.

Shanks leaned back, bottle in hand, a wide grin stretching across his face. “You know, Y/N, I’ve seen a lot of pirates with big dreams. You? You just want the biggest plate on the table.”

You shrugged, cheeks full, a tiny crumb clinging to your chin. “Food’s the one thing that never disappoints.”

Enji, ever the eager, desperate-to-impress fool, attempted to share his secret stash of incredibly spicy dried fish. You took one bite, your expression unchanging, then proceeded to devour the entire bag like it was a bag of particularly mild potato chips.

“Careful,” Yasopp warned with a grin, rubbing the back of his neck, “or you’ll eat us out of house and home.”

You flashed a lazy, almost cat-like smile. “Good.”

The crew started to joke that if Y/N ever decided to leave, they’d have to rename the Red Force the Red Feast, or perhaps the Bottomless Pit.

And honestly? You didn’t care what they called it.

It was a ship’s cabin, small but clean and well-kept. Morning light spilled through a single porthole, casting a soft glow over the tangled blankets.

Someone had left a folded nightgown on the chair beside the hammock. It was yours, freshly washed.

There was also a tray with a cup of tea, still faintly warm and scented with lemon. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

You moved to the window.

Outside, a red flag flapped in the wind, bearing a familiar Jolly Roger.

And not a speck of land in sight. 

Your stomach dropped.

Shanks.

You were on his ship.

Shanks had kidnapped you.

He stolen you.

You were now a heist item.

You swung your legs over the hammock's edge, breath shallow, fury waking faster than your balance. You cussed him out in at least three languages, two of them fluently, one of them mostly just creative growling.

Shanks had taken you from Amazon Lily without so much as a little goodbye, while you were sleeping. 

Like some overconfident pirate raccoon with a romantic streak and no impulse control.

You stood, wobbling slightly, and scanned the room again, and yep, still kidnapped on a ship. And very few places to hide the murder weapon that you were going to need in about five minutes.

The throb of your soulmark indicated the distance of the victim.

You stormed up the stairs barefoot, hair wild, heart racing, slamming open the hatch. Sunlight crashed against you like a wave, making you wince. It takes a minute to adjust. Dozens of eyes turned to you, men of every size and color, pausing mid-task. A few adjusted their grips on swords, but most just stared at the sight.

A woman. You. On the Red Force.

Barefoot. Disheveled. Murder in your gaze.

And then, him.

Shanks was leaning against a barrel by the door, a wine bottle in one hand and his shirt half-unbuttoned, flapping dramatically in the sea breeze. He was laughing at something one of his crewmates had said.

Until he saw your face.

He stopped cold.

Then, without a word, he turned and casually walked to the other side of the deck, like that would help.

He was absolutely in deep shit, and he knew it.

“Thought I felt a tug,” he called, flashing that grin that filled the entire damn sky. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You growled.

Shanks looked like a man who hadn’t slept, hadn’t regretted it, and wasn’t planning to. That only made it worse.

He was using his crew as a human shield.

It didn’t work.

You crossed the deck in six thunderous strides and slapped the bottle clean out of his hand. It hit the railing and somersaulted overboard with a perfectly timed, mocking plunk.

Dozens of pirates paused.

Some froze mid-coil, rope in hand. Others looked up from polishing blades or shifting barrels. A tall, dark-haired man with a pipe between his teeth raised an eyebrow. Another, younger, let out a low whistle.

You stood there barefoot, in a rumpled linen nightshirt, radiating fury.

“…Oh,” said the man with the pipe behind you. “She’s awake.”

“I can explain,” Shanks said, wearing a smile that was far too sorry and far too late.

“Can you?” You snapped. “Because I’m forming a pretty solid theory. It involves sleeping powder, a pirate abduction, and you losing your damn mind!”

Behind you, someone coughed. Another voice murmured, “Dibs on his sword if she kills him.”

“Crew not helping, thanks,” Shanks muttered, not taking his eyes off you.

You took one dangerous step forward.

He flinched.

You pointed at him, trembling with barely-contained fury.

“You said you wouldn’t take me unless I chose to go!”

“I did,” Shanks said, hands up in mock surrender. “But I’m a pirate. And no illegal substances were involved. And, you didn’t complain—”

“You knocked me out!” you shouted. “That implies a very clear lack of consent!”

“I resettled you.”

“You—!” You gestured wildly at the whole crew. “Pirates!”

He had the audacity to grin. “I’ve said that before, sweetheart.”

“Another lie– because you also said you cared!” Your voice cracked. Tears blurred your vision, hot and frustrated.

Immediately, the crew began backing away. Even the bold ones.

Shanks looked like he’d just been told his favorite bar burned down, and he’d lit the match himself.

He stepped in, slow and careful, voice dipping low enough to curl around your breath.

“I did listen,” he said gently. “You said you weren’t ready.” He paused. “I was just… preventing any potential Love Sickness complications—”

You reeled back, eyes scanning for something that could be turned into a weapon. Your furious retreat ended with your foot smacking into a wooden pole. A pole that had been oh-so-helpfully nudged directly into your path by the pipe smoker. The only man on deck bold enough not to retreat.

He remained exactly where he was, calmly puffing like this was his favorite tavern drama.

“Really, Benn?” Shanks snapped, eyes narrowing. “This is Mutiny.”

“You earned it, Captain,” Benn replied without blinking. “Frankly, I held back.”

“Pay attention.” You growled at him. “I’ll acquaint you with the meaning of mutiny.”

Shanks started circling. Lazy steps. Loose hips. That infuriating grin playing at the corners of his mouth like this was all foreplay.

“I made an executive romantic decision.” Shanks smiled, cocky as hell. “You’ll thank me by month three.”

You kept your weapon raised, turning with him. The tension between you wound tighter, like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

“Sure you want to do this?” he murmured, flicking his hair out of his face with infuriating ease. “We’ve been getting along so well—”

“Until you kidnapped me.”

“We can talk this through—”

“You can shut up and die.”

Behind you, Benn exhaled a long drag of smoke, already stepping out of the way as steel met steel with a clean, ringing clash. Sparks kissed the deck.

Shanks parried without effort, the impact sliding down his blade. His stance was solid. Shockingly so for a man who’d been flirting seconds earlier. His grin didn’t vanish, but it changed. Sharpened.

Less teasing now. More… intent.

“You always this dramatic when someone offers you breakfast?” he asked, deflecting another strike like it was nothing.

You didn’t answer. You weren’t trying to kill him. Not really. But he needed to feel it. The fury. The betrayal. The heartbreak wrapped in a nightshirt.

He twisted mid-parry, spun low, and when your foot slipped—just barely—he stepped in. Fast. Clean. Close enough to catch your wrist. He didn’t hurt you, didn’t disarm you. Just stopped you. Gently.

The grin was gone now.

“One year.”

His voice had changed, and it was anchored now, steady in a way that made the fight feel foolish in hindsight.

“That’s all I’m asking. One year to show you what it means to be wanted, not owned. To be chosen. Every day. No pressure. No tricks.” A pause. “You can keep the pole.”

You didn’t pull away. Not yet. The weapon hung between you like a held breath. His grip was warm. Solid. Unflinching.

“And after that?” you asked, voice low. Eyes narrowing.

Shanks met your gaze without flinching.

“If you still want to run, I’ll give you the map.”

You hissed through your teeth.

“Captain,” a calm, drawling voice cut in. “Should I assume she’s staying, then?”

You turned to find the broad-shouldered man with the weathered face, pipe in hand, and the patient expression of someone who had survived hundreds of truly idiotic plans… and fully intended to survive this one too.

“Right!” Shanks said, instantly chipper again, clapping his hands. “Crew introductions. Love, meet the maniacs.”

“You call me love again and I’ll gut you,” you muttered.

“Noted,” Shanks said brightly. “Affection pending formal approval.”

“Shut up.”

“See?” He turned to the crew, beaming. “She’s fitting in already.”

Laughter rippled across the deck. They clearly knew their captain well.

“This,” Shanks said, gesturing to the pipe-smoking man, “is Benn Beckman. My first mate. He keeps me alive.”

Benn gave you a nod, deadpan. “Nice aim with the wine bottle.”

Before you could respond, Shanks pointed upward. “And that one in the crow’s nest is Lucky Roux.”

A plump man waved cheerfully from above, chewing on a drumstick the size of your forearm.

“Don’t race him to a meal,” Shanks added. “You’ll lose. Possibly a hand.”

You stared at the man in the crow’s nest, still mid-chew and grinning like a happy menace. You distinctly remembered him being referred to as “the big one with meat.” A potential ally, you decided grimly. Possibly even a good one. Everyone underestimated the food-motivated.

“Yasopp’s the sniper.” A wiry man with sharp eyes and a cocky grin winked at you from near the rigging. “He’s also convinced he’s the best looking on board.”

“Because I am,” Yasopp called. “Got proof if you want it!”

“You’re married,” Shanks reminded him.

“Exactly.”

Shanks rolled his eyes and kept going. “Then there’s Limejuice, Bonk Punch, and Monster—he’s the monkey. Don’t challenge him. You will lose.”

You blinked. The monkey bared its teeth in a smile. Or a threat.

“And that’s Hongo,” Shanks added, nodding toward a serious-looking man with glasses. “Our ship’s doctor.”

Hongo gave you a polite nod. “I hope you won’t need my services. But knowing the captain, you probably will.”

“And that’s the core crew,” Shanks said breezily. “The rest come and go.”

He turned back to you, eyes steady.

“Except you. You’re staying.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” Shanks said softly. “Because if you really wanted to leave, you’d already be threatening to jump overboard.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

You clasped your arms, letting the pipe smack the floor. Your eyes promised that you would find a way to swim home once you weren’t leashed to this degenerate.

“You’re angry, very understandable,” He grinned, “But you are also a woman of science. Aren’t you curious about us? Or even the world?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Words piled up in your throat but refused to cooperate. Shanks didn’t press. Didn’t smirk. Just watched you, something achingly gentle in his gaze.

“Give me a year,” he said softly. “You don’t have to love me. You don’t have to kiss me. But let me try.”

Behind you, Benn muttered under his breath, “Should’ve just courted her like a normal lunatic.”

Yasopp leaned against a beam with all the smug energy of a man watching a play he didn’t pay for. “This is so much better than shore leave.”

Lucky Roux let out a delighted laugh. “Can we call her First Lady of the Red Force? Do we bow? Should we bow?”

Shanks held up a hand without looking away from you. “No one lays a finger on her. No jokes. No bets. No dumb hazing rituals. Got it?”

A dramatic chorus of groans and exaggerated sighs rose from around the ship.

“You’re ruining morale, Captain,” Yasopp called.

“You’re ruining my chances of not getting stabbed,” Shanks shot back, still not looking away.

“What about respectfully basking in her wrath?” Limejuice called out from somewhere near the ropes.

Shanks glanced sideways. “Up to her.”

Benn Beckman, Shanks’ long-suffering first mate, sauntered forward with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who routinely explained catastrophes before his morning coffee.

You already respected him.

Not because he looked dangerous, though he did. Not because he carried himself like a man who knew exactly how many seconds it would take to end a fight. But because he radiated the quiet patience of someone who had spent years cleaning up after Shanks and had not once committed murder.

That took strength. Possibly sainthood.

You weren’t sure if he was brave, tired, or both. Either way, you respected it.

“Captain’s made his bed,” Benn said. “He’s volunteered for the stabbing. We’re just here for the fallout.”

You stared at him. “And you’re all just… calm about this? I could slit your throats in your sleep.”

From the rigging, the man with goggles and a lopsided grin cheerfully piped up, “It’s free entertainment.”

“Not helping, Lucky,” Shanks muttered.

“You brought her here,” Benn reminded him. “You’re lucky the bottle was all she threw.”

Lucky Roux raised his drumstick like a toast. “To survival!”

You crossed your arms, chin tilted just enough to be defiant.

Shanks hesitated, just for a heartbeat. His smile shifted, softening into something real, something almost reverent.

“Think of it as an extended vacation,” he said, voice low. “With the most competent crew on the Grand Line.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“And, if after a year you still hate me,” he went on, more serious now, “I’ll sail you straight back to Amazon Lily. No tricks. No bargaining. I’ll drop anchor offshore and row you there myself.”

He paused.

“I’ll even let Hancock hit me. Straight in the family jewels.”

That got a collective oof from the crew.

You studied him. Really looked at him.

This was the man who’d stolen you away in the middle of the night. Who flirted like breathing, fought like dancing, and apparently had no survival instincts when it came to women with weapons.

His crew, usually rowdy and irreverent, stood deathly still. No muttering, no comments. Just a wall of eyes, waiting to see if their captain lived or died.

Your fingers twitched once at your side.

The wind stirred your nightshirt like a flag before battle.

“Well,” you said coolly. “I hope your arm is strong. Because if I hate you by the end of this, I’m making you swim back.”

The crew erupted.

Cheers, laughter, someone blew a damn horn.

Shanks just grinned like a man who’d won everything, even though you’d just threatened to kill him again.

“And,” you added coolly, “I want my space. And weapons. Preferably sharpened. And alphabetized.”

A ripple of approval moved through the crew like gossip at a tavern.

One pirate muttered, “She’s got standards. I like her.”

You turned on your heel and stomped toward the stairs, the nightshirt billowing behind you like the robes of a vengeful sea goddess recently inconvenienced by love.

But not before muttering, just loud enough for the entire deck to hear.

“One year. Then I’m leaving. And I’m taking the alcohol.”

A stunned silence.

Then a single gasp.

“Not the rum,” someone whispered, truly horrified.

Shanks watched you go, looking mildly lovesick and extremely doomed.

“She’s gonna make me earn every minute, isn’t she?” he whispered, more in awe than fear.

Benn took a long drag of his pipe, exhaled slowly, and gave the faintest smirk, like he’d seen this coming from ten nautical miles away.

“Oh, you poor bastard,” he said. “You’ve never been happier.”

Shanks just grinned like a man watching his own ship sail toward a storm he couldn’t wait to drown in.

The Den Den Mushi rang once.

Twice.

Shanks answered it, whistling a jaunty tune as he flipped the receiver open.

The snail immediately contorted into the furious visage of Boa Hancock, her hair flaring like divine judgment incarnate.

“RETURN HER THIS INSTANT OR I WILL FLAY YOU WITH MY EYES.”

“Morning, Hancock,” Shanks said pleasantly, like she hadn’t just threatened ocular murder.

The Den Den Mushi trembled with her fury.

Behind him, Benn Beckman sighed and started counting silently, probably how long until Shanks got another bounty.

Or turned into stone.

Or both.

“You abducted an Amazon Warrioress,” Hancock seethed through gritted teeth. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Offered her breakfast?” Shanks offered, still infuriatingly calm.

“She is not a collectible!”

“Agreed,” he said easily. “She’s more of a limited-edition, one-of-a-kind treasure.”

Benn paused his count, rubbed his face, and muttered, “And there it is. The sound of warships mobilizing.”

“Do not speak of her that way!” Hancock snarled, voice rising like a divine curse. “I swear on every stone statue in my garden—I will crush your bones into sand!”

Shanks, sipping his coffee like this was a brunch chat, added cheerfully, “By the way, she’s fine. I brought fruit.” Behind him, the crew waved like idiots. One held up a basket of mangoes with both hands, grinning proudly.

“Supporting local business and stuff—”

“YOU STOLE HER!” The Den Den Mushi screamed in Hancock’s voice.

“Borrowed,” Shanks said, calm as sea glass.

“I WILL BURN YOU!”

Unbothered, Shanks held the receiver toward you. “Want to say hi?”

You took it with shaking hands, staring at the snail like it might explode.

Your voice cracked out, high and appalled, “I was peacefully dreaming, and he Haki-napped me! I was ASLEEP, Boa!”

There was a beat of silence. 

“HE WHAT?!” Hancock shrieked. The Den Den Mushi’s little body lifted off the table from the sheer force of her rage.

Shanks winced slightly and took a small step behind Benn, who did not move. Benn simply took a longer, steadier drag of his pipe and exhaled like a man watching a very slow avalanche hit a town he warned six times.

“Hancock, listen—” You started.

“No! I knew it. I knew he was trouble! I said he looked like a man who would kidnap someone and call it ‘romance’!”

Shanks muttered under his breath, “It is romantic. There’s fruit.”

“He Haki-napped you!” Hancock hissed. “That’s not even a word!”

“I know!” you cried, still holding the Den Den Mushi. “I had plans! I was going to wake up, have tea, and not be on a pirate ship!”

“Did you tell him no?”

“I didn’t tell him yes!”

“That counts!” Hancock bellowed. “We are launching the warships.”

“Oh god,” Benn sighed.

“Wait, wait—” Shanks stepped forward, hands raised like he was surrendering to a very stylish firing squad. “Look, I get it. In hindsight, there may have been some mild miscommunication.”

“You drugged her!”

“Haki,” he said quickly. “Just haki! Very… localized. Gentle. Nap-like!”

“You Haki-napped an Amazon Warrioress!” Hancock shouted again. “The audacity! The daring!” The Den Den Mushi turned briefly purple with fury. “You’re lucky I don’t turn your entire crew into a decorative stone garden and auction off their limbs!”

Someone behind you whispered, “She’d probably get a good price, too.”

You elbowed them in the gut without looking.

The Den Den Mushi didn’t speak right away. Hancock’s silence was somehow louder than her screaming had been.

“…Are you hurt?” she asked at last, voice low and tight.

“No.”

A beat. Then, softer—dangerous.

“Has he touched you?”

You paused.

“…Define ‘touched,’” you said carefully.

Behind you, Shanks—who had been smugly sipping his coffee—choked mid-sip. Benn slowly lowered his pipe like a man preparing to witness a public execution.

The Den Den Mushi twitched. Hancock’s eye narrowed into a slit of volcanic murder.

“Red-Hair.” Hancock’s voice was flat enough to shatter stone.

He coughed. “To clarify—I caught her wrist. In a moment of extreme tension. Respectfully. With consent-ish. It was very gentle.”

Benn closed his eyes like he was updating Shanks’ last will and testament in his head.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“Temporarily,” Hancock muttered. “I consider that a diplomatic courtesy on your end.”

Behind you, Shanks whispered, “Honestly? That’s progress.” 

You hissed, dragging a hand down your face. “Stop talking.”

Another added, “Do we send thank-you fruit or—?”

Benn didn’t look back. He just mouthed, “Not. Helping.”

“I hate men,” Hancock snapped.

“Get in line,” you muttered. “However, you can’t chase an Emperor of the Sea to the New World for one woman. The optics would be terrible.”

The Den Den Mushi twitched, Hancock silent on the other end.

“…Then I’ll say it’s for diplomatic retribution.” Her voice was calm now. Too calm. “I’ll sink his ship, retrieve you, and leave a formal apology carved into his bones. That’s balanced.”

“Very balanced,” you deadpanned.

Behind you, someone whispered, “I think I love her.”

“Not helping,” Benn growled over your shoulder.

Shanks cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re negotiating, can I request it be a non-lethal carving?”

“Silence, pirate,” Hancock snapped. “Your voice irritates the heavens.”

The snail snapped back into focus, Hancock seething.

“Put her back on.”

You hesitated.

“Now.”

You raised it slowly. “Yes?”

Hancock leaned in so close that the Den Den Mushi’s eye twitched.

“If you want out, say the word. We will come for you.”

You glanced at Shanks.

Messy. Barefoot. Coffee in hand. Hair mussed. Trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly.

Then, at the basket of fruit, proudly held aloft like an apology you hadn’t asked for.

Then at Benn, already pouring rum into his morning tea with the practiced ease of a man who’d seen too much and planned to see it drunk.

Then back at Shanks.

Still barefoot. Still sleep-rumpled. Still smiling like he hadn’t just committed high-seas romantic piracy and called it a love letter.

You sighed like someone accepting an unfortunate cruise.

“…give me one year. Against my better judgment. Against your better judgment. Against several international laws. If I don’t strangle him with a rigging rope by then, we’ll reevaluate.”

Shanks smirked.

Unapologetically.

Boa let wind escape from behind her teeth.

“Smile again, and I will test the structural integrity of this ship with your skull.”

Shanks raised his coffee like a toast. “Noted, Commander.”

You brought the Den Den Mushi closer, eyes narrowing with the fury of a woman two seconds away from turning that snail into a long-distance missile.

“I’ll check in once a week. I’ll keep my weapons sharp. He knows the rules. He doesn’t have another arm to spare. He will behave.”

Behind you, Shanks gave a jaunty little salute with his one remaining arm, still beaming like a man personally blessed by the Sea Devil and thrilled about it.

The Den Den Mushi squinted in disgust.

“…He’s smiling again,” Hancock growled.

You didn’t even look. “He does that. I’m working on it.”

“Doing amazing, sweetheart.”

Benn muttered behind him, “There’s still time to dive overboard.”

“One year, Red-Haired.” Hancock’s last words crackled through the line, low and lethal.

Click.

The Den Den Mushi slumped in your hand, traumatized.

Shanks looked at you with a grin that was far too soft for someone who had just been threatened with dismemberment by a war goddess.

“…She likes me.”

You didn't know what to say when Shanks offered you the captain’s quarters.

You’d expected a spare hammock. Maybe a curtain. Something tucked behind crates or below deck, out of the way. Functional. Temporary.

Instead, you stepped into a room that felt nothing like a pirate ship and everything like a quiet, stolen promise.

Polished wood floors gleamed beneath your bare feet. A thick rug softened your steps, hand-woven and dyed in warm reds and golds that reminded you, uncomfortably, of home.

A basin sat in the corner, steam still curling up from the surface. The water was warm. Fragrant oils floated on top, the scent barely clinging to the air: Jasmine, sandalwood, and something that smelled like the temple gardens at dusk. Someone had prepared it carefully.

There were books. Dozens, maybe more, stacked haphazardly on the desk and in crates beneath it; maps, journals, and worn adventure novels with cracked spines. A saber hung on the wall, sheathed but sharp, the kind meant for both show and threat.

And then your eyes landed on the chair.

His coat was there.

Black, worn, and unmistakably his. The lining caught the light, deep red, almost blood-colored. It looked like it had been casually tossed over the back of the chair, but you could tell he had placed it there deliberately.

You turned to the doorway, eyes narrowing.

Shanks stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with the lazy amusement of a man who had just set something on fire and was waiting to see if anyone noticed.

He grinned.

“This is our—” he started.

Your glare cut him off.

He cleared his throat, trying again with exaggerated innocence. “Your room.”

Your eyes didn’t budge.

He scratched the back of his neck, ruffling his already wild hair, clearly pleased with himself anyway.

“You’re my soulmate,” he said, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world. “You get the bed.”

He nodded toward it. The bed was large, neatly made, and looked entirely too inviting. It had soft linens, a heavy quilt, and extra pillows; not a pirate-standard bedspread.

Your brow arched. “…But it’s your bed.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “Ours. Pending approval.”

There was that grin again. The one that made you want to throw something and maybe kiss him later, in that exact order.

You stared at him.

At the way he leaned in the doorway like he hadn’t just abducted you in your sleep. The way he smiled like this was some kind of romantic gesture instead of full-blown high-seas emotional hostage-taking.

You stepped closer to the bed. Pressed your hand into the mattress.

It was disgustingly soft.

You hated how nice it felt. How clean the linens were. How it smelled faintly, not like sweat or seawater, but like citrus and something warm and familiar you refused to identify as him.

You turned back to him slowly, arms crossed.

“Do all your kidnapped guests get luxury accommodations?” you said, voice like a blade, “Or am I just lucky?”

Shanks lifted a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. “You’re the first. And I’m very motivated not to disappoint you.”

Behind you, the tea on the side table was still faintly steaming. Mocking you. You picked up the cup and took a long, scalding sip, never breaking eye contact.

He leaned a little farther into the doorway, arm resting on his lip.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“You’re sleeping on the floor, aren’t you?” You muttered. 

“Technically,” He said, pointing to the wall just outside the door, “I’m sleeping outside, down the hall.”

“The soulmark won’t stretch.”

“It will if your willing to adjust the bed. I measured.”

He flashed a grin. “Nine feet, eleven inches. Give or take a smile.”

You sighed. 

“If you keep getting tugged, and would rather take your chances,” he said lightly, “I can have one of the crew set up a cot, or I’ll sleep in the chair. Won’t even snore.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Okay. I’ll try not to snore.”

You stared at him for another long moment.

Then you walked over, picked up his coat, and shoved it into his chest. Hard.

He caught it with a startled laugh. You pointed at the door.

“One year,” you said coldly. “You’re not sharing anything but your guilt.”

He clutched the coat dramatically over his heart like a war widow.

“Understood.”

Then shut the door in his face.

And locked it.

The click was satisfying. Final. Necessary.

You stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob, listening for footsteps. He didn’t move. You could feel him smiling on the other side of the door like an idiot dog who thought that counted as progress.

Eventually, you heard him walk away.

You tried to sleep that night.

Tried to ignore the steady creak of the ship’s hull as it rocked through the water, the muffled shuffle of boots on the deck above, the occasional low murmur of voices as the crew kept their watch.

You tried not to listen for his voice among them. Or wonder if he was still awake.

The bed was too soft.

Too warm.

And no matter how many times you flipped the pillow, his scent lingered. Smoke and citrus. Salt and something sweet that made your throat tighten and your heart furious.

You buried your face in the cool side and growled into it.

This wasn’t comfort. This was tactical psychological warfare because even the damn sheets smelled smug.

Most of all, you tried to ignore the sound of his voice.

Soft.

Quiet.

Humming.

You froze.

Then—words. Low and familiar.

A lullaby.

Not a sea shanty. Not a pirate’s tune meant for long nights and loud drinks.

No, this was something else.

A song from your childhood. The one the temple matriarch used to hum when the storms were bad and the walls shook with wind. The one sung in quiet corners and safe arms. A song no outsider should know.

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t perfect. The words faltered at the edges, pronounced just wrong enough to sting, but it was unmistakable.

You sat up slowly, sheets forgotten, heart thudding in your chest.

You crossed the room before you realized you were moving. Slid to the floor. Pressed your ear close.

And lay flat against the floorboards.

Through the narrow gap beneath the door, you saw Shanks.

Sitting with his back to the wall, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up, elbow resting on his knee. His head was tilted toward the stars, eyes half-closed, humming like it was just for himself.

He wasn’t performing.

He wasn’t waiting for you to react, likely thinking you were asleep. He was just… bringing you home in the only way he knew how. And for the first time since waking on this ship, something in your chest ached that you couldn’t pretend was just anger.

You blinked hard, jaw tight.

Swallowed once. Then again.

Without a word, you crawled back into bed. Pulled the blanket up to your chin like it could shield you from whatever this was.

You didn’t open the door. You didn’t speak. You didn’t hum back. But your soulmark burned warm against your skin all night. 

The two weeks ended quietly. No flash of light. No sudden ache. Just… stillness. You felt it the moment it lifted. Like someone had loosened a cord around your chest, letting air return to your lungs in full for the first time.

You looked at him.

Shanks was sitting across from you on the deck, one leg drawn up, lazily carving something into the edge of a crate with a small blade. Focused. Calm. The sun caught in his hair.

The mark on his chest still glowed faintly.

You tested it, took a step away. No burn. No tug. No warning.

You were free.

You could leave. Now. Walk off this ship, never look back, never feel his presence like a flame under your skin again. Dive into the water and just sink, if it seemed the best way to avoid a conversation.

Shanks didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t indicate if he’d known this moment would come. As if he were willing to let you go before asking you to stay.

Your chest tightened.

Freedom wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

You didn’t jump into the sea, to your own disappointment.

Over the next hour, you kept waiting for him to shift. To drift.

To finally start reclaiming his space, his ship, and his crew, and act like an Emperor of the Seas. The version of him that probably existed before the soulmark. Loud, loose, insufferably magnetic. The man who stole you like a pirate and smiled like it was a gift.

He still brought you tea. Still leaned against the same post while you read. Still handed you your sword each morning with that maddening tenderness, like you were something sacred and breakable, not a girl who’d nearly stabbed him on arrival.

He stayed close.

Quietly. Without comment. Without expectation.

And it was worse than anything else he could’ve done.

So, later, as the sea stretched black and endless around you, as the stars blinked faintly overhead and the air turned cool against your skin, you sat at the edge of the deck and finally asked it.

Softly. Carefully. Like the words might break apart in your mouth.

“You know you don’t have to stay this close anymore… right?”

He looked up from where he sat just a few feet away, one arm resting over his bent knee, a half-finished carving still in his hands.

He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t tease. Shanks turned to face you fully. The wood forgotten. The sea wind lifted his hair just slightly as it passed between you.

“I know.”

The words settled between you like an anchor.

You looked down at your hands, picking at a hangnail you hadn’t noticed until now.

A beat passed. Then another.

The waves rocked against the hull, steady and slow.

He was quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that meant he didn’t know the answer, but the kind where he was weighing whether you were ready to hear it.

Then he set the carving down beside him. The motion was quiet and deliberate, like laying something fragile to rest.

He sat a little straighter, eyes steady, voice low.

“I don’t stay close because of the bond.”

You looked up.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t asking for anything. He just watched you with the open calm of someone laying down their sword. Not surrendering, just offering it.

“I stay because I love you.”

The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.

They fell between you with no drama. No hesitation. No pressure.

Just the truth.

Raw and unguarded. Offered like a blade held flat between two hands. Sharp if you chose to take it, but never forced.

You blinked once, then again. Something behind your ribs twisted painfully, like a rope pulling taut. You hated how warm your face felt. Hated how your throat closed up. How much worse this was than any flirtation, grin, or stolen moment of kindness.

Because this wasn’t a line, this wasn’t a game.

This was real.

You dropped your gaze back to the ocean, its dark surface rippling beneath the stars. Somewhere far off, a gull called. The waves lapped quietly at the hull.

You drew in a breath.

And then, softer than you meant it, barely above a whisper, “…I like it better when your annoying.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the barest flicker of a smile tug at his lips. He didn’t speak. He didn’t laugh. He just stayed beside you. Not touching. Not pushing. Just there.

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

The bond might have faded.

But something else had grown in its place. You could still feel it, pressing behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. No title. No claim. No magic.

Just a man, admitting a truth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Close enough to feel safe.Far enough to let you breathe.

You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, not bound anymore. But still not drifting apart.

And life continued.

Life aboard Red Force was unlike anything you had ever experienced.

Men.

Everywhere.

Loud, laughing, brawny, bearded men. Some sharpening blades, some hauling ropes, one balancing an entire keg on one shoulder like a sack of flour. You braced for barking, chest-beating, or a surprise duel to assert dominance.

Instead, one of them handed you a peach.

You blinked. 

“You… speak?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The man nodded.

You narrowed your eyes. “Coherently.”

“Y-yes?” He looked slightly alarmed. “Most days?”

“With manners?”

Another nervous nod.

Behind you, Shanks strolled up like he was on a morning walk, hands in his pockets, grinning. “They’re trained.”

You turned, eyes wide. “They don’t throw things? Or grunt? Or compare—”

You gestured vaguely around your hips. “—spear sizes?”

From behind a crate, Yasopp shouted helpfully, “Only on Sundays!”

Shanks waved him off. “Don’t listen to Yasopp. He was raised by birds.”

You turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in.

“They’re… capable. And… clean-ish?”

Shanks looked delighted. “You sound dissatisfied.”

“I just assumed the average man’s brain was like… a moist sponge. Held together by aggression and meat.”

Someone dropped a barrel in the background, and another muttered, “Fair.”

You were still reeling as you passed through the middeck later. Rows of hammocks, spare boots tucked neatly to the side, a small shrine made entirely of snacks (Lucky Roo’s, apparently), and not a single visible injury caused by stupidity.

Curiosity got the better of you.

You pulled aside one of the younger crewmates, a sharp-eyed gunner named Lee, and whispered, “Okay. Tell me the truth. Is it actually true men have a vulnerable spot—”

A hand settled gently on your shoulder.

You froze.

Shanks, smiling like he’d just caught you cheating at cards. “I love that you’re curious.”

The man-child fled at the speed of dignity.

You folded your arms, looking put-out. “He was revealing man-secrets to me—”

Shanks stepped closer, voice warm and entirely too amused. “Sure. But maybe… don’t ask the crew about their bits.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“They’re sensitive. Private. Possibly haunted.”

You gave him a look. “I wasn’t asking for a tour.”

He leaned in slightly, the absolute nerve of the man. “Still. If you do want to discuss any parts that twitch, rise, or have ceremonial value—”

He paused, watching your jaw drop.

“—please let me be your guide.”

You gawked. “That is not cultural diplomacy.”

He winked. “It is if I use respectful language. And a chart.”

You stormed off in a flurry of indignation and stolen laundry, determined never to speak to him again. Later that day, a peach appeared beside your lunch tray. Tucked under it: a folded sketch labeled

“FOR STUDY – Figure 1: The Twitching Sword and Other Male Myths”

You stared at it. You stared at him.

Shanks had stolen the Karma Kuju scroll.

And then you threw the peach—and the chart—overboard.

Shanks caught your eye across the deck, looked scandalized, and called out:

“That was educational!”

You didn’t answer.

But that night, when you passed Lucky Roux and he offered you another peach, you muttered:

“…I’ll take it. But if it has a diagram, I swear to god I will set something on fire.”

The Red Force was many things: a warship, a sanctuary, a floating tavern when necessary. But above all, it was loud.

You learned this within days of being reluctantly relocated.

It was not the kind of ship that barked orders and marched in lockstep. No, this was a vessel crewed by grown men with terrifying weapon skills and the social decorum of overgrown children who had collectively decided chaos was a lifestyle choice. This also translated into their fashion.

They applauded your tantrums.

They cheered loudest when you insulted Shanks. You weren’t sure if they actually liked him.

They bet on how long you’d last without punching someone.

And somehow, you stayed.

And you fell into a routine. 

You became used to the crew of the Red Force.

Mostly.

One morning, you tied your shirt to a line strung between two masts because someone had to clean your laundry, and it wasn’t going to be Shanks. You did it peacefully, rationally, with the air of a woman who just wanted dry clothes and some semblance of dignity.

Then Limejuice wandered by, squinted at it.

“Think it’d make a good sail patch if it catches wind.”

Before you could stop him, he yeeted it skyward.

It fluttered like a surrender flag and smacked Shanks directly in the face as he emerged from below deck.

He peeled it off with a blink, looked at the shirt, then at you, and said with infuriating calm, “If you wanted me to wear something of yours, sweetheart, you could’ve just said so.”

You vowed to drown him in his sleep.

He winked.

Shanks offered to cook to make amends.

“Romantic gesture,” he declared. “Very domestic. Very husband-coded.”

“Man-creature coded.” You hissed.

You didn’t trust it.

You were right not to.

Twenty minutes later, the galley was an apocalyptic battlefield. Spices had been weaponized. Smoke curled out from under the door. Yasopp was weeping. A single seagull lay unconscious on the windowsill.

Shanks emerged, eyebrows singed.

“So, uh. Turns out I can’t cook.”

You sat beside him on the upper deck, covered in flour, watching the smoke plume skyward.

“I noticed.”

“Still,” he said, nudging your knee. “We technically made dinner together. That’s relationship stuff.”

You didn’t respond. But you didn't push him off when he rested his head against your shoulder and muttered something about needing a fireproof cookbook.

Later that week, Benn Beckman dragged Shanks aside with the slow, weary patience of someone who’d seen this exact situation unravel dozens of times.

You paused near the mast and listened.

“She is not one of the tavern girls, Captain.”

“I know that.”

“She has a brain. And knives. And principles. Stop flirting like a drunk raccoon.”

“I like drunk raccoons.”

“You are one.”

A silence.

“Benn,” Shanks said, solemnly. “I think I’m in real trouble.”

“We all are,” Benn muttered, lighting his pipe. “But mostly you.”

There were other moments, quieter ones. Rare things, like pearls in sand.

Like when you woke up from a dream, unfamiliar stars above, the sea humming soft beneath the board, and found him sitting nearby, eyes fixed on the horizon, his hand resting next to yours.

He didn’t know you were awake.

He just watched the sea, wind in his hair, hand outstretched like he was reaching for something sacred.

“She’s not mine,” he murmured. “Not yet. But gods, I want her to stay.”

Your breath caught.

You closed your eyes and pretended to still be asleep. The next morning, there was a peach beside your breakfast plate. No note. Just a single, perfect fruit.

You didn’t throw it overboard this time.

You ate it quietly, cheeks warm, and didn’t speak of it.

Life on the Red Force wasn’t simple.

But it was full.

Of noise. Of absurdity. Of terrible singing and better wine. Of men who made room for your presence without hesitation.

And of one red-haired pirate who was trying to become the kind of man worth choosing.

You didn’t miss home.

That’s what you told yourself.

You didn’t miss the palace baths, the temple bells at dawn, the scent of wildflowers braided into your hair by hands you trusted.

You didn’t miss your sisters.

You certainly didn’t miss their habit of fussing over your appearance, brushing your hair while gossiping about trade envoys and cursed scrolls. 

You were fine. Absolutely fine. A big girl in all respects.

Right up until the third morning on the Red Force, when you couldn’t untangle the braid you slept in and snapped:

“Do all men shed like lions?!”

Shanks leaned against the doorframe of your quarters, arms crossed, head tilted.

“Want help?”

“You are one-handed.” You blinked. “And you want to do my hair?”

He shrugged, wiggling his fingers. “I’ve got one very good hand for it. Used to braid my fellow cabin boy’s hair during long voyages. Therapeutic.”

You squinted. “That’s a lie.”

He stepped closer, gently plucked the comb from your hand, and said,

“You trust me to sail through storms with you, but not brush your hair?”

“I don’t trust you with anything soft,” you muttered. “You’d probably flirt with the brush.”

But you sat anyway. Grumbling. Like a martyr.

“Only if it has good bristles.”

You laughed and conceded. It became… a thing.

A quiet thing, one you didn’t ask for. He never announced it. No grand declarations. No smug commentary.

Just routine.

Each morning, after you washed your face and settled into your corner of the cabin, he’d appear, comb in hand. That stupid, serene expression on his face like this was regular. Like he was normal, like he hadn’t abducted you, charmed half your fury into submission, and now somehow declared himself your personal hairstylist by divine pirate law.

He never said anything cutting. Depending on the day, just knelt or stood behind you and then he’d start combing with slow, careful strokes like you were made of spun glass and threats.

At first, it was infuriating, unnerving, and intimate in a way that battle and banter could never be.

His breath on your neck, the way he’d bring your hair to his mouth if he needed to hold it a certain way. You’ve told him to stop. Twice. He pretends he can’t hear without both arms.

He just hums.

Softly. Casually. Whatever song was stuck in his head or stolen from your past. Sometimes he hummed low, thoughtful melodies that blended with the creak of the ship and the soft splash of waves against the hull. Sometimes he tapped lightly on your shoulder when he needed an extra hand, like he trusted you to help him with your own hair.

And eventually, you stopped telling him to leave.

Mostly because you knew he wouldn’t.

But also because he was careful. Always.

Not a single pull. Not a single wince. Just the rhythmic sound of the comb through your hair and the quiet steadiness of his presence.

It was the kind of attention that didn’t ask for anything back.

Which made it worse.

So you sat there each morning, pretending it didn’t mean anything. And he stood behind you, pretending he didn’t already know it did.

He was careful with the tangles. Gentle with the knots. He never tugged, never rushed. He moved with the quiet focus you’d only ever seen in people handling something sacred.

He never looked at you through the mirror unless you met his eyes first.

And when he tied the final ribbon, or looped a braid through your crown, he’d step back, tilt his head slightly, and say with maddening warmth,

“There. Ready to conquer something?”

At first, you told yourself it was practical.

You had no sisters here. No one tends to the small things. No one to fuss or remind you of the rituals that tethered you to who you were.

This was just convenience.

It was efficient.

But then he started leaving small things by your basin.

A carved wooden pin you’d admired once while walking through a port town, tucked beside your brush without a word. A softer comb, better suited for your hair. A ribbon in Kuja clan colors, dyed just right, wrapped in cloth like an offering.

And once, a sprig of your favorite flower. Not from this region. Not from this ship. Something you’d mentioned in passing, only once, on a sleepless night beneath the stars. You found it lying gently on your towel the next morning. Still dewy. Still fragrant.

You turned on him then, suspicious, unmoored.

“What is this?” you asked, voice sharper than you meant.

He looked up from his journal, relaxed, unaffected.

His answer came simply.

“Because you deserve to feel as lovely as you are.”

You hated how your heart stuttered.

How your fingers clenched uselessly around the flower.

How part of you wanted to throw it at him, and the other part wanted to press it between the pages of a book and carry it for the rest of your life.

One evening, you sat with your hair loose, brushing it absently.

The air was soft and salty, heavy with the warmth of late light. Lanterns glowed gold across the wooden walls, and the hum of the crew had long faded into quiet. Only the sea remained, and the sound of bristles moving slowly through your hair.

Shanks passed behind you, his footsteps easy, his presence unmistakable. He stopped.

You did not turn, but you felt him watching. Something unreadable lingered in his silence.

“Want help?”

You kept your eyes forward. “You did it this morning.”

There was a pause. Then the sound of him stepping closer, the creak of old wood beneath his feet, and his voice, lower now.

“That was for you,” he said, the words brushing close. “This one is just because I like touching you.”

You went still. The kind of still that lived deep in your chest. Then, without a word, you held the brush out to him. He took it gently, with a care that said he understood exactly what you were giving him.

He settled behind you, quiet as dusk. One leg folded, the other stretched lazily beside him, familiar and close.

His fingers moved with steady purpose. The brush passed through your hair in long, patient strokes. He touched you like he was listening, like your silence told him everything he needed to know.

The tension in your shoulders eased before you realized it had. The rhythm of his hands made the air feel softer and safer.

Your soulmark began to glow. Faint, warm, steady. A slow burn just beneath your skin.

You noticed his love in the little things.

The way he didn’t speak when you lit incense by the railing that first morning. He just stood nearby, quiet, eyes on the horizon as the smoke curled skyward, as if the act belonged to a world he wasn’t part of, but one he was willing to protect.

The way he offered your cup during meals with a quiet hand. Not casually, not thoughtlessly. He set it in front of you with a softness that suggested he knew it mattered, even if he never asked why.

The way he never stepped too close when you were angry. He hovered at the edge of your reach, waiting, watching, giving you space to burn. But he was there when sadness settled into your shoulders and silence stretched too long. Just close enough. Not touching. Just there.

And when he braided your hair, he didn’t ask if he was doing it right. He didn’t fumble, joke, or make it performative.

He just did it.

One-handed, slow and steady, with the same rhythm your sisters used. Fingers threading through strands like memory. He looped, twisted, and tucked with a reverence you had not expected from anyone outside the island. Let alone him.

At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence.

A fluke.

But then came the bow. Not the kind of bow pirates used, careless and exaggerated.

No, this was different. Controlled. Intentional. The kind your elders taught you to return before crossing into sacred ground. The kind reserved for gods, shrines, and quiet places where your voice did not belong.

He did it without hesitation, without needing to be told.

You stared at him.

“…Where did you learn that?”

He glanced up from the satchel he had been packing, then straightened with a shrug.

“This place is sacred now you’re in it.”

Simple. Like it was obvious.

He never touched your shoulder when guiding you, even in chaos or haste. His fingers always found your wrist instead; the touchpoint of trust in your culture. The place a warrior offers freely to those they deem safe.

You never told him that.

But he knew.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You let it sit there, unspoken. Let it build, day by day, in the rituals he never named but honored all the same. In the small choices. In the way he had stopped trying to belong to your world and started making space for it on his ship. He was so much more than the man who stole you from your home. He had learned you. Without demand. Without claiming. He had listened. And somewhere along the way, you had stopped trying not to be heard.

One night, long after the others had gone below deck, you sat together in silence.

The stars spread wide above you, sharp and cold in the black sky. The sea was calm for once, rolling in slow, deep breaths. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed somewhere far ahead.

You watched him for a long moment, the breeze brushing your cheek like a question.

Then you whispered it.

“You learned all this on purpose… didn’t you? While you were at the Amazon Lily.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t blink. Just smiled.

Soft. Quiet. Eyes on the sea.

“I wanted to learn you.”

Not your title.

Not your power.

You.

And somehow, that quiet confession undid something in you that nothing else had.

Because he hadn’t said it like a prize. Or a strategy. Or a clever line.

He had said it like a vow.

The Red Force cut through the sea like it belonged to it. Like the water had parted just to let it pass.

You stood on the deck, arms crossed, wrapped tightly in one of the crew’s coats. You had refused the blanket Shanks offered, on principle. The coat was scratchy and a little too big, but it didn’t smell like him. That was the essential element.

The wind tugged your hair into knots. Your soul mark pulsed gently beneath your glove. It was warm, steady, and insufferable.

And you were livid.

Not just because he’d taken you while you were asleep, like a romantic idiot with no concept of boundaries. Not because he had done anything that typically provoked your ire.

But because he left.

“Where is he?” you muttered, eyes scanning the horizon like he might be foolish enough to stroll back mid-storm.

Benn Beckman looked up from his map table with the ease of a man who had heard every tone of fury known to mankind. He barely glanced over.

“Meeting with a rival crew. They crossed into our territory.”

You blinked. “So he just leaves us here?!”

Benn didn’t even look up.

“You mean he left you here?”

Your jaw locked. He went back to his charts.

“He left you where you’d be safe.”

“That’s not the same,” you snapped. “He didn’t even ask—”

Benn raised a brow, eyes still on the map. “You care that much?”

The question hit like a slap.

Not cruel. Not loud. Just… true.

You froze.

Then scowled. Harder. Sharper. As if you could hide behind it. As if fury could keep you from unraveling under something as quiet as truth.

Your silence was enough.

Benn sighed. The kind of sigh that came from knowing too much and saying too little. He reached for his mug and took a slow sip, like he was rationing his patience one swallow at a time.

“He’s not trying to trick you,” he said. “He’s not off charming some tavern girl or vanishing to avoid you.” His tone stayed even. Measured. Not pleading. Just honest.

“He’s giving you space. That’s all.” He said calmly, “Which, for him, is progress.”

You didn’t reply.

You turned away instead, fists balled in the sleeves of the borrowed coat, the fabric coarse and unfamiliar against your skin.

The wind pulled at your hair like it had something to say, but it said nothing useful; Just the salt and cold and quiet.

It didn’t take your anger with it.

It only left you with the weight of your own breathing. And the maddening, persistent heat of your soulmark, pulsing steadily under your glove like it knew something you refused to admit.

Later, in the privacy of your cabin, you stood for a long moment in front of the coat rack.

The borrowed coat hung heavy on your shoulders.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t groan, roll your eyes, or make a dramatic scene removing it. 

You just reached for his.

It was warmer.

Softer.

It smelled like salt and citrus and something that made your throat tighten.

You put it on without a word.

And Benn, who had seen the whole thing from where he leaned outside the door, mercifully kept his mouth shut.

Because he knew a surrender when he saw one.

Even if it came in the form of a stolen coat.

You stormed to the bow of the ship, muttering under your breath in three languages and inventing a fourth out of spite. The wind snapped at the sleeves. His sleeves. The damn coat fit too well.

Too warm. Too steady. Too his.

Hours passed.

You didn’t move much.

Just sat on a crate near the railing, hunched like a stormcloud, soulmark faintly warm under your glove. Not burning. Just there.

Persistent. Irritating. Smug.

You glared at the moon like it owed you a personal apology.

And then, you heard him.

Before you saw him.

Boots on wood. Familiar. Steady.

Laughter. Easy and low, like a man returning from a brawl he enjoyed.

The clink of a sake jug.

And his voice. Low. Casual. Amazed.

“Sweetheart, is that my coat?”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.

He was close enough now to lean against the railing beside you, and of course, he did.

You didn’t look at him. You stared out at the water like it had better answers than he ever would. He waited. Patient. Annoyingly quiet.

His hand brushed your shoulder, and you couldn’t help the way you stood straighter, back tingling.

“Looks good on you,” he said, gently, like he wasn’t trying to win anything. Just… telling the truth.

You shifted, not enough to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

“Don’t read into it,” you muttered.

“I never do,” he lied, eyes dancing.

Your soulmark flared a little warmer. You adjusted the collar to hide your face from the moonlight. He grinned into the night air like he’d just been handed treasure.

You didn’t turn around.

“I considered throwing myself overboard.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I like boats.”

“You like me.”

You turned then, slow and lethal, eyes blazing.

“Don’t start.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but stepped closer anyway. The soft kind of close. Careful. Intentional.

“I had to check the borders,” he said, voice lower now. “Someone crossed into my waters.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me?” You turned him before you could stop. The coat swayed around your legs, heavy with warmth you refused to acknowledge. 

Your faces were the closest you’d ever dared.

“I woke up and you were gone. I thought—” You stopped short. Swallowed it. “I thought—.”

His expression shifted. Just a little.

He gave you that soft, infuriating look. The one that made your soulmark glow and your fury spike all at once.

“I thought if I explained,” he said carefully, “you’d try to talk me out of it.”

You stared at him. Furious. Hurt.

Silent.

“Would you have?” he asked, quieter.

You clenched your jaw. Looked away.

“I don’t ask for your permission,” you snapped. “But I deserve your trust.”

“You have it,” he said. “All of it.”

The words hung in the air like they might fall apart if you breathed too loudly.

You said nothing. You just crossed your arms, the coat sleeves slipping past your wrists.

He smiled, smaller now. Real.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “I just wanted to keep you safe.”

Your soulmark pulsed warm under your glove. Unhelpful. Unwelcome. Steady.

“I wouldn’t have tried to stop you,” you said tightly.

“You would,” he replied, voice soft. “Because you care.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. And it scares you.”

You stood, fists clenched at your sides, breath quickening.

“It doesn’t scare me.”

“Yes, it does,” he whispered. “Because if it didn’t… You wouldn’t understand why I had to go.”

And that was the part that hurt the most.

You did understand.

You understood perfectly. Every reason. Every instinct. Every shadow of duty behind his decision.

And that made you angrier than anything else.

Because understanding him meant forgiving him, which meant this was already more than it should be.

You looked away.

He stepped forward, crossing the invisible line you’d both silently honored for days. Close enough for the mark to hum gently between you. Close enough to feel the heat where your souls still reached.

“I always come back.”

Your voice cracked before you could stop it.

“Stop being like this.”

“Like what?”

You grit your teeth. “Like someone I could fall in love with.”

He didn’t smile.

Not this time.

His expression softened slightly, and he reached up, fingers brushing his chest where your name still glowed.

“It’s only fair we match.”

You did not notice how close he had gotten.

Not at first.

You had been talking about nothing, really. The stars. The wind. Something one of the crew shouted earlier that made you laugh harder than you meant to.

He smiled when you laughed.

Not a flirtatious smile.

Not smug.

Just warm.

Like someone who had been waiting a long time to see you happy.

When you turned back to him, you were already closer than before.

There was no soulmark burning.

No fate tugging.

No divine push.

Just you. Just him. Still close.

His hand shifted slightly between you. Not reaching. Not coaxing. Just there. Still. Waiting.

You looked at it. Then at him.

He did not ask.

He did not move.

And when you leaned forward, heart hammering, you were unsure if you would brush his cheek or shove him into the sea.

But your lips met his.

And the world held its breath.

It was not urgent or desperate. It was soft. Intentional.

You kissed him like a question.

And he answered it gently, like it had always been his to answer.

His hand rose, careful and reverent, cupping your cheek like he could not believe you were real. Like he would have to earn this moment all over again if he blinked.

When you pulled back, you did not go far.

Your breath mingled as your foreheads touched.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no smirking. No teasing. No clever lines.

Just him. Steady like the tide.

“Not because I am weak,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “Because I’d choose you, even without fate.”

.

.

.

When you were nine, you ‘learned’ what a man was. Years later, you finally met a real one.

Red-haired Shanks.

Charming.

Clean.

Beautiful red hair.

Nice hands.

Didn’t scream. Didn’t grunt. Didn’t conquer anyone that day.

Smiled at you like you were something sacred.

Whenever you thought of your massive beloved, memories of that time flooded over you like a tsunami; the day you met him came accompanied by a metallic cold and the acrid smell of smoke. You used to close your eyes and see yourself again at twelve years old, huddled in the darkest corner of a basement that reeked of despair. The slave ship was a labyrinth of rotting planks and muffled screams, where your only certainty was that the world was a cruel place and that all men were cruel demons.

And then, the crash happened and your life changed irreparably.

The entire ship shuddered violently, as if a colossal creature had decided to crush the hull with a single hand. On the upper deck, chaos broke out in a symphony of high-pitched screams, the crack of splitting wood, and the frantic clinking of clashing blades. You huddled in the darkest corner of the hold, listening to the massacre above; then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shouting was cut short by an absolute and terrifying silence.

That silence lasted only the length of a breath before being broken by heavy footsteps descending the stairs. They were not the hurried steps of a guard; they were slow, deliberate, and laden with confidence.

The bang came next. It was not an ordinary sound, but the dry thunder of a short-range shot that shattered the iron lock. The solid wood door, already weakened by the shot, was ripped from its hinges with a kick that sent it flying as if it were paper. For a moment, you were blinded. Sunlight, which you hadn't seen for weeks, invaded the place like an explosion of gold, hurting your eyes and creating an immense and insurmountable silhouette in the entrance gap.

The figure was colossal. The man stood there, a gun still warm in one hand, while the body of one of your captors fell lifeless at his feet. The sun shone intensely behind his round form, creating a golden aura around him. To the eyes of a terrified child, he didn't look like a pirate; he looked like a god who had descended to punish evil men.

You didn't know his name. At that moment, names didn't matter. He approached with heavy steps that made the floor vibrate, but when he knelt in front of you, the brutality he had just demonstrated vanished. With startling ease, he grabbed the chains that bound your small wrists and snapped them with his bare hands, as if they were made of glass.

"It's alright now, little one. You're safe."

The voice was deep, calm, and carried a promise you had never heard before. Being the youngest among all the girls trapped there, your body acted out of pure survival instinct. You clung to his shirt, burying your face in the rough fabric, your body trembling so hard your teeth chattered.

The mysterious man did not pull away. With a delicacy that contrasted with his overwhelming strength, he lifted you from the ground and tucked you into his arm, protecting you from the world while holding you against his chest as he climbed to the deck. It was there, amidst the chaos of the ending battle, that he handed you your first piece of freedom: a succulent meat drumstick, still warm, and a coat far too large that smelled of gunpowder, the sea, and spices.

On that day, you were not just saved. You found the axis around which your entire life would begin to revolve.

You were returned to the safe shores of Amazon Lily, but you did not return whole. While your body walked across the white sands of your native homeland, received by worried and longing Amazon sisters, your soul remained anchored on that deck, a prisoner of the vision of the massive man who, alone, had torn the veil of your darkness.

You were touched by love sickness even before blooming, an anomaly that sealed your fate. Like any other woman of your lineage, you discovered too soon that the heart of a Kuja knows no middle ground: it is either made of stone, or it belongs entirely to someone. And yours, from the moment you felt the warmth of that broad chest against your terrified face, would never be yours again.

This fact was whispered by the mothers in the village as a cautionary tale, a dark lesson that spanned generations: once an Amazon of Amazon Lily knew love, she could never return to what she was. It was as if the soul were permanently molded by the hand of another, a metamorphosis with no turning back that transformed the fiercest warrior into something vulnerable, sealing her fate long before the first touch.

The light he showed you was not just that of the sun; it was the blinding light of a devotion that would come to consume your days. You grew up under the watchful eyes of your sisters, becoming a formidable warrior, but deep down, every arrow fired and every drop of sweat in training had a single purpose: to make you worthy of being noticed by the man who became the center of your universe. You were a Kuja, a natural predator, but in the face of his memory, you were just the girl still waiting to be carried away.

The years did not just pass; they shaped you as fire shapes steel. Under the implacable sun of Amazon Lily, you flourished with an intensity that frightened even the most veteran warriors. Your rise in the Kuja hierarchy was meteoric, driven by a blind determination that many mistook for pure patriotism. In a few years, you went from being the protected to becoming the commander of the search fleet, a position of absolute prestige where you answered only to the Gorgon Sisters.

Taking direct orders from Boa Hancock was a burden you carried with pride, but every reconnaissance mission, every patrol through dangerous seas, was guided by a secret map you kept in your chest. You became lethal, proud, and a master in the use of Haki, but the love sickness remained like a sweet poison running through your veins.

Whenever the horizon brought the unmistakable silhouette of the Red Force, the cold and calculating commander of the Kujas gave way to the girl who still sought the sun. Where the rest of the world saw one of the elite officers of a Yonkou—a massive and dangerous force of nature, capable of annihilating armies with an imperturbable smile—you saw only your Roux, your fluffy, chubby, and irresistible cook, who smelled of roasted meat, spices, and the freedom of the open waters.

Your visits to the Red-Haired crew became legendary in the Grand Line, but not for diplomacy or strategic alliances. Absolute chaos reigned whenever you docked, the result of your attempts, in every imaginable way, to claim the man who, in your passionate mind, already belonged to you. Your momentum did not generate tension, but rather light entertainment; the Red-Haired pirates exchanged amused looks, finding humor in that powerful commander losing her composure just to earn a glance from their cook.

To you, Lucky was a safe harbor of softness and warmth, the only man capable of disarming your warrior stance with just a jovial laugh. It was the sight of your Roux, good-natured and robust, that made your Kuja heart soften. The advances were seen as something comical and almost cute by the entire crew, a high-energy pursuit that brought life to the deck of the Red Force.

"Lucky Roux! Today you won't escape me!"

The cry echoed across the deck of the Red Force even before your feet touched the wood. You leapt from the highest point of your ship's mainmast toward the Red Force, a vision of pure Kuja determination, casting a net of giant spider silk whose fibers shimmered with the dark hue of your Armament Haki. It was a trap designed to immobilize Sea Kings, but Lucky only let out one of his short, vibrant laughs. With a flash of speed that defied the laws of physics and his own massive size, he vanished, leaving the net to hit only air. Seconds later, he reappeared leaning against the railing right behind you, balancing a mug of rum in one hand and a piece of rib in the other.

"Still trying, little one? You're going to need more than reinforced string to hold me in place."

He laughed as he busied himself finishing the rib, but that was just one of the many times he underestimated your commitment. In fact, your advances became the favorite entertainment of the Red-Haired Pirates, a series of events bordering on folklore that the crew awaited with the same excitement as a festival. You did not limit yourself to ropes or words; you used the cunning of a woman who did not accept "no" as an answer.

There was the time you organized a "commercial celebration" banquet, where every dish was infused with a rare essence of sleeping flowers from Amazon Lily, potent enough to knock down a giant for days. You watched with anticipation as he devoured mountains of food, waiting for the moment he would collapse into your arms so you could finally hoist him onto your ship and have him all to yourself. Instead, Roux simply wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, let out a sigh of satisfaction, and asked for a second round, his superhuman metabolism processing the poison as if it were just an exotic spice.

And, of course, there was the infamous "Matrimonial Bureaucracy" episode. With the help of your most cunning sisters, you drafted an official marriage contract, camouflaged under dozens of pages of cargo manifests and cooperation terms between the fleets. You approached him during a lazy afternoon, pointing to the dotted line with feigned seriousness.

"Just a supply exchange protocol, Roux. Your Captain has already authorized it."

He hardly looked at the paper, took the pen with his chubby fingers and, with a mischievous wink, drew a perfect little chicken bone in place of the signature. As he handed the document back, he ruffled your hair with his free hand, treating your most elaborate strategy and your deepest devotion as nothing more than a persistent child's game that he was happy to entertain.

Physical kidnapping attempts were even more memorable and bordered on a circus spectacle. When your search fleet appeared on the horizon, the cry of "Here she comes!" echoed through the Red Force not as a battle warning, but as an invitation for the crew to drop what they were doing and grab their sake mugs.

You commanded the attack with a decorative fury. Arrows hissed through the air, embedding themselves in masts and railings, carrying notes or silk ropes that you hoped to use to lasso your prize.

Your Kuja warriors, loyal to your madness, leaped onto the pirates' deck with war cries, while the Red-Haired crew simply dodged the attacks with yawns and laughter, blocking sword strikes with their palms or simply offering snacks to the invaders. There was no retaliation. For men who faced Navy fleets and other Emperors, your onslaughts were seen as the attack of a tiger cub: adorable, persistent, but incapable of causing any real damage.

There was the time when you managed, by a miracle of distraction, to lasso Lucky Roux's arm and tried to pull him toward your ship. You put all the strength of your Haki and your years of training into that rope, your feet sinking into the wood from so much pressure. Lucky didn't even stop eating. He just leaned his body slightly to the side, watching with genuine amusement as you sweated and grunted trying to move him even an inch.

"Be careful not to break the rope, little one. It would be a shame to lose such beautiful craftsmanship from Amazon Lily," he commented, taking a casual step toward you that made you fall back as the tension suddenly vanished.

The crew exploded in laughter, applauding your effort as if it were a theatrical performance, while Lucky simply helped you up, dusting off your shoulder before sending you back to your ship with a paternal pat on the back and a piece of steaming meat as consolation.

"Try again when you're stronger, little one," he said with that smile that melted your frustration. He didn't realize, or perhaps pretended not to realize, that by not imposing a real limit, he was watering your obsession. Whether he admitted it or not, Lucky liked being the center of that chaos; he secretly delighted in the idea that such a fierce woman lost her composure just to breathe the same air as him. By encouraging you with a "next time you'll get it," he ensured the show of adoration would never end.

To Lucky, it was easy to laugh because he saw your attacks the same way he saw your letters: as the fantasies of someone living in a world apart. He didn't understand that your aggressiveness was merely a reflection of your disorientation about how the real world worked.

After all, in Amazon Lily, where men are myths and reproduction is a mystery guarded by the island's tradition, your understanding of "happily ever after" was purely theoretical, based on fragments of ancient stories and etiquette manuals from centuries past.

This knowledge gap turned the letters that arrived at the Red Force into sources of Homeric laughter.

You wrote with a terrifying seriousness, detailing life plans with a hilarious technical confidence. Yasopp frequently had to stop reading in the middle of the deck because he lost his breath from laughing so hard, needing to lean on the mast while clutching his stomach.

"Roux, man, she thinks babies are ordered by mail!" Yasopp would exclaim between fits of laughter.

"She even sent drawings! Look at this, the baby already comes with a striped green cloak and everything! She's asking here if your 'seed stock' as a father is up to date or if she needs to send fertilizer from Amazon Lily to ensure the birth!"

Even Beckman, usually imperturbable, would blow out cigarette smoke with an amused smile on his face and comment:

"She knows how to take down a Sea King with a kick, but she believes marriage is a magical ritual where the baby simply appears in a flower basket after a sake toast. Someone needs to warn this girl."

Lucky Roux found it funny, but there was a hint of embarrassment in his smile as he continued to chew his meat. To him, that ignorance was a shield; as long as you believed babies were "ordered from the universe" or "bought at trade fairs," he was safe. He could continue being your distant idol without having to deal with the reality of a real woman. In one of your most famous letters, you even declared:

'Roux, I've been researching the archives and I've decided we'll have three. I've already prepared the cradle on my ship, I just need you to tell me which port we should stop at to pick them up, or if they are delivered by a special stork News Coo. I hope the crew doesn't teach them to drink sake before they're five.'

At that time, your demands were made with the blind confidence of someone who believed life followed the logic of fables. However, the years passed and Lucky's amused laughs, which once sounded like music, began to feel like insurmountable walls. The girl who planned the cradle was growing up, and his silence toward your life plans began to burn more than the sun of the Calm Belt. The frustration of being seen only as a persistent and adorable young woman, instead of a woman capable of being taken as a wife, became a burden too heavy to carry alone.

The turning point happened when you were twenty-one. Tired of inhabiting this limbo between a respected commander and an eternal child in his eyes, you realized that your will was not enough to bend fate. Driven by an urgency bordering on despair, you sought out the only person who might have answers to the mysteries of the heart and biology that Amazon Lily kept so well hidden: the elder Gloriosa.

"Elder Gloriosa, why won't Lucky give me the names of the ports where babies are born?" you asked, your large eyes genuinely clouded with confusion.

Elder Gloriosa, a woman marked by time who had already sailed the dangerous seas of the outside world and knew every nuance of seduction, stopped for a second. The silence that followed was interrupted only by the dry crack of her staff hitting the top of your head three times with merciless precision.

"Ow! That hurts, Grandma!" you instantly whined, taking your hands to the spot of the blow and massaging the bump that was beginning to emerge, your eyes tearing up like a child punished for mischief. "I only asked a logistics question!"

"Silly girl! There are no ports for that, let alone logistics!" Gloriosa shouted, banging her staff on the ground so hard the jewelry on her neck rattled. She sighed deeply, a millenary exhaustion weighing on her shoulders before finally deciding to tear down the veil of your innocence. "The process involves less paperwork and much more... sweat and a lack of clothes! If you want that massive pirate to take you seriously, you need to stop talking about storks and news birds. You need to start showing him what it means to be a real woman, and not a doll that collects names on pieces of paper!"

You stared at her in shock, your crying interrupted by the scandalous revelation, while the Elder continued to grumble about how the Kuja education was creating powerful warriors but tragically illiterate ones regarding "bedroom business."

It was there, under Gloriosa's sharp and pragmatic mentorship, that your fairytale world crumbled to give way to a much more tactile reality. Following the old woman's advice, you traded the childish letters about "baby models" and little shoes for fine silks, delicate lace, and transparencies that left very little to the imagination. You learned that exposed skin and carnal intent were the only languages that men like Lucky Roux—pirates who lived on the edge of life and death—truly understood.

Gloriosa's lesson was a brutal awakening: if a man's heart was a territory to be conquered, the diplomacy of words would not suffice; an invasion would be necessary. Driven by this new revelation, you accepted the gift the Elder rescued from the bottom of a moldy chest—a crimson silk nightgown, a relic from the time when Gloriosa herself was still young and knew the secrets of the outside world. The fabric was so thin it seemed made of smoke, a piece that barely covered what it was meant to protect and carried the weight of intentions you could barely process. You held it against your chest, feeling the forbidden texture, as the old woman's advice echoed in your mind: the time for playing house was over. Now, you possessed the right weapon to turn "your Roux" into the man who would finally take you seriously.

You spent the next few days in Amazon Lily in a state of trance, alternating between absolute dread and a euphoria that made your blood boil. Gloriosa's silk nightgown was carefully folded at the bottom of your chest, but in your mind, you were already wearing it, rehearsing the femme fatale posture the Elder guaranteed was infallible. Every time your fingers brushed the fabric, you imagined Lucky's expression—the surprise, the recognition, and finally, the total surrender of your great cook.

Therefore, when the sentry in the crow's nest shouted that a red flag with the symbol of two crossed sabers was appearing on the horizon, your heart didn't just beat faster; it raced like a war drum.

You ran to the upper deck with an energy bordering on distress, ignoring the elegance required of your position. Upon sighting the imposing hull of the Red Force cutting through the waters of the Calm Belt, a radiant and almost childish smile lit up your face. There he was. There was your Roux.

As soon as the bridge between ships was raised and the invitation to the celebration party for another successful route was extended by a laughing Emperor, you didn't even pretend to consider the proposal.

"We accept! We definitely accept!" you exclaimed, your voice rising an octave with anxiety.

While the other Kuja warriors organized themselves with habitual caution, you were already imagining yourself inside the pirate ship in your chubby love's personal room, waiting for the moment when the moon was high enough for you to finally abandon your clothes and reveal the perversion you were wearing under your tunics. You watched Lucky on the deck, laughing loudly while carrying three barrels of sake at once, and felt a fluttering in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. This time, there would be no questions about ports or storks; this time, you would take the banquet to him.

Taking advantage of the height of the party on the deck, when the music and laughter of the pirates were loud enough to camouflage the sound of your footsteps, you sneaked into his cabin. Under the cloak of darkness, you revealed the relic Gloriosa had rescued from that moldy chest. The silk, thin and tempting as sin and still impregnated with secrets from decades ago, felt like water on your skin, revealing the curves you now understood were your greatest weapon.

The outfit exuded a raw sensuality, something belonging to the vast and forbidden world beyond the borders of Amazon Lily, capable of bringing any man of the Grand Line to his knees. You waited in the shadows of the cabin, your heart beating against your ribs like a caged bird, feeling the weight of the Elder's teachings in every fiber of the fabric. For the first time, you didn't feel like the commander seeking adventure or the girl seeking affection; you felt like a truly powerful woman in your vulnerability, ready to ignite the vision Lucky Roux had of you.

When the door opened and Lucky Roux entered, the world stopped. But his reaction was not the shock of desire you had anticipated. He stopped in his tracks, the laughter he wore on his lips dying the instant his eyes found you.

There was a second of absolute silence in which the air in the room seemed thin. Lucky didn't notice, but the sake mug in his hand tilted slightly to the side, and his pupils dilated as they traveled along the line of your exposed skin, the shimmer of the silks, and the explicit invitation in your gaze. For a brief moment, the imperturbable pirate was replaced by a man who, unconsciously, felt blood run faster in his veins.

He saw the prominent curve of your collarbone, where Haki and training had sculpted an athletic elegance, and the full softness of your breasts that the fine silk could barely contain. Through the transparency of that nightgown, every contour of your body spoke of an adult maturity that no longer held any trace of the baby fat or the malnourished cheeks of the girl he had rescued.

At twenty-one, you were no longer a prototype of a woman; you were a monumental force of Amazon Lily, a vision whose raw sensuality could topple empires and silence entire fleets. The almost non-existent nightgown left exposed the truth that Lucky Roux had been avoiding: childhood had been cast aside, replaced by dangerous curves and a feminine presence that demanded to be recognized. For an infinite second, his gaze was caught on the line of your hip and the firmness of your legs, capturing the image of a warrior who had learned to use her own femininity as the sharpest of blades.

That was not the body of a protégé; it was the body of a woman at the peak of sensuality, and the reality check hit the man with the weight of a storm at sea, but Lucky Roux was a master at denying what made him uncomfortable. He stifled the masculine need before it could become a conscious thought and forced a low sigh, followed by that same condescending smile as always.

"Little one, what is this? You'll catch a cold wearing so little. Go back to your ship, it's late for games."

He didn't even waver in his voice, although the grip of his fingers on the mug was strong enough to creak the wood. He treated you like a child dressed up as an adult, using paternal kindness as armor to protect his own mind from the confusion you had just caused.

That silent "no," wrapped in a disdainful affection, destroyed your confidence more effectively than any cannon. While you ran back to your fleet, tears burned not just from love, but from a corrosive shame.

You felt grotesque; if even the nakedness and beauty of one of the most desired women in Amazon Lily couldn't move him beyond health advice, then you could only be an anomaly in his eyes. What you didn't know, between sobs of humiliation, was that Lucky Roux stood in that doorway for a long time after your departure, staring into the void with a restlessness he refused to name.

Throughout the entire return voyage to Amazon Lily, your ship seemed to carry an invisible coffin. You locked yourself in your quarters, refusing to see the sky or feel the sea salt you loved so much. The sound of your crying, a constant and inconsolable lament, pierced through the cracks of the door, but no one dared to interrupt your mourning for the freedom you felt slipping through your fingers. You became an ethereal presence, a ghost haunting your own ship; your vibrant aura and your iron will had been replaced by an absolute void. There were no more orders, there was no more fury; only the silence of a soul that had already given up fighting even before sighting the port.

Upon returning to the isolated cliffs of Amazon Lily, the hurricane of love that once drove your attacks transformed into a funeral fever—a thick, icy mist that settled in your lungs, stealing your breath with every thought of him. You didn't just fall ill; you began to fade away, like a flame that consumes its own wick until only ashes remain. The fleet commander, whose war cry made Sea Kings retreat in reverence, was replaced by a pale and trembling shadow. The weight of her own cloak, once carried with sovereign pride, now felt like an unbearable burden on shoulders that no longer supported the weight of her own existence.

The wasting away was physical and merciless. You refused to eat, for the very concept of sustenance seemed like an offense when your stomach churned with the memory of the smell of roasted meat and rum that emanated from him. Every attempt to swallow was blocked by a Gordian knot in the throat, a suffocating tightness that made your ribs feel like iron claws trying to crush the heart that dared to beat out of rhythm with the island.

Lucky Roux's lack of reciprocity was a slow-acting poison. In nights of delirium, you still felt the ghostly warmth of that massive hand on your head, but upon waking in the cold lace of your bed, reality hit you like a whip: to him, you were just a rescued child, a footnote in a life of global adventures. The brightness in his eyes, which you interpreted as affection, was now re-evaluated as mere distracted benevolence. This perception drained your color, leaving your skin with the texture of worn parchment.

Your hair, once silky, lost its luster, and your hands, famous for their precision with the arrow, now trembled so much that you could no longer string your bow. Your Kuja sisters watched with silent and helpless terror; they saw the lethal commander surrendering to the slow death of one who discovered that, to her only sun, she was nothing more than insignificant stardust.

When you were already prepared to accept the tragic fate of so many others who died of unrequited love, the silence of your room, broken only by the hissing sound of your weak and labored breathing, was shattered. The door was flung open with a violence that made the few porcelains in the room vibrate. Margaret, your sister-in-arms and the only pillar remaining from your childhood in the arena, entered like a sandstorm. She brought no balms, medicinal teas, or the usual words of consolation from your other sisters that served no purpose. She brought the naked truth, raw and sharp as a Kusanagi blade.

Upon seeing you wasting away between the sheets, Margaret did not hesitate. She walked to your vanity and, with a violent movement, hurled the glass and bronze mirror against the stone floor. The sound of shattering metal and glass echoed off the walls, splintering the image of that pale, lifeless woman you had become.

"Look at these shards! That is how you are leaving your spirit!" Margaret shouted, stepping forward and grabbing your shoulders with a strength that forced you to focus on her. "A commander of the Kujas, a woman who makes the Sea Kings tremble and who commands entire fleets with a nod... dying because of a man who treats you like a child? A man who laughs at your devotion?"

Margaret's tears glistened, mixing fury and sisterly love. She shook you, trying to wake the warrior buried beneath the shame.

"You are not a shadow cast by his brightness! You are the very fire of Amazon Lily, the one that burns enemies and illuminates our people! If he is too blind to see the monumental woman you have become, the mistake is his, the loss is his, not yours!"

She pressed her forehead against yours, her voice now a whisper heavy with urgency.

"Learn to love yourself first. Reclaim your heart within yourself. Because as long as you see yourself as something small, the world will continue to treat you that way. Stand up and choose yourself, or you will never be truly loved by anyone."

Margaret's words were like a bucket of ice water, but the impact did not bring immediate clarity; it brought ruin. The weight of your own achievements, of the battles won in the name of Amazon Lily, and of the feelings you had carried for years, seemed to collapse upon your shoulders all at once. You realized you had spent half your life trying to be just an accessory in the life of a man who saw you as a rescue duty, a child to be protected, and never as an equal.

Your strength failed and, for the first time in years of rigid posture and unshakable command, you collapsed onto the floor, falling from the bed. The crying came violently, a choked sob that rose through your chest until it tore your throat. These were not tears of sadness for unrequited love, but the desperate weeping of someone realizing she had become a stranger to herself.

You cried for the ignored letters, for the silk nightgown that had made you feel ridiculous, and for every time you silenced your own voice to try to hear his laughter. Margaret only watched, in respectful silence, as you fell apart in a raw display of emotion, letting each tear wash away the image of that girl who begged for a glance, so that, from the ashes of your despair, the true you could finally rise.

After days of uninterrupted crying, for the first time in weeks, the fever in your chest no longer felt like a fire of sadness, but the first crackle of an ember that had decided not to go out. You looked at the shards of the mirror and, instead of seeking the beauty Lucky Roux had rejected, you began to see the outlines of a strength he would never manage to recognize.

However, the healing did not come like a lightning bolt that clears the sky; it was a slow, tortuous process punctuated by humiliating relapses that Margaret monitored like an implacable sentry. Your love for Lucky was treated by her as a dangerous addiction, a fever that needed to be "weaned" with the harshness of military training.

There were mornings when you woke with trembling hands and the taste of bile in your throat, the instinct to ask for the sea mail burning like a coal. In days of acute weakness, the commander within you would buckle. You found yourself hidden in your quarters, drafting feverish letters that smelled of desperation, sending small gifts—delicacies from Amazon Lily or rare fabrics—in the vain hope of obtaining a response that went beyond a paternal laugh. Each time the delivery bird departed with one of these volumes, a part of your soul unraveled in shame.

Margaret, however, did not allow you to drown in your own self-pity. She was there to snatch the pen from your hand and replace it with a war bow. "A hundred more shots," she would order, her voice firm as steel. "Trade longing for sweat. If you want to cry, let it be from the effort of your muscles, not for a man who doesn't know your value."

Under the implacable sun, Margaret's discipline worked like a shield; physical exhaustion was the only thing capable of muting the cry of your heart. However, when the bow was put away and the shadows lengthened over the island, the armor of sweat dissipated.

The relapses were the quietest and most painful parts. Nights in which you caught yourself stroking the fabric of the nightgown from that fateful night, feeling the shame rise up your neck like suffocation. But slowly, this embarrassment began to act as a bitter antidote. As the fever broke, the letters changed tone. Where before there were pleas, now there was formality. You began to write only official communiqués regarding trade routes and tide warnings, keeping the writing dry and impersonal.

To protect your still fragile sanity, you imposed an exile upon yourself within the island. For months, the white sand beaches and the port became forbidden territories; you did not leave the boundaries of the village and the training areas in the inner jungles for anything.

When the sentinels atop the cliffs blew the trumpets, announcing that merchant ships linked to the Red-Haired fleet had been sighted on the horizon, an icy chill ran down your spine.

You no longer went down to the forward port to supervise the receipt of cargo. Instead, you delegated the contact to the patrol warriors and logistics fleets. While the other Amazons organized themselves to collect the spices, rare fabrics, and provisions sent as part of the peace agreements, you hid in the stillness of your house in the village, sharing the silence only with Margaret.

From the wooden window, you watched the movement of the sails on the horizon from afar, knowing that, although Shanks' men respected the sacred line that forbade their entry into the island, Lucky Roux's presence was impregnated in every bale of merchandise that arrived. Your heart beat against your ribs like a caged animal that smells the predator; you feared his proximity, but in the depths of your wounded soul, you feared even more your own will to run toward the sea just to feel the trace of his scent one last time.

You strictly forbade yourself from searching with your eyes for any trace of those vessels that watched the horizon like hungry sentinels, or from trying to catch the aroma of roasted meat and rum that the sea wind sometimes brought from the fires lit on the distant decks. In the past, that smell was an invitation to celebration and reunion; now, it was the trigger of a visceral agony that made you want to tear off your own skin. Each gust of wind that carried his trace served only to remind her that, although Lucky Roux could not step on the sacred sands of her island, he still surrounded her, encircling her world with the same patience a cook waits for the fire to reach the right point.

Margaret remained like your shadow, ensuring you did not yield to the temptation of "taking just one look" at the horizon line. In those days when the Red-Haired support fleets circled the island's waters to offload supplies, she increased the training load in the village arena, forcing you to focus only on the weight of the spear and the metallic sound of collisions. The objective was clear: use fatigue to drown out the awareness that, somewhere beyond the reefs, Lucky Roux's life continued vibrant and noisy, oblivious to your exile.

You were a commander of renown among the Kujas, an authority forged in the sea and in Haki, but there, between the walls of your house and the dirt courtyard, you were just a woman fighting not to be swallowed by the gravity of a sun that would never bother to orbit around you. You trained until your muscles failed, desperately trying to replace the memory of his touch with the roughness of the spear's wood, while Margaret watched in silence, knowing that no amount of sweat could wash away the scent of gunpowder and meat you still insisted on imagining in the wind.

Little by little, the "dose" of Lucky Roux in your life withered away, like a tide that recedes and leaves only the trace of salt on the sand. The altar in your room, however, was the last bastion to fall. During the months of agony, that dark corner had not been just a pile of relics; it was your sanctuary of pain, the place where you went to "bleed" in silence when missing him became a physical and unbearable pain.

At the beginning of the illness, you knelt before those relics as if seeking a blessing. There was the wanted poster, so worn from being stroked that Lucky's face was almost erased by the touch of your fingers. There was an old shirt, with faded green stripes, that you had stolen from his ship and which still retained, in deep layers of the fabric, that smell of gunpowder and roasted meat that made you cry until you fell asleep. The bone from the first piece of meat he had given you, the cap of a rum bottle from a party you shared... each item was an anchor that kept you pinned to the bottom of the emotional ocean of dependency.

Margaret watched everything in a heavy silence, leaning against the doorframe, while you, in an almost catatonic state, cleaned the dust from the frames. The altar was what kept you from forgetting the rejection, but it was also what kept you alive.

However, the change came with a melancholy calm, devoid of any fit of rage or theatricality. One afternoon, the sun of Amazon Lily came through the window and illuminated the dust on the reward poster, and you didn't feel the customary tightening in your chest. You felt only... fatigue.

With slow and decided movements, you began to dismantle your temple of suffering, a process that required more inner strength than any naval battle you had ever commanded. Lucky's shirt was the first to be removed; you did not smell it, you just folded it with an icy indifference that surprised even yourself. The wanted poster was rolled up firmly, the paper edges cracking like dry bones under your pressure. The small bone and the bottle caps, once sacred relics, were thrown without ceremony into a dark wooden chest.

That altar, which for so long had been your sanctuary of pain, was dismantled piece by piece under Margaret's watchful eye. She remained by your side not as a friend who consoles, but as the sentinel who ensures the sacrifice is properly fulfilled.

You did not lock the memories away to keep them; you sentenced them to ash. Storing them in a chest would only be creating a mausoleum, a temptation that could be reopened in a night of longing. For the commander you were becoming again, the only solution was fire.

Together, you carried the chest to a small brazier hidden among the rocks, at a point far from the village, away from the curious eyes of the other Amazons. There, before the burning embers, the weight of years of obsession was about to turn into nothing but ash and smoke, marking the end of your voluntary servitude to a ghost that never belonged to you.

Even with a chest full of determination, your treacherous heart still wavered when you held the green-striped shirt over the flames. The fabric still seemed to carry the weight of that illusion, and for a second, your fingers closed against the cloth, reluctant to let go of the last physical link to him. Margaret placed her hand on your shoulder—a firm touch, anchoring you in the present. You took a deep breath, feeling the hot air burn in your lungs, and let go.

The fire consumed the cotton with a ravenous hunger. Next came the wanted poster; the edges curled and blackened, turning Lucky Roux's jovial smile into charcoal in a matter of seconds. The small carved meat bone, which you had kept as a sacred relic, cracked in the intense heat until it broke.

There was no outburst of rage or tears; only a deep and melancholy calm. You watched the smoke rise toward the sky of Amazon Lily, taking with it the remains of the girl who would die for a glance from that man. Each spark that rose was a fragment of your love sickness being exiled into nothingness.

When only dying ashes remained at the bottom of the brazier, the silence that followed was the most liberating of your life. Margaret did not say a word, but her brief nod and the firm grip on your shoulder were the final recognition: the fleet commander was ready to return from the abyss. You were ready to reclaim your place in the arena and on the seas, without gods, without altars, and finally, without the invisible chains that bound you to the red-haired pirate.

However, freedom did not feel like an immediate victory; it first emerged as an immense void. In the following days, the space where the altar had stood in your room felt like an open wound, but you forced yourself not to fill it with new distractions. You let the void be there until, slowly, the sound of the waves of Amazon Lily returned to being just the sound of the sea, and not a melancholy call. Healing was not an event, but a succession of small choices: the choice to get out of bed, the choice to look at the horizon without expecting a red sail, the choice to breathe on your own again.

With time, this silent acceptance transformed into movement. You began to train with a renewed fury, not to be "worthy" of him, but to be indomitable for yourself. Each spear strike in the village arena served to expel the rest of the lethargy from your muscles, reaffirming your authority before the other warriors who watched you with renewed respect.

You learned to appreciate the laughter of your sisters during the banquet without searching for an echo of his laughter in the wind. The love for Lucky Roux was still there, a small remaining flame in the depths of your soul, but it was no longer the fire that consumed your oxygen; it was just a childhood scar, well-tended and properly hidden under the armor of a woman who finally belonged to herself.

When the News Coo—that same specific bird you had bribed for years with rare treats and gold coins in exchange for any fragment of news about the red-haired pirates—landed on your window, you didn't feel your heart race. With an automatic movement, you handed a bag of coins and treats to the animal, but as you unfolded Lucky Roux's updated poster, there was no reverence.

Instead of analyzing every detail of the photo or looking for hidden messages in his smile, you just observed his face with a critical distance, feeling a almost comical pang of embarrassment for all the times you had begged for that paper. Without hesitation, and without the need to keep it as a draft or relic, you simply crumpled it. With an indifferent flick, you watched the paper fly out the window and be carried by the wind, discarding the image of the man with the same ease with which one throws away a useless draft.

You learned, at last, to look in the mirror and see someone worth protecting, even if the invisible scars of that fever still pulsed under the skin. You were not "cured" in the literal sense—for the love of a Kuja never goes away, it just becomes a silent part of the blood—but you were, finally, in control. What was once an uncontrolled fire that threatened to turn you to ash was now an ember kept under constant surveillance.

While you rediscovered the pleasure of commanding with a clarity that did not depend on his approval, miles away, the routine on the Red Force had become unbearable. Lucky Roux was no longer nourished by the habit of your devotion; he was now starving. The months of absolute silence coming from Amazon Lily—the absence of scented letters, the lack of gifts, and the total cessation of pleas—had transformed the atmosphere on the ship into a minefield.

Lucky was no longer the man who smiled between meals. He had become impatient, his eyes constantly fixed on the sky, waiting for a News Coo that never brought anything but cold and official communiqués. In the beginning, Lucky Roux hardly noticed the ground beneath his feet was shifting. He was used to excess; the piles of scented letters the News Coo delivered on deck were a constant as certain as the sunrise, a background noise he had learned to savor without ever giving thanks. He used to laugh with a comfortable disdain as Yasopp read your most dramatic excerpts aloud, or as the crew shared the rare meats you sent with such zeal.

To him, you were the "little one," a fixed and harmless star that would always be there, orbiting his world and lighting up his days with your unconditional adoration. He felt like the master of a show that would never end, not realizing the audience had already left the theater and that the lights, one by one, were going out.

Your constant attention was like the air he breathed: omnipresent, invisible, and absolutely guaranteed. He was accustomed to the logistical chaos that your affection caused. It was not uncommon for the News Coo to arrive at the Red Force exhausted, demanding extra coins and luxury treats just to compensate for the physical effort of having carried bags and bags of scented parcels.

There were weeks when the bird needed reinforcements; two or three birds would arrive in formation, flapping their wings with difficulty under the weight of rare meats from Amazon Lily, very expensive wines, and rolls of parchment containing declarations of love so extensive that Yasopp needed an entire afternoon to read the most dramatic excerpts out loud, amidst the crew's laughter.

"Listen to this one!" Yasopp would exclaim, wiping a tear of laughter. "'My heart beats to the rhythm of your chewing...' Roux, this girl is either a genius or a lunatic!"

Lucky would only laugh, his mouth full, sharing the gifts with his comrades with a generosity that bordered on indifference. He saw you as the "little one," a harmless and inoffensive admirer who would never leave him. It was fun to have one of the most beautiful women in the world as his number one fan, a silent security that inflated his ego with every special delivery.

Then, on an ordinary day, the flow of that tide of obsession began to recede.

The decline was not an abrupt cut, but a slow and agonizing erosion that Lucky Roux watched without knowing how to react.

The letters, which used to arrive in multiple envelopes and overflowed with feelings in urgent handwriting, began to lose their volume. The scented paper was replaced by ordinary parchments, and the pages, previously counted by the dozens, were reduced to a single sheet, folded in an impersonal manner. The declarations of eternal love gave way to cordial greetings and weather updates from the Grand Line. Where you once wrote:

‘To my sun, the man who rescued me’, it now read only a dry ‘To Commander Roux’.

The gifts followed the same path of sobriety. The exotic meats, which required special care for preservation, became dried spices that any East Blue merchant could provide. Luxurious jewelry and fabrics stopped coming; in their place, you sent only maintenance items for the ship or sea current maps that were, at most, useful.

The crew, who used to crowd around to laugh at your "excess," now exchanged side-glances as the delivery bird departed effortlessly, without needing extra coins or compensatory treats.

"What’s wrong, Roux?" Limejuice asked on a particularly silent afternoon, leaning back against the railing while watching his friend stare at the sea. He gave a light, distracted kick to a small wooden box containing only sharpening stones, feeling the weight of the emptiness settling on the deck.

"Did the gift fountain dry up, or are the deliveries from Amazon Lily just late?" he continued, his voice lower, laden with genuine curiosity. He noticed the growing discomfort that Lucky tried to disguise under his habitual silence. "It’s strange not to see a News Coo bringing some eccentricity from her today. Even the crew is missing all that commotion."

Lucky did not answer immediately. Instead of one of his usual jokes or a feigned complaint about the "excess of attention," he just stared at the single, thin envelope he had just received—a formal and cold correspondence, dealing only with logistical matters between the fleets. There was no scent of rare flowers, nor the personalized heart seals that used to adorn your letters.

Lucky's laughter, when it finally came, was a dry sound, a discordant note that lost itself among the deck planks while the joy of the rest of the crew still echoed around him. He did not drop the impersonal envelope immediately; instead, his large fingers fumbled with the inside of the paper with a silent urgency, turning over every fold in search of a hidden note, a strand of hair, or perhaps one of those exaggerated perfumes that used to permeate his clothes for days.

He scanned the horizon with fixed eyes until the delivery bird vanished among the clouds, desperately looking for a hurried post-scriptum or one of those dramatic declarations he had always labeled as "annoying." He wanted to find any proof that you were still there, but he found only the technical handwriting of a commander.

For the first time in years, he didn't have an absurd poem to ignore with a roll of his eyes, nor an exotic delicacy to share with his comrades while feigning boredom. To Lucky, the extreme lightness of that delivery—so correct, so surgically void of you—weighed more on his shoulders than any burden he had ever carried. The silence coming from Amazon Lily was now missed as salt is missed by the sea, leaving a bitter taste that no meat would be able to remove.

"These birds are getting lazy," he grumbled more to himself than to Limejuice, his voice sounding forced. The next day during the weekly newspaper delivery, he even approached one of the winged couriers, offering triple the payment in gold coins if the bird would admit to having dropped part of the order into the ocean. He wanted to believe the silence was a logistical error, a loss, anything but a choice of yours.

The most drastic change, however, was not what others saw, but what Lucky began to hide. If before he would throw the letters open on the kitchen table for Yasopp to read aloud mocking your declarations of love, now he kept them in the pocket of his cloak as soon as the seal was broken.

When the extravagant gifts gave way to small practical bundles, Lucky stopped sharing the contents. One afternoon, upon receiving a small wooden box with a simple medicinal tea from Amazon Lily, he ignored Hongo's outstretched hand, who was waiting to taste some exotic delicacy.

"There’s nothing for you guys here," he growled, snapping the lid shut with a dry click before anyone could see the short, formal note that accompanied the package.

He began to read the letters alone, late at night, under the flickering light of a lantern, trying to find in the lines of the polite phrases the fire that used to burn his hands. Lucky had become a miser of his own rejection; he kept every scrap of paper and every spice jar as if they were relics of a golden age that he, foolishly, believed would never end. The crew noticed the silence and the isolation, but no one dared to comment on how the man who once complained about excess now seemed to be dying of thirst before a spring that, drop by drop, was drying up.

Until the horizon closed.

A month passed, and the seal of Amazon Lily became a memory. Two months, and the crew stopped making jokes, as Lucky's silence was becoming as evident as the lack of your letters. By the sixth month, his anxiety had transformed into a silent vigil. The Red Force docked in commercial ports where, for years, you had orchestrated "accidental" meetings planned to the millimeter. Lucky found himself posted at the railing even before the sun rose, squinting against the morning mist, hoping to see the characteristic sails of the Kujas appearing to bother him.

The silence was deafening. Lucky, the man whose laughter and appetite were the heartbeats of the ship, began to waste away in a way that no one believed possible. He found himself checking the cargo records repeatedly, but the handwriting he found on the trade manifests was no longer yours surrounded by little hearts. Sales orders for goods and protection treaties now came signed by other Amazon Lily officers, with a bureaucratic efficiency that left no room for affection.

His fingers traced the empty space on the documents where your name once appeared in capital, passionate letters, feeling a frigid vacuum where his ego, once inflated by your unconditional adoration, used to reside. He no longer felt hungry; the meat seemed gray and tasteless when it didn't come accompanied by the certainty that you were the person behind every transaction. Knowing that business between the crew and the Kujas continued normally—but that you had completely withdrawn from the process—was what hurt him most.

To the other warriors, the Red Force was just a valuable commercial partner, but to Lucky, every cargo ship that arrived without a single mention of you was a reminder that he had been dethroned. The void of no longer being the center of your world weighed more than any burden, and the perception that life in Amazon Lily went on perfectly well without you losing your mind over him was the bitter spice he couldn't swallow.

He felt a frigid vacuum where his ego, once inflated by your unconditional adoration, used to reside. Food, his greatest passion and the pillar of his existence, had suddenly lost its meaning. The meat, previously succulent and vibrant, now seemed gray and tasteless on his palate, as if the essential seasoning of his life had been removed without warning.

To Lucky, the taste of victory and his own routine depended on that silent certainty: that somewhere in the world, the most lethal commander of Amazon Lily was losing her mind over him. Without your obsession to feed him, there remained only an empty banquet and the bitter perception that the prestige of being your "chubby one" was what really gave color to his world.

While the cook lost himself in his own melancholy, isolated at the deck table, Shanks watched him from the railing. The red-haired captain slowly swirled his sake mug, following the sun's dip into the horizon with a thoughtful look he rarely showed. He did not laugh, nor did he use the jocular tone that Yasopp would certainly use to break the ice.

With slow, heavy steps, Shanks moved away from the railing and walked toward his friend. The sound of sandals against the Red Force's wood was the only thing that broke the funereal silence surrounding the cook. Without saying a word, the Red-Haired pulled out the stool in front of Lucky and sat down, placing a bottle of premium sake on the table. With a calm movement, he tilted the neck and filled Roux's empty mug, letting the strong aroma of the drink fill the space between them before finally facing his long-time companion.

"The sea is too calm, Roux," commented the Captain, without taking his eyes off the horizon. The tone was casual, but the words cut through the kitchen silence like a blade. "You know how they are. A woman of Amazon Lily never changes routes; when their heart chooses a north, they follow that path to the end, no matter the cost."

Shanks took a long sip of sake, his gaze fixed on a distant point where the sky met the sea, before turning slightly to the cook.

"But her silence is not forgetfulness, Lucky. It is resignation. She stopped shouting for you to notice her because, finally, she accepted that you still see her as that child we rescued."

The Captain paused on purpose, letting the weight of those words settle.

"The problem is that she isn't that girl anymore. She is an adult woman now, with the blood of a warrior queen and the duty that every Amazon carries. They go out to sea for a reason, Roux... They seek strength to guarantee the island's future. If you continue closing your eyes to the woman she has become, she will fulfill her duty with anyone who has the courage to be the man you refuse to be."

Shanks gave Lucky a pat on the shoulder, a gesture that was half consolation and half challenge.

"A Kuja's love doesn't change, but their patience has a biological limit. Don't wait for her to come back pregnant by a stranger to realize that what you feel for her is nothing paternal."

Shanks' words were accurate and this perception hit Lucky like a cannon shot in the middle of the calm. For years, he had been the exclusive target of all your feminine energy, which kept him safe. But now that you were apparently cured, now that you no longer pursued him... where was that energy being redirected?

Paranoia began to eat at him during his watchful nights. He found himself imagining you in some distant port, no longer chasing the Red Force, but in search of any other man who could fulfill the role he had rejected.

He knew the legends of Amazon Lily. He knew that the warrior women, at a certain point in life, left the island with a single purpose: to find a man, guarantee the next generation of Kujas, and return to the safety of their borders, where only daughters would be born.

The idea that you could be in the arms of a stranger, just to fulfill your duty as an Amazon and carry another's daughter, made his blood boil in a way he couldn't control.

"She wouldn't do that," he would mutter to himself in the empty kitchen, while gripping a knife handle. "She is obsessed with me."

But the voice of reason—or madness—in his mind replied: you were. Now, you are just a twenty-one-year-old woman with a duty to fulfill. And if he is no longer the man you wanted, anyone would serve for what you need.

The thought of you returning to the island pregnant by an anonymous man, closing the doors of Amazon Lily forever and never looking at the horizon in search of him again, was what finally broke the last barrier of his sanity. Lucky Roux didn't just want your adoration back; he realized, with a possessive dread, that he could not stand the idea of you belonging to another, even for a single night of duty.

This obsession seethed under his skin when the Red Force finally docked at the neutral commercial island. Lucky was the first to disembark, his eyes sweeping the crowd with a predatory aggressiveness, looking for any sign of Amazon Lily's sails. He was prepared for a confrontation, for a plea, or even for one of your loud advances.

However, when your ship finally appeared and the plank was extended, reality hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.

You walked down the plank with a calm elegance, talking to your Kuja sisters and laughing at something one of them said, moving with the confidence of someone who no longer needs external validation. There was no desperation in your steps, nor the urgency of someone searching for a face in a crowd. When your eyes finally found Lucky's, there wasn't that "hurricane" glow he was used to repelling. Instead, you seemed just... tense.

It was the tension of someone walking on eggshells, the discomfort of someone carrying the weight of a thousand humiliating memories and desiring, above all, to maintain composure. To Lucky, that distancing was not a sign that the fire had gone out, but rather that you had built a glass dome around it. You were no longer orbiting his world; you were desperately trying to prove you had learned to walk alone.

"Roux! Hello," you said, stopping at a respectful distance that felt like an abyss to him. "It’s good to see you. It’s good to see that all the Red-Haired pirates are well."

The tone of your voice was cordial, but it carried a note of effort, as if every word was being polished so as not to reveal the tremor behind it. Lucky took a step forward, an instinctive movement of someone who still expected you to throw yourself against his chest and cause the usual chaos, but you stepped back. The blush that rose to your cheeks was not that of the euphoric passion of old, but that of a corrosive shame.

"You know... I wanted to take advantage of this meeting to apologize," you began, fixing your eyes on a random spot on the deck, unable to face him for more than a second.

"I’ve spent the last few months reflecting and... I’m sorry for everything. For the kidnappings, the silk nets, the absurd letters... I was a terrible inconvenience to you and to the Red-Haired pirates in general. I acted like a child who wouldn't accept receiving a no and who didn't understand her own place, and I feel mortified for having put you in such ridiculous situations."

Lucky felt as if the air had been torn from his lungs. That apology, uttered with such sincerity and regret, hurt more than any blade or shot. You weren't joking; you were genuinely ashamed of the devotion you dedicated to him. Seeing you treat the purest love he had ever received as an "immature phase" and "inconvenience" was the blow for him.

The banquet that followed, organized in haste, was meant to be a celebration of "good luck" for this unexpected meeting. In reality, it was Shanks' most obvious maneuver to ensure Lucky Roux had time to face what he was trying to avoid. The captain circulated with his sake mug, laughing loudly and ensuring the crew and the Kujas mingled, but his eyes always returned to the central table. Shanks knew how to read the wind, and the wind blowing there was charged with heavy static, announcing a storm that no toast could dissipate.

As the music and the pirates' shouts rose in pitch, creating a dome of noise around them, the silence emanating from you became the loudest sound in the room.

The strangeness of the situation, however, soon turned into poison for Lucky. He sat beside you, his massive body occupying the wooden bench, waiting—almost begging internally—for you to try and steal a piece of meat from his plate or make some cheeky comment about how your marriage would be celebrated with an even larger banquet. He craved your audacity, your obsession, any sign of that commander who used to orbit around him; but he found only a frigid courtesy that left him hungry in a way that no food would be able to satisfy.

Instead, you maintained an impeccable posture. You spent the night chatting animatedly with your Kuja sisters, gesturing with elegance while discussing new Haki refinement techniques and how the fleet administration in Amazon Lily was "lighter" and more organized lately.

"It's impressive how time seems to go further when the fleet follows a rigorous schedule," you commented casually to one of your subordinates, while sharing a portion of fruit. Your laughter was light, crystalline, and flowed naturally in the conversation about logistics and patrols, without that feverish tone or the urgency of someone constantly seeking someone's approval.

To Lucky, that distancing was a silent punishment. He watched out of the corner of his eye as you cut your food with calm precision, your eyes focused entirely on what you were doing or on the faces of your Kuja sisters. For the first time in years, he was not the recipient of any of your furtive glances; you didn't check if he was laughing, didn't try to steal a piece of meat from his plate to initiate contact, and didn't save the best piece of dessert to offer him with that girl's hope in your eyes.

Your laughter, which used to be an exclusive offering for him, now filled the room democratically, belonging to everyone present at the party, except him. The man who previously felt suffocated by your constant presence now felt the cutting cold of your impeccable courtesy.

Lucky realized that your "lightness" came from the fact that he was no longer the axis around which your life revolved. You were present, sitting just inches away from him, but your mind and your interest were miles away, occupied with Amazon Lily and your own autonomy. He wanted the "chaos" back, because the silence of your indifference was unbearable.

He played his last card. The man who always seemed unshakable and immense leaned toward you, disarming any defense and letting himself, for the first time, be truly vulnerable. In a whisper laden with an expectation he never imagined feeling for you, he murmured:

"The deck is empty, little one. If you still want to try to tie me up and take me to your ship... I promise I won't fight."

Those words, a confession disguised as a joke that years earlier would have been his greatest triumph, now found only a void. You let out a short, dry laugh, a breathless sound that carried the weight of a genuine lack of interest.

"The deck is a chaos of passed-out men and empty mugs, little one. They’re all so drunk that I could disappear now and they’d only notice three days from now," he murmured, leaning his massive body toward you, his breath warm with rum and confidence. "If you still want to try to tie me up and take me to your ship... I promise I won't fight. In fact, I’d make the job easier for you."

Those words—a possessive confession disguised as a joke that, years earlier, would have been your greatest joy—now found only a void. You let out an embarrassed laugh, a breathless sound that carried the weight of remembering all the pathetic situations you put yourself in with your love confessions and attempted kidnappings.

"Please, Roux, don't joke about that. I even feel embarrassed to be reminded of those things," you replied, adjusting the cloak over your shoulders with a feminine elegance he didn't recognize, a posture that imposed miles of distance between your bodies.

"I want us to be friends now, in a mature and professional way. I was just an impulsive child and I’ve already caused enough trouble for the Red-Haired pirates with that youthful nonsense. Let's leave the past where it belongs: buried."

The look you cast at him no longer had the glow of adoration, but the courtesy of a political ally, leaving him paralyzed with the weight of your response.

The following weeks were marked by a role reversal that bordered on the absurd. The Red Force, a ship that used to dictate the pace of the seas, began to be seen with a suspicious frequency on all commercial routes and refueling ports used by the Amazon Lily fleet.

Shanks, under the pretext of "urgent business" or "lack of specific supplies," maneuvered the ship so that meetings with the Kujas seemed accidental. However, in each of these stops, what was seen was an increasingly restless and desperate Lucky Roux.

On a holiday island, he found you walking through the market and tried to interrupt your conversation with a fabric merchant, offering to carry your bags as if he were still the protector of a helpless girl.

"I can take that to your ship, little one. It’s an unnecessary weight for you," he said, trying to force a proximity you hadn't requested.

You just smiled, a polite gesture that didn't reach the intensity of old.

"Thank you, Roux, but my warriors are already taking care of it. Besides, I am a Kuja warrior, remember? I carry weights much larger than this."

In another encounter, in a busy port, he sat at your table without being invited, bringing with him a portion of the favorite meat you used to beg to share with him. He pushed the plate toward you, his eyes fixed on yours, waiting for the old enthusiasm.

"I remembered you liked this part. Eat, you look thinner since the last time we saw each other."

You looked at the meat and then at him, with an expression of someone who feels a pang of nostalgia, but no real hunger.

"It's kind of you, Roux, but I changed my diet. I’ve been preferring lighter things lately. Why don't you share it with Yasopp? He seems to have his eye on your plate."

You accompanied the suggestion with a vague and elegant gesture, looking away toward the rest of the banquet with a naturalness that bordered on indifference. Lucky Roux felt each of these interactions like an invisible but deafening slap. The silence that followed your refused offer weighed more than any insult; he tried to interact, tried desperately to rescue the "little one" who idolized him and lived to satisfy his whims, but found only a sovereign, polite, and painfully independent woman.

The cook, used to being the center of your appetite and your desires, now saw himself as an unwelcome guest at a table that previously belonged to him by right. Every cordial smile you cast at other pirates was a reminder that the banquet of adoration was over, and he, for the first time, had not been invited to the supper.

This indifference, however, was not just a wall between you; it was the opening of a space that others now seemed eager to occupy. Lucky began to notice what his arrogance had prevented him from seeing in the months of absence: that the world had not stopped turning while you healed.

Lucky saw other men in the ports looking at you with undisguised greed and, for the first time in his life, he couldn't laugh or ignore it. The thought that any of those strangers—fifth-rate pirates or mediocre merchants—could be the man you would choose to fulfill your duty to Amazon Lily became a constant torment, a heartburn that burned his chest day and night.

This internal burning soon overflowed, consuming the facade of the imperturbable man he had sustained for decades. What began as a silent restlessness in the ports quickly transformed into a public decay, impossible for his companions to ignore.

The crew watched it all with a heavy silence. The comedy was over. Lucky, once the absolute master of the kitchen, began to waste away before everyone's eyes. He was visibly thinner, his skin losing its luster and his jovial glow giving way to deep dark circles of someone who no longer knew sleep. Sadness transformed into a dangerous irritability; the sound of a knife hitting the cutting board was louder than necessary, and any mention of your name made him growl short, bitter answers.

The decay reached its peak where he was most sacred: in his palate. Errors that an apprentice would never make became frequent. On one day, the meat served to the crew was charred, the smell of burning invading the deck like a bad omen; on another, the stew was so laden with salt that it was unpalatable, the fruit of a mind that was too far away, shipwrecked in regrets. To see the most cheerful man of the crew lose his appetite and his direction while trying, in vain, to capture the attention of a woman he himself had taught to live without him, was a spectacle that Shanks did not intend to let continue for much longer.

The atmosphere on the Red Force was heavy, a thick tension that stifled the crew's usual joy. Lucky Roux remained static, a vast and now strangely withered silhouette against the late afternoon light. He didn't face the horizon in search of adventure, but rather with the fixed and empty gaze of someone waiting for a ship he knows will not come.

This time, there was no sound of boots or the clinking of bottles. Shanks was already there, leaning against a mast a few meters away, watching his friend with somber seriousness. The captain did not offer sake or words of comfort; instead, he just walked to the center of the deck and kicked aside an untouched plate of food that Lucky had abandoned. The sound of porcelain breaking against the wood served as a silent summons.

As if they had been waiting for that signal, the shadows around began to materialize. Yasopp descended from the crow's nest without making a sound, and Beckman emerged from the navigation cabin, his unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. One by one, the closest officers positioned themselves, closing a tight circle around the cook. It was not a welcome reception, but a siege of raw loyalty. They were not there to console Lucky, but to confront the void he had left in the crew since you decided to leave him behind.

"She really believes she can walk away from us as if we were just a turned page, doesn't she, Roux?" Shanks began, his voice low and earthy, carrying a gravity he rarely showed.

Lucky did not answer; he only clenched his fists.

"We laughed for a long time," Shanks continued, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the cook. "We laughed at the letters, the arrows, her way of trying to convince us she wasn't just a child anymore. But now the joke has lost its humor. To see you wasting away like this while she parades around being 'mature' and 'independent'... that doesn't belong in my crew."

Beckman released a cloud of smoke, his cold and analytical gaze fixed on the cook.

"If she decided she no longer wants to be your pursuer, Lucky, then the game of hide-and-seek is over. But you know very well how things work at sea. If her place is no longer in your arms by her own will because she grew tired of waiting, then it is your turn to hunt."

He took another long drag, letting the sentence hang in the air like a challenge.

"Stop waiting for a surrender that you yourself wasted. If you want her back, it won't be through laments. Go get her. Bring her back to where she belongs and ensure that, this time, she has no reason to want to be anywhere else but by your side."

Shanks approached and placed his hand on Lucky's shoulder, squeezing it with a strength that was not a consolation, but a brutal reminder of who they were.

"Roux, look at that flag," Shanks said, pointing to the colors fluttering above them. "We are not knights-errant or diplomats. We are pirates. The world calls us selfish and greedy because if we want something, we simply take it. If she decided she no longer wants to be yours by her own will, then change the rules of the game. At sea, what is not given to us, we take by force."

The red-haired captain leaned in a bit more, his voice dropping to a dangerously calm tone.

"I will not allow my best man to waste away over wounded pride. If you want her, go get her. Bring her to this deck, surround her, and remind her that, in a world of wolves, she chose to belong to one of us. Do not ask for permission, Lucky. Be the pirate the world fears and take back what you foolishly let slip away."

A murmur of agreement ran through the officers. There was no hesitation. They were willing to cross any line—ethical, moral, or diplomatic.

"We are going to get her," Shanks affirmed, the glint in his eyes now purely predatory. "It doesn't matter if she screams, if Amazon Lily declares war, or if she hates us for a time. We will do anything, Lucky. Truly anything. If your happiness is no longer her goal, your satisfaction is now our priority. We will put her inside this ship and, this time, the doors will only open when you decide she has learned her lesson."

The circle closed around Lucky Roux, and the atmosphere on the deck changed. There was no more room for condescension or laughter about the past. The Red-Haired crew, one of the most feared forces on the seas, was now focused on a single mission: to recover their cook's balance, whatever the cost.

"Just say the word, Roux," Shanks continued, his voice dropping into a dark register, devoid of any trace of that benevolence the world used to associate with his name.

"Say you want her, and we will cross the gates of hell to fetch her. I don't care about morality, I don't care about laws, and honestly, I care very little about what is considered right. If it is necessary to surround that island, tear down every house, and bring the Kuja warriors to their knees so that you may have her, so be it."

He squeezed his friend's shoulder with almost painful intensity, reinforcing the dark pact he had just sealed.

"We will do the unthinkable. We will commit atrocities that would make the Navy tremble, if that is the price to tear that indifference from her face. All you need to do is ask. If your satisfaction demands that she be taken by force, that her new home be this ship, and that her will be bent by ours, then the Red Force will become the most luxurious and impregnable prison she has ever seen. Ask, Lucky, and I guarantee she will never again have the chance to move away from you."

Lucky Roux, who had spent weeks with a vacant gaze and slumped shoulders, slowly raised his head. Upon hearing Shanks' words, something that seemed extinct in his eyes—a dangerous, possessive, and intensely alive glow—ignited like a flame on a trail of gunpowder.

"Are you saying I no longer need to be the 'good man' who sends her back home, Captain?" Lucky asked, his voice coming out raspy, but laden with an urgency he could no longer hide.

"I am saying," Shanks replied with a cold and complicit smile, "that I miss my cook and, more importantly, my friend. And if to have him back I need a prisoner from Amazon Lily, then let the Kujas prepare for war."

Lucky's reaction was immediate and visceral. The lethargy that consumed him evaporated. The imposing mass of his body seemed to fill the deck in a way it hadn't done for months. A wide smile, which this time held nothing paternal or gentle, tore across his face. It was the joy of a predator who has finally received permission to hunt.

"Then let's go get her," Lucky said, and his laughter, previously muffled by despondency, echoed through the Red Force with a strength that made the sails swell.

"I'm tired of waiting for her to realize the truth on her own. If she wants to act like a mature and independent woman, then I will treat her like one. And a woman like her shouldn't be sailing alone when her husband is suffering from loneliness."

He turned to the kitchen, his step now firm and full of energy. "Yasopp! Prepare the gunpowder. Beckman, plot the intercept route. I'm going to prepare her reception banquet. And this time...", he stopped at the kitchen door, looking over his shoulder at the crew with a gaze that promised nothing would be as it was before, "...she won't need arrows or nets to trap me. I will ensure she never feels the urge to leave my side again."

The joy emanating from him was contagious and dark. The crew celebrated the return of the "old Lucky," toasting the immoral plan they were about to execute. To them, their comrade's happiness justified any crime.

While the Red-Haired pirates toasted and prepared to do what was necessary, the cook dove into a perverse epiphany. For years, denial had been his only shield; he forced himself to see you only as an impetuous young woman, a "girl" to whom he owed protection and care. This distortion was his anchor of sanity, a necessary lie he had built to protect himself—and you—from the possessive lust that seethed in his blood whenever he saw you. By labeling you a child, he convinced his own mind that his instincts were paternal, while in the shadows and away from your eyes, he tried to purge his repressed desire in empty encounters with other women, using anonymous bodies to vent the frustration of not being able to possess what he truly coveted.

Denial was his safety mechanism against the unbearable thought that he was, unconsciously, by never drawing a real limit and allowing your thousands of marriage attempts and declarations of love, molding you for the moment when he would finally 'give in' and accept you as his wife when he retired from piracy on some tropical island. But now, faced with your coldness, the shield had shattered.

Denial was his safety mechanism against the unbearable thought that he was, unconsciously, architecting a destiny for both. By never drawing a real limit and allowing you to exhaust yourself in thousands of marriage attempts and fervent declarations, he wasn't being tolerant; he was molding you. Lucky fed your obsession with crumbs of attention, preparing the ground for the day he would finally "yield" and accept you as his wife, retiring from piracy to live under your adoration on some tropical island. It was the perfect plan: let you convince yourself that you had conquered him, when in fact, he was just waiting for the moment to harvest the fruit he had helped to ripen.

But now, faced with your unshakable coldness, this shield of pretense had shattered. The silence you imposed was not that of a bride waiting for the altar, but that of a woman who had escaped his orbit. Realizing that the future he had secretly projected was slipping through his fingers, the mask of the zealous mentor fell, revealing the hungry face of a man who would not accept being excluded from the destiny he himself had designed.

He could hardly wait to see the shock in your eyes when you realized that the facade of the gentle and unshakeable protector had been just a mask. That patient man you knew was dead; in his place was someone who would accept nothing less than your total surrender. He was going to fetch you, not to rescue you, but to claim you as the only woman who truly mattered in his world.

Shanks' acceptance of Lucky's darkest impulses was the green light for the Red Force's lethal machinery to turn once more with frightening precision. By validating the cook's desire for possession, the captain authorized the crew's predatory nature to take the helm. There was no more room for jokes about unanswered letters or the fragility of those old silk arrows.

In the kitchen, Lucky Roux no longer stared at his hands with despondency, but with a maniacal precision that bordered on danger. The fire from the stove burners reflected in his eyes, casting dancing shadows as he commanded the preparation of the banquet that would be worthy of being used as a "parting gift" for the Kuja fleet. Every cut into the rare meats was executed with controlled strength, the metal of the knife hitting the wood with a lively and constant rhythm. To Lucky, this was not just the preparation of a meal; it was the ritual of one preparing a perfect trap.

He seasoned the roasts with absolute rigor, his massive hands moving between the flames and the steam with an agility that ignored the scalding heat. There was a silent promise in every dish he sealed: that soon, he would have something much more precious and indomitable under his touch. Roux cooked with the ferocity of one preparing a territory for a capture, ensuring the flavor was irresistible enough that no one would suspect the betrayal diluted in every fiber of that meat.

The aroma filling the kitchen was thick and inviting, but the smile Lucky wore as he finished the sauces was purely predatory. He was feeding his prey before seeking her, turning his greatest talent into a weapon of siege.

On the other side of the ship, in the dimness of the infirmary, Hongo moved with a clinical calm that made the immorality of the task even more terrifying. The crew's doctor manipulated glass vials and droppers with the same precision he would use to save a life, but this time, the goal was paralysis. Under the flickering light of a lantern, he meticulously measured the amount of sedative that would be infused into the sake barrels and the dishes destined for your warriors.

Every drop was calculated to ensure that the Amazons would plunge into a dreamless sleep for twelve hours, sparing them the weight of immediate betrayal and ensuring they would only wake when the Red Force's trail was just a distant memory on the horizon. He capped the vial with a dry snap, the final sound of a silent sentence. That night, Hongo's knowledge would not serve to heal, but to transform the strength of the Kuja warriors into absolute vulnerability. The poison of forced obedience was ready, ensuring Lucky Roux's siege would be completed even before the first move on deck, sealing your fate with the cold efficiency of a terminal diagnosis.

On the deck of the Red Force, the lights had been reduced to a minimum, transforming the imposing ship into a specter sliding over the dark waters. Yasopp remained motionless by the railing, adjusting his rifle's aim with the precision of one who knows the gravity of an unfired shot. Through the scope, he watched the Kuja ship, anchored in the cove of an uninhabited island waiting for the Log Pose to stabilize.

He observed the movement of your warriors under the moonlight; the Red-Haired crew advanced at a strategic distance, keeping to the limit of the Amazon Lily sentries' perception. The plan was underway, but contact had not yet been made. The pirates' ship cut through the waves slowly, approaching like a predator that is in no hurry, carrying in its holds the sake barrels and meat platters that would soon be offered under the pretext of a chance encounter. From his post, Yasopp ensured that no arrow would be fired before the trap of hospitality could be set.

"She's not going away this time, is she?" Yasopp murmured mockingly to Beckman, without taking his eye off the lens. The tone was not one of doubt, but of someone confirming the weight of a sentence.

Beckman only dragged on his cigarette, the ember glowing with a short and fierce intensity in the dark before he released the smoke toward the coast, where the Amazon Lily fleet rested under the guard of the uninhabited island. He observed the crew's efficient choreography; the ship slid silent, but the deck was a beehive of contained activity.

Lucky Roux moved with a determination that admitted no failure, rising from the hold with one last barrel of sake—Hongo's tainted gift—supported on his massive shoulders as if it weighed nothing. He and other crew members organized the provisions and meat platters by the railing, preparing everything so that the instant the planks touched the sand, the enactment of the peace banquet would be immediate. Beckman shifted his gaze from the horizon to the cook, noting that Lucky's hunger was no longer for food, but for the distance that decreased with every knot the ship traveled.

The first mate took a final long drag, watching the distant lights of your camp on the beach. There was a weight in the air, a tacit awareness among the officers that this was not a courtesy visit, but an ambush of possession. It was as if the entire ship were holding its breath, questioning if the Kujas would perceive the dark intent before the first barrel was opened.

"No," Beckman replied coldly, as if cutting off any remaining doubt on the deck, his voice low like the growl of the sea. "This time, there is nowhere for her to run. Roux has already decided the end of this story, and we are here to ensure no one interrupts him."

While the officers prepared the containment nets and boarding ropes—this time made of reinforced material, without ornaments or silk ribbons, making it clear it was not a game—the sound of an electric sewing machine filled an isolated corner of the deck. Rockstar, the newest recruit, was hunched over a pile of immaculate white silk. He didn't seem in the least uncomfortable with the task. His agile hands, used to handling ropes and sails, now guided the fabric under the needle, creating ruffles and drapes with surprising precision.

He measured the length of the improvised veil against the wind, his eyes shining with a mixture of enthusiasm and a certain dread of Lucky's reaction. Rockstar had spent the last few days sewing in secret, under the cook's exact instructions, who had dictated every detail, from the cut to the amount of lace. It wasn't just a white dress; it was a provocation, a symbol of a forced union that awaited you in the heart of the Red Force.

Shanks watched the horizon, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, waiting for the moment the Amazon Lily fleet would be in a vulnerable position. The plan was simple: start a party that would end with the port in silence and you, adorned by Rockstar's work, locked forever in the heart of their ship.

The Red-Haired crew was united in a dark purpose: they were going to fetch what belonged to their cook. They didn't care about the "cure" or the autonomy you had conquered. To them, you were the missing piece for Lucky's laughter to return, and if for that they needed to drug an entire fleet and carry you as a prisoner to the heart of their ship, they would do it without a shred of remorse.

After positioning the last barrel of christened sake on the deck, Lucky Roux returned to the depths of the ship. In the kitchen, he worked on what would be his definitive masterpiece. He ignored the sweat dripping down his face, concentrated entirely on the white and monumental structure rising before him, glistening under the lantern light. His hands, which minutes before supported the raw weight of provisions and could crush skulls as easily as they handled a whisk, were now working the frosting with a perfectionist, almost surgical delicacy.

He smoothed the layers of cream with a silver spatula, sculpting each tier with impeccable symmetry, as if he were laying the marble foundations of a new married life from which you would have no escape. It wasn't a dessert for the banquet that would be served on the beach; it was a monument to his claim, a trap of sugar and promises that would be served on a more than special occasion.

He used no words to describe what he was doing, but the crew, passing by the kitchen door, recognized the meaning of that white, sweet, and imposing mass that resembled a nuptial promise. Lucky decorated the top with small sugar pearls, each one placed with the thought that, in a few hours, you would have nowhere left to run.

The metallic clink of the tongs against the plate was the only sound filling the room, a hypnotic rhythm only broken when the massive silhouette of one of his companions blocked the light at the entrance, bringing with it the smell of sea spray and the reality of the world outside.

"The finish is impeccable, Roux," commented Bonk Punch, his loud voice echoing muffled against the kitchen walls as he leaned in to observe the piece. Beside him, Monster let out a low squawk of approval, the large ape's wide eyes reflecting the blinding whiteness of the frosting. "I think this is the most beautiful thing you've ever made."

Bonk Punch stretched his neck, analyzing the sugar architecture as if he were before a sanctuary, while Monster, usually restless, remained strangely quiet, sensing the aura emanating from the cook. There was something in the perfection of that cake that went beyond culinary; it was a statement of intent so clear that even the musician and his mascot, used to the violence of the seas, felt the weight of what it represented. To them, it was a work of art; to Lucky Roux, it was the altar where he intended to build the first steps of the vow of a life of eternal love.

Lucky Roux did not answer, preferring to give the final touch to the base of that white tower, a smile appearing on his face as he imagined the contrast of your skin against the sheets of his room, finally in silence, finally captured. The banquet that would neutralize your fleet was ready, and the symbol of the union you had so often implored—and which he would now demand—was irremediably finished. The trap was not just for your ship; it was for your freedom.

While that distorted future took root in the cook's mind, the rest of the crew's machinery worked to ensure nothing slipped out of place. The Red Force was not just transporting pirates; it was transporting the framework of a new reality that was about to be imposed.

As the meters of distance between the beach and the ship decreased, Rockstar moved in a hurry, carrying the dress and the sewing machine as if he were transporting war contraband. He hid them in the depths of the hold, covering the evidence of the life Lucky planned for you under heavy tarps. Meanwhile, on the upper deck, the Red Force finally cut through the last waves toward the white sand of the uninhabited island, advancing like a secret that the sea was about to reveal.

Shanks stood at the front of everyone, his black cloak fluttering as he observed the Kuja camp illuminated by bonfires. He did not have his usual festive look; there was a pragmatic seriousness in his posture.

"Keep the rhythm, mans," the captain ordered, his voice carrying the silent authority that silenced even the sea. "No one draws a sword unless I say so. We are guests, remember? Let's give them the best banquet."

Beside him, Beckman just nodded, dragging on his cigarette one last time before making a discreet signal with his hand—a silent command that set the shadows in motion. It was time to dock.

The planks touched the sand with a dull thud, and the pirates did not descend as invaders, but with the relaxed posture of guests of honor. They infiltrated among the warriors with a frightening naturalness, distributing laughter and toasts while the first spiked barrels were rolled out. While the Amazons celebrated the "good luck" of that chance encounter and the rare truce between the crews, the Red-Haired Pirates were already orchestrating their capture, turning the beach into a stage where every smile was, in fact, a countdown.

The Red-Haired Pirates were, simultaneously, the hosts and the trap itself. They moved with predatory patience, awaiting the instant when Hongo's silent work would make the world of the Kuja warriors spin and crumble beneath their feet. Amidst overflowing mugs and the thick smoke of roasted meat, hospitality transmuted into incarceration; every loud laugh served to drown out the sound of the invisible chains closing around the camp.

Lucky Roux was no longer the wounded prey longing for a look from you; he now occupied the top of the food chain. He intended to use every ounce of that new "mature courtesy" of yours as a weapon, serving you the banquet with his own hands and sustaining your gaze with a terrifying calm. The cook knew that when the shock finally broke your composure and you realized the abyss beneath your feet, your life in Amazon Lily would already be a distant mirage. The commitment you sought so much in the past would no longer be a request, but your irrevocable sentence.

Throughout the celebration, Lucky did not allow a single inch of distance to open between you. He installed himself by your side with silent authority, filling your field of vision and dictating the pace of your night. Whenever you tried to get up to check on your warriors or fetch a drink, his hand found your shoulder or your arm in a touch that seemed casual but carried the firmness of an anchor. He enveloped you in trivial conversations, pouring sake into your cup and keeping your focus locked on his face, acting as a shield that, ironically, prevented you from seeing your own ruin.

Shanks and Benn Beckman circulated among your warriors with a magnetic nonchalance, exchanging laughs that camouflaged the clinking of the spiked mugs. Hongo and Limejuice moved with efficiency, ensuring no Kuja cup stayed empty, while Bonk Punch and Howling Gab distributed platters of rare meats with a hospitality that bordered on fervor. Even Rockstar, maintaining the facade of enthusiasm, ensured Hongo's sake flowed without interruption.

You, focused on sustaining your new sovereign posture and ignoring the suffocating heat that Lucky’s proximity provoked, did not notice the military precision behind those toasts. With every barrel opened and every shout of joy from your Amazons, Lucky exchanged sidelong glances with Beckman and Shanks—a silent dialogue of confirmation. He no longer needed to move; the trap was being served on silver trays by the most dangerous men in the world, and he merely awaited the moment when sleep would take them, leaving you finally isolated under his dominion.

Ingenuously, oblivious to the danger surrounding them, the Kuja warriors let their laughter rise in volume, driven by the generous and treacherous sake of the pirates. The white sand of the beach had become the stage for a perfect performance, where the flames of the bonfires projected dancing shadows that masked reality. Under the veil of this festive distraction, silent figures began to separate from the periphery of the firelight.

While the toasts echoed, the Red-Haired Pirates moved with a ghostly coordination; some drifted away from conversations to occupy strategic positions among the palm trees and the waterline, creating an invisible ring of steel around the banquet. The heat of the celebration served only to camouflage the coldness of the trap closing in. The Amazons, immersed in a rare sense of security, did not notice that Shanks' men were no longer drinking; they were merely watching, waiting for the instant when laughter would give way to the deep silence of numbness.

But the siege on the sand was only half of the containment strategy. While part of the crew ensured immediate isolation on the beach, dark and silent figures detached themselves from the vegetation, sliding toward the docked vessels to seal any escape route.

Hongo moved first with the precision of a surgeon. He was not there to celebrate, but to ensure that resistance was physically impossible. Creeping up to the Kuja ship, he infiltrated the pantry and the water reservoirs. With vials of colorless and odorless poisons, he spiked every barrel and every provision. It was not mortal poison, but a potent mixture of sedatives and muscle relaxants with a delayed effect; when the sun rose, the Amazons would discover that their bodies no longer responded to their commands.

At another point of the vessel, Yasopp worked with almost cruel efficiency. He did not need to destroy the weapons, only to render them useless. With precision tools, he loosened the strings of the spare bows and discreetly clogged the firing mechanisms of any artillery. His hands, which usually carried a rifle with pride, now sabotaged the defense of women he called friends hours before, ensuring that when the warrior women finally realized the situation, they would be unarmed against the crew's will.

Simultaneously, Monster acted like a specter in the heights. With silent and instinctive agility, the large monkey climbed the main mast of the Kuja ship, moving between the yards with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to cause damage. His claws and teeth worked on the hoisting ropes and sail cables, sabotaging the fundamental moorings for navigation. In a few minutes, he ensured the Amazon Lily vessel was reduced to nothing but a floating cage, a wooden colossus unable to catch the wind or seek the horizon.

Back at the banquet, oblivious to the silent destruction of your escape route, you felt Lucky Roux's presence intensify beside you. He placed another platter of steaming meat before you, his smile remaining impeccable, without a single muscle in his face betraying the crime occurring just a few meters away. Every gesture of his was laden with a devouring patience; he served you with a reverence that now seemed like a silent mockery. While the last of your means of escape was systematically dismantled in the darkness of the beach, Lucky just watched you eat, delighting in the irony that your last meal in freedom was being offered by the hands of the man who had just stolen your sea.

His courtesy was a masterful barrier, a wall of meticulous attention that restricted your world only to his face and the plate in front of you. Lucky Roux filled every gap in your field of vision, using his own massive presence to eclipse what was happening around. However, as the hours dragged on, the heat of his proximity, which had once disturbed you, began to be replaced by an instinctive chill climbing up your spine.

Your warrior instincts, forged in years of survival, began to tingle under your skin, screaming alerts that reason could not yet process. There was a static weight in the air, a suffocating atmospheric pressure reminiscent of the sinister stillness that precedes a tidal wave. It was the feeling of thunder about to strike under a cloudless sky; a silent warning that the harmony of that beach was a fragile illusion. While Lucky smiled, sustaining your gaze with a predatory calm, your body recognized what your eyes still refused to see: You were not at a banquet, but at the center of a slaughter formation, surrounded by predators who had stopped growling only to watch you fall.

The laughter of the Kujas, once vibrant and proud, was becoming slurred, thick, as if joy were being drained and replaced by an unnatural exhaustion. The metallic sound of a mug falling to the ground echoed wrongly, too slow. When you finally managed to divert your gaze from Lucky's suffocating attention and saw one of your officers stagger and rub her eyes with lethargic confusion, the alert finally fired in your mind.

"Roux, what did you put in these drinks?" you asked, your voice coming out more slurred than you intended as you stood up abruptly.

His smile did not waver. On the contrary, it seemed to widen, but it was not the jovial laugh you knew; it was an expression of absolute triumph. His eyes shone with so much malice it made your blood run cold.

"Just something to make you rest, beloved," he replied, his voice vibrating in a way that occupied all the space around you. "You Kujas work too hard. It's time to let someone else take care of you."

The sound of that promise, laden with an authority you had never granted him, acted like a whip against your consciousness. The horror of being "taken care of" by him, on his terms, broke the lethargy weighing on your limbs. With a Herculean effort to ignore the dizziness making the beach spin, you forced the air out of your lungs, transforming panic into authority.

"Kujas! Immediate retreat! To the ship!" you shouted, the command tearing through the mist trying to close your eyes.

Chaos ensued, but it was a one-sided chaos. On the sand, the warriors who were previously celebrating tried to stand, hands searching for bows and spears, but their movements were slow, as if they were stuck in molasses. They stumbled, falling one by one before the embers of the bonfires and over the treacherous banquet.

On the Kuja ship, the guards who had not come down for the party realized the danger and reacted with the characteristic fury of Amazon Lily. War cries echoed as they prepared weapons to attack the Red Force, but dizziness hit most of them halfway—Hongo's sedative, infiltrated into every water barrel and provision, acted with ruthless precision. Those who had drunk staggered, bowstrings slipping from fingers that no longer obeyed.

However, an elite group, who had remained fasting due to watch discipline, ignored the malaise around them and leaped over the railings with blades in hand. They stood no chance. Before the first Kuja foot touched the sand firmly, figures from Shanks' crew intercepted the counterattack. Limejuice and Howling Gab moved like blurs, disarming the warriors with a brutal efficiency that did not seek slaughter, but immediate incapacitation.

Where poison failed, the steel and Haki of the pirates prevailed; every Amazon who tried to resist was knocked down and immobilized before even managing to land a blow. The deck and the beach became a scene of absolute subjugation, where the fury of the Kujas was systematically stifled by the physical superiority of a crew that did not intend to leave a single soul free to contest Lucky Roux's possession.

On the beach you tried to take a step forward to lead the counterattack, but the ground seemed to tilt violently. Through blurred vision, you saw the imposing silhouettes of Shanks' crew moving among your sleeping sisters with predatory calm. Lucky Roux took a step toward you, the massive mass of his body blocking your only escape route to the sea.

"Don't fight it," he whispered, and the authority in his voice hammered the final nails into your consciousness. "Your life as a Kuja commander ends here."

When you tried one last desperate jump toward the railing of your ship, the ground shook beneath your feet; using all the strength you had left, you focused your vision on other points of the beach—the Red-Haired Pirates were no longer sitting. They drew weapons. The attack was coordinated and lethal. Yasopp and the others began to subjugate the few Kujas still trying to fight, treating their resistance with cold efficiency.

"Roux, stop this!" you groaned, weakly drawing your weapon, but his speed was a blur while your movements were slow and debilitated. One second he was distant; the next, he was before you, his large hand gripping your wrist with a strength you had never felt before.

"I said it was time to rest, beloved..." he whispered. That face you had always considered comforting and cute was now transformed, the features hardened by a dark determination you never imagined he would direct at you.

The deafening sound of coordinated cannon shots tore through the air, pulling you from the trance. You looked out at the sea toward your docked ship and horror paralyzed you, surpassing even the effect of the sedative. The Red Force's cannons were not aiming at the hull or the lives of your sisters; they had destroyed, with surgical precision, the masts of your fleet. Your vessels were motionless, birds with broken wings upon the water.

But the final blow did not come from gunpowder.

Shanks took a step forward, emerging from the shadows of the deck. He did not draw his sword, nor did he utter a single threat. He simply released the pressure.

An invisible wave of Conqueror's Haki exploded from the red-haired man like a shockwave, sweeping through the port like a silent tsunami. The air suddenly became thick, and the sky seemed to darken for a millisecond as the Red-Haired's overwhelming will manifested. You felt the impact in the depths of your soul; it was a physical and spiritual pressure that admitted no contest.

The weight of this force crushed what remained of the Kujas' resistance. Your last sisters still fighting bravely against sleep collapsed like stringless puppets, instantly plunged into forced darkness. The world around you fell into absolute and terrifying silence. Even you, with all your will and the self-esteem you had cultivated with such effort, felt your knees give way. There was no way to fight against that level of power.

As your vision darkened and the beach plunged into a static void, the weight of that overwhelming will finally defeated your resistance. Your knees failed, but you did not hit the ground. Before the impact came, you felt Lucky Roux's massive arms wrap around your body with a delicacy that bordered on adoration.

He cradled your body against his chest as if you were the most fragile and precious creature in the ocean. The way he nestled you, protecting your head and positioning it against his shoulder, was reminiscent of an immense bird covering its mate with its wings during a relentless storm. In that embrace, there was overflowing affection, a love that now, without the shackles of your rejection, he could finally demonstrate in every slow and possessive caress.

As your consciousness slipped away completely, yielding to the absolute darkness imposed by his Haki and the sedative, the heat of Lucky's body was the only anchor left to your declining senses. He held you with an almost religious reverence, lowering his face to nuzzle the curve of your neck while inhaling your scent as if, after years of suffocation, he finally had permission to breathe. In that instant of silence and forced surrender, the outside world vanished; there were no more ships, no more warriors, no more escapes—only the crushing force of a man claiming you for himself as if you were his most sacred possession.

The last thing you could hear, like a distant echo from another reality, was Shanks' cheerful and carefree voice:

"Good job, Roux. The trophy is yours. Let's prepare the party."

Shanks' voice carried genuine pride, the tone of a captain seeing his friend finally recover his soul. Lucky didn't need words to answer. He only tightened the embrace, feeling the inert weight of your body against his with a loving, almost gentle satisfaction, as if he were holding something as precious as it was fragile. He smiled, a slow gesture laden with deep relief; the agony of the last few months evaporated, replaced by the absolute peace of knowing you had nowhere left to run.

Around him, the environment had changed. The Red-Haired crew, which minutes before exuded lethal coldness, now vibrated with contagious joy. For those men, the morality of the kidnapping weighed nothing compared to the well-being of a brother; they saw Lucky truly smile for the first time in a long while, and that was all that mattered.

Yasopp passed him, giving an encouraging pat on his shoulder, while Beckman just nodded, a gleam of approval in his gaze. The silence of the night was now broken by whispers of celebration and contained laughter, and the heavy, noisy steps of all the pirates climbing the stairs connecting the Red Force to the beach. They moved in sync, like a human wall protecting the return of their cook and his conquest. For the crew, the approaching party was not just for the capture, but for the restoration of Lucky's happiness, and they would do anything to ensure that expression of peace never left their brother-in-arms' face.

As Lucky Roux boarded the ship and crossed the threshold of the main corridor, the sound of the celebrations on the beach grew muffled, replaced by the gentle creaking of the Red Force's wood and his own heartbeat, echoing against your back like a drum of victory. The outside world, with its fleets, its responsibilities, and the glory of Amazon Lily, ceased to exist the moment the door to the cook's private cabin closed behind you.

He laid you on the sheets with a reverence you were no longer able to feel, the darkness of the sedative merging with the deep sleep imposed by Shanks' Haki. While Lucky watched you motionless, finally his, the Red Force began its journey away from that island, cutting through the waves with relentless determination. For the crew, it was the end of a mission executed to perfection; for you, it was the beginning of a sentence woven in silk and silence, where the only freedom permitted would be whatever your captor decided to grant you.

Overcome by silent triumph, Lucky watched you for a moment, tucking a lock of hair that fell in front of your face with fingertips trembling with emotion. He knew there was still a banquet to be served on deck and meats on the fire demanding his attention, but his greatest appetite had already been satiated just with your capture. He stepped back toward the door with light steps, casting one last look at your sleeping figure on his bed; he left the cabin with a light soul, knowing that when he returned, you would be waking up in the ethereal beauty of that white silk, finally adorned as the beautiful bride he always knew you would be.

Your awakening, hours later, was a nightmare of silk and iron.

Waking up was a slow and painful process, a struggle to emerge from a darkness that weighed like lead. When your eyelids finally yielded, the flickering amber light of the lamps hurt your vision, and the first thing to hit your senses was not the sound of the sea, but the perfume. It was the sweet and intoxicating scent of the flowers from your island, a trace of Amazon Lily that, for a second, brought the illusion of safety.

But the shock came soon after, cold and paralyzing.

In trying to bring your hand to your head to soothe the dizziness, a metallic clink echoed through the room. Your wrists did not reach your forehead; they were locked by short, elegant chains. The cold metal of Kairouseki burned against your skin, a substance that, although it did not drain your energy since you do not possess a Devil Fruit, was indestructible to any human effort. You pulled hard, your arm muscles tensing in a reflex of pure panic, but the shackles didn't even vibrate. You were chained to the bed frame like a valuable pet.

Horror escalated when you looked at your own body. Where your light and functional Kuja battle garments should have been, there was now a sea of white and oppressive silk. Someone had undressed you while you were unconscious. Someone had manipulated you, piece by piece, to dress you in that monumental gown. It was an excessive wedding dress, overflowing with lace ruffles and layers of silk that seemed to suck the air from your lungs.

Every meticulous ruffle Rockstar had sewn under Lucky's orders now weighed on your legs, preventing any agile movement. The contrast between the delicacy of the fabric and the brutality of the chains created a disturbing dissonance in your mind. The room, adorned with the flowers of your land, was not a refuge; it was a sanctuary built for your surrender.

You were adorned like a princess, but held like a prisoner, feeling like the main course of a macabre banquet, just waiting for the host to enter and take the first bite.

The dry snap of the lock turning interrupted your frenzied thoughts. The sound, though low, echoed like a cannon shot in the silence of the room. You huddled against the headboard, the Kairouseki clinking in a metallic and useless protest as your eyes fixed on the doorknob turning with deliberate slowness. There was nowhere to run; the white silk spread around you like a trap of silver threads, keeping you trapped at the center of that stage.

The door opened softly and Lucky Roux entered, radiant. He brought with him the warm aroma of the food he had just finished, a fragrance that once brought you comfort and now turned your stomach. He seemed to completely ignore the fact that he had just destroyed your fleet and kidnapped you; on his face, there was no weight of guilt or the adrenaline of combat, only the domestic satisfaction of a man finally returning home.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning every inch of the white dress with a maniacal adoration. To Lucky, you were not a war prisoner in shock; you were the perfect image he had projected in his mind during all those weeks of contained desire.

"You woke up just in time," he said, his voice soft and melodic, as if they were just starting another common dinner between friends. Lucky walked to the side of the bed, leaning against it, his weight making the mattress tilt slightly toward you.

He ignored the panic in your eyes and the clinking of the chains, reaching out to caress the fabric of your white sleeve with an almost religious reverence. "The banquet is being served right now... and you look absolutely beautiful, little one. The white silk fits even better than I imagined."

He moved a little closer, invading your personal space with an authority you hadn't seen in months. Instead of moving away, he reached out and, with calculated slowness, touched a lock of your hair that had fallen over your shoulder, sliding his large fingers through the texture of the strands until his palm brushed the warm skin of your neck.

"The cake is already ready," he continued, his smile widening as he observed your immobility. "Hongo and the others gave it the final touch. The Captain is already on deck with the whole crew, opening the best barrels. Everyone is very excited for our day, darling. No one on the ship can talk about anything but our union."

You listened to him in a state of horrified trance, his words sounding like a distorted melody in your ears. Every cheerful phrase he uttered about the "big day" was like a physical blow, a layer of madness he tried to superimpose over the bloody reality you still had etched on your retina. The weight of the dress, the smell of the flowers, and the clinking of the chains finally converged in an overwhelming understanding. The initial shock gave way to profound agony, and the barrier of pride you tried to maintain collapsed under the weight of loss.

"You... you destroyed my ship. You attacked my sisters..." you sobbed, your voice broken by crying and betrayal. Your tears soaked the impeccable silk of the dress he so admired, staining the white with the trail of your pain. "How can you talk about union... after what you did to my people?"

Lucky stopped for a moment. His smile did not disappear but softened into an expression of almost paternal patience, as if you were a child who still doesn't understand that the punishment was for your own good. He leaned in closer, ignoring your recoil, focused only on consoling the bride he had just stolen.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of his body making you slide inevitably toward him. He didn't seem affected by your accusations; instead, he reached out and wiped a tear from your face with his thumb, a gesture of disturbing tenderness that contrasted with the metal of the chains on your wrists.

"They are fine, little one. Just sleeping," he murmured, his voice laden with unshakeable calm. "Hongo ensured the dosage was exact. They will wake up on a nearby island, with unadulterated and safe provisions. But you... you stay with me. Forever."

He let out a satisfied sigh, as if he had solved a great puzzle.

"I realized your game. You only stopped pursuing me and started with that 'mature courtesy' act because you thought I would never give you what you wanted. You tried to forget me because it hurt too much not to have me," he stated, his eyes shining with delusional conviction.

He leaned in, his warm breath against your ear and the proximity of his massive body blocking any remnant of light.

"But I am a generous man," he whispered, his voice vibrating low against your skin. "I decided to give you everything you ever dreamed of. The dress, the party, my name. You don't have to pretend you don't want me anymore, because now you don't have to fight for anything. I've already made all the decisions for both of us."

Lucky leaned in even further, his presence making the room too small for your breathing. He left a long and tender kiss on your temple, ignoring how you shuddered under his touch.

"Don't cry, little one. Today is the happiest day of our lives. The crew is waiting, the captain has the most expensive barrel of sake in hand, and our future is just beginning."

He said this with such unshakeable conviction that, for a second, he seemed to ignore the trail of tears on your face. Lucky pulled back just enough to observe the work he had created: you, adorned and surrounded by the luxury of that cabin-prison, ready to be displayed as the trophy of a war only he was fighting. He knew he could not linger there, in that tense silence heavy with grief. The ceremony he had orchestrated with such zeal demanded the presence of the groom and, more importantly, the bride he had finally conquered.

With a methodical calm, Lucky reached for the Kairouseki key he kept hanging from his belt, a constant weight symbolizing the new control he exercised over you. The sound of the metal unlocking and the chains falling onto the silk sheets was the only relief you felt, though it was a bitter relief; the freedom of your hands did not mean the freedom of the ship. As he massaged your marked wrists with disturbing tenderness, it became clear that the iron chains had been only temporary, replaced now by the absolute will of a man who intended never to let you go again.

Before you could even think of reacting or trying to reach for the door, Lucky gathered you into his arms. He lifted you with frightening ease, ensuring the immense layers of the white dress made by Rockstar did not catch on anything. He settled you against his chest, one hand firm on your back and the other under your knees, treating you with the care one dedicates to a sacred treasure.

"Let's go," he murmured, his face illuminated by a genuine and terrifying joy. "It's time for everyone to see how perfect you turned out."

He left the cabin and began to climb the steps toward the deck. With every step, the sound of loud music, toasts, and the celebratory shouts of the Red-Haired Pirates grew louder. He walked with heavy, triumphant strides, carrying you into the torchlight and the approving gaze of the entire crew, ready to seal your fate before the infinite horizon.

When Lucky emerged from the gloom of the stairs into the vibrant light of the deck, the roar of celebration from the Red-Haired Pirates almost made you lose your senses again. The Red Force was transformed. What was once a battle deck was now a pirate gala setting: paper lanterns swayed in the wind, tropical flower garlands adorned the railings, and the aroma of the monumental banquet—Lucky’s final work to seal your capture—filled the salty air.

Lucky placed you on the ground with possessive delicacy at the start of a long red carpet that cut across the ship. Yasopp stepped forward, wearing a formal coat that looked strange on the marksman's body. He smiled at you, a look of "happiness for friends" that completely ignored your terror.

"Don't make that face, little one. You're joining the best family in the world," Yasopp murmured, offering his arm firmly.

He did not wait for your consent. Yasopp’s grip on your arm was like an iron hook disguised as courtesy, forcing you to walk down the improvised aisle. On either side, the pirates banged mugs and cheered, creating a symphony of mockery for your lost autonomy and adoration for the cook. With every step, the weight of the dress and Yasopp’s pressure pushed you closer to the altar, where Shanks waited with his cloak billowing and the smile of a satisfied captain.

Lucky was already there, positioned beside Shanks. He watched you advance with maniacal devotion, his eyes shining as Rockstar’s work floated around your legs. When Yasopp finally "handed you over," placing your cold hand into Lucky’s warm, immense hand, the cook leaned into your ear, his voice cutting through the noise with terrifying sweetness.

"Now there’s no more need to chase, little one. The wedding is today. And this time, I promise I’m going to be the husband you always dreamed of, even if I have to keep you chained until you’re convinced of it."

Shanks stepped forward, spreading his arms to silence the crew.

"We are here today not only to celebrate a union, but to welcome the woman our Roux so greatly desired," Shanks proclaimed, raising his mug in a gesture that seemed to seal the fate of the entire horizon. His voice, laden with the authority of an Emperor, made the very air of the beach vibrate. "From now on, she is not just a guest; she is part of our flag, under the protection and possession of the Red-Haired Pirates. Let this banquet be the first proof that, in this crew, we never leave a brother's wish unanswered."

"By the powers that this sea bestows upon me and the authority of this flag, I ask before all your brothers," Shanks declared, his gaze fixed on Roux, while the silence of the beach was absolute. "Lucky Roux, do you take this woman as your wife, swearing to keep her under the guard of this ship and protect her under our sky as long as the sun shines over the ocean? Do you accept to be the master of her fate, ensuring she never needs—or is able—to seek another port but yours?"

"I do," Lucky replied without hesitation, his voice firm as a life sentence.

Shanks didn't even look at you to ask for your consent; the silence of your shock was accepted as acceptance. "Then, I declare you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride, Roux!"

Lucky pulled you to him with a force that allowed no resistance, and the disparity between you was never more terrifying. He is a force of nature, an immense mass of muscle and heat that enveloped you completely; pressed against his chest, your head barely reached the middle of Lucky's torso, making you feel tiny, a porcelain doll in the hands of a 7'11 giant.

He leaned his massive frame over you, eclipsing your world while sealing your fate with an overwhelming kiss that carried the taste of victory. To Lucky, that contact was the pinnacle of romance; to you, it was the weight of a monumental man reaffirming that your personal space, your will, and your body now belonged entirely to him.

The moment he pulled back just enough for you to catch your breath, a rain of rice and white petals fell over you, thrown by pirates jumping and shouting in deafening ecstasy. The entire crew exploded into music, a sound celebrating the cook’s "conquest" while Lucky kept you glued to his broad chest, his hand covering nearly the entire side of your torso. He lifted you slightly off the ground, displaying you like a white silk trophy he had finally won.

The irony of the situation hit you like a physical blow. In any other circumstance, in any other life where your will was respected, that moment would be the realization of your deepest dream. The magnificent dress, the presence of the whole crew, the flowers of your land, and the man you once desperately desired... everything was there, exactly as you had imagined in your most secret fantasies.

But in this way, under the symbolic weight of the chains on your wrists and with your sisters left behind, the dream had distorted into a grotesque caricature. Their wedding party was, in truth, the funeral of your freedom under the insurmountable shadow of a husband who, overflowing with radiant and obsessive happiness, would never let you escape.

The ceremony proceeded like a banquet of cruel illusions. The Red-Haired Pirates turned the deck into an arena of jubilee, where toasts echoed like sentences of distorted justice. Yasopp raised his mug of sake, laughing loudly as he proclaimed that Lucky Roux had finally "given in to exhaustion," joking that the Kuja captain’s persistence had been so relentless that the cook had no choice but to take her to the altar.

Shanks, with a glint both amused and deadly in his eyes, raised his mug while speaking about how the years of "pursuit" had finally borne fruit. He spoke with biting irony, weaving a narrative where fate was the great architect of a comedic play; now you, the woman who had crossed so many seas after Lucky Roux, finally received the prize for your persistence: a permanent place by his side, under the unbreakable protection of the Red-Haired flag. To the men around, it was the perfect joke of a forced wedding in reverse.

"Look at that!" Yasopp exclaimed between roars of laughter, clapping the back of a possessively smiling Lucky Roux. "Our cook finally surrendered to exhaustion! Who would have thought the little Kuja would win by persistence, eh?" They mocked how Lucky was now "trapped" by such a dedicated woman, deliberately ignoring the hot red marks from the chains cutting into your wrists under the fine lace fabric. To the crew, the weight of the metal on you was not an instrument of torture, but the "matrimonial bond" you yourself had sought so much.

Every laugh from the pirates was a nail driven into the coffin of your autonomy. They celebrated the union as if they were rewarding your past obsession, treating the brutal kidnapping and the annihilation of your fleet as a mere gesture of "romantic surrender" on Roux's part. Beckman, leaning against the mast with a corner-smile, watched your trembling with clinical indifference, as if your anguish were merely the natural nervousness of a bride at the altar.

The Red-Haired pirates acted as if they had done you a favor by fulfilling your supposed dream, tearing you from your life as commander of Amazon Lily to turn you into the trophy wife that, in their distorted narrative, you always fought to be. It was a collective mockery, a chorus of powerful men turning your tragedy into a bad-taste romantic comedy. In their jokes, Lucky was the hero who finally "let himself be captured," while you were just the lucky fan who got what she wanted. While you suffocated in despair, the deck of the Red Force vibrated with the toast of men who decided your "yes" was irrelevant in the face of the crew's will.

This atmosphere of forced celebration tightened around you like a noose around the neck of a condemned man. You tried to step back, to find an inch of personal space on those wooden planks, but the massive figure of Lucky Roux was there, blocking any exit with the inevitability of a mountain. He did not seem affected by his comrades' jokes; on the contrary, he absorbed them with a satisfied smile, as if their derision validated his prize. With a touch that mixed the tenderness of a lover and the firmness of a jailer, he led you through the center of the deck, ignoring how his legs weakened even under the effect of Shanks' Haki

The pinnacle of the night came with the cutting of the cake, a five-tier masterpiece Lucky had prepared with the same obsessive dedication with which he had planned your capture. The aroma of sugar and vanilla, which at other times would be a comfort, now felt suffocating, mixing with the smell of rum and the sea spray. Before the entire shouting, encouraging crew, Lucky positioned himself behind you, enveloping your entire body. He held your hands with his, the heat of his immense palm covering your cold and trembling fingers to guide the knife together through the soft batter. To anyone watching from afar, it was the perfect picture of a zealous groom; to you, it was the exact moment the blade cut not just the cake, but the last vestige of your own will.

"Smile for posterity!" shouted one of the pirates, holding up a photographic Den Den Mushi.

The camera flash exploded before your eyes, blinding you for an instant and sealing that horror on paper. In that image, Lucky Roux was the height of radiant happiness; he displayed a wide, genuine, and victorious smile, his cheeks flushed from drink and the triumph of finally having what he desired. He looked like a man who had just conquered the greatest treasure on the Grand Line.

While the crew whistled and toasted the "photo of the year," you felt his lips brush your ear in an affectionate kiss, his warm breath contrasting with your cold sweat. He didn't need you to smile in the photo; the paleness of your face and the terror in your eyes would be interpreted by the world only as the shyness of a bride in love. To Lucky, that photo was not a record of a wedding, it was the receipt of his new property, static proof that no matter how hard you tried to heal and free yourself, he would always be the owner of the frame where your life would be enclosed.

In a gesture that, in a normal wedding situation, would be the height of domestic romanticism, Lucky cut the first slice of cake and brought the fork to your lips with deliberate slowness, his eyes shining with a devouring expectation that seemed to burn your skin.

"Eat, my beloved," he whispered against your face, his voice laden with a sweetness that felt more like an order than an invitation.

"You need strength for our night." He murmured with a tenderness so deep and distorted that it made every pore of your body prickle in an instinctive alert of danger.

He fed you forkful by forkful, dictating the pace of your swallowing as if he now controlled even the most basic processes of your body. His arm, a bar of muscle and heat, was wrapped possessively around your waist, crushing the fabric of the dress against your skin to ensure you didn't falter—or that you didn't even have room to tremble.

Each time the metal of the fork touched your teeth, a violent battle waged inside you. The cake was, without a doubt, Lucky Roux’s definitive masterpiece, a creation that defied your repulsion. The batter was of an impossible lightness, infused with an aged rum of the highest quality that brought woody notes and a sophisticated alcoholic warmth, tailor-made for the demanding palate of the Red-Haired Pirates. The sweetness of the vanilla and the potent touch of alcohol exploded on your tongue, and it was humiliating to feel that, despite your despair, your taste buds could not lie: it was the most delicious thing you had ever tasted.

You chewed under his watchful gaze, feeling the perverse contrast between the ecstasy of the palate and the nausea of the soul. Lucky observed every movement of your throat as you swallowed, smiling like a sculptor admiring the submission of his work. He knew that physical pleasure was a form of domination; and by feeding you with the best of him, he was marking your body inside and out.

To the pirates around, it was an idyllic scene of domestic affection; to you, every piece of cake offered by him was a forced acceptance of your new reality. Lucky wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb, a gesture of possessiveness disguised as care, smiling at the crew like the proud host presenting the rarest jewel of his collection.

Around you, the deck was a chorus of greedy approval. The pirates devoured their slices with savage enthusiasm, letting out groans of satisfaction between one gulp of rum and another. "Damn cook!" one of them exclaimed, wiping cream from the corner of his mouth.

"Lucky, if I knew it took a wedding for you to make a cake like this, I would have found you a bride myself years ago!" Laughter exploded again, and the crew toasted the perfection of that delicacy, celebrating their comrade’s talent while ignoring that the main ingredient of that party was your freedom.

Lucky squeezed your waist tighter, his fingers digging into the fine fabric with a possessiveness bordering on bruising, satisfied to know that, from that night on, there would be no more oceans or fleets between his desire and his definitive possession. There was something deeply disturbing in the way he watched you; a hungry voyeurism that fed not on the food, but on the sight of you being forced to process the pleasure he himself had cooked for you.

He saw you savoring the cake and reveled in the conflict showing on your face: the way your pupils dilated involuntarily at the taste of the rum and vanilla, even as your eyes overflowed with despair. To Lucky, seeing the muscles of your throat work in a forced swallow was a sight more intoxicating than any banquet. He savored the reality that now, even the sustenance running in your veins came directly from his hands; he was literally filling your emptiness with his will.

Every piece of your resistance was being replaced, forkful by forkful, by the sweetness and the strength he decided to impose on you. Lucky tilted his head slightly to the side, studying the curve of your neck and the trembling of your sugar-smeared lips, fascinated by the image of his "little" Kuja being tamed by the senses. He wasn't just sharing a meal with you; he was consuming your autonomy through a feeding ritual that was, in its essence, the first act of your new life as his absolute property.

His pleasure in seeing you accept sustenance from his hands was almost tangible, a satisfaction overflowing in his wide, filling smile. However, as the last slice of cake disappeared and the crew’s laughter became mere background noise in his mind, Lucky’s appetite changed in nature. The Red Force deck, with all those gazes and toasts, suddenly felt too small and public for the magnitude of the possession he felt. He no longer wanted to just feed you before the others; he wanted the silence only the cabin walls could offer.

Lucky consulted the horizon, where the last line of sunlight dove into the sea, and with a glint laden with dark anticipation in his eyes, decided the public celebration had already served its purpose. The banquet had been his declaration to the world; now, it was the moment to claim the most intimate part of his conquest.

"I think the bride is already tired of so much partying," he announced, his voice echoing with a cheerful authority that silenced Monster’s music for an instant before sparking a new roar of approval.

He again lifted you with the ease of someone carrying a trophy won with blood and patience. Ignoring the weight of your inert body and the trail of the white dress’s train dragging across the wood stained with sake spilled by now-drunk pirates, Lucky began the triumphal march toward his quarters. The crew hailed your passing with raised mugs and shrill cries; for those men, this was not a scene of kidnapping, but the hilarious closing of an inside joke that lasted for years.

Enthusiastic applause followed every step Lucky took, while whistles and double-entendre jokes were hurled in your direction. They mocked your defeat, shouting that you "had finally gotten what you sought so much," celebrating the cook’s happiness as if they were returning order to his world. While the crew laughed at your humiliation, Lucky pressed you against his chest, his firm steps climbing the stairs, leaving the noise of the party behind to plunge into the absolute silence of the wedding night he had so carefully orchestrated.

Upon crossing the threshold of his quarters, the boisterous joy of the crew was abruptly cut short by the heavy oak door, which closed with a definitive metallic click. The silence that followed was not one of peace, but of an unbearable pressure. Lucky placed you on the wide bed with a delicacy that contrasted terribly with the brutality of the ambush; a gesture of adoration that served as a shrill reminder that your authority and your strength as a Kuja commander had been buried under the weight of that flag. In that confined space, the title of warrior meant nothing.

He leaned over you slowly, his immense silhouette eclipsing the light of the oil lamps and plunging your world into a private gloom. In that confined space, the scent of gunpowder and expensive spices emanating from him was no longer the aroma of a savior, but a suffocating wall that invaded your lungs, leaving no room for any air that was not his.

Lucky was in no hurry. He observed you there, helpless and surrounded by the silk sheets he himself had chosen, with the look of someone who has finally realized their greatest dream. The heat emanating from his body seemed to radiate in waves, giving the impression that the room was closing in around you until the only thing you could see, feel, or breathe was the absolute presence of the man who had decided you would never see the beaches of Amazon Lily again.

"You know," he began, his voice low and vibrating as the sound of the party on the deck became a distant echo through the thick wood of the door. His eyes traveled, with an almost scientific fascination, over every detail of your tear-stained face.

"I've been thinking about all those letters you used to send at the beginning. Baby names, wool booties, detailed plans for our future... You were always so rushed, so full of certainty about what we would be."

Lucky sat on the edge of the bed, his weight causing you to roll slightly toward him, unable to fight gravity or his strength. He reached out to caress your face, his large, calloused fingers contrasting with your skin pale with dread.

"You were always so creative in those letters, little one... Choosing names for children who didn't even have a father yet, talking about wool clothes for the winter that never comes to Amazon Lily. It's a pity that Gloriosa taught you only half the lesson on how these things actually work."

He leaned in, his smile becoming something denser and more malicious, a shadow that seemed to swallow all the light in the cabin.

"She taught you to desire, but forgot to warn you that when you want something from a pirate with such force, we eventually come to collect. You wrote the script, darling. I'm just making sure we reach the end of the story. Now, finally, we can start working on all those names you chose."

Lucky leaned over you, his immense hands moving with a gentle dexterity that was at once fascinating and repulsive. He began to remove the veil, loosening the pins one by one as if he were unveiling a sacred secret. Each movement was slow, calculated to prolong the moment when he would finally have a full view of the bride he had manufactured.

"No need to tremble so much," he whispered, his fingers brushing your scalp as he removed the silk flowers Rockstar had pinned with such care.

"I waited a long time for this. Every detail, every ruffle of this dress... I watched it all being made while thinking of the moment I would be right here, taking it all off you."

He placed the adornments on the bedside table with an almost religious reverence, treating each accessory as if he were unpacking the most valuable gift in the world. For Lucky, there was no violence in that act, only the inevitable harvest of something he believed was his by right. He lowered his hands to your shoulders, feeling the texture of the silk under his calloused palms, his eyes shining with a satisfaction bordering on delirium.

"You wrote about our future for so long that it finally became reality, little one. The letters, the names, the plans... you gave me the map, and now I've finally reached the destination."

He slid his fingers along the closure at the back of the dress, the sound of the zipper going down muffled only by the crashing of waves against the hull of the Red Force. His smile never wavered; it was the smile of a man finally coming home, ignoring that the home he had built was, for you, a cage adorned with lace.

"Let's start our life now," he murmured, his voice husky and filled with absolute peace. "And I promise that, in time, you will thank me for being the husband who had the courage to do what was necessary not to give up on us."

He leaned in, the smile now filling his massive face as he undid the last tie of the dress with agonizing patience. Lucky appreciated every inch of skin revealed under the silk, lingering on the curves that, for years, he pretended not to notice. Back then, he was your savior; now, he was your owner.

"But don't worry, little one. Your husband is a master in the kitchen," he continued, his voice vibrating against your neck as he slid the fabric away from your shoulders. "I know exactly how to prepare the future you described so much in those letters. Every ingredient, every detail... I kept it all inside here."

He caressed your face with his thumb, a gesture of devastating tenderness. Once, in your years of youth and unrequited passion, you would have begged for that touch, would have given your life for that look of adoration. But now, under the light of the Red Force's lamps, his affection made you want to scream until your lungs tore.

"Since you asked so earnestly for all these years, I think it would be rude of me not to grant your wish," he whispered, his warm breath brushing your lips and the weight of his immense body pinning you against the sheets. "The master cook here has finally decided it's time to start the main recipe. Let's put that bun in the oven that you wanted so much, beloved."

He let out a short laugh, but there was no amusement in it; it was the sound of an ancient, voracious hunger he had finally allowed himself to feel.

Since the dress was already open, Lucky simply pulled the fabric down with surgical precision, pushing it away from your hips and allowing the white silk to slip to the floor like a withered, discarded petal. The sudden cold of the cabin hit your skin, but it was the sight of your own body that made your blood freeze. You expected to find the familiar leather and functional ties of your Kuja armor, but instead, you found yourself dressed in delicate, foreign lace that never belonged to you.

A knot of panic and confusion tightened in your throat as you stared at the underwear that now covered you—a set that exuded the luxury of the cargo ships the Red-Haired crew used to plunder. The realization was a blow more painful than any physical attack: while you slept under the effect of the sedative, unknown hands had undressed you, handled your inert body, and dressed you like a doll for the pleasure of your new master. Lucky watched your confusion with a satisfied smile, relishing the exact moment you understood that your privacy was the first thing he claimed even before you woke up.

Lucky was in no hurry, and the intensity of his gaze was almost physical, weighing on your body with the same force his hands would exert. He remained slightly back, his bright eyes traveling over every detail of your skin with a possessive adoration bordering on the sacred. To him, you were the finest banquet that had ever passed through his hands; the final, perfect ingredient he had waited a lifetime to savor.

For you, however, that scrutiny was a silent invasion, a stripping of the soul that made you want to disappear under the folds of the sheets. There was nowhere to hide under that amber light; every mark of your warrior lineage and every tremor of your skin was exposed to his appreciation. Lucky didn't just see you as a woman, but as his ultimate conquest, and the way he "devoured" you with only his eyes made it clear that, in that room, the concept of privacy no longer existed—only his sovereign will to know every secret you tried to hide.

The embarrassment burned in your face, hotter than the light of the lamps swaying gently with the movement of the ship. You tried to shrug your shoulders and cross your arms over your chest in an instinctive reflex of protection, but the massive weight of his body and the immensity of that cabin made any gesture of modesty useless. Lucky appreciated your discomfort as if it were an essential part of the seasoning, a sign of your vulnerability that he intended to mold with his own hands.

With surprising dexterity for a man of his size, he slid his fingers along your back, finding the clasp of the silk piece that supported your bust—an exotic delicacy Rockstar had brought from some distant port, so different from the leather bands of the Kujas. With an almost imperceptible snap, he undid the last barrier, letting the fabric fall and revealing you entirely to his hungry eyes. Lucky let out a heavy sigh, satisfaction shining in his gaze as he admired the nakedness he now possessed by right of conquest. He was in no hurry; to him, the fact that you had nowhere to hide was the final ingredient for your absolute surrender.

"Don't hide from me," he murmured, his voice thick as he reached out to touch the curve of your hip, claiming the territory his eyes had already devoured.

Lucky leaned in even further, the weight of his body creating a furrow in the mattress around you. He slid his thumb across your lower lip, still stained with the sugar from the cake, before whispering with a voice that vibrated like contained thunder:

"I memorized every line of your physical descriptions in those desperate letters, every plea you sent to the sea... but the reality is much tastier. For a long time, I forced myself to see only the girl I rescued from that hold, but today, before all my crew, I finally accepted the truth."

He paused deliberately, his gaze traveling over your body with a lust so dense it left no room for doubt; it was a slow appreciation, stripping you of any remaining dignity as a commander. With a calm movement, yet loaded with unquestionable authority, Lucky flattened his hand against your chest and gently pushed you back against the sheets.

The touch was soft, almost a caress, but the weight of that hand was a reminder that, under that flag, your strength as a warrior was nothing more than a distant memory. As your back sank into the soft mattress, you felt cornered by the immensity of him, projecting over you like a protective and possessive shadow. He didn't need to use brutality to keep you there; the way he forced you to lie down, treating you like a jewel that had finally been placed in its proper spot, was the final proof that your will was now subordinate to his desire.

"You are no longer that little child. You flourished into the most indomitable woman who ever crossed my path... and now I recognize you as such. My woman. My prize. My beloved. I let you run, I let you try to heal from me only to have the pleasure of seeing you break when I came back to claim you. And now, finally... you are all mine, and no one else's."

He slid the palm of his hand down your abdomen in a slow trail, until his hand stopped over the region of your womb with a disturbing reverence. There, he pressed lightly, feeling the heat of your skin against the immensity of his, as if he could already claim what he intended to plant in that space. The gesture was not just a touch; it was a silent and absolute promise that, from that night on, your body would no longer belong only to you, but to the future he had decided to create inside you.

His gaze was not just that of a man in love, but that of an expert before the work of his life. Lucky tilted his head, observing your short breaths and the way you tried to shrink back, as if he were deciding where to begin savoring that victory. There was a terrible patience in his gestures, the calm of someone who knows they no longer need to run because the catch is already on the table.

"You are a banquet, beloved... but a banquet like this cannot be served just any way," he continued, his voice dropping to an even darker and more velvety tone, vibrating against your skin as he leaned in to deeply inhale the perfume on your neck.

"A good cook knows that the order of the courses is fundamental. There is the exact time for preparation, the right time for the pleasure of waiting... and the inevitable moment of consummation."

He slid his nose along the line of your jaw, a slow gesture that claimed every inch of territory. "I spent years watching you from afar, seeing you ripen like a fruit I planted myself. And now that you are here, in my bed, under my hands... I will not rush."

Lucky let out a short, muffled laugh that made every last hair on the back of your neck stand up. "I will savor every drop of your despair and transform it into delight. I will serve you to myself, piece by piece, until nothing is left of that proud commander. At the end of the night, you will discover that your only purpose, your only function in this world, is to satisfy me."

He held your chin with a ceremonial delicacy, his large, warm fingers forcing your face up until you had no choice but to plunge into the immensity of his face. At that angle, Lucky's smile seemed eternal, a mask of radiant satisfaction where the light in his eyes never died, even in the face of your terror.

"But there is no hurry, my little one," he purred, his voice vibrating so close that his breath, warmed by the rum and the cake's sugar, enveloped your senses like a mist. "A good banquet must be appreciated with patience. We have the whole night for me to learn every curve of your new skin, and we have the rest of our lives for you to learn to be mine."

He tilted his head, observing a solitary tear that insisted on falling, and wiped it with his thumb with almost devoted affection.

"I will savor every second of this surrender of yours. Every tremor, every sigh of defeat... I will transform all of it into devotion. It doesn't matter how much you tried to heal from me in Amazon Lily; in the end, all roads always ended here, in my arms. And now that I've closed the door, the world outside has ceased to exist. There is only the two of us left, my appetite and your surrender."

His voice, which was once deep and grave, became a husky whisper that vibrated against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your entire body that you hated to feel. Lucky leaned in, the heat emanating from his massive stature enveloping your body like a heavy and suffocating cloak, while his large, experienced hands slowly descended to your legs. His calloused fingers caressed your skin tirelessly.

He stared at you, his eyes shining with a predatory satisfaction while his hand still rested, firm and warm, on your belly.

"As we are celebrating our wedding, I think it's only fair we start with the dessert," he murmured, his smile widening in a way that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

He watched you with the tenderness of a groom who finally reaches the altar, but behind that facade of adoration burned an ancestral and insatiable appetite. It was a glow that went beyond common lust; a visceral hunger that suggested that, for Lucky, just possessing you would not be enough. He looked at you as if seeking to memorize every curve and every tremor so he could then devour your essence entirely. It was the expression of a man who had found the only banquet capable of challenging his legendary gluttony, and the way his pupils dilated made it clear that he intended to savor that conquest until nothing of you remained that was not part of him.

Slowly, he reduced the distance between your bodies, his weight making the ship's boards and the mattress itself groan under such a presence. Lucky buried his face in the curve of your shoulder, allowing his heavy breathing to warm your skin as he savored your perfume one last time before the first bite.

"What do you think of starting with a creampie?" he murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating gutturally, loaded with a promise that made your knees weaken even before he touched them. His warm breath sent an electric shock down your spine, a prelude to what his hunger was about to demand.

Pulling back just enough to admire the damage his proximity caused, Lucky allowed his hungry eyes to sweep across the scene of his conquest. He reveled in the sight of your face, where the flush of embarrassment and pleasure merged into a deep crimson that rose through your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Your chest rose and fell in short gasps, the skin of your neck stained by a rosy map of excitement that betrayed your own body.

Satisfied with what he saw, he began a trail of slow and deliberate kisses, mapping every inch of this new coloring. Lucky descended from the curve of the neck where your perfume still intoxicated him, toward your bust, surrendering to the exploration of your breasts with voracity. His lips and teeth marked the sensitive skin in a torturously slow rhythm, leaving reddish marks that stood out against your nakedness. While he held one of the areolas between his teeth, causing a violent shiver, his free hand squeezed the other with a firm pressure between thumb and forefinger, as if testing the consistency of the ripest and most succulent fruit in his orchard, drawing a gasp from you that mixed agony and ecstasy.

Taking his time to appreciate each of your breasts, Lucky showed all the love he felt for your soft mounds with kisses and bites, alternating between sucking each of the areolas forcefully as if he wanted to give equal attention to the little twins. Roux suckled hard as if expecting your body to reward him with milk; all the abuse to your soft flesh left your nipples red and sensitive.

You writhed under his weight, your fingers alternating between sinking into Lucky's head to pull him closer and trying to push his broad shoulders away when the pleasure reached an unbearable peak. Disconnected whimpers escaped from your lips, betraying the immense pleasure you felt with his caresses. Your new husband, however, seemed oblivious to any protest; he acted with an instinctive determination, as if your body were the only sustenance capable of satiating a decades-old hunger, consuming you with a force that made it clear he would not stop until you were entirely marked by his possession.

Satisfied with the swollen and marked state in which he left your breasts, Lucky resumed the trail of kisses, descending toward the soft skin of your belly. For him, no pleasure experienced with another woman in any port in the world came close to the ecstasy of observing your flushed face and your delirious state; seeing the proud Kuja commander collapsing under his command was his greatest triumph and pride.

You already felt destroyed, your body vibrating at a frequency bordering on exhaustion, but Lucky's hungry look made it clear he was just beginning. He appreciated you with the patience of a master who prepared the ingredients for years and now refused to rush the tasting. The main course, the one he promised to be hot and capable of filling you entirely, still awaited the moment of your final capitulation, while he lost himself in the sweetness of your skin, savoring your defeat as if it were the most expensive wine in his private cellar.

The worst and most pleasurable part was that his dominance didn't need physical restraints; the very weakness caused by the sedative and the intensity of that attention made you feel immobilized under his weight. In a desperate reflex to maintain what remained of your dignity, you pressed your hands against your own mouth, trying to muffle the moans that betrayed you. However, Lucky noticed the gesture. He let out a low, husky laugh against your skin, relishing your attempt at silence, while he continued to map your body with the patience of someone who finally had all the time in the world to savor every inch of his new wife.

The cook distributed slow and wet kisses, descending in a torturous trail down your abdomen, savoring every involuntary tremor that ran through your body. He seemed to revel in the fact that, for the first time in years, you were completely speechless. You pressed your hands against your mouth hard, your nails digging into the skin in a desperate attempt to contain the sound of your own surrender.

Behind closed eyelids, a cruel battle was waged: the Kuja commander in you felt the weight of the invisible chains and the mourning for stolen freedom, but the woman who could never pull him from her heart burned under his touch. It was a humiliating paradox; the same man who had just kidnapped your future was the only one capable of making your blood run like fire in your veins.

Lucky noticed your internal struggle and, with a slowness that was pure torture, he pulled away from your torso to kneel between your legs, keeping his massive body like an anchor over the sheets. His weight on the bed made the mattress give way, trapping you even more in that dome of heat. With fingers that trembled slightly—not from uncertainty, but from an anticipation held for years—he slid his hands over the delicate silk with a calculated slowness, savoring the contrast of the expensive fabric against the roughness of his calloused palms, appreciating how the fabric was completely soaked. With a fluid movement, Lucky removed the last barrier protecting your almost nonexistent modesty, discarding the wet undergarment with an almost ritualistic reverence.

There was no rush in his gestures, only the solemnity of a man who had finally found the most sacred treasure in life. As the fabric slipped off your skin and was lost somewhere on the bedroom floor, you felt disarmed in a way that no battle in Amazon Lily ever allowed. Under his fixed and dense gaze, nakedness was not just physical; it was the final stripping of your resistance, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to the appetite of a master who now knew every inch of the territory he had just conquered.

When he finally leaned in, depositing an ironically chaste kiss on the most obscene and soaked part of your body, the hatred for the trap was momentarily smothered by an old and hungry love. He did not stop there; he began a sequence of quick and incessant kisses, a cadence that varied between superficial touches and agile licks that transformed your intimacy into a field of pleasurable torture.

The invasion of his tongue, large, warm, and endowed with a technical experience only a man like him could possess, was the final blow to your resistance. The direct and deep contact transformed your tears of frustration into moans of a desire so raw that even your hands pressed against your mouth were unable to muffle the sound of your surrender. In that instant, capitulation was not just physical; it was the warrior's soul accepting that, in that sea of pleasure caused by lust, Lucky Roux was the only master her body recognized.

His body, massive and warm, vibrated against yours when Lucky felt your deepest shudder, gathering each of your spasms as if it were a personal trophy. With a calculated slowness, he slid his torso up, pulling back just a few centimeters so the heat of his breath hit your sensitive and pulsing clitoris, keeping the tension at the limit of the bearable. He stared at you with a flash of triumph in his eyes, his hands firm holding and squeezing your thighs with a strength that would leave marks, while he remained there, motionless, savoring the sound of your defeat and the perfume of your surrender that now permeated the cabin air.

"I guarantee that the filling will be exactly as you imagined in all those letters, wife," he murmured, his husky voice vibrating against your intimacy. "Hot and made to fill you completely. But before that, I want to taste the pure ingredients; I want to feel every gram of your sweetness before making you mine forever."

He sealed the words with a deep and devastating open-mouthed kiss on the most delicate part of your body, a gesture that claimed not just your skin, but the very essence of your soul. It was clear, in the heat of that contact, that the wedding banquet was just beginning; he moved forward with a predatory patience, decided not to let even a crumb of your resistance remain. Lucky sucked, bit, and consumed your juices of love with the same voracity with which he faced storms: with a hunger that seemed to have been accumulated by decades of waiting and a physical devotion that admitted no room for "no."

With every touch, every invasion of his lips and hands, Lucky dismantled your defenses with the precision of someone tasting the rarest and most coveted banquet of their existence. The pleasure, dense and hallucinating, rose through your body like a tide of fire, settling in the center of your being and making your womb tremble in spasms you could no longer govern. The anger that once sustained your pride was melted by the heat of that tongue and the pressure of those hands, transforming into a trembling and hungry sigh.

He savored you with a reverent gluttony, exploring every curve and every secret kept with a possessiveness that made you burn. Under his domain, your scream broke the silence of the cabin without any shame, a sound that mixed the agony of capitulation with the ecstasy of reunion. Lucky didn't just seek your peak; he was mapping his territory, ensuring that before the sun dared to touch the sea, there wasn't a single inch of your skin that wasn't marked by his fire. You were no longer just a woman or a commander; you were the essence he consumed to finally feel complete, lost in a domain where your only will was his.

As the couple lost themselves in the confines of the cabin consummating the union, the deck of the Red Force vibrated in a celebration that ignored the passing hours. The barrels of sake, once stacked, were emptied with a triumphant ferocity, serving as fuel for the crew's ecstasy. Binks' Sake echoed through the dark waters, mixing with the roar of the waves in a symphony celebrating the capture.

It wasn't just a party; it was the sound of victory for a crew that had taken what it wanted. Bonk Punch's thunderous laughter and the constant toasts of a drunk Gab created a sound barrier that drowned out any trace of the outside world, sealing the fate of that forced union. For the Red-Haired Pirates, Lucky's triumph was everyone's triumph, and that night's soundtrack served as a constant reminder that, in their domain, a companion's wish was absolute law.

Shanks was leaning back against the railing, watching the moon with a satisfied smile, while Yasopp and Benn Beckman shared a bottle near the main mast.

"I bet ten million berries the first one is born with the father's appetite," Yasopp laughed, wiping drink foam from his face. "Knowing Roux, he won't rest until he has a table full of children as big and hungry as he is."

"If they inherit the mother's beauty and Lucky's strength, the deck will be too small in a few years," Beckman commented pragmatically, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke from his cigarette. "But it's a good future for the crew. New blood from a strong lineage."

Limejuice let out a laugh so loud that part of the sound came through his nose, taking another slice of cake and refilling his mug with more sake while watching the cabin door with a glint of hilarity.

"The problem will be if girls are born," he added, his voice choked with laughter. "If they take after the mother's stubbornness, the Red Force will be chaos. Just imagine: in a few years, we'll have the entire crew crossing the Grand Line in relentless pursuits, just to capture husbands for them. Exactly like their mother did with Lucky, right? They'll just be following the family example."

The joke sparked a new wave of laughter among the pirates, who banged their mugs on the ship's wood, delighted by the image of a new generation of "hunters" arising from that union. They celebrated the idea with a devoted enthusiasm, as if toasting a blessed heritage that would be passed down.

In the drunk and cruel narrative of the crew, future daughters would not just be warriors; they would be educated under the "brilliant example" of the mother. Limejuice and the others laughed imagining the girls growing up on a deck where the greatest life lesson would be observing how an indomitable commander was reduced to a captive wife.

Irony hung over the Red Force like the toxic smoke from Beckman's cigarette: the "pursuit" that was once the symbol of your youthful passion was now used by the pirates as the joke that justified your Kairouseki collar. For the crew, there was no tragedy; only the natural evolution of a conqueror who had finally found her "rightful place" under Lucky's domain. They toasted the future of these children, who would learn from the cradle that the pinnacle of a woman's existence was to be the prey that, finally, gratefully accepts the cage of her predator.

It was the final mockery against your Kuja lineage: the promise that any daughters of yours would not inherit the freedom of the amazons, but rather the vocation to be the next prize in a pirate's banquet. The men's laughter echoed across the deck, mixing with the sound of the waves, as they celebrated the end of an era of independence for you. The joke about the "lineage" was the final nail in the coffin of your warrior identity; for the crew, your kingdom now began and ended within the limits of Lucky Roux's bed.

Gradually, the euphoria of the jokes gave way to a contemplative silence among the higher-ranking officers. The glow of the Red Force's lanterns seemed small against the dark vastness of the ocean now surrounding them. Yasopp's gaze, usually focused on his weapon's sight, then drifted from the center of the banquet and turned toward the opposite horizon, in the direction where the other Amazon Lily fleets had been left behind.

"And what about the Empress?" asked the marksman, lowering his voice. "Do you think she'll accept the 'deal'?"

Shanks let out a short laugh, a dry sound that carried no trace of doubt. He swirled the liquid in his mug, watching the reflection of the flames in the rum before continuing.

"Boa Hancock is smart. She knows the price of peace is silence, and she values her own neck enough not to make bets she can't win," Shanks commented, his voice dropping to a tone of absolute authority.

"The deal was clear: we offer her the survival of her island. In exchange, she delivered what Lucky desired. It wasn't a request, it was a protection transaction. She understood perfectly that if rescue fleets appeared, there would be no second negotiation. The Red Force's firepower wouldn't leave one stone upon another, and the Empress herself would discover what happens to those who refuse to pay a Yonkou's tribute."

He took a slow sip, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he still saw the island of the amazons still trembling under the shadow of his flag.

"We ensured that Amazon Lily remained intact and that its warriors were not decimated or put in chains in the slave market. The sacrifice of a single commander for an entire kingdom... Hancock is too pragmatic a leader to refuse such a vantageous deal. She won't bother us; she knows her silence is what keeps Amazon Lily's sky clear of gunpowder."

"A fair trade," Yasopp concluded, raising his mug toward the groom's cabin. "She keeps her kingdom, and Lucky keeps his queen. In the end, everyone got what they wanted, didn't they?"

The pirates toasted in unison, the triumphant laughter echoing over the ship's wood and getting lost in the vastness of the ocean. Below them, however, the cook's cabin knew no silence; the environment was saturated with the muffled sound of your moans and Lucky's feverish proclamations of love, whispering promises of a lifetime of possession between every touch.

Your fate had already been sealed in that confined space, protected by a pact of blood and convenience that ensured no one, not even your own people, would come to your rescue. While the crew feasted above, Lucky Roux claimed every inch of your skin with religious devotion, transforming the cabin into a sanctuary where your will ceased to exist to make way for his absolute satisfaction.

END

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm sorry for the delay, I was supposed to post on Saturday but I didn't have time because of college, my exams are next month so I have to revise everything

On Sunday I decided to rewrite everything after the cake cutting scene; it's practically an idea I had in the middle of the night. Between rewriting to make everything cohesive and doing other tasks, I ended up not being able to post on Sunday

It's my first time writing smut (even if it's slight) so I'm accepting all the constructive criticism you think I should receive, something like if it's unrealistic, confusing, etc. (although the One Piece characters are huge so any writing about sex would be kind of unrealistic 🤣)

Now I'm going to focus on finishing the Shanks series and writing a request about Marco that I received. Know that my inbox is open for requests and questions.