Lady Of The Heart Pirates

The docks smelled of tar and brine, gulls wheeling overhead, the wreckage of Dressrosa’s long night still clinging to the streets behind you. You sat on a crate with your arms wrapped around yourself, watching the tide slap against the piers. Bepo stood nearby like a sentry, his fur catching the gold wash of late sunlight, ears flicking at every sound.

He noticed your gaze first. “You keep staring at me,” he said without offense.

You startled, then exhaled a shaky laugh. “I know. I’m sorry. I think I’m still in shock.”

Amber eyes blinked down at you. “Because I am a Mink?”

“That’s part of it,” you admitted. “But it’s everything, really. I was a doll for… years. One day back as a human, and suddenly Doflamingo is gone, Law’s alive with the Strawhats, and now there’s a talking polar bear who more or less carried me out of a medical tent and says I belong on a pirate ship.”

You pressed your palms to your face, the words spilling faster than you meant them. “It feels like I closed my eyes as porcelain and woke up in someone else’s life.”

Bepo shifted, lowering himself onto his haunches so you were almost eye to eye. His fur bristled faintly in the breeze. “It is your life,” he said. “It just changed while you were gone. That is not your fault.”

You looked at him helplessly. “Do you even know me?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “The crew has always known about you. The captain talked about you, even if he did not mean to. We knew there was someone he could hear sometimes. Someone who steadied him when he was quiet too long.”

The bond in your chest gave the faintest tug then, a whisper of Law’s presence through the corridor you had both tried so often to ignore. 

You wanted to ask more, but you were interrupted. 

The water surged and hissed, and then something vast rose from beneath the waves. At first, you thought it was some strange sea beast breaching, until the sun caught on smooth yellow steel. The bright vessel emerged in full, water streaming down its sides, the black-and-white jolly roger glaring proudly from its hull.

You stood so quickly that the crate behind you toppled. “It’s… It’s a ship,” you stammered, then corrected yourself. “No, not a ship. That’s—”

“A submarine,” Bepo supplied. His whiskers twitched as if he were holding back a smile.

You stared, eyes wide as the dome-shaped deck cleared the surface. A hatch groaned open, and shouts from the crew spilled out, voices carrying across the dock. You barely heard them. “A submarine. You have a submarine with a pirate flag. I didn’t even know pirates could have things like that.”

Bepo tilted his head, quietly amused at your wonder. You reminded him of a child gazing out at the world beyond their home city, breathless with discovery. It struck him as funny that the captain’s soulmate—the one person tied to him in a way no one else could be—looked at the Polar Tang not with fear, but with open-mouthed awe.

You glanced up at him, still dazzled. “You live on that? Under the sea?”

“Yes,” he said. His ears flicked, and this time he didn’t bother to hide his grin. “You should see your face.”

You flushed, but you couldn’t help smiling back. “I can’t help it. I thought I was just going to wake up and find everything back the way it used to be. Instead, it feels like I stepped into a story.”

Bepo’s chest rumbled with quiet laughter. Law could be cold, sharp as a blade when he spoke, and more often than not, his words pushed people away. But Bepo thought something was fitting about this: that his captain’s other half would be someone who carried light in her voice, who looked at the impossible and saw wonder instead of dread.

“It is good,” he said at last, gentler now. “The captain needs someone like you. He has always been drawn to kind people. To people who remind him that not everything in the world is cruel.”

The Polar Tang bobbed at the dock, its great bulk dripping brine, crew already waving you over. You exhaled slowly, heart racing, and for the first time since waking from porcelain, you felt a spark of something bright and unshaken. Maybe you could belong here. Maybe Law was not so far away after all.

The Polar Tang’s hatch cracked open with a hiss, and the first faces you saw were a man in a round cap and another in heavy goggles. Both leaned casually against the opening, grins spreading the instant their eyes landed on you standing beside Bepo. They were wearing white, as opposed to his orange, though both jumpsuits were undoubtedly the uniform for pirates.

“Well, well,” the one in the killer whale cap drawled. “So it’s true.”

“Captain’s soulmate,” A man with a penguin hat finished, voice laced with mock reverence. “Didn’t think she’d look this sweet. Guess opposites really do attract.”

You froze, unsure whether to be flattered or insulted. Their laughter didn’t help. It was easy, teasing, the kind that rolled right over your startled expression.

Bepo’s ears flicked back. “Penguin. Shachi. Stop it.” His tone was quiet but firm.

The two only shrugged in unison. 

“We’re just saying hi,” Penguin said, though his grin didn’t soften.

“Yeah,” Shachi added. “Captain never told us you’d be this… normal. Thought we’d be dealing with another broody type like him.”

That finally snapped your tongue loose. “I’m right here, you know.”

The pair blinked, then snickered again, more delighted than apologetic. It made your face heat, though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or nerves.

Bepo stepped forward so his shadow cut across them both. “She’s had enough today. Show some respect.”

That earned him a pair of exaggerated salutes as Bepo gently led you to the back of the ship, where a ladder led to the porthole.

“Aye aye, First Mate,” Penguin said, only half serious.

“Alright, alright,” Shachi muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Welcome aboard, Miss Captain’s soulmate. You’ll get used to us.”

“Or you’ll go crazy trying,” Penguin put in, earning himself a swat from Bepo’s paw.

The clang of boots echoed deeper inside, someone shouting about ballast adjustments, and the moment broke. Shachi jerked his thumb toward the hatch. “C’mon. Better get her below before the dock rats start gawking. This isn’t a tourist attraction.”

You hesitated at the rim of the opening, staring down into the dim glow within. The air that drifted up smelled of oil, steel, and something faintly herbal, like disinfectant. Penguin and Shachi were already climbing down with practiced ease, their chatter bouncing off the walls.

Bepo rested a steady paw against your shoulder. “It’s alright. We’ll take care of you until Captain comes back.”

You swallowed hard, adjusted your grip on the rungs, and began the descent. The first step echoed strangely, the hull amplifying every sound, and then you were inside.

The Polar Tang’s interior was narrower than you expected, a steel corridor ribbed with pipes that thrummed softly with the steady heartbeat of engines below. Lights hummed overhead in a line, casting a pale glow that barely touched the corners. Voices carried in strange ways, bouncing down the length of the passage so you couldn’t tell where they originated until figures appeared: a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar at his chin, a woman in a jumpsuit with her hair pulled back, both giving you curious looks as you passed.

“Captain’s soulmate?” the woman asked bluntly.

“Yeah,” Penguin called over his shoulder before you could speak. “And she’s way too nice for him.”

That drew a ripple of laughter from somewhere further down the hall. Bepo gave a low growl, not angry so much as weary. “Ignore them,” he murmured to you. “They mean well.”

You nodded, still gripping the ladder rungs even though you were on a solid floor now. Everything about the submarine felt alien: the constant hum beneath your feet, the curve of the walls, the faint vibration in the air that made you wonder how deep they could go.

Somewhere far above, the hatch closed with a final clang. You were inside, truly inside, surrounded by the crew who had already known about you long before you knew about them.

And as the Polar Tang began its slow dive beneath the waves, you couldn’t decide if you were terrified… or finally beginning life. Your fingers itched to draw everything.

The air shifted immediately, cooler and tinged with the scent of machine oil, like the breath of some vast mechanical beast. You paused at the bottom of the ladder, hand still clutched to the rung, eyes darting along the curved walls that made you feel as though you were inside the ribcage of something alive.

The floor thrummed faintly beneath your boots, a pulse that came from deep in the engines. It was constant, steady, the kind of heartbeat you knew you’d start to hear in your sleep.

“Not bad, huh?” Penguin said, striding ahead with his hands shoved in his pockets. His round cap cast a shadow over eyes that gleamed with mischief. “She’s one of a kind. Only sub like her in the world.”

Shachi swept his goggles up onto his forehead. “Captain modified the layout himself. You’re basically walking through his brain.” He leaned closer, grin crooked. “Scary thought, isn’t it? Though you might find that familiar–”

Bepo smacked him on his head.

“Leave her alone,” Bepo said with a long-suffering sigh. “So, the Polar Tang has roughly four decks, excluding the observation deck on the top. You’re welcome to go anywhere. Currently, we’re on Deck Three, which houses the day-to-day necessities the crew requires. Below us is the mechanical deck, which, honestly, is kind of boring except to the mechanics.”

The corridor opened into the mess, where long metal tables bolted to the floor gleamed under the lights. The smell of broth lingered faintly, mixed with rice and something fried. You could hear the clatter of dishes being stacked, voices trading jokes in the easy shorthand of a crew who’d lived too long in each other’s pockets.

“That’s the mess,” Penguin said, jerking his chin toward it. “Don’t let Shachi near the stove. He nearly burned it down once.”

Shachi scoffed. “That was one time, and it was an accident.”

“It was spaghetti.”

“You can’t burn spaghetti!”

“You did,” Penguin shot back, and their bickering spilled down the corridor like background music.

You tried not to laugh, but it bubbled out anyway.

From the mess, they steered you toward the bunks. Narrow doors opened into tight quarters stacked with hammocks and shelves crammed with personal odds and ends: a deck of cards half-scattered, a pair of boots with the soles worn thin, a photo tacked up with tape that curled at the edges. The space smelled of sweat and salt, lived-in but not unpleasant.

“We boys all share down here,” Shachi explained. “Don’t worry, we’ll clear a spot for you.”

Penguin elbowed him. “Or we’ll stick her right next to you so she can hear you snore.”

Bepo’s paw came down between them with a quiet thunk. “Enough.”

From the bunks, they led you up to the second level.

“The medical bay and library are here,” Bepo said, opening the door. “You’ll find most of the crew are trained in medicine.”

The sharp tang of antiseptic hit you first, so different from the homely mess of the bunks. Cabinets gleamed under neat labels, instruments lined up in trays as if awaiting inspection. Even without Law present, you could feel him in this room. The precision, the order; there was no mistaking whose space it was.

“This is where the captain mostly works,” Penguin said lightly, though his tone carried a thread of respect. “He has a pirate study, but he’s a sucker for his crew and likes to be with us. Mostly.” 

You can’t help but chuckle as you look around.

You stepped closer to one of the trays, caught by the gleam of steel, the familiar chill of tools you had felt in visions down the bond but never touched. A shiver ran through you. You had spent so much time with doctors and around such tools that it felt homely.

Bepo’s voice drew you back. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. The Tang grows on you.”

The three of them waited while you looked around, giving you time to take in the narrow halls, the soft hum that pressed against your ears, the way the whole place seemed to breathe with its own rhythm. For the first time since waking from porcelain, you felt your shock give way to something else.

Wonder.

You turned, unable to hide the smile that had been pushing against your lips since you first saw the yellow dome breach the waves. “It’s incredible.”

Bepo’s whiskers twitched again, his quiet amusement almost fond. To him, you looked nothing like the captain: where Law’s eyes cut cold, yours widened with light. And that, Bepo thought, was exactly right.

The tour rewound toward the central corridor, the engines thrumming beneath your feet like a steady pulse. Penguin and Shachi peeled away at some point, after getting their fill of showboating.

Bepo pointed up the stairs, giving a brief explanation of the observation deck and the top porthole you had come in from. After, he brought you down to Deck Three, guiding you to the back of the sub, to a more secluded area. You were still caught between awe and unease when Bepo slowed in front of a sealed door marked with the Hear Pirate sigil. He almost seemed a little nervous, though, since he was a polar bear, you couldn’t really see that with any accuracy; you knew what nervous looked like on him.

“This is the captain’s quarters,” he said. His tone was careful, almost formal. “The captain said you can stay here during the journey. It will be safer and more comfortable than the crew bunks.”

You froze, staring at the heavy steel door. The air felt different here; colder, sharper, as though the walls themselves carried his presence. You could almost sense him, the echo of his thoughts always skimming the edge of your own, quiet for now but unmistakable.

The idea of sleeping in his space made your chest tighten. You shook your head quickly. “I don’t think I should. Law and I… we’re not like that. We’re friends, not…” You faltered, fumbling for the right word. “Not a romantic soulbond.”

Bepo blinked at you, startled. His ears twitched upright in a way that made him look more cub than warrior. “You’re not? I’m sorry. I thought—everyone thought…” He bowed his head, large paws flexing nervously. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to assume.”

You softened immediately, reaching out to brush his arm. “It’s alright. I just don’t want to disrespect the captain.”

A voice cut in before Bepo could answer. “She can bunk with me.”

You turned to see the woman leaning casually against the bulkhead, arms crossed, sharp eyes assessing you with the same calm she’d shown when you first descended the ladder. Her tone was brisk, no-nonsense, but there was a thread of kindness woven through it. “I’m Ikkaku. My room’s not big, but it’s clean. Better than cramping you with the boys, anyway.”

Penguin poked his head around the corner with a grin. “And safer. Trust me, you don’t want to listen to Shachi snore.”

Shachi’s muffled protest came from further down the hall. “I don’t snore!”

The laughter that followed eased the tension. You exhaled, grateful for the out, and gave Ikkaku a slight nod. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

Bepo still looked guilty, but his ears relaxed as he stepped aside. “Let me know if you need anything. I know you said that you didn’t have much, but I want to be sure you’re comfortable. And once again, I’m sorry for taking you like that.”

You offered him a smile, soft and genuine. “You don’t have to apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

He nodded and waddled off, looking a little flustered. 

Ikkaku waved you over.

“Let’s go. You can take a rest there, and then we’ll get you a jumper. I’ve got a spare few.”

And so it went.

Ikkaku was almost motherly, perhaps sensing how overwhelming this entire experience had been. She had a small room on the crew level, far from the others, with two bunks. Inside the room, everything was mostly bare, save for a set of lockers, a set of bunks, and a cloth placed over the light to soften its glare. 

“The right bunk is yours, and the sheets and blankets are newly washed.” She tilted her head towards the space, and you nodded. “Settle in. I’ll get you for dinner. Good news, Jean Bart is cooking, and he ain’t Shachi.”

You sat on the bottom bun, and she closed the door behind her as she left.

The Polar Tang hummed around you, steel and salt and cold, though the nearby vent let in a steady stream of warmish air.

The submarine rocked gently as it adjusted depth, the hum of its engines steady beneath the thin mattress. You lie on your side in Ikkaku’s bunkroom, staring at the steel wall, trying to ignore the faint vibration of pipes and your own restless thoughts.

The bond stirred. Not faint, not tentative this time. Law’s voice cut into your mind as clearly as if he were standing in the doorway.

“Why aren’t you in my room?”

You stiffened, cheeks heating though no one else could hear. The bond was deepening. You hadn’t thought about the room that deeply. “I didn’t want to impose. Ikkaku offered me a bed. It seemed… better.”

A pause. You could feel him assessing you, the way he did with patients, stripping excuses apart layer by layer. Then his voice came again, cool and sharp.

“Better? What do you think we are?”

Your throat tightened. You curled your fingers into the blanket, searching for the right words. 

“Friends. That’s what you see me as, isn’t it?”

The silence stretched. Too long. You thought maybe you had overstepped, that he would shut you out the way he sometimes did when he didn’t want to be touched. But then the bond pulsed with his reply, measured and deliberate, and almost amused.

“You think I dragged you onto my ship, let Bepo put you in the middle of my crew, just because I see you as a friend?”

The weight of his tone made you bury your face in the pillow, embarrassed and uncertain. “Isn’t that what I am?”

Another silence, this one edged with irritation. “Yes, you are my best friend,” Then, softer, but no less firm, “But you’re also my soulmate. Stop pretending otherwise.”

Your breath caught. The bond quieted after that, leaving you in the low hum of the Tang, heart hammering, his words circling in your head long after he withdrew.

The next thing you knew, you were sitting stiff-backed at one of the narrow tables in the mess hall, the smell of rice and broth in the air. The rest of the crew ate with the easy rhythm of people long used to each other, voices overlapping, bowls clattering. You had no idea where to put yourself in all of it. The food sat untouched before you, its steam rising.

Ikkaku noticed before anyone else. She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes narrowing as she caught you staring at your bowl like it might bite you. “Eat,” she said, blunt and unceremonious. “Captain already told us you can’t have gluten, so don’t try to trick us.”

“I’m not—” you started, flushed, but she was already scooping up a mouthful with her chopsticks. She looked across the table, steady and expectant. 

It wasn’t a request. You hesitated, cheeks heating under the sudden weight of her attention, and then leaned forward. The rice was warm, too salty, but it settled in your stomach like something you’d forgotten you needed. When you reached for your own bowl at last, Ikkaku sat back with a satisfied little smirk, like she’d just won a battle no one else knew was happening.

You had just started chewing, your first real bite since boarding, when Penguin slapped a crumpled sheet of paper onto the wall of the mess hall. 

“Decoration,” he declared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You glanced up, mid-bite, and nearly dropped your spoon. It was a wanted poster—Law’s—his face staring out with that cold, unbothered expression you knew too well. The ink lines caught the lamplight, his eyes narrowed as though he was already dissecting whoever stared back at him.

Shachi leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head with a grin. “There he is. Our glorious captain.”

Bepo’s ears flicked as he turned to look, his whiskers twitching. “It is a good picture,” he said thoughtfully, though his tail gave a slight, pleased swish.

“Good picture,” Penguin scoffed. “He looks like he just smelled something awful. That is not decoration, that is intimidation.” He jabbed a finger toward the poster. “Sets the tone.”

The rest of the crew chuckled, trading comments and banter, but you stayed quiet, spoon hovering halfway to your mouth. The sight of that poster made your stomach lurch. The world saw a pirate captain with a bounty high enough to shake kingdoms. You saw the man who had spoken into your mind like it was the easiest thing in the world, the one who had cut through your silence without permission or apology.

Ikkaku smirked, chopsticks tapping against her bowl. “Could have at least found one that was not so wrinkled.”

“It has character,” Penguin shot back, puffing up. “Besides, it is not like we don’thave spares.”

Your eyes widened, nearly choking on your rice. “Sp—spares?”

“Of course.” Shachi grinned at you, wolfish and teasing. “The captain is popular. Bounty images sell quickly, and the color posters are snapped up. He has a fan club, you know. Little ladies in every port begging for autographs. It drives the captain crazy.”

Ikkaku nodded with mock solemnity. “Mostly women. They collect his posters and sometimes send letters. I have seen them scream when they spot the sub.”

You blinked, mouth working before words came out. “He has… groupies?”

“Groupies,” Shachi confirmed, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Bepo gave a solemn nod, ears flicking. “I’venseen it. They shriek very loudly.”

Penguin slapped the table, laughing. “Oh yeah. You should see them. Swooning over his ‘cold stare’ and ‘mysterious aura.’” He deepened his voice in a terrible imitation. “‘Room.’”

The table erupted. Even Jean Bart cracked a smile, shoulders shaking with quiet amusement.

Bepo sighed heavily, paws folded over his tray. “You are exaggerating.”

“Not by much,” Shachi said, still chuckling. “Captain has his admirers. They would cover a whole wall with his posters if we let them.”

“Maybe we should,” Penguin added. “Floor-to-ceiling shrine, right here in the mess hall.” He threw his arms wide for emphasis. “Candles, flowers, snacks for offerings.”

The crew howled. Ikkaku leaned forward with a sly grin. “We could make a little donation box. ‘Support Captain’s Mysterious Aura.’”

Shachi pretended to swoon in his chair, hand over his heart. “Oh, Trafalgar-sama, sign my poster!”

Your spoon clattered back into your bowl as laughter rose around you. You sat frozen, trying to reconcile the ruthless man who had sliced into your mind without hesitation with the idea of strangers shrieking for his autograph as though he were some idol.

Penguin clapped his hands together, seizing the moment. “New rule. Every time we dock, we sell tickets for the captain’s fan meet and greet. That would fund the snack budget for months.”

Ikkaku leaned back, grinning. “Imagine the look on his face.”

You pictured it too, unbidden. Law’s expression shifting from calm disinterest to absolute murder, that sharp-eyed glare flattening the entire crew into silence. The image was so vivid that you had to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from twitching.

Heat flared across your cheeks before you could stop it. The thought of strangers fawning over him, hoarding his likeness like a treasure, made your chest twist in a way you did not want to name. You stabbed at your food with unnecessary force, trying to act as though it did not bother you.

Ikkaku’s gaze slid your way, sharp with amusement. “Careful.”

The others burst out laughing again, the sound filling the narrow mess hall, but you kept your eyes on your bowl, pulse thundering in your ears.

Penguin noticed. Of course he did. His grin widened like a shark scenting blood. “What’s wrong? Soulmate jealous?”

“I am not,” you shot back too quickly, too sharply. Your voice cut through the laughter, which only made it worse. The crew roared, the sound bouncing off the metal walls, and your ears burned hotter.

“Sure you’re not,” Shachi teased, waggling his eyebrows. “That tone was persuasive.”

Ikkaku laughed into her sleeve. “She nearly set her rice on fire, stabbing at it. Looks like jealousy to me.”

Bepo rumbled low in his chest, setting his tray aside. “Knock it off. Leave her alone.” His voice was quiet, but the weight of it made the others ease off, grins softening into snickers as they returned to their food.

You exhaled slowly, shoulders tight, spoon moving listlessly through the rice again. But when your gaze flicked back to the wall, to that wrinkled sheet of paper with Law’s steady, cutting eyes, irritation stirred in your chest all over again. The world could scream, swoon, and send letters if it wanted. None of them knew what it was like to have him in your head, words sliding past every wall as if they had never existed at all.

You tried to keep your thoughts to yourself for the rest of the evening, but apparently not quietly enough. By the time you crawled into the bottom bunk, pulling the blanket up like it might shield you from the heat crawling up your neck, Ikkaku swung into the room with the kind of stride that meant she had already decided your night was over.

She tossed her boots into the corner, climbed to the top bunk, and leaned over the edge with her chin in her hand. “Alright. What the hell is going on with you?”

You blinked up at her, caught like a rat in a trap. “Nothing.”

Her stare was flat. “Uh-huh. You’ve were staring at the captain’s bounty poster like you want to fight it or kiss it. Which is it?”

Your whole face went hot. “Neither! I just—look. I’m older than him. Three years. He probably sees me like… like a sibling or something. It would be wrong for me to even—”

“Sibling?” Ikkaku sat up so fast her head nearly smacked the ceiling. “Oh my god. You think Trafalgar Law sees you as a sibling?”

You flinched under her disbelief. “What else would he see me as?”

“His soulmate, you dumbass.” She threw her hands up. “We have literally been watching him shuffle around like a half-frozen corpse for years, and the minute he got a trace of you, he practically glowed. A sibling. Sun God Nika.”

You buried your face in the pillow. “It’s inappropriate—”

“Inappropriate?” She laughed so hard the bunk rattled. “No, you know what’s inappropriate? Pretending he would not drop everything, sterilize the entire medbay, and draft a fifteen-step consent form if you so much as breathed in the direction of his dick.”

You groaned into the blanket. “Ikkaku!”

She kept going, merciless. “I’m serious. The captain is repressed enough to turn celibacy into an Olympic sport. You give him the tiniest hint—just a little eye contact too long, or, god forbid, you touch his hand—and that man will start prepping surgical notes like: Step One: Remove pants. Step Two: Die of happiness.”

You wanted to crawl through the mattress and vanish. “This is humiliating.”

“This is reality,” she shot back, grinning down at you. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it. He’s obsessed. He does not talk about you, but we have all heard him when he thinks he is muttering to himself. He has that voice—you know the one? Cold, monotone, terrifying—and then it shifts when he says your name. Like someone handed him a puppy and told him it was medically necessary to smile.”

You sat up and hurled your pillow at her. She caught it, still laughing, and lobbed it right back.

“Face it,” she said, lying back down and tucking her arms behind her head. “You are not his sibling. You are not his friend. You are his soulmate. And if you ever gave him the green light, he would make a surgical checklist for sex so detailed it would probably get peer-reviewed.”

You groaned again, collapsing into the bunk with both hands over your face, praying the pipes would burst and drown you before morning.

The bond in your chest pulsed faintly, like Law had caught the outline of something through the noise of your thoughts. You clamped down hard, refusing to let him hear even a whisper of this conversation.

Ikkaku chuckled in the dark, smug as ever. “Good night, future Mrs. Captain Surgeon of Death.”

-X- Soulglitch -X-

The submarine had quieted for the night. The hum of the engines and the steady drip of condensation from the pipes above lulled most of the crew to sleep, but you lay stiff in the bottom bunk, still burning with secondhand embarrassment. Every time you closed your eyes, her voice replayed in your head, blunt and merciless: Step One: Remove pants. Step Two: Die of happiness.

Did you steal the poster when no one else was looking?

Perhaps.

Were you looking at it while Ikkaku showered?

You would never say.

You rolled over, shoving your face into the pillow, when the bond gave a sudden tug.

“Are you okay?”

Law’s voice slid into your mind, low and even, with that sharp edge that always made it sound more like an interrogation than concern.

You froze. Panic spiked immediately. 

“Please don’t. Don’t enter my mind right now. It’s unclean.”

There was a pause.” Unclean?”

You groaned into the pillow. “It’s your crew’s fault.”

The silence on his end was weighted. You could almost feel him frown. 

“What did they say to you?”

Your whole body curled tighter, mortification threatening to suffocate you. “Nothing you need to know.”

The bond crackled faintly with something you couldn’t name. Not amusement, not irritation, something in between. His voice came again, quiet but pointed.

“If it bothers you this much, then it concerns me. And if it worries you, it isn’t nothing.”

You buried your face again, willing the Tang to implode so you’d never have to face him. “Please. Just let me have this humiliation alone.”

But you could feel him lingering, stubborn as always. And beneath the weight of his silence, the bond pulsed once, steady and sure, like the beat of a heart reminding you he wasn’t going anywhere.

The bond buzzed faintly with his focus, the way it always did when he was dissecting your words like a specimen on a tray.

“What exactly did they say?”

You pulled the blanket over your head. “You don’t need to know.”

“You keep insisting that,” he replied, cool as a scalpel, “which makes me think I do.”

Your nerves frayed. The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “They were saying—things. About you. And me. And… about supposed fanclubs.”

There was a pause, sharp enough to make your stomach twist. Then his voice twisted, measured but unmistakably deliberate.

“Oh?”

Your soulmate, the kid who once insulted your linework so harshly you refused to draw for a week, was now a full-grown pirate captain with the kind of face that apparently inspired fan clubs. And you’d had him in your head for almost a decade without ever realizing he looked like that.

Asshole.

The bond was quiet while you spiraled, until his voice finally broke in. 

“You feel awfully snippy over there. Want to talk about it?”

You sat back in your chair, glaring at your desk like it had personally betrayed you. “…Nope.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m fine.”

A pause. “You’re never fine when you say it like that.”

“I said I’m fine, Captain Poster Boy.”

“...Is this about my bounty poster?”

“No.”

You shoved the stolen bounty poster deeper under your bed before he could feel just how fast your pulse was running.

“You’re being evasive.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” he said, almost purring with the certainty. “It’s fine. Most people get nervous when they find out their soulmate’s a dangerous man.”

“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, because no way were you finishing that sentence.

“Not what?” he pressed, and you could feel the grin in his voice.

You busied yourself by rolling over in bed. “I’m just adjusting to the idea that you command a submarine. And have a crew. And a bounty.”

“And a face you didn’t expect?”

You nearly dropped the pen. “Don’t push your luck.”

He chuckled; low, warm, and absolutely knowing. “You’re not the first to say it.”

“That there’s a fan club for you? Yes, I heard.”

“Oh? Did that bother you?”

“Not at all,” you lied.

He didn’t call you on it. He didn’t have to. You could feel his satisfaction humming in the bond, quiet but steady, like he’d just filed the entire exchange away for future use.

You’d told yourself you were over it. It was just a wanted poster; paper, ink, nothing more. You’d hesitantly pulled it out from your pocket, and uncrumbled it.

The sharp line of his jaw. The way his coat framed his shoulders. The tattoos peeking just above the collar, curling like they’d been inked there to draw your gaze. That steady, assessing stare; cool, confident, entirely in control.

You bit your lip, annoyed at yourself. You’d known him since he was ten, for god’s sake. He was supposed to be your grumpy, overcritical soulmate sibling…not this.

The bond shifted.

“You’re thinking about my face.”

You jolted in your chair. “…No, I’m not.”

“Liar.” His voice was quiet, low in that way that somehow made it worse. “Go on. Think about me.”

You swallowed, trying to turn back to your work. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you can’t stop. You have my poster, don’t you?”

“I am stopping.”

“No, you’re not.”

You pressed a palm to your face, trying to think of anything else. But the bond was warm now, present, his focus wrapped around you like he was leaning over your shoulder.

“If you’re going to picture me,” he said, calm as anything, “at least get the details right. I’m tall, which means I probably tower over you. I could probably lift you with one arm.”

Your breath caught, because you knew he could feel the heat rising within you, knew he was reading every flicker of thought, no matter how hard you tried to clamp down.

“…You’re out of your mind,” you muttered.

He stayed there, quiet and satisfied, like he had just claimed a little more space in your head than you had ever meant to give him. The silence was worse than words. Worse than his usual critiques.

Because it meant he knew.

And there was no way, absolutely no way, you could handle the sudden shift in how you thought of Law.

Not from the boy who had once snarled through every word, too raw and furious to breathe. Not from the boy whose sarcasm you had sharpened your pencils against for years.

To something else.

And gods, he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be… thought about like that. Not by you. Not when he was younger. Not when you were supposed to be the steady one.

You dug your palms against your eyes, muttering, “Great. Wonderful. Creeping on your younger, child soulmate. That’s healthy.”

The bond hummed, faintly amused.

You groaned. Louder this time.

Of course, he had heard that too.

You sighed into the connection. “What is it, Law?”

“You keep assuming things about me.” His voice was not accusing, but certain. “I think I need to clarify some things for you. Correct the narrative you are so insistent on holding onto.”

You paused mid-label. “…What things?”

“That I am not a child.” The tone was flat and matter-of-fact, but beneath it was something else. A ripple of irritation. “That you think, since you are older, that you should be the one guiding me.”

Your fingers tightened around the blankets. “You are younger.”

 The lantern in the hall flickered faintly through the crack beneath the door, throwing pale strips of light across the ceiling.

“So?” His reply was immediate, sharp enough to make your pulse jump. The faintest scrape of steel brushed through the bond, as though he had let you hear the edge of him on purpose. “You think that makes me less of a man?”

You rolled onto your side, clutching the blanket tighter, heart thudding against the mattress. 

“No. I just… I am the older party, and do have a duty to guide you.”

Silence stretched long and taut. The bond hummed in your chest, as steady and suffocating as held breath. You thought he might leave you there, locked inside your own words.

Then he spoke again, softer but no less confident.

“You keep assuming things about me.”

Your brows knit together, though he could not see you. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that I should be treated like a child. Or that you think you should not have thoughts toward me. Less than platonic ones.”

Heat flooded your face in the dark. You nearly curled yourself into the mattress, groaning into the pillow.“Please stop.”

He didn’t.

He did not. His voice came closer now, low and insistent, thrumming against your ribs. 

“You assume I’m not interested.”

You pressed your forehead to the pillow, muffling your voice. “Of course not, which is fine. You are more genius captain doctor than I am competent. Always planning, always thinking. I still trip over things on flat floors. I am not your type. I am too old.” A nervous laugh shook out of you. “Too old for you.”

There was a pause that made your stomach knot. The silence was not empty. It pressed against you, filled your chest, lingered at the edges of your thoughts until you felt like he was lying in the bunk beside you, watching without blinking.

Finally, his reply cut through, low and certain. “You have no idea what my type is.”

Your fingers clenched the blanket. 

“Law—”

“Stop talking.”

The word slid through the bond like a command, and then your mind was not your own anymore. The shift was immediate, not just his voice, but also the sensation. Warmth. Pressure. The faint drag of callused fingers up the side of a thigh that was not yours until suddenly it was. A hand at your jaw, steady and certain, tilting your head just so. The weight of someone leaning in close enough for breath to stir the fine hairs at your ear. And behind it all, the very distinct awareness of height; of him standing over you, gaze sharpened, looking down with an expression you had never once imagined on his face until now.

“I want you too.” His voice was quiet, so quiet it felt like a mutter pressed directly against your ear, yet the certainty of it jolted through you like a struck chord. “So stop thinking stupid shit.”

Your entire body went rigid beneath the blanket. Heat flooded your skin, heart pounding as though it might beat its way out.

The images faded as cleanly as they had appeared, leaving only the steady rhythm of his breathing in your head.

“That—” Your voice broke, breathless, and you had to start again. “That was—”

“It was necessary,” he countered, his voice quiet and confident, almost a purr. “You were wrong. I do not waste my time on people who are not worth it. And you very much are worth it.”

You curled tighter beneath the blanket, shaking, trying to smother the rush of sensation that still burned across your skin. No amount of clenching your eyes shut could undo the imprint of callused fingers, the tilt of your jaw beneath his imagined hand, or the echo of his words still thrumming in your chest.

You swallowed hard, breath catching. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he said without hesitation. “And I will. Until you stop pretending you do not want me back.”

And then, he let out a groan. One that made no mistake of just what he was currently doing.

You slapped your hands over your face. “Are you—?!”

And then the bond shifted again, not with words but with sound; low, guttural, and intimate. A groan that made no mistake of what he was doing on his end, the vibration of it sliding through your ribcage until your stomach flipped.

You slapped your hands over your face, muffling a strangled cry. “You can’t—?!”

His breath dragged across the bond, shuddering and deliberate. The bond pulsed, thick with heat, carrying the deep, pleased sound of his voice. It was not loud. It did not have to be. It was steady, controlled, and pitched low enough to curl tight in your gut. “Go ahead. Picture someone else now.”

“Law—!” Your protest cracked, high and unconvincing, burning with mortification.

“No?” His tone was maddeningly calm, every word deliberate. “You can’t now,” he said finally, his voice rougher now, frayed at the edges. “Because you want to picture me.”

Your heart stuttered, slamming against your ribs so hard you thought he might feel it himself.

You were frozen, every nerve lit, heart pounding so hard it made your ears ring. “You can’t just do that—”

“I can,” he interrupted smoothly. His voice in the bond was silk pulled tight, threaded with steel. “And I am. And I’m thinking of you. I am not your harmless little brother, and I have every intention of making you stop treating me like one.”

“This is— you’re—” The words tangled in your throat, because language was failing you.

“You’re far more shy than I am,”  he murmured, almost fond, though the heat beneath it betrayed him, “and too damn naive. Don’t test my desire.”

You tried to shove the bond closed, but it was useless. He was in too deep now, his presence heavy and sure, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Every attempt to push him out only made him anchor deeper, quiet and unmovable, as if he were braced inside you.

“Think about me next time you’re deciding on who to think about”, he said at last, voice dropping lower, darker, curling against the inside of your skull like smoke. “Better yet, just look at my poster to please yourself.”

Your whole body went hot beneath the blanket. “Stop teasing me!”

The bond pulsed once, hard enough to make you gasp. His words followed immediately, rich with intent. 

“Yeah, I am. Because that’s all I can do right now.”

Your breath caught hard in your chest, and before you could even form a reply, his presence snapped shut; clean and final, like a door locked from the other side. The bond went quiet, leaving you alone in the bunk with your face burning, and water bubbling by the porthole, utterly oblivious to the way your world had just tilted sideways.

You pressed both hands over your face, muffling a groan. “I can’t believe you,” you whispered into the pillow, though the hammering of your heart said otherwise.

The silence stretched on, almost cruel in its normalcy. You could hear the faint rumble of the sub’s engine, the soft clink of pipes, the shuffle of someone’s boots passing in the corridor outside. Every ordinary sound seemed wrong, like the world should not be continuing when your insides were still burning from the weight of his voice.

You clamped both hands over your mouth, as though that could block him out. “You’re impossible. You’re supposed to be serious.”

He gave a low hum in your mind, almost a chuckle, but too restrained to be careless. “Serious doesn’t mean celibate. You’ll learn that eventually.”

You shivered under the blanket, heart hammering so hard you wondered if he could hear it through the bond. “You’re being mean to me.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy enough to make your breath hitch. Then his voice returned, pitched lower, threaded with something dark and sensual that curled hot in your stomach. 

“You’ll know when I’m being mean, because you won’t have panties on.”

Your entire body went stiff, heat slamming through you so suddenly you thought you might combust. “Sir!” The word came out strangled, scandalized, more plea than protest.

The bond vibrated with the quiet satisfaction of his amusement, the sound like velvet dragging slowly across one's skin. He did not press further, but his presence lingered, steady and unyielding, until you had no choice but to curl tighter in the bunk, burning from the inside out.

You couldn’t help it.

But your thoughts betrayed you. They lingered on the sharp ink of his eyes on that poster. On the weight of his voice when it was directed only at you. On the way, he could command a room without ever raising his tone.

Your fingers drifted before you could stop them, trailing down your body. Surely, just once wouldn’t hurt—

The bond surged, snapping open like a current, and suddenly Law was there. Not the faint hum you were used to, but present, heavy, sliding into your awareness until it felt like he was sitting at the edge of your bunk.

He saw.

You froze, heat flooding you, your hand stilling instantly. The shock of being caught made your throat lock, but his presence only pressed closer, wrapping around you until you swore you could feel the weight of his gaze.

There was silence on his end; stunned, sharp, but not disapproving. Then his voice, low and unhurried. “…Finally.”

“Law—” Your breath caught, the sound muffled against the pillow.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”His tone carried no shame, only the kind of satisfaction that came after patience was rewarded.

The bond pulsed, not with words but with the weight of his awareness bearing down on you, steady and invasive. You could feel him cataloguing everything: your quickened pulse, the shallow drag of your breath, the heat spreading through your body. He drank in your fluster like it was precisely what he had been anticipating all along.

Your heart pounded, throat tight. 

“This isn’t— I didn’t—”

“Don’t stop now,”  he said. Not an order, not exactly. More like an invitation. Permission. “You’re already thinking about me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head, but it was useless. The bond held steady, his focus unrelenting, like a warm tide pulling you deeper whether you wanted it or not.

“Let me see you,” he urged, his voice softer now, a whisper that brushed against your skin like a hand. “I want to feel if your fingers fit as well as mine would.”

A choked sound escaped you. Holy shit.

Your mind betrayed you further, conjuring the precise image of those long, deft surgeon’s hands—inked hands that had healed and cut and stitched—sliding slowly against your skin with devastating certainty. The picture was so vivid you could feel the ghost of his touch, callused and sure, dragging fire over every place you wished it wasn’t.

Your soul might as well have collapsed right then.

The bond pulsed heavy, hot, as though he had felt the exact image you conjured. His voice followed immediately, rougher now, frayed at the edges like he was holding back with gritted teeth.

You whimpered.

“Good girl,”  he breathed, the words threading into your nerves like silk. “Now imagine what I could do if I were there.”

Your body trembled. His voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t raised, but it was relentless. He was using the same precision he used on an operating table, only now it was you, undone beneath his scalpel-steadiness.

The silence between you grew charged, your breaths quick, his matching yours. Every inhale and exhale tangled until you could not tell which belonged to you and which belonged to him.

“We are not going to keep pretending,” Law said finally. His own voice was unsteady now, which terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.

You froze mid-motion, blood rushing in your ears. “Pretending?”

The pause that followed was short, but it crackled through the bond like electricity. When his answer came, it was low, steady, dangerous in its certainty.

“Pretending we are anything but exactly what we are. Soulmates. Wanting each other. And closer to breaking than either of us wants to admit.”

Your stomach flipped, your fingers clutching the blanket. “You can’t just say that like it’s—like it’s simple.”

“It is simple,” he replied, his voice dragging through your mind with surgical precision. “You want me. I want you. And every time you deny it, the bond just gets louder. You felt it tonight.”

You buried your face in the pillow, muffling another helpless sound. The bond thrummed like a pulse under your skin, alive with his focus, his intent, his hunger.

You swallowed hard, your chest tight. “You’re younger than me. You’re my captain now. You’re on the other side of the—”

“Three years is nothing. Rank is nothing. Distance is temporary.” His tone cut clean through your excuses, precise as a diagnosis. “Do not reduce what we are to circumstance.”

You pressed your palm over your eyes, every nerve screaming. “It isn’t that simple.”

“It is exactly that simple,” he countered, and this time there was no heat, no teasing edge—only the weight of truth. “I am not casual about you. I will never be casual about you.”

His words landed heavy in your chest, harder than any provocation, harder than the teasing that had left you burning under your blanket. This wasn’t play. This was Law at his most terrifyingly honest, stripping away every excuse until there was nothing left but the bond and the two of you tangled inside it.

Your voice came out small, barely audible even in your own head.  “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I am always sure of the most important things,” he said, and you could feel him lean closer through the bond, like the weight of his breath was against your ear. “I am coming for you.”

Your stomach swooped, heat pooling low and insistent, your pulse tripping over itself. You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, but it didn’t matter; his presence was inescapable, pressing into every corner of your awareness until you could hardly tell where you ended and he began.

Your pulse jumped, sharp and frantic. “You make that sound like a threat.”

“It is a promise.”

The bond carried the slow drag of his inhale, the steady exhale, as if he were memorizing the beat of your heart from miles away. Each breath seemed to synchronize with yours until it felt like he was lying in the bunk beside you, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own.

“You like me,” he added, quieter now, too calm to be deflected. “I am only giving you time to be honest about it.”

The bunkroom was still again, save for the hum of the submarine and the pounding of your own heartbeat, louder than the engines.

You lay frozen under the blanket, fingers clutching the edge of it so tightly your knuckles ached. Every word he had spoken replayed in your skull, relentless as a bell tolling in a storm. There would be no forgetting them, no untangling the way his certainty had unraveled you.

Law had just changed something between you that could never be changed back.

And worse, a part of you, treacherous and trembling, did not want it changed back.

The door creaked open. Cool air swept in with the faint scent of soap and steam. Ikkaku padded in barefoot, towel around her shoulders, hair damp and curling against her neck. She dropped her things unceremoniously at the foot of her bunk and muttered, “Bath’s free,” as if the world had not just tilted on its axis.

You buried your face deeper into the pillow, hoping she would not look too closely at you, flushed and rigid under the blanket.

She climbed the ladder with practiced ease, the bunk above groaning as she flopped down. A sigh of satisfaction escaped her, followed by the rustle of sheets as she settled in. Within moments, she was humming faintly under her breath, unconcerned, untouched by the storm that had gutted you.

You lay there staring at the shadowed ceiling, pulse still racing, knowing that if she glanced over the edge and asked what was wrong, you would not have the words to explain.

Because how did you explain that your captain had just whispered promises into your skull that made your entire body ache?

You shut your eyes tight, praying for sleep. But even in the dark, the memory of his voice clung to you, patient and unyielding.

-X-Coming for that Ring-X-

The days stretched long under the sea. The Polar Tang moved with its steady heartbeat of engines, lights dimmed to preserve fuel, crew voices rising and falling in the narrow halls. To everyone else, it was business as usual. To you, it was torture.

Because Law had stopped being subtle about the way he felt.

At first, it was small things. A murmur in the bond while you ate breakfast, his voice curling low at the edge of your thoughts. “You keep licking your spoon like that, and someone else is going to notice.”

You nearly choked on your tea, sputtering into your cup until Penguin leaned across the table with a worried frown.

“You seasick?”

You had only managed a weak nod, face burning, while Law’s amusement hummed like a private current against your ribs.

It didn’t stop there. When you bent over to tie your boots in the corridor, his voice slanted through, smooth as smoke. “If you’re going to bend like that, do it where I can see you.” Your hands fumbled with the laces until Ikkaku bumped into you from behind, muttering about bottlenecking the hall.

Later, when you were helping Ikkaku stack supplies, his tone cut in again, quiet and deliberate. “Imagine me behind you, pressing you against the shelf. Tell me you wouldn’t melt.”

Your hands trembled so badly that you dropped a tin of rice. It clattered loudly against the floor, rolling under the lowest shelf.

“Careful,” Ikkaku muttered, stooping to grab it. Shachi leaned in from the doorway with a laugh, shaking his head. “Clumsy today, huh?”

You forced a smile, throat dry, while Law’s satisfaction hummed through the bond like a slow pulse.

You had taken refuge in Ikkaku’s bunk, clutching your pillow like a shield, the submarine’s hum pressing into your ears. The others were elsewhere; some asleep, some eating, some lingering in the engine room, yet the quiet felt dangerous, full of openings.

And then his presence slid in, warm and sure, curling through the bond with intent.

“I could map every sound you make,” he murmured. “Every whimper, every gasp. I’d catalogue them like notes in my journal, until I knew them better than my own pulse.”

You buried your face in the mattress, muffling the noise that escaped your throat. 

“Law. Stop. Please.”

“I won’t,”  not cruelly, but with a certainty that curled down your spine like heat through a wire. “I’ve been patient long enough; you’re hazardous to my health at this point.”

The worst was when you tried to fight back. 

“You think too highly of yourself,” you snapped once, cheeks hot, hoping your defiance might throw him off.

His answer came like a blade sliding into place. “Do I? Then why are your thighs pressed together right now?”

You bit your lip so hard you nearly drew blood. He didn’t need to see you to know.

And the crew started noticing.

Ikkaku smirked every time you came out of the bunkroom flushed, leaning against the wall like she already knew the whole sordid truth. Shachi and Penguin passed each other coins under the table, running some bet you didn’t dare ask about, but you caught them grinning whenever you stammered or fumbled. Even Bepo kept giving you sidelong glances, head tilted like he was debating whether to scold his captain through the bond.

Law, of course, ignored all of it. He carried himself with the same cold authority as always, steady and unreadable in the halls, precise in the infirmary, unflinching on deck. But the moment you let your guard slip, even for a heartbeat, his voice threaded into you like the steady pulse of the Tang.

“When I finally have you, it won’t be quick.” His tone was velvet-wrapped steel, low enough to catch your breath. “You’ll learn how thorough I can be.”

Your body betrayed you every time, flushing hot, pulse racing. The only saving grace was that he would always withdraw just before you unraveled, leaving you shaking in your bunk, gasping quietly into your pillow while the engines hummed like a second heartbeat.

By the time the Polar Tang was due to rendezvous, you had stopped asking yourself whether you wanted him. You were only asking how long you could survive this before he made good on his promise.

The Polar Tang cut silently through the deep, but there was no peace for you. Not with the bond open, not with his voice curling through every thought you tried to keep your own.

“You should be in my quarters.”

You groaned into your pillow, clutching it over your face. “Law, stop. Ikkaku was kind enough to let me stay. I can’t—”

“You can,” he cut in, his tone flat but firm. “You belong in my space, with me.”

Your throat tightened, shame and want tangling until you could hardly breathe. “It isn’t appropriate—”

“Irrelevant.”  His answer was immediate, as if he had already dismantled those excuses a hundred times before you spoke them. “Nothing else matters.”

The bond pulsed heavy with his certainty. You could feel it in the base of your skull, in the beat of your pulse, as if he were pressing each word directly into your veins. He left no space for hesitation, no room for the fragile defenses you tried to build.

You pressed your palms against your burning cheeks, wishing you could shut him out. But the bond pulsed again, stronger this time, and his voice slipped in, softer and more dangerous.

“Doflamingo is gone.”

The name made you jolt. He hadn’t said it aloud since Dressrosa, hadn’t risked the weight of it.

“He’s gone,” Law repeated, deliberately. “Which means I am free. And so are you. I will not waste this.”

You swallowed hard. “Waste what?”

The pause was heavy, the kind that made your breath catch. When his voice came again, it was like steel wrapped in velvet, slow and sure.

“Us. This bond. I want you in my bed, in my quarters, beside me while I work, while I sleep. I’d like you to stay on the Tang as we sail. I want to marry you. I want to make love to you until there is no doubt left in your mind who you belong to.”

Your whole body flushed hot. You curled tighter under the blanket, your heart trying to pound its way out of your ribs. “Law,” you whispered aloud, though you knew he could hear you through the bond just as clearly.

The silence stretched, charged and unbearable, until you felt him lean closer, his presence folding around you like a tide.

“Say it again,” he murmured, low and intent. “Say my name.”

Your throat tightened, your lips trembling against the pillow. “...Law.”

The bond surged, a visceral thrum of satisfaction that made your skin burn. His reply came like a vow carved into bone. “Good. Don’t forget how it feels. Because the next time I hear it, I want it while you’re under me.”

You gasped, clapping a hand over your mouth, but it was useless. He had already felt the shiver that ran through you.

He didn’t rush. He never rushed. His words came like the measured cut of a scalpel, patient and inexorable.

“You keep telling yourself you are too old or that it’s improper. But I know better. I know what I feel. And you feel it too, no matter how hard you try to deny it.”

You shook your head into the pillow. “You’re overwhelming me.”

His voice turned gentle, soft enough to slide under your skin. “I’ll be patient a little longer. But do not mistake my patience for doubt. You are mine. And I am yours. Please, go to my cabin.”

You had resisted for days. Every time he pressed through the bond with that steady insistence—you should be in my quarters—you answered with excuses. It was improper. You would be in the way. The crew would talk. Excuse after excuse, each one dismantled in silence, until they unraveled under the weight of his certainty.

And so, one quiet evening, you stood in front of the sealed door, Bepo’s paw warm on your shoulder as he keyed it open. He gave you a searching look, something like reassurance flickering in his golden eyes, before stepping back without a word.

The captain’s quarters smelled faintly of ink and leather, tinged with the clean sharpness of antiseptic that clung to everything Law touched. The air was cooler here, steadier, as if even the hum of the Tang quieted around this space.

The room itself was larger than you expected, lined with shelves heavy with books, medical texts stacked with ruthless precision. His desk sat against one wall, neat, with instruments laid out in a tray as though waiting for an invisible hand to reach for them. A few objects: maps, spare gloves, a lamp with its flame turned low. All hinted at a life lived here, but the rest was austere and efficient, with every detail carefully calculated.

And yet, the moment you stepped inside, the bond surged, warmer, heavier, as though the space itself carried his presence. You felt it wrap around you, familiar and inescapable.

But it wasn’t the books, or the desk, or the bed tucked neatly against the far wall that stopped you.

It was the wall opposite, flooded with light from a mounted lamp.

Every inch of it had been transformed into an artist’s haven. Racks of pristine paper. Cases of pens and brushes sorted by size. Jars of pigment sealed in glass, charcoal sticks sharpened to fine points, palettes waiting for hands to smear them into color. Even a tall cabinet that opened to reveal boards, drafting tools, rulers, and brushes was still wrapped in its packages.

It wasn’t the scattered collection of a hobbyist. It was complete. Intentional. A wall designed for someone who might lose themselves in it for hours, who could turn a muscle or bone into a map on paper, who might one day forget they were on a submarine at all.

Your throat tightened, words sticking. “This… this is all for…”

“You.” His voice brushed through the bond, low, warm, matter-of-fact. 

You turned sharply, searching the shadows of the room as though he might be there in the flesh, but it was only his presence through the link, pressed steady against your mind.

“You’re my soulmate. I see the work in your fingers, the way you translate the world. It belongs here in my crew. You belong with me.”

You stepped closer, your fingertips hovering over the unopened brushes and the heavy stock of paper. There were enough supplies here to keep you busy for years. It was more than thoughtfulness—it was foresight. He had been planning this long before he ever admitted it aloud.

“Law,” you whispered, unsure whether you wanted to laugh or cry. “This is… It’s too much.”

“No. It’s not enough,” he countered, quiet but immovable. “It’s only a beginning. When you draw in here, when you work, I’ll know you’re close. I want this space to be yours as much as mine.”

The bond pulsed steadily, like the heartbeat of the Tang itself.

You pressed your palm against the paper, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, overwhelmed in a way that had nothing to do with his teasing or his hunger. This was Law stripped bare. Not just Surgeon of Death, but man, soulmate, someone who had watched and understood and made space for you when no one else ever had.

The silence stretched, tender instead of tense, filled with the quiet hum of engines and the weight of his certainty. You could almost see him there at his desk, bent over his work, pausing only to glance up and find you at this wall, creating something of your own. The image lodged deep, unsettling and comforting all at once.

Your fingers curled lightly against the paper, your throat aching. “I don’t know what to say.”

The bond answered with a warmth so steady it felt like a hand at the small of your back, guiding you forward. “I had to. You deserve it.”

For the first time, you didn’t feel like a passenger on the Polar Tang. You felt like you had a place in it.

You had told yourself you could go without drawing. 

That it was fine, temporary, survivable. You were aboard a pirate submarine, after all; this ship was a steel machine meant for survival and precision, not for artists. You had been a medical illustrator once, your hands trained to capture the body’s hidden architecture, to make sense of bone and muscle in lines and light. But when Sugar had turned you into a doll, your life’s work had vanished. All the hours, the sketches, the instruments; scattered to the wind while you sat frozen in porcelain silence.

“After you were turned into a doll,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I knew your supplies wouldn’t survive. That everything you worked for would be taken or destroyed. So I prepared.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, blinking hard against the rush of heat behind your eyes. “You—you?”

There was the faintest pause before his answer, not hesitation so much as precision. “I always knew. Your hand is steady because it was trained to be. You see the body the way I do—structures, systems, patterns. It was never idle talent. It was work. Your work. And I won’t let it disappear again.”

You stared at the wall of supplies, overwhelmed, the ache in your chest threatening to break. You had assumed this part of your life was over, left behind in the rubble of Dressrosa. Yet here it was, carefully preserved, rebuilt, waiting for you.

“You think of everything,” you whispered.

Through the bond, his reply was quiet, but firm enough to steady your shaking hands. 

“I thought of you. You’re my assistant, my anchor, my North Star. I want you to follow your dreams, because it’s my dream to see you happy.”

The hum of the submarine filled the silence that followed, but the room felt impossibly alive, every tool a promise that the part of yourself you thought had been lost was still here, because he had known, before you even asked, to make room for it.

Your throat tightened, a tremor catching in your chest. You traced the edge of a brush case with your fingertips, careful not to disturb its perfect order, afraid that if you touched too firmly it might vanish like a dream.

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered into the stillness.

The bond pulsed, steady, sure, carrying his response like the weight of a vow. “You do. And more. You deserve someone who sees you. I see you.”

Your knees nearly gave, the ache in your chest blooming so wide it was hard to breathe. For all his teasing, for all his relentless insistence, this was what undid you most: his quiet conviction, sharper than any scalpel, that you mattered. That he would not let you forget it.

You sat hunched at the drafting table, the lamp throwing a golden circle over untouched paper, your pencil rolling slowly back and forth under your fingertips. 

For hours, you had told yourself you would draw, that you would test the feel of charcoal against clean paper again, but your mind was elsewhere. It had been elsewhere since you saw the wall of supplies. Since you realized he had thought of you even when you hadn’t dared think of yourself.

The bond pressed faintly at the edge of your thoughts, patient. You could feel him, always there, silent but present, like a hand on your shoulder. He hadn’t intruded, hadn’t teased, as though he understood you needed the space to breathe. But you also knew he was waiting.

Your pulse kicked. You set the pencil down and pressed both palms against the desk, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve. “Law?”

“Hm.”

The sound of him was maddening; clinical, precise, a syllable dropped into the bond like a scalpel on a tray.

“I…” You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table. “I think I’m probably in love with you.” The words came out thin, ridiculous, like you were a child confessing to a schoolyard crush. “Which is insane, since we’ve never actually met.”

The silence that followed was catastrophic. Your stomach bottomed out. You stared at the page as though it might open and swallow you whole. You had just confessed to a man you’d never seen in person. Who happened to be a pirate captain. Who also happened to be in your head.

Then, faint and unmistakable, came the sound you least expected: a chuckle. Low, deliberate, and utterly smug.

“You’re only just realizing it now?”

Your jaw dropped. “You—did you just laugh at me?”

“Hn.”

“That was a laugh!”

“It was an observation,” he corrected smoothly. “You’ve been circling the truth for weeks. I’m glad you finally said it out loud.”

You buried your face in your hands. “This is humiliating. I just opened my entire soul to you, and you laugh?”

Through the bond, his amusement sharpened. 

“Would you rather I send flowers? A serenade?”

“Yes!” you snapped. “Yes, actually! That would be normal!”

“We are soulmates on a submarine pirate crew,” he said dryly. “Normal is no longer available to you.”

You groaned into your palms. “This is so ridiculous.”

“Accurate,” he said, and you could hear the faint scrape of his chair, the quiet rustle of fabric. Then, maddeningly calm, “The timing of your confession is convenient.”

You froze. “What?”

“You’ll be meeting me soon—face to face.”

Every nerve in your body misfired at once. You dropped your head onto the desk with a thunk loud enough to rattle the pencil. “No, no, no. I can’t do that. You’re—you’re the Surgeon of Death. I’m—me.”

“Correct.”

“Stop agreeing with me!”

“You’re panicking,” he noted clinically, as if dictating a patient’s chart. “Your pulse is elevated. Respiration uneven. Prognosis: irrational fear of soulmate encounter.”

“This is not funny!”

“It is a little funny,” he admitted, and you swore you could feel the corner of his mouth twitch through the bond. Then, quieter, sharper, “Don’t think you can run. I’m waiting.”

The words sank deep, vibrating through your ribs. His presence steadied, patient but relentless, like a hand pressed firm against your chest to keep you from bolting. You clutched at the pencil as if it were a lifeline, your thoughts scattering like startled birds.

You lifted your head from the desk, hair a mess, face burning hotter than the Tang’s engines, and groaned out loud. 

“I’m going to die of embarrassment before we even dock.”

The bond pulsed with his faint amusement, a quiet hum that only made your ears burn hotter.

But beneath the mortification, your heart pounded so hard you could hardly hear the submarine over it. Every vibration of the Tang seemed synced to your pulse, the engines throbbing like they were mocking you with every beat.

Zou was close.

And so was he.

The thought was enough to make you shove the pencil aside and press your palms flat against the desk, as if bracing yourself against a storm. You could feel him on the other end of the bond—calm, deliberate, unyielding. Not teasing now, not pushing, only waiting. It was worse than anything else he had done, because it told you what he already knew: you weren’t going to run.

When the rendezvous came, you would face him. There would be no more excuses, no hiding in borrowed bunks or muttering into pillows. Only the inevitability of his eyes on you, and the weight of everything you’d tried not to feel crashing down all at once.

Your stomach twisted. Your chest ached. And still, despite yourself, the thought of it left you trembling with something that was not entirely fear.

-X-The Climax-X-

The world above the waves, upon Zunesha, was nothing like the steel corridors of the Tang. Up here, the air was swamp-thick, the kind of jungle heat that made your clothes stick in places you didn’t even know could sweat. The cries of wild animals echoed all around, most of them sounding like they wanted you dead, while leaves taller than houses whispered overhead like they were judging your life choices.

Beneath your boots stretched Zunesha’s living plateau, an ancient forest that swayed with every titanic step. It was like standing on a moving island, except the island occasionally sneezed and threatened to throw you flat on your ass.

You didn’t even want to talk about how you managed to get atop a giant, walking elephant. The less said about that climb, the better.

Penguin spread his arms wide with a grin, nearly tripping over a root the size of a small boat.  “Home sweet home, eh, Bepo?”

Bepo’s ears twitched, his tail flicking as he looked around at the towering trees. “Not really my home. I don’t even remember this place.”

Shachi gave an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. “You mean we risked life and limb climbing up the world’s biggest animal, and you don’t even have childhood nostalgia to make it worth it?”

Bepo shrugged, entirely serious. “Sorry.”

Ikkaku snorted, tossing her pack higher on her shoulder. “Figures. We almost died getting up here, and the bear doesn’t even remember if the cafeteria food was any good.”

Shachi gave him a sly look, grin widening. “Not bad for a rendezvous point. But I think we can make it better.”

Penguin groaned immediately. “Oh no. He’s got that look again.”

“What look?” Shachi said innocently, already eyeing a massive branch overhead. “All I’m saying is—giant elephant treehouse. We’ve got lumber, we’ve got rope. Think about it.”

“You’ll fall and break your neck,” Ikkaku said flatly.

“Worth it,” Shachi shot back.

Bepo tilted his head, ears flicking. “If you build it, I’m not climbing it.”

“You say that now,” Shachi said, pointing a finger like he was issuing a challenge, “but wait until I put in a hammock and a snack shelf.”

Penguin buried his face in his hands. “This is how we all die. Not from the Marines, not from Kaido, but from Shachi’s stupid treehouse plan.”

“Correction,” Ikkaku said, tightening the strap of her pack. “You will die when Law finds out you wasted half a day’s supplies on rope and snacks to build a death trap in the trees.”

Shachi puffed up. “Death trap? It will be an architectural marvel. You will all thank me when I am handing out drinks in the treetop lounge.”

“No one,” Penguin muttered through his hands, “will thank you for breaking your leg on a giant elephant.”

Bepo tilted his head. “It would be difficult to get medical attention here.”

“See?” Penguin waved a hand at Bepo like he had just been vindicated by divine law. “Even the bear knows it is stupid.”

Shachi only grinned wider, which was never a good sign.

That was when the Minks appeared.

They slipped out of the treeline like shadows given shape, tall and furred and armed, their weapons catching the light of the jungle sun. Their presence was immediate and overwhelming, the air bristling with energy as they fanned out around your group. Musk and fur and ozone filled your nose, prickling every hair on your arms.

The Guardians’ sharp gazes swept across the crew, assessing, measuring. They did not move like men; they moved like predators, silent and economical, their focus landing last and longest on you. A half dozen heads tilted in eerie unison, nostrils flaring as they scented the air.

Your stomach dropped.

Before they could say a word, Shachi stepped forward like he had been waiting for this exact moment. His wolfish grin stretched ear to ear, and oh no, he produced a bundle of goods from his pack like some bargain-bin peddler about to work a street corner.

“Greetings, noble furries!” he announced with entirely too much confidence, holding aloft a sack that jingled with mystery. “We come bearing gifts from the surface world.”

“Shachi,” Penguin hissed, reaching out as if he could physically drag him back by sheer willpower. “What are you doing?”

Shachi ignored him, thrusting the bundle forward with a flourish. “Behold! The finest treasures mankind has to offer. Candy, batteries, and three decks of waterproof playing cards. Also, this keychain flashlight, shaped like a penguin.”

Every single Mink stared at him. Their tails flicked. Their ears twitched. The silence was so thick you could hear a leaf drop in the canopy above.

You buried your face in your hands. This is it. This is how I die. Not by battle, not by fate, but because Shachi tried to bribe an entire warrior tribe with snack food.

“Wait—what are you doing?” you hissed, peeking through your fingers as Shachi jiggled the sack of candy like it was a sacred treasure.

“Relax,” Penguin said smoothly, already pulling out a flask of precious rum with the air of a seasoned merchant. “We’re just… negotiating.” He tilted his head toward you with a grin far too sly for comfort. “Our friend here needs a bath and a pretty dress. She’s got a soulmate to impress.”

You choked. “Excuse me?!”

The Guardians perked up immediately. Their ears swiveled, their eyes gleamed, and their weapons lowered in unison as though he had just spoken the most reasonable request in the world.

“Soulmate?”

“Bath?” one repeated, baritone rumbling with interest.

“Dress,” another added, nodding sagely, as though this was a serious diplomatic matter.

You waved your arms frantically. “No, no, I don’t—”

But it was too late. In exchange for the rum, salted fish, and a few lengths of spare cable, the Guardians were all too happy to summon the tribe’s attendants.

The deal was struck in moments.

Your fate was sealed before you could so much as protest.

Shachi slung an arm around Penguin with a wolfish grin. “See? Easy.”

Penguin took a triumphant swig from what remained of the flask. “Better than a treehouse.”

Bepo gave you a sympathetic look, ears drooping. “You’ll smell nice at least.”

You seriously considered throwing yourself off Zunesha. The idea of plummeting into the sea almost seemed less humiliating than whatever was about to happen.

Two Mink women closed in on you before you could bolt. They were tall, their fur sleek, eyes sharp but not unkind. Their hands were firm, guiding you with gentle insistence, their tails swishing like whips behind them.

“Hold on, I—”

“You’ll be cleaned.” The taller one’s tone was absolute, like a decree.

“Wait, I don’t—”

“Pretty dress. Yes,” the other agreed with finality, already steering you down a shaded path that smelled of herbs and damp earth.

Penguin’s voice rang out cheerfully behind you. “What kind of crewmates would we be if we didn’t make sure Captain gets the shock of his life?”

You twisted in their grip long enough to glare at him, but he only winked, smug as ever. Shachi whistled something lewd. Bepo gave you an apologetic little shrug that said I tried to warn you.

The attendants did not give you another chance to argue. They swept you into a bathing chamber carved directly into the living wood, its pools filled with steaming water that smelled faintly of citrus and crushed leaves. The air was heavy with fragrant mist, warm enough to make your skin prickle.

They worked quickly, as efficiently as any surgical team you had ever seen. Deft claws scrubbed salt and grime from your skin with coarse sponges, their movements firm enough to sting but never cruel. They rinsed your hair in bowls of heated water, combing it again and again until every tangle gave way, then poured something floral and sweet through the strands until it shone. Oils slicked across your arms and shoulders, pressed into your temples, even smoothed into the calluses on your hands as though they meant to erase every mark the Tang had left on you.

Your protests faded with each touch. It was impossible to fight when every knot in your body loosened under their ministrations, when the stink of weeks at sea was stripped from your skin, leaving you new.

And then came the gown.

They held it up for you to see: pale silk, cool to the touch, so light it might have been woven from air. Subtle patterns of leaves and waves rippled through the fabric, catching the lamplight with every shift. When they slid it over your head, it whispered against your skin, clinging at your shoulders, skimming the curve of your waist before flowing loose around your legs.

It was elegant. Simple. Devastating. The neckline bared more skin than you were used to, the sleeves cut to let the jungle air touch your arms. For weeks, you had lived in heavy boots and the Polar Tang uniform, indistinguishable from every other crewmember. Now, every line of you was visible, framed and highlighted as though the fabric had been tailored by fate itself.

When they stood you before a polished bronze mirror, your chest tightened.

You hardly recognized yourself.

The face staring back at you was alive in a way it had not been for years. Color glowed in your cheeks. Your hair gleamed. The oils on your skin left you luminous. You were no longer the curse-broken doll of Dressrosa, nor the hidden, uniformed figure of the Tang. You looked like someone who could step into the world and be seen.

The realization made your throat ache. You blinked, hard, fighting back the sting in your eyes.

And through the bond, you felt him. Steady. Waiting.

Law.

Your breath caught. The thought of him seeing you like this, stripped of grime, clothed in silk, alive in a way you barely remembered, sent your pulse skittering. Terror and thrill tangled so tightly you could not tell them apart.

When you returned, the Heart Pirates were waiting like cats who had found cream. They all straightened at once, and then it was chaos. Penguin and Shachi nearly doubled over laughing, holding onto each other like they might collapse under the weight of their own glee.

“Holy shit,” Shachi wheezed, pointing at you as if you had transformed into something unnatural. “He’s gonna combust.”

Penguin smirked, smug as sin, hands laced lazily behind his head. “Captain’s gonna lose every last marble in his skull. The Surgeon of Death—reduced to the Surgeon of Drooling.”

Even Ikkaku raised a brow, her lips twitching despite her best attempt at composure. “Well, well. You clean up nice.”

Bepo, less smug but still complicit, gave a solemn nod that somehow made it worse. “You look… nice.”

Heat climbed up your neck until you were sure you would ignite. Your hands curled into the silk at your sides, Clutching it like armor, you hissed, “I’m going to be murdered. He told me to stay on the Tang.”

“Relax,” Penguin said, shameless and unbothered. “One look at you and he’ll forget he ever gave the order.”

Shachi elbowed him, snickering. “Forget the order? He’ll forget his own name.”

Hakugan leaned in, his grin sharp as a knife. “Hell, he might just propose. We did basically barter for a bride price.”

You turned on them, scandalized. “A bride?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Shachi chirped. “Silk, embroidery, the whole deal. You’re basically glowing. Poor bastard’s not gonna stand a chance.”

“I am not glowing!” you snapped, which only made them laugh harder.

Bepo walked at your other side, trying to keep some semblance of order, but his whiskers twitched with barely suppressed laughter. “Please don’t tease her so much,” he rumbled. “The captain will be upset.”

“That’s the point,” Penguin said cheerfully. “Upset, smitten, same thing.”

“Upset,” Jean Bart echoed. “Sure. That’s what we’ll call it.”

“Yeah, I give him three seconds before he cracks,” Shachi added, holding up fingers like he was timing a race. “Maybe five if he faints first.”

Hakugan leaned back, smug as ever. “What’s the over-under on him saying ‘Room’ by accident? Because I’m putting coin on it.”

Your ears burned. “You’re all insufferable.”

Ikkaku, trailing just behind, smirked. “You’re just realizing that now?”

The crew cackled, the sound echoing through the jungle heat while you pulled the silk tighter around yourself, wishing the ground would split open and swallow you whole.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The bond hummed faintly in your chest, and you could feel him. Closer now. A pressure building like a storm about to break.

“You’re not on the Tang.”

You froze mid-step, breath catching. “I can explain—”

“No,” Law cut in, his voice dry as bone. “Don’t explain. I can already hear Penguin laughing in the background. I’ll deal with this when I see you.”

Your knees went weak, the silk clinging heavy at your sides. Shachi caught your elbow before you stumbled, grinning like the devil. “He’s already keyed in, huh?”Penguin slapped his thigh. “Oh, this is beautiful. He’s stewing, I can hear it.”

Hakugan gave a mock-bow, his grin sharp. “We have delivered the bride. Now we wait for the groom.”

“I’m not a bride,” you hissed, but your voice lacked bite. Your pulse was hammering too loudly, his presence pressing too close.

Bepo’s ears flicked as he peered down at you, his expression sympathetic. “You look nervous.”

“I am nervous!” you snapped, clutching at the silk like it might shield you from divine judgment.

Branches snagged at the hem as if to hold you back, but the path pushed forward, roots curling underfoot, the ground rising with each colossal breath of Zunesha. The scent of moss and sun-warmed leaves grew stronger, thick with the pulse of life.

Then, suddenly, the trees parted. The forest broke open into a wide clearing, the jungle spilling sunlight through a gap in the canopy so bright it dazzled your eyes.

Voices drifted on the humid air before you even registered the shapes. Human voices; carefree, familiar in their chaos. The sound was so sharp and alive after days in the steel corridors of the Tang that it jarred you, like stepping from dream into waking.

Ahead lay a riot of color and motion. Straw hats and patched jackets, bright shirts and open laughter, their packs and weapons scattered haphazardly across the grass as if they had dropped them mid-celebration. Their presence filled the clearing like a festival, every word and shout carried as bright as birdsong.

Your stomach twisted. Of course, it would be them. Of course, your humiliation had to come with an audience.

And at the center of it all…

He stood there, unmistakable even from a distance, a shadow you had carried at the edge of your mind for months. The man whose voice threaded into your skull when silence fell too heavy, whose certainty had unraveled you one word at a time. 

Law.

Your breath caught. He was taller than you had pictured, leaner, his presence sharp as a blade pulled free of its sheath. The black fur of his coat caught the light, every inch of him radiating a composure that was half calm, half coiled threat. His eyes swept the clearing with cutting precision; past the Straw Hats, over Penguin and Shachi, across Bepo, and then landed on you.

You had thought you were prepared. You had seen him on wanted posters, ink pressed into paper until his face was more idea than man. You had heard his voice in your head for months; clinical, teasing, sometimes merciless. You had even traced the shape of him in your imagination, tall and lean, sharp lines hidden under a captain’s coat.

Sharp black tattoos curled from his shirt, down his arms, and into his hands.

His jaw was set, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his face. Tattoos licked up his hands and throat like the memory of fire, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—were nothing like ink on paper. They cut clean through the noise, locking onto you with the precision of a surgeon.

You froze under that gaze, heat rushing to your cheeks. The silk of the dress clung uncomfortably, too delicate, too deliberate, and you wanted to sink into the ground. He looked so real, so much more alive than the version your mind had carried, and you were suddenly aware of every awkward inch of yourself.

He didn’t move at first. Just stood there, coat flaring faintly in the breeze, watching you like you were a patient on a table he wasn’t sure whether to cut open or mend.

Your face burned. You wanted to deny it, to melt back into the trees, but the bond pulsed again, unrelenting, answering the truth none of them needed spoken aloud.

Law’s expression was unreadable, his golden eyes narrowed not in denial, not even in shock, but in a silence so heavy it seemed to press down on the clearing itself. The Straw Hats shifted uneasily at the weight of it, their chatter faltering. Even Luffy tilted his head, curiosity plain, as if he could sense the thread drawn tight between you.

Bepo shuffled his paws, ears twitching, breaking the silence. “We might have… gotten her dressed up a little. For the occasion.”

Shachi lost it, snickering into his hand. Penguin elbowed him hard, both of them smirking like hyenas.

You wanted the ground to swallow you. Preferably whole.

Law’s gaze never left yours. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, carrying across the clearing like the edge of a blade.

“…Explain.”

Oh god. His voice was like midnight magic, low and cool and cutting, the kind of sound that could slice bone and still leave you begging for more.

Bepo shuffled his paws, ears twitching, the picture of guilty loyalty. “We might have… gotten her dressed up a little. For the occasion.”

“A little?” you snapped, glaring at him. The gown shimmered in the sunlight like water, delicate silk clinging to your skin, each fold catching the light as if conspiring against you.

Penguin spread his hands innocently, his grin sharp as a hook. 

The bond pulsed, sharp in your chest, catching you off guard. “Nervous?”

Your throat worked as you forced the word out. “Yes.”

His mouth curved, just slightly, not quite a smile but close enough to unravel you. 

“Good. So am I.”

Your breath caught hard, the clearing spinning with the weight of it.

​​Penguin and Shachi, of course, were not helping. One elbowed the other, whispering far too loudly, “She’s staring at him like he’s dessert.”

“Pretty sure he’s staring back harder,” Shachi muttered, eyes gleaming.

Bepo cuffed them both with a paw, but it barely registered. They yelped, stumbled, and then grinned wider, smug as ever.

Ikkaku groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can you two idiots not ruin a moment for once in your lives?”

“Ruin?” Penguin said, mock-offended. “We’re narrating. Big difference.”

The Straw Hats had picked up on it by now, and the atmosphere shifted with the speed of a storm. One of the strawhat’s jaws had dropped so far you worried it might lock in place. Was that a skeleton that strummed a jaunty riff on his violin, muttering about romantic tension. In contrast, a redhead muttered something about ‘honestly, I should have guessed, he has that feral taken air about him’.

None of it mattered.

Law was still staring.

And you couldn’t look away.

He stepped forward at last, the space between you collapsing with each deliberate stride. Your pulse went wild, your breath catching in your throat. The jungle noise dimmed, the laughter of your crewmates and the Straw Hats muffled to a distant blur. All you could hear was the steady thrum of the bond and the crunch of his boots on Zunesha’s living earth.

Up close, he was devastating. Not beautiful in the polished way of nobles or idols, but real; scarred, weathered, alive. Every inch of him carried weight: the rough stubble shadowing his jaw, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights, the way his tattoos curled dark against skin like fragments of fire etched into flesh. He looked like a man who had fought and bled and survived, and you could feel the truth of it humming through the bond, steady and undeniable.

When he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the world seemed to pause.

He spoke aloud for the first time, his words meant for you alone, though they cut through the clearing like the strike of a blade. His voice was exactly as it had been in your head. Low, even, measured, but sharper now, heavier, every syllable dragging heat through your chest.

“You were supposed to be waiting in the sub.” 

The words weren’t loud, but they carried all the weight of his authority. The Surgeon of Death. Captain of the Heart Pirates. The man who had dismantled you piece by piece through the bond now stood inches away, flesh and bone and impossible reality.

The silk clung to your skin as if it knew it was part of the crime. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The bond surged, answering for you, a hot throb in your chest that left no room for denial.

Behind you, someone snickered, probably Shachi. 

Your mouth went dry. “I—they made me—”

The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. Amusement, not anger. “I see.” His gaze swept down you once, slow enough to make your skin prickle; the silk clinging in the sunlight, the sheen of combed hair, the way your fingers twisted together as though you could wring composure out of them. When his eyes came back to yours, the weight of them nearly dropped you to your knees.

The bond pulsed again, warm and inexorable. 

“You’re exactly as I imagined. Only worse. Because now I can’t stop looking.”

The clearing was still loud—Straw Hats muttering among themselves, your own crew hovering like jackals waiting for scraps, the jungle alive with the chatter of Minks—but all of it blurred to meaningless noise. The world had shrunk to the space between you, razor-sharp with nerves, unsteady with something that felt dangerously close to awe.

Every inhale caught on your ribs. Every exhale trembled. His presence filled your senses, more overwhelming in flesh than it had ever been in thought. Ink on posters had never shown this. His voice in your mind had never prepared you for the way his shadow fell across your skin, the way the heat of his focus wrapped around you until it felt like the bond itself had a body.

You had finally met him. And it was infinitely, terrifyingly more than you had ever prepared for.

Which meant you were defenseless.

Penguin and Shachi circled immediately, their grins feral, like sharks scenting blood. 

“Can’t believe you’re only just meeting.” Shachi crooned, rocking back on his heels.

Penguin shoved his cap lower to hide his grin, though it did nothing to conceal the gleam in his eyes. “And prettier than the posters made her sound. Guess they don’t put that in the bounty description. Criminally bad reporting.”

Ikkaku gave a low, appreciative whistle as she looked you up and down. “Captain, you’re punching above your weight.”

Heat rushed to your face, the silk clinging tighter with every breath. You opened your mouth to argue, but words fled before they could form.

Bepo, bless him, tried to maintain some shred of the crew’s dignity. “Knock it off,” he rumbled, his ears angling back. “This isn’t funny.”

“Sure it is,” Shachi shot back, though his grin widened even further when he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Law’s mouth. “Look at him. Man’s unarmed.”

“Unarmed?” Penguin echoed, feigning shock. “He’s smiling. Verified weapon right there.”

Law didn’t even stop them. He stood with his hands in his pockets, letting the teasing wash over him, that faint curve at his mouth betraying the fact that he was enjoying this. The worst part? He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked like a man perfectly comfortable being mocked in front of his crew—because he knew he’d get the last word later.

And you… You felt small beside him. The dress the Minks had given you swirled around your ankles, the silk too fine against your skin, your hands clutching at it as though it could protect you. Next to him, broad-shouldered and inked, stubble shadowing his jaw, coat sweeping the ground as if the world bent around his stride. He was all sharpness and weight, the kind of presence that made the word man feel like something else entirely.

The crew’s laughter rang out bright and merciless, the Straw Hats staring openly now, half in amusement, half in awe. You wanted to shrink into the earth, vanish into the jungle, anything to escape the weight of so many eyes.

When the noise finally started to ebb, Law lifted his chin, the picture of composure. His gaze flicked over his crew, sharp as a scalpel, then back to you.

“Enough,” he said, calm and final. “Give us some space.”

The effect was immediate. The crew straightened, grins fading into poorly concealed smirks as they retreated a few paces. Even the Straw Hats, who weren’t under his command, instinctively shifted back at the quiet authority in his tone.

You were left standing in the circle of his focus, the jungle sun on your skin, the silk clinging too close. The clearing felt too wide, the air too hot, every sound drowned beneath the thunder of your pulse.

The bond pulsed with his steady presence, filling you until you thought you might burst. And then, softer, threaded just for you:

“Come with me.”

His tone was deceptively casual, as though he were asking you to follow him for a status report instead of dragging you into the jungle to dismantle you piece by piece.

Your throat went dry. “Where are we—”

“Away,” he interrupted smoothly. “From my asshole crew.”

His hand brushed lightly against your lower back, guiding and insistent without being forceful. The touch nearly undid you. He was so much taller, the line of his body heat against yours impossible to ignore, his stride unhurried yet commanding enough that your steps fell into rhythm without thinking.

He led you just far enough that the canopy swallowed the clearing’s light, until the voices of the others softened into indistinct noise. Then he stopped. The air was damp here, heavy with the scent of moss and bark, beams of sunlight cutting through the leaves in fractured gold.

And when he turned, his gaze pinned you where you stood.

Up close, he was worse.

Rougher. Sharper. So devastatingly alive compared to the phantom you had known in your mind. The faint rasp of stubble shadowing his jaw, the dark ink biting into his skin, the smell of steel, antiseptic, and sea salt that clung to his coat; every detail made your pulse pound harder. His eyes, flecked gold, burned with a focus that was both clinical and consuming, a gaze that stripped away pretense until you could barely hold yourself upright beneath it.

The bond surged, a live current sparking under your skin, as if even the air between you refused to let you deny him.

He let the silence stretch, his eyes dragging over you in a way that wasn’t cruel but wasn’t gentle either. It was an assessment, the careful gaze of a man who knew exactly how much pressure to apply before something gave. His mouth tilted faintly, almost as if your shaking amused him.

“You’re smaller than I imagined.”

Your breath caught, sharp and uncertain. “Is that—bad?”

His head canted, deliberate, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing every inch of you. Then, low and unhurried, he hummed, “No. It means we’ll have to workshop this a bit.”

Heat ripped through you, fast and merciless, curling low in your stomach.

“Captain—”

“Law,” he corrected instantly, voice quiet but edged with command. “For you, it’s only Law. Only in bed—” He leaned closer, his shadow falling over you, his breath brushing your cheek, “—we can play captain or doctor. You’ll learn the difference.”

You nearly stumbled back, your knees too weak to hold you, but his hand shot out and caught your hip. The contact was startling, steady, hot through the delicate silk. His fingers pressed firm, crumpling the fabric beneath them, anchoring you in place with no room left to retreat.

A sound tore out of you, half gasp, half cry, louder than you meant, rawer than you wanted.

The bond vibrated in response, pulsing with his satisfaction. His golden eyes sharpened, dark heat flickering there like the edge of a storm barely held in check.

“Good,” he murmured, the word sinking straight into your bones. “I want to hear you.”

Your pulse jumped so violently you almost swore he could feel it through the bond.

“Don’t try to walk it back,” he added, teeth flashing faintly in something that wasn’t quite a smile. His eyes glimmered, dangerous and sure. “I won’t let you.”

When he finally straightened, his hand lingered at your side for a moment longer, then slipped away, leaving you swaying in the empty space between you.

You thought he meant to lead you back. His stride was calm, purposeful, his hands sliding into his pockets as though nothing had happened at all. Your chest still heaved with uneven breaths, silk clinging to you as you stumbled after him, trying to gather what was left of your composure.

But then, just as the noise of the clearing began to filter back through the trees, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

“Ah—”

He pulled you with startling decisiveness, his grip firm but not painful, guiding you off the path and deeper into the shadow of the jungle. The silk hem of your dress snagged on roots and brush as you hurried to keep pace, your breath quickening with every step.

He didn’t stop until the clearing’s voices had dissolved into little more than a hum, swallowed by the dense press of trees. The air here was thicker, heavy with earth and resin, shafts of gold light breaking through the canopy like narrow blades.

Law stopped behind a broad tree, releasing your wrist only once your back met the bark. The bond thrummed between you, steady as a drumbeat, leaving no space for misunderstanding.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Why are we—”

His gaze caught yours, unblinking, and the rest of the question withered in your throat.

He did not answer. His hands settled on your waist, unyielding, and before you could form another word, he lifted you clean off the ground.

A shocked gasp tore from you. Your fingers clung to the line of his shoulders, desperate for balance, your body pressed flush to the hard breadth of his chest. His coat smelled of salt and leather, the faint scent of smoke and steel clinging to his skin. Then his mouth claimed yours.

The kiss was not hesitant. It carried the same precision and control as every action of his, deliberate and unrelenting. His lips were rougher than you expected, the scrape of stubble catching your skin, but the heat of it stole every breath you tried to take. He kissed like a man who had planned this moment for months, restrained until restraint no longer served him.

Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips, the silk of your dress tangling at your knees as he pinned you between the tree and his body. He was solid, relentless, the weight of him pressing into you with a steadiness that was as terrifying as it was intoxicating. His chest rose against yours, measured and calm, while your pulse thrashed wildly beneath your ribs.

He angled the kiss deeper, tilting your head with a sure hand, his palm firm at the small of your back. His other arm held you effortlessly, supporting your weight as though you were nothing at all. His touch was precise, guiding, his fingertips sliding against the length of your spine with the same certainty he applied in surgery. Every shift told you that he already knew the exact shape of you, that he had studied it in his mind long before his hands ever touched you.

The bond flared hot, unrelenting, flooding you with him until you could not separate where your pulse ended and his began. His voice threaded through the kiss, not spoken aloud but pressed straight into the center of you.

“You fit me perfectly.”

The words struck like a blow, intimate and devastating. Your body shuddered, caught between the scrape of his stubble, the press of his mouth, and the raw certainty in his tone. The rough bark dug into your back, grounding you when everything else threatened to come undone.

He pulled back only a fraction, enough to breathe, his lips brushing yours with each inhale. His golden eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and alive, as if daring you to deny what had already passed between you.

And then he kissed you again, slower this time, deliberate and consuming, as if he meant to prove with every movement of his mouth that he had been right all along.

A muffled sound slipped out of you, half protest, half surrender, your hands tightening in the heavy fabric of his coat. The leather was rough beneath your fingertips, worn by years of salt and sea, and you clung to it as though it were the only solid thing in a world suddenly tilting off its axis.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead almost brushing yours. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, gold flecked with something sharper, hungrier. “You should have stayed in the sub,” he murmured, voice edged with quiet amusement, the words curling warm against your lips. “Then again…” His mouth ghosted over yours, deliberately light, infuriating in its restraint. “…I wouldn’t have had this excuse.”

You shuddered, caught in the cruel balance between mortification and hunger, the world collapsing into nothing more than the hard bark at your back, his weight anchoring you in place, and the taste of him still lingering on your mouth.

Law did not release you. His tattooed grip on you was steady, unyielding, one hand braced beneath you, the other firm against your back. He held you there, suspended against him, as if daring you to move, daring you to deny the bond that pulsed between you, fierce and undeniable. The air between you was thick, charged, your every shallow breath dragging against his.

Your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it, not only in the bond but through the press of your body against his chest.

And when you finally broke—when you leaned forward and kissed him back properly, all nerves and want and pent-up ache—the low sound that rumbled in his chest shattered every last defense you had. It was not surprise. It was not relief. It was the sound of a man who had been waiting, quietly, endlessly, for precisely this moment.

The bond flared in time with that sound, flooding your veins with heat, sealing the truth you had tried so long to outrun.

The kiss should have ended. You knew it. He knew it. The jungle around you was alive with insects, damp earth clinging to your shoes, and the faint sound of the crew carrying on not so far away. But when his mouth left yours only long enough for both of you to breathe, the bond roared between you like a storm-tide, dragging you back together with a force neither of you cared to resist.

Law’s hands were everywhere; steady as a surgeon’s, unyielding as iron. One braced you against the tree, the hard line of his arm keeping your body lifted and pinned, while the other cupped the back of your head with the kind of care that felt perilously close to reverence. He held you like you might vanish, like the world itself would split if he let you fall.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath hot, his voice pitched low so only you could hear. Each word vibrated through the bond, heavy and sure. “Shaking like I haven’t already lived in your head. You going to try and get away again? Pretend that I’m a kid still?”

The chuckle that followed was low, unguarded, and it curled through your stomach like fire catching dry leaves.

Your gasp broke against his mouth, half protest, half surrender. “Don’t you start—”

He kissed the protest away before you could finish, a deliberate press of his mouth against yours that swallowed the words whole. His teeth grazed your lower lip, not rough enough to hurt but sharp enough to make you tremble harder in his hold.

The bond pulsed again, insistent, thrumming through your chest with a single truth neither of you could outrun: he was no boy. He had never been.

And now, with his body pressed into yours and his certainty anchoring every breath, you could no longer pretend you did not want him.

“Correct.” His teeth grazed your jaw, deliberate, mercilessly slow. “We’re both adults. Which is why I’m going to make love to you.”

The words alone had you clutching at his coat, dragging him closer, desperate. The silk of your gown tangled around your legs, the rough bark at your back digging into your spine, but all you could feel was him: heat, weight, certainty. The bond throbbed with his satisfaction, a pulse of hunger that nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“You fit against me like you were made for this,” he whispered, his voice sharpened to cut right through your trembling. “I can lift you, spread you, take you apart right here. And you’ll let me, won’t you?”

Your answer was a broken sound against his shoulder, a noise you had never made before.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed, filthy and sweet all at once, his lips pressing to your temple like a benediction even as his words left you shaking. “I’ve waited too long to be decent about this. Doflamingo’s gone. You’re mine now. All mine.”

There was no more hesitation after that. Common sense drowned beneath the bond’s relentless pull, every nerve tuned only to him. You tangled yourself tighter around him, your dress hitching high against your thighs, bark rough against your back while his coat brushed your skin, smelling of salt and smoke. His skin was heat and steel beneath your fingers, each kiss sharper, deeper, filthier than the last.

He spoke through it all, his words tearing you apart even as they bound you closer. Low, dangerous, unbearably tender.

“Say it. Say you love me.”

Your voice broke, shaking out of you before you could stop it. “I—I love you.”

His breath caught, his mouth curving faintly against your temple. “Good girl. I’ll remind you every time you forget.”

And when the last fragile line between restraint and surrender vanished, you no longer cared that it was Zou’s forest floor, or that the world would call it madness. All that mattered was the way he anchored you, body and bond, until there was nothing left of your composure but the echo of his voice, mean, reverent, devastatingly yours.

-X-Honeymoon-X-

The Polar Tang hummed low as it carved its path toward Wano, the steady thrum of its engines a lullaby you had long since grown used to. The mess hall swayed with its rhythm, filled with the usual noise of your crew. Shachi was determined to balance not one, not two, but three spoons on his nose, puffing his cheeks with concentration. Penguin sat beside him, pretending to be unimpressed, though his lips twitched dangerously toward a grin. Ikkaku leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, scolding them with mock sternness even as her mouth betrayed her with a smile. Bepo sat placidly in his chair, his tail flicking in time with the engines, watching it all with the patience of someone who had endured this particular circus too many times to count.

You sat at the edge of the table, sketchbook open across your lap, pencil moving in quick, sure strokes. Penguin’s cap tilted just so, Shachi caught mid-gesture, Bepo stretching his arms over his head, claws flexing lazily—their figures spilled alive across the page as if they belonged there all along.

The wall in Law’s quarters had become a gallery of your hand. Medical illustrations, with careful ink lines and diagrams of muscle and sinew, were tucked beside portraits of his crew, caught in their most authentic selves. It had grown beyond what he intended, spilling into a collage that felt less like study and more like devotion.

“She’s drawing us again,” Shachi crowed, puffing his chest out and tilting his head to find the angle you were sketching. “Bet the captain’s gonna get jealous.”

Penguin snorted, arms crossed but eyes gleaming. “He already is. Watch.”

As if summoned by the teasing, the bond pulsed. Sharp. Deliberate.

Room.

The mess hall flickered faintly blue, the energy brushing over your skin like the edge of a storm front. Your pencil stilled. The air seemed to tighten, charged and restless.

Shachi whooped, jabbing a finger toward you. “Called it!”

“Shut up,” Penguin hissed through his grin, though he leaned forward eagerly, waiting to see if the glow would spread.

“Hey—” you started, but the words fractured as the floor dropped beneath you, the submarine blurring away in a surge of shifting space.

When your vision steadied, the noise of the crew was gone. Silence pressed close, thick and heavy, broken only by the scratch of a pen on paper. You stood in the quiet of the captain’s quarters, sketchbook still clutched against your chest.

Law sat at his desk, coat slung over the chair, the lamplight drawing harsh lines across the hollow of his cheeks. His elbows rested on the wood, fingers steepled under his chin. He wasn’t writing anymore. He was studying you.

You narrowed your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks. “Really?”

His gaze flicked to the sketchbook in your hand, then back to your face. Unblinking.

“Check-up.”

“You’re too much,” you accused, the words spilling before you could catch them. “That is just a silly excuse.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. For a heartbeat, he did not answer, and that silence was worse than denial. The bond pressed, insistent, wrapping around you with the weight of a command unspoken.

You huffed, clutching the sketchbook to your chest like a shield. “You can’t just warp me out of the mess every time I draw someone else. That’s abuse of power.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, the faintest flicker of irritation across his face. “You call it abuse. I call it correction.”

“Correction,” you echoed, incredulous, though your pulse was already betraying you.

His gaze slid lower, lingering at your lips before lifting again, sharp and unreadable. “I don’t like sharing.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. The air in the cabin thickened, thrumming with the bond until you felt your thoughts tangling in knots. He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth, as though he could already hear the mess unraveling inside your head. The bond pulsed again, warm and deliberate, searing low in your chest.

The memory of the crew’s laughter still clung to you faintly, but here it was nothing but silence and him. The room, the sub, the whole ocean beyond seemed to collapse into the narrow space between your bodies.

“You’re a jealous man.”

He didn’t deny it. He never did.

Instead, he rose. Two strides and he was in front of you, pulling you in with a hand firm at your waist. His mouth crushed yours, hard and certain, the kind of kiss that left your knees weak and your pencil sliding uselessly from your fingers.

You melted against him, the bond thrumming warm and steady. It was like standing too close to the heart of a storm; dangerous, impossible to resist.

Then your stomach lurched. A flash of vertigo, sudden and wrong, clenched your middle. You broke the kiss with a gasp, one hand flying to your abdomen.

Law froze. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by razor-sharp alertness. His hand at your waist steadied you, but his other hovered close, fingers twitching like he wanted to dissect the problem on the spot.

“What is it?” His voice was low, precise, stripped of softness.

“I—” You swallowed hard, alarm rising in your throat. “I don’t know. I just felt… off. Like something dropped.”

His gaze cut over you in an instant, clinical and calculating, as though he could see straight through skin and bone, stripping you down to muscle, vein, and pulse. Every line of him was drawn tight, caught between doctor, captain, and soulmate.

“Did you eat bread?”

You looked at him aghast.

“How dare you accuse me of such treachery aboard your ship. This sub doesn’t even have bread flour!”

The bond pulsed again, sharper now, probing. You felt it press through you, not just his presence but his will. Testing and measuring, as though your body might answer him more honestly than your voice ever could.

Your knees wobbled. He caught your wrist and anchored you steady, his grip firm but careful. “Describe it,” he ordered, voice low and commanding, though you could hear the edge beneath. “Everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

“I—” You tried, but the words tangled in your throat.

Before you could manage more, his fingers brushed the air.

The quiet shimmer of the sphere wrapped around you both, sealing you in. The hair on your arms stood on end with its charge. His hand hovered over your abdomen, deliberate and unhesitating, the bond between you crackling alive in tandem with his power. You had been scanned before, felt the cold detachment of his medical precision. This was different. There was no distance now, only focus so sharp it felt like it might cut.

And then something shifted.

His expression, always steady and ironclad, broke. His eyes widened only slightly, but for Law, it was as if the world itself had tilted off its axis.

“It’s early,” he said. His voice was low, strained, as though he hardly trusted it. His hand pressed firmer against your middle, steady and reverent, as though holding something fragile and newly lit. “Very early. But it’s certain.”

Your breath caught.

He looked up, eyes catching yours with a weight that pinned you in place. “You’re expecting.”

Your knees gave, weak under the sudden rush of blood in your ears. The word clattered against your skull, impossible, too heavy and too bright all at once.

“What?” Your voice cracked, little more than a whisper.

The bond surged, warm and thunderous, as if it had known the truth all along.

His gaze lifted to yours, and for once, there was no teasing and no clinical detachment. What you found instead was fierce, unguarded truth.

“You’re carrying my child.”

The bond roared between you, a flood of warmth so strong it nearly stole your breath. The room was silent except for the low hum of the Tang’s engines. Your sketchbook lay forgotten on the floor where it had slipped from your fingers.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling. “Law…”

He stepped closer, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you again. This time it was slower, sweeter, but no less devastating, like being set on fire by someone who thought they were administering a sedative. The kiss poured through you like a vow, anchoring you in place even as your thoughts cartwheeled wildly.

When he pulled back, his thumb lingered against your cheek with a tenderness that made your knees useless. His eyes locked on yours with the same intensity he usually reserved for dissecting corpses or lecturing Penguin and Shachi about hygiene.

“How ironic,” he murmured, voice thick with something he almost, but not quite, kept steady. “The careful surgeon. The man obsessed with control. The so-called Surgeon of Death.” He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might either smirk or faint. “And look at me. Absolutely reckless.”

You swallowed hard, but before you could speak, the bond pulsed again, picking up on the absurd swell of his emotions.

“I should be furious,” he went on, though his hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer instead of letting you go. His gaze was wild, golden eyes bright enough to burn. “But I am not. Do you understand? I am ecstatic. I am—” He cut himself off, searching for words, then laughed under his breath, low and incredulous. “I am actually losing my mind.”

He kissed you again, almost desperately this time, as if to prove it.

Cosmic Joke Status: Surgical Entanglement

Congratulations.

You are now spiritually, emotionally, and (if the way he says “Room” whenever someone stares too long is any indication) aggressively married to six feet of tattoos and triage who answers to ‘Captain’ in public and ‘Law’ when he’s an inch from your mouth.

Because somewhere between him hauling you out of danger by the waist and stocking an entire art studio in his quarters like a prescription, you realized: this isn’t overprotection. It’s possession, with consent forms. The good kind. The kind filed under “mine” in perfectly neat block letters.

Prognosis: terminally his.

And the worst part?

You wouldn’t change a thing.

-X-The End-X-

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Sanji’s first instinct is to help you, hurrying over to begin pulling the cords off you while assuring you that he’ll get you out of this mess in no time. He’s your prince after all. Of course he can rescue you from this dilemma! But after a few minutes, you notice his hands have slowed down, then finally stopped. Is he looking over the tangles, trying to find one end perhaps? 

You feel a drop of wetness hit your thigh. In confusion, you turn to look behind you, only to find Sanji’s nose dripping blood, his face red as he stares at you. Your gut reaction is to tell him to focus, that this is no time for his horny shenanigans. But… he does look awfully cute today, and he was trying hard to help you until a few moments ago. 

Oh, what the hell. Christmas can come early this year. 

You give him a smile while leaning back, pressing your ass into his lap. “Wanna have a little fun before you untangle me?”

His eyes light up. “Can we?!”

You nod, and he wastes no time opening his pants and pushing the crotch of your thin shorts aside. He pushes in quickly but gently, filling you up so good. You sigh in pleasure as his hands softly move over your skin, soothing the irritated places where the cords are digging in. He fucks you so sweetly, telling you how beautiful you are, how perfect you are, making you feel so good that you think you might tangle yourself up in lights more often.

Ace bursts into laughter as soon as he sees you, making you frown as you squirm around in the cords. “A little help?” you ask. He’s still laughing as he approaches the bed and begins trying to work the tangles out of the lights, commenting that something like this could only happen to you. 

When you respond sharply, he gives your ass a playful smack. “Be a good girl, or I’ll leave you like this,” he says, his voice dropping a little lower. You have to admit you’re getting turned on. His hands are so warm on your skin as he works on the cords, and his fingers keep brushing over your sensitive spots. 

You glance at him over your shoulder, giving him a sultry look. “And what if I’m a really bad girl?”

He freezes, his face going slightly pink. Evidently he didn’t think his teasing would go this far. But he recovers quickly. “Then I’ll have to punish you while you’re all tied up!”

Seconds later he’s fucking you into the mattress while your hands grip the cords still wrapped around them. You cry out his name each time he gives your ass a slap, your knees wobbling while your face is smushed against your pillow.

Kid is obviously amused by your predicament, leaning against your doorway, his one flesh and blood arm crossed over a thin metal one as he watches you struggle. You glare at him from the bed. “Are you gonna help me? Or just stand there enjoying the show?”

He laughs in that haughty way that pisses you off. “Why should I help? You got yourself into this. Get yourself out.”

Your fingers work at the tangled lights, now more determined than ever to get free, if only to rub it in his face that you don’t need his help. In your struggle, you topple off the edge of the bed. You close your eyes, bracing for an impact that never comes. When you open them again, you find yourself floating in midair. Oh. Christmas lights have metal in the wires. 

Kid floats you over to him and looks at you smugly. “Now this is a sight I could get used to,” he says as the cords begin to move on their own, pulling your legs apart as you hover in the air in front of him. 

“Pervert,” you say, giving him your own haughty look. “You better make this up to me later.”

“Why not now?” he asks, tearing your shorts aside and using his power to put you at the perfect level for him to devour your pussy. You squirm and arch in the air, desperate for something firm to grip as your body jerks with pleasure. You’ll have to get tangled up in metal more often.

Law gives you an exasperated look. “How the hell did this happen?” he asks, annoyance in his voice as he begins helping you to get untangled. His fingers are nimble and skilled, so he’s making quick work of it. Almost too quick. 

You wiggle a bit in the cords, looking back at him. “This is so embarrassing,” you whine. “I’m all tied up and helpless.”

He doesn’t seem to be catching the signals you’re throwing. He’s focusing on the cords, responding with a quiet, “Yeah.”

“I mean, you could do anything you want to me,” you tell him, arching your back slightly, putting yourself in a more lewd pose. 

He stops, his sharp eyes shifting to your face, his own turning red as he seems to finally get what you’re suggesting. Took him long enough. 

The next thing you know, you’re on your knees on the floor in front of him while he sits on your bed, his cock halfway down your throat and his tattooed hand in your hair. Your arms are still bound behind you by the cords. “Is this what you want?” Law asks, clearly trying to keep his voice even and not doing the best job of it. “Take it all then,” he says, shooting a huge load into your mouth.

Doflamingo grins at you from just inside your bedroom, his stupidly tall frame making your ceiling look low. “Now this looks familiar,” he says, making your face heat up at the memory of the last time he used his strings to tie you up in bed. 

You turn your whole body around to face him. “Help me out, but don’t tear up the lights. I need them.”

He steps over to you and looks at the cords, using his long fingers to dig around in them. Finally he pulls an end free, the one that plugs into the wall. Thank goodness he’s used to dealing with strings. You sigh in relief, until you notice he’s not untangling them. He simply reaches over and plugs in the lights. They begin twinkling all over your body. 

“Very funny,” you say, squirming in the cords. “Now get these off me. The bulbs are getting hot!”

He laughs as he sits on your bed, his back to your headboard, his legs spread out in front of him. “Convince me,” he says, opening his pants. You spend the next half hour riding his massive cock while the lights keep twinkling, lightly burning your skin.

Cora is quick to rush to your side to help, tripping in the process but eventually making it there. He begins working the tangles out of the cords immediately. “Don’t worry,” he tells you, “things like this happen to me all the time! I’ll get you free.”

You can’t help giggling at that. Cora tangled up in wires or cords sounds so like him. But the image that thought invokes in your mind has you feeling a little frisky. Looking back at him, he seems so determined to help you, his eyes clearly focused while his cigarette dangles from his lips. You lean your body back slightly, pressing against him. His soft sweater feels nice on your skin. His eyes shift to you, and his cheeks are pink. 

“Hold on, I’ve almost got it,” he says, but something doesn’t seem right. The cords don’t feel any looser. Finally you turn your head around to face him, and you realize he’s now tangled up in the lights with you! You’re now in his lap, your back pressed up to his chest, both of you wrapped in cords. 

“Oops, looks like I made it worse,” he says, though he doesn’t sound remorseful at all. Did he do this on purpose? You grin back at him, realizing he’s more slick than you thought. 

“What will we do?” you ask, the concern in your voice obviously phony. “We might be stuck like this for hours.”

His hand, suspiciously free enough to move, slides around your body and slips down the front of your shorts. “I think we can find a way to pass the time,” he says, and you moan as his fingers probe your pussy, teasing your clit exactly the way you love. He has you trembling and writhing within seconds, and shows no indication of stopping anytime soon.

Lucci opens the door, sees the state you’re in, and immediately shuts the door back. Evidently he wants nothing to do with your hijinks today. You suppose it’s your own fault for dating someone so overly serious. But damn he’s fine though. “Hey! Come back and help me!” you yell. 

The door opens again and he walks in with a sigh, looking extremely unamused. “I’d ask how you managed to end up like this, but I think I’d rather not know,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you and taking hold of one of the cords. 

“Wait! Don’t rip them!” you cry, then wince when you hear the cord snap. To be honest you’re a little disappointed by how stoic he is right now. Isn’t he the least bit turned on by you all tied up and helpless? No, he’s never been interested in weakness. 

You suddenly turn around, throwing yourself on him and pushing him back onto the bed. Even tied up, you can manage that much. “You ruined my lights, asshole.”

He stares at you for a moment, then a predatory grin spreads over his face as he rolls you both over, now on top of you. “If you wanted to challenge me, you should’ve just said so,” he tells you. His belt is unbuckled, your cute pajama set is shredded, and he reasserts his dominance all afternoon, fucking you until you’re a babbling mess, still wrapped up in the lights.

Foamy waves gently lapped at your feet, the coldness a contrast to the warmth of Ace's body flush against yours. Returning his embrace, you clung to him as you gazed at the open sea spread out behind him, "Much."

The Moby Dick was anchored offshore in deeper waters, too large to go further inland. You could barely spot Izou's pink, flowy yukata as he descended from the crow's nest, freshly off his night watch. The deck was slowly filling up as more and more people woke, already starting preparations to cast off from the island.

Pops had wanted to leave immediately last night, having finished his business, but Marco wisely convinced him to wait till morning light. Ace swiftly grabbed the opportunity to ask you out for one last walk around the beach before leaving — "Who knows when, or if, we'll be back here again?" — so the two of you took his Striker and snuck off the ship just before dawn, back to the island. The subsequent sunrise that you witnessed made waking up at an unholy hour worth it.

You pulled back and released Ace from the hug, but not before landing a soft kiss on his freckled cheek. The pair of footsteps trailed once more upon the untouched sand.

"The other division commanders are probably pissed that you're not there for the final checks before we sail off." You quipped, glancing at the sun that was crawling ever higher into the sky.

"You're right. We should probably start heading back, huh?" Ace sighed and finally U-turned, stringing you along, back towards the way you came.

The Whitebeard Pirates were a lovely bunch, but also a very rowdy one. Quiet, private moments with Ace like this were rare to come by, and oh, how you treasured them. The spot where the Striker was parked was still a distance away, and your joint pace subconsciously slowed, neither of you wanting to reach it just yet.

Swinging your linked hands giddily, Ace grinned. "This is nice,"

"It is." You chuckled, giving his hand a light squeeze. "Will you take me on another walk like this on the next island?"

"I'd take you every day if you like."

"Not every day." You bumped his shoulder teasingly, "I'd still like to wake up after the sun rises once in a while."

The walk back to the Striker felt shorter than you remembered, time passing by quickly amid chatters about anything and everything in between. And before you knew it, Ace was pushing the Striker off the sandy beach and into the water.

He offered you his hand, pulling you up into the supposedly one-man vessel. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other bracing against the mast, Ace whispered, "Ready?"

You snaked your arms around his bare torso and nodded. Ace lit his fire, careful not to let it lick your feet, and off the Striker went, zooming towards the Moby Dick.

The salty sprays of the ocean misted upon your face, the brisk wind tickled your hair, and you snuggled closer to your lover. It was a short ride back, but you cherished every second, committing the serene moment to memory before the welcome clamor of the ship took over your days once more.

⟢ chibinasuu's flufftober – event page || masterlist

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

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

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

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

“Do whales get lonely?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Full name? 

Portgas D. Ace

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

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

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

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

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

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

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

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

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

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

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

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

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

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

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

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

But this? This crossed a line.

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

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

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

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

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

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

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

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

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

He did not take it well.

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

You do not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And failing.

Just a little.

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

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

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

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

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

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

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

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

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

There was silence.

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

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

Age 15:

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

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

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

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

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16: 

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

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

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

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

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

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

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

Until one day.

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

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

The next day?

He’s fine.

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

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17: 

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

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

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

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

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

That’s when things get complicated.

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

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

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

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

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

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

You throw a spoon across the room.

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

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

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

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

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

“Why does it keep happening?”

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

Maybe you.

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

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

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

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

“You do.”

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

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

You roll your eyes.

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

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

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

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses. Then softens.

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

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’. 

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

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

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

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

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

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

Because you knew too much.

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

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

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

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

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

The creature is hot.

And a pirate. 

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

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

But this?

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

And dimples. Dimples. 

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

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

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

Because now there’s a problem.

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

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

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

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

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

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

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

And he lets you have it.

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

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works. 

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

And worst of all?

He knows.

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

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

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

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

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

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

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

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

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

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

That’s it.

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

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

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

He’s doomed.

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

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

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

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

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

And you are.

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

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

And you choke on your toothbrush.

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

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

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

Until that day.

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

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

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

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

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

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

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

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

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

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

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it. 

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

It had eyes. And they saw you.

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

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

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

And Ace?

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

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

Everyone thought he was concussed.

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

It happens at night.

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

But pretending only gets you so far.

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

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

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

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

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

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

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

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

He sees you. The real you.

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

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

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

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

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

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

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

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

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

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

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

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

Your ears go red.

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

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

You storm home.

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

 “STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

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

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

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

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

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

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

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

But Ace?

Ace just purred. 

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

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

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

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

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

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

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

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

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

Everything is set.

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

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

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

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

You blink.

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

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

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

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

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

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

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

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

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

You try again. Focus.

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

And in your head?

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

The worst part?

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

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

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

He leaves. 

Kindly. 

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

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

You groan.

He whistles.

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

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

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

You nearly screamed. Again.

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

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

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

There’s a long, tense silence.

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

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

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

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

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

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

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

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

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

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

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

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

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

You don’t know any of this.

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

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

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

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

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

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

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

“You mad I went quiet?”

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

He laughs.

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

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

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

“Bet you missed me though.”

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

“You’re impossible.”

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

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

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

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

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

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

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

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

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

And it felt mortifying.

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

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

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

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

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

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

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

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

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

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

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

Your brain short-circuits.

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

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?”

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

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

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

You forget you ever tried to run.

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

But then reality crashes back in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, Ace finds you.

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

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

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

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

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

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s still right there.

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

And then the worst part happens.

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

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

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

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

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

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

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

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

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

He appears again.

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

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

He just traps you.

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

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

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

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

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

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

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

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

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

And then the sucker punch:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-CAUGHT-

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did not just…

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

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

He let it hit him.

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

He’s laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flee, again.

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

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

“Want me to carry that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not staying here.”

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

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

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

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

-Emotional Turning Point-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Ace? 

Ace stays.

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

The pause feels like an eternity.

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

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

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

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

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

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

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

“OH MY GOD.”

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

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

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

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

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

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

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

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

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

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

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

And Ace?

He shatters.

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

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

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

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

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

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

“Go where?”

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

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

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

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

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s sitting still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-The Climax-

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

You commit to the idea.

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

And that would be fine.

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

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

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

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

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

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

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

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

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

Because how dare he.

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

And that’s when it happens.

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

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

You take a step back, instinctively.

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

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

You snap.

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

You miss.

He doesn’t.

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

But he beats you to it.

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

You should run.

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

You’re gone.

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

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

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

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

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

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

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

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

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

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

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

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

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

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

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

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

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

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

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

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

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

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

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

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

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

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

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

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it. 

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

Corazon would have a whole plan, partly put together by thirteen-year-old Law and your toddler, Evangeline. Your daughter would draw you a card, while Corazon and Law focused on making you breakfast and of course, it would go all kinds of wrong.

You wake up to hushed shouting between your husband and adoptive son, Law telling Corazon he's going to burn the bacon and to stop smoking while he cooks. Your husband retorts that it's fine, nothing bad is going to happen. He's not going to set anything on fire, unlike at Christmas. For a few minutes you lay there on your phone, listening to your family down the hall. Evangeline eventually comes into your bedroom, pulling on your blanket and calling for you to pay attention to her.

“Mommy, mommy!”

You roll over and lift her up into your bed, giving her a tight hug while she laughs and returns it. What a joy she is, that last nearly three years have been a blessing with her and Law around, you wouldn’t change it for the world. Yes, some people have given your small family odd looks—what are two twenty-six-year-olds doing with a toddler and a teenager?—but you’ve learned to tune them out and ignore them. It didn’t matter what others thought, they could assume you’d had a teen pregnancy all they wanted. It wasn’t the truth, but some wouldn’t even listen or believe you. After all, you’d tried to explain it to your coworkers when you and Corazon adopted Law just before Evangeline was born, but even those close to you didn’t understand it.

“What’ve you got there, Evie?”

“Your gift!” She beams at you and holds the card she’d made out, the biggest grin on her little face. Just as planned, it’s a card she scribbled together, you can recognize your husband’s handwriting to make the words legible, but it’s still adorable that she tried so hard to make you something. There’s a cute little drawing of your family in the card, making you smile and hug her again,

“Thank you, Evie! I—” you’re stopped by the smell of smoke before the smoke detector goes off and kick off your blanket, running down the hall with your daughter in your arms and hearing Law yell that everything is fine, though you’re at the kitchen doorway before he finishes speaking. “What is happening?!”

Law turns to you and points at Corazon, who is waving a towel over the completely burnt bacon to try and get the smoke and smell out the window. “He burned breakfast again!”

“Not like you were helping, little shi—” Corazon stops himself when you send him a glare and cover Evangeline’s ears, shaking your head at him. After the one time she said ‘bastard’, you’d been very watchful of what words were said in your house, “Look, it’s fine! We can salvage it!”

“No, we can’t! It’s burnt black!”

Corazon ignores Law’s complaints for the moment, coming over to kiss your forehead and smile at Evangeline. “Did you give mommy her card?”

“I did!”

“That’s my girl!” Evangeline giggles while Corazon turns back to kiss you as a proper good morning. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Thank you, beloved.”

You’re briefly interrupted by a fancy bouquet of flowers being shoved between the two of you, Law looking away shyly as he holds them there for you, his own gift for you for the day that makes you almost cry and heart ache. He’d been with you as your son for the last three years, but this was the first time he’d given you anything on this day. You’ll never truly take the place of his mother, like Corazon won’t really take his father’s place and Evangeline his sister’s, but you’re glad for the smallest bit of progress that has him viewing you all as his family, and you hope for him to continuing viewing you all in that light, even as he grows up and out of your home one day.

“…Happy Mother’s Day.”

Crouching down enough to be eye level with him, you give Law a kiss on the forehead and a smile.

“I told you to be careful, you know.”

“I know that, Marco. You’re not helping!”

The whine you give while Marco pats your head makes him laugh at the same time, repeating what he’s just told you as you sink further into the chair in his office. You can’t believe you let this happen, that he was right to tell you and Ace be careful when you started dating. Neither of you really understood what he meant back then, but you sure do now.

“You’re definitely pregnant. Looks like…about seven weeks, almost eight,” Marco smiles to himself when you whine again, face hidden in your hands, “I don’t see anything to be worried about, you both look completely healthy so far.”

You’re screwed, you just know it. It’s only been a few months, you and Ace haven’t even had a chance to discuss marriage or babies or anything like that. You’ve just been dating and having fun with each other.

A little too much fun it seems, considering the—what should be--good news Marco’s given you today. It really should be good news, the whole crew has waited so long for you and Ace to get together, hearing you’re pregnant would just excite every one of them.

You should be happy too, but there’s too many worries and fears taking over your mind at the moment to be excited and happy about having a baby with Ace. You two danced around your feelings for each other for so long, that no one would be surprised if you made this announcement. You’ll never know about the betting pools going on, everyone trying to figure out when you’ll either get married or have a child, and now it looks like the latter is going to net someone a decent amount of cash. (Its Marco who wins, don’t worry about it if he gets your baby something really nice.)

You bury your face in your hands, Marco just watches you at first, before sighing to himself. He’s watched you and Ace avoid the obvious feelings you had for each for years now, so when you confided to him that you were going to finally tell Ace, soon after the fire user said the same thing to him, Marco was happy for you both and your biggest supporter, he knew you guys would he happy together and he’s been right so far.

He's not at all surprised by your sudden pregnancy, you and Ace aren’t sneaky at all and he’s been expecting this for a while now. Your reaction though, tells him that you guys probably haven’t even discussed having kids or anything like that at all. It makes sense that you wouldn’t yet, it’s still early in your relationship, that helps explain your reaction. The way you have your face buried in your hands like you’re trying to hide from the world or wake up from what seems like a good but bad dream.

You probably do wish it was the flu now.

“Hey,” you peek between your fingers to see Marco crouched in front of you, one hand on your knee and a smile on his face, “You and Ace will be great parents. I know you guys didn’t plan this, but everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of that as your and this baby’s doctor.”

It almost makes you cry, though you stop yourself. You remove your hands from your face, still hanging your head when you speak up.

“…I’m scared Ace will be mad…”

“At you? Never in a million years,” Marco chuckles lightly while patting your knee, “He’d throw himself in the ocean before he got angry at you, especially since he had a part in this. Takes two to make a baby and you’re only one half of the equation.”

You know Marco is right, Ace would never get mad at you over something he had a hand in. While he may not be as excited when you tell him, you aren’t sure just what his reaction will be yet, but you know there’s no way he’ll be yelling at you like it’s your fault. Maybe Ace will be happy and excited, maybe he’s just never said he wants kids or hasn’t thought about it since you’re both still only twenty. It’s likely not in the front of his mind or something he’s thought about, you’ll have to try talking about it later with him, once you’ve settled down and worked out how to bring this up.

“…what if he doesn’t want this?”

“Do you want this?”

You stay quiet for a moment before nodding.

“I’ve…I’ve wanted to have my own family…ever since my parents and brothers died.”

“That’s all that matters then.”

You’ve been with the Whitebeard Pirates for so long, ever since you were twelve, but you still hadn’t told many of them about how you’d lost your family. The hurricane that swept through your home island and ruined countless lives while taking just as many, you were one of the lucky few to survive but at the cost of your parents and older brothers. You were beyond lucky when the Whitebeard Pirates showed up, you clung onto Pops like he was your savior and he just had to let you come along, you weren’t going to let go otherwise. Marco and Izo became your favorite people immediately, Thatch following soon after when he gave you a sweet to try. Everyone quickly accepted you as their new little sister, you hadn’t felt such felt love since you’d lost your family and don’t think you could ever leave them now.

Then when Ace joined you were instantly head over heels for him, it took him a bit before he felt the same for you but neither of you could ever view the other as a sibling like you did the rest of the crew, it didn’t feel right even when you first met. Good thing too otherwise this would be very awkward right now.

“All right,” Marco nods and goes back to a cabinet, digging through it, “We’ll keep this between you and me, we won’t tell Pops until you’ve told Ace. We’ll get with Thatch though so he can keep alcohol from you and start you on a meal plan to make sure you and the baby have everything you need. And I want you to start taking these pre-natal vitamins, okay?”

You nod when Marco hands you a bottle of vitamins, you’re still nervous and worried about how Ace will react, but you have some time to think. He’s off seeing Luffy right now with a stop by to visit Sabo planned, he’d told you yesterday over a call that it’d be another week or so before he gets back, you have time to get used to this and plan how to tell him.

Marco pats your head, giving you a smile when he sees you tighten your grip on the bottle.

“Everything will be okay, no matter what happens.”

“I know…thanks, Marco.”

“Anything for you. Now,” you return his smile and start to feel a little better about the whole situation, especially when Marco speaks again, “Let’s go do an ultrasound, hm?”

+!+

Marco keeps your first sonogram images in his office, away from others who might see and spoil the surprise before you even get to tell Ace your news. Thatch is the only other person who knows right now, he’s excited for you and has a meal plan ready by the end of the day you tell him, no one really questions it when you don’t have alcohol at dinner. You really only drank when Ace was around because he’d always get you back to his room safely, so no one questions it when you aren’t given any drinks apart from water at any meal.

Nothing really changes for now, apart from Marco wanting to check on you every few days to make sure everything still looks good and so far it does. None of your crewmates question this either, knowing you haven’t been feeling well and believing that Marco is just taking extra precautions and ensuring you haven’t caught anything severe. You promise anyone who asks that everything is okay and you’re fine, just getting over whatever illness made you sick.

You’re able to keep it all a little secret between you, Marco, and Thatch for the time being, and it continues to be that way even when Ace finally returns to you and the Moby Dick. You’re busy with Marco when he gets there, not for an appointment but to figure out what needs restocked on the ship, but Ace seeks you out once he’s finished talking to Whitebeard and others about Luffy and Sabo, running to you and shouting your name once he sees you.

It makes you anxious for a moment but so beyond happy to see him again. Once he gets to you, Ace scoops you up in his arms and hugs you so tight, you do the same and laugh while he tells you just how much he missed you. You think you probably missed him more, this was the first time he’d gone off to see his brothers since you started dating, it was rough even before you learned you were pregnant, you’re sure the hormones are what made the last week and a half even worse.

Ace drags you off to his room once he’s greeted everyone, you two need some time together and he’s desperate for it, you’re the one he thought about every day that he was gone and when he hears you were sick most of the time he was gone, his shoulders drop and he frowns. He hates that he wasn’t there to help you recover, but he’s glad you all have Marco around when any of you get sick or injured. The smile you have makes Ace feel better about it though, even when he noticed something there that he can’t quite place but it looks like anxiety or nervousness.

“You’re okay now though, yeah?”

“Mm-hm!” You nod, making Ace smile again as he wraps his arms around you, causing you to fall back on his bed with a laugh as he buries his face in your shirt, “Marco made sure of it, so you don’t have to worry about getting sick. I’m all yours today~”

“Good,” Ace barely notices you flinch a little when he presses his face into your stomach, but he thinks it’s probably that you’re not as fully recovered as you’re claiming, “As long as I can just lay here with you now~ I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Ace.”

You’re really glad he’s back, honestly. You were fine the first day Ace was gone but the next day you were more emotional and felt oddly lonely without him around, even with the others around. Ace has always been the brightest part of your days, even before you started dating he was the one who would find you first every morning just to greet you with a grin, making your stomach do flips for a while before you got used to it.

“Hey,” Ace looks up at you just enough to see your face while you run your fingers through his hair, giving you a sleepy smile, “What…do you think about having kids…?”

He's surprised by your question, but stays quiet for a minute, having to really think about it. Ace hasn’t ever thought it was a good idea for him to be a father, he’s never really thought that he’d be good at it or that he should even think about it, but he also knows about how much you want to have a child one day, to have your own family. The few times you two would talk about your pasts and your futures, while he’d told you who his real father was and you’d explained how you joined up with the Whitebeard Pirates, though Ace didn’t really have a plan for his future you always said how much you wanted to have kids of your own. He knows it mostly stems from having lost your biological family when you were younger, before you two ever met, and he respects your wants and desires.

But he’s just now sure about how he fits into that, if he wants that himself.

“I…don’t know…what about it?”

“I mean,” you shrug a bit as Ace starts to sit up, looking like he’s thinking but also concerned, hopefully he hasn’t figured you out from that one question, “It…could be fun right? To be parents one day…”

Ace doesn’t say anything, it makes you more nervous that you were about bringing it up, but you keep a smile on your face as you keep talking.

“Maybe one day, a little girl with your personality or a boy who looks just like you. I think I’d like that. We can raise them here with everyone, and your brothers—”

“I don’t think I want kids,” he doesn’t look at you when saying that, like he’s expecting you to end your relationship there since he knows your hopes for the future, but he’s hoping that’s not the case, “I just…I don’t want them to suffer because of me, or my past.”

“Ace, they wouldn’t—”

“Can we not talk about this now? I’m tired and I just want to spend time with you…”

Even though all you do is nod, it makes you feel sick that you can’t talk about this right now. You knows he’s tired, he needs to rest after having been gone and just getting back that day, but it still makes you more anxious than you already were. Ace lays next to you again, quiet himself, but he pulls you into a hug and kissed your forehead, hoping that he hasn’t upset you or anything. He really hasn’t, you

Even though all you do is nod, it makes you feel sick that you can’t talk about this right now. You knows he’s tired, he needs to rest after having been gone and just getting back that day, but it still makes you more anxious than you already were. Ace lays next to you again, quiet himself, but he pulls you into a hug and kissed your forehead, hoping that he hasn’t upset you or anything. He really hasn’t, you kind of expected him to shut down any talk about having kids right now, it shouldn’t be in your minds yet but the fact you’re already pregnant has you thinking about it constantly. You were hoping to get this discussed and settled right away, but maybe you should’ve waited until he was back for a day or two, instead of the day he got back. Maybe of you gave him some time to relax before you brought it up, you wouldn’t be feeling like you’re about throw up right now.

Actually, you’re sure it’s morning sickness combined with the anxiety and worry now, your stomach isn’t calming down and you have to push Ace away to get out of his bed.

“I don’t feel good,” Ace tilts his head as you move to leave, confused and now worried you’re still sick, “I…feel like I’m gonna be sick.”

“Hey,” Ace grabs your wrist when you try to run off, concern on his face when you don’t look at him, “Are you okay? You’re still sick?”

“Mm,” you nod before giving him a small smile, but it makes Ace even more concerned though he does let you go, “Just…gonna run to Marco, I’ll be back!”

“Okay then…”

Ace doesn’t follow you out of his room, just watching you go as you close the door. He doesn’t know what exactly is going on, but believes you when you say it’s because you still aren’t well. He knows Marco will take care of you and get you back to 100% in no time, though he wonders if what he said about maybe not wanting kids is the cause. He knows he might change his mind later on, maybe, but right now, he’s not confident that it’s something he wants. He doesn’t want anything like what happened with his own parents to happen to you and your child, it wouldn’t be fair to you or them if anything were to happen to him.

He knows it might become a make or break deal later on, but he hopes and prays he has time to really think about it and make a decision before you just end your relationship. But he also hopes you wouldn’t do that for this one thing, even if it means you have to make a compromise somewhere. Whatever that might be Ace isn’t sure, hopefully it’ll be years down the road before you have to make any kind of decision together about it.

For now, he’s going to unpack his bag while you’re gone, his whole focus being on you and getting some much needed alone time together had distracted him. He had to get somethings put away and a few gifts for you hidden for your birthday later on.

Especially the engagement ring Luffy and Sabo helped him pick out for you. He can’t let you see that quite yet.

~~

You don’t go to Marco actually, you run for the nearest bathroom and try to keep quiet, you don’t want Ace to hear you and get more worried. He probably thinks you’re just getting Marco to help your stomach calm down and you’ll go back to him, but the whole situation has you upset even when you kept that from him.

He's not sure he wants kids, why should he be? You’ve heard his story, you know who his biological father was, you understand why he wouldn’t be sure about it. Ace knows your plans to have kids, to be a mother one day, and he’s always respected that, he’s told you he thinks you’ll be great at it. He’s never believed it should be with him, even though he’s not told you that, you wonder if he thinks he’s not good enough for that kind of life.

It makes you feel worse to think about that, to think he doesn’t believe he deserves to have a family one day.

Of course he’s not sure about having kids, why would he be? We’re only twenty and we’ve only been together a few months, damn it.

It makes sense to you, it does, but you really had thought that maybe you two starting a relationship would let Ace see you want that with him, no one else. Before you found out you were pregnant you thought maybe the two of you could adopt if something came up where Ace didn’t want biological children or you couldn’t have kids yourself.

But things have changed and you just have to hope that Ace will think about it more than he has.

You quickly wash your face and rinse your mouth several times before you leave and decide to check with Marco anyway, but end up running right into Izo before you get too far. The concerned look he gives you makes you nervous as you laugh and apologize for running into him.

“Hey, Izo, what’s u—”

“Are you pregnant?”

Your eyes widen just a bit, before you laugh nervously and wave your hands, trying to brush it off while he looks at you. He knows and you’re scared he’ll tell Ace, so you try to lie your way out.

“W-what?!” You score and glance away, it only makes him narrow his eyes at you, “No…who told you that?? That’s so ridiculous! I’m not—”

“Why are you still sick then? Marco said you should be well by now.”

“W-Well—”

“This all started while Ace was gone, yes?” You start to shrink away, leaning against the wall as Izo watches you start to let your walls about it down, sliding yourself to the floor, “You’ve been sick for weeks now if that’s the case.”

“It…it’s the flu, I’m not—"

“Its not the flu, its morning sickness, isn’t it?” Izo sighs to himself as you keep looking away, he can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner, “Did you forget I was around when Lady Toki was pregnant and gave birth? I know it was a long time ago but I do remember such things!”

That had slipped your mind, Izo probably would have kept this secret for you too if you’d told him. You slightly nod, Izo isn’t shocked, he was one of the people betting you’d have a baby before getting married anyway, but he’s wondering more about how long you’ve known about this and starts to question you about your surprise pregnancy and if Ace knows yet. When you shake your head at that answer, he raises an eyebrow before a thought hits him and he nods.

“You found out while he was away then.”

“Yeah…I didn’t…I honestly thought I just had the flu or something.”

“I see. When—”

“Please, Izo, don’t tell anyone. I…I’m going to tell Ace in a few days, I swear, I just don’t want  anyone else to know before he does…”

The pleading look you give him makes Izo sigh but with a light smile as he nods. He’d never take that away from you, allowing you to make your own decision on when and how to tell Ace about your pregnancy. It’s soon, probably sooner than you ever thought it would be, but he can already imagine you and Ace being amazing parents, how everyone is going to dote on your baby and help raise them. It’s been so long since there’s been a baby on board, he wonders if anyone remembers how to even care for a baby let alone hold one properly, but Izo also knows that once it’s out to everyone, Marco will start helping prepare everyone for this change.

“Everyone will be happy for you two.”

“…I’m just hoping Ace will be happy…”

“He will be,” before you can say anything else Izo takes your hand and helps you stand back up right, giving you a hug, “It may take him a bit, but I know Ace will be happy to have a child with you, even if he’s not sure about it yet. Everything will be fine.”

Part of you wishes people would stop saying that, but you’re also glad for all the reassurances from those who know. They’re more positive than you ever could have expected or asked for, they give you hope that Ace really will be excited when you tell him, despite what he said earlier about how unsure he is regarding having children.

Everything will be okay, even if it might be as while before everyone is settled and accepting. What’s more important is that you tell Ace soon and get his reaction, after that you can worry about what to do next.

Izo questions you a bit more after that, before letting you go back to Ace, he just wants to be completely up to date on everything and know how he can help. All you ask is again that he doesn’t tell anyone, that’s all you need right now.

You’ll tell Ace soon, then everyone else. You won’t keep it private too much longer.

+!+

A few days later at dinner, everyone is getting rowdy and drinking, celebrating your birthday and everyone making you laugh more than normal. It helps you forget about your worries regarding you’re pregnancy, you’ll ignore it for now and focus more on the smiles and pecks on the cheek Ace gives you every now and then, your attempted conversation forgotten about for the time being. Ace told you he’d think more about it, and you said you wouldn’t push him or anything like that. The compromise is enough for now for both of you, even with your secret, you aren’t going to worry too much right now, not until you’re ready to tell him.

Tonight you aren’t going to think about it, you’re focused on your family celebrating you, everyone so happy to still have you around and giving you the gifts they carefully picked for you. Ace said he’ll give his gift to you later, some people end up taking it the wrong way and give whistles and shouts, making you roll your eyes as your face heats up. It makes Ace laugh before he plants a kiss on your cheek again, promising it’s something better than what everyone else thinks.

When Thatch comes by with drinks, he makes sure once again to keep alcohol away from you, passing you a water that you accept gratefully and it makes Ace furrow his brow.

“You’re not drinking again?”

You shake your head, giving a smile.

“Not today, I want to remember everything.”

“One drink wont knock you down, you can handle it!”

“I--no, I’m okay, Ace, really!”

No one says anything about it, instead staying deep in their own conversations. Ace doesn’t understand why you’ve been abstaining so much lately, every time he tries to get you to drink you reject it, it makes him wonder if something happened while he was gone that made you stop entirely. You haven’t told him anything, neither has Marco or anyone else, maybe you’ve just decided to cut back heavily for some other reason.

Ace lets it go for a bit, before he gets another drink and tries once more to get you to take just a sip from his cup. He questions you again when you shake your head, but before you can say anything, you hear Teech laugh and make a suggestion that makes you freeze up.

“Ha, maybe she’s pregnant!”

It makes Ace rolls his eyes, not noticing that you’re anxiously looking at him, like you expect him to know just from that.

“No she’s not, shut up.”

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” Teech takes a drink, while you pray he doesn’t say anything more or Ace just doesn’t take anything he says to heart, “We’ve all seen her sneaking out of your room most nights anyway!”

It's starting to get to you, you never cared if anyone else saw you slipping out of Ace’s room or the two of you leaving together in the mornings. No one ever said anything or made any comments, most of them did it out of respect for your privacy, though some did make suggestive faces towards you both early on, it’s all stopped over time. It’s quickly been replaced by everyone treating you both normally, the bets you don’t know about taking over private conversations for the time being.

Well, its stopped by everyone but Teech now. You’d usually be embarrassed by talk of your sex life but the comment about your still unrevealed pregnancy makes you upset, to the point you’re starting to get mad more than anything and glaring at Teech to try and make him stop talking before anything comes out too early.

“Shut up, Teech.”

“What? Everyone knows you and Ace have been going at it like—”

“I said, shut up!”

Everyone quiets as you yell, those who had been listening understand what exactly is going on but don’t say anything yet. Ace jumps when you slam your hands on the table and stand up, he’s never seen you set such an awful glare on someone like you are Teech right now, but it makes the wheels in his head start to turn and he starts piecing everything together. You never get this upset about some teasing, even if it’s a joking suggestion that you might be pregnant. Another crewmate made a joke about it early on, before you and Ace ever even slept together the first time, and it made you laugh, commenting back about how your parents were right, kissing boys made you pregnant.

But this time you’re visibly angry about it, it’s an obvious joke from Teech, he’s always been the one to make crude comments about sex and relationships, you and Ace have never been spared from this, especially when everyone figured out you started having sex. While some gave you two looks, Marco telling you to be careful (that worked out well), and Teech making comments you don’t dare repeat and have tried to wipe from your memory. Ace did everything he could to make it stop, you both thought it was over with when you hadn’t heard anything in the last couple months, but for some reason, your reaction to the suggestion of pregnancy has you mad, so Ace has to stop and think.

Teech tries to defend himself as Ace keeps thinking, everything starting to make more sense and fall into place in his mind. You being sick for so long, asking about having kids, not drinking with him, you pushed him off you the other night when he started handsy and said you weren’t in the mood, which he respected but now he’s realizing what it is that made you stop him.

“…are you pregnant?”

Ace is quiet when he asks, but it’s what gets you out of your anger, making you look back at him and he sees the tears starting to form in your eyes. Marco tries to step in, telling you to settle down because this isn’t good for you, getting worked up and stressed. You look so upset, while Ace is in shock and just staring at you, everyone around you two has completely quieted and looks between you two.

You can’t even bring yourself to speak, this isn’t how this was supposed to go, you weren’t ready to tell him yet! It was going to be a surprise when you did tell him, you had a plan, this isn’t fair!

“I…”

“Babe—”

“I’m sorry!”

You take off before Ace can say anything else, Marco calls for you but everyone else stays put. No one wants to be the first to say anything, they’re not sure if they should congratulate Ace or just keep their mouths shut, but eventually Marco sighs and sets a hand on Ace’s shoulder.

“Come with me.”

It takes Ace a moment before he can move, he knows he should’ve followed you out, he needs to know if you really are pregnant or if it’s just a suspicion you have, though the way Marco is acting tells him you have to be sure already. That’s probably why he wants to talk to him, Marco knows and is going to give Ace all the information he can, so he finally gives in and follows him out. Ace hates seeing you upset and crying, it’s not fair to you that this got out the way it did. He knows you, he’s sure you were planning something cute to do for your announcement, but now it’s all been ruined.

Ace feels sick, he’s upset for you, but he really needs to know how real this is, it could still be a misunderstanding. He’s pretty sure it’s not after the scene that just unfolded, but there’s still a part of him that thinks it might be as he follows Marco.

 Once Ace and Marco leave, everyone lets out the breath they were holding before looking at Teech with glares. While some had their suspicions from how you’ve been acting, others had accidentally overheard you talking to Marco or Thatch about it, not one of them wanted to say anything. It wasn’t their place and they all knew you’d eventually say something when you were ready, or Ace would blurt it out at some point, they weren’t sure about how it would go.

All they knew was that it was now out there due to Teech and no one was happy about it.

“…I didn’t think she was actually pregnant.”

There’s several sighs and groans, while Izo and Thatch give the glares they could to Teech, causing him to shrink away just a bit for ruining your plans with his big mouth.

“Shut up, Teech.”

+!+

“She’ll be ten weeks along in a few days.”

“I can’t believe this…”

The sonogram image in his hands just makes Ace anxious yet excited, what he can’t believe is that it’s your baby he’s looking at, his baby on top of that. His heart is racing over this despite the sick feeling he has, this explains why you had asked him about having kids, why you’ve still had, what seemed to be, random bouts of sickness still, even though Marco had said you should be totally fine now.

But now it all makes sense. You haven’t been sick with the flu, you’re pregnant and it’s morning sickness that’s been getting to you so often. That’s why you rejected every time Ace tried to get you to drink, it’s why you didn’t want to do anything the other night, why you ran off the other day after you tried to ask about having kids.

He feels terrible that your secret got out, that you didn’t get the chance to tell him yourself, but looking at the sonogram he feels so excited.

“Do we know what—”

“Too early to tell the sex, in a few weeks we can do a blood test to see and then another sonogram later to confirm,” Marco smiles seeing Ace nod, it seems like he’s still coming to terms with this but he doesn’t look too upset, “She’s been worried about telling you, thought you were gonna get mad at her.”

“I’d never do that!”

“That’s what I said, but with this situation she wasn’t thinking straight.”

Hearing that makes Ace feel bad, you shouldn’t be that scared about telling him, he’s never yelled at you about anything. It’s not his personality and he hates the idea of hurting you that way, you two have always talked through any issues you’ve had and come to compromises or agreements, like you did recently with the whole having kids thing.

Oh.

Oh that explains why you ran off after asking and he said he didn’t want kids. You were scared and it made you sick, Ace realizes that makes so much more sense now. He should’ve tried to explain it better, that he wasn’t sure about having kids, not just that he flat out doesn’t want them. If you’d been able to talk about that sooner, maybe you would’ve been a little more careful not having to worry about this now.

“Ace, you know she’s wanted this forever now.”

Ace nods, still staring at the sonogram image. There’s so much you two have to discuss now, he needs to make sure you’re okay and that you know he’s not going anywhere. Even if he hadn’t planned to ask you to marry him, he’d still stick around hearing that you’re pregnant. He may not be sure of how good he’ll do as a dad, but if this is what you want, what you’ve always wanted, he’s going to stay with you and help you through everything. Nothing would change that, he really hopes you understand that already.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do, but—”

“I gotta go talk to her,” Ace stands up quickly and hands the sonogram back to Marco, “I gotta make sure [Y/N]’s okay and tell her I can’t wait for this.”

“Really? You’re okay with it?”

“Yeah, I…” sighing, Ace smiles a bit while Marco watches him, “I’m scared as hell I’m gonna screw up, but I think…I think we’ll be okay.”

“You’re not gonna screw up,” Marco laughs and pats his shoulder, “You guys have all of us here, we’ll make sure your kid doesn’t end up like you.”

“Hey—”

“You better go and talk to her, she’s been anxious about everything for almost two weeks now.”

“Yeah,” there’s a grin on his face as Ace nods once more, turning to leave, “I’ll take care of it, thanks Marco.”

+!+

Ace knows you ran off to his room to hide, even though its not the best place since again, it’s his room, but he’s not mad about it. You’ve always gone there when you were upset about something, this isn’t a surprise to him. You’ve mostly calmed down by the time he gets there, though you don’t look towards the door when you hear it open.

“When were you gonna tell me?”

Ace feels like his heart breaks when you sniffle, rubbing at your eyes and shrugging. He hates seeing you cry, always has, but he feels worse about it now than he ever has. You’re embarrassed and upset, you didn’t want someone else to blurt it out, he shouldn’t have tried getting you to drink as much as he did, maybe you could’ve told him later that night if he hadn’t. He feels like it’s all his fault this happened, though, he knows that it definitely is partly because of him that everything is going to change.

You’re pregnant, Ace really thought you guys were being careful and safe, but apparently not. Ace wonders if you didn’t tell him because you were scared or didn’t want to have a baby with him, maybe you thought he’d get mad at you and break up with you. He’d never do that but maybe you weren’t thinking straight after finding out, you got worried and let negative thoughts overtake your mind.

You should be happy and excited, not scared and worried, Ace realizes that. He starts to look around his room while you keep your eyes on the floor, expecting him to end your relationship or something like that.

“Ace—”

“We’re gonna have to find a place for a crib, huh?”

“…what?”

“Or, hm, what’s that other thing called?” Ace starts thinking, while you’re sitting there stunned and staring at him like he has two heads, “Oh…the bed for babies that sometimes looks all frilly and stuff…”

“A…a bassinet?”

“Yeah, that! We’re gonna have to move things around,” you give Ace a confused look as he starts trying to get an idea of how to rearrange the room, “Maybe…we can move the dresser to this other corner, our bed can go against this wall, and—”

“Wait stop, you…you’re okay with this?”

Ace gives you a grin, tilting his head.

“Should I not be?” he’s still grinning when he finally walks over, crouching in front of you and reaching a hand to your cheek, “A baby with the girl of my dreams…what could be better?”

“I…you said you didn’t—”

“I know, I know,” Ace nods with a small smile, he shouldn’t said something earlier but it was your birthday and he didn’t want to interrupt your day, “When you asked, I had already started thinking about it, but you just surprised me and I kind of…”

“Freaked out?”

“Ha, yeah, I guess so. It was like you could read my mind and I was worried you’d think it was too soon if I said yes.”

“Ace,” you roll your eyes a bit with a smile, “We had feelings for each other for how long before we got together?”

Ace laughs, nodding and knowing what you meant. It seems only natural that you two would skip a few steps and go right to having kids, you’ve known and loved each other long enough. What does it matter if you’re not married yet, who really cares?

He's still going to ask you to marry him, but right now, it’s not a major concern for either of you.

“Good point, but I was still worried. So…I kind of lied because I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You’d never scare me off, Ace.”

He nods again, smiling as you start to relax more, your own smile showing and it makes Ace happy to see you’ve calmed down some. He knows you’re still worried and anxious, but he hopes he can help you realize that it’s okay, he’s not mad or going to leave you. He’s staying with you, he's going to help you raise your baby no matter what happens, he’s going to protect the two of you and keep you safe.

“If it’s a girl, I hope she’s just like her mom.”

The comment doesn’t fully register at first, but it makes you roll your eyes again.

“If it’s a boy he’s going to be just like you, which means I’m in trouble.”

“Trouble?? You sure about that??”

You don’t get to respond back before Ace, carefully, hugs you tight and knocks you back onto his bed, making you laugh as he kisses your face and holds you close. Once you’ve both settled down, his comment about you having a girl finally hits you, you look up at Ace with a smile.

“You’re happy?”

“Of course I am,” the grin he gives almost makes you cry, but Ace stops that with another kiss before laying his head against your stomach, “Can’t believe our baby’s in there…you’ll be a great mom.”

It gets you more choked up, you can’t help it but don’t want to cry too loud. You don’t want Ace to think he’s upset you, so you stroke his hair a bit, taking a few breaths to calm yourself down before you speak again.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Ace.”

Ace doesn’t say anything for a moment, before he hugs you a little tighter and quietly says he’ll do his best for the both of you, pressing a kiss to your belly.

“I won’t let you down, I promise.”

Although everyone on board knows now, you’re sure those who heard have spread it to everyone that wasn’t around or listening by now, you’ve still got to let Whitebeard know later. You know he’s definitely going to be happy for you and Ace, just like everyone else has been so far.

Ace eventually sits up and gives you a grin that makes you tilt your head at him.

“I’ve got to call Luffy and Sabo! They’re going to be so surprised!”

While Ace hurries off the bed to get his transponder snail and call his brothers, you shake your head with a laugh before you follow after him. The excitement you hear from the two over the receiver makes you both happy and more excited than you already were. You may not have been planning this to happen for a while longer, but you’ve accepted that it’s going to happen and you can’t wait to see how Ace is as a father.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know, but I wanted to see you."

You glared at the male who pulled himself through your open window, only for your face to soften slightly at the sight of him.

“You could have been caught!” You counter quietly as you silently walked over to him, your voice a harsh whisper that filled the peaceful atmosphere of your bedroom. A soft frown adorned your face at the sight of an angry red mark on his forehead that wasn’t there the last time you saw him, your hand reaching up to gently caress the bruised skin.

A mark he most definitely didn’t obtain while trying to climb up the castle walls.

“But I wasn’t.”

Portgas D. Ace replied.

The captain of the Spade Pirates, and the man who had been scaling the walls of the castle just to see you every night after his crew docked on your island.

Ever since the first time you both locked eyes with one another from across the crowded street, Ace knew that he had to see you again.

It was like he fell in love at first sight, if love was like a cannonball that slammed violently into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him as you so effortlessly did.

You, in your elegant gown, your hair pinned up in the most intricate design he had ever seen, tiara gracing the top of your head as you walked past him, head held high as if you were unstoppable. Your heels softly kissing the cold stone ground with every step you took.

He wasn’t the only one, however. You, sweet, precious you, fell just as hard as the captain of the Spade Pirates did. Drawn in by his fiery attitude, how he looked both rough and gentle at the same time. Your steps stuttered at his handsome face, your nose catching the scent that lingered on him as he passed by. He smelt like smoke and the sea, home and adventure. Like freedom.

Your heart skipped a beat when you both did lock eyes as you passed, both staring at each other wide eyed and jaws slack. Both falling head over heels for each other, despite the major differences between the two of you.

It wasn’t until your father, the King, called your name that you both snapped out of the trance, giving him a shy smile and a soft wave before turning to follow your father.

You still didn’t understand why he wanted to risk being caught by the Royal Guards just to see you. You would have definitely snuck out of the castle to see him again if he wasn’t so persistent on clambering up your tower every night. You would have been served a lesser punishment if you were to be caught sneaking out, unlike Ace who would be handed over to the Marines, or kept down in the castle’s dungeon.

Ace gently held your wrist as your thumb caressed his forehead, his inky strands of hair cascading down your hand. You let out a soft sigh at his stubbornness before pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Just… be more careful next time, please?” You mumbled, leading the fiery captain over to your bed, just as you had done the previous nights. “I don’t want you being caught, 𝐀𝐜𝐞.”

Ace chuckled at your concern. He found it sweet how much you cared about him in the short time that you had known him. “I guess I can tryyy to be more careful, just for you.” He teased lightly as you both settled down on your comfortable bed.

“𝐀𝐜𝐞…”

“Fine, fine! I’ll be more careful next time, (𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞).”

You pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of his neck in response, letting out a soft breath of air against his skin.

His arms wrapped themselves around you as you basked in his soothing warmth, your head placed delicately on his chest. This is what you needed after a long day of Royal duties, of walking around in heels until your feet started to blister, and having to wear a dress that was so heavy you felt like you were carrying massive bags of sand.

Your mother and father would have a heart attack if they ever saw you snuggled up next to someone of a lower class, especially a pirate. But you didn’t care at all. You liked Ace, and Ace liked you back. Although you had never said it to one another, you both could easily tell that you liked one another very much. You didn’t care that he was a pirate, or that he was never of nobility to begin with.

At this point in the evening, it was routine to fall asleep in Ace’s arms, for him to stay until the sun started to peak through your window, where he would have to make a quick exit before he was spotted. Before his crew woke up, and before they grew suspicious as to where their captain ran off to every night.

Sometimes you would stay up all night talking about anything, telling each other your dreams and your fears. Talk about your childhood, or arguing softly over the silliest things, giggling like schoolchildren. Holding and loving each other like you had all the time in the world.

But something about this night felt different, like the air was heavy with unspoken tension. You could see it in the way Ace held himself, his shoulders more stiff than they would normally be. A tense sigh from Ace brought your attention back to him, tilting your head upwards to get a better look at his face.

“𝐀𝐜𝐞.” You called out gently, watching the way his eyes dart back to you at the call of his name. “You okay?”

Ace hummed, his voice more rigid when he spoke. “I’m okay, (𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞). I’m just… thinking.”

“About?”

The way he hesitated, his eyes glancing out your window towards the open sea told you everything you needed to know. You knew he had to leave eventually, that he couldn’t stay around forever. He was a pirate, free to do whatever he wanted, to go wherever his heart desired. You were a Princess, tied down by the weight of the crown. You weren’t able to stray from who you were meant to become.

You just wished it wasn’t so soon.

“I don’t want to leave.” Ace whispered, shaking his head softly. “I don’t want to leave you behind.”

You didn’t want him to leave either. You didn’t want to go back to those same old repetitive days of Royal duties that wore you down. Of having to be the perfect Princess for your parents. It wasn’t until Ace showed up that you actually started to feel alive.

Ace showed you what it felt like to live, to finally be free of the metaphorical shackles that were given to you at birth. To be something more than just the ideal Princess for your parents.

If he were to leave, you don’t know what you would do.

“Take me with you.” You whispered to him. Your voice, although quiet, popped that growing bubble of tension like a sharp needle. “𝐀𝐜𝐞, please take me with you.”

You wanted to be by Ace’s side as he travelled the seas, going on exciting adventures and exploring new islands. You wanted to watch him conquer other pirates, face off against Marines. You wanted to hold him when things got tough and love him openly, without the fear of being seen by your parents.

You wanted to be with him for the rest of your lives.

Ace laughed loudly at your bold words, his signature dazzling smile spreading across his handsome face.

He knew his crew would not be impressed that he had managed to steal the heart of the islands Princess. And he knew once the royal family found out that you were missing, all hell would break loose.

But Ace liked the thrill, and he liked you. A lot.

“Well, Princess… you better start packing.”

(Spoiler: his crew was not impressed)