~𝔚𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢~

🎻 Brook:

✦ bones & roses ♡

🦌 Chopper (platonic only):

✦ clingy combat cuddles ♡ ✦ little brother's dream ♡

🤖 Franky (coming soon)

🐟 Jinbe:

✦ insecure s/o (headcanons) ♡

🍊 Nami:

✦ stupid cupid ♡ ✦ sleight of heart ♡ ✦ freckles maps ♡ ✦ map of love ♡ ✦ soulmate tattoos ♡ ✦ she has a wife? ♡

🌸 Nico Robin:

✦ better than him ♡ ✦ soft lies, sharp eyes ♡ ✦ clues between the lines ♡ ✦ found family (reader with a kid) ♡

👺 Usopp:

You were ten when it began. At first, it was faint, a half-formed whisper slipping into your mind, someone else’s thoughts bleeding uninvited across the edges of your own. You had heard about soulbonds in passing, tales traded at ports or written in cheap magazines, but those were for exceptional people. The Warriors destined for greatness. Saints meant to change the world. Or, sometimes, the quiet sort who lived unremarkable lives and needed one tether to make them whole.

You had not imagined average kids like you could have one. But the universe had a knack for lacing drama where it was least expected.

The boy was nine. Younger than you. And he was very, very annoyed. Especially at those of the same gender as him. You knew this because he thought you were a boy.

-X- A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript; Chef’s Cut -X-

“Why do they always harass me? Just because I’m a better chef—” The voice cracked through your mind one night as you dozed against your father’s shoulder. It was small and uneven, like it had been crying for hours. Bitter. Desperate. Bruised in ways your nine-year-old self could not comprehend. “At least I have perfect rice. No one can deny that.”

You sat upright, heart hammering, eyes darting around the hotel room where you and your father were staying. The whisper had no sound. It came from within, a raw pulse that did not belong to you. A foreign thought pressed into your head like a shard of glass.

“Hello?” you whispered aloud, voice tight, as if the boy might step out from the shadows of the room. “You okay, bro?”

Your father stirred and gave a startled snore, tugging the covers closer. You froze, half hoping he had heard it too, half terrified he might ask what you were doing awake. But the room stayed ordinary. The lamp on the nightstand glowed faintly. The hum of traffic drifted through the window. Nothing answered you.

The silence pressed in, thick and strange. You held your breath, waiting. Then the boy’s voice spilled through your mind again, quieter this time, as if he were speaking into his own darkness.

“Mon dieu—”

You clutched the blanket to your chest, shivering though the hotel room was warm. The sound wasn’t sound at all, but it thrummed inside you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Oh my god. You had a soulmate.

Your heart raced like a runaway train. Suddenly, every story you had ever overheard about bonds came rushing back: romantic tales in magazines, whispered promises in ports, even the silly playground chatter about how people knew. You readied yourself in a panic, words already lining up in your head. You would introduce yourself, list your family history, gush about your favorite food, maybe even blurt out your social security number if that helped prove you were real.

However, the boy cut you off. Immediately.

It was nothing like the gentle spark those stories promised. No warm flutter, no poetic music swelling in the background. It was jagged and furious, a boy’s voice cracking with emotion and slamming through your skull like a door being kicked shut.

“Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed. A soulmate. And it’s a guy. Figures. All guys suck.”

You froze, mouth hanging open, then blinked at the sudden venom. “Excuse you?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Are you really there?” His voice sharpened, horrified, disbelief dripping from every word. “Oh, no. This is real. I really got stuck with a dude soulmate. My life is over.”

Your temper flared, hot and sharp.

 “I don’t suck.”

“You do,” he snapped back instantly, the certainty in his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You sat there in the dark hotel room, blanket bunched in your fists, staring at the quiet walls that had suddenly become a prison of voices. You had imagined soulmates might feel magical, that you would wake up in the middle of the night with someone whispering kind words across the stars. Instead, you had gotten this: an angry, dramatic little boy who already hated you without even knowing your name.

Something in you bristled. You could have told him the truth right then, that you were not a boy at all, that he was wrong and unfair. But his tone had been so drenched in loathing, so ready to shove you away, that your pride took over.

“Big deal. And I don’t suck. You’re just rude. Happy?”

The silence on his end stretched long, heavy, and skeptical. You almost thought he had vanished completely. Then, at last, a mutter slid through the bond, quiet and grudging.

“Not really. But at least you’re honest.”

And then he was gone. Whatever mental equivalent of a door he had, he slammed it shut with finality.

You sat blinking into the darkness, stunned. It wasn’t the warm, dreamy connection you had always heard about. It was prickly, sour, and utterly insulting. Yet beneath the malice lingered something else, something that caught at your chest. His thoughts had sounded ragged, desperate, like someone who had been burned too many times already.

When your father stirred awake with a groggy yawn, you wasted no time. You immediately launched into the story, recounting every detail in a rush of words: the voice, the insults, the strange way it all worked. He rubbed his chin with one hand, eyes half-lidded in the hotel’s dim light, and let you finish.

Finally, he sighed, the kind of sigh that seemed to carry the weight of far-off storms and unanswered questions. His hand scrubbed down his face before settling on his knee.

“Well,” he said softly, voice thick with sleep, “soulmates don’t always start like fairy tales. Sometimes they’re just people. And people… can be complicated.”

“He’s an ass,” you muttered hotly, clutching your blanket like it might shield you from the memory of that voice.

“Language, my dear,” your father warned, though his tone was more weary than sharp. He shifted on the mattress, trying to wake fully, and gave a low groan. “And I can’t say I approve of it. Kids shouldn’t be talking this young through a bond. It takes years sometimes, years. But he sounds hurt.” His brows knit, shadowed in the faint lamp light. “You’re sure he’s a kid?”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “I said I’m a boy.”

That pulled him up short. He blinked, then gave you a long, level look. For a heartbeat, you thought he might scold you, but instead, he chuckled, warm and tired and proud all at once.

“Of course you did,” he said, shaking his head as if the answer had been obvious. “That’s my kid.” He leaned back against the pillows, the lines around his mouth easing. “Just be his friend, if he talks again. You shouldn’t be anything more than that. Not now.”

You sagged into the covers, chewing your lip, his words echoing in your chest. Friend. Not more. You wanted to believe it would be that simple.

But as you lay there in the dark, listening to your father’s steady breathing return to sleep, you could still feel the boy’s ragged voice like a bruise pressed against your ribs.

He didn’t talk much for the first few weeks. Just bitter little thoughts that leaked through: salt spray, shouting sailors, the clang of a galley kitchen. You pieced together that he worked on a ship, cooking for people who probably didn’t appreciate him.

The unfairness of it burned. He was only nine, and already he sounded like the world had chewed him up and spit him out.

And he thought a lot about food. To the point that you were sure he was doing it to ensure he didn’t think of anything else. So much so, you’re pretty sure he didn’t even touch your thoughts unless you metaphysically pushed them on him. He made it, honestly, a little too easy. You immediately clocked that the child had no self-esteem.

One night, when he was thinking about how much he hated peeling potatoes, you slipped in, thoughtfully observant. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want them to cook evenly, you have to keep the slices the same size. My family… my dad knows a lot. He taught me.”

The boy bristled instantly. “Oh, well, excuse me, rich boy. I didn’t realize my soulmate was some fancy brat.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to cook, do it right.”

“I’m on a ship full of idiots who can’t boil water! Cut me some slack!”

The weeks after that were strange. His thoughts dripped in now and then, like someone muttering behind a wall. Shouting sailors, waves slamming against wood, the stink of fish. Pots banging in a kitchen in rhythm. 

He worked on a ship. Obviously. 

One night, while he was grumbling about overcooked vegetables, you said, “You know, you’re supposed to salt it before you blanch it. Then only cook till it gets bright, not soggy.”

The sharp pause that followed made you grin.

“Oh, really? Did your butler teach you that?” 

You snorted.

“I don’t have a butler. But I know what I’m talking about.”

The snort on his end was pure scorn. “Oh, no. My soulmate’s a snob. Perfect. Just perfect. A snobby boy who thinks he knows food better than me.”

“I didn’t say better,” you shot back. “I said right.”

“Listen, rich boy. I’m already cooking circles around whatever chef feeds you.”

That ass. Even worse, despite his piss-poor attitude, he did seem to have the makings of a good chef. A hard worker who took criticism well and responded to it perfectly. And whenever you dared to press him for details—what he cooked, how he cooked it—his descriptions weren’t childish. They were vivid, technical, full of detail, and love. He knew food. He lived it.

Still, you had a critic’s tongue. And you weren’t going to let him off easy.

“You see, the broth’s rich, but if it’s that oily, it’ll coat the tongue and drown the flavor. Balance matters.”

“Don’t tell me about balance, snob. I’ve been cooking since I was old enough to walk. You wouldn’t know real food if it bit you.”

“Better than listening to a nine-year-old who thinks pepper is spicy.”

The bond vibrated with his indignation. “You take that back!”

You smirked into your menu. “Make me.”

He cooked. You critiqued. He threw temper tantrums when you poked holes in his pride, and you secretly admired the way he cared so much about getting every dish right.

The two of you were children bickering across a bond, but somehow, in the rhythm of recipes and insults, you gave him what no one else did: someone who saw him not as a burden, not as a tool, but as a boy who wanted to be more.

Even if he still thought you were just another boy. Sanji was a rude little jerk about that, very specifically. That much was clear.

He constantly insulted you, snapped at every correction, and treated your input as an annoyance. But you could hear the cracks in his pride. The way his stomach growled louder than his bravado. The way he thought about food was not just with skill, but with desperation, like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to the world.

So you were kinder than he merited, but you could spot a child without a childhood from a mile away.

“You’re too harsh on yourself,” you told him once, after he’d cursed his soup for the tenth time in a row.

“Shut up, rich boy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The silence stretched, then he muttered, “…It’s not enough. I want it to be enough.”

It was moments like that that kept you from snapping back at him. Because underneath all the vinegar, he was just a boy who wanted someone to like what he made.

“Don’t be friendly, butt-face. I don’t make friends with guys.”

You almost laughed, but you bit it back. Because the truth was…he cared. You could feel it in the way he thought about food, even when he was cursing the sailors or grumbling about their empty stomachs. His voice came alive whenever he planned a dish, even the simple ones.

That was the first thing you admired about him. Not his manners, not his attitude, but the way he lit up at the thought of feeding people.

Age 11:

When the shipwreck came, you felt it through him; the slam of panic, the wrench of hunger, the bleak, endless churn of the sea pressing against him like a weight. Then, silence. Not that he was gone, but that he had nothing left to think with but emptiness. The kind of silence that filled your chest with cold dread, that made every heartbeat loud and accusing.

When his voice finally cracked back through, it was raw, thin, frayed around the edges. 

“I hardly have anything left. Just water. I’m gonna die here.”

The words were not just spoken—they were carved into your mind, each one a blow. What were you supposed to say to that? Comfort him? Promise him miracles? You swallowed, your throat tight. 

“No, you won’t—can’t—You’ve got me—I’ll keep you company.”

He huffed, a bitter sound, as if he would rather simply let the ocean claim him than hear your voice. But you stayed. You held the line, even when your own stomach twisted with emptiness, even when your hands shook because you hadn’t eaten, because you felt the ghost of his pain in your own body. Your father would later tell you how worried he had been for you at this age. You barely touched your meals. You’d become so skinny he could see your ribs through your shirts.

But at the moment, how could you bear to eat when your friend could not?

When he was starving on that rock with the old pirate Zeff, you became the echo that refused to leave him. You kept him talking, coaxed him out of the silence that threatened to swallow him whole. You asked him what he would cook if he could, the one thing that made him feel alive again. You made him describe every step: the way he’d chop onions, how the broth would simmer, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan, the smell of garlic and butter melting together. You painted the kitchen with your voice. You filled the bond with imaginary flavors, coaxing him to remember the things he loved, to taste them again with his mind even when his body could not.

You imagined the heat of the flames, the shimmer of oil on the pan, the soft thump of bread dough under practiced hands. You watched him through the bond as his voice, so faint at first, grew steadier, sharper. For a moment, you could almost hear him laughing at himself, nearly taste the sweetness of a meal long imagined.

And in that fleeting, miraculous space, hunger didn’t rule. Fear didn’t rule. The ocean was still endless and cruel, but between you, between your voices and shared breaths, there was a small, defiant warmth.

You weren’t there to save him from the sea, or from Zeff’s harsh lessons, or from the gnawing ache in his belly. You were there to keep him alive in the only way you could. And in keeping him alive, you were also teaching yourself how to endure.

“Grill a fish for me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Come on. Humor me.” 

A pause. 

Then, grudgingly, “…Fine. I’d score the skin so it doesn’t curl, brush it with oil, salt it—just enough, no more—and cook it over open flame. The fat would crackle. The skin would blister and pop. It’d smell like the ocean got better.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in the imagined aroma. You could almost feel the warm flesh flaking off the bone, the sharp tang of salt on your tongue. 

“That’s better than the stew I saw tonight.”

He laughed, weak and ragged, a sound that made your chest ache. 

“Finally. You admit I win.”

But the days stretched on. Weeks blurred into one another. The hunger was relentless, gnawing at him, molding him into someone thinner, bitterer, more fragile than the boy you knew. His laughter came less often, his voice quieter, and every word felt carved from exhaustion.

All you could do was talk. Ask questions, coax stories, imagine meals, tease memories. You wove entire feasts in the bond, from tiny flicks of bread crust to oceans of soup steaming in an imagined kitchen. You told him he couldn’t give up, even when his own mind was fraying. You tried to make him remember that the world could still be good, even if the sea refused to be kind.

And you hated it. You hated the warmth of the sunlight on your skin, the bite of real food in your mouth, and the comfort of your own bed. You hated being alive, fed, safe, while he withered on that rock, the salt of the ocean in his hair, the bitter tang of survival in every breath. Every bite you swallowed felt like theft, every laugh a betrayal.

So one night, you said out loud at dinner, the words tumbling out before fear or caution could stop them, “I’m going to sea. I’ll find him.”

Your father froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Absolutely not,” he said, the strain in his voice sharp with worry. “Do you even know where he is? The seas are dangerous. Pirates, storms…you could—”

“It’s not okay!” you shouted, your voice cracking with the weight of weeks of imagined horror. “He’s starving! He’s—he’s going to die if someone doesn’t—”

The words caught in your throat, the taste of helplessness bitter on your tongue. You could feel him, weak and ragged and alone, through the bond, and it made your chest ache with panic.

Your father’s face softened, but it was a sad, almost broken kind of softness. His eyes looked right through you, seeing the child you were, the limits you couldn’t yet surpass. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and the weight of it fell like stone in your stomach, “but… There are some things you can’t do.”

Your hands clenched in your lap. The room felt suddenly too small, too quiet. The silverware clicked against the plate like a metronome marking time you didn’t have. You could almost hear the sea, hear the ache in his voice, hear the hunger that would not wait for permission or logic.

And yet, your father’s words were final. You could not deny the truth in them. You could not yet change the world, no matter how loudly your heart demanded it.

That night, you lay awake, the bond humming faintly in the darkness. You could feel him, a ghost of desperation and fatigue, and though your body stayed in your warm bed, your mind ran wild across storm-tossed waters. Every wave that threatened him was a punch in your gut. Every ragged breath of his was a knife against your ribs.

You hated the helplessness. You hated the restraint. You hated that the world was large, cruel, and indifferent, and that he, your nameless friend, your echo in the storm, was out there, suffering, and you could do nothing.

“I want to help you.”

Sanji scoffed, though weakly, the sound brittle, like dry leaves. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Understandably, he raged. The rock was merciless, the sun relentless, and the hunger gnawed at him until every thought became a knife twisting in his chest. He cursed at you, barking and trying to push you away through the bond. “You don’t get it! You’re probably eating three meals a day, stuffing yourself while I rot out here!”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t even try. You just listened.

“I’m sorry,”  you whispered once, voice trembling as it traveled across the invisible thread that tied your minds. “I wish I could give you mine. “I wish I could give you mine. I’d hand it to you if I could.”

That silenced him. He didn’t thank you, of course. There were no polite courtesies to be found out here. But after that, the edges of his anger dulled, like waves wearing down stone. A small crack opened in the armor of bitterness he had wrapped around himself, and you filled it with words.

The longer it went on, the gentler you became. You told him stories, anything to distract him from the gnawing emptiness in his belly. You described the way the stars looked from your window, silver against the velvet black sky. You described the gardens near your house, how the roses smelled sweet after rain, how the sun warmed the stone paths. You told him about blankets fresh from the sun, the smell of bread baking, the way a breeze could make a room feel alive.

You became soft in ways you didn’t even recognize. You wrapped words around him like a quilt, stitching warmth into the emptiness, filling silence with presence. You were a hearth, a steady flame, the one thing unyielding in the chaos of his starvation.

And slowly, he let himself lean into it. Slowly, he let himself lean into friendship, allowing the bond carry more than panic, more than anger, more than despair. He began to speak in quieter tones, to answer with memories instead of curses, to breathe alongside your steadiness instead of against it.

It was not a sudden thing. There were still flares of rage, nights when he lashed at the bond like a trapped animal. But you were there. You were patient. You were soft. And he began to trust that you would not leave, that you would not falter.

And in that fragile, trembling trust, the first seed of hope took root.

One night, when his voice was quieter than usual, it came like a thread of smoke through the bond.

“It doesn’t matter if I get lost out here. My family won’t care.”

The words were so flat, so casual, so achingly resigned, that your stomach turned. Your hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, you thought he might retreat into silence. But the words came out anyway, like poison he had carried too long, each one leaving a bitter taste in your chest.

“Nothing. I don’t have anyone.”

You couldn’t breathe. Ten. He was ten. Ten years old. And he said it like it had been carved into his bones, a truth he had carried through fire and starvation. You pressed your hands to your chest, feeling the ache of helplessness, the impossible urge to reach across the seas and hold him.

“Can… will… will you tell me your name?”

He paused long enough for your heart to hammer against your ribs, long enough for the silence to throb. Then, quietly, almost afraid, he said, “Sanji. Just Sanji.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. The bond hummed faintly with the tremor of your grief. “Sanji.” You whispered it again, letting the name roll over your tongue, grounding him, giving him weight, giving him life.

“Sanji.”

He startled at the sound, as if hearing it from you—really hearing it—made him real. His voice cracked. 

“Yes?”

“Thanks for giving me your name.”

From then on, the sharp edges between you dulled. He was still rude, still short-tempered, but you saw through it now. You understood why his walls were made of barbed wire. And he understood, in some quiet part of himself, that you weren’t going anywhere.

The rock was merciless.

The sun burned until the stone itself seemed alive with heat. The waves gnawed endlessly at the edges, as though the sea meant to swallow what little remained of them. Days bled into one another, each longer than the last, and the boy on the other end of your bond grew thinner in voice as surely as he was wasting away in body.

Sometimes he raged. His words cracked like a whip across your mind, hot with fury, raw with frustration. Sometimes he fell into silence so heavy you feared you’d lost him altogether. Always, you stayed. Always, you whispered back, held space for him, gave him a tether to the world you could not reach.

You filled the emptiness with the only things you had: stories, memories, ordinary fragments of life. The smell of fresh bread from the oven. The way butter melted into a warm crust and left your fingers slick. The sound of wind rattling dry leaves along the stone path outside your family’s house. The hum of your dad’s voice when he thought no one could hear.

He mocked you for it. He called you a snob, a spoiled boy, a nuisance who knew nothing of hunger. His contempt was sharp, yet fragile. You could hear it in the cracks, in the way he repeated your words back to himself when he thought you couldn’t hear. Each echo betrayed the loneliness behind his anger, the secret longing to be comforted, to be remembered as more than starving flesh on a rock.

One night, when the silence had gone on so long you thought he’d finally slipped beyond your reach, his voice came trembling, raw.

“He gave me everything. He shouldn’t have. I don’t deserve it.”

Your hands curled tightly against your knees, small and trembling, because you were nine years old and not nearly equipped to understand the enormity of what he carried. You had no answer for the depth of sacrifice, no words fit to mend the wounds carved so deep into a boy’s life by hunger and neglect. Still, you whispered the only truth you had, the one thing that felt solid in the shifting tide of despair.

“It’s not your fault.”

Days turned into nights. Nights bled into the thin light of dawn, and still, you stayed. You didn’t pretend the rock was soft, didn’t gloss over the hunger, didn’t flinch from the cruelty of the sea. But in the bond, you created small sanctuaries: the scent of bread, the feel of a sun-warmed blanket, the distant laughter of your father in a room you could never enter. He listened, at first because he had nothing else to cling to, but slowly because he began to crave it.

And one evening, almost imperceptibly, he let himself lean a little closer, letting your words settle into the raw spaces inside him. He still raged at the world. He still yelled into the wind, into the waves, into the void. But when he returned to the bond, he returned to you. Not because he had to, not because the hunger demanded it, but because he had discovered that your presence, your ordinary, human warmth, was a place where he could rest, even for a moment, without fear.

“Maybe you’re not as bad as the rest. Maybe… we can be friends.”

It wasn’t much. Not a confession, not an oath, barely more than a begrudging scrap tossed into your hands. But on that barren rock, beneath a merciless sky, it meant everything.

You marked the days in your journal—almost three months.

The silences were stretching too long.

You pressed your palms together under the thin covers, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. You tried again and again to reach him, to pierce the distance that stretched between you. Nothing came back but the hollow echo of the bond. It was like shouting into a well and hearing only your own voice bounce back, faint and distant.

When his voice finally returned, it was ragged, barely more than a breath, and it made your chest tighten painfully.

“I can’t… I can’t keep this up.”

Your throat caught. You forced the words past the lump of fear rising there.

“Don’t say that. You can’t give up. You can’t—”

“What would you know about it?” His voice snapped suddenly, sharp and bitter, slicing through the fragile silence. “You’re safe. You’ve got food. You’ve never been starving on a rock with nothing but bones for company. You don’t know what it’s like.”

The bond trembled, frayed, and stretched thinner with every passing day, but you clung to it anyway. You could not let him fall into the empty dark.

When his voice scraped across the silence again, it was broken, raw, too ragged to be anger alone. “If I die out here, maybe it won’t matter. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Your breath caught in your throat, small and shallow.

“Don’t say that. You matter. You’re my friend. You can’t just—”

“You sound like a baby.” He spat, the insult sharp and hollow at once. It had no cruelty behind it this time, only the brittle edge of fear.

You pressed your fist to your chest, willing the ache away, forcing your voice to stay calm and steady even as your stomach twisted. 

“Then I’ll be a baby. I don’t care. You’re still not allowed to give up.”

He did not laugh, not really. But something in him softened, loosened, just enough for the truth to slip past the walls he had built so carefully.

“My family hated me.” The words came low and bitter, coated with a poison he had swallowed for years. “My father called me a failure. Said I was weak, useless, not fit to stand beside them. Told me I killed mom. Locked me away like I was filth. My brothers—”  His voice faltered, thick with shame. “They laughed at me. Hurt me. I thought… maybe they were right. Maybe I am nothing.”

“Sanji,” Your eyes stung with tears you could not shed, burning for him, for the boy who was only ten, yet carried the weight of a hundred lifetimes. “You didn’t deserve that. You never deserved that. You’re not a failure. You’re—” you whispered, saying his name with the gentleness that seemed almost impossible to find in your own small body. “You’re brilliant. The way you talk about food… the way you care about feeding people… You’re good.”

The bond went quiet, taut and trembling, as if holding its breath in disbelief.

He just whispered, barely audible, “…You think so?”

The bond went quiet, taut with disbelief.

“You’re good,” you told him. Steadier now, because he needed it steady. “I don’t care what they said. You care about feeding people. You care about making something beautiful out of nothing. That makes you good. Better than any of them.”

For a long while, he said nothing. You thought maybe he had turned away again, closed himself off, retreating behind the walls he had built so carefully.

But then, faintly, softer than the tide brushing the edges of the rock, a voice.

“…No one ever said that before. Thank you.”

You shut your eyes tight, holding on to him as hard as you could through the bond. 

“Then they didn’t know you like I do.”

The silence that followed was no longer empty. It was full, fragile, and uncertain, yet it carried weight and warmth.

The days blurred together. Hunger gnawed at him until even anger seemed too heavy to carry. You stayed anyway, whispering fragments of life to keep him tethered: the way the sun dappled through your window, painting the wooden floor gold, the scent of tea steeping and curling through the morning air, the faint creak of your house settling at night, the steady hum of your father’s voice as he worked unseen in another room. Every small detail, ordinary and human, became a lifeline.

One evening, when the wind had calmed and the waves lay like dark silk against the rock, his voice came trembling, hoarse and raw with wonder.

“Zeff says there’s a sea where every fish in the world gathers. All of them. Every flavor, every recipe. He calls it the All Blue.”

You smiled softly, pressing your hands to your cheeks as warmth unfurled in your chest. “The All Blue? It sounds… like a place made for you. I bet you’ll find it. I bet you’ll see it one day.”

There was a pause, then a hesitant whisper, almost a laugh, carried along the fragile thread of the bond. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you told him, letting the certainty of your voice wrap around him like a shield. “And when you do, you won’t be alone. You’ll always have someone who believes in you.” Your chest tightened. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering through the bond with all the certainty he didn’t yet have. 

A pause. His breathing came uneven, shaky, but it was alive. For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, his thoughts carried more than despair. They carried eagerness.

“All Blue,”  he murmured again, almost to himself, tasting the words like they were fragile treasures. “Maybe… maybe I really can live. When I find it, we can meet, and I’ll cook you the best food you’ve ever tasted.”

“You will,” you told him, fierce now, because he needed someone to say it without hesitation. “And I promise to eat every last bite.”

And in that moment, you made your promise, sealing it in the quiet between your hearts.

After three months, he was finally rescued.

You felt it before he said a word; an eruption across the bond. Yelling, the clatter of boots on wooden planks, the chaotic tangle of voices after so many weeks of emptiness. The sea had been his only companion, its rhythm steady and merciless. Now the noise of life came crashing back all at once, so loud it made your own ears ring as though you stood there beside him.

Relief poured through him in a wave so strong it left you dizzy. The sharp burn of salt and fear still clung to him, but under it all was the thrum of disbelief, the fragile, reckless hope of a boy who had finally been pulled from the dark.

“I made it,” he whispered, voice so thin you almost didn’t catch it. The words trembled with awe, with exhaustion, with the kind of wonder that comes only when someone honestly hadn’t expected to survive. 

“I didn’t die.”

Tears welled before you could stop them. For a heartbeat, you nearly broke. You almost told him the truth you’d buried since the day the bond had snapped and reformed into something you didn’t fully understand. The lie weighed heavily, sour at the back of your tongue.

But he sounded so small, so breakable, as if even the wrong word might unravel him. He needed certainty, not confession. So you smothered the truth and forced steadiness into your voice.

“Of course you didn’t,” you told him softly, as if it were a guarantee. “You’re going to find the All Blue.”

Age 12:

Recovery made Sanji restless. His body lagged behind the fire in his spirit, and through the bond you never had to guess at his moods. Every stubborn flare, every frustrated surge forward when his limbs trembled too soon, struck you like ripples across still water. His will to move burned bright, but his body had not yet healed enough to carry it.

“Careful,” you warned one morning when his thoughts tilted with dizziness. His pride had been swelling for days, and the pulse of impatience was impossible to miss. “If you fall flat on your face, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

A brush of dry amusement touched the tether, chased quickly by his voice. It was thin with exhaustion but still sharp, still determined.

“Please. I’ve survived worse than a tumble. Don’t worry your stupid head about moi.”

“That is debatable,” you muttered, though warmth crept in as relief. The chuckle that followed was faint but steady, and the sound carried like a lantern flame in the quiet of your mind.

He grew quieter then, his thoughts settling into a steadier rhythm, as if the very act of sharing them out loud helped.

“Old man Zeff says I’m a pain in the ass. But… he’s keeping me.”

“Keeping you? What are you, a stray cat?”

Pride flared across the tether, bright and sharp, almost enough to make you feel the grin tugging at his lips. His heartbeat quickened in the background, a rush of excitement thrumming through the connection.

“No. An apprentice cook. He’s the real deal, and he’s building something—a restaurant on the sea. A place where anyone can come from anywhere, sit down, and eat good food.”

The bond swelled with the image in his mind, so vivid it almost became your own. Ships drifted toward a floating haven, lanterns glowing across polished wood. Shutters opened wide to release warmth and laughter into the night air, while the scent of fire and spice curled into the salt-heavy wind. Beneath that vision was the sharp edge of hunger, carried quietly so you would not feel it too keenly. Yet even that hunger was tempered with pride. A boy once stranded on a rock with an old pirate now dared the ocean to bear witness to his dream.

“The Baratie,” he whispered into the bond, reverent. “That’s what he’ll call it. And I’ll be there. I’ll be the best damn cook anyone’s ever seen. Just watch me.”

Your heart clenched at the raw certainty in his voice. 

“Right now, you can barely stand.”

“Details,” he shot back, pride untouched. His voice brightened with a spark of mischief. “When I am strong again, I will cook. Something incredible.”

“Better than hardtack?” you asked, dry amusement coloring the words.

The tether flared with such mock-offense it nearly bowled you over. His indignation was a vivid rush, half fire and half laughter.

“I told you. It’ll be better than anything you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

The sound of your laugh escaped before you could help it, and it lingered between you like sunlight breaking through cloud. Beneath his bravado you felt the steady burn of his determination. It glowed fierce and unyielding, bright as a flame that no hunger, no pain, and no storm at sea could ever snuff out.

And when Sanji was well, he did cook again. A lot.

Recovery was slow. Zeff drove him hard, not with cruelty, but with conviction born of his own scars. Sanji cursed him constantly in his head, and often cursed you, too for listening.

“He is going to kill me with onions. I swear, I have chopped more in one day than I will ever need in a lifetime.”

“That’s called training, Sanji.”

“That’s called torture.”

The bond filled less and less with hunger, replaced instead by an endless stream of grumbling, complaints, and the fiery stubbornness of a boy determined to prove himself. Yet beneath the noise there was something softer. Gratitude laced through his thoughts in quiet waves, surfacing most often in the late hours when the kitchen fires had gone out and the sea hummed in the distance. He never said it outright, but you felt it all the same.

You were not the family that had cast him aside, or the sailors who had mocked his weakness, or even the teacher who barked orders with a peg leg and a scowl. You were simply there. Unmoving. Steady. And in that steadiness was a kind of healing neither of you had language for yet.

When his brain grew tired and his focus began to fray, you would casually picture the next step of whatever he was cooking and send it through the bond, a quiet reminder not to mess it up.

He usually swore at you, but the curses came softened with a warmth that made them sound almost like thanks.

And not once did you clarify that you were anything other than a boy. At this point, you were invested.

It was easier for him to believe you were just another boy, a friend who mocked and encouraged, who never left when others had. He needed to believe that he could have a companion who was male and not cruel, not dismissive, not a disappointment. And so you let him think it.

Time sharpened him. Hunger gave way to strength, and strength gave way to skill. By thirteen, his thoughts no longer trembled with despair. They carried a steadier pulse, burning with the heat of ambition and the rhythm of knives against chopping blocks.

One evening, in a lull between the chaos of the kitchen and the crash of waves against the hull, he shared the thought that had been lingering in the back of his mind. His tone was casual, but the bond hummed with a strange sort of finality.

“You know… I apologize, but I don’t think I’ll love anyone unless it’s a woman. I know we have a soulbond, but Zeff says it doesn’t always mean romantic. I think we’re one of those friend ones.”

“Ah–” 

You hesitated, your thoughts catching in your throat. Perhaps this was the moment—

“Yeah. It’s just how I am. Maybe it’s because of everything before, maybe not. But are personalities aren’t a match.” His voice was calm, steady, almost reassuring, but there was no hesitation in it. “So don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend. But that’s all it’ll be.”

You made yourself laugh, light and easy, though the sound scraped thin in your own ears. You did not let him hear the way your shoulders slumped, or the sharp, fleeting sting in your chest that you swallowed down before it could rise.

“I get it.”

And you did. At least, that was what you told yourself.

Later, when the bond dimmed to quiet for the night, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. His absence felt strange, as though he had shut a door behind him that you had not realized was there until it closed. The silence pressed down heavy, not the peaceful quiet of rest but something lonelier, something that made your ribs ache.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. That his words had been honest, and honesty was something to respect. But in the hollow stillness of your own thoughts, you kept circling back to the small, unspoken truth you could not yet name.

Somewhere along the way, you had grown too soft for him. Too careful with his moods, too invested in his laughter, too warmed by his stubborn fire.

Well, damn.

You might have a little crush on Sanji. And now you had no way out but forward, pretending you were a boy, pretending it was simple, pretending the crack in your chest was not there at all.

Age 13:

He officially recovered. His bones no longer ached with every step, the lines of hunger softened into wiry strength, and the tremors in his thoughts had quieted. He still stumbled sometimes, but now it was from throwing himself too hard into the kitchen, not from weakness. Zeff barked at him daily, and Sanji barked back with twice the volume. The bond no longer carried despair or pain but sparks of energy, confidence, and a kind of mischief that was new.

Sort of recovered, then.

“Okay,” he announced one evening, voice solemn in a way that made you suspicious. “We are bro’s now, right? Brethren. Comrades. Warriors of the woman-appreciating arts.”

“...What?”

“Let us forge a new bond. You and I, respectfully, will observe boobs together.”

You dropped your fork.

“Sanji, did you trip again?”

“I have feelings.”

“You have problems.”

But here was the thing. You also admired breasts. Just, not in the way he did. For you it was more… aesthetic. You thought they were fun—A+ symmetry. Excellent form. You respected the craft. Got to admire what could be.

So a strange little alliance formed. A truce of the tit-minded. A psychic pact of boob-based brotherhood.

His commentary ran through the bond like a sports announcer, and you nearly snorted into your sleeve. You teased him for the overblown dramatics, but the truth was, this odd little ritual became a comfort. His enthusiasm was ridiculous, yes, but it also meant he was alive, recovering, burning with something other than hunger or grief.

And so you let it happen. You were his audience, his partner in the art of admiration. You kept your responses wry and unflappable, though sometimes the bond carried a flicker of his gratitude, quick and embarrassed, before he buried it under another volley of praise.

It was absurd. It was juvenile. And yet, in its own way, it stitched the two of you closer together, and you found yourself craving it for no good reason. His chatter, his nonsense, even his ridiculous devotion to breasts—all of it was proof he was still moving forward.

“That one has an arc like a crescent moon. Silk top. No bra. Controlled bounce. Elite tier.”

“Shaped like fate and a bad pick-up line.” you affirmed, deadpan.

“You’re the only one who understands me.” His tone rang with mock-seriousness, but the flicker of warmth in the bond betrayed how much he meant it.

So you offered practical analysis: comments on symmetry, fabric choices, and the way posture could affect the line of a figure. Half the time it was to tease him, but half the time it was because you wanted to see his laughter brighten the bond.

He whined at you in return, overdramatic, like you were the villain for not properly revering the holy subject.

He was still “recovering,” or so he liked to say when Zeff shoved extra work his way. But you began noticing something else. He had started to call you “bro.” Not once or twice, but often, like the title itself was a shield he was building. A word that meant trust. A word that gave him permission to lean on you without looking weak.

And every time he said it, the word settled against your ribs with a strange weight. You laughed, you played along, you answered like it was nothing. But some quiet part of you ached with the reminder that for him, you were a brother and nothing else.

He was still “recovering.” But you started noticing he referred to you as bro.

A lot.

A suspicious amount, the kind of frequency that felt less like casual slang and more like a public service announcement. As if he needed to gently, repeatedly, remind you that he liked girls and not you. Man-dude-brotherhood-bro-man.

And the thing was, you understood. He obviously had a lot of feelings bound up in being that open and vulnerable, and you were not about to take that from him. Okay. Whatever. That was fine.

Until he pushed it.

“Thanks, bro. You’re my best friend, bro. If I ever meet you in real life, we should—like. Hang out. Very platonically.”

You froze halfway through chewing, the bond buzzing with his sincerity like it was meant to be comforting. For him, it was. For you, the words landed like a slap wrapped in a smile.

“Very platonically,” you repeated, trying to keep your tone dry, like you were rolling your eyes. Like your chest did not sting.

He chuckled, pleased you were in on the joke, utterly unaware of the quiet splinter his certainty had left in you.

Later that night, when the bond dulled into silence, you lay awake staring at the dark ceiling again. His laughter still echoed faintly in your head, golden and unguarded. You should have been glad for it. Instead you bit the inside of your cheek and thought, Platonically. Right. Got it.

And then it hit you with dawning horror. He had adopted you. You were not his secret, not his crush, not his great romance. You were his platonic emotional support soulmate.

Meanwhile, he was becoming increasingly unhinged about girls.

“She said she only dates guys over six feet. I am five feet tall. The betrayal.”

You rolled over in bed and muttered, “Drink some water.”

“Thanks, mon ami. You are always there for me, bro. Even though I—” his voice dipped with melodrama, “I mistook your kindness for years. You are solid.”

You almost felt guilty. Almost.

Then, at two in the morning, he moaned out loud over crab bisque. A long, drawn-out sound of reverence that carried through the tether like a lover’s sigh.

Any trace of guilt evaporated.

Because you realized something crucial.

If Sanji kept believing you were a dude, he would not try to woo you like a starved poet begging a sandwich to elope.

And instead… you got a strange little friendship.

A greasy, puberty-soaked, psychic disaster of a friendship.

He was still a menace. But he asked for advice. You traded notes on girls. You dared each other to eat questionable things from the pantry. He narrated the glory of cleavage like a poet describing sunsets. You offered practical commentary like a weary art critic. You were twelve. It was unhinged. It was messy. It was, against all odds, kind of sweet.

He still made you scream at least once a week, whether from the sheer volume of his dramatics or because he would not shut up about thighs at two in the morning.

But it was manageable.

And then you started growing things.

Things that were inconvenient.

Things that could not be explained away as bro.

Cue your puberty arc.

It began subtly, at first. A strange heaviness in your chest. A new awareness of your body that you tried to ignore. The bond didn’t carry physical details unless you pushed, but the emotions… those were harder to hide. You kept your side of the tether tight, guarded, but sometimes he caught the edge of your self-consciousness.

“Bro, are you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound weird.”

“You sound weird.”

And just like that, the danger would pass.

But still—your shirts began to fit differently. Your reflection started betraying you. And all the while, Sanji was leaning harder and harder into his woman-obsessed arc, narrating the curve of every waitress and noblewoman like a scientist presenting field notes.

Age 14:

He told you he was growing. Taller, stronger, sharper with every pan he wielded. His voice carried pride now, not just stubbornness. You had grown used to the rhythm of his days; the way dawn began with the clang of pots and the mutter of Zeff’s curses, the sting of blistered hands pressed into the bond, the quick rush of satisfaction when a dish came out perfect.

You felt like you were watching someone stitch himself back together, piece by piece. His despair had been replaced by grit, then by fire, until at last there was something almost golden about him.

And then came the day he let slip a thought that hit you like a brick to the chest.

“You know what’s really going to make all this worth it? Women. Someday, I’ll cook for the most beautiful woman alive, and she’ll fall in love with me the second she tastes my food.”

The bond rang with his conviction, his delight in the fantasy. He was utterly sincere, the image as vivid as the flavor of butter and garlic still clinging to his thoughts.

You made a noise you hoped sounded like amusement. “A bold strategy.”

He laughed, bright and unguarded. “You’ll see. That’s what food is for, isn’t it? To make people happy. And women deserve the best.”

The warmth of his dream should have lifted you. Instead, you felt the weight of it settle into you, low and heavy. You told yourself you were only imagining the sting, that it was natural for him to think like this, that you had always known he saw you as a brother and nothing more.

He paused, the bond hitching slightly.

“You good? I just… you just felt a little down.”

You raised a brow at the ceiling. “Ah, no worries. Just, uh, the usual growing pains.”

He chuckled.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t like girls.”

“I—” You scrambled, because the truth wasn’t an option. “…I guess I do?”

Technically, it was not a lie. You liked girls the way you liked a good meal or a piece of art. You could appreciate them, admire them, even joke about them with him. But not in the way he meant. Not in the way that made his pulse quicken through the bond.

He snorted, triumphant.

“Not enough, apparently. Me, though? I’m going to love every single one of them. Every woman I meet, I’ll treat like a queen. That’s my new vow.”

You shut your eyes, groaning silently into your pillow because of course. Of course his recovery arc had to include developing a crippling devotion to women. Of course he had to declare it like a knight swearing fealty before a holy relic. And of course, you had to feel that vow burn through the bond like a brand pressed against your ribs.

Because that crush thing you were inflicted with was getting worse.

Sanji’s voice in the bond had changed. It was lower now, rougher at the edges, less like a boy clinging to survival and more like someone bracing to chase life headlong. You felt it the way you felt a storm rolling across the horizon; inevitable, electric, impossible to ignore.

His hunger for food had steadied into discipline, but now his thoughts carried a new appetite.

“I saw her again today,” he murmured one evening, his mind hazy with fatigue after a long shift in the kitchen. “One of the regulars. Gorgeous. Perfect legs. I swear the world stopped when she walked in.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your hand flat against your chest as if that would steady the sting.

“She smiled at me, too,” he added, pride flooding the tether so hard you could practically hear him grinning. “Do you think that means something?”

You forced a chuckle. “Probably that she’s polite.”

He groaned dramatically, but underneath it there was a note of hope, the kind that lit him from the inside.

“Where’s your sense of romance?”

“Don’t be an ass. Focus on serving, not peeping.”

“What? You don’t notice women like that?”

Your pulse tripped. Years of pretending to be a boy and now you were cornered by this. The last thing you could do was ruin the illusion.

“…Uh. Sure. Yeah. All the time. Constantly. I notice… uh, women every day. You know. Classic guy stuff.” There was a pause, and you panicked, scrambling for cover. “But every guy knows women need to be worshipped and not drooled over. That’s, uh, guy wisdom. Girls don’t like creeps.”

Sanji hummed, satisfied, like a teacher hearing the right answer on a test. “Huh. I knew you couldn’t be completely hopeless.”

You resisted the urge to slam your head against the wall.

You thought that would be the end of it. But Sanji, once handed an inch, never settled for less than a mile.

One evening, while he was half-burning soufflés in the kitchen and muttering half-formed pickup lines under his breath, you lamented,“If you’re going to chase every woman you see, maybe practice being charming first. Otherwise, you’ll just look like a fool.”

You regretted it instantly.

Because Sanji took those words like holy scripture.

The very next night, the bond lit up with dramatic speeches, practiced lines, and exaggerated praise you could practically hear him rehearsing in front of a mirror.

“Ah, mademoiselle, your beauty eclipses even the stars themselves!”

 “Sanji—”

 “Your smile, a radiant dawn that banishes all sorrow from this cruel world—”

“Sanji.”

“Permit me, fairest one, to kneel before you and offer my undying devotion to your left shoe—”

He ignored you completely, the bond overflowing with passion as if the kitchen itself had become a stage. You could almost hear him flourishing a towel like it was a cape.

By the time he got to “your elegance rivals even the grace of a swan gliding across moonlit waters,” you were ready to scream into your pillow.

 “Bro, Stop. Please.”

“Non! A gentleman never stops wooing a lady!”

You buried your face in your pillow, grumbling. What had you done?

From then on, his puberty years became a parade of absurd declarations. Every girl who stepped foot in the Baratie instantly transformed into, in his mind, the love of his life. A rich woman with a feathered hat, a fisher’s daughter with sunburned cheeks, a traveler with two teeth missing—none were safe from his hopeless devotion.

And every evening, you were the first to hear about it. The bond swelled with his practiced speeches, his endless metaphors, his desperate need for critique.

“Too much?”

“Way too much.”

“Perfect. I’ll say it exactly like that.”

“For Zeff’s sanity, please don’t.”

But he did anyway. And then he came back, giddy or sulking, depending on how badly he had embarrassed himself, and you had to listen to the post-mortem analysis of every failed attempt.

You suffered in silence, because what else could you do? You had built your own prison. The lie of being a boy. The softness you could not take back. The friendship he needed too much to risk breaking.

And Sanji, blissfully unaware, leaned on you as his confidant, his partner in practice, his “fellow admirer of women.”

It was a special sort of hell.

You were just trying to brush your teeth when your soulmate started narrating—again.

“Her hands brushed mine. Soft. Like marshmallows dipped in grace.”

You spat into the sink. 

“She said thank you.” 

“I think I’m in love. Do I name a pastry after her? Is that weird?”

You gagged on your toothpaste.

“You are a child.”

“And?” His voice carried genuine confusion, tinged with indignation. “Love is timeless, bro.”

You wiped your mouth with a towel and glared at the ceiling. “So is stupidity. You cried last week because a girl said you had nice eyebrows.”

“It was INTIMATE.”

And you were far, far too deep to climb out now.

“Brother.”

“No.”

“We are kin. Warrior spirits bonded across time and soup.”

“Shut up.”

“I still see beauty in the world. I’ve merely changed lenses. My heart has expanded. Bro.”

“You cannot telepathically call me bro every five seconds and then immediately describe boobs as 'God’s softest punch.'

“Boobs transcend all.”

"This is true. But unnecessary to say every day.”

It did not matter. Because that night, while you were trying to go to sleep, Sanji started sending mental updates like a sports announcer covering cleavage.

“Ten o’clock. Red dress. Moderate sway. 8/10 bounce, but tasteful.”

You rolled onto your side and dragged the blanket over your head. 

“Correction. I need a witness. You are my witness.”

You buried your face into the review you’ve been editing, snorting. He did not stop. By the end of the week, he had expanded into nicknames, tossing them at you with the same fervor as his boob reports.

“King.”

“My dude.”

“Weaponized vibes.”

You cracked one eye open at the ceiling in the dark. “You are unbelievable.”

“I am a visionary,” he replied smugly.

It was ridiculous. It was exhausting. It was Sanji. And somehow, that alone made it bearable.

Age 15:

At fourteen, Sanji was a menace. And he was developing style.

“Oi’. Broski. Titties, man. Classic. Anyway, you see that one server in the green dress? Perfect. Like two scoops of gelato blessed by Aphrodite.”

He no longer just muttered about women. He sang their praises through the bond, reciting poetry so dramatic you could practically hear him falling to one knee with every word. Every customer who came through the Baratie became a goddess, a queen, a divine miracle who, apparently, required his undivided devotion.

“Her smile, my brother-in-tits. Her smile could cure wars.”

 “She asked you for water, Sanji.”

 “And I gave it to her with my whole heart!”

You had stopped trying to talk him down. Instead, you learned to play along. Not for the same reasons, but because it kept him busy.

“Well, she didn’t have much to look at. 

 A horrified gasp. 

“Are you blind? Her curves were—”

 “I just meant… they weren’t very… notable.”

A stunned pause, then laughter so loud it filled the bond. “You absolute gremlin. You do have a preference!”

You coughed, eyes darting toward your own chest. “I’m allowed to have a preference. Besides, girls with ass are better.”

“My soulmate is a degenerate. I can’t believe this.”

From then on, he teased you mercilessly, accusing you of being “hopelessly shallow.” You countered with smug commentary every time he got rejected. It became its own rhythm: strange, ironic, two “boys” talking like the world’s greatest connoisseurs of women when in reality one of you was just trying to keep your cover intact.

Meanwhile, your own world moved differently. Your dad’s work kept you seated at white-clothed tables and beneath chandeliers, tasting menus designed to impress lords and merchants. You learned to sit quietly while your father scribbled notes, dissecting flavors with the precision of a painter.

Sanji always listened when you described the meals. He was convinced you were wealthy and spoiled (neither true). Sometimes he even asked, eager and jealous, begging you to tell him the details so he could memorize the dishes. But one night, after you recounted the sauces and spices of a grand restaurant, you let the critic rumor mill slip:

 “I read the big critics don’t think the Baratie is popular enough to visit. Not yet.”

The bond went very still.

Then came the explosion.

“What?! Those stuffed aristocrats wouldn’t know real food if it kicked them in the teeth! The Baratie isn’t good enough? I’ve bled for every plate that leaves our kitchen! Zeff lost his leg for this dream! How dare they—”

You winced, though a smile tugged at your lips. 

“I didn’t say it.”

Technically, your dad did.

“I don’t care who said it! They’re wrong! They think food is about gold leaf and porcelain, but food is about heart. About feeding people until they’re whole again. You tell them—” He stopped short, realizing you probably couldn’t actually repeat any of this at the dinner table.

His voice softened, though the fire was still burning hot underneath. “…You tell them they’ll eat their words one day. When a real critic comes, they’ll beg for a seat at the Baratie.”

You shut your eyes, warmed by his conviction. 

“I’ll put in a good word.”

Which was about as much as you telepathically gave him, because he was not getting any memories these days. Not a glimpse. Not a hint. Your own body had begun betraying you. Puberty had hit like a freight train, and you were scrambling to keep the wreckage hidden. Your boobs were real now, undeniable, inconvenient—and Sanji, blessedly, had no clue.

At least… not consciously.

But he was getting weirdly twitchy. It was like his boob radar had somehow become telepathic, as if he could sense through the bond that something was off.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m doing things.”

“…Your voice is different. Lighter?”

You immediately dropped your tone two octaves, telepathically forcing it down until you sounded like a twelve-year-old Batman.

“It’s a cold.”

He didn’t buy it. 

“You didn’t rate Bodega Babe’s strut yesterday.”

“Didn’t see it.”

Silence. Then, in the most serious tone you had ever heard from him, “Bro… are you okay?”

“I’m getting a mustache.”

“…Liar. You're lying. I feel lies in my sternum.”

“You have heartburn from sipping tequila and flirting with that barista.”

“…Her apron said ‘Anna’ and she looked at me like she knew I was broken.”

“She was trying to see the menu behind you.”

He groaned like a widower in a tragic opera. “No. No, there was heat in her gaze. The way her eyes lingered… she knew my soul.”

“Bro. Just give up.”

“Never.”

Age 16-17:

By sixteen, the bond had become its own language.

You and Sanji had built an unspoken routine. Whenever you saw a woman you thought he would appreciate, you sent him the image; a mental snapshot, the slope of a shoulder in candlelight, a flash of laughter caught in passing, the swish of a skirt in summer air. In return, he sent you whatever goddess had graced the Baratie’s doors that day.

It became a game. A trade of devotion. His mind brimmed with waitresses and travelers, merchants’ wives and noblewomen who barely noticed him. Yours offered fleeting glimpses of strangers at white-clothed tables, a baroness with pearls, a maid balancing too many trays, a girl ducking into a carriage before the rain.

Each “delivery” came with commentary.

“Perfect symmetry, mon ami. Like gelato crafted by divine hands.”

“She was holding soup, Sanji.”

“And yet she elevated it.”

Or:

“She was laughing. Not at me, just… laughing. Freckles. She’s a goddess.”

“Her shoes were mismatched.”

“Unnatural grace and style. An icon.” Then Sanji upgraded the system. He started sending you boob reports.

“Saw some today. Real ones. Bounce: controlled. Shirt: lavender. Nine out of ten.”

You nearly dropped your spoon. “Sanji, I’m eating cereal.”

“Respectfully, I cried.”

The reports did not stop.

“Waitress, navy dress. Bend-and-reach maneuver. Ten out of ten. Possibly life-changing.”

You rubbed your eyes. “I was trying to book a ticket and had to hang up.”

“This is more important, bro. The geometry alone.”

By the third week, you were convinced he thought he was running an international broadcast.

“Breaking news: traveler in a sundress. Subtle sway. Excellent posture. That’s a nine-point-five.”

“Breaking news: shut up.”

And still, you laughed. Because underneath the ridiculous commentary, there was the steady thrum of his pride, his joy, his eagerness to share his world with you.

Then the nicknames began.

It became ritual. He would announce himself through the bond at random hours like he was stepping onto a stage. “Greetings, my Bro-mate, Chest Wingman, Prophet of Sauce. Today I bring tidings of cleavage most divine—”

“Shut it, Milk Brain.”

“I am wounded. A dagger to the soul.”

“Good. Emergency Mute Mode: activated.”

He laughed so hard you could feel it shaking in your own ribs, a joy so loud it almost made the ridiculousness worth it. Almost.

It was absurd. It was crude. It was also your favorite game.

Your dad caught you more than once staring off into space at dinner, brow furrowed, lips twitching. He thought you were daydreaming.

You were not daydreaming.

You were arguing telepathically with a tiny French pervert about whether boobs were better framed by overalls or sundresses.

You failed an entire tasting test because he yelled “CUP SIZE!” mid-aperitif, nearly making you choke on your water. Your father circled something in his notes with a frown while you fought not to slam your head on the table.

Through it all, you remained his mysterious “bro.” His fellow appreciator of form. His sacred partner in bounce. The Brotherhood of Boobs, sworn and eternal.

And it was ridiculous. He still thought you were a guy. Meanwhile, you were actively growing boobs of your own. It was getting harder to hide. But somehow, the Brotherhood endured.

“Look at her. She’s magnificent! That smile, that dress—”

“Her bust is the only magnificent part. Ass is zero out of seven.”

 “You shameless little bastard.”

 “Takes one to know one.”

You were “boys-boys,” as Sanji once put it, laughing until his sides hurt. Two comrades-in-arms, endlessly cataloging the wonders of womanhood like explorers mapping out forbidden lands.

And yet… it was not the exact truth for you. Not anymore. His laughter lit the bond in ways you could not laugh away. His pride, his joy, the way he let you glimpse his dreams and frustrations—it all pressed too close to the parts of you you could not admit.

The Brotherhood was real. But so was the ache it left behind.

Your own body was changing, and you hated it. You stood in front of the mirror some nights, pressing your palms flat against your chest, willing yourself to grow into the kind of curves Sanji adored. Triple JJJ’s, impossible, cartoonish, but still you wished. The reflection only disappointed you. Too slow. Too uneven. Too far from the illusion of the “bro” you pretended to be.

And worse: your heart stuttered for men, not women. You could admire a lovely figure, sure. You could acknowledge beauty the way one admired a painting or a jewel, but the fire Sanji felt, that restless hunger, never came to you.

But when a handsome waiter leaned over your table at one of your dad’s dinners, you went scarlet so fast you nearly choked on your drink.

And in the bond, Sanji’s voice was laughing and bright, oblivious.

She must’ve been stunning. Tell me, what did her legs look like?”

You forced a laugh, forcing the lie with it.

“Perfect. Great rear end.”

The word scraped your throat raw as it went out.

And Sanji, satisfied, launched into another ode about curves and goddesses, while you sat under the chandelier with your pulse still racing, wishing the truth did not feel so sharp.

Age 18:

It happened at a random dinner, or at least it felt that way to you. The chandeliers burned bright above, spilling gold across polished wood and crystal glass. The guests were not ordinary diners. They were the names behind columns, the voices that could crown a chef or sink an establishment in a single night. Each laugh, each whispered aside carried the weight of authority.

And then there was… the bird.

Amid the swirl of velvet coats and silk gowns sat a giant white bird. Not a roast pheasant on a platter. Not a metaphor. An actual bird. His feathers caught the candlelight in gleaming arcs, his wings folded with precise neatness as if they had been tailored for the chair he occupied. A crisp suit clung to his frame, the silver buttons polished, the fabric dark enough to make his plumage blaze like snow. A monocle gleamed on one sharp eye, and every so often, he tapped his beak against the rim of his wineglass like he was testing its acoustics.

“Is that… a giant bird?” you whispered.

As if on cue, the bird dipped his quill into an inkwell balanced beside the breadbasket and began scribbling in a leather journal, pausing only to sample the soup with exaggerated delicacy. The monocle flashed. The soup trembled. The bird sighed.

“Christ,” you muttered, leaning back. “I’m going insane.”

Sanji’s voice buzzed through the bond, curious. “What’s wrong?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Nothing. Just… an albatross in a tuxedo judging consommé.”

There was a pause. Then, delighted laughter. “Bro. Introduce me immediately.”

Your father noticed your stare. He did not look surprised. He only leaned slightly toward you, his voice pitched low so it folded into the murmur of the hall.

“Big News Morgans,” he said, with the calm certainty of a man naming the weather. His gaze lingered on the avian guest, then returned to you. “He is likely looking for new talent. Perhaps you could impress him.”

You blinked. “The bird writes?”

“With impeccable scandal. And he’s a man, likely ate a devil fruit. Be careful, but I hear he has a soft spot for hiring young women.”

The words carried more weight than the clinking glasses and murmured reviews around you. In a room full of critics, here sat the one who could spread a story across seas, who could make an unknown name a legend before dessert was cleared from the table. The very thought made your stomach tighten.

By eighteen, you had developed a skill your father now openly bragged about. You were no longer simply listening at the table. You were tasting, weighing, dissecting dishes with a tongue sharpened by years of watching critics work. You knew the way salt could drown rather than lift, the way an herb could be wasted if torn instead of bruised, the way fire left its mark in bitterness or brilliance, depending on the cook’s hand.

And Sanji, nosy as ever, chimed in across the tether. “Okay, but does the albatross wear pants, or just the tuxedo jacket?”

You bit back a laugh into your napkin. 

“Sanji. This bird could end your career before it starts.”

“Then I must woo him. Brother, tell him my soufflés weep for recognition.”

You had to block him, clamping down hard on the tether before you burst out laughing in front of half the nation’s food elite.

“Focus, my dear,” your father said, eyes bright. “Show these amateurs true taste.”

Your father leaned back, watching with a glint of approval as you delivered your verdicts. Sometimes you flayed a dish with a single phrase sharp enough to make the chef pale. At other times,, you praised with a precision that made even the most jaded critic pause, made even the proudest chef glow. You were not a mimic, not a parrot of the older voices around the table. You had developed a style all your own, one that cut straight to the marrow of a meal.

And hilariously, Sanji had no idea why you knew food so well. He could not stand it. 

“Bro, how the hell do you know what a reduction is? You’re a liar.”

“I read things.”

“You’re a fraud. You don’t even cook. You’re just sitting in some velvet chair sipping soup while real men blister their hands in the kitchen.”

“Real men don’t cry because a girl said their eyebrows looked nice.”

“Low blow, you snobby moron.”

He called you that three times a week now. Snobby moron. And every time, you grinned into your napkin, because it was the closest he had ever come to admitting he was jealous.

The bond crackled whenever you corrected him. He would plate something too quickly, a hint of bitterness lingering in the sauce, and your thought would slip through before you could stop it.

“Too much zest. It drowns the cream instead of balancing it.”

His pride roared back instantly. 

“What do you know?”

“Enough to taste your mistake without even touching the plate.”

“Liar,” he snapped, but there was a waver of uncertainty, a boy who hated that you could pinpoint the very flaw gnawing at his own tongue.

You did not gloat, but you did not soften either. You had been raised in a world where words could elevate or destroy, and when it came to food, there was no space for half-truths. Precision mattered. Honesty mattered.

Sanji seethed, furious that someone so far away could dismantle him more cleanly than Zeff’s barked orders ever could. His outrage poured through the tether like smoke, thick and bitter.

And yet beneath it, buried deep under the heat, there was something more dangerous. A reluctant edge of pride. Grudging respect.

Because the worst part, the part that made him hiss “snobby moron” like a curse and a prayer all at once, was that you were good enough.

And you were good enough.

That dinner had been loud with laughter and the soft scrape of silver on porcelain, but it was your words that cut clean through the noise. You had spoken without hesitation, your critique balanced between precision and bite, and the table had gone still enough that even the quartet faltered mid-note.

Across the hall, the great white bird leaned forward. His monocle caught the light as his keen eye fixed on you. For a moment, you wondered if you had overstepped, if your father’s approving smile was not enough to shield you from the sudden attention.

Then Big News Morgans laughed. It was a booming, unapologetic sound that silenced every other conversation in the room. He clapped his feathered wings together once, a gesture that was strangely elegant despite the force behind it.

“Big News! A sharp new talent,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “The tongue of a critic, but not the stale kind. Young, biting, fresh. I like it.”

Your father inclined his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Morgans’ gaze returned to you, pinning you in place as surely as talons. “You will dine with me again. And not just here. I want you under my wing.” His beak curved in something between a grin and a threat. “The world runs on words, and mine run faster than anyone’s. A voice like yours belongs in print.”

There was no question in his tone, only certainty. Around you, murmurs began to ripple, critics shifting uncomfortably at the thought of a seventeen-year-old being plucked from the table and lifted straight into Morgans’ empire.

You swallowed once, pulse quickening, then inclined your head. “If you think I am worth the ink.”

The bird’s laugh thundered again. “Ink is the cheapest part. Talent is the rarest.”

And just like that, you were hired.

You barely made it back to your room before you shoved the news across the bond, your excitement spilling over before you could rein it in.

“I got hired.”

There was a beat of silence, then Sanji’s laugh slid into your head, smug and sharp. 

“Of course you did. Rich kid like you? Daddy probably lined something up so you can sit in a big chair and look important.”

Your smile tightened. 

“It was not my father.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” he scoffed. “Let me guess. A nice office, some tea poured for you, perhaps a pretty secretary taking notes while you nap? Sounds exhausting.”

“You really are an ass.”

“I am just saying,” he replied, utterly unbothered, “People like you do not actually work. You just… attend things. Sit in rooms. Pretend it is hard.”

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping. “You will eat those words.”

“Yeah? How? Mail me a snack schedule?” He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself.

You cut the bond with a sharp tug, leaving him in the dark. Let him stew. He had no idea what you were really capable of.

And so you sharpened your pen.

When a colleague’s notes on a restaurant crossed your desk, you recognized the name instantly.

The Baratie. Zeff’s floating dream. Sanji’s pride.

You should have set it aside. You should have let another writer take it. Instead, you read every line of the notes, every dish described in painstaking detail, every weakness scribbled in the margins. You pictured them in your head, weighed them as though the plates were set steaming before you.

Your words spilled onto the page like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

By the time you finished, your critique was scathing enough to sting but precise enough to stand the test of time. You did not lie. You did not invent. You simply pressed your advantage, every word honed sharper than the last. The seasoning was uneven. The bread lacked air. A sauce overreduced and saved too late. All true. All damning.

When the piece went to print, you sat back and stared at your reflection in the ink-stained window. The press clattered behind you, sheets still wet with fresh black letters, your byline gleaming at the top of the page.

Somewhere across the sea, Sanji would read it. Somewhere across the bond, he would not know it was you.

And yet you could already imagine his outrage, the way it would crash into you like a storm.

It was only a matter of time.

And you wondered, just for a moment, if you had gone too far.

A month passed.

Sanji read it.

And fumed.

The bond quivered like it might snap under the sheer heat of his outrage.

“WHO THE HELL DOES THIS CRITIC THINK THEY ARE?!” His voice blared into your skull, raw and furious. “They called our bread FLAT. FLAT! Zeff nearly broke his teeth on the counter when I read that out loud!”

You pressed your knuckles to your lips, fighting a laugh. “Well… was it flat?”

“That is not the point!”

“It kind of sounds like the point.”

“A point?” His fury spiked, every word shaking with disbelief. “A point?! He called us clowns! A clown in my own kitchen! Do you know what that means?”

You hummed lightly, hiding your grin behind the quiet. 

“Maybe they were just… honest.”

The bond nearly caught fire. 

“Honest? That was slander wrapped in smug punctuation! Zeff worked on that menu for days, and this smug quill-pusher tears it all apart as if it were a joke! He does not know a damn thing about sweat, about knives, about fire—”

“I mean, it wasn’t all bad. Maybe he has high expectations?”

“Shut up!” Sanji barked, though his voice cracked more like a sulky boy than a hardened chef. “He said the only redeeming thing was the dining hall! The hall! As if Zeff’s dream is just a pretty room, and my food is the circus inside it. I swear, when I find him—”

“What will you do, cook him to death?”

There was a beat of silence, the bond tight with sputtering indignation. Then he exploded again, louder than before.

“I’ll break his hands so he can never write again! I’ll throw him in the pantry and drown him in cream sauce! I’ll—”

Ah, vengeance.

You were already laughing, the sound ringing bright and merciless between you.

Sanji seethed, pacing like a caged lion on the other end of the tether, his fury spilling in jagged bursts you could barely keep up with. Every insult from the article echoed through his mind, as if he were being stabbed with them anew.

“You’re sounding very colorful for someone who insists he’s not a clown.”

That only stoked the flames higher. Sanji raged louder, inventing punishments, swearing vengeance, and declaring that he would track the writer down and force him to beg for forgiveness with a mouth stuffed full of failed soufflé.

To him, you were only laughing in the wings, needling him while some faceless, feather-penned villain ruined his reputation before it even had time to grow. He had no idea you had sharpened the ink yourself, that your words had been the blade.

And Morgans’ paper sold more copies than ever. The review spread like fire through the city, carried by hawks and whispered in taverns. Chefs argued, critics gossiped, patrons demanded to see the floating restaurant for themselves. Zeff scowled at the attention, Sanji boiled with humiliation, and Morgans smiled like a king counting coins.

Your name was not attached, of course. Critics like you purposely remained faceless, your power magnified by anonymity. Diners argued over which paper you belonged to, chefs cursed your unseen hand, and Morgans reveled in the sales spike each review brought.

Sanji had no idea.

However, that never stopped you from criticizing him inside his head. If anything, you relished the privilege.

“Too much pepper.”

He cursed you, seethed at you, accused you of being possessed by the ghost of some cranky Parisian food critic. But beneath every insult was the truth he could not shake: you were right.

And you knew it.

“What do you mean the soup was unbalanced?” he snarled one evening, practically shaking through the bond. “I balanced the stock perfectly!”

“Balanced for peasants, maybe,” you teased, lips curving against your glass of wine. But it lacked depth—no layering of flavor. A critic would call it pedestrian. I saw that oily sheen. No wonder the review was poor.”

“Pedestrian?! I’ll show you pedestrian! One day you’ll eat my cooking and beg for forgiveness, snob.”

You only laughed, and he could feel it, which made him angrier. Which made you laugh harder.

“Do you want some consolation boobs?” you offered sweetly.

There was a long beat of sulky silence.

“…yes.”

“Okay, but only if you stop moaning over soup.”

The bond went quiet, sulk melting into reluctant laughter, and you smiled into your wineglass.

Age 19:

You were both working. You were also both unwell.

Sanji had taken to writing tragic haikus about cleavage.

“Two orbs of sorrow / Lifted by the gods of light / My heart collapses.”

You were collecting them in a notebook titled He Needs Help But I Can’t Afford Therapy. It already had a table of contents and an appendix.

People thought you were talking to your imaginary friend. Which… you were. He just also happened to be real, French, and one wrong flirtation away from a restraining order.

It was the era of shame.

At least once a week, someone caught you mid-conversation with him.

A waiter: “Can I take your order, miss?”

You: “No, Sanji, you cannot compare her legs to linguine.”

The waiter: “…I’ll come back.”

Your dad: “What did you just mutter?”

 You: “I said… ah… metaphors are inappropriate in braise.”

Your dad: “…Right.”

Sanji, delighted, never stopped.

“Bro, listen: ‘Her beauty—like a fine béchamel, warm, silky, devastating.’”

“Stop.”

“Write that down.”

“I am not enabling you.”

You groaned into your sleeve, because the worst part was, you did write it down. And the notebook grew heavier by the day.

The era of shame grew.

Eventually, you gave up entirely. You were now a man. Resistance was futile. You leaned into the madness.

The two of you began sharing live field reports like wildlife documentaries—except pervier.

“Observe, brother, the rare Café Waitress in her natural habitat. Note the impeccable posture as she balances three lattes, each step a testament to grace.”

You whispered back, crouched over your desk, trying not to laugh. “Yes, and notice the bounce. Controlled. Efficient. The herd respects her dominance.”

“Magnificent.”

By mid-summer, the broadcasts had gone fully David Attenborough.

“Ah, Bro, a bookstore maiden approaches. Sundress, floral print, hemline breezy. Watch closely as she bends for the bottom shelf.”

“Copy that. Arc noted. Display: subtle. Would rank in the lavender blouse tier.”

“You are a scholar. A prophet.”

And the shame deepened. Because not only were you participating, you were good at it. Too good.

The notebook was no longer just a log of tragic haikus. It was an encyclopedia. A field guide. A collaboration.

You had stopped fighting. Somewhere along the way, resistance crumbled, dignity collapsed, and you accepted your fate: you were now a man. Or at least, you were Sanji’s man. His partner. His “bro-mate.” His fellow soldier in what had become the Brotherhood of Bounce.

Sanji, smug bastard that he was, had never been prouder.

It began casually, as everything did with him. A stray comment here, an enthusiastic note there. But by nineteen, the two of you had perfected an unholy art: live field reports. Delivered in solemn tones, with the gravitas of wildlife documentaries—except, of course, much, much pervier.

“Monday. Three seventeen,” he whispered into your skull one afternoon. “Lady at the fruit stand you saw. Bent over. Full coverage but optimal curve.”

You sighed, trying not to choke on your tea.

“That’s Brenda. She gave me a grape once.”

“Saint Brenda.”

And so it went. The Brotherhood developed a sacred code. This was no longer about lust. No—it had transcended that. This was about form. Motion. Physics. Respect. Perhaps even, in the strangest corners of your soul, a slight fear of God.

Naturally, a system emerged. Bounce Quality. Support Integrity. Style-to-Movement Ratio. Spiritual Impact. Reports came coded, assessed, debated, and filed.

“Babe in the hallway,” you murmured once, sitting stiff-backed at a dinner you were meant to be paying attention to. “Slow sway. Cardigan over camisole. Hidden but felt. Eight out of ten.”

Sanji’s breath caught. “Emotional resonance?”

You swirled your wine, contemplative. 

“Haunting.”

He practically clutched his chest. “Poetry, bro.”

You stopped blinking when he started screaming reports like battle cries.

“White blouse with buttons—UNSTABLE STRUCTURE. Wool sweater, minimal effect but loaded potential. Maiden of First Class just dropped a form. Heaven wept.”

You whispered, “Sanji, please,” into your sleeve during a fancy work event, praying no one noticed your shoulders shaking.

But more often than not,, you found yourself reporting in, too.

You were mid-bite into a sandwich once when instinct overtook you. “Middle-aged lady in yoga pants just power-walked past me. Unreal bounce. Like—built-in metronome.”

The bond went silent. Then, soft as confession, he spoke.

“…I love you, man.”

You scowled at your bread. “Don’t make this weird.”

“No,, I mean platonically. Like, I’d kill for your insight.”

“That’s worse.”

And still, you kept going. Once, you described a tank top so moving Sanji burst into song. Out loud. To himself. In public. He was slapped by the sous-chef for “inappropriate humming,” and you laughed until your ribs hurt.

By then, the system had been formalized. Reports came with sign-offs. He would end transmissions with: “Bounce: logged.”

You start replying: 

“Approved.”

“Noted.”

“Emotionally scarring.”

“Filed under religion.”

It was absurd. It was cursed.

He still didn’t know. He still thought you were a boy. He still thought you were just another cretin in this glorious puberty war. Meanwhile, you were growing actual boobs; real, undeniable, inconvenient. And every day, you prayed he never mentioned you in a field report by accident.

You lived in fear of the day he said, “Found the All Blue. We should meet. Like true bro’s. For good food. To judge the tits in person. Like true bros.”

Because you knew, when that day came, you’d have to bury your face in your pillow, punch it once, and scream yourself hoarse.

-X-Branching Out?-X-

Your days had settled into a rhythm, if a rhythm could be called exhausting. Mornings meant bantering with Morgans, the bird leaning back in his chair like a feathery king, dictating headlines with the imperious air of someone who knew the world bent around his words. Afternoons were for playing editor, scouring drafts, trimming excess adjectives, sharpening the knives of other critics’ work. Evenings were for planning. Restaurant review trips had to be mapped in secret, your face tucked behind menus and veils, slipping into dining rooms as if you were nothing more than another guest.

And then came the writing. Always the writing. Words bled out of you in midnight hours, your pen slicing through dishes with precision, your voice honed until it was sharp enough to make chefs sweat oceans away.

Sometimes, when the ink dried and the city slept, you let the bond tug you back toward Sanji. But it was less frequent now, a thread you picked up only when the silence felt too heavy. You could not tell him much. Not that you were a girl. Not that you were a reviewer. Not that you were the one critic whose words still festered in his chest like a wound he could not close.

Other reviews of the Baratie had surfaced in lesser papers. Pale imitations, lacking Morgans’ reach or your bite. But none carried the same clout. None traveled the seas with the speed of the World Economy News.

And Sanji held a grudge.

Against Morgans. Against the paper. Against the mysterious critic whose name never appeared in print but whose words burned themselves into his pride.

“They will come back,” he muttered once across the bond, his voice low and stormy. “That critic. They will write about us again. And this time, I will make them eat every single word.”

You bit your lip, staring at the draft on your desk, your own handwriting damning him all over again.

“…Maybe.”

However, it seemed you did not need to worry about critics for the moment, because something far more interesting happened. Sanji’s thoughts came crashing into yours like a tray of plates dropped from the second floor, loud, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. He was not thinking about sauces or balance or vengeance anymore. He was thinking about people. A whole table of them. And from the sheer drama pouring through the bond, you braced yourself the way one might before a storm or a stage play that promised disaster.

“You should see these guests. Zeff’s going to blow a gasket. There’s one with a Straw hat that walked in like the king of the sea. .”

You set your pen down, already suspicious. “Straw hat?”

“Yeah, loud brat with a stomach bigger than the sea. He ordered enough food to bankrupt a kingdom and then asked if we could put it on credit. Credit! Who does that?”

“Apparently your new best friend.” 

Sanji scoffed.

“Do not curse me like that. He smiled at me. Like I was family. He doesn’t even know me. I hate him.”

The way his thoughts tripped over themselves told you he did not hate him at all. Maybe even respected him.

“And the swordsman,” Sanji went on, fury building. “Green hair. Dead eyes. Orders more booze than food. Calls me waiter like I’m not an artist. Fell asleep at the table with his swords still out. I should strangle him with parsley.”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

“He is the bane of my existence. He chews like a cow and he has no appreciation for women. None. Zero. The man is a barbarian. If we were not in public I would have kicked him through the wall by now.”

“And the long nose?”

“Oh, him? He cried when the bill came. Actual tears. Claimed he had some tragic medical condition called Broke Disease. The chef almost kicked him overboard.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Sanji…”

“And then there is her.” His voice softened instantly, dazed and reverent. “Ginger hair. Eyes like midnight. She walks like the sea parts to let her pass. A goddess among mortals. She is the one. I will devote my life to her. I will die for her.”

You groaned aloud. “What did she say to you?”

“She asked for breadsticks.”

“…Breadsticks?”

“Yes. Breadsticks! And when I brought them, she nodded. Nodded, bro. Like I was nothing. Like I was beneath the very floorboards she stood on. I have never known such heavenly cruelty. I love her.”

Of course.

His thoughts flickered in and out for the rest of the day, bright bursts of absurd declarations followed by long silences that made you uneasy. At first you dismissed it as typical Sanji melodrama, but soon you began to sense that something was different. His thoughts were unsteady, restless; like a boy pacing in circles, waiting for a decision he didn’t know how to make.

“They’re idiots,” he muttered through the bond at one point, his voice ragged with fatigue and irritation. “Loud, reckless… that swordsman eats like a wild dog. And the captain? He’s insane.”

You almost smiled despite yourself.

“You like them.”

“I don’t!” His protest came too quickly, too sharp, as if he was trying to convince himself more than you. “They’re trouble. They’ll sink within a week. And yet—” 

He cut himself off, but the bond carried what his words did not: the hum of curiosity, the restless tug of something he couldn’t shake.

From what you could glean, the Baratie that day was chaos incarnate. Clattering pans and barking orders. The stomp of boots on deck. The perfume-slick laughter of women drifting in from the dining floor. Sanji thrived in it, a young man with fire in his hands and foolish poetry on his tongue. Yet beneath all of that, the bond hummed with unease.

You felt it before he ever said a word: the restless pacing of his thoughts, the way he turned one possibility over and over until it bruised.

And then he closed himself off. Not completely, but enough that you felt the pressure of his silence, like a locked door pressed against your palms. He was thinking something over. Something heavy.

“You okay?” you asked gently, pushing aside the mounds of paper on your desk so you could focus.

Sanji startled, his thoughts jerking open with a flash of panic. “I’m fine, it’s just…” He hesitated, the pause thick with things unsaid. “I was asked to join a crew. Those diners I mentioned earlier? Pirates. The idiot in the hat was their captain, and I guess they were looking for a cook. But I can’t just leave here—”

Zeff’s presence filled the bond, a looming figure shadowing every word. The Baratie was more than a restaurant to Sanji. It was his home, his proving ground, his stage. The dream he had bled for. Your own reviews had sent streams of new customers through its doors, and though Sanji cursed the critic responsible (unknowingly cursing you), he also thrived on their praise. Each full dining hall set his pride ablaze.

Yet beneath that blaze another feeling stirred, quieter but sharper.

Trapped.

The Baratie, for all its good, was also like a cage. Another call whispered to him every time he glanced at the horizon: the sea, endless and untamed, the promise of the All Blue waiting somewhere out there. Not to be served to him, not to dock at his door, but to be hunted, chased, claimed with his own two hands.

He finally admitted it one night, his voice heavy in the bond, words dragged out of him like secrets from the deep.

“They are going to the Grand Line. Where the All Blue is.”

You smiled into the quiet of your room, eyes sparkling despite yourself. He did not see what you saw. In his restless frustration and scorn, there was a pull he could not hide. Curiosity, hope, even longing.

“You do like them,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he shot back, but the denial rang hollow, the bond humming with contradiction.

“You want to go,” you pressed gently, your voice soft but steady. “Go with them, Sanji. They’ll take you farther than the Baratie ever can.”

For a long moment, the bond was still. Then you felt it; the shudder of fear, the sharp ache of loyalty, the heavy weight of Zeff’s dream pressing down on him like an anchor.

And underneath it all, the tiniest flicker of possibility—bright, fragile, hampered by guilt.

“If I walk away after everything Zeff did for me… isn’t that betrayal?”

You had felt the question for weeks before he finally spoke it. It had gnawed at him quietly, surfacing in the restless pacing of his thoughts, in the way his pride wavered when the Straw Hats came to mind.

The question struck hard. You let him sit with it, let him wrestle with it in silence, because it was not an answer he could swallow if you fed it too quickly. He had to arrive at it himself.

And now, as he stood trembling in a kitchen that smelled of home and goodbye, the weight of onions and seawater thick in the air, you answered steady as stone.

“You can ask him. You should. But I don’t think Zeff saved you so you could live his dream. He saved you so you could find yours.”

The bond went silent, not in resistance, but in shock. Like he had never once considered that possibility. He bristled, clinging to the fear that had always shadowed him. 

“And if I never find it? If the All Blue’s just a dream?”

You closed your eyes, whispering into the dark. ‘

“Then at least you’ll have lived trying. And that’s worth more than staying still.”

He didn’t answer, but the bond shifted. No longer storm-tossed, no longer thrashing against its own cage. Quieter now. As if the sea inside him had found its tide. You felt the change ripple through him. The Straw Hats’ laughter bled faintly into the bond, bright and chaotic, full of life. For the first time, he let it in.

The bond went still. For a heartbeat, you thought you had lost him to silence.

Then he laughed. Sharp, defiant, brittle with the weight of tears he refused to shed. 

“Tch. Don’t think you’re the reason I’m going, dude. I’m only going because the All Blue’s out there, and so are a million beautiful women waiting to be swept off their feet.”

You smiled into your pen, a smear of ink on your fingers and cheek, even as your chest ached with something you could not name.

“Whatever you say.”

The bond pulsed once, warm with a pride that was almost tender, and then it faded back into the background hum of pots clattering, voices shouting, and a boy stepping toward a future he could not yet see.

But the next morning, he was packed and ready to go.

The Straw Hats were waiting at the dock, their ship bobbing bright against the horizon like a promise. Zeff barked at him in his usual gruff way, calling him an ungrateful brat, a fool, a cook barely fit to chop onions. The crew jeered, waving pans like banners, throwing insults meant to hide the shine in their eyes.

On the deck, Sanji bowed low to Zeff, his forehead almost touching the boards. His voice broke against his will as he thanked the man who had given him both a dream and a life. He swore he would never waste either. The cooks heckled him louder, hiding their grief behind mockery, and Zeff kicked him in the ribs one last time just to prove the point.

And then he turned. His hand waved in the sea wind, legs steady even as his heart stuttered, and he walked toward the Straw Hats.

Every step carried the echo of your whisper. Every step was yours as much as it was his. And when he turned at last to follow them, his heart pounding with fear and fire.

“Go, Sanji. Chase what you love. Chase the All Blue.”

The bond thrummed, bright and wordless, and for the first time in years, he did not argue.

The next day, you booked a trip to the East Blue.

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.)

Usopp remained on the ship, to give it a look over before they headed out.

And Luffy, well Luffy was hungry (when was he not?), and so he headed into town with the sole purpose of finding food, preferably meat, but anything even slightly edible would do just fine by him.

And you had decided to join him, mainly because your feared the trouble he could get himself into, but you also hoped that a new supply of ink had finally reached the shops, you were all but running out, and as the crews log manager it was your duty to log every adventure you'd encounter with the Strawhats...which, with Luffy and the crew, was a lot, and so the ink would do you good. You also hoped to find some extra paper and binding for when your current log ran out, but it would last to the next town at least, and so it wasn't as urgent.

As you both began walking towards the town, you made sure to remind Luffy of the time limit looming over both your heads.

"Lu, we should really try and make it quick this time, Nami wants us to leave before another storm rolls in, and she really doesn't want to pay for more ships part"

"Okey dokey~!" he hummed to whatever tune was playing in his head, not at all bothered by the threat of Nami launching you both headfirst into the sea, or worse selling you off to the marines for your bounty.

You shivered at the thought, turning to Luffy to urge him on faster, but at the sight of him so relaxed and happy you couldn't help but relax yourself, that was just the effect Luffy had on others it seemed, to follow him despite the risks.

And then he started singing, which wasn't unusual for Luffy in the slightest, you were actually more surprised it took him this long to start.

"Food, food, food~" he began, swinging his arms back and forth as he continued walking

"Me and (name) are getting food~" he began skipping ahead, a grin forming on his lips as he turned to stare at you over his shoulder

"We'll eat lots of meat, and go on lots of adventures~" he offered you his hand, and you couldn't help but laugh, that's just the way things were with Luffy, freeing and full of joy.

"I'll become king of the pirates and she'll be queen of the logs~!" tightly taking hold of your hand, he led you to what you hoped was a place to buy your much needed supplies.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and not one that set your heart beating at a completely unnatural pace (were those wedding bells in the distance?), a soft coat of blush dusted your face and coated the tips of your ears pink as you tightened your grip, and began running ahead of him.

He glanced at you, surprised that you had let go of his hand and had overtaken him, but that only lasted a moment as he stared at you with wide eyes.

Your face, you were grinning from ear-to-ear, face tinted pink as you exclaimed

"You better not slow me down, Lu!"

His brain took a few seconds longer to catch them then he'd liked.

But then he grinned back at you, as if nothing was wrong, as if your smile hadn't just sent his mind in a very-confused spiral, as if you hadn't just forced him to wonder if he could hold onto your hand forever and ever.

Was that something friends did?

It didn't matter, he'd hold your hand however long he wanted! He was the captain afterall!

Then all of a sudden (because of course it would), his stomach began grumbling, loudly.

As a few heads turned his way, he clutched his stomach, leaning over he whimpered

"Food..."

All that thinking had made him even hungrier, and uncomfortable, not a good combo.

But he did his best not to show it, since he was about to buy food anyway, but because you were you, you had noticed.

"Hey Lu, whoever makes it to the market last has to pay for both meals!" you called over your shoulder, laughing

He grinned, not waiting another second as he raced after you, shouting

"You won't beat me (Name)! I'm gonna be the future King Of The Pirates, so the free meal will be mine!"

As you raced through the crowds of people, apologizing as you waved through the crowd, he was finally able to catch up to you.

Grasping your hand in his, he ended up forgetting about the competition completely, leading you to an open area, where only a few scattered civilians walked about, shopping at nearby market stands.

"Oi, this means you're paying dummy!" you teased, bumping his shoulder with your own, to which Luffy merely grinned, giving you a thumbs up he replied (way too enthusiastically, you couldn't help but think)

"Ok!"

As the silence settled, you couldn't help but ask

"Do you...Do you even have money?"

"Nope!"

Ah, why would you ever think otherwise?

"How're you planning on paying for the food if i hadn't come?"

"Wasn't going to"

You blinked, then sighed, of course he wasn't, he was a pirate through and through after all.

Fishing through your purse, you managed to find some money Nami had lent you awhile back.

"And I should still have enough to buy my supplies" you thought, pleased

Stopping in front of a food stall, he ordered six tokoyaki sticks (because you wouldn't let him buy the entire stand), handing you two he quickly began eating the other four.

As silence settled over you both, you began making your way to the bookkeeping shop.

He didn't notice it at first, too content with the food in his stomach and your presence beside his.

But then he stared at you, nothing obvious, just out of the corner of his eye, not in a creepy way, just in a Luffy way; open, curious, and happy.

He noticed things he wouldn't usually pay attention to, not because he didn't care but because it never occurred to him that he wasn't paying enough attention to you in the first place.

He noticed the way you looked up at him with earnest eyes, a soft pink flush dusting your cheeks, and shy smile on your lips, and all he could give you back was a stupid grin, holding your hand tighter he held up your oh so small hand in his much larger calloused one and blurted the first thing that came to mind

"You gotta hold my hand the whole way, captains orders!" and as he had hoped, you let out a laugh, carefree and content, it was the one that held him and comforted all those days stranded at sea with you in a too tight barrel. The one that made him want to stop whatever he was doing (even eating) to stare at you, as if he stared long enough, hard enough, he could capture the moment in his mind and play it whenever he wanted.

"Aye-aye captain!" you teased, giving him a joking salute, then out of nowhere you began running, still holding onto your hand he raced after you.

~

After buying the supplies you needed (even managing to find some extra paper and bindings in the back) you headed towards the Thousand Sunny, with Luffy leading the way.

But instead of seeing the open sea, you both ended up in a closed-off alleyway.

Looking up to the sky, you saw how dark it was getting, the sun just beginning to set as the sky faded from a pale blue to a dark purple.

“Shoot, guess it'll take us a bit longer to get to the ship, must've taken a wrong turn somewhere…” you muttered, already beginning to turn around, determined to take the lead this time, but not before a threatening voice shouted out from behind

“Don’t move” 

Luffy immediately turned around and found himself face to face with a gruff looking older man, covered head-to-toe with all kinds of scars, otherwise known as trouble.

And so, in an ever Luffy like manner, he didn't wait a single second, smile gone, he swung back his arms in an all too familiar motion

“Gum Gum Pistol!” 

“I wouldn’t do that if i were you…” another voice jeered, this time from behind him

“Luffy...” 

His whole body froze at the sound of your previously laughter filled voice now reduced to nothing but a shaky whimper. 

He turns around slowly, his vision tinted red, feeling nothing but an empty rage at the sight of you being held hostage, with a bloodstained knife at your throat.

Your eyes were wide with terror, limbs shaking

"There's a knife at her throat. Why is there a damn knife at her throat?!"

And for once he didn't jump first ask questions later, because this time it wasn't his life at stake, it was yours.

And that's something he would never be willing to gamble away

“Let her go” he was barely able to restrain his rage, willing himself to stay as still as possible, not wanting a misunderstanding to occur and for you to pay the deadly price.

There was a pause, then a burst of laughter as the two men jeered and taunted him, the man holding the knife pressed it against the thin skin of your throat, drawing a trickle of blood.

"We're not joking around, and you shouldn't be either. You're a pirate aren't you?"

"Yeah, so what?!" he shouted, being unable to help you outright was making him impatient and reckless, but he held back, because being reckless would only end up harming you

"Well then Mr.Pirate, we'll meet you at Otomi Cliff, be prepared to give up everything if you want her back"

Well the man spoke, a smoke bomb was dropped from above, likely from one of his allies, and they disappeared in a puff of smoke, and you with them.

Luffy didn't know a lot of stuff, he wasn't smart like Robin, he couldn't read the weather like Nami, couldn't heal others like Chopper could, he couldn't fix things the way Usopp could, he couldn't even cook to save his life, especially not the way Sanji did, and he wasn't as grounding as Zoro was.

But he knew this.

He'd watch the world burn first before he let anything bad happen to you.

And so, he raced after you.

Because no matter how hopeless it seemed, or how impossible the odds, he would chase after you - his anchor, his right hand, and his best friend, and nothing would stand in his way

✦•┈๑ ❤︎ ๑┈•✦

Nami immediately noticed the shift in the air, the cool sea air had left a sting on her skin.

Something was wrong.

Everyone else had met up at their meeting spot in front of an old closed down shop.

"Has anyone seen Luffy?" Nami demanded

"Not since we left" Usopp replied, then went on to mutter anxiously as he took a look around for you and Luffy

"He was with (Name) last I saw" Robin murmured

Nami sighed,

"Yeah, but we haven't seen or heard them yet"

"He's probably stuffing his face before we leave" Zoro muttered, eyes closed as he leaned against the building.

And that's when she saw him.

Luffy, running as if his life depended on it, smile gone and eyes darkened with a type of desperation she had never seen in him before.

"Hey Luffy-!" she shouted, running after him with the others trailing behind her

Barely catching up to him, she shouted

"Where's (Name)-"

"She's been kidnapped by thieves"

"What?!"the crew all shouted in unison

"They want me to meet them at Otomi cliff, but i need you, Usopp, Robin and Chopper to get back to the ship and get it ready, meet the rest of us at the cliff"

"Luffy, wait!" grabbing onto his arm, she forced him to a stop

He glared at her, then as if he remembered who she was, relaxed his gaze, though she could tell he was already getting restless by the way he tapped his foot.

"We need a proper plan, we can't just go rushing in, not when it'll risk (Name)'s life-"

"You don't think I know that?!" he shouted back, eyes wide with worry and fear

He was met with stunned silence.

But he continued on as if he didn't notice, because he hadn't, the only thing on his mind was you.

"I know her life's at risk, that's why we can't waste time making a plan!"

You who had been by his side through it all.

"I won't lose her!"

You who had cheered him on as he screamed his dream to the sky.

"Please Nami, just trust me."

Nami froze, as she saw the pleading desperation in his eyes.

She knew you were special to him, everyone did, but she would never have guessed it was to the extent

With a grim nod, she replied

"Ok, let's do this then"

✦•┈๑ ❤︎ ๑┈•✦

You had never been one to fear heights.

But this, this was just ridiculous.

Hanging by a single cord of thick rope, you were tied to a thick branch of a nearby tree, with a forced view of the sea below you and the occasional wind causing the rope to sway dangerously over the edge of the cliff, things were not looking good for you.

And then the all too familiar feeling of cold steel against your neck caused your thoughts to come to a sudden, terrifying, stop.

"Don't you dare to try and escape" the scarred man hissed

You snorted,

Where would you even escape too?

There was only a slight stretch of grass beneath your feet, and if you landed wrong you'd end up plummeting to your cold watery death 100 feet below.

He'd been placed as your guard, while the other thieves hide within the thicket not to far from where you were, waiting for Luffy to arrive.

Knowing Luffy he'd surely arrive anytime now, he'd be impatient and wouldn't go back to get help from the rest of the crew, rushing headfirst into danger as he always did, no matter how much you prayed he wouldn't.

You let out a shaky breath, not quite a laugh (the situation you were in was not funny), but amused nonetheless that you'd even think Luffy wouldn't do anything impulsive, he was impulsivity incarnate.

"Oi, boss! When's the pirate gonna arrive?"

For a moment he took his eyes off you, shouting at his subordinate to shut up and hide, and that was all you needed.

Slamming your foot into the side of his face, you relaxed your hold on the knife hidden in your sleeve, quickly cutting at the cord until it finally snapped.

You twisted your position so that you'd land on the small patch of land, but at the last minute you lost your balance at teetered over the edge and-

A hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you up and by his side

"(Name), you alright?" Luffy demanded, looking up and down to make sure you weren't hurt

"Yes, but what happened to the thieves-"

"We've got 'em" Zoro shouted from behind, to which you finally noticed the defeated thieves, all laying in a pitiful pile behind him.

"I'm here too (Name)-chan~!" Sanji exclaimed, waving his arms excitedly

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could fully relax Luffy picked you up, bridal style, turning to Zoro and Sanji he called out

"Let's get going, Nami and the others are waiting for us down below!"

"Down below?!" you screeched, before he launched himself, and you with him, off the cliff and into the dark waters below

"Luffy, what're you doing?! You can't swim, remember!" you shouted over the rushing of the wind, eyes shut tight as you hid your face in his chest

"Don't worry (Name)! I've got you, the ships just below us!"

Stretching his free arm so that it grabbed onto something below, he shouted an all too familiar "Gum Gum Rocket!" and brought you to safety

✦•┈๑ ❤︎ ๑┈•✦

You couldn't sleep.

Watching the lapping waves below you let out a shaky breath, the reality of what you had gone through taking it's toll.

Though, thanks to everyones help it was over now, and you were safe, heading to whatever Island Luffy had in mind next.

"(Name)"

You turned to find Luffy trudging towards you, black hair a mess, and eyes half-opened from exhaustion.

He didn't wait, slumping his full weight on top of you, he let out a happy sigh

" 'm really glad you're safe" he mumbled into your neck, arms gently wrapping around your waist as he embraced you

"All thanks to you and the crew" you murmured softly, smiling down at him as you raked your fingers through his hair

"Mostly me though..." he replied, voice low and rough as he leaned into your gentle touch

You laughed,

"That so?"

"Mhm"

Then he abruptly stepped back, staring at you with dark brown eyes that held something you'd never quite seen before, at least not in Luffy.

"I love you"

...

"HAH?!" you exclaimed with wide eyes, but then remembering the time you quickly covered your mouth, whispering

"Mind saying that again?" you demanded softly

At this he pouted, looking as if you had stolen his food,

"I love you"

"You love...me?" the last part came in a disbelieving squeak as you pointed at yourself

But he didn't give you his answer in words, after all, Luffy was a man of action.

Grabbing your arm he pulled you closer, your breath hitched as he came closer, and then he kissed you.

Soft, reverent, and warm like the sun.

You responded naturally, brushing your thumb against his cheek as you kissed him back.

It was a kiss filled with innocent love, sweet and something you wanted to savour.

But then he stepped back, and before you could say anything began attacking your face with kisses.

"Stop, that tickles!" you giggled, gently pushing him back

As you took in his grinning face, you couldn't help but be thankful that you were given the chance to be his friend.

What would my life be like if you weren't here?

You chuckled to yourself, thankfully you'd never have to know

"(Name)...(Name)?" he called, waving a hand in front of you face

You blinked,

"Uh, yes?"

"Promise me something, yeah?"

You waited for him to continue

"That you'll always stay by my side?"

You grinned, grabbing his hat from the top of his head ,you placed it on your own

" 'Course I will, after all you'll need me to become King Of The Pirates!"

You pour some more without looking, your heart rate steadying. He sighs again, satisfied, then his head shifts, resting against your shoulder. 

“Luffy?”

“... just wanna rest here,” he says. He leans further, and your arms wrap around him to support him, but he’s heavier than he looks, and you start to fall backwards.

“Is the water affecting you?” you ask, now with your back to the earth, holding him tightly. The position is awkward, but you like the feeling of your captain in your arms. His head nuzzles against your chest.

“No… maybe…” his voice sounds sleepy and you suspect you’ve tested the limits of his Devil Fruit, more than you’ve tested yours.

“Okay, you need to get out.”

It takes some maneuvering but he helps you pull him out of the stream by the elbows, but still he doesn’t let you go, repositioning himself on top of you.

“Luffy, is it still the stream?” 

“No,” he murmurs. 

His hands glide down the length of your arms and interlock your fingers on both hands.

“I just want to be close to you like this.”

The overhead warm sun is already drying up the water on your connected skin. You can’t look up at the sky because you’ll be blinded, and you can’t look at him because you feel that he’s no different from the sun.

Your eyes close too.

“Captain…” You never call him that, but now, to create some distance enough that you can catch your breath.

“Luffy,” he corrects gently.

His hands squeeze yours tightly and your heart squeezes too.

“Luffy,” you repeat.

“Yeah?” You revel in the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

“I…” It’s stuck in your throat again, regrettably. Luffy moves your hand still in his grasp to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

“You don’t have to say it. I know,” he whispers.

Your lips tremble, and your legs wrap around him.

The afterparty in the Flower Capital was loud and inviting, the people of Wano celebrating the defeat of Kaido and their subsequent freedom — none the wiser that the man who lead that freedom was sitting running around beside them because he did not want to be seen as a hero. He didn't want a pirate to be the reason for their freedom, so he passed that on to Momonosuke.

Luffy, the newest Emperor of the Sea, ran around with Yamato — playing games and eating all of the food he could get. Why wouldn't he? It was all free food because it was a celebration, that is essentially a wet dream for him.

"Yama-o!" Luffy shouted to the man who was literally right beside him, beaming up at him with his cheeks puffed out with food, "Lesh goh ov'r dere!" He pointed to another food stand with a hand that was currently holding a skewer, hopping on his feet as he already started to run over without waiting for a response.

Yamato grinned, but quickly stammered as he realized that he was just left behind, "W-Wait up, Luffy!" He laughed, chasing after the rubber captain with heavy footfalls.

You had watched them run past you, shaking your head fondly as you turn your attention back to Tama — who was patiently seated on your lap as you did her hair, "Uwahh! Big bro sure has a lot of energy!" Tama admired, shifting in your lap as if Luffy's energy transferred to her and made her want to chase him.

"He sure does," You tell her gently, easing her to sit still on your lap again so her hair wasn't messed up from the movement. You looked up in the direction he went once more, only to find that he was no longer beside Yamato. The man in question was now beside Momonosuke, his expression seemingly nervous as he avoids looking in your direction altogether. Your captain, your boyfriend, was missing.

Your relationship with Luffy had started a good two years ago now, just after Enies Lobby had happened — just after Luffy got his act together and realized that he really should start taking things more seriously lest he want to lose the people he loves again. That feeling bled into how he handled himself as a captain and into his relationships with the crew. He was closer to them now, more protective, but all the more so with you. You had joined the crew a little after Nami had, but before Usopp, when they stopped at a small island before Syrup Village. You were cool to him, so he had simply asked you.

You agreed because you were bored… and because it felt nice to belong.

According to what Robin had told you, he had the conversation about feelings with his grandpa first after their brief squabble cooled down — in the quieter moments after he learned (and frankly didn't care) who his father was. Then according to Nami, who denied ever eavesdropping despite giving you information that was only obtained though eavesdropping, he had asked Koby and Helmeppo during his conversation with them. She mentioned that the two men startled so bad that they fell off the rock they were on, but still gave him the best advice they could despite being single men themselves — and that Luffy only really listened to what Koby said.

He had finally asked the question after Usopp rejoined the crew, after they escaped his grandpa with a coup de burst — while his adrenaline was still high and he couldn't chicken out of it. You said yes, and you hadn't regretted it since.

Technically speaking, your relationship was only a few months long due to the two years you spent separated from him. That didn't matter to either of you though, as you still loved each other completely during that time — you were his motivation to get stronger. He wanted to protect you better. He also wanted to protect the whole crew, but he really wanted to be enough for you. He knew if you were there that you would tell him that he already was enough, but at that moment he didn't feel like he was.

He couldn't even protect his brother who was right in front of him. How could he ever protect you if he couldn't save him? You're strong, he knows that… but so was Ace. Ace was strong, but he died protecting him because he was too weak to do it himself. At times, he believed that it should have been him instead.

At least that was what he told himself when it happened. He knows now that he did save Ace, in more ways than one. He knows Ace spent most of his life believing he was a demon, a man who should be dead. That was part of his dream, wasn't it? To have proof of his life that wasn't tied to who his father was? In the end, he got that and more. He realized that he was allowed to live, to be born, to be loved. He found his family in Luffy and Sabo, in Dadan and the mountain bandits, in Whitebeard and his crew. He lived regretting the fact he was born, but he died without it. Luffy did save him, but Ace saved him as well.

Because that is what true freedom is, isn't it? To choose how you live? But also to choose how you die?

If Ace never died, if Luffy had escaped with him… What then? He had no reason to believe he was too weak. They would have gone back to Sabaody, and he would have lost everything.

He came to that realization, and he also realized that he loved you. He wanted to be with you for the rest of his life, which Rayleigh had informed him was something called marriage. So when you reunited two years later, he told you he loved you for the first time — but he kept wimping out with proposing to you. There are multiple forms of strength, he had guessed.

Of course, you weren't worried all that much that you couldn't see him anymore. It was a party, it was safe with all of the straw hats and allies littered about, and Luffy was strong enough to defend himself against anyone here — but you were just briefly confused. Weren't him and Yamato having fun? Why would he abruptly ditch him?

Looking around, you noticed that a few other Straw Hats were also missing. You knew Nami and Robin were nearby, with Sanji naturally following them while swooning, but now the three of them were missing alongside Luffy.

You frowned, carefully getting up and easing Tama onto the bench you were sitting on, "Stay here with big bro Zoro for a little bit, alright? I'll be back in a moment to finish your hair," You tell her calmly, motioning to Zoro who just so happened to be sitting nearby. Said man opened his eye briefly in acknowledgement with a grunt, allowing Tama to bother him. As much as he would deny it to the grave, he is a softy.

After you had walked off, Usopp and Franky had approached where you previously were. Usopp paused, blinking in confusion at the fact that you were no longer there. He slowly looked over at Zoro.

"Zoro," Usopp questioned, his tone slightly wobbling with rising nerves. Not because he was scared of Zoro, but at the fact you were not there, "Where did she go? The bathroom, right Zoro? Zoro, please tell me she went to the bathroom."

Zoro didn't open his eye, but his tone was both irritated and confused, "No. She went to find the rubber moron," He grumbled, not fully grasping why Usopp was so startled all of a sudden.

The sound that left Usopp was one of pure panic, causing Tama to also become worried, "ZORO!" Usopp shouted, grabbing Zoro by the shoulders and shaking him, "ZORO! You idiot! Don't you get it?!"

Zoro was awake now, completely irritated as he squinted his eye at Usopp, "Knock it off, long-nose! What's the big deal?!" He looked behind Usopp at Franky, hoping for some assistance — but the cyborg just shook his head in disapproval.

Usopp let go of Zoro's shoulders, pacing back and forth for a moment while muttering. He abruptly stopped, pointing at Zoro, "It's the big day, dumbass! We have to find her before she finds him!"

Zoro paused, racking his brain for what Usopp meant. The gears turned, and his eyes widen when it finally clicked, "…Shit," He muttered, ready to get up. Franky, though, pushed him back down.

"Stay here, bro," Franky suggested, pointing his large thumb at Tama, "You need to watch her."

"Hah?? But I know what direction she went!"

"Sorry pal, but that means nothing coming from you."

"Why, you—"

"ENOUGH!" Usopp shouted in a panic, already turning to find Chopper, "We do not have time for this!"

Franky nodded, pointing two fingers at his eyes before turning them to Zoro. Zoro scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the duo go and search for Chopper. Tama, from beside him, tugged at his sleeve in curiosity. "Big bro? What does 'big day' mean?"

Zoro stared ahead for a moment before smirking, his eye closing again, "It means you are possibly going to have a big sister-in-law."

Tama gasped.

Back with Usopp and Franky, and now Chopper in walk point as he sniffed after your scent, was chaotic. They had quickly asked Chopper to start tracking after declaring it "code red: she moved." Chopper abruptly lifted his head, stopping in his tracks as he looked off in a direction.

"This way!" He called, galloping off. Usopp yelped, quickly running after him with Franky in tow. They ran through the celebration, weaving through the confused partygoers, and to the outskirts of the Flower Capital where it was more reserved — private to the world unless you explicitly came looking.

They stopped at the base of a hill, Usopp hunched forwards with his hands on his knees and he heaves out heavy breaths. They did not even have a moment to gather themselves as Nami, Robin, and Sanji came down from the top — Nami grabbing Usopp's shoulder to drag him away while whispering something aggressively to him. Turns out, they were a little too late in stopping you as you were already at the peak of the incline with Luffy, but luckily you were still none the wiser. Usopp, Chopper, and Franky quickly leave with the trio.

Up on the hill, overlooking the celebration as the lanterns flickered in the sky like a second set of stars, you were alone with Luffy. You tilt your head, grabbing his hand as you stood in front of him. He seemed nervous, uncharacteristically so, and that concerned you. "Is everything alright, Lu?" You asked him, your thumb gently rubbing over his knuckles.

He hesitated, scratching the back of his head as he looked away from you — as if worried that looking at you would make him blurt out whatever was going on in his head. He may be impulsive, not one to think about his actions, but this was something that he wanted to do right.

"Y— Yeah, s'fine. Why'd think it's not? Everythin' s'good," He stammered, scrambling for any words that would belay any notion that he was nervous. It didn't work, because Luffy's face was anything if not honest.

You blinked, your thumb stilling on his hand. You were confused. He would never not tell you anything, especially when it came to his emotions. You were the one person besides Jinbe that he confided with when it came to Ace, or even the stresses that came from being captain when everyone else thought he was fine.

He sighed before you could question him, releasing your hand to turn away from you. His hands rub down his face a few times before slapping his cheeks and going loose at his side. He bounces in place, hyping himself up before turning and facing you again. His cheeks were red, but you didn't know if that was because he hit himself or for another reason.

"I love ya," He blurted out, his brows furrowed in his seriousness. You blinked, a bit stunned at his abruptness and the fact that you just watched him hype himself up.

"I love—" You paused when his finger came up, shushing you. He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sorry. Jus'… let me do this first," He mumbled, his arm dropping as he looked down at the ground. His foot kicked at the dirt beneath him, his hand coming up to punch his arm like he were trying to wake himself up — like he was not convinced he was really about to do this.

Your hand came up to stop that action, knowing he would have done it too hard. He inhaled, nodding a quick thanks to you before looking up at you again. He grabbed both of your hands, because maybe your touch would center him in reality.

It did.

"I love ya," He repeated, this time not taking his eyes off of you, "Like… Like a lot."

You nod, letting him speak because he had already shushed you once.

"Like, uhm, more than y'know. More than meat, swear!" He grinned, though it was wobbly and nervous, "Can't imagine of any… ah— any…"

He paused, thinking of a good word to relay the scope of his feelings, "Universe. Yeah. Any universe where ya aren't with me," he nods quickly, as if proud of himself for what he said, "If there is one, I don't like it. S'not right."

Your heartbeat sped up, your eyes widening as your brain slowly caught up with what was happening. You don't say anything, not wanting to ruin it for him, but your grip tightened on his hands.

"M'not good at the… romance talk. S'more've Sanji's thing," He laughed nervously, looking to the side for only a moment before looking back at you, "But I love ya, so… so I gotta try."

"Ever since we've been separated, er… physically separated," He clarified, cringing at himself because you had obviously already known what he had meant, "I— I wanted this. Real bad. Couldn't stop thinkin' about how I wanted t'tell ya. Had it planned out for all th'way back in Sabaody — when we got back. Got scared."

Your eyes soften. You knew it wasn't easy for Luffy to admit when he was scared. Genuinely scared, that is.

"Can't wait longer though. Could'a lost ya," He says, closing his eyes with a scowl to rid himself of the thought. He wasn't wrong, either. During the raid on Onigashima, you had gotten inflicted with the Ice Oni virus from Queen. If it weren't for Marco halting the virus long enough for Chopper to create the antibody, he likely would have lost you.

"I'm okay now, Luffy," You reassure him, and he opens his eyes again. He looks over your body, almost confirming his reality once more to soothe the growing agitation in his veins. You were fine. Chopper took care of you. You are here, holding his hands, looking at him with love and care.

"I know. But I can't wait any longer," He nods, releasing your hands just to clasp them together in a prayer position between his. He seemed frustrated, not knowing how to word this elegantly like Sanji had told him. He wanted to, but… would that really be him?

Would making it sound like a prince really sound like it were coming from his heart and not just the script someone else had given him? If he were really going to do this, would that be what you wanted?

Sure, he had gone to Nami and Robin for advice first and Sanji later because he happened to overhear it. Sanji had given him a list on things he should do, only half of it he remembered. Nami had told him not to be an idiot, and don't make it sound forced. Robin just told him to be himself, to do what he thought was best.

At first, he thought Robin gave bad advice simply because Nami and Sanji had structure to what they said while she just told him to not overthink it. How could he not overthink it? He didn't know what he was doing, he needed the guidance.

But Sanji and Nami didn't know what they were doing either, did they? Sure, Sanji had been engaged before — but that was against his will. Something he thought he had to do to save his family of bastards and his sister, to save Zeff and the Baratie, to save the crew he loves. Nami had also never been married, so maybe she was just saying things that she wanted in a proposal — but that wasn't you.

You didn't date him for formality — for words that were minced and careful. You date him because he is him. Unapologetically. So maybe Robin's advice was the best, but he was too caught up in what "perfect" could be that he disregarded it.

He said your name with a reverence you had only heard in the bedroom, in moments alone with him — his hands tightening around yours, "I… I can't—"

He paused again. Because technically he could, as much as he didn't want to admit it. If you said no, you would likely still stay on the crew. At most you would still date him, just not ready for the next step. Neutrally, you would just be his friend. At worst, a fate he didn't want to happen, you would leave him and the crew because you couldn't bare to be on the same ship with the man you rejected. He shook his head rapidly, that thought upsetting him because he couldn't bare it.

But this wasn't a situation like it had been with Sanji where he almost left for good, you were still here and likely would still be here even if you say no. He could become pirate king still

"I don't want t'be King of the Pirates without ya by m'side," He rephrased, his eyes shining with devotion and unwavering hope, "I want to find the One Piece with you, I want to be completely free with you, and—"

He paused, his hands starting to tremble as he pulled them away from yours and reached into his yukata. He pulled out a ring, a bright gold band with a diamond set on the top — smaller gemstones surrounded it and went around the band. It looked expensive, something that you couldn't really believe Nami let him buy — but she had, because it did not look like anything from a treasure haul. You finally realized why Nami was so adamant on trying on rings back at Sabaody.

It wasn't in a box or anything, like he was worried that if he wasn't physically touching it or looking at it he would keep hesitating on doing it. Like seeing it gleam in the sunlight, or under the shine of the stars late at night, gave him the courage. It still shined, too, even outside the box. Like he took inexplicable care of it. More than anything he has previously other than his hat.

"I want you t'be by my side. Forever. Even after I am Pirate King and then some," Luffy spoke softly as he held the ring by its band, his tone wavering like he wanted to cry but held back until he got the answer that would determine which type of tears he would shed, "As… As my… queen of… the pirates…"

He trailed off, his face completely red like he couldn't believe he said something as cheesy as that. He shook off the embarrassment of that line, thrusting the ring out closer to you like a child nervously giving his valentine flowers.

"Please," He just about pleaded, his eyes searching your face, "Marry me. Be my wife."

You stared at him, and then at the ring gripped in his trembling hands, processing it all. You were stunned for a moment even after knowing what was coming. Your heart was beating out of your chest. Your face crumples before you can stop it, tears streaming down your face so quickly that Luffy almost panicked because he hates seeing you cry — but he stopped, because he noticed you were happy.

"Y-Yes, Luffy," You hiccup, nodding as you rub away the tears with minimal success with the heel of your hand, "Yes! I'll marry you..!"

Luffy froze, his eyes widening as he looked at you. He processed your words, taking a moment to really digest what you said. A wide, though wobbly, grin adorned his face — tears of his own leaking out before he could stop it. Not that he cared in the moment.

"Y-Yeah? Yeah!?" He repeats, excited. When you nod, he rushed forwards, almost dropping the ring. He caught it with a yelp, causing you to choke out a laugh, as he grabs your hand to steady the shaking. His own were shaking hard, more than you ever seen from him. You didn't know if it was from excitement or the nerves from it all anymore, but you didn't care.

Carefully, more carefully than he has every been in his life, he eased it onto your ring finger until it was seated snugly at the base. He paused after that, just holding your hand in his as he stares at it — one again confirming that it was real and not a figment of his imagination.

"I'm… I'm so glad," He mutters out, looking up at you with wet eyes. He looked like he was going to say more, but you wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged him down into a kiss. He yelps against your lips before making a pleased noise, tilting his head into it as his arms settle on your waist — tugging you impossibly closer.

The moment was ruined by wailing, and not from you or Luffy. You both pulled back, looking down the hill to see the straw hats — plus Yamato, Tama, and Momonosuke — all poorly hiding in the bushes. Franky was currently being scolded for sobbing loudly by Nami, but she also was tearing up.

"SO SORRY, BROS!" Franky sobbed, "ITS JUST SO… SO… SUPER!"

He wasn't the only one crying, either. Sanji, Chopper, Usopp (though he claimed it was brave tears, despite there being nothing to be brave about), Nami, Yamato, and Momonosuke were all in tears.

"Can't believe that rubber bastard has a wife before me," Sanji wept, but it was clear he was happy for you and the captain. He got hit by Nami pretty quickly, who yelled at him through her own tears.

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU!"

Zoro, though he was smirking, teased the others who were crying, "Not even Tama is crying," He snorted, pointing at Tama with his thumb. Tama's eyes were sparkling, and it seemed that Zoro spoke too soon as she very quickly burst into tears and sprinted up the hill despite Yamato trying to catch her.

"BIG BRO!" She wailed, launching into Luffy's arms so suddenly that he had to let go of you to catch her. Her cheek pressed against his as she cradled his head, "I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!"

Luffy laughs, holding Tama tightly for a moment as he thanks her. You watch fondly, wiping away the remaining tears on your face. Yamato finally scrambled up the hill, taking Tama out of his arms.

"Carry on, you two!" He encouraged as he put Tama on his shoulders, giving them a thumbs up before rushing down the hill again before Tama could protest and start hitting his head.

The eavesdropping group began to disperse, heading back to the party. Luffy turned to you after watching them leave, offering his hand with a smile, "Let's head back?"

You look at his hand for a moment before looking back at his face. His eyes were shining no longer with tears, but overwhelming joy and love. You smiled softly back, taking his hand as he walked with you down the hill.

"So I'm thinkin' 'Monkey' s'a good last name f'ya."

"Luffy…"

"What? I'm bein' honest!"

You laughed, "We'll see."

Zoro turned slightly and you stood there like you’d always been there, elbow resting against the bar, gaze following his toward the bartender with mild interest.

“He’s not going to come over,” you added, almost thoughtfully.

Zoro huffed once through his nose. “Yeah. I noticed.”

There was a beat, then—

“I could help you with that.”

That got his attention. He glanced at you properly this time, sharp and assessing, like he was trying to place you in a category and hadn’t quite decided where you fit yet.

“Oh yeah?” he said.

You smiled. Not wide or sweet, but knowing. 

“Yeah.”

A small tilt of your head toward the bartender, and Zoro caught the flicker of something in your eyes.

“Watch.”

And before he could respond, you pushed off the bar and slipped into motion. The first thing he noticed was that you didn’t rush. You moved like you belonged there, like the space would shift and accommodate for you if it need to. By the time you reached the bartender, your posture had softened, your expression brightened just enough to catch his attention without looking like you were trying.

It worked immediately.

Zoro watched as the bartender straightened, grin widening, focus snapping entirely to you as you leaned just slightly over the counter. He couldn’t hear everything you said over the noise, but he didn’t need to.

There was a laugh, yours, followed by a light touch to the bartender’s wrist. Overall, a quiet exchange that had the man nodding quickly, already turning to grab bottles.

Zoro leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. Huh.

A few minutes later, you returned, noticeably not empty-handed. Very much not empty-handed.

You set down one, two, three bottles in front of him until there were eight lined up neatly along the bar.

Zoro blinked once, then looked at you to see that you were already holding two for yourself.

“Figured that might last you a while,” you said lightly. “Buy you some time until the bartender does look over here.”

There it was again, that look. That subtle curve of your mouth like you two were in on something no one else was. You gave him a small wink, then turned to leave, and just like that, you were gone. 

Zoro watches you disappear into the crowd, the noise of the tavern settling back into place like nothing happened. Eight bottles sit untouched in front of him, his fingers curl loosely around one, but he doesn’t drink, at least, not yet.

Not when his attention is still fixed on the space you left behind, and the impression you left him. A slow exhale leaves him. “…Interesting.”

He leans back slightly, gaze sharpening, no longer unfocused anymore, not idle. You peaked his attention in a way that he can’t name yet, but it provduces a desire to keep you close and nearby.

     ‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

By the time you slipped back through the crowd, the tavern hadn’t quieted, it never did, but it had shifted slightly. 

“There you are.”

One of your friends waved you over, leaning in as soon as you got close.

“You’re missing it.”

“Missing what?” you asked, already letting yourself be pulled into the edge of their table. Another one nudged you, barely containing a grin.

“The blond.”

You followed their gaze. And, oh.

There was a blond man sat at the far end of the tavern, as close to the kitchen doors as the seating allowed, body angled just slightly toward the narrow window where plates passed through. If his attractiveness didn’t grab your attention, that it would have been the way he wasn’t drinking, wasn’t talking, or even paying attention to the room.

His entire focus was locked on the kitchen, more specifcally, on the chefs. Your eyes narrowed just slightly, interest piqued. 

“…He’s not even looking at anyone,” one of your friends whispered.

“No,” you murmured, already standing. “He’s not.”

You approached without hesitation, wanting to know more about this mysterious man. He didn’t notice, at least, not at first, because he seemed distracted. A frown was on his face, not one that marked annoyance, but more of the ‘offended’ variety. 

“…He’s overcooking it,” he muttered under his breath.

You blinked, not expecting that to be the first line of interaction between you two. 

“Oh?”

While the mysterious stranger still didn’t look at you, you at least know he heard you due to his affirmative grunt before continuing the conversation. 

“He added the seasoning too early,” he continued, voice low, attempting to show some restrain “It’s going to burn the flavor right out and—”

You smiled, slowly. “And I’m guessing you could do better?”

“Obviously.” Immediate, and automatic, but still not looking at you. You huffed out a quiet laugh. This man was definitely different.

“I could get you in there,” you said.

And that is what did it. He finally turned and for the first time, he took notice of you. There was a flicker of something across his face—fast, sharp—like his brain had to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.

You, standing there like you hadn’t just been casually listening to him critique a kitchen mid-service. Like you hadn’t just offered something ridiculous with complete confidence. For half a second, he just stared.

And then, everything about him shifted.

Posture straightening, expression softening, and a new sense of charm clicking into place like second nature.

“—Mademoiselle,” he breathed, already halfway to standing. “I didn’t realize I was being graced with such—”

You tilted your head, cutting him off with a small smile, charmed despite yourself.  “Do you want to fix the food or not?”

He paused for a beat, and just like that, the flirtation stalled. Not gone, at least, not completely. Just…redirected. 

His gaze flicked back toward the kitchen window, to the view of the chef flipping the meat too soon, causing Sanji’s eye to twitch.

“…Yes.”

You didn’t give him time to rethink it. “Then come on.”

You turned, already moving, trusting he’d follow. He did, immediately. He was halfway convinced he could follow you anywhere. 

The kitchen door swung open with a soft creak as you stepped through, but you didn’t go far. You stopped right at the threshold, careful, respectful, not crossing into the space where only staff were meant to be.

Sanji’s heart skipped a beat at the implicit care and respect that you provide the kitchen and the chefs by showing that little bit of restraint. By understanding, seemingly implicitly, the rules and boundaries of a kitchen. Something he can’t help but be in awe by because of the lack of decorum shown on the ship by his crew.

“Hey,” you called lightly, catching the attention of one of the cooks nearest the door, causing the man to glance up and his shoulders to relax when he saw you.

“Oh, it’s just you. Hey sweet girl.”

There it was, recognition and familiarity.

“You busy?” you asked, already knowing the answer after years of hanging around.

He snorted. “Always.”

Your smile turned a little sharper. “Yeah, I figured.”

Your gaze flicked past him, toward the man currently manning the stove, the one Sanji had been watching.

“Head chef still out?”

A groan from somewhere deeper in the kitchen as more pots and pans clatter and the bustle of the kitchen moves on as more orders are placed. 

“Don’t remind me.”

Perfect. At least for you and your new friend. You leaned slightly against the doorframe, casual, comfortable. “I’ve got someone who can help.”

That got their attention. Skeptical glances were thrown at you and the blond, who got a more detailed assessment from the other chefs. Your head tilted just enough toward the man, tone light and teasing, “He’s been complaining from the dining room. This is—“ you stop yourself quickly realizing that you never introduced yourself to him or got his name. Actually this whole plan was crazy, but something in you told you it was right. 

The man sees your slight panic and smoothly steps in, “I’m Sanji, and I can do more than complain,” he said instead, stepping forward just enough to be properly seen.

Confidence, controlled, and certain. The room shifted just enough to accomodate their newest chef who seemingly just knows how to take control. 

One of the cooks raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

Sanji’s gaze flicked to the stove, to the pan that’s worsening the mistake of that meat.

“…You’re burning it.”

Silence, then—

“Alright,” someone muttered. “Show us.”

And while you didn’t need to stay, Sanji being welcomed into the kitchen, accepted even. He was where he needed to be, you’ve done your second good deed of the day. But still, you lingered, just long enough to watch and see him in his element. 

Sanji noticed, even as his hands moved, corrected, adjusted, and took over without overstepping, his attention always flickered back to you. 

You smiled, small and certain, before mouthing the words clearly, “You’ve got this,” to him. And then you were gone.

The kitchen didn’t slow, didn’t pause, but something had changed. Sanji exhaled once, steadying himself, then refocused.

The pan, the heat, the timing. Everything where it should be, under control, exactly how he liked it.

His mind drifts back to the doorway, to you.

To the warmth of your smile, fleeting but lingering in a way that doesn’t make sense. He exhales slowly, steadying himself as he plates the dish.

Focus. Timing. Balance.

But the thought slips in anyway, soft at first, then settling. You noticed. A faint smile tugs at his lips.

You understood.

Something deeper follows, quieter and warmer, and definitely far more dangerous. His movements don’t falter, if anything, they sharpen.

I’ll make sure you never have to look anywhere else again.

     ‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The kitchen door swings shut behind you, the warmth and noise muffling just slightly as you step back into the hallway. For a moment, it’s quiet, or as quiet as a tavern like this ever gets.

You exhale softly, rolling your shoulders once before turning toward the back corridor. You might as well take a second.

The hallway is dimmer, lit by a couple of low lanterns, the hum of conversation fading the further you move away from the main room. You’re halfway to the bathrooms when you pause. There’s something… odd.

A small figure stands in the middle of the hall, shifting from foot to foot, clearly distressed.

“…Which one do I even use…?” a voice mutters, quiet but very real.

You blink, tilt your head, then step closer. “Uh… is everything okay here?”

The figure startles slightly, and turns, revealing a small, furry creature with a little hat.

You stare for a beat, attempting to process the sight infront of you.

“…Hi,” he says.

You blink again. “…Hi.”

Another pause, before his small mouth opens and he starts blurting out, “I need to use the bathroom, but I’m technically a male, but the guys bathrooms are always really gross, and I didn’t bring Nami or Robin and I don’t know if I could use the women’s and—” He trails off, clearly overwhelmed.

You stare at him for a second longer before you start laughing, not to be mean, but simply because you were surprised. The look you gave him after made Chopper feel warm and cared for.

“Well,” you say, stepping a little closer, “that’s a fair dilemma.”

He huffs, ears drooping slightly. “It is!”

You glance between the two doors, then back at him.

“…Alright.” A small shrug. “Go ahead and use the women’s.”

His eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you say easily. “I’ll stand out here.”

You gesture vaguely toward the hallway.

“Make sure no one bothers you.”

“…You’d do that?”

You give him a small smile. “Of course.”

A few minutes pass as you lean lightly against the wall, arms crossed, listening to the distant noise of the tavern filtering back in. It’s almost peaceful. Almost.

Inside, there’s the faint sound of movement, a bit of fumbling—

and then— 

“Um, thank you again!” Chopper calls through the door.

You huff out a small laugh. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a pause before he continues softly.

“You’re really nice.”

Something in your chest softens. “Don’t get used to it,” you tease lightly.

“…Too late,” he mutters.

The door creaks open, and Chopper steps out, looking noticeably less stressed.

“See?” you say, pushing off the wall. “Crisis handled.”

He nods quickly. “Yeah! Thank you, I—”

He stops and so do you, because now you hear it. Not the usual tavern noise, buy something sharper.

A raised voice, hen another angrier. Your brows knit slightly, concerned about what you’re going to find outside those doors. 

“…Do you hear that?”

Chopper’s ears twitch. “…Yeah.”

Suddenly there was a crash and the sound of glass shattering loud enough to echo down the halloway, causing your stomach to drop. 

“That—”

“—wasn’t good,” Chopper finishes.

You glance at him., then toward the main room, then back at him.

“…I should probably—”

“I should check on them,” he says immediately.

Of course he does, you sigh softly.

“Yeah, come on.”

You round the corner together and step right into tension. The tavern has changed completely. People have backed away from the center of the room, forming a loose circle around the source of the noise.

A table lies overturned, shards of glass scatter across the floor, and at the center stood the man from the bar earlier and a group of other people, facing off against a group of men you recognize all too well.

Management.

Your stomach sinks.

“…Oh, that’s not good,” you murmur.

Because this? This isn’t just a misunderstanding. This is about to become a problem, a big one.

Chopper shifts beside you. “They’re gonna get in trouble.”

You exhale slowly, already thinking and calculating. “Yeah, probably.”

Your gaze sharpens slightly. “But maybe not for long.”

The air in the tavern has gone sharp, not loud or chaotic, but stretched thin, as if something was about to snap. From the edge of the crowd, you and Chopper watch as the circle tightens around them.

The Straw Hats, as Chopper calls them, stand at the center. While they’re seemingly still, it’s cleared they’re not relaxed, not even close. Tension radiated through their bodies, clear that one wrong move and this tentative peace we’ve found ourselves in will be over quickly.

A familiar figure steps out from the kitchen, Sanji. He’s wiping his hands slowly, methodically, like he’s finishing one task before stepping into another. His gaze sweeps the room once, clearly assessing and calculating.

Then it lands on you, then Chopper, then back to you, just for a second, long enough to give a small shake of his head. Subtke and deliberate, a clear message for both of you to stay back and out the way.

“Got a problem?” a voice sneers, grabbing your attention back.

Chase, of course it’s him. He’s one of the leading trouble causers in the town, but since his family is rich and helps funds a majority of the projects, no one ever wants to make a clear stance against him, leading Chase to think he can handle anyone.

He’s currently leaning too close to the crew, coming across as overally aggressive, and way too comfortable with getting in someone’s space. 

Specifically, Roronoa Zoro. 

You understand Chase’s facination, seeing the man carry around three swords is a clear indicator as to who he is. And to stand up to an infamous man like that and live to tell the tale would be an incredible and impossible desire for Chase to give up on.

Zoro hasn’t moved, not an inch. However, his presence has changed. His hand rests near his sword now, loose and ready.

Chase must not have noticed, or maybe he does, and thinks it’s a game.

“I said,” Chase continues, louder now, “you don’t just walk in here, cause trouble, and think you can leave without paying for it.”

Behind him, voices layer in. Snide comments toward Nami, a laugh directed at Robin, both dismissive smf disrespectful, clearlywrong. 

While Luffy no longer looks angry, he’s also still not smiling, and yet that makes it worse.

Sanji steps into place beside them, rolling his shoulders once as he loosens his tie, slow and controlled. 

“Oi,” he says, voice low. “You’re getting a bit too comfortable.”

Chase scoffs. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Sanji’s expression doesn’t change, but the air around him does.

Zoro’s fingers tighten, just slightly, but enough to tell you that whatever patience they have is quick to run out.

You exhale, before nodding slowly to yourself. 

“Yeah,” you murmur under your breath. “This is about to get bad.”

Chopper shifts beside you. “They’re gonna fight—”

“I know.”

And that’s exactly the problem. Because if they do, it blows beyong just a tavern fight, a becomes a whole town problem, and there’s really no need for all of that. Not when you’ve worked so hard to not have attention be brought around you. 

So before it happens, before the first swing, before the first blade leaves its sheath, bou move. You slip between bodies, through tension, into the center like you belong there, because you do.

And then, without any further thought, you place yourself between them; management and the crew, making sure to face management head-on, surprisingly, giving your back to these pirates you’ve never fully met. 

There’s a shift immediately, while subtle, it was all the more real. Behind you, something in all of them stills. Not because the threat is gone, but because now, you’re there. Attempting to be their savior, and recklessly gave them your back without looking at them once to check, because for some reason, you didn’t feel like you needed to.

Your attention is on Chase.

“Wow,” you say lightly, glancing at the broken glass, the overturned table. “You’re really committing to the drama tonight, huh?”

He blinks, thrown off, before his face morphs into a scowl again. 

“Stay out of this,” he snaps.

You tilt your head slightly. “Mm. I would.”

A brief pause before you continue, “But you’re making it everyone’s problem.”

A couple of people nearby shift, listening now, watching a scene between this well known high-born citizen, and this seemingly random girl. 

You step just slightly to the side, subtle and controlled, positioning yourself so you’re not blocking the crew completely, but still in the middle, the focus. Your mind is running fast as you shift through tons of informations bits you’ve gleamed by listening around town to be able to turn this situation around fast. 

“Let’s think this through,” you continue, voice calm, easy. “You’ve got a full tavern, a paying crowd, and a reputation you barely manage to keep as it is.”

A flicker crosses Chase’s face, and there it is, your glowing sign. You press just slightly.

“If this turns into a full fight?” you add, gesturing lightly around the room, “chairs broken, people hurt, word spreads…”

A small shrug.

“…That’s bad for business. Especially if the Marines need to get involved.”

Murmurs ripple outward in agreement, and discontent at the thought of Marines coming to your island. While your island is relatively small and filled with lovely citizens, known as the perfect shopping and trading center, there are still the seedier parts of town that thrive and actually help support the town’s economy. And it needs the Marines to stay far away to keep the businesses going, as well as anyone who potentially harms that business is seen as a traitor to the town. 

Behind you, a flurry of actions and emotions passes through each of the present members. Zoro doesn’t move, but his grip loosens, just a fraction as he watches you charm the crowd and their opponents into your wishes.

Sanji’s gaze drops briefly to you, admiring your stance and your fierce bravery in the way you’ve placed yourself between them without hesitation or fear. But as much as there is attraction and appreciation, there is a small part of him that is frustrated that you didn’t listen to his earlier warning to stay away from danger. To have you risk your life for them, for him, and potentially get injured? He could never live with himself with that.

Chase exhales sharply, seemingly unwilling to let go of this potential new challenge, regardless of the negative consequences sure to come his way if he continues down this path. “Then maybe they should’ve thought about that before—”

“Before what?” you cut in smoothly with a small smile, not at all sweet, but sharp and pointed, clear that you’re done playing around. 

“Before sitting down? Ordering drinks? Existing?”

A couple of people laugh, quiet, but enough. You lean in just slightly, lowering your voice just enough so that others can’t hear, but that it still feels personal.

“Or is this about something else?”

A beat, before your gaze flicks, just briefly, to the staff behind him. To the kitchen, to the missing head chef, before back to him before briefly looking at the scratches that are on his hand. Clearly stating that you understand and are willing to call him out on it, without having to say it directly. 

Chase’s jaw tightens, since he knows what you’re doing.

But more importantly, so does everyone else, as shown by the various whispers that start picking up around the room. 

“…Clean it up,” you say lightly, gesturing to the mess. “Let them finish their drinks.”

A pause before you continue. “And we all pretend this didn’t happen.”

Silence.

Behind you, Luffy tilts his head slightly, equal parts interested and amused. 

Robin watches you carefully, trying to understand you and your motives. Why would you stand up in defense for this crew that you know nothing about? What is it about you that makes you so willing to risk yourself in the defensive of others. She couldn’t figure you out, not yet, but she felt something in her come alive at this new puzzle that was placed all wrapped up beautifully infront of her. 

Nami’s eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but in calculation. While she was appreciative of not being kicked out of another establishment, a sort of joke between the crew that has morphed to include an ‘incident free’ calendar that they just started three days ago. So while Nami was glad the streak was still on and alive, looking hopeful of reaching sometime of longevity this time around, she was cautious feeling that noone does a good deed like that without wanting or demanding something in return. And there is no way to ensure that what you ask for, it within the realm of positibility for either.rr

Sanji doesn’t look away, enamoured by the sight you make, taking charge in this situation and not giving up until you got your way, focused on your epic adventure. 

And Zoro—

Zoro’s watching your back.

Chase exhales sharply through his nose before looking around and seeing the large crowd that had amassed during the conversation. Even someone as blind as him could recognize that the crowd was noot on his side, before finally stepping back. 

“Fine, for now.”

The tension breaks, not completely, but enough that people start moving again, freely talking and breathing easily. You don’t turn around immediately, letting the moment settle and your heart beat slow down a bit. Then you glance back over your shoulder just slightly to tell the crew with the newly joined Chopper, 

“Try not to start anything else.”

Casually, as if you didn’t just stop a fight and this is a normal everyday encounter for you to step in defense for total strangers. 

Out of the corner of your eye you get a glimpse of your friends clearly searching for you, making you realize you have to go. With one last smile, you leave to join your friends and reassure them that you were fine. 

Behind you, something has changed beyond the situation and the outcome they were expecting. You’ve grabbed their attention in one way or another, something you would learn would be dangerous. All because you took action, without question and without knowing them, seemingly following your blind instincts to protect. 

Something a certain captain completely understands and approves of. Luffy grins, slow and bright, feeling certain that a type of adventure is in the air, and that it all has to do with you.

As if knowing what their captain was thinking, the remaining crew straightened up, feeling on the edge of something. 

Zoro’s gaze lingers on your back as you walk away, steady and certain. His thoughts couldn’t help but circle back to the confident steps, the certrainty in your actions of what was the right move. A confidence like that is difficult to fake, especially in a high pressure situation like that, even more so between people of authority and unknown people like them. Zoro takes a look to the left and sees Robin already staring, a shared thought between them. They had to learn more about you. 

Robin’s smile is soft, and slightly knowing. There’s something about you that draws her eye, something beyond your bravery that clearly captivated her crewmates. Something about you that felt vaguely familiar, but she just couldn’t remember how. 

Sanji watches you go, something warm settling into something sharper. He lights another cigarette in an attempt to calm himself. Meeting you was an unexpected joy, and he felt something beyond his typical admiration for women with you. But you putting yourself in danger like that, makes his heart clench with an emotion he cannot yet name. He won’t let yourself be risked like that again. 

Nami crosses her arms, thoughtful. You were quick on your feet, and obviously a smooth talker to be able to get the management off their backs, and the crowd onto their side. You’d be valuable, an asset. And Nami is certainly about advantages, especially when it could mean saving her nakamas in the future. 

And Chopper, now on Zoro’s shoulders, looks at you walking away with quiet admiration.

She protected everyone…

A small, certain thought follows.

…We should keep them safe too. It’s only right.

     ‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

By the time you and your friends spill out into the street, the tension from earlier is gone, and instead is replaced with laughter. It’s easy, bright and alive, enjoying the few moments you allow yourself to relax and enjoy the night, enjoy yourself. 

“Did you see that?” one of your friends laughs, looping their arm through yours as you walk. “You just—“ she waved her hand in front of her casually as she continued, “walked in and fixed everything like it was nothing.”

You grin. “It wasn’t nothing, of course I was scared”

“Oh please,” another cuts in. “And what was that look you shared with the green-haired one?”

You blink. “What look?”

“The look,” she insists, nudging you.

“And the blond!” someone else adds. “Don’t think we didn’t catch that either.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “You’re all dramatic.”

But you don’t deny it, not really. You’re not sure what to say about the connections you obviously felt with each man, but you weren’t ready to delve into that yet. 

As you guys continue down to the next location, you can’t help but notice how the street is lively, lanterns glowing warm overhead as you make your way toward the next bar. Music drifts through the air, voices and movement blending into the perfect night, the air cool now that the sun is completely gone. 

There was a loud noise that drew all of your attention across the street to see the same people you were thinking about gathered loosely near a food vendor. The captain stood at the front in mid-order, pointing enthusiastically at something on the grill while a man in overalls beside him nods along.

The rest are spread out nearby, relaxed, but not unaware, because the moment you step into view, they all notice, and something subtly shifts.

Postures straighten, attention sharpens but not in a guarded way, they were way to cautious to potentially scare you off by coming across tough in that way. They were sure to project an auro of open and interested as not to scare you off. 

“Well, well,” one of your friends murmurs. “Looks like your admirers are back.”

You huff softly, but you’re already walking closer, a part of you excited that your paths cross this soon. Pirates are known to stop by the island, but they’re quick to leave, especially after an encounter like they had in the tavern. You’ve heard the stories of this crew, but to see their confidence in person is a completely different experience. 

It’s  Catburgular Nami who greets you first with a small smile, eyes sharp but warm. “I was wondering if we’d see you again,” she says.

You tilt your head slightly, returning the smile. “Same here.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to your friends, then back to you.

“You handled that situation earlier… very well.”

You shrug lightly. “Someone had to.”

A soft hum from beside you as the one known as Nico Robin steps in just slightly, her presence calm, composed, observant.

“You seem quite skilled at placing yourself exactly where you’re needed. That’s a healthy skill to have,” she says.

There’s something in her tone, not accusatory or even questioning, just noting, a bit of healthy curiosity. 

You smile, just a little sharper this time. “Or maybe I just don’t like messes.”

Robin’s lips curve faintly. “An admirable trait.”

You’re aware of it then, the weight of their attention at a whole crew. Instead of feeling intimidated, a part of you feels relaxed in their prescence, despite knowing only tales and barely anything personal about them.

There’s a subtle shift of energy behind you, feeling warm, curious but focused, giving you just enough time to prepare for the upcoming conversation.

“Hey!”

You turn, and there he is, the famous Captain Monkey D. Luffy, grinning like he’s already decided something.

“I’m Luffy,” he says, like it’s the most important introduction in the world, as if there are people that don’t know about the Devil Fruit user. 

You blink, then smile. “Yeah, I figured.”

He beams immediateky, unfiltered but no less certain, “I like you.”

Your friends snort behind you, amused by the various conversations you’re partaking in, something completely different from your normal routine. They care for you but know that you’re still tightly guarded. Seeing this group of people bring you such clear joy, made them beyond happy. 

You laugh softly. “You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t need to,” he says easily.

And somehow, you believe him. The crew behind him shares some looks and laughter, familiar to the typical explaination from their captain, understanding that it’s a gut instinct. 

The rest of the introductions blur into something warm and easy. Voices overlapping, laughter shared, the groups seemingly eaily blending together. Sanji reappears at your side at some point, offering food without asking, while Zoro lingers just close enough to be part of the conversation without saying much. Usopp jumps in and out with exaggerated stories as Chopper sticks near you more often than not.

It’s easy, almost too easy. So when you suggest, “Hey, we’re heading to another place—bar hopping. You should come.”

It doesn’t feel like a big decision, just a continuation.

Some of them exchange looks, quick, silent. then—

“Yeah!” Luffy says immediately.

And just like that, they join you.

     ‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The bar is louder than the last, dimmer and closer, the kind of place where conversations blur together and time slips your friends peel away toward the counter, chasing drinks and laughter.

Leaving you, standing there with them all surrounding you. The shift is immediate, while not visible, it was felt. They’re all closer now, not crowding, just determined to be in your atmosphere, present and focused. 

Luffy, Sanji, Chopper and Nami are all immediately next to you, Zoro, Usopp and Robin sit opposite from you, completing a circle. Luffy leans forward slightly, his voice dropping in tone, clear that he’s serious and focused on this moment with you, and your answers. “Have you ever thought about being apart of a pirate crew?”

You blink, completely thrown by the question. “…What?”

He doesn’t laugh, and doesn’t brush it off. He leans in just a little, eyes steady. “Imagine it,” he says.

“Every day a new adventure. Somewhere you grow and challenge yourself and never have to settle.”

There’s something in his tone, something pulling and inviting, holding infinite promises for you, all under the premise if you would just leave with them. 

“Where you can be free.”

“Be treasured,” Nami adds smoothly. You glance at her to find her gaze is steady, certain.

“Never doubting your value or purpose. Everyone on a pirate crew provides.”

“Be protected,” another voice follows, this time low and grounded. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Zoro. “Never worry about having to be the strongest or the smartest.” A pause. “Just… you.”

“Where you can be cared for,” Sanji says softly.

You meet his eyes, earnest and unwavering. “Loved.”

Your breath catches, just slightly.

“What would it take?” Luffy asks again.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a casual question. It feels like something is waiting on your answer.

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking, running through the logistics of leaving this town. It was always the plan, you’ve probably stayed too long already. But to leave like this? 

“Well…” You sigh softly, tilting your head. “For how long?”

A small shrug. “I could do a overnight trip, or a quick adventure. The store can be closed for that long.”

A faint laugh. “But to leave forever?”

You trail off, thinking.

You don’t see it, the way their expressions shift subtly and quickly.

Your gaze drifts instead, to your friends over at the bar, laughing and waiting for their oder. You smile, soft and fond, smile only growing once your friends make eye contact with you. Their faces light up and they wave over to you joyfully. 

You wave, enjoying this moment. And that’s your answer.

“Well,” you say quietly, turning back. “I’d miss my friends.”

A small breath.

“And I’d worry about them.”

Honest, simple, and real.

“I’d need them to say it’s okay for me to go, before I could join anyone forever.”

Silence, not empty and not awkward. Just, still.

Because you don’t notice the way something settles over the group. Not heavy or obviously, but decided. 

Luffy smiles, slow but happy at the answer. “Okay.”

And just like that, you’ve set the terms, and they’ve already accepted them.

Luffy watches you turn back toward your friends, thoughful and content. That’s easy.

Nami’s gaze follows yours, calculating. They just need reassurance, that’s something they can provide for you in spades. 

Sanji’s jaw tightens slightly, his eyes soft but focused. We can give them that.

Zoro exhales quietly, already done thinking about it. Then we’ll make it happen.

And you just smile, unaware of the way your future is slowly but surely changing.

a/n: happy birthday to me! this idea appeared in my head and has not left me alone, so i've written this. while this is not my normal dc content, i figured i should be allowed to post what i want today! this is my first time diving into writing one piece and this idea has hit me and i must write it! so i hope you enjoyed it, and sorry if they’re ooc!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated, and here's a kiss from me to you!

respond below if you would like to be added to the taglist for this series!

You wanted to be an artist.

You grew up surrounded by the arts. With your father being an author and your mother being a pianist, you were exposed to the various forms art could take from a young age. You saw how art existed in each and every person but differed in the way one expressed it.

You chose to express it on a canvas.

Your dream wasn't far-fetched or nearly impossible like ones you'd hear, yet you couldn't reach it. Not because you stopped loving it, not because you were being forced to pursue something else, but because you couldn't find yourself to think anymore when you held the paint in your hands.

Through the years, motivation had grown to become your worst enemy.

You'd wandered every street in Loguetown, scanned each face in the crowded streets, visited more markets than you could remember. You'd done everything you could to reignite the passion in you to no avail.

The world around you had grown dull. Loguetown had paled in colour since the last time you'd went out.

Your eyes that once used to observe the distinct features of individuals on the bustling streets now perceived them all as similar. You'd tried forcing yourself to paint but you found yourself hating each creation. It had no life, no soul, it didn't feel like you had painted it. You could no longer feel the thrill you once felt when you saw a blank page.

And what was the point of art if it wasn't portrayed by your heart?

It'd reached a point where you'd began questioning whether you even wanted to pursue art in the first place. A year had passed and you'd only made two paintings, both of which ended up in the trash due to your dislike of them.

You avoided leaving your apartment as much as you could, exposing yourself to the lifeless world outside felt worse than remaining inside your stuffy abode. You'd seen every sight in Loguetown but couldn't find yourself intrigued by any of them anymore.

However, when you ran out of all the meat in your fridge, you knew you had no other choice but to give the butcher's shop a visit. You had to suck it up and get out there into the real world, where your dreams no longer held any value and the entire town seemed faded away.

Your steps were stiff as you put on a coat and left, the breeze an inconvenience as you joined the overwhelming crowd. You'd only just stepped out yet you couldn't wait to go back to your tiny room in a building that looked moments away from collapsing, where you could be hopeless in peace.

The moment you arrived, you took a quick survey of your surroundings and considered going back the way you came. Starving seemed less inconvenient than having to stand between all the people while the strong odor of the variety of fishes and meat filled your senses.

You stood beside a man with annoyingly bright, blonde hair and a kid with a straw hat that seemed around your age. You watched as he eyed the meat as if he was a second away from jumping onto the counter and devouring it right then and there. Your face unable to hide your judgement as he got reprimanded by the blonde guy with an accent.

Your attention then drifted to his strange attire.

Were straw hats the new trend? The colours of his clothes were an eyesore, the red top contrasting harshly against his blue pants. You couldn't remember the last time you saw someone sane wearing such an odd outfit, but you brushed aside the thought. Each person had their own preferences, you had no right to judge. Not to mention, you could only see their backs and you hadn't even been in the shop long enough to form a fair judgement.

The butcher, whose name you couldn't recall but recognized to an extent, immediately approached you from the other side of the counter. He'd witnessed you grow up before his very eyes, witnessed the way the passionate spark in your eyes had dimmed through the years.

"Well, there's my favourite customer! Finally remembered to visit me, did you?"

He exclaimed proudly, attracting unnecessary attention from the nearby customers at the counter as you stood there. Despite your initial irritation towards his enthusiasm upon seeing you, you managed to cover it with a small smile. At least you always had someone here that would always be excited to see you, you really needed to learn to be more grateful for him.

"It's good to see you too."

You replied politely, pretending not to notice the pair of eyes digging onto you from the side. You may not remember the butcher's name but you certainly remembered his face, he'd always been kind to your family and had even looked after you a few times when your parents were busy.

"How's the painting thing going? Still following your parents' footsteps?"

You nearly scoffed at his question but instead, you glanced away to avoid meeting his gaze. It hurt knowing there were people out there who believed in you that you were disappointing, to know how far you were drifting from the one thing you'd lived your whole life for.

You'd never felt like more of a disappointment than when people mentioned you in the same sentence as your parents. Your parents that had given you every opportunity to pursue your dreams the same way they had, your parents who'd traveled across the world to showcase their passion before cheering audiences. Your parents who'd left you in a heartbeat the moment you were old enough to survive on your own. Your father traveled West, your mother went East, and you were still stuck here like some sort of landmark for them.

"I'm not sure painting is for me anymore."

You confided quietly, watching as he grabbed a whole pound of meat and shoved it inside a plastic bag for you. When your words reached his ears, his face snapped up at you as if he couldn't believe it.

"All you've ever done is paint since you were a kid. I've seen you paint, I've never seen you happier than when you have a brush in your hands."

You sighed at his words, contemplating whether you should tell him the truth or not. You shook your head and swallowed back the lump in your throat as you finally confessed how you'd lost the only way you could express yourself without any restraint. If there was anyone you could communicate your struggles to, it would be him. He'd been there for you through everything despite him surely knowing you couldn't even put a name to his face. You'd been out of it for a while now, barely even living in the same reality that he did.

"I can't paint anymore. Not here, at least. I want to paint but I can't find anything worth painting anymore."

Your eyes never tore from the ground, hands stuffed in the pockets of your coat as you felt his gaze fall upon you. You'd disappointed everyone that believed in you. You'd disappointed yourself. Saying the words out loud made it real, as if you'd engraved your incapabilities into reality. Losing your art meant losing yourself, and in this moment, you'd never felt more lost.

You waited for his response, only to be surprised when the weird teenager beside you spoke up instead.

"Then why not leave?"

He asked so casually as if he was stating the obvious answer, your head finally lifting up to look back at him. You looked at him as if it was a stupid question to ask, which it was. If you could leave, you would have.

But before you could voice anything out, you noticed his face.

For the first time in ages, you noticed a person's features. His face was peculiar, he certainly wasn't from around here. You let your gaze drift over each feature of his, committing them to your memory. His eyes stood out to you the most, followed by the scar on his cheekbone.

His large eyes were so full of passion, gleaming as they stared back into your plain ones. They were reflective, filled with childish naivety. Then came his stitched-up scar that clearly implied that there was more to him than meets the eye. He had history, he had a tale to tell. The hat, the attire, the scar; all of it intrigued you as much as it weirded you out.

You found yourself unable to form words, exhausted eyes glued onto his. He took it as a sign to continue.

"If you can't find anything worth painting here then it might help to find some other place instead."

"It's not as simple as you make it sound. We're surrounded by seas, where would I even go?"

"Someplace different. Anywhere."

"You make it sound like nothing to just leave,as if it's that easy."

"Because it is nothing. You're the only one making it a big deal."

Instead of responding again, you looked away from him. You weren't going to bother having a conversation with someone who clearly didn't understand that the answer to every question wasn't simple.

It seemed he had better things to do as well considering the moment the blonde left, he walked away in the other direction too. You ignored the way he was quickly caught by Bartholomew, the infamously horrible thief of Loguetown. He likely had nothing to offer the thief anyways. If he had any berries, he should've gotten a different pair of pants.

✧ᴗ✿⁠‿⁠✷⁠◕⁠｡◍⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠☆

You had to paint him.

For the first time in ages, you had something worth picking up a brush for.

When you arrived, you didn't even bother taking off your coat before grabbing the closest blank canvas and your messy paint palette. You sat at your desk in front of the window, picking up the dried brush between your fingers.

For the first time in ages, you felt the familiar racing of your heart upon seeing the blank canvas.

That day, you skipped all your meals. You never left your desk once. You had to paint him before your mind forgot even a single aspect of his face. Your brush moved on its own, sliding swiftly across the canvas in soft strokes.

Hours later, you ended the painting by dipping a small brush into the white acrylic paint. This was the most important part of the painting, the reason you felt so intrigued to create this in the first place. You carefully lowered the thin tip of the brush onto his right eye, your hand steady as you prepared to give the painting a life of its own.

You repeated the step over his other eye, staring down at what you'd now made. Your breath left your lungs, your heart pounded in your chest, your cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink.

It was perfect. It was a portrait of him but it felt so you.

✧ᴗ✿⁠‿⁠✷⁠◕⁠｡◍⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠☆

It was late outside when the lack of a proper meal finally got to you, but you were still too fueled up to ease your appetite. You'd hung the painting on the wall near your bedside, a reminder of the boy that had changed so much by merely existing. By looking the way he did. He may have been dense, but he was interesting. You stared at it for a long time, before picking it back up and holding the canvas carefully beneath your arm.

You finally made a return to the butcher shop to meet your good old friend again, now leaving your house in an entirely different mood.

There was a smile on your face, there was a spark in your eyes.

There was hope.

You passed the same sights again in Loguetown, they seemed brighter now. The moon was high up in the sky, its beam shining down on you like a spotlight. The stars flickers as if applauding you for returning to yourself, like an audience at the end of a musical.

However, there was one thing you regretted.

You regretted going silent abruptly instead of finishing the conversation with the straw hat man, likely giving him a bad impression with how quickly you'd left the previous day with your meat.

You now stood before the same butcher whose name you still didn't remember, a gentle smile on your face that you didn't have to force this time. He stared down at you, not even bothering to mention the earlier situation. It was like he knew you had a reason. He could see the way your eyes lit up again the same way they once did when you were much smaller.

He stared down at you, waiting for you to initiate the conversation this time considering you clearly looked like you had something you were struggling to hold back.

"I painted."

You said the words with the biggest childlike grin on your face. Your shoulders felt lighter, your life had a meaning again. You had a purpose again, and you couldn't wait to tell him about it. His smile mirrored yours, your joy was contagious even to the few workers beside him that didn't know you one bit.

"What did you make?"

You lifted the canvas and turned it around to show him, the same way you used to as a kid when you were drawing stickmen with crayons.

His hands took the canvas from yours, his grip on it gentle yet firm as if it were the most fragile thing he'd ever held. You couldn't read his face, his gaze analyzing the painting keenly as if he was some sort of critic, his analytical eyes trailing from top to bottom. He didn't even blink once until he was done observing every last detail.

"It's the kid from earlier."

"Do you like it?"

"It's your best work yet."

He handed the canvas back to you, his grin now wider than yours. You felt a warmth spread through your whole body, emerging from your heart that had not once stopped pacing since you'd seen the teenager, recalling the advice he'd given you earlier. You hesitated for a moment before speaking up again.

"I think it's time I left."

You declared quietly, placing the canvas back beneath your arm as you glanced up at him. You saw the way his expression changed before his gaze softened, staring down at you.

"I think you're right."

He smiled down at you, reaching a hand across the counter to pat your head, setting down your disheveled hair with his hand. He looked so proud of you, it'd been a long time since you saw that look on someone's face directed towards you. You couldn't help the tears that welled up in your eyes, realizing you'd have to leave him as well if you were truly going.

"But how will I leave? There's nothing but sea surrounding us."

"The kid from earlier is a Captain, his friend is their cook. He has a ship. Apparently they're leaving tonight though. See if you can catch them."

Your mind clouded with thoughts. Even if you did somehow manage to catch up with them, it wasn't guaranteed that they'd let you on their ship. Let alone, you knew absolutely none of them. They may have looked nicer than they actually were, they may even try to kill you for daring to ask such a question.

However, now wasn't the time to hesitate. This was your only shot at leaving this place and truly pursuing your dreams, the one you'd give up everything for, the one you could actually dream about again. You gave your old friend a quick embrace over the counter before speeding away. You made a beeline for your apartment, shoving all your necessities and art supplies into one bag. As you left the building again, you were greeted by the sight of a crowd in just as much of a rush as you.

They were all either running towards the execution platform of Gol D. Roger or away from it. Regardless, it caught your interest.

You stopped by the butcher shop again, tossing him the keys to your room and requesting him to take care of it until you returned someday. He agreed cheerfully, his face full of emotion as he witnessed the young kid he'd basically raised finally stand on their own two feet.

You clutched your bag in one hand with the painting in the other (there wasn't nearly enough space left in the bag for you to keep it inside) and went to the execution platform, greeted by the sight of an insane number of pirates dressed up in strange costumes. You'd lived here your whole life but you didn't exactly remember there being a circus here, a tent near the platform from which clowns with painted faces emerged. There were also a few marines, but the clowns outnumbered them greatly.

It was then that you finally took a look around and spotted the same blonde from earlier, now accompanied by three other people who all somehow had different hair colours. That wasn't the biggest concern here though. You then saw how these three were skillfully taking down all the clowns, each one running to strike them.

But where was their captain?

Before you could finish the thought, one of the clowns began to sprint towards you. It'd probably assumed you were a part of their diverse group considering you had neither a uniform nor a costume on. You'd never really been much of a fighter, spending most of your life holed up in your room or painting the outside world.

Instinctively, you took your bag and smacked it across the clown's head. Since your bag was full of hard art supplies, various kinds of glass and plastic containers, and smaller boxes full of your necessities, it served as a powerful weapon against the clown. You were surprised when the clown got knocked down by the force of your bag. You reached into your bag and took out a blade you had brought along for cutting the edges of paper and smoothing over acrylic paint on a canvas, holding it carefully outwards despite how terrified you were to actually use it.

Thankfully, you didn't have to. The entire area paused as a laugh echoed from above, garnering everyone's attention to the top of the execution platform. You recognized the blue-haired clown from the wanted posters placed everywhere, Buggy, you recalled, but then your attention went to the person kneeling in front of him.

It was the captain from earlier, grinning like a madman as he stared downwards at everyone, while the clown held a sword to his neck from behind. He was laughing, stating how he was going to die like it was a joke, with his hands tied before him. He was greeting death so mockingly for a guy who appeared to be the same age as you, so courageous for someone so young.

You froze in place, not out of shock or fear for what would happen next. No, you froze in complete admiration. Your breath left your lungs as you stared up at him, the same guy you'd judged for wearing a straw hat only a few hours ago. His eyes were so full of determination, gleaming with joy as if it was an honor to be executed the same way Roger was on the platform.

He looked so eerily similar to Roger, it was as if the famed man had appeared on the platform himself. Your eyes stayed glued to him, the world around you a blur as you took in every last expression of his, every sound he let out, the way his grin creased his cheeks, the way his eyes were so wide open, the way he laughed at his own demise.

His laugh was identical to Gol D. Roger's, you knew everyone else was probably thinking the same thing by the way they all stilled. When Buggy lifted his sword and prepared to strike down, you continued staring at the captain. For a moment, you could've sworn he glanced down at you and met your gaze. You could've sworn he held your eyes onto his for a moment too long, as if acknowledging your presence there for his execution.

You didn't have long to ponder onto the thought when lightning struck down on the red-nosed clown, electricity visibly running all the way from the tip of his sword down to his feet. It was as if the skies itself refused to let such a strange being's life end before he'd achieved whatever it was that he wanted. Luffy's hat fell off from the floor and swayed in the wind, landing right before your feet.

You looked away from the sight as the clown's chopped up body came apart, although he was still whining and protesting as all his joints scattered away. Everyone scattered away as various parts of what was once a full man came raining down on them. You swung your bag back up on your shoulder and picked up the straw hat from the ground, carefully lifting it and holding it by its edge in one hand while clutching your canvas tighter in the other.

You looked up from your hat only when you saw a pair of shoes step into your view, glancing back up at the same guy who'd casually dropped life-changing advice like it was the most obvious thing ever before nearly getting executed in the span of a few hours. Those eyes of his that shined like jewels staring back into yours.

"Yours."

You said as you returned the hat to its rightful owner, the canvas still hidden beneath your arm as he took it from you. He put it back on top of his ruffled hair which set it down immediately, his attention now entirely focused on you. He didn't even notice his crew standing there, waiting for him to hurry up so they could leave for good before things got worse.

"The painter, right?"

You couldn't explain why but being called a painter by him sent a surge of warmth through you. Maybe it was the fact that he still considered you a painter despite only knowing of the fact that you'd previously given up, or maybe it was the fact that you actually felt worthy enough of the title again.

However, you quickly snapped out of your trance and gave him a hurried nod in response, remembering the real reason you were standing here. Before you could even utter a word, your lips parted to begin, his eyes diverted to your canvas.

"Oo, is that a painting you made?!"

"I just made it a while back but–"

Yet again, he didn't let you finish speaking. To your horror, his hands reached out to take the canvas. Your grip on it tightened but not enough to secure it from his oddly rubbery arms. You could practically feel the blood creeping up to your face, the tips of your ear a burning shade of red, your heart beating so quick you felt like you'd faint.

What if he judged you for painting him? What if he thought you were some creep? What if he didn't like it? And finally, why did what he think matter so much when you didn't even know his name?

He turned the canvas around to stare back into his own face, his gaze running across it to catch even the tiniest details in the realistic painting. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, the hyper teen suddenly freezing as he took it all in. The scar on his face, the red ribbon on his straw hat, his stupid clothes that you still thought was a terrible combination, and his curly hair. He could've sworn it was a photo, if not for the texture of the paint against his skin. If not for the tiniest imperfections in the nearly perfect painting.

You could've probably done a better job painting his hands but hey, it was still pretty good for someone who hain't painted properly for ages.

"Look, it's– I just saw you and I couldn't help it. You looked very...interesting. But I totally understand if you'd rather I throw it away, it is kind of creepy to draw a stranger now that I think about it..."

He finally looked up at your words, the largest grin forming back on his face as he met your gaze like he always did for some reason. Unlike you, he seemed to love holding eye contact.

"Throw it away?! Creepy?! This is the best painting I've ever seen, and it's of me! You only saw me once but you even made my scar! I look better than a picture!"

You felt incredibly exposed at the fact that he now knew you'd found a muse in him, but relieved at his positively loud reaction. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, skin still flushed as you broke away from his eyes to stare back at the canvas in his hands. You couldn't hold his gaze for long, not when it felt like staring straight into the sun.

You finally had a chance to speak again as he continued looking at you with awe, as if he saw you in a completely new light instead of the lazy demotivated artist you'd previously appeared as.

"You made me want to paint again. I don't know what it was about you, I've never encountered someone as weird and strange as you and I don't think I ever will. I couldn't help but paint you so...thank you for giving me a purpose again. For giving me hope that I could maybe make it someday."

Your voice was low as you carefully thought out each syllable before saying it, entirely aware of how backhanded your compliment seemed despite how oblivious he was to it. You weren't even looking at him yet you could feel his gaze on you soften before an arm clapped on your shoulder to stop you from speaking, forcing you to look back at him as he now stood far closer than before.

You two were the same height, looking into his eyes was unavoidable when this was the proximity he stood in. You felt like Icarus, melting under the gaze of the sun, yet unable to keep away from it.

"I was–"

"We could use a painter in the crew, especially one with your sort of memory. I mean seriously, you saw me once and painted me down to the last detail. You said you were sick of this place, right? Then leave. This is your chance."

He spoke so softly that you were surprised this was the same guy that had previously been laughing like a maniac while almost getting executed. He was convincing you to join his crew as if you hadn't made your decision already, like you weren't just about to ask for permission to hop on the ship with them.

It was almost as if he knew you felt a bit hesitant to ask and saved you the trouble.

"I'd love to."

You smiled slightly, carefully taking the canvas back from his hands to hold in your own. It felt bittersweet. You were leaving the place you'd grown up in, the place you never thought you could learn to grow tired of, the place you never thought you could bring yourself to leave. But now here you were, ready to leave everything behind because some guy you met a few hours ago told you to.

"Any day now," The green-haired one said, muscular arms crossed in front of his chest as he rolled his eyes.

"He's got a point, we have to hurry up before the marines return," The one with orange hair added on in a far more polite tone, unlike the other guy. Meanwhile, the cook from earlier was simply smiling at you without a word. The captain turned his attention towards him, holding out his arms towards you and shaking his hands as if this was some grand reveal.

"Guys, this is our new crew member! A painter!"

He announced, diverting everyone's attention to you. You turned towards them and waved awkwardly, suddenly feeling smaller under their calculative looks, as if they were assessing you solely based on how you existed in that moment.

"Always lovely to have someone so gorgeous aboard," The blonde broke the uncomfortable silence with a grin, pointing the cigarette between his fingers towards you.

You gave him a forced smile before turning your focus back to the others, watching as they went from staring you down to welcoming you to the crew. There was one guy who seemed close to Luffy's age that walked up to you and patted your back, wearing an orange bandana on top of his locs.

"Welcome aboard! Now seriously guys, we have to go. Like, right now," He hurried, concluding the welcoming as he set off on his way towards where the ship was docked. The others followed after him, and so did Luffy. You walked at the same pace as him, your shoes hitting the ground in sync with his sandals. The silence was interrupted when his voice quietly broke through it, his words solely for you to hear.

"And by the way, I didn't 'give you' a purpose. You always had one and you found it on your own, but I'm glad I could be the vessel for you to do so! You're a really good painter, and I know you'll make it one day."

He added casually before catching up to the rest of the crew, as if he hadn't said the words you didn't know you wanted to hear for so long. He believed in you. Someone actually thought you would eventually achieve what you have been striving for your whole life. How could someone like him go from being the strangest person you've ever met to someone spilling philosophy that affected you so deeply?

That night, you slept on a hammock that was incredibly uncomfortable and would not stop swaying due to the movement of the ship but you slept soundly. In fact, it was the best sleep you'd had in a while. You couldn't wait to wake up and paint the seas you were now in the middle of. You were exhilarated simply by the thought of all the sights you'd witness during this adventure.

Hunched below the large oak tree in your garden, you were suckling on prey out of view. Gulping down fluid, you shot up the second he grunted. “What the fuck.” A stalemate settled over you two, and you wet your lips, collecting the residue. “I thought you were busy today.” Even at this distance, he could see the glint of your pointed fangs.

Still dressed in a bloodied hoodie, he gaped at you while you wiped your mouth clumsily, absolutely aghast. “You’re a fucking vampire?” You huffed, squinting at him like he was the odd one for asking. “What? No. Why would I be a vampire?” He threw up his arms. “Because you’re literally eating some organ bullshit in front of me?” The accusation made you deadpan, and you turned to face him fully, said prey in hand.

An apple.

A drained, deflated, slightly browned apple. He faltered, palms still hovering in the air. “The hell is that?” You sank your canines into the fruit's flesh, and his confusion grew when it shrivelled further. The insides had been turned to a grainy pulp- then you cast it aside. “I wanted a snack.” Crickets were loud in the background as he narrowed his eyes; your porch light was the only source of illumination.

“Okay?”

“Jeff, just say what you want-”

“If you’re not a vampire, then why the fuck do you have fangs?”

“I’m a fruit bat.”

You glanced away from him, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Kinda’.” You mumbled, and his arms dropped, eyebrow raised. “A fruit bat.” His bewildered tone hung between you for a moment before you shrugged, meeting his gaze. “Yeah.” He pursed his lips, opening and closing his mouth multiple times, blinking at you.

Okay. That was definitely fucking new. Like, a fruit bat? A fruit bat. In what world was that an acceptable answer? He knew human-eating monsters existed, but really? The worst part was that he could tell you weren’t messing with him. He could read you like a book, and currently, his lover was being utterly, unrefutably truthful. He pinched his nose bridge, gesturing at you dramatically after.

“So you just- what? Pounce on pineapples and attack grapes?” You rolled your eyes, beginning to walk towards the back door with him in tow. “I eat like a normal person, stupid. I just like to drink the juice.” You were referring to your ability to consume nectar. You could retain the nutrients by simply draining the fruits- it was more fun that way.

He shucked off his boots on the mat, padding into the kitchen behind you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jeff said, exasperated. “I don’t know- I just- like. It’s not something you just bring up.” You countered, and he puffed in response. “I literally stab people daily, and my boss doesn’t have a fuckin’ face.” Crossing your arms, you reclined against the sink.

“Okay, I should’ve told you, but I didn’t know when to talk about it-”

“You’re a bat. I don’t think timing really matters.”

“A fruit bat!”

“Same shit.”

A pause, then he gave you a once-over, sticking his tongue into his inner cheek. “… Were you born like that?” You sighed. “Yes.” If you thought the concept of your existence had finally settled in his mind, you were wrong- because he stared at you as if you’d told him the moon was made of cardboard.  

“How the fuck did that happen?” You hopped up onto the surface, perched on the kitchen sink ledge. “My mom was a fruit bat. It’s genetic.” He lifted his arm, drawing circles in the air in your direction when he spoke. “You- okay. Mm.” He clasped his hands together and pressed them to his mouth. “Be honest. Have you ever considered biting me?” The question had you sputtering. “No! Never. I wouldn’t hurt you- we don’t feed on blood.”

Much to your dismay, that’s not what he meant.

Your concern swiftly faded into irritation as the light in his pupils brightened. “I swear to god.” He, naturally, proceeded anyway. “Do you think you could, though? ‘Cause I can work with the fang shit-” The second the words left his lips, you exhaled loudly, throwing your head back in annoyance. “I’m not biting you because you wanna’ be a pervert!”

“Why not?” He argued, pleading. “You cannot be serious.” You gawked at him, and he groaned, crowding your space, his hands on either side of you. He pitched closer. “It’ll be hot. I can handle pain, babe.” Jeff’s masochism streak truly had no bounds.

Excitement was plastered across his face, and you grabbed his cheeks, irked. “Why are you like this?” He snickered, leaning into your touch. “You can mark me up- promise I’ll be a good for ya’.” He raised his brows suggestively, a snort forcing its way out of you despite your stance. “C’mon- c’mon, c’mon. You know you wannaaa’.” He dragged the vowels, persuading you the way he knew best- by making you laugh.

His antics, unfortunately, worked every time, and you giggled. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you finally dropped your guard.

“Fine.”

“You could hold my knife and everything. Make me really fucking feel it—”

“Jeffery.”

➽──────────────❥

Pickle Problems ▶︎ • ၊၊||၊|။|||| ↻

Toby never thought he’d be the one clutching his shirt while being defended, yet here he was.

You had gone out on a late-night snack run, stopping at a twenty-four-hour eatery. It was still a gas station, but it had a full, hot-to-go section where you could order from. He saw it while walking with you and decided it’d be nice to switch it up since you usually just went to the local corner store.

“We feeling spicy chips or normal tonight, Tobes?” You grinned, holding up two bags. The sodium lights hummed faintly overhead, and he bit his lip, debating. “Mm… spicy. I’m gonna’ be brave.” You nodded, the snack swinging at your hip while you walked to the register. The menu glowed from behind the counter, hung up near the ceiling. You called over your shoulder to him.

“Can you pick out a drink for me? I’ll order for both of us.” Your request was acknowledged by a short “’Kay!” And he stepped down the aisle, circling to the open fridge section at the back wall. He scanned the selection, wiggling his fingers over the miscellaneous bottles before grabbing a couple. He heard you talking with the cashier as he slipped the drinks into his comically large pockets. Men and their jeans, you’d said to him once. He thought about it every time he swiped something.

Shuffling to catch up with you when you finished paying for the items, the two of you made your way outside. You settled on a scuffed bench to the side of the shop, and he snagged a container from the plastic bag, opening the box. “I got you a burger- no pickles or tomatoes.” You said, eyes warm. “Oh my god, y-you know me.” He gasped teasingly, bringing the sandwich up to take a bite- when a single slice of pickle fell out.

It landed with a sad splat, and you both stared at it for a solid ten seconds. Smacking his lips together, he went to laugh, only to be interrupted. “No fucking way.” You clicked your tongue. “I literally told him not to put pickles on your shit.” Heavy irritation was written on your features. He blinked at you, chuckling. “It’s fine, I can just pick t-them off-”

You rose to your feet, bag in hand. “It’s not fine. We’re going back inside.” With that, he scrambled to match your pace, hovering his hand out, unsure. The automatic doors slid open, and you marched up to the counter, an overly polite smile gracing your lips.

“Hi, we just ordered- I asked for no pickles on my man’s burger, but we found some. Could we get it remade, please?” Sugar coated your tone, but Toby knew better. That was your “Do not piss me off” voice. A cadence he had been the victim of many times.

The cashier barely glanced up, with far too much attitude in his mannerisms. His name tag read ‘Jace.’ “I made what you asked for. We don’t do refunds.” Your eye twitched, and your boyfriend swallowed. Your anger may not be targeted at him, yet his heartbeat quickened all the same.

“I’m not asking for a refund, sir. I’m asking if we could get it remade- and I’m very sure, I requested no pickles.”

“I did my job. What else do you want?”

“I want my order remade because it’s not what I paid for.”

“Listen. I don’t know what your problem is. I made your fu-”

However, upon finally meeting your gaze, the man froze. While Toby was nonthreatening to you, you often forgot how he was perceived by most people.

His eyes were sunken in, bruises littering almost every inch of his skin, with scars peeking out from old bandages. There was a certain malice that lingered in his movements, this abnormal sharpness that followed every twitch.

Muted, but just noticeable enough- his shoulders would jerk, his teeth grinding every few seconds. Like he was only a fraction away from splintering. The boy’s eyes burned into his own.

The hairs on his neck stood on end, and Toby murmured, focusing back on you. “Can you ask for extra ketchup?” His words were eerily monotone, his fingers clinging to your sleeve when you nodded at Jace. “No pickles, extra ketchup, if you would be so kind.” You smiled, coy and expectant. As if you could see it in the way he breathed out.

There was something deeply wrong with this couple.

His view flicked down- less than a second, but he saw it. The distinct specks of red that dotted the cuffs of your lover's sleeve. If you were this comfortable with the guy, you had to be just like him. If not worse.

Jace was stupid, but not that stupid.

He straightened up instantly, simpering with a weak grin. “R-right. Yeah, sure.” He spun on his heel, darting to the back swiftly, leaving you and Toby alone. He turned to you, pouting. “I hope he adds a lot, I wanna’ s-suh- smush all the sauce together.” You hummed, then tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “That’s ‘cause you’re weird and like your burgers soggy, Tobes.” He stuck out his tongue at you. “Yeah, and y-you kiss me after, s-so.”

Smacking his shoulder as the cashier returned with your food, you giggled. “Stop.” The worker stayed quietly across from you until you noticed his presence, and the order was handed over without fuss.

The night air was cool, the breeze caressing your cheeks while you enjoyed your takeout. Toby sniggered from your right, chewing. “I think we scared the cashier.” You shrugged before wiping the crumbs from the corner of your mouth. “Well, he should’ve been nicer if he didn’t want problems.” Your logic made him snort. “You’re s-so evil, muffin.”

“And you’re my accomplice. What does that say about you, Mr?”

“I never said it was a bad thing! I think you’re p-pretty when you’re mad.”

“You have a thing.”

You were right, he did have a thing. Perhaps it was toxic, but observing you get in someone's face- cocky with him standing behind you, had Toby more hot under the collar than he was willing to admit.

You didn’t need to know that, though.

➽──────────────❥

Too Chewable ▶︎ • ၊၊||၊|။|||| ↻

Happy as Jack may be, there were times when he couldn’t understand you if he tried.

He’d come over after being away for more than two weeks, a mission up north. They needed his strength, his prowess and grit to turn the tide in their battle. He had torn through the defences easily and ripped into their bodies without mercy. A ruthless soldier.

When Jack fought, his blood trail heeded a warning, telling anyone unlucky enough to witness his carnage to move with caution. Feared even amongst the proxies.

Razor-sharp claws that could slice into almost everything, with a maw strong enough to pierce bone. He was terrifying, a monster by right— unless he was here, of course.

“Let’s wrestle.”

The question froze him mid-act, making him turn to you with a confused expression. He’d just stepped out of the shower, still towelling his hair, when you spoke. Propping yourself on your elbows, you were sprawled on your stomach. “It’ll be fun!” The sheets hadn’t even been untucked yet, and your foot thumped against the pillows, body angled towards the edge of the bed.

He arched a brow. “You want to… spar?” Tossing the towel onto a chair, he padded to you while you sat up. “Yeah, and you can teach me how to suplex people with the strength of a thousand men.” Flexing your arm, you nodded at your lover eagerly. Then you rose, standing in front of him. He cocked his head, peering down, unsure. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, my dove.”

Your difference in stature was undeniable, and he couldn’t fathom ever being rough with you. Seasoned killers could barely hold their own against him on a good day, so staring at you now had him hesitant to say the least.

Dressed in your pyjamas, you looked so comfortable, warm with your gentle eyes. The idea of throwing you around for the sake of violence made him frown.

Alas, you were determined, taking his large hand in yours and pressing it to your chest, fingers intwined. “We can do it on the bed, it’s not like we’re actually fighting-” You pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I trust you.” The excitement in your gaze was weakening his will by the second, his lips twitching up before he could stop himself. Damn his inability to deny you.

“… Alright.”

With that, the two of you climbed atop the covers, his frame settling over you. This was supposed to be effortless, but Jack wasn’t exactly versed in domestic warfare. He didn’t know where to start or how to handle the wrestling without harming you. Simply hovering above you, stiff as you muffled a laugh. “Tell me if I’m holding you too hard.” He murmured, and you grinned. “Jack, you’re literally not moving.”

“Love.”

“Yes. I promise I will tell you if you get too rowdy- but you won’t, ‘cause you’re way too careful for that.”

Sighing, he shook his head at your teasing. Leaving light pecks on your cheek, then pulling back. “Mm, try getting out from under me.” You glanced down, noting the gap between your bodies. He was lying in the middle of your thighs; all you had to do was flip him over. It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

Hooking a leg onto his hip, you used the momentum of turning to knock him down- only for your lover to stay stone still. Attempting again, you latched onto him fully, putting all your weight into the rotation.

Jack hadn’t budged an inch.

You huffed. “Why are you so heavy?” Rocking back and forth (or aiming to) as he chuckled quietly. “Attacking me, then insulting my weight, how rude of you.” You gave it one last push, his spine finally meeting the linen with a soft thump. He was splayed on his back, his arms limp at his sides, when you pouted.

His hair was still damp from the bath, chest bare with sweats hanging low on his hips- allowing Jack’s thick happy-trail to peek over the band. The picture-perfect example of a boyfriend. But you couldn’t afford any distractions.

Your gaze darted to his stupidly smug face, unbothered and aggravatingly relaxed. “You’re not even trying.” He ran his tongue against his teeth lazily, canines reflective in the low light. “I did try. You won.” ‘Intimidating’ your ass- he was more like an overgrown house cat than anything else. Your torso was pressed flush to his, and you rested your chin on your palm, poking him in the cheek with your free hand. “Put. In. Effort.” Every word emphasized by a jab.

He exhaled through his nose. “Fine.” The reply was short, and you snorted at his blunt tone. However, before you could prod him further, your shoulders were snug to the mattress.

He’d swapped your positions so fast that you didn’t register it had happened until you were beneath him once more.

Grip firm on your wrists, they were pinned by your head while he caged you. His jaw unlatched wide, revealing jagged incisors. It gave you the exact view his victims had. A beast holding them down, their strength pitiful in comparison, no matter how much they struggled. His head descended, and his nose brushed the sensitive skin of your throat, a basey clicking noise reverberating from his ribs—

Then he left a feather-light kiss against your neck, drawing back with a slight smile.

“There. We’ve fought. Are you satisfied now?” You lunged up in a flash, sinking a bite into his shoulder. You wiggled your feet, chewing on him softly as he was rendered speechless. He could feel your dull teeth compressing his flesh, and he blinked, both amused and stupefied.

The moment he released his hold on you, your arms looped around his neck, continuing to gnaw on him. He faltered.

“My dove?”

“Mhm?”

His palm supported your head when you detached, easing you onto the pillows. “What are you doing-” Yet he was cut off, your mouth securing to his bicep. You took advantage of his confusion and flipped him over. Your barrage was relentless, covering his upper half in marks- your lover simply taking it, boneless.

Your legs were swinging, little hums filling the room while he observed you. You would nip his throat, then bite near his collar. Groping his chest with one hand and feeling up his arm with the other. It wasn’t even sexual; you seemed content just using him as a chew toy. He sometimes wonders how he got here.

Ten minutes passed, and you reclined, satiated. “If I was you, I’d be way worse. Like-” Your fingers squished the fat of his pec, mindlessly squeezing. “You have so much relastate, Jack.” Your amazed expression forced a breathy laugh out of him.

“Thank you, little lamb.”

“You're welcome. Also, if I was a giant cannibal, I’d never eat you. Maybe, I’d like- nibble, but not fully, you know?—”

Jack thinks he’s going to spend the rest of eternity loving you.

➽──────────────❥

XOXO - Gossip Girl ▶︎ • ၊၊||၊|။|||| ↻

Most people would say that Brian was a killjoy.

You were not most people.

Flipping to the next page, you scanned the words. Immersed in your book when he bursts through the bedroom door.

His chest was heaving, coat swiftly thrown to the side, before he faced you with wild eyes. “Dolly, you will never fuckin’ believe what happened today.” He said, slumping down onto the floor, leaning against the mattress.

You scooted to the ledge and crossed your arms in front of you, lying on your stomach. If Brian was shaken up, you knew you were in for the ride of your life. “I thought you were just doing recon?” His head lolled back, glancing at you. “We did, but then we came back and guess who the hell was waitin’ for us?” You squinted at him, quizzical.

“Who?”

“You remember that motel girl I told you Tim was seeing?”

“You’re fucking lying.”

His words had your jaw hanging open, and you rose onto your elbows, now alert. “She tracked ‘im down- was sitting in her car when we pulled in.” You gawked. “How’d she even find you guys? Isn’t the house super far out?” Combing a hand through his hair, he shrugged, aghast. “Lord knows. Shit, if she wasn’t pissed, though.” You nudged closer. “What’d Tim say?”

Tim, from what you’d heard, had a long history of scandalous romantic affairs. He never stayed with one person for long, and if he did, it didn’t end well. Him and your lover were brothers in arms, with Brian carrying the more domestic passions, it seemed.

He’d had his fair share of lacklustre relations, but they were all one-night stands, clean cut. Not to mention the fact that he was with you now, blissfully claiming the title of your boyfriend.

He sighed, sticking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “What didn’t he say. They were yellin’ at each other for over thirty minutes-” He tossed an arm onto the bed, body turning towards you. “Apparently, she thought they were exclusive. Saw him out with another missus, and lost her mind.” You gaped as he shot you a look.

“She said he told her he’d call her the night she saw ‘em together, too. Was screaming her damn head off on the porch- they got so loud, Rogers woke up and came outside.” You felt terrible on her behalf, but you’d be a fraud if you said you weren’t on the edge of your seat. “He’s so messy, oh my god.” You snickered, fully invested.

“Yer’ tellin’ me. She was sayin’ that Tim was a good-for-nothin’ liar, had him all sorts of wound up.” He grunted, and you tilted your head to the side. “I mean, is she wrong? Like, if the man I was talking to promised to call, and I saw him with someone hanging off his arm, I’d be so irritated.” The scoff that left Brian made you snort.

“That’s what I fuckin’ said! But that bastard don’t listen-” Flinging up his hand, “And that ain’t even the craziest part, baby.” He narrowed his eyes, jabbing a finger into the mattress. “Motel girl knows Clockwork.” You raised a brow, wracking your brain.

“Wait, who’s Clockwork?”

“Rogers ex.”

You gasped with all the space your lungs had to offer, mouth wide in astonishment. “Brian.” He clicked his tongue and gestured into the air. “We had to drag her out- she wouldn’t leave until Tim forced her into the car. She was callin’ him shit I didn’t know existed.” Slapping a palm over your lips, you muttered harshly. “Not him being yelled at in front of his own home. I’d literally die.”

“After she left, Tobias told me that the girl’s insane. When he was still with his ex, she’d show up to shout at ‘em both ‘cause she had problems with Clockwork- didn’t even flinch when she saw him.”

“Tim actually has the worst taste in hook-ups. He needs to reevaluate or something because this is not it, girl.”

“Sweetheart, don’t even get me started.”

You giggled at his building exasperation, and he groaned, pinching his nose bridge. “This ain’t the end either. He’s goin’ to see her tomorrow. Y’know, sometimes, I wish I could see into that damn head of his ‘cause I- mm.” You angled yourself, leaning forward before kissing his temple. “Talk to me, lover.” Brian hummed at the affection, shoulders easing. He nuzzled into your cheek while his lashes fluttered closed.

“You’d think after havin’ his ass chewed out, he’d make better choices, but no.” Continuing, he pointed into space, circling nothing as he talked. “S’all ‘Brian, you don’t get it! I got somethin’ real here!’ And ‘I have it handled, stop looking at me like that!’ Like-” He shot up, whipping towards you head on, bothered to hell's end.

“The only thing real here is the fine I’m gonna’ hafta’ pay when she bashes my windows in because she thinks it’s his truck. I mean, would it kill him to find someone who likes to paint once an’ awhile?— A nice lady who doesn’t threaten my well-being ‘cause he ain’t wanna’ turn on his fuckin’ phone. Maybe somebody who knits instead of trying to take us both out, since he wants to do fuck all- all the goddamn time.”

His tone was heated, and he wrapped up the tangent with an aggravated “Ugh.” Lip curled up in frustration. “I’m sick of it, dolly. I am.” He crumbled back down, huffing. “The world is so evil to you, Bri Bri. You’re so strong.” You cradled his neck, pecking along his cheekbone. “Hopefully, he settles soon, and you’ll be free from this torment.” Your teasing had the edges of his mouth tugging up.

“If his next missus ain’t whip some sense into ‘im, I’ll do it myself.”

“You’re gonna’ fight him on behalf of the maneaters?”

“Sure am.”

With the crooked grin on his face, perhaps you’d buy him a T-shirt that said ‘Number one ally’ on it.

➽──────────────❥

Barking Opposition ▶︎ • ၊၊||၊|။|||| ↻

Tim had hit the lowest point in his life by far.

You were mad at him.

He hopes he dies.

He doesn’t know how it happened or when it happened, but it happened. And now, he’s condemned to couch duty for the foreseeable future.

Your prized possession, your absolute, all-time favourite comfort sweater, had been ruined. An irredeemable amount of blood had gotten on it, and no matter how hard he tried, the dark patch refused to come out. He’d sat on the sweatshirt by accident post-mission, dropping onto the sofa in his dirtied jeans. The crime was realized too late, and you caught him in the act, mid-panic. That was two days ago.

He agreed that it was his fault. You had warned him multiple times about being careful, reminding him to move with caution when he came home after a job. Alas, he was used to the living conditions of the mansion, where everything was already caked with grime, and nobody batted an eye at bloodstains. Except that was the manor, and this was your home.

After The Incident took place, you’d rightfully given him the cold shoulder. All his apologies were met with an icy glare, then you’d spin away from him dramatically, leaving him in your shadow to sulk. To make matters worse, the dog you’d begged him for had taken his spot on the bed.

Every goddamn morning, it would prance out from the bedroom. Jolly, smug as it cuddled up to your side. You’d pet its head, telling it how handsome it was- how well behaved and polite. The puppy was basking in your love while Tim got nothing. Not. Even. Scraps.

Tim hated that dog more than he hated the operator.

That dog couldn’t protect you from otherworldly dangers. It couldn’t defend your name righteously as a good man should. It didn’t help you with laundry and the kitchen sink pipes when they’d act up. It couldn’t even talk- and yet, it was the one curling up on your chest when dusk fell. The thing was practically rubbing it in his face at this point.

He remembers what the stray did, as if it were yesterday (it was). He was minding his own business when it came sniffing around the corner. Strutting to his seat, it had turned its nose up, skipping away as if it only came to show off. The tag on its new collar read- “Best Boy,” and he had never felt more betrayed. Best? Best? You had to be joking.

He’d fought borderline wars to make it home in time for dinner, and that good-for-nothing dog had taken his position in your life overnight.

Tim was fuming.

He hadn’t gotten a single kiss from you in over forty-eight hours. Forty-fucking-eight. He was dying of thirst watching an ill-fitted replacement drown. You weren’t responding to any of his messages either, simply leaving him on read or giving his text a thumbs up if he told you something you deemed important. You were probably spooning the puppy right now, having it tucked into you. Being terribly sweet on that stupid, undeserving, wretched, godforsaken motherfucking—

“Masky, are y-you good?”

Toby’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he whipped to the side. The boy had settled next to him on the porch bench, equally as scuffed from the prior assignment. His cigarette was snapped in half from how hard he’d squished it during his inner monologue. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Though his words were nowhere near convincing, making the younger proxy arch a brow. “… Are you sure? You’ve been s-staring at the truck like it killed your family, man. John W-Wick style.” He sighed in response, closing his eyes for a moment before he snagged out another cig, lighting the smoke tiredly. “I fucked up, Rogers.” He spoke with so much grief, Toby leaned back.

“What’d you do?”

“I- lord. Favourite sweater. I stained the son of a bitch, and now I’m sleepin’ on the couch.”

“Oh yikes.”

Huffing, he reclined, taking a long drag. “Haven’t been loved on since. I might as well have ended up in a ditch tonight.” He exhaled heavily, and Toby nodded in understanding, sympathetic. “I remember when I stained my baby’s f-favourite pillow. I was in the dog house for weeks.” That had Tim scowling. “The fucking dog- should’ve never gotten a pet-” Facing the boy once more, he gestured at him with the cigarette.

“It’s sleepin’ in my spot, Rogers. Can you believe that? After all I’ve done. I get thrown away like fucking chopped liver- for a dog.” Toby shook his head, shrugging defeatedly. “Yeah, I’ve b-been there. Happens to t-the best of us, Masky.” Tim buried his face in his palms and groaned. “The hell am I supposed to do, huh? I can’t even get a damn kiss after all this bullshit.”

Toby slumped against the bench, trying his best to come up with a solution. Masky had always given him advice when he was learning the ropes of being a good partner, so it was only fair that he put in effort now.

It felt like his brain was steaming from the strain, but after a few minutes, he sat up. Light bulb sparking above his head. “Have you tried using a boombox?” Tim looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “What in god’s name are you talkin’ about, Tobias?”

“When I f-fuh-fucked up, I stood outside with a boombox for l-like an hour- and it worked!” He explained, raising his hands. “Listen, if they love you enough, the boombox always does w-what it’s supposed to. Trust m-me.” Tim narrowed his eyes, inhaling the smoke before puffing in disbelief.

“I’m a grown ass man. It’s not doin’ shit, and I ain’t got the time to stand outside for an hour.”

“Okaay- well, don’t b-blame me when you’re still s-sleeping on the couch tonight instead of being held, Masky.”

He went to scold the boy for his tone, only to be interrupted by Toby standing suddenly, phone pressed to his ear. Tim could hear the sappy nonsense spill through the speaker, and the other killer grinned, mouthing at him. “Gotta’ go, angel wants me home.” The porch was occupied by him alone after that, the silence giving him room to think.

He wasn’t showing up with a dumb boombox. He couldn’t. It probably wouldn’t work anyway. There was no way it would actually make you any less mad, and he wasn’t risking the chance of your mood worsening. Absolutely not, he was not buying an oversized stereo to blast cheesy music outside. That was idiotic; he was far too old to be pulling off stunts like that. He wasn’t doing it. He will not do it—

The boombox rattled in Tim’s backseat as he drove, and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to kill Toby Rogers tomorrow morning.

➽──────────────❥

Purple With Jealousy ▶︎ • ၊၊||၊|။|||| ↻

Habit was seething.

This was Evan’s fault.

Gengar. A Pokémon. A fucking cartoon character. He had a shirt with the little shit printed on the front. Nothing spectacular, just a faded tee he had in his closet- yet you seemed to like it. You said it suited him, the creature sharing his grin or something like that. He never thought anything of it, never cared about it.

Until now.

Recently, he’d come home to find you hugging a life-sized plush of the character. It was round and stupid-looking, but so were the rest of your stuffed animals, so he brushed it off. You told him you’d bought it because it reminded you of him, and he had scoffed. Okay, he found it a tiny bit endearing that you got a dumb purple pillow to hug when you missed him. But that wasn’t the point.

The present issue was that the whole “only using it when he wasn’t available” thing seemed to have slipped your mind. You had begun bringing it to bed with you, saying you didn’t want it to get cold. Which made zero fucking sense, but sure. It was fine-

And then it fucking wasn’t because you were currently facing away from him, cuddling with that ugly bitch.

You had let go of his arm in your sleep, rolling over to latch onto the toy instead. Habit, of course, noticed immediately. He didn’t need rest the way you did, and the second your warmth left him, his eyes shot open. The only reason he was there was to hold you- or else you’d get sulky. With that logic, why were you even an inch away from him, let alone embracing something else?

His teeth were grinding harder by the millisecond, and he scowled, glaring at the back of your head. You were snuggling into its chest, humming quietly. Grabbing onto it like it was your boyfriend, when your real boyfriend was less than a centimetre behind you.

Its stupid, featurally challenged smile had him livid. It was so fucking ugly. Genuinely an eye sore to see. Its fat fucking head wasn’t even, and its stubby limbs stuck out at odd angles. It looked nothing like him. It couldn’t keep you safe or soothe your worries. It didn’t take care of you the way he did, and it definitely couldn’t fuck you the way you liked.

It didn’t even have a fucking dick.

So why. The actual fuck. Were you nuzzling the hideous ball-shaped teddy as if you loved it?

You held the son of a bitch with so much fondness that it made him irate. His eye was twitching, and he had half the mind to yank it out of your arms. This wouldn’t have even happened if Evan’s stupid ass hadn’t bought the shirt. Yet much to Habit’s dismay, Evan was a fucking nerd who liked merch, and now he was losing his carefully nurtured rabbit to a cotton stuffed purple whore.

If he could sink his hands back into the depths of Evan’s soul to choke him, he would.

A vein was popping out of his neck, and he turned onto his side, staring at the toy with visceral hatred. “I’m going to find your creator, and rip his spine out of his fuckin’ throat, you hear me?” He muttered under his breath, full of malice.

He slipped an arm around your middle, tugging you back into him, and you squirmed, still attached to the parasite. This had to count as cheating. He huffed, reaching over to wiggle the fabric from your grasp. Your fingers eventually loosened, and the plush rolled off the mattress, landing on the ground with a muted thump. Jesus- fucking finally.

Habit exhaled when you shuffled, turning to face him, then rubbing your cheek into his chest. You inhaled deeply, a soft smile gracing your lips as you nuzzled deeper. He felt your thigh nudge between his legs, and you were fully cocooned in his embrace soon after. Contentedly babbling about whatever you were dreaming of.

Clearly, you were much more comfortable this way. “Gengar” was an unnecessary addition to the household, and he would be taking care of it in the morning.

While your lover didn’t need sleep, the lull of your heartbeat was calming. Repetitive, like white noise amongst the crickets outside- his lids were drooping before he realized. It wouldn’t hurt his vessel to rest a little extra, so he yawned and buried his nose in your hair to call it a night.

Though as the next day rolled around, his anger returned tenfold.

Everything was great, dandy, even. He’d planned to throw it out when he awoke, but he had business that he’d forgotten to wrap up. He could just toss the thing when he got home; it wasn’t a big deal. However, upon stepping foot into the house, the sight that greeted him had him holding back a yell.

Gengar was sitting at the fucking dinner table. You were eating with it. Talking to it. You had propped it up with a dumb bib and everything. Its rotund ass was in his seat. With his plate. Having a grand time with his bunny. Habit marched up the chair with a sneer, grabbing the plush’s head harshly.

You gasped, a pout already forming while you scrambled to rise onto your feet. “Bitty! What are you doing?” He grunted, replying roughly.

“I’m burning the bitch.”

“What? Why?”

“Bonbon, do not piss me off—”

➽──────────────❥

Bogeyman Down ▶︎ • ၊၊||၊|။|||| ↻

Laughing Jack was currently doing everything but laughing.

Oh, he’d really done it now- you were livid. Absolutely ticked to the moon. He’d done the one thing you’d asked him not to. The singular requirement you’d talked about prior. Do not mess up your life because he was in his head again.

And Jack had meddled to high heaven.

As stubborn as he was, he, unfortunately, could admit that this was his fault. Kind of. Maybe. Definitely. Whatever. In his opinion, the man with you looked suspicious. He was all over you. Laughing as you walked, nearly falling into you while you joked around. It had Jack feeling beyond betrayed, and he perhaps acted a bit irrationally.

He waited for you to part ways, then he snapped. Following the guy home before slipping into his dreams, tormenting him to the brink of psychological breakage. When he awoke that morning, he couldn’t even speak. Wouldn’t respond to any stimulus. His roommate was in shambles and beyond worried, so they called in professionals.

Which is when Jack found out that the guy was not a friend.

He was your cousin.

Your thoughtful, very close, and well-respected cousin. You’d informed him earlier that month that “Jay” was coming to visit, talking about it briefly while you two were under the covers. Though regrettably, he’d been quite distracted.

You had a habit of feeling him up for fun. You’d grope him through his shirt, grab his ass roughly mid-conversation, and knead at his thighs if you were bored. That night was one of those nights. It’s not that he wasn’t paying attention; it was just hard to stay focused when you were practically stroking him over his boxers. “It’s keeping my hand warm!” You’d said- and then you proceeded to pump him until his eyes crossed.

So gods forbid he was a little off course when analyzing your cousin.

Still, that didn't matter because you were very angry with him currently. You knew what’d happened from the second the man's roommate called you, turning to him with a glare that chilled him to the bone. You had left swiftly to visit Jay after, and now he was sulking alone past one in the morning. Curse that boy.

Alright, he was reaping what he sowed, but he missed you. You’d been mad for over two days, and he was dying. Literally dying, he swears he could feel himself withering by the hour. Yet the faith he had in your love remained; you were mad, yes, but you promised you weren’t breaking up with him. Therefore, he had to plan this out carefully. He was not about to put your relationship on the line due to recklessness.

The hospital halls were illuminated by cold overhead lights, humming dully as he slinked down the corridor. He’d made a bouquet for you, a bundle of your favourite flowers, with treats mixed into the stems. Tied together with a large red ribbon, a classic.

He saw the ajar ward door at the end of the walkway, and he padded forward, heart felt speech prepared. One step, another, then a shocked gasp made him falter. Twisting around, there was a nurse gawking at him two paces away. Her face was drained of colour, aghast at the view in front of her. Jack loomed over the scattered carts, lit by the faint glow of the private room behind him.

It cast shadows across his features, the glint of his edged teeth reflecting white. His form was towering, barely fitting beneath the ceiling. Skin pale, with makeup cracking along the curve of his painted lips.

A haunting sight that sent piercing fear through her nerves, making her grip her necklace shakily. She stared at him for a moment, their eyes holding tension while the awkwardness crept up his spine. “Hello…?” He greeted, trying to be cordial, and she staggered back. Muttering under her breath, “Babayaga.” He frowned at that.

Blinking a few times, he opened his mouth, closing it rigidly after debating his options. Usually, he’d simply get rid of any witnesses, but you were mad enough. If he acted out of line, your patience would definitely wane, and he couldn’t afford that.

Jack swallowed, shuffling blindly to the side, attempting to reach the door handle. Her eyes were still glued to his figure— light flooded into the dim hall.

You, in all your irritated glory, were stationed at the room's entrance, and he swivelled to you. “Gum drop-!” Though you didn’t let him finish, completely focused on the worker trembling in his shadow.

You held a palm up in his direction, effectively silencing him. “Hi. Sorry, my boyfriend’s really eccentric. He’s just visiting.” The tight smile you were giving the woman had him gulping dryly.

“Your- your boyfriend?”

“Yes. My boyfriend. He’s harmless, I promise. Just tall.”

“Right.”

She obviously did not trust the information one bit, but she nodded nonetheless. Returning your grin weakly, before swiftly speed walking her way around the corner, signing a cross over her chest.

You turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Jack.” Good god. Alright. “Yes?” He said with a nervous half laugh, and you scowled. Drawing a deep inhale, your tone left no room for nonsense. “You know what you did.” Jack hummed in acknowledgment, then you crossed your arms.

“This is the last time you piss me off.”

“Mhm.”

“You will not do it again, and if you start feeling off about somebody, you tell me about it. Because we are in a relationship, and that’s how it works. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my sweet.”

Your glower made him deflate more and more, shrinking into his fur cloak until his chin was tucked by the end. He’d fought immortal creatures for fun, been through unfathomable carnage, yet nothing compared to the disappointment of his spouse. You were scary when you were mad.

The staleness stretched on for another beat, then you sighed. “Stop overthinking and talk to me.” Moving closer, taking his hand in yours. “I love you so much, it’s not fair when you keep doubting me.” His palm cupped your cheek, and you stood chest to chest. “I trust you with my life, and I need you to trust me too, Jackie.” The earnestness in your gaze made his shoulders drop.

“I know- I know. I just-” He murmured, tugging you into him, the flowers pressed against your back. “I’m not… good at this. But I’m trying- I swear, I am.” He whispered into your hair, “I’ll be better.” And his vulnerability was clear as day.

You buried your face into his chest, clutching at the wrapping around his torso. “You’re not in a box anymore, and I’m not leaving you behind. No more bottling things up, okay?”

His bottom lip wobbled, and he squeezed you. “Okay.” Abandonment issues be damned, he’d rather spend another five hundred years imprisoned in a tupperware than lose you.

“What the fuck?”

The foreign voice made him shoot up, whipping his head to the source. Jay was leaning on the door frame, confusion plastered on his face. “He’s- He’s fucking!? That’s- I saw him!” He stuttered, and you held your hand up, attempting to de-escalate the situation.

“Wait- okay, it’s not what it looks like. Take a breath-”

“Take a breath?! He literally gutted me, I fucking felt it.”

“I lightly disembowelled you-”

“Jackson, not now.”

— ^ ^ —

Introduction (chap. 1)

Entry #1 (chap. 2)

Entry #2 (etc.)

Entry #3

Entry #4

Entry #5

Entry #6

...

𑁍ࠬܓ

Your eyes feel heavy, blood tasting bitter on your tongue. Yet you move, like a newborn fawn, you stumble and trip. Your knees bruised, small sticks and rocks nudged deep beneath the first layer of skin. Your hand is cupping your neck, feeling the red boiling liquid seep in between your fingers. The cabin is not far, you press shaking fingers deeper into the skin.

You need to warn others. You need to warn your friends. Finally your legs give out, right at the bottom of the stairs when you can already hear the screaming coming from the inside.

You try to cry out, before the world goes black.

Inhale. You rise, cold biting at your skin. Hands immediately flying to your neck to check the wound only to find nothing. After that comes realising where you are.

First you see the white powdery snow, it glimmers under the moon. Looking down you noticed you rose from under it, one of your hands gently grazing the sleeping frozen ground. With dread you realise it feels real, too real. The cold bites at your skin, leaving the skin flushed and wet.

Your knees feel wobbly as you try to stand, the clothes clinging to your skin. “Oh dear.” Your head whips to face the sound.

An older lady. You almost laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. She smiles though, small beady eyes crickling. Her small face lit up by the small candle she held. Despite the wind, the flame was steady and bright. “Are you lost?” she says, one shaking hand reaching for yours. “You are soaking wet dear, come, my house is not far.” And for some reason, you take her hand, eyes glossy from the harsh weather. She nods before walking the same way she came from. The snow scrunched under your feet, you notice you are still wearing the same clothes. Beat up snickers and a shirt that you borrowed from Cherry. Your throat tightens. The house, or rather the log cabin stood out. It was small, the wood aged and darkened. You followed silently, listening to the sound of your own breathing and the wheezing wind.

“Who are you?” was the first thing you said when you finally found your voice again. You both have reached the stairs, creaky and old. You felt as if they were horribly close to breaking under you. “Why don’t you come in? You can’t have these conversations on the porch, what kind of host would I be?” she replied, opening the door. A gust of warm air hit you in the face, again you followed. Feeling like you have to, even if you didn’t want to.

The wood under you moaned with every step, but it seemed more stable than the stairs outside. You were in something that resembled a kitchen, half lit by candles. The small flames danced. Some of them lit, some of them not, they seeped into the floor and shelves, becoming one with the house. The main room consisted of a small kitchen you only saw in movies, a small kitchen table and at least 5 doors that led to rooms that probably shouldn’t exist. The cabin looked so small after all.. The lady followed you, close but not to the point of it being uncomfortable.

You sat down on the closest chair. Even after sitting down your hands mindlessly wandered back to your neck, finger tips tracing the smooth skin. Trying to find where you had been slashed moments ago. “Did I die?” you muttered. “You are dying,” she dipped her head, almost as if she was apologising. Your throat felt tight, "Where am I?” “Somewhere between the dead and alive. Mortals pass by every now and then. Would you like some tea?” Her voice sweet,

“I..” “I have something special for you. I have been waiting.” she hummed, turning her back to you. You could still see her start picking up various herbs hanging above the stove. “He killed me, he..” your voice trembled “did he get them?” Was I too late? already dying amongst the rush of raw emotion. She momentarily froze, before saying “..Human life is so.. delicate. They crumble so easily.” “I should have known, I should have.. done something.” “I don’t do this often.” she spoke, setting the kettle. “I have a proposition, now dear, you don’t have to say yes but you don’t have much time.” she kneeled, her hands taking one of the candles near the stove. The flame flickered, it was smaller than the rest. Faint. So close to dying. Then she placed it on the table in front of you. she gestured to the candle. “I can help, bring you back, take revenge but in turn you will need to give me something in return.” “W-What?” you swallowed hard. Throat bobbing.  “What would you even want me to give you? I have nothing! I–” “Your freedom would be good enough.” She sat next to you. “You will help me, like I helped you.” You looked at the candle, it was simple, plain, still the flame was dying. You couldn’t figure out why. It hasn’t collapsed, the wax hasn’t engulfed the wick. “Gardens need tending, if they aren’t taken care of well enough weeds begin to sprout. There is only so much I can do from here….” “You can’t expect me to..” Your voice shook, hands gripping the hem of your shorts. “You have no other choice I’m afraid, the only other way goes down.” she sighed.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, you were dying. All your life, all your achievements, all the hard work.. your friends.. taken away from you so suddenly. Like he deserved it, like he had the right to decide what happens next. The fear was replaced by anger, crawling upwards with a burning sensation. “..What.. what do I have to do?” She smiled, beady eyes almost shining in the deep room.  “Follow my lead.”

Benjamin was wrong about one thing, and it wasn’t taxes.

arthur morgan wasn't a man who cared that much about his appearance. he tried to get baths whenever he could, made sure his clothes were somewhat clean (though it was hard, considering his job), and he cut his hair whenever it got a bit too long to avoid looking like a certain someone he despised. he also made sure to shave often so his beard didn't get too thick and bushy for comfort.

but now that he has you in his life, he started paying attention to his looks a little more.

he tried his best to coordinate his outfit colors, attempted to comb and even pomade his hair sometimes to look neater overall, and made sure he could always see his own reflection in his boots.

that was the wife effect for arthur: he wanted to make an effort for you. you had chosen to be with him till death did you part; and as much as he still struggled to believe that he was enough for you, that you didn't make the wrong choice by choosing to marry him... he still wanted to play the part, to pretend that he could be the sophisticated gentleman he thought you did merit.

so when he looked at his own reflection in the small mirror in his tent this morning, he decided that a shave was due.

he always remembered how in the beginning of your relationship, you'd always giggle whenever he nuzzled against your cheek or neck, because his facial hair would tickle you.

you got used to it now; you even grew the habit of scratching his beard whenever he laid down in bed with you, at night. it always managed to put him to rest so easily. and bonus points because he'd sleep like a baby after.

recently though, his beard did grow to be a bit too itchy than usual.

what to do, he wonders.

arthur usually wasn't one for bold ideas, especially when it came to his appearance. but he opted for a full-on clean shave this time.

it had been a while since his last one. he often avoided them because, for one, his face would feel far too exposed for his liking. at least with the beard, it felt like he was hidden, like people didn't instantly see through him. it acted like protection. a shield, if you will.

for second, going for a clean shave always meant he'd get teasing remarks about it from the others at camp, joking about how he must have some lady waiting for him in town, or that they could "finally see him"... which was precisely what he so desperately wanted to avoid.

and for third, the reason that scared him the most: he apprehended your reaction.

your opinion matters greatly to arthur. nonetheless, he knew that, deep down, you were nothing but kind with him. at worst, you'd sugarcoat it to spare his poor and pathetic self, because you knew how deep his insecurities run. still, he found himself wanting to please his wife. he wanted you to want him. to feel attracted to him like he did with you.

well, even if you did end up disliking it— which arthur internally hoped wouldn't be the case— his facial hair grows back quite quickly, so, it wasn't going to last for too long anyway. he just wants to give himself a fresh start.

regardless of whatever doubt still lingered in the back of his mind, it was inevitable now. he had already lathered his face with shaving cream and tried his best not to accidentally cut himself with his razor, which happened a bit too often to him.

a few minutes later, after rinsing off his face and drying it— there he was. a new man.

he kept scrutinizing himself through the mirror, almost glaring. he wasn't too sure how to feel about it. because in his mind, the lack of a beard wasn't the problem; it was his goddamn face.

he didn't realize how long he stood there having a staring contest with his reflection until he heard whatever new vinyl dutch bought from town being played on his gramophone.

you weren't currently with him in your shared tent. you had slipped away after a quiet good morning kiss to help around camp and make breakfast. you would probably be by the campfire now, waiting for him to bring you two some coffee, so you could sip it and spend some time together before he had to leave camp for the day. it was your little ritual; and right now, you must be wondering what could possible be taking him so long to join you.

so join you he did, without forgetting to bring along two steaming mugs of coffee.

he settles next to you, almost in a shy manner; like a young boy who doesn't quite yet know how to behave around his first love. it was strange, to see a tough burly man like that act with such clumsy hesitance; almost like the tall scrawny boy he once was all those years ago had never left at all. the same tall scrawny boy who had stole your breath away the moment you laid eyes on him, and whom, after years, eventually worked up the courage to confess, and then, to ask for your hand.

you had always found his timid mannerisms to be most endearing; as if he'd somehow forgotten for a moment that you two were quite literally married.

he scoots a little closer to you, his hand reaching to scratch the bottom of his face, which he always did when he struggled to start a conversation. though this time, his muscle memory failed him as he had forgotten his usual beard was gone now, so he quickly fumbled with his hand to rub the back of his neck instead.

the awkwardness of his movements made you chuckle. you took a sip of your coffee, and you watched him do the same, like he just remembered he brought himself a cup too.

"good morning arthur."

your voice was so soft, it felt like that nice morning breeze he's always loved.

"yeah, g'morning darlin'..."

he gives you a side-glance, before he settles on staring at the faint steam rising from his cup.

your gaze stays trained on his side profile, admiring his new look, taking in all the details it allowed you to make out. some moles you had never noticed appeared, and the clean shave made his freckles pop out more. you adored them, always joked about how the sun must be infatuated with him, for it to leave so many kisses on his face. but he always shrugged it off, said they all looked more like burns than kisses. and it always tugged at your heartstrings to hear him say that.

you watched how his fingertips nervously traced the rim of his mug, quietly asking and waiting for a reaction from you, anything; just adress the elephant in the room. why drag it on for so long? how cruel you were, to play with his heart like that. a heart he had so generously entrusted you with.

you knew he was aching for a response, but you enjoyed seeing him anxious over the tiniest things a little too much. and either way, arthur was too fun to tease.

your gaze shifts to the quiet morning scenery in front of you; nature was slowly waking up.

you can't help the smirk that forms on your face, even when you try to sound as nonchalant as you can manage.

"did we have a date today i happened to forget about, honey?"

arthur blinks and confusedly shakes his head.

"not that i recall... no."

"oh, how interesting. so,... maybe you have a romantic rendez-vous with some young maiden downtown?"

that earns you a scoff from him which could be translated to, *how dare you even entertain such a thought?*

"darlin', what are you on about?"

"oh, i don't know", you shrug innocently, "your unusual clean shave just got me wondering, is all."

he groans, and looks you in the eyes for the first time that morning. how they shined like two jewels adorning his face.

"that ain't why i shaved. it just started feeling a bit too itchy... figured i'd just regrow it."

a beat of silence. you keep your gaze trained on his face, a cryptic smile forming on yours.

"hmmm. i see."

it was your turn to scoot closer to him, your knees brushing against his thigh as you put your cup on the floor next to your feet.

"well, i think this look suits you. not more than the beard but, it does fit you well."

"...y'think so?" his eyes widen, and his defensive tone softens under your words. suddenly, he looked like a young child lighting up when getting praised.

"what? you don't believe me?"

"... just don't know if yer still making jokes about me or if yer being honest." he shyly admits, his eyes set on the cup once again.

you giggle and press a kiss on his cheek. it felt strange, not to feel his beard tickling your skin. but for arthur, this enabled him to fully feel the softness of your lips.

goddamn... he should definitely do clean shaves more often.

you nuzzle against his neck, laying your head on his shoulder and he wraps his strong arm around you, keeping you steady against his sturdy form.

"i mean it, arthur."

you look up at arthur and observe as his cheeks turn into a deep crimson. and you noticing it didn't help...

damn it. if he hadn't shaved, maybe his beard would've made it less obvious.

anytime now, you would make a comment about it in that sing-songy tone of yours he loves and hates at the same time. love, because, quite frankly, your voice was one of the most beautiful sounds that ever graced his ears. hate? well, now that he thinks about it, it was a word too strong; he just never knew what to expect with your ever-so witty mind.

"... for a rugged and tough cowboy, you sure can be adorable at times."

ah, there it is. he huffs in indignation.

"that ain't no such thing." he retorted a little too quickly. a blatant lie.

"it is! i managed to make the mean, cold-blooded outlaw blush like a schoolboy."

if your eyes didn't betray you, that made him redden even more.

he straightens his back and shifts a bit away from you on the log, hiding his face under the brim of his hat.

"i...! ain't blushing, yer just seein' things."

"your beard can't save you now~"

there is no denying that, is there? he sighs and grumbles something under his breath as he takes the last sip of his coffee.

his gaze meets yours for a moment, and finds it full of a mischeviousness he couldn't rival; not now, anyway. not when he feels so vulnerable under your lovingly teasing stare.

"... dammit, sweetheart. i can never win with you, can i?" he sighs as he gets up from the log, heading towards your shared tent.

you stay on his trail, almost skipping on the way behind him. "nope. never."

he smiles fondly, as he swiftly moves under the tent flap. you follow suit and sit on his weapon locker, watching as he gathered his flask, his journal, some food.

"you go around saying that and i'll have to silence you, woman." he mutters in a mock warning tone.

he stands in front of you, probably for him to get his weapons. but you don't budge, crossing your legs.

"oh yeah? and just how will you silence me?"

"you don't want to know."

"boohoo, i'm soooo scared." your words were punctuated by an eye roll.

arthur's hand settles on his gun belt as he stares you down. his gaze serious, almost as if he was considering something.

"you'd better be."

you gasp in mock offense. was that a threat? was he really threatening you right now? how could he say that to you? the sun of his days and the moon of his nights?

"arthur morgan, you would not hurt a woman, and especially not your wife." your tone is nearly reprimanding, as if you were admonishing a child for his bad behavior.

"i wasn't thinking of that", his eyebrows knitted in confusion because, how could you even envision a universe where he ever did that?

he cups your chin and tilts your head up to him, his rough thumb gently grazing your bottom lip. "i could shut that smart mouth of yours in tons of ways other than that."

your lips parted further under the touch of his thumb and for a moment it felt like he was casting a spell on you. the energy in the room had shifted, and it felt like you had lost the upper hand. his touch, considering how scarcely he initiated it, especially at the beginning of your relationship, never failed to make your stomach do flips, as if it was the first time all over again.

screw you, arthur morgan, you thought. you hated how he knew that his touch had that much of an effect on you, and what you hated even more, is how he always used that to his advantage.

you gulp and attempt to maintain the sly grin on your face regardless; just to see how far he is willing to go with his... dirty tricks.

"... oh, well. color me intrigued, mister morgan."

that earns you a chuckle from him, a slight darker, the type that made a shiver run down your spine.

he suddenly grabs your forearm, pulling you to your feet, and before you could register anything, you felt warm lips press on yours hungrily. your hands end up gripping his shirt for balance, which makes him place a steady hand on your lower back to prevent you from falling backwards.

this was the type of kiss that made your mind reel; because it felt like arthur was pouring all his love, emotion, and desire into it. the type of kiss that reminded you that, somehow, even after being with you for all this time, that he was still as enamored with you.

once he pulls away, you instantly lick your lips to taste his flavour just for another moment longer. arthur's lips curl up and he tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

he murmurs in that soft voice he reserves only for you. "'course i'd never hurt you, darlin'. i'd rather die than do that."

his lips press a soft kiss on your wrist before gently pushing you to the side so he could get his guns from his locker.

you were still in a haze from the kiss, a soft smile adorning your mouth when your brain finally registers his words.

"is it just me or did the shaved look bring forth your romantic side?"

arthur gets up and closes the locker with a thud, tucking his revolvers in his gun belt.

"ain't the shave. 's you." his words slip from his mouth so easily, just like the soft kiss he planted on your forehead.

"cheesy", you mumble, as you watch him move past you to take his satchel and slip out the tent.

you follow him only after seconds, your fuzzy mind still taking in everything that happened just now.

he was saddling up his horse, fixing his satchel and verifying everything was there.

but, still, a tinge of doubt and insecurity lingered in your heart. as much as arthur was oblivious about his good looks, you weren't; and by extension, other women weren't either. you never for a second doubted his faithfulness to you, but just the simple thought of another woman making advances or pushing her luck with him... you hated to say it made your blood boil and your jealousy flare dangerously.

just imagining that made your jaw tighten, and turned your expression sour. you couldn't help the bitter overtone of your mumbled words.

"you'd better turn down the offers you'll get from the women downtown."

he snorts at your words as he feeds his horse some oatcakes. he found it funny, how you were certain he would get hit on. maybe you liked the clean shave a little more than you let on.

your instance of possessiveness did tickle his pride, so he answers almost casually.

"darlin', y'don't have to tell me twice."

your brows furrow when he brushes off your concern like that. you're not joking anymore now, no; these are your real feelings on display. however horrible they make you feel for having them.

"it's just because i know they won't leave it." you mutter, crossing your arms.

"i'll take my gloves off then."

he rids himself of them, revealing his hands, rough and calloused from his daily labor, and on his ring finger, a gold band shone under the sunlight, matching yours.

a wedding ring yes, that should "normally" be enough to get others to back off. yet somehow, it wasn't. worse; the forbiddance of being with a married man only further drew in ladies. it supposedly "added to the thrill", or some half-assed justification along the lines of that.

you pout. "you know that won't be enough."

seeing your downcast expression genuinely tugged at his heart, nearly making him regret shaving altogether. and it also made him wonder how such insecure thoughts had even managed to implant themselves in your head?

you feel two large hands settle their comforting weight on your shoulders, and before you knew it, that made you lift your head to look at arthur. he leans impossibly closer to you, his words hushed, but they spoke volumes. the kind of words that hit you just as hard as a romantic poem made of thousands of verses. he speaks slowly so you can weigh in his words and understand them better.

"then, i'll kindly tell 'em that i'm happily married to the loveliest woman i've ever laid my eyes on... better?"

the wistfulness in his eyes told you he spoke truthfully; and the way he held your gaze for moments after, even in silence, said even more than that; after all, arthur was a man of a few words. so you knew to cherish his sparse attempts at verbally conveying how much you meant to him.

your lips trembled before curling up into a small wobbly smile.

"... better."

quite frankly, the man was skeptical of your answer. but he lacked the tactful elocution needed in these tricky situations, where emotions were at stake. especially yours. everything was clear to him in his heart though. but at every attempt, his words always get jumbled up and, suddenly, it feels like they're not making sense anymore. it feels like they're not even enough to translate how he feels in his flesh and bones when it comes to you. and so he grumbles about how he should just shut his trap altogether instead of even trying. thank god you had the patience of a saint with him though.

arthur makes a mental note to bring you something from town; a broach? a shawl? some hairpins?... maybe make you a wildflower bouquet; ah yes, seeing your eyes light up at the sight of the flowery set never failed to make him feel alive like he's never been before.

he just needs to bring you something meaningful, to prove to you that, although he isn't much vocal, his mind always finds a way to drift back to you during his waking hours.

for now, a soft kiss on your pretty lips would have to do.

he holds you close to him for a moment as quiet reassurance, and feels relieved to see your face slowly light up again; the clouds who had dimmed his sun were gradually disappearing.

"come back to me in one piece, my dear." you whisper, as you watch him mount his horse, reaching for his hand to squeeze. his thumb gently brushes over you ring; a quiet reminder that you're his, just as he's all yours.

"always."

you watch him trail away on his horse, giving a greeting to javier who was guarding camp before taking off to town. but your heart rested a little easier knowing that the man you cherish, that the man who loves you quietly, his affection hidden behind fond glances and whispered words reserved for you, intertwined with the graceful pencil strokes that were, according to him, "a mere attempt" at capturing your alluring radiance, can also be openly loud about you, about you and him. and the fact he found himself able to do that sometimes... that made everything all the more special to you.