I’ve been reading fanfics since 2013 and in this past few years I have never seen so many post abt there “being too much smut” “not enough fluff” “not enough angst”
I understand that some people write about things I don’t like or mischaracterize, but you know what I can do? 1)ignore it. 2)use the handy dandy filter.
Remember that there are actual people behind the screens with their own life and experiences, so just be respectful
Like do yall not realize we get this FOR FREE!
Write it yourself (WITHOUT AI) if yall want more of a certain type of content
Writers are doing this for fun. Be grateful. Seriously yall are embarrassing
To writers: please know that many of us are happy every time you post. And I see this a lot, but please don’t ever feel bad for discontinuing/putting ur works on hold, we readers don’t want you to stress yourself over something that’s supposed to be fun 💕losing interest happens and that’s ok. We appreciate you creating content, no matter if it’s a 40+ series or a tiny blurb.
And on a side note: REBLOG! COMMENT! Please I’m begging 🙏 it is extremely discouraging to writers/artist when they have little to no interactions on their work. If you don’t want to comment, add a silly little picture or even 🫶. That’s all it takes.
*On mobile you can hold down on the reblog button and swipe up for quick reblogs!
sad wet cat dex following you around, resting his head on your lap, looking at you like he needs guidance.
but then pulls out a glock for anyone who creeps on you. ughhh i need to take him in his suit and boss him around he’s such a sweet guard dog
-
I cannot handle this while I'm sick omfggggg the fbi jacket stays on. He's putting his all into pleasuring you and still asking if he's doing it right the entire time with those puffy red eyes even though you've said yes a million times and kissed him all over and moaned his name and- 😩
Then the next day he's following behind you--if you allow it--with the straightest face ever like hun we're at work 😭 who are you trying to scare AT WORK?
Request: “Hi!! Can you do the prompt of you can’t be serious with Ace, Luffy & Law? <333” - anon AND “I don’t know why but i would LOOVEE to see a luffy lashing out on someone who tried to hurt their partner maybe in the jealousy series” - anon
Summary: The audacity of a man meets the possessive nature of another.
Notes: stinky icky gross strangers, language, Ace’s is kinda suggestive
A/N: i hope my anons are okay that i combined these requests!! i was writing luffy’s and i couldn’t get the second request out of my head. these are a bit different from the first set i did but i think they still work. i dont know how i feel about this set, not my best work (dealing with some rough adhd lately), but i still hope someone can enjoy them!!
this is mostly proofread, but mistakes may persist! thanks so much for reading!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome!
Portgas D. Ace
He left you alone for one second, one, and some man felt like he had a chance. Ace could only laugh at the man’s confidence. But honestly, he should have expected it. I mean, you were you after all: beautiful, funny, sexy, and stubborn in the best way. Who wouldn’t want a shot at getting with you. Hell, he was lucky that only one man was vying for your attention and not the whole damn bar.
Eh, he knew how this was gonna end anyways. Might as well enjoy the show.
“Hey, sweet cheeks. Come here often?” The man stunk of whiskey and a solid layer of dirt covered his body.
“New in town,” you replied effortlessly. You didn’t want to give him anything too seductive, but you also didn’t want to scare him away. After all, you knew you’d get two shows for the price of one: a bumbling idiot trying to flirt and Ace making sure everyone know just who would be taking you home tonight.
“Maybe I could show you’s around then, doll? I know where all the fun happens.” The stranger sent you a wink.
“Hmmm, I do love a bit of fun. Know any good places one could grab a drink?” You put on your best act of being dumb, pretending as if you didn't actively have a drink in your hand.
Taken aback by the question, the man tripped over his words before answering, “Well, doll, I can buy ya one right here if ya’d like.”
“Oh, a drink would be just lovely,” you gave him your biggest, most insane smile. Time for the show.
Across the room, Ace leaned against the bar next to Thatch. He slowly slipped on his drink, smirking and holding in his laughs as he watched this man make a fool of himself at your feet.
“Oh, for the love of— not again!” Thatch cried. “Marco, it’s happening again.”
Marco turned, preparing to ask Thatch what he meant, before he noticed you and the stranger bantering across the way and the over-the-top nonchalant attitude Ace had taken up in its wake. Marco simply sighed and turned to Thatch. “Damn it,” he laughed, “Well, I guess you can room in my cabin again.”
Ace, half listening, turned to the two men, confused. “What are you talking about? Why would Thatch need to room with you?”
“Because every time a person flirts with Y/N, it ends with your headboard beating against the wall until three a.m., and some of us actually enjoy sleeping,” Thatch spoke, annoyed as Marco let out another chuckle.
Ace felt very little shame at the idea of everyone knowing, hearing that you were his. In fact, he was about to smirk at Thatch’s words until the sound of your laughter stopped him in his tracks. His head whipped back over to look at you as you sent the stranger a soft but hesitant smile.
What started as a fun side quest quickly turned into an annoying scene as the man pushed his limits a step (or ten) too far.
“The way your lips fit around that pint got me thinking about what else those beauts can do.” Your stomach dropped at the man’s vulgarity. You held in the heavy sigh of annoyance that gathered at the back of your throat, instead taking a deep breath and gathering your thoughts before choosing your response.
Normally, you would just leave this guy in the dust with a few less teeth, but Pops had said no fights this time, and you were nothing if not an obedient child… no matter how badly you wanted to punch this man square in the face.
“I’m sorry, sugar.” You gave him a smile that hurt to produce in the wake of his words. “I just don’t think I’m too much fun tonight. Maybe you’ll find another lovely lady to breathe heavily next to.” You appeared sweet, but your words were wrapped with passive-aggressive undertones which you hoped his alcohol littered mind wouldn’t pick up on.
“Oh, but darling, I think you misunderstand, you’re the one I’m gonna have tonight.” The man stepped close, his hot breath fanning over your face, sending a sinking feeling to your stomach and a horrible shiver up your spine. You immediate turned to search for Ace.
Seeing you search for him, Ace knew immediately the man had made you uncomfortable. Without blinking, Ace downed the rest of his drink, wiped away the drop that trickled down his chin, and pushed off the bar, heading in your direction. He made his way over to you with the precision of an apex predator and the intentions of a man who looked upon you as if you had created the world by hand.
As you were searching for the words to de-escalate the mess you started, Ace stepped up beside you and slung his arm around your shoulders, placing his hat on your head with the movement.
You immediately felt your body relax under the weight of your lover. The man across from you, on the other hand, tensed up.
“Hey, love,” your boyfriend spoke, paying the man across from you no mind. This only caused the stranger’s face to grow tighter with anger.
“Ace!” you sighed out, leaning into him, grateful he had come to your aid. Speaking as if nothing was wrong, hoping to keep tensions low, you said, “I was waiting for you to come back. Where have you been?”
As Ace went to reply, the stranger coughed roughly to gain back your attention. “Hey, sweetheart, forget someone? Who’s this anyway? Ya didn’t say you had no boyfriend or nothin’.” His smile was infected with growing irritation and simmering rage.
“Ha! You think she was gonna remember you in the first place?” Having you in his arms, showing everyone, showing this man, that you were his, made Ace arrogant. Damn, did he wear arrogance well, but you really did need this getting out of hand.
“Oh, Ace, this is just—“ You were cut off by the man.
“Fella, you’re the one who left her alone. Seems like you're the one whose memory needs to be questioned.”
You sighed, bringing your fingers to your temples. You really did not need this right now.
“Ace, hey, how about we just head bac—“
Before you could finish speaking, Ace pulled you into a deep, passionate, and probably obscene-looking kiss.
You pulled away, stuttering as a blush washed over your face. “A-Ace…”
He turned to the man with a smirk. “See, already forgetting her own name.” The stranger stood there, stunned by his own anger.
Before another breath could be taken, Ace listen you with the ease and confidence he had every right to possess. Flinging you over his shoulder as you let out a soft yelp, he sauntered out of the bar. The smirk on his face told you exactly what he had planned back in your cabin.
Thatch could do nothing but sigh in defeat as he turned to Marco. “You’ve still got that extra blanket, right?”
Monkey D. Luffy
It took Luffy an embarrassingly long time to realize you were not beside him, his focus drawn away by the shiny beetle broach at the vendor table while you were still checking out at the last stall. When he looked up to see your reaction to the little object, he found you a few paces away chatting with a stranger who seemed a big to uppity to be cool.
“Hey, Y/N!” Luffy gave you a wide smile before turning to the person across from you. “Who are you?” Luffy asked, his head tilting to the side with the inquiry.
“Sir, can’t you see you’re interrupting something?” The man gestured towards you. “This lovely lady was just agreeing to go on a date with me this evening.”
Luffy laughed, “HA! That's kinda stupid. Y/Ns with me!”
The man gasped at Luffy’s words, taken aback by his bluntness and audacity to speak to a noble man like himself in a crass manner. Then he looked at you, and an apologetic and tight smile came across his face.
“I see… Good day, madam.”
As the man stepped back with a small bow, Luffy took your hand to pull you away and show you the knick-knack which had distracted him in the first place.
“I didn’t even want that bitch anyway.” The man grumbled mostly to himself, but loud enough that it did not miss Luffy’s ears.
You froze. ‘Damn it,’ you thought. All you wanted was one nice stroll.
Luffy turned around slowly. You groaned as a headache began developing.
“Luffy, hey, c’mon, just ignore him. He’s not worth—.”
“What did you say?” Luffy seethed, his tone so serious that you began to think he may have been possessed.
The foolish stranger did not back down. In fact, he doubled down.
“I said,” he puffed out his chest, basically begging Luffy for a fight, “I didn’t want that bitch anyway.”
Before the man could finish, his body was twelve feet in the air and flying across the village. A tremor in the ground and a cloud of dust in the distance told you he had landed. Hard. All eyes quickly turned to you two. It was time to leave.
Looking back at Luffy, you see him still staring in the direction he had sent the stranger flying. His breathing was heavy and rapid, his muscles visibly tense, and his hands still balled into shaking fists.
“Luffy, hey,” you reach out to touch his shoulder, hoping to calm him down enough to listen. At the contact, he melted, returning to the present, to you. “Lu, we gotta go,” you spoke softly as you slowly intertwined your fingers with his and pulled him in the direction of the ship.
The jog back was silent and quick, worry growing in your stomach at not only the idea of trouble coming but at the quietness of your boyfriend. You had never seen Luffy be so quiet for so long, not even in his sleep, but addressing the situation would have to wait until you found the rest of the crew and shipped off.
As the sun set and the ocean waves gently rocked the Sunny, you found Luffy sitting on the lion head, the place he went to think… and nap… and eat. Honestly, it’s just where he was kind of all the time.
“Hey, Lu! Mind giving me a lift?” you called up.
Luffy looked down from his seat with a smile before his rubber arms flew down to wrap around you, pulling you up into his lap.
For a moment, you two sat in comfortable familiarity watching the sunset shimmer off the water, creating a spectacular mirage of pinks and gold as Luffy pointed out shapes he saw in the clouds, but the weight of the day, of what Luffy did in your name, sat heavy on your chest.
You lifted your head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. “Lovey, are you okay? That loser really seemed to get to you back at the market.”
Luffy turned away from your gaze for a moment before taking a breath and pulling you in tighter. “I didn’t like what he said, what he called you. It just made me so… mad.”
“Oh, Luffy.” You reached up to cup his face and bring his attention fully to you. “I appreciate that you did that for me, but you really didn’t have to. He was a nobody. He wasn’t worth the anger of a great man.”
“If it means protecting you, it will always be worth it.” His words and wide smile left your heart skipping a beat and your breath catching in your throat. “I’d do it again on every island we go to, every town we stop in, if it meant honoring your name.”
“Luffy… I don’t— I’m not worth all tha—“
“You are too silly!” He said it like it was easy, like it was the most natural thing his mind could produce.
As tears welled in your eyes, you dove into his embrace, nearly toppling him over before he caught you with a soft laugh.
“Plus, I did hit him pretty far, might be a new record!”
You couldn’t help but join in on his laughter.
“I like it when you smile! Don’t ever stop.”
“I won’t, Luffy,” you wiped away the soft tears that fell as you let out another small laugh. “As long as you promise to keep being you.”
“Who else would I be?” He asked with a deadly serious face and a small head tilt, which only made you laugh more.
Trafalgar Law
Going out with the whole crew was a luxury, especially when your boyfriend would much rather be back on the ship, cuddled into your side. Not that that wasn’t an amazing alternative, but sometimes you wanted a night out with all the people you cared about, all having fun together.
In the dim lights of the corner of the tavern, the crew’s laughter at Shachi’s latest story wound down as a man slid up to the table, leaning onto the post nearest you. As he stopped next to you, he let out a small cough, pulling your attention (as well as the attention of the whole table).
“Hey angel,” he wore a smug smirk, “I was wondering if I could get you a drink.”
“Oh, I’m okay!” You turned to the rest of the crew sitting with you. “Anyone else wanna order something?”
Your oblivious reaction to the man’s flirting had the table, outside of Bepo and Law, crescendoing into another round of laughs while confusion rose to your face.
The man, adjusting his stance to be closer to you, clarified. “I think you misunderstand, dear. It is your beauty alone that has entranced me this evening. It would be an honor if you would grace me with your presence.”
Ikkaku sighed heavily and picked up her drink at the man’s absorbed behavior. Shachi choked on his own laugh, and Penguin was nearly in tears.
Law, however, showed no reaction. He simply lifted his drink to his lips and watched the scene unfold from under the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“Ohhhh,” a soft blush washed over your cheeks as you realized the meaning of his words. “That’s so sweet, but I’m sorry. I’m actually spoken for.”
His eyes swept over the table, trying to assess which of the rowdy group could possibly have won you over. With an aura of judgment, he said, “I see. Well, I am sorry for disturbing your evening.” He lifted your hand to his lips and departed from the table.
As your hand came back down, Law grabbed it under the table, rubbing soft circles with his thumb in the spot where the man had kissed you, almost as if he could wipe it away.
“Next rounds on me!” You happily declared, sliding out from the booth to head to the bar.
“Hurry back, cap gets grumpy when you’re gone too long,” Penguin joked with a smirk, elbowing Shachi beside him. Law sent them a dark glare, which only had the two men laughing more.
“Behave, you two,” you joked as you walked away.
You ordered from the barkeep and took a seat at the counter to wait. Less than five seconds later, the man in the stool next to you leaned over.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”
“Just having some drinks,” you answered with a friendly smile.
“You should drink with me.” He leaned in even closer, face mere inches from yours, causing you to lean back, teetering in your chair. “Or even better, how about we get out of here?”
Before you could reply, planning to turn the man down as nicely as possible, a blue haze flooded the room, and you were suddenly transported from your spot at the bar to your seat next to Law.
You turned to your lover with a confused look.
Law simply said, “Uni’s gonna grab the drinks.”
“I am?” You heard from across the table, but your attention was drawn away by Law once more, taking your hand under the table.
As you watched Shachi and Pen compete in a round of darts, a woman came up to where you stood, leaning against a tall table with Ikkaku.
and another
Suddenly, Law appeared beside you.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Law grabbed your hand, leaving the woman surprised. “We’re going back to the ship.”
A chorus of “OOOO” came from the crew, as well as a few wolf-whistles at the actions of their captain.
“But why weren’t we having fun?” You asked, letting Law drag you away. “I didn’t get to finish my drink,” you pouted.
“Tsk,” he let out a breathy laugh. “I’ll get you another one… on the ship.”
“Hmpf,” you deepened your frown, “Fine, but you have to give me lots of cuddles too!”
Law slowed his march towards the ship to move his hand from yours and wrap it around your waist, pulling you into his side. “If you insist,” he replied with a small, smug, and loving smile.
Robin x Reader
Length 13 K+
Rating: 14K+
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Telepathic Shenanigans, Language, Psychological Intensity, The use of Science for shenanigans, Dark Humor
for @fallingfortragedy & @bamboozle-me-this
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
You are in your lab, knees faintly glittering with powdered copper from the morning’s bad idea, a stack of dog-eared reference books at your elbow, and a beaker bubbling something questionable on the hotplate. The light through the window is too cheerful for science, but you like it. You want things bright, hot, and a little dangerous. You like experiments that smell like citrus and regret. You do not like the sensation of someone reading your thoughts without invitation.
And you have a bad habit of exploding things—a lot.
The first time you hear her, it is not loud. It threads through your concentration as you balance a glass pipette, steady as an echo.
“Mr. Three is asking for trouble with that attitude.”
So when that voice comes, you drop the pipette. Glass clinks. Something pops. A jet of smoke coughs out of the side vent, and Koala yells something deeply unflattering from the hall. Normal. Except for the new voice in your head.
“…Hello?”
“…I think I just blew up my kettle. Either this is brain damage, or someone else is in my head.”
There is a pause, the kind that sounds like a raised brow.
“Most likely the latter.”
“…Oh my God. The hallucination talks back.”
“Tell me—what exactly did you explode?”
“…A kettle. With too much pressure. I was testing steam flow rates and—look, not important. Is the carbon monoxide leaking?” You scan the wall, half-expecting alarms. Nothing. Yet.
“I would hope not. That would mean you’re close to being in a casket. Hardly a charming introduction.”
You pause.
“Ah. That’s… a heavy way to introduce yourself.”
“I prefer to be direct.” Her voice doesn’t waver, but it is, as she says, direct.
You settle the beaker’s flame. “A telepathic voice, clear as a bell in my head. Which is unusual, since I’m alone in my lab and haven’t spilled anything today. So, unless I’ve finally poisoned myself with fumes, I think you must be what people call… a soulmate. Very unscientific.”
A skeptical silence weighs and measures you.
“You don’t sound alarmed.”
You smile faintly. “I’m a chemist—science and boom-boom stuff. Things explode around me… usually because of me. This is almost calm.”
“Explosions are not calm.”
You shrug.
“Sometimes they are. Sometimes an explosion means the reaction’s working. It’s just energy looking for somewhere to go.”
Silence hums, softer this time.
“You’re a strange one. You make jokes about dangerous things.”
“Not jokes,” you say. “Perspective. If I treated every misstep like the end of the world, I’d never learn. The same goes for life.”
Another pause. Then, her voice threads in, low and careful: “And what will you do with me, if I stay in your head?”
You cap the vial, note the result, and only then answer. “Talk to you. Listen, if you want. Share explosive recipes."
Her laugh is so quiet it almost isn’t there. “You sound like sunshine. Too bright for someone like me.”
“Then stay in the shade if you need to,” you murmur. “The light will be here when you’re ready.”
This silence is longer, heavier. Finally, a sigh escapes her, the kind that sounds like it’s been caged too long.
“You will regret this. Me.”
“Maybe,” you admit. “But I’d rather regret kindness than regret turning away from scientific discovery. You going to stay?”
The silence that follows feels less like distance and more like someone testing the ground before taking a seat.
“…If I may.”
You don’t expect her to take you up on it, but already the idea of company makes the lab feel warmer. You twist a new pipette between gloved fingers until the glass catches the light like a tiny, deliberate star.
“All right then,” you say aloud and in your head at once. “Welcome to the lab. The hotplate is Gloria. The centrifuge is temperamental but loyal. The Bunsen… well, it judges harshly.”
A soft snort—genuine laughter, finally.
“You name your equipment.”
“You would too if you had to listen to them complain.”
“…Or explode,” she drawls, dry as bone.
You grin. “Both valid.”
The citrus-metal tang in the air mixes with her presence, unsettling in its intimacy.
“Are you alone?” she asks. “Most people who like explosions have friends, or at least someone nearby to scream when things go wrong.”
“Koala thinks so, but I disagree. I’m never really left alone. I think they’ve stopped trusting me after the last incident. Not my fault Sabo can’t keep a lighter in his pocket.”
“They? Koala and Sabo?”
You pause, narrow your eyes. “You a marine?”
Her snort sharpens.
“Never. At worst, people call me a pirate.”
You purse your lips, teeth bared.
“Ooooo, a pirate ey? What do you call yourself, then?”
She paused, thoughtfully.
“…An archaeologist. A scholar.”
You brighten. “Nice. I’m a revolutionary. Heard of us? Big fans of scholars. Especially ones who don’t mind explosions.”
A chuckle ripples through your head. It’s small, but real.
“Do you have a name?” she asks.
Your own name tastes too sharp on your tongue, like a clean cut you do not want to bleed, so you offer the safer one instead.
“Sparkplug. Resident Boomologist, for all your explosive needs. And you, scholar?”
For a long beat, there is nothing but the small domestic sounds of the lab. The hotplate clicks. A childlike toy truck rumbles outside. You arrange a row of vials until they appear to form a meaningful pattern. You begin to think she will not answer.
Then, slow and deliberate: “…Robin.”
The name lands like a pebble in still water, and the ripples are immediate. You can feel her testing the edges of it, the way someone might hold a cold coin and try to decide if it is counterfeit. “Cute,” you say, because it is, and because you do not know what else to do with the sudden ache that is not yours.
Her silence is not empty this time. You hear the almost invisible shift of mood, the slight tightening that could be a breath held or a memory squashed down. When she finally speaks, it is flat, sharp as a fossil’s edge. “You are very chipper. Do you know many explosions?”
“Intimately,” you answer. “I can tell you the vocabulary of combustion by heart. Deflagration, detonation, sympathetic resonance. I can be surprisingly tender with unstable compounds.”
Her laugh is a dry sound you would call a smile if you could see her.
You continue, “And you seem inclined toward gallows humor.”
“Mm. Well. I’ve been told it’s my most reliable survival tool.” She breezily admits. “It keeps the horrors fashionable.”
You nod, arching a brow. “A very reliable survival tool.”
You picture her then, not from any sight but from small impressions. A teacup with a hairline crack, steam rising slowly, a scar that stitches skin to memory. You see the shadow at the corner of her mouth that tries to stop a smile and fails by a fraction. The picture is her offering and a question folded into it. You fold back gently.
“I’m not in a good place,” she admits. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t talk to you.”
You glance at the door, your coat draped carelessly, the noisy revolutionaries beyond that may call her an enemy. You can’t promise much. You adjust your trusty goggles.
“It is your choice,” you say. “But I’m not afraid of a little darkness. People say I cannot shut my mouth, and I doubt my thoughts are any quieter. If you want to be alone, I will give you space. If you want company, I will be here. That is the only offer I have.”
Her response comes after a long, measured breath.
“Try not to blow yourself to hell, I’ll be watching.”
You grin because it is impossible not to grin when someone gives you a boundary softened by a joke. “No promises. Hell has surprisingly good acoustics for experiments,” you say, and you mean both the joke and the hope.
This time her laugh is unmistakable. It is black edged and oddly warm, the sort of sound that smells faintly of soot and old jokes. “You are reckless,” she says, mock accusation threaded with something else. “But kind.”
“Or insane,” you agree cheerfully.
There is a tiny, almost shy pause, then a thought like a moth choosing a lamp. The little presence that pressed itself against your mind has decided the light will suit for now. It is a small, ridiculous victory, and the lab feels, plainly and absurdly, like home.
-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-
Robin was as morbid as she was secretive. Being mind-melded with her was like wandering through a graveyard where you were never sure whether you’d find skeletons or a clown. Both, perhaps. Neither option seemed to rattle her.
You, however, had never been afraid of unexpected reactions. Skeletons could be cataloged. Clowns could be kicked (and often should be). If she were a haunted house, you were the tap-dancer click-clacking across the floorboards, refusing to notice the attractions that were supposed to make you flinch.
The following months unfolded like a secret ledger, each page filled with the oddest correspondence you had ever known.
You did not know much about her at first. Only that she worked for someone she called Mr. 0.
That was how she always said it, as if the syllables were a locked drawer. The title felt both theatrical and ridiculous, but her tone was never one of amusement. Her voice was smoke in your head, soft but edged, weary but precise. Every word sounded weighed before she allowed it to reach you.
You quickly learned she lived on the sharp side of things.
“Don’t worry about me,” she told you once, flat as a closed door. “I am handy in a tight spot.”
She said it with the kind of tone that meant she was telling a joke you would not get, the kind of joke that had teeth hidden in its grin. You let her keep it, because whoever her boss was, you had already decided he was a shithead.
So you made it your job to provide the entertainment.
“Today’s recipe,” you announced one afternoon while stirring something volatile over the hotplate, “calls for two eggs, a cup of sugar, and one unfortunate coworker’s boots filled with baking powder and a mystery ingredient. When they sweat—boom.”
She answered after a pause, her tone sharp with quiet amusement. “Messy. Effective. I like it.”
“See?” you said brightly, grinning at your bubbling beaker. “And easy to clean up. I’m thoughtful like that.”
Her chuckle came low and smoky, threaded with something darker. “You are thoughtful in the way arsonists are thoughtful.”
“Arsonists get a bad reputation,” you countered, scribbling a note in the margin of your battered notebook. “All they want is warmth and attention. Perfectly reasonable.”
“This sounds personal.”
“…perhaps.”
Another day, while Koala yelled at you for nearly setting the vent system on fire, you muttered into the bond, “Next recipe. Two pinches of glitter, one tripwire, and a poorly balanced chair in the middle of the office. Guaranteed chaos, minimal jail time.”
This time Robin actually laughed, a dry little burst like brittle paper catching flame. “They would never recover from the glitter.”
“That’s the point. Glitter is forever,” you said solemnly. “Unlike their nagging.”
On another day, you said, “Take a kettle, replace the water with vinegar and steel wool. By the time it boils, you will have a fine cloud of rust-scented terror. Perfect for morning meetings.”
Her laugh was soft and dark, the kind that sounded like a knife scraping bone. “If only you knew how many of them deserve that. Half of this place already smells like water damage and old egos.”
Month after month, the game continued. You supplied absurd “special recipes” for sabotaging her coworkers. Self-stirring sugar bombs. Tripwired teabags. Ink that exploded into glitter when touched. You offered them with a straight face, as though the Revolutionary Army’s finest weapons division had nothing better to do.
She never admitted she enjoyed them, but her replies betrayed her.
“Why stop at glitter? If I am to be arrested, let it be for burying them in gunpowder.”
Or, when you suggested spiking the office coffee with powdered copper so it would turn green, she murmured, “I prefer arsenic. More reliable. Less festive.”
You never asked who Mr. 0 was. In your mind, he was some petty bureaucrat, a glorified gangster with a taste for theatrics. All you knew was that he had a legion of underlings who irritated her endlessly. And that, for one year of unlikely, private conversations, you became the counterweight to her silence, offering chaos while she returned fire with black humor that was equal parts knife and comfort.
You wished for her to leave, though you did not even know the shape of the place she served. She only ever called it the organization or Mr. 0’s business, as if the name itself were a blade. Every time you hinted she could walk away, there was a sharp inhale behind her silence, the kind that sounded like someone holding on to the edge of a cliff.
“You know,” you told her one night while scribbling notes in the margin of a ruined recipe book, “there are brighter places than whatever cave you are living in. You could leave. Start over. You deserve more than being ordered around by men going through mid-life crises.”
Her answer was calm, too calm, like a mask being pressed down tight. “Leave? If I tried, I would not get very far. People like me are not allowed to live freely.”
You bit the inside of your cheek and stirred your beaker a little harder than necessary. “Then maybe people like me should stand at the exit and distract the ones who would stop you.”
For a long moment, nothing. Then a low, sardonic chuckle. “You would get yourself killed in the first five minutes. And I would have to live with the guilt of someone dying over my poor career choices.”
“That is a risk I am happy to take,” you said simply. “And if you ever want out, I will make sure you are not alone.”
Her humor always snapped back in defense. “Perhaps I will hire you to poison the office coffee. That way, you will at least leave behind a legacy.”
But you could hear it, the thread of something underneath, the part of her that wanted to believe. So you kept speaking to her as though her escape were not impossible but inevitable.
“You are clever enough to get out,” you told her a month later when she admitted she had been sent to clean up one of her coworkers’ failures. “One day, you will stop cleaning up other people’s messes and start building your own future. I will still be here, waiting to hear what kind of future that is.”
She gave you silence for two whole days after that. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, almost brittle. “You sound very sure of things that could ruin you.”
“I am sure of you,” you answered.
Her laugh then was sharp and black. “You are either lying or you are insane.”
“Or both,” you chirped, as you always did.
Over the months, the walls she kept around herself loosened by degrees. She would never admit trust, but she stopped biting down so hard on every kindness you offered. Where once her replies were nothing but knives, now there was hesitation, a faint curve of warmth under the soot.
-X-Strange Happens-X-
It began with offhand mentions, as if she did not mean to share at all. One evening, her voice reached you with that careful weight it always carried, but beneath it was something almost… amused.
“There is a group of pirates making trouble in the desert,” she said. “Loud. Unruly. Always asking questions. Their captain seems to have no sense of fear or self-preservation, and somehow the others follow him without hesitation.”
You tilted your chair back, balancing a pipette in one hand. “Sounds like fun company.”
“They are… Interesting," she countered, though there was a faint curl of humor in her tone. “They are disruptive. Chaotic. Like children with too much power and no concept of consequences.”
You grinned into your notebook. “So… fun.”
Her silence told you she was not dignifying that.
“Come on,” you said after a moment. “You should just join them.”
That earned you a short, incredulous laugh, edged in disbelief. “Join them? That would be trading one disaster for another. They consider us enemies.”
“Maybe. But at least it would be a colorful disaster. I bet they’d treat you better than Mr. 0 and his merry band of idiots.”
“You assume pirates are capable of kindness,” she said, dry as the desert she walked in. “That is almost sweet.”
“Not kindness. Friends. There’s a difference. Sometimes a disaster is worth belonging to.”
Her voice quieted, the silence stretching. You pictured her weighing your words the same way she weighed every fragment of trust you offered.
“You talk about disasters as if they are blessings,” she said finally.
“Because they are,” you replied. “Every explosion makes room for something new.”
Her laugh this time was softer, black-edged but warmed at the center. “You are still insane.”
“Or reckless,” you said.
“Or both.”
She did not change the subject. Not that night, or the ones that followed. And each time she spoke of the Straw Hats again, her words carried less dread and more curiosity, as though a door she swore would never open had already begun to swing.
It came weeks later, in the middle of your afternoon experiments. The beaker on the hotplate was bubbling too fast, the room smelled faintly of citrus and scorched copper, and then her voice cut in, calm as a knife.
“So,” she said, almost casually. “I joined them. The strawhats. I was also stabbed, but that’s besides the point.”
You froze with your pipette halfway to the flask. “You what?”
“The Straw Hat Pirates,” she clarified, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I am sailing with them. Also, it was a little stab. Hardly a scratch.”
Your laugh burst out before you could stop it, too loud for the quiet room. “That is—wait, are you serious? That’s hilarious.” You clutched the edge of the bench like it might keep you from falling over. “I told you to ditch your boss, and you went and joined the loudest idiots in the entire sea?”
“Idiots,” she agreed smoothly, though you could hear the faintest smile under her words. “But oddly… sincere ones.”
“Oh my god,” you muttered, setting the pipette down before you spilled something catastrophic. “I was joking. I was actually joking. And you—you did it. You joined the pirate circus.”
“They are not a circus,” she said, amused. “More like… a storm that refuses to stop moving.”
“That’s worse!” You laughed again, half in disbelief, half in delight. “This is incredible. Mr. 0 must be losing his smug mind right about now.”
“I imagine he is,” Robin murmured. “Which is a satisfying thought.”
You leaned back, still grinning like an idiot at the ceiling. “Well, congratulations. You’ve officially upgraded from leather-clad tyrant to chaos farming. Honestly, I’m proud of you.”
Her laugh was low and dark, warm at the edges. “You really are impossible.”
“And you,” you said, “are apparently insane enough to take my advice literally. Welcome to your new disaster, Robin. I think you’ll like it.”
Robin’s new trajectory was a lot more wild than the last. One evening, her voice slid into your head with the kind of casual precision she reserved for dropping landmines.
“Will you ever reveal your secret identity to me? Or do I need to blow something up?”
She laughed, amused, and much happier.
“Mr. 0,” she said, “was actually Sir Crocodile. A Warlord of the Sea.”
You paused. Took a deep breath.
Okay, so you knew that guy, as in he had his bounty posted on Dragon’s Wall of Shame, as a known threat and knife-throwing target.
You had almost dropped your flask. “You’re joking.”
“I do not joke,” she replied smoothly, though her tone carried that small, wicked edge she used whenever you underestimated her.
So she was a pirate. Not just entangled in one, but committed. You tried not to imagine her with a bounty poster, but the thought kept gnawing.
Still, you rolled with it, because what else could you do?
“Guess that makes you one of the cool kids now. Congratulations, Robin. Your résumé just got a lot more chaotic.”
She snorted, low and amused, and did not deny it.
With this new revelation, you were prompted to go where you had never dared (or been allowed) to go before
The records room.
Did you sneak in without permission?
Yes. No regrets.
Stacks of dossiers leaned at odd angles, their parchments yellowed and curling from the salt air. You told yourself you were looking for something useful—supply manifests, Cipher Pol reports—but your eyes kept drifting back to the section marked Pirates of interest.
You found the Straw Hat Pirates quickly, organized well, and with care.
“Huh,” you thought, “I didn't know Dragon knew about the Strawhats. He really is a mythical know-it-all.”
You pulled them out.
And there she was.
The paper crackled as you slid the poster free. The print was grainy, the ink blotched, but her face was unmistakable. Calm. Composed. Dangerous in that understated way she carried herself.
Your stomach gave a funny lurch. You should’ve been studying the numbers. The threat assessment. The bounty. Instead, you found yourself staring, cheeks heating.
Robin.
You blinked, your stomach sinking in slow, inevitable recognition as the parchment crinkled beneath your fingers. The numbers were dizzying, the name printed bold as iron, but it wasn’t any of that that snared you. It was her face.
Even trapped in thick black lines, she was soft. Poised. Almost serene, as if even the government’s ink had been forced to admit her calm. The shading was harsh, the angles too sharp, and yet—despite every flaw in the artist’s hand—it was still her. And still enough to make your ears burn.
She deserved more than this cheap ink and cruel paper. She deserved to be rendered in oils, haloed by lamplight, her smile painted in the kind of careful strokes that made men ache with longing centuries later. Instead, she was plastered on a poster meant to mark her as dangerous, as something to be feared.
You thought bitterly that the fools had gotten it half-right. She was dangerous—dangerous in the way beauty and intellect wove together, hazardous in the way she had your chest tightening with one glance, one word.
And gods help you, even here, in the dim dust of the records room, staring at a piece of paper, you couldn’t look away.
“Pretty,” you muttered before you could stop yourself. The word slipped out like a secret, unbidden and raw. Heat rose to your ears, and you scrambled for cover, adding quickly, “I mean—who even looks that good on government stationery?”
The air in your head buzzed—like static catching flame, a warmth threading through the quiet of your thoughts.
“Thank you.”
poster crumpled slightly in your grip as you jolted, heart hammering. Her voice hadn’t come from the doorway, hadn’t been whispered at your shoulder. It was closer—intimate, impossible.
“Wha—Robin?!”
You spun, half-expecting her to be there in the flesh, smirking in the records room. Instead, the shelves and papers loomed silent, and you realized with dawning horror that she’d answered through the bond.
The bond you hadn’t meant to open.
She chuckled, low and warm, the sound blooming in your skull like a secret only the two of you shared. “You make it sound as if I bribed the artist.”
You groaned, covering your face with the heel of your hand. “You’re not supposed to hear that. It was—look, it was an objective observation. Purely professional.”
“Mm.” She let the syllable linger, amusement dripping from it. “Objective. Of course.”
You swore under your breath, shoving the poster back into its folder like it might erase what you’d said. But the smile tugging at her voice told you it was already far too late.
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh, come on. The government draws me like a sleep-deprived bandit, and you look like—like you’re about to start a fashion line.”
Robin’s laugh slid into your head, soft and low, like velvet catching on a thorn.
“I’ve seen yours too.”
You froze. “…Excuse me?”
Her tone carried that subtle amusement that always made your chest tighten.
“Folded neatly in a drawer. I thought it was charming.”
You gaped at the empty air as though she were standing right there. “Charming? I look like I just lost a bar fight with a Molotov cocktail.”
“I like that ‘half-blown-to-hell mad scientist vibe you have,” she replied without missing a beat. “It’s lively.”
You snorted, heat crawling up your neck.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. No worries, I know when I’m swinging out of my league.”
For a moment, there was only the faint hum of the bond, quiet as a breath. Then Robin’s voice came softer, laced with that dry amusement that always unsettled you. “Out of your league? That’s a strange way of describing the person who just called me pretty.”
Your mouth went dry. “That was—! That was an accident. Totally unintentional.”
“Mm.” Her chuckle rolled low, warm, and unbothered. “If you say so.”
You sank back in your chair, groaning, and dragged both hands over your face. The poster sat between the files, a sharp black-and-white accusation, while her laughter curled through the bond like smoke: sweet, dangerous, and impossible to shake.
-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-
You worried for Robin more than you let on. It was not the kind of worry that made you hover or fawn, because you refused to loom over her like the goddess she clearly was. It was quieter than that, tucked into the corners of your chest.
There were plenty of soulbonds in the world that were not romantic. You knew it. Ivankov and their partners were proof enough, baddie best friends bound together by chaos and loyalty without a trace of longing. Even Dragon, if the whispers were true, kept his soulmate at arm’s length. Bonds could be anything, everything, or nothing at all.
So you told yourself friendship was safer. Respect was safer. Besides, Robin did not need your burgeoning crush complicating her life. She already carried more than her share, her low self-esteem like a shadow she could not quite shake, as she took cautious steps among her new comrades. She deserved steady ground, not someone stumbling headfirst into feelings they could barely admit out loud.
And yet, every time her laughter brushed across the bond, every time her voice lingered soft in your head, you felt that steady ground tilt.
Her path carried her higher, stranger.
She spoke of Skypiea as if it were half dream, half memory. Clouds that could be walked upon. Gold cities swallowed by time. Gods that were anything but divine. Her voice carried the shimmer of it, and her words painted the images in your mind: white seas, wings unfolding in bright air, laughter belonging to people who had not known her long enough to fear her. For the first time, you could feel awe shading her thoughts, fragile and true.
“They are reckless,” she admitted once, the faintest smile curling in her voice. “But they are alive in a way that feels… contagious. Like you.”
You grinned at your cluttered lab, where vials stood in crooked lines like drunken soldiers. “See? I told you to join them. A colorful disaster is better than no disaster at all.”
This time, she did not argue.
“I think… I think I want to be here. With them.”
The quiet in your chest softened. You smiled into the bond, holding the warmth of her words as if they were something precious. This was the happiest you had ever felt with her.
“I’m glad.”
The quiet in your chest softened. You smiled into the bond, holding the warmth of her words as if they were something precious. This was the happiest you had ever felt with her.
And as if the words had unlatched something deep inside, more followed.
“I am not used to this,” she said slowly, almost like testing the shape of the thought. “To choosing people because I want them, not because survival demands it. When they laugh, I remember another life. Back when I still believed someone would hold out a hand for me and not let go.”
Your pen slipped against the page, blotting ink across your notes. The ache in your chest was so sharp you nearly cursed aloud.
“Robin,” you murmured into the bond. “You deserve that again. To have people who reach. To reach back.”
Then came Long Ring Long Island.
You felt it before she spoke a single word. The alarm cracked through the bond like glass shattering in your skull, sudden and vicious enough to make your hand slip. Acid spilled across your notes in a hissing smear, smoke curling up in sharp threads, but you barely noticed.
Your heart was already racing with hers.
“Robin?”
She did not answer at first, only a flicker of fear rushing through you like cold seawater. You pushed harder, gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles ached.
“What is happening?” you demanded, clutching the edge of the bench as though you could anchor both of you at once.
Her reply came clipped, raw, stripped of the calm precision she usually wore like armor. “An admiral.”
The words hollowed you out.
For a moment, you could not breathe, the bond carrying not just her voice but the weight of it—the sound of boots striking earth, the pressure of power heavy enough to crush air itself. The Revolutionaries had warned you what it meant when the government sent an admiral. It meant they were done playing games.
Your mouth was dry, but you forced the words through, low and urgent. “Stay with them. Do not run alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone.”
Her thoughts stuttered, wild with the old instinct to flee, but through it, you felt the faint catch of her breath, as if your voice had pulled her back for a heartbeat.
“Kuzan.”
The name fell from her lips like iron dropped into the sea, and the bond convulsed beneath it. Even before the syllables formed, you felt the cold inevitability, the suffocating weight of something too vast to fight.
You knew of him. Every Revolutionary did. Kuzan, the ice admiral. His name was a command all on its own. Flee on sight. Do not test him. Do not stand. Run.
But Robin knew him differently.
Her memories surged before she could cage them, spilling raw and merciless into you. The flames of Ohara, an island screaming as it died. Towers of books collapsing into ash. Knowledge scattered like frightened birds. You felt her terror, her grief, her loneliness etched into the marrow of her soul. And standing against it all, the figure of a man who did not need to rage or sneer to destroy.
Through her, you felt him.
Kuzan’s presence pressed like a tide against your chest, immovable and absolute. Not cruelty. Not rage. Something more terrible. A quiet that crushed. A weight that dragged. He carried the inevitability of winter in his frame, and the bond transmitted every heartbeat of Robin’s panic until you were drowning in it too.
You tried to steady her, to be ridiculous, to be the light thing that distracted her from shadows. It had worked before. It had always worked before.
“Breathe, Robin. He can’t see me, so that I will make jokes on your behalf. Admirals hate jokes.”
“Not this one.” Her voice came thin, a strained thread that almost broke. “You have no idea how little that would help.”
And then the cold struck.
It rushed through her first, a crackling sting that ripped down the bond like lightning. You gasped as your own lungs seized, the air inside them crystallizing with phantom frost. The warmth of the lab, the familiar clutter of your bench, all of it seemed to fade beneath the intrusion of his presence.
Through Robin’s eyes, you saw the world dim beneath frost, the ground seizing in glassy sheets, trees bowing under sudden weight. The ice spread slowly, deliberately, inexorably. A declaration of power that required no flourish.
Robin’s fear spiked hot through the bond, colliding with the cold until your breath came ragged. You pressed harder into the connection, desperate to hold her steady.
“Robin,” you whispered fiercely, “look at me, not him. Stay with me.”
But the ice crept closer, and you felt her slipping.
One heartbeat, she was there, black humor sharp as soot, clinging to irony even when the world pressed her down. The next heartbeat, there was nothing.
No voice. No laugh. No Robin.
The bond went cold and hollow.
For the first time in a year of strange and unlikely correspondence, your mind was empty of her. It rang with the absence, louder than any explosion you had ever made, more audible than glass shattering or fire roaring through a vent.
You called for her until your throat hurt, until the lab swam before your eyes, until the silence stretched so long you thought it would break you.
And then, like light struggling through fog, you felt her again.
The connection flared weakly, like a candle guttering in the wind. Shouts in the background. Familiar voices. Her comrades. They had reached her. The surge of relief was dizzying, almost painful.
Kuzan had left. You could feel the weight of him receding, his presence drawing back like a tide. He had come close enough to crush her, close enough to make the threat clear, and then he had chosen to walk away.
Robin’s thoughts trickled back into the bond, thin and shaky. Not her usual dry calm. Not the careful composure she wrapped around herself like armor. This was raw.
“He would have ended it,” she whispered, her voice trembling in your mind. “If it wasn’t for Luffy and the others—I’m a danger to them—”
You exhaled shakily, dragging a trembling hand across your mouth. “Don’t think that way. You’re with good people—”
But the words felt flimsy. You could still feel her panic bleeding through, sharp and jagged, clawing at the edges of her composure.
This had shaken her.
Her comrades’ voices grew clearer, calling her name, steadying her, dragging her back to the ship. They were alive. She was alive. And yet beneath all of it, the bond trembled with a fear so deep it made your chest ache.
“I thought I was ready,” she admitted, voice raw. “I thought I was safe with them. But when I saw him… it was like that even all over again. Like I was a child.”
The place, O’Hara, you assumed, flashed again. Pain, fear, and tragedy rolled through her in an endless cycle. You tried to help, reaching out mentally, and gently, softly, pushing it away. As if giving a hug, you replaced it with images from your own past. Warmth. The sorrow of a lost family. The resolution to help. The joy of having her as your soulmate.
You closed your eyes, willing her to hear the conviction in you. “You are not that child anymore, Robin. You are not alone in this fire. I will never leave you.”
The silence that followed was taut, aching.
At last, a breath stirred through the bond. Shaky, uneven, but hers. “I want to believe you,” she whispered. “I want to hold on to that.”
You leaned forward against the bench, forehead pressed to your arm, relief cutting through the hollow ache. “Then believe it. Hold on to me if you have to. I will not let go.”
Her thoughts curled faintly around yours, fragile as paper in rain, but present. Not the sharp humor she carried like a blade. Not her tremendous intellect that so often steadied her. Just a quiet, weary acknowledgment that she was still there, still listening.
Her fear grew.
By the time Water 7 rolled beneath her feet, she was different. The bond felt thin, as if she held it at arm’s length. Her voice came muted, stripped of the sly humor she usually wrapped herself in like armor.
Her crew did not seem to notice. They laughed, they argued, they moved around her with the easy confidence of people who believed they were safe. You watched from the edges of your own world and tried to tether her back to it.
You tried everything. You sent recipes that would have made a gull swoon. You tossed absurd jokes into the bond until they nearly fell flat. You complained about Koala’s lectures until your throat hurt. Still, she answered in clipped, distant phrases, the warmth bled out of her words.
Robin could not hide from you. You knew that in the way a fever shows itself in a face, in the way a ship lists before it sinks. Finally, one night when she could no longer hold the pain inside, you snapped. “Robin, please.”
Her silence stretched so long you thought she had closed you out again. Then, slowly, she exhaled. Her voice was quiet and steady, like someone naming a verdict.
“I have decided to turn myself in. Cipher Pol is here. There is no other way to protect my friends.”
The sentence landed between you, a cold and terrible fact that made the air in your chest hollow out. For a moment, nothing would fit through the bond but the heavy press of her decision. You felt the world tilt toward that single point, and you understood how quickly everything could break.
You gripped the edge of your desk until your knuckles hurt. “What are you talking about? Why would you do that?”
And she told you.
She gave you Ohara in pieces and then whole, as if setting a map on the table and letting you trace every scar. The library first, a hush of pages that loved the world into being. The scholars, stooped and brilliant, reading the sky as if it were a language. Fire like a living thing, swallowing everything they tended. The Buster Call, the ships grinding the island to a memory. Children running with soot in their hair. Faces you could not turn away from. Her childhood marked by a bounty stitched to her name. Each image struck clean, words sharp as broken glass, daring you to flinch away.
You did not flinch. You burned with her instead. Heat filled your chest, hot and righteous and helpless all at once. You felt the truth of it, the weight of what had been taken and the logic of the choice she believed she must make.
“I can read the poneglyphs. They will never stop hunting me,” she said at last, small and steady and terrible. “If I give myself up, at least my friends will be safe.”
“Safe?” Your voice came out raw and ragged, a sound you barely controlled. “Robin, you think the World Government keeps promises? You think the same people who murdered your family will honor your sacrifice? They lie. They always lie. You have done nothing wrong.”
Her silence after that was long and reverent. When she answered, it was only one slight sound, very soft and full of something that could have been gratitude or sorrow or both.
“I’m sorry.”
Then the bond closed.
The absence slammed into you with more force than any blow. The room around you seemed suddenly too bright, as if the light itself could not bear the shape of what had happened. You stared at the spot in your mind where her voice had been and felt the hollow it left.
You buried your face in your hands. The bench was rough against your palms, the grain biting into your skin. For the first time since the bond began, you let yourself fall apart. Tears came hot and sudden, streaking through the lab dust and the chemical tang that always clung to your fingers. They tasted like iron and salt and the ash of other people’s tragedies.
Images crowded you: Robin’s quiet laugh, the way she tucked a stray curl behind her ear when she was thinking, the small, proud tilt she gave when she found a book no one else had read. The memory of Ohara she had unloaded into you sat raw and open behind everything, a bruise that would not heal. You had been given her worst, and there was nothing you could do to stitch it back together for her. Koala found you in the corner, fat tears soaking your rough gloves.
She sat with you for hours.
Koala’s thumb rubbed small, slow circles on the back of your shoulder. Around you, the lab hummed with the ordinary noises of a place that had not yet learned this grief. Somewhere in the compound, someone dropped a tray and cursed, the sound ordinary and cruel.
“So you’re in love.” She said quietly. “And can’t go to her. Just like the boss.”
You drew a ragged breath and looked up. Your face was wet and your eyes were red. Anger flared under the sorrow, fierce and combustible. “Yes,” you said, voice small at first and then firmer as the word found its shape. “She’s so stupid and noble. She's going to get herself killed, and she doesn’t know how good she is.”
Koala’s brow creased. “Heh,” she said softly. “You can’t just—”
“I know it,” you cut in, the heat of it burning through the tiredness in your chest. You pushed to your feet, the bench protesting as you shoved back, and every muscle in you trembled with a mixture of grief and resolve.
Robin had closed the bond. That did not mean she had locked herself to you. The ember she had left in you flared into something that would not be extinguished by distance or silence. You would find a way to reach her. You would find a way to stop her.
Koala let out a long breath and did not argue. Instead, she moved with the practical kindness that made her a leader in both small and large things. “Focus yourself," she said. “Or more people will suffer.”
You nodded once, ugly and fierce. Your grief folded into action like a blade finding its edge. You washed your face, shoved your sleeves up, and for the first time since the bond had gone cold, you felt a direction. You could not change the past for Robin. You could not erase Ohara.
So you did what you could.
You stayed. You listened. You waited.
The bond was thin, like a thread stretched to breaking, but you held it all the same. Across the seas, you felt the echo of Enies Lobby, carried on something more than sound. It came like fire through the connection: the roaring heat of her despair, the iron certainty of her decision, the way silence locked around her thoughts like a trap.
She had given herself up to chains. You felt them as if they had been wound around your own wrists. She was ready to die, not because she wanted to but because it was easier than believing she could be allowed to live. The hopelessness settled over her like frost, smothering every flicker of warmth, and you felt it bleed through the bond until your own chest ached with it.
You stayed anyway. You whispered into the silence even when she did not answer. You sent fragments of thought: the taste of fresh bread, the hiss of acid on glass, Koala’s exasperated voice when you blew something up again. You poured color into the gray, hoping some of it would reach her, even if she refused to hear.
For hours, the bond was nothing but a wall, her despair pressing against you like an ocean with no shore. And then—slowly, impossibly—it shifted.
It was not triumph, not even relief, but the faintest change in pressure, like air rushing back into lungs that had been held too long underwater. You felt voices in the distance, not yours but hers, calling out her name. You felt the spark of hands reaching, of people refusing to let her go.
And through it, a ripple. A break in the silence. A fragile current of disbelief, fragile and trembling, yet alive.
For the first time since she had closed herself away, you felt Robin hesitate. The chains had not vanished. The fear had not left. But she was listening again. Somewhere in the roar of her despair, something broke open enough for hope to bleed through.
And you clung to that with everything you had.
“Say something! Please! Don't give up!”
Voices rose, not just hers but others, shouting her name, shouting that she was not alone. The bond, so long shut, quivered. You held your breath.
And when she broke, when she screamed through the world that she wanted to live, she thought of you.
“I want you to live!”
“I WANT TO LIVE!”
The bond shattered open.
Her voice was raw, furious, desperate, and alive. For the first time, you felt her uncloaked, without irony, without restraint.
You laughed through tears, choking on relief, your heart splitting open with the force of it. She had chosen life. She had chosen herself.
The bond flared, burning bright again, no longer a ghost’s murmur in a graveyard but the unmistakable voice of a woman who had decided, at last, that she deserved to stay. Her presence filled your mind, steady and warm, her breath ragged with exhaustion yet threaded through with something fierce. She had stood at the edge of silence and stepped back.
Her voice was smaller than a whisper, threaded with something like guilt and something like relief. “You should not have waited for me.”
You snorted, a wet, half-broken sound that barely hid the way your chest ached for her. “I was not waiting. I was conducting a cautious experiment in dramatic heroism.”
You wiped your face with the back of your hand and tried to sit up straighter. Your knees argued loudly and lost. “Also, I am going to blow something up if you do not say thanks.” The joke came out jagged and breathless, the sort of terrible humor you always leaned on when you feared you might cry instead.
There was the faintest, incredulous laugh through the bond, soft and almost surprised. “You and your explosives,” she said. “I do not know how you have not destroyed yourself yet.”
“I am indestructible,” you lied, because the lie made you feel braver. Then, because honesty fit like a warm glove, you added, “And Spandam, whoever thought he was clever, is also getting his ass blown to hell. Consider it professional courtesy.”
You heard her inhale, an actual sound in the quiet that steadied you more than any loud vow could have. “Thank you,” she said then, and the word sat between you like something salvaged and precious.
You closed your eyes and let the relief wash through you, ridiculous threats and all. “Say it properly,” you murmured. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I am grateful,” she replied, voice steady now, a small smile threaded through the words that you could feel rather than see. “For staying.”
You laughed, this time cleaner, as if you had finally rinsed the last of the ash from your throat. “Good. Because if you had not, I would have been very, very bored. And also, mad. No more government goons getting fresh with you, okay?”
“No,” she agreed, “you’re the only person allowed to get fresh with me.”
You went red, head to toe.
The bond hummed warm and real, and for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest eased enough that you could breathe without the taste of iron.
When the dust of Enies Lobby finally settled and the bond steadied again, she no longer kept you at a distance. From Thriller Bark to Sabaody, her voice became a constant presence, weaving through your days like a shadow you had long since stopped being afraid of. She was still morbid, still sharp, her humor black as soot, but there was a new softness beneath it, something fragile and almost hesitant in the way she lingered to talk about the most minor things.
She teased you when you forgot to eat, her voice dry as parchment but warm underneath. You scolded her when she pretended she did not need sleep, and she only hummed in that guilty way that told you she had been caught. She gave you quiet sketches of the Straw Hats: Luffy’s laugh rattling the rafters, Zoro’s snoring like a storm at sea, Franky hammering away until dawn. Each detail painted their chaos into your mind like brushstrokes on a living canvas.
And in return, you gave her absurd recipes. Stew with too many spices, cakes that leaned sideways, a method for frying fish that was guaranteed to set the pan on fire. She laughed, soft and incredulous, even when the world pressed heavily on her shoulders. Every time her laughter brushed across the bond, it caught in your chest like a spark, proof that she was still here, still choosing to live, and still letting you be part of the choice.
One evening, you sat cross-legged on the lab floor, knees sore from leaning over glass and solder. The cot by the wall held Koala in a deep, soft snore that punctuated the quiet like a metronome. Bottles glinted in the lamplight. A half-failed experiment frowned up at you from a smear of blue, and your notebook was full of half-formed steps and marginalia you would later pretend were intentional.
Robin’s voice slid into your head then, drier than usual, as if she had been rehearsing the words before she let them go. “I should tell you something.”
You paused mid-scribble and hummed, a sound that meant you were listening and also that you were not about to be dramatic. “Go ahead. I am braced for tragedy, poison, or a review of Sabo’s fashion sense.” You set the pen down carefully, because little rituals steadied you when something felt like it might tilt.
Her silence after that was deliberate. It stretched long enough for you to catalogue, absurdly, the way the lab smelled: solder and lemon oil and the faint tang of boiled sugar where you had burned a batch of caramel two days earlier. You felt, faintly, the pull of the bond like a weather vane turning toward a storm.
Then she spoke, quieter than you expected and without flourish.
“I am in love with you.”
The words arrived like a simple object placed on the table between you. They were not a proclamation. They were not a thunderclap. They were a small, exact thing, measured and true. For a breath, you only heard Koala’s snore and the quick, startled beating of your own heart.
You laughed, at first because that is the shape your panic usually takes. The laugh was wet, surprised, and immediate. Your shoulders dropped and then tightened again. You thought of measuring devices, pulse rates, and whether the room smelled different. You thought of how ridiculous and ordinary it was to be sitting on a lab floor while the axis of your life tilted.
“You… what?” When you finally answered, your voice came quieter than your joke had been.
“You heard me,” she replied, flat as stone, but beneath the dryness you could feel the tremor of truth.
“That is inconvenient for my plan to be a solitary mad scientist.” The joke landed between you like a practiced shield and a tentative bridge. You set the words down carefully, then let the room hold them for a second, giving Robin room to place whatever answer she needed into the silence.
“What are you worried about?” She sliced through your attempt to give her an out.
“Robin, you are far too good for me.” The confession came out before you had time to talk yourself out of it. It sounded ridiculous in the best possible way, accurate and absurd all at once.
Is that a protest?” she asked, amusement threading through the question as if she were petting the rim of a particularly satisfying riddle.
You felt the prickle of heat on your face.
“No. It is not.” You pressed the heel of your hand over your eyes as if that could cool the sudden heat across your face. “I accept it. Happily. Recklessly. Insanely. But I still say you deserve better than a fool who blows up kettles for fun.”
Her chuckle slid into your head, soft and low like pages turning in a quiet library. “Perhaps fools are underrated,” she said. The warmth in her voice felt like a small hand slipping into yours in the dark.
You let that thought sit with you, ridiculous and fragile and real. From that moment, a certainty took root. It was not practical. It was not neat. It lacked a ledger and a plan. It had instead the stubborn glow of something neither of you wanted to let go.
“We will meet in the New World,” you said before you could second-guess the promise. The words felt enormous under your tongue, as if telling them made the ocean between you shrink by a breath.
She was quiet for a long moment, and then she said, “Yes. The New World.” Her voice was steady and then, just for a second, lighter than you had heard it in ages. “If you can find a way not to blow up the map while you are at it, that would be appreciated.”
“I will put the map in a glass case,” you answered, grinning despite the way your chest felt like it might split with too much gladness. “I might even stop testing explosives on the kettle.”
“You might,” she echoed, amusement and something like hope braided together.
You kept that promise in a pocket in your mind. It warmed you when the nights were long and the seas felt too wide. It was an impossible thing to cling to and, therefore, perfect. You did not know how many storms would come before the New World, how many fights you would pick or be forced into, how many times the world would try to pry her from you. You only knew that when the seas allowed and the stars lined up the way lovers tell stories about, you would find her there.
That certainty was a quiet kind of fire. It did not solve everything. It did not erase fear or the ghosts of ash and library shelves. It did not make the future safe. It did give you a direction to walk toward, and that was, for now, enough.
-X-Home Invasion-X-
You had plans. A tentative date. A hot future wife to woo.
And then came Sabaody.
You felt her alarm before you knew the cause—a spike of panic, the edge of fear she rarely let slip. Your chest tightened around it like a fist. You demanded answers, breathless and immediate, but the only thing she gave you was a name.
Through her, you felt the weight of something enormous, calm, and merciless. Her fear coiled through you like chains, cold and unrelenting. You begged her to run, to fight, to hold fast to the bond, but there was no time.
The world bent.
And with it, a name surfaced, heavy and unmistakable.
Kuma.
“Bartholomew Kuma?” you asked, aghast. “He would not—”
The rest of the thought shattered as the bond twisted. You staggered back from your bench, breath ripped out of you so fast the lab spun in dizzy circles. Glass rattled on the shelves, a beaker toppled and hissed against the stone floor.
Koala caught your shoulder, her grip firm, but even she could not keep you steady. The force of it was not physical, not entirely, yet it felt like a hammer had struck you through the chest.
You clutched at the bench with one hand, gasping, words torn out of you in a hoarse rush. “Okay. Maybe it was Kuma.” Your throat burned as you forced a laugh that had no humor. “He hits that hard.”
Koala’s eyes were sharp, searching yours for an answer you could not give. “What did you feel?”
You shook your head, vision swimming. “Like the world just folded in half. Did Kuma turn evil lately?”
Koala’s grip tightened, steadying you as the edges of the lab wavered and snapped back into place. The bond was still there, faint and jagged like a wire sparking in the dark, but Robin was silent on the other end. You called for her again and again, trying not to sound frantic, but the silence stretched until it felt unbearable.
Minutes passed, long enough for your heartbeat to pound raw in your ears. Then, at last, something stirred. A flicker. A thought that was not yours.
Robin.
Her mind moved sluggishly, as if she were clawing her way up from the bottom of the sea. The silence cracked, and you felt her start to think again. Words did not come right away—only fragments of sensation, the dizzy spin of airless displacement, the press of unfamiliar ground beneath her hands.
You clenched the edge of the bench, relief sharp enough to sting. “Robin. Talk to me. Just think. Anything.”
And slowly, painfully, her voice began to take shape, thin at first and then steadier as the bond carried more than fractured impressions.
“I am on a bridge,” she whispered. The words came like someone forcing breath through a block of ice. “A giant one. Over the sea.”
The images bled through with her voice. Stone rolled away underfoot until it lost any edge, a platform that seemed to go on until the world fell off. Below, the sea roared and smashed into the piers, white spray thrown up like torn cloth. Wind cut at her skin in sharp, clean slaps that tasted of salt and metal. The place felt engineered to make people small and noisy, as if the air itself were inspecting them for weakness.
You felt every useless detail as if you had been there yourself. The soles of your shoes scraped unfamiliar stone. Your fingers numbed from a cold that had nothing to do with the weather. A rope creaked somewhere to her right, steady and ominous. Somewhere far off, a bell clanged, hollow and formal. The scale of it made you dizzy, as if standing inside a machine designed to measure suffering.
You gripped the bench until wood bit into your palms. “Where is it? Robin, what bridge?” Your voice was thin and urgent.
Her mind flinched through search, like a blind person seeking a threshold. “I do not know,” she said. “It feels wrong. Too big. Too empty. They have anchored chains, iron thicker than ship cables. People working in lines. Guards everywhere. The air smells of tar and oil and something like bleach.”
You relay this to Koala.
Koala’s face went pale as paper. Her hand tightened on your shoulder until her knuckles blanched. For a long, ridiculous second, she did not say the name at all. She only swallowed and mouthed it, like tasting a sour lemon before she let it pass through her lips. Then she breathed, “Tequila Wolf.” Her voice came out thin and sharp. “That endless bridge the stories never end about.”
“They have seastone—it will stop the bond.”
You closed your eyes and drew every ounce of your attention to the thin thread of Robin that still held. “Hold on,” you said, each word deliberate. “We will find you. Stay with me. Do you hear me? You are not alone on that bridge. We’ll get you back to your crew.” You poured everything you could into that plea: the heat of your hands, the stupid recipes you hid behind jokes, the memory of books she loved, the promise of the New World. It felt like laying a rope across an ocean and hoping she could grab it.
You could tell the moment the seastone was put on, as her mind went mute.
A tiny, ragged intake of breath answered you. It was not a promise. It was only the faintest anchoring sound, like fingers closing on something thrown across a void. You held that sound as if it were a lantern and let it guide the panic from your chest into motion.
“I am coming.”
Koala moved before you even had your boots on. She was all ledger and action, voice clipped into orders that made the room bend to purpose. “Alert the boats. Send a runner to the contact in the northern slip. Get me charts for the East Passage. Rouse whoever can sail tonight.” She spoke in commands, and the compound responded, because people who survive are people who know how to turn fear into work. Maps were unfolded, routes traced with a grim finger, a list of names scratched down and circled in red.
You planned with a kind of holy violence. Every movement felt both absurdly small and impossibly necessary. When you paused, it was only to reach back into the bond and hurl another scrap of steadiness at her. “I am here,” you thought. “Keep breathing. We are coming.”
Outside the compound, the sky had a thin, hard light. The sea smelled of iron and salt and promise. You tightened your pack and let the cold in your chest sharpen into something with teeth. You would not let that bridge be the place they left her. You would not let a story end on a span of stone. You stepped into the night with Koala at your side and the fragile thread of Robin’s voice burning like a marker in the dark.
The revolutionary army mobilizes towards Tequila Wolf.
You track Robin like a bad habit. One small clue becomes a map: a phrase she mutters in a dream, a mention of iron smell and bellows, a scrap of dock gossip you hear from a merchant who owes Sabo a favor. Tequila Wolf is a name that evokes the taste of rust and rope. It is monstrous and obvious once you know where to look. You do not ask permission. You gather people who have no patience for that sort of thing, and they come because you asked them in the one voice they recognize.
Packing is practical and ridiculous in equal measure. Vials with labels that only you can read. A roll of copper wire. A battered thermos that has survived more explosions than you care to count. Koala throws in bandages and a look that says, 'Stop being theatrical.' Sabo brings three crates of supplies and one smug grin that will not be denied. Dragon says, quietly, only, “Bring her home.” That is enough.
The Revolutionary Army moves like a shadow with teeth. The fleet positions off the mouth of the harbor. You time everything to an approximation that is more hope than calculation. Hope, as it turns out, is a fine explosive.
Tequila Wolf is worse in person. It grinds like an animal, plates rubbing plated bone. Iron cables snake into the water like sleeping serpents. Men shout with the practiced cruelty of a place that buys silence wholesale—the air tastes of coal, oil, and the sour tang of too many promises broken.
You get in by making the right kind of noise. A diversion here, a cut rope there, a puff of smoke that looks like incompetence until it reveals itself as choreography. You move like you always do when things are dangerous: loud, a little reckless, and sure that someone will laugh at the plan later. People fall in step with you because they have watched you light yourself on fire and not die.
They trust that chaos that works.
You find her below decks in a room that smells of varnish and old books, the air heavy with the salt damp that clings to every ship. Lantern-light trembles across the wooden beams, throwing long shadows that move when the timbers creak. The space is not a cell, but it could be considered one. She is not chained. She is watched. A guard leans against the doorframe with the bored stiffness of someone who knows his presence is the lock.
Robin sits at the center of it all, hands folded neatly in her lap, the picture of composure. It is a posture too clean, too practiced, as if she has spent hours memorizing how to look patient when her pulse is anything but. The world has taught her this role: the scholar who waits, the fugitive who endures, the survivor who bends so she will not break.
At first, her eyes are hollow. Distant. A still pool with no reflection. She looks at the wall, at the floor, at the book she has not opened. She looks anywhere but alive. And then she finds you.
You find her below decks in a narrow room that smells of varnish and old books, a small library someone has kept against all reason. The lantern light is low and yellow, catching dust motes that hang like slow stars. She is not chained. She is watched. Two men sit near the doorway, posture bored and cruel, boots planted like stakes. A third paces the deck above, shadow moving like a slow hand.
Robin sits with her hands folded in her lap as if she has rehearsed the posture of patience until it becomes a second skin. Her back is straight. Her shoulders are too still. For a long moment, her face is nothing but hollows and careful calm, a practiced mask that keeps the rest of her from spilling. Then her eyes find you.
The change is immediate, small, and enormous all at once. A surprise brightens in the darkness of her pupils. Relief unclenches something around her mouth. You can see, as if a line were loosened inside her, the tiniest line of peace creep across her features that she did not know how to name. For one fragile beat, she looks almost like herself, the way she was when she talked about clouds and gold cities, before fires taught her to be careful.
You do not give her time to savor it. You act with the sort of ugly, elegant haste you have honed in a hundred foolish experiments. You set a charge where the guard above keeps his watch, a neat, borrowed joke of cord and spark and a pinch of the wrong chemistry. It goes with a muffled boom, not a roar —a pocket of sound that folds in on itself. The lanterns shudder. Planks shiver. The guard goes down hard, stunned and rolling, stunned enough that his comrades forget the room for one ragged second.
Smoke blooms sweet and bitter. You sprint in, hands steady though your heart is a drum. The two men at the doorway spin, shouts splitting the air, and you move like a living fuse. One of them tries to draw a blade. It clatters uselessly into the gutter of the room when your hand finds it first and snaps it aside. The other lunges and meets a stomp that sends him sprawling. Not elegant. Brutal. Effective.
Robin’s hand moves then, before she knows what she will do, the quick, practiced motion of someone who has been forced to improvise courage her whole life. She is on her feet, the chair scraping, and for a fraction of a beat, your eyes lock. Her mouth opens, closes. Her breath stutters. Then she laughs, a tiny, stunned sound that trembles into something like incredulous joy.
“You,” she says, and the single syllable carries everything she cannot say: joy, relief, astonishment, thanks. Her voice is a thin thread, and the whole room listens to it. “You found me.”
You grin, breathless and ridiculous and impossibly alive. “Technically, Sabo did,” you answer, because you always answer with nonsense when everything else tastes like ash. Your grin is a crooked promise. “But I helped blow up the guards.”
You let the laugh cut the air between you. It is the kind of sound that makes other people realize the danger is already past. You give the thick seastone shackles on her wrist a sour look, and also an excuse not to look directly at the most beautiful person who has ever existed.
Then, softly, Robin raises her hand, pushing your goggles back to refocus your attention on her.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes shone with something profound. There is a kind of fierce softness that makes your chest both ache and mend. She stands a little straighter, as if the knowledge that you would come matters more than the fact of the ruin around you.
“I will always come for you.” You say softly. “As long as you want backup, I’ll be there.”
Behind you, Koala’s footfalls are quiet and sure. The crew moves like shadows, taking shape into rescue, quick and silent and relentless. You have made a mess of the plan, but you have also made a room that will buy them the minutes they need. That will have to be enough.
“Want a key?” Koala tosses it without looking, her movements already on to the next task. You catch it and wink cheekily, a burst of bravado that does not match the trembling in your hands, then make short work of the shackles.
The metal falls away, and with it, her mind softly comes back to yours.
“Thanks,” you murmur, brushing your fingers gently over Robin’s wrist. The skin is marred with fresh red marks, and your face knots with anger you cannot hide.
“I am fine,” Robin answers, stepping closer. Her voice is calm and steady, but when she adds the following words, they convey both a reprimand and an apology. “Do not make a habit of this. My papers do not list you under ‘acceptable collateral.’”
You bow with mock solemnity, exhaustion pulling at your body, but elation sparking bright enough to burn through it. “Noted. I will file a formal protest with fate.”
Robin’s mouth curves, faint and wry, and for a heartbeat, the room is not a prison but a reprieve. You know, without a ledger or a vow, that she has found an anchor in the noise you made. You know, underneath the adrenaline and the burnt rope scent, that you both have returned to a place you have been teaching each other to trust.
She snorts, her perfect dark humor threading back through her. “You make a very theatrical rescuer. Has Dragon added costumes to the requisition list?”
“Sabo insists I wear a hat,” you say. “I declined for practical reasons.”
She smiles in a way that is new, dangerous, and human. “You are impossible.”
“Or insane,” you say, and mean it the way you always do. “Now be the pirate I know you are, and let's get the hell out of here. And do that hand trick, I want to see how far you can throw my latest IED.”
Robin’s hands are warm when she grabs yours. They are not the hands of a woman resigned to being a prize. They are the hands of someone who still belongs to herself. You feel, in that small contact, the years of fear and the recent decision to survive converge and ebb. For a heartbeat, you imagine yourself a different kind of scientist, one who measures not reagents but people, and the calculations are messy and worth the risk.
Outside, the night is an active thing. Alarms begin their distant cries as your diversion completes its final act. Men shout, boots thunder, and the Revolutionary Army answers with a tide of controlled violence and strange, patient strategy. The rescue is not painless. Someone takes a blade for a radio man you have come to like. You taste copper and anger and the clean, bright sting of success.
When you are finally off the Wolf and clambering onto a smaller deck where the sea smells like salt and second chances, Robin exhales. It is a long breath that sounds almost like a laugh and almost like a prayer.
“Thank you,” she says, quiet and steady.
You want to say all of the messy things lodged in your chest. You want to tell her she was never alone, even when she thought she was. You want to promise the New World and vows too ridiculous for any sane person to keep. Instead, you touch her nose with the tip of your finger and keep your voice steady.
“You did well,” you tell her. “Rest awhile. I’ve got you.”
Her smile is not the careful one she wears for strangers. It is small and sharp and ordinary, the kind that belongs in kitchens and late trains and comfortable rooms. It is both joy and danger at the same time.
She does not answer. She steps forward and presses her mouth to yours, deliberate and unhurried, a kiss that takes up the space of everything you had wanted to say and more. It is thorough enough that you are almost sure your revolutionary coworkers felt it as well. There is a rustle of bodies, an embarrassed cough, the muffled laugh of someone who will tease you later for it. Koala clears her throat in a way that is equal parts scandalized and pleased.
When she pulls back, her breath is warm against your lips, and her eyes are bright with something that belongs to both of you now. She does not explain. She does not need to. You rest your forehead against hers for a beat, feeling the small, stubborn certainty of the promise you had not yet managed to say aloud.
Sitting on the deck as dawn learns how to be color again, you watch Robin watch the horizon. She leans against the rail, hair loose, the new light catching at it. She is still morbid, very much, and all yours.
-X-The Climax-X-
For the two years that followed Tequila Wolf, she belonged to you.
Two years, carved out of the world’s chaos like stolen hours, filled with the quiet intimacy of living side by side. Robin was still morbid, still secretive, still prone to slipping barbed humor into the most ordinary of conversations, but she was also softer in ways she had never dared to be before. She laughed more, and the sound was not always sharp. She read aloud sometimes when she thought you were asleep, voice low and steady as a tide. You caught yourself learning the rhythm of her silences, the warmth of her hand against yours, the strange comfort of a mind that had once felt like a haunted house now opening doors without fear.
You were in love—both of you.
The bond between you no longer felt like a ghost’s whisper. It was a thread woven into everything, a private line that hummed when you were in the same room and rang brighter when you were apart. You lived, you fought, you teased one another about bad habits, and you let yourself dream.
But even dreams have currents.
The Sunny waited for her. The Straw Hats were her future, her disaster family, her place. You had always known it. And you had always known you would stay here, with Dragon, with the Revolution, with your endless experiments and the chaos you called purpose.
When the day came, you stood with her on the shore as the tide pressed close. She was calm, though you felt the tight knot in her chest through the bond. You were smiling, though your throat hurt as though you had swallowed glass.
“You are going back,” you said, and it was not a question.
“I am,” she answered, and her voice was steady. “They need me. I need them.”
You nodded, adjusting your glasses, fussing with a flask you were not really holding. “I know. I always knew. You belong with them.”
Her eyes softened in that way that always unmoored you. “And you belong here. With your fire and your noise. With the people who follow you into your madness.”
You laughed, though it caught on the way out. “I told you before, Robin. You are too good for me.”
She touched your hand, light as a bookmark settling between pages. “And I told you, fools are underrated.”
The ship came into view, sails bright against the horizon. The Straw Hats were waiting at Saboady.
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to hers for a fleeting moment. “Go. Before I do something ridiculous, like set the dock on fire to keep you here.”
Her smile was quiet, dangerous, and kind. “I would not put it past you.”
And then she left. She walked toward the ship with her shoulders straight, every inch the woman who had chosen life, and your heart went with her. The bond stretched but did not break. It sang low and steady, a reminder that distance was only distance, not absence.
You stood on the pier long after the ship was gone, your hands smelling faintly of smoke and citrus, your throat aching with unshed words. Koala found you there and said nothing. She only stood beside you, as though she knew some griefs could not be argued with.
Robin was gone, back to the Sunny, back to her family.
It hurt. Of course, it hurt. But in the marrow of it, you knew love had never been about keeping someone. It was about letting them walk toward the horizon and trusting that you would meet them there when their dreams were fulfilled.
And when stories finally stop asking for an encore and the maps have nowhere left to unfold, you picture the last page written with both your hands on the same pen.
You imagine two worn caps on a sun-bleached rail, laughter thin as salt on the air, and the long, ordinary quiet of having done enough living to be still. Until that last chapter arrives, you will keep making noise and she will keep steering storms, and somewhere between your explosions and her quiet, morbid jokes, the promise will hold: when our tales end, they will end together.
Cosmic Joke Status: Archival Overload
Congratulations! You’re now bound to Robin, a dangerously clever, quietly menacing soulmate who doesn’t need to knock, always thinks three steps ahead, and would mentally scorch anyone who so much as glanced at you wrong.
And the worst part?
You’re starting to… admire it.
(Especially the way she silently unmakes anyone who flirts with you, like a perfectly composed shadow with a smile that chills the spine.)
nashira, (γ) Capricorni, "the fortunate one, or the bringer of good tidings."
synopsis: Your friends want to meet your "mysterious" guy, but you aren't sure you're ready yet... and neither is Dex.
word count: 17.7k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: i edited this last night and literally right before posting this, so if there are any mistakes or awkward sentences... my bad. i was playing gta v and marvel rivals yesterday because i have a new computer (i say "new" but it's my brother's hand me down that's like 6+ years old)
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader is implied to be matt's sister (not bio), dual pov, stalking, fake persona, dates, matt is overprotective, dex is a little awkward, slight angst
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You almost turn around twice before you reach the café door, once because you convince yourself this is unnecessary and another time because you tell yourself you have grading to do and that grading is a better use of time than sitting across from a man who was basically a stranger. The sidewalk is crowded with late-morning traffic, strollers and dogs and people pretending they aren’t hungover, and you pause just outside the window long enough to see that he’s not inside yet.
You push the door open and step into the warm noise of the place, the hiss of the espresso machine and the low hum of overlapping conversations. You choose a small table near the window without overthinking it, set your bag down carefully at your feet, and check the time on your phone even though you know you’re early. You tell yourself you’re just being punctual and not anxious.
The bell over the door rings again a minute later, and you look up automatically. Benjamin steps inside, scanning the room without making it obvious, and his eyes find you quickly. He’s dressed the same way he always is—nothing flashy, nothing that stands out—but in daylight he looks slightly different, less shadowed, more tangible. He spots you and walks over at an even pace. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply, and you immediately hate how formal that sounds.
“You’ve been here long?” he asks.
“Like three minutes,” you answer. “I didn’t want to be late.”
He nods once. “Me neither.”
There’s a half-second pause where you both look at the counter like you’re unsure who’s supposed to move first. You gesture toward it. “Do you want to order?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “What’re you getting?”
“Probably something I don’t need,” you reply. “And something with too much caffeine.”
He almost smiles. “That tracks.”
You stand together in line, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the awareness of it. The menu board hangs overhead like it’s judging you for indecision, and when it’s your turn, you order quickly because you hate holding up lines. “Large latte,” you say, then add, “extra shot.”
The barista raises an eyebrow. “Bold choice,” she says.
“Long week,” you reply.
Dex steps up next. “Black coffee,” he says.
The barista glances between you two. “Balance,” she declares.
You snort and step aside to wait. “You could at least pretend to get something interesting,” you tell him.
“It’s coffee,” he says again.
“That’s not an answer,” you reply.
“It’s the only answer,” he says, and his tone is flat enough that you can’t tell if he’s joking.
You collect your drinks and head back to the table. He pulls the chair out slightly before sitting, not in a showy way, just a small movement that you notice because most people don’t bother anymore. You wrap your hands around the cup like you need the warmth to anchor you. “So,” you say, because someone has to start. “This is technically a date.”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
There’s another pause, but it’s not as sharp as before. You blow across the top of your latte, then take a careful sip and wince because it’s still too hot. “I haven’t done this in a while,” you admit.
“Me neither,” he says immediately.
You glance at him. “How long is ‘a while’?” you ask.
He considers that for a second. “A few years,” he replies. “You?”
You look down at your cup like the foam might answer for you. “Long enough that my friends were suspicious,” you say. “I think they thought I’d given up.”
“On dating?” he asks.
“On everything,” you reply, then shake your head like you don’t want to make it heavy. “It’s not dramatic. I was just… busy.”
“With work,” he says.
“With work,” you confirm. “And other things.”
He nods like he’s not going to push further, and you appreciate that more than you expected to. He doesn’t ask about overseas or about nightmares, and he doesn’t tilt his head and give you that concerned look people give when they think you’re about to confess something tragic. “You don’t seem like someone who gives up,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve known me for what, a month?” you reply.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I’ve observed,” he says.
“That sounds ominous,” you say lightly.
“It’s not,” he answers. “You’re consistent.”
You lean back in your chair slightly. “That’s your big compliment?” you ask. “Consistent?”
“It’s not a bad thing,” he says.
You consider that, then shrug. “I like structure,” you admit. “I don’t do well when things are… chaotic.”
He nods once. “Same.”
You look at him more closely then, noticing how still he is even with all the noise around you. People are moving constantly, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly near the counter, and he seems steady in the middle of it like he’s built to filter out distraction.
“You’re very calm,” you say.
He tilts his head slightly. “You’ve said that before,” he replies.
“I know,” you say. “I’m still evaluating whether it’s a good thing.”
He almost smiles again. “What’s the verdict?”
“Undecided,” you answer.
A group squeezes past your table and one of them bumps your chair. You shift automatically, re-centering yourself without spilling your drink. Dex’s hand moves a fraction like he’s ready to steady the table, then stops when he sees you’ve already handled it.
“You always sit where you can see the door?” you ask, because you’ve noticed it twice now.
He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he says. “Habit.”
“Military?” you ask, half-joking.
“No,” he replies evenly.
You watch him for a second, then nod like that’s enough. “Okay,” you say. “I do that too sometimes.”
He looks at you then, more directly. “Overseas,” he says.
“Yeah,” you reply, and you don’t elaborate. “Old habits stick.”
He doesn’t press. He just nods once like he understands the concept of habits that don’t go away just because you want them to. “So what do you do when you’re not terrorizing students?” he asks.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t terrorize them,” you say. “I correct them.”
“That sounds worse,” he replies.
You laugh, real this time. “I read,” you say. “I reorganize my apartment. I make color-coded lists I pretend I don’t need.”
He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “You pretend?”
“I absolutely need them,” you admit. “If I don’t write something down, I will think about it until it’s resolved.”
“That sounds exhausting,” he says.
“It is,” you reply.
He nods once, thoughtful. “I don’t like idle time,” he says. “If I don’t have something to focus on, I get restless.”
“Restless how?” you ask.
He pauses just long enough that you notice. “Just… restless,” he says. “Like I need to be moving.”
You study him, then nod. “That makes sense,” you reply, even though you’re not sure why it does.
There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It feels like a gap you’re both testing to see if it breaks, and luckily it doesn’t.
“Do your friends know about me?” he asks finally.
You blink. “Unfortunately,” you say. “Yes.”
He doesn’t look alarmed. “And?”
“And they’re nosy,” you reply. “Foggy wants to interrogate you. Karen wants to analyze you. Matt wants to decide if you’re a threat.”
He absorbs that without reacting outwardly. “Which one are you?” he asks.
You tilt your head. “About you?”
“Yeah.”
You consider it honestly. “I’m undecided,” you say. “But not in a bad way.”
He nods once. “That’s fair.”
You glance at your cup, then at him. “You’re not what I expected,” you admit.
“What did you expect?” he asks.
“More…” you search for the word. “Confident.”
He looks almost amused at that. “I am confident,” he says.
“In what?” you ask.
“In routine,” he replies.
You laugh softly. “That’s the least intimidating answer you could’ve given.”
He shrugs. “It’s true.”
You take another sip of your latte and realize you’ve been sitting here nearly an hour. You check your phone out of reflex, then catch yourself and set it back down. “I should probably go,” you say reluctantly. “I have a stack of exams that aren’t going to grade themselves.”
He nods immediately. “Okay.”
Neither of you stands right away. You both linger just a second too long like you’re recalibrating. “This was good,” you say, because you don’t want him to misread your leaving as disinterest.
“Yeah,” he replies. “It was.”
You gather your bag and stand, and he stands too, keeping enough space that it doesn’t feel crowded. When you reach the door, he opens it again without making a show of it, and you step out into the cooler air.
“Same time next week?” you ask, before you can overthink it.
He looks at you carefully, like he’s confirming you mean it. “Yeah,” he says. “Same time.”
You nod once. “Okay.”
There’s a half-second where you wonder if this is the part where someone leans in or reaches out, but neither of you does. It’s not that kind of date. It’s steadier than that, more cautious. “Bye, Benjamin,” you say.
“Bye,” he replies.
You walk down the block toward home with your tote bumping against your hip and your mind louder than you’d like, but not in a bad way. Behind you, Dex stays still for a moment, watching the space you just left, and then he turns and walks in the opposite direction at an even pace, already calculating the next overlap without letting it look like calculation at all.
Dinner happens the next week on a Tuesday because your Saturdays fill up faster than you like admitting, and Tuesday is the kind of day you can justify as “not a big deal.” You pick a quiet place with a small menu and low lighting, mostly because you don’t want to shout over music and you don’t want to do the awkward thing where you’re elbow-to-elbow with strangers. Dex shows up a few minutes early again, and when you walk in and spot him, he stands like he’s not sure if standing is too formal but sitting feels wrong.
“You’re on time,” you say as you shrug off your coat.
He nods once. “So are you,” he replies.
You slide into the booth across from him and glance around. “This is… calm,” you say, and you sound more relieved than you meant to.
“It’s quieter,” he agrees. “I figured you’d like that.”
You pause, then look at him. “You figured,” you repeat.
He doesn’t flinch. “You don’t like loud places,” he says, simple.
You huff a laugh. “I like loud places,” you argue. “I just don’t like being trapped in loud places.”
He looks at you steadily. “That’s what I meant,” he replies.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying,” you tell him.
“I’ve been told,” he says, deadpan.
When the waiter comes, you order without overthinking it, and he orders without asking a single question about the menu like he already decided. You watch him for a second and can’t help yourself. “You don’t read menus,” you accuse.
He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “I read them,” he says.
“You do not,” you insist. “You choose a thing immediately like it’s a test.”
“It’s food,” he replies.
“That’s not an answer,” you say automatically, and the fact you say it the same way you say it to students makes you laugh at yourself.
Dex’s mouth twitches. “It is an answer,” he replies, and his tone is dry enough that you recognize it as a joke even if he doesn’t smile.
Dinner is easy, which is the part that makes you suspicious at first, because easy usually means you’re missing something. He doesn’t ask you questions that feel like traps and he doesn’t over-share. He listens, and when you start talking about your day, you realize you’re not performing the way you do with everyone else, turning it into anecdotes and humor so no one notices how exhausted you are.
“So,” he says once your food arrives, “what’s the worst email you got this week?”
You blink, then laugh. “That’s a loaded question,” you reply. He takes a bite, chews, and waits like he’s not in a rush. You exhale. “Okay,” you say. “Someone asked me if they could redo the entire semester.”
Dex pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Redo,” he repeats.
“Redo,” you confirm. “Like the semester is a video game.”
He nods once like he’s filing it away. “What did you say?” he asks.
“I said no,” you reply, and you sound pleased with yourself. “I said a lot of other words too, but the important one was no.”
Dex takes another bite and says, “Good.”
You watch him for a second. “That’s it?” you ask. “No follow-up? No ‘you should be nicer’?”
He looks up. “Why would you be nicer?” he asks.
You freeze for half a second because most people do want you to be nicer, and you’re used to explaining that strict doesn’t mean cruel. “I don’t know,” you admit. “People like to act like I’m personally trying to ruin their lives.”
He shrugs. “They’re adults,” he says. “They can handle being told no.”
You stare at him, then laugh softly. “You’re either very reasonable or you’re going to end up on a watch list,” you tell him.
“I’m reasonable,” he replies, perfectly calm.
You lean back in the booth, studying him. “That’s exactly what someone on a watch list would say,” you respond.
His mouth shifts again, almost a smile. “Probably,” he says.
When you leave the restaurant, the night air hits your face and makes you feel more awake. You’re walking side by side down a quieter street, not rushing, and Dex keeps the same half-step position that gives you space without leaving you exposed to the flow of people. You notice it without wanting to, the way he angles himself when a group passes, the way he never bumps into anyone. You hate how much you notice it because noticing means you’re paying attention in a way you told yourself you wouldn’t.
“You walk like you’re trying not to touch the world,” you say, and you immediately regret saying it because it sounds too personal.
Dex doesn’t get weird about it. “I don’t like crowds,” he answers.
“That’s funny,” you say. “I thought you liked routine.”
“I do,” he replies. “Crowds aren’t routine.”
You make a sound like that’s fair, then you bump your shoulder lightly into his as you walk, a small gesture you don’t think about until after you do it. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, he keeps walking like it’s normal, and that makes your chest feel oddly tight.
The bookstore date happens because you mention, offhand, that you haven’t had time to wander a bookstore in years, and Dex says, “then we can,” like it’s the simplest solution in the world. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the place smells like paper and coffee and dust, and you feel your body relax as soon as you step inside because you’ve always trusted books more than people.
Dex trails a few steps behind you at first, quiet, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning shelves and corners like he’s watching for something. You stop in front of a biology section out of habit and make a face at a textbook you recognize. “I hate that book,” you mutter.
Dex leans slightly closer to read the spine. “Why?” he asks.
“Because it’s wrong,” you reply immediately.
He pauses. “It’s wrong?” he repeats.
You glance at him, then point at the shelf. “It simplifies things so much it becomes misinformation,” you say. “And then it makes students confident in the wrong things.”
He nods once. “That’s annoying,” he says.
“It’s infuriating,” you correct.
Dex doesn’t argue. “Okay,” he replies, like he accepts the distinction.
You move down the aisle and pull a paperback off a shelf without thinking. Dex’s hand brushes yours at the same time because he reached for the same book, and the contact is so light you could pretend it didn’t happen, but you don’t; you look at him.
He looks at the book, then at you. “You can have it,” he says.
You lift an eyebrow. “That’s not how it works,” you reply.
He holds his hand out, offering it anyway. “I don’t need it,” he says.
“You don’t even know what it is,” you point out.
He glances at the cover. “You want it,” he replies.
Your mouth opens, then closes, because he’s right and you don’t like that he’s right. You take the book and tuck it under your arm. “I do want it,” you admit, then add, “thank you.”
He nods once like that settles it, and he follows you into another aisle without trying to crowd you. When you stop to browse, he stops too, not hovering, just existing close enough that it feels like company rather than pressure.
At one point you catch him in the true crime section, staring at a row of titles like he’s deciding something. “Oh no,” you say, stepping up beside him. “You’re not allowed to read those.”
He turns his head toward you. “Why?” he asks.
“Because you’re already weirdly calm,” you reply. “If you start reading about serial killers, you’ll get ideas.”
Dex’s mouth twitches. “That’s not how ideas work,” he says.
“It is for you,” you insist.
He looks at you for a long beat, then says, “you’re mean.”
“I’m honest,” you correct, and you grin at him so he knows you’re joking.
He gives you that almost-smile again and says, “okay.”
The museum date is your idea, and it surprises you when you hear yourself suggest it. You blame it on the fact you’re tired of restaurants and coffee shops and you want to do something where you can walk without feeling like you have to perform conversation the whole time. Dex says yes immediately, no questions, and when you meet him outside the museum he’s wearing the same neutral clothes, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the steps and the crowd like the building itself might lunge.
Inside, he’s quieter than he normally is, and you expect that to feel awkward, but it doesn’t. He reads plaques like he actually reads them, he stands in front of a painting for longer than seems normal and doesn’t look bored. You end up lingering beside him, letting the silence stretch, because silence in a museum feels permitted.
You stop in front of an exhibit with medical artifacts—old tools behind glass—and you stare a little too long before you realize you’re doing it. Dex doesn’t comment on your face and doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He shifts slightly so his shoulder is closer to yours without touching, like he’s offering space without making it obvious.
A kid runs past too fast and nearly bumps you, and Dex’s hand catches your elbow lightly, steadying you without gripping. The touch lasts less than a second, but you can still feel it after he drops his hand.
You glance up at him. “Thanks,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah,” he replies.
You keep walking, and the small touches happen in ways that don’t feel forced. His fingers brush yours when you both reach for the same map, your shoulder brushes his when you squeeze past a group, and he steps a little closer on the sidewalk outside, not enough to trap you, just enough that you don’t feel like you’re walking alone.
On the walk back to the subway you find yourself talking more than you usually do, filling the air with stupid observations and jokes and complaints about museum gift shop prices. Dex responds with short, dry comments that make you laugh, and when you tease him, he doesn’t retreat. He just looks at you like he’s deciding how to respond and then says something understated that lands harder than it should. “You’re not as scary as you act,” he tells you at one point, like it’s a simple observation.
You scoff. “I don’t act scary,” you reply.
He glances at you. “You do,” he says. “It works.”
You look at him, then shake your head. “You’re weird,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
He answers, “Yeah,” like he’s agreeing with you.
By the time you’re on your fifth date, the routine of it has settled in without you noticing. Coffee turns into dinner. Dinner turns into walking. Walking turns into you standing outside your building with your keys in your hand and your shoulders relaxed enough that you don’t immediately rush inside. You don’t invite him up, but you don’t snap goodbye either. You linger, and he lingers, and both of you pretend you’re not doing it.
One night, as you’re about to turn away, you look up at him and say, “you know you can talk more, right?”
He blinks once, then replies, “I am talking.”
“You’re giving me bullet points,” you tell him.
He looks almost amused. “Bullet points are efficient,” he says.
You laugh, and you shake your head like you can’t believe him. “God,” you mutter. “You’re impossible.”
He steps a fraction closer, still not crowding you, and says, “You asked me out.”
“I did,” you admit, and your voice is lighter than it’s been in a long time. “I don’t know what that says about me.”
Dex’s gaze stays steady on your face. “It says you wanted coffee,” he replies.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. “Goodnight, Benjamin,” you say.
“Goodnight,” he answers, and he waits long enough that you get inside safely, but not so long that it feels like a guard posted outside your door. You don’t realize until later that you’ve started expecting that balance from him, the closeness without pressure, the attention without demands, and that expectation is its own kind of dangerous.
Foggy makes spaghetti again, which is his way of pretending he’s low-maintenance even though he’s absolutely not. His apartment is warm and loud and crowded in the way it always is when he’s decided it’s a “group dinner,” and Karen is already on her second glass of wine because she has better instincts than you do. You drop your tote bag by the door and kick your shoes off, and Matt is on the couch with his cane leaned against the armrest like he’s off-duty, but you know he’s never really off-duty.
Foggy points his fork at you the second you step into the living room. “Okay,” he announces, like he’s been waiting. “We’re doing this now.”
Karen sighs without looking up from her glass. “Foggy,” she warns.
“No,” Foggy insists, undeterred. “We are not glossing over the fact that she has been on, like, three dates.”
You groan and drop onto the edge of the armchair. “It’s been five and a half,” you argue.
Foggy’s eyes widen. “Five and a half?” he repeats, delighted. “What the hell is a half date?”
“You can’t call coffee a full date if it ends before noon,” you say, dead serious.
Karen snorts. “That’s not how dating works,” she tells you.
“It is for me,” you reply, and you steal a piece of bread off the tray before Foggy can smack your hand away.
Foggy leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So,” he says, drawing it out dramatically, “Benjamin.”
You roll your eyes. “What about Benjamin?” you ask.
“What’s he like?” Foggy demands, like he’s interviewing you for a documentary.
Karen sets her glass down and looks at you properly. “Yeah,” she says, more measured than Foggy. “What’s he like?”
Matt stays quiet, which is how you know he’s listening harder than either of them. His face is neutral, but his posture is still, and you can feel his attention on you in a way that makes you want to be stubborn on principle.
“He’s quiet,” you say.
Foggy makes a face like you just told him you bought plain oatmeal for fun. “Quiet,” he repeats. “Like… quiet quiet?”
“Quiet quiet,” you confirm. “He talks, he just doesn’t… fill space. He’s not dramatic.”
Karen nods slowly, like she’s measuring that against what she knows about you. “Do you like that?” she asks.
You shrug, then realize shrugging makes it seem like you don’t care, and you do care. “Yeah,” you admit. “It’s nice.”
Foggy grins like he’s about to say something obnoxious, but Karen cuts in first. “Is he kind?” she asks.
You blink at her. “Yeah,” you say. “In his way.”
Foggy immediately pounces. “In his way,” he repeats. “What does that mean?”
“It means he doesn’t do performative,” you reply. “He doesn’t make a big show about it. He just… does things. Like opening doors, walking me halfway home, that kind of stuff.”
Matt’s jaw tightens just enough that you notice, but he doesn’t speak.
Foggy points his fork again. “Is he hot?” he asks, shameless.
Karen kicks Foggy’s foot under the table. “Jesus,” she mutters.
You stare at Foggy, unimpressed. “I’m not answering that,” you tell him.
Foggy leans back, arms wide. “Okay, so yes,” he declares.
You shake your head. “Shut up.”
Karen’s mouth curves, but her eyes stay focused on you. “You seem…” she pauses like she’s choosing a word. “Lighter,” she says.
You hesitate, then nod once because you’re not going to deny it. “I guess,” you admit. “It’s not like I’m in love or anything. It’s just nice to talk to someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
Matt’s head tilts slightly. “Who treats you like you’re stupid?” he asks, quiet.
You wave a hand. “People,” you reply. “Guys at work. The type who hear ‘biology’ and immediately start explaining biology to me like I’m hearing it for the first time.”
Karen makes a face. “Oh my God,” she says.
“It’s constant,” you continue, and the irritation in your voice is real now. “Or they do that thing where they talk over me in meetings and then act like they’re surprised when I push back. Benjamin doesn’t do any of that. He just… listens. And he doesn’t get weird when I’m blunt.”
Foggy nods like he understands despite the fact he’s never been a woman in a room full of men. “Okay,” he says. “So he’s respectful.”
“Yes,” you reply. “He’s respectful.”
“And cute,” Foggy adds, because he can’t help himself.
You glare at him. “A little,” you admit anyway, mostly because you want to spite him by not being embarrassed.
Foggy makes a triumphant noise. “I knew it,” he says.
Karen smiles, and it’s the warm kind, not the cautious one. “A little weird too?” she asks, like she already knows your type.
You laugh softly. “Yeah,” you admit. “A little weird. A little awkward. It’s not bad awkward, it’s… normal awkward, like he doesn’t pretend.”
Matt stays quiet through all of it, and that makes your skin prickle because you don’t like when he goes silent like this. Foggy finally notices too, because even Foggy can’t miss a tension you can practically taste. Foggy glances at Matt, then back to you. “Okay,” he says, tone shifting into something more careful. “Have you told him about… us?”
You know what he means immediately—you know he means the complicated part of your life, the part you don’t explain to strangers, the part that involves blood and rooftops and secrets you’ve carried since you were a kid.
You hesitate, and the hesitation is small, but Matt hears it. You can tell by the way his posture shifts, like he’s filed it away already. “Not much,” you say.
Karen’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Not much like… you haven’t told him you grew up with Matt?” she asks.
“I told him that Matt’s protective,” you reply. “I told him I have friends. I didn’t… dump my whole life story on him.”
Matt keeps his focus on you, and you can feel that older-brother energy coming off him like a warning. “I’m just saying to be careful,” Matt says.
You stare at him. “I am being careful,” you reply. “I’m not bringing him here. I’m not taking him to the office. I’m not telling him things he shouldn’t know.”
Matt’s mouth tightens. “You don’t know what he should or shouldn’t know,” he says, quieter.
You lean forward, elbows on your knees, voice steady because you’re not letting this turn into an argument in Foggy’s apartment. “I know he’s been nothing but nice to me,” you say. “I know he doesn’t push. I know he doesn’t treat me like a problem to solve. That’s what I know.”
Foggy clears his throat loudly like he’s trying to reset the vibe. “Okay,” he says, forcing cheer. “So, hypothetically, if Benjamin is nice and quiet and respectful and cute, the obvious solution is that we all meet him and decide he’s acceptable.”
Karen gives him a look. “That’s not the obvious solution,” she says.
“It is for me,” Foggy insists.
You point at Foggy with your fork. “That’s not happening,” you tell him.
Foggy groans. “Why not?” he asks. “Come on. A casual dinner. We can be normal. I can be charming. Matt can be… whatever Matt is.”
Matt doesn’t laugh, and Foggy’s enthusiasm dims slightly when he realizes that whatever is going on in Matt’s head is not going away just because Foggy made a joke.
Karen reaches for her glass again and watches you over the rim. “Do you want us to meet him?” she asks, quietly.
You open your mouth, then close it, because the honest answer is complicated. You don’t want them to meet him yet because you don’t want to turn this into a trial, and you also don’t want Matt deciding he gets veto power over your life. You also, annoyingly, don’t want Benjamin in a room with them because you don’t know what that would change.
“I don’t know,” you admit, and the words come out more honest than you planned. “Not right now.”
Matt nods once, like he’s heard enough, and you can tell he’s already decided he’s going to learn more about Benjamin whether you want him to or not. Foggy, of course, misses the whole tension and keeps barreling forward. “Fine,” Foggy says, waving his fork. “But I’m calling it now. If this becomes a thing, he’s coming to dinner.”
“Eat your spaghetti,” you order.
Foggy grins and shovels a bite into his mouth, and Karen laughs softly, and the room tries to go back to normal. Matt stays quiet, listening, and you know you’re going to have to deal with him later, because he doesn’t let things go when he thinks you might get hurt.
Dex is already on the roof when you step out of your building, because roofs are quieter and cleaner and because he can see the whole street without having to be in it. The night is cold and dry, the kind that makes sound carry sharper than it should, and the city below keeps moving like it always does, headlights sliding through intersections, people spilling out of doors and into the dark. Dex stays low behind a chimney stack, elbows on the gritty tar, watching the front entrance of your building like it’s a stage.
You come out alone, coat buttoned up, tote bag on your shoulder, and phone in hand. You pause at the curb like you’re checking your route, then start walking with your keys already threaded between your fingers. Dex watches your pace settle quickly, purposeful but not rushed, and he tracks you by the rhythm of your steps and the way your head turns slightly at corners, not scared, just aware.
Two blocks away, something shifts in the air.
Dex doesn’t need to see it to know what it is. He hears the change first, the small absence of ordinary noise that happens when someone disciplined is moving above the street. The rooftops have their own cadence, and Daredevil’s is one Dex knows better than he wants to admit. It’s not the heavy stomp of a drunk kid trying to climb a fire escape, it’s controlled, measured, quiet, and it hits Dex’s nerves like a warning bell.
He raises his head slightly and angles his gaze down the row of buildings, letting the darkness do its job. On the next roofline, a shape moves between shadows, red against the night, disappearing and reappearing with the kind of precision that isn’t human unless you’ve built it into yourself.
Daredevil.
Matt is tailing you.
Dex’s jaw tightens, not because he’s surprised, but because he’s annoyed at how predictable Matt is and how much it still matters. He stays still, flattening his profile against the roof the way he’s done a thousand times, and watches without moving too much. If he shifts wrong, Matt will hear it. If he moves too quickly, Matt will see motion even if he can’t see faces. If he does anything sloppy, the whole thing collapses.
You keep walking, oblivious, and that’s the part Dex hates. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t invite this. You don’t even know it’s happening.
Dex tracks you forward by blocks, keeping to the rooftops above your route. He moves when the traffic below is loudest, when a bus roars past or a horn blares or a cluster of people shouts at each other outside a bar. He uses those moments the way he always does, slipping from cover to cover while the city provides noise for free.
Matt moves too, but Matt doesn’t move like someone wandering. Matt moves like someone on a string, keeping you centered, keeping a constant distance, choosing positions that give him sightlines and exits. Dex can see the logic in it because Dex does the same thing and he hates that they do the same thing.
You stop at a crosswalk, and a group of tourists bunches up around you, laughing too loud, taking photos of nothing and Dex watches you shift slightly to keep your shoulder off the crowd. Across the intersection, Benjamin is supposed to meet you at a small place a few blocks ahead, a quiet restaurant you chose because you like quiet and because you don’t want to fight the city for conversation.
Dex can’t go down there as Benjamin tonight, and not with Matt above you, watching you and the street. Dex can’t let Matt see him; he stays on the roofline, eyes flicking between you and Matt. Matt is closer now, using a fire escape as a ladder, perched near a rooftop ledge where he can listen down into the street. Dex can see the way Matt’s head angles slightly, like he’s tracking your footsteps, your breathing, and your heartbeat. Dex stays behind a low brick wall and keeps his own breathing slow and even, because he knows Matt listens for everything that doesn’t fit.
Your phone lights up in your hand, and you glance at it while you wait for the light. You type something quick, then tuck it away. Dex doesn’t need to see the message; he already knows the shape of it, he knows you’re telling Benjamin you’re close.
When the light changes, you cross, and Dex moves at the same time, shifting to the next roof. Matt moves too, and for a second Dex is aware of how close they are, how easily one mistake would put them in the same patch of shadow.
Dex drops to a crouch behind a rooftop vent and stays there as Matt lands on the next building over, the impact soft but present. Matt doesn’t look toward Dex’s position, he looks down toward you, still tracking.
Dex keeps his hands still, fingers spread on the gritty roof, and watches Matt’s movements the way he watches everything. Matt’s posture is tense, ready, and protective in a way that looks noble from a distance and feels suffocating up close.
You turn onto the quieter street that leads toward the restaurant, and Dex sees Matt tense slightly, because quieter streets are where things happen. Dex knows that too, and he also knows that if something happens right now, Matt will act, and Dex will have to decide whether to act too, and that decision will expose him in one direction or another.
You reach the restaurant entrance and stop under the light, glancing at the door like you’re checking if you’re early. You shift your weight and pull your phone out again. A minute passes, then two, and Benjamin isn’t there.
But Dex is there, on the roof, watching you, and he knows can’t go down without risking Matt hearing him move to the building, or without Matt catching the exact timing of him appearing and connecting it to the man you’ve been seeing.
Matt’s head turns slightly, like he’s listening for the approach of someone else, and Dex hates how effective Matt is. Matt is tracking for Benjamin, Matt is waiting for a stranger to step into your space so he can decide if he’s a problem.
Dex stays frozen behind the vent and lets the seconds pass, because he has to.
Below, you check your phone and frown. You don’t look scared, but you do look irritated, like you’re already tired and now you’re being inconvenienced. You text again and glance down the street. You step slightly closer to the restaurant door to get out of the wind.
Matt shifts on the rooftop, and Dex sees it, the way he repositions to keep you in view while also keeping the entrance in view. Dex keeps his own body low and still and waits for the moment he can move without giving himself away.
A car roars past, bass rattling the windows, and Dex uses the sound like a cover. He slides backward, slow and controlled, then pivots to a lower section of roof where he can disappear into a deeper shadow. He moves like water, because sudden movement is what gets you caught by a man like Matt.
Matt remains on the roof, focused on you, and Dex realizes he can’t go down tonight at all. He can’t risk the face-to-face encounter in front of Matt’s senses or being forced into a confrontation on a street where you’re standing three feet away.
Dex pulls his phone out and types quickly, one-handed, keeping his eyes on the roofline where Matt stands. He doesn’t have to look at the screen long, he already knows what he’s sending.
Below, your phone buzzes. You look down and read, and your shoulders drop in immediate annoyance, and you type back fast enough that Dex can imagine the tone. Then you shove your phone into your pocket and exhale, long and sharp. You don’t go inside or wait, you turn away from the restaurant door and start walking back the way you came, steps quicker now, irritation making you move faster.
Matt’s head snaps slightly as you pivot, and Dex watches him shift, recalculating in real time. Matt’s going to follow you home now, because that’s what Matt does when he’s suspicious and protective and convinced he’s right.
Dex stays above you both, moving along a parallel route, using the noise of the city to cover him. You cut across a busier street and blend into a small crowd, and Matt stays high, tracking the flow like a predator that refuses to lose its mark.
Dex keeps distance and his body aligned to the roofline so Matt won’t catch the shape of him as a separate presence. The whole thing is a tightrope, and Dex hates it, because he hates being in a position where he has to choose between staying hidden and staying close to you.
You reach your block and slow down, breath puffing out as you dig your keys out properly now. Dex watches you glance down the street once, then shake your head like you’re scolding yourself for even looking.
Matt pauses on the rooftop above your building, and Dex sees the tension in his posture, like he’s waiting for someone to appear behind you, someone to approach you, someone to prove him right.
But no one does.
You punch in the code and slip inside as the door locks behind you. The lobby light frames you for a second and then swallows you as you disappear down the hall.
Matt stays on the roof, still as stone.
Dex watches him from three buildings away, hidden behind a raised ledge, and he keeps his own breathing slow as he waits for Matt to move on. But Matt doesn’t—Matt stays, listening and guarding, and Dex feels a flicker of something ugly in his chest, because Matt is doing exactly what Dex has been doing for weeks and acting like he has the right to it.
A siren wails in the distance, and the sound breaks the moment just enough that Matt shifts. He turns his head, listening somewhere else, recalculating, and then he finally moves, stepping back from the ledge and disappearing into the night like a shadow with a mission.
Dex stays where he is for another minute, then two, then he stands and moves away from the roofline without looking back. He doesn’t go to your building or wait to see your silhouette in a window. He leaves, because he has to, because the night just proved something he didn’t want proven, and because if he stays any longer he’ll do something impulsive and loud and stupid.
He walks the rooftops in the opposite direction until the street below doesn’t smell like your block anymore, and the only thing he can hear clearly is his own breathing and the faint echo of Matt’s presence that he couldn’t shake.
You and Matt end up at the same little corner place you used to hit after church when you were younger, back when you both pretended a warm drink could fix anything. It’s not church now, and it’s not Sunday, but the routine of it still feels familiar enough that you didn’t question it when he asked if you wanted to walk. You’re halfway through a tea you didn’t even want when Matt says the thing that makes your stomach drop. “Did he at least text you?” Matt says, voice casual, “or did he just leave you standing there?”
You stare at him over the rim of your cup. “What?” you ask, flat.
Matt doesn’t react like he realizes he slipped. “The other night,” he says, still too calm. “When he didn’t show.”
You set the cup down carefully because you don’t trust your hands not to slam it. “How do you know about that?” you ask.
Matt’s mouth tightens, and he doesn’t answer immediately, which is an answer all on its own. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, not embarrassment, but anger—the kind that makes your whole body want to go sharp.
“Matt,” you say, slow, “how do you know I got stood up?”
He exhales like he already knows you’re going to be furious. “I didn’t say you got stood up,” he replies.
You lean forward slightly. “You just did,” you say. “You literally just said he didn’t show.”
Matt keeps his expression neutral, but his posture is too still. “I heard you talking about it,” he says.
“With who?” you ask immediately. “Foggy? Karen? Because I didn’t tell them he didn’t show, I told them it was fine and I didn’t even talk about it. So try again.”
Matt’s jaw works once, and you can see him deciding whether to lie. He doesn’t, and that almost makes it worse because it means he thinks he’s justified. “I followed you,” he says.
The words sit there between you like a slap. You don’t raise your voice or make a scene, you just stare at him until your eyes sting from not blinking. “You were following me?” you ask, and you make it a question even though your tone isn’t really asking.
Matt answers immediately. “Yes.”
You feel your pulse in your throat. You look away for a second, toward the window, toward the street outside, because if you keep looking at him you’re going to do something loud, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of calling you dramatic later. You take a slow breath and force your voice to stay even. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you ask.
Matt’s voice stays calm, too calm, like he’s trying to keep you from escalating. “Nothing,” he says.
You laugh once, short and humorless. “Oh my God,” you mutter. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you. You just followed me like I’m a teenager sneaking out.”
Matt’s mouth tightens. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.
“Then tell me what you meant,” you reply, and your tone is flat enough that you can hear the anger underneath it. “Because I told you where I was going. I told you I was meeting him. I did everything you asked, and you still decided you needed to follow me.”
Matt leans back slightly, hands relaxed on the table like he’s trying to look harmless. “I wanted to make sure you were safe,” he says.
You stare at him like you can’t believe he said that with a straight face. “I’m safe,” you reply. “You don’t get to decide I’m not safe just because I’m doing something you don’t like.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like it,” Matt says, and you can hear him choosing words carefully. “I said I don’t trust him.”
You shake your head slowly. “You don’t trust him,” you repeat. “You haven’t even met him!”
Matt’s voice hardens a fraction. “I don’t need to meet him to know it’s not right,” he says.
“That’s not fair,” you say immediately.
Matt’s gaze stays on you, steady and stubborn. “I don’t care if it’s fair,” he replies. “I care if you get hurt.”
You inhale sharply, then force yourself to exhale slowly because if you start snapping, you’ll lose the thread. “You’re the one who told me to stop living like I’m still overseas,” you say, voice tight. “You’re the one who told me I can’t stay frozen. You practically begged me to go out, to see people, to be normal.”
Matt doesn’t flinch. “I want you to be normal,” he says.
“And now I’m trying,” you shoot back, and the anger finally breaks through the calm in your voice. “I go on a few dates with a guy who has been nothing but polite to me, and you’re acting like I’ve lost my mind.”
Matt shakes his head once, restrained frustration. “It’s not about you,” he says.
“It is about me,” you reply, sharper now. “You followed me, you didn’t follow him. You followed me.”
“I stayed back,” Matt replies, like that makes it better. “I didn’t interfere.”
You lean forward again, eyes locked on him. “You were there,” you say, slow, incredulous. “You were watching me stand outside a restaurant like an idiot, checking my phone and pretending I wasn’t annoyed, and you just—what—sat on a roof congratulating yourself for being protective?”
Matt’s voice stays low. “I wanted to see what he’d do,” he says.
You laugh again, harsher this time. “You wanted to test him,” you say. “Like he’s a stray dog and you’re deciding whether he gets to come near your stuff.”
Matt’s expression flashes, irritation slipping out. “That’s not what I’m doing,” he says.
“That is exactly what you’re doing,” you reply, and now you don’t bother lowering your voice as much because the café is loud enough that no one is listening anyway. “You don’t get to vet every person I talk to. You don’t get to stalk me and call it love.”
Matt’s face tightens at that, and he looks genuinely hurt for a second, which only makes you angrier because you didn’t make him follow you, he chose that. “I’m not stalking you,” he says.
“You followed me,” you correct. “On a date. Like I couldn’t handle it.”
Matt’s voice sharpens slightly. “I know you can handle a lot,” he says, and the emphasis is almost angry, like he hates having to admit it. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop caring.”
“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you say. “I’m asking you to stop trying to control me.”
Matt’s hands flex once on the table, then relax. “I’m not controlling you,” he insists.
You point at him. “You are,” you say. “You’re controlling. You’re hovering. You’re deciding that your anxiety gets to run my life.”
Matt leans in a little, and when he speaks, it’s quieter. “Something about him is wrong,” he says.
You stare at him. “What?” you ask, clipped. “Is it his vibe? Is it the fact he’s quiet? Is it that he doesn’t act like a loud idiot the way Foggy does? What is wrong, Matt?”
Matt’s jaw clenches, and you can tell he wants to say something he can’t prove. “He’s careful,” Matt says finally. “Too careful.”
You blink at him, then let out a slow breath. “So are you,” you say. “That’s literally you.”
Matt’s mouth opens, then closes, because you’re right and he hates it.
“You don’t know him,” you say again, quieter but no less firm. “You don’t get to decide he’s dangerous just because he reminds you of you.”
Matt’s expression hardens, stubborn and protective and infuriating. “I don’t need to know him,” he says.
You stare at him for a long beat, then you pick up your cup and take a sip even though it’s gone cold, because you need something to do with your hands. “You promised me,” you say, and your voice is steady again because you refuse to let him see how much it stings. “You promised you wanted me to have a life.”
“I do,” Matt replies immediately.
“Then act like it,” you say, and you set the cup down. “Because if you follow me again, I’m not going to be nice about it.”
Matt’s face tightens. “You think I want to do this?” he asks.
You stand, pushing your chair back just enough that it scrapes lightly. “I don’t care what you want,” you tell him. “I care what you did.”
Matt stands too, slower, like he’s trying not to escalate. “Just—” he starts.
You cut him off. “No,” you say. “You don’t get to ‘just’ anything. You already made your choice, now I’m making mine.”
You grab your coat, sling your tote bag onto your shoulder, and walk out before the conversation can loop into old history and guilt and Matt’s stubborn insistence that caring gives him permission. The cold air outside hits your face, and you keep walking, not looking back, because you know if you look back you’ll see him standing there with that expression he gets when he’s convinced he’s right and you’re the one being unreasonable.
You refuse to carry that tonight.
You don’t go straight home after you leave Matt, mostly because you don’t trust yourself to walk into your apartment with that much anger still sitting in your chest. You take the long way instead, hands shoved into your coat pockets with your head down, letting the cold burn some of it off. By the time you reach the corner where the coffee cart sets up in the mornings, it’s closed and dark, and the street looks different without the little pocket of warmth and noise.
You’re halfway past it when you hear your name. Not shouted, just said clearly enough to make you stop.
You turn and see Benjamin a few steps back, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looks like he’s been walking for a while, and his hair is a little messier than you’ve seen it during daylight. He doesn’t move closer too fast, like he’s giving you room to decide whether you want to talk. “Hey,” he says.
Your first instinct is irritation, because the night has been nothing but men deciding things for you, and you’re tired of it. You keep your voice steady anyway. “Hey,” you reply. “You’re out.”
He nods once. “Yeah,” he says, then pauses like he’s choosing what to say. “I owe you an apology.”
You blink. “For what?” you ask, even though you know.
“For the other night,” he answers. “I couldn’t make it.”
You exhale through your nose and look away for a second, because the word couldn’t is vague enough to be annoying. “It’s fine,” you say automatically.
Dex’s gaze stays on you, and he doesn’t let you brush it off. “It wasn’t,” he says, calm. “You were waiting.”
You look back at him. “It was annoying,” you admit. “But it’s not like you kidnapped my dog. I just went home.”
He nods like he’s heard the annoyance and isn’t trying to talk you out of it. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he says. “I didn’t handle it right.”
You study him for a second, trying to decide whether you’re in the mood to accept an apology tonight. He looks… uncomfortable, which is strange, because he’s usually so controlled. He isn’t fidgeting, but his posture is tighter than normal, like he’s bracing for you to snap.
“What happened?” you ask, not because you think you’re owed details, but because you’re curious and because you can’t stand vague apologies.
He hesitates, then says, “work.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That vague consulting job again?” you reply.
His mouth twitches slightly. “Yeah,” he says.
You let out a quiet laugh that isn’t really amused. “Okay,” you say. “You could’ve just texted ‘work emergency’ and I would’ve rolled my eyes and gone home.”
“I did text,” he replies.
“After I’d already been standing there for a while,” you point out.
He nods once. “I know,” he says, and he doesn’t argue with you. “I’m sorry.”
You stare at him for a beat, then you shake your head slightly. “You’re apologizing like you think I’m going to file a formal complaint,” you tell him.
He looks at you. “Are you?” he asks, deadpan.
That catches you off guard enough that you laugh, real this time, short and sharp. “No,” you reply. “I’m not.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing just slightly. “Okay,” he says.
You glance up and down the street, not because you’re scared, but because you’ve been on edge all night and your brain still wants to scan. Dex doesn’t comment on it, he just stands there with you like he’s willing to let you choose the pace of the conversation.
“What’re you doing out here?” you ask.
He answers simply. “I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says.
You blink. “That sounds a little creepy when you say it like that,” you reply.
He nods, as if he agrees. “Yeah,” he admits. “It does.”
You tilt your head. “So why say it like that?” you ask.
“I don’t know,” he says, honest in a way that surprises you. “I’m not good at this.”
“This,” you repeat.
He gestures vaguely between the two of you, then lets his hand drop back into his pocket. “Dating,” he says. “Talking… whatever this is.”
You stare at him for a second, then shrug. “Me neither,” you admit.
He looks at you again, and his voice stays steady. “Are you mad?” he asks.
You think about Matt, about the café, about the fact that you’re standing on a street corner in the cold talking about feelings like a normal person, and it makes you want to laugh and scream at the same time. “Not at you,” you say, then add, “not really.”
Dex nods, and he doesn’t ask who you’re mad at, which you appreciate. He asks instead, “can I make it up to you?”
You lift an eyebrow. “How?” you ask.
“Dinner,” he says, then pauses, and you can tell he’s calculating whether that sounds like too much. “Or coffee. Something. Whenever you want.”
You consider it for a moment; you don’t want to punish him for missing one date., but you also don’t want to reward men for doing basic things like apologizing. Mostly, you’re just tired, and you’re not in the mood to make this complicated. “Coffee,” you decide. “Tomorrow morning. If you’re going to bail, do it before I leave my apartment.”
He nods immediately. “Tomorrow,” he says. “And I won’t bail.”
You point at him. “That’s a promise,” you reply.
Dex’s expression stays neutral, but his voice is firm. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a promise.”
You breathe out, then realize you’re still standing there like you don’t know how to end a conversation. “Okay,” you say. “Goodnight, Benjamin.”
He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t try to touch you. He just nods. “Goodnight,” he replies.
You turn and start walking again, and he doesn’t follow you all the way to your building. He keeps pace for half a block, then slows and peels off toward the brighter avenue, leaving you to finish the walk alone. You don’t look back, but you can feel his presence disappear the way you always can when someone stops matching your rhythm.
When you reach your door and punch in the code, your phone buzzes once with a text from Benjamin.
Benjamin: I’m sorry again. Coffee tomorrow. 8:30?
You stare at it for a second, then type back:
You: 8:30. Don’t be late.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Benjamin: I won’t.
The coffee cart is already set up when you get there, steam rising off the metal like the whole corner is breathing. You’re five minutes early and irritated about it, because being early means you’ve had time to think, and thinking is what gets you in trouble. The vendor spots you and points at you like he’s ready to start a lecture. “Doc,” he calls, loud enough that two people in line glance over. “You eatin’ today?”
“Good morning to you too,” you reply, and you keep walking toward the cart with your tote strap tight in your hand. “And yes, I’m eating.”
He squints like he doesn’t believe you for a second, then shrugs. “We’ll see,” he says, already reaching for a cup. “Same thing?”
“Same thing,” you confirm.
You’re reaching for your wallet when you notice Dex, because he’s not in line this time. He’s off to the side near the pole by the corner, back half-turned toward the street like he’s giving you space without actually leaving. He’s got his hands low, close to his jacket, and he’s doing something small and precise with his fingers that catches your attention immediately.
A coin is moving across his knuckles like it belongs there. It rolls from finger to finger in a smooth loop, not flashy, not meant for anyone, just steady and practiced, like he’s doing it to keep his hands busy and his brain quiet. You watch it for a second longer than you mean to, because it looks hypnotic in a way you don’t want to admit.
Dex looks up and notices you watching, and the coin stops mid-motion like he just decided he shouldn’t have been doing it at all. He closes his fingers around it and shifts his weight slightly, as if he’s bracing for you to make fun of him.
“You’re early,” you say as you step closer, and you keep your tone light because you’re not interested in embarrassing him.
“I didn’t want to be late,” he replies.
You lift an eyebrow. “That sounds like you remembered my threat,” you say.
He doesn’t smile fully, but the corner of his mouth shifts. “Yeah,” he answers. “I remembered.”
You nod toward his hand. “Was that you trying to look mysterious,” you ask, “or do you just carry coins around like an eighty-year-old man?”
Dex glances down at his fist, then opens it so the coin sits flat on his palm. “It’s a habit,” he says.
“A habit like biting your nails,” you reply, “or a habit like ‘I’m about to rob a bank’?”
He looks at you for a second, then says, “more like biting my nails,” in the same calm voice he uses for everything.
You make a quiet sound of approval. “Okay,” you say. “It’s kind of impressive.”
He blinks once, and you can tell he didn’t expect that. “It’s nothing,” he replies.
“It’s not nothing,” you insist. “I can barely get my keys out of my pocket without stabbing myself.”
The vendor interrupts by shoving your cup toward you. “Extra shot,” he says, then adds, “and don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Sandwich.”
“I did hear you,” you reply, and you take the cup. “I’m just choosing to ignore you.”
“You can’t ignore me,” he says, smug. “I’m a public service.”
Dex’s gaze flicks to the vendor, then back to you. “He always talks to you like that?” he asks.
“He talks to everyone like that,” you say. “He just cares about me more because I look like I’m going to collapse at any moment.”
The vendor points at Dex with the tongs like he’s decided he’s part of the conversation now. “You,” he says. “Black coffee guy.”
Dex’s face stays neutral. “Yeah,” he replies.
“Are you feeding her?” the vendor demands, dead serious.
Dex pauses half a second, then says, “I’m trying.”
You choke on a laugh, and you turn away to cover it with a sip of coffee, which is still too hot and makes you regret your choices immediately. “Oh my God,” you mutter, and you look back at Dex. “You’re not supposed to agree with him.”
Dex shrugs slightly. “He’s right,” he replies.
The vendor makes a pleased noise and hands Dex his coffee. “See?” he says. “Smart guy.”
“Stop,” you tell the vendor, pointing at him. “You’re going to scare him off.”
Dex takes his cup and looks at you. “I’m not scared,” he says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t lie,” you reply.
He holds your gaze for a beat, then says, “okay, I’m a little scared,” and it’s so flat and honest that you laugh again.
You step away from the cart and angle toward the quieter side street, and Dex falls into step beside you without pushing into your space. The morning is cold but bright, and you feel more awake than you did yesterday, mostly because you got to be angry at Matt and then walk it off instead of swallowing it.
You take a slow sip, then glance at Dex. “Thanks for apologizing,” you say, simple. “The other night.”
Dex’s jaw tightens slightly, like he doesn’t like being reminded. “Yeah,” he replies. “I should’ve handled it better.”
You nod once. “I wasn’t devastated,” you say. “I was just annoyed.”
“I know,” he answers.
“Alright,” you reply, then you add, because you can’t help yourself, “and the text was on time today, so you’re improving.”
Dex’s mouth shifts again, and this time it actually looks like a smile. “I’m learning,” he says.
You walk in silence for a minute, and it’s easy silence, the kind that doesn’t demand anything. A woman with a dog passes, the dog straining toward a discarded bagel on the sidewalk like it’s a miracle, and Dex steps slightly to the side to give them room. You notice the movement and file it away, because you’re starting to notice all the small things he does without thinking. “You’re really good at that,” you say, nodding toward his hand. “The coin thing.”
Dex glances at his cup, then at you. “Do you want me to show you?” he asks.
You laugh. “No,” you reply immediately. “I will launch it into traffic and then I’ll get mad.”
He watches you for a second. “You get mad a lot,” he says, not accusing, just observing.
“I’m not mad,” you argue.
Dex doesn’t even blink. “Sure,” he replies.
You glare at him, then you can’t keep it up and you end up smiling instead, which is annoying but also kind of nice. “You’re getting brave,” you tell him.
“I’m calibrating,” he says.
“That’s a weird word to use,” you reply.
“It’s accurate,” he answers.
You reach the corner where you’d normally split off toward the subway, and you slow down. Dex slows with you, stopping a step back so he isn’t blocking your path. You turn to face him properly, coffee warm in your hands, breath visible in the air. “So,” you say, “this was good. You didn’t bail.”
“I didn’t bail,” he confirms.
You nod. “Good,” you say again, then you hesitate, because you’ve been wound tight for days and you want to do something that feels like your choice, not Matt’s approval or Foggy’s teasing or Karen’s careful questions.
Dex watches you like he’s waiting for you to decide what you’re going to do, and he doesn’t move closer first. You step in and kiss his cheek, quick and deliberate, the kind of contact that lasts half a second but still counts as a decision. His skin is cold from the morning air, and you feel him go perfectly still, like his whole body is pausing to process it.
When you pull back, you keep your face calm, because you refuse to act embarrassed. “There,” you say, voice dry. “Now you know I’m not secretly plotting to report you to the deli cashier for being weird.”
Dex blinks once, then twice, and the coin in his pocket shifts faintly like his fingers moved without him thinking. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is steadier than his eyes.
You lift an eyebrow. “Okay?” you repeat.
He clears his throat like he’s annoyed at himself for needing to. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
You smile a little, then point at him with your cup. “Don’t get cocky,” you warn.
Dex’s mouth finally curves into a real, small smile. “I won’t,” he replies.
You step back, adjust your tote strap, and start walking toward the subway. You don’t look over your shoulder immediately because you don’t want to see him standing there frozen, and you don’t want to see him walking away like it didn’t matter. You count three steps, then four, then you glance back anyway.
Dex is still there at the corner, watching you go, coffee in hand, posture controlled, but his expression looks slightly stunned in a way you didn’t expect. When he notices you looking, he doesn’t wave, he just lifts his cup a fraction in a quiet little gesture, like he’s trying to keep up with you.
You turn forward again, smiling to yourself despite your best efforts, and you head underground before you can overthink it into something you regret.
You don’t plan to invite him up when you meet him for dinner again, and you’re annoyed at yourself for even thinking about it on the train ride home. You tell yourself you’re going to do the normal thing, the safe thing, the polite goodnight at the door, and then you’ll go inside and do your routine and try to sleep like a functional adult. That’s the plan.
The plan lasts until it’s cold and you’re standing outside your building and Dex is looking up at the dark windows like he’s trying not to look like he’s looking up at the dark windows. The street is quieter than it was earlier, and the wind keeps pushing at your coat, and you’re tired in that heavy way that makes every decision feel like effort.
“You’re shivering,” you say, because you can’t help noticing.
“I’m fine,” Dex replies.
You give him a look. “Yeah,” you say. “Sure.”
He doesn’t argue, he just stands there with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s waiting for you to say goodnight so he can leave without doing something awkward.
You dig your keys out and stare at them for a second, then you look up at him again. “Do you want to come up for a minute?” you ask, and you keep your voice casual so you don’t scare yourself out of it. “Just… tea. Or whatever. It’s cold.”
Dex goes very still, like you’ve put a spotlight on him. “Up?” he repeats.
“Up,” you confirm. “My apartment. You’re not getting murdered, relax.”
He blinks, then says, “okay,” in the same calm voice he always uses, but his posture is too tight for it to be fully convincing.
You punch in the code and hold the door open, and he waits for you to step in first before following. The lobby light is too bright after the street, and you feel your shoulders tense automatically the second you’re inside, that weird shift where home should feel safe but your body still insists on scanning anyway.
Dex doesn’t comment on anything. He just looks around once, quick and quiet, then keeps his eyes on you like you’re the only landmark he trusts.
The elevator is out, which isn’t surprising, and you gesture toward the stairs. “It’s only three flights,” you say.
Dex nods like stairs don’t bother him at all. “Okay,” he replies.
You start up first, and he stays one step behind you, not crowding or rushing ahead. You unlock your door and step inside, and you flip the light on with your elbow because your hands are full. Your apartment looks exactly the way it always looks, clean but lived in, everything in the place you put it because if it isn’t in the place you put it you’ll think about it until you fix it.
Dex stops just inside the doorway like he’s unsure where to stand. You kick your shoes off and point toward the small coat hook by the wall. “You can hang your jacket there,” you tell him. “If you want.”
He hesitates, then slips his jacket off and hangs it neatly, more neatly than you expected. He keeps his hands at his sides after that, still, like he’s waiting for instructions.
“You’re allowed to move,” you say, and your tone is dry enough that it’s a joke.
Dex looks at you. “I don’t want to touch anything,” he replies.
You blink at him, then soften without meaning to. “It’s fine,” you say. “You can sit.”
You gesture toward the couch, and he sits on the edge of it like he’s afraid the cushions are going to accuse him of something. You head into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then pull out two mugs without thinking. You pause for a second, then glance over your shoulder. “Do you want tea?” you ask.
Dex nods once. “Sure,” he replies.
“Okay,” you say. “Do you care what kind?”
“No,” he answers.
“That’s an insane answer,” you tell him.
He looks faintly amused. “It’s tea,” he says.
You make a quiet sound of disapproval and grab the one you like anyway. “You’re getting peppermint,” you decide. “It’s not negotiable.”
Dex doesn’t argue, he watches you move around the kitchen like he’s studying how you exist when you’re not outside, or when you’re not in professor mode or walking-fast mode. You can feel his attention without him making it weird, which is both comforting and unsettling.
When you carry the mugs over, you set his down on the coffee table and sit on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between you like it’s automatic. You take a sip and immediately relax a fraction because hot tea in your own apartment is one of the only things that consistently convinces your body you’re not in danger.
Dex picks his mug up and holds it like he’s warming his hands rather than drinking.
“So,” you say, because if you don’t talk you’ll start thinking about Matt again. “Welcome to my terrifying apartment.”
He looks around again, slower this time. “It’s… organized,” he says.
“That’s a polite way to say I’m controlling,” you reply.
Dex’s gaze returns to you. “It’s a good thing,” he says.
You blink. “You like it?” you ask.
He nods once. “Yeah,” he replies. “It makes sense.”
You huff a small laugh. “Most people make jokes,” you say. “Foggy calls it ‘serial killer tidy.’”
Dex’s expression doesn’t change much, but his eyes sharpen slightly. “Foggy,” he repeats.
You immediately regret mentioning a name, even though you already told him your friends exist. “He’s my friend,” you say, quickly. “He’s dramatic.”
Dex nods, accepting it. “Okay,” he says.
You take another sip and let the silence sit for a second because it doesn’t feel awkward. Dex’s eyes flick briefly toward your bookshelf, then back to you, like he’s asking permission without speaking. You gesture with your mug. “You can look,” you say. “If you want.”
He stands slowly and moves to the shelf, scanning spines without pulling anything out at first. When he does take a book, he holds it like he’s checking the weight. “You read all of these?” he asks.
“Not all,” you reply. “Some of them are aspirational.”
He glances back at you. “Aspirational?” he repeats.
“You know,” you say. “Books you buy because you think one day you’ll have time to become the kind of person who casually reads a thousand pages about cellular signaling for fun.”
Dex’s mouth twitches. “You do read cellular signaling for fun,” he says.
“I do not,” you argue immediately.
He turns slightly, book still in hand. “You do,” he replies, perfectly calm.
You glare at him. “Okay,” you admit. “Sometimes. But I don’t enjoy it.”
Dex looks unconvinced, and you can’t help smiling.
He sets the book back exactly where he found it, then returns to the couch and sits again, still leaving space, still not pushing into your bubble. You like that about him more than you want to. “You’re very… careful,” you say, and you keep your tone light so it doesn’t feel like an accusation.
Dex’s eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he replies.
You tilt your head. “Is that just how you are?” you ask.
He pauses, then says, “Mostly.”
You accept that because you don’t want to pry. You don’t want to turn this into a therapy session on your couch with peppermint tea as a prop. You just want a quiet hour where you don’t feel like you’re being watched by Matt’s worry or your own brain.
“Thanks for coming up,” you say after a moment, because the silence has stretched and you want to make it clear you’re not regretting it.
Dex nods once. “Thanks for inviting me,” he replies.
You take another sip, then you glance at him over the rim of your mug. “Don’t get used to it,” you warn, because you can’t just be sincere without cushioning it.
His mouth shifts into that small, real smile again. “I won’t,” he says, and his voice stays steady, but his eyes soften just a little.
You talk for a while after that, about nothing important and a few things that are, about how your students are incompetent and how the city never sleeps and how coffee is a scam. When he finally stands to leave, you walk him to the door, and he puts his jacket on without rushing. “I’ll text you when I get home,” he says.
You blink at him. “You don’t have to do that,” you reply.
“I want to,” he says, and it’s simple enough that you don’t argue.
“Okay,” you concede. “Fine.”
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, then turns back toward you. You don’t know what you expect him to do, but he doesn’t go for your mouth and you’re grateful for it, because you’re not ready for that and you’d rather not have to explain why. Instead, he leans in just enough to kiss your cheek, the same quick kind you did to him, and he pulls back immediately like he’s making sure you’re okay with it.
You don’t flinch. You don’t step away. You just look at him and say, “goodnight,” in a voice that’s softer than you meant it to be.
“Goodnight,” he replies, and then he leaves, letting the door click shut behind him.
You lock it, check it twice, and you stand there for a second longer than necessary, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs. When you finally turn away and head back toward the couch, you realize your shoulders are lower than they’ve been in days, and you don’t let yourself overthink what that means.
Foggy calls it a “quick dinner” like that means anything coming out of his mouth, and you show up anyway even though you’re still mad at Matt but you refuse to let that turn into you avoiding the people you love. Karen is already there when you arrive, sitting at the table with her coat draped over the back of her chair and her phone face down like she’s trying to prove she’s present. Matt is across from her, posture quiet, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hasn’t touched, and the fact he’s drinking water at all makes you want to be annoyed and grateful at the same time.
Foggy slides into the booth a minute after you do, breathing like he sprinted the whole way, and he immediately starts talking like the universe is paying him by the word. “Okay,” he says, grinning at you. “You look… less homicidal than you did the other day.”
Karen gives him a look. “Foggy,” she warns.
“It’s an observation,” Foggy insists, then he points his menu at you. “You’re smiling. That’s new.”
“I am not smiling,” you argue.
Karen lifts her eyebrows. “You are a little,” she says, and the way she says it makes you feel exposed.
You roll your eyes and reach for the breadbasket like it’s a shield. “Can we not do this?” you ask. “I came here to eat, not be analyzed.”
Foggy claps his hands once, too loud. “Great,” he says. “Perfect segue. Because I’m about to analyze you.”
Karen sighs and takes a sip of her drink. “Jesus,” she mutters.
Foggy leans forward, eyes bright. “Bring him to dinner,” he announces.
You stop mid-reach for the bread. “No,” you say immediately.
Foggy points at you like he anticipated that. “Yes,” he replies. “Let’s meet him. Let’s normalize it. Like adults.”
“You don’t even own plates that match,” you tell him. “You cannot say like adults.”
Foggy waves a hand. “That’s not relevant,” he says. “This is relevant. You’re dating a man and that man has a name. That man is in your apartment now, apparently, which I am still processing.”
Your cheeks warm slightly. “How do you know that?” you demand.
Karen doesn’t look guilty at all. “You told me,” she says. “You said, ‘I had him up for tea.’”
You open your mouth, then close it, because you do remember saying it, and you hate that you said it out loud. “Okay,” you admit, “I forgot.”
Foggy slaps the table lightly. “Tea,” he repeats, delighted. “That’s domestic. That’s relationship behavior.”
“It was cold,” you say, defensive.
Foggy leans back, smug. “Sure,” he replies. “So bring him to dinner. I want to meet the man who drinks black coffee and apparently doesn’t run away when you threaten him.”
Karen nods slowly, and her voice is softer when she says it. “It’s not a bad idea,” she tells you.
You look at her, surprised. “You too?” you ask.
Karen shrugs. “I’m not saying it has to be a big thing,” she says. “But it might be nice. If he’s going to be in your life, even a little, we’ll end up meeting him eventually.”
Foggy points his menu at Karen like she’s his best friend now. “Thank you,” he says. “Exactly. Eventually is now.”
You glance at Matt, because Matt has been too quiet the entire time. He hasn’t made a joke or asked a question, and he hasn’t challenged Foggy, and that silence is its own kind of pressure. Matt’s face is neutral, but he’s listening, and you can tell he’s holding himself back from saying something that would turn this into a fight.
“Matt,” you say, because you’re not letting him hide behind quiet. “Thoughts?”
Matt’s jaw shifts slightly. “If you want to,” he says, and it’s the most non-answer answer he could give.
Foggy makes a disbelieving noise. “If you want to,” he repeats, then looks at you. “That means he wants to.”
Matt’s mouth tightens. “Foggy,” he warns.
Foggy holds both hands up. “Okay, okay,” he says, lowering his voice just a little. “I’m being normal.”
You stare at all three of them, then look down at the table because you can feel your irritation starting to climb. “Why,” you ask slowly, “does everyone suddenly need to meet him?”
Karen answers first, careful but honest. “Because you’ve been gone for a long time,” she says. “And you came back, and it’s been… hard. Seeing you go out and talk to someone and not shut down is good. It’s not just about him, it’s about you.”
Foggy nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s about you being back.”
You swallow and pick at the edge of the napkin because you don’t like being handled, even when it’s love. “I am back,” you say, a little sharper than you meant to.
Karen’s expression stays steady. “I know,” she replies. “Let us be part of it.”
You glance at Matt again, and he still isn’t giving you much, but you can see the tension in his posture like a cord pulled tight. You know he wants to meet Benjamin because he wants control. You know Karen wants to meet Benjamin because she wants information. And you know Foggy wants to meet Benjamin because Foggy wants everything to be loud and communal and safe.
You take a breath and decide to keep it simple. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll ask him.”
Foggy lights up immediately. “Yes,” he says, triumphant. “Thank you!”
Karen looks relieved. “Only if you want to,” she adds quickly, like she doesn’t want you to feel cornered.
You nod once. “I’ll ask,” you repeat, and you look directly at Matt when you say it. “That doesn’t mean you get to interrogate him.”
Matt’s voice stays calm. “I’m not going to interrogate him,” he says.
You lift your eyebrows. “You literally interrogate everyone,” you reply.
Matt exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to argue. “I’ll be polite,” he says.
Foggy cackles. “That’s the best promise you’re gonna get,” he tells you.
You sigh and reach for the bread again, because you need something to do with your hands. “Fine,” you say. “I’ll ask him. One dinner. If you’re weird, I’m never doing it again.”
Foggy leans forward, grinning. “We’re always weird,” he says.
Karen murmurs, “he’s right,” and she sips her drink.
Matt stays quiet again, and you can feel his attention on you, steady and stubborn. You don’t look away from him first, because you’re still mad about the tailing, and you’re not letting him think he can sit there silently and win.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you tell them all, and you mean it.
You bring it up on a walk because a walk feels safer than saying it in your apartment and safer than saying it over text, and because you can pretend it’s casual if you say it while you’re both moving. The air is cold enough that you keep your hands in your pockets, and the street is busy but not crowded, a steady stream of people heading home with grocery bags and tired faces. Dex is beside you, close but not crowding, matching your pace like he always does.
You don’t start with the invitation right away. You talk about nothing for two blocks first, about a student who tried to argue for extra credit by sending you a meme, about the fact that your department chair is apparently allergic to staffing, and about how the city smells like damp pavement and exhaust when it gets cold. Dex listens, gives short answers, makes one dry comment that gets a laugh out of you, and you let yourself relax enough to actually say the thing you came to say.
“My friends want to meet you,” you say, keeping your voice neutral like you’re mentioning the weather.
Dex’s step doesn’t stop, but his body tightens for a fraction of a second in a way you catch more than you see. You assume it’s nerves because meeting your friends is always weird even when you like someone.
“It’s nothing intense,” you add quickly. “They’re just… loud.”
Dex’s gaze stays forward. “Loud,” he repeats.
You snort. “Loud,” you confirm. “Foggy is incapable of being quiet. Karen is quieter but she’ll be watching you like you’re a science experiment. Matt will be… Matt.”
Dex doesn’t ask what Matt will be Matt means, which makes you want to smile because most people would. He keeps walking, posture steady, and asks the obvious question.
“Who would be there?” he says.
You answer easily because you’ve said their names out loud to him before in passing, and because you’re trying not to make this feel like a big deal. “All three of them.”
Dex’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a stillness in him that wasn’t there a second ago, like something has snapped into place behind his eyes. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t look startled, he just goes quiet in that controlled way you’ve come to recognize as him trying to keep his reactions from showing.
You glance at him. “Hey,” you say, lightly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m not trying to pressure you.”
Dex blinks once, then nods. “Okay,” he replies.
You slow just a fraction because you want to read him, and you’re not great at reading him yet. “It’s just dinner,” you say. “Foggy will probably interrogate you about your ‘consulting,’ and Karen will pretend she’s not interrogating you, and Matt will sit there silently judging you. It’ll be a good time.”
Dex’s mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile. “Sounds great,” he says, so dry you snort.
“See?” you reply. “You’ll survive.”
He keeps walking, then asks, “When?”
You shrug. “Whenever,” you say. “Foggy acts like dinner is a weekly holiday. He’ll cook, which is a threat, but we’ll eat anyway.”
Dex nods once like he’s hearing the timeline and not committing to it. You can tell he’s not answering yet, and that’s fine, you don’t need an immediate yes.
“You can think about it,” you offer, because you don’t want him to feel cornered.
Dex’s eyes flick to you, then forward again. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll think about it.”
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, the way you do when you’re trying to keep the mood normal. “Good,” you say. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Dex stays quiet for a minute after that, and you let him, because you know what it’s like to have your brain get loud. You walk another block together, and when you reach the corner where you normally split off, he slows. “I’ll let you know,” he says, simple.
You nod once. “Okay,” you reply. “No rush.”
He looks at you for a second like he wants to say something else, then doesn’t. He just says, “goodnight,” and keeps his voice steady.
“Goodnight,” you answer, and you watch him walk away down the street with that controlled pace he always has, hands in his pockets, shoulders set like he never wants anyone to know what he’s thinking.
You turn toward home, already rehearsing how you’re going to tell Foggy “maybe” without Foggy acting like “maybe” is a personal insult, and you don’t notice the way your stomach tightens until you’re halfway up the stairs to your apartment.
Dex doesn’t go home after he leaves you. He walks until the streets change, until the storefronts stop looking familiar and the air smells more like wet concrete than your block. He cuts through an alley, hops a low fence without breaking stride, and ends up on a roof where the wind hits harder and there’s enough space to think without anyone bumping into him.
He pulls his phone out and stares at the screen like it’s going to give him a better answer than his own brain. There’s a message thread with you, normal words in normal bubbles, the kind of thing that should feel harmless.
A door on the roof across from him bangs open, and a guy steps out with a cigarette and a hoodie, muttering to himself as he lights it. Dex stays still behind a low vent, letting the shadow hide his face. The guy exhales smoke and talks into his phone. “Yeah, I’m outside,” he says. “No, I said I’m outside. I’m not coming back in, you’re yelling.”
Dex waits until the guy turns away, then shifts to a darker pocket of roof, silent and controlled. When he’s sure the guy is distracted, Dex finally moves, dropping down to a service stairwell and taking it to street level. He doesn’t want to be on a roof right now, he wants walls.
He ends up in a late-night laundromat three blocks away, the kind that’s open because nobody wants to admit they have no other options at one in the morning. A woman sits near the back with earbuds in, scrolling, and she doesn’t look up when Dex walks in and sits on the bench like he belongs there.
Dex pulls a coin from his pocket and rolls it across his knuckles once, then stops and closes his hand around it hard enough that the edge bites his skin. He stares down at his fist like he’s trying to crush the whole idea into silence.
His phone buzzes; a new message from you.
You: Let me know when you decide. No pressure.
Dex reads it once, then again, then locks the screen like the words might crawl out.
He stays in the laundromat long enough that the woman behind him finishes a load, folds shirts with aggressive precision, and leaves without ever looking his way. When she’s gone, the space feels emptier, and emptier feels louder. Dex stands and walks back out, cutting toward a quieter street where he can move without being watched.
He stops under a streetlight that’s half out, shadows breaking his face into pieces, and he finally types.
Dex: I’ll think about it.
He stares at the words and doesn’t send them, because he already told you he’d think about it, and repeating it is how you start sounding like you’re stalling.
He deletes the message and tries again.
Dex: When is it?
He deletes that too. Asking for details buys time, but it also pulls him deeper in.
He puts the phone away, jaw tight, and heads toward the river where the streets open up and there’s less chance of running into anyone who knows what his face means. The cold wind off the water keeps his head clear enough that he can outline the options without spiraling.
He says them under his breath like he’s reciting a checklist. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the wind. “Say I’m busy.”
He imagines your face when he says no. Not anger, but the way your eyes sharpen when something doesn’t add up. You don’t get clingy, you get observant and file things away.
He says the next one anyway, because he has to. “Go,” Dex mutters, and the word feels like glass in his mouth.
He imagines Foggy opening the door, Karen’s eyes snapping to him immediately, and the exact moment recognition hits, and he imagines your expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. He imagines Matt going still in that quiet way he does when violence is about to happen.
Dex doesn’t need imagination for that part, he already knows how that room ends.
He exhales slowly, then says the next one. “Wait,” he murmurs. “Stall.”
He can already hear you calling him out with that blunt steadiness you use when you’re not trying to be polite. He can already hear you say, “just tell me you don’t want to.” He can already see you deciding that if he won’t answer a simple question, then he isn’t as honest as he pretends to be.
He shifts his weight, fingers flexing. The coin rolls once across his knuckles again, smoother this time, then disappears back into his pocket.
“Change,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t mean his mind, he means his face.
A hat, glasses, different hair, different jacket, but none of it matters. Foggy and Karen will know the face. Matt won’t need the face, he’ll know the breathing and the posture and the way Dex moves through space like it’s measured in inches.
Dex stops walking and looks out over the river, lights shaking on the water. His mouth pulls tight, and he forces the words out like admitting them will make the next step easier.
“There’s no clean option,” he says, low.
He takes his phone out again and stares at your last message until his eyes sting. He doesn’t want to lose the version of you who invited him inside and made tea and kissed his cheek like it meant something but didn’t demand anything… but he also doesn’t want to step into a room and have you look at him like he’s a monster.
He unlocks the phone and finally types something that isn’t an answer and isn’t a refusal, because he can’t do either yet.
Dex: Can I let you know tomorrow?
He hits send before he can rethink it. Dex stares at the screen for a second longer, then shoves the phone back into his pocket and walks away from the river, not toward your building and not toward Matt’s, but toward the part of the city where he can disappear into motion and noise. He keeps moving because standing still makes the problem feel bigger, and the problem is already big enough.
Dex texts you the next afternoon while you’re in the middle of pretending your inbox doesn’t exist. You’re standing in your office with the door half closed, staring at a sticky note that says “CALL CHAIR (?)” like it’s a threat, when your phone buzzes on the corner of your desk.
Benjamin: I can do dinner.
Benjamin: Can we do it at your place?
You read it twice, then frown, not suspicious exactly, just surprised. Your first instinct is that it’s an anxiety thing, people are weird about meeting “the friends.” You’re weird about meeting “the friends.” The idea of Foggy’s loud apartment and Karen’s sharp eyes and Matt’s silent intensity would make anyone want a controlled environment.
You type back,
You: My place? Why?
The reply comes a minute later.
Benjamin: It’s quieter.
Benjamin: I’d rather be somewhere familiar.
You stare at the screen and make a face because you’re not sure you love the idea of your apartment becoming a dinner party site. You also know it would stop Foggy from turning it into a production, and it would keep Matt from having home-field advantage in the way he always does when he’s in his own territory.
You: Okay. But if it’s my place, you’re helping. Deal?
There’s a pause long enough that you picture him reading it with that still, careful expression he always has, like he’s deciding whether agreeing is safe. Then your phone buzzes again.
Benjamin: Deal.
Benjamin: What do you want me to do?
You exhale and feel your shoulders drop just a little, because that was easier than you expected.
You: Chop things, carry things, be useful.
You: Also, you don’t get to be quiet and mysterious in my kitchen. You’re going to talk.
His response comes back almost immediately.
Benjamin: I can chop.
Benjamin: I can talk.
You snort quietly and type,
You: We’ll see about the second one.
You set your phone down, stare at your desk for a second, then immediately pick it up again, because now you have to tell your friends and you already know Foggy is going to act like you just stabbed him.
You group text them before you can talk yourself out of it.
You: Ok, Benjamin said yes.
You: But can we do it at my place instead of Foggy’s?
Foggy replies first, of course.
Foggy: your place????? rude
Foggy: i cooked for you
Foggy: i even have a dinner table
Karen’s message comes right after.
Karen: Your place is fine. Are you sure you want that?
Then Matt’s.
Matthew: When?
Foggy immediately sends another.
Foggy: the betrayal, i am a hospitality god
Foggy: he can come to my home and be judged like everyone else
You type back while trying not to laugh.
You: Foggy, you cook like it’s a hate crime.
You: Also yes, my place. It’s calmer.
Foggy replies,
Foggy: i am calm
Foggy: i am the calmest person you know!!!!!!!!!
Karen: That’s not true
You: Thursday? At 7?
You: I’ll cook and Benjamin is helping. You all show up hungry and on your best behavior.
Foggy: he’s helping you cook?????
Foggy: who is this man??
Karen: Thursday works. I’ll bring wine
Matthew: I’ll be there
Foggy: i’ll bring dessert
Foggy: and my feelings
You: Bring dessert. Leave the feelings at home.
Foggy: impossible
You set your phone down and rub your forehead, then pick it back up to text Benjamin again because you realize you should probably confirm details like a normal adult.
You: Thursday at 7. It’ll be Matt, Foggy, Karen. I’m cooking and you’re helping.
He replies a moment later.
Benjamin: Okay.
Benjamin: What should I wear?
You stare at that for a second, then type,
You: Clothes.
You: No murder outfits.
His response is just,
Benjamin: Noted.
You laugh under your breath, then shove the phone into your pocket and go back to your desk like you didn’t just agree to host a dinner that has the potential to blow up your life.
Dex shows up at 6:15, which is early enough that you briefly wonder if he’s been standing on the sidewalk outside your building for ten minutes trying to decide whether early is worse than late. You open the door after the first knock, and he’s there in a plain dark sweater and jeans, hair neat in that way that looks like effort even when it’s trying not to.
“You’re early,” you say, stepping back to let him in.
“I said I’d help,” he replies, and he hangs his jacket on the hook with the same careful neatness he used last time. “I figured earlier is better.”
“It is,” you admit, then you gesture toward the kitchen. “Okay, wash your hands. You’re on chopping duty.”
Dex nods once like he’s been assigned a mission. “What am I chopping?” he asks.
“You’re chopping vegetables,” you say, then pause and add, “and if you chop your fingers off, I’m not taking you to the hospital.”
“I won’t,” he answers, deadpan, and you already know you’re going to end up laughing at him again no matter how much you try not to.
You move around the kitchen with that fast, familiar rhythm you get when you’re nervous but pretending you aren’t. The oven is preheating, the water is boiling, and the cutting board thunks onto the counter. Dex stands where you point him, sleeves pushed up, hands steady as he starts slicing onions into clean, even pieces like he’s done it a hundred times.
“You’re good at that,” you say, glancing over.
He doesn’t look up. “It’s simple,” he replies.
“Everything is simple to you,” you tell him.
Dex pauses long enough to glance at you. “Not everything,” he says, then goes right back to chopping like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach flip a little.
You don’t lean into that, because leaning into that is dangerous and you already agreed to tonight being dangerous enough. You keep the conversation in the safe lane, tossing him instructions and complaining about Foggy’s cooking and warning him that Karen will try to read him like an article she’s halfway through writing.
Dex’s knife keeps moving. “What about Matt?” he asks.
You hesitate, then decide honesty is easier than pretending. “Matt is protective,” you say. “He’s… intense. But don’t take it personally.”
Dex’s expression doesn’t change much. “Okay,” he replies.
You glance at him again, because “okay” is a weirdly calm response to meeting the kind of people you described, but you let it go. You have garlic to mince and sauce to stir, and you don’t want to spiral over his tone when you’re already hosting a dinner party you never wanted to host.
By 6:50, the apartment smells like actual food, which feels like a miracle, though you have a feeling Foggy is going to complain about there being no meat. You set plates out, wipe the counter, and tell Benjamin to stop trying to line up the utensils like he’s about to be graded. He doesn’t argue; he just shifts them anyway, quietly, as if you won’t notice.
Your phone buzzes on the counter while you’re tasting the sauce; Foggy’s name flashes on the screen.
Foggy: we’re here !
Foggy: i brought dessert and a personality
You roll your eyes and type back with one finger.
You: Come up. And behave please.
You set the phone down and exhale slowly. “Okay,” you say, mostly to yourself, then you look at Dex. “They’re here.”
Dex’s shoulders lift slightly as he inhales, then settle. “Okay,” he says.
You wipe your hands, then point at him. “You’re staying in the kitchen,” you decide. “Not hiding. Just… not standing in the doorway like a target.”
He nods, and you can tell he understands what you mean even if you didn’t explain it well. He shifts back a step, leaning lightly against the counter, hands loosely clasped like he’s making himself smaller without crouching.
You walk to the door, buzz them in, and hear the building’s downstairs latch click open through the intercom. You leave your apartment door unlocked because you’re not going to make your friends knock like strangers, and you head back to the kitchen to pretend you aren’t nervous.
Foggy’s voice hits the hallway first, loud enough that you know he’s already performing. “I swear to God, if your elevator is broken again, I’m suing the building,” he declares.
Karen answers him with tired amusement. “Foggy, you can’t sue a building.”
“I can sue anything,” Foggy insists. “I’m a lawyer!”
Matt’s voice is quieter. “You’re not that kind of lawyer,” he says.
Foggy huffs. “You’re ruining my brand,” he complains, and you can hear them getting closer.
You step toward the entryway, smoothing a hand over your shirt like it matters. The lock clicks as your door opens, and Foggy barrels in first with a bakery box balanced precariously in his arms like he wants it to be dramatic. “Hi!” Foggy announces, too loud. “Your apartment is cute. It looks like a catalog. I’m offended.”
“Hi,” you reply, and you take the box from him before he drops it. “Shoes off.”
Foggy freezes mid-step. “You make people take their shoes off?” he asks, scandalized.
Karen slips in behind him with a bottle of wine in her hand, already smiling like she’s trying to keep the energy normal. “Of course she does,” Karen says. “She’s not a barbarian.”
Matt steps in last, quiet as always, cane in hand because he uses it when he wants the world to assume one thing about him. His face is neutral, but his head tilts slightly as he takes in the apartment, and you know he’s listening to everything at once because that’s what he does.
“You’re all here,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Good. Don’t touch anything. Sit—or don’t—I don’t care, just don’t hover in my entryway.”
Foggy kicks his shoes off with a dramatic flourish and points at your bookshelf. “I’m touching that,” he declares.
“No,” you say immediately.
Karen laughs, then lifts the wine slightly. “Where do you want this?” she asks.
“Kitchen counter,” you reply, then you step to the side to let them actually come in instead of blocking the doorway like a bouncer.
Foggy moves first, still talking. “I can’t believe you made me carry dessert up three flights of stairs,” he complains. “My arms are fragile. I’m a delicate flower.”
Karen follows, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable,” she mutters, and she steps around him—
Then she sees Benjamin.
It happens in the space of a breath, the moment her eyes clear the entryway and land on the man behind you near the kitchen. Her face changes so fast you almost don’t understand it at first, like her brain has hit a wall. The wine bottle slips out of her fingers, and the sound of glass hitting your floor is sharp enough to cut through Foggy’s talking.
Karen makes a noise that is half gasp, half choke. “Oh my God,” she breathes.
Foggy’s head snaps toward the sound, and his mouth falls open as he follows Karen’s stare. “No,” he says, voice dropping into something stunned and small. “No, no, no. No.”
Matt doesn’t ask what happened. Matt doesn’t wait for an explanation. His body shifts instantly, the cane forgotten, his head snapping toward the direction of their reactions like a switch has flipped.
You turn, confused, and you see Dex’s face go still in a way you’ve never seen before. He doesn’t move toward you, and he doesn’t speak. He just stands there, controlled and quiet, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Wait,” you start, because nothing about this makes sense yet, “what—”
Matt is already moving. He crosses the distance so fast you barely register it as motion, and before you can step between them or even fully process what’s happening, his hand is on Benjamin’s shirt, hauling him forward and slamming him back against your wall hard enough that the framed print near the entryway rattles.
“Dex,” Matt says, low and dangerous, as his forearm pins Benjamin in place.
note: ummmmmmmm.................. sorry for the cliffhanger??? i'm just- i'm gonna go and you can scream at the void
Like a cat, Dex liked having the underside of his jaw scratched. Not that he would ever admit that out loud.
It happened by accident in a safehouse somewhere outside Amsterdam, the two of you trapped inside while Charles arranged new passports. The place was barely furnished, just one narrow bed (not that either you or Dex minded. He was quite clingy, after all), a television that only played three local channels, and a sofa so small that Dex’s knees nearly touched the coffee table when he sat down.
At this point, he had been restless for hours.
You could always tell when his senses started becoming sensory problems. Pipes knocking inside the walls bothered him, footsteps in the apartment above you agitated him. The refrigerator clicking on made his shoulders tighten beneath his shirt.
Dex sat on the bed with his elbows braced against his knees, staring at the curtained window with a blank stare.
“The building’s secure,” you reminded him, because the last time someone broke into your apartment to try to kill you, Dex stayed up all night for the next three days with a gun in his hand while you slept (or at least tried to).
He frowned, tapping his foot restlessly on the wooden floor. “The bathroom window doesn’t latch properly.”
“You wedged a chair beneath it,” you climbed onto his lap, peppering gentle kisses on his collarbone.
“Someone could still—”
You curled two fingers beneath his chin. You had only meant to tilt his face towards you, to properly make him look at you instead of the window, but your nails dragged lightly against the skin beneath his jaw, and his shoulders dropped by half an inch.
You stared at him with a sly smile.
Because you were curious and because he looked unfairly adorable when confused, you did it again. Your fingertips travelled from the point of his chin towards his throat, scratching gently through the faint evening stubble there.
His eyes fluttered.
You couldn’t help the tiny giggle that escaped your lips.
Dex’s eyes opened immediately. “What?”
“You like that.”
“I don’t.”
You scratched beneath his chin again, and his head tipped back before he could stop it.
The movement was almost imperceptible, but you caught it; you had spent enough time loving him to notice the tiny betrayals of his own body.
A smile spread across your face. “You’re like a cat.”
Dex narrowed his eyes at you (not helping his case), but he didn’t move away. In fact, when your fingers paused, his chin followed them slightly.
You shifted closer, and this time you used all four fingers, lightly scratching while your thumb rested against the scar on his cheek.
Dex exhaled through his nose and leaned into your hand.
It made sense once you thought about it. He spent every waking moment sorting through too much information, his mind cataloguing every sound, every movement, every possible threat. The kind, repetitive drag of your nails gave him a singular comfort to concentrate on.
His knees have since stopped tapping the floor, and Dex’s hands settled around your hips automatically, holding you there while you continued scratching as his eyes closed again, bearing witness the frankly adorable collapse of Benjamin Poindexter.
His grip remained firm, but it was no longer vigilant. He was simply anchoring himself.
“You’re melting,” you murmured.
“No,” he insisted. “I’m watching the window.”
“Your eyes are closed.”
“I can still hear it.”
You smiled and scratched a little closer to the hinge of his jaw.
Dex made a tiny sound, but not a purr, no matter how much you wanted to call it one. It was a vibration in his throat, an involuntary noise of approval that made his eyes snap open in surprise.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
You laughed, and Dex tried to glare at you, but you were still touching him, so the effect was ruined by the way his head remained tilted obediently into your hand.
Eventually, when the footsteps upstairs stopped bothering him, he pulled you into bed, throwing you on the mattress and clambering over you, putting his ears to your stomach. A car door slammed outside, but Dex only pulled you closer.
This time, you scratched gently through the short hair at the base of his skull before returning beneath his chin, maintaining the same rhythm.
His breathing followed it.
In. Out. In. Out.
By the time Charles texted to say your extraction would arrive in three hours, Dex’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his thumb tucked beneath the hem of your shirt in slow circles, while you traced your nails on his skin.
I wasn’t asleep, he would insist later.
But his eyes were closed, his breathing was calm, and every so often, when your hand slowed down, Dex nudged his chin insistently against your fingers until you started again.
—
Note: this is a queued post! I might not have time to immediately reply to messages or comments, but I am still active from time to time during this little break and will respond in due time lovelies!
Pairing: Boyfriend!Dex x Eccentric!Girlfriend!Reader
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, No use of Y/N, Reader wears glasses 24/7, established relationship (boyfriend and girlfriend), mentions of prior stalking (duh, it's Dex), there is many fish in this home, Dex has a fish son because yes. Dex is a clingy man when sick and slightly loopy, fluff, caring for Dex without medications, i love this man so much, he may be a little ooc but I feel like he would just be so... out of it with his personality with an eccentric reader. NOT PROOF READ!!
Summary: Dex came down with a sickness he swears he may not come back from. But his eccentric girlfriend is here to rescue him.
Word Count: 1639 A/N: This is so fucking self-indulgent... I'm so sorry. And this is also probably shit, so I apologise for that too.
When he first 'met' you, he noticed one blaring thing about you. Nothing about you was... Simple. Clean is perhaps a better word. Not in the way you were dirty, no no. Dex never thought that, and it would've also been a lie. You were just always... A stick out amongst the rest. Bright colours, multiple necklaces along with bracelets and an anklet. Odd socks just for the hell of it. He's not sure how he got hooked onto you this much. All you did when you accidentally bumped into each other, was apologising profusely. But maybe it was your eyes, or the way your glasses charms clinked along with your anklet and bracelets. Maybe it was your pretty dark blue nails. Matched his suit. That's nice. Or maybe it was the way you smelt heavily of lavender, peppermint and something he couldn't put his finger on. He'll figure it out. He always does eventually.
But that meeting was now a year ago. And after many late nights sitting on your fire escape balcony surrounded by your plants, he watched your apartment... Become it's own living thing. And now he was apart of that environment, permanently. He now knew what your system of organisation was throughout your entire living space, how much food the fish actually needed and when their tank needed cleaning. Your cat, Reid, was always fed on time, right on the dot, since how could he let the poor fur baby starve? You'd be heartbroken.
But apart from him, your fish and Reid, there was plenty of other things he needed to be mindful of since he was now living here. Your indoor plants, your many rugs, the candles set up on one specific table, your cabinet filled with oils and other oddities. Everything here had a place, and Dex made sure he had one that was above all the others. Perhaps that's why he is laying in your the bed with a pounding headache and stomach ache.
Dex rarely ever got sick. Especially this bad. He swear he's sweating up a new type of tropical storm, his face feels like it's melting. And are stomachs meant to move like that?
"Do not get up baby. You need to rest." Your hand laid flat onto his chest when he tried to sit up. He kept saying he was fine. But even he knew this was pushing it now. "Just... rest. I'll get some things to make you feel better, okay?"
He didn't try to move as you left a gentle, loving smooch onto his cheek before you got up from the edge and padded your way out to the kitchen. He listened to your anklet jingle as your left foot hit the ground each time. He listened for the bead curtains to rattle as you walked through them to the spare room, then he heard the kettle start. Why weren't you just getting him some medications? They are simpler.
He lifted his head up ever so slightly as you came back into the room. Those stupid shorts... If he wasn't so sick they'd be hidden under the bed from being thrown by now...
"Taking too many medications is bad for you. Now obviously for your spine I will completely allow the usage. But this is for your head and stomach." You then proceeded to place all the things you'd gathered from your adventure out into the other rooms of the apartment. One of the many lavender oil bottles, a steaming mug of peppermint and spearmint tea and finally, chicken broth. "Plenty of garlic in the broth. It's good for you."
"How do you know...?" His voice sounded... Horrific. Maybe that wasn't even a good enough word for it. "Could get me sicker."
"Are you all of a sudden not trusting me Poindexter?" He quickly shook his head. "That's what I thought. Now sit up... Let's get you better."
He sat up (with your help) and sighed like that was the most exhausting thing ever. This is probably the most... Normal he has felt ever. Because being sick in a room filled with paper lanterns and stars, plants, crystals, paintings of places he's never seen in his life... This must be living. It has to be.
"You're a fairy..." You glanced up at him from over the rim of your glasses, a finger to the oil bottle and a slightly raised eyebrow.
"What?"
"You. Are. A. Fairy. My fairy but... A fairy anyways." If you knew he was this, well, loopy when sick, you might've enjoyed this more than you should be. But the way he looked worried you, so sickly pale and almost dead eyes.
"Whatever you say Dex... Now, don't move." His eyes immediately shut as your fingertips rubbed lavender oil on either side of his temple. The smell filling his nose. "This will help with your headache. The tea will help with your stomach and body pains and then the broth is to clear up your sinuses and help your throat. I'll make you a juice for tonight as well that will help your throat and chest even more. Cucumber, ginger, lemon, apple and pear. It does help, trust me."
It took him about 35 minutes to finish the tea and broth before he all of a sudden felt very sleepy. His brain panicked for a moment, immediately jumping to you had drugged him. But when you gave him a worried look, that melted away instantly.
"Woah woah, easy honey. You'll hit your head." You helped him lay back down and practically tucked him in under your large multitude of blankets. He needed to sweat it out.
"Don't leave me... Please..." You almost cooed at how adorable he looked. His bottom lip slightly puckered out, his hazy, droopy eyes.
"Oh sweetheart, I won't be leaving you. Never ever." You then got onto your side of the bed, kneeling next to his arm side. "Now, get some sleep. I'll be right here."
Your hand caressed his cheek which made his eyes close. And after two more of the actions, he was out cold.
You sat there for 5 more minutes before you slowly got up and started to get stuff prepared for the rest of the night. You made the juice from earlier, cooked up dinner to then put it into the fridge before you finally went back into the bedroom and curled up next to your sweet, sickly boyfriend.
When Dex finally woke up, it was already pitch black outside. The only light filtering through the bead and lace curtains was the streetlights and billboards from a distance. You were still fast asleep against his side, the side of your face squished against his chest that he couldn't help but print into his brain for later.
His eyes then went to the open door of the bedroom, the light of the large fish tank beaming around the next room. The fish were circling, chasing each other or going into their little structures, their world inside the tank far different from the outside world of the living room covered in beads, fairy lights and plants. A perfect cluttered life. Usually lots of things overwhelm Dex. But everything big and small was a part of you and your existence. And either way, everything was actually much cleaner than most people would realise.
"Weird fish..." Reason he said that? Because that bloody group of barbs was just floating at the side of the fish tank watching their room. Like the group stalkers he raised them to be.
"Huh?" Shit, he woke you up.
"Nothing baby... Just the fish watching us again." His voice still sounded crackly and dry. Making you sit up a little more to look down at him with slight worry.
"Ah... How about we go eat dinner, yeah? You need to eat, makes you feel better." He groaned in despair at the idea of getting up. Grabbing your waist by wrapping his large arms around you, he pulled you back down for cuddling.
"5 more minutes." However he had to let go of you with one arm to cover his mouth to let out a horrendous cough which then turned into a 45 second coughing fit before he finally laid his head back down. Letting out a sigh that felt like his final breath.
"Dex—"
"No. We're going to stay in bed."
It took 2 days before Dex could actually get out of bed without tripping over or getting dizzy spells. Though he was still coughing quite a bit, and having a runny nose. That was a simple fix though, tissues, juice and cough lollies.
But he was back to sitting in his favourite arm chair of the apartment, his view being the large window showing the apartments and store fronts across the road, and also the second fish tank hidden amongst some plants that holds his pet betta fish. You always called him Dex Jr. as the fish was blue and also quite aggressive to everyone but you and him. He loved him very much.
"Here you go." You gently placed a steaming mug of tea onto the coffee table next to him. Your multiple rings and bracelets glimmering from the sunlight coming through. "You feelin' a little better?"
"Getting there. Throat is still hurting though."
"I'm sure it'll get better soon. I'll make sure of it." You quickly bent down and gave him a quick kiss before you then situate yourself onto his lap.
For the rest of the day, you both sat in the comfortable glow of the sun and the sounds of fish tanks, the hum of the fan and the street below. But Dex knows something weird or crazy will happen sometime this week.
If you enjoyed, please reblog to help this reach a wider audience!! All types of support are welcome as well! Likes, comments or even a request sent in!
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Law x Reader
Length 14 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Slight Age Gap (Older reader/Younger Law), Slow Burn, Lots of exposition, Medical imagery and cadavers; anatomy detail, Slavery and human trafficking, loss of bodily autonomy, Imprisonment, captivity, forced “plaything” dynamic, Psychological distress, panic, dissociation, War event with mass casualties and disaster imagery
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Previous / Next
-X-Strange Happens-X-
You thought the months of travel on the Grand Line had been hard, but Dressrosa was worse.
The apartment was barely larger than your parents’ pantry. The ceiling flaked with old plaster, the floorboards sagged with every step, and the bed swallowed you into its uneven springs. From the single cracked window, the street rose in waves of brine, engine oil, and whatever had died in the gutter last summer but had chosen to linger in spirit. The alley rang at all hours with the click of toy soldiers’ wooden feet, the sing-song cries of street performers, and the clatter of gambling tiles from men who swore the dwarf “good luck spirits” had cursed them. Even when you wanted silence, the city gave you music, laughter, and the shrill whistle of a Colosseum vendor hawking meat skewers two streets over.
Your mentor, Master Aravonne, was both the reason you were here and the bane of your existence. He was a genius of the craft and a nightmare of a human being. His quill was a weapon more than a tool, slicing through your sketches with vicious precision. ‘Anatomy is not suggestion,’ he barked, so often it could’ve been stitched on a banner over his door. He jabbed at your work with such violent speed that it felt like getting shanked by ink. “If you draw the tibia like that again, I will hang you upside down until you see it properly!” He said it with such conviction that you half believed he might.
He often harassed you about your sea-cold ring during dissections, and so occasionally you slipped in on a necklace to sit coldly against your throat. After all, you had promised your grandmother you would never remove it.
Sometimes his rants were drowned out by the cheers from the Colosseum, the sound carrying across the tiled roofs and spilling in through the shutters. Every few hours, the roars would rise again, proof that another man had fallen and another had triumphed, though you never knew which was which. On market days, the crowd spilled into the streets. Dancers in frilled dresses spun past your window. Older women pressed carved dice into your hands, insisting they could tell your fortune. Children carved miniature Donquixote masks into the dirt with sticks.
You tried to laugh, sometimes. You tried to imagine the quiet pride buried beneath your master’s cruelty. But most days, you staggered back to your apartment with ink-stained fingers and the taste of humiliation thick in your mouth.
And the bond stayed quiet.
It had been silent for years now, and you told yourself you had grown used to it. Yet Law’s lasting silence made the tiny apartment feel smaller. Every empty evening was filled with the thunder of the Colosseum, the echo of toy soldiers passing in step, and the thought that he had closed that door for good. You were left with only the scratching of your quill and the hollow of your own company. You often turned the gray ring on your finger, relishing in the way it seemed to make your worries feel like a dull hum.
Eventually, when you finally had an off day, you had begun to find others like you.
Not soulmates, not even friends at first, but people who understood what it meant to live in a city of masks and marble and feel like you were drowning. Most of them were apprentices, just as hungry and tired as you. A sculptor named Ebron met you in the plaza one afternoon, sweating over a block of limestone he swore would become a hero’s likeness. “The trick,” he told you, wiping dust from his brow, “is pretending you know what you’re doing until the stone believes you.”
Another was Isla, a painter who sold portraits to tourists near the gates of the Flower Field. She carried half a dozen brushes tucked into her bun, and she always had paint smudges on her cheek. Isla painted the Colosseum fighters with such feverish detail that her work sold before the paint had dried. She laughed too loudly, smoked cheap cigars, and insisted that you both sit at the fountain to sketch the toy soldiers when they marched by. “They’ve got better posture than half the noblemen,” she declared, pencil racing across the page.
There were others, too: a calligrapher who copied poems for tips. This seamstress embroidered the gladiators’ initials into handkerchiefs for their admirers, and a glassblower who shaped candy-colored roses to sell to children. They met in cramped corners of cafés, crowding around chipped mugs of coffee while trading scraps of advice and insults about their masters. You did not belong to them, not fully, but they became the closest thing to family in that first month.
It was Isla’s idea to visit the Colosseum.
“Every artist in this city should sketch there at least once,” she declared, already tugging you by the wrist before you could argue. Ebron trailed behind with his sketchpad tucked under one arm, muttering about how he preferred the quiet of stone dust to the roar of blood. The others followed, laughing and jostling each other as though this were just another carnival performance.
The crowd pressed in around you long before you reached the gates. Vendors shoved skewers of sizzling meat into your hands, children waved flags stitched with the names of their favorite gladiators, and hawkers yelled odds and bets in a dozen different accents. When you finally pushed through into the stands, the noise hit like a storm. Cheers rose and fell in waves, carrying a rhythm that shook the very stone beneath your feet.
From your seat, you could see the ring clearly. The sand was bright under the sun, almost golden, and it glittered faintly where old blood had darkened it. A man with a sword the size of a mast stood opposite another armed only with a net. Both bowed to the roaring crowd, then lunged at one another with practiced fury.
Your friends were enthralled. Isla sketched every swing of the blade, her hand flying over the paper. Ebron grumbled but still drew the curve of the net, muttering that it was good study for musculature. The glassblower shouted encouragements so loudly his voice cracked.
But you found it hard to watch. The violence was stylized, almost theatrical, yet every gasp of pain was real. The crowd cheered when one man fell, and the sound made your stomach twist. You forced yourself to put lines on paper, sketching the curve of a shoulder, the snarl of exertion, the dust kicked up by a desperate foot. But the more you drew, the more you felt the unease coiling in your chest.
When the match ended, the victor raised his sword. The crowd howled with approval, tossing roses and ribbons into the ring. Your friends clapped and laughed, already comparing sketches. You managed a smile, though your hand trembled faintly on the page.
Dressrosa loved its spectacles. For your friends, the Colosseum was an inspiration. For you, it was something else entirely. A reminder that beneath all the color and carnival charm, this was a city that demanded blood for entertainment.
Your friends noticed, of course.
“Too soft-hearted for Dressrosa,” Isla teased, nudging you with her elbow as she flipped through your sketches. “You make the fighters look tragic instead of heroic. Give them sharper jaws next time, people pay more for that.”
Ebron chuckled, smearing stone dust across his cheek as he leaned over. “Or add more blood. Tourists love blood. Nothing sells faster than gore.”
The glassblower clapped you on the back so hard you nearly dropped your charcoal. “Don’t look so grim. It’s art, isn’t it? Where else in the world do you get living models who actually try to kill each other? You should thank the gods for such reference material.”
They laughed, and you laughed with them, but the sound felt thin in your throat. You tucked the drawings away before they could study them too closely, before they could see the unease bleeding through every line.
That night, back in your cramped apartment, you laid the sketches out again. The victor’s face twisted in triumph. The fallen man’s hand is clawing at the sand. The curve of the crowd’s banners behind them, fluttering like wings.
You stared until the lamplight blurred.
Law had said things once, sharp-edged and certain, about the world being crueler than you wanted to believe. You had brushed them off, irritated at his bitterness, unwilling to let his darkness weigh down your own days. Yet now, sitting in a city that painted joy over suffering, you could feel the truth of it pressing down. He would have hated this place. You could almost hear him muttering his disdain, calling it what it was without flinching.
Almost.
You reached across the bond, just in case. The smallest thought, quiet as a knock on a closed door.
Nothing.
He did not answer.
The silence pressed in harder than the cheers of the Colosseum, harder than your master’s barked corrections, harder than the sagging walls of the apartment. You set your sketches aside and tried to sleep, but the sand of the arena clung to your mind, and so did the ache of knowing he had been right, and still would not speak to you.
And when you returned home that night, your sketches lay scattered across the desk. Dust. Sweat. Strain. Pain. You stared at them too long, wishing the bond would stir, wishing for even one dry remark in your head to chase away the echo of the crowd.
The bond stayed silent.
The years in Dressrosa were not kind, but they shaped you into a medical illustrator worthy of the craft.
Master Aravonne specialized in anatomical plates for physicians and scholars across the New World. His studio smelled perpetually of ink, oil, and the faint tang of old formaldehyde. Skeletons leaned in corners, their bones clacking whenever the toy soldiers marched by outside. Wax models of organs sat in glass cases, some cracked, some half-melted from the summer heat. You learned quickly that this was not art for beauty’s sake. It was art for survival. The lines you drew might one day guide a surgeon’s hand. If you shaded the vessels incorrectly or blur the contour of a tendon, a patient might bleed to death. Ink dried in the cutwork of the band. When your knuckles ached, the metal held a chill that never seemed to warm.
Aravonne made sure you never forgot it. He drilled you in endless repetitions, smacking your wrist with a quill whenever your lines wavered. “Anatomy is not suggestion,” he barked, again and again, until the phrase beat against your skull like a mantra. “The human body does not forgive lies.”
At first, you staggered under the weight of it. Your hands cramped, your eyes blurred, your back ached from hunching over the desk by lamplight. But slowly, inevitably, your drawings began to take shape with a clarity that startled even you. Muscles flexed on the page. Bones gleamed white against the shadow of tendons. Hearts pulsed as though alive, sketched in nothing but ink and wash.
Your circle of artists was never far from you, and their triumphs became yours to celebrate. Isla’s bold portraits of gladiators and dancers caught the eye of wealthy patrons; soon she was painting nobles as well, her canvases gracing mansions with riotous color. Ebron’s first statue, the leaning one in the plaza, turned into a landmark. Children gathered there, tourists snapped sketches of it, and he gained commissions to sculpt fountains and saints. The glassblower opened his own shop near the docks, and his candy-colored roses became so popular that sailors carried them across the seas as tokens for their sweethearts. The calligrapher built a small following among lovers and poets, and the seamstress eventually opened her own stall, embroidering charms that locals swore brought protection in the Colosseum.
You were proud of them, fiercely so. Each success added to the feeling that you were not alone in this harsh city. You had grown together. They were no longer just apprentices clawing for survival; they had carved out spaces where their art mattered.
And you, too, were recognized. Physicians from the Colosseum came to you for diagrams of broken bones and ruptured tendons. Apothecaries commissioned you to render poisonous herbs in meticulous detail. Healers whispered your name to students, praising the way your ink brought the body to life with precision. You became known as the artist who could make pain intelligible, who could take suffering and put it on paper so it could be studied, understood, and maybe even prevented.
Yet the bond stayed quiet.
There were nights when you sat hunched over a dissection plate, your lamp burning low, the echo of cheers from the Colosseum filtering in through the shutters. You would trace a line of muscle, ink precise, and think of the first time Law’s voice had dropped surgical terms into your head. Scalpel. Clamp. Suction. You could almost hear him again, the calm rhythm of his thoughts guiding your hand. Almost.
Your artist friends had to be enough, because they were what you had. Besides the rare letter from your family, who had more or less adopted a cousin to take your place in inheriting the business, you were alone.
The biggest issue is that everything, including your artist friends, lived lives centered around the Colosseum and its brutal games.
Isla especially insisted that every great artist in Dressrosa had cut their teeth sketching its viscera, and that it sold the best. Each week, she pulled you back into the roar of the stands with Ebron grumbling behind and the others laughing as though it were a sports festival. And you agreed because the money from your family slowed, and you had to eat and needed a place to sleep. Dressrosa was notorious for its curfews.
Your anatomically correct work was popular, and it kept you afloat, but you never felt truly comfortable.
Something felt off.
At first, you told yourself it was Law’s last words coming back to haunt you. But soon, genuine unease started to creep in as you made a strange series of connections.
You were detailing medical illustrations almost daily by then, trudging from Aravonne’s studio to the clinics and the mortuary with your arms aching from portfolios. Sailors with broken jaws, dockhands with crushed fingers, tourists with unlucky stab wounds filled the beds and the slabs.
Yet not once did you see a deposed gladiator in the wards. Not one Colosseum fighter lay on a cot, and not a single fallen champion could be found in the medical beds. The hospitals were full of broken bodies; sailors, dockhands, tourists—but never gladiators. You carried plates of tendons to surgeons setting sailors’ jaws, diagrams of nerves to physicians reattaching a dockhand’s finger, sketches of poisonous herbs to apothecaries treating tourists who had drunk the wrong brew. But the fighters you sketched in the sand, the men and women who bellowed and bled before thousands, were nowhere.
The mortuary was no different. Corpses came and went in a steady procession. Street brawlers with split skulls, gamblers who had been stabbed in alleys, a fisherman crushed by his own cart, an older man who had slipped on wet stones and cracked his ribs until they pierced his lungs. Their bodies lay still and waiting, marked for you to study, for someone to learn from. But never a gladiator.
And you were familiar with most of them by this point. Isla made sure of that. You had sketched their shoulders, their scars, the tension of their jaws. You had memorized the way a net curled around an arm, the flex of a sword-bearer’s wrist, the exact slant of a veteran’s nose. These were no longer faceless champions to you. They were people whose features you could trace blindfolded. And yet when they fell, they simply vanished.
The realization gnawed at you, night after night. The sand swallowed them, and the city behaved as if they had never existed.
One night, unable to let it go, you asked your master. The words slipped out too quickly, your charcoal still smudged on your fingers.
“Why do none of them end up in the hospitals? Or the mortuary? The injured gladiators. Where do they go?”
Aravonne froze, his quill hovering midair. For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sound was the steady scratch of toy soldiers’ wooden feet outside, marching their endless patrol through the alleys. Then he set the quill down with deliberate care, his eyes fixed on yours.
“Dressrosa is not a place to poke around,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight sharper than any of his tirades. “If you want to live, you will stop asking questions. The best way to stay safe is to remain beneath the notice of the Donquixote Pirates. Do you understand me?”
When you hesitated, his gaze hardened.
“You are too new to remember what this city was like before they arrived. The Riku dynasty ruled, and the last king let the people starve under his rule while he took their gold. Bread was rationed, the army taxed farmers until their fields lay barren, and the Colosseum was a ruin filled with vagrants. That is what the old king gave us. Doflamingo disposed of him quietly and cleanly, and in one night, the suffering ended. He saved this city.”
The words tasted strange, even coming from your master. He was not a man to speak reverently of anyone.
“He and his family built the Colosseum back into glory. They filled these streets with color and carnival. They gave the people a reason to cheer again. The toys help keep order without ever needing rest. Everyone has work, everyone has food, and the city flourishes under their hand. If that stability costs blood in the arena, then so be it. No one complains. And you would be a fool to complain about them.”
His quill tapped once, sharp against the desk.
“You will do your work. And don’t ever draw the notice of the Donquixote Pirates.”
You nodded, though the answer sat uneasily in your chest.
Because even if you stopped asking, the questions would not stop. You were an artist by nature, always looking for solutions; in your work, in the beautiful disaster of your friend group, and in whatever was going on in Dressrosa.”
One day, you gave in to the gnawing thought.
The artists had dragged you to the Colosseum again, laughing, sketchpads tucked under their arms, already jostling for seats. You slipped away while their attention was fixed on the vendors and the roar of the crowd. Instead of climbing toward the terraces, you turned down, toward the arched corridors that led beneath the arena.
You moved with your portfolio clutched against your side, as though you had been sent on some important errand. When the guards glanced your way, you did what you had seen Isla do when bluffing with nobles—lifted your chin, walked as if you belonged. No one stopped you. The crowd’s thunder above masked your footsteps as you descended the stone ramp into the lower levels.
The air changed quickly. It grew cooler, damp, with a faint smell of iron and old straw. You expected the moans of wounded fighters, the frantic calls of physicians, the clatter of stretchers being carried past. Instead, there was silence, broken only by the distant stamp of boots and the muffled roar from above.
You passed cells where fighters should have been waiting, but the benches were empty, the straw untouched. Hooks dangled from beams overhead, ropes coiled in neat loops, buckets filled with clean water waiting. Everything was staged, prepared, and yet abandoned.
At the far end of the hall, a gate opened onto the arena sand. Light spilled through, golden and fierce, and you caught a glimpse of the current fighters preparing to step out. Their faces were calm, even resolute. When the gate rose and they walked forward into sunlight, you pressed against the wall, unnoticed.
And then the silence closed again.
You stood there, waiting for the losers to be dragged back through, for groans, for the smell of blood. Minutes passed. The sand above soaked everything in, and yet nothing came back down.
Your hand trembled as you reached for your sketchbook, half-thinking to capture what you saw. But there was nothing to draw. Just emptiness.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
The voice was smooth and mocking, bouncing off the stone corridor until you could not tell from which direction it came. You turned sharply and saw him.
He was too tall, draped in a strange coat that seemed to ripple and shift like paper in a breeze. His hair was brown, his smile too wide, every angle of him theatrical, like a performer who never left the stage. You had seen his likeness painted on banners outside the arena, though you had not recognized him until now. There was no guard or staff member. This was a member of the Donquixote Family.
Diamante, the champion of the arena.
“A pretty girl lost in the belly of the Colosseum,” he said with exaggerated pity, clutching his chest as if the sight of you wounded him. “Did you take a wrong turn on the way to the stands? Or were you hoping for a private tour?”
His gaze slipped once to your hand, a quick glint in his eye, and then he smiled too kindly.
You swallowed hard, fumbling for your voice. “I… I was sent to make sketches for my master—”
He cut you off with a laugh, sharp and theatrical. “Sketches. Of course. How charming. Tell me, do you plan to sell little portraits of the champions, with their heroic jaws and tragic deaths? Or do you just like snooping where you don’t belong?”
Before you could step back, his hand shot out and clamped around your arm. His grip was firm enough to make you gasp, his smile sharp enough to remind you of teeth.
Before you could twist free, his smile widened.
“Curiosity is a dangerous habit,” he murmured, steering you down the corridor as if you were a wayward guest. His grip on your arm was unyielding. “But perhaps I can show you something that will cure it.”
He half-dragged you into another hall, one you had not noticed before. The noise of the Colosseum dulled behind stone, and another sound took its place—the uneven shuffle of boots, the wet hiss of pained breathing. You caught sight of them then: fighters who had lost their matches, staggering with bloodied limbs, some leaning on one another. Relief flooded you at first. Here they were at last, the wounded you had expected.
But it turned to horror in an instant.
At the end of the hall, a little girl waited. She could not have been older than ten, with wide innocent eyes and a frilled dress that looked like it belonged at a tea party rather than in the bowels of the arena. She popped a grape into her mouth as casually as if she were at a picnic.
One by one, the wounded fighters reached her. And one by one, they did not collapse onto stretchers or cots. They shrank. Their bodies twisted, warped, and snapped into shapes that should not have been possible. In seconds, the bleeding men were gone, replaced by toy soldiers and dolls with painted faces and wooden limbs.
You stumbled back, breath choking in your throat. The toys turned in unison, saluting the girl with mechanical precision, their voices chirping yes, mistress, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you see now?” Diamante purred at your ear. His grip on your arm tightened as though he knew you might faint. “No bodies to bury, no mouths to feed, no rebels to mourn. Just toys. Loyal, tireless, eternal. Dressrosa’s secret army.”
You shook your head violently, as if denial could erase what you had seen. “This isn’t real,” you whispered, though your voice cracked. “This—this can’t be real.”
He only laughed, the sound booming down the corridor like applause. “Oh, it’s very real. You’re lucky, little artist. Most people never get the honor of seeing Dressrosa’s greatest secret up close.”
The little girl tilted her head at you, her cheeks bulging with another grape. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, and for a terrifying moment, you realized she looked at you the way a child might look at a doll she was deciding to keep or discard.
“She’s cute,” the girl said simply, her voice small and sugar-sweet. “Can I keep her?”
Diamante grinned. “If you want to play with her, Sugar, be my guest. Though I doubt she’ll last long in your toy chest.”
You stumbled backward, clutching your portfolio like a shield. “Wait—I won’t tell anyone—I swear—”
Sugar’s smile brightened, almost delighted. She stepped closer, her little shoes tapping on the stone, and held out her hand. “Then you’ll be perfect. Don’t be scared. Toys don’t cry.”
Her fingertip brushed your arm, soft as a feather.
The world snapped.
It felt like your skin had been peeled inside out, your bones collapsing into shapes they were never meant to take. You tried to scream, but your voice came out as a hollow squeak. Ink-stained fingers shriveled into painted joints, your portfolio thudded to the ground beside you, and in the space of a heartbeat, you were no longer human.
You staggered, or tried to. Wooden limbs creaked where muscles once strained. Your face was stiff, frozen in a smile you hadn't chosen. When you raised your hands to claw at your own cheeks, painted blush stared back at you.
The world twisted, folded, and collapsed in on itself until your body was no longer your own. Painted lashes froze in place, your lips curved into a smile you could not control. Wooden joints clicked where tendons once pulled. You had been turned into a doll, small enough to sit in the crook of a child’s arm, delicate enough to shatter if dropped.
Sugar’s delighted laugh rang through the corridor. She crouched down and scooped you up, cradling you like a prized prize plucked from a carnival stall. “So pretty,” she cooed, pressing her cheek to your stiff porcelain one. “You’re my favorite now. I’ll keep you forever.”
The words made your painted smile ache, though you could not frown or scream. Your limbs twitched helplessly in her grip.
Then she noticed it.
The gray ring that had once fit snug on your finger had not shrunk with the rest of you. It slid loose, hanging heavy around your wooden wrist like a clumsy bracelet. Sugar turned your tiny arm this way and that, tugging at the metal. Her brows knit in frustration when it would not budge.
“This isn’t supposed to stay big,” she muttered, yanking harder. “Why won’t it come off?”
Diamante leaned down, his grin widening as his eyes caught the dull gleam of the band. He plucked your tiny wrist from Sugar’s hand, turning it between his long fingers.
“Ahhh,” he said, voice full of theatrical realization. “That explains it. Look at this, Sugar. Not just a trinket. That’s seastone.” His eyes flicked to your stiff painted face, amusement glittering there. “Very rare to see it cut this fine. Usually, it’s used for shackles. But worn as jewelry…”
He tapped the metal once, and you swore you felt the echo in your hollow chest.
“…it can do more than just dampen Devil Fruit powers. Seastone has other uses. It can choke off curses, bonds, even… soulmates.” His grin sharpened. “I’d wager this little ornament has been keeping a certain voice very quiet in her head.”
Sugar tilted her head, eyes wide and curious. “Soulmate?”
Diamante laughed, shaking his head. “A silly weakness some people are born with. It ties them to someone else, whispers in their thoughts, binds them in ways that can’t be cut. But this…” He dangled your tiny wrist by the ring, letting it glint in the dim light. He tapped the band. “This keeps it silent.”
Sugar frowned, still tugging, but the ring refused to come away. Finally, she huffed and clutched you to her chest again. “Huh? I don’t care about soulmates! This doll is still mine. My favorite doll.”
Her arms closed around you, tight and unyielding. The painted smile on your face never changed, but inside you were unraveling.
You had been wearing the ring for over six years.
Six years of silence. Six years of staring into the bond and believing it was dead. Six years of convincing yourself that he had turned away, that he had left you behind.
But it hadn’t been Law who had gone quiet.
It had been you.
The knowledge hit like a blade drawn slowly across your chest. Every moment came rushing back with cruel clarity; in the first month, you waited for his voice to break through, whisper-faint, like it used to. The second, when you started speaking into the bond anyway, filling it with nervous chatter, apologies, and questions that went unanswered. The time you sat at your desk in Dressrosa, whispering his name under your breath as if that might summon him back. The nights you cried yourself to sleep, swearing you would stop reaching for him, swearing you were done being hurt by silence.
You thought it had been him. You thought he had abandoned you.
And all along, he might have been shouting himself hoarse on the other side. Reaching for you. Calling until his voice broke. Wondering why you never answered.
The painted blush on your wooden cheeks hid nothing from you now. Your heart felt like it was splintering beneath the porcelain, cracks spreading wider with every realization.
Sugar turned your tiny wrist this way and that, tugging on the oversized ring that now hung like a manacle around you. She huffed when it would not budge. “It’s ugly,” she muttered, hugging you close again. “But you’re still mine. You’re my prettiest doll.”
The man only chuckled as he leaned closer, flicking the metal with one careless finger. “Dangerous little trinket, really.” His grin widened, theatrical and cruel. “What an interesting doll you have, Sugar.”
He laughed and turned away, satisfied. Sugar hummed a tune under her breath, rocking you as if you were nothing but a comfort toy.
Inside, you screamed.
You remembered every time you had told yourself you hated Law for his silence. Every cruel word you had whispered into the bond in bitter moments, calling him selfish, cold, unfeeling. And he had never heard the truth of you. All he would have felt was the door closing, a sudden emptiness where you used to be.
Six years of lost chances. Six years of you blaming him for a wound you had given yourself. Six years where he might have believed he was truly, utterly alone.
And with no way to remove the band without breaking your now fragile arm, you would never hear him again. You could never cry, or apologize, or even let him verbally eviscerate you for what you’d done. After all, he was always right, wasn’t he?
The painted smile on your face would not change. But behind it, you shattered.
-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-
For Law, silence had become a scar.
At first, he told himself you were angry. It was easier to believe that. Maybe he had snapped too sharply in a moment of exhaustion, or shut you out with the coldness he used as armor. Perhaps you were hurt, maybe you were tired of his bitterness, maybe you had simply decided not to answer anymore. That explanation cut him, but it was one he could survive. Anger could be mended. Distance could be closed.
But the weeks stretched into months, and the months bled into years, and nothing came back. Not a whisper, not the faintest echo.
At night, when the deck quieted and the waves dulled to a steady rhythm, he tried. Again and again. He pressed his thoughts against the bond, sometimes gently, sometimes with desperate force. He knocked the way he once had as a child, when loneliness made him reckless enough to reach for a stranger. Back then, you had answered; warm, startled, alive. Now, every attempt met only a hollow void.
The silence was not passive. It pressed back. It felt like a wall where a door had once stood. Worse, it felt deliberate. As if something had closed you off from him, turned the lock from the inside, and thrown away the key.
With each unanswered reach, the knot in his chest grew tighter. Doubt became poison in his veins.
Had you truly abandoned him? Had you chosen someone else? Had you died, and the bond was nothing more than an empty shell he refused to admit was gone?
He told himself a thousand stories to explain it, and none of them gave him peace.
Maybe you had found someone else and chosen silence. Perhaps you had died quietly, somewhere too far for him to feel the severing of the bond. Perhaps the bond itself had broken, frayed by time and disuse until it snapped. He rehearsed each explanation like a litany, cycling through them until every one tasted bitter. None of them fit. None of them eased the gnawing emptiness inside him.
Every silence carved him a little sharper. Until the ache was not just an absence but a wound that never closed, a scar cut deep into the marrow of him. He carried it through every battle, every sleepless night, every dawn spent staring at the sea.
He poured himself into building the Heart Pirates. His crew became his anchor, his excuse to keep moving. They mistook his silence for coldness, for calculation, when really it was the only way he knew how to survive. If he stopped to dwell too long on what was missing, the grief threatened to hollow him out. So, he threw himself into planning routes, honing his skills, and training men and women who depended on him. The only way to carry despair was to drown it under purpose.
But even with them at his side, the absence gnawed at him. He could not let it go.
He knew the chance you were in Dressrosa, with the rest of his unfinished business, was high. Too many loose threads in his life led him there. Too many debts and unanswered questions had their roots in that island.
So he became stronger, because strength meant leverage. Strength meant freedom to go where he wished. Strength meant he could find you.
He grew his crew, tempered them with battles and victories until the Heart Pirates were feared on the Grand Line. He sailed into storms most men would have avoided, clawed through seas that broke lesser captains. At Sabaody, he risked everything to stand against Marines far above his weight, and in doing so crossed paths with the Straw Hat kid, pulling him from the fire in a decision that changed the trajectory of both their lives. That gamble earned him recognition. Recognition earned him the title he sought: Warlord.
With that title came privileges. Privileges that meant Marine ships no longer barred his way, and officials who once sneered were forced to bow. He could sail freely, even into waters where others would be hunted down. He could intimidate Marine offices into opening their records, pull old manifests and passenger lists from dusty shelves. And in those papers, at last, he found his first real clue.
Your name.
Faint ink on a shipping ledger. A one-way ticket to Dressrosa.
It was more than he had seen in six years.
He did not bother approaching your family. He could not risk it—if you had chosen silence, he would not put them in the middle, and if someone had taken you, he would not lead danger to their door. Instead, he closed the file with steady hands, his pulse racing beneath his calm mask.
When his crew asked what they were doing in those waters, he framed it simply: groundwork. Necessary steps in a larger plan to confront Doflamingo. The others accepted it. Most of them always had. But he caught the way Bepo tilted his head, the way his round eyes narrowed as if putting puzzle pieces together. The damn bear had always been able to worm out truths that Law never intended to share.
And it was his own fault. He cursed himself again for the moment of weakness when he had admitted it, long ago, that somewhere out there was a soulmate. That you were real. That he had already lost you to silence.
Bepo had never forgotten, and worse, he was entirely supportive of it. The bear did not tease, did not pry with smug questions the way Shachi and Penguin might have. He simply listened, tilted his head in that way that meant he was filing things away, and then he helped. Quietly, steadily, always one step behind Law’s shadow.
From there, Law began trailing you in earnest. At first, he had only fragments: old manifests, scraps of ledgers, margins of passenger records. But with Bepo’s help, the fragments turned into a trail. Together they traced the ports you had stopped in, the ships you had likely boarded. When the paperwork disappeared, they leaned on instinct. Bepo sniffed out stories in the margins, rumors overheard in taverns, the way certain clerks flinched when Law pressed too close. When gaps opened in the trail, Law made educated guesses, following the path of cargo routes and artist guilds, piecing together where you might have gone next.
Luck, for once, favored him.
Lucky enough that the pattern became clear. Fortunate enough that the trail led straight to the place he feared most.
Dressrosa.
The name alone felt like bile in his mouth. Too many debts led to there—too much unfinished business. Doflamingo’s shadow stretched long, and Law had spent years bracing himself for the inevitable clash. That you might have walked willingly into the same den twisted the scar of your silence into something sharper.
But he did not go. Not yet.
He forced himself to wait, to be patient, to act in order. Dressrosa was a throne, and thrones required leverage to topple. He needed more than rage and the ghost of your name. He needed a bargaining chip, and he knew exactly where to get it.
Punk Hazard.
So he set his sights there first. It was where his plans began, the keystone to toppling a king. And beneath every layer of strategy, beneath the careful words he fed his crew, the truth beat steady and relentless in his chest.
But what really bothered him was what happened when he sent third-party bounty hunters and private investigators to Dressrosa.
They couldn’t find you.
Shit. You had never made his life more difficult.
Every artist guild, every painter, every academy where ink-stained apprentices hunched over their papers—he sent men to ask. Always the same question. Always the same name.
And always, the same answer.
Confusion. Blank stares. Squinting brows. A few hesitant nods toward ledgers or student rolls, where your name appeared inked like a stain on old paper. But no one ever remembered a face to match it. No one recalled a voice, or a pair of hands stained with charcoal, or a pretty medical illustrator carrying a portfolio too big for their arms. It was as if the world had swallowed you whole and spat back only scraps of proof that you had ever existed.
Even the medical illustrator he had been certain would have heard of you. An old master who knew every apprentice worth knowing on that island, but hr had only squinted at your name and shrugged, dismissing him with a flick of the hand. “Never heard of her,” he said flatly, and then turned back to his work as though the conversation had never happened.
Law had left that meeting with his jaw tight and his pulse pounding. He could not decide what unnerved him more: the truth in the man’s eyes, or the ease with which he delivered it, despite having your name on his records.
It’s like they all just forgot about you.
The further that Law pressed, the more the trail frayed. Documents crumbled into dust. Signatures dissolved into anonymity. Descriptions never matched. You were, as much as he could tell, a ghost.
A ghost name. A ghost presence. A ghost bond.
And Law hated ghosts.
They haunted him enough already. His parents. His sister. Rosinante. All of them lingering in memory like wounds that never healed. He had sworn there would be no more, that he would not let another name turn into an echo. But there you were, slipping through his fingers as if the world itself had conspired to erase you.
It was like a curse.
He would sit with the documents spread before him until his eyes burned, tracing the familiar shape of your name with his finger as if by sheer will he could conjure you back into being. But every time the trail ended in smoke. The paper gave him nothing. The silence gave him nothing.
At night, when the sea was quiet and the crew slept, he would sit alone in his cabin. One hand pressed to his temple, he would reach once more for the bond, just in case. Just to see if this time, after all the void and ache, you might finally answer.
The silence pressed back, heavy and absolute.
He told himself he hated you for it sometimes. That you had abandoned him, cut him out, left him stranded. He whispered curses into the empty air, called you a coward, a damn ass, a fool for making him hope. But even as the words left his lips, he reached again, because Law had never been good at letting go of the people who mattered.
And you mattered. You didn’t even know how much you had mattered to a boy who had already lost everything, and to a man who carried loss like it was carved into his skin. Somewhere in the years between silence and searching, the truth had settled into him with quiet inevitability. He had been in love with you for years. And that love had nowhere to go but into the void.
Law just wanted five minutes. Five minutes where the bond would stir, where your voice might stumble through the static again, where he could finally stop rehearsing apologies in the dark. He did not even hope for forgiveness. He knew better than that. What he wanted was the chance to tell you the truth, to lay it out bare before you were gone for good.
The truth about Flevance. About the smell of lead dust choking the streets, about the day he stopped being a child. The truth about Rosinante, about how a single man’s kindness had carved open a space in him he had been desperate to fill ever since. The truth about how much it had mattered that you were there, even if you had not realized it: the smallest kindness, the briefest word of comfort. Every piece of light you ever offered, he hoarded. It guided him through nights when there was nothing left to hold on to but rage.
You had been more than a distraction, more than a whisper at the edge of his thoughts. You had been a lifeline. He had fallen in love with you before he even understood what that word meant. Fourteen, raw and furious, staring down the ruins of his life and finding one voice that refused to turn hollow. He never admitted it, not then, not ever, but it had settled deep into him like a blade he carried point-first.
Five minutes. That was all. Enough to swallow his pride and tell you what he should have said years ago. That he was sorry, that he had always been an asshole, that he would always be an asshole, but you had been the one thing he wanted to protect from the worst of him. Enough to say that he loved you, had loved you longer than he had known how to breathe without pain.
At night, he would press his hand to the table, to the pages marked with your name, and whisper into the silence. A plea. A curse. A confession. Anything that might carry across that corridor of nothing. The crew never saw him falter, never heard the way his voice broke when he spoke to no one. But the cabin walls knew. The sea knew.
It was not only words he wanted. His hunger ran deeper than confessions and apologies. He thought of you at your desk, pen scratching, brow furrowed in concentration. He imagined himself behind you, tearing the charcoal from your fingers, scattering your sketches across the floor so that he could pull you into his lap. He wanted to bury his mouth against your throat while you protested, wanted to feel your body arch and shiver against him until you forgot whatever you had been drawing. He wanted to make you his distraction, his remedy, his proof that the silence could still be broken.
He could live with being a monster, a pirate, a doctor carved hollow by grief. What he could not live with was the thought that you would join the ranks of his dead. Another phantom on the list. Another ghost he could never drive away.
He wanted five minutes.
Five minutes to tell you everything before you vanished forever.
Five minutes to press you down into his bed, to show you in the only way he knew how that you mattered more than the ghosts, more than the grief, more than the silence itself.
And somewhere in the depths of Dressrosa, you sat frozen behind painted lips, a doll in a child’s arms, while the man who would have torn down kingdoms for you tore himself apart trying to remember the sound of your voice.
-X-Unexpected Sights-X-
Your new life had consisted of being a pretty doll that Sugar carried everywhere. She dressed you in frills and bows, posed you in her lap at family meetings, and propped you on her nightstand when she grew bored. She liked to tilt your chin with her finger and whisper secrets into your painted ear, as if you could answer her. To her, you were a favorite toy. To you, it was a prison more complete than chains.
And the worst of it was what you heard.
Crimes whispered like casual conversation, as if slaughter and cruelty were as ordinary as breathing. Plans to bleed Dressrosa dry, to tighten the noose around every town that dared to resist. Orders given for soldiers who were no longer men but toys, stripped of name and memory, marched endlessly without sleep or food. Diamante’s screeching laughter as he boasted of victories that were little more than rigged performances, his gaudy cape rustling as he mimed grandeur. Trebol’s wet, wheezing cackle while he bragged about the chains he smuggled, about the nobles who would pay in rivers of gold for flesh. Pica’s voice rumbling through the stone itself, turning the walls of the palace into a living cage that echoed with menace.
And above it all, Doflamingo’s voice. Smooth, commanding, like velvet stretched over a blade. Every word from him sank into the marrow of the Family, dictating the rhythm of Dressrosa’s suffering. He spoke of dominance and profit, of people as pawns, of hope as nothing more than a leash. You had no choice but to listen, still and silent in Sugar’s arms, your painted smile fixed, your wooden hands limp, as the Family laid out horrors at a table you could never leave.
Sometimes you were left on a cushion in his throne room, staring unblinking as shadows danced across the walls. You were forced to hear the hiss of betrayal, the snap of chains, the cries of those broken into silence. Sometimes Sugar tucked you into bed beside her, clutching you to her chest while she drifted to sleep, leaving you awake, wide-eyed, drowning in the echo of crimes no child should ever have been part of.
You had been reduced to an ornament, a decoration among monsters. A doll in bows and lace, imprisoned by silence, forced to bear witness as the world around you was turned into a stage for cruelty.
Your soul ached.
Every word seared into you, every plan another weight you could do nothing to stop. You wanted to scream, to draw it all out on paper, to pass the knowledge to anyone who could fight back. But you could not move. You could not speak. You could only watch, a child’s doll in a warlord’s court.
At night, when Sugar tossed you aside onto her bed or set you on a shelf, you stared into the dark until madness crept close. The silence of the bond pressed against you like a coffin lid. You reached anyway, even knowing the seastone ring throttled the connection. You reached until you thought your mind would tear apart.
And still, nothing.
The yearning hollowed you. For Law’s voice, for the scratch of charcoal between your fingers, for the smallest proof that you were more than wood and paint. Two years blurred into one long ache, and you began to wonder if you were even human anymore.
The Family never noticed. To them, you were just a doll Sugar liked to keep close. To Sugar, you were a favorite, prettier than the rest, pliant and oh so breakable.
To yourself, you were a ghost screaming behind glass.
One day, Trebol took Sugar out into the streets, his slimy bulk lurching along with her perched primly on his shoulder. You dangled in her arms, your porcelain face tilted toward the sunlight, your painted smile as fixed as ever. To passing eyes, you were nothing more than a child’s toy.
The market was loud with vendors calling prices, children chasing kites, and men shouting over dice games. Sugar hummed as she picked at candied grapes, holding you under one arm like her prize doll. Then Trebol stopped, his wet laugh bubbling out of him.
“Eh—look at this, Sugar.”
He tore a fresh poster from the wall, the paper slick and crinkling under his goo. You felt the shift of the air before you saw it. And when the poster came into your painted line of sight, your soul lurched so violently you thought your wooden body might crack.
Trebol wheezed his laugh, the paper tearing wetly as he peeled a new poster from the wall. “A familiar face, and already a nuisance.”
Sugar popped another grape in her mouth, glancing lazily at the sheet as he held it up. “He looks boring,” she said flatly, and hugged you closer against her frilled dress. “Not as pretty as my doll.”
Your painted eyes stared at the poster, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.
The man staring back from the grainy ink was… arresting. Handsome in a way that unsettled you, as if he belonged both to shadows and to firelight. Dark eyes glared out beneath the tilt of a hat marked with a white fuzzed brim, sharp and deliberate in their intensity. Tattoos crawled across the backs of his hands where he rested them on the hilt of a sword, and even in stillness, there was something coiled about him, like a blade waiting to cut.
Your soul ached, leaning toward him before you could check yourself.
Trebol crinkled the paper noisily, snickering. “Trafalgar Law. That brat. Thinks being a Warlord makes him untouchable, but he’s still a child playing at surgeon. Doffy won’t like this one sniffing around.”
You perked up.
Trafalgar Law?
The name curled through you like a spark in the dark, and for a breath, you dared to hope. Then you huffed at yourself, inwardly scolding the foolish flutter. Shared names were hardly uncommon. It was ridiculous to speculate, to clutch at straws when you had been starved for so long.
To you, he was just a pirate with an unfortunate bounty, one more enemy of the Donquixote Family. But your gaze lingered. On the lines of his face, the faint scarring along his jaw, the ink on his hands, the steady way he held himself like he was daring the world to try him. The photographer who had caught his likeness had caught something that could not be faked: a sharpness, a gravity that made it impossible to look away.
Boring?
Hardly.
You wanted to laugh at Sugar’s dismissal, if only you could. He was nothing like the simpering Donquixote peons you had been forced to watch serve the family, nothing like the powdered merchants who brought their wares to the palace. There was no softness in the pictured stare, no false brightness in his smile. He was dangerous, and he wore it as easily as a man wore a coat.
And though you could not explain why, something inside you strained toward him. A tautness pulled in your chest, the faintest echo of desire where there should have been none. You had never seen his face. You had never heard his voice. Yet the image caught in cheap ink held you captive.
Sugar glanced at the poster again, chewing grapes between her baby teeth. “He looks ugly.” She hugged you closer, smearing stickiness onto your painted cheek. “Not as pretty as my doll.”
Her words were final, dismissive. To her, that was the end of it.
But in the hollow of your chest, your heart hammered against painted wood. Ugly was the last word you would have chosen.
He was stunning.
And the beauty of him made the silence in your bond ache more sharply than it ever had before.
You had never understood why people dated. Why they pined, why they whispered about stolen kisses or cried over broken hearts. It had always sounded foolish to you, a waste of time and energy when the world was already heavy enough. But staring at the pirate on that poster made something in you shift. For the first time, you understood.
It was not just his face, though the sharp angles of his jaw and the scar that carved across it were magnetic in their own right. It was the way he looked at the world, dark eyes steady and uncompromising, like he would not bend for anyone. It was the weight of him, even captured in ink, that made your painted skin prickle with the memory of what it was to be alive.
You could almost imagine him speaking, his voice low and certain. Almost imagine those tattooed hands resting on a table between you. Almost imagine what it would feel like to be looked at that way, to be seen.
Your gaze slid lower on the poster.
Your breath caught in your hollow chest. Recognition stabbed through you like lightning.
No fucking way.
Once, years ago, Law had asked you to draw something for him. He had been impatient about it, as he always was, but you remembered the way his voice had softened when he asked.
And now it was staring back at you from a wanted poster, inked across the back of a polar bear in a spotted cap.
Your painted chest ached with panic and desperate need. You strained to see more, to confirm what your memory already told you. The tilt of the brim on the pirate’s hat. The letters beneath the photo. The set of his eyes. You fought against the wooden stillness of your body, screaming inside yourself to lean closer, to look harder.
Before you could, Trebol let out a wet, dismissive snort. “Tch. Not worth keeping this one up.” He crushed the paper in his sticky hands and ripped it into shreds, the sound sharp and final.
“Don’t post pictures of other Warlords,” he barked at the startled Marine rolling new posters up nearby. His voice was syrupy, dripping malice as he flicked the scraps into the gutter. “The young master doesn’t need the people staring at such scum. Understand?”
The Marines nodded quickly, already peeling the other posters from the wall.
You were left motionless in Sugar’s arms, your painted face still smiling as if nothing had happened, while inside your soul screamed. The proof had been in your hands for a single heartbeat, then torn to pieces before you could breathe.
And you had never wanted anything more than you wanted another look at Trafalgar Law.
Elsewhere:
Law had never liked dealing in trust. But Punk Hazard had proved one thing: the Straw Hats were useful, chaotic, and terrifyingly lucky. He did not need to like them; he only needed to use them. So he laid out his plan with the cool precision of a surgeon: form an alliance, tear down Caesar’s empire, and march on Dressrosa to sever Doflamingo’s reign. The words were sharp and efficient, but his motives were not entirely spoken.
The second his boots hit Dressrosa’s streets, his mind was not on Doflamingo. It was on you.
He masked it well. To the Straw Hats, he was the same stoic ally, the same clipped strategist dividing them into teams, assigning infiltration points, feeding them the threads that would unravel the Family’s façade. “Destroy the factory,” he told Luffy. “Draw the attention of the executives,” he instructed Zoro and Kin’emon. Every order had a weight, and every plan accounted for chaos. But beneath each careful calculation, his thoughts were already searching.
You had been here. He was sure of it. The bond might have been silent, but he had spent too many nights staring at your absence not to feel the echo of it on these streets. Every shadowed alley, every toy that stumbled past, every whisper of Doflamingo’s cruelty reminded him that you could still be trapped somewhere in the strings of this island.
He told himself he was here to cut off the snake's head. That was the goal, the alliance, the reason he had gambled on Luffy’s unpredictable power. But in quiet moments, while chaos erupted in the Colosseum and the city boomed with the noise of rebellion, Law’s gaze swept over the towers and plazas not with the eyes of a tactician but with the desperation of a man searching for something he could not lose again.
When a voice thundered from the stone and the palace loomed high over the square, he thought of you locked in one of its rooms. When Diamante strutted into the arena with his painted arrogance, Law wondered if you were forced to watch his mockery of glory. When Trebol’s laugh scraped against his nerves, he thought of the way you must have heard it, helpless, forced to listen to every word.
He kept his face unreadable because Luffy was watching, because the crew was depending on him. After all, vengeance did not allow for weakness. But inside, every corner of Dressrosa screamed your name.
-X- Through the Looking Glass -X-
Sugar carried you everywhere, her prize and her pet. She liked to dress you in frills, balance you on her lap during meetings, and parade you around the palace like a charm only she possessed. At first, you thought she simply delighted in showing you off. It took longer to realize she was trying to wear you down, watching to see if you would crack under her control.
What unsettled her most was the ring.
The band of seastone had once been nothing more than a keepsake, pressed into your hand by a grandmother who cared a little too much. On your finger, it became a barrier. The bond that should have been silent stayed muted, half-alive. You clung to that dull hum in the back of your mind, the faintest trace of him.
Sugar noticed. She had a strange relationship with all her dolls, especially you.
Her smile twisted one day when she was playing with you.
With a child’s thoughtless cruelty, her small hands snapped your doll arm cleanly, slid the band free, then pressed the break shut. You felt the pain, the real fracture that echoed inside you, even though your wooden face never changed. Piece by piece, she pried the ring free, tossing it aside with disgust. Then she fixed you, neat as mending a toy, her sticky powers sealing your body back together as if nothing had happened.
Nothing, except for the silence that followed.
She did not carry you after that. Instead, she placed you in her room, high on a shelf where no one else could reach, no one else could see. Her small hand pressed to your painted forehead, and with a whisper of her power, she pushed her powers onto you.
“Sleep.” She said.
Slumber came like lacquer, glossy and hard.
You felt a change even as your vision began to dim. The bond flickered back to life, no longer dampened by seastone. His voice might have been waiting for you, just beyond the fog: a chance to hear him again, an opportunity to answer. But you could not move, could not speak, could not wake.
You were forced into stillness, lulled into a dreamless dark, the bond aching faint and unanswered in the back of your mind.
Elsewhere:
The plan was simple in words, but impossible to execute. Exchange Caesar. Destroy the factory. Cut the strings. Law laid it out with his usual precision, his finger tapping the map spread across the Sunny’s deck as he explained entry points and contingencies to a crew that thrived on chaos.
He was speaking, but halfway through a sentence, the world shifted.
It hit him like heat, rushing up his spine and flooding his chest until his breath caught. The bond. Alive. Blazing through him after years of dead silence. His hand froze over the parchment, and for one impossible heartbeat, he could swear he felt you just at the edge of thought, a pulse he knew better than his own.
Straw Hat tilted his head at him, confused. “Oi, Traffy, you good?”
Something unlatched inside his chest, like earplugs pulled from underwater.
Law clenched his jaw, forcing his hand back to the map. “Fine,” he said curtly, though his voice scraped with something raw. “We only get one chance at this.”
But he was no longer seeing the streets and alleys of Dressrosa in his mind. He was reaching, again and again, into the bond that had suddenly flared open. He poured his will into it like a man starved, desperate for a reply. A word. A breath. Anything.
Nothing came back.
He tried again that night, sitting apart while the others bickered over food and strategy. His palm pressed to his temple, eyes closed, he reached so hard it hurt. The bond burned hot, alive, but there was only silence. He swore he could almost feel you moving on the other side, like a shadow brushing against the door. But it never opened.
For the first time in years, he wanted to laugh and rage in the same breath. You were there. He could feel you, finally. You were alive. And yet you were still out of reach, as if the universe had given him a taste only to hold the rest just beyond his grasp.
Then he reached again, because how could he stop now that you were real in his veins, burning like fire after so many years of cold.
Back to you:
You woke with a start.
The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, painted a pale blush with childish stencils along the edges. Ribbons dangled from the walls. A menagerie of stuffed animals sat neatly on a shelf, their glassy eyes fixed on you. You pushed yourself upright, your limbs shaking as if you had forgotten how to move them. For a moment, you wondered if you were still trapped, if Sugar had only shifted you into another pose.
Then you noticed the bed. Small, frilled, made for a child. The coverlet was patterned with strawberries. The air smelled faintly sweet, cloying, like sugared fruit left too long in the sun.
Pain flared across your limbs, as if you had fallen off a chair. Looking up, you saw that the shelf you had been on was broken.
You looked down at your body. So long held still in a doll’s body, you slowly moved, limbs feeling weak and unsure.
You could move.
You flexed your fingers and winced at the slight pain in the arm Sugar had cracked in half and ‘fixed’. There was a seam of healed flesh, a remnant of the trauma.
After a shaking sigh, you forced yourself to breathe and focus.
This was not the palace chamber you half-remembered, not the meeting rooms where her cold fingers had curled around you. This was somewhere private—probably Sugar’s room.
Your heart pounded. You did not understand. You remembered the endless dark of sleep, the weight of her power pressing you down, the muffled hum of a bond you could never quite reach. Now that silence was gone, replaced by the rustle of curtains and the faint clatter of chaos from outside.
You pressed your hands against your face, skin warm, pliant, alive. You were yourself again.
And then it hit you.
The bond surged like fire through your chest, so sudden you gasped aloud. It was no longer faint, no longer smothered, no longer muffled to a hum. It roared awake, blazing with heat until your breath came in ragged pulls. For a dizzy instant, you thought you might collapse.
Your head hurt like hell.
Then a voice cut through. Familiar. Sharp. Desperate.
“Where are you?”
You winced, pain flaring. The words rang in your head like a blade striking stone, too loud, too real. You pressed your palms harder to your face, your whole body trembling.
“Argh,” you whispered, almost afraid to believe it. “Too loud, please no—”
The voice came again, softer this time, fueled by panic. “Tell me where you are.”
Your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor beside the bed, clutching the coverlet in white-knuckled hands. Every part of you wanted to relish it, because how could it be real after all this time? The silence had been so absolute. You had grieved it like a death.
And yet.
“Law?” Your voice cracked, your throat raw with disuse. “Law, is that—are you—”
The bond pulsed hot, almost searing, as if your doubt had offended him. “Don’t talk.” The demand was so fierce you nearly flinched. “Where. Are. You?”
Tears blurred your vision. You looked wildly around the saccharine little room, trying to make sense of where you were. Toys. Pink walls. Lace curtains.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “It looks like a child’s bedroom. I think it’s hers. Sugar’s.”
The connection flared again, urgent and unrelenting. Beneath the command, you felt something bleed through you had not expected: raw, unguarded relief.
“You are talking.” The words were quieter this time, so low you barely caught them. “You are alive.”
Your pulse thundered as his presence coiled tighter inside your head. You had thought you wanted this, dreamed of it for so long, but now that his voice was here, it was almost unbearable. Too sharp, too commanding, too much.
“Listen to me.” The words were clipped, heavy with urgency. “Outside, there is fighting between groups of pirates. Do not get involved. Do not let anyone see you. You need to find a way out of Dressrosa.”
Your mouth went dry. “Leave?” The word scraped out of your throat like a stone. “I don’t understand. Where are you? What is happening?”
The bond pulsed harder, stifling, like he was crowding into every corner of your mind.
“There is no time. You cannot stay here. Get to the outskirts, to the port. Find a way off the island. Now.”
Panic twisted through you. You stumbled to your feet, clutching at the bedpost, staring around the room as if the pastel walls might explain anything. “Law, stop—stop shouting at me. Tell me what is going on. Why are you here?”
Silence answered for a beat, hot and trembling, and you felt the tight grip of his temper barely held in check. Then his voice came back, low and cutting.
“This island is about to become a battlefield. Doflamingo is not going to spare anyone. I will deal with him. You will escape.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can and you will.” His interruption cracked like a whip, his usual calm stripped bare by the edge of desperation. “Do not argue with me. If you stay, you could die.”
Your heart lurched. He had always been cold, always sharp, but the fear beneath his words shook you more than the threat of any pirate or soldier outside. You pressed a hand to your mouth to stop its trembling.
It was overwhelming.
Every moment since the silence had broken felt like drowning and breathing at once. The bond had not been this alive since you were children. Years of absence now tried to rush back all at once, your thoughts crashing into each other so fast you could barely separate yours from his.
“Stay hidden. Get out.” His voice was stern and clipped, but underneath it, you felt more. Relief so raw it shook him. Fear so sharp it tasted like iron.
“Law—” Your voice wavered. “It is really you, isn’t it? Trafalgar Law? Are you… a pirate?”
There was a pause, short but weighted, as if he had not expected you to put it together. Then the bond tightened, heat pressing in until it hurt.
“You finally figured it out.” His voice was low, bitter, almost a laugh, and nearly a sob. “Yes. Captain. Pirate. Warlord. All the names they spit at me belong to me. And now you know why I did not want you here.”
You pressed a hand to your mouth, fighting the sting of tears. The boy whose thoughts had once been scalpels and sutures, the boy who had haunted your mind in fragments and silence, was this man the Donquixote Family spoke of with venom. The one they wanted to crush.
Outside Sugar’s window, the air cracked with the sound of stone shifting. You could hear voices shouting in the streets, the rumble of the palace moving under Pica’s command. Dressrosa was collapsing around you, and you clung to the voice in your head.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
The bond burned with conflict, his answer spilling through in jagged pieces between parries and orders shouted at his allies.
“Because you were kind. Because you deserved better than to be tied to a boy who had nothing left. Because I could not risk Doflamingo finding you through me. And because—”
His thought faltered, as if he caught himself too late. You felt his frustration bite through the link.
“This is not the time.”
You shook your head, whispering aloud even though he could hear you anyway.
“Thank you. For being here.”
That stopped him cold. You felt it in the bond, the way his chest tightened, his grip on his blade slipping for half a heartbeat.
And then, something shimmered above.
The air itself screamed. Strings lashed across the sky in a glimmering dome, slicing through buildings as the Birdcage snapped into place. You staggered to the window as the island shuddered, watching fine threads cut the horizon into pieces. Every scream from the streets below told you what those threads could do.
Through the bond, his voice was jagged with fury.
“He is sealing us in. No one leaves until he is finished. I have to go after him.”
Your knees buckled. “Law—”
“I am sorry.” The words hit like a blow, his voice harsh with battle and heartbreak. “I am sorry for everything. For not trusting you. For hurting you when I should have told you. For dragging you into this mess just by existing.”
You shook your head so violently that your vision blurred. “No. No—don’t apologize.” The words came out hoarse, half a sob. “This is my fault. I should have known—My grandmother—I had on her stupid ring, seastone. It cut it off and I didn’t know—but it's my fault.”
The bond flared hot, his fury and grief colliding.
“Don’t say that.”
“I silenced you,” you cried, gripping the window frame so hard your fingers ached. “I should have trusted you and known—I should have—”
“Stop.” His voice cracked through the bond like a blade. “I could never hate you. Not once. Not for a second. Not even if you ripped my heart out. Now go be safe, and we can argue later.”
Your chest heaved, tears spilling hot and fast. Outside, the dome of threads glittered, cutting the world into a cage, but all you could hear was him.
Then the bond jolted with movement, your senses reeling as he launched himself toward the palace, chasing the monster who had stolen everything from him. You were left trembling in the pink bedroom, furious at yourself, furious at him, and still unable to stop the way your heart surged at the fact that he was there.
The world shook.
Through the bond, you caught only fragments. Pain was tearing down his side. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue. The steady rhythm of his blade meeting strings again and again. Snatches of voices: Straw Hat shouting his name, Doflamingo’s laughter ringing cold, the chaos of allies and enemies clashing in streets that had become killing grounds. You wanted to close your mind to it, but the bond carried everything with it. Each flicker of pain jolted through you as if it were your own.
Then, he tightened his side. Not to silence, but to ensure you wouldn’t taste whatever agony he would surely be facing.
A warlord pirate captain.
You pushed yourself out of Sugar’s room, stumbling into the corridor. The palace was alive with noise. The floors shuddered with Pica’s stone. Walls cracked as the Birdcage tightened, slicing streets below into rubble. You crept through gilded halls, clutching the wall for balance, trying desperately to follow the bond like a compass needle.
“I’m trying,” you whispered, though you knew he could not hear over the din.
A roar of voices swelled as you turned down a grand staircase, and suddenly a hand caught your arm.
“Are you insane, girl?” The voice was rough, panicked. You twisted to see a man in battered armor, one of the gladiators from the Colosseum. His face was bloodied, his cape shredded, but his grip was firm. “You’ll be killed running around in here.”
“I have to—”
“No.” His voice was firm, hard as stone. Another gladiator stepped up beside him, spear still slick with blood. They glanced at each other and then at you.
“You’re trembling,” the second said. “You’ve no business in this slaughter.”
You tried to wrench free, ignoring the sting in your wrist. “I can handle—”
Before you could finish, the first gladiator simply lifted you off your feet, hefting you against his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. You kicked and shouted, but his grip did not budge.
“Please—I need, PLEASE—”
“Better to have you alive and furious with me than dead on the floor,” he grunted, carrying you back from the sound of battle.
Through the bond, you felt Law’s focus narrow like the edge of a knife, every shred of him aimed at Doflamingo. You wanted to scream, to fight harder, to run to him. Instead, you were carried bodily through the corridors by men who refused to let you wander into death.
All you could do was cling to the bond, catching every ragged breath, every jolt of pain, every flicker of his will as Trafalgar Law fought for his life, and for Dressrosa, somewhere above the collapsing palace.
The palace shook itself apart. Through the bond, you felt every jolt as if your own bones cracked beneath the strain. Law’s presence bled with pain, his thoughts flickering in and out, broken shards of focus and fury. You could almost taste blood in your own mouth, phantom iron heavy on your tongue.
Then came the moment when the world seemed to hold its breath. A burst of will, so bright it nearly blinded you through the bond, and another voice roaring with unshakable resolve. And then silence. The kind that comes not with peace but with exhaustion, when a monster has finally fallen.
You were still being carried when the air shifted. The gladiator half-dragged, half-lifted you through the streets toward the hastily cleared square where wounded were gathered. He shifted, running to the far end of the square.
The hospital they herded you into was little more than a commandeered wing of the city center, its white sheets already soaked through with red. Doctors barked orders, nurses staggered from one cot to another, and children cried for parents who had not come back.
Someone tried to usher you to a bench with the other shell-shocked survivors. Instead, you snatched up a roll of bandages and moved to the nearest cot. Your hands were clumsy at first, shaking, but the old reflexes returned quickly. You knew how to splint a limb, how to press and tie cloth to keep someone from bleeding out, how to steady a breath that threatened to stop.
“Don’t just stand there,” you snapped at a boy fumbling with gauze. “Tie higher. Tighter. He’ll bleed through.”
No one argued. There was no time.
You worked until your fingers cramped, until you could not tell whose blood was on your skin. And always, always, you reached for the bond.
But it was different now.
Law was still there, but held back, like a door shut tight. You brushed against the edges of his exhaustion, the way his chest ached with every breath, the burn of wounds deeper than he wanted to admit. You tried to push through, to whisper his name, to tell him you were safe, but the bond only yielded faint heat, not words.
As if he could not spare the strength. As if he feared what would spill out if you could see.
You pressed bloody hands to your face and forced yourself to keep working. If he were alive, if he was breathing somewhere in the rubble of Dressrosa, then you could not falter either.
-X-Home Invasion-X-
The medic tent stank of blood and smoke. The air was thick with iron and ash, heavy enough to sting the back of your throat. You were bent over a soldier’s cot, your hands sticky with someone else’s blood, fingers clumsy with exhaustion as you wound a strip of linen around his gashed arm. The noise around you was a dull roar of moans, shouted orders, and the scrape of boots across stone, but you had forced yourself into a rhythm: one bandage, one wound, one life at a time.
Then the bond stirred.
It pulsed so suddenly that you almost dropped the bandage. Heat spread through your chest, familiar and overwhelming, until your breath caught in your throat. And then, as if no time had passed at all, his voice was there.
“How are you?”
Your eyes stung instantly. Your hands pressed flat to the cot to steady yourself. “Law?” you whispered, the word trembling out of you. “Are you okay? I hear that the pirates were defeated, but—”
“I’m just fine,” he said, his voice steadier than you expected, though you felt the exhaustion beneath it. “Where are you?”
You bit down a sob, half-laughing through tears. “A hospital. Clearly, drawing enough injuries makes me okay to treat them.”
There was a pause, and you felt him shift on the other side of the bond, as if testing his own body before answering. Then came the faintest tug of pride, the ripple of something lighter than you had ever felt from him. A beat of warmth flickered across the connection, gentler than you had thought he was capable of.
“Luffy and I took down Doflamingo,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “The Donquixote Pirates are no more.”
Your hand flew to your mouth, tears spilling freely now. Relief poured through you in a rush so intense your knees went weak.
“Thank god. They were so annoying.”
You swore you heard him laugh. Brief, startled, and rough around the edges, but real. The sound of it through the bond sent a shiver down your spine, as if you’d just touched something rare and fragile that you never thought you would hear again.
The bond thrummed, not with command or sharpness as it had so often in your youth, but with quiet joy. You closed your eyes, pressing the heel of your hand to your wet cheeks, laughing and crying all at once.
“I… I have so much to say,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer. “But I feel like I can’t find the words.”
On the other end of the bond, his answer came warm and certain. “Me too…I’ve got some bad news.”
You furrowed your brows, gripping the cot.
“Bad news?”
“The Navy is here,” he said, tone flat with resignation. “And they’ve brought a couple of problems with them. I’m leaving with the Straw Hats soon.”
You froze. The words sank heavy into your chest. You understood.
“We aren’t going to be able to meet, are we?” You say quietly.
“Not yet,” he admitted, voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite put a finger on. “But that’s not why I need to apologize.”
Your brows knit together, a question rising, when a knock rattled the door.
Frowning, you wiped hastily at your cheeks and crossed the room.
You pulled it open.
And found yourself staring at a giant white polar bear in a neon orange jumpsuit, with a familiar logo emblazoned on the front.
He blinked down at you, eyes wide and awkward, before smiling.
“Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Bepo.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Surely exhaustion was making you hallucinate.
The bond pulsed hot, Law’s voice following immediately after, dry and rueful. “I need to apologize,” he repeated. “Because my crew is about to kidnap you.”
You gawked at the bear—Bepo—still half-convinced the stress of the night had finally snapped your mind.
“Kidnap me?” you managed, your voice rising. “What do you mean, kidnap me?”
Bepo scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Captain’s orders. He, uh… said you’d be surprised.”
“Wait, give me a minute, I was a doll a day ago!” you said, though your hands were still trembling from the bond’s heat, from the reality of Law’s voice in your head.
Through the link, Law sighed, exasperated but warm. “Do not make this harder than it has to be. The Navy will be swarming the city soon, and I refuse to leave you behind. We’ll meet in Zou.”
Bepo shuffled a step closer, his massive shadow falling across you. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said earnestly, even as he reached to scoop you up.
Your mouth fell open as your feet left the floor. “You can’t just—! Law!”
Your protest died in your throat, replaced instead by a rush of tears. Tears of helpless laughter as a polar bear abducted you in broad daylight.
You clutched at Bepo’s fur, soft and warm under your fingers, trying not to shake apart as he carried you effortlessly down the corridor. “This is insane,” you choked out between half-laughs and sobs. “You realize I’m being kidnapped by a bear in a bright orange jumpsuit, don’t you? Not subtle at all. This is absurd!”
Bepo glanced down at you with the earnestness only a giant talking bear could manage. “Captain said you might say that. But don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.”
The bond pulsed hot and sure in your chest, Law’s presence pressing close even though he wasn’t there beside you. “Stop laughing,” he grumbled, though the heat beneath his words betrayed him. “You are not taking this seriously enough.”
“Not taking this seriously?” you shot back, half hysterical, half giddy. “I just spent years as a doll in a dress, and now I’m being carried off by a polite polar bear! I think I’m allowed to laugh, Law!”
Bepo’s ears twitched. “You’re right,” he said aloud, “This is a little funny. Please don’t scream. People are starting to look.”
You let me know, and send a long image of civilians and marines looking perturbed in your direction.
You swore you felt Law pinch the bridge of his nose across the bond. “You are all impossible.”
But beneath his exasperation, you felt it; the fierce relief, the overwhelming heat of him refusing to let you go. Whatever came next, the Navy, the world, the chaos of Dressrosa falling apart, you knew one thing with unshakable certainty.
Law x Reader
Length 14 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Slight Age Gap (Older reader/Younger Law), Slow Burn, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Family Pressure, Medical Detail, Childhood Trauma, Language, Gaslighting, Angst, slight sexual content
For Scalpel Bae.
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Next
The bond began whisper-faint when you were a preteen. A vague hum at the edge of your mind, scraps of someone else’s thoughts drifting through like leaves on a river.
Most people got lucky. Their soulmates thought about food, music, or embarrassing crushes. Yours? Yours narrated surgical procedures.
You were sketching quietly one afternoon when the mental equivalent of, “Scalpel. Suction. Clamp that artery,” dropped into your head.
Your charcoal broke against the page. You stared at your drawing and wondered if your soulmate was a murderer.
By fourteen, you knew better. Not a murderer. Just… unnervingly comfortable describing human insides in clinical detail. You had so many questions and absolutely no desire to know the answers.
He was sarcastic, too. Not in the fun, witty way. More in the ‘I will skin you alive with words’ way. Entire summers passed where you were forced to listen to him silently dismantle someone’s intelligence in increasingly creative ways.
He had the bedside manner of a storm drain. Flat. Cold. Unimpressed. Yet there were moments that startled you. The way his focus sharpened when someone was injured. The rare flickers of tenderness when he thought about animals. The low, steady hum of quiet when he was finally alone.
By sixteen, you gave up trying to figure him out. Doctor. Pirate. Something worse. Whoever he was, you were stuck with him, destined to hear him grumble about anatomy, the weather, and the stupidity of humanity for the rest of your life.
Sometimes you talked back in your head—little sarcastic comments.
“You must be fun at parties.”
The bond pulsed faintly, as if he was holding back a sigh.
You were just an artist who liked to draw anatomy. Your soulmate was a man who dissected it. And if fate had a sense of humor, his name was probably something dramatic, like ‘Law’.
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
Age 13:
You were thirteen the day the bond snapped into clarity.
It happened mid-afternoon, in the corner of your guardian’s study where you had spread out your sketchbook. The window light fell across half-finished portraits and clumsy studies of hands, your pencil scratching as you tried to capture the curl of a smile from memory. The smell of ink and graphite clung to the air.
Then a voice broke across your mind like glass.
“I swear, if anyone touches me, I’ll cut them open.”
You froze, pencil hovering mid-stroke. The words were too sharp, too young, too soaked in fury to belong to you.
“Worthless. Every last moment. Why would he—”
Soulmate bonds weren’t rare, but yours had always been faint, a distant hum you could forget if you tried. Whoever he was, he had never been clear enough for you to catch more than a flicker of mood.
Until now.
For days after, his thoughts came in jagged bursts. Hatred. Exhaustion. Something darker still, like a shadow crouched in the back of his mind. And then, always, the same name, repeated like a prayer he did not believe in.
“Cora.”
You did not know who that was. But the way he thought it made your chest ache, as though you had sketched grief itself onto paper.
He was young. Younger than you, for sure. But his mind didn’t move like a child’s. It was jagged, old, scraped raw by something cruel. He thought like someone who had run too far, seen too much, and decided the world deserved every bad thing it got.
Once, you tried to think back.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
There was a pause. For a moment, you thought he might answer.
“Don’t talk to me.”
And that was it.
The following week was worse. Flashes of memory slid through the bond whether you wanted them or not. The smell of smoke. The crack of gunfire. The metallic tang of blood. You tried to shut it out. You told yourself it wasn’t yours to carry. But the bond didn’t care.
You were tied to him now. Whoever he was. Wherever he was. Whatever had happened.
And whether you liked it or not, you could hear every grief-soaked thought he had.
At first, he tried to block you out. The bond felt like an intrusion to him, and you knew it. Every thought of his was a wall slammed down hard. The rage dulled in time, but it did not fade. It sharpened instead, becoming something lean and precise.
You could feel him practicing it, shaping his fury the way you shaped pencil strokes. He measured his anger like a weapon, counting it out the way you counted lines on paper.
The more you leaned toward softness, the more he turned to cold. Detached. Clinical. On nights when you sketched until your fingers were gray with charcoal, his thoughts would run in exacting rhythm: scalpels, clamps, sutures. Each word carried the weight of repetition, like someone rehearsing until they could no longer fail. He refused to lose control again.
For months, that was all you had.
But every so often, something else slipped through.
A fleeting warmth when he thought of animals. A rare pang of guilt that bled raw before he shoved it back under lock. The faintest hum—soft, almost human—when exhaustion finally dragged him still.
It was not much. But it was enough to keep you there.
Through the seasons, you pressed against him without meaning to. Steady. Unguarded. Softer than he had expected.
When you spent afternoons sketching children in the street, trying to capture their laughter in crooked lines, he would go quiet. The bitterness at the edges of his thoughts would falter, thinned out by something he did not name.
When you lingered over the slope of an older woman’s shoulders or the delicate folds around her eyes, marveling at how wrinkles told their stories, you felt him hesitate. Not to sneer. Not to mock. Just pause, as though stillness was safer than scorn.
Your presence never demanded. It never accused. It simply was. And over the months, he grew slower to snap when you spoke across the bond.
“It’s all right to rest.”
“I like the way people’s faces change when they laugh.”
“You sound tired.”
Little things. Like pencil notes in the margins.
Nearly a year passed before anything changed out loud.
One evening, as you shaded in the curve of a ribcage on your paper, the thought slipped free of you without meaning to.
“I think you’re hurting.”
The silence stretched on so long you were sure he had shut you out completely.
Then, so faint you almost missed it, came his answer.
“So what if I am? No one really cares.”
It was not kindness. It was not cruelty either.
It was, for the first time, honesty.
“I hope you feel better soon.”
-X- A Sample of Your Teenage Psychic Transcript – Medical Cut -X-
Age 14:
By the following year, you’d stopped expecting him to soften. Whoever he was, he didn’t know you, didn’t want to, and made sure you were aware of it.
He was always moving. You could tell by the way his thoughts carried fragments of places you’d never been. Creaking docks. Rain on corrugated tin. The heavy thud of boots on ship planks.
And always that undercurrent of contempt. For strangers. For the world. For himself.
The only time you caught a break from the steady stream of sharp-edged thoughts was when you buried yourself in study. As the only child of a well-off merchant, you were busy stocking the front rooms, and all your free time was lost in art.
Sometimes, without meaning to, you’d answer him in your head when he muttered about the stupidity of someone’s choices.
“Not everyone knows what you know. Or, maybe they were scared.”
“You should eat more. You deserve to feel full.”
“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
He never acknowledged it. But sometimes his thoughts paused, like he’d heard you, and was deciding not to respond. The days were too full for waiting in curiosity.
You worked.
You rose before the sun to restock shelves and check deliveries. You ran accounts for the shop in neat columns. You weighed powders until your arms ached. You smiled at customers you didn’t like because a coin was a coin.
Sometimes, when you were too tired to keep your guard up, he’d flicker at the edges of your thoughts. The steady scrape of a chair on a deck. The clean, precise snip of scissors through bandages. The sound of him setting down a scalpel with deliberate care.
It was a rainy afternoon in the shop. The air was thick with the scent of wet wool from customers’ coats and the sharper bite of eucalyptus from the back room, where you were mixing a chest salve for an elderly regular.
The kid had been grumbling in the bond for the past half hour about someone named Bepo ignoring his medical instructions. You’d been letting him rant while you worked, humming under your breath.
Then the bell over the shop door rang, and a young mother stepped in carrying a wailing toddler. You could see right away that the boy’s arm was scraped raw from elbow to wrist.
“Come in,” you said gently, guiding her toward the counter. “Let’s take a look.”
You crouched to the child’s level, smiling like you had all the time in the world. You let him hold your measuring spoon while you cleaned the scrape, explaining each step in a calm, even voice. He sniffled but didn’t pull away.
Through the bond, your soulmate went quiet.
“…You’re…not the worst,” he said abruptly.
You paused.
This was the first time your morose soulmate had ever chosen to speak to you first.
“At treating scrapes? It’s not exactly advanced medical work,” you thought softly, trying not to scare him with how excited it made you.
“No. The… other thing.”
“What other thing?”
A pause. You could feel him hunting for a word and hating that he couldn’t find the right one.
“Making people stop being scared.”
You laughed softly. “Thanks, little guy.”
“…Gross. My name is Law. Use it, asshole.”
God, he was mean.
But that was the moment he began talking.
And despite his piss poor attitude, you felt pity for him. You wanted to help this kid, if for no other reason than sparing your own mind from the sheer depression flooding it.
You knew he was smart as hell and knew medicine. You weren’t much yourself, but you could draw. So you started sketching anatomy.
Little doodles here and there, and then entire sketchbooks. You still enjoyed flowery subjects, but more often than not, your confused parents found you sketching less pretty subjects.
Anatomical plates, muscles, tendons, imperfect, but with intention.
You were mid-discovering the delicate architecture of your own hand when the kid cut in again.
“You forgot the extensor indicis.”
You blinked at your paper. “The what?”
“The small muscle here.” There was the faintest brush of his mental focus, tracing where it should go. “It extends the index finger. Yours is missing it entirely.”
“I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Clearly.” His tone was flat, cruel. “Don’t label it wrong or you’ll look incompetent.”
He was as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel and just as merciless, but never wrong. He spoke like someone twice his age, and though he wasn’t unkind exactly, he had no concept of softening criticism.
You could have responded angrily. Could have stopped entirely. But the boy… Law… he felt so wounded, and always sounded like he was expecting you to just slam the bond closed. To be left behind.
And you realized that he never did. He could have closed the bond or just tightened it.
But he didn’t.
So you didn’t. And no matter how smart Law was, you weren’t letting a hurt little kid discourage you from art.
“Thanks, Law. I appreciate the help.”
And this was the right choice.
Over time, the weight of his thoughts shifted. They lingered just a little longer when you spoke, held fast instead of sliding past. It wasn’t comfortable, not really, but it was something.
He wasn’t always pleasant, but he was always right. His grasp of anatomy was flawless, too clean and too clever for a boy his age.
And with his constant, almost nagging perfectionism running through the bond like a second heartbeat, your art began to change. Muscles fell in the right places. Bone structure matched the lines of movement. Your sketches became precise, sharper, and undeniably correct.
You became better. Fast.
If only to stop his relentless commentary.
Age 15:
By fifteen, you had gotten good enough to take commissions from local medical students. Anatomical sketches fetched coin, and your work was clean enough to be pinned up in the back rooms of small classrooms. You were halfway through a detailed spinal plate when his voice slid in, cutting as ever.
“Your vertebrae look like they belong to three different people.” Law hissed, critically.
You sighed, rubbing the charcoal smudge off your thumb. “Hello to you too.”
“And that disc spacing? Unstable.”
“They’re for student reference, not surgery,” you muttered, setting your pencil down before you snapped it in half.
“So why make them wrong?” A pause, dry as salt. “Don’t show that to anyone until you fix it.”
The sharpness was still there, but the venom had dulled. He no longer sounded like he was trying to wound you with every word. More like he had decided you could take the critique, and that counted for something.
What drove him mad, however, were your thoughts when you weren’t working.
One afternoon, while you sat on the steps outside your guardian’s home, sketching children chasing a ball, your mind drifted to the smell of warm bread from the market stall nearby.
The bond prickled immediately.
“Bread? Again? It’s useless. Heavy. Worthless nutrition. You’re going to get sick again.”
You laughed out loud, startling one of the children. “You’re awfully passionate about food you don’t have to eat.”
“Eat something else.”
“Like what?” you jabbed back. “Clamp sizes? Sutures?”
The silence that followed was icy, and you could feel his irritation simmering. It only made you grin harder.
Which made it a blow when you discovered, to his endless amusement, that you were gluten intolerant.
“I told you. I am always right.”
“I am not about to let a ten-year-old diagnose me.”
“I already told you, I’m twelve, and more than highly qualified to see an obvious case of cause and effect—”
“Show me the medical certificate, child.”
He fumed for days over that one.
His nitpicking over your sketches and diet intensified, out of sheer spite.
You had been daydreaming about sketching in the corner of a café when your thoughts wandered to the custard tarts cooling in the window.
He cut in before you could even finish the thought. “Don’t. You’ll just get sick again.”
You blinked. “Are you… scolding my daydream?”
“I’m reminding you that you are an idiot,” he replied flatly. “Gluten makes you miserable. Stop thinking about it. You’re like a glutton bent on your own misery.”
“You’re very judgmental for someone who was muttering about vintage coins in his free time,” you muttered, but you still closed your sketchbook and walked past the stall without stopping.
“Shut up, asshole.”
His comments remained exacting, sharp-edged, and impossible to ignore. But over time, the anger that had once bitten into every word began to dull into something else. A strange, biting sort of concern, hidden in critique, in scolding, in relentless correction.
And as much as you rolled your eyes at his nagging, you realized you had stopped resenting it.
Somehow, it felt like proof he wanted to be there.
Age 16:
Your reputation was growing, and one of the town’s physicians had just asked you to illustrate a complete atlas.
It was late in the day, the kind of heavy summer heat that made the whole shop feel like it was holding its breath. You had the shutters open, but the air was still thick, curling in warm waves over the counters.
You were leaning over the workbench in the back room, measuring out a bone. Your sleeves had slipped down to your elbows, and there was a streak of green from the mortar across your cheek.
Through the bond, he was there, steady, present, not saying much. Just that quiet hum he got when he was working on something.
You were inking the serratus anterior when he dropped in.
“You’re getting better.”
You stilled, pestle hovering above the mortar.
It was quite literally the nicest thing Law had ever said to you.
“…Really?”
There was a pause. You could almost feel him realize what he’d said.
“I meant—your lines look less tired. Not that they’re perfect.”
You frowned, suspicious. “Less tired? Is that a compliment?”
“It’s not a compliment.” His tone had sharpened again, sliding back into familiar territory.”It’s an observation. Your artwork usually looks like you’re having a stroke.”
You rolled your eyes, relaxing again. “Thanks, little brother. Always so uplifting.”
“Don’t call me that, bread demon. I told you, my name is Law.”
“Okay, baby surgeon. I’ll just take your compliment."
“Asshole.”
You smirked.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” A pause. “Your scapula’s still ugly.”
“Ugly?” you laughed. “It’s bone.”
“And still somehow ugly. But… accurate.”
You grinned down at your work. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like being able to judge me.”
He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was lower. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”
But the edge in his voice was thinner than usual, almost see-through. And before you could press him on it, he filled the bond with the sound of turning pages, as if he’d gone back to work and the moment had never happened.
You still caught glimpses of his days. A faint reek of antiseptic. The wet slide of blood against gloves. The soft thud of a book closing. He was always busy, his thoughts layered and hard to get a read on. Assessments, plans, strategies. Sometimes, irritation so thick you could almost taste it when someone ignored him. You’re pretty sure they’re names are Penguin and Shachi, but he was tight-lipped as hell.
You tried to imagine what his life was like. You tried not to picture the places behind his jagged thoughts, or the things he never let himself think too close to you.
But sometimes, late at night, when you sat at your desk sharpening pencils down to neat little points, the bond shifted. It went quiet in a way that wasn’t cold. Not empty, not shut. Just… hushed.
In those moments, you swore you felt something else in him. Not anger. Not cruelty. Not the sharp edge of his sarcasm.
Just a boy who missed someone so fiercely he had wrapped the grief in barbed wire, convinced it would cut anyone who touched it.
“Who’s Cora?” you asked once, the words slipping across the bond before you could stop them.
The stillness that followed was suffocating. A silence so heavy it pressed down on your chest.
For a moment, you thought he would snap at you, that he would lash out with the precision of his usual cruelty.
But instead, what came back was softer, frayed at the edges, barely more than a thought.
“Don’t.”
Just that. One word. Not sharp. Not biting. Just broken.
You never asked again.
Age 17:
You were inking a series of cross-sections of the heart for a physician’s manual, bent low over the desk under the glow of a single lamp, when his voice slid through.
“That’s a decent left atrium.”
Your pen hesitated mid-line. A faint smile tugged at your lips.
“Oh? That sounded almost kind.”
“Don’t push it. The pulmonary veins are too thin.”
“You couldn’t just let me have that one?”
“No.”
There was no sting to it anymore, not the way there had been in the beginning. If anything, you could believe he wanted you to be as precise as he would be, as if your drawings reflected him, too, somehow.
By seventeen, you had gotten used to the sound of him. His voice was woven into your days the way the scratch of a pencil was, sharp lines against softer shades.
That evening, you were alone in the back room, counting out coins from the day’s commissions. Your fingers smelled faintly of mint and valerian from the bundles you’d sketched earlier. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.
The bond stirred. Sharper than it had been in weeks.
“You’re not eating enough.”
You paused, surprised.
“…Excuse me?” The words slipped out before you could catch them.
“I can hear you counting coins. Not food. You’ve skipped too many meals.”
Your brows knit.
“You’ve been listening?”
“You’re loud,” he said flatly. “And you work too much.”
The old Law would have spat it like an accusation, jagged and cold. But this wasn’t that. His tone was flat, yes, but it carried something else beneath it. Not rage. Not sarcasm. Something closer to… concern.
You leaned back in your chair, staring at the rain. “You hate bread, and that’s all I want. What’s left? Air?”
The bond thrummed, a flicker of annoyance that felt oddly familiar by now
“Just eat. Not bread. Rice. My crew likes rice.”
It was rare for him to reference his work directly. You knew he did medical work and was probably good at it, from the way he critiqued your dosing methods and quizzed you on illustrations. You knew he sailed, because sometimes you caught the snap of salty wind behind his thoughts. You knew he had at least one tattoo, because he’d let slip once that they “took forever to heal at sea.” And you knew his crew was… strange.
Strange enough that whenever you’d asked, he’d just said, “You wouldn’t believe me.”
It gave you something to think about, though you weren’t mature enough to let it pass.
You almost laughed. “Says the one doing surgery in his head at all hours. You should practice what you preach.”
There was a pause. You could feel him weighing whether to answer.
“I don’t collapse while holding sharp objects,” he said finally. “You will.”
You leaned back in your chair, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “You’re too young to be lecturing me. You need a hobby. What about those Sora comics? Didn’t you think about those a few days ago?”
“...You’re lucky I said anything at all.” He said, followed by a sharp prick of irritation, quickly smoldered by cold distance. He hated losing. “And I’m not a kid.”
You smirked.
You learned to read between the lines and didn’t push on bad days, but you knew he was still a nerdy little kid under the attitude and occasionally needed a reminder.
You wished you knew more about Sora and the Sea or whatever made him feel happy on bad days. Wished you could send him a rare coin.
But you doubted he’d accept anything from a person who tempted fate to eat bread. He seemed more and more persnickety about your daily life.
The midsummer heat had settled in again, thick and unshakable. You were in front of the shop, sleeves rolled, hair pulled high to keep it off your neck as you rearranged the tincture display. The bell over the door rang for the third time that morning, and you glanced up to see two of the dockhands who came in every month for salves and liniment.
They were harmless enough, full of loud laughter and bad jokes, and you smiled as you handed one of them his usual bottle.
In your head, Law stirred. “He’s staring at your neck. Flip him off.”
You blinked at the sudden intrusion. “I’m working,” you murmured under your breath, hoping the dockhands didn’t notice.
“And he’s still staring.”
You handed the other man a packet of mint tea, smiling as they paid.
“That’s called eye contact, Law.”
“That’s called being distracted. Which, for the record, is a liability.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
They left with their purchases, still laughing, and you returned to the counter to tidy up. You could feel him still there in the bond, sharper than usual, almost… pacing.
“You’ve been like this for a while,” you said finally. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
You arched a brow, even though he couldn’t see it. “You get all fidgety every time I talk to anyone under forty. Are you annoyed that your older sister hasn’t been giving you attention?”
“That’s not—” He stopped, the words halting mid-thought. For a second, you caught something unguarded in the bond, that restless knot you sometimes felt from him when you mentioned someone else by name.
“You are not my sister.”
And then it was gone. Didn’t speak to you for a solid two weeks.
Not until a traveling merchant paused to flirt with you one afternoon as you unloaded your wares.
“You’re wearing that dress again,” Law said sharply. “It makes you look easy.”
You laughed. “That’s the insult you’re going with?”
“It’s not an insult. Just… you could do better.”
“Better how?”
“…Forget it.”
You shook your head, still smiling as you went back to work. “Whatever you say, kiddo.”
The bond went tight at that, just for a second, but you didn’t notice.
You were too busy straightening jars to catch the way he lingered after, silent but unwilling to let go of the image of you in that heat and sunlight, smiling at people who weren’t him.
Age 18:
By the time you were eighteen, you’d started to at least think about dating. Not seriously. You were too busy keeping the shop and your art afloat, but sometimes the idea crossed your mind.
The delivery boy with the easy smile. The apprentice carpenter who fixed the counter and lingered in conversation a little too long. Even the traveling herbalist who’d passed through with a bag of rare seeds and a knack for flattery.
You never said any of it out loud, but Law always knew.
The moment your thoughts drifted in that direction, the bond would sharpen.
“What are you doing?”
“Stocking the front shelves.”
“You’re thinking about someone.”
“Thinking about inventory.”
“No, you’re not.”
It wasn’t just words. He had a way of crowding your mind when you got close to anything romantic, suddenly filling the bond with his own running commentary until you couldn’t hold onto the thought. Sometimes it was sharp and clinical, other times just plain annoying.
Like the time you’d been idly wondering if the carpenter would ask you to a late-night coffee, and Law had cut in with, “You forgot to delineate the humerus bone in the last sketch properly. You’ll have to start over to get it done right.”
Or when you’d been replaying a conversation with the herbalist in your head and he’d muttered, “That man doesn’t wash his hands enough to be touching your medicine.”
The worst was when you’d actually been mid-chat with someone, considering an invitation, and the bond had flooded with him reading medical textbook passages at full speed, as if rattling off symptoms of rare parasitic infections was going to help your mood.
You’d eventually stopped bringing it up, assuming it was just Law being Law: territorial in a little-brother way, determined to protect you from ‘idiots’.
You didn’t notice that he never reacted that way when you talked to neighbors, customers, or children, only when someone looked at you too long, only when your thoughts warmed toward someone who wasn’t him.
It happened in the middle of a Thursday, when you were stocking jars of peppermint tea on the front shelves.
The bell over the door rang, and in walked Jorin, the carpenter’s apprentice who’d been fixing shutters around town. Nice enough, quick smile, hair still damp from the drizzle outside.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the counter. “So, there’s a midsummer dance this weekend. I was wondering if you—”
“Absolutely not.”
You froze, jar in hand. “I’m sorry?” you said aloud, blinking at Jorin.
He looked confused. “Uh… I was asking if you wanted to come—”
“Tell him you’re busy.”
“I—” You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the static of Law’s voice in your head.
“Busy with something important,” he added. “Like learning how to not trip over your own feet in public.”
You bit your tongue.
Jorin smiled patiently. “You don’t have to decide now. Just thought—”
“He’s wearing mismatched socks.” Law muttered.
You inhaled sharply. “Law—”
“And that shirt’s been mended badly. Probably with fishing line. Which means he can’t sew. Which means if he can’t handle a needle, he definitely can’t handle you.”
You tried not to laugh. “That’s… very specific.”
Jorin tilted his head. “Are you okay?”
“Say no before he starts reciting poetry or something equally stupid.”
“I—” You fumbled with the jar. “I’ll… think about it.”
Jorin nodded, a little unsure, and left.
The moment the door closed, you slammed the jar onto the shelf. “What is wrong with you?”
“You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“Saving you from a lifetime of badly sewn buttons and subpar woodworking.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet, here I am, saving you from mediocrity."
There would be far too many times he would do this.
It was late summer, and the shop was stifling. You had the windows propped open to catch what little breeze there was, your sleeves rolled to the elbows as you weighed dried lavender for an order.
The bond was quiet until the bell over the door rang and one of the local delivery boys leaned on the counter. He was a year or two older than you, all easy grins and sunshine hair.
“Brought you the package from Westport,” he said, sliding the box toward you. “And, uh… there’s a dance in the square this weekend. You should come.”
You laughed, warm and polite. “If I can get away from the shop, maybe.”
That was it. Just a passing, friendly exchange.
But in your head, the bond slammed into focus.
“Who’s that?”
You blinked. “Who’s who?”
“The idiot with the box.”
You glanced at the delivery boy, who was still chatting about the weather. “Just someone doing his job.”
“He was staring at you.”
“He was talking to me,” you corrected, moving to sign for the package.
“He was staring.”
You smiled to yourself. “Why? You jealous?”
Silence, but the kind of silence that thrummed, sharp and restless.
“You are, aren’t you? Adorable.”
“I’m not adorable, he snapped. And I’m not jealous. I just—he looked stupid. That’s all.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“You’re impossible.”
The bond had been simmering since then.
You could feel the edge in him, that tight, deliberate kind of focus he got before something dangerous. He was thinking through a dozen contingencies at once, all of them involving violence.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” you asked as you measured powdered feverfew.
“No.”
You sighed. “You’ve been tense for hours. At least tell me you’re not about to do something stupid.”
“I don’t do stupid things.”
“You’re fifteen. You absolutely do stupid things.”
The flash of irritation through the bond was sharp enough to make you pause mid-measure.
“I’m not a child,” he bit out.
“I didn’t say you were. I’m just—” You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “—looking out for you. You’re like a bro—”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not even verbal. Just this heavy, knotted wall slamming down between you, the kind he built when he didn’t want you anywhere near whatever he was feeling.
“Don’t call me that.”
You laughed, confused. “Why? You’ve hated it since the start. What’s different now?”
“It’s—”
He stopped himself, the words cutting off mid-thought. You caught the edge of something raw underneath, not anger, not exactly. Something warmer and far more fragile. For a second, there was nothing but static between you. Then, faintly, “It’s different because you’re… He cut himself off so fast you almost missed the start of the thought.”
“Because I’m what?” you pressed.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. You could feel the churn underneath: frustration, pride, something sharper you couldn’t quite place.
“You don’t get it,” he said finally. “You talk to everyone like that. You smile at them. You laugh. They all want your attention. They follow you around.”
It was so unexpected that you stopped mid-wrap. “…Are you seriously mad because I’m… friendly?”
“You’re popular.” He said it like it was a flaw. “People like you. They look at you like—” He broke off again, the thought snapping closed.
You tried to keep your tone light. “And you don’t like that I call you ‘kiddo’ while I’m also nice to other people?”
“Forget it.”
“No, I think I’m onto something here. Classic sibling behavior. I’m eighteen, you’re fifteen, and mad I’m ahead.”
“Forget it,” he repeated, sharper this time, but not sharp enough to hide the truth bleeding through.
You let it go.
But later that night, as you swept the shop and locked the till, you thought about the way his voice had caught when he’d said, “They all want your attention.”
You thought about how different it felt from his usual sharp, distant tone.
You told yourself it was just pride, just teenage stubbornness. You didn’t see the way the word “kiddo” tangled with every quiet, dangerous feeling he’d been trying not to name for a while.
At the time, you didn’t realize that to him, you weren’t just the older soul in his head who patched him up with words. You were the one person who made him want to be seen, and the idea that you might always see him as your “kid brother” felt worse than any wound.
So you let it go.
He didn’t.
He seemed to be more insistent on mentally following your days. Once, you were sketching a dissection of the abdominal cavity for a coastal hospital when he cut in.
“That’s an awfully fancy liver for a man who drinks as much as your uncle does.”
You snorted.
“It’s from a cadaver, not my uncle.”
“Still too clean. Looks like it’s never had to work a day in its life.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Your menace. Don’t forget it.”
And so on.
The next day, you’d been working on a set of rare pathology illustrations for weeks, a commission from a doctor in a port city you’d never visited. Every few hours, Law’s voice would slip in, quieter than it used to be.
“That ulcer’s the wrong shape. Add more mottling to the kidney cortex. Those necrotic tissues? Needs more depth in the shading.”
One evening, as you brushed in the final strokes, he said, almost like it wasn’t for you to hear, “You’re good at this. Better than anyone I’ve seen.”
You blinked, looking down at the page. “Was that…?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he said quickly. “Just don’t mess it up.”
You laughed and went back to work, not noticing how long he lingered after you finished, or perhaps that he’d been picturing, with perfect clarity, what it would be like to watch you draw in person.
Maybe it was his words (or perhaps just chance), but the bond changed after that. It softened, deepened, and clarified.
You were kneeling on the store’s backroom floor, sorting through a crate of dried herbs that had just come in from a coastal trader. Your hair had slipped out of its knot in soft strands, the faint scent of sea lavender clinging to your clothes from the shipment. A fine dust of powdered chamomile covered your fingers.
The bond flickered, sharper than usual. Not a sound, not a word, just a sudden clarity, like a curtain being pulled aside.
On his end, Law had been somewhere quiet. You didn’t know that. All you felt was the strange sense of him suddenly being present, without speaking.
You looked up into a window and saw yourself.
Through that crack in the bond, he saw you. The slow, careful way you unwrapped each bundle of herbs. The crease in your brow when you checked for signs of mold. The soft tilt of your head when you hummed under your breath: tuneless, absent-minded, but steady.
It lasted only a handful of seconds, but he didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
“…You’ve got powder on your cheek.”
You huffed a laugh, still bent over the crate. “Oh? Comes with the job.”
He almost said more, but stopped. Instead, he let the connection dim, slipping back behind the familiar wall.
You went on with your work, brushing your cheek with the back of your wrist, not thinking twice about the moment. You didn’t notice how still he’d gone on the other end, or how carefully he’d kept the image of you from fading.
For you, it was just another day in the shop. For him, it was something else.
Age 19:
The evening was warm enough that the windows were open, letting in the scent of the herb garden with the slow creak of the shutters. The lamplight in the kitchen was warm, spilling across the table where you’d spread out a few sketches that needed drying. You’d been working late, the faint scent of ink and parchment still clinging to your hands, when your father cleared his throat.
“We had a letter from Westport today,” he said, like he was just mentioning the weather. “From the Edevane family.”
You looked up. “I don’t know them.”
“I bet they smell like mothballs and desperation,” Law murmured in the bond. “Never seen a human liver in their life.”
You pressed your lips together to hide a smile.
Your aunt poured tea into your cup. “They have a son about your age. Works with his father in shipping.”
“They’d want you to stop drawing,” Law said, quieter now. “Or worse, they’d keep you at it but never understand what you’re doing.”
You glanced at your sketches. The delicate cross-section of a kidney, the careful shading on the inner ear. “Alright…?”
Your father shifted in his seat. “They’re interested in forming a partnership with the shop. And… perhaps, in time, with the family.”
“There it is,” Law said, his tone as dry as paper. “And by ‘partnership’ they mean ‘you sign over everything while he names the jars wrong.’”
You fought the twitch at the corner of your mouth. “You think this would help the business?”
“It could be good for stability,” your aunt said. “The boy is polite. Well-spoken.”
“Polite means boring. Well-spoken means talks too much,” Law murmured. “Do they know you have an existing arrangement with a ship’s doctor who’s better looking, better traveled, and has all his own teeth?”
You blinked hard to keep your expression neutral. “You think this would help the shop?”
“It could mean stability,” your aunt said.
“Stuck,” Law said. Then, warmer, “Do you want to be saddled forever?”
That caught you.
You took a slow sip of tea. “And if I’m not interested?”
Your father glanced at the ledger. “It would still be wise to meet him. No promises. Just… keep an open mind.”
“Tell them you’re too busy. Tell them you’ve got commissions. Tell them you can’t leave mid-series because anatomy doesn’t wait for courtship,” Law pressed.
You set your cup down, schooling your voice to calm. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t”, Law said, but there was something softer under it, not triumph, exactly. More like anxiety. “It’d be a waste. Your work’s too precise to get shoved in a drawer because someone doesn’t get it.”
Your aunt smiled faintly. “That’s all we ask.”
“And by ‘think about it,’ you mean ‘no,’” Law prompted.
“I mean… I’ll consider all the factors,” you said aloud, meeting your father’s gaze.
“Arranged marriage. You’re not doing it.”
You stared at the kitchen wall. “You can’t just decide that for me.”
“I can if the alternative is you marrying some idiot who thinks the word supercilium is a condiment.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “That is… wildly specific.”
“Because I know the type,” he said, his voice edged like glass. “They’ll come in here with their merchant smile, pretend they care about your work, and then the minute they’ve got the papers signed, you’ll be stuck with someone who calls every illustration in your portfolio ‘bones’ like it’s all the same thing.”
You let out a slow breath. “You are being extremely dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic,” he corrected. “If you go through with it, I will personally—” He stopped, then came back in colder. “You'll be bored and annoyed.”
You sat back, staring into your tea. “You know, normal people wish their soulmates happiness.”
“Normal people don’t have soulmates who make terrible life choices.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome.”
Law’s satisfaction was a quiet hum at the back of your mind, smug and warm, like a secret tucked into the folds of your consciousness. It lingered there, a gentle, insistent presence that made your chest feel lighter, even as the world outside remained predictably tense.
You retired to your room, closing the door softly behind you.
Soon enough, a soft knock drew your attention, followed by the faint click of the handle. Your mother stepped inside, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as if she were holding back a lecture—or a worry—she didn’t know how to voice. She closed the door with careful deliberation, the soft thud punctuating the quiet hum of your room.
Her eyes swept over you, taking in the sketches on your desk, the scattered pencils, and the haphazard comfort of your little sanctuary. For a moment, she said nothing, simply standing there as if weighing whether to step further into your life or step back. Her fingers tightened briefly at her sides, betraying the concern she tried to mask behind measured composure.
“You’re… doing that artwork again,” she said finally, voice low, almost hesitant. It wasn’t an accusation exactly—more a note of fear, of frustration barely contained.
Law’s presence at the edge of your thoughts coiled in response, smug warmth fading into a quiet edge of discomfort. He was listening from a distance, tucked just out of sight, and the tension in your mother’s voice made him stiffen slightly. He wasn’t used to family dynamics like this; he didn’t like the tightness in your chest that made him ache with unease.
With a mental shove, you gently pushed Law out of your head. This was not something he needed to hear.
You shifted on your bed, cross-legged, sketchbook open on your lap. “Still not seeing anyone?” she asked, stepping further in, hands clasped behind her back, voice a careful mix of curiosity and reproach. Her gaze flicked over the scattered pencils and ink bottles as if the disorder reflected your life itself.
“I’m busy with the medical illustration,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone neutral. “The commissions help the store make ends meet when the merchants don’t come on time.”
Her brows knitted. “Yes, yes, I know you’re dedicated—but you’re getting older, my darling. That’s no excuse not to think about your future. Marriage… securing your place… You know how our family is.” She let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations.
“Yes… But my art is doing well. We’ve been more comfortable—”
“Comfortable?” she scoffed. “Comfortable won’t pay the bills when your medical art is no longer needed. You need security, someone to support you if…” Her eyes softened for a moment. “…if you can’t rely on yourself alone.”
You lowered your sketchbook and met her gaze, feeling the warm pull of Law’s quiet hum in your mind. It steadied you, gave you courage you didn’t know you had. “I have a soulmate,” you said, the words escaping before you could reconsider.
The air in the room thickened. Your mother’s face tightened, and she leaned against the dresser, arms folded. “A soulmate?” she repeated slowly, each syllable dripping with distaste. “Is it… romantic?”
You shook your head. “No, he’s younger—a kid. Just needs attention and a friend. I’ve just been—”
She cut you off sharply. “You know how dangerous soulmates are. Contracts broken, hearts shattered… lives ruined. Your great-aunt almost ruined the family when she abandoned her husband for hers. And for what? She disappeared on the Grand Line and probably died. Soulmates are not guarantees—they are… liabilities.”
Law’s attention was immediate, subtle, like a tight coil in the back of your mind. He didn’t like the quiet throbs of discomfort, and you could feel him trying to weedle in, to understand. You almost unconsciously pushed him out, and he stayed on the fringes, tension wrapped around him, his presence invisible but insistent.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But it’s not about a contract or a guarantee. It’s… almost impossible to think of dating right now.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, frustration flickering. “You have to understand the patterns here, even if it’s not romantic. Every time someone dares to follow a ‘heart’ instead of reason, it ends in scandal—or worse. And you know your father doesn’t care much for meddling, but…” Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, where he wasn’t standing yet, giving a faint, impatient shrug. “…You need to figure out a way to move past this.”
“I am figuring it out,” you said, firm now.
Your mother let out a long, weary sigh, pacing a slow circle around your desk. “This family… we are cursed by heart and duty both. Soulmates have brought more misery than joy. I only want you to be secure. Happy is secondary to survival sometimes.”
Like hands pressed against the glass, Law’s presence in your mind shifted again, uneasy now. The warmth that had been smug and indulgent felt strained, tighter, anxious. He wished he could speak, could argue, could defend, but all he could do was stay close, listening, feeling the weight of your mother’s words, and silently promising himself he’d protect you when the storm passed.
When the soft click of the door signaled her departure, the room seemed impossibly quiet. You lay back on the bed, art pushed to the side, arms crossed over your knees, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer answers. The pencil on the floor beside you felt like a small, abandoned lifeline.
Law’s hum had faded to a low, restless thrum, as if he were pacing beside you, waiting for you to rise and reassure yourself. You felt him there, taut and anxious, a shadow pressed up against the edges of your mind, but you weren’t ready to move, to acknowledge him fully. Not yet.
The tension from your mother’s words clung to your skin, prickling at the back of your neck and settling in your chest. Marriage. Security. Contracts. The echoes of family mistakes and heartbreak. And still… the thought of your soulmate refused to feel wrong, refused to be tamed by fear or tradition.
Your fingers twitched against the blankets, restless, seeking. You could feel Law there, too, sensing the unease, the quiet battle between obligation and desire. His presence was a tether, a reminder that even if the world pressed in, even if your family’s expectations weighed heavily, you weren’t alone.
“Bread girl. Talk to me.”
Law’s voice was quiet, distant. You didn’t answer.
Age 20:
It started as a thought you barely allowed yourself to entertain.
Jorin had asked you out again. Polite, nervous, almost fumbling in a way that made your chest tighten. You could see the effort he put into appearing composed, the careful tilt of his head, the slight hesitation before he spoke. Part of you admired it.
You told yourself it was harmless. A simple dinner, nothing more, nothing less. No promises. No expectations. Just a few hours of polite conversation. You could manage that much.
Yet a tiny knot of doubt twisted in your stomach. What harm could it do? Just a meal, you told yourself, smoothing your hands over your skirts, adjusting the pencil tucked behind your ear.
At the back of your mind, you felt the faint, steady pressure of Law’s presence. His hum, usually smug and indulgent, had shifted. Taut, watchful, like he could sense the thought before it fully formed. It seemed like he already knew something you were pretending not to know.
The thought made your stomach twist in a way that was both familiar and unsettling. You tried to push it aside, telling yourself it was only dinner, a simple evening with no strings attached. Still, the knowledge of what could go wrong pressed at the edges of your mind. You had been cautious for so long, and yet this one small decision felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Law noticed immediately. At first, it was subtle, a quiet tightening in the back of your mind, like a hand pressing against glass from the other side. You felt the pressure and almost ignored it, telling yourself he was only reacting out of habit. Then it grew heavier, insistent, a coil of tension that wound around your chest.
“You are really doing this,” he said, cold and firm. The hum you had grown used to, warm and smug, was gone. In its place was something taut, restless, insistent. You could almost feel the rigid edge of his attention probing your thoughts, not judging, not angry, but evaluating every possibility and every risk.
“It's… important. To my parents.”
You tried to meet the sensation with reason, telling yourself that it was only a meal, that it would pass without incident. His presence did not relent. Instead, it pressed harder, a silent warning that refused to be ignored. Your chest tightened in response, a reflection of the tension threading through your mind.
“You do not understand,” he added, quieter now but still sharp. “You think it is harmless… You are placing yourself in unnecessary trouble. You don’t need to do this.”
You swallowed. His words were not a plea or a scolding. They were a statement of fact, precise and immovable. The room seemed smaller somehow, the air heavier. The simple thought of dinner had become a battleground of caution and defiance, and you felt the first pangs of worry that this was only the beginning.
“I want to,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself as much as him. “It a date. Nothing serious. I can manage it. It’s weird that I don’t—”
“Everyone else’s opinions don’t matter,” he said carefully. “Someone else, someone inexperienced, trying to insert themselves into your life while I am here keeping you safe.”
You froze. His presence, usually quiet comfort, felt oppressive now, like a weight pressing down on your thoughts. “Law, it is not like that. I have to live my life.”
“Live your life,” he said sharply, “but not at your own expense. You don’t like this guy. Playing with feelings is ruthless.”
“Dating is not ruthless,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “It is just dinner. It is just a normal interaction. You do not get to dictate who I spend time with.”
“I am not dictating,” he said, low and steady. “I am warning. Protecting. It’s my job as a soulmate.”
The tension in your mind snapped. “Stop treating me like I am some fragile object you need to guard.”
There was a pause. You could feel him pull back, his warmth collapsing and leaving an empty, sharp hollow.
“I cannot do this anymore,” he said finally. His tone was flat, almost mechanical, but it carried the sting of disappointment. Then he blocked the connection.
The hum, the pull, the constant tether you had leaned on, gone.
You flinched against the sudden absence. “Law?” you whispered. Silence. Not even a trace of the protective weight that had always lingered beside you.
You sank onto your bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The pencils on the floor seemed sharper. The room felt smaller, heavier. The fight had left a hollow ache in your chest. It was not heartbreak or love, but the loss of a safeguard you had taken for granted. Someone who had always had your back was suddenly gone.
Hours passed. Shadows moved across the room, painting the walls in stripes of gold and gray. Your sketchbook lay forgotten. You could feel his absence like a draft under the door, a void that no one else could fill.
So you went, almost only to spite Law at this point.
You had told yourself it would be simple. A dinner, polite conversation, a brief step into normalcy. Jorin had been nervous but courteous, holding the door for you, asking questions with a genuine interest that felt almost foreign after so many days wrapped up in work and art.
The restaurant was quiet, a soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware surrounding you. Candles flickered on the table, casting warm light across his anxious features. He smiled too much, laughed at your polite jokes a little too readily. You told yourself it was fine, that nothing about this evening had to matter beyond being civil.
He was considerate. Thoughtful. Charming, in the careful, rehearsed way of someone who wanted to make a good impression. He listened when you spoke and commented without dominating the conversation. There was nothing wrong with him, and that was part of what made it so difficult. You felt nothing beyond neutral politeness, a polite affection that barely skimmed the surface of your heart.
After the main course, he leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing against yours. “I… I had a really nice time,” he said softly. His eyes searched yours for something, some sign of reciprocity. You forced a small smile, nodding.
“I had a nice time too,” you said, careful not to overstate anything.
Encouraged, he leaned in, closer than you expected, and brushed his lips to yours. You froze. The movement was gentle, tentative, but your stomach recoiled. You didn’t lean in, didn’t reciprocate. You pressed your lips into a polite line and subtly leaned back.
His eyes widened, hurt flashing across his features. “Oh,” he murmured, pulling back slightly. His fingers lingered in yours, uncertain, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders.
“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I’m not… I’m not feeling this.”
A shadow crossed his face, the polite veneer cracking. “Not feeling this?” he repeated, disbelief and disappointment mingling. “We’ve been… I thought—” He trailed off, frustration bleeding into his tone.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “You’re… nice. Too nice, maybe. I just… I can’t.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet restaurant. “Too nice?” he echoed. “I’ve been trying, paying attention, caring, and that’s… too much?” His eyes glinted with frustration, a mix of hurt and anger.
You shook your head, looking down at the table, your fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s not personal. I just… I don’t feel it.”
The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and heavy. He finally stood, gathering his coat. “Well, I suppose this is the end of the date then,” he said, voice tight. “I should have known better.”
You nodded, heart sinking. “I’m sorry, Jorin.”
He didn’t respond further. He walked away, leaving you staring at the table, your unease lingering long after the door clicked shut behind him.
At home, the quiet hum in your mind flared again, not smug this time but sharp, taut, and irritable. Law was there, restless, uncomfortable. You felt his presence coil around you, not speaking, only tense with disapproval. He didn’t need words to convey it. He was there, observing, waiting, silently asserting that he had warned you.
You curled into bed, cheeks warm and stomach knotted, wondering if polite neutrality had just become its own kind of war.
After a long moment, the tension in your mind shifted again. Law slid in quietly, a little lighter than before, though not entirely. He didn’t mock you, didn’t scold or criticize. There was just a faint edge of smugness lingering beneath something that almost felt like… repentance. Almost.
“I suppose that didn’t go exactly as you hoped,” he said, voice low in your thoughts, neutral but carrying the faintest trace of irony.
You huffed softly, leaning back against the pillows. “You could say that.”
He made no reply for a moment, letting the silence stretch, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was deliberate, the quiet weight of him settling in your mind. You felt him there, attentive and precise, watching you unravel the day in little mental threads.
Then, as if the world outside the memory of the failed dinner had shifted entirely, he added, “I want you to draw something for me.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “For you?”
“Yes,” he said, not impatient exactly, but firm. “Nothing elaborate. Just… a sketch. A quick one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know I’m exhausted after tonight.”
“Exhausted or embarrassed?” he countered smoothly, almost teasing, though there was a quiet restraint behind it. He wasn’t gloating, but you could feel the faint smug curl of satisfaction buried beneath his words.
You groaned inwardly. “Fine. What do you want me to draw?”
He paused, the faint curl of smug satisfaction threading through the edges of his calm. “A smiling face,” he said simply. “Make it precise. Symmetrical. Don’t overdo it.”
You blinked. “A… smiling face? Seriously? You want me to… draw a smiley face?”
“Yes,” he replied, utterly matter-of-fact. “Do it well. I expect the eyes to align. The curve of the mouth should be balanced. Add something to fancy it up.”
You frowned at the page, pencil hovering. “Because nothing says ‘important and serious’ like a smiley face on a page.”
He made no reply, only waited. You weren’t sure if he was serious or testing you. That quiet hum in your mind returned, smug and insistent, and it made your stomach tighten in frustration.
You exhaled and started sketching. The curve of the mouth, the roundness of the eyes, the symmetry of the whole thing, it had to be exact. The way his presence in your mind leaned into every line made it difficult to relax, impossible just to draw casually. After a moment, you added connected little dashes around the edge.
“Not bad,” he said after a few minutes, his tone low, distant, precise. “The curve is slightly off, but acceptable. The eyes are symmetrical. That will do.”
You leaned back, pencil dropping to the desk with a soft tap. “A masterpiece of… whatever this is,” you muttered. “A smiley face for… reasons I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” he said, firm and straightforward. “Perfect.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned into the pillows, feeling your irritation and amusement mix. He lingered in your thoughts, patient and watchful, smug in the tiniest, most insufferable way. You didn’t know why he wanted a smiley face. You didn’t know what it meant.
But he was happy.
And that made you happy.
And somehow, that was the most infuriating part.
Age 21:
Your parents mean well. At least, that is what you keep telling yourself. They want security, reputation, and stability. They remind you, with gentle smiles and firm hands, that they only want the best for you. Yet their best feels like a cage.
At dinners, the subject arrives without fail.
“You are at a good age to settle,” your mother remarks while passing you bread.
Your father nods with authority, as though the matter has already been decided. “And you must not let that bond of yours distract you. Soulmates are unreliable. Fleeting. We have seen it before.”
Their distaste is obvious. To them, soulmates are storms: too wild and too uncontrollable, fate stealing their careful plans. Marriage, by contrast, is choice, alliance, and safety.
You lower your gaze, stabbing at your food, trying not to look like you are suffocating.
In the back of your mind, Law’s voice slides in. His tone is sharp and edged with disbelief.
“Unreliable, huh? Funny, considering I am the one keeping you from bolting out the door right now.”
Your lips twitch. You grip your fork harder to hide the smile.
The suitor parade begins next. A scholar from a wealthy family. A merchant’s son with perfect manners. A distant cousin from a noble line. Your parents beam as they describe each one, eager for you to show interest.
“Such promise,” your mother says with pride.
“Such potential,” your father adds.
Law sounds unimpressed.
“Potential? He cannot even tie his sash properly. Look at it. It is crooked.”
You choke on your wine and cover it with a cough.
Another suitor is praised for his smile.
“That is not a smile. That is constipation dressed up in velvet.”
You nearly laugh, and your mother mistakes the color in your cheeks for embarrassment.
The pressure mounts. Their words tighten around you until there is no room to breathe.
“Marriage is a future,” your father insists one evening, his voice firm yet still gentle. “A partner chosen wisely will last. That is what you must trust.”
Law’s presence surges. His voice is steady and insistent.
“They do not know you. Not like I do. You want to live. See the world.”
You sigh.
“If you say yes to any of them, I will never let you live it down. Do not think I won’t interrupt your vows with a running commentary.”
The last remark nearly breaks you. You bite your lip, staring down at your plate, while in your head you whisper: “Please stop.”
He won’t, because he knows that you don't actually want him to.
Over time, the pressure mounts.
The evening is like any other at first. The fire is warm, the table is laid with silver, and your parents’ voices are calm. Too calm.
“We have been speaking with the mayor,” your mother begins while buttering her bread. “His nephew has a fine education in law. He would provide a steady future.”
Your father leans back in his chair, nodding with satisfaction. “And he has no interest in idle romance. He understands what duty requires. A sensible match.”
You feel the weight settle in your chest. You want to argue, but the words cling like thorns in your throat.
In your mind, Law is already there. His voice is sharp.
“Law? Tell them you already have an education in Law.”
It was the final straw.
“Dad, mom…” You lower your fork. “Please, understand. I do not want this.”
Your parents exchange a look. The silence that follows is almost worse than their pressure.
“Do not be foolish,” your father says at last. “You have a gift for precision. You know anatomy better than most healers. You could use that skill to raise the family’s reputation with the right husband at your side.”
You blink, startled by the twist. “I want to use that gift,” you reply, your voice low but certain. “But not to marry. I want to study art. I want to draw seriously. I want to be more than an assistant with sketches in the margins of books. I want a degree.”
Law’s voice is immediate, warm, and firm.
“Good. Say it again. Louder.”
Your mother frowns, her hands tightening around her knife. “Art is not a career. It is a pastime. What you do now is enough.”
“It is not enough,” you whisper. Then you look up, and the whisper becomes steady. “It is not enough for me.”
The argument stretches for hours. Your parents are not cruel. They do not shout. They remind you of responsibilities, of appearances, of the danger of wasting years on frivolous dreams. Yet you do not bend.
In the end, your father exhales heavily, like a man conceding a battle he had not expected to lose. “I can see we’re not going to agree. I’ll think on the matter.”
When the door closes behind them, you sink into your chair and let the tension roll out of your shoulders. Law is quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks.
“You did it. About time.”
Their acceptance does not come all at once. At first, your parents simply grow quieter. The endless parade of suitors thins out until only polite names are mentioned in passing. The word “soulmate” is rarely spoken, and when it is, your mother glances away as if it tastes bitter.
It takes months of small battles: you reminding them you do not want marriage yet, they reminding you of your responsibilities, the house’s reputation, the family’s name. But your answers stay steady, and you keep working, filling pages with anatomical sketches, diagrams, and delicate renderings of bones and muscle. They notice.
One afternoon, your mother comes into your study while you are bent over your desk, carefully inking the inner structure of a shoulder joint. She lingers in the doorway for a long time before speaking.
“You are… very talented,” she says at last, and her voice is not dismissive. “Your hand is steady. That takes practice.”
It is the first time she has praised your work so plainly. You feel it like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Later, your father watches you present a portfolio of drawings to a visiting physician. He does not say much then, but when the physician leaves, he clears his throat.
“You have a skill that others respect,” he admits. “That is not something to dismiss.”
The final shift comes after dinner one evening, quiet and unexpected. Your father sets down his glass and studies you across the table.
“You have made yourself clear. We may disagree, but you have not wavered. That means something.”
Your mother adds gently, “If art is what you want, then you should not pursue it halfway. We will help you find a program worthy of you.”
“Very well. If this is what you truly want, you may pursue it.” Your father finally conceded. “But we will have a say in where you study. And with whom.”
It is a compromise, heavy with conditions, but you take it.
The words catch in your throat. You had prepared for another argument, another wall of reasons why you were wrong, selfish, impractical. Instead, you find yourself blinking back tears.
Law’s voice hums softly in your mind.
“They are finally listening. About time.”
Once the decision is made, your household shifts in subtle but undeniable ways. Where once conversations had been about matches and alliances, now they turn toward universities and programs, tutors and apprenticeships.
Your mother oversees the correspondence, dictating letters and sealing them with the family crest. She insists on fine parchment, clean ink, and elegant phrasing.
“Presentation matters,” she tells you, though her voice softens when she catches you rolling your eyes. “If this is your future, it deserves the very best.”
Your father combs through lists of institutions as though he is evaluating military allies. He speaks to family acquaintances, writes to scholars, and occasionally interrupts your studies to announce some new prospect. “This program in the West is respectable. Their graduates are employed in the finest hospitals.”
Sometimes you sit with both of them at the long dining table, spreading out papers and pamphlets like a map of possibilities. Their voices no longer clash with yours but join in, weaving questions about professors and facilities, location and reputation. For the first time, you feel like your parents are walking beside you rather than standing in your way.
The first acceptance letter arrives in the spring.
It’s a modest program, but one that praises your sketches with earnest warmth. Your mother reads the letter aloud, her eyebrows lifting, her lips curving. “They admire your anatomical studies. They say your eye for structure is rare.” She looks at you then, almost shy with her pride.
Another letter follows, then another. Soon, the stack grows thick. Each seal is broken with anticipation, each message carrying words like talent, potential, promising future.
Law hums in your head as the pile grows.
“I told you. You are good at this.”
The acceptance from Dressrosa comes last. Its paper is heavy, gilded at the edges, the seal pressed deep into crimson wax. Your father reads it aloud slowly, each word weighted.
“They are offering you a place in their advanced program,” he says. “It is… impressive.”
Your mother cannot hide her smile. “It is not only impressive. It is the finest in the world.” She smooths the parchment with reverent hands before sliding it across the table to you. “This could change everything.”
You lift the letter, feeling the weight of the words settle into your chest. Dressrosa. The best program. A dream finally within reach.
And somewhere deep in your mind, Law’s mood grows tense.
You hug the letter, your heart soars over and over. You spend hours pouring over the parchment, rereading the elegant words of praise, the promises of advanced study, the chance to learn from masters whose names are whispered with reverence across the seas.
That night, when the house was quiet and the bond hummed softly in your mind, you let the thought slip free, fragile and shining.
“I was accepted to the Dressrosa Institute of Art!”
The word hit you like a blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You hadn’t expected him to react this way. You hadn’t expected Law to care so much. You thought he’d be distant, detached, maybe amused. But this… this was grief, or rage, or something worse, and it made your chest ache.
“No.”
The word knocks the breath out of you. You hadn’t expected Law to be so unhappy. I mean, it was in the second half of the Grand Line, but your acceptance had come with a Marine Escort!
“What do you mean, no? It’s the best program in the Grand Line,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Everyone knows it.”
“I know what that kingdom is built on,” he said, his tone cutting, almost brittle. “It’s too dangerous. You will not be safe.”
The words made your pulse quicken.
“This is my future. Do you expect me to give it up because you’re… uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable?” His voice rose, taut and impossible to ignore.“Is the Grand Line a joke to you? They enslave people there, gamble with lives. That country is rotten at its core.”
“You’re trying to control me,” you spat, anger and fear colliding. “You sound exactly like my parents before they finally accepted my choices. I fought for this, and now you want to take it away?”
“I am not your parents,” he said, sharp and fast. “I am telling you the truth. If you go, you will regret it. You think you can just bury yourself in studies, but the filth of that kingdom will reach you.”
“What proof do you have?” You shook, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Do you have any real reason to worry? Or are you just upset that I’m moving on without you?”
He was quiet for a long moment, longer than you liked. The hum in your mind had shifted—tense, unsure, a tether fraying at the edges. He seemed to struggle with something deep and heavy, something he could not let himself say. When he spoke again, his tone was sharp with restraint.
“I just… I do, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you. You need to listen to me—”
“Honestly, Law,” you said, voice shaking with anger and hurt, “I don’t really know all that much about you besides the fact that you seem awfully comfortable telling me how to live.”
The words landed hard. You could feel him flinch in your mind, recoiling like a wound had been ripped open. And you felt your chest constrict, a mix of guilt and vindication twisting together.
“All this time,” you said, tears spilling down your cheeks, “I’ve tried and tried to reach out. To be a friend. To know you. But it’s clear… It’s clear my parents were right about something.” The words tumbled out, bitter and dark. “Clearly… soulmates don’t mean anything to you at all.”
You felt it immediately. His presence contracted, taut and silent. Hurt, sharp, and unspoken.
He took a long, measured pause before speaking, and when he did, his words were like steel slicing through your chest.
“Fine. Go. Be a fool and get hurt. Clearly, you are ready for it. I just thought you were smarter than this.”
The sting of it cut deep. He had never spoken to you this way. Never like you were nothing to him. For a moment, you faltered, the letter in your hands suddenly heavy with doubt. Almost… almost you believed him.
Then your gaze fell on it again—the gilded edges, the promise of something that had felt impossible just days ago. The walls inside your chest rose again, and you whispered, trembling,
“You do not get to decide,” you whisper. “Not this time.”
Silence stretched, and then his voice came again, lower, final, hard as stone.
“Then you are a fool.”
The bond shuddered and slammed shut.
You were left alone in your head. The room pressed in around you. Your chest ached, your hands shook. The joy of your acceptance, the small spark of hope, had collapsed into dust, suffocated by absence. The house was quiet, but inside your mind, a storm raged, leaving you utterly, achingly hollow.
Days passed in that gray fog. You moved through routines almost mechanically, your sketches untouched, your meals half-finished, the Dressrosa letter folded and held so carefully it never left your side. The spark in your eyes had dimmed, leaving only the hollow trace of a smile.
Your grandmother noticed long before anyone else. She always did. Perhaps it was the way you lingered at your desk without drawing, or the way you traced the edges of the letter with trembling fingers. She saw the quiet unraveling that no one else would, the fragile threads of your joy fraying in the shadows.
One afternoon, she sent for you. Her chambers smelled of old cedar and roses, the curtains drawn to keep the heat at bay. She sat at her vanity, silver hair pinned neatly, her posture proper and unwavering despite the years etched into her hands and face. The faint scent of lavender clung to her robes, a reminder that some things endured even when the heart faltered.
“You look pale,” she says without preamble. “Has something changed?”
You hesitate. She has always been sharper than your parents, kinder too, but no less relentless when she wishes to be. “I thought I would be happy,” you admit. “I should be. But…”
The words falter. How do you explain a silence that no one else can hear? How do you admit that the presence that once steadied you, teased you, and kept you company has vanished? The hum that had been warmth and quiet amusement now left only emptiness, and the hollow echo of it presses against your chest.
Your grandmother studies you for a long, careful moment. Her eyes, pale and exacting, trace the lines of your face, the slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers hover over your lap as if afraid to touch anything. Then she gestures for you to come closer. “You remind me of myself at your age. Always reaching for something more,” she murmurs, a trace of wistfulness threading her voice.
From a small carved box, she draws a ring. Formless and gray, unremarkable at first glance, it feels heavier in your hand than it looks. She places it there with deliberate care, her hands warm and steady against your own.
“This has been in our family for generations,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours. “I want you to have it.”
You blink down at it, startled. “Why?”
Her words hang in the air, bittersweet and unyielding. You stare at the ring again, suddenly aware of the lineage pressing against your palm, the history, the protection, and the unspoken expectation folded into the simple, gray band.
“Because you are strong, and you have fought for what you want,” she replies. Her voice is soft, almost proud, but it carries a weight that presses into your chest. “I want you to carry that with you. A reminder that you are not alone in your choices. That your family does not see you as a child anymore, but as someone worthy of our name.”
Your chest tightens. For so long, you have fought for recognition, clawed your way through doubt and expectation, and here it is, offered like a blessing. “Grandmother… thank you,” you murmur, voice trembling slightly despite yourself.
Her lips curve into a faint smile, but her eyes are unreadable, a steady, cool flame. “Wear it always, my dear. It will clear your thoughts. Think of me when you do.”
You slip it onto your finger. The weight is unfamiliar, cool against your skin, almost unnaturally cold. It anchors you, a tether to something steady in a life that has lately felt unstable. Almost immediately, the fog in your mind begins to lift. Walls and pain and anger that had seemed immovable begin to dissolve. You feel clearheaded, focused, a little lighter than before.
It takes a few days for the realization to hit you fully.
When you reach for the bond, there is nothing. No hum, no warmth, no smug insistence reminding you to pace yourself, to slow down, to notice your own worth. No sharp remark when you overwork your pen, no dry joke when your mother scolds you to sit straighter at dinner. No presence, no voice at all.
And the emptiness is louder than any argument, sharper than any fight. You had been carried through countless days by the quiet certainty of him being there, even when he annoyed you, even when he scolded or teased. And now, with nothing but silence, you feel the hollow ache of absence settle in your chest like a stone.
You trace the ring on your finger, its cool weight grounding you even as your mind recoils. It takes on a new significance. The history it carries, the lineage, the quiet strength of your family, all feel like a fragile shield against a world that suddenly seems louder, harsher, and emptier without him.
You call for Law once, your voice timid in the silence. You call again, sharper this time, the hope in your words cracking. And once more, your chest tightens with the effort of reaching for him. Nothing answers. The ring gleams softly on your hand, indifferent, as if it has always been there.
The conclusion arrives in a wave you cannot resist. Law no longer wishes to speak to you. He has blocked you for good.
The thought settles into your chest like a cold stone. You go about your work, continue your sketches, and read over the Dressrosa letter again and again. But every line you draw feels emptier without his sardonic commentary in your head. Every stroke, every careful rendering, echoes back only your own solitary thoughts.
For the first time since the bond awakened, you feel truly, utterly alone. The absence is not just his voice, not just the warmth that had tethered you—it is a presence that had carried part of your certainty, your courage, your grounding. Now, nothing remains but your own hesitant, fragile heartbeat.
The weeks that follow blur together, a quiet, muted existence. You move through your days with practiced calm, speaking politely, writing letters, and polishing your portfolio. Your parents notice how still you have become. They assume you are focused, maturing, taking your future seriously at last.
Your grandmother, ever watchful, praises you often. “You are steadier now,” she says, her fingers brushing the ring on your hand as if to remind you of her gift. “I knew you could grow into yourself. Sometimes we need a little peace to make a good decision.”
And yet, the peace feels hollow, incomplete. The world continues around you, but the part of it that had been his, the quiet commentary, the sharp humor, the subtle insistence on your worth, is gone. You cannot shake the memory of it, nor the echo of the bond that once hummed warmly in your mind. It lingers like smoke, faint, untouchable, a reminder of what you have lost.
Elsewhere:
On the other end of the bond, Law is anything but calm.
The silence is unnatural. Too complete. Not the ebb and flow of someone retreating in anger, but a deadness that gnaws at him from the inside. He presses harder against the bond, reaches with thought and will, but it is like trying to touch smoke.
“Answer me.”
Nothing.
He tries again, sharper this time. “Say something. Even if it is to tell me I was wrong.”
Still nothing.
It is as if the thread between you has been wrapped in ice. He can feel its shape, the familiar pull, the contours of your presence, yet not your voice. Not your warmth. Only echoes, faint and hollow, mocking the certainty he has always relied on.
Law knows bonds do not vanish overnight. They do not fall silent without reason. You are not the type of person capable of freezing him out completely. Which means something is interfering—something beyond his reach.
He retraces the days leading up to the silence. The fight. The sharp words. The insults flung too quickly. The heavy weight of pride and anger. He curses himself for every sentence, every jab, every moment he lets frustration override care. But guilt does not explain the void. Nothing does.
In the long nights, he sifts through memory, searching for any detail he might have overlooked. Anything that could explain your absence.
He presses again, softer this time, tentative, desperate.
“I should not have called you a fool.”
“You are infuriating, but I am sorry—”
“If you can hear me, give me something. Anything.”
Still, nothing.
The bond offers no reply, no flicker, no pulse of recognition. The emptiness stretches on, pressing, clawing at the edges of his composure. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He tries again, but it is useless.
Finally, he leans back, running a hand over his face, jaw tight, chest hollow with frustration. He mutters to himself, low and sharp, words meant only for his own ears.
Bepo, who had been quietly observing, steps closer, concern etched into his furry face. “Captain… what’s wrong? You’ve been like this for days.”
Law does not answer immediately. His eyes are dark, restless, and haunted by a helplessness he does not often allow himself to feel. The bond, so often a lifeline, has failed him. And the truth settles cold and bitter in his chest: He cannot reach you. Not now, not like this.
He exhales slowly, a long, ragged sound, and forces himself to compose a calm mask, but Bepo can see through it.
“Nothing,” Law says finally, voice clipped, but it is a lie.
Inside, he is still shouting into the void, still straining against the silence, still aching for the impossible: your presence, your reply, anything to tell him that you are still there.
(2/3) Buggy x Reader
Length: 8.5k+
Rating: 18+,
Warnings: Clown-themed despair, Psychic harassment via soulmate bond, Unsolicited mental images (shirtless clown edition), Weaponized flirtation, Goats???, Clown-themed romantic propaganda, Canon-typical clownery, Stalking, but like...magically?, Possessive soulmate nonsense with jazz hands, Buggy the Clown thinks he’s the love interest (and he’s RIGHT???)
Had to extend because this guy was being dramatic
Previous/Next
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-X-Unexpected Sights-X-
You were managing. Barely.
You had come to terms with a lot.
The voice in your head? Unhinged. Your soulmate? The actual Buggy the Clown™. His thoughts? 90% glitter, 10% trauma, and at least 40% delusions of grandeur.
But you told yourself, ‘It’s fine. He’s ridiculous. He’s just a clown. He’s mostly incompetent.’
You’ve still never met your soulmate. Not in person. You would never willingly do so if you could help it. But you’ve heard him.
And over the years, you’ve come to several conclusions about Buggy:
He’s a pathological attention-seeker.
He’s made entirely of ego, rhinestones, and bad decisions.
And he’s almost certainly not a functioning man.
But you told yourself, over and over again, It’s fine. He’s ridiculous. He’s a clown. There’s makeup. A nose. A theme. He wasn’t real. Not in any meaningful way. You hadn’t met him. You wouldn’t meet him.
No man that dramatic, that squeaky, that limb-disassociating, could be in full working order. He’s 40% chaos, 30% glitter, 20% trauma, and the rest is spare parts.
You’d spent years keeping him at a safe, contemptuous distance. Years of building a mental fortress out of cynicism and controlled breathing. You were disciplined. Stable. Entirely uninterested in men who wore sequin-lined coats and monologued about their pelvic symmetry.
You had containment strategies.
Rules. Mental blocks. Emotional detachment drills. A whole system built over the years like sandbags around a leaking dam, meant to keep him from spilling into the rest of your life.
It would be so much easier to hate Buggy if he were just a villain. A proper, irredeemable menace with goals like “burn the world” or “steal your kidneys.”
But no. Your soulmate, unfortunately, was not a nightmare in greasepaint. He was a deeply inconvenient man with a fragile ego, unresolved trauma, and what you could only describe as a half-mangled destiny. A clown by trade, sure, but not by nature. Mostly, he was a sadness factory that had been duct-taped together with sequins and self-delusion.
And every now and then, he said things that messed you up for days.
Not the usual delusional circus babble. Not the grandstanding or the nose jokes. Real things.
“I miss my crew. Even if they’re morons. I used to laugh with Shanks all the time… before he left me behind. Do you think someone like me could have a real future?”
Those hit like sucker punches—soft ones. Whispered when he thought you weren’t listening. Coated in this raw, reluctant vulnerability that had no business coming from someone who called himself The Genius Jester.
You could almost feel your heart doing something reckless like caring.
And then he’d ruin it.
“I mean, as Emperor of Fashion. My nose deserves its own tribute parade. Maybe I should get a second hat. A bigger one. For emotional gravity.”
It was like watching someone dig their own emotional grave, then throw glitter on the casket and demand a spotlight.
You once slapped yourself so hard trying to shut him up that you left a handprint on your cheek. Your brother found you mid-slap, blinking like a stunned duck.
“You okay?” he asked, eyeing the red mark on your face.
You blinked. “I’m… fighting air spirits.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Want backup?”
You nodded. Because honestly? If anyone deserved an exorcism, it was Buggy the goddamn Clown.
But after one particularly bad week, where he whispered, “Do you think my nose is holding me back from true intimacy?” at 3 a.m., followed by a vivid image of him in velvet lingerie, you broke.
You needed context. A face to the voice. Some sense of scale for the disaster you were emotionally duct-taped to. Just how bad could it be?
So, you marched yourself down to the Marine Office under the guise of “research.” You told them you were doing a public safety survey on piracy aesthetics in local waters. They didn’t question it, mostly because you brought cookies and said the phrase “bad taste in branding” while smiling in a way that made the nearest ensign visibly nervous.
They let you into the back archive with a clipboard and a side-eye. You flipped through the East Blue’s most recent bounty posters, fingers stiff with dread.
Nothing could prepare you.
Nothing.
Because then you saw him.
Bright colors. A cherry-red nose. Lipstick like a war crime. That ridiculous coat. The poster actually sparkled. You stared in mute horror at the name.
BUGGY THE CLOWN
Wanted Dead or Alive
15,000,000 Berries
Crimes: Piracy, Theft, Property Damage, Crimes Against Fashion
There it was. In full color.
The man who had, just last night, telepathically serenaded you with an off-key version of “My Heart Will Go On” while fantasizing about bedazzling his cannonballs.
You stared at the poster for a long time.
Then you turned it over, hoping there was some kind of mistake. A warning label. Maybe a footnote that reads: Soulmate bond pending technical review.
Instead, someone had scrawled in red ink on the back:
“DO NOT ENGAGE — VERY ANNOYING.”
You stared at the warning. It wasn’t even stamped. It had been added manually. Underlined twice. You imagined some poor, traumatized Marine furiously scribbling it down after a single encounter, hands shaking, eyeliner smeared, faith in humanity shattered.
You sat down right there on the floor like your legs had filed for resignation.
The voice in your head didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, good. You’ve seen me.”
He sounded thrilled. Smug. A little breathless, like he’d just walked into his own surprise party and everyone was wearing shirts with his face on them.
“Don’t lie—did you swoon?”
You hurled the poster into the ocean.
Right out the Marine window.
Didn’t even fold it.
Just picked it up with trembling hands, walked past two baffled cadets, flung it into the sea like a cursed relic, and walked away.
He sulked for three days.
Three actual days of blessed silence. No commentary. No nose jokes. No fantasy scenarios where you were tied to a cannon in a “sexy but tasteful” way. Just a heavy, brooding emptiness in your skull.
You should’ve felt relief.
Instead, by day two, you caught yourself whispering, “I didn’t swoon, you egomaniac,” to your tea.
By day three, you were starting to worry.
And then, right as you were about to break the silence and check in:
“…You threw me away. Like sea trash. Was it the poster or the nose? If I wore a helmet, would you love me then?”
-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-
You don’t remember what broke you, exactly. Probably the third ruined date. Maybe the time he whispered “Just imagine what I can do with two hands, six feet of rope, and no sense of restraint” in the middle of dinner.
All you knew was that you sat up one night, sweat-drenched and wild-eyed, and thought, 'I need to be honest with the professional.'
Which is how you ended up on the familiar stiff couch, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm tea, explaining very calmly that a psychic voice had been living in your head for a decade and refused to stop narrating suggestive circus-based erotica.
Your therapist listened with a kind expression and thoughtful hums. She asked questions. You answered honestly. Well, semi-honestly.
You left out the part where your soulmark glowed when he moaned. You also left out the phrase “psychic juggling kink,” which felt both too specific and not specific enough.
When she asked how long you’d been “hearing him,” you said, “Since I was a child.”
When she asked if you’d ever met, you said, “God, no.”
When she asked if he was threatening you, you hesitated. No. He wasn’t threatening. Not really. He was just present. Constant. Loud. Smug. And occasionally shirtless.
You said, “He’s... invasive.” She nodded. Scribbled something.
And then she asked it. The question. The one that detonated your dignity.
“Have you considered that your fear might not be fear at all? That it could be... repressed desire?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
She smiled softly.
“Sometimes we’re scared of what we want,” she said gently. “Especially when it wants us back—louder than we know how to handle.”
You stared at her.
Not blinking. Not breathing. Tea forgotten in your hands.
“You think I’m into the clown?”
Her expression didn’t change. Steady. Patient. The kind of look you’d expect from someone who’d practiced walking barefoot through other people’s emotional minefields.
“I think you’re ashamed that you might be. And shame disguises itself in strange ways.”
You laughed.
It was not a healthy laugh. It cracked out of you like something broken. Like the kind of laugh that gets mistaken for sobbing when heard through a wall.
“I fucking hate clowns.”
Your voice trembled.
You weren’t being ironic. You weren’t exaggerating for effect. You hated them. The makeup. The unpredictability. The painted-on smiles. The grotesque absurdity of someone designed to laugh while hiding God-knows-what underneath.
Clowns didn’t amuse you.
They terrified you.
You hated circuses. You hated birthday parties with balloon animals. You hated the smell of cotton candy because it reminded you of one bad childhood memory too many.
And just like that, like a string pulled too tight and suddenly snapping, he went quiet.
Totally, chillingly silent.
For a full five seconds, there was nothing in your head.
“…Oh…You’re actually scared of me.”
No jokes. No nose parade. No impromptu kazoo solos. Just a raw realization. Honest and low. You felt your pulse spike. Your fingers clenched around the mug.
Then he whispered, as if to himself:
“That’s why you never talked to me. That’s why you ran when you saw the poster.”
He sounded… devastated.
You loathed how much it hurt to hear.
“I didn’t know,” he said again. Softer. A little panicked now. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I—fuck, I thought it was just a bit. Like, some weird hate-flirt banter thing. I thought—”
Then, quietly, quieter than you’d ever heard him:
“…I’m sorry I scared you.”
No dramatic entrance. No imaginary trumpet fanfare. No shouted declarations of misunderstood greatness.
Just a breath. A sentence. And silence.
“I didn’t know,” he said, voice rough like it had scraped against something too sharp. “No one’s ever really told me I was scary before.”
He let the words hang, awkward and bare.
“Annoying? Yeah. Loud? Obviously. A little overwhelming in a confined space? Sure.” A half-hearted chuckle followed, but it died before it could land. “But not… scary. Not to someone I…”
He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter.” He cleared his throat, like he could cough the vulnerability out of it. “Therapy’s bullshit, anyway. But… I heard some of what you said. And I just—look, I’m sorry, alright?”
A beat of silence passed between you. No jokes. No sparkles.
Then, softer:
“Please don’t hate me.”
And for once, it didn’t sound like a punchline.
It sounded like a man hoping the one person who could hear him, like really hear him, might stay.
Even after everything.
After the apology, something changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sudden silences, no tearful speeches, no mental vow to reform.
But the next time he slithered into your thoughts, it wasn’t with a trumpet fanfare or a suggestive pun. It was with a tentative sort of presence, like someone poking their head into a room they weren’t sure they were welcome in.
“Hey.”
That was it.
Just hey. No follow-up, no joke, no purring filth about your thighs or dreams.
You waited.
Nothing.
Then, a few days later:
“You okay?”
Not “Do you miss me?”
Not “Did you dream about me in leather again?”
Just… “You okay?”
You ignored him out of pure reflex.
But the messages kept coming. Not frequently. He was clearly straining to hold back, but consistently. Carefully.
“Drink water. You didn’t sleep much. You feel sad today. I didn’t like it. Not flirting. Just checking in.”
It was deeply suspicious. Eerily calm. You found yourself waiting for the punchline, the confession that he’d swapped brains with someone else or been temporarily possessed by the spirit of someone competent.
And then one night:
“I’m… working on being less clowny.”
You blinked. Paused mid-toothbrushing.
“I mean, not less me, obviously,” he added quickly. “Just… less unbearable. Less ‘you want to slap me with a shoe.’ That kind of less.”
Hm?
“It’s not easy,” he admitted. “The nose is kind of welded to my personality at this point. But… if you hate it, I’ll wear a bag over my head. A sexy one. With sequins.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
He heard it. Of course he did.
“Aha! That was a laugh. You laughed. I’m marking it down. Progress! I’m like… a growth. Annoying at first. But eventually, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
And he felt it.
“…Seriously though,” he said after a beat. “I don’t want to scare you. Ever again. I’ll tone it down. The hat stays. But I can tone it down.”
And damn it, he meant it.
“I just want you to want me around. Even a little.”
He meant it in the way only someone lonely for too long could.
Especially on the quiet days. When you felt safe. When your thoughts drifted loosely through the bond, unguarded and softer. When you weren’t bracing yourself for him, and he miraculously didn’t perform.
He just listened.
And that was what did him in.
Not the laughter. Not the teasing.
But the stray, flickering thoughts. The kind that slipped out before you could hide them. The kind no one was ever meant to hear.
The ones that sounded like him.
Hurtful. Familiar. Too raw to be anything but real.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever wanted me for me.”
And oh.
Oh.
Buggy stops.
Mid-rant. Mid-gesture. Mid-yell at some poor bastard who got too close to his treasure stash.
He just freezes.
One hand still raised. One boot was half-lifted. Entire body went still like a man struck by something he didn’t see coming.
He knows that feeling.
Too well.
And for once, he doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t cover it with a joke or a lewd comment or some glittery misdirection.
He just sits with it.
With you.
Because that? That wasn’t for show. That wasn’t a bit. That wasn’t the clown voice or the hat or the relentless noise.
That was real.
And now he’s in danger.
Because for all his yelling, his circus bravado, his ego so fragile it might explode if you poked it too hard, Buggy is made of three things: abandonment issues, duct tape, and spite.
And you?
You just felt like home.
After that moment, it’s over for him. Completely. Catastrophically.
He’s not just horny-clown obsessed anymore.
He’s emotionally deranged.
Suddenly, every weird little thought you have becomes adorable. Every time you sass him in your head? Hilarious. Every day, you go silent and don’t acknowledge the bond?
Tragic.
He starts working harder. Smarter. Sneakier.
He performs full one-man psychic monologues about his misunderstood brilliance and circus prowess.
He tells you fake tragic backstories, just to see if you’ll react.
But mostly?
Mostly, he just lingers.
Soft. Quiet. Waiting.
Because now he knows you’re hiding something soft under all that noise, and it kills him that you don’t think someone like him could actually want it.
Spoiler: he does.
Like, disgustingly so.
-X-Five Minutes-X-
He just needed five minutes.
That’s all.
Five goddamn minutes to prove he wasn’t a monster in face paint. That he wasn’t the thing you saw when you flinched. That he wasn’t your worst childhood fear tied up in greasepaint and trauma and bad jokes.
Just five minutes to show you… He could be good.
That someone like him could be good.
Buggy stood in the dreamspace he’d cobbled together with shaking hands and concentration; something soft, warm. Not a circus tent, not a stage. Just draped velvet, cheap lights, and a little effort. No hat. Less makeup. Hair down. Mouth quiet.
It felt unnatural.
He looked down at his hands. Flexed them.
Don’t be big. Don’t be loud. Don’t be you.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
But damn it, he’d been trying. He’d been good. Whispered instead of shouted. Kept his nose out of your dreams. Practiced patience. Practiced—hell, everything.
Pillows. Shadows. The phantom feel of a body he hadn’t even touched yet.
No one else. Not one. Not even a drunk fumble in port. He couldn’t stomach it. Not with you hanging around the edges of his soul like smoke he couldn’t clear.
He hadn’t even wanted anyone else.
And now?
Now he just wanted five minutes to convince you he wasn’t just a walking punchline. That somewhere underneath the flair, the panic, the desperate bravado, so he could prove he could be something real. Something safe.
Not a circus act. Not a mistake.
Yours.
Just for five minutes.
Buggy was not a quiet thinker. You could hear it all.
He was talking.
Always talking.
Out loud. In the dream. To himself. But also definitely to you.
“Okay. Okay, Buggy. Don’t be weird. Don’t be a creep. Don’t say anything about thighs. You are a gentle, well-adjusted man. You respect boundaries. You are—fuck, what’s the word—palatable.”
He straightened his coat. Immediately panicked and unstraightened it.
“God, she’s so pretty. Look at her. Look at that judgment. That is some high-level disdain. I love that. I could live in that glare like a summer home.”
You stared hard at the wall. It's hard not to be flattered when complimented so sincerely, even if the guy is an idiot.
He was endeavoring. That much was clear. No hat. Less makeup. He had his hands behind his back like he was giving a school presentation on Why I Should Be Allowed to Emotionally Wreck You Lovingly.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he blurted suddenly. “I mean, unless you want to. You could. Like, a soft gasp? Or a wow, Buggy, you’re so emotionally brave. Or you could cry. I’ve imagined that. You crying in joy because I’ve healed your fear of clowns with love and raw charisma.”
He cleared his throat, then slapped himself.
Physically slapped his own face in the dream. You jumped a little.
“Right. No clown stuff. Clown stuff bad. You don’t like the nose. The nose is scary. I’ve been thinking about getting a mask. A sexy one. Mystery. Drama. You like drama, right? You’re here, after all.”
You didn’t know what you expected.
You didn’t know what you wanted.
But watching him try, earnestly try, was like watching a large, ridiculous dog in a ruffled shirt attempt to ballroom dance. Clumsy. Loud. Awful.
And sweet.
Annoyingly sweet. Because he meant every deranged word.
He meant it when he said he hadn’t looked at anyone else. He meant it when he said he wanted to be good. He meant it when he said he was scared you’d never give him a chance.
He meant it in the way that people mean things only when they’re not sure they’ll ever be loved back.
You exhaled.
Softly.
Just once.
And Buggy’s head snapped toward you like he’d heard the gates of heaven creak open.
“Was that a sigh? Was it a moved sigh? Are you moved?! Is this emotional progress?!”
You rolled your eyes.
But your mouth, traitor that it was, tugged upward. So, in a moment of weakness (read: curiosity-driven self-harm), you reached out.
“What did you look like before the makeup?”
The line went cold like pre-storm air.
“You want to see?”
Regret. Immediate regret.
“No, I meant—”
Too late.
The psychic image hit like a cannon to the face.
Gone was the face paint, ruffles, the bravado, and the circus.
In its place?
A jaw sharp enough to wound. Sea-wind tousled hair; long, blue, and unfairly silky, the kind that looked like it deserved to be yanked in the heat of something shameful. Sun-kissed skin, like he spent half his life outsmarting the sun, and that devil-may-care smirk, tilted just right, with just enough ache in the eyes to scream ‘I’ve suffered, but I make it hot’.
You especially noticed his stupid, long eyelashes, which had no business being that pretty on a man with a career in cannon juggling and trauma.
They were unfairly elegant. Like a felony of flirtation every time he blinked.
His cheekbones were criminal. His shoulders were rude. Broad and confident like they’d carried too many egos (including his own), but still somehow made you think about biting them.
And the nose?
God help you, the nose was… kind of cute without the clown nightmare theming. Big. A little pink without the red makeup. Like the rest of him was trying too hard, but that one detail hadn’t gotten the memo.
It was maddening. He was maddening.
He was a mess of glitter, ego, longing, and deeply inappropriate appeal; like the universe had put a war crime in eyeliner and handed it directly to you.
And it hits you like a sack of bricks.
He’s… hot.
Unreasonably hot. In a “I would make a terrible mistake for this man” way.
You feel a flutter of something. Attraction? Confusion? Psychic doom???? You sighed, before immediately shaking your head and muttering:
“Doesn’t matter. He’s probably not even interested. He’s more clown than a human. Probably jacks off with a rubber chicken.”
Which, unfortunately, you think.
Think.
While in full soulmate mode.
And the soulmate bond?The one you’ve spent the better part of your adult life treating like spam mail? Yeah, it’s still very active.
Moments later, your vision flashes white.
You’re hit with the psychic equivalent of a brick wall wearing fishnets. Buggy comes barreling into your mind like a drunk drag queen with a grudge and a full fog machine.
“OH, I’M NOT INTERESTED?!”
You flinch so hard you almost drop your casserole.
“YOU THINK I WOULDN’T RISK IT ALL FOR YOU?!”
Suddenly, you are somewhere else. Not physically, but vividly. Like an unwanted VR simulation created by someone horny and deeply unwell.
You see him. Not clown Buggy. Hot Buggy. Shirtless. No makeup. Hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed and into sin. One eyebrow cocked. That same scar. That same face.
And he smirks.
“Say that again, Sparklebug. Say I’m not interested. I dare you.”
His voice practically purrs through the bond. There are candles now. Piratey candles. Satin sheets. He did this on purpose.
You try to backpedal. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually.
“I—I didn’t mean it like—”
“No, no, go ahead. I’ll just be here, giving you very visual evidence that your thighs do, in fact, haunt me.”
He mentally rips his hat off. In real time. For emphasis.
“You think being 40% clown makes me less into you?! Baby, I’m a certified degenerate. You’re my entire tragic arc.”
You're screaming. Not audibly. But your soul is.
“I HAVE A TYPE. It’s a ‘grumpy soulmate who denies me.’ It’s you. It’s always been you.”
He winks. Psychically.
“I could paint my face again, if you’re into roleplay. Or you could just sit on my lap while I juggle regrets.”
You hang up on the bond like it’s a cursed Den Den line.
Silence.
Long, long silence.
“Also, I heard what you said about the rubber chicken. You’re dead to me...But also not, because I’m free tonight. Mentally. Physically. Sexually. Just say the word.”
You now avoid posters, telepathy, and nighttime thoughts.
He calls it flirting.
You call it psychic harassment.
Unfortunately, it’s working.
His voice in your head practically purrs these days.
“Still think I’m scary, sweetheart? Or is that just the repression?”
You dropped your book.
Actually dropped it. Right onto the floor. Loud enough to make your brother flinch.
Your soulmark flared; hot, sudden, sharp. It burned through the fabric of your sleeve like it had opinions. Like it wanted to remind you who you belonged to.
Your brother glanced over, eyes wide. “You okay?”
You blinked at him. “I need cold water.”
He frowned. “You just had some.”
You stared dead ahead. “No. Like—an ocean.”
Across the bond, Buggy was thriving. You could feel him basking in your panic like a lizard under a heat lamp. Smug. Delighted. Probably doing little jazz hands in his mind.
“I knew it,” he purred, all velvet smoke and unearned confidence. “You think about me. You burn for me. Your body yearns—”
You threw your shoe across the room.
Buggy made an excited noise somewhere in the back of your skull.
“So that’s a yes? You do want to see me shirtless in person? Be honest—how long have you been imagining it? Want me to send the abs again? Maybe a slow spin? I have dimples. Two. But only when I’m smiling for real. Not that you’ve earned it yet, but…”
You tried to retaliate with a mental image of someone else. Anyone else.
Buggy countered with a sultry, slow-motion version of himself fixing a rigging line shirtless. With a single scar just low enough to imply tragedy. And tight pants. And a wink. Hair askew.
You screamed so loud that a child woke up.
You hate it. You hate that he's hot. You hate that he knows it.
He’s living his best life.
-X-WHAT?-X-
Buggy’s been unbearable lately.
Worse than usual.
Ever since you, in a moment of catastrophic weakness, acknowledged that, yes, he’s hot without the clown makeup, the man’s been spiritually insufferable. Telepathically smug. Soul-link weaponized.
He’s no longer yelling. No, that would be too kind.
He’s humming.
“You’ve been thinking about me. I felt it. Don’t lie. I could feel your heartbeat speed up. I’m in your brain. I’m your brain’s boyfriend.”
You ignore him. He whispers anyway.
“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five minutes…”
You freeze mid-step. “Nope.”
“You didn’t even ask what the things are.”
“That’s because I know. And I want nothing to do with your pirate acrobatics or—god forbid—your detachable limbs.”
“Oh? You don’t want to find out what I can do with just a hand? Or two? Or six?”
You scream into a pillow.
Your mom raises an eyebrow. “Buggy again?”
“Buggy always.”
You try to keep busy. You mop the deck. You polish boots. You reorganize the wrench drawer.
But Buggy keeps narrating.
“You ever been tied up by a man who can float knots into place? Bet not.”
“I could have you pinned and massaged and flustered before your brain finishes the word ‘clown.’”
“You think the Chop-Chop Fruit’s a joke? Baby, I’m modular.”
You crack. You hiss through clenched teeth, “I will physically relocate your soul to hell.”
“Promises, promises,” he hums.
The worst part?
He’s started scheduling his flirtation.
“Check your soul calendar, darling. Five minutes. That’s all I need. Five minutes and a semi-private hammock. No clown makeup. No feathers. Just me. You. One rope. Half a plan. I’ll even leave the hat off—unless you’re into that. You still scared of me?”
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face as the dream wavered gently around you.
“…I’m not as scared of you anymore,” you muttered, grudgingly. The words tasted like defeat.
A pause. He didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his joy swelling like some obnoxious parade float preparing to burst.
“And?”
You scowled at nothing.
“I’m mad,” you snapped. “Because you’re both lascivious and thoughtful. Pick a struggle.”
The silence that followed was unnatural. Ominous. You could feel it building, like a storm front of glitter and chaos creeping in over your mental horizon.
Then, loud as hell:
“YES. LET’S GOOOOO. You’re not scared. You’re just mad because I’m hot and considerate. Classic. Classic soulmate problems.”
You tried to shut the bond. He shoved his entire emotional leg in the doorway.
“Okay, okay, listen. This is important. Like, prophecy-level important.”
You groaned.
“I’m gonna be thirty-five soon. My clown years are numbered. My cartilage is turning against me. I pulled something sneezing last week. The other day, I made eye contact with a mirror and thought, ‘Damn. That’s a haunted dad’.”
You opened your mouth. Surely this was not going where you assumed—
“Yes, I am! Not spiritually! Not in my soul! I’ve done things, okay? Weird things. Pirate things. Cannon-related things.”
Okay, it definitely was going there.
He paused for emphasis, then dropped the kicker like a man throwing himself off an emotional cliff:
“But like—actual sex? With another person? While conscious? With feelings? And eye contact? And maybe a second round if my back doesn’t give out?”
You took a deep breath.
“Buggy—”
“Never happened.”
You stared up at your dream-sky like it might split open and suck you into the void. Please, you thought. Just end it. Smite me. Let me ascend.
And you tried—you tried really, really hard—not to laugh.
He kept going.
“You think this is funny,” he whined, his voice cracking like a cheap plate under too much emotional pressure. “But this is tragic. I’ve got so much pent-up soulmate passion I could power a fleet. I’m feral. I’ve been emotionally edge-of-glory for years. YEARS.”
Oh no.
Here it came.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is being me? With this face? This nose? And absolutely zero romantic street cred? I look like a carnival ride with commitment issues!”
You tried to hold it in.
You did.
But it slipped out. A short, stunned laugh. The kind you snort when your brain short-circuits under the weight of sheer absurdity.
And that was your mistake.
You laughed. Just once. A single snort. A treacherous little slip of joy through your nose.
And the bond lit up like someone had thrown a match into a firework factory during mating season.
“You LAUGHED. OH MY GOD. SHE LAUGHED. SHE THINKS I’M CHARMING. HER LAUGH IS SO PRETTY! I AM WINNING.”
You sat down.
Hard.
Your soulmark was buzzing. Your skull echoed with circus-grade euphoria.
“Don’t get excited,” you muttered.
Because you knew—oh, you knew—you were never going to hear the end of this.
“TOO LATE. I NEED COORDINATES. GIVE ME A HORIZON LINE. DESCRIBE A TREE. I WILL FIND YOU. I HAVE BINOCULARS AND EMOTIONS.”
You stared at the sky like it had betrayed you personally.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m picturing cliffs. Something dramatic. I’ll arrive with a bouquet of knives and a blanket!”
“Buggy.”
“And a consent form! Because I respect you! But also maybe whipped cream if you’re into that—”
“Buggy,” you said, sharply this time. “I am not ready.”
That stopped him.
A beat. Two.
“Okay, well,” he muttered, voice cracking just a little, “we can… work on that.”
You sighed. Rubbed your temples like they owed you rent. “No, Buggy. It’s…”
You trailed off.
There was a pause. A real one. Heavy.
And for once, Buggy didn’t fill it with nonsense.
You felt him there. Bright, chaotic presence suddenly… still. His excitement, so loud, so sharp and buoyant, began to dim at the edges.
He waited.
And when you didn’t speak, he said it. Quiet. Barely a breath in your skull.
“You still don’t wanna meet me,” he said eventually.
Not mad. Just… quiet. That was somehow worse.
You shifted where you sat, arms curling around your knees. Guilt prickled, hot and sour, under your skin.
“It’s not that,” you said quickly.
It was that.
“It’s just…” You exhaled, voice softer now. “You’re still a pirate.”
“Yeah, but I’m your pirate—”
“And you’re still…you.”
That one landed.
You felt it hit. Like a balloon popping somewhere deep in the back of your mind. The bond didn’t snap or crackle, it just... dimmed.
He didn’t say anything right away. When he did, it was forced. Light. A little too bright.
“Right, yeah. That’s fair. I mean, who would want to throw away their life and morals for a guy who lives on a ship designed for his own circus?”
You winced.
He kept going, as if he said it fast enough, it wouldn’t sting.
“Totally get it. Pirate life isn’t for everyone,” he said, attempting and failing to sound casual. “Cannons, ego, clown-based branding? An acquired taste. Especially when your soulmate shows up with detachable limbs and emotional baggage that juggles itself.”
“Buggy…” you started, guilt churning low in your gut.
“No, no, I mean it.” His voice dipped into something brittle. “Makes sense. You want someone stable. Someone boring. Someone who doesn’t announce his orgasms with fireworks.”
You groaned, but he kept going.
“I get the message loud and clear. ‘Buggy the Clown: hot enough to flirt with, not enough to show up for.’”
That one hit. Hard.
Your jaw clenched. Heat flared up your neck before you could stop it.
“Okay, fine,” you snapped, sharp and unthinking. “You want me to show up? Become a Warlord. Do that. Then I’ll wrap myself in a bow and hand-deliver myself.”
There was a beat.
You immediately regretted it. The words had barely cooled in the air before you felt it—Buggy lighting up like a firework with a vengeance kink and no impulse control.
“…You promise?”
You stared into the void. The bond hummed with something like lightning and poor life choices.
“Buggy—“
“No, seriously. Say it again. Slowly. ‘Hand-deliver myself.’ I just need it on record for emotional reasons.”
You dragged both hands down your face. “That wasn’t an actual—”
“Too late! You said it! It’s real! I’m gonna become a Warlord and you are going to regret underestimating my emotionally damage-fueled ambition!”
You whimpered. “That is not what I said.”
“Start practicing your gift wrapping!”
Back into the wind. Into the sea. Into chaotic overachievement with the energy of a man fueled solely by spite, delusion, and the distant promise of soulmate thighs.
You sat down. Heavily.
Because that was not the reaction you were expecting. At all.
You had expected sulking. Maybe another guilt-trip. Possibly even a poetic tantrum about how no one believes in the power of nose-forward romance.
You did not expect him to accept your sarcastic ultimatum like a blood pact.
-X-Emotional Fallout-X-
Ten years pass.
Not quietly.
Not peacefully.
Ten years pass.
Not quietly.
Not peacefully.
And not without him.
You don’t know exactly what he’s doing most of the time. Something about expanding territory, showmanship, explosives, possibly a hostage juggled for diplomacy, but you know Buggy’s still alive. Still loud. Still orbiting your brain like a firework that refuses to burn out.
Because he never stopped talking to you.
Because he never stopped talking to you. Not completely. Not even when you tried to shut the bond down.
The soulmark stayed open. Maybe not constantly, not like before, no more 3 a.m. psychic serenades or unsolicited mental stripteases, but enough.
Enough that you never really forgot him.
Enough that you’d be brushing your teeth, or haggling over turnips, or endeavoring to have a normal dinner with a man who didn’t own a single cannon. How could you forget one-liners like these:
“Hey. Do you think I should get a cape?”
Or:
“Hypothetically, how many knives is too many knives?”
Or the one that made you spit soup across a date’s shirt:
“Would you still respect me if I named my ship ‘The Clown Pounder’? Be honest.”
Sometimes, it was annoying. Sometimes it was unbearable. And sometimes, though you’d never admit it, it was weirdly... nice.
He told you about his crew (“idiots,” always said with affection). About his victories (“completely legitimate,” read: probably exaggerated). About his bounty (“they’re practically begging me to be King of the World”).
You told him about your boring job. Your weird neighbors. The bird that kept attacking your laundry line, as if it held a personal grudge.
Sometimes it felt like journaling. Sometimes it felt like talking to someone who actually listened.
He'd hum in your head while you worked. Send you mental images of increasingly dramatic poses on the deck of his ship. Once, he sent you a heartfelt psychic letter and accidentally included a mental JPEG of a guy being punched into the sea with a mallet.
“Sorry. Meant to send you a drawing of a flower. That guy insulted my coat.”
You’d been elbow-deep in laundry at the time, staring at the mental snapshot of some poor soul mid-air, fist-first into the ocean, with the unmistakable blur of Buggy’s smug grin in the corner like a watermark. You yelled at him. He apologized. You forgave him.
It was routine by now. Predictably, in the weirdest, most deranged way.
You joked. You snarked. You accidentally confessed things you didn’t mean to say. One night, during a long walk home with nothing but the stars for company, you’d whispered:
“I think I’m just hard to love.”
There had been a pause. Not dramatic. Not delayed for effect. Just thoughtful.
“That’s not true,” he’d said, quieter than usual. “You’re just impossible to impress.”
You’d scoffed at that. “That sounded like a compliment until I remember you once impressed a saloon by biting a sword in half.”
“And yet,” he’d whispered, soft and sure, “you still won’t marry me.”
You rolled your eyes.
Classic Buggy.
Always escalating. Always with the proposal jokes.
“I don’t like clowns.”
“You like me.”
And you didn’t respond. Not really. Just exhaled and let the bond hum.
Because the truth, the dangerous, inconvenient truth, was that he wasn’t wrong.
He was still a pirate. Still Buggy. Still a walking disaster in face paint and delusions of grandeur.
But over the years, things had... shifted.
Your connection had evolved from screaming matches and unsolicited psychic stripteases into something else. Something almost gentle, when it wanted to be.
He bragged less. Listened more.
You mocked him with a little less venom. Smiled at his stupid jokes when no one was looking. Laughed out loud sometimes, enough that he noticed, every time, and made a big deal out of it for the rest of the week.
“She cackled,” he’d whisper proudly to his crew, probably.
The bond no longer buzzed like a curse. It pulsed. Warm. Familiar. A soft thrum at the back of your mind that you’d come to depend on. Like a heartbeat. Or static. The kind of noise you only noticed when it was gone.
And deep down, neither of you talked about the deal.
Honestly, you weren’t that worried. He was Buggy. Loud. Messy. Dramatic. The type of man who would accidentally light his own shoes on fire during a romantic confession and try to spin it into performance art.
Not exactly the Warlord type.
And you were generally content with your life.
You had a routine. A weird one, maybe, because it involved a psychic clown popping into your thoughts mid-laundry with things like:
“If I painted myself gold and called it ‘treasure body,’ do you think people would pay to touch me? Do you think blue lipstick is too much? Do you miss me, or are you just ovulating?”
But it worked. You were fine. Managing.
Until Buggy’s life started getting… a little too exciting.
You noticed it first in his silences.
He’d go quiet for longer stretches. Not gone, just… busy.
Thinking. Plotting. Moving like someone with actual intent, which was unnerving in and of itself.
Once, after three full days of radio silence, he dropped in without warning, not with a joke, not with a horny metaphor involving rope, but with this:
“They keep underestimating me,” he snapped once, not at you, but near you. “Like I’m not trying. Like I’m not building something here.”
You’d frozen mid-step. That was new. That was... some real character growth shit.
Buggy the Clown, getting serious?
You didn’t even have a coping protocol for that.
And really, it all started unraveling the day he said:
“You ever hear about that rookie Straw Hat kid?”
You were in the middle of folding towels. Just living your very normal, pirate-free life.
You paused. “What? Like a hat?”
“Loud kid. Big smile. Straw hat. Elbowed me in the face at some point. I kinda hate him.”
You blinked, tugging a damp towel into a neat rectangle. “...And this matters to me, why?”
Buggy didn’t answer. Not directly. He just fumed—somewhere on the Grand Line, presumably juggling rage and fireworks, and the bond simmered with the kind of psychic muttering that felt like you’d accidentally offended a Renaissance mime.
That’s when you started hearing familiar names more often. Not just in your head, but in whispers. Posters. Pub talk.
Pirates you vaguely remembered from his stories were now making headlines. And Buggy’s name was starting to slip into those headlines, too.
At first, it was funny. Because Buggy the Clown™ had always been a disaster.
Loud. Obnoxious. Weirdly loyal to you in a way that felt less like romance and more like being emotionally kidnapped by a glitter-smeared raccoon with commitment issues.
He popped into your head constantly, usually uninvited and always unfiltered:
“If I had three cannons and a ladder, how romantic would that be on a scale of 1 to ‘I’m shirtless and whispering? I miss you. In a non-creepy, very emotionally complex, possibly-shirtless way.”
You’d gotten used to it. The bond wasn’t a curse anymore. Just part of your life.
A strange, glitter-covered migraine with a voice.
And then came Luffy.
You’d never heard Buggy hate anyone like he hated Straw Hat Luffy. Except, possibly, for the mysterious and vaguely traumatic Shanks (but that felt more like unresolved theater kid betrayal than actual animosity).
“Remember that straw hat asshole?” he hissed one day, the psychic air around the bond vibrating like a plucked wire.
You blinked. “No?”
“Well, I met him again. And I hope his hat gets rained on. Constantly.”
You froze. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Straw Hat. Little guy. Rubber limbs. Loud. Disrespectful. Fought me. Mocked me. He is ruining my life.”
You blinked again, slowly this time. “What does that even mean—?”
“It means he disrespected the nose. And I will never recover.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Also, he stole my thunder. Possibly my brand. Definitely my trajectory. And he keeps winning and I’m SICK OF IT.”
You sighed, placing the towel down with the weary hands of someone who knew with deep, damning certainty that whatever Buggy was about to do next would be entirely too much.
You assumed it had been a bad encounter. Maybe a botched robbery. Some public embarrassment. A mild bruising of the ego.
But then came the details.
How Luffy had interrupted his public execution-slash-party. How he'd destroyed a chunk of Orange Town. How he had, and this was evidently the core trauma, launched Buggy’s head into the sky.
Buggy wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks.
“He launched me, babe. LAUNCHED. Into the stratosphere. Mid-monologue!”
You tried not to laugh. You really did. You failed.
“DON’T LAUGH!” he screeched. “I could’ve died!”
“You’re a head, Buggy,” you said, already biting back another laugh. “You bounce.”
“It was humiliating! In front of my crew! In front of the whole town! Do you have any idea how hard it is to reclaim authority after someone’s kicked your skull like a volleyball?!”
You did laugh then. Just a little. He made it sound like a hate crime.
“This is trauma, sweetheart. I’m going to need therapy. And revenge. Possibly at the same time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And glitter. To rebrand my image. Stronger. Shinier. More emotionally unhinged—but on purpose this time.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I can’t believe this is real.”
“Oh, it’s real,” he growled. “Straw Hat Luffy declared war on my face, and now I’m declaring war on destiny.”
You groaned. “That’s not how destiny works.”
“That’s exactly how it works if you have enough cannons.”
Then he’d teamed up with Alvida. Somehow.
You weren’t sure if it was a strategic alliance or a therapy group for people personally humiliated by Straw Hat Luffy.
When you asked, Buggy just said:
“She gets it. Also, we both have great fashion instincts. We’ve got a ship. A crew. A map I’m making moves.”
“You’re making nautical mistakes and calling them progress.”
“Progress is subjective, and I am thriving.”
You didn’t respond. You just resumed folding the towel with a slow, practiced precision that said: I am spiritually too old for this shit.
But things didn’t quiet down.
They spread.
You started hearing more at taverns. In passing conversation. From travelers and traders with rum-soaked voices and wide-eyed disbelief.
At first, it was barely a whisper.
Something about a clown getting electrocuted during a public execution attempt in Loguetown.
You didn’t even flinch. Of course he did. Buggy sort of got what was coming to him.
You mean, honestly, who tries to upstage actual history?
A teen pirate was being executed by the Marines. A rubber one. A living, stretching, chaos-infused problem. And there was Buggy, in front of a crowd, attempting to monologue. Straining to deliver a killer finale with all eyes on him, only to get smited by divine lightning mid-sentence like the universe itself booed him off stage.
Honestly? You snorted when you first heard it. Only Buggy.
But then you heard the next part.
That he survived. The crowd went wild. That somehow, he came out of it more famous.
That people cheered.
And that’s when you felt it.
The slow, creeping horror of realization.
Because Buggy the Clown™ didn’t just bounce back.
He launched.
From electrified idiot to local legend. From a chaotic clown to a pirate with a following.
You tried to ignore it. Truly. You said things like ‘he’ll lose momentum,’ or ‘this is a fluke, ’ or ‘he probably tripped into it, like everything else. ’ You said them out loud. You repeated them like affirmations. Like shields.
But the soulbond buzzed a little warmer that week. Like he was sitting back somewhere with his feet up and a fruit drink, waiting for you to connect the dots.
Then came the bounty updates.
You were standing in line at the market. Just attempting to buy oranges. You weren’t looking for signs of catastrophe.
But the board near the stall had new paper slapped across it. Fresh ink. Slightly crooked. You glanced over and there it was.
Too many teeth in the grin. Too much sparkle in the eyes. A level of unearned confidence that could only be described as criminally contagious.
And under it, a number.
A much bigger number than you were prepared for.
You blinked. Stared.
You blinked. “They raised his bounty?”
“Again,” the vendor muttered. “He’s gettin’ organized. Has flags now. Logistics. A newsletter or somethin’.”
You bought nothing. Went home in silence.
Tried to focus on laundry. Tried to read. Tried to pretend the back of your neck wasn’t buzzing like a storm was on the horizon and you were personally responsible for leaving the door open.
That night, just as you were falling asleep, his voice trickled into your skull.
Low. Gleeful. Too proud.
“Guess who’s climbing the pirate ladder? It’s you. I’m the ladder.”
You groaned. He cackled.
Business as usual.
You rolled your eyes. Buried your face in your pillow. Told yourself it didn’t matter. He was still Buggy. Still a menace in face paint with emotional depth comparable to a decorative puddle.
This was fine. It was always fine until the next rumor came in.
He’d made it to the Grand Line.
Not by force.
Not by cunning.
No.
By accident.
Storms. Chaos. Questionable maps. Poor navigation. One cannon misfire. A ship full of unqualified personnel. A mysterious current that should have ripped his vessel in half, but instead, for some godforsaken reason, carried him forward like fate had made a clerical error and refused to correct it.
You read the report three times.
Once standing. Once sitting. Once with your head in your hands. “Pirate vessel—design: clown—sighted breaching Reverse Mountain. Status: screaming. Entry: successful.”
You nearly screamed. Clawed at the paper like you could rearrange the letters into a more reasonable sentence.
Like maybe, if you ripped the corner off, it would say something else.
“What the hell are you doing on the Grand Line???”
The soulbond hummed. Soft. Dangerous. Smug.
“And yet, here I am,” he said, voice rich with undeserved triumph. “Windswept. Iconic. Possibly bleeding, but mostly proud.”
You choked. “How are you alive?”
“Strong bone structure.”
You slapped the paper against your forehead.
“I was glowing, babe, like an omen. The sea carried me. Reverse Mountain? More like Reverse Destiny. I practically sailed up it on charisma.”
You made an inhuman sound. “You should have died.”
“I almost did. But then I didn’t. Classic me.”
And after that… the world started catching on.
You used to sleep soundly. Used to wake up thinking about grocery lists or chores, or maybe what Buggy would bother you with next. But now?
Now you jolted awake in a cold sweat, convinced you were about to hear his obituary. You’d sit up, heart racing, half-expecting a Marine to knock on your door and hand you a cannon-blasted nose and say, “Sorry. He aimed himself at God and missed.”
But no. He never died. Never even lost anything important.
Just pride. Dignity. The occasional limb.
And worse, he thrived.
Buggy the Clown™, Wielder of Dubious Plans and Unclear Boundaries, was somehow… ascending. And he was unbothered about it.
“You know what I think?” He mused one evening, casual as a man who had never, ever been impaled by his juggling pin.“I think I’m meant for greatness. Big, Warlord-level greatness.”
You didn’t look up from your journal.
Didn’t even flinch.
“You don’t even know how to make soup.”
“Soup is a scam,” he said flatly. “Glory is real.”
You stared at the ceiling. “You burnt water.”
“That was a tactical decision. I was testing the pot.”
“It was a tea kettle.”
“A war kettle.”
You snapped your journal shut.
“Admit it,” he cooed. “You’d look good next to a Warlord. You could wear fancy shoes. Maybe a dramatic hat.”
“You’re not a Warlord.”
“Yet.”
You wanted to scream. Not because he was wrong, but because some awful, treacherous part of you had started to believe him.
Fate seemed to favor him. It catered to him. Like the universe itself was enabling his delusions out of morbid curiosity, no man should have this kind of upward momentum and also have been eaten by a bird.
And yet, here he was.
Buggy had stopped being just noise in your head. He wasn’t just the glitter-coated migraine you had learned to live with. He was gaining momentum. A clown-shaped avalanche. A shipwreck on fire that somehow kept crossing finish lines.
Every day, he grew a little louder in the world. A little harder to ignore. A little more real. And somewhere deep in your bones, you could feel it.
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Slow Burn, Jealousy, Strong Language and Profanity, Sexual Content including humor and description, Objectification, Gender and identity themes, Alcohol and smoking references, Violence and battle imagery, excessive flirting,
for @vaniiiavengeance
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Previous
-X- Soulglitch -X-
The ferry to Whole Cake Island cut steadily through calm seas, its paddle wheels churning like a slow heartbeat against the endless horizon. The air was heavy with salt and the distant cry of gulls, though neither sound managed to drown out the chatter of merchants, emissaries, and opportunists crammed into the vessel’s broad decks. This was no ordinary passenger ship but a government-licensed leviathan of timber and steel, a floating inn and carriage all at once, tasked with bearing the bold or the foolish through the treacherous waters of the New World.
Morgans had claimed the seat beside you from the very start, his plumage rustling with self-importance, his golden eyes darting like coins spinning in sunlight. He had the greedy glint of a man who believed every cough, every whispered aside, every twitch of a stranger’s eyebrow might be spun into tomorrow’s headline. It made him insufferable company and yet fascinating. Whenever you thought he might finally tire of cataloging, his head would swivel again, searching, measuring, filing away.
He always insisted on traveling this way when he could, not in his private ship, not with the shadowy speed of underworld couriers, but here among the masses. He claimed it was to “smell the story where it lived,” although you suspected he simply relished being the largest and loudest presence in any given room. A week on a ferry was, for him, a stage.
It took nearly seven days to reach Whole Cake, the journey dragging on in a haze of shipboard meals, half-slept nights, and the murmur of tides. You spent much of it seated on the upper deck, notebook balanced on your knee, staring at the white line of wake stretching toward the horizon. The ferry was meant to be safe, a government guarantee of passage across waters claimed by emperors, but even so, every creak of the hull reminded you where you were. Deep in Yonko territory, every sound carried more weight than it should have.
You had been given many assignments in dangerous waters before, yet none had ever carried you so directly into the heart of peril. Whole Cake Island was Big Mom’s jewel, her throne, her home. You had never dreamed your work would require setting foot on her archipelago. It was the sort of place reporters spoke of in rumor, not itinerary.
From what you had managed to pry out of Morgans during a particularly tense evening of shared silence and locked gazes, it was not a sanctioned assignment at all. Not officially, at least. This journey, he had finally admitted, stemmed from a personal invitation. Not from the World Government. Not from any editor or publisher. But from his other network, the one buried in shadows, held together by bribes, threats, and promises. His “less legitimate connections,” as he had called them with a laugh that did not quite reach his eyes.
You had heard whispers of Morgans’ underworld dealings before. Now you saw the proof firsthand. A bird like him, fattened on secrets, could never resist a feast as rich as this.
After you let him have a piece of your mind, and after he promised a big fat bonus for your silence, you settled. The bargain was thin, more a truce than an agreement, but it gave you room to breathe. You could not fight every battle, not when you were already sailing toward the heart of a Yonko’s empire.
So your first impression of Whole Cake Island was sparkling and dreamlike, if not somewhat terrifying. The horizon began to change color as the ferry cut closer. The sea shifted from a steady gray-blue into strange bands of pink and lavender. Towers of spun sugar seemed to grow out of the mist. Mountains gleamed like candied almonds. The scent in the air changed as well, sweet enough to sting the back of your throat, as though the entire archipelago was exhaling sugar.
Passengers rushed to the rails, pointing and marveling. Even Morgans leaned forward with the restless excitement of a predator about to pounce. His quills bristled as he muttered half-formed headlines under his breath, already shaping the spectacle into a story.
For you, it was harder to put into words. The island looked enchanted, alive, like a child’s wild dream. Beneath the shimmer, something was wrong. Too many guards on the shore. Shadows too long. Teeth painted as frosting.
It was beautiful. It was grotesque. And it was very clear that once you stepped onto that glittering shore, you were committed.
Morgans laughed loudly, feathers shivering with the force of it, and nudged you in response to your open astonishment. He was already in his element, strutting with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. “You will taste something spectacular,” he crowed, as though the island itself had risen from the sea for his benefit.
You said nothing, too aware of the sugar-sweet air filling your lungs and the way your stomach knotted around it. With your notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, you followed him down the gangplank. Each step carried you closer to a land that seemed built from dreams but promised nightmares in equal measure.
The dock itself looked carved from gingerbread, with lampposts twined in what appeared to be candy canes. Children of the archipelago shrieked with laughter as they darted between the guards, plucking chunks of frosting from the railings as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Soldiers in polished armor stood watch, their spears sharp despite the frosting swirls painted across their shields. Their eyes followed every passenger disembarking, weighing, measuring, deciding.
The crowd ahead pushed forward eagerly, a tide of traders, emissaries, and wide-eyed tourists desperate to glimpse the promise of Big Mom’s paradise. You forced yourself to keep pace. Morgans walked with a puffed chest, his golden eyes scanning every corner of the dock, already dictating headlines to himself in quick, hungry bursts.
You had covered wars and famines, trials and coronations. You had even watched a Marine admiral take the sky. None of it had ever looked quite like this. Whole Cake Island was alive in a way no place should be, a kingdom of sweets wrapped around a core of menace. And you were here, pen in hand, as though a notebook could protect you from an emperor of the sea.
And almost the moment your foot hit the ground, your soulbond twitched. It was subtle at first, a shiver in the back of your skull, like the brush of cold fingers. You froze mid-step, lungs catching. Then it struck harder.
You gasped. Morgans glanced over, almost worried, his feathers shifting uneasily. His golden eyes lingered on you for a fraction too long, searching for weakness before masking it with disdain. “Do not faint on me now,” he muttered, but his voice was clipped, as though he sensed something was wrong.
Then the real pain came. With a violent wrench, it was like the entire length of the bond was torn from you. Not severed cleanly, but ripped, dragged as if from the marrow of your bones and the folds of your brain. Your knees buckled. For one awful heartbeat, you thought you had gone blind, because the world blurred, smearing into streaks of color.
The sugar-sweet air turned acrid on your tongue. A wave of dizziness struck, enough to send your notebook clattering from your grip. Morgans swore under his breath and crouched beside you, his wings twitching in agitation as he scanned the crowd for watching eyes.
“Pull yourself together,” Morgans hissed, though there was an edge in his tone that betrayed unease. “This is not the place to collapse.”
“Sorry,” you spat between clenched teeth, forcing air into your lungs as the ripping agony dulled into an empty ache. “Next time I decide to faint, I will do it on schedule.”
The words were sharper than you intended, but they were the only thing you had to hold onto. The bond was gone. Your Sanji, your soulmate, torn out of you like someone had reached into your chest and stolen a part of yourself you had never imagined losing. The silence where he had always been rang was unbearable, an emptiness that made the world tilt.
The next thirty minutes were a blur. Colors bled into one another, bright candy towers warping into grotesque shapes that seemed to breathe. Scents grew thick and cloying, too sweet, clinging to your throat until it felt like you were drowning in sugar. Every laugh in the crowd twisted sharp as glass in your ears.
You stumbled after Morgans, eyes fixed on the shifting sway of his coat as he cut a path through the throng. He never slowed, never looked back, as though the only thing that mattered was reaching his contact. You followed because it was all you could do, notebook pressed to your chest, your vision narrowing to that single anchor point.
Behind your eyes, your mind clawed at what had been taken. A warmth. A spark. A tether you had always thought was simply part of yourself. Now it was gone, ripped away, and you were left hollow, stumbling through a wonderland that had turned into a nightmare.
And no matter how hard you tried, you could not remember his face. The thought gnawed at you as though your own memory had betrayed you, as though someone had reached into your heart and scrubbed clean the one thing that mattered.
After a few moments of stumbling through the kaleidoscope haze of the streets, you and Morgans reached a bakery tucked between two towering candy-colored buildings. The bell above the door chimed in a sweet, tinkling note as you entered, and the smell of warm bread and sugar swept over you in a dizzying wave.
The interior was tall, built for giants or at least the larger folk you had seen wandering the streets, yet for all its height, it was narrow, cozy even. The shelves climbed high, stacked with buns glazed in syrup, loaves frosted with icing, and cakes that glittered with candied fruit. Only a few chairs were scattered across the room, one enormous and meant for someone far larger than you, and several small ones almost comically undersized in comparison. You tucked yourself into one of the tiny tables, head sinking into your hands as the ache behind your eyes pulsed again.
Morgans was already strutting to the counter, puffed feathers shaking as he greeted the woman behind it. She was lovely in a warm, simple way, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, a neat apron tied around her swelling belly.
“Ah, welcome! I’ve been waiting for you!” she sang out, her voice bright as sunlight.
“I must compliment you, madam,” Morgans boomed, wings spread as if the room were his stage. “It is very generous of you and your husband to have offered us lodging. I hope we are not displacing you!”
She smiled, and to your alarm, her arm stretched out far past its length to seize a tray of fresh bread, the limb extending like dough pulled thin before snapping back into place. She carried the tray with ease, as though nothing strange had happened.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said warmly, sliding the tray onto the counter. “This is my little bakehouse here on Whole Cake. When my husband has to leave for long periods of time, I stay here and run it myself. We will be staying at the place for the wedding, but afterwards, we will return to our home on Komugi. I doubt he will let me leave once I get closer to the due date.” She patted her stomach fondly, flour dusting her fingertips.
Morgans nodded enthusiastically, eyes gleaming as if her words were already inked in a headline.
“Now, let’s get you settled—oh, are you okay?” Her voice softened as she turned to you. A gentle hand brushed your back just as another bolt of pain tore through your head, sharp and final, as though someone was closing the last door in your mind.
You bit down on a cry, clutching your notebook with trembling fingers. The warmth of her touch was comforting, yet it only seemed to highlight how hollow you suddenly felt, how much had been stripped from you. Somewhere deep inside, a tether that had once held fast was gone, and you were left alone in the silence.
You forced yourself upright, pressing a weak smile onto your lips as you waved away her concern. “I am fine,” you lied, though your voice was raw and shaky. The woman gave you a searching look, clearly unconvinced, yet she did not press. Instead, she lifted the tray of bread from the counter and balanced it against her hip with surprising strength for her slight frame.
“Come,” she said gently. “You should rest. The ferry can take it out of anyone, especially on a first visit.” She guided you toward a narrow staircase tucked at the back of the bakery, her hand firm at your elbow. You clutched your notebook to your chest as though it were your lifeline, each step up the stairs blurring with the pounding of blood in your ears.
Behind you, Morgans and the woman spoke on, their voices drifting up the stairwell.
“Ah, yes, the wedding,” Morgans boomed with his usual bravado, his voice carrying over the clink of dishes. “The entire world will be watching. It will be a story for the ages, and I intend to give it the coverage it deserves.”
“Oh, it will be grand,” the woman replied with cheerful certainty. “The islands are already overflowing with guests. No one has ever seen such preparations before. Mama insists it will be the most magnificent wedding in all the seas.”
The words scraped at your skull, though you did not know why. Something about the wedding, the way they spoke of it with such pride, made your chest ache.
At the top of the stairs, she led you into a small, tidy room. A single bed pressed against the wall, the quilt patched but clean. The window overlooked a narrow alley where sweet-smelling steam drifted up from vents below. She fussed with the quilt for a moment, then turned back to you with that same warm, steady smile.
“Rest here. I will fetch you something light to eat,” the woman said, her hand brushing her belly as she added almost absently, “And I will send for a family member to look in on you. Can’t have Morgans’ infamous critic be too sick to eat.”
You managed a nod, though the weight in your chest made it feel as though you were sinking deeper into the bed. The quilt smelled faintly of sugar and yeast, comforting and cloying all at once.
An hour or so passed in uneasy silence. The sweet perfume of the bakery below drifted through the floorboards, mixing with the ringing ache behind your eyes until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. You drifted in and out of half-sleep, startled awake each time by the memory of a face you could not remember. At last, footsteps sounded on the stairs, measured and light. The door eased open without a creak, and a young woman stepped inside as if she belonged there. She had soft brown hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, a ribbon holding back stray strands. Her dress was modest, the color of cocoa, and she carried herself with the grace of someone accustomed to being both overlooked and obeyed.
Despite Morgans’ squawking protests from below, she closed the door with deliberate care, sliding the lock into place. The sound was quiet, almost delicate, yet it struck you as final, like the turning of a key on a prison cell.
“I will handle this,” she called gently through the wood, her tone warm enough to soothe and sharp enough to end the conversation. Morgans’ voice faltered, then fell silent. You could almost hear him shifting his feathers, uneasy but unwilling to argue with the authority in her tone.
The young woman turned back to you. A polite smile curved her lips, but her eyes gave away nothing. They were a rich amber-brown, soft at first glance, though you noticed the way they lingered too long, studying you, weighing you. There was something behind them that felt sharper than courtesy.
She approached your bedside, unhurried, her hands folded before her as though she were a hostess come to check on a guest. “You must forgive the intrusion,” she said kindly, her voice lilting with practiced warmth. “I was told you were feeling unwell.”
You shifted uneasily under the quilt, clutching your notebook closer. “It was nothing. Just the ferry. The air here… it is different.”
Her smile deepened at that. “It does take some getting used to. Whole Cake can be overwhelming at first, but it is home to me.” She let the word home linger, her gaze flicking briefly toward the window, where the candied spires of the town gleamed faintly in the light.
There was a pause, the kind that seemed to stretch, filled only by the soft hum of ovens somewhere below. Then she placed a hand delicately against her chest. “I should introduce myself properly. My name is Pudding.” Another pause, this one weighted. “One of Mama’s daughters.”
The title landed heavily, as though it were meant to explain everything—the bakery, the strange warmth of the woman downstairs, the way the guards outside had glanced at her with deference when she passed.
You sat up a little straighter, the quilt rustling as your heart thudded in your ears. Of all the people who might have come to check on you, you had never imagined her—the bride herself. Your throat tightened, dry as ash. “Pudding,” you echoed, the name catching awkwardly on your tongue. You tried for careful neutrality, though it sounded more like disbelief.
Her lashes lowered in a graceful flutter, and when she looked at you again, her smile bloomed, perfectly sweet. “And,” she added, her tone soft and deliberate, as though she enjoyed the weight of each syllable, “the bride-to-be.”
Your lips curved automatically, a reflex you could not restrain even as your thoughts reeled. Of course, you should congratulate her—anything less would be unthinkable—but the words felt strange and distant in your mouth. “Congratulations,” you murmured. Polite and automatic.
The smile on her face did not falter. If anything, it deepened, but there was a tension behind it you could not name. She tilted her head just slightly, as though testing the sound of the word, as though your attempt at courtesy was an insult only she could hear.
“You congratulate me,” she said softly, almost to herself, as though she were speaking to the air rather than to you. Her voice was sweet, lilting, but there was something brittle beneath it. “And yet you are the one who had his heart first.”
Alarm prickled at the base of your neck, sharp and immediate. Your fingers tightened on the quilt. “What do you mean?”
Her gaze snapped back to you, steady and unblinking. She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. “Sanji,” she said, as if the name alone was explanation enough. “He is your soulmate.”
The name cracked something inside you. For the briefest instant, the fog in your mind parted and warmth flooded through you—a memory of laughter in a kitchen, the rhythm of his voice, the weight of his presence beside you. It was so strong that your breath caught. Then it slipped away again, leaving you clutching at nothing.
“I—” The word stuck in your throat. The world tilted. “How could you possibly know that?”
Pudding’s smile sharpened, teeth flashing in a way that was almost too bright. “Because Mama knows. Mama can taste the bonds. She sensed him the moment he arrived, and she traced it back to you. You.” Her voice dripped with a mix of pity and accusation. “The critic with the sharp tongue. The one who should never have been here in the first place. Funny how these things happen.”
Your stomach twisted. The pain in your head surged again, like a warning bell. You tried to sit up straighter, to push back, but her presence pressed against you like the weight of the whole island. “Do not look so surprised,” she went on, her tone softening to something almost gentle. “I am to be his bride, and you—” her eyes flicked over you as if weighing, as if cataloguing every imperfection “—you are the complication that Mama refuses to allow. However, I am kind. I don’t want you dead. It’s too much trouble.”
You gasped, the sound raw, your fingers clenching tight around the quilt as though it could anchor you. For a heartbeat, the memory was there, trembling like fragile glass—the warmth of his smile, the echo of laughter in your mind, a hand that should have been in yours. Then it slipped, shattering into fragments too small to hold. You pressed your palms against your temples, trying to force the pieces back together, but they scattered, leaving only the echo of his name.
Pudding shifted closer, her skirts rustling softly against the wooden floor. She knelt beside the bed, her head tilted in a mockery of compassion. Her face was suddenly soft, almost tender, and she reached out with a careful hand to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch might have been comforting, had her eyes not gleamed with something sharp and cruel just beneath the surface.
“Shh,” she soothed, her voice honey-sweet. “I know it hurts. I know you feel torn in half. That is why I came. You are weak now, and it is easier this way.”
Then, with a practiced motion, she brushed her bangs aside, revealing a perfectly centered third eye gleaming from her forehead. It blinked once, slow and deliberate, and the air in the room seemed to tighten. Your breath caught. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to flee, but your body felt heavy, pinned under the velvet press of her gaze.
You tried to push yourself upright, forcing every ounce of strength into your arms, but she pressed a cool hand to your shoulder. The strength behind it shocked you. It was iron strength wrapped in silk, impossible to resist. You sank back against the quilt, trapped beneath her touch.
“Do not fight it,” she whispered, and her tone was almost kind, almost loving. “Between Mama and me, we will take this pain away. We will erase your worries for him, so you do not suffer. So Mama’s plans may go forward without… interference.”
Her third eye glowed faintly, and you felt pressure stir at the edges of your mind. It was like hands rifling through the pages of a book you had not meant anyone to read. Images threatened to rise: fingers that smelled faintly of spice and smoke brushing yours, the warmth of a smile that had once been only yours. Yet every time you reached for them, they slipped farther away.
Her voice dropped lower, honeyed and sharp, the kind of sweetness that rotted at the core. “Do not fear. You will forget, and it will be easier. You will not lose Morgans’ favor, and Mama will not lose her contact. Everything will be perfect.”
The word perfect rang inside you like a nail being driven into wood. Perfect for them. Perfect for her. But not for you. For you, it meant the death of everything that mattered.
You clawed at the memory, desperate, the shape of his name breaking through your lips in a whisper before the weight of her gaze crushed it into silence.
And Pudding smiled, her third eye gleaming, as she began to strip him from you.
The next thing you remembered was sleep.
Not the drifting kind that comes after exhaustion, not the slow surrender of a body giving in to rest. This was sudden, absolute, like a curtain dropped across your mind. One moment, you were clawing at the memory of him, grasping at fragments that slipped like water between your fingers.
Next, there was nothing but darkness, heavy and complete.
It was a sleep without dreams, without anchors. The warmth that had always lived somewhere inside you, that hidden thread tying you to someone unseen, was gone. You stirred once, your body twitching as though trying to wake, but the weight pressing down was too strong. The silence where the bond had been was smothering, and you sank deeper, unable to fight it.
When you finally surfaced, you had no idea how much time had passed. The room smelled of sugar and bread, the quilt still tucked neatly around you. Your notebook rested on the bedside table where you had left it, untouched. Everything looked the same. Yet you felt lighter, emptier, as though something had been stolen in the night and carefully swept away so you would not notice.
You blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, you tried to recall what had unsettled you, what had made your chest ache so violently, but the memory danced out of reach. All that remained was the faint sting of tears at the corners of your eyes, and a hollow ache you could not explain.
-X-The Cold War-X-
A month ago, when the crew finally reunited, Sanji had thought he was ready for anything. Two years on Kamabakka Kingdom had carved him leaner, sharper, and meaner in ways he hated to admit. He had cooked, fought, bled, and survived on sheer stubbornness, and he had done it all with the bond closed tight inside his chest like a locked door.
Closing it had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Harder than fleeing Enies Lobby. Harder than bleeding in a duel. Harder than every humiliating lesson drilled into him by Ivankov’s people. To cut himself off from his soulmate, his “bro” as he had convinced himself you were, had left him ragged. But at the time, he had thought it necessary.
You had hurt him without even meaning to. He could still feel the sting of it, the echo of laughter or carelessness. It had festered until he shut the door completely. What twisted the knife most was the Baratie. His Baratie. The place that had made him, the place that was sacred to him. He had been so proud of every plate he carried out, every fire lit in that kitchen, every dream folded into the dishes he cooked. Then he had discovered that the sharpest critique ever written of the Baratie had come from you—his soulmate.
And you had never told him.
So he had poured himself into training. To become stronger, faster, and better. He had learned to cook with flames that bent to his will. He had perfected kicks that could crack stone. He had ignored the emptiness where your voice should have been.
Except he had not ignored it, not really.
Every so often, when the loneliness pressed too sharply against his ribs, he had almost reached out. When despair clawed at him, or when a beautiful woman with perfect curves passed by, he would catch himself thinking, Oi, did you see that pair of— before the words faltered. He would remember the sting of your silence, the hurt of your omission, and he would stop, choking the thought down with a cigarette and a laugh that sounded too forced.
Yet even as he held back, the truth nagged at him. You had never meant to wound him. That much he knew now, with distance. Looking back on the bond with clearer eyes, he could see how much of it had been his own insecurity, his own hunger for connection twisted into something brittle. You had been good, more often than not. You had been uplifting. You had been the one bright presence that steadied him in the darkest moments—on the damn rock, in Enies Lobby, and even in Sabaody when the world was on fire around them.
That realization came slowly, like dawn breaking, but when it hit him, it almost floored him.
Because the truth was simple and ridiculous and absolutely crushing.
He was hurt because he loved you.
The thought made him gag at first. He had clutched his face, doubled over, groaning like a man stabbed. “God, no, no, no,” he muttered into his hands, staggering around the Sunny’s deck like a drunk. He had wanted to vomit, to crawl into the sea, to drown the shame of it. To love someone he had never even met, someone who was a man.
But then it had settled into him, and it had felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It was freeing. It was right.
The ridiculous playboy act, the swooning over every woman he passed, none of it carried the same weight as the thought of you. It was theater. His heart had already chosen, and now he knew why nothing ever filled the emptiness inside him.
The big problem was that he realized how little he truly knew about you. A tenuous voice in his head, a bond on his soul. That was all. He did not know your face, your real job, your life. By god, he had called you bro so long he hadn’t even bothered asking your name.
And the audacity he had to be surprised you weren’t who he thought you were? He hadn’t even tried to know you the littlest bit.
He was too nervous to open the bond he had closed with any sort of casual interaction. And you had been too kind to force it open.
So he started searching in the one way he could. He began reading the papers. At first, it was a habit, scanning for bounties, news of the crew, recipes tucked into columns. Then he noticed the reviews. Not your name—never your name—but the words. The thoughts. They were yours. He knew the rhythm, the sharpness, the warmth tucked beneath the criticism. He heard you in every line.
He read every word. He argued with your points aloud, muttering as he stirred a pot. He laughed when you skewered some pompous chef, shaking his head and thinking, That is exactly like you.
And in those moments, for all his suffering, for all the hurt, he found himself smiling.
And so, as he landed on Zou, he had made his decision. He was going to open the bond again. He had spent two years locking you out, two years convincing himself it was better to be alone, but now he knew better. Whatever came of it, he needed you back in his life.
When he finally reached inside himself, tugging at that hidden thread, it was like drawing in a long breath after nearly drowning. The bond opened, oh so quietly, and suddenly you were there again.
It was incredible to feel you. The relief hit him so hard his knees almost gave out. For so long, he had carried only silence, and now the connection pulsed again, soft and alive. He pressed a hand against his chest, inhaling shakily, as though he could catch the warmth before it slipped away.
But it was strange.
The way you felt now was different. Softer. Gentler. The sharp, brotherly edge he had always told himself defined you was… gone. The bond brushed against him like silk, steady and warm. He frowned, confused but desperate not to question the gift of having you back.
Then, without warning, he slipped further.
The bond opened wider than he had intended, and suddenly he caught a flood of sensations that were not his own. Warmth. Steam. The gentle splash of water. He froze, cigarette slipping from his fingers.
The bath. You were in the bath.
His eyes widened, his face turning scarlet as he staggered back against the wall of the Sunny’s corridor. He had not meant to intrude, but you had left yourself wide open, unaware he was even there. He tried to pull back, he really did, but then your thoughts brushed against his, light and careless. You were humming. Humming and relaxed, as though you had no reason to guard yourself.
And that was when he realized.
You were a woman.
Sanji went rigid. His cigarette fell from his lips and burned out against his shoe, but he felt nothing. His entire body seized like someone had replaced his blood with champagne and set it on fire.
His heart thundered so loudly he thought the Minks on Zou could probably hear it. His eyes rolled back, his jaw dropped, and his knees buckled. “WOMAN. SHE’S A WOMAN. MY SOULMATE IS—SHE’S—BATHING—” He clutched his chest, staggering in a daze across the Sunny’s corridor like a man shot. “THE SEA ITSELF IS NOT READY FOR THIS. I AM NOT READY FOR THIS.”
He crashed to the floor, limbs splayed like a fallen saint.
“Oh merciful heavens, forgive me, for I have trespassed where only the foam of the ocean should dare to touch. Strike me down where I lay! No, wait, spare me, for I have finally seen the truth of my soul!”
He sprang up again, pacing in frantic circles, tugging at his hair. “All those years calling out, bro. All those nights punching my pillow, wondering why it hurt so damn much. All that pain, all that heartbreak. IT WAS BECAUSE I LOVED HER. OH GOD, I LOVED HER.” He dropped to his knees again, pounding the floor with both fists. “WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. WHY THE BATH? WHY THE HUMMING? WHY THE—THE—” He gagged, blushing scarlet, flailing backward like he had been electrocuted.
Sanji’s thoughts ran faster than his mouth could keep up. She’s a woman. She’s the woman. She’s the only one. My soulmate. My angel. My everything. And I just blundered in like a peeping-tom ghost in her bathwater. I should be killed. I should be married. I SHOULD BE BOTH.
He curled up, rocking back and forth, eyes wild and shining. “I want to throw myself into the sea. I want to kiss every plank of this ship. I want to scream until the heavens acknowledge me as the luckiest fool alive.”
And through it all, your presence remained steady, warm, and soft, humming as you soaked, utterly unaware of the hurricane of men that was Sanji collapsing into himself outside the bond.
You somehow did not realize it, and Sanji, despite his own catastrophic meltdown, managed to keep the cardinal rule of bathroom peeping with the precision of a lifelong expert: do not get caught.
He lay flat on the deck, panting like a dying fish, whispering prayers to every saint, devil, and passing sea king. “Thank you, gods of every religion, for sparing me the shame of her knowing. Take everything else from me. Take my smokes, my wine, my eyebrows. But please, do not let her realize her soulmate is a supernatural peeping tom.”
Then the anger hit.
Years. Years of him tossing boobs your way, yelling through the bond about curves and cleavage, trying to corrupt you with his worship of the female form… and you had said nothing. Nothing. Not a peep. His eye twitched, his lip curled, and he groaned into the floor. “You… you kept this secret from me? All this time? While I was pouring my soul out, ranking every bosom in the East Blue?!”
His body convulsed, caught between betrayal and rapture. “You’re a goddess. You’re hyper-intelligent. You tricked me. You kept your secret under lock and key while I, the fool, the clown, the pervert, danced like a trained dog at the sight of every beautiful woman. Please. Step on me. Step on my worthless, ignorant skull.”
Then it hit him like a cannonball.
He had seen you.
The memory flashed in his mind, sharp as glass. The mysterious girlfriend he had once glimpsed in your thoughts, the one he had assumed was some phantom of your private life. The shape of you, the curve of you, the very same presence he now felt through the bond. His jaw dropped, his soul left his body, and he began kicking his own shins in despair.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, you tricked me. You made me rate your boobs. You let me think they belonged to someone else. You let me be the idiot! The hopeless idiot!” His voice cracked as he wailed, tears shooting from his eyes like twin fountains. “You didn’t tell me because you thought I was too perverted! You thought I was too obsessed with women to be trusted with your secret! You thought you weren’t good enough and I—Sanji, disaster of all disasters—proved you right!”
He flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the dramatic exhaustion of a Shakespearean hero stabbed by fate. “I am the problem. I am the clown. I am the rotten shrimp. Let the waves drag me to hell, let the kitchen knives of every chef pierce my chest, for I have wounded my goddess with my idiocy.”
And still, you hummed softly in your bath, blissfully oblivious, while Sanji died a thousand deaths at your feet.
On Zou, once his pulse finally slowed to something resembling human rhythm, Sanji dragged himself upright. He had admired you, your hum, your warmth, your absolute perfection, ten more times, and each time left him blushing and whispering frantic apologies into the bond.
Then, with a shaky exhale, he did what hurt most. He shut the bond.
It was polite, careful, like closing a door quietly instead of slamming it. Not because he wanted to lose you again, but because he could not trust himself not to fall apart every time he brushed against your presence. Not while his head was a storm of lust, love, guilt, and revelations.
He pressed his palms together as if in prayer, smoke curling from the forgotten cigarette at his lips. “Forgive me, just for now. I will come back. I swear it.”
Once the bond was quiet, his mind exploded with a thousand plans.
Plan one: apologize forever, on his knees, forehead pressed to the floor, until you accepted he was the world’s biggest idiot and forgave him anyway.
Plan two: cook you the most fantastic meal the seas had ever seen, one so perfect it would say what words could not.
Plan three: write poetry, bad poetry, beautiful poetry, poetry so overwhelming it would melt you instantly.
Plan four: duel every man alive until none remain, then present you with the empty world as proof of his devotion.
Plan five: simply listen, speak honestly, and prove he could be the kind of man you trusted with your heart.
Every plan contradicted the last. Every plan made him groan into his hands. Yet every plan came from the same truth. He had to fix it. He had to mend what had been bent, no matter how long it took.
Sanji tilted his head back, staring up at the endless sky above Zou’s ancient elephant back, eyes blazing with romantic determination.
“I will redeem myself. I will win her heart. I will prove myself worthy.” His voice cracked, then rose louder. “This is my noble mission.”
A few of the Minks passing by slowed to watch him drop to one knee in the grass like a man proposing to destiny itself.
Sanji did not notice. He was already lost in planning his thousand-and-first scheme.
But Sanji’s thousand-and-first plan never had a chance.
On Zou, Capone Bege arrived under Big Mom’s flag. Sanji was handed the letter sealed in wax, the order clear: he was to marry Charlotte Pudding. Refusal meant death for his crew. His Germa bloodline had already sealed the bargain.
Dragged into Bege’s castle and taken from Zou, Sanji was horrified. He had only just reopened the bond, and only just felt you again. And now he was shackled in a cage he could not break.
From there, he was delivered to Germa, bound by Judge’s will, then ferried to Totland itself. The candy-colored nightmare of Whole Cake Island opened before him, every street a reminder of what he had lost.
When Sanji finally stood before Big Mom, her laughter filled the room like thunder. She welcomed him as family, as if he were already her son. All Sanji could do was bow, hide the fury in his chest, and pray no one could see how much he wanted to tear it all down.
The hall reeked of sugar and smoke, the sweetness so heavy it turned rancid in his lungs. Big Mom’s laughter rolled over him like thunder, rattling the floor beneath his shoes.
“Vinsmoke boy,” she said, her eyes narrowing to slits of candy glass. “You reek of divided loyalty. I can feel it humming inside you.”
Sanji’s stomach turned to ice. His hands curled into fists, but he did not move.
Her grin stretched wide, jagged and bright. “I despise scraps. Useless fat should always be trimmed.”
Before he could draw breath, her will came down.
The bond screamed inside him. Not cut clean, but crushed, folded into itself until it was nothing but a ragged thread. Sanji’s chest convulsed, air tearing from his lungs in a sharp, helpless gasp. His knees nearly buckled under the sudden, suffocating pressure. The silence that followed was worse than any wound he had ever taken.
He could not breathe. The hollow ache clawed through his ribs and sank deep, deeper than fists or blades could ever reach. Every nerve burned. His vision swam. It felt like being skinned from the inside, like something sacred had been ground underfoot.
Horror struck him as the truth sank in. If it hurt him this much, then anyone else bound to it would feel it too.
His teeth clenched hard enough to crack. He forced his spine straight, his fists unclenching only by will alone. Rage burned under his ribs, but terror bound it fast.
He bowed low, the motion mechanical, the words scraping out of his throat. “As you wish, Mama.”
Big Mom laughed, delighted, the sound booming through the hall as though she had plucked a string just to enjoy the discord. She turned her focus elsewhere, but the weight remained, pressing down in every beat of his chest.
Sanji stayed bent, his jaw locked, every breath shaking. The hollow gnawed deeper with each heartbeat, a raw wound he could not close. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw it back open. Instead, he knelt, silent and obedient, the cage clanging shut around him.
And it was then that he finally cried.
Not the hot tears of rage that came with fists and fire, but the quiet kind that tore him apart from the inside. His shoulders shook, his breath hitched, and the salt blurred his vision until the world swam.
He turned his face down, hiding it from the towering figure above him. He bit his lip hard enough to bleed, desperate to keep it silent, but the sound still escaped; a broken gasp, raw and unguarded.
The tears fell anyway, burning paths down his cheeks. They slid into the corner of his mouth, bitter as ash, bitter as every vow he could not keep. He hated it, hated her power, hated himself for bending at all. But more than that, he hated the pain, the hollow gnawing in his chest that refused to be ignored.
Sanji pressed a trembling hand to his heart, as though he could hold it together by sheer force. His knees touched the polished floor, not in devotion, but because he no longer had the strength to keep himself upright.
His pride had carried him through everything. His pride had survived Judge’s fists, Germa’s cruelty, the starving years on the Baratie, and the battles that should have killed him. But here, in Big Mom’s hall, with her shadow swallowing him whole, his pride was finally shattered.
And so he wept, quiet and broken, while her laughter echoed above him.
-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-
The three days before the wedding passed in a blur of dining halls and crowded streets. Morgans had dragged you from one restaurant to the next with feathers ruffling in excitement, every plate arriving with pomp and flourish. The chefs beamed at him, eager for a word of praise, and at you, half-afraid of your pen.
The food was dazzling at first glance. Sauces gleamed like jewels, sugar spun into impossible shapes, seafood cooked in ways you had never seen. Yet with every bite, you found yourself frowning, notebook open but your pen hesitant. The flavors were strong, the textures perfect, but something sat wrong in your chest as you ate. It all lacked something you could not name.
Morgans never noticed. He devoured plates like a king at a feast, quills scratching furiously as he wrote notes between gulps of wine. “This will sing on the front page,” he boomed more than once, spraying crumbs in his excitement. “They will eat it up, critic. Eat it up!”
But when the meals ended and the tables cleared, you always closed your notebook slowly, unsatisfied, a faint ache humming inside you.
On the third evening, after another lavish dinner, Morgans excused himself with a flap of wings. “Sightseeing!” he declared. “There is nothing like watching the streets breathe after dark.” He was gone before you could argue.
You lingered behind, notebook heavy in your lap, until the bakery owner padded over. Her belly had seemed rounder since you first met her, the apron stretched taut across her middle. She carried a tray of bread still warm from the oven and smiled kindly when she saw your face.
“Not to your taste again?” she asked, sliding the tray onto the counter.
You hesitated. “It is not that the food is bad. It is…” You faltered, searching for the right word, but nothing came.
She laughed softly, smoothing her apron with one flour-dusted hand. “Sometimes it is not the food at all. Sometimes it is the company.” Her eyes softened as she said it, a touch of something wistful in her voice.
Your cheeks warmed, and you looked down at your notes.
The woman tilted her head, then brightened. “Why not come with me tomorrow? To the Château. The wedding preparations are nearly finished, and the kitchens there are unlike anything else. Perhaps if you taste what Mama’s palace has to offer, you will finally find what you are searching for.”
You looked up, caught between caution and curiosity. The thought of stepping inside Big Mom’s Château was daunting, but the ache in your chest and the hollow notes in every meal gnawed at you.
You found yourself nodding before you could stop. “Yes. I… I would like that.”
Her smile widened, and she gently patted your arm. “Then it is settled. Tomorrow, you will dine at the heart of Totland.”
Tomorrow came quickly.
The Château pulsed with life. Servants hurried down marble corridors with towers of spun sugar, croquembouches taller than children, and fountains of cream that wobbled dangerously with every step. The air was heavy with caramel and baked bread, sweet enough to cling in your throat. Laughter and shouted orders echoed together until the whole castle seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
She brought you into one of the kitchens, a warm and frantic space that smelled of butter and chocolate. Her belly curved round beneath her apron, yet she moved with calm, unhurried steps. Where others stumbled or rushed, she carried herself like she had nothing to fear.
You noticed how the staff responded. Most brightened when they saw her, offering smiles or quick greetings, some even slipping her small gifts from their trays. Her presence eased the pressure in the room, as if her steady warmth made the work lighter.
Not everyone dared to look her in the eye. A handful of cooks kept their gazes low, their movements clipped and precise, as if afraid of being noticed at all.
It was not long before you overheard why.
“She’s his wife,” a boy whispered as he stacked trays by the door. His companion paled, eyes darting toward her before snapping back to the floor. “Katakuri’s. No one crosses her. Not if they want to keep their skin.”
That gave you a start.
But the revelation explained much. The order in her voice, the way her presence seemed to calm the storm around her, the way even the busiest kitchen hands relaxed when she drew near. It also explained the hush that followed her steps. Because to cross her would mean crossing not just a baker’s wife, but the wife of a Sweet Commander.
You kept watching her, noticing the quiet shift in the air whenever she passed. She carried trays, patted shoulders, and reminded apprentices to mind their timing, all with an ease that made the frenzy of the Château feel almost orderly. No one questioned her, and no one dared oppose her.
She caught you staring and slipped to your side, her smile bright and easy. “You still look dissatisfied,” she teased, lowering her voice so the cooks could not overhear. “Have you not found a flavor to match your heart?”
You hesitated, then admitted the truth. “It is not that the food is bad. It is perfect, in a way. Every sauce shines, every pastry balances just right. But…” You frowned down at your notebook, frustration creeping into your voice. “It does not feel alive.”
Her eyes sparkled as if with a secret. “Then perhaps you need a different hand at the stove.”
Before you could ask what she meant, she turned toward one of the guards loitering near the doorway, his spear tipped with sugar-crystal shine. “Fetch the Germa boy,” she said, her tone carrying the easy authority of someone used to being obeyed. “I hear he was a chef on a pirate ship—I’m sure he’d appreciate some time out of that room.”
The guard hesitated, shifting his weight as if the request pressed against rules he did not want to break. But the woman’s gaze pinned him, her smile warm and unyielding all at once. He gave a stiff nod and left without another word.
Murmurs rippled through the kitchen. A few cooks exchanged wide-eyed looks. Others bent their heads lower, suddenly busying themselves with pastry cream or batter, as if pretending they had not heard. The room tightened with curiosity and unease.
You blinked at her, unsure whether she was joking. “The groom?”
She tilted her head, amusement tugging at the corners of her lips. “Why not? If the food feels hollow, perhaps you should try something made by hands that have seen adventure.”
You closed your notebook slowly, heart skipping. A pirate groom-turned-chef, summoned like another ingredient to test. The thought was absurd, but the bakery owner’s smile made it sound inevitable.
The door creaked open. Heavy steps echoed across the polished floor. Then you saw him, flanked by two guards as though he were dangerous. His hands were in his pockets, a cigarette burning at the corner of his mouth. Blond hair framed a sharp face. His coat was pressed, his stride smooth, but there was something restless in his posture, a tension wound so tight it hummed in the air around him.
The moment his eyes found you, he stopped. The cigarette slipped, dangling by a breath, his expression breaking open into something raw and unguarded.
And then he moved.
He strode forward, ignoring the guards as though they were invisible. So fast that before you could react, he stopped in front of you and dropped into a bow so deep it startled you back a step. His head was bent low, shoulders shaking faintly as though he had to fight to steady himself.
You clutched your notebook tighter, alarm prickling at the back of your neck. Nobody had bowed to you like that before, not with such gravity and respect.
Slowly, he lifted his head, and his eyes met yours. Smoke curled from the forgotten cigarette still clinging to his lips, but his gaze was clear and burning. Reverent. Devastated. Relieved.
He took your hand so gently it was as if he feared you might shatter, then brought it close to his lips. His voice was low and unsteady, trembling with weight.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I was unprepared for you. Enchantée, mademoiselle. I am Sanji Vin—just Sanji.”
The words struck through you, strange and unfathomable. You froze, unsure whether to pull back or to ask what he meant.
Your gaze flicked to the bakery owner, desperate for guidance. She only smiled and shrugged, as though none of this was unusual.
“Thank you for coming,” she said brightly, her tone as casual as if she were asking someone to fetch flour. “Could you perhaps help my friend? She’s quite the food critic and is looking for the perfect meal.”
He rose at once, pressing a hand to his chest, bowing his head again, but this time his eyes never left yours.
“What is your name, my dear?”
You haltingly gave it to him, watching how his eyes warmed. You tensed at feeling the squeeze of warm fingers enveloping your own. He was very friendly.
“It’s perfect,” he said. His voice was still unsteady, but there was steel in it too. “I will give you everything I have.”
You shrank back another step, your notebook pressed tightly against you. Morgans was eccentric, but this was something else entirely. The way he spoke it was like he was speaking in two separate tongues. One was the polite answer to the bakery owner’s request. The other… You could not place it. It carried a weight you did not understand, as though the words were meant for you alone.
You watched the way his face fell as he pulled back, wounded, as if you should have held him there.
The kitchen had gone quiet. A few cooks exchanged glances, then turned back to their work with forced concentration, pretending not to notice. The guards at the door shifted, restless, unsure if they should intervene.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice into something steady. “It does not need to be everything,” you said, hoping to lighten the air. “Only something…that was.”
His expression flickered, almost breaking, as though the words cut deeper than you meant them to. Then he smiled, too sharp, too fragile at the edges.
“Then that is what I will give you,” he murmured. “A memory of an older happiness.”
Sanji moved with quiet precision, and the entire kitchen seemed to shift around him. The other cooks, who had been bustling and clattering moments before, slowed their work just to watch. He did not reach for the gilded jars of candied almonds or the sparkling towers of sugar glass, nor the exotic meats and fruits Totland flaunted like trophies. Instead, he rolled his sleeves neatly to his elbows and chose a basket of vegetables, a small cut of fish, and a pinch of herbs so ordinary they looked almost plain beside the Château’s luxuries.
You frowned at the simplicity of it. Here, in Big Mom’s palace of excess, the pirate groom had chosen a dish so unremarkable it almost seemed like a joke. You opened your notebook, pen poised, ready to note down your skepticism.
But when he began to cook, something strange happened. His movements were unhurried yet exact, each slice of his knife clean, each motion practiced until it looked effortless. The air filled with the light scent of seared fish and citrus, the faint sweetness of carrots and onions sweating down in the pan. It was not the overwhelming perfume of sugar you had grown used to in Totland—it was cleaner, sharper, like breathing after rain.
When he set the plate before you, your pen hovered uselessly in midair. It was simple. Modest. A plate that would have looked at home in any seaside inn rather than the palace of a Yonko.
You took a cautious bite.
The flavor bloomed, soft at first, then spread warmth through you like a wave. The fish was delicate, the vegetables tender and bright, the herbs grounding it all into something that felt… honest. It startled you so entirely that you froze mid-bite. It was your favorite kind of dish, the sort of food you craved when your soul was tired and you wanted something that would hold you together.
Your chest tightened.
He leaned lazily against the counter, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing his cigarette between two fingers. His grin was crooked, but his eyes tracked every flicker of your reaction. “Well?” he asked, his voice calm, teasing. “Not bad, huh? Or are you going to tear me apart like every other poor bastard lucky enough to serve you? How was the soup?”
“Ah, yes, soup, the surest sign of good taste.” You said blithely, and he broke into a sparkling grin, so wide it made your heart skip.
He really was so handsome. The bride was a fortunate girl.
You blinked, lowering your notebook slightly. He sounded casual, but the weight behind his gaze made your throat dry. You cleared it and forced your voice steady. “It is… good,” you admitted, words sticking in your throat. “Balanced. Clean. Almost too simple, yet it lingers.” Your brow furrowed. “It reminds me of home. My favorite restaurant is in the East Blue, though…” You trailed off, frowning as you tried to picture it. The sign, the tables, even the coastline around it slipped away like mist. “…for some reason, I cannot remember its name.”
For a split second, something flickered across his face. The grin faltered. His cigarette burned low, smoke curling up between you, and in his eyes there was something sharp, something almost pained. But before you could catch it fully, he masked it again with a small, lopsided smile.
The bakery owner, who had been quietly watching from her chair, chuckled softly as she smoothed a hand over her belly. “She has been feeling sick since she arrived,” she said warmly, as if to explain the faint weariness in your face. “Even Pudding tried to help her, bless the girl, but nothing worked. When I first got here, even my soulbond went insane."
Sanji’s gaze shifted to her, eyes widening. You tapped your pen on your journal, still more focused on why your memories seemed so fuzzy.
“Pardon? Your soul bond?” He asked, alarmed.
The woman nodded
The bakery owner gave a soft laugh as she brushed flour from her apron. “There is even talk about the family. Even about Pudding.” She winked at Sanji, who looked less like an excited groom and more like an alarmed dog, “There was a rumor that she can shift memories, pull them apart, and put them back in a new shape.” She waved it off, smiling. “Nonsense, surely. Kitchen gossip.”
His gaze flicked to you.
You were bent over your notes, lips pressed tight in thought, frowning at the page as though frustrated with yourself. Earlier, when you had admitted you could not recall the name of your favorite restaurant in the East Blue, it had startled him. That place was carved into both your lives. For you not to remember it…
Sanji straightened suddenly, his face going carefully blank when the bakery owner’s eyes flicked his way.
You bent over your notebook, but the pen slipped uselessly across the page. The harder you tried to recall the restaurant in the East Blue, the more it blurred, until the memory unraveled into nothing.
Frustration rose hot in your chest. With a sharp snap, you closed the notebook and stood. Both Sanji and the baker looked up, surprise flickering across their faces.
“Excuse me,” you managed, your voice tight. “I need some air.”
Without waiting for a reply, you crossed to the back of the room. The balcony doors opened with a low groan, hinges protesting against the quiet. You slipped outside and let them fall shut behind you, the chatter and clatter of the kitchen muffled to a distant hum.
The balcony stretched wide, overlooking Totland’s glittering streets. Sugar lamps lined the avenues like constellations, their golden glow shimmering against the candy-colored rooftops. From here, the island looked like a painting: bright, decadent, and utterly unreal.
The air was cooler, but not clean. It clung to your throat, thick with the sweetness of frosting and caramel. You gripped the rail until your knuckles ached, leaning forward as the ache in your chest broke loose. Your eyes stung, and before you could stop them, tears blurred the lights below into streaks of gold.
You swallowed hard, dragging in breath after breath, but the heaviness refused to lift. Everything here was too much—too sweet, too loud, too polished. And you, with your memory slipping like sand through your fingers, felt too small for it.
Behind you, the door opened again, quieter this time. Soft footsteps approached, steady and unhurried, the weight of each one deliberate.
You did not turn. Not until the faint curl of cigarette smoke drifted past your cheek, cutting through the syrup-thick air with the bitter tang of tobacco. The sweetness clinging to your lungs gave way to something sharper, grounding, almost welcome.
Sanji moved with quiet certainty, coming to rest against the stone railing a few feet away. The golden light from the hall spilled over his shoulder but left the rest of him in shadow, as if he belonged to both worlds at once. He exhaled slowly, the ember at the end of his cigarette glowing like a watchful eye in the dark.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sounds were the distant echo of music from the Château, the muffled laughter of unseen guests, and the faint hiss of his cigarette.
Then his voice came, low and rough, as though each word had to fight its way out of his chest. “Do you know what a soulbond is?”
You blinked through your tears, startled by the question. The word itself made your pulse jump. You turned your head slightly toward him, though your hands still clutched the railing. “Yes,” you said softly. “I’ve heard of them. Why?”
Sanji’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, the faint orange glow of his cigarette painting the lines of his face in fleeting light. His jaw tightened, smoke curling from his lips in a steady stream. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle, long enough that you began to wonder if he might not answer at all.
At last, he drew in another drag, shoulders rising and falling with the breath. He exhaled toward the dark sky, and his voice came out low, raw around the edges.
“I have one. Not my fiancée.”
Your brow furrowed. “But—why are you getting married then?”
You turned more fully toward him, blinking back the wetness in your eyes, uncertain where this was leading.
He chuckled.
“I should say I did have one. And she hurt me more than anyone else ever has,” he continued, each word casual like he was talking about the sky, and not a deeply personal revelation. “Without meaning to. It was like being carved open and told to smile through it. I shut her out for years, told myself I was better that way.”
The corners of his lips twitched, though it was nothing close to a smile. The look was pained, half-bitter, half-defiant, as if he were daring the night to call him a liar.
“And then I tried again, and turns out she had one last lie.”
You twist to fold your arms, unsure why the groom getting married tomorrow was telling you all this.
“But I still love her,” he admitted at last, so softly you almost thought he meant it for himself alone. He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel, and the sharp smell of smoke clung stubbornly to the night air. “Love doesn't give a damn about pride. You can bleed and curse and turn your back, but the bond will still be there. They remind you of everything you lost, and everything you still want, whether you deserve it or not.”
Your throat tightened. The words were raw, heavy, nothing like the flamboyant bravado he had carried in the kitchen. “That’s… that’s awful. I’m sorry.”
He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Awful, yes. Turns out that it’s part of the charm, though. She lied because I was awful as well. Because I made her feel too uncomfortable to be honest.”
“So it was… a misunderstanding? Can it be resolved?” Your voice shook as you asked, and when he did not answer right away, you looked away, staring at the glittering streets below.
He gave a quiet, broken laugh, the kind that carried no joy. “I don’t know. It feels like an impossible task. I don’t even think I’ll last through tomorrow, much less through this heartache. And truth be told…” His voice dropped lower, so soft you barely heard it. “I don’t think I’m even worth it.”
Your head snapped back to him.
You did not know this man. It baffled you that he would bear his pain so openly to you, as if he trusted you with wounds that had no name. Perhaps he saw your own frustrations mirrored in his, two people fumbling against weights they could not name.
But you were not stupid.
This man was good. Anyone with eyes could see it, anyone with ears could hear it in his voice. And he deserved to hear it back.
“Don’t you dare give up. You are worth it.” His head snapped up, eyes wide. Down your face, fresh tears fell, ugly tears that no person wanted another to see. You turned to him, your voice breaking under the force of it. “And very much a prince to care so deeply, even when it costs you everything. Even if your soulmate is an idiot, I cannot imagine anyone knowing you and not seeing how good you are.”
For a heartbeat, he froze. His eyes flicked to yours, and the mask he wore cracked wide open. A dot of something wet fell on your face, but this time, it wasn’t tears. The sky opened up, and it began to rain.
But neither of you moved.
Slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish, he reached for your hand. His fingers were warm, trembling slightly as they closed around yours.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, the words almost breaking. “For not giving you the perfect meal tonight. But I will—one day. When that is done, I will become the best cook the seas have ever known, and you will finally taste happiness again.”
He lifted it with reverence, bowing his head as he pressed a kiss against your knuckles. Then his knee touched the wet stone floor, and the gesture carried such gravity that your breath hitched in your chest.
The warmth of that kiss lasted the rest of the night.
-X-The Slip Up-X-
You cried most of that night. The tears came in ragged waves, each one heavier than the last. For the groom, for the love he had lost before the wedding could ever bloom, and for yourself, for the hollow ache that settled in your chest and refused to leave. For the small, bitter pieces of joy you could no longer taste in anything—even the sweet confections that had once made your tongue sing. You cried until your throat was raw, until your pillow was damp and cold beneath your face, until the stars outside the window had wheeled silently across the sky and you barely noticed.
By the time you finally forced yourself into sleep, your eyes were swollen and puffy, streaked with the evidence of your grief. They were ugly eyes, heavy and red, the kind of eyes you had never wanted anyone to see, and yet you had no energy left to care. Morning came with an indifferent light, warm on your cheeks and cruel in its persistence, and you woke far too late for the ceremony. You stared at the ceiling, numb, your chest hollow, before finally dragging yourself upright.
You didn’t fuss over it. The dress had been chosen and laid out for you already, a small mercy in a day that offered few. You pulled it on slowly, smoothing the fabric over your damp skin, feeling its weight and its neatness and its indifference. Your hair, stubborn and untamed, yielded to the pins in your drawer, and you swept it back without ceremony, securing it with the practiced motions of someone who had long ago learned to make themselves presentable even when they felt far from it.
Even as you stood there, brushing imaginary dust from your shoulders, a strange, hollow quiet settled over you. The world outside had gone on without pause, the flowers were arranged, the guests were arriving, and somewhere the sound of laughter carried on the wind. And yet, inside, you felt the lingering echo of everything you had lost, of everything that could never be reclaimed, pressing like a weight against your ribs.
The Château’s halls had been a labyrinth of silk banners, servants, and guards, and by the time you found the great doors to the wedding hall, the ceremony had already begun. The air inside was thick with perfume and sugar, the sound of music and murmured excitement nearly swallowing you whole.
You slipped in quietly, notebook clutched to your chest, hoping Morgans had not noticed your absence. The crowd’s attention was fixed on the stage, so your tardiness went unseen.
Almost immediately, you felt the faint pull of eyes on you. A group of colorful figures, standing together near the back of the hall, their gazes sharp and unmissable. The Vinsmoke Family, you deduced.
You didn’t recognize them, and their attention meant nothing to you, though something about the five of them—slight in posture, sharp in gaze—struck a faint, uneasy chord. There was a resemblance, you realized, to the groom, subtle and undeniable: the same jawline, the same measured carriage, the same glint of mischief in one brother’s eyes. Vinsmoke, you thought, and decided it was best ignored.
You kept your chin high, shoulders squared, and let your steps carry you past without a flicker of reaction. One of them gave a slow, deliberate wink, as though it were a personal challenge or an invitation you were expected to acknowledge. You didn’t. The gesture brushed past you like a shadow across the floor—noticed only by the corner of your mind, but ultimately inconsequential. Their scrutiny, sharp and calculating, blended into the hum of conversation and the swell of music, nothing more than background noise to the pressing rhythm of the ceremony.
Notebook pressed tight against your chest, you felt the familiar weight of paper and pen against your ribs, a tether to your own focus, your own world, your own matters. Every heartbeat was a quiet reminder that, here and now, the ceremony and its orchestrated grandeur demanded your attention more than any stranger’s eyes.
You maneuvered through the crowd with deliberate care, skirts brushing the marble floor, the rustle of silk and taffeta echoing softly around you. The music shifted, a waltz weaving through the air, pulling a collective breath from the attendees.
Sliding next to Morgans, you offered a fleeting, perfunctory smile. He cast you a quick look—one eyebrow raised, a silent question lingering—but it was immediately swallowed by his attention turning back to the blonde woman seated next to him. He spoke with her quietly, laughter sparking in the curve of his mouth, and for a moment, you felt invisible, tucked neatly between obligations and observation. The hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the soft clinking of glasses all fell away into the background, leaving only the press of your own thoughts and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.
On top of a cake were the pair of to-be-weds.
The bride, Pudding, stood in her gown, a vision of delicate perfection. The veil fell like lace mist over her shoulders, drifting with every small movement, catching the light and scattering it in glimmers across the polished floor. Her smile was sweet, flawless, the kind that demanded admiration without effort, and it landed squarely on her groom. The applause of the guests faded into a hushed reverence as the vows began, the silence settling like a warm, heavy blanket over the hall. Despite her kindness in coming in person to check on you, you felt like she seemed a little off.
The groom, Sanji, faced her and stood impeccable in his tailored suit, his golden hair gleaming under the bright sunlight. Every line of him, from the slope of his shoulders to the tilt of his chin, spoke of careful preparation, of a man who had studied this moment for months. His smile was soft enough to fool the crowd, delicate and practiced, and yet it seemed to you like a mask, one that didn’t quite hide the shadow beneath. It looked perfect. It looked rehearsed.
It was by far the weirdest celebration you had ever attended, and you’ve visited Fun Fun Island during their ‘Celebration of Pickles’ week.
You edged into an empty seat along the side, careful not to draw attention, notebook still clutched against your chest. Your pulse thudded erratically, a drumbeat of something you could not name: anticipation, fear, guilt, longing, all tangled into one sharp, overwhelming ache. Just as Sanji began to recite his part of the vows, your eyes flicked up, catching the movement of his lips, the subtle lift of his hand, the careful ease of his gestures.
Then it happened. His words stopped.
His head turned, just slightly, and his eyes swept over the crowd with the precision of a ship’s prow cutting through water. And then, impossibly, his gaze found you.
It was like gravity had shifted. The hall, the chandeliers, the delicate notes of the harp and violin—everything blurred at the edges. The murmurs of the crowd dulled, the sugar-sweet scent of perfumed air seemed to fade, and even the stage itself seemed to hold its breath. He stared at you, frozen, his lips parted in a silent question, as the rest of his vow vanished from the world.
A single heartbeat stretched into an eternity. Your own chest trembled as if it had recognized him first, your hands tightening involuntarily on your notebook, knuckles white. Every thought, every carefully suppressed memory, surged and recoiled in a rush of confusion and clarity you weren’t ready for.
The officiant cleared his throat, the sound sharp and intrusive against the charged silence, and the hall rippled with a wave of whispered confusion. Pudding’s smile faltered, fragile as spun sugar, her veil trembling with the motion of her sharp intake of breath. Her eyes darted toward him, panic and disbelief sparking in the depths of her gaze, searching for what he had seen that had broken his composure so completely.
A murmur swept through the guests like a ripple through water, growing louder, more insistent, until Big Mom’s laughter cracked over them, sharp and grating. She clapped her massive hands together, booming, “What’s the delay?”
The sound shattered the fragile tension, reverberating through the hall like a hammer striking crystal. Pudding stiffened, her fingers tightening around the bouquet she hadn’t meant to clutch so tightly; her eyes narrowed as the shadow of something cruel flickered beneath the delicate façade of her bridal mask. She leaned toward Sanji, her voice low, fierce, a hiss hidden beneath the softness expected of a bride. Her words were sharp enough that you caught the tremor in his expression—the brief flicker of hesitation before his lips curved into a smile. Soft, dazzling, heartbreakingly false.
And for reasons you couldn't name, the sight of him there—so practiced, so careful, so restrained—felt like a torment pressed into your chest, a weight you couldn’t lift. You could feel it in your bones: this was not a performance for the crowd. This was a war of unspoken words and restrained emotion, one you were trapped in the audience of, powerless.
The other guests, however, sighed in relief, mistaking the tension for nothing more than nerves. Whispers dwindled, the room relaxing as the expected ritual seemed poised to continue. And yet, you knew—knew with a certainty that made your stomach churn—that this was only the calm before the storm.
Then Pudding pushed her hair to the side.
And then everything fell apart.
The first crack came like a tiny, ominous hiccup: a harp string snapped in the corner, pinging like a disgruntled cricket, and silk rustled somewhere in a warning whisper.
Pudding’s veil twitched violently as she stepped back, her smile faltering for a heartbeat before she yanked it back into place with the precision of a woman who knew everyone was watching. Sanji’s hand twitched, subtle enough that most would have missed it—but in this charged hall, it was like dropping a pebble into a storm. The hush faltered. Eyes ping-ponged from him to her, from her to the guests, uncertainty spreading faster than spilled champagne.
Big Mom’s laughter roared again, but this time it was… off. Sort of like a cat trying to sing opera. Uneven. Slightly scary. Definitely not the joyful, booming thunder they’d expected. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like confused minnows. You pressed your notebook tighter to your chest, aware of every heartbeat, every shallow breath, and every pulse of panic radiating from the stage.
And then the world tilted. The music faltered, the chandeliers seemed to wobble, and the room shrank into a tight spotlight focused on the gathering storm at the altar.
A gunshot.
Heads jerked. Pudding screamed a startled squeak, Sanji froze mid-smile, and the minister behind them crumpled like a poorly made marzipan figurine.
Then the pièce de résistance: the giant, luscious wedding cake they were standing atop erupted in a thunderous, sticky explosion. Frosting flew like confetti gone rogue, chunks of sponge collided with terrified guests, and Big Mom shrieked loud enough to rattle the chandeliers—and probably some nerves you didn’t know existed. Tables flipped, crystal glasses shattered, and what had once smelled like vanilla and sugar turned into the acrid chaos of caramelized destruction.
“Holy SHIT!” Morgans cawed, ducking just in time to avoid a flying éclair. “Is that Strawhat? A dozen Strawhats??? WHY IS HE EATING THE CAKE?!”
Another chunk of dessert shot past, narrowly missing your notebook, now more frosting than paper. The hall had officially descended into full-blown bedlam—a perfect storm of horror, hilarity, and utter disbelief.
You were shoved sideways by a flailing guest and toppled into a table. Your hands immediately froze, glued to frosting and panic. Looking up, you realized you had landed smack in front of a family who did not look pleased.
One was a massive man with slicked-back blonde hair, a mask, and a scowl that could punch holes in walls. Next to him, a young woman with long, pink hair stared at you like she’d just discovered an alien in her dining room. Following that was one with spiky red hair, one with green hair, and a boyish one with bluish hair; all had their eyes locked on you, the confusion and irritation radiating off them like heat from a furnace.
You didn’t know them, and apparently, they didn’t know you either. Their expressions screamed a single, unspoken question: Who the hell are you, and why are you in our chaos?
The blonde one’s eyebrows knitted together. The pink-haired woman leaned back, arms crossed, voice sharp even without words. The spiky-haired ones glanced between each other, clearly thinking the same thing: Shit. We’re all stuck. Who the fuck is this person?
Morgans appeared at your side with a dramatic flourish, feathers and ink flying, wings puffed wide enough to knock over another table entirely. Golden eyes gleamed with manic delight.
“Kuahahaha! Big News! Time to write—,” he crowed, voice booming over the chaos. “Now this is a turn of events! A Yonko’s wedding crashing into carnage, assassination plots unraveling, the groom staring off at—” He waved a wing vaguely at you, beak clicking in glee. “—a mystery in the crowd. Oh, the headlines write themselves!”
The five of them shared a look that perfectly captured the moment: This is not happening. We’re stuck in the middle of someone else’s disaster. Who even are you? Why now? Is that a giant albatross slinging headlines?
And you? You pressed yourself into the table, notebook useless, heart hammering, secretly hoping this encounter would be filed away somewhere in their brains as just another weird shitshow—and that you’d survive long enough to escape it.
You stared at him, breath still uneven, notebook hanging limp at your feet. “Morgans, I am TRAPPED in CANDY—”
“Yes, yes, tragedy, panic, blah, blah.” He waved a claw dismissively, already scribbling into his own notepad with wild, chaotic energy. “But do you see it, critic? History! Right here under frosting and fire. This will sell papers for decades. And you, darling, are right in the middle of it.”
“I am in danger.” You cried out, flipping your head around to try to register the chaos. “Did someone just BREAK a picture? What did the picture do?”
“CATASTROPHE AT THE ALTAR! BLOOD AND FROSTING FLOW TOGETHER! THIS IS HISTORY, PEOPLE!” Morgans cried aloud, entirely lost to his own scoop, as he barreled past tables, narrowly missing a spiky-haired man who yelped in indignation.
“MOTHER FUCKING FEATHER!” You yelled, scrambling backward, only to freeze as a sound unlike any other pierced your eardrums—a low, wet, horrific squelch followed by a drawn-out, warbling shriek that made your teeth ache.
Images pummeled your brain, so much so that your knees collapsed, leaving you shaking in pain.
Big Mom’s scream shook the Château to its foundations. The cake was gone, reduced to a frosted ruin across the marble, and her roar for more shook the chandeliers—guests scattered like frightened birds, the underworld’s finest tripping over their silks in panic.
You struggled against the candy, limbs stuck in a gooey, sugary deathtrap, when suddenly a pair of warm, fuzzy ears brushed against your face. You blinked, startled, and looked over to see a reindeer giving you the most ridiculous, toothiest smile.
“What the hell?” you squeaked, half laughing, half panicking.
But any conversation was immediately cut off as a streak of gold and black tore across your field of vision.
It wasn’t just fast. It was impossibly fast, like someone had decided to bottle a lightning bolt and give it a suit and hair that gleamed like spun sunlight. One foot slammed onto the table beside you, snapping it in half with a satisfying crunch, while the other shot forward, kicking a rogue mound of sugar that had threatened to smother your notebook.
His coat flared dramatically, catching the light like the finale of a fireworks show, and his hair shimmered like a halo as though even the wedding hall itself recognized him as the protagonist. And then, with breathtaking suddenness, you felt yourself lifted into a princess carry, sharp and urgent, every second of it screaming, “you are getting the hell out of here right now.”
You clutched at the table, notebook slipping from your candy‑smeared hands, heart hammering in pure disbelief. The reindeer blinked at you, unimpressed, as if this kind of chaos were just another Tuesday in its long, absurd life.
He didn’t even glance at the Vinsmokes, frozen in stunned confusion, or at the flying dessert debris that littered the hall like some confectionery apocalypse. He just moved, a golden streak against the collapsing sugary battlefield, every step precise, fluid, and terrifyingly confident. The sound of splintering wood and squelching sugar barely registered against the rhythmic thunder of your own pulse.
Then you looked up.
And there he was—Sanji, the former groom, standing tall amid the chaos, his white and gold tailored suit perfect despite the hall’s transformation into a disaster, its coat flaring like a banner in a storm. He was the eye of the hurricane, serene in a way that made the world around him blur into insignificance.
Your gaze locked with his, and for the briefest heartbeat, it was as if the entire wedding hall, the screaming guests, the shattered cake, the others gawking in confusion, didn’t exist. There was only him. His hair gleaming like spun sunlight, eyes sharp and bright, a faint curve of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
He lifted a hand, palm out, a gesture small and commanding at once. Your brows furrowed, squinting against the overwhelming urge to collapse into him, your heart a riot inside your chest. You couldn’t hear his words over the chaos; the crashing chandeliers, Big Mom’s furious bellowing, the general disintegration of all things sweet—but the movement of his lips, the tilt of his head, the intensity of his gaze—it was as if he were speaking directly to the part of you that had been silenced for too long.
“Behind me, my love.”
The thought wasn’t spoken, not in any language you could define, but it thundered inside your chest with absolute clarity. Time slowed. Every ounce of fear, every pulse of panic, every sticky, frosting‑smeared panic in your limbs—the world condensed into a single, burning truth: he was here.
Not that you knew why he was being so specifically kind, but it did feel… right?
You didn’t question it. You couldn’t. You simply pressed closer, letting the chaotic, impossibly fast current of his movement carry you forward, a golden lighthouse in the storm of sugar, fire, and fury.
“Get out of here. I’ll find you later.”
You snapped up to look at the blonde. It was as if he spoke in your head. Suddenly, Morgans was in your vision, and had your arm on his claw.
You didn’t have time to process the words—or the thought—before he surged forward, carrying you like an arrow through the hurricane of sugar, splintered wood, and shrieking guests. The Vinsmokes, still frozen in confusion, were nothing more than background blur. Tables toppled beneath his boots, chandeliers swung violently overhead, and the very air seemed to hum with the force of his presence.
Your notebook was lost somewhere in the wreckage, forgotten entirely as your pulse threatened to outpace your heartbeat. You clung to him, wide-eyed and utterly helpless, your mind a storm of disbelief, terror, and something sharper, deeper, aching in your chest.
Then, finally, the exit. The cool night air hit you like a relief so sharp it made your lungs seize, carrying with it the scent of salt and the faint whisper of freedom. You blinked, seeing the courtyard sprawling beneath the moonlight, open and chaotic, but safe.
Morgans had pushed you out, to the street, so he at least got credit for not being the worst boss ever.
For the briefest second, you thought it was over.
But then a deep, rumbling groan tore through the night.
Your eyes shot back to the Château. The massive structure shuddered violently, the skeletal remains of the wedding cake smoking and crackling like a cursed pyre. Then, with a sound that made your teeth ache, the entire top level erupted in a spectacular explosion. Fire, sugar, and debris shot into the air, the walls trembling under the impact. Marble and shattered glass rained down, and for the first time, it hit you that nothing in this city would survive another second.
But before you could react, before you could scream, a slender, white‑gloved hand shot into your field of vision, gripping your wrist with a precision that both startled and unnerved you.
“Move!” a voice hissed, low and sharp, carrying an edge of authority you hadn’t expected.
A familiar face came into view—Pudding.
Of all people. The bride? And yet here she was, yanking you out of the blast radius with a force that left your chest pressed against hers, every instinct screaming trust no one, even as her expression was calm, controlled, almost… friendly.
The courtyard floor trembled beneath you as a massive chunk of the Château’s upper wall collapsed, sending clouds of dust and shards of stone hurtling past. You staggered, mind reeling, when Pudding’s arms tightened around you like an anchor in the storm.
“We’ve got to go,” she muttered, voice low and clipped. “Hop on, Rabiyan will give us a ride out of here.”
Your eyes widened as she gestured toward a rolled carpet lying nearby. Before you could question it, she yanked you onto it. The fabric was rough beneath your hands, but impossibly sturdy, and your stomach lurched as the rug lifted into the air.
“FUCK!” You cried out, clutching it like a witch on a broom. “What the hell is it with this place? And why the hell are you helping me?”
Pudding’s lips twitched, just enough to hint at amusement—or maybe irritation at your shouting. “Because if you stay there, you die,” she said bluntly, eyes scanning the fiery debris of the collapsing Château. “And I’m not in the habit of letting people die in my wedding. Stay low, hold on.”
You blinked at her, wide-eyed and still processing that the scheming, memory‑erasing Pudding—the bride—was now literally saving your life. “I… I don’t even—”
“Not your time for philosophy,” she interrupted.
The massive, winged magic carpet homie soared under you, skimming the ground, eyes gleaming with what could only be described as utter disdain for your screaming.
You almost tripped over your words. “Seriously? I’m stuck with the bride, being chased by collapsing castles and a flying… carpet? I’m—I can’t even…”
Pudding rolled her eyes, adjusting her hold on you. “I know I’ve done a lot of crappy things. More than a lot. But this one—I owe Sanji.” Her tone was clipped, but there was a weight to it that made you pause.
Your heart stuttered. “Owe… Sanji?”
“Yes. Don’t get sentimental. Just hold on.” She pushed off slightly, giving you enough room to cling to the carpet while she leaned forward, scanning the fiery chaos for threats. Rabiyan swooped, catching the carpet midair, and the two of you were lifted skyward.
The Château groaned one final time, then exploded in a spectacular shower of fire, marble, and scorched sugar, raining down behind you like a grotesque fireworks display.
You clutched the edge of the carpet with white-knuckled terror, notebook long forgotten and likely ruined by frosting, while Pudding held you like a lifeline. Her arms were firm and immovable, an anchor in the storm of airborne debris.
“I have no idea how I’m involved with any of this,” you gasped, voice shaking as the carpet dipped and swerved around a flaming chunk of roof.
Pudding went red—both from exertion and something else, something unreadable.
“Of course you don’t,” she said, voice clipped but sharp, almost scolding. “I took your memories. I doubt your soulbond is back to normal quite yet, either. You’ve got to get out of range of Big Mom’s Haki for her influence to fade.”
You blinked at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Wait. Wait. Excuse me? You took my memories? Ma’am, how? When? What–where–”
She shot you a glare sharp enough to cut through the smoke and fire. “Shut up!” Her voice cut through the roar of collapsing marble and the distant, panicked screaming. “Not important! What is important is that you happen to be Sanji’s soulmate, and I cannot fix you right now! And Sanji—Sanji was kind to me and I didn’t deserve it, so this is how I make it better!”
You stared, heart hammering, trying to process the absurdity: saved by the bride, flying on a sentient carpet, escaping an exploding wedding cake, and now told that your soulmate’s memories had been meddled with by none other than the scheming bride herself. Somehow it was both terrifying and ridiculous.
“And just what, pray tell,” you muttered through gritted teeth, “am I supposed to do with that information while hurtling through the air on a magic rug?”
Pudding didn’t answer immediately, instead leaning forward slightly, eyes scanning the burning Château behind you. The wind whipped her veil and hair around her face like a dark halo. Finally, she said, low and clipped, “Survive. Keep your heart in your chest. Trust no one until you’re clear. And whatever you do… don’t touch anything that looks remotely edible back there.”
You swallowed hard. “Right. Got it. Survive. Don’t touch sugar debris. Trust the person who erased my memories. Check.”
Pudding’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she muttered, “You’ll thank me later. Or scream at me later. One of the two.”
The carpet banked sharply, Rabiyan’s flying hard against the night sky, carrying you further from the chaos below. Behind you, the Château groaned one final time before collapsing completely in a shower of fire, marble, and scorched sugar. The scent of burnt frosting hung thick in the air, clinging to your hair and clothes. Your notebook, already ruined by flying cake, flopped uselessly at your side.
-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-
You weren’t expecting to pick up another Charlotte sister. Certainly not one who came lumbering along in a walking tank that clattered like a parade drumline gone rogue.
You definitely weren’t expecting her to find Sanji as he and his crew ran along, his suit jacket flaring, cigarette smoke curling, voice pitched low and sharp as if he knew exactly when the curtain was meant to rise. For a second, the battlefield felt like a stage play, and he was the only one with a script.
Your stomach pitched. It had been fifteen minutes—barely enough time to breathe—since Pudding had looked you dead in the eye and accused you of being her ex-groom’s soulmate. You hadn’t known what to say, not with her words ricocheting around in your head like loose shot.
And now here he was. And after a performance of flirting of such an unnatural nature between Pudding and Sanji that you felt second-hand embarrassment that would probably be passed down your bloodline.
The magic carpet wobbled beneath you, threads of sorcery tugging at your balance, the tank’s racket fading into the background. Soldiers shouted. The ground shook. But all you could see was him—Sanji, looking at you like he’d expected you all along.
And you absolutely were not expecting to be roped into helping bake a wedding cake to stop a yonko’s rampage.
So, of course, you sat a little away from the group, feeling incredibly awkward as they made plans. It was like stumbling into a kitchen rehearsal mid-performance, everyone throwing out measurements and ingredients as if the world wasn’t cracking at the seams outside. Pudding was furiously scribbling recipes across parchment, while Sanji paced like a general, mapping out troop movements.
You folded your arms tighter, pretending to be fascinated by the scuffed edge of the carpet. The voices blurred together: eggs, flour, cream, chocolate, all barked like military codes—and you nodded along as though you had the faintest idea what was going on in the cooking.
But your heart kept tugging sideways, back to the blond man issuing orders with smoke curling from his lips. His confidence made the absurdity worse, like he could command a cake into existence fast enough to quiet an emperor.
You looked away. “You should all know that I’m usually the one critiquing the food. I’m literally just a critic. Nothing else.”
You tried to shrink further into yourself, silently praying they wouldn’t notice you weren’t contributing. Because if Sanji so much as looked your way, you weren’t sure if you’d combust from embarrassment—or be handed a whisk.
His cigarette glowed faintly as he exhaled, eyes narrowing with a flicker of amusement before softening into something warmer. “Just a critic, huh?” His voice cut through the chaos, smooth as cream. “Then you’re not useless at all. You’re the most important person here.”
Pudding and Chiffon turned your way, and your ears burned. Important? You wanted to sink into the carpet. “I meant—” you started, but Sanji’s smile only sharpened.
“You’ll tell us if it’s worthy or if we’re doomed,” he said matter-of-factly, as if this had already been decided. “That’s the only job that matters right now. Leave the baking to me.”
And just like that, he turned back to Pudding, rattling off another set of orders as though he hadn’t just disarmed your entire attempt at self-deprecation with a single compliment.
Mother-fucking charmer.
Your heart gave an unhelpful lurch. Maybe you weren’t here for kicks and giggles after all.
Pudding’s pen scratched harder against her parchment, lips tightening just enough to betray the smile she pasted back on when Sanji glanced her way. For all her theatrics, you caught the flicker in her eyes—a sharp, sour note that landed squarely on you. As if you’d stolen a line from a script she thought belonged only to her.
You decided right then your safest option was silence. Silence and pretending the scuffed edge of the magic carpet was endlessly fascinating.
And that was your contribution until you landed.
Cacao Island rose like a confection from the sea, ovens already blazing, bakers scrambling in every street. The moment you stepped into the grand kitchen, the air grew heavy with the scent of chocolate and cream, heat rolling off copper pots and firelit stoves.
Sanji moved at once, his coat cast aside, sleeves rolled up. He was in motion before anyone else had found their place. Every gesture was sharp, every order precise, his desperation buried beneath elegance. Even in the chaos, he carried himself like the kitchen was a ballroom and he was the only one who knew the steps.
And, maddeningly, Pudding stayed glued to his side, watching, smiling, every few moments throwing a glance your way as if daring you to try and keep up.
You quietly looked for exits until a bowl was pushed into your hands.
“Whisking duty,” Sanji said, eyes twinkling. “Time for the critic to be the one judged.”
You stared at him, incredulous. “Listen, asshole, I will get us killed. I am not qualified.”
“Then learn,” he instructed firmly, but not unkindly. “If you can judge, you can taste. If you can taste, you can balance. Now move.”
You scoffed but obeyed, stirring with irritation.
And still, your hands began to move with a rhythm that felt too familiar. You whisked with an ease you could not explain. You folded the batter as though you had done it before. With every scent that filled the air, something inside you stirred—cocoa, citrus, almonds, cream. The aromas pried open doors you had not known were locked.
Memories leaked back like water through cracks. A boy at a stove. A kitchen filled with laughter and fire. A bond threaded tight between you, humming with warmth.
You gripped the whisk tighter, blinking as the present blurred with the past. The copper pots clanged around you, heat pressing at your back. Pudding’s voice was sharp and insistent as she rattled off another instruction to Sanji. Yet you barely heard her.
Because Sanji had turned, just enough to watch you, smoke curling in the corner of his smile. For a flicker of a heartbeat, the whole mad kitchen seemed to fall away.
The kitchen was a storm of sugar and fire. Bakers rushed in every direction, carrying trays of cream and stacks of chocolate bricks, their voices rising in frantic rhythm. Sanji moved among them like a maestro, never missing a beat, guiding you and Pudding with sharp precision.
“Taste,” he said for the sixth time.
“Balance it with citrus,” you replied, sliding a spoon his way.
“Keep whisking,” he ordered you, his eyes never leaving your face.
You tried to argue, but your body betrayed you. Your hands folded batter with ease, your wrists flicked the whisk into perfect rhythm, your nose caught flaws in balance before the spoon even reached your tongue. It was muscle memory you did not know you had with every aroma—almond, citrus, cocoa—memories stirred like shadows at the edge of sight.
It was like a dance between you both, despite your clumsiness.
Sanji stepped closer, his hand brushing yours as he adjusted the angle of the bowl. His touch lingered for a fraction too long, warm even through the heat of the kitchen. “Gentle,” he murmured, his voice carrying over the clang of pans and frantic shouts. “The batter listens to how you move.”
You laughed nervously, the sound too thin, but he smiled as if it was the only answer that mattered. When he handed you a spoonful of filling, his gaze never left your face, watching not just for judgment but for recognition. You tasted the flavors bursting across your tongue and nodded slowly.
“Perfect,” you whispered.
Sanji exhaled like he had been holding that breath for hours, shoulders relaxing, eyes softening into something that felt far too tender for the chaos surrounding you. For a heartbeat, you swore the kitchen was no longer a storm but a waltz, the two of you moving in step without ever meaning to.
Pudding stopped beside a cooling rack, the light catching the sheen of chocolate on her fingers. She pressed her hands together, as though steadying herself, and for once her smile slipped entirely.
“You…” Her voice caught, and she started again. “You are not supposed to be here.”
You hesitated, but her tone was different now. Not sweet, not smug. Something in her eyes flickered, conflicted and almost kind. You followed her to the far corner of the kitchen, away from the clatter of pans and Sanji’s sharp commands.
You blinked. “Trust me, I agree.”
Her laugh was short and bitter, but her gaze stayed fixed on you. “And yet… he looks at you like you’ve always been here. Like he’s been waiting.”
Your stomach lurched. “What are you talking about?”
Pudding’s jaw tightened. She studied you for a long moment, then raised her hand as if she meant to strike—yet her fingers only hovered near your temple, trembling.
“You don’t remember him,” she whispered, eyes glistening in a way that didn’t suit her sharp edges. “Because I took it. I made sure of it. And still… look at you.”
Heat prickled at your skin, confusion tangling with fear. “You… what?”
Her hand trembled once more, then steadied. “I wanted to believe he could love me. That if I erased you, it would be easier. But even I cannot rewrite the way he looks at you.” She exhaled, shaky and resigned. “So take it back. I don’t want it anymore. He’ll never look at me that way. Not while you exist.”
Before you could protest, her palm pressed firmly against your temple.
The world cracked open.
Scents, voices, laughter, heat; memories flooded through you in a rush so violent your knees buckled. Sanji’s smile, his voice calling your name across a crowded kitchen, the bond that had always thrummed beneath your skin, the boy at the stove with dreams of fire and freedom. All of it crashed over you in a wave too vast to hold.
Your vision blurred, the ground tilted, and Pudding’s face twisted with equal parts jealousy and sorrow.
She turned to face you, her voice low. “Hold still.”
Before you could ask what she meant, she lifted her hand. Her bangs shifted, and the third eye at her forehead opened.
A chill shot through you. You stepped back, but she caught your shoulders with surprising strength. “Have guts,” she whispered. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”
Her fingers brushed against your temple. A rush like fire and ice flooded your skull. The world twisted, blurred. Memories surged, breaking through like waves: a boy cooking at a stove, a bond threading through your mind, laughter across oceans, the ache of being shut out, the hollow loss when it was crushed.
Your knees buckled. The kitchen spun, voices warping into a blur of shouts and clattering pans.
Before you could hit the floor, strong arms scooped you up. The world steadied against the press of a broad chest, the scent of smoke and citrus clinging to him. You were weightless, carried effortlessly, his stride sure and unhesitating.
Your eyes fluttered open just enough to see his face above you, sharp with worry yet softened by something raw and unguarded. His jaw clenched as though holding back words, his breath uneven as he adjusted his grip to keep you steady.
“Easy,” he murmured, the sound low enough to anchor you. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go again.”
You tried to speak, but the words tangled, slipping away as exhaustion dragged you under. The last thing you felt was the steady beat of his heart against your ear and the warmth of his hold, fierce and unyielding.
The frantic kitchen hushed for a heartbeat as he gathered you into a princess carry. Bakers stared, spatulas frozen mid-whisk, trays forgotten in their hands. Even Pudding stood rooted where she had touched you, her veil askew, her expression unreadable.
Sanji’s jaw was tight, but his eyes never left your face. He shifted you carefully against him, one arm steady under your knees, the other braced at your back as though you were fragile glass.
“Keep working,” he barked at the stunned bakers, his voice sharp as steel. “The cake will not bake itself.”
The room jolted back into motion at once, the storm of sugar and fire resuming, though now every glance flickered nervously toward the man carrying you.
Sanji lowered his voice, so soft only you could hear it. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
The last thing you felt was his heartbeat, quick and unsteady beneath the steady mask he wore for everyone else.
Darkness tugged you under, but this time it was different. The bond hummed in your chest like a chord finally resolved, no longer muffled, no longer broken. And even as your body went limp with exhaustion, the warmth of his hold followed you into the dark.
-X-The Climax-X-
But the next time you opened your eyes, the Château, the kitchens, and the roar of Big Mom were just gone. You would hear how it all ended later. How Sanji and Pudding baked the cake in a frenzy, how the crew fought their way through the island, how the Yonko’s rage had been momentarily stilled by sugar and cream. The escape.
You were lying in a hammock that swayed gently with the rhythm of the sea. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed wood, the cloying sweetness of Totland finally behind you. Above, wood creaked, and beyond the porthole, the sky stretched endlessly and was blue.
Your heart stumbled in your chest as you sat up too fast, memories crashing over you all at once: painful, sweet, overwhelming. The bond was there, steady and alive again, thrumming like a heartbeat that was not yours alone.
And there was a hand. Warm, steady, holding yours.
Sanji.
He sat beside the hammock, his coat discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. Exhaustion clung to him in every line, his posture loose, shadows darkening his eyes. Yet the moment you stirred, he straightened, his hand tightening on yours as if to anchor you.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice rough but steady, a faint smile curving his lips. “You’re awake.”
Your throat ached, caught between everything you remembered and everything you wanted to say. All you managed was a whisper. “I… remember.”
Something flickered in his gaze—relief, ache, hope all tangled together. He lifted your hand and brushed his lips across your knuckles with a tenderness that stole your breath.
The bond hummed between you, steady and sure, carrying not only his voice but the weight of everything unspoken: his fear, his relief, his love.
“Sanji—”
And that was enough. He saw the recognition in your eyes, and his own filled with tears. He raised a hand, briefly covering his face.
“Give me a second,” he murmured, voice trembling with restraint. “I need a moment to… let this out.”
When his words came, they were quieter still, almost reverent.
“I will admit something to you. When I first realized the truth, I went through hell. Humiliation. Shame. Anger. I thought I had been made a fool of. I thought you laughed at me every time I called you ‘bro.’ Every time I went on about women. About Nami. About… jiggle physics. All of it.”
You closed your eyes, the memory of those exchanges now unbearably sharp in your chest.
He let out a low, broken laugh, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as if to anchor himself. “I’m a fool. Because when the truth settled in, when I stopped thrashing against it, I felt… relief.”
Your breath caught. “Relief?”
He looked at you then, nothing guarded, nothing hidden. “Because it meant you were mine all along. That no matter how stupid I made myself look, I wasn’t wrong to keep reaching for you. The bond was still there, even when I thought I’d lost it.”
The hammock rocked gently between you, the sea humming with the bond’s steady rhythm, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
“Yes.” He gave a shuddering breath. “Relief that you are not a man. Relief that I could have it all. I am ashamed to admit how much lighter it made me. Guilt that I knew it shouldn’t have mattered, but I’m so broken, it did.”
Tears pricked your eyes. “Sanji…”
“But,” he went on, softer now, “the truth is, I doubt it would have changed much. Even if you had been a man, even if you had been everything I told myself you were… I think I would still feel this way. That is what terrifies me most. You were never the problem.”
You pressed both hands to your face, sobbing quietly. The bond thrummed steady between you, stronger now than ever, carrying not just his shame and his relief but also the trembling thread of hope he had buried for too long.
“I am not sure how to proceed from here,” he admitted. “Because I am entirely in love with you. But I have spent so long praising other women, worshiping them out loud, that you will not believe me when I say it.”
You pressed your palms harder to your face, shaking, unable to look at him. “Sanji… you will always be yourself. That is who I met. Who I listened to. Who I trusted.”
There was a pause. The waves slapped against the hull in the silence. Then, faintly, a grim note entered his voice.
“That self,” he said, “is not a man I am proud of. But I have another question. Answer me truthfully. Do you like women romantically?”
You gave a strangled laugh. “No. I do not.”
He choked, and the bond shivered with his outrage.
“See, this is what pisses me off—Mon Dieu! Then why did you let me rate other women’s boobs in your head? Why let me ramble on about cleavage, about legs, about—”
You laughed harder, tears wetting your cheeks. “Because I admired what I lacked. And you got so excited. I loved it.”
For a long moment, the air was filled with his stunned silence. Then he broke into helpless laughter, rich and bright, the kind you had not heard in so long. You pressed your hand to your chest, clutching the sound like a lifeline.
It was not perfect. It was not easy. But in that laughter, something fragile finally began to heal.
You could feel it in the bond. A shift. Not sharp or sudden, but gentle, like a tide turning. The sorrow and shame that had weighed him down ebbed back, replaced by a lighter current. His voice carried it when he spoke again.
“You should know,” he said, almost thoughtful, “that there are consequences for lying to me this long.”
Your stomach knotted. “Consequences?”
“Yes.” You could feel the grin even before he let out a low laugh. “Thanks to you, I am a pervert. One who will be concentrating his entire focus on you. Every word. Every sigh. Every damn heartbeat. I will be relentless.”
Heat rushed up your neck. “Sanji—”
“No, no, do not try to stop me,” he teased, his voice turning silk-smooth as his hand cupped your face. “This is justice. You hid from me, you let me think I had a mere friend-in-titty. Now you are going to endure everything I ever poured out on other women, only it will be ten times worse, because it will all be for you.”
You covered your face with both hands, cheeks burning with shame. “I am not the busty goddess of your dreams. You can do better.” Your hand made a weak, embarrassed gesture toward your chest.
Sanji swore so fiercely it made you jump.
“Do better?!” His voice cracked with disbelief as he turned to look at you, utterly offended. “You, insane, beautiful, cruel woman. You think you can say that to me? After all that you have been, what are you now? Do not insult me. Do not you dare.”
His words came hot and ragged, like smoke curling from a flame. “You are mine, and you are more than everything. Better than anything I dreamed. Better than anything I ever deserved.”
The bond thrummed, fierce and undeniable, wrapping around his voice like a vow. His hand trembled slightly where it cradled your cheek, not from weakness but from the force of what he held back.
You lowered your hands slowly, meeting his gaze through blurred lashes. His eyes were burning, not with lust alone but with devotion so sharp it almost hurt to look at.
“My angel. My muse. My darling flame. Every second I wasted on other women was a crime against my own heart. Allow me to repent properly, by spending the rest of my life praising your every inch, from the tips of your fingers to the curve of your—”
“Sanji,” you groaned, your face burning. “Sir, please. We are having a soft moment.”
He laughed, warm and shameless, the sound rolling through the bond like sunlight. “Soft moments are for poets, my love. I am a cook. And the only thing I want to simmer over a slow flame is you.”
You buried your face in your arms, torn between laughing and sobbing.
“You cannot stop me now,” he declared dramatically, kneeling before you. “Every word, every breath, every syllable will belong to you. You think you are safe, but just wait until you get better. I will lay roses at your feet. I will compose sonnets. I will make every man jealous that you chose me.”
You groaned again, but your chest ached with joy. “You are impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” he said, his voice softening at the end, playful bravado dipping back into something tender.
You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers along the back of his hand. “I do.”
For a moment, he froze, as though the world had stopped around him. The sea, the sail, and the creak of the hammock all faded. Then his breath escaped in a shaky rush, his forehead pressing lightly to yours.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
Your smile widened despite your tears. “I love you, Sanji.”
The bond surged between you like a heartbeat shared, pulling him closer until the space between your lips vanished. His kiss landed softly at first, almost trembling, as though he feared you might disappear if he pressed too hard. But when you leaned into him, his restraint shattered. The kiss deepened, hungry and reverent all at once, his hand sliding from your cheek to cradle the back of your head.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging as the world tilted with the force of it. Every ounce of his devotion poured through the bond, wrapping around you, anchoring you. When he finally drew back, his lips brushed yours again and again, unable to stop. His breath came ragged, his eyes hazy with need, and he tried and failed to smother.
“Mon Dieu…” he muttered, ducking his face into the crook of your neck as if ashamed of his body’s urgency. The bond quivered with embarrassment, but beneath it burned raw, unfiltered longing. “Forgive me. I cannot help it. You undo me.”
You laughed softly, your hands smoothing over his shoulders. “Sanji… it is all right.”
He cleared his throat, ears pink. “I do not want to ruin this. I have waited too long. You deserve—” He faltered, fumbling for words, then gave a weak, self-conscious laugh. “The truth is, I have no idea what I am doing. Not with you. Not like this.”
The admission was so vulnerable that it made your chest ache. “Sanji,” you whispered, “are you telling me you want to—”
“Yes?” He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified. “Yes. Yes, all right. Do you know what happens when you spend your whole life cooking, fighting, and dreaming of a perfect woman you never thought you would meet? You end up saving yourself without meaning to. And now… please save me from my own pathetic nature.”
You stared at him for a long moment, and then laughter burst out of you, helpless and bright.
His head snapped toward you, scandalized. “What—why are you laughing?!”
“Because,” you said, climbing into his lap and cupping his shocked face between your hands, “that’s it. I’m riding you.”
His eyes nearly rolled back in his head, the bond lighting up with stunned arousal. “Mother of God—”
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re mine. That’s more than enough.”
The bond thrummed between you, steady and warm, wrapping around his doubts and silencing them in a way words never could. Sanji’s breath caught, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue, but the certainty in your voice left him undone.
His hands finally settled against your waist, firm but shaking, as though he was terrified of breaking you. You kissed him again, slower this time, guiding him back down into the sway of the hammock. His body arched beneath yours, trembling with restraint. Every sigh, every ragged breath echoed in the bond, filling you with the sheer depth of his longing.
You rolled your hips against him, and the sound that tore from his throat was raw, almost pained with how much he wanted. His eyes fluttered open, wide and wet, as though he could hardly believe this was real.
“Mon ange,” he whispered, voice breaking. “If this is a dream, do not let me wake.”
You cupped his cheek, brushing away the tear that slipped free. “It isn’t a dream. It’s us.”
And when you finally let go, drawing him closer, the bond surged bright and whole. It carried every truth he had ever hidden, every vow he had ever left unspoken. Sanji kissed you like he was sealing a promise, and you held him as though you would never let him go.
When he joined with you, his whole body jolted, a helpless cry escaping him as he clutched at you like you were the only anchor he had left. The bond flared hot and radiant, filling you with his awe, his wonder, his overflowing love.
“Mon chéri, mon cœur, ma moitié,” he gasped, trembling beneath you. “My All Blue. I am yours. Always yours.”
You steadied him, your hands pressed to his chest, your lips soft against his jaw. “Sanji,” you whispered, and the single word made him shiver.
You moved together slowly, as if learning each other for the first time, coaxing him past his nerves into something tender. He kissed you through it, over and over, unable to stop, as if he was afraid you might vanish if he did. His hands traced the curve of your back, the line of your arms, the silk of your hair, touching every part of you he could reach with reverence.
He whispered your name like a prayer, again and again, as though speaking it aloud was what kept him alive. There was nothing practiced in him now, none of the charm or flourish he wore for the world. Only Sanji, laid bare and devoted, giving himself to you without hesitation.
He didn’t last five minutes. Not even two.
When the release came, it was not sharp but overwhelming, like sunlight breaking across the sea. The bond blazed through both of you, searing and cleansing until all that remained was love; pure, steady, absolute.
Afterward, he held you close, his arms tight around your waist, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder. His voice was hushed when he finally spoke, but every word rang with certainty. “I have waited my whole life for this. For you.”
And when you kissed his hair and whispered that you had too, he didn’t need to believe you. You had been with him, and his whole heart, and had waited for him.
He already knew that you did.
-X-Honeymoon-X-
Morning sunlight spilled across the Sunny, bright against the waves. The smell of butter and coffee drifted from the galley as Sanji moved like a whirlwind at the stove, whistling under his breath. You sat at the counter, watching him with a smile, the bond steady and warm in your chest.
Settling into the Sunny had been more than easy, and they had accepted you with almost too much enthusiasm, causing more than a bit of jealousy from your Sanji.
He turned every few seconds just to flash you a grin, sliding a plate in front of you first before the rest of the crew got a whiff. “For my beloved,” he declared dramatically, setting down a perfect omelet. “And the rest of you can wait your turn.”
Luffy wailed, already half climbing over the counter. Brook groaned about favoritism. Chopper pouted until Sanji added a dish of sweet bread just for him.
Through it all, Nami and Robin watched with quiet amusement.
Later, when the chaos settled and Sanji was busy chasing Luffy out of the pantry, Nami leaned against the rail beside you. Her lips curved in a sly smile. “I have to admit, you being here has been… helpful.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Helpful?”
Nami’s eyes flicked toward the galley door where Sanji was loudly scolding Luffy for eating dried meat straight from the barrel. “He’s calmer. More focused. Still ridiculous, of course, but it feels different. Like he finally stopped performing for the world and started living for someone.”
Your cheeks warmed. The bond pulsed in quiet agreement, echoing with Sanji’s voice from the kitchen, still ranting about rationing.
Nami nudged you gently. “I don’t know what you did, but… keep doing it. We’ve all noticed.”
Robin’s voice floated over from her chair, where she was reading in the sun. “Yes. It is rather endearing, seeing him so transparent. He used to scatter his affection like petals in the wind. Now it seems he has chosen to plant a garden instead.”
Your heart stumbled at their words, the warmth of the crew’s acceptance sinking into you like sunlight.
Your face burned. “I did not do anything.”
Nami chuckled, tapping your shoulder. “You gave him somewhere real to pour it all. You saved the rest of us a lot of trouble.”
Robin’s smile was warm, her gaze thoughtful. “And perhaps more importantly, you gave him a place to rest. He has chased so many things. Now he resta with you.”
You swallowed hard, staring out at the sea as your heart swelled.
Behind you, Sanji’s voice rang out, furious and flustered as Luffy tried to steal from the pantry again. “Hands off, you bottomless barrel! That food is for my soulmate!”
The women laughed, the sound soft and knowing, and you covered your face with your hands.
Sanji was still himself. Loud, dramatic, shameless. But he was yours. And somehow, that made all the difference. When he kissed you later, sunlight bright on the waves and the crew’s laughter carrying through the ship, the world was perfectly, utterly right.
And his food was always perfect.
-X-Epilogue-X-
The Baratie was as noisy as ever. Pots clanged in the kitchen, waiters shouted across the floor, and the smell of frying fish filled the air. Zeff sat in his usual chair near the galley doors, pipe in hand, scanning the latest issue of the World Economy News.
Across the front page, in bold, Morgans had splashed it: “Straw Hats Claim Another! Critic Turned Pirate Reporter Joins Crew!” The photo showed Sanji mid-dramatic flourish, cigarette glowing, arm tight around you, while the crew squabbled in the background.
Zeff grunted around his pipe, smoke curling into the air. “Idiot kids.”
One of the line cooks peeked out nervously. Patty raised a brow. “Uh… Chef? Something wrong?”
Zeff slapped the paper against the table, scowling. “He finally found her, that’s what’s wrong. Means he’s going to be more of a lovesick fool than ever. And that poor girl is going to have her hands full.”
Patty blinked. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Zeff’s scowl softened for just a moment. He tapped ash from his pipe, eyes lingering on the photo. Sanji’s grin was wide, unguarded in a way Zeff had not seen since the boy was small. And the woman at his side looked just as undone, notebook forgotten in her lap, caught in the bond of a man who would never let her go.
“Yeah,” Zeff muttered, quieter now. “It’s a good thing.”
He folded the paper, set it aside, and barked for someone to bring him his dinner. But his one good eye lingered on the headline a little longer, pride flickering beneath the gruffness.
Zeff exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the rafters. His scowl softened into something closer to thought. “All these years,” he muttered, “that brat ranted about the All Blue. Swore he would not be satisfied until he cooked for everyone, until he proved himself. But looking at this…” He tapped the photo with a calloused finger. “Looks like he found himself another dream… and it seems like you achieved your dream too, girl. You did not have to wait until the All Blue to have him cook for you. To be fed by him. To have his whole damn heart served on a plate.”
He leaned back, pipe resting against his teeth, his one good eye glinting in the lamplight. “Maybe that’s the dream worth chasing after all.”
The dining hall clamored around him, waiters shouting, pans clattering in the kitchen. But for a few quiet moments, Zeff sat with the paper folded carefully in front of him, pride and relief tucked into the corners of his gruff smile.
Cosmic Joke Status: Ifrit Jambe!
Congratulations!
You’re now stuck with a flammable chef who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% flambé himself just to make eye contact with you while carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. (Especially the part where he snarls at people who flirt with you, like a tuxedo-clad second coming who recites poetry, cooks a five-course meal, and faints dramatically if you so much as smile at him.)
He has exactly three modes:
Cooking like his soul depends on it.
Flirting like he’s auditioning for a romance novel cover.
Collapsing in a cloud of hearts because you said “thank you.”
Sanji x Reader
Length 17 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Slow Burn, Jealousy, Starvation and survival, Childhood Trauma and Abuse, Language, BOOBS, Angst, Sexual Content, Identity Theft, Objectification, Lying for a cause
@vaniiiavengeance
Interested in being in the taglist? HERE
Next
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
Normal may be relative, but by all accounts, you would have considered yourself such. You only had your dad, but he was a good man. Together, you wandered ports and towns, traveling farther than most families ever dreamed, even passing through the Grand Line. He made a living reviewing restaurants, scribbling notes on everything from the broth’s clarity to the crispness of tempura, and you, by default, became his little apprentice.
It gave you a refined palate earlier than most children, an odd blessing. While other kids fought over sweets, you sat at his elbow, analyzing the miso depth or the subtle chew of perfectly proofed bread. Your world was filled with flavor, laughter, and the hum of waves against the ship. By your measure, things were good. Steady. Safe.
Then the soulbond hit.
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.
Traveling the world with Ace is like riding a roller coaster with an unbuckled toddler, covered in oil, holding a lighter. This is important to know, because wherever you go, it’s tantamount to expect some sort of tomfoolery from your soulmate (if not yourself).
The market is loud and bright, full of shouting vendors and the smell of grilled skewers, seaweed snacks, citrus piled high like little suns. People brush past you, shoulders bumping. Somewhere, a child screams in delight over something that sounds extremely expensive.
You let go of Ace's hand for three seconds to look at something.
It is not dramatic. It is not even a proper separation. It is a normal, reasonable, adult decision made because someone bumped your elbow, and the crowd in the market swelled like a tide.
Ace’s palm slips out of yours.
You take one step to the left, yet you are still right there.
Ace turns around anyway, because Ace turns around every five seconds in public like he is a paranoid cat, and his expression changes so fast it is almost impressive.
First, there is confusion.
Then there is suspicion, like you have personally betrayed him.
Then, very abruptly, there is panic.
His eyes go wide. His shoulders tense. His head swivels left and right, scanning the market as if you have fallen into a trapdoor.
“Ace?” you say, because you are literally standing two feet away from him, and you assume he will simply look at you.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he grabs the nearest person by the shoulders. It is a very large fisherman holding a basket of eels. Ace leans in, eyes wild, voice urgent.
“WHERE DID MY BABYCAKES GO?”
The fisherman blinks. One eel flops dramatically as if it is also shocked.
You stare.
Ace continues, louder, like volume will conjure you out of thin air.
“I LOOKED AWAY FOR ONE SECOND! BADDIE, WHERE ART THOU???”
You reach out and smack his arm. Hard.
He whips around so fast he nearly dislocates something, sees you, and the sheer relief on his face is so intense it makes you feel slightly guilty, which is rude, because you did not do anything.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, voice cracking like a man who has survived a war.
“I was looking at fruit,” you say. “Two steps away.”
Ace grabs your face with both hands, cupping your cheeks like he is checking to make sure you are real and not a cruel hallucination sent by the sea.
“You could have been KIDNAPPED,” he says.
Your eyes narrow. “At the fruit stand?”
“Yes,” he says immediately, like this is obvious. “Fruit stands are dangerous.”
“Ace.”
“Baby, you don’t know. They have knives,” Ace insists. “Sometimes they have those weird spiky fruits. Pineapples are basically weapons. Trust me, I have experience with Marco.”
“Ace, baby.” You put a hand on your hip, "Don't bring Marco into this.”
Ace leans closer, still holding your face, and whispers like he is confessing something painful. “Listen, Marco is always a part of the conversation. Also, I totally thought you got stolen.”
You blink. “Stolen.”
“…Okay, no,” he admits grudgingly. “But this market is sketchy.”
You pry his hands off your face and step back. “Ace. I’m not going anywhere.”
He points at you accusingly. “That is what you want me to think. Then you run of with some hotshot who has nice abs and a bank account.”
You stare at him for a long second, then lift your fruit basket. “I have bananas.”
Ace’s gaze drops to the bananas. His shoulders loosen by approximately two percent.
“That helps,” he says, like bananas are a form of proof of commitment.
You start walking again, weaving through the crowd toward the stall you actually wanted. Ace immediately slides up beside you and takes your hand again, but he does it in a way that suggests he is never letting go until you are both dead, and not even then will he consider it.
You try to drag your hand away to adjust the basket.
Ace tightens his grip.
You sigh. “Ace.”
“No,” he says.
“I need my hand to pay.”
“I’ll pay,” he says.
“You don’t have money.”
“I have charm,” he says, very confidently.
“You tried that last time, and the vendor threw a fish at you.”
Ace lifts his chin, utterly unbothered. “Okay, new idea. How about instead these bananas—”
You barely have time to open your mouth before the world tilts.
One second, you are mid-sentence, the next Ace’s hand is at your wrist, momentum carrying you sideways as he pivots sharply off the main street. Brick rushes up behind you, cool and solid at your back, the noise of the market cutting off like a door slammed shut.
You blink.
The alley is narrow, hidden behind a cart stacked high with drying fish and herbs, the smell is sharp and salty and overwhelming. Your fruit basket is gone. The bananas are gone. Your dignity is hanging by a thread.
Ace finishes his sentence as if nothing had happened at all.
“—how ’bout I give you mine?”
He grins, all teeth and heat and trouble, and then his hand shifts. With a flick of his wrist, your hands are caught under one of his, pinned lightly above your head against the brick. Handling you with just enough pressure used to make your pulse jump.
Before you can form a proper response, his leg slides between yours, close enough to steal your breath, close enough that your knees almost give just from the sudden intimacy of it.
You stare at him, and he stares right back, eyes dark, smile slower now, edged with satisfaction.
“That,” you manage, “was not part of the discussion.”
Ace leans in, close enough that you feel the warmth rolling off him, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “You said I couldn’t pay with charm,” he murmurs. “Didn’t say anything about… alternate currencies.”
Your heart is absolutely not helping you right now.
“Where did the bananas go?” you say weakly.
Ace glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “Strategic sacrifice.”
“For what?”
“For this.”
And then he kisses you.
It’s fast and sudden and completely unfair, the kind of kiss that knocks the thought clean out of your head. His mouth is warm, confident, tasting faintly of salt and laughter and bad decisions. He kisses just like he lives: Fiery hot, all in, no hesitation, like the world might end if he doesn’t.
You make a sound you do not approve of and grab his shirt with your free hand, fisting the fabric to steady yourself. He hums against your mouth at that, pleased, the vibration sending a shiver straight through you.
Ace pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours, breath warm on your lips.
When you finally break apart, your forehead thumps against his chest as you exhale.
Ace laughs softly, resting his chin on top of your head. “You okay?”
You tilt your face up, eyes narrowed, heat still humming through you. “You owe me bananas.”
He grins, unrepentant. “I’ll steal you more.”
“ACE.”
“Worth it,” he says easily, leaning in for one last quick kiss, softer this time, like punctuation.
Somewhere nearby, someone yells about stolen bananas. Ace squeezes your hands once before letting go, eyes bright. “Okay,” he grins. “Now we run.”
You don’t even argue, you just grab his hand and take off laughing, the alley swallowing the evidence behind you.
Could you please write a Corazón x reader story where the reader was in love with him and watches him die? But before he died she promised to watch Law, so she moniters Law from a distance to ensure he is safe. Then when Law has grown up, the reader tells him how proud Corazón is of him.
Thank you 🫶
The Promise
corazon x fem!reader (love interest) + law x fem!reader (platonic)
a/n: not sure how this came out but I hope it's what you wanted. I spoilered myself law's novel for this but changed some things to not spoiler it to everyone... so yeah eheh
The snow falls without making a sound, covering the ruined town like nothing terrible has ever happened, like blood never touched the ground, like children never cried… and like promises were never broken.
… That day begins strangely. Rosinante barely speaks and keeps looking over his shoulder.
His hands shake when he lights another cigarette, it takes him three tries.
You watch him in silence and then finally, you grab the lighter from him “Give it here.”
He smiles sheepishly “Thanks.”
You hand it back “You’re acting strange.”
“Am I?”
“Very.”
He doesn’t answer, instead, he looks toward Law. The little boy is sitting not far away, pretending not to listen.
Rosinante watches him for a long moment and then he quietly says, “Can you come with me for a minute?”
You frown “Now?”
“Please.”
Something in his voice makes your stomach tighten, so you just nod.
He leads you away from there, far enough that even the sound of the fire disappears.
Snow crunches beneath your boots while neither of you speaks.
Finally you stop walking “Rosinante.”
He turns and you think you’ve never seen him look so tired and so... sad.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
Silence.
Then he reaches into his coat and your heart skips. He simply takes off one black glove and he gently takes yours as he says “I need you to promise me something.”
Your eyes narrow “No.”
He blinks “...No?”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
A weak laugh escapes him “You’re always so stubborn.”
“I learned from you.”
He smiles for a second but then it disappears again “If... something happens...”
You immediately shake your head “No.”
“Listen.”
“No!” your voice echoes through the snow “Nothing is going to happen.”
He gently squeezes your hand “Please.”
You stare at him and he almost looks frightened, not for himself but for you and for Law.
Your chest begins to hurt “Rosinante...”
His voice is barely above a whisper “Promise me you’ll watch over Law.”
Your heart stops, the world suddenly feels very quiet “...Why?”
He doesn’t answer, instead he smiles. That soft smile you love so much.
Tears begin to burn your eyes “Tell me why.”
Nothing.
“Tell me!”
He looks away “I can’t.”
You grab the front of his shirt “Then I won’t promise you anything.”
For a second you think he’ll give in but instead he leans forward until hs forehead rests against yours “Please...”
The word sounds broken, like it hurts to say.
You close your eyes while every instinct tells you something terrible is coming… but very slowly, you nod and say “...I promise.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost relieved “Thank you.”
Before you can ask another question he suddenly grabs your wrist.
“Rosinante?”
He starts running “Wait!”
He pulls you toward an old wooden storage house standing alone near the fireplace.
You stumble after him “What are you doing?”
No answer, he opens the old door and pushes you inside.
You almost lose your balance “Rosinante!”
The door slams shut, a heavy wooden beam drops into place outside.
Your eyes widen and so you throw yourself against the door but, of course, it doesn't move.
“Rosinante!” you scream and hit the door with both fists “Open the door!”
Nothing.
Only his voice through the old wood, so quiet that it's almost impossible to hear “...I’m sorry.”
Your heart pounds “Don’t you dare!”
You shove your shoulder against the door. Pain shoots through your arm but the wood doesn’t move.
“Rosinante!”
You hear his footsteps, walking away.
You scream his name until your throat burns.
You throw yourself against the door again and again, until the old wood barely shakes.
“Rosinante!”
You hit it until your palms sting and your breathing becomes uneven.
You look around desperately. The little wooden house is almost empty, with only broken shelves, dust and old ropes.
Then you see the window. It faces the snowy field outside, exactly where Rosinante and Law are.
You rush toward it “Thank God...”
You grab the handles and pull but… nothing. You pull harder but the window doesn’t move.
“No... no, no...”
You look around but there’s nothing useful, so you just raise your fist, ready to hit the window, no matter how it would hurt.
But before you can even hit the glass… Rosinante looks at you making your body freeze.
He’s watching you… his eyes meet yours through the glass and slowly he shakes his head, then his lips move “Please.”
Your fist relaxes and you drop your hand, while the tears blur your vision.
You shake your head violently “No...”
Outside, Rosinante kneels beside Law.
You press both hands against the cold glass as your tears leave small marks across your face.
You watch him smile at the boy, like nothing terrible is about to happen.
Law is in a treasure chest.
Even through the glass you can see him refusing, crying and begging.
Rosinante says something and then… he gently places Law inside the treasure chest. The lid slowly closes.
Your chest tightens so much it hurts.
Rosinante rests one hand on the chest. He smiles, the kindest smile you’ve ever seen.
A goodbye.
Then he looks at you and time stops. Snow falls between you.
He smiles again, but smaller this time. Then his lips move slowly so that you won’t miss a single word “I love you.”
Your breath catches but he gives you another smile, even softer “Thank you.”
Your entire body shakes as fresh tears spill down your face.
You slam your hands against the glass “I love you too!”
Rosinante’s smile falters a little… he knows you answered.
Very gently… he nods.
Then… he turns around and your eyes finally go toward Doflamingo.
Your heart drops “No!”
You scream, or at least you think you do.
But you saw what Rosinante did to Law, you saw him using his powers and it doesn’t need much to understand he did the same to you.
There’s no sound, only silence.
He did it so that neither of you would be heard. So neither of you could give away your hiding place.
Then you hear a gunshot and see Rosinante’s body fall.
You want to slam both fists against the glass, break it and run to him.
But… you can’t.
You have to stay, for Law and even for… him, because you promised him.
Even while dying… he’s still protecting you and Law.
Rosinante falls into the snow, and he doesn’t get back up.
Your legs give out beneath you, and for one endless second… the whole world stops.
Movements from the treasure chest make your head snap toward it.
The lid opens and you see Law climbing out.
His face is soaked with tears, his mouth is open in a scream you cannot hear. He stumbles away from where Rosinante’s body is.
Exactly like Rosinante wanted… and your promise starts now.
Your eyes dart to the other side of the house, where it’s more hidden… another window.
You don’t hesitate this time… you give it a few punches and it breaks, even if your hands are bleeding, you don’t care.
When the old glass explodes outward, you feel the cold air rushing inside.
You climb through without caring as sharp pieces cut your hands even more.
You don’t even look at Rosinante… because if you do you’ll never be able to move again.
You run after the crying boy disappearing into the white snow, keeping the promise the man you loved died to entrust to you.
Your hands won’t stop shaking and your chest hurts.
Your mind reminds of his last smile, his last words… and his eyes. The thought won’t leave you alone.
You run until your legs begin to ache, until you see a small figure kneeling in the snow.
His shoulders shake violently. A little boy, broken and alone.
You slow down “...Law.”
The boy freezes for a second, he doesn’t turn around right away, but then he spins toward you.
Now you can see his face, red from crying, cheeks wet and his eyes… are full of something you’ve never seen before. Something more like hatred.
He rushes toward you and before you can even react his little fists slam against you “Why?!”
Another hit.
“Why didn’t you save him?!”
You stumble backward but you don’t even try to stop him.
Another punch and then another.
They don’t hurt… not compared to the ache inside your chest.
“You were there!” his voice cracks “You were there!”
He keeps hitting you, each blow weaker than the last. But you accept every single one, because… he’s right.
You were there, you watched everything and you didn’t save him.
Law grabs the front of your coat.
His tiny fingers shake so much he can barely hold on “You loved him too!”
Your breath catches and the tears you thought had stopped begin falling again.
Law buries his face against your body, still punching but weaker and still crying “You didn’t help...”
Your knees finally give out and so you both fall into the snow.
Law doesn’t have any strength left to keep hitting you, so he simply clutches your coat.
His whole body trembling “Why did he leave me...?”
Your lips part, but no answer comes.
Then, after some silence, your voice finally comes out, but it’s barely a whisper “I’m sorry...”
Law jerks away from you, his eyes still filled with tears “Don’t say sorry!”
He wipes his face angrily “Bring him back!”
Silence, followed by a small “Please...”
That word breaks you.
“Please tell me how to use this power… I can save him…”
Your shoulders begin to shake, so you lower your head “I can’t… I don’t know anything…”
Law stares at you, as if he’s waiting for you to say you’re joking. Waiting for Corazon to appear behind you like this is all some terrible prank.
Instead… you cry.
You cry harder than you ever have before.
Your forehead touches the snow making your tears disappear into the white ground “I couldn’t save him...”
Your voice breaks “I couldn’t...”
You feel so weak and useless.
Rosinante believed in you, trusted you and loved you… and you failed.
You failed him, you failed Law and you failed yourself.
Law slowly stands and looks down at you. His little fists tighten “...I hate you.”
The words are quiet, but they cut deeper than any knife.
You nod, still staring at the snow “I know.”
Law waits, maybe hoping you’ll argue, maybe hoping you’ll tell him you’re lying and that everything will somehow be okay.
You don’t… because you can’t.
Finally you force yourself to stand even if your legs feel heavy.
You don't look at him and just say “Go.”
Law blinks “...What?”
“Go.” your voice is flat and cold, nothing like how you really feel “You’ll be safer without me.”
Law stares, confused, hurt and rightfully angry “You’re... leaving?”
You nod once, very slowly “Yes.”
His lips tremble, but then he clenches his fists “Fine!”
He turns around so fast he almost slips in the snow “I don’t need you!”
You close your eyes “...I know.”
Without another word Law starts walking and doesn't look back.
You watch his small figure disappear between the snow-covered trees, and only when you can’t see him anymore… you finally let yourself fall.
You don’t know where your feet carry you… everything around you is gray, as if the world lost every color the moment Rosinante smiled at you one last time.
You remember every detail as if it's still happening in front of you.
His lips and his smile.
His “I love you” and his “Thank you.”
Then… the gunshots.
You cover your ears but it doesn't help, because they're just inside your head now.
Your legs give out beneath you and you collapse.
For the first time since you met Rosinante… you feel completely alone.
Hours pass, or maybe only minutes… time has stopped making sense.
You whisper into the empty forest “You believed in the wrong person...”
Fresh tears run down your cheeks “You thought I was strong.”
A bitter laugh escapes you “I’m not.”
Your breathing becomes uneven again “I couldn’t even save the person I loved the most.”
You bury your face against your arms “I’m sorry...”
Everything hurts… your chest, your eyes, and even breathing.
You wish you could sleep, just for a little, to forget everything, forget the snow, the blood… the promise…
Your eyes slowly open at that thought.
Promise me...
You stop breathing as Rosinante’s face appears in your mind, this time not the one covered in blood or smiling his goodbye to you, but the one from earlier that day.
The tired and scared one, that was for trusting you.
Your fingers slowly tighten around your sleeves and then you stand up so suddenly that your knees almost give out again.
“Law...” your voice is hoarse.
You left him, a little kid, alone.
Your heart pounds so hard it hurts “No...”
You wipe your tears away with both hands, take one shaky breath and look forward, with a new mission in mind.
Your eyes are no longer empty, they’re determined. Still broken and still grieving, but determined.
“I already failed you once...” your voice trembles “I’m not failing you again.”
You start running and start looking everywhere for Law… until you hear a little kid crying.
You look ahead, and far in the distance you spot a small figure who keeps walking alone.
You don’t call his name and you don’t run to him… you simply follow, far enough that he won’t see you, but close enough that if danger comes you’ll reach him first.
Rosinante trusted you with the most precious thing he had and you almost forgot… but never again, even if Law hates you and even if he’ll never forgive you.
You’ll keep your promise for the rest of your life.
You stay hidden behind the trees, but fortunately for you, Law never looks back, he just keeps walking as his shoulders tremble and his little hands are balled into fists.
You wipe your eyes and you follow.
That first night alone… Law sleeps inside an abandoned house.
You stay outside, curled beneath the broken roof of an old shed across from it.
The wind is freezing, so you don’t sleep, even because every small noise makes your hand reach for the knife at your belt.
Morning comes and you see Law leaving before sunrise.
You follow him again, making sure he’s ok.
The second day… you see him stealing bread. The baker notices and Law runs, but the baker chases him.
You see Law hiding before the man can catch him. So you take that moment of confusion from the baker to quietly step into the alley behind him, and with a single kick, sending an empty barrel rolling across the street.
It crashes loudly and the baker jumps, turns and runs toward the noise instead, giving enough time to Law to escape.
The third day...
He develops a fever, you can see it in the way he walks slower and the way his breathing is heavier.
He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, so you wait until he falls asleep beneath an old bridge to leave medicine next to him, with fresh water and bread.
When he wakes you watch him stare at the little bundle. His brows knit together as he looks around and sees there's no one.
After a long moment and thoughts, he quietly takes it.
Days become weeks and weeks become months.
Your routine never changes.
Law walks and you follow.
Law fights and you step in only if his life is truly in danger.
Law steals sometimes but at this point you just steal first to give it to him before he even does it.
He never sees you, or at least you think he doesn’t.
Almost a year passes and Law grows taller, enough that his sleeves are beginning to look too short.
He’s stronger too, he doesn’t cry anymore, at least not where anyone can see.
One evening he suddenly stops walking and without even turning around he says “You’re terrible at hiding.”
Your heart skips, but then you slowly step out from behind the tree.
Law doesn’t even look surprised, he just sighs “I noticed months ago.”
You blink “...You did?”
He finally turns… he’s still just a child, but his eyes already become the eyes you’ll one day recognize in a pirate captain.
Sharp, calm and always watching everything.
“The medicine.” he points at you “The food. The Marines that kept disappearing… That was you.”
You lower your head “...Yeah.”
You expect him to yell and to tell you to leave, but instead he turns around again “You’re still annoying.”
You blink and then a tiny smile appears on your face “I know.”
He starts walking and you remain where you are, confused.
After several steps Law stops and, again, without looking back he says “Well?”
You tilt your head and he continues “Are you coming or not?”
Your eyes widen and a small laugh escapes you before you can stop it “...Yeah.”
From that day on you no longer have to hide.
Nothing changes, and yet… everything does.
You still don’t walk beside him, you naturally stay a few steps behind and Law never comments on it, but sometimes without thinking, he slows down enough for you to catch up.
You two stop in abandoned towns, sleep in empty buildings and share fires during cold nights.
Grief still sits between you… some wounds need more than time.
Law keeps training everyday. He cuts rocks with a stolen sword. Runs until his legs give out. Practices with his powers until blood drips from his nose.
One afternoon he collapses face-first into the grass.
You kneel beside him “Enough.”
“No.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Again.” he tries to stand but falls immediately.
You cross your arms “You’re proving my point.”
Law glares “Cora-san would’ve let me keep going.”
You raise one eyebrow “Cora-san… would’ve carried you somewhere to eat, then pretended he didn’t.”
Law goes quiet and then a tiny snort escapes him “...Yeah.”
Years pass slowly and quietly.
The hatred disappears, but not because either of you talks about it, but because life keeps moving.
One day Law throws you a blanket “Take it.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I’m warm enough.”
You know he’s lying, so you cut the blanket in half with an old knife.
He sighs “Idiot.”
“Learned from the best.”
For the first time Law laughs, small, but it sounds so much like Rosinante’s that tears immediately sting your eyes.
When Law is thirteen a white polar bear crashes into your lives.
Law saves Bepo while he’s being bullied by two boys named Shachi and Penguin, knocking them out with his devil fruit powers.
Bepo follows him in your “home” and slowly looks at you, who are watching at the two confused.
“...Hello.”
You burst into laughter and after that Bepo becomes family almost immediately, even if Law pretends otherwise.
“He’s loud.”
You look at him and say “He’s not, he’s cute and gentle… And actually? You’re louder.”
“Impossible.”
“You yelled at a fish yesterday.”
“It deserved it.”
Bepo giggles and Law groans.
A month later, you see Bepo and Law coming back with two unconscious boys… Shachi and Penguin. They tell you they found them like that and you don’t even have the time to say anything that Law starts giving orders on how to treat them.
You look at him surprised and proud but you say nothing and just help.
After Shachi and Penguin recover, they both bow and say together “Thank you!” and then they look at Bepo and Law and say “Sorry for last time…”
You don’t even ask, you just let the kids be kids and, mostly, you let Law do his own things.
The four boys fill every quiet place with noise.
Sometimes you sit a little farther away, watching them laugh together and your chest warms.
Rosinante… he’s not alone anymore.
The years keep moving and the four boys grow.
Law’s devil fruit powers become stronger and every evening you still train together.
“Again.”
A blue sphere expands around you.
ROOM.
Your sword disappears and appears behind you.
You smile “Much faster.”
Law wipes sweat from his forehead “Not fast enough.”
“Compared to yesterday?”
He hesitates “...Better.”
You grin “Then that’s enough for today.”
“One more.”
“Law.”
“One.”
You sigh dramatically “You’re just as stubborn as he was.”
Law smirks “I know.”
Then one evening, when he’s already sixteen, Law finds you sitting alone outside, as you watch the sun disappear beyond the sea.
He quietly sits beside you “The ship is almost finished.”
You nod… you already knew. You’ve watched him draw those plans for months.
“So...” you smile “You’re finally going.”
He nods once and silence follows.
Then you whisper “Can I tell you something?”
Law hums.
“I loved him.”
He doesn’t look surprised, he simply nods and says “I know.”
You blink “...You knew?”
A small smile appears on his face “Cora-san made it obvious for both of you.”
You let out a tiny laugh “How?”
Law leans back on his hands, looking toward the sunset.
“After he saved me...” his voice softens “When he finally started talking to me… He couldn’t shut up about you.”
You cover your mouth.
Law continues, a little embarrassed “Every story of his somehow became about you.”
He begins counting on his fingers “‘She’ll scold me if she sees this burn’.”
Another finger: “‘She makes the best soup’.”
Another: “‘She’s stronger than she thinks she is’.”
Your vision blurs.
Law smiles “Then...”
His eyes lower and continues “One night...he thought I was asleep.”
Your heart pounds.
“He said...” Law closes his eyes, as if he can still hear Rosinante’s gentle voice “‘When all of this is over’...”
Silence.
“...‘I’m going to tell her I love her properly’.”
A sob escapes before you can stop it. Your shoulders shake but you smile through the tears.
All these years… wondering if those last words had only been spoken because he was dying. And now you know he truly meant them.
Law quietly hands you a handkerchief without looking at you.
You laugh at that through your tears “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
After a while your breathing steadies and you look at him.
A young man… surrounded by people who love him and strong enough to protect them.
You smile proudly “I’m proud of you, Law.”
He sighs “You always say that.”
“Because every year you give me another reason.”
You gently straighten the collar of his coat, just like you used to when he was little.
He doesn’t stop you.
“You’ve become someone who protects others.”
“Only my crew.”
“Exactly.” you smile warmly “You’ve found your family.”
Law looks toward the sea, where his future waits.
Your voice becomes almost a whisper “Rosinante would be so proud of you.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and when he finally does, his voice is quiet but certain “...I know.”
Then he looks at you “And...” he hesitates, as if the next words are too difficult “...he’d be proud of you too.”
You shake your head “No.”
“Yes.” his answer comes without hesitation “You think you failed him, but you didn’t.”
Your lips tremble.
Law gives you a small smile and continues “You kept your promise to him.”
Your eyes fill once more.
He stands, adjusts his sword at his side, and then, before walking back toward Bepo, Penguin and Shachi, he pauses. Without turning around, he says quietly “...Thank you.”
Only two words, but from Trafalgar Law? They’re worth a lifetime.
You watch him walk toward his future, toward the sea, toward the dream Rosinante died to protect, and for the first time, the promise resting on your shoulders no longer feels heavy.
You’ve spent years in Dressrosa… always moving, always watching, gathering names, places and secrets.
Waiting for the day the Heavenly Demon falls.
You always imagined doing it alone, and you never imagined seeing another familiar face there.
You stop walking when across the square you spot a man wearing a spotted white hat… who freezes too, for one long second...
He's taller now. Dark circles beneath tired eyes. A long sword rests against his shoulder.
But… you’d recognize him anywhere.
“...Law?”
His lips part ever so slightly, almost like he forgot how to speak.
“...It’s been a while.”
You don’t even think, you close the distance and wrap your arms around him.
He stiffens, and behind him, several strangers blink in surprise. A long-nosed man’s jaw drops. A dark haired girl smiles.
Law sighs but he doesn’t push you away.
You pull back just enough to cup his face “Look at you...”
Your eyes immediately become wet “You’re so skinny.”
Law deadpans “That’s your first comment?”
“Have you been eating good?”
“Yes.”
You narrow your eyes “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You always wrinkle your nose when you lie.”
He immediately stops moving his face.
You smile triumphantly “See?”
The boy with the long nose tilts his head “He has people who scold him?”
Law pinches the bridge of his nose “Can we move on?”
Only then you notice where he is… Dressrosa.
Your smile fades and your stomach twists.
You look around at the city and then back at Law and your expression hardens as you say “...No.”
Law says nothing.
You take one step closer “Absolutely not.”
He sighs “I figured you’d react like this.”
“You’re here because of him.”
Law doesn’t deny it, instead he calmly asks you “Aren’t you here for the same reason?”
You hate that he's right.
You cross your arms “Yeah. But you’re too young for this.”
Law looks at you, then without missing a beat “And you’re too old.”
Silence.
The two Strawhats stare.
Your eye twitches “Oi.” you point a finger at him “I’m not that old!”
A tiny smirk appears on Law’s face.
Usopp practically shouts “He can smile?!”
Law ignores him.
You poke his chest “Listen here, brat.”
Another poke “I’m a pirate too.”
Another poke “I’m the one who trained you in the first place.”
Another poke “You’re still just a kid.”
You grin “Leave Doflamingo to me.”
The smile disappears from Law's face and his expression becomes unreadable.
Quietly he says “I’m twenty-six.”
You freeze as the words echo inside your head.
Law isn’t just telling you his age, he’s telling you that he’s ready to die, just like the man who saved him.
Your hands slowly fall to your sides “...I get it.”
Law says nothing.
You meet his eyes and shake your head as a sad smile appears “But this time...”
Your voice is steady “...I won’t stand still.”
Law opens his mouth, probably to argue, but you don’t let him.
You look around frowning “Where’s your crew?”
Your smile returns “I miss Bepo.”
Law doesn’t answer, he simply looks away.
Your smile slowly fades and your voice drops to a whisper “...Law. You left them.”
Now you understand… of course he did… he came here expecting not to return. He didn’t bring them because he refused to make them watch him die.
Like Rosinante… who locked you inside that wooden house.
You step closer, so that only he can hear you “You’re an idiot.”
Law lets out a quiet breath “I know.”
You smile sadly “No.”
You gently flick his forehead, just like you used to.
He blinks in surprise.
Then you say softly “You’re exactly like him.”
Law closes his eyes.
You take a deep breath and then turn toward the palace looming over Dressrosa.
Your hand settles on the hilt of your sword to give you courage.
The royal plateau trembles beneath every blow.
From below people scream, pirates run and fight.
Up here there are two men, one fighting for revenge and the other playing with him.
Law falls to one knee, his breathing is ragged.
Blood drips from his fingertips, from his chest, from wounds that refuse to close, as he struggles to stay standing.
Across from him Doflamingo smiles, relaxed and almost bored “Is that all?”
Law doesn’t answer but he forces himself upright again.
ROOM.
The blue sphere expands, he disappears and reappears behind Doflamingo.
Kikoku swings but Doflamingo blocks without even looking, strings wrap around the blade.
Another kick and Law is thrown across the rooftop, crashing through a broken stone. The impact steals the air from his lungs.
Luffy is still trapped fighting Bellamy.
Doflamingo slowly walks toward Law, hands in his pockets and smiling “You know… he looked just like you at the end. Broken.”
He takes another step “Bleeding.”
Another step “Still pretending he could protect someone.”
Law grips Kikoku tighter, so much that his knuckles turn white “Don’t...”
Doflamingo laughs “He died like a fool.”
Law suddenly lunges in a desperate slash, but it's too slow.
Strings catch the blade and then another kick.
This time Law doesn't get back up immediately.
A shadow lands between them.
Your sword catches the strings inches before they reach Law’s neck.
Sparks scatter across the rooftop.
Doflamingo’s grin widens in genuine amusement “Well...”
He slowly adjusts his sunglasses “Look who’s finally here.”
You don’t lower your sword.
Your eyes never leave his.
Years waiting for this moment.
Your voice is cold “Get away from him.”
Behind you Law exhales, almost in disbelief “...You finally came.”
You don’t look back “Of course I did. You really thought I’d let you do something this stupid alone?”
Law sighs “...Yeah.”
Doflamingo chuckles low and cruelly, “How nostalgic.”
He spreads his arms dramatically “Rosinante’s little wife!”
For years people assumed you and Rosinante were together but neither of you ever bothered correcting them. Sometimes you even played along to get free food or just for fun.
So instead, now you smile, but a sad one “Yeah.”
Law glances at you surprised.
Your eyes remain fixed on Doflamingo “And I’m here to finish what my husband couldn’t.”
For the first time Doflamingo’s smile slightly falters. Then he laughs louder than ever “Fuffuffuffu! Sure!”
The fight begins again, this time together, you and Law move without speaking.
Years of training, years of surviving, years of protecting each other.
Law uses his powers to make you disappear and reappear above Doflamingo. Your blade comes down but strings block it.
Law attacks from below while you force Doflamingo to dodge left, exactly where Law expected.
A shockwave tears through the rooftop, stone explodes beneath your feet.
“Still protecting him?” Doflamingo laughs while blocking another strike “my stupid brother really infected you.”
You answer with another slash.
The battle grows faster and harder.
Law’s breathing becomes heavier.
You notice immediately. He’s reaching his limit again.
Doflamingo notices too and so, he smiles.
Then suddenly he changes targets from you to Law. Hundreds of razor-thin strings burst toward him.
Law is already moving forward but you’re faster and you throw yourself between them.
The strings pierce your side and hot pain explodes through your body.
Your breath disappears and blood splashes across the stone.
Law freezes and his eyes widen “...No.”
Another string cuts across your shoulder.
Your sword slips from your fingers and it clatters loudly against the floor.
The sound echoes.
Your knees finally give out but Law catches you before you fall.
“No...”
Not again, not someone else, not because of him.
This is what both you and Law are thinking.
Law’s hands shake so badly he can barely hold you.
You smile weakly, trying to be exactly like Rosinante used to.
Doflamingo watches, laughing “How pathetic.”
He slowly walks closer.
“You really want to follow my idiot little brother into hell...”
He stops a few steps away, looking down at both of you “...just for this useless brat?”
You slowly lift your head, even if your vision is blurry and even if your whole body burns, your smile never disappears.
“Don’t call...” you try to say but blood fills your mouth making you cough.
Law grips you tighter “Don’t talk.”
You ignore him and your eyes remain on Doflamingo “...him...”
Another painful breath “...your brother...”
You slowly leave Law's grip and stand up. Your hand stays on the cut at your side “I...”
Your fingers tremble “...still have...”
A tear slips down your face “...a promise...”
You smile softly “...to keep.”
Something inside Law snaps. He stands.
His eyes are empty and way colder than you’ve ever seen them.
ROOM.
The blue sphere explodes around you all. Law vanishes and appears directly before Doflamingo. Kikoku crashes against awakened strings.
The impact shakes the palace and Doflamingo is actually pushed back. Only one step but it’s enough.
Then a voice echoes across the rooftop.
Luffy.
Doflamingo clicks his tongue “Finally.”
His attention shifts to Luffy for an instant and Law immediately turns back, toward you.
He kneels so fast he nearly slips on the blood. One trembling hand presses against your wound, while the other gently brushes your hair away from your face.
He’s breathing too fast. He reminds you so much of that little kid who cried for Rosinante, but he also looks so different from that time… now he’s trying to save someone else.
His voice is barely audible “...You kept your promise.”
You blink slowly, looking at him.
He smiles… a broken smile and says “Thank you...”
His throat tightens “...for raising me.”
Your eyes widen.
“For staying...” his voice cracks “For every meal...”
A shaky laugh, mixed with tears “...for every time you yelled at me...”
You try to answer, but nothing comes out.
Law gently squeezes your hand.
Then very quietly, like he’s finally speaking to both you and Rosinante he says “I can protect people now.”
He smiles through tears “...So let me protect you.”
ROOM.
You crash into someone’s arms. Usopp stumbles backward.
Your clothes are soaked in blood and your breathing is shallow.
Usopp’s face drains of color “LAW SENT HER HERE!”
You weakly grab Usopp’s sleeve as support, looking toward the distant rooftop, toward the captain who sent you away and a tiny smile appears.
He finally did it.
13 years ago Rosinante protected Law. Today you protected Law and Law protected you.
The promise isn’t just yours anymore, it became his too.
For the first time in years… Dressrosa is quiet.
People around are crying, laughing and holding each other after believing they would never see another sunrise.
You walk through the ruined streets slowly, carrying water and bandaging cuts.
The kingdom is broken but it’s alive again.
You smile to yourself.
Later you find Law standing alone at the edge of the harbor.
His hands rest in the pockets of his coat as he’s watching the sea.
You quietly walk beside him “So...”
Law glances sideways.
“You’re leaving again.”
He nods once “Yeah.”
You smile “Good.”
He raises an eyebrow “Good?”
“If you stayed in one place for too long, I’d start worrying.”
A tiny smirk appears “You worry anyway.”
“That’s true.”
He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
You both look toward the sea and then you softly say “I’m proud of you.”
Law sighs dramatically “You always start with that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply listens.
You fold your hands behind your back, looking at the waves “You’ve come farther than either of us imagined.”
A pause “You found your family.”
Another pause “You protected them.”
You smile softly “You smiled again.”
He clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t deny it.
You inhale slowly, the next words are the ones you’ve wanted to tell him for years as you watched his journey in the newspapers “Rosinante would be proud of you.”
Law’s little smile disappears and his eyes lower toward the water. For a long moment he says nothing.
Then, very quietly “...It’s not me who defeated him.”
You look at him.
His fingers tighten inside his pockets “Straw Hat did.”
You study him. Then you gently bump his shoulder with yours “And you think you did nothing?”
He looks at you confused and you smile warmly and patiently, like you used to when he was still a stubborn little boy refusing medicine.
“Who brought Luffy here?”
Law doesn’t answer.
“Who spent thirteen years chasing Doflamingo?”
Silence.
You continue anyway.
“Who trusted someone else enough to carry the dream when he couldn’t?”
Law lowers his head and your voice softens “Rosinante never wanted revenge.”
Law closes his eyes.
You already know he’s remembering him.
“He wanted children to smile.” your own voice begins to tremble “He wanted you...” a shaky breath “...to live.”
Law’s shoulders stiffen.
“That’s all he ever wanted.”
The harbor grows quiet around you and for a while neither of you speaks.
Then Law lets out a long breath, almost like he’s setting down a weight he’d been carrying for years “...You always sound like him.”
You blink, then laugh quietly “Do I?”
“Sometimes it’s annoying.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
A small smile returns to his face.
After another long silence Law suddenly speaks without looking at you “Come with me.”
You turn “Hm?”
He shrugs, trying to act and sound casual but failing “The crew… You haven’t seen them in years.”
You immediately picture Bepo laughing, Penguin complaining and Shachi shouting.
Your heart warms.
Law scratches the back of his neck “You should come meet them again.”
Your smile grows softer but then you gently shake your head “No.”
Law finally looks at you, not surprised but waiting.
You glance toward Dressrosa and smile.
“This...” you gesture toward the sea “This is your adventure.” then you shake your head “Not mine.”
Your eyes go on the kingdom “I think this place needs help getting back on its feet.”
Law follows your gaze and after a moment he nods as he understands.
You laugh softly and say “Tell Bepo I miss him.”
Law nods “I will.”
“And tell him… I’m proud of him too.”
Law nods again, then he gives you a look. You know that look… one eyebrow raised.
You laugh “Yes, yes...”
You roll your eyes dramatically “Tell the two other idiots I’m thankful for them too.”
Law snorts “They’ll be disappointed that’s all you said.”
“Good.”
He actually laughs softly and for just a second… you imagine how much Rosinante would be proud and happy right now, so much that your chest aches.
You smile small and gentle “I saw everything.”
Law looks at you.
“The Heart Pirates.” your eyes remain on the sea “Your Jolly Roger.”
A tear begins to gather “Everything you did.”
You smile anyway “Thank you, Law.”
He blinks “For what?”
Your voice barely rises above the wind “I’m glad...” a shaky breath “...someone is still reminding the world that Corasan existed.”
Law is quiet, then he answers “You do too.”
You look at him and he holds your gaze.
“Otherwise...” his voice is calm and certain “...you wouldn’t be here.”
Your smile trembles.
You quickly lower your head, you don’t want him to see, not again and not after all these years, but the first sob escapes anyway.
Your shoulders shake and your hands cover your face.
Your voice breaks completely “I...” another sob “I miss him so much...”
The words leave you in pieces, like they’ve been trapped inside your chest for thirteen long years.
Law says nothing, he simply stays beside you, close enough that you know you’re not alone, but far enough that he doesn’t take away your grief.
He understands that kind of pain isn’t meant to be fixed, but it can be shared to ease it.
You cry and he waits.
When your tears finally slow you wipe your eyes with an embarrassed laugh “Sorry.”
Law shakes his head “Don’t apologize.”
You smile sadly and then take one deep breath.
The sea stretches endlessly before you, and a new adventure waits for him while a different one waits for you.
You reach up and, just like you did when he was a child you straighten his collar.
Law doesn’t complain.
“Take care of yourself.”
“I’ll try.”
For a moment… you could swear you see a flash of pink and purple feathers dancing in the sea breeze.
Law picks up Kikoku and turns toward the strawhats.
Halfway there he stops without looking back, he lifts one hand in a small wave.
You lift your own, even if he can’t see it and you watch until he disappears.
You stand there long after the sea grows still. Then, with one last smile toward the horizon, you whisper into the wind “We’ll keep living, Rosinante… just like you wanted.”
◡◡ ﹒ sanji x gn!reader 𖧧 requested | wc : 1.5k approx.l | cw : fluff / comedy / sanji is dramatic, of course / reader can't taste / ft. straw~hats | masterlist
sanji noticed little things.
he noticed when the butter in the kitchen was running low before anyone else did. he noticed when nami skipped breakfast because she was busy. he noticed when usopp secretly stole extra desserts and blamed luffy afterward.
so it was almost offensive that he hadn't noticed this.
"...how is it?" sanji asked proudly, setting a steaming bowl of seafood risotto in front of you.
you smiled.
"it's warm."
"...warm?"
you nodded happily.
"very warm."
sanji blinked.
"...and?"
"...it fills my stomach."
he stared.
that wasn't an answer.
he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"are you... messing with me?"
you tilted your head.
"no?"
his chef instincts started screaming.
the next day, he tested you.
he made pancakes.
everyone else nearly cried over how fluffy they were.
"these are amazing!!" luffy yelled through a mouthful.
"sanji, i think these are your best yet!" chopper beamed.
you took one bite.
"...soft."
sanji almost dropped the spatula.
soft.
not sweet.
not buttery.
not fluffy.
soft.
"...that's all?" he asked.
"mhm."
"..."
he made curry.
you said it was "hot."
he made lemon tart.
you said it was "cold."
he made garlic pasta.
you said it was "chewy."
sanji's eye twitched.
something was terribly wrong.
a week later, he cornered you in the pantry.
you looked mildly surprised.
"...did i do something?"
he crossed his arms dramatically.
"every time i cook, everyone describes flavors."
he counted on his fingers.
"'sweet.'"
"'salty.'"
"'creamy.'"
"'rich.'"
"'savory.'"
then he pointed at you.
"you?"
"'warm.'"
"'chewy.'"
"'crispy.'"
"'wet.'"
you rubbed the back of your neck.
"...i don't really know how else to describe food."
"...why?"
"...because i can't taste."
everything froze.
even the potatoes felt dramatic.
"...what?"
you blinked.
"i can't taste."
"or smell."
"...since i was little."
sanji's cigarette slipped right out of his mouth.
"you..."
"...can't..."
"...taste?"
you nodded.
"or smell."
"...ever?"
"nope."
"...not even chocolate?"
"...no."
"...ice cream?"
"...just cold."
"...steak?"
"...texture."
"...coffee?"
"...warm drink."
sanji looked like someone had personally informed him the ocean had been canceled.
he refused to believe it.
"close your eyes."
"...why?"
"trust me."
you shrugged.
"okay."
he gently placed something into your mouth.
you chewed.
"...crunchy."
"...that's it?"
"...i think it's... round?"
"...it was a strawberry."
he dramatically held his chest.
"my poor sweetheart..."
"i've never seen you this emotional."
"you've never tasted strawberries..."
"i don't know what i'm missing."
"THAT'S THE PROBLEM!"
sanji entered what the crew would later call...
the five stages of chef grief.
denial.
"maybe your taste buds are just... sleeping."
anger.
"WHOEVER MADE THIS HAPPEN, I JUST WANT TO TALK."
bargaining.
"what if i add more butter?"
depression.
"...they've never tasted homemade bread..."
acceptance.
"...i'll simply make every meal with extra love."
"how does that even work?" usopp asked later during lunch.
you shrugged.
"food just feels different."
"spicy?"
"pain."
"mint?"
"cold pain."
"wasabi?"
"very aggressive pain."
everyone nodded thoughtfully.
"...fair."
sanji became determined.
if you couldn't enjoy flavor...
he'd make you enjoy everything else.
"soup."
you took a sip.
"...silky."
his eyes sparkled.
"yes!"
"bread."
"...crispy."
"excellent!"
"fried shrimp."
"...very crunchy."
"that's my specialty!"
he started asking questions constantly.
"how's the texture?"
"good."
"temperature?"
"perfect."
"mouthfeel?"
"...is that a real word?"
"...it is now."
soon, every meal became strangely scientific.
"okay."
sanji crouched beside you.
"rate today's rice."
"...nine."
his eyes widened.
"really?"
"yes."
"why?"
"...pleasant to chew."
he nearly cried.
he became ridiculously protective during meals.
"too hot."
he blew on your soup.
"careful."
he cut your meat into smaller pieces.
"this one's crunchy."
he handed you freshly baked bread.
"don't eat that yet."
he gently took away a plate.
"the filling is still lava."
"...sanji."
"...yes?"
"...i'm an adult."
"...i know."
"...still blowing on your soup."
luffy didn't understand.
"if they can't taste..."
he shoved an entire lemon into his own mouth.
"...why eat?"
you smiled.
"because i'm hungry."
"...fair enough."
he immediately stole your bread.
one evening, sanji quietly sat beside you on the deck.
the sunset painted the ocean orange.
"...can i ask something?"
"of course."
"...do you wish you could taste?"
you thought for a while.
"...sometimes."
"mostly because everyone gets so excited."
"they talk about flavors like they're adventures."
"i've always wondered what they're talking about."
sanji's heart squeezed painfully.
"...i'm sorry."
you looked confused.
"for what?"
"...that you never got to experience it."
you smiled.
"...it's okay."
"i don't really miss something i've never had."
"...besides."
you nudged his shoulder.
"everyone else looks happy when they eat."
"that's enough for me."
sanji looked at you for a long moment.
then he smiled.
softly.
"you're impossible."
"that's what zoro says."
"for entirely different reasons."
the next morning...
sanji burst into the dining room carrying breakfast.
"today's menu!"
everyone cheered.
except you.
you simply waited patiently.
sanji placed your plate down first.
everyone noticed.
it looked...
different.
the toast was cut into little stars.
the eggs were shaped like tiny flowers.
the vegetables were arranged into smiling faces.
even the pancakes looked like hearts.
you stared.
"...it's cute."
sanji grinned proudly.
"if flavor's off the table..."
he tapped the plate.
"...presentation wins."
you laughed.
"a visual meal?"
"exactly."
"that's incredibly cheesy."
"i'm a romantic chef."
"you're impossible."
"that's what you said yesterday."
"...fair."
you picked up one of the little star-shaped toast pieces.
"...crispy."
sanji gasped dramatically.
"the highest compliment!"
you couldn't stop laughing.
neither could he.
from that day on...
your meals always looked just a little more magical than everyone else's.
rice shaped into bears.
vegetables carved into flowers.
bread baked as tiny hearts.
cookies shaped like little cigarette swirls just to make you laugh.
because maybe you couldn't taste.
maybe you couldn't smell.
but sanji would make absolutely sure...
that every meal still felt like love.
——————————————————
𐔌 ᛝ taglist .ᐟ : @chocolateshortcakesblog
this fic is written by @qwehwa 2026 / please do not feed any of my work into ai, copy, plagerise, nor translate them into any other language.
