- Benn lies on his stomach when he lies with you in the night, he has a few back problems with age and experience of being a pirate,
- Keeping that rifle steady and his shoulders squared whilst hes covering Shanks during enemy and ally encounters has done some damage,
- Benn usually slings an arm over your lower back, his calloused thumb rubbing patterns across your skin to help you fall asleep, moving his hands soothes him too. Hes always doing something with his hands, either cleaning his rifle, or pulling the ropes for the sails, or dragging you by the collar back to his side when a stray bullet hits,
- The pillows are covered in grey hairs, Benn always takes his low ponytail out when he goes to sleep, its long so sometimes you even braid it loosely to help him fall asleep when his back is giving him problems,
- Benn's voice is more raspy in the morning, his left eye always cracks open first, half lidded as he grins, watching you wake up,
"Mornin y/n, ready to face the day? Captains gonna be making barbeque out of that crews ship"
- Benn always makes the bed in the morning, sometimes, on the very rare occasions that Benn's tired, youll do it and pull the blanket back over his as you go on deck to get a few tasks done to make his day easier,
- Shanks has a habit of putting his cold feet by yours in the morning, usually to test if you're still aslewp so he can blame you that hes stayed in bed a bit longer, cat rules, he cant move because hed disturb the cat (you),
- Usually it ends up with you kicking him under the covers and he laughs,
- Shanks always sleeps shirtless so its usually soft muscle that you wake up on, Shanks is usually pretty cold so its damn good to sleep next to him with all of the summer weathered islands,
"Haha! Ow y/n, cmon! Im cold, you wouldnt hurt me, im your captain!"
- As much as the Red Haired pirates are usually quite chaotic, Shanks enjoys the peaceful and slow mornings immensley when your asleep beside him,
- Shanks, my my, that man loves to be the little spoon,
- Why the hell wouldnt he want to lay in your arms, with his head against your chest,
- Shanks' crimson eyes are half lidded as he just keeps his arm around your waist, feeling the blanket get pulled over his shoulders again,
- Usually Rayleighs cloak is draped over you when your asleep in his arms, Rayleigh always wears boxers and just a white linen shirt,
"Hmm, keeping it warm for me love? Good"
- Rayleigh sleeps on his back, with his arm around your waist, his other arm rested behind his head,
- If Rayleigh wakes up before you, hes usually reading some book that the Roger pirates had nabbed,
"You're staring again"
- Rayleigh says, a smirk on his lips, getting up,
- Rayleigh always has messed up hair in the morning, when he eventually gets up and pulls his cloak from the floor, he licks his hand and slicks his hair back, cracking his sword welding arm and pulling his glasses on, only to readjust them, and then take them off to clean them,
- Rayleigh makes a habit of pulling your shirt back over you in the morning, usually kissing your collarbone before buttoning up the rest and grinning,
- Off to deal with whatever nonsense the crew was getting up to next,
- Its quiet in the mornings at Shakky's bar in Sabaody, as with age, well, what's more to do whilst you wait then drink and share memories? So you were both hungover,
- Rayleigh finds it hard to sleep without the rocking waves, even all these decades later, he still misses the creaking wood planks of the Oro Jackson,
- But the quiet after a hangover? Maybe he was a bit thankful for that, and you still in his arms of course, though, Rayleigh usually sleeps on his side now, his arm usually rested under your head, his head rested against your upper back,
"Y/n, my arms going numb"
- But he never makes any attempt to move, you're no fool, age may have made Rayleigh age, but his body was still more put together then people believed,
- Sometimes Rayleigh presses a few kisses them. The long beard hed grown usually making you shift from how it tickled your skin,
- Rayleigh still pulls the cloak over you, still makes that same damn joke, Rayleigh won't admit it, but he really does like feeling the warmth of you when he wears it,
- This man has biceps that could crush mountains, let alone his axes, he always sleeps only in his boxers,
- There is no way that you are getting out of the cuddle in the morning until he wakes up. That man has a death grip on you lol,
- Gaban's axes are always rested by his side of the bed,
- Gaban usually drops his sunglasses on the nightstand or he just forgets to take them off all together and sleeps with them on,
"Ugh, damn things"
- Hed grumble as he goes to rub his eyes and ends up poking himself in the eye by pressing his fingers to the lense of his glasses,
- Gaban likes sleeping so hes facing you, laying on his side as he keeps you close, your head rested against his chest,
- Gaban is a deep sleeper, he doesnt wake up until he feels something off, or something coming, there have been moments where he has accidentally slept in and had to fight in his damn underwear before,
"Tch, we dont talk about that sweetheart"
- Is all Gaban says, as he can hear you start laughing, those encounters are something that the crew teases him about, but even then? Theres a sharp grin as he 'scolds' you,
- Gaban will quietly tap some sort of secret language that you'd both made up during your time together on your thigh to test if your still asleep, if you laugh? Then he knows you're not, if you dont? Then that means he gets a bit longer in bed,
- Gaban lies on his stomach now, man needs a damn hydraulic press on his back, and you my dear, will be his makeshift hydraulic press now. Sometimes you will press your elbow into part of his shoulder blades and hell groan as he wakes up, relief flooding through for a bit,
"Thanks sweetheart, thats been bothering me for a while"
- Gaban claims he is still the big spoon, absolutley no way would he ever be the little spoon, but over the years? He has become the little spoon, he loves it when you lay across his back, your head resting on his upper back as you sleep,
- Gaban keeps a calloused hand on your leg when you both cuddle. Your leg rested by his hip, usually he drags you by the leg, grinning like a moron as he drags you onto his back,
"Cmon. Time for bed."
- Gaban grunts and squints whenever the light filters in, he wakes up at the first light, usually leaning his head back and craning it over his shoulder to kiss you in the morning,
- Every morning, without fail, Gaban will defintley make some sort of sex joke, theres no escape and their always so bad,
- Roger keeps his chest pressed to your back, his head rested on the crook of your neck, the hairs from his moustache usually irritating your skin or tickling it,
- Roger is a stupidly tall man, so one of his legs is always hanging out from the blanket,
"Mhn. Ready for another adventure? We're getting close now, I can feel it. Just a bit longer"
- Roger would say as that sleep, wide grin would grace his lips,
- Roger usually drapes his cloak over you both to act like a blanket, that was in the very early days of the crew before you had done a marine raid and grabbed a few blankets for the boat,
"Stay a while love, Captain's orders"
- Unfortunately Captain's orders meant fuck all when he gets up pretty much immediately because Rayleigh and Gaban can only enable him with so much nonsense,
- As Rogers illness sets in, he starts sleeping on his back, sleeping on his side makes him cough more and you had found a few straw pillows to help prop him up,
- You'd rest your head near his heartbeat. Making sure you can still hear it but making sure your not putting pressure on anything,
Who do you think in one piece would have a virginity kink (being your first and teach you how to do everything) and a breeding kink?
Some characters are missing simply because I dont see them as having either but I tried to add as many characters as I could think of.
Virginity Kink
Sanji, he is a virgin himself, waiting for true love and the right moment, so knowing that his partner also was waiting and that they could have their first time together? Yeah he wont last long but he will do everthing to make his partner feel good.
Law. I believe he is a virgin like Sanji and would prefer to have his first time with someone he can trust and feel comfortable with. I just love virgin loser Law so much and mixing that with a shy virgin reader? Yep! I'm here for it!
Shachi! He is a pervert! To him it feels like he is corrupting his s/o with every new step they take together. If his s/o didn't even have their first kiss yet, BOY does he get off on it!
Doflamingo. He wants to be the ONLY man to touch you. Doesnt matter that he had multiple other women before you. He stopped seeing them after he got together with you, his queen.
Breeding Kink
Gaban! Man just loves kids and to see his s/o pregnant. But he also takes amazing care of his partner and is an amazing dad! Will use every free second to fill you up
Corazon! I see him as a romantic who dreams of a little house with you and your children. He would never confirm it, but he might track your cycle to know when your most fertile days are. Even if you are not ready yet and either take the pill or he uses a condom, the thought alone of one day doing you bare drives him to the edge.
Buggy. Dont ask why, he just gives the vibe. Buggy may have a breeding kink but doesnt want children (at least not yet) so he begs you to switch to the pill so he can live out his fantasy of stuffing you full of cum and watching it drip out without having to worry about changing diapers in 9 months.
Virginity + Breeding Kink
Roger! It's the pirate in him that gets a boner whenever he gets to be the first for something, even when its finding a new island. And he LOVES to cum deep inside his s/o. His horny brain is too strong to think about the fact that it could lead to a child.
KILLER! Here is whats going on in his mind: "You trust me with something like your first time AND let me breed you? I must be in heaven!" He is baffled that you love him enough to give him such a gift.
You’re a woman with the deeply unfortunate curse of having the was sexual entity known as Scopper Gaban as your soulmate.
You’ve never met him. You don’t want to meet him. But you’ve been stuck with his voice in your dreams—an ever-present peanut gallery of absurd commentary, raunchy innuendo, suspiciously detailed fantasies, and deeply criminal thoughts about leather, swords, and what he could do with a bathtub and two hours.
You assumed he was a pervy bard or a drunk weaponsmith. You hoped he was a eunuch. You even prayed he was dead.
He is unfortunately very alive, very loud, and very into you.
He talks nonstop. About your posture, your breathing, the way your voice sounds when you lie, the way you hold your sword, and how cute your “angry little face” is when you’re trying not to blush. Which is often. Because he says things like:
“If I ever get my hands on you, sweetheart, you’ll need a week to walk straight. And that’s just from the massage—don’t exhaust yourself.”
You’ve tried everything. Meditation. Alcohol. Punching yourself in the face. If you even think about seduce another man, purely out of spite, he’s there. That poor soul will be nearly scared off the planet if Scopper started narrating the entire seduction attempt in excruciating detail—and then threatened to show up in person with “visual aids.”
He’s also unnervingly competent. He knows how to hotwire a ship, break into a vault, disable an admiral, and still have time to complain about the lack of decent bath salts on this side of the sea. You suspect he’s a criminal, but you can’t be sure because he’s cagey and dramatic, like a pirate version of a soap opera villain.
When you finally meet—cornered on an abandoned island, soaked and bloodied from a storm—you recognize him instantly. Not from the face. From the grin.
“Well, well. There’s my favorite migraine in boots.”
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
Age 16:
You were sixteen when it began. Sleep came easily that night, soft as always, yet when the darkness deepened, something shifted. The dream was not like the others. The air carried salt, the kind that stung your nose and filled your lungs, and a murmur rolled through it.
“If Rayleigh uses my hair oil one more time, I’m shoving a sea prism stone up his ass.”
At first you thought it was your own mind filling the silence. Then the sound sharpened into words. A man’s voice, low and steady, shaped by the cadence of the sea. He was not speaking to you. He was speaking into the air of your dream, as if you were a wall or a stone.
You lay still inside that strange half-world, listening.
He barked orders to someone you could not see. Laughed suddenly, a warm burst that startled you. Another night he muttered about burned fish and groaned about a captain’s snoring. His tone shifted often, from sharp and decisive to quiet with thought.
“That’s right, tell ‘em Scopper Gaban sent you. And then punch them. Twice. No—three times, if they’re ugly.”
Mostly it was nonsense. Batshit insane, even. Him, it, whatever the voice belonged to. Scopper Gaban, he called himself. There was a man in your head, and he was not okay.
You assumed he was a man because it felt that way. His voice carried weight, too rough around the edges to mistake. He thought often of women, too often, his mind a mess of half-formed pickup lines and terrible jokes that cracked against the walls of your dream until you winced.
There was no real way to answer. Not in the way you wanted.
In your dreams, it was like standing before a wall, solid and thick, with only the faintest echo slipping through the cracks. You could think at him, press words against the surface, but they smeared like paint. He never seemed to notice, never paused, never answered back.
And yet, night after night, you returned.
So you tried to finger-paint a sunset.
It went badly. The orange smeared like blood, the sun warped into a gaping wound of emotional instability, and the whole thing carried a faint sense of being cursed. You frowned at it, smearing harder, trying to will it into something softer, brighter.
That was when the voice cut through.
“That’s not a sunset. That’s a crime scene.”
Your hand went slack. The brush dropped into the mess at your feet.
“Rude!”
“That thing looks like it insulted a pirate crew and got disemboweled by the shoreline.” A pause. A chuckle. “I like it. Good job, brain.”
You froze. The world froze. Even the wall seemed to tilt beneath the sound of his words.
He had answered.
Not in passing, not to someone else. He had spoken into the crack in the wall, directly where you stood.
Your mouth went dry. Your heart knocked hard against your ribs. You blinked, you wiped your stained hands against your clothes, and forced out a whisper.
“Who are you—”
And the dream shattered.
You woke in your bed, breath ragged, palms sticky with sweat, the memory of his laugh clinging to your skin like salt spray.
So you were having weird dreams.
And you did what any teenager with a creeping sense of doom would do. You wrote it all down in your notebook under the heading: Evidence I’m Cursed.
Having a sentient dream trilogy of an older man’s thoughts was… an experience.
The dreams blurred together, a half-lucid anthology of nonsense and frustration.
You tried snapping at the air, shouting at nothing as if your fury could punch through the invisible wall, only to wake hoarse and alone. There was no way to reach him. No way to make yourself real.
You tried telling people. That ended quickly. They smiled at first, then frowned, and eventually began to ask if you were all right in the tone reserved for cracked teacups and lost dogs.
And then there was the sheer chaos of what you overheard. Utterly unhinged declarations delivered with perfect conviction. “If I die, tell my boots I loved them.”
You filled page after page with these fragments. Some nights you laughed until your ribs hurt. Other nights you shut the book and pressed it under your pillow, convinced you were slowly losing your mind.
But no matter what you did, the dreams came back. And so did he.
You once dreamt he tried to seduce someone through you. Telepathically.
It was not subtle.
You woke with the words tumbling off your tongue in a bleary haze, still caught between sleep and waking. Which was how you ended up staring at your math teacher and declaring her a “foxy temptress of numbers.”
Detention.
A long one.
By then you had stopped denying it. Your hallucination had a personality and a vivid inner life. He was a pirate. Not just a pirate—he was apparently a famous one. A man likely presumed dead, missing, or too chaotic to exist legally.
You were just a teenager, trying to survive school, maybe fall in love, maybe scrape together a future. And meanwhile, your literal dream parasite had decided to conjure an imaginary jackass who flexed on warlords and described naval combat as “bedazzling with cannons.”
Sometimes you hated him for it. Sometimes you laughed until you cried.
And sometimes, when the dreams went quiet, the silence unsettled you most of all.
Because in the hush, it was like you could feel him. Not the words, not the walls, but the raw pulse of him. The unbearable joy of wind snapping full in the sails. The electric thrill of a good fight. That stubborn, brash flame of someone who lived louder than life itself.
And once, so soft you almost missed it, the thought that sank into you like a hook:
“I hope my bond activates soon. I hope she’s pretty and fun. And I hope she never knows I’m this dumb.”
And for a moment… You almost like him.
Almost.
“Do sea kings like jazz?”
And that’s when you wake, slam your pillow over your head and, scream.
Age 17:
By the time you were seventeen, the notebook had grown fat with scribbles, stains, and desperate annotations. Somewhere between your math notes and doodles of half-finished sunsets, a page had been carefully underlined and titled in all caps:
Top Ten Reasons My Inner Psyche Is a Menace
Starts bar fights because the music “doesn’t have enough groove.”
Thinks pants are optional if you own the confidence.
Constantly thinks about punching fish. For no reason.
Occasionally screams “SHINY!” like a magpie in heat.
Once mentally narrated an entire sword fight like it was erotica. You are still recovering.
Called himself “the sexy one” of the crew, with the solemnity of a priest giving benediction.
Complained that a man died “too boringly,” as though there were acceptable standards.
Believes rum is a food group. No exceptions.
Described someone as “stab-worthy but charming.” You cannot decide if that was supposed to be a compliment.
Genuinely believes glitter is a lifestyle.
You stared at the list often, chewing the end of your pen, wondering if anyone else in the world would ever believe it. If you showed this to a therapist, they would smile gently, fold the page in half, and send you to a very quiet institution.
Yet, for all its madness, the voice never left you.
The dreams began to shift. They no longer felt like drifting through an endless dark. They had shape now, edges. Less like floating in space, more like stepping into a world that wanted to trick you into believing it was real.
And of all places, it was disappointingly familiar.
Your hometown.
Not the vast oceans, not some glittering battlefield of legends. Just your town, small and ordinary, a little gray around the edges. You found yourself walking its streets alone, every stall of the market set just as it would be in daylight. The cobbler’s awning sagged. The baker’s shutters squeaked in the breeze.
You weren’t looking for anyone. That was the lie you told yourself. You were only moving through the place you knew best, a half-memory of a half-dream. Definitely not searching for your so-called soulmate. Not on purpose. Not after years of forcing yourself to ignore the walking disaster who had made himself at home in your skull.
And yet—
There it was.
Posted crooked on the town board, half-covered by an ad for salted fish and someone’s missing chicken. The parchment fluttered in the dream-breeze, ink bleeding slightly at the edges, but the words were clear enough to make your stomach drop.
WANTED: SCOPPER GABAN.
PIRATE. DANGEROUS. CHARMINGLY ARMED.
ALSO, PLEASE STOP FLIRTING WITH THE NAVY.
You stared.
And paused.
Because.
Well.
The hallucinations were now just getting out of control.
This was not a voice muttering nonsense in the back of your head. This was your own subconscious setting up a corkboard in the middle of a dream and pinning down your curse in black-and-white lettering. As if you needed the reminder.
You rubbed your eyes. The poster stayed put. The missing chicken notice flapped away, leaving the pirate’s smirk sketched in cheap ink and bold strokes. His name stared back at you like it had always belonged.
Scopper Gaban.
You whispered it once, testing the sound on your tongue. The world seemed to hum faintly in response, as though the dream itself had been waiting for you to say it.
And the image on the poster?
He was super sexy.
Annoyingly sexy.
The kind of sexy that made your brain want to fold in on itself and file for relocation.
Broad shoulders that filled the paper, thick forearms drawn with smug precision, a stance so cocky it almost radiated sound. His shirt hung open like he had never once believed in buttons, and somehow it worked. The artist had even given him a ponytail that looked both accidental and perfectly styled, as though he had fistfought a tropical storm and walked away with a fashion statement.
And his face—l?
His face screamed: I win fights and then kiss your mom.
You slapped a hand over your mouth, heat crawling up your neck, even though you knew no one could see you. This was your subconscious. This was your dream. And apparently your dream had decided to be rude.
He was so ridiculously appealing it felt cruel. As if someone had taken all the vague, half-formed longings you never spoke aloud, hammered them into a single body, and handed it to you wrapped in an open shirt and smug grin. Handmade for all the latent desires you did not even know you were waiting to be fulfilled.
The rest of your sleep that week was hell.
Every time your eyes closed, there he was. The poster burned into the backs of your lids. That ponytail. That stance. That maddening smirk. You tried to shake it off, wanted to bury yourself in homework, in chores, in the clamor of ordinary life. But as soon as your head hit the pillow, the image came crawling back.
Worse still, the voice grew cockier than ever.
You could hear him, drifting on the edges of your dreams, tossing words like sparks into the night. His laughter, loud and unbothered. His commentary is increasingly unbearable. He flirted shamelessly, the sound of his charm spilling toward women you could not see, half-formed dream figures who giggled at his nonsense.
“Did you like the photo? I flexed a little, just for flair. You gonna tear it down and keep it? Hang it by your bed? You blushed. You so blushed.”
It should not have mattered. They were not real. None of this was real. And yet the sound of it made your chest ache in ways you had no vocabulary for.
You tried to ignore him. You failed.
He seeped into everything.
You began to see him everywhere in your dreams. His face was sketched on the side of a crate, smirking at you through the grain of the wood. His name scrawled on half-torn papers that blew down the street with the wind. Once, an old man in the market sold fish with a poster of him tucked proudly behind the stall, as though it were part of the display.
What the hell, dreamscape?
You covered your face with both hands, muttering into your palms, but when you pulled them away he was still there, still laughing somewhere at the edges of your mind.
Age 18:
Around eighteen, the dreams started to genuinely mess with you.
It began subtly. A pause where there had never been one before. A ripple in the wall, as though the cracks were widening. By then, you had lived with his voice long enough to almost take it for granted, to filter it the way you might catalogue birdsong or rainfall.
But then, halfway through the year, it happened.
You made a comment.
“I don’t care how handsome you think you are. You keep calling yourself ‘The Mountain Eater,’ and I swear to all the seas, I will salt your remains and join the marines.”
Dream-you turned, gave the wall a vicious kick, and spat the words like poison.
“Shut up, you ass! I know karate!”
It was just another exasperated remark. The kind you had trained yourself to fling into the void, stones dropped down a bottomless well.
But this time, something came back.
Not words. Not laughter.
Silence.
Alarming, unnatural silence.
The sound stopped in its tracks. A dead stop, as though the whole dream had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it out. The world around you seemed to shiver in that pause, the market stalls swaying faintly, the sky overhead waiting for your next move.
And then—
A jolt.
Not yours. His. You felt it somehow, the distinct sense of someone stumbling hard, like they had taken a blow square to the face.
The hallucination—your hallucination—had been hit.
And then he spoke.
“Hey—OH. Oh no. That’s—actual, womanly sass. That’s not me. That was from inside. That was internal sass with flavor.”
The sound of him rolled through you, startled and unsteady, like a man who had just tripped over his own feet.
And then the world shifted.
It was like sitting in a stale classroom one moment, and the next, all the walls came crashing down. Air rushed in, sharp and clean, too much at once. You almost choked on it. Awareness flooded the space, overbearing and raw, so intense you could feel your pulse trying to match his.
“Hey—” The man paused. “Can you hear me?”
You froze.
The silence stretched long and trembling, heavy as a held breath. Your palms itched. Your throat tightened. And then, against all reason, you forced the words out.
“Are you a deity?” you asked, louder than you meant to, “like a really stupid one? Because being stuck in your head has been embarrassing for us both. Please remove me. My grades need it.”
The dream rang with your voice, bouncing strangely as if it did not know what to do with it.
And then came the laughter.
Not distant. Not muffled. Not half-lost behind the wall. It burst through, full-bodied and immediate, so close you almost felt it against your skin.
“Ha! Oh, hell—she’s funny. I got a funny one.”
He sounded half-wild, like someone who had been handed a miracle and a disaster in the same breath. Excited. Nervous. Hungry with the thrill of it.
“Not a deity, sweetheart. A man. Flesh, blood, scandalous fashion sense. You’re in my head? No, no, no. I’ve been in yours. You ever heard of soulmates, baby?”
The dream tilted. Your stomach flipped, as if the ground had decided to buckle beneath you.
“…like that crazy propaganda the World Government hates? The romance stuff?”
There was a beat of silence, then a delighted bark of laughter that filled the space like a cannon shot.
“Propaganda? Romance stuff?” He wheezed like you had just knocked him flat. “Oh, that’s rich. I love you already.”
You pressed both hands to your face, wishing you could sink through the floor. This was the part where you woke up. This was the part where the dream ended, right?
But the break never came. He was still there. Still laughing. Still real.
“How old are you, sweetheart?” he finally asked, and you could almost imagine him lounging back somewhere unseen, cocky head propped lazily in his hands.
“Get lost. I’m not about to be sexually harassed in my dreams.”
“Ouch. Don’t you know we’re fated? I’m just getting to know you. I’ve waited a loooong time for you, baby.”
“Okay, sentient hallucination,” you snapped, heat flooding your face even as you tried to sound steady, “call me baby again and I’ll scream.”
“Promise?”
“Stop prying. You’re just a lustful dream creature who’s been torpedoing my sleep schedule and my grades, and you sound like your sixty.”
“Ouch,” he groaned with theatrical flourish. “You wound me, sweetheart. But—” a low chuckle followed, smug and unhurried—“admittedly you’re a little young right now.”
Your eyes narrowed, even though there was no one to glare at.
“Right now?”
He hummed, the sound rolling through the dream like a wave against the hull. “Don’t worry. I’m patient. Soulmates are forever, aren’t they? You focus on being pretty, and I’ll do the rest. Unless…” His voice curled slyly, amused. “Unless you want to give me your address.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Are you insane? Why would I hand out my address to a hallucination with a ponytail complex? What are you going to do, swim here? Kick down my door with your scandalous fashion sense?”
He laughed, and you could hear the grin in it, wide and self-satisfied. “If that’s what it takes, sweetheart. I’m very good with doors.”
You dragged both hands down your face. “I cannot believe this. You are either an escaped mental patient who is telepathically hacking my sleep, or my brain has developed a pirate kink.”
“Both flattering options,” he said cheerfully.
“Shut up,” you muttered, but your heart was still racing. The dream felt less lucid now, more cloudy, and his presence filled it like he had always been waiting for the wall to crack.
“Get some rest, babe. I promise I’ll wait.”
You opened your mouth, the word already on your tongue—Don’t.
But the dream dissolved before you could speak.
When you woke the next morning, you felt better than you had in years. Rested, steady, your chest free of the constant tightness you had carried since fourteen. The air in your room felt lighter. The morning sun spilled through the curtains like it had been made only for you.
And the world was quiet.
No mental corridors were twisting behind your thoughts. No crackling presence filling the shadows. No smoky voice curling in your ear with its laughter and swagger.
For the first time in four years, your head was your own.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, too aware of the silence pressing in around you.
By the time you stumbled into the kitchen, the weight of it sat heavy in your chest. The clatter of plates, the scrape of cutlery, even the hum of the kettle—all of it sounded louder than usual, filling a space that had never been empty before.
You sat down, folded your arms on the table, and blurted, “Are you drugging me?”
Your mother blinked, spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. “With what?”
“I don’t know—horse tranquilizers. Holy water. Anti-demon herbs from the apothecary.” You squinted at her over your toast. “I’m having weird dreams again.”
She set her spoon down carefully, still watching you. “Do you want drugs?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Because how did you explain? How did you tell her that the silence didn’t feel like peace, it felt like someone had torn out the background music of your entire life?
And then there’s the flirting.
God, the flirting.
Scopper Gaban is a flirt by nature. It’s not even always on purpose. He flirts with bartenders. He flirts with nuns. He flirts with that one angry sea witch who keeps hexing the ship’s compass.
And you?
You feel it every time it happens.
Thanks to the bond, it’s like getting poked in the ribs with a hot iron every time he winks at someone. And you try to ignore it. Desperately. Heroically. Like a woman who is determined not to lose her entire will to live just because her soulmate is flashing his damn smile at every girl in a fifty-mile radius.
It’s a strategy. And it almost works.
Except that Scopper knows what he’s doing. He feels your frustration.
And it only makes him worse.
At a tavern, he flirts with a barmaid with extra flair. Leans in close. Laughs louder. Brushes a strand of her hair back while she giggles.
You, at a table in the corner, drinking your juice like it owes you money, are trying not to combust.
He’s grinning. You are one sharp sigh away from flipping the table.
“You’re doing it on purpose.” You whisper it across the bond like a curse.
“What? Being charming?” he thinks back, all smug silk.
“You’re a menace.”
“You’re jealous.”
“You’re a child.”
“And you’re into it.”
You shoved a fist in your mouth to keep from screaming. You don't talk to him for three nights.
Not until he slides next to you, mentally, on a day your feeling soft.
“I flirt with them, sure. But I dream about dancing with you.”
You freeze.
Because maybe—just maybe…You want the dance too.
Even if he’s still a disaster.
Because you are into it.
Elsewhere:
Gaban has dreams about it.
Dancing. Barefoot on the deck. You in something soft, maybe a little sun-warmed, perhaps a little smug, spinning under the stars with your arms around his neck and your soul completely unbothered by how insane he is.
No music. Just the sound of waves and laughter and your breath catching when he dips you just a little too low, his thumb pressed against your lower back like he knows it drives you crazy.
It’s a stupid dream. Too romantic. Too soft for a man who once dropkicked a Sea King off the ship for interrupting his nap.
But he has it again. And again. And again.
Until Rayleigh catches him zoning out during maintenance and just goes, “Who’s the girl this time, Romeo?”
Scopper shrugs. “No one.”
Rayleigh hums, entirely unconvinced. “Was she spinning? Were you spinning? Was there a moon involved?”
Roger strolls by, leans on the rail, and throws in with a grin, “Was I officiating? Do I cry? Be honest.”
Scopper flips them both off and storms below deck.
Buggy and Shanks grow concerned.
They start noticing it at meals.
Scopper, who usually talks with his whole chest and occasionally his elbows, begins… mumbling.
Mid-bite, mid-sentence, mid–pickled octopus ball—he’ll suddenly look off into the distance and go:
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that.”
Or—
“You’re cute when you’re wrong.”
Or the frankly disturbing:
“Soup isn’t a personality trait, baby, get over it.”
Buggy stares at him like he’s caught scurvy of the brain. Shanks openly starts taking notes. Mental notes. Survival notes.
They think he’s losing it.
He can’t wait for the day you actually show up.
Real. Living. Breathing. Gorgeous. Clearly regretting every life choice that brought you here.
Scopper jogs over like a golden retriever on espresso and throws an arm around your shoulder, smug as sin. You slap his stomach without looking.
And both Buggy and Shanks will audibly gasp.
“OH MY GOD SHE’S REAL.”
“YOU’RE NOT IMAGINARY??”
You’ll just nod and mutter, “Not by choice.”
Rayleigh will wander by, sipping his drink and clapping both of them on the back.
“It’s gonna happen to you too.” And then keeps walking like a prophet who left a landmine behind.
Age 20:
By twenty, the silence had long since ended. It was not every night—never steady enough to predict—but on many nights you found yourself bantering with your so-called sleep demon.
The first time he returned, it had been with no warning at all. You had slipped into dreams expecting nothing, braced for the echoing emptiness. And then there he was, full-throated and impossible, yelling about how someone had stolen his boots and demanding that the universe deliver vengeance on their head.
Now it had become… normal. Or as normal as it could be, given the circumstances.
You would drift into sleep, and sometimes he would be waiting for you. Lounging against an invisible wall, arms crossed, grin wide and crooked.
“Evening, sweetheart. Miss me?”
And you would groan, dragging a hand down your face. “I was hoping for peace tonight, creature.”
He always laughed at that, loud and smug. “Then you should’ve prayed for a quieter soulmate.”
The nights turned into sparring matches. His cocky wit pressed against your dry comebacks. He teased, and you snapped. He bragged, and you poked holes in his stories. Sometimes he ranted about pirates and captains and battles you barely believed. Other times, you scolded him for being the reason you never got enough sleep.
And yet, beneath all of it, there was the undeniable comfort of his voice filling the dark.
Not that you were ever going to tell him.
Because he had a horny side, one that flared up at the slightest hint of benevolence. If you so much as sounded soft for a moment, he pounced on it like a shark scenting blood in the water.
“You want to know why they call me the Mountain Eater?”
You were definitely still asleep. You knew it. But somehow the dream had that edge again, that strange heaviness that made it feel realer than real, as if you could smell the smoke in the air, as if his voice carried heat with it.
You paused. Slowly.
Dread crawled up your spine, cold and deliberate.
“…No,” you said finally. “Absolutely not.”
Which, of course, only made his grin audible.
“It’s not because I eat mountains, sweetheart.”
“Please stop.”
“It’s because I—”
“I’m only twenty!”
There’s a beat of silence. Then:
“...Exactly. Perfectly legal across three seas, four islands, and one very flexible marine outpost.”
“I will file a restraining order.”
“They don’t work across soulbonds. I checked. Twice.”
Every morning, you drop toothpaste down your shirt with the amount of gesticulating you do, venting the frustration he instills in you.
He will not shut up.
The dreams keep rolling like his laughter, smug and relentless, following you into the waking world through memory. By the time you sat down for breakfast, you could still hear the echo of his voice, pleased with himself, refusing to fade.
You try everything. Cold-shouldering. Praying before and after, and chanting at him. Sage hanging above your bed. Nothing works. This man is fully ungovernable and extremely proud of himself.
“If you can dodge my flirting, you can dodge a cannonball.”
“Soulmate training. You’re welcome.”
“Come on, baby, don’t be shy. The mountain is open for climbing.”
“YOU NEED A THERAPIST.”
But the damage was done.
Because he was also gorgeous.
He was lethal, too, carrying that dangerous energy that you could feel even in your dreams. He gave off the air of a feral older man who would throw you over his shoulder and laugh while doing it.
And worse?
You liked it.
Not the endless flirting, not the way he seemed determined to test the limits of your patience every night. But the sparring, the relentless back-and-forth, the sound of his voice meeting yours and never letting you get the last word. The image of his face—broad grin, sharp eyes, that maddening ponytail—was etched so deeply into your mind that you could see it even when you were awake.
It really wore a girl out to consistently lie to keep a man’s ego manageable.
Especially when you suspected his ego was unmanageable no matter what you did.
Every time you tried to sleep, he was there. All cocky grin and swagger, waiting to flatten your ego before you could even catch your breath.
“You still think about it, huh?”
You mutter, “Think about crushing your head with a rock? Yes.”
“No, baby. I mean the mountain climbing.”
You’d jolted awake, heart hammering, and flung a pillow across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud.
You were not ready. You would never be ready. And yet—
Somewhere, deep down, in a corner of your thoughts you refused to acknowledge, the question lingered.
Why was he called the Mountain Eater?
You buried your face in your hands. Because you knew the moment you asked, he would never let you live it down.
Elsewhere:
Meanwhile, Scopper Gaban was living his best life.
He had survived God Valley, outlived more battles than he could count, endured Rayleigh’s endless irritation, and even put up with the chaos that came with Buggy and Shanks underfoot. He had earned his epitaph, too—Just not with your little brain conjuring the most insane sex escapades ever imagined by a virgin.
He had heard some of them slip through when you thought the wall still held. When you believed he could not hear you, you were so funny. The things you pictured him doing, the sheer chaos of it, made him laugh so hard he nearly fell off his hammock more than once.
And best of all, he just enjoyed you.
Not just the sass, not just the threats, not just the way you swore you hated him while your thoughts painted pictures that told another story. It was your spark. Your refusal to bow to him, even in your own dreams. The way your voice cut sharp and sure, never letting him forget you had claws of your own.
It thrilled him. It warmed him. It rooted deep in places he thought had long gone forgotten.
God, he loved women. Always had. But you, sharp-tongued and unyielding, spitting fire at him through dreams, were something else entirely. You made him feel alive, reckless in a way that no bottle of rum or brawl in a back alley ever could. You made him laugh, made him ache, made him want.
He had never doubted the soulbond would come for him. Every man on the seas knew the stories, whether they admitted it or not. But he had never anticipated you.
He had never anticipated how good you would make him feel.
And despite his disappointment that the bond only carried him into your mind during sleep, he considered that things were looking up. The walls were thinner now. He could hear you clearer, tease you sharper, almost reach across that invisible gulf.
And you’re quieter thoughts were much more available.
“Fuck a rake, Gaban. It has the same style as you.”
He nearly dropped his ale laughing at that one. The sound came out rough and sudden, shaking his shoulders until the mug foamed over.
Later that night, he scrawled the line on a tavern wall, half-drunk and grinning like a fool. He told Rayleigh, who only rolled his eyes and muttered about children. He told Roger, who wept with laughter and clapped him on the back so hard his ribs ached.
“Oh, she’s gonna kill you one day,” Roger wheezed. “That’s fun.”
From then on, he listened. Really listened to your offhanded remarks in the dreams. To the way you grumbled when your pen ran out of ink the day before. To the dramatic mutterings you thought no one could hear. To the sharp little curses when the mental load of homework piled high. To the gasp you let slip when a tempting thought brushed too close.
He listened hardest the night you sighed and muttered, half-asleep, “I bet you smell like wood polish and crime. Well eat this mountain, asshole.”
It was such a ridiculous thought that he wheezed for hours.
And he did not sleep after that.
Instead, he leaned back on the deck of the ship, staring at the sweep of stars across the dark, and for the first time he felt the bond hum. Not static. Not noise. Not a trick of loneliness.
Something alive.
Something real.
“…Mountain Eater, huh?” he murmured, to no one but the sea. “That’s what got you twisted up? Thinking I’m open for business with my affections?”
Then he grinned, wide and reckless.
“Oh, I’m gonna make you regret finding me cute. You’re gonna be my wife.”
Age 21:
But being awake was no longer doing much for you.
The crummy market job left you too much time to ruminate, too much time to think. You strategized, carefully, like someone handling a very stupid bomb.
You were still not sure what sort of cryptic entity Scopper Gaban was (besides a sexual one), but he had never once spoken to you while you were awake.
So, technically, if you wanted to privately enjoy some hands-on personal time while imagining a pair of forearms and an extremely tuggable ponytail… how would he ever know?
The answer, which slipped past your poor, foolish brain at the time, was simple. The soulbond was a petty, untrustworthy menace out to ruin your life.
It happened on a Tuesday. Of course it did.
You were twenty-one, finally home from work, emotionally drained, mildly hungry, and in the middle of committing a federal crime known as “getting a little too comfortable in bed with your imagination.”
It was fine. Totally normal. You had been stressed. You were unwinding.
There was scented oil involved. You lit a candle like some kind of romantic forest witch. You even put on the nice pajamas. The ones that said, “I deserve affection,” and also, “someone should probably be kissing me right now.”
And that was when the universe decided to add a pirate to the scene.
A very real, very conscious, very shirtless pirate.
You did not even have time to process the indignity. The moment your body tipped over the edge, the soulbond yanked you into dreamspace like a bad punchline.
You blinked, sweaty, breathless, and suddenly barefoot in the middle of a dream. Your chest was still heaving. Your skin was still flushed.
And him.
Scopper Gaban.
Almost entirely dream-formed, leaning against a barrel, smirking like a man who had been handed front-row tickets to the greatest disaster of all time.
“Sweetheart,” he drawled, grin wicked and smug, “if that was for me, you really did not have to go to all the trouble.”
Elsewhere:
Somewhere in the Grand Line, Scopper Gaban was mid-swig of dark rum and enjoying the peace of not being punched.
He was forty. Too handsome. Too smug. Entirely too good at balancing violence with charisma. He had been dealing with the faint soulbond static while you were awake—just a tickle of your mood, the occasional sass grenade, sometimes a dramatic internal monologue about taxes.
He was used to the bond being a low buzz. Background noise. A comfortable hum.
He was not used to it slamming open with all the grace of a cannonball into a fruit cart.
Because suddenly, he saw you.
You. In your bed. Breathing like a sinner. One hand under the blanket, the other gripping the sheets like they owed you money. Flushed. Beautiful. Desperate. Half-covered in blankets, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. Very obviously in the middle of something.
Eyes closed. Lips parted. Flushed in ways that could not be emotionally recovered from.
He stopped breathing. He might have been having a stroke.
Everything burned white. A heat flared in his chest. His soul yanked sideways like it had been sucker-punched. The bottle slipped from his hand and shattered across the deck. Somewhere outside the door, someone shouted, “What the hell was that?” but Gaban did not respond.
Because he was telepathically experiencing the most life-altering moment of his existence, and he was ninety-nine percent sure his soul had just been thigh-checked by fate.
He saw you.
His literal dream girl.
Doing the deed.
His dream.
He froze—heart thundering. The bond was open now. Raw. Pulsing.
And then you saw him.
Not a fantasy. Not a voice in the dark. Him. The man in your head, suddenly real. Big. Broad. Cocky.
You swore out loud. You freaked the hell out.
Your brain short-circuited. Your entire soul screamed.
“OH MY GOD—GET OUT!”
He blinked. Then the grin spread, slow and wide and utterly dastardly.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wicked, “if that was for me, you really did not have to go to all the trouble.”
His brain was melting. His soul was singing. His inner voice looped on repeat. She’s beautiful. She’s real. And she was thinking about—
“NOPE. NO. UN-BOND. SEVER THIS. CALL A PRIEST.”
“Aw, don’t be shy. Everyone needs a little midnight bonding now and th—”
“I WILL FILE A TELEPATHIC LAWSUIT.”
The wall went up so fast it knocked the air out of both of you. The bond slammed shut like a window in a hurricane. Silence crashed down.
You shut the door. Hard. So hard you managed to wake yourself up.
He spent the next hour lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling beams above his hammock. The shattered remains of the rum bottle still glistened on the deck, a sticky pool spreading slowly toward the corner. He did not move to clean it. He did not even blink much.
Absolutely stunned.
He replayed it over and over, every detail etched in fire behind his eyes. The candlelight on your face. The way your hand fisted the sheets. The way your voice had cracked when you swore at him. The bond had never once opened like that before. Never so raw, never so close, never so utterly alive.
And then the grin came. Wide. Wild. A little unhinged.
“Well,” he muttered aloud, laughter rasping in his throat, hunger twisting in his chest, “guess the mountain’s got a climber after all.”
He laughed until the men outside the door muttered that he was losing his mind. He laughed until he coughed and had to wipe his face with both hands. Then he lay there, heart pounding, grinning like a lunatic in the dark.
You did not speak to him for two weeks. Not a whisper. Not a mutter. Not even the faint buzz of your thoughts. He was not even sure you slept anymore.
He was suffering.
You were mortified.
He paced the deck. He chewed cigars down to the stub. He picked fights with Rayleigh that he had no business winning. Anything to burn off the frustration of silence. Because he could feel you there, just beyond the wall. Stubborn. Closed off.
Until one night.
A gentle tug. Small, reluctant. The bond stirred like a rope tightening, and he knew immediately. You had finally passed out.
He leaned into it, cautious, softer than he had ever been with anyone.
“…Hey. You okay?”
A sniffle.
“No.”
“…Still mad?”
“Still glowing red with shame, thanks.”
He laughed under his breath, aching with the sound of you. “…You looked good. No shame here.”
“Scopper,” you warned, your voice sharp and burning in his head, “I will rip the sea in half to strangle you.”
He only smiled wider, tilting his head back against the mast, the stars overhead sharp as diamonds.
And that was when he knew. You would come around. Eventually. Because the bond was real. You were real. And the timing might have been criminally bad.
But now that he had seen you, now that he had heard you call out his name, Scopper Gaban had no plans to look away.
He’s in love.
Back to your humiliation ritual:
You tried to forget it.
The Moment. The Incident. The time you were… busy… and your soulmate link decided to split open like a cursed relic and reveal you to your long-distance pirate disaster.
You did not reach out after that. You did not think about him. Much.
Except when you did. Constantly. In vivid, horrifying detail.
It was his fault, obviously.
And holy hell, he was stupidly hot.
Like beefcake meets folklore legend, lounging in someone else’s stolen chair. Tan skin, messy ponytail, the kind of muscles that suggested he wrestled bears for cardio.
There was a scar on his collarbone. His shirt was half-off. And he was looking at you like he had just spotted dessert and vengeance in the same sentence.
But you told yourself it did not matter. You were just a blip on his radar. A funny little cosmic fluke. He was thirty-five, dangerous, and impossibly hot. He probably had a harem and an STD named after him.
That man haunted you.
That was not a man who owned a calendar. That was a man who owned cologne called Bad Decisions.
He was probably sleeping in someone else’s bed right now.
And yet.
When you closed your eyes, the image came back. His smirk. His laugh. The way he had looked at you when the bond cracked wide open, as if you were not just real but inevitable.
You hated it. You hated him.
And worse than all of it, you wanted to hear him again.
So you did what any emotionally stable young adult would do: you assumed he was not interested. You distanced. You deflected. You muttered in your dreams, voice low and dismissive.
“It’s fine. I’m sure he’s busy with his five girlfriends anyway.”
And then.
Everything went quiet.
For exactly three seconds.
The kind of silence that was not empty, but heavy. Pregnant with disbelief. A hush that curled tight in your chest and made your stomach knot.
Then his laugh hit.
Loud. Wicked. Shaken with outrage and delight, like you had just slapped him across the face and kissed him right after.
“Five? Sweetheart, you think I could handle five? I can barely handle you.”
The bond pulsed warm, alive, as if your embarrassment only fed it.
“Come here, sweetie.” His voice. Low. Dangerous. “Count again.”
You froze like a deer caught in the midst of hunting season.
“…What?”
“Count again. How many do you think I’ve got?”
The laugh that followed was rich, lazy, and smug enough to set your teeth on edge. It snapped you right out of your daze.
“Five,” you shot back. “Or six. One of them’s probably a twin. You strike me as the type.”
He whistled low, amused. “A twin, huh? Creative. I like that. But you’re wrong, sweetheart. Dead wrong.”
Your fists clenched under the blanket. “You expect me to believe you’re single? You? The human embodiment of bad decisions?”
“Single,” he said cheerfully. “Tragically. Devastatingly. Criminally single. And waiting for a mouthy little thing who thinks I smell like wood polish and crime.”
Then, without warning, you saw it.
Telepathic images. Vivid. Uninvited. Glorious.
His bed.
Empty.
Except for him.
Lying back shirtless, all warm golden skin and smug confidence, sprawled like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. His ponytail had slipped loose, hair a little wild, collarbone catching the light. He lounged with his hands tucked behind his head like some kind of self-satisfied god, radiating “yes, this is my throne.”
“Tell me when you see the first girlfriend.”
You squinted. Hard.
There were no women. No people at all. Just the man, the mattress, and a suspicious pile of unwashed clothes in the corner that might or might not have been breathing.
“That pile doesn’t count.”
“I don’t trust it.”
He sat up in the vision, a smirk curling lazily at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward, as if about to press his face against yours, his eyes bright and hungry.
“Do I look like I’ve got time for five girlfriends?”
“Yeah,” you shot back automatically, “you definitely look like you’ve got time for five problems.”
His laugh shook the space between you, deep and shameless. But then it softened, dropping lower, edged with something rougher.
“If I wanted a problem, I’d want yours. If I were touching anyone, I’d want it to be you.”
Your brain short-circuited.
He kept talking, voice slower now, deliberate, every word sinking in like an anchor.
“I think about your voice when I can’t sleep. I think about your hands. I think about how I don’t even know what your lips taste like and that pisses me off every night.”
You went still. Absolutely still.
And then he leaned in, the bond tightening, his presence brushing against yours like a secret slipped into the dark.
“Five girlfriends? No, baby. I’ve been saving all this trouble for you.”
You slapped the bond shut so hard the echo rang in your bones.
Silence.
The quiet wrapped around you like a shield, hot and suffocating. You lay there on the floor, heart pounding against the boards, your whole body buzzing with the weight of what he had said.
You told yourself you were done. That was it—no more.
But twenty minutes later, you cracked it open. Just a sliver. Barely enough to breathe through.
Your voice slipped out, quieter than you wanted, fragile and unsteady.
“Do you mean… all of that?”
For a moment, there was nothing. No laughter. No teasing. Just the sound of him drawing in a sharp breath, as if he had been waiting for you to ask.
“Which part?” His voice was closer now, reverberating in the strange half-light of the dream. The walls of your usual dreamscape had gone soft around the edges, blurred into shadow and silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
“The part where you said you think about me every night.”
“…You want the honest answer?”
You hesitated. The air smelled faintly of salt and smoke. His silhouette leaned lazily against the crooked town board, sharp lines of his shoulders catching the pale dreamlight.“…Yes.”
“Then stop closing the bond.” He pushed away from the board and stepped toward you, each movement unhurried, deliberate. The ground beneath your feet shifted with the weight of him. His voice lowered, soft and steady, the kind of voice that wrapped itself around you whether you wanted it or not. “Let me into your waking world. And I’ll show you exactly how true it is.”
Your throat tightened. The dream wavered, the edges shaking like glass under strain. You squeezed your eyes shut and slammed the bond closed with all the force you could muster. The town square flickered out.
But not before you whispered, quick and breathless, “…Two girlfriends. Max.”
When you woke, you told yourself it was nothing. A slip. A joke. Something to laugh at later.
But in the dreamworld you had abandoned, he still stood in the square, frozen for a heartbeat. Then his head tilted back, and the sound of his laughter rang through the dreamscape like thunder rolling over the sea. It cracked against the cobblestones, rattling the empty stalls and spilling out into the sky.
He laughed like a man who had just won the goddamn war.
And when the dream finally dissolved around him, he was still grinning, wide and wild, already thinking of what he would say when you opened the bond again.
Age 22:
Scopper Gaban, despite popular belief, did possess patience.
He had waited out storms that snapped masts in half, sieges that lasted weeks, hangovers that lasted longer, and one particularly memorable incident when Rayleigh got possessed by a cursed ship’s wheel and tried to steer the Oro Jackson into a cliff. He was a man of focus. Restraint. A pirate philosopher, if you will.
But you?
You were his villain origin story.
Because you could not—for the life of him—sit still. Or shut up. Or stop mentally narrating the world like you were trapped in a one-person stage play about feelings and socks.
You had discovered a trick, and he hated you for it. If you filled your dreams with meaningless drivel, he could not get a word in. He could not talk smooth. He could not land a single flirt without it being drowned in your barrage of chaos.
He would lean against a dream-wall, flexing the line of his jaw, hair falling rakishly across his forehead, voice pitched low and deliberate. What would you do if I kissed you right now?
And your response, without missing a beat, was:
“Oh god, did I leave the stove on? Wait, I don’t own a stove. Do you think bees have best friends? If I lick a battery, will it reset the soulbond? Do I have time to fake my death and move into a volcano—”
You’re not cooking, you are MID DREAM and TORMENTING him.
“BABY. Please. Please.”
He tries again during a mission. Covered in sweat, shirt half gone, adrenaline high. He opens the bond gently, the way a man might open a door to a sacred temple.
“You feel that, sweetheart?”
And you? You’re making soup.
“Oh god, did I leave the stove on? Wait, I don’t own a stove. Do you think bees have best friends? If I lick a battery, will it reset the soulbond? Do I have time to fake my death and move into a volcano—”
“Sweetheart,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face in the dream. “I am trying to be romantic here.”
“Do fish get thirsty?”
“Stop it.”
He was going to lose his mind.
Patience, it turned out, had limits. The worst part? He knew you knew what you were doing.
You had weaponized your nonsense.
He would be in the middle of a fight, cutlass in one hand and blood roaring in his ears, and he would think about you. About your lips. About the way your voice cracked when you were flustered. He would let the thought slip, raw and wanting—
And you would mentally yell “BOOP!” into the bond and vanish.
Just like that. Gone.
You were the reason his eye twitched now. The reason he had developed a reputation for glaring at walls when no one was there.
Rayleigh had asked once, carefully, if he was all right.
“No,” Gaban growled, rubbing his temple.
“You’re… talking to yourself again.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Gaban ignored him. Because if he admitted the truth, it would sound unbelievable. That you, the bond, the girl who haunted his nights, had turned into his personal tormentor.
You were the reason he had started mumbling threats under his breath, things like, ‘I’m gonna grab her by the ankles and shake the thoughts out. ’
And the worst part was that every time he imagined it—every time—he found himself laughing, because he could already hear you shrieking and calling him a feral maniac while you kicked him in the chest.
He was in hell.
And he loved it.
-X-Five Minutes-X-
One exhausted night, you fumbled. Like royally. A fumble of the century.
“Why are his forearms so hot.” You mutter, watching his shadow-figure becoming much less shadow and much more figure.
You didn’t know he was paying attention.
But the voice in your head goes dead silent.
That when you realize you’ve fucked up.
You can almost feel Gaban’s smirk leering over you.
“…Say that again?”
“Uh, I said why are forearms hot, like warm. Like heat.”
“… Uh, uh, uh. Too late. I heard that. Immortalized. Etched into my heart.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“With criminally good arms.”
You try to be normal. You try to focus on your future. But every time someone talks about pirates, you can’t stop glancing over your shoulder, heart pounding, half-dreading, half-hoping.
You didn’t choose this man. Your dreams did, the little bitch.
He’s out there. Smirking. Fighting. Probably shirtless. And you’re stuck with a bond, and a brain full of thoughts like:
“I could fix him.”
(You can’t.)
“I could ruin him.”
(You might.)
But mostly—
“Damn it. The mountain is hot.”
You went quiet.
It was suspicious. It was eerie. It was terrifying.
But then he felt it.
You. Still for once. No rambling, no nonsense, no batteries or bees. Just you. Thinking about him. Quietly. Fully.
And something in him snapped.
His voice slid into the dream, smooth as honey and sharp as sin.
“You finally sitting still for me, baby? You done thinking about bees and soup and the ethics of dating a criminal? Because if you keep this up…”
You held your breath, frozen on the dream-bench where you had been sitting.
“Because if you keep this up…” His voice dipped lower, heavy with promise.
A pause. The silence stretched taut.
“…I’m gonna put every one of those dumb little thoughts somewhere they can’t escape.”
You squeaked. An actual squeak, high and startled, escaping before you could stop it.
The bond vibrated with his laughter, rich and wicked, shaking the edges of the dream until the sky itself seemed to tilt.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, “that’s the sound I’ve been waiting for. That’s right. Focus on me. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”
You managed four minutes and thirty-nine seconds.
Then, unbidden, your brain betrayed you. “Do ducks look good in hats? Or is it a trap, for breadcrumbs?”
The bond reverberated with the sound of him mentally banging his head into a wall. You could practically hear his skull thunk against the dream brick.
“You’re lucky you’re cute. And flexible.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh no, sweetheart. Excuse me.”
The dream air went heavy, thick with the weight of his grin. The things he could do if you would just sit still for five damn minutes… They were illegal in three kingdoms, whispered about in pirate taverns, and probably carved into the bathroom wall of at least one brothel. He wanted to tell you all of them, in detail.
And very nearly, almost, they became reality the night you finally whispered into the bond, breathless and flustered—
Only for your treacherous brain to explode with, “One onion, diced. Four cups of chicken broth. Two carrots, chopped. Simmer until tender, add salt to taste—”
You rattled off soup recipes like your life depended on it. Broths. Stocks. Garnishes. You even muttered something about the ethics of parsley.
There was silence on his end—a long, stunned silence.
Then, slow and wrecked with laughter, “Sweetheart… I swear to every sea god alive, one day I am going to put you in a kitchen just to watch you break.”
You squeaked, flailing for cover. “I cook fine!”
“No, baby. You recite soup recipes during foreplay. That’s a different skill set entirely.”
You threw a mental chair at him. He ducked it, laughing so hard you thought the dream would crack apart.
And somewhere deep down, against all better judgment, you laughed too. The sound of it startled you—it felt too warm, too easy, and you knew you should not be giving him the satisfaction.
But the things he could do if you just sat still for five damn minutes?
They were illegal in three kingdoms, whispered about in pirate taverns, and likely banned in at least one monastery. The kind of acts sailors lowered their voices to describe, swearing they had only heard rumors. And very nearly, they became reality the night you finally whispered, breathless and flustered, words trembling at the edge of confession—
And then you bolted.
You ran off again.
The dream warped around you, the cobblestone market melting into empty streets, alleys twisting sharp and endless. Your footsteps echoed as you tried to outrun him, outrun yourself, outrun the bond that pulled taut no matter how far you fled.
Behind you, his laughter rolled through the dream like thunder, rich and wild.
“Sweetheart,” he called, his voice echoing down every corridor, “you can run all you want, but you and me? We are the same damn storm.”
Your heart hammered, your face burned, and still—you ran.
You were done.
Absolutely done.
Scopper Gaban had been haunting your brain like a hot poltergeist for years—interrupting your inner peace, ignoring boundaries, calling himself “the mountain,” and causing your best friend to say, ‘Have you considered exorcism?’
And he wasn’t interested, right?
He was older. He had war stories, rum breath, and the emotional maturity of a sexy Border Collie with a sword. You were irritated, legally tired, and still a virgin, because fate had tied you to the world’s most chaotic pirate with commitment issues.
So you made a decision. A big one.
You were going to sever the bond. End the connection. Reclaim your peace. And lose your virginity to someone normal.
Someone quiet. Stable. Not spiritually connected to your frontal lobe. Unfortunately, you used your brain to conceive of this idea. A brain that vacations at Scopper Gaban’s when it’s feeling frisky.
“Well. That is rude.”
You flinched. “Oh my god—”
“No god here, sweetheart. Just me. Watching. Judging. Taking notes.”
You slammed the bond. Or tried to. He reopened it.
“Oh no, baby. You think I didn’t have a failsafe? A little telepathic tripwire in case you tried to throw that pretty little future away on Mr. Not-Me?”
“Shut up.”
“You’re wearing the cute socks. You wear those for me.”
“You are NOT real—”
“I’m the realest thing in this room. Especially compared to your imaginary fling.”
You try to keep going. You try.
“ If you even approach another man, I'll mail his ears to your mother.”
You make a sound—a deeply unsexy one. You are not okay. You’re bound to a dream-man with calloused hands, a sharp jaw, and enough stamina to kill a mortal.”
You grab your forehead like a minor deity has just cursed you. “This isn’t happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening. It’s so happening. And if another man so much as touches your bra clasp, I will astral project into his dreams and chew on his toes.”
“I had a whole speech ready for that. Something about honor and dismemberment and maybe turning him into a soup.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re just mad because you thought I didn’t care.”
You don’t say much.
“…Do you?”
He sobers.
“I care so much, I trained for this moment. Do you know how many scenarios I’ve imagined? I had contingency plans, baby. I had levels. I was gonna show up shirtless in a thunderstorm if the telepathy didn’t work.”
Then, softly:
“You’re mine. You always have been. And I’ll wait as long as I have to. But if anyone tries to touch you again, I will scream in seven languages and sabotage every attempt you make.”
“…Even the emotionally healthy ones?”
“Especially those. They’re dangerous.”
You don’t say anything for a while.
Then, through the bond:“…What would you have done if I didn’t stop?”
A pause. A hum. A low promise:
“I would’ve burned the world to ruin your rebound.”
And the worst part?
Your cheeks burn. Your heart pounds. And you whisper—
“…Asshole.”
“Yours.”
-X-The Cold War-X-
Scopper knows you well by now. He gets an inch of vulnerability from you; you’re liable to start a war over it.
And he’s right.
You go full Cold War.
Not Cold Shoulder. Not “let’s take space.” No. You initiate a Cold. Damn. War.
The soul bond is still technically open, but you’ve barricaded every inch of your mind, as if it's a cursed fortress. No thoughts. No emotions. Not even the passive sass he usually swims in like a goddamn hot tub.
Silence.
And Scopper Gaban? He’s losing his mind.
It started because he wouldn’t stop talking during your plans of deflowering. Then he wouldn’t shut up afterwards. Then he laughed. Then he dared to be kind and soft, and make you love him.
So now?
You’ve iced him out like an Antarctic prison from your dreams. You take medication. Alcohol. Potentially weed. Things that specifically prevent dreaming.
You change your entire mental presence. No sass. No mental monologue. Just an endless, beige void. You chant grocery lists to yourself to block out anything personal.
“Carrots. Laundry detergent. Anti-pirate spray.”
You’re convinced he’s also mad now.
You imagine him pouting. Brooding. Shirtless and moodily leaning against something in the rain like some tragic romance lead.
You whisper to yourself bitterly, “Good. Be broody. See if I care.”
You picture him looking at your half-shut bond like it personally insulted his biceps. Imagining him sighing deeply and talking about how you’re so emotional. Probably writing passive-aggressive haikus.
You start wearing cuter outfits in your dreams. Just in case he’s telepathically peeking. Which he shouldn’t be. But if he is, he’ll know what he’s missing.
Your mother asks if you’re seeing someone, after she catches you mumble murder over skimpy bikinis you are not confident enough to astrel project yourself into.
You say, “No, but I’m making someone regret not seeing me.”
What you don’t realize is:
He’s not mad. He’s not brooding.
He’s panicking like a squirrel in a thunderstorm.
Scopper Gaban has never not had you in his head.
You were always background music. A running commentary. A brain-gremlin narrating your day in full emotional color.
And now?
Nothing.
Just beige. Beige silence. Beige thoughts. Beige mental wallpaper.
He tries everything.
Sending you spicy thoughts (blocked).
Shouting “BABY” through the bond (denied).
Narrating his bicep flexing routine in increasingly dramatic detail (muted).
Playing a harmonica directly at the soulbond like it’s a walkie-talkie.
Nothing.
Meanwhile, you go about your day like nothing’s wrong.
You walk past wanted posters of him and go, “Who? Never heard of him.” You think a lot about bees. And soup. And the ethical ramifications of dating someone who once threatened to bite off a man’s kneecaps in your honor.
At one point you actually hiss, “Serves him right.” No context. Just vibes.
Three days in, Scopper breaks.
He storms into the bond like a man possessed, mentally falling to his knees like he’s reenacting a soap opera.
“I’M SORRY. I didn’t mean to ruin your night of boring sex with Beige the Villager! But also—are you really that mad or are you just… dramatic?”
You do not answer.
You turn on classical music.
You imagine him screaming into a pillow.
He tries again later, more pitifully: “You’re really mad, huh.”
“…You still mad?”
“…You gonna be mad forever or like, just emotionally inconvenience me for a week?”
“…Baby, please say soup.”
You hold strong.
Until he mentally slides you a mental image. Of himself. Wearing an “I’m Sorry” apron. Cooking soup. Badly.
The spoon is in his hair. The pot is boiling over. The kitchen is on fire. He has no shirt on and is trying to put it on with a towel that says “WORLD’S SEXIEST DISAPPOINTMENT.”
And—damn it.
You laugh.
Just once. Just a snort.
And he loses it.
“THERE SHE IS. OH MY GOD, YOU LAUGHED. BABY’S BACK. I’M GONNA—”
You slam the bond shut again.
“…Cold War’s not over,” you whisper, flustered.
You thought you were winning. You really thought you had him. The Cold War was in full effect, and you’d buried your feelings under a mountain of emotional ice and petty inner monologues.
Silence reigned. You held the line. You stopped reacting to his flirty telepathic nonsense, his shirtless soup apologies, his mental harmonica solos. You denied him everything. Attention. Validation. Soup-based forgiveness.
You even blocked him with "Beige Mode™": a mental wall of unsexy, mundane thoughts: grocery lists, taxes, the concept of lint.
You thought you were ghosting him. But in truth?
You were breadcrumbing.
And Scopper Gaban?
He was tracking you.
See, here’s the thing.
The dreams you have seem blank to you. You struggle to imagine things outside them.
But for Gaban, these aren’t dreams. This is a fully formed soulbond. It hums with emotion. With attention. With presence. You thought the Cold War would make you unreadable.
It doesn’t.
It made you louder.
Because suddenly, you were thinking about him all the time just to not think about him.
“He doesn’t care.”
“He’s probably off wrestling sea cows and kissing swords.”
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he doesn’t want me. Maybe I’m just a funny voice in his head—”
And every one of those thoughts?
Lit. Him. Up.
Like a flare.
-X-Coming for that Ring-X-
You had one job. One. Just one simple goal.
Not dream of Scopper Gaban. Lay low. Live a normal life in a normal coastal town, far away from your sexy disaster soulmate and his morally flexible muscles.
No more mental flirting. No more telepathic threats against innocent men. No more bonding over soup-based trauma. You blocked the link, packed your bags, and ran like a woman on fire.
But what you forgot—what you really, deeply, stupidly underestimated— was that Scopper Gaban has one working brain cell and horny-based motivation.
And you did think about things in your dreams. A lot.
Tiny things.
Little stray thoughts that slipped out before you could stop them.
“I miss the sea breeze.”
“This town has the best fried fish. I hate that.”
“The lighthouse here creaks like it’s haunted. I kind of love it.”
Does… he still like me?
And Gaban? That man turned into Sherlock Holmes if Holmes had sex appeal, zero patience, and access to the world’s greatest pirate crew.
Rayleigh: “We’re really doing this?”
Scopper: “She said lighthouse.”
Rayleigh: “There are like four hundred—”
Scopper: “And fried fish. Light. House. Fried. Fish. The wind is from the east. The seagulls had a weird cry. Don’t question me, I’ve heard her brain during PMS. She left clues.”
Roger: “...Are we bringing the whole ship?”
Scopper: “We’re bringing the whole ship.”
Which is how, at ten in the goddamn morning, your quiet little port town is violently awakened by the appearance of a massive, legendary pirate vessel barreling into the bay like it’s here to collect taxes and punch everyone twice.
Children scream. Seagulls flee. Someone faints. The mayor wets himself.
Sirens wail. People yell, “We’re under attack!”
You know that ship. You know that sail. You know that unholy silhouette on the prow, hands on his hips like some kind of smug mythological sex icon.
You spit toast everywhere.
Scopper Gaban is posing.
In the wind. On the mast. Shirtless. Cloak flapping. Looking down at your town like a Roman god who wants to flirt with your dad and steal your girlfriend.
He points directly at the docks.
“I’M HERE FOR MY GIRL.”
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
You sprint outside in mismatched socks.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”
He grins, waves, and then leaps off the ship in a perfect, slow-motion flip that splashes heroically onto the dock.
He walks through the panic like Moses parting the Red Sea—except Moses didn’t wink at five people on the way or get slapped by an older woman who thought he was stealing chickens.
“You brought a pirate ship?!”
“Of course I did.”
“THEY THINK IT’S A RAID!”
“It is a raid.” He smirks. “I’m stealing you.”
The townsfolk gather at a distance, whispering in fear and awe.
Someone mutters, “He came for her. That man came for her.”
Someone else adds, “She must have magic boobs.”
A child screams, “HE’S SO COOL.”
A third man just weeps into his hands, whispering, “I wanna be her.”
You glare at him.
“You realize I was trying to live a quiet life?”
He grins.
“You realize you’re bonded to me?”
“…You absolute terrorist.”
He leans in, hand cupping your jaw, grin dangerous.
“Say the word, sweetheart. And I’ll burn the whole town down romantically.”
In the distance, Rayleigh lights a cigarette and mutters, “He’s gonna get slapped again. Five seconds.”
You do slap him.
He still kisses you anyway.
For a moment, the world is perfect, the future is inevitable, and you are entirely in love.
.
.
.
And then you wake up from the dream.
The Cold War is still ongoing.
You are twenty-three when the handsome, prime Scooper Gaban vanishes from your life without a word. He never comes to your island. And he never speaks to you inside a dream again.
He disappears from your life, much like your dreams.
-X-Rewind-X-
Scopper Gaban is forty-five when he finally reaches your hometown.
He arrives like wildfire. The quiet streets are suddenly alive with the sound of his boots striking stone, his voice rising again and again as he calls your name. Residents peek from windows, unnerved by the sight of the stranger with stormlight in his eyes, and whisper to one another about the panic that rides on his heels. His crew spreads through the town in twos and threes, uneasy at the sight of their usually steady officer tearing through every corner with an urgency that borders on madness.
Rayleigh is the first to notice. He stops in the middle of a square, gaze sharp behind his glasses as he watches Gaban accost yet another bewildered shopkeeper. “Something’s not right,” he mutters, half to himself, half to Roger at his side. “He’s searching too hard. He’s not hearing anything back.”
Roger frowns, the weight of the observation pressing down on him. He knows that bond well enough, knows how it steadies a man. To lose it so suddenly is no small thing. He glances at the townsfolk shrinking away, at the worry etched in his crew’s faces. “Something's gone bad,” he answers grimly.
By nightfall, Gaban’s voice is hoarse. He pounds on doors, questions every passerby, scours the docks and hills until sweat darkens his shirt and his hands shake with rage and dread. Each unanswered call, each silent corner, deepens the hollow in his chest. The thread that had guided him for decades, the voice that had always been there, is simply gone.
It is not until Roger and Rayleigh finally catch up to him, both of them weary and silent, that the truth settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He has not heard from you for an entire day. Not a word. Not a whisper.
Something has gone terribly wrong.
The inn is warm, lit by lanterns that cast long golden shadows across the beams. The smell of bread and smoke clings to the air. Gaban shoves through the door, shoulders tense, heart pounding. His eyes sweep the room like a hawk, and then—he freezes.
There you are. Or so he thinks.
For a heartbeat, he cannot breathe. He sees the curve of your face, the way you tilt your head as you laugh at something the innkeeper mutters, the flicker of familiarity that cuts through his exhaustion. He steps forward before he can stop himself, relief surging in his chest like a flood.
But then he sees it. The swell of her belly. The unfamiliar lines in her smile. The clear, curious eyes that are not yours.
“Forgive me,” he stammers, pulling back as the woman blinks at him in surprise. “I thought— I mistook you for someone.”
She softens, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. “It happens. Strangers pass through here often enough.”
Still shaken, Gaban forces himself to sit at the counter. For a moment, he says nothing. Then the words push past his throat, raw and uneven. “Do you have a sister? Someone with the name…” His voice falters. He swallows and tries again. “With that name?”
The woman blinks, then laughs.
“What a coincidence. That’s the name I chose, if this one is a girl.” She pats her belly, smiling widely.
The words twist like a knife. Gaban’s knees nearly buckle, and without meaning to, his haki flickers outward. It curls, subtle but unmistakable, around her belly. The woman gasps, startled by the sudden warmth that surrounds her, then quiets when she feels no harm in it: only a strange, steady pressure, as though the world itself is listening. The child stirs.
And he immediately knows.
You haven’t been born yet.
The realization crashes through him with the force of a storm. All those years of voices in the dark, of laughter carried through dreams, of whispered comforts that steadied him in battle and loneliness—it had never belonged to this time. He had been reaching for someone who did not yet exist.
That’s why you didn’t recognize him. He was no longer a major pirate.
The faint spark of his haki still hums around the woman’s belly, fragile as a candle flame, and it twists the knife deeper. That pulse, that flicker of presence, is all he has left of you. He pulls back as if burned, the shame in his chest nearly unbearable. To stand so close and know he cannot keep you, not yet, not now—there are no words for the hollow ache of it.
“Congratulations,” he forces out. His voice breaks on the word, and he bows his head, unable to meet her eyes. The sound rings false in his ears, empty against the weight of what he has lost. The walls of the inn close in, the chatter of patrons becomes a roar, and he can no longer breathe.
He staggers for the door, each step heavier than the last. The absence of the bond drags at him, thick and merciless, as though an anchor has settled into his chest.
Outside, the night air does not soothe him. It bites, cold and sharp, but cannot cool the fire burning hollow in his chest. Roger and Rayleigh wait in silence, their faces shadowed and grave. They see everything in Gaban’s expression—the despair, the guilt, the impossible truth written plain across him.
Neither man speaks. They do not have to. The silence between them is heavy as stone, final and merciless, carrying all the grief and inevitability of fate.
The soulbond was a mystery. It had always been that way: a benevolent giver, a cruel taker. For every joy it granted, it stole something else. For every union, there was a heartbreak left bleeding in its wake.
Both Roger and Rayleigh had known it. They had borne their own losses, their own silences, their own vanished voices in the dark. They offered him no pointless comfort, no hollow promises. They gave him the one thing they could—their presence, their friendship, the quiet certainty that he did not walk alone.
“The greatest crew in the world,” Rayleigh said briskly as they turned back toward the Oro Jackson. His tone was lighter than his eyes, quick words tossed into the air like salt against a wound. He pretended not to notice the tears streaking Gaban’s face. Pretended not to see the way Roger’s jaw was clenched against his own grief. “And we all couldn’t be more luckless with love.”
No one laughed.
They ignored his tears as well.
Gaban’s breath broke with sobs.
“I’m so in love. And she’ll always think I just forgot her. She’ll—-she’ll never know—”
Roger patted his back.
“She will, mate. A soulbond is never wasted.”
And together, without another word, they walked back to the ship.
-X- 23 Years Later -X-
Scopper Gaban never shows up, and that was the year you learned what heartbreak truly was.
You felt foolish. Silly, even. For years, you had clung to the warmth of those dreams, convinced they meant something, convinced he meant something. Your mother had warned you over and over again not to become attached, to seek out proper help, to treat the voices as nothing more than tricks of the mind. But you ignored her. You fell in love instead.
One evening, after the silence had stretched too long to deny, you went to her. You told her everything, every detail you had kept locked inside. The words tumbled out with your sobs, raw and unguarded. At first, she only stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you had just admitted to eating a candle. Then her expression shifted—concern pulling into wonder, wonder fraying into disbelief, and disbelief sinking finally into sadness.
“You said his name was Scopper Gaban?” she asked gently, after you had scrubbed the tears from your cheeks with the heel of your hand.
You nodded, unable to trust your voice.
Her own eyes grew wet as she let out a long, shuddering breath. She reached for your hand, as if steadying herself as much as you. “Then I suppose it’s time I tell you a story,” she whispered. “A story from long ago, about a famous pirate crew who came through this port. The Pirate King’s men. They caused such a stir. And there was one among them, Scopper Gaban… the left hand of Gol D. Roger himself. He came here, looking for a girl. A girl with your name.”
Your brows furrowed, the words striking too close, too painfully exact.
You didn’t say anything more, but the silence between you was thick with knowing. You both understood.
Time was never on your side.
-X-The Climax-X-
Age 28:
You leaned toward the small mirror, steady hand painting the last stroke of color over your lips. The soft murmur of the village below reached you. The faint laughter of children, the ring of church bells, the chatter of women carrying baskets of flowers for your ceremony. It was the sound of a life about to begin, simple and kind.
Then a sharp fire flared behind your ribs. Not pain, but recognition. Something long buried, something you thought had died in dreams. You froze, lipstick trembling in your hand as the warmth spread like a tide through your chest.
A voice followed, not echoing in sleep this time but raw, present, alive.
“It’s You.”
The sound of it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. Older, heavier with years, but achingly familiar. The voice that had once filled your nights.
It was him.
You startled, and a flood of emotions crossed your heart: disbelief, longing, grief, wonder. Your breath caught as the bond lit up, stronger than it had ever been in your dreams. You felt him the way he felt you. You saw yourself through his eyes, the way he could see you, just as you saw yourself. Not a painted bride before a mirror, not a woman bound to a village life, but the soul he had been searching for all this time.
Your reflection blurred as tears stung your eyes because it wasn’t your future husband’s voice. Not the kind man from the village who waited downstairs.
It was Scopper Gaban, alive in your heart again on the very day you were about to give it to another.
“My god, you’re getting married. I'm so sorry for interrupting, sweet girl. You’re so beautiful, and I’m so proud of you.”
His voice trembled with awe and sorrow, the weight of years threaded through every word. The bond carried not only sound but the raw truth of him, his heart pressed against yours across time and distance. He meant it. He meant every syllable. Pride swelled from him like sunlight, so warm it almost hurt.
Your throat tightened. You wanted to answer, to say his name, to deny the truth of the veil on your head and the man waiting at the altar. But the bond pulsed with honesty, and he saw you as you were. He felt the way you trembled, the way your heart raced, the way your painted lips parted and closed again like a child caught with secrets.
And you felt him too. The ache of longing. The pride. The regret that time had not found you sooner.
“Where have you been?” You asked, tears flooding your eyes. And it asked the unspoken question—Why didn’t you come?
He paused, and for a moment, you thought he might leave.
“Because I won’t let you waste your entire life on an old man.”
And then the gentle connection bloomed as he shared his life in a way your dreams never did.
And he had lived his life. He’s also a father. Has a common-law wife. He didn’t wait, because it would have been cruel to you to do so. To only live a sliver of a life while he had all of his.
And because you know Scopper Gaban, and choose to love him back, you understand him.
You know now. You’ll never meet. Not in person. Not once. Because he loves you.
"Thank you. For not breaking me open just to keep me."
You cry into your bouquet, makeup running down your face. You didn’t have to meet to know he loves you, and that is enough that the bond warms and settles.
Not with the love that raged and burned. But the kind that sat quietly beside you when no one else did. That whispered warmth into your chest when the nights were cruel.
The kind that said, I know you exist. I cherish that. But I will not ruin you by arriving.
You know he’s smiling, hiding his pain, letting you have yours. You just don’t have the age or experience to do such a thing, and comfort him.
“You look stunning, sweetheart. If he breaks your heart, let him know Scopper Gaban will break his legs. I still know how to duel.”
You cry for an hour, and the wedding is delayed.
You don’t cancel, and you do walk down the aisle that day.
Gaban doesn’t need to say it, but you both quietly close the bond. Like distant neighbors you live side by side, quietly, without talking.
You live a good life. You weren’t meant to walk the same path, but you were both better for knowing the other existed.
He loved you quietly. Without possessiveness. Without lust. Without delusion.
He loved you with discipline.
The bond settled into friendship. The rarest kind. You carried each other's old secrets through emotion. Comforted one another during grief with no words.
When he grieved his crewmates, you quietly held space for it. When you panicked the day your mother fell ill, his peace folded over you, patting your back, whispering, “You are not alone. I’m here. You are not alone.”
You were a constant in his life.
A presence in the back of his mind when he was tired. A warm flicker when he stood at the edge of the dock. The only secret he ever kept from his son.
You would never meet. But gods—he loved you.
Not in the way he loved Ripley. Not in the way a young man loves a young girl.
But in the way a soul recognizes its other half and says, I would have followed you anywhere. If only we had time.
And somewhere, halfway across the world, you feel it.
Like a gust of wind through an open door, like the warmth of someone leaving a room you didn’t know they’d been in.
Your heart lurches.
And when someone asks, “Are you okay?” you say,
“…Yeah. I was just thinking of an old dream I once had.”
Cosmic Joke Status: The Dream that Ended
No matter how sweet the fantasy is, morning will always come to wake us.
Ok thank you for taking my requests!! Youre so so sweet and your writing makes me super happy inside hehe! I have one more early mornings if thats ok! Id like Roger, young Gaban and Young Rayleigh! If you cant do some of the characters feel free to pick your own! Thank you so so much!!! ☺️
The cabin door slams open with a bang that rattles the hinges, and you jolt awake, your heart hammering against your ribs. Before you can even process the time, Roger is looming over the bed, his silhouette blocking out the pale morning light. He looks like a man possessed, vibrating with an energy that has no business existing at such an ungodly hour.
"Up! Up, right now!" he bellows, grabbing the edge of the heavy quilt and ripping it off the bed in one smooth motion, leaving you exposed to the chill of the cabin. "You’re missing the best part! The horizon is turning purple—it looks like the ocean is bleeding into the sky!"
You groan, curling into a tight ball in a futile attempt to preserve your body heat, and crack one eye open. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning like he’s already found the One Piece, his nightshirt undone and flapping around him.
"Roger," you croak, your voice raspy with sleep. "It’s dawn. The sun rises every single day. It will happen again tomorrow."
"That’s not the point!" He laughs, reaching down to grab your wrists and pull you upright. You stumble, legs heavy with sleep, and he catches you, steadying you with hands that are rough and calloused but gentle on your skin. He drags you over to the porthole, pointing out at the endless grey and pink expanse of the sea. "Look at that! It makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?"
You shiver, leaning back against his chest for warmth, letting him support your weight as you squint at the ocean. It is pretty, you’ll give him that, but the allure is significantly diminished by the fact that you are standing on cold wood planks without a stitch of warm clothing.
"You’re impossible," you mutter, tilting your head back to look up at him. He looks down at you, his dark eyes crinkled with mirth and absolute adoration. "Did I marry a toddler or the King of the Pirates?"
Roger barks out a laugh, loud and unapologetic, that surely wakes the crew in the next cabin over. He wraps his arms tighter around you, engulfing you in his heat. "Why not both?" he winks, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to your temple. "I can conquer the seas and throw tantrums if you don’t watch the sunrise with me." He rests his chin on top of your head, swaying you slightly. "Besides, the King needs his Queen to see the world with him. Even if she is grumpy."
ℝ𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙
The first thing you’re aware of is the heat. It’s a heavy, cocooning warmth that makes you never want to open your eyes again. You’re lying halfway on top of Rayleigh’s chest, your leg tangled with his, listening to the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart. It’s peaceful, the sort of quiet morning haze that is rare on a ship full of rowdy pirates.
But you’re awake now, and nature is calling.
You try to shift your weight, lifting your head carefully to see if you can slide out from under his arm without disturbing him. Rayleigh is usually a light sleeper—a necessity in his line of work—but this morning, he seems dead to the world. You inch your leg away, trying to detangle your limbs from his long, muscular ones.
You manage to get one foot onto the floor, the cold wood shocking your system, and you prepare to make the great escape. But just as you start to lift his arm off your waist, it tightens. It’s not a sudden movement, but a slow, deliberate drag, pulling you back down and trapping you against his side. You let out a huff of air, looking up to find his eyes still closed, his breathing even, but a small smirk playing on his lips.
"Where are you going?" he mumbles, his voice a deep, raspy timber that vibrates through your back.
"Bathroom," you whisper, trying to pry his fingers away from your hip. "Let go, Rayleigh."
"No." He breathes out the word like it’s a physical effort to speak. He shifts, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his nose cold against your warm skin but his breath hot. "You’re too far away already."
"I’m literally right on top of you," you argue, though you lack any real conviction. You try to leverage your weight against him, pushing at his shoulder to create a gap. "Come on, let me up."
He grunts, a low sound of protest deep in his chest, and suddenly you’re moving. With a strength that always catches you off guard, he rolls, pinning you beneath him. He settles his weight between your legs, propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you, but effectively ending your hopes of leaving the bed anytime soon.
His hair is a black curtain around your faces, shielding you from the morning light filtering through the porthole. He looks down at you, his dark eyes hooded and full of sleepy affection.
"Nowhere to go," he murmurs, dipping his head to trail slow, lazy kisses along your jawline. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek. "Stay. Just for a little longer. The crew can handle themselves."
He captures your lips in a kiss that is slow and decadent, tasting of sleep and the lingering flavor of the rum he had last night. It’s a lazy, commanding kiss that melts your resolve instantly. When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, you know you aren't going anywhere.
"Okay?" he whispers, his eyes searching yours.
"Okay," you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him back down.
𝔾𝕒𝕓𝕒𝕟
You wake up to the smell of food—specifically, the sweet scent of sliced mango and the savory aroma of smoked meat. For a moment, you just lie there, basking in the smell, until the sound of heavy breathing reaches your ears. You crack one eye open and see Gaban kneeling on the floor beside the bed, shirtless and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He’s doing dips using the edge of your mattress, his triceps bulging every time he lowers himself down. Every time he pushes up, the bed bounces slightly.
"Are you serious?" you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "You’re lifting the bed?"
Gaban stops, mid-dip, and grins up at you, his teeth white and bright against his tanned skin. "Morning exercises!" he chirps, way too energetically. He pops up from the floor and wipes his hands on his pants, then leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. "Keeps the blood pumping. You should try it."
"I hate you," you groan, pulling the pillow over your face to block out the sight of his cheerful morning face. "Go sweat somewhere else."
"Aw, don't be like that." He laughs, gently prying the pillow away from your face. His expression softens, the teasing grin giving way to something warmer. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "I didn't wake you up, I swear. You woke up on your own."
"Because you're making my bed vibrate," you retort, but you can’t help but lean into his touch. His hand is warm and rough, grounding you.
"I brought presents," he says, nodding toward the small table where he’s set up an impromptu breakfast. "Stole some fruit from the cook’s stash before anyone else could get to it."
You look at the spread—it’s simple, but he’s arranged it almost carelessly, trying to make it look nice. It’s endearing. You look back at him, and he’s watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. Before you can say anything, he leans down and kisses you. It’s not the rough, hasty kiss of a pirate rushing to the next battle, but something slow and thorough. He tastes like the sea and mint.
He pulls back after a long moment, resting his forehead against yours. "I wanted to make sure you ate before the chaos starts," he says quietly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Captain’s got us moving out today. Hard work."
You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss, deeper this time. When you break apart, he’s smiling, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Alright," you whisper against his lips. "Feed me, then. But if you try to make me do push-ups, I’m throwing you overboard."
Gaban laughs, bright and happy, and reaches over to grab a slice of mango. "Deal."
ok this is the first time I do something like this, but I have to ask.
Can you write a fanfic where Scopper Gaban is f!reader's father? There was a fanfic once but it was way too short but also good for that :') oh and it does not matter whether she is older or younger than Colon
I can only imagine that he is really a sweet and funny father type :D
Thank you <3
(Sorry for my English, it is not my native language)
Hair Bonding ft Scopper Gaban
A/N I think this one is pretty good 🤔 I do hope it’s okay but to run with what I had in mind Dokucha here inherited Scooper’s hair locks so the volume is mentioned but nothing regarding texture, color or length was otherwise added I believe
Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for reader in japanese for the enjoyment of both reader and oc character readers!
Consider buying me a coffee!
“Seriously!” Gaban grumbled as he continued to attempt to wrangle in his daughter’s hair
“What’s wrong, Dad?”Dokucha mumbled, wincing at a particular harsh tug
“Ow! That hurts daddy,” She whines sending a stink eye to the navigator.
“Sorry, sweetheart, I ‘ll try to be more careful.” He chuckled, Slowing his moves slightly
“But it’s like no matter what I do, it just pops back! Are you sure you didn’t eat some kind of devil-fruit when I wasn’t looking?” He questioned as he once again began to gather her hair in an attempt to put it in a ponytail.
“For my hair?“I don’t think a fruit made my hair like this, Daddy.” She mumbled, trying to remember the different fruits she had seen on their adventures
“There are all types of powers out there, Dokucha!” He called with a laugh
“Look at buggy! If that little rascal’s powers are possible, then I‘m sure the kami-kami no mi doesn’t sound too far off, right?!” He called out as he finally got the right angle and slid the ponytail into her wild hair.
“It’s not a fruit that gave me the hair, daddy,” she said with certainty, turning towards him
“How can you be so sure! I haven’t seen you swimming in a while,” he said suspiciously
“Dad, it’s you; you gave me this hair,” she huffed out, grabbing her hair and comparing it to his identical wild curled locks
“Oh,” he muttered as realization sank in. She stared at the man a little longer before letting out a string of giggles
“You’re silly daddy,” she laughed, throwing herself at him, nuzzling her way into his lap
“I really, really, realllyyyy like my hair daddy!” She gushed, looking up at the navigator with a grin
“You do? I thought you didn’t like hair time?” He mused, rubbing her head affectionately
“I don’t like your hair, Papa!” She clarified
“Hahahahahah! How could you be so mean, Dokucha! Who else does your hair?” He guffawed
“Big brother does my hair the best! He always does the best styles and leaves my hair shiny and soft after a wash!” She beamed, happily clapping her hands at the thought of Buggy doting on her hair. Of course, the teen would always brush it off, say that It was because he couldn’t stand someone on his crew with hair looking anything less than perfect especially someone who he often was in charge of.
“Hahahaha! Alright, then, is that why you like your hair so much? Because the Little pirate apprentice works on it?” he laughed. She gave a slight hum at that, but eventually shook her head.
“Nope! It’s because daddy gave me his hair, and that’s very important!” She babbled out a dopey smile on her face at the thought
“Why?”
“Because I want to be just like daddy when I grow up!” She cheered, shooting off his lap and jumping all around him, swinging her arms in a familiar motion.
“I will go hyahh and bamm and hyahh and for the final move Yasotakeru!!” She boomed, a comically serious look on her face as she swung her imaginary twin axes around the small cabin, much to the amusement of her father, letting a few snickers slip.
“Why are you laughing?” She gaped, turning to the man with a frown on her face
“Nothing, I ‘m just surprised you want to be like your old man, but I ‘m glad.” He chortled as he pulled her towards him, ignoring the yelp she let out as he hugged her tightly.
“I ‘ll make sure to better myself so you can be someone great Hahahha!”
“No way! Daddy is already awesome, don’t get better, it will be too hard to reach you!” She pouted
“Ha! You know more than anyone that’s not how it works,” he cackled, pulling both of them up
“You can’t strive to be someone that’s easy to reach; it won’t get you far, Dokucha!” He shouted with a proud smile, making his way out of his cabin with Dokucha in tow.
“That’s why I will continue to better myself so you can continue to grow stronger!” He laughed
“Bahahaha! I see you two are up and going,” another cheery voice piped up
“Uncle Roger! Dokucha called running to the man and enveloping him, giggling as the man rubbed her head affectionately
“Good! I was looking for you, Gaban! I know where we are going next! Torino Kingdom!” Roger announced, letting out another belly laugh as Gaban’s face rapidly grew sour
“You look annoyed!” Dokucha exclaimed, looking at the annoyed look her father had on his face
-
"Uncle Rayleigh!" a small voice called, catching the man's attention and pulling his attention from the ropes as he glanced at the girl.
“What’s all the ruckus for, lass?” He called as he finished up the final knots that were needed.
“Dad and Uncle Roger are gonna start fighting again,” she said as she hugged him, leisurely looking up at the man
“How could you know if they were about to start fighting?” He questioned confused
“Cause Dad is telling Uncle Roger to be Careful again,” stepping back from the man and pointing at the two men whose animosity kept growing the longer they talked
“Yeah, that would do it” he huffed, holding the bridge of his nose, annoyed
“Let’s go,” he muttered, making his way up to the upper deck and next to Gaban, just as Dokucha had said. He lectured the Captain about what he was sure was another reckless decision, with the girl skipping next to him.
“What is it this time?” he questioned, watching as the girl wrapped herself around her father’s leg. The latter halfheartedly patted her in greeting, his attention on the man before him.
“This idiot wants to go right through the calm belt to go to Torino Kingdom; if that wasn’t enough, he wants to take the route that passes through Impel down.”
“I‘m sick of your warnings! Are you scared or what?!” Roger finally snapped;
“I never said that!” Gaban said exasperated, pulling at his hair, annoyed as he grabbed his daughter gently despite his anger and passed her to Rayleigh as he stomped his way to the Captain, crashing heads with him
“I told you to understand the risks, Roger, you idiot!” He growled
“If you wanna stop me, then fight me!” He boomed, shedding his sword. Gaban followed soon and pulled out his axes.
“Here we go again,” Rayleigh called, disappointed, placing Dokucha on the ground.
“Lass, go find the other two; I need to get this settled.”
“Okay!!!”
What we thinking? I think crossguild is next 👀 or maybe I will do another fairy tail between 🤔
Heya, so i just recently found your account and well, i love the way you write the roger pirates, is it alright if you could give us some cuddling headcannons with them? :) thanks for reading hun
☆ — cw(s)! . . . n/a. gn!reader. no pronouns used. not proofread.
☆ — notes! . . . this request couldn’t have come at a better time. the roger pirates have been on my mind always lately. thank you so much for requesting !! <3333
an absolute cuddle fiend !! roger loves cuddling with you. if he could have you wrapped in his arms or being wrapped in your arms at all hours of the day, he definitely would
he has no preference over being the big spoon or little spoon. but it just so happens, he tends to be little spoon often
there’s nothing better to him than having your arms wrapped around him, with his head on your chest, your hand in his hair, scratching his scalp. it puts him right to sleep
he especially loves your cuddles after a tough battle
if you tell him you’ll cuddle him if he wins a fight ?? he’s going to fight tooth and nail to win.
nothing and no one is getting in the way of him and your embrace
you will have to pry his arms from around you when you wake up in the morning, otherwise he will not let you go
his embrace is always so warm and very loving
uses cuddling to trap you into smothering your neck and cute face in kisses
rayleigh usually has an arm wrapped loosely around your waist whether you’re out and about or just chilling on the deck
it’s grown to be a habit of his. sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until you point it out
he is more of a half spoon kind of guy, laying on his back on your shared bed, with his hands behind his head. you cuddling into his side with your arm draped across his torso and your head on his shoulder
he’s also a fan of the cuddle hug
he enjoys being face to face with you. the deep eye contact, the tips of your noses touching. it still manages to make him feel all giddy inside like in his youth
cuddling brings out your best talks
some nights the two of you have such profound conversations that bring you even closer together
and other nights you listen to him complain and gripe about what crazy thing the apprentices got themselves into that day
he swears if he didn’t have to vent to, he’d maybe throw one of them overboard. he’s kidding…maybe…
there is no escaping oden and his cuddles
you can run but you cannot hide, because he will find you and he will smother you in all his love and affection
after he discovered cuddling is his favorite thing ever, he will not put you down…quite literally sometimes
and it’s so cute to see him so excited to be holding you. he’ll never get tired of you being in his arms
oden used to be very stiff when it came to cuddling in the early stages of your relationship. he had no idea what he was doing
but he quickly got used to it and cannot go a day without cuddling. never in his life has he felt so comfortable
the biggest sucker for back hugs, most of them come out of nowhere. hearing his heavy footsteps running in your direction, when he comes into view you see his arms already wide open. oh boy
at least he has started to announce himself after that one time you thought he was someone else and you threw him over your shoulder onto his back
gaban claims he’s not the cuddly type…he’s also the lying type so it’s best not to listen to everything he says
he just doesn’t know how to ask for them
he can be a little shy about cuddling if there are other people outside of the crew around
you have discovered when he’s jealous he is the most clingy
if he sees someone looking at you in a way he doesn’t like ?? he’ll up the ante tenfold, holding you in his arms like he hasn’t seen you in years. he makes it known you’re with him
he’s a head-in-lap kind of guy. there’s no better place than your lap and he stands by that. he can look up to see not only the stars in the night sky but your cute face too ??
oh he loves it. especially if you stroke his hair a little. he melts under your touch
he also really likes when you lay on top of him, so he can rub circles into your lower back as you talk about your day or whatever’s on your mind.
he’ll sneak a quick kiss or two to your head and then pretend not to know what you’re talking about just to get a reaction out of you
Time to slowly get back into fandom! (I still suck at being social but I'm working on it, please bear with me.)
Here's a gift for @taraneedspizza!
Also posted on AO3 on 2024.04.20
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Roger x Rayleigh x Gaban x AFAB!GN!Reader, the focus is on x Reader ships
Summary: Shanks and Buggy run around and make you trip over yourself. Your lovers relay themselves to take care of you while you're injured.
Content warnings: polyamory, found family, hurt/comfort, fluff & smut, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, sex, squirting, creampie, Reader wears a dress for smut convenience but no pronouns are used.
Word count: 5.3k
Careful, adj. :
marked by wary caution or prudence
marked by attentive concern and solicitude
marked by painstaking effort to avoid errors or omissions
exercising or taking care
❤️🩹 Careful
You briefly glance behind you when you hear the cabin boys' laughter echoing across the decks. You smile to yourself, happy to see them eager for a new day.
Shanks bumps into you, throwing a quick "Sorry!" over his shoulder.
Buggy runs by you as well, but you manage to avoid collision with a quick step to the side.
"Careful, boys!", you yell after them.
They throw you a hurried "Aye, aye" and slow down just a bit, happily trotting away.
You shake your head, fondly exasperated, and join the rest of the crew for breakfast in the galley.
Rayleigh and Gaban assign chores afterwards as usual, and everyone scurries off to their posts.
You’re halfway to your own when you hear the cabin boys’ laughter again. You wonder what they're up to this time, but you’ve got work to do so you figure you’ll find out later on.
Hurried steps behind you give away their whereabouts, and Shanks runs past you fast enough that your dress flies up around your knees.
You adjust your stance in his wake, but fail to notice the other boy running by your other side.
Buggy’s hand catches in the fold of your dress, and he pulls you around, effectively throwing you off balance.
You trip over your feet and fall with a yelp. You wince and writhe on the wooden floor, stunned by a sudden burst of pain in your ankle.
Buggy crouches next to you. "Hey, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
You take a deep breath and wait for the fog in your brain to dissipate.
Shanks comes beside you too, a worried frown across his forehead. "(y/n)? Are you hurt?"
Another deep breath, and you finally manage to exhale a strained "Shit." You inhale again, and you try to get up. Another burst of pain drags a pained yelp out of your throat. "Fuuuuck–" You pant. "I need to see Crocus. Now."
Buggy's mouth seals shut while his eyes go wide as saucers.
Shanks pales and swallows. "Okay. Okay. I'll get someone." He scrambles up to call for help, and eventually comes back with Gaban.
Buggy hasn't said a word since you mentioned the doctor. He's still kneeling by your side, posture stiff and gaze bewildered.
Gaban slides a hand under your arm and helps you up. "There, there. What happened?"
"Kids were running. Bumped into me. Ow–" You wince when you stand and your ankle twists a bit with the movement. "Holy shit, that hurts."
Buggy quietly gets up, and follows Shanks and the rest of you to the infirmary.
Crocus examines you, earning a couple of undignified yelps when he manipulates your ankle. "It's sprained", he diagnoses once he's done, "I'll splint that ankle and give you painkillers, but what you need for the next couple of days is rest." He turns to Gaban. "Can you bring (y/n) back to–"
"Hey Crocus, do you still have some of that burn sal–" Rayleigh cuts himself as he enters the infirmary, pressing a wet cloth against his hand. "What happened ?"
"Sprained ankle", Crocus says, motioning towards you.
Rayleigh tilts his head and glances at the cabin boys. "How ?"
Shanks pulls his straw hat over his head, concealing the tears he tries his best to blink away.
Buggy hunches his shoulders. "We were running and we made (y/n) fall."
Rayleigh scowls at them and heavily sighs.
"What happened to you?" You motion towards Rayleigh's hand when he raises an inquiring eyebrow.
"I was helping in the kitchen. Burned myself on a hot plate. Nothing serious."
You shrug. "Still hurts."
"It'll be gone faster", Crocus says as he gets up. He rummages through a cabinet, then throws a pot of ointment to Rayleigh. "Twice a day until it's gone. Too much won't help more than making sure it soaks in."
"Aye, aye." Rayleigh turns back to the cabin boys. "I sure hope you're proud of yourselves."
Shanks stiffens and tightens his grip over the hem of his hat.
Buggy grits his teeth and nods the affirmative.
Gaban pats the boys' shoulders. "Well I hope you've learned your lesson."
Buggy lifts teary eyes towards you. "We're really sorry you got hurt because of us."
Shanks nods the affirmative, salty drops freely falling down his cheeks. "We promise we'll be more careful."
Your gaze softens, but you figure the lesson will stick better if the boys understand that you're really hurt, so you don't say a single word. You simply sigh and nod the affirmative.
The kids exchange a worried glance.
Rayleigh grabs both of them by the collar and drags them outside for extra chores.
Gaban frowns in their wake. "You're too hard on them."
Crocus huffs. "Serves them right." He sits back next to you with what he needs to brace your ankle. "Supplies are limited, and I've got enough on my hands as it is: I don't need to treat the result of friendly fire too!"
You roll your eyes. "It's alright, I'll be okay in a few weeks just like you said. I just want them to remember what happened, so they're more careful later on."
Gaban shrugs and exhales an unconvinced hum. "Meh, anyway. You–" He points a finger at you. "–take it easy for a few days, I'll get your chores reassigned while Crocus treats you and then I'll take you back to your cabin. Good?"
Warmth spreads in your chest. "Sure, thanks."
Crocus makes quick work of immobilizing your ankle, and he provides a pair of crutches to help you up and around. "Do not set your foot on the floor until three days from now. No weight on it, no pressure, nothing."
"Aye, aye."
"You'll need help for showers and such, but I believe you'll find that easily?" He throws you a knowing look and a smirk.
Your cheeks heat up a little, and you smile back. "Yes, thank you. Anything else, doc?"
"Come see me in four days, I'll examine you again and I'll see when you can start physical rehabilitation. The sooner the better, if you want to get back in shape fast."
"Aye, aye."
"Now, don't go wandering around on your own and wait for Gaban here. I'm going to give you more painkillers, too." He rummages in another cabinet and fetches some herbs and a couple of vials. "You've got enough in your system for a few hours, I'll have someone bring you the rest later on. One spoon of the preparation I'll make you, one glass of water to wash it down, every four hours if it hurts, less often if it doesn't. Clear?"
"Crystal: one spoon, one glass, four hours. Thanks, Crocus."
"Bah. I'd rather be preparing more salves and other daily things, but a couple of brats decided I didn't have enough backlog", he deadpans.
You shake your head and huff a small laugh.
Gaban comes by a while after, beaming. "Your chores are taken care of until further notice!" He sits beside you and leans in, murmuring with a conspiratory air. "Roger volunteered."
Your eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, that's nice."
"Captain's pet."
You slap his arm with the back of your hand. "Oh, come on."
He grins. "Just kidding. But it was worth mentioning."
You huff a laugh. "True. Help me up, would you?"
"Yep. Hold onto me." He opens his arms, and closes them around you when you brace your arms around his neck. He lifts you up and supports you with one arm while he grabs your crutches with his other hand.
You throw a "Thanks, doc" behind your shoulder when you leave the infirmary, and you try to get used to the crutches. Your arms hurt a little from being used in an unusual way, and you're relieved when you're finally back to your cabin. You sit on your bed and set the crutches aside, within reach. You lift your legs up and stretch the healthy one, still wary of the injured one.
Gaban sits beside you and helps you comfortably lay on the bed. He tucks a pillow under your calf, making sure no weight or tension remains on your ankle. Then he places a hand across your other leg, gently squeezing. "Are you going to be alright? Do you need anything else?"
You lay your hand across his thigh. "You're such a sweetheart."
He tilts his head to the side. "That's just me taking care of you." His fingers trail up, skirting a little under your dress. "Nothing more." His cheeks glow a shade darker, but you can tell he's just mindlessly seeking more contact, and he's really doing it without giving it much thought.
That doesn't change how his bare hand across your skin, his voice and the innuendo beneath affects you, though it was probably unintentional. Your breath catches in your throat when warmth pools in your gut, and you only barely manage to restrain an undignified sound.
Gaban raises an eyebrow and grins. "Unless you want me to take care of you another way ?"
You pretend to glare, but you know the way your gaze flickered to his lips just now already gave you away.
Gaban's smile widens. "What do you want, love?"
Your cheeks heat up and you bite your lower lip. You glance down and wriggle your healthy ankle, slightly pouting. "I can't do shit like this."
"Who said you had to do anything?"
You uncomfortably shrug. "It's not fair."
"Who said that? I get off plenty watching you get off", he huskily says, his other hand running up inside your other thigh.
You shiver under his touch, warm and gentle, so, so careful. Your insides twitch when his large hands squeeze around your thighs and you instantly know your underwear are done for. "Oh, fuck."
"Need something, babe?"
"Kiss me", you breathe out.
Gaban scoots closer, removing his hands from your thighs only to grab your face and pull you in for a fierce kiss.
You sigh into his mouth and moan around his tongue as it slides between your lips.
You're positively breathless when he finally leans back, wearing a confident smile on his glistening lips. "Anything else?"
You half-heartedly glare, but a small moan gives you away. "Maybe", you concede. "Wanna put that smart mouth to good use?"
Gaban's cheeks flush a shade darker and his smile falters just a bit before he heartily nods. "Oh, yeah." He leans back and slides his hands under your dress to slide your underwear down." Naughty", he huskily comments when he pulls the garment away and finds it soaked.
You lightly pout. "Is that a complaint?"
He softly laughs. "Nope." He removes his glasses and sets them aside a little further on the bed.Then he lays his face down between your thighs, he hooks your legs above his broad shoulders and his hands around your hips, keeping you steady beneath him while he dives in tongue first.
You're thankful Gaban's muscular back provides support for your sprained ankle because the first swipe of his tongue elicits a full body shudder. One of your hands tangles in his curly hair, keeping him close.
He exhales a delighted hum into your folds when his tongue dives inside you, earning a soft encouraging groan. The wet muscle pokes in again, avidly exploring and tasting you.
You moan louder and it's becoming increasingly difficult not to writhe around under Gaban's delicious ministrations. You can tell an orgasm is building up pretty fast by the way your inner walls squeeze around his tongue and your clit throbs against the tip of his nose where it presses against you, and you cast a pleading glance down when Gaban's tongue recedes, leaving you hot, bothered, and fluttering around nothing.
Gaban's eyes shine with mischief when he dives back in to suck your clit. He holds your gaze while he unlocks the arm that's not supporting your sprained ankle, and he watches you intensely while he slides two fingers in, up to the last knuckle.
"Oooh, fuck." Your eyes roll back and flutter shut, and the moan that leaves you next is downright sinful. You glance down again and bite your lower lip at the view.
Gaban is focused on you alone: his eyes trained on your face, his fingers spreading either across your skin to keep you steady or inside you spreading around your juices, his mouth is diligently sucking and licking the swollen length throbbing under his tongue. And with all that, crinkling eyes and lips turned upwards, eyes shining with mirth…
You card your hand deeper into his mane and moan. "You're so– ngh– so handsome..." You rub your fingertips against his scalp, earning a low groan. You dig your other hand into Gaban's hair and pull him right where you want him, pressing your hands harder into his head.
Gaban slides his fingers out only to put three of them back in. He growls in response to the sound you make then, and when your cunt squeezes around his fingers in turn he curves them just right and starts thrusting them.
"Ooh... Fuck, fuck–" You pull Gaban against your core, gently digging fingernails harder into his skull. He growls around your clit again just as he sucks it harder and rubs his tongue underneath, and it's enough to tip you over the edge of your climax. You cum with a wail and a choked curse at the back of your throat, holding onto Gaban for dear life while he keeps eating you out and fingerfucking you until you settle down.
He finally recedes with a contented sigh when you slump down and release your hold on his hair. He licks his glistening fingers and lips and offers you a playful smile.
You return him a dopey grin and a light laugh.
Gaban cautiously lays you back down on the bed and gets a wet cloth to clean you up. Afterwards he considers putting your underwear back on, but he scrunches his nose when he remembers the state it's in.
You chuckle behind him. "Your fault."
"Ehh, guilty." He shrugs, then he retrieves clean underwear into your closet and helps you get dressed up again.
You pull him in for a kiss. "Thanks."
He rolls his eyes, then kisses your forehead. "Of course." He stands up and quickly glances around, making sure you've got everything you need within reach. "I gotta go on laundry duty, but if you need anything just yell, I made sure there's always someone nearby."
You reach out for his hand and give a gentle squeeze. "I love you."
He grins wide. "Me too."
You use the occasion to read a book you've been postponing for a while. You're glad you finally get some time to dive into it, and you only stop reading because your eyes are starting to get tired. You feel a little lonely too, now, but fortunately it's around lunchtime, and Roger soon brings you a tray.
"Hey", he breathes out as he comes in, uncharacteristically quiet. His gaze follows your stretched leg, finds your braced ankle, resting across a pillow. He sighs and offers you a soft smile. "How do you feel?", he softly asks as he sets the tray on the nearby table.
"I'm okay", you shrug, "Crocus took good care of me. And I'm not made of sugar." You poke his arm. "It hurts, but I'll be okay in a few weeks."
Roger sighs of relief, and his whole posture visibly relaxes. He sits on the bed, and he cautiously snuggles close to you. He places a hand across your belly, softly patting you, holding you close to him. He frowns a little when he confides, "The kids are miserable, I thought you were hurt real bad."
You wince. "Ah, fuck. I wanted them to learn a lesson, but maybe I went too hard on them. Gaban was right." You sigh and slump a little. "I mean– We all get hurt on the regular. Hurting a nakama sucks, but it's not like they did it on purpose. I wanted them to be more careful, not to feel guilty forever..."
Roger offers you a soft smile. "Do you want me to tell the kids to come here, so you can tell them yourself?"
You nod and hum in approval. "Yeah, thanks."
"Alright." He brings you the tray. "Here, eat some. I grabbed you some extra in case you're hungry later on. I brought you Crocus' medicine too."
You grin wide. "Sweet. Did you eat already?"
"Yeah. Dig in."
You nod and do just so.
Roger watches you get your fill, a soft smile on his face. He places a hand on your bare leg, gently squeezing, just seeking the contact of your skin while you're together.
You squint and ask between two mouthfuls, "What?"
"You eat well. That's good."
You chuckle around your next bite.
Once you're done with your lunch, Roger puts the tray away and comes back by your side. His hand travels up, sliding up your side, then your arm, and pauses across your shoulder, gently squeezing.
You look up and meet an eager gaze and a wide smile. You squint a little, but the hint of a smile curls your lips. "What?"
"If you're not too hurt... Does that mean you can still..." He waggles his eyebrows.
You throw him an unimpressed stare. "Really", you deadpan, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrays your interest.
Roger slightly pouts. "I always want you."
Such an infamous, fearsome, powerful pirate, pouting and searching for physical attention. The sight would be incredibly absurd for anyone who doesn't know Roger, but it's usual for those who do know him, and terribly endearing for the ones who love him.
You cup his cheek and pull him in for a kiss.
Roger all too happily kisses you back, shifting on the bed so he can reach out for your bare arms, bracing his own around yours. Personal space is barely a concept with Roger: he's invasive and overwhelming, always reaching out for more contact, more skin, more, more, yet always in the best of ways. This time he shows more restraint, keeping his hands to your torso in order to avoid hurting you. His large hands cup your chest and gently rub the pads of his thumbs against your clothed nipples, earning a few soft moans.
You break the kiss for air, panting and slightly light-headed. You swallow and turn half-lidded eyes to your lover.
He grins and dives in, peppering your neck and shoulder with wet, hungry kisses.
"Mmh, Roger..." You card a hand in his hair and you gently tug on the dark strands, earning a low growl.
One of Roger's hands wanders lower, pressing into your side, petting your belly, squeezing your hip…
You buck your hips up when his fingertips find the hem of your underwear beneath your dress.
He leans up and slides both of his hands under your dress. "Can I ?"
You squint a little. It's rare he asks, more so when you made your interest clear. Then it hits you like a brick–
He's being extra cautious because you're injured.
Your gaze softens and you exhale a light chuckle, amazed at his ability to make you fall harder for him with every bit of affection. "Yeah, of course."
Roger lifts your dress up and bunches it around your waist, then he slides his hands down your sides and tucks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. He quickly glances up, then carefully slides them down once you've nodded your approval.
Then he sits cross-legged in front of you and braces your thighs over his, putting your private parts on display while your legs comfortably rest over his thighs.
"Oh, dear." Your insides flutter around nothing under his hungry gaze, and you try to close your thighs a little but his hands are already spread over them, pushing them open.
"So pretty..." He brings a hand between your thighs, places his whole palm over your cunt and presses his thick fingers around your clit.
It throbs under his touch, and a lewd moan leaves you unprompted when Roger starts rubbing his whole hand, gently stroking your clit between his fingers and pressing the heel of his palm against your twitching entrance. "Holy fuck–"
Roger grins wide. "It's just me, babe."
You half-heartedly glare, but your protest dies in your throat when he moves his hand up to slide two thick fingers inside you with his other hand. "Nghh–"
He starts thrusting, slow and deep, taking the time to rub his fingertips inside you while his other hand is still busy stroking your clit. He exhales a small satisfied sound when he finds the spot that makes you turn into jelly, throbbing against his fingers with a whimper. Then his smile turns hungrier, and he rubs that same spot again, and again, and again.
"F-Fuck, fuck, fuck–" Your eyes open wide and you writhe under the intense stimulation, but a twinge of pain reminds you of your injury. You glare at Roger and his shit-eating grin, he has you right where he wants to and he doesn't even need to hold you because you'll hurt yourself if you move too much. "Bastard– ngh–"
"Nah, I don't think so." Roger slides his hand up, pressing the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingertips dig into your lower belly. His other hand rubs harder inside you, pinching your sweet spot between both sets of fingertips and sending an electrifying jolt of pleasure across your whole body.
"Oh, fuuuck–" It's increasingly harder to restrain your own moves when he's driving you crazy like this. Liquid pleasure builds up inside you and you're getting closer to an orgasm, very fast.
Roger puts his elbows above your knees, holding them open, pinning you down with the weight of his torso. His intense gaze is locked onto you while he moves faster, harder, eagerly waiting until your inner walls clench faster around him. When you open your mouth to wail as you cum, he presses his hand hard over your clit and keeps rubbing his fingertips against your sweet spot, extending your high until you're a whimpering, panting mess.
You blink stars away from inside your eyelids when you come down from cloud nine. "Wow."
Roger grins wide. "You're welcome."
"Cocky bastard."
"You love it", he counters, leaning in for a sweet kiss. He cleans you up and pulls your dress down afterwards.
"Wait, where's my–"
Roger tucks your soaked underwear into his pocket.
You scrunch your nose. "Gross."
Roger playfully draws his tongue out, pats his pocket with a grin and leaves without further ado.
You sigh in his wake, amused and sated all at once. The post-climactic high works wonders to dull the pain, and you figure a quick nap won't hurt anyone.
Timid knocks on your door stir you awake.
"Cm'in", you slur, blinking away the sleep.
Buggy sniffles as he quietly enters, looking at his feet.
Shanks shortly follows, joining his fingers with his friend while he pouts. After a short while he says, "Captain Roger said you wanted to talk to us."
Buggy sniffles again.
Suddenly much more awake, your gaze softens and you pat the space beside you on the mattress. "Come here, boys."
They sit next to you, their hands still linked together.
You place your hand over theirs. "I know you didn't want to hurt me."
Their eyes finally turn up to yours, teary and full of hope.
"It does suck and it does hurt, but I'm aware that you didn't do it on purpose. I do want you to be more careful from now on, but I am not going to hold a grudge against you forever. I want you to care for your nakama as much as I care for you. I love you both, and it'll take much, much more than an involuntarily sprained ankle to change that."
Buggy throws his arms around you. "I was so worried", he whines between soft sobs.
You pet his hair. "There, there", you softly say. "You're alright. I love you both."
Shanks is quietly smiling through tears, and he grabs your free hand, gently cradling it in his palms. "We love you, too. We're so sorry–"
"Enough of that", you cut him, squeezing his hands, "I know you are, and all I want now is for you to get over it and act better in the future."
Both boys heartily nod. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Of course."
Buggy meets your gaze again and cracks a small smile. "You're going to be okay, right?"
You grin and nod the affirmative. "Sure am."
Shanks asks, "And you'll recover and still be a badass fighter, right?"
You chuckle. "Of course."
The boys excitedly look at each other.
You grab their hands and flash them a dangerous smile. "You better go train right away, because I'm going to kick your asses over the Red Line as soon as I'm back."
The kids yelp, but their smiles betray their eagerness. They run away laughing and bickering about who's going to have it worse once you've recovered.
You happily sigh in their wake, relieved that they've learned their lesson in a healthier manner. Parenting is a full-time job no matter how many parents are around, and there might be books about it but none of them is the perfect instruction manual. You're figuring it out as it goes, along with the rest of the polycule and extra help from the crew, and you think you're doing reasonably well. And speaking of books... You resume your earlier reading now that your mind is a little more fresh.
Rayleigh comes to check on you later in the afternoon. "The kids are smiling again. What did you tell them?"
"That I wouldn't hold a grudge forever, and that I just wanted them to be more careful from now on."
"Hm. Good."
"Better than you being all stern and scowling all the time", you tease.
He throws you an unimpressed stare.
"Ah, good ol' deadpan. Thanks for proving my point." You triumphantly grin.
Rayleigh tilts your chin up with a couple of fingers, then he leans in, close enough that his breath fans across your slightly parted lips.
Your breath catches in your throat and your smile falters a bit.
His eyelids fall a little and he huskily says, "But you like when I'm strict too... don't you?"
You exhale a shaky breath while warmth pools in your gut. "What's with y'all today?"
Rayleigh lightly shrugs, and the hint of a smile curls his lips when he says, "We just want to take care of you." With that, he leans in for a deep kiss that leaves you breathless. He leans back with a smirk. "Also I tasted you on Gaban's lips this morning. Been driving me crazy since then. And then Roger's hand smelled like you, so."
Your cheeks wildly heat up and you glance away. "Fair", you concede after a while.
Rayleigh cups your cheek and turns your head back towards him, making eye contact. "Do you want me?"
You bite your lower lip. "Of course I do."
He softly smiles and sits on the bed beside you, glancing at your sprained ankle. "How do you feel?"
"The medicine works well so the pain is manageable, but I really need to be careful with how I move this side."
Rayleigh hums, purses his lips, and moves over you, caging you under his body. He steals your breath and a kiss, then he moves away to the other side, smirking. "I know what I can do." He lays you on your uninjured side, and places a couple of pillows next to your bent legs. Then he pulls your knee across a pillow, and your splinted ankle over the other. He lets you adjust your position so there's no strain on your injury, and once you're comfortable enough he pulls your dress up, exhaling an interested hum. "Going commando, are we?"
You roll your eyes. "I did wear something before. Blame Roger."
He lightly laughs. "I'm not blaming anyone, though." He lays on his side behind you, and his hand explores your body, trailing goosebumps in its wake and earning soft sighs. He gently squeezes your thigh, your ass, then his fingers slide between your thighs where you're getting wet already.
A sudden realization hits you, and you indignantly say, "You're all taking advantage of the fact that I can't move!"
"Guilty as charged", Rayleigh says in the crook of your neck before he plants a kiss there.
"Sly bastard."
"I can stop", he retorts.
You huff. "No, thank you."
"Thought so." A couple of fingers part your folds and spread your juices around before sliding inside you.
You softly groan at the intrusion, and you slightly buck your hips back for better access.
Rayleigh thrusts his fingers slowly, spreading them around and lingering where he earns the loudest moans.
You try to ignore the fact that you're already soaking wet but it's made impossible by the slick noises echoing in your bunk. You breathe more heavily, and the way Rayleigh rubs his fingertips just enough to tease but nearly not enough to please just drives you crazy.
The bastard knows what he's doing too, because he soon asks, "Want something more, darling?"
"I want you", you whine.
He chuckles and pulls his fingers out of you. He removes his pants and underwear, then he lays back down behind you. One of his hands guides his cock between your thighs while the other grabs your hip and pulls you closer.
You exhale a moan when the tip of his cock slides in. A few soft sighs leave you while he pushes deeper in, and another, longer, delighted one once he's fully sheathed in.
Rayleigh fucks you slow and deep, and his hand travels up to fondle a breast and rub a nipple while his mouth latches onto your neck and shoulder. It's almost torture. Delicious, delicious torture, when he fucks you like this, gentle and teasing, letting you savor the way his throbbing cock stretches your inner walls with each thrust, the way the curve of his shaft perfectly rubs against your sweet spot, the way his fingertips roll around your nipple, the way his tongue soothes your skin after a bite.
You feel yet another orgasm building back up but you know you won't come like this. It's a little frustrating but you had your fair share of small deaths today so it's alright.
Rayleigh's getting closer though, you can tell by the way his thrusts get a little erratic.
You moan a little louder when his cock pulsates harder inside you. "Oh, fuck, that's good– Cum inside me, Ray–"
He exhales a strained moan then, and he buries his cock deep inside you one last time. His balls spasm against your ass while he unloads deep inside you, and a series of soft sighs and groans are exhaled against your neck. Once the intense throbbing subsides a little, his hand travels back down between your thighs. He slides his fingers around your clit and starts rubbing. "Come on sweetheart, cum for me..."
Your inner walls clench around his still throbbing cock and you tip over the edge quickly, whimpering in his embrace.
After he's peppered your neck and shoulder with a series of soft kisses, Rayleigh cleans you up with a damp cloth and helps you get dressed up again. He retrieves the tray Roger brought you and tells you, "Gaban will bring you dinner. We'll come by afterwards to tuck you in."
You curiously glance up. "We...?"
"Of course, darling, we all want to take care of you." He winks.
You shake your head and exhale a fondly exasperated sigh. "Poor me. Be careful, okay?"
