After writing a follow-up letter as Santa to Bepo, Law sits at his desk for a while, pen in his hand, and is struck by what he deems a ‘good idea’. Law begins to pen another letter.
Dear Milady Carnahan,
Ho, ho, ho – are you surprised to receive word from none other than good old me? Yes, Christmas may be months away, but I am, and I have been, diligently watching over you, always, from the beginning, and I know, Milady, that you’ve been such a naughty girl –
Law pauses. He’s about to rip the letter and start over, but decides to leave it as it is.
He tries again.
It’s me. Just me. Are you disappointed? I bet you were all giddy to get a letter from Santa. Well. He does not exist. So you only have me.
On occasion I write letters as Santa to Bepo. Do not share this fact with him, or you will hurt his innocence, and he would be crushed, and then I would be crushed, and then you would be crushed, and then the crew would be crushed. We would all sink to the bottom of the ocean.
You might think I’m deceiving him – how horrid of me! But through our correspondence, albeit with me concealing my identity, I have been able to converse with him in a way that would not have been possible face-to-face. We talked more in our younger years, but it’s different now.
Anyhow, I thought I’d try the same with you. There are no awkward pauses in writing; my expression as I tell you all this, is left to your imagination. Please be respectful as you visualize my face.
What do you think, of this grand, magnificent idea? Shall we exchange letters? In each response, we could share, about anything. You could even write me a poem. A girl did that once, when I was eight. I told her I didn’t understand, so she burst into (not tears) an animated, thorough explanation – she was bold and determined – and I said her poem made no sense. And then the surroundings whirled and I had to pick myself up from the ground. No one lent a hand. Later, when anyone asked about my black eye, I said I’d been involved in a fight with some gang.
Don’t worry, I feel safer in your trusty hands; you never use your knuckles, only the flat of your unforgiving palm and your dainty little fingers.
That instance aside, I was a very good boy. I never made my sister cry. I was quite protective of her, in fact. She would be twenty-two this year.
She had the sweetest laugh. I don’t remember it. But it was the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh with her. And her face, how it would light up at the sight – or scent – of ice cream, kind of like you do with churros, that crazy, delirious, ravenous look in your eyes, like you’d kill for it.
I’m kidding. You might, but Lami would not kill anyone.
Your turn.
I expect two – three paragraphs at least.
If you can't think of something, I can ask questions. Like…
Tell me about how you met James.
Law ends the letter only with his signature. He slips it into an envelope, scribbles ‘Milady Morgan Carnahan’, and leaves the envelope under Morgan’s pillow, with the edge slightly jutting out.
Equipped with a swimsuit, a pareo skirt over it for modesty, a wide-brimmed sun hat, a pair of sandals (of course with heels!) and a big bag containing all the summer essentials, Morgan is ready to hit the pool with Hiru. And a good thing, too, because it's hellish hot out there. Plasma boy might think different, though. "I'm ready." She coos from the threshold. He must be ready if she is, she reckons.
At the words, Hiru turned to his female companion with a wide grin, adorned in his black swim trunks, with a small orange sun motif on his right trunk leg, an open short sleeved red oxford shirt, and his own pair of sandals. The two had made plans to stop by the pool to try and cool off, even though he didn’t particularly need to, but being with his friend and spending some time with her cooling off and enjoying the water, well for the most part, was going to be nice. Not to mention how great she looked in that swimsuit, even with the pareo on, she looked really good, but Hiru would keep those thoughts to himself for now.
“So am I!” Hiru replied as he picked up a small satchel with a few things, including a towel and a few other essentials. “Let’s head out.” His grin widened as he walked over to the door and stood beside her. “The plan still the same? We spend some time at the pool, go grab a bite to eat, then come back for an evening of fireworks?” The two of them had conveniently arrived on an island that was having a large celebration that night which included fireworks that were going to light up the black and moonlit sky, which Hiru was also scheming about adding some of his own in, but that was going to be a little surprise for her.
You’re blunt. You’re outspoken. Frankly, you’re kind of a jerk. But you get away with it because you’re usually right and also because you’re indispensable to the major plot. But honestly? It’s going to come back to haunt you. One of these days, you’re going to be TOO honest. You’re going to refuse to lie at a critical juncture, upholding your honorable caustic truthfulness, and you’re going to pay the ultimate price for it.
tagged. @xpyre / @xpuriity / @mxladymorgan
tagging. people who have not done this?
Botanical gardens were a place Izo liked to visit with great pleasure whenever he had the chance to, and this one specifically was known for its many exotic flowers and beautiful scenery.
Coming to a halt in front of a patch with many colourful orchids, Izo spoke his mind, uncaring if the woman next to him wasn’t up for conversation.
She forces the door open with her foot, not fully but by just the bare minimum required, lest she see the horror of the scene. This was all his fault! She'd warned him about the sauce being too spicy, hadn't she? But of course he had to play macho... Arm trespassing the gap, Morgan presents Law with the much needed artefact. Law's very own One Piece... A roll of toilet paper. "How are you doing in there?" The aroma escaping the loo was that of DEATH. That's a reputation for you!
“News alert! We are live at the scene of a calamity.”
“We’re risking our lives so you don’t have to.”
Both Shachi and Penguin wore grave expressions as they lowered their makeshift microphones—wooden spoons—and muttered a quick prayer. In rehearsed and perfected unison, both shook their dipped heads and made the sign of the cross as an invisible camera panned to the toilet. A ghastly and ominous rumbling could be heard from behind the closed door, much like the menacing growls of monstrous beasts from Hell demanding to be released from imprisonment. A thunderous splash followed seconds later, and Shachi and Penguin exchanged dramatic glances of terror. Shachi wrinkled his nose and Penguin clasped a hand over his. Suffocating waves of noxious fumes continued to leak out and permeate the air.
“Save yourselves! The Tang’s experiencing terrible turbulence in the loo.”
“The Captain’s been attacked! And defeated! By the Grand Line’s hottest hot sauce—”
“Which, in his cocksureness, he devoured spoonfuls—”
“Currently, he’s dropping anchor in the throne-room but the fate of the crew remains parlous. A storm is coming! And we’ll all—”
“A storm? It’s worse. Listen, we are on Red Alert—or Yellow—I’ve always mixed up the two.”
“Right, right. It’s the end of the world, folks!”
“Only minutes ago, the Tang’s previously dormant volcano, Mount Trafalgar, erupted.”
“Lava fountains gushed from its crater.”
“Massive toxic plumes of flatulence spewed out, all over.”
“On the Volcanic Explosivity Index, Mount Trafalgar’s eruption is best described as mega-colossal—”
“Cataclysmic, you mean!”
“With the danger zone expanding to the entire Tang, the eruption fuels fear in the crew forced to seek shelter above deck. Some dived into the sea. Others that were unlucky and slow to escape have huddled up in their closets.”
“No reports of death or injuries yet. Nonetheless—”
“We’re all sitting ducks; writing our wills, saying our last words.”
“It’s been a good life, brotha.” Shachi turned to Penguin and placed a heavy hand on Penguin’s shoulder.
“See ya in Hell.”
Penguin and Shachi hugged briefly and then each woefully wiped their cheek with a finger.
“Hey,” came a pained, gruff voice from inside the toilet, Mount Trafalgar roaring. “Make yourselves useful and get me toilet paper.”
Mount Trafalgar was situated on the porcelain throne, battling mortal contractions of his stomach. His face was a tense and grim expression that looked more a hideous mask used to scare misbehaving children. He had plenty of opportunities to mull over his mistake. Yet, learn from it he could not. If he had the chance to go back to the past, he would have made the same decision. He would have gulped down spoonfuls of hot sauce, for Trafalgar Law was not a man to run from a challenge. Because his overall physical appearance was far from threatening, he needed to display his machismo in every which way possible, including foolishness he knew he would pay dearly for.
Of course, Law didn’t feel very manly in the present moment, with his face buried between his knees as he sat hunched over, taking deep breaths while the baby monster, Diarrhea, stretched the skin over his stomach taut. It gurgled and kicked and punched, practised kungfu and did multiple somersaults, to his horror. The pregnancy had reached full term, but the baby monster was adamant to nest inside him. Only lava and fumes erupted, both explosively and effusively.
The pain was nothing like he’d ever endured, incomparable even to the mutilation suffered at Doflamingo’s hands. Every time Law was certain the pain had passed, it surged, ferociously, stronger than ever. He felt like he’d been punched in the balls, once, twice, and then again. His eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets; he nearly bit off his tongue. In the moment of debilitating agony, Law wished hard for his mama. He hoped she could bless him, from up in Heaven, and make the fucking pain stop. Law had been saved from death twice, but burning fucking diarrhea? Death would have been kinder.
Seconds later, footsteps drew closer, the sounds almost drowned out by the splurt of hot lava cascading down the white porcelain slopes. Law wondered if Shachi and Penguin had finally returned with toilet paper after taking their own sweet time, the bastards. Instead, the door was edged open and a sliver of holy light shone brightly into the gloominess of the toilet. Law glanced up and caught a glimpse of an angelic face and he almost sobbed as noxious fumes rushed through the crack and blasted Morgan mercilessly. Law noticed the toilet paper extended to him but made no attempt to accept it yet.
“How are you doing in there?” she asked, and Law gave her a glum look of utter defeat like a man who had spent many harrowing hours at war with himself, legs crisscrossing and face contorting whenever he took a hit.
“Mm…” Law hung his head. “I’m doing…” His fists clenched as pain barreled through him with great ecstasy. Goosebumps prickled his skin and sweat rained down his temples.
“…Doing brilliant,” Law groaned, curling in his toes. “Never been better. Pain…my favorite drug, you know?” Without looking up, he grabbed the toilet paper and clutched the roll in both hands, cradling the precious commodity to his stomach. Law had never wanted for Morgan to see him like this, at his worst, utterly vulnerable, without his usual veneers of composure and power and confidence.
Law was stuck in the toilet for another hour before he felt confident that he was finished. He was—mind, body, and soul—completely finished. Worn to a frazzle, Law trudged back to his room and spared Morgan a brief sideways glance that was devoid of life and energy. There was a loud thud as he flopped down face-first onto the bed like he’d been shot in the back.
“Feels good,” Law murmured, and then sighed. He nuzzled his face into the sheets, ready for eternal rest—or at least, an hour’s nap. “I’ve been cleansed, purified, detoxed…it was worth it, all the suffering…and now, I rest in peace—but you may join me. It’s cold. Need you.”
And if Morgan so much as said ‘I told you so’, Law would fart once more out of spite. Besides, who did she think he drank hot sauce to impress?
Law wondered if Morgan was still impressed. He had displayed bravado, had he not?
Oh, whatever. Perhaps tomorrow he would try again.
Sanji had not meant to spy on Morgan, the door was already slightly ajar when he came to speak to her in her chambers. As soon as he saw that she was in the middle of changing, he dropped the hand lifted to knock, turned around and distanced himself with quick but silent steps. But that one glimpse he had gotten could not be returned. It wasn't even as if he had seen a lot, just her bare back and the outline of her bossom against the light of the window...
Other men would say their blood rushed south and technically that was exactly what Sanji's blood was doing, but in his case it came cascading out of his nostrils, staining his good shirt, tie and suit. Damn it, he still was not cured from the horrible experiences of the past two years and the fact that he also had yet to fully get used to Bones being lady Morgan instead did not help the blood flow.
The worst thing was that his body was still reacting so extremely, gushing out way too much blood for a stupid nosebleed. Sanji had almost lost his life on Fishman Island that way, he really didn’t want to risk dying like that again. But his body did not listen.
Leaning against the wooden wall, Sanji was slipping down until he was sitting on his ass. Trying to pinch his nose closed did nothing other than to redirect the blood into his mouth and throat and that would just irritate his stomach. The idea of throwing up wasn’t a pleasant one, especially not on a foreign ship.
Sanji’s vision was blurring, he was about to black out, shit, this was not good. Did Chopper have enough blood reserves for him? He should have replenished them a while ago. But this was not the Sunny. Would this ship’s doctor have the rare, cursed blood of Sanji on hand?
The corridor was dark and with the swimming vision Sanji could not see much but he did hear the sounds of steps coming from the left, no the right, or was it both? Someone approached him but he was on the verge of losing consciousness. Grabbing at the arm that was holding him up, blinking blindly, he could not process the voice talking to him. As his mind was slipping away the last thing he mumbled was his blood type. “S RH-“
Now, Martha didnt care much about the character of the men she had one night stands with, one night stands werent places for character. This man was indeed attractive as well as charming, though she wasnt here to get laid but to drown her sorrows.
She had mixed feelings about today, the anniversary of the day she left home thirteen years before. It was the start of an amazing adventure but also the day she became alone in the world; considering her blood family practically disowned her.
“If you’re looking for interesting people, my ships open to guests. If you dont mind a lot of testosterone around.” The captain joked with a laugh. Though she wasnt lying, with fourteen men on a ship it could sometimes be a lot to handle.
🌐 Languages you can speak and/or are learning. Which are you fluent in
Get To Know Me Meme || @mxladymorgan
//My main language is English, but I can speak a bit of Spanish. I used to be close to being fluent in Spanish but stop practicing it. I also know a tad bit of Japanese because I was took some courses on it in college, but stopped when it got crazy hard.
