He is at a party. Of course he is at a party. The kind with chandeliers, live music, and laughter so expensive it probably comes with a receipt. There’s a noble practically draped over him, glitter in their hair, giggling into his chest like they’re auditioning for “Most Oblivious Human Alive.”
Shanks is grinning, hand at their waist, leaning in just enough to be polite, charming, and devastating in that “oh no he knows exactly what he’s doing” way.
You step into the ballroom. Your soulmate mark lights up like divine wrath. Somewhere, fate facepalms.
You freeze. He glances up. Eye contact.
The world pauses for half a beat.
Then, without a word, you pivot like a professional rugby player with Olympic instincts and vanish into the crowd. One clean, graceful escape.
Shanks freezes mid-laugh, hand still hovering in the air like a man suddenly realizing the joke was on him. “Was that—?”
Benn doesn’t even look up from his drink. “Yeah. That was her. Saw the mark.”
Shanks blinks once. Twice. “...Shit.”
He’s gone before anyone notices, tripping over a chair, losing a boot, and knocking over three bottles in what can only be described as the sexiest disaster exit in Grand Line history.
Cut to three days later.
You open your door to find him standing there barefoot, slightly sunburned, holding a lopsided bouquet that looks like it was stolen from several gardens and maybe a funeral. His shirt is half-tucked, his grin sheepish enough to count as a confession, and his hair somehow still looks good.
“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, about that noble…”
You stare. Then you close the door in his face.
There’s silence for a moment. Then a soft thud as he leans against the door with a defeated sigh. “Yeah. Fair.”
Benn Beckman
You find him at some dingy seaside bar, cigar in one hand, whiskey in the other, and someone perched far too comfortably on his lap. He’s smirking, voice low, the kind of charm that should come with a warning label.
Your soulmate mark flares like it’s personally offended.
He glances up mid-laugh and sees you in the doorway.
You stare. He stares. The mark glows brighter.
You turn on your heel and vanish so fast the door’s still swinging.
Benn just sighs, long and slow, the sound of a man whose night got complicated.
Shanks, from the next table, grins. “That her?”
Benn nods. “Yeah.”
Shanks smirks. “You gonna chase her?”
Benn takes a drag, blows out smoke, and mutters, “Yep. And she’s gonna shoot me when I get her.”
Narrator: She did, in fact, aim first.
Kaido
He is blackout drunk, shirt hanging open, bottle of sake in one hand, and a very enthusiastic woman in the other. He’s alternating between drinking and making out, somehow managing to look both victorious and tragic.
You step into the main hall of the Beast Pirates’ compound. The air reeks of alcohol and bad decisions. Your soulmate mark goes off like a smoke alarm possessed by God.
Kaido turns, lips wet, eyes bloodshot, blinking like a confused dragon seeing daylight for the first time. “Eh? Who’re you—?”
You freeze for half a heartbeat. Then your survival instincts kick in. You turn and sprint.
Kaido blinks again, realization dawning slowly through the haze of sake. “Wait. Was that my soulmate?”
He grabs his kanabo. “OI! DON’T RUN! I’LL MAKE IT UP TO YOU!”
The ground shakes. You dive over a table. Bottles explode. Pirates scatter. Someone screams, “EARTHQUAKE,” and another yells, “NO, THAT’S JUST THE CAPTAIN FLIRTING AGAIN!”
He’s lumbering after you, half-laughing, half-shouting, smashing through walls like they owe him money.
You nearly die five times in thirty seconds. Once from debris, once from terror, and the other three just from pure cardio failure.
You don’t stop until you’ve changed islands, possibly species, and definitely legal identity.
Back in Wano, Kaido stands shirtless in the rubble of his hall, squinting at the horizon, still holding the sake bottle.
“...Think she liked me,” he mutters.
King sighs. “She jumped into the ocean.”
Kaido nods solemnly. “Yeah. Love does that to people.”
King
He’s standing there like a statue while some brave fool is trying to kiss the metal half of his face. It’s not romantic. It’s deeply awkward. Sparks are flying, literally, because the person keeps hitting the wrong angle, and you can hear enamel scraping on steel.
You step into the doorway, your soulmate mark blazing like a flare from hell.
He turns his head slightly, one red eye flickering. You make eye contact.
It’s silent. Tense. A single flame flickers along his jaw.
Then you do what any reasonable person would do in this situation. You run.
No hesitation. No dignity. Just pure flight.
He doesn’t move for a full five seconds, standing there like he’s processing a software update. Then he launches.
The air cracks. Sonic boom. You hear him before you see him.
You scream. He’s flying overhead, silent as death, cape snapping in the wind. You cut through the forest like a fugitive from destiny.
Then he’s just there. In front of you. Not even breathing hard.
You hit his chest at full speed and bounce off like a rubber ball from a tank.
He catches your wrist effortlessly, looking down at you. “Stop,” he says, calm and final. “We’re bonded. You’ll adapt.”
You respond with the only reasonable gesture left in your arsenal—you grab a rock and throw it with heroic spite.
It cracks against his chestplate. The sound echoes.
He blinks once. Then his mouth curls, barely perceptible. He looks impressed. And a little too interested.
You turn and run again, faster, nearly crying, yelling over your shoulder, “I WILL NOT ADAPT!”
He sighs, flame sparking brighter. “You will.”
He’s already following again, silent, steady, terrifyingly patient.
By the time you reach the next village, people are whispering about the strange half-metal man politely setting trees on fire while chasing a screaming stranger through the countryside.
Thatch
He’s on a kitchen counter, kissing someone like it’s the final round of a cooking competition and the secret ingredient is tongue flambé. There’s flour in his hair, an apron hanging off one shoulder, and enough ego in the room to season a feast.
You walk in. You see him. He sees you.
Your soulmate mark flares like a warning siren. His eyes go wide.
You turn and flee like someone just yelled “Salmonella!”
He blinks once. “Wait—babe?”
Then he’s after you, apron flapping, spatula still in hand, yelling across the kitchen, “BABE, WAIT! I HAVE DESSERT! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU’D BE HOT!”
You’re already halfway down the hall, vaulting over a chair.
He keeps running, charming and chaotic, shouting apologies to passing crewmates as he goes. “MOVE! I’M IN LOVE AND ALSO ON FIRE!”
You dive straight out the window, hit the lawn, and keep running like your life depends on it.
Thatch leans out after you, spatula raised triumphantly. “SHE’S JUST PLAYING HARD TO GET!”
You weren’t.
Two hours later, the crew is still laughing while he’s insisting, “It’s a romantic slow burn!”
Marco
He’s very politely pulling back from a kiss with someone who clearly started it. It’s all calm and soft lighting, the sort of scene that would be tasteful if your soulmate mark wasn’t glowing like a cursed nightlight.
Then he looks up. Sees you. Sees your mark. Sees the exact expression of “divine betrayal and mild cardiac arrest” on your face.
You don’t say a word. You just run. Like your shoes are late on rent and you’re collecting interest.
Marco blinks once. Sighs. “Yoi… not how I wanted to meet you.”
Then he bursts into flames. Not metaphorically. Literally. Blue fire. Giant glowing bird.
He’s following from above, all calm and glowing while you’re down below, sprinting through the jungle like a feral tax evader.
“I can wait,” he calls, in the most soothing voice imaginable for someone currently on fire.
You trip over a root and eat dirt.
He lands beside you in one elegant swoop, feathers shimmering, posture apologetic. “Careful, yoi. You’ll hurt yourself.”
You look up, covered in mud, gasping for breath.
He smiles gently. “We can talk when you’re done running.”
You throw a coconut at him.
He catches it midair, sets it down politely, and says, still patient, “I like your spirit.”
