'Not Today, Herpes': ft. Marines
'Not Today, Herpes' MasterList
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One, Two, Three, Four
Kizaru
He’s leaning on a balcony, coat draped loose, tongue-deep with someone like he has all the time in the world. Which—technically—he does.
You arrive. You see it.
Your soulmate mark ignites, blazing gold-hot, like the sun personally took offense.
You stand there for half a second.
Then you run.
Not a dignified run. Not a strategic retreat. A full, feral, sound-barrier-threatening sprint that sends pigeons exploding into the air and civilians diving for cover.
Behind you, his voice drifts, lazy and amused. “Ooh~? That’s them? How exciting…”
You run harder.
He does not chase.
Light flashes.
You skid to a stop on a rooftop you were not on a moment ago, lungs burning, curses spilling out of you. He’s already there, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like he just stepped out for tea.
“You’re quick,” he says, tilting his head. “That’s cute.”
You scream something unpublishable and hurl your shoe at him.
He tilts half an inch. The shoe passes through where his head was a heartbeat ago and detonates someone’s laundry line three buildings down.
“Mmm~ dangerous,” he hums, smiling wider. “I like that.”
You pivot and bolt again.
Light flashes.
He appears ahead of you again, standing sideways on a lamppost that should not be supporting a man, let alone an admiral. “You know,” he adds conversationally, “running from destiny tends to make it… brighter.”
Your mark pulses like it wants to throw hands.
You grab the second shoe and fling it. He lets it hit him this time. It phases through his chest, clatters uselessly behind him.
“…Rude,” he says mildly. Then, with a curious glance at your glowing mark, “But understandable.”
You glare, shaking with adrenaline and fury. “You were busy.”
“Was I?” He squints thoughtfully. “Ah. Right. That.”
There is, for the first time, the faintest pause in his smile. Barely there. A hairline crack.
“Well,” he drawls, stepping aside and letting the path open, “guess we should talk, huh?”
You don’t answer.
You turn and sprint again.
Behind you, light scatters across the city like laughter, and his voice follows, warm and unbothered and entirely too pleased.
“Take your time,” he calls. “I’ll catch up eventually~.”
Akainu
He’s standing in the courtyard, uniform immaculate, posture rigid, one hand gripping someone by the collar while he speaks low and brutal into their face. No kiss. No romance. Just intimidation sharpened to an art form.
Your soulmate mark detonates.
White-hot. Molten. Like magma flooding your veins.
You stop short.
He feels it.
Akainu stiffens. His grip tightens by instinct, knuckles whitening. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head.
Your eyes meet.
His expression does not soften. Does not widen. Does not crack into surprise or delight. It hardens.
“…So,” he says, voice low, dangerous, vibrating with heat, “it’s you.”
You do not wait.
You turn and run.
Boots pounding stone, heart in your throat, every survival instinct screaming. This is not a chase you win. This is a natural disaster gaining interest.
Behind you, there is a single heavy step.
Then the sound of stone liquefying.
“RUNNING,” he snarls, magma blooming up his arm as he advances, “IS AN ADMISSION OF GUILT.”
You vault a railing. Hit the ground hard. Roll. Keep moving.
A blast of heat scorches past your shoulder, the wall beside you hissing and melting. Civilians scream. Marines scatter.
“You don’t get to appear,” his voice booms behind you, controlled fury barely leashed, “ignite a bond I never asked for, and flee like a criminal!”
You skid around a corner, lungs burning, skin prickling with heat. Your mark throbs like it’s furious at both of you.
You scream back, without slowing, “TRY NOT MAKING WAR CRIMES, AND MAYBE I’D STAY—”
A crater explodes where you were half a second ago.
“You can run,” Akainu says calmly, already following the trail of your presence like a bloodhound. “You can scream. You can hate me.”
His lips thin.
“But you are mine. And justice,” he adds, voice ironclad, “is patient.”
Somewhere ahead, you trip.
Behind you, the ground begins to glow.
Kuzan
He’s leaning against a dock piling, coat half-off, lazily kissing someone like he might fall asleep halfway through it.
Your soulmate mark freezes up.
Not hot. Arctic.
You stop. Stare. Blink once.
“…Nope.”
You turn and run. Ice cracks. You skid as the dock flash-freezes under your feet. You windmill. Recover. Keep sprinting.
“Oh, c’mon,” he sighs, footsteps crunching behind you, not rushing at all. “I didn’t know I had a soulmate yet.”
You yell back, “YOU WERE KISSING A STRANGER—”
“Yeah, well,” he says mildly, “I didn’t know I was married to destiny yet.”
You round a corner.
Ice blooms up the wall in front of you, forming a perfect ramp. You scream, run up it anyway, and vault off the edge like your life is a parkour compilation.
You land hard. Roll. Pop up.
He’s already there, sitting on a crate, elbows on knees, watching you like this is a mildly interesting documentary.
“…You’re fast,” he admits. “That’s kinda impressive.”
You grab a chunk of ice and hurl it at his head.
It shatters on his shoulder.
He blinks. “Rude.”
You bolt again.
This time, he doesn’t freeze the ground. He just calls after you, voice lazy and amused, “Y’know, runnin’ isn’t a first response to this.”
You trip as your own feet go numb.
You feel hands catch you before you hit the ground. Solid. Warm, somehow, despite the cold.
Kuzan sighs above you. “See? That’s why I prefer talkin’ first.”
You glare up at him. “Put me down.”
“…Yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “In a second.”
He doesn’t.
Greenbull
He is absolutely, unequivocally flirting.
Not subtle flirting. Not tasteful flirting. Full-on, unhinged, nature-documentary flirting. He’s leaning far too close to someone under a blooming tree he definitely summoned himself, petals drifting dramatically, hand braced against the trunk like he rehearsed this in a mirror.
The other person is giggling. Vines are involved. There is pollen. It’s a crime scene.
You step into the clearing.
Your soulmate mark goes off like an environmental disaster warning.
Green Bull freezes mid-line. Slowly turns his head.
You stop. Stare. “…Oh absolutely the fuck not.”
You run.
Like, immediately. No commentary. No confrontation. Just turn and go, crashing through brush and undergrowth like you’re being chased by fate, bad decisions, and a very aggressive ecosystem.
Behind you: “Huh? Oh—OH! WAIT!”
The ground moves.
Roots burst out of the dirt, trying to grab your ankles like the earth itself has opinions. You shriek, leap, keep sprinting.
“HEY!” Green Bull shouts, jogging after you way too cheerfully. “I DIDN’T KNOW YOU EXISTED YET—!”
You scream again, pivot, vault over a log, nearly faceplant, and recover through pure spite. A vine snaps at your wrist. You slap it away. “TELL IT TO YOUR GARDEN DATE—!”
“THAT WAS CASUAL!” he yells. “VERY CASUAL!”
You duck into an alley.
Leaves explode from the walls. Flowers bloom mid-brick. A tree grows sideways to block you.
You skid to a halt.
He pops out of the greenery, hands on his hips, beaming like this is the best day of his life. “Wow. You’re fast. I like that.”
You grab a potted plant and throw it at his head.
It roots itself in his coat instead.
He laughs. “Okay, okay! Violent and hot. Noted.”
You turn to run again.
Garp
He’s kissing someone.
Sloppy. Loud. Zero finesse. The kind of kiss that involves laughter, crumbs, and a hand still clutching a turkey leg like it might try to escape. Marines are pretending not to see it. One has turned fully around to face the wall.
You walk into the mess hall.
Your soulmate mark goes Galaxy Impact.
You freeze. He freezes mid-kiss, lips still on someone else’s face, eyes drifting to you like a battleship slowly changing course. You make eye contact.
There is a full second of silence.
Then you turn and run.
“EH?!” Garp bellows, finally letting go of the other person, who stumbles back in confusion. “WAIT—HEY—!”
You are already gone, sprinting down the corridor like the building is on fire and you started it.
“WHY’RE YOU RUNNIN’—?!” he shouts, immediately giving chase, boots pounding, still chewing. “IF YOU’RE MY SOULMATE YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE—!”
“That was a PUBLIC KISS—!” you scream back.
He laughs, delighted. “HAHA! YEAH! WASN’T IT GREAT?!”
A wall explodes behind you.
“WHOOPS!” Garp yells cheerfully. “TURNED TOO HARD!”
Marines scatter. Someone dives. Someone salutes out of reflex. You vault crates, skid on spilled gravy, and nearly die of cardio. You glance back. He’s still coming. Grinning. Fist cocked. Having the time of his life.
“C’MON!” he yells. “YOU RUN LIKE KUZAN WHEN HE OWES ME MONEY!”
You burst out of the exit and vanish. Minutes later, Garp finally stops, hands on his knees, laughing until he wheezes.
“…Man,” he says proudly. “She’s got spirit.”
Back in the mess hall, the person he kissed blinks at the wreckage. “…Was that your girlfriend?”
Garp grins. “Probably.”
Smoker
He’s kissing someone like it’s a bad habit he’s trying to quit.
No romance. No flair. Just a rough, impatient kiss that says this was a mistake halfway through, but I’m committing out of spite. His coat’s still on. His cigars are still lit. Ash is absolutely falling on someone.
You walk into the alley. Your soulmate mark flares like it just saw a crime and took it personally.
You freeze.
Smoker freezes mid-kiss. One eye cracks open. Then both. He sees you. Sees the glow. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
You turn and run.
“HEY—WAIT—!” he snaps, shoving the other person gently but urgently away. “DAMMIT—!”
Smoke explodes behind you as he launches after you, boots pounding, jaw clenched, clearly already done with this entire destiny thing.
“THIS IS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE—!” he yells.
You shout back, “YOU WERE ACTIVELY CHEATING YOU SHITTY SENTIENT LUNG CANCER—!”
“That’s MEDICINAL,” he roars. “AND I DIDN’T KNOW YOU EXISTED YET—!”
You cut through a market. He turns into smoke and reappears ahead of you. You skid to a stop, flip him off, and bolt the other direction.
“DON’T DO THAT,” he growls, reforming behind you. “I’M TRYING TO APOLOGIZE.”
“You had TONGUE INVOLVED,” you yell. “That’s not step one.”
He groans like a man aged ten years in ten seconds. “I HAVEN’T BEEN ON A DATE IN A DECADE—!”
You leap over a crate. He turns into smoke again. Reforms. Trips. Catches himself. Loses a cigar.
“…DAMMIT.”
You finally disappear into a crowd.
Smoker stops, hands on his hips, smoke curling irritably around him. He drags a hand down his face, exhales hard, and mutters, “Great. My soulmate hates me.”
Someone nearby clears their throat. “Should we… arrest her?”
Smoker glares. “Touch her, and I’ll arrest you.”
Beat.
“…And cancel my lunch.”
Lucci
He’s kissing someone like it’s an assignment.
Precise. Controlled. Zero emotion. The kind of kiss that feels like it came with a checklist and a deadline. His posture is perfect. His hand placement is efficient. Hattori the pigeon is there, watching like a supervisor.
You step into the corridor.
Your soulmate mark breaks cover.
Lucci’s does too. He pauses mid-kiss. Does not pull away. Just… stops. Slowly turns his head while still touching someone else’s face.
You make eye contact. There is a long, terrible second where the universe waits to see who will commit first.
You turn and run.
Lucci releases the other person immediately, already moving. No shouting. No chasing noises. Just the sound of very fast footsteps gaining on you.
“Stop,” he says calmly, like this is a work-related request.
You sprint harder.
The hallway ahead fractures as he Geppos past you and lands cleanly in your path, coat barely stirring. He straightens his cuffs.
“You are inefficient,” he says mildly.
You scream and pivot. He appears again. Closer.
“This will not change the outcome.”
You throw a chair at him. He catches it. Sets it down. Steps forward.
Behind him, Hattori flaps. “Lucci~”
“Quiet,” Lucci says.
You bolt again.
He sighs. Just once. A man inconvenienced by destiny.
“I was unaware of the bond,” he says evenly, matching your pace without looking strained. “Corrective action will be taken.”
“That is the WORST POSSIBLE WAY TO PHRASE THAT—!” you yell.
He cuts in front of you again, finally blocking your escape. Close now. Too close. Eyes sharp, assessing, unreadable.
“…You run well,” he says after a beat. “Acceptable.”
You stare at him, panting. “I am not accepting anything.”
Hattori nods solemnly. “Coo.”
Lucci’s mouth twitches. Barely. Almost imaginary.
“Then we will renegotiate later,” he says, stepping aside and letting you flee again.
He watches you go, hands in pockets, expression thoughtful.
“…Troublesome,” he murmurs.
Hattori tilts his head. “Coo?”
Lucci turns away. “Prepare for pursuit. And a wedding.”
Spandam
He’s sloppily kissing some poor intern against a file cabinet when you walk into CP-5 headquarters.
Sloppy. Loud. Overconfident. Funkfreed is there, facing the wall like he’s respecting a minute of silence.
Your soulmate mark about vomits, but politely lights up instead.
So does his.
You stare.
He notices the glow, looks down, then back up at you. His eyes go wide. His face splits into a grin so manic it should be classified as a biohazard.
“I HAVE A SOULMATE—?!”
You run.
Like, an Olympic qualifier run. You nearly tear a hamstring, but you commit.
“AND THEY’RE HOT?!” Spandam screams, shoving the intern away and immediately tripping over his own feet. “WAIT—COME BACK—GET THEM—!”
Every agent in the building suddenly activates like it’s a fire drill written by idiots.
You don’t stop.
You kick one agent into a vending machine. It eats him. You break a window and swan dive out of the building with the grace of someone who refuses to die here.
Behind you, Spandam is shrieking into a Den Den Mushi while Funkfreed tries to help by honking encouragingly.
“SEAL THE EXITS! NO—THE OTHER EXITS! WHY ARE THERE SO MANY EXITS—?!”
You vanish.
Two weeks later, a Den Den Mushi rings.
You answered by mistake.
It’s Spandam, sweaty, beaming, holding a ring that looks stolen from a gift shop. “I’VE BEEN THINKING,” he says proudly. “AND BY THINKING I MEAN OBSESSING. WILL YOU—”
You hang up.
You change your number. You change cities. You change outfits mid-stride like a fugitive in a montage.
Somewhere in a government building, your name is on a watchlist titled “DO NOT LET THEM GET AWAY AGAIN.”
You get away again.
Spandam tells everyone it’s a “slow burn romance.”
It is not.
Koby
He’s trying to kiss someone.
That’s the keyword: trying.
It’s awkward. Polite. The kind of kiss where both parties are apologizing with their eyes. His hands are hovering like he’s afraid of committing a felony. Someone nearby is whispering encouragement, like this is a school play.
You walk past the training yard.
Your soulmate mark lights up.
So does his.
Koby freezes mid-lean. Full system reboot. His eyes widen. He looks at his wrist. Looks at you. Looks back at his wrist.
“O–OH.”
You make eye contact.
You run.
“Oh no—WAIT—PLEASE WAIT—!” Koby yelps, immediately shoving himself backward so hard he trips over his own feet. “I DIDN’T KNOW—! I SWEAR I DIDN’T KNOW—!”
You sprint. He scrambles after you, tripping, apologizing to everyone he passes.
“I’M REALLY SORRY—TO YOU—AND ALSO TO HER—AND TO JUSTICE—!”
You vault a fence.
He stops at the fence, panics, then very carefully climbs it like a normal, non-parkour-enabled human being.
“PLEASE DON’T THINK I’M A BAD PERSON—!” he shouts as you disappear. “I WAS JUST TRYING TO PRACTICE BEING CONFIDENT—!”
You are gone.
Ten minutes later, Koby is sitting on the ground, red-faced, soulmark still glowing, holding his head.
Garp strolls by, chewing something. “Soulmate?”
Koby nods miserably. “I think I scared them…”
Garp laughs so hard he nearly chokes. “HAHAHA! GOOD! THAT MEANS YOU LIKE ‘EM!”
Koby stares into the distance, doomed. “…I have to become stronger, don’t I?”
Somewhere far away, you sneeze.
He apologizes out loud.
X-Drake
He’s kissing someone like it’s an obligation.
Awkward. Stiff. The kind of kiss that happens because he didn’t know how to say no fast enough. His hand is hovering two inches away from their back like touching would violate a code somewhere.
You walk into the plaza.
Your soulmate mark lights up.
So does his.
Drake freezes mid-kiss. Entire body locks up like a malfunctioning robot. He slowly pulls back, looks at his wrist, then at you.
“…Oh.”
You do not stay for explanations.
You turn and run.
“WAIT—!” he blurts, immediately shoving the other person away, far too carefully. “THIS IS NOT—!”
You’re already gone.
He visibly panics, which is impressive because he usually panics internally. He takes off after you, boots pounding, knocking over a crate, apologizing to it on reflex.
“I DIDN’T KNOW—! I THOUGHT SOULMATES WERE A MYTH—!”
You sprint through the market. He follows, very tall, very stressed, absolutely not built for stealth. People scatter.
“PLEASE SLOW DOWN—!” he yells. “I AM NOT CHASING YOU FOR ROMANTIC REASONS—!”
“YOU ARE THE WORST—!” you shout back.
He trips. Catches himself. Trips again. Almost transforms out of panic. Does not, because that would be unprofessional. You vault a railing and vanish into an alley. Drake skids to a halt, bent over, hands on his knees, soulmark glowing accusingly.
“…This is bad,” he mutters.
Two hours later, he files an internal report titled: UNEXPECTED SOULMATE CONTACT: SUBJECT FLED. STATUS: EXTREMELY FAST.
He stares at it, sighs, then adds: NOTE: SUBJECT THREW A FRUIT AT MY HEAD. DESERVED.
Somewhere far away, you feel a chill.
Drake adjusts his coat.
“…I will find her,” he says grimly.
He will undoubtedly try. Success is not guaranteed.
Bogard
He’s kissing someone quietly.
No spectacle. No crowd. Just a dim corridor in Marineford, one hand braced on the wall, the other at someone’s waist, precise and restrained like even this has rules. His hat is still on. Of course it is.
You turn the corner.
Your soulmate mark lights up.
So does his.
Bogard pauses mid-kiss.
Not startled, not flustered. He simply… stops. Slowly pulls back, eyes flicking to the glow on his wrist. Then to you.
You make eye contact.
You immediately turn and run.
Footsteps echo behind you. Not loud. Not rushed. Measured. Unavoidable.
You sprint anyway.
“Stop,” Bogard says calmly, voice carrying without effort.
You do not stop.
A shadow passes over you. You skid to a halt just in time to not run face-first into his coat as he steps into your path, sword still sheathed, posture immaculate.
“You run fast,” he observes. Neutral. Informational.
You fake left.
He shifts one step and blocks you again.
You groan. “Are you teleporting?”
“No,” he says. “You are predictable.”
You throw a clipboard at him. He catches it without looking. Hands it back to a stunned marine who didn’t realize they dropped it.
“Apologies,” Bogard says to the marine, then back to you, “This will take a moment.”
“I do not consent to this conversation,” you snap, pivoting and bolting again. This time, he lets you go.
You get ten steps.
Then his coat flicks past you, and suddenly he’s there again, walking beside you like this is a patrol.
“You made a good attempt,” he says mildly. “But let’s be adults about this.”
You dive through a side door, slam it shut, and barricade it.
Silence.
Five seconds pass.
Then Bogard knocks. Once. Polite.
“You left your shoe,” he says through the door.
You look down.
Damn it.
By the time you escape through a window, scale two walls, and vanish into the city, Bogard is standing back in the corridor, hands behind his back, soulmark glowing faintly.
Garp strolls past, chewing. “That your soulmate?”
Bogard adjusts his hat. “…Yes.”
Garp grins. “You gonna chase ‘em?”
Bogard pauses.
“…Eventually.”
He already knows where you’ll run next.
