ch13. observation journal entry of one trafalgar law
Melody's private journal
I finally met him in person today — Trafalgar Law.
He’s exactly as the rumors painted him, and somehow nothing like them at all. Tall, lean, with that perpetual gloomy expression and those sharp golden eyes that seem to cut straight through you. When I handed over the Doflamingo files in the meeting room, he went through every page with calm, clinical precision. No grand reactions, no excited outbursts — just that cold, focused intensity whenever the name came up. It was the first time I felt a real spark of hope. Most people who go after Doflamingo are loud, reckless idiots with more rage than brains. This man feels… surgical. Methodical. Dangerous in a quiet, calculated way.
I asked him for a ride toward Punk Hazard afterward. He agreed, though I could see the reluctance in his eyes. He doesn’t fully trust me. I can feel it — the way his gaze lingers when he thinks I’m not paying attention, the subtle tension in his posture whenever I move around the ship. That’s fine. I’m watching him just as closely.
These past weeks on the Polar Tang have given me plenty of time to observe.
He’s a ghost in his own ship sometimes. Most days he doesn’t eat with the crew, slipping in late to grab something quick before disappearing again. But on the rare occasions he does sit down with them, he’s the quietest one at the table. He doesn’t talk much. He just listens — really listens — watching his crew with that same sharp focus he gives everything else. Penguin and Shachi will be laughing over some ridiculous story, Bepo shyly adding a comment, and every now and then I catch the tiniest tug at the corner of Law’s mouth. Not quite a smile, just the ghost of one. It’s strangely humanizing. The great Surgeon of Death, allowing himself a fraction of warmth with his people.
I’ve seen him in meetings too — the closed-door strategy sessions with the Heart Pirates where I’m obviously not welcome. I don’t mind. I never expected an outsider to sit in on something that sensitive. But sometimes Law would pull me aside for private meetings, just the two of us, to go over specific details in my reports.
I teased him about it once. “You know, I don’t usually do customer service like this,” I said with a lazy smile. He just gave me that flat, grumpy look. Still, I was happy to answer every question and discuss every concern he had — partly for professional reasons, and partly for my own. These one-on-one sessions became the moments where I felt the most reassured about his abilities.
Even though he stayed vague about the full scope of his plans, I could tell he was working on something massive. Something dangerous. Something he had clearly been preparing for a very long time. This was where I experienced his strategic mind firsthand, and it was… intense.
His questions were sharp, cutting straight to the core, relentless in the way he pursued every loose thread. There was this feeling of being hammered — like he wouldn’t let go until he had squeezed every drop of truth and logic out of the information. Even me, someone who considers herself one of the best info brokers in the New World, sometimes felt backed against a wall by his questioning. He would cross-reference everything I told him, constantly challenge the logic behind my sources, poke holes in assumptions I didn’t even realize I’d made. It wasn’t hostile — he wasn’t disappointed or trying to catch me in a lie — but the sheer intensity of it was stressful.
It felt like being locked in the sights of a predator that doesn’t devour with claws or teeth, but with its brain.
But I can also tell he quietly approves of my ability and the quality of my intel and conclusions. There’s a subtle shift in his expression sometimes — a faint nod, a slight softening of that perpetual scowl. It makes me wonder… if I had met him in my younger years when I was just starting out in intel trading and building my business, he might have made a great work partner. Or if he hadn’t become a pirate, he could have been an incredible info broker himself. The kind who sees through every lie and finds the truth no one else can.
But then I remember his grumpiness and that permanent poker face, and I think… yeah, never mind. I’d rather not sit in front of that stone wall every single day.
Now, looking back, I’m starting to think it wasn’t such a brilliant idea to willingly trap myself on a submarine with a gloomy pirate captain for an extended period. Weeks have passed, and we’re still nowhere near that mysterious chemical wasteland called Punk Hazard. The days are starting to blur together, and I’ve grown… a bit bored.
One afternoon, I was wandering the corridors when I saw him.
Law was walking toward the engine section wearing nothing but a simple white tank top and his usual spotted pants. For the first time, I got a proper look at him without the usual layers of hoodies and that ridiculous long coat he always wears. I was genuinely surprised.
He has so many tattoos.
The large, bold black ink across his chest, the intricate designs running down his arms, the words and symbols that cover his shoulders and torso. Back in the West Blue where I grew up, only gangsters and hardened criminals had that many tattoos. Seeing them on him — the cold, meticulous strategist, the Surgeon of Death, the quiet and reserved pirate captain — hit differently. It suddenly reminded me that he is, in fact, a real pirate. He’s probably spilled a lot of blood. Cut down enemies without hesitation. Sunk ships. Done things I can only imagine.
And yet… it’s hard to reconcile that image with the man I’ve been observing. The Law who plans everything with surgical precision, who listens quietly to his crew, who asks questions that cut straight through any bullshit. The cold, calculating tactician doesn’t seem like the type to revel in cruel, mindless murder. There’s a restraint to him. A control.
Also… I didn’t expect him to be hiding that kind of body underneath all those layers. Lean, well-defined muscle, narrow waist, broad shoulders. He looks stronger than he lets on. The kind of strength that comes from real fights, not just posturing.
I caught myself staring a little too long before quickly looking away.
Troublesome captain, I thought, a strange mix of wariness and reluctant attraction twisting in my chest. Just how many secrets are you hiding under that poker face?
Lately, I’ve noticed his eyes lingering on me too, just a second longer than necessary. We keep bumping into each other in the narrow corridors, on the deck during surface intervals, even in the library. The Polar Tang isn’t that big, but the space between us feels smaller every single day.
One evening, Bepo knocked on my door carrying a big pile of thick, freshly laundered blankets that were still warm. “We’re getting closer to the cold waters near Punk Hazard,” he explained shyly, ears twitching. “Captain’s orders. Preliminary measurements to avoid the spread of cold.” I smiled wide after he left, hugging one of the blankets to my chest. It was such a small, thoughtful thing — and I knew exactly whose idea it was.
That same night, I finally broke the ice.
We were alone on the deck during a surface interval. The sea was calm, the stars scattered brightly overhead like someone had spilled diamonds across the sky. I walked over and leaned against the railing beside him, close enough that our arms nearly brushed. For once, he didn’t immediately put up his usual cold, businesslike wall. He stayed.
So I asked him directly, that if he'd find me cute.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gave me that familiar flat, grumpy look, golden eyes narrowing slightly under the brim of his spotted hat.
He said that I didn't know when to stop, in that low and dry voice, almost a growl. It was a classic cold deflection, the kind he’s so good at. But here’s the thing — he didn’t leave. He stayed right there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring out at the dark sea like it might offer him an escape route.
I could tell he was affected. There was a faint tension in his jaw, a subtle shift in his posture, the way his fingers tightened just a fraction against his arms. His cold composure was still mostly intact, but it wasn’t perfect. Not anymore. I wonder how long he can keep that up.
And then today happened.
I offered to help him with repairs in the lower control room because I was bored out of my mind. Terrible idea. Or maybe the best one I’ve had since boarding this submarine.
The space was tiny, stiflingly humid, and far too cramped for two people. We kept brushing against each other while working — shoulders, arms, the occasional full press of bodies whenever one of us shifted. Sweat made everything stickier. The heat, the proximity, that low electric tension that had been building for days… it was a lot.
Then he moved to reach something behind a panel and suddenly our faces were only inches apart. I saw the exact moment his control slipped — that flicker of frustration and raw want in his golden eyes. Before I could tease more, he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle or hesitant. It was rough, hungry, almost angry — like he’d been fighting the urge for days and finally lost. His hand gripped my waist tightly, fingers digging in as he pressed me back against the bridge railing. For those few seconds, the cold, calculating Surgeon of Death completely disappeared. I got to taste something raw and intense underneath all that gloom and control.
When he finally pulled back, he looked thoroughly pissed at himself, breathing hard, muttering something about how this wasn’t part of the plan.
I wanted to laugh so hard. Of course it wasn’t part of your plan, Law. That’s exactly why it felt so good.
His golden eyes were dark, his hair slightly messy from the humidity and my fingers, and for a moment the unflappable Surgeon of Death looked genuinely riled up. Then, in that low, rough voice, he told me to get out of the control room.
I didn’t argue. I just gave him one last mischievous smile, turned around, and quickly trotted out of there like my life depended on it — because if I stayed even one more second, I was going to burst out laughing right in front of him.
The second the hatch closed behind me, I had to slap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing out loud in the corridor. I felt so triumphant. So ridiculously alive. I was right. I had found a hidden side of the great, cold, unflappable Surgeon of Death — the version that loses control, that gets frustrated and hungry and human. The version that kisses like he’s been starving for it.
I practically floated back to my quarters, heart racing and cheeks warm. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t bored at all. The entire submarine felt electric. I was thrilled, almost giddy, in a way I haven’t been in a long time. This grumpy, overthinking pirate captain was starting to crack, and I was the one doing the cracking.
That night, after replaying the kiss in my head about a hundred times, I made a decision.
I sat down at the small desk, pulled out a piece of paper, and wrote in my neatest handwriting:
“11pm. I knock 3 times. M”
Simple. Direct. No room for overthinking.
I waited until the corridors were quiet, then slipped out and silently slid the note under the door of his bedroom. My heart was beating faster than it should have as I walked back to my own bunk.
Now I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling, waiting.
I wonder if he’ll open the door.
I wonder how long that cold composure of his is going to last tonight.
X/XX M., Polar Tang
this is ch13 of a mini series, read more on my patreon (a lot of the pieces are unlocked, consider joining for free! i upload almost everyday lately <3)
Devil Fruit File: Disc Disc Fruit (Discu Discu no Mi)
Type: Paramecia
User: Melody (alias: "White Spider")
Core Ability – Ejection
The primary technique of the Disc Disc Fruit is Ejection. Upon direct skin-to-skin contact, Melody can forcibly extract a person’s memories, which manifest as physical, glowing disc-like objects.
Mental Field (Internal Process):
Once Ejection is activated, both Melody and the victim’s consciousness are pulled into a unique mental field inside the victim’s mind. This space appears as an endless, vast library with towering shelves stacked with countless memory discs, neatly organized by time, emotion, and significance.
Inside this mental field:
Melody can create multiple clones/avatars of herself to rapidly search through the shelves.
These clones work simultaneously, flipping through and reading memory discs at incredible speed.
The victim’s own consciousness is present in the field but is completely powerless — unable to move, interfere, or resist. Melody has full control over the mental space, effectively invading and dominating their brain.
This entire search and extraction process happens extremely quickly in real time (often within seconds), despite the vast amount of information being processed.
Post-Extraction Effects:
After removing the desired disc(s), Melody frequently extracts the memory of the Ejection process itself.
As a result, the victim usually wakes up with only a vague, uneasy feeling that “something is missing,” but they cannot remember what was taken, how it happened, or that Melody was responsible.
Primary Effects:
During the extraction, the target physically becomes immediately defenseless. Even if fully conscious, their body enters a temporary paralyzed state — unable to move, speak, or activate any abilities. This state persists as long as the mental field is open.
The physical Discs can be stored, traded, or destroyed. Destroying a disc results in permanent memory loss for the victim.
Weaknesses & Limitations:
Requires direct physical touch to activate.
Maintaining the mental field cost stamina and mental fatigue for the user.
Extracted discs are physical objects and can be stolen or damaged by third parties.
Reading the discs will cause the user to experience the memory from pov of the victim, which in some cases causes psychological strain; however, the user can remove that memory from herself as discs - either destroy or locked away in a "mental box".
Notable User Behavior: The current user, Melody, is exceptionally secretive about her ability. She deliberately conceals its true nature, operating under the vague reputation of being a dangerous information broker. Anyone who learns the specifics of the Disc Disc Fruit is personally hunted down by Melody and memory erased.
Melody’s paranoia about her ability, combined with her terrifying non-fail rate at acquiring even the most guarded information, her mysterious reputation, and heavily distorted rumors about what she can actually do, eventually earned her the underworld nickname "White Spider" — a title she openly loathes.
Threat Level: Extremely High
Recommended Approach: Avoid physical contact at all costs. Do not attempt to uncover the full extent of her powers.
Status: One of the most strategically terrifying Paramecia fruits in the New World, especially in the hands of someone who sells secrets for a living.
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Doflamingo sprawled lazily across the lavish bed in the private suite of the port-side mansion they’d commandeered for the night. The successful raid had left the Family in high spirits downstairs—booze flowing, laughter booming, and the call girls they’d hired entertaining the crew with giggles and moans that filtered faintly through the walls. Up here, the lanterns cast a warm, intimate glow over the room, thick with the scent of incense and cigar smoke.
The door creaked open clumsily. Rosinante—newly named Corazon—stood in the doorway, towering and broad-shouldered at 22, yet still carrying that awkward, green energy. His dark coat hung a bit crooked on his frame, heart-patterned sunglasses slightly askew, and he nearly tripped over the rug as he stepped inside.
“Fufufu… there you are, baby brother,” Doflamingo drawled, grinning wide as he beckoned with two fingers. His pink feathered coat was open, shirt unbuttoned to reveal his toned chest. A couple of the call girls had been lounging with him earlier, but he’d already waved them out. His sharp gaze locked onto his little brother. “Took you long enough. The party’s downstairs, but I thought it was time to show you the ropes properly. Can’t have my blood staying a crybaby forever, right?”
Rosinante froze for a second, cheeks flushing visibly. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding direct eye contact. He was still so new to this life—shy, clumsy, and painfully aware of his brother’s expectations.
Doflamingo chuckled, sitting up a little. “Come on, don’t just stand there like a statue. You’re twenty-two now, big strong boy like you. Time to become a real man. Or are you still gonna whimper like you did when you were little and I stole your toys?”
Rosinante shifted on his feet, big hands fidgeting with the edge of his coat. For the mission—for Sengoku, for everything—he couldn’t afford to seem weak or suspicious. Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward into the room.
Doflamingo’s grin widened at the sight of his little brother stepping closer, that familiar mix of amusement and hunger gleaming in his eyes behind the sunglasses.
“Fufufu… good boy. See? Not so hard to listen to your big brother.” He snapped his fingers toward the two call girls who had lingered near the door after being dismissed earlier. “You two. Come here. Help my little brother relax. Undress him nicely—slowly. He’s still a bit shy.”
Looking back, I really should have known better than to ever take that first job from Donquixote Doflamingo.
It started professionally enough. I was twenty-five, already making a name for myself as the White Spider. One day, a very expensive and very discreet commission came through my network. Triple the usual rate. The client wanted detailed profiles on Marine undercover units sniffing around certain New World shipping lanes. Clean work. High reward. I accepted.
Only after I delivered did I find out it was from him — the pink feathered warlord himself. He was pleased with the results. So pleased that he kept coming back. At first, it stayed strictly business. Clean requests, clean deliveries, big payouts. I was careful. Always professional. Never gave him more than he paid for.
But Doflamingo… he doesn’t like staying in neat little boxes.
They stayed locked together for a long moment before Law slowly shifted them both. He eased them down properly onto the bed, still buried deep inside her, and pulled the thin blanket over their bodies. He kept one arm wrapped securely around her back, the other hand resting on her hip, holding her close so they remained connected.
Melody let out a contented sigh and immediately nuzzled into his chest like a creature seeking warmth. She pressed soft, lazy kisses against his skin, occasionally licking him again — slow, affectionate little stripes with the tip of her tongue, tasting the salt and warmth of him as if she couldn’t get enough.
Law exhaled slowly, eyes half-closed as he finally came down from the intense high. His body was heavy with exhaustion and lingering pleasure, but his arm stayed tight around her.
After a few quiet minutes, Melody tilted her head up, silver hair messy and spilling across his chest. She smiled lazily, eyes sparkling with satisfaction.
“Damn… that was so hot, Law,” she murmured, voice warm and teasing. “Glad you let me in, right?”
Law’s expression immediately turned grumpy. He looked down at her with narrowed golden eyes, though his voice came out still slightly hoarse and rough from earlier.
“…Tch. Don’t get cocky,” he muttered. “You’re still a pain in the ass.”
Despite his words, he didn’t push her away. His hand slowly stroked up and down her back in lazy motions.
Melody chuckled softly and hugged him tighter, cuddling even closer. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in deeply.
“You smell really good, you know,” she said, almost dreamily. “Like sea salt and something clean… maybe a little bit like medicine from the sub. It’s surprising for a pirate. I expected you to smell like gunpowder and brooding.”
Law let out a dry, tired huff, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
“You talk too much after sex,” he grumbled, voice still husky. His fingers threaded loosely through her silver strands. “And stop licking me like I’m food.”
Melody grinned against his neck and gave him one more deliberate, teasing lick just to be contrary. “Can’t help it. You taste good too.”
Law sighed, long and exasperated, but his arm tightened around her again, pulling her even closer. They stayed like that — tangled together, him still inside her, her nuzzling and cuddling into his chest like a contented cat.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The hum of the Polar Tang’s engines filled the quiet cabin as Law stared at the ceiling, one hand absently stroking her back.
He still didn’t know what the hell they were.
But for tonight… he didn’t pull away.
After a long, comfortable silence, Law finally shifted. He carefully pulled out of her with a quiet exhale, leaving a strange emptiness behind. Melody watched as he disposed of the condom, then stood up, naked and still carrying that post-sex glow mixed with his usual brooding tension.
He didn’t say anything. He simply grabbed a towel and headed straight for the small attached washroom.
The sudden distance hit her immediately.
He’s really back to his usual self now, she thought, a small pang in her chest. The warm, possessive man who had held her so tightly just minutes ago was already retreating behind the familiar walls of the Surgeon of Death.
Melody let out a soft breath and pulled the blanket around her body, wrapping herself in it like a cocoon. It still smelled like him — that clean, slightly medicinal sea-salt scent she’d grown fond of. Her eyelids felt heavy, body pleasantly exhausted as she curled up on his bed, listening to the sound of water starting to run in the shower.
The steady spray filled the quiet cabin.
Then, after a minute or two, Law’s voice came through the door — muffled by the running water, low and slightly rough.
“…Are you coming?”
Melody blinked, surprised. A slow, sleepy smile spread across her face. She sat up, blanket slipping slightly off one shoulder, silver hair a complete mess.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let the question hang for a second, savoring the small crack in his usual distance.
Finally, she called back, voice light and teasing despite her tiredness:
“Depends… are you asking nicely, Trafalgar?”
The water continued running. She could almost picture him standing under the spray, hair wet, expression probably grumpy at himself for even offering.
Melody smiled to herself at his muffled invitation. She slipped out of bed, wrapping the blanket around herself for a moment before letting it drop. Naked and still pleasantly sore, she padded barefoot across the cabin floor toward the small attached washroom.
The shower was tiny — barely built for one person, let alone two. Clean and efficient, like everything else on the Polar Tang: metal walls, simple fixtures, and just enough space to turn around. Law was already under the spray when she stepped in, water cascading over his dark hair and tattooed back.
She squeezed in beside him, their bodies brushing inevitably in the cramped space. Immediately, she started looking around, reaching up on tiptoes and stretching to check the small shelves.
“Do you have a hair band?” she asked, still searching.
Law glanced at her, water running down his face. “…No.”
Melody paused, silver brows furrowing. “Why not! What about a shower cap?”
He gave her a flat, deadpan look. “Do I look like the kind of person who owns a shower cap?”
She sighed dramatically, clearly disappointed. “Ugh, fine. I’ll just have to be careful then.”
Determined not to get her long silver hair wet, Melody carefully twisted it and draped it over one shoulder, leaning slightly away from the direct spray. Then her attention shifted to the bottles lined up neatly on the shelf.
She picked up Law’s body wash first, turning the bottle over in her hands like she was examining rare scientific equipment. She popped the cap open, brought it close, and sniffed curiously.
“Hm… clean. A little sharp. Medicinal?” she muttered to herself, then squeezed some into her palm and began lathering it over her arms.
Next came the conditioner. She inspected it with the same focused fascination, smelling it deeply before nodding in approval.
Law stood there, watching her with reluctant disbelief and a faint flicker of light amusement in his golden eyes. Water streamed down his body as he crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.
“…What are you doing?” he finally asked, voice still slightly hoarse. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen soap before. It’s just body wash.”
Melody glanced up at him with a lazy grin, silver hair carefully kept dry as she continued washing.
“I’m gathering data, Captain,” she said playfully. “I need to know what the great Trafalgar Law smells like on a normal day. For science.” She sniffed the conditioner bottle one more time. “This one’s nicer. You actually use decent stuff. I’m impressed.”
Law let out a dry huff, shaking his head as water droplets flew from his hair.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “You just got fucked within an inch of your life and now you’re conducting a scent analysis in my shower. Only you would do something like this.”
He reached past her to grab his own body wash, their bodies brushing again in the tight space. Despite his grumpy tone, he didn’t tell her to leave. He simply watched her continue her curious little ritual, a faint, tired smirk lingering on his face.
The playful inspection of his toiletries eventually faded into a comfortable silence.
They stood under the warm spray together, bodies brushing occasionally in the cramped space as they rinsed off. The only sound was the steady hiss of water against metal and skin. Neither of them spoke for a long while.
For the first time that night, they really looked at each other.
Melody’s gaze moved slowly over Law’s body with open curiosity. She took in the full sight of him — tall, lean, and surprisingly well-muscled for someone who spent so much time planning and operating. Her eyes traced the bold, dark tattoos that covered his chest and arms, the sharp lines of his shoulders and collarbones, the way water ran down the grooves of his abs. There were old scars here and there, faint but noticeable. She lingered on the V-line of his hips and the heavy, spent weight of his cock between his legs.
Law, in turn, studied her just as thoroughly.
His golden eyes moved over her 175cm frame with quiet intensity. The pale, snow-white skin that looked even softer under the water. The gentle curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the long lines of her legs. Her slightly messy silver hair, now carefully kept away from the spray, still somehow looked beautiful even damp at the ends. He noticed small details he hadn’t had time to appreciate before — the faint freckles on her shoulders, the way her nipples tightened from the temperature, the graceful slope of her neck.
Both of them were seeing the other properly — not in the heat of passion, but in calm, post-sex clarity.
The silence stretched, thick and intimate.
Melody’s lips curved into a small, lazy smile as her eyes met his again. She didn’t say anything, just continued rinsing her arms while watching him watch her.
Law’s expression remained mostly neutral, but there was a faint tension in his jaw. He was still a little grumpy about how much he was enjoying the view. His gaze lingered on the curve of her hips and the way water traced down her thighs before he looked away, pretending to focus on washing his own chest.
After a long moment, he finally broke the silence, voice low and slightly rough.
“…You’re staring.”
Melody tilted her head, water droplets clinging to her lashes. “So are you, Trafalgar.”
Law didn’t deny it. He simply reached past her to adjust the water temperature slightly, their bare arms brushing again in the tight space. The silence returned, but it felt heavier now — charged with a new kind of awareness.
He was seeing the “White Spider” in an entirely different light: soft, naked, and strangely peaceful in his shower.
And he still didn’t know what to do with that realization.
hi brb, this is ch.15 of a mini series, if you wanna read more (smut) go to my patreon, <3
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