feel free to send me one if there's something you want to see me write :))
roronoa zoro
soft terror - in which zoro attempts to identify what he feels for you. (he's not entirely successful.) [2.3k words]
sweet idiot - pt. II of soft terror; you know that zoro doesn't have feelings for you, not in the way you do for him. there's no way... right? [2.6k words]
black leg sanji
anxious mornings - anxiety has a tendency to spread, as sanji discovers unexpectedly early one morning. [3k words]
salty afflictions - your powers come with unique dietary restrictions, but sanji's not one to back down from a challenge (especially not if it's you). [1.9k words]
Seeing dude bros fall for Law's front he puts on is so funny.
"He is a cold badass, he will cut you down with no remorse."
Brother he tatted memories of one of the few ppl who showed him love all over his body, named his crew after the guy, and cries when he realizes he wasn't saved to fulfill a mission but because someone just loved him and wanted him to live. He loves comics and robots, he says he hates helping ppl while actively helping them. He let's ppl think he is dark and evil when he has avoided killing most ppl. Once he realizes the Straw Hats don't want him to feel like he owes them, he actively views them as a safe space to run to and sometimes loses himself to their antics. He tattooed death on his knuckles not because he causes it but to remind him that he is a doctor and he holds life and death literally in his hands when operating on others. His best friend is a polar bear in a jumpsuit.
He is cool, but first and foremost he is a repressed nerd with attachment issues.
wc: 4000 (girl do NOT ask me how this got so long)
trafalgar law x reader
It was another day well spent aboard the Polar Tang.
You were sprawled out across Penguin’s bed in the boys’ cabin, mindlessly combing through a comic to pass the lazy afternoon.
The crew often gathered in there when Law was out. It was an easy time to lug around in the brief window where all the day’s tasks were completed, and you could simply enjoy the slow hours. Ikkaku sat on the floor beside you, painting her nails while the rest of the crew was spread across the room chatting.
“What do you think?” Ikkaku raised her hand to the light, and you tipped your head back over the bed’s edge to inspect the color.
You hummed in agreement. “Yeah, definitely the red. It’s sexy.”
You could feel Shachi’s glare as he scoffed at the two of you. “Sexy? Who the hell are you trying to impress?”
With a light laugh, you rolled over onto your stomach to face them as Ikkaku gave them a scowl.
“Definitely not you,” she muttered. “Y/N, let’s have another girls night and get some hot dates so they shut up.”
Your eyes flicked briefly to the look of shock on Shachi’s dace, knowing damn well just how bad he had the hots for her. An evil grin curled onto your lips. “I guess I’m free.”
At your reply, the boys paled. Penguin glanced around the others nervously before laughing with a wave of his hand. “They’re not serious.”
You frowned in confusion. What was so unbelievable about you two wanting a night out to yourselves?
“Oh, we’re very serious,” Ikakku replied testily. She inspected her cuticles carefully she spoke to you. “Y/N, don’t you have that cute little black top you’ve been meaning to wear?”
Bepo jolted up from his nap, now awake at her words. His big eyes were pooling with apprehension. “No, no, no, no, no. You can’t!”
Ikkaku didn’t look up from the stroke of a brush across her nails. “Says who?”
“Shachi was kidding,” penguin said airily. “You ladies always look lovely, who needs a bunch of big smelly guys all over you at a bar? Just do a slumber party or something.”
“We have that every night,” you replied a snort.
“Well then fine, we’re coming” penguin snipped.
“Unless you’re ready to put a dress on, then I think you’re fundamentally misunderstanding the invite of girl’s night,” Ikkaku said dryly.
Bepo looked between the boys and you two nervously. “But—but—“
At seeing his nervous disposition, combined with the cold looks of fear between Shachi and Penguin, your brow raised in concern.
I knew he liked her, but this is a bit much.
“What’s the issue?”You asked.
“I think I have an idea,” Ikkaku replied in a sing song voice.
Penguin looked at her in horror. “Shhh. Not a word Ikkaku! Do you want us all dead?”
You sat up now, looking at everyone liked they’d grown a third eye.
“Okay so I’m the only one who has no idea what’s going on,” you huffed.
Nobody replied.
“Guys,” you whined. “Spill!”
Ikkaku opened her mouth to speak, but not before Bepo could launch at her to cover her mouth with his paw.
“Okay! Okay!” Penguin cried. He’d risen to his feet now, hands waving emphatically. “Shachi was an idiot, he was just jealous! He’d rather die than see Ikkaku talk to another man!”
Shachi blanched in horror, his face turning beet red as he looked to his friend.
“Seriously?” He groaned. You watched him bury his head in his hands with shame.
“We all knew that,” you said dryly.
Ikkaku wrenched Bepo’s paw away, swatting him off. “You’re all a bunch of pussies! I think we all know he needs a nudge.”
Your eyes widened, shocked that Ikkaku had responded to Shachi’s unwilling confession so brazenly. “Ikkaku!” You clipped, defensive of your poor friend who just got filleted. “Don’t torture the man!”
She laughed, and the boys all cowered in defeat. “Oh, sweet, sweet Y/N. This has nothing to do with me.”
You slumped back onto your knees in confusion.
“I think,” Ikkaku began to reply, “that a certain someone wouldn’t be too pleased to come back to us gone. At a bar. Around other men.” Her eyes flicked up to the boys who looked like their soul had left their body. “Am I wrong?”
Your brain pieced her words together, looking down at her with a confused frown. “Who, Captain? What would he care? We finished all the chores hours ago.”
Penguin pressed his palm to his head with a heavy sigh while the others slumped in defeat.
“Oh, Y/N,” Shachi muttered in exasperation.
Ikkaku laughed, clasping her hands together.
“Well,” she chirped brightly. “I think I’ll leave that to be your problem for the night, boys! Clearly Y/N and I have some things to discuss.” She rose, taking hold of your arm to lead you back to the girl’s cabin to change.
“Tell our dear captain that we’ll call if we need a dashing rescue,” she sang.
***
You nearly sprayed your sip across the taverns table.
“What? No, no,no no no. That’s — he doesn’t —“
You felt so hot you could melt, your cheeks burning in embarrassment. “Captain would never think of me like that!”
Ikkaku laughed, giving you an incredulous look. “Are you really that oblivious? Those boys back there were shitting their pants ‘cause last time we went out, word is Captain spent the whole night sulking and bossing them around. Ruined his mood, and I heard about it for days after.”
You shook your head in disbelief. “He could have been in a mood about anything.”
“Oh, so we’re all just blind?” Ikkaku countered, pointing an accusing finger. “And don’t tell me it’s not mutual.”
You looked down at your glass, your cheeks burning so hot you thought they’d start to smoke. “I didn’t…” Your words trailed off in defeat. Was there any point in lying? Your shoulders slumped. “Am I that obvious?”
“You two are such dorks,” Ikkaku scoffed. “I knew we’d have to intervene. It’s like watching glaciers melt.”
You sighed feebly, your finger circling the rim of your glass with a pout. “How could I say anything? He’s our captain, and he’d be so horrified to hear me say how I felt! He’d never look me in the eye again. Or speak to me. I’d have to quit! I could never put him in such an awkward position.”
“And did it ever occur to you that he feels the same way? If anything, since he’s captain it would be a seniority issue. Ball’s in your court on this one. Plus, you know how he is. He’s shy.”
You looked at her dejectedly. “He’s…Law. He doesn’t do….” You didn’t know what to call what you were feeling. What you were wanting.
“I know what that loser’s dreaming about doing,” she said dryly.
“Ikkaku!” You squeaked, and she burst into laughter.
You chugged down the rest of your drink, your mind reeling as your heart pounded.
“I need another” you said pitifully.
***
Four liquid courages later, or maybe it was five, you were practically decimated across the tavern’s table. You’d been throwing them back to try and ease the roaring thoughts, and Ikkaku was making no move to stop you — the times you drank were rare, but when you did, you spilled.
“I just,” you slurred, “I just don’t think he’d see me as more than….this.” You gestured to yourself haphazardly, and Ikkaku raised an amused brow.
“What is this?”
“A subordinate — a drunk subordinate. Me.”
“I think he sees you better than most.”
You didn’t know how to reply. Your eyes fell to your cup, taking one last gulp to finish it off. With a hiss you exhaled, the booze making your head feel fuzzy.
“Okay, I think we can call it a night here,” Ikkaku said with a mischievous grin. You could tell this night was going exactly how she’d wanted it to, but the world was spinning far too much for you to care. She’d already acquired enough blackmail on your feelings to cover a lifetime of favors, and all you wanted was to curl into your bed and die. (The only issue at present being your jelly like limbs that stumbled the second you tried to stand.)
You even tried, rushing up suddenly before you busted your side on the corner of the table and stumbled back.
“Easy now, just sit.” your friend giggled. “I forget what a lightweight you are.”
You muttered how you didn’t think it was fair to call however many drinks she’d given you lightweight while she dug around her purse.
She reached for her transponder, and it dialed only once before you heard a familiar deep voice that made your stomach coil.
“Where are you?”
Law sounded entirely unamused, and you bolted up in fear knowing what was about to escape your friends mouth. You shook your head no, only for your desperation to fall on blind eyes.
“We’re at the tavern across from the port, and Y/N’s entirely too drunk to walk, not to mention fighting off all these oafs—“
The other line clicked off before she could even finish her sentence, and you gaped at your friend in horror. “He can’t see me like this!”
“He’s seen you like this plenty. And by the way, wasn’t kidding about the oafs.” She jerked her head behind you, and you hazily turned to see a group of men eyeing the two of you like you were meat. A disgusted scowl soured your face.
“Ew,” you muttered, placing your head down on the table. God, it really was fuzzy.
With a heavy sigh you braced yourself, pushing up with your arms to try and rise once more.
“Time to, to walk it off,” you mumbled. “I’ll be fine before he gets here.”
The second you attempted to stand you were already lateral, stumbling right out of the booth. Ikkaku rose quickly, trying to round the table to the other side, but not before one of the men from the corner suddenly appeared to catch you.
“Easy now, he growled in your ear. “Whats the rush?”
His breath was hot and stinky, and your head was spinning as he pulled you up.
Ikkaku was already there, trying to pry you from the man’s arms with a look that could kill.
“Keep it moving,” She warned with disgust.
“Aw, don’t be jealous, doll. We can all three have some fun.”
Ikkaku looked just about ready to slap the man into next week, and your eyes widened watching her hand clench. Before you could protest, a familiar blue veil poured over the tavern and your heart spasmed.
In an instant, the man who’d had his grimy hands on you vanished into thin air. The loss of contact made your balance falter, but not before a strong arm holstered you.
“For God’s sake,” Law muttered. His hold snaked across your lower back to stabilize you, and he was so close that the deep hum of his words sent a shiver down your spine. You thought you heard a splash along the docks with a man’s furious scream, but you were too flustered to care with Law’s steely eyes set on you.
“Captain!” You said, trying your best to stand up straight. “I’m fine, just need to walk it off!”
Law scoffed, eyes raking over your flushed face with an unreadable expression. “You’re piss-drunk.”
He turned with a scowl to Ikkaku, who raised her hands in defense. “Is that Shachi I hear outside? I wonder who he’s laughing at, better go look — you’ve got her, right captain?”
She was an apparition before law could even protest. He sighed, looking down at you in defeat.
“How many did she feed you?”
“I lost count after the third,” you mumbled.
His voice was low as he reached down to scoop you off your feet. “You’re trouble.”
“I’m sorry!” You chirped, trying to resist his hold. “I can walk!”
He scoffed, walking right out of the bar with you in tow. You could hear a chorus of cheers and whistles as he made his way to the door, and you couldn’t tell if you were just too drunk, or if there was a pink creeping up his neck.
Ikkaku and Shachi turned over to see the two of you outside, and you could already hear their poorly concealed laughter.
“We’re leaving,” Law said flatly, walking past them without so much as a glance.
“Want me to take the drunkard off your hands, Cap’n?” Shachi called out slyly.
You felt law’s grip tighten, just barely, almost reflexively.
“Just keep walking,” he muttered.
You were grateful it was nearly pitch black, the night’s coverage the only thing salvaging your pride from how flushed you were.
This is going to be a long walk back.
With a resounding sigh of accepting your fate, along with the very comfortable pair of arms that smelled far better than they should have, you closed your eyes, resting your head on his chest to slow the spinning.
He tensed beneath, but made no effort to stop you.
***
You heard the familiar click of boots on the Tang’s ramp, and your head lifted blearily at the sound of the door swinging open. The warm light from inside poured over you, and a chorus of cheers and laughter erupted as Law entered.
“Girl’s night,” One of the boys mocked in a high pitched tone.
Your head lolled back, meeting Bepo’s eye with an excited laugh. “Everyone,” you slurred happily. You arm reached out, clasping onto Penguin. “Are you guys still hanging out? I want in.”
They cheered more, pleas ringing out for your captain to release you to them.
“She’s still fighting Captain, night isn’t over! She never drinks like this, come on, we can set up king’s cup!”
Law didn’t even stop, trailing towards the hallway while your arms were still reaching out to try and cling onto you peers with a whine. “She’s done for the night, you idiots.”
You heard a resounding wave of boos along with a sour mumble from Penguin that he was keeping you to himself. You missed the face Law made when he turned back to them, but judging from their expression’s it wasn’t happy.
You suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment, wondering just what he’d been pulled from to come get you.
“I spoiled your night, didn’t I?” You murmured louder than you’d meant to.
He looked down at your sordid expression as he pushed his back against a door to open it.
“I was working. Not much to spoil.”
You blinked in surprise, taking in the scattered desk and cases of books around the room. His room. Your stomach fluttered.
He unceremoniously placed you on his bed, mumbling a low easy as you regained your balance.
Your eyes were owlish as you blinked up at him in surprise. “Are we sleeping together?”
The second the question left your lips your entire face burned, realizing the poor choice of words.
“I didn’t mean—” you said rushed, waving your hands in distress.
Law went scarlet, his whole body tensing as he turned sharply. “You’re sleeping, after you take aspirin with some water so I don’t have to hear about it in the morning.” He paused, almost as if he was racking his brain for more words. “Your room got turned into a poker table. You can just sleep it off in here for the night.”
You nodded in understanding, trying to ignore the burning humiliation from your ridiculous question. It made sense — they took over the girls room anytime there was disagreement on the activities for the evening and decided to split. Normally you’d be apart of the festivities, passing out atop Bepo on the floor.
But never in your wildest dreams did you imagine it would result in you sleeping in Law’s bed. Your fingers loosely gripped the blankets beneath you. They smelled like him.
So embarrassing.
“Did you…have fun?” Law tried his best to break the awkward silence. The words sounded foreign coming out of his lips, a forced air of causality making them fall flat.
You welcomed the awkward attempt at easing the tension. “Yes,” you replied softly with a small laugh. “It’s nice to get out and be girls every once in awhile.”
He shifted, his shoulders taking on a barely noticeable tension while he turned to rummaged through his drawer. Something in your stomach twisted.
“We just talked.” You didn’t know why you felt the need to say it. What would he care what you were up to?
Even so, his rigid posture loosened as he pulled a large shirt and pair of sweats from his drawer.
“And drank a tavern dry,” he said wryly.
You giggled in embarrassment. “Ikkaku just wanted me to blab,” you said loosely. “She says I talk more when I drink.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Last time you drank this much you recited your entire science fair project from grade school while I stitched your leg.” You flushed in embarrassment as he stepped forward, pointing to the hem of your shirt.
“Speaking of, show me your hip. I felt you flinch when I picked you up.”
Damn my clumsiness.
You sighed in defeat, peeling up your tank to reveal the red mark that snuck above your pant line.
He came close, and you were sure you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. His hand was featherlight, far gentler than normal, as it grazed the skin of your hip just above the injury. His thumb was warm, and between the feeling of him touching you so gently and his sheer proximity, heat pooled in your stomach.
His gaze flicked upward, and you hadn’t realized how close your faces were until your hazy eyes locked with his.
“Table corner?” He asked matter-of-factly, but you almost saw a glint of amusement in his smoky eyes.
Too shy to even try for words, you nodded with a small hum. Your eyes felt stuck to his own like glue. The alcohol took just enough of your inhibitions to keep you from looking away.
He blinked, lingering on you for a second longer before looking back down at it.
“It’ll bruise,” he said quietly, no more than a mumble. His finger traced the area once more, almost mindlessly, and your breath hitched. He pulled back, turning with a small shake of his head as he gestured to the clothes he’d thrown on the bed beside you.
“I’m going to the kitchen, you can change into that.” He paused, his ears looking a bit pink in the dim light of his lamp. “Yours reek of booze.”
He left before you could reply, and you buried your face in your hands in disbelief.
Your mind was reeling as you hurriedly changed out of your clothes, balling them up tightly and tucking them aside. This was all too much for your spasming heart. Were you dreaming?
He knocked once to ensure you were decent before quietly entering. You watched his eyes flick over your frame that sat nestled atop his bed shyly. In his clothes.
“So, what was it Ikkaku wanted you blabbing about this time?” He asked.
You leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to the side as you watched him walk back to you. A teasing lilt coated your words. “You know, the usual girl stuff. Shopping, makeup, boys.”
“I see.”
“We have to talk about Shachi having the hots for her somewhere,” you giggled.
Law chucked, and it was the first time you’d seen him have anything close to a genuine smile all evening. It relaxed you. “Didn’t have to go all the way to a bar to say that — it’s not exactly a secret.”
“Well, half the fun is just seeing him get all jealous at the thought of her leaving and being fussed on by strangers.”
Law looked almost shy, a small grimace in his face as he handed you the aspirin and water and sat beside you. You felt your heart sputter as your hand brushed his own to accept them, uttering a soft thanks.
“Mission accomplished, he was bitching the entire way there — and not happy to see that pig at your table.” His voice was dry with distaste.
You swallowed down the aspirin, shivering at the thought of the man once again. “Ugh. Total creep.” You set the water down beside you, surprised to see a small frown now etched into his lips.
“Which is why you shouldn’t be drunk off your ass and vulnerable in a place like that,” He scolded. “Men take far less as an opening.”
Despite his admonishing tone, your heart warmed. A small smile curled into your face, swooning at his words. This was your favorite side of Law. He tried very hard to be a grump most of the time, but there was very little he could do to hide his protective nature.
Maybe it was the alcohol (it most definitely was) but for one of the first times in your life, you were feeling emboldened.
You leaned forward, just enough to where your noses were no more than an inch apart. “I’m not so worried, I’ve got a nice captain who deals with them and carries me home.”
His breath hitched faintly, and you watched his eyes flicker down to your smile before returning back up at your gaze. You wanted to burn the moment into your memory, but he wiped it away with a turn of his head and reddened cheeks.
He tsked, looking at you again from the corner of his gaze. “Maybe next time, call me before I’m having to pull some bastard off of you.”
You hummed, pretending to mull over his words as you plopped down onto your side. A content sigh escaped your lips as you curled into the bed. You gave him a cheeky smile. “Only if there’s trouble. Can’t push my luck or you’ll stop coming.”
You couldn’t quite read the emotion stirring in his stormy eyes, but they met your own, completely unguarded with a look you hadn’t seen before.
“I already told you, you’re always trouble,” he said quietly. “So call anyway. I’ll come.”
There was a steadiness to his words that made your chest ache. It nearly winded you.
You could only give him a tired, gentle smile, your eyes shining with a small nod. “Deal,” you whispered.
He nodded, a ghost of a smile meeting yours in return. “Get some sleep. I’ll be in my office.”
He stood to leave, but not before you lightly took hold of his wrist. “Goodnight, Law. Thanks for — everything.”
You weren’t sure you’d ever called him anything other than Captain. Not to his face. It felt nice. For one small moment, you could pretend that he wasn’t your captain, but the man you’d grown sickeningly fond of. You could pretend he was someone that could feel the same.
Beneath your fingertips that traced the inside of his wrist, you felt a faint flutter in his pulse. Just barely, his hand brushed over your own before pulling away, tucking his hat further over his eyes. You wished you could have seen what they looked like.
He didn’t reply, but he nodded meekly before turning and heading out the door. For some reason, the silence didn’t bother you at all. It was so like him.
You missed the hand that scrubbed his red face behind the closed door, and the hammering heart that you’d left in your tired wake.
On an isolated island where a young girl raised as a sacrifice, but everything changes when Luffy arrives and asks her a question no one ever has
***
It was an island without spring or summer.
The tide carried the same salt-sweet breath against the cliffs no matter the season, and the wind spent every month of the year stirring clusters of white blossoms.
Few remembered the flowers’ true name anymore. To the people of the island, they were simply the Sacred Flowers. They lined the stone steps to the temple, adorned the eaves of every home, and crowned the tables on days of celebration.
White was the holiest color on the island.
So from the day she was born, she wore nothing else.
By the time she was old enough to remember, she already understood the rules. She must never stain the hem of her robes. She must never fall. She must never cry loudly enough for anyone to hear.
She ate only what she was given. Slept when she was told. Smiled whenever someone praised her. No one had ever asked what she liked or what she hated.
A sacrifice had no need for preference, must be beautiful, must be gentle, must never desire.
Each time those lessons were repeated, she quietly erased another small piece of herself before it had the chance to bloom. Wanting another sweet cake, the children racing toward the harbor with envy, what lay beyond the sea. Every one of those thoughts was an indulgence unworthy of an offering.
Instead, she mastered the art of smiling. Lift the corners of your mouth, but only slightly. Never show too many teeth, lower your eyes before the other person does.
People relaxed when she smiled like that. They praised her for looking worthy of the gods. And every compliment made the outline of who she was just a little fainter. She believed that was how it was meant to be.
⸻
The morning of the annual festival arrived before dawn itself.
The cobblestones had been polished until they gleamed. White petals covered the road leading to the temple. Wine casks and lavish dishes filled the harbor, and the islanders walked through the streets in ceremonial dress, wearing the eager smiles of people awaiting a blessed day.
Offer the sacrifice, then receive another year of peace. Everyone believed it, but there was no god waiting inside the temple.
Only pirates.
They called themselves messengers of the gods and departed with barrels of wine, sacks of gold… and the chosen girl.
Afterward, the officials bowed low and assured the people their island had been protected once again.
She had been raised for that single purpose.
As attendants dressed her in spotless white and combed her long hair until it shone, she never looked into the mirror.
The figure reflected there was not herself. It was merely a nameless vessel, offered in exchange for everyone else’s peace.
⸻
The commotion at the harbor began moments later. Not with the harsh shouts of the familiar pirates. This laughter was brighter, louder. Reckless enough to sound as though it might crack the sky itself.Gathering her robes, she stepped outside.
An unfamiliar pirate ship had anchored in the harbor. Its sail bore the grinning skull beneath a straw hat. The boy who leapt from its deck caught the scent of cooking before anything else.
His stomach growled audibly.
“Whoa! They’ve got meat!”
The festival fell silent. He didn’t seem to notice. He marched toward the feast, then suddenly stopped.
White robes. Flowers woven into long hair. A girl standing quietly at the edge of the road, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
He walked straight toward her.She smiled, exactly as she’d been taught.
“Welcome to our island.”
“You hungry?”
The smile she’d spent years perfecting trembled.
“…No.”
“You are.”
“Why would you think that?”
“’Cause my stomach growled.”
Only then did she realize she’d heard another, softer sound. A sacrifice was forbidden to eat before the ritual.
“The offering does not dine until the ceremony is complete.”
“Why?”
“It is our custom.”
“Even if you’re starving?”
“Yes.”
He frowned. Whenever outsiders heard the island’s traditions, they usually reacted in one of two ways. They admired them, or pitied them.
This boy did neither. He bit into the roasted meat in his hand, tore off a generous piece, and held it toward her.
“Don’t you wanna eat?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She knew countless reasons she wasn’t allowed to eat. But whether she wanted to…She had never asked herself that question.
“I am the sacrifice.”
“Is that your name?”
“…No.”
“Then what’s your name?”
She looked up. People called her by name but no one had ever asked for it. Everyone on the island knew it but sacrifice always came first.
She whispered it quietly. He repeated it once, carefully. As though committing it to memory.
Then he held the meat out again.
“So… do you want this?”
Fat glistened across its surface.
The scent of roasted meat drifted toward her, and her empty stomach tightened painfully.
I want it. The thought appeared so suddenly that it frightened her.
“…I don’t know.”
He didn’t insist, didn’t scold her for refusing. Instead, he simply dropped onto the roadside beside her and resumed eating. Sitting on the ground was improper. Stretching legs beside the island’s sacred offering during the festival was unthinkable.
“You really shouldn’t sit there.”
“Why?”
“You’ll get dirty.”
“I can wash it off.”
With that, he flopped onto his back, s chewing happily. She remained standing, looking down at him.
Whenever the adults taught her something, they always explained why. For the island, the gods, and everyone. Rules existed because sacrificing yourself made other people safe, that was the lesson repeated throughout her entire life.
But this boy explained nothing. He sat because he wanted to. He ate because he was hungry. When he grew sleepy, he simply closed his eyes. His shameless freedom dazzled her.
“…You’re free.”
He cracked one eye open.
“Aren’t you?”
“I am the sacrifice.”
“You’re saying that again.”
He sounded almost bored. A few moments later, his breathing settled into sleep. She stood there watching him for a very long time.
⸻
By evening, the temple bell began to ring.
It was time. Beyond the island, the silhouette of the great pirate ship waited upon the sea. Officials stood atop the flower-covered staircase waiting for her.
She bowed once toward the sleeping boy.
“I should go.”
“When?”
He was sitting up. She hadn’t even noticed him waking.
“To the temple.”
“Why?”
“Today I am to be offered to the god.”
“There’s really a god?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t a lie. People called those pirates as gods on this island,
“Do you want to go?”
“…It is my role.”
He studied her in silence, not angry, not sympathetic. Just watching her with startling concentration.
Then he said quietly,
“You stop breathing every time you smile.”
Her heart skipped. No one had ever noticed. Not even she had realized it. Every smile began with holding her breath. For those few seconds, she can be disappeared.
“Do you want to run away?”
The bell rang again. Someone called her name from the staircase. She folded her hands together and tried to shape the smile she’d practiced all her life.
“…I am not allowed.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
His voice remained calm.
“I asked if you want to run.”
Not what the gods wanted. Not what the island needed.Not what everyone else expected. No one had ever reached past the role to touch the person beneath it.
“I…”
The answer wouldn’t come. Her throat tightened, breathing turned shallow.
She was supposed to smile, supposed to reassure everyone. But her lips refused to move. The officials shouted impatiently. Far beyond them, the pirate ship lowered its anchor.
“…I want to run.”
The words escaped her. Her knees trembled. She thought the world would end, but it didn’t. The island did not sink. The sky did not split apart.
The boy grinned.
“Then let’s go.”
He said it so simply that she forgot how to breathe.
“But… the island…”
“Has nothing to do with me.”
“Everyone will suffer.”
“But you’re suffering.”
She searched desperately for an answer. Before she found one, he was already walking away.
After a few steps, he looked back.
“You coming?”
He didn’t drag her. Didn’t hurry her. He simply waited.
As though there had never been any doubt she would choose with her own feet. Before her stretched two roads. One climbed toward the temple. Paved in white flowers. The other led toward the harbor.
Dusty, unknown, the white road was familiar. She had spent her entire life preparing to walk it. The other promised nothing. No one would tell her where to sleep, what to eat, what tomorrow would become. Freedom was wider than the sea, and infinitely more frightening.
He waited.
She looked down at the pristine white shoes. At the dirt beneath them. One step would stain the hem of her robe, she would cease to be the sacrifice. She would become no one, simply herself.
The first step felt impossibly heavy, sand clung to the white fabric. The second made her chest ache. By the third, she was running.
Her robes tangled around her legs. A flower ornament slipped from her hair. Someone screamed from the temple steps. The bells rang wildly behind her.
For the first time in her life, she ran away from the voices calling her name.
When she finally caught up to him, he beamed.
“Took you long enough.”
Then, as though nothing extraordinary had happened, he asked,
“You hungry?”
The question was so absurdly ordinary that she blinked. But this time, she knew the answer.
“…Yes.”
He handed her the last piece of meat.
“Then eat.”
She accepted it with both hands. Most of its warmth had already faded. Still, when she bit into it, salt and rendered fat spread across her tongue. With every chew, the hunger eased. And something she’d buried for years overflowed inside her chest.
He didn’t ask why she was crying. Didn’t try to stop her. He simply walked beside her while she finished eating.
“It’s… delicious.”
She managed the words between tears. He laughed so loudly it echoed across the shore.
Summary: Nobody on the Moby Dick understands why you can't stand Portgas D. Ace. He thinks you're absolutely terrifying. You think he's an idiot with a death wish. The commanders think you're flirting. Convinced the two of you simply need to "bond," the commanders keep forcing you together through increasingly ridiculous schemes, and when that doesn't work, Thatch brings out the infamous Get-Along Shirt.
Tags: enemies/idiots to lovers (more like a fake enemy dynamic), bickering, forced proximity, first kiss, lots of fluff, whitebeird pirates being matchmakers (lmk if i forgot anything)
Wordcount: 4k
A/N: this is part of a fic exchange i did with my alltime fav author @dawnsarchive🥺🥺 im sure everyone knows her already but in case you dont you gotta check out her writing, shes the absolute best!! im not that happy with this but i hope its still an all right read and yall have fun with it, love yall :) as always, pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
For most people, joining the Whitebeard Pirates felt like coming home to a house with a thousand open doors. For you, however, the arrival of Portgas D. Ace felt more like someone had invited in a chaotic hurricane to take up permanent residence in the living room.
Everyone loved him. It was infuriating. Within a week of him finally coming to his senses, the commanders were treating him like a long-lost younger brother, and the crew was enchanted by his reckless energy and that blinding, confident grin. But you? You couldn't shake the image of him trying to kill Pops. Like the others, you had watched the entire ordeal from the sidelines - the desperation he showed, the sheer audacity of his attack on Edward Newgate, and the way the old man had dismantled his efforts with a bored, effortless strength.
What bothered you wasn't that he had fought - you were a pirate too after all, used to stupid fights between your brothers and rivaled crews; it was that he had tried to throw his life away with such a casual disregard. And then, after being repeatedly defeated by the most powerful man in the world over and over again, he had immediately tried to kill him again. It was illogical. It was maddening. It was, in your professional opinion, the peak of humanly stupidity.
So, while the rest of the ship basked in Ace's radiance after he finally stopped his suicide mission, you treated him like a hazardous waste spill.
It quickly became routine and a staple of the morning deck rotations. You would be leaning against the railing, enjoying the salt-spray air, when a certain mop of black hair with a stupid orange hat and a pair of black shorts would bounce into your periphery.
"Morning!" Ace would chirp, his voice far too loud and cheerful for the hour.
You wouldn't even look at him properly. "Don't."
Ace would blink, tilting his head with a look of genuine confusion. "… Don't what?"
"Exist near me," you'd reply flatly, finally turning your gaze to him with a look of profound exhaustion.
From a few feet away, Marco would let out a rumbling chuckle, his eyes hooded and clearly amused, much to your dismay. "Still at it, are you two, yoi?"
Thatch, leaning against a barrel of apples, would nudge Marco with a huge grin on his face. "Look at that tension between our youngsters. I'm telling you, Marco, they're flirting. I can literally smell it in the air."
You shot Thatch a look that could have frozen the entire Grand Line. "I will throw you overboard, Thatch. And I will do it with a huge smile on my face."
The commanders, ever the old meddlers, decided that the disharmony between you and the new recruit was a problem that needed immediate solving. They viewed your disdain as a challenge and began orchestrating a series of "bonding exercises" that were, in reality, just various ways to torture you.
Attempt #1
"Y/N," Marco had said, his tone deceptively casual, which already made you suspicious. "Ace is still a bit lost regarding the layout of the ship. Why don't you show him around? You know every nook and cranny."
You wanted to argue with Marco, but you respected the older man too much to throw a fit over something this trivial, so you had just sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand regrets, and led Ace through the corridors. It was peaceful for exactly five minutes. You pointed out the armory, the infirmary, and the galley. Ace followed along, nodding and asking questions that were mostly distractions.
Then, the two of you hit the kitchen.
Ace, in an attempt to be helpful by rearranging some spice jars to "make them look cooler," managed to knock over a canister of highly flammable cooking oil just as a stovetop flame leaped up. In a flash, a curtain of fire erupted, licking the ceiling with a sudden and very violent hunger.
As the crew scrambled to put out the fire and poor Thatch screamed in horror about his precious saffron, you simply stood there with your arms crossed over your chest, staring at the soot-covered Ace.
"You're proving my point," you said tonelessly.
Attempt #2
"You two young ones have a lot of pent-up energy," Izou had observed, leaning against a training post with a fan covering the lower half of his face. "Why not train together? A little friendly sparring to get the blood pumping."
You had agreed only because you thought it would be a satisfying way to knock some sense into the boy. He seemed to need it badly.
The session started with you moving like you always did during a sparring match; entirely focused and disciplined. You were trying to execute a series of serious strikes with precise and calculated movements. Ace, however, treated the entire thing like a game. He kept making jokes, dodging your attacks with a lazy, playful grin, and laughing right in your face every time you almost caught him.
"You're too stiff, Y/N!" he grinned, sliding backwards with a flourish. "Lighten up! It's just a spar!"
His taunting was the final straw. In one fluid, explosive movement, you stopped thinking about sparring and started thinking about silencing him. You pivoted, using his own momentum against him, and slammed him flat onto his back with a resounding thud that echoed across the whole deck.
You knelt over him and looked down with cold eyes, your forearm pressed against his throat.
Izou blinked, looking over at Marco. "… Does this count as progress?"
Marco hummed, watching Ace stare up at you with a look of dazed fascination. "Questionable, yoi."
Attempt #3
"Inventory duty," Thatch had announced. "The storehouse is a mess. You two are uh…. the only people available right now to get it organized."
The glare you shot his way could've killed a weaker man, but once again, you didn't argue. For an hour, Ace and you worked in a focused silence. You were meticulously cataloging crates of dried meat and barrels of flour, your pen scratching rhythmically against the parchment. Ace was supposed to be counting sacks of grain.
But when you turned around to ask him for the total, you only found the storehouse empty.
Already starting to feel irritated, you stepped outside and looked up. There, on the railing of the upper deck, was Ace. Of course he wasn't working. He wasn't even looking for grain. He was crouched low, eyes wide and focused, silently chasing a bright blue butterfly that was fluttering haphazardly toward the bow.
You stood there in the silence of the storehouse, the pen still poised over the paper, feeling a vein throb in your temple.
"…"
It didn't take long for the rest of the crew to notice the anomaly. Ace was an easy-going kid; he got along with basically everyone. He took criticism with a laugh and followed orders with the biggest grin on his face. But with you? He never stopped poking, never stopped trying to get a reaction out of you. And you, who were known as the most patient person on the Moby Dick - the woman who could handle a drunken crew of five hundred without breaking a sweat - became a different person the moment Ace entered the room.
You were a ticking time bomb, and Ace was the one holding the match, looking far too happy about the potential explosion.
Eventually, Pops had seen enough. The Captain's booming laughter had filled the deck as he looked down at the two of you, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that matched the commanders.
"Enough of this bickering!" Whitebeard roared, though his tone was fond. "You two need to find some common ground. We're making a simple supply stop at the next island. Y/N, Ace, you'll handle the shopping. Just the two of you."
The old man had barely finished his sentence before you immediately and simultaneously objected.
"Pops, please!" you pleaded, your voice reaching a pitch of desperation. "Anyone else! Send a cabin boy! Send a random crewmate! Even a seagull will do!"
"I don't wanna go with her!" Ace complained, crossing his arms and pouting like a little child. "She's scary! She looks at me like I'm a piece of rotten fish!"
"Because you are a piece of rotten fish!" you snapped. "Actually, you're even wor-"
"Quiet, my children," Whitebeard commanded, though he was clearly enjoying himself. "It's settled. You leave at dawn."
The trip to the island was already a complete disaster from the moment the rowboat hit the sand.
First, because something just had to go wrong immediately, Ace forgot the shopping list. Not accidentally "misplaced" it - he forgot it entirely. So when you asked for it, he gave you a sheepish grin and reassured you he remembered the important parts.
The "important parts", as it turned out, were mostly snacks for himself.
As you navigated the village market, you found yourself losing years of your life. Every time you tried to focus on the essential medical supplies or the bulk grains, Ace would just… wander off. He got distracted by a street performer, a shiny trinket, and most infuriatingly, a group of cats behind a fishmonger's stall.
You stopped dead in your tracks, watching him coo at a scrawny orange tabby, his entire demeanor shifting as he made some exaggerated baby noises at the clearly confused feline creature. For a second, you almost felt a flicker of sympathy - there was something weirdly endearing watching a powerful man like him act like this. Then he tried to bring the cat along for the shopping trip.
"No," you said flatly, already continuing on your way.
"But look at his little paws, Y/N."
"Put the cat down, Ace."
"You're so mean!"
By the time you reached the outskirts of the village to pick up the specialty lumber Jozu had requested, you were mutter-screaming into the wind.
"I can't believe this," you hissed, clutching the bags of supplies angrily. "You're actually going to become a commander? You're a liability! You're like… like a walking disaster area!"
Ace just shrugged beside you, his grin returning. "Apparently. Pops thinks I've got potential."
"Potential for what? To set the ocean on fire?"
"Maybe!" he laughed loudly.
The bickering continued for hours. You argued about basically everything. The most efficient route back to the shore, the best way to split the remaining berries, even about who was carrying the heavier load (it was you obviously, because Ace had spent half the trip scouting for more cats).
And the worst part? Through it all, he just kept on smiling. That stupid, effortless, sunshine-filled smile that suggested he wasn't even bothered by your anger in the slightest. It only served to irritate you further, making you feel like you were shouting at a wall.
Then, while taking a shortcut through a wooded ravine to avoid a sudden rainstorm, disaster struck once again, as if you didn't have enough on your plate already. A mudslide triggered by the heavy rain collapsed the narrow path behind you and blocked the way forward with a wall of debris and fallen timber. You weren't trapped in a life-threatening way - you had plenty of food and water - but you were stuck. The path was impassable, and the rain was too heavy to climb the steep, slippery cliffs.
Ace wanted to blow the way up, but you immediately shut that idea down, not trusting his… precision.
You had to wait. For hours. Together.
The rain hammered against the makeshift shelter of a rocky overhang, turning the air cool and damp. for the first hour, you sat on opposite sides of the cave, the silence thick and filled with lingering resentment.
Eventually, boredom won. It was you who actually caved.
"So," you began, your voice echoing slightly. "Why were you so determined to kill Pops?"
It was a very blunt question, devoid of the usual sarcasm you normally brought into a conversation that involved him. But you had been thinking about it for weeks. To you, the attack on Whitebeard wasn't just an act of youthful rebellion; it was a goddamn suicide mission. A really bad one at that.
Ace froze. He had been poking at a piece of driftwood with a stick, but he stopped and you saw the way his shoulders tensed. He didn't look at you first. The silence stretched on, eventually becoming heavier and heavier.
"I… I had a debt," he said quietly. His voice had lost its playful edge, replaced by a raw honesty instead. "A debt of blood and pride. I thought… I thought the only way to settle it was to take down the man on top. I didn't care if I died doing it. In fact, I wanted to."
You weren't expecting the unfiltered honesty coming from him. You had expected a joke, or a deflection, or a boast about his strength. The sudden vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, managing to strip away your anger and leaving something else in its place.
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," you whispered.
Ace let out a short, dry laugh. "Yeah. I know. Trust me, even I know that now."
You looked at him - really looked at him - in the dim light of the cave. He looked smaller somehow, less like the chaotic hurricane and more like a boy who had spent his entire life fighting a war no one knew he was even waging.
"I… I wasn't angry because you attacked him," you admitted, your voice barely audible over the rain.
Ace turned his head, his dark eyes searching yours. "… What?"
"I wasn't angry that you tried to kill Pops. He can handle himself, he's the strongest man in the world after all. Hell, he didn't even blink," you said, your gaze drifting to the rain-slicked rocks. "I was angry because you kept throwing your life away. You walked onto the ship like… like you were already dead. And you fought like you didn't think you deserved to survive. It pissed me the fuck off…"
Ace froze completely. Even the distant sounds outside died down, leaving only the loud beating of his own heart. He was silent for a long time.
"… You barely knew me," he whispered.
"Didn't matter," you replied matter-of-factly, finally meeting his eyes. "Nobody deserves to be that eager to die. Especially not someone who… who has as much potential as you do."
The tension in the air shifted. It was no longer the tension of an incoming fight between the two of you, but something fragile and new starting to take root. Ace didn't say thank you, and you didn't ask for it. But for the first time, the distance between you felt like it was shrinking. And you didn't mind it.
When you finally made it back to the Moby Dick, the crew noticed the change immediately.
You were still bickering. You still called him an idiot all the time, and he poked at you until you threatened to throw him overboard. But it was the tone that had changed. The sharpness was gone, replaced by a new, strange energy. You weren't trying to push him away anymore, not really; you were just arguing for the sake of it. Because it was Ace. Because it was… fun.
Marco noticed. Thatch noticed. And Thatch, being, well, Thatch, decided that this was the perfect moment to introduce a legendary tradition.
"Alright, listen up!" Thatch announced one afternoon, stepping into the center of the deck with a triumphant flourish. You had been in the middle of an intense card game against Haruta and Jozu as you looked up, curious what the commotion was about. In his hands was a piece of fabric so large it looked like a goddamn circus tent.
It was a gigantic, oversized white shirt. It had two massive sleeves and a neckline that could probably fit three people.
"The Get-Along Shirt!" Thatch beamed. "A relic from the early days. Whenever two commanders couldn't stop fighting and it started to affect morale, they were forced into the shirt. It's a valuable lesson in cooperation and, well, shared misery."
You stared at the monstrosity in complete disbelief. "… No."
Ace, having just stepped onto the main deck, stared at it with equal horror. "Yeah, absolutely not."
"Too late!" Marco chirped, appearing behind you with a speed that suggested he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.
Before you could protest, you and Ace were hoisted up and shoved into the shirt. It was a chaotic ordeal, a scramble of limbs and fabric. You were pressed so tightly against him that your shoulders touched and your hips brushed against each other with even the smallest movement. The shirt was so long that it draped down to your mid-thighs, leaving you both feeling exposed yet absurdly close.
"You stay like that until dinner!" Thatch declared, laughing as he walked away to tell the rest of the crew. That goddamn chatterbox.
The next few hours were a test of endurance, and you were completely failing it.
Walking was the first real challenge. Because you shared the same space within the fabric, you had to synchronize your steps perfectly in order to move properly. If you moved left and he moved right - which happened a lot -, you both simply tipped over like dominoes.
"Move your leg, idiot!" you hissed, not even fully realizing that your face was only inches from his.
"I can't move my leg if you're stepping on it!" he shot back, though he was fighting a smile you damn near punched out of his stupidly handsome face.
You tried to navigate the stairs to the upper deck, but the oversized fabric got caught under Ace's boot. With a sudden yelp, he tripped, pulling you down with him. You crashed into him, your chest colliding with his hard torso, your hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders to stabilize yourself.
You landed in a heap on the deck, the fall making the shirt bunch up around you. For a moment, the two of you were completely entangled. Your face was pressed against the crook of his neck, and you could feel the radiating heat of his skin, a constant warmth that made him feel like a living furnace.
As you scrambled and tried to push yourself up, your hand slipped, and you accidentally brushed against his chest. You felt the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric, the rabid beat of his heart directly under your fingertips. At the same time, Ace shifted to help you up, and his large hand accidentally cupped the side of your breast.
He froze. You would've laughed in any other situation because he genuinely looked like he wasn't even breathing.
The silence that followed was electric. Ace, for all his confidence, was still a young man. A deep crimson flooded his face, spreading from his neck to the tip of his ears. He jerked his hand away as if he had been burned and looked at you with wide and startled eyes.
"S-sorry!" he stammered, his voice cracking.
You felt a flush of your own creeping up your neck, but you didn't pull away immediately. The closeness was overwhelming, so much so that you needed a second to return to your senses. You could smell him - the scent of smoke, sea salt, and a hint of something spicy - and you realized that for the first time, you weren't thinking about how stupid he was. You were thinking about how warm he was. And handsome. Especially the latter, though you would never loudly admit that.
Eventually, you both gave up trying to escape the shirt and simply sat down against the railing, leaning into each other for support.
The noise of the ship faded into the background. It was just the two of you, sharing a single piece of cloth and even breathing in synchronization. You could hear the soft sounds of his lungs, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when you shifted. You noticed the tiny freckles across the bridge of his nose, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.
What a beautiful man, you thought.
"You don't actually hate me," Ace said quietly.
You sighed, resting your head against his shoulder. The fabric of the shirt felt soft against your skin. "… No. But I do think you're stupid… You?"
He laughed softly, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into your own. "I've liked you since the second week I've been here."
You bolted upright, nearly knocking you both over again. "Excuse me?!"
Ace didn't look away this time. His gaze was steady, his expression surprisingly tender. "I kept talking to you because you were the only person who didn't treat me like I was amazing. Everyone else was often just so… impressed. But you? You just thought I was a moron. It was refreshing. And you're… you're super pretty and cool. Even when you yelled at me all the time."
You stared at him, your heart performing a frantic drum solo against your ribs. You wanted to throw another of your usual sarcastic comments at him. You wanted to tell him he was a moron, because he was. But the words died in your throat.
"You… you have some serious issues," you whispered, but you didn't really mean it. There was no heat in it, which Ace noticed.
"I know, Y/N," he replied, a small and genuine smile touching his lips.
You started laughing. It wasn't a scoff or a sneer this time, but a real laugh that bubbled up from your chest and wouldn't die down for a long time. You leaned into him, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking you.
Ace stared at you, his expression softening. "… You have a nice laugh."
You immediately stopped, and your entire face heated up. "Don't make this weird, Portgas."
"I physically can't," he whispered.
Your hands brushed again. This time, neither of you moved away. Ace's fingers slid into yours, his grip firm and warm. The tension that had been building for weeks, the continuos bickering, fighting, but also the shared glances, finally snapped.
Ace was the one who leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't.
The kiss was hesitant at first, a soft exploration of lips and breath. His mouth, coupled with the way his hand was sliding down your arm, was all too much. Good much. So fucking good. You just whimpered. As soon as the sound left you, Ace groaned into your mouth, his other hand sliding up to cup your jaw, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
He maneuvered you with a sudden, almost desperate strength, pulling you onto his lap as best as the oversized shirt would allow. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his black hair, as you lost yourself in each other. Nothing else mattered. There was only the heat of his skin, the taste of him you already knew you would become addicted to, and the rhythmic thrum of the ocean beneath you.
It was the perfect first kiss - until, suddenly, the door to the deck area swung open. Right. You completely forgot where you had been.
"Alright, time for dinner! I hope the you two have learned the meaning of coop-"
Thatch stopped dead in his tracks. Marco appeared beside him, a smirk already forming on his face.
You and Ace jumped apart, both of you completely flushed from head to toe, hair disheveled, and lips swollen. You were still stuck in the same gigantic shirt, looking like a very confused, very guilty, and very red-faced intertwined mess.
Marco let out a triumphant chuckle. "Told you they like each other, yoi."
Thatch wiped a fake tear from his eye, looking profoundly moved. "They're growing up so quickly."
You buried your face in the collar of the shirt, wishing the fabric could swallow you whole. Ace just grinned, though his head was still bright red, and squeezed your hand.
"Shut up, Thatch!" he yelled, but he didn't let go of you. Not for a single second.
Law x Reader
Length 14 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Slight Age Gap (Older reader/Younger Law), Slow Burn, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Family Pressure, Medical Detail, Childhood Trauma, Language, Gaslighting, Angst, slight sexual content
For Scalpel Bae.
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Next
The bond began whisper-faint when you were a preteen. A vague hum at the edge of your mind, scraps of someone else’s thoughts drifting through like leaves on a river.
Most people got lucky. Their soulmates thought about food, music, or embarrassing crushes. Yours? Yours narrated surgical procedures.
You were sketching quietly one afternoon when the mental equivalent of, “Scalpel. Suction. Clamp that artery,” dropped into your head.
Your charcoal broke against the page. You stared at your drawing and wondered if your soulmate was a murderer.
By fourteen, you knew better. Not a murderer. Just… unnervingly comfortable describing human insides in clinical detail. You had so many questions and absolutely no desire to know the answers.
He was sarcastic, too. Not in the fun, witty way. More in the ‘I will skin you alive with words’ way. Entire summers passed where you were forced to listen to him silently dismantle someone’s intelligence in increasingly creative ways.
He had the bedside manner of a storm drain. Flat. Cold. Unimpressed. Yet there were moments that startled you. The way his focus sharpened when someone was injured. The rare flickers of tenderness when he thought about animals. The low, steady hum of quiet when he was finally alone.
By sixteen, you gave up trying to figure him out. Doctor. Pirate. Something worse. Whoever he was, you were stuck with him, destined to hear him grumble about anatomy, the weather, and the stupidity of humanity for the rest of your life.
Sometimes you talked back in your head—little sarcastic comments.
“You must be fun at parties.”
The bond pulsed faintly, as if he was holding back a sigh.
You were just an artist who liked to draw anatomy. Your soulmate was a man who dissected it. And if fate had a sense of humor, his name was probably something dramatic, like ‘Law’.
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
Age 13:
You were thirteen the day the bond snapped into clarity.
It happened mid-afternoon, in the corner of your guardian’s study where you had spread out your sketchbook. The window light fell across half-finished portraits and clumsy studies of hands, your pencil scratching as you tried to capture the curl of a smile from memory. The smell of ink and graphite clung to the air.
Then a voice broke across your mind like glass.
“I swear, if anyone touches me, I’ll cut them open.”
You froze, pencil hovering mid-stroke. The words were too sharp, too young, too soaked in fury to belong to you.
“Worthless. Every last moment. Why would he—”
Soulmate bonds weren’t rare, but yours had always been faint, a distant hum you could forget if you tried. Whoever he was, he had never been clear enough for you to catch more than a flicker of mood.
Until now.
For days after, his thoughts came in jagged bursts. Hatred. Exhaustion. Something darker still, like a shadow crouched in the back of his mind. And then, always, the same name, repeated like a prayer he did not believe in.
“Cora.”
You did not know who that was. But the way he thought it made your chest ache, as though you had sketched grief itself onto paper.
He was young. Younger than you, for sure. But his mind didn’t move like a child’s. It was jagged, old, scraped raw by something cruel. He thought like someone who had run too far, seen too much, and decided the world deserved every bad thing it got.
Once, you tried to think back.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
There was a pause. For a moment, you thought he might answer.
“Don’t talk to me.”
And that was it.
The following week was worse. Flashes of memory slid through the bond whether you wanted them or not. The smell of smoke. The crack of gunfire. The metallic tang of blood. You tried to shut it out. You told yourself it wasn’t yours to carry. But the bond didn’t care.
You were tied to him now. Whoever he was. Wherever he was. Whatever had happened.
And whether you liked it or not, you could hear every grief-soaked thought he had.
At first, he tried to block you out. The bond felt like an intrusion to him, and you knew it. Every thought of his was a wall slammed down hard. The rage dulled in time, but it did not fade. It sharpened instead, becoming something lean and precise.
You could feel him practicing it, shaping his fury the way you shaped pencil strokes. He measured his anger like a weapon, counting it out the way you counted lines on paper.
The more you leaned toward softness, the more he turned to cold. Detached. Clinical. On nights when you sketched until your fingers were gray with charcoal, his thoughts would run in exacting rhythm: scalpels, clamps, sutures. Each word carried the weight of repetition, like someone rehearsing until they could no longer fail. He refused to lose control again.
For months, that was all you had.
But every so often, something else slipped through.
A fleeting warmth when he thought of animals. A rare pang of guilt that bled raw before he shoved it back under lock. The faintest hum—soft, almost human—when exhaustion finally dragged him still.
It was not much. But it was enough to keep you there.
Through the seasons, you pressed against him without meaning to. Steady. Unguarded. Softer than he had expected.
When you spent afternoons sketching children in the street, trying to capture their laughter in crooked lines, he would go quiet. The bitterness at the edges of his thoughts would falter, thinned out by something he did not name.
When you lingered over the slope of an older woman’s shoulders or the delicate folds around her eyes, marveling at how wrinkles told their stories, you felt him hesitate. Not to sneer. Not to mock. Just pause, as though stillness was safer than scorn.
Your presence never demanded. It never accused. It simply was. And over the months, he grew slower to snap when you spoke across the bond.
“It’s all right to rest.”
“I like the way people’s faces change when they laugh.”
“You sound tired.”
Little things. Like pencil notes in the margins.
Nearly a year passed before anything changed out loud.
One evening, as you shaded in the curve of a ribcage on your paper, the thought slipped free of you without meaning to.
“I think you’re hurting.”
The silence stretched on so long you were sure he had shut you out completely.
Then, so faint you almost missed it, came his answer.
“So what if I am? No one really cares.”
It was not kindness. It was not cruelty either.
It was, for the first time, honesty.
“I hope you feel better soon.”
-X- A Sample of Your Teenage Psychic Transcript – Medical Cut -X-
Age 14:
By the following year, you’d stopped expecting him to soften. Whoever he was, he didn’t know you, didn’t want to, and made sure you were aware of it.
He was always moving. You could tell by the way his thoughts carried fragments of places you’d never been. Creaking docks. Rain on corrugated tin. The heavy thud of boots on ship planks.
And always that undercurrent of contempt. For strangers. For the world. For himself.
The only time you caught a break from the steady stream of sharp-edged thoughts was when you buried yourself in study. As the only child of a well-off merchant, you were busy stocking the front rooms, and all your free time was lost in art.
Sometimes, without meaning to, you’d answer him in your head when he muttered about the stupidity of someone’s choices.
“Not everyone knows what you know. Or, maybe they were scared.”
“You should eat more. You deserve to feel full.”
“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
He never acknowledged it. But sometimes his thoughts paused, like he’d heard you, and was deciding not to respond. The days were too full for waiting in curiosity.
You worked.
You rose before the sun to restock shelves and check deliveries. You ran accounts for the shop in neat columns. You weighed powders until your arms ached. You smiled at customers you didn’t like because a coin was a coin.
Sometimes, when you were too tired to keep your guard up, he’d flicker at the edges of your thoughts. The steady scrape of a chair on a deck. The clean, precise snip of scissors through bandages. The sound of him setting down a scalpel with deliberate care.
It was a rainy afternoon in the shop. The air was thick with the scent of wet wool from customers’ coats and the sharper bite of eucalyptus from the back room, where you were mixing a chest salve for an elderly regular.
The kid had been grumbling in the bond for the past half hour about someone named Bepo ignoring his medical instructions. You’d been letting him rant while you worked, humming under your breath.
Then the bell over the shop door rang, and a young mother stepped in carrying a wailing toddler. You could see right away that the boy’s arm was scraped raw from elbow to wrist.
“Come in,” you said gently, guiding her toward the counter. “Let’s take a look.”
You crouched to the child’s level, smiling like you had all the time in the world. You let him hold your measuring spoon while you cleaned the scrape, explaining each step in a calm, even voice. He sniffled but didn’t pull away.
Through the bond, your soulmate went quiet.
“…You’re…not the worst,” he said abruptly.
You paused.
This was the first time your morose soulmate had ever chosen to speak to you first.
“At treating scrapes? It’s not exactly advanced medical work,” you thought softly, trying not to scare him with how excited it made you.
“No. The… other thing.”
“What other thing?”
A pause. You could feel him hunting for a word and hating that he couldn’t find the right one.
“Making people stop being scared.”
You laughed softly. “Thanks, little guy.”
“…Gross. My name is Law. Use it, asshole.”
God, he was mean.
But that was the moment he began talking.
And despite his piss poor attitude, you felt pity for him. You wanted to help this kid, if for no other reason than sparing your own mind from the sheer depression flooding it.
You knew he was smart as hell and knew medicine. You weren’t much yourself, but you could draw. So you started sketching anatomy.
Little doodles here and there, and then entire sketchbooks. You still enjoyed flowery subjects, but more often than not, your confused parents found you sketching less pretty subjects.
Anatomical plates, muscles, tendons, imperfect, but with intention.
You were mid-discovering the delicate architecture of your own hand when the kid cut in again.
“You forgot the extensor indicis.”
You blinked at your paper. “The what?”
“The small muscle here.” There was the faintest brush of his mental focus, tracing where it should go. “It extends the index finger. Yours is missing it entirely.”
“I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Clearly.” His tone was flat, cruel. “Don’t label it wrong or you’ll look incompetent.”
He was as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel and just as merciless, but never wrong. He spoke like someone twice his age, and though he wasn’t unkind exactly, he had no concept of softening criticism.
You could have responded angrily. Could have stopped entirely. But the boy… Law… he felt so wounded, and always sounded like he was expecting you to just slam the bond closed. To be left behind.
And you realized that he never did. He could have closed the bond or just tightened it.
But he didn’t.
So you didn’t. And no matter how smart Law was, you weren’t letting a hurt little kid discourage you from art.
“Thanks, Law. I appreciate the help.”
And this was the right choice.
Over time, the weight of his thoughts shifted. They lingered just a little longer when you spoke, held fast instead of sliding past. It wasn’t comfortable, not really, but it was something.
He wasn’t always pleasant, but he was always right. His grasp of anatomy was flawless, too clean and too clever for a boy his age.
And with his constant, almost nagging perfectionism running through the bond like a second heartbeat, your art began to change. Muscles fell in the right places. Bone structure matched the lines of movement. Your sketches became precise, sharper, and undeniably correct.
You became better. Fast.
If only to stop his relentless commentary.
Age 15:
By fifteen, you had gotten good enough to take commissions from local medical students. Anatomical sketches fetched coin, and your work was clean enough to be pinned up in the back rooms of small classrooms. You were halfway through a detailed spinal plate when his voice slid in, cutting as ever.
“Your vertebrae look like they belong to three different people.” Law hissed, critically.
You sighed, rubbing the charcoal smudge off your thumb. “Hello to you too.”
“And that disc spacing? Unstable.”
“They’re for student reference, not surgery,” you muttered, setting your pencil down before you snapped it in half.
“So why make them wrong?” A pause, dry as salt. “Don’t show that to anyone until you fix it.”
The sharpness was still there, but the venom had dulled. He no longer sounded like he was trying to wound you with every word. More like he had decided you could take the critique, and that counted for something.
What drove him mad, however, were your thoughts when you weren’t working.
One afternoon, while you sat on the steps outside your guardian’s home, sketching children chasing a ball, your mind drifted to the smell of warm bread from the market stall nearby.
The bond prickled immediately.
“Bread? Again? It’s useless. Heavy. Worthless nutrition. You’re going to get sick again.”
You laughed out loud, startling one of the children. “You’re awfully passionate about food you don’t have to eat.”
“Eat something else.”
“Like what?” you jabbed back. “Clamp sizes? Sutures?”
The silence that followed was icy, and you could feel his irritation simmering. It only made you grin harder.
Which made it a blow when you discovered, to his endless amusement, that you were gluten intolerant.
“I told you. I am always right.”
“I am not about to let a ten-year-old diagnose me.”
“I already told you, I’m twelve, and more than highly qualified to see an obvious case of cause and effect—”
“Show me the medical certificate, child.”
He fumed for days over that one.
His nitpicking over your sketches and diet intensified, out of sheer spite.
You had been daydreaming about sketching in the corner of a café when your thoughts wandered to the custard tarts cooling in the window.
He cut in before you could even finish the thought. “Don’t. You’ll just get sick again.”
You blinked. “Are you… scolding my daydream?”
“I’m reminding you that you are an idiot,” he replied flatly. “Gluten makes you miserable. Stop thinking about it. You’re like a glutton bent on your own misery.”
“You’re very judgmental for someone who was muttering about vintage coins in his free time,” you muttered, but you still closed your sketchbook and walked past the stall without stopping.
“Shut up, asshole.”
His comments remained exacting, sharp-edged, and impossible to ignore. But over time, the anger that had once bitten into every word began to dull into something else. A strange, biting sort of concern, hidden in critique, in scolding, in relentless correction.
And as much as you rolled your eyes at his nagging, you realized you had stopped resenting it.
Somehow, it felt like proof he wanted to be there.
Age 16:
Your reputation was growing, and one of the town’s physicians had just asked you to illustrate a complete atlas.
It was late in the day, the kind of heavy summer heat that made the whole shop feel like it was holding its breath. You had the shutters open, but the air was still thick, curling in warm waves over the counters.
You were leaning over the workbench in the back room, measuring out a bone. Your sleeves had slipped down to your elbows, and there was a streak of green from the mortar across your cheek.
Through the bond, he was there, steady, present, not saying much. Just that quiet hum he got when he was working on something.
You were inking the serratus anterior when he dropped in.
“You’re getting better.”
You stilled, pestle hovering above the mortar.
It was quite literally the nicest thing Law had ever said to you.
“…Really?”
There was a pause. You could almost feel him realize what he’d said.
“I meant—your lines look less tired. Not that they’re perfect.”
You frowned, suspicious. “Less tired? Is that a compliment?”
“It’s not a compliment.” His tone had sharpened again, sliding back into familiar territory.”It’s an observation. Your artwork usually looks like you’re having a stroke.”
You rolled your eyes, relaxing again. “Thanks, little brother. Always so uplifting.”
“Don’t call me that, bread demon. I told you, my name is Law.”
“Okay, baby surgeon. I’ll just take your compliment."
“Asshole.”
You smirked.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” A pause. “Your scapula’s still ugly.”
“Ugly?” you laughed. “It’s bone.”
“And still somehow ugly. But… accurate.”
You grinned down at your work. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like being able to judge me.”
He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was lower. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”
But the edge in his voice was thinner than usual, almost see-through. And before you could press him on it, he filled the bond with the sound of turning pages, as if he’d gone back to work and the moment had never happened.
You still caught glimpses of his days. A faint reek of antiseptic. The wet slide of blood against gloves. The soft thud of a book closing. He was always busy, his thoughts layered and hard to get a read on. Assessments, plans, strategies. Sometimes, irritation so thick you could almost taste it when someone ignored him. You’re pretty sure they’re names are Penguin and Shachi, but he was tight-lipped as hell.
You tried to imagine what his life was like. You tried not to picture the places behind his jagged thoughts, or the things he never let himself think too close to you.
But sometimes, late at night, when you sat at your desk sharpening pencils down to neat little points, the bond shifted. It went quiet in a way that wasn’t cold. Not empty, not shut. Just… hushed.
In those moments, you swore you felt something else in him. Not anger. Not cruelty. Not the sharp edge of his sarcasm.
Just a boy who missed someone so fiercely he had wrapped the grief in barbed wire, convinced it would cut anyone who touched it.
“Who’s Cora?” you asked once, the words slipping across the bond before you could stop them.
The stillness that followed was suffocating. A silence so heavy it pressed down on your chest.
For a moment, you thought he would snap at you, that he would lash out with the precision of his usual cruelty.
But instead, what came back was softer, frayed at the edges, barely more than a thought.
“Don’t.”
Just that. One word. Not sharp. Not biting. Just broken.
You never asked again.
Age 17:
You were inking a series of cross-sections of the heart for a physician’s manual, bent low over the desk under the glow of a single lamp, when his voice slid through.
“That’s a decent left atrium.”
Your pen hesitated mid-line. A faint smile tugged at your lips.
“Oh? That sounded almost kind.”
“Don’t push it. The pulmonary veins are too thin.”
“You couldn’t just let me have that one?”
“No.”
There was no sting to it anymore, not the way there had been in the beginning. If anything, you could believe he wanted you to be as precise as he would be, as if your drawings reflected him, too, somehow.
By seventeen, you had gotten used to the sound of him. His voice was woven into your days the way the scratch of a pencil was, sharp lines against softer shades.
That evening, you were alone in the back room, counting out coins from the day’s commissions. Your fingers smelled faintly of mint and valerian from the bundles you’d sketched earlier. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.
The bond stirred. Sharper than it had been in weeks.
“You’re not eating enough.”
You paused, surprised.
“…Excuse me?” The words slipped out before you could catch them.
“I can hear you counting coins. Not food. You’ve skipped too many meals.”
Your brows knit.
“You’ve been listening?”
“You’re loud,” he said flatly. “And you work too much.”
The old Law would have spat it like an accusation, jagged and cold. But this wasn’t that. His tone was flat, yes, but it carried something else beneath it. Not rage. Not sarcasm. Something closer to… concern.
You leaned back in your chair, staring at the rain. “You hate bread, and that’s all I want. What’s left? Air?”
The bond thrummed, a flicker of annoyance that felt oddly familiar by now
“Just eat. Not bread. Rice. My crew likes rice.”
It was rare for him to reference his work directly. You knew he did medical work and was probably good at it, from the way he critiqued your dosing methods and quizzed you on illustrations. You knew he sailed, because sometimes you caught the snap of salty wind behind his thoughts. You knew he had at least one tattoo, because he’d let slip once that they “took forever to heal at sea.” And you knew his crew was… strange.
Strange enough that whenever you’d asked, he’d just said, “You wouldn’t believe me.”
It gave you something to think about, though you weren’t mature enough to let it pass.
You almost laughed. “Says the one doing surgery in his head at all hours. You should practice what you preach.”
There was a pause. You could feel him weighing whether to answer.
“I don’t collapse while holding sharp objects,” he said finally. “You will.”
You leaned back in your chair, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “You’re too young to be lecturing me. You need a hobby. What about those Sora comics? Didn’t you think about those a few days ago?”
“...You’re lucky I said anything at all.” He said, followed by a sharp prick of irritation, quickly smoldered by cold distance. He hated losing. “And I’m not a kid.”
You smirked.
You learned to read between the lines and didn’t push on bad days, but you knew he was still a nerdy little kid under the attitude and occasionally needed a reminder.
You wished you knew more about Sora and the Sea or whatever made him feel happy on bad days. Wished you could send him a rare coin.
But you doubted he’d accept anything from a person who tempted fate to eat bread. He seemed more and more persnickety about your daily life.
The midsummer heat had settled in again, thick and unshakable. You were in front of the shop, sleeves rolled, hair pulled high to keep it off your neck as you rearranged the tincture display. The bell over the door rang for the third time that morning, and you glanced up to see two of the dockhands who came in every month for salves and liniment.
They were harmless enough, full of loud laughter and bad jokes, and you smiled as you handed one of them his usual bottle.
In your head, Law stirred. “He’s staring at your neck. Flip him off.”
You blinked at the sudden intrusion. “I’m working,” you murmured under your breath, hoping the dockhands didn’t notice.
“And he’s still staring.”
You handed the other man a packet of mint tea, smiling as they paid.
“That’s called eye contact, Law.”
“That’s called being distracted. Which, for the record, is a liability.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
They left with their purchases, still laughing, and you returned to the counter to tidy up. You could feel him still there in the bond, sharper than usual, almost… pacing.
“You’ve been like this for a while,” you said finally. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
You arched a brow, even though he couldn’t see it. “You get all fidgety every time I talk to anyone under forty. Are you annoyed that your older sister hasn’t been giving you attention?”
“That’s not—” He stopped, the words halting mid-thought. For a second, you caught something unguarded in the bond, that restless knot you sometimes felt from him when you mentioned someone else by name.
“You are not my sister.”
And then it was gone. Didn’t speak to you for a solid two weeks.
Not until a traveling merchant paused to flirt with you one afternoon as you unloaded your wares.
“You’re wearing that dress again,” Law said sharply. “It makes you look easy.”
You laughed. “That’s the insult you’re going with?”
“It’s not an insult. Just… you could do better.”
“Better how?”
“…Forget it.”
You shook your head, still smiling as you went back to work. “Whatever you say, kiddo.”
The bond went tight at that, just for a second, but you didn’t notice.
You were too busy straightening jars to catch the way he lingered after, silent but unwilling to let go of the image of you in that heat and sunlight, smiling at people who weren’t him.
Age 18:
By the time you were eighteen, you’d started to at least think about dating. Not seriously. You were too busy keeping the shop and your art afloat, but sometimes the idea crossed your mind.
The delivery boy with the easy smile. The apprentice carpenter who fixed the counter and lingered in conversation a little too long. Even the traveling herbalist who’d passed through with a bag of rare seeds and a knack for flattery.
You never said any of it out loud, but Law always knew.
The moment your thoughts drifted in that direction, the bond would sharpen.
“What are you doing?”
“Stocking the front shelves.”
“You’re thinking about someone.”
“Thinking about inventory.”
“No, you’re not.”
It wasn’t just words. He had a way of crowding your mind when you got close to anything romantic, suddenly filling the bond with his own running commentary until you couldn’t hold onto the thought. Sometimes it was sharp and clinical, other times just plain annoying.
Like the time you’d been idly wondering if the carpenter would ask you to a late-night coffee, and Law had cut in with, “You forgot to delineate the humerus bone in the last sketch properly. You’ll have to start over to get it done right.”
Or when you’d been replaying a conversation with the herbalist in your head and he’d muttered, “That man doesn’t wash his hands enough to be touching your medicine.”
The worst was when you’d actually been mid-chat with someone, considering an invitation, and the bond had flooded with him reading medical textbook passages at full speed, as if rattling off symptoms of rare parasitic infections was going to help your mood.
You’d eventually stopped bringing it up, assuming it was just Law being Law: territorial in a little-brother way, determined to protect you from ‘idiots’.
You didn’t notice that he never reacted that way when you talked to neighbors, customers, or children, only when someone looked at you too long, only when your thoughts warmed toward someone who wasn’t him.
It happened in the middle of a Thursday, when you were stocking jars of peppermint tea on the front shelves.
The bell over the door rang, and in walked Jorin, the carpenter’s apprentice who’d been fixing shutters around town. Nice enough, quick smile, hair still damp from the drizzle outside.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the counter. “So, there’s a midsummer dance this weekend. I was wondering if you—”
“Absolutely not.”
You froze, jar in hand. “I’m sorry?” you said aloud, blinking at Jorin.
He looked confused. “Uh… I was asking if you wanted to come—”
“Tell him you’re busy.”
“I—” You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the static of Law’s voice in your head.
“Busy with something important,” he added. “Like learning how to not trip over your own feet in public.”
You bit your tongue.
Jorin smiled patiently. “You don’t have to decide now. Just thought—”
“He’s wearing mismatched socks.” Law muttered.
You inhaled sharply. “Law—”
“And that shirt’s been mended badly. Probably with fishing line. Which means he can’t sew. Which means if he can’t handle a needle, he definitely can’t handle you.”
You tried not to laugh. “That’s… very specific.”
Jorin tilted his head. “Are you okay?”
“Say no before he starts reciting poetry or something equally stupid.”
“I—” You fumbled with the jar. “I’ll… think about it.”
Jorin nodded, a little unsure, and left.
The moment the door closed, you slammed the jar onto the shelf. “What is wrong with you?”
“You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“Saving you from a lifetime of badly sewn buttons and subpar woodworking.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet, here I am, saving you from mediocrity."
There would be far too many times he would do this.
It was late summer, and the shop was stifling. You had the windows propped open to catch what little breeze there was, your sleeves rolled to the elbows as you weighed dried lavender for an order.
The bond was quiet until the bell over the door rang and one of the local delivery boys leaned on the counter. He was a year or two older than you, all easy grins and sunshine hair.
“Brought you the package from Westport,” he said, sliding the box toward you. “And, uh… there’s a dance in the square this weekend. You should come.”
You laughed, warm and polite. “If I can get away from the shop, maybe.”
That was it. Just a passing, friendly exchange.
But in your head, the bond slammed into focus.
“Who’s that?”
You blinked. “Who’s who?”
“The idiot with the box.”
You glanced at the delivery boy, who was still chatting about the weather. “Just someone doing his job.”
“He was staring at you.”
“He was talking to me,” you corrected, moving to sign for the package.
“He was staring.”
You smiled to yourself. “Why? You jealous?”
Silence, but the kind of silence that thrummed, sharp and restless.
“You are, aren’t you? Adorable.”
“I’m not adorable, he snapped. And I’m not jealous. I just—he looked stupid. That’s all.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“You’re impossible.”
The bond had been simmering since then.
You could feel the edge in him, that tight, deliberate kind of focus he got before something dangerous. He was thinking through a dozen contingencies at once, all of them involving violence.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” you asked as you measured powdered feverfew.
“No.”
You sighed. “You’ve been tense for hours. At least tell me you’re not about to do something stupid.”
“I don’t do stupid things.”
“You’re fifteen. You absolutely do stupid things.”
The flash of irritation through the bond was sharp enough to make you pause mid-measure.
“I’m not a child,” he bit out.
“I didn’t say you were. I’m just—” You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “—looking out for you. You’re like a bro—”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not even verbal. Just this heavy, knotted wall slamming down between you, the kind he built when he didn’t want you anywhere near whatever he was feeling.
“Don’t call me that.”
You laughed, confused. “Why? You’ve hated it since the start. What’s different now?”
“It’s—”
He stopped himself, the words cutting off mid-thought. You caught the edge of something raw underneath, not anger, not exactly. Something warmer and far more fragile. For a second, there was nothing but static between you. Then, faintly, “It’s different because you’re… He cut himself off so fast you almost missed the start of the thought.”
“Because I’m what?” you pressed.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. You could feel the churn underneath: frustration, pride, something sharper you couldn’t quite place.
“You don’t get it,” he said finally. “You talk to everyone like that. You smile at them. You laugh. They all want your attention. They follow you around.”
It was so unexpected that you stopped mid-wrap. “…Are you seriously mad because I’m… friendly?”
“You’re popular.” He said it like it was a flaw. “People like you. They look at you like—” He broke off again, the thought snapping closed.
You tried to keep your tone light. “And you don’t like that I call you ‘kiddo’ while I’m also nice to other people?”
“Forget it.”
“No, I think I’m onto something here. Classic sibling behavior. I’m eighteen, you’re fifteen, and mad I’m ahead.”
“Forget it,” he repeated, sharper this time, but not sharp enough to hide the truth bleeding through.
You let it go.
But later that night, as you swept the shop and locked the till, you thought about the way his voice had caught when he’d said, “They all want your attention.”
You thought about how different it felt from his usual sharp, distant tone.
You told yourself it was just pride, just teenage stubbornness. You didn’t see the way the word “kiddo” tangled with every quiet, dangerous feeling he’d been trying not to name for a while.
At the time, you didn’t realize that to him, you weren’t just the older soul in his head who patched him up with words. You were the one person who made him want to be seen, and the idea that you might always see him as your “kid brother” felt worse than any wound.
So you let it go.
He didn’t.
He seemed to be more insistent on mentally following your days. Once, you were sketching a dissection of the abdominal cavity for a coastal hospital when he cut in.
“That’s an awfully fancy liver for a man who drinks as much as your uncle does.”
You snorted.
“It’s from a cadaver, not my uncle.”
“Still too clean. Looks like it’s never had to work a day in its life.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Your menace. Don’t forget it.”
And so on.
The next day, you’d been working on a set of rare pathology illustrations for weeks, a commission from a doctor in a port city you’d never visited. Every few hours, Law’s voice would slip in, quieter than it used to be.
“That ulcer’s the wrong shape. Add more mottling to the kidney cortex. Those necrotic tissues? Needs more depth in the shading.”
One evening, as you brushed in the final strokes, he said, almost like it wasn’t for you to hear, “You’re good at this. Better than anyone I’ve seen.”
You blinked, looking down at the page. “Was that…?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he said quickly. “Just don’t mess it up.”
You laughed and went back to work, not noticing how long he lingered after you finished, or perhaps that he’d been picturing, with perfect clarity, what it would be like to watch you draw in person.
Maybe it was his words (or perhaps just chance), but the bond changed after that. It softened, deepened, and clarified.
You were kneeling on the store’s backroom floor, sorting through a crate of dried herbs that had just come in from a coastal trader. Your hair had slipped out of its knot in soft strands, the faint scent of sea lavender clinging to your clothes from the shipment. A fine dust of powdered chamomile covered your fingers.
The bond flickered, sharper than usual. Not a sound, not a word, just a sudden clarity, like a curtain being pulled aside.
On his end, Law had been somewhere quiet. You didn’t know that. All you felt was the strange sense of him suddenly being present, without speaking.
You looked up into a window and saw yourself.
Through that crack in the bond, he saw you. The slow, careful way you unwrapped each bundle of herbs. The crease in your brow when you checked for signs of mold. The soft tilt of your head when you hummed under your breath: tuneless, absent-minded, but steady.
It lasted only a handful of seconds, but he didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
“…You’ve got powder on your cheek.”
You huffed a laugh, still bent over the crate. “Oh? Comes with the job.”
He almost said more, but stopped. Instead, he let the connection dim, slipping back behind the familiar wall.
You went on with your work, brushing your cheek with the back of your wrist, not thinking twice about the moment. You didn’t notice how still he’d gone on the other end, or how carefully he’d kept the image of you from fading.
For you, it was just another day in the shop. For him, it was something else.
Age 19:
The evening was warm enough that the windows were open, letting in the scent of the herb garden with the slow creak of the shutters. The lamplight in the kitchen was warm, spilling across the table where you’d spread out a few sketches that needed drying. You’d been working late, the faint scent of ink and parchment still clinging to your hands, when your father cleared his throat.
“We had a letter from Westport today,” he said, like he was just mentioning the weather. “From the Edevane family.”
You looked up. “I don’t know them.”
“I bet they smell like mothballs and desperation,” Law murmured in the bond. “Never seen a human liver in their life.”
You pressed your lips together to hide a smile.
Your aunt poured tea into your cup. “They have a son about your age. Works with his father in shipping.”
“They’d want you to stop drawing,” Law said, quieter now. “Or worse, they’d keep you at it but never understand what you’re doing.”
You glanced at your sketches. The delicate cross-section of a kidney, the careful shading on the inner ear. “Alright…?”
Your father shifted in his seat. “They’re interested in forming a partnership with the shop. And… perhaps, in time, with the family.”
“There it is,” Law said, his tone as dry as paper. “And by ‘partnership’ they mean ‘you sign over everything while he names the jars wrong.’”
You fought the twitch at the corner of your mouth. “You think this would help the business?”
“It could be good for stability,” your aunt said. “The boy is polite. Well-spoken.”
“Polite means boring. Well-spoken means talks too much,” Law murmured. “Do they know you have an existing arrangement with a ship’s doctor who’s better looking, better traveled, and has all his own teeth?”
You blinked hard to keep your expression neutral. “You think this would help the shop?”
“It could mean stability,” your aunt said.
“Stuck,” Law said. Then, warmer, “Do you want to be saddled forever?”
That caught you.
You took a slow sip of tea. “And if I’m not interested?”
Your father glanced at the ledger. “It would still be wise to meet him. No promises. Just… keep an open mind.”
“Tell them you’re too busy. Tell them you’ve got commissions. Tell them you can’t leave mid-series because anatomy doesn’t wait for courtship,” Law pressed.
You set your cup down, schooling your voice to calm. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t”, Law said, but there was something softer under it, not triumph, exactly. More like anxiety. “It’d be a waste. Your work’s too precise to get shoved in a drawer because someone doesn’t get it.”
Your aunt smiled faintly. “That’s all we ask.”
“And by ‘think about it,’ you mean ‘no,’” Law prompted.
“I mean… I’ll consider all the factors,” you said aloud, meeting your father’s gaze.
“Arranged marriage. You’re not doing it.”
You stared at the kitchen wall. “You can’t just decide that for me.”
“I can if the alternative is you marrying some idiot who thinks the word supercilium is a condiment.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “That is… wildly specific.”
“Because I know the type,” he said, his voice edged like glass. “They’ll come in here with their merchant smile, pretend they care about your work, and then the minute they’ve got the papers signed, you’ll be stuck with someone who calls every illustration in your portfolio ‘bones’ like it’s all the same thing.”
You let out a slow breath. “You are being extremely dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic,” he corrected. “If you go through with it, I will personally—” He stopped, then came back in colder. “You'll be bored and annoyed.”
You sat back, staring into your tea. “You know, normal people wish their soulmates happiness.”
“Normal people don’t have soulmates who make terrible life choices.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome.”
Law’s satisfaction was a quiet hum at the back of your mind, smug and warm, like a secret tucked into the folds of your consciousness. It lingered there, a gentle, insistent presence that made your chest feel lighter, even as the world outside remained predictably tense.
You retired to your room, closing the door softly behind you.
Soon enough, a soft knock drew your attention, followed by the faint click of the handle. Your mother stepped inside, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as if she were holding back a lecture—or a worry—she didn’t know how to voice. She closed the door with careful deliberation, the soft thud punctuating the quiet hum of your room.
Her eyes swept over you, taking in the sketches on your desk, the scattered pencils, and the haphazard comfort of your little sanctuary. For a moment, she said nothing, simply standing there as if weighing whether to step further into your life or step back. Her fingers tightened briefly at her sides, betraying the concern she tried to mask behind measured composure.
“You’re… doing that artwork again,” she said finally, voice low, almost hesitant. It wasn’t an accusation exactly—more a note of fear, of frustration barely contained.
Law’s presence at the edge of your thoughts coiled in response, smug warmth fading into a quiet edge of discomfort. He was listening from a distance, tucked just out of sight, and the tension in your mother’s voice made him stiffen slightly. He wasn’t used to family dynamics like this; he didn’t like the tightness in your chest that made him ache with unease.
With a mental shove, you gently pushed Law out of your head. This was not something he needed to hear.
You shifted on your bed, cross-legged, sketchbook open on your lap. “Still not seeing anyone?” she asked, stepping further in, hands clasped behind her back, voice a careful mix of curiosity and reproach. Her gaze flicked over the scattered pencils and ink bottles as if the disorder reflected your life itself.
“I’m busy with the medical illustration,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone neutral. “The commissions help the store make ends meet when the merchants don’t come on time.”
Her brows knitted. “Yes, yes, I know you’re dedicated—but you’re getting older, my darling. That’s no excuse not to think about your future. Marriage… securing your place… You know how our family is.” She let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations.
“Yes… But my art is doing well. We’ve been more comfortable—”
“Comfortable?” she scoffed. “Comfortable won’t pay the bills when your medical art is no longer needed. You need security, someone to support you if…” Her eyes softened for a moment. “…if you can’t rely on yourself alone.”
You lowered your sketchbook and met her gaze, feeling the warm pull of Law’s quiet hum in your mind. It steadied you, gave you courage you didn’t know you had. “I have a soulmate,” you said, the words escaping before you could reconsider.
The air in the room thickened. Your mother’s face tightened, and she leaned against the dresser, arms folded. “A soulmate?” she repeated slowly, each syllable dripping with distaste. “Is it… romantic?”
You shook your head. “No, he’s younger—a kid. Just needs attention and a friend. I’ve just been—”
She cut you off sharply. “You know how dangerous soulmates are. Contracts broken, hearts shattered… lives ruined. Your great-aunt almost ruined the family when she abandoned her husband for hers. And for what? She disappeared on the Grand Line and probably died. Soulmates are not guarantees—they are… liabilities.”
Law’s attention was immediate, subtle, like a tight coil in the back of your mind. He didn’t like the quiet throbs of discomfort, and you could feel him trying to weedle in, to understand. You almost unconsciously pushed him out, and he stayed on the fringes, tension wrapped around him, his presence invisible but insistent.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But it’s not about a contract or a guarantee. It’s… almost impossible to think of dating right now.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, frustration flickering. “You have to understand the patterns here, even if it’s not romantic. Every time someone dares to follow a ‘heart’ instead of reason, it ends in scandal—or worse. And you know your father doesn’t care much for meddling, but…” Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, where he wasn’t standing yet, giving a faint, impatient shrug. “…You need to figure out a way to move past this.”
“I am figuring it out,” you said, firm now.
Your mother let out a long, weary sigh, pacing a slow circle around your desk. “This family… we are cursed by heart and duty both. Soulmates have brought more misery than joy. I only want you to be secure. Happy is secondary to survival sometimes.”
Like hands pressed against the glass, Law’s presence in your mind shifted again, uneasy now. The warmth that had been smug and indulgent felt strained, tighter, anxious. He wished he could speak, could argue, could defend, but all he could do was stay close, listening, feeling the weight of your mother’s words, and silently promising himself he’d protect you when the storm passed.
When the soft click of the door signaled her departure, the room seemed impossibly quiet. You lay back on the bed, art pushed to the side, arms crossed over your knees, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer answers. The pencil on the floor beside you felt like a small, abandoned lifeline.
Law’s hum had faded to a low, restless thrum, as if he were pacing beside you, waiting for you to rise and reassure yourself. You felt him there, taut and anxious, a shadow pressed up against the edges of your mind, but you weren’t ready to move, to acknowledge him fully. Not yet.
The tension from your mother’s words clung to your skin, prickling at the back of your neck and settling in your chest. Marriage. Security. Contracts. The echoes of family mistakes and heartbreak. And still… the thought of your soulmate refused to feel wrong, refused to be tamed by fear or tradition.
Your fingers twitched against the blankets, restless, seeking. You could feel Law there, too, sensing the unease, the quiet battle between obligation and desire. His presence was a tether, a reminder that even if the world pressed in, even if your family’s expectations weighed heavily, you weren’t alone.
“Bread girl. Talk to me.”
Law’s voice was quiet, distant. You didn’t answer.
Age 20:
It started as a thought you barely allowed yourself to entertain.
Jorin had asked you out again. Polite, nervous, almost fumbling in a way that made your chest tighten. You could see the effort he put into appearing composed, the careful tilt of his head, the slight hesitation before he spoke. Part of you admired it.
You told yourself it was harmless. A simple dinner, nothing more, nothing less. No promises. No expectations. Just a few hours of polite conversation. You could manage that much.
Yet a tiny knot of doubt twisted in your stomach. What harm could it do? Just a meal, you told yourself, smoothing your hands over your skirts, adjusting the pencil tucked behind your ear.
At the back of your mind, you felt the faint, steady pressure of Law’s presence. His hum, usually smug and indulgent, had shifted. Taut, watchful, like he could sense the thought before it fully formed. It seemed like he already knew something you were pretending not to know.
The thought made your stomach twist in a way that was both familiar and unsettling. You tried to push it aside, telling yourself it was only dinner, a simple evening with no strings attached. Still, the knowledge of what could go wrong pressed at the edges of your mind. You had been cautious for so long, and yet this one small decision felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Law noticed immediately. At first, it was subtle, a quiet tightening in the back of your mind, like a hand pressing against glass from the other side. You felt the pressure and almost ignored it, telling yourself he was only reacting out of habit. Then it grew heavier, insistent, a coil of tension that wound around your chest.
“You are really doing this,” he said, cold and firm. The hum you had grown used to, warm and smug, was gone. In its place was something taut, restless, insistent. You could almost feel the rigid edge of his attention probing your thoughts, not judging, not angry, but evaluating every possibility and every risk.
“It's… important. To my parents.”
You tried to meet the sensation with reason, telling yourself that it was only a meal, that it would pass without incident. His presence did not relent. Instead, it pressed harder, a silent warning that refused to be ignored. Your chest tightened in response, a reflection of the tension threading through your mind.
“You do not understand,” he added, quieter now but still sharp. “You think it is harmless… You are placing yourself in unnecessary trouble. You don’t need to do this.”
You swallowed. His words were not a plea or a scolding. They were a statement of fact, precise and immovable. The room seemed smaller somehow, the air heavier. The simple thought of dinner had become a battleground of caution and defiance, and you felt the first pangs of worry that this was only the beginning.
“I want to,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself as much as him. “It a date. Nothing serious. I can manage it. It’s weird that I don’t—”
“Everyone else’s opinions don’t matter,” he said carefully. “Someone else, someone inexperienced, trying to insert themselves into your life while I am here keeping you safe.”
You froze. His presence, usually quiet comfort, felt oppressive now, like a weight pressing down on your thoughts. “Law, it is not like that. I have to live my life.”
“Live your life,” he said sharply, “but not at your own expense. You don’t like this guy. Playing with feelings is ruthless.”
“Dating is not ruthless,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “It is just dinner. It is just a normal interaction. You do not get to dictate who I spend time with.”
“I am not dictating,” he said, low and steady. “I am warning. Protecting. It’s my job as a soulmate.”
The tension in your mind snapped. “Stop treating me like I am some fragile object you need to guard.”
There was a pause. You could feel him pull back, his warmth collapsing and leaving an empty, sharp hollow.
“I cannot do this anymore,” he said finally. His tone was flat, almost mechanical, but it carried the sting of disappointment. Then he blocked the connection.
The hum, the pull, the constant tether you had leaned on, gone.
You flinched against the sudden absence. “Law?” you whispered. Silence. Not even a trace of the protective weight that had always lingered beside you.
You sank onto your bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The pencils on the floor seemed sharper. The room felt smaller, heavier. The fight had left a hollow ache in your chest. It was not heartbreak or love, but the loss of a safeguard you had taken for granted. Someone who had always had your back was suddenly gone.
Hours passed. Shadows moved across the room, painting the walls in stripes of gold and gray. Your sketchbook lay forgotten. You could feel his absence like a draft under the door, a void that no one else could fill.
So you went, almost only to spite Law at this point.
You had told yourself it would be simple. A dinner, polite conversation, a brief step into normalcy. Jorin had been nervous but courteous, holding the door for you, asking questions with a genuine interest that felt almost foreign after so many days wrapped up in work and art.
The restaurant was quiet, a soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware surrounding you. Candles flickered on the table, casting warm light across his anxious features. He smiled too much, laughed at your polite jokes a little too readily. You told yourself it was fine, that nothing about this evening had to matter beyond being civil.
He was considerate. Thoughtful. Charming, in the careful, rehearsed way of someone who wanted to make a good impression. He listened when you spoke and commented without dominating the conversation. There was nothing wrong with him, and that was part of what made it so difficult. You felt nothing beyond neutral politeness, a polite affection that barely skimmed the surface of your heart.
After the main course, he leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing against yours. “I… I had a really nice time,” he said softly. His eyes searched yours for something, some sign of reciprocity. You forced a small smile, nodding.
“I had a nice time too,” you said, careful not to overstate anything.
Encouraged, he leaned in, closer than you expected, and brushed his lips to yours. You froze. The movement was gentle, tentative, but your stomach recoiled. You didn’t lean in, didn’t reciprocate. You pressed your lips into a polite line and subtly leaned back.
His eyes widened, hurt flashing across his features. “Oh,” he murmured, pulling back slightly. His fingers lingered in yours, uncertain, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders.
“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I’m not… I’m not feeling this.”
A shadow crossed his face, the polite veneer cracking. “Not feeling this?” he repeated, disbelief and disappointment mingling. “We’ve been… I thought—” He trailed off, frustration bleeding into his tone.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “You’re… nice. Too nice, maybe. I just… I can’t.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet restaurant. “Too nice?” he echoed. “I’ve been trying, paying attention, caring, and that’s… too much?” His eyes glinted with frustration, a mix of hurt and anger.
You shook your head, looking down at the table, your fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s not personal. I just… I don’t feel it.”
The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and heavy. He finally stood, gathering his coat. “Well, I suppose this is the end of the date then,” he said, voice tight. “I should have known better.”
You nodded, heart sinking. “I’m sorry, Jorin.”
He didn’t respond further. He walked away, leaving you staring at the table, your unease lingering long after the door clicked shut behind him.
At home, the quiet hum in your mind flared again, not smug this time but sharp, taut, and irritable. Law was there, restless, uncomfortable. You felt his presence coil around you, not speaking, only tense with disapproval. He didn’t need words to convey it. He was there, observing, waiting, silently asserting that he had warned you.
You curled into bed, cheeks warm and stomach knotted, wondering if polite neutrality had just become its own kind of war.
After a long moment, the tension in your mind shifted again. Law slid in quietly, a little lighter than before, though not entirely. He didn’t mock you, didn’t scold or criticize. There was just a faint edge of smugness lingering beneath something that almost felt like… repentance. Almost.
“I suppose that didn’t go exactly as you hoped,” he said, voice low in your thoughts, neutral but carrying the faintest trace of irony.
You huffed softly, leaning back against the pillows. “You could say that.”
He made no reply for a moment, letting the silence stretch, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was deliberate, the quiet weight of him settling in your mind. You felt him there, attentive and precise, watching you unravel the day in little mental threads.
Then, as if the world outside the memory of the failed dinner had shifted entirely, he added, “I want you to draw something for me.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “For you?”
“Yes,” he said, not impatient exactly, but firm. “Nothing elaborate. Just… a sketch. A quick one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know I’m exhausted after tonight.”
“Exhausted or embarrassed?” he countered smoothly, almost teasing, though there was a quiet restraint behind it. He wasn’t gloating, but you could feel the faint smug curl of satisfaction buried beneath his words.
You groaned inwardly. “Fine. What do you want me to draw?”
He paused, the faint curl of smug satisfaction threading through the edges of his calm. “A smiling face,” he said simply. “Make it precise. Symmetrical. Don’t overdo it.”
You blinked. “A… smiling face? Seriously? You want me to… draw a smiley face?”
“Yes,” he replied, utterly matter-of-fact. “Do it well. I expect the eyes to align. The curve of the mouth should be balanced. Add something to fancy it up.”
You frowned at the page, pencil hovering. “Because nothing says ‘important and serious’ like a smiley face on a page.”
He made no reply, only waited. You weren’t sure if he was serious or testing you. That quiet hum in your mind returned, smug and insistent, and it made your stomach tighten in frustration.
You exhaled and started sketching. The curve of the mouth, the roundness of the eyes, the symmetry of the whole thing, it had to be exact. The way his presence in your mind leaned into every line made it difficult to relax, impossible just to draw casually. After a moment, you added connected little dashes around the edge.
“Not bad,” he said after a few minutes, his tone low, distant, precise. “The curve is slightly off, but acceptable. The eyes are symmetrical. That will do.”
You leaned back, pencil dropping to the desk with a soft tap. “A masterpiece of… whatever this is,” you muttered. “A smiley face for… reasons I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” he said, firm and straightforward. “Perfect.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned into the pillows, feeling your irritation and amusement mix. He lingered in your thoughts, patient and watchful, smug in the tiniest, most insufferable way. You didn’t know why he wanted a smiley face. You didn’t know what it meant.
But he was happy.
And that made you happy.
And somehow, that was the most infuriating part.
Age 21:
Your parents mean well. At least, that is what you keep telling yourself. They want security, reputation, and stability. They remind you, with gentle smiles and firm hands, that they only want the best for you. Yet their best feels like a cage.
At dinners, the subject arrives without fail.
“You are at a good age to settle,” your mother remarks while passing you bread.
Your father nods with authority, as though the matter has already been decided. “And you must not let that bond of yours distract you. Soulmates are unreliable. Fleeting. We have seen it before.”
Their distaste is obvious. To them, soulmates are storms: too wild and too uncontrollable, fate stealing their careful plans. Marriage, by contrast, is choice, alliance, and safety.
You lower your gaze, stabbing at your food, trying not to look like you are suffocating.
In the back of your mind, Law’s voice slides in. His tone is sharp and edged with disbelief.
“Unreliable, huh? Funny, considering I am the one keeping you from bolting out the door right now.”
Your lips twitch. You grip your fork harder to hide the smile.
The suitor parade begins next. A scholar from a wealthy family. A merchant’s son with perfect manners. A distant cousin from a noble line. Your parents beam as they describe each one, eager for you to show interest.
“Such promise,” your mother says with pride.
“Such potential,” your father adds.
Law sounds unimpressed.
“Potential? He cannot even tie his sash properly. Look at it. It is crooked.”
You choke on your wine and cover it with a cough.
Another suitor is praised for his smile.
“That is not a smile. That is constipation dressed up in velvet.”
You nearly laugh, and your mother mistakes the color in your cheeks for embarrassment.
The pressure mounts. Their words tighten around you until there is no room to breathe.
“Marriage is a future,” your father insists one evening, his voice firm yet still gentle. “A partner chosen wisely will last. That is what you must trust.”
Law’s presence surges. His voice is steady and insistent.
“They do not know you. Not like I do. You want to live. See the world.”
You sigh.
“If you say yes to any of them, I will never let you live it down. Do not think I won’t interrupt your vows with a running commentary.”
The last remark nearly breaks you. You bite your lip, staring down at your plate, while in your head you whisper: “Please stop.”
He won’t, because he knows that you don't actually want him to.
Over time, the pressure mounts.
The evening is like any other at first. The fire is warm, the table is laid with silver, and your parents’ voices are calm. Too calm.
“We have been speaking with the mayor,” your mother begins while buttering her bread. “His nephew has a fine education in law. He would provide a steady future.”
Your father leans back in his chair, nodding with satisfaction. “And he has no interest in idle romance. He understands what duty requires. A sensible match.”
You feel the weight settle in your chest. You want to argue, but the words cling like thorns in your throat.
In your mind, Law is already there. His voice is sharp.
“Law? Tell them you already have an education in Law.”
It was the final straw.
“Dad, mom…” You lower your fork. “Please, understand. I do not want this.”
Your parents exchange a look. The silence that follows is almost worse than their pressure.
“Do not be foolish,” your father says at last. “You have a gift for precision. You know anatomy better than most healers. You could use that skill to raise the family’s reputation with the right husband at your side.”
You blink, startled by the twist. “I want to use that gift,” you reply, your voice low but certain. “But not to marry. I want to study art. I want to draw seriously. I want to be more than an assistant with sketches in the margins of books. I want a degree.”
Law’s voice is immediate, warm, and firm.
“Good. Say it again. Louder.”
Your mother frowns, her hands tightening around her knife. “Art is not a career. It is a pastime. What you do now is enough.”
“It is not enough,” you whisper. Then you look up, and the whisper becomes steady. “It is not enough for me.”
The argument stretches for hours. Your parents are not cruel. They do not shout. They remind you of responsibilities, of appearances, of the danger of wasting years on frivolous dreams. Yet you do not bend.
In the end, your father exhales heavily, like a man conceding a battle he had not expected to lose. “I can see we’re not going to agree. I’ll think on the matter.”
When the door closes behind them, you sink into your chair and let the tension roll out of your shoulders. Law is quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks.
“You did it. About time.”
Their acceptance does not come all at once. At first, your parents simply grow quieter. The endless parade of suitors thins out until only polite names are mentioned in passing. The word “soulmate” is rarely spoken, and when it is, your mother glances away as if it tastes bitter.
It takes months of small battles: you reminding them you do not want marriage yet, they reminding you of your responsibilities, the house’s reputation, the family’s name. But your answers stay steady, and you keep working, filling pages with anatomical sketches, diagrams, and delicate renderings of bones and muscle. They notice.
One afternoon, your mother comes into your study while you are bent over your desk, carefully inking the inner structure of a shoulder joint. She lingers in the doorway for a long time before speaking.
“You are… very talented,” she says at last, and her voice is not dismissive. “Your hand is steady. That takes practice.”
It is the first time she has praised your work so plainly. You feel it like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Later, your father watches you present a portfolio of drawings to a visiting physician. He does not say much then, but when the physician leaves, he clears his throat.
“You have a skill that others respect,” he admits. “That is not something to dismiss.”
The final shift comes after dinner one evening, quiet and unexpected. Your father sets down his glass and studies you across the table.
“You have made yourself clear. We may disagree, but you have not wavered. That means something.”
Your mother adds gently, “If art is what you want, then you should not pursue it halfway. We will help you find a program worthy of you.”
“Very well. If this is what you truly want, you may pursue it.” Your father finally conceded. “But we will have a say in where you study. And with whom.”
It is a compromise, heavy with conditions, but you take it.
The words catch in your throat. You had prepared for another argument, another wall of reasons why you were wrong, selfish, impractical. Instead, you find yourself blinking back tears.
Law’s voice hums softly in your mind.
“They are finally listening. About time.”
Once the decision is made, your household shifts in subtle but undeniable ways. Where once conversations had been about matches and alliances, now they turn toward universities and programs, tutors and apprenticeships.
Your mother oversees the correspondence, dictating letters and sealing them with the family crest. She insists on fine parchment, clean ink, and elegant phrasing.
“Presentation matters,” she tells you, though her voice softens when she catches you rolling your eyes. “If this is your future, it deserves the very best.”
Your father combs through lists of institutions as though he is evaluating military allies. He speaks to family acquaintances, writes to scholars, and occasionally interrupts your studies to announce some new prospect. “This program in the West is respectable. Their graduates are employed in the finest hospitals.”
Sometimes you sit with both of them at the long dining table, spreading out papers and pamphlets like a map of possibilities. Their voices no longer clash with yours but join in, weaving questions about professors and facilities, location and reputation. For the first time, you feel like your parents are walking beside you rather than standing in your way.
The first acceptance letter arrives in the spring.
It’s a modest program, but one that praises your sketches with earnest warmth. Your mother reads the letter aloud, her eyebrows lifting, her lips curving. “They admire your anatomical studies. They say your eye for structure is rare.” She looks at you then, almost shy with her pride.
Another letter follows, then another. Soon, the stack grows thick. Each seal is broken with anticipation, each message carrying words like talent, potential, promising future.
Law hums in your head as the pile grows.
“I told you. You are good at this.”
The acceptance from Dressrosa comes last. Its paper is heavy, gilded at the edges, the seal pressed deep into crimson wax. Your father reads it aloud slowly, each word weighted.
“They are offering you a place in their advanced program,” he says. “It is… impressive.”
Your mother cannot hide her smile. “It is not only impressive. It is the finest in the world.” She smooths the parchment with reverent hands before sliding it across the table to you. “This could change everything.”
You lift the letter, feeling the weight of the words settle into your chest. Dressrosa. The best program. A dream finally within reach.
And somewhere deep in your mind, Law’s mood grows tense.
You hug the letter, your heart soars over and over. You spend hours pouring over the parchment, rereading the elegant words of praise, the promises of advanced study, the chance to learn from masters whose names are whispered with reverence across the seas.
That night, when the house was quiet and the bond hummed softly in your mind, you let the thought slip free, fragile and shining.
“I was accepted to the Dressrosa Institute of Art!”
The word hit you like a blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You hadn’t expected him to react this way. You hadn’t expected Law to care so much. You thought he’d be distant, detached, maybe amused. But this… this was grief, or rage, or something worse, and it made your chest ache.
“No.”
The word knocks the breath out of you. You hadn’t expected Law to be so unhappy. I mean, it was in the second half of the Grand Line, but your acceptance had come with a Marine Escort!
“What do you mean, no? It’s the best program in the Grand Line,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Everyone knows it.”
“I know what that kingdom is built on,” he said, his tone cutting, almost brittle. “It’s too dangerous. You will not be safe.”
The words made your pulse quicken.
“This is my future. Do you expect me to give it up because you’re… uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable?” His voice rose, taut and impossible to ignore.“Is the Grand Line a joke to you? They enslave people there, gamble with lives. That country is rotten at its core.”
“You’re trying to control me,” you spat, anger and fear colliding. “You sound exactly like my parents before they finally accepted my choices. I fought for this, and now you want to take it away?”
“I am not your parents,” he said, sharp and fast. “I am telling you the truth. If you go, you will regret it. You think you can just bury yourself in studies, but the filth of that kingdom will reach you.”
“What proof do you have?” You shook, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Do you have any real reason to worry? Or are you just upset that I’m moving on without you?”
He was quiet for a long moment, longer than you liked. The hum in your mind had shifted—tense, unsure, a tether fraying at the edges. He seemed to struggle with something deep and heavy, something he could not let himself say. When he spoke again, his tone was sharp with restraint.
“I just… I do, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you. You need to listen to me—”
“Honestly, Law,” you said, voice shaking with anger and hurt, “I don’t really know all that much about you besides the fact that you seem awfully comfortable telling me how to live.”
The words landed hard. You could feel him flinch in your mind, recoiling like a wound had been ripped open. And you felt your chest constrict, a mix of guilt and vindication twisting together.
“All this time,” you said, tears spilling down your cheeks, “I’ve tried and tried to reach out. To be a friend. To know you. But it’s clear… It’s clear my parents were right about something.” The words tumbled out, bitter and dark. “Clearly… soulmates don’t mean anything to you at all.”
You felt it immediately. His presence contracted, taut and silent. Hurt, sharp, and unspoken.
He took a long, measured pause before speaking, and when he did, his words were like steel slicing through your chest.
“Fine. Go. Be a fool and get hurt. Clearly, you are ready for it. I just thought you were smarter than this.”
The sting of it cut deep. He had never spoken to you this way. Never like you were nothing to him. For a moment, you faltered, the letter in your hands suddenly heavy with doubt. Almost… almost you believed him.
Then your gaze fell on it again—the gilded edges, the promise of something that had felt impossible just days ago. The walls inside your chest rose again, and you whispered, trembling,
“You do not get to decide,” you whisper. “Not this time.”
Silence stretched, and then his voice came again, lower, final, hard as stone.
“Then you are a fool.”
The bond shuddered and slammed shut.
You were left alone in your head. The room pressed in around you. Your chest ached, your hands shook. The joy of your acceptance, the small spark of hope, had collapsed into dust, suffocated by absence. The house was quiet, but inside your mind, a storm raged, leaving you utterly, achingly hollow.
Days passed in that gray fog. You moved through routines almost mechanically, your sketches untouched, your meals half-finished, the Dressrosa letter folded and held so carefully it never left your side. The spark in your eyes had dimmed, leaving only the hollow trace of a smile.
Your grandmother noticed long before anyone else. She always did. Perhaps it was the way you lingered at your desk without drawing, or the way you traced the edges of the letter with trembling fingers. She saw the quiet unraveling that no one else would, the fragile threads of your joy fraying in the shadows.
One afternoon, she sent for you. Her chambers smelled of old cedar and roses, the curtains drawn to keep the heat at bay. She sat at her vanity, silver hair pinned neatly, her posture proper and unwavering despite the years etched into her hands and face. The faint scent of lavender clung to her robes, a reminder that some things endured even when the heart faltered.
“You look pale,” she says without preamble. “Has something changed?”
You hesitate. She has always been sharper than your parents, kinder too, but no less relentless when she wishes to be. “I thought I would be happy,” you admit. “I should be. But…”
The words falter. How do you explain a silence that no one else can hear? How do you admit that the presence that once steadied you, teased you, and kept you company has vanished? The hum that had been warmth and quiet amusement now left only emptiness, and the hollow echo of it presses against your chest.
Your grandmother studies you for a long, careful moment. Her eyes, pale and exacting, trace the lines of your face, the slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers hover over your lap as if afraid to touch anything. Then she gestures for you to come closer. “You remind me of myself at your age. Always reaching for something more,” she murmurs, a trace of wistfulness threading her voice.
From a small carved box, she draws a ring. Formless and gray, unremarkable at first glance, it feels heavier in your hand than it looks. She places it there with deliberate care, her hands warm and steady against your own.
“This has been in our family for generations,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours. “I want you to have it.”
You blink down at it, startled. “Why?”
Her words hang in the air, bittersweet and unyielding. You stare at the ring again, suddenly aware of the lineage pressing against your palm, the history, the protection, and the unspoken expectation folded into the simple, gray band.
“Because you are strong, and you have fought for what you want,” she replies. Her voice is soft, almost proud, but it carries a weight that presses into your chest. “I want you to carry that with you. A reminder that you are not alone in your choices. That your family does not see you as a child anymore, but as someone worthy of our name.”
Your chest tightens. For so long, you have fought for recognition, clawed your way through doubt and expectation, and here it is, offered like a blessing. “Grandmother… thank you,” you murmur, voice trembling slightly despite yourself.
Her lips curve into a faint smile, but her eyes are unreadable, a steady, cool flame. “Wear it always, my dear. It will clear your thoughts. Think of me when you do.”
You slip it onto your finger. The weight is unfamiliar, cool against your skin, almost unnaturally cold. It anchors you, a tether to something steady in a life that has lately felt unstable. Almost immediately, the fog in your mind begins to lift. Walls and pain and anger that had seemed immovable begin to dissolve. You feel clearheaded, focused, a little lighter than before.
It takes a few days for the realization to hit you fully.
When you reach for the bond, there is nothing. No hum, no warmth, no smug insistence reminding you to pace yourself, to slow down, to notice your own worth. No sharp remark when you overwork your pen, no dry joke when your mother scolds you to sit straighter at dinner. No presence, no voice at all.
And the emptiness is louder than any argument, sharper than any fight. You had been carried through countless days by the quiet certainty of him being there, even when he annoyed you, even when he scolded or teased. And now, with nothing but silence, you feel the hollow ache of absence settle in your chest like a stone.
You trace the ring on your finger, its cool weight grounding you even as your mind recoils. It takes on a new significance. The history it carries, the lineage, the quiet strength of your family, all feel like a fragile shield against a world that suddenly seems louder, harsher, and emptier without him.
You call for Law once, your voice timid in the silence. You call again, sharper this time, the hope in your words cracking. And once more, your chest tightens with the effort of reaching for him. Nothing answers. The ring gleams softly on your hand, indifferent, as if it has always been there.
The conclusion arrives in a wave you cannot resist. Law no longer wishes to speak to you. He has blocked you for good.
The thought settles into your chest like a cold stone. You go about your work, continue your sketches, and read over the Dressrosa letter again and again. But every line you draw feels emptier without his sardonic commentary in your head. Every stroke, every careful rendering, echoes back only your own solitary thoughts.
For the first time since the bond awakened, you feel truly, utterly alone. The absence is not just his voice, not just the warmth that had tethered you—it is a presence that had carried part of your certainty, your courage, your grounding. Now, nothing remains but your own hesitant, fragile heartbeat.
The weeks that follow blur together, a quiet, muted existence. You move through your days with practiced calm, speaking politely, writing letters, and polishing your portfolio. Your parents notice how still you have become. They assume you are focused, maturing, taking your future seriously at last.
Your grandmother, ever watchful, praises you often. “You are steadier now,” she says, her fingers brushing the ring on your hand as if to remind you of her gift. “I knew you could grow into yourself. Sometimes we need a little peace to make a good decision.”
And yet, the peace feels hollow, incomplete. The world continues around you, but the part of it that had been his, the quiet commentary, the sharp humor, the subtle insistence on your worth, is gone. You cannot shake the memory of it, nor the echo of the bond that once hummed warmly in your mind. It lingers like smoke, faint, untouchable, a reminder of what you have lost.
Elsewhere:
On the other end of the bond, Law is anything but calm.
The silence is unnatural. Too complete. Not the ebb and flow of someone retreating in anger, but a deadness that gnaws at him from the inside. He presses harder against the bond, reaches with thought and will, but it is like trying to touch smoke.
“Answer me.”
Nothing.
He tries again, sharper this time. “Say something. Even if it is to tell me I was wrong.”
Still nothing.
It is as if the thread between you has been wrapped in ice. He can feel its shape, the familiar pull, the contours of your presence, yet not your voice. Not your warmth. Only echoes, faint and hollow, mocking the certainty he has always relied on.
Law knows bonds do not vanish overnight. They do not fall silent without reason. You are not the type of person capable of freezing him out completely. Which means something is interfering—something beyond his reach.
He retraces the days leading up to the silence. The fight. The sharp words. The insults flung too quickly. The heavy weight of pride and anger. He curses himself for every sentence, every jab, every moment he lets frustration override care. But guilt does not explain the void. Nothing does.
In the long nights, he sifts through memory, searching for any detail he might have overlooked. Anything that could explain your absence.
He presses again, softer this time, tentative, desperate.
“I should not have called you a fool.”
“You are infuriating, but I am sorry—”
“If you can hear me, give me something. Anything.”
Still, nothing.
The bond offers no reply, no flicker, no pulse of recognition. The emptiness stretches on, pressing, clawing at the edges of his composure. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He tries again, but it is useless.
Finally, he leans back, running a hand over his face, jaw tight, chest hollow with frustration. He mutters to himself, low and sharp, words meant only for his own ears.
Bepo, who had been quietly observing, steps closer, concern etched into his furry face. “Captain… what’s wrong? You’ve been like this for days.”
Law does not answer immediately. His eyes are dark, restless, and haunted by a helplessness he does not often allow himself to feel. The bond, so often a lifeline, has failed him. And the truth settles cold and bitter in his chest: He cannot reach you. Not now, not like this.
He exhales slowly, a long, ragged sound, and forces himself to compose a calm mask, but Bepo can see through it.
“Nothing,” Law says finally, voice clipped, but it is a lie.
Inside, he is still shouting into the void, still straining against the silence, still aching for the impossible: your presence, your reply, anything to tell him that you are still there.
content ⸝⸝ (seperate) clingy ! zoro roronoa + monkey d. luffy + portgas d. ace x fem ! reader , fluff , ≈ 500 words per drabble
಄ zoro roronoa (takes place during egghead)
─── zoro can’t sleep without you.
as strange as it sounds, he can’t drift off until you’re in his arms, pressed against his chest. this even applies to his daily naps, no matter how short they might be. he yawned, stretching his arms behind his head before leaning back against the ship’s dock. the two of you were supposed to be guarding it—alongside brook—while the rest of the crew was with the vegapunks.
“[first name],” he called out just as brook had poured you a glass of tea.
you turned immediately at the sound of your name. “yes, zoro—?” you responded, already recognizing his usual sleeping posture. “i’ll be there in a second. just let me finish this tea… ooh! hot, hot.” you blew on the steam before taking another sip.
he grunted and sat up. “drink quickly, or i won’t be able to sleep.”
you rolled your eyes playfully. “yes, you will. you can’t sleep without me anyway.”
he frowned, knowing you were right. clicking his tongue, he walked over to where you were sitting at the table near the edge of the ship. he sat on the floor beside your chair and leaned against it—somehow managing not to tip it over.
“you’re going to fall asleep like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“you’re taking too long,” he explained, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes. “i had to improvise.”
you took another sip and started stroking his hair with your fingers. “alright then. when i finish this, i’ll come lay beside you.” you assumed zoro had drifted off shortly after, lulled by your gentle touch and soft movements. surely, with your fingers running through his hair, he should be asleep in no time.
well, you thought.
you finished the glass brook had poured for you and left it on the table for him or sanji to clean later. you settled beside zoro, making yourself comfortable, only to see his eye open. you flinched. “you’re still awake?!”
he uncrossed his arms and laid back on the deck. “i’ve been this whole time. my arms are empty.”
you sighed and scooted closer until you were lying on top of him, your head resting on his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist. “okay, okay,” you whispered. “go to sleep now.”
and just like that, roronoa zoro fell asleep without any trouble.
“yohohoho—oh.” brook paused mid-step, taking a few steps back as he realized what was happening. “what if i join in on the cuddling? wouldn’t that be a great surprise yohoho—!”
still asleep, zoro suddenly tossed a sword in brook’s direction. it landed with a thud, piercing straight through the ship’s wall.
“HOW DID HE DO THAT?!”
಄ monkey d. luffy
─── everyone but luffy can see the way he treats you differently from everyone else. no matter how many times his own crew called him out for his behavior toward you, he would brush it off and insist he did the same with everybody else—even though that wasn’t entirely true. wherever you went, luffy was always down to tag along, just to make sure you had a companion—even if it wasn’t strictly necessary.
he knew you were as strong as the rest of the straw hats. but for some reason, he never wanted to leave your side. during battles, he would suggest you—mostly just you—to come with him. and when you swallowed nervously, knowing you were about to face the toughest enemies on the seas, he would reassure you, promising he would keep you safe, no matter what.
and he was right. always.
when night fell, he had walk down the ship until he reached your room.
knock! knock!
by now, it was practically a daily routine. he would show up and ask if he could spend the night with you because he had had a ‘bad dream.’ (you still weren’t sure if that was true or not.) if you refused, he would latch onto you until you gave in. there was no point in rejecting your captain’s nightly request.
you opened the door, and he sprang forward, hugging you tightly. you stumbled backward. “what kind of nightmare did you have this time?” you asked, trying to peel him off, but it was useless.
he giggled, looking you in the eye. “none! i just want to be here.”
the door was still open—anyone could walk by and see what the captain and his crewmate were up to. but everyone knew luffy slept in your room by now. it wasn’t a secret.
“okay…?” you raised a brow. “go sleep on the couch—”
“can i sleep on your bed this time?”
“…you want me to take the couch instead?”
“we can both lay on the bed together!” his big grin was impossible to resist.
you didn’t enjoy seeing luffy frown, so you sighed and led him over to your bed. “...alright.”
you didn’t realize your bed wasn’t really big enough for two people. you had your back turned to luffy, facing the opposite direction. you exhaled, trying to sleep—until you felt a rubbery hand grab your shoulder. you shifted, turning to face your captain. his face appeared right in front of yours, your noses almost touching. you nearly fell off the bed, but his hand kept you from doing so.
“yes, luffy?” you swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck.
“i have a feeling you’re going to fall,” he said. “want me to hold you so you don’t?” he blinked innocently, silently hoping you would say yes.
you sweat-dropped at him. “i mean… sure.”
his arm wrapped around you in an instant. “good night, [first name]!”
“night.”
and with the door still open, sanji, chopper, and robin walked by, heading to grab a glass of water. when they passed your room, they paused.
sanji’s mouth dropped. “WHAT?!”
chopper loudly shushed him. “shhh! you’ll wake them up!”
robin smiled warmly. she didn’t say anything. but she did think one thing.
“so cute.”
಄ portgas d. ace
─── you never quite knew if portgas d. ace’s clinginess was something you adored or simply tolerated in your relationship. there was no denying you loved his affection—you craved it—but there were moments when it tipped into something harder to manage. the crew on whitebeard’s ship knew to disappear the second the two of you were in the same space, keen to avoid ‘interrupting something.’ however… whitebeard himself remained unaware of the unspoken rule.
“ace… would you let go? i’m trying to fix this tear in the top.” you said, prying at his arms wrapped around you. his bare chest pressed against your back, his chin nestled in the crook of your neck, and frustration flickered under your skin. “i can’t even move my arms..!” you huffed, finally voicing the issue.
only then did he loosen his hold, though his head stayed tucked close. “thank you.” you breathed out, picking up the sewing materials again to mend the large hole in the shirt you wore. but your relief lasted all of a minute before his arms were wrapped around you once more.
“ace—!”
“it’s not enough.” he murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder.
you turned your head to face him. “what’s not enough?”
“i need to be in your skin.” he admitted, pulling you even closer.
you sighed, no longer bothering to resist. “is this not close enough for you?”
“nope.” the word vibrated against your skin as he shook his head. dropping the sewing materials again, you surrendered to his hold—like you always did. it was just one of the many times ace had derailed your plans, prioritizing his need for your attention above everything else.
“did you already wash up?” he asked, inhaling deeply at your neck. “you always smell good.”
“no, i was going to take a bath after fixing this.” you said, gesturing to the shirt on the floor. he didn’t so much as glance at it—nor did he care that he was the reason for your delay.
“fix it later, or have pops do it himself.” he yawned. “why don’t we bathe together?”
“i don’t trust pop with my equipment—seriously?” you blinked, realizing what he had suggested. “i swear, you’re getting clingier every day.”
“how could i not?” he grinned, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. “everyone should know you’re mine.”
“i think they already do.” you muttered under your breath. with a reluctant sigh, you finally untangled yourself from his grip. “fine. get the bath ready.”
“i wanna get it ready with you—”
“you’re so needy!”
authors note. first post after 100 yearssss i hope you guys enjoyed :))) FIRST ACE WORK I'VE DONE LESSGOOOO pls request so my master-list isn't filled with old and poorly written pieces...😞
You were in bed as your husband sat near the headboard with you under the covers, focusing on marking a map, whilst he got rid of the dirt from his shoes. His goggles were off, his fur coat hung on the door, and the simplicity of it was much needed for your chaotic lives.
“Fucking finally,” He exasperated, getting up, and putting the shoes down.
He went into the bathroom to wash his hands and shower. When he came out of the shower, he was messing with the ends of his hair, only in his boxers.
“You’re still at it, doll?”
“Yeah.” You say, writing something down. “I’ll be done it a minute my love.”
Eustass hummed, left the room to wash his clothes, and had Killer hang them to dry. He re-entered the room.
You were still at it.
“Your minute’s up.”
“Give me another, I’ll be done for sure.”
You were lucky he had other things to do.
He finished up his tasks, checked on his crew, said goodnight to Killer, and re-entered your shared quarters. He shut the door with a click.
He stared at you as you worked.
Marrying you was the best decision he’s made and he’d never turn his back on his responsibilities as your husband. Seeing you now, concentrating on the map, he used that to his advantage. He picked up your fountain pen, the pot of ink, and put it to the side; when you reach for it, he made his move.
You burst into fits of laughter when his fingers relentlessly attack you and when your legs wrap around his waist, he pinned you to the bed with a grin, taking in the sight of you, under him and away from work.
“P—Please,” You gasp. “Stop, I—”
“Stop what huh?” He grins. “Say please again.”
You laugh in return. Say please. Still, he didn’t stop, but his attack was slow. You could finally look at him.
Seeing him smiling at you, mascara off, lipstick off, hair still damp from his shower, just his raw, handsome self, made your stomach flip. He was stunning, in your eyes, and was the only man you ever wanted.
Ever needed.
So, you kiss him, and of course Eustass kissed you back. His hands roam your body, and you were no longer tickled, but a familiar sensation took place.
“Just showered.” He says, rough against your mouth.
“So did I.” You say, the two of you falling onto your sides.
Nothing escalated, you both made out, and when you pull back first to catch your breath, he pulled you in for a few more kisses.
“Fucking missed ya.” Eustass says, kissing your jaw. “You gonna stop working and get some rest now?”
You put the maps to the side and when he leaned back, satisfied, did he lower his guard.
Rookie mistake.
When your fingers attack him, he hissed, and easily managed to tickle you back, the two of you bursting into fits of laughter.
When Killer banged on the door for you two to shut up, did you finally stop.
He wrapped his good arm around you after taking off his metal one and pressed kisses to the top of your head, then pressed his mouth to yours again.
“Fuck I love you. That was torture.” He barked out another laugh, and then silenced himself when Killer gave one last and final warning. “Shithead, can’t enjoy some time with my wife in peace.”
He brushed the hair from your face, and his thumb caressed your cheek.
“Should we just make out instead of tickling each other?”
You lean in. “I love that idea.”
“Attagirl,” Eustass kissed you, much gentler this time. “I’ll take care of you.”
summary: your captain has always been terrible at taking care of himself, and after days of forcing through exhaustion, he finally catches a fever. The doctor is sick, and you're left to take care of him and spend the night at his bedside. What you don't see coming is that the fever turns your very stubborn captain into a very... delirious and honest patient.
pairing: Law x gen!Reader
word count: 3.8 k
tags & cw: fluff, sick and silly Law, he's running a fever and also a crush, soft with a bit of yearning.
notes: this was originally a scene that I ended up deleting from my previous fic because I thought it deserved it's own story, and I was initially going to post it as a 900 word drabble. but then I blinked and it's suddenly over 3k lol. I'm happy I finally managed to make some time to finish writing this. hope you enjoy!
Masterlist ⊹ AO3
"How long have you been feeling like this?" you say as you place the back of your hand against Law's forehead, which feels almost as warm as one of the engine room pipes. His fever seemed ridiculously high.
"Uh… three days… Maybe?"
"Three days??" You turn your hand and press your palm against his forehead, just to make sure you aren't imagining it. Maybe your hands are the ones cold as ice— no, they're not. He still feels just as hot. You slide your hand to the side of his neck.
"Law, you need to take the day off. You're literally burning."
"Ghh—" he grunts, pressing a hand against his head, "No, I– I need to work."
"You need to rest."
Law squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, still holding his forehead. His breathing sounds heavier than before. This fool.
"Okay, how about this," you suggest. "You go rest and I'll do it. What is it that you need?"
"What? No, really– it's okay. This is probably just a stupid cold or sumthing—"
"Woah woah, careful!" he stumbles sideways and nearly falls after walking straight into one of the dining room chairs, you barely managing to catch his arm before he completely loses his balance. "Law, hey, don't do this to yourself. You can barely stand."
He sighs.
"Tell me what's so urgent that you need to be working on right now."
He squints against the light, the room probably being too bright for him, and seems to struggle to even come up with a simple answer.
"Law..? What is it that you need?"
"…I– I forgot."
Oh my God.
"Captain?" Penguin stops halfway through as he passes the kitchen and sees the two of you, with you practically holding Law upright. "Everything okay?"
"Yes–"
"No–" you both answer at the same time and turn to stare at each other. "No you're not! Penguin, great timing. Can you give me a hand?"
"Sure," he hurries over and slides one of Law's arms over his shoulder while you take the other side. "You got him?"
"Yeah– woah—!" Law's knees give out without warning, and suddenly all of his weight falls onto the two of you, forcing you to tighten your grip before he drags all three of you to the floor.
"What are we supposed to do with him?" Penguin asks.
"Take him to his room," you say, nearly loosing your hold on him as he slumps against you again. Law's head droops forward, offering no help as you start walking and practically dragging his feet along the way.
Penguin glances over at him with growing concern, but Law only manages to lift his head a little before offering him a tired, hazy smile,
"…Hi."
"Is– is he drunk?" Penguin asks in a lower voice.
"He has a fever."
"A fever?" Penguin frowns, trying to understand how a fever could leave the Captain this out of it. He shifts his grip to adjust himself, but grows confused when he suddenly notices his shoulder feels cold and damp, just where Law's body is resting on him. He looks down, and finds the collar of Law's shirt is dark with sweat.
"My God… He's sweating so much! Captain, Captain!" He raises a hand in front of Law's face, "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Law cracks one eye open just enough to glance at him. He looks deeply offended, "…You think I'm stupid? Six."
You stare at him, "…Penguin, just keep walking."
—
Once you reach his room, the two of you guide him into the bathroom so Penguin can help him clean up and change into something dry and more comfortable. Law is being surprisingly cooperative throughout the whole ordeal, though Penguin still has to repeat himself every now and then whenever Law drifts off halfway through whatever he's doing.
Eventually, Law is finally tucked beneath the blankets.
While Penguin makes sure he's comfortable, you sit at the desk and write down his symptoms, temperature, the time you took it, and the schedule for his medication. With how high his fever is, you want to make sure you have everything noted down. You don't trust yourself to remember it all later.
Penguin sets a glass of water on the bedside table before stepping back to the doorway. He rests one hand against the frame and turns to you, "You need anything?"
Your lips part to answer, but Law beats you to it, "...No." He doesn't even bother to open his eyes.
A smile tugs at Penguin's mouth, "Wasn't asking you, Captain." And Law answers with a groan that sounds vaguely annoyed. "Don't go dying on us, alright?"
"...Mhm."
That draws another amused smile from Penguin before turning back to you. He points towards the hallway with one thumb, silently mouthing, Yell if you need help.
You nod and mouth back, I will.
Satisfied, he quietly pulls the door shut behind him, and you go back to your notes.
—
An hour has passed.
You've been keeping yourself busy flipping through one of Law's medical books, comparing his symptoms to the different infections listed on it. You're certainly not a doctor, but you've seen him do this before whenever one of the crew members fell sick.
You read the symptoms. Fever, yes. Cold sweats, plenty. Excessive sweating where the body rests against a surface… yes. Sweaty hands, mhmm not really. Cold feet–
You glance up to find him sleeping soundly. Sigh, you forgot to check his lower body's temperature. He needs to get as much sleep as he can get, and checking now would probably wake him up.
Still, you should write down every symptom… what if it's something serious?
You quietly walk over to the bed and lift the blanket just enough to uncover his feet. Cold… surprisingly cold, compared the heat radiating from the rest of his body.
The blanket suddenly moves and Law turns with a groan.
"Shit, sorry. I was just checking on you."
"…oh," Law blinks slowly, "you're still here…"
You give him a faint smile, "Of course I am." You tuck the blanket back around his feet before returning to your notes and adding the new symptom, "Someone has to take care of my captain."
"Hmm…", his lips curve into a smile.
The room falls back to the silent turning of the pages. Every now and then, you glance up from the book expecting to find him asleep, but each time you look, he's still awake, staring absentmindedly in your direction.
You can't help smiling to yourself. Usually, catching him staring would've made Law look away the moment your eyes met. This time, he simply keeps watching you through his sleepy and tired eyes, smiling ever so tenderly. It's… strangely endearing.
Moments later, the mattress shifts as Law finally turns to one side, settling back to sleep. Or at least that's what you assume. He remains still for a few seconds before rolling to the other side. A few seconds pass, and he lets out a frustrated but quiet sigh, and turns once again.
"Law? What's wrong?"
Law suddenly sits upright in his bed, his gaze lost somewhere else.
"Law?"
"Hm?" his eyes slowly find yours.
"You need something?"
He gives you a long look through heavy eyelids, almost getting lost in yours. "…No."
"Then why are you sitting up..?"
"…"
You sigh, "Come on, lie back down."
Setting the book aside, you walk over to the bed to help him, and Law offers no resistance as you rest your hands on his shoulders and guide him back towards the mattress. Yet, the moment your hand touches the pillow, you stop. The fabric feels damp… no, it's soaked in sweat.
"Oh, damn…" So that's why. No wonder he'd been tossing and turning this whole time, he was probably very uncomfortable. You help him sit back up, "Law, do you have another pillow?"
"Not really."
Damn. You glance once more at the dark stain of sweat on the fabric. He can't keep sleeping like this, he'll only get worse.
"Alright… then you're borrowing mine." Sigh, "Wait for me, okay? I'll be right back."
"Mhmm."
You hurry towards the door, but Law's voice stops you the moment your hand reaches the doorknob, "Dun't forget the jellyfish."
…What?
You glance back, "Say that again?"
"The jellyfish…" he murmurs, "it's all spiky."
"Right… I– I'll keep that in mind."
You slip out of his room before he has the chance to say anything else and hurry to your cabin. Was that a tactile hallucination? He's definitely delirious. Better hurry back.
It only takes you a minute to grab your fluffiest pillow before heading back.
By the time you return, he's still sitting upright, with his head drooping forward and his eyes closed. You really hadn't been gone that long, and still he must have fallen asleep waiting for you. Poor thing, he really looks exhausted.
You quietly make your way over to the bed and set the pillow beside him. He startles awake, lifting his head and looking confused for a moment.
"Sorry," you murmur. "Let's change that pillow."
When he leans forward, you pull the damp pillow out from behind him and replace it with your own, giving it a couple of light pats to fluff it up.
"Mhm, you know what…" your eyes land on the stain of sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. "We're changing that too."
You walk over to his wardrobe and take a look, searching for something he'll find comfortable to sleep in. You pick one of his softer shirts, and leave it beside him. Then head to the bathroom to empty the water from the basin you'd been using to clean his sweat, and refill it with fresh warm water.
Carrying the basin back to the bedside, you set it down, soak one of the towels and wring it out.
"Come here, let's get you comfortable."
Law obediently leans forward as you help him out of the damp shirt. You place the warm towel across the back of his neck and begin to gently wipe away all the sweat from his shoulders and back.
"Is this temperature alright?"
He nods.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you murmur as you continue to run the warm towel across his back. "Were you really planning on sleeping like that?"
"Sorry... I– I didn't want to bother you anymore."
"You getting worse because you didn't want to bother me would definitely be more trouble." You rinse the towel, wring it once more and continue, taking your time until the clammy feeling on his skin is gone. "There."
The fact that he'd been lying there, wet and feverish because he didn't want to bother you makes your chest ache. If anything, it only makes you want to take even better care of him.
You help him into the clean shirt, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. You reach for the towel one last time, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from his forehead.
"You're gonna be alright," you murmur as you give him a reassuring smile.
Law looks at you through heavy eyelids. He doesn't know whether it's the fever or the exhaustion, but your voice makes everything feel quieter.
"Here," you reach for the glass Penguin left on the bedside table and slice one arm behind his shoulder to help him steady, "you should drink a little."
Law gives a faint nod and reaches for the glass with both hands. His fingers curl weakly around it and they don't seem steady enough to hold it properly.
"Don't worry," you ease him, "I've got it."
He reluctantly lets go and you guide it to his lips. He takes a few small sips, swallowing slowly between each one.
When you tilt the glass towards him again, he pulls back and grimaces, and you can almost read the word 'enough' that's written across his face. You set the glass back on the bedside table.
Cradling the back of his head, you gently ease him down onto the pillow, careful not to make him any dizzier than he already is. You lean over him to pull the blanket back into place, tucking it around his sides and making sure the dry towel you've placed beneath his back doesn't bunch up.
From Law's perspective, the pounding in his head is still there, but it doesn't seem quite as important anymore. He's not entirely sure what you are doing, all he can focus on is your hair falling forward as you lean over him… the careful way your hands move around him, making sure he's comfortable in every way.
Maybe… maybe he should get sick more often.
He continues to watch you quietly, trying to capture the moment like a photograph tucked away in the back of his mind. He's still warm from the fever, but somehow it isn't the only warmth he feels now.
"You're beautiful... You know that?"
Had he been thinking straight, those words would've never left his mouth. Embarrassment feels strangely distant, and it doesn't even occur to him to take them back. You'd only ever appeared this close in his dreams. Now, he's not even sure whether he's dreaming anymore, everything feels hazy around the edges.
When you hand finds his forehead again, it's tender enough to make him wonder if he's imagined the whole thing.
Hesitantly, your hand lingers against his forehead for a moment. You know the fever is clearly clouding his thoughts. Even so, that doesn't stop warmth from rushing into your face.
Yeah… still burning. A faint smile finds its way to your lips, "Just sleep."
Your hand trails from his forehead to his cheek, cupping it for a second too long before you shyly pull it away.
Law lets out a dissatisfied hum, "Mhhmnn dun wanna."
"You don't want to sleep?"
"I feel funny…"
"Funny how?"
"Like... like I can't think," his brow pinches. "Like– I don't know what I'm saying."
Right…
"I'll take your temperature again."
You reach for the mercury thermometer and give it a few flicks before slipping it beneath his arm. Once the five minutes passed, you hold it up against the light, squinting your eyes as you check how far the silver line stretches this time.
"It's coming down…" you murmur. "Still high enough to make your brain a little mushy though. How's your head?"
"Still hurts... A little."
"Where?"
Law lifts a sluggish hand towards the side of his head, not lasting long before falling back to the mattress.
You try to sit closer to him, resting your fingertips where he'd been trying to point, "Here?"
"No, more to the side… More. There."
"Here?"
"Mhm," a relieved sigh escapes him, "feels better when you touch it."
Feels better when touched…
Your fingertips slip into his hair, your nails barely grazing his scalp so lightly that Law's eyes drift shut almost at once. You trace one, two... three soft circles against his scalp, and Law feels his entire body relax with a warm tingle that spreads from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck.
For the first time since you brought him to bed, the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away, along with the tightness of his jaw that begins to ease, making his lips slightly part.
Law lets out another quiet breath and leans into your hand, instinctively tilting his head in search of the warmth of your touch that's making him forget the heavy pounding of his head.
You can't help but smile… This is probably one of those moments that will stay with you for a very long time.
Your eyes drift to your notes on the desk. Pain relieved by gentle pressure… You should write that down.
You let your fingers linger one last time before pulling your hand away, but as you stand, something catches your wrist.
"Noo… where're you going?"
You can't help but laugh. When you look back, you find his fever-swollen eyes fixed on yours, silently waiting for you to change your mind. How are you supposed to say no to that?
"Sorry, I just need to get your medicine ready. I'll be right back, okay?"
Law's clearly annoyed, but after frowning quietly his fingers slowly loosen from your wrist. You catch his hand before it falls back to the bed and give it a small, reassuring squeeze before you let go and head to the desk.
You compare your notes with the medical book one last time, adding the new symptoms and finally settling on the medication that best matches what you've observed.
With your decision made, you head to one of the cabinets to prepare the correct dose.
—
After measuring the ingredients as carefully as you could, you mix them into a single dose and hurry back to Law's bedside. You're surprised to find him curled up around the pillow, both arms wrapped around it while his cheek had practically disappeared into it. It almost looked as if he were trying to bury himself in it. Pfft.
"Comfortable?"
His arms tighten around the pillow at the sound of your voice, lifting his face just enough to look at you with sleepy eyes.
"…It's soft," his cheek sinks right back into it, fingers curling lazily around it "…Smells nice."
Oh, for God's sake.
"Alright." You let out an exasperated sigh, trying very hard to ignore the warmth creeping to your face once again. You take your seat beside him, set the freshly prepared medicine on the table and guide the spoon to his mouth.
"Open," you say firmly, "Ah."
Law obeys reluctantly and swallows it in one go, but his face immediately twists in disgust.
"What is it?"
"…Tastes awful."
Serves you right. But the miserable look on his face immediately wipes the thought away.
Setting the spoon aside, you reach for the glass of water and help him take another sip to wash away the bitter taste.
"Sorry… The ship's doctor called in sick. Feel free to file a complaint once he's recovered."
Law lets out a small huff, almost a laugh.
"Better?"
He takes one final sip, "Yeah."
You set the glass back on the table and help him lie back down.
As you brush a few loose strands of hair away from his forehead, your fingers linger for a moment before finding their way back into his hair, almost on their own. This time, you don't really think about it; your fingers simply comb through the dark strands before coming to rest against his scalp.
Law relaxes beneath your hand, his shoulders sinking into the mattress. You chuckle when he gently nudges your hand with his head, as if asking for more, which you happily oblige and continue your lazy movements through his hair.
A heavy sigh escapes him.
"You really like this, huh?"
"Mhm," the tension on his brow almost disappears. "I… I like everything you do."
You take a deep breath. Your idiot of a captain isn't making this any easier. You try to gather yourself, "That's not exactly what I asked."
"I know."
His answer is so simple that it catches you completely off guard. Your smile falters for a second, and your fingers come to a stop before you even realize it.
After a few quiet seconds of not feeling you move, Law slowly opens his eyes. When he sees you, his lips curve into a sweet, silly smile, and you forget how to breathe.
You feel as if time has stopped, completely trapped by his eyes that begin to wander over your face, your hair, your cheeks, your lips… then slowly, back to your eyes.
"…You're beautiful."
Heat rushes to your face so quickly that you have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling like an idiot. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, you slip your fingers into his hair again, forcing yourself to think of something else and hoping your movements would distract him from noticing just how flustered he was making you.
"You already told me that."
"I did?"
You nod. He seems to think about it for a moment before humming to himself, quietly pleased. His eyelids flutter shut again as your fingers resume their slow, gentle caress through his hair.
"Hey," Law lets a long sigh, "…tell me something."
"Hm?"
"What…" his brow pinches slightly as he searches through the haze clouding his thoughts. "What do I have to do… to make you mine?"
You freeze.
"…What?"
Law opens his eyes, blinking slowly. But once he sees your startled expression, his own immediately shifts. "…Did I say something weird?"
"Ah– no no, it's just—"
"Shit, sorry," he says as he covers his face with both hands. It's the first time all day that you can see a hint of genuine embarrassment slipping through the fever. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"No, it's okay, I just—"
"It's just–" his frustrated voice cuts you off again, "It's just…. Hahhh…, I've been trying to give you hints for a while, but you never get them."
You still, staring at him for a few seconds as you try to process everything.
"You… you have?"
"…Yeah."
"Am I really that oblivious..?"
"Yeah."
"Wait, so– what you're telling me is… you've been pursuing me this whole time?"
"Yeah?"
The sheer sincerity of his answer makes you laugh, "Are you serious? Is that what you call that?"
Law frowns, grabs your hand, and tugs it away from his head, giving you the most offended look.
"Are you making fun of my tactics?"
That only makes you laugh harder. You'd never seen him pout before, and you could already imagine the unbearable embarrassment he'd go through once the fever breaks and he comes back to his senses.
"You definitely need better tactics, Captain."
Law actually considers that.
"…Alright," he says after a thoughtful pause, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. "Then promise me something." You turn your attention back to him, "Promise you won't run away."
"And why's that?" you tilt your head, amused. "Are you planning to abduct me?"
A sleepy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Heh, do you want me to?" He lets out a quiet chuckle, his eyes drooping a little lower. "You're right. Maybe that's the only way you'll finally get it."
Smiling to yourself, you release your hand from his grip and return to his head.
"Alright," you say softly, "How about this. If you get some proper sleep, I'll let you steal me for one day."
His eyes beam and open wider, "One whole day?"
"From the moment the sun rises till it sets."
Law looks absurdly pleased with that answer, and you can't help but smile back at him.
