The mail seagull dropped its package with a wet thud on the deck. I picked it up, half-expecting another bounty update or a complaint from the Fish-Man Island tourism board. Instead, the headline screamed: "Straw Hat Luffy to Face Public Execution in Three Days – Marines Declare New Era of Order."
My coffee cup shattered on the deck. "Public execution? Since when did the World Government have the balls for that? You'd think they'd learn their lesson after Whitebeard." Perona floated nearby, her ghostly form flickering with worry. "Cassian, your skin is turning white."
Shyarly's tail slapped the railing. "This reeks of desperation. They lost their precious Celestial Dragons to you, Doomsday. Now they need a spectacle to scare the world back in line." She circled the newspaper like a shark. "Luffy's just convenient bait."
Perona's ghost drifted through the mast. "But why announce it? They know people will come. It's like they want another war." I cracked my knuckles, scales rippling under my skin. "Because they're morons with god complexes. They lost their precious puppets when I turned Mariejois into a hydra-themed demolition site. Now they're swinging their tiny authority around."
I was at my full height now, not in smaller Luffy appearance but regular. Twenty-five feet of black skin and muscle, the deck groaning under my weight. Shyarly tilted her head, her gothic makeup stark against her blue hair. "So? Does this change our course, Captain? Are we going to Marineford instead? Luffy's execution is in three days."
I snorted, steam puffing from my nostrils. "Change it? I don't know. Shanks will move heaven and earth for that kid, and Dragon? He won't let his son swing from a noose. And Blackbeard..." A grin split my face, sharp teeth gleaming. "That greedy bastard's probably salivating over Luffy's Gomu Gomu no Mi right now."
Perona materialized fully, hands on her hips. "So we just... sit here? Watch the fireworks?" Her pink eyes narrowed. "That doesn't sound like you, Cassian. Or 'Doomsday', for that matter. Plus didn't sell Luffy out to Lucci?"
Shyarly slithered closer, her tail coiling around my leg. "Perona's right. You still need to clear your conscience after handing Luffy to Lucci." She tapped the newspaper headline with a sharp nail. "So. Do we sail for Marineford or not?"
I leaned against the mast, the wood creaking ominously. "Alright, fine. We're going." Perona pumped her fist with a loud "Yosh!" before I held up a hand. "But we arrive late. Let the big names crash the party first – Shanks, Dragon, maybe even Teach. We swoop in after the chaos peaks."
**
The next three days crawled by like a snail dipped in existential dread. Perona perfected her ghostly sulking – truly Olympic-level moping – while Shyarly stared into her crystal ball predicting horrors like mismatched socks and lukewarm tea. Me? I napped. Twenty-five feet of glorious muscle doesn't maintain itself, darling. Marineford's impending doom felt less thrilling than watching a bureaucrat fill out forms. At least paperwork rarely ends with dismemberment. Mostly.
By day three, boredom had reached critical mass. Perona was explaining nihilism to a seagull (it seemed receptive). Shyarly, shimmering like a disco ball under the sun, was polishing scales with the intensity of a neurosurgeon. The light hit her indigo and violet coils just right, and suddenly my genius struck: Why sail toward certain death when distraction came with its own built-in lubrication? I stretched, my spine sounding like a popcorn machine. "Shyarly. My cabin. Five minutes ago."
She didn't look up. "The ball foresaw this. Spilled rum... ripped silk... and you trying to be smooth." Her smirk was drier than the Sahara. "It was hazy on the 'smooth' part." Perona, floating upside-down like a confused bat, gasped. "Now? Should I... evaporate? Or take notes? Asking for... academic purposes!"
I snorted, heading below deck. "Please. You'll be spectating through the bulkhead like a pervy poltergeist. Try not to climax before we do." Perona turned the color of cheap wine. "I have boundaries! Occasionally!" Shyarly's chuckle vibrated the deck planks as she slid after me, her tail whispering promises against the wood. Shush-shush. Like the world's sexiest metronome.
My quarters were ridiculously oversized, like a cathedral built by an egomaniac. Shelves sagged under unread books and well-used liquor bottles. With a sigh, I shrunk from towering height to merely alarming twelve feet. Practical? Sure. Still absurd. Shyarly shed her gothic clothes like someone defusing a bomb—a sexy, expensive one.
She slid closer, tail brushing my leg. "Cassian," she began hesitantly, "I've never done this before." Her flawless eyeliner contrasted with her panicked eyes. I grunted—my go-to for emotions—and pulled her against me. Cool skin met my palms. "Experience is overrated," I rumbled. "Follow my lead." Translation: Don't bite anything vital. Virgin or not, she was Shyarly: terrifyingly smart, lethally sarcastic, and my Fish-Man Island souvenir. Perona floated nearby, silently judging.
She knelt with eerie precision. Her surgeon-steady hands encircled me. The first touch felt clinical, like probing a cursed artifact. Then her tongue flicked experimentally. "Too much teeth?" she mumbled against my thigh. I hissed. "Less archaeology, more enthusiasm." She nodded sharply. The next attempt was wetter, smoother—suspiciously competent. Future sight: a cheat code for bedroom mechanics.
My hand gripped her blue hair—mostly gently—urging her faster. She choked but held firm. Her tail coiled around my leg like a python, pressure whispering I could break you. Her eyes locked on mine: dark, dilated, blazing challenge. Impress me. Scales rippled across my skin—my tell. "Fuck," I growled rawly. Her answering hum vibrated up my spine. Virgin? Questionable. Enthusiastic? Definitely upgraded.
Shyarly surprised me—or rather, orchestrated my downfall with grandmaster precision. Her cool breasts trapped me, creating sensory overload: wet mouth teasing, scales grinding against my hips, enveloping warmth. Like a coordinated octopus with a PhD in pleasure, she squeezed experimentally, locking eyes like a scientist observing her subject. "Predicting... you'll finish," she murmured, her tongue hitting its mark perfectly. Pressure built instantly—a white-hot coil in my gut. Damn her prophecy ball showing this in 4K.
I grunted, hips jerking forward. "Cheating... with foresight..." Her movements were unnervingly synced—breasts tightening, tongue relentless. Claws dug into a beam overhead, raining splinters. Pointless resistance.
Her hum vibrated through me, bypassing thought. Pupils wide with amusement, she dared me to last. I couldn't. Roaring like a startled walrus, I came down her throat. She swallowed instinctively, eyes widening at the volume. Her tail thumped free. "Prediction... accurate," she gasped, wiping lipstick away. Scales shimmered.
Slumping against the beam, I breathed heavily. "Damn efficient." She flushed but shifted back to sharp calculation. Time for reciprocation. I reached for her. Her hand snapped around my wrist like a vice. "Cassian," she said, steady and cold. "I can't. Not yet." Prophecy excluded Round Two. Typical.
I blinked slowly, the reptilian equivalent of rolling eyes so hard they threaten to detach. "Can't?" My scales did that embarrassing ripple thing they do whenever my dignity takes a nosedive. "Darling, you just used swallowed me whole. With enthusiasm.
Shyarly recoiled like I'd offered her tap water instead of champagne. "Different anatomy, Cassian," she hissed, tail wrapping defensively around herself like a scaly chastity belt. "Prophecy doesn't override biology." Her gaze darted away, blush bleeding through her goth makeup like cheap wine on a white carpet. "Fish-women? We shed these inconvenient tails permanently at thirty. Then we can properly... interface... with mammals. Or," she gestured vaguely downward, "overgrown reptiles with boundary issues. Until then? It's fused. No entry. Consider it nature's cockblock."
I stared at her tail, then back at her face. "Let me get this straight," I deadpanned. "I recruited Fish-Man Island's most terrifying oracle... and she's basically aquatic jailbait?"
Shyarly's tail slammed the deck hard enough to splinter wood. "I'm twenty-eight, you fossilized iguana! Two years isn't jailbait, it's patience!"
Perona phased through the wall like the world's most annoying specter, grinning like a shark spotting chum. "Ooooh, captain's getting rejected! Is it the scales? It's totally the scales."
I flicked a loose scale at her translucent forehead. "Ghost, vanish. The grown-ups are discussing biologically inconvenient celibacy." She disappeared with an audible, petulant raspberry.
Shyarly sighed, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. "It's... evolutionarily inconvenient. Not my fault your species matures faster than rotten fruit."
My massive hand—rough, calloused, and currently committing several HR violations—settled gently on her chest. "Relax, prophet. Didn't recruit you for your tail." My thumb brushed deliberately over a hardened nipple. "These, however? Excellent forecasting equipment."
Her breath hitched, a smirk curling her lips. "Predicting... imminent distraction?"
I leaned down, my twelve-foot frame dwarfing her. "Predicting pleasure," I announced, mouth closing over one breast through her damp shirt. Her gasp was sharp, ragged. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. "Cassian," she hissed, voice thick. Her tail cracked against the cabin wall. Expensive. Oh well.
Gentle? Her nails scraped my scalp like she sought secrets. Pinpricks of blood. Every suck earned a fierce jerk of her hips against my thigh, scales scraping my trousers. "Harder," she demanded, breathless. Claws dug into my shoulder. She arched, thrusting her chest forward with a groan that vibrated through me.
I obliged, sucking a dark bruise onto her skin. "Mark me, Doomsday," she breathed, nails scoring furrows down my back. Her tail coiled tighter. I moved to her other breast, leaving another bruise. She shuddered. "Predicting... you'll need release soon," she gasped.
Before I could retort, she slid down my body. Cool hands wrapped around me. Her head dipped, taking me deep. Tongue swirling with practiced ease. Eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide. Daring. My hand tangled in her blue hair, guiding her. Her tail thumped a demanding beat. "Faster," I growled. She obeyed—fierce suction, relentless tongue. Over embarrassingly fast. Another roar tore from me. She swallowed, eyes never leaving mine. Show-off.
She wiped her mouth, smearing dark lipstick. A satisfied smirk. "Prediction confirmed," she rasped. Scales shimmering faintly. She slithered back, coiling neatly. "Marineford," she stated flatly. Playfulness vanished. Sharp focus returned. "Chaos peaks soon. Your distraction window is closing." Right. Priorities.
**
The Marineford execution platform looked less like the world's most important stage for justice and more like a middle-school theater production with too much budget for chains. Luffy flailed center-stage, wrists shackled like a discount Houdini act. Around him, his crew put on their own tragic little circus: Zoro clanking in seastone cuffs, Nami gagged but still somehow managing to invent new curse words, and Sanji—what else—kicking anything that wasn't nailed down.
The Marines swarmed the plaza, packed tighter than sardines with a death wish. Kizaru yawned between polishing his nails, mumbling "Maa~ troublesome" like the world's laziest lightbulb. Green Bull was busy flexing his shoulders into a garden center. Fujitora leaned on his sword like it was the only thing keeping him awake. And then there was Akainu, smoldering—literally—while Sengoku absentmindedly stroked his goat like it had classified intel. Smoker glared at everything that moved, Hina made designer smoke-jail bars, and Kujaku? She was probably running an underground betting pool.
Then came Akainu's big moment. His voice thundered through the Den Den Mushi speakers with all the warmth of a tax audit.
"Monkey D. Luffy. Your brother Ace screamed like a coward before his heart stopped."
Luffy went still. Chains rattled. His whole body shook like someone had just unplugged him.
Akainu, never one to miss a chance at being the worst, clenched his magma fist. "Today, you'll choke on that same failure."
That's when Luffy snapped. Face red, veins bulging, eyes wild enough to scare off a rabid sea king. "ACE WASN'T A COWARD!" he roared, spraying enough spit to wash the Den Den Mushi lenses clean. "HE DIED PROTECTING ME!"
The cameras caught it all: the breakdown, the fury, the public meltdown broadcast live like the world's cruelest reality show. Akainu's reply? A smug little smirk. "Exactly. Weakness runs in your blood."
Meanwhile, Garp's hands strangled the railing hard enough to leave fingerprints in steel. Sengoku clamped down on his shoulder, goat nibbling his sleeve like this was just another Tuesday. "Don't," he growled. "One step and I'll have Kizaru turn you into confetti."
Garp didn't move. Didn't blink. His grandson was chained, screaming, unraveling in front of the world. His jaw clenched, eyes dark with something heavier than regret. When he finally spoke, the words came out like gravel in a blender. "Should've drowned him when I had the chance."
Sengoku's hand tightened. "Too late for regrets, Garp. Stand down."
And me? I had the best seat in the house. Perched on the edge of a sky island, bottle of rum in hand, I watched the whole thing unravel like a cheap puppet show. Akainu's magma pulsed, Sengoku's goat chewed obliviously, and Luffy's chains rattled like a drummer with bad rhythm.
"See?" I told Shyarly, waving my drink like a critic who hadn't paid for tickets. "Told you—front row to the apocalypse. And no blood splatter."
She didn't look up from her crystal ball, tail twitching. "Incoming catastrophic property damage. Also, you dropping that rum in three... two..."
The bottle slipped. Damn her.
Perona floated up through the deck like a pink-haired ghost who never got the memo about personal space. Hair whipping dramatically, she gasped, "Luffy's crying! And Zoro's trying to chew through seastone! Shouldn't we—"
I shut her down with one raised hand. "No. We watch. This is better than live theater. Sengoku's babysitting three Admirals who look like they're waiting for the DMV to call their number, Garp's one exhale away from snapping a continent in half, and Blackbeard's skulking around somewhere like a fart in a spacesuit."
Shyarly's tail thumped against the deck, her eyes glued to the crystal ball. "Chaos in five minutes. Straw Hat's emotional collapse incoming."
Perfect. Right on schedule.