Trigger Warning
What follows is a raw, explicit, and unscrupulous story:
,,,
The waves of the New World roared in the distance, but the sound that dominated the deck of the Moby Dick was that of extinguished screams and the creaking of the ship's wood being devoured by flames. The air was heavy with the sweet, nauseating smell of blood and burned gunpowder.
You were kneeling, bound and restrained by rough, damp ropes. Every movement was a brutal reminder of your subjugation, forcing your knees to spread slightly, exposing the sweaty curves of your thighs beneath torn clothing. In front of you, rising like a judge of a cruel world, stood Portgas D. Ace.
He held your orichalcum astrolabe with an offensive familiarity, soot-stained fingers smearing the precise metal, as if he already owned everything that was yours.
"Kill me," you spat, your voice hoarse but firm, each word a nail in the coffin of your own dignity. "End this. I won't beg for my life."
Ace tilted his head. There was no triumph in his gaze, only a pragmatic, cold assessment. The easygoing smile the rumors spoke of wasn't there.
"Kill you?" His voice was low, almost rough. "Why would I do that? I've heard stories. The phantom navigator. The woman who charts routes where the Log Pose goes insane. Who reads deep currents like someone reading a river." He spun the instrument, the light reflecting off its markers. "Our father is interested. We need a pair of eyes that can see beyond the horizon."
Teach, a member of the 2nd Division, approached while chewing on a piece of stolen ham, his eyes fixed on your exposed cleavage, licking his lips with a sadistic grin. "Or maybe we turn this bitch into the ship's prostitute. At least then she's good for something besides mapping shit." He laughed barbarically, without a shred of morality, spitting bits of meat as he laughed.
His companions followed with guttural laughter, some visibly adjusting their pants, murmuring about how "a cunt like that would be worth more than any map."
Your face twisted instantly, disgust rising in your throat like bile. The position you were in was militarily perfect for displaying your open neckline and the curves of your body, your breasts heaving with every furious breath, sweat running between them like an involuntary invitation to those pigs.
"No, none of that," Ace replied, not taking his eyes off you, though his gaze dropped for a second, tracing the outline of your form with cold detachment. "Our last competent navigator fell into the sea. We've been sailing on instinct for months. She's going to be very useful."
Hatred then boiled in your veins, hotter than any flame he could conjure. Prostituting your body would be worth nothing; those idiots would probably use you until you broke, discarding you like a filthy rag. But prostituting your talent? That was worse than death, a deeper violation that would make you hate yourself more than them.
"Useful?" Your laugh came out broken and bitter. "You think I'll chart routes, draw maps for you? Before that, I'll throw myself into the sea."
He crouched to your height, his expression becoming strict, impersonal, that of a commander delivering an irrevocable order. The heat of his body formed a physical boundary between your ruined world and the fate he imposed, the smell of smoke and male sweat invading your nostrils, making your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and something more primal, unwanted.
"Absolutely not." His voice didn't rise, but it carried the final weight of a mountain. "If you do that, what will your companions' deaths be worth? Will you throw everything away because of your dignity? Now you have to go all the way. Hold on to that hatred, Navigator. Use it as a compass."
Silence fell over that part of the deck, broken only by the crew's lingering snickers. Even Marco, watching from afar with his arms crossed, lost his half-smile, casting a warning glance at Teach. Jozu stopped polishing his diamond arm, grunting something about 'problematic women.'
The cruelty of the offer was precise. It wasn't a threat of physical torture, though the leering looks suggested it would come, but an emotional sentence.
He condemned her to life, to bearing the burden of survival and turning her pain into service for the enemy, perhaps even into forced pleasure to seal the agreement. It was torture tailored to measure, and Ace delivered it without a shred of emotion, like an irrefutable fact of the sea.