The peacock perched on the Moby Dick's mast fanned its iridescent feathers, catching the sunset in a riot of blues and greens. Gunnar stared at it, Whitebeard's voice echoing in his skull like a war drum: "Run as wild as you want in my name, my son."
He grinned. Wild? Oh, I'll blaze a trail even you couldn't imagine.
Smoothie leaned against the railing, sipping from her namesake glass, her gaze as unreadable as the horizon. Gunnar didn't ask—he seized her wrist, dragging her across the deck. "Come on, Juice Queen. Time to fly."
The peacock screeched, swooping down to land on his shoulder. Gunnar ignored it, pointing instead to a pair of folded gliding suits stashed beneath a tarp. They shimmered like fish scales, their fabric woven with Seastone threads—lightweight, indestructible, and very, very stolen.
"What's this?" Smoothie arched a brow, though her lips twitched.
"Your wings," Gunnar said, tossing her a suit. "Put it on."
She smirked but complied, the suit molding to her curves like liquid silver. Gunnar's own suit clung to his lean frame, the peacock fluttering to perch on his shoulder again as he strapped in.
"Ready?" he asked, gripping her waist.
"For what, exactly?"
He didn't answer. With a running leap, they vaulted off the Moby Dick's bow, the wind roaring in their ears. Gunnar spread his arms, the suit's wings snapping open like sails.
"Open your hands!" he shouted over the gale. "Think like a gull!"
Smoothie laughed—a rare, bright sound—as they banked over the waves, skimming so low the sea spray kissed their cheeks. Gunnar tilted upward, climbing until the ship shrank to a speck below.
Then he looped, flipping them midair until he was beneath her, their faces inches apart. Her hair whipped wildly, a storm of violet against the gold-lit sky.
"Beautiful," he murmured, not sure if he meant the sunset or her.
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "Show-off."
He kissed her. Not gently—this was Gunnar, after all—but with a hunger that mirrored the sea's endless rage. Her fingers tangled in his hair as they spiraled, the world reduced to wind, warmth, and the peacock's indignant squawk.
They broke apart just as the Moby Dick passed beneath them, the crew's cheers rising like fireworks.
---
"We're going to hit the water," Smoothie warned, though she sounded more amused than concerned.
"Trust me." Gunnar angled downward, his boot grazing a wave. Ice erupted where he touched, crystalizing the sea into a glistening path. They slid, skimming the frozen track like shooting stars, the peacock soaring ahead.
A Marine patrol ship loomed, trapped in the ice. Gunnar's grin turned feral.
"HEY, PIGEONS!" he bellowed, leaping onto the deck with Smoothie in his arms. The peacock landed beside him, fanning its feathers at the stunned soldiers.
"P-Pirates!" a Marine stammered, fumbling for his rifle.
Gunnar flicked his wrist. Ice crawled up the man's legs, freezing him mid-scream. Smoothie unsheathed her sword, its blade swelling with syrupy liquid. One swing, and three Marines collapsed, dehydrated to husks.
Two minutes later, the deck was silent save for the peacock preening atop a pile of frozen bodies.
---
Sunset
Gunnar steered the stolen ship into the open sea, the horizon bleeding crimson and gold. Smoothie lounged on a salvaged chaise, her head resting against his shoulder.
"Why the suits?" she asked.
"Because," he said, watching the peacock dive for fish, "the sky's the only place they can't chain us."
She hummed, tracing the scar on his collarbone. "You've gotten softer."
"Liar." He caught her hand, pressing it to his chest. "Still hard as steel."
---
Midnight
The full moon bathed the deck in silver as Gunnar peeled off his shirt, his muscles rippling like carved marble. Smoothie's gaze lingered, a blush blooming beneath her cool facade.
"After all these years," he said, stepping closer, "we never did this."
"We were busy," she replied, but her voice wavered.
"Not tonight." He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "Open sea. Stolen ship. Just us."
She glanced toward the stairs. "Inside. Someone might—"
"Let them watch." His grin was all teeth. "They'll die happy."
She laughed, sharp and sweet, before pulling him into a kiss that tasted of salt and rebellion. Her legs hooked around his waist as he lowered her onto the chaise, the peacock tactfully flying off to the crow's nest.
Above them, the stars blazed.
And the sea, for once, stayed quiet.
***
The morning sun spilled across the deck like melted gold, painting the charred remains of Marine ships in hues of amber and ash. Smoothie stirred beneath the silk blanket, the cool sea breeze brushing her bare skin. She sat up, the fabric pooling around her waist, and glanced at the empty space beside her. Through the cabin's open door, she spotted Gunnar standing at the ship's bow, his back to her, wearing nothing but loose shorts. The muscles of his shoulders tensed as he gripped the railing, staring at the smoldering horizon.
She wrapped the blanket around herself and padded barefoot to him. Without a word, she pressed against his back, her arms sliding around his waist. Her cheek rested between his shoulder blades, and she felt him exhale—a slow, steady release of tension.
"Morning, Juice Queen," he said, voice gravelly.
Smoothie peered over his shoulder. The sea was littered with flaming wrecks, their masts jutting from the water like blackened bones. "What happened?"
Gunnar shrugged. "Marines tracked their lost toy. Didn't want to wake you." He tilted his head toward the carnage. "Consider it… breakfast entertainment."
She snorted, her breath warm against his skin. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're naked." He turned in her arms, the blanket slipping. His grin was wolfish. "Not complaining, though."
---
By midday, they'd sailed the stolen Marine vessel back to the Moby Dick. The crew's cheers echoed across the water as they approached, though Thatch's whistle cut through the noise. "Save some romance for the rest of us!"
Gunnar flipped him off, leaping onto the deck with Smoothie beside him. His sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a glass of mango juice in hand. The peacock, now a permanent fixture, swooped down to reclaim its perch on his shoulder.
***
Gunnar leaned against the Moby Dick's railing, sunglasses low on his nose, mango juice swirling lazily in his glass. The peacock preened on his shoulder, its feathers glinting like stolen jewels. Across the deck, Ace stood with his arms crossed, flames licking idly at his fingertips—a lit match in a room full of gunpowder.
"Today's the day, Quake Prince," Ace called, voice sharp as a blade. "Mission's on. Or did you forget between naps?"
Gunnar didn't turn. "Who's forgetting? You're the one who's late, matchstick."
Ace stalked closer, heat rippling off him. "Late? You've been camped here all morning like a scared pup. Thought you'd run."
Slowly, Gunnar lowered his sunglasses. His gold eyes glinted, cold and feral. "Run?" He stood, the peacock fluttering to the railing. "I don't run. I ruin."
Ace's smirk didn't waver. "Prove it. Z's waiting."
The crew had gone silent, Thatch edging closer with a bowl of popcorn. Marco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Gunnar stepped into Ace's space, their noses inches apart. "You wanna play soldier? Fine. But you follow my lead. Touch my kills, and I'll melt away that stupid grin off your face."
Ace's flames roared. "You think I need your permission to burn something? Cute."
"ENOUGH!" Whitebeard's voice split the air, his bisento slamming down. "Take the Red Tide and a dozen rookies. Sink Zephyr's pride—or don't come back."
---
The "rookies" were green as seaweed—wide-eyed teens clutching swords too big for their hands. Gunnar prowled the deck of the Red Tide, a stolen Marine frigate now flying the Whitebeard flag. Ace lounged on the figurehead, legs dangling over the waves.
"Listen up, maggots," Gunnar snarled, his voice a whip-crack. The rookies flinched. "You're here to watch, not fight. Touch a weapon without my say, and I'll feed you to the peacock."
The bird squawked, snapping its beak for effect.
Ace snorted. "Scared of kids now, Quake Puppy?"
Gunnar shot him a glare. "Scared they'll trip on their own feet and stab you by accident."
One rookie raised a trembling hand. "U-um… what's the plan, sir?"
"Plan?" Gunnar smirked. "We crash. They burn."
Ace flicked a flame into the air. "We crash. They burn. Got it?"
The rookies paled.
---
Departure
As the Red Tide cut through the waves, Gunnar stood at the helm, his grip tight on the wheel. Ace leaned beside him, watching the horizon.
"You're steering wrong," Ace said.
"You're breathing wrong," Gunnar shot back.
Ace eyes lit up. "If you get us lost, I'm taking command."
"Over my corpse."
"Deal."
The rookies exchanged panicked glances.
Somewhere behind them, Thatch's voice crackled over the Den Den Mushi: "50/50 odds they sink before sundown!"
Gunnar crushed the snail in his fist.
---
The Calm Before
Night fell, the sea ink-black and hungry. Gunnar stood at the bow, the peacock asleep on his shoulder. Ace joined him, tossing a bottle of rum his way.
"To not dying," Ace said.
Gunnar took a swig. "To them dying."
Ace grinned. "Same thing."
For a moment, the tension eased—two predators sizing each other up, not yet ready to strike.
Then the Den Den Mushi rang.
Marco's voice: "Zephyr's fleet's 20 knots north. He's got… a lot of Seastone."
Gunnar's smile turned vicious. "Perfect."
Ace cracked his knuckles, flames engulfing his arms. "Let's light the night, Quake Prince."
The rookies prayed.
And the Red Tide surged forward—about to unleash.