Chapter Text
A peculiar rhythm established itself over the following weeks. "Dofi" as she'd started calling him in a display of marital affection that fooled absolutely no one, least of all him. He'd attempt to provoke her, and she'd surrender. She surrendered to almost everything now.
She'd learned to mold herself against him. There was a treacherous part of her that didn't even mind it anymore. On days when that biological betrayal became overwhelming, she'd plunge her head under frigid water and curse her merfolk heritage with every obscenity she knew.
Upon their return to Dressrosa, her duties shifted from mind-numbing inventory to the thrilling world of taxation, budgeting, and financial accounts. She'd been assigned an actual office within the castle. Dofi seemed to take perverse pleasure in burying her under paperwork, maybe hoping to break her spirit through bureaucratic torture. But she powered through it all. The work wasn't intellectually challenging, just relentlessly demanding.
He continued claiming her body every night without exception, sometimes in the morning, occasionally three times within a single day. Sometimes she could halt his advances with a withering glare and a firm declaration of exhaustion. On those occasions, he'd simply kiss her senseless until her knees buckled, then swagger away with a smirk.
Her swimming expeditions continued—sometimes accompanied by Dellinger, sometimes alone— where she quietly mended the damaged coral reefs surrounding Dressrosa, healing fractures in the seafloor that had been neglected for decades. Dellinger assumed she was meditating, which was undoubtedly what got reported back to Dofi.
She still battled him on matters that violated her principles. When he demanded she attend Colosseum events to watch prisoners battle, she'd flatly refused. His petty retaliation involved drowning her in additional paperwork—cross-referencing documents from every region under Dressrosa's influence. She'd stayed up until three in the morning completing it purely out of spite, until he'd stormed into her office demanding to know what the hell she thought she was doing.
"Working through your tantrum," she'd snapped, not looking up from her ledgers.
"It's past midnight, you stubborn bitch. Get to bed."
"I'm finishing what you assigned me. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Their argument had escalated from there, voices echoing through the castle corridors until he'd bodily carried her to their quarters.
So her strategy of boring him into complacency wasn't proceeding entirely smoothly— she remained pathologically incapable of backing down when he was being an unreasonable jackass. But it worked most of the time, and she considered that acceptable progress.
Her relationships with the crew were evolving as well. The children were lovely company. Giolla had become almost maternal in her fussing. Lao G, Machvise, and Señor Pink maintained polite distance, though they were frequently dispatched on missions anyway. Gladius still pontificated about her insubordination whenever possible, but since he couldn't find fault with her actual work, he seemed internally conflicted about his complaints. Pica proved friendly, as did Diamante. Trebol had stopped glowering at her with open suspicion, though he still watched her with an indecipherable expression. Sugar remained a prissy little bitch. Monet was still absent on some extended assignment.
She'd also rekindled her passion for baking, claiming a separate kitchen within the castle for her experiments. Giolla had declared her more than welcome to use the space. Dofi said nothing, which she interpreted as tacit approval. A significant portion of her free time was now spent creating desserts, either in solitude or with the children as eager assistants.
Corazon was an enigma wrapped in a disaster. She regularly spotted him around the castle, kicking children and generally being a walking catastrophe. But she also caught him staring at her with an unreadable expression during her verbal sparring matches with Gladius or Sugar. He'd occasionally appear in her kitchen because the children would drag him there under various pretenses, and inevitably he'd set something on fire, making her seriously consider braining him with a cast-iron skillet.
All things considered, life had settled into a manageable routine.
Then, a week ago, Dofi started acting bizarre.
That morning had been distinctly abnormal. She'd awakened to find him staring at her. Like sitting up and staring, an arm length of distance between them, "What the hell was that purring about?"
She'd blinked at him. "What are you talking about?"
He'd continued staring, offering no clarification. She'd dismissed his oddness as one of his many inexplicable quirks.
But the behavior persisted. The same scrutinizing stare, the same cryptic questions.
"What are you playing at?" he'd demanded.
"Did you suffer a concussion overnight?" she'd shot back. "Because you're harping about something I have no clue about."
"Just answer the fucking question."
"I would if you'd actually ask one that made sense!"
He'd stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
That night, he didn't touch her. She'd initially assumed he was playing some game, or maybe finally growing bored as she'd hoped. He didn't even embrace her—simply lay on the opposite side of their bed, reading by lamplight while she drifted off to sleep.
But she'd awakened with her nose buried against his throat, his arm draped over her waist, their legs hopelessly tangled. The disturbing part wasn't the position itself— it was her complete reluctance to move. She'd been clinging to him more desperately than he'd been holding her, and that realization filled her with such profound unease that she'd extracted herself and retreated to her side of the bed.
Dofi had always prided himself on reading people like open books—every micro-expression, every tell, every pathetic attempt at deception laid bare before his scrutiny. It was a skill that had kept him alive through childhood hell and elevated him to his current position of power. So when his little wife started her transparent campaign of compliance, he'd initially been amused by the obviousness of her strategy.
She was trying to bore him into complacency. Make herself so available, so agreeable, that he'd tire of her and seek amusement elsewhere. The plan was so transparent it was almost insulting—except for one increasingly problematic detail.
It was working.
Her transparent strategy was working in ways that made him want to snap necks —just not hers, and not in the way she'd intended. When she purred "Dofi" with that honeyed mockery, every instinct screamed a blaring red, yet some treacherous part of him would notice how naturally his name rolled off her tongue.
When she liquefied against his touch instead of going rigid like a frightened rabbit, his cock stirred with mortifying predictability. The clever little vixen had mastered the art of surrender—yielding just enough to keep him interested while maintaining that spark of defiance that made conquering her feel like an actual victory.
She'd submitted to his carnal demands, then turn into an immovable object over the most absurd principles. Never mind that she'd personally hospitalized an entire squad of guards and emasculated a Celestial Dragon. Apparently her moral compass had very specific calibration settings that defied all logic.
"I'm not watching prisoners get slaughtered for your entertainment," she'd stated flatly when he'd mentioned the upcoming fights.
So he'd buried her in additional paperwork from every district under his control—petty revenge that backfired when she'd worked through the night to complete it. He'd found her at three in the morning, surrounded by ledgers and wearing the glasses she only used for close work, looking so determinedly professional it made him want to fuck her senseless right there on her desk.
The argument that followed had been explosive enough to wake half the castle, ending with him carrying her to their quarters while she hurled insults at his parentage.
But then, a week ago, everything had shifted.
He'd awakened to a sound that didn't belong—a low, rumbling vibration that seemed to emanate from the woman pressed against his chest. At first, he'd assumed it was a ship's engines or some mechanical issue. But when he became fully coherent, he'd realized the sound was coming from her.
She was purring.
The vibrations traveling through her chest where it pressed against his ribs. Her face was buried in his throat, and every exhale carried that unconscious, contented rumble. And when he’d questioned it, she'd stared at him like he'd lost his mind. And it looked like she didn't seem aware of what she'd been doing.
The pattern had repeated for three consecutive nights. Each time, he'd awakened to that unconscious purring. Each time, she'd deny any knowledge of it with convincing bewilderment.
That night, he'd positioned himself on the far side of their bed, curious to see what would happen without his proximity as invitation. A few minutes after she dozed off, she'd migrated across the vast expanse of mattress, seeking his warmth unconsciously. He'd watched as she'd curled against his side and immediately began the soft, contented purring.
And so he decided this shit was getting out of hand. He needed professional consultation.
Ellie clearly had no fucking clue she was doing this—or she did and was the most talented actress he'd ever seen, which frankly wouldn't surprise him. But on the chance that it was real, he needed answers. And he needed them from someone who wouldn't ask inconvenient questions.
That morning, Ellie wasn't there purring beside him for the first time in a week. She was absent from breakfast as well, Giolla mentioning she'd spotted her heading for an early swim.
He made his way to the children's quarters, where morning lessons were typically in session. At this hour, tutors attempted to drill basic knowledge into their heads— fundamental skills like literacy, arithmetic, and not being complete brain-dead morons. Dellinger had a specialized fishfolk instructor because Giolla had insisted the boy learn about his heritage. Three previous tutors had quit after Dellinger bit chunks out of them; this one managed to make the little shark sit still.
Her name was Mae Cuttercomb, and she'd somehow earned a place on Dellinger's list of tolerable humans. Half the reason was undoubtedly because Mae was clownfish fishfolk with sunset-orange hair and golden eyes—in short, Dellinger harbored an obvious crush on his instructor.
When he arrived, Dellinger was nowhere to be seen and Mae was packing her materials.
"Oh, um, Your Majesty," she stammered upon spotting him, "I wasn't aware Dellinger was ill today. Miss Giolla said lessons were cancelled. I was just leaving—"
"Yeah, no. Plant your ass on that couch,"
She blinked at him as if the simple order required advanced mathematics to decode, but unlike his wife—who would've debated the philosophical implications of sitting versus standing before complying purely to irritate him—Mae settled onto the cushions immediately. She clutched her belongings like body armor, and he suppressed a snort as he claimed the opposite chair, "You're fishfolk,"
She nodded uncertainly, as if suddenly questioning her own fucking species.
"Do you people purr?"
"I... do I what?" Mae sputtered, her face turning the color of her hair.
"Purr. Like house cats. Do your people make that noise, and for what goddamn reason?" He wished this female wasn't so stuttery. Direct questions shouldn't require this much effort.
"W-we do," she managed after swallowing hard. "Um, when we're being comforted, mostly. Or feeling secure."
Comforted by what exactly? The answer only deepened his confusion, and Dofi despised being confused—it was beneath someone of his intelligence.
"That's not the fucking answer I was looking for," he said, letting irritation creep into his voice.
"Perhaps if you described your specific situation, I could provide better guidance? It's a complex topic. We purr, but it's also deeply private. Something you only do with people you trust absolutely. With someone you feel completely safe with."
Now he was even more bewildered, because he sure as hell didn't meet any of those criteria. So he explained his wife's unconscious behavior, adding a casual threat to fillet Mae if she breathed a word of this conversation to anyone. He described her purring, her apparent ignorance of the behavior, how it only occurred during physical contact with him.
"I... forgive me for asking, but are you not close with Her Majesty?" Mae asked hesitantly, wringing her hands. "This is essential for my assessment—I'm not trying to intrude on private matters."
"We share a bed, we fuck, but we're not holding hands and sharing feelings if that's what you're fishing for," he said bluntly.
"By any chance, has Her Majesty experienced her heat recently?"
"Two weeks ago. What's that got to do with anything?"
"And how long did it last?"
"Two days,”
"Oh." Mae's expression shifted to something approaching enlightenment. "What's her typical duration?"
"How the hell would I know?" he hissed. "Get to the fucking point."
Mae took a steadying breath, gathering courage. "Well, Your Majesty, a female's heat normally lasts four to seven days minimum. During this period, it's entirely possible for her to require multiple partners— it's a nearly insatiable biological drive. But you mentioned hers lasted only two days... are you by any chance biologically compatible mates?"
His head tilted sharply, zeroing in on her trembling form. "The fuck does that mean?"
Mae seemed to steel herself. "It's exactly what it sounds like— biological compatibility between potential mates. Two compatible individuals can identify each other through scent alone. It essentially means if they couple during or after heat, pregnancy is guaranteed. This phenomenon can occur between species as well—it's not unheard of, though the scenting ability is typically one-sided. Humans don't possess the same sensory capabilities, so if you're biologically compatible, Her Majesty would be acutely aware while you might only experience... attraction to her scent."
She paused, seeming to weigh her next words. "But judging by her abbreviated heat cycle... that's something only a compatible mate can achieve. Sexual requirements cannot be satisfied so efficiently otherwise. It likely means she conceived during those two days. That's why her heat terminated early—because its biological purpose was fulfilled. A child was created."
Mae rushed to clarify before he could interrupt, "That's probably why Her Majesty is unconsciously purring as you described. Despite your... emotional distance, as you put it, she's instinctively seeking comfort from you. That's completely normal behavior for pregnant fishfolk. They need their mate's scent and warmth, especially during early pregnancy. It's hardwired into our biology."
"Are you telling me," he said slowly, savoring each word, "that my wife is pregnant and doesn't know it?"
"Most likely, yes. Just as we experience four heat cycles annually, we only menstruate four times as well. But if the Queen is pregnant, she won't menstruate when expected in three months. A simple blood test would provide certainty, but all signs point to conception."
He absorbed this information with mounting euphoria. Biological mates. That was an actual fucking phenomenon? And he and Ellie were supposedly compatible—which explained his inexplicable addiction to her scent. She'd known this entire time and acted like— well, not nothing exactly. She'd tried to appear unaffected, but he'd caught glimpses of her attraction despite her best efforts to hide it.
And now she was potentially pregnant? Carrying his child while plotting ways to divorce and leave?
He covered his mouth as laughter threatened to escape his throat. What had that scheming little bitch said? About wanting to run back once their deal concluded? He couldn't give less of a shit about impending fatherhood at the moment, but he could weaponize this development. He could trap her permanently.
She had a soft spot for children, didn't she? All that moral righteousness about protecting innocents and avoiding violence. She'd have to stay—forever his, forever bound to him through their offspring. No more talk of divorce or escape plans. No more pretending this marriage was temporary.
He threw his head back and laughed, making Mae flinch. Victory tasted better than the finest wine.
"My King?" Mae squeaked once his laughter subsided, looking like she wanted to crawl under the furniture.
"Tell me everything," he said sharply. "About biological mates, interspecies compatibility, pregnancy symptoms, merfolk biology during gestation—every single fucking detail you know."
Mae nodded frantically and began reciting information like her life depended on it, as he simultaneously planned exactly how he'd use this delicious revelation to ensure his wife never left his side again.