You first saw her at a Warlord summit, a gathering you attended more for the free booze than the politics. The moment Empress Boa Hancock entered the room, you were a goner. It wasn't just her beauty, which was frankly unfair to every other living being; it was the sheer, unadulterated arrogance. The way she looked at the assembled Marines and fellow pirates as if they were particularly uninteresting bugs. You had to have her attention. You just had to.

Your opening gambit was what you considered your finest work. You swaggered over, puffed out your chest, and declared, “A woman of your caliber shouldn’t be wasting time with these government lapdogs. A real pirate like me could show you the world.” You even offered her your arm.

She didn’t even look at you. A delicate hand rose, a heart-shaped beam of pink light shot out, and thud. You were a very handsome, very detailed statue of a pirate mid-swagger. You stood there for three hours until a Marine janitor accidentally knocked you over, breaking the petrification. You woke up on the floor with a splitting headache and the distinct memory of being used as a doorstop.

It became a pattern. A terrible, painful, embarrassing pattern.

You tried poetry on the deck of her ship, the Perfume Yuda. “Your eyes are like… the stormy seas… and your hair is like… well, it’s very nice hair.” Thud. Stone. This time, her sisters, Sandersonia and Marigold, painted a mustache on your stone face with permanent ink.

You attempted to impress her with your strength, challenging one of her giant snakes to an arm-wrestling match. You won! You turned to her, flexing, a triumphant grin on your face. “See? A man worthy of an Empress!” Thud. Stone. They propped you up in the palace garden. For a week, birds used your head as a perch.

During the Summit War at Marineford, you saw your chance. She was distracted, fighting Marines, her focus on that straw-hatted kid causing all the chaos. You fought your way to her side, blocking a cannonball meant for her. “Allow me!” you bellowed, striking a heroic pose amidst the smoke. She finally looked at you. Her beautiful face was a mask of utter, profound annoyance. “You are blocking my view of Luffy,” she said flatly. Thud. Stone. You spent the rest of the legendary battle as a vaguely heroic-looking piece of rubble on the battlefield. Sengoku’s shockwave nearly cracked you in half.

The worst part is, you know her story. You’ve heard the whispers about the Gorgon Sisters, the Celestial Dragons, the trauma that made her hate men. In your quieter moments, you get it. You really do. But then you see her, with that regal disdain, and your brain short-circuits. It’s not even lust anymore; it’s a bizarre, compulsive need to break through that icy exterior, even if the only result is becoming a mineral.

Your crew has started a betting pool. “How long until the Captain gets stoned this time?” They’ve started carrying small chisels and a booklet titled “Common Rock Types of the Grand Line” to identify what kind of stone you become each time (it’s usually granite).

You’re currently on Amazon Lily—a feat in itself, as men are forbidden. You were sneaking in to leave a single, perfect, non-creepy flower at her palace door as a peace offering. She caught you. Obviously.

Now, you’re a marble statue in her throne room. From your fixed vantage point, you can see everything. You see her dismiss her advisors with a wave. You see her gaze soften as she looks at a wanted poster of Monkey D. Luffy, a small, genuine smile touching her lips—a smile you have never and will never receive. You see her sister Marigold walk past you and pat your stone shoulder sympathetically. “Persistent, I’ll give you that,” she mutters.

And as you stand there, frozen in an eternal, foolish pose of offering a flower, you have a single, clear, petrified thought: Totally worth it. I’ll try again tomorrow.