It had been two long years since the Straw Hats split up. Two years of growth. Of training. Of evolving.
For Usopp, that evolution meant being trapped as Nami's favorite pair of pants.
Somehow, the curse hadn't lifted. And when Nami returned after the time skip—taller, stronger, and much sweatier—so did Usopp's suffering.
He hadn't seen sunlight. He hadn't felt clean air. His cotton-polyester soul was permanently bonded to her booty like some hell-woven diaper of doom.
And worse?
She still had no idea.
Time Skip Nami strutted confidently down the deck, hips swaying, orange pants hugging her every curve. They still fit perfectly.
Usopp felt every movement. His once-proud sniper soul had become a stretchy prison of musk and shame.
The heat? Suffocating.
Her sweat now was a whole different breed. Stronger. Salty. Sticky. It didn't soak him—it infused him. Marinated him like old lunch meat sealed in a sauna.
And oh, the gas.
After two years, Nami had completely stopped holding back. Her diet had evolved with Sanji's cooking. More garlic. More onions. More beans. Spices that should be illegal. Seafood that barely qualified as food. Sauces that could burn a nosehair off at thirty paces.
She'd fart constantly now—no more muffling. Just stealth nukes, squeezed out casually while reading a map or sipping tangerine juice.
BBBBRRRAAAARRRRFFF
A deep, rumbling buttquake blasted out of her while she bent forward at the ship's railing. The sound vibrated through Usopp's thread-count like a death knell.
The smell? Apocalyptic.
It was like a landfill had thrown up inside a fish cannery. Sulfur. Rot. Tangy brine and old eggs. And worst of all—it didn't go away.
It soaked into him.
Like a sponge made of regret.
By now, Usopp was more stain than pants.
Nami's routine had only worsened it.
She wore him during workouts—extreme ones. Squats. Lunges. Kicks. Each move was like being shoved face-first into a filthy mop.
She never washed him.
Not once.
"Oh, these pants are self-cleaning or something," she joked once, totally unaware she was condemning a former crewmate to a lifetime of unwashed butt prison.
He couldn't scream. But he could still feel.
He felt the crust forming. Sweat drying into salt. Old farts becoming part of his molecular DNA. There was a tang to him now. A sting.
Like hot vinegar laced with melted socks and death.
Worse yet, Sanji complimented the pants once.
"They really hug you well, Nami-swaaaaaan~!"
If he only knew.
That night, Nami had a feast.
Sea bass with garlic. Three-bean salad. Spicy octopus stew. A giant orange. Four cups of black coffee.
She ate, sighed, leaned back…
And then, the worst one yet.
PPPPPPPPPPPPBBBBBBTTTTHHHRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
A brutal, wet, horrifically squelchy blast.
It lasted ten full seconds.
It shook the chair. It echoed off the walls. A small green cloud rose from her seat like a cursed spirit.
And Usopp?
He broke.
If pants could cry, he would've sobbed his waistband off.
That fart didn't just stink. It infested. It burrowed into every fiber, every seam. It was sticky, sulfuric, sharp—like moldy fruit boiled in sewage.
And Nami?
She giggled.
"Whew… that one had personality."
After dinner, Nami plopped on her bed.
She sighed, her stomach gurgling. "Ugh, I think I overdid it…"
She rubbed her belly… then let loose again.
BRRRRRRRTTTTTSSHHHPPLORCHHH
"Ewwwwww," she laughed. "That one's lethal. I'd feel bad for anyone near my butt right now!"
Usopp was her butt now. No escape.
Then came the final straw.
She burped.
Not just any burp—a wet, acidic belch that reeked of garlic and decay. It dripped from her lips like slime.
She giggled, blew it down her shirt… and it slid downward, curling between her chest and stomach, funneling directly into her pants.
Usopp took the full force. Trapped between burp and fart. A death sandwich.
Inside, something broke. A sanity. A soul.
Maybe it was the curse… maybe it was the stink… but Usopp accepted it.
He was pants now.
Forever.
And his life was an endless parade of muffled hell.
Never wore out. Never needed washing. They were indestructible.
They were… alive.
And if you ever catch a whiff—just a faint puff of something hot, cheesy, and unspeakable on the wind—
Run.
Because Usopp still lives in there.
And he smells everything.