the strongest.

Fine by him. Crocodile's not possessive in the least, and he doesn't particularly care if his lovers want to leave their mark on him. As long as he gets what he wants, he's more than willing to entertain.

   Golden eyes devoid of emotion meet the piercing gaze of Dracule Mihawk. Trafalgar Law does not flinch, his features cold and empty. Just as empty as the first day he met Doflamingo. Much has changed since that day, but this hasn’t. The boy still believes in nothing and cares for nothing. There is no change as Mihawk gives that warning. All Law does is raise an eyebrow as if to wordless say, So what? He’s the last person to care if some no-named stranger dies at this man’s hands.

   Then the man continues, and Law’s jaw tightens.

   Marines? Here? Just his fucking luck. Just the thought of them makes his skin crawl. In his minds eye he sees men in gasmasks, looming and burning and killing. Most wore the insignia of neighbouring countries, but some sported the seagull’s wings. If the locals will become a mad, murderous mob upon seeing him, the Marines will simply shoot him dead. They’d want to wipe out any trace of Flevance, anything and anyone that could speak the truth of what happened in that country. He’d be dead before he even tries to run.

    And then there is Cora-san. Law feels his stomach flip, a fear he didn’t think he had taking shape. What if Corazon saw this as an escape? What if he chose to go back to his masters instead of continuing in his stupid quest to save him? Yes, Law knows the man is a Marine. He isn’t stupid and Cora-san doesn’t lie as well as he thinks he does. At least not to this observant boy. If Cora decided now would be the best time to hand over his intel Law would be free, but he’d be alone again. Alone and vulnerable. He can’t have that.

    Mihawk crouches down before Law, drawing him from his thoughts. The boy takes a step back, eyes wary and grip tightening on his knife. He glares, loathing the way this man eyes him up. He almost tugs out the knife, Trafalgar Law prepared to slash at any hand that reaches for him. Instead, what he gets is a wad of cash shoved towards him. He straightens, rage taking over his features. He pulls a hand from his pocket, the one not holding the knife, and flips Dracule Mihawk off.

   “Take your charity and shove it up your ass, Hawk-ya,” he hisses.

   The too big sleeve of his hoodie slips down his arm, revealing more of his white blotched skin. A few common folks still rush through the town square, and one looks at Law at the wrong time. There is an audible gasp and a pair of wide eyes. Law’s gaze darts to the woman as he hears her whisper, “White monster,” and “Unclean.”

“Look at that. I'm sure she'll tell the town guard, who will tell the marines.” Tongue clucks against his soft palate, eyes never leaving the small boy, a familiar will burns inside him in spite of all that the world has thrown at his feet.

Fascinating.

@exaltededge asked: "Hey there little one." after burning Message me with “Hey there little one” to interact with my muse as a child

   The boy trudges through near deserted streets. He hunches deep into his too big hoodie, the hood pulled up to help hide his features. His fluffy hat still sits on his head, covered by that same hood. Hands are shoved into the pocket of the hoodie, Trafalgar Law doing his best to hide any and all bits of skin. The white patches that show off his condition are growing and with them the pain coursing through his body. He finds himself more exhausted than usual, but he must push on. Has to keep moving. Otherwise, he gives up. Sure, he will accept the day he dies but for now he’ll live a bit longer, for those who never got that chance.

   Somewhere in this town Cora is speaking to a doctor. Trying to get Law a consultation and perhaps a cure. He has no hope for it, not here. The place looks like a dump. Besides, Law expects the same fear and bigotry he gets everywhere. These people will get one look at him and freak out. It’s inevitable.

   He turns around a corner, entering a town square with almost no people in and those he does see appear to be moving away really fast. The boy stops, frowning as he surveys the place. He feels a palpable sense of fear in the air, a tension that reminds him of the day before the soldiers attacked Flevance. He tenses, frantic gaze darting about as he looks for the threat. In the cloth of his hoodie Law’s fingers grip the hilt of a dagger, a weapon he’d stolen from someone in the dive bar Law and Cora are staying in. Cora doesn’t like him having a weapon but Law hates being defenseless. Well, even more defenseless than he already feels most of the time.

   A voice speaks right near him, smooth and calm. It addresses him and Law turns his gaze towards the man looming over him. A man with a massive black sword on his back. Golden eyes dart to that blade and then to the man’s piercing eyes. Yep, Law knows who this is. Doflamingo wanted to make sure Law knew every potential threat, including other pirates like Dracule Mihawk.

Strange.

Mihawk doesn't refrain from speaking to children but the opportunity gratefully doesn't present itself often; worried parents often pull them away from his path, the fearful ones even shying away on their own. Dracule has already scanned the boy when he turns, eyes narrowing in the shadow of his hat when mismatched skin flashes and gaunt cheeks move to speak. 

Kinoko Island isn't exactly a destination for most but its residents were healthy if the walk from the harbor to the town's center told him anything. Kinoko named after its mushroom biodiversity and resulting natural remedies that locals boasted. While the fungus may hold remarkable properties for extending the life of residents it’s not a medical hub either. In his dossier, Vega Punk recently showed the barest passing interest in the island, Dracule correctly assuming the government wanted local pirates dealt with before the area was developed. 

If a picture is worth a thousand words, that single stare felt like a thousand derogatory remarks that were sensed deeply into the artist's bones. When was the last time he felt such disappointment towards himself? It’s even depressing—if he could just lay on the floor and become a worm..

He nodded twice with the question, confirming his inquiry and frowning with the touch of their hand. Was he going to break his wrist????

Thankfully the swordsman had a kinder plan in mind. Tips of fingers push the blue frames in, as partially closed eyes scan the drawing meticulously. He has always been a visual learner of sorts—but Mihawk’s early explanation wasn’t a waste of time. White wax sips from one arm, creating the shape of his mind's desire. Recreating the shape wasn’t the only thing to be taken into account. Height was crucial if it was meant to be used as a weapon, when it’s complete.. There’s not a single thing missing ( only the ones that weren’t explained in the drawing.) As anything that is molded by his power, for now which means he may handle it. He tapped on the blade before awkwardly holding it over his head. The blade descended—slicing that same wall just by the height of it.

“ It’s not perfect! Far from it, ga ne… I hope it's useful at least.”

Concentric eyes watch the blade cleave through stone, disappointed she didn't meet the floor but the copy will have to do. Stepping past the strange man, hand grabs for the hilt. “You have my thanks.” A single tug frees the wax weapon and wrist twirls, one, twice. “Impressive, the weight is nearly identical.” The real test however is whether the wax can withstand his haki. While skill alone could free him without its aid, getting past any devil fruit users will be tricky. Black coils out from his wrist, familiar sheen creeping up the entire length of the blade and … it holds its shape.

Dracule takes a step back, raises the blade overhead then drops the full weight against stone brick and it splits in a flash of white to untrained eyes. The corners of his president frown twitches and haki slithers back into his arm. Laying the blade flat in his palm, sharp eyes spot the hairline crack where the wall had met edge. “Disappointing.” He huffs through his nose and glances to the artist. “You will accompany my escape, I will need multiple copies of this blade until I find Yoru.” He speaks in facts, and tone gives zero room for arguments or objections. “Gather any supplies you require and I will meet you at the exit.” Golden eyes click down to the blade again, dismissive hand gesturing.

Send me “Good boy/girl” for my muse’s reaction to your muse saying that to them!

Shanks let out a pleased hum at the other swordsman's words, leaning a little closer to him. His lips curled into a sly smile as he purred out his next words. "And do I get a treat, for being such a good boy?"

Insufferable. Dracule knows he did it to himself and levels Shanks with a flat look. He sighs but makes no move to correct the distance the other has closed. “My praise should be more than enough.” A soft snort. “You do little to earn it these days.” Sparse visits, little news of his movements in the paper, it's a wonder the mysterious yonko even found the time. But ... The soft spot he has for the ginger is still here, small and annoyingly persistent after all these years. Dracule lifts his arm, rough fingers cupping the man's jaw like one would do a faithful dog. "You are tolerable, in no small part because I am fond of you." A very high compliment from a recluse, Shanks' real reward the gentle slide of a very rare smile.

"Let's say he's both our problem." They can share, just like Crocodile's about to share his precious bottles of wine, which he keeps under locks. He's sure the clown could break in, but if Buggy's half as smart as he pretends to be, he won't increase his debt with the sandman.

He quirks a brow when Mihawk finally replies both. He must really want this drink if he's willing to have a Shiraz. Not that they're cheap or anything, but Crocodile prefers to use them for cooking. They're your average bottle of wine that fits any meal because they are bland enough not to be overpowering. Crocodile was almost half-joking when he offered the Shiraz, and he's definitely not gonna let his guest drink cooking wine.

"Cabernet it is, then." He fetches two of his most expensive bottles, golden eyes roaming over the swordsman sitting on his throne. It's fine, though; he's a guest in here.

Crocodile deposits the bottles on his desk and gets two glasses of wine from the cabinet. He then starts unscrewing his hook, but only the tip. Underneath the hook, there's a poisoned knife, which he also takes time to unscrew quietly. Once he's done, he reaches into the first drawer and gets the corkscrew...which he screws on his hook. It looks ridiculous, but hey, what's a guy with one hand and one big gaudy hook supposed to do to open his bottles? It's not like he's got a Mr.1 by his side anymore. He could be, but he's probably somewhere else on the ship, also trying to enjoy a little quiet.

As the sound of the cork popping out of the bottle resonates in the room, Crocodile's smile stretches, and he turns around to lean on the desk. He gestures quietly with the tip of the bottle so Mihawk can get his glass so Crocodile can fill it. Once secured between the swordsman's hands, Crocodile gives the bottle a little shake to aerate the wine and drips the red liquid into Mihawk's glass. He then fills his glass and takes the corkscrew from his hook, but he doesn't bother replacing his other weapons.

Bold cigar box notes tickle his nose  as wrist swirls the glass gently. The ache in his temple eases with familiarity and missed comfort. Lips part in time with the canters tipping tongue awash with complex peaks of peppery tartness. It's enough to push the days stress from the forefront of his mind, a reprieve from Buggy's simpering and Crocodile’s scheming. “Beautiful vintage. It's a pity you decided to share it with me under such circumstance.” Another sip, this one deeper.

Rude. Perfectly sculpted brow lowers to squint slightly then arch. “On my worst days we both know that’s not true.” Dracule  is blessed with beauty from sculpted cheekbones, well kept beard goatee combo and thick inky hair streaked only twice with distinguished gray hair. Surely the headache hadn’t slipped into his features. “I've never had to keep my wine under lock and key.” Eyes dart to the exposed collection then Crocodile, a fond smile hidden behind his glass. “Even Roronoa wasn't so bold. Granted, honor like that is hard to come by.” Last he checked the young swordsman had found his crew and his bounty reflected the trouble he's wandered into.

“Your clown, excuse me, our clown and his men helped themselves to my things and gorged themselves on wine in my absence.” Lip twitches in a half sneer, the thought compelling him to finish his glass with a solid gulp “Need I kill a dozen men to keep my things intact?”  Yes, it could have been an honest mistake and coupled with the days travel his patience could be unusually thin. Tongue slides along his teeth, sharp eyes watching the light dance in the well of his glass.

mihawk training with his step-kids! ft. smitten husband shanks