write it whimsical, write it wonderful

Chapter 4: Ten Minutes

The next night.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again.

That you’ll lock the door this time. That you’ll put out the lamp early. That you’ll keep your nightgown covered with a robe, stay under the blankets, and read something Mihawk-proof—like something frivolous and silly. Or maybe something about naval codes. That should be boring enoug to steer him, right?

But, instead, you’re in bed. The lights are dim. The tea tray only has one cup.

And yet…

When a soft knock taps once at your door, your stomach flutters like it was waiting.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

Because Mihawk doesn’t speak either. He just lets the door creak open. Slowly. Casually. Purposefully. The room fills with his presence before his silhouette even crosses the threshold.

His coat is off this time. Sword absent. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair a little damp from the sea breeze.

He glances at the tea tray.

Then at you.

And without a word—he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

His voice is low, smooth, and impossible to ignore.

“Let me guess… still five minutes?”

A pause. You glare over your book, cheeks pink again.

“I never gave you permission to come in here—”

He steps closer.

“I didn’t ask.”

His eyes flick down to the second cup that isn’t there tonight. A brow lifts.

“And I see I’m not expected.”

You lift your chin, defiant. “You’re not.”

He lets that hang in the air for a moment. Then—

“I’ll stay ten minutes, then.”

He crosses the room and sits in the chair like it belongs to him.

And somehow… you let him.

Again.

“Tomorrow, I’m locking the door. I mean it.”

Mihawk doesn’t even glance at you this time.

He leans back in the chair, one arm draped over the side, legs crossed casually at the knee—perfectly composed, perfectly infuriating.

“I’m sure you will.”

His tone is unbothered. Dry. Amused in that insufferably quiet way that makes your skin prickle.

But then his gaze slides to you again—slow, deliberate.

And softer this time.

“But you didn’t lock it tonight.”

A beat.

“You knew I’d come.”

The air shifts—just slightly.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t move closer. Just lets the words settle in the space between you, like mist curling beneath a door you forgot to seal.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, “you can pretend again.”

Then he glances toward your book.

“And I’ll let you.”

“W-We’ll see whose pretending, you narcissistic pest!”

That earns you the smallest sound—a quiet breath through Mihawk’s nose, not quite a chuckle, but the closest he gets to laughter when he's not wielding a blade.

He rests his chin in his hand now, elbow perched on the armrest as he watches you—not with judgment, not with heat, just with that damnable patience of his. Like he could sit there for hours just watching you pout and pretend you're unaffected.

"You do it so well," he says smoothly, voice low, velvet-dry. "The pouting. The fuss. The insistence I don't belong here."

A pause. His head tilts.

"But you haven't told me to leave yet."

His gaze lingers.

"And we’re already on minute eight."

“Leave, then! Goodbye!”

A sharp quip paired with a flash of pink from your lips.

He blinks once.

Slow. Deadpan.

Then—his eyes drop slightly to your mouth. To the pout. The little flash of tongue.

And for the first time tonight, Mihawk looks like he’s considering something dangerous.

“…You do realize,” he says calmly, voice smooth as sin, “that if you keep doing things like that, I’ll start assuming you want me to stay longer.”

His fingers tap once against the armrest.

“And if you really wanted me gone,” he adds, gaze now locked to yours, “you wouldn’t look so lovely trying to convince me.”

A pause.

“You’d scowl harder.”

He leans back. Satisfied. Settled.

And nowhere near leaving.

“Twelve minutes,” he murmurs. “You’re slipping.”

“Twelve minutes. Goodbye and good riddance.”

He exhales through his nose again—still unbothered, still infuriatingly him.

But this time, he rises.

Not with haste. Not with defeat.

Just… deliberate.

He crosses the room in measured steps, pausing once at your bedside, gaze dropping to you in full—your crossed arms, your scrunched brow, your still-slightly-glossed pout.

And that tiny, teeniest little flicker in your eyes.

The one that says wait, don’t actually go.

He leans down to your eye level—not close enough to touch, just enough that his voice brushes over you like a fingertip trailing heat.

“Tomorrow night,” he says softly, “set the tea for two again.”

Then, lower—

“I won’t ask twice.”

And with that, he straightens.

And walks out the door.

Leaving behind silence.

And your pulse. Still racing.

Yet, your voice still calls out to him.

“H-How dare you?! I told you it’s gonna be locked, you cad! And you don't deserve my tea! You didn't even finish the cup yesterday!”

The door has barely closed when his voice comes back through—smooth, amused, and entirely unrepentant:

“Then I’ll bring my own.”

A pause. Just long enough for you to throw a pillow at the air itself.

“And a spare key.”

You hear the faintest click of his boots walking away, the quiet swagger of a man who’s already won a war that hasn’t even started.

You sit there, flushed and fuming, glaring at the door like it personally offended you.

“UGH! The nerve! Spare key, my—!”

But you don’t finish the sentence.

Because your eyes flick to the tea tray.

To the second cup.

And damn it to hell, your cheeks burn all over again.

Tomorrow, you swear. You’ll lock it for real.

Maybe.

ZORO

You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Just found him on the deck, dropped a bento box in his lap, and said, “Don’t forget to eat today, swords-for-brains.”

Then walked off. Casual. Like it was nothing.

He opens it later. Finds his favorite. Rice shaped like little swords. Even sakura petals made from nori. Notes folded between napkins.

He stares at it for a long time.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“…Tch.” He mutters it to himself. Tries to pretend he’s annoyed.

He’s not.

He sits in silence and eats every bite. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

Finds you later. Doesn’t say a word. Just pulls you into a hug. Chin on your head. Arms tight.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmurs.

And he means it like a confession.

SANJI

He comes into the kitchen and stops dead.

You’re already there. Apron tied wrong, flour on your nose, fumbling with the recipe he mentioned in passing days ago.

Just because he said it reminded him of his mom.

You turn, startled. Smile sheepish. “Almost burnt it, but I think I saved it!”

He stares at you. Blinks once.

Then crosses the room without a word. Pulls you into his arms. Tight. Desperate.

You laugh. “It’s not that bad—” “No,” he cuts in. Voice rough.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His hands shake just a little. You pretend not to notice.

“Thank you.” A soft whisper.

He kisses your forehead. And eats every crumb.

SMOKER

He finds it on his desk.

A fresh pack of his favorite cigars. Hard to get. Not cheap.

No note. No big gesture. Just left there like it belonged. Like your actions belonged in his life.

He stares at it for a long time. Doesn’t touch it.

Then finally exhales. Long. Slow.

When he finds you later, he just stops in front of you. Fingers twitching slightly at his side.

You glance up, smile easy. “Figured you were almost out.”

He opens his mouth to respond. Closes it. Tries again.

“…Too good to me,” he mutters.

It comes out like gravel. Unpolished. Honest.

“Don’t gotta try so hard. Not for me.”

Then he pulls you into his chest, roughly. Doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t have to.

Just presses his face against your shoulder for a while.

KUZAN

You bring him hot coffee. Just the way he likes it.

Not because he asked. Just because you noticed.

He blinks down at the cup like it might vanish. Then looks up at you.

“…What’s the occasion?” You shrug. “You looked sluggish. I wanted to do something nice.”

He takes it. Quiet. Hands lingering on the warmth.

You’re halfway gone before he speaks.

“…Hey.” You pause. Look back.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Just stares at the steam.

“You’re too good to me sometimes, know that?” he says softly.

You blink. “It’s just coffee.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. That’s the part that gets me most.”

And for the rest of the day, he keeps the empty cup on his desk. Doesn’t even know why.

KIDD

You patch up the scrape on his arm. No complaints. No drama. Just walk in, sit him down, and start dabbing antiseptic like it’s a daily ritual.

He hisses through his teeth. “Could’ve handled it myself.”

You snort. “You didn’t, though.”

He grumbles something unintelligible. Doesn’t move.

You finish with a bandage. Neat. Tight. Then pat it lightly. “There. Good as new.”

He stares at it. At you. At the way you’re already cleaning up without asking for thanks.

“…Why do you even bother?” You glance over. “Because I care, dumbass.”

He freezes. Swallows hard.

And then, barely louder than a growl: “Yeah, whatever.”

He turns. You smile. He looks away like you lit a fire in his chest and he doesn’t know how to put it out.

BECKMAN

He finds it tucked into the folds of his coat. A tiny note. Folded neat. Written in your hand.

“Take it easy today, old man.” There’s a small candy stuck to the corner. His favorite.

The one he chews on when he’s already burned through most of his cigarettes due to stress.

He stares at it for way too long. Just standing there.

Later, he corners you on deck.

“Did you leave this?” You grin. “Guilty.”

He nods slowly. Slips the note back into his pocket like it’s treasure.

“…You really didn’t have to.”

You shrug. “I wanted to. Bought some extra at the last port just in case.”

There’s a pause. His mouth opens. Closes.

Then, rougher than usual— “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Getting sentimental on me?”

He huffs. Lights a cigarette from a new box you offer. “Maybe.”

But he keeps that note on him for the rest of the day. And the candy? Clutched in his hand, all week.

DOFLAMINGO

It’s late. He’s alone in his room. The moon spills silver across the floor, but he barely notices.

He’s silent, for once. As ghosts from his past make their routine visits.

Then you walk in. Also, silent. No demands. No games.

You just set a glass of water on his desk. With ice. Cold. Paired with a little lemon twist.

He glances at it. Then at you.

“That for me?” You nod. “You haven’t had anything but wine today.”

He raises a brow. “That a problem, cariño?”

You smile. Soft. Tired. But genuine. “No. I just thought you might want something real.”

Then you leave. Just like that.

He watches the door close. Slowly picks up the glass.

Takes a sip. Pauses.

“…Tch,” he mutters. The water goes down too easily. Like honesty. Like care.

He leans back in his chair. Head up towards the ceiling.

“Demasiado,” he whispers. Like it’s a threat. Like it’s dangerous.

Because it is.

LUCCI

You stay up late waiting for him. Again.

He returns from a mission—silent, bloodied, expression unreadable.

You don’t ask what happened. You don’t ask if he’s okay.

You just hand him a clean towel. Warm. Fresh from the dryer.

He stops walking. Looks at it. Then at you.

You hold it out again. “For your hands.”

He takes it. Slowly.

Sits down across from you.

Wipes away the blood. Watches the red fade into white.

You don’t speak. Just sit beside him. Quiet. Present. Real.

“…Why do you do this?” he asks. Not cold. Just curious.

You tilt your head. “Because I want to. Simple as that.”

Silence. Heavy. Loaded.

Then— “You should want better.”

Not a compliment. Not an accusation. Just fact.

ZORO

He’s leaning against the rail. Eyes closed. Breeze soft. Peaceful.

Then— Bootsteps. Fast. Heavy.

He opens one eye. Sees you marching toward him with murder in your posture and heartbreak in your face.

And then you’re just— hugging him.

Full force. No warning. Arms tight around his waist, face buried in his chest.

He stiffens. Completely freezes.

“…Oi.” You say nothing. Just hold tighter.

His heart does something weird. Like a sword slipping out of a sheath too fast.

“…What happened?” he mutters.

Still no answer.

He hesitates, then lifts one arm. Then the other. Wraps them around you. Slow. Careful.

Lets you stay there. Lets the silence stretch.

“...Alright,” he mumbles, voice low. “You don’t have to say anything.”

But he holds you until you feel like breathing again. Even if he never says it out loud, he’s not going anywhere.

SANJI

He’s humming in the kitchen. Something upbeat. Light.

Then you walk in. Fast. Focused. Eyes stormy.

He turns with a smile. “Hi, my lo—”

You hug him. Hard. Without a word.

He stumbles back a step from the force of it. Then freezes. Arms full of you.

“…Mon amour?”

No answer.

Just the sound of your breathing. Shaky. Rough. Your fists clench the back of his shirt.

His voice softens instantly. “Bad day?”

You nod against his chest. He exhales. Pulls you closer.

“Okay. Come here.”

His hand runs slow circles on your back. His other arm keeps you anchored.

“I’ve got you. You don’t have to explain.” Then a kiss to your temple. A whisper in your ear.

“You’re allowed to fall apart with me.”

SMOKER

He’s reviewing reports. Grumbling to himself. Pen clenched tight between his teeth.

Then you storm in.

Fast steps. Tight shoulders. Expression like a thundercloud.

He looks up, brows already furrowed. “What now—”

You hug him.

No words. No explanation. Just arms around his middle and your face pressed into his chest.

He stiffens. Blinks. “…What the hell is this?”

You don’t respond. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe all the way.

He goes quiet. Completely still.

Then slowly—awkwardly—wraps his arms around you. Lets out a breath like it’s been trapped in his lungs all day.

“...You could’ve just said you needed me.”

But you didn’t have to. He’s already holding you like he gets it.

No questions. No pressure.

Just solid warmth and the faint smell of smoke as he anchors you to the ground.

KUZAN

He’s half-asleep under the sun. Hat low. Breeze gentle.

Then he hears it. Your footsteps. Too fast. Too hard.

You walk straight up to him. Drop your stuff. Say nothing.

And just hug him.

Arms around his waist. Face against his coat. Still cold.

He blinks. Slowly.

“…Yo.” You don’t answer. Just hold tighter.

He tilts his head. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t pry.

His hand comes up to your back. Barely-there at first. Then steady. Reassuring. Warm.

“Bad day, huh?”

You nod against him.

He sighs. Not annoyed. Just quiet.

“Then stay here for a bit,” he murmurs. “I’ve got time. For you? I’ve always got time.”

And he lets you stay there as long as you want. His heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear.

KIDD

He’s yelling at someone. For the seventh time this hour. Something about tools being misplaced. Or stolen. Or both.

Then you show up. No words. No snark. Just walking straight toward him.

His eyes narrow. “The hell do you—”

You throw your arms around his chest. Just hug him.

Hard. No explanation. No warning.

He freezes. Stares down at you like you just punched him in the stomach.

“…The fuck is this?”

You don’t answer. Just hold on. Tight.

He glances around like someone might be watching. No one is. And then—he sighs.

Loud. Dramatic. Embarrassed.

But his arms come around you anyway. One flesh, one metal. Both steady.

“…Tch. Next time, warn me first.”

But he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

BECKMAN

He’s outside, smoking. Watching the waves. Cashing in some space.

He hears you before he sees you.

Eyes tired. Mouth tight.

He turns slightly. “Hey. You—”

You hug him. No words. Just step in and fold your arms around his middle.

He stills. The cigarette hangs loose between his fingers.

Then—quietly—he sets it aside.

Wraps both arms around you. Slow. Strong. Unshakable.

“…Bad one?” he asks.

You nod into his chest.

He rests his chin on your head. “Alright. Then this is where we stay.”

No questions. No advice. Just the kind of quiet comfort that knows when to shut up.

He holds you like someone who’s been here before. And like someone who’s not letting go unless you say so.

DOFLAMINGO

He’s laughing when you enter. Loud. Sharp. Voice like velvet laced with knives.

The moment he sees you, the grin is already forming—ready to tease, to toy, to turn you into something stammering and squirming.

But then you cross the room. No words. No banter.

You just wrap your arms around him. Tight.

No explanation. No flair. Just the weight of you leaning into him like you’ll fall apart if he doesn’t hold back the pieces.

He stills. Entirely.

For the first time in a long time, Doflamingo doesn't know what to say.

“…Huh.” His voice is low. Not mocking. Just surprised.

You don’t look up. Don’t speak. Just stay there, face pressed against his chest, fingers curled in his coat.

He blinks slowly. Hands hover at your sides.

Then, with uncharacteristic care, they settle on your back. Large. Steady. Real.

“You picked me for this?” he mutters. A soft, incredulous scoff against your hair. “You must be worse off than I thought.”

But he doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t laugh again.

He just stands there—arms around you, voice quieter than it’s ever been.

“…Alright, cariño. You can stay.” A pause.

“As long as you want.”

LUCCI

He’s reading intel documents. Calm. Focused. Quiet.

Then— Your footsteps. Sharp. Heavy. Quick.

He looks up.

You say nothing. You just walk straight to him.

And wrap your arms around his waist.

Tight. Solid. Final.

He goes perfectly still.

“…Are you injured?” You shake your head.

“Under attack?” Another shake.

“Then what—” Your grip tightens. He stops asking.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t return it. Just stands there like a statue with a pulse.

Then—slowly—his arms come around you. Not tentative. Not soft. But there.

Anchoring. Grounding.

“…I see,” he says quietly.

And that’s all. No demands. No interrogation.

But you feel it in the way he holds you— He’s already figured out exactly who or what made you feel like this.