#hanbug

Just two girlies with plushies of their men 😎

Chapters: #1, #2, #3 , #4

Tag list: @lostfirefly  @deathbyclown

FicSummary: Crocodile and Mihawk make a bet to see if they can seduce Buggy’s girlfriend for their own personal gain and to ruin Buggy’s life. Things, however, don’t happen as planned.

Will include HanBug (Buggy x my OC Hana)

Chapter Summary: With both of them unsuccessful in seducing Hana from Buggy, Crocodile and Mihawk ponder ending their bet until Galdino uncovers something involving the two lovebirds. 

This chapter will also include NSFW stuff (not as much as the previous one but still) so MDNI

Worked on these two while having youtube playing in the background has been the only highlight of my shitty ass day.

A friend of mine back at home passed from an unexpected heart attack and I got denied a loan to help cover debt I’ve accumulated since my fiancé got injured at work.

Chapters: #1, #2, #3 , #4, #5 

Tag list: @lostfirefly  @deathbyclown 

FicSummary: Crocodile and Mihawk make a bet to see if they can seduce Buggy’s girlfriend for their own personal gain and to ruin Buggy’s life. Things, however, don’t happen as planned.

Will include HanBug (Buggy x my OC Hana)

Chapter Summary: Mihawk makes another move at Hana, but as usual, things don’t go as planned. Not if she has anything to say about it.

“Buggy, where are you taking me?!”

Buggy guided Hana down the main corridor of the Cross Guild compound with all the delicacy of a child steering a particularly wobbly shopping cart. A scarf was wrapped firmly over Hana’s eyes, while his hand pressed at the top of her spine, steering her like a malfunctioning marionette.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Now would it, Honey Bunny?”

“Please don’t call me Honey Bunny…” she managed, fighting the urge to giggle.

“Fine…Now would it, Baby Cakes?”

“That’s better”

She jammed her shin on a chest-high crate, which earned a yelp.

He steered her again, this time with excessive care, leading her by the small of her back.

“Okay, okay, just a little further,” he said, as if they were on the verge of scaling a mountain, and not just traversing the hallway outside the Guild’s kitchens. “One more step — no, wait, two. Watch your feet…”

“I can’t watch my feet, dumbass!”

“Never mind, I’ve got you, babe.”

He most certainly did not “have her,” unless “having” meant occasionally shoving her in the direction of stray furniture like a hockey puck and then valiantly failing to catch her before she collided. At one point, she walked directly into a suit of armor, with a clatter that reverberated all the way down the east wing. Somewhere, a subordinate groaned.

Buggy didn’t miss a beat. “We’re almost there. Trust me.”

She huffed, letting herself be led a few more feet. Finally, after three wrong doors and one inadvertent collision with a life-sized painting of Crocodile, they arrived.

“Okay,” Buggy said, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “No peeking.”

“I. Cant. See,” Hana replied, deadpan, but she was fighting a smile.

She braced herself. There was the creak of a heavy door, the scrape of chair legs dragged hastily across tile, and then:

“Ta-daaa!”

He lifted the scarf away from her eyes, revealing the Cross Guild dining hall. Every other table was shoved against the walls, leaving one, solitary table for two in the dead center, directly under the high stone dome. A candelabra blazed on its surface or, rather, what looked like a candelabra but on closer inspection was a mass of elegantly shaped wax, the flames flickering with just enough warmth to look real.

The light glinted off steam rising from two silver domes: one covering a plate of seafood pasta, the other, unmistakably, a pile of hot dogs. Neither dish seemed to belong with the other, which made it perfect.

Hana’s eyes flicked over the setting, then to Buggy’s face, which was so nakedly eager it was impossible to mock.

“You did all this?” she said, reaching out to poke the pile of hot dogs as if it might vanish.

“Well, I figured you’d work up an appetite after all our…sexcapades.” He waggled his eyebrows in a cartoonish way, then ducked his head, suddenly shy. “Figured we could have a nice dinner. Just us. Or, uh, mostly just us…”

Standing next to the table, rigid as a mast, was Galdino. He was dressed in a waiter’s uniform that was several shades crisper than his own personality; the black bow tie strangled his Adam’s apple, and the creases on his slacks could have cut glass. His expression was the portrait of a man who’d once had dreams and was now being paid to be the help/

Buggy’s chest swelled with pride. “Well?” He leaned in, his red painted smile gleaming on his mouth. “What do you think?”

Hana took in the setup: the single table like an island in a sea of ancient flagstones, the faint waxy aroma cut by the briny tang of the pasta, the hot dogs stacked like a child’s birthday fantasy, Galdino glowering like he’d been hired for his ability to hate.

She beamed and put a hand to her chest.

“I love it, Honey Bugs” she cooed. She angled a kiss to his cheek, and his whole face seemed to bloom, even under the paint.

He bounced on his toes, momentarily forgetting to keep his feet on the ground. “Only the best for my girl!”

He then glared at Galdino, who didn’t even bother to hide his sigh.

Buggy coughed. “Ahem. Aren’t we missing something, Waxy?”

Galdino’s eyes rolled so hard it was a miracle they didn’t eject from his skull. He produced a small card from his pocket and, without looking at it, intoned in a monotone that could have been used to test tranquilizers:

“To the dangerous, sexy, and scary Knife Maven Navarro Hana, enjoy this dinner on behalf of your favorite Chairman and Captain in crime and life, the powerful Genius Jester of the Cross Guild, Buggy the Star Clown.”

He tossed the card behind him and glared into the middle distance.

Buggy beamed, nodded, then flapped a hand. “Alright. Good. Now shoo! Get my Baby Cakes a bottle of that red wine she likes. And be quick about it!”

Galdino managed a bow so sarcastic it made the air in the room feel heavy. “Of course, sir.”

He then mumbled, “I was a respected member of a crime syndicate before this…”

Buggy cupped his hand to his ear. “Sorry, what was that? Did you say ‘Thank you, Chairman Buggy, for the privilege of serving at your romantic dinner?’ If you’re not careful, I’ll let Croc know about this and have your pay docked. Maybe your dignity, too, though I see you already lost that.”

Galdino’s mouth snapped shut. He turned with military and stalked toward the wine cellar, his arms pressed flat at his sides, the tails of his starched jacket lashing behind him like the banners of a fallen army. The door swung hard on its hinges as he departed, a single, mournful squeak echoing down the corridor in his wake.

The silence that flooded the dining hall was sudden and weirdly intimate. Hana and Buggy were left alone on their little island of linen and flickering light, the rest of the chamber receding into shadow beyond the golden radius of their table.

Hana barely suppressed a giggle at the cartoonish sway of Galdino’s hips as he left, but the moment the door closed, she sobered, her fingers playing with the edge of the tablecloth.

Buggy, meanwhile, watched the emptying doorway with a self-satisfied little quirk of his painted mouth.

“Do you have to be so mean to him?” Hana asked, half amused, half scolding, as she turned her gaze back to him.

He shrugged, glancing down at his own hand, then flexing his fingers theatrically. “Man’s a legend, really. If he wasn’t so traitorous, I’d probably promote him. Or at least let him polish our knives.”

The dining hall was all theirs now. At the center, the two of them stood like actors on a set that had never seen a love story staged before.

Buggy kicked out a chair for her, then circled the table and did the same for himself.

As he sat, he scooped up a forkful of Hana’s seafood pasta, as if getting ready to let her have the first bite. She opened her mouth, playing along, eyes half-lidded, and lips parted in expectation. Her mouth was watering as she did so. The forkful was so close to her lips and the moment stretched, an invisible cord of tension between giver and recipient.

Then, at the last possible instant, Buggy jerked the fork sideways and shoveled the entire bite into his own mouth, grinning with wild, unrepentant glee as he chewed.

“Hey!” Hana yelped, half-outraged, half-amused.

Her hand shot out, lightning-quick, and stabbed at his arm with her own fork. The tines jabbed him, not deep enough for blood but sharp enough for a yelp.

“Ah! Point taken!” Buggy reared back theatrically, clutching his bicep with an exaggerated wounded expression. Pasta nearly squirted out of his nose.

“Try that again, and I’ll nail your tongue to the table!” Hana said, and there was genuine threat in the tone, but also a note of delight. It was almost a giddy, predatory pleasure at the prospect of violence shared in the spirit of love.

Buggy, unperturbed, wiped his lips with the back of his glove and leaned in conspiratorially.

“I love it when you talk dirty,” he murmured, voice dropping into a mockery of smoothness.

She snorted into her glass of water, struggling not to laugh.

==========================

Galdino detested the wine cellar. It wasn’t the cold, he could outlast glaciers in his wax form, if he wanted. And it certainly wasn’t the booze. If anything, he respected the efficiency of a place whose entire purpose was the containment of vice.

No, what he hated was the silence: the way sound died against the stone, the way your own breathing echoed back at you, and how, in the unlit corners, it always felt like someone might be watching.

He traced a finger along the bottles, squinting to decipher the looping scripts. “Let’s see… Chateau du Marineford, too bitter. Geko Island Blood Red, too pedestrian. Alabasta Reserve…” He scoffed. “Figures the boss only drinks his own stock.”

Eventually, he found what he needed: a bottle of Dressrossa Cabernet, 10 years aged. It was one of the few bottles that didn’t look like a prop from a torture chamber. It had a simple black label, understated, the cork sealed tight with dark wax. Galdino plucked it from its cradle and cradled it under his arm with the gentleness of a man who understood the value of rare commodities.

He was about to turn back when the sound of footsteps stopped him. They didn’t echo as his own had; instead, they pressed softly against the stone, deliberate and unhurried. He tensed.

Out of the gloom, Mihawk materialized. He moved with the slow confidence of a predator that knew it could take its time.

Galdino, caught in the act of hugging the wine bottle to his chest, froze. He straightened, attempted a little bow, and then realized that no one had ever successfully intimidated Mihawk with courtesy.

“Looking for something?” Mihawk asked, voice low and nonchalant.

“Just fulfilling a request, sir,” Galdino said, defaulting to the obsequious lilt that kept him alive in meetings. “Navarro’s fond of this vintage.”

Mihawk’s eyes flickered to the bottle, then back to Galdino’s face, then back to the bottle. “For Navarro,” he repeated, as if cataloguing the fact. “She prefers red?”

“She does, sir. And seafood, from what I’ve seen. Tonight’s a, uh, special occasion apparently.” He risked a glance up. “If you want a glass, I’d be happy to open another bottle.”

Mihawk shook his head, just once. “No need. I’m interested in the recipient, not the drink.”

He let the words float there, as if they didn’t require a response.

Galdino squirmed, then rallied. “Is there a message I can deliver to her, sir?”

“She was a hostess before all this,” Mihawk said, ignoring the question. “At the Baratie, if I recall correctly.”

“That’s what Buggy said. He met her there.”

Mihawk looked at the bottle again. “Decent wine. Seems she’s quite the sommelier.”

One pale finger extended and tapped the glass before Galdino had time to flinch.

“Interesting,” Mihawk murmured, the syllables round and cold.

Then, with no further ceremony, he turned and vanished into the far end of the cellar, melting into darkness the way a knife might slip between ribs.

Galdino stood there for a while, staring after the swordsman, the bottle suddenly feeling much heavier in his hands. He’d worked with maniacs and masterminds, but Mihawk had always been a different animal. The kind that didn’t need to show its fangs to let you know you’d already been marked.

He exhaled, checked the label once more (just to be sure), and started back up the stairs. As he went, he made a note to himself: never, ever get caught in the dark with that man.

He also resolved to keep a closer watch on the woman upstairs. Clearly, the stakes had just changed.

Above, in the echoing main hall, the sounds of chatter and clattering plates drifted down the stairwell, growing stronger with each step. Galdino steeled himself for another round of humiliation, but the encounter with Mihawk burned cold and sharp in his mind.

“Interesting,” he muttered, tasting the word the way some people tasted poison. “Very interesting.”

And then he squared his shoulders and headed into the light.

Eventually, the wine arrived, Galdino pouring Hana her glass with the grim resignation of a man expecting to be poisoned at any moment.

Hana sniffed the glass, swirled it, then raised it for a toast.

“To us,” she said, her voice suddenly devoid of all the sarcasm, warm and private.

Buggy lifted his bottle of rum, eyes wide, almost reverent. “To us,” he echoed, and for a moment, there was nothing ridiculous in the room at all.

They drank, and for the space of a single dinner, the world outside the hall didn’t exist.

For all the staged chaos and big-top bluster of Buggy’s existence, the dinner with Hana felt so intimate it was almost an act of rebellion. There was no audience, only the broad, candlelit table and the twin halos cast by Galdino’s reluctant candelabra. Buggy, who could command a whole crew with a single gesture, seemed at a loss as to what to do with just one set of eyes glued to him especially when they were Hana’s.

She watched him eat, and he tried to watch her back, but her gaze was a slow, dangerous current he couldn’t navigate without running aground. Every time he snuck a glance, Hana was already there, half-smiled, lips wet with wine, light reflecting in her irises like a pair of glassy marbles. He thought of all the times he’d taken hostages, broken safes, even faced execution—never had he felt such a palpable, absurd tension gripping his throat.

Midway through the meal, Hana set her fork down, shot a look at Galdino (who was studiously pretending to polish a nonexistent smudge from a sideboard), and reached across the table. She caught Buggy’s jaw, thumb stroking gently just beneath the line of his painted cheek. A red stripe of makeup had gone soft at the edge, feathered by sweat or laughter or both.

“You missed a spot, Captain,” she whispered, her voice soft enough that only the two of them could possibly hear.

Buggy froze. Both the touch and the words disarmed him as efficiently as a snipped puppet string. No quip, no laugh, not even a bray. He simply sat there, letting the moment breathe, eyes wide. The hush that followed was not fragile, nor was it awkward. Instead, it grew dense. Hana didn’t flinch or look away, and neither did he. For a moment, all the misdirection and showmanship fell away, revealing the thin, vulnerable thread that connected them.

From the corner of the room, Galdino watched, then looked away, as if embarrassed to see something so honest in the middle of all this theater. Buggy finally blinked and tried to recover.

His lips quirked. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll have to ask you to marry me,” he managed, and though it was said with the usual flicker of cockiness, there was a tremor beneath it.

Hana almost spat out her wine. “Please,” she said, when she’d gotten her laughter under control, “You couldn’t survive me as a wife. I’d eat you alive, Buggy the Clown.”

He grinned, showing too many teeth, but there was no real protest. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.

The rest of the meal passed with the strange, euphoric lightness. They ate greedily, as though the food on the table might vanish if they hesitated. The seafood pasta turned from a romantic gesture to a competitive eating contest; the hot dogs, stacked three high on Buggy’s plate, were a source of running commentary and increasingly unhinged double entendres.

They laughed without reservation, each story wilder than the last. He refilled Hana’s wine glass three times, and each time her toasts grew more audacious.

“To our catastrophic luck,” she said once, clinking her glass with Buggy’s bottle of rum.

“To the nightmares of our enemies,” Buggy countered, and Hana raised an eyebrow, liking the sound of that.

“To the wax idiot in the corner, who’s going to clean up after us,” she added, just for spite.

Galdino, deadpan, raised a water glass, and the three of them drank to the strangest family dinner ever staged.

The candles burned low. The plates emptied. Eventually, the moment came when no more food could be crammed, no more alcohol imbibed, no more stories told. Hana and Buggy sat back in their chairs, both of them flushed, eyes glassy, shoulders relaxed.

Hana was the first to break the companionable silence. “I guess this is the part where we make our exit, like proper villains,” she said.

Buggy nodded, feeling the heaviness of the meal settle in his chest, mingling with something less easily named. He glanced at Galdino, who seemed relieved at the prospect of their departure.

“Try not to poison the next bottle of wine,” he said, light but not entirely joking.

Galdino, for once, did not have a stinging retort. He merely bowed, hands clasped, then began clearing the table with the detached efficiency of a butler in hell.

Buggy offered Hana his arm. She took it, and they paraded out of the hall, heads high, as if they’d just pulled off a heist and were daring anyone to stop them.

------------

Hana kicked off her shoes at the door, and Buggy immediately collapsed onto the bed, arms and legs detaching and sprawling at impossible angles, the picture of post-feast excess.

“Best dinner ever” he sighed with content.

She grinned, but her amusement dissolved as she caught sight of the table. There, in the dead center of the battered old desk, stood a bottle with two crystal glasses beside it. A folded card leaned against the neck.

“Oh, that’s subtle,” Hana said.

She stalked over and plucked the note free, reading aloud with a voice that split the difference between mocking and impressed:

“I am told your palate is far more refined than you lead on. I have secured a bottle worthy of proper appreciation. Join me tonight at ten in the bar. If the conversation proves tolerable, perhaps I shall permit you access to my private library afterward.

— Dracule Mihawk”

She let the card drop back onto the table as though the paper itself might be toxic. But her gaze lingered on the bottle, fingers brushing the wax-sealed cork, turning the label so she could read it in the half-light.

“Ha! Yeah…sure…” she said, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. A challenge, with a little curiosity.

She popped the cork with a wine key, ignoring the glasses entirely, and took a long, deliberate drink. Hana shook her head, the sharpness of the wine making her eyes water.

“Shit, that’s good,” she said, with honest awe, then took another, smaller sip and let it roll over her tongue, slow and analytical. “Like, really good. Wow.”

Buggy, who had not moved from the bed, propped himself up on an elbow and watched her. The sight of Mihawk’s name on the card made his lip curl, but when Hana started drinking straight from the bottle, he grinned.

“You sure you don’t want to save some for that meeting with Bird Eyes?” His tone was teasing, but somewhere behind it, a small acid note of jealousy colored the words.

She snorted. “Oh, I’ll meet him, alright. But I’m not sharing or going to his damn library.” She licked a crimson drop from her lip and aimed a look at Buggy. “He probably expects me to show up all demure, glass in hand, batting my lashes…”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know you as I do.” The words came out more serious than he meant.

She laughed, genuine and warm. “I promise. I only like my men in full clown makeup and covered in hot dog grease.”

He brightened at that, but not by much. Buggy blinked, then tried to soften it: “If you want, I can put my ear in your pocket or something.”

She hummed. “You’d get bored in two seconds. You hate wine.”

Buggy feigned outrage. “Excuse me, I have very sophisticated tastes! Just not for your shitty, overglorified grape juice!”

Hana raised the bottle in mock salute. “Good. More for me, then!” she crowed.

He stuck out his tongue playfully, then, after a moment, added more quietly, “You know, I have great taste. That’s why I picked you.”

It should have been a line, but the space behind it landed raw.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the pop of the desk lamp’s filament and the gentle slosh of wine in the bottle as Hana rolled it between her hands.

Hana softened. “Awww…” and for a flash, her toughness yielded to something warmer.

She set the bottle on the desk and padded over to the bed, crawling up beside him. The spring mattress dipped, and Buggy’s body snapped back into a single piece as if by magnetic command. She kissed him, slow and deep, the aftertaste of fine wine colliding with the lingering taste of pasta and the salt of skin. When she pulled away, she lingered with her forehead pressed to his, their noses nearly touching.

“You do have great taste,” she murmured, and there was no joke in it.

He beamed, then immediately scrunched his nose and made a face so cartoonishly dramatic it almost undercut the sincerity of the moment.

“Blegh! Now I taste wine,” he declared, tongue out, wiping at his lips as if the mere suggestion of grape could infect his very soul. “It’s in my gums now. I can feel it soaking into my bones.”

Hana cackled with a delight that came from somewhere deep as her whole body shook, “You’re so delicate!” she crowed, and for a second, the old Buggy, the showman, the ham, the incorrigible brat, almost reasserted itself.

He didn’t bother with a retort. Instead, he reached over and gave her a playful swat on the ass that echoed just loud enough to surprise them both.

“That’s for making fun of your Captain, you little wench,” Buggy said, but his voice was warm and the word landed more as a caress than a threat.

He drew her closer, limbs looping easily around her waist, the mechanical perfection of his Devil Fruit power softened by something slow and human. The proximity, the weight of her body pressed to his, made Buggy feel less like a carnival act and more like himself, whatever that actually meant.

For a long minute, they just lay there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside the door utterly erased. The silence that settled wasn’t empty or fragile; it was plush, weighted, like good velvet. Buggy’s heartbeat slowed. He let his eyes half-close, content to just exist in this improbable, impossible moment. His arms and legs tangled together in a tangle of color and heat, the sweet aftertaste of too much wine and the residual salt from Hana’s collarbone clinging stubbornly to his tongue.

He was the first to break the quiet with a soft exhale.

“You know, you don’t have to go to that stupid meeting. We could just stay here forever,” he suggested, voice half-mumbled into her hair. “Let Mihawk drink alone.”

Hana did not protest, but neither did she fully relax. Even as she let herself be held, there was a tension in her that Buggy recognized. It was the look of a woman waiting for her cue. He wondered if she even knew she was doing it.

After a while, she sat up. The motion was abrupt, decisive, as if she’d remembered a pressing appointment with fate. Her hair fell in wild waves around her face, and her dress, already scandalous, had bunched up her thighs, but she seemed blissfully unaware. Her eyes went sharp and glassy, the effect amplified by the wine and the way the bedside lamp framed her jaw in gold.

Buggy propped himself on one elbow and watched her, equal parts curious and wary. He knew this game, but he didn’t know the rules.

Hana scanned the room, her eyes flicking from the bed to the cluttered desk, then to the wine bottle and the note Mihawk had left behind. She didn’t move for a full ten seconds, just watching, thinking. Plotting.

She picked up the wine bottle, weighed it in her hand as if she could calibrate its value by touch alone, then set it gently back down. She tapped the rim of one glass, watched it vibrate, then turned her head to Buggy and grinned.

“Y’know…” she began, her voice suddenly low and musing, “I might have an idea how to make Mihawk leave me alone.”

Buggy tensed, waiting.

She smirked. “I’ll play along. I’ll go to the bar then, I’ll make him regret ever thinking he could pull one over on me.”

Buggy’s jaw unclenched. “What are you gonna do? Stab him?”

She thought about it. “Nah, I’ll just outdrink him. That’d hurt worse.”

He beamed. “That’s my girl.”

She uncorked the bottle again and took a long pull, then held it up to the light, watching the red swirl and settle. Buggy said nothing. His eyes moved from her face to the bottle and back again, his mouth doing that thing it did when he was working up to something he’d already decided not to say.

“Promise me you won’t let him get under your skin. Or into your head. Or any other part of you, for that matter.”

She laughed, genuine and warm. “I promise. I only like my men in full makeup and covered in hot dog grease.”

He brightened at that, but not by much.

“Don’t wait up,” she said, mocking his old boasting, but this time it felt like a promise.

He watched her, a cocktail of pride and worry simmering behind his eyes, but he knew better than to try to stop her.

She turned back to the wine, and the expensive bottle cradled in her fingers, the glasses untouched, and the light catching in the red like a secret.

Buggy eventually watched her go when the time came, fingers curled in loose fists at his sides, then let himself collapse back into the mattress.

-----------------

At precisely ten o’clock, Mihawk entered the Cross Guild’s bar and, for a moment, the room itself seemed to recalibrate. The door creaked open and sound retreated as if dreading to offend him. Mihawk’s presence was impossible to ignore, and those pirates closest to his trajectory instinctively shrank.

He scanned the room the way a barracuda might survey a school of fish: with lazy menace, all the more chilling for its lack of visible effort.

He made no eye contact, but the shifting tension in the air bent every conversation toward him, as if his mere proximity had a way of rooting out the nervousness in men and amplifying it. Laughter strangled itself into coughs, and the bartender, a man with more scars than fingers, wiped his hands on his apron and fixed his gaze on the grain of the bar.

Mihawk moved without rushing, but none would have described his pace as “leisurely.” He stopped only when he reached the far end of the bar, where a flicker of motion caught his attention: Hana, perched on a stool, legs crossed, diamond dress shimmering in the lantern light. Her posture, from a distance, was the picture of relaxed femininity, but closer inspection revealed a tautness in her shoulders, a tilt in her head that spoke of something barely contained.

Atop the sticky wooden bar before her was an arrangement that might have been absurd if not for the context: two emptied bottles of expensive red wine, one still breathing out its last fumes, and a third lying on its side, a thin line of garnet liquid running down the counter and over the edge, where it beaded below. Next to the bottles, Hana’s hand danced with the stem of a glass, forever on the cusp of shattering it.

Mihawk surveyed the tableau with a single, infinitesimal narrowing of his yellow-gold eyes. He took in the situation—the evidence of overindulgence, the faint flush at her collarbone, the relish with which she seemed to be annoying the entire room—and then closed the remaining distance, planting himself at her elbow.

“So I see you read my note,” he said, his voice so even and quiet it nearly forced the surrounding noise into silence by contrast.

Hana turned to regard him. Her eyes were ringed and glossy, pupils dilated. She smiled, but it was a reckless smile.

“Heeey, it’s Hawky boy!” she announced, her voice at once a caress and a challenge. She waggled the wine bottle at him, sloshing its contents dangerously close to his trousers. “Not like… haki, but like, Hawky. Meeeeeee hawky.”

On the last syllable, her tongue lolled out, then snapped back in. The pirates closest to the pair stopped pretending not to watch. A wiry man with a broken nose and a purple tattoo curling down his neck leaned over his shot glass, greedily awaiting whatever bloodsport would follow.

Mihawk’s jaw tensed, the only sign he’d been affected. “Are you… intoxicated?” he asked, the last word carrying a subtle weight, as if the concept itself was beneath consideration.

Hana took a moment to consider, her brow furrowed in pantomime seriousness, then nodded. She attempted to count the bottles, got to three on her fingers, then lost track and started over.

“Maybe a little,” she conceded, “but you got good taste in wine, so I’ll give you that! In fact, I finished the one you left me in my room, so thanks!”

She squinted up at him, then jabbed the bottle in his direction again, this time less controlled, and it thudded against his hip. “So is this like…a date, or, like, an interview?”

“I had intended to discuss something of consequence,” Mihawk said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “But I see you have other priorities.”

She raised an index finger and then wobbled it for emphasis. “Multi-tasking, that’s my secret! Watch.”

With exaggerated determination, she upended the bottle, poured a long stream into her glass, and drank it down in one go. Her throat worked with the effort, and the last of the wine left a little mustache on her upper lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, then slammed the glass onto the bar with a crash that sent chips of crystal skittering across the wood.

“Whooooooooo!”

Mihawk watched, unmoved, then reached out and, lightning-quick, caught her wrist before she could follow up with further vandalism. His grip was like a vice; more a warning than a punishment.

“I had requested to share this bottle with you,” he said, his tone the same as if he were reciting a passage from a law book. “Not observe your… consumption.”

Hana flashed her teeth. “Well, you supposed wrong, Hawky.”

She said the word “supposed” with a flourish, like a matador brandishing a cape, then dissolved into a snorting, wheezing fit of laughter so intense it left her gasping for air.

“Hawk-yy…like a hawk!” she crowed, then, seizing the moment, drew herself upright and stared Mihawk full in the face.

“CAW!” she cried, the squawk so sharp and perfect that it echoed across the bar and left her snickering and hissing over her own joke.

Around them, the pirates were emboldened by the spectacle and began to snicker openly. Even the bartender, who’d once served under a man who fed his enemies their own shoes, found it impossible to suppress a twitch of the mouth.

Mihawk, to his credit, did not flinch. He leaned in, closing the remaining distance between their faces until the tips of their noses nearly touched as his cold eyes hardened.

“You are making a spectacle,” he said, and the words hung in the air like a guillotine’s blade.

Hana blinked deliberately, then let a smile curl onto her lips, subtle this time, more a dare than an apology.

“You ever get tired of being so serious?” she said, the volume dropping into something almost intimate.

For the briefest moment, something passed across Mihawk’s face. It was a flicker of confusion quickly smothered under practiced self-control.

“It is the only way to get anything done in a world of fools,” he replied.

She snorted, and reached out to poke his bare chest with her finger. She encountered cold, lean muscle.

“Seriously, though, don’t you get cold? Or chafe your nipples on that thing?” She traced a lazy circle just below his collarbone, mocking him.

Mihawk’s lips parted. For a second, something unguarded moved across his face—not the expression of a warlord, but of a man who had just been caught off guard by something as simple as a fingertip. He stepped back and drew in his coat across his chest.

“You deflect with humor,” he said, voice lower. “Is that how you avoid sincerity?”

“Maybe,” she replied smugly “Or maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

Mihawk’s jaw went rigid, but he smoothed the expression away, returning to his default mask of stoicism. “I had hoped for a conversation,” he said, “not a performance.”

Something shifted in Hana’s posture. It was a sudden stillness cutting through the wine-loose sway of her body. She turned to face him squarely, chin up.

“Fine,” she said. “Talk.”

“You are an anomaly here. Your presence unsettles even the strongest. Crocodile is infatuated with you, even if he pretends he isn’t. The clown is in love with you. I do not enjoy chaos, but you…” Mihawk searched for the word, unused to this sort of self-examination, “…intrigue me.”

She absorbed it, the wine haze not dulling the edge of her intelligence. “That’s your pitch? ‘You intrigue me?’ Gotta say, Hawky, I expected more.”

He frowned and his eyes narrowed. “I did not come to flirt.” the words crisp as frost.

She cocked her head, letting her hair spill in a black waterfall over one shoulder. “That’s not what it sounds like, but fine. I’ll bite. What do you think you’re after here?”

He started to answer, then stopped. After a heartbeat’s deliberation, he simply replied, “What do you want?”

Hana paused, the question hanging between them like a challenge coin tossed onto the bar.

“Right now?” She looked up at the shelves behind the bartender, at the rows of bottles and the ragged tapestry of pirate flags on the far wall. “Right now I want another drink!”

The bartender, a veteran of so many brawls that his face resembled a patchwork quilt, raised an eyebrow in anticipation. Hana raised a finger and gestured for a round of shots, one for every pirate in the establishment.

When the bartender raised an eyebrow, she added, “Put it on Hawky’s tab.”

A few of the patrons laughed, the sharp edge of tension blunted by the prospect of free liquor.

She poured herself a shot, then another, and slid the second glass to Mihawk across the greasy lacquer of the bar.

“Cheers,” she said, her eyes meeting his without a shimmer of hesitation.

He reluctantly accepted the glass and, after a moment’s consideration, lifted it to his lips. The two of them drank in perfect synchrony.

And then, in the next instant, Hana misjudged her balance and toppled backwards off her stool.

“Shit!”

The floor came up fast. Then it didn’t. Mihawk’s arm was already there, looped around her waist before the stool had finished clattering, the motion so economical it barely registered as movement at all. The crowd went quiet for a beat, then erupted in low whistles and elbowing.

His hand sat at the small of her back, unhurried. Her eyes found his.

“Be careful,” he said, low enough that it belonged only to the two of them.

She stared at him for a moment, then her mouth curved.

“You’re not so scary up close,” she said, and dissolved into a snorting laugh.

Something moved behind his eyes. Not offense. Something more like recalibration.

From the far side of the room, Daz Bones, face hard as obsidian, body half in shadow, watched the whole exchange, mentally recording every beat. He said nothing, but his gaze never wavered. Right by him, Galdino leaned in for a better view, eyes narrowed. He saw Mihawk’s hand close on Hana’s back. The way the light caught her dress and made the two of them seem locked in some kind of formal dance.

That’s when an idea clicked.

In a dim alcove beside the bar, Galdino crouched behind a collapsed velvet curtain, his expression that of an artist in the throes of inspiration. He caressed the cold, lacquered shell of his miniature camera-den den-mushi, coaxing it to life with the lightest brush of a fingertip.

“Easy now,” he murmured, stroking the tiny creature with the care of a jeweler polishing a diamond.

The snail blinked wetly and adjusted its gaze to the tableau at the center of the room. The snail’s stalk eyes glittered, mirroring his own predatory glint.

Galdino’s hand hovered over the snail’s shell, waiting for the exact right instant. He wanted drama. He wanted the kind of image you could ransom an admiral with.

When Mihawk’s fingers pressed just a hair deeper into Hana’s back, and when her head lolled to the left, exposing a pale stretch of throat and the wild, messy fall of her hair, Galdino squeezed his camera’s trigger.

“Oh, this is scandalous...”

A faint pulse of static. No sound, no flash, just a perfect, incriminating freeze-frame: the world’s greatest swordsman holding the world’s most dangerous woman with a pair of knives.

“Now, that’s leverage,” Galdino whispered, stroking the camera snail’s ridged back in gratitude. “Buggy is going to have an aneurysm.”

He pressed a button; within seconds, a slick, polaroid-like photograph unfurled from a hidden compartment in the snail’s shell. He gazed at it, imagining the endless possibilities. Mihawk wouldn’t care but Crocodile would. The clown would lose his mind. And Hana… she was unpredictable, but this was the best kind of leverage to have on file.

He pocketed the photo and slunk out from his hiding place, moving to the far end of the bar where Daz Bones, his features as smooth and unreadable as obsidian, nursed a glass of something clear and highly toxic. Galdino nudged him with an elbow.

“You see that?” he whispered, voice oily and triumphant. “Our resident goddess tamed the hawk. The boss will be most interested.”

Daz didn’t reply, but the faintest nod of his head told Galdino everything he needed to know. A new equilibrium had been achieved, if only for a moment.

Meanwhile, Mihawk maintained his grip on Hana as she fought to steady herself.

“Okay, okay, get off me,” she slurred, voice daring him to challenge her autonomy.

He released her with surgical precision, as if he’d been holding the hilt of his sword.

“I was preventing you from falling,” he replied, more offense than defense in his tone.

“I’m fine! No need to get handsy on me!”

Hana managed two steps before the world spun. The last shot detonated in her blood, weaponized by exhaustion and adrenaline.

“Ummm…shit…”

Her knees buckled, and she pitched forward, body folding in on itself, gravity winning for once.

Mihawk caught her again before she hit the ground, one arm folding effortlessly beneath her knees, the other securing her shoulders. He surveyed her face. Not with concern, but with annoyance. She muttered something unintelligible, then went slack in his arms.

He sighed, looking around at the suddenly attentive audience of pirates and mercenaries.

“As it goes,” he pronounced, as if resigning himself to a cosmic fate, and began the march toward the exit, Hana’s limp form draped over him like a stolen cloak.

The walk through the hallway to the guest suites was a study in contrasts. Mihawk’s footfalls were silent, even burdened by Hana’s weight; her dress whispered against her skin, diamonds catching the torchlight in epileptic flashes. Occasionally, her head lolled sideways, and he would tighten his hold a fraction to keep her upright.

At one point, she regained a sliver of consciousness and mumbled, “I liked you better when I didn’t know you.”

Mihawk said nothing, but the faintest upturn of his mouth suggested the comment amused him.

Down the corridor, behind a door emblazoned with a painted star and the remnants of a shattered lock, the room thudded with the sound of Buggy’s pacing. He’d been waiting, nerves electrifying the air, one hand compulsively spinning a throwing knife, the other clenching and unclenching around nothing.

When a precise, rapid knock came, Buggy flung open the door, ready to fight whatever waited on the other side. The sight of Mihawk, holding a barely-conscious Hana, froze him.

A second later, rage replaced surprise.

“What the FUCK did you do to her, Bird Eyes?” he spat. The knife in his hand gleamed, trembling with anticipation.

He grabbed Hana’s face too quickly, turning her head side to side.

“Hana?” His voice cracked before he could stop it. “Hey, c’mon, quit screwin’ around.”

He pressed his forehead against hers for half a second, checking her breathing, pulse, anything, before glaring murderously back at Mihawk.

“If you let something happen to her, I swear to God—”

Mihawk regarded Buggy as if he were an unfortunate errand.

“Your woman,” he said, “has no sense of moderation. She drank herself into oblivion.”

He deposited Hana into Buggy’s arms with the same nonchalance a chef might use to plate a meal. Buggy caught her reflexively, arms locking around her with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the venom in his glare. He pressed his nose to her hair, checking for any sign of injury.

Mihawk brushed imaginary dust off his sleeves, then glanced at Buggy with a flat, almost bored expression.

“You may want to teach her limits,” he suggested.

“Yeah? Why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Buggy growled, but his voice was thin, his attention already refocused on the woman in his arms. He cradled her, shifting her weight as if she were made of spun glass.

Mihawk started to turn away, but paused at the threshold, glancing back. “She is formidable,” he said, voice softer than before. “Don’t waste that.”

Buggy didn’t answer, but the words seemed to land somewhere deep. He watched as Mihawk’s silhouette receded down the hallway, then carefully carried Hana to the bed, laying her on the rumpled covers.

She stirred, half-waking, and reached blindly for his hand.

“Bugs…?”

He took it, without hesitation.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here.”

She made a sound that could have been a hum, and then drifted away in a sleep, her knuckles still locked around his fingers. Buggy let himself exhale, the tension in his jaw draining out slow.

“You scared the hell outta me, Drinky...”

The room was quiet save for the distant thump of noise through the walls. He waited, uncomplaining, until Hana let go of his hand, her fingers going slack as her breathing evened out. He tucked the blanket over her shoulders, then stood and crossed to the window.

The moon was a filthy sliver above the compound, the courtyard below paved with alternating pools of light and shadow. Buggy stared out at it for a long time, until the ache behind his eyes retreated to a dull throb. He pressed his forehead to the glass and exhaled, fogging the pane. His finger dragged absently through the fogged glass before he realized he’d drawn a crooked little heart.

“…The hell am I doing?”

He scowled at it for three solid seconds. Then drew a second one beside it.

He turned back to Hana, haloed in the sickly bedside glow, and hoped the fire in her would still be there come morning. Then he killed the lights and slipped into bed beside her.

========

Outside in the moon-blanched courtyard, the world was a theater of smoke and shadow. 

Crocodile stood beneath the main archway; a colossus in silhouette. The flame at the tip of his cigar burned with the steady patience of a watchman’s lantern as His hook gleamed faintly in the blue light. Daz Bonez took his place at Crocodile’s right, as inevitably as a shadow attaches to its master at sundown. Galdino hovered just behind them, shifting from foot to foot in the manner of a man who had witnessed something truly delectable and could not wait to share it. He fussed with his cuffs, then smoothed his hair, and then, unable to contain himself, plucked a flat, glossy rectangle from his breast pocket with a flourish.

The photograph was fresh, still warm from the chemical fixatives inside his camera-snail. He presented it not like evidence, but like a calling card. 

“Ah, gentlemen,” he purred, savoring the syllables. “May I present my newest masterpiece?”

Crocodile did not turn, but extended two fingers in a gesture at once dismissive and commanding. Galdino placed the photo in his hand and stepped back, eyes glittering with anticipation.

“While everyone else was busy drinking themselves into unconsciousness, I was gathering useful information,” Galdino observed, with the air of a chef revealing the final course.

For a moment, the only sound was the restless snap of distant flags and the soft exhalation of Crocodile’s cigar. He did not react at first, simply angled the photo to the light, gaze fixed as if he could will the image to yield its secrets.

Then a smile began, almost molecular in its slowness, on the left side of Crocodile’s mouth. 

The brow lifted, “Hmmm,” he said, a gust of smoke curling through the word.

Daz peered over his boss’s shoulder, saw the tableau: Mihawk, face for once not so forbidding, hand braced possessively at Hana’s back. Hana’s head rolled back, hair spilling wildly and lips parted in a way that looked far too intimate for two people supposedly maintaining emotional distance.

The impression was unmistakable. It was a frame from either a seduction or a standoff, and either way it was dynamite. Galdino watched Crocodile, barely breathing. Of course, he noticed it. Nobody understood exploitable weakness better than Crocodile.

Crocodile held the picture up, turning it so that the moonlight bled through the glossy surface and made the figures in it seem ghostly, hyper-real. He studied it for a long time, long enough that Galdino started to fidget, then finally spoke:

“This is going to cause an incident,” he murmured, almost to himself. His smile grew, the kind of smile that only ever spells trouble. “Excellent.”

“Genius, if I may,” Galdino said, risking the faintest note of pride. “I believe with this, we can—”

“We?” Crocodile cut him off, voice like a razor running over glass. He didn’t turn around, but Galdino felt the reprimand as surely as a slap.

“My apologies, Boss. I meant only—”

“You meant to say you’ve earned your keep.” Crocodile let the photo drift in the night air, then caught it neatly between two fingers. “Duly noted.”

Daz Bones finally took the photo for himself, studying it with the dispassion of someone who understood the choreography of violence but not the nuances of human entanglement. He snorted and handed it back, as if the image itself was beneath him but the implications were not.

Crocodile’s attention returned to the two men at his flank. 

He tucked the photo back into his coat. “But let’s see what happens when the swordsman gets a taste of his own medicine. Daz, keep an eye on the perimeter. Galdino, you’re on internal watch.”

Daz Bones nodded, already fading back into the deeper shadows of the courtyard.

As the others melted away, Crocodile lingered. He let himself savor the taste of the moment and the knowledge that, tonight, the balance of power had shifted in his favor.

Crocodile exhaled, smoke twisting into a devil’s smile as he visualized the photo.

“You’re not winning this, Hawk Eyes.”

AN: This gif totally reminds me of Mihawk shoving Hana to Buggy 🤣🤣

I’d like to think Hana is very much Esmeralda coded (given that my voice claim for her is literally Demi Moore)

Croc and Mihawk: “Look at that disgusting display!”

Meanwhile Buggy (with heart eyes) :

Going over the fic, there’s not really anything that stands out that makes it exclusive to Hana besides her relationship with Buggy. I could easily swap her out with Reader and nothing would change. 🤷🏻‍♀️