#mihawk imagines

The air on the island was heavy with salt and silence. Once a glittering jewel of royal influence, your home now reeked of Marine control. Pristine white flags fluttering where your family’s golden crest once hung.

You stepped out onto the veranda, barefoot, your long skirt brushing the marble tiles as you scowled at the ocean below, ‘quit following me!’ you snapped without turning around.

A low, unimpressed hum came from behind you, ‘I was hired to follow you, princess,’ came the cool baritone voice, ‘better get used to it.’

You whirled around to face him. Dracule Mihawk, Warlord of the Sea, the world’s greatest swordsman, and currently, your so-called babysitter. He leaned against one of the veranda’s pillars, arms crossed, that ridiculous hat shadowing his hawk-like eyes. Yoru, his massive blade, rested against the wall beside him, close enough to make your guards sweat just looking at it.

‘Some babysitter,’ you muttered, ‘What’s next? You gonna tell me when to eat my vegetables, too?’

Mihawk didn’t flinch. ‘If it stops you from trying to scale the outer wall again, perhaps.’

You glared at him, cheeks warming, ‘That was one time!’

He raised a brow, ‘It was yesterday. And you nearly broke your neck.’

You crossed your arms, lips pressed tight. The worst part was that he didn’t even mock you with malice. He just said things, plainly, sharply, and they somehow stung more than insults.

‘…I don’t need your help,’ you said finally, looking away toward the horizon, ‘my father will clear his name. The Marines will leave. And then you can go back to brooding in your creepy castle.’

The faintest twitch of amusement crossed Mihawk’s mouth, ‘You think I enjoy this arrangement?’

‘Don’t you?’ you shoot back, ‘you get to lurk around like some fancy guard dog, doing nothing while the Marines play jailor.’

He regarded you quietly for a moment, so still that it made you uneasy. His golden eyes reflected the dying light of the sunset, sharp and unreadable. ‘You misunderstand, princess,’ he said, tone softening, not kind, but deliberate, ‘I was sent here to prevent your escape, not to protect you from others.’

‘I don’t need protecting,’ you reply, chin lifting defiantly.

‘That remains to be seen.’

The words lingered between you like a blade edge, fine, gleaming, and dangerous.

You turned to leave, your hands clenching at your sides. But before you could step through the doorway, his voice followed you again.

‘Still,’ Mihawk said, his tone quieter now, ‘you’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that.’

You pause, just long enough for him to catch the faintest flicker of a grin tugging at your lips, ‘don’t sound too impressed,’ you mutter, ‘you’ll ruin your mysterious reputation.’

When you walked away, Mihawk watched you go, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly. He had expected a spoiled royal brat. What he got instead was a wildfire in silk. And for the first time in years, the greatest swordsman in the world found himself wondering not if he could guard you. But if he could keep up.

THREE DAYS LATER

The jungle path that led away from the castle wound deep into the island’s heart, where the Marine patrols rarely bothered to tread. You moved quickly through the foliage, skirts hitched up just enough not to trip over them, glancing behind you every few seconds.

No sound. No shadow. Finally. You allowed yourself a breath of satisfaction. I finally lost him.

For all his skill, Dracule Mihawk wasn’t exactly built for stealth in the wilderness. You half expected to hear the clang of his boots or the creak of that absurdly massive sword. But there was nothing, just the call of gulls and the faint hum of cicadas.

Until you heard shouting up ahead.

Your brow furrowed, and you followed the noise toward the edge of a small fishing village. The houses were simple; the people were quieter now under Marine occupation, their spirits dimmed and their pride bruised.

And now, a group of young Marines, clearly new recruits, were laughing near one of the shacks. A man knelt before them, clutching a basket of spilt fish. One Marine kicked the basket aside, sending the catch scattering into the dirt.

‘Come on, old man! You think we don’t know you’re hiding food from the Navy?’ one of them sneered, stepping forward.

‘I-I only kept enough for my family,’ the villager stammered, ‘Please, sir—’

The soldier raised his rifle like a club. You didn’t think. You moved. Picking up a discarded wooden oar near you.

The sound of the oar connecting with a head cracked the air, then another. Before the Marines even knew what hit them, two were flat on their backs, the third spinning around in shock just in time for you to drive your knee into his stomach after dropping the oar.

He collapsed with a wheeze, eyes rolling back as you caught your breath.

‘Princess—!’ the old man gasped, his voice trembling, ‘I—thank you, my lady! You—you shouldn’t—’

You waved him off quickly, straightening your dishevelled sleeves, ‘It’s fine. Go home, make sure your family eats tonight. That’s an order.’

He blinked at you, bewildered by the calm authority in your tone.

‘It’s my duty,’ you added, brushing dirt from your palms, ‘to make sure no harm comes to my people. Not while I’m still breathing.’

The man bowed deeply, tears in his eyes, before hurrying off into the safety of the trees.

You exhaled slowly. Your heart was still pounding, but beneath the adrenaline was a strange warmth, a reminder of what it used to mean to be royalty here.

Then you freeze. You felt it. That quiet, steady presence, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself.

You turned. Mihawk leaned against a nearby palm, arms crossed, hat shadowing his expression. The golden eyes that met yours were sharp as ever, but there was something different in them this time. Maybe a glint of approval.’

‘…How long have you been there?’ you demanded.

‘Long enough,’ he replied simply.

You groan, ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to run off and report me to your Marine friends.’

He pushed off the tree with unhurried grace, the tails of his coat swaying lightly, ‘Hardly. I have no interest in petty squabbles or frightened men in uniform.’

‘Then what—?’

‘I was curious,’ he interrupted, stepping closer until you could feel the weight of his gaze, ‘whether the stories about royal arrogance were true.’

You blinked at him, ‘and?’

His lips quirked, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, ‘you’ve proven me wrong. That doesn’t happen often.’

Heat rushed to your face, though you refused to show it, ‘you could have helped, you know.’

‘I was evaluating your skill,’ he said, tone perfectly casual, ‘consider it…training.’

‘Training?!’ you hiss, ‘I nearly got caught—’

‘But you didn’t.’

You opened your mouth to argue, then shut it again. He was right. And worse, you could tell he knew it, ‘you’re insufferable,’ you mutter, turning away.

Mihawk followed at a leisurely pace, Yoru glinting faintly in the setting sun, ‘So I’ve been told.’

When you threw him an exasperated glare over your shoulder, he didn’t look away this time. Instead, he regarded you with a faint, unreadable smile, something that felt almost like respect.

NIGHT

Night had fallen over the island like a shroud. The once-lively palace was silent, its halls patrolled by Marines in white and blue uniforms, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. From the balcony outside your chambers, you could hear the sea. Restless, crashing against the cliffs below.

You sat at the edge of the stone balustrade, one knee pulled up, the other dangling over the abyss. The wind tugged at your hair, carrying the faint salt of the waves.

Behind you, the sound of boots on marble, ‘you’ll fall if you lean any farther,’ Mihawk said quietly.

You didn’t turn around, ‘If I fall, at least I’ll get some peace.’

There was a faint exhale, not quite a sigh, but close, ‘you’re not the first royal to say that,’ he murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder. Mihawk stood there, arms crossed as usual, his expression calm and unreadable. The lanternlight from your window flickered across his face, casting strange gold and crimson highlights across his eyes.

‘Why do you do it?’ you asked suddenly, ‘work for the Marines? You, of all people. You don’t seem like the type to take orders.’

‘I don’t,’ he said simply, ‘I accepted the title of Warlord because it allows me freedom. The Marines stay out of my affairs. I stay out of theirs.’

You snorted softly, ‘convenient. Meanwhile, they ruin lives.’

That got his attention. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest spark of curiosity flickering across his gaze, ‘Go on.’

You turned back toward the ocean, voice low but steady, ‘The Marines built their base near our shores three years ago. My father warned them that it would disrupt trade and frighten our people. They didn’t listen.’

Your hands clenched in your lap, ‘ever since then, they’ve been waiting for an excuse, any excuse to strip the royal family of power and seize control. It was only a matter of time before they found one.’

‘Your father’s alleged ties to pirates,’ Mihawk said evenly.

You nodded, a bitter laugh slipping out, ‘Exactly. They act like heroes, preaching justice and order, but I’ve seen what they really are. Greedy. Hungry for power. They wear their spotless white uniforms like halos and expect everyone to forget that corruption festers underneath.’

You looked up at him then, eyes sharp despite the faint glow of moonlight, ‘Everyone has evil in them, Mihawk. The Marines, pirates, nobles, it doesn’t matter. Give anyone enough power, and you’ll see it.’

For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sound was the waves breaking far below.

Then, slowly, Mihawk crossed the balcony, coming to stand beside you. His shadow fell across the stone, dark and unwavering, ‘You speak like someone who’s seen too much for their age,’ he said finally.

You gave a humourless smile, ‘and you speak like someone who stopped being surprised by human nature a long time ago.’

That earned a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, ‘you’re not wrong.’

You studied him out of the corner of your eye. For all his reputation, the cold killer, the duelist who’d cut down legends, he didn’t feel cruel. Detached, yes. But there was something in the way he looked at the world, like he’d seen it crumble one too many times and decided to simply stand still while it did.

‘Tell me something,’ you said after a moment, ‘why didn’t you stop me earlier today? When I attacked those Marines?’

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, ‘because they deserved it.’

You blinked, turning to look at him properly, ‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it,’ Mihawk replied, ‘there’s a difference between chaos and justice, Princess. The Marines forget that sometimes.’

You stare at him, this stoic, infamous swordsman who’d brought nations to heel, and for the first time, you feel something unexpected. Not fear. Not disdain. Understanding.

‘…You’re not what I expected,’ you murmur.

He looked at you, eyes gleaming faintly beneath the brim of his hat, ‘neither are you.’

You're unlike anything else he has seen before.

His liking for everything gothic has made you all the more interesting. You possess the allure of a broken porcelain doll. Alone, abandoned, torn to little pieces. You remind him too much of that, and he desires nothing more than to catch you in his arms and put the pieces back together, figuring out why are you in such a state. Eyes dark, without any sort of shimmer or twinkle of hope. Only void, a strange, simmering rage that sometimes lets itself be seen.

"Why do you keep following me?" You ask, on your knees, then laying on the ground. Like a wounded animal, he only stands behind you. Tall, like a shadow, always lurking, always behind.

"Why do you keep running?" He asks, his voice ringing in your tired ears. You don't answer immediately, continuing to look at nothing as he takes off his coat and places it on top of your body, stopping your shivering. "You're weak and trembling. This world has no place for you."

"I don't care," You answer, voice hoarse from crying, for not having had a proper sleep in what seems like months. "I need... I need to achieve my purpose."

"And what purpose is that, little doll?" He asks, his knuckles softly tracing the contours of your face. You finally look at his face, masculine, with deep eyes in a bright yellow color.

"I need to make others pay," You answer, almost breaking down in tears. And you can almost see him smirk, but he lets you talk. "I need to hunt down the people who hurt me, I need to kill them, I need to make them suffer." He only lets out a single dry chuckle.

"The world of vengeance has no place for you, little thing, I already told you." His words are sharp, strangely comforting as he lifts you off the ground with ease. Cradling you in his arms with love and care, like you'll break more than you already are. "But I can help you."

"With vengeance?" You ask, limp, exhaustion taking over every piece of you. Your eyes ache to close.

"No, with care," He whispers, and presses your face close to his chest. Allowing you the respite your body so badly craves, the opportunity to finally relax. In the arms of this strange man. "With love. No harm will ever come before you, not with me close to you."

"Is that... a threat?" You ask, and he laughs out loud this time. His smile becomes predatory, fangs showing themselves. He's one with the night, a creature of darkness that has decided it needs to claim you.

"It's a promise, my precious doll."

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The training yard behind the Cross Guild base rang with the clean, measured sound of steel cutting through air.

Dracule Mihawk didn’t waste motion. Every swing of Yoru was deliberate, controlled—power held on a leash so tight it was almost more intimidating than if he let it loose.

You had absolutely meant to just drop off the wine. That was the plan. Instead, you’d been standing in the doorway for… longer than you were willing to admit. Watching.

“I can practically feel your eyes on me.”

You froze. He hadn’t even turned. Right. Of course, he hadn’t. This was Mihawk. You forced yourself forward, lifting the glass slightly like it would somehow justify your existence here. “I am looking respectfully.”

The blade stopped. Slowly—very slowly—he turned to face you. Golden eyes locked onto yours with unnerving precision, flicking over your expression, your posture… lingering just enough to make your heart stutter. “You are absolutely not.”

Your grip tightened on the glass. “I am not.”

He stepped closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just enough. Up close, it was worse. Much worse. There was no distance to hide behind now—no safe vantage point. Just you, him, and the quiet weight of his attention pressing in. “You’re staring at my arms,” he said calmly, gaze dipping for half a second before returning to your face. “Not my sword.”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “I—That’s—” You cleared your throat, trying to recover even a shred of dignity. “I can multitask.”

That did it. That faint, rare smirk appeared—subtle, but unmistakably amused. “Is that so?”

He took the glass from your hand, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to feel intentional. You should pull back. You didn’t.

“I don’t mind,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

That made it worse. “What?”

“The attention.” His tone was even, but his eyes gave him away—sharp, observant, clearly enjoying this far more than he let on. “It’s… refreshing.”

Your face burned. This was not how this was supposed to go. “You’re—” You gestured vaguely at him, words failing you entirely. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

A slight tilt of his head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. There was no winning here.

His smirk deepened just a fraction. “Careful,” he said, voice dropping slightly, quieter now. “You’re getting flustered.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” he repeated, completely unbothered—and clearly correct.

You took a step back. Then another. “This was a mistake,” you muttered.

“Mm.” No denial. No argument. Which somehow felt like him winning.

You turned quickly, deciding retreat was the only option left with your dignity even remotely intact—and immediately walked straight into a wooden support beam.

The dull thunk echoed louder than any sword strike.

You froze. For one long, horrifying second. Behind you, silence. Then—A quiet exhale. Not quite a laugh. But dangerously close. You didn’t turn around.

“I meant to do that,” you said, already walking faster toward the exit.

“Of course you did.”

You could hear it in his voice now—that restrained amusement, sharper than any blade. You escaped the yard before things could get any worse.

Behind you, Mihawk lifted the glass, watching the doorway long after you’d disappeared. He took a slow sip of the wine, expression settling back into something composed—but the smirk remained. “…Honest,” he murmured to himself.

For a man who rarely found anything worth his attention anymore, life within Cross Guild had been… tolerable at best. Until now. He glanced once more toward the empty entrance, eyes glinting faintly. A new kind of game, perhaps. Cat and mouse. And for once, He didn’t mind playing.

TWO WEEKS LATER

It started, annoyingly enough, with convenience. At least that’s what Buggy insisted.

“I’m not scared of him,” he had said loudly, gesturing wildly as usual. “I just think delegation is what great leaders do!”

No one believed that. Not even him. And so, somehow, you became the “delegate.”Which really meant: the person who went to see Dracule Mihawk because—according to Buggy’s increasingly bitter logic—“he doesn’t immediately try to kill you.” It wasn’t a high bar. But still.

At first, you tried to keep it strictly professional. Deliver the item. Leave immediately. No lingering. No eye contact if possible. No incidents. It did not go to plan. The first time, it was paperwork. You walked into the training yard, handed it over, and tried to leave before he even acknowledged you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You stopped mid-step. “I’m not avoiding you,” you said carefully. “I’m just efficient.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “You walked into a support beam last time.”

“That was—contextual.”

His gaze lifted slightly. “Mm.”

You left faster than intended.

The second time, it was supplies. You made it halfway through the exchange before he spoke again. “You’re tense.”

“I’m not tense.”

“You’re holding the tray like it might attack you.”

“I respect gravity,” you replied immediately.

That earned you the faintest curve of his mouth again. And then, somehow, your hands forgot how to exist. One bottle shifted too far. You caught it too late. Glass clinked sharply against glass. Silence.

“…I meant to do that,” you said.

“You’re getting worse at lying,” he observed.

You left quickly. Again.

By the third time, you started planning exits before you even entered the room.

Which was a mistake. Because now he noticed.

“You rehearse your escape routes,” he said one afternoon, watching you as you placed down a folded cloak.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You looked left before you entered.”

“I was checking the weather.”

There was a pause. Then, quieter: “There is no weather inside.”

That one almost got you. Almost. You turned too quickly after handing him the item, caught your foot on uneven ground, and stumbled. You recovered—technically. But only after a very undignified moment of windmilling your arms.

From behind you: a slow exhale that was absolutely amusing this time. You didn’t look back. You absolutely did not look back. But you still heard him say, “Careful.”

As if he expected you to trip again. Which, unfortunately, you kind of did.

The fourth time, you brought wine again. “Buggy’s idea,” you said immediately. “Not mine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“…Right.”

You handed it over. Your fingers brushed his again—barely, accidentally, too brief to mean anything.

Except he paused. Just slightly. “You’re steadier today,” he said.

“I practised.”

“With wine delivery?”

“With not embarrassing myself.”

A faint pause. Then “Progress.”

That should have helped. It did not. Because you smiled. And he noticed.

Which, somehow, made everything worse. You left in a hurry—again—only this time the corridor outside felt narrower than it used to. You made it exactly three steps before your shoulder clipped a hanging rope pulley system. It swung. Lightly. Harmlessly. Right into a stack of wooden crates. Which fell. Loudly.

There was a beat of silence from the yard behind you. Then, unmistakably, a quiet sound from Mihawk. Not laughter. But definitely not nothing. You didn’t turn back.

But you did hear him say, almost thoughtfully: “You’re consistent, at least.”

Back in the yard, he lifted the glass of wine again, eyes briefly following where you’d disappeared. The faint smirk returned—this time lingering a little longer. Within Cross Guild, most things were loud, chaotic, and predictable. This wasn’t any of those. And for someone like him… That was starting to feel like the most interesting thing in a long time.

ONE WEEK LATER

Over time, the arrangement stopped feeling accidental. Not because you wanted it to stop—but because Dracule Mihawk clearly allowed it to continue. He could have dismissed you. Ended the errands. Sent you away from the training yard permanently if he found you even mildly inconvenient. Instead, he didn’t.

Which, in Mihawk terms, was practically encouragement. And the worst part was that he knew exactly what Buggy was doing. A test of patience. A way to avoid him. A convenient shield wrapped in your willingness to walk into danger. He tolerated it anyway. Not for Buggy. For you. That was something you only started to understand later.

It was late afternoon when he passed the training yard. He hadn’t intended to stop.

But sound carried well across open stone—especially the sharp thunk of wood striking wood in controlled rhythm. He paused at the edge of the yard. You were there. A wooden staff in your hands, turning through the air with precision that didn’t belong in “delivery duty.” Each strike was measured. Clean. Repeated forms, practised until they were instinct rather than thought.

No hesitation. No wasted motion. Mihawk’s gaze narrowed slightly. That was… real control. Not flashy. Not loud. Just efficient, grounded skill. You pivoted, staff, sweeping low, then snapping upward into a perfect stop at shoulder height.

Stillness. Then, without turning your head, you spoke. “You’re watching again.”

Silence. Mihawk didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped forward from the edge of the yard, fully visible now. “So you noticed.”

You finally looked at him. Not surprised. Not startled. Just mildly amused, like this had been expected for a while.

“I notice a lot of things,” you said, rolling your shoulders once as if loosening tension “You’re not subtle.”

A faint pause. That earned the smallest shift in his expression. Not quite irritation. Not quite interested. Something in between. “You’re observant,” he said.

“I have to be,” you replied, twirling the staff once before resting it against your shoulder. “Working for Buggy builds survival instincts.”

A flicker of something like dry amusement passed through his gaze. “And yet you still come here.”

“Someone has to keep you fed and mildly hydrated.”

That time, the corner of his mouth actually did move. Slightly. “You’ve grown comfortable,” he said.

“I’ve grown adapted,” you corrected. Then, before he could continue—You tilted your head. “Though I have to say, your staring habit is getting predictable.”

A pause. The yard went still in a different way now. Mihawk’s eyes sharpened just a fraction. “…Is that so.”

You shifted your grip on the staff, spinning it idly now. “Mm. I can practically feel your eyes on me.”

There it was again. That line. The one you had once said flustered, embarrassed, half-panicked. Now it came out like ammunition. Mihawk studied you for a moment longer.

Then he stepped fully into the yard.

“You’ve improved,” he said finally. Not about the staff. Not about your stance. About you. 

You didn’t deny it. Instead, you tapped the staff lightly against the ground. “So have you,” you said casually. “You’re less… obvious about watching now.”

A beat. Then—“…I was never obvious.”

“Sure.”

That single word. Flat. Unbothered. It landed harder than any accusation. For the first time, something like genuine surprise crossed his expression. Brief. Contained. But there. You smiled slightly. Not flustered now. Not retreating.

“You know,” you added, “for someone who’s supposed to be intimidating, you’re very easy to read when you’re bored.”

That did it. A quiet exhale left him. Not annoyance. Not dismissal. Something closer to reluctant approval. “You’re bold today.”

“I’m consistent,” you corrected, echoing him from days before. “Progress, remember?”

A pause. Then Mihawk looked at you differently—not as Buggy’s errand runner, not as someone amusingly out of their depth, not even as an interruption. As a variable he hadn’t accounted for. “…Perhaps,” he said at last, “you are not entirely wasted on errands.”

You rested your staff lightly on your shoulder. “That sounds like praise.”

“It isn’t.”

“Mm. Noted.”

You turned slightly, as if preparing to leave the yard. Then, glance back over your shoulder. “But just so you know,” you added, “if you’re going to keep watching, you should probably be less predictable about it.”

A faint silence. Then, very quietly: “You think you can predict me.”

You smiled. “No,” you said. “I think I can read you.”