#opla mihawk

It was mostly by chance that Dracule Mihawk happened upon the Going Merry the previous night.

Mostly.

His pride wouldn’t allow him to admit that he had ventured to this particular stretch of the Grand Line intentionally, that he had been curious about the ragtag little crew you had chosen to follow. It was no surprise you had chosen to leave, really — you had been a prisoner of Don Krieg when he found you, and you had born witness to Mihawk slaughtering the man’s entire crew and sinking his fleet for little more than sport. It was more than natural that, though he had chosen to leave you alive, you might have been a bit spooked. It had only been his intention to deliver you to some populated port or marine outpost.

His pride also wouldn’t allow him to admit that intention had changed by the time you reached Baratie, no more than he could begin to fathom why it had. You had simply gotten under his skin.

And then you had left with that Strawhat imbecile to help look after his equally foolish first mate while he recovered from his injuries. Your medical knowledge was limited, but you were older than the others, had been at sea longer, and knew far more about tending to near fatal injuries than any of them.

He could hardly deny to himself now that curiosity and an irritating sense of lingering attachment had led him this close to the Red Line, toward the entrance at Reverse Mountain, to see whether the Strawhats had made it through— whether you had made it through with them. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he found the ridiculous caravel, its smiling ram figurehead bathed proudly in the moonlight, the captain asleep atop its head with his prized straw hat covering his face..

As such, sneaking aboard had posed no issue at all.

No, denial was useless with the dim light of early dawn filtering through the porthole of your cabin, with your nude form curled up against his side beneath the sheets of your cot, your temple resting against his shoulder and your arm slung across his chest, sleeping soundly. He still wasn’t sure what his exact intention had been in seeking you out, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

He lifted his free hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. A mistake. An error in judgment. That was all this was. Attachments, emotional or otherwise, were nothing more than complications.

He froze when you shifted at his side — evidently his movement had stirred you, ruining his intention of sneaking out quietly while you and the rest of the crew slept on, blissfully unaware. Instead, you were stretching, bending a knee across his thigh as your sleepy murmur met his ears.

“You’re thinking too loud.” A small yawn followed the accusation. “Too early for that nonsense.”

“It is early,” he agreed, his tone level, carefully detached. He didn’t glance down at you, letting his hand fall to the pillow and keeping his eyes shut. “I’ll need to leave soon. Before your crew mates wake.”

“Yeah…” You let out a resigned sigh. “They might not be too happy to see you. Considering.”

“Considering,” he repeated, a scoff escaping him. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t be too pleased to find the man who nearly killed their first mate aboard their ship first thing in the morning.”

“Mmm…” Despite your agreement on the matter of his departure, you shifted a little closer, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “Well, I’m not complaining. Though I am curious why you’re here.”

He did open his eyes at your quiet inquiry, though they remained locked on the wood planks of the ceiling overhead. Of course you would be curious — he had anticipated that much. And still, he hadn’t planned a response for the question. He frowned, running his hand back through his hair, considering. He had spared your life, a prisoner to a low-life crew of pirates, a woman he knew nothing about. He had spared the life of Roronoa Zoro after the bold idiot had dared challenge him for his title. He had left Baratie without fulfilling Vice Admiral Garp’s order to capture his grandson.

All three decisions had been made on a whim, one he didn’t even fully understand as yet.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, weighing each word as they left his lips, “I was curious as well.” The admission cost him more than you knew. His frown deepened. “I chose to spare your life. It would have been a shame to learn that decision had been in vain, had you not made it beyond the Red Line with this ship full of idealistic imbeciles.”

“Oh, is that all?” You finally shifted away a bit, but only to roll onto your back, stretching your arms over your head, your body arching from the mattress just enough to pull the sheets down a few inches. “I’d ask if you give everyone you spare the same treatment, but I’d venture a guess you wouldn’t have taken the same course of action had Zoro been the one you found in the galley last night.”

He did finally turn his head to look at you at that — a grave mistake, as the sight of your insolent little smirk, of the sheets barely concealing the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips, rendered him momentarily speechless. The fact that you weren’t wrong grated at his nerves, nearly as much as did the memory of his own actions last night. Finding you sitting alone in the dark galley, gazing through the porthole, a glass of whiskey in your hand and an expression of deep contemplation across your features, would have been enough to seal his present fate alone. The way you had looked at him when he made his presence known had done little to help. The initial shock had been expected, but what followed hadn’t been the anticipated fear or loathing; it had been pure, honest curiosity.

You hadn’t even managed to get a word out before he had pulled you to your feet by your wrist and kissed you, drank you in like you were the only source of water in some vast desert wasteland, and allowed you to lead him to this very cabin.

For the briefest of moments, he considered doing it again — leaning down to capture your lips, finding out how many screams he could draw from your lips before the rest of the ship woke.

Instead he rolled his eyes away from your knowing gaze with a dismissive scoff, sitting up on the small cot. “Insolent woman,” he accused in a grumble — one he had intended to come across as irritable, though it sounded almost fond. “You are correct in one matter, however,” he went on, his tone clipped now, far less personal. He swung his legs over the side, lifting his discarded pants and boxers from the floor and setting to the task of dressing himself. “Your new friends likely wouldn’t be pleased to find me aboard their ship without invitation. And I’d hate to have to kill them this early in the morning.”

You gave a small snort of laughter at that, the sound making him pause as he stood from the bed to fasten his belt. Infuriating, indeed — you didn’t even flinch at the threat. Idle though it had been, most would have taken it far more seriously. “I’m sure it would be far too much of a hassle,” you agreed, an air of dry sarcasm in your tone that said you knew otherwise. You pulled yourself to your feet behind him before he could stoop down to pick up his coat, your arms snaking around his middle, your smaller form molding against his bare back as you stood on your tiptoes to murmur against the shell of his ear, “Plus, you’d have to kill me too. Which I think we both now know you wouldn’t do.” You punctuated the accusation with a light, playful nip at the edge of his jaw.

It was truly a testament to his self control that he didn’t turn to throw you back onto the bed and take you again on the spot.

He did, however, turn his head just enough to capture your lips in a brief, searing kiss, drawing in a sharp breath through his nose before breaking the connection. “Don’t test my patience,” he warned in a low purr against your lips. He shifted to face you, pulling an arm tight across your waist, finally meeting your eyes. He lifted his other hand to curl his fingers beneath your chin, pressing the pad of his thumb lightly into your cheek as he tilted your head back. “I might not be so generous as to let you live a second time.”

The smirk that curved one corner of your lips said without the need for words that you had called his bluff. That smirk, the way you met his gaze without so much as a single flicker of fear, of reservation, of regret — it was as infuriating as it was captivating.

It hardly helped when you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his as you breathed your response against them.

“What about a third time?”

Your lips met his then in a kiss that was far slower, far more thorough, your tongue grazing across his bottom lip in blatant invitation. He accepted without thought, tugging you infinitesimally closer as his own tongue swept into your mouth, his hand drifting from your chin to tangle into your sleep-mussed hair.

This was madness. Utter insanity. No one should have been able to tear through his defenses this easily. Yet you, in all your insolence and audacity, had all but demolished them with a single, taunting invitation.

He tore his lips away, though his forehead remained pressed against yours, his grip tightening in your hair. “Why did you join this crew?” The question surprised even him as it left his own mouth in a breathless whisper. It had, loathe though he was to admit it, been the question he had planned on asking you last night, before impulse had outweighed his own intent.

You lifted an eyebrow as you processed it, that infuriating smirk returning to your lips. “You said you were leaving me at the next port,” she pointed out. “What difference does it make if I decided to leave a little earlier?”

He closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath through his nose. Damn you, you saw straight through his intentions, and you dared to toy with them instead of offering a real answer.

But you went on before he could form a fitting response, you went on, “But even had you been planning on keeping me...they needed me. Or, at least, they needed someone aboard this deathtrap of a boat with enough sense to stop them from getting themselves killed.” You tilted your head back enough to rest your chin on his chest, your gaze never breaking from the intensity of his yellow eyes. “They may be a bunch of silly little dreamers right now, but…” You shrugged a shoulder. “Everyone has to start somewhere, don’t they?”

Your statement hit him with more force than he cared to admit. Only through years of blood, sweat, and tears had he reached his own status — Dracule “Hawk-Eyes” Mihawk, Warlord of the Seas, the World’s Greatest Swordsman. Before all of the prestige, he hadn’t been so different from the moronic youth who had challenged him to a duel at Baratie. He knew that was why he had deigned to let the boy live, to continue chasing that dream, even if it meant his own eventual fall from grace.

“Indeed they do,” he finally conceded. With that small concession, he released you from the iron bar of his arm across your back, turning away at last to pick his coat up from the floor. It was both a relief and a torment when you sat back down at the edge of your bunk, putting further distance between the two of you. “I may have to check in from time to time,” he went on as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, the familiar weight of the garment settling over his shoulders. His tone remained clipped, though his words were a stark contrast to the impersonal, almost clinical cadence. “Out of...curiosity.”

“They are curious bunch,” she said with a small chuckle. He glanced over his shoulder, watching you lie back across the bed, tucking your hands behind your neck, wholly unashamed of your present state of undress. There was no indication of how the sight affected him aside from the slightest feathering of a muscle in his jaw. The smirk that graced your lips told him you hadn’t failed to notice. “And I definitely wouldn’t object to the occasional check-in.”

He gave a small, somewhat undignified grunt before tearing his eyes away from you, taking a few steps further away from the bed to grab Yoru from where it rested against the wall, slinging the sword over his shoulder to fasten it back into its rightful place. “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” he shot back, his teeth grating together at the sound of your responding laughter, light and melodic in the early morning silence. He picked his hat up from the nightstand, setting it firmly back into place atop his head.

Infuriating, insolent bloody woman.

Your voice, teasing and melodic as your laughter, met his ears as he was leaving — “I’ll see you again soon, Hawk-Eyes.”

He refused to dignify that with a response.

Still silently seething at your audacity as he emerged onto the deck of the caravel, he very nearly didn’t notice that someone else was already awake. He froze for a moment when the sound of a blade slicing through the air met his ears, lifting his gaze sharply to hone in on the source of the disturbance.

Roronoa Zoro. Awake. Training at the break of dawn.

The rookie swordsman noticed him in an instant — but instead of addressing Mihawk’s presence with expected volatility, he let out an irritated growl and returned to his training without any further acknowledgment.

Mihawk’s brow furrowed at the dismissive reaction. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps this entire ship was simply full of humans who defied normal logic, but that wasn’t good enough. No, the younger swordsman had regarded him as if he all but expected him to be there.

Curious, indeed.

In spite of the pressing situation, the need to make himself scarce, Mihawk found himself crossing his arms, leaning back against the door frame behind him, watching for a moment longer. He let out a quiet, contemplative hum.

“Heavy-footed,” he commented. “Your form needs improvement.”

“I’d have an easier time improving if you’d shut the hell up, you goddamned birdbrain.”

Silence, cold and murderous in intent, followed the blatant insult. Zoro hadn’t so much as ceased in his movements, growling the words out between clenched teeth. Mihawk’s eyes widened for a moment in his astonishment at the utter audacity, before narrowing into slits. He had allowed this insolent fool to live out of respect for a promising potential adversary.

He had no intention of making the same mistake twice.

He didn’t bother to draw Yoru — just as he had last time he faced Zoro, he lifted a hand to reach for kogatana —

And his fist closed around empty air.

Once more, his eyes widened. He looked down, and found the golden cross that normally rest against his chest to be absent.

No. No.

He hadn’t. He couldn’t have.

And yet he heard hurried footsteps through the doorway behind him seconds after the realization, heard your voice cutting through the tension, “Hey, you forgot your —”

Your words were cut off abruptly as Zoro paused in his movements, his head whipping around to stare at you. Mihawk turned his head slowly, arms still crossed, to look your way as well. You had dressed, at least, in a simple black tanktop and shorts, and you were holding out the concealed knife, still attached to its chain, your gaze locked onto Zoro’s across the deck.

Zoro’s eyes shifted briefly to Mihawk before locking onto yours as he slowly straightened out, his arms hanging limply at his sides, eyes wide as saucers.

“Y...you...you see him too?” he asked slowly. Quietly. Cautiously.

Your brows furrowed. “Wh — what?” you blurted out incredulously, looking at Mihawk before jerking your head to look back at Zoro. “What the hell do you mean? Of course I see him, he’s literally standing right here — what?”

The silence stretched for several seconds — you staring at Zoro as if he had lost his mind, Zoro’s eyes flickering incredulously between you and Mihawk, and Mihawk himself utterly speechless for the first time he could recall in years. At last, Zoro sheathed his katana, shaking his head as if trying to clear what he was seeing from his mind. “I…think I might have had too much to drink last night,” he said finally, his tone gruff, before hurrying across the deck, pushing past you to descend below deck into the living quarters.

You and Mihawk simply stared at the door for several seconds, before turning your heads and meeting each others’ eyes.

“I swear I have no idea what that was about,” you said finally, clearly fighting to keep a straight face.

“Mm...hmm,” he hummed slowly, still marveling at the spectacle himself, lifting a hand to lightly pluck kogatana from your grasp. As he fastened the chain behind his neck, he added, “I trust you’ll figure it out before I return.”

Your expression slid into a full, knowing grin at his words — at the confirmation that he wholly intended to see you again. “Oh, I’ll definitely be asking him some questions after that,” you affirmed, stepping around in front of him. Your hands slipped beneath his open coat, looping around his hips as you stood on your tiptoes, your breath fanning across his lips. “I promise to have a full report prepared upon your return.”

You didn’t have to close the distance this time — his hands found your hips, pulling you flush against him as his lips crashed down upon yours in a deep, furious kiss that spoke of both promise and the possibility of mutual ruin. His lips parted from yours just as a small, far too enticing moan rose up from your chest. He lifted a hand from your hips, his touch far more tender as his fingers touched your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your bottom lip.

“Good.”

The salt spray was a welcome companion, even as exhaustion clung to the Straw Hat crew like a second skin. The Grand Line had been relentless lately, a series of islands each more bizarre and dangerous than the last. Now, adrift on the calm but vast expanse of the sea, the Going Merry creaked softly, a tired vessel carrying an equally tired crew.

Luffy was slumped over the figurehead, his usual boundless energy finally depleted. Sanji leaned against the railing, smoking a cigarette with uncharacteristic slowness, while Nami meticulously checked her maps, a furrow of concern on her brow. Usopp was passed out under a pile of fishing nets, his snores a gentle counterpoint to the lapping waves.

And then there was you. You sat near the mast, knees pulled to your chest, watching the horizon with a quiet intensity that was uniquely yours. You were the newest member of the crew, a young woman of few words but immense presence. Shy and reserved, you often faded into the background, but those who paid attention knew there was a well of incredible power lurking beneath your demure exterior. You were their swordswoman, their psychic shield, and perhaps most surprisingly, the adopted daughter of Dracule Mihawk, the man they all aspired to one day defeat.

Zoro sat beside you, not close enough to crowd your space, but near enough that his solid presence was a comforting constant. He was cleaning his swords, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel a familiar, meditative sound. He didn't need to speak to communicate with you. Over the months, you'd both developed a silent language, a current of understanding that flowed between you. He felt your exhaustion, and you felt his quiet concern for the crew.

"I think we need to find an island soon," Nami finally said, her voice tight with worry. "Supplies are low, and we all need a real rest. A proper bed, not a hard deck."

Luffy stirred, lifting his head. "Island! Meat!"

"But where, Nami-swaaan?" Sanji sighed, flicking his cigarette butt into the sea. "The log pose is spinning. We're in the middle of nowhere."

A heavy silence fell over the deck, the weight of their situation pressing down. It was you who broke it. Your voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it cut through the despair like a blade.

"There's... there's a place," you murmured, not looking at anyone but the endless water. "Not far from here. If we head east for about half a day's sail."

All eyes turned to you. Even Zoro paused his polishing.

"A place?" Nami asked, her navigator instincts kicking in. "What kind of place? An island? A port?"

You hesitated, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "It's... a mansion. On a small island. It's where I... where I live. With my dad."

The revelation hung in the air. Your dad. Mihawk. The World's Greatest Swordsman. The crew had met him briefly during the ceremony at Marineford, but the concept of him having a home, a life, a daughter was still something they were processing.

"Your dad?" Luffy was now fully alert, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and hunger. "You mean Mihawk? He has a house? With food?"

You gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "He... he wouldn't mind. If it's us."

Zoro looked at you, his single eye unreadable. He knew how much you loved your adoptive father, but he also knew the immense pressure you felt under his shadow. To invite the entire crew, his rival included, into his sanctuary was a huge step for you. He gave a slight, almost invisible tilt of his head, a silent question. Are you sure?

You met his gaze for a fleeting moment, and in that instant, a wave of reassurance washed over him. It wasn't a thought, more like a feeling—a quiet certainty that this was the right thing to do.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Luffy shouted, scrambling to his feet. "To Mihawk's house!"

Nami, ever the pragmatist, was already unfolding a chart. "East, you said? Can you give me a bearing?"

You pointed a slender finger, and Nami adjusted their course accordingly. The mood on the ship shifted instantly. The exhaustion was still there, but now it was laced with a potent cocktail of curiosity and anticipation. Usopp, woken by the commotion, was now wide-eyed with terror and excitement. "We're going to the World's Greatest Swordsman's house? Are you crazy? He'll slice us in half!"

"He won't," Zoro grunted, resuming his polishing. "Not if she's there."

The journey was short, just as you'd promised. As the sun began its descent, casting long, golden rays across the water, a small island appeared on the horizon. It wasn't tropical or lush, but rather a rugged, dramatic outcropping of dark rock, crowned with a few gnarled, wind-swept trees. And perched on the highest cliff, overlooking the sea like a silent, watchful sentinel, was a mansion.

It was magnificent and intimidating. Built from the same dark stone as the cliffs, it was a sprawling structure with soaring towers, pointed arches, and large, imposing windows. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress, a fitting residence for the man they called Hawk-Eyes.

"Wow..." Usopp breathed, his fear momentarily forgotten by the sheer spectacle. "He lives there?"

As the Going Merry drew closer to a small, well-constructed stone dock, a figure emerged from the mansion's main entrance. Even from a distance, his silhouette was unmistakable. The tall, imposing frame, the wide-brimmed hat, the long black coat billowing in the sea breeze. Dracule Mihawk.

The crew fell silent, a nervous energy crackling in the air. Luffy was practically vibrating with excitement, Sanji was eyeing the mansion with professional curiosity, and Nami was already calculating the property value. Zoro stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji, his gaze fixed on his rival.

You were the first to step off the dock and onto the solid ground of the island. As you did, Mihawk began to walk down the path to meet you. His pace was unhurried, but there was a distinct change in his demeanor. The fearsome Warlord persona seemed to melt away, replaced by something else entirely.

"Tesoro," he said, his deep, resonant voice holding a warmth that the Straw Hats had never heard before.

You ran the last few steps, your usual shyness forgotten in the face of your father's presence. He caught you in a firm, gentle embrace, one hand resting on the back of your head. It was a gesture of such pure, unguarded affection that it left the watching crew utterly speechless. This was the Hawk-Eyes Mihawk? The man who had faced down fleets with nothing but a dagger and a stare?

"I wasn't expecting you," Mihawk said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you, though it carried on the quiet sea air. He held you at arm's length, his sharp golden eyes scanning you from head to toe. "You look tired. And you've brought company."

You nodded, stepping back and gesturing nervously toward the ship. "They're... my friends. My crew. We needed a place to rest."

Mihawk's gaze swept over the assembled pirates on his dock. It lingered on Luffy for a moment, then on Sanji, and finally, it came to rest on Zoro, who had now stepped onto the dock. A flicker of something—amusement? Recognition?—crossed his face.

"The Straw Hat Pirates," he stated, his voice once again assuming its formal, commanding tone. "My daughter's new associates. An interesting choice." He looked from Zoro's three swords to your own katana, which was sheathed at your hip. Then he looked back at Zoro, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And Roronoa Zoro. I should have known."

Zoro met his stare without flinching. "Mihawk."

There was no threat in the greeting, no challenge. It was a simple acknowledgment between two swordsmen who now shared an unexpected, and far more complicated, connection.

"Come," Mihawk said, turning and gesturing towards the mansion. "The night is drawing in. You are my daughter's guests. You will be shown hospitality."

The interior of the mansion was just as imposing as the exterior, but with an unexpected coziness. The main hall was vast, with a ceiling that disappeared into shadowed rafters. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, a crackling fire casting a warm, dancing light. The floors were polished dark wood, covered here and there with intricately woven rugs. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to capacity with ancient-looking tomes. There were no frivolous decorations, no overt signs of wealth—just quality, craftsmanship, and an atmosphere of quiet strength.

"Wow," Luffy said, his eyes wide as he spun in a circle. "This place is huge!"

Mihawk led them through the hall and into a dining room that was just as impressive. A long, heavy table of dark wood could have easily seated twenty. At its head, a single chair was slightly more ornate than the others. Mihawk took this seat, and you instinctively sat to his right. The Straw Hats

hesitantly found places along the length of the table, their earlier boisterousness replaced by a cautious awe. Zoro sat directly across from you, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of unfamiliarity.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Mihawk said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Sanji, was it? The cook. If you require use of a kitchen, you will find it through that door. My stores are at your disposal."

Sanji, who had been vibrating with a mixture of culinary curiosity and professional terror, nearly bowed off his seat. "M-Mihawk-sama! It would be an honor! I would not dream of imposing!"

"Nonsense," Mihawk waved a dismissive hand. "My daughter has informed me of your 'All-Blue' ambition. A man who pursues such a dream with passion deserves a proper kitchen. Feed my crew. They look like they haven't had a decent meal in weeks."

While Sanji practically skipped into the kitchen, already babbling about spices and techniques, the rest of the crew sat in a somewhat stiff silence. It was Usopp, of all people, who broke it. "So, uh, this is a really nice place you've got here, Mihawk-sir. Very... drafty. In a good way! Very atmospheric!"

Mihawk's golden eyes swiveled to the long-nosed sniper, and for a moment, Usopp looked like he might evaporate. But then, the corner of the Warlord's mouth twitched. "Atmospheric. I suppose that is one word for it. It is built to withstand the cyclones that frequent this sea. Comfort was a secondary consideration to survival."

A servant, a quiet, older woman who moved with silent efficiency, began to bring out wine and glasses. She poured a deep red liquid into each glass, her hands steady as she served even the most infamous pirates at the table.

Luffy, never one for patience, grabbed his glass and drained it in one go, his face scrunching up. "Blech! This is gross! It tastes like old grapes!"

"Luffy!" Nami hissed, mortified.

Mihawk, however, let out a low, genuine chuckle. A sound so unexpected it made Zoro blink. "He is not wrong. It is an acquired taste. More for the rest of us." He took a slow sip from his own glass, his gaze drifting to you. "She never developed a taste for it either. Prefers juice."

The simple, domestic observation hung in the air. This was Mihawk, the man who had struck fear into the hearts of countless pirates, commenting on his daughter's beverage preferences as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Soon, the most glorious smells began to waft from the kitchen. Sanji, in his element, had outdone himself. He emerged with a procession of dishes that would have made a king weep: roasted seabird with herbs, a savory seafood stew, steamed vegetables in a garlic butter sauce, and fresh, warm bread. The table, which had seemed so cavernously empty, was now groaning under the weight of the feast.

"For my honored guests, and for the father of our dearest nakama!" Sanji announced with a flourish, presenting a perfect plate to Luffy, who immediately began shoveling food into his mouth with ecstatic cries of "MEAT!"

The tension finally broke. The universal language of a magnificent meal took over. Even Mihawk watched the spectacle with a look of detached amusement, picking at his own food with a refined elegance that contrasted sharply with Luffy's chaos.

As dinner progressed, the crew began to relax, their exhaustion melting away with each bite. They talked and laughed, their voices echoing slightly in the grand room. And through it all, Zoro watched. He wasn't just watching his crew; he was watching you and your father.

He saw it in the small things. The way Mihawk's eyes would find you in the midst of the chaos, a silent check-in. The way you would instinctively lean slightly towards him when the laughter got too loud, seeking a familiar presence. The way Mihawk would subtly push the bread basket closer to you when he noticed you hadn't taken any.

At one point, you reached for the water pitcher at the same time as Nami, your hands briefly colliding. You flinched back with a soft gasp, your shyness asserting itself. Before anyone else could react, Mihawk's hand shot out, not with the speed of a swordsman, but with the swift, protective grace of a father. He steadied the pitcher, his fingers brushing yours for a moment.

"It is quite alright, tesoro," he said softly, his voice only for you. "There is plenty." He poured the water for you and Nami, his gaze never leaving your face until he saw you relax.

Zoro felt a strange tightening in his chest. He had always respected Mihawk as a warrior, as the pinnacle of the swordsmanship he sought. But seeing this side of him—the doting, protective parent—was disarming. It was a powerful reminder that the man who held his ultimate ambition was not just a goal, but a person. A person who, against all logic and reputation, loved fiercely and quietly.

Later, as the plates were cleared and Sanji was happily cleaning the kitchen with the older servant, Mihawk leaned back in his chair, a glass of wine in hand. He looked at Zoro, his expression unreadable.

"So," he began, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. "You are the one who has captured my daughter's attention."

The table went silent. Luffy stopped mid-chew. Usopp choked on a piece of bread. Nami's eyes darted between you, Zoro, and the imposing Warlord.

You froze, your face turning a shade of crimson that could rival Luffy's vest. You stared down at your hands, wishing you could become invisible.

Zoro, however, didn't flinch. He met Mihawk's gaze head-on. "I am."

Mihawk took a slow sip of his wine, his golden eyes holding Zoro's. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge. This was it. The test. The confrontation he had been subconsciously dreading.

"I am not surprised," Mihawk said at last, his voice calm.

That... was not what Zoro had expected. "You're not?"

"No. I saw the way you looked at her in Marineford. Even then, there was a focus there that went beyond simple rivalry. And she..." He glanced at you, and for a moment, his expression softened. "She has always been drawn to strong wills. To a quiet determination that mirrors her own. It is why she found you so fascinating."

He looked back at Zoro. "Your ambition is to defeat me. That is a worthy goal for a swordsman. But if you ever, ever, cause her pain or distress, that ambition will become the least of your concerns. Do we have an understanding?"

The threat was delivered not with anger, but with a cold, absolute certainty that was far more terrifying. It was a promise from a father protecting his child.

"We do," Zoro said, his voice low and firm. There was no hesitation. No defense. Just a simple, solid acknowledgment of the terms.

"Good." Mihawk's gaze shifted to the rest of the crew. "You will all stay the night. The guest chambers have been prepared. You will leave in the morning, rested and refitted. My island is not on any chart, but your navigator seems capable enough to find her way back to a standard sea route."

The matter was settled. Just like that.

Later that night, you found yourself standing on one of the mansion's many stone balconies, the cool night air a welcome balm to your heated cheeks. The moon was a perfect silver disc, casting a shimmering path across the dark water. Below, the Going Merry rocked gently at the dock, a small, familiar shape in the vastness.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him. You didn't need to turn around to know it was Zoro. His presence was as distinct to you as the scent of the sea or the feel of your own sword.

He came to stand beside you, resting his forearms on the cool stone railing. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just watched the waves, the comfortable silence stretching between you.

"Your father's... intimidating," Zoro said, his voice a low rumble.

You let out a small, nervous laugh. "He tries to be. But he's not like that with me. Not really."

"I saw that," Zoro replied, turning his head to look at you. The moonlight softened the sharp lines of his face, making his single eye seem almost gentle. "It was... good to see."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire inside. "He wasn't too hard on you, was he?"

Zoro grunted. "He gave me the warning. The one I expected."

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your gaze dropping back to the sea. "I didn't mean for him to—"

"Hey." He reached out, his calloused fingers gently tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Don't you dare apologize for that. It means he cares. It means he's a good dad. I'd have been worried if he didn't threaten to gut me."

A small smile touched your lips. "He wouldn't actually gut you. He'd just use Yoru to pin you to a wall for a few days."

"See? Good

dad," Zoro said, a rare, genuine grin spreading across his face. It was a sight that still made your breath catch, a crack in his hardened exterior that was reserved only for you.

You leaned into his touch, his rough thumb gently stroking your cheek. The shyness that was your constant companion seemed to melt away under the moonlight, replaced by a deep, abiding affection for the man beside you. He understood. He always understood.

"I was so worried," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper on the sea breeze. "Bringing everyone here. I thought... I thought it might be too much. For him, and for you."

"Too much for me?" Zoro's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would it be too much for me?"

"Because... he's your goal. The person you're trying to surpass. And I brought you right to his doorstep. Into his home. It felt like I was... diminishing your dream, somehow."

Zoro was quiet for a long moment, his gaze turning back to the vast, dark ocean. He let his hand fall from your face, but only to lace his fingers through yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "You don't get it, do you?" he said, his voice low and serious. "My dream is to be the World's Greatest Swordsman. That hasn't changed. But seeing this... seeing him as a father, seeing where you came from... it doesn't diminish it. It makes it real. He's not just a title or a legend I'm chasing. He's a man. A man who raised you."

He squeezed your hand. "And if he's half the father he is a swordsman, then you had the best in the world. That just makes me respect him more. And it makes me want to be worthy of you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of overwhelming emotion. You squeezed his hand back, a silent thank you for the words you could never find yourself. In that moment, you didn't need telepathy. You knew exactly what he was feeling, and you knew he felt the same from you.

"You know," you said, a playful thought entering your mind, "when I was little, I used to practice with wooden swords out on that cliff." You pointed with your free hand to a jagged outcropping bathed in moonlight. "He'd watch me, but never correct me. He'd just let me find my own way. Sometimes, I'd get so frustrated that I'd throw my sword down."

Zoro listened, completely captivated.

"One day, I did that, and it just... stopped in mid-air," you continued, a small smile forming on your lips. "Just hung there. I looked over at him, and he was just watching, one hand raised slightly. He didn't say anything. He just... held it there until I calmed down, and then he let it drop. He was teaching me control without ever saying a word."

Zoro whistled softly. "Telekinesis. That's a hell of a training method."

"It was how he taught me everything," you said, your voice distant with memory. "He knew my powers were stronger than my physical strength. He taught me to blend them. To make them one and the same." You looked from the cliff back to Zoro, your eyes shining with a newfound confidence. "Wanna see?"

He didn't have to ask what. He simply nodded, his expression one of intense curiosity.

You let go of his hand and took a step back onto the balcony, closing your eyes. You took a deep breath, centering yourself, reaching for the familiar energy that hummed just beneath your skin. It was like a warm current, a river of power that flowed through you. You didn't draw your katana. Instead, you held out your hand, palm up.

At first, nothing happened. Then, the air around your palm began to shimmer, to warp like heat haze. Slowly, a shape began to form, coalescing from the psychic energy you were manifesting. It was long, slender, and sharp. A blade. It was a perfect, shimmering replica of a katana, crafted from pure willpower. It glowed with a soft, violet light, the edges humming with barely contained power.

Zoro's single eye was wide, a look of profound awe on his face. He had seen you use your abilities in battle—creating shields, sending psychic bolts, the occasional telekinetic push. But he had never seen this. This was creation. This was art.

You opened your eyes, and the psi-blade solidified, its glow intensifying. It felt weightless in your hand, an extension of your own thoughts. With a fluid motion that mirrored years of practice, you moved into a basic stance, the blade held at the ready. You weren't just holding a weapon; you were the weapon.

Then, you began to move.

It was a dance. A kata you had practiced a thousand times, but this time it was different. There was no resistance of steel, no weight of the hilt. You flowed through the forms, the psychic blade slicing through the night air with a soft, ethereal hiss. It was a breathtaking display of grace and power. You executed a perfect vertical cut, then a horizontal slash, then a complex thrust-and-parry combination against an imaginary foe. Each movement was precise, economical, and deadly.

Zoro watched, utterly mesmerized. He wasn't just seeing a cool light show; he was seeing the very soul of your swordsmanship. He saw the influence of Mihawk's elegance in your posture, but he also saw something uniquely you—a fluidity, an unpredictability that came from a power he couldn't begin to comprehend. This was your true strength. The perfect fusion of the physical and the psychic, the sword and the mind.

You finished the kata, holding the final pose, the glowing blade pointed at the moon. For a moment, you were still, a silhouette against the night, a warrior of impossible power. Then, as gently as it had formed, the psi-blade dissolved, shimmering into motes of violet light that faded into the darkness.

You lowered your hand, your breath coming in soft pants. The display had taken more out of you than you let on, but the look on Zoro's face was worth it.

"That," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "was the most incredible thing I have ever seen."

He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands coming up to cup your face. He didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. He simply leaned down and kissed you.

It wasn't a kiss of fiery passion, but of deep, profound reverence. It was slow and tender, a silent acknowledgment of everything he had just seen, everything you were. It was a kiss that said, "I see you. All of you. And I am in awe."

When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes closed. "He taught me that," you whispered. "That my mind is my greatest weapon. That a sword is just a tool."

"He's right," Zoro murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. "But you're the one who wields it."

From the shadows of the doorway behind you, a figure watched. Mihawk had come to check on his daughter, to ensure she was settled. He had intended to simply offer a quiet goodnight. Instead, he had witnessed the entire display. He had seen the mastery of her powers, the grace of her form, and the raw, unadulterated love in the eyes of the first mate of the very crew she had joined.

He saw Zoro kiss his daughter, and he felt not anger, not possessiveness, but a strange, quiet sense of peace. He had spent years raising this child, this powerful, shy, incredible young woman, preparing her for a world that would surely try to break her. He had taught her to fight, to survive, to be strong. But he could not teach her this. He could not give her the simple, unwavering devotion he saw in the swordsman's eyes.

He saw the way Zoro looked at her—not just as a woman, but as an equal. As a warrior. He had seen the awe, not just for her beauty, but for her strength.

Mihawk allowed himself a small, private smile. Roronoa Zoro was still his rival. The day of their duel was still written in the stars. But the man had earned his respect. And more importantly, he had earned the right to stand by his daughter's side.

Without a sound, the World's Greatest Swordsman turned and walked back into the shadows of his fortress, leaving the two young swordsmen to their moonlit peace. The future was uncertain, the seas were chaotic, but for tonight, on this isolated island, a new kind of legacy was being forged—one of swords, of psychic power, and of a love as strong and as true as the sharpest blade.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"GET OUT OF MY ROOM, YOU MOSSY MENACE!"

"i wasn't even in your room."

"YOU WERE STANDING IN THE HALLWAY."

"i was walking."

"menacingly!"

you sighed into your cup of tea.

"...they're awake."

across from you, dracule mihawk calmly buttered a slice of freshly baked sourdough as though the argument echoing through the halls were nothing more than birdsong.

"they're energetic."

"energetic?" you laughed. "they're trying to kill each other before breakfast."

"they have not drawn weapons yet."

"...fair point."

the door burst open.

perona stomped outside with her arms crossed, her pink slippers kicking up little clouds of dust. behind her came zoro, yawning so loudly it almost sounded like he hadn't been the cause of half the noise.

"you tracked dirt inside again!" perona accused.

"it's dirt."

"it's my clean floor!"

"it's a floor."

you hid your smile behind her mug.

"they've started today's routine."

mihawk took another bite of his bread.

"earlier than yesterday."

"progress."

life on the farm had become strangely... peaceful.

which was ironic considering they lived with perona and zoro.

you spent most mornings tending vegetables while mihawk handled heavier work around the property. he rarely spoke unless necessary, but after years of marriage, you'd learned his silence wasn't empty.

it was comfortable.

you crouched beside a row of tomatoes, humming quietly while tying up vines that had begun leaning sideways.

a familiar shadow settled beside you.

without looking, you smiled.

"you finished repairing the fence?"

"yes."

"and the chicken coop?"

"mhm!"

"and you definitely didn't glare at the fox until it left?"

"..."

you looked up.

"...you glared at the fox."

"it understood."

you burst into laughter.

"darling, it's a fox."

"it will not return."

"i think it's terrified."

"as intended."

you leaned forward, brushing a speck of dirt from his cheek with your thumb.

"there."

he didn’t react much.

but you noticed the almost invisible softening around his eyes.

enough to make you heart flutter after all these years.

"you have soil on your face as well," he said.

"i know."

"you missed a spot."

"i know."

"..."

"you gonna clean it?"

"...no."

he sighed the tiniest sigh before gently wiping your cheek with his gloved thumb.

"there."

you grinned.

"i could've done that myself."

"i am aware."

"you still did it."

"..."

"i win."

"...perhaps."

CRASH!

you and mihawk both looked toward the barn.

a second crash followed.

then perona screamed.

"YOU ABSOLUTE CABBAGE!!!!"

"i didn't do anything!"

"YOU SAT ON MY GARDEN GNOME!"

"i thought it was a rock!"

"DOES A ROCK HAVE A FACE?!"

you pinched the bridge of your nose.

"they've escalated."

mihawk quietly stood.

"i'll retrieve the gnome." he sighed.

a few minutes later...

you found perona dramatically cradling a cracked garden gnome while zoro awkwardly stood nearby with a hammer in one hand.

"i said i was sorry."

"you broke him..!"

"it was an accident."

"he had dreams!"

"It was concrete."

"HE WAS BEAUTIFUL!"

you couldn't stop laughing.

perona pointed accusingly.

"don't encourage him!"

"i'm trying not to!"

"you're smiling!"

"i can't help it!"

zoro scratched the back of his head.

"i can glue it."

perona gasped.

"you think glue can fix betrayal?!?!?!!!"

"...probably?"

she looked ready to faint.

meanwhile...

mihawk silently walked over.

took the broken gnome.

examined it.

then disappeared into the workshop.

no explanation.

twenty minutes later he returned.

the gnome had been repaired so flawlessly that not even the crack remained.

perona's eyes sparkled.

"YAY!!!!"

she hugged the statue.

"it's perfect!"

"...hm."

she immediately skipped away, happily humming.

zoro blinked.

"...you can do pottery?"

"i can."

"you've never mentioned that."

"you never asked."

"...fair."

the afternoon settled into a gentle rhythm.

you watered flowers while mihawk split firewood.

you stole glances every few minutes.

his sleeves were rolled to his forearms, each swing of the axe effortless.

he looked completely at peace.

which made you smile.

you wandered over carrying two glasses of lemonade.

"you've been working all morning."

"so have you."

"i know."

you handed him a glass.

your fingers brushed.

a tiny thing.

yet somehow still enough to make butterflies bloom inside your chest.

he noticed.

"...you're smiling."

"i married a very handsome farmer."

"i'm a swordsman."

"babe, you're holding an axe."

"..."

"so..."

"...perhaps today."

you laughed so hard you nearly spilled the lemonade.

by sunset the farm looked beautiful.

fresh vegetables had been harvested.

the chickens had finally stopped chasing zoro.

perona had forgiven him after he carved her garden gnome an impossibly detailed little wooden hat "to make up for emotional damages."

you still weren't entirely sure how that solved anything.

dinner was eaten outside beneath a sky painted orange and violet.

perona rambled about decorating the castle.

zoro argued that gargoyles counted as decorations already.

"they're creepy!"

"they're supposed to be."

"they're judging me!"

"they judge everyone."

you rested your chin on one hand.

"you two really are siblings."

"WE ARE NOT!" they shouted in perfect unison.

mihawk calmly sipped his wine.

you giggled.

night eventually settled over kuraigana.

perona and zoro's voices faded somewhere inside the castle, already beginning another argument about whose turn it was to wash dishes.

you didn't bother checking.

they would figure it out.

eventually.

you stood beside Mihawk near the edge of the fields.

the breeze carried the scent of flowers and fresh earth.

crickets and sang softly.

you slipped your hand into his.

his fingers immediately intertwined with yours.

no hesitation.

no words.

"i like this life," you murmured.

"the quiet?"

you smiled knowingly.

"...the moments between the loud parts."

his gaze drifted toward the castle where another distant yell echoed.

"i believe they are arguing over bathroom usage now."

"...remarkable."

you laughed again, leaning against his shoulder.

"thank you."

"for what?"

"for building this life with me."

the world's strongest swordsman remained silent for a long moment.

then, with the same quiet certainty he brought to everything he did, he pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead.

"there was never another life i wanted."

your cheeks warmed.

"you always know exactly what to say."

"i disagree."

"you do."

"...only because it's you."

the castle erupted with another muffled shout.

"I SAID THAT'S MY PLATE!"

"PLATES DON'T HAVE OWNERS!"

you and mihawk looked at each other.

then, for perhaps the first time all day...

mihawk laughed.

it was quiet.

low.

rare enough that you treasured every sound of it.

you joined him, your laughter mingling beneath the stars while the castle behind them continued hosting the world's loudest pair of honorary siblings.

and somehow...

it felt exactly like home.

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.’

Your eyes swept the table as well, despite knowing that the sugar bowl was still on the counter behind you.

"Sorry, Sir, I-"

"Don't care. Need the sugar." Not yet ready to talk in a voice louder than a croak, Crocodile emphasized his irritation by hitting the edge of the table with his gilded hook.

It would have been intimidating if you hadn't witnessed this child-like tantrum before. You'd never say it to his face, but it was rather endearing how worked up Crocodile got over his morning routine. It was like he was a different man right up until he had his coffee.

Clad in his robe and slippers, hair a mess, and yawning every other minute - you were the only person who regularly saw him in this state. His appearance, his demenor, anything that happened before his first sip of coffee would never be acknowledged.

With that in mind, you had a dumb idea. Something that would either lighten the mood or go completely ignored. Or get you fired. Either way, you were going to give Sir Crocodile the sugar he needed so badly.

You picked up the small bowl, but before placing it next to the ashtray holding his current cigar, you leaned over Crocodile's shoulder and placed a small kiss on his cheek.

"There you go - sugar!" You said brightly and very, very quickly.

The moment your lips made contact, you realized this was actually a terrible idea. You had never been that close to the pirate before. His skin was hot against your lips and there was no doubt your face was now burning up.

A large hand grabbed you by the chin and kept you close. Kept you from escaping.

"Sugar?" Crocodile asked in his heavy voice.

You nodded, his fingers flexing with your movement.

Before you could apologize properly, his lips covered yours. Crocodile's tongue slid in your mouth, bringing the taste of fire and ash. It was acrid and messy. Clumsy, but also demanding. It was like he was fully awake and was intent on devouring you. His fingers pushed against the hollow of your cheek, keeping your mouth open for him to taste properly.

When he finally pulled back, Crocodile swiped away the drool at the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

"You know I need a lot of sugar," he said through a self-serving grin.

He took the sugar bowl from your grasp and started scooping the crystals into his mug. The look on his face plainly said that there was going to be a new component to his morning routines from now on.

🦅 Dracule Mihawk

"You made it! We got a new bottle earlier this week and I've been saving it for you," you said excitedly when the day's final customer entered the shop.

Technically the shop closed minutes earlier, but there was one patron you'd serve any time of day or night.

Dracule Mihawk lifted his brow in interest. "Say more."

"I'll let the wine do the talking," you said, already reaching for two glasses and a corkscrew.

You rattled off the expected flavors and unique qualities for a red wine from the far, far north. Mihawk nodded along, swirling and sipping to corroborate what you said. After each contemplative taste, he chimed in with his own observations. His voice was a reflection of the richness and body in the bottle.

"I have to say, more often than not, you are far better at describing each note than the winemakers themselves," you remarked after analyzing your latest sip. "You might have another calling."

The pirate chuckled and shook his head. A wine stem gripped his his hand would never bring the same joy as a blade.

"I've heard that each individual tastes the same wine a little differently because of their body's unique chemical compounds. One person may have a drier mouth or more acidic saliva, and it affects the wine."

Mihawk raised his glass to catch the light as he spoke. His golden eyes then slid over to meet yours.

"Perhaps the wine taste different to me. Shall we test that theory?"

You wanted to know. You wanted to know so terribly and for so long. His palate is beyond refined. How can he taste the difference between over-ripe peaches basking the sun and young peaches plucked with the morning dew? It's wine, for fucks sake. Grapes. There are no peaches, and yet it's all you can taste after he speaks in that low smooth voice. A voice that you wanted to feel against your lips.

You leaned in slowly, cautiously. As if this was a true science experiment and you needed to be objective. Not infatuated.

Mihawk followed your lead and closed the gap. His mouth was soft and inviting. His lips yieled to your curiosity, letting your explore and sample the flavors housed within. It was delicious - familiar and dangerous. The tanins had softened. You chased a hint of wood. The earth shifted.

You drank as long as he let you. You drank until you were out of breath.

Then another sip from your glass. To compare.

"Well?" Mihawk asked. "What do you think? Did it taste any different?"

You licked your lips and thought for a moment. And a moment longer. Mihawk kept a neutral expression while waiting for your response, but the tight hold on his glass was less than neutral.

"I'm not sure, actually," you finally said with an apologetic laugh. "I think I need another taste, if you don't mind."

Mihawk smirked before downing the rest of his wine and pulling you close.

🎪 Buggy the Clown

The bar was full and loud, but all your attention kept falling on one person across the room. Someone responsible for most of the noise. Whose charisma had the crowd laughing and singing all night. Who glared at your silent observations until you sent over an apology drink.

"Whatever he's drinking, can you bring him another one and tell him… Say that I hope he has a good night…? Uh, that I'm glad he's here. Wait no, tell him I'm sorry for staring, I just like his smile-"

You clung to the bartop and babbled on while the bartender pulled a pint. The fizzy amber liquid mixed with the red syrup at the bottom of the glass.

"Just tell him, cheers!" You shouted to the their back, hoping they could hear you over the current sea shanty sugring through the room.

Across the flowing crowd you watched the bartender drop off the drink, say something, repeat it, repeat it again, then lean in and speak right into Buggy's ear. Then they pointed at you. Aw fuck. You sunk down in embarassment, before looking back up for another dose of shame.

Now they were both pointing at you and Buggy was laughing.

Maybe this was hell.

Before you figured out how to will yourself out of exsistence, you heard a clear voice over all the others.

"Cheers!"

Buggy held his drink high, some of it spilling on his gloved hand, before downing it in one long draw. You laughed in relief, then lifted your own bottle in response.

Hours later and four (or maybe six) extra drinks on your tab, the bar was finally starting to shut down. You were warm and full, having indulged in drinks and your crush all night. Although you didn't even talk to Buggy directly, you were content to bask in his flashiness and hold onto that glow.

"So you're still here," someone said from behind.

You knew that voice.

"So are you," you said without turning around.

"Yeah, well someone kept buying me drinks. I'm not gonna turn down free drinks," Buggy boasted.

He swayed slightly, then leaned against the bartop next to you.

"I should say thank you, right?" he continued.

Buggy looked at you through bleary eyes, as if he already forgot why he even came over. The alcohol on his breath was so strong, you could nearly taste it.

And then you could.

Without warning, Buggy pushed his lips against yours. He was rough. Your own lips mashed against your teeth, his large nose pressed into your cheekbone, and a strained groan escaped his throat from the effort behind this kiss. His bottom lip slipped between yours. It was thick and soft, so delightfully plush.

When he started to pull away, you surged fowards to prolong the kiss for just a few more seconds.

At a loss for words, the only thing you could think of to say was, "you taste like cherries."

Buggy frowned and blinked a few times.

"You taste….desperate?"

It was your turn to frown.

"I-I don't want you making a bad decision, but, but I do because I want to kiss you again. But you shouldn't. But I want you to."

The poor clown slumped over the wood counter with a drunken whine.

A hand darted forwards and grabbed the back of Buggy's collar.

"Sorry, sorry, he doesn't know how to express his feelings," explained his first mate. Mohji pulled his captain upright. "He's been talking about you all night and now he's not even going to remember this tomorrow."

"Shut up, yes I will," Buggy wailed.

You laughed in disbelief.

"Here, let me help you." You looped one of Buggy's arms around your shoulders and smiled to yourself.