#worstgenerationloser

Meal Plan.

1) Nico Robin, a human archaeologist affiliated with the Adventurer's Guild, smarter than you're willing to give credit for.

2) Vinsmoke Sanji, a foolish runaway prince with a heart far too soft for this world.

3) Portgas D. Ace, an easygoing yet infuriating werewolf with particular tastes.

4) Silvers Rayleigh, the laidback Guildmaster with a colorful past that knows far too much than he is letting on.

5) Shakuyaku, a mysterious woman who insists you call her "Shakky", bearing a breathtaking beauty.

6) Nami, the fashionable woman who loves picking pockets and locks just as much.

7) Shanks, a famous and well traveled adventurer well versed in combat and people pleasing.

8) Benn Beckman, a well-known adventurer who has been at Shanks' side for the better part of two decades.

9) Roronoa Zoro, a vampire hunter seeking to take the heads of every last one of you— for coin, of course

10) Usopp, the cowardly elf that left his grove in search for his father, aiming to become a brave adventurer.

11) Donquixote Doflamingo, an incubus in disguise as a noble, seeking to manipulate the current emperor and take the throne for himself.

12) Trafalgar D. Water Law, a young doctor interested in unconventional research subjects.

13) Dracule Mihawk, a vampire.

Some love interests will appear in later chapters and will consequently have a longer wait!

Guide...

??: INTERLUDE, a dream.

00: PROLOGUE, "Why Do You Bite?" (Posted, linked.)

01: CHAPTER 1, "Killing My Dreams."(Posted, linked.)

02: CHAPTER 2, "Carry Your Cross."

03: CHAPTER 3, "CH3"

04: CHAPTER 4, "CH4"

More to come...

CONTENT INCLUDED/WARNINGS:

These are the main components of the story, but content warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter.

*Subject to change since this is a WIP.

**Rape/non-con won't be added.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. Gore, Cannibalism, Violence, Profanity.

Kink Content:

Dom/Sub Dynamics, Pain-related kinks, more to be seen...

!! Updates are not done at a set schedule and may be infrequent. !!

A/N 1: This work is a rewriting of a previous series I was working on, redone to be a bit "darker" but not entirely depressing. I changed a few story elements, will still retain some light and comedic elements and have made it 10000% more kinky. I don't normally write dark stories and decided that now is the time to work on my skills, I also just wanted to make sure there's more kink content here.🌝 I will 1000% change the layout later on.

A/N 2: I originally posted the first version January of 2025, and even after reworking everything I still struggle writing!! Shoot me.

Edited June 6th, added "Kink Content" section beneath warnings.

Everyone knows the internet is dreadful at times with differing opinions and hateful comments towards one another, some people trying to turn themselves into the embodiment of peace and happiness on their social media pages despite being the literal incarnation of evil… Now, you won’t try and say you’re all sunshine and rainbows, but maybe you get a little defensive when it comes to the things you like, and that may or may not lead to a few arguments in comment sections. Which is exactly your current predicament.

The notification wall on your phone's lock screen displayed one notification from Instagram. There was no doubt in your head that it was the guy who had become the reason for your most recent internet argument.

FireFist replied to your comment: “ dont care, didnt ask. “

Three tips for dealing with internet trolls, and you managed to break the most important one. Everyone says not to engage but you can’t resist the temptation, and that is a bad habit you’re eager to break; but it can also wait for another year or two. Naturally, your anger gets the best of you over an Instagram comment, and you click on his profile again to see if there’s something to use against him. Unfortunately for you, his account is private, and he has five followers, so there is zero chance of you sneaking in even, on a burner account. Just your luck, you had no fuel for your fire besides the fact that “FireFist” had terrible opinions regarding music, and his username sounded like a shitty porno. Despite that, you began to type away, forgetting whatever it is you were doing to try and come up with a comeback.

You replied to FireFist’s comment: “then why r u still responding lol thats sad.”

Not even a minute later, his reply lit up your phone screen.

FireFist replied to your comment: “i can say the same for you LMAOO u want me so bad!!”

Okay, they are just trying to rile you up. And unfortunately for you it was in fact working alarmingly easily.

You replied to FireFist’s comment: “i wouldnt touch u with a 10ft pole, ur probably infectious”

He replied quickly that time, too.

FireFist replied to your comment: “sounds like u rllyy wanna touch me bcz u keep responding to me… its ok to say u want me”

The asshole twisted your words. Do you get defensive, insult him more, or block him? Blocking people is for pussies, and that definitely makes you a hypocrite because you have blocked so many people you reached the limit more than once, but you feel such intense hatred for this internet stranger today that you don’t want to block them. For a while, you try to figure out what to say back without sounding too offended… Ultimately, it's a losing battle, and you can’t figure out where to go from here. Your heart is racing and you feel anxious but you don’t stop to think about why you’re doing things like this despite the reactions they give you.

Then, your screen lights up again. Moving slow as a snail, your hand shaking from anxiety picks up your phone. Yes, it was who you’d expect.

FireFist replied to your comment: “don't be shy, im open minded ;)”

That sets you off. Really bad. Clenching your jaw uncomfortably tight, your hand clicks on his profile, then the three dots in the corner. There, that bright red text greets you. 

Block.

Are you sure you want to block FireFist? They won’t be able to…

After seeing that text a thousand times over, you just don’t care anymore. You blocked him, and you aren’t expecting anymore of his odd messages anytime soon. Simmering in anger alone in your bedroom, you’re interrupted by a knock on your bedroom door. It’s probably your roommate, Franky. He’s an eccentric guy with electric blue dyed hair that he styles differently every other week, a ridiculous amount of confidence in himself, and that’s not even mentioning his weird obsession with cyborgs. You are sure in another life Franky is living out his cyborg dreams, still having his outbursts of energy.

“Y/N! Wanna come to the pet store with me? I gotta get a new filter for Jinbe!” Franky yells obnoxiously loud through your door. Jinbe, his pet fish who he swears has the spirit of a whale shark, but to be fair, that fish is pretty badass. 

“Sure! Let me get dressed!” You yell back, tumbling out of bed towards your dresser. Your phone can wait! All you need now is to throw on a little something that won’t make you look like you have a bleak life.

“Hm? Were you cooking? The smoke alarm is going off!” Nonchalant as ever, Franky gently pushes open your bedroom door. Wait, why is he holding Jinbe’s tank in his hands? Disregarding his question you stupidly focus on the most irrelevant thing, before your eyes widen in shock. Without an utterance of any words, a string of noises escapes your mouth.You throw yourself out the door, dashing towards the kitchen. Okay, fixing your temper is now number one on the bucket-list, if it allows you to make a mistake this big then maybe it’s a problem.

And with that, you manage to subject yourself to a few months of signature Franky-style teasing. The whole situation is so absurd, even you have trouble trying to wrap your head around why you got so worked up… Looking over at your roommate on the couch next to you, something tells you that he's about to offer some clarity.

“Y’know… You spend a little too much time online. Seriously, you have no idea how many angry DM’s I get from people you argued with in a comment section or whatever. Kinda tiring.”

Franky blurted out loud, cleaning the salt from his chips off of his fingers with an obnoxious sucking noise as the loud crack of a can of cola follows along. It had become a sort of biweekly tradition for you and Franky to sit on the couch and put on some sketchy movies which if the law asks, you legally acquired. Despite him having literally no reason to, he took you in when reality hit you right in your soul upon moving to this town; Franky even invites you places and offers to buy you things when you’re short on cash. He does still annoy you, but it’s in more of an older brother way instead of the way a regular old roommate would.

“There’s no room for you to critique me. I haven’t seen you drink a drop of water since we started living together four years ago.” A rather extensive sigh highlights your softened speaking voice, though only Franky picks up the dash of sarcasm found in your words. He always ends up parroting words and promises you utter to yourself, it’s annoying but you guess he’s just gotten to know you excessively well. You don’t really like being told what to do anyways.

“Hey! That’s a completely separate matter! I am my own person. But–...” Tapping his chin, Franky licks salt from the corner of his mouth after he trails off for a moment. The blue light from the T.V screen makes his hair look luminescent in a silly way and that’s all you can focus on.

“I have seniority over you. I showed you the not-so-local scene, hidden gems, and I let you stay with me dirt cheap! I also know that I’m practically your only friend. Maybe listen a little, because sometimes I worry about you like my own family.” 

Well, he’s got you there. You have definitely neglected your social life— yourself in general. After turning eighteen you bought a lottery ticket, won a decently sized prize; realized that you didn’t wanna live with your parents forever— and following the scent of freedom you landed yourself in this stupid town with a significantly less amount of money, and barely a plan. Eighteen is still very much teenaged, so you thought you would maybe be able to work things out after only having maybe $400 left and the brand-new car you got with your lottery money… No apartment lined up, not thinking of the fact you would have to buy furniture or get a job, just living off the adrenaline rush that came with a change of scenery. It’ll be four years since you moved here in a month or two, and sometimes your life feels just as messy at times.

Looking over at Franky you feel eternally grateful, he would laugh if you ever told him something like that to his face, so you keep emotional words to yourself. With a permissive nod, Franky settles back onto the couch and stares right at you.

“I know you're technically an adult, but I can't forget the eighteen-year-old girl I saw sulking in the streets. It's fine if you wanna be introverted, but you don't go outside if you aren't shopping or going places with me. Plus, being angry at internet strangers is terrible for your mental health. I’m not super into these corny talks, just try and do something without being mad all the time. Start a blog, take up video gaming, things like that.”

Franky leaves you with his words of rare wisdom, he turns the volume up on TV without looking back in your direction. Taking his advice into consideration, you tune out the noises coming from the television and start reevaluating the choices that have led you to this point. 

Pros; you got Franky and a cheap place to stay that isn't a total shit hole.

And the cons… It's best if you ignore them for now, you'll end up on a downward spiral, and not the good Nine Inch Nails album kind of downward spiral.

There's barely any luck when you try to make small talk with the cashier at your local supermarket, and online 90% of the time whenever you voice your opinions it makes somebody angry— the other 10% is when you're upset with someone else's opinion... When you put things like that you start to wonder if you're the problem. Socializing without Franky would be the first step towards becoming a better you! Starting off small is the key to success in your case.

“Okay, now let's just relax and forget all about my blog. Gotta wait for some likes… But I guess here they're called hits.”

Closing your laptop, you sit back in bed. There's an odd rush of adrenaline running through your veins, something's telling you that this is going to be a success. Here you're going to make some cool mutuals, engage in friendly conversation, and hopefully if someone thinks highly enough of you— you’ll get yourself a fan. That's wishful thinking, though. If things go sour you have to abandon this platform forever. The moment you get comfortable and reach for your phone, a soft knock sounds at your door, and you already know it's one of the only people you maintain a relationship with and live with.

“Y/N? Just wanted to make sure I didn't overstep earlier. I know you've never had an issue with it before, but I tend to overthink. You also know that. Tell me you aren't upset so I can post Jinbe on my story with a clear mind.”

Without even seeing him, you can tell by his voice that he's got his face pressed against your door. 

“I’m not!” You shout aloud, getting back into a comfortable position.

“Are you sure?”

“...I’m sure.”

“Okay, but are you sure that you're sure?”

“Rest assured I’m not upset with you in any way or manner, Franky.”

“...Alright, but are you confident?”

He's doing the thing again. Angrily, you walk towards your door and fling it open— but Franky is already scurrying to his room, giggling along the way. His joy is infectious, and you forget about your worries and previous annoyances. Today was productive enough in your book; Franky made some burgers on the grill earlier and invited a few of his more sociable and interesting friends, mentioning how bummed he was that some girl… Whatever her name was, couldn't come over. Even if they weren't there for you it was still nice to have a few laughs with new faces. Then you got in some sun and just let your thoughts drift away; until the creation of your blog, which is still in the densely populated space of your brain.

You forgot all about it until you were dressed up the next morning, scurrying to open your laptop in a daze. More anxious than ever, the color blue highlighting the numbers over your notification's inbox reading “99+” damn near killed you. You move your mouse over to your profile picture in the corner, and check out your post, a simple photo of your outfit with less accessories than usual.

800 hits total. 12 comments. 46 reposts. And your post was added to a few collections, you'd say maybe 20 people did so. That leaves 722 likes. 

Something tells you to check the comments, and after skimming through them, you're comforted when you see nothing negative. You felt comfortable saying this since he hopefully wasn't omniscient, but you're glad you didn't see that FireFist dude in your notifications. Honestly you can't even explain to yourself why he came up just now, but he did. He pissed you off a great deal, so it's valid you're still thinking of him. The positive comments distract you more than that asshole does, though. Starting from the top you begin to read.

NamiLuvsMoney: “def not my style but super cute <3”

When you checked her profile, you saw that she seemed to have amassed a large fan base doing the same as you. That wasn't even mentioning how beautiful she was in her profile picture, so much so that you followed her immediately after verifying it was really her of course. Your eyes move on to the next comment.

SuuperCyborg: “i need my belt back”

It's Franky, you nearly forgot you gave him your blog handle. He doesn't post much but he has an introduction on his page, you follow him after giggling at the familiar profile picture which was the same on each social media page of his. It was the one a show photographer took of him spraying cola everywhere with his hair in a huge Mohawk, there's a few of his friends whom you barely remember holding him up and laughing. It makes you want to go to a punk show with him.

The next comment is just a thumbs up emoji, and the person who commented has no profile picture set. Checking their profile, they only seem to repost historical things. You block them under the assumption bot interactions will mess with your blog's engagement, you did so well on this first post, and you don't wanna ruin that. Goodbye to the blog titled “Bookmark”, it's a stupid name for a blog but FireFist is worse. 

SaDbo: “this outfit reminds me of my little brothers friend. he's pretty kickass and I kinda want his closet, but his eyes are intimidating sometimes. i think you wear it better 👀”

Oh, you've made it. After scanning his profile obsessively, your ego experiences a massive increase. This hottie complimented your outfit. This gorgeous blonde man? Stay calm, racing heart. When you dig a little more you see that he reposts a bit of everything, and you find yourself a little curious about him. Any sane person would follow him. Anybody. Franky would give you a round of applause right about now.

The page suddenly refreshes on its own, and there you see it now placed at the top of the column of comments.

FireFist: “i see you!"

FireFist: “did ya miss me?”

His comments were immediately deleted, but apparently this website didn't allow you to block people on new accounts, so you decided to send this guy a DM in hopes of maybe getting him to fuck off. Preparing an angry DM you try not to sound too aggressive to risk your following of 78 people, which is still pretty impressive if you do say so yourself. Enough about you, more about your aggressor.

“this is really creepy of you to do”

On the other side of the screen, you like to think this guy is old and greasy, maybe even divorced or something. Again, his profile is bare. Nothing at all, just a black profile picture.

“you're the one playing hard to get babe”

His response came quickly, like he was waiting for you to message him. When you read his message and see he called you “babe” that makes you think it would be for the best if he wasn't an old man. This wasn't your first time being harassed online, but this was the first time someone found an account with an entirely different email address linked to it, not to mention there was no indication that it was you. Every other profile is bare, besides your close friends' stories.

“youre harassing me???? on the internet? do you have any hobbies?  no sane person has this much free time”

“how did you even find me, my user is completely different” This bizarre situation is gonna leave you with long lasting paranoia regarding social media. Three dots pop up and fade in and out in the bottom corner of your chat, showing that FireFist is now typing.

“yah i knew you would have a fuckass handle like this bcz wtf does this even mean”

Is your handle really that cringe? The essence of social media is that you can do things with less cares than usual, so you begin to think letting your imagination run wild and ironically choosing your username was a mistake. Does everyone know its satirical?

“youre one to talk, FireFist”

Another message of yours trails behind. The typing begins, but then it stops. And it doesn't pick back up after that. You refresh the page over and over whilst not even blinking, itching for a response so you can say something else without seeming obsessed— but it never comes. Guess that's the end of it. 

At least that's what you thought at the time. Fifteen minutes later is when it happened.

“Y/N! Who the hell is FireFist?!” Franky’s yelling is close, and then your door swings open with such force, the brass doorknob comes crashing into your drywall at record speeds. When the door lightly swings back and forth and lets out of the wall, there's a circular hole from where the doorknob made contact.Damn this shitty house and its fragile walls. To make matters worse; when you look up at Franky he seems angry.

“Shit. Did he do something?” Your anxiety is killing you to the point you barely manage to speak to Franky. Is it wrong to think that this is kind of scary? It's just some dude online, but he's everywhere now. That means the chances of seeing him in real life are slim… You think.

“Something? Did he do something?” Franky hangs his head, his hand gripping the side of the door while he seethes in his anger.

“He trashed my base in Cyborg Utopia! Uh, why are you so nervous anyways?” Then comes Franky’s dramatic outburst, and suddenly the tension in the air dissipates a bit. But you can't shake the feeling that this isn't the last instance of him popping up places.

“Huh? Oh, well— er…”

Maybe you shouldn't worry Franky. He would probably end up embarrassing you by making a few thousand angry posts about him if you told him you had a new internet… Stalker? FireFist falls into that category you suppose. You choose to keep quiet about it all. Franky looks at you expectantly, but you just shake your head. Don't worry about it. His eyes betray him and showcase his momentary worry as he walks away, shutting your door softly.

Wait a second.

“Hey! My wall, asshole!” You scream and stand up, shouting closer to the door so Franky could hear you a little louder.

“Not my problem!”  Franky yells back even louder than you.  The slamming of the front door is heard all the way from your room, followed by the sound of your roommates' noisy, beat up motorcycle speeding off. It's almost twelve in the morning, and he's off again.

“My Lady. I came with your wine.”

Bodies litter the surrounding floor entirely. The tavern reeks of death, flies buzz nearby the pools of blood, the shade of crimson is dark, resembling the color of midnight. A young girl settles to her knees with a trembling body, presenting a golden tray carrying a singular chalice of red wine. Despite the manslaughter surrounding, she dares not run, doesn’t let the tray fall even a little bit, and holds her position. She carries a weak heart, it promises but another year. Something tells you that she doesn’t want even a few more months of her life.

You stare at her. She doesn’t look up at you. When your clawed fingers reach out, her trembling stills, preparing for something yet to come.

As you grasp the chalice, a gurgling sound comes nearby you, and a body crawls closer to you, fingernails bending as their hands claw at the floor, but when they reach your foot, you raise it. Anger surges through you, it pulls your strings and draws a powerful kick out of you, the body flies across the room, breaking the wooden bar stained red. The girl remains still. Nothing is suitable, not an ounce of flesh, nor a single bone, not even the trickling blood. It doesn’t quell the urges within.

“Does the cold air not hurt, My Lady?” she questions. Golden eyes greet you as he stares from below the tray of gold, her appearance reminds you of the angels you’d dreamt of, the divinity that mocked you, the purity you had lost. She begins to look like a person to you as you stand beneath the dim lights, but those words laced in fake kindness mean nothing, not when you can hear the whispering inside of her head. For death, she begs, cries out to the gods. Her frost-bitten fingers make you grimace, they look as if they’re ready to fall off.

“It’s a terrible bite. No matter what, it remains still on my skin. I suppose I have only myself to blame.” You speak, but turn away from her.

“Because of your robes?” her tone questions you. You pause. She does as well.

“... My Lady.” The young girl adds. Nothing in your expression changes, and you keep your back turned to the girl, in all honesty, you do not care if she loses every last limb. You don’t care for any other than yourself, it’s a miracle in itself you had spoken that day, even more disquieting, you’d chosen to walk away from her. The chalice in your hand falls to the ground, spilling the wine on a dismembered head lying about.

Though her eyes look straight at your back, you choose to ignore it. In this world, it’s eat or be eaten, it’s likely that you’ll never hear from her again, she will die soon. But then, a particular feeling tugs at you, urging you to return to the young girl. With people already waiting for you at the crypt you had taken over, you still wasted precious time on a flickering flame of life.

Something about her spoke to you.

Unbeknownst to you, that wasn't necessarily a positive thing. If it had been, maybe you wouldn't be stirring inside bindings, all your limbs pinned to the ground by nails that had long since rusted and secured by ropes. Only the room itself must know how long it had been.

The polished stone floors lack dust, but the high ceilings your head is forced to look up at is littered with thick cobwebs, no living arachnids in sight but yelling a tale of time. Though the nails piercing your arms and legs limit your movement, you wiggle your body weakly against the steady rip of your skin, struggling with both panic and anger. Anger at the fact that you can recall in vivid memory just how you’d ended up bound inside this mysterious room, anger at the fact that humanity had betrayed you once again even after all you gave— and panic, for the air carried a familiar chill.

You still your body, and let it remember the painful memory of your demise. Hundreds of beautiful gowns, a singing angel, focused dances— and a betrayal, by the advisors you kept closest to you. The memory hurts, not because of the betrayal, but because of the embarrassment that you’d let people so weak leech off of your power, and ultimately slaughter you. But you have two things, at least… your life, and a mouth that hungers still.

After sleeping for who knows how long, the very last thing you wanted was to succumb to human emotion. Anger was fine, because it was the driving force that helped your undead armies grip the country by the hair, but the fear was entirely unwelcome. Hunger grips you, like you’d never wanted to know, yet still you struggle to free yourself, unwilling to give in to your newfound weakness. All those years spent feeding, growing your armies and power, dominating the world with both politics and war, and yet those powers you spent your life cultivating were nowhere to be found.

Nails piercing your skin used to be part of your beauty regimen. And now, they are binding you to the floor, where peasants would kneel at your feet, maybe to send a message.

“I am not a peasant.” You gasp, reassuring yourself like an insecure little girl would. Another gasp takes you.

“I am not an insecure little girl!” Even though you could have spoken to yourself, you make a point of saying everything out loud. It's a habit picked up from your reign, you suppose. A chill in the room rushes over your skin. Panic strikes you once more.

The chill in the room materializes in the only way it should, in the form of Mihawk, standing proud as he towers over you, looking almost triumphant— like he’d won the war the two of you fought silently over the years. But his face remains blank in the way you always remembered it was, offering you a drink from his cold wrist and a warm body for you to eat, treating you like a wild animal or a pet. This man, this thing, has a reason for coming to see you now. While you don't remember him showing up at your “de-throning”, you have no doubts in your rotten mind that he had something to do with it.

When you took the throne, his whispers stopped. There were no more questions about your everlasting hunger, no bits and pieces about how people like you and him were special, nothing else forced into your mind against your will. Mihawk must have been plotting your downfall ever since you gained the power to block him out, desperate to harass you!

“Is that so? But you speak to yourself like one.” He furrows his brows in a curious display of emotion.

Your body twitches as it jerks towards him, but is held in place by the nails that seem to be more painful than ever, they feel like they're burning. Mihawk’s eyes look you up and down, then follow the length of the rope at your wrists and ankles, paying particular attention to the bells. There are thousands of things you want to say to him, and yet nothing leaves your mouth.

“What an ill-maintained place. Do people really think it appropriate to keep their queen in here? Or was it empress..? Well, it looks more like a...” Mihawk eyes every corner of the room as he speaks, you do your best to follow. It's got four walls, polished floors and a leaky ceiling, a captive queen, but that's about it. His eyes catch on something behind you that you're yet to see.

He looks back at you, and keeps his mouth shut. But you hear the word “peasant” in your head, clear as day. With a newfound thirst for violence, you thrash against your bindings, the bells ring loudly as you manage to lift your thigh up, taking a few nails with you and leaving the rest. A pained scream nearly escapes you.

Mihawk shows a small forgotten smile at your outburst, but it quickly turns into his normal melancholic look after the fact.

He chastises you with a click of his tongue as if you were a child, walking towards your freed leg, dodging your feeble kicks aimed at him with ease. His eyes catch on your leg and its wounds, you follow once you realize that the holes left inside of you aren't healing as they normally would be. Another furrowed brow from Mihawk. And an internal panic from you as he reaches towards your thigh, gripping it with one cold hand all the while you struggle to think of what he might want with you when you're bound and helpless.

Another fearful thought takes you. Not fearful of Mihawk, instead afraid of your own feelings that spread when he touches your wounded skin. It's something you would rather hide, this flowery feeling is not welcome in your domain.

“Hungry already? It's only been a few years.” Being of the same breed as you, he knows very well the physical symptoms you show and their cause, the delayed healing is caused by hunger. A few years have passed, he says.

“How many years is a few, exactly?” You’re desperate for information, Mihawk is the only one here to accompany you.

“Why? Hoping to get back on your throne, maybe drink from a few lusty maidens? Or handsome lads? Maybe you’ve become the type who thirsts for creatures instead… Perhaps a werewolf? I suggest you stop thinking about it.” Mihawk commands you with an unshakable voice, starting off mockingly and ending with a harsh reprimand that makes you even want to take a step back despite all the tension between you two. And being nailed into the floor.

But that doesn't stop you from feeling angry at the way he speaks to you. Surely by now he knows what makes you angry.

“Listen to me. I—” Before you even get the words out, Mihawk’s finger is pressed to your lips to shush you. Two different types of shivers run through you when faced with his touch.

“I will not. Shut your mouth for a moment, and heed my warning.” As Mihawk speaks, the very same vampiric authority you used to wield grips your skin, and you shut your mouth to obey his command.

“For too long has the world tolerated you. Instead of tolerating, they worshipped— laying their hands upon your body, drinking from your wounds and savoring the vampiric power. The power that we shared. ” Mihawk leans in close, but pulls himself away, walking behind you and out of sight. Lying still, you shake with rage, but are still forced to obey his command and listen to him obediently. He continues, letting the room echo his soft voice.

“It won't do humanity any good to have something like you running amok.” Mihawk ends.

The command he placed onto you lifts, and you're eager to get your words in.

“Oh please! Why should I waste the curse you gave me, and obey your rules? Why should I, the one who you attacked, listen to you?” Your words are raw, full of emotion but lacking the power you like, and you slowly start to feel like they're empty the more the silence washes over your words.

“Curse? Attack? Listen here—” Mihawk’s voice shakes with anger, you can taste the urges buried within that show their ugly head, and you can't resist the fear that they demand you to feel, falling under the spell of his words. A soft noise leaves your lips, and you feel sad? His emotions force you to let them in, and so he begins to tell you his own thoughts. Again, he approaches you. And again, you try to decipher his thoughts, yet can't understand them, nor remember when you last peered into his mind.

“We share something special. Something I so patiently waited for you to understand, lurking just within, and yet… Your body and soul reject it. Every inch of you resists this power, and yet you become it, losing all that you'd ever cared for, and so you are the evil. Do you feel it? How far you’ve fallen.” You hear his voice clear as the night sky, and yet you fail to understand the emotion within the words, the echo is forgotten. Mihawk does not wait for you to respond, instead possessing you with an emotion with no name to scare you into submitting.

“Power is not for you to seek. You were never, ever, meant to rule the world as such— but I still allowed it. ” Mihawk’s words drive you to foolish tears. But you insist in your head that they do not matter to someone like you.

“I don't need your permission for anything, pest!” A sob threatens you as you snap back at Mihawk, shaking in both pain and a whirlwind of emotions as the ceiling watches over you.

“Of course. But I am responsible for you, because it was I who made you into what you are now. Since the beginning, I swore to keep you in check, I gave you so much grace and relied on myself to make sure that you continued to grow. But in the end, all those missing memories must have swam away.” Mihawk speaks even softer than before, like he's telling you a secret.

“What are you saying? Am I a lost cause? Do you think I'm worthless, Mihawk?” This time, you can't help but cry, the tears are colder than you remember, like glaciers melting against the heat of your conversation. Mihawk speaks like he owns you, and yet you feel a slight comfort in his words— just before the pain of his words pierce you over and over again. You just don't understand! What is it that you're missing? What else did he take from you, what other wounds has Mihawk inflicted on you?

Why do you seek his answers so desperately, in spite of all he had caused? Why do you want his approval?The confusion from something deep within teases you, and the anger makes you lash out.

“I'm going to slaughter you! The same way you hurt me, I'll hurt you— and I won't let you live the next time we see each other." Each word you spit makes you feel human again, you swear you can feel a faint beating from within your ribs as you stare at him.

Once again, Mihawk walks into view. He steps between your legs, and drapes himself over you. This, you cannot discern from fact or fiction, but you remember how you felt warm for just a moment. before he’d gripped you and tossed you into the cruel and unforgiving sea. Master of your emotions, Mihawk has once again taken you from the real world and twisted your mind to feel something sick towards him, yet his actions remain a haze to you, that same wound he gave you long ago aches.

It aches. Oh, how the pain grips you! And still…

The air of the mausoleum suddenly fails to meet your expectations. That, or your corpse has left that comforting place for some unknown reason. How absurd. One moment, you were fang to fang with Mihawk, and now all those big emotions are gone, clashing with the confusion of awakening in this new and unfamiliarly sweet smelling forest? You’d hope there weren’t any fairies here playing tricks on your mind, but the sudden harsh ache in your skin forces yet another awakening. Something rather large scurries away as your palms plant themselves on the wet earth beneath you, its beating heart is indiscernible from any other living creature due to your weakened state.

As your eyes open, you notice dirt and moss, but also tall stone walls— ones you are far too familiar with. Here you are, inside of the overgrown ruins of what you once called your home, this time in the small but beloved courtyard. Except, this place, though holding some familiar pieces of structure, has become something almost entirely unrecognizable.

Many large trees have sprouted, allowed to stretch towards the sky without the constant upkeep of the garden you allowed the servants to keep. Slowly rising, it was as if you were learning how to walk again, your thighs shook while your knees wished to give out on you, and your arms were just as shaky while you tried your best to sit upwards. A primal hunger was present in your entire being, and the night smelled only of silence and blooming flowers.

“Ah, these statues must be thousands of years old at the very least! What a wonderful find.”

A voice echoes through the dusty and forgotten walls and hallways which surround you, the clacking of shoes against the stone floors are far too close for your comfort. How could you not have noticed this woman coming so close? The only answer could have been that far too much time has escaped, and the hunger was a tell tale sign of it. You are starving, and need to consume life in its rawest form of flesh and blood, or risk facing another one of your massacres falling upon people again.

…Perhaps she could satisfy your needs?

“Here should be the passage to the main portion of the palace. That long-nosed elf made quite a detailed map.” She continues talking to herself, but remains out of sight, her voice is echoed across the various walls that slowly become less recognizable.

Faced with more hunger pangs, you can only grind your fangs and push yourself up from the floor. When your body rises you struggle to keep yourself stable and standing straight, but it happens somehow. As the woman draws nearer, from what you can discern from the scattered noise of her footsteps, your legs feel alien in their slow pursuit. Just when a head of raven hair pops into your view, your knees buckle— and you fall to the ground once again, thankfully the sound is muffled by the wet earth. It's another struggle to get yourself standing again, now soaking in the wetness of the earth.

Legs pop into view, and you panic, entirely unprepared despite making up your mind to sink your fangs into her moments earlier. Would you be able to pull off spontaneous feeding in a weakened state like so? Again, it’s not like you have a choice. She’s closer, you can hear her exasperated breathing.

“Everything’s almost untouched by the human hand… Nature wins in the end, I suppose.” You hear the woman chuckle. Maybe you should make the first move, and brush up on the acting skills that got you through the first century of vampiric life— or you could play dead like a worthless mammal. You haven't stooped that low yet, and so you decide to hope those years of watching plays from above haven't left you like everything else has.

An extremely brief moment is spent clearing your throat, and trying to look less pathetic and more hopeless. Shockingly, that doesn't take much effort.

Ignoring the mortal plane's insult, you manage a shaky “Who's there?” After centuries alone in silence, you speak again, sounding less like yourself and more like a seasick sailor. The woman steps into view, cautious as ever with a lantern in hand— and a wooden stake in the other. Just seeing the sharpened piece of wood, a morbid curiosity fills you. Can the legends be true? Would a simple weapon like that paralyze you, or perhaps even slaughter you? Your legs now tremble with more than just excitement.

But, then your dull mind manages to put two and two together. If she carries a wooden stake, she is at the very least aware of some vampiric presence. Her earlier words of your beloved statues being “thousands of years old” hints that far too much time has passed, if her observations are correct. The trees about you hint only a few hundred years, but you're no tree expert. If she is aware of your existence, she is at least not aware of your face. If you play your hand right, then you’ll be able to catch her off guard with a bite.

Unfortunately for you, the pain of hunger has other plans for you. 

The sounds of walking stills, before continuing, a bit more hesitant. A hum reverberates throughout the room, light approaching at the same pace and there she is. A raven-haired beauty, one with eyes of ocean blue and a long slender nose— her skin is swallowed by the warm lantern light, making her complexion appear beautifully bronze. You take a moment to admire, before hunger rips through your flesh and displays your innards. Figuratively of course, but it makes you fall to your knees the same.

Everything cries out silently in your direction, your fingertips feel as if they've swollen, your lips crack in the irritating cold as you once again acknowledge just how infuriatingly weak and ravenous you are. This time about, something shifts in the air, and even you feel a chill— different from being hand in hand with danger, you can't even ask for a dance. It's terrible, pitiful, you want anything but this feeling to take over you, your body seeks out the closest distraction, with your hands feeling the mossy ground for comfort. This woman watches, curious as to what comes next, it infuriates you— but you understand her curiosity. The pervert in you tells you to savor this feeling, but it's whipped into shape by rationality.

“It aches,” you dig your fingers into the earth, hoping to coax the woman closer. She does come closer, but your vision is quickly obscured by water. Not tears, but some other mysterious liquid that you hope is water. As you blink it away, you feel more small splashes hit your skin and freeze against your lack of warmth. The pain is temporarily quelled by the dripping liquid, for now you have a moment to question what exactly the woman is doing to your body.

“Oh. So you aren't an unholy creature.” The woman blinks at you a few times, tossing a glass bottle to the side. In the distance you hear the glass break, and it's an intense struggle to resist the urge to scream about her littering inside of your home. At the very least you didn't suffer from whatever she must have assumed you would, and she now thinks you are not an unholy thing. 

“What?” Your confusion doesn't stop after she stops throwing the unknown liquid on you.

“Holy water. You didn't dissolve, did you? Or maybe the elf lied. Maybe I'm misremembering it all. Well, in that case, will you wear this?” She lowers her lantern onto the ground, and the light stings your eyes, but you blink that discomfort away quickly. You notice a satchel on her hip and a backpack hanging off of one of her shoulders, both look considerably full and well maintained. Inside her satchel, you watch her pull out a cross made of steel, strung about by a small chain. Correction; it's a cross necklace. 

Not taking any chances clearly, she tosses the necklace towards you in an odd manner, and the chain somehow finds its way around your neck. Of course nothing happens, but you sit on the floor and wait for the necklace to do whatever it was for the moment. She seems satisfied and inches closer, but decides against actually approaching you. You take notice of her missing stake, and shakily lift yourself up with quickly draining strength that craves her. Instead of managing to lunge at her, you fall backwards again, but the woman wraps her arms around you, catching your fall.

When she's closer, you can practically taste how clean she is. She smells like flowers, and the dusty pages in books. The exposed taste of her arms and legs feels smooth— you can feel on your fingertips the traces of perfumed oils on her forearms and wrists. Her grip is steady and strong despite her initial reluctance to approach you, and you wish it was due to your acting rather than your actual physical state. Seeing someone so well taken care of only makes you wonder just how dirty and messed up you’ve gotten after so long, and just how you may have ended up in the ruined courtyard.

Did Mihawk move you? He had no reason to. Perhaps some of those who still worshipped you wished to free your body, and give you a better resting place. If it was the servants, you have no doubt they would move your body to their favorite place, in the heart of the palace.

Mihawk’s name is unfortunately not mentioned in passing inside of your head. Like an invasive vine, he covers the fences of your ribs and smothers your dried up heart with himself. Just like you said you would, you’d slaughter him no matter the cost. If you need to live as an urchin, lurking and eating in the filthy wastelands, you would. If it meant that Mihawk would die by your hand, and you could get another taste of the ichor in his veins, then you’d eat his bones and all. It's certainly not for pleasure! Of course you’d enjoy it, but you wouldn't enjoy it, right?

It takes a while for you to notice that you're now standing on your own, staring at the ground like a freak of nature.

“Might I ask who you are, Miss?” The woman pokes you with the stake that had suddenly appeared in her hand again, earning a jolt and near tumble from you. She grips your hip and steadies you, but still keeps a distance oddly enough.

“Me? Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first? I was here first.” Suddenly, the pampered woman inside of you wants to have her way, and you scowl at this mysterious woman. You don't like her accusatory tone! Even if it is well founded.

“Were you?” Her brow raises the longer she looks at you.

“Of course I was! I woke up here, and…” Slowly you start to realize that your tone is far too rude for someone so robust and alert to hear. If she was so pleased, you’d be a red splatter on the walls! Well, there's always time for a somber tone.

“I was attacked, I know not by who. I just didn't want to risk being discovered by him again… He’s a terrible thing, ruthless in all the worst ways, and with no shortage of resources to deploy if it means my death.” Partial truths always make the best lies, and your fake sniffling certainly makes quite the spectacle. When you were out on city streets playing the helpless maiden, there was no shortage of men and women alike to buy the act. There's no reason it shouldn't work now.

Your admission leaves the woman speechless. Her eyes don't leave you, but you look over and notice her shoulders have gone a bit slack.

“Why have you not sought refuge with the adventurers guild? If you posted a bounty, our higher ranks would have taken care of him. We also offer free lodging for those fleeing violence.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and leans back against a pillar to watch you.

A guild? You’ve not the slightest clue who these people could be.

“I do not know this guild you speak of. I prefer the countryside, where there are less people and more animals.” With a sigh, you look into the distance as if in thought, struggling to not look over at the woman again.

“Essentially, we’re a group of people who explore and slay beasts, hence the name. If it is a safe haven you seek, then there is a town nearby. Though, you don't seem to have any currency on you…” 

You swallow. The hunger is brewing again, and your eyes land on her again. But she's clearly intelligent enough to know that an erratic woman approaching rapidly means doom. You must leave this place, and choose easier prey— if only animals could sate your appetite.

“Oh. Well, I'm sure I'll find my way there. Farewell.” Before you can turn and run away, the woman interrupts you with the utterance of a name.

“Nico Robin, archaeologist of the adventurer’s guild. With the harvest moon so close, the wolves grow restless, as do their appetites. If you must go, I will offer safer passage. Though I can only hope we won't be eaten by creatures.” The woman, who you now know as Robin, speaks with a new smile, something that feels so familiar and comforting. In return, you do the same, introducing yourself as a lonely woman living in the deep countryside— fleeing from an abuser and abandoning your home in the process.

Roleplay. How delightful. Curiously enough, you feel like you've done this before, but never in your nightly trysts.

She clears her throat, and begins to speak.

“You see, I was wary of you at first due to the legends about this place. Long ago, before the light dared to shine upon our country they say, there was a cruel empress who ruled the sea and land alike. No armies could quell her wrath, and with her uprising came the birth of many supernatural creatures. The lycanthropes, her vampire spawn, and other things that were said to be myth. I didn't live in this time, but there were records that survived and came from these very ruins— stating that the vampire mistress, unbelievably lustful for blood and otherworldly in her…” Robin begins to rant, her voice carries far too much interest for a normal person. She must be one of those odd ones.

“When I encountered a beautiful stranger, looking so sickly, I was naturally surprised. They say true vampires carry otherworldly beauty, so they may easily seduce their victims and lure them to their death. Some theorize that the sirens of the sea and the vampires are closely related due to their similar characteristics.” Despite her desire to ramble about many related topics, you focus on the bits and pieces you hear about yourself and other vampires. Despite being an archaeologist, she's knowledgeable on many things.

“But a true vampire living so long isn't plausible. According to stone carvings–” Just before Robin says more than you can handle, a low growl interrupts her. You wouldn't doubt that the local wildlife or other creatures have grown impatient with her talk, as have your cold lips. Hunger comes again, but it remains mostly silent in the face of what your body assumes is an imminent meal.

“I believe we should leave this place.” You click your tongue, and Robin nods.

“Let's go, then.” Robin spoke, prompting you to join her, you can't help but notice the appeal in her smile, the way she struts about with utmost confidence, the dip in her back, the curve of her hips, the curl of her lips— though, you, of course, would never ogle a human woman in such a manner. It's just that it's been a while since you've been awake, and she's easy on the eyes, so your appetite is pleased by her looks. She bends down to pick up the oil lamp she brought with her, and your eyes are still drawn to her.

It's simply your appetite talking, of course. You two head down throughout the dusty and spider infested halls, the clacking of both of your shoes is a tad bothersome.

“Miss. How did you come to know of this place?” Robin begins to question, her tone non-accusatory. She looks back at you with a curious look, in fact.

“I didn't,” you reply, staring down the torn paintings you once cherished the most in your halls. The statues remain, too heavy to drop and too sturdy to shatter, Robin admires them in passing. “I was fleeing that man. I ran into the maze of walls and hallways in hopes that he would not find me… and ended up unconscious inside.” 

Robin lets her hum of acknowledgment meet you as you meet an especially large opening in the beloved walls of your home. A frown dares to fall on your face.

“Does the air here seem a tad thick to you, as well? We should hurry. That moon has yet to come, but dangers persist no matter what. The walls could cave in on us, and we would end up being nothing more than splatters of red.”

Robin comments. She’s more odd than you initially thought, but individuality is part of being human. A chill same as before wraps itself over your spine and almost causes you to gasp aloud. You feel anxious, and for a second you swear you feel the same eyes boring into the back of your head.

“Of course.”

Exhaling, you glance behind you, gripping the watch as if it were your lifeline. You're frightened, so you walk side by side with Robin, ignoring any suspicious she might throw your way as a response.

It’s bittersweet, seeing the stains of old blood and splints of bone while simultaneously taking in the palace which gave you comfort. Things are sure to have changed quite a bit, and in order to get your steady food source replenished, you would have to possess any sort of power yet again. Such a thing wouldn't be too easily achievable, not when you’re back to living like a spawn does. Robin leads you down a staircase, into the lower level of your palace.

On the lower level, you’d find the torture chambers, blood baths, and room of many murals. It used to be your favorite floor… and it's also the place all the younger servants would sneak out and back in from, specifically from the crypt beneath the church they’d all established for you.

It's a long walk, but if Robin knows this path, then she's aware of it. Despite the ache in your legs, you prepare to walk for what will feel like days— but it is only an hour or two. 

The you which the world knew saw you as a bloodthirsty deity who would give humans a few extra years of health and life for a bath of blood. That does sum you up, actually, but now you feel your existence is more than to just feed and slaughter. New feelings, sensations, and coherent thoughts are filling your stained soul with curiosity, the question is not what is the cause but why is the cause.

“Was there anything you were searching for in particular in these ruins?” Opting for small talk, you try to catch Robin’s attention. 

“Not anything specific. It's just interesting, learning about an empire that lasted so long, and only fell with the death of its ruler. Vampires don't die, but according to official records, this one did. Don't you think it's funny?” Robin whips her head around, hair flying in various directions, looking behind you into the long passage. She smiles at you, and then slows her pace, walking by your side.

You confuse yourself a bit. You spent the entire journey back up spacing out, unsure if you even made conversation; you can't really be bothered by anything more than your own internal conflicts and hunger. Immediately you begin to notice the crickets make a cacophony of noise, the crashing of waves and distant howling is all too familiar. One more glance at the familiar surroundings before you leave for an uncertain amount of time, maybe returning eventually, and maybe not. Robin takes one good look at the flowering road ahead, and then continues onward.

“I’m planning to check into a nearby inn, but I’m concerned about you most of all. It’s no good escorting you if I am to hear that you are deceased by the next day. It could just be the goodwill of the senior adventurers spreading through me… It’s out of character for me, but nobody quite takes an interest in me much anymore, so I suppose I just want you to live long enough for us to be acquainted.” Robin’s eyes watch the surrounding woods for a minute, before they momentarily glance over to you, awaiting an answer. You don’t have any choice but to stay with her– how could you survive without her, either way? The thing you need most is her blood, but her comment about the “senior adventurers” piques your curiosity, and you certainly are tempted to ask a question or two.

“This guild you speak of,” you step over a puddle in the ground, unable to catch a glimpse of your reflection.

“It’s well established, no? Were you being compensated for exploring these ruins?” Unsure of what comes next, your eyes flicker between Robin and the surrounding trees.

“Oh no, nothing of that sort. It's more like a vacation to me, another chance to see a lost civilization. Isn't it interesting to you?” She glances at you through the corner of her eye, still smiling as she strides forward. Afraid of making things awkward or killing conversation, you nod your head.

“Somewhat. But I find it tragic all the same.” 

Fortunately, after much more idle conversation, Robin seems to have eased up around you— just in time for a worn dirt road to appear, the most traveled path is always the easiest. A distant screeching from some sort of avian sharpens your long dull instincts, for a second everything surrounding you is back to the way you remembered before. Suddenly you can hear Robin’s heartbeat for the first time, it's steady and sure of itself, which is good for you. Just as quickly, it's gone, leaving you wondering what strange changes your body might experience also.

“Did you come from this way?” You ask a simple question, furrowing your brows as birds gather in the walls of trees you leave behind. 

“Yes, there’s a village nearby. Not exactly quaint, but it's not the capital either. Plenty of people pass through, and it's got everything you need within.” 

“Nearby?” You question. “How close?” 

“Can you not see? We’ll be there in less than an hour, not to worry. Just stay close, and we won't encounter any issues.” Robin points in the distance, slowing her speed as she tries to gesture towards some distant blurry patch of land, but you don't see anything special. Back then, you could have seen it from underground if you wished, and now all of your senses are far too dull for your liking.

“Let’s make haste, then. I’m beginning to get a bit jumpy.” You speak as if the trees are actively listening, the two of you begin shuddering just as audibly as it is visible. The air is cooler with each step the two of you take, and you just can’t break out of the silence, because it feels wrong.

You feel those eyes boring into the back of your head every step of the way. Strangely, you can't make out any of the forms he would dare to take. He must still be quite powerful, to find you so quickly and so soon. Mihawk doesn't dare approach you, but you feel his watchful gaze unable to leave you, like it's telling you to hold your tongue. His eyes have you in such a trance, that you barely manage to pull yourself together as a carriage rushes past you, far too many horses follow, rushing towards the city walls that you can finally make out.

Whoever was being pulled by the carriage would reach the city before you, and it's now more than ever you wish someone was here to pamper you like so. The smell of cigarettes gives you whiplash, but you don't pay any more attention to it, not when Robin is so clearly scolding you.

“Pay more attention, I'm begging you. You would have been trampled.” Robin’s eyes betray a hint of worry, and you aren't sure why she cares so much about you. You’ve just met after all, and your charm does not possess the power to bewitch her like so in this state.

After far too much walking, a bustling and noisy town greets you. Though it is deep into the night, occupied minds cannot find the time in their schedules for sleep, and they wander the streets. Some laugh merrily, others wallow in their own negativity, and you and Robin are just looking for somewhere to settle. It would be easier to go after a drunken man and drink him dry, but you aren’t the type of vampire to chase after men simply because they’re easily accessible, you have your eyes set on a beautiful archaeologist this time. Following in her footsteps, you reach a cozy looking Inn. There are orchids displayed in intricately patterned vases nearby the open door. The building itself is made of a sturdy looking wooden structure with a wide arch that has a homemade sign on display.

The noise of this place drowns out everything but your own thoughts. Even so late into the night, it feels like a second sunrise.

“Come in, come in! Are ya ladies looking for lodging? Beauties such as yourself should never be caught out at such a late hour. You too, young man with the dashing golden locks! I have plenty of room for all.”

An older woman comes into view, popping out of the doorway and dancing towards you two, including the blonde man. She’s short and stout with graying hair tied back with a piece of cloth, an apron tied around her waist with a welcoming smile. There’s a keyring hanging from a chain clasped around her neck, which must be keys to the rooms.

“How much would you charge for a single room with two beds? I’m afraid I’ve nearly used all my travel funds. It’s just for tonight, ma’am.” Robin unclasps a leather pouch from around her belt, her lantern is now extinguished. She loosens the drawstrings around it, digging around for a second as she awaits an answer, her cold blue eyes drawn to the contents of her coin pouch. The woman looks back between you and Robin with an accusatory glance, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed all while she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Sorry, lass… All we got is a few single bed rooms. Just for the inconvenience, I'll give you a discount! Maybe they're together…?” The older woman not so quietly mutters the last part under her breath. Robin purses her lips and nods, sparing you a singular apologetic glance— she does not have the proper funds for two rooms. 

“And you, young man?” She speaks to the hooded blonde man now, who jolts the very second she tries to draw his attention. You watch him remove his hood after stepping a bit more into the shadow cast nearby, then you notice his odd eyebrows. They’re swirled, but he seems to cover the right side of his face with his bangs quickly when he catches onto your curious look, a shy blush and beating heart greet your ears and eyes, which you consider a rather friendly introduction. There is still a part of you that enjoys this manner of attention, but you want to keep it buried for now.

“One room, one night. Please and thank you, Mademoiselle.” His voice is smooth, but it has an undeniable presence, reminiscent of a certain emperor with an appetite for women you remember tearing limb from limb. A shiver runs through you, pleasure calls to you and asks for time to reminisce on murder. He smells like cigarettes, the same you’d smelt from the carriage earlier— and yet he’s only just arrived at this Inn.

“For the ladies, ten in total, for the young man, it's just fifteen.”

She leads the three of you inside slowly, shutting the front door of the Inn after all has entered. The reception area gives off a comforting vibe, and there's the faint smell of dinner dug into the beige colored walls, the wood planked floors are a bit squeaky and worn, but still not the slightest bit dirtied. Robin hands over ten unfamiliar coins with a symbol etched into each side, it looks like a “B” with two lines cut into it. Some new age currency, no doubt about it.

The blonde man hands over his payment as well, your eyes glance over the rings of silver adorning his fingers, paired with many jewels. Not exactly the best choice if you’ll be out in a slightly more rural area, but maybe he’s just a clueless rich kid who got lost. 

“I’ll be right back young man, wait here for a moment while I show these pretty ladies to their room.”

Nodding towards your direction, she guides you down a dimly lit hallway, passing what must have been a dozen doors before she finally reached one that seemed deliberately excluded from the others. She no doubt still thinks you and Robin are lovers, but it's not like she's mocking the two of you, at the very least. Robin is beautiful, but your mind craves her corpse at most, not romance at the moment. No matter how much beauty is in a vessel, all is measured in ash and blood. Except yours, of course! It's common knowledge that you're gorgeous, and that beauty earns you the rights to many things.

The innkeeper removes a heavy metal key off of the large keyring hanging around her neck, and places it into Robin’s open hands.

“You two ladies stay safe, I wouldn’t go out this hour at night, what with all the rowdy men. Your door locks, too.” She smiles at you two, before walking back to the reception area.

Robin sighs, unlocking and pushing the door to your room open. The room is a bit smaller than someone of your caliber is used to, but it is clean and pristine, although the windows only have a sheer curtain to cover them. The two of you stare at the single bed, waiting for each other to say something. Robin seems tired, but also looks curiously at you, perhaps you seem disheveled. She might not be used to sharing a bed casually with another, but you aren't as shy as she is.

Without any words, you remove your shoes, placing them neatly by the door as you approach the bed. Unsure of what comes next, since you do not need to sleep, you sit on the edge, waiting for her to approach.

The way Robin looks at you is not the way acquaintances should glance at each other. She's not disgusted, nor uncomfortable, she looks too excited to lay next to you for the night. Lust is always the first emotion to show in people— but you're not entirely sure this is lust, either. Nonetheless, she removes her own shoes and outer layers of clothing, now wearing her undergarments. Her satchel and backpack come with her all the way to the left side of the bed, and are carefully placed onto a nightstand.

She looks classy in her nightwear, you note. Robin doesn't give you another glance, and settles beneath the blanket with a swiftness, not facing your direction.

Silence, once again, fills the gap between you two. You can't remember the last time it was so quiet, without other worries floating around inside your head. Well, you did have worries, like the ever aching hunger within your bones, but those could wait. There's a warm, breathing body next to you. If you were so patient, you could wait until she slept, and have a bite.

But then comes the moral dilemma. You know it better than anybody else, when you get a taste you just won't stop until everything is gone. Not only that, but she's been so kind, and the human in you aches. Can you really make time for emotional aches when the hunger inside you is swelling into an ugly mass? 

You decide to wait, just until you’ve counted a thousand breaths of hers, ignoring a persistent presence outside of one of the windows and the shouting from inside the Inn. Mihawk will wait for you, whether he heard your vow or not, and you are sure that he's watching just as curiously now. From the windows, inside the cracks of the walls, it feels as if his eyes just won't leave your figure.

Every lustful piece of you wishes to swim in warm blood spilled from a beautiful body.

The slowly disappearing rationality in you urges you to stop and think— you are not alone in this sinful den. Were a murder to take place, you’d be caught within minutes, even without your hypersensitivity to beating hearts this much you can tell. Yet, despite telling yourself that you’d ensure that you would be free and strong enough to taste Mihawk again, you cannot ignore the primal need to taste the sleeping body next to you. But, you wait, and you wait. Until you can’t anymore, and until your brain feels as if it would split, you will wait.

Sleep does not dare take you. Even as you count several hundred breaths that silently leave the archaeologist’s body, you can’t force yourself to close your eyes. Each and every waking moment is spent watching her back, to the point you cannot remember anything else you’d wanted to do. Mihawk’s name does not shake you, nor the night that gets darker still.

Something inside of you whispers, teasing you with something so sensual and disgusting.

“Taste her,” it pleads, pressing its warm skin to yours.

“Eat her…”

“Let them mourn her.” With a final breathy gasp clawing at your stomach, despite the panic that rises immediately from not being in control, your mouth opens wide to welcome her tender and moist meat. Saliva you didn’t know you had floods from your lips, and you lunge at her, jamming your fingers into warm skin you wished to steal away.

But instead of a steady red rush, instead of a terrifying awakening, Robin delivers what your hungry mind could not have expected. A wooden stake, jammed into your cold body with such force that you swear you can feel the breath you’d lost long ago fill your lungs again. You freeze, jaw still unhinged and ready to taste, bearing all of your sharpest teeth.

“You’re a vampire.” Robin sounds exasperated, her eyes light up in a way you’ve never seen before, likely the last you’ll ever see. Her smile still enchants, still lures you in, but the hunger has vanished. This hunger has made you lose.

No words leave you. Despite your ability to do so, you cannot speak, and can only stare up at this beautiful face.

She seems so sure that she will slaughter you.

And that’s why her next words are even more shocking.

Robin states your name, your full name, though hearing what you can only assume had been your human surname sends unpleasant chills through you.

“The shadow cast over the world centuries ago. I…” She suddenly wavers, twisting the stake deeper into where she’d pierced you.

You were sure then that she would condemn your actions. Call you a wench, succubus, unholy creature… and yet she did not. She only asked you one simple thing.

“Would you mind telling me about it? Life so long ago… what I would give to witness the rise and fall of so many centuries. And yet here you are, wielding such information, keeping it all secret.” The look in her eye and tone of her voice tells you that she means to scold you. You’re far too shocked to say anything about it.

Sensing an opportunity, however, you try and test your luck.

“I’ll… tell you all you need to know. Just release me, and—” Searing pain shoots through every inch of you as you fail to finish your sentence, Robin stops you as she pushes the piece of wood deeper into you. It would have been thrilling if she wasn’t able to kill you.

“Let’s have some fun with it,” Robin smiles, pushing her body onto yours as she means to immobilize you further. It only arouses you, shamefully. “Then, perhaps you’ll be free..."

For a moment, there's nothing but the soft humming of the car's engine, the jingling of keys, and the sound of shoes scuffing against the concrete and curb, tripping over themselves and anything else. A loud grunt resounds in the empty parking lot, and then your laugh follows afterwards.

“Do we really have to pick your grown ass up every damn time you get too drunk? Doesn't that clown…” Beckman’s grumbling becomes an audible sentence, before he catches himself saying something that would definitely worsen the situation. But, he caught himself a bit too late, and he can only whisper a quiet “damn it” before Shanks speaks of that clown in question.

“BUGGY! God, why?!” 

Eyes locking in a stare with Beckman’s, flashing a knowing look, your eyes squint as you sigh and open the door leading into the backseat of the silver SUV, promptly shoving Shanks into the car and slamming the door afterwards.

“Come on, Beck. You know Buggy dumped him. Why do you think he's drunk off his ass again?”

Shanks sobs louder, curling into a ball as his tears fall onto Beckman’s leather seats he's so proud of. Beckman sighs and opens the driver's side door, staring down at the steering wheel before he looks back to meet your gaze.

“Jus’ saying! They break up every other month. You know this. I had more stable relationships in middle school.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a loose cigarette he was forced to put away about ten minutes earlier— around when he needed to stop Shanks from stumbling into oncoming traffic during your walk to the car, which of course required two hands.

“Shanks loves him. They love each other, just be patient! They’ll be married in no time, watch.” You can't help but feel like the road to their marriage might be a little bumpier, when you see Shanks clutching a photo from his senior year’s prom— to which Buggy was his date.

“Why won't he come back?!” Shanks screeches, curling into himself once more, thrashing in the seats.

“Yeah, I'm not looking forward to him scratching at the door like a stray begging to sleep on the couch because he and Buggy got into an argument.” Beckman exhales, smoke escaping his lips. He turns back to the inside of the car, before pulling himself inside just about as slow as he could, savoring the time spent outside. You head to the passengers side, sighing as you mentally prepare yourself for the ride home.

The drive is almost as loud as a concert, with Shanks’ non-stop crying and Beckman's yelling, then you yelling at Beckman to go easier on Shanks, plus the radio station which was, of course, the newest Soul King. Beckman couldn't even enjoy that.

Shanks quiets down to just sniffles, before he wipes his teary eyes and stares straight at the back of Beckman's head. 

“Can we go get food? I’m hungry—” Shanks pouted, pleading with Beckman.

Shanks then proceeded to projectile vomit everywhere, including all over the back of Beckman’s neck, and some managed to splash on your hands. The leather seats were ruined. And even worse, you all ran into Buggy at the gas station while you desperately tried to find anything Shanks could eat, and let's just say that wasn't pretty.

Beckman hates giving Shanks rides, and he never forgets why. But you, despite Beckman reminding you of all the times Shanks made a mess of your couch or his car, always insisted you give poor Shanks a ride.