VILLAINY?

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA:

— ALL MIGHT ; toshinori yagi

( 18+ ) bruised ego | part one ; f!reader / all might young!might. you & toshinori have a great working relationship. all might is like a mentor. a great guy. a real, stand-up dude. a hero who inevitably has to help you deal with the side-effects of being hit with a love quirk. ( 18+ ) bruised ego | part two ; f!reader / all might young!might. he should have waited for you. but no, toshinori felt like he had something to prove. now, roles are reversed and he needs your help. #bruised ego | the tag ; includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the bruised ego series ( 18+ ) all smite + tears ; f!reader / all smite part of the #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) toshinori + voice ; f!reader / toshinori part of the #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) toshinori + breeding kink ; f!reader / toshinori part of the #birbs smut blurbs sex ed ; nurse!reader / vice principal yagi "please tell me they paid you well for these thinly veiled metaphors about finding the clitoris." ( 18+ ) guilty jerk off ; reader / toshinori part of the #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) post-mission office sex ; f!reader / all might part of the #birbs smut blurbs

— HAWKS ; keigo takami

meet & greet | part one ; f!reader / hawks you manage to snag two VIP meet & greet tickets for your nephew's birthday. he insists you join him. part one of two. ( WIP ) meet & greet | part two ; f!reader / hawks coming soon. ( 18+ ) keigo + begging ; f!reader / hawks part of the #birbs smut blurbs #meet & greet | the tag ; includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the meet & greet series

— DABI ; touya todoroki

burner cell | part one ; f!reader / dabi you end up at the league's bar, unbeknownst to you or your drunk friends. you just want to go home. set in the early days of bnha. burner cell | part two ; f!reader / dabi after a week of silence, you finally text dabi. burner cell | part three ; f!reader / dabi a night out with dabi. #burner cell | the tag ; includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the burner cell series

— SHOTO ; shoto todoroki

can't we be seventeen? ; f!reader / shoto he's loved you since he was seveteen.

— RED RIOT ; eijiro kirishima

noise complaint ; f!reader / red riot red riot feels really bad about absolutely wrecking the shit out of your treasured plants, or eijiro kirishima falls in love at first sight.

— SUNEATER ; tamaki amajiki

( 18+ ) tamaki + tentacle ; f!reader / suneater part of #birbs smut blurbs

— ENDEAVOR | enji todoroki

( 18+ ) endeavor + whipped ; f!reader / enji part of #birbs smut blurbs

— ERASURE HEAD ; shouta aizawa

( 18+ ) aizawa + eating ; f!reader / shouta part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) shota in love ; imagine what he is like in love ( 18+ ) aizawa + doggy ; f!reader / shouta part of #birbs smut blurbs

— MINDJACK ; hitoshi shinso

( 18+ ) mindjack + quirk ; f!reader / hitoshi part of #birbs smut blurbs

KIMETSU NO YAIBA:

— KYOJURO RENGOKU

the fool ; f!hashira reader / rengoku all you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside to the ubuyashiki mansion's onsen.

— SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA

moonbeam ; f!hashira reader / sanemi you & shinazugawa have a score to settle, but you never did agree on the stakes, did you?

— TENGEN UZUI

( 18 + ) fingering and sound ; f!reader / tengen part of #birbs smut blurbs

— YORIICHI TSUGIKUNI

( 18 + ) ginger and miso ; f!reader / yoriichi part of #birbs smut blurbs

JUJUSTSU KAISEN:

— SUGURU GETO

the fall ; f!reader / geto it's loud. geto can silence it. set post-hidden inventory.

— SATORU GOJO

be okay ; f!reader / gojo you've been promised to one another since the very beginning. be okay | part two ; f!reader / gojo the engagement is on. you move to tokyo. ( 18+ ) gojo + lineage ; f!reader / gojo part of #birbs smut blurbs

— NANAMI KENTO

( 18+ ) nanami + tie ; f!reader / nanami part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) picture your face / whisper your name ; f!reader / nanami Nanami Kento has had feelings for you since your joined the sales team as his junior. You've felt the same. He's resigning. The feelings aren't.

KAIJU NO. 8:

— KAFKA HIBINO

"you look ridiculous in that outfit." ; f!reader / kafka prompt request; angsty

—SOSHIRO HOSHINA

( 18 + ) agreed ; f!reader / hoshina part of #birbs smut blurbs

MODERN WARFARE:

— SIMON RILEY ; ghost

handler's manual | part one ; f!reader / ghost moth is the 141's intel specialist. ghost is the 141's resident freak. handler's manual | part two ; f!reader / ghost moth & johnny spar. ghost is in a bad mood. moth's theories grow. handler's manual | part three ; f!reader / ghost a new year's eve honeypot brings a realization. handler's manual | part four ; f!reader / ghost you can't sleep. simon can't either. handler's manual | part five ; f!reader / ghost kortac makes an appearance. you owe a certain colonel an apology. ghost ain't about it. handler's manual | part six ; f!reader / ghost no graves + mess hall bolognese + laundry day ≠ good ghost mood? blood & body ; f!reader / ghost set during mission: alone. you won’t die today.

— JOHNNY MACTAVISH ; soap

liar's den ; f!reader / soap drinks and pining shared.

HALO: TV SERIES:

— JOHN-117; master chief

pedestal, altar, cross ; f!reader / john-117 drabble series set post-season 1, slight canon-divergence, game & book references. john severs that hormonal pellet between his vertebrae and things change between him and you, his brokkr technician.

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE:

— CALEB ;

( 18+ ) insubordinate ; f!reader / colonel caleb court martial? more like squirt martial. (i'm sorry.) (i'm not)

ONE PIECE:

— RORONOA ZORO ;

swan dive ; f!reader / zoro port d'beau proves to be anything but an easy job. you almost drown, zoro saves you. [set post-arlong, pre-alabasta] drunk with zoro ; f!reader / zoro headcanons with being drunk with zoro ( 18+ ) double penetration + sanji ; f!reader / zosan part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) sleepy ; f!reader / zoro tw: consensual somnophilia

— PORTGAS D. ACE ;

1. best of friends ; f!reader / ace headcanons about being bffs (in love) 2. best of friends ; f!reader / ace blurb about being bffs (and kissing) ( 18+ ) 1½. best of friends ; f!reader / ace mutual support? more like mutual masturbation ( 18+ ) spitfire ; f!reader / ace part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) messy eats ; f!reader / ace part of #birbs smut blurbs

— VINSMOKE SANJI ;

( 18+ ) mutual masturbation ; f!reader / sanji part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) double penetration + zoro ; f!reader / zosan part of #birbs smut blurbs

— DRACULE MIHAWK ;

( 18+ ) hand necklace ; f!reader / mihawk part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+) late night return ; f!reader / mihawk part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) silent treatment ; f!reader / mihawk part of #birbs smut blurbs melt in the sun | part one ; it's ritual: in late summer, blades clash. after, the festival d’vendemmia. in that plaza, dracule mihawk is twenty years old when sees you for the first time. melt in the sun | part two ; you and mihawk trade letters for a year. secrets are shared. you reunite at the festival d'vendemmia.

— TRAFALGAR LAW ;

( 18+ ) intimacy headcanons ; hcs about law being a sexual creechur ( 18+ ) anorgasmia ; f!reader / law part of #birbs smut blurbs

— RED-HAIRED SHANKS ;

( 18+ ) step-captain, i'm stuck! ; f!reader / shanks part of #birbs smut blurbs

— VICE ADMIRAL SMOKER ;

( 18+ ) you can take it ; f!reader / smoker part of #birbs smut blurbs

— BUGGY THE CLOWN ;

( 18+ ) an egregious misuse ; f!reader / buggy part of #birbs smut blurbs

— SIR CROCODILE ;

( 18+ ) too busy ; f!reader / croc part of #birbs smut blurbs

Your name is written in scrawling script on the front of the envelope. There is a wax seal. It’s black, stamped shut with the impression of a ring. A hawk, perched on a blade. The return address is for an island you’ve never heard of.

You know immediately who it is from — and the thrill flies up your spine. There is no hiding the split-cheeked smile on your face. So, you stuff the letter into your pocket, thank the albatross with a bowed head, before settling back at the table for dinner. You rub your cheeks, as if it will wear away the ache.

“Who is it from?” your cousin asks around a mouthful of bread and oil.

“A friend.”

The letter burns a hole in your pocket all through dinner.

You’re practically itching to excuse yourself, your eyes darting around the table for any hint that the night has begun to wind down, but it is a Sunday. The whole family dines together on nights like this, with the windows open and music playing.

Mama gives you a questioning look when you finally do excuse yourself, far too early. Papa waves her off, cigarette in his mouth and eyes turned to the night sky in liquor-catalyzed contemplation.

You open the letter under the moonlight of your open bedroom window.

I know nothing about you. Only your name. I wish to know more. — D.M.

The moving shadow of wide wings bisects the sand.

A letter floats lazily down on the wind, and Mihawk snatches it before his boot connects with the sternum of a particularly difficult AWOL Marine. The bone crunches, and the man flies into the wharf’s retaining wall. Dracule can hear the man’s wheeze choke out from the rubble as he tries to catch the wind forced from him by the kick.

Gilded eyes narrow on the penmanship of his name written across the envelope. His hand slacks around Yoru.

Yes, that is much more interesting than this sloppy, sweating waste of his time. This fellow handles a sword like a brute; he swings it like a cleaver, with no care for the cutlass in his hands. Mihawk thought he was in for a proper test, but no. This is absurd. This job is nothing more than a few beris in his pocket. Not even a challenge.

Mihawk exhales, tight and uninterested — his eyes flash to the man trying to stand, gilded and serious. “Stay down, will you?”

The Marine collapses in a heap of bruises and blood, finally given permission to quit. The port authorities will gather him soon, and this tentative agreement Dracule shook on with this island’s Commander will be honored. Hunt the AWOL Lieutenant, turn him in, and they will turn a blind eye to Mihawk’s presence here.

His reputation is serving some benefit, at least.

He exits the docks in a lazy stroll, weaving through onlookers and melting into the crowd. Dracule thumbs the letter, eyes set ahead. Finally, he finds somewhere to sit: an empty table under an awning that snaps in the breeze. Yoru leans against the seat opposite him. A waiter offers him a menu. He waves it off, ordering curtly.

The sun beats down on his back as he sips his espresso. A regiment's worth of boots pound the cobblestones as Marines scramble by, no doubt headed to the beach to arrest the disposed Lieutenant. Mihawk does not pay it any mind.

No, his focus is on the letter.

D, What is it you wish to know? I am the daughter of the vintner. I am one of many children. I prefer sweet white wines to red. I cannot sing, though I do enjoy poetry. In the evenings, I smoke and drink and eat peaches by the docks. I am terrible at cards. None of this is very interesting. You seem interesting. I think you’re very handsome. Handsome and interesting. I wish to know more about you. x

I am the son of a man I never met. I am the only one with my name. Have you ever tasted a half-decent Lambrusco? Perhaps it could persuade you. Next time, I will bring a bottle. I will teach you cards, and you may read me poetry. Does that seem an equitable trade to you? You have stolen my interest. —D.M.

D, I enjoy poems about kissing. I enjoy poetry that feels like juice from a ripe, pitted fruit running down your wrist after a bite. I will tell you a secret: I sneak off, and I read stolen, flimsy paperbacks about sex beneath the shade of a big tree in the vineyard. Most men enjoy poems about war and violence; if I read you something sticky and sweet, would it upset you? I’ll allow the Lambrusco. Teach me cards. x

Little thief, What an honor to be trusted with such a secret. Surely there must be better literature to satiate your appetite? Have you read the likes of Baudalino? I will send you a novel of his, then. He writes of touch and tongue; it is sticky and sweet. Does that answer your question? I will teach you Briscola. I believe you will like the Lambrusco. — Dracule

A book arrives in the mail days later.

Your unfinished reply letter is tucked away in your desk — and the albatross drops the parchment-wrapped book into the hands of your Mama on the front steps. She calls your name, and you hang out the window to your bedroom with a grin as wide as the Grand Line when you spy what she has raised high in the afternoon sun. An arch of sunlight spins around it like a halo.

“Mail for you!”

You barrel down the stairs, rob the parcel from her hands, and kiss her wrinkled cheek.

“You have been getting quite a lot of mail recently,” she sings in a tone that suggests girlish curiosity.

“It’s a book club!” you lie, already planning to slip into the vineyard.

You tuck a ripe peach into your pocket, hold the parcel tight, and slip out the back door, barefoot.

Dracule, I could not put it down — ‘Devotion & Piety’ by Baudalino. I feel like I am treasuring a secret. It is your copy, isn’t it? I recognized the handwriting in the margins and in the footnotes. I read it in the vineyard, with sticky fingers from a ripe peach. It was perfect. May I keep it for a while longer? Until I see you next? Here is my traded secret: I marked my place with your bounty poster. They hung a new one in the plaza. Your reputation is growing. Ha, Briscola and Lambrusco. You sound like my Uncle. x Little Thief

Little Thief, Keep it. Savor it with sticky fingers. Baudalino would prefer it that way. I told you, it is better than a flimsy paperback about pirates and damsels. It is your copy now. I pray I did not make a fool of myself with a gift so intimate. I cannot, and have not, stopped thinking of you. It is unfair. I wish to share a peach with you. Why does the image haunt me, juices running down your chin? You’ve stolen pieces of me, you little thief. I do not want them back. There is my secret in return. What is it you know of my reputation? Your uncle is a man of good taste. Yours, Dracule

You do not reply for two months.

The argument with your parents has gone on much longer.

It feels like every hour of your life is ticking closer and closer to an end you cannot stop: becoming the wife of Filip Flemmings. Every family dinner becomes a negotiation — and somehow, in the end, you always end up with your composure fracturing. You bite like a cornered animal. You spit and hiss that you do not want to marry Filip Flemmings. You do not care if it is your duty to this family, to your parents.

…You do care. Of course you care.

You see how it wounds them. They want you to be happy. Filip is decent. Their vineyard did well this season, Papa had said, as if it was judgement passed down from on high. As if a ruined crop would save you from this arrangement.

The others — the ones you sneak out late to meet with, who you share cigarettes with by the docks and talk about politics with — pity you. They talk of running away and joining the Revolution in hushed whispers. They spit on the names of men like the Flemmings, and you wonder if they’ll spit on your name, too.

Sacrifices are rarely sweet.

And, amidst it all, you cannot stop thinking about Dracule Mihawk.

It’s torturous. Those footnotes in the margins of Devotion & Piety feel like sin. You read them over and over, memorizing and tracing the thoughts of the Marine Hunter. He underlined passages about hands on flesh like he was promising something. He wrote notes on the myth of transactional pleasure, about sharing in hedonism. He emphasised words like adoration, and lathe. A certain page about the hero kneeling between the heroine's legs — praying at an altar, as he noted — had a well-loved dog-ear.

It is much better than the stolen, paperback romance novels. (Gets you off even quicker, too. But that’s another secret, isn’t it?)

In a month’s time, it will be the Festival d’Vendemmia.

Dracule Mihawk has not heard from you in eight long weeks. He assumed he overstepped.

Perhaps he had been too forward. Perhaps this was the end of dog-eared Baudalino and little secrets. It makes a part of him ache; he doesn’t like it. It feels like a wound, like someone notched a knife between his ribs and dug, trying to find his heartstrings. He wishes he could strangle himself to death with them.

He isn’t expecting another letter. Not after so much time had passed.

And then, an albatross.

He’s on a new island — one a bit closer to your port. He hadn’t meant for it to happen like that. Dracule wonders if there’s something twisted drawing him closer and closer, like his internal log pose is set to your soul.

The window to his room at the inn is open. The albatross drops the letter, and when the man does not stir, it looks at him like he’s pathetic; its iceterine eye flicking from the empty bottle of wine to the man sitting lazily at the desk. Yoru looms, leaning against the bed like a jealous lover. There is a book draped across the napping swordsman’s face.

The albatross brays.

He lifts the book slowly and glares.

The bird, fitted with a satchel of letters around its neck, glares back.

Then, both bird and man glance at the letter lying in wait on the floor.

Dracule, Can I tell you something? Another secret? I try to be a good daughter. I am the oldest, and I know there are things I must do — I must be smart and well-spoken and patient and kind. Above all, I must be agreeable, and I must be chaste. I try. I do; I promise that isn’t the secret. The secret is: I am selfish. I do not want to be a good daughter. I want to be myself — I want to scream until my voice shatters and run barefoot and bite and cry. I want to swim naked, play cards and drink Lambrusco in the sun with the handsome swordsman. I do not want to be chaste with the handsome swordsman. No, I want to read him those dog-eared pages within ‘Devotion & Piety’, the pages he returned to time and time again. I want to be greedy and selfish, and keep the pieces of you I have stolen and never give them back — just as I will the Baudalino. There, that is my secret. It feels good to get that off my chest. Your reputation is the talk of all the island. I will tell you the chisme: you are being hailed as the next great swordsman of our generation. They say you wield a sword as tall as you stand, as black as a moonless night. I wonder if they know what I do: that Dracule Mihawk is a romantic man. I will keep that secret. Do not worry. In the two months I have taken to write you, your bounty has gone up once more. It is becoming difficult to get my hands on your poster. The other girls in town are as taken with you as I am. We talk about your eyes with our mouths full of ripe cherries. I keep our letters secret. How greedy. I am sorry for taking too long to write in return. Will you still teach me Briscola? x Little Thief P.S. The mustache suits you.

Little Thief, I would have waited longer. Much longer. Perhaps until the end, if it meant I would hear from you again. Do not apologize. It seems as though you have much on your mind. I hope that you feel lighter knowing I harbor no judgment toward the secret you shared; I may not be an eldest daughter (ha), but I understand. You may scream and cry and bite as much as you please in my presence — I will be back for the Festival d’Vendemmia soon. I have no interest in knowing what the other girls think of me. I am only interested in the eldest daughter of the vintner, the one whom I will teach Briscola and drink Lambrusco with. Let them gossip, and know I only write you letters — I only think of you and your eyes, and wish I could know the way my name would sound from your lips in a sigh. Be greedy with that knowledge. What a secret, thief. Keep it for me, will you? I will see if I can find you a poster — in color. I am relieved to hear you find the mustache agreeable. If that wasn’t the case, I’d readily shave it clean off. Shanks says I look like his father. I feel like it, some days. He and I will be dueling on the first of the coming month. Afterward, we shall set off for the Festival d’Vendemmia. Then, Briscola over a bottle of Lambrusco. Shall we place a bet? If you win, what is it you want? Name it, and you shall have it. Soon, Dracule

The albatross finds him in port, about to set out for that island of ritual. Shanks is waiting for him.

Dracule’s last, lingering question from his previous letter burns in his mind when he shreds open the envelope, only to find one word scrawled in fine ink. What is it you want?

In reply, you write:

You. xx Little Thief

Festival d’Vendemmia.

You feel like someone lit a live wire under your skin. You hardly slept the night before — and how could you, knowing full well that Dracule Mihawk was somewhere on the horizon, striking steel against steel? It was impossible to rest, knowing that come mid-morning, he would be here, in your small port town with a deck of cards and a bottle of Lambrusco. What a secret. A precious one.

Mama and your cousins have been in your hair all morning. Your house on the hill has been bustling since the night before. First, it was helping cook for the festival. Cooking, cleaning, and sending your younger brother into town for more eggs and milk, and do not forget the onion, so help me God.

You could hardly get ready without someone whistling and tugging on your skirts, and your cousin Mari kept asking who you were trying to impress with your hair done so nicely.

God forbid you look put together. You hiss and swat Mari out of your bedroom when she tries to steal the shell on your windowsill. You mutter a curse, rub the concha nácar into your cheeks, and wonder why no one in this house understands privacy, all while your eldest cousin barges in and tells you she is borrowing a pair of tights. She snatches a pair of earrings on your nightstand for good measure.

And still, your little secret burns under your skin. You can’t find it in yourself to be in a bad mood. Not when you know that you will see him.

“Take this with you, will you?” Mama says, waving you along after she shoves a dish of meat, and cabbage, and pastry into your hands; she stacks a book of sheet music on top. “Go, go — you will be late for the christening.”

It’s hot in the plaza — and in the swirl of food and wine and celebration and family, you find Papa. He kisses both your cheeks, and someone nudges you aside as you hand off the dish and the music sheets. Chaos. Swirling chaos. It’s only worse when they anoint the barrels at the strike of high noon, and the blessed wine begins to run.

The Red Force and Hitsugibune arrive in port an hour past noon.

“They have been posting our bounties in this port,” Mihawk drawls — and Shanks, well aware of his friend’s evident good mood, hums, “It is best we keep a low profile.”

“Not sure how low it will be,” Shanks remarks with a wink and a smirk, “Given the audience we had last night.”

Whitebeard, he means. Mihawk is sure why the myth had decided to watch. Perhaps the rumors interested him. Either way, the man was given a show. His fleet sat idle — about a half mile off the coast of that desolate island — and watched as steel met steel and the skies split open. Shanks, in the midst of it, wondered aloud if the old man was surveying his up-and-coming competition.

Maybe.

If Whitebeard knew where to find them, that means the Navy wouldn’t be far behind.

“Let’s make the best of it, then,” Shanks says, coming to a stop on the edge of the dock; the Red Force bobs in the marina behind him as his men begin to tie off. Mihawk twists his hand around the leather sling of his pack and eyes the newly commissioned galleon; at least they had the wherewithal to pull down their jolly roger.

Shanks plants his hands on his hips as he looks out across the town and notes, “It’s, what, a day's sailing to the closest Marine post? Gives us some time. Sooooo, I’ll go drink the Festival dry…"

Mihawk’s eyes narrow under the brim of his hat. Shanks claps him on the back. The red-head leans in and smirks as he continues. “…While you go find your little birdie?”

Dracule slaps Shanks’ hand away. The reaction is enough to make the red-head laugh; all bright and boyish, as always. The three still-healing scars over his right eye wrinkle. Dracule keeps walking, boots clicking against the dock. Their friendship is fickle, but Shanks knows Dracule. He knows, too, that the swordsman has been writing that pretty girl from this town. He’s seen the letters. Tried to read ‘em, but almost lost some fingers for daring.

“Oh, come on, the cold shoulder?” Shanks cries and waves his hands, “Fine, fine, just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—”

Dracule doesn’t bother listening. His only reply is a curt wave. “I need a glass of wine. You are giving me a headache.”

“Is that code?” Shanks calls even louder up the docks, ignoring the pleading look his newly crowned first mate — Beckmann — is giving him, “Is ‘wine’ code for kissing?”

“Choke,” Dracule hollers back, pointed and clear.

Shanks’ laugh carries on the waves.

It feels strange — knowing that this place is more than just a stop. He isn’t accustomed to having a reason to stay in places beyond decent wine, or a suitable swordsmith, or a worthy challenge. Even a half-decent bookstore will make him linger, but this is more than lingering. This is curiosity. This is yearning, and it makes his chest tight with every step deeper into the plaza.

A cork pops. Someone laughs. A breeze ripples the colorful flags hung high across the plaza.

It’s hot under the high sun. A bead of sweat gathers at the base of his spine, beneath his linen shirt and deep maroon vest. He is glad he left his coat aboard Hitsugibune. Yoru, too. He would stand out far too easily. He passes a wall plastered with faded bounties and ignores the chatter of men past their prime discussing Emperors and Warlords.

You see him before he sees you.

He knows it. The hair on the back of his neck is standing up as he weaves through the plaza, pack on his back, hat pulled low. He trades beri for a peach with one of the women running the festival stalls. The gold slips from his fingers, and when she turns to pick him something ripe, he turns his cheek.

He spies you out of the corner of his eye.

You’re leaning against a far wall, in the shade, gathered in a huddle of girls your age. You share the snuck cigarette, passing it around as you gossip and laugh through smoke. The girls around you are dressed in whites and reds and blues and yellows, their hair in intricate plaits or covered with bandanas bearing the port’s flag. The cigarette halts mid-air, drawn close to your lips, and then you smile. At him.

He’s so handsome it makes your heart ache.

Music swells. Dracule doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear the shopkeeper call to him, gesturing to take his fruit. For a moment — like the first time he saw you all over again — all he can focus on is you.

His senses kick back in. He thanks the woman for the fruit. He tucks it in his pack. Lambrusco, a deck of cards, cigarettes, and a peach. A gift, too, amongst it all. Secrets.

He moves, and you mirror him. You hand off the half-smoked cigarette to Mari, and slip into the crowd.

The two of you weave on opposite ends of the plaza, eyes locked despite the crowds. Skirts swirl and voices rise as the music grows louder. Laughter and voices swim around you, and you try your best to look normal — but your heart feels like it’s going to explode. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, your common sense is screaming that this is a terrible idea. People will see, and they will talk, and by morning, Mama and Papa will know you spent the afternoon in the company of a wanted man.

And yet, as you cross the crowded plaza toward the empty table he has pulled a chair out from, you cannot find it in you to care. He pulls his hat off. The gesture is proper. Something a suitor would do.

…No, you don’t care if the entire port sees you in this man’s arms.

Not when you’re finally close enough to smell citrus and salt and something masculine. Not when he stands close — too close — and looks down the straight bridge of his nose at you while he pulls your chair out for you.

(The mustache does suit him. Immediately, your brain wants to know if it would tickle. What would it feel like if he were to kiss your neck?)

His hat is held over his heart. The white feather dances in the breeze between you. For one long moment, you just look at him.

Then:

“Did you get my last letter?” you ask softly.

…You are going to bring him to ruin, Dracule realizes, and he is going to welcome it.

The corner of his mouth threatens to quirk. His voice is rough. Low. Like he’s telling you a secret.

“Quite the bet you’ve placed, Little Thief.”

You hold his gaze — molten gold, ringed with dark lashes — as you sink down into the chair. You tip your chin up and blink up at him in the sun. Your cheeks ache from your smile.

“I am a quick learner,” you trade.

“And I promised Lambrusco,” he drawls as he sets his hat back upon the inky waves of hair; he moves like fluid, so graceful it’s almost unsettling. Dracule settles into his own chair before tugging his pack into his lap. You squirm, clearly excited, and his eyes flick to you. His hand pauses. His tone is laced with mirth: “…No peeking.”

“What does that mean?” you scoff, leaning forward onto the table; a waitress passes by and drops two glasses down — you thank her in your tongue before your attention is stolen by the flick of his wrist. He’s easily spun the cork from the top of the green bottle with a knife. The flourish is practiced. The knife is tucked back into his boot.

“It means,” he teases as he pours you a glass, then himself. He exhales, “Exactly as I said.”

He plants the bottle on the table, then the deck of cards.

Then, Dracule Mihawk leans back in his chair and looks at you.

You’re trying your best to wear a pout, but it’s disarmed by the happiness burning across your face. You prop your arms up on the table and lay your chin in your palm. For a moment, nothing is said. It’s just the two of you attempting to wrestle clear elation from your respective expressions. The muscle in his jaw feathers beneath his beard. You blink once, then twice. Dracule set his hands on the table. You rub your lips together. All the while, you can’t look away from his eyes, and he doesn’t dare let anything else rob his attention from you.

After a long moment, he speaks. He has to.

“You are truly beautiful.”

You’ve never known how to handle compliments. It’s those words that send your eyes elsewhere; into the crowd, across the dancers. Heat crawls up your neck. Your smile splits as you laugh — and fuck, you wonder if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. He is going to eat you alive; devour you whole. He is going to leave nothing but the pit, with your stem twisted in a knot.

You reach for the glass of wine. He does the same.

The crystal rings as it meets in a toast. Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, washed away by the croon of a love song. “To Lambrusco, and Briscola.”

If you toast to anything else, it will be a full-fledged confession.

He watches as you take your first sip — brow pulled in a skeptical quirk. He’s gauging your reaction, praying that you will like it. After all, he agonized over this selection. He picked one from the West Blue. One that has sweeter notes of plum. It was bottled the same summer he first saw you. He is nothing if not intentional in all he does; both a blessing and a curse.

Your eyes widen.

You swallow.

You look down at the glass, roll your tongue around your mouth, and hesitate — then you take another sip. You’re reaching for the bottle as you do, brows drawn in a pinch of curiosity and confusion. Dracule tempers his anxiety with another sip. You roll the bottle around in your hands, reading the penned description of its origin and vintner.

“Lambrusco.”

You say it with such finality, and Dracule lets both brows rise in silent question.

Proudly, you tell him: “…It has persuaded me.”

He laughs. It’s a bark — loose and delighted. Tension releases from his shoulders, and you see the way he settles into his seat. The swordsman crosses his legs, and his boot brushes your bare calf. The contact burns beneath your skirts. Dracule reaches for the deck of cards. In the sun, his shadow looms over the table.

“I’m relieved.”

“What would you have done if I hated it?” you tease.

“Thrown myself into the sea, I reckon.”

It’s your turn to laugh. The sound is beautiful, he thinks. He’s trying to hide a smirk beneath the brim of his hat. You take another gulp of the wine and watch his fingers work across the deck — a mistake. It makes heat coil in your belly, and you’re distracted enough by the sight that you don’t realize Dracule is looking at you.

“What is it?” he asks as he shuffles, attention rooted to you. The cards flick into his palms. Neat, expert. Practiced.

You lift your chin. You flutter your lashes. You try hard to pretend you haven’t been caught staring to the tune of the plucked vihuelas and rattled ganza. “Nothing.”

He can read right through you. It’s dangerous. Too sticky, too intense. You’re not sure you can sit here and be undone by him with his eyes and his hands and his stupid, handsome face. You want to rip that hat off his head and kiss him.

“If you intend to make good on your bet,” Dracule instructs, “Pay attention.”

So, at the table, with your bare feet resting atop his boots, he teaches you Briscola.

You do not notice Filip Fleming staring from across the plaza, nor Papa talking in hushed conversations with your brothers about your game of cards. You do not notice the girls from the vineyard, whispering over a passed-around bounty poster, comparing the silhouette. You do not notice Mari with her cigarette, sucking on her teeth as your eldest cousin gestures to the stranger, her borrowed earrings glinting in the sun.

The sun has begun to set, and the adults have settled in; he feels — in his heart — like he is only playing at adulthood, thrust too fast upon him. The men with crow’s feet and worn voices trade cigarettes and stories over wine, and laugh about days past that feel like dreams. Beer and wine sweat down their glasses in the heat.

Shanks has a habit of being romantic about things like this, about the old days, and so he regales his dueling partner with stories of the Oro Jackson.

Dracule is not listening.

No, his attention has been robbed.

He so suddenly feels like a boy, eyes lit up like two gilded coins in the sun. Behind you, the guitars swell.

You are wearing white. You are laughing — there is wine spilt down the front of your linen dress, and your hair is wild from the heat. You are playing with the children, waving them away from you like fruit flies drawn to your sweetness. They tug at your skirts and hang onto your boots, and you are not bothered, and Dracule feels like someone has reached into his ribs and squeezed. He is bothered. Shanks sees it.

You see it.

Through the crowd — through dancing brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles, through skirts and flags and cigarette smoke and plucked strings of the guitars — you meet his eyes.

You so suddenly understand the croon from the woman on stage, singing of young love.

He is handsome.

Terrifyingly so.

His eyes are gold, like the cross that hangs from his neck and rests against his sun-warmed skin. His shirt is loose, unbuttoned, draped open to the navel. Long legs cross over one another, and you know he is tall. His boots are pristine: deep red leather that has been cared for, much like the coat draped across the back of his chair with embroidered peonies. His hair is dark, and it falls in untamed, wild waves against the back of his neck. He is beautiful, really — and he stares.

You stare back.

Then the moment is gone as quick as it comes, bisected by divided attention.

The children cry your name, wondering why you’ve stopped waltzing with them balanced upon your shoes.

Shanks elbows Mihawk. The redhead's gaze darts back and forth, and for a moment, he wonders what his acquaintance sees.

The crowd swallows you both up, like the sea, and time spins on.

It is summer in the South Blue. He is twenty-six years old.

He is older. He has a new title. Marine Hunter.

There is anger in his heart, and a grudge that sits in his belly like a stone. He thinks it may sink him someday, may drive him mad — but Shanks is a consistent force against that fate. It feels, at times, that he is righted on a path after crossing blades with the young pirate. His new proclivity for distrust burns; it bleeds out of him in strikes of steel. Shanks handles it well, volleys and spars with the anger, until it is nothing but a split sky on an empty island.

Their friendship is strange, but it is all he has.

Shanks and wine.

The Festival d’Vendemmia.

A cork pops. Someone laughs. A breeze ripples the colorful flags hung high across the plaza. There is applause around the band in the corner of the plaza, and the swell of something slow and yearning begins in a tongue he knows.

The music stirs a memory of home. It feels like looking through warped, foggy glass. He remembers a voice. His mother, maybe? It does not matter. He will not sit here in the evening air and begin reminiscing like the others. That road is long, and he does not have the patience to walk it.

He drains his wine as Shanks chatters on and on.

It stains Dracule’s mouth red.

There is a tap on his shoulder.

His head turns, dark lashes rising. He smells like citrus and salt and something metallic — copper, or blood, you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter. Not when he is so beautiful up close. His nose is long and straight and sharp, and those eyes have the same gilded edge to them as five years ago. He looks a bit more grown up, with a beard creeping up his chin. It suits him.

You stand there, with wine-stained fingers, and cradle the glass decanter. You’re wearing white.

You, the beautiful one. The girl he thought about for years after the fact — with the children hanging on our skirts.

Dracule feels as though he’s been caught on the back step. He feels like he missed a parry, as his blade has slipped from his hands. He feels vulnerable. This close, you can see him for all he is — sweat-stained and exhausted, worn from hours of dueling in the dunes. He feels like a boy, and you look like a woman. Beautiful. Your mouth moves, but he is too busy gazing at your wine-stained lips.

Dracule is staring.

Shanks blinks between the two souls, and for once in his life, he shuts up. His brows climb slowly as the moment stretches on, curiosity burning brighter than the setting sun.

“I asked,” you finally repeat, the corner of your mouth twitching, “Would you like another glass?”

Shanks perks up. Dracule silences him with a pointed look.

He offers his glass. You fill it with a pour that is more than generous.

His eyes burn against your skin. You make a point of ignoring it, only giving in when you move to return the glass to his hands. Your eyes connect with his, and as he reaches, you pull back.

Mihawk’s brows pinch.

“You have been here before,” you state plainly; it isn’t a question, “But you’re not from here.”

“We’re—”

Dracule glares at Shanks. Shanks shuts up. He raises both hands in surrender and leans back in his chair.

“We’re merchants.”

“Is that so?” you lilt as you tilt your head, narrow your eyes, and accept the lie as payment for the wine.

His fingers brush yours. The contact burns. It feels dangerous, like him. Your eyes linger as distance grows. You flit away into the crowd, smile traded for small talk as you fill glasses and chat with townsfolk. Dracule cannot look away. Shanks can’t either. The future Yonko’s grin is peeled from ear to ear as he shakes his head, sips his beer, and leans in.

“Undone by a pretty thing, Mihawk?” Shanks chortles, “Perhaps if I wore a white dress, you would allow me a win in our next match.”

He pauses with the glass only inches from his lips and fires back: “Enough.”

Dracule sips and swears it's the best wine he’s ever had.

It is summer in the South Blue. He is twenty-seven.

Shanks lounges beside him, a bottle dangling between his fingers. The straw hat on his head is pulled down over his eyes. He has been in his cups since they arrived — for a while, they did not speak. For a while, all that moved between them was the drunken sway of Shank’s hand to lyricism in a language he did not speak.

The wine is as good as Dracule remembers. The music, too, and again he remembers something far away and twisted in thorns. It’s barely there, a memory that feels important. He thinks it must be his mother, because what else is worth remembering?

Shanks snores softly, and Dracule finishes his wine, and the moon hangs high.

The Festival d’Vendemmia.

The two pirates have been here for a while now — at their usual table — and the children have retired. There is no more swordplay with sticks, jumping rope, or games of tag. The air has changed. The lanterns burn bright against the stars in the sky, and the lights strung across the plaza cast shadows across the couples dancing slowly beneath them.

Tangles of movement. Steps forward and back, and hands in hands. Nose to nose. Fingers bunched in fabric, bodies pressed against one another. Intense.

He sees you, then — finally.

Your laughter burns as some lanky, baby-faced boy sweeps you across the plaza; Dracule’s fingers twitch against his glass. It is empty. Has been for a while now. You move with grace, floating with less sticky, syrupy movements than the other dancers, a testament to your interest in your dance partner. It soothes something in him to think you’re humoring something. The boy's hands stay idle on your waist. Appropriate. You lean close, say something, and you both laugh.

It strikes Dracule that you’re teaching the boy to dance.

You catch his eyes at that exact moment.

You blink, apologize to Tomas, and step aside.

Dracule’s palms start to sweat the moment you come to a stop before him.

You look him over. His beard is clean, lining his jaw. His hair is longer than last you saw him, and he is wearing a hat. The brim is wide, and the material is a red that’s so dark it’s nearly black. It hides his eyes in the shadows. His coat is draped across the back of his chair. That same gold crucifix rests against his sternum amongst chest hair, and the rolled cuffs of the linen poet’s shirt fall loosely around his forearms.

His eyelashes are long.

He is beautiful.

For a moment, you stare at one another.

Then:

“You lied.”

Dracule’s stoicism betrays the inner war within him.

“Did I?” he rasps.

You like his voice.

“You did, Marine Hunter,” you breathe, letting your eyes wander; your hands fall to your hips, and he feels a bit like he is being chastised. Then, your lips quirk. You smile. And Dracule swallows a roll of something warm in his belly. It is not anger. It is not annoyance.

It is new.

“The lie about being a merchant was clever,” you lean, hip popped, “I may have believed it, had I not seen your bounty poster a month later.”

“Ah.”

Your smile grows. No, blooms. Like a peony, petaled and soft. You look to his companion, and amusement dances in your eyes. The sleeping, red-haired one has a bounty poster, too. You’ve seen it. You and the girls in the vineyard trade whispers when new, dashing bounty posters are hung in the town square. During the wine harvest, in the late summer heat, you pick grapes off the vine and snack on the fruit in the shade, and you speak in your mother tongue about what it would be like to be whisked away by some handsome, dangerous stranger.

You kept his bounty poster — Dracule Mihawk’s — like it was for your eyes only. Ripped it right from the board, tucked it into the pocket of your skirts, and treasured it. It sits in your bedside table, tucked in a book of poems.

He looks much better in full color; living and breathing.

You hold your hand out.

He stares at it.

“Well?” you ask.

His gilded eyes narrow. “If you are seeking beri to keep my identity some sort of secret, I am uninterested—”

Your brow quirks in silent admonishment. He catches it, stops himself, and lifts his chin. His eyes narrow imperceptibly for a moment, the microexpression measuring your intention. He does not catch your meaning.

You turn your eyes toward the plaza.

Mihawk balks.

“I do not dance.”

“You are a swordsman, aren’t you?” you ask, challenging him, “A duel is a dance of sorts, is it not?”

“Perhaps,” he lazes back, “But it is not the bachata.”

Your grin grows. He didn’t think it possible, and there you go: wrinkling your nose and creasing the corners of your eyes as you beam at him. For a moment, you spy him wrestling with something close to a smile. He rolls his jaw, and you mimic the movement. You are teasing him, like he isn’t a man with a bounty and a reputation. Dracule crosses his arms.

You mirror him.

Shanks snores. He startles a bit at the sound, mumbles something, and settles back into the lull of his drunken nap.

Your smile twists into something wry as you look away, eyes fleeting across the plaza.

“Fine,” you concede, not meaning it at all, “I will find another partner.”

Dracule’s eyes narrow. His fingers twitch toward his empty glass. You notice.

“The young man by the fountain has been watching you since you stepped away,” he drawls, his attention piercing through the crowd. The man is blonde. He has a loose smile. He is chatting with friends of his; they’re all boyish and drunk. Your expression sours when you turn to look.

“He can keep watching,” you retort.

“Uninterested?” Dracule spars, his brow quirking.

It feels unfair when you drag your eyes down his chest, then back up to his face; you’re making your stance clear — you favor him — as you murmur, “Incredibly.”

Dracule’s jaw feathers. His eyes peer past you. “…Who is he?”

“A waste of our air,” you bitterly scoff.

Dracule sucks his teeth. He exhales, shoulders tense. He’s waffling. Wavering. His eyes flick to Shanks — fast asleep — and then to you. Then, again, back to the man who’s chewing his thumb and staring at your backside through the crowd.

Your eyes follow Dracule’s. You scowl. It is the Flemming’s son. Their eldest. The one your father keeps insisting is a nice boy. You know how these talks go. You’ve seen the men in your family sow this exact seed: he’s a nice boy from a good family; he would make a good husband, a better father. It is how marriages go here on this tropical isle.

Especially when the Flemming boy is set to inherit the only other vineyard on the island aside from your family’s.

But that isn’t why you have such a dislike toward Filip, no. It’s much worse. His father has always occupied some sort of political office on the island. He is a radical devotee of the Five Elders, never once challenging law or doctrine that maims the spirit of people, their culture, their livelihoods, or their land. They seem to have that man — and his son by proxy — by the balls. And you? You were educated. Well-read. Your own father always joked that the island’s News Coo knew you by name.

Opposites do not attract. Not when your own ideologies are already dangerous. Not when you help the others on the island print pamphlets and stuff them into wine barrels set across the Grand Line, distributing revolutionary manifestos. Art. Poems. Anything, really, forbidden by the World Government.

“He seems keen on you,” Mihawk rumbles, jutting his chin out to gesture to the gaggle of boys clapping the man on the back. There’s apprehension, though, in his expression. Dracule cannot put a finger on why you seem so displeased with the attention.

“Is he a scorned lover of yours?” the swordsman drawls, head tilting.

“Calling my propriety into question?” you drawl back, head tilting the opposite way, “How bold of you, Mihawk.”

Oh, this is dangerous. You spar with words — as if that were a duel. You dance around the question, redirecting, like you’re balancing a blade on your tongue. It is impressive, and Dracule’s usual stoicism cracks for a moment. The corner of his mouth ticks upward before it’s schooled back into its usual position.

“You know my name,” he states — attempting to feign boredom as he uncrosses his legs, “And yet, you have not given me yours.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I’m asking now,” he rumbles as he stands to full height; he towers over you as he grasps his coat and swings it over his shoulders. He moves like a shadow, and large palms reach up to adjust his hat. He kicks Shanks' boot to rouse his compatriot from his drunken stupor.

You suck your teeth to stop yourself from leaping at the opportunity. You roll your jaw and fend off a smile as you notice he is trying very hard to do the same. Your chin is raised defiantly. “You know, they generally advise girls against giving their names to pirates.”

His eyes narrow. You’re still teasing. Shanks, bent over his knees and rubbing his temples, laughs.

“If I do not know your name,” Dracule pauses pointedly before he murmurs, “How will I write you?”

Oh, your smile. It’s worth making a fool of himself, certainly, because Shanks does not let him live it down, not the entire way back to the docks.