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summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.
...right? tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda) chapter list:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine (end)
Chapter 9: Venus and Mars
Mihawk turns the moment he hears you.
His coat catching the torchlight, his eyes already locked to yours like they never stopped watching the door.
The hallway holds its breath.
And so does he.
He sees the tears instantly. Sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your throat works around words you can’t say. The grief in your silence is louder than any outburst, and it cuts through him like no blade, no opponent, no duel he’s ever known.
But he doesn’t move.
He just lets you speak.
Lets you give him that single, broken word:
“Goodnight.”
And when you turn—shoulders curling inward, fingers trembling as you reach to close the door—
He catches it.
His hand, warm and steady, presses gently to the wood. Not to force it open.
But to hold it still.
“I won’t come in,” he says softly, voice barely more than breath above your ear. “Not unless you ask.”
A pause.
Then—
“But if you need me…”
His voice falters, just for a second.
“If you want me—say it.”
A breath.
“Let me in, Y/N.”
The smallest sound slips from you in reply.
Not a word.
Barely a plea.
Just a sob.
And it guts him.
He watches you. Shoulders hunched, back trembling, hands shielding your face from his view.
And for a moment masquerading as an eternity, Mihawk doesn’t move.
Because this—you—is sacred.
And he’s never been one to trespass where he isn’t wanted.
Gently, wordlessly, he steps forward. Not past the door. Not past your defenses.
Just close enough.
You feel the warmth of him at your back. Pressing, ever so slightly, against you.
And when his voice finally comes, it’s the softest it’s ever been.
“…I never wanted to hurt you.”
A beat.
“You don’t have to let me in. Not all the way. Not tonight.”
Another pause.
“But let me hold the door.”
“—Y-You didn’t come after me!”
Your trembling voice ripples through the late silence.
You can’t see it, not with your back turned, not through your tears.
But Mihawk winces.
His hand falls to his side from where it was right behind your nape.
Fingers curling tight, knuckles white.
He doesn't speak right away.
Because there’s no defense.
Not for that.
Not for you.
When he does, his voice is low—hoarse, like something is finally managing to wound the world’s greatest swordsman.
“I wanted to. I thought about it.”
A breath.
“But I thought giving you space was what you needed. That staying back meant respecting you.”
Another breath—sharper this time.
“I didn’t realize that by not chasing you…”
He swallows hard.
“I was leaving you alone.”
You turn your face just slightly, eyes still hidden, lips parted as if searching for something to say—but the only thing left is the hurt.
The absence.
God, you knew it’d end up like this. You called it from the start.
Why can’t you be wrong for once—
“I was afraid,” he murmurs. “That if I reached for you… I’d lose you anyway.”
“But I see now—I lost you the moment I didn’t.”
Then, lower:
“Forgive me.”
Your reply comes in the form of another soft sob as you quickly wipe the tears from your eyes with your wrists.
You turn towards him, and fresh tears replace the ones you just wiped.
“S-See? We’re already hurting each other. I told you. Venus and Mars.”
A shaky inhale.
“All that we'll leave each other with is ghosts and scars. We just don’t belong together, Mihawk.”
A shaky exhale.
“Even if we want to be,” you whisper as you turn away from him again.
And for the first time in all his calculated, collected life…
Dracule Mihawk looks shattered.
Defeated, even.
He steps closer after a few silent moments.
Enough for you to feel the warmth of him—
the trembling restraint behind every inch of distance he doesn’t cross.
He doesn’t argue. He can’t.
Because you’re right.
The ache in your voice is already proof. The way your sob breaks in the middle, how your hands hide your face, like admitting the want was more painful than denying it.
But then—
His voice.
Low. Rough. Barely holding steady.
“…You’re right. We don’t belong in the stars.”
You blink through your fingers.
He steps forward again.
“We don’t align in the sky. Don’t spin in harmony. Don’t dance like constellations are supposed to.”
He’s in front of you now, no longer behind you.
And gently, so gently, his hand reaches up—
Not to pull you in.
But to lift your hand away from your face.
So he can see you.
So you can see him.
Golden eyes full of ruin and restraint.
“But I’d rather collide with you until there’s nothing left of me,” he breathes, “than admit I’d be better off without you.”
And just like that—
Mars reaches for Venus.
Your breath hitches.
His fingers brush your cheek—barely—just enough to wipe a tear that hadn’t yet fallen. The touch is reverent, hesitant, like you might shatter in his hands if he’s not careful.
But you already have shattered.
And he’s here now—not as a swordsman, or as a pirate, or even as a planet, but as a man who stayed too far from you when you needed him the closest.
And now?
He’s close.
Your eyes meet his—wet and vulnerable and full of all the pain you tried to hide.
And his?
They're devastated.
He clears his throat softly, like anything louder might break the fragile thread of courage holding you both together in this moment.
“I’ll be frank with you, I don’t know how to do this.”
A breath. Words you never expected to hear Dracule Mihawk admit.
“I know how to fight. To wait. To watch. But I don’t know how to love, how to chase after something as delicate as a heart, like this.”
Like yours.
Another breath.
“But I want to learn. With you.”
Your lips part—trembling, uncertain. You don’t even realize you’re already shaking your head.
“Mihawk…”
He takes your hands.
Gently. Firmly. In his.
“If we’re both going to get hurt,” he murmurs, “then let me be there to stop the bleeding.”
And that’s it. That’s all you can take.
He catches you instantly.
No hesitation. No breath missed.
His arms wrap around you with a gentleness that betrays the strength behind them—tight enough to hold you together, but soft enough to let you break in his arms.
The duality wielded only by a man, like Dracule Mihawk.
Your face buries into his chest, warm and steady, the scent of him wrapping around you like something familiar, like something you didn’t realize you missed so, so badly until it was gone.
And Mihawk—the man who never yields, never falters—lowers his head, rests his cheek against your hair, and just holds you.
No words.
No time limits this time, either.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt.
You shake against him.
And still—he stays.
One hand gently rubs your back. The other cradles the back of your head. His breath is slow, steady, controlled—but only just. Because he’s feeling it too. That trembling swell in his chest. That quiet terror of getting it wrong. That aching relief that you let him back in.
Minutes pass.
Maybe hours, all the same.
But in his arms, the noise fades.
The ache dulls.
The distance disappears.
And when your sobs soften into breaths, when your grip loosens but doesn’t let go—
Mihawk finally speaks again, lips pressed to your temple.
“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”
Sniffle. “Out here in this hallway?”
You murmur it softly against his chest, your voice still fragile, but touched with that worn spark he knows too well.
Mihawk stills for half a second.
Then—
The faintest huff of a breath against your hair. Not quite a laugh.
But close.
“As poetic as it would be,” he murmurs, “I imagine you’d complain about the draft within minutes.”
You feel him shift, just slightly—one hand sliding from your back to brush your cheek, coaxing you to lift your face.
His golden eyes meet yours—quiet, open, and unbelievably close.
“Let me in,” he says softly. “This time… properly.”
The door closes behind you both with a gentle click.
Like a breath finally released after being held too long.
You stand there for a moment, hand still on the handle, your back to him, the quiet wrapping around you both like silk.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t move toward you.
He waits for you.
Not because he's unsure—
But because he wants you to set the tone this time.
So when you finally turn around—eyes still pink, lips pressed together like you're afraid more truth might spill out—Mihawk simply straightens his posture.
Calm. Present. Open.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.
Your fingers twist in the hem of your nightclothes. “I still feel like running. And staying. All at once.”
He nods once. A slow, deliberate movement.
Then steps forward.
Not to grab you. Not to hold you again.
But to kneel.
Right in front of you. Silent. Grounded.
Golden eyes lift to yours from below.
His hand grabs yours, his lips brush your knuckles. Like a man kneeling at the altar of something he worships and treasures, both at once.
“Then stand still,” he murmurs. “And I’ll stand with you. Until you don’t want to run anymore.”
He catches you immediately—again—as you fall to your knees and embrace him.
But this time, you don’t collapse.
You choose him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, desperate and full, and he folds into you like a man who’s been holding himself back for far too long.
He exhales shakily into your shoulder, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head, the other curling protectively around your waist.
Not fierce.
Not forceful.
Violently gentle.
Like he’s afraid if he lets go now, you’ll vanish again.
You cling tighter. You both do.
Kneeling on the floor of your room, holding each other like you’ve survived something—and maybe you have.
Mihawk’s voice is low. Threadbare.
“Don’t run from me again.”
You shake your head against him. A silent promise.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
Hair tousled. Eyes rimmed red.
And still—the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
And this time?
When he leans in—slowly, reverently—
You don’t pull away.
It’s soft. Softer than you expected.
Not timid—
but aching.
A kiss born not of heat, but of gravity.
The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited
I’ve ached
I’ve come undone in silence for you.
Your lips meet his like a whispered truth—trembling, slow, desperate in the gentlest way. And Mihawk… he breathes in like you’re the air he’s been denied for too long. His hand rises to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t know was falling.
He deepens the kiss—not to consume,
but to stay.
To tell you, without words:
I’m here.
I’m not leaving.
Not even if you ask me to. Not even if you beg.
Your hands frame his face, fingers sliding into his hair, and when your lips crash into his this time, it’s no longer trembling or tentative—
it’s need.
It’s everything unspoken spilling into action.
And Mihawk?
He melts into it.
His hands grip your waist—firm, reverent, grounding—like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tight, but terrified you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you at all.
He kisses you back like he’s making up for every minute lost.
Every step you took away.
Every door you locked.
And now, here—on the floor, in your room, in a moment that shouldn’t exist but does—
He lets go.
Not of you.
Of the restraint. The distance. The silence.
And when he pulls back—breathless, golden eyes wide with something that looks far too close to love—he whispers, forehead to yours:
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk.
you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars.
you were never meant to be what the other needs.
...right?
tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda)
status: completed
chapter list:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine (end)
Chapter 8: Orbital Collapse
One week later.
Your ship arrives under a moonless sky, the harbor shrouded in mist and salt and silence.
No announcement. No fanfare. No one waiting on the dock.
Just you—hooded, cloaked, heart pounding against your ribs as the Cross Guild fortress rises before you like a shadowed memory.
You slip inside with practiced ease.
Guards nod but don’t question you.
They weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.
You planned it that way.
You take the back hallways. The quieter ones. The corridors where the moonlight doesn’t reach and your footsteps feel like secrets.
You don’t speak.
Don’t even try to breathe too loudly.
And when you finally reach your door—your room—it’s like crossing a finish line you didn’t know you were racing toward.
Your fingers hover over the handle.
The lock clicks softly.
You step inside.
And stop.
Because nothing has changed.
The blanket still draped at the end of your bed.
The chair still angled slightly toward it.
The second teacup—clean, dry—resting beside your own on the shelf.
Your eyes sting.
You close the door behind you.
Set your bag down slowly.
You should be tired. Exhausted, even.
But your feet carry you forward, quiet across the floor, until your hand brushes the edge of that chair. The same one he always sat in.
You hesitate.
Then—gently—you pull it closer.
Turn it to face your bed.
You don’t cry.
Not yet.
But your chest aches like you should. Like you have an ocean of tears to shed, but none of them can quite make it to the surface.
So, instead, you change into your nightclothes, slow and quiet, your fingers trembling just slightly.
You brew tea with the same rhythm you always used.
One cup. Just one.
And when you crawl into bed, you lock the door.
The next morning.
The sun filters in through high windows as the meeting room begins to fill. Cross Guild’s inner circle gathers slowly, murmurs rising like steam. Papers shuffle. Crocodile leans back in his chair, cigar already lit. Buggy fumbles through a stack of notes he forgot he was supposed to read. A few newer officers look unusually tense.
Because Mihawk’s already seated.
Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone, actually.
Silent.
He hasn’t spoken much this week, not even to Crocodile. Not about you. Not about the locked door. He’d taken the news of your departure with no outward expression—just a flicker of his gaze and a sharp nod.
But today?
He seems… stiller.
Deadlier, somehow.
And then—
the door opens.
Softly.
All eyes turn.
You step in with quiet grace, your coat draped over your shoulders, hair gently tousled from the morning breeze, eyes focused and unreadable.
Your presence is like a stone in a still pond.
Mihawk doesn’t move.
But his eyes—those golden eyes—lock to you instantly.
And it’s at that very moment you truly understand what the phrase “a gaze that could kill” really means.
But he says nothing. Does nothing.
Nothing at all.
Just watches.
Watches the way you cross the room.
The way your chin tilts with quiet defiance, even as ice feels like it melds itself into your spine.
The way your fingers twitch briefly as you pass his chair.
You take your usual seat.
Not next to him, of course.
But close enough.
And the room doesn’t breathe again until Crocodile clears his throat.
“You’re back.”
You nod once.
“I am.”
Crocodile eyes you a moment longer, then lets it go.
The meeting begins.
But Mihawk?
He doesn’t look away.
Not for one second.
And you feel it—
The weight of his gaze.
The question behind it.
The ache neither of you is willing to voice here, surrounded by people and protocol.
But when the meeting ends—
when the papers are gathered and the others slowly file out—
You know. You know…
Yet, when the moment arrives, you only blink in surprise when he’s the first out of his seat.
The first out the door.
Without a word. Without even a glance back.
For a second, you can’t tell if the dry lump forming in your throat is from relief or something else.
Later that night.
Your quarters are quiet again.
Too quiet.
Today hadn’t gone how you expected. Though, in all honesty, you had no idea what to expect at all.
The walk back from the meeting room had felt longer than usual. Every step echoing in your chest, every turn in the hallway carved with memories you wish you could forget.
You didn’t speak to Mihawk.
You didn’t even breathe towards Mihawk.
Neither did he.
But you felt him.
And that’s what rattles you most.
Not the silence.
But how familiar it’s starting to feel—
how his presence, even unspoken, has stitched itself into the seams of your life.
You drop your coat over the chair. Stand by the window for a while, arms crossed, staring at nothing. The wind tugs gently at the curtains.
You think of his voice that night. The night in the courtyard when he said, “You’re beautiful like this.”
You swallow hard.
You set the kettle down only to realize you made too much.
Two cups, exactly.
You had only meant to make one.
You tell yourself it’s just habit.
Muscle memory. Nothing more.
But when the tea finishes steeping, and the light begins to fade—
You carry only one cup to the bedside.
You leave the second behind.
And the door?
You close it.
But tonight—unlike the others—
You lock it, once again.
Not for safety.
But to keep yourself from unlocking it.
And still—
You sit awake longer than usual.
Eyes drifting to that empty chair.
Half-hurting.
Half-hoping.
For what? You have no idea.
Midnight.
1AM.
2AM.
3AM.
The fortress sleeps.
You don’t.
You lie curled under your blanket, one hand beneath your cheek, the other clutching the edge of the sheets like it might anchor you. Your tea’s gone cold. Your book sits closed. The candle burns low.
And your eyes keep drifting to the door.
Nothing.
No knock.
No footsteps.
No quiet voice asking for five minutes more.
Just silence.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, teeth clenched.
You told him not to come.
You told yourself you wouldn’t open the door.
You even locked it.
So why does it feel like something’s missing?
Why do you feel the very same shitty way you were trying to avoid?
Hell, worse.
Your chest aches as if it were punched through.
Not with anger.
Not even with longing.
Something quieter.
Heavier. Grief? No—
A sound.
Tap.
So soft you barely catch it.
Then—another.
Tap.
You freeze.
The room is still.
Your pulse is not.
Then his voice—quiet, low, carefully measured:
“…I’m not here to stay.”
A pause.
“I only came to say goodnight.”
He doesn’t try the handle.
Doesn’t even check if it’s locked.
He simply stands there.
Then:
“Welcome back.”
The silence that follows swells with everything neither of you has said.
He doesn’t knock again.
He doesn’t leave right away either.
He just lingers on the other side of the door.
Long enough for you to feel the warmth of him there.
Long enough to miss him all over again.
And then—
Soft footsteps.
Gone.
And you?
Run to your feet before you even realize what you’re doing.
summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk.
you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars.
you were never meant to be what the other needs.
...right?
tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda)
status: completed
chapter list:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine (end)
Chapter 7: Meteor Shower
The next morning.
The sea fog hangs low along the coastline as you walk toward the inner wing of the Guild. Pale light cuts across the floors and glints off polished iron fixtures, but everything feels muted. Far away. Like the world is coated in wisps.
Your boots click softly with each step.
You’ve kept your face composed. Your voice level. But inside?
You’re bracing.
Because by nightfall, Mihawk will return here.
And if you don’t move now—decide now—you may not move at all.
You reach Crocodile’s office.
Two guards posted at the door straighten as you approach, but you give them only a nod. One steps aside and knocks.
Crocodile’s voice—low and gruff—answers from within.
“Come in.”
You enter.
He sits at his desk, coat draped on the back of his chair, half a cigar burning in the tray beside him. A mountain of reports lies before him, but his eyes lift to you immediately.
And linger.
He leans back.
“You look like hell.”
You roll your eyes.
“Good morning to you too.”
A pause.
You step forward, hesitating just a beat longer than you mean to, then finally speak.
“I need a leave. A short one.”
Crocodile studies you.
His brow lifts.
“Explain.”
You hesitate.
“I'm... burning out. I need space. Quiet. Somewhere else for a while. Just a week. Maybe two.”
You don’t mention Mihawk.
You don’t have to.
Because Crocodile narrows his gaze. Oh, he knows.
He’s known for some time now, in fact. The way you and the world’s greatest swordsmen catch each other’s gazes in meetings, or passing down the halls.
You always quickly look elsewhere, but Mihawk’s eyes never drift.
Crocodile exhales a long, slow breath through his nose.
“Fine,” he mutters, tossing his pen down. “I’ll have a ship prepared. Somewhere remote. Quiet. No Guild work.”
A beat.
He leans forward, grabbing his cigar from the tray.
“But if you're running, you won’t outrun him. You know that.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I’m not running.”
Another beat of silence.
Crocodile exhales smoke, slow and deliberate.
“No. You’re stalling.”
Then, with surprising softness:
“Don’t wait too long to make your decision. It won’t hurt any less.”
He waves a hand, already reaching for the next report.
“Go. I’ll handle things here.”
You nod, quietly.
Then turn to leave.
But the weight in your chest?
It doesn’t lift. It only starts to sink faster.
Late afternoon.
You didn’t even decide to wait for the evening departure.
The thought of hearing his boots echo down the corridor—the sharp, familiar cadence that always signaled his arrival—you couldn’t bear it.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
So you move quickly. Quietly. Cloak drawn tight, bag slung over your shoulder, heart racing like you're fleeing something more dangerous than any mission you’ve ever taken.
Because you are.
You’re fleeing him. Dracule Mihawk.
How many men felled by Yoru have once been in your shoes, with this dreadful shiver trailing down their spines? Trying to outrun what feels like Death itself.
Well, your situation's a bit different, you suppose. You doubt any of those men have been looked at the way Mihawk looks at you.
Yet somehow, that knowledge only makes it worse.
Because what awaits you is something far more complex than death.
The dockhands are efficient. No one questions Crocodile’s seal on the order. A small ship, crewed by minimal hands, prepped and waiting. Supplies packed. A discreet course set.
You keep your hood up the entire time.
The sun is barely starting to set—bathing the harbor in light orange and violet amidst blue—but you don’t watch it.
You’re too afraid you’ll turn and see him standing there.
Not with anger. Not with questions.
But with that look.
The one he wears when he's already seen the choice you’re going to make, and lets you make it anyway.
Your heart pounds louder with every step up the gangplank.
Leave now.
Leave now, god damn it.
You grip the railing as the ship pulls away from the harbor.
The island shrinks behind you—bit by bit—until the Cross Guild fortress is a distant silhouette, swallowed by mist and sea.
You exhale.
You’re safe.
You made it.
But as you stand at the stern of the ship, wind biting against your cheeks and your hands trembling beneath your gloves—
You don’t feel free.
You feel hollow.
And as the night eventually swallows the horizon, you whisper into the wind:
“…I’m sorry.”
Knowing full well Mihawk will return to find the lock untouched.
The chair empty.
The tea cold.
And you—gone.
Nightfall.
The ship cuts through the dark waves with effortless precision, but Mihawk stands at the helm, still as stone. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat.
He hasn’t spoken in hours.
Didn’t even glance back at the marines who had tried—foolishly—to stall him with questions on the dock.
His boots hit the Cross Guild’s stone floors with measured weight.
Not rushed. But not casual, either.
He walks the halls with his usual restraint, ignoring the awed and curious glances of new recruits. Same route. Same quiet grace.
Until—
The door.
Your door.
He stops.
Faint light under the crack.
He glances once to the side. No guards nearby. No sound.
He reaches for the handle.
Unlocked.
Strange.
Mihawk pushes it open slowly, expecting… something.
A sigh. A glare. A muttered "ugh, you’re back."
But instead?
Stillness.
No tea tray. No book. No flicker of warmth from the blanket you always dragged to one side of the bed.
Just emptiness.
His eyes scan the room.
The chair hasn’t moved.
The desk is too clean.
And the air doesn’t carry your perfume in it.
Something cold settles in his chest.
He turns on his heel and walks—briskly now—through the manor until he reaches the main hall.
Then deeper.
Down toward Crocodile’s wing.
He doesn’t knock.
He pushes open the office doors with a firm hand, boots loud against the polished floor.
Crocodile looks up from his desk, cigar between his teeth, eyes flickering up for a moment.
Before he silently returns his gaze back to the report in his hand.
“No.” Crocodile leans forward, golden eyes sharp. “She asked for this. Practically begged me for it.”
Silence again.
Mihawk’s fingers twitch once at his side.
He turns without a word and walks out of the office.
Crocodile watches him go.
Then, under his breath—
“…You were late, Hawk.”
But Mihawk is already gone.
And the chair by your bed?
Will stay empty.
At least for now.
The following days.
You’re gone.
And Mihawk feels it in everything.
Not just in your room, or your empty chair at meetings, or the absence of your voice echoing down the hall. He feels it in the way he drinks his wine without realizing it’s too warm. In the way the guild feels unbalanced, like someone removed the center of gravity.
Even Buggy makes a note of it. Not that it helps.
He doesn’t ask where you left to.
He doesn’t need to.
He knows Crocodile gave you space. Gave you silence. Gave you exactly what you asked of him.
And so, Mihawk waits.
Not because he’s patient—
But because he doesn’t chase behind comets that leave his orbit on their own accord. Even ones as lovely as you.
Even though he wants to, more than anything.
Because of all the things Mihawk wants to be for you…
An inescapable meteor shower, a storm of pressure and cataclysmic coercion, is not one of them.
So he sharpens Yoru instead. Reviews Guild intel. Attends meetings in silence, his gaze drifting to the empty seat beside him just a moment too long before snapping back.
But late at night—
When the fortress is quiet, and his coat still smells faintly of rose tea—
He lets himself remember.
Your voice saying, “Five minutes.”
Your fingers brushing his as you passed him a cup.
Your stubborn scowl that never quite reached your eyes.
And the last thing you said to him.
“I’m tired. Today was long.”
He hadn’t asked why.
He hadn’t drifted close enough to find out.
And he won’t make that mistake again.
Far away, on another island.
You walk the shoreline, wind teasing your robe as you stare out at the endless sea. Your tea is warm. The skies are soft. The quiet is everything you asked for.
But not anything even remotely close to what you need.
Because in the stillness…
You miss the sound of footsteps just outside your door.
The sharp rustle of a coat as he leaned into your space.
The weight of his silence—comforting, not cold.
You left to remember who you were without him.
But now, standing there…
You start to wonder—
Who are you now that he’s gone too?
And the waves, foul things, don’t give you an answer.
summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk.
you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars.
you were never meant to be what the other needs.
...right?
tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda)
status: completed
chapter list:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine (end)
Chapter 6: Time's Up
The next morning.
Light filters softly through your curtains, warm and gold, stretching across your sheets in lazy stripes. The scent of tea leaves still lingers faintly in the air—but this time it’s mingled with something sharper. Earthier.
Cologne, the scent of a man. One that lingered all night.
You shift beneath your covers, a sleepy groan slipping past your lips as you blink blearily toward the window.
Your body feels heavy. Not ill, just… worn. Muscles ache in slow pulses, your limbs like silk weighed down by too many dreams. You slept longer than usual. Deeper. And still, you feel like you could melt right back into the bed.
You blink again.
There’s a cup of tea on your nightstand.
Still warm.
And beside it—neatly placed, with infuriating precision—is a single note.
Unfolded. As if he knew you’d read it first thing.
You slept through dawn.
Didn’t have the heart to wake you.
—M
You stare at it.
Heart thudding softly.
Sleep still clinging to your lashes.
And the only thing you can think is—
He ended up having his way, in the end. Again.
You let him.
A few days later.
You’re seated at your desk—papers stacked neatly, ink drying on a half-finished report—but you haven’t written a single word in over fifteen minutes.
Your quill rests between your fingers, unmoving.
Your eyes are fixed on the tea cup near your hand.
Same placement. Same warmth.
Same empty second spot beside it.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s better this way. You’re busier lately. The guild’s affairs are picking up again. You have no time for distractions—least of all ones that come in the form of golden-eyed swordsmen who don’t ask, don’t demand, but stay anyway.
And yet—
You didn’t sleep well last night.
The room felt colder. The silence sharper. Even the blankets felt too big.
Because he didn’t come.
You told him not to. You meant to, anyways. But his presumably busy schedule beat you to it.
And now… the ache in your chest betrays you.
Your hand drifts to your collarbone without thinking, thumb brushing gently across your neck where, nights ago, his breath had lingered.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
No more.
You can’t let this become a habit.
Can’t afford softness. No less in a den of killers.
You’re too smart to let someone like him seep into your routine.
Too careful to let it feel safe.
Because once it does…
You’ll want more. No, you’ll desperately need more.
And someone like Mihawk never gives more.
You rise from your desk, the chair scraping softly across the floor as you move to your bedroom door.
You hesitate there—hand on the lock.
Then turn it.
Click.
Locked.
This time, for real.
And you tell yourself it doesn’t sting.
Even when you stare at that untouched second teacup the whole time you undress.
Even when you pull the blankets up to your chin and pretend the room doesn’t feel quieter than usual.
You tell yourself it’s better this way.
Even if it hurts.
Especially because it hurts.
………
…And yet, you lie awake far longer than you admit to yourself.
Blankets pulled up. Room still.
The lamp’s warm glow flickers beside you, casting soft shadows over your walls.
You’ve turned the lock.
You've sealed the silence.
You've kept your promise to yourself.
So why does it feel like you’re holding your breath?
You shift onto your side.
Then your back.
Then your stomach.
You tug the blanket tighter, looser, tighter again. The pillow isn’t right. The air is too warm. Too cold. You turn your face into the sheets and whisper:
“…I hate him.”
But your voice trembles.
You don’t hate him.
You miss him.
The way he entered without asking—but never crossed a line.
The way he sat in that chair without a word—until you gave him one.
The way he looked at you like nothing else mattered.
You sigh.
Your chest aches.
And then—
a sound.
Tap.
Tap.
Your heart leaps.
You don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Then—his voice. Low. Gentle. Right behind the door.
“…You locked it.”
A pause. Quiet. Heavy.
“I expected that.”
You can hear him lean against the doorframe. Hear the faint rustle of his coat. Hear the quiet patience in his voice; the kind that never begs.
“I’ll go.”
Please don’t.
But those words don’t reach his ears. Only silence stretches.
“I wanted you to know… I didn’t stay for the tea.”
A beat.
“I stayed for you.”
The air leaves your lungs.
You don’t reply.
You can’t.
And just like that—
His presence fades.
No door creak.
No parting word.
Just boots echoing down an empty corridor in the dead of night.
Your fingers curl into the sheets.
Tightly. Desperately. Like maybe if you squeeze hard enough, it’ll keep you from falling apart. From unraveling over a man who never demanded anything from you—but somehow has everything.
Your breath catches.
Your throat tightens.
And the tears—quiet, fragile, frustrating—spill anyway.
You bury your face in the pillow, jaw clenched as you try not to sob.
As if the sound would bring him back.
As if it would break you more.
It’s getting too much.
Too close.
Too vulnerable.
Too real.
Every time he came, he slipped past your defenses without even touching you.
Just a glance.
A word.
A silent promise from across the room.
And now that he’s gone—truly gone—your chest feels hollow. Like the absence of him created a shape that you can’t fill with pride. Or pout. Or silence.
He’s Mars.
That’s what you tell yourself.
Cold. Distant. Measured.
A man forged in silence and merciless steel, not warmth and softness.
And you?
You’re Venus.
Light and loving and longing.
Too emotional. Too reactive. Too much.
The two of you were never built to last.
Only to collide.
That’s the truth you cling to tonight as the tears slip down your cheeks—quiet, stubborn things, falling without permission.
“He won’t need you the way you need him,” you whisper to yourself, voice breaking. “He won’t stay. Not really. Not forever.”
And still—
You reach out.
A hand trailing toward the empty space beside you in the bed. The part you never let him near. The part that’s always been yours alone.
But tonight?
It’s cold.
Empty.
Wrong.
And that’s when the sob breaks through.
Not loud. Not wild.
But wrecked.
Because no matter how much you tell yourself this is right—
That it’s for the best—
That you’re protecting yourself from the inevitable—
The truth is…
You fucking miss him.
Not just the silence.
Not just the tea.
Not just the way he always watched you like you were the only person left in the world with fire still in their eyes.
You miss him.
And for once, there’s no clever retort. No glare. No shield.
Just a quiet, aching whisper into your pillow:
“…Why did you have to make me feel safe, you bastard?”
The next morning.
You move through the guild like a ghost of yourself.
Your steps are measured, but they drag.
Your eyes are focused, but dulled.
Your voice—when it comes—is quiet, clipped, and dazed.
People notice.
Buggy doesn’t crack a joke in lieu of a morning greeting as per usual. Instead, he watches you pass with wide, uncertain eyes and doesn’t comment on the bags under yours.
Even Crocodile glances up from a document as you enter the strategy room and narrows his gaze. He doesn’t speak—but you catch the way he studies you like something’s clearly wrong.
You give your reports.
You nod at briefings.
You sign what needs signing.
And you pretend.
Gods, you pretend.
But everything feels too loud. Too bright. Too not him.
Because Mihawk didn’t show up again last night. Or this morning.
Not even for another quip or a knock.
Not even a shadow.
Maybe he was upset you actually locked the door.
And maybe that should’ve made it easier.
Maybe it proves your point.
Maybe it means he’s finally letting you go.
But instead?
It just makes the ache worse.
By late afternoon, you excuse yourself early. Claim a headache. Claim fatigue. No one argues.
You close the door to your quarters behind you.
And your eyes immediately fall to the chair.
Empty.
Still turned ever so slightly toward your bed from the last time he sat there. Mocking you in its stillness.
You stare at it for a long moment.
“…Idiot.”
And drop your coat on the floor.
That night.
You sit curled beneath your blanket, a book in hand, the lamp casting soft pools of amber light across your bed. The wind taps gently against the window, and for once, the silence feels… still. Not heavy. Not suffocating.
Just quiet.
You’ve been here before.
In stillness like this.
Waiting without realizing you're waiting.
But Mihawk isn’t coming tonight.
You know that.
He’s away, you heard from Buggy earlier—sent on a solo mission by the Guild. Efficient. Clean. Swift. Just like him.
And maybe that’s why, as your eyes skim the pages, your chest twists tighter than it has in days.
The chapter you landed on in your book… it hits different tonight. In it, the heroine chooses to flee from the arms of her beloved—not because she’s weak, but because her heart’s too full and her mind’s too torn.
Because staying would mean choosing pain when she barely has the strength to stand.
Ugh. You just wanted some smut, not the story of your life.
You close the book gently.
Set it in your lap.
Your hand lingers at your chest.
A thought intrudes: Maybe you should go away, too.
Not forever. Not for good.
Just long enough to breathe air that didn’t have Mihawk’s scent in it.
To feel something other than the raw pull of missing him and hating that you miss him. Long enough to remember who you are without his quiet eyes watching you unravel and saying nothing.
You rise from bed and move slowly to your desk, scribbling down a note to yourself for the morning.
Talk to Crocodile.
A week. Maybe two. Any island. Some supply excuse, diplomatic errand—anything. Literally anywhere for anything.
Just somewhere without him.
Because Mihawk is many things.
Unshakable. Calculating. Disarming.
But he is also persistent.
And if you stay here… if he walks through that door tomorrow night when he gets back and looks at you that way again—
You’ll lose whatever strength you have left to cling to.
So tonight, you sleep.
And tomorrow, you plan.
Because this time, Venus has to leave Mars’ orbit.
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hey, guys!! i just wanted to pop in and thank everyone whose left a sweet message in my inbox ;_; im sorry that i'm so late on replies, but thankfully i'm in a better place and i'm gonna do my best to post more and return to this hobby that gives me so much joy which is... writing one piece romance delulu for days, haha!
((gonna try to post maybe once a week to see if i can make it a habit! let's see if i can do it!!))
summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk.
you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars.
you were never meant to be what the other needs.
...right?
tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda)
status: completed
chapter list:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine (end)
Chapter 5: Fifteen Minutes
The next day.
You don’t have time to think about Mihawk.
Your morning starts with reports piled high, three supply issues, a petty squabble between two new recruits, and Buggy somehow causing a shitshow in the armory. Again.
By midday, you’ve barely eaten. You’re snappier than usual. Even Crocodile gives you a wide berth when you march down the hallway muttering to yourself.
No one dares comment about the piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe, either.
Because beneath your collected facade, you're flushed.
Overworked.
Tired as fuck.
And still—annoyingly—thinking about a swordsman with golden eyes and a spare key.
Which he doesn’t have. Probably.
Probably? Probably.
By evening, your head aches with a vengeance.
You finally storm back into your room, slam the door shut behind you, lock it with a decisive click, and announce to no one:
“There. Locked. I win. No men. Infinite peace.”
You change into your nightgown. Tie the sash tight. Brew one cup of tea—one, god damn it—and take it to bed with a book you swear is about marine law this time. A suitable stand-in for garlic and some crosses.
You read exactly four sentences.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
Your heart skips.
You stare at the door.
More silence. Then, click.
Then, a calm, low voice:
“…I believe you said this would be locked.”
You lurch upright.
Mihawk stands in the doorway.
The locked doorway.
Coat off. Sleeves rolled. Sword not in sight.
Holding… a small tin of fancy tea leaves.
Your jaw drops. He steps inside.
“I knocked,” he says simply. “You didn’t answer.”
“M-Mihawk! This is an invasion of privacy! And that door was definitely locked?!”
He shuts the door behind him with the same maddening calm he always has. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.
“Invasion?” he echoes, tone casual, like you’d accused him of borrowing a book without asking. “I knocked.”
He lifts the tin of tea between two fingers and sets it delicately on your nightstand, right next to your solo cup.
“This is a peace offering,” he says mildly, golden eyes flicking to yours. “So you can stop pretending I don’t drink what you serve.”
He gestures to your cup—already halfway gone.
“You made one,” he murmurs, the faintest ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth, “but didn’t finish it.”
He takes a single step closer.
“And you locked the door… but left the key in the handle.”
You freeze.
He leans in just enough to lower his voice as he nears your ear.
“If this is war, you’re a terrible strategist.”
And still, it dawns on you, he hasn’t touched you yet. Not once.
Hasn’t dared.
But the air crackles with something familiar.
Not heat. Sparks.
But before it can form thunder, a genuine sigh from you shifts the entire atmosphere.
Your eyes avert themselves to the floor, your usual bravado missing in the action as a coat of weariness paints over your voice.
“I’m tired. Today was long.”
Mihawk's expression shifts—barely. The sharpness in his eyes softens. The curve on his lip fades. He straightens, no longer teasing, and for a beat… he simply watches you.
Quietly.
Closely.
As if seeing something that no one else noticed all day.
He walks past the bed—not toward you, but toward the teacup. He pours the last of your half-finished drink into the second cup he brought, and finishes it without a word.
Then he shrugs off his overshirt.
And sinks into the armchair.
No quipped smugness. No subtle challenge.
Not even a clever retort.
Just a low, even voice, resting in the quiet between breaths.
“Then rest. You deserve it.”
A pause.
“And I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
That earns him a petulant, little glare equipped with a pursed pout and a dash of red cheeks.
“T-That’s creepy, you vampire look-alike! And no! Go back to your own room!”
Mihawk exhales through his nose—because there it is again, that quiet sound of amusement he refuses to dignify as laughter.
“A vampire,” he repeats dryly. “Charming.”
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled in front of him, one leg crossed over the other in the most infuriatingly composed position imaginable.
“If I were one, I’d have asked to be invited in.”
He glances at the door.
“You didn’t say no. You just complained.”
He gestures faintly, as if to say the floor is yours, princess.
“Shall I leave?” he asks, calm. “Or shall I stay? Up to you.”
He looks almost smug as he waits for your reply.
But his voice?
Soft. Patient. Like he’ll comply with anything you say.
Like he’ll be thankful for it.
That earns a huff as you grab your covers and pull them over you, tucking yourself into bed as you turn away from him. Eyes closed.
“Ugh. Do whatever you want, I’m too tired to care.”
The room settles as you shift under the covers.
Quiet settles in. Warmth follows.
You don’t hear noise after—Mihawk makes none—but the weight of his gaze lingers, still watching as you burrow beneath your blankets, cheeks pink with protest, lips still in a soft frown.
Then—
The creak of the chair as he finally shifts.
Not to leave.
Just to sit deeper.
More comfortably.
Like he’s settling in for the long haul.
“I will, then,” he says softly.
Do whatever I want.
A pause.
Then, so low you almost miss it—
“…Sleep well, little Venus.”
He doesn’t say anything else.
And for a man who’s known for silence, this one feels different. Like a guard being posted. Like a promise left on your pillow.
And as your breath evens out, as your frown softens into something closer to peace—
Mihawk sits there. With a book he brought nestled in his lap.
Still closed.
“I’m really locking it tomorrow,” you mumble.
Sleepily. Barely awake now.
From the chair—so quiet you almost think you imagined it—comes a faint hum.
And that’s the last thing you hear before sleep finally claims you.
The night stretches long and quiet.
The candle on your desk flickers low, casting a soft golden glow that barely reaches the corners of the room. Outside, the sea hushes against the distant rocks, wind tapping faintly against the windowpane.
And still—he doesn’t move.
Mihawk sits in the armchair like a statue cast in midnight and discipline, one leg stretched out now, arms resting comfortably along the sides. His eyes stay on you—not possessive, not protective.
Present.
For a long time, he simply watches the way your breathing evens out. Watches the stubborn crease in your brow finally fade. Watches your fingers curl a little looser in the blanket.
Then he speaks—so low, you’d never hear it awake.
“So fierce in the daylight.”
His gaze softens, unreadable.
“So gentle in sleep.”
Utterly captivating in both.
He closes his eyes, just for a moment, like he’s memorizing this version of you—the quiet one, the unguarded one. The one who let him in.
Without swords.
Without tea.
Without protest.
Just you.
His voice returns again, the faintest whisper tilted your way:
“…I’ll go before dawn.”
And he means it.
But not yet.
Not while you’re warm.
Not while the room still smells like your perfume.
Not while he can sit in silence with the woman who keeps threatening to lock him out of her heart—
You’re in the kitchen with Nami. Soft conversation. Warm lighting. Laughing a little over booze.
“I mean, I don’t think he even realizes how much I watch him,” you say, smiling. “He’s always so focused. So serious.”
Nami raises a brow. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”
You nod. “I know.”
Then softer—like it slipped out:
“I love him.”
Around the corner—Zoro stops walking.
Completely.
Stares ahead like someone just threw a sword through his chest.
He backs up. Quiet. Leans against the wall.
Breathes. Once. Twice.
“…Shit.”
When you leave the kitchen later, he’s waiting outside.
Doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you to him, forehead resting on yours.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
You blink. “What?”
“I need to hear it. Straight from you.”
You soften into a smile. “I love you.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like finally—
then kisses you like he plans to hear it every day for the rest of his goddamn life.
SANJI
You’re helping Robin prep some herbs for dinner. Quiet. Peaceful.
“He’s such a flirt,” you say. “But he doesn’t realize how sincere he really is. He’s gentle. He listens. He remembers.”
Robin hums knowingly. “Sounds like you’re awfully smitten.”
You laugh, bashful. Then:
“I love him, Robin.”
Outside, just beyond the doorway—Sanji nearly drops the wine bottle he was carrying.
His heart is pounding like cannon fire.
He peeks in. Sees you smiling. Glowing. Talking about him.
He exhales slowly. Hand on his chest.
“Mon dieu…”
Later that night, when everyone’s winding down, he pulls you aside. Hands shaking just a little.
“Did you mean it?” he asks. “What you said... to Robin.”
You blink, cheeks already flushing. “Y-You heard that?”
He grabs your hand. Brings it to his lips.
“I felt it,” he murmurs. “And I’ve never wanted to hear something so badly in my life.”
When you say it again, against his lips, he doesn’t kiss you.
He hugs you first. So tightly you start squirming.
Then kisses you like you’re an oath he’s taken for life.
SMOKER
You’re talking to Tashigi. Voice soft. Steady.
“He’s not easy to be around,” you admit, a little smile on your lips. “But I’ve never felt safer. Or more seen. I don’t think he realizes how much that means to me.”
She smiles behind her glasses. “You care for him very deeply.”
You nod. “I do. I love him.”
Out in the hall, Smoker freezes.
He’d been walking past—cigars in mouth, usual scowl in place—
But now?
Everything stops.
He leans against the wall. Quiet. Processing.
You love him.
Him.
The man made of smoke and walls and muttered complaints.
Later, he walks into your room without knocking.
You look up, startled. “Smoker?”
He walks over. Pulls you into his chest. Doesn’t let go.
“Just… say it to my face next time, would you?”
You blink. “What?”
He exhales. “The thing. That you told Tashigi earlier.”
You freeze. Then soften into a smile.
“What? That I love you?”
He groans softly—like it hurts. Then leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That.”
A few silent moments settle around you both. You smile as his thumb traces your cheek, his eyes locked on your lips.
“You mean it?” he mutters.
You smile, rising on your tiptoes as you press your lips to his.
“You know I do.”
KUZAN
You’re sitting beside Borsalino. Talking quietly.
“He’s so complicated,” you say, swirling tea in your cup. “Acts so nonchalant, but he’s kind in ways no one sees. Soft when he doesn’t mean to be. And I love him for all of it.”
Kizaru just hums with a quiet smile, nodding like he already knew.
Around the corner—Kuzan stops breathing.
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Just… caught the tail end.
But that line. That line.
It lands like a knife made of flames right in his cold chest.
He backs away slowly. Hands in his pockets. Trying to play it cool.
Fails completely.
That night, he knocks softly on your door.
You open it, surprised. “Hey.”
He stands there, quiet. Watching you. Like he’s trying to memorize you again.
Then—softly:
“You love me?”
You blink, startled. A bit scared. “...Y-You heard that?”
“Didn’t mean to.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Just… couldn’t pretend I didn’t.”
You look down. Step closer. “Yeah. I do.”
He exhales. Deep. Shaky. Then pulls you in, arms wrapping around you like you’re the only safe place left on earth.
“…Good,” he says against your hair. “Makes us both idiots.”
KIDD
You’re sitting at the workbench with Killer. Talking low.
“He’s such an ass sometimes,” you mutter. “But he remembers the smallest things. He fixes stuff without asking. And when he’s soft—god he’s so stupidly soft.”
Killer doesn’t say a word, but he ruffles your hair.
You laugh. A little embarrassed.
Then—quiet. Almost shy:
“Killer, I love that idiot.”
Outside, around the corner, Kidd has completely stopped functioning.
He was mid-lecture at Heat—paused. Mid-word. Mid-rage.
“…Did you hear that?” he says, like someone just punched him in the chest.
Heat opens his mouth. Closes it. Quietly walks away.
Kidd leans against the wall. Breathes like he’s holding back an explosion.
Later, he finds you. Doesn’t say much. Just steps in close.
“You told Killer something earlier.”
You freeze. Flush. “D-Did I?! Haha, I don't remem—”
“—Don’t even try.”
He stands in your way. Eyes narrowed. Voice low.
“Instead, why don’t you say it to me this time.”
You fold under his intense glare. “I... I love you, okay?”
He grabs your face. Pulls you in.
“You better.”
And then kisses the lights out of you.
BECKMAN
You’re with Yasopp and Lucky Roo. Laughing over drinks.
“He’s so calm, it makes you forget how dangerous he is,” you say. “But that’s what I love about him. I feel safe. Like I can breathe around him.”
They raise their eyebrows. Yasopp pulls a teasing smile.
“Ohooo, that’s a big word. We hear that right?”
You nod. “Yeah. I love him, you guys.”
Down the hall—Beckman stops.
He was walking in. Coffee in hand. Chill as ever.
Now? His fingers curl around the mug.
You love him.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t walk in. Just stands there for a minute. Soaking it in. Processing.
Then walks away.
And comes back later—heart pounding.
Finds you alone.
“Hey,” he says casually. “Got a second?”
You nod. He steps close. Not too close.
“You said something earlier. To the guys.”
You blink. “Oh. You heard that?”
He nods. “Do me a big favor and say it again. Right now.”
You smile. “...I love you, Beck.”
He exhales. Soft. Grabs the back of your neck and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred.
“…Then I think it’s about time I start acting like I’m worthy of that.”
DOFLAMINGO
You’re sitting on a couch, talking quietly to Vergo. Voice low.
“He’s... lost in his own world sometimes,” you say with a fond smile. “But I think I see more than he wants people to. There’s softness under the madness. And I love him for both parts.”
Vergo smiles. Like he sees it too. “You told him yet?”
You shake your head. “He’d laugh. Or twist it into a cruel joke.”
Then softer—
“But I do. I love him. Both parts.”
“Heaven and demon.”
Around the corner, Doflamingo has gone absolutely still.
He was headed in to gloat about something stupid.
Now?
He’s frozen. Stuck in place.
You love him, huh? Both parts?
Not just the mask, not just the monster.
Him, the two parts that make up the whole.
Later, he walks in casually. Like nothing happened.
But his glasses are off.
“You love me, sweetheart?” he says flatly. Like he's trying to push something down, while opening it apart at the seams.
You nearly drop the glass in your hand. “Wait—what—”
He’s in front of you in two strides. Looks right through you.
“Say it. I want to hear you say it when you know I’m listening.”
You stare back, defiant. “I love you, Doffy.”
He exhales. Shaky. Covers his eyes. Like he hates what it does to him.
What you do to him.
“Stupider than I pegged you for...” he mutters.
Then lowers his hand. Grabs his glasses. Grins.
Small. Real. A little shaky.
“…Fine. I’m yours, then. You better be ready for that.”
LUCCI
You’re in the corner of a quiet hallway, talking to Kaku.
“I don’t think he even knows how much I care,” you whisper. “He’s so guarded. But I see it—the little things. The way he notices. The way he protects without ever admitting it.”
Kaku nods. “You sound in deep.”
You smile. “I am. I love him.”
Down the hall, Lucci stops moving.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just… listens.
You love him.
And you said it like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t impossible.
Like it was true, of all things.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t confront you.
Just turns. Walks away. Quiet.
Later, he shows up at your door. Doesn’t knock. Just opens it.
You find him outside on the deck. Leaning against the railing. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.
You think he’s asleep standing up—
But then:
“…You good?”
You jump. “How’d you know it was me?”
He shrugs. Doesn’t open his eyes. “No one else comes out here this quiet.”
You step closer. Stand beside him.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He finally opens one eye. Looks down at you.
“Bad dream?”
You shake your head. “Just… needed air. And maybe someone.”
He watches you a second longer. Then lifts his arm—inviting.
You hesitate, then step into it. He wraps it around your shoulders without a word.
The ocean sways. The night breathes. And you just… lean into him.
“…You always find me,” he murmurs, barely audible.
You smile. “Maybe that’s because you’re where I feel safe.”
He doesn’t say anything.
But his grip tightens.
Just a little.
SANJI
You wander into the kitchen, and there he is. Still in his dress shirt and slacks. Frying pan on low.
He turns. Smiles softly. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You nod. “Neither could you, huh?”
He shrugs. “Thought I’d make something. Helps me think.”
You sit at the counter. Watch him in silence for a minute. He moves like he’s breathing. Precise. Gentle.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just didn’t wanna be alone.”
He plates something warm. Sets it in front of you.
You smile, sleepy. “You’re unfair, you know that?”
“Oh?” he says, teasing. “How so?”
“You always know what I need before I do.”
He leans in. Brushes hair from your face.
“That’s because I love you quietly. All the time.”
Your breath catches. He presses a kiss to your temple.
“And in the middle of the night? That love doesn’t sleep either.”
SMOKER
The hall’s dark. Still warm from the day’s stress.
You pad down it barefoot, blanket still draped around your shoulders.
You don’t know why your feet led you here—
But when you see the glow under his door, you know.
You knock once. Quiet.
He opens it almost immediately. Shirtless. Hair tousled. Eyes a little tired.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough with sleep—or maybe the lack of it.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper. “Didn’t feel right. Too quiet.”
He nods once. Steps aside.
You walk in. Sit on the edge of the bed. He joins you slowly, sighing.
“You too?” you ask.
“Couldn’t stop thinking,” he admits. “Everything feels heavier at night.”
You look at him. “Want me to stay?”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches out, wraps an arm around your shoulders, and pulls you close.
“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Stay.”
KUZAN
You find him outside. Lying on a bench. Hands folded over his chest. Eyes open to the stars.
You pause in the doorway. Watch him for a moment. He speaks without looking.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
You smile softly. “How’d you know?”
“You walk like you’re trying not to wake ghosts.”
You step closer. Sit on the edge of the bench beside him. He shifts—makes room.
“Wanna talk?” he asks.
“No.”
“Wanna listen to someone breathe?”
You nod. Lie beside him. His arm wraps around you immediately.
The world slows down. Nothing moves but the stars.
“I feel like the silence is louder lately,” you whisper.
He hums. “That’s ‘cause you’re holding too much. Let me carry some.”
You curl closer. He presses a kiss to your hair.
Neither of you say another word.
KIDD
The sound of metal clinks from the workshop. Dim lamplight flickers behind the door.
You push it open slowly. He’s hunched over a table, working on something small. Barely blinking.
“You’re still up?” you ask softly.
He grunts. Doesn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You nod. Step in. Hug the blanket tighter around yourself.
“I couldn’t either.”
That gets his attention. He glances at you—
Blanket, messy hair, quiet voice.
“…Why?”
“I just felt… weird. Restless.” You pause. “Didn’t wanna be alone.”
He blinks. Then stands. Walks over. Hesitates—then pulls you into his arms.
“Then don’t be.”
You bury your face into his chest. He smells like grease and warmth and safety.
“Wanna chill here?” he asks, quieter than usual.
You nod. He pulls you onto his lap, arms still around you.
And finally—for both of you—
The night goes still.
BECKMAN
You find him on the deck. Cigarette between his fingers. Staring out at the sea like it’s talking to him.
You walk over. Wrap your blanket tighter. “Hey.”
He glances over. “You alright?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He pats the railing beside him. You join him without question.
For a while, there’s no talking. Just waves. Stars. Breathing.
Then—softly:
“You get like this often?”
You nod. “When everything’s too quiet.”
He hums. Flicks the ash from his cigarette. Then glances at you sideways.
“You ever try falling asleep next to someone?”
You blink. “Are you offering?”
He chuckles. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve had.”
He wraps an arm around you. Draws you in. You lean against his chest, feeling it rise and fall.
“You’re warm,” you mumble.
“You’re safe,” he whispers.
And finally, finally—your eyelids get heavy.
DOFLAMINGO
His office is lit by a single lamp. He’s at the window. Shirt open. Glass in hand.
You enter without knocking. He doesn’t turn.
“You should be asleep,” he says.
“So should you.”
He smirks faintly. “Touché.”
You walk in slowly, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket. “I couldn’t.”
He glances back. Just a glance. Enough to see the sleep in your eyes. The quiet worry on your face.
“What kept you up?”
You shrug. “Didn’t want to be alone.”
He downs the rest of his drink. Sets the glass down.
Then—without a word—walks to you.
Wraps an arm around your waist.
“You think I do?” he says softly.
You lean into him. “You hide it well.”
He kisses your forehead. One hand buried in your hair.
“I’d sleep easier if you were beside me.”
You smile. “Then why are we still standing?”
He doesn’t answer. Just leads you to bed like it was always meant to be this way.
LUCCI
You find him on the rooftop. Sitting in shadow. Back against a pillar.
You blink. “You couldn’t sleep either?”
“No.”
“Bad dream?”
“Worse. Thinking.”
You walk closer. Sit beside him. He doesn’t look at you.
“It’s quieter up here,” he mutters. “Harder to hide from your own thoughts.”
You wrap the blanket tighter. “Thought I was the only one haunted at 3 in the morning.”
He finally glances at you. Something in his expression… softer than you’ve ever seen.
“Why’d you come find me?”
You pause. “Because you’re the only one I want to be with when the world feels like this.”
He stares. Like you spoke a language only he understands.
Then—quietly—he opens his coat.
“Come here.”
You do. Curl against him. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation.
“I don’t sleep much,” he whispers. “But if I ever do… it’ll be like this.”
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He catches you mid-wobble. One arm hooked around your waist.
“You good?” he grunts.
You blink up at him like he’s the moon and the stars and the last piece of dessert in the fridge.
“...Did anyone ever tell you you’re like… disgustingly sexy?”
He blinks. “What.”
You grab his face. Both hands. Zero fear.
“I love you, Zoro. I love your eyebrows and your stupid bandana and the way you say ‘hm’ like a stupid caveman.”
He is frozen. Frozen.
“I’d let you carry me into battle like a sack of potatoes and I’d say thank you.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. You are swaying in his grip like a heart-eyed gremlin.
“You don’t geeeet it,” you whisper. “You don’t even KNOW how much I love you. You’re my FAVORITE sword. And you have 3.”
He fakes a cough to ground himself.
“…Look, let’s get you to bed before you start confessing to the other swords.”
You gasp. “I’d never cheat on you with Wado Ichimonji.”
He’s never been more flustered in his life.
SANJI
You are clinging to him like you were born for it. Cheek pressed to his chest. Arms wrapped tight.
“Mon ange,” he says, half-laughing, “you’ve had three glasses and a shot you weren’t supposed to have—”
“I LOVE you,” you whimper. “Like. I wanna marry your smile. I wanna kiss your kneecaps.”
He chokes. “My what—”
“You’re so pretty it’s actually disrespectful. Like tone it down or propose, coward.”
His heart is screaming.
You start swaying dramatically. “Do you even know what you do to me?! You’re like if espresso could flirt.”
He blushes. You keep going.
“I would fight a sea king for you. Bare-handed. In heels.”
He’s wheezing. He knows he should stop you. But he can’t.
“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and also you cook like God personally blessed your hands.”
He dips down, kisses your forehead.
“Keep talking like that, and I’ll start planning the honeymoon menu.”
SMOKER
You're leaning on him. Fully. Slumped against his chest like he’s a smoky mountain made of comfort.
He sighs. “You’re drunk again.”
“Shhhh,” you mumble, poking his bicep. “I’m admiring the structural integrity of my boyfriend.”
He freezes. “…Your what?”
You smile. Dizzy. Adoring. “Mmmm, you’re built like a tank and I wanna climb you like scaffolding.”
He goes red. Entire face. Ears too.
“I love youuu,” you whisper. “Like. Deep, primal, for life shit. Like I wanna drag you back to my room and knit you sweaters.”
“You don’t even know how to knit.”
“I’d learn. For you. I’d knit with barbed wire if that’s what you needed.”
He clears his throat like it's gonna fix the emotional damage.
“The way you’re gonna regret saying all this tomorrow when you wake up and remember.”
You boop his nose. “Only if you forget to say ‘I love you too,’ my emotionally constipated commander.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just turns his head, hiding a smile the size of Marineford.
KUZAN
You're hanging off his arm. Head resting on his shoulder. Eyes half-lidded and sparkling with inebriated truth.
“Kuuuuzan…”
He hums. “Mm?”
“I love you.”
He raises a brow. “I know.”
“NO you don’t,” you whine. “You think I love you normal. I don’t.”
He chuckles. “You don’t?”
“No!! I love you STUPID. I love you SO MUCH I wanna cry about it. Like, I wanna cook you breakfast for dinner and live in your chest. Live in it.”
He stops walking. Blinks. Looks down at you.
You nod seriously. “You’re my favorite. I’d defrost a glacier with my bare hands if it meant five more minutes with you.”
“…That’s extremely specific,” he mutters.
You grab his face, frustrated. “You don’t get ittttt. I wuuuv yoooou!”
He exhales a sigh, but the smile on his face is telling.
“Alright, alright. Let’s get you to bed, snowflake.”
You pout. “Carry me. I'm too full of emotion.”
He absolutely does.
KIDD
You stumble into his workshop like a chaotic daydream.
Hair messy. Lips pouty. Arms flung wide.
“KIIIIIDD—!”
He turns. Wrench in hand. “The hell’s wrong with you—”
You practically launch into his chest. “You’re so HOT it makes me STUPID.”
He freezes. “...What.”
You poke his chest. Then his shoulder. Then his arm.
“LOOK at you. You’re like if a motorcycle had feelings.”
He blinks. “You’re drunk off your ass.”
“I’m in LOVE. There’s a difference.”
You pout. “You’re loud and mean and I’d let you throw me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes and I’d say ‘thank you, sir.’”
He turns red from the ears down.
“I, uh—I don’t know what to do with that.”
You pat his cheek. “You don’t have to do anything. Just be my scary metal boyfriend and I’ll feed you snacks and tell you how pretty you are.”
He stares. Then mutters while turning away:
“...You’re lucky as shit you’re cute.”
You nod, squeezing him. “I am. I’m also yours.”
He cusses, but his face matches his hair.
BECKMAN
You stumble into the common room, arms wide like you’re about to narrate an epic love ballad.
He’s on the couch. Calm. Reading. Glances up.
“…You okay?”
You point dramatically. “No. I’m in love with you and it’s a medical emergency.”
He closes the book. Slowly. “Is it.”
You wobble over. Drop into his lap like a dramatic lead in a play.
“Do you know how handsome you are? You make me wanna, like, write poetry in bad handwriting.”
He blinks. “Bad handwriting?”
“YES. Because I’d be too busy thinking about you to write straight!”
He chuckles. “Wow. You sound worse than the captain right now.”
You grab his face, gently. “I love your face. I love your voice. I love your grumpy bedtime voice and your hands and your back muscles and—”
He kisses you to shut you up. You gasp.
“I wasn’t done—!”
“I’m saving the rest for when you’re sober,” he murmurs. “So I can hear it again.”
You melt in his arms. He doesn’t even try to stop smiling.
DOFLAMINGO
He’s lounging on the couch. Shirt open. One leg over the armrest. Full smug mode.
Then you stumble into the room like you just downed an entire espresso pot in one shot.
“DOFFFFYYYYYY~”
He raises a brow. “Oh? Emptied out my wine cellar again?”
You collapse onto him. “No—I mean—maybe—okay, yeah.”
He laughs. Hard. But his hand finds its way around your waist.
“At least bring me some next time.”
Hic.
“Okay, wait, but you’re so handsome it makes me wanna commit crimes in your name.”
He leans in with a grin. “I mean, I’m not stopping you.”
Suddenly, you cup his cheeks with both hands. “You’re evil and dramatic and gorgeous and I’d follow you into hell wearing matching outfits. I can rock pink feathers, too.”
His grin fades. Just a bit. Eyes narrow. Watching you carefully.
Feeling just how warm your palms feel against his face.
“Heh, you don’t even know what you’re saying. How many bottles did you down?”
“Six!” you cry. “But even if I was totally sober I’d kiss your evil little heart every night until you stopped pretending you don’t need love.”
He goes quiet.
You boop his nose.
“…Oh, and I embroidered a little flamingo on your undies.”
He kisses you.
Like you said something he wishes he couldn’t blame on wine.
LUCCI
You find him in his office. Quiet. Late. Reading something top secret.
You burst in wearing pajamas and good intentions.
“LUUUUCCCCHIIIIIIII~”
He sets the file down. Slowly. “Why are you screaming? And why are you inebriated on a Tuesday night?”
“I’m en-ee-vee-bri-tatted on YOUUUU.”
He blinks. “...That’s not a word.”
You wobble toward him. “It IS. You’re all… brooding and stabby and tall and I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. My kitty cat, for real.”
He sighs, before turning back to his paper.
“Intoxication level: drastic.”
You lean in. Press your forehead to his chest.
And you go off.
“I love your scary energy. I love your stupid suit. I love how your voice drops when you say my name and how you look at me like you’re calculating how much I mean to you and it’s SO RUDE and I LOVE IT.”
His hand is hovering near your back like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold you.
“I’d adopt Hattori just to be your wife legally.”
He exhales slowly. “That bird is already a government agent.”
You blink up at him. “So are you. And yet I still want to kiss your face until you file a formal complaint.”
He stares. Long. Silently.
Then—
He cups your chin.
And kisses you like he’s been waiting years for permission.
“…You better mean all that by morning,” he whispers.
You hiccup. “Every word, kitten.”
And for once?
He lets himself laugh. And holds you close.
You blink awake slowly.
Sunlight filters through the blinds. Everything’s quiet. Warm. Heavy.
There’s an arm around your waist.
You pause. Brain booting up like an old computer.
And then—
Zoro shifts behind you.
“…You’re awake,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
You stiffen. “I—did I sleep here…? With you??”
“You came to say goodnight.”
“I meant to leave after that!”
“Mm. Didn’t.”
You turn. He’s squinting at you, hair a mess, face ten times too handsome for 7 a.m.
You sit up in horror. “Oh my god I SLEPT IN YOUR BED—”
He grabs your wrist. Pulls you back down.
“Shut up. You snored on my chest for six hours, you don’t get to freak out now.”
You bury your face in the blanket. “I’m gonna die.”
He just smirks, eyes still half-lidded.
“Not before breakfast. Now come back. You’re warm.”
SANJI
You wake up surrounded by soft sheets, soft light, and something that smells suspiciously like tea and cologne.
Then—
An arm tightens around your waist.
You freeze. Blink. Tilt your head back.
And there he is.
Sanji. Shirtless. Hair fluffy. One eye still closed.
“Mm… good morning, sleeping beauty…”
Your whole soul leaves your body.
“Sanji—what am I doing here—”
He chuckles. Pulls you closer. “You wandered in, said goodnight, curled up like a kitten, and passed out in my arms.”
“I didn’t mean to—!”
“You made little dream noises.”
“SANJI.”
He kisses your forehead. “I was honored. You can stay anytime.”
You cover your face. He grins.
“I even made breakfast.”
“I can’t face the crew like this—”
“Then don’t. Stay. Sleep. With me. Forever.”
He tucks the blanket around you again.
You are officially doomed. And cozy.
SMOKER
The first thing you feel is the warmth. Heavy. Secure.
The second is the smell. Tobacco. Leather. Him.
You open your eyes and realize—
You’re not in your bed.
You’re on his couch. Wrapped in a blanket the size of a small nation. Your head’s on a pillow that definitely smells like his shampoo.
You sit up with a gasp. “Oh my god—”
“Morning.”
You turn. Smoker’s sitting at his desk, coffee in hand, watching you like it’s nothing. Like this is normal.
“You—you let me fall asleep here?”
“You were already out before I could say anything,” he grunts. “Didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
You go bright red. “I was just trying to say goodnight—”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “You said that. Then curled up like a cat and snored for six hours.”
You groan. “Shit. Commander, I—I’m sorry—”
He walks over. Sets the coffee down in front of you.
“Don’t be,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “You looked… peaceful.”
You blink. He clears his throat. Avoids eye contact.
“I could get used to the sight.”
KUZAN
You wake up confused. But warm. So warm, for once.
Blankets. Pillows. A sleepy scent of mint and something earthy.
You stretch. Blink. Sit up slowly—
And realize you're not in your room.
You're on his futon.
You turn your head. He's still lying there beside you, arm draped over his eyes, hair a soft mess.
“...Kuzan?” you whisper.
He peeks one eye open. Blinks at you. Then sighs.
“Morning. You drooled on me.”
You recoil. “I—I what—?!”
He chuckles. “It’s fine. You looked cute doing it.”
Your soul exits your body.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep here—!”
“You came in to say goodnight, remember? Sat down. Next thing I know you’re curled up on my shoulder.”
You cover your face in embarrassment. You did not mean to do that.
He reaches out lazily. Tugs you back down.
“Don’t overthink it. Just stay. You’re soft.”
You blink up at him. He’s smiling. Barely. Sleepily. Honestly.
“Well?” he smiles. “You getting back in or not?”
KIDD
You blink awake to soft light leaking through the workshop curtains.
You stretch—
And freeze.
There’s a hand on your waist.
You turn your head—
Kidd. Shirtless. Asleep. Hair a mess. Eyebrows furrowed even in slumber.
You’re in his bed.
“OH what the fuck—” you whisper-squeak.
He stirs. Grunts. Eyes half-open.
“You’re loud,” he rasps.
“Why am I in your BED—!”
He yawns. “You came in to say goodnight. I told you to sit. Then you… did that thing where your head flops and you were out.”
You cover your face. “Shit. I’m so sorry—”
He grabs your wrist. Tugs you back down.
“Shut up. It was nice.”
Then—
“…But if you steal the covers again, I'm kicking you off.”
You peek up at him. Ignore the deflection.
“Nice?”
He shrugs, eyes already shutting again. “Didn’t think I’d like having someone stay.”
A pause.
“Turns out I do. If it’s you.”
You may never recover from Soft-Kidd hours.
BECKMAN
You wake to silence. Soft light. A blanket tucked around your shoulders.
You stretch. Blink. Turn your head—
And see him.
Beckman. Fully dressed. Reading beside you in bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You jolt. “Oh my god—!”
He glances over. Smiles. “Morning.”
“Beck, I didn’t mean to—”
“You did,” he says. Calm. “You came in half-asleep, mumbled ‘goodnight,’ curled up on top of the covers, and passed out.”
You cover your face. “I’m so dumb.”
He chuckles. Reaches out. Lowers your hands.
“No, you’re not.”
His eyes are soft. Too soft. “It was nice having you here.”
You blink. “Really?”
He nods. “You’re cute when you sleep. Snore a little. Dream a lot.”
You groan. He laughs.
Then says—casual, but loaded:
“You can stay tonight too, y’know. No pressure. Just… if you want.”
You absolutely want.
DOFLAMINGO
The first thing you feel is silk.
Too soft. Too warm. Too not your bed.
You blink. The light is soft. The room unfamiliar in that expensive, intimidating kind of way.
And then—
A low chuckle.
“Finally awake, mi amor?”
You sit up—blinking, confused—
And freeze.
Wait, you’re in his bed.
DOFFY’S.
“HOLY SHIT—”
He’s lounging beside you, shirtless, sunglasses off, grin in full smug bloom.
“You came in last night looking like a sleepy kitten,” he purrs. “Said something about forgetting to say goodnight, then faceplanted onto my bed and refused to leave.”
You cover your face. He pries your hands away and leans in.
“Oh, no. Don’t play that card now, sweetheart. Not with what you did last night.”
“Me?”
“You. First person to greet the morning in my bed without having screamed my name all night long. I’m in grief. Agony, even.”
You glare at him. Cheeks pink. “Perv.”
He laughs. But it sounds warm. Full.
Happy, even.
“What can I say? You bring out the worst in me.”
But as he kisses your neck and pulls you closer...
You think it might be the best.
LUCCI
You wake to stillness. A quiet room. Clean sheets. Soft light.
And a heavy weight draped over your waist.
You blink.
Then slowly look over.
Lucci. Asleep. Close.
Hella close.
You are in his bed. Next to him.
Oh.
He stirs like he senses something. Eyes open. Sharp.
But the second they land on you, they soften. Just a little.
“You’re awake.”
You sit up fast. “Lucci, uh, I—why am I—”
“You came to say goodnight. Then fell asleep mid-sentence.”
“H-Here? And you let me?!”
He sits up, slow. Unbothered. Bare chest. Sheets low on his hips.
“You were cute.”
You freeze. “...What?”
He meets your eyes. No hesitation.
“You were warm. And quiet. I liked it.”
Then adds—like it means nothing.
“You should do it again.”
You blink. “Stay?”
He nods. “Every night, if you want.”
You might have stopped breathing.
He definitely noticed.
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