This is a 18+ content blog with occasional dark themes // ageless blogs/underage will be blocked // black girl!content but most fics are neutral fem!reader // top tags : # kisame my love # daddy kakuzu # tanuki answers #
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To any artists who are around right now, I have a small little idea/request.
✨️ Kisame with stretch marks, esp/ on his chest ✨️
All the years he spent training and bulking up and all the times he's fused with samehada, just imagine the evidence of that etched on his body. Scars are beautiful, but imagine the stretched, light blue stripes on his skin. Over the top of his pecs and the sides beneath them to under his arms. Oh god... on his thick upper arms and muscled thighs...
Ahh, he'd look gorgeous 🥺 I can't stop thinking about it 🤧
The next time someone draws him, please keep that in mind 💓
Accro is a French word that can be translated to hooked, fan, or addict. In English, accro can be used to describe someone who is addicted to something —
꒰୨ word count: 27.8k ୧꒱
~ `✨️— an: I'm convinced that tumblr hates me because it continuously hides posts from the tags. It did it to three of my stories now. I'm reposting this fic with the three parts altogether. The fourth and final chapter will be released on AO3, and will only be found there. I'm not sure when that will be, considering I am on hiatus at the moment, but I'll include a link at the bottom when it is complete <3 I hope you like it. I divided the sections so it is easier to digest. Happy reading :3
~ `✨️— tags: fem!reader + heavy angst + reader has feelings of inadequacy + reader has an anxiety attack + established relationships + inappropriate use of Haki + huge jealousy issues between main couple + heavily anxious thoughts/behaviour + voyeurism + powerplay/power imbalance + fingering + begging + pussy eating + cuckolding + power kink ish + regret + emotional beats throughout + Shanks x Mihawk history + threesome smut in the final chapter - never had a beta, we die like fools —
ao3 - mypandakun ;) one piece masterlist :3 support my writing <3
➽───❥ Chapter one - The Proposition
“So, what do you think?” he asks eagerly, his expression bright with anticipation.
His words are both near and distant. His presence both comforting and suffocating. The silence is all parts unnerving.
You attempt to steady yourself. Inhale. Exhale.
Then, you scan the room. Taking note of how sweetly cozy it all seems. The bed and breakfast you chose was quaint, a picturesque retreat nestled in a quiet village.
The walls are adorned with delicate floral wallpaper, and a soft, inviting bed lays pressed up against the largest wall, draped in a handmade quilt you had already run your hands across with aged wooden beams overhead and a window that overlooks a charming garden. The ambiance is serene, the inn homey, intimate.
Yet, in the moment, it does little to ease the tension.
It’s like your mind is unfocused, each thought slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You can’t grip it hard enough, make it compact and concise to form a figure. A response. There’s a sinking weight in your stomach that becomes heavier with every attempt he makes to draw you closer to him.
But you can only stare. Wide and unblinking.
His shoulders drop as he searches your face for an answer. He looks disappointed, while your heart aches at the bottom of your stomach.
“Sweethea—”
“No, Sh-shanks, I—”
He chuckles lightly. The one that he uses to clear the friction suchlike an idle wave of his hand. A charming one to disarm the bubbling acid that rises to your throat whenever he pushes your patience a little too far. And to his credit, it usually works. He chuckles, peers down at you with those molten red eyes, and you melt right into his chest. He coos and laughs softly into the top of your head, his lips just as gentle and tempting as the words he coaxes you into believing.
At this moment, tangled in the web of uncertainty he has spun around your soul, your pulse races as you struggle to grasp the enormity of the situation.
Your eyes begin to water, and it genuinely stuns him when you push past his embrace.
“You want to offer me up to another man?”
Shanks visibly cringes. “Darling, you make it sound like I’m prostituting you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course not,” he says sweetly in an attempt to balm your rising temper. To quell those tears he swore made him guilt laden. But doubt takes root instead, and it festers like a rot damaging every memory of his affection, it makes you wonder whether he truly felt any sentiment for it, or they were simply sweet nothings whispered to make you blush.
“But you—” you inhale sharply, “you want to watch another man fuck me?”
He shuffles awkwardly, his chuckle disingenuous. A sound he makes in place of an actual explanation.
“You still make it sound so... so sinful.” He snickers airily. “It’s just a bit of fun— for the both of us.”
“That’s not what it feels like.” You huff, the bile thickening in its acidity. “It’s like-like I’m just a toy you want to share, that I don’t mean anything to you and—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching with a barely contained laugh, “don’t be so dramatic. You’re my girl. Mine, you hear me?”
“How can I believe that when you ask me something like this? You’re-you’re passing me off—”
“Babe,” he guffaws, genuine amusement shining in his wide grin now. “Passing you off? That’s—” he waves his hand, the cloak still resting on his shoulders, it swishes gently, exposing the sword still strapped to his hip.
“You think this is funny, Shanks?” you snap, your voice tinged with incredulity.
“This isn’t what I meant,” he says, trying to soften his tone.
“Then what did you mean?” you challenge, your eyes narrowing.
His ruggedly handsome features— sun-kissed skin, his strong jawline covered in a hint of stubble, and piercing eyes that held a world of mischief and charm— seem to falter for a moment. He runs a hand through his fiery red hair, a gesture you’ve come to recognize as a sign of his own turmoil.
“I thought it might be exciting for us,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Exciting?” you echo, the word sounding foreign in your mouth. “For who? You or me?”
“For both of us,” he insists, but you can see the twinge of doubt in his eyes when your frown deepens.
“This isn’t funny to me, Shanks,” you say firmly.
“Oh, you always loved my laugh,” he tries to lighten the mood, his smile faltering when he sees the seriousness you shoot back.
“Not about this,” you reply, shaking your head. “This is different.”
His hair, a cascade of fiery red tendrils, framed his face in a way that made him look both fierce and inviting. The way he carried himself, with an aura of untamed confidence and a playful glint in his eye, was magnetic. His smile, often crooked and endearing, could light up the darkest corners of your heart, making you feel inexplicably drawn to him.
But now, his usual charm feels like a cruel joke.
How can someone who has always been your anchor now feel like the storm? The sinking feeling in your stomach grows, making it hard to trust your instincts. You had believed in his affection; in the bond you thought was unbreakable.
Yet here you are, questioning every word, every touch, every moment that you had treasured. And he sees it all within the depths of your eyes as if it were a shallow shore. Every thought and insecurity there for him to witness. You feel exposed. Laid bare. While fires burn in his. You used to bathe in that warmth, now it sears every inch of your skin the longer he watches you.
You try to blink back the tears. “You mean everything to me.” His words, which once made butterflies burst in your core, now feel hollow.
“I want to watch him fuck you.”
You thought he was happy in a committed relationship, content with the quiet moments you shared amidst the chaos of your lives at sea for these last two years. You could never have imagined that his request would lead to this moment, where every ounce of trust you’ve built unravels with a seemingly innocent tug by the hem. Was it truly that fragile to begin with? You didn’t think so until now.
He was your Captain; you respected him as such, and he protected you just like any other member of his crew. As the ship’s nurse, you took care of him, meticulously bandaging every superficial wound he brought to you over the years. His visits to the infirmary always seemed to coincide with your shifts. This long-standing routine blossomed into a wonderfully intricate relationship, becoming a beautiful distraction from the chaos of the seas.
“The prettiest girl on the ship.” He would say.
Even now, standing before him, your mind drifts back to those tender moments, each one a fragile thread in the intricate tapestry of your bond. You remember the way he would smile at you, the gentle touch of his hand, the way his eyes would soften when they met yours. But those moments now feel like distant echoes, and your insecurities begin to surface.
Questions you had buried deep within start to rise. Was his affection genuine, or was it just part of his charm? Did he see you as more than just a warm body to wake up to?
Every lingering doubt, every small hesitation you had pushed aside, now stands before you, demanding answers.
Your heart aches with the weight of these uncertainties, and your hands shake despite your best efforts to clench them tight. The warmth you once felt from his presence now feels like a cruel reminder of everything you fear losing. How could you ever have thought you were secure in this relationship, when now it seems to be crumbling before your very eyes?
In real time, with him standing before you, his intentions unclear and your emotions in disarray, everything feels uncertain.
You should not be so surprised. He is free-spirited by nature. Spontaneous. Unfettered. Shanks’ desire for freedom and adventure— it was a part of him that you cherished and feared in equal measure, never knowing if his heart would wander like the wind or if he would stay by your side as he promised.
Although, how could you ask the relentless wind not to fly?
“C’mon, love’,” he groans playfully, a poor attempt to lighten the mood, “say something.”
Shanks reaches for you, and you recoil. A large step separates you now, it might as well be an ocean with the way his hand drops back to his side, the warmth of his touch now a distant memory replaced by a cold void. You feel adrift without it, lost and cast aside for another person to find. Another man.
“Look,” he begins with a heavy sigh, threading his large hand with red strands away from his face, “—we were drinking earlier, just talking about nothing, really, and then Mihawk made a comment about you—”
“What did he say?”
Could he tell your blood rushed through to your head just then? His lip tilted up and his hand stilled. His enthusiasm was unnerving, it made you even madder.
“He said, ‘you have a lovely girl, Red-hair’. Which for Mihawk means he thinks you’re stunning and he’s envious.”
Any other night that would have made your cheeks flush, but the thought of the greatest swordsmen in the world showing interest in you made the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. Especially when the man you adored seemed more thrilled by the idea of sharing you than keeping you for himself.
“It’s so weird how we’re in the same village, we haven’t seen each other in like, two or three years? How long ago was that?” he shakes his head, shaggy hair tickling his cheekbones. Instinctively, you almost reach for it. “Ah, never mind! Point is, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you! When you were laughing with the guys, drinking, dancing, he followed every move you made. I’ve seen Mihawk interested, but never so… so fixated. His usually composed demeanour faltered, just a little, but it was enough for me to notice. He’s never been that captivated by any woman.”
Shanks looks ravenous. His eyes sparkle with fervent desire, and his lips curl into a grin that speaks volumes while a chill crawl up your spine.
“He’s usually so picky.” He continues to say blithely. “Always wanting to pick the girl, and he always picks the same type, but he also said you’re ‘enticing’.”
His excitement over Mihawk’s comment electrifies the air around him. It is clear that he thrives on the challenge, the competition, the sheer thrill of it all – and yet, he doesn’t seem to grasp the depth of your hurt. His glee cuts through you like a dagger, a painful reminder that perhaps his… fondness for you isn’t as profound as you had believed.
The way it is for you.
And then, it hits you with the force of a tidal wave: he has never said, “I love you.”
Not once. Not in the heat of passion, nor in the quiet moments in between. Not for two years.
The realization stabs at your heart, twisting the knife of doubt deeper into the wound. His excitement about Mihawk’s interest, his desire for shared admiration— it’s all a game to him, a thrilling challenge to be conquered. To win. While your feelings seem to be nothing more than pieces on his board, tools to heighten his own pleasure.
Is it your insecurity rearing its ugly head or are you waking to a stark reality that you’ve been too blind to see?
Either way, the distance between you and Shanks seems more unbridgeable than ever.
“Babe, he wants to meet you.” He says, another disarming smile softening his masculine features. “Officially. He’s old fashioned so he’ll probably invite you out on a date first, and then the three of us can talk. How’s that sound?”
Like a pawn.
You try to muster up your courage, your voice trembling slightly as you ask, “How long have you— have you wanted this?”
He shrugs, his gaze drifting over your head as he mulls it over.
“Kinda always been a fantasy of mine. My favourite girl with my biggest rival.” Shanks says bluntly. “Never been in a committed relationship like ours before, so there was never an, erm… need for it?” He chuckles again, his teeth flashing prettily in his wide grin. “Like there’s never been an emotional aspect before— it makes it more exciting, y’know?”
You start picking at your nails. “Like how?”
He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, hand on his hip the way he does when he’s thinking extra hard.
“Like… he’s my biggest rival, and you’re the one thing he can’t have, but I want to watch him try to get you.”
Your throat tightens.
“Like a challenge?” you say, the words tasting like ash.
“Yes!” he beams. “We’ve competed so many times, and yeah we’ve shared girls when we were together, but it didn’t really mean anything. With you, it’s different!”
“How so?”
Good. You sounded steady then. Shanks takes that as a sign to keep talking, his honesty and eagerness tearing through your resolve.
“Cause you’re mine, and he can’t have you emotionally. But he can try to use you—”
Bile. You can taste it now. Its sharp acidity slices painfully in your throat. You almost choke on it.
“—to get a rise out of me. It’s this game we used to play, but with the other girls it was more like a competition.” He chuckles fondly. “But babe, you would look so sweet! You’d be at the centre, and I promise it’ll be electric! You have this… innocence to you. It’s adorable, especially when you get all flushed and desperate, drives me insane.” There’s an edge to his voice now. Ragged in its desires. “Mihawk is so rigid, but he has a secret spot for playing with delicate things. But I told him my girl isn’t so easily broken.”
He finishes off with a cheeky wink.
His smile, a disarming blend of boyish charm and devilish intent, makes your blood hum despite the unsettling words spilling from his lips. You can’t help but notice the way he lights up when he talks about this twisted game, as if he’s inviting you into a secret world only he and Mihawk truly understand.
His presence fills the space, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. The intensity of his gaze, the way he speaks with such conviction, almost makes you forget the gravity of his proposition. For a moment, you’re lost in the allure of his charisma, the magnetic pull that has always been so difficult to resist.
Even then, the reality of his words crashes down on you, bringing back the bitter taste of bile and the overwhelming pressure surrounding you. His charm, once so intoxicating, now feels like a trap, a web of deceit and manipulation.
The proposition hangs between you like a noose, swinging back and forth in a loop, not so much as an offering but a finality of your relationship. You feel the weight of its presence, a dark shadow casting a pall over the room. If you were to step forward, let it drape over your neck, you would topple and break.
Eventually, your last effort to stave off the surging tide of panic surfaces as you manage to muster up the courage to speak.
“Shanks,” you murmur, your voice trembling, “did… was it your idea, or his?”
He chews on his bottom lip, that disarming smile wavers.
“Mine.”
The room tilts.
“Like I said, it’s always been a fantasy.” He quickly speaks.
The scent of oatmeal cookies becomes stale, the crackles of wood in the tiny fireplace snap simultaneously with every thread of trust you once held dear.
“I always thought to bring it up if we ever run into Mihawk again. And here we are, don’t you think that’s a funny coincidence?”
The humilation settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. You feel disposable, a throwaway to be used and discarded. Like an object whose value is dictated by someone else’s whims and fantasies. Reduced to nothing but a toy.
“It’ll just be us, darling. I’ll be in the room too—”
The air is thick with tension, each breath you take feels laboured, as if the room itself is closing in on you. Encasing you. Choking you. The walls that once felt comforting now seem oppressive, pushing you further into the corner of doubt and fear.
He reaches for you again.
“Have you always- have you always—”
Your chest tightens painfully, breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps as if you can’t draw in enough air. You don’t realize it, but you’re having a panic attack. The room keeps closing in, the walls pressing closer and closer until your vision tunnels.
His voice seems distant, like it’s coming through a thick fog. It’s hard to focus on the words, hard to make sense of anything he says. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, drowning out rational thought. You’re trapped within the cyclone of your own distress, unable to claw your way out.
“You’ve been-been waiting for him. To-to play with me. Recruiting me for—”
He reaches out, his touch meant to soothe but it feels like fire against your skin. You flinch away instinctively, every nerve in your body screaming for escape, for relief.
“Darling, please—”
You feel the sting of tears in your eyes, a hot, prickling sensation that blurs your vision. Your fingers tremble uncontrollably as you clutch your own arms, trying to ground yourself, to find something solid in the chaos. But the ground feels like it’s slipping away beneath you, leaving you suspended in an endless free fall.
“You’ve been waiting- waiting for him—”
“I haven’t been waiting around for Mihawk.” He declares fiercely. “What’s between him and I is different. I want you.”
“But you’ve been waiting for the-the opportunity to watch another man fuck me—”
“It’s not like that!”
You laugh bitterly. “You just said you want to watch him fuck me!”
His cheeks burn. Frustration bleeding. “Yes, but he isn’t a stranger— or some lowly pirate like—”
“No! He’s your best fuck and I’m the newest edition!”
Shanks blanks for a moment and you crack down at his hesitation.
“See?!” you explode, your fists shaking with wild rage twisted in unease. “You’ve been dying to introduce us! Just waiting for Mihawk to show the slightest bit of interest so you can see him use me in all the ways you have done!”
“No! Well, yea, but in like a, if it happens it happens sort of way! But it’s not— you don’t get it—” Shanks attempts another laugh. Another smile and a strong arm for you to fall back into. It doesn’t work on you anymore.
“Do you hear yourself?! The moment Mihawk comes into the picture, everything turns into some sort of twisted game! Sure, go swing your swords around, but don’t treat me— the girl you claim to care for and want to protect— as just another conquest!”
“You’re twisting my words! This isn’t about making you a conquest, it’s about—”
“Why the hell would you ask me something like that, then? Do you think so little of me?” you spit, the anxiety now a fiery anguish surging through your veins. His proposition swings back and forth. Hanging lower, drawing closer. “Am I just a toy to you?!”
“No! You’re taking this the wrong way!” he shouts desperately. The step he takes makes you stagger back.
“What other way is there to take it?! I should open my mouth for any cock you bring in front of me, huh?!”
He shouts your name, the sound piercing through the haze for just a second. You blink, trying to focus on him, on the desperate concern etched into his features. But it’s like looking through frosted glass, and nothing makes sense.
“You don’t understand!” he blurts out, desperation making his voice crack. “I just thought you might enjoy—”
Your eyes widen in shock, and you stumble back further. “Enjoy?!” you echo, hurt dripping from your voice. “You thought I might enjoy being treated like a plaything, like some kind of shared trophy?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” He steps forward, hand reaching out in a futile attempt to bridge the growing chasm between you. “I just meant—”
“What?” you cut him off, your voice slicing through his like a blade. “That I’m supposed to be grateful for your generosity? That I should be thankful you’re so willing to share me with your friends?”
He tries to correct himself, but the damage is done. The words hang in suspense, heavy and suffocating, a testament to the chasm widening between your understanding and his intentions.
“I didn’t mean that, I swear!” he says sullenly.
“Then what is it?” you hiss harshly, flaying your arms as you speak. You’re tetherless. You’re falling.
“Your friend wants a go, and you say, ‘sure, why not? What’s mine is yours! She can take it a lil’ rough!’ Like I’m-I’m just pretty tits and a mouth for you to throw around!”
“Babe, no. You’re—”
“I’m not so easily broken, yea!? Did you tell him about how you whipped me with your belt—”
“Sweetheart, breathe! Please! I—”
You can’t. You talk too fast and trembles rock through your spine.
“— I screamed so loud for you that night! Wanna hear how I’ll scream for thee Dracule Mihawk!? But why stop with him?! Benn is your first mate! Why don’t I just fuck Benn, then?!”
He chokes on a curse.
“—Strip me and present me during dinner, LET THE WHOLE CREW HAVE THEIR FUN!”
Shanks shouts your name again, but his voice barely registers over the roar of panic in your mind. The room spins and the air feels too thick to breathe.
“Baby, listen to me!”
“—I’m nothing, huh?!”
“I never said that—”
Each word he tries to speak drowns out by the pounding of your heart and the chaotic whirlwind of thoughts consuming you.
“You shared girls and whatever with him, what’s one more?! Another silly girl for the big pirates to fuck with!”
Shanks pales. He tries to follow your pacing, but you twist around him up and down the room in your rage.
“Just breathe for me, I beg you!”
He grabs your arm, trying to pull you into an embrace, to soothe the storm inside. But you wrench yourself free, your chest heaving with every breath, your vision blurred by hot, angry tears.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
“I need you to calm down!” he pleads over the storm. “You’re not thinking clearly! I don’t want to—”
“I’m not thinking?!” your laughter cracks. Your throat burns. “You’re the one who went on about all the times you shared girls between you! How about you bring Buggy—”
“No!”
“— or-or Hongo or Rayleigh and we’ll set a record!”
“NO!”
“—Let’s keep a tally! Make bets! Let every man who drank from your cup share in your little whor—”
“Enough!”
His haki cracks like a lightning strike, a sudden and overwhelming pressure that shakes the very foundation of the room. It ripples through the atmosphere, causing the walls to tremble and the very ground beneath your feet to quake. The intensity of his power leaves you momentarily stunned, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum.
Shanks’ eyes, usually filled with a playful glint, now bear into you with a fervour that matches the tempest within. His presence dominates every corner, every surface. Your anger is met with a force so profound that it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath.
You try to speak, to shout, but the words are caught in your throat, silenced by the sheer magnitude of his will. The weight of it compresses, demanding submission, but you fight against it, your spirit refusing to be crushed. The energy crackling as if a storm is about to break.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure recedes. Leaving you gasping and disorientated.
Shanks’ expression softens, the hardness in his eyes melting into something akin to sorrow. He reaches out, his hand steady, yet hesitant as he gently brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch both tender and apologetic as you inhale gulps of stifled oxygen.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love.” He whispers gently, emotions hoarse in his tone. “I should’ve considered how you feel. I just… I just got carried away by the excitement. I was being stupid.”
His chuckle sounds flat. It doesn’t dance around him the way it did earlier.
You struggle to steady your nerves, the weight of his power still lingering in the air, pressing down on your chest. The tears begin to dry on your cheeks, leaving streaks of salt and anger. You push yourself up, leaning against the bed for support, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your rage. There still there. Twisting all sorts of emotions you’re too exhausted to comprehend.
One thing was for certain… Shanks’ touch, once comforting, now feels like a chain.
You pull away, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from him. His gaze is heavy with regret, but it does little to soothe the turmoil.
“Just leave, Shanks,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of a command. “I need to be alone.”
His eyes widen in hurt, but he doesn’t move. “Please, love, let me—”
“No,” the firmness in your voice surprises even yourself. but you hold on to it. “Just go. I can’t... I can’t do this right now. I need to think.”
He hesitates, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Without another word, he rises to his feet, the silence between you stretching taut like a bowstring ready to snap.
He lingers for a moment, as if hoping you’ll change your mind, but you remain resolute, your heart hardened by the pain of his suggestion.
With a resigned sigh, he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoes in the empty room. You’re left alone with your thoughts, the silence pressing in from all sides, offering no comfort, only the reminder of the rift that has formed between you.
➽───❥ Chapter two - La même chose
The moonlight pours through the windows, casting a silvery glow that dances across the empty room. The pale light spills over the furniture, highlighting the dust particles that float lazily in the air, glinting like tiny stars caught in the moon’s beam, while shadows shift and flicker on the walls, creating an eerie yet captivating scene.
Outside, the night is alive with the distant sounds of laughter and music, the rest of the crew undoubtedly and enthusiastically enjoying their beach party.
You can almost picture it— the lively bonfire crackling, the flickering light on faces flushed with joy and drink. The scent of roasted meat and the rhythmic strumming of a guitar permeating the air, mingling with the sound of hearty laughter and the clinking of glasses. The night is still young, that’s what your fellow crewmates would shout, but it stretches out like an eternity for you, every tick of the clock only enhances the isolation, and you find yourself envying the carefree spirit of your crewmates, their ability to lose themselves in the joviality of the night while you grapple with the heavy burden of your thoughts.
You can only stand there for a moment, running your fingers absentmindedly along the arm of the chair, feeling the aged fabric beneath your fingertips before finally allowing yourself to settle into the chair with the soft, knitted quilt tucked beneath your chin.
It’s comforting. The weight of it sinks you into the cushions. Its scent fills you in its warmth like it was washed by the gentility of a summer day. Sunshine and fresh hope seem to cling to it, offering a fragile semblance of tenderness in the midst of your grief. You allow it to embrace you while the world outside continues to move, indifferent to your heartache, the stars shining brightly in cruel contrast to the darkness that envelops you.
You trace the contours of the glass window with your fingertips, feeling the cold surface against your skin. The memory of Shanks’ departure replays in your mind, each step he took echoing like a hammer against your resolve. The room feels suffocating. The silence is almost deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic pounding of your heart, a relentless reminder of the pain that lingers.
”I want to watch him fuck you.”
Over and over, you hear the hyperexcitement in his voice in agonising clarity.
Your throat closes as you envision how his eyes danced in hopes you would share in his elation. Your bottom lip quivers from his cluelessness. Your hands tremble, fingers tightening into fists, your nails dig into your palms. A shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps prickling your skin as your body betrays the storm of emotions still churning.
You do your best to ground yourself. Slow, deep inhales… and low exhales.
A tear slips down your cheek, and you hastily wipe it away, feeling a pang of frustration at your oversensitivity. Despite your efforts to find grounding, you can’t help but feel that you’ve failed him, failed yourself.
You feel stupid for your reaction earlier, the way your emotions betrayed you, spilling out in a moment of weakness. You chide yourself for letting the tears fall, for allowing the ache in your chest to dictate your actions. It seems senseless now, as you sit there wrapped in the quilt, the fabric a fragile barrier against the rawness of your anger. How could you have let it get to this point? You, who had always prided yourself on your resilience— you were a nurse after all, but this, this heartbreak, has shattered those illusions, leaving you feeling exposed and raw in a whole new way.
It isn’t just the jealousy, the anger, or the sense of betrayal that cuts deep— it’s the gnawing question that haunts you in the silence of his absence:
If he could so easily suggest another man for you, has he been secretly hoping to be with other women?
The thought twists like a dagger in your chest, each turn a fresh wound to your already bruised heart.
Sadly, it’s familiar, this haunting sorrow. You had thought yourself immune to heartbreak after so many years of disappointments, but the ache of Shanks’ proposition proves otherwise.
Most of all— you feel alone. Now more than ever.
You think back to how you used to wander from island to island, port to port, never quite fitting in while sleeping in borrowed bed and under foreign roofs. You were a drifter. Always a guest, a passing stranger, never feeling the serenity of a place you could claim as your own.
For you, people came and went, their faces blurred together as they passed through your mind. Friends were fleeting, their footprint on your life as ephemeral as the tides that shaped your existence. Lovers, too, were like the rain— falling with passion and leaving behind only the damp remnants of their presence.
Eventually, you found that the sea was your only true companion, its endless horizon mirroring the vast emptiness in your heart. It taught you to build walls around yourself, to shield it from the transience that defined your relationships. It wasn’t that you didn’t care; it’s that you cared too deeply, and that vulnerability was a luxury you couldn’t afford as a wonderer. The fleeting nature of your encounters taught you to keep your emotions at bay, to smile and say goodbye without shedding a tear.
Instead, you offered a listening ear, a helping hand, but always kept a part of yourself hidden away, safe from the inevitable pain of separation. Somehow convincing your heart that helping others on every island you visited was enough to fill that hole.
It was a lonely existence, but it was the only one you knew.. learning to embrace the quiet moments of introspection that came with each setting sun.
And then came Shanks.
Like a tempestuous wind he burst through, sweeping away any lingering remnants of melancholy.
His arrival was a gift, an unexpected treasure.
His presence was a force of nature.
You remember how it felt the first time— as though the very walls expanded to accommodate him. Your pulse races as you recall how the air seemed to hum with his vitality, charged with an infectious enthusiasm that drew everyone in with an irresistible gravitational tug. His laughter rang out like a clarion call, bright and unrestrained, reverberating off the timbers of the bar. His movements were fluid yet commanding, each step he took imbued with a confidence that spoke of countless battles fought and won. Shanks’ presence was not just seen but felt, a palpable force that wrapped around you like the strong, steady embrace of the waves.
He spoke fervently, his cloak swaying with every grand expression. In his company, the world seemed to shrink to a singular focus on the here and now, on the experiences shared and the pleasures savoured.
He had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the room, his attention as unwavering as the North Star. And in an instant, his keen eyes pierced through your years of layered façades, recognising the loneliness that you had hidden so well behind those walls, then in a moment of unexpected kindness, he extended his hand, offering the sight of a new horizon.
”Come with me,” he had said. Bathing you with genuine warmth in those molten red eyes. ”Join my crew. Be one of us.”
He was a beacon of light in your life, all consuming, gravitative— it pulled you in with such ardency it left no part of your mind or heart untouched. It was intoxicating. For the first time you felt truly seen, understood, cherished. In his eyes, you found a reflection of the person you aspired to be. The pride you felt was unparalleled, a fierce and tenacious force that surged through your veins.
Each day was a testament to the loyalty and vibrancy shared among the crew. Sailing with the infamous Red-Hair Pirates was an exhilarating experience, a rush of adrenaline that kept your senses sharp and your heart racing. You came alive. You laughed louder; you fought harder. The crew relied on you. You were no longer just a wandering soul— you were part of something greater, something that gave your life meaning.
Their acceptance and earnest support filled the void within you, knitting together the fragments of your broken heart.
Above all it was Shanks’ belief in you that gave you the courage to face the unknown, to embrace the life of a pirate with all its dangers and uncertainties.
And then… whether it was all at once or a maddening descent, you became addicted to the flame of his spirit.
You fell in love.
Though, you only ever called it admiration. Even if it was only to yourself, you never let it echo past devotion. Pride. Because to be a Red-Hair Pirate, to be considered his family was more than you could have ever hoped for, but his attention... It was like standing in the heart of a fire.
Its heat both exhilarating and agonising it would burst your cheeks and shoot straight to your core where it would pool and ache.
It burned through your defences, leaving trails of heated passion and a need that consumed you wholly. You felt special— elevated above the ordinary, his chosen one. The thrill of his regard was a sweet agony that you welcomed eagerly in spite of the inevitable singe it left on your soul.
His attention began subtly at first. A lingering look, a soft word of praise, his hand resting on your shoulder a moment longer than necessary. These small gestures accumulated over time, each one kindling a spark within you. Slowly, Shanks began to carve out a space for you in his world. Just for you.
The crew noticed it too; the way Shanks singled you out during meetings to hear your ideas, his laughter always more pronounced with you beside him, how his eyes would search for you across the deck. The sensation was both overwhelming and addicting, a kaleidoscope of emotions unfurling with every breath.
There were moments that stood out starkly, like the time he didn’t hesitate to unsheathe his sword against another captain, his voice thundering, his stance rigid, defending your honour with such conviction that it left no room for doubt about his feelings. Or the night he found you on the quiet, moonlit deck, offering a bottle of rum and his company, sharing stories of his past and listening intently to yours.
He spoke to you differently. Sweetly, your name carried an extra warmth when he said it. When the ship docked, he would drag you under his arm, cheerfully inviting you to join him on private explorations, sharing the wonders of newfound lands and the thrill of adventure.
Always making sure you were safe during battles, blazing red flashing towards you amidst the chaos to ensure your well-being.
He would call you to his quarters late at night, pouring over maps and plans, his proximity a comfort amidst the uncertainties of pirate life.
His touch warming you from the chill of evening air.
Or the stolen glances and heated kisses that spoke volumes, conveying what words left unsaid.
His extra attention became a constant, guiding you through the tumultuous seas, anchoring your heart to his.
Shanks gave you a home, Shanks gave you a family and a sense of belonging that you had never known.
And yet, here you are, alone in a room grappling with the shadows he left behind.
You take another deep breath, trying to steady the anxiety, but it festers. The memory of Shanks and his vibrant smile whenever he would come in for a superficial check-up, his insistence to keep you comfortable in his bed even when you were ill, fills your mind, and you can’t help but smile through the tears.
He has always been open and daring, but you thought you were important to him, the only one he wanted to be with. ”His woman.”
”Shanks’ old lady.”
“Mrs Red-hair.” – that one made him laugh the hardest, his cheeks twinged pink just beneath the tips of his hair. Yasopp would shout that the most, and it always made them slam their cups in applause. As if they were verbalising their approval for you to hold that title. Though, it was a secret wish that you would only ever make with an airy laugh.
It filled you with pride to have his ear, lay in his bed, hold his trust.
The one who could capture his wandering heart, the one who could make him stay.
You scoff, and somehow it makes you smile too.
How could you ever think to tame a man like him?
No, you never intended to tame him.
“I just wanted to be with him.” you whisper to the shadows.
The clouds shift and block the moonlight enough for the room to swallow you in black, making you clutch on the blanket tighter. “I wanted to be his favourite person, the way he is mine.”
You only wanted to be by his side, to share in his adventures and bask in the warmth of his light.
But perhaps that was your mistake.
In wanting only to be by his side, you overlooked the restless vitality that defined him, the very thing that drew you in the first place. The insatiable need and spontaneity that no single person could ever confine or satiate.
You think back to the nights when you lay beside him, tracing the lines of his face, memorising the way the candlelight kissed his skin. He always glowed brighter in the light of burning amber. Those were the times you felt closest to him, when his guard was down, and his dreams were laid bare for you to see. His ambitions, his fears, his deepest desires— he shared them all with you, and you cherished every word, every whisper.
But even as you held him close, you knew that his heart was always somewhere else. You saw it in the way his eyes would glaze over, lost in thoughts of distant lands and uncharted adventures. You felt it in the restless way he would toss and turn in his sleep, as if even his dreams couldn’t keep him still.
“It’s always been a fantasy of mine.”
You force yourself to stand, to move, to do anything that might distract from the ache as you come to the sullen realisation that you are simply a chapter in his story. A fleeting moment in his endless quest for excitement— you have become a drifter once again. It was silly of you to believe that your love was enough, that someone like you could soothe the wanderlust in his soul.
Because though he is kind and considerate, he peppers kisses to your blushing skin, and he lays his claim with a hardened stare, Shanks simply does not love you.
At least… not with the same depth and grounding intensity in which you love him.
“Fuck,” you hiss, rubbing your eyes.
The tears sting as you fall back on the bed, your insecurities growing heavier with each passing thought.
You only ever wanted to belong and be loved. Sincerely. Completely. To feel the warmth of mutual understanding and the comfort of knowing that, for once, someone saw you for who you truly were and cherished every part of you. Especially the parts you tried to hide behind a smile. You longed for a love that embraced your flaws, that found beauty in your imperfections, and that celebrated your quirks. A love that could weather the storms of life, providing a safe haven where insecurity was met with compassion, and where your heart could rest easy, knowing it was cherished and protected.
More than anything, you wanted to be all that they needed. Their favourite. The one.
Yet, no relationship has ever truly filled the emptiness within you. Every connection felt fleeting, superficial, lacking the profound depth and sincerity you yearned for. Each attempt at forging a deep bond ended in heartbreak, only solidifying the harsh belief that you might be inherently unworthy of genuine love. Just a little too broken.
“Dammit, Shanks..”
You rub your tears even harsher against your sleeve.
“Am I really that hard to love?” The question lingers in the air, heavy with the burden of your perceived inadequacies and past disappointments.
Maybe… you were never meant to be his everything, and perhaps even deep down, you knew that. Yet, it didn’t stop you from hoping, from dreaming that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. But it never is, and you are never enough.
You let out a bitter laugh, realising the irony in all of it. Here you are, mourning a love that was never truly yours, like trying to hold onto the wind. Each attempt was futile and left you empty handed clutching at nothing but the remnants of shattered dreams.
How delusional you had been, believing that you could be the anchor for a man who was never meant to be tied down.
”God, I must sound so pathetic crying over a man,” you murmur to yourself, a sad smile tugging at your lips. But the tears keep coming, unbidden and relentless, as if they have a mind of their own. “Fuck, this is stupid.” You mummer, wiping your tears for the fifth time that night.
You know deep down that you will have to face Shanks eventually. The very thought sends a jolt of anxiety through you, knotting your stomach and pulling your heart taut with dread. However, you need to find the strength to confront him, to talk about everything that has been left unsaid, but for now, you need time.
Just a moment to collect yourself, to steady your racing thoughts and twisting emotions. To fortify your heart against the raw vulnerability that such a confrontation with those molten eyes would inevitably bring.
With a deep breath, you rise from the bed, feeling the weight of the quilt fall away, and you move towards the door. The room’s oppressive air becomes unbearable. You need space, a moment to breathe and clear your mind.
Slowly, you walk out of the inn, each step feeling heavier than the last. The inn’s wooden floorboards creak under your weight, a stark contrast to the muffled sound of sand as you step into the night. As you close the door behind you, the cool night air hits your face like a splash of reality. You pause for a second, taking a deep breath and letting the crisp air fill you, bringing a momentary sense of calm.
The stars above twinkle brightly, their beauty indifferent to your sorrow. But somehow, that indifference feels almost comforting, a reminder that the world is vast and full of possibilities beyond your current pain.
You close your eyes and take another deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest begin to ease. You know that the journey to healing will be long, but for now, the simple act of stepping outside is enough. It’s a start.
You begin to walk, your steps slow and deliberate, as if each movement is a conscious effort to leave behind the shards of your heartbreak. The inn is nestled close to the beach, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore calls to you like a gentle lullaby. In the distance, you can hear the faint sounds of the crew’s bonfire party— laughter, the banging of drums, and the occasional cheer all blend into the night air, a reminder of the connections and joy that still exist in the world.
You know that if you approached them, they would welcome you with open arms, inviting you to join their laughter and celebration. Lucky would offer you some food, Hongo would cast a knowing look and share a gentle smile and Yasopp would envelop you in a brotherly hug, offering a momentary escape from your heartache. The familiar faces, the shared stories, and the joyous atmosphere would remind you that you are not alone, that you have a place where you belong, even in the midst of a fight with the Captain.
However, despite the allure of companionship and the warmth of their affections, you find yourself hesitating. Right now, the thought of joining a party feels overwhelming. The idea of pretending to be alright, of plastering on a smile while you are still troubled, seems exhausting. Right now, you would rather be alone with your thoughts.
With a resolute sigh, you turn away from the distant bonfire, deciding to give yourself the time and space to heal. You need to find your own way through this, to rebuild the pieces of yourself that feel fractured. The solitude isn’t just a refuge; it’s a necessary sanctuary.
You continue on in the other direction. The path is lined with soft, windblown sand, and you can feel the grains shift beneath your feet with each step. The salty sea breeze ruffles your shirt, carrying with it the scent of the ocean, a mix of brine and seaweed that feels oddly purifying.
As you approach the water, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. The rhythmic motion of the waves, the endless expanse of the sea, and the silver glow shimmering on the surface all combine to create a sanctuary where your troubled thoughts can dissolve into the vastness. You find yourself walking closer to the shoreline, the cool water lapping at your toes, sending tingles through your nerves. The ocean’s embrace feels like a balm easing the tightness in your chest and soothing the ache in your heart.
Here, by the water, you feel a little lighter, a little more at peace. The waves continue their eternal dance, and you know that, in time, you too will find your rhythm again.
As you stand by the water’s edge, lost in the hypnotic dance of the waves, a presence disrupts your solitude.
You feel it before you see it— a shift in the atmosphere, an invisible tension that prickles at the nape of your neck. Slowly, you turn your focus from the ocean to the path leading back to the inn.
There, emerging from the shadows, is a figure, tall and imposing, moving with a grace that belies his formidable reputation.
Even in the dimness, you recognise the distinctive silhouette of Dracule Mihawk, the greatest swordsman in the world.
His black coat billows slightly in the sea breeze, and his eyes, sharp and yellow, seem to pierce through the night, locking onto you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.
You swallow hard, feeling a knot of wariness tighten in your stomach. Mihawk’s sudden appearance is both awe-inspiring and intimidating, and you realise that despite all the tales you’ve heard, you have never formally met him. The stories of his unmatched skill and fearsome duels echo in your mind, a reminder of the gap between your capabilities and his. The unease is sensitised by the knowledge that this is the man Shanks spoke of so highly, the one he wanted to share you with.
The thought sends sparks across your cheeks, making you question why Shanks would want you to meet someone so dazzling, so beyond your reach.
He steps closer, his boots soundless on the sand, and you resist the urge to retreat. Instead, you stand your ground, your breath catching in your throat as the distance between you diminishes.
Mihawk stops a few paces away, his gaze unwavering, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. Or maybe that’s just you.
”Good evening,” he says, his voice low and smooth, carrying a weight of authority.
He does not smile, but there is an inquisitive glint in his eyes.
”I believe we’ve never been formally introduced.”
You manage a nod, your mind racing to find words that won’t betray your nervousness.
He offers an elegant hand.
“Dracule Mihawk, and yo—”
”I think introductions are unnecessary at this point.” you reply, sounding steadier than you feel.
For a moment, Mihawk’s eyes narrow slightly, and his lips twitch, as if he is suppressing a smile. He almost looks amused, though it’s an expression so fleeting that you wonder if you imagined it.
“You might be right.”
His hand falls back to his side, and for the first time, you notice the bare expanse of his chest.
The moonlight casts faint shadows across his chiselled muscles, each curve and line of his physique emphasised by the soft, silvery glow. You can’t help but note how each sinew and contour look meticulously sculpted while his shoulders, broad and proud, taper down to a lean, defined torso. As he shifts slightly, the lunar light accentuates the rippling effect across his abdomen, as if he were a being carved from the very essence of the night.
You quickly divert your attention back to the ocean, refusing to linger on the physicality that adds to his stature.
You can’t deny the tension gripping you, the way your muscles seem to coil in anticipation, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. There’s a bitter tang to your thoughts too, an edge that cuts deeper than you’d like to admit. But as you turn back up into Mihawk’s eyes, you recognise that this bitterness is misplaced. He isn’t the cause of your turmoil; he’s just a product of it.
Despite the tension, Mihawk’s voice cuts through the silence with an unexpected smoothness.
”Do you often find comfort by the ocean?” The question is simple, almost mundane, yet it carries an undertone that suggests he’s probing for something deeper.
You take a moment to compose yourself, staying fixed on the rolling waves. “It’s peaceful here,” you respond, quieter than before. “The sea has a way of making everything else seem... insignificant.”
He nods, his sharp eyes never leaving your face. “I can see that. Sometimes, the vastness of the ocean can put our troubles into perspective.”
You glance at him briefly, caught off guard by the hint of understanding in his words.
”I suppose it does,” you admit softly.
Still, the unease and resentment bubbling within you are hard to shake off. You harden your resolve, staring at him with a coldness that surprises even you, as if trying to shield yourself from the fragility his appearance has unearthed. It’s easier to mask your apprehension with an icy exterior than to confront the emotional tempest it triggers.
Mihawk’s expression remains unreadable, a neutral mask that gives nothing away, yet you can feel the weight of his scrutiny, as if he’s peeling back the layers you’ve so carefully constructed.
You stiffen your shoulders, drawing an inhale that steadies you, though your heart continues its erratic dance in your chest.
His gaze flickers to the ocean, then back to you.
“Why are you hiding?”
You blink owlishly, a childish habit you never outgrew when you’re caught off guard. The surrealness of the situation almost overwhelms you, knowing that the person who has loomed so large in your thoughts now stands so close, tangible, and real.
”I’m not hiding,” you finally say, the words brittle and sharp. “I’m just... thinking.”
It’s a feeble defence, but it’s all you can muster. You hope the chill in your voice conveys the distance you seek to maintain.
He stays perfectly still.
The wind ruffles his coat and carries his scent to you, a heady mix of salt, steel, and something distinctly Dracule Mihawk. It’s disconcerting, how even his aura seems to occupy every sense, making it difficult to maintain the emotional barricade you’ve so carefully erected.
“Your crewmates are having a party, why aren’t you with them?” He asks tactfully.
”To think.” You reply snidely. “It’s easier to do that without banging drums and drunk men.”
“Ah,” he muses lightly, “you’re hiding from men.”
”The crew is predominantly men.”
Mihawk’s lips part as if to say something, but you already sense the shift in his demeanour.
”I spoke with Red-hair—”
”Don’t.”
The hiss is sharp and venomous, a knee-jerk reaction born from the billowing emotions still roiling within.
His involvement unsettles you deeply, especially after considering how Shanks had wanted the night to go. More than that, there’s an added layer of irritation that gnaws at you – the aggravation of being perceived, evaluated, and judged by another man. It feels invasive, a violation of your emotional sanctity.
Admittedly, you hold on to that bitterness, letting it fuel your resolve. It’s an abrasive shield, but a necessary one.
You hold yourself upright, facing the ocean, the waves whispering a soothing melody at your feet.
He stands neutral, facing you, a silent challenge.
”I simply wish to speak to you.”
“I came here to think. Not talk.”
Mihawk raises an eyebrow, the barest hint of surprise flickering in his eyes, but he remains pensive, watching you with a fervidness that makes your skin prickle. Your palms sweat.
His towering height looms over you, a silent reminder of the power he holds, both physically and in the impact he’s had on your life just in the last hour. The shadow he casts feels almost oppressive, a dark silhouette that only accentuates your own sense of smallness beside him.
”Excuse me, but your staring is making it difficult to relax.”
He still does not move, his scrutiny pinning you in place. The silence suspends, heavy and charged. The wind picks up, tugging at your hair and clothes, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a gesture of self-preservation.
“Thinking,” Mihawk finally says, his voice a low rumble that resonates deep within your chest. “What is it that troubles you so? Is it Red-hair? Or perhaps... me?”
The directness of his question startles you, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you meet his gaze head-on, drawing strength from the defiant spark that flares beneath his stare.
“It’s not that simple,” you reply, sounding measured and careful. “There are things you wouldn’t understand.”
A challenge glints when he speaks. “Try me.”
The moonlight casts an ethereal glow on him, highlighting the stark contrast between the legend you’ve feared and the man who is now mere inches away. You try to focus on anything but him— the distant crashing of the waves, the chill of the night air— anything that might keep your mind occupied. Yet, despite your best efforts, he commands your attention, making it impossible to ignore the magnetic pull he exerts.
His sharp cheekbones cast delicate shadows, while his striking eyes, like refined gold, seem to hold the secrets of countless lifetimes. The finely sculpted lines of his jaw, strong and resolute, add to the aura of unwavering strength that surrounds him. The faintest touch of a smirk plays on his lips, a contrast to the sternness he often portrays, giving a glimpse of the enigmatic man beneath the legend. Each detail, from the arch of his brows to the trim of his beard, seems meticulously crafted, a testament to the allure he exudes effortlessly.
Flutters dance across your chest as you take in his beauty, a mesmerising blend of danger and elegance, a paradox that only adds to his mysterious charm, a beauty that is as captivating as it is jarring — Waiting for you to answer him.
You shrug instead and turn back to watch the waves.
In truth, you don’t know what to say. This man has thrown a wrench in your relationship, one you held dear for almost three years, and now, unconsciously, you find yourself putting up walls again, fortifying your heart against the sensations that he elicits.
The silence stretches between you, a taut thread that threatens to snap with the next breath.
Mihawk takes a step closer, his proximity like a tangible weight, pressing down on you. You swallow hard, the words you want to say tangling in your throat.
He tilts his head slightly, studying you with those perceptive eyes.
”You’re beautiful,” he says softly, the words so unexpected that they hit you like a physical blow.
Your breath catches, and you stare at him, wide-eyed.
Did he really just say that?
For a moment, the world seems to tilt on its axis, and you struggle to regain your balance. Your breaths come unsteady, shallow, the air around you thick with the gravity he shifts as your pulse trembles unrelentingly. Mihawk’s proximity only heightens the heated blood as your skin tingles with awareness, each nerve ending seemingly attuned to his presence.
The scent of the sea mingles with the faint, intoxicating aroma of his cologne, making your head swim and rush warmth down your spine. Twisting in an all too familiar way that has you cinching your thighs, and you must force yourself to look away, lest you lose yourself entirely in his eyes.
The vulnerability he invokes from you feels like a raw, open wound— every instinct screams at you to protect yourself, to hide behind the walls you’ve carefully constructed.
Seeing your reaction, Mihawk raises a hand, as if to ward off the storm he has unwittingly unleashed. “I didn’t mean to upset you or Red-hair,” he continues, calm and measured. “My comment was simply an observation, not intended to cause trouble.”
You blink, trying to process the sudden shift in the conversation.
His words, though surprising, hold no malice, only a quiet sincerity that leaves you momentarily disarmed.
The tension in your shoulders eases slightly, and you manage a small, shaky sigh.
”It’s just... unexpected,” you admit, the whisper carried by the wind.
”Does it trouble you?”
You turn away from him again, unsure of how to respond. The waves continue to lap at your toes, grounding you in the moment. The full moon reflects off the water, creating a shimmering pathway that seems to stretch into infinity. You take a deep breath, the salty sea air filling your lungs, and try to gather your thoughts.
The weight of his question lingers, and you feel the need to choose your next words carefully.
”It’s not your comment,” you finally confess. “It’s the way Shanks’ reacted to it that troubles me.”
“How so?” he asks in a low hum.
You hesitate, the truth catching in your throat. “I hate the way women look at him,” you admit, a touch of frustration creeping into your voice. “Shanks knows that. Though, he finds it hilarious, he has always assured me they don’t mean anything to him. But now… with you.. your comment. I just…” Your voice trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished but heavy with unspoken implications.
Mihawk’s brows soften ever so slightly, understanding dawning in.
”You fear that my comment might have stirred something in him, something buried beneath his usual assurances.”
You nod, a tremor of fragility threading through your throat. “Yes,” you murmur. “It’s as if your words have revealed a doubt I didn’t even realise was there.”
He steps closer. “Perhaps,” he suggests gently, “this is an opportunity for you and Red-hair to confront these unspoken fears. To reaffirm your bond.”
You scoff. The bile resurfacing. “By sleeping with you?”
”If you’d like.”
You laugh sharply, but the sound is acidic, laced with disbelief.
”My offer is sincere.” He says, his voice a velvet murmur.
“And the idea of it sent me into an anxiety attack less than an hour ago,” you snap, turning to him with a hot flash of anger.
Mihawk’s lips twitch into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “You’re visibly agitated,” he observes, his tone a dark caress through the breeze, “while I find myself somewhat amused.”
You glare at him, the heat of your frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t a joke, sir. This is my life, my relationship.”
“Precisely why I believe it’s worth examining from all angles,” his words touch you again in a whisper, “even the ones that make you uncomfortable.”
”I’m uncomfortable by your proximity right now, sir.”
Mihawk’s ringed eyes darken with an unreadable emotion.
”Your proximity doesn’t unsettle me,” he husks, stepping even closer, his breath ghosting over your cheek when he leans his head down to yours. “In fact, I find it rather compelling.”
”You may find it compelling, but I find it unsettling,” you retort, shaking with barely restrained anger, jerking your face away. “Your presence here only complicates things between Shanks and me.”
“So you admit you’re hiding.”
For a brief second, your mind goes blank as the weight of his insinuation sinks in. You barely manage to mask your astonishment, but the flicker of shock betrays you. Mihawk’s smile widens, sensing the crack in your steely façade.
”Complications often lead to clarity,” he remarks softly, his chest irresistibly warm against your chilled skin. “Sometimes, it is only through discomfort that we find our true desires.”
You scoff again, the sound bitter. “And what would you know about my desires?”
His smirk tilts with a knowing light. “More than you might think.”
You take a step back, trying to create some distance, but the magnetism between you pulls tight as a string.
”This conversation is pointless. You’re just playing games with me.”
”Perhaps,” he concedes, his voice a seductive whisper as he stands back to his full, towering height. “But are you not a willing participant? Despite your protests, you remain here, engaged and curious.”
Your frustration mounts, mingling with an undeniable curiosity. There’s a truth to his words that you can’t ignore, a spark that refuses to be extinguished. But you don’t have the strength to dwell on it, not now. “I am here because I need answers, not because I enjoy this.”
“About my intentions?” he hums inquisitively, a wicked gleam piercing you. “About Shanks’?”
You huff, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, the tension radiating from your posture. “I suppose you’d know all about Shanks’ desires too.”
“As do you.”
You click your teeth.
Mihawk’s gaze lingers on you, a subtle spark of interest shimmering in his expression. He leans forward slightly, both commanding and unnervingly calm. “Your passion is... refreshing,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a tone that pools deep in your core.
You narrow your eyes at him, wary of the rousing shift in his demeanour. “And what exactly do you find so refreshing about it?”
He pauses, as if choosing his words with care.
“It’s not often I encounter someone who wears their emotions so freely, without pretense. There’s an honesty in your turmoil that’s... enticing. It’s what I said to Red-hair earlier that began our conversation. That made me want to meet you, personally.” A sly smile curves his lips. “You see, there’s something about your spirit that calls to me, a fierce independence that refuses to be tamed. It’s rare to encounter such raw, unfiltered strength. It’s not just refreshing; it’s intoxicating.”
A blush creeps up your neck, and you force yourself to hold your stance despite the sudden, confusing thrill his confession ignites. His scent is titillating, a mix of intimidation and allure that leaves you both flustered and intrigued. Yet, beneath this turbulent mix of emotions, the sting of Shanks’ earlier confession still lingers in your mind, a sharp contrast to the strange heat Mihawk’s attention brings.
The conflict rages in your heart, pulling you in two different directions and making it hard to discern your true feelings. Despite this, you hold on, determined to maintain your composure.
”I’m not here for your amusement, Mihawk. If all you can do is patronise me with your cryptic wisdom, then maybe I’m wasting my time.” Your voice is edged with steel, a defence mechanism against the vulnerability he so easily uncovers.
He chuckles, a sound deep and rich like fine wine, and it blooms warmth you don’t want to acknowledge. His laughter is low, vibrating through the space between you like a caress. You feel it reverberate through your chest, stirring things you’ve tried to keep buried.
”You mistake my intentions,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “I do not seek to patronise, but to challenge. There is a strength in you that you have yet to fully understand.”
You clench your fists, feeling a surge of irritation. “So, what? You’re here to push me until I break? Play with me like some toy you two get to pass around?!” The fury rises, a force almost tangible, filling the space between you. It burns hotter than the sun-drenched sand beneath your feet, a mix of frustration and something warmer, something you dare not name.
”Hardly. You assume much.” he responds, remaining calm and unruffled, the mirth fading slightly from his features. His composure only amplifies the solemnity as he doesn’t rise to your rage, but rather meets it with a steady, unyielding stance.
”Then what is it?” you retort.
“I came to see the woman that Shanks spoke so highly of,” he steps closer, the space between you shrinking, “and perhaps help her see that neither of us intends on making her feel less than what she deserves.”
The sultry timbre of his voice wraps around your senses, each word caressing your resolve. Chipping it away.
”Red-hair has never once spoken of a woman the way he speaks of you, so forgive me if I seemed overeager, but what I want is to experience you. To witness everything my rival gets the pleasure of every single day, even if it’s only for one night.”
You stagger back, but his desires holds you captive, a magnet drawing you inexorably closer, a dance of flames and shadows that sends a rush of heat through your veins.
”And why should I believe you?” you challenge, though your voice wavers, betraying the flutter of anticipation. The heat of his bare chest, so near yet untouchable, radiates an alluring warmth that seeps into your core, melting the edges of your resistance.
A slow, predatory smile curves his lips, and he reaches out, fingertips brushing lightly against your cheek, a touch so delicate it feels like a whisper of a breeze.
”Because you already do,” he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours, a heated promise lingering in the mere inches of air between you. “You feel it, don’t you? The spark, the connection. The potential for something extraordinary.”
His proximity is intoxicating, a heady blend of danger and desire that makes your pulse race. The scent of leather and steel, mingled with something uniquely his, invades your senses, leaving you dizzy with the addicting mix. You swallow, trying to regain your composure, but his touch, his voice, weave a spell that binds you in silken threads of longing and curiosity.
”What is it you want from me, Mihawk?” you ask, sounding barely more than a breathless whisper, the words trembling on your lips. Your eyes search his, finding depths of emotion and intent that leave you lightheaded and yearning. “You don’t know me.”
”I know Red-hair, and he adores you,” he falters for just a second, falling to your parted lips before snapping back to your doe expression. “It’s indelicate but I admit it makes me… jealous.”
You blink owlishly.
”Of me?”
”Of both of you.” he replies in a low, seductive murmur that resonates deep between your thighs.
“I want what he has, I want to kiss these lips. I want to see him writhe. I want to hear you say my name and maybe I’ll get to feel a fraction of what he does when he’s with you.” His thumb grazes your lower lip, a touch so intimate it feels like a brand, marking you with his intent. “I want to experience you in every way you’ll allow me.”
Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, a rhythm that matches the emotions swirling as his words wash over you, each one deliberate and heady with meaning.
The way he speaks, with a calm authority and an undercurrent of something far more primal, stirs a response that you can’t quite control. Every word drawing you deeper into a web of confusion and intrigue. It feels almost surreal, this moment with Mihawk, a legendary figure whose very name inspires awe and fear, showing such profound interest in you. His attention, a blend of curiosity and challenge, is almost numbing and exhilarating, making the entire encounter feel like a dream — one that you might wake from at any moment.
The intensity of his gaze, the depth of his words, all create an arousing mix that leaves you questioning the reality of it all. How could someone as imposing and enigmatic as Dracule Mihawk find anything refreshing or enticing about someone like you?
Shanks had always made you feel seen, his easy expressions and infectious laughter providing a sense of belonging that you had never known before. His way of acknowledging your talents, of valuing your contributions, had been a balm to the wounds left by years of drifting in search of purpose. But Mihawk, with his hypnotic eyes and enigmatic presence, added another layer— one of intrigue and a depth you hadn’t anticipated.
The surrealness of this moment, having the attention of the greatest swordsmen in the world, is almost too much to process.
As he stands before you, ironclad and fierce, the realisation dawns on you. Mihawk’s interest is real, tangible, and it forces you to confront a part of yourself you’ve long kept hidden. The part that yearns for recognition, for validation, but also fears the defencelessness that comes with it.
It was as if Shanks had given you the foundation to stand on, and now Mihawk was forcing you to look within, to confront the parts of yourself that had remained hidden in the shadows. This duality, this blend of recognition and challenge, creates a complex tapestry of emotions that leaves you both exposed and empowered.
Is this what Shanks meant?
To be at the centre?
”I want to watch him fuck you.”
“Is that what he promised when he offered me up to you?” you ask, the bitterness striking you both through.
But it’s not just bitterness—it’s a profound sadness that envelops you, heavier than any anger you might feel. The hurt and disappointment of being seen as a mere object to be exchanged gnaws at you, making every word you speak laced with sorrow.
His smile falters for the third time that evening.
He withdraws his hand back to his side, and despite the agitation, you already miss the warmth of his touch. You shouldn’t— you know you shouldn’t— but the absence of his gentle fingers brings a pang of nervous longing that you can’t quite dissolve.
”Tell me why you hate this.” He demands, his tone carrying an edge of impatience. “I see every breath you take. I feel it against my skin. Why fight something you clearly want to explore?”
You inhale sharply, still frozen from his touch. And perhaps even the chill of its absence. “I told you why.”
Mihawk sighs, a sound that echoes with frustration and determination. “You have shouted at me, glared at me, and accused me of being heartless, but you have not told me why.”
Your resolve weakens slightly under his scrutiny. “I have.”
“You have not.” He retorts sternly, shaking you with a steely look. “I assume it’s the nature of my relationship with Red-hair, but you have not used words to express it.”
Your legs grow weak, the anxiety melting under his imposing stare. A part of you clings to the walls you’ve built, preserving fragments of pride and autonomy. You despise feeling like this— vulnerable, exposed, and dependent on others perceptions. The fear of being misunderstood, of having your feelings invalidated, gnaws at your core.
Yet, despite the pain, you know that holding onto this resentment will only hurt you further. You hate it, but you have to let it go.
”I hate this because it feels like a betrayal,” you finally admit, tumbling out with a mix of anger and sorrow. “He’s my anchor, my compass. And now, he’s handed me over to you, like I’m some piece to be traded.”
Mihawk’s shoulders lax slightly, but he remains firm. “You are not a piece to be traded. You are a person with your own will, your own desires. Red-hair sees that. He respects that. Perhaps more than you realise.”
“Then why do I feel so discarded?” you demand, the frustration boiling over. “Why does his-his approval of you make me feel so… insignificant?”
“Because you’re looking at this through the lens of insecurity,” Mihawk replies honestly. “You’re seeing shadows where there are none.”
A sudden, intense ache constricts your chest. The truth you have been avoiding, the realisation you’ve buried, finally surfaces.
”I… I’m jealous of his connection with you. How-how one comment from you was able to make him so happy. Excited enough to have us… meet.”
“Then perhaps it’s not his heart you should be examining, but your own.”
You bristle at his words, a mix of defensiveness and self-reflection fighting to surface. You want to retort, to deny his insinuations, but deep down, you know there is some truth to his statement.
“What he feels for me and the fire that stokes for you are two entirely different things.” He says.
”Love isn’t about possession,” Mihawk continues when you hide back to the waves, his voice steady and calm like spring rain. “It’s about understanding, about accepting the other person as they are. Red-hair loves you, and he also loves the possibilities, the adventure, the freedom. You can’t chain that kind of spirit, and you should not want to, not if you love him.”
”I know that,” you whisper, feeling the weight of your own insecurities pressing down on you.
”He exists in a realm where love is as vast and unconstrained as the oceans he sails, where commitment is not defined by chains but by a shared journey of discovery.”
He cups your face gently, his touch warm and reassuring, quietening the hiss of uncertainty. His fingers brush away a stray tear, and you hold your breath, the intimacy of the gesture leaving you momentarily weightless.
“You need to understand, love is not about being the centrepiece of someone’s world, it’s about being part of their journey. And let me tell you, my dear, no one can diminish your worth. To love someone is to see them in their entirety, and to love yourself is to recognise your intrinsic value, regardless of another’s journey.”
You listen, absorbing his words, feeling their profundity.
The truth of your situation begins to crystallize, a painful clarity that makes your throat tight. You’ve always known Shanks was different, that his spirit was too wild to be confined. Yet, you couldn’t help childishly dream for something more, for a love that would be all yours, to selfishly cling to amidst the chaos.
Mihawk’s hands remain on your face, grounding you as your thoughts spiral like the storm he describes. “To love someone like him,” he murmurs, “is to embrace the uncertainty, to find joy in the journey rather than the destination. It’s not easy, but it’s also profoundly beautiful.”
Tears blur your vision, the truth cutting deep. bleeding you open. You’re not sure if you’re ready for such a love, if you can reconcile the yearning for stability with the reality of Shank’s untamed heart. But, Mihawk’s perspective offer a glimmer of hope, a possibility of finding peace within the storm.
“He needs you, though,” Mihawk adds, his fingers gentle yet firm as they wipe your tears. “In his own way, he relies on your steadiness, your understanding. You provide a balance to his chaos, a grounding force in his life. Something a man like him needs.”
Mihawk’s touch is comforting, a silent reassurance. You glance up at him, your heart pounding, and confess once more, “I don’t want to chain him. I just...”
“Want to be enough?” He finishes your sentence, a softness you haven’t heard yet wrapped around them.
You nod, unable to articulate the depth of your longing. The need to be seen, to be valued, to be loved in a way that feels tangible and secure.
”You are enough,” Mihawk says gently, his tone devoid of judgment. “But love, true connection, doesn’t conform to our desires. It challenges us, shapes us, and sometimes, it hurts us. Shanks sees you, but he also sees the world in a way that is uniquely his. You must decide if you can accept that, if you can find peace within that kind of love. It’s entirely your decision to make.”
His words resonate deeply within you, stirring a cauldron of emotions that has been simmering for far too long.
And ever so slowly, like the first rays of morning light piercing through the darkness, understanding dawns on you.
It’s not that he doesn’t care, but rather that his way of caring is as expansive and untethered as his spirit.
He was the wind, wild and untamed, surging with a ferocity that drew everyone into its current. You were the earth, steady and nurturing, seeking roots to anchor you in place.
Neither one was wrong nor untrue. You were both drawn to each other’s worlds, fascinated by the contrast. You loved him with everything you had, and in doing so, you found a strength within yourself that you never knew existed. His love is wild and free, but it doesn't diminish your worth. It challenges you, shapes you, and ultimately, makes you stronger.
The weight of your insecurities begins to lift, replaced by a tentative understanding. Love isn't about being the centrepiece of someone's world but being part of their journey. And in Shank's journey, you play a vital role, a role that cannot be diminished by his wild spirit. One that is entirely yours.
His boundless love enhanced everything it touched, including you.
“I’ve always known he was different, its what drew me to him,” you finally sigh, tinged with melancholy. “But I never realised how much that difference would affect us, or how much I craved stability.”
You swallow hard. It also makes you acutely aware of the walls you’ve built around your heart. Walls that Shanks had gently tried to dismantle for these last few years, and now Mihawk challenges with a rousing intensity that leaves you airless.
”I don’t know if I can face Shanks after this,” you confess shyly, puncturing the silence while feeling overwhelmingly conflicted. You grasp his hand against your cheek, feathering your fingers over his long digits and feeling the strength they hold. “Your comment has changed everything. And now… now I admit I owe him an apology.”
His chest visibly rises with his next inhale.
”He owes you one too.”
You smile, though it doesn’t fully form on your lips.
”Change isn’t always a harbinger of doom.” He says, quiet yet firm. “It can be the catalyst for growth, for a deeper understanding.”
You take another deep breath, the weight of his wisdom settling into your mind. “I just want things to be clear, to be certain.”
“Certainty is a luxury,” he replies, “one that life rarely affords. But clarity? That is something you can seek, through honest conversation and confronting your fears.”
“Well, I’ve never been very good at that.” you answer sourly.
He seems to ponder something before speaking again, his eyes carefully and intimately tracing the contours of your face, as though he finds fascination in your every breath. His gaze lingers on the curve of your lips, the fullness of them, the delicate arch of your brow, and the softness of your skin, a not-so-subtle intensity you turn your head away from, breaking the contact.
”Red-hair says you’re resilient.”
You try not to roll your eyes. “Most pirates are.”
”He also says you get lost in your head,” his fingers trace a tender path along your jawline, lifting your chin gently back to his face, “that often times you need a steady hand to pull you back.”
You swallow hard. “I don’t like being vulnerable.”
”Vulnerability isn’t weakness,” he murmurs like a soothing balm, “it takes great strength to show your true self, to face the unknown.”
”By sleeping with you?”
That predatory smile curls once again.
”If you’d like.”
A complex kaleidoscope of emotions thrums within you, loud and intense. Your pulse stutters as his hypnotic voice and warm touch stir something deep, something both terrifying and compelling all at once. You want to still resist, to maintain your fortress of independence and strength, yet his presence beckons you to let go, to surrender to the moment.
Somehow, with this new understanding, you feel weightless now. The tension in your body begins to dissipate, replaced by an unfamiliar sense of calm. His touch, once daunting, becomes a reassuring anchor. You try to rationalise what is happening, but logic seems to falter as you are drawn deeper into the moment. The walls you’ve built so meticulously begin to crack, and you find yourself teetering on the edge of a precipice, torn between fear and desire. With desire sinking you further down.
“What do you want from me?” you whisper, his lips unfairly far and still intimately close.
His expression softens, revealing a hint of satisfaction beneath the hardened exterior. “Just you, as you are. No pretences, no masks.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a fleeting moment, you consider the possibility of letting someone in, of allowing yourself to be seen, to be known by another man.
Your core burns, searching for courage within. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
He leans closer, his lips warm against your skin. “You already are.”
You close your eyes, allowing the warmth of his presence to envelop you. The silence between you grows, charged with unspoken words and shared breaths. It feels like the world has paused, granting you this moment of clarity amidst the chaos.
As his hand gently cups your face, the tenderness in his touch ignites a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you can lower your defences, if only for a little while. You let out a shaky laugh, the vulnerability within you echoing in the stillness.
“I’m… I’m nervous.”
His thumb pulls your bottom lip from between your teeth. “I know,” he replies softly. “But sometimes, the risk is what makes it all the more exciting.”
”And… and what about Shanks?”
“Don’t worry, dear. He’s watching.”
He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is both gentle and wicked.
The contact sends a surge of heat through you, their softness contrasted with the firmness of his intent. His touch is electrifying, sending waves of warmth through your body. You can’t help but sink entirely into his palms, the way his fingers trace the contours of your face as if memorising every detail and coaxing your mouth open for him to taste the softness you offer.
His hand, strong yet graceful, moves to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer. Holding you tighter. The contact is intimate, grounding you in the moment and dissolving the barriers you’ve held onto for so long. As his lips begin to explore further, the intensity of his touch spreads like wildfire, igniting every nerve ending and filling you with a mix of longing and bliss you thought only Shanks could reach.
You lean into him, seeking the comfort and assurance his presence offers. Your hands on his chest, his tongue stroking yours. His scent filling your nose. Each touch, each caress, cinches your thighs to ease an ache his kiss hungrily blooms.
His other hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You can feel the ridges of his abdomen squish against your supple chest, and the feeling of security envelops you further. It’s in this that you realise the true power of connection, the ability to transcend fear and embrace the unknown. Mihawk’s lips and touch become the anchor you’ve needed, a testament to the strength found in vulnerability and openness.
As the kiss deepens, you become acutely aware of a new presence, an invisible force that seems to pulse around you. It’s as if the very air is charged with a different kind of energy. A shuddering familiar one. Shanks’ Observation Haki, you realise, is not just watching but feeling every nuance of your shared moment.
His ability to sense the emotional currents shrouding you adds a layer of intimacy you never anticipated. The world around you fades, leaving only the three of you suspended in this exquisite dance. Mihawk’s kiss and the touch of Shanks’ presence.
And for the first time, you allow yourself to fully embrace the vulnerability, to let down your defences completely and indulge in the pleasures you've been too passive to ever accept.
➽───❥ Chapter three - Touché dans le Coeur
“And… and what about Shanks?”
“Don’t worry, dear. He’s watching.”
He inhales deep, then releases a shaky breath.
Shanks stands by the inn, transfixed, as the backdrop of the moon casts a silvery glow upon the ocean waves that gently laps against the shore. The sounds float through the humid night air, every nuance captured by his advanced Haki— delicate, haunting, impossible to ignore— while the crews party drums on in the distance. Rhythmic, jovial— when his heart feels anything but steady.
His posture, though outwardly relaxed, betrays a tension in the way his jaw tightens, as though every fibre of his being resists the urge to engage.
Though, how can he intervene when his powers allow him to see you with perfect precision? With intimate insight of every movement and emotion laid bare, stirring feelings he cannot fully articulate yet still unable to deny, captivated by the intensity of the moment unfolding before him.
He can hear you too. Every unsteady breath and soft moan you make into Mihawk’s kiss. Every muted whine and muffled sound of submission that escapes you from Mihawk’s touch, his tongue and lips, they reach Shanks so vividly that it feels almost too close, too raw on his senses.
The way Mihawk slides his hand from your hip to your waist, the other one cradling your face, pulling you closer, holding you tighter— instinctively, it makes his hand tense over the hilt of his sword. How you melt in Mihawk’s hands. How you part your mouth for him. Grip his coat like you can’t let go, as though you’re falling completely into him, tethered only by Mihawk’s body flushed upon yours— tears at Shanks’ resolve to remain still.
He watches silently. Intently. And then… your whimper reaches him.
“Please…”
You pant. Lips swollen and wet. Eyes lidded and heated.
The plea doesn’t follow a command or a wish, but he knows you mean more.
You want more.
Your throat tenses and your hands clench on Mihawk’s coat even tighter desperate for more.
Strong hands glide over the soft figure of your curves.
His own fingers twitch as if they’re mapping out the same path they wish to trace, pining to replace Mihawk’s touch with his own, to pull you away, to be the one who elicits those shivering breaths and broken sighs once more. as if he were an addict denied his most coveted fix.
Instead, it’s Mihawk who steadies you, hypnotic and dominant, grounding you even as the heat of the moment threatens to consume you.
Thighs clenched and pulse erratic the way his kiss always rendered you.
“Please, what?”
You don’t answer. Shy under his teasing smirk. In a familiar expression, you drop your gaze, hoping to find refuge in the intensity of his chests rise and fall. But the moment stretches far too long as your hands linger on his pectorals, his muscled abdomen. The power carved in Mihawk’s sculpted body.
The bare, muscled expanse of Mihawk’s physique.
Shanks knew that feeling intimately. The strength of Mihawk’s stature. The heat from his chest. He recognises the tension in your grip, the urge to claim and be consumed by a power that isn’t your own. A desire so fierce it pools low and pulses in all the places you want Mihawk to reach. Shanks feels it too. He knows it.
That ache is his own. Though he wears it quietly, it burns just as fierce, if not hotter as his body remembers the calloused, yet elegant hands that hold you— it still shapes every look Shanks casts your way, every breath he holds back when Mihawk groans from your teeth grazing on the flesh of his neck.
That man is his equal in blade and will, the man who meets his gaze without flinching and draws out the fiercest parts of him. Their lives are bound in a way that cannot be measured by anything but the clash of their swords. It’s not just competition and camaraderie, it is trust and tension.
It is ineffable fire. Breaking lightening and shattering thunder in their veins, igniting ardour where words cannot reach or translate the echoes of longing, blades and shared history.
Which makes the jealousy all that more foreign.
The air feels thin suddenly, as if forcing him to confront emotions he’d rather keep buried when the sight of you and him stirs a bittersweet discomfort. It’s both cold and sore. Leaving him to crave for what he cannot reclaim and simultaneously mourn what he fears he’s already lost.
Lost.. what? Why does he feel at loss? When he should feel ecstatic you’re so expressive. He should be aroused to witness such intimacy with the two closest to his heart. In awe of the raw connection that had sparked between you, yet he’s left adrift. Left suspended in longing and uncertainty, tasting a second-hand desire bitterly threaded with grief he can neither erase nor name.
It is… unnerving as Shanks watches on from a distance.
Mihawk smiles into your lips and swallows the sweet sounds, his tongue sliding upon yours. Slow and sensual. He coaxes moans in a kiss he continues to claim as the gentle rasp of his beard hairs tickles your cheeks, shuddering the nerves beneath your skin.
A cold wash prickles over Shanks’ skin. Tightening his muscles while a dull panging pushes behind his ribs— an unsavoury mixture of envy he’s never known, regret that feels foreign, and a tenderness that refuses to let him go.
But… why? Something nags at him. Leaving him restless. Unsatisfied.
A flicker of amusement dances in those golden eyes, darkened with something deeper, piercing, as he tilts his head ever so slightly under your greedy touches. His smirk widens in a way that sends a thrill down your spine. And makes Shanks’ abdomen clench.
“You’re not too shy to touch me, so why hide your voice from me?” he says, the low timbre almost lost in the rhythmic pounding of your heart. “When you were just making the cutest sounds for me.” His mouth ghosts over your cheek. “I miss it already.”
His grasp tightens subtly, possessively, on your waist— a silent reminder of who holds you, who commands your every shuddering breath, your quivered plea, and it rips Shanks’ Haki for a split second before he reels it again.
Squaring his shoulders.
The corner of Mihawk’s lip curls into a taunting, knowing smirk. It sparks an unspoken provocation into the sharpness that cracks between them. In the fissure of Shanks’ composure.
“Speak to me.” He pulls you flush upon his pelvis, drawing a sudden, involuntary gasp from your lips as you feel the hard length of his arousal. Every inch of it. “I’ll give you anything your pretty lips ask of me.”
You swallow down your nerves, and with it the words you wish to express.
An unnatural shyness takes hold instead. Your biting attitude, passion and expressions freeze under their gaze. Under the searing weight of their intensity. You feel utterly exposed when every fluttered bat of your lashes is laid bare for them to see— no thought or tremor escapes their notice, and the vulnerability bursts a rush of blood to your core, heat swirling as you face the certainty that you are seen. Truly seen.
Desired. Wanted. All under the twin scrutiny of two men who seem to know your silence as intimately as your voice.
Its addicting. And almost dizzying how quickly you’ve succumbed to their fantasies when just the thought of being passed back and forth made bile rise to your throat.
Now?
To be at the centre of their rivalry, power, lust— you feel marked. Claimed by the gravity of their want. It weaves through you as both a witness and a catalyst to the pressure that flares between them.
You feel helpless yet somehow alive. Electrified, as if the world has been narrowed to the space between their hands and intent, and every insecurity that once choked you has dissolved, replaced by a hot current of arousal making you acutely aware of the stickiness marring your panties. The oversensitivity tickling your lips as you swipe your tongue, tasting the residue of Mihawk’s kiss.
Shanks senses it, and you feel his presence, heavy as thunderclouds at your back… you feel it in the way his eyes linger, red with something deeper than lust, its tantalising… it hums against your skin. It seems to caress the back of your neck where his hand would be weighted whenever he pulled you into a kiss. Melting your body so he could sink between your thighs with that same tongue.
You feel his pull, as if he’s trying to draw you closer. Back to him. A crackling sensation that simmers beneath his heat.
But your focus remains tethered to the man who holds you. To Mihawk’s steadiness, his quiet dominance.
And what sends a shiver through your chest, more intoxicating than anything else, is the realisation that this legend— this man whose name carves fear and awe into the world— has surrendered his myth to stand before you, stripped of the weight of reputation and title, only palpitating flesh and longing and need. It’s more thrilling than you can comprehend. That beneath his cryptic, ringed stare is just a man hungry and undone. Wicked in the way he refuses to let you go and how his cock strains in his pants, pressed hot against your hip.
It’s him you feel drawn to now. Because while Shanks overwhelms every sense with the force of a wildfire, Mihawk is entirely different. He is a balm upon your nervous. He holds you steadily. He doesn’t demand or devour, he witnesses. He draws you in with a gentle assurance that makes you safe to unravel.
A different sort of intimacy, one that lets you breathe by softening the edges without burning them away.
Shanks always set you alight, bursting and shuddering with need, but Mihawk lets you bloom. He coaxes every shiver, every sigh and low whimper until you want nothing more than to surrender to his patience and the slow, pulsating desire he draws from you.
You feel it now. All the ways you want to show him how sweet your surrender tastes when its freely given.
“I want to watch him fuck you.”
This time, when the voice echoes in your mind, a hot flush erupts through your veins too. only slightly laced with something scorching, something reckless— something utterly, wickedly akin to ire.
Attuned to the silence, Mihawk’s hand glides upward, steady and sure, the edge of his voice slicing through the tension as he finally speaks.
“You don’t need to hide from me,” he says, like velvet over steel. “Your silence is a language, too. I hear you— every unsaid word, every held breath. But don’t mistake your vulnerability for weakness. Show me all of it.” His lips brush your ear. “I’ll never turn away.”
You exhale low, feeling the cool breeze along your flushed cheeks. “For now… I enjoy your kiss. Your hands.”
“My hands?” His fingers slip beneath your shirt. Your stomach. Waist. “Not the feel of my hard cock aching for just an inch of your bare skin?”
Your core clenches. “You shouldn’t sound so hot talking like that,” you huff. Still, it pulls a sly smile. “That’s for afterwards..”
A dark, amused rumble vibrates in Mihawk’s chest. “After?” he echoes, his breath ghosting along your jaw. “And what, exactly, do you imagine comes first, my dear?”
Your palms lay flat on his broad chest. Bolder now as the heat of his fingers trail over your lower back. Hiking your shirt, exposing your skin.
“First… we make him writhe.” You say, a flash of teeth peaking over your smile. Like a glinting nail beneath soft feathers. Not quite cruel but bold enough to bite. “I want him to wish he kept us apart. I want…” your fingers dance over his abdomen, following the ripples of moonlight that swim over his skin, to the belt that blocks your descent. “I want his next kiss from me to still taste like you.”
Mihawk’s gaze flicks, unblinking, toward the silent storm across the beach. His thumb traces idle, daring patterns along your bare skin, grounding you between the weight of Shanks’s presence and his own unwavering calm fracturing ever so slightly under your dancing fingers.
“If that’s what you want,” he hums, a low drawl, meant for your ears but resonant enough to reach Shanks in the quiet hush between breaths. “Let him see what gentleness can do— what devotion looks like when it isn’t afraid to be still.” He turns your face gently, his golden eyes unnerving and soft all at once as if to cement his next words. “You’re not a toy, nor a prize to be won in rivalry. You’re a choice. Mine, and his, and most of all, your own. But you have to want it, my dear. Want it as badly as I want you.”
You nod once and his mouth claims yours again. Firm yet reverent, sealing his words with a shiver that ripples through the both of you.
“I want it.” you moan softly. Fervently. Into Mihawk’s lips and the wind that used to carry you too. but now you only focus on the quiet exhale that brushes your lashes, when you close your eyes and lean into something new.
“I want your mouth on me, I want to forget everything and just feel you.”
Mihawk’s warmth lingers under your shirt, under the clasp of your bra he teasingly fingers. “Then I’ll help you, sweet girl. And if he has regrets, let him.” He whispers brazenly. “If he learns, let it be from how I wipe your pretty tears and tend to every ache that should have been his.”
Shanks’ teeth grind painfully, his jaw clenched in muted restraint.
Mihawk presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, a whisper of tenderness that spreads as his words settle in the charged space— until it grows heavier, hungrier, with teeth and tongue over the fluttering skin of your neck.
Your head swims with heat, stoking desperation that has you tugging on the buckle of his belt. His mouth on your neck, each press draws out the coil twisting in your belly, flooding your senses with dizzying need that pulls shudders down your spine too. To your cunt and the burning arousal that stains your panties the harder his clothed, hot erection grinds into your hip.
Shanks, for his part, doesn’t falter. His eyes narrow, the storm within them growing darker, more tempestuous, as his fingers twitch at his side the longer he stays in the shadows, fighting the urge to intervene. To fight. To apologise and reclaim.
At first he allowed himself to savour the scene. He was so easily drawn in.. Mesmerised by the desires that rippled between you and his rival, of the beauty in your surrender and the vulnerability that passed in glances and gentle touches.
Shanks had watched on as Mihawk’s words, soft as velvet and doused with truth, slipped beneath your skin and soothed the pain you carried— as Mihawk offered reassurance in such a way that your defiance and apprehension was melted away by quiet understanding and merciful guidance.
A comforting voice that wasn’t his own.
It was Mihawk who cupped your face gently, whose touch was warm and gratifying who quietened the hiss of uncertainty. For Shanks, the moment felt painfully voyeuristic, as if he was pushed behind a veil, exiled from partaking in the fall of your defences when he has spent years trying to be the hand that steadied you.
However it was Mihawk’s fingers you allowed to brush away your tears, who hitched your breath as you peered up at him with those pretty eyes by sharing the intimacy of a gesture that left you momentarily weightless.
And Shanks remembers, with a sobering edge, how his own presence— however well intended, had only unsettled you further.
His usual assurances, his touch, his laughter, had roared you into a panic he couldn’t ease. He knows now, with a quiet devastation, that he failed you when you needed him most. Instead of being your anchor, he’d been the storm that stirred your anxieties and pushed you into hysterics.
Into tears and every malicious fear you had tried so desperately to bury, he had been the one to drag it mercilessly to the surface.
“I want to watch him fuck you.”
His intentions shattered against your insecurities.
He can still hear how broken your shouts were until your anger collapsed into sobs he couldn’t calm.
He can’t forget the hurt of your accusations either. How you hurled his other men at him, his friends, his mentor… as if your worth, his heart, was something to be measured and traded, like you and anyone else were nothing more than a pawn in his games.
…and yet it was Mihawk who had managed to give the clarity you needed, a comfort that he himself had struggled to provide. To reassure. And it stings all the more because it’s what you deserved.
To be heard. Validated.
Its only now, in the surging pressure of misery and his contorted lust, that Shanks finally understands what your love truly meant.
You were a steady presence. Comforting in a way it feels to step on land after weeks navigating tremulous seas. Nurturing by how you offered reassurance that no storm could ever truly sweep him away. A grounding force he never knew he needed until you smoothed the lines etched on his brows and kissed the scars that marked his faults.
You were someone who anchored him when he drifted, the calm in the chaos that followed in his wake, and it is in this bitter clarity that Shanks realises how… lost he feels without your love.
How he may have permanently altered your relationship is a thought that gnaws at him when the consequences of his actions now linger in the silent space between you, casting a shadow over what once felt safe and unshakeable.
And then, the heated scene fractures with the feelings that starts to twist in his chest.
His heartbeat grows heavier. It begins to echo a sick blend of yearning and a perverse ache that pounds deep within.
It travels down to the pit of his stomach and churns deeper. Where he thought lust and exhilaration would reside— a gnawing feeling settles there instead. Its foreign. It hurts.
Guilt.
It’s guilt that eats away at him. Guilt that distorts his sense of himself until all that remains is a raw, weighted regret. One that refuses to be dispelled, that grows heavier with every vulnerable layer you expose only to be answered by another man.
Accompanied by a sickening, red coloured acidity that burns his throat when another sigh spills from your lips for him.
“Please…”
He struggles to answer. To reach out. To mend. Most of all, Shanks almost loses to the urge to close the distance.
“Use your words, dear.”
“I want…” you whine gently, abandoning his belt as you thread your fingers through his neat inky hair and press against the lean muscle of his chest. His tongue rolls on your pulse. “You’re killing me. I need more.”
“Then use me. Take what you want, darling.”
It only takes another breath for you to change the flow of the tide.
In a move that shocks them both, you turn and face Shanks’ direction with Mihawk’s arms securely in your grip. Instinctively, you meet his gaze.
He sees you.
Your parted, wet lips. Your lidded, hunger-panged eyes, the desperate clench of your thighs.
He feels the warmth that floods your cheeks. The wetness that soaks your slit, the rush of air that expands your lungs and it pulls a groan from his throat it fluctuates his will, cracking the space that binds you together.
You shudder. Shanks pulls back his shoulders, but that does nothing to reel the red electricity that thrums between all three of you. an unspoken current, hungry and alive, arcing across the space.
Slowly, you guide Mihawk’s hands over every button of your shirt. Long fingers, cool and poised, move with a measured patience that matches your slow sighs when sea air caresses inch after inch of exposed skin.
You don’t let him stop.
Soon enough, your shirt hangs loosely on your shoulders as Mihawk’s fingers, like a marionette, unhook the clasps of your blush pink bra by your influence and pushes down both garments unto the soft sand beneath your feet.
Gooseflesh prickles your skin, but they’re quickly soothed away.
“Tell him how my body feels for you, Mihawk.”
He sighs low and dark.
“She’s so soft, Red-hair, they barely fit in my palms. I have to hold them firm to keep from spilling out of my hands. It makes me.. eager to hear the sounds she would make when I finally have my mouth on her.”
His fingers pull and pinch your nipples, you arch into his touch, giving him full control as you clench on his thighs behind you for stability, trying your best not to buckle over every squeeze that tingles arousal straight to your cunt. Every sensual press and playful flick. His hands are deft and unmistakably skilled, even bearing the calluses of a swordsman doesn’t diminish the gentle care of a man whose touch now seizes and awakens every sensitive nerve on your tits.
“uhh, Mihawk..”
“Use my name if you’re going to make a noise like that.”
A loud moan stutters. Squirming into his hands, heat blooms where his fingers linger on your areolas before he squeezes meanly, bursting pleasure through your chest. This time, his first name spills with a mewl, pulling a satisfied hum from his throat.
“She yields beneath me, Shanks,” Mihawk says, his voice a hypnotic song. “She’s so… sensitive. I know you can sense when I pinch.. and she shudders.. her clit pulses too. I'll confess my cock twitches every time, darling.” His lips touch your ear. “His too.”
“R-really?”
Mihawk hums throatily.
“He’s barely able to contain himself. If only you could see how his teeth grind every time you moan my name.” His tongue strokes the curve of your lobe. Wet and fervid. “I wonder how he would react when I have you crying on my fingers. I cannot wait to hear the way my name sounds on your lips when you cum.”
Your mind blurs with static, barely able to separate your own desire from the voltaic buzz of Haki in the air.
It sizzles louder in the open space, in your ears, over the surface of your body, breaking and crackling, but all you can focus on is your own heartbeat— pounding loud and wild in your chest, drowning out hostility and possessive raging’s as blood and pleasure spiral through your veins.
You swallow a splitting whine when his knee pushes between your thighs. Pressing hard upon the hot wetness that clings fabric to your pussy. Your hold on his thighs tightens. His height gives him the distinct advantage to meld your body like hot wax melting under a concentrated heat. Dripping wet and beautiful in its wreckage.
You push back against him, rolling your hips, lips breaking another gasp when one elegant, trained hand snakes down your body teasingly slow. Flaring warmth in spite of the way Shanks’ makes you burn.
“Spread your legs for me, darling.”
Mihawk palms your breast, rolling it in his hand as the thumb and index finger swipe and twitch your tender bud, in a rhythm you can’t quite follow, when his left hand slides into your shorts, over the sordid patch of slick that coats your panties.
You part your thighs obediently, almost thoughtlessly, simply bending to the sound of his deep, lascivious commands, allowing a single finger to slip up and down over the fabric. Over your pulsing clit and the cotton that denies you the satisfaction of feeling his raw touch.
Yet it’s enough to make your stomach flutter as sticky, clear arousal clings to his skin. Coating the entire length of his long finger.
Mihawk pulls his hand out between your trembling thighs and presents the stringy, glistening evidence trickling down his middle finger it to the light. To you. To Shanks. He parts his mouth and sucks it clean, then releases a deep, masculine groan as the taste of you coats his tongue.
“Now, just imagine how she’ll make my cock shine.”
A streak of red and black lightning splits the moonlit sky, its jagged brilliance striking the sand just beyond where you stand shakily. Your heart pounds. Shanks appears in a blinding burst, his arrival slices through the darkness.
His energy rolls out in ripples. Scattering shells and quivering the sand, sending the waves out of balance as his presence distorts the very air between you.
One second he was a dark silhouette, the next you could count the tense lines on his cheekbones, of the void of black eclipsing in his red eyes. Haki visibly pulsates— you would have thought it untamed if you hadn’t noticed the controlled tick in his jaw— even while a flare of power and pain surges from his core, it paints the beach in strokes of crimson shadow and obsidian threat.
Your cunt throbs, pulsing between your thighs no amount of clenching can satiate as he stands outlined by the aftershocks. His profile is thrown in sharp relief against the electric haze. Raging but silent.
Not a word crosses. The anguished fury is all in his stance, the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his eyes burn with a storm he cannot voice.
You can see beyond the threat.
Theres a fragility in his expression. A weight of remorse that tugs at your heart, as if you’re attuned to his spirit. You feel his guilt— sullen, unspoken, and it hangs in front of you like a noose, swinging back and forth in a loop.
And yet, strangely, the noose doesn’t tighten around your neck this time. It swings limply, its shadow present but its grip never closing around you.
Your body hums instead— alight and tingling along your skin. Not from the chill of the swishing wind on your bare chest but from the heat of being suspended between the two pirates.
Marked.
Claimed.
Its intoxicating, especially when you’ve never tasted a power quite like theirs. An exhilarating surge courses through the coil in your belly, not only in arousal but making you feel almost invincible with a strength that is both foreign and thrilling. For once, you feel powerful. Untouchable and unafraid of the storm. Even delirious enough to douse yourself in it.
Shanks uncurls his fist, taking a lot more might than he’s used to, and stretches out his hand to you.
Mihawk’s tepid, even voice cuts through the electric hush.
“She’ll be at the centre. It’ll be her call, and that’s final.”
Lightening splits. Your breasts feel heavier in his hands. Nipples erect and tender.
“I am simply reminding you of where the power lies tonight, Red-hair. They were your words, after all. You should honour them.”
“Don’t patronise me, Hawk-Eye.” He bites out, harsh and acidic. “If you have something to say, say it.”
Instead of answering, Mihawk rubs his thumb over your pert nipple, releasing a haunting, blissful mewl from your lips.
A heady, desperate noise tears from Shanks’ throat.
A noise that sounds despairingly like your name, raw and aching and shamefully lustful, laced with regret he can no longer conceal.
His throat bobs as he tries to force words out— over another titillating sigh when Mihawk presses his palm with the slightest bit of pressure on your supple breast— but it all catches and crumbles before they reach his lips, leaving only the slash of gentle waves and your sweet echoes of pleasure.
“Her choice. Red-hair.” Mihawk says, quiet but steely. Then, as if to anchor you further in your own resolve, he lowers his head and presses a tender, deliberate kiss to the top of your head. A gesture that sends a tendril of warmth through your spine.
Shanks attempts another step, “Babe—”
“Tell me to leave, and I will go, my dear.” Mihawk’s right hand leaves your chest and trails down your side, fingers splaying delicately across your shapely hip. “It does not matter how much I want you tonight, which I hope you know is unquestionably immense— but your wishes are all that matter. One word from you, and I will be gone.”
A pale, cool tempered hand cups your chin and turns your face. Mihawk’s lips trail over your mouth, anchoring you in the present with steady dominance as he whispers, “Regardless of any regrets either of us have, it is not your burden to bear, so do not make them yours. I only ask you answer to yourself tonight.”
Your lashes flutter as you peer up at him, intimately aware of the skin-to-skin contact, of the salvia on his finger now touching your lip and your bare back resting on the hard planes of his torso. Part of you registers your own hands gripping his thighs behind you, the leather cool and muscles taut, but you feel more distracted by the hardness poking your hip. Slender and long and deliriously enticing it makes your toes curl in the sand.
A teasing smile slants your plush lips, and in the hush that follows, you realise that something fundamental inside you has shifted.
What once gnawed at your heart now feels distant, untethered, replaced by a certainty you hadn’t known you could feel.
The answer is simple.
Your choice is easy. Much easier than it would have been a few hours ago when self-doubt haunted your steps. Now, the veil has been lifted, the urgency that shaped your past dissolves in the glow of a new resolve. There is no wistfulness to reach back for what was, for what you cannot capture... There is no more desperation to seize the wind.
There is only a grounded, unburdened excitement as you settle fully into the moment, and into yourself.
You don’t want to stop.
Not for him. Not tonight.
Not when your blood throbs so ardently you’re sure that, if you deny yourself, you might burn from the inside out— entirely consumed by a hunger he would regret to have awakened, because now that you’ve tasted it, you would be unable to ever return to the person you were before this night.
And Mihawk’s presence behind you, his lips and hands and assurance is a reminder that, for once, you hold the reigns. That your desires, your choices are your own to command, no matter how desperately Shanks wishes to mend the gap he’s created, here and now, you feel detached and whole all at once— untethered from his guilt yet anchored in your own newfound certainty.
You meet his eyes. That molten red has darkened. His pupils have blown wide, so deep and shadowed they’re nearly black.
He’s never looked at you like this before; his gaze searing into yours with a hunger and vulnerability that makes your breath hitch, as if he’s powerless. Defenceless against the guilt that tightens around his neck.
Nevertheless, your voice carries decisively when you confess, “I don’t want to stop, Shanks.” Your smile twists, almost a little cruel as you lean in, touching his mouth in a kiss without warmth. “It’s like you said, it’s just a bit of fun.”
The beach stills.
The electric hum and shifting sands all come to a deafening halt at once as you direct Mihawk’s hands back to your body. The buzzing left is in his ears.
Not even the party echoes across the beach. When they could have left, he doesn’t recall, he only knows that by the time the silence fell, the world had shrunk to the three of you.
Only your sweet voice plays through the hollowness. “If you want to join us, Shanks, you’ll have to earn it.” You swipe your tongue on his bottom lip, stuttering the pulse beneath his jaw. “So, are you going to be a good boy for us tonight?”
Shanks’ adams apple bobs as he swallows hard, his eyes darting from your face to the places where you boldly revel in your own pleasure, playing Mihawk’s hands over your curves— lingering at your ample chest, gliding down your feminine waist, tracing the swell of your hips. His hand flexes, popping the joints in loud cracks.
Your sweet moans siphon the air from his lungs. Mihawk peppers kisses along the column of your neck, his lips soft and persistent, but his focus never strays from Shanks. Unblinking. Each brush of his mouth is deliberate. His teeth scrape hotly at your skin, nipping a path to your shoulder, marking you with small, possessive reminders of his presence that pierce desire to your quaking thighs.
Golden eyes glint with a challenge. They’re daring. Provoking Shanks to interfere, to reach in and reclaim control. The way he always did— with force. It taunts him to risk your vexation by denying your wishes.
But how can he deny you when you stand so bold?
He sees the new strength unfurling in you. unapologetic, assertive and unafraid. Whatever turmoil that withers in his chest tonight cannot overshadow the pure admiration he feels watching you seize your own power, as luminous and spectacular as the moon above the silent beach.
In a round about way, this was exactly what he intended. For you to blossom.
You have never looked more breathtaking. Your spirit beams brighter than the moonlight draping over your figure. Even if the night pangs with his own grief— his guilt, his anguish— your confidence eclipses everything else, leaving him utterly captivated.
And so, Shanks breaks his hesitation with a shaky laugh, ruffling his hair— now damp and clinging to his sweaty forehead, a telltale sign of apprehension they instantly recognise. It’s a familiar gesture, his way of trying to lighten the mood, even as the tension in the air remains palpable.
Nevertheless, it isn’t about him anymore.
What he intended had been erased and replaced by a desire to please. To surrender, to let go of every carefully guarded inhibition… for your sake.
As penance— for making you cry.
“What’s it going to be, babe?”
In a strained, almost hoarse chuckle as if the noose has cinched, he forces out, “Anything you want, darlin’. Just…” his chest constricts when you sigh airily. “Just tell me how to be good for you.” His words are rough, low— stripped bare, only revealing a rawness that makes your pulse leap and smile split your lips.
Golden rings shine in satisfaction.
“Good boy.” You giggle lightly, though it doesn’t disguise the loud thundering in your chest when they chuckle like you’ve missed a joke only passed by their predatory fixation. Though you don’t let it intimidate you. Nothing could as Mihawk’s touch flutters the butterflies in your stomach into a roar, as you guide him to push your shorts and panties down your curved hips. Down your plush, squishy thighs.
“Babe—” He groans.
“Watch me.” you whisper, cheeks burning as your ass presses back on the swordsman, “isn’t that what you wanted, baby?” you wriggle lightly out of the sticky wet garments, plump fat caressing the teeth of his zipper and the hard metal of his belt-buckle, a stark contrast to the heat radiating out every pore when you stand completely naked in front of the legendary pirates.
Confident. Light-headed with power, the thrill of control courses through your veins.
Their gazes are scorching, hungry, and unblinking— Shanks’ arousal burns with a wild need like he’s ripping you apart while Mihawk’s glint with a razor-sharp intensity that pins you in place. For a charged moment, you are the centre of their universe; every ounce of attention, every dark and fevered longing, is poured into the way they look at you, as if you are something rare and precious, scarred and treasured in equal measure.
You force your thighs to stop their trembles as you let yourself sink into Mihawk’s arms, his hold strong and sure, cradling you against his muscled chest. Lips parted and chest heavy with weighted breaths. Then, you glance up at Shanks with wide, innocent eyes. Lashes fluttering, soft and girlish in a way you know always makes his pre-cum leak.
“If you want to watch,” you say softly, tugging on the string of his pants, pulling him closer you can smell the agitation beading sweat on his brow, “you have to get on your knees.”
Shanks’ mouth quirks with a crooked, almost reckless grin. A familiar expression despite its tightness.
“How could I look away when you’re the only thing I want to see?” He makes a show of his eyes sweeping up and down your body, over every soft curve and supple surface he had ever sank his teeth into, and his abdomen flares hotly at the memory. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, darlin’. Never get tired of looking at my baby.”
He leans in, but you catch his face in your palm, halting his lips just before they have the chance to reclaim yours again.
With a frosty tilt of your chin, you say, “Don’t remember giving you permission.”
“Aw, c’mon, baby. Don’t be like that.” he attempts to shrug off his unease with a flash of that beaming grin. “y’know I can’t resist touching you.”
Your thumb strokes his chin as you motion down, your expression hard. Almost unrecognisable. “On your knees,” you instruct, voice like honey over a sharp blade.
There is a brief flicker of surprise, and for a heartbeat, doubt creeps in— you wonder if you have gone too far, if your command has fractured something that was too delicate to ever be touched. Yet even as uncertainty lingers, a surge of control rises with you, daring you to test the boundaries of what you share.
You brush the soft hairs on his chin, his handsome features marbled in an expression you can’t quite read in his silence. The power you wield feels sharp and dangerous. It slices through the intimacy that binds you, daring to see how far you can take this. See if you can press against the fragile seam between devotion and defiance and push him to his limits until all that remains is his surrender— wild, unguarded, and entirely yours. It makes you wonder if he might turn away, if he might withdraw altogether from the ferocity that has awoken within.
You catch the faint scent of his cologne and the sea air that always seems to be saturated on his skin. It smells like home. It smells distant.
But then, his eyes soften, and he lowers his gaze.
After a trembling exhale, the tension melts from his features, and with a voice that is both throaty yet adoring, he murmurs, “As you wish.”
Then, he obeys, sinking to his knees before you in reverent submission.
Fuck… he looks beautiful.
From where he kneels, Shanks appears utterly undone. Blazing red hair tousled and wild, a ruddy flush high on his masculine cut cheeks, and lips parted in breathless anticipation. His broad shoulders seem even more imposing from your vantage point. The powerful muscles of his chest are taut beneath sun-soaked skin, exposed by the loose fabric of his windswept shirt. Yet, there’s a striking gentleness in the way his soft lashes fan his cheekbones as he glances up at you, as if he were a knight awaiting judgement at the feet of his queen, unwavering and devout, your every exhale the only air that pumps the blood through his core. The scars that slash his face catch the silver light, a testament to the battles he’s survived, now they only highlight how vulnerable he is before you, when each line has been made softer by the fervency in his gaze. For you. For forgiveness.
He’s breathtaking.
So achingly beautiful that you almost want to fall to him. Back into his crushing winds where he is a hurricane and you are simply flown into his current— tumbling helplessly, swept up in the wild force of his whimsy, powerless to do anything but surrender and let it carry you wherever he desires just to feel his embrace.
However, the sight of him dishevelled, flushed, desire and pain etched in every line of his powerful physique now collapsed at your feet, you find yourself greedy. Starving not just for his beauty but for the utter ruin of it— for him, the legendary Captain, Yonko, King— to be wrecked and desperate under your touch. Eager to please. Shattered and remade by your will.
And… perhaps… it would be a lie not to say you did not feel vindicated by this.
It’s as if his unmasked distress has become a balm for your wounded heart. A silent retribution delivered with every shudder in his resolve and flicker of guilt in his sunken eyes. It only heightens your sense of control.
You let your fingers trace along Shanks hard jaw— your name barely slips past his mouth before you grip his chin. Silenced. The soft hairs tickle your palm, but your grip is unkind. Cold.
Anticipation swirls deep in your belly. Mihawk’s embrace. Shanks’ hardened stare. It’s almost unbearable how it twists and grows as you stand between them. Naked, exposed and yet shielded under their watch. Like sentinels who only come alive under a divine command.
“Open your mouth.”
Electricity spikes again, this time ignited by Mihawk’s unrestrained grunt— a dark, intoxicating heat that radiates from his chest, leaving your nipples stiffening and Shanks breath caught in his throat as he opens his mouth obediently.
“Here, baby, make his fingers nice and wet for me.”
Mihawk’s groan is a velvet rasp against your ear, heavy and erotic when you take his right hand and slide two fingers on Shanks’ warm tongue. His presence is all-consuming— though his is a storm cloaked in elegance, every movement and sound he makes is laced with a sensuality that draws you in, leaving you aching and squirming into his hold.
“You drive me mad, you know that?” His grip hardens on your hip, locked on the mighty pirate on his knees, mouth full of spit and slithering fingers. “God, Red-hair, your darling girl could very well be the death of me.”
“Not before I watch him take you.”
They both become rigid, and it puffs a laugh that barely rustles the surface of your cool detachment.
“I’m just curious to see if you’ll break for him the same way I do, how I cry out his name over and over and his throaty laugh hangs over us. Or if there is a special way he does it to you, a way only he knows how to make the great swordsman yield.”
“My dear—”
Your lips bend in a crooked smile, and you cut Mihawk off, colouring playfulness to brighten the chill. “Easy now with that voice… you both look so hot like this, it just made me picture how your reunions usually end.” You tilt your head and press a light kiss to his chin. “I’m excited to see it for myself.”
Your grip remains firm when you turn back to Shanks, but as you press Mihawk’s fingers further into Shanks’ mouth, something potent shifts in the atmosphere. The men share a look— a wordless communion, sharp and silent, heated and charged— and it bursts between them with an intensity you can’t quite reach or even translate. It’s a private exchange, fleetingly intimate, freighted with history and rivalry, and you find yourself simultaneously excluded and utterly captivated by the voltage of it as it passes through.
You moan breathlessly. Their power is addictive.
“Do you miss his mouth, Dracule?”
They both curse roughly. Though Shanks works harder not to choke on the fingers that glide over his tongue. He works them slowly. Sliding between the long digits with spit trickling down his chin that you wipe and push back in, not wasting a drop of stringy salvia as Mihawk’s ardent desire pulsates around you. His voice a husked, almost careful rasp, deceptively gentle for a man so fierce.
“It’s been a while since I have had him like this. Though, I usually have to fight him harder to get the great Yonko on his knees, I quite like the look on his face right now.”
There’s a fleeting shade of tenderness beneath the glint of his words, a confession disguised inside the sexual drag of his gaze over red and fire and broad muscles.
“Yes, dear. I do miss his mouth.”
As Mihawk’s words hang, Shanks leans in and bites his thumb— not to inflict pain, but as a wordless acknowledgement, a grounding press of teeth that’s more affection than aggression, pulling a shudder that Mihawk doesn’t try to disguise.
“Darling, I must confess.. I am having a hard time controlling myself right now.”
“I know.” You giggle lightly. “It feels like the air is breaking. It’s so hot.”
Carefully, you hitch your left leg onto Shanks’ burly shoulder, the soft press of your thigh frames his face. He becomes your anchor, bracing you as you find your balance atop him as you slip Mihawk’s thoroughly wet fingers out of his mouth and to the dripping heat between your thighs.
“Hold still and watch.”
“Fuck, babe…” Shanks grunts, unable to tear his sights away from his rivals’ fingers sliding up and down your puffy inner labia.
Over your delicate, squishy pussy and the wetness that trickles out from each glide. Flutters dance and your mewls pour out in tandem.
He grips your thigh like he needs his own force to ground him. Eyes blown wide and breath staggered. “You look so pretty like this.”
Mihawk’s grasp on your hip tightens. Digging into the soft fat as he works his fingers over the pillowy flesh of your soaked cunt. He spreads your sticky labia, parting them to expose your twitching hole and the dribbles of slick that bubbles out, only occasionally flicking to your clit just to make you jerk and keen from the teasing. “Describe it to me, Red-hair. I almost wish we could trade places.” He whispers hotly, playing in his slow ministrations. Not quite inserting his fingers where you gasp and fidget for him to touch the most.
Shanks exhales a chuckle. Deliberately puffing the air on your needy opening inches away from his waiting mouth, pulling desperate moans from yours as you thread your hands through his hair.
“She’s so wet.” He swipes his tongue on his bottom lip. “I can’t even describe how pretty her cunt is, man. I can only tell you how cute it is practically begging you to put it in… how it clenches, and her stomach tightens. Her clit all achey, fuck, I can’t take it.”
“No, no,” you whine, back arching beautifully as a finger rolls on your sensitive clit. “Don’t touch me. Just.. uhh, fuck, just watch him. Just watch me cum on his fingers.”
A sudden burst of trepidation runs through your belly— a subtle but undeniable shift in Shanks’ energy bursts. You feel hyper-aware of the primal force— one that throbs between need and restraint, threatening to snap as you press your hips closer to the fingers gliding teasingly over your pussy.
Though a fissure of vulnerability had surfaced, the aura of power never truly left him. Not from the air he commanded or the black that swallowed his eyes.
His shoulders tense as he steadies himself beneath you, between your parted thighs and the intimate squelching inches away. Sun-soaked muscles flex, every inch of him radiates that formidable strength despite the submission of his kneeling frame.
“If you want me to beg, baby, I’ll beg. I got no problem being on my knees for you.”
The words tear from his throat gruffly as Mihawk pushes two fingers inside. Saccharine moans carry in the humid air when sticky, wet splats begin to play loudly in his face. Ears. Every sense other than the one on his tongue.
“Fuck! Yes! uhh-ahh!”
His voice is rougher now, a barely contained growl that thrums the coil in your belly. “Don’t ask me to sit back and not to taste you, that’s one thing I could never do.”
Barely tethered to restraint, his frustration bleeds. All the while your thigh rubs his jaw as you writhe against the skilled fingers working in and out of your drooling cunt.
The sight of it— the softness of your pussy lips parted and shining prettily, the scent of you, heady and feminine and achingly familiar— pools desire into his core and fires through every vein until it swells his cock painfully hard.
There’s a part of him that wants to let it burn him. To succumb to the intensity of his arousal and let it consume him entirely, because to surrender would be kinder than the alternative— more merciful than the sheer pressure of wanting you, only to be denied again and again.
How can he watch when every fibre of his being strains to claim you, devour you, until nothing remains but the echo of his name and the stains of your pleasure dousing his skin.
How can you ask him to stay silent, to resist the urge clawing up his throat, when you were always meant to be worshiped aloud?
“You’re killing me, babe. Fuck, you smell so good. Let me—”
“No! I-I’m telling you not to touch me.” you say in a broken cry, inner walls pulsating as those artful fingers curl inside and stroke the spongey spot that makes your toes clench. “Ju-uuhh, Dracule! Yes, uhh, oh god! Ju-uhh, just watch. Watch h-him.”
“Babe—”
“Uhh, n-no, no. Don’t- fuck, don’t touch me...” his thumb presses on your tender clit, and you greedily grind on it, circling your hips chasing a high that wants to consume you. “I-I’m so— fuck, Shanks, hold st-still!”
“Don’t you get it? I would split the sky before obeying a command like that,” he snaps, “and I won’t fucking care who survives it on this little island. I need you. Shit, you’re the only thing holding me together, and now you want me to, what, give that up?” His laugh is serrated, urgent, but behind it hides something cracked, weakened. “Don’t ask me to do something that’ll break me, sweetheart. I can’t do it. If I lose you, it won’t be just tonight that my body aches— it’ll be every damn piece of me. If you won’t let me touch you, if you walk away, I won’t know where to find myself again. So don’t ask me to just watch, not when every part of me is screaming for you— when being close to you is the only thing that calms my spirit, and simply fucking tasting you would both ease me and wreck me to my core. So please, baby, let me touch you. Let me fucking breathe.”
His name almost flares in a moan.
But you feel it stuck in your chest, how it constricts your breaths as pleasure rocks between your thighs and tensions coils tighter with every second in the humid air between want and denial. Arousal churns.
Tighter—
“Oh god! I-I’m close! Fuuck, uhhh—”
Eyes sparkle with mirth as golden rings catch the light.
“This is a greedy little pussy, Red-hair. She doesn’t seem to care.” Amusement purrs, laced with a dangerous sort of delight that sends a fresh wave of trembles through the muscles constricting around his fingers.
Mihawk chuckles devilishly as he leers down, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Describe it to me. How pretty does she look spread on my fingers?”
Shanks glares, frustration shadowing his features— yet even as hardness locks his jaw and he sits on his knees, there’s a masculine handsomeness to him. The flush on his cheeks only sharpens the striking planes of his face making him look impossibly compelling especially as devastation simmers in his eyes.
“Babe, please, let me help you cum.”
You squirm desperately. Chasing. Rolling your hips, humping those fingers in any way to pull them in deeper— harder, “Fuck! Dr-Dracule!”
“She’s close, can you see how she is gripping me? From that vantage, I suppose you don’t miss anything, mm? Well, I can feel her get excited every time you beg, Red-hair. The smallest tremors and they suck me in deeper. How cruel to revel in your grief.” Gold strikes through eclipsed red. “Should I punish her for you, sir? Only I would know how.”
“Fuck you.” whether he means it or not doesn’t stop the snarl that vibrates from Shanks’ throat. Or the Haki that slices the sand behind heeled boots.
Dracule laughs. Haunting and sultry as his spine ripples in addictive shivers.
“You will. But she comes first.”
His smirk prints your damp skin in kisses. “Would you like that? To cum on my fingers and make a mess on his face? Yes, you would, I know you do. Go ahead, dear, give him a little taste and cum for me. Make sure to sing my name.”
His fingers drag in and out, stretching and curling with sinful precision you dig your toes in the grainy sand as sticky, lewd squirts splatter and mewls pour out.
“Oh fuck! Dracule!”
You suck in a silent scream, your body arching as the overwhelming release strikes you— sharp, hot and utterly consuming straight to your core, leaving you trembling and undone, every nerve alight with aftershocks that refuse to fade.
Your hips rock back and forth, tits bouncing as you ride the high of your orgasm. Shanks plants open mouth kisses on your mound, tasting what he can until you pull him back with a firm tug. Sensitivity pulses along your skin. Sweat and cum cling to you.
“Good girl,” Mihawk dabbles kisses on your shoulder, “just like that, let me feel you fall apart.” He chuckles mocking coos into your skin as his fingers rub along the gummy walls of your cunt. Wetness dribbles from his palm, down your thighs and paints your pussy lips in salacious evidence of your arousal.
Blissful whines curl with your ragged breath as you struggle to come back to yourself. “Again.”
Surprise flashes. “Another one for me?”
You nod airily, floating and fuzzy but still buzzing.
“So soon?” Dracule hums, his own arousal straining when you giggle. “You’re insatiable.”
A low, gravelly groan escapes Shanks as he wipes his mouth with his tongue, catching the trace, wet squirts on his skin, eyes dark and hungry. “You heard her, Hawkeye,” he rumbles, voice edged with both pride and a bite of jealousy. “She can take anything you give her— don’t hold back now.”
Dracule’s lips quirk into a wicked smirk as he pauses, his voice dark and teasing, “Are you certain you can handle more, or are you simply addicted to the attention?”
You hum and press kisses on his beard, the trimmed hairs tickling your lips as you linger there for a moment, breath mingling with his. The playful affection earns a low, appreciative growl from deep in his chest, heat sparking between you both as he meets your eyes.
“You haven’t made me cry yet, sir.”
Dracule groans, his cock pulsing. “Let us remedy that, then.” His fingers twist gently in your soften walls. Playing with the slick that seeps out and pools in his palm. The oversensitivity makes you keen as he works languidly. Painfully slowly as your pussy suckles on his digits, pulling soft sighs from you.
As Shanks shifts, attempting to rise, you catch him swiftly, your hand sliding around his wrist to hold him in place. “Not yet.”
“You’re killing me.” Hurt pangs beneath the current of his laugh. “I can’t just watch.”
You bite your bottom lip innocently.
A heady rush of power and satisfaction hums through your body, down to the tips of your toes, and leaks from your cunt. Depraved spurts of arousal paint Dracule’s hand as he slows his thrusts. It tingles new waves of delight down your back to see the torment spark in his eyes, another whispered please falling from his lips.
It’s fragile like the last thread tethering him to sanity.
In response, a light giggle escapes you. Soft and reckless, it rings through the humid air as you shake your head.
“But I thought this is what you wanted.”
You twist your fingers tight into his unruly hair, and with a firm pull, you tilt his head back, forcing his gaze to meet yours.
Faux innocence paints the smile that curves your lips, every word drips with a dark sweetness he drinks like a tantalising poison— because there’s nothing you could offer that he would ever refuse. Even if it burns.
“Remember what you said at the beginning, babe? You were adamant about it, so tell me, is it still fun? I’m having fun.” A sweet whimper falls. “His fingers feel so good… mm, they’re not as thick as yours but somehow more… dextrous.” A delicious pressure begins to rebuild. “Fuck, I can’t focus— can you see how he stretches me out, God, it’s driving me crazy. He presses deep and pulls out slowly, opening me up, over an’ over, ahh-fuck… I want it faster. I want it harder but he’s being so mean, babe. So un-ahh uhh, unfair, mm. Tell him how I like it, please.”
Another giggle bubbles out. Half mewl, half taunting. You lay into Mihawk’s chest, lashes brushing over your cheeks.
The sound of your whines shatters him.
“Please, Shanks, I want him harder inside me. Tell him I’ll be good. Tell him I know how to take cock.”
Shanks falters, his shield falls away, devastation raw like an open wound and unmistakable in his fractured frame.
His knees sink deeper in the sand. His jaw clenches so tightly he might break his teeth as wounded pride now blisters in places he can’t name.
If this is punishment, he can’t bear it. Because being left out isn’t just pain, it’s a cold, bare sense of rejection that erodes at his chest. One that leaves him hollow, desperate for even the smallest scrape of attention while he kneels shackled— paralysed by your rejection and his own thoughtlessness. Now forced to witness pleasure and intimacy that remains just out of reach. His reach. When everything was always his to dominate, only now he is stranded behind an invisible glass he can’t break, helplessly longing for what once was his alone.
It coils a sick envy— cold and fanged, a serpent in his gut while the scent of salt and sweat, of your cunt and Mihawk’s simmering lust tangled together hangs heavy in the air, taunting him with every shaky inhale.
He can’t even stomach to comprehend how his name sounded just then— how you said it. As if it didn’t belong to you anymore.
Shanks watches, tightened with barely veiled possessiveness, when he can do nothing but witness every sticky, treacly in and out glide, every torn gasp you surrender for the man who mirrors his soul— fans the flames of need and jealousy licking hot in the veins that trail along his hard cock.
As he mentally stands on the edge of losing all semblance of self-control, a dark chuckle floats down on him. Shanks lifts his gaze just long enough to see that infuriatingly handsome, taunting smirk.
“Desperation looks positively beautiful on you, Red-hair.” Mihawk’s voice is smooth and mocking as, without breaking eye contact, he deliberately hooks his thumb against your entrance, pressing deeper to elicit a tremoring gasp from you. His fingers flex with expert precision, lewd squelches ring between your thighs, and cries burst from your throat, a clear display of control. A provocation.
“It’ll let you taste her, Red-hair. After I take her, make this pretty cunt release all over my cock, then you can taste her on my skin. How does that sound, Shanks?”
Shanks scowls darkly, muttering, “bastard,” but his words are little more than a fractured whisper. More like lost beneath the drum of his obsession. His focus never truly wavers from you, the world narrowing to the heat of your skin and the blood swimming in his core. The heaviness of his cock.
Despite the rivalry, despite the provocation, all he can do is lean in and press a trail of helpless kisses along your trembling thigh. Lips lingering, solemn and starving.
Distressed pleas tumble from his mouth between kisses, voice ragged, “I can’t take this, darlin’. Can’t take not kissing you. Not tasting your pretty cunt. Just a taste, love, just one— God, I can’t bear it, can’t stand being kept from you anymore.” He’s pleading, leaning into you, lost in the scent and taste of your skin, craving nothing but the sweetness of your mercy like a castaway yearning for the safety of solid ground after endless days adrift at sea. And each kiss he presses is the desperate gasp of a drowning man, reaching for breath that never quite fills his lungs.
You only smile beautifully. Your hands thread into his fiery hair, the only contact you allow while letting the tension burn white by refusing him everything else as he desperately searches your pleasure flushed face for permission you cruelly withhold. Instead, Mihawk’s name sings from your lips.
Shudders break in his nerves.
“Every time you say his name, in that high pitch cry you know I love, fuck, babe, my cock jerks. I’m so hard it’s not even funny.” Still, Shanks attempts a small one. Though no one comments how scattered it sounds, it is only an attempt to steady himself. “Alright, alright,” he huffs, trying for a casual grin, though his throat bobs with need, “just— just ride my face, yeah? How’s that sound? Promise I’ll behave, won’t move a bit, like when you climbed up on me on new years. Remember how fun that was? You didn’t even care I was hungover— ha, I love it when you take what you want from me. So use me again, baby.” He offers a teasing bite on your hip, striving for normalcy, but the darkened hunger in his eyes betrays every word. “I’m yours, play with me.”
Another haunting, high-pitch cry of Dracule’s name tears from your lips, and the mask slips almost instantly.
Unexpectantly, that serpent in his gut whispers something insidious.
He finds himself sinking again, crumbled and unable to help the way his energy wobbles in the crackling air from the terror clawing at his throat. A new, sudden, suffocating fear that he might truly lose you, that this moment could be the last where you’re still his to beg for, to worship, to hold.
The thought had never occurred to him until now. That everything he holds dear might slip beyond his grasp and rip into something unsalvageable beyond this night.
Shanks’ shoulders slump, the fight draining from his body as he stares at the sand between his knees.
His hand wavers, hesitating before curling into a fist that presses into your plush thigh. “I can’t fucking take this—” His voice falls, quieter now, frayed. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I was an ass, I was insensitive.” He drags in a shaky breath, head bowing as if the admission costs him. The wind tugs at his hair, but he barely notices when your grip loosens lightly. “I’ll say anything, do anything— sink into the fucking sand on my knees for you, but just let me touch you again.” His gaze lifts, searching your face with desperate hope. “Say my name, look at me, hit me for making you cry. Just don’t hurt me like this, sweetheart.”
He exhales, almost a whisper, empty and defeated.
“I’m begging, truly, all I want is right here. Right in front of me.”
“Oh fuck,” your voice catches between a moan and a plea, betraying a wave of warmth through your body as you swallow Shanks’ name before it can escape.
You roll your hips, vying for a rhythm Dracule plays completely independently. Your release stays out of reach, every thrust strokes it further as he keeps you on the precipice, refusing to let you fall.
“uhh, Dracule! More! nghh. Please! Ple-uhh.!”
His fingers pump deeper, but not any faster or harder in the way you truly plead for— he holds you captive physically, the master to your pleasure, your body. While you peer down through your wet lashes and let his name carry, awakening a guttural response from deep within the swordsmen’s chest as your body arches, trembling at the edge of surrender in his grasp.
Shanks groans. Though its closer to the sound of discontent of an unanswered prayer that grates his voice as he nuzzles into your inner thigh, brushing the soft flesh with his stubble. An addictive and familiar heat sears in his touch, his mouth that is so close you can feel the breath on your balmy skin but too far to satisfy the throbbing that clenches obscenely in your sopping cunt.
“Darlin’,” he croaks, ardent need trembling down his abdomen.
He watches your pussy greedily suck on fingers that aren’t his own. Delicate skin stretched out and filled by lithe digits, begging them to push deeper by coating it in slippery, clear slick that doesn’t deserve to be wasted by being splattered on his shirt. Or the sand beneath your curled, manicured toes.
Every sinew of him softens. Rough and tired, stripped of vitality, his plea is hoarse.
“Please, don’t hurt me like this. Let me have a taste, and I promise to spell out all the ways you wreck me with my tongue. Slowly. Exactly the way I know my girl loves.”
For a moment, you only see his need and exhaustion, laid bare by how deeply your denial wounds him. You don’t make a sound louder than a gasp. You just stare at him, lips parted in shocked silence, every breath stolen by the overwhelming wave of sensations and ecstasy rushing through you.
And yet, amidst the haze of desire, you feel a wicked tug of defiance in your chest. You don’t want to grant him anything. The power of holding him at arm’s length, watching the hurt shadow his features and the flex of his grip on your thigh, is intoxicating. Theres a delicious thrill in knowing that you’re the reason he teeters on the brink of complete despair.
Then, for a fleeting second, the wicked thought of leashing him flashes in your mind— of truly making him yours, undeniably tethered to your hand. the very idea shoots arousal ripping up your spine, your hips spasm involuntarily as his name slips past in a choked moan.
“Fuck, baby, say my name again.” Like an addict given the tiniest sample of the purest drug his voice cracks with anticipation, the hunger in his eyes feverish, every muscle in his body, cock, drawn taut in excitement it spills pre cum embarrassingly fast in his pants. Though not a thought crosses other than the achingly familiar cry of his name on your lips. “Again, baby. Just like that.”
You can feel a coveted thrill radiating from him, his breath and kiss coming hot and heavy on your mound as he strains to hear his name spill from your lips once more.
Whether you know it or not, you’ve just unlocked a door he’d believed was forever closed to him— relief floods through him in a way he never thought possible.
“Just one more, darlin’. Say my name.” He rasps. “Say my name, and I’ll show you just how desperate a man can get for you,” kisses mark your plush skin. Teeth and tongue mere inches from your pretty slit. “Let me worship every inch of you, and I’ll beg on my knees until you believe no one else could ever love you like I do.”
“Let him, darling.” Mihawk says, aestuous and towering, stealing away your attention by withdrawing his fingers and striking a sharp slap on your clit that makes you cry out. “Let him make amends with his mouth so then I can finally taste you for myself. Whether it’s from his lips or your pussy, you can decide for yourself. But just know, my dear girl, you will be staining my cock with your arousal this night. Repeatedly. Until you have nothing to give me but your cries, and I have nothing to offer but myself, utterly ruined for you. So be a good girl and let us have every last bit of you tonight.”
The air is still. Then it breaks.
“Okay...”
The single word escapes you in an exhale, and then the last thread of resistance unravels.
“Shanks.. touch me.” you whisper, wholly open to them.
And that’s all it takes for Shanks’ warm, wet mouth to swipe a broad stroke on your slit.
A loud grunt vibrates on your skin, pulling a sinful moan in response when he murmurs hotly about the taste of you finally on his tongue. Collecting every drop of stringy arousal that coats your sensitive skin, Shanks swallows it greedily. Loudly and without restraint as pre-cum dribbles from his flushed tip, ruining his pants, but shame cannot touch him— not when your sweet cunt finally presses on his face.
His words rumble against your flesh in broken pants as he licks and rubs on your pussy lips. Salvia paints his chin, his stubble glistening as he worships you with open-mouthed reverence, each needy lap and groan a prayer of gratitude and surrender to the discomfort that only you can ease.
“Such a good girl, taste s’fuckin’ good. Fuck, don’t leave me, please. Don’t walk away.”
You flush and writhe, not hearing him fully when blood rushes through your ears and chest and aching cunt.
Mihawk’s steel arm curls around your middle and locks you in place. Putting you at the mercy of their desires. Their command and fingers and tongue. For the first time tonight, with Shanks’ simmering jealousy burning in the air, it feels electrifying to surrender— wholly and without inhibition— knowing that his envy sharpens every sensation and makes you feel vibrantly, achingly alive, cherished by the devotion and hunger as you stand between them.
Shanks’ cements his hold on your thigh, muscles bulging keeping you at the indulgence of his tongues slow drags up and down your slit. Moans break and crash like the tides behind you as Dracule’s fingers sensually slip back inside, pumping steadily in time to Shanks’ suckles on your labia before he travels his lips to your throbbing clit, working in unison to make you cry against their hold.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl.” He groans, licking the aphrodisiac trickles that paint Mihawk’s palm before pushing his tongue straight to the source. Jaw slack and stubble soaked. They work you open slowly, pushing in and out, circling and eating.
“Shanks! Please…”
Once again, there isn’t a command or a wish, but he knows. He always knows. Relief washes over his features as he lifts his gaze to meet yours, glimmering with gratitude now that the sand has stopped sinking him. “It was stupid of me to think I could only just watch. Especially to watch you like this— spread out and desperate, when all I ever wanted was to taste and touch and make you mine alongside him.”
His lips latch on to your puffy clit.
He was starving, but Shanks was never a man to rush a meal. Despite his drinking and party antics, when it came to you, he loved to hear you cry out steadily. Soft suckles and gentle flicks of his tongue worked well as he swallowed every drop you offered now that he could finally taste it. “Prettiest fuckin’ pussy.”
Pleasure quivers your balance, leaving your body trembling and your breath shallow in your chest as the arousals threaten to overwhelm you. Dracule’s teeth rake against your pulse, and you want him to break the skin, to drown in the heady mix of pain and pleasure only they can conjure.
“ohh! Fuck, Shanks..!”
“She says your name so sweetly, I’m jealous.” His elegant fingers curl inside your silky walls, pumping harder, playing with your pussy as if he were a conductor who needed to hear you sing. “Tell me how it feels to have us at your mercy. To have us play with your body the way you deserve.”
You grip on Shanks’ ruffled hair in one hand and seize Mihawk’s wrist with the other for a semblance of stability. Your breaths rise and fall in moans tangled by pleasure swirling in your core in that depraved curl to euphoria.
A sharp bite of teeth on your thigh and a resounding spank on your pulsing clit jolt your mind back.
“What did I say about hiding?” A sudden, punishing energy radiates from him. “You don’t get to hide from me,” Mihawk drawls, grip almost bruising. The thrill of his command sends excitement rushing through you, every nerve shooting sparks made by his hand as he pins you tighter, refusing to even let your mind slip away when surrendering means being seen, vehemently exposed and ardently desired.
“Talk to him, baby. He hates to be ignored.” Shanks mumbles between wet kisses on your clit.
“It feels-feels incredible!” hot tension constricts in your core. “I can’t wait, uhh-fuck, I can’t- can’t…”
“Can’t what, dove? Is this not enough for you?” He mocks lowly. “We’re working so hard to make you cum, how thoughtless of you not to be thankful.”
You shake your head and sweat beads down your temples.
“I-I can’t wait to feel you both in-inside me!”
Red and black Haki splits. Your back bends in a perfect bow as your orgasm rips through you suddenly and beautifully.
“Oh, fuck!”
Their power surges through you. A force that has you trembling, breaking and snapping pleasure through your entire being it dances white spots in your vision and binds the breath in your chest. You can’t scream. Your toes don’t touch the sand as you become untethered and bound to their touch all at once. Shanks’ lips stay wrapped around your swollen clit, Dracule’s fingers thrust in tandem. Hard and deep you fall into his hold. His arm secure around your torso while you’re caught in the intense energy and the unfathomable strength of their desire.
Wave after wave. Tears spill from the overwhelming pressure. Squirts douse the sand, Shanks’ mouth, Dracule’s hand. Your cunt flutters.
The world blackens.
Or your eyelids fall.
For a moment, you drift in utter weightlessness, untethered and floating on the edge of oblivion— until Dracule’s grounding bite on your shoulder drags breath back into your lungs.
Your body jerks. Lips and fingers have retreated, but you still feel the wetness. The drying stickiness of your skin cooling against the sea air and the needles that prickle your lungs with every struggled inhale.
“Lights on?”
You feel Shanks’ kiss before you hear his voice— it's your secret code, the gentle signal you share for moments like this, whenever the colours of consciousness blur and you threaten to drift away. Even as your vision swims, you manage to reach out and pat his firm shoulder, a silent confirmation that you’re alright and still with him, grounding yourself in the familiar warmth of his touch.
“Good girl.”
“That’s my girl.”
As the world slowly comes back into focus, Shanks stands, powerful and steady, and you find yourself cocooned between his warmth and Dracule’s unwavering presence.
You inhale deeply. Coached by the rhythmic movement of their chests.
The cold air doesn’t touch your nude body. Their warmth closes in on either side, front and back, creating a sheltering haven where you are held safe, the crash of the sea and the world beyond fade to a cool insignificance in their embrace. Their hands and kisses.
Over your shoulders, back and hips.
You wonder if their lips ever cross when trailing across your skin, or if they simply dance around each other in a silent choreography, each mapping their own path of affection, never quite colliding yet intimately aware of the imprint left behind.
You peer up at him, tracing the lines of his face, your gaze lingering for a moment on the smile he pulls for you before drifting away.
When his lips approach, you turn slightly, letting his kiss brush your cheek instead. You let your hands lift to his collarbone and rub along the muscles of his shoulders, offering the steadiness he seeks, but your mouth never quite meets his.
Because even as you breathe, safe and cradled between them, you still feel it—hungry, greedy for more. The ache simmering beneath your skin refuses to settle, a restless craving that pulses in time with your heartbeat, demanding to be sated.
“Inside?”
Shanks chuckles, that familiar easy mirth flowing. “I hope you mean the inn.”
You shake your head, fingers catching the hem of his shirt as you give it a playful tug. “I mean... where can he cum?” leaning in, you press a slow, deliberate kiss to his jaw, your lips hovering just long enough to feel his breath catch. “Tell me how you wanted to watch him fuck me, then maybe you will get to feel his cum inside me as it makes a dirty mess on your cock.”
As your words dance in the air, Shanks’ and Dracule share a loaded glance over your head. For a brief, sparked moment, it holds an unspoken provocation and unsatiated rivalry, before their attention returns to you, the centre of their shared desire for the night.
Dracule chuckles low as he covers you with his long coat, the heavy material settling over your shoulders like a protective shroud. His gaze is amused, but there’s a tenderness in the gesture as he draws the lapels snug, tucking you safely beneath the sweeping fabric while the salty wind tugs at the edges and Shanks’ expression faulters in a crooked grin.
Before you can take another breath, his arms are suddenly around you. With effortless strength, he lifts you clear off the ground, holding you close to his chest.
You feel the vibration where his mouth brushes your ear. His warmth seeps into your sticky skin. “You're addicting,” he murmurs, and the words send a thrill through you, their weight sinking somewhere you dare not name.
Then, without hesitation, he strides towards the inn with you resting on his chest.
Shanks’ stays rooted for a moment. The serpent’s hiss gnawing at him as he gathers your scattered clothes from the ground.
He attempts to shake it. to ignore the biting jealousy twisting inside him, but the image of you in those arms stays a few paces in front of him as he follows you both towards the glowing lights of the inn.
His steps are slower, even in sandals. The hiss is abrasive.
Okay so I’ve been shot 57 times in the chest and then revived in an angsty horny rage (I read Accro) and I fear I’m lost forever (going to continue thinking about it) because the cruel whims of the universe have struck the heart of my being (I relate too hard to the desperate need to feel desired, and the fear of feeling unwanted/unvalued)
Also semi-side note: Shank’s confession while on his knees after realizing how bad he fucked up- not in the suggestion, it was a slay, but in how he went about it and then essentially dismissed her feelings until she’d spiraled so hard she couldn’t pull back from it? SO GOOD. LOVE when a man can realize his mistakes but also I’m LIVING for the way you had him get there and then the way he vocalized it? Peak. Chefs kiss. 10/10.
I would love to see how their whole story ends (hoping for lots of aftercare and some solid communication and reconciling 🤞🤞) but that 100% should come on your own time. So if you get around to it, I’ll be there, and if not, thank you for the absolute journey that was this fic.
Much love 💙
You actually read it?? It's very much non existent on here so I've only updated it on ao3 but I'm so happy someone has read it 🥺
I tried so hard to keep Shanks as "in character" as I could with his actions but in the end the story needed him to kneel. Also i just love a man on his knees 🤭 His love and the way he expresses it is vastly different from hers and I wanted reader to have that power (which is exactly what he wanted for her, Shanks just didn't imagine in his little head that she would be upset over it all)
He feels guilty for invalidating readers feelings and angered that it was his rival who gave her the emotional clarity he was unable to provide. Tangled with his lust to see the both of them indulge in their desires and the hurt to be left out when he only ever wanted to have both is what burns him inside and beg reader for forgiveness.
Its messy and emotional and I'm so happy you liked it despite how long it is. I never intended it to have four parts but I needed to explain each of their motivations before allowing them to have the nastiest threesome ever lol
Thank you so much for your kind words. I haven't had the time or capacity to write anything in a long time, so this is a snippet of Accro because your comment has made my day 💓✨️
hi, i love your blog and i'm not judging but i just saw you dont like Kisame x Itachi and i'm curious why bc i never see much dislike for it :)
I'm a greedy lil witch that's why 🫠
In all honesty, I can't stand the thought of my faves, especially Gaara and Kisame with anyone but me, so I have the ships blocked lol Fanart is gorgeous, and I'll always show appreciation but in my sick delulu brain they're mine so I just stay clear of it all 🤣
But please don't assume that I think anyone who ships them is wrong or whatever!! Please! Do what you like! I am not one to police anyone, I'm just someone who doesn't like a particular ship, so I don't engage with that content.
I'm a jealous woman at heart lol with that being said I hope my sister wives are doing alright 😝
just wanna let you know i still go back and read the luffy “she’s so pretty” fic all the time lmao its sooo good and yummy and i ADOREE the way you wrote luffy!! <3
Thank you, truly. I loved writing him, esp for a reader who is soft and plus size. He's unapologetic and expressive and so loveable 💓 I hope to write him again 🥰
Miruko and momo s/o who is a hairstylists teaching them how to do hairstyles " cornrows, deads, Dutch box braids etc"
That's so cutee. Momo loves learning new things. I can see her earnest attempt at braiding while Miruko huffs and refuses to let her hair be touched, let alone brush. She would take it as a challenge to learn fast and be the best ✨️
between October and this week, I had buried my Neene, lost my job, went through a legal battle with my piece of shit cousin (her own son), almost lost her + my mother's childhood home/land to his greedy clutches, buried my own grief to console my mother who lost her older sister, went through weeks of unemployment until finally catching a break, managed to rally support to make my shitty cousin back off and let us fucking breathe (he's always been a shiity leech my god) and also to top it all off, my hair started falling out from stress.
But that's not what broke me. I thought I was doing well, especially after getting a new job. But that's the thing about grief, it's not linear.
For months, I held on. Well, I was more numb. I just kept pushing it to the next day, and the next, and the next, until it was suddenly Christmas Eve, and my phone decided to show me a "This time last year" memory (I have google docs/photos), and it showed my Neene and me doing our annual Twilight saga rewatch.
That might sound random and silly, but you need to know that my Neene learnt English mostly from watching movies. She always loved Hollywood movies. Literally, you could name anything, and she'd seen it. Training Day? Pride and Prejudice, 27 Dresses, Scarface, The Exorcist, Pirates of the Caribbean, every single fucking Toy Story movie.
Movies were her thing, so it became our thing. I fell in love with Brendan Fraser in The Mummy; she introduced me to Viggo Mortensen, Michelle Pfeiffer. From Tom Hanks all the way to Robert Pattinson, we had seen everything together. Then to see that picture of us... I can't even describe how much I couldn't breathe.
to never be able to watch a horror movie with her again, to feel her annoyingly clutch on my arm despite insisting she's not scared, to cringe at kiss scenes, to giggle over Charlie Swan and how hot he looked in that cop uniform... it hit me all at once. I'll never be able to experience those things again.
I miss her so much it's not fair. Twilight was really our thing. Her favourite was Eclipse. Mine is New Moon. I just wish we had watched it one last time. But it was always a Christmas tradition for us. And now Christmas is gone, and I couldn't get through the opening credits.
"this fic uses em dashes, so it must be ai-generated" real humans use em dashes.
"this fic has long paragraphs with overly described details and scenes, so it must be ai-generated" real humans can write like this.
"this fic has inconsistencies, so it must be ai-generated" real humans make errors and mistakes. that's why we have this thing called plot holes. sometimes writers are tired and they don't remember what they wrote in the last sentences or paragraphs, let alone chapters.
"this fic sounds robotic and unnatural, so it must be ai-generated" not every writer writes in their native language. sometimes they can sound 'robotic and unnatural' if they wrote in their second or third or fourth language (and kudos to them).
"this fic has a prompt left in it that the author forgot to delete, so it must be ai-generated" the 'prompt' the author accidentally left in their fic could actually be a part of an outline that was meant only for them, so they could keep track of what they would write.
"this author posts too often, no human writes this fast, so they must use ai" 1.) you don't know how fast someone can or can't write, how much time a person has in a day or how motivated/skilled they are. 2.) the frequent updates you see could be something that has already been finished and sitting in the author's drafts for god knows how long. just because it's recently posted doesn't always mean it's recently written.
my point? no, you can never know if a fanfic is 'ai-generated'. unless the author says they use ai, you're just assuming, suspecting and witch hunting. chances are that you're not going to 'stop ai fics from being created', you're just going to wrongly accuse genuine writers of using ai and ruin their day at best, make them want to quit writing or sharing their works at worst.
Hellooo! Im anon ☂️ and I just finished "Just between us" and absolutely loved it!!
I was wondering if you could maybe write more sanji x reader? I understand if you don't want to but I really loved how you wrote him!
Hiya,
I have a draft of another part of it, but its missing heart and purpose, so I've tabled it for another time. It's just a few scenes without an end or even a goal. Maybe one day I'll be inspired and come back to it, but for the moment my sanji is locked in my daydreams haha
if you have any daydreams of your own I'd love to read them <3
please please please more obsessive gyutaro 😭😭 love the dubcon and biting
I'll always write dubcon and biting, but I'm just not inspired to do anything for Gyuutaro yet. :/
Maybe I'll get back to my drafts for him. I have a few, if I remember correctly. you can share some of your daydreams if you'd like, i love reading about them.
